Busted Flush

He was naked and curled up in a ball on the ground. Something was wrong with the ground, though. It was hot and his feet hurt. Drake saw small fires here and there. There was a big fire, too, behind him and to his right. He could feel the heat on his back and legs. He stood up and started walking away from it.

He started shuffling forward, feeling with his toes for anything he might be able to cover himself with or use as a weapon. Unfortunately, if there was anything on the hot ground, Drake didn’t find it. His legs began to hurt and he collapsed to the ground, crying.

After sobbing until his tears were gone he stood back up and wiped his runny nose.

He continued shuffling slowly forward. The fire he was heading away from still seemed close, or maybe it was the other fires. There was no way to tell. Drake felt the ground rising slowly beneath him. It was a small hill, but by the time he made it to the top, his sides were burning and he was gasping for breath.

In spite of the fact that Drake was scared and uncomfortably naked, he lay down and closed his eyes.

Waking up from the drug was like swimming up from the bottom of a very deep pool. His hospital room came slowly into focus. Drake rubbed his eyes. The good nurse was there. Gerald, that was his name, was friendly and would talk to Drake about video games.

“Hungry, buddy?”

Drake’s senses were coming back online. His stomach was empty enough it hurt. “Is it breakfast or dinner time?”

“Foodwise, it’s whatever time you want it to be,” Gerald said with a smile. “But timewise we’re talking late lunch. I can get you a sandwich or a burger with fries. Maybe some ice cream.”

“Oh, snap. A burger and fries would be killer.” Drake’s mind was now firmly focused on food and wasn’t turning loose until he was comfortably full.

Gerald gave him a high-five. “I’m on it. You may have a visitor before I get back, or so they tell me.”

“Another doctor?” Drake asked.

Gerald laughed. “I expect so. There’s not much of anyone else around here.” He ducked out the door with a wave.

Drake was annoyed when the new doctor showed up before Gerald got back with his burger. Drake had been expecting a mad scientist type, mostly because this all seemed like a bad movie. Instead, the man was younger than Drake’s dad, maybe in his mid-thirties, had all his hair, and didn’t wear glasses. He did have a white coat and a clipboard, but that was standard issue for this place.

“Hello, Drake. I’m Dr. Fitzhugh.” He extended a hand. Drake shook it warily. “I understand you’ve been having bad dreams.”

“Yes. It’s because they give me this stuff to make me sleep.” He looked straight at the doctor. “Can you make them stop giving it to me?” Although Drake’s first idea was to find his parents and go home, he was also sick of being put to sleep.

The doctor nodded and scribbled on his clipboard. “I see. That medication is a nonopiate, but it can turn loose the subconscious in an uncomfortable way. I’ll make a note of it.”

Drake smiled. “Okay. Can I go home soon?”

“I’m also recommending that you be transferred to another facility.” He put a hand on Drake’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son, but we have to figure out exactly what happened to you, and we don’t seem able to do that here.”

“Will my folks be at this place?” “Just remember everyone is trying to help you. Have a good trip.” The doctor stood and left the room with a rustle of his white coat and no further explanation.

Mom? I don’t feel real good.

Niobe Winslow felt her oldest child dying, felt him melting away like so much ice cream dropped on a summer sidewalk. Soon there would be nothing left of Xerxes but memories. And another hole in her heart.

Through their bond she felt the warming lamps perched over his incubator; needles squirting filtered blood and synthetic proteins into his forearm; plush swaddling.

Hang in there, kiddo. Momma’s coming.

Month-old Xerxes was the longest-lived of Niobe’s seventy-six children. Xue-Ming had lived nineteen days, thirteen hours. Xander, eleven days and change. Xerxes’s breakthrough longevity had slipped through her defenses, bolstered her with vain and foolish hopes.

He’d been so strong. So healthy.

Her chair clattered to the floor as she jumped to her feet. The joker to whom she’d been reading rocked back and forth on his bed. His head, a featureless extrusion of flesh and bone, knocked against a white-spackled patch on the wall. The orderlies had given up on repainting it.

She righted the chair with her tail as she yanked the door open. “Sorry, Mick. Gotta go. Back tomorrow.”

Knock. Knock. Knock. Little flakes of plaster rained down on Mick’s sheets. The door slammed behind her.

A bell chimed the hour. She ignored it.

I feel funny. My tummy hurts.

Almost there, kiddo. Just hang in there, ’kay?