The Protocol: A Prescription to Die (6 page)

Chapter 8

After working the night and most of the morning at Gordon, Leake, and Bluthe’s downtown processing facility, Carl Titmueller was ready for a drink.

Drinks.

Plural.

Even though it was not even one in the afternoon, and even though it was Sunday. Thank God he didn’t live in a state with blue laws. He sat at the bar in his regular stool, and beckoned to the bartender.

“Hey Carl. Regular?”

“Hi, Bill. Yup. Scotch rocks,” he said to the bartender and placed a five on the bar. He laid another five down. “Make it a double. It’s been a long morning.”

Carl rested his chin in his hands. After having processed more than ten corpses, he was exhausted. He slowly exhaled though the hole from his missing front tooth. His top lip flapped from the exiting breeze. He could see his fingers out of the corners of his eyes, and focused on a dark spot on his thumb. He pulled his hand out from under his chin, and took a closer look.

He put this thumb to his nose, and took a deep, deep breath and held it.

It was the smell of his work.

Flesh and blood were caked under his fingernail.

Literally.

Most wore gloves at work. He didn’t. He relished the feeling of cold, dead flesh. Using his other hand, he scraped the remnants from behind his thumbnail.

It was a hefty helping.

He placed the greasy debris on the tip of his tongue, took a sip of his scotch, swirled it around to savor its flavor, and slowly swallowed.

He wasn’t a mortician like many others who worked at GLB. They were simply buying time for the next opening as a funeral director at one of their many funeral homes. That’s where the bucks were, at the funeral homes. Money wasn’t made by those subjected to work at the processing facility, at least not by anyone who was just a tech like him. The morticians who became funeral directors made commissions on services, coffins, and every add-on that they could pass on to suffering families who thought they would be branded as cheap if they debated funeral services based on cost. That was good money, or so he’d been told. But they also had to wear suits, whereas he was able to wear what he wanted. The dead didn’t care what he looked like. They also didn’t have functioning noses, so it didn’t matter if he showered on a daily basis or not.

All he did at the facility was chop-up with corpses twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty five days a year. Death didn’t care what his work schedule was, or if he brought a hooker to the facility on dark, lonely nights.

Carl once envied the morticians at the facility, the ones who’d gone to school and had a diploma hanging on their wall at home and a copy at the office. At least they had a path that would ultimately lead someplace out of the hell hole he spent his days and some nights in. Carl considered going to school to become something more than a tech, but decided against it when he found out how much time and money it would take. The gain wasn’t worth the pain.

Until recently, he spent his days loading cadavers into cardboard boxes then pushing them into the retort of one of three cremation ovens operated at the facility. When he first started, he liked to watch the bodies melt and bubble in the 1,700 degree inferno. At first, it provided an almost sexual excitement to watch. Now it did nothing for him when he pushed the button and the chamber filled with flames.

After he had mastered the cooking part of cremation, they gave him more responsibilities and had him process the remains of the cremation in the cremulator. It was a giant food processor that pulverized the remaining bones into powder. He then spooned the powder it into a clear plastic bag to be given back to the family. He didn’t give a flying rat’s ass what they did with it after that. He’d done his part.

Occasionally, he’d put his lunch scraps in with the ashes. His favorite was chicken wing bones. He’d press them deep into the ashes.

He wished he could see someone’s face when, and if, the bone was ever discovered.

His life was getting better though. He’d met a woman who understood him. She understood what he wanted in life. Barbara Nordstrom was his Moses leading him to the Promised Land and Carl gladly followed.

Carl emptied his glass and waved another ten dollars at the bartender.

“Fillerup, Bob.”

“Bill.”

“Wha,” slurred Carl. Even though he visited the bar quite often, he didn’t hold his alcohol very well.

“Bill. My name is Bill, Carl.”

“Whatever. My glass is empty.”

Chapter 9

“Hello, Mr. Teague,” said the woman behind the receptionist’s desk. Although she probably had no medical background whatsoever, she wore nursing scrubs. “Just a second and I’ll find Betty Lou for you.” She pressed a button on her touch screen, and a map of the facility appeared. A red light blinked next to a small picture of a table in the dining room grid. She put her finger on the blinking light. “There she is.” A video of his mother sitting at a table popped up on the screen. “She’s already sitting down. She’s at Table 12. That’s by the window looking out at the gardens.”

“Get some new software?”

“Yes. This is wonderful. I’m from Aequalis. We just acquired the center,” she said as she extended her hand for me to shake. “We have all sorts of new tools for the staff here to use.”

“Aequalis? Who’s that?”

“We are the new healthcare exchange’s parent company.”

“Exchange?”

“We basically supply and manage health services. Part of the new law.”

“Ah,” Eat said as if he understood exactly what she was referring to. He hadn’t been to a doctor in at least a decade so all of this new stuff was out of his league. Eat looked at her name tag, hers wasn’t a face he recognized.

“Ah. Ok. Thanks, Rachel.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she smiled. “I’m a new face. I’m here teaching everyone the new software. Manning the desk. Everyone’s at lunch.”

He guessed that although her medical background may have been limited, her technological know-how was above average. Eat made a mental note to check this new company out. He thanked her again, and started walking towards the dining room.

“Mr. Teague?”

Eat turned around. Unsure of what he was being called back to the desk for.

“That will be $10.”

His eyes must have told her he had no idea what she was talking about. Eat wondered if they were now charging a visitation fee. Turns out, he wasn’t that far off.

“For the meal. Aequalis charges for guest meals. You’re joining your mother for lunch, right? Breakfast is now $5, and dinner is $12.”

“Oh. Ok. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

She shook her head.

“Trimming the fat. Have to watch the costs closer now.”

Eat pulled out his wallet and handed her a twenty.

“Exact change only, please.”

“That’s all I have.”

“I don’t have any change.”

Eat held his impatience in check.

“Keep it. I have to meet my mother.”

“It’s against Aequalis, policy, Mr. Teague.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” he said as he walked towards the cafeteria.

*

The center had two golden retrievers that roamed the halls and common areas. They were soft, gentle, and the favorite of all of the facility’s residents. Although Lucy and Desi were not allowed in the dining area, they patrolled the boundaries waiting for anyone to discreetly drop a scrap or two as they returned to their rooms or meandered into the common area. Today was no different. They were sitting at the dining room’s entrance. Every time someone walked by, their tails wagged in unison as if hearing music only they could hear. Perhaps their own version of, “Sitting on the dog of the bay” or, “You ain’t nuttin but a hound dog” wafted though their tiny skulls.

The dogs’ favorite area was the common room where the residents sat in recliners and watched TV, or played a game of hearts, whist, or pinochle. In here, Lucy and Desi knew they had a captive audience, and a healthy scratch behind the ear was easily attained by simply laying a head on the lap of anyone confined to a chair.

“Hi guys, how are you doing?” Eat said to the furry four-legged residents as he walked by. Their tails quickened and beat the floor with anxious abandon. Eat looked up to the back of the dining room and saw his mother sitting alone at their assigned table. She was wearing her favorite light blue button-down sweater, and was looking out the window watching the men in the garden preparing it for flowers to be planted as soon as temperatures permitted.

Eat bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi Mama. How are you doing?”

He didn’t mean to startle her, but evidently he did. She practically jumped out of her chair, and the paper napkin that she had been holding, flew from her hands onto the next table. She had been so focused on what was going on outside, that she did not see his reflection in the glass as he approached. Eat didn’t think she could still be so spry.

When she finally regained her composure, she looked directly at him. Her hazel eyes dug into his soul and seemed to search for a name. She never said a word; she just kept staring. The light of recognition hadn’t yet flipped its switch. She slowly looked away, and returned her attention to the gardeners. Little by little, she put both of her hands on the table, reached for another napkin, then looked straight at Eat.

“Oh. Anderson. It’s so nice of you to come. Did you come to pick me up for the dance tonight?”

The switch of recognition had turned on, finally, but the circuitry she chose was wrong. As had happened on other visits, Eat was her husband again. And evidently they were dating.

“So you want to go out and dance tonight? That sounds fun. But let’s have lunch first, ok?”

“Ok. I think that nice young lady there will take our order,” she said as she pointed to a woman standing outside by the bus stop.

Joey had told him that it was of no value to try to correct her. In her mind, at this moment in time, Eat was his father, her husband of more than forty years. He was not her son. Right now, she wanted to go dancing, and the woman standing at the bus stop was evidently their waitress just standing around waiting to take their lunch order. “Make it easy on yourself. Just go with the flow,” Joey had advised him one night while partaking of a few cosmos.

It was still incredibly hard.

“What’s on the menu for lunch today? Would you like a cup of coffee first?”

“I think daddy is frying up the fish he caught today. I hope it’s walleye. Coffee? That would be wonderful. Yes,” she said as she fiddled with her napkin between her arthritic fingers. “And a glass of milk. Yes,” she nodded. “Milk.”

Evidently Eat was back to being her son. One of his father’s jobs after their fishing expeditions had been cleaning the fish, and frying them up for dinner. A boneless filet was definitely a misnomer in the Teague household, as all three of them had a hefty pile of bones on their plates when dinner was finished.

A woman dressed in a forest green sweater with an appliqué of red, yellow, purple, and pink roses approached the table. She pushed a food cart with several shelves each filled with plates. Some dirty, some filled with food waiting to be distributed. Each full plate had a name tag tent next to it.

“Hello, Betty Lou. I see you have a special visitor today! Mr. Teague, how are you?” said the server as she placed two plates in front of them.

They called him Mr. Teague here. Not Eat. He thought of Mr. Teague as his dad, and sometimes he didn’t realize they are even talking to him.

“We’re having bologna sandwiches, and coleslaw today. Would you like vanilla or chocolate?” she said as she held up two small cans of Ensure.

Eat looked at her completely dumfounded. The menu was not right.

“Sophia? What’s with the new menu?”

Sophia looked around then turned back to Eat.

“Our menus have changed since Aequalis came in. Cost controls and such. Apparently they’ve done studies and this is what has been approved by the IPAB,” she said with an embarrassed look. “So. Betty Lou, chocolate today?”

Betty Lou nodded, pointed to the chocolate can, and returned her attention to working her napkin between her fingers. She turned her attention back to her son. “I don’t really like bologna. I wish they had grilled cheeses. I like her sweater though. Are you two dating?”

“No. You are my one and only,” Eat said as he patted her hand and smiled.

Eat wondered what the world was coming to.

Chapter 10

Two years ago, Butch had been an Army Staff Sergeant based at Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan. Now, he lived day-by-day. The army was his life; he was heading towards his fifteen-year mark, and planned to make it to thirty. His unit’s directive had been not only to secure the area but to make the residents feel safe and secure. He was to gain their trust.

Despite his size, Butch was an avid soccer player. He had received approval to organize soccer games between local kids and others based at Bagram during his down-time. The turnout was initially slow but as the locals grew to trust Butch and the other Americans, turnout slowly and steadily increased. At the time, Butch was happy. Proud. The kids were great. They had called him Big Sergeant Butch, sometimes just Big Butch. Games had always ended with hugs and high-fives and chocolate bars. Even the press had participated.

He’d thought they were on his side.

How wrong he was.

He hadn’t realized how naïve he had really been until his world came crashing down.

Butch could remember the day like it was yesterday. It was a Saturday morning. The kids were winning by a single goal. There was a nice crowd cheering the kids on to a sure victory. Even the others stationed at Bagram were there cheering the kids on.

Very few cheered against the kids.

Then all hell broke loose.

A man came running into the field. At first, no one understood what was happening, probably thinking he was just an excited fan running onto the field. A local. Perhaps he was an over-zealous father. He started on the American side of the field but ran right past them and headed towards the kids, directly towards Butch’s team.

As he ran, the man tore off his payraan, his white over shirt, exposing his chest. He wasn’t an excited parent. He was a bomber bent on sending not only himself but fifteen kids to Paradise. His chest was covered from belly button to collar bone with C4, secured with bands of duct tape. Even from his distance across the field, Butch could see the wires connecting each package of explosives to the single control wire. It travelled from the bars of explosive up towards his neck, was taped at his collar bone, then changed direction and shot down his arm to a push-button detonator held in his shaking hand. Butch could see his thumb was on the trigger.

The man began yelling.

The kids screamed.

They didn’t know what to do. They scurried behind the largest barricade they could find: Butch.

Butch wasn’t completely fluent in the local language, but had learned enough over his five tours to warn the kids. He knew the phrases that needed to be said to get his point across.

“Get back! Get down,” he yelled in Pashto to the kids as he waved his hands towards the ground. He returned his attention to the crazed suicide bomber running in his direction.

“Stop!” he yelled in Pashto then again in English. His voice boomed across the field.

The locals in the crowd had experience in suicide bombings, and knew what was going to happen. They had no intention of being heroes. They all scattered in directions away from the area closest to the kids. Not a single parent came to rescue a child. The kids didn’t run, but stayed huddled behind their coach. Their trust was with him, and no one else. He was Big Sergeant Butch, after all.

Butch pulled out his gun, assumed the proper firing stance, and took aim. He gave the man one more chance and yelled again, “Stop! Get on the ground!”

The man kept running. And yelling. His thumb still on the button.

Butch pulled the trigger and planted a bullet into the ground in front of the approaching bomber. Dirt sprayed the man’s face. Granite splinters drew blood. The bomber wiped his face clean with the hand holding the trigger. The wires tightened.

The adrenaline pulsing through the man’s body must have been toxic; he was undeterred, hell-bent on the one-way trip to Paradise. The distance between the C4 and the kids was quickly becoming smaller.

“Stop!” Butch warned again as he adjusted his aim upwards.

Again, there was no response. He was just getting closer. Every second Butch hesitated took time away from ensuring the safety of the kids. He could hear cameras clicking in the background.

The bomber made Butch’s decision simple as he screamed again and raised his hand that held the trigger.

Butch pulled his trigger again, and made a lead deposit into the bomber’s head. Based on the resulting explosion and pink mist that puffed behind him, Butch was certain the he was dead before he hit the ground. Luckily his reflexes didn’t have time to push the button before he died.

Butch immediately turned to the kids and took inventory. His team was safe, and every child was accounted for. No one was hurt. A small boy he had affectionately named Digger clung to his leg, crying, wiping snot on his uniform. Butch knelt down and calmed his team. He cupped each face within his hands.

“Good?” he said as he moved from face to face. He tried to smile.

Each child shook his head. Some still in tears. Most through quivering fear.

There was a slight problem though. The man wasn’t wearing pounds of C4 on his chest. It was only a decoy of cardboard and duct tape. The man wasn’t a suicide bomber. He simply wanted to commit suicide at the hands of an American in front of the American media.

Butch Rheumy was his victim.