Zack's Blood
So I've been feeling a little stressed lately.
Woody just laughed and smacked him across the shoulder. Want a beer? he asked.
Zack stood frozen. You're sixteen, you have your own place, and you have beer? Somebody pinch me.
Yeah. Well. You want one?
Just one.
It's not really my place, Woody said, showing Zack into the basement. But my mom and my stepdad are always out of town, so it feels that way sometimes.
I didnt know mobile homes even had basements.
Mine does.
Piled high from concrete wall to concrete wall were huge boxes of unmarked videotapes and old film reels. An ancient projector stood squarely in the middle of the room, facing a patch of bare wall. From the rafters hung dozens of long brown strips of undeveloped negatives.
What exactly do you do down here? Zack asked.
Woody was stooped and fumbling inside the tiny refrigerator. Hope P B R's okay, he said.
I'm no connoisseur.
Well Zackary. Truthfully speaking, a great many things go on down here. He rose, cracked the seal on the lukewarm beer and handed it over.
Examples?
Dont you worry your blond little head about it.
Fine. Dont tell me. Between sips Zack's eyes were covertly scanning the negatives. After a while he said: It's got something to do with the war, right? Vietnam?
Woody shook his head. Liberia, he said. The first civil war. Not the second. My stepdad's studying it for his dissertation.
Zack choked down his beer. You know, I'd heard horror stories, but this stuff isnt half bad if you just hold your breath.
Welcome to my world.
Glad to be here. Now stamp my passport so I can get the fuck out.
Woody followed Zack out into the front yard, a twenty-foot strip of crabgrass adorned by a single sorry oak tree.
When'd you get your driver's license?
Zack fished his keys out of his pocket. I dont have it yet. I'm still on my permit. But no one has to know, so long as I dont get pulled over. He rounded the front of his mother's black Subaru Impreza, hopped into the driver's seat, fired up the engine and rolled down the passenger's side window.
Where you headed? Woody asked, poking his head inside.
Doctor's office. To get a physical. For basketball.
Basketball, Woody repeated dreamily, his eyes rolling up into his head. I'm no good at basketball.
Yeah. Well. It's my game.
Alrighty Z-Dawg. Good luck. Stop by anytime.
You got it, Woodchip.
The car rolled backward, then did a U-turn and sped away into the sun.
He was right in the middle of an old Popular Mechanics article about Nine-Eleven when the nurse entered carrying her clipboard and in a positively booming voice announced his name to the entire waiting room. An array of jealous eyes immediately swung in his direction. He pretended not to notice.
How are you today, sweetie? asked the nurse, guiding him down the hall.
Just groovy, thank you.
She shut him inside a tiny windowless square of a room and asked him to roll up his shirtsleeve, then she fastened a thick black cuff to his bicep and squeezed the little rubber stopper until his veins stood out like noodles and checked the reading. Cocking an eyebrow she snorted and shook her head and took another reading. He could feel his arm going numb. The nurse frowned and swapped the band out for a new one and took a third reading. She scratched her head.
Excuse me Zack, she said, relieving his arm. I cant seem to get a good fix on your blood pressure. I'll be right back with the doctor.
Okay, he said, watching her go. She swung the door shut behind her but the latch did not set all the way and at once the door creaked back and stood open a sliver. Craning his neck he could see out into the hallway. A slim rectangle of light. The nurse stood behind a cluttered desk cradling the office phone.
Doctor Wharton, he heard her say. Something's screwy with the sphygs in one-fifty-one. They're not measuring this kid's B P… No… No it's not that… The numbers are just too high… Alright… Alright… Thank you Doctor. I appreciate it.
She hung up the phone and stood with her arms folded, thumbing her nostrils. When she noticed Zack peering out at her she smiled weakly and glided over and slid the door shut the rest of the way.
Alone in his cell Zack sat studying the bright flamboyant wallpaper, the colorful cars and trucks and hugely embellished rainbows. It was very cold in there. He touched the back of his hand, the thick blue veins crisscrossing underneath his skin. After a while the nurse returned with Doctor Wharton and a third sphygmomanometer.
The doctor nodded hello, then pushed back Zack's sleeve and adjusted the band. It inflated with a low intermittent wheezing.
The doctor frowned deeply. Does this look familiar? he asked, turning to the nurse.
Twiddling an uncapped pen between two fingers she leaned over the doctor's shoulder, eyed the meter and shook her head yes.
What's wrong? Zack asked as the band came off.
Dont worry, sighed Doctor Wharton. It's just our equipment. Follow me.
This time they shut him inside a slightly larger room. One dark shuttered window along the outer wall. Everything labeled biohazard. No wallpaper, only smooth white paint. Hooking his legs he sat down on the padded examination table spread with thin butcherpaper while the doctor rummaged in the closet. Before long he reemerged towing a small cart and on top of the cart was a blank telescreen monitor together with an arrangement of wires, a transparent tube and a long scary-looking needle.
Remind me, Zack—how old are you?
Fifteen, he said slowly, staring at the needle.
And about how much do you weigh?
I dont know. One-ten?
The doctor nodded agreeably. You look pretty sturdy, he said. I think we should be okay.
He asked Zack to extend his arm, then he dabbed at the crook of his elbow with a swab of alcohol and readied the needle. Zack looked away. A few seconds later he could feel the telltale pinprick and out of the corner of his eye he saw the tube flash a bright shade of red. The doctor left the needle in for a long time. No sound save the whir of the monitor, his heart pulsing in his temples. The nurse sat down, then stood up, then sat down again. Finally Doctor Wharton removed the needle and cleaned and bandaged the wound. An assortment of numbers and letters and all sorts of strange glyphs were flashing rapidly across the monitor.
Doctor Wharton suddenly coughed. Come look at this, he said, gesturing for the nurse.
She emptied her seat and stood studying the screen for a moment. Then she said: Oh my God, and placed a hand over her mouth.
Zack was trembling. What's wrong? he asked again.
The doctor shook his head confusedly, pointing to a small number near the bottom of the screen.
Zack squinted at the monitor. Seven hundred over six hundred fifty-five, it read. He wasnt sure what that meant.
What does that mean?
I dont know.
That cant be right, murmured the nurse, retaking her seat.
Is that my blood pressure?
The doctor placed a hand over Zack's forehead. Why dont you lay down right here, he said, patting the cold end of the examination table. I've got to make a call. Nothing serious. I'm sure it's just a mistake, but you can never be too cautious about these things. Right? His voice sounded hasty and rushed and full of dread.
He ruffled Zack's hair and made for the door. Then his head caved in like an old pumpkin. A starburst of red. The door swung wide. Two men with guns entered the room and opened fire on the nurse. A broken quarter-circle of blood splashed the wall behind her. She didnt make a sound. Zack threw up his hands instinctively. The men were dressed in khakis, olive-colored polos. Official-looking. Black badges. They wore holsters at their waists. Dark shoes. Dark hair. One of them with glasses. They ziptied Zack's wrists out in front of him and yanked him to his feet and ushered him out into the hallway.
There were dead bodies in the lobby. Men, women, children. Little streaks of blood everywhere. Already the place had begun to reek. He spotted the magazine he'd been reading lying upturned in a puddle of red. The doors were in front of him and then like portals they were behind him. The parking lot a deserted spread, parallel to a rushing highway. They shoved him into the cabin of a dark blue S U V, then locked the caged partition dividing the seats and motored off down the road.
As they departed a squirrel bounded down from the curb and stood chewing in the space the truck had occupied, watching them go.