by Brad Murray
Jimmy and the man stared at each other in utter shock.
“You ever seen anything like that?” the man said, his eyes as wide as saucers.
“No.”
The man turned his head to watch the herd of animals disappear into the trees on the opposite side of the road.
“Wonder where they’re runnin’?”
Jimmy stared into the forest from which the animals came.
“I think the better question is - what are they running from?”
2
March 13, 1990
Raindrops pounded the windshield. The wipers beat in rapid succession but only cleared the view for an instant before the glass was once again covered. Other than the sounds of the storm, the streets of Kansas City, Missouri were as quiet as one would expect at 1am on a weeknight. Water pooled in the gutters and backed up into the street. On the corner of Grant and Walnut, water erupted ten feet into the air as a white 1977 Chevy Caprice sloshed around the corner. The engine roared as the car accelerated down the straightaway.
“Almost there baby. Hold on for just a bit longer.”
The driver was the picture of concentration and focus. He was consumed with the street in front of him, both hands clutched tightly around the wheel. Though the woman in the passenger seat had not been out in the rain, her light-knit blouse was soaked. A drop of perspiration traced her forehead, snaked down her cheek, and dripped onto her shoulder. She leaned back in her seat, grimacing and holding her belly.
“I’d be better if you’d slow down.” Her face scrunched up as the pain once again intensified in her abdomen. “And I’d be better if we were back home in Springfield. At my hospital, with my doctor.”
“You aren’t due for another couple of weeks! I thought it would be good for us to get out of town for a few days before the baby came.”
“I told you it was a bad idea, now look at the situation we’re in!”
“You said you wanted to come,” he said, pleading his case. “If you thought you were going to go into labor you shouldn’t have agreed to come.”
She scowled at her husband, her face red and blotchy. A single strand of sweat-soaked hair hung from her bangs over her lips and flittered each time she exhaled. For a brief moment, he thought she might punch him.
“Just a couple more blocks, Honey,” he said, changing the subject. “Can you make it a few more minutes?”
The wave of pain caught hold of her again, this time even more agonizing than the last. Every muscle in her body had tightened; her abdomen constricted to the point of burning. She could not speak, as the deep internal tugging made her wonder if a game of tug-of-war was being played with her internal organs. She closed her eyes tightly, wincing as the torment gripped her. She bit her lip and tried to breathe, just like the pregnancy book preached.
But it was bullshit.
Who could breathe when a ten-pound demon was trying to claw itself out of your body? For a split second a horrible thought crossed her mind – not making it in time to Parkland Regional Hospital. The tiniest shred of panic began to flicker, but before it grew into a flame, the contraction released and relief washed over her.
The Caprice slowed abruptly and whipped into the paved entrance of the emergency room, its tires chirped as it hit the base of the driveway’s incline. Weaving around a parked ambulance, they came to a hard stop just a few feet in front of the hospital doors. The driver immediately bolted from his seat, leaving the car running and his door wide open. He sprinted towards the front of the car and jumped, sliding across the rain soaked hood on one hip. As he slid, one foot caught on the hood ornament, spinning him forward and hurling him face first towards the ground. The woman in the passenger seat watched the animated mass of flailing arms and feet disappear from her view as he plopped clumsily to the ground on his back. She leaned her head back against the head rest, exhaled deeply, and shook her head.
“Christ. I married a retarded Luke Duke,” she muttered to herself.
Her husband rose to his feet, the right side of his pants soaked. He stumbled to the side of the car, limping, and ripped the passenger side door open. Reaching in, he grabbed his wife by both shoulders, trying to pull her out of the vehicle.
“Jesus Andy! What the hell do you think you’re doing? I can get out by myself!”
Andy turned towards the hospital and made eye contact with an orderly and a paramedic who were each smoking a cigarette just outside of the entryway to the emergency room. Both had been watching with amusement since the car had zipped into the driveway.
“Can you help me find a wheelchair? We’re havin a baby!”
The two men disappeared into the hospital. Andy turned back to his wife, who already had one foot out of the car and both hands on the doorframe, pulling herself out of the vehicle. Sweat glistened on her brow, the expression on her face the picture of determination. She possessed one singular thought - getting inside the hospital to deliver the baby. Waiting for a couple of men whom she’d never met to retrieve a wheelchair that she didn’t need was a complete waste of time.
“No way in hell I’m having the baby out here in this driveway,” she snarled at her husband.
Andy took hold of his wife’s shoulders, trying to ease her back into the car seat.
“Emma, take it easy! I got a wheelchair comin‘. Sit down – they’ll be here in a second.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed, shooting laser beams through the back of her husband’s head. Her face drew red, and her teeth clinched. This was something Andy had only seen a handful of times in their two years of marriage, but those few occasions were enough to permanently brand an imprint onto his brain. He frowned, placed one hand under her armpit and helped pull her up out of the car and onto her feet. As the couple hobbled their way to the emergency room door, Andy grimaced, pain shooting from his ankle and up his leg.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, I just turned my ankle a little when I got out of the car.”
“I saw. Very graceful.”
“You saw? I was hoping you had missed my little cartwheel.”
Emma smiled faintly; her scowl vanquished – for the time being. The progress of moving closer to the hospital entrance had calmed her. The paramedic appeared at the doorway, swiftly pushing an empty wheelchair. The orderly was close behind, followed by a rather plump nurse who was scurrying as quickly as her wide frame could carry her. The paramedic thrust the wheelchair in front of the couple and hopped aside to help Emma sit down. With a wave of her hand, Emma shooed the man away.
“Give it to my husband. He needs it more than me,” quipped Emma, continuing to move forward toward the entrance. The paramedic smirked as she walked by. He moved the wheelchair close to Andy who was hopping on one foot, trying to avoid putting pressure on the ankle.
“If you’re giving free rides, I’ll take one,” said Andy, lightheartedly. “Besides, it’s the only way I’m going to be able to keep up with her.”
The paramedic brushed his fingers through his graying mustache, shook his head, and chuckled.
“You know, after twenty-five years of this job I thought I’d seen it all. Hop on son!”
And so they went.
Emma, holding her belly with the portly nurse and the orderly on each arm, guiding her through the automatic entrance doors, and Andy, following in tow via wheelchair, pushed by a paramedic who was taking all too much pleasure in the whole ordeal.
***
Two hours later, Emma lay asleep in the delivery room, physically and emotionally exhausted from the delivery. Despite the sprained ankle, Andy seemed to float through the halls of the hospital, announcing to anyone and everyone he encountered, “It’s a boy!” Andy returned to the delivery room to find Emma still asleep, their infant son likewise asleep in the bassinet at Emma’s side. He paused for a few moments to let it all soak in. He looked down at his son and for a minute felt overwhelmed. The weight of being totally and completely responsible for another human being was a powerful thing to
come to terms with. He ran his finger along the bottom of the baby’s tiny foot and felt a wave of comfort. He was meant to be a dad, he thought.
The same heavy-set nurse who had helped Emma earlier entered the room. She was probably in her early 50’s, Andy judged. Kind eyes and a pretty, round face were framed by her short, straight, salt-and-pepper hair. She placed her hand on Andy’s shoulder and whispered, “Congratulations! How’s everyone?”
Andy turned from the nurse and gazed back at his family. “Great. Tired, but great. By the way, thanks for all your help earlier in the driveway. I uhh…was a little too excited,” said Andy motioning to his throbbing ankle.
“Oh don’t thank me, it’s part of the job. I was just walking in to start my shift when they came running down the hallway looking for a wheelchair. I was happy I could help. By the way, Floyd told me about your little spill. How’s the ankle?”
“Floyd?”
“Yeah, the paramedic who wheeled you in. Said you looked like a wounded duck falling off that hood. He was quite tickled. Told all the E.R. nurses downstairs about it.”
Andy shook his head and put his face in his hands.
“I’m an idiot.”
The nurse snort-laughed. She caught herself, before she broke into an all-out belly laugh that would wake Emma and the baby.
“We’re going to take him to have blood drawn now,” she whispered to Andy. “We’ll also run a few tests, standard protocol for newborns. You’re more than welcome to come along if you’d like.”
Andy considered his heavy eyelids and swollen ankle.
“Nah, that’s alright. I trust you.”
The nurse smiled and waddled over to the bassinet cart.
“Be back in a jiffy.”
Beginning to feel the waves of fatigue himself, Andy’s head filled with the muddled fog that accompanies sheer exhaustion. The drug-like high of the whole ordeal had worn off, and he needed to sleep. He grabbed a chair from across the room and slid it next to Emma’s bed. Plopping himself into the less-than-comfortable chair, he propped up his still throbbing foot on a side table, and exhaled deeply. Within a few seconds, Andy was out cold.
***
As the pin pricked the baby’s foot, Nurse Flax braced herself for the scream. This was the worst part of the process. Seeing that innocent newborn shriek in pain always bothered her, even though in thirty-two years on the job she had probably been through the process a thousand times. She let the technician complete her work, then tenderly placed a tiny bandage on the infant’s foot. She coddled and cooed the baby, soothing and comforting him like a veteran grandma. She was a pro, as skilled in the art as any, and the baby’s cries soon faded. She swaddled him in a blanket and placed him back in the bassinet in preparation for the return to his parents. Just before she exited the room, she looked at her watch and turned to the technician. Her expression hardened.
“It’s 4:30. Minkowski will be in to work within the hour. Make sure to have the samples ready for him when he arrives.”
The technician frowned, unable to mask her disdain. The very sound of the name “Minkowski” made her entire body cringe.
“Yes Miss Flax.”
Nurse Flax exhaled and resumed her path down the hallway, and back to the newborn’s room.
The technician, already complete with her work on the samples, was intent on delivering them to the hospital’s basement before Minkowski arrived. She’d missed having the samples ready for Minkowski once before, and she had no interest in enduring his wrath again, nor having to hear about it from Nurse Flax. When she exited the elevator, she was taken aback to see that Minkowski’s laboratory lights were already on.
Damn. He was in early today.
“Great. Now I’ll have to talk to the asshole,” she thought.
As she carefully entered the lab, she eased the doors open - inch-by-inch - to avoid making any creaking noises. She was relieved to see Minkowski facing in the opposite direction, his shiny bald head down, hard at work. If she was stealthy enough, she’d be able to leave the samples behind and disappear without his even knowing she’d been there. She slithered a few paces into the lab and cautiously placed the samples on Minkowski’s immaculately organized desk, vigilant not to let any of the test tubes clink together.
The tray for new blood samples was marked “In” and was positioned with its corners squarely in line with the edges of the desk. Minkowski demanded order, and the condition of the laboratory reflected it. Everything had a very specific place in Minkowski’s world, categorized and arranged by some method to which only the man himself fully understood. Unfortunately, as many a janitor or felled lab assistant came to understand through the years, the slightest deviation from his perfect order would inevitably throw the man’s mind out of kilter, sending him into a tirade. Just a month earlier, the hospital was buzzing with the tale of the new lab assistant who had set a beaker on the appropriate Minkowski-designated shelf but with its spout turned ever-so-slightly off-center. Minkowski berated her for half an hour, chiding her for her ineptitude and for her obvious lack of care. The poor lab assistant, a college-aged intern, quit that morning and hadn’t set foot in the hospital since.
The technician successfully completed her stealthy drop-off and was quietly opening the door to make her exit, thrilled that she had accomplished her task without being noticed.
“How many did we have overnight?”
Minkowski’s deep, accented voice cut through the silence, thundering through the room and startling the technician enough that she flinched.
Heart fluttering, she muttered, “Oh, sorry. I saw you working and didn’t want to disturb you. Umm…four. We had four babies overnight.”
“Excellent.”
The technician stood in the doorway, unsure as to whether she should continue her exit or await further instructions.
“You may leave now.”
The technician turned, and immediately bolted for the elevator, not wanting to spend another second alone with Minkowski in the lab.
Despite the rumbling voice, Minkowski was not a large man. Since moving to the U.S., he had discovered his voice could be used to his benefit. Combined with his thick Russian accent, he found people tended to be intimidated by him. And he liked it that way. His demeanor was perceived by others as cold and unfriendly. He rarely smiled and was perpetually focused on his work. Though most of his co-workers had little use for him socially, and despite the fact he had run off many an assistant, he was respected for his work. He ran the laboratory smoothly, efficiently, and professionally.
Minkowski began the work on the new samples. He cautiously introduced a portion of the infants’ blood into the mixing chamber, another portion into the chamber used for the white and red blood cell count, and placed another portion into the centrifuge for the customary five minutes. He completed all the standard blood cell disorder and endocrine checks that were mandated by the State of Missouri.
However, Minkowski didn’t stop there.
There was a final test he always conducted. But this test was not required by the State of Missouri, nor by any other state for that matter. After an additional thirty minutes of work on each of the samples, the results of Minkowski’s final test were complete.
Day after day, sample after sample, he glared into the microscope, poured over the numbers and analyzed the data. And sample after sample, it was always the same result. Often, he cursed under his breath, wondering if the effort was worth his time. After all, though he’d analyzed thousands and thousands of samples he‘d never encountered a single one that passed his final test.
Until now.
As he finished the final test on the fourth sample, he looked at the enzyme numbers and back into the microscope, and back at the numbers again. As the realization set in, he jumped back from his microscope, knocking a beaker off the table and shattering it on the floor in the process. Broken glass on the floor of his immaculate lab was normally enough to send him into a fit. But not now.
> This was it.
He pulled a small black binder from the top drawer of his desk. His mind was moving a thousand miles an hour; the excitement was almost unbearable. There it was. Neatly inscribed on the inside cover of the black binder was the number he was looking for. He picked up the telephone receiver on his desk and punched its buttons in rapid succession. After a only a few rings, a man answered.
“This is Dmitri Minkowski. Parkland Regional in Kansas City. I have located a Super.”
Minkowski glanced down at the time on his watch and listened to the man on the phone. “Yes, I am the only one with knowledge. Yes sir, my lab is in the basement. Not a word, I understand, sir.”
Less than two hours later, a man exited the freight elevator across from Dmitri Minkowski’s basement laboratory. He was middle-aged; dark hair intermixed with gray, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He was well dressed, albeit a bit monotone in his color selection. He wore a black raincoat that covered a black three-piece suit, topped off with a black fedora. From afar, his elegant attire made him appear as rather gentlemanly. But up close, the cloudy milk-white left eye contrasted starkly with his black-as-coal right eye, giving him a sinister appearance. He didn’t walk so much as he glided; a smooth, unbending saunter like a man promenading at an extravagant ball. And as he entered the lab it was as if the electrons in the room became supercharged - his charismatic, palpable aura following him wherever he went. He found Minkowski at his microscope, but made no time for introductions or small talk.