AFTER

by Kelly, Ronald

  "Fix me up, Doc," croaked the General through bloody lips. "My body, it's all screwed up. You gotta give me a new one. You hear me? You've got to… or else my men have orders to kill you and your pretty nurse right here and now."

  "A head-to-torso graft is a very tricky procedure. I'm not sure I can pull it off successfully. Besides, due to your little show of authority last week, the body parts I have in stock are extremely limited as far as quality is concerned. I would have to make do with what I have handy."

  "Damn the quality! Just do it… fast!"

  The General was carried into the operating room and laid upon the table. Nurse Taylor fired up the generator and Rourke began to gather his welding equipment.

  "Walker! Get over here!" shouted Payne. The colonel approached his leader's side. "I want the defensive to go on as planned. Take the unit down to the southern limits and really kick some ass!"

  "But what about you?"

  "Don't worry. Leave me Lackey over there, just to make sure things go straight with this body job the Doc's going to give me. After the battle, come back for us. If there has been some foul play on the part of the good doctor here, then you have orders to terminate both him and his nurse. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir!" Walker saluted and ordered the men to return to the convoy. The only one who remained was Private Lackey, a swaggering youth with a garish neon green mohawk, an Uzi, and a chest covered with stolen medals, one of them a five-pointed star proclaiming LUBBOCK SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT.

  "No funny stuff now," warned the soldier, snapping back the bolt of his submachine gun. "You fix up the General real nice and you'll be just fine. Screw it up and I'll grind you and Florence Nightingale into hamburger meat."

  As Rourke proceeded to administer the anesthesia, Payne glared up at him threateningly. "Do it right!"

  "Don't worry, General… I will."

  After the patient had slipped into a state of drug-induced slumber, Rourke turned to the young private. "Would you mind accompanying Nurse Taylor to the freezer? She will need some help carrying the replacements to the thaw bath for final preparation."

  Lackey shrugged. "Sure, I guess so." He shouldered the Uzi and followed the nurse out of the operating room. Taylor pushed a gurney toward the deep-freeze and, after opening the heavy steel door, entered the dark interior.

  The soldier tagged along, his right hand resting on the butt of his holstered .45.

  "There they are," said the nurse, pointing. "On the shelves at the back wall."

  Lackey took a flashlight from his utility belt and walked to the rear of the freezer. Clouds of frosty breath billowed from his mouth and nostrils. When he reached the shelves, he studied the plastic-wrapped parcels in the pale beam of his light.

  He turned, his mouth open, his brow creased in genuine puzzlement. He didn't see the half-moon blade of the scalpel rising in Nurse Taylor's hand, chromed and deadly. Neither did he feel the flesh of his throat part cleanly or the rasp of honed steel against his neck bone. All he saw was the shocking amount of blood that splattered across his shiny medals – before darkness swiftly overtook him.

  "He's coming to, Doctor."

  Payne began to open his eyes, then screwed them shut against the blazing brilliance of the overhead fluorescence. He laid there for a moment, gradually growing aware of nagging pain and discomfort. He tried to lift his head, but the numbing effect of the anesthesia made that simple action impossible.

  "Lackey…" he whispered. His voice sounded slurred and muffled, as if his head was stuffed with thick wads of cotton. "Dammit, Lackey! Where are you?"

  He received no answer, but could definitely detect the presence of two people in the room. Painfully, he again opened his eyes and squinted against the white glow. Doctor Rourke and his nurse stood to either side of the recovery table. They looked exhausted, their canvas gowns heavily stained with blood. Satisfaction crept through Payne's sluggish thoughts. The grueling session of surgery had certainly left its mark on them.

  "Well, Doc," asked Payne, "was the operation a success?" He fought to break through the grogginess that weighed him down and slowly felt himself gaining ground.

  "We did what had to be done."

  Payne felt his new limbs gradually begin to regain sensation. Throbs of dull agony flared at the joints where Rourke's unique procedure had fused limbs to torso and torso to head. "Good. I'm glad to hear that."

  "I don't believe you've grasped my full meaning," Rourke told him

  Payne stared at the two. Both merely stood there, looking at him peculiarly. A strange feeling hit him then, one he was more accustomed to dishing out than experiencing himself. A feeling of dark, gut-sinking dread. "I don't follow you, Doc."

  Rourke regarded him for a long moment, his face emotionless. "We are both very powerful men, General Payne. You possess the qualities of leadership and military might, while I have the knowledge of science and medicine. Both are good things, precious things, when used within reason. But the abuse of either can destroy their practicality and lead to chaos. That is what has happened around us. That is why the great nations of this world have ground to a halt and the earth lies in ruin and decay.

  "In the face of such a devastating situation, we were both given rare opportunities. Both of us were allowed to survive, whether by divine providence or sheer dumb luck, I have no idea. What it all boils down to is that civilization hit rock bottom and we were two out of a handful who had the abilities to make a significant difference. I have tried my best to do my part, to ease the suffering of the people of Ruin Town and offer them a semblance of hope for the future. You, on the other hand, have brought them only pain and despair. We have been caught up in a vicious cycle. I put them together, you take them apart… the process is unending. And your crimes have not merely been physical in nature. Your burning hatred for those not of your race has become infamous. You and your men have stripped those poor people of any lingering trace of ethnic pride and replaced it with fear and doubt. You have gravely abused and misused them, turning them into targets for your bigotry and unwilling instruments for your own selfish gains. And I'm certain that you would have continued your vicious reign without the knowledge of how they suffered, without the opportunity of experiencing what they have endured – if that improvised explosive device had not twisted the course of events and brought you here to me today."

  "What are you trying to say?" growled Payne. His new heart pounded within his alien chest as he struggled to lift himself. His alarm was compounded when he felt the weakness and instability of his new limbs.

  "What he is saying, General," replied Nurse Taylor, "is that abuse begets abuse. That atrocity, by the willingness of its commitment, demands an equal share." She turned to the physician. "Doctor, I believe we have some packing to do."

  The nurse could hear the distant staccato of artillery fire and knew that it would not last forever. After the battle had been fought, the victors would be arriving in search of their illustrious General. It would be best for her and her employer if they took their leave before the General was discovered.

  Rourke nodded solemnly. "I have learned to live with your abuse for a very long time, General. Now you must learn to live with mine."

  As the two left the recovery room, confusion gripped the commanding officer. Frantically, he lifted himself on trembling arms, intent on demanding that Rourke explain himself. But the sight that suddenly confronted him brought stark reality crashing down upon him. He felt an uncontrollable surge of wild revulsion grip him, but this time it was not directed toward those at whom he had made a career of loathing. No, this time the powerful hatred was directed at his own, newly-constructed body.

  For instead of the sturdy limbs of an adult male, the slender brown arms of a Mexican child supported him. The girlish nails were bitten to the quick and painted a brilliant pink. A choke of mounting terror rose in his throat as he examined the rest of his patchwork physique. The upper torso was undeniably male and muscular, yet it was the ebony hue of it
s black-skinned donor. Finally, as the crowning coupe de grace, the good doctor had supplied him with the lower torso and legs of a female, the reddish-bronze skin identifying it as that of an American Indian.

  His screams of horror echoed throughout the cavernous warehouse, bouncing off steel and concrete walls, amplifying his emotion a hundredfold. They lingered briefly in the presence of the healers, then resumed alone as the heavy steel door rolled slowly closed.

  THE PARADISE PILL

  She stood by the garden gate, breathing in the fragrant scent of honeysuckle. Joan recalled how, as children, they would pinch the stems off the tiny white blossoms and taste the drop of nectar hidden inside. The memory brought a sad smile. It seemed like a million years ago.

  Grace clutched her mother's hand anxiously. "I haven't seen Grandma in a long time," she said.

  Joan looked down at the seven-year-old and winked. "Me either, baby. Come on. Let's surprise her."

  Joan lifted the latch and slowly opened the weathered gate, hoping that it wouldn't squeak and give them away. Luckily, it didn't. Grace grinned, looking as if she were on the verge of giggling. Her mother raised a finger to her lips and signaled her to hush. The girl with the rusty red hair and hazel green eyes – both traits that were hauntingly reminiscent of her father – nodded and remained silent.

  The garden was brilliant with a rainbow of blossoms and blooms. Crocus, azalea, hyacinth, and purple iris. Sunflower shown as bright and yellow as the warm, summer sun and cornflower matched the blueness of the pure, unpolluted sky above. The vivid hues nearly hurt their eyes. Joan hadn't seen such vibrant colors since before the Burn.

  Suddenly, she felt disoriented and unsure. Don't think about the Burn. It doesn't exist here.

  They found Grandma in the center of the garden, weeding around a cherub fountain made of white-washed concrete. She wore her favorite sun hat and the gardening gloves Joan had given her several Christmases ago. She hummed "Blessed Assurance" as she worked. A mockingbird sang from high atop a towering oak nearby, as if accompanying her in cheerful harmony.

  The two stood behind her for a moment, then Grace spoke up. "Grandma?"

  The elderly woman turned, her eyes widening in surprise. "Land sakes alive!" she said. Rising to her feet, she embraced both with a smothering hug. "Where did you two come from?"

  "We traveled a long way," Grace told her. "And we sure are hungry. You wouldn't have some lemonade and cookies would you?"

  Grandma shucked off her gloves. "Better yet, it's almost suppertime. Come on in and we'll fix up a meal that you'll never forget."

  "Fried chicken and mashed potatoes?" asked Grace. "Real ones, not the kind you make out of a box?"

  "You got it, Gracie Mae!" laughed Grandma with a smile. "And we'll have us some fried green tomatoes and squash casserole, too. And chocolate chip pecan pie with homemade ice cream for dessert."

  "Yippee!" cheered Grace, jumping up and down.

  Grandma turned and looked at Joan. "I've missed you, daughter."

  "I've missed you, too, Mama," she said. "I'm sorry we've been away for so long. I just had to find a way to get back."

  "Well, you're here now. That's all that matters."

  After supper, they sat on the front porch of the little farmhouse in the dark of late evening. Joan's sister, Crystal, was there, along with her husband, Stu, who sat on the porch steps, picking his guitar. In the yard, a girl and two boys ran, laughing, catching fireflies and imprisoning them in quart mason jars.

  "Don't you want to go out and play with your cousins?" her mother asked her. Both sat on the porch swing, hand-in-hand.

  "I've got a big old jar in the pantry with your name on it," Grandma told her. "You could catch lightning bugs till your heart's content."

  Grace looked up at her mother. "You know I can't do that. That would make the magic go away."

  The joy of that day had almost made Joan forget. "Yes… you're right, baby." The two's fingers entwined even tighter, refusing to let go.

  Then Grandma turned in her rocking chair and stared her daughter in the eyes. "Uh, daughter…"

  Please, don't, thought Joan. Don't ask me the question.

  "Where's Hank? And little Daniel?"

  Aw, Mama… why did you have to ruin it all?

  The pain came to her in a flash, along with images that the human mind should never have to process. Her husband and teenage son at the hands of maniacs; screaming, calling for God's mercy as their skins were slowly peeled away.

  The night grew suddenly darker, the porch light and the winking star-scape of lightning bugs fading into choking blackness. Beyond the porch it began to rain. Hard, driving, relentless.

  "No, Mama," Grace protested tearfully. "It was too soon."

  "I know, baby," said Joan, near tears herself. "I'm sorry." She turned to her mother. "Good bye, Mama."

  But her mother was gone. Now she remembered. They had found her remains a long time ago, lying in the overgrown flower garden, her bloody bones scattered by the fountain, picked clean of flesh – whether by animals or human beings, they had no idea.

  Joan Porter awoke in a cramped closet, wedged between a dank plaster wall and a rusty water heater that hadn't worked in years. It was dark in the closet and cold. As Joan returned to her senses, she felt Grace's hand in her own. It was soft and warm. She sighed in relief.

  "Mama?" the child asked after a few minutes. "Are we back?"

  "Yes, darling," Joan said.

  The two sat in the closet for a long time, holding one another, listening to the roar of the downpour outside. It had rained without ceasing for seven days now. And in a place like New Orleans that was a dangerous thing.

  "Mama? How come we both dream the same dream every time?"

  Joan reached inside the pocket of her sweat pants and felt the plastic bag that held the tiny purple pills. There were only two left, but their presence comforted her. "It's hard to explain. Something chemical, I think. It's just how the drug works."

  "It was nice seeing Grandma again. And the cousins."

  Joan felt her spirits begin to sink. "I'm sorry you couldn't play."

  Grace squeezed her hand. "That's okay. It was fun just to watch."

  They continued to sit in darkness… until the closet door rattled with a flurry of heavy-handed knocks. "Joan! Open this damn door… now!" a man's voice roared from the other side.

  Joan scrambled over and disengaged the bolt lock she had scavenged from a hardware store down the street and installed herself. It was the only shred of privacy that the man had allowed her and her daughter to have. Immediately, the door was wrenched open and pale, gray light intruded on their three by four foot sanctuary.

  Mike stood there, dressed in his heavy gray rain-slicker; the type that protected you from the corrosive acid that fell from the sky. The lanky man held a pump shotgun and carried a brace of .45 pistols in his belt. He reminded Joan of someone out of an old western movie… an outlaw who lived on the run, which, pretty much was what Mike truly was.

  But, then, who wasn't an outlaw these days?

  Behind him stood his sidekick, a man Joan only knew as Bristol. She despised the hulking fellow with the tattooed face and scraggly brown beard. She didn't like how he looked at Grace. Joan had vowed never to leave her daughter alone with the man and, so far, she had kept her promise.

  "What the hell are you doing in there?" Mike snapped. "Get your ass out here." As Joan and Grace stumbled from the closet, Mike tossed a canvas bag to the woman. "Cook this up. And don't burn it like last time!"

  "Yes, Mike," she said in a submissive tone that angered her deep down inside. Joan opened the bag and found a dead cat inside. Its fur was gone and its ugly pink skin was covered with burns and scar tissue. From the amount of bullet wounds in the animal, she guessed that Bristol had dispatched it with his M-16. "Where did you find it?"

  "In an alley over on Canal Street," Mike told her.

  "Yeah, it was perched on top of a dumpster just as pretty a
s you please," said Bristol. "A frigging cat for God's sake! I haven't seen one in two years and there it was, like manna from heaven."

  Grace reached out and stroked its head. "Poor thing."

  That nasty expression gleamed in Bristol's eyes as he leered at the little girl. "I got something you can pet on, sweetheart."

  Joan turned to the man she had been with for six months now. "Mike!"

  "Aw, Bristol was just joking around," Mike assured her. "Like I told you before, he's harmless."

  "Just keep him away from Grace," she said.

  "Aw, I wouldn't bother little missy," Bristol said. "I wouldn't hurt a hair on her pretty head for anything in the world."

  Joan glared at the big man. "Just keep your distance."

  "Will you two just shut up!" Mike growled. "Fix up that cat and cook these, too." He took a can of pork and beans out of his slicker pocket and tossed it to her. "We'll have us a real feast for a change."

  "Hot damn!" declared Bristol. "We gonna eat us some pussy tonight!"

  "Bristol!" Joan snapped.

  "Sorry… I mean kitty cat." Bristol winked at Grace and licked his lips. Then he and Mike went into the dining room of the abandoned restaurant to drink and play cards, leaving the womenfolk to prepare the meal.

  As Joan lit a fire in the fifty-five gallon drum they used as a stove, Grace sat on the floor and stroked the dead cat. "Mama… he scares me."

  "Don't worry about him," her mother assured her. "He isn't going to bother you. Bristol's like a big old teddy bear. A filthy teddy bear with most of the stuffing out of its head, but just a harmless old teddy bear."

  Grace didn't seem convinced. "Sometimes, the way he looks at me… makes me feel… well, kinda dirty and sick in my tummy."

  Joan said nothing in reply. She knew what Bristol was; she knew what the tiny pink teddy bears tattooed across this forehead and cheeks meant. His intentions toward her daughter were undeniable. But she had made Mike promise her that Bristol would never lay a hand on Grace and, so far, he had kept his promise. Bristol was big enough to break Mike in half, but he was scared of him for some unknown reason and would never consider crossing the man.