by Chris Keane
Bud Burgess was a very old friend. They had served as medics together during Bosnia. When the war ended, Bud entered med school on the military’s dime while Gary Sewall simply hung a shingle in his home town; from then on, he had been known as Dr. Sewall.
Being in private practice was much more lucrative than the military. But the Department of Defense provided something even more valuable than money: access. Dr. Sewall’s cell phone vibrated, and Bud’s number illuminated on the caller ID.
The call was brief and all business. Dr. Sewall scribbled some directions on an overdue electric bill. “Thanks, Bud. I’ll meet you there.”
A week later, Dr. Sewall headed out of town and picked up Highway 31, not really knowing his final destination. Bud had been super cryptic about everything. As Dr. Sewall climbed a windy road into a part of the county called Hopewell Pass, his cell phone buzzed; it was Bud telling him to pull over.
“There’s nothing here…” Dr. Sewall muttered under his breath.
A beat-up Ford pick-up emerged from the woods. Dr. Sewall rubbed his eyes and did a double-take. The old gravel road was barely visible through the trees. The pick-up backfired and then skidded to a stop a few feet from hitting a large pine tree.
And now the one and only Bud Burgess, who he hadn’t laid eyes on in two decades, was ambling toward his car. Bud, a formidable running back in the Army inter-squad leagues, looked roughly the same: short, stocky, and clean cut.
“You look vaguely familiar,” Bud quipped, through the rolled-down window.
“Bud Burgess! As I live and breathe!” Dr. Sewall exclaimed.
“Come, pal. We’ll take the truck.” Bud replied, smiling.
As soon as Dr. Sewall stepped out of the car, Bud greeted him with a suffocating bear hug. No doubt Bud had put on some weight but the man was still insanely strong. And he wasn’t letting go. Dr. Sewall tried to speak but was short on air.
When Bud finally released him from his paws, Dr. Sewall took a deep breath and coughed. Back in the Army, they had vowed to help each other out, if needed. But even with their pact, it was strange reaching out to Bud for assistance after all that time.
They walked to his truck and then Bud hopped into the driver’s seat. Dr. Sewall looked around, trying to get his bearings. But all he could see were pine trees.
“Well, how the hell you been, Bud?” Dr. Sewall asked, climbing into the truck.
“Good. Good. Retired after twenty-five years of service. Full pension….” Bud trailed off, poured Skittles in his mouth from a coffee cup, and then washed them down with Mountain Dew, the same way he had back in their Army days.
“Congrats! What are you up to now? You ever open that bar you always talked about?”
Bud chuckled. “Nah. Most days I volunteer at the VA. How about you?”
“I’m okay. Angie’s all grown up now. Still seeing patients. Same old, same old.”
“I was sorry to hear about Marybeth.”
“Yeah,” Dr. Sewall answered, solemnly. “So where the hell are we going?”
Bud smirked, raised his eyebrows, and then peered out the window. “Been years since I’ve been up this way. Beautiful country.”
“Yeah.”
“I would love to get a place way up in the Adirondacks, live off the land.”
“Lonely, no?”
“Figure I’ll find a woman with meat on her bones to keep me warm at night. Hell, she don’t even have to be good looking, ‘cause no one will see her.”
“You’re too much, Bud.”
Bud made a sharp turn into the woods; the road was even less visible than their original meeting point, and extremely rocky. They drove on for a few miles through clouds of dirt and dust before Bud killed the engine.
“What now?” Dr. Sewall asked, perplexed.
In front of him, all he could see was the side of a mountain. But Bud must not have heard the question; he just stared out the window pensively. His jovial demeanor had turned on a dime. Whatever thoughts were rattling around his brain sure weren’t good. Dr. Sewall wondered if Budd had somehow lost his marbles along the way.
“Bud, where is this site you’re talking about? I don’t have time for wild goose chases.”
Bud stared blankly out the window.
“Christ, say something,” Dr. Sewall pleaded.
“Relax,” Bud snapped. “We’re already here.”
“Huh?”
Without a word, Bud popped out of the car and took off running. Dr. Sewall tried to get out to follow him, but by the time he kicked open the car door, Bud had already disappeared around the side of the mountain.
Dr. Sewall trudged up the hill. He turned the corner to find Bud standing at the mouth of a cave, next to a chipped red-and-white sign that said, NO TRESPASSING, DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE PROPERTY.
“Bud! Just what in the hell is going on?”
“Follow me,” Bud replied, heading into the cave.
Bud clicked on a large LED flashlight from his backpack, painting the cave walls with an orange tint. Dr. Sewall took deep breaths in an attempt to calm his senses; it didn’t work. While Dr. Sewall loved hiking and hunting, he had always avoided spelunking; it was just too claustrophobic for him.
Dr. Sewall cautiously followed Bud farther inside, looking over his shoulder every so often to see light streaming into the mouth of the cave. Somehow it made him feel better to know there was still a viable escape route.
Bud stopped at a rectangular metal door about the size of an elevator shaft. He ran his fingers over it carefully a few times before grabbing its long metal handle. After several failed attempts, Bud finally pried it open and stepped inside. Dr. Sewall just stood at the entrance, hoping that the rusted metal frame entombed in dirt was not Crystal’s last hope, and by proxy, his own.
Bud punched a faded red button, and loud beeps broke the deafening silence. He poked his head out of the elevator, “Come on!”
Dr. Sewall softly stepped onto the elevator floor, its vibrations humming through the souls of his shoes. As the elevator made its slow descent underground, the spray of cool soil on his face invaded the tight confines of the dark elevator. The farther down they descended, the more Dr. Sewall’s anxiety level grew; it was already an untenably long way down, long enough to be trapped.
An eternal five minutes later the door grinded open. Dr. Sewall followed Bud through six-foot thick blast doors into some sort of operating room. Bud turned a dial and a huge generator whirred to life. First, some sort of air ventilation system kicked in, and then a pristine operating table appeared like a vision in the middle of the room under hot white lights.
Dr. Sewall rushed to examine the equipment. The old scalpels and tools looked surprisingly similar to today’s technology. The side drawers contained a glorious array of cutters, forceps, gauze, IV kits, stitching, and oxygen masks. The cabinet was fully loaded with things that cut, held, clamped, retracted; basically, anything a surgeon would need to operate. There was a locked door to the side which, Dr. Sewall guessed, contained the pharmaceuticals.
Down the hall, Bud showed him a medical triage. Starched white sheets on neatly stacked rows of bunks lined adjacent rooms.
“Jesus Christ, Bud! This is incredible! How could they assemble something this massive and high tech down here without anyone knowing?”
“After the Soviet’s shocked the world with Sputnik, there was a huge race to bury everything underground,” Bud bellowed, his deep voice echoing through the cavernous facility. “Black laboratories where the military would work on experiments unknown to the American public and the Soviet eyes in the sky.”
“Now the problem isn’t the Soviets, it’s every jag-off with a cell phone! Nothing is private anymore,” Dr. Sewall chimed.
“They also needed a place to protect and care for top level military scientists in the event of a nuclear war. This was that place; at least, one of them.”
“So, this has never been used?”
“Well,” Bud said, “That’s n
ot entirely true. After the Berlin Wall came down, the Army used it for some medical research, stuff they didn’t want showing up in some government report…” Bud coughed and then wiped his forehead, covered in sweat from his earlier run.
“Well, it’s perfect. You really came through for me. Now we just need to get the site prepped, and we can go ahead with the plan.”
“What is the plan exactly?”
“I guess it’s time you know,” Dr. Sewall said, pulling up a couple of chairs.
20
dumped
The ride was over. The lights were off. The music had stopped. And now Dante was stuck in the creepy amusement park of life all alone. As days dragged on without any contact with Angie, it became more and more obvious that their connection had been permanently damaged. Whatever he had done to offend her, it was clear that she wasn’t getting over it any time soon. And along with Angie, had gone his new-found swagger and lease on life. All at once, he felt anxious and miserably unhappy.
The wet hot summer dripped by, while Dante replayed memories of Angie like a film from an alternate universe: the two of them walking on the trail, huddled together under a blanket in the woods, listening to tunes by the lake, binging on junk food, or just joking around. He pictured her standing in her bedroom wearing lacy lingerie and then her devious smile as the lingerie dropped to the floor. Since the breakup, each pleasure had become part of his pain. Every souvenir of their love was a dagger. Sometimes, it was too much to take and he ran into the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet until his throat burned with bile.
There was no escape. Everywhere he went, evidence of their relationship crashed down on him like a ton of bricks: the woods, the lake, the library, the front porch of Gram’s house. Even if he could somehow manage to block out all those fond memories, he couldn’t get the basic desire for her physical presence out of his mind: her smile, her laugh, the smoothness of her skin, the curves of her body, her firm breasts, and the sensual feel of her sex. Without Angie, it hurt to breathe. Where had it gone wrong?
Initially, Dante had vindicated himself in the entire debacle of dinner with Gram, figuring there was no way he could have predicted her unsolicited attack on Angie. The whole thing had thrown him for a loop, leaving him at a loss for words. He now realized even his sweet Gram deserved to be rebuked for what she had done; it had been way over the line. Dante found Gram’s behavior really out of character. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and sent her off the rails. Someone or something. Now that Dante was alone again, at least he would be able to explore this and other oddities further.
Going after her father was Dante’s first mistake. That was really dumb. Dante racked his brain wondering why he felt the need to rid the world of evildoers. As much as Dante had looked up to and admired Angie’s father, he despised parental hypocrisy. Dante figured you don’t get to be the town savior and have sweet Angie’s love while harboring dark secrets. Just like Dante’s parents had no right leaving Gram alone and helpless, while blindly judging him from thousands of miles away. That was fucked up.
Regardless, Dante realized he should never have accused her father until he had the proper evidence. Dante figured if he could somehow reveal the truth about him, whatever that was, maybe he could square things away with Angie. But he couldn’t do it alone, at least, not in his current condition.
But there was little doubt that the final blow to their relationship had been freaking out over Angie’s false pregnancy. Looking back, he had wildly overreacted and made a complete ass of himself. It was hard to imagine gaining her respect again, and getting things back the way they used to be.
Once again, Dante trudged across the abandoned Texaco lot, desperate for human contact. He had tried to talk to Gram earlier, but she said she had a headache and wasn’t in the mood. His brother was his last resort. His sweaty palms clutched the receiver as the phone rang and rang. Finally, an automated message popped up saying that that Kurt’s mailbox was full. He really needed to talk to someone, anyone, or else he would go insane. Dante dialed Kurt again and again, until finally, a grizzled voice screamed through the line, “WHAT?!”
“Hey Kurt, it’s Dante.”
“I know.”
“Just checking in, you know, making sure everything’s okay on the home front.”
“Hey, shithead! You think I forgot about our last conversation?”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. Anyway, we broke up, you see. It’s rough ‘cause you know we were getting really close. I feel like I lost my best friend. And she’s SO hot. I need to be with her or else I’m gonna die. I thought it would go away, but every hour I’m apart from her my systems get worse. I’m addicted to her! I’m a fucking love junkie!”
Dante waited for a response, but all he got was a dial tone. He buckled over crying, spilling a wave of change on the ground.
***
Angie devoured huge scoops of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream as she bawled her eyes out in front of a bonfire. Every time she thought of Dante, streams of tears flowed down her face and neck, pooling onto her T-Shirt. She hadn’t expected to feel this way. When she pictured her dream guy, he was confident tall, muscular, with curly blond hair. Dante was essentially the polar opposite: bumbling, short, brown-haired, and one hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.
She had never seen Dante coming. First off, she hadn’t thought he could handle her in the bedroom, not after having been with the stud of Lake Placid. But it was good, real good. Sometimes in the morning she found herself reenacting some of their erotic activities in the shower. That couldn’t be healthy for moving on.
“Punk!” She screamed as she tossed lingerie into the fire, sending dark clouds of smoke over her head. The putrid smell of burning plastic — Dante’s romance CDs — filled the air. What. A. Punk. When Angie pictured Dante miserable, twisting and turning in the wind all alone, it made her happy…until she started feeling bad for him. Then she began to worry if he was okay, making her furious. Angie wanted to do something, anything, to get herself out of this vicious cycle. Clearly, her bonfire of mementos wasn’t helping at all.
She thought about going over there, just showing up at his door. Maybe there would be some way to salvage their friendship, and then she would feel a little less awful the romance had ended. But experience told her that was a slippery slope, one she had never successfully navigated. She figured they would start talking, then stare a little too long into each other’s eyes and next thing she knew they’d be kissing. Before they knew it, they would be undressing each other. He would go right for her bare breasts, of course, while her hand reached down for his package. But the foreplay would be short lived and they would proceed have wild intercourse on whatever level surface was available. The sex would be extra hot because they hadn’t done it in over a week. Then they would curl naked in bed, spooning for the rest of the day. She was trying to remember why that would be a bad thing.
Later that night, a loud banging woke Angie from bed. She rolled over, cotton-mouthed and sweaty trying to recall a nightmare. It felt so real. Angie, back at the same campfire where she had roasted all Dante-related things, when she heard something banging from the darkness. She got up to see what it was and something knocked her over and then dragged her by the legs into the woods. She called and called for Dante to save her but he never showed up. Just as she was about to be eaten alive by some wild creature she had been woken up to the banging — and her own screaming.
Unable to go back to sleep, Angie got out of bed and clicked on the light to read. Through her bedroom window, she saw Dante banging at the front door. She stared at him, and he looked back at her with sad puppy-dog eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned down. Angie felt her heart leap and then she drew the shades and killed the light again. Despite her basic desire to open the door for him, her mind was telling her to stay away.
21
MISSING
For the first time since the big break-up, Dante woke up with a sens
e of purpose. So far his quest for Dr. Sewall’s smoking gun was coming up empty. Now, Gram’s condition seemed to be worsening. In the middle of the night, Gram had crawled into his bed, ripping him from a deep dreamless sleep. When Dante tried to communicate with her, she erupted in anger, flailing her arms and kicking her feet. He wrestled her to the ground, partly out of fear, partly to prevent her from injuring herself. Eventually, she relented, stomping out of the room mindlessly like a zombie, muttering venomous threats against him.
Normally, Dante would take her up the hill to see Dr. Sewall, but there was nothing at all normal about the state of things. Besides, Dante was unsure modern medicine could cure her. Days ago, the young grocery clerk had slipped him the number of some spiritualist from Albany. It seemed almost comical at the time, the idea that Dr. Sewall was under the control of satanic forces, poisoning the minds of his patients. But now it seemed like more than a remote possibility.
So now Dante found himself in a back-alley spiritual shop, studying a decrepit man sitting with his eyes closed and hands clasped tightly together. On the drive to Albany, Dante had decided to lay it all on the line and unload the entire sequence of events that had occurred since arriving at Gram’s early in the summer. The idea that some mystic could wave a magic wand and erase all his problems was encouraging. Still, Dante couldn’t help feeling really anxious. In many ways, he was running out of time: time to patch things up with Angie, time before Gram’s health took a tragic turn, and time to reveal Dr. Sewall’s true colors. But the old guy was taking forever to respond; he appeared to be asking for assistance himself — from up above.
A car alarm blared from the main boulevard. The old man jerked his head upward and stared across the counter at Dante. “Dark forces tend to prey on the weak…elderly, children. I’m not surprised to hear of your grandmother’s condition.”