The Administrator Read online

  That week, he thought dead both of the other men that had come and mistreated him and his mother. One was found with his throat slit in an alley. The other died in a fiery, one car crash into an abandoned building.

  The next week, Miss Harkness, his math teacher, reprimanded him in class for not paying attention, and later that afternoon, they found her in the teachers’ lounge cold as stone. A sad-faced associate came into the class and explained that their teacher, Miss Harkness, had died of a heart attack during lunch break.

  That’s when Billy realized that since he was God, he couldn’t go around just thinking people dead because that probably wasn’t very god-like. I’m going to have to be more careful, he thought. He remembered his father telling him that God not only decided who died, but that He loved everyone and even sacrificed himself through his own son on a cross. That doesn’t make sense, Billy thought as he mulled it around in his ten year-old mind. If it was God’s son who died, how could he have sacrificed himself ?

  He was still trying to figure the whole thing out when he got home from school that afternoon. He unlocked the door quietly and tiptoed into the living room. His mother was passed out on the couch again. She huddled in a fetal position wrapped in a dirty, green robe. Her unwashed, un-combed hair was a tangled mass around her face, and dark, puffy circles lay underneath her red-rimmed eyes as she opened them and tried to focus on Billy. She groaned, made a half-hearted attempt to reach for the vodka bottle on the floor beside her, groaned again and fell back onto the dirty pillow. She had been this way ever since the George incident.

  Billy didn’t understand her. She should have been happy to get rid of the jerk.

  He got a soda out of the refrigerator, turned on the TV and lay down on the floor. Thinking of the contradictions of being God gave him a headache, and he wanted to stop thinking for a while. He slid a game in the slot and reached for the joystick. When he reached level six in the game, he realized what he had missed. Being God is like a game. You have to go through all the levels before you know what’s really going on. He laughed aloud and decided what he should do to reach level two.

  The next morning he didn’t go to school. He waited for his mother to wake up. He made her coffee and toast so she would be good and awake when he talked to her.

  She stumbled into the kitchen about ten o’clock. “What are you doing here?” She asked. “Is it Saturday already?”

  “No, Mama. It’s not. I just wanted to talk to you. To tell you something.”

  “Oh, Honey, how sweet. You made coffee.” She poured a cup and sat down. “What do you want to tell me? Are you in trouble? Something happen at school?”

  “Yeah, Mama, something happened, and I need to tell you something else that’s very important. Miss Harkness died yesterday.”

  “Oh no! First George, then Mike and Charles. Now her. Dear God, who’s next?”

  “Whoever hurts us, Mama,” Billy answered.

  “What? What did you say, Honey?”

  “I did it, Mama.”

  “Did what, Billy?”

  “Killed them, all of them. I wished them dead, and they died.”

  Her face crumpled into tears. “Oh no, Darling. You didn’t do it. It’s not your fault.” She rushed around the table and hugged him to her bosom. She kissed the top of his head and whispered, “What happened to George was horrible. That you had to witness such a thing makes me sick. It must have affected you more than I thought. But you mustn’t blame yourself, Sweetheart.” She looked up at the ceiling as though beseeching it to help her. “Oh I have been so stupid and selfish. Neglecting you and drinking so much, wallowing in my own self pity.” She hugged him tighter and laid her cheek on his hair. “I’m so sorry, Billy.”

  He raised his head and looked at her. “No, Mama. It was me. I did it because I am G....”

  She shushed him with her delicate hand gently covering his mouth. “Shh, Dear. Don’t blame yourself. Oh, God, I wish your father was alive. He’d know what to do, what to say.”

  “Do you, Mama? Do you really?”

  “Oh yes. More than anything, but that’s not possible. He’s gone forever. We just have to do the best we can without him.”

  The snakes were back in Billy’s stomach, writhing and squirming. His throat was dry. His heart pounded. Being God is hard, he thought.

  He glanced around the room seeking something—an answer—anything. His gaze stopped on the old, yellowed, gold framed picture his mother had hung on the kitchen wall the day they moved in. It was his father’s before he died and was the only thing they could keep when they lost the house. After the funeral, there wasn’t enough money to pay all the bills, so he and his mother had moved to the tenements. Suddenly the snakes in his stomach stopped squirming, and he knew what he must do.

  “Take care of your mother,” his father had said right before he died. Then he had said something about God loving the world and about God’s only begotten son dying so others could live.

  But, Billy thought. I don’t have a son! Confusion raged in his young mind for a moment, then settled into gentle chaos.

  He looked up at his mother’s pale, thin face. She hadn’t smiled in a long time. He hugged her tightly. He looked back at the picture and closed his eyes.

  He pictured himself spread-eagled on the wall.

  His small body made a loud “THUD” when it slammed against the plaster.

  He felt his bones snap.

  He thought the brutal, metal spikes into his hands and feet and cried out in surprise at the pain.

  Blood poured from the wounds streaking the faded wall crimson.

  Dimly, as if he was listening from under water, he heard his mother screaming, over and over, like one long eternal wail into hell.

  A rustling-crunching sound like halting, shuffling steps on dry, dead leaves came through the door. A sickly-sweet odor of putrefaction and moldy earth flowed through the room.

  His mother’s screams sliced through the air to a decibel beyond human hearing.

  He opened his eyes. Through the opaque film of death glazing his vision, he saw everything in black and white.

  He painfully turned his head to look at the worn picture of the crucifixion beside him on the wall, then gazed back at his mother and focused his eyes behind her at a point over her left shoulder. He smiled gently and gathered a final breath.

  “Look, Mama. Dad’s home!”

  A Job Well Done

  I have always liked hospitals. Most people hate hospitals, except maybe lawyers. I love the sharp, tangy smell of antibiotic, the squishy-squeaky sound of soft-soled shoes on hard, shiny floors, the sense of urgency, the expectant tinge hanging in the air like sparking currents of electricity as battles are fought for life—and for death. The shadows of lost—or won—battles lurking in dim corners waiting to pounce on their next victim are a real adrenaline rush. Guess that’s why I’m in the line of work I’m in.

  I usually get a wide berth when I come to work. No one wants to get in my way. But tonight I’m not wearing my Harvester uniform or the mask so nobody pays much attention. Tonight’s job requires regular clothes and what looks like a regular briefcase. Today, I’m off duty, officially anyway.

  I can do pretty much whatever I want on my off-time. It’s in the contract. I do pretty much what I want during my on-time too. But that’s not in the contract.

  I round the corner, and step aside as another Harvester passes me with the meaningful chrome case swinging easily from his right hand. His black bodysuit hugs his torso like a second skin and shows off his biceps. He glares at me through the eye-slits in his mask. Gray, penetrating eyes glare with that practiced, arrogant look as he tries to stare me down.

  I glower at people like that when I’m on duty. I had my eyes altered to look like a cat’s. My green and yellow eyes combined with the uniform scare the hell out of most people, but this time, I look down at the floor. I’m supposed to be a regular person right now, so I force myself not to stare him down. I know
I would have won if I had kept it up, then he would have known what I was and why I was here. Jerk probably would have reported me. Harvester’s oath and all that, you know.

  Dr. K. would be extremely angry if anyone found out about this particular little excursion. Most people think the suicide master, dubbed “Dr. Death” in the late 1990s, is dead. He wants them to think that. He’s about 150 years old now. I like the old man. He tells great stories about the old days before harvesting became a legal service. He made his fortune selling suicide kits on the black market. Too many calcium infusions have rendered his joints almost immovable so he slithers around in that laser powered wheel chair, but he hasn’t been past his massive estate’s gates in years. Why should he? He’s got everything he could ever want right there, and he’s got me to do his extra curricular errands. He needs me, and I like that. Plus the pay is extraordinary.

  I admire his tenaciousness. He harvested the first organs illegally for his own transplants before I was born. After that, he used legal organs until the Harvester’s Association began setting limits and refused to sell him anymore. The old fart’s worn out three hearts and two sets of lungs since then.

  That’s why I’m here tonight. For the doc. He can’t get anymore legal organs, so I lift them for him. His personal doctors do the actual transplanting in the private clinic at his estate. Tonight I asked him why he didn’t just end it with a kit like he had sold to so many others.

  He laughed with that croaking snort he has and asked, “Do you think I’m crazy?” He glanced up at me with those pitted eyes of his. His eyes scare even me a little. They squat deep inside the puffy pockets of his cheeks like sunken ships decaying into the ocean floor’s sediment. “Suicide is for people too weak or too tired to look for an alternative. Not for me!” He cackled.

  “But you started the whole assisted suicide harvest business. You got rich from it. Are you telling me that you don’t believe in it?”

  “Of course I believe in it. I’m not an idiot. I had to figure out something to keep myself in organs, didn’t I? If I hadn’t, I’d be dead just like all the others, but I’m not, and I fully intend to see my 200th birthday. Now go get me that heart. This one’s not going to last much longer.” He nodded his chin at his chest, and his head just sort of quivered like he had suddenly lost all the bones in his neck.

  I watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the arms of the wheelchair and tensed his muscles to steady his head. I had seen all this before so I just waited. After a minute or two, he got control and raised his eyes to meet mine. He’s a tough old bird.

  He coughed and said, “My sources tell me that this guy is a perfect match for me, and they’re not that easy to find.” He tried to wave me out of the room, but his hand just kind of jiggled from his wrist.

  I left and came to the hospital.

  Of course, I don’t have the legal papers signed by the next of kin, the court order or the suicide setup documents signed by the patient. Couldn’t get them for Dr. K. anyway, since he’s supposed to be dead, so I have to do it this way. But I’m not worried. It’s worked all those other times when he needed a part.

  I walk over to the nurses’ desk. A cute, little blond nurse behind the desk is watching the Harvester I just passed stroll down the hallway. She has an odd look on her pretty face—fear maybe—disgust possibly.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” I say.

  She jumps almost imperceptibly and spins around to face me.

  I wear my best smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Oh, you didn’t ... I was just, uh ... may I help you?” she says sweetly as she brushes a delicate hand through her short curls and sends another hasty glance at the harvester’s disappearing back.

  “I hope so,” I say. I understand that you have a John Doe on this floor?”

  “Yes?”

  I put on my saddest expression. “I think he may be my brother. He’s been missing for a week now, and the police said I should come take a look.”

  “Oh? Well I suppose it would be okay for you to see him. Follow me, please.” She glides from behind the desk and leads the way.

  I fall a little behind her to watch her small buttocks strain against the smooth, white fabric of her uniform. Ripple—swish—she sways down the hall. Moments like this are when I really love my job.

  She stops at room 516. “You understand that he’s comatose?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She opens the door and steps inside. I follow and step up to the bed.

  “Do you know him?” she asks.

  “Yes. That’s my brother.” I sigh loudly and sorrowfully.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “If it helps any, all his vital signs are good. I’ve seen comatose patients who are a lot worse off than your brother come out of it fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was mugged. A blow to the head. He came in comatose like this. Apparently they took all his identification. That’s why he’s listed as a John Doe.”

  I bite my tongue to bring tears to my eyes then turn to her so she will see them. “Thank you. Do you suppose that I could be alone with him for a while?”

  Her blue eyes radiate pity. “Certainly.” She points to the buzzer clipped to the sheet. “If you need anything, just ring.”

  “Thank you.”

  As soon as the door closes, I go to work. I open the briefcase, and my fingers linger on the hypodermic. Not much time, I tell myself. Skipping over the intravenous toxin, I reach for the laser scalpel. He’s in a coma anyway. Probably won’t feel a thing. I place the self-destruct pacer underneath the monitor probe on his chest. It will keep the alarm from going off at the nurses’ station for fifteen minutes after his heart stops, then disintegrate itself. Long enough for me to be gone. I open the freezer containers and set them on the table, then I pick up the laser scalpel.

  His chest spreads open like a pork chop fillet, neat and clean. Instantly, his eyes fly open and stare at me. His mouth suddenly gapes into a grimace and a strangled gasp escapes from his throat.

  Oops. Guess I should have used the toxin. Oh well. Too late now.

  His eyes glaze. One hoarse breath hisses through his open mouth, then he is still. I reach up and close his eyes and mouth. First I take the heart and put it into it’s canister, then a kidney. I decide that since I’ve got him open, I might as well take the spleen. Old Man K. will be needing one pretty soon anyway. That’s all I have room for, so I close him up and seal the seam with the laser. Perfect. You can’t even tell he was opened. I’m good at what I do. Really good.

  With luck, they won’t even check his organs since he’s not a listed donor or euthanasia candidate. They’ll just bury him as John Doe.

  I peek out into the hallway. No one in sight. I slip out and catch the back elevator. The briefcase feels satisfyingly heavy as I step off the curb into the cold night air. Another job well done, I think. I suddenly feel like whistling, so I do.

  I don’t see the headlights until it’s too late. Something solid smashes into me. I feel my body flying, then landing on something cold and hard. Funny. It doesn’t hurt.

  I open my eyes. I’m in a bed. It’s a hospital room, and my case is on the chair beside me. It’s open and so are the canisters, but what was in them is gone. I know that I have to get out of here fast. I try to sit up—nothing. My legs don’t obey. I can’t move my arms either. Am I paralyzed? I try to lift my head. I can only move it a few inches, just enough to look at my feet and hands. Restraining straps are cutting into my flesh, holding me in the bed. The door opens. I try to turn my head. I can’t. Something is in my mouth, down my throat—a respirator tube.

  A pretty, oval face with a halo of blond curls appears over me. The face wears an expression of—disgust? Hate? I’m not sure.

  “There you are, Mister. He’s all yours.” She’s not talking to me. There is someone beside her.

  I hear her soft soled shoes squish-squeak across the floor. The door opens and closes. I stil
l can’t turn my head to look.

  A man’s harsh, craggy face appears in my line of vision. I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t remember where. He sets something on the bed. I strain my peripheral vision to see. It’s a briefcase. A big one. He opens it.

  His face appears above me again. “You shouldn’t have lied to that nurse,” he says. “You really pissed her off. She dumped your harvest.” His cold, gray eyes stare at me, and I remember. I didn’t recognize him without his uniform. I try to scream. My outcry is choked off by the tube in my throat.

  “You let Dr. K. down,” he says. “But he sent me to help you make amends. Did you know why he hired you? You’re an almost perfect match for him. Not as perfect as the guy you just did, but good enough. Dr. K. really needs you now,” he says. He smiles a cold smile and reaches for the laser scalpel.

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  The Incredible, Edible Mr. Glump

  “Eat me!”

  Alice dared to open one eye. Sunlight slashed through the filthy window and stabbed into her brain. She slammed the eyelid shut, but not before she saw him! “Oh no! You’re back!” Alice threw an ash tray at the apparition. “Go away!” She covered her eyes with hangover shaky hands. She peeked around her fingernails, and the chipped, crimson polish flashed past her vision giving her a sense of vertigo as if she were whirling around in a glass bowl, watching red paint peel from the wall at warp speed. Or, was it the tequila from last night? Whatever made her head spin, she felt a nasty mood coming on with the headache.

  “Eat me!” The six-inch apparition squealed again. “Eat me! You won’t be sorry. Please. Do it now. Eat me!”

  “Ughh!” She grabbed an empty bottle from the night stand and threw it at him. “Go away!”

  “Not till you promise to eat me.” The red, white, and blue striped fellow deftly sidestepped the flying bottle, glanced at it as it rolled across the floor and shook his head sadly. “It’s not hard, I promise. Two bites at most. Chomp-chomp. That’s it.”

  Alice rubbed her throbbing head with the back of a once delicate hand, and stared at the ceiling. “Why me?” she moaned.