The Bleeding Crowd

by Jessica Dall

  “You plural don’t like sex?”

  “We do, as a whole, but I’m sure there’s more we could do with our lives. Ever think that I might want to be a doctor?”

  Dahlia blinked. “You want to be a doctor?”

  “Well, not me personally, but I as an ambassador for men.”

  “Men aren’t much suited to healing, are they?”

  “Testosterone doesn’t make us incapable of helping people.”

  She moved, pressing her back to the headboard and pulling her legs up to her chest. “But you don’t want to be a doctor.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I like to see blood as seldom as possible, but I’d like the choice.”

  Dahlia laughed. “Even I don’t have the choice. We’re assigned to what we’re best at, or what will serve the community the best. Choice is a benefit of freedom, but sometimes your choices are made for you.”

  “You always have a choice,” Ben said. “Choosing to take someone else’s choice for you is a choice.”

  “Then you have a choice.”

  “Just no good ones.” He lay down, resting his head on his hands.

  She didn’t reply, just watched him as he stared at the ceiling.

  He finally looked at her, studying her face. “Can I kiss you?”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Don’t you know what kissing is? Or was that a rhetorical ‘where did that come from’ what?”

  “I have a general understanding of the concept,” she said cautiously.

  “Well then, can I?”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

  “You really don’t find me sexually attractive at all?”

  “Does sex have anything to do with this?”

  “Well, kissing is sexual, and so it’s just adding to the string of you shooting me down.”

  “I told you I’m not interested in sex. If you stopped asking, I’d stop ‘shooting you down’ as you put it.”

  “I’m male.” He smiled. “I have no impulse control, remember?”

  “If you want to argue that you’re just as suited to the jobs women do, the things women do in general, I don’t think you can use that as an excuse.”

  “If you want to argue that I’m not, you have to agree it is.”

  “Watch out, Ben.” The corners of Dahlia’s mouth twitched with a bit of a smile. “That was almost logical. You’ll ruin your original argument if you start to sound logical.”

  “Talk about your Catch-22s.”

  “Your what?”

  Ben sighed. “For someone who’s supposed to be the educated one you sure are ignorant about a lot of things.”

  She frowned deeply. “Do you think you’re making sense right now?”

  “It’s a phrase that means if you prove one part of an argument, you disprove the other part, so, no matter what, you’re screwed. I think it used to be a book.”

  “Never heard of it.” Dahlia shook her head.

  “I doubt you would have, come to think of it. It was written by a man after all. It had to do with war.”

  “I’ve never heard of a man writing a book,” Dahlia said.

  “Of course not. You haven’t heard of anything that happened before 2200. I’m sorry, year 0.”

  Dahlia considered her words. “What happened... before 0? In your 2200.”

  “Thomas Dumas was murdered.”

  “Who?”

  “He was... well.” Ben paused, released a long breath, finally sat up to face her. “You see, there used to be a world council that was the government, before Patience became supreme leader or whatever you call her. It was called the Directorate.”

  Dahlia nodded slowly. “Where did you hear about this?”

  “Oral history,” he said. “Like we get everything else.”

  “I don’t know if you can trust that to be accurate then.”

  “History is subjective no matter where you get it. People change things. The big things, the main facts, always stay the same though.”

  She allowed him to continue. “Thomas Dumas?”

  “He was the PD of the Directorate. Prime Director or something like that. Really, it just means he was the leader of the world.”

  “And he died in... 2200.”

  “He was assassinated.”

  She frowned.

  “Murdered,” Ben tried again.

  “Killed on purpose, you mean?”

  “That’s what murdered means,” Ben said.

  Dahlia pressed her lips together. “I suppose the next question then is why?”

  “So you guys could switch over to this system,” Ben replied.

  Frowning, she pursed her lips. “You think women killed him?”

  “You weren’t always in charge, you know.”

  She studied him for a long moment. “Well, it’s an interesting story if nothing else.”

  “It’s not just a story, it’s true.”

  “Even if it is, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “No offence.” He smiled. “You haven’t heard of a lot of things.”

  She stiffened. “I’m better educated than you.”

  “About some things, maybe,” he said, paused. “Some things, definitely, but not in everything.”

  She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

  Ben didn’t try to stop her from moving around to finish getting ready for bed.

  Chapter Five

  It had taken twice as long for her to fall asleep as normal. Despite her large bed, another body made Dahlia self-conscious. Then at eight, like every morning, the chimes went off jerking her awake, bad night of sleep or not.

  She frowned, her stomach feeling oddly heavy. Sometime during the night, Ben had turned over and now had his arm resting just below her ribs. Turning her head, she studied his face for a second before pushing his arm off and slipping out of bed. Unlike all the women she knew, he didn’t wake, just shifted slightly and continued sleeping.

  Dahlia crossed her arms and studied the old scars on his chest. One on his shoulder ran almost directly along the top, down from his neck, snaking back and forth, as if it had been cut purposefully, or at least he had been relatively still when it was cut. The men cut each other enough over in the camps so it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility that someone had held him down and cut just to inflict pain.

  “Don’t you know staring is rude?”

  She started, lifting her eyes to his face.

  He didn’t seem to have his eyes open. “Should I be flattered?”

  “Why would you be?”

  He stretched lazily. “You were staring at my chest.”

  “The scar on your shoulder, technically.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  “It’s sort of oddly shaped, don’t you think?”

  He frowned. “What shape should a scar be?”

  She moved to him kneeling on the bed to look at it closer. “See? It sort of looks like a snake from this angle. The body goes along the top of your shoulder and the head’s here, at the acromion.”

  “The acromi―what now?”

  “The part of the scapula that hooks over to meet where the clavicle ends,” she said.

  He looked at her for a moment. “I got about half of that at best.”

  “Scapula.” She placed her hand on his shoulder blade, put the other on his collarbone. “Clavicle. Your scapula goes up here and curves to meet where the clavicle stops. That curved part is the acromion.”

  He watched her follow the curve of his shoulder blade to a part directly above his armpit.

  “There,” she said after a moment. “Feel that bump? That’s the acromion. And the scar goes just about there.”

  “And you think it looks like what?”

  “A snake.” She ran a finger along the scar.

  He shrugged with his left shoulder, letting her study it.

  “How did you get it?”

  “Same way I got the other
ones,” he said.

  “It looks smoother than the others.”

  Ben watched her studying his shoulder, and then catching her chin, kissed her.

  She froze in shock, pulling back at last, her eyes wide. “Why did you do that?”

  He shrugged. “I wanted to.”

  She stared at him for another moment before moving away. “I’m going to get breakfast. Is there anything you like specifically? Or...” An end to the sentence didn’t come to her, she let it trail off.

  “I’m not picky.” He continued to watch her. “Don’t you have to work?”

  “I was on call for pretty much all last weekend. That killed all my clinic hours.”

  “Do you think you’re making sense right now?” He smiled.

  She just sent him a look.

  He shrugged. “You don’t want to just get something delivered, then? No use heading out if you don’t have to.”

  “I need to take a walk.” Dahlia pulled the curtain aside to look outside.

  “It looks grey.” Ben stood, moving next to her to look. “Like rain.”

  “We could use it,” Dahlia said and swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “It would clear the air. It’s been so humid lately.”

  “You don’t need to tell me. The barracks aren’t as climate controlled as here.”

  She glanced at him and just settled for nodding.

  “You know, you don’t have to run from me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to knock your nose out of joint.”

  Dahlia frowned. “There’s no joint in your nose.”

  “It’s a saying.”

  “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “Since when have sayings had to make sense?”

  Dahlia released a breath, trying to relax the tension in her shoulders with him so near. “You know, you aren’t anything like I thought you would be.”

  “I believe you’ve said that.”

  “Well, it’s the truth.”

  “You’ve thought about me often then?” He smiled at her.

  She looked out the window, staring at the fountain in the courtyard as a weak distraction. “Well, the royal you. Men in general.”

  He placed a hand on the small of her back.

  She tensed, jerked away slightly before she could consider it. “Please don’t touch me.”

  Ben shrugged. “I like touching you.”

  She sidestepped away from him. “Will you stop looking at me like that? It’s creepy.”

  He shrugged, moving back to the bed to pull on his shirt.

  She stared him, disconcerted.

  “Yes?” He didn’t look at her.

  She took her time and then swallowed again. “Are you happy with your life, Ben?”

  “What?”

  She looked out the window and studied the fountain for another moment as if waiting for it to do something, before turning to him. “Are you happy? Contented?”

  He looked her with caution. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m just trying to picture what it’s like being you.”

  Ben studied her for another moment before shrugging. “Like I’ve said before, things aren’t horrible. Especially for me. There are a ton of men who have it worse off.”

  “There are always people worse off than you in some way.” Dahlia crossed her arms, pulling them tight against her stomach. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who was worse off in every way possible. It doesn’t answer my question, though. Are you happy with your life? I didn’t ask about anyone else.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t need a lot.”

  “It’s a yes or no question, Ben.”

  He looked at her, held her gaze. “What do you think?”

  She pressed her lips together before nodding and turning towards her dresser. “I’m going out to get something to eat. I’ll be back in ten, fifteen minutes.”

  * * * *

  The hospital had been unnaturally quiet for over a week. Dahlia was more than willing to take the chance to work out in the garden. Most of the herbs had been harvested to keep them safe from the early frosts, and the essential ones transplanted to the greenhouse, but there still always seemed to be work to be done. She set down the basket she had taken out with her and looked at what was still green and growing. Carefully she pruned a few of the plants, collecting the leaves and flowers in the basket to store for her own use.

  When nothing else was happening at the hospital and she couldn’t stand to look at another slide or test tube, Dahlia found the garden she had all but put together from the ground up, fair game to be used for her own purposes. She wasn’t collecting poisons, and most of the plants had been brought in at her request. Taking a few was only her due, especially when they were going to die anyway.

  The equipment they used to turn those plants into pills, lotions, ointments, and infusions likewise seemed fair game. Her bag and office had to be the best stocked of any in the hospital. It was a point of pride. There was really no point in being a doctor if she couldn’t take care of any patient anywhere because of a lack of supplies.

  Besides, it was almost cathartic watching the machines crush, mash, squeeze, and flash dry the herbs.

  “Using hospital resources for your own means again?” Zoë leaned against the doorframe.

  “Hmm?” Dahlia turned to look at her.

  “You’re only ever in here when you’ve stuck your own stuff in those.” Zoë nodded at the machines.

  “Well, things are crawling along everywhere else.” Dahlia looked at the basket sitting on the ground near her. “I have some lavender. Think some more scented lotion will be enough of a bribe to keep you from reporting me to the hospital admins?”

  “I think so.” Zoë sat down on the stool next to Dahlia. “It’s a ghost town up in geriatrics. I thought I’d see if there was anything going on anywhere else.”

  “Well, we don’t deal a lot with patients here anyway, but yeah, clinic let me off early. Most I did was wrap up a sprain. Only thing going on here now is me feeding the machines and, while I know that everything I do is fascinating...”

  “Undoubtedly,” Zoë said. “You want to go over to the pedigree room. I’m going to get you over all your misguided antipathy if it’s the death of me.”

  “I don’t know.” Dahlia frowned. “All those charts give me headaches.”

  “And you’re a doctor?”

  “Anyway.” Dahlia ignored her. “I could care less about finding out where those who share my genetic material ended. Not all of us had a sister in our age group to track.”

  Zoë smiled, good natured as always. “Well it would have been hard for me to lose Audrey. We sort of look the same if you haven’t noticed. I think a girl walking around with my face would have gotten my attention at any rate.”

  “Think about it though.” Dahlia grabbed a handful of lavender from the basket and fed several more sprigs into the machine. “The girls in genetics figure out gynocentric reproduction, and you might be in the final generation of twins. Under a controlled environment it would be far less likely to have the zygote cleave to the extent necessary for identical twins.”

  “It’s not bad to have a twin in my opinion,” Zoë said. “You have someone like you who generally has to put up with you without having to try so hard when you’re little.”

  Dahlia smiled. “We all tend to find our niches, twin or not.”

  “Well, we’re relationship builders.” Zoë nodded. “It’s what we do.”

  Chewing on her cheek, Dahlia nodded back. “Do you think men ever build relationships?”

  Zoë frowned. “What?”

  “Well, they have language like we do. That would suggest they’re still social creatures even if on a primitive level. Do you think they form groups like we do?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they had groups,” Zoë conceded. “I doubt they’d be anything like ours though. I don’t think they have anything close to the emotional complexity required for that.”

  “That would
make sense,” Dahlia said, sounding less than sure even to her own ears. “They probably have the basic safety in numbers instinct.”

  “Any reason you’re wondering?”

  “I just don’t get them.” Dahlia shook her head. “You know how helpless I am around a mystery.”

  “True.” Zoë smiled and patted her knee. “No need to worry about it too much.”

  Dahlia forced a smile back. “I suppose not.”

  * * * *

  Ben held his arm close to his side, bending it slightly so the guards wouldn’t hit it as they scanned him and let him into Dahlia’s room. The lights turned on as the door opened, then clicked and locked behind him. He seemed to be alone.

  “Dahlia?”

  No one answered. He moved to the bed, wincing slightly before unbuttoning his shirt with his right hand. He shrugged the sleeve off his right arm, and pulled the fabric off the wet, dark spot that was forming on the left side. Most of the blood had congealed around the gash, the bright red already turning maroon and brown. Just a line oozing red beads in the mess of dried blood. He hissed, balling the shirt around the damp spot and pressed it to the still inflamed cut.

  The door slid open.

  Dahlia placed her bag by the door and turned. Her head snapped to the side as her body jumped. “Jeezum!” She placed a hand to her chest, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “Ben? What are you...?”

  “Needed some help.” Ben gave a tense smile.

  She moved closer. “What?”

  “Well, at the moment I seem to be bleeding rather a bit.” He held up his arm.

  Dahlia sucked in a quick breath, stopped, and then turned, walking towards the bathroom with purpose. “How long have you been bleeding?”

  “I don’t know. Half an hour maybe? It’s slowing down I think.”

  “Do you feel lightheaded?”

  “Not really.”

  She came back with a washcloth and bowl in hand. “I’m going to wash it to get the excess blood off. It’s going to sting a little.”

  Ben nodded, flinching slightly at the first touch, but remaining silent.

  Dahlia washed the wound gently, working quickly and professionally, then studied the cut. “It’s deep.”

  “That bad?”

  “Well, you don’t generally bleed when it’s good.” Dahlia shot a look at him. “It might need stitches. You should go to the hospital.”