The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE)

by John Benedict

  “We’ll ride every Friday,” Laura said. “And I’ll make us a picnic lunch. We can spread out a blanket. It’ll be just like old times. Do you think we can carry all that on our bikes?” Laura looked at him, eyes sparkling.

  “Definitely,” Doug said.

  Laura sidled closer, wrapped one arm around him, and squeezed. “We’re so lucky, Doug. Do you ever think that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too.”

  They sat there a while in silence, Doug concentrating on the warmth and softness of Laura’s body leaning against his. The only noise was the chirping of the birds and occasional squeals from small children as they played on nearby swing sets.

  “Hey, I almost forgot,” Doug said after several minutes, breaking their reverie. “You should’ve heard the lecture I heard this morning.”

  Laura eyed him quizzically. “Medical lectures usually aren’t that exciting.”

  “This one was; it turned into a full-blown circus. Remember that nurse who was killed in the ICU earlier this week?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Doug related the details of Mueller’s lecture and the audience reaction afterward.

  “Sounds creepy, if you ask me,” Laura said, scrunching up her nose.

  “We’ll have to watch the news tonight. I think the whole thing’s going to hit the fan. The press were all over his case. I’m going to try to talk to Gunter Mueller—he’s the pathologist in charge of all of this resuscitation stuff—and see some of his protocol in more detail.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” Laura said, feigning a yawn.

  “No, really, it is. The whole oxygen/reperfusion thing intrigues me. Remember, I make a living out of ensuring proper oxygen delivery.”

  “Whatever you say, dear.”

  “But I guess I’d better see Mueller before they shut his lab down.”

  “Would they do that?” Laura asked.

  “They might. He jumped off the table. “Why don’t we head back before the boys get home from school.”

  The two walked back to the bike rack. “You know, Doug,” Laura said as they put their helmets on, “maybe they should shut his lab down—I mean, what if his stuff does make the patients violent?”

  “That seems a little far-fetched, Laura.”

  “I’m just not a big fan of tinkering with the dying process.”

  “He’s trying to save lives,” Doug said.

  “Yeah, I know. But if these people are really dead, what happens to their soul?”

  “I don’t know; never really thought about it.” Doug squeezed his tires, checking for proper pressure.

  “Sometimes that’s the trouble with research.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did they catch the person responsible yet?” Laura asked as she prepared to mount her bike.

  “I don’t think so. But I’m sure they will soon. How hard could it be to track down a near-dead patient on foot?”

  C H A P T E R 2 0

  Friday, 11:30 a.m.

  Particularly energized by his morning meal in the CVS men’s room, Chandler walked briskly down Caracas Avenue, feeling as if he could break into a jog. He didn’t want to push his body too fast, though; another couple of days with some decent, regular meals and some sleep, and he’d be ready to tackle anything. He focused on walking, his thoughts returning to the woman he had seen in the drugstore; he still couldn’t place her.

  Soon Chandler saw the vintage Chevy Impala parked on the street in front of a two-story brick house and knew he’d reached his destination. He walked up the narrow cement walkway and onto a large wooden porch. A sign by the door read: The Kopenhavers. All Friends Welcome! Chandler smiled and knocked on the door. No answer. They had to be home. He knocked louder.

  Finally the door opened several inches before being stopped by a security chain. Mrs. Kopenhaver’s wrinkled little face peeked out at him. There was no recognition in her eyes. “Yes, can I help you?” she asked. She seemed a bit frazzled, no doubt from encountering a stranger at her front door.

  “Hi, I’m Bill from the drugstore,” Chandler said, working to smile as widely as he could. “I have one of your medicines.” He held up a little plastic bag with the CVS logo on it. There were several Powerbars in it. “You must’ve forgotten it.”

  “No, I think I have everything,” she said. “We only went to get some prescriptions for my husband.” Mrs. Kopenhaver’s eyes narrowed and she regarded him suspiciously.

  “The pharmacist didn’t have the heart medicine ready in time,” Chandler said, improvising.

  “I could have sworn I got that one.”

  Chandler studied her briefly. “I have Mr. Kopenhaver’s Lanoxin right here.” He held the bag higher.

  She reached out through the gap to take the bag.

  Chandler pulled the bag back. “I need you to sign for it, Mrs. Kopenhaver. Sorry. You know, Medicare rules.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, sounding exasperated. She closed the door and he could hear her struggle with the chain for a moment. Finally she opened the door wide and said, “Come in, please. Let me just go and get a pen.”

  Chandler entered the foyer and looked around. The hardwood floor creaked under his feet. A little peekapoo came out of nowhere and began snarling at him.

  “Don’t mind the dog,” she called out from the dining room. “He won’t hurt you—he’s a real scaredy-cat.”

  Chandler knelt down and reached out to pet the dog, who promptly nipped him on the finger. Mrs. Kopenhaver returned with pen in hand. “Duchess and I are getting along great,” he said, hiding his bloody finger.

  “I see,” she said. “Now, where do I sign?”

  Chandler hesitated, then pulled a receipt from the bag and handed it to her.

  She took the paper and made room on the small end table to write on, pushing the lace doily and empty flower vase out of the way. “This doesn’t look like a Medicare form,” she remarked, worry tugging at her eyebrows. She looked up at him. “By the way, how did you know the dog’s name?”

  Shit! Before she could react, Chandler put his hand over her mouth and pushed her against the wall, knocking over the end table. The flower vase shattered on the floor. She struggled harder than he would’ve thought possible.

  “Erma,” came the voice of Mr. Kopenhaver from the living room. “What’s all the fuss about?”

  She bit his hand.

  Damn!

  He pulled his hand back and she let out a blood-curdling scream that hurt his ears.

  Damn it!

  She tried to slip out of his grasp, but he grabbed her tight and slammed her body to the wall. Her head smacked against the doorframe and she let out a moan. Her gray wig slanted crazily, halfway off her head. He overpowered her easily and pinned her arms tightly against her body. This time, he clamped his hand securely over her mouth and nose. Her mind radiated massive amounts of terror with undertones of anger.

  Chandler could hear the old man grunting, and a chair creaked in the other room. “I’m coming,” Mr. Kopenhaver said.

  Erma’s struggling dwindled and then ceased altogether. He watched her eyes with fascination as her pupils began to dilate. Seconds later, he sensed a strange, invisible force brush up against him. He shuddered, and it was gone. He lowered her lifeless body to the floor, his eyes avoiding the horrified expression frozen on her face.

  Duchess was barking fiercely and scrambling about, but she kept her distance.

  Hearing footsteps approaching, Chandler quickly moved over and stood against the wall, out of sight.

  Mr. Kopenhaver finally shuffled into view, huffing with the exertion. He almost tripped over his wife’s body before he noticed it. He immediately knelt down at her side. “Erma, what’s the matter?”

  Chandler came up behind the old man and twisted his head sharply to one side. He felt the old man’s neck snap as easily as a dry twig and the man went limp. Once again, Chandler sensed the pr
esence of a spiritual being floating by him. This time it touched him as it went by. Chandler was a bit unnerved by this, but couldn’t deny what he had felt—twice now.

  He took several moments to calm himself before carrying the bodies to the basement, one by one. He laid them side by side on the cement floor, thinking it fitting that they be together in death.

  As the adrenaline haze started to clear, Chandler waited for the bad feelings to come—but remarkably, they never did. No sorrow. No guilt. No remorse. Nothing.

  Chandler climbed back up the basement stairs, the gray wig now poking out of his back pocket. He hadn’t intended to kill these two, it just happened. The old lady had bit him and then screamed, triggering some primitive survival reflex in him. His mind drifted to the invisible things that had touched him. Had he actually sensed the souls leaving the newly dead bodies? Since when did he have the ability to sense these things? More gifts from the transformation? he wondered. More questions for the good Dr. Mueller.

  A wave of drowsiness suddenly washed over him as he reached the top of the stairs, and he staggered. He realized the boost from the energy bars was fading and his caffeine level was dropping along with his blood sugar. He could easily regulate his own blood sugar by suppressing his pancreas’s insulin output, but a little snack would sure fit the bill. And a nice nap in a real bed with sheets seemed mighty tempting as well. He was still far from full strength and his body could use the down time. Finding answers and furthering his goals could wait.

  He didn’t think the Kopenhavers would be missed for a while. Their house would make a suitable safe house where he could recuperate. Tomorrow would be a new day—he would make a fresh start.

  Once again, Chandler was quite taken by the novelty of making a plan. He smiled. Things were definitely going his way. There was no question he was smarter, more intelligent than he had ever been.

  He checked the refrigerator and found half a roasted chicken wrapped in aluminum foil on a plate. An oversize serving fork with two sharp tines was also on the plate. Over to the side was a small Tupperware container of mashed potatoes. Perfect. Add some milk to wash it all down with, and he had a proper feast! But he had one more task to attend to before he could indulge in his meal and luxuriate in his new bed.

  He tore off a piece of chicken with one hand and held the fork behind his back with the other. “Duchess! Here, girl. Want a treat?”

  C H A P T E R 2 1

  Friday, 2:00 p.m.

  “The view’s even better from this side,” Laura said, nodding toward Memorial Lake from the top of the dam.

  “I think you’re right.”

  She and Doug dismounted from their bikes and stood surveying the serene water. The picnic table they had been sitting at earlier was visible on the far shore.

  “Thanks again for a lovely day.” Laura leaned over and kissed him.

  Doug smiled. “Sure, anytime.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s two o’clock—we’d better get moving.”

  “Right,” Laura said. “You can sure lose track of time out here.”

  They biked along the edge of the lake to the park exit, where the little one lane road T’ed up to the main road. They braked to a halt at the stop sign and looked and listened for traffic. The visibility to the left was very limited—only about fifty yards or so as Route 443 disappeared into a sharp curve. Doug got off his bike and leaned it against his hip. He pulled off his helmet and fiddled with the mirror attached to it. “You go on,” he said, frustrated. “I’ll catch up. I just need to fix this blasted mirror.”

  Suddenly, two motorcycles came powering around the bend; an ear-splitting roar from their unmuffled pipes shattered the placid silence of the afternoon. The motorcycles sped off down the straightaway to the right and quickly disappeared from sight. Soon their engine noise also faded, restoring the tranquil quiet of the woods. Several birds twittered nearby and the cicadas resumed their rhythmic song.

  “Be careful,” warned Doug, glancing up.

  “I will,” Laura said, clipping her left foot into her pedal.

  Doug watched her from the corner of his eye as she started across the road. He cursed under his breath at his fussy little mirror, wanting to join her while the road was clear.

  Seconds later, he heard the throaty growl of a revved-up V8, before a pickup truck careened around the bend—directly toward Laura. It had to be going at least sixty around the curve. Dropping his helmet, Doug let his bike fall to the ground and stepped forward, waving his arms wildly at the Dodge Ram while shouting, “Laura, watch out!”

  Laura didn’t see the truck bearing down on her; head down, she was focused on trying to clip her right foot into the pedal.

  It was all happening so fast—

  Finally, after an eternity, she looked up, drawn by the roar of the truck or him shouting—who knew. Pedal, Laura, pedal!

  A loud screech as the driver jammed on the brakes. The truck went into a vicious skid, tires screaming on the dry pavement. Doug yelled, “Laura!” just before he heard an awful, sickening thud as the truck slammed into her body. She and the bike flew ten yards from the impact, landing on the far shoulder of the road.

  Doug sprinted across the road to her. Laura was tangled up in her twisted bike, one foot still clipped into her pedal, the other leg caught between the frame and the bike chain. She was scraped up pretty badly from sliding across the asphalt. His eyes fell on the jagged white of splintered bone—her femur—sticking out from a ragged hole in her bike shorts. Shit—not good. Blood seeped out around the bone onto the pavement. But amazingly, her eyes were open. Thank God for her helmet. “Laura, are you okay?” he asked breathlessly.

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled, sounding dazed, eyes unfocused. “What happened?”

  “You got hit. Your leg’s broken.”

  The truck driver, a big, bearded man in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans, lumbered over to them, wheezing with the effort. “Hey lady, you okay?” he called, then, “Oh, shit.” He recoiled. “Her leg!” He ran a meaty hand through his reddish hair and turned away.

  “We have to get her to a hospital,” Doug said.

  “She pulled out right in front of me,” the driver said, turning back to face Doug. He shook his head and held his hands palms up in a helpless “what could I have done” gesture. “I hit the brakes as soon as I seen her.”

  “Can you call for an ambulance?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He whipped out his cell phone.

  Doug turned back to Laura. “Here, let’s get you untangled from your bike.”

  “My leg hurts badly,” she said.

  “Your left leg is broken—we’ll try to be real careful with it. Anything else hurt?”

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  “Good,” Doug said. “Help is on the way.”

  He worked carefully to free Laura from the wreckage of her bike. He noticed that her leg was bleeding more freely now. Shit. “Laura, your leg is bleeding. We’re going to have to put a tourniquet on it.”

  She nodded.

  “Where’s that ambulance?” Doug said to the driver.

  “On the way. Ten, fifteen minutes, they said.”

  “Can I have your belt?” Doug asked.

  “Huh? Sure.”

  Doug wrapped the man’s belt around Laura’s upper thigh and cinched it tight. Hopefully that will stop the bleeding. “Laura, how are you doing?” he asked.

  “Okay, I guess.” Pain pinched her eyebrows together.

  “Did you hit your head?”

  “No. My side really hurts, though.”

  Doug gently touched her left side, where her biking shirt was torn over her rib cage. This looked like another point of impact with the truck’s bumper.

  Laura grimaced in pain. “Ow, that’s really sore.”

  “Shit,” Doug said. “You may have fractured a rib, too.”

  “It kinda hurts to take a deep breath.”

  “Just breathe easy, honey.”

&n
bsp; Laura was now leaning forward, propped up on one arm, her other hand holding her side. “Doug, it feels harder to breathe,” she said, looking up at him, pain and fear now glazing her eyes.

  “It’ll be okay, Laura. Help is on the way,” Doug said, but he watched in horror as she struggled to take in a deep breath. The muscles in her neck worked as she strained to inhale. “Just try to take slow, easy breaths, Laura.”

  “Why is it so hard?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m not sure,” Doug said, but he began wondering about her fractured ribs. About how a jagged rib might easily have punctured and collapsed her lung.

  Doug looked over at the truck driver. “Lemme have your phone.”

  The big man tossed him his phone and Doug dialed.

  “Buchanan Med ECU,” came the reply.

  “Put me through to whoever’s in charge,” Doug demanded.

  “This is Dr. Sorenson. Who is this?”

  “This is Dr. Landry. Listen, I’ve got a critical situation here. You need to send the Life Lion out to Memorial Lake. We’re at the park’s east exit, along 443. My wife was hit by a truck and can’t breathe. Please hurry.”

  “Roger that, Dr. Landry. We’re mobilizing now.”

  Doug turned back to Laura. “How’s it going?”

  “Bad, Doug.” She was panting, eyes wide with fear. “I can’t catch my breath. Help me.”

  “Laura, help is on the way. They’re sending the helicopter. Hang in there.”

  “Okay,” she said, but her breathing only worsened.

  Suddenly, the idea of a tension pneumothorax flashed across Doug’s mind—one of the most dreaded complications of a traumatic rib fracture. That would explain a lot. With every breath she took, air would leak out of the punctured lung into the chest cavity, causing a buildup of intra-thoracic pressure that would choke off all venous return to the heart and drop her blood pressure to zero. If that were happening, she would die in a matter of minutes—long before the helo got there.

  She reached up and grabbed his arm and fixed him with a look that verged on panic. “Help me.” She was gasping now.