The Dormant (The Sublime Electricity Book #4)

by Pavel Kornev

  Now, someone would surely come and explain everything, so there was no need to worry. Everything would solve itself soon. As for the strange weakness, there was nothing unusual in that. Just evidence of the wounds, prolonged immobility, and a morphine drip. My muscles had just atrophied, nothing more. I could feel my body: even a horse-sized dose of narcotics wouldn't be able to fully extinguish the pain tearing at my nerves.

  Everything would be fine. Everything would definitely be fine.

  Curses! Everything was already fine! For a person who'd taken four bullets, just being alive was worth quite a bit. I was alive, and that was what mattered!

  But actually, I was just calming myself down with these thoughts, and I was fully aware of that. But what else was there for a person who couldn't move their arms or legs. Just remain calm and hope for the best. Hope for them all to be blown to bits...

  THE DOCTOR APPEARED when I was totally convinced that the orderly had just ignored my waking up. The physician was young and disheveled; from under his wide-open smock, I could see a cheap suit, dappled with dark spots, as if the doctor had recently been caught in the rain. He smelled of bad fall weather, cigarette smoke and medicine.

  "Excellent!" he announced from the doorway. "You're awake, that's just excellent!"

  "Where am I?" I exhaled hoarsely.

  Confusion was reflected on the doctor's plain pitted face. He pulled at his gold tie clip and inquired:

  "Do you know what happened to you? What's the last thing you remember?"

  "I was shot."

  "And your name? Tell it to me!"

  I thought for a long time about how exactly to introduce myself, then said:

  "My name is Lev Shatunov."

  "Russian?" the doctor clarified, taking a wrinkled notepad from his frock pocket.

  "Yes."

  The doctor took down my name and thoughtfully stroked his big nose with the end of his pencil.

  "Where am I?" I repeated.

  "What?" the medic shuddered. "Ah! You're in a hospital."

  I took a heavy sigh and stared at the ceiling.

  "What's wrong with me, doctor?" I asked, expecting to hear some kind of indigestible medical terminology, but instead, the doctor asked:

  "Can you move your arms or legs?"

  "No."

  The medic cast his eyes down nervously.

  "One of the bullets hit you in the spine. Most likely, your spinal column was damaged, and you will be paralyzed for the rest of your life."

  "Nonsense!" I exploded and started sizzling from the pain beginning to heave in my head.

  "Remain calm!" the doctor demanded. "That is not yet a final diagnosis!"

  "I have to get in touch with my attorney. I am fairly well-heeled and can afford the best specialists!"

  "You'll have to talk with the professor about that."

  "You must send a message to my attorney!"

  "The only thing I must do," the doctor threw out, "is tend to your wounds and oversee your recovery. That is all! For the rest, you're going to have to come to an agreement with the head of the department!"

  "Then call him!" I burst into a scream.

  "The professor will take a look at you as soon as he has time," the doctor declared and threw open the door, allowing the orderly to roll a cart into the room with surgical implements, little bottles of healing ointments and rolls of bandages.

  "I want to see the professor immediately!" I demanded, tearing into a scream. "Right now! Is that clear?!"

  "Everything in its time," he shot back, taking an iron mug and placing it to my lips: "Drink! You must drink this!"

  "What is that?"

  "Drink!"

  It's hard to resist when you cannot feel your own body. The orderly slightly raised my head and, whether I wanted to or not, I had to swallow the bitter concoction. I didn't spit it out or choke the desire to show my own independence. I just felt an inhuman sorrow that I had lost the ability to turn into a beast.

  However, in that case, the silver bullets would have ended me right there on the bridge...

  It was a medicinal beverage containing some kind of narcotic: very soon, a feeling of cottony torpor rolled over me and I wanted unbearably to sleep. Probably, that was for the best: the orderly didn't take the pains to soak the bandages for long and, if I had remained conscious, the reapplication would have been pure torture...

  I WOKE UP with a headache and feverish heartbeat. My mouth was so dry that my swollen tongue could barely move. And, adding to all that, I woke up totally disoriented in space and time.

  I didn’t know where, and I had no idea when.

  What kind of hospital was this, and how long had I been here?

  There was no one to ask. And could I even squeeze a word out?

  What if the paralysis had spread higher and reached my voice box?!

  That thought pierced me with a deadly horror. I took a deep breath, then melted into a mechanical smile and felt my dried lips cracking.

  Quite the meager reassurance but, at the very least, I could still control my own face.

  After that, I tried to bend the fingers of my right hand and managed to do so with unexpected ease.

  I raised my head in astonishment, looked at my hand and cursed in vexation: each and every one of my fingers was unclenched. And, no matter how I tried to move them, nothing came of it.

  Another wave of viscous prickly fear swept over me.

  Helplessness is horrible. You're totally and completely dependent on other people, and you never know how they'll might treat you.

  I was shaken and immediately heard a slight rustling, as if someone was slightly scratching at the door. Someone with long and sharp claws who was very, very hungry. The door gave a shudder, creaked and suddenly flew open with a shove.

  My heart seized up. My temples began to sweat but, just a moment later, a wave of untold relief came over me. It was not my illustrious talent gone off the chain. The time had simply come to put on new bandages. It was the orderlies.

  This time there were two: the muscle-head I'd already seen with ape-like long arms and a new one–his hair was carrot red, his face was pimply and his head was shaped like a coconut.

  My lips were wetted, and I was allowed to drink, then they picked me up together and confidently transferred from the bed onto a gurney.

  "He's heavy!" the redhead said in surprise.

  "He'll shrink up," the muscle head answered, clearly familiar with such matters.

  These words frankly reeled me.

  "Where?" I asked. "Where are you taking me?!"

  "To see the boss," the orderly answered, most likely meaning the professor.

  The boys rolled the gurney, with a godlessly squeaking wheel, to the long dark corridor, and I raised my head, wanting to see what was going on, but there was nothing to see. Bare plaster on the walls, locked doors, barred windows under the ceiling.

  Total uncertainty.

  But it was no problem –I'd have a talk with the professor and everything would be just fine.

  Would it, though? I just couldn't shake the feeling that I was in a prison. There were bars everywhere and the doorframes were reinforced with iron. Why have such precautionary measures in a normal hospital? I mean, really, why?

  And still, I was being rolled down a hospital corridor, no two ways about it. The key was the smell: anyone who had been in a hospital before would recognize it immediately. Stinking medicines, acrid disinfectants, and something else indistinguishable. The smell of disease. And not some banal fall cough, but a drawn-out soul-sucking ailment in the final stages, when there's no longer any cause to expect recovery and the only thing that awaits is pure agony.

  That smell scared me. I was finally beside myself. I would certainly have hopped off the gurney and done something dumb, if only I could have.

  But I couldn’t, and I was devilishly upset by that.

  THE ORDERLIES stopped the gurney before an office with a plaque reading "Professor Karl T. M. Be
rliger." The name of his department was not indicated; while the boys were waiting for an answer to a knock at the door, I was staring at that inscription and the neighboring doors.

  "Come in!" came a voice after a fairly long delay, and the orderlies deftly wheeled the gurney through the narrow doorway and froze to wait for further orders.

  "Place him against the wall!" ordered the middle-aged gentleman with the gaunt and smart face of a man of good lineage. His jacket was hanging on a coatrack, and he was at his desk wearing a white frock with starched collar, ironed dark blue pants with a crease sharp enough to cut paper, and black leather shoes polished to a shine.

  Just one word came to mind: "dandy."

  But I noticed all that only after the orderlies had moved the gurney to the far wall and left the office. First of all, my attention was drawn by the only window of the office, which was adorned with bars, as is done in prison hospitals. That gave me some food for thought, but I didn't rush to any conclusions for the simple reason that there was nothing unusual in the rest of it: the table, cabinet and writing desk. On the wall, there was a portrait of her Majesty the Empress Victoria with a ribbon of mourning in the corner.

  I couldn't understand so quickly if this was a private clinic or a government hospital.

  The professor, meanwhile, took his telephone receiver off the hook and said:

  "Doctor Ergant, come to my office. Yes, this is about our new patient."

  Returning the receiver to its place, he walked past the gurney and couldn't resist a grimace of disgust. I did smell, and not the best, but I didn't feel any embarrassment and immediately took the bull by the horns:

  "Where am I right now?"

  "In a hospital," Professor Berliger answered calmly and smiled. "Isn't that obvious?"

  "But what hospital exactly?"

  "Better you tell me how you’re feeling," the professor dodged. "Are you experiencing any pain or vertigo?"

  "I am," I confirmed, because my well-being really did leave something to be desired. My thoughts were confused. I just couldn't concentrate on any one thing; my soul was being eaten at by atrophying fear.

  "Dryness in your mouth? Do you need water?"

  The last thing I wanted was to take such handouts, but I had to put my pride aside for my throat's sake.

  "Please!"

  The professor filled a glass from a decanter, poured it into my mouth and enquired:

  "Can you feel your body below the neck?"

  "Doesn't matter!" I bristled, raising my head from the gurney and demanding: "I need to speak with my attorney!"

  Berliger set the empty glass on the window sill and spread his arms.

  "I'm afraid I cannot allow that."

  "What do you mean, you cannot?" I asked, startled.

  "The rules of this establishment forbid patients from talking with the outside world."

  "To hell with your rules! Call my attorney at once!"

  "I won't even think of it."

  "You don't have the right to detain me without my consent!"

  "Now there you are mistaken!" the professor answered, taking a paper from the table with a blue heraldic stamp and holding it up to my face. "By order of the Coulomb district court, you have been sentenced to forced medical treatment in connection with severe critical thinking disorder, which presents a danger to those around you."

  The lines of text danced and melted before my eyes, and I just exhaled:

  "What nonsense is this?!"

  "I quote: 'while in an unconscious state, the patient made threats and insults directed at her Imperial Majesty, along with extremist declarations of a religious character.'"

  "No!" I barked. "None of that happened! I remember you, you paid someone to take me here!"

  "Your wounds caused a paranoid disorder."

  "Allow me to call my attorney!"

  "You will be in our clinic until you are fully recovered."

  "You listen!" I bared my teeth. "If you don't allow me to make this call, I will kill you!"

  The professor looked at me with unhidden contempt.

  "Threats won't help you."

  "Please," I smiled, and blood started dribbling from my split lip again. "This isn't a threat."

  "Then what is it?"

  "A promise, professor. A simple promise."

  I pulled at the edge of the fear that started stirring in Berliger's soul, but there was a lot of morphine in my blood and I wasn't able to focus on the professor's phobias. My vertigo gave way to a sharp headache, and I had to bite my lip and squint.

  "This will be added to your disease history," Berliger promised and, at that moment, the doctor who had looked at me earlier came into the office without knocking.

  "Give the patient a sedative," the professor commanded.

  Doctor Ergant didn't ask why, just pulled out a leather travelling bag, placed a new needle into the glass syringe and filled it with morphine.

  "Stop it!" I demanded, but to no avail. "Stop this at once!"

  The doctor performed the injection and turned to the professor.

  "What else, professor?" he asked.

  "Do you think the patient is ready for the procedures?"

  "He has a surprisingly strong body," Doctor Ergant avoided a direct answer. "His wounds heal extremely fast. There's nothing supernatural in that, but this is the first time I've seen such powerful regeneration."

  "Yes or no?" the professor asked point blank.

  "Oh, sorry!" the doctor said in embarrassment. "I got distracted. Yes. Beyond all doubt, yes. We can begin"

  I had to ask exactly what we could begin. I was simply obligated to do it, but I couldn't.

  The morphine reached my blood in an instant and the walls of the office disappeared. The ceiling bent in and turned into the dome of sky, gray with a layer of smoke. As far as the eye could see, the earth was burnt out, baked and covered in ash. In places, puddles of burning sludge spit fire. The suffocating smell of brimstone was everywhere, yet I found it surprisingly easy to breathe. I couldn't really feel the heat at all, and my eyes were not tearing up from the acrid smoke.

  But everything was still in front of me: I simply hadn't yet fallen all the way into the vision; somewhere in the distance, I could still hear doctors' voices. I could make out a bright triangle of window through the gray haze.

  "Did you really kill him?"

  I turned sharply and quickly covered my eyes, blocking the unbearable luster. The silhouette of the man was blindingly white, as if the sun cut right through his heart in my dream.

  "So, did you kill him?" The strange voice seemed to be sounding out right in my head.

  "Who exactly?" I answered with a question. "I've killed many people..."

  The dose of morphine and unreality of it all untied my tongue, and really what of it? There was no court in the land that would admit what I said under these circumstances as evidence.

  Under these circumstances? I only now realized that I was standing totally naked in the middle of a steppe scorched by fiery rain. My bare feet were crinkling through crumbly burning ash, and I didn't feel hot at all. The luster of the strange man even stopped cutting into the eyes.

  This was my dream, and I liked it here.

  Devil! My body was obeying me again, just like before!

  Why couldn't morphine solve all my problems in real life?!

  "You've killed many?" The man's silhouette gave a slightly noticeable shiver. "And how many of them have you strangled? Did many of them have their hands bound when you did it?"

  "What are you, my conscience?" I bared me teeth and instantly took a slap.

  A moment later, another blow followed, then the narcotic vision fell to pieces, and I was in the professor's office once again.

  "You really gave us a scare there, Lev," Doctor Ergant exhaled loudly and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirty handkerchief.

  "If the patient is recovering as quickly as you say, there's no need for furthermorphine injections," Berliger decid
ed, filing his ideally even nails.

  "Noted, professor," said the doctor, not disputing that decision. He then threw open the office door. "Lucien, Jack! Move the patient to room three."

  The orderlies exchanged glances, and the stronger one confirmed:

  "Three? Are you sure, doctor?"

  "Yes, Lucien, I am."

  "If you say so, doctor."

  I was taken out of the professor's office and rolled down the corridor, but very soon the gurney was turned down a side passage and stopped before a closed door. Lucien unclipped a keyring from his belt and undid the lock, then the redheaded Jack steered me down a ramp.

  "Ugh, why doesn't the elevator go to the basement?" he hissed, holding the cart back from a rapid descent with strain.

  Lucien jabbed him in the ribs with a smile and the redheaded orderly unclenched his hands in surprise. The gurney started off rapidly into the basement, and they barely managed to catch it before I collided with a railing blocking off the passage.

  "Having fun?" a guard wearing a gray uniform and a police baton on his belt shook his head and unlocked the door.

  "Look who's talking!" Lucien snorted and clapped his partner on the back. "Roll, Jack. Roll!"

  And the gurney was pushed under the stone vaulting of a ghastly basement.

  The squeaking wheel was really belting it out, but its shrieking howl was not enough to cover up the dull thuds on the doors we passed. The orderlies didn't pay any mind to the staggered clop; patients behaving this way was clearly business as usual. As were piercing screams. And not even so much screams as they were endless mournful wails, all stretching on and on at the same note. On the backdrop of this wailing, I was somehow not afraid of the sharp cries and occasional inarticulate exclamations.

  Powerful electric bulbs under the ceiling blinded the eyes. Their color added an additional reality to what was happening, not allowing the ghastly details to be written off, like the badly cleaned streaks of reddish brown on one of the walls, unduly acting on my imagination.

  And the smell. Here it smelled not of illness, but of madness in pure, if not to say distilled form.