“We have to administer the rest of the drug very slowly. I have no idea if he will experience any pain, but I don’t want to risk losing him again.”
H
ey, who said that? Who’s there?
It sounds like a woman’s voice, but no one answers me. Did I speak out loud?
Probably not.
I strain to open my eyes but I have this weird sort of dull sensation that they’re already wide open. I keep trying to see better, but the light gets steadily brighter, almost stinging. My eyes don’t seem to be able to adjust to it, but at least there’s a slight tingle of pain.
Thank God!
If there wasn’t any pain, then I might think I was paralyzed or . . . or dead.
At least I know I’m alive.
Just barely.
I
think it’s almost funny how those gray shapes keep drifting around in front of me like . . . floating by like there’s a group of people, milling around me.
I wish I knew who they are.
I wish I knew where I am.
I wish I knew what’s happening, but my body still feels totally numb.
“Mr. Thurmond, I hope you keep that video cam running. If this works at all, I don’t want to miss a single second of it.”
M
iss any of
what?
Who said that?
Where the hell are you?
I
n the distance, I can hear other voices, buzzing around me like the droning hum of a beehive. I can’t make out anything anyone is saying. It still reminds me of the indistinct chatter of a crowd, talking softly in the dark in expectation of a show that is about to begin.
C
ome on!
Somebody!
Please!
Talk to me!
Why won’t anyone tell me what the hell’s going on?
Why can’t I see you?
I
can’t feel anything, but I am positive, now, that they are doing something to me.
What the fuck are you doing to me?
Oh, shit!
Wait a second.
I think I know what’s happening. I remember, now. I did try to fight with that kid, and I think he might have—Shit,
yes!
That’s it! He had a gun!
I’ve been shot!
I must be dying!
Oh, God, I’m afraid that might be what’s happening!
I remember clearly, now; that he was holding a gun, aiming it straight at me. He was standing too close, and I made a grab for his wrist, hoping to push the gun away, but there was an explosion of light.
Funny, but I don’t remember hearing anything. There was no loud blast. No pain. Just a burst of intense white light, and a dull feeling, like someone punched me lightly in the stomach, and then . . . then . . . .
. . . nothing . . .
S
o that’s it.
I’ve been shot!
I must still be lying on the sidewalk where I fell.
Am I bleeding to death?
Why can’t I feel anything? Even that faint whisper of pain is gone now. These people must be paramedics from the rescue unit or something . . . and the others must be the crowd that’s gathered around to watch.
To watch me die!
Shit, that’s it!
I’m dying on the street.
They’re trying to save my life, but I’m dying anyway!
Oh, Jesus! Oh, shit!
I’m scared!
“You have to remember, your honor, that this is the first time we’ve attempted to do something like this. The medical technology is new. We have to proceed with extreme caution.”
T
hat was a woman’s voice again, but why did she say, “your honor”?
What the hell is she talking about? Is she a doctor or something? And who’s she calling “your honor”?
H
ey, wait a second. . . .
I think she’s the one doing something to me. For a moment, there, I could almost feel my body again . . . at least a little bit. There’s something hard underneath me. Is it concrete? Am I still lying on the sidewalk? It sort of feels that way, but it also feels as though my knees might be bent.
Aww, shit! This must be the way I hit the ground after I got shot.
“Given these rather unusual circumstances, do you gentlemen agree that we can dispense with the usual formality of swearing in the witness.”
S
wearing in?
What the hell are they talking about?
Jesus Christ, stop talking nonsense and do something to save my fucking life!
E
ven as I think this, I can feel a warm current of sensation returning to my body. The heavy, lumpish feeling in my chest is starting to loosen up, and I think—yes! I can feel the dull throb of pins and needles as it spreads slowly into my arms and legs. The center of my chest feels like it’s on fire.
I can’t tell if I’m turning my head or merely shifting my eyes back and forth, but when I look around, the light becomes more diffused. The figures leaning over me—I think I can count three of them now—are still indistinct. They’re surrounded by these weird halos of light that ripple with deep blues and purples like colors I’ve never seen before!
It’s beautiful, but I’m still scared.
Oh, Jesus, I’m really scared!
“I object, your honor. I think this entire experiment is nothing more than a . . . a charade . . . a mockery of justice. Considering that we are videotaping this, I respectfully ask that we sequester the jury so they won’t have to observe this . . . this macabre spectacle.”
I
wish I knew what the hell this person is talking about, but I’m so swept up by the gushing, almost burning sensation of feeling as it rushes through my body that I can’t concentrate very well on anything anyone is saying. I imagine my body is an ice-bound river, and warm spring winds and the steady tug of strong, flowing water underneath the ice are finally breaking apart the hammer-lock grip of the frozen surface.
I’m dizzy with a heady rush of euphoria as my vision clears even more. I can see that I am not lying in the street, bleeding to death.
No, I’m in a room.
And I’m sitting up in a chair.
My hands are clamped to the chair arms in a viselike grip. I know, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to move them. Across my chest, I can feel the tight pull of a restraint that makes it difficult—no, impossible to breathe. I know that the strap holding me, not my own strength, is what’s keeping me sitting erect in the chair.
When I try to open my mouth and run my tongue over my lips, there is almost no feeling whatsoever, as though my whole face has been shot full of Novocain.
“Objection overruled, Mr. Applegate. While I grant that this is a most unique situation, I’ll reserve judgment as to whether or not the evidence we receive is or is not admissible.”
A
s my vision continues to resolve more clearly, I try to look around. Off to one side, I see the source of light—a high bank of windows through which bars of iridescent blue light are streaming. The light shimmers in slow, sinuous waves that maddeningly flicker through the colors of the spectrum. Everything appears to be watery and insubstantial. Halos of rainbow light surround everything.
Arrayed against this wall, below the windows, are numerous dark shapes. . . . People, I realize. They seem frozen in place, as immobile as mannequins.
I try to blink my eyes, and it seems to take forever for the rough, sandpaper feeling to scrape across my eyeballs. I am startled when I rotate my head slowly to my left and see the dim silhouette of someone standing close beside me. The nimbus of light surrounding him—at least now I can tell that this looks like a man—masks his features as he leans close to me. I get a faint whiff of something stale, almost rotten, and that makes my stomach growl.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Sinclair?”
I
want to answer him, but when I try to clear my throat and take a deep breath, I have no sensation whatsoever of breathing. My chest feels like it’s encased in iron bands. I lean forward, and the restraint presses into my chest, but, surprisingly, there is no pain. The indistinct features of the man’s face loom closer to me, resolving like a slowly developing photograph out of the shimmering haze. I see a terrifying, cartoon face, with a wide, smiling mouth frozen in the center of a round, white balloon, and two dark, dimensionless balls that must be his eyes.
When he speaks to me again, repeating his question, his lips move in flabby, rubbery twitches that seem to be not at all in synch with his words.
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Mr. Sinclair?”
A
gain, I try to take a breath and speak, but the best I can manage is a slight nod of my head. I’m not really sure if I’ve moved at all. There is no pain, but I have the sense that the bones in my neck are dry and splintering, and if I move even the least little bit too fast, my spine will snap in two like a piece of rotten wood.
I try to focus on this man’s face and am surprised to notice that I feel no need to blink my eyes. I can’t even move them. The lids are frozen wide open as though I am permanently terrified. I stare blankly forward, hoping that my vision will resolve so I can turn my head and see who this is talking to me.
“Can you see my hand?”
S
omething that looks like a huge, black crow flying across a stormy sky flashes in front of my face. It goes by so fast I can’t possibly turn my head fast enough to track it.
“I would ask, Mr. Charles, that you not push him quite so hard.”
T
his is the woman’s voice again, speaking from somewhere off to my right. She’s trying to make it sound like she’s in control, but I detect a near frantic edge of worry in her voice. When I try to turn my head to look at her, the total lack of sensation makes it feel as though my eyeballs are detached and rolling around inside my head, completely out of control.
“I understand, Dr. Murphy, but you indicated that we might not have very much time when he is even semi-conscious. I repeat, Mr. Sinclair, can you see how many fingers I’m holding up in front of you?”
A
gain, the black crow flaps across my vision.
This time I see two blurry lines, like fence posts, pointing straight up.
Two
, I think, but there is no way I can even begin to say the word. As much as I strain to speak, I can’t feel the vocal cords in my throat. They might as well be cut. I feel like I’m a disembodied entity, floating in a hazy, gray soup of vague lights, shadows, and sounds.
“I could administer a small amount more, your honor, but in my opinion, we’ve already pushed this to a dangerous level.”
“I respectfully submit that this is a complete waste of the court’s valuable time, your honor. My client and I request that you strike all references to this shameful . . . incident from the record, and that we proceed in a customary manner.”
“Again, Mr. Applegate, your objection is noted and overruled. Please proceed with your line of questioning, Mr. Charles.”
W
hile this exchange is going on, I am only half listening to it because I am trying so hard to make my throat work, but it’s like trying to flex the muscles of an arm that has been amputated.
There’s nothing there—not even the lack of sensation.
. . . nothing . . .
A
fter a few moments of struggle, I feel another, stronger gush of warmth that’s centered in my chest. The heat radiates outward, like a faintly glowing coal being fanned by a gentle breath. My throat tenses. The tendons and muscles are as stiff as bars of rusty iron. I can feel a faint thrumming that brings with it an agonizing jolt of pain.
“. . . two . . .”
I
n a sudden, nauseating rush, my vision resolves more clearly, and I see where I am.
To my right is a tall, oak-paneled desk, behind which, high above me, sits a man dressed in a dark robe. The few wisps of gray hair he has are combed straight back from his wide forehead. His face looks pale and is crisscrossed by thin, red lines of exploded capillaries, particularly on his nose. “Drinker’s tattoos,” I always called them.