Wind Tunnel
Lane Diamond
WIND TUNNEL
A
4,077-Word Short Story
by
Lane Diamond
Copyright
www.EvolvedPub.com
WIND TUNNEL
(A Short Story)
Copyright © 2011 Lane Diamond
Cover Art Copyright © 2011 Joshua Evans
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ISBN (EPUB Version): 1622539486
ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-62253-948-2
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Edited by D.T. Conklin
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eBook License Notes:
You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
Other Books and Stories by Lane Diamond
NOVELS
Psychological Thriller: Forgive Me, Alex
Psychological Thriller (Coming Spring 2015): The Devil’s Bane
ANTHOLOGIES
Multiple Authors (Contest Winners): Evolution: Vol. 1 (A Short Story Collection)
Multiple Authors (Contest Winners): Evolution: Vol. 2 (A Short Story Collection)
SHORT STORIES
Horror: Well-Suited Sentry
Psychological Thriller: Devane’s Reality
Sci-Fi / Psychological Thriller: Paradox
www.LaneDiamond.com
What Others Are Saying about Lane Diamond’s Books:
Forgive Me, Alex:
“Lane Diamond has succeeded in bringing to the surface the dark and horrifying mind of a psychotic serial killer while at the same time bringing forth the desperate need for humanity and justice for the victims and their families. ... I highly recommend this for its powerful and gripping story line. You will be held in a spell that will keep you wanting more and find yourself totally drawn in.” – Marilou George – The Kindle Book Review
“Psychological thrillers are my kind of books! Not only do I write them, but truly enjoy reading one that makes my skin crawl, my nerves skitter with fear and my heart thump a tad louder. This incredible novel by Lane Diamond handed me ALL of that, in spades!” – Ashley Fontainne, Author of “Zero Balance (Eviscerating the Snake)”
“It’s half Red Dragon and half Flowers for Algernon—and any mix like that is bound to throw you a curveball or twelve.” – Anne B. Chaconas
“Lane gets you into the head of the characters and you feel this bond with them urging you to read faster to find out what happens next. You know you are reading a great book when you need to stop reading but keep telling yourself just one more chapter, then one more leads to half the book.” – Jennifer @ Can’t Put It Down Reviews
Evolution: Vol. 1 (A Short Story Collection):
“A masterful collection, and well worth the read.” – Thomas Stonewall
“It’s often a challenge to combine such a diverse collection of stories into one jam packed volume, but somehow, someone knew exactly what they were doing. What a great collection, what an amazing variety of stories...” – Linda (Amazon Reviewer)
Evolution: Vol. 2 (A Short Story Collection):
“A top notch collection. As a writing teacher and avid reader, I recommend it highly.” – Thw Wood Elf
“I feel like I’ve discovered a rare gem here - these are authors that should see, and likely will see, huge success.” – D. Adams (Amazon Reviewer)
Devane’s Reality – A Short Story:
“This short story really stuck with me. A haunting tale that puts you inside the mind of the protagonist. Excellent character development and masterful writing, I highly recommend it!” – JMD (Amazon Reviewer)
Paradox – A Short Story:
“WOW! A great story, even as a short story it was packed. You definitely want to read this one, it’s well worth it.” – Donna Davis
Table of Contents
Part 1 – Chicago
Part 2 – South America
Part 3 – Moving On
About the Author
What’s Next?
More from Lane Diamond
More from Evolved Publishing
Part 1 – Chicago
Stress kills!
“Ain’t that the truth,” Mike said. “Pithy and accurate.”
His running partner, Dr. Jim Belluk, craned his head mid-stride. “What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just admiring a bumper sticker on the back of a truck that drove past. ‘Stress Kills!’”
“Amen, brother.”
Stress stalked like a murderous mistress in any profession, but particularly so for a surgeon. Stress begot distraction, distraction begot mistakes, and one simple mistake by Dr. Michael Sheehan could well beget death. No one demanded he be perfect, of course—no reasonable person would expect such a thing.
They merely required he make no mistakes.
Or better yet, that he undo theirs. Like yesterday.
***
“Somebody help my baby!” A woman ran through the doors of the ER, cradling a small boy. “Some people said he hit his head at the park and fell into the fountain. My baby drowned. Oh, God, my baby drowned. You gotta bring him back! He ain’t but four years old.”
Dr. Sheehan examined the boy as nurses placed him on a gurney. “You didn’t call 911?”
“I got him here faster myself,” she said. “Drove down to the park and picked him up.”
“Drove to the park?”
“Yeah. Figured he’d be okay with some kids from the neighborhood.”
A four-year-old? he thought. Are you kidding me? “But EMTs could have performed CPR, attempted to....” Ah, what’s the point? “How long ago did he fall in the fountain?”
The woman chewed on a fingernail and looked around the ER, down at the floor, toward the doors—everywhere but at Dr. Sheehan. “I dunno. Musta been a while. Maybe over an hour ‘fore I even know’d about it.”
That probably means an hour and a half... or more. In ninety degree temperatures.
Dr. Sheehan put down his stethoscope; he’d seen and heard enough. He shook his head at the two nurses helping. At that moment, the woman finally looked up at him with pleading in her drooping, bloodshot eyes.
Stoned. Man, not another one. He nodded to the head nurse, who retreated to contact the police.
“Ain’t you gonna bring him back?” The woman focused on the doors again, shifting repeatedly from one foot to the other. “You guys is smart. You can do it, can’t ya?”
***
Mike turned to his running partner. “Hey, Jim, did you ever take a course at med school on how to be a god?”
“No need. Everyone at Harvard was already a god.”
The two men half-laughed and continued their run through Lincoln Park, in the Windy City—Chicago.
Mike thought about that bumper sticker again. He might have accepted killing himself with stress, but to kill someone else.... Unacceptable.
And so he ran not just to keep himself in top physical form, or for the sheer love of how it made him feel—he would run regardless of the circumstances. He also ran to destroy the conniving villainess, to burn stress
on the pyres of his determined will. He settled for running—the second-best destroyer of stress—because as a single man who worked upwards of eighty hours a week, he enjoyed too few opportunities for the preferred alternative.
“Damn, Jim, I really need to get laid.”
“Don’t look at me, buddy. It’s bad enough listening to you huff and puff behind me on these runs. I wouldn’t care to experience that under different circumstances.”
“But don’t you think I’m pretty?”
“Yeah. Pretty ugly.”
Running merely required determination and self-discipline, and Doc could do it any time, almost any place, and in almost any kind of weather. The amusing exchanges he enjoyed with his partner merely lightened the load and improved the impact a bit—the perfect medicine.
“You know, Jim, I’m stuck in a major rut these days. Might be time to make a change.”
“Oh, come on! Things at General Mercy aren’t that bad, are they?”
“It’s not just the hospital. It’s the cases I get, the routine—the sad, repetitive, sad, preventable, sad, maddening, sad, disgusting, sad same-old-same-old. Did I happen to mention how sad it is?”
“Once or twice.”
“Hell, I’m not making any difference there. I wanted to be a doctor for... I don’t know... something more.”
“What, you want to do a stint as Mother Theresa?”
“But with a stethoscope and a scalpel.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yeah, I think I am.”
The two men drifted into a contemplative trance, lost in their zones, running on auto-pilot. After completing the final two miles of their routine, they purchased bottles of water from a street vendor and sat at a picnic table.
“You know,” Jim said, “A friend of mine is one of the top dogs at Doctors without Borders. I could put you in touch with her.”
Mike perked up. “I’ve read about them, heard some discussion about the program, but I never really looked into it.”
“They’re all over the world, so they’re pretty wide open, provided you’re willing to commit at least six months of your time. They’d prefer a year.”
“Not so long in the grand scheme of things, but would I be happy with the kind of work they do?”
“You might repair cleft palates, set broken bones, perform appendectomies or tonsillectomies, or just give shots and treat malaria or flu. Depends on where you go and what they need.”
When Mike just nodded, Jim continued. “It’s all about the people, Mike. Isn’t that what you’re looking for, what you’re lacking now?”
“Yeah, I think so. I need an atmosphere that’s a little more... positive.” He wanted to give something back, but more than that, he yearned to make a real difference, to get right into the nitty-gritty of medicine—even better in an environment where he might discover the kind of work that drove him to become a surgeon in the first place.
“I’ll call my friend and give her your number. She can answer all your questions.”
“Thanks, that might be just the medicine I need.”
Jim shook his head and sighed. “Of course, that means I have to find someone else to run with—someone as ugly as you so all the girls still look at me.”
“You should really invest in a mirror.”
Part 2 – South America
Six weeks later, Doc Sheehan shuffled through the airport in Buenos Aires. He discovered, with considerable discomfort, that his destination of Coralinda, Argentina, was too small for the big jets. Passengers transferred to what he derisively called a puddle-jumper, though what they really needed was a mountain-climber.
Turbulence over the eastern edge of the Andes Mountains converted the small propeller craft into a roller coaster without rails. Doc looped his feet around the base of the seat in front of him, tightened his white-knuckled death claw on the armrests, and stared at the barf bag sticking out of the pocket in front of him.
I’m not going to puke. I’m not going to puke. He couldn’t understand why humans insisted on engaging in the supremely unnatural act of flying.
A teenage girl across the aisle acted as if this was old hat, something over which she needn’t even break a sweat.
Geez, Mikey-boy, you’re such a sissy.
One hour, one full barf bag, and zero ounces of remaining pride later, he managed to get his legs under him long enough to wave down a taxi. He could never get away from an airport fast enough.
The bone-crushing fatigue of jetlag, the last fading remnants of fear, the stress born of the certain knowledge that he would die in a fiery plane crash: these lingered like the remnants of a sweaty nightmare. Now that he’d survived his ordeal and arrived at his hotel in Coralinda, he needed to de-stress.
He threw on his running gear and hustled out without bothering to unpack. The concierge directed him to a nearby park with a trail suitable to his requirements.
“Prepare to die, stress,” he whispered to no one.
The asphalt trail wound a circle around not just the park, but part of the city as well. The unique path left the park and dropped below the city by way of a tunnel, where it circled underground for 1.8 miles until it reemerged on the other side of the park. The entire circuit, including the aboveground portion, ran just short of 2.9 miles.
Doc had for years run at least 5 miles every day, which he would now adjust to 5.8 miles—two laps. If he yearned for more, he’d add additional laps.
He passed through the mouth of the tunnel and.... Holy smokes! Stagnant air lay over him like a stale blanket. Every half-breathing, half-drinking gasp pressed against his chest. January had brought summer to Argentina, and heavy air lingered in the tunnel, trapped within its white brick walls. A fine mist sparkled beneath yellow mercury lights, condensing and sweating into pools at the base of the wall.
Nothing to do but power through the dense curtain.
He cast the temperature from his thoughts, noting how the tunnel, like the rest of the park, differed from his native Chicago—no litter, no dumped drinks or discarded food, not even spit.
And no sign of rodents.
Thank God for that. Damn rats!
He emerged from the tunnel, free of his exercise in self-torture, soaked in sweat, sapped of strength, and desperate for water. He paused to lean on his thighs and cool down.
How could they not put temperature controls in there? Or at least vent it?
On future runs, he’d strap on a water bottle, maybe two, since the park offered no fountain or water source. Another oversight?
Although he hated to do so, he called it quits after just one 2.9-mile lap. He’d stretch out the track beginning tomorrow.
***
Doc Sheehan’s second day in Coralinda heralded perfect weather and better preparation. With a water bottle strapped to each hip and rotated behind his back, his arms would swing freely while he ran. He estimated that he’d need a half-bottle of water for each trip through the tunnel to properly rehydrate, thus establishing his maximum distance—four laps, 11.6 miles.
He stepped off the path and started his pre-run stretching near a bench, where a man of perhaps seventy sat and watched him.
Doc nodded and said, “Buenos dias.”
“Hello, and how are you today?”
The man’s English displayed only a slight accent, though he wore the goucho-style clothing more traditional to rural Argentina—a wide-brimmed hat of brown leather, an orange poncho woven in crisscrossing patterns of red and yellow, and loose brown slacks tucked into the tops of black leather boots.
Doc couldn’t imagine how the man could stand wearing that poncho in this heat. “You speak English better than I speak Spanish, I’m afraid.”
The old man shrugged it off. “I suppose you could say I’m a worldly man.” He chuckled and spread his hands in a welcoming gesture. “My name is Pablo, and I am the city’s chief historian and storyteller.”
“Wow, I’ve never heard of such a title. Certainly not in the U.S.�
��
“I must confess that both titles are unofficial and... well, self-appointed. I hope you won’t think less of me.”
“Of course not. I’m Dr. Michael Sheehan. Most people just call me Doc. It’s a pleasure to me you, Pablo.”
“Oh, the pleasure is mine, Doc. If I may ask, what brings you to our troubled city?”
Doc explained his commitment to Doctors without Borders.
“This is a wonderful thing you do. Lord knows the people of this poor city need good servants such as yourself, committed to fine charitable works.”
“Ahh....” Warmth flushed through Doc’s cheeks, and he waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not a big deal, just a job.”
Pablo smiled and nodded.
Doc completed his stretching exercises. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my run.”
As he completed his first lap and continued on to the next, passing the old storyteller—he most preferred that title—seated on the bench, Pablo yelled out, “Good work, Doc. You’re setting an excellent pace.”
When he finished the second lap, properly rehydrated and less drained than the day before, he stopped back at the bench to visit his newfound friend. “Well, I guess that’s going to do it for me today. Now I need to cool down for a while.”
“I should think so,” Pablo said.
“Perhaps you could regale me with a story of your fine city.”
“Ah, this I can do. How much do you know of Coralinda?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. I planned to spend some of my early time here learning about it. Figured the concierge at The Palace could point me in the right direction, but what could be better than the city’s chief historian and storyteller?”
“Then I’ll begin with the city as it is today.” Pablo curled his brow and pursed his lips as if to concentrate. “As you may have noticed, the area around The Palace is quite nice. Indeed, it remains the only hotel suitable for most visitors. A few fine restaurants surround the hotel, along with the estates of the rich and powerful, all squeezed into that one small section of the city.
“Alas, like so many South American cities, a squalor born of poverty dominates the rest. We have so little industry, you see—so few good-paying jobs for the people.”
Doc nodded.
Pablo motioned to the surrounding area. “You might say this park stands guard at the edge of what our wealthier people call la ciudad verdad—the real city. I fear they designed it to isolate themselves from los pobres desgraciados—the wretched poor. One cannot blame them, as they seek only to protect themselves.”
