by E. L. Giles
I command my brain to perform the simplest and most basic of tasks so that I won’t sink deeper into the vaporous mist that surrounds me. Raise your head, I command. I do. Good. Now, take a look around. I do. Now sync your brain with what you see. Analyze. What is going on?
What is going on?
Plenty, in fact. Georgia, another nurse, working with me, runs to the main door to someone who has entered the emergency room. A harsh cough fills my ears. I see Rose, an elderly worker that used to be a nurse but has been reassigned to cleaning all day long; she is currently cleaning blood stains from the linoleum floor.
There’s also Andrew, the surgeon’s assistant, who stands a few feet away from me. He shoves the old tray blocking his way to the surgery hall with his hip as he passes by, but he pushes it too hard, and its contents fall and become strewn across the floor.
“Dammit,” he grumbles, swearing at the clutter.
My eyes settle on him, watching as he raises his head and turns in every direction before his eyes stop on the swinging door of the surgery hall. Then he looks at the files in his hands and then at the main entrance doors that have opened. The doors frame the silhouette of a man who I can’t see clearly. Like me, he remains as still as a statue.
The files, the entrance door, the surgery hallway, the mess on the floor. The files, the entrance door, the surgery hallway, the mess on the floor. Andrew’s eyes bounce from one to the other, always in the same order. What to do first, he must be asking himself. Just as he leans forward over the mess on the floor, he turns his head, and our eyes meet and remain locked for what seems like an eternity before he says, “Lisa, LISA!” He snaps his fingers in my face, and I am drawn from my reverie. “The man in the hall.”
An order—that’s exactly what I needed to kick me back into gear and distract me from my grief. I nod, and Andrew exits through the swinging door, leaving the scattered contents of the tray on the floor.
I turn around and head toward the newly arrived man, walking past the shelves where we keep drugs and medicines before the shock of the man’s state pulls me back momentarily—livid face, empty eyes, and mouth hanging open like he’s already dead. For a moment, I wonder what I can do for him. I suck in a deep breath, bracing myself, and go to the man.
“May I see your PIN, please?” I ask. My voice feels unsteady.
The man slowly raises his left arm, placing it on the armrest, then starts rubbing it back and forth, trying to pull his sleeve back. I instantly reach for the hem of his sleeve and roll it over his forearm, noticing he was nowhere close to successful. Under the dirt and oil soiling his skin appears the tattooed PIN.
“Am—Peter—hurry—please,” he pleads.
Sweat beads in his hairline and rolls down his pale face, collecting in his eyebrows and untrimmed beard. I reach for a thermometer, place it under his tongue, and jump as I watch how quickly the mercury line rises, stopping at the 105º line. It becomes apparent that the cause of his fever is hidden beneath a soiled cloth wrapped around his right hand. The stench of rot that fills my nose as I unroll the bandage is enough to make me recoil. I hold my breath and pull off the cloth that sticks to the dried blood and pus coming from three missing fingers.
His eyes roll back in his head when they fall on the wound. “Hey. HEY!” I shake him. “When did this happen?” I ask.
“Saturday,” he murmurs, his voice barely louder than a breath.
“Saturday? Two days ag—wait a minute.”
I run back to the shelves and open every drawer only to find empty cases where the pain relievers should have been. I run over it again, delving into the corners, hoping to find one single glass vial of drugs.
“No. No. No. Fuck!” I slam the drawer closed under the perplexed gaze of Georgia and hurry to find Supervisor Callum.
“There’s no more pain reliever. Again,” I say reproachfully. “He’s feveri—”
“Seriously, citizen? Is this how you address your superior?” He scowls, reaching for the black phone on his desk.
“Oh, no. Sorry. Please, may—”
“Enough,” he says, cutting me off, pulling away from the phone. “His PIN?”
I stutter him the PIN, and Callum reaches for the required file. I hear lamentations of pain coming from the wounded man, whose name is apparently Peter. Each new complaint worsens the feeling of helplessness and compels me to run to Peter, but I can’t. I stay rooted to the floor as I wait for Callum to finish reading the few lines in the file. Can’t he go faster?
Peter’s pleading gradually stops as his head sways dangerously from side to side, eyes rolling back in his head again. I stand, ready to run to him, and then he wakes, the delirious mumbling and complaining starting over again. But I fear he won’t last long. Next time he might never wake up, I think as Callum finally raises his head from the file and looks about the room with creased eyes, searching for Peter.
Callum gets up from his chair, walks to Peter, and leans over him, surveying the damage with a couldn’t-care-less attitude that so perfectly fits his usual sullenness. When he comes back to his seat, he stops at my side.
“No reassignment possible. We must retire him.”
“Okay…and his fever?” I ask.
“I don’t care. Put him anywhere. But out of the way. The head surgeon will have a look at him later, I suppose,” he says, filling out the blue retirement file.
“But he may pass out again at any moment,” I say.
“Do you doubt my authority, citizen?”
“No, not at all. Sorry, but—”
“But get the fuck out of my sight.” He waves a hand in front of my face, motioning for me to leave. “That’s the best thing you can do. Put him aside and do whatever else as long as you stop harassing me.”
I nod one time, a boiling rage filling my chest. I suck back the words that build in my throat before I spit them at Callum’s face like deadly venom. I turn on my heel and head back to Peter under the nosy watch of my peers, aware of my helplessness toward his pain and distress. It’s frustrating and wrong, and I can’t help the tears from flooding my eyes—tears I blink away instantly, reminding myself, I must hold on.
I grab the stretcher where Peter lies and push it near the swinging door where the head surgeon is supposed to take over, hopefully soon.
“Where are we going?” Peter asks, twisting his head in every direction like he’s anxious.
“The head surgeon will have a look at you as soon as possible,” I say, patting his shoulder. I shouldn’t do that, but I can’t leave him alone without trying to comfort him. It feels wrong, and as long as Callum doesn’t see it, I guess it’s all right.
Peter breathes a sigh of relief, probably glad he’ll be taken care of soon and asks with a sudden strength lifting his voice, “And when will I get back to work then?”
“Oh, no more work. You’re retired.”
It’s like I’ve hit him with a hammer. He screams a little and then turns his head quickly, locking his eyes on me. They are widened by what looks like a deep and visceral fear.
“Retired? No, I can work. Tell them I can work. Tell them I can…” He keeps repeating it, raving like a possessed man.
His good hand reaches for the handle of the stretcher, and he starts to pull himself out. I reach for his shoulder and try to push him back onto it.
“Let go of me!” he cries, shoving my hand aside.
“Calm down, Peter. You can’t go away like that. What’s the matter?” I say as I struggle to keep him on the stretcher.
After several seconds of wrestling with this injured man, I am left breathless, but he finally gives up, and his massive body falls back on the narrow mattress. It’s like all hope has left him, and to my distress, he begins to sob hysterically. This muscular man, this maintenance worker, tall and bulky cries. Tears are welling and spilling out of his eyes.
I know I have already given Peter too much attention, but I can’t leave him that way, close to death, lost and delirious, mumbling inc
oherent things between crazy laughs. Throughout his deconstructed train of babble, only the words “dead” and “kill” pop out discernibly.
I press the back of my hand to his forehead. He seems even hotter than he was when he first entered the emergency room. I pick up a clean cloth from a drawer beneath the stretcher and wipe the sweat from his face, following the rough lines and folds while soothing him the best I can.
“You’re not going to die, Peter. Calm down. The head surgeon will have a look at you soon,” I say, but my words sound more like a robot’s, unconvincing even to myself. Will Peter last long enough for the head surgeon to have a look at him?
Peter stretches out a hand and grips the collar of my shirt, then pulls me closer to him with a strength I didn’t expect given his state.
“Do you know, kid, what it means to be retired?” he asks. “They kill us.” His voice turns grave as his eyes darken. For a moment, I doubt my own certitude. Yes, in that moment my stomach drops. I trust him; I believe him—that is until he bursts out laughing like a madman, hysterical chuckles that make me fear for my own safety. This man is going nuts, and I feel foolish, stupid even to have allowed myself to be dragged into the odd dementia of his crazy mumblings. It must be the fever.
“They will kill us. I swear it, believe me,” Peter repeats, still murmuring at first. Then his voice grows in intensity until he is yelling and everyone is looking at us.
His hand still grips my collar, and even with both of my own hands, I can’t pull myself out of his grip. It’s like trying to bend metal. With a twist of my torso, to the sound of his weird giggling, I finally free myself of him, and he is left to battle alone, throwing kicks and punches in every direction as if he’s fighting invisible opponents.
“THEY KILL US! THEY KILL US!” he screams.
“Peter, calm down you’re—” I try before he cuts me off.
“I WON’T!” he cries, dragging his body out of the stretcher.
With stunning speed, he strides past me and rushes to the entry doors, the wounded hand hanging beside his body and leaving a trail of blood on the floor. He disappears through the doors only seconds before they slam back open and he materializes once again, escorted by two guards.
“LET GO OF ME, FUCKERS! YOU WON’T KILL ME HERE!” Peter cries.
For a moment, I think things can’t be worse…
But I thought too soon. They can.
“What’s going on, for fucks sake?” cries the only voice I don’t want to hear.
Supervisor Callum gets up from his cubicle, eyes like daggers scanning the emergency room until they lock on Peter and the two guards. And then, his eyes scan for me. How badly I wish I could vanish through the floor right now…
“You again...” He rushes to me and grabs my shirt, just above my breast, and squeezes it tightly against my skin, twisting it with the material. I wince as he pulls me to him. “This must be a freaking joke.”
His lips are less than an inch from my face, his stale breath filling my nose. The tears that swim in my eyes are instantaneous. I can’t hold them in. A few overflow onto my cheeks first, and then the dam breaks. It’s too much for me to handle—Anna, my commitment to not give up, to hold on and keep my cool, I have failed at everything. I’ve screwed up like I never have before in my life, and I can’t even imagine what the consequences will be. Will I be held responsible for this mess? Whipped on the stage for everyone to witness? Anna, where are you?
I’m distressed. Every one of my peers is watching me. I am the focus of their attention. I am the focus of his attention, Callum. He likes to see my distress. He enjoys it, and a smile slowly turns up the corners of his mouth. He finally releases me, and I notice, as he turns around, that I had been holding my breath. I falter, gasping for air, and my body spasms from the sobs I try to suppress. I massage my aching skin where his hand was clenched. It’s sure to be one hell of a bruise, as no matter how I massage, the pain remains.
Pandemonium erupts by the entry of the emergency room, and I see Callum now standing before Peter, hands closed in fists that seem ready to pummel the already injured man. What could Peter do, being held from both sides by the guards? One of Callum’s hands relaxes, and as the other starts to uncurl, it stops, and Callum reaches for Peter’s head, gripping the thin strands of his remaining hair and tilting his head backward.
“Throw this bastard out of here,” Callum commands.
The guards turn, still holding Peter from both sides, and leave through the door. I watch the door close behind them and can hear the cries of Peter pleading for his life. Then the cries vanish, the door fully closed again, and there’s nothing else to distract Callum from me. Terror plagues me like a fever, cold creeping through my skin as I look at Callum turning back to me.
“Sorry,” I implore him with my eyes to be merciful.
“You”—he aims a finger at me—“aren’t going to save yourself from the whip.”
I knew this would happen, and all I can do is to watch Callum head to the black phone that has been ringing. I’m going to be whipped. I’m going to be whipped, is all I can think. Unrelenting shivers overtake me as I imagine the leather band striking my fragile skin. Callum picks up the phone with brutal force, stating my case to whoever is on the other end. His demeanor slowly changes into one of great rage, and then he slams the phone back on his desk, the plastic cracking under his hands. He turns back to me, dark eyes locking onto mine. I can’t see anymore the brown ring that usually circles his pupils.
“Looks like the odds are with you, citizen. Get out, before I kick you out myself,” he says.
I don’t wait. I turn on my heel and run without looking back. Everyone must be looking at me. I can feel their eyes stabbing into my back—Andrew, Georgia, Rose, and everyone else. But I don’t care as I leave the General Citizen Hospital with only this truth in mind: I’ve failed.
Chapter Five
I run to the nearest tram station bench and slump onto it. With my arms and legs stretched out, I rest my head on the edge of the backrest. My whole body feels numb, rigid, and for a moment I can’t move at all.
I contemplate the puffy clouds overhead, which move slowly as the wind blows them through the sky to unknown destinations—far from here, I hope—before the toxic vapors of Kamcala can eat them up. I turn my head and see in the distance a black curtain of clouds threatening the sunny afternoon. I wonder if I’ll have time to get to Marcus’s office before the storm hits. On the other hand, does it matter if I make it or not?
I second guess my thought; the storm has already started. Not the thunderous, rainy one I expect to encounter in a moment, but the one that grows inside of me with terror and apprehension. The one that has stolen my sleep for three days. And there’s the one I’ve left behind in the emergency room that is probably still ranting and raving, cursing my name.
“The odds are with you, citizen,” he had said.
Yeah, sure they are. And now that I’m about to head to my next and final appointment, I feel the worst of the cataclysm is to come. I can keep repeating to myself that I’ll be pregnant, that I’ll make it through, that everything will be okay, but I realize I’m lying to myself. At least I’ve been saved from the whip…
I let my mind drift through the thoughts that maybe I’m not made for Kamcala. I am weak, too weak for it. I stand out too much from the mold, I guess, and it’s unlikely I’m going to be sent back freely after this mishap with Peter.
Peter. Thinking of him brings back his words to my memory. What had he meant?
“They kill us!” The statement rings in my head, but I can’t make any sense of it. Was he having a psychotic episode after enduring such pain? Was it the fever that could explain his mad ranting? Was he insane? How could he have handled such pain, and for that long, before taking the risk to show himself at the emergency room? The man must have been crazy even before his accident. Otherwise, how could such an idea have sprouted in his head? How could such a tale be true and remain unknown? Ki
lled because we are retired? It’s nonsense. Pure madness. That’s what it is. The man was demented.
I shake thoughts of Peter and this whole day out of my head for a moment. I have greater concerns right now.
Who did Callum speak to on the other end of that black phone? Who could have had the rank to overthrow his orders? Who saved me from the whip? Why?
I straighten myself into a sitting position. My muscles feel lighter and smoother, and the stirring in my chest has eased. I give a quick look at the tall street clock and jump off the bench, noticing how late it is and how little time is left to get to Marcus’s office. How can I make it in five minutes? I don’t know, but I need to make it to my appointment as fast as possible. I turn around and start down Fourth Avenue, knowing a mile separates me from the BP Center, and that I have too little time left to get there.
A roaring sound grows behind me, and then the screeching of brakes fills my ears. I stop and turn as a black car with tinted windows stops short of me. One of the windows opens, framing the face of a man with a dark gray cap, the dim illumination of the lighting fixture over him casting shadows that spread over his eyes and make them look like two black pits.
“Get in,” the man says in a low, guttural voice.
I frown. “And where are we going?” I ask suspiciously as my apprehension grows. I keep a safe distance between myself and the car.
Who is he?
“Your appointment. Get in. Now.”
My hand reaches for the door handle. Since when do they send personal drivers to gather people? I eye the car, wondering what’s wrong with it. At first sight, it doesn’t appear that anything is, besides the odd fact that someone has sent it especially for me.
“I could have walked,” I say, opening the rear passenger door, resigned to follow the orders but still eager to know more despite my growing concerns.
The mysterious man says nothing, he only shifts forward. The doors lock. For a moment I must concentrate on my surroundings so as not to let panic take over me. The seats are black leather, soft under my fingertips as I feel the stitching of my seat. There’s a pleasant smell inside the car too, one I can’t name, but it makes me feel more relaxed for some reason. Fresh, cool air blows on me from the vents in the roof, raising the hair on my arm, and I’m about to ask the driver to lower the vent when I notice the grey-and-red uniform that matches his cap, and the unificator skull emblem patched onto it.
