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Jack was beginning to sweat now. His vision was no better. In fact, it was worse. Okay, be cool, be calm. It's just a nasty side affect. He couldn't take it any longer. His eyes and the feeling and movement in his hands, the two senses he needed the most. His hands were not too bad off, but his vision was failing. He called for a nurse. It was the same one that came to his aid before.
"Yes?"
"Nurse, it's back, and it's worse."
"What is?" she seemed confused.
"My vision, or the lack of it."
Realization sunk in. The nurse's face twisted in concern. "I'm going to get the doctor."
"All right," said Jack quietly. The nurse left momentarily.
When Jack first awoke after the skin graft surgery, the cloudiness had just been around the edges of his vision. It had not gotten any worse the first day. When he awoke this morning, however, it was worse, and had gotten steadily more so for the last hour, until he had barely been able to identify the nurse when she walked in. But for the footsteps, he wouldn't have known when she came back in with a doctor.
The M.D. walked to Willer's bedside. "Now, tell me what's happening," he said. Jack explained, trying to keep panic out of his voice. "And you say you see gray?" Jack nodded. "How far along is it now?"
"I'm blind," said Jack quietly. The doctor started, the shock registering in his eyes, but Jack didn't see any of that. "Doctor, is there . . . is there anything you can do?"
"We can try, and we will try very hard."
Troy drove down the side street slowly to the library, his windows down, content in his thoughts with the hot breeze blowing through his blond hair. Suddenly, he heard a screech and the horrible sound of metal on metal split the air. Jerking his car around a corner and toward the sound, he stepped on the gas and dashed through the streets to find the scene of the wreck. He found it and whipped his car next to a curb, not caring that it was halfway out in the street. Something had told him this was not an ordinary wreck, and he was right, for there was Ron's car, barely discernable from the tangle of metal it had become, combined with the twisted form of another car. Apparently they had collided head on.
Rollins ran to Ron first, adrenaline allowing him to heave some of the scraps aside and get to his friend. Not thinking clearly, he pulled Ron's body from the car and ran with it to the sidewalk some twenty five feet from the cars. He set it down, then ran back to the other car, looking around for help, but he saw nobody in any direction. This was a very out of the way alley, with very few people living in the buildings that were either condemned, or close to being so.
Pulling the first occupant from the other vehicle, who was an old, obviously dead African-American lady, he ran and set her down. He went back for the second of three occupants. This one was much harder to get out, and he couldn't seem to manage it. As he was struggling, he heard a feminine voice say from behind him, "Need some help?" He looked around and saw a woman standing there.
"Yes, please." The woman grabbed the piece of metal he was struggling with, and miraculously, the two of them were able to wrestle it away. He pulled a second lady from the vehicle, also African-American, but slightly younger and possibly still alive, and rushed her to the sidewalk, the new person getting the third occupant, a man. As they set them down, there was an explosion, knocking Troy from his feet and beyond the woman he had just put down. He covered his head as debris flew by. When it passed, he lay there on the ground, panting. "Thanks for the help," he said after getting his wind back. There was no response. He lifted his head from the sidewalk that, until now, he had forgotten was hot from the summer sun. The woman was gone.
Rollins got up and looked all around, but there was no one. It was if she had come from the dancing heat waves and disappeared back into them. He heard a siren in the distance, and it was getting closer. He turned as the fire truck pulled into the street, followed by two more and several police cars.
After the fire was put out, a police officer approached. "What happened?" he asked gently. Troy explained somewhat numbly what had gone on, leaving out only the appearance of the strange woman, and her role in getting the second and third people out.
"So the cars just exploded?" asked the officer. Rollins nodded. "Well, I suppose it was good that you got the bodies out, but . . . " Troy sat through a five minute lecture on safety and First-Aid. It would have been longer, but the reporter cut the officer off.
"Sir, are there any survivors?"
The officer nodded slowly. "One. The younger African-American woman."
"Thank you," Troy said quietly, then turned and walked to his car. He got in and drove away, driving without a destination and without a purpose. His friend, Ron, was dead.
Elisa woke with a start. She was still in her rocking chair, her half-finished book in her lap. The sun was on the brink of rising, and the rain had stopped. Eldwon was no longer by the couch, she realized as she blinked the remainder of sleep from her eyes. She stood abruptly, her book dropping to the floor. She sat down again as the blood rushed from her head, causing her to almost blackout. She stood again much slower, then began walking through the house, trying to see if he was still there, calling his name. She didn't find him.
She ran outside and threw open the door, realizing that he must have come this way because the door was unlocked and she had locked it the night before. She found him fifteen feet off the front porch, semi-conscious, and huddled in a little ball, delirious from the racking pain and cold. She kneeled beside him, gently feeling his forehead. His "fur" was drenched with rain and sweat, and he felt very warm. Then again, his species might have a higher normal body temperature. But still, he felt very hot.
She dragged him back inside, and he didn't struggle, but she did hear him mutter a few words, and once he cried out, seeming to be calling something or someone. After laying him beside the couch, she went into the kitchen and turned on the stove, then got out a pot and began making soup.
When she finished the soup, she put some in a bowl and, grabbing a spoon on the way, carried the contents to Eldwon's side. Sitting on the floor, she tried to feed him through the delirium. She managed to get about a fourth of it into him, but the rest of it spilled on the floor or on the Elcor's face.
Well, at least I got that much into him.
There's another job well done. That device is one of the best I ever invented, at least, for making things look like an accident, reflected Finn on his journey home. He preferred driving over flying because he didn't have to go through all the security checks and because he didn't enjoy the company of other people, although there were some benefits in being around people.
Finn picked up his secured car phone and dialed a number that would route him through four other countries and six other states before it would reach its destination. Finn said six words to the person on the other end. "The cat landed on its feet." Then he hung up. He knew that for added security, the same message would be relayed to five or six different people before it reached its final destination.
There had better be money waiting for me when I get back.
"So there's nothing you can do?" asked Jack.
"I'm afraid not," answered the doctor. "Yours is a very unusual case in that we can't find anything wrong with your eyes. However, your file says you were using chemicals and there was an explosion?"
"Yes, that's about right."
"Perhaps some portion of the chemicals got into your eyes and are the culprits. The main problem I see with this theory is your eyes don't hurt and never have . . . right?"
"That's correct. They've felt and been fine, except for the gray that's causing the vision loss."
"This is most unusual. We'll keep working on it."
Troy sat down at his computer switched it on, trying to clear his head to write. After struggling for five minutes to push out the thoughts of his friend's death, and write something so he could keep his job, he finally gave up. May as well think about it and not fight it.
Rollins mulled over the death. What could it mean? Why Ron? What was he doing there anyway? And what about the mirage lady? Where does she fit in? He decided to place a phone call.
"Hello? Yes, this is Troy Rollins from the Chicago Tribune. I'm calling about an accident that occurred yesterday at around one thirty pm." After a slight pause he said, "Yes, that's the right location. I was wondering if there has been any autopsies done yet? There has? Do you know what the alcohol content of any of the victims was?" He drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk, waiting for the man on the other end to get the desired information.
"Yes, I'm still here. Wait, let me make sure I've got this straight, you say there was no alcohol involved?" He listened intently to the man's reply. "What about the cars, was there anything unusual about them? Nothing yet? Thank you. Good Bye." He hung up the phone and stared thoughtfully at the screen saver.
No alcohol, and nothing wrong with the cars, except that they exploded, apparently from some sort of electrical shortage that sparked a fire, but nothing to inspire thoughts of foul play. So why is it that I keep going back to that idea? And what about that lady? How was she involved? He thought about her, trying to remember as much as he could.
Jeans, high-top tennis shoes, okay normal there. Long sleeve shirt, maybe a little unusual, but nothing big, except that it's summer. Leather gloves, but not quite skin tight. Now there's something different. Physical Features? Braided, light brown hair that reached down between her shoulder blades, pretty blue eyes, about five and a half feet tall, and she looked to weigh about one hundred fifteen pounds. Overall I'd say she was fairly attractive. So where did she come from? And even more importantly, where did she go? Maybe she can tell me something . . . if she really exists. I'm still not sure whether she was real or just a figment of my imagination that surfaced because of adrenaline, fear, and who knows what else. Troy was determined to find the answers to his questions.
Eldwon lay still on the hard floor, picking out the familiar sounds. There she is, still in the house, but in a different room. It sounds like she's . . . eating, but what I don't know. Hearing her eat reminded Eldwon of his own hunger. He was feeling much better, and had an appetite. But can I trust her? That was truly the question. His was an inner struggle, trying to decide if this strange person was friend or foe. He still thought that perhaps she had poisoned the water she had given him. And yet, she's had at least three days during which she could have killed me anytime she wanted to. The more he thought about it logically, the more he saw that it could just be the atmosphere. Surely there are diseases in this world that my immune system has never faced, just as there are probably things I've fought off in my world that this place has never dreamed of. Still, he wasn't positive that she wasn't the culprit. I guess there's only one way to find out.
Eliza heard a moan from the other room, but didn't pay any attention. There had been a lot of moaning recently, and she had learned to ignore it. "Eliza," said a hoarse voice. This was something she could not brush aside, and she dropped her fork onto her salad, pushed the chair away from the table, and rushed to Eldwon's side.
"Eldwon," she said. He smiled a little. "You were very sick. I helped you get better. I'm a friend," she said, knowing he wouldn't understand but trying to open some sort of communication link.
What is she saying? Ahh! This is so frustrating.
Elisa's thoughts were much the same, but she had an idea. She knelt down and pointed to the blanket. "Blanket," she said. Eldwon understood her efforts and tried to repeat the word, but couldn't. It took him eight tries to get it right. Next she pointed to the couch. "Couch." This is going to take some time.
Maria walked out of the room quickly, but not quickly enough to miss the first shouts of rage her employer bellowed at the mysterious phone caller. Thankfully she didn't hear much more than the first shouts.
"I've had enough of you," said Finn when he saw Maria was gone. "I don't take jobs unless I'm prepaid, and you know it, but I did for you because I owe you one. Still, this goes beyond reason. The money was supposed to be here when I got done. Where is it?" After a brief pause, Finn took off again. "What do you mean, you never received notification? I did just what I was supposed to in order to let you know I was done." another short pause. "Well if there seems to be a problem," he whispered, "why don't you fix it," he finished by screaming that into the phone. Finn Maisy was not a very happy camper, but he would have his moment a revenge and glory someday. Just let the phone caller wait.
"Jack?"
"Helen, is that you?"
"Yes, it's me. I came as soon as I heard about the accident. Is it . . . is it true about your eyes?"
"Yeah, sis, I'm afraid so."
"I'm sorry."
"For what? It's not your fault. It's no one's fault but my own. No one forced me to stupid and incautious. And yet, I wasn't completely stupid. I had eye protection on, and that's the thing that gets me. Oh well. What's done is done."
"Let's get you home," said Helen, Jack's sibling, three years his younger, said.
"All right." Helen helped her brother stand up, then helped him walk to the wheel chair she had arranged for. She forced him to sit down. "But I don't want you to wheel me around," he protested.
"Jack, swallow your independence for a moment and think of safety. I don't think there's anyway I could safely guide you through this building if you were walking. In a wheel chair, however, well, that's a different story."
"All right, all right. You're beginning to sound like mother, you know."
"You haven't the slightest idea." She wheeled him to the front desk. After signing all the necessary release forms, Helen took Jack out to her car. She helped him in, then put the wheel chair back inside the hospital. After that, they were on their way.
In appearances, there were few ways in which Helen and Jack could be more different. Whereas Jack was skinny, Helen was attractively plump. Jack was tall, and Helen a short five four. Her eyes were brown in contrast to the green of his, and her hair, while still brown, appeared almost black, much different than the very light brown of Jack's hair. While he was independent, stubborn, suspicious of others, asocial, and almost aloof, Helen needed people. She trusted, sometimes too much, other people, and she was always willing to help someone in need. She was always been considered the peacemaker or the anti-violence person. However, she occasionally tended to be a bit nosey.
They drove in silence for about ten minutes, but Helen's curiosity finally got the best of her and she asked him a question that had been nagging her ever since she had gotten the news about his health. "Just what were you doing when the accident happened?
"Helen, I was making history."
"What?" She gave him a quizzical expression which he didn't see, but he didn't have to. It was written all over her voice.
"I can't exactly say anything right now, but trust me, it was important, and I was making progress."
"That's a first," she muttered under her breath. "So, how do I get to your house from here?"
"Well, that depends on where we are, so where are we?"
"Umm, I think that sign up here says Ellsrit."
"Okay, you're going to make a left here." Helen complied. "Now take the second left." She did that, too. "Third right, three fourths of the way down the street, left side. The address is 1179. There should be some big hedges right in front of the house and-"
"Jack, I've been to your house before, it's just that I've never come from that direction. It was always from the other way, you know, where the airport is."
"Right." Helen pulled into the driveway and shut off the car. The two of them sat there that way for several minutes, neither of them saying a word. Finally, Jack broke the silence. "What are you thinking?"
"I don't know. I just . . . Jack, how are you going to do this? I can't stay here forever. What are you going to do now?"
"I haven't really thought about it."
"What were you thinking about?"
"Just now?"
"Yes."
"I was thinking that I have no idea what the inside of my garage will look like now. I'm almost scared to go in."
"Why? You won't see any of it."
Jack smiled a rueful smile. "I guess you're right. Well, let's go." After unbuckling his seatbelt, he felt around for the latch, and when he had it, opened the door. Swinging his feet around so that they touched the ground, he put his hands on the roof of the car, and stood up, almost hitting his head in the process. Helen had rushed out, but was too late to help him. He desisted her efforts to help him to the house door, but let her close the car door. "Okay, I need your help now," he said after finding the door was locked. "I didn't exactly have my keys on me when they rushed me out, and the door is somehow locked. However, if you look under the third hedge over, you should find a spare key, but you'll have to dig around a little in the rocks." After some effort, Helen secured the key and brought it to Jack.
Willer opened the door to his house and took a step in. Helen gasped. "Jack! How could you live in this mess?! This place is a wreck!" She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him to the sofa that was on the near wall, then sat him down. "You just stay here until I get this junk-pile cleaned up."
"All right, as long as you don't go into the garage."
"Deal."
Rollins slammed the door of his apartment shut behind him. Nothing! Five days of intense searching, but still NOTHING! His apartment was consisted of three rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen/dining room. The bedroom was about twelve by ten, had light blue carpet, and white, bare walls, save for one picture of Troy's mother. The bed was centered in the middle, and at the head on both sides of the bed was a dresser. Each dresser had an alarm clock, one set for five minutes after the other. There was a small closet and one other door that led to the bathroom. Against the wall facing the foot of the bed was another dresser, but this one had a small, rarely used TV resting on it.
The kitchen about fifteen by ten with white tile. There was a small microwave and a medium refrigerator. A small table with two chairs was opposite the microwave. On the table was a phone.
Troy walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and surveyed the contents. He slammed it shut when he saw that there was nothing in it. Like my checking account and my story leads. He slammed the fridge door and slumped down in a chair. He lay his head on the table. No foul play involved in the accidents . . . according to the police, and they've decided to keep it that way until further notice. The only survivor is in a coma, and the "mirage lady" still nothing but that. Where did she come from? Where did she go? I've got too many questions and not enough answers, and no way to find answers. His thinking was interrupted by the telephone.
He looked at it blankly for a moment, then reached over and picked it up. "Hello, Troy Rollins speaking."
"Troy, you said you had a big story coming. Where is it?" It was Troy's boss, William Ball.
Troy sighed. "It's . . . coming."
"You've been saying that for the last two weeks!" yelled Ball. "You had better get it to me soon, or you'll be looking for a job for another newspaper company." The phone clicked, and Troy hung up, shaking his head. A moment later, the phone rang again. "And by the way, if the story doesn't materialize, you won't find another job in Chicago," said William. Then he hung up again. Troy hung the phone up gently, his actions belying his true feelings. The phone rang again.
"What now?" asked a frustrated Troy.
"Mr. Rollins?" said the voice on the other end.
"Yes?" Troy was instantly sorry he had been so brash when he answered the phone. This was obviously someone different, and he couldn't make out the voice. It seemed to somehow be distorted.
"I am to inform you that you have a package. Pick it up tomorrow at four thirty am at the "Tiffany's" on Michigan Street."
"But it's not open at-" Troy heard the click, and knew that it was useless to keep talking. Well that was bizarre. A package for me . . . hmm. I wonder what it could be? And how I'm supposed to pick it up at "Tiffany's" at four thirty is beyond me. Oh well, I suppose I'd better be there anyway. Maybe it can lead me to something.
"I need a drink," Eldwon managed to stutter out.
"Good!" praised Elisa. She got a glass of water. She had found Eldwon a quick and willing learner. His speed of learning was born of necessity, for he knew that if he didn't learn this language, he probably wouldn't survive. It had been very difficult for him at first, but once he had some sort of foundation to build from, his vocabulary and comprehension had greatly increased. In the past two weeks he had come far, and could now express wants and needs, and various other things. He could also comprehend a lot, much more than he could speak.
After draining the cup of its contents, he set it down. "I am-" he struggled for a minutes, trying to think of the right word. "Going," he managed after several moments, "outside."
"Okay, but be careful." He nodded his understanding. He went outside and stretched his wings, looking at the wounded one. It was now very close to healed. Enough so that he was sure he could fly with it. He decided to try. Stretching the cramped wing muscles some more, he stroked a couple of times as a sort of practice run.
It's now or never. He lifted himself into the air, glad to be off the temperamental ground, and flew, leaving his cares and sorrows on the ground for the moment. Eliza came out.
"Where is he?!" she started out loud. Just then, she heard a piercing cry. When she looked up, she saw a horrible sight. Eldwon was rushing down upon her, wings tucked in and talons extended! "AAAAHHHHH!!!"
Finn looked over his list carefully. He had to make sure that nothing was forgotten. Grappling hook; laser alarm deactivator; cloak; forty five magnum with laser sights and silencer, such a pitiful gun, but the best I can do for right now; plastic explosives with detonator. Okay, it looks like everything is all set.
Maisy removed the contents of his sportbag one by one. He was about to set the last item down on his bed, but stopped. He fingered the object carefully, then put it back in the bag. He proceeded to pack the bag with the new, desired contents. Just wait, caller. You've got five more days, then you're mine.
Well, that's as much of the story as I've put on the web so far. Please send comments to me. This story isn't finished yet, and I would greatly appreciate any comments, ideas, or suggestions anyone might have to make, be they good or bad. =)
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