Near Death Read online

  Near Death

  Glenn Cooper

  Lascaux Media

  Copyright 2014 by Glenn Cooper. All rights reserved.

  Also by Glenn Cooper:

  Library of the Dead

  Book of Souls

  The Keepers of the Library

  The Tenth Chamber

  The Resurrection Maker

  The Devil Will Come

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Three Days

  It was a familiar backdrop for a TV news story with religious overtones. The Duomo in Milan was ornate and spiky, a forest of ecclesiastical pinnacles and spires beautifully set against a pale sky.

  RAINEWS 24 reporter Moreno Stasi carefully brushed his thick hair while peering into a mirror held by his producer, Daniela Persano. This late March was unseasonably warm. He’d chosen the wrong jacket for the day and he was sweating and irritable.

  He looked around the square at the tourists gawking at the camera setup. “Just keep them out of my shot,” he growled.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replied. They’d been together for years. She knew his moods.

  They’d already recorded interviews with enough locals and tourists to fill the piece. All that was needed was a setup and a wrap.

  “We’re ready when you are,” Persano said.

  He clutched the microphone, looked directly into the lens and started when the videographer raised his finger.

  “This is Moreno Stasi in Milano speaking with ordinary people about the crisis sweeping through this city, this country, and much of the world. Is there a better place than the Duomo—this ancient symbol of religion and culture, where people come to pray and meditate—to discuss the upheavals we are facing, this cataclysm?” He stopped and asked, “Is that okay? Too melodramatic?”

  “No, it’s good,” Persano said, trying to be positive. “Keep going.”

  He cleared his throat. “This clock, this Internet clock of which everyone is aware, is ticking down to only three days left. Until what? That’s the issue on everyone’s mind. So here, today, I’m asking people these questions: Have you taken Bliss? Has a friend or loved one? And what do you think is going to happen to the world on the last day?”

  He lowered the microphone and handed it to Persano. “Give me a second.” He lit a cigarette and puffed a few times before stubbing it out on his sole and parking it on a stone by his foot. “Okay, let’s do the wrap.”

  “Start when you want,” she said.

  He wet his lips and adjusted his facial expression to match where he’d left off. “So, outside this great cathedral, we’ve heard from people who are scared, people who are hopeful, and people who are simply bewildered. No one knows what will happen Sunday afternoon but one thing is sure. A great many people will be attending mass that morning, praying to God, because never in our recent history has God been so important. This is Moreno Stasi reporting from Milano.”

  “Okay,” Stasi said, relighting his cigarette. “Get it over to Antonio to edit.”

  “Antonio?” his producer said, shocked.

  “Why not?”

  “I thought you knew?”

  He shook his head, suddenly afraid.

  “Antonio killed himself last night.”

  Stasi took another deep drag. “Jesus, not another one.”

  One

  Months Earlier

  The dogs smelled them coming. They started to bay and howl when the men were well down the corridor with three sets of locked doors still to navigate. By the time the two of them entered the suite of cages, the beagles were in a frenzy, straining on hind limbs, pushing their black fleshy noses against the mesh, filling the bare room with frantic high-pitched yelps.

  The smaller man clamped his hands over his ears, grimaced, and raised his voice. “Can you make them stop?”

  The taller one addressed the animals earnestly with hands on hips. “My friend Thomas would like you to stop barking.” The adenoidal Liverpool accent was mellowed by years in America.

  His words had no effect.

  He shrugged. “No, I can’t. They’ll settle down.”

  He unlocked another door and led Thomas into the next suite. These rooms were soundproofed and the barking became muffled. Thomas relaxed a little when the fluorescent lights flickered on and he was able to absorb familiar landmarks: a stainless steel surgical table; anesthesia gear; cardiac monitor; sterile surgical packs; meds.

  “See?” Alex said. “I told you it was a proper operating room.”

  “The table’s too small.”

  “I’ll make myself fit.”

  Thomas took off his jacket and began an inventory, collecting the items he needed from shelves and drawers and laying them out on a cart.

  Alex followed the balding, gracile man with his eyes, attracted especially to his long effeminate fingers. He’d noticed them before, reminiscent of the hands of a pianist who could stretch at least a tenth. “Everything’s there, right?”

  “Hang on,” Thomas said. “Where’s the spinal tray?”

  He pointed to a cabinet.

  Thomas broke the sterile seal, unwrapped it, and donned a pair of surgical gloves to inspect the skinny Quinke needle.

  “It’s a large-animal kit,” Alex grimly offered. “It should work, no?”

  “It’s the right size.”

  “Good. Let’s hurry. I’ll get the tubes ready.”

  While Thomas finished organizing his work space, Alex collected specimen tubes and labeled them with a black Sharpie. On the first one he wrote, A.W. BASELINE, the second one, A.W. 2:00 MINUTES. The next four were labeled in fifteen-second increments, the last one, A.W. 3:00 MINUTES. He envisioned himself in his lab the next morning, processing six precious tubes of his own bodily fluids.

  Thomas had finished his prep but he stood there motionless, staring at the cart.

  “Are we ready?” Alex asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Wh
at’s the matter?”

  “Look, Alex …”

  “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” The words flipped off his tongue, more command than emollient. “Only my shirt, okay?”

  Thomas nodded.

  Alex stripped to the waist. He was tall and lean, his ribcage prominent. He saw that Thomas was fixated on the large geographic patch of heaped-up skin on his shoulder and back. “Didn’t I tell you about my burns?”

  “No.”

  “Some other time.” He collected his shoulder-length hair in his fist and twisted an elastic band around it. “Ready?”

  Thomas covered the surgical table with a green sheet. “I need you turned toward the door, on your right side.”

  Alex saw he’d be facing the large clock with a sweeping second hand. “Good.”

  The table was not meant for people and he had to balance himself precariously, his head teetering off the end. With his knees drawn up tightly to his chest he was secure, not particularly comfortable, but comfort wasn’t at the top of his agenda. Thomas stuck cardiac electrodes onto his chest and the monitor came to life, pleasantly beeping with each heartbeat. When he started describing what he was about to do, Alex cut him off. He didn’t want a running commentary but rather to retreat to an internal space.

  Control your breathing.

  Find your center.

  You’re a speck in the universe, dust in the wind.

  He felt the iodine swabbed onto his back, shockingly cold, the sterile drapes positioned over his torso. Thomas couldn’t help talking. “You’re going to feel a pinch.”

  The sharp pain of the lidocaine needle in the small of his back lasted a few seconds then dissipated.

  “I need you to tighten your fetal position: knees up, chin on your chest. I’m going to insert the needle between L3 and L4.”

  “Bloody hell, Thomas. Spare me. I’ve done more of these than you.” He inhaled deeply, held it for a few seconds then blew the breath out. “Go on.”

  He felt pressure but no pain and the curious realization that a four-inch needle was being pushed between his vertebrae on its way to his spinal cord. There was a perceptible pop as the tough dura sheath surrounding the cord was punctured.

  Thomas pulled out the stylet and a drop of Alex’s crystal-clear spinal fluid welled from the base of the needle, suspended there by surface tension. “I’m collecting the baseline now.” Viscous drops slid into a plastic tube. “You okay?”

  “Never better,” he grunted.

  Thomas reinserted the stylet into the lumen of the needle to staunch the flow. He told him, “I’ve got the sample.”

  Alex took a deep breath and when he let it out it sounded like a sigh. “Okay, showtime.” He fumbled for the front pocket of his jeans, extending one leg a little to let his hand dig into the pocket, careful to keep his pierced back as motionless as possible. “I should have taken these out before,” he said.

  He had two things in his hand, a clear plastic bag and a roll of electrical tape.

  Thomas was behind him so Alex couldn’t see his face—but he could hear the small man forcing air through his nose with the hesitancy of a horse that didn’t want to leave its stall. He sensed the man needed more words. “Are you ready, Thomas?”

  “I don’t want to do it.”

  “We’ve talked through this. We’ve gone this far.”

  “I know but I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be. It’ll be all right.”

  “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “I’ve already paid you.”

  “You can have the money back.”

  He could hear the weakness in Thomas’s voice and it repulsed him. He hated that quality in a man but he understood that showing anger might blow things up. “I promise you this will be okay. I’m strong and healthy. I can tolerate three minutes easily. Four would be a problem.”

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  “Nothing will! Just make sure you get the first sample at two minutes, then every fifteen seconds until three minutes. Then pull me out and we’ll go have a beer. We’re making a little history, tonight, you and I. Doesn’t that excite you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Good! Let’s get this over with. Just stay cool and watch the clock.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Better to press ahead and force the matter to its conclusion. The clock’s second hand was approaching the top of the circle. Without another thought Alex pulled the plastic bag over his head and tightly sealed it around his neck with loops of tape. The second hand swept the twelve. Through the bag he shouted, “Time zero!”

  The bag immediately clouded with condensation.

  Thomas stepped to the head of the table so he could watch Alex’s face and the cardiac monitor simultaneously. What he saw horrified him, the sight of a gasping head, plastic sucking into an open mouth, blowing out and sucking back in.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Thomas shouted.

  He nodded. He was sure.

  Twenty-three years.

  This was twenty-three years coming. He could still see the flames and hear the hiss of burning plastic.

  It was harder than he imagined, fighting the panic of air starvation. He had to stay calm, stay motionless—make himself succumb.

  The terror was overwhelming. The hot wet plastic sucked into his mouth. All the air was gone from the bag. His body was programmed to survive, to reach up and rip the bag open, but his mind was stronger. He had to go through with it. He had to know.

  Through the cloudy plastic he had a fleeting glimpse of Thomas looking as wild-eyed and panicked as he. He heard distant shouts but the words didn’t register. He was close, he could feel it coming.

  Stay strong.

  There was a fade to gray as if a dimmer switch was being turned and then the terror receded.

  Blackness. Pure blackness without a photon of light.

  It enveloped him, he floated in it. He was a fetus again and the blackness was his amniotic fluid.

  He was aware of breathing, of light. He reached up and touched his forehead. His face and hair were wet. The bag was gone. He was on his back, his long legs dangling off the table. He felt utterly lost, confused, and then he saw Thomas, sitting on a stool beside him, distraught, tearful, an oxygen mask in his lap.

  “Did you get the samples?”

  Thomas was silent.

  “Did you get them?” He sat up. His head was pounding. His mind shouldn’t have been as blank as it was. Something was wrong.

  “No.”

  He was incredulous. “What do you mean no?”

  Thomas was crying. “I couldn’t go through with it. I thought you were going to die.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “Forty seconds, maybe fifty.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t. I cut the bag off, I gave you oxygen.”

  He stood on shaky legs, towering over the slight man.

  “Are you telling me I went through this hell for nothing?”

  “I thought you were going to die!”

  He felt the greatest surge of rage he’d ever experienced: overwhelming, murderous rage. He’d never struck a man but he felt his fist automatically balling up and his arm arching backward. His fist swung forward with all his weight behind it and caught Thomas on the side of his face, square on the cheek. The pain of impact shot up his arm and brought him to his senses.

  What have I done?

  Thomas let out a sick sound of surprise as he toppled from the stool, surrendering to gravity. The opposite side of his head was the first body part to hit. It caught the rounded corner of a lab bench hard. There was a nauseating sound of bone letting go, he uttered a simple Ugh, then crumpled to the floor. He convulsed for no more than ten seconds then lay motionless.

  Alex knelt beside him and called his name, then shook him by the shoulders. The body was lifeless. One of his pupils was already fully dilated, a cold black saucer. The other was
following suit, an expanding mass of blood choking his brainstem.

  The pulse at the neck was thready. He could start CPR but he’d need help. He had his cell phone. His thumb hovered over the 9 in 911. Then he saw the clock and found himself subtracting off the approximate number of seconds since the head blow. His anger returned. He hated this pathetic creature dying at his knees.

  He rose and found the spinal needle on the cart, still glistening with his own fluids. He drew up a syringe of saline, flushed the needle twice then collected his unused specimen tubes, all the while keeping the clock in his sight lines.

  One minute gone, one minute to go.

  He turned Thomas on his side and pulled up his shirt. His backbones were spiky like the tail of a reptile. He felt the space between two vertebrae and pushed the needle through the skin.

  He promptly hit something hard. Bone. He tried again—and again. He couldn’t get the lifeless body into enough of a curl to open up the intervertebral space. He tried again. Another dry tap. His hands started to shake.

  The second hand was approaching the two-minute mark. He desperately tried again then gave up in disgust.

  There—a plastic case on one of the benches. He opened it. The stainless-steel tool with its battery pack was heavy in his hand.

  He stood over Thomas, thinking ferociously, at war with his emotions.

  Two minutes ten seconds. He was running out of time.

  He pulled the trigger of the surgical drill and it whirred to life, making his hand vibrate and feel vital. He lowered himself onto his haunches and let the drill bit hover an inch from Thomas’s skull.

  Do it.

  He closed his eyes and pressed down hard.

  Two

  Cyrus O’Malley felt like a stranger. It wasn’t his church. He sat in a rear pew at the aisle so he could make a gentle exit if he had a change of heart. It was an older crowd, pale wrinkled ladies in veils and well-fed men with bellies spilling over their belts. There were very few children. This was old school: medieval old.

  He still wasn’t sure what instinct had grabbed hold and made him find a church that did a Tridentine mass, rare these days. Vatican II had all but nailed that coffin shut. Now Sunday mass was a progressive thing done in the local vernacular to the strains of folk guitars; too watered down. He needed stronger medicine.