Grim Reaper: End of Days Page 3

  The blood beneath Patel’s skin vasodilated, leaving goose bumps. “The End of Days? The conflict in the Middle East… will it lead to World War III? A nuclear holocaust? Jerrod?”

  The dying man reopened his eyes. “Symptoms,” he coughed. The smell lingered.

  Searching an untouched breakfast tray, Patel spooned an ice chip, placing it in his teacher’s mouth. “Perhaps you should rest.”

  “In a moment.” Jerrod Mahurin swallowed the offering, watching his protégé through the open slits of his feverish eyes. “The End of Days is a supernal event, Pankaj, orchestrated by the Creator Himself. Mankind… is moving away from God’s Light. The Creator will not allow the physical world to be eradicated by those drawing strength from the darkness. As with Sodom and Gomorrah, as with the Great Flood, He will wipe out humanity before the wicked destroy His creation, and the terminating event, whatever it may be, shall happen soon.”

  “My God.” Patel’s thoughts turned to his wife, Manisha, and their daughter, Dawn.

  “This is important. After I pass on, a man of great wisdom will seek you out. I’ve selected you.”

  “Selected me? For what?”

  “My replacement. A secret society… nine men hoping to bring balance.”

  “Nine men? What am I required to do?”

  A diseased breath wheezed softly from Jerrod Mahurin’s mouth like a deflating bellows, the smell stale and harsh.

  Pankaj Patel recoiled. “Jerrod, these men… can they prevent the End of Days? Jerrod?” Reaching for another ice chip, the pupil placed it gingerly on his teacher’s tongue.

  Water dribbled from the open slit of the elderly man’s mouth.

  A moment passed, the silence broken by the steady beep of the flatlining cardiac monitor.

  Dr. Jerrod Mahurin, Europe’s foremost authority on psychopathic behavior, was dead.

  Ward 27

  Leigh Nelson entered Ward 27, one of a dozen areas her colleagues referred to as a “fishbowl of suffering.” Here, everything was on display, the carnage, the emotional wreckage, the ugly side of warfare that no one outside the hospital wanted to be reminded of.

  Although there were only fourteen amputees treated during the entire first Gulf War, the second Bush administration’s invasion was a far different story. Tens of thousands of American soldiers had lost limbs since the 2003 occupation, their long-term care overwhelming an already overburdened health-care system, their anguish purposely kept from the public eye. And still the war raged on.

  It takes a special breed of health-care professional to work day after day in a combat amputee ward. Bombs leave the human body ravaged by burn marks and shrapnel wounds. The pain can be excruciating, the surgeries seemingly endless. Depression runs rampant. Many wounded vets are in their twenties, some in their teens. Coping with the life-altering loss of a limb can be devastating on the victim, his family, and the caregiver.

  As bad as it was during the day, it was always far worse at night.

  Leigh stopped by the first bed on her right, occupied by Justin Freitas. The corpsman, barely nineteen, had lost both eyes and hands ten weeks earlier while attempting to defuse a bomb.

  “Hey, Dr. Nelson. How’d I know it was you?”

  “You smelled my perfume.”

  “I did! I smelled your perfume. Hey, Doc, I dropped the remote to the television, can you hand it to me?”

  “Justin, we talked about this yesterday.”

  “Doc, I think maybe you’re the one that’s blind. I have hands, I can feel them.”

  “No, baby doll. It’s the nerve endings, they’re confusing your brain.”

  “Doc, I can feel them!”

  “I know.” Nelson fought tears. “We’re going to get you new hands, Justin. A few more surgeries, and—”

  “No… no more surgery. I don’t want any more surgery! I don’t want pincers! I want my hands! How can I hold my little girl without hands? How can I touch my wife?”

  The anger ignited like a flashpoint. Dr. Nelson barely had time to signal for help before she was forced to wrestle with her patient, fighting to prevent him from bashing the stubs of his bandaged forearms against the aluminum bed rails.

  An orderly rushed over, helping her to pin Justin Freitas’s arms down with Velcro strips long enough for her to inject a sedative into his IV drip, delivering him into an anaesthetized delirium.

  Stalling to catch her breath, Dr. Nelson made notes on his chart. Sixteen more amputees lay in wait in this ward. The first ward of eight.

  * * *

  Every ward had its gatekeeper, a combat veteran who knew the pulse of his fellow soldiers. In Ward 27 it was Master Sergeant Rocky Allen Trett. Wounded by a rocket-propelled grenade eight months earlier, the double-leg amputee was sitting up in bed, waiting to greet her.

  “Morning, Pouty Lips, you’re late. The little one giving you a rough time at home?”

  “What’s the term you like to use? It’s been… challenging. You seem in good spirits.”

  “Mona came by with the kids.”

  “Okay, don’t tell me… the boys are Dustin and Logan, your daughter is Molly.”

  “Megan. Blue eyes, just like yours. Great kids. Can’t wait to go home. Listen, I know I promised not to ask—”

  “I called our prosthetist again this morning. He promised me no later than mid-September.”

  “Mid-September.” Rocky struggled to hide his disappointment. After a few moments he regained his composure, pointing across the aisle. “Keep an eye on Swickle. He was bawling his eyes out earlier. Wife handed him divorce papers for breakfast. Says she can’t deal with having a gimp for a husband.”

  “Lovely. Rocky, what about the new guy… Shepherd?”

  Rocky shook his head. “Forget the prosthetist; that boy needs a shrink.”

  “Baby doll, we all need a shrink.” She kissed him on the forehead, returned his smile, then proceeded to bed station 17, one of several areas that had been curtained off for privacy. “Sergeant Shepherd, my name is Dr. Nelson, and I’m your—”

  She pulled back the curtain.

  The bed was empty.

  * * *

  The Manhattan sky was awash in blue. A steady breeze coming from the East River kept the scent of soot to a minimum. Rows of industrial air conditioners hummed nearby, the mechanical groan of their rotating fans reverberating the roof’s asphalt turf. The sound of traffic joined in the serenade seven stories below, the horn frequency increasing ever so slightly as lunch hour rapidly approached.

  The VA hospital’s helopad was empty, the medevac chopper on a run.

  The lanky man in the gray sweatpants and white tee shirt walked barefoot along the eight-inch-wide concrete ledge surrounding the rooftop helopad. Long brown hair flopped with the breeze, his features and faraway look reminiscent of those of Jim Morrison, the late lead singer of the Doors. The soldier shared the artist’s restless soul, imprisoned in a tomb of flesh.

  His left hand felt like he had dipped his arm elbow deep in lava. The pain was excruciating, driving him to the edge of madness. There’s no arm there, you asshole. It’s phantom pain… just like your existence.

  Patrick Ryan Shepherd closed his eyes, the one-armed man beckoning the sounds and scents of the urban jungle to flow into the hole in his memory—

  — flushing out images from a long-lost past…

  * * *

  The breeze is steady, the sky awash in blue. The stickball bat is gripped firmly in the boy’s balled-up fists.

  Patrick is eleven years old, the youngest kid in the game. Brooklyn is made up of ethnically divided neighborhoods, and this area of Bensonhurst is predominantly Italian.

  Patrick is Irish, the runt of the litter.

  An outsider pretending he belongs.

  It is Saturday. Saturday’s have a different feel than Sundays. Sundays are more somber. Sundays are dress pants and church. Young Patrick hates church, but his grandmother makes him go.

  Sandra Kay Shepherd is disabled, havi
ng fallen from a ladder at work. The sixty-one-year-old is also an insulin-dependent diabetic. Twelve years earlier, Sandra’s second husband walked out on Patrick’s grandmother with no explanation.

  Patrick’s mother died of breast cancer when he was seven. Patrick’s father is in jail, serving the fourth year of a twenty-five-year sentence for DUI manslaughter.

  Two outs, the bases are loaded, only there are no bases. First and third are parked cars. Second base is a manhole cover. Home plate is a pizza box.

  Young Patrick lives for these moments. In these moments, he is no longer the runt. He is no longer different. In these moments, Patrick can be the hero.

  Michael Pasquale is on the mound pitching. The thirteen-year-old has already been embarrassed twice by the younger mick. The Italian throws the first pitch at Patrick’s head.

  Patrick is ready. He steps back and wallops the rubber pimple ball with the broomstick, the base hit whizzing past the pitcher’s left ear. The bounding shot skids beneath several parked cars before disappearing from sight.

  “Sewer ball! Ground rule double. Go fetch, German Shepherd.”

  “Don’t you mean Irish Shepherd?”

  Patrick moans as the older boys escort him to the concrete crevasse. The rules of stickball are simple: He who hits it retrieves it.

  Two boys lift the manhole cover, unleashing a vomit-inducing smell. The liquid muck is five feet down, and Gary Doroshow, who normally brings the metal rake, is away with his parents at Coney Island.

  “Down you go, Shepherd.”

  “Are you sure it went down there? I can’t even see it.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “Get your mick ass down in that hole.”

  Patrick descends, rung by rung, the collar of his tee shirt pulled high over his nose against the overpowering stench of liquid shit.

  The blue sky suddenly disappears, the manhole cover clunking in place.

  “Hey!”

  The muffled sound of laughter causes Patrick’s heart to race.

  “Hey! Let me out!” He presses his shoulder to the cast-iron cover, unable to budge it beneath Michael Pasquale’s weight. To his right is a sliver of opening between the curb and street. He tries to squeeze out, only to be met by kicking sneakers.

  “Let me out! Help! Grandma, help!”

  He gags, then vomits his breakfast into the muck.

  Sweat pours from his face. He feels dizzy. “Let me out, let me out!”

  Panic sets in, he can’t breathe. Adrenaline turns his shoulders into battering rams, and he attacks the manhole cover, the force of his blows momentarily knocking Michael Pasquale off kilter. The resistance is quickly doubled by the weight of a second boy.

  He feels faint. He feels small and scared. Cancer has stolen his mother, alcohol his father. Sport is the glue that has held him together, his athletic prowess leveling life’s playing field. As the laughter grows and the last ounce of dignity leaves his body, he loosens his grip on the metal ladder rung, intent on filling his emptiness with the muck’s drowning embrace.

  Then he hears a girl’s voice, firm and demanding. Backed by an older male presence.

  The sneakers move off.

  The manhole cover is lifted.

  Patrick Shepherd looks up into the blue August sky at his angel.

  She appears to be his age, only far more mature. Wavy blond hair, long and silky. Green eyes peer down at him below the bangs. “Well? You gonna stay down there all day?”

  Patrick climbs out of the sewer and into the light, helped out by a man in shirtsleeves and a maroon tie. His gray wool sport coat is flung over one shoulder. “No offense, son, but you need to find yourself some new friends.”

  “They’re not… my friends.” Patrick coughs, trying to disguise the sob.

  “By the way, that was a nice hit… the way you kept your wrists back. Try to lay off the pitches out of the strike zone.”

  “That’s as good as they pitch me. If it’s over the plate, I can take it deep, only we lose too many balls. Really though, I’m a pitcher, only they don’t like me to pitch either—”

  “—’cause you’re so good, huh?” The girl smirks.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Patrick Ryan Shepherd.”

  “Well, Patrick Ryan Shepherd, we’re just on our way home from synagogue, then we’re headed over to Roosevelt High to watch the baseball team scrimmage. Why don’t you grab your glove and meet us there. Maybe I’ll let you toss batting practice.”

  “Batting practice? Wait… are you the new baseball coach?”

  “Morrie Segal. This is my daughter—”

  “—no, don’t get near me, you stink. Go home and shower, Shep.”

  “Shep?”

  “That’s your new nickname. Dad lets me name all the ballplayers. Now go, before I change your name to Stinky Pete.”

  Coach Segal winks, then leads his daughter away.

  The sky is awash in blue, the August day glorious—

  — the day life changed for Patrick Shepherd… the day he fell in love.

  * * *

  The man with no left arm opened his eyes. The phantom pain had subsided, replaced by something far worse.

  It had been eleven years since he last kissed the only woman he has ever loved, eleven long years since he held her in his arms, or watched her play with their toddler daughter. The absence wrenched his heart, the organ a dam about to burst, releasing a swollen river of frustration and anger.

  Patrick Shepherd loathed his existence. Every thought was poison, every decision of the last eleven years cursed. By day he suffered the humiliation of a victim, at night he became the villain, his actions in battles past replayed in heart-wrenching, skull-rattling, nerve-shattering nightmares of human violence, the reality of which no horror movie could ever capture on film. And yet, as much as he despised himself, Patrick hated God even more, for it was his accursed Maker, his eternal guardian of indifference, that arrived like a thief in the night and excised the memory of Shep’s family from his brain, leaving in its place an empty hole. Try as he might, Patrick could not fill the void, and the frustration he felt — the sheer anger — is far too much for one man to bear.

  His bare toes gripped the concrete ledge. A strange sense of calmness washed over his being like a soothing tide. Patrick looked up one last time at the clear blue August sky. Unleashed a primordial, guttural scream, announcing his death, and—

  No.

  He froze, balancing precariously on one foot. The whispered voice was male and familiar. Sizzling through his skull like a tuning fork. Patrick Shepherd whipped his head around, startled. “Who said that?”

  The empty helopad mocked him. Then the rooftop exit burst open, the stairwell releasing a dark-haired beauty. Her white physician’s coat flapped in the wind. “Sergeant Shepherd?”

  “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that!”

  “I’m sorry.” Dr. Nelson approached cautiously. “Is it okay if I call you Patrick?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Leigh Nelson. I’m your doctor.”

  “Are you a cardiologist?”

  The reply catches her off guard. “Do you need one?” She saw the tears. The anguish on his face. “Look, I have a basic rule: If you’re going to kill yourself, at least wait until Wednesday.”

  Shepherd’s expression changed, his anger diffusing into confusion. “Why Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday’s hump day. By hump day, you can see your way clear to Friday, then you’ve got the weekend, and who wants to off themselves on a weekend. Not with the way the Yankees are playing.”

  Patrick’s mouth twitched a half smile. “I’m supposed to hate the Yankees.”

  “That must have been quite a problem, a Brooklyn son pitching for the Red Sox. No wonder you want to jump. Anyway, you can call me Dr. Nelson or Leigh, whichever you prefer. What should I call you?”

  Patrick took in the pretty brunette, his emptiness momentarily quelled by her b
eauty. “Shep. My friends call me Shep.”

  “Well, Shep, I was just about to grab a coffee and a donut. I’m thinking chocolate cream-filled, it’s been a helluva Monday. Why don’t you join me? We can talk.”

  Patrick Shepherd contemplated his existence. Emotionally spent, he expelled an exasperated breath and stepped down from the ledge. “I don’t drink coffee, the caffeine gives me headaches.”

  “I’m sure we can find something you’ll like.” Hooking her arm around his, she led her newest patient back inside the hospital.

  September

  “What is absurd and monstrous about war is that men who have no personal quarrel should be trained to murder one another in cold blood.”

  — Aldous Huxley

  Senate Judiciary Committee

  Hart Senate Office Building

  2:11 P.M.

  “Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

  The wiry fifty-seven-year-old man smoothed his brown goatee, then spoke into the microphone, his Brooklyn accent heavy. “My name is Barry Kissin. I am an attorney currently living and practicing law in Frederick, Maryland, the home of Fort Detrick.”

  Chairman Robert Gibbons, the Democratic senator from Maryland leaned into his microphone to address the witness. “Mr. Kissin, could you briefly describe the nature of your work as it pertains to today’s hearing.”

  “Over the last decade, I have been investigating US biowarfare activities, specifically as it pertains to the FBI’s blatant cover-up regarding the anthrax letter attacks on two members of Congress as well as the media in September and October of 2001.”

  “Cover-up? Mr. Kissin, are you suggesting the FBI has willfully misled this committee?”

  “Senator, the evidence is overwhelming. Case in point: At a prior committee hearing, held on September 17, 2008, Congressman Nadler specifically pointed out to the FBI and attending members that there are only two facilities in the world, let alone the United States, that have the equipment and personnel necessary to produce the dry silica-coated anthrax powder found in the envelopes of Senators Daschle and Leahy back in 2001. These facilities are the United States Army’s Proving Ground in Dugway, Utah, and the Battelle Memorial Institute in West Jefferson, Ohio, a private CIA contractor. Despite numerous requests, the FBI still refuses to include these facilities in their investigation.”