by Gregor Xane
This work is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
SIX DEAD SPOTS
Copyright © 2013 by Gregor Xane
Smashwords Edition
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A New Dollar Pulp Book
Published by New Dollar Pulp
Cover Art & Design By:
thenerdgency.com
For my parents
Acknowledgements
I'd like to thank everyone who so graciously took the time to look at this thing in its many earlier versions. Thank you for your helpful feedback Worm, Creekbird, Ruben, Big Brown, and Mr. Jason Parent. I'd also like to thank John Overwine for services rendered and Bruce Bethke for the recent confidence boost.
Most of all, I'd like to thank my extremely tolerant family. It's impossible to imagine a wife and two daughters more brilliant and lovely.
Chapter 1
Frank woke up and found five dead spots on his body. He discovered them in the shower. He found the first one while lathering his chest. A circle of skin, the size of a large collector's coin, directly over his heart and just under his throat, had gone numb. He pinched and poked the spot and felt no pain, no sensation at all. The second spot was just under his sternum. The third was just above his pubic patch. He found the fourth spot at the middle of his lower back, and the fifth several inches above. All five were exactly the same diameter.
Frank sprayed the suds away and had a closer look. There was no discoloration. He stepped out of the shower and examined his backside in the mirror. He pressed the dead spot at the center of his lower back, searching for a lump or pain hidden deep in muscle, and found nothing, felt nothing.
He quickly dried off. It was like parts of him were simply not there.
Frank put on his bathrobe, cinched the waist too tight. He'd never been sick in his life. He'd had colds, but nothing serious. He opened the door to his studio, tugged the shades to let in the light.
He found his phone under a pile of drawings, dialed his doctor's office, and spoke with the receptionist, Carl. He described his symptoms and Carl said, "I have a slot open with Dr. Peel three weeks from tomorrow."
"Can't you get me in sooner?"
"Not unless someone cancels."
"Does that ever happen?"
"No, sir."
"Can I see one of the other doctors?"
"I apologize."
"I'm afraid this might be pretty serious. There's absolutely nothing you can do?"
"What I can do," Carl said, "is send you a helpful brochure filled with valuable information on maintaining a safe and healthy lifestyle."
"No. I don't want a brochure." Frank raised his voice, "I already have fifty of the damned things," and threw the phone.
Frank had done the graphic design work for Dr. Peel's brochures and still had scores of them lying around his studio. He'd been asked to redo the drawings seven times. Forced to produce a hundred whimsical sketches. Happy couples riding bicycles, children swimming, white-haired men playing golf, bunches of fruit, dinner plates filled with greens, bowls of overflowing rainbow pasta, women power-walking, and young boys passing ball, and so many smiling nurses and listening doctors, all rendered in sickening pastels.
Frank gathered up the brochures, crushed them in his fists, and stuffed them in the trash.
Satisfied, he turned on the stereo and got to work on his current project. A local theater was producing an opera and they'd hired him to design the programs and the promotional materials.
Frank settled in at his workstation, flicked on the monitor, and brought up a folder containing preliminary sketches. Frank had not heard of the opera before he was hired and knew little about it. The production company was very specific about what they'd wanted, so there was no reason for him to make any effort to see a taped production. He made a larger profit when a job didn't require research.
And he had no real interest. He couldn't see himself spending three hours sitting through something with a title like Demon Purse.
Besides, it seemed like he remembered someone telling him it was a musical comedy. And Frank hated musical comedy.
Chapter 2
Frank missed.
A patch of grass flipped into the air.
"Son of a—"
Frank cursed and stomped. He looked down at the dimpled ball and it tumbled off the tee. He closed his eyes and gripped the leather of his club. He leaned forward, defeated.
"Strike two," Steve said. Steve was Frank's brother. He finished his beer and stepped out of the cart. "Grab those divots and let's go."
Frank didn't answer. He didn't bend to patch the tee.
Steve slid his driver from his bag. He looked down at the divots and then up at Frank. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I haven't been sleeping." Frank's shoulders lost their anger. He hated telling Steve about his health. Steve was a pharmacist and loved to recommend medication. "Three hours is all I'm getting. Sometimes less."
"Why didn't you say something?" Steve adjusted his sun visor and squinted at Frank. "I've got a bottle of metacaffeine tabs in the car. You could've taken one before we started."
"I don't need metas." Frank gestured for Steve to go first and stepped aside. He slung his club over his shoulder. "I don't have any trouble staying awake. I need something to help me sleep."
"Serapuems," Steve stepped up to the tee. He planted his feet. "I've got some back at the house."
"Serapuems?" Frank sat down in the cart and pressed a cool can of beer to his forehead. "I've never heard of it."
"Serapuemide. It's new." Steve re-planted his feet, adjusted his stance, and swung the club. "Works great." His eyes followed the ball down the fairway. "Doesn't leave you feeling groggy in the morning."
The ball bounced three times and landed in a bunker.
"Look what you made me do, Frank." Steve shook his head. "You had my mind on drugs when it should've been on the ball." He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to look at Frank.
Frank was staring off in the opposite direction of the fairway.
"Frank."
Frank didn't answer.
Steve tapped the side of the cart with his club. "Let's go."
Frank started. "What?"
"It's your turn."
"Oh." Frank turned back around and stared off.
"You don't like golf, do you?"
Frank didn't turn to face the question. "Not really."
"Then why do you come out with me every Sunday morning?"
"I don't know, I need the exercise."
"If you need the exercise, take a walk. I could get a tee time with someone who likes the game."
Frank stepped out of the cart and over to the tee.
"Now, when did you say your doctor could get you in?" Steve cracked open another beer.
Frank took his time answering. He bent over and placed his ball on the tee. His movements were slow and deliberate. "Not for another week."
"You know, I graduated with Buddy Peel. I could call him and get you in sooner."
"No, no." Frank sized up his shot. "I don't want you calling the Banana."
"They don't call him that anymore."
"Didn't he get in trouble for touching people? I mean, back in hig
h school."
Steve laughed. "I don't think so."
"I'm pretty sure he did."
"Then I guess he gets paid to do it now."
Frank swung and missed. He shielded his eyes and watched the divot tumble through the air as if it were a ball sailing true.
Chapter 3
Emaciated celebrity faces stared out at him from inside the glossy tabloid magazine. Frank flipped through page after page of famous people posing outside movie premieres and charity auctions. The gods and goddesses of the silver screen reduced to human dimensions in the eye of the unrefined tabloid photographer. Without the make-up and special effects, they looked like high school teachers, overdressed chaperones at a senior prom.
The faces were familiar, but Frank could only put a name to a half dozen. He didn't bother to read any of the captions as he waited to be called back to the examination room. The social lives of people he would never meet held little interest. But the pictures somehow fascinated him. The sunken cheeks and frail, stick arms of the Hollywood elite. He was particularly struck by the way so many low-cut evening gowns revealed bony chests instead of voluptuous cleavage.
"Frank," the receptionist called, "you can come back now."
Frank folded the magazine in half and followed a nurse to the scale and weighed in.
"You've lost a few pounds since your last visit," said the nurse, jotting a note in his chart.
"My appetite hasn't been the same for the past two weeks."
The nurse nodded, added another quick note, and then escorted him to examination room number three.
She took his temperature, his blood pressure, and asked him to describe his symptoms. She took more notes and didn't ask for any elaboration. "Okay," she said, looking up with a smile. "Dr. Peel will be with you shortly."
Frank waited thirty minutes. The celebrities made boring company.
"I should've picked up a new magazine," Frank said to himself. "I've been through this one five times."
His attention was drawn from the premiere photos to the ads at the back of the magazine. Cigarettes and bottles of liquor promised the world. He read the classifieds straight through and discovered at least twenty competing diets and weight loss pills, and twice as many exercise machines available to the overweight and unglamorous, all endorsed by some celebrity's personal trainer.
The examination room door opened and the Banana walked in.
But he wasn't called that anymore. He was Dr. Peel now.
He read while he walked, flipping through Frank's chart.
Frank closed his magazine and set it aside, cleared his throat.
"I apologize for the wait," Dr. Peel said. "What are you reading there?"
"Nothing good." Frank flipped the magazine over and pretended to read its title for the first time. "Real Paparazzi. Weekly."
Dr. Peel sat on a stool, retrieved a pen from his coat pocket, depressed the button-top, and jotted something in the margins, smiling down at the paper. He hadn't once looked at Frank since entering the room.
"Spots," Dr. Peel said. "Let's have a look."
"On my chest and on my back."
Dr. Peel looked up, eyes not meeting Frank's, and said, "Take off your shirt."
Frank felt the Banana—
Buddy
Dr. Peel
—staring at his throat.
Frank shrugged off his shirt. He pointed to the center of his chest. "Here's one." His fingers moved a few inches down. "Number Two." And he proceeded to point to each spot in the order of its discovery.
"You have no sensation at any of these points?"
"No."
The Banana reached out and touched Frank's chest. He tapped and poked.
"You don't feel that?"
"I don't."
The Banana pinched.
"How about that?"
"Nothing."
The Banana pinched harder. "That?"
"Nope."
The Banana frowned and pinched Frank's right nipple.
"Ouch. What are you doing?"
"Good." Dr. Peel turned away to take notes. "No discoloration. And I didn't find anything hidden in deeper tissue. We'll have to take samples, of course." The Banana slapped Frank on the knee. "That shouldn't be a problem for you. You'll save some money, since we can skip the local anesthetic."
The Banana reached between Frank's legs and opened a drawer in the examination table. He reached inside and unwrapped a sterile pouch. He ripped the seal and four tiny instruments tumbled out onto a stainless steel tray, like drug paraphernalia made for squirrels. Syringe and a drawing bottle, sample vial, and razor-spoon.
Dr. Peel took the sample vial in one hand and the razor-spoon in the other and stood up.
"Lie down," he said. "And are you sure you don't want me to use the anesthetic?"
"I haven't turned it down."
"But you shouldn't need it."
"I suppose not," Frank said, lying down. "And if it does hurt, then we've learned something, right?"
"Yeah. Right." The Banana placed his left hand on Frank's chest. The sample vial was cold and puckered his skin. Dr. Peel cocked his head, bit his lip, and held his instrument high, delicately, between his thumb and forefinger. He charted his course, nodded, muttered something under his breath, then swooped down and made his incision.
Frank felt nothing. The doctor jerked forward and the next thing Frank noticed was the tinkling sound of the razor-spoon depositing its load into the sample vial.
"That didn't hurt at all?" Dr. Peel asked.
"You're finished?"
"Would you mind if I took a sample from the remainder of the affected areas?"
"Will this leave scars?"
"Shouldn't. But I can give you something. I've got samples lying around. I'm sure."
"Okay, then. Go ahead."
Frank expected to see the man suddenly rubbing his hands together with greedy anticipation.
The Banana dug out and patched four more little holes in Frank's torso, and labeled the samples, coding them according to their source location on the body.
"That's good." Dr. Peel corked the last vial and wiped the spoon clean. "We still have a healthy blood flow in the affected areas." He turned and washed his hands in the sink. "There was quite a mess."
Frank groaned as he sat up. He fingered the bandages on his torso. The discount medical tape tugged at his chest hair.
"What do you think this is?" Frank asked.
"Don't know," said Dr. Peel, re-arranging his samples on the tray. "This is going to take some research."
"You've never seen anything like this before?"
"Not exactly like it. No."
"But you've seen similar conditions?"
Dr. Peel nodded.
"Well, what conditions?"
Dr. Peel frowned and shook his head. "You're right, I haven't seen anything like it. Like I said, it will take some research. We'll schedule more tests while we wait for the tissue to come back from the labs."
"What kind of tests?"
"Nothing intrusive." Dr. Peel waved his hand. "I'll just want a bunch of pictures ordered. I was recently certified at Springbrook Regional Hospital, and they've got a new state-of-the-art imaging facility there. They really have gotten the radiation levels down on these new machines."
Chapter 4
"Keep absolutely still, all the way through the procedure." Dr. Peel adjusted dials and entered information through the machine's keyboard. "And like with any other imaging device, you want to make double-y sure that you don't move while you're inside the cylinder."
"What if I have to sneeze?" Frank asked, legs together, arms pressed tight to his sides. "What happens if I do move?"
"Don't."
"I won't. I just want to know what would happen if I did."
Dr. Peel switched on a desk lamp and studied an operator's manual.
"What could happen?" Frank asked. He didn't like being ignored.
"Hmmm," Dr. Peel said. "What? Oh, I'm not su
re what would happen with this one. I've never used this particular device before. I'm sure whatever happens, it's not good. But it's probably much better than the earlier imagers."
"What happened in the older models?"
"If you moved while inside the cylinder?"
"Yes."
"Well." Dr. Peel stood and wiped lint from his trousers. He walked over to Frank and strapped him to the insertion platform. "If you moved in the old T-SCAN devices, the imaging lasers would slice you into a dozen pieces. The lasers on this one would probably just burn you."
Frank struggled against his constraints. "Are you serious?"
"No," Dr. Peel said. "'Imaging lasers?' Come on, Frank. I made that up. I really have no idea what happens if you move while you're inside one of these things. It probably just messes the pictures up. You won't find any airplane propellers in there, if that's what you're worried about."
Frank relaxed a bit. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to tell himself that he wasn't claustrophobic.
"Are you ready?" Dr. Peel asked.
"How long will I have to be in there?"
"Just a few minutes." The doctor walked behind a protective shield and took his seat before the controls. "And you don't have to close your eyes, Frank. No flashing bulbs."
Frank waited in darkness and listened to flicking switches, to the doctor flipping pages in his manual.
Finally, the insertion platform hummed to life and Frank was drawn into the mouth of the imaging cylinder. His naked skin tingled. He pictured the fine hairs on his arms and legs standing on end. It was cold inside the machine.
Frank remained perfectly still for over thirty minutes before he was finally drawn out again into the dry hospital air. Frank breathed out and opened his eyes. "I thought you said it would only take a few minutes?"
Dr. Peel didn't answer. Frank didn't hear papers shuffling, any pencil scratching.
"Are you there?" Frank called out.
Dr. Peel's voice came a moment later. "What? What was that you said?"
