Jack Kilborn - Endurance

Next to the table was a cart, piled high with medical instruments, none of which looked clean. Knives. Saws. Scalpels. Drill bits. Clamps. Needles. And a bowl of white powder.

“The time is ten fifty-two pm. We’ll begin the operation shortly.”

Mal followed the voice, saw a man standing at the foot of the table.

It’s an honest-to-Christ hunchback.

The hunchback wore a filthy white lab coat, his gnarled spine protruding up through a split in the back. The man also had clubbed feet, and one leg was several inches longer than the other, as judged by the high, clunky soles of his orthopedic shoes. His skull was bulbous, misshapen, hairless, and his cheekbones were uneven.

“What’s going on?” Mal said. “Who are you?”

The hunchback raised a camcorder to his chest, pointing it at Mal. He smiled, revealing several missing teeth. “I’m Jimmy, your surgeon. It appears the patient is awake. Let’s make sure.”

Jimmy raised a scalpel in his free hand, and before Mal could protest, the hunchback poked him hard in the thigh. The pain was instant and awful.

“Fuck! What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Indeed, the patient is awake, and responsive to stimulus.”

Jimmy pulled the scalpel free.

“Let me up, you crazy fucker!”

Jimmy set down the camcorder between Mal’s legs, then hobbled over to the television. It was an old CRT model with a pull knob for an on switch. Snow appeared on the screen, with the accompanying static hiss.

“I understand your concerns,” Jimmy said. “Surgery can be a traumatic experience. This tape should answer some of your questions.”

Jimmy pressed play on the VCR. After a few seconds of white noise and vertical flipping, an image came on.

It showed a woman, strapped to the very same table Mal was lying on.

Jimmy was using a hacksaw to cut off her leg.

Though the sound was turned low, the woman’s screaming stabbed Mal in the ears.

The scene cut to a different angle of a different person. An older man. He was begging, beating his bound fists on the table, while Jimmy had a hand inside his stomach cavity.

Next came a close-up of a woman’s breast, being filleted off as she thrashed.

“This next one is my favorite,” Jimmy said.

On the screen, he was using a spoon to pluck out a man’s eyeball.

“Did you hear the pop sound when it came out? I can rewind it if you didn’t.”

Mal squeezed his own eyes closed.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

“It’s not over yet!” Jimmy whined. He stuck Mal with the scalpel again. “Keep watching!”

Mal forced his eyes open, one nightmarish image after another searing itself onto his brain. Amputations. Organ removals. Procedures that weren’t even remotely medical, like the one involving a power sander.

“Dermabrasion,” Jimmy said. “It removes acne.”

“You’re insane,” Mal said. “You’re fucking insane.”

Jimmy switched off the TV, then stared over Mal’s head.

“You have a potty mouth, Mr. Deiter.”

Mal looked up, saw Eleanor had walked into the room. She was wearing a robe and a hairnet, a frown creasing her ugly face.

“Eleanor, what the hell—”

Eleanor clamped a hand over his mouth. “Any more foul language and I’ll have Jimmy sew your lips together. Understand?”

Mal saw she was serious, and he nodded. Eleanor let her eyes, and her hand, trail down his naked body.

“I see that you keep in shape,” she said, drawing a circle around his belly button with her finger. “That’s good.” Then her hand brushed over his penis, which was almost as awful as being stabbed with the scalpel.

Mal swallowed, biting back fear. “If you want money...”

“We have all the money we need, Mr. Deiter. But thank you for offering.”

“Applying styptic to control bleeding,” Jimmy said. Mal watched him take a pinch of white powder and press it into his thigh wounds.

He uttered, “Son of a...” but managed to stop himself before bitch came out.

“Self-control,” Eleanor said, tying a medical face mask across her mouth and nose. “I admire that in a man.”

“What do you want?” Mal said through gritted teeth.

“What I want, Mr. Deiter, is the same thing I’ve wanted for forty years, from the first time I felt my eldest child George kick inside my womb.” She leaned in closer. “I want one of my sons to become President of the United States.”

Mal realized this wasn’t some sort of kidnapping scheme, or an attempt to frighten him. Eleanor wasn’t just eccentric. She was truly out of her goddamn mind.

“All forty-three of our Presidents carry the royal bloodline.” Eleanor said. “My family has the very same bloodline, Mr. Deiter. We’re Roosevelts. And one day, another Roosevelt will sit in the Oval Office.”

Mal pulled at his straps, hard as he could. They didn’t give an inch.

“Did you know the term blue blood was applied to nobility because those of royal descent tended to have fairer skin, which allowed blue veins to show through?” Eleanor asked. “While having royal blood makes someone like me genetically superior to someone like you, such purity does come with its particular challenges. Anemia and hemophilia are two of them. Phocomelia. Amelia. Porphyria. Achromia. Scoliosis. Alopecia. Thrombocytopenia.”

Insanity, Mal mentally added.

“These have plagued royal families for generations. My sons bear these burdens heroically, as nobility should. But they require regular transfusions in order to remain healthy. Y’all can’t buy blood at the corner market, Mr. Deiter. Especially not the rare type we need. When one of my boys becomes President, we’ll no doubt have unlimited access to the nation’s blood banks. In the meantime, the only way for me to get a regular supply of fresh blood is to acquire it myself.”

“You want my blood,” Mal stated.

“Goodness no, Mr. Deiter. Your lady friend, Deborah, has the type we require. Yours is no good to us. But you can still be useful. My son Jimmy doesn’t have any political aspirations, unfortunately. But he does hope to one day become a doctor. That’s a noble calling in itself. And for that, he needs a lot of practice.”

Jimmy stuck his face next to Mal’s. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot.

“Today I’m going to be practicing amputation. I’m gonna start with your left hand.”

For the first time in his adult life, Mal felt like whimpering. He managed to get out, “Please, don’t.”

“You’re a strong man, Mr. Deiter,” Eleanor said. “Jimmy’s patients don’t normally last for more than four or five operations. The record is nine. I bet a healthy young specimen such as you can beat that record.”

Jimmy picked up the bone saw from the cart of instruments. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any anesthetic.”

Jimmy pulled the face mask up over his nose. Then he put something in his ears. Eleanor did the same.

Ear plugs. To block out my screaming.

“Please,” Mal said, even though he wasn’t heard. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t forget your gloves, Jimmy!” Eleanor yelled. “We don’t want you accidentally cutting yourself!”

Jimmy nodded, putting on a pair of blood-stained oven mitts. Then he picked up a scalpel, barely able to grip it. Eleanor held the camcorder.

“Please...”

The blade touched Mal’s arm.

“Knock me out,” Mal said. “For god’s sake, knock me—”

Then the cutting began, and Mal didn’t say anything else coherent.

# # #

When Letti opened her eyes, she heard a man screaming.

What’s going on?

She looked around, saw she was in some sort of cell. Bare, concrete walls, like a basement. Dirt floor. Completely empty, except for a water pump and a filthy plastic bucket.