The Remedy

by Asher Ellis

  Dr. Benton looked back down to Leigh. “There is no Dr. Benson practicing at Saint Andrews. My name is Dr. Benton, and I am your assigned physician.”

  Leigh stared up at him. She wanted to ask another question, but the thoughts were coming so quickly it was as if a traffic jam had developed in her brain.

  The doctor overlooked her silence and kept talking. “I suppose, considering this fortunate turn of events, I can now be completely honest with you. I’m always happy to share good news with my patients. It’s the best part of the job.”

  Dr. Benton paused his speech to chuckle, and his bemused expression suggested that he expected Leigh to share the laugh, but she stared back at him in total bewilderment. He cleared his throat and continued.

  “When you were admitted to this hospital, your examination showed you had suffered no serious injuries: no broken bones, no internal bleeding. Nothing. Your physical state was surprisingly normal—minus one abnormality, located on your right bicep.”

  He pointed to the bandage.

  Leigh inhaled a sharp breath that she could barely release. “What?”

  The doctor sighed. “You had contracted a fungal disease. One that we hadn’t seen here in a very long time. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes. Or rather, I didn’t want to believe them. You see, that particular fungus was so intrusive and destructive that it at one time practically shut down this entire town.” He shook his head as if he didn’t believe his own words. “And until today we thought it to be incurable. But here you are. Healthy as a horse.”

  The doctor flashed her one last reassuring smile before motioning for the nurse to join him at the far side of the room. Their backs to Leigh, the two looked over her chart, discussing something in low voices.

  Not that she would’ve heard a word they were saying even if they had been shouting. Leigh was too busy trying to process the troublesome onslaught of information she’d just been assaulted with.

  I caught the disease.

  I’m better now.

  But there’s only one remedy.

  She looked down at the tray of food in her lap, the aroma of the gravy-soaked meat still steaming up into her nostrils.

  There is no Dr. Benson.

  Leigh stared down at the “pot roast,” her lower lip trembling, her right eyelid twitching. Bile began to work its way up her esophagus and threatened to burst from her mouth.

  I didn’t eat the meat. I only ate the potatoes.

  No matter the origin of the mystery meat steaming in front of her, Leigh had only partaken in the mashed potatoes and a glass of…

  Leigh slowly reached for the cup resting on the tray. She picked it up and swirled the liquid around the glass. When nothing looked out of the ordinary, she glanced at the doctor and nurse to make sure they were still engaged in conversation, and reached for her full glass of “juice.” Turning her hand completely over, the liquid in the glass poured out in a violet cascade, splattering on the tiled floor.

  Nurse Vicky turned in reaction to the noise, racing over when she saw the purple mess. “Oh honey, you spilled your juice. Don’t worry. I’ll get you some more.”

  But Leigh didn’t hear a word she said, nor see the nurse retrieving a roll of paper towels.

  She stared at the rim of the inverted glass.

  Thick, dark liquid dripped much slower than the juice that fell before it. She followed its descent to the floor and saw that it had left deep red splotches on the linoleum.

  Dr. Benton reached for the door’s handle. “Nurse, once you’ve finished cleaning that up, please report to my office.” Out of the corner of her eye, Leigh could see him staring at her as he said, “You get some rest. There are policemen who still want to talk to you, but they can wait as long as I say. The important thing is that you’re going to be okay.”

  He left without another word.

  I’m going to be okay.

  Nurse Vicky gently pried the glass from Leigh’s fingers. “You want some more, dear?”

  With wide, unblinking eyes, Leigh slowly turned her head to meet the nurse’s gaze. “Why not?” she said, a grin slowly spreading on her face. “You know what they say, don’t you?”

  Nurse Vicky shrugged. “What’s that?”

  Leigh’s lips parted into an even bigger smile. She let a deep breath fill her lungs and recited,

  “Rabbit’s a good meal,

  “Squirrel’s a good snack,

  “But a belly full of man…”

  She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.

  “…And the fuzz don’t grow back.”

  After an awkward silence, Nurse Vicky told her she’d never heard that one before. Leigh responded with a fit of gut-busting laughter.

  She was still laughing when the policemen arrived at her door.

  Chapter 27

  You couldn’t have asked for a better day.

  After yesterday’s gray gloominess, today’s clear skies and bright sunshine felt outlandish. But that was Vermont for you. A twenty-four-degree change in twenty-four hours was just business as usual.

  But though the sun shined as brightly as a midsummer’s day, Jake Spire felt no warmth whatsoever as he walked slowly through the automatic double doors of Saint Andrews Hospital and into the parking lot outside.

  The sun was too bright. It hurt his eyes.

  The birds were too loud. They hurt his ears.

  He could hardly breathe out here. Walking across the parking lot, the heavy soles of his hiking boots clomped against the pavement. Jake kept his gaze trained at his feet. Though it was a perfectly comfortable seventy-two degrees, Jake’s forehead ran slick with sweat. The collar of his ranger uniform squeezed unbearably tight against his throat.

  Relief came only once he was back in the cab of his truck, sitting behind the wheel. With the truck’s doors securely closed, the panic overtaking his body seemed to lift slightly, his breath coming more easily and deeper.

  Today, the outdoors was not synonymous with freedom. The sky threatened to fall on his head, the earth promised to swallow him whole. Perhaps in time this feeling would pass. But maybe not. After everything that had conspired in the last day, the idea of spending the rest of his life safely tucked behind a desk seemed more than appealing. Evil could follow you indoors, sure, but combating the greed of corporate America would be a walk in the park compared to what Jake had just been through. Nature could bring mankind to its knees any day of the week.

  Jake reached for the key in the ignition, planning on turning the engine over and pulling out of his parking space. But he paused, staring at his hand as it clutched the warm metal of the vehicle’s key.

  A bandage concealed an inch-long cut on the back of his thumb.

  You had to do it. You saved her life.

  Jake had been repeating this mantra to himself ever since the ambulance came to rush the girl to Saint Andrews for immediate care. Even as the ambulance doors closed, a policeman tapping its side to tell the driver he was good to go, Jake knew what he had to do. He’d known the moment he saw the patch of fungus on her arm.

  It had been far easier than he’d initially predicted, though the luck of finding a doctor’s coat slung over an office chair had made quite a difference. Gaining access to Leigh Swanson’s room would’ve been extremely difficult, perhaps impossible, as Jake Spire, forest ranger, let alone convincing the girl to trust him enough to take the food. Even the policemen he’d passed in the waiting room weren’t allowed to bother the girl with questions. Why should he be allowed to her bedside?

  He’d been able to snatch up the coat without even bothering to check if the coast was clear. But even then, he wasn’t sure the disguise would make a difference—the first nurse he encountered would surely inquire as to why he was masquerading as a medical professional. But the old saying had turned out to be true: the clothes did make the man.

  The coat had been one size too big for him—another small miracle. Running almost to the back of Jake’s hands, the long sleeves amply conc
ealed the gauze wrapped around both of his wrists. The sting of the burns from the night before still lingered, and bandages made it look as though he’d slashed his wrists in a failed suicide attempt. But with the physician’s coat over his shoulders, the suspicious injury instantly vanished from sight.

  From there it had been all too easy. The girl was still sleeping when he’d entered with the food and juice, having already visited a restroom to slice the flesh under the knuckle of his thumb and bleed into the pitcher. For a brief moment, he’d considered using actual flesh to cure the girl’s ailment. But the only place he knew where to find such a thing was the Cedar cabin, and that was in no shape to explore.

  But there was another way, a method he’d learned from a dear old friend.

  Phil.

  It was not that name that brought Jake the tears that had begun to fall down his face. When thinking of his late coworker, Jake’s sadness was filtered with a strange sense of pride. What Phil had done was wrong. Any form of justice, be it man’s or God’s, would have delivered the same verdict to him. But in the end, Phil had taken responsibility for his actions, seen the error of his ways. His death had been by his own hands. His own choice. It wasn’t much to hold onto—a scrap of plywood in a stormy ocean—but it was something.

  What brought the mournful sobs and his face to his hands was a different name, one that belonged to someone much younger. Someone innocent.

  Doug.

  Jake had driven his ATV as fast as the narrow path to the Cedar’s house would allow. But Phil had delayed him far too long. By the time Jake had reached the cabin, it was too late.

  Doug was dead. Everyone was dead.

  Except the girl. And if Jake had shown up a single second later, she would’ve been one more casualty to add to the body count.

  But you didn’t. You saved that girl’s life. You took the shot.

  Again.

  Jake took a deep breath through his nose. All he could remember was a sickly sweet aroma: the varnish of a rifle’s stock.

  A burning, sour combination of orange juice and half a bear claw traveled up his throat, moving from his stomach. He practically had to kick the door off its hinges in order to stick his head out of the truck in time. Once the gags and dry heaves passed, he swung his legs back inside and reached out to shut the door. A young EMT had jogged by. He had most likely witnessed the entire incident, but didn’t hesitate in the slightest. They were in the parking lot of a hospital, after all, so there were surely more serious matters calling for his attention.

  Jake’s hands shook. When he tried squeezing the wheel to steady them, the tremors moved up his arms into his shoulders, racking his entire body. He hoped the glare of the afternoon sun shining off his windows hid him from the occasional person strolling by his truck. He didn’t want anyone to see him.

  Red, bloodshot eyes looked back at him in the rearview mirror. Jake punched at it, turning its swiveling base a full ninety degrees toward the passenger seat.

  He didn’t want anyone to see him.

  Jake didn’t bother checking the clock when he finally started his engine, so it was impossible to say how long he sat there, shaking and sobbing. But it had been enough that when he flicked on his right turn signal to exit the parking lot of Saint Andrews Hospital, his tear reservoirs had run dry. Phil’s suicide, Doug’s murder, the girl’s ruined life—none of it succeeded to summon the strength needed for him to cry any longer.

  Jake simply drove in silence.

  He had to get out of this town. With that bullet fired from his rifle, he’d killed more than a college-age psychopath about to put an ax through an innocent girl’s head. He’d killed a cannibalistic legacy, a macabre conspiracy that had gone on for far too long. But with these deaths would also come the demise of an entire community.

  Without the Cedars to take out the trash, the fungus would return. The delayed doom of the town would finally occur, driving away all tourism, commerce, and, ultimately, citizens. If the girl recovering in room 202 of Saint Andrews Hospital wanted to reveal its only remedy, so be it. But Jake was done.

  A freshly painted sign sped by him on the right side of the road.

  Now leaving the town of Embry. Come back soon!

  Jake shook his head as he reached for the power button of the truck’s radio. “I don’t think so.”

  He wasn’t really in the mood for music, especially that same Creedence album in his CD player he’d heard a million times before. But he didn’t silence the song, singing along to the lyrics in hopes that they might down out the cries of regret echoing in his haunted head.

  Epilogue

  The Buck n’ Doe wasn’t the cheapest place to drink in Embry, nor did it offer the liveliest crowds. If someone was looking for dollar drafts or a place to pick up women, Macky’s or the Freemont Club were better choices. But what distinguished the Buck from the other waterholes was the circular fireplace right in the middle of the room. During the warmer months from April to August when the pit fire was not in use, the pub’s occupancy was lowered to a handful of loyal old drunks and barflies. But come the first evening chill, which usually arrived mid-September, the stoked fire created the best drinking atmosphere in the county. And of course, right next to the fire one could usually find Dale Preston, who always claimed the best seat in the house.

  Dale sipped his Autumn Stout, a microbrew he could only find at this tavern. Ever since the rescue workers had dug him up from the collapsed basement of the Cedar cabin, Dale had vowed not to waste a moment of his second chance at life. And that meant not spending his hard-earned dollars on cheap swill that tasted more like pond water than real beer. If he was to drink, and he didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon, he’d do it right from now on. Even if it cost a little extra, he was going to taste the hops he was paying for.

  The crowd tonight was light, but that was to be expected on a Wednesday night, and Dale wasn’t about to complain. After the ambush of policemen and reporters he’d endured over the last few days, he greeted the peaceful solitude with open arms. He’d hardly had a chance to process everything that happened in that cabin. A large part of his mind still insisted it had all been a dream.

  No. A nightmare.

  He couldn’t remember much, but he knew enough to be thankful for that.

  His memory was like an old, damaged VHS tape—white lines of static obscured the images that remained. He remembered diving into Emerald Lake to escape the men who killed Red. He had a vague recollection of getting lost in the forest trying to find help, stumbling upon two strangers whose faces he couldn’t picture.

  And then, as if the tape had just snapped in half, there was a gaping stretch of blackness. A total blank.

  Dale didn’t need a doctor’s opinion to know this was due to shock. He’d seen guys lose control of their chainsaws, take a chunk out of their hide, and pass out from pain and panic. When they came to, they could hardly remember the details of the accident, as if it had happened while they were asleep. The human brain just had a way of knowing when to spare you memories you didn’t want.

  The last thing Dale did remember was waking up in the dank cellar of that dreadful house. He had probably been pulled from his slumber by whatever had blown apart the roof, though he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that when his bearings returned, thin beams of light punctured the darkness that engulfed him. The explosion left him trapped underneath rubble far too heavy to move an inch in his weakened state.

  Had it not been for those broken jars of pickled meat he’d found next to him, Dale would’ve surely expired before the rescue crew unearthed him from his tomb.

  He took another drink of his savory beer and licked his lips.

  Interestingly, it was the taste of that meat that he remembered best. In fact, it was still on his tongue. It lingered with vivid intensity.

  It was more than just the meat’s taste—it was how it made him feel. Dale had been instantly revitalized, as if pure, unfiltered strength was being injected into h
is soul. In fact, even if the rescue workers had not arrived when they did, Dale didn’t doubt that with the strength he garnered from his snack, given time he would’ve been able to lift the heavy rubble himself.

  And there was more.

  Dale knew that there was a reason the hellish fungus that had invaded every inch of his body had retreated so quickly. The stunned doctors and medical technicians couldn’t believe Dale’s healthy condition, but he knew it had to be because of the mystery meat that he had been lucky enough to find within arm’s reach, right when he needed it most.

  But why call it “mystery meat”? Dale knew he was only fooling himself.

  He’d known what it was. And though accepting that fact hadn’t been easy, it didn’t compare to another truth he had no choice but to confront.

  He liked it. Even when he figured out what it was that he was consuming, he still savored every bite. After all, he had no choice: he was going to die. He needed to eat something. So of course he stuffed his face with a smile. Throw a drowning man a floating carcass and he’d smile, too.

  No, those pills were easy to swallow, all things considered.

  The horse pill, the big one he’d been struggling to accept for days now, was still trying to make its way down his throat.

  He was still—

  “Dale?”

  At first he didn’t recognize her. But that was to be expected. It had been twelve years, after all.

  “Cindy?” He spoke her name with reserve, knowing just how embarrassed he’d be if he mistook her identity. “Cindy Burnett?”

  The woman nodded, a lipstick-smile revealing teeth that had been bleached alarmingly white. “Go Wildcats!” She raised a fist into the air.

  The woman had aged well, her face only slightly rounder than the teenager Dale could recall. She’d also done admirably well keeping in shape: her stomach was still toned and flat, if not just an inch wider. And her breasts—well, they still matched the high expectations of Dale’s wet dreams.