Painkiller tve-2

by G. Wells Taylor

  It was an endless line of white hair and loose clothing, pulling magnetically, drawing Borland down the steps; they linked him to the daisy chain of aging.

  He felt very old in such company.

  Nothing new, he'd felt old for years, a fact pounded home by his hernias but for some reason the resolute, unrelenting shuffle of the hernia-borne, the operation and healing day patients; the core group of smiling gramps, hot wrinkles shot with red, chipped at his ability to confidently deny the overall affect of aging upon him.

  He was feeling ancient and it was their fault.

  This added to the fact that the gray beards automatically started to count him among their number, involve him in their mumbling irrelevance, made him reluctant to go to the dining room at all- besides, no drinking, no point.

  And he'd never been big on company. The Variant Effect just made the apprehension worse. So Borland tended to eat at home or alone, choosing isolated places to sit or stand if he did have to be around people, especially when he was called upon to fraternize or like now, join the crew for dinner.

  And especially if he was sober.

  He needed a drink.

  Then he imagined Brass setting the whole thing up. He'd know what the Shomberg Clinic was like, one of the strings he pulled would have told him how out of place Borland would be.

  Brass was laughing…

  Borland made his way into the room between 15 tables and 50 strangers and found himself exposed…too exposed. But then he'd walked too far, was up against a table full of patients snacking on cookies and drinking coffee, just a wall beyond them; nowhere to even sit and shield his eyes.

  But a hand reached up on his left and patted his arm, drew him down to a seat between two total strangers. There was a group of five chairs around the table, and he sat closest to a man who looked about 35, was broad shouldered in his pajamas under a tousle of dark locks. That left an empty chair on Borland's right, and then a rough-looking woman with rusty, over-conditioned hair. She had a denim vest over a stained pullover and green slacks. Her earlobes sagged from the weight of cheap brass jewelry.

  Borland kept his eyes low after he sat, and then bucked up enough to nod quickly to the other guests, confirming their existence without drawing too much attention to his own. Then he started nervously arranging his utensils.

  It was a mixed group in the dining room. New patients were being served lunch, and others in the repair process were cadging an extra bite or snacking, while healing day patients tried to make up for missed meals.

  Borland didn't like it.

  His discomfort must have thrown his instincts off too, because he got a gut feeling just then that something was wrong but he disregarded it. Too much was happening. It could have been brought on by the hockey dad, or been coming from the woman. Maybe it was the weird little Chinese guy across from him listening to loud symphony music on his ear-buds, and slurping his water, but Borland got the feeling that something was wrong.

  He could also blame the fact that he was drying out-sober, worried about spooks and zombies.

  Why zombies?

  Without the numbing effects of alcohol, he was flying sighted; his professional instincts frayed by awareness.

  He still needed a drink.

  And without one, his company was starting to draw him in and make him real with panic.

  He tried to calm down by listening to the conversation from the man on his right. Deep-chested and kind-faced, a hockey dad who had introduced himself, but Borland had missed the name. Luckily he was content with Borland's input of a strained half-smile and nod because the fellow recapped the table talk. He waxed poetic about his kids on skates, and early mornings on the ice.

  Sounded like hell to Borland but…

  The hockey dad's companion, the rough-trade woman was convinced; but it was a selfish interest. Somehow she took the hockey dad's nostalgic dream and twisted it to talk about her Shomberg Clinic roommate.

  "She had a bad day." Rough-trade nodded. "She wants to go home but the doctors won't let her-so she wants to go even more."

  "She had a reaction to the painkillers, you said?" asked Hockey Dad, giving Borland a concerned half-nod.

  "Yeah, and now she'll only use an ice pack," Rough-trade replied, "for the pain."

  A waiter sped by the table and dropped a small plate in front of each of them as he passed. Borland started shoveling the meager portion of rigatoni and Caesar salad into his face-then paused when he caught the startled looks of his tablemates.

  He was hungry.

  Borland kept his skinned right hand hidden from the other diners. It was easy to miss at a distance but obvious up close so he hid it when forced into company. The scarring overrode whatever social manners social media and isolation had left, so he held his fork in his left hand, and bunched his napkin up over his scarred palm with the rest of the material draped over his knuckles.

  He didn't want to go into it, and he didn't always want the responsibility that came with being a Variant Squad Captain.

  "No wonder she's having trouble," Hockey Dad continued. "Not using painkillers is crazy."

  "She's tough. Used to be a cop," said Rough-trade proudly. " Shush -here she comes."

  And Borland reflexively shared their hunched, guilty postures as they turned to watch a tall, well-muscled woman with caramel blonde hair approach.

  Borland remembered seeing her on his way back from the accounting office. Pretty woman, she'd caught his eye through the big bay window in the patient lounge. He'd stepped out onto the balcony to watch as she relaxed by the 'contemplation' pond.

  Her golden skin had caught his eye.

  The woman had pulled her sheer black pant legs up over her knees to expose long clean calves and thighs to the sun-before leaning back, letting her sharp profile cut the fresh air.

  The woman was very pretty in a bitchy sort of way. She had lovely loose features that hormones or disappointment could easily tighten to petty, mean and selfish.

  Borland remembered her.

  As she approached the table, he appreciated her long legs again-and he especially liked the way she pressed the bright blue ice pack over her abdomen, accentuating the flare of her hips.

  She shot a hesitant smile at Borland, quickly looked away, and took the empty seat between him and Rough-trade.

  "What are they serving?" the woman whispered.

  "Chicken," Rough-trade reassured brusquely. "And you can't eat chicken can you?"

  The strange woman dipped her head and glanced at Borland as he almost cracked a tooth on a whole-wheat roll.

  She can't eat chicken. So what?

  A young black man, one of a group of kids doing the serving, hurtled near and the strange woman stopped him.

  "I can't eat chicken," she stated, both hands raised.

  The young man stared. He had a tray of dinners balanced over his shoulder.

  "So I need the vegetarian menu." The woman pushed her explanation forward.

  "I got to ask them in the kitchen," the young man said, delivering his tray of orders to the next table before spinning back through the kitchen door.

  "She can't eat chicken," Rough-trade repeated.

  "Is she vegetarian?" asked Hockey Dad, like the strange woman wasn't sitting just the other side of Borland.

  The woman piped up, "Not a vegetarian…but I can eat fish."

  "Fish isn't good for vegetarians is it?" Hockey Dad pressed her.

  "It's the only thing they serve that's worth eating," Rough-trade clarified as the strange woman nodded, sharing a silent smile.

  Suddenly the woman looked around the table-panic in her eyes, before she noticed her water glass and Borland's were upside down and unused.

  She flipped her own and filled it from the pitcher and then smiling, looked at Borland's and gestured with trembling fingers. "Would you like some water?"

  There was something in her eyes, some spark in the dark brown setting that dried out Borland's throat, really made him thirsty
, so he said: "No thanks, I'm having coffee."

  The pitcher hit the table with a thump.

  There was a pause.

  The strange woman's features fell, registering a rejection. A wounded look softened her eyes as they shifted off the table and over to Borland's belly. Then a tear rolled down her cheek, and she nodded, mouthing a silent word of comfort to herself.

  She glanced at Borland's belly again and blushed. He knew he didn't have a chance with her so he let it hang out.

  She smirked and shook her head, then squeezed the ice pack over her injury.

  The young black man whirled out of the kitchen and deposited a rigatoni dinner in front of her.

  "No meat!" he announced. "Only cheese."

  "She can't eat chicken," Rough-trade said, for some reason, as the strange woman popped a few pieces of rigatoni into her mouth and chewed.

  There was another pause. More tears?

  She glanced a final time at Borland and then stood, left her meal and hurried across the dining room and out without a word.

  Borland watched her go-a strange sensation-an instinct ignored rose in his gut again-but it flickered and disappeared when Rough-trade said: "She can't eat chicken."

  CHAPTER 7

  Turned out to be lunch after all. Borland blamed the small portions for the fact he managed supper two hours later. After entering the dining room a second time, he grabbed a chair at the closest table-a group of middle-aged men. Hockey Dad and Rough-trade waved from another table across the way.

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  There was no sign of the strange woman.

  Mind your business.

  Rough-trade said: She used to be a cop.

  So she can take care of herself.

  Borland knew from his days on the Metro police force that the ranks were full of burnouts and nut-jobs. Couldn't hold a candle to the Variant Squads back in the day, but law enforcement took its toll on everyone, even the enforcers. Thinking back, he decided that the squads inherited wild characters from all the services. Where else could you get drunk and hunt people?

  Ssskin.

  Strange idea coming from a captain. Borland kept his eyes on his lap.

  He shouldn't have thought that. He was already a marked man if the truth got out and irresponsible thinking led to stupid actions. Internal investigations were usually close behind, and that was out of the question.

  The inner debate kept him out of the table talk. He tried to appear withdrawn, possibly dangerous or crazy. He handled any niceties with a scowl.

  Borland downed his meal and hurried out of the dining room. Tall windows opened onto the contemplation pond. Long orange bands of sunlight were growing but he had a couple of hours to kill.

  The orientation meeting had described the evening for new arrivals. After dinner they were free to wander, but had to be in their rooms by eight-thirty where they would be given sleeping pills and sent to bed. Some would be showering that night and others with operations later in the day would shower in the morning.

  Easy as pie.

  Borland had to shower before bed.

  Perfect.

  As he hurried past chairs and a piano in another recreation area, he tapped the flask of whiskey in his coat pocket. He planned to take a couple blasts, watch the setting sun and then toothbrush and shower away all evidence.

  Borland rammed through a set of glass patio doors and stalked quickly across the flat stones around the contemplation pond. His shoes scraped on the asphalt path as he passed under pine trees.

  He had to reach the acres of grass and trees where the grounds butted up against the rear of the Shomberg complex. He followed the path as it wound in and around groups of trees and manicured lawns that grew beside the buildings.

  If he could find a bit of shadow, he could enjoy a drink.

  His hand instinctively hovered over his flask but it dropped when a silhouette appeared against a golden sky where the path rose. Patients were wandering all over the grounds some new, without a limp, others hunched and mysterious-most were in the dining room eating, but they'd finish soon, and start walking. What else was there to do?

  Goddamn it.

  He didn't have a lot of time.

  There was a huge patio on the back of the complex-a thousand square yards of concrete surrounded by wrought iron. Borland gave it a grunt but pushed on past, followed the path where it crossed a staff parking area and then slipped between some tall billowy bushes.

  His hand rose to the flask again, but fell when he realized three stories of windows leaned behind him. Could be anybody up there, watching.

  Borland altered his course, set his broad shoulders toward the building and paced away. His guts hurt.

  He needed a drink.

  The path wound around thick tree trunks and bushes. It passed cedar benches ringed by stone and flowers.

  But he kept running into patients.

  So he walked toward the sun; off the path the fluorescing grass whipped his shoes.

  Borland hurried toward a cedar bench that faced away from the complex, in the shadow of a large flowering bush.

  Perfect.

  He dropped onto the bench and slipped a hand into his coat, felt the cold metal and then…

  "Hello." An old man walked out of a deep angled cut in the lawn that was hidden by the bush. A footpath wound out of the shadows and cut across in front of Borland.

  Borland dropped his hand and looked up at the clouds.

  Goddamn.

  The old man folded his hands behind his back and limped away.

  Borland studied the clouds and was immediately reminded of clouds. He didn't look up at them enough to be inspired to any other thought. His world was too close, and he had to look down to watch for traps-or it could have been the past, heavy with infection and outbreak pulling his attention to hell-full of loss, fury and the sounds of ripping skin.

  Zombie, I had to do it.

  And he couldn't really call it the past anymore, with it pressing against the insides of his eyes. The clouds were clouds. He was out of practice and his idleness was never contemplative. It was all about not thinking and avoiding the broader view. Anytime he got close to it, something would reach out and slap him. Real life was just a kick in the groin away. So keep your eyes peeled.

  He needed a drink.

  Bad.

  Then he heard music. A young man limped into view and moved past, the sounds squealing around his ear-buds. He gave Borland a passing glance.

  Sharp features. Early twenties.

  Zombie's age…

  Borland glared at the young man's back.

  He needed a drink.

  His sanity was peeling off as he sobered up.

  He got to his feet.

  Who's next? Spiko?

  Borland lumbered toward the edge of the lawn where the trees grew thick. He'd seen the map on the brochure, where the path wound through a forest. There was a stream back there that ran along the property's edge.

  The setting sun would be obscured; the shadows under the trees would darken.

  If he was quick about it, he could get a couple blasts into him before the next patient appeared.

  As he slipped into the woods the path began to meander and make turns and loops so patients kept popping up-his way grew increasingly unpredictable.

  He was running out of time.

  The damn Shomberg treatment boasted a fast recovery aided by promoting post-operative activity. Swell. The end result was a jack-in-the-box population that appeared every time Borland was poised to take a drink.

  Can't screw this up again.

  And Brass told Borland that he was out of chances. Soon his duties with the new Variant Squads would dominate his time. And why bother pulling strings for a drunk?

  Especially one who knew too much.

  But Borland needed a drink-just a touch, just a taste. He moved around the tree trunks, backtracking one moment and hurrying forward the next until he heard the distan
t babble of a stream.

  That's more like it.

  Trees grew thick along the water's stony edge.

  Perfect.

  He hurried off the path and ploughed through some bushes, then found the asphalt again as it wound back around and on through deepening shadows toward a bridge. The Shomberg brochure mentioned the stream and the bridge-patients were not to cross it.

  Warnings are for the little people.

  Trees overhung both ends of the structure. Metal uprights and railings held the span of planks over the stream, some 30 feet in a single arch.

  Borland started up, the noise from the stream echoing all around. He slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out the flask.

  He got the cap off, licked his lips and froze.

  A sound.

  Under the bridge?

  A deep gasp followed by fragile keening, almost a pitiful shivery pause, and then a soulful wail wore down to silence. The process repeated.

  A woman.

  The far side of the stream.

  Weeping.

  Borland moaned, capping the flask. He pocketed it and pushed himself along the railing, sliding, keeping his head down, until he could part a tangle of branches that grew low over him.

  There, kneeling on the small round stones by the stream, the strange woman from the dining room.

  She can't eat chicken.

  Her hair was wet and pasted over her face. Her skin had flushed the color of strawberries where her features melted into the open neck of her shirt. She leaned forward, rocking and weeping, her arms wrapped around her ice pack like it was a baby.

  She used to be a cop.

  Borland pursed his lips, started to form a word or whistle-he didn't know what, but he had to do something to attract the woman's attention.

  Wasn't that what normal people did?

  See if she needed help…

  But at the last second, a sinking feeling pulled at the pit of Borland's stomach and he shook his head silently, watching the woman's lean body shudder with sorrow.