The Empty

by Thom Reese

  Press. Press.

  Still the heart monitor offers only a single level tone. The soulless melody of the dead.

  Press. Press.

  Julia can’t give up. Not yet.

  Press. Press.

  Those eyes.

  Press. Press.

  Staring.

  Press. Press.

  The gray-white of soapy water. No irises. Only the tiniest of pupils.

  Press. Press.

  Unresponsive. Dead.

  Over twenty minutes, now. No response.

  * * * *

  “Yes, I tried to revive him. We worked on the patient for over twenty minutes, maybe longer.”

  “And you were unsuccessful.”

  Julia’s phone buzzed. She ignored it. “I pronounced him dead at 12:47 a.m.”

  “Do you need to take that call?”

  “I’ll worry about the damn phone. You just worry about the investigation.”

  Glenn raised his eyebrows at the overly-terse response, a near miss at allowing character to invade his uninspired features. “All right. Next question then. How is it that a man pronounced dead was able to leap from the gurney, attack a healthy EMT, fend off other hospital personnel, and flee the scene without capture?”

  * * * *

  Julia gazes into the deceased man. She studies the now-lulling lips, the strange eyes, still open, but vacant. Her eyes narrow. The man’s right hand lays face up on the gurney. What is that on the palm, that strange texturing?

  Jimmy Harrison moves closer, noticing Julia’s furrowed brow.

  Julia runs her fingertips across the palm. Even through her rubber gloves, she can feel a strange uneven quality. She presses, only slightly. There’s something just beneath the surface of the skin. It almost seems prickly.

  Jimmy leans closer, his lips curling into a curious twist.

  Without warning, the dead man’s arm shoots up, his hand pressing into Jimmy Harrison’s neck. There’s a moist popping sound, almost like that of a pin penetrating a rubber balloon. The startled EMT releases a gurgling croak as his eyes roll back and his tongue extends. The naked man rises, still cradling Jimmy by the back of the neck, his pale, nearly translucent skin gleaming in the harsh lights, his strange eyes focused intently on the struggling man.

  Julia lunges forward, grabs the naked man’s arm and pulls. But the man is fierce and quick. Julia is thrown backward, colliding with a nurse, Lisa. They both fall to the floor; the instruments that Lisa carries skitter across the tile.

  Shouting for security, Julia scrambles to her feet. Jimmy Harrison flops about the floor as if in seizure. Shedding his I.V. and other apparatus in a flurry of jerks and grunts, the naked man races through the nearest doorway and down the adjacent corridor.

  Gone.

  * * * *

  Inhaling deeply, Julia brushed her short bangs back with both palms. “I don’t know how he did it. Medically, it makes no sense.”

  Glenn stared at his notepad, not making eye contact with Julia; his face expressionless. Julia couldn’t interpret him. She sensed disbelief, but the man was simply unreadable.

  “Detective, I know this sounds preposterous. I find it hard to believe myself. But the patient had been dead for nearly thirty minutes at the time of the attack.”

  Glenn looked up from his notes, his pale eyes meeting with Julia’s own. “Mm-hmm.”

  Julia’s iPhone sounded yet again. Cursing, she reached into her pocket and turned the phone off.

  “Your story matches that of the other hospital staff,” said Glenn after a moment’s pause. “I’m simply trying to determine if there’s any sense to be made.”

  Julia opened her mouth to speak, but then caught the eye of a young man standing just beyond the doorway. She’d noticed him earlier, milling about in the background, not touching anything, not interfering; simply being there. At first she’d thought him a plain-clothed police officer—perhaps he was. But now she didn’t think so. He interacted with no one, fell into the background whenever someone drew near. His eyes were cold and penetrating, his hair slightly long for an officer.

  And white.

  The man couldn’t be much over thirty and his hair was as white as the night was black.

  She looked back at Glenn, intending to mention the man, but when she looked up again, he was gone.

  Just like everything else in her life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Donald Baker marched down the brightly lit corridor, weaving between hospital staff, patients, and visiting family members. Inhaling deeply, he drew in the fragrances of humanity—perspiration, perfumes, powders, antiseptics—all the day-to-day things no one thinks about, though they reveal the world in its truest, most basic form. Drawing near, Donald apprised Shane Daws, who sat in a molded plastic chair against the far wall. At over thirty, Shane had a face that longed to be boyish with eyes that had seen far too much to ever be considered innocent. The young man wore a gray blazer with charcoal business slacks, a black collarless T-shirt, and black and white Converse All-Star tennis shoes—business casual, sort of. A man who inhabited the adult world, but refused to give up his tenuous hold on youth. The young man’s hair was the one feature that contradicted his post-adolescent look. Though he had allowed it to grow out some since their last encounter three years prior, it was still as stark white as an Alaskan snowball.

  Shane rose as Donald approached, slipped a stick of Wrigley’s into his mouth, and extended his right hand. “Hey, uh…Doc, I’m sorry about the thing on the phone. I wasn’t trying to imply that you weren’t needed.”

  Donald dismissed the comment with a wave of the hand. “Of course you were, Mr. Daws. But that’s not my concern. Please update me on the developments.”

  “Okay.” Shane gazed down at Donald, a shorter man by two or three inches. “The EMT’s name is James Harrison. He goes by Jimmy. Things are still iffy but it sounds like he’s stabilized. They moved him to I.C.U. about two hours ago. The emergency room physician is staying on as his doctor. I guess they’re personal friends.”

  Donald nodded. “Is he still comatose?”

  Shane shrugged and rolled his hand in a doubtful gesture. “Not sure. It sounds like this could still go either way. The reyaqc hit him pretty hard for such a short contact—maybe ten or fifteen seconds. I’m guessing he must have been pretty well gone to risk infusing so quickly.”

  “Reckless would be my assessment.” Donald paused, glanced just beyond Shane’s left shoulder.

  A tall, thin, young woman stood behind the young man. Hugging a thick black binder, she’d risen from the seat adjacent to Shane, and had remained a respectful distance behind. She grinned nervously under Donald’s gaze and seemed to hunch her shoulders, perhaps self-conscious of her unusual height. “Who is this woman?” asked Donald.

  Shane withdrew another stick of gum from his jacket pocket, unwrapped it, and slid the slender stick into his mouth. “Uh…yeah, Doc, I was going to mention her. That’s Terry.”

  “Theresa Alice Zimmerman.” The young woman stepped forward, extending her hand in greeting. “Call me Taz. It’s a huge honor to meet you, Dr. Baker. I’ve had the pleasure of reading snippets of your Histories, though complete volumes are nearly impossible to come by.”

  Donald directed his comments to Shane. “Why have you brought another into this?”

  “He didn’t bring me into it,” said Taz as she ran nervous fingers through straight black hair. “I brought him in. We’re on the sites. You know, tracking potential sightings, sifting through articles. I caught the pattern here in Las Vegas and called Shane because of his experience and prior contact with you.”

  “It’s true, Doc. Taz is the one who keyed in on the rogue.”

  “I had to meet you, Dr. Baker. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Whatever you’ve heard is either false or grossly exaggerated, Miss…Taz. I’d ask that you keep what minimal information you’ve acquired solely to yourself. None of this is for public consumption—esp
ecially not on some website frequented by the socially inept and dangerously curious.” Taz bit a nail and Donald redirected his attention to Shane. “The patient? His room?”

  “That’s right behind me, Doc. I managed to cop three visitor’s passes from the front desk, you know, in case someone tries to give us a hassle.” Shane paused, glanced at the floor. “Hey, I’m sorry about… Um, Taz. It’s just the way things worked out. I hope this doesn’t make you think that I’m not able to help you, here.”

  “My opinion of you, Mr. Daws, has long since been established.” Donald paused for a moment, sniffed at the stale recycled air. Shane was perspiring, obviously embarrassed to be seen with his young associate. Donald contemplated dismissing them both outright. Youth could be so…flighty. Daws was a sincere young man, it was simply that his judgments could be considered questionable. And this Taz… Her type frightened him. They were too eager, too infatuated with the idea of the reyaqc. Still, the two already possessed an unhealthy sum of information. Perhaps it would be best to allow them a controlled access, thus gaining their discretion and loyalty. “This is a serious business,” he said. “Not some spurious UFO sighting or a vampire cult wearing plastic teeth and sipping red wine. Lives are at stake. Both human and reyaqc. The need for containment of information is critical. Is that understood?”

  Shane nodded. Taz shrugged, still clutching her black binder to her chest.

  “None of what you see or hear goes beyond us.”

  “That goes without saying,” said Shane.

  “Absolutely,” agreed Taz.

  Donald glanced to the doorway just beyond Shane. “This room?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Donald moved toward the door.

  “Um, Doc?” Shane was perspiring heavily. He was ill-at-ease, probably about to offer something he deemed confrontational.

  “Yes, Mr. Daws.”

  “You do understand, this isn’t necessarily the reyaqc’s fault.”

  Donald closed his eyes and released his breath in an extended exhale. “Of course it is. The reyaqc have needs, yes. They have fierce primal drives. But they also have a great intellectual capacity. There are other ways. More civilized means. This rogue, he behaved like a beast, putting himself and others at great risk. Do not forget, premature exposure is the gravest danger to this already-endangered species.”

  Donald sighed. Shane’s concept of the reyaqc was incomplete, romanticized. He both idolized and feared them. The young man needed to have a more realistic understanding of the species, otherwise he’d be useless to Donald, and worse, might become seriously injured or even killed in the process.

  * * * *

  Jimmy Harrison lay in a fitful sleep, his eyes moving from side-to-side beneath tightly closed lids. His skin tone was pasty, revealing blue veins barely hidden beneath the epidermis. Strands of lost hair peppered the pillow, and the man, though unconscious, gritted his teeth as if in great pain.

  Donald approached with the detached demeanor of a physician examining a patient. Though, internally, his thoughts were less clinical. A reyaqc had done this. Hadn’t they all learned by now? Couldn’t they understand the ramifications of these actions? Couldn’t they understand the risk?

  Donald had wrestled with these same questions again and again and never once come to a satisfactory conclusion. Best to take a mental step away, remain unmoved, think of the solutions to this specific problem. He sighed, refocused on his task. The discoloration was accentuated below the eyes, on the cheeks and neck. Donald lifted both of the man’s hands in his, rubbing Harrison’s fingers between his own thumbs and fingers. “Fingertips, cold to the touch, stiff, and only marginally responsive.” He moved to the foot of the bed and repeated the process on the feet. “The same would be true of the feet. Discoloration extends to just above the knees.” Moving again toward the patient’s head, Donald gently opened the jaw, then lowered his face to within an inch of the man’s now-open mouth and sniffed twice, inhaling his stale breath. “Mr. Daws, what type of I.V. have they prescribed?”

  Shane shrugged, offering an uneasy grin. “I’m not a physician, Doc.”

  Donald sighed and moved past his two companions to examine the I.V. drip. “Typical saline drip. He’s in desperate need of electrolytes and is suffering from dehydration.” He stepped around the I.V. stand and leaned over the patient, giving him three light pats on the left cheek. “James, James, can you hear me?”

  No response.

  “James!”

  Nothing.

  “Young lady, would you please stand near the doorway. Alert me should anyone approach this room.”

  “Of course, Dr. Baker.” Taz nodded as she strode the three paces to the door, and then withdrew a pen from her blue jean pocket, opened her binder, and began to scribble notes.

  Donald withdrew a small rolled pouch he’d concealed in the breast pocket of his tweed sports jacket. Laying it on the bed beside Harrison’s left thigh, he untied and then unrolled it, revealing three syringes and three different medications. He then withdrew a small plastic zip-lock bag from his right hip pocket containing a gauze pad already dampened with rubbing alcohol. The gauze was then removed and he swabbed an area on Harrison’s left bicep. From his pouch, Donald selected the needed medication and a syringe, removed the syringe from its plastic wrapping, and inserted the long needle into the tiny bottle, withdrawing three cc’s of the pale pink liquid. He then tapped the syringe lightly with one finger as he depressed the plunger insuring that no air bubbles remained. He injected Harrison in his left arm, and then carefully replaced his apparatus, rolling the pouch shut, and tying it tightly before returning it to his inner pocket. He spoke to Harrison in a low, furtive voice. “James, you must regain consciousness. You are in great danger.” He patted the unconscious man’s cheek. “James, it is imperative that you wake.”

  Jimmy Harrison moaned and rolled his head in the direction of Donald’s voice.

  “That’s it, James. Now try to focus. Can you see me?”

  The man’s eyes fluttered open. The pupils were unusually wide for someone whose eyes had been shut for so long, and the stark neon light obviously bothered him. He closed them in a tight squint.

  “Miss Taz, dim the overhead lights, please.”

  Nodding, Taz moved to do as Donald had requested.

  “There. Is that more to your liking?” Donald bent, keeping his face only inches from that of Jimmy Harrison.

  “Who…are…you?” asked Harrison.

  “My name is Donald Baker. I need to ask some questions about the man who attacked you.”

  The patient’s face screwed in confusion. “I was attacked?” Harrison seemed disoriented, glancing from side to side as if trying to determine just where he might be.

  “Yes, James. You were attacked by a patient. The naked man.”

  “Naked guy. Yeah, I remember him.”

  Donald nodded. “Tell me what you remember.”

  The patient hesitated and rolled his eyes upward. “Not much. We, uh…responded to a call just north of Washington, a couple blocks. I don’t remember, E Street, F Street, somewhere up there.”

  “It was E Street,” offered Taz taking a step closer to the bed and grinning at her ability to be of assistance.

  “Okay,” agreed Harrison. “E Street. The guy was in the middle of the street.” The patient paused to catch his breath. Even the exertion of talking seemed to put a strain on him. “Um, unconscious. Skin tone kind of blue-gray.”

  “Can you describe the man, his characteristics, anything unusual?”

  “H-he was strange.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dr. Julia Chambers was weary. She’d been on duty over thirteen hours. This wasn’t by the hospital’s direction. In fact, regulations forbad shifts of this length. But Julia felt a responsibility. Jimmy Harrison’s case baffled her. She’d been present during the attack—had seen the whole thing. Still she couldn’t ascertain just what had occurred. From her perspective, the
patient—flat-lined, no tidal volume, no B.P. whatsoever—had reached up and choked the startled EMT. Contact had been minimal, no more than a few seconds. The naked man had then knocked Julia to the floor, leaped from the gurney, and fled down the corridor, leaving Jimmy Harrison quivering in seizure. None of Jimmy’s symptoms had been consistent with strangulation. The windpipe was intact, not damaged in any way. He had not been held long enough to suffer from lack of oxygen. But still, he slipped into coma; his skin color became blue as if he was deprived of oxygen. His vital signs became erratic, and only in the past two hours had he shown hints of returning consciousness.

  And there were those strange pale white puncture marks on the back of his neck. Almost indiscernible. How had those come to be?

  Julia blinked, attempting to focus on the test results she held. She would need to sleep soon or risk becoming counterproductive.

  Soon, but not yet.

  She needed to check on Jimmy one more time before leaving. Besides, the only thing waiting at home was a lonely bed, and she wasn’t sure that even now she was sufficiently exhausted to deal with that. Six years of marriage, and suddenly she was alone. They weren’t necessarily six good years, but well, the marriage hadn’t been Boardwalk, but it wasn’t Baltic Avenue either. Something more middle-of-the-road: Indiana Avenue, or Illinois.

  Apparently her soon-to-be ex-husband, Charles, thought differently. He complained about her long hours, her “marriage” to her work. He wanted children, longed for them, craved them even. Julia wasn’t sure she’d ever known a man to desire fatherhood so fervently. He would make a good father. That was evident every time Charles’ brother came by with his three boys. Julia wanted children too, but not yet, not until… Well, that was it, wasn’t it? Not until when? Julia had to admit that she could have made adjustments. She could have eased back on her duties, could have conceded and joined the ranks of working mothers. She wasn’t exactly in her twenties any more. If she was going to do it, it needed to be soon.