WATERSICKNESS © 2002 M.D. KOFFIN THIS DRAFT IS FOR PREVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY. DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS MATERIAL WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S EXPRESSED PERMISSION. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; - Poe "the sleeper" A gold Mercedes knocked over two trashcans as the luxury car swerved erratically up a suburban driveway at just after three in the morning. The tin cans, already dented from past abuse, rolled down the drive with a metallic clatter, spewing TV dinner boxes and Chinese food containers. The lid of one of the cans rolled out into the middle of the street like a giant dropped quarter and then wobbled to a clanging stop. The noise and the activation of the automatic lights on the front lawn aroused barking from a deep voiced dog a few houses down. Harry Pillarman managed to park his Mercedes nearly sideways in the covered garage attached to his home. He opened the car door with a tuneless moan, blurting "America, America, God shid hiss grace on theeee" as he stumbled out with a bottle of Jim Beam in one hand. "My copilot." He declared blearily at the half empty bottle. He cradled it with the label carefully turned up in the same way a waiter would present an expensive bottle of fine wine. "No wait, God ish my copilot." He amended, laughing at his own originality and ingenuity. He took another swig from the bottle and the spell of admiration was broken. Then he fished in the back seat for his briefcase. He supported himself heavily with one elbow on the leather seat as he reached for the black case. Juggling the case and the bottle, he slammed the car door shut with a grunt. That feat of coordination finished, he fumbled to put his car keys in his pocket. The keys fell to the ground next to his left foot. He shakily bent down to retrieve the keys, letting out a loud undignified fart. His head bobbed unsteadily as he looked around to see if anyone had witnessed this impolite indiscretion. Seeing no one, Harry smiled a secretive smile. He shuffled down the driveway, huffing steam in small plumes. He took another swallow from the bottle, allowing his overcoat to flop open, heedless of the cold. His lawn lights had shut off, leaving him bathed in the brilliant natural light of a clear winter sky. He looked around the neighborhood, swaying on his feet. Everything was quiet and still. It gave Harry an eerie reverent feeling. The world was dead. The silence was broken by the dog down the street as it barked again, this time for no apparent reason. "Stupid mutt." Harry mumbled as he took another gulp. The remaining liquid sloshed in the long bottle as he turned his head toward the intruding sound. The moonlight reflecting off his swimming pool caught his attention. The surface of the water glittered and rippled in a soft wind. He approached carelessly, mesmerized by the light reflecting off of minute waves. "Things were tho shimple then." He slurred, as his mind was flooded with childhood images. Lake Acheron bordered the town of Timberlake where he grew up. Nestled out of the way in upstate New York, the population of deer was greater than that of people. That was all right though. He did not like company much anyway. He tipped the bottle again. He was a private person. That was why he was still a bachelor. Solitude was good for the soul. He could see himself as a boy, racing imaginary rivals on his bike as he peddled toward the lakefront. He passed the pier and five other boys he knew, Ronnie Fletcher, Billy Beck, Greg Crowson, Troy Cole, and Justin Reno. The other boys were busy baiting their hooks while talking about girls and television and school. In a split second glance, he could tell which by the expansiveness of their gestures. Ronnie Fletcher's furtive curvature depiction revealed his single-minded fixation on MaryBeth's breast size. She did proudly display one of the fullest chests at Timberlake Middle School, but it was not yet worthy of fixation. Billy Beck's frantic gesticulations masterfully played out a scene from Thundar the Barbarian. He was galloping an imaginary horse and swinging an imaginary sword and repeating a meaningless dialogue of stating the obvious, probably word for word, all at once. In spite of his nerdy antics, Harry actually liked Billy, and he was sure they could have become great friends if not for Billy's older brother Randy. Randolph Beck was a bully, but even worse than that he was the most popular kid at school. Randy gave him the nickname 'Palmer'. Harry did not understand it at the time but later he got it: Harry - Hairy - Hairy Palms - Palmer, something like that. Harry tried to tell people that he got his nickname playing basketball, because he was so good at holding onto the ball. Greg Crowson was obviously describing the pregnant Mrs. Ferdinand by imitating her distended belly and waddling walk. Greg was a great impressionist, but even better at capturing characters in cartoon doodles. Harry sat next to Greg in three of his classes, including Mrs. Ferdinand's reading class. The other two boys stared on with gaping mouths and nodding heads, cheering and jeering with the precision expertise of born followers. Harry peddled on, and they did not even acknowledge his passing anymore. He finally ditched his bike about two miles down, hiding it in the tall reeds and cattails so that no casual prankster would find it. He once came back from a long walk and could not find his bike anywhere along the shore. After searching for hours, he finally found its twisted remains near the railroad crossing. The train had crushed it to uselessness, giving Harry hope for a brand new BMX for Christmas. What the all-knowing Santa Claus ended up bringing was a hand-me-down Tripper, which Harry suspected used to belong to a girl. He wasn't sure if it was the tassels dangling off the handlebars, which he ripped off immediately, or the white banana seat that did not compliment the too bright red paint, or the welded on safety bar that was destined to give him so many ball-busting moments. The premature demise of his first bike and the embarrassment of his second could not stop him from exploring though. The shores and lake were full of life, not like this damn concrete water hole. His mind turned back to the present and he glared balefully at the shimmering pool. "No life, no fun, no...wazat?" What was that? Harry squinted his eyes in concentration. There were shadows floating around beneath the surface of the water. Like something half-seen out the corner of the eye, they seemed to dodge his direct stare. When the flowing shapes continued to bob and elude him he shrugged drunkenly. "Muss be a shadow or reflection of someshing." He reasoned hazily. He looked up to find whatever objects could cause the phenomenon he was seeing. The stars stared indifferently at him, same as they did when he looked up at them as a boy. Bloated and yellow as it was this close to the horizon, the crescent moon looked like old yellow teeth frozen in a wicked grin. Harry felt a sudden cold shock. His whole body clenched up painfully in an involuntary reaction and he lost his grip on his bottle and his briefcase. The pleasant alcohol fuzziness disappeared instantly when he realized he was immersed in freezing water. He broke through the surface of the water and his breath whooped as he sucked in air. He was an able swimmer so he immediately struck out for the edge of the swimming pool. He began to panic when he felt something pulling at him. It was dragging him back. Dragging him down. He had no leverage in the deep water and could not effectively resist. His struggles increased as he gulped water. He wanted to call for help, but for that he needed a lungfull of air first. He managed to barely get his nose and mouth above the surface for a precious moment. "Aaahmeglurg..." He choked out. He knew that the sound that escaped his lips was too weak to be heard. He felt himself sinking deeper into the pool, yet his feet did not touch bottom. If he could plant his feet against the bottom of the pool, he could launch himself up out of the water like a torpedo. This thought spurred more indistinct childhood images to flash through his mind while the water echoed strange noises almost like childish laughter. His vision was closing in like a tunnel and he knew he was losing consciousness. He heard another sound like a dulled explosion and something latched onto his shoulder. Facing this new threat, he kicked and punched furiously, his blows slowed by the resistant water. The last of his air bubbled out with the last of his strength. Then he was bodily yanked from the water. "Grab him." "Get his legs." "Does anyone know mouth to mouth?" "I do." "Get over here." "Move out of the way." "Give him room." "Is he dead?" "Shut up." "I know CPR." "Did you see what happened?" "Move!" "Is he going to be all right?" "Get back, please." "If he lives, I'll kill him for this." The last Harry dimly realized was Rob Peters' voice. Harry could feel air being forced into his lungs. Breathe. Count the seconds. Rob was his next door neighbor for, lets see, six years now. Breathe. Rob was a pretty good guy. His wife Betty was real ugly. Breathe. Cough. No kids, it was probably a good thing. What would they look like? Choke. Harry puked water out of his mouth and nose. Gentle hands helped him turn on his side as he violently retched the liquid out of himself. It stank of stomach acid and whiskey. "Under water." Harry gasped, opening his eyes. The concerned faces of barely known neighbors surrounded him. "He's gonna be okay." Vern Newman declared. Leaning over Harry, he pounded him on the back good-naturedly. "Something pulled at me." Harry added, wide eyed. "He's delirious." Betty Peters intoned compassionately, a kind person, but still ugly. "He's drunk." Rob accused through chattering teeth. He was standing in his pajamas in a puddle of water. He was soaking wet. His wife was hugging a towel around him and he was wiping blood from his chin with a corner of the towel. "Here. Everything's going to be all right." Valerie Newman, Vern's daughter, laid a large beach towel over him like a blanket. She was wearing a sleeveless green nightie and Harry could see the light blonde hairs on her arms standing on end, raised up by dots of gooseflesh. She was barefoot and her pale legs were covered in the tiny bumps just like her arms. She must be freezing. Harry suddenly realized that everyone was in some kind of nightdress and groggily made the connection to what time it was. "No." Harry was confused by all this calm. He struggled to sit up. His head was pounding furiously. "There was something in there." He gestured frantically at the pool, water flinging from the sleeves of his drenched clothing. Betty neatly stepped out of the way of his careless spray and pulled her bathrobe tighter around herself. The outdoor lights were on as well as the lights to the neighborhood houses. In the false light, the pool revealed nothing. The water was calm. It was empty. "Yah, you." Vern's teenage son joked. "No, Victor, there was something else!" Harry insisted. "It grabbed me." "That was me, you asshole." Rob argued. His split lip was already starting to swell and the towel pressed against his mouth muffled his voice. "No! It pulled me in! It held me under the water!" Harry looked around. The faces were understanding, pitying, but not believing. Poor drunk, they said. He's lost touch with reality, they said. Maybe it was a botched suicide attempt, they said. It was a shame, really, they said. The sounds of a siren in the distance drowned out the insulting voices in Harry's head. The dog down the street bayed mournfully at the high pitched whining of the ambulance. "You can probably thank that dog for your life." Betty claimed. "If it hadn't of woken my husband up, oh, I hate to think what may have happened." Harry had a coughing fit as a response. He felt terrible. He felt sober. He stupidly looked around for the Jim Beam bottle. "It was floating near the edge and I pulled it out." Vic handed Harry his briefcase, assuming that that was what he had been looking for. "Thanks." Harry rasped. He looked over the case. It was ruined. Vic's acne covered face was lit with pride at his simple good deed. "Just let it dry out, it'll be right as rain." Betty instructed with optimism. Harry changed his mental image of her. She was ugly and stupid. Harry looked up at Rob who was still dripping water. "You saved my life." "Don't mention it." He mumbled before Harry could say anything else. A screech of brakes heralded the arrival of two overly enthusiastic paramedics. They were so excited that they kept bumping into each other during their textbook examination of him. They reminded Harry of the pair of fools in Alice in Wonderland. Tweedle Dee started an intravenous saline solution on Harry while Tweedle Dum briefly spoke with the witnesses. "The dog down the street had been barking all night and Rob couldn't sleep." Betty explained. "I was drinking a glass of milk and looking out of the kitchen window when I saw Harry stagger towards his pool and dive in." Rob gestured towards his own house, where he had a fairly unobstructed view of Harry's yard and pool from a small window. Harry snorted at that. "They pulled me in!" Tweedle Dum's eyebrows arched with momentary confusion. Before he could interject any embarrassing questions, Rob continued. "I ran out to the pool, yelling for my wife to call 911." "I made the call, while Rob saved Harry from certain death." Betty added with a beaming smile for her brave husband. "We heard all of the yelling and commotion, so we came outside to see what was going on." Vern picked up on the recital, indicating himself and his teenage kids. "We saw Rob struggling to pull Mr. Pillarman from his pool." Vic described with a comical imitation of Harry's thrashing motions. It was like Harry wanted to drown, Valerie almost admitted but instead she proudly declared "Daddy gave Mr. Pillarman mouth to mouth". There was an awkward moment when Tweedle Dum asked if anyone would like to go along with Harry to the hospital. No one did. Tweedle Dee assured everyone Harry would be okay after a couple of hours of observation. As they inexpertly toted him to the ambulance, Harry sat forward on the gurney, almost pitching himself out of their hands. "Don't go into my pool!" Harry warned his neighbors. Startled faces were mixed with pitying smiles. Harry realized that since it was winter, no one would want to use his pool anyway. "Don't even go near it!" Harry amended. Their expressions did not change. They would not heed him. After strapping him down for his own safety, Tweedle Dee guided the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Tweedle Dum shut the rear doors and then climbed in the front to drive. Seeing Harry's anxious face, the paramedic stonily reassured him as he checked Harry's IV. "You'll be fine, sir." Tweedle Dee's emotionless expression was not at all comforting, but Harry relaxed as best as he could. He thought about the pool again. Had he really been fighting with Rob Peters all along? The memory was already fuzzy, he could no longer be sure. Besides, there was nothing in the pool. His head felt like a numb block on his shoulders and it was too difficult to concentrate. He just wanted to forget the whole thing. He looked around the ambulance, too tired to move anything but his eyes. The ambulance was packed with a variety of life-saving items, all neatly stowed with anal organization. The flashing lights threw flickering shadows over everything. Harry's bloodshot eyes rested on his IV bag and the lights flashing through the clear liquid. Just as his eyelids began to flutter shut he thought he saw something. Harry tensed. Something was inside his IV bag. The ambulance lights flickered over what looked like a dark blob. The inky shape was condensing and heading into the IV tubing. Harry sat up with a yell and ripped the needle from his arm. "There's something in there!" Harry shouted and the paramedic immediately attempted to restrain him. The driver glanced back over his shoulder. Harry felt a slight swerve and an increase in the ambulance's acceleration. "Just relax, sir. Sir, try to relax!" Tweedle Dee repeated his ineffective litany as Harry interfered with his attempts to reattach the IV tubing. "No!" Harry continued to block his efforts. "Sir, it's just saline." Tweedle Dee asserted firmly. "Just sterile salt water. Watch." He unattached the tubing and made as if to squeeze some saline from the bag. Harry could now distinctly see a black form inside. "No!" Harry desperately slapped at the soft pouch. The saline bag flew out of the paramedic's hands. It struck the handle to the rear door and broke open with the force of the impact. Harry cringed as the tainted water splashed in the ambulance, managing to deflect the water droplets with the gurney blanket. The paramedic looked annoyed, but otherwise unaffected by the dark water hitting him. "Now, sir..." he began. "There was something in there." Harry repeated without conviction. The words were starting to sound idiotic. "Are you all right now? I don't want to have to sedate you." Tweedle Dee's expression told Harry that he would rather drug him now and get it over with. "I'm fine." Harry answered. "Just forget about the IV, ok?" "It was just a precautionary measure for you're own good, since you were so dehydrated from..." Tweedle Dee took in Harry's puffy hung over face, "your accident." "Thanks." Harry exhaled with relief when the paramedic tossed the tubing and needle into a small medical waste bin. The ambulance reached the hospital in record time, just as a light rain began falling. Opalescent drops clung to the windows like tiny alien eggs. The ambulance pulled in front of the emergency entrance. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee pulled his gurney from the ambulance, then they dropped him hastily, as there seemed to be some disturbance coming from somewhere within or maybe near the hospital, Harry could not tell. Whatever it was was out of Harry's line of sight, but not out of his hearing. A horrible screeching resounded throughout the parking lot, the wails echoing off of cold brick walls. The paramedics left him on his gurney near the ambulance as they ran to help with whatever it was that had gone wrong. Harry was left alone, strapped down under the open sky, liquid drops falling onto his face and a thickening mist shrouding him in its vaporous embrace. The rain was anything but refreshing. As the rain struck his skin he felt pain, not the stinging pain of freezing rain or even the pelting pain from sleet, but something else entirely more agonizing. His skin felt like it was on fire. He lifted his head and looked down at his body in horror. His skin looked like it had been splashed with acid. Everywhere a drop of water hit him, flesh sizzled and melted, leaving open marks on his skin like acne scars. He struggled to undo the gurney straps but his panicked hands fumbled ineffectually. He tried to close his eyes against the searing onslaught but the rain burned through his eyelids. His screams joined the others resounding in the hissing air as his eyeballs popped like rotten grapes, the blood and retinal fluid flowing down his melting cheeks and into his open mouth. He wondered how much pain it was humanly possible to endure as his clothes turned to rags, his flesh ran off his bones, his bones became pocked and shattered, and finally the tender gray matter of his brain was exposed to the torturous downpour. Then he felt a shaking from without his own weak death convulsions. He suddenly knew with absolute certainty the apocalypse was at hand. It was not just the end of his existence, but of the whole world as the rain brought a slow scourging death and the earth shook off its liquefied inhabitants like a freshly bathed dog. The nurse shook him again and called his name. "Mr. Pillarman?" Her voice dragged him out of the nightmare and to his senses, but he was still disoriented. "Where am I?" He wondered if he should even ask as he blearily opened his eyes. He blinked several times, finally focusing with disbelief on a beautiful woman in an improperly tight white outfit. "Mercy General. I'm not surprised you don't remember. You're blood-alcohol level was 2.06." As she leaned over him, efficiently examining his eyes and ears with a cute expression of pouty concern, his eyes casually trailed down from her airbrush perfect face. Her thick blonde hair was loosely clasped back and stray wisps curled down over oversized breasts and indecently exposed cleavage. He thought he could even make out black lingerie under her uniform. She was a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen. He leaned forward on the hospital bed so she could reach his back. As she listened to his lungs with a freezing cold stethoscope, he was self-consciously aware that he was dressed in one of those spotted blue hospital johnies with the rear air-conditioning. As if reading his mind, she primly closed his gown before propping him up with pillows. "I must still be dreaming." Harry remarked, putting his hands behind his head as he sank back into the cushioned support, and she wheeled a food tray over his bed. "Looks like you slept off the worse of it." The nurse answered with a smile of practiced tolerance. "Just eat your soup and you should be right as rain in no time." Harry had a sudden creepy feeling that he heard that before, but he could not remember where. "What did you say?" The nurse paused on her way out the door "You can check out as soon as you've finished your lunch." Harry shook off the déjà vu and piteously called out to the nurse. "Aren't you going to feed me?" Harry fluttered his eyelashes and feigned helplessness by uselessly twitching his limbs. Her full mouth quirked in another patient smile but she wisely chose not to respond to his pitiful flirtation. Harry watched her leave with a regretful sigh, then looked down at the tray: half of a toasted cheese sandwich, a bowl of indeterminate reddish stew, and a small cube of green Jell-O next to a clear plastic cup of what looked like Kool-Aid. Some dietician was probably getting paid six figures to plan out this balanced feast. He picked up the grilled cheese and put it back down with a frown of distaste. It was stone cold white bread and the unhealthy orange goo in the center was obviously a processed cheese slice. He hated processed cheese. He stirred the soup listlessly. By the reddish color and the random chunks, he guessed that it was made from the past weeks vegetable leftovers. His stomach gurgled in protest of his harsh critiques. He was ravenously hungry. He stuffed a spoonful of the soup in his mouth and swallowed before he could change his mind. His stomach immediately tightened as if it was forcefully squeezing out whatever nutrition it could get from that meager bite. Before he even realized it, he had gulped down more than half the bowl. His stomach tightened again, this time in painful rebellion rather than with eager digestion. He tried to jump out of bed to rush to the bathroom, but the hospital sheet got tangled around his legs. He spilled clumsily out of the bed onto the hard floor, red soup vomiting out of his mouth like a gush of blood. He heaved again and again, unable to even lift his head for a moment without nausea hanging it back down. Tears ran down his cheeks in response to his violent retching, causing the contents of his stomach to swim before his eyes. The chunks of vegetables he had consumed only moments before now squirmed like tadpoles in undigested tomato juice. When Harry finally managed to steady himself and blink back the tears, he suddenly sat back with terrified revulsion. The movement of his rejected lunch was not an optical illusion. The chunks of matter not only squirmed and swam, but also bubbled and struggled as they swelled in size, sprouting legs and antennae like metamorphosing insect larvae. Harry immediately tried to scramble back from the puddle of maturing monsters but the hospital bed stayed solidly behind him like a barrier and the tangled sheets remained strung around his legs like ropes. He tried to yell for the doctor but the sound choked off in his throat. He clawed at his neck suddenly unable to breathe, never mind scream. He could feel his esophagus distending through the tightening flesh he was trying to grasp with his frenzied fingers. Something was growing within his throat! His eyes rolled in his head, the evolving crab-like creatures on the floor forgotten as he continued his internal battle for oxygen. His eyes widened in dread and he tried desperately to see down past his own nose as he felt light feathery touches on his lips. Thin, segmented appendages waved from out of his gaping mouth. Two of the appendages slowly bent upward and two beady red eyes on the end of flexible stalks examined his shocked face with cold curiosity. A low whispering whine escaped Harry as the creature, now the size of a small dinner plate, tore through the tissue of his cheeks and forced itself out of his mouth to fall to the floor with the others of its brood. The creature carried with it meaty chunks of Harry's gullet as a badge of its internal incubation. Blood bubbled out of Harry's ruined face and his ruptured larynx prevented him from making another sound as the putrid horde skittered toward him, their thousands of legs tapping out a grisly death knell in his honor. "Mr. Pillarman?" A familiar voice called again. Harry opened his eyes with a gasp, realizing that he had been unconsciously holding his breath while he slept. His head darted around like a confused rooster as he took in his surroundings. The nurse that now stood solidly before him looked more like Nurse Cratchet from One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, rather than the Florence Nightingale of his dreams. "The hospital. I fell in the pool and they brought me here." Harry mumbled to himself, trying to trace the events that really happened and separate them from the gruesome nightmares that plagued him all night. "I'm surprised you remember. You're lucky they didn't have to pump your stomach. Your blood-alcohol level was 2.06." The nurse commented, momentarily folding back a page on his medical chart. Harry was startled, but he immediately rationalized that he must have subconsciously heard someone read his alcohol content while he was passed out. He surreptitiously glanced around the room again. His bed was in the center of a small room with no windows. The old white paint on the walls had turned into more of a stained beige color. There was two other beds in the room to either side of him but they were both empty. A small black and white television hung on the wall opposite him, or maybe it was just a black and white movie that was playing. After a glance Harry recognized "It's a Wonderful Life". That movie was always broadcast a million times at this time of year. He could even see his clothes hanging in a half-open wall locker. Everything seemed substantial and detailed. "It looks like you're out of danger of catching pneumonia but I wouldn't recommend any more midnight swims." The nurse joked, not noticing Harry's discomfiture. "You refused any intravenous." She noted, looking up at him from the folder with questioning expression. Harry got a vague flash of himself struggling with the paramedic in the ambulance. Seeing the lunch tray behind the nurse, he gave her a wry smile. "But if I eat my lunch, I'll be right as rain in no time." He pronounced with an affirmative nod. She gave him a look that said she felt his chart was lacking vital information about his mental condition, but she returned his smile as she wheeled the tray over his bed. "Your dinner, sir. Your clothes are in there. You can check out whenever you're ready." She instructed him with a vague wave that included the tray, the wall locker, and the universe. On her way out, she returned his folder to a slot in the chart holder attached to the outside of the door. She left the door open and Harry could see out into the hallway. The hall was painted with fresher white paint and a light blue guide stripe ran along the wall just above a wooden handrail. Exactly opposite his room, there was a door just like his but it was closed. There were three folders in the bin attached to that door and Harry imagined that the interior of the room was just like his, only with three sick people. He briefly wondered what they had and as his imagination turned towards contagious diseases, he was glad he had no company. Harry looked down at his dinner: a bowl of thick chili, a hard dinner roll, a cup of purplish fruit juice, and a square piece of spice cake, again, a dietary genius at work. He stirred the chili wearily, remembering the soup from his dream. "Eat the soup, Palmer." A voice ordered from the doorway. Harry jumped at the unexpected sound and looked up from the bowl. At the too quick turn of his head he was rewarded with a nauseating vertigo. A young boy was standing in the open doorway with an Elmo doll held in a loose headlock under his thin arm. The boy was sickly pale with just enough pink to his lips to make Harry wonder momentarily if he was really a little girl with a bad haircut. "What?" Harry asked. The boy shrugged like he hadn't said anything, followed by a listless toss of his white-blonde head that pointed out the chili. "Spider stew. It's the house specialty." "What?" Harry repeated. "They've been serving it all week." The boy finished, as if that explained it. He looked wistfully over at the wall locker that contained Harry's wrinkled clothing. He looked like he was about to take a step toward it, then changed his mind. He approached Harry's bed instead. "Are you looking for something?" Harry felt like he was playing twenty questions with a ghost. If the kid were any fairer, he'd be transparent. "I don't suppose, you brought any...supplies with you?" The boy licked his pink lips and his expression was hopeful. "You mean rations to tide me over for the long haul?" Harry teased. He was about to inform the boy that he wasn't normally in the habit of filling his pockets with candy for lost children, but was reminded somehow of the old prison movie adage, whatcha in for? "How long you been here kid?" "Longer than you." The boy answered curtly. That much was obvious. Harry wondered if it was a cancer like childhood leukemia, or maybe some congenital thing. The boy cocked his head in response to a light tapping sound that erupted above them, like bored fingernails rapidly drumming against a countertop -- or crab-like legs skittering across a tiled floor. Elusive images from his nightmares spun in Harry's mind with shutter speed and he found himself fearfully searching the ceiling for cracks or openings. "It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring," The boy boldly sang out the rhyme, putting extra emphasis on the word old. Harry wasn't even thirty yet, but he sadly realized that this kid probably wouldn't even reach his tenth birthday. Before he could become overwhelmed by his sympathy for the little waif, the boy continued, "He went ta bed, an' he bumped his head, an' he couldn't get up in the mornin'!" Then he turned to go, returning Harry's attention to the ceiling with a single comment. "Sometimes it leaks." The child's parting proclamation only fed Harry's discomfort. The off white walls could have been stained by seeping moisture. "Would you like my dessert?" Harry offered before the kid could leave him alone with his own childish fears. "Pigeons won't even eat that shit." The boy wrinkled his nose at the sugar sprinkled slab. "It tastes like cardboard." "No." Harry contradicted with a smile at the kid's colorful vocabulary. "Cardboard tastes better than shit." The boy agreed with emphatic nodding and he hugged his doll tighter. The doll's red fur looked pretty worn, like it had suffered through many such chokeholds. "Cute doll. What's its name?" The kid looked at Harry as if he were a heretic spouting blasphemy. "Elmo you idiot." Harry's eyes narrowed. "I know it's an Elmo doll, I just thought maybe you named it yourself." "Why would I do that when he's got a name?" The boy countered practically. "He talks too. He says 'Elmo love you!' and 'Elmo want to play!' and stuff like that." The boy looked around conspiratorially. Curious at the kid's manner, Harry had to ask, "What else does Elmo say?" The kid held up the doll so that the bulbous white eyes were staring Harry in the face. Harry reached out and squeezed the doll's plump belly and the doll wheezed out the last thing that Harry expected to hear. "Fuck Elmo!" The boy broke into edgy giggles that sounded like the boy was desperate to laugh but hadn't had much practice. Harry reached for the furry potbelly again to see if he could get the doll to repeat the phrase, but the kid jerked the doll away. Harry's sympathy for the kid waned. He tried to grab for the doll again and the kid held it a little farther away. The kid sighed and held the doll out for Harry, but pulled it away again when Harry reached for it. Still hung over, Harry quickly lost his patience with the game. He looked around for a means of revenge on the snickering little bastard. Spying the house special, he took a big defiant bite. "Gross!" The boy screamed with true loathing, and ran from the room. Harry was laughing so hard himself at the misfit's reaction that he could not swallow without choking, but as the chili rolled around on his tongue, he stopped laughing. He could feel something strange in his mouth. Something with a little hard body and thin spidery legs. He spit the entire mouthful out on his tray and was about to heave up whatever else was in his stomach when he saw what was actually in his mouth. It was just a tomato top, a little hard stem with a small fan of thin green leaves. Spider stew. Harry pushed away the dinner tray and threw back the sheet. He had had enough of this fun house. It was time to go home. He quickly glanced over to the door as he realized that his hospital gown had risen up above his waist and he may have provided someone an unwanted peep show. The doorway was empty, so after attempting to straighten his all too short gown, he strode over to the door in the rapid mincing steps reserved exclusively for hot sandy beaches and icy hospital floors. He closed the room door and walk-hopped over to the wall locker. He began dressing himself, starting immediately with his socks. He was tempted to crawl back into the bed to warm the clothing before putting them on, but the urge to avoid momentary discomfort was overpowered by the desire to get out of the hospital. He had to get away from the antiseptic smells and the morgue atmosphere. The wall locker had a full-length mirror on the inside of the door and he briefly surveyed himself before closing it up. His rumpled appearance and leaning posture were reminiscent of the seemingly absent-minded TV show sleuth Columbo. "If I could just have a moment of your time, please..." He imitated in a very poor Peter Falk impression. He was too hung over to even amuse himself. He tried to brush the wrinkles out of his overcoat, only to have them immediately reappear. He closed the locker door with a resigned sigh, not giving his appearance any further consideration. He had woken up to that face too often to fall into the self-assessment trap. He did not want to acknowledge the deepening lines or the hair thinning at the temples. Or in a moment of dark regret, make desperate promises to himself that he would immediately break. He just wasn't in the mood to lie to himself. He left his room and followed the blue guiding line down the hall to the nurses' station. The nurse that had awaken him was not there, instead he found a Jamaican aide liberally gossiping on the phone. She had beautiful dark eyes and a slim face with bold cheekbones, but the elegance of her features was ruined by a horsy mouth with overly large teeth. She was a living representation of the cartoon harem girl who would remove her fine silken mask to unwittingly drive off her would be courtier. She ignored him for a full minute, her huge teeth gnashing at the helpless phone, and his initial greeting smile turned into a frown of impatience. "I coutn't believe it. I said ta myself, Celeste, ya haveta tell Bernie right away...Really?" "Excuse me..." She held up a single brightly lacquered talon and Harry's frown deepened. "My God." She exhaled with feigned emphasis. Harry imagined that Bernie had just told Celeste that she had broken a similarly ornamental fingernail slamming the car door on her no good man. "If you could just..." "Visitin' hours are over." Celeste scolded him for interrupting her juicy report. Harry was tempted to grab the handset away from her and knock on her head with it. Instead, he dared to interrupt her for the third time. "I'm checking out." She gave him a surprised look that told him she was shocked that he would force her to do her job right in the middle of the most earth shattering news. As much as he automatically disdained of her calculated look with her harem joke mouth puckered, he remained civil. If he had not been sober, he would not have been able to manage this feat of patience. He tried to use one of his better pleading expressions that had some time ago lost its intended charming effectiveness. "Holt on just a second." She put off her chattering friend who could still be heard through the handset, and slapped down a book thick stack of forms keeping a clawed hand proprietarily over the stack. "You can't leave witout your doctor's approval." Celeste challenged, her harem joke eyes narrowing at the pathetically haggard visage he offered her. "The nurse who woke me said I could leave when...whenever I was ready." "What nurse?" Celeste questioned, and Harry experienced a brief moment of mental displacement as if reality had shifted for a moment and he was no longer firmly seated in it. He then realized that she was not asking what nurse as if none existed, but which nurse. For another moment he drew a blank, a dreamy blonde beauty interfering with true recollection. He jumped when Celeste started with fright and turned to see the ghost-like boy who had fled from his consumption of the spider stew. "Git back to bed, little boy." She ordered, her clawed hand fluttering over her chest. "Cress, Nurse Cress." Harry blurted, his memory zeroing in on the weary nurse's name badge as she regarded his record. The aid shrugged noncommittally, as if she had taken obscurity lessons from the boy. "Kess?" Harry amended and was rewarded with an aah of recognition, as if the two names were so far apart they could never be confused. She relaxed her mantling defense from the paperwork. "Ooh eeh ooh aah aah, ping pang wallah wallah bing bang!" The boy sing-songed another gem from his childish repertoire, having crept closer while Harry had been wracking his brain. "What did I tell you boy?" The aide scolded. The boy dashed off down the corridor, presumably not in the direction of his room as indicated by the disrupted growl Celeste emitted as she chased after him. "Come here boy, it's almost time for your medication." What a lure for good behavior, Harry thought, imagining that face leering close with a spoonful of castor oil. He pounced on the opportunity to tear through the unprotected hospital forms, not looking to be awarded for penmanship or thoroughness. Some were actually admitting forms that had not been completed upon his arrival. When he was finally finished with his scribbling race, he looked around. No sign of the harem faced aide or the deathly pale waif. Not even the faint pitter-patter of feet. Not even the faint pitter-patter of rain. This thought filled him with relief for some reason, and the motivation to get home before the sky could open up again. He began walking toward what he believed to be the direction of the entrance. It was difficult to determine because there did not seem to be any windows anywhere and he had no clue to the layout of the wards. The guide stripes were useless because he did not know what any of the colors meant. When it seemed like he was getting nowhere by random wandering, he chose a yellow one and began following it exclusively. The yellow line led him down to the x-ray department where there was a letterboard sign and a stacked pastel map that looked more like an abstract cubist design. He absorbed its vague directions to emergency. When he got close enough there would be a red stripe, like a trail of blood, how convenient. He knew there would at least be an entrance of sorts there that he could escape through. Finding an elevator, he took it down from his floor. The buttons had letters on them instead of numbers and he was unsure which was the ground floor. He hoped the L stood for lobby and not lobotomy, he joked with himself as he got off into a corridor that appeared identical to the one he just left, and still no red stripe. Just getting out of this hospital seemed to be a test of mental and physical fitness. He passed a corridor that was marked by a placard and appropriately a black guiding line. He had inadvertently reached the morgue, and ironically the first signs of life in the hospital. Absurdly, his first reaction to hearing voices was to duck flat against the corridor wall. "Acid?" One of the voices questioned. "It looks like it. Pretty sick, huh? Beats any suicide I've ever seen. What a way to go." The second voice sounded like a veteran surveyor of dead bodies who had seen lots of crazy shit. "But we just had a shift together." The first voice sounded genuinely grieved and self-recriminating. "Looks like you did a tour of the Amazon." When that failed to draw a laugh, the second voice added, "Piranha, get it? They take a bunch of little nibbles, leave little holes." The voice trailed off uncomfortably, then clumsily changed the subject. "You know the family?" Harry was about to continue on in his attempt to find an exit when the answer froze him in his tracks. "Yeah, met the lot at our EMT graduation. Nice people. I just can't believe it. I can't believe he would do this to himself. Acid?" Not acid - water. Tainted water from Harry's saline pouch. Water impregnated by some slickly flowing entity that ate away the victim's skin in a matter of hours. But it couldn't be his paramedics, that was just a dream right? Or if it wasn't just a dream it was just water right? Just water? "Resignedly beneath the sky, the melancholy waters lie." Edgar Allan Poe whispered mournfully in his mind. Harry ran. He ran blindly through corridors with mocking painted stripes and past rooms full of sicknesses, full of bodies poisoned by impurities being fed to them through pulsing intravenous sacks. He ran past lumbering elevators and took flights of stairs like an athlete in training. He ran for his sanity and in the same way riding his bike when he was young seemed to bring clarity, the exertion calmed him. When he was finally within paces of the admissions doors he slowed to a purposeful walk, even holding the entrance door open for a worried man helping his equally worried pregnant wife. Both were too preoccupied to notice the hectic color to his cheeks or his nostrils flaring like a racehorse as he attempted to control his breathing. He stepped outside, the cold night air acting like the final slap in the face that wakes a hysterical person. It wasn't his paramedics, it couldn't have been. And if it hadn't been a dream, it was just saline. Just sterile salt water. The whole thing was some creepy coincidence. That was all. And after a liter of Pepsi with an equal amount of Jim Beam, he would almost even believe it. WATERSICKNESS © 2002 M.D. KOFFIN THIS DRAFT IS FOR PREVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY. DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS MATERIAL WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S EXPRESSED PERMISSION.