by James Huss
“Shelley—wait up!” She slowed her gait to a meandering pace, and I caught up to her quickly. “You know, we traveled all this way, and we got lost, and nearly killed, and we finally found this place, and I—” I was rambling. Shelley stopped me.
“Relax, Marlowe. It’s just a city. Don’t get your hopes up.” It was too late for that.
“The hospital!” I pulled the name and address from my pocket.
“Don’t you want to explore first?” She spun around slowly and gazed at the great buildings that surrounded us.
“No time for that.” I was impatient to the last. There was no time, no time. But there was time, and yet I wasted it like a hopeless fool. I often wondered what I would do with more time in my life, more than these few and trying decades my people are cursed to bear. The Ancients lived a hundred years or more. I suppose anybody could find happiness in a hundred years. But I would not exchange that fortnight with Shelley for a thousand of those ancient lives. We should have explored the city.
Beyond the city gates was a market; there was a similar market at the western gate. Again, it was just like Benjonsen’s Book. It’s no wonder the two cities were confused. “Look, Shelley—it’s just like in the Book we found. You hungry?”
“Of course, I’m hungry.” I fished out a couple of coins and kept them at the ready. We scanned the rows of vendors. I felt like I could have eaten one of everything. “Ooh—hot dogs! I’ll have two, please. You want a hot dog, Marlowe?”
“Two. Chili and slaw. No onions.”
“Extra onions for me, please.”
“Gross. I’m not kissing you.”
“Suit yourself.” Shelley made a ridiculous face, which turned flush as the vendor reached out to hand her the two dogs. When he turned his back again, she took a huge bite, those dreadful onions and all, and after a few rapid mastications blew that fetid stench right in my face. I was appalled.
The hot dog vendor set out three odd buckets for a table and chairs, and we dined. I asked him where the hospital was and showed him the address from H.F.
He took the paper and shook his head. “That ain’t the hospital,” he said, handing the paper back to me. “The hospital’s over there.” He pointed to the top of a red brick building maybe a quarter of a mile away.
I shoved the last of my dog in my mouth. “Let’s go.” I grabbed my bag.
“What was that? I can’t understand you with all that food in your mouth.”
I chewed furiously. “I said, let’s go.”
“I’m not finished yet.” She was chewing the last bite slowly, all the while staring at me with an undulating half-grin. When she finished, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, folded it, and laid it gently on the bucket-table before us. “Now I’m finished. We can go.”
I urged Shelley on—she was in no hurry at all. Still, it only took a few minutes to get to the hospital. It was a chaotic amalgam of peoples and technologies. The ancient technology is difficult to maintain, though our amateur engineers have made quite brilliant modifications. They work in vain, for the Disease rages on, and there are few who choose to waste their precious little time on earth rebuilding the gadgets and the machines that once made life seem so much fairer, so much easier.
A young girl sat at the reception desk. It was cluttered and busy, with nurses floating to and fro, grabbing clipboards and calling for patients. The receptionist wore ill-fitting glasses that she nervously arranged and adjusted. “Can I help you?” She pushed the glasses up her nose.
“We’re here to see a doctor.”
The girl lowered her glasses, assessing Shelley’s condition, then pushed them back up her nose again. “She don’t look pregnant.”
“She’s not.”
“I’m not.”
The words were spoken in conjoined disharmony.
“Then why do you need to see the doctor?” she asked with a doubting voice.
“She has the Disease.”
“We’ve all got the Disease,” she responded, coldly.
“I mean the Early Onset. She saw the Light. Just the other day.” The receptionist didn’t seem to care.
“There’s not really anything we can do. Is there a particular doctor you’d like to see, sir?” I took out the paper and handed it to her. She but glanced at it before handing it back. “There’s no doctor here by that name.”
I leaned in close. “Don’t they do research at this hospital?”
“Sir, I don’t think you’re in the right place.”
“I told you, Marlowe. There is no Cure,” said Shelley. She spoke softly and sweetly, as a caring mother might to a disappointed child. “Let’s just go home.” She rubbed my arm tenderly.
“But the stories, the books, Benjonsen’s map—was it all just bosh?”
“It’s okay, Marlowe,” Shelley said calmly. “Let’s go home.”
I just stood there. I couldn’t go home after all we had been through—making the Citizen’s Appeal, defying my brother, abandoning my family, embarking on that harrowing journey—all for nothing. Nothing. I was paralyzed.
A nurse came from behind the desk and pulled me gently away. “Room 504—Dr. Meyer. He can help you.” Before I could relay the message to Shelley, the nurse disappeared into the motley crowd of expecting and infected.
I pulled Shelley into the corner away from the crowd. “Where are the stairs?” We both looked around.
“Why? Where are we—over there!” She grabbed my hand, and we darted for the stairwell. “Where are we going?” I held the stairwell door for her. “And why are we in such a hurry?”
“You’ll see. Fifth floor.”
“Ugh. Could you at least slow down a little?”
On the first few floors, the stairwell was bustling with people. By the time we got to the fifth, it was barren, almost ghostlike. The stairwell door creaked as we opened it, and though I thought I heard voices, there was not a soul in sight. “Did you say something?”
“No, why?”
“Nothing. The nurse said 504.”
“That way.” It was just down the hall from the stairwell.
“504—Dr. Meyers. This is the place.” I rapped lightly at the door. There was no answer. I checked the lock—it was open.
“Just go in, silly. It’s a doctor’s office.” Shelley darted in before me. We stepped into what appeared to be some sort of pre-examination area—in the corner sat a small table with a curtain that could be drawn in a circle around it, like our shower back home; next to the table was a stool with wheels (I had never seen one like it before); there were chairs for waiting or consultation; there were shelves and cabinets with rather innocuous-looking medical tools and bandages. There was no hint of the surgical or morbid, but there was a door in the rear of the room.
After finding nothing else of interest, Shelley walked boldly to it. “What do you think’s in here?”
“Maybe we should find a nurse.”
“Let me check the lock.”
Flashing that silly grin at me, Shelley reached for the door without looking. But her hand found no handle, and the door disappeared. In its place stood a silhouette in a lab coat. The bright light glaring off the sterile background of stark-white tile and paint engulfed the pallid figure in a ghastly radiance. My eyes widened in anticipation. I was not afraid, though I surely looked it, for when Shelley saw my face, her own drained itself white as that silly grin faded to oblivion. The half-second it took for her to turn from my ghastly image to the one standing ominously behind her was just long enough to foment a shrill and stentorian shriek. She swooned and collapsed into the doctor’s arms.
The doctor gently laid Shelley upon the examination table. He sat down on the stool, placed a blanket under her head, and checked her vital signs. He was quite gentle with her. “Are you okay?” He was young, but he had that soft yet assertive voice that only comes with years of comforting the uncomfortable. Shelley shook off her stupor and raised up on her elbows. “Easy there. Lie back down.�
� He gently urged her back to her pillow. “Just rest a moment.”
“Dr. Meyers?”
“Yes?” He slid his stool back.
“The nurse downstairs sent me to find you.”
He looked at me for the first time. His face was a paradox—solid, square, the kind of face that looked years beyond its age, not from work or sun or abuse, but from pure and natural masculinity. He had olive skin that wrinkled slightly about his eyes, and the coarse hair on his face grew so fast as to pierce the skin’s surface nearly as soon as those relentless strands were razed. Yet this gallant, manly face sat squarely on a boy’s frame, for the doctor was of a slight build and stood no taller than five-foot-six. His hands and forearms boasted no history of work or sports—his life was in his study and research. His hair was full, though the beginnings of its end were apparent. I would have judged him to be almost thirty; I had faith in his wisdom.
“We should move her to a more comfortable place.” That voice—so subtle and elegant and trustworthy. I did as he suggested.
The inner office was somewhat larger than the outer room, and though it seemed to have been used for medical treatment before, it now maintained a desk and cabinets and shelves, many shelves, upon which lay many books, none of which looked familiar to me. It was furnished much like any other office: there was a couch, upon which we laid Shelley, and several old but comfortable chairs. We sat and talked while Shelley rested. I told him a little of the story of our journey, and he laughed out loud when I described Shelley drunk off of poets’ wine. He seemed to have very little laughter in his life, and when he did, it almost engulfed him. But this was a mere distraction—he regained his composure quickly once Shelley sat upright.
“That’s not funny,” she said with a blush.
“There’s color in your cheeks again!” I got up and helped her to the seat next to mine.
“I’m fine. Really. What’s all the fuss about?”
“Have a seat, Shelley,” Meyers said gently. She sat. We talked. “I’ve never been to the villages, never even been outside the city. I’ve lived here all my life, most of it in this very building. When I was still quite young and intolerable, my doting cousins noticed a certain ‘aptitude’ in my studies and sent me to live among the science prodigies. I grew up in the dormitories downstairs. I’ve dedicated my life to science, and one day, I will cure this Disease.” His eyes watered and reddened. He stood and turned to his shelf, fondling the spines of his well-worn collection.
“I want to ask something of you, dear Shelley. Something not for me, but for all of us, all of mankind. I want to ask you questions. That’s all. Questions about these lights you’ve seen, these feelings you’ve had, even the dreams that plague you at night. I want to run a few harmless procedures, check your heart rate, your pH balance, your white blood cell count, your urine—all completely innocuous, but of course necessary.” He turned around. “Necessary for the survival of our very species. It will only take a few hours, and it will literally be painless.”
She did not hesitate. She saw her chance to make something of that futile journey of ours. “I’ll do it.”
Meyers slapped his desk with a blithe palm and flashed a wide grin. “That’s great!” He turned to me. “Now if you’ll just wait downstairs.”
“I can wait right here.”
“Sorry. Hospital policy. Is she your wife?”
“Sort of.”
“It’s okay, Marlowe. Why don’t you find that friend of yours? I’ll be fine.”
I reluctantly left her to be questioned, poked, and prodded, and went searching for this mysterious friend of H.F.’s: Dr. Brown.
Chapter XXIII
The locals were helpful—they directed me to Southgate, a neighborhood just on the other side of the hospital. It was a seedy neighborhood, nothing like the rebel village, but it was obvious you could get whatever you wanted here. I felt safe in the city. In the city, as everywhere, poverty begets crime, but the crimes there were of pleasure, not of pain. I saw a man in a suit talking to two beautiful girls—it seemed that they were bargaining over something. I saw people standing on corners calling to passersby.
“Hey, brother—new to Southgate? I got what you want.” I gripped the straps of my pack and sidled a few feet away to a safer distance. “Relax. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He turned to the man next to him and said, “He ain’t from around here.” I picked up my pace. They laughed at my trepidation, but soon forgot the strange face that for a moment intruded upon their rude lifestyles and then disappeared into some dark corner of Southgate.
Dr. Brown’s house was humble, but well-maintained. The windows were boarded, and the backyard was surrounded by a six-foot fence, quite old and patched over with pieces of corrugated metal, plywood, and random boards. There were tarps spread out across it so that much of the yard was hidden beneath them.
The front porch sat three steps above the ground, and bore no furniture except an old folding chair with a dirty ashtray sitting next to it. The front door was guarded by another barred door—it must have been a dangerous neighborhood in years past. I crept up the brick steps to take a closer look, but when my foot hit the third step, a loose brick went tumbling to the ground. In the corner of my eye I saw the curtain move. Someone was watching me.
I reached through the bars of the exterior door and rapped upon the inner door. It opened quickly, but narrowly—a chain held it in place as a man peered at me through the small opening. “What do you want? I don’t buy from strangers.”
“I’m not selling anything, mister.”
“It’s doctor. Now go away.” The door slammed shut. A few moments later the curtain moved again. I stood my ground hesitantly, not knowing how to deal with such a character, but determined to discover how or if he could help me. The curtain moved again, and soon the door cracked once more. “Go away, I said.”
“Dr. Brown?” My voice was shaking.
“Who are you?”
“H.F. sent me.” I slipped the piece of paper through the bars and through the crack. He snatched it out of my hand and shut the door. I stood there a moment, wondering if I should leave this place, wondering if I should trust this stranger. Then I thought I heard a whistling from the back. I dared not investigate. I was hoping Dr. Brown would open the door soon—my nerves were sorely wracked. Sure enough, as I was about to abandon that anxious endeavor, the door cracked again. Dr. Brown looked agitated.
“Around back.” He nodded his head twice to the left and shut the door again. I will never understand city folk. I went around back, and a small door in the fence opened for me. He led me through a sort of tunnel made of more tarps, and I could not see what he was hiding in that back yard. I had those same feelings I had in Southgate: I should not have been in such a place, and yet it felt safe.
The house slanted back on a slight declivity, so the rear steps were a little higher than the front. But we did not go inside the house; we went into the basement through a small door beneath the steps. A voice told me not to go in there—a stranger’s basement in the worst part of the city—but I heeded it not. It was a powerful voice, a voice much like my brother’s, but over the past couple of weeks I had learned to ignore it.
I crept through the small door to what was more of a crawl space than a basement, though there was quite a bit of room in the center. Dr. Brown had laid more tarps upon the dirt floor, and there were a few chairs arranged around a folding table. The table was bare save a tin ashtray cut from an old rusty can. Above the table a single light dangled precariously from the ceiling, its cord looped around a nail in the floor beams above.
The doctor slapped the back of a chair and bade me sit. He sat down across from me and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with matches that were resting next to the ashtray. He dropped the match in the ashtray and puffed his exhaust upward. The smoke danced and swirled around the bulb like a ghost half-materialized. Dr. Brown leaned forward and examined my face. “You don’t look old enough for the manifestati
on. Early Onset?” He tapped the cigarette on the rough edge of the tin-can ashtray and then leaned back in his chair.
“It’s not me. It’s Shelley.”
“Who’s Shelley?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend? Where is she?” He shot upright in his chair.
“At the hospital with the doctors. They’re examining her.”
Dr. Brown bolted to his feet and crushed the half-burnt cigarette into the sides of the can. “We have to go. Now!” He yanked the string of the light, and the dark engulfed us as the waning glow of the bulb swung back and forth into oblivion.
Dr. Brown opened the basement door, and enough light flooded in that I could see my way to the opening. That did not stop me from banging my head. “Ow!”
The doctor was waiting impatiently at the door. “Hurry!” He slammed the door and threw the bolt shut. We scurried through the tarp-tunnels and out the small fence gate, which stuck halfway open. The doctor furiously kicked it until it closed, then smacked the padlock with the palm of his hand to lock it. Panting, he scanned the area one last time, then flew in the direction of the hospital. I followed on his heels.
“What is it, doctor?”
“They’re not who you think.”
“Who?”
He stopped me. It was the first time I got a good look at his face. He was mid-twenties, a bit overweight, and he wore a goatee, which was showing a few gray hairs already.
“The poor man’s doctor runs that asylum!” He bolted again. I struggled to keep up.
“Were you a doctor at that hospital?”
“I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Then what kind of doctor are you?”
“PhD. But that’s irrelevant. Your girl’s in danger. We must save her.”
“Save her?”
“Too many people. Not enough time. We should be there already. Plagues! Pick up the clip!” His brisk pace afforded no questions, but I knew Shelley was in trouble, and that was enough to drive me on.