Painkiller tve-2 Page 4

  He stooped by the railing, winced at the mangle of pain in his gut, then he hurried back the way he had come; hiding himself in the trees to avoid the woman's troubles.

  Normal people avoid trouble. He got past some low bushes and turned to peer back through their leaves.

  She needs a psychologist not a Variant Squad Captain.

  The woman's sadness followed him, as he hurried among the tree trunks, shaking off whatever hooks her tears had set in him.

  She'll be okay.

  He turned in the shadow of an old oak and glanced back at the bridge. There, standing center to the span was the strange woman, with legs wide spaced and both arms crossed, pressing the icepack against her belly. Overhanging leaves obscured her face but Borland was sure he could feel her eyes on him.

  He clambered through branches until he found the path and started back to the clinic. If he saw Rough-trade again, Borland would decide then whether to tell her what he saw.

  CHAPTER 8

  A gorgeous Asian nurse shaved Borland's crotch and belly. Patients who were getting operations that day were told to stay in their rooms and await this preparation and others while the rest of the patients had breakfast.

  The nurse spoke quickly, almost anxiously during the procedure. Her small hands were warm through the vinyl gloves as they pressed Borland's round and wrinkled flesh flat to run the blade over it. He stared at the woman. Forced her to keep her attention on the task, and embarrassed her enough that she refused to look him in the eye.

  That way he wouldn't have to claim the old body she was working on.

  Then his intimidating glare worked against him, unnerved the woman enough that she hurried to complete the shave, scraping at the furry mounds of skin with reckless swipes of the straight razor. Terror rode up Borland's spine, forced him to look away until she finished, packed up her gear and hurried out of the room.

  I hope nothing's missing.

  Then some sick voyeur in him pushed his belly down, peered over it at the naked areas.

  He felt an immediate twinge of shame at how things looked down there-gray and lifeless butcher shop structures. A broken and battered opposite of erotic-like the carcass of some dinosaur, fossilized and frozen in the act of eating another.

  Barely sexual-not even pornographic-an image from a worst-case-scenario journal of medicine and aging.

  He quickly pulled his pajama pants back into place and tied them.

  About thirty people were going to get their hernias fixed that day by four operating teams. He had to wait his turn.

  At least you'll have painkillers.

  He looked over at the empty bed beside his. Roommate number '1' was delayed and missed his place on the Shomberg assembly line. Borland would have a new roomie by the time he got back from his first operation.

  Perfect.

  They were going to start with the umbilical hernia. The left and right inguinal would follow with days off between procedures. It was a longer than average stay, but Borland wanted to get it over with in one shot. He had no interest in coming back. The dull old men who made up most of the Shomberg population made him want a drink, and his gun.

  You can be old. Do you have to be boring?

  The old duffers left him anxious for any kind of release. Even having his abdominal wall cut open and sutured shut sounded like fun.

  At least it was evidence he was alive.

  And there would be some high-yield pharmaceutical painkillers.

  Who needed a drink when the medicine cabinet was open?

  Sobriety was killing him. He still needed a drink, but seeing the strange woman by the bridge the night before had unsettled him, made him too jumpy to take an illicit swig with all the other patients moving about on their evening walks. The path had grown crowded with them, so he relented and returned to his room.

  The sleeping pill was bliss.

  Borland heard the Asian nurse knock on another door down the hall, warn "Mr. Arnold" that it was time for his shave.

  Borland got up, walked to the bathroom and tried to empty his bladder. He didn't want any accidents and he felt like he had to go. So he stood there almost five minutes with nothing happening. His nerves must have already been working on him because he couldn't squeeze out a single drop.

  Or it's the prostate…

  As he tied the strings on his hospital pants something on the tiles between his socks caught his eye. A centipede, crushed into a twist of gore and spray of wiry legs. He could see how the mop had shaped its mangled body, combined it in layers of wax and cleanser-a fossil record on a bathroom floor.

  The Age of Infection.

  He thought of signs and omens.

  "Mr. Borland?" A voice at the door drew his attention away from the bug. "It is time."

  A pleasant-looking nurse in her fifties stood there. She gestured toward his bed and told him to sit. She was covered in sterile gear, the rustle of her nylon booties made him think of the bag-suits of his profession.

  Which made him think of Zombie.

  Sacrifice. Keep giving.

  She read through a checklist on her e-reader in a thick German accent. The way she stamped on the hard consonants reminded Borland of World War Two downloads: swastikas, whips and barbed wire.

  He had answered all the questions before, but they were just double-checking, making sure the cuts they were about to make matched up with the guts on the table. She handed him a pair of nylon booties to slip over his socks and complimented him for being in his hospital blues when she arrived.

  She didn't know that Borland didn't need more enemies. She didn't know how bored he was.

  She didn't know what a guilty conscience could do with all that time off.

  She didn't know about the centipede.

  The nurse led him out of the room and along the chilly corridor and into a waiting elevator. She hit a button, and they began their descent.

  Borland's hospital blues consisted of a smock top that tied up the front and a pair of loose pants that tied at the waist. He had no doubt that the setup would provide a carnival atmosphere once he was medicated.

  At least he'd be medicated.

  Borland didn't care about the weather-good or bad-but the nurse talked about it anyway. Hurricanes and tornados were nothing; they were fun compared to what was coming. The Variant Effect was on its way back.

  Time for the painkillers.

  Time to get cranked.

  The elevator shuddered and doors opened in the wall opposite the one they entered. A puff of cool air drifted in. Dim light came from pot lamps paced at intervals along the ceiling. When they stepped out, the light barely penetrated the big dark room.

  Then it hit him.

  The smell of blood.

  Thirty operations a day, five days a week, fifty weeks a year… The coppery smell was permeating the darkness. There was disinfectant and other medical odors, but the blood was unmistakable. They spilled a lot of it down there.

  The nurse led Borland to the right, past several beds that held drugged old men. She stopped him at an unoccupied cot and helped him in. She said she'd get his painkillers and left.

  It's about time.

  On his back, his new vantage point showed a drop ceiling setup of white tiles.

  Everything else was green-painted and glistening with a thick shiny lacquer. There were lamps overhead, sunk into the ceiling and dimmed to an infernal orange.

  Let's do it.

  The nurse returned with a tray of goodies on a rolling table: syringes, paper cups with pills-lots of little cranking toys.

  The sight of this selection brought a broad smile to Borland's face that he quickly covered with the thin blanket. His eyes must have glittered with glee.

  So he couldn't drink. Big deal.

  The nurse lifted a needle off the tray and squirted a fine thread of clear liquid.

  "Morphine," she said, pulling at Borland's hospital pants, indicating she wanted him rolled on his side, "and I'll give you Ativan pills f
or anxiety."

  "Sure," he said and chuckled as the needle drove home. A pocket of heat grew molten in his left buttock.

  Morphine…

  CHAPTER 9

  Borland laughed his way out of a haze.

  A pair of doctors helped him from the bed, slung his arms over their shoulders. Their faces were hidden behind surgical masks. One set of eyes was Asian; the other, well he couldn't see the other that was turned away. So he giggled and swayed as the two smaller men struggled to walk him to the operating room.

  He chuckled as he passed along the line of beds. Men of all kinds: either sleeping, cranked and manic or looking worried, peeking out from their covers. Like the seven dwarves…

  Borland laughed as they passed through a set of doors.

  Then he smiled at nurses and at a group gathered around a tabled patient on his right.

  "Is that the buffet?" he said through gritted teeth.

  The morphine was crawling around in his body, cleaning his joints and filling his muscles with delicious comfort and spectral strength.

  Borland took a deep breath to clear his head and found his legs, steadied himself as he limped between the doctors through another set of doors and into a simple room with IV stand, table, a few machines and little more.

  " Sssk…sss… Centipede," he slurred the word and chortled. "My roommate needs medical attention." He laughed.

  "Up on the table, Mr. Borland," the doctor with dark Asian eyes said in an incongruous Scottish brogue. "Then we'll talk."

  "Well, my room-bug doesn't speak English so you have to translate." Borland's knees buckled as he laughed, and the doctors groaned under his weight. " Room-bug…did you hear me?"

  A nurse hurried in and the three of them heaved Borland onto the operating table.

  He felt like he was floating.

  The nurse threw a sheet over Borland and tucked it tight, immobilizing him. She pulled his left arm out and positioned it, held it in place with a Velcro strap and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around the bicep. Then she dug for a vein in his left hand and slid an IV needle into place.

  "Penicillin," she said, tapping the clear IV bag before setting up a small curtain across Borland's chest.

  "I'd prefer a martini," Borland drawled, his mouth starting to feel gummy.

  Gravity fastened him securely to the table. His mind was spinning but clear as he watched one doctor leave and the other with the Scottish accent remain.

  "We have rather traditional methods here, Mr. Borland," the doctor said. "But not that traditional."

  "I got you, I got you." Borland tried to make a shushing sound but it came out like a wet raspberry. "Mum's the word."

  The doctor was already at work. Borland felt a minor pressure on his gut and then the nurse asked him…

  "How are you feeling, Mr. Borland?" She read from a list on an e-reader. They'd quizzed him during admission and he told them lies he couldn't now remember.

  "Pretty damn good, blue eyes," he growled, then burst out laughing. "Where's my martini?"

  "They're a favorite of mine too, Mr. Borland," the doctor said, glancing over at him as he worked. "Gin."

  "It's Captain," Borland corrected. "And once we made martinis out of photocopier fluid down at the stationhouse. But, we couldn't drink it."

  " Captain?" the nurse said. "Are you in the military."

  "Variant Squad back in the day," Borland explained, and then shifted a furtive look between his doctor and nurse. "Can you keep a secret? Because Variant's coming back…but it's a secret."

  He tried to make the shushing sound again, but the deep breath required to do it caused him to brown out.

  Hello.

  Zombie.

  Centipede.

  What?

  His vision returned and his mouth was alive with taste. The nurse was dabbing his lips with a cotton swab soaked in lemon juice.

  "That's good," he said, smiling lasciviously and then gestured with his head toward the doctor. "But won't he get jealous?"

  The doctor laughed and said: "We received a bulletin about the Variant Effect from Metro Law Enforcement."

  "What did I tell you? It's coming back…" Borland said, suddenly aware of a hard pressure in his gut and a growing point of heat. He felt a tug, then heard a mechanical click. "It's still in the water and so here-PRESTO!" He tried to clap but his arms were restrained. The table shook. The IV drip pulled at the back of his hand.

  "You know," he said, catching the doctor's eye. "I feel fantastic."

  "It's the morphine," the doctor drawled. "A favorite of mine too." He let Borland hang for a second. "But never on duty."

  "Oh." Borland laughed. "That's the perfect place for it."

  " Captain Borland?" the nursed mused, "I think I've heard that name."

  "Probably lady, I mean, well I don't like to say but…" Borland mumbled, his lips tangling, and then: "I was pretty well-known back in the day."

  "What for?" The nurse looked puzzled.

  "Oh, well." Borland shifted his eyes away. "Good stuff too."

  Borland shrugged and then apologized. "Tell me if I'm distracting you doctor." He made a fist, and then chortled, his mind rolling away from the big lights overhead. Then he said: "You know, we nailed Variant in Parkerville about a month ago." He pursed his lips. "But it's a new one."

  The doctor paused, his eyes thoughtful.

  "Nurse, how are Captain Borland's vitals?"

  The nurse answered: "Pulse and respiration are fine. Blood pressure is high but close enough to pre-op to be considered normal."

  "What's wrong?" Borland asked.

  The doctor smiled with his eyes as he leaned over the cloth curtain.

  "No worries," he said. "It's just that you seem very aware, Captain Borland. Are you feeling all right? We could give you something else, if you're anxious at all."

  "I feel great!" Borland laughed. "But I've never been a cheap date. Especially after the old cranking days." He smacked his lips as a wave of warm exhaustion splashed over his mind. " Uhn. Gahn," he mumbled, for a minute in a swoon. The nurse swabbed his lips with lemon juice again.

  Things went dark and then…

  Where the hell am I?

  "There we go, Captain," the nurse cooed. "Is that better?"

  And Borland felt his mind kick awake again.

  "So, Captain Borland, how bad is it?" the doctor asked, his muffled voice carrying real concern. "Are we headed back into the day ?"

  "What do you mean?" And then Borland had a sinking feeling. What did you tell them?

  "You said the Variant Effect was coming back." The doctor peered over the curtain. "How bad is it?"

  "What?" Borland's mind raced. What else did you tell him? The pressure and heat were building in his abdomen. He tried to cover. "I meant before, like it was coming before. It was bad back then, is all," Borland grumbled and laughed, looking up at the doctor. "No worries."

  He froze.

  There was something up there behind the doctor, a shape, no a shadow.

  A man? Someone watching.

  Borland laughed as a wave of euphoria flooded him.

  The centipede?

  "Who's that?" he said, squinting into the overhead lights.

  "Pardon me?" the doctor asked, flinching, following Borland's gaze up over his shoulder. He looked back to Borland like nothing was there.

  But Borland could see a shape. Something dark and broad moved into the space over the doctor's shoulder.

  "Right there," Borland said, gesturing with his chin and laughing. "Some ugly bastard."

  Borland's vision cleared and the shape resolved into something big. It had a green, segmented body. And there were eyes-beady and shiny like its glistening shell-watching from under long fuzzy antennae while its serrated jaws dripped.

  Borland laughed as it wrapped its barbed legs around the doctor's shoulders like it was an old friend.

  "A centipede," Borland said, unable to feel any terror. He laughed. "Like the one in my room.
But way bigger."

  The doctor looked over at the nurse and nodded.

  "Don't worry, Captain Borland," he reassured. "Hallucinations are common with the mixture of drugs in your system."

  "A big green one," Borland continued. "Can't step on him though…"

  The doctor looked at the nurse and chuckled, and Borland laughed.

  Then something caught the nurse's eye because she looked past the doctor and her hands came up. The doctor just started to turn when a solid crunching sound knocked him forward onto Borland. He rolled off and out of sight. The nurse barely got a scream out before there was another crunch. Her body shook and she fell against Borland, her cheek striking his before she hit the floor.

  Borland laughed.

  The strange woman who couldn't eat chicken was leaning over him.

  "Hey!" he shouted gleefully. " You're all better."

  "Hurry," she said, yanking the IV out of his hand and pulling the sheets off him. The woman heaved Borland into a sitting position, and then removed a pair of clamps from flaps of skin around the wound in his belly.

  He only felt a minor tug.

  Borland kept smiling as she tied his pants and closed his top. The thin material was immediately saturated by a wave of blood. "We've got to get you out of here. NOW!"

  She helped him off the table. He started laughing, one arm over her shoulder as strange sensations pulsed in his chest and stomach. He steadied himself against her.

  She snatched a scalpel from a tray by the table, and led Borland out of the room.

  "We can't let them do this!" Determination hardened her features. She looked like a cop.

  Borland laughed and staggered along with her. He felt wet and cold on his legs, but that was all he could feel.

  The morphine still warmed his soul.

  CHAPTER 10

  "This way!" the strange woman cried, pulling Borland by the arm. He was dizzy. His vision blurred as his arms and legs wobbled, felt like they might collapse. But there was miraculous, drug-induced energy flowing through him as he sprang along after her, blithely medicated, giggling about the coppery cold air that tickled his torso and thighs.