Date: Tue, 5 Sep 1995 14:43:41 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Those who heal... 1/2 Here's a short one. I have no idea what dank hole of my subconscious this vignette crawled out of, but be warned -- it gets pretty gruesome. I'm not a doctor (I don't even play one on TV), so there's no guarantee that the details are correct. Anyway, here's one possible take on Immortal healing processes. Comments and flames invited. Those Who Heal Themselves, Part 1 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Springtime in Seattle: the snow had lingered late this year, and dwindlings piles of it still lined the streets, dirtied with salt and exhaust and gravel. Joe Dawson sat in his bar amid dusty spears of afternoon light, improvising idly on his guitar. The frustration of a long winter's confinement came out in the music, but it was harder to express the darker fears he had known in Paris. The striking, dissonant chords that might have carried such emotion were just not in Joe's style. He gave up and retreated to a slower, mournful theme. A hesitant rap on the door was followed by a reddish head peering through. Richie Ryan gave Joe a nod as he let himself in and came to sit on the edge of the stage, breathing heavily. Joe returned to the dominant chord and let the echoes fade away before saying, "Richie. I didn't know you were back in Seattle." Richie shrugged. "I stopped by for a while. I've been traveling a lot. But I thought you were still in Paris." "Macleod didn't need my help anymore. He'll be coming back here himself in a few days, I think." Joe frowned, giving Richie a closer look. "What did you do, run all the way across town? You look awful." Richie shook his head and pushed a damp lock of hair away from his eyes. His face was flushed. "I feel awful. I'm sick, Joe." "You can't be sick." "That's what I thought, but I am." Richie grimaced. "I was hoping you could tell me something about it." "Immortals don't get sick. That's all I know," Joe said. "Some have allergies -- always acquired before their first death. If any Immortal has ever caught a cold or flu, it didn't last long enough to be documented." "Well, get your documents ready, because I'm definitely sick." "You're sure?" Richie sighed. "Joe, it hasn't been that long since I was an ordinary guy, you know. Maybe Mac has forgotten what a fever feels like, but I know one when I feel it." Joe set his guitar aside and picked up his cane before crossing to where Richie sat. Laying his hand on the young Immortal's forehead, he raised his brows. "You're right. You're really burning up." "That's what I said." With a groan, Richie lay back flat on the stage. "I feel really lousy." "What else, besides the fever? Do you have a sore throat?" "No, nothing like a cold, but my head hurts, and I've been getting these killer stomach cramps." "Something you ate?" "No way. Bad food doesn't affect me. Poison would just kill me, and then I'd get better. Anyway, I haven't eaten anything strange." "How long has this been going on?" "Since last night. The cramps kept waking me up all night." "Did you take anything?" "Yeah, about a dozen Advil." "A dozen!" Richie grinned sheepishly. "Well, I figured, it couldn't kill me." Suddenly he gave a grunt and curled into a tight fetal position. "Richie?" Joe leaned closer. "Starting again," Richie hissed through gritted teeth. "Jeeze, it hurts!" Sweat dotted his forehead. Joe watched anxiously as Richie waited out the worst of the pain, breathing in short gasps. When he had begun to relax a little, Joe said, "Something's really wrong here, Richie. I'm going to see if I can get you some help. Can you walk? You might be more comfortable in my office." "Sure," Richie gasped. "I'll go there in just a second. You go ahead --" he released one of the hands clutched to his stomach to wave weakly in Joe's direction. "I'll feel better soon." With a few more worried glances, Joe moved to the bar and picked up the phone. He had to look up the number before dialing. "Hello?" "Anne, it's Joe, Joe Dawson. I'm glad I caught you." "You almost didn't. I'm on my way out the door. I'm supposed to be in surgery in a couple of hours." "Can it wait, or can someone fill in for you? This is pretty urgent." "What is it, Joe?" "Richie Ryan is here. He's very sick." "I thought that wasn't supposed to happen," she said with some confusion. "It isn't. That's why we need a doctor who's discreet and . . . well-informed." "I see. There's no one else?" "Not at the moment. Ordinarily I'd have a couple more options, but they're out of town right now." Anne hesitated. "What's wrong with him?" Joe described Richie's symptoms. "How high is this fever?" "I don't have a thermometer here, but his forehead is really hot." "And this has been going on since last night?" "That's what he said." "Joe, is there anyone else there with you?" "No, just me and Richie." "All right. Here's what I want you to do. Lock up. Don't let anybody else into the bar. Make Richie as comfortable as you can. I've got to make arrangements and pick up some equipment, but I'll be there as soon as I can." "Okay." Joe glanced at the figure curled up on the stage. "Make it quick." Thirty minutes later he unlocked the door to find Anne Lindsay waiting outside. She already had on a surgical mask and gloves. She stepped into the bar, but showed no hurry to follow him to the office where Richie waited. "Hang on a minute, Joe," she said. "Has anybody else been in contact with Richie since he arrived?" "No, just me." "Did he mention seeing anyone else yesterday or today?" "He didn't say anything." "He's been here, what -- an hour?" "About that, yes." "How do you feel?" "Me?" "Yes. Any headache, nausea, anything?" "No, not at all. I'm fine." Anne paused, her brow deeply furrowed above the mask. "Anne, what are you thinking?" She met his eyes. "I'm thinking that anything that can make an Immortal this sick would wreak havoc in the general population, if it's at all infectious." Joe was taken aback. "But it might not be contagious. It could be something totally different." "Right." She took a breath. "That's why I'm here. Let me take a look at him." Richie was in Joe's office, clutching his stomach and panting like a woman in labor. His eyes were glazed, but he acknowledged Anne's arrival with a nod. Anne pulled out a thermometer and popped the business end into his mouth, then started to unbutton his shirt. She frowned when she got a look at his sweat-streaked torso. "Have you been losing weight?" "Nh-nh." Richie shook his head. "He does look lighter," Joe confirmed. "Especially in the chest and shoulders. Less muscle." Richie's eyes widened indignantly. "Nh-nh!" he grunted around the thermometer probe. The thermometer beeped. Anne checked it, then looked again. "Joe, do you have any ice here? In bags, I mean." "Sure, in the kitchen. We have a whole freezer full." Joe levered himself to his feet. Anne forestalled him. "I'll get it." She slipped the cover off the thermometer and punched on a new one. "Put this in your mouth while you're waiting. You --" she pointed at Richie "-- don't move." Joe met Richie's troubled gaze, shrugged, and put the thermometer probe under his tongue. When Anne returned with an armload of ice, he reported, "Ninety-eight point two. What's his temperature?" "Lie down, Richie." Anne placed bags of ice along his sides and another on his chest. "Over a hundred and five," she said matter-of-factly. "Richie, can you tell me what year it is?" "Huh? It's 1996." "Do you know where you are?" "Joe's bar. Why are you asking this?" "You should be delirious, but you're not. Just lie still and tell me where it hurts." She began to press on his stomach with practiced fingers. Richie grunted and winced a few times at her touch, then suddenly cried out and pulled his knees up. "Hold still," said Anne urgently, concentrating on the affected area. "Ah!" he gasped. "It hurts, just in case you're wondering." "All right, try to relax." She stepped back, frowning. "Your stomach is a little distended. Have you ever had your appendix out?" "No." She turned to Joe. "Let me guess. Immortals don't get appendicitis, right?" "None of them ever has." Anne shook her head. "If this were anyone else, I'd say it was acute peritonitis, probably from a burst appendix. You say it just started last night?" "Yeah." "No pains over the past few weeks?" "No, nothing until yesterday." She paced the room. "Richie, when's the last time you died?" Joe asked suddenly. Richie looked away. "France. The bike accident." "Hmm. The last duel you were in?" "Kristov, in Paris. Couple months ago." "So much for that idea." "What were you thinking?" Anne asked. "Just -- wait a second. Richie, when's the last time you got injured -- stabbed, let's say -- in the stomach?" Richie hesitated. "Well?" Anne pressed. "Yesterday," Richie admitted. "How?" "I was . . . trying a new move, and I flubbed it, and then tripped. I fell on my sword," he said, squirming with embarrassment. "A deep cut?" Joe asked. "Pretty deep. I didn't die, though," Richie insisted. "It was fine again after a couple of hours." Anne shook her head in wonder at the thought of a wound that would have occupied several surgeons healing itself in less time than the emergency surgery should have taken. She could imagine all too well what the damage to his stomach must have been. "I think I see what you're getting at, Joe," she said. "You think something went wrong with the healing process?" "It seems possible," Joe replied with a shrug. "Since we don't know how it works in the first place . . . " "It's hard to guess how it might go wrong, I know." She frowned. "That still doesn't really tell us what we need to know." "What do you think we should do?" Joe asked. "If he were mortal, with emergency surgery and an intensive course of broad-spectrum antibiotics he _might_ survive a few more days. For an Immortal -- I don't know, I'm not used to thinking like this. Something is definitely wrong inside his stomach, and we need to find out what. The sensible course would be to start with ultrasound." "Can we do that here?" She shook her head. "The equipment's not portable. He'd have to check in to the hospital." "No way, man!" Richie protested. "I ain't going there. Mac got kidnapped from that hospital once." Anne gave Joe a quizzical look. "I'll tell you about it later," he promised. "But I agree with Richie. It isn't safe for anyone else to know about this. What's the next option?" "Exploratory surgery, I guess," Anne said. "But that would have to be in the hospital too. And there's no way we could make it look normal. How do you explain an incision that closes itself, probably before the operation is done?" Joe rubbed his beard. "We could do it here." "What? No, we'd need at least four trained people for this. And I have no idea what anesthesia to use --" "I do," Joe said. "What?" "Oh, man," Richie protested, "tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking." "It's the only way," Joe said apologetically. "And it would keep the incision from closing too soon." "What are you talking about?" Anne demanded. "You'll have to operate while he's dead," Joe said. =========================================================================