When Good Limbs Die

By Heather Wildman
© 2009, All Rights Reserved

Xenia staggered into her house after a lousy Monday of work and threw her purse on the table. Her keys skittered across and teetered on the edge.

“Stay,” she cried, lunging to grab them. “Stay!” Ignorant to her plea, the keys slid through the space near the wall and dropped to the floor. She slammed her tired fists into the solid wood and mumbled a few choice words.

Dealing with her bum leg was the last thing she wanted to do today. The surgeon said it would be a difficult adjustment, but things had been going well—at least until three days ago. Since then, the damn thing had locked up on her multiple times, including today’s drive home in rush hour traffic. Thanking her lucky stars for automatic transmissions, she lumbered around the table.

She braced her right hand against the base for support, straightened the uncooperative left leg behind her, and lowered the other knee to the floor. Now, in an uncomfortable crouch, she reached toward the wayward keys. “C’mon damn it,” she mumbled and stretched her fingers farther. “Almost there.”

The cool metal touched her skin. “Come to mama.”

Her left hip smashed against the floor. She cried out, rolled to her back, and laid there for a long time, sucking breath after breath through clenched teeth.

Once the pain ebbed, she straightened the good leg and stretched her arms over her head to retrieve her keys. The pull of her muscles felt good. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she counted in time to the slow rhythm of her heartbeat.

The sudden ring of her cell phone jerked her back to attention. That would be the follow up call from Dr. Delp about Friday’s complaint. Acting on instinct, she reached down and into her pocket.

Crap. The darn thing was in her purse on the table. She had to take that call; she moved her legs, and reached forward. Her right hand found a grip on her bent knee, but her left flailed in unobstructed air.

“What…?” She glanced toward her feet, and let out a sigh. Her new leg had locked up on her again. Of all the worthless body parts a girl could have.

Gripping the cooperative knee with both hands, she pulled herself forward. The bum leg lifted, and kicked the good foot off the floor.

Flashes of light danced in her vision against the backdrop of the table bottom. With a gasp, she squeezed her eyes shut and threw her hands up, trying to stifle the ringing in her ears. Stupid. Idiotic. Leg. She thrust her good foot at it and missed. Why that little…!

Xenia flipped onto her side and pressed up on one elbow. The wayward foot jerked up, hit hard and held against the table.

“Damn you!” She slammed her free fist into the kneecap. The leg didn’t budge. She pummeled it again and again. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

Out of breath, she fell back and panted.

Thump.

She raised her head and looked down at the foot now resting contentedly on the floor. “Piss off,” she growled then dropped her head back onto the cold surface.

The phone signaled another call, and she shoved forward. A couple inches into her lunge and the foot wedged itself once more against the edge of the table.

Another ring.

Her screaming war-cry echoed in the small dining area. She grabbed the leg and tugged at it, kicking from the other side with her good foot.

A third ring.

The leg jerked toward her.

Finally.

Bone crunched against bone. Lightning flashed behind Xenia’s eyes. This time she couldn’t tell if the ringing was from the phone or the crash of cymbals in her head. Amidst the swirling images, and laser light show in her mind, one thought jumped out bright and clear.

She should never have volunteered for experimental leg replacement surgery in New Bedlam.

* * *

Bjon tried the number a third time. His intern, Mitch, had left a detailed note about the patient’s complaints; unfortunately the good doctor had been out on business when the call came in. Xenia was his first successful surgery, and on the tails of her recovery, he could leave this damned place.

The call went to voicemail and he slammed down the phone. That stupid boy should have called him, paged him, whatever it took. This was an important case.

Oh, but Dr. Delp had plans for insubordinates like Intern Taykes. He made examples of them.

“Nurse!”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Get a bus over to patient 999 right away.”

* * *

Lights and sounds surrounded Xenia. She struggled to get their attention, but no one seemed to notice her efforts. Her left eye twitched, then the right. Maybe if she blinked an S.O.S.?

She closed one eye. No response. No brief darkness, nothing. What the hell? She tried the other.

No!

She tried to scream. Silence. Had her mouth even opened? Her pulse beat a steady rhythm in her head.

I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

* * *

A surgeon lifted the leg from the bed. It kicked weakly, then convulsed and stilled. Dr. Delp watched the surgeon place the leg on the tray.

He’d failed.

An autopsy on the limb would no doubt show the same strain of mutant DNA as the previous failures. Damn Mitch for his stupidity.

Bjon sighed. This recipient had survived. If the intern had done his job correctly, they might have caught the infection in time. He tapped a finger on his chin. Perhaps if the donor had been a local, instead of one of the tainted outsiders he’d managed to separate from their limbs. Damn writers, always screwing with the world around them, always messing up his plans…

“Sir?”

But where would he find a local no one would miss?

“Sir.”

He jerked his attention to the idiot intern who dared interrupt his thoughts.

“What is it?”

“Well,” Mitch said, and pointed to the dead limb being bagged to prevent further contamination. “Now that the leg has been removed, do you think Xenia will recover?”

Bjon stared at the intern a moment, then smiled. The boy might prove helpful after all. “There’s no way to tell for sure. With testing and strict monitoring of her condition it’s entirely possible.”

“Good.” Mitch glanced at the woman. “I felt bad for her that she lost her leg to begin with. Phantom limbs are hard enough to deal with. Zombie Leg Syndrome, now that—” he shuddered. “That would be a living hell.”

The doctor nodded, then wrapped his arm around the boy. “Say, you’ve done some rather impressive work around here. Do you have a few minutes to talk when your shift ends?”

Mitch’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely.”

“Good.” Bjon thumped him on the back. “I’ll see you then.”

Once the boy had hurried away to take care of his duties, Bjon snorted. “Zombie Leg Syndrome? Where does that moron come up with this stuff?” He rubbed his hands together with glee. It didn’t matter. The intern’s shift ended at midnight, and he wouldn’t have to deal with stupid Mitch Taykes much longer.

He was Doctor Extraordinaire Bjon Delp. And he’d finally figured out a way to escape New Bedlam.

Or so he thought…

Damn writers.

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Heather Wildman loves her kids, loves her life, and loves to laugh. Writing is not an option for her, it’s a need. She’s been writing for twenty years but only recently decided to market her scribbles. To read more short stories and other snippets of random mind droppings, visit her “blahg” at http://www.psychoticblah.blogspot.com.