Treasure Chest

by Adam Bennett

  “Am I a ghost? Well, no, not technically—I mean, I’m still alive—if you can call being kept on these machines living. It’s why I’m here, Luke. I’m here to ask for you to let me go.

  “Oh, I know you love me, and I love you too, my darling; but, this isn’t fair, not for any of us… me, you, and certainly not for Michael. Sure, our son needs his parents, but right now, he doesn’t even have one. I know you haven’t been to see him since he was born.”

  Luke swallowed hard when faced with the truth of his neglect for his newborn son. He was holding Michael when Jane went into crisis with an aneurysm. He passed the baby off to a waiting nurse and ran to her bedside. He followed her to ICU, X-ray, and back to ICU, never farther than a few steps away. That was the previous evening. He looked at the visage of Jane, his eyes pleading for understanding.

  “It’s not your fault this happened. We both wanted a baby and knew it was a risk at my age. Now, it is time for you to let me go, but I’ll never be far from you and our son. I will always love you.”

  Luke watched as the healthy Jane approached, his lips moving soundlessly to beg her to stay. She reached out with one hand to gently push back hair fallen onto his forehead. It was a familiar gesture, one which had helped him know all those years ago that she was his missing half. He closed his eyes fearing her ghostly touch would be painful. When he opened them again, she was gone.

  Luke looked around him, his head moving freely now, to see he was once again alone in the room with his ailing wife. His muscles were sore, a holdover from the paralysis, as he raised his hand to his head, the skin of his forehead and scalp tingled from where Jane’s hand had been. Tears silently escaped his eyes as he looked at his empty hand, with them came the revelation of what he was supposed to do.

  “Nurse!”

  The Pain of Responsibility was first published in FLASH FICTION ADDICTION: 101 Short Short Stories along with 100 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.

  Run

  M. W. Brown

  A long, high beep shrilled in his head. He tried to open his eyes. A thick, sap-like gel covered his eyelids, gumming up his eyelashes. He thought he had opened them a sliver but couldn't be certain. Darkness was his world—except for the number fifteen glowing in the bottom right of his vision.

  Gel seeped onto his eyes, it didn't sting but it was uncomfortable and unnatural. He squeezed them shut. The green number fifteen continued to glow. His eyes darted around behind his eyelids. The glowing number stayed to the far right of his black world, ominously luminous, an annoying eye floater darting away when he tried to get it into focus.

  “What the hell?” he muttered and more gelatinous gloop oozed into his mouth, sticking to his teeth, and coating his tongue. It had a bitter, medicinal taste. He turned his head and spat it out. A bolt of pain shot up his neck and rattled around the base of his skull.

  He tried to move his arms and more jagged slices of pain ripped through his muscles, so he lay still and tried to figure out where he was. A wave of nausea welled up in his stomach. He couldn't remember a thing—not even his name. He didn't know who he was, where he was, why everything hurt so much, or why he had a green fifteen hanging in his vision. The world around him swayed and wobbled. His head felt as if it would explode from a sudden influx of oxygen.

  Get a grip, he thought angrily.

  He took a deep breath through his nose, his chest protested at the movement but, thankfully, no gel filled his nostrils. The air flowing in felt restricted and he realised there was something in his nostrils. A cool waft of air blew down his throat. They must be tubes, I must be in a hospital.

  The thought both terrified and elated him. Images of monitors, brilliant-white lights, cold tiles, and squeaking wheelchairs filled his head. Was it a memory or just knowledge? He couldn’t be sure.

  He strained his ears and held his breath—silence. If this was a hospital, where were the voices, the footsteps, the machines? His chest fluttered alarmingly.

  Little steps. A woman’s voice echoed in his head. He caught his breath. It was a sign his memory was slowly returning.

  He took the distant voice’s advice and investigated closer to home. Twitching the ends of his fingers and toes, ignoring the aches in his joints, he discovered he was lying on a cool, hard surface. There was no mattress, sheet, or pillow. Where the hell am I? Suddenly, as if his body had only now become aware of temperature, goosebumps prickled over his skin.

  He had to move. The next ten minutes were spent carefully tensing and relaxing his muscles. He worked his way from his toes up to his face. The pain gave way to a dull ache and finally he moved his arms. It was as if he was moving through cold custard. He wiped away the gelatinous substance from his face and opened his eyes. For a second, he wondered why he had bothered. The only thing he could see was the ominous green fifteen.

  “Hello? Is there anyone there?” he called out feebly, even his voice had lost its power.

  Silence.

  His breath quickened as panic took hold. He flailed his arms around, searching the space around him, feeling his body. It didn’t take long for him to realise he was encased in a smooth cylinder—and he was naked.

  He roared and pounded on his prison walls. He had to get out. The tubes fell from his nose as he thrashed about in his terrifying oubliette, he barely noticed.

  This is your recovery tube.

  An image popped into his head of a tall, heavy-built man with spiky black hair wearing a pale blue lab coat. Dr. Carter! He remembered the man’s name. He saw Dr. Carter smile, the wrinkles in his face deepening.

  This is your recovery tube. We will keep you in here for, probably, six to eight weeks, provided the procedure goes well.

  The recovery tube was a glass cylinder, around six-foot-long with a two-foot diameter, covered in wires and sensors to monitor his vital signs. He tried to remember more.

  Would you like to try it out?

  He frowned. Had he tried it out? Had he seen how it opened? He closed his eyes, not that it made any difference, and clasped his hands under his chin like he was praying to the god of recall. Try it out? Goddammit, please say I tried it out.

  He knew he had to remember. Able to breathe through his mouth, now most of the gunk was off his face, he took two long deep breaths and noticed a faint sweet smell in the air. He exhaled slowly as if he was blowing out a candle in slow motion. Dr. Carter’s face filled his mind.

  * * *

  “We will keep you in here for, probably, six to eight weeks, provided the procedure goes well.”

  “What are my chances, doc, seriously?” he asked, as if rock had become wedged in his throat making it hard to swallow. His voice sounded strained and alien to his ears.

  “Excellent,” the doctor replied with a believable smile. “If I wasn’t the only one who could even attempt this, I would have it done myself… if I needed a new heart, that is.”

  Despite feeling like a jack-in-the-box, coiled and ready to jump, he laughed. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. So, tell me about this tube thing.”

  “Well, the recovery tube will be filled with Amnielect, a liquid that protects you from infection, keeps you nourished with food and oxygen, and removes the waste. Imagine a super placental fluid.”

  “So, it will be like being inside the womb?”

  “Yes, and you won’t remember any of it,” Dr. Carter smiled. “The Amnielect will support you and gently massage you as it circulates around your body and it’s constantly refreshed from these.” He pointed at two large vats of clear orange liquid behind the recovery tube. “We can adapt its formula depending on your specific needs. You’ll have the perfect environment for your recovery. Would you like to try it out?”

  “I guess so. Be a bit of a blow if I don’t fit, eh?”

  Dr. Carter gave a tiny bow and unfurled his arm in the direction of the machine.

  “How do I get in, doc? Do I have to buy it dinner first?”

  The doctor l
aughed. The sound rattled around the stark, metal walls like an old machine gun. He pressed a button on the stand supporting the tube. The device hummed and the stainless-steel end of the tube swung open—a medical submarine hatch.

  “Slide on in, Peter.”

  * * *

  His eyes flew open. He knew his name. It was Peter Stanton, he was twenty eight years old and he’d had a heart operation. He didn’t know where in the world he was, what year it was, or what the number fifteen meant, but it was a start. More importantly, Peter knew where the exit was.

  He shuffled down the tube until his feet rested on the end. Tensing his body, he focused his mind. With a deep grunt, he kicked the metal door. It made an eerie groaning sound. He kicked harder, again and again. His feet throbbed and each jerking movement made him wince. The strength was draining from his muscles but he refused to give up.

  Suddenly, his feet hit nothing but air, then his heels slammed onto a rubber edge, causing his body to jolt and his neck crack like a whip. Peter didn’t care about the throbbing pain surging through his body. He shuffled his way quickly out of the tube and oozed onto the floor like toothpaste.

  His muscles trembled, his feet burned as if he had walked over a lava flow but Peter still managed a smile. He had done it. He was free of his glass prison. Now all he wanted was to rest. He curled up at the foot of the tube and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Peter turned over and a fresh wave of goosebumps marched over his skin. He sat up, opened his eyes, and groaned. His reality forced its way out from his sleep-fogged mind and he searched through his memories for any new information. There was none. Peter shivered. He needed to find clothes—his stomach burbled noisily—and food. Clothes, food and, while he was at it, light. He was sick of the blackness. Just the necessities, then. Should be a piece of cake.

  Peter stretched and was pleased to find that, while his muscles still ached, they no longer protested so loudly. He fumbled about until his hand fell on the tube stand. His fingers curled around its curved edge and he heaved himself upright, stumbling a few times.

  After a minute or so of swaying like a drunk man trying to look sober, Peter hobbled forwards, with his arms outstretched.

  He stopped in his tracks after only a couple of steps. Fifteen had turned into fourteen.

  The first startling thought he had was why had it changed? The next thought was how long had he been asleep? A question quickly followed - was it a countdown and if so, a countdown to what?

  A maelstrom of thoughts spun around in his head. He wanted fifteen back, as ominous as it had been, fourteen had razor-sharp teeth. His blood thundered in his ears drowning out his laboured breathing. He had to escape the darkness and find answers. He staggered forward, arms waving wildly around, convinced he was a blindfolded man playing hide and seek on his own in an infinite jet-black universe.

  His hand struck a metal wall, making a faint clunk. He rested his forehead on the cool surface, exhaling in relief. His body trembled, urging him on. He brushed his hands over the featureless wall, taking small steps to the right and methodically working his way around the room. Peter’s mind drifted back to his conversation with Dr. Carter.

  * * *

  Peter pulled himself out of the recovery tube, “Fits like latex on a dominatrix.”

  Dr. Carter frowned but chuckled.

  “Why such an unusual recovery method?”

  The doctor chewed on the end of his pen for a moment. Peter noticed his unusually slender fingers. They didn’t fit his manly frame. He imagined Dr. Carter doing finger Yoga to keep his valuable digits supple, he was a surgeon after all. A smile flickered momentarily on his face.

  “This is the first time we will have implanted the perpetual heart in a human and we have to monitor you closely. We don’t want external factors interfering with the device… and we would prefer to be over cautious.”

  “Be as cautious as you need, and then some.”

  Dr. Carter nodded, “Don’t worry, the device is as perfect as it can be. I’m confident it will be a resounding success. You’ll be my Philip Blaiberg. And if successful, this will be a revolution in medical technology.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  The doctor squinted, “It will.”

  “I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “The scarcity of human hearts available, along with your rare blood type really does mean this is your best chance.”

  “Has it really got that bad?”

  The doctor sighed, “Worse than reported. Nearly half the population suffer from Diabetriculosis. It makes the heart unviable for transplant - fifty percent fewer hearts available for donation - five hundred percent more hearts needed.”

  The doctor patted him hard on the back, making Peter cough. “Let’s not dwell on that. This device, this procedure will change all that.”

  “To a better future,” Peter said as he was steered towards the door.

  “I’ll drink to that. Now let’s get the forms signed and then get you prepped,”

  * * *

  Peter’s recall was interrupted. His fingers dipped into a small recess and found a handle, flush to the door. A way out. His legs sagged with relief. Praying it would open but expecting nothing, he pulled on the flap. There was a gentle hissing and the door swung towards him. Peter wrenched the door open and stumbled out of his metallic cocoon.

  The darkness turned to a deep grey. He was in a wide corridor. Light snuck in through a glass door at the far end. Peter could make out faint shapes in the gloom. The number fourteen still glowed but with less intensity against the grey.

  “Hello?” His voice sounded hollow in the silent passage.

  A faint ticking sound, like the settling of old pipes was the only reply. Peter wrinkled his nose. There must have been a fire recently. The air had an unpleasant aroma of burnt wood and plastic. Perhaps that was why he had been abandoned.

  He leaned on the tiled wall for support, his legs still complaining, and inched his way along the corridor. He had taken only three small steps when his foot hit something soft.

  “What the hell!”

  A shadowy obstacle bulged out of the floor. Tentatively, he felt the mound with his foot. His toes touched a curved, pliable material. It was a trainer. A body! He stumbled backwards a few steps and then stopped. The shape was too small to be a person.

  He huffed impatiently at himself, crouched down and squinted through the gloom. His eyes gradually adjusted and he could make out two shoe-like shapes next to a small pile of what he hoped were clothes. He pushed the trainers away and knelt beside his find. On the top was a thick folder, he shoved it to one side. The next item was a pair of underpants. He kissed the soft material triumphantly. It didn’t matter that his body was still covered in gel, he pulled them up his slimy legs and the naked vulnerability he had felt vanished.

  He scooped up the rest of the pile, balanced the file on top and thrust his feet into the trainers. The world outside the gloomy corridor was calling and he could now greet it without the indignity of being completely naked.

  Less than thirty seconds later Peter stood at the bottom of a stairwell, bathed in light. Satisfied there was no billowing smoke or crackling flames, he tilted his head upwards and half-closed his eyes. The light was beautiful and comforting, the number fourteen barely visible. He looked around the small tiled area, enjoying the sense of sight. His body went rigid. A face stared at him through the glass pane in the door.

  Peter gasped and jumped backwards. The face vanished.

  The hairs on his body stood to attention. Frosty fingers tickled his spine.

  “Hello?” he said trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He took a hesitant step forwards. “It’s okay…”

  The face appeared. A sense of recognition made him frown. The face frowned back. His chills vanished and he let out a long sigh.

  “Hello, Peter,” he said to his reflection. “So that’s what you look like.”

  He
walked up to the glass and studied his face. Green eyes looked inquisitively back. Ginger hair clung to his head and a bushy, red beard covered his chin. Maybe without the beard it would be more familiar. He stared, looking for answers. The features kept their secrets.

  Snapping himself out of his daze, he placed the bundle he was carrying onto the bottom stair and spread the items out. There was a plain t-shirt, a sweatshirt, trousers, socks and a green file. He used the sweatshirt to wipe his body and saw a long pink line running down the centre of his chest. When he had removed the orange gel the best he could, he dropped the sweatshirt on the floor and ran his fingers along the ridge. There was no pain or tenderness. Guess the op was a success, thanks, doc.

  Peter dressed in the remaining items, tucked the file under his arm and made his way up the stairs. He needed to find someone, to demand what the hell was going on, but he had a heavy feeling in his stomach that told him it wasn’t going to be as easy as walking up the stairs and going to a help desk. He was right.

  At the top of the stairs he pulled open the door and found himself in a large, deserted reception area. A sign covered most of one wall.

  ‘Welcome to Meadowview Clinic.’

  That answered one question, just. The name wasn’t familiar, nor was the room. He caught the smell of smoke again—smouldering plastic and autumn bonfires. The room was tidy, no overturned chairs, no paper strewn over the floor, or doors hanging off their hinges. It would have looked normal, except for one thing. Every electrical device - the touch screens on the walls, the power sockets along the skirting - all had black, powdery scorch marks around them. It was as if they had burnt with a brief intense heat. Every single light bulb in the designer glass lights was broken. The floor sparkled with hundreds of tiny pieces of shattered glass.

  Peter frowned. What had caused this and where the hell was everyone? He checked the nearest chair for glass, and plonked himself down, sinking into the luxurious cushion. He took the file from under his arm and turned it over. Scrawled on the front in spidery writing were three words: ‘Sorry Peter, Doc.’