Never Rest

by Marshall Thornton

  “It doesn’t cure leukemia, does it?”

  “I saved you, Jake. Why isn’t that enough?”

  “I—I don’t know what I am.”

  “You’re a young man who’s been sick. Very sick. And now you’re getting better.”

  I wanted to believe him. I tried to believe him. The things I’d been feeling could be anything. Side effects. I could be experiencing side effects.

  “Remember to breathe,” Dr. Harry said.

  “Why? Why do I need to remember to breathe?”

  “Your cells require more oxygen.”

  “Do they?”

  I exhaled as much air from my lungs as I could. Then I didn’t inhale. I felt like little kid having a temper tantrum, holding my breath. Except, when I was a child and held my breath, I’d had the almost instant urge to breathe, a tugging, aching for air. The more I denied myself breath, the stronger the urge to breathe became until it bordered on panic, and I’d gasp in the sweet relief of oxygen.

  But I didn’t feel any of that. I was almost calm. Staring at Dr. Harry. Listening to the quiet of the room. An old-fashioned clock ticked on the wall. I didn’t breathe.

  “Breathe. You’re undoing everything we’ve done.”

  I took a scoop of air. “I don’t know what we’ve done. You need to tell me.” I pushed even more air out of my lungs and then didn’t inhale.

  He grabbed me by the shoulders and began to shake me saying “Breathe. Breathe, damn you.” I realized this was the first time I’d ever seen him emotional other than in my visions.

  “Breathe!” he demanded one more time. And then let me go. His shoulders slumped. He stared at me, angry and raw. He didn’t want to tell me what was happening to me. But he was also beginning to understand I wasn’t going to cooperate unless I knew. We were playing a kind of medical chicken. Nervously, I wondered if I really wanted to win.

  Then he began to speak. “You need to breathe because your cells won’t function if you don’t. And if they don’t function they could begin to decompose, will decompose. That’s what we’ve been doing since the night you got here. Fighting decomposition.”

  “I’m decomposing? So I’m dead?”

  He hesitated, then began slowly, “In a traditional sense, perhaps. Death is the cessation of vital function. Heartbeat, breathing, brain activity. As you know we’re having trouble keeping your heart beating and your breathing is somewhat—optional. Your only reliable indication of life is brain activity. Consciousness.”

  “How did you do this?”

  “I’ll try to describe it as simply as I can. I believe I talked to you about microtubules when you first got here. Microtubules are the part of a cell that anesthesia acts upon to cause unconsciousness. They’re also acted upon by so-called mind-expanding drugs like LSD.” He paused, seeming to decide where to go next. “I began by researching AIDS. I lost someone close to me while I was in medical school. Many. I lost many people close to me. Friends, lovers. It was horrible.”

  “One of them was named Godwin?”

  “Yes. My lover, William.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Just knowing his lover’s name seemed weirdly intimate. He continued, “There are many connections between HIV and cancer. The drugs used to treat both interfere with cellular processes. I suppose it’s not surprising I eventually became interested in cancer research. Cancer drugs disrupt cellular function by attacking different parts of a cell. Some of them attack microtubules. I became attracted to that class of drugs, and eventually what I discovered evolved into Property Five.”

  “You destroyed part of my cells?”

  “Quite the opposite. One of the drugs I was working with when I was researching cancer failed, but it failed in an interesting way. It fixed microtubules so that they’re permanent. That part of each cell in your body appears to be indestructible. The rest of the cell, however, is subject to decomposition unless we find a way keep your organ systems functioning.”

  I tried to take it all in. It was hard to grasp. “So you’re trying to cure AIDS? Or cancer?”

  “I’m trying to cure death.”

  My mouth fell open. Was he serious? I mean, it wasn’t possible. You couldn’t do something like that. No one lived forever. No one should live forever. I reached for something obvious and familiar. “You’ve turned me into a zombie.”

  He scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Zombies are mythical. The religious fantasy of a primitive people.”

  They also ate human brains, and I barely ate. So I couldn’t be a zombie. But what was I? Vampires were sort of dead and not dead. And they drank blood. Dr. Harry was having my blood treated and pumped back into me every day. Well, I thought it was my blood. Maybe it wasn’t. Was I living on other people’s blood? Was that what I was? A vampire? Of course, I was awake during the day and slept at night and could see myself in a mirror. Probably not a vampire.

  This was bad, though. Really bad. I was thinking about horror movies trying to find some kind of role model. Holy shit.

  “Are you all right?” Dr. Harry asked.

  “Why would I be all right? You just told me I’m sort of not alive.”

  He ignored that. “Listen Jake, the work you and I have been doing in the last two weeks has been vitally important. Learning how to keep organ systems functional to prevent decomposition is crucial to our continuing this research. I can’t in good conscience administer Property Five to anyone else until you’ve stabilized. Can I count on your cooperation?”

  I nodded. I mean it wasn’t like I had a choice. Cooperate or rot. That was a no-brainer.

  “And I have your discretion?”

  “I can’t tell anyone?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  That was a little more challenging. How could I not tell Goth? He had a right to know. He was here, waiting around for the treatment. Maybe he didn’t want to end up half dead just to be half alive. He should be told now so he could look around and see if any other options might help him stay alive. Actually, truly alive.

  Of course, if he knew, if word got out everyone would know about me and I’d be this kind of freak. Forever.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Okay, I’ll be super honest. I should have figured it all out a lot sooner. But hey, my life has turned into a twisted version of Frankenstein and I’m the monster wasn’t the first thing that popped into my head when things started going south. I mean, that’s your basic paranoid schizophrenic territory, so usually it’s a good idea to resist all thoughts of that nature.

  In fact, I’m not so sure it’s ever a good idea to be thinking those thoughts. I mean, maybe I was dead, or semi-dead, or whatever, or maybe I was just freaking crazy. Crazy being the preferable scenario.

  When I got back to the ward, I found Goth reading his Faulkner. The empty plates from his dinner sat on a tray next to his bed. The tray next to mine held a plate with a congealed mass of mashed potatoes and gravy. It made me glad I wasn’t hungry. Except then I wondered if I’d ever be hungry again.

  Goth looked up and saw me. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “False alarm,” I lied.

  “Really? It seemed kind of serious.” There was worry on his face, which I couldn’t help thinking was sweet. I mean, it wasn’t like we meant anything to each other. We were just two guys who tried to get it on and then didn’t because one of their hearts stopped beating.

  I pulled up the hem of my pajamas and showed him my ankles. They were a lovely shade of tomato instead of eggplant. I was working my way through the vegetable garden.

  “So what happened?”

  “It was a side effect. Completely normal.” I climbed into my bed.

  “Your heart didn’t stop?”

  “No. That would have been a whole lot more dramatic.” To change the subject, I asked, “What happened to our heterosexual friend?”

  “I took pity on him and walked him over to the girl’s ward.”

  “Who’s going to take pity on them?”

  �
��Oh, I think they’re fine. Three dying girls around our age, and no one’s flirted with them in ions. I think they’re actually appreciating Edmond’s pathetic moves. If you get very quiet, you can hear them giggling.”

  We were quiet. He was right. Once or twice, I thought I heard giggling and snippets of Edmond’s moves. Not that I thought, “Yo, you is hot” would get him anywhere.

  “So you want to try again?” he asked. “We could go for a walk later.”

  “I think I need some down time. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” he said, trying not to sound disappointed but not doing such a good job. “Look, I’m sorry about the whole sex thing. I mean, I’m sort of a virgin. I didn’t want to say that because, you know, ‘I want lose my virginity before I die,’ sounds like a dark, twisted high school comedy. I don’t like the sum total of my life turning into something that trite, but when it comes down to it, that’s sort of what my life is.”

  He was earnest and upset and worried he might have hurt me. His attempts at a wry smile made my heart do scary things again. But I liked him a lot, and at the same time I couldn’t deal. I mean, up until a few weeks ago losing my virginity was an idea I’d completely given up on. When I began thinking I might live, it certainly moved up in importance but now, compared to maybe, sort of being some kind of undead freak, it seemed trivial again.

  “Don’t worry about it. No biggie,” I said before I scooted down under my sheets. “I think I should maybe try to get some sleep.”

  “Sure thing.” He went back to reading his book.

  Closing my eyes, I pretended to sleep. I knew I couldn’t, though. I had a lot to think about. This was so huge, I had trouble actually understanding it. I was dead, except I wasn’t. I was alive but wasn’t that, either. I was conscious. And the part of me that was conscious was going to continue. My life—as defined by my awareness of one moment after another—was going to continue, possibly, probably, for a very long time.

  What would I do with all that time? Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I should become a doctor. If I did become a doctor, I promised myself I’d never use the word “optimistic.” I’d tell my patients the absolute truth. No matter what. If they were going to die, I’d tell them that as kindly as I could.

  Of course by the time I finished medical school, Property Five would be FDA approved and on the market. So all I’d ever have to say would be, ‘You have a terrible illness. But don’t worry, we’ll give you Property Five. And you’ll be fine. Dead, but fine.’

  I heard Edmond huffing and puffing his way back into the ward. I kept my eyes closed. Goth got out of bed and helped him. Breathlessly, Edmond talked about the girls. “They’re so hot, man. You should have stayed. I mean, there’s one for each of us. I have, uh, dibs. Lea is the sexy one, and I am so in there. She wants me in the worst way. I could tell. I could just tell.”

  After Goth got Edmond into bed, Nurse Margie came in with Goth’s nightly treatment: a plastic mouthpiece with an attachment he had to blow into. It looked kind of like a clear plastic kazoo. I cracked an eyelid to watch how he was doing. He seemed to be struggling. In between attempts, he would cough, a raspy, angry sound. Then he’d spit into a tissue.

  Nurse Margie looked over at my bed. The look on her face would have made my blood run cold if it wasn’t already running cold. Fear. She was afraid of me. I shut my eyes so she wouldn’t see I was awake. That was weird. How much of the research did she understand? Given the way Dr. Harry treated her, I didn’t think she knew much. She knew Dr. Harry had shocked me at a time when he shouldn’t have, and I’d survived. Gotten better even. Had she guessed what I was? Would she guess? Could she?

  Goth continued his struggle to clear his lungs. It sounded horrible and not terribly successful.

  Nurse Margie said, “This isn’t working as well as I’d like.”

  Then I heard her slapping something. I peeked again. She was slapping Goth on the back, practically beating him. She stopped and did it a few times on his chest. He didn’t seem especially bothered by it. In fact, he looked bored. He caught me sneaking a look and shrugged his shoulders like he was saying, “Yeah, this happens.”

  He began coughing uncontrollably. This was what Property Five would save Goth from. Struggling to force up a lung full of mucus. Every day.

  I felt a kind of excitement in my belly. Dr. Harry was going to give him Property Five. He was going to save Goth.

  I was going to save Goth.

  THIRTY

  After Nurse Margie left, I stopped pretending to sleep and sat up to play games on my iPad. The best games required wi-fi so basically my choices sucked. I wanted something that would take up all my attention so I didn’t have to think about what was going on with me.

  When I was sixteen, I got addicted to WoW until my mother cancelled my subscription. I had an undead warrior I’d leveled up almost all the way to a hundred. It was a really good way not to think too much about having a terminal disease. Of course, playing an undead anything might not be such a great idea anymore. And since there was no wi-fi, I didn’t exactly have to decide. My only real choice was solitaire. I poked around with the single-player, offline, boring game and eventually drifted off. Or at least it seemed like I’d drifted off.

  “What you’re doing here isn’t right.” It sounded like Nurse Margie. Who was she talking to?

  Red seven on black eight. Move the two of diamonds to the ace of diamonds then the three.

  “This is a research facility. Our methods may be difficult to understand.” That was definitely Dr. Harry. He sounded tired, frayed, like he didn’t want to be having this conversation.

  “There’s something very wrong with that boy. His vital signs are disturbing.”

  Draw a card. Ten of hearts. Useless. Draw again.

  “I don’t think you’re qualified to judge.”

  “I’ve been a nurse for more than a decade. I think I can tell when a patient’s vital signs—”

  “And how many times have you been fired from your position?”

  Jack of spades on the queen of diamonds.

  “Dr. Harry, you said that didn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t matter as long as you don’t challenge my methods.”

  Flip through the pack. There has to be another move. Look for another move. Where was it? It had to be there.

  “But the boy’s vital—”

  “Nurse.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  And then I must have fallen fully asleep because the next thing I knew it was very dark.

  The sun had set hours before, and I was outside by the pond in the stony silence. Or was I? Was I really there? Darkness had swallowed the woods at the edge of the property, the double-wide, and most of the sky. It was calm. A cool wind blew in from the lake. Insects screeched. Frogs groaned. The vegetable garden lay still in the night. I stood at the foot of the raised garden and yet was not there. I was dreaming and not dreaming.

  A tiny movement, a mound of dirt seemed to rise, clumps of rich soil rolling away. It reminded me of an anthill, a small pile of dirt surrounding a tiny tunnel. Except it wasn’t an ant crawling out of the hole, it was a finger.

  One pale, chalky finger struggling to pull itself farther out of the ground. And then there were two fingers. Old, gnarled fingers with cracked nails and thick knuckles and skin dried tight to the bone. The fingers flicked the dirt away and flicked and flicked until they became a hand, spreading all five fingers across the ground. Then the hand clawed and clawed until the wrist appeared.

  A few feet away in another garden—that was clearly not a garden at all but a grave—another hand struggled to free itself. This one just as old, just as knotted. I watched, frozen, as the liver-spotted forearms dug their way out. An elbow. Two. Biceps. Shoulders. Lumps of dirt falling away, and the two ancient men who’d been my temporary roommates were pulling themselves out of the ground. Standing.

  They reminded me of time-lapse photography showing how an onion grew, except they
weren’t vegetables. In fact, they were more animated now, more alive, than I’d ever seen them, as though being buried had given them strength, had nurtured them, had given them back life.

  Shuffling away from the grave, dressed in thin hospital gowns streaked with damp soil, they walked toward the back of the Institute. Their bodies had swollen. Faces tight, empty of emotion, blurry almost. Moving. As though heading toward a beacon. A personal Mecca.

  Something squirming around their eyes. Their ears. Something small and fleshy. Like tiny baby fingers. Yellow. Wiggling.

  And then I realize the flies had gotten to them.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I woke. Breathing fast. Fear running through my body like it was a racetrack. I was safe in my bed, though. In the bed next to mine, Goth was absorbed in his book, while Edmond snored across from us. It was early, probably about an hour before breakfast. I looked over to see more than a dozen flies on the window screen. Waiting patiently. Waiting for me.

  “You were having a bad dream,” Goth said when he saw I was awake.

  “I was.”

  I didn’t think it was a big surprise I was having nightmares, specifically that sort of nightmare. Not after what Dr. Harry had told me. Why wouldn’t I be dreaming about zombies? Maggot-filled zombies. Horrible zombies. Isn’t that what I was afraid of becoming? Could I become that? I decided to stop that train of thought in its tracks. “How’s your book?” I asked Goth.

  “Heavy. I should have brought some supermarket books.” My blank look made him add, “Trash.”

  “Don’t you have an e-reader?”

  “It’s kind of crappy. And I’ve read everything on it. Can’t download anything else in here. Since they’ve jammed reception.”

  “Jammed? No they—” I felt a little stupid for a moment. It wasn’t just that they didn’t have wi-fi and the reception was bad. They’d actually jammed it. “How did you figure that out?”

  “Um, logic. They don’t have wi-fi, that’s easy to figure out. But there’s also no cell service.”