Invasive Procedures

by Aaron Johnston

  “You will not disobey the prophet,” Lichen said.

  “You can tell the prophet to kiss my little white ass.”

  Lichen’s massive hand wrapped around Jonathan’s mouth and he lifted him out of the bed, Jonathan kicked and fought and tried to scream, but it was useless. He was no match for Lichen.

  Lichen carried him out into the hall and set him on the floor. “You can walk or I can drag you,” he said.

  “Touch me again and it will be the last thing you do.” It sounded ridiculous even to Jonathan, but he felt better for having said it.

  “Very well,” said Lichen. He reached down and grabbed Jonathan by the ankle.

  “All right. All right. I’m walking. I’m walking. Chill.”

  Lichen released him. “This way.” He turned on his heels, and Jonathan begrudgingly followed.

  They walked for several minutes in silence, weaving their way through many long corridors of the building. It struck Jonathan as odd that they didn’t encounter anyone. Usually there were people up at this hour.

  “Where is everyone?” he said, being sure to keep his voice as casual-sounding as possible; he would not give Lichen the satisfaction of knowing how afraid he was.

  “All will be explained to you,” said Lichen, without looking back. “All of your questions will be answered.”

  Jonathan grew more anxious with every step. They walked down corridors under construction. They walked past walls of hanging plastic and rooms filled with building supplies. Finally they reached what looked like the wing of a new hospital, although Jonathan knew it couldn’t be the wing of a new hospital; they hadn’t left the old building. No, this new-looking part was merely the same old, grungy part, only slicked up with bright lights and a few coats of paint. This was Galen, the crazy old man, pretending to be something he wasn’t. Pretending to be a hospital. A liar, just like all the other liars.

  They passed stacks of open boxes filled with gauze and tubes and medical equipment, all still wrapped in plastic.

  “This way,” said Lichen firmly. He had stopped and was looking back at Jonathan.

  Without realizing it, Jonathan had stopped at one of the boxes and picked up a bag of syringes—clean, sterile, syringes. He was holding them tightly in his hand and staring at them vacantly when Lichen’s voice had snapped him back to reality. He dropped the syringes back in the box and quickly fell back into step behind Lichen.

  “You are foolish to lose your free will to drugs,” said Lichen. “You would be wise to keep your body pure and undefiled.”

  Jonathan thought of half a dozen slicing retorts but kept them all to himself.

  Lichen pushed open a pair of steel double doors, and Jonathan stepped inside.

  It was an operating room. Or so it appeared. Under a pool of light stood three people, all dressed in green scrubs. There was Galen, Yoshida, and Dr. Owens, who looked like she might be crying.

  The doctors stood between two gurneys, one empty, one occupied. Jonathan couldn’t see the face of the person lying on the gurney, but whoever it was, he wasn’t moving.

  “Welcome, Jonathan,” said Galen. “Don’t be afraid now. Come in. Come in.”

  Jonathan felt a light shove from behind as Lichen urged him forward. He stepped into the light and looked up. The operating room was at the bottom of a small arena. On a floor above him, in a wide circle, and behind glass windows, sat at a dozen or so Healers. They all looked down at him like Roman citizens calmly acknowledging the poor sap who would soon be a lion’s meal.

  “It’s a big day for you, Jonathan,” said Galen. “A day we’ve been waiting for. You’ll be the first, a sort of trial run to see if this works as well as we all hope it does.”

  Jonathan said nothing. Galen was watching him, waiting for a reaction, and Jonathan refused to give him one.

  “I know this is a little unfair of us to spring this on you unannounced,” said Galen cheerily, gesturing at the crowd, “but we thought you might run for the hills if we told you about it ahead of time. You’ve been a wily guest, after all. You slept well, I hope?”

  Jonathan looked intently at Dr. Owens. Now that he was closer to her he could clearly see the tears in her eyes.

  Galen nodded and Jonathan felt Lichen’s strong grip again, this time pinning his arms to his side and lifting him into the air. Lichen carried him to the empty gurney and laid him on his back. Jonathan didn’t resist, even when they restrained him with leather straps.

  He turned his head and looked at the man asleep on the gurney beside him. The man lay on his stomach, his head turned to the side facing Jonathan with his eyes closed. Jonathan didn’t know his name, but he recognized him. He was the Healer who had brought Jonathan and the others food before. He had been wearing all black then. Now he was naked. On the left side of his lower back someone had drawn a dotted line with a black marker. The skin around the black line had been shaven.

  “He volunteered,” said Galen, following Jonathan’s gaze. “He knew how important this test would be, so he volunteered. I thought that rather brave.”

  Jonathan wasn’t listening. He was looking up at Dr. Owens now, who hovered over him, still crying. She had taken his hand into hers, and Jonathan found her touch warm and soft, exactly as he had imagined it would feel. Even with her cheeks streaked with tears, Monica was beautiful to him—twice his age, maybe, but more a woman than ever he had known.

  Or so he had thought.

  The last thing he remembered before they put the IV in him was how stupid he had been to believe that someone other than Nick could be his friend. If Dr. Owens was his friend, she would be fighting for him right now, pushing Lichen away and removing the straps that restrained him. But she did nothing, and Jonathan knew this meant that she was only acting upset. She was pretending to be his friend, even now. Even as they put him to sleep. And that, Jonathan thought, made her the biggest liar of them all.

  15

  ESCAPE

  Curtains opened abruptly and blinding rays of a setting sun fell onto Jonathan’s face. He blinked twice, but his eyes couldn’t focus. He tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain in his stomach put him on his back again.

  “Don’t move,” a voice said. “You’ll only hurt yourself. Here, drink this.”

  Jonathan felt a hand behind his head and a cup at his lips. He opened his mouth as someone gently poured water inside. It was cold and wet and relieved the aching dryness he suddenly noticed in his throat. When he had his fill he lay back again.

  “Now lie still,” the voice said.

  Jonathan opened his eyes, and the blurry image before him slowly cleared. Dr. Owens stood beside his bed, a syringe in her hand. She stuck it into a short tube that protruded from his IV and spoke quietly. “This should help with the pain. Just give it a moment.”

  “What do you care?” he managed to say, but not nearly as forcefully or angrily as he had hoped.

  In seconds, whatever she had given him started working. The pain was subsiding; his head was clearing; he felt awake, energized. He threw back the bedsheet and pulled up his gown, caring little if she saw him undressed. The bandages covered his entire midsection.

  “You’ve had surgery,” she said calmly. “You need to rest, but I thought you might like a little sunshine.”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  She pointed to a stack of clean scrubs on the table. “I can help you dress if you feel up to it, but I wouldn’t suggest you wear pants just yet. The waistline might put unneeded pressure on your wound. How are you feeling?”

  “Get out,” he said in whisper. The sight of her made him want to cry for some reason, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing him cry.

  “Jonathan,” she spoke softly, “you have every right to be angry, but please listen to me.”

  “Get out!” he screamed, finding his real voice now, his grown-up voice.

  She discarded the bottle that had contained the narcotic and moved for the door. She stopped there. He didn’t look at h
er, but he knew she was watching him and crying quietly.

  “I know nothing I can say will make a difference to you, Jonathan. And it shouldn’t. But know that I’m as sorry as you are that any of this ever happened.” She walked out.

  He lay in bed, watching the sun disappear over the tree line and listening to the activity outside his door. Besides the occasional passing footsteps, all was quiet.

  When the sky finally darkened and the stars appeared, Jonathan pulled out his IV, got out of bed, and locked the door. Keeping the lights off, he went to the wastebasket and retrieved the empty bottle of narcotic. Then, searching through the cabinet, he found four bottles of the same medication. He took the pillowcase off the pillow and made it into a sack, stuffing the bottles inside it. Then he packed syringes, clean bandages, scissors, and a blanket. The clean scrubs Dr. Owens had pointed out to him would give him only scant protection against the cold, so he cut a small slit in a blanket, making a poncho. He then changed into the clean scrubs and pulled the poncho over his head.

  What he couldn’t find or make were shoes, and after a vigorous search, he decided to go without.

  The ground outside was about ten feet below the window. He lifted the windowpane and was momentarily panicked to discover that it only opened halfway, meaning he would have to squeeze through a smaller space than he had expected. The sack fit through easily. He tossed it to the ground below. Then, after several attempts, the last of which forced him to suck in his chest more than he had thought possible and to turn his head awkwardly to the side, he squeezed through and reached the ledge outside. He lowered himself as much as his arms were able, then dropped the remaining few feet to the ground.

  When he landed, a pain from his abdomen shot through his body so explosively that he nearly passed out. He crumpled to the ground and grabbed his side, constricting his muscles in an attempt to minimize the hurting. It was as if someone was hovering over him, stabbing him repeatedly with a hot blade.

  He writhed in the dirt a moment and then somehow, after catching his breath, got to his knees. He pulled back his clothing to examine the bandage. Small splotches of red had soaked through. He was bleeding.

  He considered unwrapping the bandage and looking at the wound closely, but he feared he wouldn’t be able to wrap it as tightly when he was done, so he left it.

  He heard a jingling noise, and his heart skipped a beat when saw the source of it: dog collars. Two Doberman pinschers appeared around the side of the building and ran toward him. The instant they saw him they began barking ferociously. Jonathan recoiled against the wall, trapped. The dogs surrounded him, their jaws snapping, thick saliva spraying.

  But they didn’t come too close. They were guard dogs, not attack dogs. Jonathan, who had hopped many fences in his days, fleeing from police, knew the difference. Attack dogs bite. Guard dogs are all talk, no action.

  Keeping his expression as calm as possible, Jonathan got to his feet and shuffled toward the back fence. The dogs circled him, barking constantly. But they didn’t charge. They kept their distance.

  When he reached the chain-link fence, he felt exhausted. Every step took more energy than the last. The medication, he realized, had fooled him into thinking he had more strength than he did.

  One of the dogs lunged and snapped dangerously close to his thigh. They were getting more confident now, building their aggression. He had to move.

  He tossed the sack over the fence and began climbing, ignoring the tearing he felt in his abdomen. The pain was nearly unbearable, but the frantic will to survive was even stronger.

  He reached the top and managed to position himself on the other side of the fence without falling. They would hear the dogs. They would come after him. He had to hurry.

  He lowered himself to the ground. The dogs barked and pawed at the fence.

  Scooping up the sack, Jonathan padded away.

  He hadn’t gone twenty feet into the forest before cutting the bottoms of both feet. He had decided against taking the road they brought him in on, thinking they would find him easily on it if they discovered him missing. Now he wasn’t sure he had made the right decision. It was dark under the trees, and the forest floor was littered with twigs, pinecones, protruding stones, and a thousand other sharp things.

  He considered giving himself another shot of narcotic. The pain in his side coupled with that of his feet was almost too much to bear.

  What he didn’t know, however, was if it was safe for him to take another dose so soon. Dr. Owens had given him an injection only twenty minutes ago. Would another dose now knock him unconscious, or worse, stop his heart? As a junkie, Jonathan had seen overdoses before. Was he willing to take that risk? No, he decided. He’d wait. He could handle the pain.

  A few minutes later, after a heavy thorn pierced his foot, he changed his mind.

  He sat at the base of a tree and prepared a syringe, remembering how full the syringe had been when Dr. Owens had given him the last dose. Then, without hesitating, he stuck himself in the arm.

  The relief came faster this time. Jonathan closed his eyes and relaxed, enjoying the process of giving himself a hit as much as the hit itself. His body tingled. His feet turned numb. He grabbed a low branch, pulled himself up, and, shouldering the sack, began walking again.

  Soon his eyes adjusted to the light, or lack thereof, and he could step without cutting his feet further. He continued to stumble every so often, however, and when he did, the pain in his side shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Each time it happened, he had to stop and rest.

  After half an hour, the ground sloped downward. Walking downhill proved more difficult than walking on level terrain. The slope forced him to put more weight on each foot as he stepped, and doing so aggravated the wound. For a moment he considered doubling back and looking for another route, but he knew that he had a better chance of finding a road at the bottom of the hill than at the top.

  As he moved he checked the bandages. They were wet now, partially from sweat, but mostly from blood. What had been a few splotches of red before was now a single spot of blood the size of a dinner plate.

  A branch snapped in the distance behind him.

  Jonathan stopped and looked back up the hill. Several flashlight beams cut through the darkness at the hill’s crest.

  They were coming for him.

  Jonathan felt panic rise inside him. He scurried down the hillside, slipping on a patch of gravel and landing on his side. He almost cried out in pain, but he gritted his teeth and held in the scream.

  At the base of the hill he came upon a shallow creek bed and gladly stepped into it. The cold mountain water soothed the soles of his bare feet as he stood there catching his breath. He looked back, and the sight of the flashlights coming down the hill motivated him to move again.

  Rather than cross the stream directly, he walked with the current for a hundred yards in an attempt to throw off his trackers.

  When he left the stream, his heart was pounding, and the bandages were completely soaked through. He dug into the sack, found a syringe, and gave himself another dose on the move, worrying little this time about the exactness of the amount or the dangers of giving himself too much of it.

  He could hear their voices now. They were faint still, but they were getting closer, gaining.

  Jonathan pressed a hand against his wound to minimize the bleeding and picked up his pace.

  Branches snagged at his face and clothes as he went. There was no time to step delicately now, no time to choose the best path. What he needed now was speed. He took off the poncho and threw it aside. It was wet, heavy, and slowing him down.

  His foot hit a rock, but the agony in his side was so striking and so constant that he hardly noticed. Even the narcotic wasn’t strong enough now. He winced at the thought of how he would feel as soon as it wore off.

  Then he shook the thought from his mind. Fear would only slow him down. All that mattered now was speed.

  Lichen watched the two Healer
s with scent sniff the air around the creek bed. “Well?” he said.

  “He entered the water here,” one of them said. “The smell of blood is still strong.”

  “I want a direction, Pine,” Lichen said, “not a travel log. Where did he cross?”

  “Difficult to say,” the Healer named Pine said. “I don’t detect a scent on the opposite side.”

  “Nor tracks,” said another. They were shining their flashlights along the creek bank, searching for footprints or traces of blood.

  “I should have brought the dogs,” Lichen said. “They at least can track.”

  It was the deepest of insults. Dogs were weak. They tired easily.

  “Perhaps he went downstream,” said Pine.

  Lichen had already considered that, but he hadn’t thought Jonathan intelligent enough to have come up with the idea himself. Perhaps the boy was smarter than he gave him credit for.

  Or perhaps his mind had turned already and he had acquired the intelligence of the donor. But then, if that was the case, why was he running?

  Lichen spoke quickly. “You three go upstream. The rest come with me.

  The group parted, Lichen taking the lead and running downstream, water splashing from each of his giant steps.

  After a distance, Pine grabbed Lichen’s arm. “Wait.”

  Lichen stopped.

  Pine tilted his head back and inhaled deeply through his nose. “He went out here.”

  “You’re sure?” Lichen said.

  Pine shined his flashlight on the bank and found Jonathan’s tracks.

  Lichen turned to another Healer. “Get the others.”

  The Healer ran back upstream while Lichen charged headfirst in the direction of Jonathan’s tracks. Pine ran behind him, desperately trying to keep up.

  At first Jonathan thought he might be hallucinating. Flashes of red and blue light were dancing on the trees above him. He was on his back, lying in the dirt and staring upward. He didn’t remember falling or passing out, but he couldn’t think of any other explanation for why he was suddenly in this position.