“David Harris.”
“Well, now I’m going to have to place you under arrest, Mr. Harris.”
“For what?”
“For being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
David took a step back. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The cop drew his baton from his belt, stepped forward, and jabbed it hard into David’s stomach.
The pain was incredible. He couldn’t breathe.
He woke up facedown in the snow. He cried out as his hands were yanked behind his back and cuffed together.
Nadine—
“Sorry it has to be this way, sir.”
“I take it back,” David groaned. “I won’t tell anyone anything.”
“I know you won’t, sir.”
“Don’t do this! I’ll make a donation!”
The cop hauled him to his feet and dragged him to the van. “I know you will.”
The other cops stepped aside as they approached.
“Help me,” David begged.
“What’s the deal?” one of them said.
The cop tightened his grip on David’s arm. “We’re taking him with us.”
They shrugged and opened the doors.
A group of men sat on benches inside, hands cuffed behind their backs, their heads covered in black hoods. Their clothes were ragged and filthy. They stank like alcohol and vomit.
At their feet lay two shiny black body bags containing the bodies of his friends.
“To answer your question, Mr. Harris, I’m Officer Stellar.”
David screamed for help as the cop slipped the hood over his head.
Doug
40 days after Resurrection
Doug awoke in a doctor’s office, his head swimming.
Something’s wrong.
The room was tiny. It was shaking.
He lay on a very narrow bed, his face a stiff mask of pain. His jacket was gone, and his sleeve had been rolled up to expose his arm. A piece of tape held an IV tube in place over his vein. His tongue probed broken teeth and tasted blood. He swallowed it.
I got hit by a car, he thought, but couldn’t remember any of it.
He tried to sit up. Restraining straps held him down.
“Dude, be cool, be cool,” a voice said. “I’m Ted. I’m here to help you.”
A long-haired teenager with a wispy mustache smiled down at him from a bench next to the bed. He wore a dark-blue uniform and glasses with yellow-tinted lenses.
“Are my kids okay?” Doug croaked.
“You were by yourself when we picked you up. I mean, it was just you and the other guy.”
Doug winced as he remembered their botched robbery. “Russell?”
The kid shrugged. “I guess. I didn’t get his name.”
“Where am I?”
Ted laughed, as if it should have been obvious. “You’re in my rocking ambulance.”
“What happened?”
The paramedic appeared to find this question amusing. “My guess is somebody fucked you up pretty good.”
Doug remembered the blurred swing of the billy club. The pain. Blacking out.
“Where’s Russell?”
“Your friend’s in another ambulance. Anyway, you’re okay now. Are you still hurting?”
“Is he awake?” yelled the driver from the front of the vehicle. “What the hell?”
“I got this!” Ted shouted back. He rolled his eyes at Doug. “My partner. He thinks he’s my mom. Don’t worry about him. I’m here to help you. We’re the good guys, brother.”
“It hurts,” Doug gasped. “Everywhere.”
The kid laughed. “My face hurts just looking at yours. I’ll fix you up.” He prepared a syringe. “This’ll get you high. Knock you right on your ass.”
“I have to get home.”
“Not in your condition, dude. Trust me.”
Doug’s head swam. He turned his head and retched as the wave of nausea passed.
“Hey, don’t puke in here, okay?”
“Where?” Doug swallowed. “Where are you taking me then?”
To jail, he answered himself. They’re taking us straight to jail. My kids won’t have anybody to provide for them, and they’ll die.
“We’re taking you to the hospital. Where else would we take you?”
“Why isn’t that man sedated?” the driver shouted. “He’s still awake!”
“Because we don’t have a lot of this shit left, Jason. I’m trying to conserve, okay?”
“Well, put him down!”
“What do you mean?” said Doug. “I was just at the hospital.”
He tried to sit up again, but the straps held him. He looked down at his IV.
The tube was red.
Ted smiled. “Dude, just be cool, okay?”
Their eyes met. Understanding passed between them.
“Oops,” said Ted.
The needle lunged. Doug caught the paramedic’s wrist and held it.
The kid chuckled. “It’s just something for the pain. Don’t freak out.”
Doug grunted, surprised at his lack of strength. Black seeped into the edges of his vision.
I’m going to pass out. The needle will go in, and I’ll never wake up.
The paramedic’s face twisted into a hateful grimace. “Just be cool.”
Doug pushed back with everything he had. Sweat stung his eyes. The pressure only increased. He couldn’t hold it.
He let go instead. Twisted the kid’s wrist as he did.
The needle pricked the kid’s thigh. Doug pushed it in and thumbed the plunger down.
“Shit,” groaned Ted. He fell back against the wall. He blinked. “Wow.”
Doug freed himself and pulled the tube out of his vein with a spurt of blood. Legs splayed and eyes closed, Ted sat drooling. Doug reared back and punched the kid’s face with everything he had. The nose flattened under his fist. Blood poured out of it.
The driver looked back at him with murder in his eyes.
“Stop the ambulance,” Doug said. “I’m getting off.”
“Screw you, pal. You’re dead.”
“Stop, or I’ll hit him again. I’ll stick this needle in his eye. I’ll blind him.”
The driver swore and pulled over. Doug took off Ted’s jacket, pulled it on, and pocketed his flask and two bags of blood he found on the floor.
Both of these bags, he knew, belonged to him.
He opened the doors and jumped down from the back of the ambulance. The driver was still shouting at him. Doug walked away at a brisk pace, pain lancing through his head and face at each step. He swayed and almost fell; his head felt like it weighed a ton.
The empty stretch of road bordered open fields white with virgin snow. Beyond the closest field sprawled a residential community over which a water tower loomed. On the other side, a forest. Billboards advertised a legal firm and a matchmaking website.
The driver left the ambulance. Doug turned and clenched his fists. The man closed the rear doors and got back into his rig. Doug jogged several steps in the opposite direction before doubling over to catch his breath.
The ambulance roared. He looked up in time to see it bearing down, lights flashing.
Doug threw himself into the ditch as the vehicle flew past with a shriek of its siren. Doug covered his head with his hands as gravel and snow splattered him.
The ambulance disappeared into the distance.
Doug stood and brushed snow off his clothes. The paramedics were gone, but he wasn’t out of danger. He had to get off the road. He had to find someplace warm before night fell and he got lost. He scanned the darkening horizon, looking for landmarks.
There it was—the hospital, its crown barely visible over the distant woods. The sons of bitches must have been driving around it in circles while they’d bled him. Looking at the sun, Doug figured north, and from there, the rough location of the bar where he’d left his truck.
The path would take him across the empty field, through
the middle of the residential neighborhood, and over the treed hill beyond.
He trudged through the knee-deep snow, stopping often to rest. Sparks floated in his field of vision. Now he knew how Joan had felt these past few weeks. That constant feeling of being suffocated. Asphyxiation, it was called. He kept giggling at himself but didn’t know why. The joke always seemed just out of reach.
The day’s light was failing fast as he neared the houses. The people who lived here appeared to have either given up or gone away. No lights shone in the windows. Curtains were drawn. The streets hadn’t been plowed, and it looked as if nobody had shoveled their driveways and sidewalks in a long time. The snow lay piled in drifts shaped by the howling wind.
Doug felt exposed here; he knew he was in a dangerous position. He remembered some advice he’d heard just before a trip to Detroit: If you ever feel unsafe in a neighborhood you don’t know, walk like you own the place. Good advice, but he didn’t have the energy. On his last legs, frozen to the bone, he wasn’t going to fool anybody by sticking his chest out. Everything about the way he looked broadcast that he was an easy mark.
He couldn’t keep going. He had to stop. He’d walk up to one of the houses, knock on the door, and throw himself at the mercy of whoever lived there. The houses all looked the same; one was as good as the next. Cold and fatigue had him shaking uncontrollably as he staggered up the steps of the nearest porch. The front door was open. Snow had drifted across the entrance and dusted the carpet inside. He looked behind him and saw no tracks other than his own.
The streetlights switched on. Otherwise, the place was a ghost town.
The absence of people suited him just fine. He walked inside and forced the door closed. He moved to flip the light switch but stopped himself. Best not to draw attention. There might be people living somewhere in the neighborhood, but lying low like him.
The first step was to explore the house to make sure he was secure. He entered the living room, navigating by the light of the streetlights outside. Someone had been here before him and trashed the place. The mess reminded him of what Nate and Megan had done to his own house. The couch had been stabbed and gutted. Broken toys lay scattered on the floor. Crude smiley faces and stick figures were carved into the wooden coffee table. Childish, crayoned graffiti covered the bottom half of the walls.
The rest of the house was in similar shape but empty. He thought about turning on the heat but didn’t. The house was cold as a refrigerator, and he wanted to preserve the blood he carried. He draped blankets over his shoulders instead. A search of the kitchen turned up little. He topped off his cursory meal with a snort from his flask and a cigarette.
He pushed aside one of the curtains and took a long look outside. The other houses stood dark and empty. Nothing moved.
Creepy, he thought, but didn’t feel creeped. He was too numbed by exhaustion. His face throbbed with pain. Upstairs, he built a nest of blankets in the walk-in closet, closed the door, and fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
During the night, he woke to a piercing scream but went back to sleep, certain he’d dreamed it.
David
40 days after Resurrection
Shoved onto a stool. Handcuffs removed. Hood ripped from his head. He blinked at the light and massaged his aching wrists.
A grimacing pig stared down at him. He cowered at the sight.
The pig was a mask. The police officer cracked his knuckles.
“I’m Officer Smiley,” the cop said.
The man backed away until he reached a chalkboard on which was scrawled, BLOOD = PAROLE. David spared a glance at his surroundings and saw little desks piled in the corners. Crude drawings and giant snowflakes cut from color construction paper on the walls. Posters of the alphabet, numbers, and common animals and foods.
“What are you going to do to me?”
He already knew. The van had been filled with angry men who smelled like cheap booze and old vomit. Muttering in the dark. One wouldn’t stop yelling about his rights until the others kicked him into silence.
They’d made two stops before coming here. At each stop, somebody new was shoved into the van.
The police were rounding up the homeless.
The cop held up a baton with two prongs protruding from its end. “Guess what this is.”
David swallowed hard and said, “It’s a cattle prod.”
“Smart man! Some guys who come in here—you know what I do? I give them a taste of it right away to let them know what it’s like. But I won’t do that with you. I can tell you’re going to cooperate. You’re going to cooperate, aren’t you?”
David stared at the prod. “Yes. I’m going to cooperate.”
“You want to get out of here, right? No problemo. We want something from you first.”
“My blood.”
“Bingo! Cooperate, and everybody gets what they want. First, you will completely disrobe, including any jewelry. You will put on the hospital gown in the cardboard box behind you. You will put all other items into the box. Is that understood?”
“I think so.” A hundred questions clamored in his mind, but he knew better than to ask.
The pig mask shifted. Beneath its bulging rubber cheeks and brutish snout, David could tell the cop was grinning at him. “Then start cooperating!”
David put on the paper gown, which made him feel naked and humiliated. His entire identity was going into the box. After that, he’d be nobody. Just another inmate. A number.
“Listen, this is all a big mistake,” he said.
“Remember what I said about cooperating?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Yeah?” The officer pounded the door behind him with his fist. “I’m Columbo.”
The door opened, and another pig-faced cop entered, twirling a cattle prod.
“I’m Officer Smiley,” said the second cop. Different man, same fake name. “Come with me, sir.”
David knew he had no choice. He meekly followed the cop into the hallway, where giant cutouts of children, brightly painted with smiling faces, adorned the walls.
The hall led to the gym.
The doors opened, revealing the blood farm.
David saw dozens of cots arranged in rows, each filled with a moaning man under a blanket. Their gray, emaciated faces pointed at the ceiling. Their arms were linked to IV bags on poles. Wide-screen televisions displayed a recorded football game with the sound off. Muzak played at a low volume over the public address system, sounding tinny and distant.
A second cop sat at a desk with a reading light, monitoring the room, while another pig-faced man in a blood-splattered lab coat roamed the aisles between the cots, spot-checking IV bags and blood pressure. A few heads turned to regard the new arrival.
“I don’t belong here,” David said in a small voice.
“Of course you do.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The cop chuckled. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m a doctor. Look in my wallet. You’ll see—”
The cattle prod crackled at the back of his neck. It was like getting hit by a sledgehammer. David fell howling to his knees. More heads turned to fix their blank stares on him. The cop at the desk stood and watched.
David felt himself hauled to his feet and dragged to one of the beds, where the pig-faced man in the lab coat strapped him down with restraints. A cold bedpan was shoved between his legs and a thin blanket tossed over him.
“I’m Dr. Smiley,” said the man in the lab coat. He dragged a stool next to the bed and sat. “Try to relax.”
David sobbed in a terrified daze. “What are you doing to me?”
“Nothing dire, buddy. I’m setting up your drip. Stay still, or you could get hurt.”
The man inserted a catheter into one of the veins in David’s hand. Then he plugged an intravenous infusion line into the catheter’s connecting hub. David watched to make sure the man didn’t blow the vein.
The doc
tor produced a clipboard and crossed his legs. “And how are we feeling today?”
“I’m scared.”
The doctor thumbed his pen. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure you’ll feel better in just a moment. I’m going to ask you a few questions about your health. Please answer honestly. Do you have any medical problems?”
“No.”
“Had any medical treatments in the past year?”
“No.”
“Had sex with anyone who has HIV/AIDS?”
“Yes.” It was worth a try to lie. Maybe they couldn’t take his blood.
The doctor put his pen away. “Good. That’s enough for the interview.”
“What happens now?”
The doctor tied a tourniquet around David’s arm. “Make a fist for me.”
“But I’m not eligible.”
“We’re still going to collect it. And we’ll be testing it. Even if you have HIV, we’ll find a recipient. You weren’t lying to get out of it, were you?”
David said nothing. The doctor sighed and took out his clipboard again. He asked David whether he had a tattoo or took drugs using needles.
After recording the answers, he took David’s blood.
By then, David was no longer afraid. He began to mellow. He felt like watching TV.
“I’m feeling much better now,” he said dreamily.
“Of course you are,” the doctor told him. “This is a happy place.”
They put something in that bag with the saline. Something good.
“You’re competent with a needle,” he said. “I was watching.”
The doctor checked his watch. “Thank you.”
“I was afraid I’d end up with mononeuropathy.”
Dr. Smiley stared at him. “How do you know that word? Are you an intravenous drug user?”
“No.”
“Tell me the truth. Did you lie on the questionnaire again?”
“I’m a doctor like you. A pediatrician.”
“And how does a pediatrician end up on the street? You must have a very sad story.”
“I have a practice. A house.”
“You’re lying again.”
“Call my wife. I’ll give you the number. I’ll give you the address of my practice.”
The man leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Seriously . . . what are you doing here?”
Suffer the Children Page 28
