Monsters Among Us (Deception Series Book 1)

by Margaret Afseth

  As he stepped out, and started to leave, Loni nodded agreement, but immediately knew the other didn't see. He was used to being punished, whether guilty or not, and also, being treated as if he were too slow to answer.

  "What's the point talking to it," a second voice chided. "You forget, that's the deaf-mute? Of course, he won't understand."

  That was when, Loni realized, another man stood behind the first. They always did walk the beat in pairs.

  The first supervisor shrugged his shoulders. "I never have trouble directing him..."

  But the second disagreed again. "We'll need to watch this idiot closer; he gets into too much trouble. Don't know what good he is; they should just put him down."

  "He's my best worker, has an instinct for what needs doing, a connection to the plants...like he's one with the garden produce...besides, he doesn't complain."

  The other laughed, seeing a joke in every word spoken. Both men took Loni by an arm, lifted him off his feet, and with him in tow, made for the work stations.

  ****

  Some ten years later:

  Loni still grieved the loss of his sister, and mother. He knew she had recently died birthing a girl child; the constant awareness of her, and the many thought-words of encouragement had ceased in his head.

  At the moment, he stood at the side of the physician, a guard on either side of him; awaiting the results of his annual physical. They had just taken the last blood sample.

  He wasn't sure why they were doing all the scans this time...

  Perhaps, it's because they consider me an adult now?

  Loni had developed into a heavily muscled giant of over six feet, and thought himself rather handsome...except for the scars where his ears should have been, which he covered self-consciously with his curly white-blond hair.

  He knew, they would never allow him to have a partner...they considered him to be flawed.

  "I sure hope they don't use the blood samples from one of these," objected the one guard to the other, as they led Loni away. "The alter-cloning process is fragile, and selective enough, without using the inferior."

  "And what would you know of the procedure, anyway?" asked the other.

  "I listen to the physicians talk...when I'm here."

  The other laughed. "So do I. They seldom use the flawed ones' samples, only if..."

  "If what?"

  "If the male is of an exceptional DNA..."

  "Such as?"

  "Perhaps, of a blood group compatible to all..."

  "Well, that makes little sense, when he's already flawed. Will they put him with a partner, if one develops? Why should they have a mate, when most of us go without? Surely, they will castrate him? The female would also be flawed. Instead, they should both be put down."

  The other seemed to agree. " Most definitely! But, consider this: where would we get future workers, if these were not allowed to reproduce?"

  "You mean, they deliberately create flawed females for the workers?"

  The other shrugged.

  Their words enraged Loni; in his mind, he was fuming.

  I was not born flawed! You are the ones who made me this way!

  My mother was a perfect one! I'd like to see you top her! And, she said, my father was of the gentle kind...a rarity. I come from good blood!

  You are the dense ones...judging whether I live or die!

  Chapter 2

  Gemma didn't believe it! It was just too surreal! Lightning simply didn't strike twice in the same place. But it had...

  Sam's death had never quite been forgotten, but she had finally put it behind her, and was ready to date again. Gemma had never remarried; she saw nothing remotely out there to measure up to her one true love, and so, she was more or less a loner, concentrating on career and a quiet life. She had few friends, preferring to keep to herself.

  No! I cannot have caught it from Sam. It's been ten years! This isn't the same; it's just a glitch to slow me down, now that I have finally decided to venture out again.

  When it started, Gemma believed it was just an allergy. Her nose seemed always to be dripping, or plugged, and having to mouth-breathe was not pleasant. But it was nothing serious.

  Her eyes became swollen, and sight diminished, until it was extremely difficult to see, unless the print was enlarged, especially when working at the computer. But...it was only an infection.

  Then came the pounding sinus headache just across the bridge of her nose. That was near impossible to bear.

  Yet, she still denied it; thought it just an allergy cold...or maybe, the flu.

  It is flu season, and I haven't gotten a shot yet.

  And then, the nausea hit. Her mouth was filled with cotton; her throat sore. She couldn't swallow; couldn't eat. The weight dropped from her like water. Thirty-five pounds!

  At last, feeling too ill to take a bus by herself, Gemma called her sister, Bella, to drive her to the hospital emergency.

  And that was when, she was struck the final blow.

  ****

  They went to the nearest facility. But, the ER doctor there stereotyped her, along with all the usual patrons, seeking care in the area of this particular hospital.

  This was skid row; a hangout for derelicts wanting a place to shelter. The coffee shop, and waiting rooms were always overflowing with people from the street, watching TV, while warming up.

  The attitude was one of contempt, as if the attendant had seen one too many patients faking it, and Gemma was the last straw. The doctor assumed, she was just another native drug-addict, after pain medication to take the edge off withdrawal. It was common knowledge, some of those that came by, even used their intravenous ports for a quick way to get high; that site introduced it directly into the vein.

  But Gemma was neither Métis, nor pure blood aboriginal. Though born here, and third generation, she was blond, and obviously Caucasian. Still, it didn't matter.

  With Bella sitting in a chair by her side, Gemma lay on a cot, for hours, waiting to be seen.

  The blood work finally ordered; samples taken; she was scrutinized by three nurses, each examining her eyes, judging their focus, before the physician even put in an appearance. Then, giving the test results a mere cursory glance, he simply declared, there was nothing wrong with her.

  If it hadn't been for the head nurse with him, he would have simply walked away, dismissing her.

  "Look at her eyes," argued the woman. "They don't even track. That's not normal. There is something else wrong! She needs a CT scan."

  "Fine!" he declared, just to get her off his back. "Do the scan, then."

  ****

  The voice on the other end of the telephone held barely disguised excitement.

  "I have discovered a tagged," he proclaimed to the listener. "But, they must have lost track of her, for she has been severely neglected. The site is infected...what should I do?"

  "The process, as with any other, is the same. Give her the diagnoses, and refer her to the centre."

  "Okay. Is there any reward for having found her?"

  "Such as what?"

  "Well...like...being pushed further up the list..." stuttered the other.

  "Do your duty well, and it may be considered. But, this is no different than anyone else. Your call has been noted; that will be all."

  The line on the other end went dead; there was no chance to argue the point.

  ****

  Gemma and Bella were moved to a private room, the curtains drawn, so no one could see in. Both women wondered why.

  Gemma immediately had a premonition of foreboding.

  After a time, the ER Attending slunk in with his charts, as if suddenly ashamed of his previous behavior. He closed the door; slowly took a seat; shuffled his papers, and at last, looked up. But, he seemed to be appealing to Bella; not looking directly at Gemma, as though he were asking forgiveness for an act about to be perpetrated.

  "I'm afraid I have some bad news," he apologized. "We found a tumor growing behind the eye..."


  Gemma felt annoyed.

  The real bad news, is it took you so long to listen!

  To her, tumor meant a growth. It could be removed; treated, whatever it took.

  Nothing serious. I can go through this, as long as it's gone when we are done.

  But, Bella was a homecare worker; she knew a little more about the medical implications. It was she, alone, who realized the full impact of his words.

  "You have some decisions to make, so I'll leave you alone for a moment to discuss your options," the doctor decided. "I'll come back later with a referral...if that should be the route you wish to take."

  His clipboard in his hands, he hurriedly left the room.

  Gemma didn't know what to think. When she turned to look at Bella, her sister was in tears.

  "Oh, Gemma...I'm so sorry...but...I just can't do this!"

  Whatever is she talking about?

  It wasn't until after further tests, and treatment had begun, that Gemma realized the death sentence inflicted upon her.

  And, that was the last time she ever saw her sister.

  Chapter 3

  "This is a tagged one?"

  Two physicians were viewing the CT scan of a woman in her thirties.

  "We've told her it's a tumor..."

  "It has developed considerable growth around the nano-tag. It must have been placed at least ten years ago. How did we lose track of her?"

  "Not important. We have her back, now."

  "So...what is the procedure?"

  "We give it to the guys in oncology. There are enough of us posing as specialists to direct her treatment, and change. She'll have the same basic therapy as any other cancer patient; should go unnoticed among them."

  "How does it work?"

  "We simply kill all her normal cells, then introduce the donor DNA."

  "She's a bit older than we usually use..."

  "No matter...sure, on one this age, it is still experimental, but...if it takes..."

  "Aw...yes. Here's hoping."

  ****

  "Ump...umm...umm," sounded constantly, on a three tonal descending scale, throughout the vast room. Not just one pump, but four, and never a one in sync. It was like a death knell all night long, and not just while you tried to sleep, but all day, as well.

  "Ump...umm...umm," from the machines that pumped the poisons into their systems. One visitor had said it sounded like the sound of a chickadee, but then she was a farmer's wife, and could be excused. Truth was, if only it was the sound of a song bird, and not an instrument meant to save, or take, their lives. All four in the ward were hooked up to one, continually.

  At night, exhausted, the patients tried to sleep. Combined with the constant clicking of binders closing, at the nearby nurses station, was the constant snoring of a neighbor in the next bed, who would start awake, then return to opened-mouth breathing, and soon, once again to the rhythm. But the one most sonorous was the mother of the sixteen year old native boy, in the bed next to Gemma. The poor woman was trying to rest in a wide sleep-chair made of leather, and every time she moved, it groaned as if a living thing. Most uncomfortable, too.

  The boy had testicular cancer. It had been caught early, and he was the only one in the room with a definite chance of survival. He usually had a day pass; would walk the malls with his relatives all day, then come back for his deadly venom, four hours of treatment, at night.

  It was three o'clock in the morning, and though it was already April, outside the windows, snow fell like a curtain, obliterating in a white-out any scenery: parking lot, rooftops, the park and river beyond.

  At least I have the window bed.

  Gemma couldn't sleep. From another room, she could hear an old man cursing the staff. He wanted to get up and use the washroom, but the Chemo had addled his brain so badly, he didn't know where he was, and he thought, they were his children, being mean. It had been going on all night.

  What a way to spend my birthday! I should be out celebrating with Bella. Thirty is a milestone...I wonder if she will visit me today?

  Morning came, and with it breakfast. Gemma dreaded anything concerning food. Her mouth and throat were so sore, it was a constant struggle to eat. Every morsel gagged her. It seemed, she had contracted Thrush, a mouth infection some patients developed while receiving Chemo.

  In the bed across from her was Adrian; sixty-three, over six foot five, emaciated, bald; a diabetic with stage four Cancer. They were giving him his poison in a continuous stream for seventy-two hours.

  Because of this, he ate continuously, to keep his blood sugar up. His favorite phrase was: 'what you got on your tray?' He liked to trade, but Gemma simply gave him what she couldn't stomach.

  The hardest part was when his girl friend came to visit. She showed up leaden down with all manner of fresh fruits, and goodies, generously offering, the lady in the bed across, a sampling. Oh, how Gemma longed to eat; she even dreamed of food when she did doze off, but she always refused their savory treats, because she knew, she couldn't chew or swallow.

  Trouble was, this couple were like the devil having an argument with God. Adrian was constantly complaining, criticizing the lot he'd been given, those who were trying to help him, and everyone in general. No one did anything right.

  His poor friend did her best to cheer him, but he was so bitter; could see nothing good in his future, and in his words, 'What good is all this? Just to buy a few years. What quality of life will I have, in and out of hospital all the time?'

  What really got to Gemma was his attitude toward religion. He mocked any support system, volunteer or funded. He said, he refused to celebrate Christmas or Easter; it was just a grab for money. "If there was a creator, the least he could do is come down here, and show us that he cared."

  Gemma looked around her. Everywhere, nurses scurried, tending to patients' every whim. Orderlies washed the floors, emptied wastebaskets. The CCAs emptied the pee pots, changed their beds every day, even gave each patient a bath and clean gown every morning.

  If God isn't down here, in the persons of these people, ministering to us, showing His love, how are they able to continue doing it day after day?

  But Adrian felt he was a logical man; he would rather believe we evolved from monkeys, than admit to something Omnipotent and benevolent. After all, he had been a teacher all his life, and he'd never yet seen evidence of a creator.

  All his life, maybe, the cancer has affected his eyes?

  In the bed beside this atheistic man, was the fourth patient residing in the room. Benny was terminal; a tumor invading his brain. His memory came and went, and he had to be retold simple facts that had previously been discussed.

  In a room such as this, every word said by patients, or visitors alike, was public knowledge; impossible to miss. Privacy was nil. Gemma listened, as his daughter, and her female partner, loudly discussed his coming to live with them for the few days of life he had left. The delay, they told him, over and over, was his son, who had power of attorney, and refused to release the funds. He didn't trust his sister. Benny had been waiting in hospital for thirty days.

  Between what she heard from Benny and his family, and Adrian and his girl friend, Gemma found it extremely difficult to remain positive. It had shocked her at first, just to realize, the ward was co-ed, let alone to be thrown into the lives of other people like this. Gemma had always been a private person, only interacting when she chose. To be forced to face not only this new actuality, but the truth of her own diagnoses at the same time, simply rocked her world; sent her spinning into depression. All she wanted was to get out of there.

  No amount of exercise, or good eating could change the death sentence she had been handed. Suddenly, she had no control over anything, especially, her own physical health. It terrified the young woman, as she realized, even if this Cancer were eradicated, it could return again at any time.

  And the deep emersion bath into this multinational oncology floor, with its doctors, nurses, and other attendants, com
ing from every race and creed conceivable, severed Gemma's touch with her own comfortable reality.

  ****

  Five days had past. Even though in the communal ward, Gemma was lonely. She felt envious, as she watched the constant stream of visitors to her patient companions. They brought gifts, reading material, foods of all kinds: take out; milk shakes; fruit; chocolates. They stayed and sat with their friend, or family member, even while that person dozed away the day. A constant hum of visitation passed back and forth between the beds. Everyone knew the history of the other, sympathized and encouraged...except, where she was concerned.

  Gemma never received a card, text or phone call, and nor any visitors; no one worried over her welfare.

  Finally, desperate for some attention, Gemma sent her sister, Bella, a text:

  'I feel so alone; abandoned. Are you out there? Do you even care?'

  The cell phone remained silent. There was no answering text; no word of encouragement, support...or even a reassuring, 'I love u.'

  ****

  That first stay in the hospital lasted eight days. Every day, Gemma begged her doctor to release her. All she wanted to do was be back in her little apartment nest, left alone, so she could become grounded again in her own reality.

  But, what is reality now? This feels like I'm dying.

  Finally, against his better judgment, the physician set her free. They needed the bed for another patient. There never were enough beds to service the need in oncology.

  The ride home in the taxi was torturous. Though they had managed to deal with her Thrush, and she could eat, somewhat, Gemma was still terribly nauseous. With the swaying of the vehicle, the way the driver speedily negotiated the treacherous turns, all occurrences appeared exaggerated to her. So ill did she feel, she was certain that at any minute, before this ride was over, she would baptize the taxi driver's inner sanctum.

  At last, she stood before her home building, and had managed not to vomit all over the cab interior.

  Once inside her small apartment, it seemed unfamiliar; she had been away that long. Gemma could hardly stay standing long enough to put away the coat she wore.