The Physician's Tale

by Ann Benson

  Again, Bruce had watched through the door slit as Fredo engaged in a fascinating conversation with the computer that sat under the counter at the nurse’s station.

  “So how come you don’t have a USB port I can take? I come all this way, and you don’t have a decent port? Jee-zus. What’s this world coming to?”

  As Fredo ate his lunch, Bruce decided that he was not the only human being who craved conversation. He couldn’t recall, precisely, how long it had been since he’d engaged in repartee with another human being. He’d kept a calendar for a while but had given it up after several months, in part because he didn’t trust the accuracy of what he’d recorded; as his burns healed, he’d dosed himself pretty heavily with painkillers, and there had to have been days that he’d missed in his belladonic haze. But there was another reason why he’d stopped keeping track of the days: They were all the same, silent and solitary.

  He’d opened the closet door and presented himself. The first thing he’d thought to ask of the enormous stranger was “What are you doing here?”

  Fredo had started to get to his feet but, on seeing Bruce’s face, had sat back down again with a stricken look. “Trying to find some computer parts.” Then, after a pause, “I guess I don’t have to ask what you’re doing here. What the hell happened to you, anyway?”

  “Plane crash.”

  Fredo had been mortified. “Aw, man, I’m sorry, that was so rude. God, I’m glad my mother didn’t hear me say that. Jeez, that’s awful. Were you on one of the planes that crashed at Logan?”

  Bruce explained how they’d already crossed into U.S. airspace when the controllers deserted the tower at Logan Airport. The pilot had managed to lift the aircraft just enough to avoid hitting the small plane that taxied unannounced into their landing runway—just after the point of no return—but there wasn’t enough runway left after that for the plane to come to a stop. The craft had crashed through a concrete barrier and skidded into Boston Harbor, killing the cockpit crew and many of the passengers who’d been seated near the front.

  “I got three kids down the slide, and I was going back for the mother when the plane exploded.”

  “But you got the kids out?”

  “They went into the water, but it was pretty shallow there. I don’t know if they made it. I hope so. I’d hate to think I got this face for nothing.”

  “How’d you end up here?”

  “Someone brought me here, I don’t know who. They brought me inside the ER door and then left.”

  “All alone?”

  “They probably didn’t realize there was no one here. And I’m guessing they thought I was going to die anyway. In any case, I’m grateful to whoever it was, because here I am.”

  Fredo had brushed away a tear at the end of the story. When he found out what Bruce did for a living in the time before, he insisted that he come along.

  We have a group starting up. In Worcester, at Tech. We’re pretty disorganized, but things are beginning to come together….

  When Bruce got there, he realized just how right Fredo had been about disorganization. No one objected when he took on a leadership role. It brought him back to life; he was no longer depressed by his condition, because he had something to occupy his mind—a purpose, a goal, not just the pain of each day.

  “Three new locations this week,” he said as he emerged from the bathroom.

  “I saw,” Fredo said. “Pretty far west.”

  “Certainly farther than we’ve seen before. What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know. It could just be spreading naturally.”

  “Come on, Fredo, you don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Good. I would lose faith in you if you did. No, someone’s got to be sending it out to those locations.”

  “But why? What’s the point in taking out all the rest of us?”

  “We’re infidels, remember? This is the new jihad. The second coming of the Final Solution.”

  “It still doesn’t make sense to me. They’re putting this new thing out there, but it could come back on them, just like DR SAM did. I can’t believe they’d let it go without having some means of protecting their own people.”

  “They might just lay low and let it do its thing. They already isolate themselves, just like the Taliban did in Afghanistan, just like Al Qaeda—so they wait and let it run its course until there’s no natural reservoir left.”

  Tests he’d done on certain birds had showed that they could carry the disease but did not succumb to it. But there were many things that birds would succumb to, when the need to eliminate the reservoir they provided arrived.

  He thought of the avian flu and shuddered.

  “We have to warn the deltas,” Fredo said. “If they’re putting together another round of meetings, we need to know if they’re going to do another one here.”

  Yes, we do, Bruce thought as he looked up at the map again, so we can act locally. Because that’s all any of us can do.

  Janie was alone in the main room of the lodge, fussing over the minutiae of the suit, when Michael came in. “Top of the marnin’ to ya,” he said with a big smile. He further thickened his fake brogue and added, “I’ll be lookin’ forward to some corned beef and cabbage when I get back.”

  “Pork and turnip,” Janie corrected him.

  “Well, I’ll just imagine it’s a boiled dinner, then.” He regarded the waiting suit for a moment. “Looks downright inspectable. You ladies did a nice job with it.” He glanced around. “Boots?”

  Janie said, “Your wife has them.”

  Just then, Caroline came in with the boots, which gleamed as if they’d been spit-shined. She set them down and planted a light kiss on his cheek, but her face was worried. She rubbed his arm lightly. “Want some breakfast before you go? Eggs, maybe?”

  Michael gave his wife a one-arm hug. “No, thanks, love. I’ll eat when I get back.”

  “But you’ll need some fuel.”

  “Yeah, but it gets hot inside that thing. You don’t want to be cleaning eggs off the inside of the helmet.”

  After about ten minutes of zipping, snapping, and hooking, he was properly enclosed. Everything but the helmet was in place.

  He stood, like an astronaut, with the helmet cradled in one arm and the gloves in one hand. “Well, how do I look?”

  Caroline managed a smile. “Like a hero.”

  Janie took that as her cue to disappear. “I’ll go get the kids,” she said, and left Caroline and Michael to their good-byes.

  They were still asleep when she went into their room. The room that Alex and Sarah now shared with hand-hewn bunk beds had started out as a nursery. Two years prior, they’d tried to put them in separate rooms, thinking it was the proper thing to do. After a series of nights dominated by crying, requests for a drink, and bad dreams, Janie pointed out that the original Alejandro—according to his journal—had slept in the same room with his sister, had dressed in front of her, and he’d turned out all right, hadn’t he? The children were, after all, more like sister and brother than friends.

  “Rise and shine,” she said. She pulled back the curtains and let in the light.

  Sarah, always the first, came up on her elbow almost immediately. Alex required the customary gentle shaking. “Come on, sleepyhead,” Janie said to her son. “The day’s a-wasting.”

  She loved this part of the morning, because as soon as Alex emerged from the fog of sleep, he would smile and reach out his arms for a hug, and the warmth of his small body would just flood through her. It was always with reluctance that she let him go.

  “Come on out,” she said.

  They both scrambled out of the covers in their pajamas. Sarah climbed down the ladder but jumped past the last two rungs. She landed on the floor with a thud and a grin, the perfect little gymnast who’d just nailed her landing in front of the cheering crowd. Janie winced without comment; as they ran out the door, she quickly straightened the covers on both b
eds. Mothers worried, mothers cleaned; some things never changed.

  When she came into the main room, she saw Sarah hugging Caroline’s leg, another thing that did not change. The look on the little girl’s face was a combination of both awe and fear. Janie realized that Sarah had never seen her father in that suit before, at least not as a verbal being. The child’s previous encounter with the suit would have taken place in a time when she had not yet developed an understanding of what was scary and what was not. Now, even though her exposure to the outside world had been limited, she would realize without much explanation that there were implications to the armor her father wore.

  Alex, however, was right next to Michael, touching, prodding—always fearless, Janie thought. Just like his—

  His what? In the years since her son had reentered the world, she still hadn’t come up with a satisfactory term to describe his relationship to Alejandro. Father wasn’t right; Tom was his father. Original fell short. Twin was the best she could come up with, but for some reason she couldn’t pinpoint, it didn’t satisfy her.

  Not important, she reminded herself. What was important was that he was healthy, reasonably happy, and completely himself, despite his origin.

  The little boy didn’t turn when his mother cleared her throat, but maintained his focus on Michael’s exciting attire. He ran the tip of his finger slowly down one of the suit’s reinforced seams, feeling each stitch. Janie imagined a rush of adrenaline into his brain and tried, vicariously, to feel the same excitement. But her own experienced brain understood too much to let the marvel break through. She was excited for her son, nevertheless.

  He turned and looked at her, his eyes wide with wonder. “Mom, this is so cool!”

  Where, she wondered, had he come up with that expression?

  “Does Dad know about this?”

  They all laughed; it was a welcome—if brief—respite from dread. Tom came into their midst from the next room, laughing himself. “Yes, I know about it. Pretty amazing, huh?”

  In his hands he carried something wrapped in a dark cloth. He laid it on the table and said to Michael, “Clean as a whistle, all ready to go.”

  Janie and Caroline both knew what was wrapped in the cloth. It was a handgun, not the same one Janie had with her on the last ride to the compound, so many years before, but another of the same model.

  “Six,” Tom said quietly.

  Michael nodded his approval. “Just in case.” All eyes were on him now; even Alex had stepped back. He met the gaze of each one in turn, then said, “Well, I guess that’s it, then. I’ll just be off to the parade.”

  The women and children stood in pairs on either side of the gate. Tom would go with Michael as far as the top of the mountain. What was left of the road up to the peak—now just a series of frost heaves and pavement chunks—would still be icy. Spring came late to the mountaintop, though the winter had been somewhat mild. They would all be relieved to know that Michael had made it safely to that point.

  They watched in silence as Tom helped Michael onto his horse—the stallion they called Galen, after the ancient Greek physician and healer whose theories and practices still ruled medicine well into Alejandro’s time. They had taken the name from a page in Alejandro’s journal. Tom himself would ride Jellybean, named for the treat Janie used to train her when they first came to the mountainside. The moniker stuck when the treat ran out. They tested her again by riding around the compound courtyard; her limp magically disappeared with someone on her back, a condition she seemed to love.

  As she watched the men approach, Janie whispered to Caroline, “How did pioneer women do this?”

  Caroline shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”

  Snakebite. Bears. Footfalls—there was so much to fear. In the time before, air bags, cops, and supermarkets numbed the edge of wariness that all humans carried in their primal selves. They all understood those dangers now, as they worked their way back to the surface.

  Suddenly, Alex said, “Wait! We need swords!”

  “What?” his mother said.

  “To make a tunnel!”

  To Janie’s quizzical look, he said, “You know, like they did when knights left their castles!”

  Of course. An arch! She jumped out of formation and put up a hand to halt Michael and Tom.

  “What’s going on?” Tom said.

  “Wait just a minute!”

  She ran across the courtyard and into the house and returned with an armful of mops and brooms. She handed them around quickly and got back into her place. A few moments later, Tom and Michael passed under the dust and the drips and out into the larger world, with their hopeful but worried clan cheering them on.

  What was left of the road curved frequently to accommodate the mountainside. It was more of a foothill, in comparison to the real mountains of Utah and Colorado, but it did have its own brand of challenges, one of which presented itself about halfway up. A large boulder had tumbled from above and now sat in the middle of the road, surrounded by its own miniature mountain of debris.

  “Not too long ago,” Tom said when they came upon it. “The mud all around it is pretty fresh.” He pointed toward the area just above the mess. “I think up will be easier than down,” he said.

  Michael urged Galen to a better vantage point and looked down at the slope below the road. “I think you’re right.” He kneed the horse lightly in the sides. The animal climbed around the rock, tentatively at first, and then with more assurance. The ground underneath was wet and unstable, but the horse seemed to understand what was necessary and persevered, despite the fact that he was sinking into the mud up to his ankles.

  Jellybean had a harder time of it. After a few unsuccessful tries, Tom called out to Michael, “I don’t think she should go any farther. I’ll tie her up here and go with you on foot.”

  “No you won’t,” Michael said. “Go back. I’ll go on alone.”

  Tom would not agree at first but eventually capitulated.

  “I’ll be back before sunset,” Michael said.

  “Put the visor down,” Tom replied. “And be careful out there among them English.”

  Michael laughed and pulled down the plexishield on the helmet. He gave Tom the thumbs-up and got Galen moving again.

  The horse worked his way cautiously around the pile of rocks. Step by steady step, he played the mule, astonishing Michael with his uncanny balance. They made it past the obstruction and followed a natural break in the brush, but there was no easy way to return to the road; the woods, though bare of leaves, were thick and scrubby, not something he wanted to press through in a rippable garment. He patted the horse on the flank reassuringly and said, in a voice muffled by the helmet, “Just have to wait for the next deer run, won’t we?”

  They paralleled the road for another short distance. Ahead on the left Michael saw what appeared to be an opening in the brush. He felt a surge of hope that he would soon be back on easier ground. He urged the horse onward again, and they were almost out of the rough section when the outcropping of rocks and dirt on which they were riding gave way. Michael held on tightly as he leaned in the opposite direction, battling against gravity to maintain his balance as the horse slid downward.

  But gravity won, and Michael tumbled off as the horse went down on his side. He landed with a thud on his back; the wind rushed out of him. He lay there just long enough to realize that Galen’s legs were thrashing wildly in an attempt to right himself. He sat up and slid back out of range just in time. After a few moments of wild struggle, the horse rose up, snorting and stomping in the ignominy of having fallen.

  Michael groaned, testing each limb as he slowly rose to his feet; nothing seemed to be broken. He began to brush the debris away. The gloves made it difficult to do a proper job of it, and he was tempted to pull them off, but he decided against it and persevered.

  His thumb caught on something. He twisted as much as he could and looked down at his thigh.

  “Bloody hell.” There was
a tear about three inches long in the plasticized fabric of the suit.

  “Bloody, bloody hell,” he said louder. He pushed up the visor and yanked off his gloves, which he threw to the ground in a fit of anger. Sounds flooded his previously sheltered ears; he heard birds singing and a distant wind rushing down the other side of the peak. And then he heard something he would never have expected.

  “Don’t move.”

  He spun around in a crinkle of plastic and was greeted by a shotgun barrel, aimed directly at him by a smallish woman in a sheepskin jacket. His right hand went naturally to his hip, where his weapon would have been had he not been wearing the suit. He’d stowed the handgun in a strap at the front of the saddle; his eyes went quickly to Galen, but from the horse’s position he couldn’t see if it was still there.

  “It’s on the ground,” the woman said. “I’ll get it in a moment.” She sat with visible assurance on the back of a dappled gray horse. The limp bodies of two or three foxes—he couldn’t see clearly enough for an accurate count—were draped over the back of the horse. Wisps of her long, light-colored hair swirled around her head in the spring wind. Her eyes, in line with the barrel of the gun, were trained steadily on him. She seemed to know what she was doing.

  Slowly, he raised his hands; it seemed the only thing to do in that moment, and he understood, for perhaps the first time, what it felt like to be under the control of someone with a weapon. He’d trained his own chemical rifle on one bad guy or another hundreds of times. Right now he needed to convince his captor that he was one of the good guys.

  “I…I…” he stammered, until finally the words spilled out: “I’m a cop.”

  The woman surprised him by laughing. Still, her gaze never wavered. “I can see that,” she said. Her grip on the shotgun relaxed and she lowered it slightly. Michael saw her face; she was pretty, if a bit weathered.

  “And by the way,” she said, pointing to his garb, “nice suit.”

  Seven

  A serving girl tugged at the sleeve of Kate’s nightdress.