Whiskey Romeo

by James Welsh

  It was down one of the hallways where Nash found the sound. He noticed that one of the many doors was propped open just a few inches, and that the tapping was squeezing its way through the crack in the door. Nash peered into the room and that was when he met Tumbler.

  The miner was sprawled out on a bed, his head resting on a pillow of his fallen hair. There were only patches of hair on his head now, and what was once thick was now as thin as a pond of ice. Even from where Nash stood, he could see death in the man’s eyes. Tumbler’s face was thin and pulled like fabric, and for a mad moment, Nash thought of a rag doll tossed in the street. But as dead as Tumbler looked, he was still bouncing a rubber ball off the wall, the ball hopping back into his waiting palm after every throw.

  The music stopped when Tumbler sensed that there was someone standing at the door. He caught the ball and pocketed it. “Was that too loud? That was too loud, wasn’t it? Sorry about that.”

  “Oh, no, it’s okay,” Nash said, entering the room. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen a rubber ball, I forgot what it sounded like. It brought back memories.”

  “You’re strange – it just brings back migraines for everyone else here.” Tumbler laughed, but that quickly turned into a rattling cough. It took a few moments for him to recover enough to say, “I’m Craig, by the way.”

  “David,” Nash said, looking around for a chair to sit down. But there was no chair in the room – the bed and a cabinet were the only furniture in the room. And so Nash stood, feeling awkward like usual. “Where did you find the ball? I can’t imagine there being many of those around here.”

  “It’s something I found back on Earth, years ago,” Tumbler said, looking at the ball as if it was the first time he had ever seen it. “I found it in the garbage. Can you believe that? Why would someone throw away something so amazing, I’ll never know. I’ve picked up a good throwing arm over the years.”

  “What’s your record for bounces?”

  Tumbler shrugged. “Something like nine hundred in a row – I lost count after that.”

  “The sound must drive you crazy after awhile.”

  “In a way it does,” Tumbler said, as he resumed bouncing the ball off the wall. “Routine does that to people. But the way I see it, it just makes the unexpected things all the more special.” Tumbler smiled wide. “Like days when I get visitors, for example.”

  His smile started evaporating, though, like puddle on the pavement. “You’re a new face – I take it you came in on the last frigate?”

  Nash nodded. “I just got in earlier.”

  “Did you get a good look at the inventory onboard?” Tumbler asked with big eyes.

  “I did.”

  “Did you see any medication?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” Tumbler breathed. What Nash didn’t know was that Tumbler was waiting for the day when a frigate arrived without a shipment of medicine onboard. Tumbler knew that would be the day that the charter would write him off for tax purposes – that would be the same day that he would die. The fact that there were replacement miners onboard this frigate had only made Tumbler nervous. But now he saw there was nothing to worry about. Someone somewhere thought he was still useful enough to keep alive – if only he knew the reason why.

  It was then that the secretary entered the room. Frowning, she said, “There you are, Mr. Nash. The doctor has been expecting you.”

  “Oh – sorry,” Nash said, a bit embarrassed. He turned back to Tumbler. “I’ll be back.”

  Tumbler smiled a bit. “Take your time – I’m just having a ball here.”

  ***

  “Come in! Come in!”

  As enthusiastic as the welcome was, Nash still felt a grip of hesitation as he entered the office. He always had a fear of doctors back on Earth, and immediately he knew that his phobia was not going to be painted over with this appointment. The office itself was the aftermath of something catastrophic, with a snow of books and loose papers scattered around the office, with drifts in the corners of the room. There was a thin fog of dust hanging in the air like tapestries, the filters in the ventilation system having not been replaced in years.

  And at the far side of the room, Dr. Kevin Bends sat at his desk, holding a book in his hands. At first, Nash thought that Bends was sniffing the book, with his face buried in the pages. But it wasn’t until Nash stepped closer that he realized that the doctor was actually drinking the book, from a straw that poked out of the cover. As if drinking a book was more normal than smelling it.

  At one time, Bends seemed like he was professional: Nash could picture him with trimmed hair, a clean-shaven face, and a steel spine. But the Bends that Nash saw before him was all that mattered. The doctor had messy hair, a beard that was growing like weeds in a field, and a lopsided posture. As he dropped the book on the floor, he turned and saw his patient standing in front of him.

  “And you must be Mr. Nash,” Bends said, holding his arms wide as if expecting a hug. Nash just stood there, staring at him. Bends dropped his arms and continued, “Well, sit down, and we’ll get started.”

  Seeing as how he had no other choice, Nash sat down on a nearby chair, brushing a book off the seat. As Nash sat down, Bends stood up – or at least tried to stand up. Shaking his head and blinking hard, Bends said, “As I understand it, you’re here to, um…”

  Bends looked down at a piece of paper sitting on his desk.

  “Ah, immunizations! If you want, you can get a physical too while you’re here. We’re offering a sale on that, you know – a two-for-one deal.”

  That must have been a joke, because Bends laughed – Nash wouldn’t have known it was a joke otherwise. A bit nervous, Nash said, “If now is a bad time, Dr. Bends, I can come back later…”

  “Nonsense!” Bends exclaimed, waving off the suggestion. “I couldn’t ask for better timing. The strangest thing happened just a few minutes ago, and I need someone to share it with. My last patient – one of your crewmates actually – was just in here, and as he was leaving, he found a piece of paper tacked to my door.”

  Bends rummaged through the mess on his desk, mumbling to himself as he did so. Then, he triumphantly pulled a note out of the heap and waved it like a flag of surrender. “Do you know what this is?” Bends asked.

  The doctor was waving the note so viciously, Nash couldn’t read it, let alone understand where he was going with this story. Nash shrugged and Bends persisted. “It’s a letter from an old friend of mine, Jules. The funny thing is that I haven’t seen him in years – as a matter of fact, no one has. Not since I killed his wife…you know, accidentally. Since then, he’s vanished. Some people say that he’s a ghost, but can a ghost write a letter threatening to kill me? I didn’t think a ghost could hold a pen.”

  Bends looked around and suddenly realized that his office was a disaster. “Excuse the mess. I was trying to find the letters that Jules sent me in the past. I’ve been collecting the evidence, so that I can take it to Chief Latch and have her laugh in my face again. She told me before that it’s all some hoax, but I’ll prove her wrong!”

  “I’m sure you will,” Nash said, saying whatever it took to get out of the conversation. Nash wasn’t so much unnerved by the threats as much as he was by the smile painted n Bends’ face. Most people would be terrified of being stalked, but Bends was drawn to the cool shadow of the hunter in the heat of the grasslands. In the end, all Nash could figure was that Bends was trying to be brave in the face of his end. He didn’t realize that Bends was actually thrilled to be reading the last page in his story, so addicted to death that if no one else was around, he would have to do.

  And that was when Bends saw it: the nanoneedle brush sticking out of the snow of paper, its handle blossoming in the winter. Bends suddenly stopped his frenzy and turned back to Nash with a strange, little smile on his face. Bends remembered that there were still victims left to harvest. “I almost forgot the reason why you’re even here – and to think, you almos
t got away with it!”

  Nash winced, already feeling the pain. Just a minute later, the pain had caught up with him. He was massaging his shoulder blade, where Bends had run the brush. As quiet as the brush’s needles were – with the incredibly small needles cutting through the skin like wind – the injection was much louder and made itself heard. It felt like fire ants were being poured into his blood, the veins being clogged with writhing pulses of bugs. His body had absorbed the crawling pain like memories, and he wondered if it was something he could ever forget.

  “You probably hate me now, but you’ll thank me later,” Bends said sagely. “Believe it or not, you won’t survive long without that injection in your veins. Every miner who goes up into space has taken the same shot. It’s the only thing stopping a solar flare from rearranging all of the puzzle pieces in your body. You either get the shot, or you get cancer the next time a solar storm hits Harbor.”

  Nash didn’t see a difference between Bends and cancer. As Nash stood up, Bends asked, “So, are the rumors true? Are you here to replace Tumbler?”

  Nash was surprised to hear what sounded like genuine concern in the twisted doctor’s voice. Not only that, but he was shocked that a rumor like that could be so contagious, with the entire colony resenting him for something he didn’t do. Nash shook his head. “I’m just here to replace the poor souls you lost in that mining accident a few years ago – that’s all.”

  Bends brightened. “Oh! That’s good then.”

  Nash wanted to believe that, as evil as the man felt, he was still a doctor who cared for his patients. But again, there was so much about Bends that he had yet to learn. Bends didn’t want Tumbler replaced, because the doctor knew what that meant: it meant that the charter no longer had any use for the sick miner, and they would order him killed. But this would have been heresy to Bends, who not only knew that the charter had poisoned Tumbler but had been studying the poison’s effects for years. He was fascinated by the poison’s constantly evolving symptoms, to the point of being hypnotized by them. He wasn’t going to let the charter tear such a beautiful piece of art.

  As Bends loaded the next immunization into the nanoneedle brush, Nash noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Sitting on the nearby desk was a glove for a left hand, worming its way out of the mess of papers. He had never seen a glove quite like that before: the glove itself was a metallic gray, and there were plastic canals that were stitched into the fabric. In each vein, Nash saw a green liquid flowing.

  It was only then that he realized what it was he was looking at: an epione glove. He had only heard about them, never able to afford one himself. They were a relatively new invention, having been marketed back on Earth for less than a decade. They delivered a slow but steady stream of powerful painkillers into a person’s hand, helping them cope with pain ranging from carpal tunnel syndrome to a pinched nerve to broken bones. They were precious back on Earth, where many people starved for doctors. That was why Nash was so disgusted to see it tossed so casually on the desk. Not only that, but it was missing its partner glove. Who knew where the right glove was at – certainly not Bends.

  And that was when Nash noticed something: the way the glove was positioned on the desk, its index finger was pointing towards the far wall. By instinct, Nash’s eyes followed the finger and saw a series of x-rays posted on the wall. Curious, Nash walked over, looking at the pictures, unaware that Bends was standing behind him, impatiently waiting to deliver the next immunization.

  From looking at the scans, Nash figured they had to be pictures of someone’s lungs. He could see the sacs, with the faint cocoon of ribs blanketing them. Nash wasn’t a doctor, but he couldn’t see anything wrong with the lungs. Looking back at Bends, Nash asked, “What’s wrong with this person?”

  Bends walked over and peered at one of the x-rays. He found a blotch on one of the x-rays and pressed his finger against it. “That right there is a carcinoma – a mass of cancer cells. This person would have had about a year to live, if they were lucky. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  “What happened to them?” Nash asked, noticing the past tense.

  Bends laughed. “You already know what happened to them. This is Galway Vita, the man who died on your frigate. I performed the autopsy on him just an hour ago.”

  Surprised, Nash looked back at the x-rays. He never had the chance to meet the poor soul, and to see something as intimate as the dead man’s lungs somehow seemed wrong. But then the scientific curiosity overtook him. Remembering what Stratos had said, about how the man had died, Nash asked, “So, did the fluid show in the x-rays?”

  Confused, Bends asked, “Fluid?”

  “Yes,” Nash said. He continued with less confidence, “There was fluid in his lungs, wasn’t there?”

  Bends shook his head. “There was nothing in his lungs except the carcinoma. They were as dry as the deserts back home. Where in the hell did you get the idea that there was fluid?”

  “I…never mind.”

  “Enough talk,” Bends said, holding up the nanoneedle brush. “It’s time for your next shot.”

  ***

  “Hey David, you mind passing that book over?” Coil asked.

  Nash handed the book over – an outdated technical manual on the colony’s launch fleet – but not before taking a sip from it. “You know, I wasn’t much of a reader before, but I think I might pick it up as a hobby.”

  Coil laughed. “Well, this a great place to start. Everyone here is literate, if you know what I mean.”

  Nash’s earlier meeting with Tumbler had been paying off in ways Nash was only beginning to understand. Word had somehow passed from Tumbler to the miners that Nash was a good man, and that he wasn’t there to threaten anyone as the rumors suggested. Nash was eating his dinner, alone, in his room in the miners’ longhouse, when he had heard a knock on the door. He opened it to find the three miners who he had met at the dock earlier. That meeting had been cold and awkward. Now, though, they were standing in front of him with warm smiles and books in their hands. They invited him over to the shore of Lake Henlopen, one of the underground colony’s large lakes, for some “reading.” While he wasn’t much of a reader, Nash agreed, eager for a second chance at an introduction. He didn’t know that the colonists hid their whiskey in their books, due to the charter banning the drink.

  “That is amazing how they did that,” Nash said, marveling at the invention. He couldn’t understand how someone could not only hide whiskey away in a book, but could hide so much of it.

  Wales shrugged. “It’s not that amazing when you think about it – people will go to any lengths to keep a secret.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Nash said.

  “So, tell us about Earth,” Wales asked abruptly, his words warm with whiskey. “Is it as much of hellhole as we remember?”

  “It is, but people are starting to climb their way out of the hole,” Nash insisted, although his mind was not as confident as his voice.

  “That’s brave of them to do that,” Wales said. “It’s not something we talk about much here – the past that is. So I don’t know what made you three leave. But I know I left because I was a coward. They promised order here on the colony, and I thought that was better than the anarchy back on Earth any day of the week. It wasn’t until I got here that I saw the truth. Sure, there’s nothing but chaos back home, but there’s a certain freedom in that. Here, we have order: rations, bans, and tyranny. I mean, the charter would never think to hire a clown and bring him here to the colony. Sure, it would boost spirits around here, but there’s no return on an investment like that.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you,” Coil quipped, “but the colony’s lack of clowns was the whole reason why I came here.”

  They laughed at this. As they did, Nash looked out over Lake Henlopen. The lights dug into the roof of the massive cavern dove into the water. As the lights swam and floated in the lake, they reminded Nash of summers back in Dauphin. He would spend his midnight walkin
g along the bay, being able to see the entire time. That was because huge schools of jellyfish, one of the few animals able to survive in the oceans now, would congregate in the bay for a few months of the year. It was a new breed of jellyfish, one that the scientists had never seen before, coaxed out of the deep ocean by the changing world above. For its mating season, the jellyfish would glow a fiery red, so that they could find one another in the dark water. And so the bay would burn throughout the night, casting the shores in sunset colors. As that reel of memories came flooding back, he realized that nothing had changed except that he wasn’t watching his movie alone now. It was the first time in a while that he had felt warm – although that could have been the whiskey talking.

  And that was why, even with a spray of whiskey in his veins, Nash still had trouble with the question he was about to ask. He thought that he was too polite to ask, but his curiosity got the better of him. Finally, he asked, “So I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how exactly did those miners die? The ones from a few years back?”

  At that, the camp around him fell silent, and Nash found himself in a garden of statues. There was a brief second of panic, as he realized he shouldn’t have brought up such a painful memory. But their silence was not out of grief but something even more troubling.

  Wales was the first to speak. “We just don’t know,” he shrugged.

  “You don’t?” Nash asked. “There must have been an inquiry.”

  “Oh there was,” Coil said acidly. “If there’s one thing our charter likes to do, it’s trying to stop a disaster after it happens. But even after the investigation, they still couldn’t figure it out. All they know was the ship was heading out to repair one of the drills near Carina. And that’s all they know for sure – after their radio had gone out, it was as if the miners were already dead. The committee finally gave up and said a solar flare had taken out their controls.”