Robert Walker - Titanic 2012

“I don’t think I can take this, Declan!” Thomas tossed his forceps and the bone segment he’d cut onto a steel tray, creating a clanging metallic response so loud it felt as if the room shook. Then he started for the door, but Ransom grabbed him.

“Hold on, son. You’re seeing this thing through; you came to me, remember?”

“I need a drink… water, absinthe, whiskey, something… .”

“There’s the sink—running water. Have at it, but you get straight; we’re all seeing this through till dawn.” Ransom remained a barrier before Thomas.

Declan went to his friend and placed a hand on his back. “We’ve two more bodies yet to go, Tommie. Buck up. This thing… whatever it is… it could devastate all of Ireland if not Europe. We’ve got to confront it here and now.”

“You want to die like them?” he nodded at the petrified corpses. Suppose we’re already… that it’s already inside us, Declan, draining us like… like it did to Uncle Anton and the other two?”

“We have to put slivers of the organs beneath the scope, Tom—all of them, and document the condition of the body and the bone with photographs to… to document what we do here for others to know, to learn, and to understand.”

“And if it kills us?”

“And yes, if it kills us in the bargain, then… well then so be it. We are men of science after all. Dr. B says men of science must be brave beyond compare.”

Thomas snickered at this. “So where the hell is he?”

“No matter he can’t live up to his theories, he made us scientists, Thomas.”

“A fine speech, Declan, but I’m scared—damn scared—and no braver than Dr. B. Seeing the condition of McAffey’s heart… his insides. Suppose we have it, and it’s eating us alive as we speak, from the inside out, and we haven’t time to see our mothers, our family, and we die alone like these poor bastards did? What then?”

Ransom stepped forward and slapped Thomas across the face. “Declan is right. We make a stand. Here, now!”

The slap to his face sobered Thomas who now nodded repeatedly and looked sheepishly into Declan’s eyes. “You’re right—the both of you. I’m all right. You needn’t worry.”

“Then get to work; get that camera Dr. B keeps tucked away; we have to document everything, Tommie—each step we take.”

Thomas snatched open a metal cabinet and located a compact, state-of-the art camera and began working to bring it to bear on the bodies. “Absolutely,” he muttered, looking as if pleased he had something solid to hold onto and something to focus on. “When Dr. B comes in tomorrow morning, we’re going to show him what we’re made of.”

“Exactly,” replied Declan.

“No matter his and the dean’s reaction, they’ll know we’ve done first rate work.”

The look of the sleek camera and Thomas’ enthusiasm for this work reminded Alastair of his best friend back in Chicago, a photographer named Philo Keane, another good reason to see Chicago again once before he dies. Lately, Ransom had been feeling a strange sense of foreboding creeping in like an unruly fog he could not shake off. Perhaps he’d had some odd and nebulous premonition of this night’s coming for him, but no recognition of befriending the young interns amid this evolving mystery. It’d gone from a missing person’s case to three bodies riddled with a frightening disease organism no one seemed capable of giving a name to. Again Ransom looked from one to the other of the blackened bodies that had only hours before been sentient men full of life. Their skin made him think of blackened, smoked fish without the pleasant odors.

Ransom backed into a wall to lean against something solid, feeling a rush of fatigue trying to take him down. Declan noticed and shouted, “Not you, too! We’ll need every pair of hands.”

“What bloody good can I do? I’m not a medical man.”

“You can assist me; I’ll tell you what to do.”

Ransom shoved off the wall. “Whatever you say, Dr. Irvin.”

“That sounds good, but come sunup, I may be kicked out of the university.”

“In which case, you go to another!” replied Ransom.

“Records follow a man,” continued Declan.

“You will do fine; you, young man, are meant to become a doctor.”

Thomas smirked. “Goes for both of us! We’ll find a little hamlet and set up a surgery and veterinary, won’t we, Dr. Coogan? That’s what and how exciting for us? Shitty deal, and what’ll they do with you, Detective?”

Alastair took in a deep breath of air and immediately regretted doing so as the odors coming off the bodies attacked his senses far worse than when they’d entered the room. “I don’t have so much to sacrifice as you young lads; you have your entire lives ahead of you. Relatively speaking, I’ve lived a life, so what can they take from me that they haven’t already stolen?”

“Stolen?” asked Declan, staring at the big detective.

“Home, my comforts, my geography, friends, loved ones, people I step aside for, dignity, position, my notion of who I am—all gone. Stolen.”

The two interns looked at Ransom as if seeing him for the first time.

“Are you… you know, guilty of what they say?” asked Thomas. “I mean are you on the run after all?”

Declan asked point blank. “Who has stolen your life?”

“I am guilty of being a bastard, boys.” He tried to laugh this off. “Guilty of many a mistake, of murder some would say although I don’t see it that way, but this last bit of trouble, honestly… ironically enough, I am innocent of it altogether.”

“Innocent of what?” asked Thomas, pressing the point.

“Of this charge that they hung on me.”

“You mean if-if Reahall returns you?” asked Thomas. “Perhaps, sir, you should leave now. Since he’s hot on your heels.”

Declan gritted his teeth. “We need all hands, Thomas.”

“Will you be able to live with yourself, Declan, if Mr. Wyland here is thrown into jail and sent back to—where to?” he ended by asking Alastair but did not wait for an answer, rather blurting out, “Chicago—Reahall thinks you escaped from there with a murder indictment hanging over your head. What is it they say in America? Wanted Dead or Alive?”

“How do you know what Reahall thinks?” asked Declan, confused.

Thomas shrugged. “Remember when we first went to the police about my uncle, remember?”

“Yes, so?”

“You were with me, but you got so angry at their lack of interest that you stormed out ahead of me—remember?”

“Yes, but I went out for a smoke and to clear my—”

“Constable Reahall… he took me aside.”

“He did?”

“Told me about a former police detective late of Chicago who might be of help to us.”

“How kind of him,” muttered Ransom.

“And he added that I should take care around the man—you, sir. Said you were reported to’ve killed a priest in Chicago—cut off his gonads, he said.”

“Gonads? You… you cut off a priest’s testicles?” Declan demanded of Ransom.

“Constable Reahall said all that did he?” asked Ransom.

“Yes—yes, he did.”

“And the monies you two gathered from concerned relatives to pay my fee? Did that also come from the constable?”

“Petty cash he called it.”

“Then you are working for Reahall, eh? A snitch, a spy?”

“Damn you sly dog, Thomas!” Declan stormed about in a little circle. “You told me lies atop lies. Why didn’t you confide in me?”

“When have you ever kept your calm, Declan? I couldn’t trust your knowing and tipping off Detective Wyland here.”

“So the highly acclaimed, well-reputed detective from the United States,” began Ransom, “has been made the fool by two young lads with scalpels. Might’ve expected it of gutter snipes, but here, you two?” Ransom laughed heartily at himself.