Whiskey Delta – Chapter 47

“Illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promise only; pain we obey.”

-Marce l Proust

He could feel the cold, clammy feeling of the cement floor beneath his hands. It was always that way with it, somehow. It always felt wet, even when it was bone dry. The seamless, poreless surface never seemed to retain moisture.

He looked up and saw only darkness, and chains. They were close at hand, and led deep into the shadow. He touched one. Cold. Cold and biting. The way of iron and steel. And it was rusted too, giving it a grainy texture.

He grabbed hold of it and began to follow it forward. It pulled taught on the first touch, and he could hear a loud clang. It sounded close at hand, whatever it was pulling against. He followed it further, hand over hand into the dark…

He proceeded on his knees, pulling it again hard. He saw it go straight again, clanging loudly and disappearing into the shadow. It receded as he advanced, the chain growing shorter with every step he took. A small gleam appeared in the near distance, a faint grey light that almost disappeared the moment he set eyes on it.

His hands were growing colder. The grainy texture of the rust was beginning to rub off and turn them red. Very red. The rust was the deepest shade of red he had ever seen. But the light! He was too close to finding his way in the dark to stop now.

The light was growing brighter, and taller. It was the strangest thing, extending upwards and downwards as he neared it. It was strongest in the middle still, but seemed to be reaching up along some kind of spine. The chain was now completely taught. He only need one hand to pull it to him. He pulled a few times, noted the clanging. He could touch it now, whatever it was.

It felt rounded and thin, like a pole in the ground. He traced it upwards and felt it recede into the distance. Even standing, he could not touch the top of it. But crouched low, he eventually followed it down into the cold, hard ground again. He was close enough to touch it, but couldn’t make it out in the dark. This worried him…

He found his way back to the chain again and pulled it toward him. The far end, where he had started, it dragged along with the weight of something attached to the end of it. He hadn’t seen it before; but then again, he hadn’t picked it up at its very end either. At least he didn’t think so. It was hard to remember anything in this place…

It took time to bring it into the meager light, but he saw it clearly before long.

It was a shackle. It was terribly rusty… cold and wet.

He took hold of it, turned it over in the light. The red rust began to come off on him. Sticky and thick, slippery between his fingers.

It wasn’t rust at all. The manacles were bloody. And it was fresh…

He heard a loud cocking noise. He looked up in time to see what it was.

It was him.

The gun was in his hand. A bottle in the other. He was sitting on the stoop and watching himself with teary eyes.

““I’m sorry, baby.”

The gun trembled in his hand. He tried to speak, tried to reach out. Nothing was coming. His voice was mute, and his arms would not reach far enough. Something was holding them back. He pulled and pulled. The familiar clangs sounded again.

He looked down, saw the manacles on his wrists. They were bare now, his uniform gone and his arms exposed and bloody. Tears where the manacles clung too him when he pulled at them. His hands were a bloody, dirty mess. The fingernails caked in dirt and dried blood, torn and jagged.

“I couldn’t keep my promise.”

The gun cocked.

You’re going to a better place… both of you.”

He reached out again to stop it, opened his mouth to plead. Nothing but a sickly roar came out.

The gun fired…

*                         *                         *

He woke up screaming. His eyes were open, but it took a moment for the world to appear around him. The bright light that shattered the darkness gradually turned into a ceiling light. The shackles were fabric and plastic. He looked down at himself and saw another one strapped around his waist. Instead of torn rags, he had a patient gown on, blankets covering the rest of him.

It all began to fade as he lay back down and tried to breath slowly. Little by little, everything grew stiller and less frantic. And yet, there was still a noise close at hand. A terrible, persistent noise.

He looked to his right where it seemed to be coming from. A large display hung there that seemed to be monitoring his heart rate and BP. The machine seemed less than enthused, but was slowly calming down itself.

He took several more breaths and closed his eyes, opened them when he heard footsteps approaching.

“Well, look who’s up at last?”

He squinted his eyes and tried to make out the face. A medic, clearly, but none he seemed to recall. She checked his glucose drip first, which he didn’t notice until now. Her hands went to the restraints next. First the right one…

“Sorry about these, but we had to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself or pull the IV loose.”

“I… uh…”

She smiled, began working her way to his left side. “You also had plenty to say in your sleep.”

She put her hands to the other restraint. Dezba looked down and saw what was there. His voice caught in his throat.

The monitor began blaring again.

“It’s okay…” she said. “Sergeant, it’s going to be alright.”

He didn’t hear her. The blood was rushing to his ears and drowning out all outside noise. That, and the terrible burning sensation that was crawling up his arm.

The medic yelled to someone outside the room. He couldn’t hear what she said. But he could make out a few things when she leaned in next and began speaking to him softly.

“…alright… okay… safe now.”

An orderly ran in to the room carrying a syringe. Dezba raised his right arm and shoved her away.

“I’m infected! You have to kill me now! You have to put one in my brain!”

The medic lay down on top of him, her hands clutching his right arm and holding it in place. Her body pressed down on his midsection and held him flat. The orderly came back and went for his shoulder. He had barely the strength to stop her and felt some warm relief beginning to spread over him. He knew that feeling well enough, liquid lorazapam taking the edge of his anxieties, making them dull and ineffectual. With what strength he could, he still pleaded.

“Infected… you have to end it now…”

The medic sat up and grabbed a hold of his face. She stared directly into his eyes. “Sergeant, listen to me! You’re clean. We ran your blood when you came in. There was no trace of the virus. You’re clean…”

He breathed hard. Was he hearing her right? The itch was so intense though, and what he’d seen in the darkness…

“You’ve been with us for three days now,” she said, as if sensing his arguments. “You would have turned long ago.”

He raised his left arm. “Why is my arm burning?”

She stood up and smoothed out her gown. “You suffered extensive nerve damage, Sergeant. That’s the downside to your not picking up the infection, the way you removed your own limb left much to be desired.”

Dezba lay his head back. The drugs were taking full effect now, lulling him into a deep sleep. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he wouldn’t be turning anytime soon as well. Or perhaps it was just the medics influence. She seemed to be having that effect on him now.

“Hurts…” he said.

“We can administer morphine for that, but not until the anxiolytics wear off. You’re going to be okay, Sergeant. You’ve got a long and peaceful recovery in store…”

Recovery, Dezba thought. How lovely did that sound right now? Plenty of sleep, rest, and drugs to numb the pain. Plenty of monsters to haunt his sleep.

Yes… lovely!