The Variant Effect: PAINKILLER

by G. Wells Taylor

  His mind reeled with vertigo, spun slowly forward like he would fall out of his head.

  They pushed past another set of doors and ran to the elevator as its doors slid open on a nurse inside. She looked at Borland's bloody clothing, shrieked and fell back, sliding against the far wall of the elevator as Borland's 'rescuer' slashed and stabbed the air with her scalpel.

  The terrified nurse hit a crowd of buttons on the far panel and the doors in that side of the compartment slid apart. She rolled ungracefully backwards into a white-lit hall full of shelves and supplies.

  "Out!" the strange woman barked, launching a kick at the air behind the fleeing nurse who stumbled to her feet and fell into a shelf full of equipment. There was a crash of shattering glass.

  "That'll teach her!" Borland shouted.

  Then the strange woman grabbed Borland's arm and pulled him into the elevator. He lost his balance and slammed into the corner. His face rang off a thick stainless steel railing, smashed against fake veneer.

  He struggled on his knees laughing as his rescuer punched the 'close door' button beside her, and both sides of the elevator slid shut.

  Borland pressed against the tingling wet bulge under his smock as the woman slapped another button. The floor lurched and the elevator started to climb.

  Borland was chortling wetly. He pushed off the wall with one hand while the other cradled his bloody gut. A deep throb cut through him but faded in a fog of painkiller.

  "Hey! You're pretty good," he said and then chuckled. The morphine and Ativan were still coursing through his system, annihilating his pain and anxiety before it could reach his brain. "Is it the centipede?"

  "What do you know about centipede?" she asked, eyes round with disbelief.

  But Borland's attention had shifted down to the blood that soaked the front of his smock. He opened one of the ties to investigate the damage beneath and his hands found the numb edges of a gaping five-inch incision.

  "Oh," he said, and chuckled. "That's really, really bad, lady!" He looked at the woman as she stared at the lighted numbers over the door. "There must be some real trouble."

  "You don't know how lucky you are." She gave a serious half-smile and reached out, patting the back of his bloody hand where it covered his open wound.

  "I got to you in time," she said and then shifted the scalpel to her left hand as she reached behind her and pulled a gun from where it was wedged in the waistband of her pants. Borland recognized the .9mm; it was made of ceramic. A serious piece of hardware-professionals used it: detectives, military police, even Variant Squad Lieutenants.

  Take your pick lady, who are you?

  The woman winced as she cocked the weapon, remembering that she had fresh injuries too, but was running without Borland's morphine.

  He laughed thinking about it. Of course, he didn't have her sutures. He giggled.

  We're screwed!

  "What's the plan?" Borland asked, probing the bloody edges of his surgical opening with his fingers. Then his attention fell back to her gun.

  And he asked: "Who do you work for?"

  "Lots of people, and nobody," she growled and glanced fearfully left and right as the elevator shuddered.

  "Oh, like black ops?" Borland said, comically calm. Blood was seeping down his chest, and he was starting to feel nauseous. "The army? The Feds?" Then he snapped his fingers. "You're with the police?"

  She nodded solemnly. "I used to be..."

  The elevator stopped and the woman leveled her gaze.

  "Listen, I've got to get you somewhere safe, so they don't finish what they started." She frowned. "They cycle people through every four days, moving new patients sequentially through the procedures starting in the basement and ending on the third floor. It's a house of death."

  "I'm on the third floor," Borland said and then coughed. A chill shook him and he chuckled. "My stuff's there, if we're running."

  "Exactly! And none of the civilians will feel like giving us any trouble," she growled and stabbed a button to hold the door closed. "When we go out of here, we run to the right. Get as far down the hall as we can go. Once we get our bearings we'll grab your stuff."

  "Sounds good," Borland snarled, balling up his bloody right fist. His left hand still pressed against the open slit over his navel. It was starting to feel heavy.

  "Ready?" she said, raising the pistol in her right hand.

  Borland nodded, and lifted his fist.

  "Let's roll!" the woman shouted and slapped the button that opened the doors.

  They slid aside to reveal the nurse with the German accent standing by a patient in hospital blues. The nurse raised her e-board like a shield. Borland's rescuer bowled the woman over as he followed in her wake. The startled patient stepped back but not fast enough to avoid Borland's right cross. The man crumpled.

  They ran past.

  A trio of patients staggered out where the hall turned right. The woman kicked one in the groin and he went down howling. Borland blasted through the others like a tank.

  A deep pain ran around from his chest to his back.

  But the morphine dissolved it as he rumbled along after the strange woman.

  Keep going.

  He felt light-headed then and dropped to a knee. The jolt caused a spasm of pain to clench his belly and lower back. Then the morphine haze descended.

  Not far.

  This time, though, he had to grind his teeth against a shadow of the pain-the painkiller unable to handle it all. He dispelled his companion's concern with a nod as she looped a hand under his arm and heaved him to his feet.

  He screamed as white-hot agony clenched his stomach muscles.

  "I'm fine," he gasped, recovering quickly. "Keep going!"

  They hurried along the corridor casting looks left and right.

  "Up here!" she shouted, elbowing another patient into a wall. He crumpled crying out in pain.

  Borland checked his chest for his nametag. They told him never to remove it. But it wasn't required during the operation. Another sharp stab of pain in his gut, and he tumbled against the wall, dizzy-leaving a great red smear.

  "Don't know my room number," he said and coughed as she grabbed his arm and pulled him wheezing along with her.

  "Bastards knew I was coming for you," she snarled and then pointed up the hall with her gun-the last door on the left. "That'll do for now."

  She reached out and gripped Borland's shoulder; steadied him as another spasm of pain brought a sheet of sweat over his face.

  Behind them, down the hall he could hear the shouting and clamber of pursuit. The noise echoed dully, distorted by a hollow ringing in his ears. His vision blurred, and another chill shook him.

  The woman whipped through a door pulling a reeling Borland close on her heels.

  Inside it was the exact duplicate of his room, except there was a man in the first bed. Some old chap was out cold, asleep with painkillers. He'd already had the operation.

  But they finished his.

  The strange woman shut the door and ran to the window in the far wall. Checked it, saw that it didn't open.

  "We'll make a stand here!" she announced and then reached out to Borland, pulled him down by the bed beside the window.

  He collapsed against the wall pressing the wound over his stomach. His lower back was aching now, and his testicles answered a shift of position with a blast of pain.

  What's happening?

  "Okay...good," he said, looking down at the big hole over his navel. He wadded up the lower half of his smock and pressed it against the opening. "I got to stop this bleeding."

  "I know," she said, waddling forward on her knees to peer around the end of the bed. She grabbed a pillow and threw it to Borland. He hugged it against his wound.

  The old man in the other bed snored.

  "I still think I got you in time," she said bleakly and then held her own abdomen. Tears sprang into her eyes.

  "All right, I'm Joe Borland," Borland said wincing. A spasm
shook his gut; the contractions caused a hard knife of pain to strike deep. "What's your name?"

  "Judy Martin," she said, glancing quickly to the door.

  Voices were gathering outside. People were calling and shouting. There were loud thuds as other doors were forced open.

  They're looking for us.

  "Okay Judy," Borland said, looking down at his wound. Blood continued to seep out. It wasn't gushing but... "I'm going to need a doctor, soon, and painkillers." He nodded toward the door. A wave of dizziness passed and he slurred, "So, what's going on? What do they want?"

  She sighted along the gun barrel, trained it on the door. "Same thing they took from me."

  Sweat glazed Borland's forehead. Pain throbbed against his hand, pushed through the morphine.

  "They got mine," Judy said, finally, allowing herself to rest against the wall, still aiming at the door. "But I won't let them take your baby."

  CHAPTER 11

  Borland lost track of time pretty quickly. All he had to mark it with was the growing pain in his guts, and the sporadic attempts at communication made by hospital staff and he assumed, the police.

  At first a doctor started talking through the door.

  He said that Judy wasn't going to be in any trouble.

  He explained: the people she assaulted were shaken up but they were going to be fine.

  And, he said, it was possible the whole thing was a reaction to the medication.

  You're not in any trouble.

  The doctor described going over her medical file and finding her anti-depressant medication might have reacted with the anti-anxiety pills and painkillers she was given. In rare cases it could cause a psychotic break if she was taking both.

  Not that you're psychotic, Ms. Martin.

  Was she still taking her medication? Going cold turkey could have the same effect.

  The doctor said there were two things she had to do to resolve the situation. She had to put the gun down and come out of the room.

  Mr. Cumberland was all right. That was the old man who was still snoring off his post-op medication. So no harm, no foul.

  And the other thing was: "Judy, we really have to get Mr. Borland back to the operating room."

  At that point, they'd asked to talk to Borland, but Judy warned him before he could speak.

  "Remember, they're after your baby," she said in a cautioning tone. "They're tricky so watch what you say."

  Borland nodded and yelled, "I've lost a lot of blood! Not sure how bad things are inside." Then he nodded, pressing against his stomach. He pulled his hands away and looked at the blood, at the hole in his gut. A strained laugh escaped him. "I'm cut open. This is bad. And the morphine's wearing off."

  A hard throb had started past the burning edge of the wound. The cut tissue scorched him, but he felt the beginnings of deeper injuries, bruising, displacement...

  Agony.

  He couldn't think about it.

  Judy went quiet. The doctors tried to get her to talk.

  Time passed.

  Borland's mind drifted...

  And then the doctor started on Judy again. His voice was muffled by the door: "You see Judy, Mr. Borland is injured. You can see that."

  She looked over at Borland, saw that he was watching her, and winked.

  "And when his morphine wears off, he's going to be in excruciating pain," the doctor explained.

  "Pain..." Borland whispered, laughing on morphine vapors.

  "Judy, Mr. Borland is in danger. You don't want to hurt him do you?" the voice shouted.

  Judy startled Borland by firing a round at the door. There was a commotion outside as the negotiators fell back.

  Mr. Cumberland snorted, but slept on.

  "You're not going to turn us against each other!" Judy yelled. "Like you did before."

  Like they did before?

  Another time of pain and deafness followed.

  Things were dark.

  And then...

  Borland was dizzy and had finally collapsed with his back against the wall and his legs straight out. He knew there was a good chance he could overpower Judy if he could get the drop on her, but the morphine and blood loss were making everything impossible.

  What's this?

  From his vantage point he saw a bottle of Listerine protruding from a small gym bag under the bed.

  He clawed the bottle out and wept in pain as he tried to get past the child safety cap. His hands fell to his sides and he gagged. He had to control some of the pain, make himself numb enough for something desperate.

  He cried out as he pushed down on the cap, broke the plastic links that kept it safe.

  In a single motion, he threw the cap away and upended the bottle.

  It was fresh. A clean taste that burned all the way down.

  But Borland needed something, and he knew rummies drank the swill to relieve their pain. There was nothing else he could do. As the morphine peaked, flushed out of his system by the activity and excitement, he knew there'd be a struggle to stay conscious.

  There was a lot of pain on the way.

  He took another drink of Listerine and gagged.

  Borland looked over at Judy where she crouched by the bed. He lifted a numb left hand and closed it in the air. The skin felt bloated, like he was wearing a mitten.

  You can take her.

  So his plan was to crank on Listerine, get ready to experience the full pain and panic of having his belly muscles cut open. Then do something violent and reckless that would likely get him shot.

  Perfect.

  His fellow veteran, Captain Hyde, would recognize the little Borland touches.

  Bastard.

  Borland's vision was off too. The lights were bright, threw a hazy aura over everything. If he could reach her, he doubted he could aim and punch her without throwing up, or having his guts spill out on the floor.

  He tried to think how long it would take for the morphine to wear off completely. What had he heard, some guy, some old man on the stairs with his belly all taped had said he slept after the operation for three hours? And then they started him on simple pain meds... something light; nothing as serious as morphine, but he was also sutured and stapled shut at the time.

  His operation was complete.

  Borland's wasn't.

  They'd just cut all the necessary layers and then...

  The running, and fighting-the damage might already be done.

  Another stab of pain wracked him, brought him out of his stupor.

  He coughed, and the incision over his navel bulged. A bag of bloody, pale tissue pushed against his hands.

  And he almost vomited.

  Clean. Fresh. God!

  Gagging, to keep his mind off it, he talked.

  "Listen to me..." Borland started, took a swig of Listerine. You idiot!

  But he couldn't do it with anger.

  "Judy," he said, wheezing. "They're here to help you."

  "They want your baby," she snarled. "Like they took mine. Don't let them fool you."

  "Judy, I don't have a..." Borland started and then clamped down on his anger. He grimaced around another pulse and nauseous twist of his guts. "They can't take my baby. I'm a man." He tried to grin reassuringly, but only managed to bare his teeth and groan. "I'm a man. You can see that! You god..." Damn. Stupid... Temper. Easy. "Judy, I'm badly hurt here. It's nothing to do with a baby."

  "You're in denial, sweetie." Judy pursed her lips and let her eyes slide down over Borland's belly, surveyed the bloody mess under his hands. "We'll get you help."

  "No!" Borland shook his head and he took another drink of Listerine. A spasm of pain clenched his torso and he gasped. "I'm a cut open man, Judy! Look at me!"

  He spread his bloody hands; the raw wound gaped. A sack of light pink flesh protruded slightly.

  "Stay calm. Don't get down on yourself." Judy shook her head and smiled reassuringly. "I know what you're going through. You don't want to believe."

  There was a
nother clamor out in the hall. Heavy thumping, the big bad SWAT team would be there soon. Borland closed his eyes against the pain and tried to think of their protocol.

  If Judy weren't armed, they'd just charge. With her gun they'd be left with Tasers or stun grenades. Would they use them knowing Borland's condition and that there was another captive in the room? Not likely. The chance of the grenade landing on an injured civilian was too great. That could start a fire too.

  What would they do?

  He coughed again and shivered. His hands were wet, very wet. He was bleeding again.

  Jesus! You don't have time for this.

  A new voice shouted through the door.

  "Judy," a woman called. "This is Dr. Lemington. Do you remember me?"

  Judy looked over at Borland, her eyes wide with terror or fear or anger. His dying eyes were having a hard time with the subtler points of emotion.

  "Who's that?" he asked her, finally.

  "She's the one who took my baby!" Judy hissed, squeezing the pistol in her hand.

  "Judy," said Dr. Lemington, "I know you're frightened."

  Judy glared at the door.

  "And I know you've been confused," Lemington said, "and I know you've been disappointed." The voice quieted and then: "I know you're depressed. That's why you left the police force."

  "I left to find my baby!" Judy surged onto her knees, and fired three shots at the door before she screamed: "I'm a police officer, I won't let you do it to anyone else."

  There was quiet for half a second, Mr. Cumberland snored, and then...

  "No, Judy. You lost your baby," the doctor said nervously, moving back into position. "And they fixed your hernia here."

  "Hernia!" Judy looked down at her own injured stomach, pressed her free hand there and fired another shot at the door. "You're a liar!"

  Borland was trying to focus on her pistol, trying to think of the number of bullets in the clip, but his mind was foggy from blood loss and he was wracked with spasms of pain.

  Confused.

  He took a breath and every nerve in his abdomen fired pain.

  Disappointed.

  Tears welled up in his eyes.

  Depressed.

  "Judy," Borland said, cleared his throat. The action made him shudder in pain. "She said you lost your baby."