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  Beyond

  Ambrose Ibsen

  Copyright © 2019 by Ambrose Ibsen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and events are the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Bukovero

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  Created with Vellum

  This novel is dedicated to Charles Grey, 2nd Earl Grey (1764-1845). If not for the author’s almost fanatic indulgence in Charles’ signature blend of tea and bergamot oil during the long nights of January and February, this work could not have been written.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank You For Reading!

  About the Author

  One

  The firefighters leaned into the Volvo with their hydraulic shears, and after a lengthy effort managed to crack the gnarled metallic shell, extracting the driver—limp and unresponsive—like a sunflower kernel. Now came the hard part; paramedics swarmed around the gurney to begin the rather involved work of sussing out signs of life in the scarlet assemblage of broken parts.

  “Can you hear me?” asked one of the first responders. Out came the penlight. A hand spread each of the eyelids in turn. “Fixed and dilated.”

  “He ain't breathing,” noted another. He swept a few gloved fingers into the victim's mouth, ensuring the airway was clear, and then began CPR.

  One of the first responders yanked aside the neckline of the blood-streaked polo and engaged in a forceful sternal rub; there was a reaction in the victim, but it was a feeble stirring—nothing that would inspire confidence. It was the trembling of a supine housefly on a windowsill—a last gasp.

  From one of the bystanders, the college-aged girl who'd dialed 9-1-1, “He was speeding, but I don't know what made him lose control. One minute, he was trying to pass all of us who'd stopped to watch the sky, and the next he suddenly hooked to the right and flew through the railing.”

  The decision was made to move immediately to the ambulance, and so the gurney was dragged up the incline—away from the heap of twisted metal with Ohio plates, away from the sequence of divots it had left in the field during its precipitous decline, away from the ruptured safety railing it had burst through at no less than seventy miles an hour. The patient was hoisted into the rear of the vehicle, where still others waited to work on him in vain. The whine of a defibrillator could be heard as they rolled him into place; the crinkling of plastic IV tubing and the jangling of vials filled the brightly-lit space like a funerary dirge.

  The ambulance wheeled away from the shoulder and pulled past a line of stopped cars half a mile long. The motorists had stopped initially to see the comet pass, but had stayed to watch the rescue unfold, and now they weaved lazily to one side or the other to make room for the screeching ambulance. The flashing reds and blues chewed up the dusk as the vehicle picked up speed, and the roar of the siren waxed deafening.

  Meanwhile, in the back, the paramedics struggled to work against the gyrations of the speeding ambulance on a man to whom life clung as tenuously as a breath on cold glass. The further their assessments and interventions went, the more destruction they discovered within him. There was more brokenness to the man than wholeness; where they pressed in with their palms to kickstart his hibernating heart, they encountered the clacking friction of displaced and splintered bones, and where they tested his limbs for reflexiveness and sought out a pulse, they found only that blood had begun to accumulate in sectors where blood oughtn't pool. It was a losing battle, and they knew it.

  “He looks young,” lamented one of the paramedics, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “Probably a student,” suggested the other.

  He was indeed a youthful specimen. From what could be gleaned beneath the veneer of blood and sweat, the victim was possessed of a boyish countenance; though the impression of immaturity may have been owed at least partially to the expression he wore—one of static and terrific alarm. His eyes were thrust wide, and though little light remained in them, they seemed to twinkle with latent horror; his jaw was slack and his mouth drooped open in a silent scream. All this was noted and documented by the paramedics before they rifled through his pockets and produced an ID. The victim was identified as one Erich Tellier, twenty-two years of age, and evidently an undergraduate at the nearby Moorlake University.

  “Stay with us, Erich,” said one of the paramedics as the vehicle whipped into the rear lot of the university hospital, though whether the patient maintained sufficient consciousness to appreciate the use of his name remained unclear. Already one of the EMTs was on the phone with the on-call trauma physician; the young paramedic doled out the dire assessment on one end, and from the other came a series of learned and increasingly despairing grunts.

  The doctor, a ten-year veteran of emergency medicine named Schneider, stood among the personnel that gathered at the rear entrance, and ordered the paramedics to rush the gurney—by then oozing—into the trauma room, where preparations had been made to yank this Level One back from the brink.

  And it was there that the assembled staff, some twenty-five persons thick, toiled to save the life of Erich Tellier for nearly an hour.

  Nurses searched for good veins; respiratory therapists took turns doing chest compressions with clinical supervisors; carts of supplies were thrown open and the cold suite was turned sour and warm by the cloistered breathing of its laborers. And all the while, Schneider stood by, masterfully directing operations like a conductor might direct a symphony—a stone-faced, blood-flecked Leonard Bernstein.

  But it was all for naught.

  Life would not return to Erich Tellier.

  Schneider held up a closed fist and bellowed, “Enough,” past the staff's murmurings and at that moment they all drew away from the gurney, exhausted, not a little distraught, but comforted in the knowledge that they had applied more than 2000 years of medical expertise in their attempted resuscitation.

  “We made a good go of it,” summarized one of the orderlies, his scrub bottoms pink with blood.

  Glancing at the Seiko on his wrist, Schneider noted the time of death on the back of his freshly-scrubbed hand in black ballpoint and strode out of the suite, instructing those remaining to “clean him up”. The time of death that he would transfer onto a progress note some minutes later was 8:45 PM.

  The patient had been lost—the sterile euphemism of choice was “expired”—but there remained a good deal yet to do. To start with, the suite needed cleaned and the body of Erich Tellier made presentable; this former goal could be accomplished with buckets and mops, whereas the latter, considering the patient's miserable final state, would require nothing short of sorcery. The best the nurses could hope for would be to wipe the bulk of
the blood from the corpse, to remove the lines from him and to arrange his battered limbs in a hopeless, but respectful, imitation of comfort. There remained, too, the least enviable task, which Schneider would take upon himself—that of contacting the patient's next of kin and breaking the news.

  The physician busied himself at the nurse's station for the next twenty-five minutes, taking down a few pages of detailed notes on the incident. The full extent of Erich Tellier's injuries would be impossible to determine without an autopsy, though Schneider felt comfortable in declaring a number of points in his notes, any one of which might serve as an official cause of death. The patient had suffered from broken ribs; he and the other staff had felt them during compressions. Pneumothorax was suspected. That the patient had bled internally was plain, and what's more, the presence of brain trauma had been made clear by the fixed and dilated pupils. Though he could not say with absolute certainty, the state of the body, coupled with its utter lack of reflexiveness, seemed to point to a spinal injury, and his cursory examination of the spine had yielded no fewer than three fractured vertebrae.

  All this to say, even if they had somehow succeeded in resuscitating him, any spark of life they may have returned to Erich Tellier would have been, at best, transient.

  He had nearly completed his work when he heard the stamping of feet coming down the hall. From around the corner ran a slate-faced nurse, this one fresh out of her residency. She clutched at a damp rag, her legs shaking, and managed to utter the word “Doctor” a few times before motioning limply down the hall—towards the trauma suite.

  “What is it?” asked Schneider, looking up from the chart. He resented the interruption all the more because he was nearly through, and because he was preoccupied with finding a good phrasing for his upcoming phone call. There really wasn't a good way to tell someone, “Your son has died in a catastrophic accident.” Despite years on the job he'd never found a way to soften the blow. Staring up at the nurse, who looked on the verge of fainting, he sat upright. “Well? What?”

  “The patient,” she muttered. “T-The Level One...” She brought the rag up to her breast and then leaned in the direction of the trauma suite, staggering a few steps down the hall and out of sight.

  Baffled, Schneider stood and marched out of the nurse's station, falling into step behind her. He followed her into the suite, where she halted at the threshold and pointed at the corpse. She said nothing more.

  She didn't have to.

  Schneider watched as the corpse's chest rose and fell, as if in labored inhalations. He started at the sight of this, then gave a wry smile, recalling that brief movements are sometimes seen in the dead as the body exhausts its electrical energies. The nurse had probably been cleaning up the body, and had been startled by this sudden shift in the corpse. He, too, had been frightened once as a resident after witnessing something similar.

  And yet, before he could mock her, Schneider noticed that the movements persisted.

  The smile fell from his lips. The doctor took a few steps into the room, towards the body.

  Erich Tellier's eyes were closed now, and his chest kept on moving, up and down, up and down.

  He was breathing.

  Schneider wasn't sure what he said—he was completely outside of himself—but he shouted into the hallway and summoned additional staff. Within moments, the room was filled again and the gurney was surrounded by personnel.

  Earlier that evening, Erich Tellier had breathed his last breath.

  Presently, he breathed his first.

  Two

  “Any questions?” Professor Jennings straightened his reading glasses and looked out across the room. Shuffling a number of papers back into an open binder, he gave a little start as something important evidently returned to mind. “Oh, I meant to mention this earlier. You all may have noticed that our very own Erich Tellier hasn't been around lately. I received an email from him on Monday. It turns out he's in the hospital—had a very bad car accident. A terrible way to start the semester, of course, but he claims he'll be back in class before too long.”

  The class—hitherto lulled into semi-consciousness by a dry lecture on music theory—came to life now with a series of concerned murmurings.

  The professor, a man of fifty-odd years with a painstakingly-shaped pencil mustache ala John Waters, rifled through his leather bag and produced a white envelope. “I actually picked out a card for him. I thought it might be nice if we all signed it. Erich's been in the program for more than three years, after all. He's practically family.” He chuckled, removing the card from the envelope and leaning over the podium to hand it to the girl sitting in the front row.

  This particular class—Music Theory IV—was made up of third and fourth year students in the university's Musical Performance degree program. The program itself was relatively small compared to the university's other offerings, with just over sixty enrolled for the year. This ensured a level of familiarity between the registered students, who'd spent the the bulk of their academic careers in the same classrooms, completing the same prerequisites and being taught by the same professors. As such, among the close-knit musical performance majors, the absence of Erich Tellier in the music building over the preceding week had been conspicuous—though not for the reasons one might expect.

  Erich—a third year who might have been a fourth if not for his repeated and much-talked-about failings of various courses—was little thought of as a musician, and could not have been said to be “close” with his peers. Quite the opposite, despite his perennial presence in the program over the course of three and a half academic years, he'd largely kept to himself. He'd never been one to fraternize with his fellow musicians, made no secret of his disdain for certain of the courses and faculty, and with his passionless approach to music had subsequently sown more dislike among them than anything.

  As can be imagined, news of his accident and hospitalization evoked little pity in the class; rather, where whispered reactions sprang up, they were largely unsympathetic.

  The card made its way around the room. Jennifer Marlow, a pianist of great promise and one of the program's brightest pupils, signed it with a flourish that belied her well-known dislike of its recipient; Doug Stewart, a violist, signed it next, adding a note that Erich “get well soon” despite that very sentiment having been already printed onto the front of the card.

  Eventually, as the other students gathered their things and prepared to depart from the lecture hall, the card was passed to a student in the back row—a pianist with chewed-up fingernails and washed-out green eyes who hurriedly signed the thing “Julian Pinchot” without so much as glancing down at it. Waving the card in the air for a moment so that the ink might dry, he slung his backpack over one shoulder and descended the aisle to hand it back to the professor.

  Lanky Julian, unfailingly polite and hard-working, was generally well-liked. He had a trustworthy countenance on him: Clean-shaven with a gentle arc of a jaw; large, honest eyes, and a warm smile that could be summoned at a moment's notice. Quiet and studious, he earned respect not for his talent—for he had little to speak of—but for his persistence. He was the type to never miss class, and unlike others to whom musical ability came naturally, Julian was known to practice for hours on end in preparation for his recital examinations. When written tests came around, he was always the first to start a study group, and if his instructors needed help with things after class, he routinely volunteered his time.

  Julian handed the card to Professor Jennings as he stepped past the podium. “See you next Wednesday, professor.”

  The professor stopped short of accepting it, however. Tucking his reading glasses into a pouch, he spared Julian a sheepish grin and ran a finger over his lips. “Say, Julian, could I possibly ask you a favor? I actually need to run to my office hours now, and I'm not sure I'll have time today to get to the hospital...” He picked up the empty envelope and held it out. “Could I possibly convince you to deliver it to Erich on our behalf?” r />
  Julian tended towards agreeableness, but for whatever reason the nature of this particular request saw him hesitate. “Wait, you want me to take it to the hospital? To Erich?” In the instant before the professor responded, Julian tried to determine the cause for his reticence.

  It didn't take much wondering. The fact was that, like the rest, Julian cared little for Erich Tellier.

  “If you could, I'd appreciate it immensely,” said the professor. “I was hoping to do it myself, but I'm sure that Erich will be happy to have you drop by in my place. Poor guy is probably bored out of his mind in the hospital! A visit from you would do him a world of good. You're both third years, aren't you?”

  “We are...” began Julian.

  Sliding the empty envelope across the podium, Professor Jennings arched a brow. “Excellent. So, I can trust you with it, yes?”

  Julian picked up the envelope and slipped the signed card inside. Nodding slowly, he forced his smile back to the surface. “Uh... yeah, sure. I'm done with classes for the day. I'll swing by on my way home.”

  The professor gave Julian's shoulder an appreciative squeeze. “Marvelous. Give him my best!”

  Ordinarily, Julian was all too happy to help, but as he and the professor exited the lecture hall, he couldn't deny feeling a pang of regret. He hooked a right out of the room and started for the parking lot where his Focus was parked. With every step, the weight of the card in his hand seemed to increase. Really, the trip wasn't much of a burden; he'd drive a mile from campus to the hospital, stop at the front desk to ask for Erich's room number, take an elevator...