Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  “Who will ride with me into the unknown? I have no prospects for a human volunteer anytime soon, all my efforts in this direction having been rebuked. Cowards! How could it matter to someone who’s going to die anyway? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It is coming down to a hard choice which I may have to make at any moment.”

  “The hallucinations are getting worse. All I need do is blink my eyes and they appear, all around me, ashen human faces, piercing silver eyes. Who are these zombies? I don’t recognize them. Could these be the victims of past magnetic pulses, naturally or accidentally occurring INFXs from previous times? Afterimages created by asteroid strikes? Volcanic explosions? Ground zero in Hiroshima? The World Trade Center?

  And could these afterimages from naturally occurring magnetic pulses be the source of our paranormal mythology? The foundation of all the hauntings, resurrections, transfigurations buried deep in our mysterious pre-history?”

  Then, on the very last page, squeezed upside-down above the header:

  “This is madness, sleep deprivation, dream deprivation. Everywhere. I can’t even go to the bathroom without them watching me. Time is almost up. They are beckoning me to end the madness. Can’t last much longer.”

  Gill put the page down and stared out blankly across the patio. The soft, easy snowfall was sticking to the icy concrete, reminding him of the wonderful old lodges in Yosemite and Crater Lake where he and Marcy took the girls every winter holiday, the beautiful, enormous trees, the grand log buildings, the pristine blankets of pure, joyful white snow.

  Shame Deverson didn’t start writing personal stuff earlier. These brief notes were far more insightful than Gill might have expected from the stuffy professor he remembered. There was a sad beauty to the man’s words, poetry about his last days. Gill would have liked more. But the last few days of it was forever lost in that fiery lab explosion a decade ago.

  The snow was coming down harder now and suddenly Gill let out a laugh over a snowy vision of his little girls bundled up, beautiful little Annabelle in her wheelchair, always the wheelchair and the perpetual smile, the unflappable hopefulness…

  Dressed in so many layers she and Jennifer could barely move, and the image reached out to him, and he had a sudden and powerful yearning for these simple pleasures.

  Day 2

  Friday

  Gyttings-Lindstrom Research Unit,

  Eugene, Oregon

  A thousand times he’d cursed the climber’s helmet without which his brains would have splattered mercifully on that cold granite so many years ago. Now, to gain his freedom, there was only one place he could go from here, but his parents, devout members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, would not hear of it. How ‘bout that! He was the one with the severed spinal cord but his parents were the one’s in denial! So were his so-called friends…even Gwen. And of course his paralysis prevented him from taking action on his own.

  Lomax had come to him like a messenger from God, the message: deliverance with dignity. But then he’d learned he would need family consent - even though he was a legal adult - reams of legal documents signed and notarized.

  Thus began a weeklong battle with his parents, an agonizingly painful, tearful struggle, badgering and pleading with them to abandon their false hope and see the righteousness in Lomax’ proposal.

  “I can’t listen to this,” Helen had cried over and over.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Don had said to his son. “Don’t lose your faith.”

  “I’m not, Dad. Don’t you see? The Lord does work in mysterious ways and He’s chosen me to do this. He’s sent me a sign. This is the only chance for my life to mean something other than that moronic movie everyone’s already forgotten. Don’t make me spend the next 25 years lying in my own excrement. Don’t deny me the only shred of dignity I have left.”

  And when he’d sensed them faltering, he’d said: “There are many people like me who are - or will be - doing this righteous work. You must decide now before it’s too late and I’m left out.”

  And although they’d said they wouldn’t be rushed, in the end they signed but refused to go with him, instead saying their good-byes on the front steps of their Encino home. It was Gwen Somerset who had agreed to drive him on this final trip. She had remained, if not his girlfriend, at least a good friend these last three years. She had supported him in his brave decision and agreed to help see him through it.

  Now, at last, he was here, deep in the bowels of the INFX research lab, staring at the ceiling and listening to the all-too-familiar chirping of a heart-lung monitor. He called out Gwen’s name but got no response.

  Then suddenly Gwen’s sweet, melodious voice: “I’m ‘ere, Justin,” and she took up his hand in hers and lifted it so he could see. “I love you, Justin,” she said softly.

  She was so beautiful, her raven hair, brilliant blue eyes, ivory skin. She looked exactly the way he wanted to remember her.

  Dr. Lomax’ head emerged into his field of view. “Are you ready, Justin? It’s time.”

  He tried to say: “I’m ready,” but the words did not come out. He checked himself for regrets, misgivings, fear, and finding none, tried to say the words again.

  “Justin,” Lomax said firmly, “I need to hear you say you’re ready to do this.”

  His mind raced. He’d spent so much effort getting here, and now he was here and he couldn’t take the last step? Maybe he’d invested all this energy arguing in favor of INFX simply because everyone else had argued against it. Had he really thought it through? Did he really want to die? It had always seemed like it would never happen, and now suddenly it was here. It was time and he was afraid.

  Lomax’ face disappeared, then Gwen came close, tears in her eyes. “You don’t ‘ave to do this, Justin.”

  God, she was faltering too. All the meaning of life, the depth, breadth, beauty, complexity, mystery of it, reduced to just two words. All the ugliness and horror and injustice and hopelessness and cruelty. Two more words and that was it.

  He could hear faint voices: “I think he’s backing out,” one said.

  “Get Dr. Vrynos down here stat,” another said.

  “I’m ready,” he blurted, accenting the words like a man who meant what he said. And in a moment he felt his gurney begin to roll.

  Day 2

  Friday

  Lab Three,

  Gyttings-Lindstrom Research Unit,

  Eugene, Oregon

  Galtrup and an orderly lifted the frail carcass clear of the wheelchair and carried it next to Justin Holt’s gurney.

  “Hey, buddy,” Evans said, trying to put some weight on his legs.

  Justin strained his neck three degrees, his full range of motion. There was a sadness in the aged face above him. Not sadness, pity. It was always pity.

  “Damn, you’re younger than my grandson,” Evans said somberly. “Don’t be scared. You and me, kid, we’re gonna be travelin’ together.”

  Justin was scared, but in a strange way the fear felt good, invigorating. “Gwen, let me see it,” he gurgled almost imperceptibly. It was difficult for him to speak, especially when laid out flat like this.

  But the pretty black-haired girl knew exactly what he meant. She positioned her hand-mirror above Justin’s face so that he could see the Twin Tunnel, its copper plumbing, stainless steel tanks, the elaborate wiring harnesses, exposed gradient coils, massive electromagnets, thumping in a bass, rhythmic beat as liquid helium coursed through its lines, little wisps of gas puffing outward from the coolant condenser relief valves.

  “God almighty,” he gasped.

  “Like a living thing, isn’t it?” Galtrup said reverently as he and the orderly carefully lowered the detective onto the driver carriage.

  “Kicks the holy livin’ shit outta our rig,” Evans said

  Dr. Baker was at Evans’ side. “I don’t know what to say sir,” he stammered. “I…I’m just at a loss.”

  The old man smiled and patted the docto
r’s arm. “If this ‘afterimaging’ crap is for real, doc, my ghost will be waiting for your ass when you get home. I’m going to scare the shit out of you!” Laughing at his own joke caused him to deoxygenate to the point of gasping and wheezing for dear life, trying to get enough breathe to stay alive for another minute or two. “It’s time now,” he gasped. “Crank this son-of-a-bitch up before I croak!”

  Chalmais sat in the back audience row holding a cellphone in each hand. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one,” the VP repeated several times.

  Sara and Gill were busy checking subsystems and paid him no mind.

  Lomax was visible through the window connecting the tubing that would deliver Evans his fatal cocktail. It was clear to Gill that the doctor was worried, reluctant. Now Gyttings came into view, said something to Lomax, words of encouragement, Gill surmised. Since his arrival early this morning, the CEO had worked tirelessly forging the fragile alliance that made this evening’s test possible. He’d brought with him from Austin the head of his legal department and an additional medical doctor, both willing and eager to authorize the experiment. This, with Dr. Baker’s approval, was enough to nudge Lomax over.

  Gill grabbed his microphone and switched it on. “I’m starting the countdown, people, T minus 20 minutes. Please clear the lab.”

  At T minus 16 Galtrup was ready to do his final checklist. Only Gwen remained in the lab. “You’ll have to go now,” he said firmly.

  “Please can’t I stay with him?” Gwen begged.

  “No, no, no. That’s not possible.” And when her expression continued to plead with him, he added: “It’s very dangerous. You will be hurt, or worse.”

  She wanted to try and hug Justin, say goodbye one more time, but she feared he would sense her doubt, her panic.

  “Just go,” Galtrup whispered. “I’ll take good care of him.”

  Gwen tried to smile, but the tears were coming so she slipped out.

  Galtrup began his checklist, which took him to the left side of Justin’s head, immobilized in a helmet-like restraint with only his upturned jaw visible. The young man was pale, panting, having difficulty breathing.

  “I’m so scared,” Justin gasped between breaths. “Stage fright was never this bad.”

  “Put the fear off for a few minutes,” Galtrup said softly. “Postpone it and just concentrate on breathing. One breath at a time. Put everything else out of your mind.”

  After several deep breaths he calmed a little and his color returned. Galtrup leaned close to the actor’s left ear and said: “It won’t hurt a bit, son. You’ll see.” Justin tried to smile. “Just keep breathing,” Galtrup said, then walked around the carriage tracks to Evans’ side and began a visual inspection of the line freeze monitor.

  “What about me?” the old detective said. “Don’t I get a bedtime story too?”

  “I do believe you are the bravest person I ever met,” Galtrup said, busily writing notes on his clipboard.

  “Brave? There’s no such thing. You know, it doesn’t really matter what a person’s quality of life is, when it comes right down to it, no sane, sober person is ever willing to give it up. But I’ve never been sane or sober for more than 10 minutes at a stretch, so let’s get this baby moving.”

  “See ya on the other side,” Galtrup said.

  Gwen took a chair in the back of the Bridge and sat quietly, confused, choking on raw emotions. She was feeling absolutely empty inside, surely, but she was also thinking about her career, about how she would have more time to work the system after Justin was gone. Her manager and her agent had said as much, without really saying it. And while she felt guilty about all the times she’d wanted to abandon him over the past three years, she couldn’t help feeling that now she’d earn her reward in the form of some first tier publicity. She hadn’t had a decent part since Justin’s accident. Hollywood had passed her by, casting people assuming she was too busy taking care of her boyfriend to audition, too dedicated to her new role: Saint Gwen, selfless martyr. The tabloids called her “his constant companion,” “an inseparable couple,” “the victim and the angel.” She was trapped. God help her had she ever tried to break the engagement. A selfish, heartless bitch like that would never work in this town again.

  Fact is, it was extremely hard work, dirty, undignified. She and Justin’s parents just couldn’t do it all. They had to hire nurses and orderlies and other expensive help. And traveling was a monumental hassle, three times as much work as staying at home. They wanted to take him places, to spinal injury charity functions, on sightseeing trips, but it was just too hard.

  Not that Justin put up much of a fight about staying at home, or for that matter, about anything. He simply didn’t care. He would hound Helen for more and more medication and eventually she’d cave in, let him overdose, watch him collapse, mumbling himself to sleep.

  Sometimes, when he awoke after one of these binges, he’d be so terrified, like a little boy waking from a nightmare. It was the one time Gwen was able to recognize any vestige of the old Justin, any humanity left in his crippled body and mind. Then the bitterness would return, the snide comments, the self-pity.

  His parents had become emotional wreckage right along with him. The therapists kept saying it would get better, but it didn’t. That’s probably why, in the end, Helen and Don had agreed to let him go.

  Gwen opened her eyes and looked around the now-crowded room. Adel had taken the seat beside her. She also recognized the company vice president at the far end of the row sitting with that security man they called Blackburn. The other seats were filled with people she did not know, probably more scientists. And Dr. Lomax was down on the floor, leaning over a console covered with lights and switches.

  At T minus four, Gill began recording for the log:

  “Today we’re conducting the first ever human-subject experiment using the untested Twin Tunnel machine. We’ve made some improvements to the subject restraint system and, we hope, we’ve successfully automated the alignment procedure. For this we’ve taken a cue from show business by adapting ‘morphing’ software to do the impossible – perfectly align two similar but different cerebral cortices. Two research personnel will be on hand to monitor this new software as it makes alignment, somewhat like trying to perfectly align fingerprints from two separate individuals. Our goal is a 30-micron tolerance, the most accurate we’ve ever attempted and by far the most precision deemed practicable by this research team, given the numerous anatomical differences between individual temporal regions. Another improvement - we hope - has to do with scan-rate direction. In all previous tests here at the Eugene lab as well as at Dr. Deverson’s private lab, the scan has always originated from the anterior occipital region. However here, in this test, RF impulses will alternate from the anterior occipital to the posterior occipital regions at variable intervals…

  “Of course our primary goal here today is to reproduce the ‘total disappearance’ phenomenon of the Manzanita accident.”

  The countdown was just crossing one minute.

  “Imaging,” Gill barked, squeezing the ends of his armrest.

  “Alignment is good. Power is good. I’m ready,” Galtrup said.

  “Lifesigns?”

  “Subjects are within tolerances,” Lomax said.

  “Sara?”

  “I’m green across the board.”

  Gill scanned the monitors. It all looked like he imagined it was supposed to look. “Galtrup, power it up.”

  The gradient magnets began to hammer away, a rhythmic, even pounding.

  “It’s louder than last time,” Gill shouted. “Sara?”

  “121dB on the deck,” she shouted back. “But my readouts are green,”

  “Galtrup?”

  “I’m showing power fluctuations from the generator,” he yelled... “Still within specs.”

  “I just got a flatline on the driver,” Lomax said. “Evans is dead.”

  “I didn’t give the order,” Gill shouted.

&nbs
p; “I didn’t give him the shot,” Lomax fired back. “His old heart just stopped on it’s own.”

  Suddenly the hammering subsided. The Bridge had returned to its normal pounding, growling, rumbling, clattering noise level.

  “Do we need to abort?” Gill said. No one answered. The Core Failure monitor snapped to life reading 90% and quickly clicked down to 80%. Even with the wiper at full speed, condensation in the room reduced the view of the Twin Tunnel to a vague silhouette. “Put Holt Onscreen,” Gill commanded. They watched the young man breathing heavily, wincing every time the machine pounded. Mercifully, the image was snowy and getting worse with each jolt. Gill didn’t know what to do. He twisted around and located Chalmais, who was sideways in his seat, a finger stuck in one ear, a cellphone glued to his other. Gyttings was watching intently, but true to his word not to interfere, he merely gave Gill a non-committal nod. Gill glanced up at Gwen in the back corner.

  She felt his eyes on her, burning through her, but she remained frozen, paralyzed with fear and doubt. She wanted to yell ‘Stop!’ but the word was frozen too. That one word would be her salvation, would make up for all her selfishness. Stop! The word was caught in her throat and she remained mute.

  Justin was waiting for his life to pass before him, a parade of meaningful memories, all coalescing into some purposeful truth, an understanding, a totality. That was what he fancied would happen, but it wasn’t. Instead, he was being jostled, manhandled by this awful, claustrophobic machine, teeth clenched, unable to breathe, blinded by the heavy eyeshield, tortured by the unbearable noise. He had a terrible thought: this was how it would be forever, an eternity of torment and confusion. I’ve willingly volunteered to go to Hell!

  But then the noise and vibrations began to fade, drifting backwards and away. He was breathing again and he felt cool air against his skin. He felt strength surging through his muscles, the cold rock in his hands. He was moving now, climbing easily, a powerful, supple animal. Just above him, over his right shoulder, the summit. I see the summit!