Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala by Rick Hautala Page B

don’t have to worry,” Doctor Scott went on, his voice now a deep, soothing buzz. “You’re way past feeling much of anything now. Once we remove your baby and get him—It’s a boy, right?”
    Sheila grunted but wasn’t sure she made a sound.
    “Once we get him into the incubator,” Doctor Scott continued, “we’ll administer the third and final shot. That’s the lethal one.”
    “Le ... thal ...?”
    “Yes. So you can die, assured that your baby will continue to develop and be maintained by the best life support systems available until he is ready to be ‘born.’ Then I assure you, we’ll find him a suitable family.” He glanced at a chart on the table beside him and smiled. “We’ll carry your son to full-term and see that he’s adopted.”
    When he was finished speaking, Doctor Scott shrugged helplessly and shook his head.
    “But ... I ...” Sheila found it almost impossible to speak. “I ... don’t ...”
    “There, there. Just relax,” Doctor Scott said, leaning close and staring at her. His face was an exaggerated mask of concern.
    From her point of view, Sheila thought he looked like a deranged demon, not a doctor, but she attributed it to the drugs. Her eyes widened, the light stinging them.
    “Do you mean to tell me you actually thought we were going to destroy your fetus? ”
    Doctor Scott’s expression shifted to one of deepening concern.
    “When you first came in here, I asked if you knew what you were getting into. Don’t tell me you don’t know about the changes the government regulations made in the abortion laws. It’s been on the holovid news every night.”
    Sheila tried to shake her head but couldn’t move. Her mouth was locked tightly shut, and all feeling was seeping from her body. Her eyes remained wide open and staring, unblinking, as she looked at the ceiling. It was vibrating with subtle waves of blue light and deeper shadow. She sensed motion behind her and wondered if the assisting nurse had entered the room.
    “Surely, you must have heard about it on the news,” Doctor Scott continued. “Why, just two months ago, the government finally accepted the medical reports that showed that, because of an accumulation of environmental pollutants, pregnant mothers can no longer carry their babies to full-term. Usually in the seventh month of gestation, all fetuses are removed from their mothers and put through a thorough detoxification in artificial wombs. You know—test tubes babies. The government’s policy on abortion has also changed, so we’re now required by law to save the baby and abort the mother.”
    Sheila was desperate to speak or move, but her mind was so clouded she could barely think. Her body felt like it was encased in clear, solid plastic. She would have opened her mouth and screamed … if she could have.
    “Look, Miss ... uh, Miss Dobson,” Doctor Scott said. His voice had an edge of resignation, and his expression was one of deep regret. “I—I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, but it’s too late now. That second injection I gave you is working quite fast. If I don’t proceed right now, you’ll be left paralyzed for life, and the state can’t possibly care for you.”
    His expression softened.
    “But don’t worry. The other injection acts fast. You’ll be dead within minutes.” He glanced at something behind her head and nodded.
    “I really must get to work now if I’m going to save your baby.”
    And then, without another word, he began to cut.
     

The Nephews
    Just like every other Friday night, The Wheelwell —a working man’s bar just up from the docks in Cape Harvest, Maine—was filled with rafts of drifting cigarette smoke. It hung, suspended in the air in several clearly defined strata—some charcoal gray, some as blue as the ocean at dawn. Glenn Chadwick had always suspected that on any given night, with a careful analysis of the layers of smoke, you could tell exactly which of the locals was there without even