Suffer the Children (36 page)

The rest of the house was in similar shape but empty. He thought
about turning on the heat but didn’t. The house was cold as a refrigerator, and he wanted to preserve the blood he carried. He draped blankets over his shoulders instead. A search of the kitchen turned up little. He topped off his cursory meal with a snort from his flask and a cigarette.

He pushed aside one of the curtains and took a long look outside. The other houses stood dark and empty. Nothing moved.

Creepy
, he thought, but didn’t feel creeped. He was too numbed by exhaustion. His face throbbed with pain. Upstairs, he built a nest of blankets in the walk-in closet, closed the door, and fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

During the night, he woke to a piercing scream but went back to sleep, certain he’d dreamed it.

40 days after Resurrection

Shoved onto a stool. Handcuffs removed. Hood ripped from his head. He blinked at the light and massaged his aching wrists.

A grimacing pig stared down at him. He cowered at the sight.

The pig was a mask. The police officer cracked his knuckles.

“I’m Officer Smiley,” the cop said.

The man backed away until he reached a chalkboard on which was scrawled, B
LOOD =
P
AROLE
. David spared a glance at his surroundings and saw little desks piled in the corners. Crude drawings and giant snowflakes cut from color construction paper on the walls. Posters of the alphabet, numbers, and common animals and foods.

“What are you going to do to me?”

He already knew. The van had been filled with angry men who
smelled like cheap booze and old vomit. Muttering in the dark. One wouldn’t stop yelling about his rights until the others kicked him into silence.

They’d made two stops before coming here. At each stop, somebody new was shoved into the van.

The police were rounding up the homeless.

The cop held up a baton with two prongs protruding from its end. “Guess what this is.”

David swallowed hard and said, “It’s a cattle prod.”

“Smart man! Some guys who come in here—you know what I do? I give them a taste of it right away to let them know what it’s like. But I won’t do that with you. I can tell you’re going to cooperate. You’re going to cooperate, aren’t you?”

David stared at the prod. “Yes. I’m going to cooperate.”

“You want to get out of here, right? No problemo. We want something from you first.”

“My blood.”

“Bingo! Cooperate, and everybody gets what they want. First, you will completely disrobe, including any jewelry. You will put on the hospital gown in the cardboard box behind you. You will put all other items into the box. Is that understood?”

“I think so.” A hundred questions clamored in his mind, but he knew better than to ask.

The pig mask shifted. Beneath its bulging rubber cheeks and brutish snout, David could tell the cop was grinning at him. “Then start cooperating!”

David put on the paper gown, which made him feel naked and humiliated. His entire identity was going into the box. After that, he’d be nobody. Just another inmate. A number.

“Listen, this is all a big mistake,” he said.

“Remember what I said about cooperating?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Yeah?” The officer pounded the door behind him with his fist. “I’m Columbo.”

The door opened, and another pig-faced cop entered, twirling a cattle prod.

“I’m Officer Smiley,” said the second cop. Different man, same fake name. “Come with me, sir.”

David knew he had no choice. He meekly followed the cop into the hallway, where giant cutouts of children, brightly painted with smiling faces, adorned the walls.

The hall led to the gym.

The doors opened, revealing the blood farm.

David saw dozens of cots arranged in rows, each filled with a moaning man under a blanket. Their gray, emaciated faces pointed at the ceiling. Their arms were linked to IV bags on poles. Wide-screen televisions displayed a recorded football game with the sound off. Muzak played at a low volume over the public address system, sounding tinny and distant.

A second cop sat at a desk with a reading light, monitoring the room, while another pig-faced man in a blood-splattered lab coat roamed the aisles between the cots, spot-checking IV bags and blood pressure. A few heads turned to regard the new arrival.

“I don’t belong here,” David said in a small voice.

“Of course you do.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

The cop chuckled. “Then why are you here?”

“I’m a doctor. Look in my wallet. You’ll see—”

The cattle prod crackled at the back of his neck. It was like getting hit by a sledgehammer. David fell howling to his knees. More heads turned to fix their blank stares on him. The cop at the desk stood and watched.

David felt himself hauled to his feet and dragged to one of the beds, where the pig-faced man in the lab coat strapped him down with restraints. A cold bedpan was shoved between his legs and a thin blanket tossed over him.

“I’m Dr. Smiley,” said the man in the lab coat. He dragged a stool next to the bed and sat. “Try to relax.”

David sobbed in a terrified daze. “What are you doing to me?”

“Nothing dire, buddy. I’m setting up your drip. Stay still, or you could get hurt.”

The man inserted a catheter into one of the veins in David’s hand. Then he plugged an intravenous infusion line into the catheter’s connecting hub. David watched to make sure the man didn’t blow the vein.

The doctor produced a clipboard and crossed his legs. “And how are we feeling today?”

“I’m scared.”

The doctor thumbed his pen. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure you’ll feel better in just a moment. I’m going to ask you a few questions about your health. Please answer honestly. Do you have any medical problems?”

“No.”

“Had any medical treatments in the past year?”

“No.”

“Had sex with anyone who has HIV/AIDS?”

“Yes.” It was worth a try to lie. Maybe they couldn’t take his blood.

The doctor put his pen away. “Good. That’s enough for the interview.”

“What happens now?”

The doctor tied a tourniquet around David’s arm. “Make a fist for me.”

“But I’m not eligible.”

“We’re still going to collect it. And we’ll be testing it. Even if you have HIV, we’ll find a recipient. You weren’t lying to get out of it, were you?”

David said nothing. The doctor sighed and took out his clipboard again. He asked David whether he had a tattoo or took drugs using needles.

After recording the answers, he took David’s blood.

By then, David was no longer afraid. He began to mellow. He felt like watching TV.

“I’m feeling much better now,” he said dreamily.

“Of course you are,” the doctor told him. “This is a happy place.”

They put something in that bag with the saline
.
Something good
.

“You’re competent with a needle,” he said. “I was watching.”

The doctor checked his watch. “Thank you.”

“I was afraid I’d end up with mononeuropathy.”

Dr. Smiley stared at him. “How do you know that word? Are you an intravenous drug user?”

“No.”

“Tell me the truth. Did you lie on the questionnaire again?”

“I’m a doctor like you. A pediatrician.”

“And how does a pediatrician end up on the street? You must have a very sad story.”

“I have a practice. A house.”

“You’re lying again.”

“Call my wife. I’ll give you the number. I’ll give you the address of my practice.”

The man leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Seriously . . . what are you doing here?”

“I was kidnapped.”

“They don’t do that.”

Before David could say anything further, the man got up and walked toward the end of the row of beds. The overweight cop behind the desk glanced at him and then returned to his book.

David’s mind drifted. The TV called his attention.

“What did you do?”

David turned his head. The doctor leaned over him. His eyes gleamed through the holes in the mask.

“Kidnapped.”

“This isn’t right. Somebody made a mistake. It started with criminals. Blood for parole. Now they’re bringing in the homeless. They’re not supposed to bring anyone else. They drew the line at the homeless.”

David forced himself to concentrate on the man’s words. “Does anybody ever get released?”

“A lot already have. They were on death’s doorstep from blood loss. The cops bought them bus tickets and shipped them off to Detroit to make them someone else’s problem. I doubt they survived the trip.”

“Why do you work for these people?”

The man turned away. “I’m a father.”

They’re paying him in blood.

David closed his eyes and floated. He heard the men breathing and moaning around him, filling the room with their sour breath.

“So that’s it? I’m going to die here?”

The idea still terrified him, but he felt detached from his own terror, as if he were afraid not for himself but for his favorite character in a movie.

“They don’t murder people here,” the man said.

Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, doctor. Murder is exactly what they do here
.
But not outright, though. Not yet. They’re still working their way to that. One little rationalization at a time. For now, they just bleed men until they can’t survive on their own.

David was struck by a vision of the room transformed into a slaughterhouse. A place where pigs slaughtered men. An assembly line with screaming people hung upside down from hooks. The pigs cut their throats one by one and drained the blood into troughs.

“What’s like an assembly line?”

Had he been talking? He opened his eyes and looked around. The overweight cop looked down at him with his leering mask.

“I don’t belong here,” David whispered.

“Why do you say that? I heard you talking to the doctor here.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Dr. Smiley.

David said, “I’m a pediatrician. A doctor.”

“We’re giving you your fix,” the cop told him. “Just relax. It’s good shit. Just give it a chance.”

“I don’t want any drugs. I don’t live on the street. For the past three weeks, I’ve been drawing blood for men like you to give your kids. At my practice on Wilshire.”

The cop’s head tilted. “What’s your name?”

“David. David Harris.”

“Easy to remember. Nice to meet you, David. I’m Officer Smiley.”

The cop walked away with heavy footsteps.

“Please call my wife,” David called after him. “Her name’s Nadine. Please tell her I’m alive.”

The doctor shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that. You seriously fucked up, buddy. You just did the worst thing you can do in here. You got noticed.”

The doctor’s words failed to interest him. David stared at the images on the nearest TV, but even that slipped away. He closed his eyes and found the dark most interesting of all.

41 days after Resurrection

A shivering monster stared at Doug from the mirror.

The security guard’s billy club had torn a nice, big gash in his forehead, now held together by a bulky bandage made out of napkins and tape. The entire right side of his face had swelled and discolored around it, turning into one giant bruise. He needed stitches. A lot of them. The gash had already begun healing badly and would leave one hell of a scar to remind him how stupid he’d been to walk into a hospital pointing a gun at people. He’d been lucky to get out of that situation with his life and freedom.

He tongued broken teeth. He sure didn’t feel very lucky.

The monster in the mirror was crying.

I screwed it all up. Joanie’s right. It’s over. We’re finished.

The monster frowned. Shook its head.

It would never be finished.

He’d slept a long time; it was morning. As much as Doug wanted to crawl back into his nest of blankets, it was time to go home. The house looked even worse in the light of day, but it provided. He scavenged another meager meal, some warm clothes, and a broom handle he intended to use as a walking stick. His blood had kept well overnight. Very little clotting. He walked out the front door happy he would arrive home with at least this small victory in his favor.

He hesitated on the porch, wondering about Russell. He hoped the man was okay but had a strong feeling he wasn’t. He pushed it out of his mind. The world was a dangerous place now; the familiar had quickly become unfamiliar. If he wanted to make it home, he needed to stay sharp. Russell was Russell’s problem, whatever Doug’s feelings about the man.

The sky was gray but bright, making his eyes water as they adjusted to the glare. A gust of wind struck him. Snow and ice peppered his face. He walked down the road, taking time to inspect each house he passed. Covered in snow, they appeared derelict. Dark and still, curtains drawn. This was once a nice place to live. Now it was a ghost town.

Why then do I feel like I’m being watched?

He tried to pick up his pace, staggering through the snow until the first spots appeared in his vision. He told himself not to push too hard. He’d lost a lot of blood in a short amount of time and still had a long way to go before he got home.

The street ended in a cul-de-sac at the base of the treed hill he’d have to cross. The first stage of the journey was over; he’d reached the edge of the residential community. He paused to take in the wreckage of a Christmas tree, trailing tinsel and branches that lay strewn across the front lawn of one of the houses. Several sets of footprints led from the front door to the tree and back. The tree had been flattened, its ornaments crushed, the snow around it packed.

Somebody had taken this tree out here and stomped on it for a good long while. Doug marveled at the amount of energy that had gone into this pointless act of violence. The tree confirmed what his instincts already told him: He wasn’t alone.

Turning to inspect his own footprints, he realized that, if somebody wanted to find him, he’d blazed an easy trail to follow. His eyes followed his tracks back where he’d come from, and he saw two children standing on the road about a hundred yards back.