Fear Itself

by Jeff Gelb

Oh, shit!

  Wait a second.

  I think I know what’s happening. I remember, now. I did try to fight with that kid, and I think he might have—Shit, yes, that’s it!

  I’ve been shot!

  I’m dying!

  Oh, God, I’m afraid that might be what’s happening!

  I remember, now, he was holding a gun, pointing it straight at me. He was standing too close, and I made a grab for his wrist, hoping to push the gun away, but then there was an explosion of light.

  Funny, but I don’t remember hearing anything. There was no loud blast. Just a burst of intense white light, and then … then …

  Nothing.

  So that’s it.

  I’ve been shot!

  I must still be lying on the sidewalk where I fell. Am I bleeding to death? Why can’t I feel anything? Even that whisper of pain is gone now. These people must be paramedics from the rescue unit or something; and the others must be the crowd that’s gathered to watch.

  To watch me die!

  Shit, that’s it!

  I’m dying, and they’re trying to save my life.

  Oh, Jesus! Oh, shit!

  I’m scared!

  “You have to remember, your honor, that this is the first time we’ve attempted to do something like this. We have to proceed with caution.”

  A woman’s voice.

  Why did she say, “your honor?”

  What the hell is she talking about? Is she a doctor or something? And who’s she calling “your honor?”

  Hey, wait a second.

  I think she—or someone—is maybe doing something to me. For a moment, there, I could almost feel my body again … at least a little bit. There’s something hard underneath me. Is it concrete? Am I still lying on the sidewalk? It sort of feels that way, but it feels as though my knees are bent.

  Is this the way I hit the ground after I got shot?

  “Given these rather unusual circumstances, do you gentlemen agree that we can dispense with the usual formality of swearing in.”

  * * *

  Swearing in?

  What the fuck are they talking about?

  Jesus Christ, stop talking nonsense and do something to save my fucking life!

  Even as I think this, I can feel a warm current of sensation returning to my body. The heavy, lumpish feeling in my chest is starting to loosen up, and I think—yes! I can even feel the dull throb of pins-’n’-needles spreading slowly into my arms and legs. The center of my chest feels like it’s on fire.

  I can’t tell if I’m turning my head or shifting my eyes, but when I look around, the light is more diffused. The figures leaning over me—I think I can count three of them—are still indistinct. They’re surrounded by these weird halos of light that ripple with deep blues and purples like I’ve never seen before!

  It’s beautiful, but I’m still scared.

  Really scared!

  “I object, your honor. I think this entire experiment is nothing more than a … a charade … a mockery of justice. I respectfully ask that we sequester the jury so they won’t have to observe this … this macabre spectacle.”

  I wish I knew what this person is talking about, but I’m so swept up by the gushing, almost burning sensation of feeling as it rushes through my body that I can’t concentrate on what anyone is saying. I imagine my body is an ice-bound river, and warm spring winds and the steady tug of strong, flowing water underneath the ice are—finally—breaking apart the hammer-lock grip of the frozen surface. I’m dizzy with a heady rush of euphoria as my vision clears even more. I can see that I am not lying in the street, bleeding to death.

  I’m in a room.

  I’m sitting up in a chair.

  My hands are clamped to the chair arms in a vise-like grip. I know, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to move them. Across my chest, I can feel the tight pull of a restraint. I know that it, not my own strength, is what’s keeping me sitting erect in the chair. When I try to open my mouth and run my tongue over my lips, there is almost no feeling, as though my whole face has been injected with Novacaine.

  “Objection overruled, Mr. Applegate. While I grant you that this is a … a most unique situation, I’ll reserve judgment as to whether or not the evidence we receive is or is not admissible.”

  As my vision continues to resolve more clearly, I try to look around. Off to one side, I see the source of light—a high bank of windows, through which bars of iridescent blue light are streaming. The light shimmers in slow, sinuous waves that maddeningly flicker through the colors of the spectrum. Everything appears to be watery and insubstantial. Halos of light surround everything.

  Arrayed against this wall, below the windows, are numerous dark shapes … People, I realize. They seem frozen in place, as immobile as mannequins.

  I try to blink, and it seems to take forever for the rough, sandpaper feeling to scrape across my eyeballs. I jump with a start when I rotate my head slowly to my left and see the dim silhouette of someone standing close to me. The nimbus of light surrounding him—at least now I can see that this is a man—masks his features as he leans close to me. I get a faint whiff of something stale, almost rotten, and that makes my stomach growl.

  “Can you hear me, Mr. Sinclair?”

  I want to answer him, but when I try to clear my throat and take a deep breath, I have no sensation whatsoever of breathing. My chest feels like it’s encased in iron bands. I lean forward, and the restraint presses into my chest, but, surprisingly, there is no pain. The indistinct features of the man’s face loom closer to me. I see a terrifying, cartoon face—a wide, smiling mouth frozen in the center of a round, white balloon, and two dark, dimensionless balls that must be his eyes. When he speaks to me again, repeating his question, his lips move in flabby, rubbery twitches that seem to be not at all in synch with his words.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Again, I try to speak, but the best I can manage is a slight nod of my head. I’m not really sure if I’ve moved at all. There is no pain, but I have the sense that the bones in my neck are dry and splintering. If I move even the least little bit too fast, I fear my spine will snap in two like a piece of rotten wood. I try to focus on this man’s face and am surprised to notice that I no longer feel the need to blink my eyes. It doesn’t matter, because I can’t even move them. The lids are frozen wide open. I stare blankly forward, hoping my vision will resolve so I can turn my head and see who this is talking to me.

  “Can you see my hand?”

  Something that looks like a huge, black crow flying across a stormy sky flashes in front of my face. It goes by so fast I can’t possibly turn my head fast enough to track it.

  “I would ask, Mr. Charles, that you not push him quite so hard.”

  This is the woman’s voice again, speaking from somewhere off to my right. She’s trying to sound like she’s in control, but I detect a near frantic edge of worry in her voice. When I try to turn my head to look at her, the total lack of sensation makes it feel as though my eyeballs are detached and rolling around inside my head, completely out of control.

  “I understand, Dr. Murphy, but you indicated that we might not have very much time when he is even semi-conscious. I repeat, Mr. Sinclair, can you see how many fingers I’m holding up in front of you?”

  * * *

  Again, the black crow flaps across my vision.

  This time I see two blurry lines, like fence posts, pointing straight up.

  Two, I think, but there is no way I can even begin to say the word. As much as I strain to speak, I can’t feel the vocal cords in my throat. They might as well be cut. I feel like I’m a disembodied entity, floating in a hazy, gray soup of vague lights, shadows, and sounds.

  “I could administer a small amount more, your honor, hut in my opinion, we’ve already pushed this to a dangerous level.”

  “I respectfully submit that this is an complete waste of the court’s valuable time, your honor. My client and I req
uest that you strike all references to this shameful … incident from the record, and that we proceed in a customary manner.”

  “Again, Mr. Applegate, your objection is noted and overruled. Please proceed with your line of questioning, Mr. Charles.”

  While this exchange is going on, I am only half listening to it because I am trying so hard to make my throat work, but it’s like trying to flex the muscles of an arm that has been amputated.

  There’s nothing there—not even the lack of sensation.

  After a few moments of struggle, I feel another, stronger gush of warmth that’s centered in my chest. The heat radiates outward, like a faintly glowing coal being fanned by a gentle breath. My throat tenses. The tendons and muscles are as stiff as bars of iron. I can feel a faint thrumming that brings with it an agonizing jolt of pain.

  “… two …”

  In an almost dizzying rush, my vision resolves more clearly, and I see where I am.

  To my right is a tall, oak-paneled desk, behind which, high above me, sits a man dressed in a dark robe. The few wisps of gray hair he has are combed straight back on his wide forehead. His face looks pale and is criss-crossed by thin, red lines of exploded capillaries, particularly on his nose.

  Beside me, to my left, is a man wearing a fancy three-piece suit of dark blue. His necktie is a design of squares with dark circles in the center that looks amazingly three-dimensional. He is leaning forward with both hands on the arm of the chair in which I sit.

  In front of me, a little to my right, stands a rather attractive, dark-haired woman. She is dressed in what looks like a white laboratory smock that swells out due to her ample breasts. She has a syringe in one hand, and I can see that a needle and the plastic tube of an IV feed have been taped to my exposed forearm, which is strapped to the arm of the chair.

  Perhaps the most shocking thing I notice is the color of my own skin. It is a pasty white, almost gray. It looks exactly like the immobile clay I imagine it is.

  “Very good, Mr. Sinclair. That is correct,” the man in the three-piece suit says, smiling broadly as he leans closer to me. “I’m holding up two fingers.”

  His features don’t look quite so cartoonish, but they are still horrifyingly animated as the smile spreads across his wide face. His teeth looked as big and flat as dinner plates, and for an instant I am consumed by the fear that he is about to bite me.

  “I know it must be difficult for you to speak, Mr. Sinclair,” he says, “but if you please, can you indicate with either a sound or a motion of your hand that you understand what I’m saying?” He glances over his shoulder. “Is this acceptable to you, your honor?”

  As I stare at him, the halo of light that surrounds his head gradually blends from vibrant blues and purples to deep, fiery reds and oranges that shift across his features like flickering flames. Unaccountably, I feel the cold, hollow stirrings of hunger.

  Yes, hunger!

  * * *

  “My name is Raymond Charles, Mr. Sinclair. I’m the lawyer, representing you in this case.”

  I want to ask him exactly what case that is, but I’m fairly certain it has something to do with the night I was mugged and tried to fight back. I realize that I must have been wounded, and I wonder if I have been in a coma all this time and am just now coming out of it.

  “You may remember that, on the seventeenth of December, you were accosted on your way home from work by a young man. Do you recall that incident?”

  “… yes …”

  It takes every bit of effort I can muster to say that single word, which reverberates like the heavy clang of metal in my ears.

  “Mr. Sinclair, I am informed that we don’t have much time, so I must get directly to the point. I have to ask you, do you think you would recognize your assailant if he were to be presented to you?”

  I turn away from Mr. Charles, sensing that the painful stirrings of hunger inside me are only intensified whenever I look at the glowing curtains of red light that surround his face. The fleshy folds of his skin fairly vibrate with energy and life. I try to concentrate on remembering exactly what happened that night—when?

  How long ago?

  I have no way of knowing.

  It could have been days or weeks ago, or it could have been months.

  The image of the young man’s features swirls into my memory like a face seen, looking up at me from underwater.

  Dark hair, shifting in heavy, oily curls swirls around his face. Eyes, dark and liquid, slide nervously back and forth. Thin, tight, almost bloodless lips are pursed, and the pale skin is marked by the faint wisp of a mustache. His skin is greasy-looking and pimply, but it is what I see inside those eyes that I remember most clearly.

  Fear …

  Fear and silent desperation.

  “… yes …”

  Even as I say the word, I see this boy’s face materialize like a mirage in front of me. It, too, is surrounded by a sparkling sheet of red light, and the gnawing hunger that is churning inside me intensifies until it becomes excruciatingly painful.

  This hunger is the only pain I know now.

  The woman, apparently a doctor or nurse, says something to the man who has identified himself as my lawyer, but her words are lost to me as I stare again into that boy’s dark, desperate eyes.

  “Is this the man who attacked you, Mr. Sinclair?”

  I hear the words, but they mean almost nothing to me. The hunger that is growling like a beast inside me is getting more demanding. I am distantly aware that my mouth has dropped open, and my teeth are grinding back and forth as I strain forward, but the strap across my chest holds me back. I try to raise my arms, but they, too, are firmly held in place by my restraints.

  “… yes …”

  “I object!” a voice suddenly yells, sounding in my ears like a rolling peal of thunder.

  “Overruled.”

  “I ask you again, Mr. Sinclair, and if you can, I would like you to speak a bit louder for the sake of the jury. Mr. Sinclair, is this man standing in front of you the man who accosted you on the night of December seventeenth and, at gun point, demanded that you give him your wallet?”

  “… yes …”

  * * *

  “If it please the court, I would like it noted for the record that Mr. Sinclair has identified the defendant, Mr. Roy Peterson.”

  “So noted.”

  “Objection, we haven’t established the credibility of this witness.”

  “Overruled. Who better to identify his assailant, Mr. Applegate, than the victim himself?”

  “Your honor, I’m afraid we’re losing him.”

  When the woman speaks this time, even through the boiling pain of my overwhelming hunger, I recognize the near-panic in her voice. All around me, there are explosions of shadow and light, blending and swirling in an insane riot of color and sound. I am dazzled, confused, and the only clear thought I carry through this confusion is that I am hungry …

  Hungry!

  “Your honor, I realize that this is a rather unusual request, but I would beg the court’s indulgence to allow me to ask if Mr. Peterson will please step forward and touch Mr. Sinclair on the hand.”

  “I object! This has gone on long enough. It’s well past the point of morbid curiosity.”

  “May the court ask, Mr. Charles, exactly why you are making such an unusual request?”

  “I beg your indulgence, your honor, but it is an ancient tradition that, if a corpse is touched by the murderer, the wounds which were inflicted by that individual will begin to bleed again, thereby identifying the murderer.”

  A corpse!

  What the hell is he talking about?

  I’m not a corpse!

  Voices explode around me, but I am so consumed by hunger and the numbing fear that emBruces me that I don’t understand a single word. Stark terror squeezes me with a mounting pressure that soon becomes intolerable.

  * * *

  “I object! This is patently absurd! Why, this is a … this is mediev
al superstition we’re talking about, not modern jurisprudence. Your honor, I would like to request that these entire proceedings be declared a mistrial, and that the—”

  “Please calm yourself, Mr. Applegate. In light of this rather unusual situation, which is certainly something I’ve never experienced before, please instruct your client to do as Mr. Charles has requested.”

  “I will not!”

  “You will, or I’ll find you in contempt of court.”

  Every fiber of my being is charged with tingling jolts of electricity. The raging urge to eat … to kill … to rip into the throbbing, living flesh so close to me is absolutely overpowering, filling me with a spiralling insanity. I feel myself thrashing wildly against the restraints. My head begins to reverberate with a loud, crashing sound that I soon realize is my teeth, gnashing together. Hot, sour saliva floods my mouth and the back of my throat, and then—through it all—I feel something else.

  A touch … like a pin prick …