Someone at last

The room was simply decorated, but pleasant enough. It contained a large bed, atop which he laid, adjacent to a non-descript end table, in the middle of which stood a dimly lit gray lamp. In fact, he noticed, everything in the room – the bedspread, the curtains, the headboard – were either gray or white or black.

Was this a hotel? Why was he in a hotel? He remembered riding his motorcycle into the canyon. The air shifted like a mood, from the backdraft of an open oven to the coolness of an aluminum can. The sun orphaned the day to night and his world existed in the glowing halo of his headlight. The desert darkened. His eyes grew heavy. He pushed on.

He thought about getting up and going to the window, or trying the white door, at the very end of the gray carpet. But he couldn’t move his limbs. His heart suddenly began beating furiously in his chest. He was paralyzed! But as quickly as the thought made him anxious, he was at once instantly calm again. His mood, like the desert at dusk, transformed abruptly. 

The door opened.

The man who entered in many ways matched the room. He was dressed in gray medical scrubs and black silicone sandals, like nurses wore. The man grabbed a chair from the corner and placed it near the bed. He sat down, smiled with an exuberance that seemed unnecessarily cheery, and said, "Douglas, it is an honor to finally meet you. Truly.” 

Douglas wondered for a second if he could talk. And, just as he feared he couldn’t, his mouth began moving. "Are you a doctor?” he croaked.

"I am a medical expert, yes,” the man said. He was tall, and in his seated position, his knees jutted toward the ceiling, his thighs declining severely toward his torso. His head was completely bald, and his complexion, Doug noted, was slightly washed out and cloudy, like unbleached sheets.

"So, a doctor?” Doug pressed.

"Douglas, do you have any recollection of the accident?”

"The accident? Am I in a hospital?” He tried to move but could not.

"You were struck by a large vehicle. A refrigerated semi-trailer, to be exact.”

"What?” He felt mildly concerned by this, but not alarmed. Surely if he had been in an accident, he figured, they were giving him drugs. Perhaps the drugs were causing the paralysis, and then that thought disappeared completely.

"Your CVO Limited Harley Davidson motorcycle was completely destroyed. I am sorry to say.”

"A truck? I hit a truck?”

The man’s hands were folded in his lap, and he remained, as he had since he sat down, as upright as a stop sign. “Yes. However, it would be more accurate to say that the collision was the result of both objects rapidly decelerating against one another.”

"I don’t understand. Does my family know?”

The man stared intensely into Doug’s eyes, as if searching for his words there. “They were notified, yes. Are you hungry? We believe it’s an optimal time for you to eat some food.”

Doug’s appetite appeared, as welcoming as a just-lit porchlight. He thought of apple pie and cheeseburgers.

"I could eat. Yes.”

The man stood. “Excellent. If you will be patient, Doug, I will get you some dinner, over which we can continue this very productive conversation.”

Ten minutes later the man returned. He placed a large serving tray in front of Doug, upon which sat a metallic cloche. He returned to his seat.

Doug was overwhelmed with relief when he found himself able to reach for the dome’s handle. He removed it to reveal a cheeseburger on a gray plate; on another, a slice of apple pie.

"How did you know I wanted this?” Doug asked.

"You told us, Doug. Don’t worry, we are listening to you.”

Doug began eating and the enjoyment he felt from every bite was like nothing he had ever felt before. He choked down the pie nearly as quickly as he did the burger, then let out an enormous belch. He blushed and covered his mouth.

"Excuse me.”

"Where are you going?” the man asked, smiling, his head tilted to one side.

"No, for the burp,” Doug smiled. “Are you foreign? Where is this hospital? And did you tell me your name? I’m sorry if you did, I think it’s the drugs.”

The man let out a hearty laugh. “You are not on any pharmacologic agents, Mr. Berman, just the biochemical entities found naturally in your body.”

Doug pushed the tray toward the man, who looked at it, before looking up and continuing. “Are you going to tell me your name or not?”

"I’m 897.”

"That’s your name?”

"It’s my identification number, yes.”

A silence fell between them, infiltrated by the slightest of humming, like the vibrating, electrified filament of a lightbulb.

"You are starting to freak me out,” Doug said, although, as he did, he realized he had never felt so calm and at peace with his surroundings. “Where am I?” 

897 asked, “Would you like me to give you the complete report?”

"Yes, I would,” Doug replied.

897 stood up and stared at the wall behind Doug’s head. “Berman, Douglas. Deceased, Pre-Event, 12/27/2032. Cryogenic Internment, Pre-Event, 12/28/2032. Reanimation, Post-Event, 8/4/2506.”

Doug stared at 897, who lowered his head to face him again. “So, you’re with Cryo-Quest. And…it happened, and you were able to...”

"Bring you back to life? Yes.”

He felt nauseous for a second, but the feeling quickly retreated, as if an attentive, yet invisible, nurse had offered remedy. "Whatever kind of joke this is, it’s inhuman. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

897 sat back down then and Doug saw genuine pity in his waxy face.

"I am inhuman. Which is why you are here, Douglas Berman. We have a lot to learn from a rare bio-specimen such as yourself.”

Douglas went to get up, but his arms no longer worked again. His legs remained heavy and lifeless. He used his words, instead. “I don’t know what is going on here, but you can find someone else for your little experiment, asshole.”

Doug went to say something else, but his mouth no longer moved.
"That’s not possible, Douglas. You are the last someone. The very last.”