The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [30]
“Then either someone was as lost as I was,” Keller replied, looking the major in the eye, “Or someone is lying. Sir.” The major looked down and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but the colonel in the middle purpled.
“Or maybe, Sergeant,” he said in a gravelly voice, “you fucked up, got out of your assigned area, and led your squad into an ambush.” He stood up. “You’ve got a good record so far, Sergeant,” he said. “Don’t throw away your career.”
Keller stared at him. He couldn’t control the hysterical laugh that bubbled up unbidden from his chest. “My career?” he said, almost choking with the laughter. “My CAREER?” he laughed harder. Then he noticed that the three officers’ faces were changing, melting like candle wax. As Keller stared, flames erupted from their eyes and mouths. They fell to the floor, burning. The air was filled with the stench of burned flesh and hair. They were screaming. Keller tried to go to them, but he couldn’t move his feet. He looked down and saw that his feet had sunk up to the ankles in the floor. He began screaming as well...
“Honey,” a voice was saying, “Honey, wake up.” There was a hand on Keller’s shoulder, shaking gently. He tried to reach up and grab the hand, but his right arm wouldn’t respond. He opened his eyes.
He was in a hospital bed. He noticed that his vision was obscured by a mass of bandage across the bridge of his nose. The entire front of his face was throbbing with pain.
A middle-aged black woman in a nurse’s uniform was standing over him. As Keller’s eyes focused on her concerned, kind face, she stopped shaking him. Her hand remained on his shoulder. “Bad dreams?” she said. Keller nodded. She withdrew her hand, patting him on the shoulder as she did so. “Well, you’re all right now. You’re safe.”
Keller tried to raise his hand again, but couldn’t. “Then why am I handcuffed to the bed?”
The nurse’s mouth drew into a disapproving line. “Not my idea, believe me. There’s some po-lice outside that want to talk to you as soon as you wake up. I say you’re going to see a doctor first. You want some water?” Keller nodded again. She poured him a cup from a plastic pitcher at the bedside and he took it with his free hand. She patted him on the shoulder again and went out the door. There was a brief conversation outside, ending with the nurse’s raised voice saying “I SAID, after he’s seen a DOCTOR”. He heard her heavy footsteps going away. No one entered.
After a few minutes, the door opened again and a man in a white coat came in. He was short, no more than five-two or -three, with dark skin and jet-black hair ineptly combed, giving him an absent-minded look that was enhanced rather than contradicted by his round wire-rimmed glasses. A curlicue of elaborately embroidered lettering above the pocket of his white coat identified him as Dr. Ahmad.
“Good morning,” he said in a precise, almost British accent. “I am Doctor Ahmad. And how are we feeling today?”
“Like someone tried to kick our head in,” Keller said.
“Ha Ha,” the doctor said, pronouncing each syllable as if he had learned to laugh from a language text. He withdrew a small penlight from the pocket of his white coat and leaned over. He shined the light into first one eye, then the other. “Are you experiencing any blurred vision, slurred speech--”
“I’m fine,” Keller said.
Ahmad leaned back. “Your nose was broken,” he said. “I’ve called for a plastic surgery consult--”
“I’m fine,” Keller repeated.
Ahmad looked annoyed at the interruption. “We’ve been hesitant to give you anything for the pain until we determined whether there was any skull fracture or closed head injury. That danger seems to have passed. You’re quite lucky.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “Lucky.” He raised his right hand a few inches and the handcuff chain clinked. Ahmad looked at the cuffs and swallowed nervously. “Yes. Well,” he said. “There are a couple of policemen outside who wish to talk to you.” The nurse re-entered the room, holding a small cup of water in one hand and a small paper container in the other.