We Are Monsters

Part One

Experimental Madness

Chapter One

No matter how many times he saw the syringe, the needle always looked too long. Too menacing. Less like an instrument of healing than one of pain. Another crude tool, in a long line of others, created to manipulate the human mind. And attempt to make it sane.

Dr. Drexler dipped the needle into a small vial labeled in his indecipherable scrawl and filled the syringe. He pulled it out and held it up, driving aside fleeting memories of prior failures, and consulted the imaging screen revealing the anatomy of the patient’s brain. He prepped the needle, dispersing air bubbles that could easily cause an aneurism, and then placed its beveled tip between the man’s eye and the bridge of his nose, just above the tear duct. He paused, held his breath, then pushed the needle through.

The patient, strapped to the examination table with thick leather bands, issued a solitary protest – Get your Christing hot pocket off my hand – then fell silent. It was the most coherent phrase he’d uttered all day.

Alex Drexler watched the needle emerge on the monitor screen, traversing the trillions of neurons that comprise our personalities, our speech patterns, our smiles, gliding towards the rice-sized gland in the center of the brain – the nexus of perception, the third eye. The needle bumped against the target’s side, and he hissed through pursed lips – this is when his hands were wont to shake – then pierced the pineal gland and depressed the plunger.

Fortune favors the bold, he thought. Followed by, Christ, I hope this works.

He withdrew the needle and set it down on the instrument tray. A drop of blood ballooned from the wound, which Alex captured with a cotton ball, applying pressure with his thumb until it clotted. He removed the scanning device from the crown of Mr. Connelly’s head and set it aside. Then, he waited, standing and pacing the cramped confines of the claustrophobic operating room, trying to keep his mind from considering the implications should the experiment fail. Again.

The man began to stir. Alex forced himself to walk slowly to his side, conducting the diagnostics check with forced composure. The man’s vitals were strong, his breathing even. He waited sixty seconds and checked the man’s eyes. Minimal dilation.

Good, good.

He glanced over his shoulder and gave the okay to the stout man standing behind the reinforced window, the R&D Director for Philax Pharmaceuticals. The man’s terse nod might have been a sign of approval, or it might have meant no, this proves nothing. Given his stern expression, it was difficult to decipher the subtle gesture. This was their fifth patient and Philax was losing patience.

Alex turned back to his test subject.

Mr. Connelly? he said, then paused and waited. Ten seconds passed and he said it again, this time in his most soothing bedside tone. Mr. Connelly?

The man’s eyes rolled in their sockets and his lids fluttered. He frowned, muttering something unintelligible, and then his mouth sprang open so wide Alex feared it would pop at the hinge. He rocked from side to side, gurgling through his gaping mouth, and then stretched taut against the table, corded tendons rippling the skin of his extended neck. He convulsed, once, twice, the examination table rattling in the silent room, and then he stopped and lay still.

Seconds passed before he stirred again. Then, dazed, he raised and shook his head, and fixed his eyes on Dr. Drexler. He tried to sit up, but rebounded against the heavy restraints.

It’s okay, Alex said, placing a hand against the man’s chest. Just relax.

The patient surveyed the small examination room, then returned his attention to the doctor. He blinked to bring Alex into focus.

How are you feeling? Alex asked.

Mr. Connelly considered the question, smacking his mouth. Thirsty, he said.

Alex smiled, filled a small paper cup from the sink and tilted it against the man’s mouth, waiting as he took a few tentative sips.

Better?

Better.

Good. Alex put aside the cup and turned back to his patient. The man held his gaze, his eyes clear and focused for the first time in weeks, showing no sign of the paranoid delusions that had led to his recent incarceration.

You may be feeling a bit disoriented, Alex explained, pulling up a stool and rolling it near the patient’s head. That’s okay. Do you know where you are?

Some type of hospital room, looks like, the man said. He noticed the observation window and furrowed his brow. Who’s that? he said, withdrawing his gaze from the Philax rep and squinting his eyes.

That’s a colleague of mine, Alex said, straining to keep the irritation from his voice. He was opposed to the executive’s presence in the observation room, but Philax always insisted on having someone oversee the procedure. He rested a reassuring hand upon the man’s arm and forced another smile.

Can you tell me why you’re here?

Mr. Connelly relaxed against the bed, staring towards the ceiling, silent. Then he smiled, his long, tangled teeth fanning out like arthritic fingers. He raised his head and stared at Alex as though seeing him for the first time.

Yeah, y’all said if I let you run tests on me, I could be let go.

Alex shifted in his seat. He preferred not to focus on how Philax prospected for patients, nor on the state hospital’s overeagerness to clear its forensic cells. Early release for a bipolar mother was one thing, freeing a violent schizophrenic in the throes of a psychotic episode was quite another. Once again, he cringed to think what Eli would do if he found out about this. That’s why he won’t, he prayed.

Well, let’s just make sure you’re fit for discharge first. Do you feel any pain?

Mr. Connelly surveyed his body, raising his arms and legs as far as the restraints would allow. Yeah, these straps are killing my arms. How about you unbuckle them for me?

Let’s keep them on for now. We need to make sure there are no side effects from the medicine we administered.

Mr. Connelly flexed his arms, straining against the straps; the electronic pulse on the heart rate monitor began to quicken its pace. Then, he stopped and settled down. Shit. Can’t you just loosen ’em some?

Okay. Sure, Alex said, wishing he had thought to request a guard. He looked over at the overweight Philax executive behind the reinforced, double-pane window and wondered how much help he would be should Mr. Connelly become unruly. The man’s expressionless stare revealed nothing. He could just as easily have been mentally optimizing his investment portfolio as contemplating a rescue plan. Alex reached over and loosened the armbands by a couple of notches, studying the patient’s eyes for hidden motives.

Better?

Mr. Connelly stretched his arms and rubbed his wrists. Yeah, that’s better. He relaxed against the gurney, the slightest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes bright and clear.

Alex had to resist rubbing his own hands together. An hour ago the patient had been extremely agitated, his gaze distant and wandering, his speech jumbled and disjointed. The refined formula appeared to be working. Perhaps it was finally fixed.

Don’t get too excited, Alex urged himself. We’ve been farther than this before.

Good. How about your head? Are you experiencing any pain or tingling? Anything out of the ordinary? The man had been arrested for slinging his feces at a pack of nuns while screaming about demonic penguins. Alex wasn’t sure ordinary held the same connotations for Mr. Connelly.

Not as far as I can tell. Feel a bit sleepy, is all.

Well, that’s to be expected from the local anesthetic. But your diagnostics are all on track, and you’re showing exceptional tolerance towards the medication so far. What I’m most pleased to see is—

Mr. Connelly went rigid and his eyes opened wide. He snaked his head back and forth in an attempt to see beyond Alex’s body. Then his lips peeled back in a grimace and he flattened himself against the bed. Hey! Where did he come from? Mr. Connelly said, his frantic eyes focused on something over Alex’s shoulder.

Alex’s chest clinched, his stomach became a roiling stew. Still, he managed to regain eye contact with his patient and keep his head from hanging.

As I explained. He’s a colleague of mine, here to make sure everything goes smoothly.

No, not the fat fuck. The faggot, that little queer boy behind you. Mr. Connelly started tugging at his arm restraints in an attempt to break free; sweat began to texture his brow. What, is this some kind of trap? I ain’t no queer bait! Let me fucking go!

Settle down, Mr. Connelly, Alex said, taking a cursory look over his shoulder. The Philax exec looked stunned.

Shit, shit, shit! Alex spun back around and grabbed another syringe from the medical tray, this one containing a sedative. He stuck it in the patient’s arm and depressed the plunger. Within seconds Mr. Connelly was settling down, his body relaxing against the bed, his eyelids sinking low.

How about that? Medicine that actually works.

You’re okay, Alex assured Mr. Connelly. Everything’s okay.

Mr. Connelly’s voice was a sleepy slur. Goddamn queer. He rolled a heavy head on a lubricated hinge. Almost got me.

You’re okay, Alex repeated. He gave the man a light pat on his chest. It was all posturing at this point. Anything he could do to salvage a sixth trial.

But he didn’t see the Philax rep standing behind the window, trembling and growing pale in his hand-tailored suit.

* * *

It had been seven years since the man had last seen his son. Since he had thrown him out of the house for coming out of the closet. The boy had moved to San Francisco, last he’d heard, where he’d contracted HIV. He hadn’t bothered to pay for a funeral. Hadn’t even brought his body home. He’d just sent a check to the crematorium to cover the expenses. He didn’t know what they had done with his ashes. He didn’t care.

But the boy had just appeared in the examination room. He was sure of it. And, stranger still, the test patient had seen him too.

I must be losing my mind, he thought. No more monkeying around with these crazy fucks. That’s enough for me.

* * *

Alex was still tending to the test patient, watching the man fall peacefully asleep while his own mind raged. He knew he had to face the Philax executive in a matter of moments. He was trying to figure out exactly what to say.

The problem was that they’d already heard it all before. He forced a dispassionate look upon his face and turned towards the observation window. It was empty.

Alex didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Chapter Two

The drive back to Atlanta from the Philax research facility took Alex four hours. It felt far longer. He had driven the entire distance in a mental haze, reworking the pharmacology of his proprietary formula over and over again in his mind. Why wasn’t it working? Where had he gone wrong?

More importantly, what was he to do now?

Philax represented his last opportunity to prove the efficacy of his experimental compound – one that had worked without fail in the final series of animal trials. Worked so well, in fact, that he had overinvested in its success, borrowing money to purchase the house, the car, the clothes, the lifestyle that he couldn’t currently afford. Not solely off his salary from the state hospital, anyhow.

Which brought his thoughts back to Dr. Eli Alpert, Sugar Hill’s Chief Medical Director, his boss and respected mentor. In order for the medicine to achieve commercial success, Eli would have to find out about the test trials. There was no way around that. By that point, however, Alex would be able to justify his actions. The benefits of having a medicine proven to treat, if not altogether cure the condition of acute mental illness would outweigh Dr. Alpert’s ethical concerns over patient experimentation. Or his issues with the industry’s overreliance on pharmaceutical drugs in general.

Still, he knew better than to disclose the project to Eli before selling it to a pharmaceutical firm. Especially now that it looked like he had exhausted his final option.

It was after 11:00 p.m. when Alex returned home. His forearms were sore from squeezing the steering wheel, and he realized he desperately needed to pee. He mashed the accelerator, launching up the long, winding driveway that led to his suburban estate, thin poplars and pines blurring by as he hugged the corners of the meandering drive. He was rounding the final bend before reaching the circular lot when a white flash streaked in front of the car, dashing underneath the carriage before he had time to react. The supple suspension of his Lexus absorbed the shock, but the car still rocked as it bounced over whatever had run underneath. The creature made a tortured sound like the screeching of tires as he slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop.

There was a moment of total silence, even the cicadas suspending their song, and then he heard the scream.

It came from the front of the house, a piercing shriek that continued to build until it threatened to shatter the glimmering sky. He looked up to find his wife, Rachel, running towards him in her canary-yellow robe, its silk hem billowing out from behind. A slipper flew from her foot as she raced forward, eyes bulging, black hair streaming, mouth open impossibly wide, issuing a wavering scream without end.

She was at the window before Alex had a chance to move, pounding on the glass with the meaty part of her palms. For a moment she resembled one of his patients slipping into a manic episode. The ones that ended up strapped to a safety seat, drooling and sedated. He stared up into her face, barely recognizable in its current state of rage, and watched as her palms turned into white crescents as they pounded against the car window. There’s madness in us all, he thought as pushed open the door.

Rachel stumbled back and then stopped and clamped a hand over her mouth, silencing the scream. The steady tick of the cooling engine became the only sound. She pointed.

Popeye, their West Highland white terrier, lay flattened against the pavement, a coiled string of intestine streaming out from his split belly like an umbilical cord. The pooling blood was black in the dark night with a reflective sheen created by the taillights. As Alex kneeled over the body, he could see himself in the surface of the expanding puddle. He looked too calm. Using the blood as a mirror, he practiced a more concerned expression before turning and facing his wife.

Shit, honey, I didn’t see him. He ran right out in front of the car. Here, don’t look. Alex tried to wrap an arm around her shoulders and shield her from the sight, but she brushed him off. Her shock broke and she began to cry.

No shit you didn’t see him! She hit him on the chest. How would you when you’re driving like Michael fucking Andretti? How many times have I told you? How many? She punctuated each question with another punch.

Rachel, stop it. It was an accident. I didn’t see him. Please, just go inside.

While attempting to turn her, her eyes flew open wide and she froze in place. Oh god, she said, looking over his shoulder. Her lip curled in and her face crumpled; she buried it against his neck, convulsing as she unleashed a flood of fresh tears. Alex began to console her, hugging her tight and stroking her back. Then she pushed him away so suddenly he nearly fell.

Look, she said, her eyes narrowing into hateful slits, motioning behind him with her head.

Alex turned. Popeye’s hind leg was twitching, just like it did whenever Rachel scratched his secret spot.

Honey, please. Go inside.

Rachel reached out towards the dog as if she could summon him back to life. No. He’s in pain. Help him.

Popeye’s midsection was flattened, his jaw unhinged, several teeth speckled the concrete like tiny flecks of quartz. Yet, still, the leg twitched. Twitched. Twitched.

Honey, there’s nothing I can do for him. He’s gone.

He’s not gone. He’s hurting. Oh, Alex, he’s in pain. Please.

It was a quiet night. Thin clouds drifted past a bloated moon shining with a silvery glow. Elsewhere lovers stole kisses under hanging willow limbs, but here a dog lay dying on a piece of pressure-washed pavement while Alex wondered if the day would ever end. Okay. Let me see.

He walked over to Popeye and placed his foot upon the dog’s head. Rachel closed her eyes and spun around; she dropped to a knee. Alex looked down, preparing himself to apply the necessary pressure, trying to avoid the fading spark of recognition in the dog’s beady eye. Popeye’s leg gave one final spasm. His jaw opened and a gout of blood drooled out. Then he lay still. Alex sighed and moved his foot away.

Okay, it’s all over, he said. He approached Rachel in order to help her to her feet. She heard him coming and stood and began walking towards the house.

Hey, Alex said. Honey, I didn’t—

No. Not right now. She walked through the open door and slammed it shut.

Alex’s head sagged. He went to the garage and retrieved a garbage bag, then turned and sulked back towards Popeye’s body lying behind his car. Rachel’s mischievous terrier that he had effectively adopted when they got married, Popeye having come attached to her lap. And he had often felt like Bluto in its company – the brutish rival incapable of providing the same selfless affection as his wife’s adoring pet. But their rivalry, imaginary or otherwise, was now over.

So is my sex life, Alex thought and sighed. Trying to shed the feeling that vague forces were conspiring against him. Much like his patients felt when they went off their meds.

He flapped the garbage sack open and used his foot to sweep Popeye’s limp body into the bag, not wanting to get blood on his hands.

Chapter Three

Dr. Eli Alpert meditated to quiet the chattering in his mind that he feared would one day drive him mad. The mantra he used, which he would recite until each word relinquished its meaning, was one he had learned from a Hindu monk.

As everything is destined to die, I shall cherish my time with it today.

The monk, who most certainly would have been committed to a psychiatric ward if he’d lived in the United States, had saved the doctor’s sanity. Continued to save it still. Yet in times like this, the pesky voice of insecurity would overwhelm the safeguards that had been erected in his mind, skirting past the sentrymen of his subconscious, crumbling the confidence that he’d worked so hard to cultivate. This voice, which was his own, spoke to him in the clinical tone of a physician, telling him that resistance was futile. That life, as he knew it, was over. That the center could not hold.

You are the harbinger of death, it would insist, only pretending to make man sane.

And whenever this voice of self-doubt surfaced, the serenity that meditation supplied would be obliterated like the ramshackle hut that it had become. And the madness that lurks within all men would threaten to take over.

Someone knocked on his office door, rescuing Eli from his manic reverie. He swept the mandala from the wall and returned it to his desk drawer. Then he switched on the floor lamp, blinking his eyes against the light, and applied a smile to his face he did not feel.

Come in, he said.

The door opened and Angela poked her head through. It’s official. The Apocalypse has come to Sugar Hill.

Eli waved her in, motioning towards a guest chair. You know I hate that moniker.

Of course. Why do you think I use it?

His smile became sincere. How’s he doing? he asked.

Angela leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms, looking up towards the ceiling, thinking. Her suit sleeve pulled back to reveal the cuff of a tattoo that started at her wrist and covered the rest of her right arm. It was as much of it as Eli had ever seen, but he often wondered how many more were concealed under her conservative work attire and what kind of alter ego they revealed.

There had been rumors once, soon after Angela first started, about some lewd behavior at an informal work party, but details had been hazy and had dissipated quickly so Eli had chalked it up to hospital gossip, of which there was plenty. It was a distant blip on an otherwise sterling record that had made Angela Sugar Hill’s most respected social worker.

Over the course of the eight years she had worked there, Eli had only seen her ruffled twice. Once when a patient had managed to lop off a clump of Angela’s hair with a pair of confiscated scissors, and that was really more about the safety breach than concern over her newly lopsided hairstyle. She had kept it jagged ever since. And had begun streaking it with colors.

The other time was when she had witnessed a patient being harassed by an aggressive orderly. While only standing five feet in high heels, with the petite frame decreed by her Asian genes, she had backed the large, six-foot-tall orderly against the wall and shamed him to tears with her outrage. And, even then, she had fought against him being fired, citing that he had learned his lesson and deserved a second chance.

It was her reputation for composure and compassion that had convinced Eli to assign her to their newest, and most notorious, criminal forensics patient, Crosby Nelson, aka the Apocalypse Killer. And he knew he’d made the right decision.

He sat in comfortable silence as Angela considered her response.

You know, he’s different, she said, finally, leaning forward and focusing on him with her almond-shaped eyes. Different than what I was expecting, I mean. He’s quiet. He’s shy. He’s…he’s really rather sweet. He seems happy to be here. Of course, we have him on 60 mgs of Clozapine, so he’s heavily sedated, but… Angela crossed her legs and clasped her hands in her lap; her sleeves dropped, covering the tattoo, …I hate how he’s been portrayed in the media. He’s not the monster they make him out to be. He’s just sick.

Well, that’ll all die down now that the trial’s over. They’ll move on to something else.

I know; it’s just sad. People watch the news as if it were reality, rather than entertainment designed to get ratings. The media creates monsters to sell its stories without thinking about the tarnished reputations it leaves behind. I just hope they decide to run a redemption piece when Crosby gets well. Angela shook her head. Apocalypse Killer. Like he’s some hell spawn from the Book of Revelation.

Well, he did bring about the end of his victims’ worlds.

True, but if you look at it from his standpoint, he honestly thought he was saving the world. That’s the worst part of his disease. The voices he hears? They lie.

* * *

Angela scanned the walls of Eli’s office, admiring the travel pictures taken from several exotic locations. In one, Eli was sitting lotus-style next to a small Indian monk with long, salt-and-pepper hair coiled up in a bun atop his head. They both shared the largest smiles she had ever seen.

She compared the Eli from the picture to the person sitting in front of her, the blanched complexion, the purple smears under the eyes, the tributaries in his skin that seemed to deepen every day. That smile was still there, though. As wide and bright as ever. He offered it now, and it turned back time.

Perhaps, Eli said. I wouldn’t start referring to him as a hero just yet, however. I doubt the victims’ families would care for it. Nor are they quick to accept paranoid delusions as an alibi. Let’s just focus on giving him the best treatment we can provide and help bring him peace.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his crinkled eyelids. Has Alex met with him yet?

Angela examined her hands, her lips drawn tight. He’s not due back from vacation until tomorrow. I was hoping he would have been here for the orientation meetings, but—

I’ll meet with Crosby today. Alex can take over when he returns. Do you recall where he went?

Angela shook her head, a few strands of purple hair fluttered across her face and she tucked them behind her steel-studded ear. He didn’t say.

Well, I hope he comes back rested. We’re going to need all hands on deck as we get Crosby integrated into our family. He stood and grabbed his hospital jacket from the coat rack. And let’s lose the nickname. I don’t want to hear that from anyone on staff. Last thing we need is the patients referring to Crosby as the Apocalypse Killer.

Absolutely, she said, standing and following Eli to the door. Perhaps they’ll call him hero instead.

Chapter Four

When he first saw Crosby softly snoring on his slim mattress, hands tucked between his knees like a toddler, a voice jumped into Eli’s mind. One he hadn’t heard in years.

"Rule number one: Never wake a sleeping giant.

Rule number two: If you do, put the son of a bitch back to sleep.

It was the voice of Sergeant Reynold Wagner, the platoon leader from his single stint in Vietnam. Sergeant Wagner was a handsome man in his mid-forties, with a full head of thick brown hair and a deceptive smile that showcased a neat row of ivory teeth. Eli was relieved when he first met him, thought he’d gotten in with a competent and reasonable commander who would lead them safely through the messy tangle of that futile war.

Eli had never been more wrong. The man proved to be a cold-blooded killer, as dangerous as the most deranged patients in Sugar Hill’s criminal forensics ward. Yet, under the sanctions of war, Wagner was considered a hero and showered with ribbons and rewarded with rank for his good work. In retrospect, it was Eli’s first encounter with insanity.

Eli served a year as a medic under Wagner’s command soon before the publication of the Pentagon Papers and Nixon began bringing troops home. Even then, Eli hadn’t been cut out for conflict, preferring to resolve disputes through reason and understanding rather than resort to violence.

Sergeant Wagner referred to him as Dr. Pussyfoot, even when Eli was smeared in soldier blood, hacking off ruined limbs, saving men’s lives. He had earned the moniker during a raid on a Vietcong encampment that they ambushed, catching the enemy unaware and slaughtering them in their sleep. Eli followed the last infantry group into the enemy camp, a small clearing in the jungle with bamboo lean-tos and makeshift bunkers. Soldiers were busy piling dead bodies to burn, but there were dozens of Vietcong still writhing on the ground, injured, pleading for mercy in their strange alien tongue.

Without thinking, Eli began to offer aid. He was giving morphine to a young soldier, little more than sixteen years old by the look of him, who had taken a cluster of gunshots in his stomach, just below the sternum. The pain had to be unbearable. His feet were skittering in the jungle soil, his head thrashing, crying out like a woman in the throes of childbirth. Just as he injected the needle into the boy’s stomach, Sergeant Wagner yanked Eli by the back of his collar, twisting it until it cut off his windpipe.

Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing there, Dr. Pussyfoot? he said, speaking softly into Eli’s ear. A few men looked over and smirked. Mind explaining why you’re wasting good American morphine on the enemy?

Eli opened his mouth to speak and Wagner twisted his shirt collar another notch, wrapping it around his fist so that all that came out was a choked gurgle. His eyes began to bulge while pressure built within his brain.

Just whose side are you on? Had we not gotten him first, he would have happily killed any one of us. Wagner shoved Eli forward, bringing him face to face with the dying boy. And he would not have taken mercy on you.

Sergeant Wagner pulled his sidearm reeking of burnt cordite in the stifling summer air. He pressed Eli against the young Vietcong soldier until their noses touched. The morphine had taken effect and the boy’s eyes were free of pain, but bright with fear. They jittered behind his slanted sockets, dry and aware of his pending death.

I can’t have enemy sympathizers in my company. Eli’s vision began to blur, his chest burned. His brain thumped along with his heart. Then Wagner loosened his grip and Eli gasped for air. He shoved the pistol into Eli’s hand and pressed the barrel against the soldier’s head.

You never wake a sleeping giant, Wagner said, curling his finger around Eli’s, pressing it against the trigger. The boy’s eyes went wide, frozen in place, locked on to Eli’s just a couple of inches away. But, if you do, you put the son of a bitch back to sleep.

* * *

Eli blinked, and the hospital room came back into focus. Crosby stirred on the bed and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes and raised his head, noticing Eli standing in the doorway, then pushed himself onto an elbow and yawned.

Sorry to wake you, Eli said. He walked forward and held out his hand. Crosby flinched as if it were a venomous snake. I’m Dr. Alpert, Medical Director here at Sugar Hill. I wanted to welcome you to our facility and make sure you were settling in okay. How’s everything so far?

Cautiously, Crosby sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and shook his head.

My head feels… he paused, and shook it again, as though trying to dislodge the word, …empty.

Eli consulted the patient’s records. They had started him on a maximum dose of Clozapine at the prison before transferring him to Sugar Hill. Eli would have preferred to wait and see how Crosby reacted to other forms of treatment before prescribing such a strong antipsychotic, but the penitentiary physicians weren’t apt to take any chances with a high-profile patient displaying violent paranoid delusions. No one would get in trouble for sedating him with industry-approved pharmaceuticals, regardless of whether it compromised the efficacy of less invasive forms of therapy.

He closed the folder and stared down at Crosby Nelson, the man whom the media had dubbed the Apocalypse Killer. He looked older than thirty-two. His horseshoe of black hair was cropped short, outlining a cove of pale skin featuring several pockmarks and pale scars. His face was gaunt, yet the skin hung loose as if left in the sun too long. And his dry, cracked hands were wrinkled and tanned yellow from nicotine. In the cramped, ten-by-ten hospital room, he even smelled old. The musty, acrid smell of dead skin.

That spacey feeling is normal. It’s from the medicine you’ve been prescribed. It should dissipate as you acclimate to the medicine. If not, we’ll switch you to something else. Something that your body will tolerate better.

Crosby looked up, his eyes wandering. He smacked his lips a few times, like a cow chewing cud; then he slumped forward and stared down towards the floor. Maybe I just need to sleep some more, he said.

Actually, it’s just the opposite. Getting up and moving around will make you feel much better than lying down. We’ll have you on a physical therapy routine by the end of the week. Once we determine—

Crosby pushed himself to his feet. He staggered forward on unsteady legs and shook his head, windmilling his arms to get the blood pumping. He raised his arms over his head and began to lean side to side, stretching. Then he turned towards Eli and crouched down into the three-pointed stance of a defensive lineman.

Red forty-two! Red forty-two! he said, pawing at the ground with his back foot like a bull.

Eli held out