The Company of the Dead

by David Kowalski

  The other guy just shrugged.

  “We’re taking you out to the Lake,” Burns said.

  “The lake?”

  They looked at each other, then back at me.

  “Place has got many names,” Pete said. He looked like he was enjoying the expression on my face. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride, Doctor Wells.”

  At six p.m., February 26, 1999, I arrived at Groom Lake. A final blast from the jet’s engines sent a wave of pebbles skimming across the tarmac. The sun was just settling upon a low ridge on the horizon as we walked the short distance to a chain of bunkers. A lone black Chinook squatted nearby.

  Beyond, past the bunkers and the slowly lumbering gas tankers that rumbled from hangar to hangar in swirls of orange dust, was Groom Lake itself. It stretched out toward a shallow range of mountains that encompassed the entire complex. Further south were a series of lakebeds that had run dry long ages before the arrival of man.

  Maybe I’m getting better. Sure beats slashing my wrists. I remember the scent of the air out there. It tasted good. Maybe I’m getting better. I’m smiling. Hell, maybe I’ve just lost it. I remember reading somewhere that if you are wondering if you are insane, you still have a shred of sanity. Alternatively, those whom the gods would destroy, they first drive mad.

  * * *

  It had rained recently. A thin smear of water shimmered across the surface of the lake. In the distance, huddled together, were more buildings in groups of four or five, connected by gravel roads that ran up into the hills. It was getting chilly and I was only wearing a thin jacket. I was directed toward the closest building, where I was greeted by three men at the door: a tall gray-haired man, Gregory Jenkins, who was base director; an air force officer whose name I forget; and Dean Gershon, their MD. He had a medium build, thick, close-cropped curly black hair, and an easy smile. He shook my hand for about five minutes.

  “I expect you want to see our patient,” Jenkins said in a gravelly voice.

  “I want to see his scans.”

  He nodded, and led the way down a low-ceilinged corridor. The staff we encountered avoided my gaze. There were no patients anywhere. It was a bureaucrat’s dream.

  Some men fell into step behind us. Jenkins made a brief apology about calling me away from the conference and Gershon began filling me in on the case. One of the pilots had lost consciousness in a flight simulator. Gershon had seen him and found the man unresponsive. On examination the patient had a Glasgow Coma Scale of 6. He’d ordered a CT and an MRA. The findings were consistent with left-sided cerebral ischaemia. It looked like the internal carotid artery had torn so that the blood had seeped within the artery’s walls, blocking the flow.

  He handed me a file and I thumbed through photostats of the scans. The affected portions of the brain were dead or dying. I read on and saw my name listed with those of other vascular neurosurgeons.

  Gershon told me that he’d tracked down one of my recent articles on Medline. He told me how thrilled he was to find that I was actually in Nevada.

  I tried to restrain my own joy at being pulled from the conference.

  I wonder. Can I blame him for what was to happen if he did it to save my life?

  They had the patient in an isolation room. He was intubated, hooked up to a ventilator. Two armed guards stood by the door. A third flanked a nurse who was changing the fluid bag on his IV pole. He was taped up to an EEG. The display showed near complete flatline. Minimal brain activity.

  “Why the guards?” I asked without thinking.

  I was cautioned to keep my questions pertinent to the case.

  I checked the IV flask. Thiopentone had been added to the solution. “You’ve got him on full burst suppression,” I said.

  “He’s hibernating. Just the way you like them, pre-op,” Gershon replied.

  There wasn’t much to find on examination. His pupils were fixed and dilated. He had retinal hemorrhages, as I would have expected from an acceleration-deceleration injury. Basically, he looked like shit.

  Time travel will do that to you, I guess.

  We operated on the patient that night. The case went well. Gershon was competent and fine company to boot. That’s crucial during a long case. I could almost forgive him for being the reason I was there. He compared favorably to the dull, black-suited officials who watched my every move.

  Apart from Gershon and myself there was an anesthetist, a scrub-sister and a scout nurse. At the door stood two security agents, clearly uncomfortable in their scrubs. We operated well into the night, Tom Waits’ voice emerging from the small CD player on one of the Mayo tables, telling it like it is.

  We finished closing up at about 1 a.m. Gershon came over to shake my hand like we’d just played a tennis match. I looked up at the observation gallery. If any of the guards had changed shifts, I wouldn’t have been able to tell. Jenkins was still sitting there, his chin resting on his palm. Relaxed, surprisingly indifferent. He met me at the scrub basin. He asked me how I thought it went.

  I told him that the procedure had gone well enough. Whether or not it was successful would be a matter of time. The patient would need to be transferred to a neurological intensive care unit. Long-term rehab options would have to be considered.

  Jenkins shook his head slowly. He told me they had a high dependency unit, well-trained nursing staff. The patient wasn’t going anywhere.

  “He could bleed again,” I said.

  “I know that, Doctor. I read your article. He needs expert supervision.”

  He was courteous about it. He let it look like it was my decision. I might have been exhausted but I had a fair idea of what was going on. I asked him how long he wanted me to stay.

  Jenkins smiled. “Until his condition stabilizes, one way or another.”

  “But I get to leave eventually?” I asked. I don’t think there was any tremor in my voice.

  “Of course,” he replied. The smile broadened, bordered on warmth. “These things happen all the time. You’ll be compensated for your services, Doctor, but you’ll be obliged to remain silent about your time here. I’m sure you’re familiar with confidentiality in your line of work.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And when you return to Boston, your difficulties with the hospital will be sorted out. It’s also most unlikely that you’ll be hearing again from your ex-wife’s attorneys either.”

  That took me by surprise. “I see.”

  “And you’ll be compensated for your services, Doctor. The funds will be placed in your Swiss bank account.”

  “I don’t have a Swiss bank account,” I said, carefully.

  His thin lips parted to reveal those even white teeth. “You do now, Doctor.”

  He knew too much about me, but then again I suspect he knew too much about a lot of people. It was at that time that I made a conscious decision. Up until then my curiosity had been aroused. There was so much I wanted to ask Gershon, but he was here for keeps. For all I knew, he may have been recruited in a similar manner to me. I’d asked him how he’d ended up here, earlier in the operation, and he’d replied, “The same as everybody else. Bad directions.”

  I was in uncharted territory alright. There were no maps for this region, and there was only one way out. So I resolved not to ask any questions. I resolved to perform my job to the best of my abilities. It was a windfall, really. The cash, and the chance of seeing my life fall back into order.

  I had to wonder what Jenkins might have offered had my marriage been happy and my finances secure, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that I’d like the answer.

  The next few days were as indistinct as the desert horizon. I made daily rounds to see the patient, and as he became more coherent his armed escort grew.

  Perhaps they thought he might give away state secrets while I was examining him. I mean, the guy couldn’t scratch his ass, he couldn’t string more than three words together in a sentence. He was improving though, and certainly, in the fullness of time, would regain most
of his faculties. But by the time he would be capable of telling me who killed John F Kennedy, I would hopefully be long gone.

  Having only one patient to care for left me with too much free time, and the devil loves idle hands. I exercised. I read. I swam in the pool. Jenkins maintained a significant presence. I wondered what he used to do for kicks before I came along.

  Gershon’s company provided a thankful distraction. His library, dogeared and sun-bleached, was composed of crime novels. He told he used to read sci-fi novels, until they had become irrelevant. I understand now what he meant.

  We’d smoke, watch videos, play cards and shoot the shit. I let him do most of the talking and I never asked him any questions about the base. Toward the end of my stay, however, when he and I were sitting in his quarters, overlooking the sand and rocks, he volunteered the following.

  “The locals call this place the Ranch or the Box. I’m talking about the boys up at the Skunk Works, the flyboys down here on assignment from Nellis. Others call it Dreamland. You know the types—plane-spotters, UFO buffs nuts for their first close encounter. They sit out on Freedom Ridge with their deckchairs and JC Penny telescopes, staring up into the desert skies...”

  He looked over at me from where he lay sprawled on the unmade bed. “I’ve been here for longer than I care to remember, and I’ve got a better name for the place.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Waste Land,” he said. “I call it the Waste Land.”

  I nodded. It seemed appropriate.

  But he looked a little disappointed. “Like the poem. Where the sun beats,” he began to recite, “and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, and the dry stone no sound of water.”

  Sitting in his room, desiccating slowly in the fetid air-conditioning, I had to agree with him.

  It was early March and I was due to go home. My bags were packed. Money had been wired to my new account. I could scarcely believe it. I’d almost gotten used to the little shit-hole. I say little but I’ve no idea how large the damn installation was. I’d been confined to the medical wing. In all my time at the facility I never saw a fence or signpost. I guess once you get as far into the place as I did, there really was no way out.

  There was a knock on my door. I opened it thinking it was Gershon, here for my farewell. It was Burns. He didn’t look too happy. “You’re needed right away,” he told me. “Medical emergency.”

  I had images of the patient re-bleeding. But it was way too late for a secondary hemorrhage.

  Burns must have read my confusion. “This is a new patient,” he told me. “In our other facility.”

  Other facility? That set off alarms in my head.

  The fact that he was wearing a side arm didn’t help any.

  They were going to kill me. I knew jack shit, but they were going to kill me anyway.

  He whisked me into a dusty black jeep and we passed the brief journey in silence. In five minutes we’d crossed a small tundra of dark sand and scrub to reach an arched entrance. It stood alone, embedded within a three-sided structure that was all curves. There were no angles, no sharp edges. Beyond, an isolated crag of red rock kept watch. Burns said nothing as I clambered out of the jeep. He gave me a long look.

  “I thought you were going to shoot me.”

  “No such luck, Doctor Wells.”

  He put the jeep into gear and disappeared into the dusk.

  A shadow detached itself from the shadow of the arch. It formed into a man wearing a single-piece black jumpsuit. He had no insignia or rank displayed on his uniform. My mind was racing but my body froze. He took a step toward me. He grasped my arm and drew me forwards.

  There were two men in similar garb on the other side of the arch. The shallow depression of a doorway slid open at my approach. I was shown into the narrow capsule of an elevator and launched into the depths of the desert.

  I wish I’d taken the time to catch one last glimpse of the sand and stars. Granted Burns’s reprieve, it never occurred to me that they would be the last familiar sight I’d ever encounter.

  When the lift stopped, I swallowed my stomach and groggily stepped into another world.

  June 7, 1911

  I’m sick. I’m taking time out.

  Last night, after dark, I wandered the streets. I looked up at the lit windows of shabby houses and watched the couples on their porches observing my shaky path. A dog, hollow-chested and ragged, followed me down the road. I stopped to pet it, calling to it, but each time it settled on its haunches and growled a low, miserable lament.

  I haven’t been able to keep any food down. I’ve been unable to take any steps from my bed that didn’t lead to the toilet. I’d like to think it’s a virus.

  I’ve been here almost three months and my memories appear to have stabilized. This was to be my archive. Now I don’t know what it is, but if I’m to have any success in exorcising this ill feeling I have to finish what I started. And I’ve got things to do. But not today.

  June 8, 1911

  I was in a bunker beneath the desert, as exhausted as I’d ever been. Gershon was there, wearing scrubs. He was unshaven, his theatre hat askew. The expression on his face, usually so frank and open, was unreadable. There was misery there but its source was beyond me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

  “What have you done?” I asked. There was no blood on his gown or shoes. He hadn’t been operating.

  “I called you down here,” he replied.

  I looked from him to the three black-suited men. One of them shook his head slowly in Gershon’s direction. He put a hand to an earpiece and said, “You can take him through.”

  It was Gershon’s turn to lead me, and he brought me into the heart of the Waste Land.

  We entered a chamber that was huge and white and brightly lit. Rows of fluorescent lights lined a ceiling that stood at least two storeys high. Two figures stood by the entrance. They wore white environment suits with narrow white globular helmets that concealed their features behind a distorted reflection of my own.

  A nurse stood beside a gurney. Upon it lay a man in a similar environment suit that had been sliced open to the waist. He emitted a series of low moans and while his arms writhed, fingers grasping at nothing, his face twisted in pain. His trunk and legs were dead things on the trolley.

  Jenkins stepped forwards. His arms were held before him, fingers steepled. He wore a look of deep displeasure on his face. Behind him was the machine. Glimpsing it, I felt a lurch of dizziness that I attributed to fatigue. I had to look away. I caught Jenkins eyeing me with curious intent, gauging my response to the thing. I’d become a peripheral yet valid part of his experiment.

  The machine... Christ. It was a black and silver orb supported by twelve thick, stubby legs. It had a baroque quality to it. Ornate engraved paneling bisected it horizontally. It could have been reproduced from one of Da Vinci’s nightmares; the spawn of a vulgar, ostentatious genius. There was a small aperture in its underbelly. Coiled tubing, wide as tree trunks, connected it to roof and floor. It shimmered, as though vibrating at a very high frequency, like a drawn sword, but made no sound. There was an icy coldness emanating from its core and the tart stench of ozone in the air.

  I wanted to vomit.

  Behind the machine was a similar object, identical in shape and size. Its surface was scorched black in places. One third of it was missing, as if sheared off by a single stroke. It squatted, partially suspended by heavy chains that hung taut from the ceiling.

  Two more uniformed men stood between the objects. Machine-guns, stark and black, hung from thick shoulder straps.

  I turned back to the patient.

  I knew what the machine was in the same way that I knew the sun was the sun or that water was wet. It was a form of preconscious knowledge that I’d acquired in some dark recess of my mind. The insanity of its existing at all fueled my attempts at denial.

  “What happened
here?” The words were dead leaves in my mouth.

  “Spinal cord compression,” Gershon told me. “L 3. He’s got ascending paralysis and he’s too unstable to be moved to the main hospital.” He looked at me pleadingly.

  “How did it happen? Another acceleration injury?”

  “Not this time,” Jenkins replied.

  “You’re a dangerous man to work for,” I murmured.

  “I have my finer points. I’m just here to help. Can you do anything for him?”

  “I need more information.”

  Gershon glared at me, Jenkins shrugged, and I, seemingly bent on suicide, persisted.

  “I can’t operate if I don’t know what’s happening.”

  Gershon’s face seethed with quiet desperation.

  For some reason, that was when it dawned on me. Jenkins manufactured that cold, thin-lipped excuse of a smile and I realized that I’d sold my soul. I may have had no choice at the start of all this, but I’d been offered money and security and an alimony-free life and I had accepted it all with both hands.

  I’d said I’d never operate on a spine again. I’d made a promise to God that I was going to break for the devil. How’s that for damnation? I didn’t trust my hands and I didn’t trust my nerve and I sure as hell didn’t trust Jenkins.

  A small alcove opened halfway along the room’s wall. I followed Gershon as he pushed the trolley toward it, the squeak of its wheels echoing loudly. Numbly, I followed him inside.

  There were two nurses setting up the necessary equipment. I gave the tools a cursory inspection. They passed muster. My side of the table offered a partial view of the machine. I found myself peering at it while the anesthetist went to work putting lines into the patient.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Gershon muttered under his breath at my side. “Will you stop looking at it?”

  The room had been designed for first aid rather than surgery. A tight squeeze for a mobile ventilator and the five of us. They intubated the patient while he was on the gurney. Gershon had located two thick foam rests and placed them on the operating table. We carefully rolled the patient onto his stomach and placed him on the supports.