Chapter 4

"Who's Walter White? I don't know him." - Saul Goodman (Cinnabon 47 Assistant Manager to Assistant Manager, "Don't ask.")

Walter White woke countless times to a strange looking woman compassionately looking into his face. He was crashing in and out of awareness, so often he made it into a practiced sport, the award being if he actually survived the hour.

Days? Weeks? He couldn't feel or gage his beard to tell. The blurred face was looking at him again. He didn't expect it to ever belong to Skylar or Walt Jr. or… or… who was left? Maybe he really should give himself to the blackness. It might be my only time to do so.

No, be honest now, no harm in it at this shrugging point, you've had a number of times to do that. He always felt cowardly,

though a live coward can fight better another day than a dead hero

which is why he emptied that vial. It was given to him the first time by Saul's gunman, a curiosity back then, something he collected from WW2.

"Back then, the soldiers were given this vial in their emergency packs, they were supposed to carry it around with them all the time, for when they got shot. You took it right after you got shot, and if you could get to it and put it into your mouth, you were most likely going to survive." The grizzly gunman scratched his beard as he handed him the vial.

Walter had looked at the gray, glistening powder, fascinated that such a small amount could do any good. "What is it?" he asked with a little awe.

The growly voice continued. "It was supposed to be real advanced government stuff. All the soldiers had it, but some probably had a better version than others, according to their rank. This was supposed to be officer stuff, maybe even higher, but who knows after all these years. It probably doesn't work anymore, and I don't know why if so many soldiers had it more of it isn't around. I only gave you a little portion, you are supposed to take what looked like 15 times more than that, but even 15 times more isn't that much. I reckon, you being a chemist, you could figure it out, and tell me, or make me some. I'd be beholden to you if you did. Could you even tell what it was after all this time? Would all the chemicals… go bad? You'd understand I'd really like some if it really worked like they said, being in the business I am. It could just be talc and gunpowder though for all I'd know, and I'd have been taken in by those WW2 myths like others."

"Well, it could be true. There are things like powder made from pufferfish liver that slows down heartbeats. You know, those zombie, witch doctor, voodoo movies? That's why those zombies move so slow, the powder slows down all muscle tissue."

"That stuff is nothing like zombie stuff. You survive the shot just fine, no jerking around."

"Actually, a lot of the brain damage came because the "witch doctor" didn't unbury zombie powder victims fast enough. They are always buried by their relatives. Just not enough oxygen in their coffins for all those hours before the doctor comes and claims you. They want that a lot of the time, so you are a more obedient slave for them. Thinking slaves always rebel."

The gun man patiently waited for Walt to stop talking. He was sure a talker. "Well, just make me some, and I'll get you real good deals in the future."

"Alright, I'll see what I can do. Guinea pigs are easy to come by."

"Hey, you're more awake right now aren't you?" The nurse looked at him as if she knew what he was thinking. "Today is Tuesday, Oct. 1, 2013. You have been in the hospital for 2 days. You are on various life support equipment, but you are doing quite well. Try to relax and let them work when you are awake like this, even though it hurts. My name is Rose, and I will do what I can for you." She stood over him, smiling, her lips lightly twitching. Was she about to cry? Walter tried to say something to the nurse, forgot he couldn't and gagged. "Oh God, sorry," a horrified look came over Rose's face. "I should have said don't try to talk. Don't do anything, don't try to gasp, just let the machines breathe for you." White focused hard to relax his throat muscles. Now he was crying in his efforts. The good nurse was right there with soft Kleenex, competently drying tears. "Yes, it's very hard trying not to breathe, to have no control of your body like that. It always surprises people. You would think doing absolutely nothing is easy." She smiled.

Yes, Walter White, proud Meth Overlord, chemical genius, now just a head on a stick. Justice?

"It'll get better, Mr. White. You will get off this ventilator, I can tell. The dialysis will lessen as you get stronger. Sometimes you don't need it altogether right away." She looked into his eyes closely, conspiratorially. "Do you feel up to having the doctor come in? You don't have to yet, and they can be abrupt and," she lowered her voice, disapprovingly, "so inappropriate when they talk to patients." She paused for emphasis. "It's all up to you, at least you can control that when I'm around." She smiled again. "You can look up for yes, down for no. I hate all that blinking once for yes crap." White moved his eyes down. He didn't want to see anyone new yet, it was too much effort. And if he was alive or dead, he'd be the first to know, and that was the only important question right now.

…

The physician was arguing with the DEA agents outside the patient's room. No, he couldn't tell them when White would come out of his near coma. Had they forgotten what critical condition meant? They may never get their answers, he chided them. The doctor's weren't all knowing gods, this was New Mexico.

"Doc, you don't understand how much the agency wants to talk to this guy, right now." Agent Artie Hamel glared at the older, shorter, bespectacled practitioner as if he was holding something back from him, him and the rest of the world. It was Artie's modus operandi attitude, to make people feel guilty, put them on the defensive, when he couldn't get what he wanted.

"Want to talk to him or want his blood? You just want to go in there to agitate him, maybe get more truth that way, you're thinking? Or maybe you're curious to see him tortured under those machines? You'll kill him. I watch the news too though it gets to be a waste of time. You Can't Go In. I have to separate myself from the populous and my opinion trumps yours, and theirs, every day of the week."

"Whaddabout just five minutes, doc," his partner, Agent Scott Hoffman, broke in. He knew Hamel would get vicious in a few more minutes if he didn't get some headway soon. "It's been two days."

"Two days? Why don't you try two months? Why don't you try forever? My function is to the patient, not you, not your department, not the president, you know that, why are you still here badgering me?" The doctor seemed to magically grow two feet in front of them, eyes blazing. "Conversation over, gentlemen."

The agents walked away from him in disgust, only the single, dutifully impartial police guard remained stoically in his place. Artie and Scott talked over if another doctor would see it their way. They'd get in there, and right soon.

At least there's no mob of reporters or other nuts outside the hospital, the doctor sighed to himself. And I have to deal with a bunch of twitching meth heads with stranger symptoms I've never seen before. Seemed to him like New Mexico was ready to break open a fresh portal to damnation.