Page 3 of Consumed
The nurse clutched her clipboard tightly against her body and glared. “You refused physical therapy again this morning.”
“It’s not therapy. It’s torture.” Con pretended to watch the wall-mounted TV, which was, ironically, showingGeneral Hospital. Luke and Laura were hiding from mobsters.
The nurse, Jill—who was excellent at acting like a disappointed parent even though she wasn’t much older than Con—made an impatient noise. “PT is necessary if you want to climb out of that bed and get on with your life.”
Con made a face. He had no life to get on with. His days with the Bureau were over, his face was a horror, his body would never work right no matter how much he suffered through PT, and he had no marketable skills. His direct supervisor—formerdirect supervisor—had stopped by the previous week and suggested that Con might find work in a call center. Con pictured himself spending the rest of his life trying to sell fireplace cleaning services or informing people that their insurance wouldn’t cover a medical procedure, and he’d almost cried.
Maybe it would have been better if he’d died in that cave.
“Self-pity doesn’t help,” said Jill.
“I don’t care. I’m really good at feeling sorry for myself. It’s one of the few things I excel at nowadays.”
Jill huffed and made a note on her clipboard. “I’ll be back after lunch, and you’re going to PT then even if I have to drag you there myself.” She stomped out of the room before Con could protest, leaving him alone with the stupid TV.
Con had been assured that the little hospital here at HQ had all the latest and best equipment and a top-notch staff. All of that was likely true. But his room was bare. White walls, white floor, white bedding. No window. No cards or flowers from friends or family, mainly because he had no friends and he hadn’t spoken to his family since he was eighteen. He could roll his bedside table so that it straddled the bed, which was handy when he ate. Most of the time, the table held a water pitcher and cup, a Tom Clancy paperback, the TV remote control and, on a shelf beneath the tabletop, a plastic urinal.
Maybe PT would train him to make it to the bathroom on his own. Now, there was a lofty goal.
Con picked up the book, stared uncomprehending at a page for the hundredth time, and threw it across the room. His arm strength was awful, so the book didn’t even land with a satisfying thud.
His bills were paid for. He knew he ought to be grateful for that much, at least. Because he’d been wounded in the line of duty, he’d pull a small payment for the rest of his life. Not enough to live off of, but something. Or the Bureau would pay for him to go to college, which would be great except that Con had no idea what he’d study. As a kid he’d done okay with his education, but only because his parents had homeschooled him and he’d been exceptional at taking notes. And as his recent experience had demonstrated ever so clearly, there wasn’t much connection between neat printing in notebooks and managing in real life.
He’d just sleep, then. It wouldn’t solve any of his problems, but they’d temporarily slip away. He’d been sleeping alotlately, enough to worry his doctors.
In fact, his eyes were closed and his mind poised just on the precipice of unconsciousness when the door whooshed open, bringing the unexpected scents of cigarettes and booze. Con blinked fully awake, ready to scowl at a bureaucrat demanding signatures on yet another meaningless form.
Instead he discovered a man smiling down at him, as if Con were a delightful discovery.
The stranger was somewhere in his fifties or sixties, his conservative gray suit straining against his bulk. He wore a hat—possibly a fedora, although Con wasn’t sure—like a guy in an old movie, but even as Con watched, his visitor removed the hat, revealing thin strands of white-gray hair.
“Salvation Becker, I presume?”
Con bristled. “Conrad. My name is Conrad Becker. Or Con, that’s fine too.” Although he’d been going by his middle name since he reached adulthood, the first name his parents had saddled him with still showed up now and then.
“My apologies, son.” Despite his words, the man didn’t look apologetic. On the other hand, he wasn’t visibly repulsed by the bandages and scars, which was something. Con still couldn’t stand to look at his own reflection.
He waited for the man to explain himself, but instead the guy took a metal flask from his inner jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and had a long swallow of the contents. God, was he a doctor, and was he going to start poking at Con while drunk? Con tried to shrink away, but he couldn’t really go anywhere. He reached for the call button, his finger hovering over it, just in case.
Perhaps a drunk doctor was his punishment for refusing to go to PT, in which case Con was in trouble.
“My name’s Herbert Townsend, son.”
In the pause while Townsend tucked away his flask, Con remembered where he’d heard of him before. “The Bureau’s West Coast chief?”
Townsend beamed. “That’s right, that’s right. I’m pleased to learn that you know of me here.”
He might not be so pleased if he knew what people said. It was rumored that Chief Townsend was terrifying and possibly insane. That he’d been in charge of his region since the thirties, which would mean he must be pushing a hundred by now. That he possibly wasn’t human. And also that his agents managed to keep things pretty much under control even though the West Coast was a wild place for monsters.
Con cleared his throat and shifted his legs, which hurt. “Is there something you need, Chief Townsend? I don’t—”
“Just a little chat. Tell me, how are they treating you?”
“I’m…. The medical care here is really good. I was almost dead when I arrived, and now….”
“Now you’re most definitely alive, which is preferable. Yes.”
Preferable. That was one way to put it. “Sir, I’m not—”
