334 by Thomas M. Disch

By Thomas M. Disch

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The doctor, or was it the boy routed to surgery, had come into the toilet and was knocking on the wooden door. Neatly and as though on cue, he vomited. Long strings of blood came out with the pulped food. He stood up, zipped, and pushed open the door. It was the boy, not the doctor. "I'm better now," he said. " The boy climbed back onto the cart, which he'd wheeled himself all this way, and Chapel pushed him around the corner and down the hall to Surgery. Ab had felt it in his arms and his hands, a power of luck, as though when he leaned forward to flip over each card his fingers could read through the plastic to know whether it was, whether it wasn't the diamond he needed to make his flush.

He backed away from the cart. " He was swinging his legs down over the side. Chapel ran down the corridor. Since he was going in the direction of the Surgery to which the cart had been routed the traffic control 66 / THOMAS M. DISCH system did not correct him. Each time he inhaled he felt hundreds of tiny hypodermic darts penetrate his chest and puncture his lungs. " a doctor yelled. " Into another corridor, and there, as providentially as if he'd been programmed right to its door, was a staff toilet.

He lifted his left hand towards his lips. Everything he looked at seemed to be at right angles to everything else, like the inside of a gigantic machine. He backed away from the cart. " He was swinging his legs down over the side. Chapel ran down the corridor. Since he was going in the direction of the Surgery to which the cart had been routed the traffic control 66 / THOMAS M. DISCH system did not correct him. Each time he inhaled he felt hundreds of tiny hypodermic darts penetrate his chest and puncture his lungs.

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