The Crimson Shepard

Harry Turner is a husband, a father, and a good sport when it comes to not bleeding! Having lost his family six years ago, he knows what streams through his veins: The Crimson Shepard

The Crimson Shepard

 

 

            Harry Turner was a very cautious man. He had not bled for six years. No scrape, no cut, nor gouge of the flesh. He loved his wife, loved his three children�"a boy and two girls. But he loved them no longer. For Harry… to love a thing, was not love, but obsession.

            Karla, his wife and their children�"Beth, Ruth, and Burt were dead; they did not exist, therefore they couldn’t be loved.

            … As if, Harry can subscribe to that! He was human after all, and had the same mortal soul of burdened emotions. Could he get smashed? Go out to a bar, drink until the agony of loss ceased?

            No, it was too risky. Because the largest sensitivity Harry possessed was physical and common; a scratch, a prick, or a simple cut�"enough to draw blood: To the get the blue bodily fluids turning bright red due to oxygen.

This was why Harry Turner was a very cautious man.

            Now living in New Bedford, Massachusetts; a pleasant cottage near the ocean, but not near the beach; Harry Turner lived is isolation. Lived away from anyone who could deliberately and/or obliquely make him bleed.

            Now waking up to a new day, Harry got dressed, making sure he was sitting on the enormous bed that dominated his room. Legwear, jogging pants with no buttons, strings, or zippers; a clean white tee-shirt; white socks; and rubber soled sandals.

            Harry did not pray, because like most atheists, Harry believed praying was akin to talking to yourself. Instead, he took a photo out of the drawer he kept near his bed. The drawer was made of oak, and one of the few things in his home that could be rendered as “sharp.”

            The photo was of Harry holding his wife Karla, his arms below her breasts. Their two daughters: Beth, Ruth, and their son Burt. He studied each face, his last.

                 Karla (only twenty-six) with her blue eyes and joyous expression. Her smile was radiant; filling Harry with as much joy as he should have felt when she was alive.

            Beth and Ruth, two totally different girls: Beth (eight-years-old), with her tom-boyish attitude; Ruth (fifteen-years-old) with her defiant nature, which showed, even in this photo. Harry chuckled; Ruth didn’t want to have her photo taken, But she was beautiful, Harry thought, now beginning to feel like a man drowning… and not wanting to be saved.

            And Burt (five-years-old), Harry’s boy! His little man! The youngest, the loudest, and the one most like Harry.

            Harry sobbed, acknowledging their strengths and weaknesses; their flaws and personal advances in life.

            Burt could have been a writer; Ruth could have been a model; Beth could have been a teacher; and Harry could continuously feel that serenity that was his wife Karla.

            At last, Harry cried. This was a ritual that occurred every morning. He wanted to remember the pain; the unbearable for reason no rational human being could understand. He murdered his entire family; how rational is that? Not very much, and though many who did understand wouldn’t see it that was murder, to Harry it was manslaughter.

            Back… Back six years ago. Coming home from a physical Karla had urged him to go to.

            “Well?” she had asked him while he boarded the steps that lead into their second floor apartment.

            “It was, long.” Harry had said. And then… “Oh, and get this Karla! Dr. Ellendied.”

            “You’re kidding,” Karla said, shocked.

            “Not kidding.”

            “My god, he was young; at least for a doctor.”

            “Yeah, well this new guy ain’t much of a treat.”

            “Yeah?”

            “He’s older, by like dinosaur age,” Harry remembered laughing; that sardonic laugh, that now lasted like bitter lemon juice on his tongue.

            “And? Why is he not a good doc?” Karla had asked, perplexed.

            “Because, the guys a nutcase! Talking about blood being sacred, being defined, and those who misuse its meaning will have it blow up in their face.”

            Karla had looked scared.

            “Don’t worry darling,” Harry had told her, “I’m gonna get a new doctor, first thing next week.”

            …

            And then it occurred. The family was home, and Harry had gotten off the phone with Dr. Conway, telling the old man that he didn’t appreciate his attitude.

“You don’t appreciate reality then, Mr. Turner,” Dr. Conway replied. Each word the man spoke sounded hissed and pained.

He had not given Karla his name; he didn’t think it was important.

            It was a simple thing: a steak. Lying and saying it was good. But it was a tough m**********r! Harry had to use the sharpest knife in the silverware drawer to cut each piece. He was surprised one of the kids hadn’t said anything.

            Ruth was arguing with her mother about staying after the school dance on Saturday at Plainfield Central.

            “Don’t be such a b***h, Mom!”

            “Hey!” Harry had shouted, and cut his finger.

            “Ah! Jesus!” Harry had cried.

            Beth looked frightened, Karla and Ruth were concerned, and Burt looked curious.

            Getting up, Harry went to wash his hands.

            “Daddy, your blood is glowing!” That was his son’s voice…

 Everyone was silent; his son, the last voice he heard before the explosion.

The blood was glowing; congealing it’s bright red color with a blackness that made it crimson. Then, a ruby-red flash of light…  

            Harry was crying, sitting down on his bed, vision blurred, but eyes still transfixed on this family photo.

            Harry had woke up with no clothes on, but skin intact. The explosion destroyed all of Plainfield. He didn’t know of radiation. Overall, he was just stunned to have survived a bombing

            … But who would bomb a small town? Then he remembered: the glowing of his blood; the dark congealing color, making it look crimson.

            What he was, he did not know. Monster was as a good a synonym as any.  

            Yet, monster or not, it didn’t take long for him to realized suicide deadly. Perfectly reasonable if you�"a human being�"were a bomb:

If you bleed, the world bleeds with you. Your blood is a bomb.

            Also, Harry was not just any human being, but a rational human being. He could be hallucinating… but the irrational fear of Harry Turner; the first human bomb, allowed him to suffer in uncertainty

And so, he decided he should go far away when he dies. Harry had moved to Rhode Island, used all he had in his checking account to rent a cheap cottage.

Out back, was a boat for the time of his death shall come. Harry did not use pills to kill himself, because someone might do an autopsy, and even though he lived in seclusion�"dead or alive, his blood was lethal.

            He would wait until he believed he was dying, sail his boat to the middle of the sea, jump in and drown until an ocean predator tries to devour him and an explosion that could create tsunamis, and kill a few thousand.

            A few thousand was better than the whole wide world.

            Prepared to endure another dull day, listen to audiobooks on his Android he never used to call anyone, Harry Turner stepped out of his bedroom into the hall.

            Emotions, a burden that helps him both survive in his misery and prevent world destruction. If he were a psychotic, capable of mustering enough dark analogs to just slit his wrists, become a bomb, say to himself: “I can destroy the world with my blood!”, then there would be no hesitation.

            But Harry didn’t want to harm anyone. Unlike him, Karla had been a believer in unity: that the bringing together of two contrary forces can bring ultimate destruction of ultimate peace, and the latter challenging, because violence seems to be an unneeded variable in the equation of human history and human societies. Therefore she believed breeding violence on purpose, makes you a servant of evil.

            If there is God… or at least an afterlife, Harry did not want his wife to believe him to be a servant of evil.

            Walking the hall, Harry felt sick suddenly. He stopped in the hallway, legs feeling like rubber; arms limp at his sides.

            Harry’s breathing grew heavy, his eyes began to irritate.

            Screaming, Harry fell to his knees. He wanted to scratch at them, the urge was that bad. But the pain�"oh good Lord, Jesus Christ, the pain was�"

            “F*****g�"Goddamn it! IT HURTS!” Harry screamed, and just as he was about to put his fingers to his eyes, Harry felt a prickle on his neck and Harry’s pain faded and felt numb all over.

            Breathing heavy, Harry heard footsteps approach him. Someone touched his neck, pulled whatever prickled it, and then helped him up.

            He did not know this man; his face was blurred.  

            “You’re intruding,” Harry muttered, disoriented.

            “Sleep Harry,” Blur-Face said, as he walked him to his bedroom

            His vision was returning, and he saw the man’s face. “Dr. Ellen?” Harry muttered, and then fell asleep.

#

            Harry woke, looking at the ceiling, feeling hung-over, even though he hadn’t had a drink in six years or more.

            Funny, he thought he had a dream of seeing his old doctor.

            But he’s dead, Harry thought.

            “I see we’re awake,” a voice said.

            Harry’s heart began to beat quickly. He turned his head to see Dr. Ellen, the fortyish (much older now) physician, that was supposed to have died six years ago when Harry got reassigned. Horror stuck him.

            Harry sat up, looked at the doctor, and opened his mouth.

            For a while Dr. Ellen didn’t speak, then: “Surprise.”

            There you go, Harry mused, the first human being you see in years, happens to be your dead doctor and all he has to say is “surprise”.

            “How are you here?” Harry asked.

            “Maybe a better question would be why I am here,” Dr. Ellen said.

            “OK. Why are you here?”

            “To cure you.”

            “Cure me?”

            “You must be aware of the threat you impose on the human race, Harry.”

            A terrible thought crossed Harry’s mind: Dear God, he’s come to kill me. Kill me in a clean way so I don’t ever become a threat.

            “Your blood?” Dr. Ellen persisted, is dangerous. A chemical�"unknown even on the periodic table, has been injected into you.

            “How do you know this?” Harry asked, alarmed.

            “Because the man who replaced me has been arrested last night.”

            Harry thought back to the crazy old doctor that talked about blood; how, “those who misuse its meaning will have it blow up in their faces”.

            “What for?” Harry asked.

            “Terrorism. He has been experimenting with countless individuals’ blood types. You have been his only success, Harry.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked, not meaning to sound so loud.

            His hands were shaking, as Dr. Ellen told him about the old man: “Dr. Conway had developed a serum through DNA manipulation; originally he was into gene splicing, but apparently had found something different.”

            Dr. Ellen paused, just enough for Harry to digest this information

“We had been colleagues for some time,” Dr. Ellen continued, “however when he left a journal open, and I happened read his recorded notes of completely changing a person’s blood type, thus altering their DNA,  he killed me with a shotgun to abdomen.

            “Shortly after the catastrophe, which was caused by the alteration in your blood and DNA, I woke up alive in the middle of the destroyed town that was once you and your family’s home. I became obsessed with this man, and have been using everything I know about him to aid the FBI in search of him.”

Harry was breathing heavy again. Out of one of his blue jeans pockets, Dr. Ellen produced a baggy, “Here breathe into this.”

Harry did.

“That’s it, nice and slow,” Dr. Ellen said.

After Harry calmed down a bit, Dr. Ellen said, “I want you to come to Washington with me Harry.”

            Harry looked at the doctor, “I can’t do that.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because… I’m scared.”

            “The sickness you felt,” Dr. Ellen said, “it was your blood about to set off.”

            “Set off?”

            From his shirt pocket, Dr. Ellen produced a dart, attached with a test tube, similar to a turkey baser. “This,” Dr. Ellen explained, “is your blood, originally.”

            “Originally?” Harry asked, cautiously.

            “Yes. The properties of your DNA have changed, and when in contact with this blood, you felt pain. This is because, everything about your DNA that was from birth changed. Genetically speaking, you became a whole new human organism. I imagine the pain you felt was severe, however.”

            Harry remembered, and winced.

            “When I shot you in the neck, it killed new blood cell properties which Dr. Conway has created. I believe your blood is no longer toxic, but�"“ Dr. Ellen squeezed Harry’s shoulder “�"I want to be sure.”

            Harry, staring at the floor said: “OK. But I want to come back here once this is done.”

            “After a meeting with my associates, you will be.”

            Harry nodded in agreement.

            Dr. Ellen rose and as Harry did the same, the doctor said: “I know you believe you’re the murderer of your family Harry. But that is not the case. These men you will be seeing tomorrow have put in a great deal of effort to find your family, and your entire hometown’s killer.”

            Tears, blurring his vision, Harry said: “Thank you.”

#

            From government vehicle, to government jet, Harry had arrived hour later in Washington, DC.

            Both the car and the jet were aided by eerie individuals in white lab coats. Under their lab coats were suits.

            The combinative wardrobe of science and politics, gave Harry both a fear that was rational, as well as irrational.

            Now, standing with Dr. Ellen, and two men with dark shades and ties (no white lab coats), they descended on an elevator, below an old textile mill.

            “This had been Dr. Conway’s facility. He called the organization: The Mill.”

            Harry nodded. This is real, he thought.

            The elevator stopped, and the pneumatic door opened. Both men, Dr. Ellen, and Harry walked out onto the hallway floors.

            Unlike the old textile, where the walls peeled from water damage, this intriguing underground facility looked like an elaborate and expensive hospital.

            From the hallway, they entered a lobby, which was a huge as those seen in extravagant hotels in Las Vegas.

            Harry was awe-struck.

            “Amazing, isn’t it?” Dr. Ellen said. “We still don’t understand who had been funding Dr. Conway money. We also don’t know who had been working with him on this bloody project.”

            Harry felt ashamed of his awe. If this had been the work of his family’s killer… Big fish, Harry mused nervously.

            The men walked Harry and Dr. Ellen from the lobby to another hallway. Doors were categorized L-A.

            They reached the forth door in the hall�"L-A/4. Dr. Ellen walked Harry in.

            Sitting at the table was a woman. She was pretty, but mature. Her aged seemed to be between late thirties to early forties.

            “Mrs. Timmons,” Dr. Ellen said, shaking her hand.

            Harry smiled at Mrs. Timmons like a shy child new to the playground.

            “Come sit, Mr. Turner,” Mrs. Timmons said, giving Harry her own smile.

            Harry did. The two body guards stood sentry; one inside and one outside.

            “How do you feel?” Mrs. Timmons asked, her hands grasping his with strength.

            “Emotional or physical?” asked Harry.

            “Both.”

            “Emotionally, exhausted; physically, jumpy.”

            “Once this is over, you can return to your home in Rhode Island.”

            Harry nodded.

            “Mrs. Timmons has been the biggest aid in finding Conway. Like you, she has had a personal stake in it.”

            Harry looked at the woman, saw her brown eyes full of empathy.

            She squeezed his hand, “I lost my son to Mr. Conway’s experiments.”

            “I’m sorry,” Harry said; he wanted to cry, but didn’t

            Mrs. Timmons thumbed the wall behind her, “See that door?” she asked.

            Harry looked behind the woman; “There is no door,” Harry said.

            Mrs. Timmons smiled, “Oh?” The woman rose, having the legs of her chair scrape the room’s linoleum.

            She placed her hand on the wall. Harry heard something shifts, and then saw the wall cave in, a door elevated from below somewhere. The door, on some pneumatic gears perhaps, rolled forward. Harry heard a loud metal clunking sounds; like heavy locks being unhinged.

Mrs. Timmons approached the door. It opened.

            “In here,” she said, “your blood will be tested.”

            Harry, feeling suddenly eager, rose from his seat. Following the woman into the room, he saw it was all white.

            Something doesn’t seem right, Harry reflected, and the he felt a jolt of pain in his back, accompanied by a splattering, bone-cracking sound.

            On his knees, the door closed. Now, bleeding heavily, shot in the back; Harry noted the white room turning crimson.

            Was it the woman? Harry thought.

            Mrs. Timmons began to scream, not a sound of triumph but a sound of furious terror.

            “You�"you’re working for him aren’t you?”

            Who’s voice? Dr. Ellen’s?

            Sounds were beginning to fade away. He saw his blood, crimson, it began glowing, a ruby shade of red.

No! This can’t be happening.

            But it was.

            And the last sound he heard was Dr. Conway’s: “Blood is precious, and because I am it’s number one fan, I will control all men’s blood and become the world’s crimson Shepard.”

            Everything turned red…

#

            Waking up within ruins, not of a small town, but of the world, Harry woke up naked.

            He remembered nothing. He didn’t know he was Harry Turner. He didn’t know his blood was toxic. He didn’t know anything.

            Harry Turner walked amidst this destroyed world. Walked until he found a woman.

            “Hello,” Harry said.

            The woman was beautiful; raven hair, green eyes…

            The woman’s cheeks turned red. Out of nowhere, came two girls; also naked. Then a boy.

            Harry felt peaceful with these people…

            Karla… Beth… Ruth… Burt. Names that for no virtual reason popped into Harry’s head.

            The woman (Karla) held his hand.

            Harry tightened unto hers; was she feeling the same thing?

            Together they walked with the two girls (Beth and Ruth), and the small boy (Burt).

            They walked a destroyed planet; destroyed unexpectedly by the Crimson Shepard.

            Harry paused, knowing now the color of evil.