The Terminals (20 page)

Chapter 32

After another twenty minutes on
the Internet with my nostrils plugged with tissue, the nosebleed finally slowed and stopped altogether. A sopping pyramid of bright-red Kleenex mounded on the bed, and red fingerprints marred the keys and screen of my laptop. The disarray of my bed and room reminded me of the general's office, and the parallel bothered me. Unlike Morph, I was taking the
I'm-leaving-so-I-don't-care
philosophy, rather than
I'm-leaving-so-want-to-leave-the-place-better-than-I-found-it-for-the-next-people
route.

I felt badly for the poor cleaner who would have to take care of the mess and so gathered the bloody tissues into a clump and threw them in the toilet. The clean-up took a few minutes, and once I collected the last tissue, I flushed the toilet and began to wash my hands. Pink water from the clogged toilet began to overflow onto the tile. Who was the filthy one now?

On the tray table, the iPhone rattled as it vibrated. I abandoned the stopped toilet and looked at the screen. Leica again. With an attachment. After slipping on a new shirt, I read the message. The subject:
I hate nepotism.

I pulled up the file. It was a scan of something in pdf format. A baptismal certificate from St. Paul's Church, Plymouth, Indiana, for Christine Astrid Kurzow. A big yellow highlighter had circled the bottom, where it read:
As sponsored by: Frank Robert Aaron
. I gaped.

The general was my godfather. I read it again. This horrid creature at whom I recoiled from having to face was the same man who had been my anchoring force for half my life.

As someone who believed that they at least could rely on having achieved what they'd achieved on their own, this was a blow and raised many questions. Had I made colonel under my own steam? The promotion came two years ago. A decade after he'd taken command of the Terminals. Was this why the general had saved me from my suicide? What had his relationship been to my father?

I left my computer and the bloody sheets and drew back my door. I nearly stepped on a Styrofoam container. The aroma of seasoned beef, fried onions, and mushrooms escaped from the box, making it past even my blood-plugged nostrils. Attila had left me my last meal. I popped back the lid and smiled at the oversized hamburger, its garnishes forming a colorful jumble about a Kaiser bun. With two hands I took a hefty bite, the aroma having made me unexpectedly hungry. But I was disappointed. All I could taste was blood. I dropped the remainder inside. Wiping the grease from my chin, I strode into Purgatory.

Dr. Deeth was fiddling with his equipment and looked at me somberly before returning to his work. I found the general in his office.

“You're my godfather,” I said.

His hands were folded at the desk. “I was,” he said.

“Was?”

“Before your father died, I promised him that I'd watch over you.” He nodded at my scarred wrists. “When I stopped you from swallowing that gun muzzle, I fulfilled my debt.”

“Only to bring me to the Terminals,” I retorted.

“We do important work,” the general said. “You're dying for a reason, remember? Life sucks—”

“Why were you indebted to my dad?” I cut him off, not liking that I owed this man my life, and I'd be damned if I was going to owe him my death, too.

The general flushed red, and I saw that the cap was off the Jack Daniels and the oxygen was on, its mask in his hand. “It was a long time ago.”

“You were his commanding officer,” I said.

He looked down at his hands.

“I know what it's like to lose men under me.” It was a guess but by the crumbling of his stony expression, I knew I had brought the sledge home.

His lip curled. “Yes, I lost your father.”

“How did my father die, General?” My hands rested on my hips. “In about ten minutes I'll be dead, I would like to know.”

I'd seen enough people die to understand that most people have some regret they want off their chest before departing. It turned out that at least one of the general's secrets was my father.

“I was cleaning my weapon,” the general whispered, slurring a little. “I didn't know it was still loaded. Your father was playing his guitar. He loved to play it. As my 2IC, we shared quarters. We were friends.” The general's liquid, bloodshot eyes regarded mine and real sorrow resided in them. “There was a clap of thunder, you know, when a shell explodes so close that the world feels like it's been rung like a bell?”

I nodded and released a shuddering breath.

“The gun went off. An accident.”

“You? Not the enemy shell? You killed my father?”

“If the shell hadn't exploded then—”

“No court martial?” I spluttered. “You made flag rank, for Chrissake!”

“I made general because no one ever found out. The bomb had dropped nearby. I wasn't anywhere near when …” He shook his head. “I ran for help. It was lucky for me. The accident saved my life. Another mortar fell on our tent and erased all evidence. But before your father died, he had time to make me promise to watch over you. So I did.”

“But you're prepared to let me die now,” I challenged.

“Bullshit, you're killing yourself,” he barked. “You have a stand-in.” His lips twitched. “Besides, I believe in what we do.” He unfolded his hands, regaining his composure. “I also didn't say I liked you.”

“I just remind you of your failure,” I replied. “At least I can take my guilt out on myself and not others.”

“Doctor Deeth is waiting for you,” the general said, face purpling.

“This is on your hands.”

“No!” I blinked at his scream. “I tried to save you. I tried … to save you.” He drew on his mask.

I flipped him off and turned, but before I left the office I had another question and I actually thought I had caught the sheen of tears in his eyes. “Ten years ago,” I swallowed. It pained me that this bothered me so much. “You stopped sending the letters. Why?”

He grunted first, but after a moment he answered. “Years ago, I was diagnosed with heart disease; overworked they said; I was given a few years to live and offered retirement.” He cleared his throat again and I think if I turned then, he would have stopped, so I didn't. “I didn't take the package, but I started drinking. Hard. I was a failure and an embarrassment, and they put me somewhere no one would care. The archives. I became obsessed with war-time security leaks.”

“You found Attila.”

“Yeah, and this bizarre secret role that allowed the Army to offer me some dignity without troubling them further. They even promoted me.” He sighed. “I didn't forget about the letters. I just stopped believing I could be of any help to you, until I heard of your suicide attempt.”

So the general's interest in me never stopped. He had tracked my progress and I suspected he struggled with my rise in power overlapping with his decline. But why let me end my life here rather than the field? Unless that hadn't been his plan at all—
I tried to save you …

The cap of a fresh bottle spun off and hit the desk.

Deeth offered a disapproving glower as I stepped into Purgatory. I climbed into the cot no longer occupied by Charlie. Morph was gone as well, incinerated in the morgue. The cot's sheets were clean and fresh, but I could feel the rubber one beneath, laid there in anticipation of what was to follow. Sometimes Deeth could convince the terminal to accept a catheter but it was by option to consent, and I had opted out.

My phone buzzed again and I checked it. Morph:
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide, Camus.
I'd bet Camus would change his mind in my situation.

I leaned forward so that Deeth could wrap a tube around my chest, and then he snapped sensors on my fingertips. He chewed gum and smelled of spearmint, which struck me as cruel but he couldn't know why. I felt the general's eyes on me from the window.

When Deeth was settled with his laptop in his lap, he began.

“Is your name Christine Kurzow?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a colonel in the United States Army?”

“Lieutenant colonel, yes.” This was debatable. Was I? Was this the U.S. Army?

Attila walked in, didn't look at me and hit the button on the espresso maker—business as usual.

“Are we sitting in a room of the New York City Veteran's Hospital?”

“Yes.”

He droned on with a variety of control questions until finally we got to the important stuff.

“And do you understand the tenets of Gnosticism?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

Deeth glanced up from his screen and continued. “Can you visualize the afterlife that you will enter upon death?”

“Yes.”

Deeth watched the screen. He abruptly shook his head. “I'm sorry, Christine, this isn't even close.”

Attila clapped his hands and laughed. “I knew you wouldn't pass!”

“What do you mean?” the general asked, now in the room and glaring at Deeth.

“I don't care,” I replied.

Deeth was already packing up the gear. He pulled the sensors from my fingers and they snapped closed.

“I care,” Deeth said. “There are two rules that I never break. I won't administer the injection to someone who is not terminal or to anyone who doesn't know where they're going. You're wasting my time and the time of the kids.”

I was about to explain the Coumadin but thought better of it. Deeth's words about wasting time hit home.

“General,” I said, showing him my forearm. “Here's your chance to finish our little family history.”

The general looked caught, both loathing and grateful.

“It's no problem, Doctor,” the general stepped out of the doorframe. “You're dismissed, but leave your tools.” The espresso machine hissed steam.

Deeth didn't move. “General,” he rumbled. “I can't stop the colonel from leaping off of a bridge. I can't even stop her from letting you stick a needle in her. But I can place a call to the president.”

“Dismissed,” the general repeated.

“This isn't over,” Deeth replied and stormed out.

Chapter 33

The chamber slowly lit.

As the children slipped away, deeper quiet crept into the room. As their will to breathe diminished. As their strength to moan and to cry out crumbled. As their blood drained. So, too, had the sounds eased. Ming had long ago grown accustomed to the overwhelming stench. The sensation of her limbs was gone.

So without sounds, without light, without smell or sense, she drifted, staring into the darkness, wondering when the ground before her would light by her own eyes. When the cell lit again, she thought that she was finally dying, that she had succumbed. That all was well.

From the edge of the room, shoes scraped over rust and the woman got to her feet, breaking the silence and stepping into the light. It wasn't Ming who died, but someone else. Ming wondered if she wanted to go, whether she was ready. Unable to recall what life was like in a home, in a family, without torture.

“Yes! Yes!” the woman said giddily, then biting her fist, her eyes wet with excitement.

Ming tried to see who died, tried to count off those who had already been stabbed or had their throat slit.

“Not, Alistair … no.”

“Shhh!” the woman ordered.

But Ming didn't care.

The light grew. She tried to ignore its radiance, suspecting that such luminosity could only come from purity. And that the only one she knew who was pure enough was a little boy in penny loafers.

“Evil, soul stealer,” Ming croaked, the words issuing more clearly in her mind than from her mouth. “Alistair, please …”

The light went out, snuffed like a candle's flame. The woman growled in the deep black. In Ming the darkness kindled a faint hope that Alistair was not dead. That he'd heard. Slow steps stopped before Ming.

“No, my little friend … I don't steal souls, I free them. For I am Theudas.”

Chapter 34

Charlie gripped the crystal in
a tight fist and held it to his lips.

“I'm here, Charlie's back,” he tried to say, but fluid filled his mouth, garbling the words. His lungs gave a hump of displeasure, and he looked upward. No surface rippled that he could make out, and below, assuming he was right side up, the darkness didn't deepen. The same gray black that surrounded him continued on into the depth of this new sea.

Despite being submerged, his sight was clear. A distant, winking glow drew his attention. He swam toward it, making sweeping strokes with his arms and fluttering his feet. His robe billowed about him. Soon Hillar began to materialize; he was flailing and covered in brown-red fuzz. Something itched over Charlie's skin, and he scratched at his wrist, his nails removing a thin layer of skin. A prickle of fear ran up his spine as the curl of skin dissolved into the fluid, and the graze beneath his nails burned.

Closer, the brown-red fuzz surrounding Hillar clarified; pieces of flesh melted from him. Charlie's lungs pumped with the urge to breathe. But Hillar, who had been in this deep several minutes longer, had not drowned; he was all too conscious during the dissolution of his body. Charlie's itching began to sear.

Hillar's face sloughed from the bone, lingering tendons waving like worms in the fluid. The shine of his chest grew as the clothing disintegrated into filaments, and the skin peeled back to muscle. In the fluid, Hillar's scream was dull and distorted.

When the agony set in, Charlie concentrated on it. He recognized the pain, and he pushed the signals sent by his synapses into the background of his thoughts, separating himself from the blistering flesh. Charlie floated. His penis liquefied. His nails slipped from his fingertips. Bony knuckles and elbow pierced through his skin, which swirled into the fluid and was gone.

While Charlie separated from the pain, Hillar was engulfed by it. His agony twisted his massive form and spun him about. Hillar's tendons snapped at the shoulder, and one skeletal hand grasped after the drifting other. His jaw unhinged, forever extending his terrible, silent scream.

Watching Hillar, Charlie knew he'd entered the final deep. The last chance for gnosis lay here, before his consciousness split into a billion component parts. Gnosis was in this deep and the knowledge of the deeps that came before.

One by one, Charlie's finger bones—the distal, then middle and proximal phalanges—scattered from the metacarpals, and in the tumbling pattern of knucklebones, his fortune was plain. The crystal fell with them and dropped into the darkness, but Charlie did not swim after it. He couldn't. His foot fell from the ankle, but the agony was a distant thrum of electrical current, present, acknowledged, but compartmentalized.

As his ribcage unhinged from the sternum, it gaped slowly like a door long shut, creaking open to let the caustic wash chew into organs. Each rib twisted off and down; the marrow suspended for a second before dissipating.

All that remained of Hillar was a somber, orange ember.

All that remained of Charlie was a single sphere, blue like the glow of the sun shining through an iceberg. Charlie watched the last of himself vanish.

“All I am is a goddamn spark,” he said, and to his surprise, the words sounded aloud.

The hell you know is the hell you'll see, what you feel is what you'll be, the hell you know is the hell you'll see …

And he recalled the excavation of his chest. The taste of maggot. The agony of hook sea, of wolves, of bone-bats. The breaking of vows and of trusts. The rejection of his family and the love of Angelica.

Are we so different?
Hillar had asked.

Charlie accepted that the distance between Hillar and himself was subtle and blurred. That, in Charlie, Jo might have actually convinced a young Theudas that he was Valentinus. The bond was the same.

Charlie Harkman had killed through inaction, inaction born of spite and ego. He embraced his own lusts and passions; he knew himself and what remained and finally, he let it all go.

“Family, love, flesh, all gone. All that is left is …”

The light from his spark began to slowly grow, a radiance as well as a lightness of being. A new star.

“All that is left … is me.”