Stillness

by Eldon Farrell

  The first thing that he notices is the change in temperature. It must be at least ten degrees cooler in the office than the hallway. Shutting the door he notices the insulation around it, sealing the door shut like a refrigerator door.

  Looking around the sterile office he’s assaulted by the scent of ammonia and the harsh reflection of overhead lights off stainless steel.

  Thomas Kent obviously doesn’t mess around with the formalities of a waiting room. The entire office comprises his workspace. Sinks along one wall with hoses hanging from the ceiling offer no clue to Will as to their purpose.

  Five tables are laid out around the room, four of which have white sheets draped over their contents. Behind the fifth and farthest away table, he sees the figure of Thomas Kent waiting for him.

  The man is of average height and weight, with thinning brown hair, a blunt nose, droopy ears, and alert dark eyes behind half-glasses. His white coat is tied tightly around his waist, showing only his legs from the knees down.

  “Mr. Sullivan, I presume?” His voice has a high-pitched tinny sound to it that reminds Will of someone who has inhaled helium.

  “Yes,” Will walks over to the table extending his hand, “Dr. Kent.”

  “Nice to meet you sir,” Kent’s eyes drift down to the table between them, “Shall we get down to work.”

  Until now Will has avoided looking at the table. No sheet covers the remains laid out on it, and though the bones have been cleaned and arranged properly, he still recognizes them.

  He’s seen them before. Thirteen days ago on a rainy night he uncovered them setting this eventual outcome in motion.

  His parents lay before him on a backdrop of stainless steel. Their secrets—he hopes—equally laid bare.

  Nodding he says, “Let’s begin.”

  “You understand Mr. Sullivan that what was delivered to me was not much. After 15 years in the ground exposed to alternating thawing and freezing, not too mention the insect damage, there wasn’t much soft tissue left. Which I’m sure is why you brought the remains here, for analysis of the bones.

  “I began my examination by first cleaning the bones. Any tissue recovered was sent to another lab for analysis as per your request. Once skeletal reconstruction was complete I could get down to the business of discovering any evidence of fatal trauma on the bones. Take a look at this…”

  Dr. Kent points down at the skeleton on the table continuing to describe his findings in great technical detail. Will’s mind drifts away from the situation. With the doctor’s tinny voice in the background he slips back through the years and remembers his parents as they were.

  Over the intervening years he’s tried hard to find justice for them. To uncover the truth of what happened to them, thus they’ve never been far from his mind.

  Though he realizes now, that in all those years he’s never spent much time simply remembering them. At some point in his distant past the memory of them became too painful for him to bear.

  “Mr. Sullivan, are you listening?”

  Snapping out of his reverie Will lies, “Yes, please go on.”

  “The skeletons of both victims show no damage until you reach the skulls. In both cases you can see here,” Kent rotates one of the skulls on the table to reveal the back to Will, “A bullet hole in the occipital bone. The occipital bone is part of the lambdoidal suture along which the parietal bones are joined.

  “As you can see it’s located at the base of the cranium and forms the back of the skull. This is an important bone in the skull. Look here,” he tilts the skull upward and outlines part of it with his finger.

  “This large opening on the lower surface is called the foramen magnum. This is where nerve fibers from the brain pass to enter the vertebral canal and become part of the spinal cord. Now, occipital condyles are rounded processes located on each side of the foramen magnum and unite with the first vertebra of the spinal column.

  “A gunshot wound in this location would almost certainly be fatal Mr. Sullivan. The records that your associate Oliver Bruce provided to me with the remains indicated that the official autopsy finding ruled that both of your parents were murdered by single gunshots to the back of the head.”

  “And your findings confirm that?”

  “On the contrary Mr. Sullivan, my findings contradict that. You certainly see the bullet wound in the occipital bone and as I’ve said such a wound would be fatal—if the victim were alive at the time.

  “You see Mr. Sullivan; it’s what you don’t see that contradicts the official findings. Each bone in the human body consists of three sections, the compact bone, the soft bone marrow, and the sponge bone.

  “I’m sure that you’re aware that the soft bone marrow is located within the hollow center of the bone and that this is where red blood cells are produced. When severe trauma is inflicted upon a bone hemorrhaging is noted around the impact site.

  “Look again at the bullet wound. You don’t see any hemorrhaging around the point of impact. The only reason for this is that blood was no longer being produced or circulated in the body. The gunshot was postmortem.”

  “They were already dead when they were shot.”

  “Correct Mr. Sullivan.”

  A sense of vindication swells up inside of Will. All the years he lobbied to have the case reopened and was told that there was no point, that he had no evidence. Closing his eyes he squeezes the bridge of his nose exhaling years of frustration.

  This is the evidence I need.

  Looking back at Dr. Kent he asks, “So if the gunshots didn’t kill my parents…what did?”

  “Unfortunately,” Kent shakes his head sympathetically “I can’t tell you that. Nothing on the skeletons indicates fatal trauma which rules out any kind of blunt force trauma. But it leaves a lot of things on the table I’m afraid.”

  “I need an official report of your findings.”

  “Of course,” Kent removes his glasses and wipes them on his lab coat. “If you don’t mind my asking, what will you do now?”

  Wiping a stray tear away from his moistening eyes, Will answers defiantly “Lay them to rest with the justice that they deserve.”

  Chapter 31

  October 25

  Stillness, Iowa

  George Marlin raps his knuckles against the aluminum screen door one more time. He’s out on Academy Place standing on the front porch of Jacob’s place. Receiving no answer yet again he runs his fingers through his hair turning around.

  The neighborhood is not exactly well-off, but it’s not rundown either. A circular off of Dunbar, the houses here are of red brick and white siding. The area was untouched by the riot of three days ago.

  Banging on the door again, George opens it and tries the front knob. Locked.

  Frustrated he steps down from the porch and heads around to the back yard. A narrow strip of grass separates Jake’s place from his neighbor. The latch to the backyard is unlocked and allows George easy admittance.

  Mounting the back steps he knocks on the heavy wooden door and calls out, “Come on Jake, open up! I know you’re in there!”

  Tired of waiting, but not ready to give up yet, he lifts a potted plant beside the step and finds the spare key. Opening the door he steps inside and is immediately taken by the musty aroma of a shut-up house.

  “Jake! Where are you Jake?”

  Old springs squeal from somewhere nearby as Jacob shifts his weight on his couch saying, “What do you want George?”

  Stepping further into the house George enters the living room asking, “Why didn’t you answer the door?”

  “I didn’t feel like company,” Jacob glares at him, “Why didn’t you take the hint?”

  “What the hell is the matter with you Jake? You haven’t been into work since the riot; you don’t return phone calls or even answer your door apparently.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that we need to talk Jake.” He merely gazes at him with indifference causing George to ask in a huff
, “Have you even left home once in the past three days? This is not like you Jake; tell me what’s going on.”

  Reaching for a can of beer Jacob knocks some empty liquor bottles off the coffee table onto the carpet. “You don’t want to know George.” Taking a sip he says, “Trust me.”

  “Cut the self-important shit Jake,” George grumbles, “I need to know what’s going on. I took a call the night of the riot that was meant for you.”

  The two men stare at each other. Jacob’s look of barely restraint anger is matched equally by George’s fiery disposition.

  “Don’t bother getting upset Jake; you were passed out in a bottle at the time. ‘Sides, the way I see it I did you a favor seeing as how I was chased through the woods by men looking to kill you!”

  Jacob’s glazed eyes focus sharply for a moment as the words sink through the fog of alcohol that envelops him. Setting the beer aside he says nothing.

  “What are you into Jake? No more stalling, I need to know now. Who keeps calling you? Does it have anything to do with what’s been going on lately? Talk to me!”

  Standing on unsteady legs Jacob blinks his eyes to clear his head. “Go home George.”

  “Why did you really print that story about the vaccines?” Once again they stare at each other like two combatants on the verge. “Or should I ask who told you to print it?”

  With as much conviction as he can muster Jacob replies, “We’re done here George. In case you’ve forgotten let me remind you that I don’t answer to you. Go home and stay out of this.”

  “Not going to happen,” George jabs his finger into Jacob’s chest. “If you won’t tell me what’s going on then I’ll find someone who will!”

  Grabbing George by the shirt Jacob rushes him backwards into the wall of the living room. The collision causes the pictures on the wall to tilt and fall to the floor.

  “Damn it George!” Jacob curses, “I always liked you. You’re a great reporter. For your own good…stay clear of this. You don’t want to know what I know—trust me.”

  Releasing his grip on the stunned George, he backs away begging, “Let it drop. Walk away from this…while you still can.”

  Ripping his latex gloves off, Henry Abbot whips them in the nearest trash can. A backward glance reveals the wreckage of a failed code.

  Medical debris litters the floor and the bed of the patient as two nurses stand by on either side of the bed.

  One nurse reaches over and flips the monitor off as Henry grips the curtain and exits the room. Another one lost.

  Closing his weary eyes he takes a few deep breaths. Get it together Abbot. Looking down the makeshift ward in the gymnasium of Centennial Public School he sees Lynne Bosworth walking towards him.

  She’s strikingly beautiful in a white cotton blouse and blue jeans that hug her curves tightly.

  “Dr. Bosworth,” he asks, “What brings you by?”

  “Came to see you,” she replies with a smile, “And call me Lynne.”

  Henry attempts to return the smile but the effort is too great. He can manage only a half-hearted grimace. “What can I do for you?”

  “How are you holding up? You look exhausted.”

  “Walk with me,” Henry leads her away from the seemingly endless lines of beds and sick patients towards the break room. “I just lost another patient. Forty-year old father of three was admitted four days ago with a persistent cough, headache and high fever.

  “His condition worsened over the time he spent here. Nothing we gave him had any effect on the bacteria. His pneumonia just caused his lungs to fail. His last X-ray showed an enormous amount of fluid in his lungs. My guess is he simply drowned while trying to take a breath.

  “So to answer your question, I’m not doing so well right now. Every day out there on the ward we lose far more than we save. The nursing staff is frightened—those that aren’t sick that is. I’m short three nurses right now. Two are lying in beds out there and the third simply stopped coming into work.”

  Sliding out a chair Henry sits down at the break table while Lynne follows suit. “But do you know what the worst is?” Lynne waits for him to finish unburdening himself. “It’s that I don’t blame her for running away.”

  Their eyes meet for a moment before Henry looks down at his lap and his hands folded there. “I mean how can I demand that they come to work with so much death everywhere?”

  “You still come in,” Lynne points out.

  “Where else am I going to go?” He exhales heavily saying, “My patients need me now more than ever. I’m sorry; you didn’t come here to listen to me whine.”

  Reaching out Lynne places her hand on top of his. Smiling she gives it a comforting squeeze. “It’s okay.”

  Looking at her, Henry notices again just how pretty she is. Her thoughtful gaze and caring smile offer him solace—a port in the widening storm. Without realizing it he fixates on her moist lips. Their slash of red and slight pucker exciting his imagination.

  The sensation of her hand in his enflames his thoughts causing his cheeks to blush. Smiling sheepishly as the color spreads across his face, Henry pulls his hand away.

  They stare at each other for an awkward moment, each one wondering what just happened, when Lynne’s pager goes off. Checking the number readout she says, “It’s Atlanta. Mind if I use your phone?”

  Grabbing the phone on the counter she returns the call. It’s answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

  “Lynne, I’m glad you called me back,” Wendy proclaims “I’ve got the results from the tests on the flu vaccines and I knew you’d want to hear them right away. You weren’t at the Board of Health, where are you?”

  “On the ward, what have we got?”

  “I’m not sure if it qualifies as good or bad news, but here goes. They’re clean—every sample we ran came back clean. There are absolutely no contaminants in the vaccine supply that was delivered to Stillness and certainly nothing that would increase the severity of plague.

  “I’m looking around Lynne and it looks to me like we’re back to square one.”

  “Not exactly, now we know that terrorists didn’t get to the vaccine supply.” Henry gives her a quizzical look prompting her to explain to him about the vaccine results.

  “Who’s with you?” Wendy asks.

  “Henry Abbot.”

  “Do you think you should be sharing that with him?”

  “Not now Wendy.”

  “Lynne—”

  “Wendy,” she interrupts her admonition, “Trust me okay?”

  “Okay,” her tone of voice betrays her doubts. “I don’t mean to pile on you here Lynne, but Roger gave me the lab results from those samples you took at the cave.”

  “And?”

  “And they couldn’t find any traces of Y. Pestis bacteria in the local fauna. You know how much it kills me to agree with that prick Rahlings, but the mood around here is shifting towards a manmade cause for this outbreak. Just thought I’d give you the heads up”

  “I need you to go over the patient files again Wendy. If the flu vaccines aren’t the common denominator, then there must be something else we’re missing. This outbreak is approaching ninety percent mortality—if anyone can find the connection, you can.”

  “I appreciate the confidence Lynne, but what if there is no connection to find? What if they just happened to be the unlucky ones who got exposed to some biological agent?”

  “Then that’s the connection. Work your way through it as best you can.”

  Hanging up the phone she turns around to find that Henry has left the room. The sound of an alarm reaches her ears. Closing her eyes she knows that another patient is crashing.

  Time is running out.

  Chapter 32

  There are some moments in life that you never forget. They become a part of you, easily recalled at a moment’s notice; they remain as vivid as the day they happened.

  Some are remembered for purely happy reasons—a first kiss with a childhood crush,
the first time you drove alone in a car, the birth of your first child.

  And some—just some—are remembered solely for the pain they cause. They’re remembered because the trauma is so deep it scars you permanently.

  You couldn’t forget them if you tried.

  Gaetano Anjou is having one of these moments.

  Grasping Dominique’s hand tightly between his own he sits by her bedside at the makeshift hospital set up in Centennial School.

  He’s been there ever since she collapsed two days ago and he brought her in to be told that she has pneumonic plague. How he denied that diagnosis in the early going. The first few hours of her admission he vehemently denied that such a thing could be true. He told her repeatedly that the doctor was wrong—that she’d be fine.

  But as the first night wore into morning and she progressively became worse Gaetano was forced to accept the diagnosis with all the horrible overtones that go along with it.

  Looking at her now passing in and out of fitful sleep he wonders how long she’ll fight—how long she’ll live. No longer does he even allow himself to believe that she’ll overcome it. To think such foolish thoughts is to invite more pain later.

  And more pain Gaetano cannot handle. He loves Dominique more than life itself and if such a thing were possible he’d trade places with her in a heartbeat.

  Bringing her hand to his lips he gives it a tender kiss before letting go and standing up to loosen his stiff muscles. All around him he can hear the sounds of the dying.

  He’s tried for days to block out the crying and screaming of those in perpetual agony all around him to no avail. The scene is surreal.

  All throughout the school beds have been set up to house the sick and dying and despite the efforts of the staff the stench of fear and death clog every surface in the place.

  With a restless look at Dom he walks away in search of some water to quench his thirst. Walking the hall he can hear people crying all around him. It’s the cries of family by the bedside of loved ones. It’s the cries of the sick when they realize they won’t see another morning.