SANDERS
E verything about the small room screamed sterile âthe walls, the ceiling, the aseptic light that filtered down from the fluorescent bulbs. There were no windows here, just white paint on smooth, concrete walls. Mounted in the corner, a small TV soundlessly played an infomercial. Charlie watched for a few seconds, noting how the lack of sound made the exaggerated enthusiasm of the pitchman even more ridiculous. It reminded him of the first motion picture heâd seen years and years ago . . . something with Chaplin in it, but he couldnât quite catch a hold of the title in his memory.
A steady beeping and rhythmic breathing drew his attention away from the television. Charlie turned to see an old man lying in a hospital bed. The respirator rasped in place of the manâs own lungs while the low beep of the EKG piped up every so often to confirm that his weak pulse remained just that. The elderly man looked especially gaunt in his limbs, like a poorly disguised skeleton in an ill-fitting human costume. A full tray of food sat next to the bed, untouched. At least, it looked like foodâCharlie was never sure when it came to hospital fare.
The Ferryman walked over to the medical chart at the foot ofthe bed and compared it with the clipboard in his hand. Next to the label NAME was scrawled John Sanders in Dirkleyâs unmistakable handwriting. Sure enough, it matched the name on the chart.
He continued to stare at the sheet of paper on his own clipboard, which, aside from the name, was blank. This, however, was Dirkleyâs domainâthough Charlie had been joking somewhat with his navigator before leaving the Institute, Dirkleyâs talent as a navigator was undeniable.
Before people passed away, consciously or unconsciously, their lives invariably flashed before their eyes. Yes, that particular cliché was actually grounded in truth. The Ferryman Institute, through some clandestine methodology Charlie wasnât privy to, managed to tap into that âfeedâ of memories. It was then up to the navigators to sift through memory fragments and assemble the pieces into some form of narrative. Oh, and they had to do it all in something like three to five minutes, which is how long it took for the feed to deteriorate, or wash out , in navigator parlance. From stories Charlie had heard, it was sort of like looking at a jumbled slideshow of a complete strangerâs life and then trying to figure out who that person was from it. Sometimes the memory feed was fairly easy to piece together, while other times it took a bit of guesswork to fill in the blanks. Kind of like Wheel of Fortune , just with dead people. Given the extremely limited time frame navigators had to work with, the histories were often crude and vaguely detailed. Yet even the slightest bit of informationâa loved one, a special moment, even a petâs nameâcould be the difference between a successful case and a failure.
After a few seconds of staring at the blank form on his clipboard,the first typed words began to appear. With a quiet efficiency, Charlie began reading Dirkleyâs work:
John Sanders. Goes by Jack. Born 1925. Served as a noncommissioned army officer in World War II and received three Purple Hearts for his troubles. The third was out in the Pacific and cost him his left leg, from the knee down; eventually fitted with a prosthetic. Married three times in relatively short succession. He had his first and only child, boy named Richard, with his third wife in â53 or â54 (tough to tell). Lost him roughly 17-19 years later in Vietnam. Son volunteered, wasnât drafted. Sanders and his third wife, Maureen (Richardâs mother), lived productive if modest lives. She passed away 8 months ago. No other family. Religious beliefs: Casual Christian.
The writing stopped for a brief moment before it showed up again in a small box at the top of the form. Estimated Time of Death: 21:37.
E verything about the small room screamed sterile âthe walls, the ceiling, the aseptic light that filtered down from the fluorescent bulbs. There were no windows here, just white paint on smooth, concrete walls. Mounted in the corner, a small TV soundlessly played an infomercial. Charlie watched for a few seconds, noting how the lack of sound made the exaggerated enthusiasm of the pitchman even more ridiculous. It reminded him of the first motion picture heâd seen years and years ago . . . something with Chaplin in it, but he couldnât quite catch a hold of the title in his memory.
A steady beeping and rhythmic breathing drew his attention away from the television. Charlie turned to see an old man lying in a hospital bed. The respirator rasped in place of the manâs own lungs while the low beep of the EKG piped up every so often to confirm that his weak pulse remained just that. The elderly man looked especially gaunt in his limbs, like a poorly disguised skeleton in an ill-fitting human costume. A full tray of food sat next to the bed, untouched. At least, it looked like foodâCharlie was never sure when it came to hospital fare.
The Ferryman walked over to the medical chart at the foot ofthe bed and compared it with the clipboard in his hand. Next to the label NAME was scrawled John Sanders in Dirkleyâs unmistakable handwriting. Sure enough, it matched the name on the chart.
He continued to stare at the sheet of paper on his own clipboard, which, aside from the name, was blank. This, however, was Dirkleyâs domainâthough Charlie had been joking somewhat with his navigator before leaving the Institute, Dirkleyâs talent as a navigator was undeniable.
Before people passed away, consciously or unconsciously, their lives invariably flashed before their eyes. Yes, that particular cliché was actually grounded in truth. The Ferryman Institute, through some clandestine methodology Charlie wasnât privy to, managed to tap into that âfeedâ of memories. It was then up to the navigators to sift through memory fragments and assemble the pieces into some form of narrative. Oh, and they had to do it all in something like three to five minutes, which is how long it took for the feed to deteriorate, or wash out , in navigator parlance. From stories Charlie had heard, it was sort of like looking at a jumbled slideshow of a complete strangerâs life and then trying to figure out who that person was from it. Sometimes the memory feed was fairly easy to piece together, while other times it took a bit of guesswork to fill in the blanks. Kind of like Wheel of Fortune , just with dead people. Given the extremely limited time frame navigators had to work with, the histories were often crude and vaguely detailed. Yet even the slightest bit of informationâa loved one, a special moment, even a petâs nameâcould be the difference between a successful case and a failure.
After a few seconds of staring at the blank form on his clipboard,the first typed words began to appear. With a quiet efficiency, Charlie began reading Dirkleyâs work:
John Sanders. Goes by Jack. Born 1925. Served as a noncommissioned army officer in World War II and received three Purple Hearts for his troubles. The third was out in the Pacific and cost him his left leg, from the knee down; eventually fitted with a prosthetic. Married three times in relatively short succession. He had his first and only child, boy named Richard, with his third wife in â53 or â54 (tough to tell). Lost him roughly 17-19 years later in Vietnam. Son volunteered, wasnât drafted. Sanders and his third wife, Maureen (Richardâs mother), lived productive if modest lives. She passed away 8 months ago. No other family. Religious beliefs: Casual Christian.
The writing stopped for a brief moment before it showed up again in a small box at the top of the form. Estimated Time of Death: 21:37.
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