Lazarus’s Heir
Book 4 in the Children of Ascendance Chronicles
By
M.A. Smith
Published at Smashwords by Michael Smith
Prologue:
Monday, May 22nd, 2006. Asheville, North Carolina.
The thunderstorm was reaching its pinnacle as Officer Derrick Wayland turned off of Tunnel Road and swung his police cruiser into the vast empty parking lot of what had been Asheville’s largest Wal-Mart a mere two years before. Nowadays it was nothing more than an enormous gray building with boarded up doors and no identifying signs of any kind.
Beside him, his rookie partner of two months, Officer Christopher Smith, sat in the passenger seat and complained.
“I’ll bet a million dollars it’s a blown transformer. There’s absolutely no reason we should be checking on something like this.”
Wayland glanced over and raised his eyebrows.
“If lightning hit a transformer the power would be out. Besides, you heard Dispatch. They got fifteen calls in fifteen minutes. Whatever that noise was, it was loud enough to scare a whole lotta people.”
“Oh, come on! You don’t actually believe it was some kind of mini-earthquake?!?”
“Storm windows don’t shatter by themselves, Chris. I saw a special on the Discovery Channel that said the Blue Ridge Mountains are on a fault line.”
“Whatever, let’s just get this over with.”
The rain was coming down in buckets, periodic lightning flashes doing far more to illuminate the parking lot than the cruiser’s headlights. The wipers were fighting a losing battle, however, and Wayland reached up to rub the interior windshield with his forearm.
“I can’t see a damn thing,” he said, “Turn on the air conditioning.”
The windshield started to clear, and for the next ten minutes Wayland did slow circular pans, nothing out of place as he crisscrossed an expanse of concrete as large as any football field.
“There’s nothing out here!” Smith huffed at last, “Let’s go get some coffee.”
“Alright, but I wanna drive around back first. Just in case.”
After a mumbled protest from Smith, Wayland cruised around the side, eventually reaching the rear loading docks where truck after truck had once delivered goods to a thriving commercial juggernaut. Said juggernaut was still in play, only it was now contained within the new Super Wal-Mart on the east side of town. Given the number of homeless the city boasted, Wayland found it ironic that so large a building continued to go unused.
It was even darker in the back, the street lights of Tunnel Road totally negated by the towering gray walls. Silence mounted in the car for several more circles until Smith sighed and started talking again.
“Did you run into that sheriff transfer from Hendersonville yet? Veronica something or other?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you should make an effort. I’m telling ya, Derrick, I’ve never seen a lady cop with a rack like that.”
“I’m sure she would appreciate you telling her.”
“Don’t give me that sexual harassment crap! The only reason we have female officers on the force is because it makes us look all progressive and what not.”
Wayland glanced over again.
“You do realize my last partner was a woman?”
“Yeah, so you know what I’m talking about.”
“No, Chris, I don’t. She saved my ass once. Tazered an armed perp during a domestic violence call.”
“Uh huh, well, if I’d been there nobody would’ve gotten tazered. Somebody bows up on me, partnah, and they’re gonna get two in the sternum.”
It was an act of sheer will to keep quiet, but Wayland did, painfully aware that his compatriot was too new in the tooth to understand that law enforcement wasn’t a pissing contest. During more than fifteen years on the force, Wayland had drawn his gun only twice with the intent of actually using it. The first time the suspect had backed down. The second, a seventeen year old gangbanger had lost his life.
“So,” Smith began after the pause, “Was your last partner hot?”
Wayland was about to reply when a movement at the other end of the parking lot caught his eye. It looked as if something was on fire, a cloud of smoke rising up through the rain about fifty feet ahead.
“Is that a no?!? Come on, man. Was she hot or not?”
“Shut up,” Wayland grunted, the details becoming clearer as they approached. There was a circular depression in the concrete, like a colossal pothole, steam drifting lazily into the storm.
“What is that?”
“I said shut up!” snapped Wayland, rolling down his window.
Rain soaked Wayland’s left arm uniform sleeve as he turned on the externally mounted spotlight and directed it towards the crater. It was more than thirty feet in diameter, random pieces of red hot asphalt still glowing despite the downpour. And there, at the center, lay the sprawled silhouette of a human body.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Call it in, Chris! Get an ambulance here right away!”
Wayland opened the door and braved the tempest before his partner could answer, his feet splashing water as he ran up to the edge. The concave bowl was about seven feet deep, a sudden lightning flash revealing not only its depth, but also the individual centering it.
Large, male, and covered from neck to toe in some kind of shiny black metal, the body was motionless, the pink tint of blood swirling this way and that in the quickly growing puddle.
“Sir!!! Sir, are you alright?!?”
There was no answer, and Wayland drew his nine millimeter, his footsteps pensive as he started down the incline.
“I’m Officer Derrick Wayland with the Asheville City police Department!!! I’m here to help you!!! Move your left hand if you can hear me!!!”
Again there was no answer, but Wayland could smell the acrid stench of his rubber boot treads burning. If it weren’t for the accumulating water, he was sure the victim’s hair would’ve caught fire.
“I’m gonna get you out of here, but I need to know if you can hear me!!!”
His third entreaty yielded the same nothing, and Wayland reached down to put two fingers on the man’s neck. It was difficult to tell with the rain falling so hard and fast, but Wayland thought he detected a pulse.
“Chris!!! Chris, get out here!!!”
The cruiser’s spotlight continued to shine bright and blinding for another minute or so, and then Officer Smith stepped in front to block it.
“Is he alive?”
“I think so! Did you call it in?!?”
“Yeah, there’s an ambulance in route.”
“Then climb down and help me!”
Like a child entering a dark room, Christopher Smith took one cautious step and then another, each bringing him further into the depression.
“What is that, armor? Is that guy wearing armor?!?”
“I dunno,” Wayland replied, running his hands over the man’s chest. Blood was flowing from numerous slashes in the metal, but it did indeed appear to be some kind of protective covering. “This stuff is hard—real hard—but it doesn’t feel like steel or Kevlar. Grab an arm, Chris. We need to get him up before the water covers his face.”
Working together, they dragged the unconscious man up the rise and eventually to the flat asphalt, the sound of distant ambulance sirens cutting through the rain.
“Jesus!” Smith panted, “This guy weighs a ton!”
Wayland ignored him, instead putting his fingers to the other’s neck. As before, there was a heartbeat, but it was sporadic and faint.
“Gimme some light, will ya?” And Smith angled the spotlight down.
In the near and brutal beam, Wayland could now see an astonishing collection of details, the whole as perplexing as it was surreal. The man was over six feet tall and incredibly muscled, perhaps two hundred and thirty pounds not counting the armor. It was indeed armor, Wayland decided, but it didn’t look like the standard medieval platemail crusader knights wore on his beloved Discovery Channel. This was far more intricate, with dozens of interlocking plates that would allow a full range of motion. Every inch of his body was covered except for his head, and whatever straps and buckles held it all together were completely hidden.
Still, the armor hadn’t done its job very well, because the man was a bleeding mess. Wayland counted more than thirty slashes and holes, some of them small, some of them so deep he could actually see bone.
“Where the fuck is that ambulance?” He cried, looking up at Smith, “He’s gonna bleed out!”
“They’re on their way.”
“Shine the spotlight up so they know we’re back here.”
“You got it!”
The white beam jerked away, and Wayland pulled out his personal mag-light to continue the perusal. It was only then that he made it to the man’s face, which did not belong to an individual this large. Aside from a grisly gash above the other’s left eye, and a host of nicks and cuts, the skin was completely unlined, almost like a baby’s. Pale though he was on account of blood loss, his dark olive complexion would’ve made him seem Native American or even Latino—if it weren’t for his hair. Spread out like a soaking wet halo, the mass was so blond it was almost white.
Thunderstruck, Wayland panned the mag-light over the man’s numerous wounds before directing the beam back at the crater. Steam was still hissing and rising, but there were no longer any red hot rocks.
“What the hell happened to him?” Smith asked, kneeling down.
“I don’t know. These look like knife wounds, or something heavier, like an axe.”
“Or a sword?”
“Maybe, but it sure wasn’t the fall. It couldn’t have been the fall.”
“What fall?”
“Are you retarded or something? Do you see that crater right there?!?”
“I see it, but if he fell far enough to make a thirty foot dent in a concrete parking lot he’d be deader than shit.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, but it doesn’t look like his skull is cracked, and—”
Wayland’s words stuck in his throat. Having absently checked the man’s neck for a pulse again, he jerked away as his fingers touched cold motionless flesh.
“Hold this!” He said, handing Smith the mag-light, “I’ve gotta get this armor off!”
Wayland went to work lifting this plate and that, trying like hell to find some way to open the personal prison. Everything was interlocked so perfectly that he began to think the man had been born in this thing. It wasn’t until a growling tank of red lights and piercing sirens appeared from around the corner that Wayland found what he was looking for.
There was a strap and buckle mechanism beneath the left side shoulder guard. It wasn’t leather, however, but some kind of chainmail. Nevertheless, Wayland prized it free and removed the shiny black turtle shell, seeing another buckle that held one side of the breastplate in place.
“Hold the light steady!” He barked, his wet slippery fingers pulling and tugging.
The siren cut mid-roar as the ambulance pulled in to direct its headlights on the frantic scene. Within the dual beams, Wayland could see that rain was now flying in sideways like a hurricane.
A pair of paramedics came running up.
“I’m Steve,” the first one greeted, “This is Roger. Whatcha got?”
“Caucasian male. Early twenties, maybe younger. Multiple knife wounds. He’s bleeding out, guys! I lost his pulse!”
“What is that, a Halloween costume?”
“It’s armor! Real armor! But I’ve almost got it off.”
Steve knelt down to feel for a pulse, then looking back at his partner.
“He’s gone into arrest, Roger. Try to intubate while I get the gurney. And you, what’s your name?”
“Officer Christopher Smith.”
“Give me a hand, will ya?”
Smith followed Steve back towards the ambulance, leaving Wayland alone with the second paramedic, Roger.
“Is he gonna make it?”
“Doubt it,” Roger grunted, pulling wads of gauze from his orange trauma case and pushing them into a pair of metal/flesh gashes, “This puncture right here is straight through the liver. It’ll be a miracle if he makes it to Mission.”
Wayland didn’t reply, instead prizing one of the breastplate buckles free before discovering that it was still held in place from the other side.
“Switch!” He ordered, changing positions
Wayland was now on the man’s right, his hands scrambling at the second shoulder guard while Roger pulled a long clear tube from his case.
“This isn’t gonna do much if we can’t get some clear skin to defibrillate.”
“I’m working on it! I’m working on it!”
Roger tilted the man’s head back and pried his jaw open, the clear plastic tube descending for about six inches before something happened that was right out of a horror movie. Without any indication that the man’s heart had started beating again, much less that he was conscious, his left arm bent at the elbow, his fingers ensnaring one of Roger’s wrists.
The scream that followed was terrifying, Roger crying out as he thrashed impotently in the dead man’s grip. Wayland actually heard the dull pop of broken bone, but he was already reaching for his mag-light. He struck mid-forearm with enough force to break a different set of bones, yet nothing happened. More blows, more force, but still Roger shrieked as if he was being murdered. The fifth hit caused Wayland’s mag-light to crack, copper batteries glinting within halogen headlights. Out of panic, or even accidental brilliance, he reached over to yank the intubation tube from the dead man’s throat, and immediately Roger was free.
The crippled paramedic rolled away to whimper in the fetal position, leaving Wayland to stand and draw his pistol. Smith and the other paramedic pushed the gurney up at that moment.
“What the fuck is going on?!?”
“I… I dunno. He just came alive and grabbed—”
“Roger!” Steve called, scrambling over to his downed comrade, “Lemme’ see! Is it broken? Can you move your fingers?”
The ambulance headlights revealed all, for when Roger rolled to his back, his hand was hanging sideways at an impossible angle. Both Radius and Ulna had been crushed.
Part 1:
Chapter 1:
Doctor Elizabeth Montgomery sat on a long wooden bench in the senior staff locker room of Mission Saint Joseph hospital, her tall waifish torso hunched over with elbows on knees. It was her first night back at work, but not even the familiar comfort of her blue surgeon scrubs could make Asheville feel like home. Home was Bossier City, Louisiana. That’s where she and Josh had grown up together, been brother and sister together, and his funeral had reminded her just how futile it was to run.
For as long as she could remember, Josh had been an athlete. He joined the orphanage’s little league tee-ball team when he was nine, graduating to a YMCA city roster for hard ball at the ripe old age of eleven. After that there were public high school games and eventually the attention of several L.S.U. scouts. His athletic scholarships paid for fraternity dues in much the same way as academic scholarships had paid for Elizabeth’s medical school, but none of that mattered now.
Josh was dead, his major league debut with the Saint Louis Cardinals staunched before he ever got the chance to take his first plane ride. During a celebration dinner with his manager at a seafood restaurant in New Orleans, Josh had collapsed while eating crawfish, his heart failing from a birth defect no one could’ve possibly detected without an MRI.
“Thought I’d find you here,” someone said, and Elizabeth looked over to see her chief nurse and best friend of three years, Jenny Blaylock, holding the locker room door open. “We’ve got an ambulance coming in.”
“What’s the ETA?”
“Five to ten, but you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. Doctor Inez is still on the floor.”
“I’m fine, Jenny. What’s the incoming?”
“Male Caucasian with multiple knife wounds, probably DOA from the sound of it. Oh, and a double compound wrist fracture from one of the responding paramedics. Looks like our herring got a good lick in before he bought the farm.”
“Well, prep Triage Three. I’ll be there in a second.”
Jenny didn’t leave, instead strolling over to take an adjacent seat on the bench.
“It’s crazy slow tonight on account of the storm, so we’ve already got a crash cart waiting in Three… What’re you doing here, Liz?”
“Working, what’s it look like?”
“As a nurse? It looks like you’re doing your job. But as a friend it looks like you’re trying to pretend that things are normal when they aren’t. He was your brother, sweetie.”
“And?”
“And you’ve taken two vacation leaves since I’ve known you. Two personals in three years, and one was my wedding. What are you doing here, Liz?”
Elizabeth looked away, picture frames of Josh’s funeral flashing in the theater of mind.
“There were a lot of people there, ya know. Not family, ‘cause he and I never had any, but people just the same. I swear the entire Kappa Alpha fraternity from L.S.U. showed up, some of ‘em way too young to have known Josh when he went to school there. And then the Cardinal folks—scouts and coaches and agents in their nine hundred dollar suits. Mobs of ‘em, Jenny! Mobs I’d never seen before in my life. Most of ‘em were crying. I’m talking real tears here, none of it fake because there was no one there to put on a show for. No one except me. And I was just some chick the priest singled out when he gave his little speech.”
In Elizabeth’s peripheral vision, Jenny teared up and covered her heart with her hand.
“Please go home, Liz. Not counting Inez, we have three residents on site. Nobody’s gonna die if you leave… well, nobody that’s not in arrest already.”
“What would I go home to?” Elizabeth asked, finally looking over to meet her best friend’s stare, “An empty condo? A refrigerator full of ketchup and pickles? A dog that bites every guy I bring over in the ass?!?”
Jenny laughed a little and wiped her face.
“Okay, fuck it then! I’m supposed to get off in forty five minutes. Emma can cover the rest of my shift, and you and I can go on over to French Bar and get blind stinking drunk!”
The tremor in Jenny’s voice invoked the protective urge Elizabeth had always felt for those in pain, and she reached out to pull the other into her embrace. Jenny instantly became a weeping mass of blond hair and pink scrubs.
“Bad things shouldn’t happen to good people! It’s not fair for you! It’s not fair for your brother! It’s not fair!!!”
“Aright Jenny… Shhh… I don’t need you to cry for me.”
“But you do! You never cry! You never—”
Not wanting Jenny to finish, Elizabeth tightened her grip so that her best friend’s face would be smothered by her abdomen.
“That’s enough… Shhh… I’ll be fine.”
The sound of nearing sirens and barked orders came from the emergency room outside, and Elizabeth pulled back.
“Let’s see to the DOA, and then we’ll go to French Bar. Is that a deal, Jen? Look at me. Is that a deal?”
“It’s a deal,” Jenny replied, a smile creeping across her chubby lips, “I’m a big drama queen, aren’t I?”
“Not in the ER, so let’s get to work.”
After allowing chief nurse Jenny Blaylock to splash some water on her face, Doctor Elizabeth Montgomery led the way out of the locker room and into the ER, there to see the outside doors open and alive with activity. A giant, bare-chested boy was being pushed in on a gurney by a uniformed police officer; a second cop (whose silver hair identified him as a veteran) straddling the patient with overlapping hands, the steady pump of Police Academy CPR being administered.
“Where’re the paramedics?” Elizabeth asked, jogging up to grab the gurney’s front railing and guide it into Triage Three.
“Right behind us,” the older cop said, “They’re both hurt, but they’ll live. The main concern is this kid here. His heart stopped about a half an hour ago.”
“Half an hour?!? What the hell were you guys doing out there?”
“Spare me the shit, lady! And whatever you do, don’t stick nothing in him.”
“Huh?”
“I’m serious, don’t fucking do it. He reached up and broke the first responder’s arm when he tried to intubate, and he knocked Steve retarded when he tried to zap him.”
“Wait a second! Who are you again?”
“Derrick Wayland, Asheville PD. This is my partner Chris.”
“Christopher Smith, Doctor. And please believe what we’re telling you.”
Elizabeth looked from one frightened face to the other, then glancing sideways so she could see back down the hall. Two white uniformed paramedics were staggering into the emergency room. One was holding his wrist; the other was bleeding from the head.
“Get off him!” She told Wayland, the aging cop obeying only to roll to his feet and draw his pistol. As if on cue, the younger policeman did the same.
Ignoring them, Elizabeth looked the patient over, instantly convinced that it was indeed a DOA. The man’s chest was riddled with deep slashes and narrow puncture wounds, a two fingered feel of his neck revealing the absence of a heartbeat. But there was something altogether different about this patient, something that made Elizabeth want to do everything she could. Without a doubt he was the most beautiful human being she’d ever seen, his limbs perfect where they weren’t shredded, his face lax and splendid and childlike.
His upper torso was, again, bare—tan skin stretched over chiseled muscle. But his legs and feet were shielded by an interlocking series of black metal plates, ones that hindered any appraisal of the wounds beneath.
“Bag him,” Elizabeth told her staff, her hands probing various injuries, “Type and cross for blood, Epi drip, and somebody get those paddles charged. We’re gonna have to hit him.”
“Don’t do it,” Wayland warned, “I don’t wanna have to shoot.”
“Oh for the love of Christ, put your guns away! This is a hospital, and this man is in cardiac arrest. It’s medically impossible for him to be a threat to anybody!”
“Maybe, but being dead didn’t keep him from doing what he did. If he comes alive again, Doctor, you’ll thank me for emptying every round in this clip!”
Despite the cop’s warning, Elizabeth hit her patient four times with the defibrillation paddles, the rest of her staff working to plug his many wounds. One of the orderlies snapped two saw blades trying to cut metal from the man’s legs, but there was no reason to risk a third. Not even a straight shot of adrenaline could crux the flat line on the heart monitor, and after a mere twenty minutes of trying to revive him, Elizabeth made the call.
“He’s gone. Time of death, 9:36 PM.”
Wayland and Smith were still in the corner with their pistols brandished, and Elizabeth walked over to them.
“Gentlemen? Please?”
“Sorry,” said the older, returning his weapon to its holster, “But you didn’t see what we saw. He fell out of the sky. Literally! And whatever he’s wearing, it ain’t no kind of metal I’ve ever seen.”
“Probably Titanium,” Elizabeth commented, unable to think of anything else that could snap two diamond edged saw blades, “Jenny?”
“Yeah?”
“Go check on those paramedics. See who’s attending.”
“I’m sure it’s Inez, but I’ll make sure.”
Jenny scurried out of the room, the rest of Elizabeth’s staff breaking up.
“You said he broke the responder’s arm while he was in arrest?”
“Not exactly broke it,” Wayland explained, “Crushed it, like you would a soda can. One-handed too, it was the craziest thing.”
“What about the other one?”
“Steve? Well, he zapped the guy once we got his breastplate off, and then got himself smacked in the head. I actually had to drive the ambulance myself.”
“All while the victim was clinically dead?”
“I know it sounds nuts, but there wasn’t a heartbeat.”
“I’m not sure you’re qualified to make an assessment like that in the field, Officer Wayland.”
“Probably not, Doctor Montgomery, but I dare say those two kids in the other room are. Why don’t you ask ‘em? And after they’ve told you the same thing I just did, you can find me in the lobby to apologize. Come on, Chris.”
The policemen exited Triage Three just as Jenny was coming back in.
“Doctor Inez is with ‘em, but we’re gonna have to page somebody from Ortho. That one guy’s got a nasty double fracture. If we don’t get him into surgery, he might lose his hand.”
“Okay, give it to Mecklenburg. How’s the second one doing?”
“Looks like he got hit in the head with a crowbar. Inch and a half laceration right below the hairline. Inez is irrigating, but she thinks he might have a concussion.”
“Did she order a CAT scan?”
“Yep.”
“Well then, I guess we’re all done here. Still wanna go to French Bar?”
“More than ever!”
“Aright, I’ll call down to Post-Mort and start the paperwork. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Do me a favor, though. Page Chief Reinhold. I wanna make sure he’s okay with me taking off. You know how he gets when we lose a patient.”
Chapter 2:
Ten o’clock had come and gone, and Doctor Montgomery was still in her office filling out forms. It was a tedious endeavor, but utterly necessary given the dangers of malpractice. No matter how hard her staff worked to save a patient, there were always family members waiting to sue.
She had just signed her name to the last line when a discrete knock pulled her attention towards the door.
“Hey Liz, welcome back. Heard you got a DOA?”
It was Randy Cummings from Post-Mort; a thin, twitchy little man who always gave her the creeps.
“Yeah, multiple knife wounds. We never even got a rhythm. He’s in Triage Three.”
“That’s what they said, but somebody must’ve moved the stiff. The guy in Triage Three is breathing.”
“What?”
“Big kid? Metal pants?”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Nope. I didn’t turn the monitor on or nothing, but it’s a little hard to miss a chest like that moving up and down.”
“Well Jesus, Randy!!! Did you tell anybody?!?”
“Yes, I told you. Just now.”
Elizabeth jerked to her feet and ran for the door, Jenny strolling towards her in street clothes once she made it to the hall.
“You about ready, Liz?”
“Jenny, get the team back to Triage Three! Handy Randy says our DOA is still alive!”
“No freaking way!”
“Gotta make sure!” Elizabeth panted, running past, “Ring it in as a Code Blue!!!”
Elizabeth was out of breath when she burst into Triage Three, then yanking the curtain back to see her DOA exactly as she’d left him… except that his chest was indeed moving up and down. Elizabeth put her cheek to his sternum, the dull thump of a heartbeat filling her ear.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” She gasped, reaching across to flip the monitor on. The digital line was beeping in an utterly normal cardiac rhythm. Each pulse was strong and steady and slow; so slow, in fact, that it would’ve made Olympic Athletes jealous.
Jenny came running in with three other staff members, all of them pulling on rubber gloves.
“This is gonna make medical history! Should we get a couple more liters in him?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied, “Pressure is normal. Pulse-ox is normal. This makes absolutely no sense. It’s almost as if he replaced his own blood… Ho-ly-crap,” she added, noting that several of the minor lacerations were already healing. “These were fresh when they brought him in.”
Jenny came to stand beside her.
“What should we do?”
“This might be the only time you’ll ever hear me say this, but I have no idea. We should get the rest of that metal off, though. Donald? Sam? See if there are buckles or straps or something. One of the cops said he was wearing a breastplate, so there must be some way to get him out of it.”
Jenny walked around to the other side of the table, pried one of the man’s eyes open, and shined a penlight into it.
“Pupil dilation is normal now. Gorgeous color, too.”
“Alright, people. Let’s irrigate these wounds and suture the shallow ones. He’s bound to have organ damage, so get somebody from Vascular on the phone. Might as well wake up X-ray too.”
One of the orderlies, Sam, prized free a large piece of metal that protected the man’s left thigh.
“It’s light,” he said, flipping the plate into the air and catching it, “From the way those saw blades broke, I figured this stuff would weigh a ton.”
“Titanium is a relatively light metal.”
“I agree with you, Doctor Montgomery, but this ain’t Titanium. My dad worked at NASA, and he had a miniature space shuttle that was cast from the stuff. It was white/gray, not black. See here in the cross-section where it’s been cut? This isn’t painted. It’s dark all the way through.”
“Sam? I couldn’t give less of a shit what he’s wearing. I just want it off. See that puncture wound? It’s way too close to the femoral artery, and if he starts bleeding again, I wanna be able to do something about it.”
The team went to work, diligently employing vast reserves of medical knowledge for a patient who seemed to no longer need it. Aside from minor cases, no one else was admitted that necessitated a Code Blue, and the whole of Mission Hospital came and went that night, specialist upon specialist lending their opinions on the “medical miracle.”
X-rays, CTs, Tox-screens, MRIs—all were done in the twelve hours that followed, surgery unnecessary since all internal bleeding had stopped by itself. Doctor Montgomery stayed on throughout, revelation after revelation keeping her glued to her lone patient’s side.
The rapidity with which his wounds were healing was unprecedented, but the greatest shock came from a full body X-ray and CAT scan respectively. Despite having an anatomically normal skeleton, the patient’s bones weren’t “bones” in the sense of being calcium. They were made of something harder, more resilient, so much so that one of the surgeons from Orthopedic said the man couldn’t be human.
The CAT scan showed similar anomalies, brain activity off the chart even though the collective assessment was that McDreamy was in some kind of coma. That was his name now, “McDreamy”, several of the nurses agreeing on it because of their love for the television show Grey’s Anatomy.
McDreamy was, indeed, dreamy, but his aesthetic beauty wasn’t the reason Elizabeth now sat by his bed as the sun rose outside the third floor window. It was for deeper reasons that she’d fended off reporters from WLOS who had somehow gotten wind of the story. It was for deeper reasons that she’d declined to talk to a pair of police detectives who came around in the wee hours. It was for deeper reasons that she had insisted on being present for every test and examination.
It was for Josh.
This man had died, literally. He had been a corpse for over an hour if officers Wayland and Smith were to be believed, and that gave him a unique knowledge that no one else in Elizabeth’s life possessed. She’d never seen fit to believe in gods or devils or heavens or hells, but her brother was no longer on this earth, and if there was someplace else, someplace where people lingered, Elizabeth wanted to know about it.
“You’ll tell me if you wake up,” she whispered, reaching out to hold McDreamy’s hand, “You’ll let me know, won’t you? Even if there’s just blackness, even if Josh just blinked out, I need some closure.”
Suddenly the door creaked open to reveal Jenny still in her street clothes and looking haggard.
“How was French Bar?”
“I didn’t go,” Jenny replied, “I actually passed out in one of the on-calls around midnight. I didn’t realize I was so tired. How’s he doing?”
“Still our little conundrum. All his stats are in the green, but I haven’t seen a coma like this without significant brain injury.”
“The desk said his CAT scans came back fine. Atypical, but nothing that would indicate cerebral trauma.”
“Atypical is right! His Theta and Beta waves look like he’s taking a standardized test, or playing a round of Jeopardy or something. We’re in uncharted territory here… neurologically speaking of course.”
“Well, I really hope he comes around so I can get his phone number. That’s one good-looking man.”
Elizabeth laughed just a little.
“You’re married, remember?”
“Oops!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell. What time does your next shift start?”
“Tomorrow at noon. I’m off today.”
“Wanna get a drink?”
“It’s not even seven AM, Liz. And Barry would be pissed.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Go on home to your husband. I’m gonna run down to the cafeteria and get something to eat.”
They parted after a hug, Elizabeth forsaking the cafeteria once she reached the ground floor, instead stealing away to one of the on-call rooms. Her intention was only to shut her eyes for a moment, but as soon as her head hit the pillow, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 3:
Tuesday, May 23rd, 5:46 PM
Elizabeth Montgomery awoke with a start, the wall clock indicating that she’d been asleep for a good ten hours, which was downright bizarre. She’d been plagued with insomnia even before Josh’s death, and this was the longest she’d been unconscious in twenty years.
It was mildly perplexing, but so very welcome. She felt refreshed and alive and genuinely hungry for a big meal, (which was also bizarre since her diet consisted of sparse salads and health shakes). After wolfing down the cafeteria’s biggest cheeseburger, she took a shower and changed her scrubs, pleased that the reflection in the mirror didn’t sport purple rings under hazel eyes.
A quick check by the ER desk revealed nothing that warranted her immediate attention, and Elizabeth took the elevator to the third floor ICU, strangely excited about visiting McDreamy. What she saw when she entered room 309 felt like an invasion of privacy.
There were no less than six doctors standing around McDreamy’s bed; some she knew, some she didn’t.
“Ah, Elizabeth,” greeted Chief Reinhold, “You’re here early this evening. The schedule has you in at nine.”
“Actually I’m here late. I stayed over. What’s going on?”
“Just running some more tests on your miracle boy. These are doctors Franklin and Ledwell from Duke University research, along with Agent Kenneth Johnson from Washington DC. Of course you already know doctors Inez and Mecklenburg.”
Feeling bombarded, Elizabeth shook hands with the newcomers, her eyes lingering on Agent Johnson.
“Washington, huh? I guess that makes you CIA?”
“DIA, actually. Defense Intelligence Agency, Bio-Tech division.”
“Don’t you mean Bio-Weapons division?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Uh huh, well, what’s the DIA want with my patient?”
“Your patient?” Chief Reinhold piped up, “That’s a little presumptuous, Doctor Montgomery. We’ve stumbled upon a true medical anomaly here, one that will bring nationwide recognition to our hospital. With respect to policy it’s beyond your jurisdiction as head of ER, but please don’t feel slighted. Your name is on every initial report, and we have no intention of cutting you out of the loop.”
Elizabeth felt a hot rush of anger, but she wasn’t about to give this smug son of a bitch the satisfaction of showing it.
“That’s very generous of you, would you mind bringing me up to speed?”
Even as she spoke, Elizabeth allowed her eyes to drift over to the unconscious man in the bed, almost unable to comprehend what she was seeing. The gash over his left eye was gone, just gone, no scar left to tell the tale. The same was true of the minor cuts and slashes that had adorned his cheeks and neck, and while she couldn’t see his torso on account of the white hospital gown, his massive arms were likewise unscathed. His color had returned too, his skin tan and unlined, like an infant surfer’s.
“As you can see,” Reinhold began, “Most of his injuries have healed in the last ten hours, cell regeneration almost quadrupling once we started feeding him intravenously. That’s astonishing enough, but this man doesn’t seem to give off any waste products. No sweat, no urine, no fecal material. It’s as if everything we put into him is converted to ATP for protein production. Also, did you notice that he’s almost completely hairless?”
“No,” Elizabeth admitted, “I didn’t.”
“Well he is. Aside from his eyebrows and that mop of California blond, he has no hair follicles of any kind. No Adipose glands either, which means he doesn’t secrete pheromones or anything else that would constitute mammalian scent.”
“Not very conducive to reproduction, in the evolutionary sense.”
“Right you are, Doctor Montgomery, which led us to run a sperm count. It came back negative. His testicles contain seminal fluid, but he’s completely incapable of—”
“Wait a minute! You performed an invasive procedure like that without authorization? Jesus, Casey! Do you have any idea what kind of lawsuit that makes us liable for?!?”
“It’s Chief Reinhold today, Liz, and the battery of tests we ran were warranted given the circumstances.”
“Fingerprints came back without a match,” said Johnson, “And the DIA database is the largest in the world. There was no way to contact family for authorization.”
“Am I talking to you, Agent Johnson?!? In case you haven’t noticed, this is a medical matter, and I don’t need some government spook rationalizing a violation of this patient’s civil rights!”
Chief Reinhold flushed bright red, but Johnson held up his hand for silence. Apparently, the government was in control.
“I understand your outrage, but under the Patriot Act, federal physicians have authorization to conduct tests on any suspect that might present a health hazard to the general populace.”
“So you’re a doctor now?!?”
“Yes, I hold an MD from Harvard in cardiothoracic medicine and a PhD from Cal-Tech in metallurgy. This may come as a surprise to you, but my expertise in the latter field is what prompted my section director to put me on a plane this morning.”
Stunned, Elizabeth thought for a moment, and then nodded.
“The armor…”
“I won’t know for sure until I get it back to a proper lab, but it doesn’t appear to correspond to anything on the periodic chart of elements. Not only that, we detected a slight but consistent radioactive resonance. Well within safe Geiger counts, yet nonetheless remarkable for an inert metal.”
“Fair enough, but how does this patient present a health hazard?”
“Monitor tape from the ambulance confirms that he wounded two paramedics while clinically dead. I’m told the one with the broken arm has nerve damage. I dare say that constitutes a hazard.”
“Not to the general populace! You know damn well that—”
“Doctor Montgomery!!!” Reinhold barked, “Your further involvement in this case is a privilege, so I suggest you shut your mouth! Patient McDreamy will be moved to the fourth floor isolation wing as soon as federal agents get here, and if you wish your access to him to continue, you’ll stop questioning our motives.”
Elizabeth had to laugh at Reinhold’s use of the nickname “McDreamy”, but there was nothing humorous about it. Beyond the incredible characteristics of his body, the man in the bed was still a human being, and it was painfully clear that the motives of this group had nothing to do with the Hippocratic Oath.
Bureaucracy was bureaucracy, however, and Elizabeth didn’t want to be pushed aside.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “Events of late have caused my emotions to get the better of me, and I’ll thank you all to forget my outburst. Agent Johnson? Please accept my apology.”
“Unnecessary. Chief Reinhold told us about your brother and how it might affect you, so please accept my apology for being cavalier. I realize this patient isn’t some lab rat to be dissected, but I cannot ignore the magnitude of what has happened here. I’ve read the reports of the responding officers, and given the facts, we might just be dealing with something extraterrestrial.”
Marshalling her fury over Reinhold having told them about Josh’s death, Elizabeth forced a smile.
“His blood type is AB positive. I doubt he’s from another planet.”
“Oh, really? Then maybe you should take a look at this,” Johnson said, handing her a newer, more recent test. Elizabeth scanned it quickly, commenting aloud as she flipped pages, “Red blood cell count is normal… White count is elevated, but that’s understandable given his injuries… Pulse-ox, blood pressure—hold up. What’s this here? What are these?”
“Stem cells, Doctor Montgomery. His blood is saturated with them. Probably why he can heal so fast.”
“That explains the lack of nerve damage,” Elizabeth mused.
“Yes, so I hope you’ll understand my concern and the concern of the agency I represent.”
“Absolutely! Now please, tell me everything…”
Elizabeth kept relatively quiet for almost an hour as her fellow physicians talked and debated and stated opinions, questions only offered when an anomaly was presented that she hadn’t already gleaned from the preliminary tests. The rapidity of McDreamy’s recovery had become almost commonplace, the main emphasis being his non-calcium based skeleton and his freakishly active brainwaves.
The idea of exploratory surgery was entertained many times, but Doctor Mecklenburg had already tried to extract a sample from the patient’s left Tibia that afternoon, only to discover that his bones were as damaging to saw blades as his armor had been in the ER. Of course, this made any invasive examination of McDreamy’s brain impossible, and in the end, Elizabeth left the third floor with the strangest feeling that her patient couldn’t be hurt. Every party involved wanted him to wake up, and government security would ultimately take a backseat to good old fashioned care.
Chapter 4:
The next week passed tumultuously for Doctor Montgomery, her nightshift rotation in the ER uncharacteristically busy. Asheville wasn’t a big city like New York or Los Angeles, but there were more than a dozen Code Blues in a span of seven days, and that was unusual to say the least.
Between gunshot wounds and car accidents, Elizabeth spent her time on the fourth floor sitting with McDreamy for hours in the isolation ward. Two federal agents stood an armed post at all times outside, but she’d been given a special clearance badge to get in and out, (one of the few indulgences Chief Reinhold still allowed).
It was nevertheless therapeutic, Elizabeth unloading her woes to an unconscious audience of one who listened without judgment or response. She would tell him of the lives she’d saved and the lives she’d lost, often drifting into stories about Josh and their childhood in the Bossier City orphanage.
Data from the continuing medical tests had been classified by Agent Johnson, and while local television anchors had run the story of a man “falling from the sky”, fickle public interest soon moved on to a rather unique survival piece. A private jet had disappeared over Asheville airspace the night McDreamy was wheeled into the ER, and the major networks were inundated with snippets about singer/songwriter Ashley Murphy and her entourage hiking down from the Blue Ridge Mountains several days after rescue attempts had been called off.
Beyond that, the day logs cited a host of doctors coming and going from all parts of the country, and every time Elizabeth recognized the name of some hotshot specialist from Denver or Phoenix or Chicago, her blood ran cold. McDreamy’s ability to heal left no evidence of exploratory surgery, but Elizabeth was sure it was happening, and she couldn’t help but think that he would’ve woken up by now had the attending physicians simply left him alone.
And then on Tuesday, May 30th, everything changed.
A charismatic young football player from UNCA had been brought in complaining of chest pains, and while he was initially jovial and flirty with the nurses, he suddenly flatlined. After two hours of trying to revive him, Elizabeth was forced to call Time of Death, one of the paged specialists later confirming that the young man had died from a defective heart valve.
Elizabeth was stoic and professional throughout, 3:00 AM approaching as she staggered like a zombie into the elevator and punched the fourth floor button. The DIA agents glanced at her badge and waved her in, silence filling the room as Elizabeth slumped into the chair beside McDreamy’s bed.
For no particular reason, she reached out and pulled his right hand to her cheek, allowing tears she hadn’t shed at Josh’s funeral. Once the dam was open there was no stopping it, and Elizabeth wept for the first time since her parents died, since her and Josh had been put into foster care, since all that was family had gone away.
“He was twenty two,” she sobbed, “Just like Josh. An athlete, just like Josh… I can’t do this anymore! I miss him so much. I could’ve saved him if only I’d been there. I could’ve—”
Elizabeth stopped midsentence, her words staunched by the pressure of fingers closing around her own. McDreamy was holding her hand, and when she looked up, his eyes were open. How beautiful, those eyes, far more so than a penlight search for proper dilation. They were cognizant now, blue green and sparkling with tears that seemed kindred.
“Can you see me?!? Nod if you understand!!! Can you see me?!?”
The other opened his mouth, but all that came out was a low guttural wheeze.
“Look here!!! Look into my eyes!!! Can you see me?!?”
His jaw bobbed again, as if he were trying desperately to speak, and then came a voice, deep and commanding, but with a cadence that exactly matched her own.
“Can… you… see me?”
“Yes!!! I can see you!!!”
A pause, and then:
“Yes… I can see you.”
“But, do you understand what I’m saying?”
Again McDreamy repeated the question, his ability to mimic growing with every word out of his mouth. It was comical to hear her own caricature, but no, he couldn’t understand. He was merely parroting.
After a few more rounds of this, Elizabeth reached across him and hit the call button, laughing then as McDreamy reached over to do the same. He immediately winced though, the IV in his left arm drawing his attention. Like someone reacting to a hot stove, he yanked the taped needle out and threw it away, his face subsequently relaxing back to childlike wonder.
“No, no, you need that,” Elizabeth said, looking around for a cotton ball or a piece of gauze to cover the little bubble of blood that welled from his arm. Ah, but it healed almost instantly, crimson liquid actually sucked back into the pin sized hole before disappearing completely.
“You really are amazing,” she said with a smile.
Though he didn’t mimic verbally this time, McDreamy returned the smile, his fingers drifting up to wipe a lingering tear from Elizabeth’s cheek. His own eyes welled again, and he said a single word.
“Josh…”
Elizabeth felt her heart skip a beat, but she had no time to come to grips with what she’d heard. The door burst open at that moment, its back hitting the wall with a loud bang. Doctor Phillip Mecklenburg from Ortho was there, along with a male nurse and one of the federal agents.
They’d no doubt been drawn by the call button, but McDreamy’s reaction was catastrophic. In a literal explosion of muscle and flesh, he rolled sideways off the bed, the steel railing snapping as if it were made of gingerbread. IV stands toppled, a heart monitor fell over and shattered, several other machines smashed by sheer force.
His bare feet hit the floor on the far side, the rest of him lurching towards the corner to put as much distance between him and the newcomers as possible. It was the reaction of a frightened animal, McDreamy’s breaths coming in audible gasps as he stood and shivered, his hospital gown ripped on one side, his beautiful eyes darting from face to face.
It was only then that Elizabeth noticed that the federal agent had drawn his nine millimeter.
“Put that fucking gun away! And stay where you are!”
“What’s going on, Liz?” Doctor Mecklenburg blurted, “The desk said the call button rang. We thought this room was empty.”
“You scared the shit out of him, Phil. Now stay there. Don’t move.”
As if approaching a possibly rabid dog, Elizabeth spread her hands and slowly rounded the bed, intentionally making her voice low and soothing.
“Nobody’s gonna hurt you. We’re all here to help. Come on now. Easy does it.”
McDreamy seemed to relax, his posture straightening, his eyes going from wide-eyed fear to narrow challenge. As soon as Elizabeth got within reach, however, his arm encircled her waist and pulled her to his side, almost as if they were husband and wife standing fast against a group of enemies.
At the other side of the room, Mecklenburg glanced sideways and said, “Page Chief Reinhold. Tell him the patient’s awake. And get that DIA guy up here.”
“You got it,” the male nurse replied, exiting the room.
His place by the open door was instantly filled by a second government agent, the other’s weapon slowing rising from its holster.
Now snuggled against McDreamy’s body, Elizabeth locked eyes with her fellow physician.
“Phil? Please get them out of here. At least until I can calm him down.”
Doctor Mecklenburg made to speak, but one of the agents barked up to cut him off.
“None of your staff has jurisdiction over us, Miss. This is a federal matter, and we have orders. We can’t simply leave.”
“What’s your name?”
“Special Agent Daniel Ferris.”
“Well, Agent Ferris, did you see what this man just did to that bed? He snapped a steel railing like it was nothing, and muscle density tests we’ve done over the last week are off the charts. He weighs over two hundred and sixty pounds, did you know that?”
“I don’t care.”
“You should care, because when he was brought into the ER there was enough deep tissue damage to kill him three times over, yet he broke a paramedic’s arm in half with one hand while clinically dead. Consider that, and then believe me when I tell you that he doesn’t understand what we’re saying right now. His mind appears to be a total blank, so if you don’t give me the time I need to coax him back into that bed, we’re gonna have a serious problem.”
“I have orders.”
“And they are, what? To restrict access and make sure he doesn’t leave? You’re not breaking orders by returning to your post outside the door. Please, for the safety of this patient, and your own, get out.”
Elizabeth had been maintaining her soft soothing tone, and though she thought it would’ve been better to scream, she couldn’t take that chance. Luckily, Agent Ferris and his partner saw the light, backtracking out of the room to leave Doctor Mecklenburg holding the door open.
“You too, Phil.”
“I’ll go, Liz, but we need to get a Pulse-ox and blood pressure. He could relapse at any moment.”
“Since when does a specialist from Ortho need to warn me about trauma shock?”
“I’m just saying,” Doctor Mecklenburg persisted, taking a step forward.
As soon as he moved, McDreamy spun Elizabeth around and came to stand in front, his massive chest bowing, his arms flexing, a bestial growl emanating from clinched teeth. Again, it was the reaction of an animal, and a protective one at that, but no one had to explain things to Phillip Mecklenburg.
“Okay, okay!” He said, backing away, “I’m out of here.”
“Keep Reinhold and the others out in that hall. Tell them what you saw, what I’ve told you, and then do whatever you can. I’ll come out as soon as he’s settled down.”
“I’ll try, Liz. I’ll try.”
Chapter 5:
It was relatively easy to coax McDreamy back into bed, but Elizabeth didn’t dare reattach the heart monitor, much less start another IV. She merely talked to him, confirming through trial and error that this man was indeed a cognitive blank. It went beyond a petty matter like not speaking English. Nuances of body language and reflexive response made it clear that he was an infant with respect to higher thought, and she would’ve diagnosed him as having total memory loss due to brain damage were it not for his full physical capacity and comical ability to mimic.
More than that, he had certain empathic senses that superseded the normal five, almost as if he could read her thoughts, or feel her thoughts, or otherwise communicate without words. Of course, this line of thinking was probably on account of him saying Josh’s name right before the intrusion, and Elizabeth couldn’t discount the possibility that she had imagined it.
After almost an hour, McDreamy was sleeping peacefully on top of the sheets in his hospital gown, and Elizabeth left the room to find the hall filled with people talking in hushed whispers. Agent Johnson was the first to approach, Chief Reinhold on his heels.
“Is he stable?”
“He’s been medically stable for a week,” Elizabeth replied, “But if you’re talking about his mindset, yes, he’s just fine. He’s sleeping now.”
“I’m gonna need a complete debriefing with you in private.”
“No problem, but I don’t want anyone else going in there.”
“Agreed,” Johnson conceded, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“We have on-call rooms on the first floor,” offered Reinhold, his demeanor neutral, though Elizabeth perceived undercurrents of anger beneath his words.
“Anything private will do. And Chief Reinhold? I wonder if you’d be so kind as to have the nearby rooms vacated. I realize this is the isolation ward, but I don’t want anybody in proximity. No nurses, no patients, no nothing.”
“That’ll take some doing.”
“So do it. My agents will maintain security. The discretion of this hospital is up to you.”
“But shouldn’t I be part of the… uh… debriefing?”
“Later,” answered Johnson, “Doctor Montgomery? Shall we?”
Elizabeth had never liked Chief Reinhold. He was a pompous arrogant prick, and everyone knew it. But she tried not to show triumph as he was momentarily cut out of the loop.
After some additional orders to agents on scene, Johnson followed Elizabeth to the elevator where they stood in silence as it hummed down to the first floor. Ten minutes later they were in one of the on-call rooms with two fresh cups of coffee.
Johnson was a handsome man, Elizabeth decided, his jet black hair cut short, his dark eyes and skin marking him from Greek or Italian descent. He had a good build too—nothing as spectacular as McDreamy, but fit nonetheless. Still, there was something sterilizing about him, Johnson’s “all business” demeanor making him seem secretive rather than charismatic, dangerous instead of sexy.
“This is good coffee,” he began, the two of them sitting across from each other in plastic chairs, “In my line of work I get to be somewhat of a connoisseur. Police stations, research labs, company meeting rooms… Usually onsite coffee sucks, but this tastes like Starbucks.”
“Asheville is known for stuff like that. We have a marketing deal with one of the local shops. The cafeteria food can be a little rough, but no one can accuse us of skimping on java.”
Johnson laughed and took another sip.
“How long ya been here?”
“Four years. I practiced in Louisiana before getting the offer to head ER at Mission.”
“Your file say’s you’re thirty two. Isn’t that a little young to be running your own department?”
“Aren’t you a little young to be the government’s real life combo of Fox Mulder and Dana Skully?”
“I’m thirty six, so, yes. But what I do isn’t like the X-files. As I said, I mostly work in metallurgy. A lot of my assignments are commercial, checking out new wave alloys and what not for military application. The only reason I’m still being allowed to head this investigation is because I also have the MD.”
“Didn’t wanna save lives for a living?”
“No, I didn’t wanna lose lives for a living. Sometimes people just die, kinda like your brother.”
Elizabeth froze.
“Chief Reinhold is a son of a bitch for telling you about Josh, and I’ll probably file an official breach of confidentiality complaint once this is all over. Regardless, you will not mention my brother again.”
“I’m sorry,” Johnson said with a genuinely apologetic nod, “I had a two year stint in the FBI before the DIA recruited me, and I’m somewhat prone to approaching every conversation like an interrogation. Still, you shouldn’t blame Reinhold. I would’ve found out anyway. The dossier my people worked up on you last Friday had all the details.”
“I feel nauseous,” Elizabeth groaned, looking away and taking a sip from her coffee. As usual, it was extremely tasty.
“Let’s start over, huh? I don’t wanna get into your personal life. I just wanna know about our mysterious patient.”
“I’m no longer sure I have anything to say to you, Agent Johnson.”
“I see… Well, how ‘bout I start with a peace offering then? What I’m about to tell you is classified, so I need your word that you will not repeat it.”
“You have my word,” Elizabeth sighed, already getting annoyed with the way things were going.
“Two independent labs from DC have analyzed the armor, and—as I suspected—it’s not a terrestrial metal. The atomic signature is completely new, the closest similarity being some kind of radioactive Titanium isotope. It’s light, it’s hard, and completely impervious to heated conditions in excess of three thousand degrees. If it could be cost effectively replicated, there would be an end to war theatre infantry death. One analysis cited a 460 Weatherby magnum shell shattering against it at point blank range, not to mention its astonishing ability to repair itself.”