Dave vs. the Monsters

by John Birmingham

  “There,” said Nurse Fletcher as she finished cleaning a wound that wasn’t there. “Doctor?”

  Pradesh stepped forward a little cautiously and leaned over to take Dave’s hand gently. He turned it this way and that, looking for any signs of the injury they’d all seen him do himself just a couple of minutes earlier. Again Dave was careful not to make any sudden or forceful movements. The doctor frowned and shook his head, muttering something in Indian.

  Indians speak Indian, right? Dave thought as his head swam.

  “We all saw what happened, did we not?” Pradesh said at last, in his snooty Oxford English.

  “Yep,” noted Fletcher. “It’s just like I told you. You didn’t believe me, but I told you he came in here badly wounded. And now …” She trailed off.

  “And now,” said Dave, wincing in pain, “I think I’m going to disappear up my own butthole if I don’t get something to eat. I’m not joking, Doc. I’ve never felt this hungry before in my life. Feels like a fire inside me.”

  “Of course, of course,” Pradesh said. “Increased metabolism.” He spoke as though he were talking about Dave, not to him. “Nurse, call down to the children’s ward and see if they can send up a couple of packets of high-energy milk biscuits. Straightaway. And talk to the canteen; have them send some of that dreadful fatty slop they served at lunch. I am sure there will be leftovers. I don’t know what is wrong with Mr. Hooper, but I fear his energy needs may be …” He paused and seemed to ponder the question. “… extreme,” he concluded.

  “Here,” Allen said, reaching into one of the large cargo pockets of his jungle-green-colored combat trousers and retrieving a couple of energy bars. He unwrapped them and handed both carefully to Dave, who took them with equal care. He wasn’t sure what the bars were, but he could smell citrus and cocoa. Spit flooded his mouth as soon as he jammed both bars in there, working his jaws in a fury. It was as though he couldn’t chew fast enough, and the pangs in his stomach sharpened while he tried to get the impromptu meal down as quickly as possible. When he was done eating a minute later, the dizziness and fatigue he had felt creeping up on him receded.

  “That working for you?” the navy guy asked.

  “Shit, yeah,” Dave told him. “Man, that was bad. That really fucking hurt.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to need to schedule some tests,” said Dr. Pradesh. “Many tests. I’m sorry. This is unprecedented.”

  He didn’t sound as if he was afraid or even apologetic. He sounded like a guy who’d just spotted a Nobel Prize for medicine dropping into his lap and wanted to grab it as quickly and hold on to it as hard as he could.

  “Doc, there’s not going to be any tests,” said Chief Petty Officer Allen. “Not now and not here. I meant what I said before. I have orders and the authority to place Mr. Hooper in protective custody and escort him from here to a secure location where he can be—”

  “Absolutely not,” said Pradesh.

  “Whoa, hold on there,” Dave said, adding his objections. “You might have bought me dinner, but that doesn’t mean you get to fuck me, Admiral.”

  “The language is not necessary, sir,” Chief Allen said. It sounded extra weird in that oddly misplaced surfer’s drawl.

  It was the sort of thing Marty would have said, but Marty was dead. Eaten like a big born-again burrito. “A sailor who doesn’t swear?” Dave said, concentrating fiercely to keep his thoughts in the here and now. “Seriously? Well, I’m not going anywhere and I’m not doing anyone’s tests until I get some answers. You can take me to Vince Martinelli if you want, if he knows more than I do. But right now you can start by telling me what the hell happened out on the Longreach this morning. It was this morning, wasn’t it? I haven’t been out of it overnight?”

  “No, sir, you have not,” said a new voice from over by the door.

  A tall African-American man stood in the doorway. An officer by the look of him. He wore a short-sleeve khaki dress uniform, a more formal arrangement than the CPO’s fatigues with their pockets full of high-energy chocolate bars. A swath of multicolored ribbons covered a patch over his left pec, topped by a bright gold bird bearing a trident in its claws. Dave’s eye was drawn to the purple ribbon. He was pretty sure his brother had had one of those.

  “Michael Heath, captain, United States Navy. Joint Special Operations Command,” the officer said.

  Special Operations, Dave thought. Did that make the captain a Black SEAL? He suppressed an embarrassed idiotic chuckle, ashamed of himself, blaming it on feeling so dizzy and lightheaded with hunger and maybe some leftover drug residue, but the captain really was that dark. Like he had stepped out of Africa and right into Harvard or Yale to judge by the snooty accent. Man, you could sell hundred-dollar bottles of wine with that voice.

  Hooper cursed himself. Jesus, Dave. Get a grip you redneck asshole.

  “Okay,” he said, mostly to stop himself from giggling like a stoned idiot, “more navy guys. Awesome.”

  Captain Heath considered Dave with a foreboding frown but addressed himself to Pradesh. “Doctor, you will find papers have been served to your administrators releasing Mr. Hooper into our care. We require his consultation on a matter of national security.”

  Pradesh started to object loudly. His arms flew around, and he bobbed up and down on his expensive-looking loafers as he argued with, or rather at, Captain Heath.

  “Well, I’m afraid this will not stand, Captain Heath. It will not stand at all. This patient is under my care and will remain under my care.”

  Nurse Fletcher was still invested in her issues with Pradesh, sniping at him as he railed at the iniquities of military high-handedness and fought a gallant rearguard action in defense of his Nobel.

  “I told you, Doctor,” she said. “I told you there was something wrong with this patient.”

  Meanwhile, the intimidating Captain Heath absorbed the doctor’s attack and the general uproar with an utterly impassive face. He waited for Pradesh to take a breath, looking just like a dude with the patience of Buddha. No, Dave thought as his mind began to wander; scratch that. He looks like a dude with the patience of a statue of Buddha. When Pradesh paused momentarily, Heath seemed to come to life, as if he’d been in power-down. He strode into the room with a nod to Chief Allen, and his physical presence seemed to subdue the doctor in a way no words were likely to. He limped, though, ever so slightly, and Dave’s eye was drawn to the subtle imbalance in his gait. He had to make himself look away, like when you saw someone, some hot-looking piece of ass, say, with a really ugly birthmark messing up half her face. You didn’t want to be caught staring. Nobody else was staring, however, or even seemed to have noticed the limp. Probably got his Purple Heart for whatever gave him the gimpy leg, Dave thought.

  “If you’ll get dressed, please, Mr. Hooper,” said Heath. “I have transport waiting for us downstairs. Time is short.”

  He didn’t look at his watch but gave the impression he could tell you the time to within thirty seconds.

  “I must protest this,” Pradesh began.

  “Of course you must,” said Heath.

  “Doc, from what I’ve seen,” Allen said, jerking his thumb at Dave, “we’re doing you a favor. You’ll thank us someday.”

  “Thank you, Chief Allen,” Heath said in a tone that gave everyone to understand he didn’t think the CPO was helping. Dave wondered if the captain was the senior SEAL hereabouts and quickly hid a smirk at the sound of that phrase. Senior SEAL. Good one, Dave. He couldn’t shake the faint, buzzy, blurred feeling of being stoned. Not totally wasted. Just pleasantly high—say, half a joint rather than three bongs—finding everything funny and, of course … hungry. So hungry.

  Heath produced a sheaf of paper and handed it to the doctor. “Complaint form,” he explained. “We’ll need it in triplicate. Mr. Hooper, sir. I note you are still not dressed.”

  The warning tone in Heath’s voice transported Dave back to his childhood. To the sound of his mom’s voice warning him he’d b
e late for school. Again. And the fear of his father appearing from somewhere, smelling of hand-rolled cigarettes and breakfast bourbon, snarling threats and backhanding him hard enough to raise a bruise. Dave, feeling as though he’d done something wrong—you know, besides throwing that last navy guy halfway through a wall and totally smashing the crap out of a bunch of innocent hospital furniture—fumbled for an excuse until he realized he actually had one.

  “I got no clothes,” he said. “I don’t know what happened to mine, and this hospital gown—”

  “Chief?” Captain Heath snapped his fingers, and CPO Allen bent over and produced a sports bag, which he tossed onto the bed.

  “Brought it in while you were sleeping. Had to guess at your size. Are you an Eddie Bauer man?”

  “Not normally,” Dave said.

  “Dude, you are today. The Original Outdoor Outpatient.”

  Dave opened the bag with care, afraid that he might tear it apart, and found a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a gray zip-up hoodie, socks, jocks, and a pair of Nikes. All new.

  “Bauer’s a little uptown for me,” he said.

  No one smiled or reacted in any way. Pradesh was still reading the pro forma complaint letter and fuming silently. The nurse was cloaked in the armor of vindication, and the navy guys stared at him, waiting for him to do as he was told.

  “Do I have to, er … my wallet is back on the—”

  Heath cut him off.

  “Contingency funds, Mr. Hooper. You need to get dressed now.”

  Allen herded the two civilians out of the room, with Pradesh still muttering about taking this to a higher authority.

  “Higher authorities? Section 3 of the form, sir,” said Heath.

  “I told you he was burned,” Fletcher said again. “Must have healed up just like we saw him do. Just then.”

  Both military men stayed in the room with Dave, making no move to exit. The oil worker climbed carefully out of bed for the first time since he’d put the unfortunate lieutenant through the cupboard door. Dave concentrated on the basics: removing his gown, getting dressed. He took his time with each movement, as though learning it anew. It helped keep his mind off things.

  “How many dead and injured?” he asked as he dressed. Better to think about other people’s problems than the pile of shit he seemed to have his face planted in. “You never told me.”

  Chief Allen didn’t hesitate. The surfer dude aura faded as he relayed the bad news. “Last figures I had were twelve dead, including one woman from your catering staff. Eighteen missing. Twenty-six injured, nineteen of them critical. I’m sorry; I don’t have any individual details. But your colleague Mr. Martinelli did make it out.”

  Dave got his leg through jeans that were just a little big for him. He was glad of that. If he had to pull them on with any sort of effort, he feared tearing them like tissue paper. He felt awkward dressing in front of Heath and Allen like this. It was stupid, because he was used to showering with dozens of naked rig monkeys. But Heath in particular seemed to emanate censorious judgment. He hadn’t mentioned the other officer Dave had put into surgery, but you could tell he was pissed about it.

  What’s wrong with me?

  An image of the thing from his nightmare forced itself into his thoughts. He pushed it away and cursed instead at the butcher’s bill from the rig. That was what he should have been worrying about. Not bullshit drug flashbacks. He was responsible. No matter what had gone down out there, he, Dave Hooper, was the guy paid to make sure shit didn’t go down on the platform. And he’d failed. He wanted to climb back into bed and pull the covers over his head.

  It was a miserable feeling. The last couple of years, as everything else in his life turned to shit, he’d at least been able to hang on to the idea that no matter what else might happen, Dave Hooper turned up and got the job done. He might be hungover and reeking of paid-for pussy, but he got the job done. Dave sat down heavily on the hospital bed, all the giggles gone now. He pulled on the shoes and did up the laces. Tied them as carefully as a first-grader.

  “Hello?”

  A candy striper stood at the door, bearing a paper bag. From the smell of them, the promised cookies. Saliva jetted into Dave’s mouth again. Captain Heath thanked her with more grace than Dave would have thought possible given his uptight personality, but his smile vanished when he turned away from the girl. “We good to go?”

  “I think so,” Allen said as Dave shrugged on the blue U.S. Navy hoodie.

  “I got some questions,” Dave said.

  “So do we,” Heath said. “So that’s a win-win situation. We can talk in the car. You can eat your cookies if you behave yourself.”

  Dave opened his mouth to ask what they were gonna do if he didn’t behave himself, but the exaggerated head shake from Chief Allen prompted him to stow that particular line of inquiry.

  It was dark outside and felt like midevening to Hooper. As they strode through the crowded lobby of the hospital—he still had no idea which one, adding to his deepening sense of being lost—he looked around for a clock, not wanting to ask the military guys. He didn’t want to feel like he was dependent on them or owed them anything. An old-fashioned analog clock like you sometimes saw at railway stations hung on the wall over the main entrance.

  9:25 p.m.

  Holy shit, he’d been out all day.

  The foyer served as an anteroom to the ER, and business was brisk. Three flat-screen televisions hung from the ceiling, two of them turned to the Shopping Network but one running coverage of the Longreach disaster from CNN Hong Kong of all places. A small group of people were gathered beneath that screen, but it wasn’t the center of most people’s attention, most likely because none of the news channels had anything new to report. Like Dave, they were out of the loop. Heath kept them moving, not giving him a chance to stop and take in the report. As they approached the exit, two other men, both of them bearded and tattooed, both wearing fatigues like Allen, fell in alongside the party, sketching salutes.

  “Rest of the team is outside,” one of the beards told Chief Allen. He regarded Dave with all the respect due a small dog turd on a cocktail fork. “A little much for one guy, isn’t it?”

  Allen shook his head. “Nope. Trust me, or you can ask Lieutenant Dent if and when he wakes up.”

  Dave didn’t like the sound of that. Neither did the beards by the way their expressions darkened. He looked up at the clock again just to escape the judgment in their eyes.

  Shit.

  “I need a phone,” he said, slowing down, causing the SEALs to bunch up around him. “I need to call my wife. Or, you know, ex-wife soon enough. This thing’s been all over the news. She’ll worry. She does that. And my boys …” He trailed off.

  Chief Allen raised an eyebrow at Heath, asking a question silently, and the captain nodded but checked his wristwatch. Just letting Dave know they were still on the clock. Allen reached into another one of his cargo pockets and fished out a cell phone. It looked cheap but new.

  “It’s a burner,” he explained. “All set up. With Sprint, sorry. Reception will probably be lousy. But it’s got twenty bucks on it. Good enough?”

  Dave thanked him and took the candy bar phone as they got moving again. It had been a few years since he’d used one, and he remembered how awkward he’d found them. The buttons were so small, and this cheap piece of Chinese crap felt very breakable. He was extra careful, but before he could finish entering the number, Captain Heath reached over and laid a hand on his unbroken forearm. The guy might dress like a desk jockey, but his hands were as hard as any rig monkey’s.

  “You only need to tell her that you are alive and well,” he said. “Tell her you’re going to be busy helping out. It won’t be a lie.”

  Dave bristled at being told what to do, but he reminded himself that these guys had sprung him out of the hospital, promised to answer his questions, and bought him some new threads. He didn’t even have to pay them back, according to Heath. Plus, he’d put their friend, that
Dent guy, on the operating table. Still, Dave Hooper did not like being told what to do. He resisted the urge to give this asshole the brushoff, worried he might send him flying through a plate glass window.

  He didn’t need to go breaking any more navy guys if he could help it.

  “I just want to let my boys know I’m all right,” he said. “I should have done it before now. Soon as I woke up. I’m not much of a dad, I know that. But I’m the only one they’ve got, the poor little bastards.”

  “Fine,” Heath said as though conceding a minor debating point. “But keep it brief. And simple.”

  The sliding doors rumbled apart as they approached the exit, and for the first time in many hours Dave caught a breath of fresh air. Or at least of outside air. The parking lot smelled of exhaust, oil, decaying rubber, discarded junk food, the sickly sweet syrup of an abandoned Coke …

  He stopped breathing and gagged.

  When he was an undergrad many years ago, he dropped acid before going to a party just off campus. When the tab came on, he experienced a few minutes of sensory crossover, seeing sounds and hearing colors. There was a word for that, he knew, but he’d forgotten it. It passed, leaving him with the raw certainty that he’d been inhabited by the spirit of a wild dog, and he could smell even the most faintly detectable whiff of a scent drifting by on the breeze.

  This was what an acid flashback really felt like, he thought as he stood on the steps of the hospital, aware of hundreds of different odors, each of them separate and unique. It was strangely reassuring, providing an explanation for the psychotic visions he’d been having. One of the whores had totally slipped him something. Had to be. If he ever found his wallet again, it was sure to be light a couple of credit cards and most of his cash. And fuck them in the neck, anyway. He’d maxed out that plastic a long time ago.