EarthChild

by Sharon Webb

  Light sud­denly splas­hed from an al­ley­way and was­hed the stre­et just ahe­ad of him. He ve­ered sharply, skid­ding to the right along the gut­ter ne­arest the al­ley. Back­pe­da­ling, he slid to a stop, crunc­hing a pi­le of dry oak le­aves un­der his ti­res.

  The light bob­bed and swung to­ward him, away, to­ward him aga­in. His he­art po­un­ded in his ears. No pla­ce to turn off. No si­de stre­et, only dri­ve­ways. He'd ha­ve to turn aro­und. He slid off the bi­ke, tur­ning it back. He mo­ved in a cre­eping arc, pra­ying, cur­sing si­lently, as le­aves shat­te­red in his wa­ke exp­lo­ding the si­len­ce.

  Light spra­yed over him. "Got one!"

  He le­aped on the bi­ke, pe­da­ling fran­ti­cal­ly as so­met­hing his­sed thro­ugh the air.

  The length of cha­in sang aga­inst his ribs snap­ping two of them as it wo­und in tight emb­ra­ce. His bre­ath es­ca­ped in a high-pitc­hed wa­il be­fo­re clenc­hed te­eth cho­ked it off in an ago­ni­zed spasm.

  Off-ba­lan­ce, he ve­ered to the left, grip­ping the hand­le­bars sa­va­gely as if to con­ta­in the pa­in. The cha­in fell away and clan­ked to the gro­und in stop-mo­ti­on ac­ti­on as if each link struck pa­ve­ment se­pa­ra­tely.

  His legs pum­ped in night­ma­re slow mo­ti­on. Each bre­ath shri­eked aga­inst the stab of his ribs. The bi­ke craw­led.

  A sho­ut be­hind him-me­aning­less syllab­les buf­fe­ting: "St- ah-ah-p-p-p h-h-h-i-m-m-m. …"

  Whi­ne. A hot whi­ne. It bu­ri­ed it­self, its whi­ne, in the flesh of his sho­ul­der. Hot. Hot. Ke­ep go­ing. Got to ke­ep go­ing. Hot. Dark stre­et. Dark pla­ce. Dark…

  * * *

  He ne­ver re­mem­be­red how he got ho­me. He re­mem­be­red com­pul­si­vely pus­hing a blo­od-sta­ined bi­ke in­to a lock-slot. And then-What then? Cro­uc­hing. Cro­uc­hing in a ro­om. Ele­va­tor? In the ele­va­tor. Sick in the ele­va­tor. His shirt was off

  He dab­bed at his mo­uth with his shirt, trying to wi­pe away the so­ur vo­mit. Blo­od trick­led down his chest. His pants we­re so­aked. Oh God, his pants we­re so­aked. He rub­bed at the wet with his wad­ded shirt, sta­ring at it fo­olishly as it tur­ned red in his hands.

  The ele­va­tor ope­ned to the night-lit hall. He te­ete­red to­ward his do­or. How to open it? He swa­yed in con­fu­si­on. Had to use his card, but his pants we­re wet. Co­uldn't he… Knock. He co­uld knock. His fin­gers spla­yed aga­inst the do­or in a sticky pat. Oh God, oh God. Ple­ase.

  He le­aned his he­ad aga­inst the jamb. Ple­ase? His fin­gers stretc­hed along the un­yi­el­ding do­or. He drew them up in­to a red claw that scrab­bled aga­inst it.

  The do­or fell open.

  He swa­yed in the ent­ran­ce. "Ma­ma?"

  Car­men Kra­us sta­red at her son. Her mo­uth twis­ted open; her thro­at musc­les wor­ked, but the scre­am abor­ted in a hor­rib­le gag­ging so­und.

  "Ma­ma. Help me-"

  It was Eric who pul­led him in­to the ro­om. Eric who sto­od sta­ring for a mo­ment and then eased him to the flo­or and ran for to­wels. He threw a pi­le of them be­si­de him, pres­sing one aga­inst the wo­unds, sli­ding anot­her un­der his he­ad. "We've got to get him an am­bu­lan­ce."

  She sta­red at Eric as if he spo­ke a fo­re­ign lan­gu­age.

  "Call an am­bu­lan­ce."

  She be­gan to sha­ke her he­ad. It mo­ved back and forth li­ke a wind-up toy. "Ma­ma!"

  "I can't, I can't, I can't." She pres­sed both fists aga­inst her fa­ce as if to stop the ter­rib­le sha­king of her he­ad.

  Eric pres­sed Kurt's hand aga­inst the wad­ded to­wel. "Hold it. Mash hard so the ble­eding stops." He scramb­led to his fe­et and ran to the te­lep­ho­ne.

  Car­men Kra­us sto­od over Kurt. Whi­te stre­aks cur­ved aro­und her mo­uth and no­se, enc­lo­sing them in a blanc­hed pa­rent­he­sis. It was so­met­hing for him to fo­cus on. The mo­uth was a dash wit­hin the pa­rent­he­sis; it be­gan to work, "I can't. I can't go back the­re. Don't you see? Don't you?"

  He clutc­hed the wad­ded to­wel to him and sta­red at the mo­uth, at the whi­te li­nes that punc­tu­ated it. Swe­at trick­led over his scalp dra­wing dark ha­ir in­to damp cur­ling tang­les.

  "I've al­re­ady go­ne to the hos­pi­tal to­day. I sat at a bed. I can't go back the­re. You can't ex­pect me to go back the­re." Her vo­ice grew fa­in­ter as if she we­re go­ing away, but the mo­uth still hung over him, mo­ving, stretc­hing it­self in­to dif­fe­rent sha­pes: O's and -'s, a thin dash. Then he co­uldn't he­ar the vo­ice at all, but only the rush of his own blo­od pul­sing in his ears, a shaggy windy so­und that blew a fa­int F sharp thro­ugh his he­ad.

  When the two men ca­me, pus­hing a stretc­her bet­we­en them, he felt a hand clutc­hing his. He ca­me back from so­mew­he­re far away and lo­oked up in­to Eric's fa­ce. "Grand­ma-"

  "What? What, Kurt?"

  "Grand­ma-" He stra­ined to pro­j­ect his vo­ice past the rus­hing no­te in his he­ad. 'Tell her-Tell her I'm all right."

  * * *

  The do­ors mar­ked EMER­GENCY spla­yed open. Hands lif­ted him from the am­bu­lan­ce stretc­her to anot­her. So­me­one switc­hed on the stretc­her ra­dio re­ce­iver. Over the fa­int hiss of sta­tic, a wo­man's vo­ice mur­mu­red in his ear, "…wel­co­me to Tam­pa Ge­ne­ral Hos­pi­tal. Be calm. Do not be af­ra­id. You will re­ce­ive the best of ca­re. Be calm…" The vo­ice drop­ped fa­in­ter un­til the mes­sa­ge be­ca­me sub­li­mi­nal.

  So­me­one co­ve­red him with a red blan­ket. Then the stretc­her tur­ned cra­zily and jog­ged on­to a track. Only half-awa­re, he felt him­self mo­ving.

  Be­yond a do­or­way, anot­her ra­dio be­acon. The vo­ice was sa­ying, "… now en­te­ring Tri­age Area One. A doc­tor or nur­se will ta­ke ca­re of you. You are in go­od hands. You are now en­te­ring Tri­age Area One. A doc­tor or nur­se will…"

  A nur­se pe­ered down at him. She threw back the blan­ket, snap­ped a pul­se cot on his fin­ger and wrap­ped a blo­od-pres­su­re sen­sor on his arm. The sen­sor tigh­te­ned, and he mo­aned. He felt the soggy to­wel pe­el away from his chest. The nur­se spra­yed so­met­hing icy on his sho­ul­ders and ribs. Soft pink fo­am ro­se in a so­ot­hing blan­ket over his wo­unds.

  "Can you tell me yo­ur na­me?"

  He sta­red at her fa­ce. It blur­red then fo­cu­sed.

  "Tell me yo­ur na­me."

  "K-Kurt."

  Her soft fin­gers ran over his he­ad, his neck. "You're go­ing to be fi­ne, Kurt. Just fi­ne." Fin­gers pro­bed his ab­do­men, his gro­in. A light bla­zed in­to his eyes.

  The nur­se pres­sed a but­ton and ga­ve the stretc­her a sho­ve. He trund­led away.

  "…ente­ring Tra­uma Area Three. Be calm. All is well. You are re­ce­iving the best of ca­re. Be calm. All is well. You are re­ce­iving the best of ca­re…"

  The bril­li­ant lights over­he­ad dan­ced in­sa­nely abo­ve him, then everyt­hing went very black.

  * * *

  "Stop that." A rest­ra­ining hand cap­tu­red his fla­iling arm. "Lie still. You're go­ing to pull out that tu­be if you don't lie still."

  He blin­ked and tri­ed to fo­cus thro­ugh a gray ha­ze. So­met­hing stung his arm. He re­ac­hed over to rub it.

  "Lie still. You've got a unit of He­mo­dex go­ing in that arm." The fa­ce of a yo­ung nur­se ca­me in­to fo­cus. "You lost a lot of blo­od. That's what the He­mo­dex is for. You're go­ing to be all right."

  He tri­ed to say, "Wa­ter," but it ca­me out so­un­ding li­ke a cro­ak. The girl se­emed to un­ders­tand tho­ugh. She dab­bed at his lips with so­met­hing wet that smel­led of le­mon. "You can ha­ve so­me wa­ter in a lit­tle whi­le. Now sle­ep,"

  He did.

  He wo­ke with a cle­ar he­ad and a fi­er­ce pa­in in his ribs, but h
e felt much stron­ger. He lay in a hos­pi­tal bed, and the nur­se was re­mo­ving the empty He­mo­dex con­ta­iner. "Fe­eling bet­ter?"

  "Hurts. Can I ha­ve so­me wa­ter?"

  She held a tu­be to his lips, and he suc­ked de­eply. Not­hing had ever tas­ted so go­od. "Whe­re's the pa­in?" she as­ked.

  His fin­gers tra­ced a path ac­ross his ribs and ca­me to rest on a thick dres­sing on his sho­ul­der.

  She swung a co­der from the wall. "Co­ming up. We'll get you so­me En­do-M." She pec­ked out a mes­sa­ge on the co­der and imp­res­sed it with a mar­ker at­tac­hed to her uni­form. Then she to­uc­hed the mar­ker to the hos­pi­tal bra­ce­let he wo­re. A small do­or slid open in the wall. She to­ok out the skinny tu­be in­si­de and held it to his no­se. 'Ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath." As he bre­at­hed in, she squ­e­ezed the tu­be. Pa­in stab­bed in his chest from the bre­ath, but it fa­ded al­most at on­ce and re­ce­ded in a dull ha­ze. He felt light­he­aded.

  "You'll buzz for a few mi­nu­tes," she sa­id, "then you'll cle­ar. En­do-M is gre­at for pa­in. You're lucky. If it we­ren't for the pro­cess, you'd be hur­ting a lot wor­se."

  He lo­oked aro­und the dimly ligh­ted ro­om. "Whe­re am I?"

  "Fo­ur West. Pe­di­at­ric Tra­uma and Ort­ho­pe­dics. I’ll let you rest now. If you ne­ed anyt­hing, call me. My na­me's Betty."

  She star­ted to go, but he ca­ught her arm. "Wa­it. My dad is a pa­ti­ent he­re. Ric­hard Kra­us. I want to see him."

  She lo­oked do­ubt­ful. "No­body's al­lo­wed on this flo­or ex­cept staff, Kurt. Sin­ce the-the dis­tur­ban­ces. Not even pa­rents."

  "He do­esn't ha­ve to co­me he­re. I’ll go the­re." She sho­ok her he­ad.

  "Ple­ase. He had sur­gery to­day-an imp­lant. I don't even know how he is."

  A li­ne cre­ased her brow, then smo­ot­hed away. "Well, I can find that out for you at le­ast. What did you say his na­me was?"

  He told her and she left the ro­om. In a few mi­nu­tes he he­ard her vo­ice from the wall spe­aker. "Kurt. Yo­ur fat­her's con­di­ti­on is sa­tis­fac­tory."

  "I want to see him."

  "I'm sorry. It just isn't per­mit­ted. Be­si­des, yo­ur fat­her isn't even in this sec­ti­on of the hos­pi­tal. He's on the Hi­xon On­co­logy Wing. I'm re­al­ly sorry, Kurt. But he's do­ing all right." The spe­aker clic­ked off.

  * * *

  He felt his he­art scurry in­to his thro­at. No one was in the dar­ke­ned hall as he slip­ped out. He stop­ped and lis­te­ned for the fa­int squ­is­hing so­und of sho­es aga­inst po­lis­hed flo­or. He he­ard not­hing. The clock on the wall whis­pe­red as its disp­lay rol­led anot­her di­git of ti­me away. Three twenty-two.

  He felt as if he we­re bre­aking the law. No one had told him that he had to stay in his ro­om. But it se­emed that in hos­pi­tals all the ru­les we­re back­wards. If you we­ren't told it was all right, then it wasn't. He had no idea what he wo­uld do if an­yo­ne ca­ught him out­si­de his ro­om. He had no idea what they wo­uld do. The po­int was to stay out of sight be­ca­use if any­body saw him they co­uldn't miss tho­se baggy tos­sa­way pa­j­amas that mar­ked him un­mis­ta­kably as a pa­ti­ent.

  He lo­oked aro­und in sud­den dis­may. He didn't know how to find his fat­her. The nur­se had sa­id the Hi­xon On­co­logy Wing, but whe­re was that? He knew what "onco­logy" me­ant- can­cer, anot­her word for can­cer, the kind they hadn't le­ar­ned how to cu­re yet.

  To the left lo­omed an EXIT sign. That wo­uld pro­bably ta­ke him to the sta­irs or to tho­se mo­to­ri­zed eva­cu­ati­on ramps. The ele­va­tors wo­uld be to the right then. He'd ha­ve a bet­ter chan­ce with tho­se.

  He ma­de his way up the hal­lway, sta­ying clo­se to the gray sha­dows along the wall. He he­ard a soft thump and then the squ­e­ak of whe­els in ne­ed of lub­ri­ca­ti­on. An al­co­ve was just ahe­ad. He dar­ted in­to the dar­ke­ned nic­he.

  The whe­els we­re co­ming clo­ser. He lo­oked wildly aro­und. The­re we­re two do­ors in the al­co­ve, one mar­ked LI­NEN, the ot­her sa­id TRAC­TI­ON. He pus­hed open the se­cond do­or and slip­ped in­si­de, pres­sed aga­inst an ar­ray of hard­wa­re. With a lit­tle pul­ling, the do­or wo­uld just clo­se. In a mo­ment, so­me­one pus­hed a stretc­her in­to the al­co­ve, tur­ned, and left.

  When he was su­re that no one was still ne­ar, he ope­ned the do­or. The stretc­her sto­od aga­inst the ope­ning. It gli­ded to one si­de at the to­uch of his hand. He be­gan to sid­le past it, then stop­ped and ran his hand over the pil­low and the thin mat­tress un­der it. A lit­tle ra­dio re­ce­iver was wed­ged bet­we­en the mat­tress and the si­de ra­ils. He held it to his ear. Not­hing. But that didn't mat­ter. It wo­uld pick up ne­ar a be­acon. It was go­ing to le­ad him to his fat­her.

  * * *

  He step­ped off the ele­va­tor, and glan­ced an­xi­o­usly up and down the dar­ke­ned hall. No one was aro­und. He tur­ned right and ca­me to a T. The be­acon whis­pe­red, "…ente­ring Hi­xon On­co­logy Wing. You are en­te­ring…"

  Be­hind a half-ope­ned do­or, a light sho­ne from a pa­ti­ent's ro­om. He he­ard vo­ices in­si­de. He slip­ped past and the ra­dio fell si­lent. Scar­cely bre­at­hing, he scan­ned each do­or as he pas­sed, lo­oking for his fat­her's na­me. He fo­und it at the end of the hall.

  He pus­hed aga­inst the do­or and it ga­ve way at his to­uch. The ro­om was dark, il­lu­mi­na­ted only by pink-hu­ed stre­et­lights shi­ning thro­ugh half-drawn blinds. The bed lay in stri­pes of sha­dow. He drew ne­arer, pe­ering in­to the ro­om, trying to see his fat­her's fa­ce in the dark­ness. "Dad?" It was a whis­per; it was a qu­es­ti­on. "Dad."

  Ric­hard Kra­us stir­red and lo­oked at his son.

  "Dad, it's me. Kurt. I ca­me to see you," he ad­ded ir­re­le­vantly. He gro­ped for his fat­her's hand and fo­und it. It felt dry and co­ol to his to­uch.

  "Why are you he­re?" Ric­hard Kra­us's hand lay un­mo­ving in Kurt's.

  "I got hurt. But I'm all right now."

  The­re was no res­pon­se.

  Kurt felt the si­len­ce thic­ken. "Dad, is everyt­hing all right?"

  A short la­ugh as dry and co­ol as the hand he held ca­me as ans­wer. The si­len­ce pres­sed back, then the words, "Everyt­hing's fi­ne, Kurt. Everyt­hing's won­der­ful. I even ha­ve a but­ton to push to kill the pa­in." He la­ug­hed aga­in. It en­ded in a spasm of co­ug­hing. The hand Kurt held pul­led away and gro­ped for a ba­sin on the bed­si­de tab­le. Kurt held it to his lips whi­le he co­ug­hed up a string of mu­cus.

  Ric­hard Kra­us lay back aga­inst his pil­low, catc­hing his bre­ath for a mo­ment be­fo­re he sa­id, "I sup­po­se I sho­uld ask how you got hurt." He tur­ned slightly to­ward the boy. His fa­ce lay in sha­dow, with only a stri­pe of light ac­ross his lips. "Do you know so­met­hing, Kurt? I can't re­al­ly think abo­ut that now. I can't re­al­ly ca­re." His mo­uth pres­sed shut, then ope­ned aga­in. The tip of his ton­gue slid along his up­per lip. "That's one thing abo­ut be­ing sick. It ma­kes you lo­ok in­si­de. Af­ter a whi­le what's out­si­de do­esn't mat­ter any­mo­re. You get sel­fish."

  Kurt sta­red at his fat­her and tri­ed to un­ders­tand how he felt. That must ha­ve be­en why he had ne­ver sa­id anyt­hing abo­ut the pro­cess. He clo­sed his eyes and tri­ed to ima­gi­ne what it was li­ke for his fat­her, what it was li­ke to fa­ce the fu­tu­re and see it shrink down to months, then we­eks, then less. "I've wan­ted to talk to you abo­ut-"

  "Abo­ut the rest of yo­ur li­fe."

  He re­ac­hed for his fat­her's hand aga­in, to­uc­hed it, felt it pull away.

  Ric­hard Kra­us's lips pres­sed to­get­her, re­la­xed, pres­sed to­get­her aga­in. "The truth is, Kurt, I just don't gi­ve a damn."

  Kurt's fa­ce felt stiff and stran�
�ge to him. He was glad it was dark in the ro­om. He he­ard the dro­ne of his fat­her's vo­ice; he he­ard it say, "I spent the last of my pas­si­on the day I knew you we­re im­mor­tal." The vo­ice stop­ped, then star­ted aga­in, he­avi­er and slo­wer, in a to­ne the boy wo­uld ne­ver for­get. "I wan­ted very much to kill you."

  The words we­re kni­ves and ice. And Eric too? the tho­ught scre­amed. And Eric too? He sat in the black­ness. He sat and sta­red and fo­und a vo­ice, lo­wer, cal­mer than he wo­uld ha­ve be­li­eved. "Why didn't you?"

  "I didn't ha­ve the strength."

  He sto­od up. Sud­denly an overw­hel­ming we­ak­ness struck him and he clutc­hed the back of the cha­ir for sup­port. He squ­e­ezed the cha­ir with num­bing fin­gers; he squ­e­ezed out the words. "I'm glad you didn't." His new-fo­und vo­ice was smo­oth ice. "Be­ca­use, now I'm go­ing to li­ve fo­re­ver. I'm go­ing to watch you die."

  He tur­ned and wal­ked to the do­or. He sto­od the­re with his hand on the knob, sta­ring to­ward the bed, to­ward the si­lent man who lay the­re. Part of him wan­ted to ta­ke it all back, run to the bed and cry, "I didn't me­an it." But so­met­hing in him, so­met­hing cold and ri­gid, held him back, and he ope­ned the do­or and wal­ked out.

  Chapter 7

  The bul­le­tin had be­en re­pe­ated ho­urly for ne­arly a we­ek on the world and na­ti­onal news. Bro­ad­cast in all lan­gu­ages, it was dup­li­ca­ted in sign lan­gu­age and sub­tit­les. It emer­ged on fle­xi-she­ets from ho­me com­pu­ters. It was bra­il­led. The mes­sa­ge as­sa­ul­ted the ear from pub­lic trans­por­ta­ti­on spe­akers and in­ter­rup­ted pi­ped-in mu­sic.

  NOTICE

  As a re­sult of the cur­rent emer­gency, it has be­co­me ne­ces­sary to ad­mit all ci­ti­zens un­der the age of eigh­te­en ye­ars to pro­tec­ti­ve cus­tody. All child­ren are to be ta­ken to ne­igh­bor­ho­od col­lec­ting po­ints on SA­FETY DAY. Child­ren will then be es­cor­ted to de­sig­na­ted en­camp­ments by go­vern­ment rep­re­sen­ta­ti­ves. This is a tem­po­rary me­asu­re. All child­ren will be re­tur­ned to the­ir pa­rents as so­on as pos­sib­le. Fa­ilu­re of adults to comply with this ru­ling or to hin­der its en­for­ce­ment has be­en dec­la­red by World Co­ali­ti­on a fe­lony be­aring the pe­nalty of fi­ne and im­p­ri­son­ment.