The Administrator (7 page)

A Job Well Done

I have always liked hospitals. Most people hate hospitals, except maybe lawyers. I love the sharp, tangy smell of antibiotic, the squishy-squeaky sound of soft-soled shoes on hard, shiny floors, the sense of urgency, the expectant tinge hanging in the air like sparking currents of electricity as battles are fought for life—and for death. The shadows of lost—or won—battles lurking in dim corners waiting to pounce on their next victim are a real adrenaline rush. Guess that’s why I’m in the line of work I’m in.

I usually get a wide berth when I come to work. No one wants to get in my way. But tonight I’m not wearing my Harvester uniform or the mask so nobody pays much attention. Tonight’s job requires regular clothes and what looks like a regular briefcase. Today, I’m off duty, officially anyway.

I can do pretty much whatever I want on my off-time. It’s in the contract. I do pretty much what I want during my on-time too. But that’s not in the contract.

I round the corner, and step aside as another Harvester passes me with the meaningful chrome case swinging easily from his right hand. His black bodysuit hugs his torso like a second skin and shows off his biceps. He glares at me through the eye-slits in his mask. Gray, penetrating eyes glare with that practiced, arrogant look as he tries to stare me down.

I glower at people like that when I’m on duty. I had my eyes altered to look like a cat’s. My green and yellow eyes combined with the uniform scare the hell out of most people, but this time, I look down at the floor. I’m supposed to be a regular person right now, so I force myself not to stare him down. I know I would have won if I had kept it up, then he would have known what I was and why I was here. Jerk probably would have reported me. Harvester’s oath and all that, you know.

Dr. K. would be extremely angry if anyone found out about this particular little excursion. Most people think the suicide master, dubbed “Dr. Death” in the late 1990s, is dead. He wants them to think that. He’s about 150 years old now. I like the old man. He tells great stories about the old days before harvesting became a legal service. He made his fortune selling suicide kits on the black market. Too many calcium infusions have rendered his joints almost immovable so he slithers around in that laser powered wheel chair, but he hasn’t been past his massive estate’s gates in years. Why should he? He’s got everything he could ever want right there, and he’s got me to do his extra curricular errands. He needs me, and I like that. Plus the pay is extraordinary.
 

I admire his tenaciousness. He harvested the first organs illegally for his own transplants before I was born. After that, he used legal organs until the Harvester’s Association began setting limits and refused to sell him anymore. The old fart’s worn out three hearts and two sets of lungs since then.

That’s why I’m here tonight. For the doc. He can’t get anymore legal organs, so I lift them for him. His personal doctors do the actual transplanting in the private clinic at his estate. Tonight I asked him why he didn’t just end it with a kit like he had sold to so many others.

He laughed with that croaking snort he has and asked, “Do you think I’m crazy?” He glanced up at me with those pitted eyes of his. His eyes scare even me a little. They squat deep inside the puffy pockets of his cheeks like sunken ships decaying into the ocean floor’s sediment. “Suicide is for people too weak or too tired to look for an alternative. Not for me!” He cackled.

“But you started the whole assisted suicide harvest business. You got rich from it. Are you telling me that you don’t believe in it?”

“Of course I believe in it. I’m not an idiot. I had to figure out something to keep myself in organs, didn’t I? If I hadn’t, I’d be dead just like all the others, but I’m not, and I fully intend to see my 200th birthday. Now go get me that heart. This one’s not going to last much longer.” He nodded his chin at his chest, and his head just sort of quivered like he had suddenly lost all the bones in his neck.
 

I watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the arms of the wheelchair and tensed his muscles to steady his head. I had seen all this before so I just waited. After a minute or two, he got control and raised his eyes to meet mine. He’s a tough old bird.
 

He coughed and said, “My sources tell me that this guy is a perfect match for me, and they’re not that easy to find.” He tried to wave me out of the room, but his hand just kind of jiggled from his wrist.

I left and came to the hospital.

Of course, I don’t have the legal papers signed by the next of kin, the court order or the suicide setup documents signed by the patient. Couldn’t get them for Dr. K. anyway, since he’s supposed to be dead, so I have to do it this way. But I’m not worried. It’s worked all those other times when he needed a part.

I walk over to the nurses’ desk. A cute, little blond nurse behind the desk is watching the Harvester I just passed stroll down the hallway. She has an odd look on her pretty face—fear maybe—disgust possibly.

“Excuse me, Miss,” I say.

She jumps almost imperceptibly and spins around to face me.

I wear my best smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, you didn’t ... I was just, uh ... may I help you?” she says sweetly as she brushes a delicate hand through her short curls and sends another hasty glance at the harvester’s disappearing back.

“I hope so,” I say. I understand that you have a John Doe on this floor?”

“Yes?”

I put on my saddest expression. “I think he may be my brother. He’s been missing for a week now, and the police said I should come take a look.”

“Oh? Well I suppose it would be okay for you to see him. Follow me, please.” She glides from behind the desk and leads the way.
 

I fall a little behind her to watch her small buttocks strain against the smooth, white fabric of her uniform. Ripple—swish—she sways down the hall. Moments like this are when I really love my job.

She stops at room 516. “You understand that he’s comatose?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She opens the door and steps inside. I follow and step up to the bed.

“Do you know him?” she asks.

“Yes. That’s my brother.” I sigh loudly and sorrowfully.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If it helps any, all his vital signs are good. I’ve seen comatose patients who are a lot worse off than your brother come out of it fine.”

“What happened?”

“He was mugged. A blow to the head. He came in comatose like this. Apparently they took all his identification. That’s why he’s listed as a John Doe.”

I bite my tongue to bring tears to my eyes then turn to her so she will see them. “Thank you. Do you suppose that I could be alone with him for a while?”

Her blue eyes radiate pity. “Certainly.” She points to the buzzer clipped to the sheet. “If you need anything, just ring.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as the door closes, I go to work. I open the briefcase, and my fingers linger on the hypodermic. Not much time, I tell myself. Skipping over the intravenous toxin, I reach for the laser scalpel. He’s in a coma anyway. Probably won’t feel a thing. I place the self-destruct pacer underneath the monitor probe on his chest. It will keep the alarm from going off at the nurses’ station for fifteen minutes after his heart stops, then disintegrate itself. Long enough for me to be gone. I open the freezer containers and set them on the table, then I pick up the laser scalpel.

His chest spreads open like a pork chop fillet, neat and clean. Instantly, his eyes fly open and stare at me. His mouth suddenly gapes into a grimace and a strangled gasp escapes from his throat.

Oops. Guess I should have used the toxin. Oh well. Too late now.

His eyes glaze. One hoarse breath hisses through his open mouth, then he is still. I reach up and close his eyes and mouth. First I take the heart and put it into it’s canister, then a kidney. I decide that since I’ve got him open, I might as well take the spleen. Old Man K. will be needing one pretty soon anyway. That’s all I have room for, so I close him up and seal the seam with the laser. Perfect. You can’t even tell he was opened. I’m good at what I do. Really good.

With luck, they won’t even check his organs since he’s not a listed donor or euthanasia candidate. They’ll just bury him as John Doe.

I peek out into the hallway. No one in sight. I slip out and catch the back elevator. The briefcase feels satisfyingly heavy as I step off the curb into the cold night air. Another job well done, I think. I suddenly feel like whistling, so I do.

I don’t see the headlights until it’s too late. Something solid smashes into me. I feel my body flying, then landing on something cold and hard. Funny. It doesn’t hurt.

I open my eyes. I’m in a bed. It’s a hospital room, and my case is on the chair beside me. It’s open and so are the canisters, but what was in them is gone. I know that I have to get out of here fast. I try to sit up—nothing. My legs don’t obey. I can’t move my arms either. Am I paralyzed? I try to lift my head. I can only move it a few inches, just enough to look at my feet and hands. Restraining straps are cutting into my flesh, holding me in the bed. The door opens. I try to turn my head. I can’t. Something is in my mouth, down my throat—a respirator tube.

A pretty, oval face with a halo of blond curls appears over me. The face wears an expression of—disgust? Hate? I’m not sure.

“There you are, Mister. He’s all yours.” She’s not talking to me. There is someone beside her.

I hear her soft soled shoes squish-squeak across the floor. The door opens and closes. I still can’t turn my head to look.

A man’s harsh, craggy face appears in my line of vision. I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t remember where. He sets something on the bed. I strain my peripheral vision to see. It’s a briefcase. A big one. He opens it.

His face appears above me again. “You shouldn’t have lied to that nurse,” he says. “You really pissed her off. She dumped your harvest.” His cold, gray eyes stare at me, and I remember. I didn’t recognize him without his uniform. I try to scream. My outcry is choked off by the tube in my throat.

“You let Dr. K. down,” he says. “But he sent me to help you make amends. Did you know why he hired you? You’re an almost perfect match for him. Not as perfect as the guy you just did, but good enough. Dr. K. really needs you now,” he says. He smiles a cold smile and reaches for the laser scalpel.

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The Incredible, Edible Mr. Glump

“Eat me!”

Alice dared to open one eye. Sunlight slashed through the filthy window and stabbed into her brain. She slammed the eyelid shut, but not before she saw him! “Oh no! You’re back!” Alice threw an ash tray at the apparition. “Go away!” She covered her eyes with hangover shaky hands. She peeked around her fingernails, and the chipped, crimson polish flashed past her vision giving her a sense of vertigo as if she were whirling around in a glass bowl, watching red paint peel from the wall at warp speed. Or, was it the tequila from last night? Whatever made her head spin, she felt a nasty mood coming on with the headache.

“Eat me!” The six-inch apparition squealed again. “Eat me! You won’t be sorry. Please. Do it now. Eat me!”

“Ughh!” She grabbed an empty bottle from the night stand and threw it at him. “Go away!”

“Not till you promise to eat me.” The red, white, and blue striped fellow deftly sidestepped the flying bottle, glanced at it as it rolled across the floor and shook his head sadly. “It’s not hard, I promise. Two bites at most. Chomp-chomp. That’s it.”

Alice rubbed her throbbing head with the back of a once delicate hand, and stared at the ceiling. “Why me?” she moaned.

“Because you were the first person I ran into while I was floating down that gutter. If you hadn’t been lying there, heaven knows where I might have ended up.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll eat you later, but now just go away.”

“Promise?” The apparition’s voice was doubtful.

“Yeah. Promise. Later. Now, GO AWAY! Ouch!” Her own shout rumbled through her brain like a freight train. Moaning, she lay on her back and clamped her head with her hands.

Poof! He disappeared.

A few minutes later, she chanced opening her eyes again, peeked under her hand, then closed them again gratefully. “Gone. Thank God!”

I’ve got to quit the tequila, she thought and rolled on her side away from the window. Absentmindedly, she rubbed her left buttocks where the fresh tattoo had begun to burn. She barely remembered entering the tattoo parlor last night. Everything after that was a blank. She thought she was with someone, but she wasn’t sure. There were those two cowboys at the bar earlier but ... .

Her head pounded a little less. She took a chance and opened her eyes, then she slammed them shut again. The faded, peeling, paisley wallpaper made her stomach churn. “Alice, you’re an idiot,” she mumbled.

Struggling to sit up, she leaned over the bed, rested her elbows on her knees, and held her forehead with both hands. “A drink,” she mumbled. “Must be one here somewhere.” Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls, and her own voice rasped in her ears.