by Murr
No. He couldn’t have that. His eyes were closing, sleep claiming him at last, when a thought flitted across his mind, fast as… well, fast as a silverfish trying to escape. He couldn’t tell anyone; not until he’d finished. Hot on the tails of that, he wondered ‘finished what?’ but then he was falling, falling, into a sleep so deep he didn’t even twitch when his father opened the door to gaze on his sleeping son, roused by a nightmare he couldn’t quite remember but was convinced boded ill for his boy.
The man watched his son sleeping, noting the odd twitches his fingers gave every now and then, the way the duvet twitched over his feet in the same manner. He wasn’t sure that everything was quite right, somehow, but was reassured by the movement of his legs, so still since the accident that had claimed his wife’s life and son’s ability to walk. Whatever they’d done had to be working, didn’t it? Or his feet would be lying still, dead as his wife.
Jamie’s eyes opened slightly, and his father gasped involuntarily as a silver gleam escaped from the narrow slit beneath his eyelids. Then it was gone, and he was left trying to convince himself it was just the moonlight reflecting off the surface of his eyeballs. He closed the door gently, and went back to bed. It had to be working. It had to.
Jamie woke slowly; the brightness of the room confusing, as was the sssssshh just below every sound he could hear – his dad making breakfast downstairs; someone ringing a doorbell close by; kids playing outside in the sunshine. Under it all, ssssshhh. He shook his head, stuck his fingers in his ears to try and dislodge whatever was in there, but to no avail. Finally, he gave up and went downstairs to join his father, his legs eager to spring down the stairs and rush off with him. He endeavoured to keep his pace normal, even as his nerves sang and he felt a desire to reach out and let his fingers roam where they would, touch what they would.
His nerves were crackling, fizzing with energy, and he could barely contain the twitching he’d been trying to hide from his dad. He walked into the kitchen and stopped short, surprised. Dr. Lassiter was sitting at the wooden kitchen table, a mug of tea in his hand. He smiled at Jamie as he stood there, and Jamie tried to respond, although it was difficult making his lips obey his command to turn up in a grin.
‘Dr. Lassiter,’ he said, shaken, watching how his father moved to stand beside the doctor, concern etched into the deep grooves that hadn’t been there before the… before.
‘Jamie.’ The doctor inclined his head gravely, bright eyes examining his former patient. ‘Your father invited me to come and see how you were doing.’
‘He did?’
Jamie’s dad had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘You’ve been doing so well, son; I thought Dr. Lassiter would be pleased.’ He shot a glance at the doctor that spoke volumes; what had he seen?
The doctor made no comment, but smiled as he stood and walked towards Jamie. ‘You certainly seem to be confident now, Jamie; no problems walking?’ He was circling around the boy as he asked this, watching keenly as Jamie matched him, circling to make sure he was always in front of him.
‘I’m fine,’ Jamie said, and smiled widely to allay any concerns Dr. Lassiter or his father might have. ‘No pain, legs are working fine, as you can see… sorry Dad wasted your time.’
The man smiled. ‘Never a waste of time to see your work succeed, my boy. Never a waste.’ He took Jamie’s hand, then, and shook it; pumping his arm up and down fiercely as he carried on. ‘I never thought I’d see the day. And now I have…’ his words trailed off as he released Jamie’s hand from the iron grip he’d had on it. He held his hand up to stare at it, his expression bemused. ‘I think you gave me a shock,’ he said, and laughed as he wiped his hand on his jacket.
Jamie laughed, and pointed downwards. ‘Sorry, doc. Cheap carpet.’ His own hair was standing up, waving lightly in the breeze from the open window. He moved across to the edge of the room, where carpet gave way to wooden boards, and his hair flattened immediately. ‘See?’
‘Yes, it must be.’ The doctor was staring down at the floor, but when he looked back up his expression cleared and he smiled at Jamie. ‘We’ll re-schedule your check-up for a few months from now, yes? Make sure the repair has… stuck.’ He turned to Jamie’s father, and said, ‘You must be very proud; your boy’s doing remarkably well.’
Jamie’s father stood, and his look of concern wasn’t quite gone, Jamie thought – but it looked better. He looked as if the load was normal now, not one that was consuming him. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘You’re sure there aren’t any side-effects to worry about?’
Dr. Lassiter shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, no. Jamie seems to be doing very well…’ at this he looked down at his hand and frowned slightly, but then he looked at the carpet and at Jamie and his expression cleared once more. ‘I’m fairly sure the check-up will show the cure has worked – Jamie’s walking again, and that’s a cause for celebration.’
With that he headed towards the front door, waving off Jamie’s father as he tried to get in front of him to let him out – perhaps have a quiet word, Jamie thought. Then the door slammed, and it was just the two of them again.
Jamie’s father stood by the door, hand against the wood, and leaned his forehead against it for a moment.
‘You alright, Dad?’ Jamie asked.
‘Yeah, fine. Just tired.’ His dad turned around, shoulders slumped, and moved towards his son – passing him in the hallway en route to the kitchen. ‘Tea?’
Jamie followed, and watched as his father went through the motions of making tea, studiously avoiding eye contact with his son. When it was ready, he brought two mugs to the kitchen table and gestured to his son to sit down, placing a drink before a chair for him.
‘Thanks Dad.’
His father waved away thanks, trying to stop his hands shaking as he raised the cup to his lips. He blew on the liquid’s surface and took a small sip – grimacing at the heat and placing it back down. ‘Too hot,’ he whispered.
‘Of course it is,’ Jamie answered. ‘You only just made it! You alright, Dad?’
His father looked at him, then, and Jamie was shocked to see the calculations going on in his father’s eyes.
‘Dr. Lassiter,’ he said, finally.
‘What about him?’
‘Did you…’ his voice trailed off, and he stared morosely into the orangey-brown liquid in his mug.
‘Did I what, Dad?’
His father waited a long while before answering, staring down into his mug as if the liquid inside it held all the answers he was looking for. When he looked back up at his son, he looked scared.
‘Did you do anything to him?’
Jamie laughed. ‘What on earth could I have done? Jesus, Dad, what’s going on?’
His father sighed, shoulders slumping further still. ‘That’s alright, then. Come on, drink your tea.’ He said nothing more, just got on with drinking his own tea, staring off into the distance while he thought about something. When he was done, he got up and put the cup in the sink, before turning to his son and saying, ‘I’m going to bed, I think. Not feeling well.’
Jamie stared. This was so unlike his dad. ‘Do we need to call anyone?’ he asked. ‘A doctor?’
His father bared his teeth at him in a poor facsimile of a smile. ‘We just had one here,’ he said, ‘remember?’ He moved towards the door, muttering ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. Need a nap.’ Then he was gone.
Jamie sat alone at the table, his thoughts racing. He’d managed to hide the tremors from his father – or so he thought – but even if he hadn’t, why hadn’t his dad just asked him about them? And what had made him go to Dr. Lassiter, get him to visit the house? GPs weren’t that mad on house visits if they could avoid them, so how the hell had he persuaded the hospital consultant to come out? He laid his hands down flat on the table, fingers splayed, and examined them closely. They looked normal, as far as he could see, apart from the occasional slight shiver as he watched. Their colour was normal, there were no bruises or discolorati
ons, no sign of any punctures… he bent down and rolled up his trouser legs, examined what he could of his legs. It was the same story, no marks, no discolorations, everything looked normal apart from the occasional shiver that would ripple through the flesh. Could it be that something was short-circuiting? Some aspect of the implant things the doctors had put in his back was malfunctioning? He didn’t know, and to be honest he didn’t really care – his legs worked, he could walk, he had his life back again. If anything was wrong, it would show itself in time, and he’d get the doctors involved at that point. He couldn’t understand what his father’s problem was, but no doubt he’d tell him in due course, once he’d worked through his concerns in his own mind.
He lost concentration, then, his mind filled with images of motion and flashes of silver. If his father had walked back in at that point, he’d have called for help – he was sitting at the table, blank-eyed, while silver ripples played over his hands and face and his eyes stared at the doorway without seeing anything; their surface pure silver.
Jamie’s dad was lying on his bed, pretending to nap, but sleep was a long way off. He wondered why Dr. Lassiter hadn’t seen anything different about Jamie; why Jamie himself didn’t seem more bothered by the changes his father could see in him. Most of the time he seemed normal, that was true, but then he’d stop and stare into space, and there’d be those… flashes, coming from his eyes. They were even under his skin. He’d seen them, although they always hid themselves almost as soon as he had. Did they know he’d seen them? And what were they? He lay there, listening, but Jamie had either gone out or was just sitting, doing nothing. He’d not heard the chair scrape as he pushed it back – which he always did; he hadn’t heard any doors opening or closing, no one had moved in the house. All was quiet. He closed his eyes and started to pray for his son, scared to death of what might be happening to him.
The first thing Jamie noticed was that he was cold. His arms and legs felt clumsy and numb, aching from the chill pervading his body. He turned his head to look out of the kitchen window, and realized the light had changed considerably since he’d sat down with his father – it looked as if it were almost dusk outside. How long had he been sitting here, blank, like that? He’d zoned out completely, and was scared by that. He felt fine, physically; his legs felt strong and steady under him as he walked, there was no pain – just those little tremors that he’d told himself were the result of his system adapting to the new technology that was part of him now. That must be all it was.
The house was silent; he couldn’t hear his dad moving around, or coughing – something he’d been doing quite a lot lately. Jamie wasn’t sure if it was the nervous cough he sometimes exhibited or whether it was something else, and made a note to try and persuade him to see a doctor himself. He looked so worn all the time now; and hated the thought that a large part of that was probably his fault.
‘Dad?’
Nothing. The house stayed quiet, and Jamie hated the echoey quality of his voice in the silent kitchen. He moved towards the hall, stared upward. No one was moving around, and he wondered if his dad had gone out while he was sitting blankly on a kitchen chair. He wouldn’t have left his son in that state, though, would he? Jamie was sure his dad would have hit the panic button if he thought Jamie was getting sick, or the implants weren’t working…
Unless he was scared of him now. The thought struck Jamie like a blow, and he grabbed on to the bannister for support as he started to climb the stairs. There was no reason for him to be scared; he was the same Jamie, he could walk now, though, that was the only difference.
Except it wasn’t, and Jamie knew it. There was that whooshing sound in his ears, all the time now, but quiet – almost hiding itself beneath the range of his hearing. The little silver flashes he glimpsed now and again, rippling up and down his legs and even over his hands. He was halfway up the stairs now, and still the house was quiet. He stopped for a moment when the third stair from the top creaked, as it always did, but Dad didn’t call out or appear in his bedroom doorway, curious to see what he wanted. He got to the landing and moved down the hall, stopping at the door to his father’s room.
‘Dad?’
Still nothing. Jamie could feel his nerves thrumming as if a current was coursing through them, but told himself it was just adrenalin. He was scared; this wasn’t like his father. He felt alone, now; who would understand the mood swings he’d been left with, who would make sure he was provided for, had support when he needed it? He put a hand out and turned the door handle, easing the door open slowly. When it had opened fully, he took a deep breath and stepped into the room, eyes closed. There was a little part of him that didn’t want to see, wanted to preserve the illusion that everything was fine, his dad was just napping – or had run out to the shops for milk or something.
No. He knew better. He forced himself to open his eyes, and felt tears prick as he saw his father lying stretched out on the bed. He was covered in little silver insects (those weren’t insects, Jamie thought, but didn’t want to think about that in any detail). They were gliding up and down his torso, his face, into his eyes and ears, even his mouth and nostrils. Jamie could see them under his skin, too, wherever a bare patch showed; squirming around as they traveled throughout his body.
‘Oh God, Dad,’ he whispered, and took a step back when his dad opened his eyes in response.
‘Jamie?’
The voice was familiar, and yet not familiar at all – there was a rippling quality, as if his vocal cords were being manipulated by some multi-fingered creature.
‘Dad? Are you alright?’ Jamie said, reluctant to go any closer. He felt the same rippling throughout his own body, and knew if he looked down he’d see those silver flashes running excitedly along his fingers, his wrists. He could feel them getting faster, excited by the proximity of the things infesting his father.
Infesting. The word had popped into Jamie’s mind unasked, and yet he knew it was the right one. What he didn’t know was how much of his father remained intact, or whether his body was now just a sack for these things to breed in. He tried to reassure himself that he’d be fine; after all, he didn’t feel any different himself, did he?
Except he did. On some level he knew he was different. The whooshing sound was lulling him, making him drift, and he fought to stay alert as he watched his father sit up, silverfish falling off him and scuttling under the bed as they spilled over its edge. He felt something deep inside him twitch in response, and found he was moving forward.
‘It’s wonderful, Jamie,’ his dad said, smiling (there were things dancing in his eyes, silverfish swimming in the liquid behind his pupils, roiling there). ‘I feel so much better.’
‘You do?’ Jamie asked.
His dad nodded. ‘I wasn’t well, son. I tried to hide it, but you must have heard me coughing.’
Jamie nodded. ‘I thought it was that nervous thing you used to have.’
‘Perhaps it was, to start with,’ his dad answered, ‘but it kept getting worse. And then I started losing weight.’ He stared at Jamie then. ‘And that’s never a good sign, is it, really.’
No, it wasn’t, Jamie knew. He thought of his granddad, shrunk down to almost nothing by the time he died, cancer eating him from the inside out over not much more than six months.
‘Still,’ his dad went on, ‘I don’t have to worry about that anymore.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, lad. These silverfish of yours are wonderful things, aren’t they? They’ve fixed me right up.’
Jamie stared at his father, sitting there in bed with a grin as wide as any he’d ever seen, the picture of health. He looked down at his own body, legs standing firm and steady, weight already going back on after all the pain of the months since the accident. A thought occurred to him and he asked, ‘But how did they know you were sick?’
Jamie’s dad shook his head. ‘God knows. But I’m fine now, so does it matter?’
‘I suppose not,’ Jamie answered,
but a little voice at the back of his head wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t stop insisting that this wasn’t right, they weren’t supposed to be fucking sentient, for God’s sake. He looked down, and saw the silverfish that had exploded from his father’s bed were crawling around in a circle on the floor, as if waiting for instructions. He felt that whooshing noise growing louder, and the silverfish on the floor were forming a line in response. They could communicate?
They started moving, leaving the bedroom in a line, intent on heading down the stairs. His dad sat watching them, smiling, nodding as they went.
‘Where are they going?’ he asked, trying to ignore the increased tingling in his own body; the increased squirming.
‘We’re not the only ones that need help, son,’ his dad said, and laughed as he stood and moved towards his son. ‘Dr. Lassiter told me; he wants to cure all ills. All of them, Jamie, imagine that.’
Jamie stared. ‘All of them?’
The front door slammed; someone had come into the house. Jamie watched as his father rushed past him, his expression eager as he shouted, ‘Is that you, Dr. Lassiter?’
‘It is indeed!’ Dr. Lassiter was coming up the stairs, a grin on his usually impassive face. ‘I see it’s working beautifully!’
The silverfish, Jamie saw as he leaned over the bannister, were streaming down the stairs and into a metal drum the doctor had placed on its side just inside the front door. The barrel was rocking gently as it filled, and Jamie wondered how many thousand it could hold?
