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

your head,” the surgeon said. He stood and leaned over the tub so that he could support Simon’s neck with one hand. The other he placed firmly on his shoulder. “Hold onto my wrist,” he said. “Like that. Now…look.”
    Shivering, Simon looked into the surgeon’s face.
    “Don’t be afraid,” the surgeon told him.
    At that moment, Simon realized that leaving himself so vulnerable had been a grave mistake. “I’m done,” he said. “Get me out.”
    He tried to draw his legs under himself, but his feet slipped on the oily porcelain. Water – now cold and foul – sloshed from the tub onto the tile floor. Without leverage, Simon could do nothing but tighten his grasp on the surgeon.
    “I didn’t come to hurt you,” the surgeon said.
    “Pull me up!”
    “This suffering will pass,” the surgeon said. Then he forced Simon under the water, and held him there until he drowned.

    ***

    The surgeon dragged the corpse from the tub and laid it face up on the tile floor. Kneeling beside the body, he studied the withered figure, so diminished by death. He dried the body with care, wiping away the last of the grime and arranging the arms and legs in neat dignity. With a charcoal pencil, he drew a line from the hollow at the base of the old man’s throat down to the thatch of hair in his pelvic cavity. Flipping open the leather wallet beside him, he selected the largest of his scalpels. A deep breath, and he began his work.

    ***

    Simon opened his eyes to the familiar water stains on the ceiling over his pallet. He had been covered with a blanket, which slipped down as he sat up. In disbelief, he stared down at himself. He had been ripped open, bowels to throat, then stitched up again with fantastic skill. Simon touched the sutures gingerly, marveling at what had been done to him.
    “Don’t pick at it,” said the surgeon. He was sitting in Simon’s chair by the window, his bag by the door.
    “What did you do to me?” Simon asked.
    “Only what I promised.”
    Clutching the blanket around his waist and using the wall for support, Simon struggled to rise. The surgeon was at his elbow immediately.
    “Don’t touch me!” Simon snapped, batting the surgeon’s hands away. The agitation brought on a fit of coughing, and he bent double. When he could breathe again, he turned on the surgeon.
    “What did you do to me?”
    There was a bump from the closet, muffled by the curtain.
    Simon looked toward the back, then at the surgeon, who offered no explanation. Grabbing his candle from the windowsill, Simon started for the closet.
    “You shouldn’t,” the surgeon warned him.
    Simon swept aside the curtain and thrust his candle into the darkness.
    Not much blood was left, mostly in the cracks of tiles and around the drain. Shadows stirred up by Simon’s meager light hunched around the walls.
    Something moved in the tub.
    Stepping fully into the closet, Simon lifted the candle higher and leaned forward. The sides of the tub were caked with rings of grime, and near the drain was a disordered mound of bones. Some appeared to have been eaten through, as though by insects. Others had been snapped or sawed apart. All were moist with scraps of pale flesh and dried blood.
    The candle stuttered; the grisly pile shifted.
    Vaguely horrified, Simon backed out of the closet.
    “We should leave,” the surgeon suggested.
    “What happened in there?” Simon asked.
    “You said you wanted to be made well.”
    “You said you could do it.”
    “And I have.”
    Simon looked at the stitched chest, then at his hand, still feeble and spotted with age – still trembling. Fist to mouth, he forced a violent cough. He looked into his hand, then showed his blood-flecked palm to the surgeon. “This is not better.”
    “Ah,” the surgeon said sadly. “You’ve misunderstood.”
    Misunderstood?
Simon took a step forward to squint at this fraud who called himself a surgeon. “No,” he said. “I was deceived.
You
deceived me.”
    A soft