Read Online Interzone 251 by edited by Andy Cox - Free Book Online

have nothing,” Simon said. “There’s nothing here. No food or water. Nothing of value. Nothing for you to take.”
    “I know,” the voice said. “Let me in.”
    “I’m just an old man. I’m sick.”
    “I can make you well.”
    Hearing this, Simon paused. He put his eye to a crack in the door, but the landing was too dark, and he saw nothing but dim shapes. Frustrated, he put his mouth near a crack. “What does that mean?” he asked through the door.
    “I’m a surgeon,” came the reply.
    Simon looked himself over: crooked, undernourished and unsteady. His body was a canvas of sores, scars and scabs, most of which he couldn’t remember acquiring. A surgeon, with medicine and knowledge… Simon realized then what an ineffective barrier the door made. A determined child could have unhinged it with a kick. Whoever waited on the landing did so only out of propriety. But still…
    “Prove you’re not one of
them
,” Simon said.
    “How would I do that?”
    Simon looked down. He couldn’t say, and that had always been part of the problem.
    The door had no handle or latch; Simon kept it closed with two nails with a length of wire strung between them. Fingers twisted with arthritis, Simon unwound the wire, but stopped on the last loop.
    “I’m very old,” he said through the door. “I don’t see good anymore, and my bones hurt. When I cough, there’s blood.” Earning no response, he added, “I cough a lot.”
    “Open the door,” the voice said wearily.
    Sick of his own fear, Simon undid the final loop of wire. Keeping behind the door, he pulled it open just a crack to peer onto the landing.
    The surgeon was younger than Simon had imagined, but not too young. Neither was he large, or small. He had plain eyes and a simple face which Simon knew he would forget if he turned his back. He did not seem strong, but by the look of his hands – square and thick-fingered – he was certainly not weak. Weak men did not have such hands.
    Given his position, Simon felt it within his rights to stare, and he did so defiantly. The surgeon made no immediate move to enter, and they regarded one another a long moment.
    “Well,” said the surgeon.
    “Do I know you?” asked Simon.
    The surgeon squinted one eye. “I don’t think so. No.”
    Frowning, Simon pulled the door open in invitation.
    The surgeon stooped to pick up a leather satchel and an unlighted lantern. Stepping over the threshold and around the mess on the floor, he went to the middle of the garret and made a casual appraisal of the sagging ceiling and stained walls. Turning to face Simon, he said, “We can’t stay here.”
    Simon remained behind the door. “There are worse places,” he said.
    The surgeon nodded, shrugged. “Still,” he said. “We should go.”
    “I don’t know you. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
    The surgeon sighed, as though he’d expected nothing less.
    Simon decided he’d seen enough. This was no surgeon. This was a charlatan, and nothing more. He pulled the door as wide as it would go and jerked his head toward the landing.
    The surgeon gave him a look of disapproval. “So soon?”
    “You can’t help me,” Simon said. He’d been foolish to think so.
    “There was a time – you’re old enough to remember – when guests were treated with respect. Guests were offered gifts sometimes.”
    “I already told you, I have nothing.”
    “No,” the surgeon agreed. But instead of leaving, he set down his bag and lantern, and righted Simon’s chair, fiddling for a moment with the cracked slats before giving up on them. Clasping his hands behind his back, he went to the portal window and bent at the waist to look down at the fog-shrouded street.
    “You didn’t evacuate,” the surgeon said. “Why?”
    “I did. But I came back.”
    The surgeon nodded in disappointment. “Many came back.” Noticing the framed photograph on the sill, he picked it up and straightened to study it. “More than you might think. It was