The Death Panel: Murder, Mayhem, and Madness

by Tom Piccirilli

  “… maybe you can find a treatment. Maybe you can find a cure. Either way, Rindelstein’s been struggling to run this place on his own, and he’s not about to say no when a qualified nurse writes asking for a job. It turns out Rindelstein probably couldn’t cure hiccups, but he minds his own business, and at least he has plenty of equipment you can use to keep things under control. For a couple of months everything’s okay—until it all goes bad.”

  “You couldn’t know …”

  “Know what? That one night you were visiting Price, you were comforting him after he’d changed back. He’s sitting naked in a pile of feathers and you’re trying to calm him down, warm him up, make him feel better—”

  “Shut up!”

  “Then things got a bit out of hand? Suddenly you’re caught up in the moment, suddenly you’re carried away with—” I can tell from the look on her face that I’m steering away from the facts. She doesn’t look guilty or scared, just annoyed.

  “That’s not what happened!”

  “Oh.” Damn it. “Then why don’t you tell us what did happen?”

  It takes her a while to reply. When she does, she sounds pretty calm. Maybe she’s actually glad to be getting this off her chest. “He tried to—I don’t know what he was trying to do, but he wouldn’t stop, I told him to stop and he wouldn’t. He had my arms trapped, he had them pinned to my side. I didn’t mean to hurt him. There was just nothing I could do, nothing except—”

  “Except bite him.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him.” I know she means it. Nobody could look that shattered and be lying.

  “Only you did. Oh, not at first, not for a month—not until the next full moon. One body trying to turn into a swan and a monkey at the same time, one body pulled in two different directions. I guess he just sort of popped.”

  “My god.” Rindelstein looks genuinely appalled. I was wondering if he’d known, or even suspected. I can tell from his expression that this is all news to him. I brush him gently out of the way, take a step towards Nurse Trimbault and say, “Mary, we need to talk about what happens …”

  She looks so completely broken that her fist intersecting with my nose is the last thing I expect. I was right about those muscles of hers, even if the weights were only a ruse. The woman punches like a freight train. As I tumble backwards and floorwards I can see her feet disappearing out the door. It just didn’t occur to me that she’d run. I know I should get up and give chase, but there’s a storm cloud descending, and it’s hard to concentrate on anything else.

  A second or an hour later, Rindelstein is calling my name and shaking me enthusiastically by the shoulders. “Fievre? Fievre, don’t you think we should—”

  I lurch to my feet, more to get him off me than because it seems like a good idea, and the world turns upside-down. It’s sheer luck that I succeed in grabbing the door frame before I fall over again. My jaw feels like it’s been surgically removed, then stuck back together with staples and chewing gum. “Where’d she go?” is all I can manage through gritted teeth.

  Rindelstein just points, out the door and to the left.

  Once I start moving it’s not so bad, momentum kicks in and I find I can run okay so long as I don’t have to stop or change direction. After I’ve bounced off a couple of walls my head’s cleared some, enough for me to wonder what I’m doing. I don’t know what kind of lead Nurse Mary has. I don’t know where she’s going. On the plus side, we’re in the middle of nowhere; there isn’t so much as a bicycle within ten miles. If she’s running blind then maybe I have a chance of catching her before she gets into any more trouble.

  I’m half way down the stairs to the first floor when I hear the crash. It sounds like someone dropped a hippo on an outhouse. When it’s followed by a scream I know I’m already too late.

  Still, at least I have a direction.

  Somehow it doesn’t come as a surprise to find myself running towards the ground floor. Mary isn’t screaming anymore. That’s either a good or a bad sign, I don’t know which. There’s nothing but silence as I barrel down stone stairs three at a time, but when I turn into the first passage I can hear breathing, heavy breathing, like some big animal hyperventilating. My head hurts like all hell. I feel like I’m running though glue.

  Finally I make it to the main corridor. McKennan is standing there, like I thought he might be. At least I’m pretty sure it’s McKennan. He’s bigger than I remember, a lot hairier, and his muzzle size has gone up some. What’s left of the door would make a good bonfire but not much else. Nurse Mary is curled around his feet; as far as I can tell she’s still breathing.

  When he speaks, it’s barely English. It’s like someone trained their dog to talk. “I told you, man. Ain’t no cell can hold a werewolf.” But he’s not looking so good; he’s wavering back and forth like a ship in a gale. However tough he is in his werewolf form, going through that door has taken its toll, there are cuts and splinters of wood all down his right arm, and Nurse Mary running into him at high speed probably hasn’t helped.

  I reach for my gun, and almost freeze up altogether when my hand comes back empty. Where the hell did I leave it? Probably in Rindelstein’s apartment, when I gave chase last night. Rather than die from absent-mindedness I decide to chance it with a right hook, before McKennan has time to come around. It’s like punching a brick wall. Only a brick wall wouldn’t look quite so pissed off. “What the hell, man?”

  Considering he’s broken out expressly to kick my ass, I’m not convinced he has any right to look offended. Still, he staggers about an inch, which is more than I was hoping for. I decide to go in low with my left.

  I’m just as surprised as he is when this time he falls over backwards and doesn’t get back up.

  “Glass jaw,” I explain to no-one in particular, while I nurse my hand and wonder just how badly I’ve broken it.

  * * * *

  To be fair to him, Rindelstein does a pretty good job of strapping my hand. After that I suggest that we make a start on waking Nurse Mary up. Rindelstein tells me he’s got some smelling salts somewhere, but she’s not in my good books, what with her fleeing arrest and the fact that we’ve just had to drag her up two flights of stairs to her room, so I veto his suggestion and ask for a glass of water instead. The doctor dutifully brings one over, and I throw it in Mary’s face.

  Though she twitches her nose a bit, her eyes stay closed.

  I hand the glass back. “Another.”

  “I hardly think—” My look shuts him up; the bruises over half my face probably help. The second glass does the trick. Mary splutters, makes a complaining sound, and finally her eyes flick open.

  She doesn’t look pleased to see me.

  “You could probably break those ropes,” I tell her, “and you could probably deck me again if you wanted to. How about instead you sit quietly for five minutes and listen to what I have to say?”

  Instead of answering directly, she says, “Mr. McKennan?” It’s amazing that she can still feel professional concern, even after everything.

  “He’s okay. We got him locked away again. Once the sun came up he was easier to deal with.” I don’t mention that the only other lockable room was Price’s old pad. She probably doesn’t need to hear that.

  Nurse Mary nods, as if somehow that means everything’s all right. “I’ll listen.”

  “Good. Because what I was trying to tell you, Mary, before you went all crazy ape-lady; since everything went to Hell the rules have changed. The Order isn’t a police force. It’s about making the best of what’s left. We’re not interested in right and wrong, because let’s face it, all the good folks got out on the Rapture train and those of us left are pretty much damned already.” Rindelstein tuts at that. Well, he’s entitled to his idiot opinions just like everybody else. “So here’s the thing: I could have you locked up, you could be another addition to Doctor Rindelstein’s freak show. Somehow, though, I don’t think that you’re going to make the same mistake twice. You’re a go
od nurse. You do good work here. If I put you behind bars that job doesn’t get done.”

  “You’re saying you’re letting me go?”

  “I’m saying I’m committing you to the care of the good doctor over there. He has strict orders to keep you on the grounds, and to call us if you do anything even remotely suspicious. If you leave we’ll track you down and lock you in a deep dark hole somewhere. Because, Nurse Trimbault, you did nearly break my jaw. But yeah, basically, I’m saying I’m letting you go.”

  Perhaps it would be kinder to punish her. Perhaps that would make it easier. It’s hard to read the look on her face. There’s relief in there, sure, but there’s something else too, and I think maybe it’s disappointment. For the last two days she’s had to deal with the fact that she killed a man, however indirectly. Something tells me that knowledge will be keeping her awake for a long time to come.

  Nurse Mary starts crying, very quietly and softly.

  I’m prepared to leave her to it.

  The Hooker in the Backseat

  Erik Williams

  * * *

  The morning the state released me from prison, cold air, gray sky, and my no good, piece of shit father waited for me outside the concrete walls.

  Before I stepped through the doors to freedom, I opened the manila envelope holding my personal possessions. The guards had confiscated them right before they handed me my prison uniform the day I arrived. Now I had them back and couldn’t remember what they’d taken.

  I looked inside. One cheap wrist watch with dead battery: trash. A picture of my now dead Bull Terrier Brutal: trash. Three sticks of petrified chewing gum: trash. One Swiss Army knife: a reminder of my childhood before life sucked. Dad gave it to me when I was five. He started running drugs two years later.

  I pocketed the knife and tossed everything else. Tossed it away with the rest of my past and took my first step into a new existence.

  The door behind me shut, the guard on the other side twisted the lock home, leaving me and my father alone for the first time in five years. He leaned against the hood of his cherry ’65 Chevelle, cocked his head to a forty-five, and took a deep drag on a Marlboro. Five years and forty feet stood between us but the son of a bitch looked and smelled the same.

  “Hello, son.”

  A thick cloud of smoke rode his words and drifted up around his leathery face.

  Only one response found a way out of my throat.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  I had a pretty good idea why but figured playing dumb might work long enough for me to get out of town.

  “Now what kind of way is that to greet your old man?”

  “I don’t pay politeness to pieces of shit.”

  I unstuck my feet from the position they seemed glued to and walked toward the bus stop. Just wanted to catch the bus and make arrangements for my trip west. I had enough money for the fare. Didn’t know where I’d go and didn’t care. But I did know west was far away from all this shit. Far away from Dad.

  As I neared the Chevelle, he pushed off the hood and blocked my path. I figured Dad knew I had more than enough money for bus fare. That or he wanted me to work for him again, which was just his way of keeping me under his thumb.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dad said.

  “You know exactly what that means.” He looked the way he did the last night I saw him, the night he plowed a Ford pick-up through Walter, right down to the same damn smirk. “Look behind me. See that large structure? I spent five years there for you.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Fuck you. Hit the road, Pop.”

  “I got work for you.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with your work or you.”

  “I got a place for you to stay. Don’t reject me without hearing what I have to offer.”

  “I’m done with you. I said my goodbye the day they sent me here.”

  “This work is legit. I don’t run powder anymore.”

  “Am I supposed to respect you now? You don’t run powder. Great. You probably cook meth instead.”

  “I’m offering you an honest job, good pay, and a bed. Why not get in the car and hear me out?”

  “You know why. You know exactly why.”

  “Call it a peace offering. You helped me out. Now I help you. Square the house.”

  “You don’t know when to quit.”

  “Look, get in the car and hear me out. If you like what you hear, then you get a place to stay tonight. If you don’t you get a free ride into town and I leave you alone.”

  “Consider this a formal rejection. I’m not getting in your car.”

  I tried to step by him but his hand clenched me by the bicep. Still had the iron grip.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Dad’s face had tightened, his lips curled into a sneer. His tone lost its diplomatic cut.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “What makes you think I will? Peace offerings? False promises? I’ve heard this bullshit before.”

  Dad cocked his head toward the back seat of the Chevelle. A woman, bound and gagged, lay in the back. Her wide eyes stared at me. Blood had colored the white rag with red blotches. Her skirt had been hiked up over her hips, revealing what God gave her. Maybe she’d pushed it up involuntarily by squirming around on the seat. Maybe Dad had raped her while waiting for me to walk out. The latter probably more likely than the former.

  “You know what I’ll do to her if you don’t.”

  “What do I care about a two dollar whore? Your business with her doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “You skipped your parole boards and did your full five years. Why? Were you afraid they’d let you out?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Or was it because you didn’t want to be on a parole officer’s leash?”

  Dad was a step ahead of me but I stayed silent.

  “You see, I think you did your full sentence so you’d be free and clear the day you got out. That way you could walk right over to that bus stop and leave town for good without fear of being chased by the Feds. But if you did that, you’d leave without seeing me and I’m not ready to let you go yet. You see, son, I don’t want you to leave. I want you to get in the car so you and I can have a nice little talk about your future.”

  I should have seen this coming. Should have known Dad wouldn’t let me leave town easily, whether he knew about my stash of money or not. He wanted to keep me close but beating up or killing some whore wasn’t enough to keep me around.

  “I’ve got a bus to catch,” I said.

  “You’d turn a blind eye to that poor girl and let her wind up dead just so you can be free of me and this town? The joint didn’t soften your heart, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, then I guess I need to remind you I’ve got other negotiating tools on me.”

  He didn’t need to say anymore. Dad carried a .357 and a switchblade all the time. The gun didn’t scare me because Dad wasn’t dumb enough to pull it in front of a prison. But I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to gut me and leave me to die where I stood.

  “Why all the talk of going legit?” I said. “Why not threaten me right off the bat?”

  “Because I wanted to get you in the car nicely. Wanted to maintain a civil tone out in front of this nice prison.”

  “God damn you.”

  “Get in the car.”

  “You mother fucker.”

  “Get in.”

  My fists clenched, ready to fight. But I knew my dad. Nothing had changed about him. Which meant he had the switchblade ready. Knew he’d split me from my belly to my dick if I made one ill move. Then he’d kill the whore for good measure.

  I looked at her, saw the panic in her eyes, and then thought of his knife and accepted the son of a bitch had me cornered.

  “Get in.”

  * * * *

  Dad drove at a safe speed down wooded Country Road
9. I tapped my thigh and tried to figure a way out of this mess. The whore moaned in the back. Needed to get out of this without getting any blood on my hands. Couldn’t risk another stint in the joint.

  Not once had Dad made reference to the money. Maybe he didn’t know. After all, he never reached out while inside. But then why use the whore to get to me? He knew I didn’t give a shit about her or anyone else. The only person I had connections to was him and I wanted those severed as soon as possible.

  “Who’s the whore?” I said, probing for any hint.

  “Hooker, son. Whores do it for free.”

  “And what does she have to do with whatever you’re doing?”

  “It’s a simple matter of trust. I don’t trust you.”

  “I did five years in prison. Isn’t that enough assurance?”

  “No.”

  “God damn it, I took the rap for you. Five fucking years for what you did. That should be enough proof I want this dead and buried with that poor bastard you ran down.”

  “I need to keep you close, son. You doing time in the joint ain’t got nothing to do with me.”

  “I was there for you.”

  “You were there for you. You didn’t rat me out because you felt guilty. Because you didn’t stop me. You believed you deserved punishment for letting me drive my truck through Walter’s chest.”

  “I didn’t let you do anything. Walter was all you.”

  Dad chuckled. “Yeah, you did. You knew god damn well why I was going to see Walter. And you knew damn well what I’d do to him. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen me take it out on someone who couldn’t pay.”

  “I knew you’d be dead the moment they put you in the pen. All the enemies you’ve got almost got me killed just for sharing the same name. I saved your life.”

  “I know what you did and it didn’t have anything to do with me. Doing time was your penitence. Doing your full sentence was your ticket to freedom but I can’t let you go.”

  “Fuck you.” And your mind games. Dad kept his cards close to his chest and spun webs like a bullshit spider.

  “If you did it for me, if you did it to protect me, then you shouldn’t feel any ill will toward your dear old dad or mind sticking around and hanging out with him. After all, it was such a selfless act. Yet you’re ready to jump on the first bus out of town. Can you say you feel no ill will toward me? Can you say you love me?”