March Into Hell

by M. P. McDonald

  Mark sighed, wondering if the fever was going to delay his discharge. He'd hoped to go home in a day or so, but at least he was no longer on a monitor.

  Images from that night would flash through his mind at random times... even when he was thinking about something else entirely and at night, with no distractions, it was even harder to keep the nightmares at bay. If he could, he'd just stay awake all the time. As much as he wanted to leave the hospital, the thought of sleeping in his loft made his skin crawl. Mark shuddered. Somehow, he'd have to get over it.

  "Are you cold? Getting chills?"

  Mark started at the sudden question, not realizing that Brenda had returned with his medication. Now that she mentioned it, he became aware that he was shivering and it wasn't just from the images in his head. "Yeah, I guess it is a little cold in here."

  Brenda frowned. "Here, take these and I'll be back in an hour or so to take your temp again."

  He tossed the pills back, and fumbled with the water glass. After washing the medication down, he took a few more sips. His throat still hurt from the tube and the water felt cool and soothing. Tugging the covers up, he settled down to try and get a little more sleep before the nurse returned, and then shortly after that, if he had their schedule figured out, the lab rats would come and draw blood. He yawned and wondered how doctors ever expected anyone to get better when the patients were continually awakened.

  * * *

  In the morning, his temp was near normal and he felt half-way human again.

  "Good morning, Mark." His doctor swept into the room, his white coat flapping behind him. "I'm Doctor Matt Jenkins. I doubt you remember me very well." He laughed and his eyes crinkled into a pleasant expression. "How are you feeling?"

  "Okay. Better than I did." Mark only vaguely recalled the man coming into his room yesterday after the tube had been pulled. The doctor had tried to ask him some questions, but Mark hadn't been able to keep his eyes opened.

  "You sound a lot better too. I think we'll advance you to a soft diet. How does that sound?" He jotted something down on Mark's chart then set it on the bedside table and stepped right up to the bed.

  Mark would have shrugged if he could. It didn't matter to him. He nodded instead. "Sure."

  "Let me take a look at your incisions." Dr. Jenkins untied the back of Mark's gown and eased it down. Quickly, he pulled the tape off one side of the incision in Mark's shoulder. "It looks good." He removed the entire dressing and tossed it into a trash can. "You don't need that anymore."

  His exam moved down to Mark's abdomen and Mark tried not to wince when the doctor's fingers lightly pressed near the wound. He didn't say anything this time, and his mouth set in a grim line before he re-tied Mark's gown.

  Sitting in the chair Lily had used earlier, Dr. Jenkins grabbed the chart and began writing again. Idly, Mark watched him, wondering at the other man's expression. Was something wrong? He looked pissed off.

  Sighing heavily, the doctor stood again. "Okay, now let me just take a quick peek at your hands and feet." He unwrapped the bandage and Mark watched the other man's face instead of looking at his wound.

  "Can you make a fist?"

  Mark grimaced and clenched his right hand as hard as he could, which wasn't very hard at all. He could barely hold a paper cup and even that was a challenge.

  The doctor ran the tip of his pen along Mark's pinky finger and Mark pulled his hand back at the sharp sensation. Jenkins glanced up at Mark and smiled. "That's good. I was testing for sensitivity there. You're very lucky. You could have wound up with permanent nerve damage."

  Mark shook his head and remarked dryly, "Yeah. I"ll try to remember how lucky I am."

  Dr. Jenkins glanced up sharply, not missing Mark's sarcasm but choosing to keep any comments he had to himself as he re-wrapped the wound.

  Mark tried to smile to take the bite out of his previous comment, but he was incapable of forming his mouth into a curve and closed his eyes in embarrassment instead, feeling like a first class jerk. None of this was the doctor's fault. He opened his eyes but kept his gaze fixed on the sheets bunched around his waist. "Sorry about that, Doc."

  "No need to apologize. I'd be pretty pissed too if I were you." He walked around to the other side of the bed. "Let's take a look at this hand." He repeated the thing with the pen, and this time, Mark didn't feel the need to pull back. He could feel it, but it was more distant, a pressure more than anything sharp.

  "Hmmm... it could be temporary. Can you make a fist?"

  Mark tried and his fingers curled, but it was even weaker than the other hand. His little finger didn't curl as much as the others. His eyes flew to the doctor's. "It's not working as well as the other one." He tried to keep the fear out of his voice.

  "No, it's not, but it could be temporary and with some physical therapy, you could regain all or most of your normal function."

  Mark absorbed that and prayed that the doctor was right. Then he wondered why he bothered to pray at all. He'd prayed before and it hadn't stopped the crucifixion from happening. His jaw clenched and he felt bitterness rise up within him. At the very least, there could have been a hint of what was going to happen in the camera. He'd done so much for that damn camera and now, when he needed help, it had abandoned him.

  The doctor moved onto his feet and seemed satisfied with the results of those tests. "I'd like to get you up walking today. It's going to hurt a bit, but you'll recover faster from the abdominal surgery if you're up moving around." Jenkins moved over to the sink and washed his hands, and after drying them with a paper towel, sat back in the chair. He crossed his legs and opened the chart once more. "As long as you don't try running a marathon, your feet should be okay."

  Mark barely heard the joke and only glanced at the doctor in confusion.

  Apparently realizing his attempt at humor had fallen flat, Dr. Jenkins leaned forward, his expression serious. "Mark, would you like to talk to someone? A psychiatrist? Or clergy? We have a fantastic chaplain here at the hospital. I could send him in later."

  Mark shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm okay." He avoided the doctor's eyes and leaned back, his gaze fixed on the water stain. Maybe he wasn't completely okay, but he would be. Eventually.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sweat popped out on Mark's forehead and he dipped his head to swipe the moisture with his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he took another step. Every time his foot made contact with the floor, it felt like stepping on an upturned knife. He swallowed hard and bit his lip in determination. He couldn’t remain sitting for the next few weeks while his feet healed.

  “That’s it! Good job, Mark.” Wayne, his physical therapist, smiled in encouragement. “Just a little bit more.” He gripped Mark’s right elbow with one hand and his other reached for a nearby chair, angling it to make it easier for Mark to sit down. “Here you go.” Wayne stepped aside to allow Mark access.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Mark sat and attempted to catch his breath. He looked at the ten feet he’d covered between the chair and his bed and shook his head. “Jeez, how pathetic is it that I feel like I just ran a marathon?"

  The therapist laughed. “Well, you’ve been flat on your back for about four days. It doesn’t take long. Add your injuries to that, and it’s no wonder you’re short of breath.”

  “Believe it or not, I was in decent shape before…before….” Mark floundered, seeing something flicker in the other guy’s eyes. He’d seen similar looks flit across several other people’s faces. It was a look that said they were uncomfortable with the subject. Mark averted his gaze. That was okay; he wasn’t comfortable with it either.

  Wayne stepped over to the computer in the corner of the room and began charting. Every few seconds, Mark would catch the man tossing a glance his way and Mark supposed he was commenting in the chart about how the session had gone.

  Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, he looked out the window and his mind flashed back to the warehouse. The images springing up vividly, so strong, h
e could almost smell the fire, hear the chanting and feel the scratch of the spikes against his skin. His foot twitched. He stared through the glass, not seeing anything, his thoughts still mired in the past nightmare.

  With an almost physical effort, Mark shoved the memories into a corner of his mind and took a deep breath. He searched for something else to focus on and spotted a man and dog across the street in a park. That was safe. He wondered what kind of dog it was. It looked like it might be part Lab, but the ears were wrong.

  Whatever breed it was, it was definitely energetic and obviously enjoyed being outdoors as it raced around. Occasionally, the man would throw a stick for the animal to fetch. Mark smiled when one attempt at retrieving ended with the dog skidding through a pile of dirty snow and sliding on his side in a patch of mud. The dog scrambled to his feet and shook his fur. Even from his distance, Mark saw water and bits of mud fly in every direction. Then the dog, without missing a beat, found the stick and returned it to its master.

  Sunlight flashed off something and Mark blinked at the glare. Several news trucks had pulled into the circle drive, and it was the sun’s reflection off of one of the satellite dishes mounted on top of one that had distracted him. A crowd of people hovered near the front entrance to the hospital so he rose up a little in the chair and squinted, wondering what was going on.

  “Hey, Wayne, did something big happen?” Mark raised an eyebrow at the therapist and nodded at the crowd outside.

  Wayne stepped over to the window and glanced out, then shot a look at Mark before looking down at his feet and clearing his throat. “Uh, no. They’re just here to find out stuff about…ah, about one of our patients.”

  Mark took in the scene and then Wayne’s demeanor and the way he didn’t quite meet Mark’s eyes when he announced that he’d see Mark tomorrow for their next session.

  That was when Mark knew. Until that moment, he'd hoped…prayed… that his experience hadn’t made the news. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, his focus dropping to his hands.

  “Do you want to stay up in the chair awhile?” Wayne’s voice was bright. Too bright.

  “Sure.” Whatever. It didn’t matter. Mark plucked at a loose piece of tape.

  “All right then, well I guess we’re done for today. When I come back tomorrow, I’ll give you some exercises you can do with your hands to help strengthen them too.”

  “Great. Thanks, Wayne.” Mark tried to force some cheer into his voice and failed miserably. He kept his head lowered, barely aware of when the therapist left the room. Did everyone in the world know? How was he ever going to face anyone again? What about his parents? Had anyone reached them? He couldn’t imagine how they would feel when they found out what had happened. Mark began to run his hand through his hair and realized that he couldn’t do that with the I.V. and bandage. He dropped his hand with a growl of frustration.

  “Mark? Are you okay?” His day nurse appeared at his door.

  He took a deep breath and lifted his head, pasting on a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He couldn’t remember her name and the energy required to look over at the dry erase board to find out didn’t seem worth the effort. Her name tag was attached to her scrubs, but he couldn’t read it from this distance.

  “Since you’re up, do you want to try taking a shower?”

  That idea appealed to him and he sat a little straighter. He felt grungy and the thought of feeling clean, truly clean, sounded wonderful. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  * * *

  “There, that should do it.” The nurse taped the plastic bag around Mark’s arm, protecting his IV site from water and then untied the back of the hospital gown. She had helped him into the bathroom and he sat on a plastic chair trying to act like he didn’t hate needing help to do something that he’d been doing alone since he was six years old.

  “We can leave the bandages on your hands and feet and I’ll change them when you’re done. I left the shampoo and soap in the stall and I'll put some clean towels on the chair when you get up. If you feel dizzy or have any problems, use the pull string to call for help, understand?” She threw some extra tape in the trash. “And don’t forget to let me know when you’re done so I can re-connect your IV. You’re due for your antibiotic in a little while.”

  Mark nodded. “Yeah, I will. Thanks.” He stood and waited a moment to get used to the pain in his feet. It was the bending of the foot that caused the most pain, so in an effort to minimize the discomfort, he shuffled, sliding one foot a few inches and following with the other foot.

  The top of the shampoo was tricky to get off with only one hand, especially since that one was only partially working. His left arm hung at his side, useless for all intents and purposes. He’d caught a glimpse of the incision in the mirror and it wasn’t pretty. Still, it was a basic surgical incision and he hadn’t felt squeamish. The one on the left side of his abdomen was worse because every time he looked at it, he saw Kern’s face as he plunged the knife in.

  Mark had trouble grasping with his right hand, and wondered how he was going to get the shampoo out of the bottle. Luckily, it was a very small bottle, not much bigger than a travel size and he finally managed to squeeze some onto his left palm. Then he dropped the bottle, unable to keep a grip on it. He swiped the stuff out of his left hand onto the other and did his best to soap up his head.

  It was a good thing that this was a hospital and presumably had huge hot water tanks. This was going to take awhile. Hoping he’d at least semi-washed everything, he closed his eyes, letting the hot spray rinse him. The sharp needles of water felt good. Cleansing. In here, he didn’t smell the stink of antiseptic and other even less pleasant hospital odors. Just soap and shampoo. He could almost pretend he was home.

  It was the first time he’d been alone since he’d gone to bed four nights ago. This was just what he needed, a few moments of privacy, moments to gather his thoughts and digest everything that had happened. Since waking up yesterday, he’d had doctors, nurses and, visitors parading in and out of his room in a constant stream.

  Between the disruptions and the pain meds, he’d only briefly thought about the reason he was here in the first place. The grace period was over. The memories, the fear and horror he’d felt re-surfaced, bubbling up inside of him like a cauldron of boiling water.

  Why? Why did it happen? Why him? Mark raised head, eyes closed. The water pelted his face and stung the abrasions on his neck. He swallowed hard in a futile attempt to suppress his feelings. He felt a wave of hot, intense anger sweep through him; anger at the things done to him and the aftermath that he’d have to deal with. Mark raised his hand, his fingers clenched in a loose fist. He wanted to hit something. Hard. But he couldn’t. The pain and bandages stopped him and he leaned his forehead against the wall. He was completely helpless. Like he’d felt in the warehouse. He hung his head and couldn’t stop the sob of pure frustration as it burst from within him. What if he had fought a little harder? Could he have done something differently?

  He swiped at the water running into his eyes and then looked at his right hand. The bandage was beginning to come off in the water. Trembling, he raised his arm and tugged at the loose end with his teeth. The tape gave way and the dressing fell away from his palm, dangling by a single piece of adhesive.

  The wound on his palm was a deep purplish fading to a dark angry red. The middle, the actual hole, was raw and puckered. He turned his hand over. This side had been against the wood and was scraped and ragged. The wound looked bigger on top, and as he studied the injury, he had a sickening thought. What if he could see right through his hand? His stomach began churning, and hand shaking, he held it up, but he didn’t look. He couldn’t look.

  Staggering against the cold tiles, he leaned over and vomited what little breakfast he’d eaten. Gagging and retching, wave after wave ripped through him until finally his belly relented. Exhausted, he raised his head and caught the water in his mouth, not caring that it was hot. He rinsed and then spit. Completely drained, he
reached out and shut the water off. His legs shook as he dried himself off and pulled on a clean hospital gown. He shuffled out to his bed, grateful when he eased down and lay back. Mark closed his eyes and blocked all thought from his mind.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, he awoke from a light doze when his nurse returned. Mark remembered with a pang of guilt that he had forgotten to call and say he was done with his shower.

  “Okay, Mark. I’m just going to re-wrap your hands and feet now.” She looked up at him with a bright smile.

  Her name-tag caught his eye. “Okay, Brenda. ” He tried to swallow down the sudden queasiness when she took his hand and ran her fingers lightly over the wound as she examined it.

  “It looks pretty good. No drainage and the swelling is down.” Brenda spread some ointment on the wound and with practiced ease, wrapped it and repeated the procedure on his other hand and his feet.

  Mark averted his eyes, choosing instead to watch the wall clock's second hand sweep across the numbers. The procedure didn’t hurt, but that didn’t prevent him from breaking out in a sweat at the mere thought of seeing the wounds. Would he ever be able to look at his own hands again?

  After finishing with the bandages, she helped him ease his arm into the sling once more. He gave a groan of relief, not realizing how much discomfort he’d been in until the sling once again supported his shoulder.

  Brenda fiddled with his I.V, chattering away about the weather as Mark's eyes slid closed.

  * * *

  “This is his room. He’s sleeping now, but we have to wake him to check his vitals soon if you want to wait.”

  Lily nodded. “I'll do that. Thank you.” She cringed when the chair scraped against the tile as she sat down, hoping it wouldn't awaken Mark. He stirred on the bed and she held her breath, hoping he'd settle back to sleep.