David Robbins: Boston Run

You could recall every aspect of your life in five minutes, two days, or next month.”

“Or next year?” Berwin said.

Doctor Milton nodded. “Or next year. Although personally I believe you’ll recover your memory much sooner than that. But rest assured that we will do everything in our power to help you overcome the amnesia.”

“What can be done?”

“Association with your family and friends will be of immense help,” Doctor Milton said. “Amnesia can also be treated by hypnosis and with drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“Yes. Sodium amytal and sodium penthothal are sometimes effective in correcting the condition, but I should advise you that the drugs can cause unpleasant side effects,” Doctor Milton stated.

“Do you recommend using hypnosis or drugs?” Berwin asked.

“Only as a last resort. I would rather try to jar your memory naturally.

We must proceed cautiously. When would you like to begin?”

“How about right now?” Berwin requested.

“Very well. What would you like to know?” the physician asked.

“Everything. Those technicians who administered the tests wouldn’t answer any of my questions. They told me to ask you. And Nurse Krittenbauer has revealed very little.”

Doctor Milton nodded. “They are performing their jobs properly. I prefer to impart information in a controlled environment, face to face, so I can gauge your reaction. Ask me any question and I’ll answer it.”

“Where in the world am I?”

“Boston.”

Berwin did a double take. “Massachusetts?”

“Is there a Boston somewhere else? You appear to be stunned,” Milton remarked.

“I am,” Berwin admitted.

“Do you remember anything about Boston?”

“No.”

“Give it time,” Doctor Milton said. “You were born and raised right here in Boston, Massachusetts, in the good old United States of America—”

“The United States?” Berwin said, interrupting in surprise.

“What about it?”

“Didn’t you say something about a war? World War Three?”

“The United States won the war. You’re an American citizen. Quite patriotic too, I understand.”

“I am?” Berwin said skeptically. He pressed his hands to his temples as a headache began to bother him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. I seem to recall something about the war, but it’s vague. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Are you experiencing any discomfort?”

“I’m beginning to get a headache,” Berwin disclosed.

“Then we’ll stop for a while.”

“But I want to learn all about my family. I want to see my parents and my sister.”

“And I’ll arrange for them to visit you in several hours. For now, why don’t you lay down and rest,” Doctor Milton recommended.

“I’m not tired,” Berwin said.

“Rest anyway,” Doctor Milton directed. He regarded the giant patient critically as the man reclined. “And under no circumstances are you to get out of bed.”

“What if I want to tinkle?”

“Use the urinal bottle under the bed. If you have to go number two, use the bedpan.”

“I’m capable of using a bathroom,” Berwin stated.

“What do you have against bedpans?” Doctor Milton joked, and chuckled. “Very well. I’ll instruct Nurse Krittenbauer to escort you to the bathroom if you have to go.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Milton nodded and left the room, insured the door was shut tight, and walked to the right, to the junction where Krittenbauer awaited him. “I was wrong,” he informed her. “We do need to worry. His aggressive personality is beginning to assert itself. The damn drug isn’t as effective as we’d hoped.”

“Or perhaps his will is simply too strong,” Krittenbauer speculated.

“What do we do now?”

“We expedite the process,” Milton said. “You know what will happen to us if we fail.”

“Yes,” she responded grimly, “and I’ve never been very fond of firing squads.”

“This is a friggin’ waste of time!”

“We’re not giving up until we’ve gone over every foot of ground between the field where the helicopter landed and the road.”

“Blade is our friend, yes? We owe him a lot, no?”

The first speaker placed his hands on his hips and glared at his two companions. “Yeah, Blade is our friend and he’s done a lot for us,” he snapped in a high-pitched, lisping voice. “But that doesn’t change the fact we’re still wastin’ our time. We’ll never find a clue.” His slanted green eyes were alight with anger. He stood under four feet in height and weighed only 60 pounds, and his entire body was covered with short, grayish-brown fur. His facial features were more like those of a feline than a human; a small mouth sporting wicked teeth, a short nose, a curved forehead, and pointed ears gave him the aspect of a two-legged cat. His only clothing was a gray loincloth.

“We might find a clue if there was less talking and more looking,” commented the second member of the threesome. Brown hair three inches long coated his lean frame, which was an inch taller than the cat-man’s. A black loincloth covered his privates. An extended nose, tiny brown eyes, and curved ears gave him a weasel-like appearance. “So get looking, Lynx,” he added.

“Who died and appointed you our leader, Ferret?” the cat-man retorted.

“Ferret is right, yes?” chimed in the third person. The tallest of the trio, he was five feet ten. His skin was a leathery gray in hue, and he wore a brown loincloth. Unlike his associates, he was hairless. His ears, small circles of flesh, served as counterpoints to his bald pate. A slit of a mouth, bizarre eyes with bright red pupils, and a pointed nose gave him a hawklike visage.

“Who asked you, Gremlin?” Lynx demanded testily.

“No one, no,” Gremlin conceded.

“Get off Gremlin’s case,” Ferret stated. “You’re wrong, as usual, and you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

“ I’m stubborn!” Lynx declared.

Ferret made a show of gazing all around them at the surrounding forest. “There must be an echo around here.”

“You’re the stubborn ones,” Lynx said. “You two bozos make me look wishy-washy.”

“What’s the real reason you’re upset?” Ferret asked.

“Figures. All I do is make a point and you’re ready to psychoanalyze me,” Lynx muttered.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ferret noted.

“You know what you can do with your question,” Lynx said, and began walking northward along the faint trail they’d been following.

“But Ferret is right again, yes?” Gremlin interjected, walking on the cat-man’s heels.

“Is he payin’ you to agree with every word he says?” Lynx cracked, glancing over his left shoulder.

“Of course not, no,” Gremlin replied.

“What’s your beef this time?” Ferret asked, bringing up the rear, his eyes sweeping the ground for anything unusual.

“What do you mean by ‘this time’?” Lynx responded. “Are you implying I gripe a lot?”

“I’m not implying you gripe a lot. I’m flat out telling you that you gripe a lot,” Ferret clarified for him. “In fact, I don’t know anyone who does as much complaining as you do. You’re never satisfied.”

“Listen to Mister Perfect,” Lynx countered. He spied a partial print in the soft soil and halted.

“Did you find a track, yes?” Gremlin asked.

“Yeah,” Lynx said, and knelt to examine the imprint. A sigh of frustration escaped his lips. “It’s a damn bear track.” He stood and continued their trek to the north.

“I wish you would tell us what’s eating you,” Ferret persisted.