Through the Windshield Glass (20 page)

The next person
was a man, three beds down on the left, Michael pointed to him and launched
into his story, "Adam Kern, watched his wife and all three of his children
tortured and killed because he offended some big time mobsters back in the
'20s. The murderers let him go so that he could deal with the guilt of letting
his family pay his debt for the rest of his life."

Michael
continued down the row describing the deaths of the remaining three people.

"Lewis
Roberts, he wouldn't talk about it, the shock took over too quickly. We believe
the doors are more what did it to him than the actual dying part. Then there's
Cadent Roy, he was slowly suffocated as he sat in a room that was gradually
leeched of oxygen. We think he would have been okay if his wife hadn't been
there watching the whole ordeal."

Cadent was blue
and looked terribly sorry for something; I assumed for dying in front of his
wife.

I turned to
Michael before he got to the last bed, "Why are there so few people here?
A lot of people had traumatic deaths and yet there are only five people here
because of that, what else happened to these people?"

"We don't
know, Alice," Michael said. He looked around the room and his shoulders
seemed to sag with the weight of the world, "The only plausible
explanation seems to be the doors. Something must have happened in one of them
that sent them over the edge. For some reason, the hallways are kinder to some
people than others."

I didn't know
what to say so I just let Michael
　
lead
me to the last bed on the right nearest to the curtain. The woman in the bed
was wraith thin, her dark brown hair was patchy, snarled, and burned looking.
Despite looking the sickliest of all, this woman seemed to be the most alert.
Her mouth was moving rapidly and every few seconds she would cough. Her eyes
were also darting from side to side and she was wringing her hands.

"We never
got her name, but she’s the neweset," Michael said. I could hear a bit of
sorrow, and possibly frustration in his voice, "She came here like this,
only then her clothes were still slightly on fire and the only thing she was
able to say before she stopped functioning was 'Where's the baby? Where's my
husband?' I can't comprehend how much pain she must have gone through to get
here. Sometimes I think she, and even the rest of them have it easier in this
state."

I tore my eyes
away from the woman and looked up into Michael's face, "How?"

"They
don't have to put up with being conscious for all of this," Michael
gestured around him.

I nodded and
looked back over at the fretful woman, it was hard not to agree with Michael,
"And yet when we were alive and the world had dumped us on our heads all
we could do was think about how lucky everyone that had already died was.
That's the definition of irony right there."

Michael looked
opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind and shook his head.

"What?"
I asked.

"I--I was
one of those people. Daman died first and I watched it happen. I dragged his
corpse into a foxhole and willed him to live again. In that moment I wanted to
die, it seemed the easiest solution, especially when I thought about being the
second favorite son going home to tell our parents that he had died. Minutes
later, a grenade dropped right into my hole. I had enough time to run or at
least throw it back, but I stayed and when I could see again, I was here."

I fought
against my feelings for a minute, I didn't want to feel sorry for Michael, I
knew it might lead to friendship, reluctant or not, but I couldn't help it. I
reached out and touched Michael's arm, "It's okay, just imagine if Daman
had come here by himself, there might be no one trying so hard to stop him. I
don't think it was a--"

I meant to say
coincidence, but I made the mistake of looking straight into Michael's eyes as
I said it. The sensation I'd felt when viewing Daman's false life returned,
except for this time I was seeing Michael, but not his whole life, just its
close.

The scene was
almost exactly as Michael had described it. The dirt was littered with bodies,
some whole, some not, puddles of blood reflected the moon, mocking its beauty
and staining it red. I looked to my left and there was Michael, he was bent
double pulling a limp form with him. A falling bomb lit the world around me; in
an instant I saw a bead of sweat fall from Michael's nose and onto Daman's
chest. His front was dark as night with his own blood and he was unmistakably
dead.

Bullets seemed
to bend around Michael as he lowered his brother into a fox hole I hadn't even
seen, seconds later, Michael disappeared into the earth. I raced to the edge
and looked down into the hole. Michael had removed his helmet, his hair was
matted with sweat, and although he sported the military cut, his curls still
made him look almost boyish. It was then I realized Michael couldn't have been
much more than seventeen or eighteen when he died. He must have chosen to age
slightly, just as Daman obviously had, for he looked even younger. There was
nothing in his face that would have led me to believe he would someday be a
ruthless killer and a tyrannical king. He looked innocent.

Michael pressed
his ear to Daman's chest and listened for a heart beat. When he came up the
left side of his head was smeared with blood, but he didn't seem to notice.
Without seeming to realize what he was doing, Michael ripped open Daman's
uniform exposing a surprisingly thin and unnaturally white chest. I had always
imagined Daman to be exactly as he was when I met him, but not only was he much
thinner and sicklier than Michael, he was also a good six inches shorter. Death
had changed him in more than just attitude.

I watched as
Michael reached into his pack and drew out rolls of gauze. He bound the
bandages around Daman's wound and propped him up. Michael looked pleadingly
into Daman's still open eyes.

"Wake up
Daman," Michael begged, "Come on, you're stronger than this! It's
just a scratch Daman, wake up!"

Michael's voice
became increasingly desperate as he encouraged his brother to live again.
Nothing happened for a few moments, Michael became more frustrated, he opened
his canteen and threw water at Daman's face before attempting to make him
drink, but the water rolled uselessly out of Daman's unresponsive mouth and
mixed with the blood already seeping through bandages around his chest.

Finally,
Michael gave up; he shut Daman's eyes and pulled his brother's head into his
lap. I'd often read books and seen movies in which a character would close his
friend's eyes when he died, but I'd never really understood why. It was their
way of saying you've seen enough, rest now, go to sleep and don't worry
yourself with the problems of this world anymore.

Then I saw
Michael do something I never thought I'd see, I saw him completely break down.
Tears fell relentlessly down his cheeks cutting through the dirt and sweat that
had dried there. I wanted to reach down into the hole and pull him out, I
wanted to make him run, but I knew he would've hated for anyone to do that. He
wanted to die with his brother and that's what he was going to do.

Just as Michael
had said, no more than two minutes later, a grenade flew overhead, not from the
enemy side, but from somewhere in the smoke behind us. It landed next to
Michael's left knee. He stared uncomprehendingly for a few seconds until
survival instinct kicked in. His brother was dead, but he didn't have to be.
Michael jumped up and attempted to scramble from the hole, but something
grabbed his ankle. He looked down to see Daman, miraculously breathing, and
holding onto his brother's leg.

"Help
me!" Daman beseeched. Michael completely forgot about himself. He jumped
back down into the hole and within a second had forced Daman up and out. I
looked down to find the grenade, I wanted to see how much time I had left
before I had to look away, but it was gone. I looked at Michael, who was still
attempting to crawl from the hole, then my eyes landed on Daman. He was
standing and
　
grinning
malevolently, the grenade in one hand, the pin still in place. In one swift
movement, Daman pulled the pin and threw the grenade high into the air.

"Michael!"
Daman cried, "Look out!"

"Daman,
what are you—?"

Daman cut
Michael off by tackling him back into the fox hole.

"We die
together brother," Daman said. The grenade landed directly on top of Daman
and before either brother could react, it detonated. Dirt
　
flew into the sky and showered
me, but I could still see through it as if it were only a mist of water. I
looked down into the hole and saw something I will never forget. Daman's legs
were the only whole thing left of him, Michael was covered in blood, his eyes
open and glassy, his chest was completely blown open. The last thing I saw
before I snapped back to reality was Michael's heart beat one last time.

Wrenched
from life

And wrenched
from kin,

No more
strife

Or love to
win

The next second
I was wrenching my hand off Michael's arm and looking at anything but him.

"Alice?"
Michael asked, "What did you see?"

"Daman
murdered you!" I didn't mean to say it like that, but it came out before I
could stop it.

"No he
didn't! I just stayed put and didn't move before the grenade went off!"

"Obviously,
you blocked out the last part, because the pin on that thing wasn't even
pulled! Daman grabbed it when you threw him out, he pulled the pin and he
tackled you into the fox hole, there's no way you could have survived!" My
voice had risen to dangerous levels and was attempting to go up two octaves.

"Daman was
dead, he never moved." Michael's voice was quiet. The memory was painful
and I knew he wanted nothing more than for me to drop the argument, but I
couldn't let him live with the guilt anymore. I told him exactly what I'd seen.

When I finished
you could have shoved a basketball in his mouth, "That's not
possible," he muttered.

"It is,
and that's the truth, take it or leave it. Daman pulled the same kind of false
memory thing on me."

Michael quickly
recovered himself, all emotion and disbelief left his face and he was once
again stoic and professional, "Anyway, you need to see the other two
people."

"Hang
on," I said. Michael had already begun to draw back the curtain, but he
stopped and looked back at me.

"What did
you see?"

Michael ran a
hand through his hair, "I saw everything exactly as you described it. I'm
sorry you had to die that way, but it's extremely admirable that you are so
willing to help Maria after what she did."

"How could
I not help her? She's not the one who was driving the truck."

"But she's
the reason you were out."

"She'd be
doing the same for me."

"Would
she?" Michael asked. He looked deep into my eyes and for the first time I
began to doubt Maria's benevolence.

I didn't say
anything else; Michael pulled back the curtains and allowed me to step through
first. It was like walking into a totally different world.

Chapter Twenty-seven

The other side
of the curtain looked like a child's nursery, except it was occupied by four
adults, two lying complacently in larger, more comfortable looking beds than
the ones that filled the rest of the infirmary, and two nurses, one of whom I
immediately recognized.

"Katelyn!"
I exclaimed.

"Well,
look at you!" Katelyn said. She looked just as I remembered her, except
maybe a little happier, "The name's really Maggie. I knew you'd get out of
that hallway all right!"

She enveloped
me in a hug and I almost started crying into her shoulder again, she was the
first familiar face I'd seen that hadn't greeted me in a depressingly
uncharacteristic way.

"I thought
you were just someone my imagination created in that door," I said. I
suddenly realized how silly that sounded.

Katelyn laughed
happily, "No, I'm just a helper."

"A helper?"
I asked.

Michael butted
in, "We don't know how or why, but sometimes people from here show up in
other people's doors to help them out."

"Like
officer Parker?" I asked, "Is he here? Can I see him?"

Michael
scrunched his eyebrows in confusion, "Officer Parker? I don't think I know
anyone who uses that as their alias. There are very few people who can do it; I
think that person was just an illusion."

"Oh,"
I said. I looked at the bed to my right. A woman was in it, propped up on three
pillows and looking at me quizzically.

"She's
another Jane Doe," Katelyn informed me, "just appeared looking just
like your friend here."

I had
completely forgotten that Maria was with us, I had subconsciously let go of her
hand as Michael had been describing the events that had landed each of the
patients in the infirmary. But she had followed like an obedient child follows
his or her mother.

"Did they
ever say anything, or do anything to communicate?" I asked.

"No,"
the other nurse said. He had finished whatever he was doing on the other side
of the room and had come to join our conversation, "they just lie there
and stare. We have to feed them, change them, bathe them. It's like taking care
of newborn children, they can barely breathe for themselves. So far nothing
we've done has helped."

I nodded and
looked around the room again, it was decorated in bright colors, and there were
children's drawings on the walls by the beds.

"Did they
draw these?" I questioned. Everyone followed my gaze to the pictures.

"Nope,"
Katelyn said, "that was Leigh. She's in here almost every day. Jane and
John over there almost start improving when she's here. Jane blinks a lot and
drums her fingers and John grunts like he's trying to speak or sing something
but as soon as she leaves it goes back to the same thing. It's like they're
having a staring contest but no one ever wins."