Ninety-Nine Years

The injured groom sits in a corner of the honeymoon suite’s bathroom, at least a dozen wounds mangle his flesh. He shows no signs of distress despite the streams of blood trickling down his body. Alastair and Wes get no reaction as they prepare to tend his injuries.

Alastair dutifully keeps his mind on his work, rushing to apply gauze to a deep bite on the groom’s upper arm. As Alastair applies pressure to stop the bleeding, Wes takes care of the scratch marks on his chest, irrigating them with sterile fluid before bandaging.

The groom’s voice trembles, “Where is she?”

Wes replies, “You’re okay, the police took her into custody.”

The groom bolts into action, crawling on the floor. “They’re dangerous, I have to save her.”

The gauze Alastair applied falls from the groom’s biceps exposing the wicked punctures that his beloved’s dainty teeth inflicted. The medics have no choice but to let the groom squirm, Alastair blocks the doorway, preventing any escape. Pain and weakness mount quickly until the groom has no choice except to relent to medical attention.

Alastair tries to reassure the groom, “You have to save yourself before you can help anyone else. Okay?”

Suddenly, the groom returns to his catatonic state, allowing the medics to work.

***

Alastair and Wes roll the bandaged groom past the curtained emergency room beds to a set of doors separating the operating rooms from the rest of the hospital. Nathan follows closely, keeping track of anything and everything the groom says. At the doors, the medics pass their patient off to a waiting surgical team.

Wes vents, “That was beyond messed up. He doesn’t even want to press charges.”

Nathan replies “The district attorney’s office might have a thing or to say about that.”

As they walk through the primary ER area they pass Dianna. She works on a medical records computer adding patient data to several files. Finished, she stretches and walks away from the terminal.

Alastair responds knowingly, “If there’s one constant to the human condition, it’s that love makes people do stupid things.”

Dianna passes the three guys as they walk down the hallway. Alastair’s eyes follow her hungrily.

Alastair turns on the spot. “Excuse me.”

Nathan and Wes keep heading to the exit.

Nathan’s confused. “What’s he doing.”

Wes laughs to himself. “Proving his own point.”

***

Alastair follows Dianna to a break room. A tiny space with lockers, a pair of cots and a desk.

Dianna pulls an illustrated urology text and a book on the Roman Empire from her locker. She spreads out her work, sees Alastair, smiles.

“The medical mystery returns.” She teases. “I still don’t get how your skin is so cold even when your heart is racing.”

“Me neither.” His curiosity turns to her work. “What are you researching?”

She responds with off-kilter enthusiasm. “Fournier’s gangrene. It’s an infection that necrotizes urinary tract tissue. They say it killed King Herod.”

Ninety-Nine years free of disease allows him to return her curiosity. “Also the Roman Emperor Galerius. It makes flesh eating bacteria look like the chicken pox.”

She’s stunned.

He asks, “Are you studying forensic pathology?”

“I wish. Can you loan me the money to survive med school and five years of residency?” She squirms, “It’s just a hobby, learning how historical figures died.”

She watches, waiting for his reaction. This is usually the part of the conversation where others call her “odd.”

He responds gently, “You have a rare and wonderful sense of curiosity.”

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

At first glance, it’s just another windowless space in an anonymous industrial park.  Within these four ordinary walls a fragile illusion of normalcy hides an oasis, a crypt, a bunker, a home.

Overhead lighting from two fluorescent tubes barely manages to cut through the darkness.  A man in a welder’s mask works with an acetylene blowtorch.  He quickly but carefully fuses the metal garage door to its track.   Nearby, a metal pedestrian door is fitted with the best locks on the market; a row of sandbags line the bottom of both entrances.  On the shop floor, the elaborate woodworking tools left behind by an unfortunate previous occupant collect dust.  A bathroom, kitchenette and an enclosed office on the far end of the space round things out.

The only resident, Alastair, finishes his work.  He discards his mask, heavy gloves, blowtorch and other tools.  Judging by his looks, he’s in his early twenties.  Pale, impossibly smooth skin surrounds knowing eyes.  A full head of dark blond, short but shaggy hair looks dark against his fair skin.  Lean but muscular, his body is in good shape and he carries himself well.

He paces the shop floor for a moment, as if putting off something unpleasant.  Finally, he returns to the office.

In the office cheap, durable work furniture is covered with a few unusual touches.  An old, brown leather medical bag sits on a table.  Gold lettering reads “Dr. A. Tomlinson.”  A few name tags are attached to the handles including:  “Alan Tresse, RN” and “Al Tandy, Orderly.”

On another table he puts two “number candles,” the kind used for a child’s birthday, into a sophisticated dark chocolate cake.  He lights the numbers “99.”

The water welling in his eyes is a stark reminder that this is an unhappy anniversary.

Alastair whispers, “Ninety-nine supernatural years plus twenty-six real ones.”  His frustration grows as he tries to think of a wish.  Defeated, he blows the candles out.

Seconds later he lashes out, embarrassed by his own indulgence.

The cake and candles fly into a trash can, making a hollow thunk as they land.

He swaps a simple cotton tee for a uniform shirt, dons his most recent name tag, “Alastair Thomson, EMT-P.”

Alastair grabs the trash on his way out.  He kicks the sandbags clear of the door with a bit too much ease.  The door slams, locks click shut.

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce