Sims (24 page)

Some sort of oversized commuter van was parked on the grass outside. The doctors had driven it straight across the club's rear lawn to the barrack door; Patrick could trace the deep furrows under the pitiless glow of the moon peering down from the crystal sky. Up on the rise he spotted a number of Beacon Ridge members standing outside the clubhouse, gawking at the scene. And Romy . . . where was Romy?

He walked around the barrack and spotted her down the slope by the border privet hedge. But she wasn't alone. A tall dark figure stood beside her. After a moment, Romy turned and began walking back up the slope; the tall man faded into the shadows of the hedge.

“Who was that?” he asked as she approached.

“No one.”

“But—”

Her face had settled into grim lines. “You didn't see a thing. Now let's go back inside and make ourselves useful.”

Patrick was about to comment on what seemed to be a lot of hush-hush, undercover nonsense but bit it back. It wasn't nonsense at all. Not when poison was part of someone's game plan.

Romy stopped dead in the doorway and he ran into her back, knocking her forward. He saw immediately why she'd stopped.

Chaos in the barrack. The formerly silent, seemingly imperturbable doctors were in frenzied motion, pumping ventilation bags and thumping sim chests.

“I've got another one crashing here!” one called out. He was on his knees next to an unconscious sim. He looked up and saw Romy and Patrick. “You two want to help?”

Patrick tried to speak but could only nod.

“Name it,” Romy said.

“Each of you get an Ambu bag from that cart and bring them over here.”

Romy was already moving. “What's an Am—?”

“Looks like a small football with a face mask attached,” the doctor said.

Romy opened a deep drawer, removed two of the devices, handed one to Patrick. On their way back, to his right, he noticed Holmes Carter kneeling, using one of the bags to pump air into a sim's lungs.

Carter . . . ?

To their left, the woman doc waved and called out. “Romy! Over here! Quick!”

Romy peeled off and Patrick kept on course toward the first doc. He stuttered to a stop when he saw the patient.

Anj.

She lay supine on the floor, limp as a rag doll with half its stuffing gone; the front of her bib overalls had been pulled down and her T-shirt slit open, exposing her budding, pink-nippled, lightly furred breasts.

“Don't just stand there!” the doctor said. He was sweaty, flushed, and looked too young to be a doctor. He had his hands between Anj's breasts and was pumping on her chest. “Bag her!”

Patrick's frozen brain tried to make sense of the words as they filtered through air thick as cotton.

“Bag . . . ?” Was she dead?

“Give me that!” The doctor reached across Anj and snatched the Ambu bag from Patrick's numb fingers. He fitted the mask over Anj's mouth and nose and squeezed the bag. “There! Do that once for every five times I pump.”

Patrick dropped to his knees and managed to get his hands to work, squeezing the bag every time the doctor shouted, “Now!” and wishing someone would cover her. Every so often the doctor would stop pumping and press his stethoscope to Anj's chest.

“Shit!” he said after the third time. “Nothing! Keep bagging.” He pawed through what looked like an orange plastic tool box, muttering, “No monitor, no defibrillator, how am I supposed to . . . here!”

He pulled out a small syringe capped with a three- or four-inch needle. He popped the top, expelled air and a little fluid, then swabbed Anj's chest with alcohol.

Patrick blinked. “You're not going to stick that into—”

That was exactly what he did: right between a pair of ribs to the left of her breast bone; he drew back on the plunger until a gush of dark red swirled into the barrel, then emptied the syringe.

The doctor resumed pumping, crying, “One-two-three-four-five-
bag
!”

They kept up the routine for another minute or so, then the doctor listened to Anj's chest again.

“Nothing.” He pulled a penlight from the plastic box and flashed it into her eyes. “Fixed and dilated.” He leaned back and wiped his dripping face on his sleeve. “She's gone.”

“No,” Patrick said.

But Anj's glazed, staring eyes said it all. Still he resumed squeezing the bag, frantically, spasmodically.

“No use,” the doctor said.

“Try, damn it!” Patrick shouted. “She's too young! She's too . . .” He ran out of words.

“Her brain's been deprived of oxygen too long. She's not coming back.”

Patrick dropped the bag and leaned over her. An aching pressure built in his chest. He felt his eyes fill, the tears slip over the lids and drop on Anj's chest.

A hand closed gently on his shoulder and he heard the young doctor say, “I know how you feel.”

Patrick shrugged off his hand. “No, you don't.”

“I do, believe me. We couldn't save her, but we've got other sick sims here and maybe we can save some of
them
. Let's get to work.”

“All right,” Patrick said, unable to buck the doctor's logic. “Just give me a second.”

As the doctor moved off, Patrick pulled the edges of Anj's torn T-shirt together. They didn't quite meet so he pulled up the bib front of her overalls. Then he pushed her eyelids closed and stared at her.

How could he feel such a sense of loss for something that wasn't even human? This wasn't like puddling up at the end of
Old Yeller
. This was
real
.

He pulled off his suit coat and draped it over the upper half of her body. He hovered by her side a moment longer; then, feeling like a terminally arthritic hundred-year-old man, he pushed himself to his feet and moved on.

The next half hour became a staggering blur, moving from one prostrate form to another, losing sim after sim, and pressing on, until . . . finally . . . it was over.

Spent, Patrick leaned against a wall, counting. He felt as if he'd been dragged behind a truck over miles of bad road. He'd cried tonight. When was the last time he'd cried? Romy sagged against him, sobbing. He counted twice, three times, but the number kept coming up the same: nineteen still, sheet-covered forms strewn about the floor.

The woman doctor they'd met earlier drifted by; he flagged her down.

“How many did you save?” he said.

She brushed a damp ringlet away from her flushed face. “Six—just barely. We've moved them into the sleep area. They'll make it, but it'll be weeks before they're back to normal. Counting the older sim who didn't eat, that leaves seven survivors.”

“The bastards!” Romy gritted through her teeth. “The lousy fucking bastards!” She pushed away from him and began pounding the wall with her fist, repeating, “Bastards!” over and over through her clenched teeth.

She dented the plasterboard, punched through, then started on another spot.

Patrick grabbed her wrist. “Romy! You're going to hurt yourself!”

She turned on him with blazing eyes; she seemed like another person and for an instant he thought she was going to take a swing at him. Then she wrenched her arm free and stalked toward the door.

Though physically and emotionally drained, Patrick forced himself to start after her. But when he spotted Tome crouched in a corner, his head cradled in his arms, he changed course and squatted next to him.

“I'm sorry, Tome,” he said, feeling the words catch in his throat. “I'm so sorry.”

Tome looked up at him with reddened eyes; tears streaked his cheeks. “Sim family gone, Mist Sulliman. All gone.”

“Not all, Tome. Deek survived, so did some others.”

But Tome was shaking his head. “Too many dead sim. Family gone. All Tome fault.”

“No-no-no,” Patrick said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You can't lay that on yourself. If anybody's to blame here—besides the son of a bitch who poisoned the food—it's me.”

Tome kept shaking his head. “No. Tome know. Tome ask Mist Sulliman. If Tome nev ask, Mist Sulliman nev do.”

“That doesn't make you responsible for . . . this. You wanted something better for your family, Tome, and we're not going to let this stop us. I swear—”

“No, Mist Sulliman.” He struggled to his feet. “We stop. Family gone. No law bring back. We stop. Other sim die if no stop.”

“You can't mean that!” Patrick said, stunned. “That'll mean that Anj and Nabb and all the others died for nothing!”

Tome turned and slid away. “No union, Mist Sulliman. Tome too tired. Tome too sad.”

“Then they win! Is that what you want?”

“Tome want sim live,” he said without looking back. “That all Tome want now.”

Patrick fought the urge to grab the old sim and shake some sense into him. They couldn't quit now—public opinion would rush to their side after this atrocity. He took a step after him, but the utter defeat in the slump of those narrow shoulders stopped him.

He remembered the night they met, when Tome explained what he and the other sims wanted:
Family . . . and one thing other . . . respect, Mist Sulliman. Just little respect.

And now your family's been murdered, Patrick thought. And the only respect you've gained is mine. And what's that worth?

Flickering light to his left caught his eye. He saw Reverend Eckert's face on the TV screen in the corner. The voice was muted but Patrick knew the bastard could only be spewing more of his anti-sim venom. With a low cry of rage he stalked across the room, picked up an overturned bench, and raised it above his head. But before he could smash the set, a hand grabbed his arm.

“Please don't do that,” said a voice.

He turned and found Holmes Carter standing behind him. On any other day he would have teed off on the man, but Carter had surprised the hell out of him tonight—worked as hard as anyone to save the sims. And he looked it: His sport coat was gone and his wrinkled shirt lay partially unbuttoned, exposing a swath of his bulging belly. Right now he looked shell-shocked.

Patrick knew exactly how he felt.

“Why the hell not?”

“What will the survivors watch?”

Damn him, he was right.

Patrick lowered the bench and extended his hand. “I want to thank you, Holmes. I take back anything I've ever said to offend you.”

“Sure.” Carter gave the hand a listless, distracted shake and looked around. “Gone,” he said dazedly. “Just like that, three-quarters of our sims . . . gone. Nabb . . . he used to be my favorite caddie, and now he's dead. Why?” He looked at Patrick with tear-filled eyes. “What kind of sick person would do this? What kind of a world have we created?”

“Wish I knew, Holmes. It gets stranger and stranger.”

Carter sighed. “I realized something tonight. These sims . . . they're . . . they were . . . part of Beacon Ridge. We knew them. We liked them. I'm going to tell the board to grant collective bargaining rights, and I'm going to insist that the survivors remain together as long as they want.”

Patrick opened his mouth to speak but found himself, for possibly the first time in his adult life, at a loss for words.

Carter smiled wanly. “What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?” He gave his head a single sad shake. “Wasn't that part of the exchange that set this whole mess in motion?”

Patrick nodded, remembering their little confrontation in the club men's room. “Yes . . . yes, I believe it was. This is good of you, Holmes.”

“I just wish I'd done it yesterday.”

Without another word Carter turned and wove his way through the dead sims toward the door.

We've won, Patrick thought—a reflex. The thought died aborning. He
looked around at the sheeted forms and knew that if this was winning, he'd much rather have lost.

He heard an engine rumble to life outside. He looked around and realized that the mysterious doctors had disappeared. He hurried to the door in time to see the truck roll away across the grass toward the road.

Romy stood there, leaning against the barrack wall. He approached her cautiously. She seemed to have spent her rage, so he filled her in on the latest developments.

“Tome's decision doesn't surprise me,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “Sims aren't fighters. But after what you'd told me about the club president . . .”

“Yeah. I guess I had him wrong. People never cease to surprise me, for good or for ill. Like these phantom doctors of yours. Where did they come from, where did they go? They pop out of nowhere with no explanation, and then they're gone.”

“I told you—” Romy began.

“I don't want to hear about some nameless ‘organization' again. How about some specifics? Who's behind you? And who killed those two guys when we were run off the road the other night? I want answers, Romy.”

Her expression was tight. “Do you? Well then maybe you're in for one more surprise tonight.”

“I don't think I can handle another.” He noticed a strange look in her eyes, wary yet flirting with anticipation. “But I'll bite. What?”

“Someone wants to meet you.”

Romy drove. A mostly silent ride during which she replied to his questions with terse monosyllables. He sensed an inner struggle but hadn't a clue as to what it might be about. In his brain-fragged state, Patrick didn't have the strength or the will to probe.

She stopped at a small cabin on the edge of Rye Lake. Patrick stepped from her rented car and looked around.

The surrounding woods lay dark and silent; the cabin was an angular blotch of shadow with no sign of habitation; on its far side a dock jutted into
the lake where tendrils of mist rose into the chill air from the glassy moonlit water.

“Doesn't look like anyone's home,” he said.