Nomad

by Jamie Nash

  “What?” His voice cracks. “It’s a cool movie. A Disney classic.”

  “Sure,” I say. He seems really defensive about it. “It’s just kind of for babies, right?”

  “It always makes me cry. The part with the mom. And Thumper is cool.” He sinks down on the table, his voice trailing off. “To be fair, I haven’t seen Grease 2.”

  Enough chit-chat. I turn to the row of cabinets at the far side of the room. In one bin I find a long, translucent plastic tube of pills. Each of the tubes has a little six-digit serial number stenciled onto them. There must be something for Shaft’s pain here. Hero’s too. But nothing is labeled. I don’t know if “610634” is aspirin or birth control.

  Stacks of bags hold a slimy, yellowish fluid. It’s for IVs. I had one stuck in me once in high school. The first time I drank, I spent the night puking my guts out. My aunt drove me to the ER, and they ran three of these fluid bags through my veins. Hated wine coolers ever since.

  Shaft hacks and spits blood. I’d ask him if he’s okay, but damn, he’s got a piece of metal rammed in his gut. I grab an IV bag of clear liquid, bite it open, and hand it to Shaft. “Here. Drink.”

  He sucks down about half of it before taking a breath. “How do you know it’s even safe to drink?”

  “Does it taste like poison?”

  “Kind of.”

  I grab the bag and gulp some down. It’s bitter and slimy. I contort my grimace into a smile. “Yummy.” I hand the rest back to Shaft.

  He raises it but stops short of his lips. “I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.”

  I pat him on the shoulder. “Just lie back, okay. And don’t drink too much of that.”

  He lies back and closes his eyes. He’s scaring me. I worry he might not be able to reopen them. I pluck a plastic bag of loose gauze from the wall and toss it to Crazytown. He’s still spinning his sword-saw like Conan the Barbarian. He stops to catch it. “Merry Christmas,” I say. He tears into it and starts wrapping his head mummy-style. He’s way overdoing it. I hope he leaves room to breathe.

  I move to Hero. He’s unconscious again. I crouch beside him and raise an IV bag. “Hey … I got something. It’s not exactly New Coke, but it’s something.” His head jiggles, but his eyes don’t open. I squeeze the yellow stuff onto his lips. Most of it spills on his cheeks. He coughs. It sparks him a bit. He gazes at Crazytown whose face is completely wrapped in bandages as he waves two saws in the air. Hero grumbles something in Japanese. I’m guessing “Idiot.” His eyes wander back to the open door of the surgical room.

  “It’s a medical room. A sickbay.” I affect a soothing Mr. Rogers’ voice. “It has medicine. It’s not labeled, but if we can figure it out, maybe we can give you some to take away the pain.”

  “Cut.” His eyes narrow on the spinning saws Crazytown whips through the air. “Cut legs.”

  Crazytown suddenly stops whirling his blades around. Even he’s taken aback. Or excited.

  “Cut. Cut.” Hero says.

  I get it. I do. But I’m trying not to acknowledge it.

  “Cut legs. Cut legs.”

  “No.” He’s delusional from the pain. If I was in his situation, I’d be asking to have my head cut off. Cutting is crazy.

  Crazytown disappears into the medical room. A clanging sound follows. He struts out holding a thick bone saw. “This should do it,” he mumbles through the fresh gauze covering his mouth.

  I shoot to my feet. “No fucking way.”

  Crazytown sags. “Why do you get to decide? He’s gonna die.”

  “No doubt he’ll die if you go at him with that thing.” I nod to the saw.

  “He’s the engineer.” Crazytown waves the saw at Hero. “If we can get him free, we get out of here. It’s logic.”

  Logic? Playing Jack the Ripper in a spaceship isn’t logic. I huff. “Say we get out of here. Then what? Go for a spacewalk?”

  “Maybe. What’s your plan? Sit here and wait until some creep shuts off our oxygen?” Crazytown asks.

  “We do it fast,” Shaft’s labored voice calls out from the medical lab. “Drag him onto the table. The machine can fix him.”

  I laugh, not because it’s funny, it’s insane. “We don’t even know how to use that thing.”

  “It’s got an autopilot.” Crazytown ambles up to the lab’s computer and clicks around the keyboard. “We just press the magic button and watch it work.”

  I step inside the lab. “What are we saying here?”

  Shaft stares at me, Crazytown too. I guess I’m the deciding vote. “We all need to be on board.”

  I’m not giving this the okay, the permission. Somebody needs to be the grown up here. Boys are dumb. These boys especially.

  “We’ll try it on me first,” Shaft says. “If it doesn’t work—”

  “You’ll be dead,” I say.

  “That’s one unfortunate possible outcome,” Shaft says. He’s pale and shaky. His chest barely moving. His voice is froggy, clogged with phlegm or blood. “I need someone to hit the button.”

  No way. This asshole wants me to throw the kill switch. No way. “Please. There must be something else.”

  There’s fear etched on his sweat-moistened face. His eyes search mine. It’s probably the pain talking. The desperation. He wants me to call it off.

  Keys tap out behind me. Crazytown is on the computer. “Fasten your seatbelts, kids.”

  “Stop!” I shout, but it’s already too late.

  The W.I.T.C.H. Doctor’s arms recoil above Shaft like a cobra waiting to strike. Everyone flinches. Shaft’s eyes widen. Metal braces lash out from the sides of the bed. One wraps across his shoulders, the other across his thighs. They tighten. Pin him down. He’s trapped in place.

  “Oh, God!” Shaft squeals, suddenly much more alive than before. “Oh, God …”

  The contraption barrels ahead on the large ball bearings that magnetically roll along the ceiling, positioning itself just above Shaft before pivoting to the left, just a nudge. Its cyclops eye projects several green lasers that trace his body. The beams narrow onto his wound and paint a digital grid around it. It’s strategizing. Diagnosing.

  I inch back toward the door. So does Crazytown. Best to give this thing room to work.

  The robot spins again and lowers. Its articulated arms stretch, then punch into the wall. Tools snap into their extremities. Saws. Drills. Staplers. Properly geared, the arms rise like elephant trunks. The one in the lead holds a plastic anesthesia mask.

  “No!” Shaft tries to turn, but the metal band bracing his skull gives zero wiggle room. He strains against it, the chords in his neck tensing. The mask stamps onto Shaft’s face, muzzling his mouth and nose. His cries are suffocated. His eyes flash a primal glare. He tussles beneath it, his every muscle tensing, fighting. A hiss emanates from the mask. Immediately, he deflates like his soul has been sucked from his bones. His eyes deaden, roll backward, and then slowly close. He’s out.

  The tentacles spin putting a scalpel and a saw in lead position. A wave of dizziness washes over me. This needs to stop. I glance at the computer.

  Crazytown registers my doubt. “It’s too late,” he says. His giddy little eyes take in the show. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  A buzzing ten-inch saw descends toward Shaft like something out of a James Bond movie. I turn away and face the wall of knives and sharp things as the saw grinds. I can’t watch. Think happy thoughts.

  I hear the blade’s teeth chewing through flesh. Then come the splattering and sputtering. Then the cutting. Deeper and deeper.

  “Aw man,” Crazytown giggles darkly. “This is crazy!”

  Something metal hits the floor. The saw cuts off. The engines of the robot let out a deep growl. Then, more gushy noises—wet sounds—flesh cutting. The damn saw grinds again. A stream of blood rushes around my feet and runs through the vents in the floor. It’s dark, and there’s a lot of it. Too much. Something’s wrong. I look.

  Huge mistake.

 
I’m staring straight into a gaping hole that gives me a clear view of Shaft’s intestines, or kidneys, or whatever the hell that is. A bunch of hoses and suction tubes vacuum the ooze of milky pus around the wound. A wave of nausea swirls at the back of my throat. I brace against the wall to keep from fainting, then close my eyes again, allowing my ears to bear witness to a cacophony of squishy noises. Robotic whirs erupt, followed by the sloshing of guts and whir of a vacuum.

  “Is it working?” I tuck myself behind Crazytown with my head down. “Is he okay?”

  “I think so,” Crazytown says, less giddy now. “It’s hard to tell.”

  Three loud thunking sounds startle me. Instinctively, I open my eyes. The robot is stapling Shaft’s guts closed. A robotic arm punches an adhesive bandage over the whole mess. Blood from a bag is pumped back into his arms, replacing all that he’s lost. It squeezes its last drip, and then the robot lifts it away. The entire machine retracts back to the ceiling, tucking into its original position.

  The restraints slide away from Shaft’s arms, legs, and head. The motors and gears silence. Vacuums in the floor drink his blood. Everything stills.

  Silence.

  Even the spaceship is holding its breath.

  A chime heralds a new message on the computer screen.

  EMERGENCY PROCEDURE COMPLETE.

  HAVE A NICE DAY!

  A dot matrix printer sputters to life. After a few seconds of grinding and shaking, it stops, spitting out a single piece of paper. A parting gift, a souvenir Shaft can take back to Earth. It lays out everything you need to know about bandage care, pain management, things to look out for, and a prescription for penicillin.

  The security camera pivots from me to Shaft. Suddenly, he bursts awake, gasping for air. “Is it over?”

  I hold my mouth, stifling a cry, and give a slight nod.

  Shaft fingers the bandage that’s wrapped around his gut hiding the offensive post-surgery staple job from view. “Still a little groggy.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not dead.” I’m awed. He was a goner a few minutes ago. This thing is beyond anything you can find at Country General. He’s been fixed in a matter of seconds—his body intact, healthy, and in good shape, too. Working out. The Burt Reynolds chest hair isn’t doing him any favors.

  “What?” He asks.

  I offer him my frilly robe, trying not to show him I’m blushing. “Here.”

  He takes it. “Not exactly my style.”

  “You can pick from the rack later,” I say.

  Crazytown steps over, marveling at Shaft, speechless—almost a religious moment. “Incredible.” He pokes Shaft’s bandage like it’s some magic trick waiting to be solved.

  Shaft’s eyes flash white and his muscles tighten. He swings off the table, grabs Crazytown’s wetsuit, and pins him against the wall, rattling the medical tools. “Are you insane?” Shaft hisses through gritted teeth.

  Crazytown raises his hands in apology. “In all likelihood.”

  Shaft holds him there for a bit just to send a message. His shoulders flex, drawing my attention.

  “What’s that?” I touch his arm. A dark tattooed barcode is inked onto his right shoulder. He releases Crazytown who falls to his knees choking and rubbing his throat.

  Shaft touches the mark. Beneath the barcode is the number 177. “What the hell?” he says.

  I yank at the neck of my wetsuit, pulling the material down below my right shoulder. I have one too.

  I’m 125.

  Same with Crazytown, he’s 049. “Maybe those are our names. Like robots,” Crazytown says. “Like R2-what’s-his-face.”

  Shaft slides on the robe covering up this new mystery. He smacks Crazytown in the arm. “You should go next. Fix your burns.”

  “I like my burns.” Crazytown straightens his mummy-like face rag, trying to cover up the gross and oozing parts of the burns on his cheeks. He checks out his reflection in the shiny surgical blades. “Besides, I’d rather get out of here. Get Mr. Engineer working the door.”

  Shaft approaches the display of surgical tools hanging on the walls. He grabs the nastiest bone saw of the bunch. It has a jagged row of razor-sharp teeth that would make a great white shark proud. “This one should work.” He flicks the blade making its steel ring. He points to a rack of tourniquets. They look like black belts. “We’ll need those too.”

  Phase two of this grisly experiment. I feel a vomit coming on.

  The guys file into the control room. I grab the tourniquets. I’m tourniquet girl now. Hero’s unconscious again. I hope he’s dead. I mean, that would be horrible. But nothing compared to the shit that’s about to go down. The bulkhead pulverizing his legs wasn’t our fault. But the second we start slicing into his limbs, that’s on us. The guys approach Hero.

  Shaft squats down and gently shakes him. “Hey there, chief.”

  “What are you doing?” I grab Shaft’s shoulder and dig my fingers in just enough to get his attention. “Why would you wake him up? Just do it.”

  “Yeah.” Shaft stands. “I just thought it was right to let him know.”

  “He already gave us the okay. It’s probably easier to cut without all the screaming and flailing anyway,” Crazytown adds. Can’t argue with that. Without another word, Shaft and Crazytown position themselves on opposite sides of Hero. They ready their saws against the back of his thighs. “Make sure it’s even.” Crazytown adjusts Shaft’s blade positioning. “You don’t want to give him two lopsided leg stumps.”

  Shaft offers me a pair of surgical scissors. “Here.”

  I hesitate, still keeping my distance.

  “Come on,” Shaft says. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I take the scissors and cut through the legs of Hero’s blood-crusted wetsuit. The suit has a stubborn bit of a spongy elasticity too it. My patience gets the best of me, and I finish the job by tearing the rest away with my hand, exposing the black and purple swollen flesh. The discoloration and disfigurement look inhuman. The damage is well beyond his knees—the door must have sent shattered fragments all the way up his thigh to his butt.

  Shaft glances away, pretending he’s staring at the door. He’s been talking tough, but his stomach is probably doing cartwheels about now. Like mine. The bulkhead is flush against the floor. Hero’s legs must be crushed to mere millimeters beneath. The bones and tendons smooshed to razor-thin pancakes. “Maybe we should try to find morphine or something,” I say.

  Shaft shakes his head, still looking off into the chamber—anywhere but Hero. “The medicine isn’t labeled. We’d have no idea what we were giving him or how much.” He takes a deep breath, his voice cracking with doubt. “We need the tourniquets.”

  I hand them the belts. They tighten the loops just above the cutting zones and tug the plastic rods, cinching them to maximum tightness.

  “Is that good?” Shaft asks me.

  I shrug. “I hope.”

  He gives the tourniquet an extra tug. For luck, I guess.

  I kneel beside Hero. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s for me, something I have to say. But I don’t want him to wake up until long after this butchery is in the rearview. I take his near-lifeless hand in mine.

  The ceiling lights flicker, then stabilize. We all look, unsure what it means. Maybe the fire we escaped from is still raging beyond the bulkhead. Or God is trying to send us a message to stop this madness. More likely, whoever wants us dead is worming their way back into the system to eject us into space.

  From the look on Shaft’s face, he’s totally thinking the latter. “Let’s do this.” Shaft and Crazytown ready their blades like violinists waiting for a conductor. “On three.” Shaft’s knuckles whiten around the handle.

  Crazytown gives the slightest of nods, his face a mask of dread.

  “One …”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Two …”

  Shaft’s saw hand quivers.

  “Three!”

  The boys unleash adrenaline-fueled battle
cries. The saws eat into flesh. Hero roars in agony. My fingers are suddenly caught in a vice. Hero squeezes my hand, transferring every bit of pain he can muster into his grip. My knuckles crunch. My eyes bulge. And worst of all, my gaze lands right on the pumping medical tools slicing deep into Hero’s thighs. Arterial blood spurts and sprays, mercifully masking the bone and muscle beneath.

  I want to hurl.

  The blades burrow in deeper and deeper. Shaft and Crazytown work the saws like they’re in some sadistic county fair 4-H competition. Sweat glistens their faces. Their biceps bulge. Their arms pump fast, pushing the metal deeper and deeper into Hero’s legs. His cries fill every inch of the chamber. People can probably hear them back on Earth.

  “Hurry!” I say through tears and panic.

  They’re already hurrying, probably too fast—their cuts twisting diagonally and sloppily into Hero’s hamstrings. Crazytown’s blade is hidden inside the cut. He’s not laughing or joking anymore. He’s all business. Grim business. He wants this horror show to be over as much as me.

  On the other side, Shaft is pale and fading. His cutting arm is sluggish, his eyes dazed. He’s still recovering from the wound the robot just stapled shut. He slumps against the wall and nearly drops the blade.

  “Keep cutting!” I shout.

  Shaft jolts awake at my voice. Confusion clouds his eyes. His head wobbles. His eyes droop. He stumbles. He’s going to faint.

  I rip his saw away and take over. The jagged blade swims in a salad of blood, and bone, and ligaments. My stomach flip-flops. I swallow it down and grit my teeth. I can do this. Think happy thoughts. You’re just carving a turkey at Grandma Elton’s Thanksgiving. That’s not blood, it’s cranberry sauce. Hear that? Football is on TV. The Detroit Lions. Pass the sweet potato casserole.

  Crazytown’s saw clears the limb in a spray of gore. One leg free. We’re almost there.

  I buckle down, squeeze my eyes shut, and go for it. The cutting gets easier. I’m through the bone. This is the easy part. My pace quickens. The flesh surrenders to the tool. Hero’s not fighting as hard, which is sad. I need to get through a few more inches of muscle and fat.

  My saw slices clear through. Hero’s second leg falls free. The bile broils at the back of my tongue. I swallow it down. There are enough bodily fluids being splashed around at the moment. No need for more.