The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August(115)

Visions of a rescue.

There was metal in my skin, embedded deep.

Stone on my belly.

Dirt in my mouth.

The rescuers wore lead-lined suits, and before they removed me from the smoking wreckage of the corridor, they hosed me down for nearly half an hour. The water ran red for a very long time, before it ran clear.

Darkness.

An anaesthetist asked me if I knew of any allergies.

I tried to reply and found that my jaw was swollen lead.

I don’t know what use the question was, or if they asked me any more.

Vincent by my bedside, head bowed.

A nurse changing tubes.

I knew, by the quality of the air, that I was no longer in a cave.

I saw daylight, and it was beautiful.

Vincent sat in a chair at the end of my bed, an IV drip connected to his arm, though he appeared unbloodied, sleeping. Had he left my side? I didn’t think so.

I wake, and I feel nauseous.

“Water.”

Vincent, there, immediately.

“Harry?” His lips are cracked, his skin is pale. “Harry, can you hear me?”

“Vincent?”

“Do you know where you are?”

As he talks, he checks my vitals, carefully, effectively. He, like most ouroborans, has had some medical training. My vitals are not good, but this Harry August mustn’t know that.

“Hospital?” I suggest.

“That’s right–that’s good. Do you know what day it is?”

“No.”

“You’ve been asleep for two days. You were in an accident. Do you remember that?”

“The… quantum mirror,” I breathed. “What happened?”

“You saved my life,” he replied softly. “You got me out of the room, told me to run, closed the door. You saved a lot of lives.”

“Oh. Good.” I tried to lift my head, and felt pain run up my back. “What happened to me?”

“You were caught in the blast. If I’d been any closer I would have been… but it was mostly you. You’re still in one piece, which is a miracle, but there are some… some things the doctor will need to discuss with you.”

“Radiation,” I wheezed.

“There was… there was a lot of radiation. I don’t know how it… But that doesn’t matter now.”

Doesn’t it? That’s new.

“You OK?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“I’m fine.”

“You look a little pale.”

“I… I got a lot of radiation too, but you were… You saved my life, Harry.” He kept coming back to this, incredulity in his voice. “Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“How about a pay rise?”

A little laugh. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m going to die?” I asked. When he didn’t immediately answer, I gave a small nod. “Right. How long?”

“Harry…”

“How long?”

“Radiation sickness… it’s not pretty.”

“Never seen myself bald,” I admitted. “Did you…? Are you…?”

“I’m still waiting on test results.”

No, you’re not, Vincent. “I hope it’s… I hope you’re OK.”

“You saved me,” he repeated. “That’s all that matters.”


Radiation sickness.

It’s not pretty.

You will be experiencing the worst of it, as you read this. Your hair will be long gone, and the nausea will largely have passed to be replaced by the continual pain of your joints swelling up and internal organs shutting down, flooding your body with toxins. Your skin will be peppered with ugly lesions, which your body is incapable of healing, and as the condition progresses you will start drowning in your own bodily fluids as your lungs break down. I know, because this is precisely what my body is doing, even as I write this for you, Vincent, my last living will and testament. You have, at most, a few days to live. I have a few hours.


“Stay with me,” I said.

Vincent stayed.

After a while the nurses brought another bed in for him. I didn’t comment on the drips they plugged into his veins as he lay down beside me until, seeing my stare, he smiled and said, “Just a precaution.”

“You’re a liar, Vincent Rankis.”

“I’m sorry you think so, Harry August.”

In a way, the nausea was worse than the pain. Pain can be drowned, but nausea eats through even the most delicious opiates and cutting chemicals. I lay in my bed and tried not to cry out until at last, at three in the morning, I rolled on to my side and puked up into the bucket on the floor, and shook and sobbed and clutched my belly and gasped for air.

Vincent slipped out of his bed at once, coming over, entirely ignoring the bucket of puke at his feet, and with hands on my shoulders held me and said, “What can I do?”

I stayed curled up in a bundle, knees tucked to my chest. It seemed the least uncomfortable position I could assume. Vomit ran down my chin in thick, sticky bands. Vincent got a tissue and a cup of water and wiped it off my face. “What can I do?” he repeated urgently.

“Stay with me,” I replied.