The Protocol: A Prescription to Die (11 page)

“You think I care about your day, bitch,” he said as he straddled her back, and yanked head back by her hair. “Next time, be on time.”

Chapter 25

Carl walked up the makeshift cinderblock steps to the 50’s era rambler that became his after his mother’s untimely death. It was a rather nice looking home once; complete with fresh, white paint, black trim, a manicured green lawn, and coiffed lilac bushes on three sides of the property line that snuggly encased the house. Now, it was an eyesore in the middle of the fifty-seven hundred block and Penn in Richfield, a first-ring suburb of Minneapolis. The lilac bushes had long since become kindling, and the yard was now mostly dandelions. The house itself hadn’t been painted in decades, and looked as crackled as a broken mirror.

Carl was wearing the clothes Barbara had supplied him, but, despite her expectation that they’d be tossed, he carried his old clothes, still secured in the trash bag over his shoulder. Under his left arm, Carl carried a box containing the paperwork and syringes for his next batch of protocols he’d been assigned. His plan was to change clothes, and then get started handling society’s garbage.

“You look as clean and bright as a shiny new penny, Carl,” said an old voice from behind him. “You’re limping. Did you hurt your leg?”

Carl looked around and saw his neighbor, Old Lizzy Parsons, strolling on the sidewalk walking a new, white chihuahua. She was in her eighties, walked with an oxygen tank tethered to her waist, and should have been put down years ago.

“Thanks, Lizzy. New dog?”

“Hhhmm. This is Pipi. Don’t know what happened to Pepe. Ran away or something. He just vanished. I miss him. Got Pipi two days ago.”

“That’s too bad. If I see him, I’ll let you know. The new one’s a cutie.”

“Yes, he’s a handsome little man, isn’t he? Now what happened to that leg? Would you like a poultice?”

Carl reached down and touched his thigh.

“I just hurt it at work. A little sore, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”

Carl cringed at the thought of one of the old hag’s poultices, and what it could possibly contain that would remotely help what he had. He didn’t hurt it at work, anyway. A six-hour romp with Barbara always left him sore from the waist down on both sides. She was a hard-hitting, skittish mare, that’s for sure. Deep down, he was afraid he might be falling for her. She was rather fun to be around, especially in bed. They had a lot in common too, especially when it came to dealing with people who served no meaningful purpose in life. Babs, she hated it when he called her that, was a little old though, he thought. Until he’d been able to saddle-up to her, he’d never been with anyone in her forties before. To his surprise, she wasn’t as bad as he’d expected.

She was still somewhat firm with minimal wrinkles.

Still, Carl preferred them a lot younger.

To him, thirty was borderline ancient.

Twenty was approaching geriatric.

Fourteen to nineteen was just right.

They were a bit more pliable and definitely more flexible in their teens. Even better was the fact that most didn’t mind getting tossed around a bit. They rather enjoyed it.

“Carl? Are you ok? Carl?”

Carl shook his head and blinked. He’d disappeared for a bit. That was happening more often these days. He moved the box from under his arm to his crotch. The thought of a fifteen year old had caused a bit of stirring under his new pants.

“Oh. Sorry Lizzy. I was just looking at your dog. No thanks. I have some Icy Hot inside. I’ll be fine. I can make some fliers with Pepe’s picture if you want. Put them up around the neighborhood for you?”

Carl adjusted the box as he thought he caught the old woman glancing downward.

“You’re such a good boy, Carl. That would be nice.”

“Gotta run, Lizzy. Talk to you later.”

Carl turned around, ended the pointless conversation, unlocked the front door, and went inside.

As soon as he was safe within the confines of his house with the door locked behind him, he turned around, looked out of his dirty window, and watched the old woman cross the street to her home.

He wished she’d stay on her side of the street for a change. She was a nuisance, and would have to be dealt with someday. She always seemed nice enough, but he suspected it was her that was complaining to the city about his yard.

“Fucking bitch,” he said to the back of Lizzy’s head through window.

Carl wished he had a gun.

He also knew where Pepe was.

He was on his kitchen table, splayed open, dissected, and gutted.

He hated Chihuahuas. They weren’t real dogs.

He’d let her enjoy Pipi for a bit.

Carl wondered why she enjoyed Mexican those names so much.

*

Carl threw the bag of dirty clothes on his bed, and ripped at the plastic until he could see everything. He wanted to get into his comfortable clothes before he really started his day. He’d take off what Barbara had given him and hang them with his growing collection in the closet. He didn’t understand why she insisted on buying him clothes with each rendezvous. It wasn’t like he was expecting payment. He got laid, and he’d do that for free.

He liked the clothes he had.

They were comfortable. Worn in.

Carl began unbuttoning his shirt and noticed that this one was different from the others she had laid out for him on other meetings. Unlike the others in the growing collection hanging in his closet, this one had letters stitched on the cuff next to the buttonhole: cTm. He looked at himself in the mirrored closet door.

“Fuck that! Shirt’s brand is the same as my initials,” he said as he grabbed a hanger and draped the shirt over it. He looked at the letters again. “Never heard of it.”

He stripped of his pants, shoes, socks, and underwear and pulled his old clothes out of the ripped bag and dressed. They might be dirty, have a sour, body odor scent to them, and have small, decorative smears of blood, but they were his.

Carl regarded himself in the mirror.

“Now that’s better,” he said as he scrapped off a stain on his Polo shirt.

Chapter 26

That next afternoon, a man with a slight limp, opened the front door of the Bright Horizon’s Living Center, walked to the elevator, and pressed the UP button. His badge told everyone he was Jim Gallagher, Physician’s Assistant from Aequalis Health Services.

His real name was Carl Titmueller, and he definitely wasn’t a PA. Carl could say “stethoscope,” and had one as a prop around his neck, but he doubted that he could come close to spelling it, or even knowing how to use it. He moonlighted for Aequalis when they had activities that needed his singular attention. Tonight he had ten such activities to attend to.

It was a bit after five o’clock in the evening so the staff was busy managing a shift change; therefore he was relatively invisible. He was heading for the fourth floor, and since he had a stethoscope around his neck, and was wearing a white coat, he was able to pass without much scrutiny. He’d been here before anyway; this was his fifth visit in the last three months. Ms. Nordstrom provided the badge he had clipped to his lab coat’s pocket. It provided the access he needed to open any door he wanted.

Barbara was nothing if not efficient.

He liked the way his costume made him look.

Very official.

Someone with power.

He recognized some of the faces, and he was sure they even recognized him. He nodded and sometimes said hello. Tonight, his first visit was to Katie Andrews. Age: 34. Room: 4301. Monthly expense: $25,000. ID: 3305-U. Protocol: U.

Chapter 27

The sullen light of dusk made 3305-U’s room appropriately dim for the job he had been assigned. He preferred as little light as possible for these tasks. 3305-U’s single window was open so the cool spring breeze flowed through, and the flowery curtains fluffed back and forth like diaphanous wings. Bird songs could be heard over the background noise of the passing cars. Her television was on and tuned to a show featuring a man in a hideous, striped polo shirt talking to a paper, blue dog. The staff at the facility probably thought the environment was soothing to the girl lying quietly in the bed.

He had his doubts about the need for any soothing; by the look of it, a cabbage probably had a more interesting and complete thought process the creature he’d come to kill. Carl quietly pushed the door closed until he heard the distinctive click of the lock. He was normally consigned to prepping these cabbages for their coffins. Now he was able to work with them prior to that stage. Carl considered what he was asked to do now a reward for all of the shit he dealt with, day in and day out.

From his vantage point by the door, he could tell that it had Down syndrome. It had the typical squished, round face that most of these things do. He made eye contact with it, and to his astonishment found that its almond eyes were following him as he approached. A trail of light green ooze flowed from its nostrils to its top lip.

Its tongue licked the ooze off.

Carl’s stomach flipped in revulsion.

“Boo cloo. Stee funny,” it said as it pointed to the television.

It smiled at him.

He didn’t reply and definitely didn’t return its smile. He had no idea what it was talking about, nor did he really give a shit. He didn’t talk to cabbages in the produce isle, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Carl brushed back his greasy hair from his acne infested forehead, picked up 3305-U’s right arm, and twisted it so he could read its ID bracelet. He knew that he could have just turned the bracelet but that would have been too easy.

The cabbage winced.

The light was dimming, and he couldn’t clearly see the name printed on the bracelet. He maintained the grip on its arm with his left hand, and pushed his black, horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose with his right forefinger to improve his focus. He twisted its arm again, and noticed a tear forming in its left eye. The ID on the bracelet matched the ID on the top paper on his clipboard.

He had the right one.

The correct head of cabbage.

He twisted its arm again just because he could. This time he caused tears from both eyes. It winced again, but this time protested.

“Ow. You mean.”

It pulled its arm back to its side, and tried to hide it under the covers.

Carl opened his case, and searched for the syringe containing the appropriate ID number corresponding to its 3305-U designation. He had ten visits to make tonight, and therefore ten corresponding syringes. It was the first on his itinerary tonight. He was proud of the fact that his satchel was organized like a mailman’s mail pouch, and he was able to pull out the correct syringe on the first try. At fifteen minutes per visit on average, and a dinner date set for nine, he had no time to waste.

Four days ago, prior to his itinerary being finalized but in preparation for his upcoming visit, an IV port had been placed into its left arm. He found it amazing that no one at the facility questioned the fact that one day its arm was IV-free and the next day it had one.

Sometimes bureaucratic oblivion was a good thing.

Life can be good.

Carl’s nose began to itch. He looked for a tissue but didn’t see anything close by. After seeing the cabbage lick snot off its lip, he doubted there was anything close by. Perhaps in the bathroom, but he was on a schedule and wasn’t going to waste any more time than he had already. He inserted his finger into this nose, twirled it around to relieve the itch, and pulled out a small, green, sticky nugget. Normally, he would have wiped it on his pants, but not this time. This time, Carl had a better place to deposit the green ball. Using one finger, he wedged the snot ball onto the top of its IV port. He smiled at his spark of creativity then inserted the needle through the green ball, through the port’s rubber seal, and pressed the plunger. When the syringe was empty, he extracted the needle, replaced the protective cap, and threw it in the red biohazard container by the door. He took off his gloves and threw them in the trashcan next to the bed.

He didn’t like to litter.

It was 5:17.

Carl pulled out his smart phone, ran his finger across the screen to activate it, then accessed the application that recorded his activities, and ensured proper payment. He reached back to the wrist band on the cabbage’s arm, brought his phone closer, and pressed SCAN. The phone interpreted the barcode printed on the wristband and filled in the data entry fields needed. He reviewed the data then pressed his finger on the SUBMIT button.

Done.

He quickly referred to his clipboard. This one would net him about $3,500 and his continued silence. Not bad for ten minutes of work.

The cabbage’s eyes were now closed and the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed was barely perceptible. It would soon be non-existent.

He estimated that she had another fifteen minutes or so of life left in her.

It was time for him to exit stage left.

Quietly.

One down. Nine to go.

He had to get to the second floor, where his next victim waited for a visit from good Dr. Carl.