Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Valterzar led the way down the brick steps of the railway station. It astounded him, how warm and friendly everything looked. He'd almost expected there to be some kind of pall over the community—some sombre underlying symbol of the thousands who'd lost their lives here.

  I've hung out too long with psychics, he chided himself. Nevertheless, he could feel something—an unresolved tension in the air.

  Erik was a wreck, and Zar wondered if he was as sensitive to the scarring of human nature as he was to physical disease and injury. Possibly. Zar knew the menace he was sensing made his own insides burn with a need to end it, but there was no ending a past grievance, that had already been addressed. The suffering would remain, and there was little he could do to stop it. The grief process must continue, with pain as a remembered lesson.

  This kind of pain would kill his Merrie, even as it was now, he was certain, killing Dusty. Charles Smythe was a fool.

  There were taxis waiting outside the train station, and Zar hopped in. “75 Alter-Römerstrasse,” he told the driver, reading off Erik's notes.

  “The Concentration Camp,” the driver verified sadly, in heavily-accented English.

  It was so false to Erik's ears that he snorted rudely. He wondered how much the driver modified his tone for locals.

  Zar glared at him. He wanted the driver to get there in a hurry—not take the most circuitous way to the biggest fare. "Gesundheit!" he said pointedly to Erik.

  The literature had advised that a “proper tour” of the museum and grounds would require an entire day. Zar knew they didn't have that kind of time. Dusty was here, somewhere, he thought, doing a cursory visual sweep of the grounds, but neither he nor Erik had any idea where to start.

  He'd pulled out his phone when it began to chime. Ren didn't even say hello. Instead, she blurted out a panicked, “He's in some kind of hospital—there, at the camp. They injected him with something, Zar!” Her voice trailed off and he knew she was desperately trying to hold back tears.

  “Put Josh on!” Zar ordered.

  “I'm here!”

  “Can you focus on my phone?”

  Josh was silent for a moment, then said, “Uh-uh. Too much interference,” he tried to explain. “I need something of yours to hold onto. Then I can see you.”

  “Do this: put one hand on Merrie, and one on Ren.”

  Josh was momentarily silent.

  “Josh!” Zar urged. “Something of mine, and something of Dusty's!"

  “I get it!” Josh exclaimed. Zar could tell Josh was grinning. Erik, overhearing the conversation, rolled his eyes.

  “Dusty's in a bad way,” Josh said solemnly. “Head straight across the compound. First door on your left. Keep going, in through a smaller door. He's curled up in a corner.”

  Zar and Erik took off at a run.

  * * * *

  "Fuckin’ hell!" Erik gasped. Dusty was writhing, burning up with fever. He'd been vomiting, and there was blood down one side of his head, leaking out his nose, and glazing his eyes. "Shit, shit, shit!"

  Zar gripped Erik's wrist. "Hold it!" he ordered. “Calm down—”

  He did a quick examination. “Wish Ren knew what they gave him. Anything come up in your research?”

  “Quit trying to distract me!” Erik yelled. “If I heal him like this, what'll he have? Brain damage?” He turned away, unable to watch, as Dusty went into a seizure.

  "Erik!" Zar gripped the front of his shirt. "Look at me!" Erik focussed, but his hands were shaking. “I'm going to stop this, but I'll need you to maintain him.”

  “Like before—”

  “Exactly. Then, we'll get him to a hospital.” Zar put a hand on Dustin's shoulder. He was so hot he must be 105, 106 degrees.

  “Buy us the time to do the research,” Erik said hopefully.

  Zar nodded. “That's the idea. You ready?”

  Erik sighed. “As ready as I'm gonna get.”

  “Then let's do this.”

  * * * *

  They were on the way with Dusty in the ambulance when Erik suddenly said, “Call Smythe! Make him do the research. He can tell us what experiments they were running.”

  Zar gave him a slight smile. “He owes Dusty—”

  “And us. Make him work for that big paycheque.” Erik was feeling a lot better now that Dusty seemed stabilised.

  Valterzar did as Erik had suggested. He didn't know what made him follow through with a call to Josh. “Can you get me a rundown of what experiments they ran in the Camp, circa 1940's?”

  “Have it for you in fifteen,” Josh told him.

  Erik looked puzzled. “Why'd you do that? Afraid Smythe won't work fast enough?”

  Zar shook his head. “I don't know. Let's just say I trust Josh a whole lot more than Charlie Smythe.”

  * * * *

  Smythe was on the phone to Valterzar by the time they'd wheeled Dusty into the ER. “They were testing rare strains of influenza,” he said, but Zar picked up the nervousness in his voice. “Have Erik give him a treatment. If he's still ill, the literature says tetracycline might help.”

  Zar had barely clicked “End” before Josh rang him up.

  “Malaria,” he said tensely. “Some doctor named Schilling was testing different strains of malaria, either by direct injection or allowing the ‘subjects’ to be bitten. The only other experiments I can find are cold and pressure tests. This is the only one that fits. Hold on—”

  James’ voice came on. “Don't know how much you know about malaria—?”

  “Not enough,” Zar admitted.

  “It's often misdiagnosed, so you'll have to run blood tests. It's a—” Zar guessed he was trying to read the name, “—Plasmodium, and you can see it under the microscope.”

  “Does it say anything about types and treatment?”

  “Should take eight to twelve days to incubate.” James sounded puzzled. “Onset was a lot faster for Dusty.”

  Zar sighed. “Treatment, James.”

  “Chloroquine, for three days. If it's falciparum malaria it's serious, as in medical emergency. Quinine and tetracycline for seven days, but if it's really bad, they say IV, RBC transfusion?”

  “Red blood cells,” Zar explained.

  “—maybe even dialysis. He might have to go on a respirator.”

  Josh must have grabbed the phone from Jamie, because Zar could hear James’ protest in the background. Josh added, “Some strains are resistant to the drugs. That shouldn't be an issue with Erik around, but give us a call if you run into any problems.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Any ‘thoughts’ on how to relieve somebody's distress? I mean, that is supposed to be your area of expertise.” The way he said it made it sound as though he'd asked, and Valterzar had turned him down.

  Valterzar grinned. In other words, Ren was crying and it was driving Josh crazy. “Let me talk to her.” When Ren came on the phone he told her, “He won't get any worse, Ren. Erik and I are going to be with him constantly.”

  “I know, Zar,” she said. “It's just the relief.”

  “I understand,” he said, a smile in his voice. “There's something you can find out for me, Ren. Smythe's decided he made a mistake—”

  “One of many,” she commented.

  “—but he just lied to me about Dusty. Unless Josh and James uncovered some obscure research material, the malaria experiments should be a matter of record.”

  “Maybe he thinks Dusty succumbed so quickly because of his fungal DNA.”

  “I remember reading once that malaria's often misdiagnosed as influenza. Smythe said they were working on flu viruses, but he recommended an antibiotic that's used in conjunction with quinine to help treat malaria. You're probably right about the DNA, but I'd sure like to know why he lied.”

  “We'll check on it tonight—with Dr. Garris.”

  A seance. Valterzar grinned. “Please spare me the details. I really don't want to know.”

  * * * *

  When Dusty opened his eyes, the first thing he s
aw was the sadist. The one who'd shot him full of shit, then tried to bash his head in with a machine gun. The only reason the bastard would be standing here was to gloat—or to finish the job he'd started. No way, Dusty decided in a flash of fury. He'd be damned if he'd let him get away with it.

  The man reached for him, and Dusty took action. He ignored the IV in his hand and drew back his arm. With a resounding smack, he socked the fucker right in the nose.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Valterzar couldn't believe it. One moment, Erik was standing there, going into his healing mode, and the next, Dusty had knocked him flat out on the floor. Zar stood there a second, stunned, then lunged for Dusty's arms to pin him down. A glance at Erik showed their healer squirming on the floor, and groaning loudly while trying to pinch closed his streaming nose.

  Zar couldn't help it. As he tried to keep Dusty from diving out of the bed, to go after Erik again, he started chuckling. He didn't mean to, but Dusty was just so damned determined, and Erik, seeing where Dusty was heading, was yelping now and crawling for the door. Zar gave a gigantic snort, then plunked down in a chair and laughed till his eyes were streaming. Dusty, snarling at Erik now as he dove off the bed, landed in a tangle of sheets and blankets. He and Erik rolled around on the floor, with Erik doing that yelping thing still and Dusty emitting something that sounded remarkably like a growl. It lasted until Dusty shoved his face right in Erik's—then froze, shocked. “Oh,” Dusty said lamely, “it's you!”

  Zar was laughing so hard—great snorting blasts out his mouth and nose—that he couldn't even move.

  * * * *

  “Is he okay?” Dusty asked, concerned about Valterzar's lapse. He knew he should be asking Erik that, but he was too embarrassed. He couldn't believe he'd ploughed into him that way.

  Erik's temper was still huffy, so he said a little stiffly, “Some kind of hysteria. Probably the shock of seeing me attacked.”

  At that, Valterzar bent over double, then stumbled into the attached bathroom. He had to get away from these clowns before they killed him.

  They could hear him in there, as he gradually got the snorts and wheezes and hisses of his amusement under control.

  “You'd better get back in bed,” Erik told Dusty. “I still have some work to do—”

  A moment later, Valterzar re-entered, eyes wet, and with only an occasional shudder of swiftly-choked laughter. He saw Erik about to put his hand on Dusty's chest, and said loudly, “Uh-uh!”

  Erik, startled, turned his way, his expression sour. “Can't we just get this over with?!”

  Valterzar, serious now, shook his head. “Not like that.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I hit you, Erik,” Dusty explained, “and you'd only be human if you wanted to hit me back.”

  At his words Erik froze. “Only ‘human', huh?” He looked over and caught Valterzar's eye, and his lips began to twitch. The next moment, he was laughing, too.

  It set Valterzar off again, and he disappeared back in the bathroom, to mop his streaming eyes.

  Dusty listened to the snorts issuing from the bathroom, and the howls of hilarity now coming from Erik, in-between frequent groans and pinching of his nose. Finally, he shrugged, rolled over on his side, and went to sleep.

  Safe. These two might be acting like a horse's hind end, but it was awfully good to know they were here.

  * * * *

  Josh did not look happy. They were back in Dr. Drewsome's bedroom, where Merrie had so helpfully reminded them the old fart had died. It was dusk, and not even Merrie looked very happy about summoning Garris again. It was one thing sitting around in here during the daylight, eating Chinese food, and another running a damned seance. “Why do we have to do it here?” Josh asked. “I'm for waiting till morning.”

  “Why, Josh? Why is it so much more frightening at night?”

  “Because that's when the bogey men come out to play?” James joked.

  Merrie, however, was serious. “There's a theory that white light can destroy ectoplasm,” she said. “Make it withdraw into the medium.”

  “Dangerous?” Ren asked nervously.

  Merrie nodded, then gave a shiver. “It burns. One medium died when some reporters turned on a flashlight.” She looked around the dingy room. “I hate nights.”

  Josh looked at her in astonishment. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't that you in the graveyard? The one who was joking around and carrying on as though dead guys were nothing?”

  “Nothing to sneeze at,” James remarked.

  “I didn't have to call him in. I just opened myself to any ‘vibes’ he might be sending my way,” Merrie explained, in a hushed voice. “It was more like a walk, among friends.”

  “I hope you're referring to James and me,” Josh told her.

  Merrie smiled. “Going there put me ‘in the mood', but it also let me pick up on any stray emanations.”

  “Oh, them vibes...” James hummed. “I could swear the sadist thanked you for summoning him.”

  “No matter what he said, it-it's different,” Merrie told him. “We went there because Drewsome's been dead only a year. I figured he might still be hanging close to things he knows.”

  “Like his house, and his body.”

  Merrie frowned. “For some reason, though, I feel his presence a lot more strongly here.” She shivered. “Strange.”

  “I'll say,” Josh muttered.

  “No. I mean, visiting a cemetery's a way of stirring things up, but I would have thought...” She shrugged. “Never mind.”

  “Does that mean we can go now?” James asked.

  Merrie grinned. “Of course not. You're always so impatient, Jamie!”

  Jamie raised his eyes to the heavens, in a bid for the patience she seemed to think he lacked.

  Ren remembered the noises from the night before and gooseflesh rose on her arms. “Drewsome was here, last night,” she whispered. “I could read him enough to recognise him.”

  James looked at her curiously. “Think you could tell us if he's lying?”

  “Maybe.”

  “There's a world of difference between tuning into him, and actively summoning him,” Merrie told them. “I hate this bit.”

  “Why?” James asked, a little worriedly. “Why should it be any different than before?”

  “Because I'm as out of control as everyone else in this ‘Cluster',” Merrie admitted testily. Her eyes were scared.

  Josh's eyes widened. “You're afraid you're going to bring him in—”

  Merrie nodded. “—and not be able to send him back.”

  * * * *

  Dusty felt terrible when he saw Erik's face. His nose was swollen and red, and both his eyes were turning black. “Shame you can't heal yourself,” he blurted, then realised it wasn't the best way to apologise. “Thought you were someone else,” he explained.

  “I hope so. Hate to think you'd aimed for me deliberately.” Erik grinned.

  “Don't think there haven't been times...” Dustin told him. He looked around the hospital room. “Amazing I didn't spot the difference.”

  “Who'd you think he was?”

  Dusty twisted to look at Zar.

  “The bastard who injected me. He gave me a shot, then took out his frustrations on my head.”

  “Fists?” Erik asked, touching his own nose gingerly.

  “Machine gun.”

  “Ouch.”

  “He looked a lot like you,” Dusty said, looking at Erik. “From a distance, anyway. Sorry Rik.”

  “As long as no reporters see me.”

  “Reporters,” Dusty scoffed. “They wouldn't even recognise you.” It made him think about the scarecrows he'd walked with, on the road to the Camp. How many of their families would have recognised them? He sighed, seeing once again the hopelessness and exhaustion in those faces.

  You can't change history.

  Yes, you can. Some of it, anyway. He was feeling, once again, the guilt of belonging to the privileged minori
ty—recalling how his lack of belonging to that ragged group had stemmed more from his pampered origins, than from a difference in chronology. Yet most of the men he'd marched with hadn't blamed him. They'd been through too much suffering for that. They'd helped him, instead. Dusty's eyes were moist with remembered shame.

  “What's wrong?” It was Valterzar.

  Dusty shook his head. He didn't want to share this—with anyone.

  Valterzar was disturbed by the haunted look in his eyes. “Are you in pain?”

  Not the kind you can fix. Not the kind anyone can fix.

  Dusty shook his head. “I'm fine.” But he wasn't, and he knew he wouldn't be until he could take some action. How could he live with this kind of futility? It wasn't history for him—it was real. And it was like he'd told Erik: the guy had hit him, and it was only human to want to hit him back.

  It wasn't enough, and if he was honest, it wasn't the reason why.

  The man was a practised sadist. I wasn't his first victim. That's what was getting to him now—the thing that was bothering him the most. What if his next victim was one of those who'd staggered with him into Camp? Or one of those exhausted faces who'd lost hope?

  “Do you know what he gave me?” Dusty was solemn, his eyes still distant.

  “Malaria,” Erik said. “A real nasty kind. We've given you the works, though,” he boasted. “Had the neurosurgeon in to fix your head, and an internist to mend your middle. I took care of the rest.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it. Guess I'm not as much in control as I thought.”

  Zar took a deep breath. That's what was bothering him. He'd come here thinking he'd taken that one extra step to independence, and he'd ended up in hell. “That's why you were sent here,” Zar told him.

  Dusty was startled. His eyes met Valterzar's. “What?” he asked incredulously.

  “Smythe arranged it when you ‘resigned'. Something to prove to you that you couldn't live without Symtech.”

  “Apparently, he was right.”

  “There's a lot you don't know, Dusty. Erik and I'll explain it all on the way back.”

  "You'll explain it,” Erik corrected. “I'm flying first class, no matter what you say.”

  Zar's lips creased in a smile. “We'll leave tomorrow.”