by Brian Kirk
“Hey,” Alex said. “Honey, I didn’t—”
“No. Not right now.” She walked through the open door and slammed it shut.
Alex’s head sagged. He went to the garage and retrieved a garbage bag, then turned and sulked back towards Popeye’s body lying behind his car. Rachel’s mischievous terrier that he had effectively adopted when they got married, Popeye having come attached to her lap. And he had often felt like Bluto in its company—the brutish rival incapable of providing the same selfless affection as his wife’s adoring pet. But their rivalry, imaginary or otherwise, was now over.
So is my sex life, Alex thought and sighed. Trying to shed the feeling that vague forces were conspiring against him. Much like his patients felt when they went off their meds.
He flapped the garbage sack open and used his foot to sweep Popeye’s limp body into the bag, not wanting to get blood on his hands.
Chapter Three
Dr. Eli Alpert meditated to quiet the chattering in his mind that he feared would one day drive him mad. The mantra he used, which he would recite until each word relinquished its meaning, was one he had learned from a Hindu monk.
As everything is destined to die, I shall cherish my time with it today.
The monk, who most certainly would have been committed to a psychiatric ward if he’d lived in the United States, had saved the doctor’s sanity. Continued to save it still. Yet in times like this, the pesky voice of insecurity would overwhelm the safeguards that had been erected in his mind, skirting past the sentrymen of his subconscious, crumbling the confidence that he’d worked so hard to cultivate. This voice, which was his own, spoke to him in the clinical tone of a physician, telling him that resistance was futile. That life, as he knew it, was over. That the center could not hold.
You are the harbinger of death, it would insist, only pretending to make man sane.
And whenever this voice of self-doubt surfaced, the serenity that meditation supplied would be obliterated like the ramshackle hut that it had become. And the madness that lurks within all men would threaten to take over.
Someone knocked on his office door, rescuing Eli from his manic reverie. He swept the mandala from the wall and returned it to his desk drawer. Then he switched on the floor lamp, blinking his eyes against the light, and applied a smile to his face he did not feel.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened and Angela poked her head through. “It’s official. The Apocalypse has come to Sugar Hill.”
Eli waved her in, motioning towards a guest chair. “You know I hate that moniker.”
“Of course. Why do you think I use it?”
His smile became sincere. “How’s he doing?” he asked.
Angela leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms, looking up towards the ceiling, thinking. Her suit sleeve pulled back to reveal the cuff of a tattoo that started at her wrist and covered the rest of her right arm. It was as much of it as Eli had ever seen, but he often wondered how many more were concealed under her conservative work attire and what kind of alter ego they revealed.
There had been rumors once, soon after Angela first started, about some lewd behavior at an informal work party, but details had been hazy and had dissipated quickly so Eli had chalked it up to hospital gossip, of which there was plenty. It was a distant blip on an otherwise sterling record that had made Angela Sugar Hill’s most respected social worker.
Over the course of the eight years she had worked there, Eli had only seen her ruffled twice. Once when a patient had managed to lop off a clump of Angela’s hair with a pair of confiscated scissors, and that was really more about the safety breach than concern over her newly lopsided hairstyle. She had kept it jagged ever since. And had begun streaking it with colors.
The other time was when she had witnessed a patient being harassed by an aggressive orderly. While only standing five feet in high heels, with the petite frame decreed by her Asian genes, she had backed the large, six-foot-tall orderly against the wall and shamed him to tears with her outrage. And, even then, she had fought against him being fired, citing that he had learned his lesson and deserved a second chance.
It was her reputation for composure and compassion that had convinced Eli to assign her to their newest, and most notorious, criminal forensics patient, Crosby Nelson, aka the Apocalypse Killer. And he knew he’d made the right decision.
He sat in comfortable silence as Angela considered her response.
“You know, he’s different,” she said, finally, leaning forward and focusing on him with her almond-shaped eyes. “Different than what I was expecting, I mean. He’s quiet. He’s shy. He’s…he’s really rather sweet. He seems happy to be here. Of course, we have him on 60 mgs of Clozapine, so he’s heavily sedated, but…” Angela crossed her legs and clasped her hands in her lap; her sleeves dropped, covering the tattoo, “…I hate how he’s been portrayed in the media. He’s not the monster they make him out to be. He’s just sick.”
“Well, that’ll all die down now that the trial’s over. They’ll move on to something else.”
“I know; it’s just sad. People watch the news as if it were reality, rather than entertainment designed to get ratings. The media creates monsters to sell its stories without thinking about the tarnished reputations it leaves behind. I just hope they decide to run a redemption piece when Crosby gets well.” Angela shook her head. “Apocalypse Killer. Like he’s some hell spawn from the Book of Revelation.”
“Well, he did bring about the end of his victims’ worlds.”
“True, but if you look at it from his standpoint, he honestly thought he was saving the world. That’s the worst part of his disease. The voices he hears? They lie.”
Angela scanned the walls of Eli’s office, admiring the travel pictures taken from several exotic locations. In one, Eli was sitting lotus-style next to a small Indian monk with long, salt-and-pepper hair coiled up in a bun atop his head. They both shared the largest smiles she had ever seen.
She compared the Eli from the picture to the person sitting in front of her, the blanched complexion, the purple smears under the eyes, the tributaries in his skin that seemed to deepen every day. That smile was still there, though. As wide and bright as ever. He offered it now, and it turned back time.
“Perhaps,” Eli said. “I wouldn’t start referring to him as a hero just yet, however. I doubt the victims’ families would care for it. Nor are they quick to accept paranoid delusions as an alibi. Let’s just focus on giving him the best treatment we can provide and help bring him peace.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed his crinkled eyelids. “Has Alex met with him yet?”
Angela examined her hands, her lips drawn tight. “He’s not due back from vacation until tomorrow. I was hoping he would have been here for the orientation meetings, but—”
“I’ll meet with Crosby today. Alex can take over when he returns. Do you recall where he went?”
Angela shook her head, a few strands of purple hair fluttered across her face and she tucked them behind her steel-studded ear. “He didn’t say.”
“Well, I hope he comes back rested. We’re going to need all hands on deck as we get Crosby integrated into our family.” He stood and grabbed his hospital jacket from the coatrack. “And let’s lose the nickname. I don’t want to hear that from anyone on staff. Last thing we need is the patients referring to Crosby as the Apocalypse Killer.”
“Absolutely,” she said, standing and following Eli to the door. Perhaps they’ll call him hero instead.
Chapter Four
When he first saw Crosby softly snoring on his slim mattress, hands tucked between his knees like a toddler, a voice jumped into Eli’s mind. One he hadn’t heard in years.
“Rule number one: Never wake a sleeping giant.
“Rule number two: If you do, put the son of a bitch back to sleep.”
It was the voice of Sergeant Reynold Wagner, the platoon leader from his single stint in Vietnam. Sergeant Wagner was a handsome man in his midforties, with a full head of thick brown hair and a deceptive smile that showcased a neat row of ivory teeth. Eli was relieved when he first met him, thought he’d gotten in with a competent and reasonable commander who would lead them safely through the messy tangle of that futile war.
Eli had never been more wrong. The man proved to be a cold-blooded killer, as dangerous as the most deranged patients in Sugar Hill’s criminal forensics ward. Yet, under the sanctions of war, Wagner was considered a hero and showered with ribbons and rewarded with rank for his good work. In retrospect, it was Eli’s first encounter with insanity.
Eli served a year as a medic under Wagner’s command soon before the publication of the Pentagon Papers and Nixon began bringing troops home. Even then, Eli hadn’t been cut out for conflict, preferring to resolve disputes through reason and understanding rather than resort to violence.
Sergeant Wagner referred to him as Dr. Pussyfoot, even when Eli was smeared in soldier blood, hacking off ruined limbs, saving men’s lives. He had earned the moniker during a raid on a Vietcong encampment that they ambushed, catching the enemy unaware and slaughtering them in their sleep. Eli followed the last infantry group into the enemy camp, a small clearing in the jungle with bamboo lean-tos and makeshift bunkers. Soldiers were busy piling dead bodies to burn, but there were dozens of Vietcong still writhing on the ground, injured, pleading for mercy in their strange alien tongue.
Without thinking, Eli began to offer aid. He was giving morphine to a young soldier, little more than sixteen years old by the look of him, who had taken a cluster of gunshots in his stomach, just below the sternum. The pain had to be unbearable. His feet were skittering in the jungle soil, his head thrashing, crying out like a woman birthing triplets all at the same time. Just as he injected the needle into the boy’s stomach, Sergeant Wagner yanked Eli by the back of his collar, twisting it until it cut off his windpipe.
“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing there, Dr. Pussyfoot?” he said, speaking softly into Eli’s ear. A few men looked over and smirked. “Mind explaining why you’re wasting good American morphine on the enemy?”
Eli opened his mouth to speak and Wagner twisted his shirt collar another notch, wrapping it around his fist so that all that came out was a choked gurgle. His eyes began to bulge while pressure built within his brain. He could hear his own heartbeat.
“Just whose side are you on? Had we not gotten him first, he would have happily killed any one of us.” Wagner shoved Eli forward, bringing him face-to-face with the dying boy. “And he would not have taken mercy on you.”
Sergeant Wagner pulled his sidearm reeking of burnt cordite in the stifling summer air. He pressed Eli against the young Vietcong soldier until their noses touched. The morphine had taken effect and the boy’s eyes were free of pain, but bright with fear. They jittered behind his slanted sockets, dry and aware of his pending death.
“I can’t have enemy sympathizers in my company.” Eli’s vision began to blur, his chest burned. His heart was beating in the center of his brain. Then Wagner loosened his grip and Eli gasped for air. He shoved the pistol into Eli’s hand and pressed the barrel against the soldier’s head.
“You never wake a sleeping giant,” Wagner said, curling his finger around Eli’s, pressing it against the trigger. The boy’s eyes went wide, frozen in place, locked on to Eli’s just a couple of inches away. “But, if you do, you put the son of a bitch back to sleep.”
Eli blinked, and the hospital room came back into focus. Crosby stirred on the bed and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes and raised his head, noticing Eli standing in the doorway, then pushed himself onto an elbow and yawned.
“Sorry to wake you,” Eli said. He walked forward and held out his hand. Crosby flinched as if it were a venomous snake. “I’m Dr. Alpert, Medical Director here at Sugar Hill. I wanted to welcome you to our facility and make sure you were settling in okay. How’s everything so far?”
Cautiously, Crosby sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and shook his head.
“My head feels…” he paused, and shook it again, as though trying to dislodge the word, “…empty.”
Eli consulted the patient’s records. They had started him on a maximum dose of Clozapine at the prison before transferring him to Sugar Hill. Eli would have preferred to wait and see how Crosby reacted to other forms of treatment before prescribing such a strong antipsychotic, but the penitentiary physicians weren’t apt to take any chances with a high-profile patient displaying violent paranoid delusions. No one would get in trouble for sedating him with industry-approved pharmaceuticals, regardless of whether it compromised the efficacy of less invasive forms of therapy.
He closed the folder and stared down at Crosby Nelson, the man whom the media had dubbed the Apocalypse Killer. He looked older than thirty-two. His horseshoe of black hair was cropped short, outlining a cove of pale skin featuring several pockmarks and pale scars. His face was gaunt, yet the skin hung loose as if left in the sun too long. And his dry, cracked hands were wrinkled and tanned yellow from nicotine. In the cramped, ten-by-ten hospital room, he even smelled old. The musty, acrid smell of dead skin.
“That spacey feeling is normal. It’s from the medicine you’ve been prescribed. It should dissipate as you acclimate to the medicine. If not, we’ll switch you to something else. Something that your body will tolerate better.”
Crosby looked up, his eyes wandering. He smacked his lips a few times, like a cow chewing cud; then he slumped forward and stared down towards the floor. “Maybe I just need to sleep some more,” he said.
“Actually, it’s just the opposite. Getting up and moving around will make you feel much better than lying down. We’ll have you on a physical therapy routine by the end of the week. Once we determine—”
Crosby pushed himself to his feet. He staggered forward on unsteady legs and shook his head, windmilling his arms to get the blood pumping. He raised his arms over his head and began to lean side to side, stretching. Then he turned towards Eli and crouched down into the three-pointed stance of a defensive lineman.
“Red forty-two! Red forty-two!” he said, pawing at the ground with his back foot like a bull.
Eli held out his arms and began backing towards the door. “Not right now, Mr. Nelson. We can hold off on physical activity until our therapy session.”
An orderly rushed in and stepped in front of Eli.
“Hold on,” Eli said. “Let’s not escalate the situation.”
“Red forty-two! Red forty-two!” Crosby called out.
The orderly pulled pepper spray from his belt holster and pointed it at Crosby.
“There’ll be no need for that,” Eli said calmly. He put a hand on the orderly’s shoulder and maneuvered around him, pushing him back out of the way. “We’re okay.”
Eli squatted down in order to get eye level with Crosby. “We’ll have plenty of time for exercise,” he said. “But now is not the time. Let’s sit back down, okay?”
“Ready. Set. Hut one! Hut two!” Crosby raised an arm behind his back as though preparing to charge.
Eli set the patient folder aside and placed his hands on the ground to brace himself.
The orderly stepped forward, preparing to pull Eli to safety.
Then Eli launched forward, swift for a man nearing seventy, and stutter-stepped around Crosby’s crouched body.
Crosby fell forward, off-balance, and took a knee. “False start!” he cried. “That’s a false start.” He looked up at the orderly. “Come on, Ref. Where’s the call?”
The orderly was hunched over, pepper spray outstretched, wide eyes on Eli for guidance.
Eli prompted him to signal a false start.
S
lowly, the orderly straightened, palmed the pepper spray and rolled his hands over one another, signaling the penalty.
Crosby clapped his hands together and stood. He turned towards Eli and smiled. “That’s five yards. Loss of down.”
“You got me,” Eli said. He walked over and raised his hand for a high five. Crosby slapped it. “You got me on the hard count. Where did you learn that?” He placed a hand on Crosby’s back and guided him back to the bed, helping him take a seat.
The orderly pocketed his pepper spray and shook his head as he shuffled out the door.
“Played a couple of years in high school,” Crosby said. “Could of played college, but I didn’t care for any of the coaches. They were all recruiting me, though.”
Eli knew he was lying. Crosby spent his college years delivering pizzas and servicing johns in public restrooms. He hadn’t attended a single day of high school.
“Well, we don’t play much football here, but we have plenty of other exercises to keep you fit. We could get you to show us some plays, though, if you’d like.”
“Yeah, I could,” Crosby said, crossing his arms and nodding his head. “I know them all.”
“I’m sure you do,” Eli said.
The cramped room contained a small bed with a thin foam mattress and a shelf that served as a writing desk, although the patients weren’t permitted pens. The smooth cinder-block walls were painted glossy white and barren. There were no mirrors. No windows. In the center of the ceiling, a square vent leaked stale air. It was difficult to sit long without claustrophobia setting in. Some patients found the confines comforting, like a dog in a crate. In others it led to crippling bouts of anxiety. Crosby seemed like the former.
He lay back on his bunk, cushioning his head with his hands, and stared contentedly above. “I know this place ain’t what it seems,” he said. “But it hasn’t been half bad so far.”
Eli left space for the words to expand. Farther down the hallway, a patient began to sing the refrain from “Old Rugged Cross”. It was the sound of an angel in mourning. He admired it for a moment before responding, “I’m glad to hear that.” He held his hand out again, and this time Crosby accepted it. “We’re all here for you. To help you with whatever it is you need. We’re family here. We all help each other out.”