1 Minute to Midnight
Part 3: Morgan Inch
Written by Juliet Clare
The room was freezing; the temperature was hovering somewhere around 38. The brilliant sunshine was replaced by migraine-inducing fluorescent lights, the aggressive buzzing of their bulbs transcending from mere annoyance to insanity.
Morgan knew he should consider this a blessing, though. The Midwest at this time of year had become so routinely hot, the land so open, barren and dry, that the overpowering smell of death would carry for yards. At least the stench of decomposition dulls in the cold.
He approached the body as one approaches roadkill — saddened, but with a twinge of morbid fascination. The patient had abscesses down her arms and across her chest, open sores the size of tennis balls. Morgan still marveled at the truth beneath the cover. We’re all simply creatures comprised of muscle, bone and ligaments covered by this sheath of thin skin.
The familiarity of the scene haunted him. Images flashed before his eyes — his mother’s voice coming in short breaths, panicked and shaky; terror overriding pain. How quickly the men arrived at their home. Morgan, short with gangly arms and legs he wouldn’t grow into until well after high school, had barely opened the door before three large figures in HAZMAT suits pushed past him.
Morgan tried to break between them as they huddled around his mother, but their bodies stood firm, boxing him out. Finally, the figures parted. One of the science fiction-like entities carried Morgan’s mother with them. Diane’s body lay limp, a trickle of drool coming from her mouth. Her arms dangled by her sides, a visible pinprick of blood nestled in the crook of her arm.
They loaded his mother into a van. A heightened sense of panic flew through Morgan, his brain suddenly aware of his mother’s departure. As one of the suited persons ushered Morgan into the front seat, he began to lose track of linear time. His subconscious chose to omit certain scenes, a barrier of protection between him and the memories that would certainly remain boxed in the depths of his mind for eternity.
Only fragments remained — the metal interior of the van, generic white; the indiscriminate communication coming from the back, followed by the sound of a knob turning on an oxygen tank. The moment he and his mother parted ways. How he screamed as his mother’s sedated body was wheeled away from him. How a nurse told him not to worry.
An examination room where Morgan sat by himself for an hour. He had recently learned how to read analog time, so his eyes fixated on the clock on the wall — the second hand jerking forward on its hinge.
More fragments — the nurse who tied a plastic band around his upper arm, his kind face as he counted down the seconds until the needle pierced Morgan’s vein. How the blood filled up the vials.
The nurse asked Morgan questions. He wanted to know, had Morgan been feeling ill recently? Did he have any rashes, a fever or chills? Morgan shook his head at all of these questions, finally posing his own —
“Where is my mom?”
Morgan’s legs buckled under the weight of this memory. He caught himself quickly by placing a gloved hand on the table, narrowly missing the body.
“Do you need a minute?”
Morgan looked up as the pathologist stepped forward. Morgan shook his head, standing up straight, regaining his composure.
“When did she come in?” Morgan asked, the strength of his husky voice returning to him.
“Yesterday morning.” There was an edge to the pathologist’s words. An uneasiness pressed against his lips, tremors arising from deep within. The CDC label on Morgan’s jacket must have had some effect. It’s never a good sign when the CDC visits.
“Did she come in from a hospital…”
“Someone found her in a gas station bathroom,” said the pathologist.
“Was there a car?” Morgan moved away from the table. The woman’s body only required a single glance to confirm his suspicions.
“No car,” the pathologist said, an involuntary jerk of his head accompanied this remark.
“I.D.?”
“No I.D., either.” The pathologist moved to a drawer on the opposite side of the room.
“I have the things she came in with, if that’s any help?” The pathologist said as he stepped back, revealing an open stainless steel drawer containing the woman’s effects.
Morgan moved across the room, the space around him seemingly closing in, focusing more tightly with every step on the open drawer and the possibilities that lay inside.
Her clothes were folded neatly, accompanied by several items that had been removed from her pockets post-mortem. With one latex gloved finger, Morgan sifted through the items. A crumpled wrapper lay underneath one of the socks.
Gingerly, Morgan unfolded the greasy wrapper to reveal the logo of a chain restaurant — Tudor’s Biscuit World. A look of recognition briefly registered on his face, before he consciously reset his muscles.
Morgan squinted against the light, as he stepped out from beneath the building’s awning. The sudden change in temperature made him feel dizzy. His neck tightened as if an invisible hand was squeezing ever so slowly. He rocked on the sides of his shoes, testing the depleted rubber running along the edges. Morgan regained his balance and planted his shoes more firmly on the ground.
Walking across the parking lot was his partner, Marisol. She had a stride that was uniquely her own. Head out first, guiding her; back straight, but angled forward, with long powerful legs that pushed her at a pace Morgan sometimes found difficult to keep up with. Marisol stopped short in front of Morgan.
“How’d it go?” Her eyes — one green and one brown — firmly fixed on him; an intensity matched only by the resolve in her voice.
“She was picked up at a gas station. No I.D.” Morgan said, looking out to the street. The heat created shimmery waves, floating just above the asphalt. A hypnotizing scene, it held Morgan’s attention.
“Any indication of where she came from?” Marisol said.
Morgan returned from his daze.
“No. But I found a wrapper in her pocket. Tudor’s Biscuit World. You know what that is?” Morgan turned towards Marisol, catching her eyes.
Gen-M’s used to make Morgan feel uneasy. As a young man, he’d been told of their erratic behavior and dangerous tempers. The unknowns around their abilities only served to strengthen distrust.
However, he and Marisol had worked together through some of the worst disasters — hurricanes in Puerto Rico, a secondment to the border between Sierra Leone and Liberia helping to contain the spread of Ebola, and a stint in Colorado where they analyzed several cases of antibiotic resistance. He had grown to love her, and through her, was able to dispel many of the myths he grew up with.
“No, what is that?”
“A limited chain restaurant only available in a couple states. Predominantly West Virginia,” Morgan said.
“West Virginia?”
Morgan nodded.
“Where’d you park the car?”
