by Ike Hamill
She stole a glance back over her shoulder with the next throw and then snapped her head back around to the front and squeezed her eyes shut. See had seen her former neighbor, Jeremy. He wasn’t alone. Perched on his back was the little boy who gave her snake meat. He was looking away when she spotted him. Carol couldn’t get the vision out of her head. The little boy had been riding Jeremy like a pack animal that needs extra abuse to keep it moving.
Carol shuddered and wondered how many other slaves Donna had drawn to herself.
She searched her brain for other memories, certain they must be hiding somewhere. Nothing else came. She kept shoveling and was soon beyond the gravel and back to sand. After that she hit hard clay again. Carol drifted away, almost like falling asleep but harder to resist. The hole got deeper.
When she reached the end of what she could physically do, her body shut down on its own. It wasn’t like she grew tired and decided she had to stop. Her muscles simply halted without enough energy to complete another full motion. She dropped the shovel from her useless arms and turned to climb out of the hole. The higher she got, the less stable she felt. She felt as if she’d climbed so high that the air was too thin to support consciousness.
Carol wavered on the top step, perilously close to falling backwards into the hole. She didn’t care. She gazed towards the dark ceiling and swayed. Her knees buckled and she began the slow warmup to a backwards tumble. A hand shot out of the darkness and snagged her shirt, tugging the collar.
It was her neighbor, Jeremy. He pulled her from the edge of the hole and nudged her towards cold snake corner. As she passed he fell in step with Carol for a couple of strides and managed some quick words.
“I’m starting to remember things,” he said. “I think we can get out.”
Chapter 8
Lynne
A PAIN IN HER ARM woke Lynne up, but it was the pain in her other arm that concerned her. She raised her eyelids on the interior of a van. All the upholstery was gray. One of the black-suited men from the yard was pulling a needle from the crook of her good elbow. The other elbow ached and throbbed and itched. The skin was tight from the swelling. She wondered how much damage they had done when they wrestled her to the ground.
The injection worked fast. Lynne felt a warm fog working up through her chest and down into her legs. She blinked rapidly, trying to keep focus, but it was a battle she was losing. Her neck muscles felt useless, and she could barely keep her head upright.
She slumped against a tinted window and looked out on a sidewalk as the van decelerated. Lynne’s eyes grew wider as she recognized the woman standing at the bus stop. The woman’s head was half-turned, but Lynne was certain. Lynne tried to open her mouth to yell at the woman—not to plea for help, but to warn her. The woman stood there and looked up the road, waiting for her ride.
Unable to yell or even speak, Lynne managed to lift her head a couple inches away from the tinted glass and let it bang back down. She did this three times before one of the thugs grabbed her shoulder and pulled Lynne away from the window. But it was enough. The woman at the bus stop heard the noise and looked over just as the van began to pull away. Her jaw dropped as she realized the same thing that Lynne already knew: Lynne and the woman waiting for the bus were the same person. Not just twins, they were the same person. Lynne was sure. As if to cement this conclusion, as Lynne watched as her cat, Domi, strode up and sat down next to the bus stop sign, calmly watching her pass.
Chapter 9
Gregory Rises
Two Years Earlier…
HIS MIRACLE DIDN’T MAKE THE NEWS THAT NIGHT. News generally travels outward from Portland in southern Maine and Gregory’s coffin had popped open within spitting distance of the border with New Hampshire. By that evening a couple of Maine affiliates had the story, but they never ran it. It seemed too much like a hoax; like a joke that they hadn’t gotten yet. Friends of friends spread the story, but the only people who really bought it were local medical and law enforcement personnel.
Gregory sat, with his ring of witnesses, on his coffin and waited patiently for the authorities. He had no plans to keep. He needed someone to direct him—to tell him what to do next. Nothing hurt, but that almost seemed worse. The gaping wounds and missing flesh should have at least hurt, he figured.
The first EMTs on the scene rushed, carrying a portable stretcher. They didn’t slow down until they saw him sitting there, on top of his empty, shiny coffin.
“What’s the problem, buddy?” one man asked, adjusting his gloves. The pair had stopped about the same distance as the mourners. The radio clipped to his belt squawked and chattered.
“I think I need a doctor,” said Gregory. He spread his shirt and showed the man his ragged chest.
“Can you walk?” asked the other paramedic. The other guy hissed at him and they had a brief, whispered conversation. They approached Gregory together and laid the stretcher down at his feet. “Let’s get you checked out,” said one of the reluctant men.
When the police arrived the mourners broke their circle and started to clump together. Some small discussions took place behind hats, or with backs turned. Some other cemetery visitors appeared from nowhere and joined the onlookers.
Marta took a hesitant step away from her husband, and then broke ranks, striding decisively up to Gregory and the men readying him for transport.
“Officer. Officer,” she said.
“It’s okay ma’am, these guys are going to move this gentleman. If you could just stand back a little and let them through.”
“I have to go with him,” she said. “I’m the next of kin.”
“Fine. This way,” said the officer. Marta walked a step behind the convoy of men carrying Gregory. Her husband stood at the graveside and watched her leave.
“What…” started one of the paramedics. “What exactly happened?”
“I don’t know,” said Marta. “He just woke up. We thought he was dead. Well, actually, we were sure he was dead. I mean, he really was.”
“As far as we can tell, he still is,” said the medic.
MARTA STILL HAD THE PACKET of Gregory’s papers in her car. She grabbed them before the ambulance whisked them off to the hospital. It was lucky she did. The papers gave credibility to their claims. Most perplexing to the intake nurse was the death certificate. The nurse had heard of people waking up after being pronounced dead, but she’d never gotten a week-old death certificate for an incoming patient. But late on a double shift nothing was out of the question. She processed Gregory and left the larger problem of his existence to the doctors.
Behind a thin curtain, Marta found Gregory in a corner of the emergency room just as a doctor was leaving. The young doctor pulled Marta aside and questioned.
“Do you know what happened to him?” asked the doctor. He motioned at his chest.
“Yeah, he was harvested for organs,” said Marta. “Heart and kidney, I think. I mean the organs were harvested.”
“Pardon?” asked the doctor. His body language changed in a flash. He had been leaning towards Marta conspiratorially, but now he straightened up and put a little distance between their two heads.
“Here,” she flipped open her folder. “Here’s his information. You’ve seen his scars.”
The young doctor took the folder as if it were a bag full of snakes and thanked Marta before backing away.
Marta pushed through the thin curtain and found Gregory staring up at the tiled ceiling.
“How you doing?” asked Marta.
“Fine, I guess,” said Gregory. “They don’t seem to know what to do with me.”
“Your doctor seems a little young. Did you ask to see his diploma?” asked Marta.
“I didn’t want to smudge it,” said Gregory.
Marta dragged a chair from behind the IV stand and sat down next to the bed. She stared at the wall for a minute while Gregory blinked at the ceiling and ran his tongue over his teeth. Somewhere a door opened and swung shut, letting them hear a he
ated argument. They couldn’t make out any of the words.
“What do you think happened?” asked Marta.
“You tell me,” said Gregory. “How did I get here?”
“Well,” said Marta. She couldn’t talk—she was suddenly choked up, for no good reason. A couple of tears rolled down her nose before she looked back up. Gregory didn’t notice. He was still looking straight up. “I don’t know. You passed out by the mailbox, and they said you were brain dead. They followed your living will and took your organs. So you’d already donated a kidney before?”
“Yeah,” said Gregory. “Never even met the person. I didn’t miss it though.”
“They didn’t take your lungs,” said Marta. “They wouldn’t tell me why.”
“Huh,” said Gregory. He sighed.
“Anyway, after the surgery you just died. I mean, of course you died. They took your heart.”
“So, what, you just pass out next to the mailbox for a little while and they start taking your organs?” asked Gregory.
“No, it was more than just passing out. You weren’t breathing on your own. They took the ventilator away for a period of time and determined that you couldn’t live without it. They didn’t tell us any of that until afterwards, but between that and the lack of any brain activity…” she trailed off.
“And here we are,” said Gregory. “They can’t figure out what’s keeping me going. No pulse, no blood pressure, minimal breathing. At least it’s not painful.”
“It’s not?” asked Marta.
“Not yet.”
“Well that’s good.”
“Hey,” Gregory came up on one elbow. “Did you pick up my mail?”
“Had it stopped,” said Marta.
“Oh,” he said. “What about my place?”
“The bank is going to auction it,” said Marta.
“Wow,” said Gregory.
“You can stay with us if you need to,” said Marta.
“Thanks,” said Gregory.
WHEN MARTA GOT UP to seek out some water for Gregory, she found a pair of tall orderlies encamped just outside the curtain. They moved aside and let her pass freely. She came back with two paper cups and found a group had collected—including several doctors and a film crew. A calm doctor with gray hair and glasses led the pack.
“Good afternoon, Gregory,” the doctor said. She touched his sock and gave him a half-smile.
“Hi,” said Gregory. Marta slid her chair a little closer to his side.
“I’m sure you’ll understand,” the doctor said, parking her glasses at the end of her nose, “that given the details of your situation, we’ve asked that all our interviews be recorded.”
“Okay, sure,” said Gregory.
“Now, what can you tell us about your… condition?” asked the doctor.
“I remember getting ready for work, and then I woke up in a coffin. Marta can tell you more than I can,” said Gregory.
Marta relayed everything she could think of. The group of doctors gave no reaction to her story. They simply stared down at the floor and listened to the incredible tale. Only the lead doctor, the woman who reminded Marta of a disapproving grandmother, looked her in the eye as she spoke. When Marta finished, a couple of the doctors began to huddle behind the lead. Grandmother hushed them with a quick look.
Gregory spoke next—“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he said to Grandmother.
“Forgive me,” she said. She extended her hand towards Gregory. “Doctor Maynard. Nissa Maynard. Call me Nissa.”
“Thank you, Nissa,” said Gregory.
Nissa asked dozens of questions about his medical history. She offered no information in return. Whenever Gregory asked anything, she begged for his patience until they could form a clear picture. When she had finished asking questions, she introduced the next doctor.
For hours, interviews came in waves. Groups of doctors, scientists, and researchers came and asked questions. Eventually members of press started showing up as well. The nurses moved Gregory to a private room in the middle of the night. Even the rigid nurses couldn’t keep out all the questioners.
Marta found herself drifting off between questions. She never considered leaving Gregory’s side, and not just because it made her feel important to be at the center of his sudden celebrity. She wouldn’t leave because Gregory needed her there. That was clear even though he never said it.
Finally, Gregory just fell asleep in the middle of a question. His open-mouth snore was the only answer. Marta shooed the doctors and reporters away while Gregory snored. She propped a chair against the door, but it did no good on the polished tile floor. Nurses still pushed their way in, but at least the doctors stayed away.
WHEN GREGORY ANNOUNCED HE WANTED TO LEAVE, Nissa Maynard—the grandmother of the crew—had the strongest words. She almost sounded threatening, as if Gregory would collapse dead the second he stepped outside the protective confines of the hospital.
He’d had enough. Each procedure only brought more questions. After each scan or test Gregory asked but none of the doctors would share the results. For the first few, they simply claimed the machines had malfunctioned. Unsatisfied, they wanted to open Gregory’s chest to get a look inside. He refused anesthesia. The last thing he wanted was to surrender consciousness. His veins wouldn’t even cooperate by giving blood—only a few drops of syrupy fluid would come out.
When the doctors wouldn’t relent, Gregory pulled up his gown, ripped off the useless bandage, and showed them the unhealed scar. It was stitched with thick, clear thread. One of the doctor’s gasped when Gregory pulled at the thread and snapped it. The rest leaned forward with ghoulish curiosity. Marta looked away. His chest looked like a cut of pork—raw and naked.
After all that, Gregory decided it was time to leave. Marta walked down the street and across a huge parking lot to buy him sweatpants and t-shirts. He didn’t want to wear his burial clothes. They didn’t fit well and looked too formal. They called a cab, and called Marta’s husband to warn him to close all the blinds and curtains. He wasn’t home, but said he would meet them there. Marta almost wanted him to object to the notion of Gregory staying at their house. She wanted to argue with someone about it.
When they arrived at the house the press had already arrived. Reporters milled around the yard with no respect for her property at all. Marta set Gregory up in the back bedroom, what would have been the baby’s room, and then she double-checked the windows. Strangers parked on her lawn, smoked cigarettes in her driveway, and drank coffee while leaning against her little fence. Even the small amount of privacy they had, locked up and hiding in the house, felt like a million times more than they’d had in the hospital. Marta boiled water for tea and got out a third mug when her husband returned home.
“They’ve been out there for a day. They must have known you’d come back here,” said her husband.
“They were probably staking out Gregory’s old house,” said Marta.
Gregory sipped his tea and folded one leg up and sat on his ankle. “Thank you for letting me stay here until I can figure out what to do.”
“As long as you need to,” offered Marta’s husband.
“As long as you like,” Marta amended. She’d meant for her offer to be more encompassing, but was afraid it hadn’t come out that way.
“I’m sure they’ll forget about me soon,” said Gregory. “Some other big story will be along.”
“Not likely,” said Marta’s husband. “I guess you haven’t turned on the TV.”
“Why?” asked Gregory.
“Oh,” he said. “Someone leaked footage from the hospital. Your story didn’t get much traction until those videos came out, but now… Shit, it’s all anyone is talking about. You’ve got about ten percent saying it’s a big hoax, but the rest are equal factions of scientific anomaly and heavenly miracle. Some people are calling for you to turn yourself over to a group of international researchers so they can figure out how you cheated death.”
Gregory didn’t respond. He looked down into his tea.
Gregory didn’t talk much more until Marta’s husband went to bed. Marta made up a bed for Gregory and then they sat up in the soft glow of the nightlight and talked.
“They’ll never leave me alone,” said Gregory. “I’m going to be studied for the rest of my life. I didn’t do any of this on purpose.”
“That’s the thing,” said Marta. She leaned forward. “You can’t afford to be the victim here.”
“How do you mean?” asked Gregory.
“Everyone is trying to figure out what happened to you—do you have some inherited trait that makes you immortal? Did you accidentally ingest some perfect combinations of drugs that made you the way you are? So of course they want to test you. Everyone wants what you’ve got.”
“Exactly,” said Gregory.
“No, but that’s the thing. What if it’s not just you? What if it was something that could happen to all of us because of the alignment of planets, or because ‘End Times’ are coming or something? What was that you said to me? When I asked you what you saw when you were dead, you said that it was wonderful. What were you talking about?”
“Nothing,” said Gregory. “Nothing at all. I just needed time to think so I said I’d tell you later.”
“That’s right,” said Marta. “That’s what you need to do about the whole thing. If you tell people that you have no idea why you came back then they’re going to want investigate to find out the reason. But what if you just start professing to know the reason why you came back? What if you make it seem like the whole thing was intentional?”
“Then people will just start hounding me for that,” he said. “They’ll just want to know what my secret is.”
