The Shell - Part Three
Short Fiction - Science Fiction
This is Part Three of a short fiction tale called The Shell.
A quick note: thank you for your patience with this story, friends! Some life got in the way of me posting this next part as soon after the second as I wanted to, but here it is.
And, because I’m posting this in such short pieces, the story has expanded beyond three parts. So stay tuned for Part Four!
Start with Part One here, or
Read Part Two.
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And now, on to the story…
When Paul Lannigan drew his first choking breath and opened his fluttering eyes—shock-blue and saucer-wide—Burgess was lost in thought, staring at the empty tank of the machine. There was a litany in his mind, a familiar and far-off voice repeating over and over, some mix of memory and grief-inspired personal mythos, a tinny Greek chorus playing on an old radio:
If you had been there, none of this would have happened.
If you had been there, our boy would still be alive.
You may as well have pulled the trigger yourself.
I can’t even look at you.
Don’t touch me.
Say something. I dare you.
Damn you, Burgess. Damn you to hell.
The sound of Paul struggling to breathe drew Burgess’s attention away from the tank. It was just him and Paul; Naomi was not present. He had sent her off to harvest the overgrown peas in his garden for him in the early evening cool, a pointless errand.
He wanted this moment to himself.
The body on the gurney animated slowly, muscles twitching in reflex under the unnaturally unblemished skin, goosepimples rising and falling. Toes and fingers spasmed and the face worked like an infant’s, rippling through facial expressions, a grotesque relearning.
Paul’s eyes searched the ceiling, unfocused, lungs wheezing to expel the last of the amniotic fluid until he slowly tipped his head to land on Burgess, sitting on Naomi’s stool nearby. He made a sound, then, a groan or a whimper, something halfway between pain and fear, but Burgess sat impassive.
“Howdy, Paul,” he said, into the strange quiet.
The younger man’s eyebrows furrowed at the sound of Burgess’s voice, then softened again. Fear. It was fear.
That’s right, you son of a bitch. You should be afraid.
Paul opened his mouth, fresh teeth too white without a decade or so of cigarettes or black coffee or whatever else to stain them, but no words came out, just a rush of air.
Burgess waited.
“Take your time,” he said. “I’ve got plenty of it.”
Paul tried again, opened his mouth, and his lips were trembling, and tears filled the edges of his eyes.
“So cold,” he whispered.
Burgess nodded. “Yep. World is, as a rule.”
Paul swallowed, coughed haltingly, and when he spoke again, his voice was a soft suggestion, unpracticed. “Where am I?”
“Broadly speaking, edge of the Okanagan National Forest, not far from Lake Wenatchee,” Burgess replied, patiently. “More specifically, you’re in my barn.”
Paul blinked. Swallowed again. Then, he said, “Who are you?”
A quick chill ran down Burgess’s spine, but he shook it off. “You know who I am.”
Paul’s hands were shaking, and the tears were spilling over, running down to the gurney under his cheek. “No, sir. I don’t. Should I?”
Burgess looked for any sign of guile, but Paul’s eyes were haunted, empty.
“Yeah, you should…you should know me,” the old man replied.
“I’m sorry.” Paul sighed, a shuddering sound, and said, “Please, I’m just…I’m so cold.”
Burgess stood from the stool on stiff legs, pulled forward by rage. “You should know me, Paul. Take a damn good look.”
The young man shook his head, desperately searching Burgess’s face, not a glimmer of recognition to be found. “No, sir, I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t know you. I’m sorry.”
It hit Burgess then, all at once, standing over the terrified body on the gurney; he had been so focused on the sixty percent level of degradation of the shell that he hadn’t even thought about the eighty-five percent integrity of the psychoneural plug. It didn’t seem like a lot, certainly not relative to the damage to the body, but hell…a loss of fifteen percent in the right places could do plenty. Behavior changes, hallucinations, anxiety, depression…
…and memory loss.
Burgess’s mouth went bone-dry. He stepped away from the gurney, followed by those eyes—those eyes—now filled with abject terror.
You may as well have pulled the trigger yourself.
Damn you, Burgess. Damn you to hell.
In all of Burgess’s dreams of this moment, he never planned for Paul not to know him. Not to know what he had done.
A haze filled the old man’s vision as though his glasses had steamed in the kick from a whistling kettle. His hands tensed. This was a mistake, all of it. There was no way to fix any of this. He had only made it worse.
But then, Burgess looked around at the room, the empty tank, the closed door. If Paul died now, here, Burgess could just tell Naomi that something went wrong. That the reprint didn’t take. That Paul choked on the amniotic fluid, or his heart didn't start and he wouldn’t come to. Sad, but it happens. That would be the end of it.
Burgess lifted his hands, peppered with liver-spots. They weren’t as strong as they used to be, but that didn’t matter much. Paul was weak. Fragile. It wouldn’t take much at all.
He reached. Fingers ready to steal. Paul didn’t even realize what was happening.
But then a breeze, mountain-sweet, swept in as Naomi opened the door with a basket full of peas to be shelled. Burgess dropped his hands before she could see, stood back imperceptibly, looking for all the world like he was just checking on Paul, just making sure all was going to plan.
Naomi stepped into the room and set down the basket of peas just inside the door.
“Is he…awake?” she asked.
Burgess nodded. He couldn’t speak. Anger still held him, pinching his throat between a brand-hot thumb and forefinger.
Naomi came forward to the gurney, compassion turning her face—too hard, too old, too sad for her age—soft and open, and she reached out a hand to hold Paul’s. The man on the gurney gripped her hand tightly, like a lifeline, weeping softly.
“Lord, his hands are so cold,” she said. “Can we take him inside now? Is it done?”
Paul Lannigan. Inside my house.
But Burgess couldn’t refuse her. Couldn’t tell her that this man deserved to die, and he should have had it over with. How would he ever explain?
So, like a man being led to the gallows, Burgess numbly joined Naomi in pushing the gurney out into the evening, down the path to the house, the wheels juddering on the stones and tufts of dead grass on the way. Naomi continued to hold Paul’s hand, whispering comfort to him, steadying him on the bumps and turns. Burgess imagined unspeakable things.
Damn you, Burgess. Damn you to hell.
I can’t even look at you.
At the front stairs to Burgess’s house the two of them wrestled the frail body between them, carrying Paul up and into the sitting-room and onto the old sofa that Burgess never had much occasion to sit on. While Burgess made some excuse, went into the kitchen to make coffee and stare out the window into the night, it was Naomi who found clothes for Paul—from where, Burgess didn’t know—and dressed him gently, then put him to bed under a blanket she took from Burgess’s closet.
From the kitchen the old man could hear her murmuring to Paul, telling him that all would be well.
Paul Lannigan is sleeping soundly in my house.
Damn you, Burgess.
When Naomi finally entered the kitchen, she had retrieved the basket of peas from the barn. She took a big bowl from Burgess’s cupboard and sat down at the kitchen table with a heavy sigh, absently shelling the plump green pods.
Burgess watched from where he stood at the kitchen window. He watched her drop the bright peas into the bowl, setting the empty shells aside on the table. Something about the sight made him nauseous.
“He seems nice enough,” Naomi said. “Polite, considering what's happened to him over the last few days.”
Burgess huffed. “I suppose.”
She flickered a look at him, then down into the bowl again. “You don’t seem pleased,” she said, quietly. “About him.”
Burgess hadn’t thought about how he would explain to her. So honesty won, for once.
“He doesn’t remember me,” he said.
She paused in her shelling, tipped her head up to look at him. “Did you expect him to?”
“I did.”
“I’m sorry.”
Burgess shrugged. “It’s not what I thought it would be, that’s all.”
“Do you think he’ll come to remember you? Is it something that can heal?”
Burgess hadn’t considered this. He tilted his head. “It’s possible.”
“Well, then.” Naomi accepted this with serenity, continued in her task. “You waited three days to bring him back to life. Can’t imagine a few more would make a difference if it means you’ll have what you wanted. Meantime, I’ll help out. We’ll get him back on his feet and walking. And it’ll be better than you thought. You’ll see.”
She was no child, but she had the confidence of one. Burgess gazed out the kitchen window, feeling his fingers ease on the coffee cup, the voices in his mind turning low like the radio-dial spinning. Naomi was right, even if she didn’t know how or why.
Sure, a few more days might be worth it. Get Paul Lannigan up and walking. Get him remembering. Get him confessing. Meet him eye to eye, the way he had always intended. Burgess was patient. He could make this right.
The peas fell into the bowl, a hollow sound, and the stack of shells grew on the table, and Burgess looked down to find that his coffee cup was empty. The litany was a whisper, like crickets in the trees, soft as the wind. But it was steady, and it was a wonder to Burgess that Naomi couldn’t hear it.
If you had been there, none of this would have happened.
If you had been there, our boy would still be alive.
You may as well have pulled the trigger yourself.
I can’t even look at you.
Don’t touch me.
Say something. I dare you.
Damn you, Burgess. Damn you to hell.
“Yes,” Burgess said to the air, reaching out for the coffeepot to refill his cup. His hands were steady. “It’ll be better than I thought. I do think you’re right about that.”
Chilling doesn't even seem like the right word. This is incredible. I love the radio-dial metaphor.
'The best laid plans ...' are NOT, when driven by revenge and blinded by hate. He has willfully ignored the risk to the replication in order to satisfy his bloodlust. Now how does he come to terms with an individual who has the DNA, but not the awareness of the act he would be accused of? Also complicated by a witness to this replication. This is an interesting conundrum practically, ethically and spiritually! I anxiously await your choices here S.E.!