Serpentine

by Peter Parken

  Shelby allowed a smile to cross her face. Then she slipped off the bed and climbed on top of him. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “That’s one of the things I adore about you.”

  He kissed her, and then slipped his eager penis inside her for probably the twentieth time that weekend. “I’m glad you adore me.”

  Shelby kissed him back and smiled in that coy way Nate loved so much. “No, I didn’t say I adored you. I said that was just ‘one of the things.’”

  Nate rolled her over onto her back. “Well, let’s see if we can change that.”

  *****

  They were both in the kitchen preparing a late night snack. Shelby closed the fridge door, placed a package of Stilton cheese on the counter, and then just hugged Nate hard from behind.

  He turned his head. “Aww…nice. But what was that for?”

  “It’s time, Nate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean. We’ve escaped from reality for two days, but it’s time. We had good reasons to want to forget…and kinda just hide away. But we can’t run away from this any longer and a lot has probably happened over the weekend. We have to face it. It’s the end of a long ordeal and we have to know how it ended. Closure.”

  Nate turned around and hugged her back. For two days, he’d dreaded this moment. He just didn’t want to know. Before they’d started their re-enactment of the John Lennon/Yoko Ono lie-in, Nate had put the phone message system on ‘silent’ so he wouldn’t hear the messages as they were left. Just a few minutes before, he’d taken a glance at the machine’s counter display—a total of forty messages were waiting for him. Something had happened, he was sure of it. He wouldn’t normally get that many calls on his landline during a two-day stretch.

  That phone had rung off the hook for two days, and he and Shelby had promised each other that it wouldn’t be answered. And they’d turned off their cell phones, too. An equal number of messages were probably waiting for them there as well. They also promised each other that the TV and radio were off limits.

  There had been at least thirty knocks on his door while they were luxuriating in bed—they just giggled and kept as quiet as mice. For a time, it had been fun playing hooky from life. They pretended to be happy, silly and giggly—it was fun, but they both knew it was just a charade. They were kidding themselves.

  They had done everything possible to make sure they were shut off from everything except each other. And that had been real nice. This was something Nate had never done before and he promised himself that he would do it again really soon…with Shelby.

  But she was right. It was time. The charade was over. Real life beckoned.

  Shelby looked deep into Nate’s eyes. “Let’s find out what Carl Masterson has done. Maybe we’ll get some good news and find out that he and his cronies failed.”

  Nate cupped her face in his hands. “If it succeeded, it won’t be by his hand. He’s dead.”

  Shelby’s eyes flared. “What? Who killed him?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that. Tom Foster is dead, too. All you need to know is that I didn’t kill them.”

  Shelby swallowed hard and whispered softly as she lay her head against Nate’s chest, “I’m glad it wasn’t you. But…I have to admit—whoever did it deserves a medal.”

  Nate wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her towards the living room. “Are you ready, Shelby?”

  “Yes, Nate, I’m ready. It’s been a wonderful weekend, but we need to rejoin life, as ugly as it may be.”

  They sat down together on the couch and Nate clicked the remote for the big screen TV. It was already set to CNN and the two of them held hands as the rolling headlines scrolled across the bottom. And in giant font at the top of the screen were the words: ‘Breaking News.’ An anchorman named Todd Stevens was talking, seemingly half out of breath.

  “…was executed with extreme precision. For those of you who have just joined us, once again a horrific attack has been carried out by Islamic terrorists against the United States of America. Details are still sketchy, but there are reports of people dead in the streets, in their cars, in their offices and in their homes. The two cities that have been most impacted by this attack are Green Bay and Milwaukee, but almost all of the towns along the western shore of Lake Michigan have been affected in some way. The state of Wisconsin is in absolute shock, as is the entire country, and indeed the world. Casualties are estimated to be in the thousands, possibly even exceeding the number of people killed in the 911 attacks on New York and Washington.

  “Joining me now on Skype from Washington is General Charles ‘Bull’ Tetford, the Pentagon spokesman. General, can you fill in the blanks for us a bit? I know you’re very busy right now, but America needs to know what has happened and what will be happening going forward.”

  “Yes, this is another sad day for America, Todd. We probably knew in our hearts that this would happen again, but we hoped that our security measures would work. But we failed—or should I say, our neighbor’s security measures failed. We have no control over what other countries do and, in this case, it appears as if Canada’s weak response to terrorism threats has brought this upon us. The attack came from the Canadian side of the border—early indications are that a swarm of insect robots flew across Lake Michigan in a brazen attempt to poison our water supply. But the terrorists apparently overestimated the distance of flight and, instead of releasing the poison gas over the lake, it went airborne over land. That’s why we have the mass casualties that we’re seeing in our towns and cities.”

  “General, do you know at this stage what type of poison was used?”

  “Yes, it appears to be hydrogen cyanide.”

  “How were you able to determine that so fast?”

  “Air sample tests and just the speed of the reactions from the victims. It has all the signatures of hydrogen cyanide.”

  “General, has any group claimed responsibility yet?”

  “No, but we know who it is. Our intelligence community has moved fast on this. We were able to backtrack ‘chatter’ and it appears to be a cell based in the Toronto area. We’ve contacted Canadian officials and alerted them, but we have no idea of what, if anything, they’ve done so far.”

  “Is it Al Qaeda again?”

  “Not exactly, although very similar radical ideologies. It appears to be a cell affiliated with ISIS—the militant group that is presently tearing apart Syria and Iraq. That group issued threats against America and England several weeks ago—we took those threats seriously, but it doesn’t appear as if the Canadians shared our concerns.”

  Todd Stevens was suddenly handed a piece of paper by one of the producers.

  “Excuse me, General—I’ve just been given something. I’m scanning it now.”

  The anchorman read the report, then took a deep breath.

  “General, things are obviously happening fast. Could you comment on the report that U.S. Marines have been amassed at positions along our border with Canada?”

  “Yes, that is correct. We were so alarmed by this security breakdown, and the fact that an attack against us was launched from Canada, that we felt we had no choice but to take it upon ourselves to protect the Great Lakes water supply. We can’t take a chance on another attack happening. It would be disastrous for America.”

  “Will troops be crossing the border?”

  “I can’t comment on operational matters.”

  “Will the U.S. military be using armed drones as it does in the Middle East, to search out this terrorist group in Canada?”

  “We know where they are. We’ve offered that help to Canada and so far they’ve refused. If we feel that we are in imminent danger from Canada, we won’t hesitate to use drones, which is our right under international law.”

  Todd was handed another sheet of paper. He read it quickly.

  “General, I have a report in my hand which says that Canada has responded by posting troops on
their side of border locations in the Great Lakes region.”

  “Well, that is certainly their right to do. It doesn’t concern me at all. In fact, our two militaries can work together to protect against the next attack and secure the precious water supply that our two countries share equally.”

  “General, the report I have outlines something else. The troop complement on the Canadian side also includes 2,500 British Special Forces soldiers who have been in training exercises with the Canadians at Trenton, Ontario.”

  Skype went silent for a few seconds.

  “General?”

  “Yes…yes, I’m here. I’ll have to get back to you on that. I see that I’m being summoned into a meeting. I’ll have to sign off, Todd.”

  “I understand, General. One last quick question—do you have any comment on reports that are pouring in that there is an alarming drop in the water level of one of the Great Lakes, the giant Lake Erie? Is that related in any way to this terrorist attack?”

  “As I said, Todd, I have to go. Sorry—I’ll be pleased to join you again later. We ask all Americans to stay vigilant—we’ll get through this as we have before. God bless you all and God bless the United States of America.”

  Nate aimed the remote at the TV and clicked off. Shelby was still holding his hand, but it felt so moist that it was almost dripping.

  He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Are you okay?”

  She turned her head and tried to focus her eyes. But Nate could see that they were rolling. She was on the verge of another one of her fainting spells.

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook them hard. Then he slapped her face, just as he had so many weeks before when they were hanging on for dear life to the trestle structure of the Black Mamba.

  “Scream, Shelby! Scream your heart out!”

  Chapter 50

  The waiting room was jam packed.

  With patients who looked forlorn, helpless and hopeless. No surprise there, of course, since all of them were being treated for conditions similar to what John Fletcher had.

  It was the cancer clinic in downtown Washington, D.C. Several prominent oncologists worked out of the medical center and John’s wannabe savior was a woman. He liked her—she was compassionate and smart as a whip. And she had truly believed early on that John might have a chance. But that faded fast as soon as she saw his first brain scan…and the second…and then the third. The thing was growing like a pumpkin on steroids.

  Doctor Joyce Hatfield was an optimist by nature—John was able to sense that the first time he met her. But his condition seemed to have sucked that wonderful characteristic out of her. Perhaps it was because she was a woman. She was more sensitive and caring than a typical male doctor. He could always tell from the look in her eyes and the tone of her voice that she was sad for him. Didn’t want to see him in pain—wanted so much to make his passing as comfortable as possible. Didn’t want to say goodbye to him.

  John didn’t even understand why he still came here. What was the point? He thought he was probably doing it more for his doctor than for himself, funny as that sounded. Because John was a sensitive and compassionate person, too. He knew the good doctor was having such a hard time with this. Not being able to save him when that was her entire reason for existence. Joyce was just maintaining him now—trying to slow down the growth of the tumor as much as possible, to eke out as many more days of life for him that she could.

  But what Joyce didn’t know was that John didn’t give a shit anymore. He would never admit that to her, because it would not only hurt her, but it would be an insult to her profession. She was doing what she thought was best and to hear that John just wanted it to be over would break her heart. And John didn’t want to break any hearts. His was already broken, of course, but why pass that misery onto others? He just couldn’t.

  This wasn’t his regular day to come in. Joyce’s secretary had left a message for him, asking him to pop in for a short meeting. John figured that Joyce’s ‘missionary zeal’ was probably causing her to re-think John’s treatment. She probably wanted to step up the radiation now that time was winding down. Joyce most likely wanted to try to wind it up again, try to buy more time.

  What Joyce didn’t know was that John had already made a decision before he arrived for the appointment. He was going to tell her that he wanted the radiation treatments to stop. There was just no point. He wanted nature to just take its course—there was no point anymore, no point delaying the inevitable. He wasn’t going to tell her he wanted to die—he would never tell her that. He would simply tell her that he just wanted to die with some dignity.

  John rubbed his eyes. They were sore from lack of sleep. No wonder—who could sleep with what John had on his conscience. Curious though, he thought. While his eyes were sore, he wasn’t getting the occasional blurriness anymore. And he hadn’t had even one headache in at least a week. Before then, he got several a day like clockwork.

  A wry smile crept across his face. No doubt just the calm before the storm. Good. Bring it on. I’m ready.

  There was a TV hanging on the wall in the waiting room. Of course, it was tuned to CNN. As if the people in this room needed one more thing to get depressed over. Now they had to sit here and watch the news.

  The non-stop coverage of the human disaster in Wisconsin was continuing. CNN had even come up with a cute little tagline for the tragedy, as they always did with wars and natural disasters. For this one, the label they had come up with was ‘Deadly Air.’

  Well done, CNN. Do you really think people need your stupid insensitive titles in order to stay engaged in the stories?

  John shook his head slowly as he watched the story unfolding on the screen. There was footage being shown from a news helicopter circling above downtown Milwaukee. As the video camera panned down, it was easy to see bodies—hundreds of them—lying in the streets. It was a gruesome and disturbing sight, but the helicopter kept showing it. Street after street. But it was sensational, and that’s what today’s media outlets wanted to show. That’s what got ratings.

  John couldn’t take it anymore. He got up, walked over to the TV, and hit the power button.

  One of the patients, a grungy looking guy in a plaid shirt, yelled out, “Hey, what are you doing? I was watching that!”

  John glared at him. “Well, I don’t want to see it.”

  “Too bad for you.” The guy got up and turned the TV back on. “Who made you the TV boss, buddy?”

  “Okay, we’ll take a vote.” John looked around the room. “Who wants to see that crap? Raise your hands.”

  He didn’t have to count. About ninety percent of the hands in the room went up. John just shook his head and sat down again. “Okay, you win. Enjoy.”

  Suddenly, his name was called out. John was glad he was going to be spared having to watch the very mess that he’d been involved in up to his neck. He was particularly saddened about it all knowing that Ron, Nate and Robin had tried desperately to send out warnings. Ron phoned him on the day the news of the attacks broke and told him about their gallant but fruitless efforts.

  If those stupid politicians had only listened there wouldn’t be a news helicopter gleefully showing film footage of what literally looked like Doomsday. And why were the bodies still there? Surely the air was safe enough by now? Was the government deliberately leaving them there for a prescribed period of time necessary for maximum shock value? To garner support for their deception?

  John got up and followed the nurse who’d called out his name, making a face at ‘plaid shirt man’ as he walked past him.

  He walked into Doctor Joyce Hatfield’s office and sat down in his usual seat. She looked up from her work and smiled warmly at him. “John, it’s so good to see you! How have you been?”

  How can I possibly answer that question truthfully? Well, okay, I’ve killed four men in the most gruesome ways you can imagine, but other than that I’m doing fine, thank you.

  “I’m doin’ okay, Joyce. How are yo
u?”

  “I’m just wonderful, John. I’m glad you agreed to come in today.”

  John grimaced. “Well, I wanted to come in to see you anyway. Don’t be upset with me, but I want the radiation treatments to stop. I’ve had it with them.”

  Joyce smiled. “I agree. We’ll stop them right away.”

  John was stunned. “Oh, okay. I’m surprised you’re so agreeable. Thanks, Joyce.”

  “You’re welcome.” She waved a file in the air. “I have the results of the brain scan we did on you a few days ago. John, I don’t know how to tell you this—and I don’t even understand it myself and neither do my colleagues. But your tumor is gone. There is no sign of it anywhere in your brain. It didn’t shift, it’s not hiding. It’s just…gone.”

  John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He pinched his arm to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s not possible. In fact, it’s impossible. But it’s happened; I don’t know how it happened, but it did. It’s a miracle, John. It’s not the radiation that did this—it can’t possibly achieve that kind of result in such a short period of time. And, even over a long period of time, we never see a result like this from radiation on such a large and aggressive tumor as yours was.”

  John stood up and headed for the door. Joyce came around from behind her desk and gave him a big hug. “I’m so happy for you, John. I know you must be in shock right now, but in a day or two it will register. You have your life back, John.”

  He smiled politely. “No, I really don’t, Joyce. But thanks for your kind words. It’s been a pleasure having you care for me.”

  John turned the door handle. He felt Joyce’s hand on his shoulder.

  “You must have a guardian angel watching over you, John.”

  *****

  John was sitting in his living room, with a glass of scotch whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He hadn’t smoked in five years, but he felt like chaining. On impulse, he had stopped at a gas station on the way home and bought a pack. Just one pack—he wouldn’t need more than that.