UNDERCURRENTS
(a short story)
Roberta Trahan
“UNDERCURRENTS” © Roberta Trahan, 2016. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Tamara Cole
A previous version of this story was originally published in the horror anthology PHANTASMA: STORIES, edited by J. D. Horn and Roberta Trahan.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
What untapped magnificence lies dormant in the subconscious mind, just beyond our ability to reach? And what monstrosities lurk there, trapped in the shadowy recesses, waiting to be released? These are quintessential questions that haunt our daily existence.
The inaccessible sublevels of the human brain truly are the last frontier, the unexplored territory in which resides the as yet undiscovered potential of our race. Who are we, really? And what might we become? Somewhere within us already exists the key to unlocking our limitations. Every day science and medicine dig deeper into that particular Pandora’s Box to extract yet another missing piece to the ever evolving puzzle that is mankind. But once we can see the big picture, will we like the view?
Deidre Morneau is like any one of millions of people in today’s world, plagued by a common yet debilitating medical condition for which there is no explanation or cure. The desperate drive to escape her suffering takes Deidre on a dark and dangerous journey that ultimately ends with the beginning of another. At its heart, UNDERCURRENTS is a little like a super-hero origin story. But it is also a cautionary tale, one that might make you wonder how much you really want to know about yourself.
Maybe the answer to everything really is 42. Or maybe, the answer is far more mind-blowing than you ever imagined.
*
DEIDRE MORNEAU slumped deeper into the overstuffed arm chair facing her neurologist’s desk. With the tip of her right index finger, she nudged the skull-and-rose framed Betsey Johnson shades higher on the bridge of her nose and then hooked her long chestnut bangs over one ear before folding her arms across her chest. Not completely defeated or defiant, but definitely resolute.
“I’m done,” Deidre said, tilting her head to avoid the muted green glow from the old- school barrister lamp on the edge of the doctor’s desk. The headaches were so bad these last few months that even the most diffuse light was difficult to bear. “Seriously. No more tests or trials or experimental drugs. It’s like the treatments are worse than the headaches half the time. I need a break.”
Dr. Edam nodded slowly, peering over narrow black-rimmed readers and down his hawkish nose, regarding her with the same dispassionate, clinical hubris that made him so good at what he did. He was committed to succeeding where his colleagues had fallen short, and had promised Deidre he would find the source of her migraines.
“I understand, of course, but it’s a little disappointing to hear,” Dr. Edam said. “I was expecting this new calcitonin gene-related peptide therapy to yield real results.”
“It’s not like I’m not grateful,” Deidre offered. “I mean, I really don’t know how you got me approved for that trial medication in the first place, and I appreciate all you’ve done to help me these past two years. But to be honest, the new therapy stopped working after the third injection. I just didn’t have the heart to tell you.”
“I’m afraid it might take more time than you’ve given it to realize the full benefits of the treatment. The previous CGRP studies I’ve seen are very promising.” Dr. Edam tapped his manicured fingertips on the lacquered walnut desktop, trying to disguise his agitation. Finally he released a controlled but weighted stream of air through his perpetually flared nostrils. ”But, perhaps it is time we focused on chronic pain management, rather than waste any more time on preventative or curative measures.”
“Wait, what?” Deidre bolted upright, panicked. Was he quitting on her? Dr. Edam was the first person who seemed to understand what she was going through. He’d been the only specialist interested enough to seek out new options when all the traditional treatments had failed. He’d held her together these past two years, given her hope where no one else could, or would. “I’m not saying I want to give up. I just need a break.”
She snatched the sunglasses from her face to wipe away the sudden flood of tears burning her eyes. Her head pounded harder, louder as the emotional tension escalated. Deidre almost wished the vessels in her brain would burst. The pressure was unbearable. She needed relief. “I’m just so fucking tired.”
“Naturally,” he acknowledged, his flat toned detachment laced with mild yet apparently sincere concern. “This must be exhausting for you.”
“You have no idea.” Deidre sniffled and sucked up the sob that threatened to escape. She was tougher than this. “Maybe you could just prescribe some more of those sedatives. At least I might get some sleep.”
Dr. Edam frowned and tapped the touch pad on his laptop. “I thought you said those weren’t working for you anymore.”
“Could we try a stronger dose?”
He tapped some more, and then scrolled, presumably through her patient chart. “Hmm. Well, it looks like we already have you pushing the maximum on the pain meds. Anything more would be unsafe, not to mention illegal, unless it were IV sedation, but that can only be administered on an in-patient basis.”
“You’d have to admit me? To the hospital?” The idea didn’t sound half bad to her, especially now, with every pulsing vein in her body sending lightning bolts shooting through her bloodstream straight to her brain.
“Yes,” he said, “but I’m not actually suggesting that as a course of treatment, Deidre.” The muscles at the corners of Dr. Edam’s mouth drew his lips thin and tight as his frown deepened. “It would be temporary relief, if it even works at all. And frankly, I’m not sure it will. Over time, you’ve become fairly resistant to all the opiates.”
Deidre’s heart plummeted. He was telling her she was out of options, which meant this was the best her life was ever going to get. Hopelessness, the ever-lurking specter that haunted her consciousness, fed on her desperation with the greedy need of a soul-sucking parasite. It was getting harder and harder to stave it off. “There has to be something else you can do, Dr. Edam. Because, if there isn’t… ”
Her palms itched. That was a bad sign. Her migraine was about to flip into full velocity.
Deidre pulled to her feet. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. I need to go. Besides, I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“Don’t be silly, Deidre.” Dr. Edam stood and gestured to the chair. “Please. Keep your seat. Let’s just talk this through.”
“No.” She edged toward the door, pulse surging as dread punched her anxiety level into hyper drive. “I can’t do this anymore. I really can’t.”
Dr. Edam rounded his desk to intercept her, but Deidre was having serious trouble anticipating his approach. Her field of vision was narrowing but the images she saw were expanding. Dr. Edam’s face was pixelating, as if his physical matter was losing cohesion and dissipating into the tunneling periphery. Her face felt hot and everything was dissolving to black.
“Here.” He caught her by the elbows and maneuvered her back into the chair. “Let’s just check those vitals.”
“I’m fine,” Deidre said, well aware of how unconvincing the words sounded. This was not the first time a migraine had overwhelmed her, but it still scared the shit out of her. “The aura will pass, eventually.”
; “Of course it will,” said Dr. Edam, his platitude as placating as her protest. “But maybe you should wait here until it does. How’s your pain?”
“One to ten? About a twelve and a half,” she said, only half joking. “But it’s been worse.”
“Really?” He sounded surprised, any maybe, a little worried. “How often does the pain get this strong?”
“Not that often, couple of times a week, I guess. Most days the headaches are tolerable.” Deidre was struggling to think through the hammering in her head. “It’s just that they never let up.”
Dr. Edam hesitated while he measured her pulse. “And just how long have you been having these more extreme episodes?”
“Since the last time I saw you, so, about three weeks. Maybe four?”
“Hmm.” Once the doctor was satisfied that her pulse and heart rate were within reasonable limits, he returned to his seat to observe her again with clinical distance. “This could be an atypical side-effect of the CGRP serum I’ve been giving you.”
“Is that good, or bad?” Deidre’s vision began to refocus as the intense pounding slowed to a manageable throb.
“I’m really not the right person to make that determination.” Dr. Edam pulled a small notepad and pen from his shirt pocket and began to jot something down. “I think it’s time you met Dr. Herzog. He’ll be able to determine whether or not your increased pain is related to the study meds or not.”
“Doctor who?”
“Emil Herzog,” Dr. Edam said. “Quite a brilliant neurobiologist, frankly, and a former colleague of mine - which is how I was able to get my hands on that study medication, by the way. I shouldn’t be putting you directly in touch with him, especially since it was a violation of the trial protocols for him to give me the samples I have been administering to you, but at this point, I think it best that he examine you himself.” He tore the top sheet off the notepad and handed it to her. “I’ll call and let him know I’ve referred you to him. That way his office will be expecting your call.”
“Ok.” Another examination by yet another specialist was a groan-worthy prospect, but Deidre couldn’t help but feel the faintest twinge of hope. She couldn’t live like this forever, and she trusted Dr. Edam’s advice. “If you think I should.”
Dr. Edam offered her a bland smile. “What have you got to lose?”
*
DEIDRE TUGGED the hood of her sweatshirt as far forward as it would go and wedged an earbud into her right lobe, letting the other one dangle. She didn’t want to totally shut out the rest of the world, but sunglasses and streaming Sick Puppies screamo tunes went a long way toward deflecting unwanted conversation. The lyrics were dark and angry, and the music a little plaintive. Off-putting to most people, but for Deidre, it was the nearly perfect expression of a level of frustration she could not put into words for herself. Eventually she had become desensitized to the hardcore beat, which seemed to counterbalance the constant, dull thrumming behind her eyes. A weird sort of relief, but she’d take what she could get.
Giving up her car had been one of the most soul crushing sacrifices Deidre had ever made, but it was dangerous enough navigating life on two feet, let alone four wheels. Once the headaches had started spiking to the blinding point, she’d realized that driving was beyond reckless. For a while Deidre resented the loss of her independence, but soon she realized she’d only traded it for a new kind of freedom. She could get anywhere she wanted to go in the city by bus or light rail. Maybe not faster, but certainly safer and cheaper, and relatively stress free. The best part was being able to lose herself in a crowd. She wanted to be left alone, but she didn’t like to feel isolated.
The address Deidre was given when she scheduled the early morning appointment with Dr. Herzog was in a bleak, industrial area, nowhere near the downtown cluster of medical specialty pavilions and private hospitals known as Pill Hill. A quick web search for Extragen Biolabs had produced little more than a blip on Google Maps. It was almost like the research facility, or clinic, or whatever it was, had no history. Neither did Dr. Herzog, actually. Except for a few papers authored by Herzog in some outdated medical journals and a handful of references by other neurologists debunking his theories in theirs, she hadn’t been able to find out much about him.
Three blocks east of the intersection where she’d gotten off the bus, Deidre began to worry she was in the wrong place. Each successive strip of nameless warehouses and vintage brick office buildings felt more desolate than the last. So early in the day it made sense that the gritty side streets would seem abandoned, but it was creepy to be the only person walking along them.
The street number, displayed in two-foot high raised brass numbers next to a pair of windowless reinforced steel doors, and a brass plaque engraved with the word Extragen riveted on the right side, were the only indications to what was hidden inside the three story concrete slab building. Deidre was seriously regretting her decision to come, but pushed the call button anyway. After all, Dr. Edam had a point – what did she have to lose?
Seconds later, the electronic door lock clicked and buzzed, allowing Deidre entry to an elegantly appointed and yet eerily sterile reception area. The small room was lined on the parallel walls with mid-century modern black leather couches and gleaming chrome side tables set with matching cylindrical chrome lamps. The bare, white walls and matching tile floor chilled the room at least a degree more than the refrigerated air blasting from overhead vents.
Behind a modular black lacquer desk at the back of the room, in bizarre contrast to the stark décor, sat a pink-lipped ginger-haired receptionist dressed in a brightly colored retro seventies-style flower power blouse with an overly eager smile.
“Hi there! You have an appointment?”
The receptionist’s shrill chirp pinged off the unadorned walls and pierced Deidre’s ear drums. Sometimes the migraines made her sound sensitive as well as light averse. Deidre pulled the sunglasses from her face and made her way to the desk before responding, hoping to carry on the conversation at lower volume.
“I do,” Deidre said, “with Dr. Herzog, at 8 am. I was referred by Dr. Edam.”
“Ok,” The ginger, who was impossibly chipper, blinked at her computer monitor. “Yep, here you are. Deidre Morneau, right?”
“Right.” Deidre slipped her backpack off her shoulder and set it on the edge of the desk to unzip the side pocket. She stuffed her phone, sunglasses and earbuds inside and started digging for her wallet. “You need my insurance card?”
“That won’t be necessary,” chipper ginger said, slipping a pre-printed intake form onto a shiny black clipboard. “Any charges are covered under the study grant. But I’ll need you to fill this out the new patient questionnaire for me, ok? Both sides, and then sign and date at the bottom where it asks for your consent to treatment.”
Deidre turned back to the empty reception area, undecided, eyeing the doors at the opposite end. A quick escape was within easy reach.
“Just take a seat anywhere.” It was like chipper ginger had heard Deidre’s thoughts. “Someone will be out to get you soon.”
She was committed now, if only half-heartedly. Deidre sat on the end of the closest couch, plopped the backpack on the seat next to her, and began filling out the paperwork. Standard health history on a generic form, just like a dozen others she had seen over the years. Except for the last few questions, which were specific to her condition – how long had she suffered from chronic migraines, frequency and duration over time, pain intensity, acute onset or unusual symptoms, and treatments tried. The final question, which was the only one she actually had to take time to consider, asked her to note any recent changes. Deidre described the symptoms that had started since she’d begun the latest therapy, glanced at the consent to treatment clause, and signed the form.
As she rested the clipboard on the side table, Deidre noticed a thin layer of dust coating the table, the lamp, even the arm of the couch where she sat. “Does the doctor usually see patients here, or is
this mainly a research facility?”
Deidre glanced toward the reception desk, expecting a perky reply from chipper ginger. The receptionist was no longer there. “Hello?”
The unexpected isolation jolted Deidre to her feet. Not that she expected to see the receptionist crouched on the floor behind the desk, but the girl had to have gone somewhere. Deidre noticed another set of reinforced steel doors on the back wall, presumably connecting the reception area to the nursing station and exam rooms. How had she not heard them open or close?
Her anxiety level spiked and the dull throbbing behind her eyes spiked with it. Deidre snagged her phone from the side pocket of her backpack and tapped the first photo in her favorite contacts. Her roommate was probably still sleeping, but she needed someone to either talk her down and convince her to stay, or agree that the whole deal was too weird and she should get the hell out of there.
No bars. Not surprising, but fucking annoying. There was always some sort of dampening field in medical buildings and hospitals that interfered with cell service. Deidre texted her roommate anyway. The message probably wouldn’t go through, but she had to do something to calm herself down.
“U awake? Still waiting to see the doc…I might just leave, this place is sketchy af!”
Deidre glanced at the exit doors. Maybe there was time to go outside and make a quick call. Or, maybe she should go outside, and just keep going. But her head was killing her. Her brain pulsed with quick, sharp stabs that were increasingly brutal. Then her vision blurred, and the tubular overhead lighting suddenly seemed take on a greenish hue that tinged everything in the room the same hazy color. The worst migraines brought on some truly freakish visual disturbances, but this was unlike any aura Deidre had experienced.
Nausea swelled and swamped over her, nearly knocking her to her knees. It took all Deidre had not to puke on the white tiles. Part of her wanted to hug that floor and let the icy surface cool the feverish heat surging through her. She knew she needed help, but she also knew she needed to leave. Every sensibility she had was screaming at her to flee. She wanted to go home.
Undercurrents Page 1
