"You're one of the Defenseless, Gina. You can't turn on us."
And with that he rushed forward, head low, fists aimed at her chest. She screamed, her finger reflexively jerking on the trigger and she was suddenly deaf in a very bright world.
*** ***
Dear Kyle:
Although I know you'll never read this, you'll understand why I had to write it. Newman is dead. You do understand why I had to kill him, don't you? Of course you do. You always understood me. And daddy's dead now too. Funnily enough, I don't feel any different. I don't feel as if the nightmare is over or that the darkness had been scrubbed from my insides. I feel exactly the same. All that death for nothing.
Did he kill you too, Kyle? I never did get a chance to ask him and I wish I knew. Then maybe I'd be glad I killed him.
There's one bullet left in here and to be honest, it looks awful tempting; like a train ticket to your station. I have some time to think about whether or not I'm ready take that journey.
My head hurts. Newman must have knocked me unconscious but I couldn't have been out for long because I don't hear any sirens.
There is just a single word in my head now, repeating itself over and over again in whispers that aren't mine. Whispers that say: "Judgment." Who are they? Was Newman telling the truth? Did you really see a god? I'm so confused.
I have the gun loaded and close to me, just in case. I'm so scared, Kyle. I can almost believe Newman's story about people like us being invisible when I shut my eyes.
I'm starting to fade.
I love you,
Gina
Kealan Patrick Burke
Born and raised in Dungarvan, Ireland, Kealan Patrick Burke is an award-winning author described as "a newcomer worth watching" (Publishers Weekly) and "one of the most original authors in contemporary horror" (Booklist).
Some of his works include the novels KIN, MASTER OF THE MOORS, CURRENCY OF SOULS and THE HIDES, the novellas THE TURTLE BOY (Bram Stoker Award Winner, 2004), VESSELS, and MIDLISTERS, and the collections RAVENOUS GHOSTS and THE NUMBER 121 TO PENNSYLVANIA & OTHERS (Bram Stoker Award-Nominee, 2009).
Kealan also edited the anthologies: TAVERNS OF THE DEAD (starred review, Publishers Weekly), BRIMSTONE TURNPIKE, QUIETLY NOW (International Horror Guild Award Nominee, 2004), the charity anthology TALES FROM THE GOREZONE and NIGHT VISIONS 12 (starred review, Publishers Weekly, British Fantasy Award & International Horror Guild Award nominee).
You can visit him online at www.kealanpatrickburke.com
When Gods Die
by Maria Alexander
Titans and ambulances rage as they emerge from their caves, and sleep, twilight-bound and restless, when they return…
"Head injury, 15 minutes!"
The radio room PA system beeped frantically with the paramedic call for the latest trauma patient. Nine-year-old Rachel Anne Roberts tested at a "1" for every phase of the Glasgow Coma Test: unresponsive. Triage quickly ushered her gurney through the double-layers of automatic glass doors and into the trauma room. Blood draining from her right ear. Many cuts covering her frail body…
"Hypoxemia and hypotension? What are you fucking waiting for?" I yelled. "Get her stabilized, goddammit!"
Nurses in cobalt blue cotton scrubs scrambled to intubate the girl so she could breathe and x-rayed her skull: Three cranial fractures. As we raced her gurney down to OR, she suffered an epileptic seizure. She was very seriously injured, but she was in good hands: mine. I was Dr. Timothy Samuel, the best neurosurgeon at UC Davis Medical Center. That's not ego; it's record.
I gave her a 30% chance to live.
She closely resembled my first cousin Maggie, a little girl with straight blonde hair and wiry fingers, who caught lizards and made up sweet songs. She died when she was 12 in a flooded river near the family home in Missouri…
But that was a long time ago.
Later that night, I explained to Rachel's parents that she might die. We had to see if the swelling decreased in her braincase.
Her mother, a short Southern woman, wiped her wet red cheek with her open palm. She asked if her daughter was in pain, and I assured her she wasn't, although I frankly didn't know or care. She was unconscious, not likely to feel anything. Her very tall, Norse father nodded silently as I spoke, his neck stiff like a hobby horse. Sometimes he'd close his eyes, and the lids trembled - raw, pink, and sallow - over his tears.
Their fundamentalist preacher arrived later, dressed as a priest so he would be admitted to her ICU room to pray over her. Hospital policy apparently influences who dies shriven and who doesn't.
Rachel remained in ICU, slowly improving, for one week. An ICU room proper has only three walls: the fourth is a draped blue sheet. When I'm in one of those rooms with a patient, the shapes of the nurses and other doctors passing by remind me of a puppet show curtain. They unnerved me that morning, the puppet actors and their shadows, suggesting more vividly than usual their illusory roles on my morning rounds. I needed to examine Rachel's scalp sutures and the bolt in her skull measuring the pressure in her braincase. She was tethered to many, many machines tracking her vital signs. And she was comatose.
I didn't believe in miracles. My only miracle was being accepted on staff at the Medical Center - it was my first choice of residency. No one ever receives their first choice, no matter how well they do academically. I graduated magna cum laude at UC Davis, valedictorian of my class. No miracle: That was dedication. And superior intellect.
But I suspected her father believed in miracles very much.
When I arrived, he was unburdening a litany of guilt to sleeping ears still flaked with blood. I waited somewhat impatiently beyond the puppet curtain until he finished. He did not look at me, but stood by his daughter's bed, holding her fever-warm hand. Then, "Dr. Samuel, do you believe in God?"
"I'm afraid I don't," I replied curtly, yet honestly. Inured to such talk, I made some notes as I checked her sutures.
"I suppose you don't believe in the Devil, either," he said quietly.
Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than talk about religion or God. Not since Maggie died. I stopped thinking about those subjects long ago. I turned my curiosity about abstract matters to gray matter because it's far less… sensitive. I focused on the machines and shook my head.
"I don't, either." His sallow face reddened. "When I was a little boy, my Scandinavian Grandma - my bestemor - used to tell me of the old religions. The old gods. I swear," he said, trembling, "this looks more like the work of Loki than any of that nonsense the preacher tells us."
Loki…
"Look at her. My baby looks like she's asleep but she can't wake up." His voice cracked, watery, and he looked directly at me, his blue eyes accusing. "If there's a Devil, he's a trickster like that Loki," he said. I felt strangely self-conscious and afraid, even though this man was obviously so simple. Then he grew somber. "Bestemor said Loki was so evil that the gods bound him underground in this gray place where twin snakes drip venom on his face until the end of the world. Until the final battle of the gods of Ragnarok."
I remembered the myth from the University. My geology professor read myths about geological phenomena from the old Norse bible, the Poetic Edda. Something about a woman - His lover? His sister? - catching the venom in a cup until it filled. While she emptied the cup, venom dripped on his face. His cries of agony caused earthquakes. Or so the story went. Those lilting, haunting rhymes of ancient bards were then triggered by Rachel's father… By the River fettered Fenrir will lie,'till the twilight of the Gods draws nigh; and nigh to him, but thou hush thee now, thou breeder of ill wilt be bound…
"Sounds like he's under control to me," I said, checking my watch. I slid open the puppet curtain to leave, glad to be leaving this warm room swimming with religious doubt and grief.
"Never been a literal man," he continued, "not even with the Bible. That's my wife's doing, that preacher." Mr. Roberts paused. "I think Loki's trying to break free. If he hasn't already."
He hadn't.
*** ***
After that week, Rachel stabilized. We removed the bolt from her skull and moved her to Room 303 in the pediatric section of that ICU floor - a real room with a door. "Miracles" happened in those soapy-smelling halls. The comatose awakened. The lame walked. Hope returned. But there was no guarantee. That day, her mother took me aside in the hall and asked me hesitantly, "What are her chances? I mean, with the brain damage." Her father looked on, cynical and silent.
"Well," I said, "in a year or so she will be more or less the same girl." I lied. The human mind is really too variable. But we can't let them know when we don't know the future. They would lose faith in us. When God has stopped talking to them, we are still there with our knowledge, even if it's incomplete.
Their tired, grief-worn faces lit up. Nancy, one of the ICU nurses, most likely told them Rachel would never awaken, and if she did she would stay a "vegetable" the rest of her life. We often rotate Nancy out of the ward because of patient family complaints, even if what she says is true. "Thank you," the mother said. She started to cry again, this time with tears of hope and relief. "Thank you."
I shook her pliable hand - I don't trust a weak handshake; it infers a weak mind - and the clammy but firm one of her husband. I'm not lying technically. It isn't completely impossible, I assured myself. The human brain is a mysterious organ. Take the function of dream. The night before, I dreamt of Maggie and her empty casket. They never found her body. I found it interesting how the image of that hollow casket broke into my REM sleep, especially on rainy nights.
Brain surgery we can do. Dream surgery we can't.
I excused myself and left them in the hall as I rushed, chart in hand, to my next patient. Actually, I don't rush well. I'm a taliped: I have a clubfoot. I limp when I walk, but I've mastered it somewhat over the years. I also have a little scoliosis that tips my shoulder forward, but I've managed with that, as well. And I haven't sympathy for anyone who can't.
Only three halls comprised the third ICU floor of UC Davis Med Center. I knew them well. My next patient rested three doors down, a woman in her 50s who had suffered a stroke. I doubted she would ever fully recover her sight or the use of her right hand. I scanned the chart before entering, but halted suddenly.
The room was dark. A figure in the bed shifted its head slightly and sighed, a low, hushed groan. "Good morning, I'm Dr. Samuel," he said.
I flipped the light switch. Nothing. I double-checked the number on the open door and squinted into the darkness. "Well, you're not quite Mrs. Carroll, are you?" I joked.
"Come in, Dr. Samuel," he replied quietly. "This is the right room."
Confused and compelled by the darkness, I entered, navigating the bed by the light from the hallway. "Seems we have a mix up with the records."
Darkness shuttered his face. The light from the hall reached only as far as the foot of the bed in this windowless room. From what I could see, he seemed an unusually tall man. He sighed again. "A little chaos is always welcome… as are you," he said, his voice low and garbled like water retreating into a drain.
"Thank you," I said. Oh, he's a character, I thought, turning over the chart and readying my pen. "Now, can I get your name so we can straighten this out?"
Above and to my left, the television flickered on, throwing bluish gray light across the bed and the face of my patient. Shadowy images flapped silently on the screen and more faintly, like wind-drawn clouds, across my patient's elderly, distinguished face. A nature show about birds, apparently. Crows? Ravens? They moved in uneven oily streaks across a gray sky.
My patient wasn't watching the television, but stared steadily at me with frosty blue eyes beneath soft milk-white hair. Those eyes telegraphed the chronic pain of the terminally ill, the lids wrinkled tightly in an unending throe. Into each nostril was firmly implanted a forked nasogastric - NG - tube filled with pearly fluid.
He said nothing. And then, I wasn't certain he'd spoken at all.
"Dr. Samuel, call 213. Dr. Samuel, 213."
"Excuse me a moment," I said, leaving to respond to the page.
I stepped out of the room and into the well-lit hall. Nurse Nancy strode down the hall past me. She stopped, her narrow eyes scanning me. "Dr. Samuel," she asked teasingly, "who were you talking to in there?"
"I didn't get his name. Send maintenance to fix the light." I stepped past her, thinking nothing of it. The teasing gleam in her eyes turned sharp and discriminating as she looked into the room.
It was empty. And the light was on.
*** ***
Being a good student of Western science, I let my rational mind temporarily catalogue the event as a daydream. In a trauma center, a neurosurgeon is on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I think my daydreaming was due to exhaustion. I rarely vacation, and when I do I go to the desert where it's quiet and empty. Dry. The beauty of the desert is unchanging, unlike most things. It's something I can trust, something I will never lose…
Responding to the page, I entered the waiting room for the ICU floor. There stood Mr. and Mrs. Roberts with an attorney. "We hear you have Rachel on large doses of Thorazine," Mrs. Roberts said angrily. "How is our Rachel to come out of the coma under that much Thorazine?" Mr. Roberts was silent as usual, but this time he was grim and distant.
"I understand your concern," I told them, "but without the Thorazine, she risks having another epileptic seizure, which might induce a stroke. We'll definitely risk losing her then." I silently cursed them for questioning me. It's not uncommon for families who feel powerless to attempt to influence the treatment plan using legal brawn.
The parents looked to one another, then the attorney, who shook his head. "The Roberts request you reduce the Thorazine dosage, Dr. Samuel. They've weighed their options. It's their right."
I considered the odds for her survival. To my surprise, my knees started shaking, my stomach acidic. "I'll look into it," I said weakly. "I have to speak with the Chief of Staff. And there are papers to sign."
"We'll be waiting," the attorney said.
Rachel's room was at the end of the pediatric hall. She was now lying peacefully in her bed. Much of her blonde hair had been shaved away for surgery and her face was bruised. After the surgery, she had suffered another epileptic fit. An NG tube fed her stomach through her nose and an I.V. in her right arm contained the Thorazine drip, a crucial ingredient to keeping her alive. The drug limited her brain activity and therefore the epilepsy. Doctors once used it to treat schizophrenia, as it inhibited hallucinations. Reducing the dosage would most seriously endanger her life.
Then again, she might wake up, too.
As my foot crossed the threshold to her room, icy darkness washed against my leg. For the briefest moment, I waded into the nightmarish river that swept away Maggie's body, the muddy waves slapping my face as I gasped for air. The flood water surged into my mouth, my nose, and soon my lungs as I flailed for the shore. The storm rained frosty nails on my head. I could barely open my eyes…
I found myself lying on my back, windless, watching the black birds flutter in their gaggle or murder across the flickering television screen. The hard tiles bit into the back of my skull, shoulder blades and tail bone. One flailing hand found the steel carriage. Above me hung the NG bag swollen with luminous, pearly fluid. One large dewy drop ran off the bag, about to fall on my forehead like a clear drop of rain.
I sat up quickly before the fluid hit my skin. I listened for a splash, but it never reached the floor. The distinguished old giant rested in his bed as before, the door beyond closed. He regarded me urgently, as he still seemed to be suffering.
"I need your help," he said. "I've been in pain for far too long."
"Who are you?" I asked, standing and backing away. I'm not a large person. In fact, I'm a bit short, maybe 5'5". I wear lifts, which raise my height an inch. But even though my patient hardly looked able to cause me harm, he still frightened me.
"Look at my tubing," he demanded. "I want
you to remove it."
"I can't do that," I spat, irritated at him as if he were a normal patient, yet my heart galloped with horror. "And I can't help you unless you tell me your name." I wondered if I was dreaming, but I've never had dreams like this. Perhaps I was lying in one of the beds of the trauma center downstairs, an oxygen mask over my face and fingers on my pulse, or farther down in psychiatric… I was somewhere; anywhere but here.
He violently threw back his head in a spasm of agony, his lips curling from long, sharp white teeth. "Please," he whispered.
Reluctantly, I moved forward and withdrew the penlight from my white coat pocket. The light shook in my hand as I trained it on my patient's face. For all his appearance, there was something vaguely inhuman about him. Correction: something extra-human. As I drew closer I noted the unusual girth of his jaw and the irregular shape of his iris. His pupils dilated, oval-shaped, and he regarded me cruelly. His skin smelled faintly of ash and salt peter.
The NG tube forked, parting for his septum as it plunged into his throat, but it did not remain tubing. Rather, it solidified as it entered, blood-stained and scaly, ivory prongs swelling tightly against his large nostrils. Even the capillaries closest to the surface of his nose had swollen and broken against his skin in strawberry starbursts.
I then examined the carriage and unlabeled NG bag. Pearly. Glistening. "Who administered this?" I asked, lulled into this weird reality by the ordinary feeling of cool plastic under my fingers.
He closed his eyes and exhaled softly. "My family," he replied.
"Look," I told him, "I can't help you unless you tell me who your doctor is. This NG is feeding you because you can't eat. If I remove it, you'll die of starvation."
"I have suffered long enough!" he growled, his voice a trembling chorus. Cold wind blasted my back. I turned, thinking the door had opened, but it remained swallowed in shadow. "Only a god can help me," he said more calmly, regaining his composure. "And you are a god. A god of this age."
Brimstone Dreams: A Horror Anthology Page 3
