Carrion Comfort

by Dan Simmons

  “Great,” said Natalie. “Assuming all this is true, where does it leave us?”

  “With the same plan we first discussed in February,” said Saul. “Which will get us killed,” said Natalie. “Quite possibly,” said Saul. “But if we are going to remain in the swamp with these poisonous creatures, do you want to spend the rest of your life waiting for them to bite you or risk being bitten while hunting them?”

  Natalie laughed. “A hell of a choice, Saul.”

  “It remains the only one we have.”

  “Well, let’s go get the gunny sack and practice catching snakes,” said Natalie. She gazed up at the gold dome of the Baha’i shrine gleaming on Mount Carmel and looked back at the freighter disappearing out at sea. “You know,” she said, “it doesn’t make any sense, but I have a feeling that Rob would have loved this part. The planning. The tension. Even if it is all nuts and doomed, he would have seen the humor in it.”

  Saul touched her shoulder. “Then let’s get on with our crazy planning,” he said, “and not let Rob down.”

  Together they walked up toward the Jaffa Road and the waiting Lan-drover.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Melanie

  It was so nice to come home.

  I had grown tired of the hospital, even with the private room, the wing closed off for my convenience, and the entire staff there to serve me. In the end, there is no place like home to raise one’s spirits and aid in the healing pro cess.

  Years ago I had read about so-called out-of-body events supposedly experienced by dying patients, hapless individuals clinically dead on the operating table before resuscitation, and so forth, and I had put no stock in such stories— more absurd sensational journalism so common these days. But that is precisely the sensation I experienced upon regaining consciousness in the hospital. For a time I seemed to be hovering near the ceiling of my room, seeing nothing but sensing everything. I was aware of the shrunken, curled body on the bed, and of the sensors and tubes and needles and catheters attached to it. I was aware of the hustle and bustle of nurses, doctors, orderlies, and others as they worked to keep that body alive. When I finally reentered the world of sight and sound, I realized that I was doing so through the eyes and ears of these people. And so many at once! It had never been possible for me— or for Willi or Nina, I knew— so totally to Use someone that clear sensory data came from more than one person at a time. While it was possible, with experience, to Use a stranger while keeping control of a conditioned cat’s-paw, or, with even more effort and experience, to Use two strangers by alternating control quickly back and forth, access to such clear sight, sound, touch, and ease of control as I was now experiencing was simply unheard of. More than that, our Use of others invariably involved awareness of our presence by those Used, resulting in either destruction of the instrument or the blocking of all memories afterward— a simple enough pro cess but one which left an inexplicable gap in the subject’s memory. Now I watched from half a dozen viewpoints and knew that the observers had absolutely no awareness of my presence.

  But could I Use them? Carefully I experimented with subtle exercises of control, having a nurse lift a glass here, an orderly close a door there, helping a doctor say a few words he would otherwise not have uttered. Never did I interfere so completely that their medical expertise was compromised. Never was my presence in their minds sensed by any of them.

  Days passed. I found that while my body lay in an apparent coma, kept alive by machines and constant vigilance, apparently confined to the smallest space imaginable, in reality I roamed and explored with an ease never before approached or dreamed of. I would leave the room behind the eyes of a young nurse, feeling the animal strength and vitality in her, tasting the spearmint gum she was chewing, and at the end of the corridor I would transfer an additional tendril of awareness— never losing contact with my young nurse!— to the mind of the Chief of Surgery, ride down an elevator with him, start his Lincoln Continental, and drive six miles toward suburb and waiting wife . . . all the while still in intimate contact with my nurse, the candy-striper in the hallway, the intern looking at X rays on the floor below me, and the second doctor now standing in my room looking down at my comatose body. Distance had ceased to be a barrier to my Ability. For decades Nina and I had marveled at Willi’s power to Use his subjects over greater distances than we could, but now I was by far the more powerful.

  And each day my powers grew.

  On the second day, just as I was testing my new perceptions and abilities, the family returned. I did not recognize the tall, redheaded man or his thin, blond wife, but I looked out at the lobby through the receptionist’s eyes and saw the three children and knew them at once: the children in the park.

  The redheaded man looked alarmed at my appearance. I was in the intensive care unit, a web of pie-shaped cubicles radiating from a central nurse’s station. Within that web I was tied into an even tighter web of intravenous tubes and sensor wires. The doctor moved the redheaded man away from the clear partition looking into what my nurse called I.C.

  “Are you a member of the family?” asked the doctor. He was a skillful, precise man with a mane of graying hair. His name was Dr. Hartman and I felt the nurses’ plea sure, anxiety, and respect when they were in his presence.

  “Uh, no,” said the large redhead. “My name is Howard Warden. We found her . . . that is, my kids found her yesterday morning, wandering in our . . . uh . . . our yard. She collapsed when . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” said Dr. Hartman, “I read the report you gave the E.R. nurse. You have no idea who the lady is?”

  “No, she only had on the bathrobe and a nightgown. My kids said they saw her walking out of the woods when they . . .”

  “And no real idea of where she came from?”

  “Uh-uh,” said Warden. “I was . . . well, I didn’t call the police. I guess I should have. Nancy and I waited around here for several hours and when it was obvious that she . . . the old lady . . . wasn’t going to . . . I mean, that she was stable . . . we went home. It was my day off. I was going to call the police this morning, but I thought we would see how she’s doing first . . .”

  “We have already informed the police,” lied Dr. Hartman. It was the first time I had Used him. It was as easy as pulling on an old and favorite coat. “They came and took a report. They seemed to have no idea where Mrs. Doe came from. No one has reported a missing relative.”

  “Mrs. Doe?” said Howard Warden. “Oh, like Jane Doe. Right. Well, it’s a mystery to us, Doctor. We live about two miles into the Park and from what the kids say, she wasn’t even walking along the access drive.” He glanced back toward the intensive care unit. “How is she, Doctor? She looks . . . well . . . terrible.”

  “The lady has suffered a massive stroke,” said Dr. Hartman. “Perhaps a series of them.” At Howard’s blank look, the doctor went on, “She’s had what we call a CVA, a cerebrovascular accident, what used to be called a cerebral hemorrhage. There has been a temporary cutoff of oxygen to the brain. As far as we can tell, the incident seems to have been located in the right hemi sphere of this patient’s brain, resulting in disruption of cerebral and neurological function. Most of the effects are to be seen on her left side— drooping eyelid, limb paralysis— but in a sense this may be a welcome sign since aphasia . . . speech problems . . . generally are associated with accidents in the left hemi sphere. We’ve run both an EEG and a CAT scan, and, to be honest, the results are somewhat confusing. While the CAT scan has confirmed infarction and probable obstruction of the middle cerebral artery, the EEG readings are not at all what we would expect following an episode of this nature . . .”

  I lost interest in the medical double-talk and returned my primary awareness to the middle-aged receptionist in the lobby. I had her rise and walk over to the three children. “Hello,” I had her say, “I bet I know who you’re here to visit.”

  “We can’t visit,” said the six-year-old one, the girl who had sung “Hey, Jude” as the sun
rose. “We’re too young.”

  “But I bet I know who you would like to see,” the receptionist said with a smile.

  “I wanna see the nice lady,” said the little boy. There were tears in his eyes.

  “I don’t,” the oldest girl said adamantly. “I don’t either,” said her six-year-old sister. “Why not?” I asked. I was hurt. “ ’Cause she’s weird,” said the oldest girl. “I thought I liked her, but when I touched her hand yesterday, it was all funny.”

  “What do you mean, funny?” I asked. The receptionist wore thick glasses and I found the view distorted. I had never needed glasses for anything besides reading.

  “Funny,” said the girl. “Weird. Like a snake’s skin or something. I let go real fast, even before she got sick, but it was like I knew she was real mean.”

  “Yeah,” said her sister. “Shut up, Allie,” said the oldest girl, obviously sorry she had spoken to me.

  “I liked the nice lady,” said the five-year-old boy. It looked as if he had been crying before he came to the hospital.

  I beckoned the two girls away from the boy, toward the reception desk. “Come here, girls. I have something for you.” I rummaged through the drawer and came up with two wrapped spheres of peppermint candy. When the oldest girl reached for one, I grasped her firmly by the wrist. “First let me tell your fortune,” I had the receptionist whisper.

  “Leggo,” the girl whispered back. “Shut up,” I hissed. “Your name is Tara Warden. Your sister’s name is Allison. Both of you live in a big stone house on the hill, in the park, and you call it the castle. And some night soon a huge, green boogeyman with sharp yellow teeth is going to come into your room when it is dark and he is going to chop you up into little pieces— both of you—and eat the pieces.”

  The girls staggered backward, their faces pasty white and their eyes huge as saucers. Their mouths hung slack with fear and shock.

  “And if you tell anyone . . . your father, mother, anyone,” I had the receptionist hiss after them, “the boogeyman is going to come for you tonight!”

  The girls staggered back to their seats, staring at the woman as if she were a snake. A minute later an elderly couple arrived asking directions to a room and I let the receptionist return to being her sweet, simple, slightly officious self.

  Upstairs, Dr. Hartman had finished explaining my medical condition to Howard Warden. Down the hall, Head Nurse Oldsmith checked medication for the patients, taking great care in double-checking anything labeled for Mrs. Doe. In my room, the young nurse named Sewell was gently bathing me with cold compresses, massaging my skin almost reverently. The sensation was only a distant one at best, but I felt better knowing that all possible attention was being given to me. It was good to be back among family.

  On the third day, the third night actually, I was resting . . . I never really slept anymore, merely allowed my consciousness to float, moving from recipient to recipient in a random, dreamlike way . . . when suddenly I became aware of a physical excitement I had not known for years, the presence of a man, his arms around me, loins thrusting against me. I felt my heart pounding, as the fullness of my young breasts pressed against him, my nipples erect. His tongue was in my mouth. I felt his hands fumbling at the buttons of my nurse’s uniform even as my own hands undid the clasp of his belt, tugged at his zipper, and grasped at his erect male member.

  It was disgusting. It was obscene. It was Nurse Connie Sewell in a supply closet with some intern.

  Since I could not sleep anyway, I allowed my consciousness to return to Nurse Sewell. I consoled myself with the thought that I was not initiating, merely participating. The night passed quickly.

  I am not sure when I had the idea of returning home. The hospital had been necessary for those first few weeks, that first month, but by mid-February my thoughts turned more and more to Charleston and my home. It was only mildly difficult to stay in the hospital without drawing attention to myself; by the third week Dr. Hartman had moved me to a large private room on the seventh floor and most of the staff was under the impression that I was a very wealthy patient deserving special care. This was true.

  There was a certain administrator, a Dr. Markham, who continued to ask questions about my case. He returned to the seventh floor daily, sniffing around like a hound on a scent. I had Dr. Hartman reassure him. I had Head Nurse Oldsmith explain things to him. Finally I entered the little man’s mind and reassured him my own way. But he was insistent. Four days later he was back, questioning nurses about the extra ser vice and care I was receiving, demanding to know who was paying for the additional medicines, tests, CAT scans, and specialist consultations. Markham pointed out that the business office had no records of my admission, no 26479B15-C sheets, no computer printouts of itemized costs, and no information on how payment would be met. Nurse Oldsmith and Dr. Hartman agreed to be present at a meeting the next morning with our inquisitor, the head of the Hospital board, the chief of the business office, and three other supernumeries.

  That evening I joined Markham as he drove home. The Schuylkill Expressway was crowded and it brought back bad memories of New Year’s Eve. Just before we reached the junction with the Roosevelt Expressway I had our friend pull his car into the narrow shoulder, turn on the blinking emergency lights, and step out to stand in front of the Chrysler. I helped him remain standing there for over a minute, scratching his balding head and wondering what was wrong with his car. When the time came, it was obvious: All five lanes filled with traffic moving at speed. A large truck on the inner lane.

  Our administrator friend jumped quickly in three long strides. There was time for me to record the roar of the air horns, to see the shocked expression on the truck driver’s rapidly approaching face, and to sense the disbelieving scurry of Markham’s thoughts before the impact sent me sliding back to other viewpoints. I sought out Nurse Sewell and shared her eagerness for the shift change and the arrival of her young intern.

  Time meant very little to me during this period. I would shift backward and forward in time as easily as I slipped from one viewpoint to the next. I especially enjoyed reliving those summers in Eu rope with Nina and our new friend Wilhelm.

  I remember the cool summer evenings, the three of us walking along the stylish Ringstrasse where everyone who was anyone in Vienna could be found parading in their finest livery. Willi had loved going to the Colosseum Cinema on Nussdorferstrasse, but the films there were invariably those boring German propaganda things, and Nina and I usually prevailed in coaxing our young guide to the Krüger-Kino where the new American gangster films were common. I remembered laughing until I cried one evening at the spectacle of Jimmy Cagney spitting words in ugly Austrian-German in the first dubbed talkie I had ever seen.

  Afterward we frequently would have drinks in the Reiss-Barr off Kärntnerstrasse, greeting other groups of young merrymakers and relaxing in the chic comfort of the real leather chairs while enjoying the play of light off mahogany, glass, chromium, and the gilt and marble tables. Sometimes a few of the more stylish prostitutes from the nearby Kruggerstrasse would come in with their dates and add a daring, illicit feel to the evening.

  Often we would end our nights out on the town with a visit to Simpl, the finest cabaret in Vienna. The establishment’s full name was Simplicissimus and I can clearly recall that it was run by two Jews— Karl Frakas and Fritz Grunbaum. Even later, when the Brownshirts and storm troopers were raising havoc on the streets of the old city, these two comics would have the patrons pealing with laughter at their satirical sketches of Nazi ste reo types blundering their way through a social encounter or arguing fine points of fascist doctrine while Sieg Heiling dogs, cats, and pass-ersby. I remember Willi roaring with laughter until tears ran down his red cheeks. Once he laughed so hard that he choked until Nina and I patted him resoundingly on the back and offered our glasses of champagne to him. Some years after the war, Willi idly mentioned during one of our Reunions that either Frakas or Grunbaum— I cannot remember which one— died in o
ne of the camps Willi had administered briefly before his transfer to the Eastern Front.

  Nina was very beautiful in those days. Her blond hair had been cut and curled in the most current fashion and because of her inheritance she could afford the finest silk dresses from Paris. I especially remember one green gown, cut very low in front, the soft material clinging to her small breasts, and how magnificently the green brought out the delicate blush of her peaches and cream complexion while oddly complementing the blue of her eyes.

  I do not remember who formally proposed that we play the Game that first summer, but I remember our excitement and the thrill of the vicarious chase. We took turns Using different catspaws— acquaintances of ours, friends of our intended targets— a mistake that we did not make again. The next summer we played the Game even more earnestly, sitting together in our hotel rooms on Josefstadterstrasse and Using the same instrument— a dull-witted and thick-necked working-class peasant who was never caught but who Willi disposed of later— and the act of the three of us present in that same mind, and sharing the same sharp experiences was somehow more intimate and thrilling than any sexual ménage we might have experimented with.

  I remember the summer we spent at Bad Ischl, Nina made a joke about the station where we had our single train change from Vienna . . . a small village named Attnang-Puchheim. Repeated at a quickening rate, Attnang-Puchheim soon became the sound of the train itself. We laughed until we could laugh no more and then would begin again. I remember the scolding glances of an old dowager across the aisle from us.

  It was in Bad Ischl that I found myself alone in the Cafe Zauner one early afternoon. I had gone off for my voice lessons as always, but the instructor was ill and when I returned to the café where Willi and Nina always waited for me, our usual table was empty.

  I returned to the hotel where Nina and I were staying on the Esplanade. I remember being slightly curious as to what impromptu excursion my friends had embarked on and why they had not waited for me. I had unlocked the door and walked halfway through the sitting room before I heard the sounds from Nina’s bedroom. At first I took them for noises of distress, and I ran toward her room with some naive notion of offering assistance to the chambermaid or whoever was in trouble.