David L. Robbins - Endworld 21 - Boston Run

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2024-12-23 0 0 384.91KB 188 页 5.9玖币
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Boston Run by David L.
Robbins
Chapter One
His grey eyes snapped open with the abruptness typical of those who
were brought back from the dead, and he stared at the yellow ceiling
overhead in a state of dazed bewilderment. Where am I? was the first
question his mind posed. He tried to lift his arms, but for some reason
they wouldn't budge. What happened? was his second question. He knew
he was lying on his back on a soft surface, although he couldn't remember
how he got there. His throat felt extremely dry, so he swallowed and licked
his lips.
"Ahhhhhh. I see our patient is finally awake," said a low, kindly voice
from somewhere off to his left. "How are you feeling?"
He blinked when a white-haired man materialized above him, noting
the man's lined, mature countenance and steady blue eyes. "Wh—" he
croaked, trying to speak, his parched throat and strangely immobile
jawbone strangling the word and causing him to cough.
"I'm Doctor Milton," the man said, introducing himself.
He realized the man wore a smock and had a stethoscope in an upper
pocket. He attempted to raise his head, but couldn't.
"I'll get you a glass of water," the physician offered, and disappeared.
Footsteps and the sound of running water reached his ears, and he
waited expectantly for the doctor to return, striving to concentrate, to
attain mental clarity. There were so many questions he needed answered.
"Here's your water," Doctor Milton said, returning with a small glass in
his left hand. "Open your mouth and I'll pour."
Gratefully, he complied and felt the cool liquid trickle over his tongue
and down his throat.
"You mustn't drink it too fast," the doctor advised, tilting the glass
carefully and slowly until the last drop was gone. "There. Now you should
feel a little better."
"I do. Thanks," he replied, then addressed the physician in a rush,
apprehension seizing him. "Why couldn't I do it myself? What's wrong
with me. Why can't I move?"
"There, there. Calm down," Doctor Milton said, and patted him on the
right shoulder. "You can't move because your jaw, arms, and legs are
under restraint for your own good. You were in a serious accident and
you're in the hospital."
"An accident?" he repeated quizzically.
"Yes. Don't you remember?"
"No."
"Well, severe trauma often induces a form of amnesia. It's a technique
the brain uses to protect us from memories too terrible to bear," Doctor
Milton stated.
"What happened?"
Doctor Milton pursed his lips. "Are you certain you want to know?"
"Yes," he responded, striving to recall the accident but drawing a blank.
"Please."
"I don't know," Doctor Milton said hesitantly. "I don't want to trigger a
relapse. You only came out of your coma yesterday, and the few times
you've been awake you were incoherent."
"I was in a coma!" he exclaimed.
"For three months."
The revelation staggered him. He closed his eyes, his mind awhirl. "I
don't remember."
Doctor Milton chuckled. "Of course you don't."
"What happened?" he asked again, opening his eyes. "You must tell
me."
"I don't know."
"Please," he urged.
The soft-spoken physician studied the patient for a moment, then
twisted and deposited the glass on a stand next to the bed. "All right,
although it's against my better judgment." He gazed at the man in the
bed. "Three months ago you were working on a demolition crew in
Wakefield. You were operating a bulldozer and you were in the process of
tearing down an abandoned building when something went wrong. A
brick wall collapsed on top of you, and you were pinned under the rubble
for over an hour before your coworkers could dig you out. Then you were
rushed here for emergency treatment." He paused. "You nearly died. The
surgeons operated on you for ten hours, trying to repair your grave head
wound. If there had been a few more bricks on top of you, your skull would
have been crushed completely."
"I don't remember," he reiterated in a strained tone.
"Count yourself fortunate if you never do," Doctor Milton said. "You've
had virtually no detectable brain activity for three months. Technically,
from a legal standpoint, you were as good as dead."
"I had no idea," he mumbled, endeavoring to recall the thinnest thread
of memory, anything that would confirm Milton's statements. But why, he
wondered, should he be suspicious of the physician?
"You'll have a long road to recovery," Doctor Milton remarked. "There
will be many hours of therapy involved. Even after you're released from the
hospital, you'll be on an outpatient basis for a year, minimum."
"What's the name of the hospital?" he asked absently, struggling to
comprehend the implications.
"I'm sorry. I should have told you before. You're in Kennedy Memorial
Hospital."
"Kennedy Hospital?"
"Yes. You know. There were several famous Kennedy brothers who lived
before the war. One of them became the President of the United States.
Another became Attorney General, I believe. And the third one was…"
Doctor Milton said, and stopped, scratching his chin. "Funny. I can never
remember what the third one did to deserve having a hospital named after
him. This was known as Massachusetts General Hospital until it was
renamed in his honor."
"Was I ever here before?"
"No, I don't believe so. Why?" Doctor Milton inquired.
"Because I don't remember anything about this hospital."
"Give yourself time."
"Where's it located?"
The doctor seemed surprised by the query. "You don't know in which
city you are?"
"No. Should I?"
"By all rights, yes," Milton said. He leaned over and examined his
patient's gray eyes. "As I mentioned before, amnesia triggered by a
startling experience is quite common. Forgetting about your accident, for
instance, isn't unusual. Even forgetting a few minor details about your life
wouldn't be out of the ordinary. But forgetting the name of the very city in
which you were born and raised is highly irregular." He straightened and
frowned. "We shall begin a series of tests immediately."
"Can you remove the restraints?"
"Certainly. I'll have a nurse attend to it in a minute," Doctor Milton
said. "But first I want to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to them?"
"I guess so," he replied, still feeling extremely confused.
"Do you know the names of your parents?"
The patient considered the query for a full minute before responding.
"No."
"Hmmm. What year is it?"
Again the patient pondered for a while, then shook his head.
"I have no idea."
"How many years has it been since the war?"
"What war?"
"World War Three, of course."
His forehead furrowed and he stared at he ceiling. "I don't know."
Doctor Milton shook his head. "I didn't anticipate this. I'm afraid you'll
require more extensive therapy than I indicated. We must gauge the full
extent of your amnesia. Mister Berwin."
The patient blinked a few times. "Berwin?"
Shock etched deeper lines in the physician's face. "Don't you remember
your own name?"
"I…" the patient began, and grimaced as if in pain. "Dear Spirit! No! I
don't know my name!" he exclaimed.
"Stay calm," Doctor Milton reiterated. "I'm sure your condition is only
temporary."
Berwin shifted his eyes from side to side. "This isn't right."
"What isn't right?"
"I don't know," Berwin said. "I can't put my finger on it."
"After what you've been through, I'm not surprised you're disoriented,"
Milton remarked. "As the saying goes, though, time heals all wounds. Give
yourself time. Lots of time."
Berwin sighed and looked at the doctor. "Will you have the restraints
removed now?"
Doctor Milton nodded and departed. Somewhere a door closed.
The man named Berwin knit his brow in perplexity and racked his
brain for a memory, any memory, of his past. A flurry of jumbled images
surfaced and promptly evaporated, as insubstantial as the air he breathed,
upsetting him immensely. How could he forget everything about himself?
Even his own name! How was it possible for a person to lose his identity,
yet remember how to communicate, how to converse and understand
others? He didn't know who he was, but he knew the English language.
What else did he know? Two plus two equaled four. The moon orbited the
earth. The Bowie knife qualified as the most superb blade ever
constructed.
Berwin frowned, puzzled by his train of thought. Why in the world
would he think of Bowie knives at a time like this? he asked himself. Was
he a knife collector? He envisioned a pair of Bowies in his mind's eye and
became oddly excited. But before he could reflect on the implications he
heard a clicking noise, which he assumed to be a doorknob turning, and a
second later a cheery female voice greeted him.
"The doctor just told me the good news. Mister Berwin. I'll have those
restraints off in a jiffy."
He smiled at a pretty brunette attired in a white uniform who appeared
on his right side. Her brown eyes regarded him in a friendly fashion.
"Hello," he said.
"Hello yourself, handsome," she responded, and gave him a playful
wink. "I'm Nurse Krittenbauer, but you can call me Nancy."
Berwin judged her to be in her thirties, a competent professional who
thoroughly enjoyed her work. "I'm pleased to meet you, Nancy."
"Oh, we met months ago," she replied as she began unfastening the
strap securing his jaw. "I've looked in on you several times each shift, six
days a week, for the past three months. I've taken your pulse more times
than I can remember. I've bathed you and changed your hospital gown."
She snickered. "I know everything there is to know about you."
Suddenly his jaw was free, and he opened his mouth as far as he could
and raised his head to discover he was in an immaculately clean room
with white walls and a tiled floor.
Nancy went to work on the straps binding his arms. She glanced at him
and chuckled. "Are you practicing to swallow an apple whole?"
"My jaw feels as if it's made of lead," Berwin replied, and opened and
closed his mouth several times, stretching his jaw and neck muscles,
relieving the stiffness caused by prolonged immobility.
"I'll bet it does," Nancy said. She loosened the restraint of his right arm,
then walked around the bed and began to undo the strap on his left. "I can
imagine how antsy you must be to get up and move about, but you're to
stay put until Doctor Milton returns. Is that understood?"
Berwin nodded, staring at the loose-fitting green gown in which he was
clothed. He saw his naked feet sticking up at the end of the bed. Looped
around his ankles were wide black straps.
"After being confined for so long to your bed, you'll need to recuperate
slowly," the nurse continued. '"Don't push yourself. Take it easy. Give
yourself time."
"The doctor said the same thing," Berwin commented.
"That makes it official," Nancy quipped. She freed his left arm and
stepped to the foot of the bed.
Berwin propped himself on his elbows and rotated his head from right
to left, limbering his neck muscles some more. Suddenly vertigo afflicted
him, swamping his consciousness in a flood of dizziness, and he collapsed
onto his back.
"Are you okay?" Nancy inquired.
"I'm a little lightheaded," Berwin admitted.
"Just lie there and breathe deeply," she directed him.
He obeyed, and gradually the vertigo subsided, leaving a lingering
feeling of weakness in its wake. His stomach unexpectedly growled.
"Is there a lion under the bed or are you hungry?" Nurse Krittenbauer
asked.
"I'm starved," Berwin abruptly answered.
"I'll ask the doctor if you can have solid foods. We've been feeding you
intravenously since you lapsed into the coma." she said, and finished
unfastening the straps. "There."
Berwin wiggled his toes and moved his feet in small circles, restoring
his circulation. He lifted his left arm and inspected the crook of his elbow.
Several puncture marks were spaced close together over his most
prominent vein.
"Did the doctor say anything about notifying your mother and father?"
Nancy queried.
"My mom and dad are alive?" Berwin responded in surprise.
"Sure. They've visited you practically every day. Why do you look so
stunned?"
"'I don't know. Doctor Milton mentioned them, but for some reason I
assumed they were dead."
"Did he mention your sister?"
Berwin rose onto his elbows again, his mouth slack, flabbergasted. "I
have a sister?"
The nurse smiled. "Yep. She's six years younger than you are, I believe."
"I didn't know," Berwin said sadly.
"Doctor Milton told me about your amnesia. Don't take it too hard. I've
seen many patients who couldn't remember people and places, and they all
recovered. You'll be fine."
"I hope so," Berwin commented softly, and lay down. He covered his
eyes with his left forearm. "I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind."
"No problem," Nancy said. "I'll check with the doctor on your food. You
may have to take some tests first. Just don't move."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"I promise," Berwin assured her.
She walked to the door, glanced at the forlorn patient for a moment,
and exited the room, stepping into an immaculate, deserted corridor.
Humming to herself, she strolled to the right, and she was less than eight
feet from a junction when around the corner came Doctor Milton. They
halted a yard from each other.
"Did you remove the restraints?" the physician asked.
"Yes," she responded dutifully.
"You talked to him?"
"Yes."
"And?" Doctor Milton prompted impatiently.
Nurse Krittenbauer smiled maliciously. "You were right. We don't need
to worry. The stupid son of a bitch doesn't suspect a thing."
Chapter Two
Ten yards from the cabin he heard the low sobs and sniffling coming
through the open window situated to the right of the front door and
paused. The pitiable crying filled him with sorrow, and he had to force
himself to walk up to the door and knock. He pasted a grin on his face and
hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt.
No one answered the knock.
He debated whether to try again or leave. She might want to be alone,
and the last thing he wanted to do was contribute to her sadness. But he
had volunteered to bring her the news. As much as he disliked the notion,
he had to tell her.
The sobbing came through the window, unabated.
He knocked louder the second time, using his knuckles to pound on the
door. Predictably, the crying ceased.
"Who is it?" she called out.
"It's me, Jenny. Hickok," he informed her, and nervously ran his right
hand through his long blond hair, then stroked his sweeping mustache.
"Just a moment," she said.
Hickok could imagine her dabbing at her eyes and checking her
appearance in a mirror. He glanced idly down at his buckskins and
moccasins, wondering if it was too late for him to head for the hills.
The front door opened.
"Hello," Jenny said, greeting him, bravely mustering a wan grin. Her
green eyes bored into his blue ones. Luxuriant blonde hair fell past her
slim shoulders. She wore a pale green blouse and faded, patched jeans.
"Have you heard any news?"
"That's why I'm here," Hickok answered, and rested his hands on the
pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers riding in a holster on each hip.
Anxiety contorted Jenny's face and she placed her hands on his upper
arms. "Well?"
"I don't know how to tell you this," the gunman said with a heavy heart.
"Out with it," Jenny urged, shaking him. "Please."
"All right," Hickok said, and took a deep breath. "They took him away
in a helicopter."
The words seemed to shrink her before his eyes. She released him, her
arms dropping to her sides, her chin drooping to her chest, her posture
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ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedbytheBestELFproofer.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.BostonRunbyDavidL.RobbinsChapterOneHisgreyeyessnappedopenwiththeabruptnesstypicalofthosewhowerebroughtbackfromthedead,andhestaredattheyellowceilingoverheadinastateofdazedbewilderment.WhereamI?wasthefirstques...

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