by Keta Kendric
“Regina, here are the last two.”
I jumped. I’d been focused on the dead man and hadn’t heard Bradley’s approach. He was preparing to dump the last two from the cart on top of the man I couldn’t stop staring at.
“No, put them over there!” I yelled louder than I’d intended and pointed at the area I wanted Bradley to place the men. My head tilted, taking in the man I stood in front of. He was sitting, slumped against the wall like he was exhausted and had fallen asleep. I was so distracted that Bradley had to wheel the cart around me.
He proceeded to dump the last two bodies, and I could hear them hit the floor before he wheeled the cart back around me and towards the exit. I didn’t have to glance up to know that he’d stopped and was staring at me again.
“Are you okay, Regina?”
“I’m fine,” I replied absently, not giving him a bit of my attention.
Dead men don’t sweat.
“Regina, are you sure you’re okay?” Bradley asked, staring from me to the man I’d finally pulled my gaze from.
“I’m fine, Bradley,” I said, forcing a smile.
Bradley ushered his head towards the man I’d been staring at. “He was the one that all this mess started over. His high-powered friends came to break him out of here after your cousin took him from some place in Florida. As you can see, he didn’t make it.”
I didn’t need or want Bradley figuring out what I was so intently studying.
“Thanks for all the help, Bradley, and you have a good day,” I stated dryly, hoping he caught the hint that I wanted to be left alone. I had no idea what part of the day it was anymore and didn’t care. It was always dark and dingy in my world.
Bradley continued to stare as the muffled creek of the fire burning the man inside the incinerator reminded me of wood burning inside a fireplace. Only this wasn’t wood—it was the crackle of human bones burning. When Bradley finally caught on to my cold shoulder, the sound of the wheels on the cart signaled his departure.
“See you later, Regina,” he hollered back at me over his shoulder.
“Yeah. Later, Bradley,” I muttered, not bothering to glance in his direction.
As soon as the hum of the elevator registered, I locked myself into the windowless autopsy room with three corpses, a burning body, and a possible zombie.
“Dead men don’t sweat,” I mumbled the words aloud as I dashed over to the pale man who’d captured my attention.
Checking his neck for a pulse, nothing registered, but it didn’t mean I was misreading a sign of life. A bead of sweat had drizzled down the man’s clammy skin. Laying him flat on the floor, I checked several areas for a pulse and found the tiniest spark of life pulsing within him as I pinched his neck.
My medical training rose to the surface of my brain as I applied life-saving techniques. Although he’d lost a significant amount of blood, he no longer appeared to be bleeding, which was a good sign.
After checking for swelling and discoloration, I didn’t find any other gunshot wounds other than the obvious entrance wound near his left temple and a smaller exit wound under his left ear. Since the exit wound was significantly smaller, it was safe to say he likely had bullet fragments lodged in his head.
I didn’t have to be a traumatic brain injury specialist to know that if he had any of that bullet left in his head, it would cause enough swelling that it would require that I drill a hole in his head to relieve the pressure. Otherwise, the sliver of a pulse running through him would vanish for good.
Bradley had tossed the man onto the floor like yesterday’s garbage, but I moved him with careful ease now, collapsing my smaller table so that I could lift him onto the larger table to examine him and figure out if he could be saved.
Cleaning the wounded areas quickly, I surveyed the damage. I was going to have to drill into this man’s head if he was going to see the light of day again.
“Then what, Regina?” I asked myself out loud. “He’s your family’s enemy. What are you going to do with him if you save him? Live happily ever after with him in your basement home?”
The part of my brain that made the logical decisions was right. Even if I saved this man, there was only one way off the farm for us and it was more than likely: death.
“You know what? Damn it,” I huffed out as the other more irrational part of my brain took control.
Once I was a hundred percent sure I’d talked myself into saving this man, I rummaged through the walk-in closet full of medical equipment until I found everything I needed and hooked him up to a ventilator.
I prepared an intravenous drip to send liquids into his body. I took care in cleaning him of all the blood and dirt that was stuck to his skin. I was such a pervert for admiring his body, especially with the knowledge that he was alive—barely alive, but alive enough that it felt strange.
The amount of art on his body also called my attention, causing me to study his tattoos as I cleaned him. “August,” I uttered out loud. August was a part of a large tattoo on his back in thick black font. The rest of the words were unreadable due to deep scratches and bruising in the area. “August, that’s what I’ll call you,” I informed the man like he could hear me.
Even in his damaged condition, August was strikingly good-looking with his shadowed chin. He had a nice head of hair that I’d had to wash three times to get the blood out. I’d peeled his eyes back a couple of times, to peek at them. The state of his condition left his eyes a dingy dark blue although I guessed they were usually a more vibrant, shiny blue.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” I sang the statement repeatedly into the musty death-filled air. The remaining three men sat there, forgotten as I attempted to do what a part of my brain kept telling me not to. In this case, any enemy of my family was my friend. Therefore, this man was worth saving. Since Bradley had a sneaking habit of walking up on me without warning, I was going to have to find a way to keep my new patient hidden.
A thousand questions fired off inside my brain as I worked to save the man. Had he lost too much blood to be saved? Was his brain injury too severe for him to recover? Was he going to be a vegetable if he woke up? I’d had a few second thoughts about attempting to save him, but something in me wouldn’t let me give up on this man. My problem would come with trying to hide him if he did survive.
Chapter Four
August
My mind was set adrift, teetering someplace between this world and the next. Sounds and vibrations echoed through me as if I were a sheet flapping in the wind. Adrift in an unfamiliar world, I wasn’t cold or in pain. I was just…lost.
“This is the motherfucker who brought death here today,” a voice said, catching my attention, but I couldn’t move or see, so I couldn’t react to what was being said.
“I’d like to shake the hand of the man who shot this bastard,” the voice continued.
Were those words echoes in my head or had they come from another person? They sounded so crisp and clear. If I could move, I could alert someone that I needed help. But, what did I need help from? I had no real sense of what was wrong with me. Forcing myself to speak was as useless as trying to move or see. Was I dreaming?
A hard jolt awakened my awareness as an alarming amount of noise flooded my ears. But just as fast, I was evaporated in nothingness before an overwhelming sense of gloom encircled me. What was happening? Where was I? Where were the voices coming from? Why couldn’t I feel or see anything? The only senses that seemed to be working were my sense of smell and hearing.
My mind was filled with black fog and useless musings, no distinct memories. It hovered in the murkiness, frozen in regret and despair. One moment my mind teased, giving me a sense that a memory would spark, but the next moment, recalling my own name or age or anything that hinted as to who I was, became a frustrating task. I was lost inside my own head, not knowing up from down, left from right, or ass from dick. Maybe I was trapped in a dream and as soon as I was awakened, the world as I knew it would return.<
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Death. Death is what I smelled. The rancid odor floated up my nose, in my case, it must have floated into my mind because I couldn’t feel anything to know for certain that I had a nose. I could do nothing but endure this state I was stuck in as I was unable to move or feel. I had to be asleep, trapped in a nightmare.
I struggled to think beyond the darkness, but my efforts pushed me further from what little awareness I had. The voices dwindled, and the only other sense I had dissipated and not even the scent of death existed anymore.
My mind delved deeper, finding the deepest blackest closet to lock me into. The silence entombed me, shattering my remaining senses. It snuffed out everything, introducing me to the deafening sound of nothing before it left me in an endless black dream.
***
A jolt of thundering sounds coursed through my consciousness, but like before, not all my senses had returned. I had no awareness of time or space. My sense of smell and sound was all that I’d been granted. I didn’t know if I’d appreciated either sense before I was cast into this darkness, but I appreciated them now.
The sound of what I guessed was metal scraping against metal floated into my ears and continued in a repeating pattern that went on for what seemed like hours. Sight and touch remained out of my reach, my brain trying but failing to regain the use of them.
“Hey, Regina, here’s three more. I think there’s at least two more. When I bring the rest, you want me to stay and help you?”
“No, Bradley. My family won’t take too kindly to you helping me with what is supposed to be my job. I appreciate you asking, though.”
So crisp and clear were the words. An empty pause in words left me wondering if I’d faded back into my dream. Another harsh jolt opened the floodgates on my pain and an intense amount shot through my head but lasted only a few seconds before it disappeared again. The pain sparked awareness within me. I wasn’t dreaming. I was alive. I was clinging to reality, but I didn’t know how to stay on the correct plane. I didn’t know how to stay on the right side of life.
Chapter Five
Regina
It took time and work, but I turned the walk-in closet that was filled with supplies into my patient room. I’d found random places throughout the large autopsy room to stash most of the equipment I’d taken from the closet. Most of it, I placed in the empty drawers and body lockers that I rarely used.
August’s breathing had gotten stronger in the hours he’d been on the ventilator, but he was a far cry from being well enough to survive. He’d had several broken ribs, his fibula bone in his right leg was broken severely enough that it had cracked through the side of his lower leg. Someone had attempted to stabilize the wound with pipes and rags.
It appeared he’d attempted to sew up a knife wound in his side that had started to heal, but the gunshot to his head had nearly ended him. Thankfully, he had enough blood left in him that he didn’t require a transfusion.
He’d been shot, beaten, left with broken bones, and laying out someplace on my family’s farm for hours barely clinging to life. God was not through with this man. Based on some of his tattoos, he belonged to a motorcycle club, and a dear friend named Ryan had been killed.
August had been shot in the back once, appeared to have been stabbed in the back twice, and now, there were bullet fragments in his head. The fragments were deeply embedded, and it was too risky a surgery for me to try to extract them.
I’d studied cardiology, hoping to someday become a heart surgeon. Although I wasn’t a neurosurgeon and had only briefly studied neuroscience, I believed this man stood a better chance of survival if I left the bullet fragments in place without trying to probe around in his head to remove them.
I’d prepared my instruments with nervous hands. Drilling into his head had been easier than facing the anticipation of the task. I’d drilled the small hole and allowed the blood build-up to flow from his brain into a stack of towels I’d piled under his head. The time I’d invested in medical school was proving to be time well spent.
I’d worked an all-nighter. Actually, in my case, it had been all day, ensuring my patient was well hidden and medically stable. I also had to complete the task of taking care of the rest of the bodies before they started to decay.
Although I was allowed, I rarely left my underground prison because I didn’t like being watched. Each time I surfaced, all eyes landed on me. From the guards posted on the grounds to those in the lookout tower, I was always ogled like an alien who’d parked my UFO and threatened to probe their bodies. Except for food, an occasional outing for fresh outside air, and to travel to and from the few buildings that were in our community, I stayed out of sight and out of their minds. Since I had August to take care of now, the last thing I wanted was to call attention to myself.
***
It took me three days to build up the courage to leave the cellar and August’s side. I’d bagged and tagged the ashes of eight dead men and stuffed them into a rucksack so I could deliver them to my cousin, Luis. In case Bradley and the other guard had given Luis a head count of the nine bodies they’d brought to me, I filled a ninth bag with ashes, using equal parts from the eight dead I’d cremated.
I eased up the splintered steps of the cellar, using my back to push the slanted wooden door open. The bright sunlight assaulted my eyes, and it took a moment for me to adjust. Once I was on solid ground, I kept my head down and forced my legs to get me to my destination as quickly as possible.
Usually, I took a moment to enjoy the sight of the clouds or a stray insect flying, anything that served as a reminder that there were still beautiful things left in the world. Today, my mission was to do everything I needed to do outside the cellar in a fast and unsuspicious manner.
My cousin, Luis, met me at the door of his workspace. His head went up once in greeting before he took the bag from my hand. Luis and I were the same age, only a month apart. He was one of those guys who was smart enough to be dangerous. He was short and stocky and perfectly content with making drugs that destroyed people’s lives.
Since I was out, I decided to walk over to the main house and stock up on food. I retrieved a shopping bag from under the kitchen counter and searched for nonperishable and microwavable food items.
“Looks like you’re stocking up, cousin.”
I cringed at the sound of my cousin, Sorio’s voice, wishing I could disappear into a cloud of smoke to avoid interacting with him. If there ever was a man I hated, it was my cousin, Sorio. He was a big part of the reason that I was a prisoner. He was the epitome of his father, Carlos, a misogynistic lunatic who saw women as disposable objects.
“Yeah, I’ve been putting in a lot of extra work lately. I guess it’s given me more of an appetite.”
Sorio laughed, snorting as he pointed at me. What could be inside someone’s head to make them so vengeful and hateful?
“An appetite. Girl, as fat as you are, you don’t have one appetite, you have four of them.”
He continued to point and laugh as I hurriedly closed the cabinets and refrigerator and made my escape. If I’d had a gun, I would’ve unloaded it in his face. He loved to call me fat. Arrogant prick. I was a size ten, possibly a twelve, but in his mutated brain, I may as well have been five-hundred pounds.
It took less than a minute for me to go around the main house to the shabby wooden door that was the entrance to my home. I’d never been happier to see my basement home than I was at this moment. After stocking my food in the small refrigerator, and pantry area I had in my bedroom, I smiled at the thought that I had someone to come home to. Someone my mean cousin didn’t know about. Someone who I prayed would one day wake up and kill Sorio for me.
After I unlocked and stepped into the closet I’d transformed into August’s hospital room, I crept in with a ready smile. The hiss of the ventilator blended with the low whisper of the infusion pump that pushed fluids into his body. I checked his vitals and ensured he had enough liquids and vitamins going into his system. My palm
brushed across his forehead before I cupped his stubbly chin.
“Hey, August, you’re looking better today,” I greeted him with a hint of excitement in my voice.
Although he wasn’t out of the woods, the fact he was alive after what could have been a fatal gunshot wound had pride springing up within me. He was the most interesting thing in this dreary place. He was also a good listener as I sat with him and spilled my family secrets, and my vow to someday escape them.
August was the first long-term patient I’d had to myself. As a new doctor, we shared patients or observed as the seasoned physicians performed the more difficult procedures and treatments.
When I was certain he wasn’t going to wake up and recover right away, I’d introduced a feeding tube. A quick peek under the bandages I had wrapped around his head like a turban revealed that his head had started to scab over nicely. Only a doctor would think that scabs were nice, but the fact that his body was healing itself was all that mattered. He was going to have a wicked scar in his head that branched from his temple, where I’d been able to remove a few bullet fragments, but it didn’t really affect his appearance. If anything, I’d say the scar made him look more interesting.
A two-inch patch of hair had also been shaved from his scalp where I’d had to go in deeper, drilling into his skull to relieve the pressure on his brain.
Even with two black eyes and multicolored bruises decorating his body, August was a wonderful sight to stare at. A man like him would never glance twice at someone like me.
I considered myself friendly, not quiet-natured, but not boisterous either. I was more of a slow simmer versus a boil. The kind of men who found me interesting were the perverts like Bradley or those who wanted the one-night jump offs.