Suffer the Children

by Craig DiLouie

  “I was kidnapped.”

  “They don’t do that.”

  Before David could say anything further, the man got up and walked toward the end of the row of beds. The overweight cop behind the desk glanced at him and then returned to his book.

  David’s mind drifted. The TV called his attention.

  “What did you do?”

  David turned his head. The doctor leaned over him. His eyes gleamed through the holes in the mask.

  “Kidnapped.”

  “This isn’t right. Somebody made a mistake. It started with criminals. Blood for parole. Now they’re bringing in the homeless. They’re not supposed to bring anyone else. They drew the line at the homeless.”

  David forced himself to concentrate on the man’s words. “Does anybody ever get released?”

  “A lot already have. They were on death’s doorstep from blood loss. The cops bought them bus tickets and shipped them off to Detroit to make them someone else’s problem. I doubt they survived the trip.”

  “Why do you work for these people?”

  The man turned away. “I’m a father.”

  They’re paying him in blood.

  David closed his eyes and floated. He heard the men breathing and moaning around him, filling the room with their sour breath.

  “So that’s it? I’m going to die here?”

  The idea still terrified him, but he felt detached from his own terror, as if he were afraid not for himself but for his favorite character in a movie.

  “They don’t murder people here,” the man said.

  Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, doctor. Murder is exactly what they do here. But not outright, though. Not yet. They’re still working their way to that. One little rationalization at a time. For now, they just bleed men until they can’t survive on their own.

  David was struck by a vision of the room transformed into a slaughterhouse. A place where pigs slaughtered men. An assembly line with screaming people hung upside down from hooks. The pigs cut their throats one by one and drained the blood into troughs.

  “What’s like an assembly line?”

  Had he been talking? He opened his eyes and looked around. The overweight cop looked down at him with his leering mask.

  “I don’t belong here,” David whispered.

  “Why do you say that? I heard you talking to the doctor here.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Dr. Smiley.

  David said, “I’m a pediatrician. A doctor.”

  “We’re giving you your fix,” the cop told him. “Just relax. It’s good shit. Just give it a chance.”

  “I don’t want any drugs. I don’t live on the street. For the past three weeks, I’ve been drawing blood for men like you to give your kids. At my practice on Wilshire.”

  The cop’s head tilted. “What’s your name?”

  “David. David Harris.”

  “Easy to remember. Nice to meet you, David. I’m Officer Smiley.”

  The cop walked away with heavy footsteps.

  “Please call my wife,” David called after him. “Her name’s Nadine. Please tell her I’m alive.”

  The doctor shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that. You seriously fucked up, buddy. You just did the worst thing you can do in here. You got noticed.”

  The doctor’s words failed to interest him. David stared at the images on the nearest TV, but even that slipped away. He closed his eyes and found the dark most interesting of all.

  Doug

  41 days after Resurrection

  A shivering monster stared at Doug from the mirror.

  The security guard’s billy club had torn a nice, big gash in his forehead, now held together by a bulky bandage made out of napkins and tape. The entire right side of his face had swelled and discolored around it, turning into one giant bruise. He needed stitches. A lot of them. The gash had already begun healing badly and would leave one hell of a scar to remind him how stupid he’d been to walk into a hospital pointing a gun at people. He’d been lucky to get out of that situation with his life and freedom.

  He tongued broken teeth. He sure didn’t feel very lucky.

  The monster in the mirror was crying.

  I screwed it all up. Joanie’s right. It’s over. We’re finished.

  The monster frowned. Shook its head.

  It would never be finished.

  He’d slept a long time; it was morning. As much as Doug wanted to crawl back into his nest of blankets, it was time to go home. The house looked even worse in the light of day, but it provided. He scavenged another meager meal, some warm clothes, and a broom handle he intended to use as a walking stick. His blood had kept well overnight. Very little clotting. He walked out the front door happy he would arrive home with at least this small victory in his favor.

  He hesitated on the porch, wondering about Russell. He hoped the man was okay but had a strong feeling he wasn’t. He pushed it out of his mind. The world was a dangerous place now; the familiar had quickly become unfamiliar. If he wanted to make it home, he needed to stay sharp. Russell was Russell’s problem, whatever Doug’s feelings about the man.

  The sky was gray but bright, making his eyes water as they adjusted to the glare. A gust of wind struck him. Snow and ice peppered his face. He walked down the road, taking time to inspect each house he passed. Covered in snow, they appeared derelict. Dark and still, curtains drawn. This was once a nice place to live. Now it was a ghost town.

  Why then do I feel like I’m being watched?

  He tried to pick up his pace, staggering through the snow until the first spots appeared in his vision. He told himself not to push too hard. He’d lost a lot of blood in a short amount of time and still had a long way to go before he got home.

  The street ended in a cul-de-sac at the base of the treed hill he’d have to cross. The first stage of the journey was over; he’d reached the edge of the residential community. He paused to take in the wreckage of a Christmas tree, trailing tinsel and branches that lay strewn across the front lawn of one of the houses. Several sets of footprints led from the front door to the tree and back. The tree had been flattened, its ornaments crushed, the snow around it packed.

  Somebody had taken this tree out here and stomped on it for a good long while. Doug marveled at the amount of energy that had gone into this pointless act of violence. The tree confirmed what his instincts already told him: He wasn’t alone.

  Turning to inspect his own footprints, he realized that, if somebody wanted to find him, he’d blazed an easy trail to follow. His eyes followed his tracks back where he’d come from, and he saw two children standing on the road about a hundred yards back.

  Sure enough, he’d been found.

  Doug squinted at them. They were eight- or nine-year-old boys wearing identical blue coats. At this distance, they looked so alike they could have been twins. A blond-haired girl dressed in a pink snowsuit skipped out of a nearby house and joined them.

  One waved, and he waved back, nerves tingling. He kept an eye out for the parents. The way Doug figured it, the people who cared for these kids quite possibly had systematically cleared out the entire community. Whoever they were, they obviously had no reservations about doing what needed doing. He had to get out of there fast before they did it to him.

  The children started walking then, following in his steps.

  Doug passed the house with its mangled tree and paused at the bottom of the hill. The forest ahead stretched to the top of the rise. It’d be hell to climb but necessary; on the other side was home.

  He stopped after a short distance and looked behind him. He glimpsed color through the trees. A blue coat, a red hat. The children sang as they followed his tracks.

  Where are the parents?

  A classic trap. The children create a distraction; then the parents take him. He scanned the woods, looking for signs of ambush, but saw nothing. The only sound was the snow rustling as the children worked their way up the hill.

>   He started moving again.

  A boy’s falsetto voice: “Hey, mister!”

  He ignored it.

  “Hey, mister! Hey, you up there!”

  Doug leaned against a tree and sucked oxygen in gasps. His heart drummed against his ribs. His legs trembled.

  “Our friend got hurt. Can you help us?”

  “Go away,” he growled, resuming his upward march.

  “Come on! He’s hurt really bad!”

  He saved his breath. He was almost at the top.

  “Aw! Please! All the grown-ups left. We’re all alone.”

  None of it made any sense, until it did.

  Megan biting down on Joan’s arm. Joan’s face as she howled in pain.

  Megan’s bloody teeth after he pulled her off laughing.

  “Hey, mister!”

  He groaned with the effort of trying to move faster. The sound sent the children into peals of playful laughter. Reaching the hilltop and standing on the rise, he found the bar right where he thought it was, its parking lot almost full even though it was barely lunchtime.

  He’d never make it.

  Behind him, the children were rapidly closing in. Branches thrashed and cracked. Doug gripped the broomstick in his hands, his only protection.

  They were just kids.

  But kids drank blood these days, and he barely had enough energy to stand.

  “I know what you want,” he said.

  He reached into the pocket of his EMT jacket, where he’d put one of the blood bags. His hand came away wet.

  “Fuck,” he sobbed.

  The bag hadn’t closed properly. Most of its contents had leaked out. Blood dripped from his fingers onto the snow.

  The kids stopped. Grew quiet. Sniffed the air.

  He saw a flash of steel. A knife.

  They growled.

  He pulled out the other bag. It was full. He threw it toward the children and ran down the hill as fast as his oxygen-starved body would allow.

  At the bottom, he spun, ready to fight, but saw only trees.

  If he’d had the energy or breath, he would have laughed. He’d never thought he would ever have to run in terror from a bunch of kids his son’s age.

  Two pints of blood, gone just like that. He’d just lost two hours with his children. Two hours of life. Memories. It was like winning the lottery and losing the ticket.

  The road was empty. He crossed over, followed it for another two hundred yards, and shuffled into the bar parking lot, still angry at himself.

  At least I’m alive, he thought.

  His luck held. His truck was right where he’d left it, thank God.

  A man’s voice: “Hey, buddy!”

  Doug turned as three men walked up to him. “I didn’t do anything,” he croaked. He felt for the keys in his pocket.

  They glanced at each other. “Didn’t say you did,” one answered.

  “I was just leaving.”

  “Jesus, Lloyd,” said another. “Look at his face. Somebody messed him up good.”

  Doug backed away. “I’m okay.”

  “Buddy, you need some help.”

  He gripped the broomstick. “Stay away from me.”

  “Take it easy. You’re a dad, right?”

  Doug said nothing.

  “I could tell. So are we. We’re all in this together, right? All in the same boat? What’s your name?”

  Doug didn’t answer.

  “You from around here? You’re not from around here, are you?”

  He threw the stick at the men and lurched to his truck on stiff legs. He climbed in and slammed the door.

  A bearded face appeared at his window. “What’s wrong with you? We’re just trying to help!”

  He fumbled with his keys. The engine turned over but wouldn’t start.

  Jesus, Mary, and God—

  The truck roared to life. Doug revved the engine and threw the transmission into gear.

  A fist thudded against the window next to his face. “Why won’t you let us help?”

  The men ringed him with their hungry eyes.

  Lloyd stepped in front of the truck with a smile. “You’re not thinking straight, buddy.” His smile widened. “We’re going to help you.”

  Doug smiled back.

  The truck bolted forward. The bumper thumped into the man’s body, the momentum trapping him against the radiator. The man clawed, screaming, at the hood. The truck built speed.

  He slammed on the brakes. Lloyd flew away and crashed against the windshield of a parked car.

  Doug cranked the wheel and sped across the parking lot. The truck roared onto the road in a cloud of exhaust.

  He watched his rearview until the bar dropped out of sight. He was shaking. His head throbbed. He’d just seriously hurt a man. Maybe even killed him.

  “You didn’t give me any choice,” he said.

  The road behind him remained empty all the way back to Highway 69, where he began to breathe a little easier. He laughed, but it was forced and didn’t last long.

  Safe. For now, at least.

  I’m alive. I’m alive.

  Fuck you all. I’m alive.

  David

  41 days after Resurrection

  David felt like he was floating. Somebody wheezed next to him. He turned his head and looked at the man wasting away in the bed next to his. The man’s face was the color of ash. He stared at the nearest TV with a blank smile.

  In less than a week, David knew, he would look just like him.

  Dr. Smiley had already taken a pint from him last night and was working on another this morning, replacing the volume with saline solution. Gravity brought saline, basic nutrition, and a barbiturate into his body from one bag, and took blood out of his body with another.

  The steady introduction of saline into his body replaced the lost blood plasma volume and ensured adequate circulation. Dr. Smiley was heating the saline before giving it to the prisoners to reduce risk of hypothermia.

  The average person could safely donate a pint of whole blood every fifty-six days. Platelets could be taken every two weeks. Plasma every forty-eight hours. If a man remained very still, half or even more of his blood could be drawn if the lost volume were replaced. People had been known to survive with blood containing just a third of its original amount of hemoglobin. They survived, but only barely, turned into drained husks.

  David knew he’d be bled until he died or was near death. There was no real parole. It was a convenient lie the cops told to the inmates and themselves. Eventually, his systems would crash, and the cops would put him on a bus for Detroit with a smile on his face. He’d curl up in a ball on one of the seats and die.

  He heard the steady hiss of breath beneath the grating Muzak. Dozens of men were being farmed, all of them criminals or homeless. Many had nobody who missed them in the outside world. None had connections with people who could get them out. They were considered easy to dehumanize. One could justify doing all sorts of evil things to them. After all, it wasn’t like the cops were draining and murdering soccer moms. Or doctors.

  David wondered what Nadine was doing now. Pulling blood from some asshole’s arm, most likely. The great cause would go on even after he was dead. Had Dr. Smiley called her as David asked? Had she called the police? Were there any cops who weren’t in on this and could help her find him? Even now, against all reason, he clung to hope of rescue.

  It pained him to think that she’d carry on in her hopeless mission alone. It was more than just delusion that brought her to work every day; she had a good heart. It was one of the reasons he’d married her and one of the things that had made her such a wonderful mother. He wished he were there to protect her from what was coming. If the police were farming people for blood, things were even worse than he thought.

  Missing her, he cried.

  He had one last chance to help himself. Soon it would be too late. They were keeping him drugged, and every day they took a little more blood. He would grow steadily weaker
and more disoriented. If he was ever going to escape from this place, he had to try soon.

  Dr. Smiley was making his rounds. David watched the doctor with the bloody lab coat perform his duties with meticulous precision. Unmasked orderlies—hard men with prison tattoos, likely recruits from the jails—walked the aisles, changing bedpans. The overweight cop who’d taken an interest in David yesterday had returned and now sat at his desk with the reading light on, the snout of his mask buried in a magazine.

  His main hope was the doctor. He’d appeal to the man as a fellow physician. Remind him of the Hippocratic Oath. Moved by this plea, Dr. Smiley would undo his restraints. When the cop behind the desk left the room for a toilet break, David would sneak out and go home.

  The drug helped him believe this was possible. He fantasized it several times, and each time, it appeared even more possible.

  He turned his head. The cop had lowered his magazine and was staring at him. David turned away to feign interest in the nearest TV.

  He watched it, too afraid to move, until the images blurred.

  “David.”

  Nadine?

  “Nadine!” he cried.

  “Be quiet,” Dr. Smiley hissed.

  The pig face leered down at him. He turned. The cop had left his station and wasn’t in the room.

  Now was his chance.

  “My name is David. Tell me your first name. Please.”

  The doctor hesitated. “It’s Jeremy.”

  “I don’t belong in here, Jeremy.”

  “I know.”

  “So get me out.”

  Jeremy patted his shoulder. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  “Help me. Please.”

  “We only have a minute before he comes back. I just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable—”

  “You know I don’t belong in here.”

  “I’m sorry, David. I really am—”

  “Loosen one of these straps. Free my arms. I’ll do the rest.”

  The doctor turned toward one of the exits. “He’s going to be back soon.”

  David reached and gripped the man’s wrist. “Help me, Jeremy.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  David stared at him. “You mean you won’t.”

  If he escaped, the cops might blame it on Jeremy, who would stop being a business partner and instead be treated like one of the criminals. Just as bad, if David escaped, he might bring other police here to bust up the operation, and Jeremy would lose the source of blood he needed to feed his own children.