24
Tuesday, June 6, 2006 – 3:50 p.m.
Aspen Memorial Hospital - Room 507
A deep, deep shaft disappeared into the bowels of the earth receding to nothing more than a tiny black dot hundreds of feet below. Protruding out of a wall of this shaft and hanging over the edge was Hank Maverick. His sweaty face and tangled blood- stained hair plastered to his face gave him the appearance of a lunatic. Dirt smudges and scratch marks enhanced his crazed countenance and his matted, blood-coated hair and beard added the finishing touches to his insane asylum look.
Hank attempted to open his eyes, but because his eyelids were coated with sweat and dried blood, it took him a few minutes to get them to break free from each other. Finally, they fluttered open. A blurry picture greeted Hank. Trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind, Hank attempted to ascertain where he was. Thoughts raced through his mind as he tried to recall what had happened. Blinking his eyes several times, Hank’s vision slowly got clearer revealing his location. Jumping with a start as if he’d been probed with a high-voltage prod, Hank’s body quivered in the end of the tunnel. Grasping the enormity of his situation, Hank immediately attempted to scoot away from the edge. In order to do so, he would have to use his right arm. His hand and wrist were swollen beyond recognition and was turning black and blue, but since Hank had blacked out, he’d forgotten about his injury. Hank began to push against the rock only to scream out in sheer agony and at that moment, he instantly remembered what had happened earlier. Stopping to allow the throbbing to dissipate, Hank thought about his predicament. He presumed this was the same tunnel he’d been in all along, although he had no idea why he was no longer jammed into a space so small that he couldn’t breathe. He also couldn’t figure out why he was now hanging on for dear life on the edge of a tunnel that terminated in the wall of an old, abandoned and very deep vertical mine shaft.
Hank tried to move. He found, however, that he was only able to scoot backwards a foot or so before his body was again jammed tightly against the rocks that lined the walls of the tunnel. His head was still hanging out over the edge of this precipice and there was nothing he could do to move backwards any farther. Twisting his head to the right, Hank was able to look up the mineshaft through a maze of old timbers and rails that were sticking out of the walls at odd angles. Fifty to seventy-five feet overhead, was a large opening covered by a cement-encased grate. Light was streaming into the shaft in pieces having been broken apart by the underbrush and trees on the surface. Strange-shaped pools of sunshine danced and floated on the walls around Hank. The pools moved lazily from one place to the next in perfect synchronization with the movement of the foliage overhead. The only hindrance these light beams encountered was that of the timbers and metal imbedded haphazardly here and there in the walls all around Hank. Below, hungry darkness consumed what little light could reach it leaving only inky blackness to beckon any curious soul that might want stumble in.
Hank wasn’t sure what to do. There was no easy way out. It would be an almost impossible climb to ascend the shaft and descending it was absolutely out of the question. Looking back down, Hank guessed the depth to be at least 200 to 300 feet, maybe more. Picking up a loose rock, Hank tossed it into the chasm. At least 10 to 15 seconds elapsed before Hank heard the telltale echo of it hitting the bottom. A shiver of fear and terror ran down his spine. Not only was he claustrophobic, he was also bathophobic, terrified of deep places. Yet, here he was, laying on the edge of a precipice several hundred feet above the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft.
Looking down the shaft once again, Hank could make out the remains of old timbers and twisted rails protruding from the walls. The same scene was replayed overhead. Dark spots along the way indicated the presence of other side tunnels much like the one in which he was currently lodged. The smell of soil and old creosote mixed with rusting metal and decayed wood filled Hank’s nose. A bead of sweat dribbled down his face and dropped off into the expanse below. Terrified to move lest he should dislodge himself and begin to fall, Hank laid as still as possible. Questions raced through his mind. Is this real? Am I dreaming? If this is reality, how did I get here and how do I get out? If it is a dream, what can I do to wake up? If I fall and it’s reality, I’m dead. If it’s a dream and I fall, will I die in my dream or will I wake up before I die? I’ve heard that if you die in a dream you will die in reality. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I just want to get out of here dream or reality! Hank tried several times to tell himself it was only a dream and attempted to wake himself up by shutting his eyes and then re-opening them. Each time, he was still in the same place. Hank’s fear continued to grow. He’d already given up once when he was lodged in the tunnel. Having been on the edge of insanity once already today, Hank was shocked and terrified when he’d opened his eyes only to find himself in his current condition. How he got here and why he did not know.
Peering back over the edge once again, Hank could see an old timber sticking out of the wall some four feet in length and about three feet below him. The width of the shaft was approximately eight feet square. On the opposite wall was another timber sticking out of the wall some two feet in length and two to three feet above the height of the one below him. Looking up, Hank could see an array of other timbers and metal rails sticking out at various angles and at various levels. Climbing to the top was possible, but would take an awesome amount of strength, determination and stamina. Hank realized that in his current physical condition, it would be almost suicidal to even try. Yet, what else could he do?
Scooting his massive 365-pound octopus-like body closer to the edge, Hank’s fear increased exponentially. A small shower of rocks and dirt cascaded over the edge and disappeared into the darkness below, some of it landing on the timber beneath him. Beads of sweat began to drip from his face and hands. His breathing increased and his heart pounded inside his fat encased rib cage. Twisting his head, Hank looked up. Just above him, jammed into the dirt wall, was a steel rail that most likely had been used as part of the track for the myriads of mining cars that would have been used when this mine had been active years ago. Apparently, over the years, timbers and other mining debris had shifted and twisted as side tunnels had caved in, the earth had shifted and moved now and then and the entire shaft had begun to break down due to the laws of entropy. Thus, the formation of this maze of timber and metal upon which Hank now gazed. The macabre look of it all gave Hank the chills. Deciding to give it all he had, Hank twisted his body over so that he would be lying on his back.
Using his left hand to do most of the work, Hank slowly but surely maneuvered himself into position. Once there, Hank used his feet to push himself backwards. Reaching overhead with his left hand and grabbing the steel rail, he carefully balanced himself with his right hand and worked himself out of the tunnel much like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Gritting his teeth as pain shot down his arm, Hank nevertheless continued to move. His life depended on it. Upon reaching the point where his butt was on the edge of the tunnel and his upper torso was sitting upright inside the shaft, his face plastered against the dirt wall, Hank carefully pushed with his feet until he was standing, all the time keeping a death grip on whatever he could grab that would give him stability. Warily looking down, a sudden wave of nausea and vertigo rushed in upon Hank slapping him in the face. Hank quickly closed his eyes to keep from losing his balance and stood there for a few minutes resting. Then, he began to move.
Cautiously moving his left foot from the edge of the tunnel, Hank slowly bent his right knee allowing him to set his left foot down on the timber beneath him. Acting as if he were stepping on eggs, Hank slowly and methodically allowed his full weight to come to a full on the timber. It moved, creaking and groaning with every additional ounce of Hanks body coming to rest on its surface. Hank’s heart jumped, pounding against his soft, jelly-like ribcage. Squeezing his hand tighter around the rail, Hank waited to see if the timber would move again. It didn’t, so Hank allowed himself to put his other foot down on the timber as well. Now all 365-pounds were resting on an old timber protruding from the wall, which was hanging several hundred feet above the bottom of an old, mineshaft. Hank’s hands were sweating so profusely that the beads were running down his arms and into his shirt. Turning himself carefully around, Hank focused on the timber across the shaft. Only about four feet away, Hank stealthily began to scoot his feet toward the end of this beam so that he might reach the one on the other side.
Stretching as far as he could, Hank reached with his right hand for the opposite wall while continuing to hold on to the steel rail with his left hand. Scooting his feet slowly along the top of the timber, Hank was able to come within a foot or so of the opposite wall. Preparing himself mentally and physically, Hank let go of the rail and allowed his body to fall into the opposite wall. The timber underneath him moved and dropped two inches. Immediately grabbing a hold of the other timber, Hank was able to steady himself. Hank waited a few seconds for things to settle down. Dirt and rocks could be heard tumbling deep down into the shaft below. The tiny sounds they produced were amplified ten-fold by the emptiness of the shaft. Once confident that the timber would move no further, Hank lightened his grip on the opposite timber and carefully stood erect. Sliding his hands up the wall to keep his balance, Hank anticipated stepping across the two-foot gap to the other timber. Carefully, he raised his right foot up and rested it on the edge of the wood. Slowly increasing his weight on the timber, Hank used all his strength to lift his massive body up and onto the wood beam. The beam settled an inch or two and stopped. Hank dug his nails into the dirt wall trying to get a grasp on anything he could to keep himself from falling. Turning his head, Hank looked back across the shaft to the tunnel from which he’d emerged. Slowly maneuvering his head upward, Hank saw enough criss-crossed beams and steel rails that he knew he could conceivably reach the top, although the effort needed and the time it would take would be enormous. His added weight wasn’t going to help his situation either.
Just above him was a steel rail that was imbedded in both sides of the shaft walls creating a sort of balance beam across the opening. Protruding from the opposite wall was another beam just below the rail. Reaching above his head, Hank grabbed onto the cold steel and repositioned himself on the beam. Lifting his right foot, Hank was able to get it up and onto the timber across from him. Hank began lifting his body off the beam using all the strength he could muster. His left foot was now hanging in the air. Hank’s strength would not be enough to lift him. He was too big and his arms too weak to do the job. As Hank was about to set his foot back down on the beam, he was horrified to see the steel beam he was holding onto bending. Frantically moving his foot around in search of the timber, Hank’s hands began to slip. The beam overhead was slowly bending as if it were made of putty. Metal from the cold rail oozed through his fingers as if it were melting. Hank could not understand what was going on, nor did he care. He just wanted to get a solid footing on which to stand before falling hundreds of feet into an abandoned mine shaft. Continuing to de-solidify, the steel rail slowly became mush in Hank’s hands. As it did so, it also stretched as if made of taffy. Squeezing as tight as he could, Hank attempted to save his life. His feet squirmed in midair trying to find the beam to stand on, but there was nothing there. Hank fell into the shaft, slowly descending on the taffy-like rail. The farther it stretched, the thinner it became. Hank knew that at any moment it would break and he would fall to his death.
Closing his eyes, Hank held on for dear life. He could feel his body falling, slowed only by the thin metallic taffy that oozed through his fingers. To Hank, if felt as if he were sinking in quicksand. Then the sudden snap of the taffy-rail, the sudden uprising of cold air around him and the internal sensation of falling that affected all of his organs forced Hank’s eyes wide open. Feeling the pounding of his heart and watching everything around him fly by at tremendous speed, Hank was now looking up the shaft rather than down and he was horrified to watch the shaft’s opening quickly getting smaller and smaller. An unheard scream pealed forth from his mouth as his right shoulder shattered upon hitting a steel rail that was protruding from the wall. The force of the blow flipped his body over so that he was now falling face down. Barely missing some imbedded debris in the wall of the shaft and scraping and bouncing off of others, Hank’s body was being beaten and bruised as it raced toward the bottom of the old mine shaft. Fifty feet away, a large timber crossed the entire span of the shaft. Hank knew that he would hit it head on. There was no way to avoid it or turn away from it. Kicking frantically and flailing his left arm, Hank’s chest smashed into the beam at full speed. An audible crunch and the smashing of muscle and cartilage not to mention internal organs echoed through the mineshaft. Hank’s body bounced off the timber and continued to fall head over heels into the blackness below. A few seconds later, a muffled bang like a bag of flour hitting a concrete floor resounded throughout the empty void.
***
Ken’s confident gait was evident as he closed his office door behind him and started down the hallway for the ER. Stopping at the nurses station, he asked Dan how things were going.
“So far so good,” Dan replied.
“Great! I’m just heading down to the ER to check on another patient. Any changes in Hank’s condition?”
“Monitors are all reading normal. I checked in on him awhile ago and he was still unconscious but stable.”
“Okay. Keep me apprised of the situation. I have a few ideas about the cause that I want to check out as soon as I return from the ER.”
Just then, the loud beeping of trouble in room 507 caused both men to look at each other in horrid anticipation of the previous demise of Benita. Dan jumped up from his station as Ken turned to run for the room. Upon entering it, they found Hank in his bed, his right arm curled up like a pretzel beside him. The EEG and EKG monitors were going crazy. Ken checked Hank’s eyes. Both were rolled up into his head. Looking at the monitors, Ken noted Hank’s pulse was extremely high. His brain wave activity was off the scale as was his heart’s sinus rhythm. It was erratic and abnormal.
“Did you give him anything recently?” Ken asked Dan in a frantic voice.
“The only thing I’ve done in the last 15 minutes or so is changing his IV bag. Other than that, I haven’t given him anything.”
“Stop the IV!”
Dan looked at Ken with a bewildered look.
“Stop the IV now!”
Dan immediately turned the valve on the IV bag stopping the flow. Within just a few seconds, Hank began to settle down. His heart rate subsided and his brain wave activity fell back to within the normal range.
“What was that all about?”
“I have my suspicions,” Ken said. “I think the IV bag may have been tampered with. When did you get this bag from the supply room?”
“This morning around 10:30 or so.”
“Who did you get it from?”
“Slick was in. He gave me three bags. Why?”
“Do you still have the first bag you ran?”
“It’s in the trash.”
“Good. Take that bag, this one and the unused one to the lab. Have them run a full tox screen. Tell them to pay particular attention for tryptamines, especially those found in Psilocybin mushrooms.”
“For trypta what?”
“Tryptamines. Chemicals that resemble the neurotransmitter serotonin. They are responsible for hallucinations and other mental phenomena. Psilocybin mushrooms are a natural source of tryptamines. LSD is also in a similar category. I need to know if those chemicals are present in this IV fluid. Do we still have the IV bags used on Benita this morning?”
Hank stirred in the bed but didn’t wake up.
“Maybe. I’ll have to see where housekeeping put the trash since they cleaned it earlier today.”
“Good. I need those bags tested too.”
Looking back at Hank, Ken and Dan noticed he was sleeping calmly again. All the monitors registered normal activity, although he was still holding his right hand close to his body. That was probably due to his breaking his wrist earlier in the day.
“Did Orthopedics say when they’d be here to work on his wrist?”
“They said they are totally backed up with a bunch of injuries today and that as soon as they could they’d be up.”
“It’s been almost five hours. Call them again. I don’t want Hank hurting his wrist anymore than it already is.”
“Okay, I’ll check on that along with the IV bags from Benita this morning.”
Both men silently thought about the incident earlier in the day and tried quickly to dismiss it from their minds.
“Hank appears stable for the moment. Keep a close eye on him. For the time being, keep him off IV’s and anything else until I can figure out what’s going on. In the meantime, I’ll be in the ER.”
“Okay,” Dan said. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Glancing once more at Hank, Ken was satisfied that there was nothing else he could do right now. Walking out the door, Ken absent-mindedly reached up and stroked his mustache. There must be some connection, there has to be, he thought. Walking over to the elevators, Ken stepped in and pushed the ground floor button.
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