The Taint

The Taint  

PATRICIA WALLACE 

Cemetery Dance Publications 

Baltimore, MD 

2013 

Copyright © 1983 by Patricia Wallace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cemetery Dance Publications

132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

Forest Hill, MD 21050

http://www.cemeterydance.com

The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,

is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN-13: 978-1-58767-439-6

Front Cover Copyright © 2013 by Desert Isle Design

Digital Design by DH Digital Editions

To

My sister JuAnna

and

My teacher Robert Wicks

PROLOGUE

He watched as the needle was inserted into his arm, holding his breath, fighting the wave of nausea that rose in his throat. He gulped repeatedly, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead. He could feel the tension in his body; the urge to move, to pull his arm away from the sting of the needle, but he resisted. He glanced at the technician who was intent on hitting the vein and then looked down in time to see his blood, dark red and thick, flow into the tubing.

“Relax your arm,” the technician said.

He unclenched his fist and closed his eyes, grateful that the probing was over. His ears were ringing and he could smell the odor of his own discomfort. He lay very still.

The blood swirled through the tube and into the clear plastic container.

It would not take long and then he’d have the money; five dollars for a pint of blood. A fair price, he thought.

He would buy a bowl of the thick potato soup at the small restaurant by the road, and maybe the nice waitress would be on duty, the one who always gave him a slice of freshly-baked bread on the side.

His mouth watered at the thought of it. He hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. It was tempting to buy one of
the dinners, maybe chicken with potatoes and gravy and thick slices of tomato, but he knew that his stomach could not handle that much food, and that he would be sick. The thought of it was enough to make his stomach ache.

Cool fingers grazed his arm and he jumped at the touch. He had dozed off. The needle was pulled from his arm and a gauze bandage was applied to the wound.

“Here,” a voice said.

A man he recognized as the manager of the bloodmobile handed him a cup of orange juice.

He waited until the manager had turned away before raising the cup to his mouth and drinking. The juice stung his gums but he swallowed greedily, feeling the pulp as it passed over his tongue.

“You can’t come tomorrow,” the manager said, and shook his head. “There’s rules.”

The rules had already been broken, he knew, but he could not afford to antagonize his benefactor. He needed the money.

“Pay him,” the manager ordered the technician, who jumped slightly, jabbing his thumb with a needle.

The technician sucked on his thumb and glared at the manager who had turned away. He opened a locked cabinet, smearing blood on the key, and took out a small cash box.

The technician counted five singles into his hand and locked the cash box away, then disappeared into the back of the bloodmobile.

He sat upright, slightly dizzy, and stuffed the worn bills into his pocket.

His eyes moved to the container of orange juice which was sitting on a small table next to a stack of cups.

There was an inch of juice left in the bottle.

He licked his lips.

The manager was absorbed in paperwork, the tech was nowhere in sight.

He swung his legs off the table and planted his feet on the floor. Still holding the cup, he stood, swaying, his eyes focused on the plastic container of juice.

The manager turned in his chair, facing him, tapping a pencil against the desktop, and he stood still, waiting.

The manager looked away, shuffling through a stack of papers.

He tossed the cup into the garbage can and rolled down his sleeve.

He moved as quickly as he could toward the door, wishing desperately that he had his pea coat so he could hide the container.

His fingers closed around the neck of the bottle and he lifted it, holding it close in front of his body as he pushed open the door. His heart was beating fast and his mouth was painfully dry. The door closed behind him and he moved down the wooden steps, narrowing his eyes against the afternoon glare.

He looked down at his prize, reassuring himself, and walked quickly away.

He walked carefully up the dirt path, trying not to stir the dust. He was not used to the thin mountain air which grew warmer as he moved along the incline. A trickle of sweat ran down the small of his back.

He was so far from the sea.

He stopped for a few moments, resting on a fallen tree, and put the bottle of juice to his lips, drinking the cool sweet liquid.

It was gone so soon. His hands caressed the plastic as he looked back toward the small town. The tiny restaurant was almost hidden by the trees.

He should have eaten. A dollar or two wouldn’t have made much difference. He had almost seventy dollars in the copper box, enough to keep him for a while. A dollar or two . . .

It was difficult to breathe this far from the sea.

They had cast him off the ship not long ago, and he had sought the solitude of the mountains, heading inland and away from the only life he knew.

They were afraid of him but they had been unable to name the reason for their fear. He had not expected that from them; civilized men whose senses limited them to awareness of what they could see, reacting to a nameless instinct.

The superstitious natives he encountered in his travels had feared him, and avoided him, but he felt safe in their midst because they knew that it would not be wise to spill his blood.

The technology-crazed world had paid for his blood. Preoccupation with devices and gadgets had cost them their intuition. Sophisticated ignorance.

He struggled to his feet. It took a moment for his vision to clear.

The path wound its way up the hillside, away from the trees and the shade, and he kept his eyes down, watching his feet so that he wouldn’t see how much farther he had to go.

Insects swarmed around his head but he was too tired to brush them away.

He had fashioned a small shelter from pieces of aluminum siding and some warped wooden doors that he’d found at the dump. It was small and cramped but it kept
the wind out and, more importantly, it cost him nothing.

He got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the narrow opening, then turned and secured the heavy tarp which served as a door. The darkness soothed his eyes.

Everything was as he had left it and he relaxed. He never felt secure, leaving his treasures unattended, but he was more fearful of someone accosting him in town than of a thief coming all this way to rummage through a shack.

The copper box was in a wooden apple crate that he’d found alongside the road and he had converted into a locker of sorts. By wiggling the nails around‚ he could remove the top of the crate.

He grabbed the copper box and leaned back onto the nest of grasses and rags that served as his bed.

He ran callused fingers over the engravings on the box. Solid copper it was, the inside lined with genuine silk. The lock had been broken for as long as he could remember but he still had the tiny key, thinking that one day he would have it fixed. One day.

The money was there, rolled and secured with a rubber band. His passport and the travel book were beneath the wad of money, and after he had put his blood money with the other soiled bills, he took the small book and flipped through the pages.

He had been to so many places, around the world, a traveler when others were content to stay. He had no home, and it was better that way; too long in one place and he might witness what followed him along the way. He had made that mistake only once, and it haunted his dreams.

His eyes began to close and he yawned. His stomach
was quiet, eased by the juice, and he needed to sleep.

He put the book into the copper box and tossed the money on top as if it were of no importance. He positioned the box into a corner of the apple crate, next to the tiny clay figures. There were few of them left, now, he had sold so many. His eyes lingered over his meager belongings and then he put the lid on the crate, working the nails back into their holes.

His left arm itched from where they’d taken the blood the day before. He lifted the bandage and looked at the wound; it was red and tender. Later he would go into the forest and gather some leaves to make a poultice and draw out the infection.

Lethargy settled over him like a blanket and he moved back into bed, closing his eyes. He slept.

He stared into the face of his own mortality, his head turning as he dreamt of his death.

It had always been so, the dreams relentless in their clarity. His time was nearing, his body weakening, unable to nourish that which grew within him.

He awoke.

It took every ounce of his strength to move to an upright position but he forced himself to do so. The night was upon him. The air was cool and he could smell smoke, probably from a camp fire miles distant.

There was no time left.

He opened the apple crate with shaking fingers. Gathering the clay figures, he held his breath as one
—
the lynx
—
dropped, tumbling in slow motion onto the dirt floor.

It did not break.

He swallowed hard. The pressure behind his eyes was worse; stabs of pain and an intense heat. He had to concentrate if he were to go on.

He found the leather pouches with the powders and he tugged impatiently at the rawhide bindings. Finally they gave.

He worked feverishly, preparing his supplication. Out in the night an owl screeched, silencing the forest, and he shivered. It was not a good sign.

He lit a candle and began.

Thursday

ONE

Daniel Hudson raised the binoculars and adjusted the focus, scanning the trees. From the fire tower he had an unobstructed view of the forest. The wooden walkway encircled the small building and he moved along the rail without taking his eyes from the woods.

Camp fires. Nothing more. He lowered the binoculars.

It was hot out, this high up. Down in the park, with the shade of the trees, it would be comfortable. He drew a hand across his forehead and looked up at the cloudless sky.

The quiet was almost palpable.

Hudson turned and walked into the tower, hanging the binoculars on a wooden peg by the door.

The south side of the room was the office. Shelves were filled with U.S. Forest Service manuals and wildlife guides, along with a comprehensive survival series. A map showing park boundaries was mounted above the desk with the campgrounds indicated by color codes. The desk was neatly organized, an empty coffee cup placed almost dead center on the blotter.

He walked over to the small cabinet where the radio equipment was kept. Unlocking the metal case, he folded back the guards and turned the volume up, listening for a moment before grabbing the microphone.

“Tower One to Tower Two,” he said, depressing the send button. “Malloy, you there?”

Silence. Malloy must be out of the tower. He was always out. He switched the frequency dial on the radio, listening for traffic on the air.

The emergency band sputtered static and a one-sided conversation between the dispatcher and patrol. The other bands were either total static or dead air.

He switched it off. The mountainous terrain posed a problem with radio transmission—there were numerous areas that the signals were unable to penetrate. Up this high, above the park and town, it would seem that he should have an open airway but reception was poor. He was used to it now.

In fact, the isolation suited him.

He straightened up abruptly and felt a pressure in his face; a solid weighted feeling around his nose. Then, quickly, the blood began to run from his left nostril.

“Just what I needed,” he said to himself, tilting his head backwards and pinching both nostrils. He eased down in the chair to wait it out, counting the seconds.

After a full minute he released his hold tentatively. The blood gushed, pouring out with amazing force, staining the front of his shirt.

He moved slowly down the wooden steps. It was a long way to the ground, and almost impossible to move with one hand holding the towel to his face, but he hooked his arm around the right ladder brace and held on.

Sweat was trickling into his eyes, stinging them. He was nauseated from swallowing blood and a persistent buzz rang in his ears. If he didn’t get down soon . . .

He looked at the ground below. Maybe ten feet, maybe twelve. It was hard-packed dirt, cleared of brush as befitting a fire observation tower. If he hit it right he’d be okay, but off-balance he might break something. Or he could just bleed to death.

He let the towel drop, ignoring the blood which clung like sweet syrup, stepped down three more rungs and then jumped.

He landed hard on his feet and started to fall forward onto the ground before he steadied himself. He stood motionless for a moment, waiting for his vision to clear.

The jeep was to the side of the equipment shed, the keys in the ignition. He climbed unsteadily into the seat and turned the key before vomiting blood and stomach bile on the floor.

He made it to the small private hospital in eight interminable minutes and leaned on the horn, waiting for help.

“You’re in luck,” Dr. Nathan Adams said, still packing sterile gauze up Hudson’s left nostril.

“I don’t feel lucky,” Hudson said with an effort.

“Don’t try to talk.” He finished with the gauze and removed his surgical gloves. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, but,
luckily,
we’ve got your type on hand.” He picked up the chart and began to write. “I’ll want you to stay here for a couple of hours after the transfusion, but then you can go home.”

The nurse came into the treatment room with an IV pole from which a unit of blood was hung.

“Did you find the blood warmer?” Dr. Adams asked, placing the chart on the counter.

“Right where you said it would be.” She began to set up for the transfusion, unwrapping the blood administration set and connecting the tubing to the blood bag. She noticed the patient watching her as she tore off short strips of IV tape and attached them at intervals along the metal bed restraints. She smiled. “I’ll only have one hand free to tape the needle to your arm.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Dr. Adams said, going out the door. “I don’t hire nurses unless they have three hands.” The door swung shut behind him.

She picked up the needle and began swabbing his arm with an alcohol pad. “He’s in a good mood—his niece is coming home today.” Her fingers stroked his vein. “This might sting.”

He winced as the needle penetrated his skin.