Hench

by Natalie Zina Walschots

  I managed to peck out the message hey, I’m alive and was working on a follow-up before my phone lit up from her calling me. I let her scream at me for scaring her until her voice gave and she was hoarse and panting, and then I slowly explained the horrors of my last forty-eight hours. She felt bad enough for me, or forgave my radio silence enough, to promise to swing by my house and come by with supplies in the morning.

  I spent another fretful, shivering night, unable to get either comfortable or warm, and managed to sleep just as a thin gray dawn was starting to filter into my room. I was startled awake a pitifully short amount of time later by my morning nurse, who sang hello to me and plopped a huge fruit basket down on the table next to my bed.

  “This came for you! Isn’t that exciting?” She stared at me expectantly.

  I flailed and cursed. Every time I got any sleep at all, even just nodding off for a moment, I woke up stickier, smellier, more physically abject than I was before. My leg was stained with iodine from where they had painted my skin in prep for surgery, and my skin had broken out everywhere the adhesive from the surgical tape had touched me. I felt like one-third of my body was a rash. The backs of my hands were the worst, aching from the IVs and seeping lymph. There was no fruit basket yet created on this hell earth that would have been capable of making me excited.

  Batting away the cellophane, careful not to disturb any of the tubes attached to me, I fished between the apples and fig jam and a tiny box of artisanal crackers until I found a card tucked between the leaves of a pineapple. It was emblazoned with the familiar eel-and-trident logo of Electrophorous, and I felt a sudden surge of warmth toward E. He might have placed me right in harm’s way, but at least he cared. Maybe when I returned to work, I thought, I could negotiate dental coverage. I opened the envelope.

  It was not the “Get well soon!” card I expected, but an HR document, typed neatly on official company letterhead. I was thanked for my “good” work, told I had been a “valuable resource under difficult circumstances.” However, since my injury meant I would be recovering “indefinitely,” and my employer found themselves in a “state of flux,” they were “regretfully” severing my contract.

  In acknowledgment of your service and efforts while under our employ, a standard reference letter will be added to your agency file. Once you are able to seek employment again, please feel free to submit a new application to Electrophorous Industries.

  I held the letter nervelessly, staring into the middle distance, and could barely muster a reaction when June entered the room with a small duffel bag over one shoulder. She drew up short when she saw my face, and I held the letter out to her, unable to come up with something to say.

  It wasn’t often I got to see June speechless—her quick-witted viciousness was one of her best qualities. But in that moment, staring at the huge fruit basket on the side table near my hospital bed, her powers left her.

  I sipped some lukewarm ginger ale through a bendy straw and basked in her outraged shock. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

  I managed an uneven grin. “I know.”

  “I can’t.” She shook her head with brain-rattling force.

  “Drink it in.” I gestured grandly.

  “An actual fruit basket.”

  “It’s next level.”

  She turned her back, walked away from it, and suddenly turned around, as though if she looked away for a moment, the basket might disappear.

  “Those fucks! I’ll fight a bitch,” she spat. Her outrage was more comforting than a hug. I managed my first real smile in some time and gathered the motivation to reach for the bag she had brought me.

  June was wearing nose plugs, but it was still obvious how gravely uncomfortable she was in the hospital. The odor of disinfectant, new and old wounds, sickness and shit, would be awful for her (and to be perfectly clear I didn’t smell delightful either). But she’d brought me warm socks and my favorite hoodie, basic hygiene supplies, and even my lipstick and eyeliner. It went an incredibly long way toward making me feel human again.

  Her generosity had limits, of course.

  “I’m not helping you in there,” she said flatly, though she did agree to find a nurse to help me hobble to the bathroom to make a first pitiful attempt to clean myself. After brushing my teeth, applying a few cucumber-scented body wipes, and using an elastic to tie back my gritty, greasy hair, I was downright cheerful. While I slowly navigated my way back into bed, June read the letter from HR over and over, brow knit together in fury.

  “It’s the cliché of the fruit basket I find particularly offensive,” she said finally. “Of all the shitty ways to deliver this news, they chose the worst bad joke.”

  I reached into the basket and fished around. “Would you like a plum?” Opiates and emotional devastation were making me giddy.

  “No.”

  I shrugged and bit into the stone fruit. Juice pooled in my palm and ran down my arm.

  “Greg’s here.”

  I sucked on one of my fingers. “That’s nice of him. He taking a call?”

  “Yeah, out front. He should be up in a minute.” She looked me over critically, taking in my swollen and splinted leg, limited mobility, gray face. “When are they going to let you out?”

  “Tomorrow, maybe the next day. As soon as it’s clear I don’t have staph or a clot.”

  “Shit, I thought you’d be here a month.”

  “Nah. If you’re not in immediate danger of shuffling off this mortal coil, they get rid of you pretty quick to free up the bed. I’ll have to come back eventually to get the stitches removed and for some checkups. But soon I’m on my own.”

  “What do you mean, ‘on your own’? You can’t even piss by yourself. You gonna waddle down the stairs in that shitty Terminator leg brace to get your delivery tacos three times a day?”

  “No.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  My throat suddenly felt like it was closing. I took a bite of the plum to try and buy some time before responding, but I couldn’t swallow and had to spit it out. I wiped my face and stared into my lap. “I don’t know.”

  Her face softened. “Your folks might help.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Yeah, fair. Do they know?”

  “I hope not, but probably.”

  “Want me to call them?”

  “No. I will, eventually. Just to let them know they don’t have to throw a funeral.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. I thought she was letting me get my composure back, sparing me the embarrassment of crying, but it turned out June was thinking.

  “You should come stay with me,” she said all at once. “The couch folds down and I have a tub; you just have that tiny shower. You wouldn’t have to move around very much.”

  “Are you sure?” I wanted her to have an out, though I’d be completely screwed if she took it.

  She sat on the bed. I could still smell myself under the cucumber; I was amazed she could stand to be that close to me. “We can give each other makeovers and everything.”

  Greg mercifully bumbled into the room, sparing me having to deal with my emotions. He was even more flustered than usual and his long limbs were everywhere at once.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken the call and come right up, but you know what he’s—” He stopped talking suddenly, looking me up and down. “Shit, Anna.”

  “Thanks for coming, Greg. It’s been boring as hell.”

  “You’re a disaster.” He groped for a chair near my bed and sat heavily in it. Whatever he had been expecting, I looked worse.

  “They did a number on me, that’s for sure.” I tapped my hip with my bruised, intubated hand. “I got a metal rod and everything.”

  “We saw you on the news, with that thing in your hands. You looked like you were going to shit your pants.”

  “Trust me when I say I did not go into that room expecting to hold a mind control device tethered to th
e mayor’s fucking kid.”

  “Obviously.” He looked over at June, then said hesitantly, “What was it like? You know. Meeting him.”

  “‘Meeting’ is an interesting way to say it.” He stared at me helplessly. I sighed. “You think you know what it’s like to be hit. You’ve taken a punch. But that was something completely different. He barely had to touch me at all, and I’m totaled.”

  Greg was leaning forward, his brown eyes very bright, gripping his knees tightly with his hands. His phone rang in his pocket; he reached down and declined the call. I was touched.

  “Anna,” he said. “Do you know what this means?”

  “That I may never walk normally again?”

  “You fought Supercollider! You’re, like, a real supervillain!”

  “Greg.” June’s voice held a note of warning.

  I tried to wave her off. “If by ‘fought’ you mean ‘bled internally,’ then, yes, the battle was long and valiant,” I said.

  “This is big!” He stood and started to gesture wildly. “There are, like, serious villains who’ve never even been in the same room with him, let alone fought him! This is major league stuff, Anna!”

  “Shut the fuck up, Greg!” June hissed, and he shrunk in his chair, chagrined.

  “It’s a big deal,” he said defensively.

  I managed a thin smile. I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm, but I also didn’t have the heart to swat him down for excitement. June, however, had no such problems.

  “I’m pretty sure Anna doesn’t care how cool you think her devastating injury is, clown.” She crossed her arms.

  Greg looked at the floor. It occurred to me that he might actually be a little jealous.

  They stayed for an hour or so. Greg installed some games on my broken phone, and June promised to check in so she knew when I’d be released and could pick me up. Eventually, Greg couldn’t ignore the constant muted buzzing in his pocket that meant someone’s weapon of mass destruction wasn’t booting up the way it was supposed to, and he fled the room to take the call.

  June stood at the foot of my bed and squeezed my dirty toes, poking out the bottom of my brace.

  “You should see the other guy, eh?”

  Later that night, after she left, I realized that at some point while we were talking she’d written “Supercollider was here” on my brace in silver marker.

  I DOZED AGAIN, for a while. Sleeping deeply was challenging, but I nodded off frequently, usually to be awakened by someone prodding my leg, taking a blood sample, or running some minor cognitive tests to make sure I didn’t have a concussion.

  I was finally feeling hungry, but that didn’t survive dinner service very long. The chicken was oddly soft and seemed breaded with sawdust, and the soggy corn had revoltingly combined with my mashed potatoes, but at least the pudding cup was edible. I was scooping the last bit of butterscotch out of the container with my finger when I became aware of a hushed bit of commotion taking place outside my door.

  I recognized the voice of my doctor, who sounded extremely annoyed, but none of the several men she was speaking to.

  “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes,” someone said. “Standard procedure; she’s the last interview we have to do.”

  “Visiting hours are technically over, so please keep it brief. She needs rest.”

  “We’ll be gentle,” someone else promised.

  “When is she being released?” The third voice sounded strange, like someone was deliberately speaking a full octave above their natural register.

  There was a pause. “We’re not sure yet. Hopefully tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The door swung fully ajar and three cops stepped into the room. Or, rather, two cops and Supercollider. The hero was wearing reflective aviator sunglasses (at night), a hastily applied fake mustache, and an obviously borrowed uniform that was markedly too tight. It would have been hilarious if the sight of him didn’t make my mind go bloody.

  He hung back by the door while the two actual officers approached my bed, a combination of solicitous expressions and threatening body language.

  “How are you feeling, Miss Truelove?” The first cop who spoke was the shorter of the two, built like a fire hydrant and sporting a few days’ worth of stubble. His partner was taller and wiry, with salt-and-pepper hair and a slash of a mouth.

  “Fine.” My heart was hammering against my rib cage. Part of me was terrified, certain I was about to be placed in electrified handcuffs and dragged off to some supermax villains’ prison where I’d be freeze-dried for all eternity. Below that fear, though, was the deep calm of a surprising fury. I found my gaze locking on to Supercollider. I hoped it was the pure venom I directed toward him that made him look uncomfortable under his disguise, instead of the uniform pants that were probably cutting off his circulation.

  “Good to hear, miss,” the first officer said. His partner took out a notebook from his back pocket and flipped to a clean page, then fished a silver pen out of a breast pocket.

  “And it’s Troh-MED-lov.”

  “Certainly, miss.” The first officer spoke in the tone of someone who had no intention of changing a thing they were doing. “We don’t want to trouble you, we just have a few questions about what happened at the Giller Hotel.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just kept staring at that stupid fake mustache.

  The second officer sighed heavily. “Look, we’re only charging the Meat and the suits. If you want a lawyer, you can call one and we’ll come back tomorrow, but this will take five minutes.” He spoke in the resigned voice of someone who expected his already terrible day to get even more annoying.

  “Okay.”

  He looked visibly relieved. “Can you tell us what you were doing there, Miss Truelove?”

  “Working. I was at work.”

  “I see. Now, we can’t find any record of you being an employee of the hotel or a known associate of the Electric Eel. Who were you working for?”

  “A temp agency.”

  “Ah, I see. So, what, you were getting the coffee or sandwiches or something?”

  “Sure,” I said, still staring at Supercollider. He had crossed his arms across his chest, causing the fabric of his borrowed shirt to creak and the buttons to strain.

  “Why were you standing next to the Electric Eel?”

  “They told me to.”

  “Did you have any idea what was supposed to happen at the press conference?”

  “Happen?”

  “Did you know about the weapon, or the kidnapping, or the Eel’s plans?”

  “Oh no—of course not.” That seemed like a question to have asked before they decided not to charge me, but I wasn’t about to do their jobs for them. The cop taking notes looked up from his pad and stared critically at my face for a moment. Then, satisfied, his gaze turned back down.

  “Just a couple more questions, ma’am. How did the villain injure you?”

  “Well, he sent me this fucking fruit basket, for one.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Sorry, I was confused. He didn’t. It wasn’t the Eel. It was Supercollider.”

  The taller cop immediately stopped taking notes and again looked at me—hard. His partner raised his hands.

  “Now, are you sure about that, ma’am?”

  “Positive.” I pulled the blanket back, and right at the top of the brace on my leg there was a massive bruise in the unmistakable shape of a handprint. There was no way the Eel had put that mark on me. Only someone with superstrength could have done it when he swept me aside. Supercollider shifted slightly.

  The taller cop put his notebook away. “I can understand how you would be confused, ma’am.”

  “Confused.”

  “About exactly what happened. All that commotion.”

  I didn’t reply, but let my jaw tighten.

  “Thank you for your time, miss,” the first officer added, suddenly jovial and dismissive. “I hope you feel better. And get a
better job.”

  They nodded at me and walked out of the room too loudly. Supercollider let them pass in front of him and then turned to follow.

  “Nice mustache,” I said quietly. He faltered a moment, then brusquely left the room.

  I buzzed the nurse and waited, fuming quietly, until someone finally came to help me to the bathroom again.

  2

  FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, EVERYTHING SMELLED LIKE LAVENDER.

  It was one of the very few smells that June could tolerate consistently, even find pleasant, and so everything in her apartment was tinged with the soothing fragrance. Some of her pillows and blankets had sachets of the dried flowers sewn into them, and there were bunches of it hanging from the ceiling.

  “I appreciate the aromatherapy.”

  “You’re making fun of me.” June pursed her lips. She did not like being challenged.

  “Not at all, it’s like a spa in here.”

  “It’s relaxing, bitch.”

  “It’s not a diss!”

  Convalescing was awful. I was impatient with my new physical limits, and was constantly making things worse, reinjuring myself in a thousand tiny ways. The only thing that could make me better was the passage of time, in maliciously slow increments, and I seemed determined to sabotage that already excruciating process whenever possible. I’d move too quickly and rip out stitches, push myself too hard one day and be too exhausted and in pain to do anything the next. For long weeks I was a rancid ball of frustration, with constant tension headaches from clenching my jaw too tight.

  I was hurt just badly enough that follow-up medical care was its own nightmare, as I tried to navigate my injured body to and from the hospital or to specialist visits. I canceled as many appointments as I could, going so far as to take my own stitches out with a pair of nail clippers and some tweezers, hoping that rubbing alcohol would keep me from dying of a staph infection. In my darkest moments I felt like my life couldn’t get any worse, but the bleak pragmatist in me knew it absolutely could.