Goldstein

by Troy J. Grice

  It must be in my head, he thought. It must! They are in my brain again. They’re in my brain like worms boring tiny little tunnels.

  “Get out!” He shouted. “Get out of my head you bastards!”

  Relax, he assured himself. There’s no pain. Easy. Breathe. Concentrate on something else. Breathe.

  What was the sound? Internal or external? He couldn’t determine. All he could do was try to remain calm and breathe.

  Worms! He fought off images of the worms, the worms that were boring into his inner ears. He imagined the ocean but the hornets from the Em trip reappeared. He blacked that out, too. But then the worms returned. He could feel them, now. He was certain of it. The ringing was their tiny squeal as they drilled through his eardrums. They would devour his brain. They had to be pulled out.

  “Get them out! Stop! Stop them!”

  There’s nothing there, he assured himself. They are playing the buzz through speakers. They aren’t in your brain. There are no worms.

  “I’m on to you! I know what you are doing! Go to hell.” He shouted.

  His voice drowned out the ringing. Should I keep shouting? He asked himself. No, that’s what they want. Shut your mouth. Don’t give them anything. No more talking. Don’t even give them the satisfaction of knowing you are losing your mind. The ringing eventually stopped after another hour or so.

  Silent blackness again. Devin tried to come up with ideas to occupy his mind. He tried to imagine Mozart. The music wouldn’t come as he couldn’t remain focused. He struggled to devise some other method of remaining sane. The only thing he could come up with was counting. He decided to count to one thousand.

  “One, two, three, four…” He mouthed the numbers slowly but did not make a sound.

  “Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.” He started to curl his right big toe in cadence.

  “One hundred, One hundred one, one hundred two…” The ringing reappeared as a faint din in the background.

  “Three hundred and seventy, three hundred and seventy one, three hundred and seventy two…” His right foot began to fatigue. He switched to his left index finger.

  “Nine hundred and seven, nine hundred and eight, nine hundred and nine…” He created intricate, rhythmic patterns between tapping his toes, rolling his ankles, and grinding his teeth to match the counting. It was working. It kept the worms away.

  “Nine hundred ninety eight, Nine hundred ninety nine, One thousand.”

  He paused in the silence and the blackness. The buzzing immediately grew louder. He had to urinate. He sighed and continued on.

  “Fifteen hundred and one, fifteen hundred and two…” The urge to piss turned into a burning pain.

  “Two thousand and fifty two, two thousand and fifty three, two thousand and fifty four.” He had to flex and contort to drive back the pressure.

  “Five thousand and six, five thousand and seven, five thousand and eight…I’ll just go at six thousand,” he bargained with himself. Six thousand came and went. Cramps pulled his stomach into knots.

  “Ten thousand two hundred and six.” There were now long pauses between numbers. “Ten thousand two hundred and seven, ten thousand two hundred and eight…” He couldn’t hold it any longer. He let go. The warm liquid seeped up the gurney towards his neck between the metal surface and the skin of his back. It itched as it crawled along under his skin. He was helpless against it. He stopped counting. The buzzing abruptly stopped as well.

  Lying in the void, soaked in his own urine, his eyelids began to sink down over his eyes. He had no fight left for this day. His breathing relaxed. He unclenched his fists. His eyes fully closed and relaxed. He felt the sensation of falling backwards. His mind began to roam.

  Beep.

  The blaring tone roused him. Did I dream it? He didn’t care. Back to sleep. Eyes heavy. Exhaling effortlessly. Body relaxing. Eyes closing. Falling backwards…

  Beep.

  He shook his head faintly. It had to be a dream. He was fatigued. Sometimes it’s hard to fall asleep when you’re physically exhausted- your mind plays tricks. He drifted off again. Falling backwards…

  Beep.

  This time it was louder. It was real. He knew its purpose. He opened his eyes. Blackness. Silence. He waited for it. Was it on an interval? Was it some machine set nearby? Nothing. No sound. He waited longer. Nothing. Waiting. Nothing. Blackness. Waiting. Silence. His eyes got heavier. They started to close. He could feel his eyes rolling back and his mind unfolding…

  Beep.

  “God damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

  No matter, he thought. I can sleep through it. I’m exhausted. He relaxed. He began to drift backwards again into unconsciousness. He was dreaming. He saw the leathery, horse-toothed face of Director Morgenthau hovering over him with a pulse emitter in his hand but he knew he was asleep and dreaming. Then the Director had a look of terror in his eyes, he dropped the pulser and his boney fingers turned into claws.

  Beep.

  He was awakened again. The cycle continued. On and on it went. He was kept awake for many hours. First it was annoying, then deeply frustrating. His frustration turned into anger and then boiled into rage. Then exhausted, he drifted back. Beep. They woke him again. His rage dissolved into whimpering and groveling. He sobbed.

  After several hours his mind began to betray him. He saw shadows within the shadows but then there was nothing there. Or was there? A man with knives! No. Nothing.

  He heard sounds other than the beeping. There were whispering voices. Conversations? He listened intently. They were just beyond the range of intelligible.

  They were teasing him with words and sentences that he could not decipher. His eyes closed several times. His mind began to drift. Beep. Beep. Always at the moment that he was about to slip irretrievably into sleep— Beep!

  He raged. He cried. He calmed. He drifted. Beep. He wept. He begged. He floated away. Beep. He cursed them. He clenched his fists and tried to flail about but the nylon straps held him tightly in the puddle of his own dried, itching urine.

  How long can this go on? He thought to himself.

  He drifted. Beep. His anger turned inward. His breathing became deliberate and forceful.

  “Where are you?” He thought to himself but he wasn’t thinking it he was screaming it.

  The voices around him ceased, scattered by his shouting. Were they real? No, a figment of my imagination, he thought. Did they put them in my head? No, you’re exhausted. Sleep deprived. What was that? Dogs! No. It’s nothing. Stay calm. Tired. Eyes closing…

  Beep.

  How much longer? An hour? A day? A week? A human can’t last a week. How long has it been? An hour? Five hours? Twenty hours? He thought.

  It continued. Exhaustion. Relaxing. Mind drifting. The sensation of falling. Beep. A hundred times at least. Over and over and over. He had no energy left for shouting or begging or even sobbing.

  A shadow within the blackness swept past his gurney. He couldn’t see what it was. He could only faintly hear the sweeps of pant legs against each other and footfalls of soft-soled shoes. Something approached, then leaned over him.

  No, it’s a dream. There’s no one there, he thought but he spat at them anyway.

  Give them what they want.

  No, give them nothing. You have nothing for them. You’re dead if you give it to them.

  You’re dead regardless.

  Give them nothing. There’s nothing to give them. It’s not what they want, anyway.

  “What was that?” Something scurried up his leg.

  A rat? No, not big enough, he thought. An insect? A spider? The crawling ceased. Where is it? Under me?

  It’s not real. It’s in your mind.

  He felt it creeping along his ribs and under his arm. Tiny little legs, small bursts of scurrying, creeping closer to his neck.

  It’s definitely real. What is it?

  It’s nothing, a spider. It’s harmless. Calm down. He thought to himself.

  “
Get it off! Get it off me!” He screamed. “Get it off me! Get it off! Get it off me! Oh god! Get it off me!”

  He pulled at the straps. He was helpless. He tried to shake it off.

  The crawling stopped.

  There’s nothing there. It’s your brain. You’re exhausted. You’re imagining things, he thought.

  Then he felt it again.

  “No, it’s there! I feel it!” He shouted.

  Relax. It’s just a spider or something. It’s harmless.

  “I want it off! Get it off!”

  Calm down. Breathe. It’s not real.

  The crawling stopped.

  He laid there hyperventilating for a few minutes waiting for it to return. Nothing. He waited still longer, helplessly strapped to the gurney in a puddle of dread and dried piss in intergalactic nothingness. He was nothing, sub human.

  He was helpless to do anything. He couldn’t even brush it away if it did return. He laid there itching, waiting for a spider that was probably a figment of his imagination or planted in his brain by some specialist working the controls of the hotwire computer behind a glass pane. Some weasel with a pencil thin neck in a lab coat was terrorizing him. He was certain of it. He prayed. He prayed to God that he would get a chance to bash his face in with…

  He waited. He waited with clenched fists. He waited with deliberate, short, angry breaths. The insect did not come back. The worms did not return. His eyes got heavy again. He dreaded the ‘beep’ but was helpless to stave off the sleep. His fists unclenched themselves. His breathing became deep and relaxed. He fell backwards into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Good morning, Mr. Moore.”

  Devin opened his eyes finding himself back in the bright, white-tiled infirmary. The Director was sitting next to his bed clad in his black suit. Devin discovered that his own arms and legs were unrestrained. He might have reached out and grabbed the Director by the neck but the Director was holding a pulse emitter.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Director Morgenthau warned, noticing that Devin was eying his pulser. “It’s not like you can go anywhere, anyway. You’ve been on your back for a month. You don’t have enough strength to make it to the end of the hall.”

  “Is the torture over?” Devin asked.

  “Torture? Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t torture anybody here, this is a hospital.” Morgenthau explained with a smirk. “We were just observing you. That’s all.”

  “You blasted light in my eyes. You kept me awake.”

  “Torture by bright light?” Morgenthau mocked. “Sleep deprivation, too? No, I’m afraid you kept yourself awake with your vivid imagination, Mr. Moore.”

  “There were beeps that kept me awake.”

  “That was just medical equipment.” The Director stood up and pushed his chair back. “We’re going for a ride into the mountains. I think you’ll enjoy it. The nurse will get you dressed and help you into a wheelchair. Don’t try anything with her. Any sign of trouble and she’ll switch you off like a holovision.” The Director abruptly left the room.

  A stout nurse with broad shoulders entered and helped Devin onto the edge of his bed. Sitting upright sent an intense shard of pain through his head. He rubbed the back of his neck and felt the tiny scars where the doctors had bored into his brain.

  “Do you have a mirror?” He asked the nurse.

  The nurse produced a small, plastic mirror. He gazed at it in amazement, startled by the change in his appearance. The strange face staring back at him had sunken, bloodshot eyes ringed by dark circles. His hair had been shaved off. There were many new lines carved into his pale, sunken face. Much of the stubble on his chin was coming in white.

  “I look like hell.”

  The nurse didn’t respond. After dressing him, she eased him into a wheelchair. His legs were heavy and clumsy and it took unusual effort to move them. After sitting, his heavy limbs hung lifeless on the foot and arm rests of the chair. The simple ordeal left him exhausted.

  The nurse wheeled him out of the room. The hall was starkly gray and stained with streaks of rust and blotches of black mold. The vinyl tile on the floors was worn through in places. There were steel doors lining either side of the hall; giant, heavy doors with massive hinges and tiny windows. It didn’t look like any hospital Devin had ever been in.

  The nurse rolled him down the hall to an elevator. She flashed her multi and the clanking doors opened.

  They exited into a lobby populated by a half dozen nats in their customary black uniforms and high boots and silver skull badges but Devin was fixated on the windows. Rays of bright sunlight beamed through in places where the opacity sensors had ceased functioning. The sunlight invigorated him as the nurse wheeled him under the warm rays that formed trapezoidal patterns of light on the floor.

  A nat stopped them at a pair of eight foot tall glass doors. He wanded the nurse’s shoulder and Devin’s head and gestured them through. They passed onto a broad sidewalk covered by an awning. Director Morgenthau was there, standing in front of a massive, black, armored transport vehicle. It rumbled as its gasoline powered engine idled away, a rare sound in the era of silent electros.

  “Help him in,” Morgenthau commanded. Two nats with assault rifles strapped to their shoulders pulled Devin up from his chair and hoisted him into the back seat of the armored car. Director Morgenthau got in on the opposite side.

  The interior was upholstered in black leather and adorned with several holovisions and an assortment of keypads and touch-screens. One of the nats got into the driver’s seat and two more got in to the row of seats behind Devin and the Director. The driver put the vehicle into gear and they accelerated, with a screech of the tires, exploding out of the entry loop, passing through a guarded checkpoint and motoring across the grounds towards another checkpoint which was merely a crossing beam. The driver pushed a button on the steering wheel and the beam lifted. The stoplight at the intersection ahead changed to their favor as well and they turned left onto a main thoroughfare. They roared past a column of feeble civilian electros that would be easily crushed under the wheels of the NaPol transport if they had somehow managed to get in the way.

  After a few blocks they merged onto an elevated, twelve-lane superhighway and accelerated to one hundred and seventy kilometers per hour. They blew past the sluggish electros as if their batteries were drained.

  They drove for a few minutes before the highway started to climb. They accelerated onward, upward into the foothills through a steep gorge climbing several hundred meters along the way. The armored truck had to decelerate in order to make the tight turns as the highway snaked precariously along the edge of the steep mountainside.

  They climbed on, weaving their way up the empty concrete road. They did not see any electros once in the mountains— it was too far from the nearest charging station.

  The road carried them into pine forest dotted with the occasional rotting frame of a long-ago-abandoned structure. The grass along the sides of the road was green and lush and Devin spotted a herd of elk grazing only a few meters off the highway. They lifted their shaggy brown necks to check them out as they blew past. It seemed to Devin that in twenty minutes time they had passed into another world.

  The truck continued its climb.

  They reached a high saddle and, as if a great curtain were drawn back, a magnificent spectacle of rolling black foothills rippling many kilometers to the west, culminated in a ridge of snow-capped peaks.

  They started to descend,

  They passed through the remnants of an old mining town. It had been resurrected as a suburb many decades before only to die again during the Great Transition. All that remained were the fire blackened studs and broken windows of a ghost town. A rickety water wheel turned slowly under a cascade of late spring runoff. An abandoned service station with a shattered sign advertised gasoline for ‘$99.99 per Liter’. It had been closed for many years. Gas, where available, cost more than three times that amount.

  The
y motored on.

  They finally turned off the lonely mountain superhighway and onto a two-lane asphalt road. It snaked through a piney canyon floor then it too began to climb. The asphalt was potted and cracked and the truck frequently swerved to avoid fallen boulders and tree limbs.

  Upwards and onwards they went.

  Ahead of them, a black bear scurried out of the pine trees and up to a ledge overlooking the road. It paid no heed to the roaring transport vehicle. It was hungry and hunting for berries having just emerged from hibernation.

  The truck’s transmission downshifted to get a better bite on the grade. They passed a pristine, high mountain lake and made another big turn. By Devin’s estimation, they were well over 3,000 meters in altitude. The tree line was much lower back in Alaska.

  Now the road was now not much more than a heap of fractured asphalt and muddy potholes. There were banks of snow in the shadier areas. The trees got knottier and more twisted with their branches ripped off their windward sides.

  The truck roared on.

  Then they burst through the tree line and into the alpine tundra. The degraded asphalt road was wavy and unstable. Sections of it had sloughed off to the left as though the ground had melted away from underneath it. They passed another lake, this one still frozen in wind-polished, blue ice.

  The road climbed and wound and crawled upwards along the sheer face of the boulder-strewn mountaintop. The turns were tight and dangerous. On one side there was a sheer drop of a thousand meters. There were no guardrails.

  Devin looked back. He could see the road snaking its way back down many meters in elevation, down into the trees far below. Then it was lost in a white haze that had just rolled in.

  The gasoline engine growled.

  They finally reached a flat area where the driver stopped the truck and turned off the engine. Apparently, they had come to the end of the line.

  “Get him out,” Morgenthau ordered.

  The nats hopped out of the vehicle, pulled Devin from his seat and walked him over to a collapsed wall of an old sandstone building that had once been an observatory many decades before. Devin looked to the west. The view would have been spectacular had the mountain top not been enveloped in haze.