Boston Run

by David Robbins

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  Boston Run by David L.

  Robbins

  Chapter One

  His grey eyes snapped open with the abruptness typical of those who were brought back from the dead, and he stared at the yellow ceiling overhead in a state of dazed bewilderment. Where am I? was the first question his mind posed. He tried to lift his arms, but for some reason they wouldn't budge. What happened? was his second question. He knew he was lying on his back on a soft surface, although he couldn't remember how he got there. His throat felt extremely dry, so he swallowed and licked his lips.

  "Ahhhhhh. I see our patient is finally awake," said a low, kindly voice from somewhere off to his left. "How are you feeling?"

  He blinked when a white-haired man materialized above him, noting the man's lined, mature countenance and steady blue eyes. "Wh—" he croaked, trying to speak, his parched throat and strangely immobile jawbone strangling the word and causing him to cough.

  "I'm Doctor Milton," the man said, introducing himself.

  He realized the man wore a smock and had a stethoscope in an upper pocket. He attempted to raise his head, but couldn't.

  "I'll get you a glass of water," the physician offered, and disappeared.

  Footsteps and the sound of running water reached his ears, and he waited expectantly for the doctor to return, striving to concentrate, to attain mental clarity. There were so many questions he needed answered.

  "Here's your water," Doctor Milton said, returning with a small glass in his left hand. "Open your mouth and I'll pour."

  Gratefully, he complied and felt the cool liquid trickle over his tongue and down his throat.

  "You mustn't drink it too fast," the doctor advised, tilting the glass carefully and slowly until the last drop was gone. "There. Now you should feel a little better."

  "I do. Thanks," he replied, then addressed the physician in a rush, apprehension seizing him. "Why couldn't I do it myself? What's wrong with me. Why can't I move?"

  "There, there. Calm down," Doctor Milton said, and patted him on the right shoulder. "You can't move because your jaw, arms, and legs are under restraint for your own good. You were in a serious accident and you're in the hospital."

  "An accident?" he repeated quizzically.

  "Yes. Don't you remember?"

  "No."

  "Well, severe trauma often induces a form of amnesia. It's a technique the brain uses to protect us from memories too terrible to bear," Doctor Milton stated.

  "What happened?"

  Doctor Milton pursed his lips. "Are you certain you want to know?"

  "Yes," he responded, striving to recall the accident but drawing a blank.

  "Please."

  "I don't know," Doctor Milton said hesitantly. "I don't want to trigger a relapse. You only came out of your coma yesterday, and the few times you've been awake you were incoherent."

  "I was in a coma!" he exclaimed.

  "For three months."

  The revelation staggered him. He closed his eyes, his mind awhirl. "I don't remember."

  Doctor Milton chuckled. "Of course you don't."

  "What happened?" he asked again, opening his eyes. "You must tell me."

  "I don't know."

  "Please," he urged.

  The soft-spoken physician studied the patient for a moment, then twisted and deposited the glass on a stand next to the bed. "All right, although it's against my better judgment." He gazed at the man in the bed. "Three months ago you were working on a demolition crew in Wakefield. You were operating a bulldozer and you were in the process of tearing down an abandoned building when something went wrong. A brick wall collapsed on top of you, and you were pinned under the rubble for over an hour before your coworkers could dig you out. Then you were rushed here for emergency treatment." He paused. "You nearly died. The surgeons operated on you for ten hours, trying to repair your grave head wound. If there had been a few more bricks on top of you, your skull would have been crushed completely."

  "I don't remember," he reiterated in a strained tone.

  "Count yourself fortunate if you never do," Doctor Milton said. "You've had virtually no detectable brain activity for three months. Technically, from a legal standpoint, you were as good as dead."

  "I had no idea," he mumbled, endeavoring to recall the thinnest thread of memory, anything that would confirm Milton's statements. But why, he wondered, should he be suspicious of the physician?

  "You'll have a long road to recovery," Doctor Milton remarked. "There will be many hours of therapy involved. Even after you're released from the hospital, you'll be on an outpatient basis for a year, minimum."

  "What's the name of the hospital?" he asked absently, struggling to comprehend the implications.

  "I'm sorry. I should have told you before. You're in Kennedy Memorial Hospital."

  "Kennedy Hospital?"

  "Yes. You know. There were several famous Kennedy brothers who lived before the war. One of them became the President of the United States.

  Another became Attorney General, I believe. And the third one was…"

  Doctor Milton said, and stopped, scratching his chin. "Funny. I can never remember what the third one did to deserve having a hospital named after him. This was known as Massachusetts General Hospital until it was renamed in his honor."

  "Was I ever here before?"

  "No, I don't believe so. Why?" Doctor Milton inquired.

  "Because I don't remember anything about this hospital."

  "Give yourself time."

  "Where's it located?"

  The doctor seemed surprised by the query. "You don't know in which city you are?"

  "No. Should I?"

  "By all rights, yes," Milton said. He leaned over and examined his patient's gray eyes. "As I mentioned before, amnesia triggered by a startling experience is quite common. Forgetting about your accident, for instance, isn't unusual. Even forgetting a few minor details about your life wouldn't be out of the ordinary. But forgetting the name of the very city in which you were born and raised is highly irregular." He straightened and frowned. "We shall begin a series of tests immediately."

  "Can you remove the restraints?"

  "Certainly. I'll have a nurse attend to it in a minute," Doctor Milton said. "But first I want to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to them?"

  "I guess so," he replied, still feeling extremely confused.

  "Do you know the names of your parents?"

  The patient considered the query for a full minute before responding.

  "No."

  "Hmmm. What year is it?"

  Again the patient pondered for a while, then shook his head.

  "I have no idea."

  "How many years has it been since the war?"

  "What war?"

  "World War Three, of course."

  His forehead furrowed and he stared at he ceiling. "I don't know."

  Doctor Milton shook his head. "I didn't anticipate this. I'm afraid you'll require more extensive therapy than I indicated. We must gauge the full extent of your amnesia. Mister Berwin."

  The patient blinked a few times. "Berwin?"

  Shock etched deeper lines in the physician's face. "Don't you remember your own name?"

  "I…" the patient began, and grimaced as if in pain. "Dear Spirit! No! I don't know my name!" he exclaimed.

  "Stay calm," Doctor Milton reiterated. "I'm sure your condition is only temporary."

  Berwin shifted his eyes from side to side. "This isn't right."

  "What isn't right?"

  "I don't know," Berwin said. "I can't put my finger on it."

  "After what you've
been through, I'm not surprised you're disoriented,"

  Milton remarked. "As the saying goes, though, time heals all wounds. Give yourself time. Lots of time."

  Berwin sighed and looked at the doctor. "Will you have the restraints removed now?"

  Doctor Milton nodded and departed. Somewhere a door closed.

  The man named Berwin knit his brow in perplexity and racked his brain for a memory, any memory, of his past. A flurry of jumbled images surfaced and promptly evaporated, as insubstantial as the air he breathed, upsetting him immensely. How could he forget everything about himself?

  Even his own name! How was it possible for a person to lose his identity, yet remember how to communicate, how to converse and understand others? He didn't know who he was, but he knew the English language.

  What else did he know? Two plus two equaled four. The moon orbited the earth. The Bowie knife qualified as the most superb blade ever constructed.

  Berwin frowned, puzzled by his train of thought. Why in the world would he think of Bowie knives at a time like this? he asked himself. Was he a knife collector? He envisioned a pair of Bowies in his mind's eye and became oddly excited. But before he could reflect on the implications he heard a clicking noise, which he assumed to be a doorknob turning, and a second later a cheery female voice greeted him.

  "The doctor just told me the good news. Mister Berwin. I'll have those restraints off in a jiffy."

  He smiled at a pretty brunette attired in a white uniform who appeared on his right side. Her brown eyes regarded him in a friendly fashion.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Hello yourself, handsome," she responded, and gave him a playful wink. "I'm Nurse Krittenbauer, but you can call me Nancy."

  Berwin judged her to be in her thirties, a competent professional who thoroughly enjoyed her work. "I'm pleased to meet you, Nancy."

  "Oh, we met months ago," she replied as she began unfastening the strap securing his jaw. "I've looked in on you several times each shift, six days a week, for the past three months. I've taken your pulse more times than I can remember. I've bathed you and changed your hospital gown."

  She snickered. "I know everything there is to know about you."

  Suddenly his jaw was free, and he opened his mouth as far as he could and raised his head to discover he was in an immaculately clean room with white walls and a tiled floor.

  Nancy went to work on the straps binding his arms. She glanced at him and chuckled. "Are you practicing to swallow an apple whole?"

  "My jaw feels as if it's made of lead," Berwin replied, and opened and closed his mouth several times, stretching his jaw and neck muscles, relieving the stiffness caused by prolonged immobility.

  "I'll bet it does," Nancy said. She loosened the restraint of his right arm, then walked around the bed and began to undo the strap on his left. "I can imagine how antsy you must be to get up and move about, but you're to stay put until Doctor Milton returns. Is that understood?"

  Berwin nodded, staring at the loose-fitting green gown in which he was clothed. He saw his naked feet sticking up at the end of the bed. Looped around his ankles were wide black straps.

  "After being confined for so long to your bed, you'll need to recuperate slowly," the nurse continued. '"Don't push yourself. Take it easy. Give yourself time."

  "The doctor said the same thing," Berwin commented.

  "That makes it official," Nancy quipped. She freed his left arm and stepped to the foot of the bed.

  Berwin propped himself on his elbows and rotated his head from right to left, limbering his neck muscles some more. Suddenly vertigo afflicted him, swamping his consciousness in a flood of dizziness, and he collapsed onto his back.

  "Are you okay?" Nancy inquired.

  "I'm a little lightheaded," Berwin admitted.

  "Just lie there and breathe deeply," she directed him.

  He obeyed, and gradually the vertigo subsided, leaving a lingering feeling of weakness in its wake. His stomach unexpectedly growled.

  "Is there a lion under the bed or are you hungry?" Nurse Krittenbauer asked.

  "I'm starved," Berwin abruptly answered.

  "I'll ask the doctor if you can have solid foods. We've been feeding you intravenously since you lapsed into the coma." she said, and finished unfastening the straps. "There."

  Berwin wiggled his toes and moved his feet in small circles, restoring his circulation. He lifted his left arm and inspected the crook of his elbow.

  Several puncture marks were spaced close together over his most prominent vein.

  "Did the doctor say anything about notifying your mother and father?"

  Nancy queried.

  "My mom and dad are alive?" Berwin responded in surprise.

  "Sure. They've visited you practically every day. Why do you look so stunned?"

  "'I don't know. Doctor Milton mentioned them, but for some reason I assumed they were dead."

  "Did he mention your sister?"

  Berwin rose onto his elbows again, his mouth slack, flabbergasted. "I have a sister?"

  The nurse smiled. "Yep. She's six years younger than you are, I believe."

  "I didn't know," Berwin said sadly.

  "Doctor Milton told me about your amnesia. Don't take it too hard. I've seen many patients who couldn't remember people and places, and they all recovered. You'll be fine."

  "I hope so," Berwin commented softly, and lay down. He covered his eyes with his left forearm. "I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind."

  "No problem," Nancy said. "I'll check with the doctor on your food. You may have to take some tests first. Just don't move."

  "I won't."

  "Promise?"

  "I promise," Berwin assured her.

  She walked to the door, glanced at the forlorn patient for a moment, and exited the room, stepping into an immaculate, deserted corridor.

  Humming to herself, she strolled to the right, and she was less than eight feet from a junction when around the corner came Doctor Milton. They halted a yard from each other.

  "Did you remove the restraints?" the physician asked.

  "Yes," she responded dutifully.

  "You talked to him?"

  "Yes."

  "And?" Doctor Milton prompted impatiently.

  Nurse Krittenbauer smiled maliciously. "You were right. We don't need to worry. The stupid son of a bitch doesn't suspect a thing."

  Chapter Two

  Ten yards from the cabin he heard the low sobs and sniffling coming through the open window situated to the right of the front door and paused. The pitiable crying filled him with sorrow, and he had to force himself to walk up to the door and knock. He pasted a grin on his face and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt.

  No one answered the knock.

  He debated whether to try again or leave. She might want to be alone, and the last thing he wanted to do was contribute to her sadness. But he had volunteered to bring her the news. As much as he disliked the notion, he had to tell her.

  The sobbing came through the window, unabated.

  He knocked louder the second time, using his knuckles to pound on the door. Predictably, the crying ceased.

  "Who is it?" she called out.

  "It's me, Jenny. Hickok," he informed her, and nervously ran his right hand through his long blond hair, then stroked his sweeping mustache.

  "Just a moment," she said.

  Hickok could imagine her dabbing at her eyes and checking her appearance in a mirror. He glanced idly down at his buckskins and moccasins, wondering if it was too late for him to head for the hills.

  The front door opened.

  "Hello," Jenny said, greeting him, bravely mustering a wan grin. Her green eyes bored into his blue ones. Luxuriant blonde hair fell past her slim shoulders. She wore a pale green blouse and faded, patched jeans.

  "Have you heard any news?"

  "That's why I'm here," Hickok answered, and rested his hands on the pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers riding in a holster on each h
ip.

  Anxiety contorted Jenny's face and she placed her hands on his upper arms. "Well?"

  "I don't know how to tell you this," the gunman said with a heavy heart.

  "Out with it," Jenny urged, shaking him. "Please."

  "All right," Hickok said, and took a deep breath. "They took him away in a helicopter."

  The words seemed to shrink her before his eyes. She released him, her arms dropping to her sides, her chin drooping to her chest, her posture bowed as if under an enormous weight. "There's no chance of a mistake?"

  she asked almost in a whisper.

  Hickok wished that he'd let someone else offer to tell her. "No chance,"

  he assured her.

  "I was afraid of this," Jenny said.

  "It doesn't mean he's dead," Hickok declared, and immediately regretted his rashness when she looked up at him, a haunted aspect to her eyes. He tried to adopt a lighthearted attitude to lessen her remorse. "I reckon I know the Big Dummy as well any anybody, and I know he'll make it back to us safe and sound."

  "Tell me what you found," Jenny stated.

  "I didn't find the landing spot myself. The blamed mutants found a field about a mile south of the Home where a helicopter likely landed. At least, from the way all the weeds were bent and broken, and from the impressions left in the soil by the landing gear, we reckon a helicopter was used. We would've found the spot sooner, but the varmints who snatched your hubby were pros. They covered their tracks real well. And they sprinkled buck musk along their trail so the mutants couldn't track them by scent," Hickok detailed, and frowned. "Heck. It took us four days just to find where the coyotes jumped him."

  "I know," Jenny said sorrowfully. "I can't believe he's been gone a week already."

  "How's your young'un takin' it?" Hickok inquired.

  "Gabe cried the whole first day, but he's holding up remarkably well for a boy who isn't quite five years old," Jenny replied.

  "I saw him playin' with my sprout a while ago. They were havin' fun,"

  Hickok mentioned, hoping to cheer her by discussing their children. The tactic didn't work.

  "Who do you think took him?" Jenny queried, returning to their original subject.

  "There's no way of tellin'," Hickok said. "You know how many enemies we've made ever since we made contact with the outside world. Blade has made more than his share. The Technics, the Superiors, the Guild, the Dragons, the Lords of Kismet, or any one of the other cow chips we've stomped are possible suspects. Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin are still out scourin' the field. Maybe they'll find a clue."