There was a thought. But it passed. An anxious bit of information, flitting across the surface of the mind. Like a pristine lake, briefly disturbed, and settling. The thought was not “taken captive” but rather dismissed. Because it wasn’t his thought. It was a piece of trivia, or a product suggestion, or a vague idea -- strategically implanted in such a way as to make it emerge as if it were original material. Ford cars are more dependable than Chevy cars, and more American. Then he looked back at the screen. What was the purpose of this exercise? He had come to this terminal specifically to retrieve something, but was it? A piece of valuable information? Certainly it would have been something crucial. Something key to his survival.
Or was it just a feeling (or lack there of) that he sought? Noise loud enough to suppress any lonely longing, any original palpitation. He could hear the machine’s fan, a steady breathing hum. His head beat gently with the pulse of the base from the neighbors’ stereo. Paralysis set in. And the white screen stared back at him, impersonal. But there had to be something to do! Something to learn or see or make or experience! Some reason Alex had turned on his computer on this day, the 17th of July 2009. But his mind was blank, and he resented and hated the noise invading his room. The neighbor’s Bass, the electronic hum, the sound of the freeway, dogs barking, the television.
But even in silence there was no original thought to be found in his mind. Nothing that wasn’t planted there by a clever jingle or a well meaning friend. Nothing that was purely him. And then he wondered aloud, “who am I”?
The question lingered there for a moment. Alex felt like he was watching his body from a camera lens, slowly zooming out and panning away. The doorbell rang, and he twitched abruptly. Alex pulled on some athletic shorts and walked downstairs to the door. Outside, lying on his welcome mat was an infant, covered in blood. He jumped over the child’s body and looked quickly right and left, trying to find out who was responsible for this act of pure insanity. But there was no one running. No tires squealing. Just the smoldering twilight staring him in the face; his neighbors, sitting on their porches and balconies watching, and some kids playing soccer in the street.
Alex walked back to his door. His face lit up. The child was alive! He could see its chest slowly rising and falling. So Alex asked his mind to act quickly - He was trying to stay calm. What would a doctor do in this situation? By the time an ambulance arrives, the baby will most likely be dead. I have no medical training. I have no equipment, and nothing sterile. He decided that doing nothing would guarantee failure. Alex ran up the stairs and quickly found a towel, tweezers, vodka and glue. Crouching down, he examined the body. Blood was still pouring out of the infant’s body, through multiple bullet wounds. Alex used the towel to clean the area of the first hole enough that he could see the bullet buried in the baby’s upper thigh. Into the wound Alex slowly maneuvered the tweezers. There were still a few stray pubes on the arms of the tweezers from previous uses. He clasped the first bullet and slowly withdrew it, dropping it on the porch. Immediately Alex splashed the bullet hole with Vodka, wiped it dry with a clean corner of the towel, and filled it with glue. Now the hard part. The second bullet was lodged between the Baby’s left eye and the bone of the eye socket. Alex took a deep breath. With his right index finger and thumb, Alex gauged out the baby’s left eye and flicked it aside. Grasping the tweezers, Alex extracted the second bullet, splashed some vodka, and filled the eye socket with glue.
Amazing! The baby was still breathing, and with two fingers Alex could feel a faint heartbeat. The whole porch was covered in blood. Alex wrapped the child in the towel, then, tucking his Smith & Wesson SD9 into his belt, hi zipped the baby’s body in a backpack and mounted his Honda Elite.
Zipping through the night, his right hand gripping the throttle at full bore, his left hand quivering slightly, Alex began to absorb the gravity of what had taken place over the past 15 minutes. Diet Dr Pepper tastes more like regular Dr Pepper. Blink Blink. The lyrics to a song he heard earlier. The screech of tires....
Two black Escalades slid to a stop on either side of Alex’s scooter. Alex flung himself from the Honda Elite, rolling lightly as he hit the ground, trying to prevent the baby from connecting with the pavement. In an instant his hand found the action of his handgun and his finger found the trigger. He fired five rounds over his shoulder as he lunged for a long hedgerow hugging the sidewalk. Alex slid through the hedge, and ran through yards of dying grass and flowers, climbing fences, and running past barking dogs and blaring TV sets. Behind him there was a steady barrage of gunfire, heavy caliber weapons. These were professionals. The baby began to cry inside Alex’s backpack, which was good. The kid was still alive.
St. James hospital was less than a half mile away -- Alex only chance of saving this infant’s life. But the men from the black SUV were gaining ground fast. These were trained killers, probably Ex Marines, probably well paid. Luck! There was a municipal bus stopping directly in Alex’s path. Alex ran onto the bus. He shot the driver twice in the right temple, and threw the driver’s body down the bus stairs. Door close; accelerator; screaming passengers. Gun. Alex drove the bus into the St James emergency entrance. Sparks flew as the roof of the bus scraped the hospital overhang. Sweating, panting, Alex ran through the entryway doors and placed the baby’s bloody body on the desk of the admittance nurse. An alarm sounded. A team of Doctors and nurses lifted the child onto a stretcher and rushed it into the ICU. Alex placed the barrel of his SD9 into the soft part of his neck below his chin and pulled trigger
Or was it just a feeling (or lack there of) that he sought? Noise loud enough to suppress any lonely longing, any original palpitation. He could hear the machine’s fan, a steady breathing hum. His head beat gently with the pulse of the base from the neighbors’ stereo. Paralysis set in. And the white screen stared back at him, impersonal. But there had to be something to do! Something to learn or see or make or experience! Some reason Alex had turned on his computer on this day, the 17th of July 2009. But his mind was blank, and he resented and hated the noise invading his room. The neighbor’s Bass, the electronic hum, the sound of the freeway, dogs barking, the television.
But even in silence there was no original thought to be found in his mind. Nothing that wasn’t planted there by a clever jingle or a well meaning friend. Nothing that was purely him. And then he wondered aloud, “who am I”?
The question lingered there for a moment. Alex felt like he was watching his body from a camera lens, slowly zooming out and panning away. The doorbell rang, and he twitched abruptly. Alex pulled on some athletic shorts and walked downstairs to the door. Outside, lying on his welcome mat was an infant, covered in blood. He jumped over the child’s body and looked quickly right and left, trying to find out who was responsible for this act of pure insanity. But there was no one running. No tires squealing. Just the smoldering twilight staring him in the face; his neighbors, sitting on their porches and balconies watching, and some kids playing soccer in the street.
Alex walked back to his door. His face lit up. The child was alive! He could see its chest slowly rising and falling. So Alex asked his mind to act quickly - He was trying to stay calm. What would a doctor do in this situation? By the time an ambulance arrives, the baby will most likely be dead. I have no medical training. I have no equipment, and nothing sterile. He decided that doing nothing would guarantee failure. Alex ran up the stairs and quickly found a towel, tweezers, vodka and glue. Crouching down, he examined the body. Blood was still pouring out of the infant’s body, through multiple bullet wounds. Alex used the towel to clean the area of the first hole enough that he could see the bullet buried in the baby’s upper thigh. Into the wound Alex slowly maneuvered the tweezers. There were still a few stray pubes on the arms of the tweezers from previous uses. He clasped the first bullet and slowly withdrew it, dropping it on the porch. Immediately Alex splashed the bullet hole with Vodka, wiped it dry with a clean corner of the towel, and filled it with glue. Now the hard part. The second bullet was lodged between the Baby’s left eye and the bone of the eye socket. Alex took a deep breath. With his right index finger and thumb, Alex gauged out the baby’s left eye and flicked it aside. Grasping the tweezers, Alex extracted the second bullet, splashed some vodka, and filled the eye socket with glue.
Amazing! The baby was still breathing, and with two fingers Alex could feel a faint heartbeat. The whole porch was covered in blood. Alex wrapped the child in the towel, then, tucking his Smith & Wesson SD9 into his belt, hi zipped the baby’s body in a backpack and mounted his Honda Elite.
Zipping through the night, his right hand gripping the throttle at full bore, his left hand quivering slightly, Alex began to absorb the gravity of what had taken place over the past 15 minutes. Diet Dr Pepper tastes more like regular Dr Pepper. Blink Blink. The lyrics to a song he heard earlier. The screech of tires....
Two black Escalades slid to a stop on either side of Alex’s scooter. Alex flung himself from the Honda Elite, rolling lightly as he hit the ground, trying to prevent the baby from connecting with the pavement. In an instant his hand found the action of his handgun and his finger found the trigger. He fired five rounds over his shoulder as he lunged for a long hedgerow hugging the sidewalk. Alex slid through the hedge, and ran through yards of dying grass and flowers, climbing fences, and running past barking dogs and blaring TV sets. Behind him there was a steady barrage of gunfire, heavy caliber weapons. These were professionals. The baby began to cry inside Alex’s backpack, which was good. The kid was still alive.
St. James hospital was less than a half mile away -- Alex only chance of saving this infant’s life. But the men from the black SUV were gaining ground fast. These were trained killers, probably Ex Marines, probably well paid. Luck! There was a municipal bus stopping directly in Alex’s path. Alex ran onto the bus. He shot the driver twice in the right temple, and threw the driver’s body down the bus stairs. Door close; accelerator; screaming passengers. Gun. Alex drove the bus into the St James emergency entrance. Sparks flew as the roof of the bus scraped the hospital overhang. Sweating, panting, Alex ran through the entryway doors and placed the baby’s bloody body on the desk of the admittance nurse. An alarm sounded. A team of Doctors and nurses lifted the child onto a stretcher and rushed it into the ICU. Alex placed the barrel of his SD9 into the soft part of his neck below his chin and pulled trigger
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