The Jigsaw Man – Read Now and Download Mobi

T H E

JIGSAW

M A N

G O R D R O L L O

L E I S U R E B O O K S

1 =

N E W Y O R K C I T Y

This novel is dedicated to my father, James Rollo, who gave

me my love for reading and helped inspire my first steps to—

ward becoming a writer. While this book might not exactly be

his cup of tea, I think he'll get a kick out of it....

No book is ever truly written alone, so I'd be remiss if I didn't

acknowledge some of the people who have helped make this

happen: Gene O'Neill, MichaelLaimo, J. E Gonzalez, Da

vid Nordhaus, Brian Keene, Jimmy ZJohnston Shane Stal-

ey, and Don D 'Auria I also want to give a shout-out to my

brothers Tony, Brian, and Stuart, and a special thank-you to

my wife Debbie for putting up with me.

P R O L O G U E

The Reason

Drummond Brothers Rock and Bowl,

North Tonawanda, New York

Hell of a place, Drummond's, an old-fashioned, family-run

bowling alley suffering from an identity crisis of late. The

comfy wooden tables and chairs have been replaced with ugly

black plastic stools with shiny chrome legs; the soft overhead

fluorescent lighting with purple and red retina-destroying

spotlights; the soothing background music with bass-heavy,

blow-out-your-eardrums heavy alternative rock. People used

to come here with family and friends to bowl, have some good

clean fun, and the best damn cola floats in Western New

York. Now the rowdy young crowds come to get drunk, fight,

shot put the bowling balls at their buddy's head, and scream

out obscenities and pickup lines over the horrendously loud

musk.

If old Mr. Drummond were still around to see what his

sons had done to the family business, he'd have burned the

place to the ground, his good-for-nothing prodigies still

trapped inside. Still, the Rock and Bowl, with all its gaudi-

ness and utter contempt for its humbler beginnings, was

making money hand over fist—even the old man couldn't

have argued with that.

Thursday night. A big crowd.

Two guys sitting at the end of the bar, a bit older than the

usual early twenties crowd, three more friends standing at

their backs cheering wildly as the seated pair raise their frosty

mugs to their lips and start chugging.

The phone rings on the wall behind the bar, twice, three

times, hard to hear over the pulsing hypnotic beat of Rob

Zombies " L i v i n g D e a d G i r l " blaring on the overhead speak

ers. Finally, the overweight bartender waddles over, answers

it, cupping his free band around the earpiece to hear what the

caller wants. His face drains ofcolor as he slowly turns to look

at one of the beer drinkers.

He lays the phone down on the back counter, approaches

the group offve men joking and arguing over who won the

chug contest, and leans over the bar to interrupt them.

"It's the police," he tells the thin drunk sitting on the right.

"Lookinforyou. You'd better come take this"

The man looks worried but is still trying to play it cool in

front of his friends. He rises to his feet, almost trips over the

chair, and stumbles and weaves his way toward the far end of

the bar where it's open and he can walk around to grab the

phone. Fear has him by the short hairs but he isn't sure why.

For a moment, vertigo hits hard and the noisy room starts to

spin. He grabs the counter to steady himself, closing bis eyes

tightly until the nauseous sensation passes. Then, the phone—

"Hello?"

MichaelFox?"A cold voice. Irish accent.

"Ub-bub. Who's this?"

The inebriated man listens quietly for several minutes,

swaying on his feet, threatening to go down at any minute.

He remains upright, it's the phone that drops to the floor,

already forgotten as the man screams and runs for the exit.

Outside, ifs raining hard. He's bad far too much to drink

tonight to be sprinting but that doesn't stop him from trying,

the police officer's words still haunting him, urging him on—

ward.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fox, but there's been an accident. ... "

PART ONE

T H E B R I D G E

C H A P T E R O N E

Asleep in the gutter, middle of the afternoon, the con

crete curb not a very comfortable pillow. I don't actu

ally remember waking up, but I know I lay there for

several minutes in the grip of the dragon, shaking like I

had Parkinson's, waiting for the pain in my bones to go

away before even trying to open my eyes. W h e n I did,

it was a mistake, the sunlight burning into my head,

setting my drug-saturated brain on fire. My skull felt

like it was going to crack wide open. Part of me wished

it would.

Why the fuck do I keep doing this to myself? How can I be

so weak? So stupid?

Good questions. N o t so easy to answer. Everyone on

the street has their own dragon,, their own personal

demon that keeps them in check. Whatever it is, it'll

make you feel good, sure, let you soar with the eagles

for a while, but it's a hell of a fall back to ground level.

Dreams were for regular people, not guys like me. Ev¬

ery time I got too cocky, started thinking I might make

it out of here back to the real world, the dragon reared

up and bit me on the ass again, making damn sure I

knew my place.

To each his own, but my dragon's name was Sterno,

that stinky blue-flamed fuel people used to warm their

hands on ski trips or to caramelize brandy inside those

big glasses when they ordered dessert coffees in fancy

restaurants. You can buy Sterno easily enough but it's

expensive and to be honest, I didn't need to buy it. I

broke into cars for mine. It's common knowledge for

hardcore street folks, especially the people who've sur

vived long enough to learn what's what up here in the

colder climates, that the emergency kits people carry

around in the glove box or under their front seat are

mini gold mines. They held the kind of things we reg

ularly needed: matches, Band-Aids, aspirins, needle and

thread, chocolate, and—surprise—a little container of

Sterno fuel, in case you broke down in the snow and

needed a little heat to make it through a cold night un

til help arrived.

You strained it through a slice of bread, which got rid

of most of the poisonous shit, then drank the alcohol

base that was left. Don't try it; it's horrible tasting, a lot

like wood alcohol, but man does it make your problems

go away in a hurry.

So I finally dry-heaved my way into a sitting posi

tion, reminding myself that it had been a few days

since my last meal. I was thirsty. Really thirsty, and like

magic this bottle of water appeared in front of my

eyes. There's a hand attached to the bottle, and my

eyes followed the dark-skinned arm up, surprised to

see the only real friend I had left in the world smiling

down at me. -

Blue J was an all right dude, once you got by his ever-

increasing penchant for sniffing glue, and his rather

nasty habit of vomiting on himself while sleeping it

off.

His name had been Jason when I first met him, a

real good-looking guy. Tall, dark piercing eyes, smooth

black skin—looked a bit like Wesley Snipes, without

the attitude. Unfortunately, life on the street had sto

len his good looks. His pretty-boy ebony skin had

turned pasty and discolored, for some strange reason

turning a shade closer to blue than black. I didn't know

it it was all the glue he sniffed or the cheap booze he

guzzled, but that was why I changed his name. What

ever I called him, he was a decent guy, bad complexion

and all.

"Hey, buddy," he said. "Wanna sip?"

Man, did I. I had this god-awful taste in my mouth,

and I could just imagine the foul smell of my breath

right now. I grabbed the water and drained the whole

bottle in a greedy series of gulps. It wasn't until I was

done and handing the bottle back that I noticed my

friend wasn't alone. He had a woman with him. Well,

more of a girl than a woman, but who was I to judge.

She was pretty: dark hair, nice legs, and a big set of cans

squeezed into a dress two sizes too small. She was a lit

tle dirty and rough-looking around the edges but hey,

weren't we all?

"This here's my man, Mike," Blue J said to her.

She nodded, apparently satisfied. I might have asked

what her name was but I had a good idea where this was

leading so her name wasn't really important. I put a half

smile on my face—the best I could do with my head

still pounding—and went with the flow.

"What's up, J?" I asked, eyeing the girl's curvy body,

quickly moving from one vice to the next as I climbed

shakily to my feet.

"Well, unless you got 'portant places to go, this here

fine lady say she wanna party with us. Dig?"

I dug.

Blue J wasn't the handsome man he'd once been, and

Lord knows I wasn't anyone's definition of a lady-killer,

but we still made out all right. Why? Simple: at the

start of each month—for as long as they lasted—we had

drugs. J received a monthly prescription of Valium,

clonazepam, and Haldol as part of his Vets disability.

He'd only spent five months over in Desert Storm, but

he'd convinced some doctor at the VA hospital he was

suffering from depression and combat dementia. He

rarely took any of his own drugs, instead saving them

to barter for food, booze, and, like today, the services

of a young runaway.

Don't read too much into that. J and I weren't bad

guys. This was just the way life worked on the street, a

business deal for people who had nothing else to offer.

Drugs for sex—where was the harm in that?

"I'm in," I said. "Lead the way."

Blue J winked at me, dug in his pocket to hand each

of us a blue pill. The girl and I dry-swallowed the pills

without even asking what they were, then she marched

off down the sidewalk. J and I hurried to keep pace.

She took us several blocks uptown, then veered into

an alleyway between a Chinese restaurant and a Bank

of America. She was living beneath a rusty, metal stair

case that led to the second floor of the restaurant.

Somewhere she'd found a big green tarp and had strung

it under the stairs to make a fairly effective roof. The

tarp draped down near the ground, giving her shelter

from the elements and, more importantly, us a small

degree of privacy.

Inside, J and I went right to work, getting her out of

her gear in a hurry. None of us were expecting romance,

and foreplay just wasn't happening when three drugged-

up losers were huddled inside a four-by-ten-foot shel

ter. I was getting ready to do my thing when J blew the

whole deal.

"What's your name again, sugar doll?" he asked.

"Arlene," she smiled, her eyes already glassing over

from whatever it was J had given her.

Oh sbit.

. . .rain pouring down as 1 run, tears just as heavy flood

ing from my eyesy stumbling blind past the dark buildings

and parked cars until I spot the flashing lights of the police

cars and ambulance. I run harder, panic and desperation the

only things keeping me on my feet. Then Vm there among

the twisted metal, policemen pushing me around until I can

stammer out who I am. Their attitude changes then, but

all I notice is the upside-down car, and the diluted puddles

of crimson staining the pavement below the driver-side

door . . .

That was it for me. My hard-on did a nosedive, and I

made a dash for the alleyway, throwing up my stomach-

full of water with my jeans around my ankles. Blue J

poked his head out of the tarp to see what was wrong

but I waved him away, pulled up my pants, and bolted

for the street.

Arlene was my daughter's name. Is her name, I should

say. She survived the crash that killed my wife and son

that awful, night, but not her old man's stupidity in the

months and years to come. Good thing my sister-in-law

Gloria was good enough to take care of her when I couldn't.

I haven't seen Arlene in nearly three years. I wanted to, of

course, but by the time my head had straightened enough

to know what was important in life, she refused to see

me. Can't say I blame her.

Arlene'll be seventeen now, a young woman all set to

head to college next fall. She's probably—

Probably a lot like the young girl you just left stoned on

her~back with Blue J. You're a real fuckin1 hero, Mike.

Fdther-of~the-year candidate, once again.

"Shut up!w I screamed out loud, causing several nearby

pedestrians to take a wide path around me.

One thing crazy people in the city never had was a

lack of elbow room. Was I crazy, though?

Truly crazy?

I dropped to my knees on the sidewalk, sobbing un

controllably, on one hand ignoring the question, but

then again, perhaps answering it all in the same mo

tion. Who knows? Who cares?

I was so sick of living like this.

I just wanted to end the suffering. Mine, Arlene's . . .

everybody's. From my knees I eyed up the traffic roar

ing by on the street beside me. It would be so easy to

just get up and stumble out in front of—

Stop, I scolded myself. You know thafs not the way it

should go down.

True.

I had a better plan.

For months I've been thinking about it, setting

things up, ironing out the kinks. Now all it took was

having the balls to go through with it. I could do it,

though. No worries there. It had nothing to do with me

anyway. It was all for Arlene. I'd destroyed any chance

of a life we might have had together, but if I could pull

my shit together one last time, I could maybe give her a

start on the life she deserved. The life I'd selfishly sto

len away.

Do it then. No more bullshit. For once in your pitiful life

do the right thing.

Climbing to my feet, tears dried up and long gone, I

stood still, eyes closed, thinking about Arlene while

I swayed to the music of the city. I was in no hurry and

didn't give a shit if I was blocking people's way.

Tomorrow, I decided.

I still had a letter to write and a package to drop in

the mail, but tomorrow afternoon would be perfect. I

could have pulled it off tonight but screw it; tonight I

was going out to get rip-roaring drunk.

Why the hell wouldn't I?

CHAPTER TWO

Trust me, I wasn't about to get all teary-eyed leaving

my home and worldly belongings behind. Good rid

dance, as far as I was concerned. Everything I owned

was crap anyway, someone else's tossed-out garbage. I

wouldn't need them again, that was for sure. It was one

of the few perks of planning to kill yourself—you didn't

need to pack luggage.

I should introduce myself better. Sorry, my head

wasn't screwed on quite right yesterday. My name's Mi

chael Fox, Mike to my friends, but unfortunately most

people just called me a bum. I was homeless, that much

was true, but for the record I certainly wasn't a bum. I

was a fairly regular-looking white boy, thirty-nine

years old, five foot ten, one hundred and seventy pounds,

with dark hair and a baby-stubbie beard that steadfastly

refused to grow more than a few downy curls. Sure, I

begged for money and food, but I also worked here and

there, whenever I could. Some of the money I earned I

used to buy clothes, and I washed them regularly at the

local Laundromat. Basically I tried to stay clean, to stay

human, as best I could.

For the last year and a half, I'd lived in Buffalo, New

York, not that it mattered much. The name of the city

was sort of irrelevant. Where I actually lived, was in a

blue metal Dumpster beneath the rusted-out Carver

Street Railway Bridge. For whatever reason, the Dump

ster wasn't used by the city anymore, so me, Blue J, and

another street loser named Puckman had inherited it,

flipped it on its side, crammed it full with our individ

ual yet collectively useless junk, moved in, and called it

home sweet home. Lovely.

It was always cold, always crowded, and it reeked of

cheap booze, vomit, and layer after layer of filthy piss-

and shit-stained clothing. The roof leaked so badly

we were forced to huddle together at one end to avoid

getting soaked, and that was if it was only a light sprin

kle. If it was a downpour—forget it—we may as well

stand outside. The Carver Street Bridge, about thirty

feet above, helped shelter us a bit, but we had to put up

with the rickety old freight trains thundering across it

day and night, every twelve hours.

It was a terrible way to live. Degrading. We were like

sewer rats—worse—at least the rats were too ignorant

to realize how much life like this really sucked. The

best thing I could say about our crummy little corner

of the world was that being located beneath the bridge,

at least I wouldn't have to walk very far to kill myself.

Good thing, too, because I was exhausted, mentally

and physically. So goddamned weary, I wasn't sure if

I'd have enough energy to climb the muddy embank

ment in time to make the next train or not.

As quietly as I could, small brown package in hand, I

stepped over the passed-out prone body of Blue J,

sprawled in his usual late afternoon position blocking

our makeshift plastic tarp doorway. Dropping my last

forty cents—a quarter and three nickels—into his shirt

pocket, I silently wished him luck and eased out the

door without disturbing him.

Outside, Puckman was sitting on the ground, leaning

up against one of the rectangular concrete bridge abut

ments, about fifteen feet to my left. He was busy eating

what looked like a large rat but might just as easily have

been a small brown kitten. Normal society might frown

on such a feast, but around here a meal was a meal. It

had probably been hit by a car and left sticking to the

road somewhere. Roadkill wasn't exactly one of the sta

ples of any homeless person's well-balanced diet, but

when times were tough you ate whatever was available.

Nothing better than a half-burnt/half-raw hunk of un

recognizable meat with the tread marks from a truck

tire still visible on it. It might be disgusting and make

you want to puke—hell, sometimes it did make you

puke—but you did whatever you had to do to survive

on the street.

Anyway, Puckman was chewing away on something,

when his beady little eyes turned and locked on mine.

His face contorted into an angry grimace and, believe

it or not, he actually started to growl. Obviously, he

had no intention of sharing his meal with me. Not that

he had to worry. I didn't want anything to do with the

crazy bastard today.

Puckman wasn't my friend. Never had been, never

would be. Blue J and I put up with him because he paid

us rent, if you could call it that, to share our Dumpster.

Sometimes he paid with money but more often he sup

plied us with food and clothing. He was good at begging

and was an even better pickpocket and thief. Other than

that, he was a no-good lousy bum. It was guys like him

that gave the rest of us homeless people a bad name.

Puckman was a short fet Mexican with greasy black

hair hanging halfway down his back. He didn't even

know where he was most of the time, far too whacked-out

on homemade Screech to realize he wasn't still pining

away in sunny Acapulco, or wherever the hell it was he

came from. He'd been brought up to Canada three

summers ago on a temporary work visa, to pick to

bacco. It was real hard work but they were treated well

and the pay was excellent. The manual labor was too

much for his fat lazy ass, though, and he'd made a dash

for the U.S. border, swimming across the Niagara River

near Fort Erie to illegally enter this home of the brave

and land of the freeloader.

The name Puckman came from his annoying obses

sion with collecting hockey pucks. He'd gathered hun

dreds of them from all over the city and they were

stashed away in dozens of white plastic bags in his cor

ner of the Dumpster. There were so many of the damned

things he was forced to sleep on top of them but he

didn't seem to mind. He told me I'd understand if I'd

ever lived in Canada where hockey was like a religion.

Yeah, right. He'd spent three weeks in Canada, on a

tobacco farm, in the hottest part of August, and some

how he'd become an authority on their favorite winter

sport. What a crock of shit. Puckman wasn't an author

ity on anything; he was just a lunatic and definitely not

someone I was sad to be leaving behind.

"Adios, asshole, see you in hell," I called over to him,

then started walking away.

He growled at me again, smiling triumphantly, like

he'd won some tough-guy macho battle because I hadn't

asked for a nibble of his yummy supper. He wouldn't be

smiling so much if he'd known I had one of his beloved

hockey pucks stuffed in the pocket of my ragged jacket.

When that freight train was screaming toward me,

ready to bust my body into hundreds of pieces, my hope

was that God would grant me one last wish. I wanted to

look down from the bridge, hurl that stupid hard rub

ber disc at Puckman's big fat head, and bean him one

right square in the kisser. Then I could die a happy

man. It probably wouldn't pan out that way but I could

always hope, right?

Without another glance, I began climbing the steep

muddy embankment leading up to Carver Street. From

there, I could walk straight out onto the bridge and wait

for my ticket out of this shitty life. I slipped and stum

bled on the way up but within a minute I was standing

on the first railway tie, at the foot of the bridge.

The Carver Street Railway Bridge was a fine ex

ample of human stupidity at its best. As far as I knew,

bridges were usually constructed to span the distance

over the top of something: things like rivers, canyons,

or other roads and train tracks. Not this bridge; it

stretched a track across an expanse of about eighty feet

over the top of—nothing. Well, Blue J and Puckman

were down there, but I seriously doubted they were in

the city planner's mind when the bridge was designed.

Maybe at one time a road had been planned, but for

whatever reason, hadn't been built? I have no idea. Doesn't

matter.

I started out onto the bridge, only to remember the

brown envelope under my arm. Idiot, How could I

possibly forget something so important? It was vital I

drop my package in the mail before going through with

this. Luckily, that wouldn't take too long. There was a

postal box only half a block south of Carver on Dupont

Street,

The package was addressed to Gloria Churchill, the

sister-in-law I mentioned. Inside were the last three

things I would ever give to my daughter. There was

an envelope of cash—only a hundred and thirty dollars

from my last SI check—a letter, and an insurance pol

icy I'd taken out on myself. The cash was meaningless,

but it was all I had. The letter was short and sweet, tell

ing Arlene things you don't have the need or the right

to hear, but the insurance policy, that was the impor

tant thing. I'd been making the premiums through

Gloria for well over a year now, and if anything was to

happen to me, like say, being accidentally run over by a

freight train, I'd set it up so Arlene would be the recipi

ent of the death benefits. It wasn't a lot, just twenty-five

thousand dollars, but that would be more than enough

to get her first few years in college out of the way. Might

even pay for it all. Either way, it would give her some

breathing room to pursue whatever dreams she had

for life.

I'll admit, I selfishly hoped she'd think nice things

about me, maybe tear down the wall she'd built around

her heart to keep me out, but in the end none of that

would really matter. At least I'd finally be helping her

out, finally be her dad, instead of the forgotten loser who

always buggered things up.

At the mailbox, I checked and rechecked the address

and made sure the postage stamps were stuck on securely.

With a tear in my eye, I kissed the package good-bye

and prayed to whatever gods were listening for the en

velope to make it safely to Arlene's door. If my death

could give her the key to a happy life, it would be worth

it. I hoped she was old enough to understand that.

Hurrying back to the tracks, I paused to catch my

breath, gazing out across the bridge's rusty rails to a

spot on the horizon about three miles away. There, cut

ting a line across an elevated grassy knoll on the out

skirts of the city, was another set of railway tracks.

Twice a day, six days a week, a freight train out of Erie,

Pennsylvania, would roll down that hill, snake through

the bowels of the city, and then rocket across the Carver

Street Bridge on its way to Rochester, New York. Twelve

hours later, the same train—or more likely, one that

just looked a lot like it—would rumble back across this

bridge, reversing its route, heading home to Erie. After

all the times this train had roared over my pathetic ex

cuse for a home, I still had no idea what type of cargo it

carried.

I guess I never would.

Almost as if my thinking about it caused it to hap

pen, the train slowly chugged into view, temporarily

reducing its speed as it descended into the city. I watched

the train until it disappeared behind the tall build

ings and then immediately began walking out onto the

bridge. If the freight train didn't experience any un

usual delays, I had approximately eight minutes left

to live.

CHAPTER THREE

September in Buffalo was a great time of year. Beauti

ful. The trees were turning a million different colors,

the temperature had finally dropped back into the six

ties and seventies, and the stale city air felt clean again

after a long summer filled with sweat and smog. Fall

was by far my favorite time of year, but unfortunately

clean air and pretty leaves just weren't enough to post

pone today's plan.

There were many reasons why I wanted to kill my

self, but other than the insurance policy, none of them

were particularly important. I had the same sad sob

story most homeless people tell. Had the good job,

nice family, nice little house with the white picket

fence, blah, blah, bla"h. None of it mattered. I lost it all;

that's what counted. You know some of it already, and

can probably guess the rest. My wife, Jackie, and my

little boy, Daniel, were killed during a heavy rain

storm in an automobile accident. No other vehicles

were involved. Jackie was driving, but it was a hun

dred percent my fault. A few buddies had talked me

into going bowling of all damn things. We played a

few games, hit the bar, and before long I was drunk

out of my mind and called Jackie to come pick me up.

"It's only a few raindrops, honey, what could possibly

happen?"

Famous last words.

Anyway, I lost everything important to me that day—

my wife and son to death, my daughter to hatred—lost

my job and the house about seven months later, moved

into the whiskey bottle on a full-time basis, and ended

up here on this bridge ready to say, Fuck it, I'm out of

here. I don't need to explain myself. I don't need a rea

son to die. I'm doing it for Arlene, but to tell you the

truth I'm also fed up with the rest of life's bullshit.

Plain and simple—I've had enough.

I never heard the car pull up behind me, lost in my

sorry-for-myself thoughts, but when I made it to the

bridge's halfway mark and turned around, there it was.

It was one of those big stretch limousines—sparkling

white with golden trim and matching gold wire spoke

rims. Christ, it looked about thirty feet long. A car like

that stuck out almost as much as a dancing elephant

would've, in this neighborhood. I was momentarily taken

aback at the sight of it, but not because of how out of

place this fancy car was. What surprised me most was

how familiar it looked. I couldn't remember where or

when, but I was positive I'd seen this limo before.

The rear driver's-side door suddenly opened and a

tall muscular man in an expensive gray pinstripe suit

stepped out onto Carver Street. He looked at me, bent

down to say something to the driver, and then started

walking out onto the bridge. He was white, bald-headed

with a neatly trimmed goatee, stood maybe six foot four,

and guessing, Fd say he weighed at least two hundred

and sixty pounds. My surprise was quickly turning

into shock because as he approached, I realized that he

too looked familiar. Where the hell had I seen this

guy and his car before? I tried, but just couldn't re

member.

What does he want}

Now there was a good question. All kinds of nasty

scenarios spun through my head. Did I owe somebody

money and this monster had been sent to collect it?

That would be just my luck—I'm out here ready to com

mit suicide, and some big ape was going to break my

legs before I got the chance. I seriously considered run

ning for the far side of the bridge but what he said

stopped me dead in my tracks.

"Wait, Mr. Fox. I need to speak with you about some

thing important. Really important."

How did he know my name? I was scared, but I didn't

run. I waited until he came within fifteen feet.

"That's close enough," I said. "What do you want?"

"Nothin'. Just to talk for a minute. Trust me, it'll be

worth your while."

I laughed at that one. If I had a nickel for every time

someone on the street told me I could trust them, well,

I guess I wouldn't be a homeless bum anymore. But I

was homeless, and I wasn't falling for it.

"You may not believe this," I said, "but I think I've

heard that line before. If my so-called friends screwed

me, why should I trust a complete stranger like you?"

"Because I'm not really a stranger, am I? Don't you

remember me, Mr. Fox? We met briefly last night. You

were pretty out of it. Maybe you've forgotten?"

His words triggered a memory of me being punched

in the face and tossed roughly to a threadbare green-

carpeted floor. Not a very nice recollection and I'd heard

enough. I decided to run from this mysterious man af

ter alii Before I'd taken my first step, though, my jum

bled memories of last night cleared and I did remember

meeting him. It hadn't been him who'd hit me. It had

been someone else. This man had tried to help.

Yeah, now I remembered. I wanted to go out with a

bang, try one last time to fit into this crazy world before

calling it a life. After leaving Blue J and the young

woman behind, I picked out some new clothes at the

local Catholic Church. They weren't anything fancy

but they were clean, dry, and best of all, free. I cleaned

myself up and went to one of the local bars to have a

drink. It was a stupid mistake. I'd been drinking with

Puckman before leaving the Dumpster—grape Kool-

Aid and cheap gin—and had smuggled a flask of it into

the bar. I was almost too drunk to stand up, but nobody

seemed to care about that. It wasn't until the bartender

caught me sipping out of the flask instead of buying my

drinks that all hell broke loose. He sent a bouncer over

to toss me, but I was too stupid to go quietly on my merry

way. Not me. I picked a fight with this man-mountain

and soon I'm eating his considerably large fist and pick

ing myself up off the floor.

"You helped me, didn't you? That bouncer was ready

to mop the floor with me and you stepped in to drag

him away. Everybody started fighting, but I ducked out

the side entrance and took off. Your car, your white

limo there, it was parked outside by the curb. I knew I'd

seen it before."

"That's right. Now let's get off this bridge and go

have a drink. The train will be wandering by in about-

what, three, four minutes?"

" H o w . . . how—" I tried but he cut me off.

"We've been watching you. You've been timing the

train all week but this is the first time you've wandered

out onto the tracks. Suicide's not the answer, Mr. Fox."

Had I been that obvious? It terrified me that this

muscle head had been following me around without me

having the slightest clue, but it also pissed me off at the

same time. What right did he have to talk to me like

that? I'd kill myself if I damn well pleased—thank you

very much. To hell with this clown if he didn't approve.

Let him try to survive on the street like I had. Take

away his fancy car and expensive clothes and he proba

bly wouldn't last six months.

"Suicide's not the answer?" I asked sarcastically. "But

I suppose you are, right?"

"Not me, Mr. Fox, the man I work for."

He walked over to me, removed his billfold from his

pants pocket and pulled out two crisp hundred-dollar

bills. He handed them over and started walking away

toward the safety of Carver Street. I glanced down at

the money in my hand—the most money I'd possessed

at one time in three years—and had to ask.

"What's this for?"

Looking back over his shoulder, he paused to say,

"Chump change, Mr. Fox. You get that for simply com

ing down off the bridge. There's two hundred more if

you'll come into the limo and listen to my proposition.

You're under no obligation to accept, but I'm pretty

sure you'll like what you hear. We've been looking for a

guy like you for weeks, and you're perfect for what we

have in mind. It's simple really. Let's go have a drink

and I'll tell you about it. There's more money where

that came from, Fox, a hell of a lot more. Come get your

self some."

Without another glance, the muscular bald man

quickly retraced his steps back to the limo and disap

peared inside. He left the door to the car open, an obvi

ous invitation for me to join him. Was I prepared to do

that? Was I really that stupid? Sure, he'd helped me out

in the bar and he'd given me two hundred bucks for

nothing, but was that enough to risk trusting him? I

had no idea who this guy was or who he worked for. I

didn't have a clue what he wanted with me or what this

offer was all about. This had all the makings of a big,

big mistake.

What did I have to lose, though, really? The worst

thing that could happen was it was all a sham and he was

inside, the limo with a knife, waiting to slit open my

throat when I entered. That might be a nasty way to die,

but was getting run over by a freight train any better?

Maybe he was queer, out trolling around for a date? No,

if that was his game, he could buy it for a lot less than

the four hundred he was offering me. He wouldn't have

been following me around for days either.

My feet were walking before I'd even made a con

scious decision to do so. I suppose they knew that when

it came to the prospect of money, I was a weak-willed

jellyfish at heart and would cave eventually, so why

not get it over with. Maybe it was crazy, but to me at

least, it was worth the risk. Besides, I could always catch

the train again twelve hours from now if things didn't

work out.

I was near the bottom of the bridge, maybe ten feet

from street level, when the Erie freight rounded a cor

ner, speeding into view. I had lots of time to hurry to

the bottom and step out of harm's way, but for a second

I hesitated, thinking maybe I should just stick to plan A

and find out if things were any better in the afterlife.

The thought of the additional two hundred bucks was

something I just couldn't resist, though. To hell with it,

it was stupid to die with all this money in my pocket,

especially if there was a chance of—how had he put it—a

hell of a lot more.

How much more?

I made it onto Carver Street in plenty of time and

watched as the train rocketed by me like a huge metal

lic serpent snaking its way toward Rochester. When it

was gone and there was nothing left to hear, save for

the normal loud din of the chaotic city, I turned to find

the limo door still open. It was too dark inside to make

anything out, but I had the feeling the bald-headed

roan was watching me with a big icy smile on his face.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

Two thoughts swirled through my head as I ap

proached the fancy vehicle. The first was that if I got

into the back of this car I'd probably be dead by mid

night, and the second was that up on the bridge, I'd

missed my chance to cream Puckman in the yap with

the rubber hockey puck in my pocket. I must really be

in a weird mood because the second thought upset me

far more than the first.

"What the hell am I getting myself into?" I won

dered aloud, but as the cliche goes, there was only one

way to find out.

I climbed into the back seat.

PART TWO

T H E OFFER

CHAPTER FOUR

While it's true we all have to choose our own paths in

life, it's fair to say that other people we meet can heav

ily influence those choices.

And so can their snazzy cars.

The spacious interior of the white limo was, in a word,

amazing. There was seating for ten on the softest, most

comfortable leather I'd ever had the pleasure of touch

ing. A fully stocked bar, complete with an ice-making

refrigerator, sink, and hanging glass racks. A 14" color

television, a DVD player, and a killer stereo unit with

surround-sound speakers and a five-disc revolving CD

tray.

To the average Joe, this beautiful car symbolized

status, glamour, and delightful extravagance, but to

me—considering the seedy places I'd been spending

time lately—this excessive luxury was an assault on

my senses. The odor of expensive leather mixing with

the smell of brand-new plush carpet was incredible,

almost intoxicating. I took deep breath after deep breath,

savoring the sweet aroma like a rare treat, which to me

it was.

It smelled truly wonderful, but what it smelled the

most of was money. Cold hard cash. It was impossible

to sit in this magnificent vehicle and not realize that its

owner had to be not just rich, but rolling in the bucks. I

felt weird sitting there, stunned. It was like a

heavyweight's punch to my gut of all the things I had

lost in this world but still secretly desired. Like I'd en

tered a forbidden fantasy place, a land as strange and

foreign to me as a space shuttle trip to the surface of

the moon.

Obviously: I was impressed, but I was smart enough

to realize these people wanted something from me and

this show, of obscene wealth was a part of their game

plan. It was bait—dangle the money in front of the pen

niless bum's nose and see if he'd bite. Admittedly, it was

working. I liked what I saw and wanted more of it. Not

ready to swallow the hook quite yet, but getting mighty

hungry.

My muscular host was the only other occupant in the

back of the lima and he was seated across from me with

his right ankle draped over his left knee, relaxing casu

ally while talking softly on a tiny cellular phone. He

pretended to ignore me, concerned only with his phone

conversation, but I kept catching him sneaking a peek,

observing me checking out the surroundings. I didn't

hear much of his call as I'd come in near its completion,

but I did hear him say "Yes, sir" a few times so he was

presumably talking to the boss he'd referred to earlier.

Probably assuring his employer how I'd be an easy mark,

what with the way I was staring around with wide-eyed

wonder like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Sorry about that," he said, clicking shut his phone

and slipping it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

"Had to check in with the office, so to speak. Anyway,

let's get the introductions out of the way. I already know

who you are: Michael Benjamin Fox. But I'm not sure

what name you'd prefer I use?"

"Most people call me Mike. That'll work."

"Fine, Mike it is. I told you who I was last night in

the bar but obviously you don't remember. No big deal.

My name's Drake, Alexander Drake, but I prefer just

using my last name. Fair enough? Good. Let's have

that drink and we'll get into this."

Drake tapped twice on the smoked glass partition

separating us from the driver and the car immediately

started to roll. I had no idea where they were taking me

but it really didn't matter. Anywhere was better than

here. Without bothering to ask what I wanted, he poured

us both three fingers of single malt scotch over ice and

handed oneto me. To someone used to drinking cheap

gin or Homemade Screech, the single malt went down

like it was nectar of the gods. Realizing it made me

look like the proverbial bum but not caring, I slurped

the whole glass dry and held my hand out for more.

Drake smiled knowingly and topped me up without

saying a word. Managing to control myself this time, I

only took one small sip before setting the glass into a

built-in cup holder beside me. I settled back in the

plush seat and tried to relax.

"So now that we've been introduced," I said, "what's

this fabulous offer you have for me?"

Drake took a tiny sip of his scotch—barely wetting

his lips^then set his glass aside and began his spiel.

"As I've already hinted, I'm employed by a very

wealthy and important man. His name is Nathan Mar

shall, Dr. Nathan Marshall, to be more precise. He's

one of this country's top neurosurgeons, the holder

of twenty-seven medical patents for various surgical

and research related innovations. The man's a genius,

no doubt about it, Mike. His work on brain stem inju

ries and spinal column nerve regeneration is second

to none. ,

"Dr. Marshall has made a fortune on his medic#f

patents, not to mention the private and government

grants that came pouring in after all his success, but

he was filthy rich before his career even started. His

family had money coming out of their wazoos from

way back. He never needed a nickel right from day one,

which is why, when he became furious with the medical

community and fed up with their restrictive rules and

regulations, he simply dropped completely out of the

public eye to devote his time and vast wealth into his

own private research.

"He's one of a kind, Mike, you'll like him, I know

you will. What's not to like? He's got the four G's."

"The four G's?" I asked.

"Yeah, he's good-looking, he's a genius, he's gener

ous with his money, and he's got gazillions of it to

toss around. The four G's, man. He's Bill Gates, with

a scalpel!"

It was obviously a line Drake used often, but he still

managed to laugh at his own joke. Personally, I didn't

find it very funny, but I chuckled anyway to play along.

When Drake settled, I decided to get down to business.

"And. what does this rich and famous doctor want

with a broken-down bum like me?"

Drake's smile disappeared immediately, as if it had

never existed, replaced with a condescending scowl.

"Now, Mike," wagging his finger, in my face, "that's

not a nice way to describe yourself, is it? You're for

getting I've been following you around and I know

you better than you think. You're not a bum. I don't

think so anyway, and I don't think you believe it either.

You're a guy who's down on his luck, that's all. A guy

who knows there's more to life than living in a Dump-

ster. Even though you were getting ready to kiss the

front grille of that freight train, I dunk you still want

to get back up on your feet and live again. Not this

pointless existence you're so sick of, I mean really live.

Am I right?"

Drake had no idea about my plan for helping out Ar-

lene, but what the big brute said-did stir me a little.

Then again, words were cheap. It was way too early to

answer his question and sometimes my mouth gets me

in more trouble than I'd like to admit, so I decided to

just shut up and listen to what my host had to say. He

apparently took my silence as an affirmative and car

ried on.

"I knew it, I just knew you were the right guy, Mike.

That's why Pm here today, to help you get back on your

feet. On my recommendation, Dr. Marshall is prepared

to offer you a great deal of money for helping him con

tinue his research. What he wants you to do is perfectly

legal and no one is going to get in trouble. Everything

you've lost, you can get back, and more. Everything

you've ever dreamed of or desired, you can have it. It's

simple, Mike* If you're willing to give Dr. Marshall what

he wants, he's willing to make you rich."

I <lidii't like the way this was starting to sound. No

amount of money would get me my wife and son back,

which is what tdesired most, but this big steroid mon

key would never understand that. Money was the only

tiling that mattered to guys like him. Speaking of money,

they knew I was homeless and didn't have a nickel-*-

making me rich probably meant forking over two or

three thousand bucks. That wouldn't do me any good.

Wouldn't do my daughter any good, either. Sure, I

could live it up for a few months, but then it would be

right back to where I was now. And what about that

helping the doctor out with his research part? What

the hell did that mean? Did they want to sign me on as

a human guinea pig? Maybe inject my balls with radio

active soap bubbles to see how big testicles can swell

before exploding? N o , I didn't like the way this was

shaping up one bit but I'd come this far. I may as well

hear the rest.

"And what does Dr. Marshall want from me, exactly?"

Drake set his scotch down again and looked me

straight in the eye. In a hushed tone, almost a whisper,

he said, "He wants your right arm."

For a second, I thought he was joking again, but some

thing in his eyes and the set of his shoulders and jaw

tipped me off that he was indeed serious.

"He wants WHAT}" I screamed, suddenly angry

with myself for getting involved in this nonsense. "Stop

the car, Drake. IVe heard enough of your bullshit. You

can tell Dr. Bigbucks he can go straight to Hell. Just

because I'm homeless, dirty, and sometimes eat out of

trash cans, it doesn't make me an animal he can play

with in his sick twisted little experiments. Fuck bim,

and for that matter, fuck you too. You come down to

the slums in this fancy car looking for an easy mark.

Well, start looking elsewhere because I'm out of here.

Now stop the goddamned car!"

I wasn't in much of a position to be making threats

and I was worried I'd gone too far. There was no doubt

this huge man could easily snap my spine in two like

a twigbut screw it, I was mad. Fortunately, I>rake re

mained perfectly calm throughout my little tirade, wait

ing patiently until I was finished before responding.

"Whatever, Mike. I told you from the start the choice

was yours and you weren't under any obligation what

soever,"

He made the same tapping gesture on the glass di

vider as earlier and the limousine driver pulled over to

the gravel shoulder and stopped the car. Drake reached

over and opened the door for me, then sat back to allow

me passage.

"You sure about this, Mike?" he asked. "You're toss

ing away a lot of money."

"I'm sure all right. He wants my arm? You've got to

be out of your mind! Where's the other two hundred

bucks you promised me for listening to this crap?"

Drake gave me a coy little smirk, meaning either he

was laughing at me or perhaps respecting my pathetic

display of bravado. Either way, he reached for his bill

fold and peeled off two more hundreds. He crumpled

them up in a ball like garbage-—chump change he'd called

it—and slapped them into my hand. Pocketing the

money, I quickly shuffled across the seat, headed for

the door.

I fully expected Drake to stop me before I made it

out of the car. His large baseball mitt of a hand would

roughly grab me by the shoulder and he'd yank me back

ward onto the floor. Hovering above me, he'd scream,

"You're not going anywhere, mister. We want your arm

and I damn well mean to take it right here, right now!"

Drake would then put his shiny size-twelve dress shoes

onto the center of my chest and rip my arm off with his

bare hands.

Nbne<rf thatiiappened, of course, but I couldn't seem

to shake die image of my blood spraying all over the nice

new carpet until I was safely clear of the limo and stand

ing on the sidewalk. Having paid no attention to where

the driver had taken us, I wasn't exactly sure where I was,

but it was no big deal. I could just walk until I came to a

main intersection, one I recognized, and then find my

way back to Carver Street easy enough.

Already trying to put this nasty episode behind me, I

started planning how Blue J and I could go out on the

town tonight first class with the fburbig bills in my

pocket. If all went well, Fd be wined, dined, and drunk

out of my mind just in time to play chicken with my

freight train returning from Rochester in about eleven

and a half hours. My feet had just started heading for

home when Drake stuck his massive head out of the

limousine's door and said something that stopped me

before I'd taken my fourth step.

"No hard feelings, Mike?" he said. "Believe it or not,

I give you a lot of credit. It's not every day you meet a

guy with enough balls to just get up and walk away

from two million dollars."

CHAPTER FIVE

Two million dollars?

Two MILLION dollars?

Had I really heard Drake say that? No way, it had to

be a mistake, or possibly another joke. Then again,

Drake had said his employer was filthy rich. Maybe—

TWO, MILLION, DOLLARS?

The number was so staggeringly immense, when I

tried to visualize it, all the zeroes kept ricocheting

painfully back and forth through my brain like the metal

spheres in an arcade pinball machine. I was rooted to

the sidewalk, unable to resume walking, but deathly

afraid to turn back around. Instinctively, I sensed that

if I"turned around to listen to any more of this mad

ness, I'd be sunk for sure.

Just walk away Mike. Get out of here, I warned myself,

but I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. How could I justify

leaving behind that kind of money? Think of every

thing I could buy. The places I could visit and the things

I could do with a stash like that—right arm or no right

arm. Think about Arlene. Man, that twenty-five grand

insurance policy was nothing compared to this. If I

played my cards right, maybe I could get back together

with her, actually be a part of her life again.

Easy fella. Don't get carried away. It'll never happen.

Still, it could happen. Couldn't it? What's that old

saying? Damned if I do and damned if I don't. That

pretty much summed up how I felt.

Eventually I did turn to face the limo again. If I was,

going to be damned,.I may as well be rich, right? Drake

was trying his best not to let his Cheshire-cat grin out

of the bag, but tactfulness obviously wasn't one of his

strong traits. He knew he had me right where he wanted,

playing the fool, thinking about the money.

"You heard me right, Mihz. Two million for your right

arm. If you'll just listen for a second, it's nowhere near as

sinister as it sounds. Nathan Marshall isn't some B-movie

mad scientist performing, as you so colorfully put it^ sick

twisted little experiments. He's a highly respected physi

cian for God's sake, a renowned medical researcher and

neurosurgeon. What did you think he was going to do,

chop off your arm with an axe while I held you down?"

As if from a great distance, I heard myself say, "I'm

not sure—" but my brain felt detached from my mouth,

drifting elsewhere in a vision of me lying comfortably

in a lush green meadow, relaxing on a bed of two mil

lion one--dollar-bill blades of grass.

It felt strange, really weird, and so unlike me to day

dream like this. Drake was speaking to me again.

"What?" I asked.

"I said, come on back into the limo and let me explain

exactly how this deal would work. Come have another

drink, listen to xhefull story* then make your decision.

At the very least, we can give you a lift back home."

I didn't need a lift back home. What I needed was to

run far away from here as fast as my legs could carry

me, ibut damned if my feet didn't take a couple steps

back toward the open car door

Don't da it, Mike, my practical side silently scolded.

Don't he a fool. Take the money you've already pocketed and

bead for the bills. Go out and live it up with Blue J like you'd

planned, and forget all about this crazy offer. He's talking

about cutting off.your arm, your motherfucking arm, man!

Wake up and get out of here\

But hey, Fox, think about all that money, the greedy

part of my conscience shot back. Think ofeverything you

could have with that kind of dough, not the least of which is

your daughter maybe loving you again. The possibilities,

Fox> just think of the possibilities!

And I was.

There was no use denying it. No matter how hard I

tried, and no matter how fueked up this whole scenario

was, I couldn't stop thinking about how much money

was at stake.

Visions of sprawling houses, cobalt blue pools, tennis

courts, luxury cars, vacations in Europe, and beautiful

long-legged women all flashed before my eyes. Before I

could stop myself, I was climbing into the backseat of

the limo for a second time and accepting another glass>

of single malt scotch;

Drake tapped on the divider and the driver had us on

our way again. "Good man," he applauded me.

"Now let me explain this properly, so it's not so much

of a shock. It*s true Dr. Marshall wants to remove your

right arm, but he won't just hack it off Like I said earlier,

he's a world-class surgeon. He's working on damaged

nerve regeneration. Don't ask me to go into the specifics

because I haven?t got a clue. Dr. Marshall will explain ev

erything when you meet him. All I can say is that a long

time ago, he progressed as far as he could go in his re

search, using test animals and computer simulations. He

needs to test out his advanced theories using Hve human

subjects. Themedical community would never allow this

type of thing, of course, which is precisely the reason Dr.

Marshall funds his own research. Although this might be

frowned upon, that doesn't make it illegal You have every

right to donate your arm to medical science, just as he has

every right to compensate you for your trouble. People do

it all the time. All over the country people are selling part

of their livers, or one of their kidneys, and they're getting

compensated for it. Why shouldn't you?"

I sat rigid as a stone, not even sipping my expensive

scotch. I'd heard the stories of people selling their kid

neys for big bucks but hadn't really thought much about

it. This wasn't that much different, was it? I wasn't com

pletely convinced it was legal, but who really cared? Dr.

Marshall wouldn't be calling the cops to report me;

that was for sure. By the time anyone found out, if ever,

Arlene and I'd be nestled away on some warm tropical

island somewhere.

"Where and when would all this happen, if, and I do

mean if I decided to go through with it?"

"This weekend. You'll be brought to his private medi

cal center about three hours from here, where you'll

meet Dr. Marshall and his top-notch medical staff. You'll

get a tour of the facility and have a chance to ask any and

all questions you have before giving your final consent.

The money will be wired into a bank account for you

and you'll receive confirmation of its deposit before the

operation begins. The operation itself I'm told is simple,

a couple of hours, tops. You won't feel a thing.

"After it's over^ you'll be eared for and pampered for

as long as it takes your wound to properly heal. About

the worst thing you have to worry about will be fevers

and the risk of infection, but the doctors and nurses will

be monitoring you closely. They won't release you from

the hospital until you've been given a one hundred per

cent clean bill of health and you're free of pain. Hell,

they'll even give you a rehabilitation course to help you

cope with getting by using only one arm. Luckily you're

left-handed, so that should make things-—"

"How do you know that?" I interrupted liim, more

than a little shocked that these strangers knew so much

about me. I was in fact left-handed, as he'd said.

"What? Oh, well that's easy. You're holding your

drink in your left: hand,"

I screwed up my face and started to protest but Drake

immediately started laughing.

"I'm kidding, Mike. I'm a little more professional

than that. I asked around, found out your name, and

then anything and everything about you can be found.

I checked all your records. You name it—financial, med

ical, educational. I checked them all.

"When are you going to realize this is the real deal

here, Mike? We're not just fucking around, wasting

time. Dr. Marshall is a very important man who's will

ing to make you rich if you'll help him. Obviously, los

ing a limb will be hard on you for a while, I know that,

and he knows that. That's why he's willing to give you

so much money. It's a huge sacrifice you'd be making.

Huge, but I'm willing to bet within a year you'll be

mighty happy you met me.

"Just say yes and show'Tip. Meet Dr. Marshall and ask

him anything you/ want. Spend a few months in the

hospital and bang, you're a multimillionaire. It's up to

you, Mike. What do you say?"

It was a good question. One I didn't have an answer

for yet. To stall for time I started taking sip after sip of

my drink, giving myself time to think. Drake sat back

with his own scotch and left me alone.

Fact one: I hated my current lifestyle and earlier had

been fully prepared and more than willing to kill my

self to escape it.

Fact two: I didn't want to lose my right arm. Self-

explanatory, what can I say? After thirty-nine years, I was

rather attached to my limb—literally and figuratively.

Fact three: I believed every thing -Drake was telling

me. I might be a fool,but that was my gut feeling.

Fact four: I badly wanted the money. It was absurd,

but the four hundred in my pocket was already starting

to feel like the chump change Drake described it as.

Even if Arlene never loved me again, I could still set the

both of us up for life.

I sat sipping my scotch, going over and over these

points, trying my best to sort everything out. Maybe I

should just flip a coin? Christ, I was confused. It was

almost inconceivable that I was considering this ridicu

lous offer. I couldn't let someone cut off my arm, could

I? No, when it came right down to it, probably not-

That's right, Mike, now you're thinking straight. I know

the money's te?npting, but just forget it. You've got the four

hundred, enjoy it, but get out of this car, and don't look back.

Stick to plan A.

Almost as if the limo driver had a direct link to my

brain and could hear my thoughts, the car suddenly

pulled to a stop. I looked out the window and was mildly

surprised to see we were back to where we'd started.

From my comfortable soft leather seat, I could easily

see our rusty Dumpster beneath the Carver Street Rail

way Bridge and Puckman sitting outside of it still sav

agely biting red juicy chunks out of his disgusting

supper.

I was free to make my escape, just open the door and

walk away. Why wasn't I halfway out the door, then?

After all, I'd already made up my mind, right? I couldn't

go through with it, right? I took one more look at the

life of poverty and humiliation waiting for me outside

the window. Made up my mind? Yeah, I guess I had.

"Sign me up, Drake," I said. -I'm in."

CHAPTER SIX

Feeling like a dorky little kid waiting impatiently for

the school bus, I stood on the side of Carver Street

bundled up in my blue bomber jacket with my ratty

suitcase in my hand, ready for Drake to come pick me

up in the white limb. He'd told me to be ready by 7:30

A.M. but I don't own a watch, so I'd been standing here

since just after sunrise to be sure I didn't miss my ride.

The last three days had swept past in a blur. It's

funny, I never noticed before how time slowed down to

a crawl, becoming basically irrelevant when you're a

homeless man. When there's absolutely no schedule to

follow, no job to go to, no calls to make, no mail to open,

no bills to pay, no appointments to keep, and no family

to interact with, what did it matter what time it was?

Or what day of the week, month, or year it was, for

that matter? Every minute of every day was the same

old static waste of life. Ever since agreeing to Drake's

bizarre offer, though, time, or perhaps the lack of it,

had suddenly become important to me again.

I couldn't stop thinking about my right arm, and how

soon it would be gone. Every time I used that arm to

pick something up, or drink a glass of water, or scratch

my ass, I'd be thinking, Hey, you're not gonna be able to do

this anymore, Mike. Never, ever, again.

I tried to stop thinking about it, but it was next to im

possible. What about shoes? You're not going to be able to wear

shoes with laces anymore because you won't be able to tie them

by yourself The list of things I'd never be able to do

again was-endless. How was I going to manage?

Fortunately, two million dollars has a heck of a way

of making a guy feel optimistic about almost anything

and deep down I believed I'd get used to whatever hard

ships lay ahead. I'd still have my good arm—my left—to

use, and if it Was busy I could always hire someone to

scratch my ass, right?

Gallows humor; it's good for the soul.

"Come on, Drake, hurry up before I change my

mind."

I had no intention of doing any such thing, but say

ing it out loud helped channel my thoughts away from

my arm.

The four hundred dollars Drake had given me was

gone. Blue J and I went out on the town Wednesday,

getting a suite in the swanky Four Seasons hotel up

town. We really lived it up too, compared to our usual

standards anyway. Our room was huge, with separate

areas for sitting and for sleeping. The sitting room

came complete with leather couch, chairs, rolltop oak

desk, and a complete home theater set up with stereo,

surround-sound speakers and big-screen satellite televi

sion. The bedroom had a four-post king-size canopy

bed with shiny satin sheets and a balcony overlooking

nearby Lake Erie.

The best part was our bathroom, which had a four-

person hot tub and enough free soaps, shampoos, and

bubble baths to clean an army. Blue J and I ordered

steak and wine, then later on, pizza, chicken wings, and

beer, and spent almost the whole night partying in the

tub. Unfortunately, four hundred bucks doesn't go very

far in a high-class hotel, so first thing Thursday morn

ing we were out on the street and back in our Dump-

ster again. Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted.

For some reason, I .couldn't tell Blue J what I was

about to do. I said the money for the hotel binge had

come from my wife's sister, Gloria, who had tracked

me down and invited me to visit her and Arlene for a

couple months. Blue J believed me, and we sat talking

about how I might be able to get back on my feet, start

a new life with my family again. I hated lying to my

only friend, but I just didn't feel right about telling

him the truth. Maybe I thought he'd laugh and call me

a fool, or maybe I thought he'd want to come along. I

don't know. My plan was to come back and get him once

I had my money. He deserved better than this. Puck-

man, on the other hand, I told nothing, not even good

riddance. I wouldn't be coming back to his rescue.

Fuck him.

The sound of an approaching car caught my atten

tion and I looked to my right to see the white limo

headed my way. A maroon-colored van followed closely

behind it and I was surprised to see both vehicles pull

over and stop near me. The passenger door at the back

of the limousine opened and I walked around the car

ready to climb in. Drake stepped out of the car, holding

his hand out to stop me. He looked bigger than I re-

membered* meaner, and far more like the hired muscle

he really was, wearing an all-black jogging suit with

white running shoes.

"Whoa there, Mike," he growled. "Where doyou think

you're going?"

I was confused. "I'm coming with you, aren't I?"

"Not in the limo you're not. Why should you get

special treatment? Get in the van. You can ride to Dr.

Marshall's estate with the other guys."

• Other guys?

I looked back at the maroon van parked ten feet away,

but the windows were tinted dark enough I couldn't

make out anyone inside. I looked back at Drake.

"What do you mean, ride with the other guys? Other

people are selling their arms, too?"

"When did I say you were the only one?"

"I don't know? I guess I just pre—"

"Look, Mike, I don't have time to explain all this.

We're already late, so get in the van. Dr. Marshall will

explain everything when we get there, okay?"

Drake climbed back into the limo and slammed the

door. I Was about to re-open it and ask another craes-

tion, but I heard the door locks engage, putting an end

to that idea. I was still confused, but I didn't have much

choice except walk to the van and do what I was told.

It was a fairly new Dodge Caravan, and the big slid

ing rear passenger door opened just as I was reaching

for the handle. I took One last look at the Carver Street

Bridge and the hovel of a place I'd called home sitting

below, steeled my nerves then climbed into the van.

Ther6 were four other people inside; one driver and

three nervous scruffy-looking dudes sitting in the back.

The driver, a black man in a gray pinstripe suit and dark

sunglasses, was probably employed by Nathan Marshall,

which meant there would be four of us going under the

knife. Looking at the guys in the back was like looking

in the mirror: allwhite guys in their thirties dressed in

clean but obviously hand-me-down clothes. Every one

of them also had a littlebeat-up suitcase or knapsack sit

ting beside him. We all looked different of course; two

guys had beards, but we were basically the same—bums.

From just one glance I could tell they were also home

less, or, if not already Out on the street, they weren't far

from it. That made sense, though. It would have to be a

guy down on his luck to accept such an offer.

"Come on, fella," the driver told me. "Grab a seat,

the limo's already pulling away."

"Yeah, okay," I said, and since no one was sitting up

front in the passenger seat, I dropped my suitcase and

climbed up beside the driver. "Mind if I sit up here?"

"Don't mind at all. Hold onto your hat, though, 'cause

it's my ass if I lose track of the limo."

That said, he floored the pedal and we rocketed off

in pursuit of the rapidly fading limousine. He cranked

on the stereo and really loud jazz blasted out of the

speakers. The music was good, but way too loud for my

tastes. Conversation would be almost impossible, but

then again, that was probably a good thing and maybe

the sole reason for it. The driver leaned over and prac

tically had to scream in my ear.

"Relax, buddy, we've got a good three, three and a

half hour drive ahead of us."

He gave me a little wink and then turned his full atten

tion back on the road. Those were the only words I would

hear for the entire trip, which only ended up taking two

hours and fifty minutes according to the digital clock on

the dash. God knows where we were. Somewhere south

of Buffalo I guess* probably close to the southern border

of Western New York. I'd seen a sign saying we were near

Allegheny State Park and some small town named Mill-

haven, wherever that was. When the driver finally turned

down the music to inform us we were almost "home," as

he put it, I let out a nervous sigh of relief and stretched

my legs and back like an awakening cat.

Sure enough, within minutes the big white limo

pulled off onto a paved road marked PRIVATE and through

the trees in the distance I could just make out a huge

redbrick building. The road twisted and turned through

the trees for perhaps a mile until breaking dear of the

forest and: giving me my first good look at Nathan Mar

shall's estate.

I was disappointed, to tell the truth. It was a dirty

four-story rectangular building with what looked like a

tower room on the front left corner, A U.S. flag flew on

the peak of the tower, looking a bit tattered, like it hadn't

been lowered in twenty years. The rest of the building

was in disrepair also, looking more like a crumbling me

dieval castle than any state-of-the-art medical research

center I'd ever seen. Mind you, I'd never seen a state-of-

the-art medical research center so what did I know? I'm

not sure what I'd been expecting, but this ugly build

ing, this architectural monstrosity, sure wasn't it.

"Not very pretty, is it?" I said to the driver.

"You got that right, buddy, but don't let it fool you.

Doc Marshall is a hell of a surgeon and this place is

equipped with nothing but the best. You've heard that

expression, you ean't judge a book by its cover? Well,

that fits this place. You'll see."

The linvx pulled up to the huge double front doors

and we stopped behind it. .

"Everybody out," the driver said. "Oh, you two in

the back just hold on a sec and I'll get your chairs." He

gave me a slap on the arm and said, "Can you give me a

hand with their wheelchairs?"

"Ah, sure, I guess."

We went to the back of the van, removed two rickety

old chairs, and helped the two bearded guys into them.

I was shocked to see that both were missing one of their

legs, although not the same one. I hadn't noticed that

"when I'd climbed into the van. I had to ask.

"Jesus, guys, don't take this the wrong way, but both

of you have already lost a leg. Don't you need both of

your arms to get around?"

"Yeah," the red bearded guy missing his left leg an

swered. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, everything. If you're already in a wheelchair,

how can you sell your arm? You won't be able to push

yourself around. Not very easily anyway."

I had a brief image of a frustrated one-armed/one-

legged man trying to cross a street in his wheelchair, go

ing nowhere but around and around in circles.

" Whatareya talMngabout,mister? "the brown-bearded

man said. "I'm here to sell my left leg, not my arm. Like

you said, I need my arms."

"Me too," Red Beard said. "Only I'm selling my right

leg. I don't got no use for it anyway. May as well take the

cash, right?"

Wait a minute, Mike. What's going on here?

I turned to the other man standing quietly over by the

front door. "What about you? What are you selling?"

"My left arm. That's what I thought you guys were

selling too. It doesn't matter though, as long as we all

get our money."

I guess he was right. It didn't really matter. It just

caught me off guard for a moment, that's all

"I suppose. It's just a bit of a surprise," I said. "Two arms

and two legs. I mean; I know this place looks like Fran

kenstein's castle but nobody told me we were here to sup

ply the parts for Dr, Marshall to build a body."

It was an attempted joke but looking around at each

other, this creepy place we were in, and thinking about

what I'd just said, nobody laughed—nobody at all.

Jesus H Christ!

What was I getting myself into?

PART THREE

T H E CASTLE

C H A P T E R S E V E N

Drake opened the massive door leading into the medi

cal center, and hurried the four of us inside. I helped

push Red Beard's chair, while the limo driver aided the

other wheelchair-bound man. Once we were all inside

the building and clear of the door, Drake told us to stay

put while he checked to see if they were ready for us.

The moment he walked around the corner, the Hmo

driver hurriedly said good-bye and exited through the

front door, leaving us alone.

There was n o t h i n g to do except stare at each other

and wait for Drake to come back. The hallway we were

in was made entirely of concrete;, including the floor,

with a set of stairs leading up to our left. The ceiling

towered fifteen feet above our heads and even though

sound would probably echo quite well in here, no one

said a word and it was as quiet as a tomb. So quiet, irwas

making me nervous, so I took the initiative and intro¬

duced myself.

"The name's Smith " the other nondisabled man said—

the man donating his left arm. "William Smith, but I'd

rather you call me Bill."

"Hey, imagine that, I'm a Bill too," said the brownbearded man missing his right leg. "Bill Tucker. Just so we

don't get confused, most people back home called me

Wheels, on account of this chair and all."

We all agreed W h e e l s would do just fine.

Red Beard's name was Sinclair Anderson. I think I

preferred calling him Red Beard and when I jokingly

mentioned this to him he smiled and said that was all

right with him.

"Lot's of people call me Red. You can t o o , M i k e , if

you'd like."

"Sure," I said. "We're in this crazy adventure to¬

gether, and who better to have on an adventure than a

pirate, huh? Red Beard it is."

Together, we laughed and it seemed to break the ten¬

sion a little. Everyone was uptight and nervous about

what we were getting into, but at least we were approach¬

ing it properly, with a sense of humor. It felt good to

laugh; we needed it. Soon we were kidding each other

about what we should do with all the money once this

was over. I also learned that I'd been right with my

original assumption: all four of us had been living on

the street before accepting Drake's offer.

Only for a moment did I pause to wonder how this

Dr. Marshall could possibly be willing to shell out eight

million dollars to us four misfits of society. Didn't that

sound like a little too much money to just toss away?

Maybe—

My mind started to think things through, but then

Drake reappeared and yelled at us to get a move on. I

might have continued with my train of thought but

when we followed him around the corner, what lay ahead

made me gasp out loud and forget all about any linger¬

ing doubts I may have been harboring.

The featureless concrete hallway opened up into a lav¬

ishly decorated four-story, glass-roofed atrium. A highly

polished emerald-green marble floor spread out across

the grand expanse of a room measuring seventy-five

feet aeross, and what had to be damn near sixty feet

high. To our left was a long cherrywood reception

desk, a stunning depiction of a flock of doves skillfully

hand-carved along its length. Luxurious black-leather

couches and chairs were artistically spaced out around

the room, along with several glass display cases filled

with statues, paintings, and other valuable treasures.

My eye was particularly drawn to a display of jewelencrusted swords lying on a carpet of ancient gold coins.

All the seating and displays faced the north wall,

drawing my eyes to where a massive ten-foot-high fire¬

place was cut into the colorful fieldstone wall. On ei¬

ther side of the fireplace, twin fifty-foot-high tapestries

were hung, both gloriously depicting the rising sun

majestically suspended over the tips of two godlike

outstretched hands.

I'd never been in a room quite like it. It was simply

incredible—breathtaking in its beauty compared to the

building's shabby, crumbling exterior. Earlier, I'd com¬

pared this place to a medieval castle rather than a med¬

ical center; seeing this immense fireplace and the

exquisitely woven twin tapestries only intensified my

initial impression.

What would all this extravagance cost? This doctor must

be loaded!

This room alone would have cost a fortune. Maybe

eight million for us losers wasn't as big a deal as I'd

originally thought.

Drake led us through the atrium, past the reception

desk, and into a smaller room, which at first glance I

mistook for a movie theater. There were five rows of

ten high-backed seats arranged in a semicircle sloping

down toward a large white projection screen. Beside

the screen, on the right-hand side, was a raised wooden

pulpit with an attached silver microphone available

for someone to address a crowd. This room was obvi-ously a conference room of sorts, where m e e t i n g s ,

media interviews, and video presentations could be

held.

"Everyone grab a seat," Drake barked. "Dr. Mar¬

shall will be here in a minute to go over everything

with you. If you have questions, this will be the time to

ask them. There's room for the wheelchairs at the end

of each row. You other t w o , sit anywhere you'd like."

I helped Red Beard get settled at the end of the third

row of seats, then plopped down in the same row a

couple of chairs in. Wheels rolled down the wheelchair

ramp to the first row, while Bill Smith took a seat at the

back on the far side of the aisle.

"Good enough," Drake said. He peeked out into the

atrium, smiled, waved at somebody, then walked down

the wheelchair ramp to the front of the room. "Well,

no big fanfare or anything, 'causeI'm no good at speeches,

but it's time you guys met the man responsible for

bringing you here today. It's my pleasure to introduce

you to the most brilliant man I've ever known. Treat

him right or I'll break your heads. Anyway" he ges¬

tured to the doorway, "Dr. N a t h a n Marshall."

Drake was right; he certainly wasn't much of a

speechmaker, but I suppose that introduction was as

good as any. I turned, as did everyone, just as N a t h a n

Marshall entered the room. I doubt I was the only one

surprised to see a man sitting comfortably in a blue

metal wheelchair with shiny chrome wheels, his legs

concealed beneath a thin yellow wool blanket. Taking a

quick glance at Bill, Red Beard, and W h e e l s , it was ob¬

vious none of us had known the good doctor was dis¬

abled. N o t that it really mattered—it just wasn't how I'd

pictured him in my mind.

He was just as handsome as Drake had alluded, with

thick wavy black hair crowning his thin, regal-looking

face. He had to be at least sixty years of age, but looked

remarkably younger if you didn't study him too close. It

was his eyes, I think—powerful, piercing blue eyes that

glimmered with just a hint of green. His skin was quite

pale but not from sickness; it was probably because he

spent so much time indoors.

He was casually dressed in a dark blue pullover

sweater with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows.

The yellow blanket hid his legs, but below that he was

wearing brand-new white Adidas runners. His legs ap¬

peared to be thin and somewhat wasted away, but his

upper body was very well developed. Dr. Marshall obvi¬

ously spent countless hours in the gym despite his dis¬

abilities. All eyes were on him as he slowly made his way

down to the podium.

"Good m o r n i n g , gentlemen " Dr. Marshall said when

he finally positioned himself on the raised platform. He

ignored the microphone and just spoke to us in a strong

clear voice. "I'm so glad we can finally meet."

He had a slight accent when he spoke—European for

sure, maybe German. It was slight but detectable, espe¬

cially when he said finally, pronouncing the word with

a V sound, rather than an F. His tone was friendly and

he seemed genuinely happy to be meeting us. Right off

the bat, just as Drake had predicted, I liked him. I couldn't

help but feel a little in awe. I'd never accomplished any¬

thing in my whole worthless life and here was this

courageous man who'd earned worldwide recognition

and countless achievements all from the seat of that

chair. He'd been dealt a bad hand in this world and had

probably never complained half as much as I had. Made

me feel like a first-class loser. I didn't deserve to sit in

the same room as this guy.

Drake took care of the introductions for everyone.

"You'll have to excuse me if I don't get up to shake

everyone's hand," Dr. Marshall said, and everyone

chuckled, especially Red Beard and W h e e l s , who could

appreciate the humor far more than Bill or I.

"First of all, I want to thank you for agreeing to come

here today. I know how great your sacrifices will be and

I want you to know I don't fake them lightly. W h a t you

are about to do is a very special thing, not only for m e ,

but also for medical science and all the future people

who will surely benefit from our successes. I have a

much more personal reason to be grateful to the four of

you, but I'll get to that later."

Dr. Marshall paused to whisper something in Drake's

ear. Drake, in return, nodded, stood up, and exited the

room through a metal door off to our left. The door

swung shut, cutting off my view of him, so I turned my

attention back to the man on the podium.

"Okay," Dr. Marshall said." We've got a lot to cover, so

let's get started. As Mr. Drake has surely informed you,

I'm a surgeon who left behind years of public service to

concentrate my efforts on private research. My work here

is basically no different than any average research scien¬

tist, except I fund all the projects myself without the need

to grovel at the feet of the various bankers, government

agencies, and private sector financial backers. You'd be

amazed how much time is wasted by wonderfully tal¬

ented people who have to delay their research to beg for

further grants and loans. Trust me, delays and insuffi¬

cient funding can destroy you in this game.

"Fortunately, money has never been an issue here. Con¬

sequently, my research tends to flow along much smoother

and fester than m o s t If there's some new advancement or

technology available that will help whatever I'm working

on progress quicker, I go out and get it. Cost be damned.

Money is rather insignificant Knowledge is far more im¬

portant to me than dollars and cents."

One t h i n g was for sure. Dr. Marshall was a good

speaker. His compelling words and the conviction in

his voice as he said them had everyone's rapt attention.

The small conference room was silent while he spoke

and when I glanced at my three companions, they were

all nodding along with the good doctor's spiel, all of

them obviously j u s t as adamant in their thirst for knowl

edge over the lowly pursuit of cash.

W h a t a crock of shit!

This man was a billionaire—he could afford to talk

like that. We were all street b u m s , two or three missed

meals away from starving to death. N o n e of us wanted

knowledge. We wanted cash. Two million bucks' worth

to be exact, or why else would we be sitting here in this

room? I personally wasn't here to give my arm away for

the benefit of mankind—screw that—I was here for the

benefit of Michael Fox.

Still, the doctor's words were sincere and moved me

enough that I found myself bobbing my head at all the ap¬

propriate spots along with the other guys. W h o was I to

disagree with a billionaire, especially one who was about

to make me rich? If Dr. Marshall said we were here for the

beneftof our fellow man and to acquire knowledge—right

on, dude—that's what we were here for.

"For over thirty years," Dr. Marshall continued, "I've

concentrated the bulk of my studies on the human ner¬

vous system, or more precisely, the repairing and heal¬

ing of these nerves when they are damaged or accidentally

severed. Things like spinal column injuries, paralysis,

and accidental amputations are my specialties. Someday

I hope to tackle dreadful diseases such as Parkinson's,

epilepsy, and multiple sclerosis, which are all ailments

caused by genetically faulty or accidentally damaged

nervous systems, but cures for them are still a pipe dream

and a long way off in the future.

"When I started, people publicly called me a fool. No

one wanted to mess with the nervous system because it

was considered a losing battle. By losing, I mean there

was no money in it. If you couldn't get positive results,

you couldn't get the funds to further y o u r research, so

why bother? It was easier for scientists to choose other

.areas of specialization, where funding and results were

more attainable. I disagreed, and by the time I went

into private research, no one was calling me a fool any¬

more.

"Since then, there have been great strides m a d e ; not

only by m e , but by many dedicated scientists the world

over. I j u s t happen to have made more strides than

most."

Drake casually reentered the room, gave his employer

an affirmative nod of his head, and sat back down in the

first row of seats. As if this was the signal he'd been

waiting on, Dr. Marshall sat up straighter in his chair

and started rubbing his hands together, his excitement

clearly visible. W h e n he spoke, his voice was louder

than before and his slight accent even more pro¬

nounced.

"I could probably sit and talk for hours about medical

advancements and breakthroughs, but it's doubtful

you'd understand much of it, No disrespect, of course,

but sometimes the details can be a bit dry and confus¬

ing. I'd much rather show you what we've accomplished

so you can see for yourself how far we've come.

"We'll be taking a tour of the facility after lunch, but

for now, I've taken the liberty of creating a video pre¬

sentation of some of the highlights of our program.

That's why we've met here in this cramped room, in¬

stead of somewhere more comfortable. Mr. Drake has

assured me the video is ready to roll, so why don't we

watch it and then discuss things after it's done. Fair

enough?"

We all agreed that was fine—what else were we go¬

ing to say? Drake waited for his employer's approval,

then went over to the switch on the wall, ready to dim

the lights.

"Oh, wait a minute, Mr. Drake," Dr. Marshall stalled.

"Perhaps I should say a few words about what we'll be

seeing on this video before we j u m p right in. It's j u s t

that the material you're about to see, well, it's a little

graphic in nature. Probably more so than you're used t o ,

I'm afraid. Medical science isn't pretty, to be bluntly

honest. Sometimes it can be downright nasty, but that

can't be helped. If the sight of blood makes you squea¬

mish or nauseous, feel free to close y o u r eyes or look

away. I thought it would be easier for you to see it here

first, on video, rather than simply marching you into

the labs unprepared.

"This will certainly prepare you for our tour later,

but the point of the video isn't to shock anyone; it's to

prove what we are about to attempt here can and is be¬

ing done. I truly believe we are going to succeed."

I wasn't sure about the rest of the guys, but I was sit¬

ting there wondering what he meant by that. W h a t was

it we were about to attempt? I considered asking the

doctor but he was busy shuffling his chair off to the side

so he wouldn't block anyone's view of the video.

"Anyway," the doctor continued, once he'd finished

repositioning himself, "enough said. Mr. Drake, let's

have a look, shall we?"

Drake immediately hit the lights, and a m o m e n t later

the large white video screen blazed into life.

C H A P T E R E I G H T

In total, the presentation probably only lasted fifteen

minutes, but it seemed three or four times that long.

It's hard to describe what I saw—body parts, blood, and

these strange machines that looked straight out of some

futuristic science-fiction movie. It was horrifying yet

strangely exhilarating at the same time.

Dr. Marshall had obviously developed ways to keep

organs and limbs alive, I guess was the best word. Some¬

how, he could take a severed leg, for instance, and hook

it up to this machine that continually pumped blood

through it, as if the leg were still attached to a body.

H u n d r e d s , maybe thousands, of these tiny wires were

attached to the stump and they must have been trans¬

mitting electrical stimuli to the exposed nerve endings,

causing the leg to move. The wires must have been

pumping j u i c e pretty good too, because in every exam¬

ple we were shown, the arm, leg, heart, or whatever,

would be twitching and dancing to beat the band.

It was an unusual sight indeed to sit and watch a dis¬

embodied hand open and close, flutter its fingers, then

flop around spastically on the top of a lab table. It scared

the hell out of me at first—creepiest damn thing I'd

ever seen—-but the more I watched the steady stream of

examples, it became more bizarre than creepy. Bizarre

is probably too strong of a word. Strange, maybe? Yeah,

I like that better. It was so damn strange to see a foot,

cut off j u s t above the ankle, rhythmically tapping its

toes to some unheard beat.

The most amazing thing by far—and if I'd seen it

anywhere else I'd have laughed and sworn it was faked—

was a human head severed below the chin, with its spi¬

nal column still attached but openly exposed in a glass

chamber filled with some milky amber-colored fluid. It

was the head of a male, a dark-haired man whose age

was virtually impossible for me to even guess at. His

eyes would open and close every four or five seconds,

his nose twitched steadily, and once during the thirty

seconds the head was on film, his mouth opened up wide

in what appeared to be a soundless scream.

Below the chin, where the neck should have been,

several red and blue color-coded tubes disappeared up

into the neck cavity, somehow connected to the poor

man's brain to supply it with life-sustaining blood. Be¬

low, submerged in the glass tank, a vast network of wires

and electrodes were connected along the length of the

man's spinal column, causing it to thrash around in its

watery home like the tail of a filleted fish that stub¬

bornly refused to die.

W h e n the video finally ended and Drake hit the lights,

the conference room was bathed in an uncomfortable

silence. No one seemed to have a clue what to do or say.

I mean really, what could you say after seeing something

like that? It would be different if you knew this was

some cheesy horror flick made with ketchup and cheap

special effects, but that wasn't the case. This was

real—all of it—even the severed head.

Still, as shocking and grotesque as Dr. Marshall's ex¬

periments certainly were, in the aftermath of the video, I

found myself far more amazed at the doctor's work than

"How on earth did you do it?" Red Beard wondered.

"How do you keep them alive?"

"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? That's

always been the crux of the problem. For years, sur¬

geons have been able to reattach severed limbs and other

areas of massive nerve damage, but the problem has al¬

ways been with the nerves dying and no longer being

able to function. It's useless to sew someone's arm back

on if the nerves are dead and it's j u s t going to hang there

uselessly. Things are getting better and sometimes the

surgeons are getting lucky with eighty to ninety per¬

cent function return, but more times than not, the pa¬

tient is only regaining about thirty to forty percent of

their original dexterity.

"Is that adequate? I, for one, say no. My goal here is,

and always has been, one hundred percent. My patients

will achieve total use and control of their damaged limbs.

That's a rather lofty, and some would say arrogant,

claim, but I firmly believe it's realistic.

"The trick is stopping the nerves from dying, which

is far easier said than done, but it isn't fantasy anymore.

W h a t you have to understand is that the human neuro¬

logical system is made up of billions and billions of

individual nerve cells, all lined up in rows like,' s a y . . .

a marching band. Not a great analogy but it works.

W h e n the bandleader, the brain in other words, wants

the trumpet player to perform a certain tune, it tells the

first nerve cell in the line. This first link in the chain

then passes the request along to the next cell until the

t r u m p e t player gets the message and starts playing the

song, or in human terms, the foot starts to walk, or the

fingers start to wiggle, or whatever. Get it?

"Well, when one of the nerve cells is damaged or dead,

the message from the brain can't be passed along prop¬

erly, but we've come up with a way to fix that. There are

a few factors that are vitally important in order to succeed,

repulsed. W h a t he'd accomplished was nothing short of

miraculous, and sitting thinking about it left me speech¬

less. I had a million questions I wanted to ask, but couldn't

seem to find the words to start. Apparently my fellow

body part donors had been similarly affected by what

they'd seen. The looks on their faces clearly expressed

the same mixed feelings of horror, disbelief, acceptance,

curiosity, and fascination likely mirrored on my own

face. It was Drake who eventually broke the silence.

"Do you still need m e , sir?" he asked his boss.

"Err ... n o , Mr. Drake. You can run along if you'd

like. Why don't you check and see how Cook is coming

along with lunch. I'll j u s t answer whatever questions

our guests have, then we'll meet up with you in the din¬

ing room "

Drake nodded and flew out of the room without an¬

other word. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on m e ,

still getting used to the bright lights again, but I was

fairly sure I'd seen the front of Drake's tracksuit pants

bulging out as if he'd had an erection. W a s that possi¬

ble? I found it inconceivable anyone could find anything

we'd been shown remotely arousing. Incredible, yes, but

erotic—not a chance. Drake would have to be one to¬

tally sick fuck to be turned on by—

"Any questions, gentlemen?" Dr. Marshall asked, in¬

terrupting my dark thought. "Come now. Surely some¬

one has something they'd like to ask?"

"Were those things real}" Wheels asked, absently

scratching the stump of his missing leg.

"Things?" the doctor asked, being playfully coy. "The

body parts? Of course they were real. I should apolo¬

gize. I underestimated how shocking this all must look.

I did warn you the video was a bit graphic."

I almost burst out laughing. That had to be the un¬

derstatement of the year. It was like saying the Pacific

Ocean was a bit wet.

though. Time is one of those factors. The severed limb

can't be allowed to j u s t he around. Blood is another. A

steady and strong blood flow must be reestablished as

soon as possible. The faster this can be done, the better.

"This is where most scientists and surgeons go wrong.

In their haste to reestablish blood flow, they immedi¬

ately reattach the severed limb back onto the patient's

body. The blood flow is returned, but the nervous sys¬

tem is usually dead or dying and now there's no way to

try repairing it. They j u s t sit back and hope time and

rest will eventually heal the damage.

"At this institute we've taken a radically different ap¬

proach. Blood supply must be reestablished, of course,

but nobody said we had to sew the limb back onto a

body to accomplish that."

W h e e l s , in the front row closest to the doctor, let out

a little gasp, drawing all of our attention. Slapping

the armrest of his chair for emphasis, he finally made

the connection I'd figured out earlier while watching the

video. "It's those damn machines, isn't it? They're what

p u m p the blood. They're how you reestablish the blood

supply without a body, right?"

"Exactly. It's relatively simple too. We j u s t connect

the tubes right into the existing main veins and arter¬

ies. If you've ever known anyone who's undergone a

heart transplant, or more common still, heart bypass

surgery, you'll know that the doctors stop the patient's

heart so they can work on it. To do this, they hook the

patient up to a machine called a cardiopulmonary by¬

pass machine, or CBM for short. The surgeon redirects

the flow of blood away from the heart into this C B A ' ,

which will perform the function of the human heart

and lungs for as long as the operation takes.

"It's an amazing machine. N o t only does it rhythmi¬

cally p u m p blood throughout their bodies, it also warms

the blood to maintain the patient's core temperature,

and oxygenates the blood as well, acting as a set of

healthy lungs.

"An interesting fact a lot of people don't know is that

when a patient flatlines in ICU after bypass surgery,

they bring him or her into the OR and hook them back

up to the cardiopulmonary bypass machine. That way,

the doctors can work on the patient's heart without the

frantic pressure of the ticking clock working against

them. Instead of minutes, their window of opportunity

can be expanded, and they will often resurrect someone

whose heart has been literally stopped for hours. I've

always found that fascinating.

"Normal CBMs are quite bulky and heavy to move,

but ours have been redesigned smaller, more efficient,

and portable so they can be moved from operating

rooms, to the labs, to anywhere they might be needed.

We have a minor problem keeping up with our con¬

stant need for fresh blood, but besides that, the system

works fabulously.

"In the medical community, the record for the lon¬

gest a patient has been kept alive on one of these ma¬

chines is twenty-eight days. Most people would agree

that's an impressive number, but not around here it isn't.

Using a specially modified version of this heart bypass

machine, which I hold the patent on, some of the body

parts shown on the video were kept alive for several

m o n t h s . Our personal record is one hundred and n i n e

teen d a y s . . . and counting. That's right, it's still alive.

It's a left leg, and if you're np to it, we'll check on how

it's doing when we tour the labs after lunch."

Everyone agreed they'd like to see the doctor's work

with their own eyes. I put my hand up to ask a question

but Bill Smith beat me to it.

"Hey, Doc? W h a t about those wires r u n n i n g all over

the place? I figured out they were what was making the

body parts move, but can you tell us how?"

"Certainly, Mr. Smith, but the how is the easy part,

it's j u s t electrical stimuli. The real question is 'why? It's

not just to freak you guys out. Far from it, in fact. The

motion you witnessed is the most crucial part of our

research here. Let me go back a bit and explain.

"Blood supply is obviously important, but what

we've found is even more vital is electrically stimulat¬

ing the multitude of exposed nerve endings. Remember

we talked about how the nerve ceils line up in a row?

Well, the human nervous system is incredibly complex,

but basically it's made up of the nerve cells, the syn¬

apses, or gap between the cells, the spine, which acts as

the highway for the stimuli, and the brain itself, which

runs the whole show. The brain is a type of huge bat¬

tery source, which produces and sends an electrical im¬

pulse down the spine and along a certain nerve chain,

cell by cell, to reach a specific spot. It's called electrotonus, which is the altered state of a nerve during the

passage of an electric current through it. You under¬

stand this all happens almost instantaneously and it's

far more complicated than I've gotten into, but not

nearly as complex as We once thought.

"Take the hand you saw in the video. Normally, the

brain would send the signal down the proper n e u r o pathway to tell the hand to, let's say, flex its index finger.

My fiber-optic network can do the exact same thing.

The hand in the video has no idea that it isn't still at¬

tached to an arm and a body, as it once was. It's still re¬

ceiving the electrical signal to move one of its fingers. It

doesn't make any difference, as far as the hand is con¬

cerned, that the stimuli are being transmitted along a

wire rather than a chain of nerve cells. The function of

the brain in these experiments is performed by a highly

sophisticated computer program, nowhere near as com¬

plex as an organic brain, but more than capable of carry¬

ing out the rudimentary tasks we're asking it to do."

The scientist paused long enough to see if we were

managing to keep up with what he was saying. It was

making some sense to me but a couple of the other guys

were kind of shaking their heads in confusion. Rather

than answering a ton of questions, Dr. Marshall held

his hand up to quiet us down, and carried on with his

explanation.

"Let me walk you through it. I hope it will make

things clearer. Okay, when a limb suffers the kind of se¬

vere trauma associated with an accidental amputation,

it's inevitable that many nerve cells will be too damaged

to survive. There's n o t h i n g anyone, including m e , can

do about it. This is why it's wrong to try reattaching the

limb to the patient's body right away. All you're doing is

connecting two dead nerve cells together, effectively

blocking the path the brain signals travel along.

"We've discovered that if we place tiny electrical re¬

ceivers and transmitters into the exposed body tissue,

the nerves below are still healthy and wondering what

the hell is going on. N o t on the surface tissue, where the

nerve cells are mostly dead or far too damaged, but be¬

low that, into the next link in the chain, if you will.

These nerves are still ready and waiting for the brain's

next signal.

"Our mainframe computer tracks the transmitting

signal it is sending out, and when it is received by a

neuropath inside the limb, the computer locks on its

location and continues to feed it electrical stimuli. It's a

bit hit and miss, but we try and locate as many undam¬

aged neuropathways as we can, then sit back and wait.

If all goes as planned, the traumatized limb settles back

down and starts to act as if n o t h i n g has happened. It's

receiving a more than adequate blood supply and a con¬

stant transmission of brain-simulated electrical stimuli.

I'm oversimplifying again, but basically those are the

only two things the limb needs.

"Those spastic, jerky motions you noticed in the

video are actually induced by us. The body parts don't

really need that much stimulation to stay healthy, but

we do it anyway j u s t to keep the muscles from succumb¬

ing to atrophy.

"It's not a perfect system, by any means, and some¬

times all our efforts still end up going for naught, but

our success rate now stands at j u s t over ninety-one per¬

cent. N o t too shabby, h u h ? "

He stopped talking and once again the small confer¬

ence room was silent, but this time it wasn't uncomfort¬

able. Unlike the tension-61'ed silence that had succeeded

the video presentation, this quiet was more of a ponder¬

ing, absorbing all the facts kind of quiet. We'd been fed

a lot of information, both visually and verbally, and we

each needed a minute or two to chew it and digest it at

our own speed. Realizing this, Dr. Marshall remained

quiet, busying himself with straightening out and tuck¬

ing in the blanket covering his legs. It didn't need

straightening, but it gave us the time we needed to

gather our thoughts.

My thoughts weren't particularly nice ones. In fact,

they were downright nasty. I couldn't quite get the im¬

age of my own arm out of my head. I kept picturing it

severed from my body and twitching on some lab table

with thousands of those little colorful wires trailing

out from its ragged bloody end. It wasn't a pretty im¬

age to sit and think about so I stood up to ask the doc¬

tor a question, just to derail my morbid thoughts.

"Doctor?" I asked. "Earlier, before you showed the

video, you said the point wasn't to shock anyone but to

prove what we were going to attempt here could be done.

Maybe I'm missing something but with the obvious

success you're having with this type of thing, isn't it

becoming old hat for you? I mean, you've done this

over and over with various body parts, and to me at

least, you seem to have it down pat. W h a t do you need

us for? W h a t are you planning to attempt with our

limbs that's so special?"

Dr. Marshall seemed to deflate in his wheelchair and

for a moment I thought I'd blown my chance at getting

rich. I was sure he was about to get mad and have me

tossed out on my ear. Instead, he rolled his chair closer

to us and asked Bill and I to move down so he wouldn't

have to shout anymore. I helped move Red Beard down

beside Wheels and Bill and I grabbed chairs in the first

row too.

"Much better," Dr. Marshall said with a smile, then

took a deep breath. "I was going to save this until after

lunch but what the heck, now's as good a time as any.

Mr. Fox has brought up a very good point. There comes

a time in any research project when simply repeating

the experiment becomes redundant. What's the point

of doing something again if you already know it can be

done? It's a waste of time and resources.

"Our research, while miles ahead of the public sec¬

tor, has basically slammed up against that proverbial

redundant wall, so I've decided it's time to take the next

step up the ladder. It's time we used the knowledge

we've acquired not only to keep a severed limb alive and

healthy but to go ahead and reattach it to a h u m a n host,

fully functional and strong as ever. This is where you

people come in. Yours will be the first limbs we ever try

this with, which is why I felt it was important to have

this talk today."

"Are you saying you're going to remove our different

parts like we'd agreed, set them up on those machines

to keep them healthy, then reattach them to us?" Bill

Smith wondered aloud. "I'm actually going to walk out

of here looking j u s t like I do now?"

There was a giimmer of hope in his voice and my

thoughts were racing too, but the look on Dr. Marshall's

face made it clear our hopes were in vain.

"No, Mr. Smith," the doctor said. "I'm afraid that's

not going to happen. I have other plans in place. I'm sorry,

but I've already promised your limbs to someone else."

" W h o ? " all four of us asked, speaking in quadstereo.

Dr. Marshall seemed to shrink even further into his

chair and with a heavy sigh, whispered, "If you remem¬

ber, I mentioned that I had a personal reason for thank¬

ing you. Well, that personal reason is my son. I'm

planning on giving your arms and legs to him."

C H A P T E R N I N E

"I'm going to attach your arms and legs onto the body

of my son," Dr. Marshall repeated, but even though I'd

heard him say it twice, I was still having trouble grasp¬

ing what he was telling us.

"I don't understand," I said, my confusion obviously

shared by my companions. "You can't be serious. Your

son, he needs all four of o u r . . . I mean ... he doesn't

have any of his own ..."

I couldn't even finish the sentence. Jesus! H o w could

I ask this man if his kid was n o t h i n g but a torso? Maybe

I had this situation all screwed up. His son might have

both his arms and legs intact, but something was wrong

and he j u s t couldn't use them. That sounded more like

it—for a minute there my imagination got away from

me. I apologized to Dr. Marshall for my callousness,

then decided to shut the hell up before I put my foot in

my m o u t h again.

"No need, Mr. Fox," he said. "Actually, your assess

ment of my son's situation was right on the money. At

least for the moment, he has no arms or legs. He's con¬

fined to one of my hospital beds upstairs."

The doctor was looking directly at me, seemingly

expecting a response. His tone of voice had been light

but the way he was looking at me was anything but

friendly. Then again, I could be reading him wrong. I

was trying to imagine what it must be like to He in a bed

day after day without being able to move, but I couldn't

comprehend it. The doctor was still staring at m e —

really staring—and I felt a chill envelop me as I strug¬

gled to come up with something to say. Unable to come

up with anything that might change the subject, but

feeling like I should say something, I asked, "How did

your son lose his Limbs? Was it an accident?"

"No, no accident," he said. "I cut them off him my¬

self, about three weeks ago."

For a moment, his eyes stayed locked on mine and I

can honestly say I'd never seen such cold, penetrating

eyes before. They were like dark marbles, almost rep¬

tilian in appearance, but then he laughed, and all traces

of maliciousness were instantly gone. Might not have

been any to begin with.

"That came out a little more sinister sounding than

I'd intended." The surgeon smiled. "I did have to remove

my son's arms and legs, but that was only in preparation

for his operation in the near future. Let me explain.

"My son's name is Andrew, Andrew N a t h a n Mar¬

shall, and I love him with all my heart. He's had a fairly

happy life but it's also been a difficult one. He's been

severely disabled since birth and every pain-filled day

he's endured has been my fault. It was me who caused

his disabilities and I've never forgiven myself for it. N o w

I'm hoping to finally make it up to him.

"I was a y o u n g man back in the early 1960s, a prom¬

ising doctor and surgeon who thought he knew it all.

W h a t I was, was a first-class fool. My wife, Julia, was

pregnant with our first child and was having a terrible

time with m o r n i n g sickness. M e , being the brilliant

doctor I thought I was, prescribed her the drug thalidomide, which in those days was being used during

pregnancies to stop nausea in the first trimester. There

were reports out that thalidomide was causing birth

defects but I didn't pay attention to them. I thought I

knew what was best for my wife and unborn child. I was

wrong.

"Andrew was born in the summer of 1963, and was a

perfect example of the classic thalidomide baby. His

head and torso were completely normal-sized, his brain

and spinal column fully developed and normal in every

way, but something in the drug had stunted the devel¬

opment of his arms and legs. They formed, but not the

way they should have. Basically he had small paddlelike

flippers where his arms should have been, and his legs,

although somewhat better formed, were still grotesquely

underdeveloped and have never been able to hold his

weight.

"I lost the use of my legs in a freak car accident, but I

at least knew the joy of walking for my first forty-five

years. Because of my stupidity, my son has never walked

a day in his life. He's never played a game of baseball,

never ridden a bike. He's never done any of the things a

normal child would take for granted, but I vowed I'd

never give up trying to help. That's why I chose this

particular line of study. From day one, my only objec¬

tive has been to help my son.

"Maybe now you can understand why I'm so grateful

to you four gentlemen. It's too late to give Andrew back

the t h i n g s he missed in childhood, but with your help,

it's not too late to give him the one thing he desires

most, to stand on his own two feet and go outside for a

walk."

A single tiny tear dribbled down the doctor's left cheek

and he licked it away when it touched the corner of his

mouth. To tell the truth, my eyes were getting a little

damp, too. It was j u s t such a beautiful story. This bril¬

liant man had been pushing the boundaries of science

for decades, not for the love of fame or money, but for

the love of his invalid child. That child was a fully grown

adult now, but Dr. Marshall had never faltered, never

given up h o p e , in his quest to help him, and at that mo¬

ment I admired the doctor more than any other man I

could think of.

I was more than ready to help out. Although nor¬

mally a cynical son of a bitch by nature, from what I'd

already seen, I truly believed Dr. Marshall would be

able to pull it off and deliver his promise to his poor

son. Although it made no real difference in my life—I

was going to be rich either way—somehow it made me

feel a hell of a lot better about donating my arm know¬

ing what I knew.

N o t surprisingly, the other guys had been affected

by the doctor's words, also. He'd been so open and hon¬

est with us, how could we not be? He didn't have to share

this personal stuff with us. We wanted the money, sure,

but I think we also really wanted to help.

We talked for a few more minutes, everyone quite

comfortable with each other's company by this time.

Dr. Marshall promised to introduce us to Andrew and

talked about what we'd see on the tour we were going to

take. Everyone was excited, including m e .

For a second, I considered asking him about some¬

thing in the video. It had bothered me when I watched it

and it was bothering me even more now. I wanted to

learn more about that severed head with the spine

thrashing around in the glass tank. I mean, the arms and

legs and hands and stuff I could understand, but not the

head. Like ourselves, people could have donated those

other body parts, but that man—whoever it had been—

had died for that particular experiment. Died, for God's

sake! Wasn't that taking things just a bit too far? No

matter how noble and pure Dr. Marshall's intentions

were, wasn't there a line that shouldn't be crossed?

Somehow this didn't seem like the time to get into it,

though, so I bit my tongue. I'd ask him later if I got the

chance; W h o was I to spoil the friendly mood?

Drake poked his head into the room long enough to

inform us that Cook had the food prepared if we were

ready for it. He disappeared without waiting for an

answer.

"Excellent!" Dr. Marshall said. "Is everyone up for a

spot of lunch?"

After the graphic video presentation and everything

else I'd seen and heard this m o r n i n g , lunch didn't sound

all that appealing to m e , but when you've been on the

street as long as I have, you learn never to pass up a free

meal.

"Sure thing," I said, and followed the rest of the gang

up the wheelchair ramp and out the door.

C H A P T E R T E N

Seeing as my normal definition of fine dining included

a W H O P P E R ® and fries from Burger King, when Dr.

Marshall had mentioned "a spot of lunch," Fd been ex

pecting a bowl of soup or maybe a peanut butter and j a m

sandwich. I couldn't believe my eyes when the waiter—

a thin Asian man dressed in the whitest shirt, pants,

and apron on the planet—kept bringing out tray after

tray of gourmet delights.

To start with, we dug into crackers and cheese, dev¬

iled eggs, pickles, and j u m b o shrimp cocktails. Then we

moved on to fresh garden salads with our choice of two

different kinds of thick, delicious soups. By this time I

was already reasonably full, but there was no way I was

going to miss out on the main course, which was honeyroasted ham with creamy scalloped potatoes and as¬

paragus tips in melted butter. There was a dessert tray

too, but I couldn't go anywhere near it without threat¬

ening to burst. If that was what they called lunch

around here, I could hardly wait to see what supper

would be like.

W h e n Dr. Marshall finally managed to drag us w i d e eyed slobs away from the feast, he delivered on his prom¬

ise of the personally guided tour of his incredible

medical facility. We learned that the entire building

had been designed as wheelchair accessible, and not j u s t

for Dr. Marshall's benefit. W h e e l s and Red Beard were

suitably impressed they wouldn't have to "sit out" cer¬

tain areas of the tour like they normally might in a build¬

ing this size.

The first floor we covered quickly, since we'd already

seen the majority of it. Besides the lavish four-story re¬

ception atrium, there were three conference and video

rooms, the dining hall, the kitchen, and a rather impres¬

sive medical library and computer research station.

The second floor was the real heart of the facility,

where Dr. Marshall's laboratories and operating rooms

were. Like the driver who'd delivered us here this morn¬

ing had said, everything was state of the art. N o t a

penny had been spared; lab after lab was filled with the

best surgical and research equipment money could buy.

Some of the equipment here wasn't even available to

scientists in the public sector. Dr. Marshall and his staff

had developed, patented, then produced it strictly for

their own benefit.

Being a layman in every sense of the word, I didn't

have a clue what 99 percent of the gizmos and gadgets

were for, but Dr. Marshall did his best to answer all of

our questions and clue us in as best he could. We got to

see all the experiments up close, which was kind of cool

once you got over the queasy feeling of being in a room

full of severed body parts. They were definitely gro¬

tesque, but for the most part I found them fascinating,

almost like I had somehow walked into one of the sci¬

ence fiction movies I'd enjoyed so much as a kid.

The highlights for me included getting to see the leg

that had miraculously survived for one hundred and

nineteen record days and when I got to shake the hand

of a severed woman's arm. I took hold of the hand as

one of the medical lab assistants punched in a command

on a nearby computer terminal. Almost instantly, the

hand clenched comfortably around m i n e , scaring the

shit out of me, and causing everyone else to laugh at my

reaction/Freaky, man!

After checking out the three spacious and efficientlooking operating theaters, we headed up to tour the

_ third floor. This floor was set up more like a posh hotel

than a hospital ward, with thick luxurious carpet on the

floor and beautiful paintings h a n g i n g on the walls.

This was where the staff lived and also where our bed¬

rooms were going to be for as long as our stay here

lasted. I was anxious to explore my room but Dr. Mar¬

shall gestured for us to stop at room 301 near the end of

the first hallway. He turned, and, when he talked to us,

his voice was barely above a whisper.

"This is Andrew's room. Your rooms are around the

corner at the far end of the building. You'll see your

names on the doors. There really isn't much else to see.

The fourth floor is j u s t for storage and empty space for

future expansion, but before you go get settled in, I

thought you might like to meet my son."

"Of course," I said. Everyone agreed it would be nice

to meet the guy we were here to help.

"Great. I'll j u s t check in on him first and see if he's

up for a visit. He's a little apprehensive about taking

your arms and legs. He thinks you'll all hate him for it.

Maybe you can set his mind at ease. It's the last t h i n g

he needs to be worried about right now. Just stay here a

minute and keep the noise down. I'll be right back."

The surgeon disappeared quietly into room 301 and

we waited patiently in the hall for five minutes. We

were starting to get restless when Dr. Marshall opened

the door and rejoined us.

"I'm afraid this isn't a good time for this. Andrew is

sleeping comfortably and I don't want to wake him. He's

on a lot of medication that tends to keep him pretty

drowsy. I don't want him moving around too much be¬

fore the operation. The nurse tells me that lately he's

been sleeping during the day, and up watching televi¬

sion most of the night.

"Fm going to take you in to have a quick peek but

you have to stay quiet. I want you to meet him more

formally, of course, but that will have to wait for an¬

other day. I'm sure you'll have lots of chances to talk to

each other over the next few months. Come on in."

We paraded into the room as quietly as possible and

gathered just inside the door. Andrew's room was huge,

his hospital bed easily thirty feet away from us, situated

beside a large three-paned picture window so he could

see the fields outside. Andrew was only a small lump

under the sparkling white bed sheets. He was bandaged

up worse than an Egyptian mummy, so much so that

I'd have never been able to guess there was a man on

the bed if I hadn't been told. An oxygen mask covered

his face, obscuring our view of his only exposed skin. It

was a sad, sobering sight, and at that m o m e n t I was glad

he was asleep because I wouldn't have been able to think

of a single thing to say to him.

The rest of the room was taken up with various mon¬

itoring equipment, medical supplies, and a mainframe

computer system. Thousands of tiny wires trailed from

the computer station over to Andrew's bed, where they

split in four directions to connect into the bandaged ar¬

eas where his arms and legs should have been. We only

stayed for a m i n u t e , but it was long enough for us to

realize this poor man needed our help badly.

"Pretty unsettling, isn't it?" Dr. Marshall grimaced,

once we were all back in the hall. "Maybe now you can

fully realize why I've been so driven to help him. He's

my only son. I hope he won't have to live his life in that

room much longer.

"I took you in there because I wanted you to see how

I've prepared his body to accept your donated limbs.

You noticed the fiber-optic connections? The same prin¬

ciple we talked about to keep your limbs alive once they

are surgically removed is applied to his body for the r e attachment procedure. I removed his deformed stumps

and have attached the fiber-optic network to all the

healthy nerve endings we could find. D u r i n g surgery,

I'll be hooking up these healthy nerves to y o u r healthy

nerves, and there should be a minimal amount of func¬

tion loss from your body to his. Essentially, given time

to heal of course, he should be able to get up and walk

away almost as if your donated limbs had been his own

right from birth."

We thanked Dr. Marshall for the tour and each ram¬

bled down the hall to find our rooms. We agreed to

meet back downstairs for supper at 7:00 P.M. sharp. Ater the lunch we'd been treated t o , I for one didn't plan

on being late.

My room was number 332, halfway down the corri¬

dor. It was a lavish suite, which even surpassed the

splendor of the Four Seasons, where Blue J and I had

spent the night earlier this week. It was only half the

size of Andrew's room but seeing as I was used to sleep¬

ing in a Dumpster, this room far exceeded anything

that I'd ever need. I sprawled on the bed, flipped on the

boob tube, and watched a little mindless television for a

while, j u s t trying to mellow out from all the excite¬

ment. W i t h all the information swirling around in my

head, I didn't think I'd be able to relax, but within m i n

utes my eyelids were drooping. I didn't even try fight¬

ing it, drifting off for an afternoon nap.

W h e n I woke up it was already 6:11 P.M., which sur¬

prised me but still left me more than enough time to

have a nice hot bath before heading downstairs to the

dining hall. I was the last guest to show. There were

also twelve men and women I hadn't met yet, probably

staff, but they were eating at another table on the far

side of the room. Dr. Marshall and Drake both ate

with us.

Supper was wonderful. We had seafood chowder,

then our choice of pasta primavera with boneless chicken

strips or pork chops with applesauce. Being a pig, I had

both. I also drank the better part of a bottle of expen¬

sive red wine. Nobody seemed to care. Eat, drink, and

be merry, I guess.

After the meal, Dr. Marshall raised his glass to make

a toast.

"To my new friends," he said. "Together, we make

history."

There was some laughter and a cheer from everyone

at the table; then Dr. Marshall said something else that

made us cheer even louder.

"We only have one more thing to do today. We have

to sign a contract with each other. Anyone interested in

getting rich? Yeah? Well, let's go make each of you mil¬

lionaires. How does that sound?"

Pretty damn good tome.

I followed Drake and his boss out of the dining hall

and back to the glass-domed atrium.

An older secretary with a wrinkled brow and her hair

tied up in a tight bun passed out our contract forms, in

triplicate, and we signed them after giving them the old

once-over. Everything looked fine to me and, by this

time, I suppose that I trusted the doctor.

Once the papers were collected and the secretary

shuffled away with them, Drake had us sit with him

one at a time in front of a fax machine. On the p h o n e ,

he was talking to a representative of the First National

Bank down in the Cayman Islands. Grand Cayman was

a popular choice for anyone wishing to wire-deposit

large amounts of cash into an offshore bank account.

Their strict laws of nondisclosure made it virtually

impossible for anyone—like say, the United States In

ternal Revenue Service—to stick their noses into the

accounts and start asking questions. Dr. Marshall had

previously set up these accounts and Drake was passing

on the final information to activate them in our names.

The fax machine started spewing out confirmation that

I was now the holder of a bank account with an im¬

pressive balance of $2,000,000.00 in cold hard cash.

I held the document with shaking hands, reading it

over four times to make sure it really had as many

zeroes as I thought it did. I couldn't believe it. Yester¬

day I was a penniless, street loser—today, a multimil¬

lionaire.

After the last of us received our confirmation pa¬

pers, we went back to the dining hall and had one hell

of a party. Dr. Marshall and Drake left the four of us

to it and soon we were sloshed out of our minds and

whooping up a storm. If there's one t h i n g homeless

people can do best, it's party like there's no tomorrow,

especially if someone else is picking up the tab for the

booze.

W h e n I left the party, the others were still hard at it

and Red Beard had started to sing. Terribly, I might

add. That's when I knew I'd had enough. It must have

been around eleven o'clock when I stumbled upstairs to

call it a night. It was a good thing they'd put my name

on the door because damned if I could remember my

room number. Anyway, I made it into bed, flicked off

the light, and happily basked for a few minutes in the

alcohol-induced glow. .

"I'm a millionaire!" I rejoiced. "A goddamned mil¬

lionaire. I can't bloody believe it. Yaahooooo!"

I laughed and laughed and could hardly get control

of myself. This was one of the best nights of my entire

life.

Unbe-fucking-lievable!

I curled into the wonderfully soft pillow and easily

floated off to dreamland like a baby cuddled to its

mother's bosom. I hadn't felt that comfortable and to¬

tally contented with life in a very long time.

)

C H A P T E R E L E V E N

Comfortable and contented or not, I only managed to

sleep until 4:07 A . M . I had to piss like a racehorse, and

when I returned to bed I tried my best to get some

more shuteye. Wasn't going to happen. I felt like crap

from all the booze I'd guzzled and my head was throb¬

bing like someone was beating on a bass drum stuck

between my ears. W h e t h e r I liked it or not, I was wide¬

awake. Rather than lie around suffering, staring at the

ceiling, I decided I might as well get dressed and go

find myself a cup of coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, I was digging t h r o u g h the

kitchen cupboards searching for some Java. I'd easily

found the coffeemaker sitting out on the gleaming

stainless steel countertop, but I couldn't locate any cof¬

fee to put in k. On my second search, I found a j a r of

Nescafe instant, and boiled some water in a pot on the

stove to make do. A big mug of double-strength with

cream, and I was feeling more or less h u m a n again.

I wondered what time Red Beard and the others had

finally called it quits. It was a safe bet their heads would

be feeling a lot worse than mine, whenever they even¬

tually crawled out of the sack. My guess, and believe

me I'm speaking from experience, was the other donor

boys wouldn't surface until lunchtime.

So where did that leave me? W h a t was I supposed to

do? It wasn't even five o'clock yet, and I was probably

the only person in the entire medical center up and at

it. Then again, maybe not. I was remembering how Dr.

Marshall had informed us that his son slept most of the

day, but was usually awake watching television through¬

out the night. Maybe this would be a good time to pop

upstairs and introduce myself. Couldn't hurt. If An¬

drew was awake, I'm sure he'd appreciate the company.

If he was asleep, I'd j u s t tiptoe back out without bother¬

ing him.

Up the stairs I went, taking them two at a time. I was

surprised to realize how excited I was to m e e t Andrew.

Part of it was simple curiosity, wondering what it must

be like to lie in that hospital bed all the time, but mostly

I wanted to set this poor man's mind at ease about re¬

ceiving our donated limbs. Yes, I wanted the money, but

I felt a real need to explain to Andrew that I believed in

his brilliant father and I was honestly thrilled to be able

to help him. He'd probably think I was full of shit, but I

could at least try.

As I entered the third-floor hallway, I caught a

glimpse of a tall man heading around the corner ahead

of m e , walking away from the front of Andrew's room.

One of Andrews doctors?

I considered calling out to the man, but I didn't want

to unnecessarily wake anyone up. H u r r y i n g to the cor¬

ner, [ was in time to see the tall man slipping into an¬

other room a few doors down the hall. I only saw the

back of him, as he was halfway through the door, but

what I saw sure didn't look like any doctor I'd ever seen.

He was too big, almost Drake's size, and his hair was

long, greasy, and wild.

Room 301 was unlocked, so I opened up the door

and, without knocking, quietly walked in. Andrew was

bundled up in his bed looking j u s t as small and pathetic

as he had yesterday; the computer terminals and video

screens were still nickering their various electronic

data, but I was taken aback there was no one else in the

room monitoring the patient or the equipment. You'd

think there ought to be someone in here with him. Maybe

the tall man really had been Andrew's doctor? Or his

nurse? N o t that it mattered; I could see for myself the

television was turned off and Andrew wasn't moving.

He was asleep, so I might as well get out before I dis¬

turbed him.

Two steps away from the door, my curiosity got the

better of me. I desperately wanted to get a closer look at

Andrew, and at how his father had managed to attach

all those rainbow-colored wires into his son's living

flesh. In my heart, I realized I was being a first-rate ass¬

hole. Andrew wasn't some sideshow freak people paid a

dollar to point fingers and laugh at—he was a sick, un¬

fortunate man whose life had been a living hell since

the day he'd been born. The least I could do was have

the decency to let him sleep in peace, but damned if I

didn't find myself slowly edging closer and closer to

Andrew's bed.

I felt weird sneaking around, really weird, like a clumsy

amateur burglar trying to build up his confidence be¬

fore attempting to steal his first wallet from a bedside

table. The best thing to do would be to cut the crap and

j u s t walk up to the bed and have a look. If Andrew woke

up, so what? Hadn't I come up here to introduce myself

anyway?

Get on with it, man.

Taking my own advice, I stopped inching around like

a fool, and walked over to Andrew's bed. Dr. Marshall's

son was n o t h i n g more than a small lump in the middle

of the large hospital mattress, even his face hidden from

me by the formhttmg oxygen mask he was wearing.

Now, I'm no doctor, and no one ever accused me of be¬

ing a genius, but I could tell right away that something

was w r o n g with this picture. It was dark, but enough

moonlight filtered in through the nearby window for

me to clearly see Andrew wasn't breathing. No matter

how deeply a person is asleep—even people that are

comatose—you can still count the n u m b e r of times

they're breathing by watching their chest rise and fall.

Under the thin wool blanket covering him, Andrew's

chest wasn't moving at all.

Oh my God... he's dead.

The first thought to race through my head, and I'll

admit I'm not real proud of it, was: Fuck. There goes my

two million bucks down the drain. Dr. Marshall will never

cough up the coin now. Not when there's no—

Then I glanced behind me and noticed the video

display screens over on the wall. Every last one of them

showed Andrew's various life signs as bang-on normal.

Heartbeat, blood pressure, body temperature, oxygen

saturation levels; everything reading in the normal

range. I turned my attention back to the man in bed,

leaning over to really get a good look at his chest. Noth¬

ing. N o t h i n g at all.

Grabbing a corner of the wool blanket, I slowly

peeled back the covers to see if I could get to the bot¬

tom of this strange mystery. I immediately figured out

the problem, but in doing so, received one of the big¬

gest shocks of my life. The reason Andrew wasn't breath¬

ing was because Andrew didn't exist. Under the oxygen

mask and tightly wrapped sheet, the man in the hospi¬

tal bed was a plastic fake—a department store manne¬

quin with its arms and legs removed.

"What the fuck is going on?" I whispered out loud,

no longer worried about waking anyone up.

Looking around for answers, none were readily

found. The video monitors still spewed forth their "ev

erything's normal" nonsense. The uncountable num¬

ber of colorful wires—supposedly attached to Andrew's

nerve pathways—still snaked across the room only to

end in four tangled knots hidden beneath the sheets. It

was crazy. This entire setup was nothing more than an

elaborate sham, a cleverly designed ruse, the reason for

which I couldn't quite get my head around. Why would

Dr. Marshall do this?

Before I could even guess, I heard the sound of a

toilet flushing in a nearby room. Don't ask me how, but

I instinctively knew it was the tall, greasy-haired man

I'd caught a glimpse of a few minutes earlier. N o t a d o c

tor. N o t a nurse. But one of Drake's security team,

taking a break while guarding room 301 from any wan¬

dering eyes. He was supposed to be here, making sure

no one tried to get in, but he'd wandered off to answer

a call from M o t h e r N a t u r e or maybe have a smoke and

stretch his legs. I'd j u s t happened along at the right time.

D u m b luck.

I might have been wrong, but I wasn't planning on

sticking around long enough to find out. I trusted my

instincts, better safe than sorry, and bolted for the door.

I hit the hallway r u n n i n g , flashing by the washroom

door just as it started to open. The security guard only

caught a view of my backside, and I was halfway down

the hall before he started screaming at me to stop. Yeah,

right. I ran like the wind, p u m p i n g my arms and legs as

if the h o u n d s of Hell were nipping at my heels.

I could hear the guard—I was sure that was what he

was, now—yelling frantic orders to someone else. Prob¬

ably using a walkie-talkie to contact Drake, or someone

else from security. I wasn't looking back to find out.

Instead, I turned on the j e t s even more, flying around

the corner leading to the guestrooms. I had a brief m o -

merit of panic trying to dig my room key out of my

pocket on the run, but I managed to yank it out in time,

I had j u s t enough of a lead on die guard to safely make

it into my room, lock the door behind me, and turn off

the lights before I heard his heavy footfalls race by and

continue on down the hall.

Phew! That was cutting it close.

As I undressed and climbed back into bed, I couldn't

help but think about what I'd j u s t seen, sorting through

the events of the last hour trying to make some sense of

them. I wasn't having much luck.

There was a knock at my door, and before my heart

had a chance to leap into my throat, Drake came charg¬

ing into my room without waiting to be invited. Obvi¬

ously he had his own key. He was dressed in a dark green

bathrobe and r u n n i n g shoes, and from the look on his

face I could tell he was surprised to see me lying in bed.

Right away, I knew he'd had me pegged as the culprit,

but his tall, greasy henchman had probably informed

him the suspect was still on the run. Barging into my

room, planning to find it empty, had been Drake's way

of confirming it was definitely me causing all this com¬

motion. N o w he wasn't sure what to think.

"Mr, Fox, are you ... are you all right?" he said.

He was squirming and it looked good on the bastard.

I wasn't about to let him off the hook. I wanted him

thinking it had been someone else prowling the halls to¬

night. Let him chase his tail elsewhere, in other words.

"What's going on, Drake? Christ! You scared the

crap out of me. W h a t ' s the matter?"

"Nothin', Mike. We had a report of a fire on the

third floor. I was j u s t checking things out. False alarm,

of course. Go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you."

And with that he was gone, more confused and an¬

grier than ever. I could relate. I was pretty confused

and angry myself. It simply didn't make sense. So there

I lay, staring at the same ceiling Fd been looking at less

than six hours ago when Fd gone to bed a happy, con¬

tented man, with one question swirling around and

around in the storm building within my head: If Dr.

Marshall could he to us about his supposedly invalid

son, what else might he be lying about?

C H A P T E R T W E L V E

They say breakfast is the most important meal of the

day. Maybe so, but it's also the most nerve-racking, sit¬

ting around trying to keep a poker face while your hosts

know someone at the table knows far more than they

are telling.

"And how did you sleep, Mike?" Dr. Marshall's tone

of voice was light and jovial, but his eyes were dark and

intense.

He's knows that last nights intruder had to be one of us,

and he's smart enough to have it narrowed down to two

people. The greasy-haired guard saw someone running away

from room 301—running—and since Red Beard and Wheels

are confined to their chairs, they're off the hook. That leaves

either Bill Smith or me. He's sizing me up, testing the wa¬

ters to see if Til crack.

"Me? I slept fine. W h y ? " I answered.

"Oh, no reason. I'm j u s t glad Mr. Drake didn't dis¬

turb you too much, that's all. Sorry about him barging

in on you like that."

I nodded and shrugged my shoulders, reaching to

grab another blueberry pancake from the silver platter

in front of me. I wasn't hungry—I'd already eaten my

fill—but I needed a minute to think, and filling my face

was as good a way as any to avoid having to make con¬

versation. Luckily, I wasn't alone at the table. Besides

Dr. Marshall and Drake, all four donors were present,

I'd been wrong when I figured the other three party

animals would sleep the m o r n i n g away. I should have

known none of these bums would ever willingly miss

a free feed, nasty hangover or not. Concentrating on

pouring thick maple syrup over my pancake, I decided

to let them do the talking for a while.

Maybe I should j u s t confess it had been me in An¬

drew's room last night, confront the doctor about what

I'd seen in room 301 right here in front of everyone. If

Dr. Marshall had a valid reason for lying to us about his

imaginary son, let's hear it.

I wouldn't do it, of course: I wasn't that stupid. The

last thing I wanted to do was tip my hat a n d A o m e clean

with them. Why would I? They obviously weren't be¬

ing honest with me, so why should I be with them? N o ,

it would be far better—far smarter—to bite my tongue

and sit in the bush for a while. I needed to figure out

what game Dr. Marshall was playing, before I could

make my next move.

If telling us the sob story about Andrew was a harm¬

less ploy to make us feel better about donating our

limbs, fine. I could live with that. But if something else

was going on around here, something darker than the

rosy picture currently being painted for us, then I planned

on slipping out the back door as quiet as a mouse, disap¬

pearing before anyone caught wind I was on to them.

That was the real problem, wasn't it? Even seeing

what I'd seen, and knowing what I knew, I still had no

idea if things were on the up-and-up here. Had I walked

into a lucky gold m i n e , or stumbled into a sinister trap?

Should I stay here and take my chances, or sneak away

and miss out on all that money? Tough call, but seeing

as there was no way Dr. Marshall or Drake could know

which one of us had been in Andrew's room—they could

guess, but they couldn't be sure—it seemed safe enough

to stick around for a while. Safe, as long as I kept my big

mouth shut and my eyes and ears wide open.

Easier said than done, of course. W h e n I looked up

from my plate, Drake was staring at me hard enough to

make me bruise. Our eyes locked, and I could tell he was

trying to intimidate me, break me by staring me down.

It was going to work, too. I found it terribly hard to

maintain eye contact with this semicivilized Neander¬

thal, and I j u s t knew if I looked away first, Drake would

see the guilt in my eyes. So I quickly thought of some¬

thing to say to him, hoping to deflect his attention

elsewhere.

"So, did you manage to put out the fire?"

Without breaking eye contact, Drake replied, "There

was no fire. I told you this morning it was a false alarm."

N o w he was really staring down my throat, as was

Dr, Marshall. Both of them were actually leaning for¬

ward in their chairs, hovering above me like birds of

prey ready to tuck their wings and swoop in for the

kill.

Fuck, Fuck, FUCK! N o w what was I supposed to do?

"Fire? Hey, what are you guys talkin' about?"

It was Red Beard butting into the conversation, tak¬

ing a break from cramming whole sausages into his cav¬

ernous mouth, unknowingly saving my ass with his

question. He gave me an excuse to break eye contact

with Drake and forced Dr. Marshall to answer him.

I was so relieved I could have kissed him. Instead, I

reached for the pancakes and syrup again, staring back

down at my plate while Dr. Marshall explained to the

table how there'd been a minor electrical glitch this

m o r n i n g that had triggered a fire warning sensor on

their security panel. Drake had investigated, naturally,

but there'd been no cause for alarm. I risked a quick

glance around, and only Red Beard and Wheels looked

surprised by the news. Obviously only Bill's room and

mine had been checked.

"Wow," Red Beard gasped. "Good t h i n g it was only a

false alarm. A fire in a j o i n t like this could do millions

of dollars' worth of damage. Trust me, when I was in

the department, we used to see a lot of nasty ones. A

fire here would put up a hell of a fight."

Red's admission that he used to be a fireman was

enough of a revelation to everyone present, and the focus

of the conversation was turned away from me and onto

Red Beard, who thoroughly enjoyed the attention. He

explained how he'd been a full-time firefighter in N i a g

ara Falls, N Y , for thirteen years before he'd lost his leg in

a warehouse fire. The roof had collapsed, crushing his

left leg beneath a steel girder and tons of flaming rubble.

'You weren't really a fireman, were you?" Drake asked,

sounding positively shocked.

I almost burst out laughing, hearing the skepticism

in the head of security's voice. He was making the same

stupid prejudiced assumption nearly everyone makes

about the homeless. Drake simply couldn't picture it in

his thick head that Red had ever been anything other

than the desperate loser sitting in front of him today.

He thought—and trust me, he wasn't alone—all home¬

less people were lifelong drunks and fools. Sure, those

types of bunis were around, people so messed up on booze

and drugs they'd paved their own way onto the street,

but in my experience, those types of people were the

minority. Most street folk, like Red Beard, Blue J, and

I, were normal, ordinary, hard-working, productive

members of society before our worlds crashed down on

top of us. Don't get me wrong. We were far from in¬

nocent victims—we all make our own beds—but peo¬

ple like Drake would never understand that people like

us were exactly the same as people like him.

"Sure I was," Red Beard shot back, his angry tone

making it clear he was frustrated by the same tired

prejudices I'd j u s t been t h i n k i n g about. "I can prove it,

too. H e r e , take a look at t h i s — "

Red pulled up his left sleeve and showed us a large

colorful tattoo that was inked onto his bicep muscle.

His arm was covered with tattoos but this particular

one was of a bright red fireman's helmet, with a yellow

ladder and an axe crisscrossing in front of it. The words

N . F . S T A T I O N # 5 were boldly written below.

"She's a beauty, huh, Drake?" Red Beard taunted,

pride evident in his defiant voice. "Our whole shift went

out, got right shit-faced, and decided to get these.

Never regretted it for a minute."

Drake glared at the tattoo for a few seconds, then got

up and left the table without saying a word. Contented

smiles spread across all our faces, and Red Beard winked

at me as if to say, That'll teach the bastard to have a

little respect.

Right on, brother, I winked back. Right on!

The rest of the day was a breeze compared to the "un¬

der the microscope" treatment I'd suffered through at

breakfast. Our surgeries were all scheduled for tomor¬

row m o r n i n g — m i n e was penciled in for 10:00 A . M . in

operating room #2—but before we could go under the

knife, we had to pass our pre-op physicals. Records

were made of our blood type, heart rate, blood pres¬

sure, and temperature. They collected blood, urine, and

stool samples, checked our vision, took X-rays, and

brought out another stack of forms that needed to be

filled out in triplicate, again. They asked about aller¬

gies, childhood illnesses, sexual diseases, and any other

relevant health issues—past or present—that Dr. Mar¬

shall needed to know about. It was all bullshit, really.

They'd done their background checks on all four of us,

and I was willing to bet they already knew the answer

to every single question they asked before we'd even been

approached. Still, I guess it didn't hurt to double check

to make sure their records were up to date and correct.

All the running around managed to take up the entire

morning, and we didn't sit down to lunch until 1:15 P.M.

Thankfully, Drake and Dr. Marshall didn't join us so it

was nice and peaceful. After we'd eaten, we had the rest

of the afternoon to ourselves. The other guys took ad¬

vantage of the break to catch up on a little shut-eye. Not

wanting to look out of place, and still trying to avoid

Drake, I also went to my room and hid until supper.

Even supper was rolling along without incident, ev¬

eryone making small talk and stuffing their faces until

Bill Smith silenced the room by asking, "So, any chance

we can pop up and visit your son tonight, Doc?"

The surgeon froze in place with his fork halfway to

his mouth, and Drake nearly swallowed his, he was so

caught off guard. Wheels and Red Beard thought Bill's

idea was marvelous, so I quickly chimed in my two cents'

worth of approval, too. They were serious, but I j u s t

wanted to see how Dr. Marshall was going to get him¬

self out of this predicament.

"There's a small problem, I'm afraid," he began. "To

night's not a good night to visit Andrew. I was up seeing

him earlier, and he isn't feeling very well. He might j u s t

be nervous about tomorrow, but let's give him the beneft of the doubt. Let's get through our surgeries, guys,

and then you'll all have time to get to know Andrew.

Fair enough?"

Small problem, my ass. Not a good night to visit him, on

account he doesn't even exist!

Still, I had to admit that Dr. Marshall sounded sin¬

cere. He either believed what he was saying, or he was

an incredible liar. No one at the table doubted his sin¬

cerity. Even I did a double take when I saw the pain on

his face when he'd said Andrew wasn't feeling well. Maybe

it was me that was crazy here. Maybe, somehow, I had

this all twisted around and was mistaken about the

doctor. Man, I was confused.

Then confront him. Do know, Mike. Stop fucking around

playing secret agent and just flat out ask him about what you

saw.

I was tempted to do j u s t that, and I think I would

have if I hadn't noticed the way Dr. Marshall and Drake

kept giving poor Bill Smith death stares. They'd glare

over at him, then nod slightly to each other as if shar¬

ing some secret message. They thought they had their

man. Bill had inadvertently asked about meeting An¬

drew and the chief of security was on him like a blood¬

hound on a fresh scent. To Drake, Bill's harmless remark

was the slip of the tongue he'd been waiting for all day.

Dr. Marshall remained civil but Drake was practi¬

cally drooling beside him, grinning like the village id¬

iot, t h i n k i n g he'd discovered the nighttime wanderer.

Seeing that deranged look on his face was more than

enough" to make me thank my lucky stars I'd kept my

big mouth shut.

C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

We went to bed early, all of us needing to rest up for

our operations in the morning. Unfortunately, resting

was a luxury I couldn't afford. Sprawled on my t o o comfortable bed, I tossed and turned until after mid¬

night, trying to decide if I should bolt for h o m e or not.

Something deep inside me was whispering I should

run before it was too late, but t h i n k i n g about that big

chunk of cash kept giving me a reason to stay. Two

million reasons, actually, and as weird as things seemed

around here at times, I didn't really have any concrete

evidence Dr. Marshall was up to anything nefarious.

Truth be told, he'd treated me with n o t h i n g but kind¬

ness and respect since I'd arrived. Could I be overre¬

acting?

It was a fair question, one I didn't have an answer

for—and never would if I j u s t lay here in bed doing

nothing. Time was running out. They were going to cut

my arm off in less than ten hours. I had to do something,

for Christ's sake!

I shot out of bed and put my clothes back on. Rea¬

sonably sure the majority of people here at the medical

center were in their beds, I was going out on the prowl

again. I had no idea where to look, or even what I should

look for, but one way or another I was determined to

find out exactly what Dr. Marshall was up to.

Find bis office, that's the place to start.

My hand was reaching for the doorknob when I heard

a noise outside in the hallway. I froze. There it was again,

and this time I recognized it for what it was—a cough.

N o t a big hacking cough, j u s t someone clearing their

throat, but it was enough to send a chill down my

spine.

There wasn't one of those tiny glass peepholes in my

door, so as quietly as I could, I knelt down on all fours

and pressed the right side of my face against the floor.

Sure enough, just on the other side of my door, I could

see two thick black rubber soles, and a large shadow on

the hall carpet.

That bastard!

Drake had placed a guard outside my room. I was

sure he thought it had been Bill Smith messing around

in room 3 0 1 , but obviously he wasn't taking any chances.

There would be a guard outside of Bill's room, t o o . Drake

was making sure no one was going anywhere tonight. I

had to give him credit. He was smarter than he looked.

W h a t was I going to do now?

The window?

It was the only other exit from the room, and al¬

though I knew I was on the third floor of the building,

I walked over to check it anyway. The moon was out t o

night, but most of it was hidden behind a bank of dark

clouds. It was too dark for me to see much of anything

beyond the glass, save for my shadowy reflection star¬

ing back at m e , but I didn't need to see to know the

ground was way too far below me to consider climbing

or j u m p i n g down. I was trapped in this room, whether

I liked it or not.

The window itself was made up of three separate

pieces of glass, with the biggest pane in the center and

two smaller sections on either side that could be

cranked out to let in some air.

Feeling slightly claustrophobic all of a sudden, I did

j u s t that, spinning the little brass hand crank clock¬

wise to open up the left-hand panel. I took several deep

breaths of the cool night air to calm down, and was about

to close the window when I spotted something clinging

to the outside of the wall a few feet over to my left. I

cranked the window fully open, quietly removed the

bug screen, and stuck my head outside to get a better

look.

A surge of adrenaline shot through me when I real¬

ized it was a trellis covered in thick green foliage. I

might be able to use this to climb down to the ground,

and make my escape. Or up, to climb onto t h e —

Roof, Fd been thinking, but my thought process was

permanently interrupted when I tilted my head to gaze

skyward. The side panel of the window in the room di¬

rectly above my head was cranked open j u s t as mine

was. If I wanted to, I could climb the trellis, re-enter

the medical center one floor u p , and carry on with my

plans to search around this castle of secrets.

W h a t had Dr. Marshall said was on the fourth floor?

Nothing but storage space and room for future expansion.

That meant no one would be up there. I could hit any

of the stairwells, search anywhere I wanted as long as I

was quiet and extra careful, then retrace my steps back

into my room, hopefully without anyone knowing I'd

ever left.

Would the trellis hold me? I could picture myself

reaching out, hearing it crack and break apart in my

h a n d s , then taking the slow-motion drop to land on my

back on some sharp unseen rock far below. N o t a nice

thought. Maybe I should j u s t go back to bed and get

some sleep.

I reached through the ivy (or whatever the hell type

of plant it was), and gave the trellis a good strong tug.

N o t h i n g happened. It was made from some type of metal,

cold and hard to the touch, and from the way it didn't

even budge I could tell the trellis had been securely

fastened into the brickwork of the building. It would

hold my weight, no problem.

Maybe.

Before I had a chance to think too much, I swung

my legs over the ledge, and grabbed for the metal

framework with first one hand, then the other. Seconds

later, I was successfully onto the trellis. I h u n g there for

a minute as still as a display window mannequin, hardly

daring to breathe as I waited to hear the wrenching

noise of metal bolts breaking loose that would precede

my fifty-foot drop to oblivion. N o t h i n g happened, and

if the gods that watch over lunatics had decided to smile

on me tonight, I wasn't one to question their reasons. I

j u s t started up the makeshift ladder hand over hand,

foot over foot, as quickly and quietly as I could manage.

No doubt, I should probably be heading the opposite

direction, down the trellis to the ground and getting

the heck out of here, but I was too stubborn to do that.

Call me a fool, but I still wanted to get my hands (well,

hand, if I went through with this) on the money I'd been

promised. Until I had solid proof Dr. Marshall was

pulling a scam here, I wasn't about to let my vivid imag¬

ination cheat me out of my chance at being rich.

Scaling the trellis was easy, and getting into the fourthfloor room proved even easier. I'd expected to have to

wrestle with the bug screen, popping it off and trying

to catch it while dangling from one hand. Thankfully

there was no screen on this window, so I j u s t reached

over and stepped right in.

Inside, it was too dark for me to risk blindly stum¬

bling around, so I stood my ground and waited for my

eyes to re-accustom to the gloom. Soon, I could make

out enough details to guess I was in some sort of" large

storage room. There were several large bulky items ar¬

ranged along both outside walls, but the center of the

room was free of debris. Straight ahead, about forty feet

away, I could j u s t make out the rectangular-shaped

outline of what had to be the exit into the hallway. I

started walking in that direction, intending to find the

nearest stairwell, but I stopped dead in my tracks be¬

fore I'd taken my second step.

One of the bulky shapes against the wall to my right

began to move. Then my eyes caught another movement

somewhere over to my left. I remained calm, relatively

speaking, anyway, until I heard a sound that sent my

heart straight up into my throat. In that dark, suppos¬

edly empty storage room, someone began to snore.

Okfiuk!

I wasn't alone in this room. Someone was in here with

m e , still sleeping, obviously, but for how long? As my

night vision improved, it became evident things were

even worse than that. The bulky items I'd seen lining

the walls were all beds, and nearly every one of them

was being slept in. I counted ten, n o , eleven people sleep¬

ing around me.

My first thought was I'd walked into a room full of

security guards, slumbering in a barracks-type room un¬

til their shift in the morning. Something wasn't right

about the way the people looked, though. The bodies

looked weird somehow, far too small to be a group of

fully grown men.

The m o o n chose that moment to emerge from be¬

hind the clouds, bathing the room in a soft white glow

through the window behind me. I nearly screamed when

I realized what was wrong with the people lying in the

beds. They were fully grown men after all, but every

last one of them had had their arms and legs removed.

Clear plastic intravenous tubes were stuck in some of

their shoulder stumps, chests, or in the side of their

heads, and a dark fluid ran into several of the mutilated

men from small machines sitting on the floor beside

some of the beds.

What happened to these poor people?

I noticed the industrial-sized refrigerator with the

sliding glass doors on the front of it, and the stacks of

small liquid-filled bags separated into sections with la¬

bels like A NEG or O POS. Then I grasped the true

horror of what was happening here in this secret room.

The machines on the floor and the IV tubes weren't

giving the limbless men the dark fluids—they were tak¬

ing it.

My ears were ringing, vividly recalling how Dr. Mar¬

shall had said they had a problem keeping up with the

constant need for fresh blood for his experiments.

Sweet mother of God!

This awful room was the solution to the surgeon's

ongoing supply problem. They were his Bleeders: men

kept alive for the sole purpose of being continually

tapped and re-tapped for that most precious of human¬

ity's resources. This wasn't a room full of sick men—it

was Dr. Marshall's blood bank.

C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N

I couldn't move. I tried, but I couldn't. My feet felt like

they were nailed to the floor. I'd seen a lot of weird

things in my life, and I knew humans were capable of

committing copious amounts of cruel and vicious acts,

but I'd never seen anything as nasty as this. This was

cruelty so extreme my mind was short-circuiting, over¬

loaded trying to somehow justify what I was seeing. I

couldn't do it. This wasn't something that could be ra¬

tionalized. The only explanation for this was madness.

Taking a few deep breaths, I forced myself to calm

down. I needed to think, decide what this meant in re¬

gards to my situation, and then figure out what my next

move should be. I was j u s t getting focused, when a

strong, clear, man's voice said, "Hey, mister, you're not

a guard, are you?"

For a second time I nearly screamed, the booming

voice startling me badly, but at least breaking me out of

reverie. N o t having a clue who the voice belonged to, or

where this man was, I darted my head left, then right,

panic swelling inside me because I couldn't find him.

"Stop flapping your head around, boy, and get over

here. Behind you, second bed from the door."

I turned and finally saw him. A tiny little b u m p of

meat hidden under a blanket with his seemingly large

shaven head turned on its side watching me. He looked

wide-awake, alert, and a little tense. Probably had been

watching me for a while, maybe scared at first, wonder¬

ing who I was, and why I was sneaking around in the

middle of the night. Judging from his rough, gravelly

voice—and from the way he'd addressed me as "boy"—I

figured he was an older man, maybe sixty, but from what

was left of his ravaged body, that was only a guess.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, once I'd walked

over to the foot of his bed.

He was talking too loud, so I hurried to answer him,

more to shut him up than because I wanted to chat. "My

name's Michael Fox," I whispered, "and n o , I'm not a

guard. I'm just a guest, and I'm not here to hurt you, sir,

so quiet down a little, okay?"

"Quiet down?" he spoke in the same loud tone.

"Why? For these veggies, you mean?" sweeping his

eyes around the room. "You don't have to worry about

bothering any of these fellas. Trust me. Their cabooses

are still here, but the rest of the trains left the station a

long time ago, if you catch my drift. The only one who's

somewhat with it is Charlie, the guy snoring his head

off over there, but he fades in and out. The rest, well,

they're in a better place, I hope."

Quieting down a little regardless, perhaps for my

sake, he said, "You can call me Lucas, Mr. Fox. Okay if

I call you Michael?"

"Sure. Make it Mike."

"Fine. N o w that we've been introduced, j u s t what in

blazes are you doing here?"

"Well, I couldn't get my room door to open," I lied,

stumbling to find an explanation that wasn't totally idi¬

otic. "It must be j a m m e d , or the lock might be broken.

It's the middle of the night, and I didn't want to bother

anyone, so I tried my window and noticed—"

"No, no," he interrupted. "I don't give a damn why

you're here in this room. Why are you here, in this

godforsaken hell house?"

Hell house?

"Oh, I'm here to help Dr. Marshall with, ah, one of

his experiments. He's paying m e — "

"Let me guess?" Lucas interrupted again. "A million

dollars, right?"

"Two million, actually. Already been wired into a

bank account in the Cayman Islands. W h a t do you know

about it?"

"Two million? Wow. The stakes sure are going up. And

you can forget the Caymans. You might have thought all

that malarkey with the secretary and fax machines was

real, but it was bullshit, Mike. They play that game with

everyone. W h e n I arrived, must be nearly two years

ago, I was stupid enough to agree to six hundred thou¬

sand. Mind you, that was only for my right hand, Char¬

lie, he was the one who said he'd signed for a million. I

think that was for one of his legs, but I can't remember

for sure now.

"Doesn't matter. N e i t h e r does the money. Doesn't

matter what body part you agree to donate, or for how

much. Hell, Doc Marshall could've promised you two

billion dollars for y o u r toenail, M i k e , you won't see a

dime."

My ears were hearing the words this partial man was

speaking, but I was having a hard time m a k i n g sense of

them. After building up my hopes and dreams for a

better life for my daughter and me, it was difficult let¬

ting myself believe what my heart had been trying to

tell me all along. It was a lie. All of it. Dr. Marshall

never had any intention of paying me for my arm. I had

all the proof I needed lying all around me.

This revelation, although I'd had my suspicions and

this was exactly the evidence I'd gone searching for,

still hit me like a ton of bricks. A major part of me had

desperately wanted this to work out, for something to

finally go my way, j u s t once. I should have known bet¬

ter. I bowed my head, stunned into silence.

"What are you supposed to be giving up?" Lucas

asked.

"My right arm. I'm left-handed, and I figured, I j u s t

figured ... ah fuck! I don't know what I figured."

"Listen to m e , boy. Listen good. Dr. Marshall will

take your right arm, but he won't stop there. He's been

trying this shit for years, and it never works. N o t the

way he wants it to, anyway. The donor parts don't last,

or they don't function right after a few weeks. He prob¬

ably told you he's setting all these records for keeping

body parts alive, but he's bullshitting you. He replaces

the parts with new donors, and pretends it's the same

one. He's crazy, man.

"He's not even a real doctor. N o t anymore. From

what I hear he was once a damn good one, but he lost

his mind around the same time he lost the use of his

legs. Something snapped and he ended up losing his li¬

cense because he was caught doing unethical research.

They nailed his ass to the wall, but he had family money

to fall back on. Eventually he opened this place and

hires all the failed surgeons and discredited nurses he

can round up. T h i n k about ic W h o else would work for

a bastard like h i m ? "

I had no idea. My mind was spinning too fast to

think straight. W h a t a nightmare. Maybe I—

"Don't do it, Mike. Don't you give that crazy man

anything, you hear me? He'll cut you to pieces, boy, just

like he done me. First your arms, then your legs, then

one day when you're of no further use to him, you'll end

up in this room with me. Run away, right now. Run as

far from here as you can, and never come back. Never!"

N o d d i n g my understanding to the old man, I knew it

was time to leave. I'd seen and heard enough. Dr. Mar¬

shall might be a brilliant surgeon, and an incredibly

smart man, but somewhere along the line his obses¬

sions had pushed him over the edge. He wasn't bug-eyed

crazy, j u s t psychotic, a man driven to succeed at any

and all costs. No sane man could justify the crimes he

was committing inside this room. There was no way I

was going through with the operation now. This room¬

ful of Bleeders was more than enough to convince me it

was time to pull out of D o d g e , get as far away from this

crazy place as I could.

And I'm taking my arm with me.

Turning on my heel, I started back toward the open

window, intending to climb down to my room long

enough to quietly gather my stuff, then use the trellis

again to head for the ground and make good my es¬

cape.

"Wait," the old man cried out, sounding panicked

that I was leaving. "You can't leave me here. N o t like

thisV

"I'm sorry Lucas, but there's no way I can take you

with me. I'll be lucky if I make it on my own, never

mind trying to carry—"

"I don't wanna go with you," he whispered, and when

I saw the pleading look in his eyes, I finally understood

what he wanted me to do.

"Oh no! No way, Lucas. I can't do that."

"Sure you can. Use my pillow, it'll only take a m i n

ute. Look, I know you don't know me, or know n o t h i n g

about me, but I used to be a proud man, Mike. That

bastard Marshall stole more than my limbs, he stole my

life, my humanity, my soul. I can't live like this any¬

more. You're my only way out. Please Mike, I'm begging

you."

Son of a bitch. How did I get myself into this mess?

The sad part was, I agreed with him. No man should

have to live like that, existing j u s t to supplement a crazy

man's depraved obsessions. I couldn't imagine what Lu¬

cas's life must be like, having his life fluids drained on a

continuous basis, with no hope of relief until his body

was spent, or his mind snapped like his companions.

He didn't deserve this cruel rate, and I felt a need to help

him. I j u s t wasn't sure I had the strength to go through

with it. Regardless of whether he was giving me his

blessing, mercy-killing this poor man would still be

murder. Wouldn't it?

I walked to the side of Lucas's bed and slowly wiggled

his pillow out from under his shaven head. In doing so,

an IV line that had been cruelly inserted into a vein

above his left ear popped out, spilling fresh blood onto

the white bedsheets. The blood, which appeared black

in the moonlight, startled me but it wasn't gushing

out—merely dripping—so I ignored it, not even both¬

ering to mention it to Lucas. Why bother?

"You sure about this, Lucas?" I asked, hoping with

all my heart he'd changed his mind.

"I've never been so sure of anything in my whole life.

Bless you, Mike. I'm ready."

There were tears in his eyes as I lowered the pillow

down onto his face, but he was smiling and nodding his

head the whole time. I felt like a total bastard, but, at

the same time, I knew I was doing the right thing, giv¬

ing him the peace he deserved. He'd suffered enough.

Never having done anything like this, I wasn't sure

how much pressure I should apply to the pillow. I wanted

to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possi¬

ble. Trusting my instincts, I pressed down until Lucas's

torso began to shake. He was struggling for air, but

without any limbs he wasn't able to put up much of a

fight. I turned my head away, hoping it would be over

soon, unable to watch as his body continued to fight

beneath me.

W i t h everything going on, I failed to realize the

snoring coming from the other side of the room had

stopped. It wasn't until the man Lucas had identified as

Charlie began screaming at the top of his lungs that I

clued in someone was watching everything I was doing.

"Get off him," Charlie screamed, his frightened

voice as high-pitched and ear-shattering as a y o u n g

girl's. "Leave Lucas alone you cocksucker. He's my

only friend."

I tried to talk to him, tried to reason that I wasn't

hurting Lucas and this was what he'd wanted, but Char¬

lie was having none of it. His mind wasn't altogether

there anymore, and all he could see was a man h u r t i n g

the only companion he had left in this world. He kept

screaming, "Leave him alone, leave him alone," beating

his head against his pillow every time he said it.

"Calm down," I yelled, but then I saw the red light

flash on above his bed and understood immediately

that Charlie wasn't as out of it as I'd thought. He hadn't

been thrashing his head against the pillow; he'd been

t r y i n g to activate the call button strapped to his bed,

desperate to get help for his friend. Unaware he'd al¬

ready succeeded, he continued to pound his head in ca¬

dence with his screams until the flashing red light went

solid and a deep angry-sounding voice came through a

small speaker mounted above his bed.

"What's going on in there? Charlie, is that you?

W h a t the hell do you want at this time of night?"

"You gotta help us. Someone's trying to kill Lucas.

Get in here, quick!" Charlie wailed, his voice shrill,

hitching with sobs, borderline hysterical.

W h o e v e r was listening on the other end didn't

bother replying to Charlie's rant. All I heard was some¬

one curse as he fumbled for his walkie-talkie, keying

the mike four or five times before shouting, "Carl? Are

you there, Carl? Get y o u r ass up t o — "

The red light above Charlie's bed blinked out, dis¬

connecting me from hearing the rest of the message. I

had no trouble imagining every walkie-talkie in the

medical complex beginning to squawk, and every guard

r u n n i n g as fast as they could to get to this room.

Ob shit! This is trouble, Mike. Big, big trouble. Get the

hell out, fast.

I lifted the pillow from Lucas' face, h o p i n g he'd

passed on, but it wasn't meant to be. He was uncon¬

scious, possibly near death's door, but I could clearly

see his chest still rising and falling as his defiant body

labored to breathe. N o t knowing how much time I had

before this r o o m filled with angry guards, I couldn't

risk taking the time to try smothering him again.

"Sorry, Lucas," I whispered in his ear, then quickly

headed for the open window.

Stopping at my room to pick up my stuff was out of

the question now. I'd j u s t take the trellis right to the

ground and make a run for the surrounding woods.

Hopefully I'd be able to outrun anyone they sent after

m e , or at least find a hiding spot to lay low until they

went away.

I was j u s t about to step out onto the metal trellis,

when a noise below nearly caused me to fall off the

ledge. One floor down, a guard with blond hair and

glasses stuck his head out the open window of my room

and spotted me right away.

"I see him," the guard calmly spoke into his radio.

**He's still on level four. R e p e a t . . . suspect is still on

four."

This must have been the guy standing outside my

door earlier. W h e n the shit had hit the fan the first

t h i n g he'd have done was check on me, and found

n o t h i n g but an open window. After reporting my cur¬

rent position, he tucked his radio away in his jacket

and started climbing up the trellis toward me. My

escape route effectively gone, I had no choice but to

step back into the Bleeders' room and lock the window

behind me.

W i t h i n seconds, the guard's face pressed up against

the glass inches away from me, and he tried his best to

talk me into opening the window.

"Unlock it, Mr. Fox. You're in enough trouble as it is.

Don't make it worse. Open up."

Screw you, buddy.

Instead, I pulled the curtains closed, hoping he'd

shut up so I could think for a minute. Unfortunately, I

didn't have that long. The door to the Bleeders' room

burst open, the overhead lights blazed on, and four

large bodies walked into the room. All of them had a

gun pointed at me.

"Hold it, right there," the man closest to the light

switch said. "Take it easy and nobody gets hurt."

The guard beside him lifted his walkie-talkie to his

m o u t h and said, "No worries, Drake. We've got him."

"Good," Drake's smug voice filled the air. "Just hold

him there. Fm on my way."

Guards in front of me and a guard behind, and the

chief screw approaching fast. Things weren't looking

goodi I didn't like my chances. I was starting to look

around for some sort of weapon to defend myself with,

when my eyes spotted a possible way out. Directly to

my left, between two of the beds, was a white metal

plate with hinges on the top, fastening it four feet up

on the wall. Written on the rectangular plate were the

words: W A S T E DISPOSAL CHUTE.

My mind started to spin. Could I dive into this gar¬

bage chute, ride it to the bottom, then still make a run

for it? It couldn't be that easy. The opening looked

more than big enough for me to fit inside, but what

scared me was not knowing where the chute went. Was

it an angled slide, or a straight drop? Seeing as I was

standing on the fourth floor, the chute likely went all

the way to the first floor, or even down to the basement.

That meant I'd have at least a four-story drop, maybe

five. If the Dumpster at the bottom was full of garbage,

I might be okay—sort of like a movie stuntman landing

on one of those airbag thingies—but if it was empty—

W h i l e I contemplated and weighed the pros and cons

of my possible suicidal plunge, Drake finally appeared

at the doorway, huffing and puffing and looking larger

and more dangerous than I'd ever seen him. He was

mad as hell. His eyes had that "I'm gonna lay a world of

hurt on you" look to them that scared me more than

the guns the men flanking him had. I decided there was

no way I was letting that psycho muscle head get his

hands on m e , so as soon as he took his first menacing

stride in my direction, I threw caution to the wind and

ran for the garbage chute.

Drake was fast, but not fast enough. By the time the

chief of security realized what I was going to do, it was

too late. Like an Olympic diver, I thrust my hands to¬

gether in front of me, tucked my head down in be¬

tween them, and launched myself through the hinged

gate. My marks for style wouldn't have been too im¬

pressive, but I made it into the chute nonetheless.

And immediately started dropping like a rock.

"Ob shhhhiimiiut!" I screamed, terrified of the dark

u n k n o w n void below me, but still enjoying the adrena¬

line rush of my crafty James Bond-ish escape from Drake

and his goons' clutches.

It was too dark to see anything, but I could sense I

was picking up too much speed. If I hit bottom going

this fast, my head would splatter like a rotten mush

melon run over by a truck. The chute was only a little

larger than my body width, so I tried spreading my arms

and legs against the smooth metal sides and pressed out

with all my strength, hoping that would do the trick. It

definitely slowed me down, but not a lot. N o t nearly

enough to save me if the Dumpster below wasn't full of

nice soft garbage bags. I closed my eyes and prepared

to die.

Just before I hit bottom, the chute must have angled

or tilted off in another direction because I found myself

not free-falling anymore, but rather sliding on my stom¬

ach. W h e n I hit, I hit hard, but someone in heaven

must like me because whatever I landed and rolled on,

it was soft and spongy. It hurt like hell, knocking the

wind out of me and nearly breaking my left wrist, but

when my head cleared and I finally got my breath back,

I was still alive and relatively intact.

W h e n I stood u p , my back was hurting pretty badly

too, up near my shoulders, but I didn't have time to

worry about my aches and pains. There'd be plenty of

time for that, once I was far away from here. W i t h that

end in mind, I started searching for the lid to this

Dumpster, the horrible stench j u s t starting to register

in my brain.

I hadn't expected it to be so dark. I couldn't see any¬

thing, so I was forced to grope around using my hands.

No matter where I searched, high or low, I couldn't lo¬

cate the exit. There were several entrance chutes like

the one I'd fallen through, but no doors or hatches any¬

where. I was confused and getting worried. It didn't

help I kept stepping in and tripping over waist-deep

piles of stinking goo.

God, what a stink!

I'd lived in and around trash for years, but I'd never

smelled such an overpowering odor before. It was mak¬

ing me seriously nauseous. If I didn't get out of here

s o o n , ! was going to puke. Worse still, the clock was

ticking. I didn't have time to be fucking around like

this.

Outside, I heard the heavy clamor of men approach¬

ing on the run. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I

cursed myself for taking so long. The opportunity I'd

had to escape was gone. I'd senselessly risked my life and

I was still trapped, no better off than I'd been in the

Bleeders' room upstairs. I couldn't see the guards clos¬

ing in on m e , but I easily recognized Drake's booming

voice as he started yelling something. N o , wait, Drake

wasn't yelling, he was laughing. Loud, gut-churning

laughter, that for some reason chilled me to the bone.

W h a t could possibly be so funny?

"Hey Mike?" Drake said, still laughing. "You're

priceless! Really, I enjoyed that little show. Pretty stu¬

pid thing to do, but damn brave."

"Yeah, real funny. Open the goddamned door and let

me out. It stinks like Hell in here."

This comment made Drake and the guards with him

laugh even harder. "Oh really?" he said. "And why do

you think that is? Let me ask you something, Mike.

Before you decided to dive into that chute, did you ever

consider that WASTE DISPOSAL might not mean GAR

BAGES

I'll admit that sometimes I can be a bit slow, and I

wasn't completely sure what Drake was talking about,

but by the time I heard a lock removed and a sliding

gate opened up on the ceiling of this chamber, I was

starting to get the drift. Even before Drake's grinning

face appeared in the rectangular opening and shone a

super-bright halogen lamp down onto m e , I knew what

I was going to see.

H u m a n body parts.

Under the intense light of the lamp, the inside of this

chamber was still dark—mainly because every square

inch of its walls were coated in blood so old and con¬

gealed it had long since turned black. Covering the en¬

tire floor and creeping halfway up the walls in the

spots directly below several disposal chutes, mounds of

soggy red meat and pasty-yellow bones lay heaped in

various stages of decay. Arms, legs, feet, hands, torsos

and even a few bloated heads lay scattered around my

feet. The level of carnage was astonishing, almost inde¬

scribable. It was as if someone had detonated a b o m b

inside a room crowded with people, and then j u s t

walked away.

"Getting rid of the failed experiments used to be

risky," Drake explained. "Obviously we can't j u s t put

this stuff into the trash, so Dr. Marshall had this incin¬

erator custom built. The chutes deliver the waste from

different areas in the facility: the labs, operating r o o m s ,

and upstairs on the fourth floor, of course.

"We usually burn it up at the end of each week, every

couple of weeks, max, but it looks to me like we've been

slacking off a little. This crud has probably been stew¬

ing for at least a month. I'd better make sure it gets

cleaned up soon. Maybe tomorrow, h u h ? "

Why was he wasting time telling me this? Why

didn't he j u s t toss me down a rope or slide in a ladder?

"Get me out of here, Drake. Please." I hated the

t h o u g h t of begging to this lousy bastard, but I was

getting desperate. I couldn't stand to stay in this hu¬

man abattoir another second longer.

Drake smile vanished from his face as he briefly con¬

sidered my request. "No, I don't think so. This is a

good place for you, Mike. Somewhere I know you won't

be sneaking away from anytime soon. Gives me piece

of mind, you know?"

"You can't leave me in here," I shrieked.

"Watch me," he said, withdrawing the halogen lamp

and slowly sliding the metal gate shut again.

I never did hear Drake replacing the lock on the gate,

or him and the other guards laughing as they walked

away. I probably would have, except at the moment I was

far too busy screaming.

C H A P T E R F I F T E E N

Someone much smarter than me once said, "what

doesn't kill us only makes us stronger." I wish I could

find that person and punch them right in the mouth.

W h a t the hell did they know? Force them to spend a

night sleeping in a pile of rotting human waste and see

if they're still singing the same tune. I highly doubt it.

Long after Drake and his boys were gone and I'd

somehow managed to stop screaming, the smell of the

dead flesh became too much for me. Ignorance had

helped calm my stomach earlier, but once I knew ex¬

actly what I was breathing in, there was no way to plug

the volcano. And man, did I erupt. I puked, and I puked,

and then I puked some more—the smell of my own

waste almost sweet compared with the unbearable stink

around me.

W h e n my stomach had nothing left to give, I blocked

everything from my mind and started stacking what¬

ever was within reach to build a high enough mound in

the center of the incinerator so I could climb atop it and

reach the sliding exit hatch. I was extremely thankful I

was in the dark again, and was unable to see whatever it

was I was grabbing. I doubt I'd have been able to touch

anything, had the lights been on.

It ended up being a stupid waste of time. The hatch

was locked of course, as I'd known it would be, and all I'd

managed to accomplish was thoroughly coating myself

in sticky black blood. N o t a total waste, I guess. At least

trying to do sometbinghad helped organize my thoughts,

redirecting them onto something constructive rather

than continuing to wallow in misery. I spent a little more

time trying to find another way out, but soon realized I

wasn't going anywhere until Drake came back.

I did eventually sleep, off and on, but I wouldn't say I

got any rest. Just a n u m b e r of exhaustion-fueled stressinduced power naps, with me curled in a tight fetal ball

trying not to touch anything soft and squishy. It was a

horrible, horrible night. I honestly don't know how I

managed to make it through with my sanity intact.

But I did.

Fuck Drake and fuck N a t h a n Marshall—I wasn't let¬

ting them break me this easily. In the morning, when I

awoke hearing the clatter of feet approaching, I j u m p e d

to my feet and made sure I was standing tall when

Drake stuck his big ugly head through the sliding door

again. If he even noticed my pathetic little show of defi¬

ance, he certainly didn't show it.

"Good sleep?" he asked-.

"Screw you!" I hissed back, venom practically drip¬

ping from my mouth, but all Drake did was laugh.

"In a bad mood, Mike? Maybe I should come back

tomorrow? See how you feel then."

Drake started to slide shut the hatch, and damned if

I didn't fall for it. "No! Wait!" I squealed, my bravado

evaporating under the threat of spending an entire day

in this nightmarish place. The gate slid back open again

immediately, and from the grin on Drake'-s face I could

see he'd had no intention of leaving me down here.

He'd j u s t wanted to put me back in my place, make me

understand it was him calling the shots here.

He lowered a twelve-foot aluminum ladder down to

m e , with only half of it needing to come through the

opening before it came to rest on the mound of flesh

and bones Fd stacked up during the night.

"Take those clothes off and leave them where they

drop. Everything, Mike. You're not coming out of there

with those filthy stinking rags on."

Fair enough.

They were ruined anyway. Anything to get out of

here.

Drake watched me as I literally had to peel my goresaturated T-shirt, pants, socks, and undies off, then

stepped back as I climbed up and out of the incinerator.

I hesitated at the top of the ladder, not at all comfortable

with my nakedness. I wanted out of the chamber in the

worst way, but now that I was standing fully exposed in

the open air my self-conscious nature was kicking back

in. Unfortunately there was n o t h i n g I could do about it.

I had n o t h i n g to cover myself with and I sure as hell

wasn't going back into the incinerator.

W r i n k l i n g his nose in disgust, Drake pointed to an¬

other ladder propped against the side of the tank.

'You first. Move."

Before climbing to floor level, I took a m o m e n t to

notice my surroundings, comprehending I was now be¬

neath the medical center proper. The basement, with

its cobweb-shrouded ceiling and poured concrete floor,

was being used as a vast storage room. Natural light

filtering in through small dirt-streaked windows on the

foundation walls illuminated the area j u s t enough that I

could see the available floor space was cluttered with

boxes and crates of all shapes and sizes.

There were also two other large containers similar to

the incinerator I stood upon, but they were more

globule-shaped, standing together over on the far side

of the room. A myriad number of pipes, all painted

white, rose from the spheres, branching out across the

ceiling before snaking their way up into the medical

center through holes drilled in the floor. For the life of

m e , I couldn't fathom what their purpose was.

Drake gave me a whack on the back of my head and

told me to get a move on. N o t wanting another, I did

what he said, moving over to the ladder and starting

down. Six guards waited at floor level, making me feel

more vunerable and uncomfortable than ever, but they

backed away when they got a good whiff of me de¬

scending. One guard—the same blond-haired guy with

glasses I'd locked outside on the trellis last night— re¬

luctantly moved forward and clamped a handcuff

around my left wrist. Holding his breath, he half-walked,

half-dragged me toward a wooden door not far away on

our left. Instead of leading me through the doorway as

Fd expected, he grabbed the other end of the handcuffs

and attached me to the door's large brass handle.

What the bell?

W h y would he chain me to the door? I tried y a n k i n g

on the handcuffs, but they were on securely. I tried

opening the door, but found it locked. It wasn't until I

turned around to face D r a k e , and saw two of the other

guards unrolling a length of fire hose that I started to

get the picture.

"We're not taking you to see Dr. Marshall smelling

like that," Drake said, tossing me a fresh bar of Irish

Spring soap. "Turn on the shower, boys."

I started to protest, but an icy spray of water hitting

me full force in the chest shut me up in a hurry. It felt

like a million needles being repeatedly jabbed into m e ,

almost stripping the flesh from my bones wherever the

water touched me. Christ, it hurt. I tried to cover u p ,

ducking and spinning and even curling into a ball, but

there was no place I could hide, no position I could

stand which didn't leave some area of my body exposed:

Suddenly the water was shut off and I thought the

torture was over. Wrong. Drake wasn't finished with

me yet.

"Get scrubbing, Alike. We haven't got all day."

Having no real choice in the matter, I began rubbing

the bar of soap all over myself, making a half-decent ef¬

fort to get myself cleaned up. It was great to smell the

fresh pine-scented fragrance slowly replacing the rotten

odor of congealed blood, but hampering my enjoyment

was the certain knowledge that after I'd finished lather¬

ing u p , Drake was going to order them to rinse me off.

Sure enough, I'd barely had time to run the soap

through my tangled, sticky hair, when the j e t spray of

frigid water pounded into me again, unannounced.

The merciless force of the water hurt even worse this

time, battering and bruising my body until I could no

longer stand. Only then did Drake order the water hose

turned off.

"Get up," the chief of security ordered without a

trace of compassion in his steely voice.

Drake walked closer, tossing a towel in my face and

stood watching me as I dried off. He was standing too

close, leering at me in a way that made me uncomfort¬

able.

"You clean up pretty good," Drake leaned closer,

whispering in my ear. "Not bad at all."

Is Drake gay, or just crazy?

"Can I have something to wear?" I asked, looking

away from my muscular captor's lustful eyes.

"Shy, Mike?" Drake smiled.

Ever so slowly, he reaching behind me and I shud¬

dered, thinking he was going to grab my ass. Fortu¬

nately, all he was doing was unlocking the handcuff

attached to the door. Once free, he nodded to one of

the guards to bring over my clothes. I thought they

were only giving me a white dress shirt to wear, but

once I unfolded the garment I noticed it was way too

long, extending down past my knees, and that the open¬

ing was intended for the back instead of the front. Why

were they giving me a hospital gown?

"What's this?" I asked.

"Have you forgotten already? You signed a contract

with Dr. Marshall, my friend, and I'm here to make

sure you keep up your end of the bargain." After con

sulting his wristwatch, he said, "It's j u s t past nine o'clock,

Mike. Your surgery is in fifty-six minutes. Dr. Marshall

will be expecting you shortly, so let's get moving."

My arm! They're gonna take my arm!

Panic swelled within m e , this primal emotion be¬

coming almost a physical entity, wrapping its greasy

fingers around my heart, squeezing fear out of every

pore. Acting on instinct alone, with no destination in

mind, I tossed the hospital gown in Drake's grinning

face and ran like the devil himself was chasing me.

Realistically, there was no place for me to go, but I ran

anyway, the need to escape my appointed fate com¬

pletely taking over my body.

Everyone started screaming, and of course gave

chase, but a desperate man can be faster than greased

lightning, given the proper motivation. W i t h the threat

of losing my arm h a n g i n g above my head like D a m o cles's proverbial swordj I was more than fast—I was

flyingl Unfortunately, it's impossible to outrun bullets,

so when I became lost in the jumble of boxes, dashing

between two large crates to find myself staring down

the barrel of a big black gun, I knew enough not to try

anything stupid.

The guard with the minicannon, a pimply-faced red¬

head who looked about nineteen years old, started

shouting to Drake that he had me, while backing me up

until my back was against a hard metal surface. I had

nowhere left to run. W i t h i n seconds, other guards had

found us and Drake was rounding the corner of the

storage crate too.

"Let me plug him, Drake," the overzealous y o u n g

redhead shouted. "He's more trouble than he's worth."

Re's gonna do it. I watched his finger starting to tighten

on the trigger. He's gonna kill me!

I closed my eyes as tight as I could, not wanting to

see the bullet heading my way. At any second, I ex¬

pected to hear the loud BOOM and feel my head begin

to vaporize, but what I heard was Drake screaming a

long, drawn out, "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" I opened my

eyes j u s t in time to see Drake run up and knock the

gun out of his y o u n g recruit's hand.

"What kind of an idiot are y o u ? " Drake screamed.

"For Christ's sake, Brad, take a look where you are.

W h e r e he is. You'll kill us all."

The y o u n g guard looked confused, uncertain what

his boss was angry about, but then his eyes opened

wide, and I saw realization wash over him like a splash

of ice water. The look on his face made me wonder what

the guards knew that I didn't. All it took was for me to

turn around, and I understood right away. I was leaning

against one of the two huge spherical-shaped tanks Fd

spotted from atop the incinerator. From this close, I

could see the word O X Y G E N painted in bright red letters

with the unnecessary warning, D A N G E R : E X T R E M E L Y

F L A M A B L E below'it.

So that's what they were... oxygen tanks.

That explained the network of small pipes rising up

through dozens of spots in the ceiling. The pipes sup¬

plied the various laboratories and operating rooms

throughout the entire medical center. Drake had been

right. If the guard had fired his gun, we'd all be dead

by now.

Well, at least 1 won't be getting shot today.

I clung to the base of the oxygen tank like a capsized

sailor might grasp a life preserver in the middle of the

Pacific. W i t h the threat of death by explosion taken out

of the mix, Drake quickly regained control of the situ¬

ation. He ordered two of his men to grab m e , threaten¬

ing to break their scrawny necks if they let me get away

again. Then he marched right up to me until we were

actually touching nose to nose and said, "I'm done fuck

ing around, Mike. You're coming.with me whether you

like it or not. We can do this one of two ways: the hard

way, or the really hard way. What's it gonna be?"

Neither sounded particularly good, so I j u s t kept my

mouth shut. I knew anything I said would end up earn¬

ing me a fist in the face, or worse, so I quietly waited for

whatever would come next. Had I known Drake was

hiding a large hypodermic syringe behind his back, I

might have struggled more than I did, but as it was, the

chief of security grabbed me by the throat and ruth¬

lessly jabbed the needle into my right shoulder before I

knew what hit me.

Whatever drug he injected into me, it packed a hell of

a wallop, because before I even had the chance to call

Drake a sneaky bastard, my vision began to dim. The

image of Drake's toothy grin froze in my mind, and

began swirling around and around in my head, spinning

faster and faster until someone finally pulled the plug,

letting my dizzy consciousness drain down into the

black sewer of oblivion.

C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

W h e n I woke u p , I had a throbbing headache, so bad it

felt like someone had backed over my skull with a trac¬

tor. My eyes were crusted shut, but I blinked a few times

and managed to get them open. Bad mistake. The bright

light on the tiled ceiling above me practically blinded

m e , sending daggers of shooting pain through my brain,

making my poor head hurt even more. Refusing to make

the same mistake twice, I kept my eyes closed as I tried

to gather my senses and get my bearings.

Gotta stay away from that damn Sterno. I need a drink of

water... bad.

T h i n k i n g about water made me remember the fire

hose shower I'd recently been given. Once my mind

started along that memory path it didn't take long to

remember where I was, Drake giving me the knockout

drug, and his promise to deliver me to Dr. Marshall for

my scheduled surgery.

Oh God, no!

Had Drake already done that? Had Dr. Marshall al¬

ready taken me to his operating room and removed my

right arm? I was too frightened to open my eyes and

check. Other than my head I wasn't in a whole lot of

pain, but I was still woozy and half out of it so I might

be pumped full of happy drugs for all I knew.

Almost as if on cue, my right arm started to itch. I

felt it first near my elbow, and then slowly it began tick¬

ling its way up toward my neck. That should have been

a good sign, assured me I was still in one piece, but I

wasn't at all convinced the itch was real. I'd heard all

sorts of strange stories of people feeling phantom sensa¬

tions in limbs that had been amputated—even ones r e

moved years earlier—so I wasn't getting my hopes up.

Open your eyes, Mike. You gotta know for sure. Do it,

man. Do it now. Maybe it's not too late?

That was true. Maybe I hadn't been unconscious for

as long as I thought. The surgery m i g h t not have started

yet, and I might be lying in one of the waiting rooms. I

might still be able to get up and sneak out of here. One

way or the other, I had to find out.

Steeling myself against what I might see, I said a quick

prayer, opened my eyes, and reluctantly let them slowly

drift down the length of my body.

My right arm was gone, severed clean at the shoulder.

And so was my left.

C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N

Dr. Marshall kept me heavily medicated with a mor¬

phine drip for the next two weeks, then slowly began

weaning me off the highly addictive painkiller. It was a

hell of a lot easier dealing with my double amputation

when Fd been high as a kite than when I started to crash

back down to earth. Call me crazy, but I much preferred

a drug-induced fantasyland where I still had both my

arms to the cold sterile world of my disfigured reality.

Healing was a slow and painful experience, made worse

by my murderously foul mood and combative attitude.

The doctors and nurses who attended to me were pro¬

fessional and somewhat sympathetic to my plight, but

whether they were j u s t doing their j o b or not, they were

part of the enemy camp and I hated them for it.

N o t once, in the entire three weeks I lay recuperating,

did Dr. Marshall come to see me. I liked thinking maybe

he was a little scared of m e , but it was more likely he just

didn't give a damn, labeling me as so unimportant I didn't

merit'the wasting of his precious time. I was nothing but

a commodity to him, flesh and blood spare parts kept in

cold storage in case he had further need of me.

Drake popped in and out all the time, unfortunately,

laughing at my pain and taunting me in childish ways

like tossing me a tennis ball and saying, "Here, Mike,

catchy He'd shriek like a loon when the ball would whack

me in the face, or thud painfully against my bandaged

shoulders. He enjoyed pissing me off, and loved hurting

me even more. As helpless as I was, I vowed to someday

pay that muscle-headed sadistic asshole back in spades.

The first day the doctors let me get out of bed was the

day my mind turned away from revenge and started l i n k ing seriously about escaping. The minute my feet hit the

floor, I was already planning and scheming, keeping my

eyes and ears open for a chance to bolt. Ironically, it was

Drake—the big cheese of security around here—who

gave me the opportunity I'd been waiting for.

He strutted into my room with his chest puffed out,

cocky as usual, and ordered the two nurses who'd just

finished changing my dressings to get out and stay out.

"Dr. Marshall's on his way to see you, Mike."

"What's he want?" I asked, curious, but more than a

little nervous to hear the answer,

"I think he needs your legs," Drake smiled, clearly

happy to be the bearer of such shocking news.

He pulled an apple out of his coat pocket, leaned

against a filing cabinet by the door, and silently enjoyed

his snack while relishing the terrifying effect his words

were having on me.

God no, not my legs! Not my fucking legs!

I had a vivid picture of me carved down to nothing,

lying upstairs in a bed beside Lucas and Charlie while

three nurses began sticking the IV tubes into my head,

neck, and torso to begin draining my first of countless

donations of blood. The vision was so powerful, so real,

I found myself unable to stand on my own power. Dis¬

oriented as I was, I tried grabbing hold of my dresser

drawer to support myself, but I had no arms to clutch

onto anything with, so I ended up sprawled out on the

floor near Drake's feet.

Drake found my spill comical, naturally, nearly

choking on the last bite of his apple he was laughing so

hard. "Oh man, I've got to get out of here. You're killing

me Mike, killing me!" Tossing his apple core toward the

garbage can, he headed out the door, pausing only long

enough to look back and say, "Dr. Marshall will be along

soon, so be nice. I'll see you later on, back in rehab."

Then he was gone, the heavy metal door swinging

behind him so that he assumed he'd left me alone in a

locked room. That was his mistake. Although the door

was automatically set to lock, as always, the chief of se¬

curity had failed to notice that his gnawed apple core

hadn't fallen into the trash can as he'd intended. Instead,

it had bounced off the top rim and rebounded to the

floor, coming to rest between the closing door and its

j a m b . Wedged between the two, the locking device

couldn't engage, leaving the door open about an inch.

Lying where I'd fallen, I held my breath, waiting to

see if the weight of the door would compress the apple

core enough that the latch would click, but it never h a p

pened. Hope surged through me like a charge of light

ning, b u r n i n g away my ghastly thoughts of the Bleeders'

room upstairs, and fueling my weakened body into ac¬

tion. I was back on my feet in seconds, rushing over to

the door. Getting out of this room didn't guarantee me

freedom, but it sure as hell was a good start.

How was I supposed to open the door? The knob was

way too big to try grabbing with my teeth, and if I tried

to nudge it open using my hip, I might j u s t as easily

push the door shut, locking myself in. I ended up using

my toes, t u r n i n g my left foot sideways, pushing them

through the gap, and prying the door open enough that

I could get my head and neck around to shove it open.

Drake was nowhere in sight, the hallway in both di¬

rections blessedly empty. Outside my room for the first

time in almost a month, I felt great, almost giddy with

excitement, thinking maybe this time luck would be on

my side and I'd be able to j u s t stroll on out of here un¬

noticed and unchallenged. I should have known better. I

hadn't made it more than a few steps when Dr. Marshall

wheeled around the corner, obviously on his way to my

room. He was dressed in a blue sweatshirt and faded

j e a n s , looking quite comfortable until the shock of see¬

ing me out wandering in the hall spread across his face.

"How did you get out of your room?" he asked, a

trace of alarm creeping into his normally confident

voice. "Where's Drake?"

"Right behind you," I answered, and as soon as he

spun his wheelchair around to look, I turned tail and

took off at full speed the opposite way.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Dr. Marshall pull a

Iong-bladed knife from under the cushion he was sit¬

ting upon, clamp it in his teeth so he could push with

both arms, and race after me. I was out in front, but the

small lead I'd bluffed for myself wasn't enough to stay

in front for long. W i t h every push of his powerful arms,

Dr. Marshall was m a k i n g up ground, closing in on me

at an alarming rate.

It was hard to run last with my arms no longer there

to pump back and forth. I felt constantly off balance, and

was having a heck of a time trying to run in a straight

line down the hall without veering off to one side or the

other. This wasn't going to work. I had to find someplace

to run where Dr. Marshall wouldn't be able to follow me.

W h e r e , though? W h e r e could I go, that a wheelchair

couldn't?

The stairs. He can't fallow me on the staircases.

I'm not the greatest with directions, but I'd been

around this building a time or two since arriving, and I

was reasonably sure I was heading toward the front of

the medical center. Running past several lab rooms on

both sides of the corridor, I now knew that the surgical

recovery room I'd been kept in was located on the sec¬

ond floor of the complex. There should be a stairwell

not too far ahead on my right. It would lead down to

the short concrete hallway that served as an entrance to

the four-story glass-roofed atrium I'd stood in when we

first arrived. The front door to the parking lot would

be there as well.

Sure enough, the door to the stairs came into view,

and when I made my cut to the right, bashing through

into the stairwell, Dr. Marshall had been so close to me

he couldn't turn the corner in time. He took a wild swipe

at me with the knife as his chair rocketed past the open

doorway like a Roman chariot, but his aim was way off.

N o t wanting to stand around and give him a second

chance, I started down the winding staircase, but

screeched to a stop. I could hear voices below me around

the bend in the stairs, male voices, two of them, maybe

three. I couldn't see them or tell if they were guards,

doctors, lab technicians, or D a r t h Vader's Imperial

Stormtroopers, but whoever they were, they were com¬

ing up toward me and I didn't want to run right into

their arms. To avoid them, my only choice was to turn

and head up the stairs instead of down. Maybe I could

hide out for a few minutes on the third or fourth floor,

j u s t until the men approaching from below made it to

wherever they were headed. Once the coast was clear, I

could shoot back down the stairs and try making it to

the front door.

Up I climbed, panic at being caught pushing me

along like a strong hand on my back. W h e n I rounded

the curve to the level area where the door to the third

floor opened, I started to realize I was in more trouble

than I'd thought. All the doors in this stairwell opened

inwardly from the various hallways, and in my panic to

evade Dr. Marshall I hadn't stopped to consider exactly

what that meant.

I'd had no trouble using my body to push down the

latch-releasing bar to ram my way into here, but from

this side to open the doors a person had to grab a little

handle and depress a small t h u m b lever as they pulled

backward. With no hands to grab the handle—and ob¬

viously no thumbs to depress the lever—there was no

way to open any of these doors and get back into the

hallways. I was trapped, with no other option than keep

climbing stairs until I ran out of them. If the men be¬

low were headed all the way to the fourth floor, I was

screwed.

I got lucky, for once. I'd j u s t started heading up from

the third-floor landing, when I heard the door below on

the second being pulled opened, and the mysterious

voices of my unseen pursuers fade to n o t h i n g as they

moved off into the carpeted hall. I paused, halting my

ascension, straining to hear if all the men had exited

onto the second floor, or if maybe one or two were still

climbing up. I heard a long, drawn-out squeak that had

to be the door swinging closed again, but once the

latch clicked, everything was quiet. No voices. No foot¬

steps. Nothing.

Pheeeew. Thank God!

That could have gotten ugly, but I was still okay.

N o w with the staircase all to myself, all I had to do was

make it down to the first floor, and hope I could find

some way to get to the front door of this creepy place. I

cautiously started back down the winding stairs, fully

expecting to hear one of the doors bang open at any

second. W h e n n o t h i n g happened, my hope was renewed.

I might make it out of here, after all.

That was when I rounded the corner leading to the

second-floor landing and saw Dr. Marshall sitting con¬

tentedly in his chair, waiting for m e , effectively block¬

ing my path with not only his body, but with the large

serrated knife he held casually in his lap. My feet grew

roots quickly, stopping me midstair. I shouldn't have

been surprised, but I was. Had I thought he'd j u s t let me

walk away?

Idiot!

W h e n he saw me, a huge feral grin spread across the

mad doctor's face, and in that second our eyes met, I

understood he knew I was trapped in this staircase, and

the only way out was through him. To tease me, he be¬

gan playing with his large knife, picking imaginary

dirt from under his fingernails with it. He was putting

on a show, trying to scare m e , but I tried not to let him

know it was working.

"Get the hell out of my way, asshole, or I'll give you

and your wheelchair a ride you'll never forget."

I half meant it too, considering charging into him

and trying to knock him backward off the level landing

area. I could imagine the satisfying scene of his arms

pinwheeling for balance as the wheels of his chair

tipped over the edge of the first stair, the overly smug

look on his face replaced by sheer terror at the knowl¬

edge he was in for a painful, potentially fatal spill.

Dr. Marshall j u s t laughed at m e , my threat having no

effect on his confidence. That was when I should have

charged, should have caught him when he wasn't pre¬

pared, but I didn't. I might have—probably 'wouldhsve.—

but he asked me something so odd and began doing

something that seemed so strangely out of place consid¬

ering our situation, it knocked me completely off guard.

"Tell m e , Mr. Fox," Dr. Marshall began, taking his

knife and j a b b i n g it into the blue denim material of his

pants near his left hip, and starting to cut down toward

his knee. "Have you ever stopped to think about my

legs?"

"Your legs?" I muttered, trying to figure out why Dr.

Marshall was in the process of cutting his pant leg off

before my bewildered eyes.

"You should have," he smiled, calmly starting to cut

into the fabric of his right pant leg now. "When we first

met, I told you I lost the use of them in an accident,

remember?"

I did, but I didn't bother answering. I was a little

freaked out as to why we were having this calm friendly

discussion in the first place. It was too surreal, Dr. Mar¬

shall's thin smile a little forced, and I didn't want to say

anything that might trigger his murderous rage.

Why the hell is he cutting off his pants?

"I was only forty-five when it happened. That's a long

time to live without legs, Mike. Too long, don't you

think? Especially if you happen to have the skills, cour¬

age, and the means to do something about it. Under¬

stand what I'm getting at?"

Dr. Marshall began to rise out of his wheelchair, the

shredded denim of his j e a n s falling to the floor as he

stood, the jagged pink scars encircling his upper thighs

clearly showing me where he'd grafted the new set of

legs onto his still-healing body.

Mother of God! He experimented on himself!

"It took three attempts, three pain-filled failures, be¬

fore I figured it out. I'd rushed into it, you see, too anx¬

ious and nowhere near ready. I learned from my mistakes,

though, waiting patiently this time until I worked out

the kinks, until I was sure it would work. My most

trusted surgeon did the operation for me and I've been

healing for about five months, working hard in physio¬

therapy before you even arrived here. It's working,

Mike. This time it's working. This time I can stand up.

I can walk." Then, holding up the long bladed knife t o

ward me, "And I can even climb stairs."

C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N

It wasn't until Dr. Marshall took his first tentative step t o

ward me that the full impact of what he'd just said hit me.

He can climb stairs.

If I'd been thinking clearly, I might have still decided

to charge the doctor, knock him flying while he was get¬

ting his balance, but I was scared, more than a little

confused, and instead of charging I fled up the stairs,

away from the doctor. Big mistake. Running away wasn't

going to help me. W h e r e was I going to go? I was trapped

in the stairwell, nowhere to go now but up, while Dr.

Marshall closed in on me from below. At some point,

we'd both end up at the top of the stairs, and using only

my legs I would have to fight off a knife-wielding mad¬

man.

Up the stairs I went, desperately trying to think of

some way to get out of this death trap I'd snared myself

in. Luckily, Dr. Marshall was having difficulties with

the stairs, his legs not quite healed enough to move as

quick as he wanted. I could hear him cursing below, as

he slowly inched up the stairs at a snail's pace, a deter¬

mined killer on feeble, fledgling legs. This would buy

me time, a reprieve at best, but not the full pardon I was

looking for.

Think, man. Think!

And I was, but thinking about various nasty scenarios

all ending with me being stabbed to death wasn't much

help, so I concentrated on climbing the stairs, deciding

to put as much distance between me, my pursuer, and

my morbid thoughts as I could.

I rounded the third-floor landing, wistfully eyeing

the door leading to the hallway, but it may as well have

been a solid brick wall, for all the good it did me. Grit¬

ting my teeth in panic and frustration, I continued on

up the stairs. W h e n the fourth-floor landing started to

come into view, I fully expected to see the inevitable

dead end that would seal my fate. There would be the

last of the stairs, the closed steel door, and then the

concrete wall where I'd have to make my stand.

What the hell?

Something wasn't right.

The stairs were there, and the steel door too, j u s t as

I'd thought, but there was no wall. No dead end. In¬

stead, there was another flight of winding stairs disap¬

pearing around yet another corner. Had I miscalculated

what floor I was on? N o , I was sure of that. This was

the fourth—and final—floor all right.

Then where do these stairs go? The roof? Heaven?

Did it matter? Up I went, but slower now, not sure

how there could be a fifth-story staircase in a four-story

building. Halfway round the bend the answer hit me.

The Tower Room.

The room on the front corner of the building with

the tattered flag flying on its roof that I'd spotted on

the day I'd arrived. That had to be it. My mind started

whirling, wondering if maybe this presented me with

any new options for survival, or if it j u s t delayed the

inevitable. Up I went.

As I rounded the corner where the next landing

would normally be, the staircase opened up into a large

room. There was a low h u m m i n g noise coming from

somewhere, j u s t barely audible, but loud enough that I

quietly crept up the final few stairs, pausing to peek

over the floor level stair to check out my surroundings

before I went any further. The tower room wasn't as

large as I'd pictured it from the ground, maybe twenty

feet by twenty, with a twelve-foot-high ceiling. It was

oval shaped, with two large stained glass windows set

into the wall farthest from the stairs. The room was

spotlessly clean, but filled to the point of being clut¬

tered with furniture, clothes, an expensive-looking ste¬

reo system, a computer terminal, lots of medical supplies,

free-standing oxygen tanks, and a brass-railed bed.

There was other stuff j a m m e d in the room, too, but

once I spotted the bed—or rather, who was lying on

the bed—nothing else in the room mattered.

No way. I can't be that unlucky.

Sure I could. Fourteen feet from me, Drake was

sprawled out, lying naked on top of the sheets, prepar¬

ing to have a nap. Just my luck, but this junk-filled

tower room was apparently his private apartment.

N o w what was I going to do? W i t h Dr. Marshall

slowly gaining on me from below, and Drake the Nean¬

derthal waiting above, my chances of getting out of this

mess were close to nil.

Fuck!

Looking back over my shoulder, Dr. Marshall was

still nowhere to be seen, but I knew he was coming—I

could hear his slow, lurching progress echoing up the

stairwell. At any second, I expected to see him round

the corner, a vicious grin plastered on his face.

Anoise above me brought my attention back to Drake.

The head of security was sitting up now, his back to¬

ward m e , facing the front windows. He stood u p , yawn¬

ing loudly as he stretched. It wasn't until he walked

over to a nearby table that I noticed he was sporting a

woody—his large penis fully erect, pointing at the roof,

slapping his belly with every step.

Just-what I need to see.

There was something set in the middle of the table he

was standing beside, something large covered up with a

white blanket. Drake carefully started removing the blan¬

ket. W h e n he did, I had to bite my lip not to shriek.

Oh my God!

Concealed beneath the blanket was a severed head

perched atop a glass, milky liquid-filled tank. Hundreds

of colorful wires ran from within the ragged neckline of

the head, down into the tank where they connected

along the length of barely visible spine. Wires also ran

away from the head, connecting into a circuit box be¬

side a computer terminal. Several large crimson-filled

tubes ran to and from the neck, over to one of the same

machines I'd been shown in the video we watched our

first day here. It was this machine that was making the

low h u m m i n g noise I'd noticed a few minutes ago.

Blood supply.

That thought made me realize what I was seeing.

This wasn't j u s t any severed head, this was the severed

head—the same guy I'd seen in the video. I recognized

the poor man's face. I could remember how it had given

me the creeps back then, when I still thought every¬

thing was on the level here. Seeing it now with my own

eyes, it was even more horrifying. H o w could someone

do this to another human being? It was viciously cruel.

Hell, it was diabolical!

Unfortunately, not nearly as diabolical as what Drake

was doing. The sick pervert was rubbing his t h r o b b i n g

cock on the side of the glass tank, slowly working it up

closer and closer to the head above. The defenseless

man's eyes were wide open in fear, his entire head and

spine thrashing about in a futile attempt to get away.

My mind flashed back to the day I arrived here, and

how Fd thought Drake had left the video show with an

erection hidden in his tracksuit, I hadn't been sure at the

time, wondering what he could possibly find erotic in

Dr. Marshall's body parts presentation, but now I knew.

Drake crawled right up onto the table, and was try¬

ing to put his engorged dick into the disembodied man's

tightly closed mouth, who was resisting the only way

he could. Drake laughed at his defiance, and started to

threaten him with a knife held to one of his eyes.

"Open up sweetie, or you lose your eyes," Drake

whispered, his voice dripping with lust.

Stop it, you sick perverted fuck!

I wanted to scream that out loud, and almost did, but

a shimmer of motion in the corner of my eye caught my

attention. Dr. Marshall, covered in sweat from his ex¬

ertions, was standing four feet away from m e , the large

serrated knife raised above his head, preparing to stab

me in the back.

I did scream then, long and loud, my reasons for

stealth now gone. I bolted up the remaining stairs, ran

right past Drake, and didn't stop until I had my back

pressed against the far wall. Drake looked shocked for a

moment, but regained his cool, climbing down from the

table to help Dr. Marshall up the last few stairs while at

the same time keeping an eye on m e . N o t that he needed

to—both he and Dr. Marshall wielded sharp knives and

I was an armless m a n with nowhere left to run.

"What the hell's going on?" Drake asked his employer.

"Rather obvious," the doctor said. "Our boy, Mi¬

chael, is trying to escape. N o t doing so well, though.

W h a t ' s that saying, Mr. Drake ... out of the frying

pan, into the fire?"

Drake started to laugh, neither he nor Dr. Marshall

seeming the least bit troubled by his nakedness.

"What are you going to do to me?" I asked, unable to

keep the fear and dread out of my voice.

Dr. Marshall smiled at m e , a cold, evil smile, then

said, "Whatever I want t o , Mike. Whatever I want."

My m o u t h went dry. I was so scared I couldn't have

spoken a word even if I'd known what to say. We stared

at each other in silence for a minute, then Dr. Marshall

continued.

"I'm not the monster you're convinced I am, Mr. Fox.

I haven't lied as much as you think. About the money,

yes, but not everything. I told you all I've ever wanted

was to help my poor unfortunate son. Remember?"

Of course I did. Lying bastard. "You're forgetting

something, Marshall. I was in y o u r supposed son's room.

I saw the plastic body and the fake wires. That was

n o t h i n g but a sob story to get us all on y o u r side. Noth¬

ing but bullshit, so save y o u r breath."

"Bullshit was it? You sure about that?" he asked.

Dr. Marshall limped over to the table supporting the

severed head and spine. He lovingly stroked the matted

hair of the man, then carefully repositioned the glass

tank so it was exactly in the center of the table. I couldn't

see the man's eyes from where I stood, but from the

way his head and spine were thrashing around, the man

seemed even more terrified now than while being mo¬

lested by Drake.

"Easy now," the doctor said, his voice as soft and as

soothing as he could manage. "Everything's gonna be

fine."

The tremors in the head gradually faded away, then

Dr. Marshall returned his attention to m e , spinning

the glass tank 180 degrees so I was looking directly into

the haunted eyes of the bodiless man.

"Mike, I'd like you to meet Andrew Nathan Marshall.

My son. Andrew, this silly man here is Michael Fox."

C H A P T E R N I N E T E E N

The silence in the room was deafening. That phrase

always seemed so cliche and ridiculous to me, until that

very moment. The quiet in the tower room was a tan¬

gible thing, the tension in the air so thick I was almost

choking on it, my mind spinning around trying to

comprehend what I'd j u s t heard.

His son?

He really does exist?

How could Dr. Marshall do this to his own son?

Why?

So many questions I wanted to ask, but I didn't. I just

stood there, temporarily forgetting my own dilemma,

forgetting everything as I stared into the bulging fright¬

ened eyes of the pitiable man before me I'd been stupid

enough to sign a contract to try to help.

How does he cope, beingforced to live life this way?

What must Andrew be thinking of all this?

What's he thinking about right now?

"Want me to take him out?" Drake asked his boss,

finally breaking the dead calm and shaking me out of

my stupor. "He's more trouble than he's worth."

"I'll be the j u d g e of that," Dr. Marshall said. "He's

still full of good spare parts. No sense wasting them."

"I suppose."

They were talking about me as if I wasn't even t h e r e ,

as if my opinion about the outcome of my life really

didn't matter. And I suppose it didn't—to them at

least—but it sure as hell did to me. There had to be a

way out of this. I couldn't j u s t stand here waiting for

Drake t o —

Drake!

An idea blazed through my head. Might not work,

but it was worth a try. W h a t did I have to lose?

"Hey Doc," I shouted, interrupting their casual con¬

versation about whether or not I should be killed out¬

right, or simply cut up for spare parts. "Do you have

any idea what Drake likes to do to your beloved son

when he's all alone with him? He forces Andrew to

suck his cock at knifepoint. I saw him myself j u s t a few

minutes ago. Look at the big fuckin' pervert. Why do

you think he's naked?"

It wasn't a great plan, but I hoped if I told Dr. Mar¬

shall how Drake was molesting his son, maybe I could

turn the insane surgeon's rage toward Drake, away

from me. Even if I could j u s t get them arguing enough

that I got a chance to bolt for the staircase. Give me a

three-second window of opportunity, and I'd be off like

a rocket, heading for the front door.

Instead of rage, as I'd hoped, Dr. Marshall started

laughing. Drake apparently found my comments hilari¬

ous as well, and was soon laughing along with his boss.

"Trying to make me jealous, are we, Mike?" Dr. Mar¬

shall asked. "Nice try, but let's j u s t say there's plenty of

Mr. Drake to go around for everyone."

What the hell does that mean?

I wondered if it was possible Dr. Marshall was so in¬

sane, so far gone, he didn't even care that Drake was

sexually abusing his son, Nah. Nobody could be that

heartless. Could they? Then I watched as Drake walked

over beside Dr. Marshall and his son, putting his arms

around both, of them. Dr. Marshall smiled, winked at

m e , then kissed Drake passionately on the lips. W i t h

his free hand, he softly caressed Drake's semiswollen

member, starting to bring it back to attention.

Sweet mother of Jesus!

They were lovers. I couldn't believe it. How much

more rucked up could this strange little family get? I

mean really, a brilliant but thoroughly insane neurosurgeon kissing his steroid-filled chief of security boyfriend

above the trembling head of his life-supported, disem¬

bodied son. N o t a pretty picture. Certainly not N o r m a n

Rockwell-inspired family material; that was for sure.

This was too much for me. I couldn't take any more.

I j u s t wanted out of h e r e , away from all this craziness

and perversion and back to my smelly little Dumpster

underneath the Carver Street Bridge.

Get real. You wouldn't survive a day on the streets. You've

got no fucking arms, moron!

My conscience was right, of course. There was no

going back for me. Only a fool would think otherwise.

I should never have let Drake talk me down off those

railway tracks the day he'd shown up in t h e limo. Should

have stuck to plan A and never even listened to his

crazy offer. Then again, maybe it wasn't too late.

Dr. Marshall and Drake were never going to let me

leave here—alive anyway. W h y not save myself the suf¬

fering and grief and spoil whatever nasty little plans

they had in mind for me. Call me crazy, but I'd much

rather go out on my own terms than theirs. I knew j u s t

how to do it, too.

"Hey freaks," I said to my captors, disturbing their

little petting session.

Dr. Marshall licked his Hps, anticipating violence,

and said, "Watch y o u r mouth, little man, or you j u s t

might lose that quick tongue of yours."

Drake took a step toward me, holding up his knife

for me to see. "It's time you learned some m a n n e r s ,

Mr. Fox."

T took a deep breath and prepared for what was com¬

ing. "Screw you, Drake. You two psychos deserve each

other, but I'm not sticking around and watching any

more of this bullshit. I'm out of here!"

I could tell my outburst confused them. "You're

what?" Drake asked.

"You heard me. I'm leaving."

Once the initial shock wore off, both Drake and Dr.

Marshall started laughing again.

"You're a funny guy, Mike, but I'm afraid you're not

going anywhere," Dr. Marshall said, "except back to my

operating room. You see ... I need your legs."

Ten minutes ago, that statement would have terri¬

fied m e , but not now. I'd moved past my fears, made

peace with myself, and was ready to take care of busi¬

ness. W i t h o u t another word, I made my move, run¬

ning full out toward one of the large stained glass

windows. If Dr. Marshall wanted my legs, he could

send Drake to scrape them off the front driveway five

stories below, along with the rest of me. Taking a

nosedive onto the pavement from this height—which

had to be sixty feet what with the high ceilings around

this j o i n t — a n d with no arms to cushion my fall, my

head would explode like an overripe tomato being

struck with a sledgehammer.

Perfect.

"Stop, you fool," Dr. Marshall shouted once it be¬

came obvious what my plans were. "Grab him, Drake.

Hurry!"

Drake came after me, but I knew I had the angle on

him. He knew it, too, but kept coming anyway. W i t h a

yell of pure triumph, I launched myself into the air,

easily shattering the lead-framed stained glass window

and was ready to fly free as a bird into the bright blue

yonder. Fly for a second or two, at least.

Wasn't gonna happen.

I hit the glass hard, breaking through it easily enough,

but my flight to freedom only lasted for another three

inches. That was when I hit face-first into the wire mesh

window screen bolted to the outside brickwork. It was

heavy-gauge mesh probably installed on these expen¬

sive windows to protect them and it stopped my forward

progress pronto, my nose painfully reduced to a red

pulpy mess upon impact, the rest of my face and body a

patchwork of cuts and puncture wounds from all the

exploding glass. So much for my great escape.

Bounced back into the tower room, I landed with a

heavy thump at Drake's feet, where he found the sight

of my bloodied face and body tremendously amusing.

He was laughing so hard, in fact, that Dr. Marshall was

the one who came over and held me down so I wouldn't

try r u n n i n g away again.

"Get the needle," Dr. Marshall said to Drake.

"What's the hurry? Why don't we let him have a run

at the other window? I'd love to watch that again."

"Just get the needle, we've wasted enough time with

this loser. I'm late for surgery."

"All right, it was j u s t a thought," Drake said, still de¬

lighted by my suffering.

I watched him walk over to a rolltop desk and remove

a large hypodermic needle from one of the drawers. He

filled it with a clear yellow fluid—probably the same

stuff he'd drugged me with down in the cellar—then

walked over and handed the needle to his boss.

Part of me knew I should be flailing about, scream¬

ing like a banshee, and desperately trying to get away,

but I j u s t didn't have it in me. I was battered, bruised,

and bleeding, and every inch of my body hurt like hell.

Worse still, the impact with the metal screen had r e -

opened my right shoulder wound, and with the amount

of blood I was leaking all over the floor, I was getting

light-headed, feeling n u m b , stunned, and more than a

little lethargic.

I'm sure I would have passed out on my own if they'd

given me another thirty seconds, but Dr* Marshall wasn't

taking any chances. He viciously plunged the hypoder¬

mic needle into my thigh, but I don't remember feeling

any pain. I never even screamed. Within seconds, every¬

thing went black.

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y

Speaking from the experience of someone who has

drank several hundred gallons of cheap, often home¬

made booze, then eventually progressing to stolen

Sterno, I knew what it was like to wake up with a head¬

ache. I was an authority on them, actually. I've had

more hangovers than I care to remember, but none of

those self-induced headaches hurt half as bad as the

way I felt when I finally woke up and slowly stirred back

to life.

My head was pounding, driving a six-inch spike of

agony through my brain with every blood-pulsing beat

of my heart. I didn't dare open my eyes. Heaven forbid.

Instead, I lay perfectly still, j u s t concentrated on tak¬

ing short, shallow breaths, and tried to ride out the

storm.

Must have been a hell of a party last night. Blue J and I

must have really—

Then, t h r o u g h all the pain and the hazy memories

filtering out of my drug-saturated brain, I remem¬

bered where I was and what had happened to me up

in the castle's tower r o o m . I tried to fight it, deny my

m e m o r i e s , because accepting the t r u t h would lead

me in a direction I simply wasn't ready to go. No

way.

Maybe Puckman brewed up another batch of that awful

Screech, and I drank so much I don't—

I gave up halfway through my pitiful attempt at avoid¬

ing reality. W h a t was the point? I knew perfectly well

where I was and why I had such a bad headache. All the

lies and wishful t h i n k i n g in the world weren't going to

help my situation or make me feel any better. Why

bother?

Because the truth scaredme too much, that's why.

Obviously the reason I had a headache was because

I'd been whacked out on drugs. W h y had I been drugged?

Because Drake was taking me to the operating room

for surgery. Why was I headed to surgery? Because Dr.

Marshall said—

He said he needed my legs.

Oh God, please. Not that. Not my legs.

Not my fucking legs.'

My thoughts seemed to freeze up. I wouldn't allow—

couldn't allow—myself to keep t h i n k i n g about this. I

wanted to die, right then and there. Die, before I found

out if anything had happened to me.

I opened my eyes.

Then I started screaming.

I didn't have proof yet that my legs were gone—I

hadn't looked down or anything—but I didn't need to.

Lying six feet away from m e , strapped in his own bed

and looking straight at me was Lucas, the older man

who'd begged me to end his suffering in the blood bank

room. He was shaking his head and looking at me with

a sad expression on his face.

"Welcome to Hell," Lucas whispered, then turned

his face away from me.

This can't be happening.

But it was. There was only one reason I'd be lying next

to Lucas. Dr. Marshall had made good on his threat to

take my legs from m e , and even worse, he'd decided to

put me up in his special room on the fourth floor. He'd

carved me up, and turned me into one of his Bleeders.

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E

I must have passed out again, because it was nighttime

when next I opened my eyes, the Bleeders' room deathly

quiet and in darkness. The only light came from the

window, the moonlight filtering in through a foot-wide

gap left in the heavy curtains. It was still too dark for

me to see much of anything, which was a little unnerv¬

ing, but at least my headache was a lot better.

I tried to sit up a few inches, trying to peer through

the gloom to get a look around, and that was when I

learned I was strapped to the mattress. So I didn't fall

out of bed, I suppose. With no arms or legs, it was prob¬

ably a good idea, but it pissed me off. I started twisting

and turning, trying to get myself free. I thrashed and

pulled and lashed my body around in a senseless fit of

pure adrenaline-fueled anger. Truth be told, my rage

didn't really have anything to do with the straps, they

were j u s t the last straw after I'd been so violated body

and soul lately. Eventually, exhaustion and pain calmed

me down, and I lay panting for air in the dark with tears

running down both cheeks.

"You okay, Mike?" a voice said on my right.

It was a familiar voice, but I couldn't quite place it. It

didn't sound like Lucas, but that's who'd been beside

me earlier, hadn't it? I turned my head and could make

out a big lump on the bed next to m e , but that was

about it.

"Who's there?" I asked. "That you, Lucas?"

"No. Lucas is in the bed on y o u r left. It's Red Beard,

M i k e , remember m e ? "

"Course I do. H o w you doing?"

Stupid question, but it was out of my mouth before I

thought about it.

"Same as y o u " Red said, "Cut down to n o t h i n g by

that filthy bastard surgeon, and wishing I was dead."

I looked around the room again, trying to see how

many other beds were filled.

"I can hardly see, Red, are Bill Smith and W h e e l s

here too?

"Nope. Just us. Wheels was for a while but he died in

his sleep. I think they took too much blood out of him.

Lucky bugger. Haven't a clue what happened to Bill

Smith, though. Never saw him again."

"Maybe Bill made a run for it and got out of here. I

tried that myself."

"Me too," Red Beard said. "That's how I ended up in

here. Piss Dr. Marshall off and this is where he sticks

you, I think. Oh, and don't worry about y o u r vision.

Your eyes will get better accustomed to seeing in the

dark once you've been here a while longer. You've only

been here for about three weeks. Give it,some time."

Three weeks?

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "This is my

first day, isn't it?"

Red laughed at that. "No, 'fraid not, my friend. They

brought you in at least two weeks ago, but I think it was

closer to three. They keep the new arrivals pretty

drugged, to keep the pain down and let y o u r wounds

heal without you moving around. You were probably in

a recovery room for a few days too."

Son of a bitch,

I guess that explained the killer headache—they'd

had me out like a light for weeks. It dawned on me then

that I had no idea what the date was, or how long I'd

been here at the castle. I didn't even know what m o n t h

it was.

"What's the date, Red? Any idea?"

"Does it matter?" he asked. "None of that makes a dfference anymore, so forget about it. Around here there

are only two days of the week you need to worry about.

Bad days, when they drain our blood, and good days,

when they leave us the fuck alone. That's it, good or bad.

N o t h i n g else matters."

We lay in silence for a long time, and I felt myself

starting to nod off again. I was sleepy but I had to ask.

"Hey, Red?"

"Yeah?" he answered, sounding tired as well.

"What day is tomorrow? "

I heard him take a deep breath; then in a soft whisper

said, "Bad. Get some sleep."

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T W O

Apparently I slept in. I woke up at the crack of dawn,

the sunlight j u s t starting to chase the darkness away,

but everyone in the room whose mind was still intact

was already wide-awake and starting to get nervous.

The nurses and the orderlies would be coming through

the door soon.

"It can't be that bad, can it?" I turned to ask Red

Beard, but it was old Lucas, on my left, who answered.

"You ever donated blood before?" Lucas asked.

"Sure," I said. "Lots of times. It was never that big of

a deal."

"Yeah, I agree with ya. W h e r e did they take it from?"

"What?"

"The blood. W h e r e did they take it out of y o u ? "

"Oh, my arm."

"Right. W h i c h arm do you want them to take it out

of today? Oh, that's right, you don't have anyfrtggin'

arms, j u s t like the rest of us, ya damn fool. They'll be

takin' it out of your head, for Christ's sake. Ever had a

big needle jabbed into your head, Mike?"

Lucas was obviously hot u n d e r the collar, but I wasn't

sure if he was genuinely mad at me for not killing him

when I'd had the chance, or if he was j u s t on edge,

nervous about what was about to happen. Probably a

bit of both, so I bit my tongue and didn't say anything

back.

"Relax, Lucas," Red Beard j u m p e d to my defense.

"He's new, it's not his fault he doesn't know what's hap¬

pening."

"I know," Lucas sighed. "It was j u s t such a stupid

question, and I feel like crap today. I j u s t want it all to

end, Red. I can't take much more of this, I really can't."

"I know, Lucas," Red commiserated. "We all want it

to end."

I felt a bit like a spectator at a tennis match, turning

to my left, then right, as my roommates talked back

and forth. W h e n they lapsed into silence for a moment,

I j u m p e d into their conversation.

"First of all, Lucas, I'm really sorry I didn't finish the

j o b , back when you wanted my help. You don't need to

forgive m e , but understand something. I wanted to

help, I tried to help, but I fucked up. I got scared and

ran to save my own ass. N o t that it did me much

good."

"Ah shit, Mike," Lucas said. "I don't hold it against

ya. I'd have done the same. It's j u s t this awful place. It

drives ya crazy. They torture us again and again, and

there's nothin' we can do about it. Wears a man down

after a while. Wears him until he snaps. Remember

Charlie, the guy who started screaming and brought

the guards r u n n i n g that night?"

"Yeah, I remember," I said, t h i n k i n g about how I

couldn't get him to quiet down and shut up.

"Well, he finally snapped. His body's still over there,

third bed on the right, but his mind has shut down and

gone bye-bye. God, how I envy him!"

"Don't say that, Lucas. You gotta keep fighting. We're

not dead yet."

He j u s t glared at me with that sad look on his face

again, as if he pitied my optimism, then turned his

head the other way and refused to talk anymore. I tried

a few times, but Red Beard told me to save my breath.

"Forget it, Mike," Red said. "He can get like this

before we get hooked up. He'll be fine in a while. It's

always better once t h i n g s are underway. You'll see."

"So tell me what to expect." I asked. "What are they

gonna do to us?"

"Okay. Here's the deal. Dr. Marshall goes through a

shitload of blood around here, keeping all his experi¬

ments going. He gets some of it shipped in from a few

legal blood banks, but most of the blood comes from

right here in this room.

"Take a look around, Mike. Counting you, we have

fourteen warm bodies strapped in tight and waiting for

the nurses. Fourteen! That's it to fill the demand for all

Dr. Marshall's experiments. You do the math."

"You can't be serious?" I asked. "He'd have to take a

bathtub of blood out of each of us."

Lucas chose this m o m e n t to decide he was in a talk¬

ative mood again. "Exactly! They damn near drain us

dry."

Red Beard quickly added, "Well, not exactly. It j u s t

feels that way. They take way more than they should,

that's for sure. I heard one of the nurses say the average

h u m a n body contains around ten to twelve pints of

blood, depending on their weight. Something like that,

anyway. Lose half your blood and you can kiss your ass

good-bye. Trouble is, with our limbs removed, we must

have less blood than an average human, right? Say seven

or eight pints, tops. They take two and a half pints out

of each of us, sometimes a bit more."

"Leaves you completely drained of energy and feel¬

ing like a sack of shit," Lucas said. "You'll be so tired,

you'll sleep the whole day away. Then they'll let us rest

tomorrow, so we can build up a new supply for them to

do it all over again."

I remembered something from the last time I'd been

in this room. "Why were some of you hooked up dur¬

ing the night, then? I remember seeing more than one

of you with the drain needles still in your head."

"Don't remind me," Lucas said, shuddering at the

thought. "We were working overtime. Getting punished.

It happens every now and then. Dr. Marshall accuses us

of holding out, as if we could, and he'll put us on the

slow drip all night long. The needles hurt like hell, and

it's j u s t his way of abusing us and keeping us scared of

him."

A few minutes later, two nurses and two large, mus¬

cular orderlies stormed into the room. They were all

business and went straight to work. The nurses set the

needles, and the orderlies hooked up the auto-siphon

machines beside the bed and were also available to beat

a little cooperation into any of us that dared to scream,

cry, or turn our heads away from the needle.

N o n e of them looked into any of our eyes or said a

single word of encouragement or commiseration. You'd

think they'd have at least some pity for us, but I never

witnessed even a trace of compassion as they went about

their cold methodical business.

How can these people be so cruel?

I don't know how much Dr. Marshall was paying

them, but it must have been bundles. There's no other

way anyone would be able to stomach doing this j o b

every second day. Unless—were they j u s t as fanatical

about the doctor's work as he was? N a h , had to be the

money.

Surprisingly, the long needle inserted into a vein

r u n n i n g along the left side of my face didn't hurt as

much as Fd been expecting it to. Going in, at least. It

wasn't until the orderly turned on the siphon machine

that things started getting bad.

Really bad.

All the previous times I'd donated blood in the outside

world, I can't say I remember ever feeling the blood com¬

ing out. You j u s t lay down on a bed, or sat on a chair,

waiting for the little bag to fill so you could head for the

dessert tray to claim your snack. Sometimes it might

take half an hour to complete your donation.

That wasn't the case for us Bleeders. They turned up

the juice on the machines, actually sucking the blood

from our veins instead of waiting around for Mother

N a t u r e and gravity to do the j o b . W i t h every pull of

the machine, I felt like I was going to pass out, the

blood surging within me as it was forced out the clear

plastic tube attached to my head.

W i t h i n minutes, it started to hurt. H u r t like a bas¬

tard, in fact, the pain steadily growing with every throb

of the machine. It might have been my nerves, or my

imagination, but it felt like it was pulling blood from

me harder and harder. I had this strange thought that

the next time the machine pulled, it was going to suck

my brain right from my skull out the tube like a big

scrambled lump of pureed jelly. It didn't happen, but

man did I get a splitting headache. Just as bad as the

drug-induced pain I'd experienced after waking from

my last surgery.

Headache or not, they kept sucking my life fluid out

of m e , taking more and more until I was sure they in¬

tended to bleed me to death.

Just like Wheels. Probably how they deal with all the

troublemakers, sucking the life out of us with a big straw.

I started to become delirious, screaming for someone

to help me, to stop them killing me like this. I thrashed

around in bed, fighting against the thick straps that held

me down,panicking,coveredinsweat, and three-quarters

out of my mind from having lost so much blood.

My screams brought the orderlies r u n n i n g and one

of them mercilessly ripped the needle from my head to

end my first session as Dr. Marshall's new blood donor.

W h e n he yanked it out, the needle scratched against

my skull j u s t above my ear. That set fireworks of agony

flashing down the entire left side of my body, tiny pin¬

points of light dancing in my glassy, unfocused eyes.

A nurse stepped forward and bandaged me u p , but by

this point I was so out of it, I barely knew what was go¬

ing on. I couldn't figure out who these people were, or

why they were standing around looking at me. Before I

could attempt to ask, the lights went out again and I

was plunged into a deep, dark, semidead sleep.

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T H R E E

I was r u n n i n g down the center of the street, rain soak¬

ing me from above, plastering my hair to my head as I

willed my legs to move faster and faster. I was dream¬

ing, of course, and fully aware of where it was my dream

legs were taking me, but I had no way of waking up or

changing my destination even if I wanted to. Finding

the dead bodies of my wife and son and the badly in¬

j u r e d body of my daughter certainly wasn't a pleasant

experience but at least I would see them again and that

counted for something.

My dream was always a bit fuzzy at the start, but

usually it started with the phone call. I was halfway

through my beer, t h i n k i n g how wonderful it was I was

ahead and sure to win the silly chug game when the

phone rang. I know now that it's for m e , but back then

it was j u s t a distraction that made me slow down enough

that my buddy beat me. We had a dollar on the line—

which seemed pretty important at the time—so I was

asking for a rematch when the bartender, Ronnie, tapped

me on the shoulder with a pallid, blank expression on

his face that made me think he'd seen a ghost.

"It's the police," Ronnie said. "Lookin' for you. You'd

better come take this."

"Hello?" I asked, reminding myself to keep my sen¬

tences short so I wouldn't slur my words.

Sometimes the dream played out in full; me swaying

on my feet as I tried to understand what the police of¬

ficer was telling me. Jackie, Arlene, and Daniel had

been in a car accident, a bad one, and things weren't

looking good. There was an ambulance on the way and

Jackie had told the cops where to find me before pass¬

ing out; the last words she'd ever say, and I wasn't there

to hear them.

Sometimes I got lucky, like tonight, and the dream

skipped ahead a few minutes to my mad dash in the

rain-drenched street toward the twisted piece of metal

and plastic that had once been our family's silver Honda

Civic. The car was upside down, the entire front end

gone, wrapped around a wooden telephone pole on the

soft shoulder of the road.

As I ran closer, I could see the windows were all

smashed out and it's right here I usually want to wake

up because I know from experience that in a few more

strides I'll be able to see Daniel's body still trapped in

the backseat, his blood-covered little arm waving in the

air for help. I'll run even harder to get to the car, but by

the time I make it there I'm always too late. Daniel is

still alive and looking at m e , but the light is fading in

his beautiful blue eyes and he dies before we can say a

word to each other. I don't even get to touch his offered

hand before he goes, and I'll hate myself forever for not

being able to run faster.

Something was screwy with tonight's dream, though,

something different, because when I ran up to the car

Daniel wasn't in the backseat. He wasn't in the car at

all, and neither was his mother, who by all rights should

be slumped over the wheel, partially impaled on the

broken steering column, as I'd actually found her. Arlene was there in the passenger seat, but she wasn't

covered in blood and screaming the way I remember.

N o , she was j u s t sitting there, quiet as a mouse, staring

at me with black empty eyes filled with hatred and ac¬

cusation.

There was a cop standing near m e , and I turned to

him and asked, "What's going on? Where's Jackie and

Daniel? They're supposed to be here, waiting for me in

the car like all the other times."

The policeman looked at me kind of funny, but

said, "The ambulance arrived about ten minutes ago.

They've taken y o u r wife and son to the closest medi¬

cal facility."

This was news to me. It certainly never happened

like that with the real accident so I wasn't sure how to

react or what to do.

"Are they dead?" I asked. Of course they were, but I

had to say something.

"No, sir. From what I understand, they're both busted

up pretty badly but the paramedic treating them said

they should make it if they get to the hospital in time."

"Which hospital?" I asked, feeling like a jackass for

getting my hopes up. I know I'm dreaming and they

both died years ago but none of that mattered right

now. If they're still alive, even j u s t in this crazy dream,

then I had a chance to see them one last time. See

them, hold them, talk to them, tell both of them how

much I loved them and how I was sorry I made Jackie

drag our family out on a stormy night like this j u s t be¬

cause I was too drunk to drive home myself. N o n e of

my words could change the past or make anything bet¬

ter, but I had to at least try.

"It's not far from here," the policeman said. "Get in

the cruiser, I'll take you there."

Arlene got out of the car and walked over toward us.

I held the police cruiser door open for her, thinking

and h o p i n g she was coming with m e , but she walked off

into the dark stormy night without another glance in

my direction.

She's walking out of my life, forever, I thought. At least

I had that part right.

Shaking my head to clear the rain and tears from my

eyes, I j u m p e d in the cruiser and waved for the cop to

get moving. On the ride over, I was praying I wouldn't

wake up. I wouldn't even speak to the police officer, think¬

ing that any change of thought or focus and my dream

might veer off in some other unwanted direction. This

was the closest I'd come to seeing my wife and son in

nearly four years and I knew it was too good to be true.

It wouldn't last, couldn't last, but if I could j u s t stay

asleep for five more minutes, to kiss Jackie one more

time, to hold little Daniel in my arms for just one m i n

ute, that was all I wanted. Was that asking too much?

My panic alarm started to go off as we left the city

limits, the police cruiser taking a left onto a paved road

that wound its way t h r o u g h a forest of tall sturdy trees.

There wasn't a hospital outside of the city. Was there?

Why hadn't they taken Jackie and Daniel to Buffalo

General. Surely it was closer to the accident scene than

this.

"Where are we?" I asked, looking at the policeman

for the first time since getting into his cruiser.

"We're at the medical center," he said. "Don't you

recognize the place?"

I looked back out the front window j u s t as the car

exited the woods and saw that we had entered the park¬

ing lot of N a t h a n Marshall's ugly red-bricked medical

center. There was an ambulance parked near the front

entrance, lights still flashing.

God, no! Not here!

"Why did they bring my family here? They need to

go to a real hospital. This place is evil."

"Evil? Listen, man, I don't know what to tell you, but

if you want to see y o u r wife and kid, this Is where they

are. If you'd rather I take you back into town—"

"No!" I screamed, a bit louder than intended. "Just

hurry u p , okay?" By the time we'd pulled to a stop be¬

side the ambulance, the policeman looked relieved to

see me get out of his car.

"Good luck, my friend."

I didn't bother answering or thanking him for the

ride. I took off r u n n i n g again. I couldn't bear the

thought of Dr. Marshall getting his hands on my fam¬

ily and every second might count. No one was inside

the ambulance so I headed for the front doors, only to

find both securely locked. I glanced back at the police

cruiser, ready to scream for help, but the words died in

my throat when I saw that it was Drake standing beside

the car, dressed in policeman blue and grinning at me

from under the brim of his rain-soaked hat. He pointed

at the door, then held up his big meaty fist and made a

knocking gesture in the air beside his head.

I didn't want to turn my back on Drake, but I was

more concerned for my family at the moment, so I

started pounding on the front door of the castle,

screaming for someone to let me in. The heavy door

swung open and Dr. Marshall's bitchy old secretary

ushered me in out of the rain.

"Where are they?" I asked, my fear barometer

steadily climbing, my patience gone.

"Relax, Mr. Fox. You'll find your family is quite well.

Dr. Marshall has taken care of them and they're both

resting comfortably up on the fourth floor. You can see

them anytime you'd like. I think you know the way."

With that, the secretary spun on her heels and walked

away into the high-domed atrium without a glance back

to see what I intended to do. N o t that I had any options.

The fourth floor—

Why would they have been taken to the fourth floor?

N o n e of the patient rooms were up there. The only

thing on that floor w a s —

No. Please, no!

I headed for the stairs, bolting up them two at a time,

moving as fast as I could. No matter how fast I moved,

though, I had a sinking feeling where this dream was

heading and there was no o u t r u n n i n g the shadow of

dread that followed, nipping at my heels. I burst into

the fourth-floor hallway and made a beeline for the

Bleeders' room halfway down the hall. It was the only

place up here my wife and son could possibly be.

At the door, I forced myself to walk inside. If I stopped

to catch my breath I might never work up the nerve to

go through with this. Jackie and Daniel were in the

first two beds on the right-hand side of the room, and

with one glance my worst fears were confirmed. Dr.

Marshall had cut their arms and legs off and turned

them both into Bleeders.

I ran to the foot of their beds, crying my eyes out

and wanting so desperately to tell them how sorry I

was this had happened, but I never got the chance.

Jackie took one look at me and turned her head away in

shame and disgust. Daniel, my pride and joy, didn't

turn away. N o , he looked right into my eyes and said,

"Look what you've done to us, Dad. I'll hate you for¬

ever for this."

I woke up screaming, my sheets soaked with so much

sweat it was as if I'd really been in the rainstorm of my

dream. I cried for hours, huge racking sobs, but no one

came to comfort me or see if I was okay. No one did

anything; not even the other Bleeders in the room with

me. Maybe they were used to hearing people scream,

or maybe they were lost within their own nightmares

tonight, and had no time to console me for mine. Ei¬

ther that, or perhaps there was j u s t no one left on earth

that gave a damn about me. ~

I closed my eyes and waited to die.

W h a t else could I do?

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - F O U R

Lucas was right—this terrible place destroyed a man

after a while.

Wears him until he snaps.

I hadn't really understood the truth in what he'd said

at the time, and I hadn't been here even close to as long

as him, but as the days slowly turned to weeks, I had no

more doubts. As strong-willed and stubborn as I'd al¬

ways prided myself in being, I knew this place was go¬

ing to get the better of me. It was j u s t a matter of time.

The days when they drained our blood were a total

write-off—nothing but pain and suffering and, eventu¬

ally, the welcome embrace of unconsciousness. On the

off days, when they left us alone, all we did was sleep

and hope the world would come to an end. As nighttime

approached, the tension in the air would crank up a

notch or two, everyone's thoughts—mine included—

t u r n i n g to what awaited with the rising of the sun. Ex¬

haustion, anxiety, then full-blown fear were familiar

emotions, a never-ending cycle interrupted only by

sleep and the inevitable arrival of the nurses with their

new batch of needles.

I wanted to die. So did all of the rest of the Bleeders—

the ones still coherent enough to know what was being

done to them, anyway. Kill us quickly, and get it over

with. This slow torturous death we'd been condemned

to was inhuman and unbearable. There was no end in

sight, though, and nothing we could do about it.

At least things couldn't possibly get any worse.

Wrong.

"Why haven't they come yet?" I asked Lucas. "Have

they ever forgotten before?"

It was a bad day today, but the nurses and orderlies

hadn't shown up to hook us up to the machines. The

clock on the wall indicated that it was almost noon, and

so far, at least, not a soul had entered our room.

"Never," Lucas replied, fear evident in his hushed

voice. "Very strange. Something must be up."

The words were barely out of his mouth, when the

door burst open and in walked Dr. Marshall and Alex¬

ander Drake. An audible gasp was heard around the

room, but then you could have heard a syringe needle

drop on the floor, everyone deathly silent wondering

what was about to happen.

Uh-oh. This can't be good.

Dr. Marshall and Drake never came up to the fourth

floor to see us. Never. I highly doubted this was a

friendly social call.

Lucas was right. Somethings going on. But what?

They walked from one end of the room to the other,

creepily pausing to check each of us out closely, before

moving on to the next bed. Dr. Marshall had appar¬

ently discarded his wheelchair, and was now using a

sturdy cane to help him maneuver around. He limped,

but it was hardly noticeable. Quite a remarkable recov¬

ery, especially considering those weren't even his legs.

Made me wonder whose legs they were, and what they

had done to the poor bastard they took them off. Was

he lying here beside m e , somewhere in this room, or

had his usefulness wore out, and he'd already made the

trip down the W A S T E D I S P O S A L chute to the incinerator

down in the basement?

Dr. Marshall and Drake whispered over by the win¬

dow, t u r n i n g to point to one bed or another, then slowly

started making their way back to the door. My heart

began to pound when they stopped at the foot of my

bed and turned to look straight at me.

"You sure?" Dr. Marshall asked his sidekick.

Drake looked at me with eyes as cold, black, and un¬

feeling as those of a great white shark staring down his

prey. Then he took a step closer, a feral grin on his face

that made the resemblance to the shark even more

chilling.

"Oh absolutely. He's the one," Drake said.

The one what?

Ashamed of myself, I was uncontrollably shaking

with fear in the presence of these two madmen. A few

m o n t h s ago, I would have shot back a smart-ass com¬

ment, or at least told them to go fuck themselves, but

most of my courage must have been cut away with my

arms and legs, because I stayed silent, not daring to

speak.

"Fair enough," Dr. Marshall said. "Bring him down

as quickly as possible, Drake. We've wasted too much

time already. I'll go and see that things are ready."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

Dr. Marshall left without another glance back, the

other men strapped in their beds totally insignificant to

him, now that his decision was made. No sooner was he

out the door when a tall lanky orderly pushed a padded

leather-covered gurney into the room and made his

way over to stand beside Drake.

"Let's go for a ride, Mike," Drake said, loving every

second of this. Then to the orderly, he whispered, "Get

him out of here."

"Where you taking m e ? " I asked the orderly, as he

unstrapped me from my bed and roughly heaved me

over onto the bedside gurney.

He ignored my question, not even making eye con¬

tact with m e , so I snouted at Drake, "What's going on,

Drake? Leave me alone, damn it!"

He just grinned and turned away, motioning with his

hand for the orderly to follow. Within seconds, I was re¬

strained on the gurney and being pushed toward the door.

I managed to get a quick look at Lucas and Red Beard.

Both of them were trembling as badly as I was, their faces

paler than Arctic ghosts. I might never see them again,

and I wanted to say something to calm their fears and tell

them not to worry about me, but I never got the chance. I

was out the door and heading down the hallway before

I could think of a single thing to say.

C H A P T E R - T W E N T Y - F I V E

It was a terrifying and disorienting ride on the gurney,

having no idea where I was headed and being strapped

flat on my back, seeing n o t h i n g but fluorescent lights

flashing by on the ceiling as we hurried to catch up

with Drake. He was waiting in the elevator, holding the

door as we entered, still g r i n n i n g at me like an evil

clown with a dirty secret. I knew better than to ask him

anything, so when the doors closed, the three of us

rode down a couple of floors in silence.

Another mad dash down the hallway, once again rac¬

ing to follow the chief of security (Was this the second

floor, or the first?) until Drake finally stopped at a double

set of solid wooden doors, putting his hand on a

wall-mounted scanner and waiting for clearance.

"I'll take him from here, Steve," Drake said to the

orderly, shooing him away and guiding the gurney him¬

self through the open doorway.

Once inside, with the door securely locked, Drake

wheeled me to the center of the room and flicked a

switch on my gurney that enabled him to stand me al¬

most upright, so I could see t h i n g s easier. N o t that

there was much to see. It was quiet inside the room; the

temperature cool and the air heavy with moisture,

reminding me of the saltwater aquariums my father

had taken me to at Marineland in Niagara Falls when I

was a kid. W h e n I craned my head around, I couldn't

see any water, nothing but a big empty room with

Drake and I as the only occupants.

"That you, Drake?" a familiar voice asked.

It was Dr. Marshall's voice, but I still couldn't see

him, or tell where it was coming from.

"Yes, sir," Drake responded. "Ready when you are."

Dr. Marshall appeared out of nowhere, seemingly

walking through a brick wall, until I noticed the heavy

dark curtain flopping back into place and realized there

was more to this room than I was seeing. He walked

over to us and stopped right in front of m e .

"Morning, Mr. Fox," Dr. Marshall started, his tone

light and jovial, which immediately made my skin

crawl. "Consider yourself lucky, my friend. You've been

chosen to take part in something incredible. Some¬

thing, dare I say, miraculous^

I actually started to laugh. I didn't mean t o , but I

couldn't help it. Perhaps my brain was a bit fried and I

was getting close to losing it, but the thought of me be¬

ing considered "lucky" was so far beyond ludicrous, I

couldn't help but chuckle.

"What's so amusing?" Dr. Marshall asked, the friendly

smile sliding off his face.

I knew better than to piss this psycho off further, but

I j u s t didn't care anymore. Screw him!

"You are," I shot back. "What's wrong with you?

You've cut me to shreds and turned me into something

that's not even h u m a n anymore, and I'm supposed to

feel lucky? Oh, for sure! T h a n k s so much, sir. God you're

pathetic. You're so freakin' out of your mind it's comi¬

cal, man. Just kill me and get it the fuck over with."

The room was quiet after my little tirade-—really

quiet—nobody m a k i n g a sound. Dr. Marshall stared at

m e , his body shaking with tension, hatred clearly shin¬

ing in his eyes, but he took a fall minute to compose

himself before speaking.

"Show him, Drake. Open the curtain."

Drake hurried over to the area where the surgeon

had appeared from a few minutes earlier, and found the

split in the center of the cloth. He opened the right-hand

half of the curtains, dragging the heavy drapes over

and securing them to the wall with a matching cloth

tieback bolted in place.

Beyond the curtain, the rest of the room was in dark¬

ness. I could make out a large glass container of some

sort, but with the way the meager light from this side of

the room was casting shadows, I couldn't make out what

I was supposed to be seeing.

Then Drake turned on the lights, and the breath was

literally sucked from my lungs as I stared in disbelief at

what was inside the glass tank.

It was the naked body of a well-conditioned m a n — o r

what used to be a m a n , at any rate—but the head was

missing and there was a massive cut on the body's back,

from the neck to j u s t above the buttocks, where the

man's spine had also been surgically removed. It wasn't

dead, though. N o t even close. W h a t looked like mil¬

lions of tiny colorful wires and electrodes trailed down

into the grievous neck and back wounds, presumably

attaching into the body's complex central nervous

system because the body was twitching and dancing

within the liquid-filled tank like a drunken vaudevillian actor.

"What on earth is that t h i n g ? " I worked up the cour¬

age to ask, my curiosity getting the better of my fear

for the moment.

Drake laughed, walking over to whisper in my ear,

"That thing, Mike, is what we're calling a flesh suit.

Basically, it's a body in waiting. It's what's left of your

buddy, Bill Smith. Should have been you actually, now

that I think of it."

Bill?

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We t h o u g h t it was Mr. Smith who'd snuck into room

301 during your first night here. We thought he was

the guy who discovered Andrew's room was a fake, so

we grabbed him the very next night. It should have

been you."

"But why?" I wanted to know. "Why would you do

something like this to him, or to anyone?"

Dr. Marshall answered this time. "Two reasons. To

shut him u p , for one. We didn't want him telling the

rest of you what we thought he'd seen in Andrew's room.

We soon found out we'd made a mistake, but by then it

was too late to turn back. M o r e importantly, I needed

his body for the most important experiment of all, the

final step in my plan to free Andrew from his long life

of misery."

Dr. Marshall bent over and stuck his face inches away

from mine then continued, saying, "You can call me

insane all you want, Mr. Fox, and this might strike you

as comical and seem like n o t h i n g but a big j o k e , but

this is serious to m e , you worthless little piece of s h i t . . .

deadly serious, and whether you like it or not, you're

going to help me. Understand? Andrew is going to

walk."

N o w I was m a k i n g the connections, putting it all

together as far as Andrew was concerned, but where did

I fit into all this madness?

"What are you gonna do to m e ? " I asked.

Dr. Marshall backed up a few steps and started smil¬

ing again, his friendly demeanor back in place.

"Simple really" he said. "I'm going to do to you ex¬

actly what I plan on putting Andrew through. He's in a

very unstable condition, and time is of the essence, but

I don't want to rush ahead and screw up. He's only got

one more chance, and I have to make sure all the kinks

are out of my procedure. That's where you come in.

You're going to be my final test, Mike. I'm going to try

the entire procedure on you first to make sure it works.

Then I'll be ready to heal Andrew."

I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I was shocked,

and it must have registered on my face because Dr. Mar¬

shall started reassuring me things would be okay.

"Don't worry, Mr. Fox. Everything will turn out

great. Glorious, in fact. You've seen my experiments, so

you know I can do this. You should be grateful, really.

I'm going to give you back arms and legs, Mike. Think

about it. I'm going to make you walk again. You and

Andrew both!"

There was part of me buying into the doctor's crazy

spiel—a large part of m e , actually I had no doubts the

doctor could successfully do what he was planning, and

I desperately wanted to have my arms and legs back and

be able to stand on my own two feet, rather than being

strapped to this stupid gurney. Technically they wouldn't

be my arms and legs, but in the half-bonkers state of

mind I was in, that was starting to sound better than

nothing.

But then I took another look at Bill's electronically

animated body dancing in its tank in front of me and

realized that to put me inside that body, Dr. Marshall

would have to cut me down even further—down to my

head and spine j u s t like Andrew—and that was some¬

thing I j u s t couldn't handle. Another surgery would

surely drive me insane and I didn't want any part of it.

"Please don't do this," I pleaded. "I didn't know him

all that well, but I don't wanna wear Bill's body. I

couldn't live with myself. I'm begging you. Just kill me

now and let it be done with, okay?"

"Bill's body?" Dr. Marshall questioned. Drake and

he started to laugh. "Don't worry, you won't be wearing

Bill's body. Are you crazy?"

I didn't understand what I had said that was so funny.

I was tired and very confused. Had I missed something

or heard the doctor wrong?

"You're not going to put my head on that body? But

you j u s t said—"

"Of course not, you fool," Dr. Marshall interrupted.

"You think I'd waste a specimen like this on you? Bill

Smith's flesh suit is perfect. It's fit as a fiddle and blem¬

ish free. It's the ideal new body for Andrew."

He nodded to Drake, who happily walked over to the

left-hand curtains still drawn across to the middle of

the room. W i t h a wink, Drake slowly shoved this half

of the heavy drapes to the side wall, revealing a second

glass tank and a second flesh suit dancing in its own

watery grave.

Sweet mother of Jesus!

The glass tanks and the myriad color-coded wires

were virtually identical, but that was where the similari¬

ties ended. Bill Smith's body might have looked strange,

suspended without a head, but at least it still looked rela¬

tively human. W h a t was in the other tank could only be

described as grotesque—a flesh suit made with bits and

pieces from several different bodies (torso, hands, feet,

arms, legs, fingers, toes), the parts all sewn and grafted

together to make a hideous parody of a h u m a n being.

"This is your flesh suit, Michael," Dr. Marshall said.

"I pieced it together from the various experiment parts

I had lying around. It's an amazing accomplishment in

itself, really, with more than twelve different body do¬

nors being used in all. Add your head and spine into the

mix, and we'll have used thirteen. A nice baker's dozen.

I know it's not quite as attractive as the suit Andrew

will be getting, but beggars can't be choosers. W h a t do

you think?"

My mind froze on me again. My thought processes

ground to a halt. Looking at the monstrous body that

might soon be my own, I couldn't think or say anything

that might help get me out of this crazinessi Partly fas¬

cinated, partly curious, but mostly horrified, I j u s t stared

up at the headless dancing Frankenstein and prayed to

die before Dr. Marshall could do to me what I knew he

had planned.

God wasn't listening.

"Mr. Drake," Dr. Marshall said. "Take Michael down

the hall, will you? Operating room three is prepped

and ready for us."

"Be a pleasure, sir," Drake said. "A real pleasure."

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S I X

The mirror had to have been Drake's inspiration. His

sick twisted idea of humor to torture my fragile mind

even further. Instead of breaking me completely, as I'm

sure he'd hoped, if anything, it made me stronger.It

replaced my fear and anxiety with good ol' red-blooded

American bitterness and hatred, and I needed that in¬

tense level of anger to sustain me through the senseless

indignities I was being forced to endure. Rage became

my companion, my ally, my savior.

W h e n I'd first opened my eyes, I thought they'd put

me into a room with Andrew, put us so close together I

was looking right into his haunted-bloodshot eyes, and

seeing his ragged neckline with its multitude of wires

leading down to his thrashing submerged spine. But

once I fully awakened and my mind became a little

clearer I recognized the eyes, nose and. jawline of the

person I was gazing at, and noticed the thin wooden

frame around the perimeter of the silver-backed glass.

A man in a mirror—three guesses, first two don't count.

Drake had obviously put the mirror there j u s t so I

could see what they'd done to me. It wasn't enough for

me to know I'd been reduced down to a disembodied

head and spinal column—he wanted me to see it with

my own eyes.

It's impossible to describe the series of emotions that

washed over my damaged psyche at that moment. For

Christ's sake, what are you supposed to think and feel

when you can look down and count the number of ver¬

tebrae in your spine? Maybe shock, horror, sadness,

denial, self-pity, fear, or insanity? Yep, I had all of those

emotions, but as I said, it was when I started to get

m a d — n o , make that furious—about what they'd done

to me, that was the emotional life preserver I desper¬

ately latched on to. It wasn't much, but my wrath was

all I had left. Either that, or take the big plunge and go

straight out of my freakin' mind.

I was left alone for a long t i m e , silently staring at

what was left of my decimated body, my anger building

and building until I was sure steam would start leaking

from my ears. I couldn't even scream. I tried, you can

be sure of that, tried and tried, but no sound was com¬

ing out I didn't have any vocal cords left, or lungs to

push air up past them to make sound. All I could do was

open and close my mouth, raging in silence.

I soon realized it wasn't my voice I missed most, or any

of the rest of my body. It was the beating of my heart.

Normally we don't even hear it, or put any thought to¬

ward the j o b it performs—until it's gone, that is. I was

still being supplied with sufficient blood to keep my

brain alive-and functional, but somehow it wasn't the

same thing. Although I could hear the similar sounding

thump-swish noise of the heart/lung bypass machine, the

blood flowing through me was no longer mine, and no

word of a lie, I could tell the difference.

Stop getting so fucking philosophical. These bastards have

cut away your whole damned body, why the fuck are you so

worried about your heart? Get over it.

I suppose that was good advice. Made sense, and

jolted my mind back on track. Right now, I'd probably

trade ten good hearts for one meaty fist and a powerful

arm to take a wicked haymaker at both Drake and Dr.

Marshall. That would be sweet, but it was a stupid, ir¬

rational thought. N o t the last, I was sure. I was losing

it, big t i m e , and I knew it. There j u s t wasn't much I

could do to stop it. Then again, maybe sanity was over¬

rated. W h a t good would it do me in my present condi¬

tion? I'd be far better off nutty as a fruitcake, lost in a

delusional sense of reality that had me strolling down

an imaginary white sandy beach with some dark-skinned

beauty on my arm. Wouldn't I?

I spent a minute thinking about the dream beach,

but my illusion was shattered when I heard Drake call

my name from somewhere behind me.

"Looking good, Mike," he said, walking around and

removing the mirror from in front of me.

The tank that held my spine was situated on a low

table near the floor, and I had to crane my neck to look

up at him. The muscle-bound head of security stared

down at me for a full minute without speaking, then

bent down to my eye level, leaning in so dose our noses

were actually touching. His breath stank of stale whis¬

key, but from the slightly glassy look in his drunken

eyes, I was sure I had more to worry about from Drake

than j u s t his bad breath. He had the look of a hungry

predator about him, and there was no doubt I was defi¬

nitely easy prey.

"How you feeling, little man? You cold? I should get

you a s w e a t e r . . . oh, sorry. Sweater wouldn't do you

much good, would it? Perhaps a nice warm hat?"

Drake burst out laughing, spraying my face with spit¬

tle. I hated him more than anyone else in the world at

that moment—even Dr. Marshall, who was most re¬

sponsible for what had happened to me. At least the

doctor was driven by his mad obsession to help his only

son. Drake acted the way he did out of sheer vicionsness.

He was a wickedly evil, pretentious bastard and I vowed

to myself that I'd hang on, somehow find the courage

and strength to live long enough to see him die.

"Dr. Marshall wants to talk to you. Said he'd be along

in a few minutes." Drake leaned down to whisper in my

ear, "What should we do while we're waiting?"

He stepped back a few feet, pretending to ponder it

for a moment, and then started to undo his pants.

You wouldn't DARE?

Of course he would. Seconds later, he had his man¬

hood in his hand and was stroking it hard.

"I've had my eye on you right from the start," Drake

said in a lusty growl. "I like 'em feisty like you, Mike.

N o w you be good, or ol' Drake's gonna have to hurt

you real bad. Understand?"

Perfectly. I opened my m o u t h up as wide as I possibly

could—an open invitation for him. Drive it home, big

boy, see what it gets you!

God, I hoped he'd be stupid enough to do it. If he

stuck that filthy thing in my mouth, there was n o t h i n g

on earth that would stop me from taking a chomp. He

could threaten me with pain, endless suffering, and even

death, but I didn't give two shits about any of that. If he

stuck it in, he was gonna lose it. Guaranteed!

Do it, Drake. Do it!

Something in my eyes must have given my intentions

away, because I saw him hesitate, think things through,

then decide maybe his present course of action wasn't

exactly the smartest. I swear I saw a flicker of fear race

across his face and when his penis started to soften in

his hand I knew I'd gotten the better of him.

"You're not worth the bother," Drake said, trying to

backpedal and cover his tracks.

He was far too macho to ever admit I'd managed to

scare him. Instead he zipped up his pants and walked

out of the room without saying another word.

He sulked back a few minutes later with Dr. Mar¬

shall, who seemed to be walking around much better

now than I remembered. Made me wonder how long I'd

been floating around in recuperation land this time and

I actually tried to ask, forgetting I couldn't speak. The

doctor saw my lips moving and walked over.

"Save your strength, Mr. Fox," he said. "I've tried to

master reading lips, so I could communicate better

with Andrew, but I j u s t don't seem to have the knack

for it. Besides, I've come to tell you some great news."

I highly doubted that, but what could I do but wait

for him to spill the beans?

"I've gone over all the test data at least twenty times,

Michael. Everything looks exactly as I'd predicted and

hoped. We're ready to go ahead and do the transplant.

Yours that is, not Andrew's. I still need to study the re¬

sults of y o u r transplant into the flesh suit before I com¬

mit to doing Andrew."

This was his good news? That I was headed back for

more surgery? Admittedly, I sure as hell didn't want to

remain in the pitiful helpless condition I was in now, but

the thought of being sewn up inside that hideous patch¬

work body I'd seen clumsily dancing in the second tank

was too much to contemplate rationally. I mean, how

could I possibly exist within a body made up of thirteen

different people? Michael Fox: from street bum to Fran¬

kenstein, in four easy steps. W h a t a nightmare.

I started to panic, helpless to do anything but squirm

around and shout silent obscenities, but I had to do

something. I couldn't j u s t sit idly by and be turned into

a walking freakshow without at least trying to fight.

N o t that it did me any good. As soon as Dr. Marshall

saw me getting agitated and dangerously thrashing

around, he filled yet another of his seemingly endless

large syringes and injected it into one of the tubes

flowing in and out of my neck. I felt the drug's effect

immediately, and was powerless to fight against it. My

eyes were closing before he even withdrew the needle.

"Don't worry, Mr. Fox " I heard Dr. Marshall say

from what seemed like ten miles away. "You won't need

to suffer in this bodiless state much longer. Fll have

you fixed up in no time at all. You'll feel much better

the next time you open your eyes. Like a new man, in

fact. Literally, a ... whole ... n e w . . . man."

PART F O U R

T H E M O N S T E R

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S E V E N

For a while I disappeared. Gonzo. I lay perfectly still,

strapped down unnecessarily tight in a bed, in a room,

in a hospital, in a world I had no knowledge existed. I

was far beyond any sort of rational thought, confused

and disoriented for several eternities, as time laughed

and passed me by.

The first thing I remember noticing were the lights.

I've done a lot of strange things in the past, but for

the life of m e , I couldn't figure out when (or why, for

that matter) I'd decided to become an astronaut. Didn't

they have fairly rigid standards about the people ap¬

plying for that type of work? N o t t o be self-depreciating,

but come on— me? Surely N A S A could do better than

that. One m o m e n t I was in a cold dark place (the

shuttle's cockpit?) with my eyes closed, then the next

someone pushed the blastoff button and I opened my

eyes to a galaxy of exploding planets, fiery comets,

and shooting stars—an u n e n d i n g supernova of bright

lights and awesome colors that were truly awesome

sights to behold.

Were there really rainbows in outer space?

I was tripping, of course, the blinding light show tak¬

ing place only in my mind, my brain saturated with

enough pain medication, it was probably draining out

of my ears onto the pillow. For m o n t h s I was a full

card-carrying member of Star Command, only touch¬

ing back down to Earth long enough to refuel my meds.

Good thing too, because gravity hurt like hell. I was in

such extreme agony it hurt too much to waste energy

screaming. It felt like my body had been crushed to

pulp in an industrial metal press.

Later—much later—the stone-faced nurses told me

that Fd wake up screaming, "Send me back. Send me

back to the fucking moon." And with one push of a sy

ringe they'd do j u s t that—bless their cold little hearts.

Houston, we have a problem.

No doubt.

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - E I G H T

Drugs are wonderful things sometimes, having the

power and strength to mask, in fact alter reality for an

indefinite period of time. But all things pass—whether

good or bad—and eventually so did my j o u r n e y s to the

stars. I'd be lying through my tightly clenched teeth if I

didn't admit I missed them.

Being a juiced-up astronaut was far better than being

a monster. And there was no doubt in my mind that's

what I'd become—a pieced-together nightmare of thir¬

teen mutilated men. Perhaps I was being overly harsh

with that assessment; after all, having a body again had

to be a step up from the liquid-filled glass tank I'd been

calling h o m e , but no matter how hard I tried to get

my head around this, I couldn't change the way I felt. I

should be dead. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Every¬

t h i n g about my continued existence was j u s t wrong.

But damn it, I wasn't dead.

So where did that leave me? Well, in pain, for one

thing. Son of a bitch I was hurting. They hadn't taken

me off all my pain meds, even the nurses weren't that

cruel. I was still on a shitload of them, but they'd be¬

gun what they said was my tapering-off stage. Appar¬

ently the powers that be wanted me coherent enough

that I could get started on my next phase of torture. It

was called rehab.

"Get the hell up," the nurse said, her tone sharp, con¬

frontational. She was a chubby, sour-faced old dame with

her gray hair cinched up in an ubertight bun. She

looked a bit like the secretary downstairs. Had the

same miserable disposition, anyway. I'd never seen her

before and those were the first words out of her m o u t h

as she walked in my room. No good m o r n i n g , no how

ya feeling today, no nothin'. A real sweetheart, this one

was, I could already tell. W h e r e did Dr. Marshall find

these people?

"I am up," I said. "Been awake for an hour already for

Christ's sake, waiting in agony for you to bring me my

meds. Where's my regular nurse?"

She ignored me, of course. They all did. I could rant

and rave, scream, cry, or bark like a dog and none of

them seemed to give a shit. Most of the time I j u s t kept

my m o u t h shut. These weren't my vocal chords I was

speaking with, and my voice still scared the hell out of

me every time I opened my mouth. It wasn't necessarily

a bad voice, nothing freaky like Pee-wee H e r m a n or

overly irritating like Arnold Horshack from that old

70s television sitcom, Welcome BackKotter, but it was

higher pitched than the voice I'd gotten used to and it

freaked me out too much when I started thinking about

whose voice I might have.

"I didn't say, wake up." The old nurse was bending

over, squinting to read my chart on the clipboard at the

foot of my bed. "I said get up! There's a difference. Bet¬

ter clean out your ears and start listening or you and I

are gonna butt heads, you hear?"

"What are you talkin' about?" I asked. "Who the hell

are you?"

"Call me Junie. I'm y o u r resurrectionist."

"Mywha—"

"Your physiotherapist, dumbass, but resurrectionist

somehow seems m o r e appropriate, for most parts of

you anyway."

"Fuck you," I said. Every inch of my body ached and

my head felt like shit. I wasn't in the mood to play word

games and be the brunt of this old bitch's warped sense

of humor. "Give me my meds and get out of my room!"

She stared at me for a long time, stared hard and mean

as a snake. I was pretty sure it had been a long time

since anyone had told her to fuck off, and I could tell

she didn't like it much.

"You're still not listening," she said. "I told you to get

up and I meant it. It's time to start your rehab. You've

lain around long enough. Doc Marshall expects results,

I hope you know. He did his part; time for you to do

yours. On your feet, boy."

N o w I was really pissed off. I'd been torn apart and

sewn back together with discarded spare parts, been

strapped to this ungodly hard bed for who knows how

many bloody months, and my patchwork body hurt me

so bad right now I had to fight hard not to scream. W h o

was this stupid old bat to j u s t walk in here and com¬

mand me to stand up? My resurrectionist—ha! Screw

that.

"I'm not sure what cemetery they dug you up from,

lady, and I really don't care, but someone should've

clued you in to the fact I can't j u s t leap to my feet.

Stand up? Hell, you may as well ask me to float upside

down and dance the j i t t e r b u g on the ceiling. I can

barely move, asshole!"

"Nonsense," Junie said, having none of it. "Stop be¬

ing such a crybaby. This may be the first time you re¬

member seeing m e , but I've been monitoring you for

m o n t h s . W h i l e you were recuperating in a semi-coma,

Dr. Marshall had me hook you up to his fantastic

machines to continually stimulate your new muscles and

stretch out your ligaments and tendons. W h i l e you

slept, y o u r new body parts have been getting to know

each other. We've rigorously worked y o u r arms, legs,

neck, back, h e l l . . . even y o u r fingers and toes. So

don't get all huffy and tell me you can't move. I've

damn well watched you and know you can. Have you

even tried? Or have you been too busy feeling sorry

for yourself?"

"Of course, I've tried," I lied. "I can't do it. I get the

shakes and a lot of leg cramps that make me move.

They damn near kill me, but it's nothin' that I can con¬

trol. Besides, I'm hurtin' way too much right now for

this bullshit. Give me my meds and an hour to let them

kick in and I promise I'll try anything you want. N o t

now, though. No way."

The old physiotherapist shot a look of pure hatred

toward me, then shook her head in disgust. "You're

pitiful, Mike, but the whining stops today. Right now.

You want your pain medication? Here, come an' get 'em

for yourself."

She walked over and placed the familiar plastic con¬

tainer containing my multicolored happy pills on the

roll-away wooden meal tray, positioning it against the

side wall of my room, about seven feet to my right.

Then she turned to leave.

"You can't be serious," I said. Junie didn't answer me.

She was already out the door and gone.

It took a full fifteen minutes before I finally accepted

this wasn't some sort of weird trick and she really wasn't

coming back. Junie the resurrectionist was gone and

my pain meds weren't doing me a lot of good sitting

halfway to the door.

SOB ofa bitch Now what am I gonna do?

I stared at the plastic cup holding my pills—close,

sure, but they may as well have been on the other side

of the planet. My eyes wandered to the emergency call

button attached to a long white cord beside my bed. All

I had to do was push that little red button on the end

and one of my regular nurses would come running.

Surely they'd give me my pills. But first I had to get a

hold of it, and in my condition that was impossible. Or

was k? I had a sneaky feeling trying to use my new

arms would hurt like a bastard, but what alternative did

I have? I had to at least try. Either that or j u s t lay here

and suffer.

Okay then, finger first.

No real reason for it, but I made up my mind to try

wiggling my index finger on my right hand, then work

my way up to trying to move the whole arm. Seemed as

good a plan as any. If crazy old Junie was telling the

truth about them working my muscles while I'd been

napping, this should be a piece of cake.

My finger moved; wiggling on command like it was

nervous. Trouble was, it was the wrong finger. I'd wanted

the index, and the one wiggling was my middle finger.

N o t too bad—just one digit off. I concentrated harder

and really focused on moving my index finger. The

middle finger danced again.

Fuck!

Either I wasn't trying hard enough, or somewhere

along the line I wasn't hardwired up quite right. That

seemed possible. More than possible—inevitable, really.

With all the millions of nerve connections and neural

pathways inside a human body, it only stood to reason

some mistakes would be made when Dr. Marshall stitched

me back together. The question was, how many? H o w

many mistakes and bad connections made up my new

bastardized nervous system? With the kind of luck I'd

had lately, I didn't even want to think about it.

Back to the fingers.

I tried to bend them all this time, not be so picky.

Clench up my hand into a fist and—

Hey, it worked!

I could open them too. Maybe it would j u s t take a

while to fine-tune things and get my dexterity back. I

spent a minute playing with my new hand, smiling

happily, a boy again with a macabre new fleshy toy. It

hurt a bit, a stinging j a b in my knuckles every time I

bent my fingers, but it wasn't as bad as I'd imagined. In

a way it felt good. That might sound ridiculous but it's

true. After months of living in a bodiless state, it was

nice to feel again. Feel anything, even pain.

' Before I realized I was doing it, my right arm was

sliding across the sheet and I was making a grab for the

call button. It took several tries to grab and keep hold

of the small plastic object, but I finally managed. My

entire arm was tingling, a hot funky pins-and-needles

feeling like when your arm falls asleep.

I started to feel a cramp coming on, the ache starting

in my fingers and getting ready to spread up my arm. I

concentrated as hard as I could and felt elated as my

t h u m b acted like a good boy and started clicking the

red call button just like I'd wanted it to. A buzzer started

ringing outside my room, somewhere down the hall,

presumably at the nurses' station.

I let my arm flop to the bed and relaxed. I'd actually

done it, and damned if. I wasn't feeling proud of myself.

I'd used another man's arm, hand, and fingers to do my

bidding. Might not seem like much, but to me it was an

incredible achievement. Surely someone would be along

to answer the buzzer and see what I needed. I j u s t had

to kick back and wait. I kept my eyes on the pill cup,

anticipation bringing a light sheen of sweat to my brow.

A mouthful of saliva, as well. Once a j u n k i e , always a

j u n k i e .

Nobody came.

N o t right away. N o t a few minutes later. N o t ever.

The buzzer rang for several minutes and then went

silent. That got my hopes up, but no soft-soled shoes

came to my door. No nurse, pretty or otherwise, came

smiling into my room to hand me my pills. Instinc¬

tively, I knew I was on my own, j u s t as Junie had said,

but I refused to accept it. Getting out of bed to walk

across the room wasn't something I even wanted to

think about, much less do. Just moving my arm ten

inches across a smooth flat sheet had caused my hand to

cramp. W h a t would happen to my legs if I were stupid

enough to try supporting my weight on the cold hard

floor?

Ten more minutes passed before I closed my eyes,

gritted my teeth and slid my right leg off the side of the

bed. It moved slowly and sluggishly and I couldn't re¬

ally feel my foot. Everything felt n u m b below my knee.

As soon as my knee cleared the edge of the mattress,

my foot fell limply off the side of the bed and firecrack¬

ers of pain shot through my knee and up my thigh.

' "God dammttl" I screamed, loud enough that I'm

sure the entire floor heard me.

I could j u s t picture the nurses sitting with old Junie,

having a good laugh at my expense, and I vowed right

then and there I wasn't going to cry out anymore.

Bitches! I hated them all—everyone in this psychotic

place. I wasn't gonna give them the satisfaction.

Somehow J managed to get my left leg off the bed

too and shimmy my butt over to the edge. There was

no way I could sit up. No way in hell.

But I did.

My desire, my craving—my need—for the pain medi¬

cation was so great I was willing to try j u m p i n g through

hoops if that was what it would take. My body was on

fire; every muscle, every bone, every j o i n t hurt. My

eyelids fluttered and I came close to passing out, but I

refused to let that happen. Instead I pushed hard with

arms that felt like fifty-pound lead weights, and found

myself standing on my feet. Tears were streaming down

my face from the pain, but I was pumped up now—the

joy of being out of that damn bed overwhelming, an

adrenaline boost for my weary body.

I still couldn't feel anything below my right knee, but

I took a small shuffling step onto it anyway. I had no

choice—my body had started to sway and if I hadn't

stepped forward to balance myself I would have been

sprawled face-first onto the floor. W h i t e - h o t pain blazed

in my knee again and I nearly went down. I swayed, bit¬

ing the side of my cheek, fighting to stay upright. I knew

if I tumbled to the floor I was there to stay. The pain

subsided and I moved on to another step.

The physical pain was horrible, but maybe worst was

the disoriented feeling of moving around in a borrowed

body. These weren't my arms. These weren't my legs.

These weren't my feet. On and on the list went. N a m e

it, and chances were that body part wasn't mine and

deep down on some cellular level I think they knew it.

More crazy talk, I know, but that's how it felt to

me—like the flesh, muscles, and bones that made me

whole resented me for using them. N o n e of my patch¬

work parts worked quite the way they were supposed

to. Every movement was slower, a half-second lagging

behind what it should be as if my new body knew I was

an imposter and was determined to fight me every inch

of the way. It was a creepy, alien feeling that sent shiv¬

ers down my spine, making me want to scream.

But I desperately needed the meds so I pressed on,

robot-stepping across the floor for what felt like days

until I finally— FINALLY— stood beside the meal tray

carrying my multicolored salvation. W i t h sweat pour¬

ing down my face and my hands shaking so badly I

could hardly hold the cup, I dry swallowed the entire

batch of pills in one gulp and let the plastic cup fall to

the floor.

I'll be damned. I actually made it.

I smiled, savoring the moment. Then my eyes rolled

up into my head, the world started to go black, and I

went down hard.

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - N I N E

Rehab went on for eight grueling weeks and Junie the

sadistic old physiotherapist was with me every pain-filled

step of the way. To tell you the truth, the old cow actu¬

ally grew on me a little. She was cold and ruthless, and

she bent, stretched, twisted, and basically worked me

over every day until I could hardly stand, but she was as

straight a shooter as I had met in my whole time here at

the castle.

Junie never lied to me, not once. She hated bullshit,

always telling me exactly what we were going to do and

how we were doing it. I liked that about her. Don't get

me wrong—I didn't like her—she pulled no punches

and was probably the crankiest old bitch in the entire

medical profession but as long as I worked hard, she

treated me fairly. Unlike the rest of the goons around

here, she was genuinely trying to help me get some

semblance of a life back, and for that I appreciated her

effort.

My new body held up remarkably well, all things

considered. It was something I worried about a lot. At

night I'd dream all these freaky worst-case scenarios

about my stitches popping loose while Junie put me

through my paces and blood splashing the walls as my

arm or leg fell off. The nightmares were somewhat

comical to think about during the day, but they scared

the shit out of me while they were happening. I'd wake

up screaming and crying and reaching down to hold

my leg in place to stop the bleeding. Crazy stuff, I'll

admit, but what else was new? My entire life had be¬

come one big crazy dream.

On the Monday m o r n i n g that marked the start of my

ninth week of rehab, Junie walked into my room doing

something that shocked m e , something I didn't know

she was capable of.

She was crying.

N o t wailing like a schoolgirl, n o t h i n g as dramatic as

that, but there were tears r u n n i n g down her cheeks and

I could tell from her red-flushed face she'd been trying

to get a grip on her emotions for a while already. Maybe

she was h u m a n , after all. Doubtful, but maybe.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Nothing. Mind your own business, and put that

damn plate down. You've been eating like a horse for

weeks now. Rate you're going at, you'll be a fat pig in no

time. That what you want?"

She was changing the subject, hiding something from

me. Mind you, it was the truth—I had been eating a lot

lately, and y e s , I was gaining weight, but I was still a far

cry from being fat. It was Junie who had urged me to eat

more, to help get my strength back quicker. So why

would she bitch about it now? Simple: she wouldn't.

She wiped her tears away with a casual swish of her

hand, then left no room for debate that the subject was

closed, launching into another of her famous Holly¬

wood military-inspired tirades.

"Come on, Fox, get your lazy butt in gear. We gotta

get you on that treadmill. We've already lost ten min¬

utes while you were filling your face instead of stretch¬

ing. N o w get to it, mister. Move it!"

"Yes, sir? I mocked her, but still jumped up and got

ready to follow her out the door. Joking around was fine,

disobeying direct orders wasn't. "Ready when you are."

Junie scowled, shook her head, and headed for the

door. I stepped in behind her, goose-stepping in her

tracks, feeling good this morning. My good mood only

lasted until Junie pulled open the door and I saw Dr.

Marshall and Drake standing patiently out in the hall.

Drake was bigger than ever. Huge bulging muscles

and an impenetrable, menacing stare. I hadn't seen him

in several months and by the looks of it he'd spent a

good portion of that time in the weight room. He didn't

look particularly happy to see me.

N a t h a n Marshall looked fit and trim, leaning against

the door j a m b , with a wild, feral look in his eyes. His

handsome face was calm, but from the set of his j a w I

could tell he was clenching his teeth, maybe angry about

something. I hoped it wasn't me. Drake scared m e , sure,

an animal like that would scare anybody, but it was Dr.

Marshall that worried me. He looked royally pissed

and I couldn't stop myself from t h i n k i n g he was here to

take me back to the operating room again.

Anything but that! Kill me if you want, but no more op

erations. Not when I'm just starting to feel human again.

Seeing them outside the door caught Junie by sur¬

prise too. She didn't seem happy to see them either.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Just yester¬

day, you told me I had another full week."

Dr. Marshall smiled and stood up straight. "Well, as

you're aware, certain other recent developments have

forced me to rethink my plans. I'm tired of waiting

around* getting reports that this fool"—meaning m e —

"keeps improving and getting near full recovery of his

new body, while—"

He stopped right there, but he'd said more than

enough. Obviously things hadn't gone well with

Andrew's transplant into the other flesh suit, but what

had happened? Was Andrew back swimming in his

glass container? Was he dead? This probably wasn't the

best time to ask but my mouth had a way of doing

things on its own sometimes, independent of my brain.

Before I could stop myself, I went ahead and let my

curiosity get the better of me.

"What happened to Andrew? Is he okay?" I asked.

If I thought Dr. Marshall had been clenching his

teeth before, he was really clamping down now, grind¬

ing his teeth together to prevent himself from scream¬

ing. His face turned beet red in seconds. Now, I've seen

anger on a man's face before, many times, but this look

went way past that. Dr. Marshall gazed at me with pure,

murderous hatred.

Uh-ob, now Pve done it!

Drake stepped forward and kneed me hard in the

groin, sending me to the floor in a hurry. My insides felt

like they'd been set on fire. I lay there coughing and

gagging, massaging my balls. I would have screamed

but I was having too much trouble breathing. By the

time the pain eased off and I managed to climb to my

knees, Dr. Marshall was gone. Drake was still there,

looming like the Grim Reaper in my doorway, watching

me with only mild interest, as if I mattered as much as a

flea on a hound dog. God, how I wanted to kill him.

"Have him ready tomorrow m o r n i n g , Junie," he said,

then walked away.

Junie looked at me with pity, or as close to pity as her

sour face could ever muster, then headed for the door.

"Wait," I said, still on my knees. "Have me ready for

what? W h a t the hell is going on? W h a t happened to

Andrew?"

For a m o m e n t she paused, and I thought she was go¬

ing to tell me. Instead, she started to cry again, and ran

out the door. I heard the key rattle and the door lock,

and then listened to Junie sob as she retreated down the

carpeted hallway. Soon everything was quiet. Too quiet.

It was as if the entire facility was collectively holding its

breath, either in m o u r n i n g for whatever had happened

to Andrew or in silent fear of his father's wrath. I

couldn't speak for everyone, but there was no question

which one of those was keeping me silent.

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y

Constantly staring at the back of a locked door wasn't

a whole lot of fun. I couldn't help it, though, having

convinced myself that Drake or Dr. Marshall was go¬

ing to reappear suddenly, charging through the door to

nab me if I let my guard down too long. N o t only was it

nerve-racking, it made for a bloody long day and an

even longer night.

No one showed u p , of course. N o t Drake, not Mar¬

shall, hell, not even Junie. Just me and my overactive,

paranoia-refined-to-an-art imagination. By m o r n i n g , I

was mentally and physically exhausted. I'd slept off and

on for four or five hours, repeatedly waking up with an

anxious start, thinking I heard the door opening.

To distract myself—either that or go totally loony

and start r a m m i n g my head against the door—I de¬

cided to kill some time by exercising. Tired or not,

anything seemed better than j u s t sitting, waiting for

something bad to happen. Most of the things Junie had

been making me concentrate on in rehab could be done

j u s t as easily here in my room as down at the gym so I

slid the bed to the side a few feet to give myself some

elbow room and went to it. N o t h i n g major, just bend¬

ing, stretching, some push-ups and j u m p i n g jacks but

twice as many as my usual routine and I was soon

wheezing and panting like an old, overburdened farm

mule. I was sweaty and smelling decidedly ripe, so I

peeled off my soiled T-shirt and was heading across the

room to find a new one when I noticed my body in the

full-size dressing mirror h u n g on the wall. I mean re—

ally noticed it, for the first time since my transplant

into this flesh suit.

Stopped me dead in my tracks.

Until now, I'd made a habit of not noticing—other

than a few unavoidable peeks while bathing and dress¬

ing, but never taking in the fall picture—quite content

to ignore the stark reality reflected in the silver glass.

For sanity's sake, the old adage "out of sight, out of

mind" had become my new motto. Words to live by, but

with my fears renewed that I might be revisiting the

operating room again, suddenly I was curious to exam¬

ine myself to see how bad I truly looked. Stripping na¬

ked, tossing my pants, socks and undies onto the floor

beside the sweaty T-shirt, I slowly turned around and

around, struggling to stifle the scream building in my

throat.

It was worse than I'd thought. A lot worse.

Oh my Godl What have I become?

A single cold word slithered to mind, describing my

new body perfectly.

Abomination.'

I'd known right from day one I was going to be ugly

and god-awful to look at naked, but what surprised

m e — n o , shocked m e — m o s t was how wwhuman I looked.

Ugly I could live with, but this pasty-skinned, sewntogether, wretched creature in the glass was worse than

anything I'd imagined.

W h a t was wrong with my skin? It j u s t didn't look

right. They hadn't used the same type of people for the

donor parts, so some areas of my body were smooth

and youthful looking while others—especially my

legs—were old and wrinkled and covered with dense,

matted hair. My left arm was covered in bright colorful

tattoos but they ended at my shoulder, cut off mid pic¬

ture. Something was w r o n g with my back, too. They'd

forgotten something—fat, muscles, whatever—because

the skin had been stretched so thin over my spine as to

be almost translucent. I could see the vertebrae in my

back pivoting on their disks every time I twisted to

look over my shoulder.

Worse by far were ray scars. Dr. Marshall had obvi¬

ously sewn me together with function in mind, not

fashion, alignment of parts far more important than

aesthetics. As it had to be, I suppose, but surely he

could have given some thought toward what I'd end up

looking like and at least tried to minimize the scar¬

ring.

Oh my God!

I was unable to tear my eyes away from the stranger I

saw crying in the mirror.

The scars were thick, puffy, dark red, and everyA

where on my body. Twenty thousand stitches; maybe

more. I looked like a pieced together mannequin cov¬

ered in h u g e , blood-engorged leeches—bigger; tape¬

worms maybe—placed end to end to form living ropes

around my body. The ropes of scar tissue intersected

with other scars, and the end result was a patchwork

quilt of meat—a jigsaw puzzle of flesh tossed together

with no more care or concern for me as a h u m a n being

than an angry child has for an old broken toy.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, and cried. At least

my tears were my own and I let them pour out in rivers

as I cursed Dr. Marshall with every ounce of hatred I

could drum up within me. Marshall was a brilliant sur¬

geon and I was convinced he could have significantly

improved my appearance. He j u s t hadn't wanted to.

N o , this was exactly how he wanted me to look. I hated

him for that more than anything else he'd done to me.

A key rattled in the lock on my door and five seconds

later Junie came walking into my room without both¬

ering to knock. Had it been Dr. Marshall, I'm pretty

sure I would have went after his throat with my teeth,

even if that meant going through Drake to get at him,

but seeing Junie and the sad expression on her face as

she gazed at my pitiful nakedness, I j u s t lowered my

head and started crying again.

"Help me," I sobbed, slumping to my knees on the

floor. "Please help me get away from here, Junie. Es¬

cape or suicide, I don't care which. He's taken every¬

t h i n g from me, everything, and I can't do this anymore.

I just can'tl"

Junie stood rooted to the floor j u s t inside the door¬

way, silent for the longest time, but then she closed the

door and moved over beside me. In the quietest of

whispers she said, "I'll try."

That was it. N o t h i n g more. N o t even a reassuring

smile when I looked up at her. It was back to business as

usual and she was hustling me into my clothes and or¬

dering me to get my ass in gear. Maybe I hadn't heard

her right, or worse yet, she might not have said any¬

t h i n g at all. Wouldn't surprise me a bit if my m i n d and

ears were playing tricks on me but regardless, whether

it had really happened or not, a tiny seed of hope had

been planted within me. I wasn't ready to j u m p for joy,

but it was enough to get me off the ground and moving

again. For now, that would have to do.

"So what happens now?" I asked once I was fully

dressed and in control of my emotions again.

"Drake will be along soon to bring you to the video

conference room. He wanted me to make sure you were

ready."

"Video conference room? So I'm not going back for