F Paul Wilson - Sims 02 (12 page)

 
          
THE
BRONX

 
          
NOVEMBER 6

 
          
Meerm not hungry.
Get good food in Meerm room, special food, come on own plate. Meerm not have
get self from pot like down in sim big room.
Meerm room food
better.
Yum-yum.
Meerm wish she feel better so
she like food more.

 
          
Meerm lonely
sometime in own room.
But Meerm not downstair where Needle Lady and
Needle Man stick sharp thing in sim, take blood.
Take-take-take.
And hair face
man do
very bad hurt thing to Meerm and
other sim.
But not here Meerm room.
No sharp stick
here. No one hurt Meerm in own room.

 
          
Meerm room top
floor.
Meerm like look window at sky.
Dark now.
See light on street down below. Sometime Meerm wish—

 
          
“Helloooo, Meerm!”

 
          
Meerm turn, see Needle Man come
through door. Needle Lady
come
behind.
They ver happy.
Needle Man hold big bottle, drink yellow
bubble water in glass.

 
          
“Your latest test results are in,”
Needle Lady
say
, “and we love you, Meerm!”

 
          
“Why love Meerm?”

 
          
Needle Man laugh, say, “Because
you’re going to make us rich!”

 
          
“Yes!” Needle Lady
yell
.
“We’re going toown SimGen!”

 
          
“Now, now,
Eleanor,” Needle Man say.
“Let’s not be greedy. We’ll settle for half!”

 
          
They
laugh-laugh-laugh.

 
          
“Who’d ever think,” Needle Man say,
“that two humble globulin farmers would be able to put a company like SimGen up
against the wall?”

 
          
“We haven’t put it there yet,” Needle
Lady say. “I still have to get up the nerve to make the call.”

 
          
“And when we do, we’ve got to be
careful. We’ll be playing with the big boys, and they’re not going to like what
we have to tell them.”

 
          
They stop laugh, stop smile. Drink
more.

 
          
Ooh! Tummy hurt. Meerm want feel
better. Why hurt?

 
          
WESTCHESTER
COUNTY
,
NY

 
          
NOVEMBER 13

 
          
“I’ve got to tell you,” Patrick said
to Romy as they sat in the sim barrack. Anj was going through her now standard
routine of draping herself across Patrick’s lap whenever he visited. He’d found
it cute before; a warm-fuzzy moment. Now…“After what I saw in that brothel, I’m
not as comfortable with this as I used to be.”

 
          
“That’s understandable,” she said.
“You never viewed them in a sexual context before.”

 
          
“I still
don’t…can’t.”
The memory of the brothel still gave his gut a squeamish
twist. “But knowing that other people do…”

 
          
She was out from the city again,
checking on her investment, as she liked to put it. Night had fallen but she’d
hung around. For the past week Patrick had entertained a faint hope that their
ordeal in the ravine might forge a bond that would lead to a closer, more
intimate relationship. That hope was fading. She seemed warmer toward him, but
for the most part Romy remained all business.

 
          
“How’s your car?”

 
          
“Totaled.
Just like my house.” And my love life, he mentally added. Why don’t I just join
a monastery and make it official? “Haven’t seen any insurance money on either,
but I’m making do.”

 
          
“You still haven’t been scared off
then?” she said.

 
          
“I’m not looking to be a martyr, but
no.”

 
          
She smiled. “I never took you for the
martyr type.”

 
          
“You mean there’s a martyr type? Who
the hell would want to be a martyr?”

 
          
“More than you’d think. In the right
setting it can be a form of celebrity.”

 
          
“I guess so. Who was it who said that
some people climb onto the cross merely to be seen from a greater distance?”

 
          
“Camus, I believe.”

 
          
Patrick was startled—happily. “You’ve
read Camus?”

 
          
She shrugged.

 
          
Here was a side of Romy he’d never
imagined. He wanted to delve deeper but she steered him right back to business.

 
          
“Do you see any legal speed bumps
ahead?” she asked.

 
          
“Not in the immediate future,” he
began,
then
noticed Tome hovering at his shoulder.

 
          
“’Scuse, Mist Sulliman, but Anj must
eat.” He tugged the sleeve of the young sim’s T-shirt. “Come, Anj. Dinner
come.” As he led her toward the tables, Tome turned and said, “You eat too?”

 
          
Patrick glanced around. Most of the
sims
had gone through the line and were chowing down. He
eyed the rich dark stew being ladled from the big pot and wasn’t even tempted.

 
          
“No, thanks, Tome.
I’m, uh, cutting back.”

 
          
Romy lowered her voice. “Maybe we
should give it a try.
Just a taste…to be good guests.”

 
          
“It’s made from dining-room
leftovers,” he whispered from a corner of his mouth.

 
          
“I believe I’ll pass too,” Romy
called out,
then
turned to Patrick. “By the way, are
you still living in that motel?”

 
          
“Still.”

 
          
“Aren’t you cramped?”

 
          
“Yes and no. I thought I’d go nuts in
a place like that—you know, without all my things. But I’ve found I don’t miss
them as much as I thought I would. No house, no furniture, no office, no status
car…I should be in a deep depression but oddly enough I’m not. I’ve got this
strange, light feeling…unencumbered, I guess you could say. I feel as if I’ve
been cut free from weights I didn’t even know were there.
That
sound
weird to you?”

 
          
“No,” she said softly, and he thought
he detected some warmth in her smile. “Not weird at all.” She seemed to catch
herself and looked away in the direction of the
sims
.
“By the way, if we’re not eating here, where do you suggest?”

 
          
“How do you feel about Cajun food?”

 
          
“Love it. I’ll eat anything
blackened—catfish, redfish, potholders, you name it.”

 
          
“Great. I know this little place in
Mount
Kisco
…”

 
          
They talked about their favorite
foods—one of Romy’s was sushi which, despite heroic efforts, Patrick had never
developed a taste for. He was beginning to believe that the evening was shaping
up to be ripe with promise when a loud groan and a clatter interrupted them.

 
          
Patrick turned and saw that one of
the caddie
sims
had knocked his plate off the table
and was doubled over, clutching his abdomen. As he watched, a second sim
slipped off the bench and slumped to her knees, moaning.

 
          
“What the hell’s going on?” Patrick
said.

 
          
But Romy was already on her feet.
“Oh, God!” she cried. “Something’s wrong with the food!” She rushed forward,
shouting. “Don’t eat the food! It’s bad! Bad! ”

 
          
Too late.
Patrick watched helplessly as one sim after another doubled over and crumpled
to the floor, writhing in pain.

 
          
“What is it?” he said.
“Ptomaine?”

 
          
She shook her head, her face ashen.
“Spoiled food doesn’t act this quickly. They’ve been poisoned, damn it!
Somebody’s poisoned their food!”

 
          
Patrick pulled out his PCA and
punched in 911. “I’ll call an ambulance—lots of ambulances!”

 
          
“To take them
where?”

 
          
“To the emer—” He stopped. “Shit!”

 
          
“Right.
No
hospital’s going to take them. They’re not human.”

 
          
“Then how about a
veterinary hospital?”

 
          
“Is there one around? And even if
there is, how do we get them there? I don’t know of an ambulance service in the
world that’ll transport animals.” She pulled out her own PCA. “But I know
someone…”

 
          
“This organization
of yours?”

 
          
She glanced at him,
then
turned away. He thought he heard her say “Zero.”

 
          
Patrick had to do something.
With frustration mounting to the detonation point he looked around
and saw Tome still standing.

 
          
“Tome!
You
didn’t eat?”

 
          
The older sim shook his head. “Not
chance.”

 
          
“Get up to the clubhouse! Fast! Tell
them you’ve all been poisoned!”

 
          
As Tome ran off, Patrick hurried to
the dorm area and began pulling blankets and pillows from the bunks. He
couldn’t do anything about whatever toxin had been used to poison them, but at
least he could try to make the
sims
more comfortable.

 
          
“Good idea,” Romy said, close by. He
looked up and saw her beside him with an armful of blankets. “Help is on the
way.”

 
          
“Who?
How much?”

 
          
“I don’t know.”

 
          
They hurried back to the eating area
where it looked like a bomb had exploded: benches on their sides, tipped
tables, spilled trays, and moaning, pain-wracked casualties strewn about the
floor. Patrick recognized Nabb, his caddie when he’d played golf here—the last
time he’d ever play golf here—that fateful September day he became involved
with these
sims
. He lay doubled over on his side, arms
folded across his abdomen.

 
          
“Here you go, buddy,” he said,
slipping a pillow under his head.

 
          
“Hurt, Mist Sulliman,” Nabb groaned.
“Hurt ver bad.”

 
          
He draped a blanket over him. “I
know, Nabb. We’re getting help.”

 
          
He spotted Deek, another caddie he
knew, and tried to make him comfortable.

 
          
“Why hurt, Mist Sulliman?” Deek said,
looking up at him with watery brown eyes. “Why?”

 
          
“Because someone…” A blast of fury
forced him to stop and look away. Who? Who would or could do something like
this? He found it incomprehensible.

 
          
“Sweet Jesus!” someone gasped.

 
          
Patrick looked up and saw Holmes
Carter and a slim, dapper man he didn’t recognize standing behind Tome in the
barrack doorway. The stranger moved into the room, leaving the pudgy Carter
alone, looking like a possum frozen in the glare of oncoming headlights.

 
          
“Tome wasn’t kidding!” the stranger
said to no one in particular. “What happened here?”

 
          
“They started getting sick after
eating the stew,” Patrick said. “Who are you?”

 
          
“Dr. Stokes. I’m an anesthesiologist.
And I already know who you are.” He didn’t offer to shake hands; instead he
knelt beside one of the sick
sims
, a female. “This one
doesn’t look so hot.”

 
          
Tell me something I don’t already
know, Patrick wanted to say, but bit his tongue.

 
          
“None of them do. Can you help?”

 
          
“I’m not a vet.”

 
          
Romy’s eyes implored him. “Help them!
Please! You treat humans. How much closer to human can you get?”

 
          
Dr. Stokes nodded.
“Point
taken.
Let’s see what I can do.”

 
          
As the doctor began pressing on the
sim’s abdomen, asking her questions, Patrick glanced around and spotted a
small, huddled form under one of the tables. With a cold band tightening around
his chest, he rushed over—Anj. She lay curled into a tight, shuddering ball.

 
          
“Anj?”
Patrick crouched beside her and touched her shoulder; her T-shirt was soaked.
“Anj, speak to me.”

 
          
A whimper was her only reply. Patrick
gathered her into his arms—Christ, she was wringing wet—and carried her over to
Dr. Stokes. Her face was so pale.

 
          
“This one’s just a baby,” he told
Stokes. “And she’s real bad.”

 
          
Patrick gently
lay
Anj on the floor between them. Romy was there immediately with a pillow and
blanket.

 
          
“Diaphoretic,” Stokes said, more to
himself than Patrick. He held her wrist a moment. “Pulse is thready.”

 
          
“What’s that mean?”

 
          
“She’s going into shock.” He turned
back to the first sim he’d been examining.
“This one too.
They’re going to need IVs and pressors. What in God’s name did they eat?”

 
          
Before Patrick could answer, he heard
the sound of a heavy-duty engine, slamming doors, and Carter saying, “You can’t
drive that up here!”

 
          
He looked up and saw two grim-faced
men, one in a golf shirt, the other in a sport coat, file through the door with
some kind of cart rolling between them. They pushed past Carter as if he were a
piece of misplaced furniture. Two more strangers, a man and a woman, both in
flannel shirts and
jeans,
followed them.

 
          
“You can’t just walk in here!” Carter
said. “This is a private club!”