Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Ackerley's handwriting was a spidery scrawl, reminding Michael of the labels the man had carefully affixed to every drawer of moss and lichen samples in his botany lab. But these pages were especially hard to read, smudged as they were with blood and written on the back of billing invoices and inventory sheets.

The first page or two-carefully numbered, as Ackerley had promised, in the upper-right-hand corner-recounted the attack, how he had turned to see Danzig lumbering down the aisle toward his lab counter. “I remember being thrown to the floor-destroying a meticulously cultivated orchid (genus Cymbidium) in the fall-and being set upon with great force and no provocation. The assault, though apparently random and senseless, did ultimately reveal itself to be deliberate in its intent.”

Michael sat back, stunned. He really had to hand it to him; even after being savagely mauled-and rising from the dead, as it were-Ackerley had managed to retain his scientific composure and prose style. The notes, written in a meat locker under what might only be called extreme duress, read like an article being submitted to a scholarly journal for peer review.

“Upon consideration, Mr. Danzig's efforts,”- Mr. Danzig? — “however wild and distracted, were all directed toward the breaking of the skin and accessing the blood supply. What the reasons for that might have been, or the particular components of the blood that were most sought after, was unclear at the time of the event, and remain so. I am, however, inevitably reminded of the Nepenthes ventri-cosa and its own hematophagous needs.”

His sangfroid was beyond belief.

“Death-in any previously understood construction of the term-occurred no more than a minute or so into the event. The interval between that time and what I shall hereinafter refer to as the Revival is unknown to me, though as I have ascertained no material decay it can't have been excessive. (Must consult morbidity and decomposition graphs.) Quick refrigeration of my remains appears to have helped considerably.”

The next few lines were hopelessly smudged, and Michael had to go looking for the next sequentially numbered page. They were scattered all over the tabletop in front of him, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

“The Revival was gradual,” Ackerley continued, in the margins of a purchase order, “much like awakening from a deep, possibly hypnagogic state. The line between the dream state and the real was imperceptibly crossed, though it was immediately followed by a sense of panic and disorientation. I was in total darkness, confined somehow, and the fear of premature burial was, of course, paramount in my mind; to be blunt, I screamed and fought against the constraints, and was greatly relieved to establish that I was encased only in plastic sheets, which were permeable and easily shredded.”

My God, Michael thought. Ackerley's ordeal was like something out of Edgar Allan Poe-and the fact that he had had a hand in it gave him a sharp and guilty pang.

“But my left wrist had been inexplicably handcuffed to a pipe. That would lead me to believe that someone-Mr. O'Connor? — had reason to believe that (a) a third party might try to make off with my body (for what purpose?) or (b) something like the Revival might have been expected to happen. It was the work of several hours-including the abrasion of much skin and, I believe, the dislocation of three fingers-to free myself.

“My liberty obtained, I must record that the strongest sensation-quite overpowering in its way-was one of thirst. Attempts to assuage it with beverages found in the locker were useless. It was accompanied by a visual disturbance. I am a scientist-or, more accurately, was a scientist, as I remain convinced that my present, and quite unnatural, state will soon come to an end-and I feel it's incumbent on me, while I can recall it, to describe to the best of my abilities the sensations I underwent.”

Michael had to search for the next page, which he found under his coffee mug. This one was written on the back of an advertising flyer for Samuel Adams Lager.

“There was a washed-out look to everything in my visual field. I can only compare it to the illumination from a bank of feeble fluorescent lights. Slightly dim. But blinking, as I did repeatedly, seemed to refresh the image. Then it would fade again. I am doing it even now, to continue writing. It is possible that this ocular disturbance is a sign of the Revival ebbing. I'll try to write faster, just in case. Note: Please forward my love and effects to my mother, Mrs. Grace Ack-erley at 505 French Street in Wilmington, DE.”

Michael had to pause at that. Jesus. Then, reaching for his coffee mug, he read on.

“A certain shortness of breath has also been introduced. It is as if I am insufficiently oxygenated, leading to dizziness, though my lungs and airways do not in any way feel obstructed.”

Michael was aware of being watched before he actually saw anyone. He raised his eyes above the rim of the coffee mug and saw a slim figure, bundled in an orange coat, lurking just inside the wide, arched entryway.

And even with the hood pulled forward, and the coat hanging almost to the floor, he knew it was Eleanor.

He put the cup down and said, “Why aren't you in bed?” But what he really wondered was, Why are you out of the infirmary? You're supposed to be in virtual quarantine, and definitely out of sight.

“I can't sleep.”

“Dr. Barnes could give you something to help.”

“I've slept enough.” But he saw the hood swivel, as she turned her head, perplexed, around the room. She looked at the piano, and its empty bench, then back around the rec hall. “I heard the music.”

“Yes,” he said. “Beethoven. But maybe you know that.”

“I know some of Herr Beethoven's compositions, yes. But…”

“It's a CD,” he said, gesturing at the player on the shelf. “It plays music.” He got up from his chair, went to the CD player, hit stop, then start. The opening notes of the Moonlight Sonata began to play.

Eleanor, mystified, drifted into the room and pushed the hood back off her head. She went straight to the machine and stood a few feet in front of the speakers, almost as if she were afraid to get any closer. When Michael, just to surprise her, hit FORWARD and it skipped ahead to the Emperor Concerto-and the lush sounds of a full orchestra again-her eyes opened wide in even greater amazement, and she looked over at him… with a smile on her lips. The first such smile, of sheer amazement, he had ever seen there. Her eyes sparkled and she nearly laughed.

“How does it do that? It's like Covent Garden!”

Michael wasn't really up to giving a lecture on the history of audio electronics-not that he'd have known where to start. But he was enthralled at her obvious delight. “It's complicated,” he simply said. “But it's easy to use, and I can show you how.”

“I would like that, very much.”

So would I, he thought. The aroma from the coffee machine was strong, and he asked her if she'd like some.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, “I have had Turkish coffee before. In Varna and Scutari.”

“Yes, well, this is what we call Folger's. It's in the same family.” He was keeping his eye on the door the whole time he filled the mug. It wasn't likely that anyone else would be popping in at that hour, but he didn't know how he could explain her away if anyone did. New faces didn't just turn up out of nowhere at Point Adelie.

“Sugar?” he asked.

“If you have it, please.”

He shook a packet of sugar, then tore it open and poured it in for her. Even that she watched with interest, and he had to remind himself, yet again, that every single thing in his world-in the present day-was likely to be strange, foreign, and sometimes even alarming to someone who wasn't born into it.