by Unknown
His face was barely recognizable—a thin and feeble apparition. It was, more or less, just a skull.
Beyond the sickeningly eerie sight of a skull staring back at him from the bed—eyes blinking, mouth moving—Wyatt could also see every bone in his dad’s body.
Chapter 2
His name was William, but everyone called him Willy.
Her name was Helen and everyone called her…Helen.
Willy and Helen were the couple everyone in town seemed to know, one way or another. Either through personal friendship, or by knowing someone else who knew them.
They owned a large heritage home on a crescent right off the main drag, Baker Street. They’d raised their only son, Wyatt, in that home—in fact he’d been born there; upstairs in the third bedroom on the right.
The house had a large covered party verandah, and they loved to entertain. Even at their advanced ages now, they still held a party for their neighbors and friends at least once a month. And, all of their parties seemed to gravitate out to the verandah, which extended a full twelve feet in width and wrapped around the entire house. Their view was spectacular—they could see both the lake and the downtown in one quick glance. And, the hot Kootenay summer nights permitted those parties to extend into the wee hours of the morning.
Most people would groan and roll their eyes if someone told them that a bunch of seventy and eighty-year-olds held a loud party the other night. But, those would be people who didn’t live in Nelson. And those eye-rollers wouldn’t be considering the fact that these elderly people were the ultimate hippies—the ones ‘back in the day’ who always did what they said they’d do—went to Woodstock and romped in the mud, made love in fields of daisies, opposed any kind of violence or gun ownership, stood up to Nixon’s thugs at Kent State, carried signs protesting the Vietnam war. And, when the signs were ignored, those same hippies said ‘to hell with it,’ and snuck off to Canada, never to return.
They were the creators, the artists, the free thinkers, the happy spirits—grass and hash helped them see the light, but they never overdid it, and they tended to avoid booze like the plague.
A lot of those things were still true today, even at their advanced ages. They were Americans by birth, but Canadians by choice. When asked, they never slammed their former country—they would just shrug and say they didn’t give a shit. That America didn’t reflect their values then, and it sure didn’t reflect them now.
They were all believers of ‘live and let live,’ and of the right to enjoy your one and only life the way you want to live it, without apologies to anyone.
In quiet moments, Wyatt sometimes caught himself contemplating his parents’ attitude towards life, and the values of peace they had instilled in him. He was so proud of them and so very glad that he had parents like them. He found it easy to forgive their still occasional indulgence in getting a wee bit high.
Wyatt thought that the world could use a few more hippies. Why hadn’t that movement sprung up again? Where were the free thinkers? The challengers? The shit-disturbers? The rebels? That was probably why the world was in such sad shape, because there wasn’t a national conscience anymore, anywhere. No one cared, and no one seemed to speak up for peace and honesty. Not even the media. And, when no one spoke up, anyone could get away with anything.
Wyatt held his sobbing mother and refused to allow his gaze to swing back to the ‘containment’ room window. He didn’t want to see that image again.
His poor father. William, the sculptor, who had spent his post-military life carving heads and bodies out of solid chunks of rock and ice. Created masterpiece images of how the human body should look, had his work on display in parks and museums all over North America. He participated in the annual Lake Louise ice sculpture competition and had won the event four times.
But, Willy had never ever created anything that looked like the abomination of himself that was lying in that bed. He would have crushed such a creation to pieces and started all over again.
Wyatt was aware of the doctor standing off to the side. He gently pushed his mother out of his arms and eased her down into a chair in the hallway, facing away from the ‘containment’ room window. Then, he hooked his finger at the polite and respectful radiologist, motioning him farther down the hall away from his mom.
When they had moved halfway down the corridor, Wyatt turned the handle of a storage room door and motioned the doctor inside.
He closed the door behind him, then, with one quick move of his right hand, he shoved the doctor up against the wall. Bringing his face to within mere inches of Doctor Simpson’s face, he said, “Start talking to me, fast! What the fuck is that all about? What did you people do to him?”
Simpson stammered, “N…nothing, Chief. He…had a CT scan, that’s all.”
“There has to be something wrong with your machine!”
“I…don’t know about…that. We’ll have it checked. But…nothing that I can imagine would cause…cause what we just saw.”
Wyatt pulled his hand from the doctor’s chest and backed away from him.
“My dad is transparent. How is that medically possible? Did his skin thin from the radiation?”
Simpson shook his head. He seemed calmer now that Wyatt had backed off. “No, we’ve examined him. His skin has not lost any of its thickness—it seems as if the pigment has temporarily disappeared.”
“Temporarily? You mean he’ll be okay?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, he’s already improved over the last hour. It looks like a temporary condition. I’m sure he’ll look normal in no time at all, and his vital signs are all strong. There appears to be nothing medically wrong with him.”
Wyatt shook his head and frowned at the doctor. “That’s an idiotic thing to say. There’s obviously something medically wrong with him. You just don’t have a clue as to what it is.”
“Yes, I hear you. Wrong choice of words.”
Wyatt leaned up against the doorframe. “Doctor, I’ve never seen anything so hideous in my life. I don’t know what effect this will have on my mother, but you need to perhaps prescribe some sedatives for her. This is the man she’s spent almost fifty years of her life with, and right now he looks like he’s been in a coffin for that long. It breaks my heart—that’s my father in there. Someone has to have some answers.”
Simpson nodded. “I’ll prescribe something for her. And, we’re going to search for answers. My specialty is x-ray technology, as you know, and I can attest to the fact that there has never been a case like this before, a reaction like this to any kind of radiation. Even extreme radiation poisoning from exposure to nuclear meltdowns hasn’t produced symptoms close to this.”
Wyatt lowered his eyes to the floor, not knowing what else to say.
Simpson crossed his arms over his chest, and cleared his throat. “Chief, did you know that your father has never had an x-ray for anything his entire adult life?”
“No, I hadn’t known that until my mom and I convinced him to come in for the CT scan. I was surprised about that—he’s been pretty lucky over the years, I guess.”
“Highly unusual. And the CT scan shows no signs of osteoarthritis, which for his age is also unusual. In fact, his bone structure looks as healthy as a man forty years younger.”
Wyatt shrugged his shoulders. “He keeps himself in shape.”
“He doesn’t wear glasses.”
Wyatt shrugged again. “Must eat all the right stuff.”
The doctor persisted. “He has a full head of hair.”
Wyatt nodded. “Yes, he’s quite the specimen for his age, no doubt. He’ll probably outlive us all.”
Simpson took a step closer, and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Are you aware that your father has every single one of his original teeth? And that his dental charts and records show the last filling he ever had was back in 1949?”
Wyatt’s mouth went instantly dry. “No, I didn’t know that. But, why were you looking at his dental charts?”
“He comes for dental checkups at the clinic here, which is part of the hospital. His records are part of his medical file.”
“No fillings, no false teeth, no crowns or root canals? Nothing at all?”
Simpson shook his head slowly. “Nothing at all. All he’s ever had done were regular checkups and dental hygiene.”
“Jesus.”
“Have you ever noticed your dad’s tongue?”
Wyatt could feel his heart beating faster with each question. “No, not that I can recall. I mean, who takes notice of things like that? He doesn’t exactly go around sticking his tongue out at people.”
“It’s scaly. Like fish scales.”
“Oh, c’mon, doctor. It sounds like you’re trying to invent diversions from what really happened here today. Scaly? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. Find a reason to take a look—ask him to stick his tongue out and say ‘Ah.’
“You should know also that he vomited after just a couple of minutes of the scan. We stopped the machine and pulled him out. While he was in there, he sat bolt upright and just vomited all over his chest. After we cleaned him off and prepared him to go back in, we started noticing the change in his skin texture. That’s when we moved him into the containment room.”
“I’ve never known my dad to be sick even one day of his life. He must have been nervous about the scan.”
Doctor Simpson put his hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “He kept saying over and over again, ‘It’s too bright. Can’t see, can’t see.’”
Chapter 3
Willy Carson could see very clearly. His eyes had always been perfect, eerily perfect. Well, okay, a bit of an exaggeration. They hadn’t always been perfect—only really for the past sixty-five years of his life.
Ever since…
Despite the state that he was in, he could see clearly through the little window out into the hospital corridor. And, it broke his heart.
Willy didn’t need a mirror to tell him what his face looked like. His son’s expression said it all. Wyatt’s face was the only mirror he needed.
He watched as Wyatt stared at him, mouth agape, his handsome features contorted into a mask of horror. Then, just as quickly, he turned away, holding onto Helen. Helen had only allowed herself a half-second glance and that had been enough to bring her to tears once again. It had been the second time in the last hour that she’d looked at him, this time only slightly shorter than when he came out of the damn CT scan.
He had been told to never have any x-rays done. But, that was so long ago now, it was just a distant memory. He was told that he probably wouldn’t need them…ever.
Ever since…
He was told that his bones would be so strong that a break was highly unlikely, unless he did something really stupid.
Well, he finally did something really stupid—falling down the steps off that damn verandah. And, it had hurt like hell. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he had broken something this time.
Despite that, he still didn’t want to go to the hospital, remembering the advice…or, more like orders…that he’d been given sixty-five years ago. But, Helen had persisted, and she’d gotten their son on the phone to help her convince him. He relented, more because he didn’t want to let the two of them down. And, he had to admit, his left hip hurt like hell. It didn’t now, but it did then.
He should have just waited. Listened to his own instincts…and listened to the orders that still rang in his ears after six and a half decades. Orders that he was told had no expiry date, even throughout whatever decades of life he had left in him after leaving the military. He had been an officer, a Lieutenant, with obligations of honor and secrecy. Obligations like that never expired.
They had visited him several times over the last few decades—he didn’t even really know who ‘they’ were. Different people each time, always in dark suits, even the women. They chatted with him, asked how he was doing, feigned concern about his health…all designed to get him to open up about what he’d done or what he’d said. They were always interested in any unusual symptoms that might have made an appearance. There hadn’t been any, other than the obvious things that they already knew about. Nothing else had happened, and they seemed relieved to hear that.
And in parting, they always made a point of reminding him of his obligations of honor and secrecy. Even though he was a Canadian now, they reminded him that his citizenship did not make any difference whatsoever.
Willy glanced down at his hands, arms, chest and legs. No wonder Wyatt and Helen had been horrified—he himself was horrified. He could only imagine how his face must look. He pulled up the elastic on his boxer shorts, and took a peek down below. Funny, his penis seemed to be the only part of his body that looked normal.
But…encouragingly, it appeared as if the skin on the rest of his body was starting—slowly but surely—to regain its integrity. He could still see his entire bone structure, but it wasn’t as visible as it has been an hour ago.
Willy looked around at the three white-garmented attendants who were doing all sorts of little duties at his bedside, none of which seemed all that important. One was checking the tube that had been inserted into his right forearm, another was pushing buttons on a beeping machine that was apparently monitoring something wired to his head. And, yet another was standing at the foot of his bed reading a chart.
The way they were dressed, covered from head to toe, they must have thought he had some kind of communicable disease. Willy chuckled to himself. That would be so much easier—at least they could maybe cure that. What he had could never be cured. And, they would never know that it couldn’t be cured.
He smoothed the fingers of his right hand over his left forearm. Strange, the skin felt exactly the same as it always had—the same thickness, the same elasticity. It was just see-through now; that was the only difference.
But, the reality that Willy couldn’t ignore was that it was worse this time around than the first time. Much worse. How bad would it be if this ever happened again? If the reaction was this accelerated after a sixty-five-year absence, what on earth would happen the next time?
He would just have to be careful to make sure that there wasn’t a next time.
That thought caused him to close his eyes and remember back to the first time:
It was a cold and brutal day in November, 1950. Willy had already been in Korea for almost six months, and had advanced quickly to the rank of Lieutenant.
He liked to think his promotions were because of his university education and his skill at leading men, but he knew deep down inside that because so many officers had been killed they were scraping the bottom of the barrel now.
Thousands of American soldiers had already been slaughtered in the Korean War and it was only six months old. Willy was twenty-two years of age, and he was surprised that he’d lasted as long as he had. It was his first war, and he hoped that it would be his last. It was labelled as being more rapidly brutal than even WWII. Probably because they were fighting against the Chinese now, too, not just the North Koreans.
Gallantly defending South Korea against Communism, the Americans were convinced the cause was a noble one. The Chinese had warned the Americans that they would jump into the war to aid their North Korean allies, if the battle came too close to their borders. The American generals ignored the warning—and of course it happened just as the Chinese had threatened.
Willy was attached to the 1st Marine Division, and commanded a small platoon of four Marines. All of them looked up to him as their leader, despite the fact that he didn’t really have a clue as to what to do or how to do it. He had only been a Marine for a few months, but in war he guessed that was a lifetime. You were a veteran after just a few days, because so many were dropping like flies.
The ‘Battle of Chosin Reservoir’ was where it happened.
They were in retreat, trying desperately to get back to the coast. Winter had struck in full force and more Marines than
he could count were being hauled off with severe frostbite. Luckily, Willy and his small platoon had managed to not lose their winter clothing as so many others had. Retreat had a funny way of causing soldiers to run for their lives and leave their belongings behind.
The Chinese were ferocious—they weren’t the least bit tolerant of retreat. Their barrages continued despite the fact that the Marines had already been ordered to get their asses out of there.
But, they were now hunkered down in the Chosin Reservoir; nicknamed ‘Hell Fire Valley,’ and it had that name for good reason. It was indeed hell.
Willy and his four-man team were crouched in a culvert. Rifles in hand and as alert as they could be after having been awake for the last forty-eight hours. The Chinese were just over the next ridge. Coming hard.
Their orders were to resist until reinforcements arrived. Thousands of Marines and infantrymen were hiding in similar culverts all along the valley, waiting desperately for a break so they could continue their retreat.
It was a pitch black night…and then suddenly it wasn’t.
Willy looked up. The lights from an aircraft were beaming down close to their position, moving along the ridge, scanning the terrain.
He knew that if they fired upon the aircraft it would be fruitless, and would only give away their position to the Chinese troops coming over the ridge.
His men followed his gaze upward. Willy continued to stare, allowing his eyes to adjust to this new light in the pitch-black night. He’d never before seen lights of this kind from any airplane or helicopter. They were…different.
Then, the lights shifted away from their position and Willy could more easily discern the shape of the craft.
He gasped. His men gasped with him.
It was unlike anything he’d ever seen.
Willy had heard of flying saucers before and always laughed off the reports. But, this thing came pretty close to the descriptions he’d read. It was definitely oval, but also had a crown—a crown that rose quite high above the oval base. From the crown came the lights that were probing and illuminating the terrain.
