“She needs a saline drip,” Harold repeated “she’s lost too much fluid.” He wouldn’t answer any questions.
Peter, on the other hand, insisted nothing had happened. He was surprised they’d been down there over half an hour.
No one had realized anything was wrong until Pierce and Roger had come to start the packing process. The two had called Dr DeReal down to deal with his three sleeping employees. The doctor wasn’t sure what to do. All three of them were dedicated, hard-working, intelligent professionals. This was the first time any of them had done anything remotely out of place.
Peter, on the other hand, insisted nothing had happened. He was surprised they’d been down there over half an hour.
No one had realized anything was wrong until Pierce and Roger had come to start the packing process. The two had called Dr DeReal down to deal with his three sleeping employees. The doctor wasn’t sure what to do. All three of them were dedicated, hard-working, intelligent professionals. This was the first time any of them had done anything remotely out of place.
He woke Peter up first. Peter insisted he’d never been asleep, that he’d made some joke, saw the cylinder glow red, then Dr DeReal was there.
When he woke Harold, Harold immediately limped to Wendy’s side, skirting the puddle of water, and checked her pulse. He was visibly relieved to find she was still alive. Ever since then he was insisting they call a medic.
Wendy wouldn’t wake up when Dr DeReal called her name and gently shook her. Whatever had happened, it obviously had affected her the most. But he couldn’t believe that all that water had come from her body, as Harold was implying.
He decided to trust Harold. He had Pierce call the ER and send an ambulance. He’d wheel her up to the lobby and meet them there, since she was already in a wheelchair. Harold hobbled along behind him, silent and grim.
“Want to tell me what happened?” Dr DeReal asked, once the three of them were in the elevator.
Harold shook his head no, at first, then changed his mind.
“The poem is a spell, I think,” he said, “If you can get the translation more or less right, you can use it with the phallus to call forth the Nile.”
“The Nile? Is that what’s on the floor down there?”
“No-- yes--. I don’t know. That’s Wendy on the floor down there.”
“No one has that much fluid in their body,” DeReal objected.
Harold shrugged and was silent.
“And that new scar on your chest?”
“I think it was the way to stop the-- the process.” It wasn’t the word he wanted, but it was close enough. “I could be wrong, but I think it was, like, closing the door or sealing the fate or the future. . .” his voice trailed off. Dr DeReal kept his mouth closed. He had resigned himself to the fact that Harold was going to need a long vacation.
* * * *
The EMT’s strapped Wendy to a gurney, got her in the ambulance, then hooked her up to an IV.
“She’s severely dehydrated,” one of them reported to Dr DeReal and Harold, “to the point of possible renal failure and other internal damage. Glad you called us when you did.”
“I’ll inform her family contacts once I’m back in my office,” Dr DeReal told the EMT, shaking his hand, “Thanks for taking care of her.”
Harold found he was crying. He hadn’t taken care of his goddess. He’d almost let her die. He sat on the floor of the lobby and hid his face in his hands.
“Hey,” DeReal said in a quiet voice, “Hey, she’s going to be okay. Come on,” he said, tugging on Harold’s shoulder, “Get up and we’ll go to my office together.”
“I’m sorry,” Harold said, gulping a bit of air, “No, I’m going to go to the hospital, if that’s okay with you.”
“That's a good idea. Someone should take a look at your chest."
"I meant to help take care of Wendy."
"They won’t let you see her if you’re not family.”
"I meant to help take care of Wendy."
"They won’t let you see her if you’re not family.”
Harold nodded. “I know,” he said. He pushed against the floor with his hands and stood up gracefully, as if he’d been walking with one foot his whole life.
“If you're not going to have someone take a look at that burn, I think it’d be better if you went home,” his manager said.
Harold nodded absent-mindedly, his thoughts already leaping to another topic. “We should get a sample of that fluid, see what it really is.”
“Well, if it’s from Wendy. . .” Dr DeReal said.
Dr DeReal arched an eyebrow but said nothing other than, “I’m pretty sure Pierce made Richard mop it up by now.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He gave his manager a weak smile.
“Go home, sleep it off. Write me some sort of believable explanation tomorrow,” DeReal said.
Doctor DeReal watch Harold push his own wheelchair toward the employee access door, feeling like he was missing something, feeling he'd have to follow Harold down the rabbit hole if he wanted to figure it out. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
* * * *
Harold finally admitted to himself that he was feeling different--maybe even healthy--when he got to his Kenguru. He had to sit in his wheelchair in order to drive it. What had felt like unlimited freedom a few hours ago now seemed to slow him down. As he wove his little wedge of a car through Chicago's constant traffic, a light rain began. He felt as though he was navigating through canals and croplands, a little fish in a wet world.
He decided to stay in his wheelchair once he got to the ER; he felt it might improve his chances of admittance. It turned out that the burn on his chest was bad enough to get him out of the waiting area and into the triage area within a few minutes of his arrival. The aide wheeled him past an assortment of sick people, some sleeping, a few crying, and one cranky old guy yelling that his mother, with a third-grade education, knew more about medicine than these clowns.
He caught a glimpse of Wendy, apparently sleeping, and bit his tongue to avoid making a scene. He'd been in the ER often enough to know that smiles and quiet respect for the staff would get him whatever he wanted, even if it was to be moved closer to the window--which happened to be directly above Wendy's left shoulder.
The aide helped him move to a bed, parking his wheelchair against the wall. It wasn't long before a male nurse arrived to treat the burn. They made small talk and the nurse remarked upon the artistic merit of Harold's new chest decoration. His own forearms each featured realistic tattoos of flayed birds, and he confided to Harold that he liked to brand, too, but cautioned about doing such a large branding so near the heart.
"Maybe you could move me closer to that window when you have a chance?" Harold asked him, hoping they'd developed enough of a rapport.
The young man nodded, tidied up his work cart, and wheeled it away. Not ten minutes later Harold was moved next to Wendy, the window over his right shoulder, his wheelchair left behind because he could hardly be bothered to remember it. He turned his head to watch her.
Wendy's skin looked better; brighter, fuller. The level of fluid in the IV bag seemed to fall at a rapid rate. He wondered how much they'd already poured into her. When a doctor and the nurse with the tattoos came over, tablets in hand, Harold closed his eyes and listened.
"Any signs of renal failure?"
"No, doctor."
"And is she still losing fluid?"
There was a long pause before the nurse answered, "We're not sure."
"Well, either she is or isn't."
"We've replaced ten bags of saline solution, doctor. And, while we've rehydrated her to an acceptable level, she does appear to continue to require more fluid. Her electrolyte levels have returned to normal. We're concerned, however, that continuing to supply her with saline-enhanced fluids may raise electrolyte levels too high. She's losing water, in other words, but not salt."
"And how is she losing water? Was she pregnant? Is she hemorrhaging?"
"No, doctor. As I said, we're not sure."
"It can't be magically disappearing," the doctor said, sounding impatient. Harold heard fabric rustle. He heard the rest of the ER bustling around them. The branding hadn't worked, then, if she was still losing fluid. Maybe it wasn't enough to have burned himself with the flat end of the phallus. Maybe he had to say something, too. Harold thought about the fecundity prayer; it was the only written-- no, he interrupted himself, the brand itself could be made up of glyphs. He suddenly felt excited.
He opened his eyes and looked at the nurse and doctor. The doctor was palpating Wendy's stomach, a distant look in her eyes as she focused on what she was feeling.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Harold said to the nurse, "But I'm pretty sure I'm ready to be discharged. When you have a chance can you ask someone to help me?"
The nurse turned his head, an irritated look on his face, before he recognized Harold. His sour expression became neutral and he said, "Someone will be with you shortly. The whole ER process takes time."
Harold wanted to tell the nurse that he could help Wendy if they'd just let him out, but he pressed his lips together and made himself wait. Wendy's doctor ordered a continued saline drip until they could take x-rays.
Once the two moved on to their next patient, he let himself look at Wendy again. Her eyes were open, fixed on him.
"Hey," she whispered.
Harold swallowed, trying not to cry again. She was so beautiful, so perfect, so. . . words failed him. He simply gazed at her.
"Slave," she whispered, as if she call him that all the time. And he felt as if she had, as if he'd always been her slave. It was perfect, it was exactly as he wished to be addressed. His dick flooded with blood and he was so hard it hurt.
"Yes, goddess," he managed to croak.
"This is a fine adventure, isn't it," she said, her eyes and her smile warm and alive.
"I wouldn't describe it that way," Harold said.
"I had a dream. I had to make a decision: whether to rule over Chicago, with its very own Nile, or save it."
Harold swallowed hard. He didn't dare ask which option she'd chosen. He didn't want to know, and it didn't really matter; he would help her either way.
"In my dream, I ruled Chicago. The water was deep and rich. My slaves worked the land all the way upriver to Joliet. But I saw the flooding along Lake Michigan. I saw that I would rule Chicago properly but other cities and towns--Michigan City, Holland, Milwaukee, Sheboygan, Green Bay, Traverse City--all of them, would be ruled by confusion and terror. As much as I want the power in my dream, it requires too much destruction."
"I--"
"Shh, slave," Wendy said, "listen. The flood we called is coming."
"I think I--"
"The brand. You need to get out of here and decipher the brand."
"Yes," Harold said.
"Well? What are you waiting for?" Wendy asked.
"I-- they have to discharge me."
"No they don't," Wendy said, sounding confident, "I am a goddess now, and I command you to leave. I command the staff to let you go. Call Peter and tell him I command him to retrieve the phallus and give it to you."
"But, the paperwork-- and, and--"
Wendy fixed Harold with a stare that seemed to melt him down to his bones.
"What part of 'goddess' don't you understand?" she said, her voice loud and sharp. Harold heard the soft buzz and energy of the ER area fall silent, he felt his hard on deflate as though disappointed with him.
Harold blinked at her. She softened her gaze and said, "We've both seen and heard and done enough to be believers, slave. Have some faith and go."
He swung his legs over the side of his little bed then began to button what buttons were left on his shirt, wincing slightly when the fabric pulled a little at the tape the nurse has used to secure the bandage over his burn. His tie was in his pants' pocket and his jacket slung over one arm. He patted at the pockets until he heard the jingle of his car keys and felt the rectangular shape of his cell phone. Satisfied, he slipped off the bed. He hardly noticed that he was still walking on one shoe and one thin layer of padding over bone as he made it to his wheelchair and sat down.
"Are you ready, sir?" an aide asked, hurrying to his side.
"Yes," Harold said, "I'm ready to leave."
"Let me escort you to the door, then."
Harold glanced at his goddess, but she'd already closed her eyes. she looked so calm, at peace within this new layer of reality they'd uncovered. He wanted to ask her more questions, but she'd asked him to have faith.
As he wheeled his way to his car, Harold called Peter's cell phone and left a message. While he felt ecstatic to belong to his goddess, he wasn't sure her power extended to other people. If anyone could resist Wendy, it would be Peter; he was an asshole because he liked to be one, he enjoyed pissing off other people.
Harold was just about to back out of his parking space when his phone rang. It was Peter.
"Hello?"
"Harold, what the fuck was your message about?"
"Wendy said you have to get the phallus for her."
"Dude, there are so many other dildos in the world, why does she want an old stone one?"
"To keep Chicago from drowning," Harold heard himself say.
"You're an idiot," Peter said, "And anyway, it's too late. Pierce has everything boxed up. The transport truck has probably already left."
"Do you know that for sure?" Harold asked, deciding to take the risk, for once, of driving and talking on the phone at the same time. He transferred the phone to his right hand, protecting his burned muscles from further injury while driving.
"No. Not my job."
"Wendy said you need to get the phallus, so go get the phallus."
"No one talks to me like that," Peter said, starting to sound angry rather than flippant.
"Do it for Wendy."
"What's Wendy to me?"
Harold grimaced. He was at the parking structure's exit, the little red arm holding him back and the lit, green slot blinking, silently asking for his ticket.
"She's your goddess," Harold finally growled.
He could hear Peter breathing for a moment, then the line was disconnected. Harold swore to himself as he tucked his phone away and searched his pockets for the ticket. He found it crumpled in a jacket pocket, smoothed it out as best he could, fed it to the machine.
The barrier arm raised up and he inserted his Kenguru into traffic, a hard rain beating down on everything, before letting himself worry about Peter. Would he tell DeReal? Would he call down to Pierce and let him know Harold would show up soon to demand the phallus? If they didn't let him take it, Chicago would be underwater very soon.
* * * *
As he wheeled his way to his car, Harold called Peter's cell phone and left a message. While he felt ecstatic to belong to his goddess, he wasn't sure her power extended to other people. If anyone could resist Wendy, it would be Peter; he was an asshole because he liked to be one, he enjoyed pissing off other people.
Harold was just about to back out of his parking space when his phone rang. It was Peter.
"Hello?"
"Harold, what the fuck was your message about?"
"Wendy said you have to get the phallus for her."
"Dude, there are so many other dildos in the world, why does she want an old stone one?"
"To keep Chicago from drowning," Harold heard himself say.
"You're an idiot," Peter said, "And anyway, it's too late. Pierce has everything boxed up. The transport truck has probably already left."
"Do you know that for sure?" Harold asked, deciding to take the risk, for once, of driving and talking on the phone at the same time. He transferred the phone to his right hand, protecting his burned muscles from further injury while driving.
"No. Not my job."
"Wendy said you need to get the phallus, so go get the phallus."
"No one talks to me like that," Peter said, starting to sound angry rather than flippant.
"Do it for Wendy."
"What's Wendy to me?"
Harold grimaced. He was at the parking structure's exit, the little red arm holding him back and the lit, green slot blinking, silently asking for his ticket.
"She's your goddess," Harold finally growled.
He could hear Peter breathing for a moment, then the line was disconnected. Harold swore to himself as he tucked his phone away and searched his pockets for the ticket. He found it crumpled in a jacket pocket, smoothed it out as best he could, fed it to the machine.
The barrier arm raised up and he inserted his Kenguru into traffic, a hard rain beating down on everything, before letting himself worry about Peter. Would he tell DeReal? Would he call down to Pierce and let him know Harold would show up soon to demand the phallus? If they didn't let him take it, Chicago would be underwater very soon.
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