The Next Ten: Beginnings Series Books 11 - 20

by Jacqueline Druga

  “Sure, but you have other people you can do this with.”

  “But you don’t, Dean.” Frank stood up. “You’re pretty wrapped up in Ellen and your work. You never bother with anyone else. I know that. We’re friends. I know you’re as down as I am right now especially since we haven’t been able to fly the past couple days.”

  “Yeah.” Dean just bobbed his head.

  “I have to go.” Frank grabbed his cup. “Dean, try to get out of this lab today.”

  “I do, Frank. I leave to go get my work done at the clinic.”

  “And you bring it down here.”

  Dean chuckled. “You make it sound as if I never leave here.”

  Frank opened his mouth to respond.

  Andrea’s voice entered the cryo-lab. It had a sense of edge to it. “You don’t.”

  Open and shut, open and shut went Frank’s mouth as he wondered where the voice came from. He turned and looked behind him. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Frank.” Andrea folded her arms and kept her eyes on Dean. “May Dean and I have a moment?”

  “Sure.” Frank lifted a waving hand to Dean, mouthed the words, ‘you’re in trouble’, and then slipped out.

  “No listening in the hall<” Andrea instructed.

  “I won’t<” Frank called from the hall.

  “I’m busy, Andrea.” Dean gathered up the coffee break items from the counter.

  “You are not too busy to listen to me.”

  “Andrea.” Dean turned to face her. “You left me a note this morning reiterating that it is cold and flu season and that blood work and meds need to be done. I’m doing them.”

  “Slower than usual.”

  “I’m working as fast as I can.”

  “Oh, Bull-poopie.”

  Dean opened his mouth in surprise to question the mild manner swearing, but only heard Frank’s snickering from the hall.

  “Francis!” Andrea yelled. “I said no listening.”

  “I’m not.”

  Andrea grumbled, “Nine days, Dean. You have been in this lab nine days. You get up, you leave your home, and you come down here. You stay here until it’s dark and then you go home again.”

  Dean scoffed. “I go to the clinic lab.”

  “To get the blood work.”

  “And bring meds and results.” Dean tossed out his hands. “What else do you want me to do?”

  “Follow through. Yes, I know there haven’t been any surgeries. Yes, I know you have no patients. Yes, you are doing your blood work, meds . . .”

  “What!” Dean yelled. “Is the problem that I am working on experiments down here?”

  “You are doing minimal clinic work.”

  “No, I am not,” Dean argued. “I am doing the work. I’m doing it as quickly as I can.”

  “And that’s all you have to do. What you do right now in the clinic is what any lab tech in the old world could do.”

  “But, what I do down here, no one else but my wife can do.”

  “And that . . . is the problem,” Andrea pointed. “Everything down here is Ellen. Ellen this. Ellen that. You miss her. You need her so you come here to feel her. That’s fine but you talk to no one but your kids and Frank. When was the last time you data-entered any test results, ran blood work ran, made meds made, or any of that?”

  “Yesterday,” Dean answered.

  “Dean, don’t. How many did you do yesterday? One. You have stacks upon stacks of paperwork that needs put in the computer, meds that need registered and files that need filed. The clinic lab is backlogged.”

  “I’m alone. You guys could help.”

  “We could. We do. We have patients in three towns to take care of. Sweet Jesus, Dean, it’s cold and flu season.”

  “I know.”

  “We can’t do your and Ellen’s work.”

  “And neither can I!” Dean snapped. “I can’t do both of our work.”

  “What did my dear son, Hal, say? Hmm?” Andrea folded her arms tighter and moved to Dean “He found an assistant for you. Someone to do the clerical aspect, data entry, filing, organization, and foot work. Nothing medical, Dean, just someone to help you catch up so you aren’t far behind when Ellen returns.”

  Dean breathed out slowly. “I’ll feel guilty having another assistant.”

  “Don’t.” Andrea softened her voice. “Another assistant? Dean, dear, Ellen stopped being your assistant a while ago. Now the assistant is here again today and you aren’t. I can only show filing and separating files for so long. Now, today either you get up there and teach them how you want things logged or I will.” Andrea stepped back and walked to the door. “And you know I’ll do it wrong.” She moved toward the hallway. “Your choice.” She paused. “Oh, keep in mind. I haven’t a clue on how to read your writing accurately.”

  Dean nodded. His back was to Andrea and he stood there listening to her leave. He sighed out. She was right. Not only did he need to emerge from the cryo, he had to get caught up on the clinic work if for nothing else than for Ellen so she didn’t bitch when she came back. He hated the thought of an intruder in his lab and training someone new but Dean would bite the bullet. Against what he wanted, he left the cryo-lab as well.

  ^^^^

  Cryogenically preserved. Untouched by the apocalyptic, animalistic ways of the world, but tainted enough, in the year since his release, to be rough enough to handle George Hadley.

  He was arrogant and young, no older than thirty. His face had aged some in the cryo process but not much. He was tanned because he had held his medical post in the Carolina division of the Society for so long before recently being transferred. His brown hair was tossed some and he was tall enough to need to lean against his desk so he didn’t have to look down to George. He wasn’t a scientist. He was just a basic family practitioner by old world professional standards. Dr. Andrew Bourke was a smart man, smart enough to have graduated top in his class at Harvard Medical, but even though he was intelligent, it wasn’t his brain that had him selected for the cryo-preservation. It was his Uncle Leonard who was one of the ten heads in the founding of the Caceres Society.

  Perhaps that was one of the things George didn’t like about Andrew. He was really no better than the average ‘Joe’ doctor, yet he held a prestigious position in the Society because he had an ‘in’. Yes, he was a doctor, and yes, he knew what he was talking about, but he wasn’t the best. His arrogance invoked George to the point that had Andrew not been a doctor, George probably would have had him shot in the head long before.

  “Where else do you want me to go with this?” Andrew asked. “You know about this condition?”

  “Retrograde amnesia, yes.” George said. “It makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense, Mr. President.”

  “Ok. Just bear with me, all right?” George paced some. “They brought you up to handle this case.”

  “Because of my success with meningitis, yes. I have combined a few agents that others haven’t . . .”

  “Yeah-yeah-yeah, whatever. Skip that,” George snapped. “You’re a doctor. End of discussion. Walker is a doctor. Why didn’t Walker pick this up?”

  Andrew huffed, reached back and swept Johnny’s chart off his desk. “When I arrived, Johnny was lethargic and in what Dr. Walker referred to as a brain cloud which is basically a major disorientation. How, sir, was he supposed to discover that he had retrograde amnesia when Mr. Slagel couldn’t form words until ten days ago?”

  “Symptoms.”

  “One of the symptoms is discovered through talking.” Andrew set down the folder. “Johnny was confused, yes.”

  “But he didn’t seem confused when he first came in.”

  “How do you know?” Andrew asked. “How much did you talk to him?”

  “Not much.”

  “Amnesia is caused by many things. He’s not a total amnesiac. He’s only missing a piece here and there.”

  “Vital pieces. It’s seems convenient.”

  “Not to me. It
seems normal. If you’re expecting him have shown symptoms right away, you’re wrong. It may not have happened because the amnesia may have set upon him slowly. The meningitis may have only delayed the diagnoses of it. The trauma alone to his body coupled with the meningitis could have just thrown Johnny over the edge. Also, there is the possibility that his physical ailments may have had nothing to do with his retrograde amnesia.”

  George stopped pacing and slowly looked at Andrew. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he may have truly been fine when he came in, but since he became ill, he didn’t really think about it. As soon as the disorientation from the meningitis cleared, and the wounds healed, it hit him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Self inflicted subconscious amnesia.”

  “Is that for real?”

  “It’s not amnesia in a physical sense. It’s when you mentally block out something but you don’t consciously do it. If I read his chart correctly, when the medics picked him up in Minnesota, they noted that Johnny was rambling something about shooting his father and his grandfather.” Andrew gave a half shrug. “When the pain of the wounds passed, the pain of doing that hits him. Bam. Subconsciously he blocks the act out and in doing so, blocks out everything else.”

  “So you’re saying the guilt could have caused this?” George questioned.

  Confident, Andrew nodded. “Yes. Trauma or guilt. What other explanation could there be?”

  With his closed mouth moving side to side in thought, George nodded and placed his hands in his pockets. “How about this? How about the possibility . . . that this whole thing . . .” Slowly, with a hint of guilt of his own, George exhaled. “. . . he’s faking?”

  ^^^^

  Ring.

  The surprise sound-off of the telephone in Bertha’s office stirred Johnny as he sat there waiting on Callahan to give him the tour.

  Ring.

  After standing up, he looked over his shoulder to see if he could spot her in the hall.

  Ring.

  “Bert?” Johnny called out. There was no enthusiasm was in his voice and he seemed drawn. “Hey, your phone is . . .”

  Ring.

  “Fuck.” As if it took all of his energy, in a slow manner with almost a strain, Johnny reached over the desk and picked up the phone. “Sgt. Callahan’s office.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” Johnny said again. He stood up straight, turned in surprised and his eyes blinked rapidly when he heard the heavy breath. A lump formed in Johnny’s throat. He couldn’t even talk.

  Frank’s voice spoke raspy and soft over the phone. “Johnny.”

  Still Johnny couldn’t breathe.

  “I’ll take it you’re speechless. Maybe you’re surprised I didn’t fuckin die when you shot me.”

  A few noises, mumbles perhaps slipped from Johnny’s mouth as he fumbled with the phone.

  “My purpose in calling was to see how you were doing. You picked up the phone. My answer is received.”

  Click.

  It escaped him as a heave and the laborious breath brought forth the words so hard for Johnny to speak. “Dad, wait . . .”

  Nothing. Quiet.

  Whispering in defeat, Johnny slowly pulled the phone from his ear. Sliding the receiver across his cheek, in a dazed partial fumble, Johnny hung up the phone and closed his eyes. “Dad.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Frank’s walking stride up from the cryo-tunnels to the street level of Beginnings was strong, firm and steady. The pain of the bullet he had taken not long ago reverberated in his chest in the form of a hurtful memory. Though his flesh had healed and Frank had convinced himself he was fine, he was slammed with the reality of how fragile his heart really was the second he heard his son’s voice.

  His heart ached. With each beat it struck, an agony accompanied the blood that flowed through his veins. More than anything, he needed to lash out and talk about how he felt. But to who? Telling about talking to Johnny was revealing that Frank had broken all community rules and called the Society.

  At that moment in time, Frank didn’t care. Knowing where to go to get that relief, he headed instinctively to Containment. Since it was nearing noon, it was the perfect place with perfect person to talk to. Then he remembered.

  Ellen wasn’t there.

  He rubbed his hand over his buzzed hair and spun in a lost confusion from the Containment door. In his clockwise spin, he spotted his next salvation. The Social Hall. He reached for the keys and pulled the correct one out in his walk there. With no wasted time and key extended, Frank inserted it and unlocked the door. Without hesitation, he walked inside and directly to the bar. He leaned over the surface of the bar counter and grabbed a glass and bottle. It was somewhere between uncapping that bottle and smelling the moonshine he so much needed that he fought the urge to find the answers in a temporary liquid cure.

  Strength. Frank needed strength. Strength to not only fight the pain of Johnny, but fight the bottle as well. It took for Frank to gaze up in thought and see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar to do it. Seeing himself with that bottle made him see he was taking the easy route without exercising all of his options first and there was still an option to exercise.

  He left that bottle right there. Touching it anymore would have increased his urge to just pour a shot and down it. As he left the Social Hall, Frank knew where to direct his relinquishing.

  There was one other person who would not only understand his need for a drink, but his actions over calling the Society. There would be no condemning, not from him, not at a time when both of them were so low from missing Ellen.

  Dean was Frank’s answer, if not just for sympathy at that moment, but for the simple fact that misery loved company. Dean was miserable company.

  Or so Frank thought.

  When he was partially down the hall of the clinic, Frank heard laughter. Dean’s. It didn’t seem right and it irritated him some, but not as much as it did when he stopped in the open lab door.

  The entire feel of the room was light and the more Frank watched Dean, the angrier he grew.

  Nothing was wrong. Absolutely nothing. Dean was merely going through files with Misha who wore a lab coat way too big for her, the sleeve of which kept knocking things off the counter. Yet Frank felt a sense of betrayal he didn’t understand, especially when he watched Dean push up Misha’s sleeve, chuckle with a shake of his head, and return to the folder.

  Rage filled Frank. Nothing he was witnessing warranted the lightheartedness in that lab so why was Dean smiling? What happened to his down mood? What was so funny? And why was Dean, even innocently, touching that woman.

  Who was she to be standing in Ellen’s lab, doing Ellen’s work, with Ellen’s husband? And why was Dean enjoying it?

  He was so wrong for thinking Dean was the better solution. Stumbling in a stupor of his clouded emotions, Frank was enraged. He turned, unnoticed, and stormed from the clinic.

  ^^^^

  Joe received word that they were on their way to his office, so he pulled out two more mugs from the cabinet where he had his coffee pot. Not sure if Elliott would have any, Joe poured his first, then placed some in a mug for Hal.

  “Dad?” Hal called as he knocked once on the door then opened it.

  “Yeah. Come on in.”

  “Ah.” Hal commented as he stepped in the office. “Coffee.”

  “I poured you a cup. Elliott?” Joe asked as he kept his back to them.

  “Yes, please, Mr. Slagel,” Elliott responded.

  “Have a . . .” Turning around with both mugs in his hand, he stopped. A chuckle overtook him when he saw Hal. A kind of quirky reminiscence smile hit Joe as he stepped to the pair and handed them the coffee. Elliott looked like Elliott but there was something different about Hal. Perhaps Joe got used to seeing him so perfectly presented when he was filling in or maybe it was the fact that it had been so long since he saw Hal messy. And Hal was messy. His hair was pulled back and he wore
backwards baseball cap, a Dirty ‘Army’ sweatshirt, and a old pair of green fatigues.

  Hal took the cup and noticed the looks his father gave him. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” Joe shook his head and walked to his desk. “You just reminded me of thirteen year old Hal. That’s all.” He sat down.

  “Mr. Slagel, how are you feeling?” Elliott asked.

  “Good. Thank you,” Joe answered. “I go for more treatments next week, but Dean said they won’t affect my stomach as much.”

  “No, they won’t,” Elliott stated. “I bet it feels good to be back to work.”

  “Yes, it does, Elliott.” Joe replied. “Coming back today felt like coming back to life. I’ve been a little busy but my sons kept things in order.”

  “Everyone was . . .”

  Hal’s clearing of his throat interrupted Elliott. “If you don’t mind, Elliot, can I possibly, I don’t know, inject a word or two into the conversation.”

  Joe shook his head. “What’s up your ass?”

  “My ass?” Hal asked. “I don’t believe anything is up there, but thank you for asking. If you are referring to my mood, I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired. Heavy training does that.”

  “Are you working with the men?” Joe asked.

  “No. They were working on me.” Hal smiled. “We’ve had officer training day since dawn.”

  Joe just stared for a moment. “Officer training day. I see. And since it was officer training, were you the only one there.”

  Elliott laughed.

  Hal was expressionless for a second then with dramatics, he tossed back his head, opened his mouth, and perfectly mimicked a hysterical laugh without ever making a sound. He exhaled loudly. “Aren’t you funny?”

  “I am,” Joe said. “Now, we’ll get started so you can get out of my office and go back to Bowman where your own town can deal with your pissy mood. You know what we’re here to discuss.”

  Hal lifted his hand slightly. “I’d like to speak about the meetings I’ve been having with Sgt. Doyle.”

  “You would, would you? These are the meeting regarding Society camp raids next spring?” Joe asked.