again, Borland would decide then whether to tell her what he saw.
CHAPTER 8
A gorgeous Asian nurse shaved Borland's crotch and belly. Patients who were getting operations that day were told to stay in their rooms and await this preparation and others while the rest of the patients had breakfast.
The nurse spoke quickly, almost anxiously during the procedure. Her small hands were warm through the vinyl gloves as they pressed Borland's round and wrinkled flesh flat to run the blade over it. He stared at the woman. Forced her to keep her attention on the task, and embarrassed her enough that she refused to look him in the eye.
That way he wouldn't have to claim the old body she was working on.
Then his intimidating glare worked against him, unnerved the woman enough that she hurried to complete the shave, scraping at the furry mounds of skin with reckless swipes of the straight razor. Terror rode up Borland's spine, forced him to look away until she finished, packed up her gear and hurried out of the room.
I hope nothing's missing.
Then some sick voyeur in him pushed his belly down, peered over it at the naked areas.
He felt an immediate twinge of shame at how things looked down there-gray and lifeless butcher shop structures. A broken and battered opposite of erotic-like the carcass of some dinosaur, fossilized and frozen in the act of eating another.
Barely sexual-not even pornographic-an image from a worst-case-scenario journal of medicine and aging.
He quickly pulled his pajama pants back into place and tied them.
About thirty people were going to get their hernias fixed that day by four operating teams. He had to wait his turn.
At least you'll have painkillers.
He looked over at the empty bed beside his. Roommate number '1' was delayed and missed his place on the Shomberg assembly line. Borland would have a new roomie by the time he got back from his first operation.
Perfect.
They were going to start with the umbilical hernia. The left and right inguinal would follow with days off between procedures. It was a longer than average stay, but Borland wanted to get it over with in one shot. He had no interest in coming back. The dull old men who made up most of the Shomberg population made him want a drink, and his gun.
You can be old. Do you have to be boring?
The old duffers left him anxious for any kind of release. Even having his abdominal wall cut open and sutured shut sounded like fun.
At least it was evidence he was alive.
And there would be some high-yield pharmaceutical painkillers.
Who needed a drink when the medicine cabinet was open?
Sobriety was killing him. He still needed a drink, but seeing the strange woman by the bridge the night before had unsettled him, made him too jumpy to take an illicit swig with all the other patients moving about on their evening walks. The path had grown crowded with them, so he relented and returned to his room.
The sleeping pill was bliss.
Borland heard the Asian nurse knock on another door down the hall, warn 'Mr. Arnold' that it was time for his shave.
Borland got up, walked to the bathroom and tried to empty his bladder. He didn't want any accidents and he felt like he had to go. So he stood there almost five minutes with nothing happening. His nerves must have already been working on him because he couldn't squeeze out a single drop.
Or it's the prostate…
As he tied the strings on his hospital pants something on the tiles between his socks caught his eye. A centipede, crushed into a twist of gore and spray of wiry legs. He could see how the mop had shaped its mangled body, combined it in layers of wax and cleanser-a fossil record on a bathroom floor.
The Age of Infection.
He thought of signs and omens.
'Mr. Borland?' A voice at the door drew his attention away from the bug. 'It is time.'
A pleasant-looking nurse in her fifties stood there. She gestured toward his bed and told him to sit. She was covered in sterile gear, the rustle of her nylon booties made him think of the bag-suits of his profession.
Which made him think of Zombie.
Sacrifice. Keep giving.
She read through a checklist on her e-reader in a thick German accent. The way she stamped on the hard consonants reminded Borland of World War Two downloads: swastikas, whips and barbed wire.
He had answered all the questions before, but they were just double-checking, making sure the cuts they were about to make matched up with the guts on the table. She handed him a pair of nylon booties to slip over his socks and complimented him for being in his hospital blues when she arrived.
She didn't know that Borland didn't need more enemies. She didn't know how bored he was.
She didn't know what a guilty conscience could do with all that time off.
She didn't know about the centipede.
The nurse led him out of the room and along the chilly corridor and into a waiting elevator. She hit a button, and they began their descent.
Borland's hospital blues consisted of a smock top that tied up the front and a pair of loose pants that tied at the waist. He had no doubt that the setup would provide a carnival atmosphere once he was medicated.
At least he'd be medicated.
Borland didn't care about the weather-good or bad-but the nurse talked about it anyway. Hurricanes and tornados were nothing; they were fun compared to what was coming. The Variant Effect was on its way back.
Time for the painkillers.
Time to get cranked.
The elevator shuddered and doors opened in the wall opposite the one they entered. A puff of cool air drifted in. Dim light came from pot lamps paced at intervals along the ceiling. When they stepped out, the light barely penetrated the big dark room.
Then it hit him.
The smell of blood.
Thirty operations a day, five days a week, fifty weeks a year… The coppery smell was permeating the darkness. There was disinfectant and other medical odors, but the blood was unmistakable. They spilled a lot of it down there.
The nurse led Borland to the right, past several beds that held drugged old men. She stopped him at an unoccupied cot and helped him in. She said she'd get his painkillers and left.
It's about time.
On his back, his new vantage point showed a drop ceiling setup of white tiles.
Everything else was green-painted and glistening with a thick shiny lacquer. There were lamps overhead, sunk into the ceiling and dimmed to an infernal orange.
Let's do it.
The nurse returned with a tray of goodies on a rolling table: syringes, paper cups with pills-lots of little cranking toys.
The sight of this selection brought a broad smile to Borland's face that he quickly covered with the thin blanket. His eyes must have glittered with glee.
So he couldn't drink. Big deal.
