The Empty

by Thom Reese

  She loved Charles. She really did. Or was it that she loved what Charles represented—having someone waiting for her when she arrived home, no matter how late in the evening or early into the next morning it had become? Charles had been good to her. He’d tried to be flexible. But in the end Julia made an unspoken choice to put her work first and Charles second. That was something he just couldn’t accept. He was still a reasonably young, good-looking man, with a solid income. With that Denzel grin and those Fishburne eyes, there were always other options out there—and he’d found one. Or, she’d found him. Either way, the damage was done.

  All for the cause, she’d thought many times. All for the cause.

  The irony was that Julia was unsure that she still believed in the cause. She’d been full of self-importance. She was saving lives, she was wresting people from the hands of death—she was prescribing cough syrup and antibiotics to every illegal alien who walked through the door and detoxing the same homeless men over and over. She was doing the same things both vital and trivial that any other competent physician could do—and would do—if she weren’t here. Was this worth losing her marriage over? Or was the marriage the same as the position? Was it just another facet of Julia’s master plan, that, when examined in the light of her life, held little or no true significance? Did anything have meaning? Anything at all?

  Jimmy had meaning.

  Jimmy Harrison lay inside that room, fighting for his life, waiting for Julia to bring him back. If nothing else had significance, this did. This one patient, right now, in this very moment. Maybe that was all she could hope for, significant moments. And if there were enough significant moments, would that add up to a significant life? Most likely not. Julia seriously wondered if there was such a thing.

  She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, cleared her thoughts. She was bogged down in what-ifs and lunchroom philosophies. This was probably natural concerning her life circumstances. But none of it belonged here—not ever. Another cleansing breath and she walked through the door.

  Jimmy had three visitors: a tall young woman standing midway between the patient and the doorway, a man of perhaps thirty with pure white hair—yes, that man, the one from earlier—and a fortyish red-haired man, leaning over the bed talking with Jimmy.

  Talking with him.

  Jimmy had regained consciousness. Why had no one alerted her? “Excuse me. Who are you people?” she asked, probably with more of an edge than necessary. Most likely these were simply concerned family members.

  The red-haired man angled his head in Julia’s direction, his bearded face void of expression. “I’m Donald Baker. This is Mr. Daws and Miss…Taz. I assume you’re James’ physician.” The man had a distinctive upper-crust Boston air to his voice; but there was something else in there as well, something foreign, eastern European perhaps.

  “Yes. I’m Dr. Julia Chambers. Are you related to Jimmy?”

  “No, Dr. Chambers, there is no relation.” The man wore tinted glasses, but even so, his gaze was unnerving. “Tell me, were you present at the time of the attack?”

  Was this man with the police? Was he a hospital administrator? “Yes. I was there and have treated him since.”

  The man moved forward a step. “Actually, your treatment is inadequate. Massive amounts of electrolytes are required. He must be hydrated to beyond standard tissue saturation. Don’t worry about over hydration. In this case, that should not be an issue.”

  “Excuse me, Donald. Are you a doctor?” If the hospital had sent an outside physician to check on her, well, they would hear about that. This was her patient—her friend—and she was doing everything in her power to help him recover.

  Donald Baker cocked his head slightly to the left and smiled a haunting, unnerving smile. A smile that should not have been, thought Julia. She didn’t know exactly what this notion could mean, but she held to it none-the-less. “A doctor, yes. A physician, no. My expertise lies in other areas. Though I do have considerable experience with cases such as these.”

  Now Julia was truly confused. Who was this man and what gave him the right to imply that she was incompetent? “Are you with the police? The media?”

  “We’re concerned for James and seek information on his assailant.”

  Well, that answer was no answer at all. “I’m sorry. But, unless I’m missing something, you have no official reason to be here.”

  Donald offered a tight, close-mouthed grin. Again, wrong, artificial, not a true grin at all. “Official? No. Ours is a moral obligation.”

  “Well, I’ve got a moral obligation to kick your skinny butt out of here.”

  Finally the young white-haired man spoke. “Dr. Chambers, this probably seems strange, but we can hel—”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Daws,” said Donald Baker, cutting him off mid sentence. “We’ll be on our way, Doctor. Once again, my name is Dr. Donald Baker. I’m staying in a suite at the Venetian should you have need of me.”

  “Can’t imagine why I would,” said Julia as Donald nodded and strolled past her and out through the door.

  “Sorry about that, Doctor,” said the young man as he moved awkwardly toward the door. “He can be that way.”

  “Yeah, but he’s still awesome,” grinned the tall, black-haired woman. “Donald Baker! Can you believe it? Donald Baker!”

  “Mr. Daws. Miss Taz,” came Donald Baker’s voice from the hallway. “Say nothing further.”

  “Coming, Doc,” said the young man with the hair of a man thirty years his senior. He paused in front of Julia. It seemed he was searching her face with eyes that sang a sad and bitter song. “Listen,” he said in a near-whisper. “Donald Baker’s a pain. No arguments there. But he’s an expert in this area. I can’t say much, but he can help your patient.”

  With that, he turned and disappeared around the corner.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tresset Bremu stood in the downtown Las Vegas bus station wiping his hands with a soft alcohol-dampened cloth. He hated the smell of the place. He hated the human livestock herding from one end of the terminal to another. He hated the drunks half passed out on the wooden benches and the security personnel who allowed the drunks to remain. He hated the tearful reunions and the even more tearful goodbyes. He hated the audacious sounds: the overhead speakers, the obligatory iPod in each young ear, the beeping of text messaging and the manufactured melodies of cell phone ring tones. He hated the dumpy street people with the weary eyes. He hated every stinking little thing about this place.

  Still, the bus station was a good place for Tresset. Well, maybe not good, but advantageous at least.

  Inching forward, he scanned the crowd now departing a just-arrived bus. This one, he believed, had made its way from Chicago, across Iowa and the remainder of the Midwest, before angling southward in Colorado, eventually making its way to Las Vegas. He liked the ones that had come through the Midwest. The Midwest was dull, plodding, dotted with hundreds of tiny rural towns that offered the youth few distractions beyond school athletics, bowling alleys, skating rinks, and drugs. The latter being the most popular of the options.

  But even that became old, at least for the ones who boarded the bus. These kids wanted out. They wanted adventure, excitement. They wanted something so unlike the routines of their lives that they were willing to climb onto one of these metal monstrosities with no more than a few dozen dollars—and of course their iPod—in their pockets and head west to adventure, to thrills, to Tresset.

  Many of them made Los Angeles their destination. These hoped to become movie stars. Tresset had little interest in them. They were shallow bobble-heads with little sense and slim chance of accomplishing much beyond enhancing their currently anemic police records. The ones who made Las Vegas their goal were probably no less dull, but they at least didn’t think they’d be the next Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie. These kids weren’t looking for fame; they were looking for adventure. They wanted some sort of stimulation that could shock them out of a lifeless existence. They wan
ted to take a chance, experience risk.

  Tresset would offer them that opportunity.

  Tresset normally left this task of “recruitment” to a subordinate, but as of late, the selections brought forward had been duller than most, many of them outright addicts or diseased—either of which were useless. There was a need. But the need was specific. The pack required more than warm bodies if they were to flourish. They needed healthy prospects, with strong genes, intelligent minds. It took some skill to identify these from among the lesser chattel, but after over a century of existence Tresset had skill in abundance. He preferred to hunt at the university, UNLV, where he could find much better stock. But those youth took time to cultivate. Oh, they could be swayed. With their youthful exuberance and ideological thinking, they could be grand recruits. And for his own personal use, Tresset wouldn’t think of another source. But these took multiple visits. They had families who knew where they were, instructors who would miss them in class, roommates who would know they hadn’t returned to the dormitory. One had to be so very careful with those. But these, they’d already fled their former lives, in most cases giving little or no indication as to where they might eventually land.

  Tresset wiped his hands once again, then folded the alcohol-drenched cloth neatly and inserted it into the right pocket of his faded red sweatshirt. The sweatshirt, of course, was far too hot for the Las Vegas summer, but it had a large floppy hood, which was perfect for concealment.

  Concealment was a high priority for Tresset.

  He pulled the hood further forward, pushed his sunglasses up, and maneuvered through the crowd of people. Those he sought would not have luggage. At most, they would have backpacks—some might carry guitars in “gig” bags. They would be in their late teens or early twenties. They would be thin, hungry, edgy.

  And they would be lost.

  Having finally made it to their long dreamed of destinations, they would realize that their plan had been no plan at all. Where would they stay? How would they get money? How long could they last on the fifty dollars and twenty-two cents hidden away in their pockets? They could come in either gender; though Tresset’s greatest current need was for females. Still, a healthy male with a competent mind and a solid physique would always be a welcome addition.

  But none departing this bus fit these descriptions. Most were geriatrics, perhaps on a field trip or group outing, he supposed.

  Useless.

  Not only did the elderly smell bad, but they hoarded resources better used on those with the potential to contribute. How small-minded was a society that would acquiesce to the needs of the weak and inept. And as a greater and greater percentage of that society achieved advanced years, so would that society weaken accordingly, until one day, whether from internal faults, or outside intervention, it would collapse in upon itself leaving room for the strong and fit, for those worthy of the land’s great resources.

  Tresset withdrew his cloth, wiped his hands again. This was a filthy place.

  A voice came from behind. A security guard. This was always a risk. The hood pulled low obscuring the face, the large dark sunglasses, the amount of time Tresset had been loitering—a security guard might mistake him for a predator—a different type of predator.

  Tresset squeezed the damp cloth still clutched in his hand as he half turned toward the guard, still keeping his head lowered despite the man’s eight to ten inch height advantage. Tresset hated avoiding the gaze of an inferior, which from his perspective, was nearly everyone. But he couldn’t risk exposure.

  Like most such men, the security guard was a buffoon. The buttons on his light blue shirt strained in a losing battle against the man’s massive belly. He held a large black walkie-talkie as if it was the key to salvation. The man’s face was round and poorly shaven. He was in need of a haircut and his greasy locks popped up in a subtle anarchy. “You been hanging around here a long time now,” said the guard in a voice an octave too high for his burly form. “What’s your business?”

  Tresset could kill this useless human being before he knew that he’d been attacked.

  “I said, what’s your business?” repeated the guard.

  Tresset clutched his cloth tighter yet. One quick swipe. The man would be dead or maimed.

  “Sir, I’m gonna hafta ask you to leave.”

  A quick pounce, a snap! Did this useless slab of meat have any idea that Tresset held his very life in his hands?

  “Sir! I said, you’re gonna hafta leave.”

  “My cousin is on a bus from Des Moines,” said Tresset in a tightly controlled voice. “I wasn’t sure of the arrival time. It will be soon, I hope.” Tresset paused, allowed the man to take a breath in preparation to speak, and then added. “The sweatshirt probably seems rather odd in this heat. I have a skin condition and must protect myself against exposure.” Tresset reached up, patted the man on his sweaty back saying, “Thank you for your concern,” and then strolled away, feverishly wiping his hands with his cloth and glancing in each direction as if in search of someone quite specific—which in a way he was.

  “Sir, I’m not done with you yet.” The guard had attempted to make his high, tight voice sound authoritative, but had only succeeded in bringing forth a squeak on the word “done.”

  Tresset continued to move forward through the crowd.

  “Sir, I am going to hafta ask you to leave.”

  The man was nearly upon Tresset now. He reached out to grab Tresset’s shoulder with that pudgy disease-laden hand. Tresset would tolerate no such insult. He whirled, his right hand shooting up to the man’s neck. But he did not draw anything from this man. No. None of this man’s lowly essence would course through Tresset’s veins. This was self-defense. Nothing more. The guard emitted a subtle gasp as Tresset, nearly a foot shorter, lowered him into a nearby molded plastic chair.

  “You are an imbecile,” said Tresset as the man’s wide eyes finally took in the inhuman face before him. “You are an imbecile who has relinquished the right to draw breath.” With that, a retractable claw from just above Tresset’s index fingernail extended into the man’s neck. Avoiding the jugular, Tresset cut directly into the windpipe. There was a sudden sputtering hiss of expelled air, and the man’s eyes showed panic as he grasped at his throat. His mouth moved, but no sound came forth. Tresset calmly turned away, wiping his hand with his cloth. The strike had been swift and silent. He was nearly halfway across the room before he heard the first scream.

  Humans, he thought, so predictable, so weak.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jimmy Harrison’s eyes, though still cloudy, were responsive and alert. He’d regained his customary smile and even a bit of his wry humor. But his color was poor, his respiration shallow, he was losing hair. Julia concluded her examination with a smile and asked how he felt.

  “Weak,” he said, his voice raspy. “But alive. For a while there I wasn’t so sure about that.”

  Julia nodded, resting her palm gently on his forearm, her mocha skin a sharp contrast to his near snowy complexion. “Can you tell me anything else about your experience? Anything about the attack or what you felt afterward?”

  Jimmy sucked a piece of crushed ice from a paper cup and shook his head. Even this seemed an effort. “The attack, no. Just a blank. Afterward, after I’d started to come out of it, I felt swimmy, like everything was moving at a different speed than me. My throat was dry. Very dry. Still is.”

  “What about your neck where the man grabbed you?”

  “Feels like a rash. Burns. Itches.”

  “You look better. Your vitals are more or less stabile, your fluid intake and output are beginning to normalize.”

  Jimmy eyed her curiously. “Except?”

  Julia pursed her lips. This was the dicey part. “Jimmy, you’re my friend. You’re also an EMT. I’m going to be straight with you.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Gotcha.”

  “Your hemoglobin is all wrong. Your white blood cell count is so low Dracula would probably try to
give you blood. You’re losing more hair by the hour. We still don’t know what happened to you. Some freak briefly grabbed you by the neck. He did no damage to the windpipe. There was no bruising as with strangulation. Yet, you fell into a coma. You displayed a strange pattern of puncture marks on your neck where you were grabbed, yet your tox screens reveal no foreign substances. But, at the point of contact, we’ve discovered some damage at the cellular level. Minimal, nothing cancerous. But, it exists. Truthfully, we’ve found nothing to explain any of this.”

  Jimmy seemed dazed for a moment. Julia thought perhaps he’d drifted off to sleep again. But then he blinked, made eye contact, and nodded.

  Julia bit her lower lip and considered what she was about to say. “Jimmy, when you first regained consciousness, there were three visitors in your room. Do you remember them?”

  Jimmy furrowed his brow as if attempting to access the memory. “I was still pretty foggy. Why? Who were they?”

  That, thought Julia, was exactly what she wanted to know. “I’m not sure. One of them was a pompous Harvard type. Mr. Chips meets Night of the Living Dead. Strange guy. He seemed quite knowledgeable about your condition. He told me his name, where he was staying, but evaded my questions as to why he was here and what he knew of your attack.”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t remember.”

  With this, his eyes fluttered. He offered a weak grin. And then he was asleep.

  * * * *

  Once in the hallway, Julia exhaled and massaged her temples with her right hand. She was missing something, some key element. None of the normal causes for any of these symptoms panned out. Jimmy was not stable, his condition much more volatile then she’d led him to believe. And she had no clear diagnosis. Her iPhone vibrated. She lifted it from her right lab coat pocket. It was Charles, her husband. She slipped the phone back into her pocket letting it ring through.