The Souls of Dumah

CHAPTER 1

LOST SOUL

Peter Kelsey awoke wondering. Where am I? He vaguely remembered hearing Miles instruct Armund to move him down to the lab. That was on Thursday. The day he took a turn for the worse. What day is it today? Doesn’t matter. As his surroundings came into focus, he saw racks of medical equipment: monitors with tiny red and green lights stacked beyond the shadows with lights that winked in the dark like miniature pairs of monsters’ eyes.

Peter shifted his gaze up the granite blocks of the wall as a cricket emerged from hiding. It crept across the stones, paused and began to chirp. He closed his eyes with fatigue. The sound echoed throughout the cool confines of the cellar. In his morphine laced awareness, he imagined the sound to be a demon, walled up like a Poe prisoner behind the granite blocks, methodically scratching at the stone with bony fingers, trying to claw its way out, trying to get to him.

A tangle of colored wires cascaded from the electrodes implanted in his shaved head while clear plastic tubes went to and from his body in limp coils. One siphoned off a trickle of body waste while another pumped paste like nourishment back into him.

The musty odor of the cellar was overwhelmed by the stench of sickness, engulfing him like an infectious fog. His sheets, clean only hours before, were sticky again with puss, puss that oozed from venous ulcers covering his back and legs. Dr. Koufax had tried everything in his medicinal arsenal to combat them but nothing short of a skin graft would work and that would require hospitalization. Dr. VanBurin had vetoed his suggestion. I brought Peter here to die. He said. Let’s not forget that!

So, Dr. Koufax had jabbed a needle the size of a four-penny nail into the left External Iliac Artery of Peter’s groin because the veins in his arms had shriveled up like a dead junkie’s. He connected a tube to the needle and set up a morphine pump, hoping to give Peter some control over his suffering. At first it worked, mashing the red button allowed him to self-administer minuscule doses of morphine but yesterday he became too weak to even press the button. To ease his agony Dr. Koufax put him on oral doses administered every four hours.

Peter’s frail body needed fluids. He was rapidly slipping into an advanced state of dehydration but he was not thirsty. One by one, his organs were shutting down.

Seventeen color-coded wires linked Peter’s body and soul to a bundle of fiber optic cables, which snaked over to a thirty-five million dollar Cray super computer that dominated the center of the lab. A bronze toned monolith that hummed incessantly.

Last night Peter fell asleep listening to its endless drone. He’d dreamt he was lying on a cold concrete slab, surrounded by smiling morticians, decked out in red and white pin-striped suits: a Barbershop Quartet. But in his nightmare the men never sang, they just hummed gleefully while performing their grisly chore: his autopsy. When he realized the crooked stripes on their suits were streaks of his own blood, he awoke screaming.

Peter knew his time was short, the virus had relentlessly gnawed at him, reducing his body to a sallow, wheezing sack of bones that rattled when he coughed. There was no place left for him to go and no one he knew who cared. That was the reason he agreed to become Dr. Miles VanBurin’s snap-link between this world and the next.

Their lives had converged one day at a Denver Free Clinic. The Clinic provided basic medical care, for destitute drug abusers, prostitutes and uninsured Aids patients.

On that stark, winter afternoon, Peter stumbled into Miles’s dingy waiting room, where the reek of antiseptic fought to overpower the stench of unwashed bodies. It was a dismal place where glass eyed patients fidgeted in various stages of withdrawal and distress. That dreadful afternoon remained fresh in his mind. He remembered shivering in the doorway until someone hissed, Shut the fucking door man!

When he came in. There was no place to sit but at least it was warm inside, hot in fact. The room was heated by a smelly kerosene heater enclosed in a chicken wire cage, the fumes made his cough worse, causing him to hack up bloody chunks of phlegm.

For two long hours he had leaned against that wall telling himself: I’m not like them. I don’t do drugs. He tried to avoid the suspicious glares of the few who cared enough to look in his direction as a severe bout of bronchia pneumonia squeezed the life out of him. Eventually a nurse, alarmed by his persistent coughing and suspecting tuberculosis, made him don a mask and reluctantly bumped him to the top of the waiting list.

Miles VanBurin was the volunteer physician on duty that day, after testing Peter for TB and discovering he did not have it, Miles prescribed a codeine based cough suppressant and gave Peter a shot of amantadine.

A brief examination confirmed Miles’s assumption: Peter was in the final stages of a rare strain of Aids, a strain currently reeking havoc in China, Vietnam and Thailand.

When Miles found out that Peter had been homeless for weeks, he smiled and told him he might have a proposition for him, one that would solve his problems. He asked Peter to meet him later that day.

Hungry and desperate Peter agreed to meet Miles at Fat Sally’s Diner at six.

Peter had left the clinic buoyed by hope. An icy wind was howling out of the northwest that day, sweeping granulated snow from deserted streets and whisking it like ground glass against the exposed skin of his face and hands. Week old gray snow had piled up against abandoned cars making them look like dead whales. Peering through bloodshot eyes and blinking back tears, Peter squinted and tried to see where he was going. He sneezed and the snot froze to the stubble on his sunken face before he could wipe it away. Tucking his head down into the collar of his threadbare coat he leaned into the wind and plodded across town in absolute misery. His worn out sneakers kept filling with snow, hobbling him but he pressed on, driven by dreams of a hot meal.

He arrived at Fat Sally’s a few minutes before six. Then he’d stood outside waiting, shifting from frozen foot, to frozen foot, patting his bare hands against his chest, trying to generate enough heat to keep from freezing. He had not eaten a hot meal in days. The cold was sapping what little strength he had left. Every time the red and white door to Fat Sally’s swung open the aroma of greasy burgers sizzling inside caused his stomach to rumble.

Miles arrived at five-past seven in a black Range Rover. He parked in a loading zone and breezed across the street grinning, dressed in a tailored wool suit and snappy silk tie, toast warm in his camel overcoat, cashmere scarf flapping in the wind. Miles spotted Peter huddled against the side of the building seeking shelter from the relentless gusts of wind. Miles waved, smiled and mimed a shiver.

Silently Peter followed him inside, rubbing clumps of frozen mucus from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

Offering no explanation for being late, Miles selected a booth in the back of the diner and slid in. Peter collapsed across from him shivering.

A dumpy, waitress walked over with two grimy menus tucked under her flabby arm. She gave the oddly matched pair a quizzical look, then poured each a glass of ice water from a yellow plastic pitcher and left.

Peter’s mouth was caulk dry, he guzzled the water as if he’d just staggered in from the scorching sands of the Mojave. But the water made him start to cough. He reached into his coat pocket then struggled with the childproof cap of his medicine bottle.

Miles watched, his face a blank slate as Peter managed the cap and took two swigs, savoring the tart, cherry flavor of the syrup and the near instant relief it brought to his cough.

The waitress was back, her nametag declared her to be Marge. She pulled an order pad out from her pink stitched pocket and plucked a Bic pen from behind her ear. You boys ready to order?

Miles found the diner and Peter’s appearance unappetizing so he took the liberty of ordering for them both. Yes, I’ll just have a cup of tea, Earl Grey. Would you like one Peter? My treat, might do that cough some good.

Disappointment washed over Peter’s face. Yes, thank you, he whispered. He had expected a meal. Didn’t Dr. VanBurin invite him here for dinner?

Marge drummed her pen against the pad. You don’t want nothing else? Her red lips melted into a concerned frown. She pointed her pen at Peter, You look starved.

Curtly, Miles answered for him, No, just two teas Miss, Earl Grey. That’s all. He dismissed her with a flick of his wrist.

Peter glanced up at Marge and shrugged; he looked about to cry. She snatched up their menus and left without further comment.

Growing impatient, Miles decided to skip the small talk. Look Mr. Kelsey…Peter I’ve been working on an unbelievable project involving research that could change your future. Leaning as close as he dared, Miles whispered his eyes filled with glee, Research that will stun the scientific community maybe even topple theological institutions world wide!

Confused, Peter wondered, is Dr. VanBurin working on a new treatment for Aids? Or was it something else? Something bigger? Have you found a cure?

Miles chuckled. A cure? Sorry my friend, no cure. Then Miles had launched into a glossy description of his research, skipping the grislier details.

Marge brought their tea without comment, a few minutes later she reappeared with a Fat Sally’s platter. She plopped it and a large Coke down in front of Peter. Some guy ordered this…changed his mind. You want it? It’s on the house. She smiled. Free.

Peter grinned, his eyes brimming with tears. Yes, thank you very much. This is so kind of you.

Well, you’re welcome honey. She shot Miles an indignant glare, huffed and strutted away like a ruffled hen.

Peter began wolfing down the burger and fries, more interested in it, than Miles or his silly project.

Perturbed by the sudden change of focus, Miles grabbed Peter’s wrist. Peter stiffened like a ravenous dog. Miles drew back his hand counting fingers. Look Peter, if you agree to be the Test Subject for my project, you can spend the rest of your life in comfort, living rent free, safe and warm inside my magnificent mountain home. And I’ll feed you anything you want.

Peter looked up unconvinced and went back to his meal.

Miles continued, I’ll take care of all your medical needs too. Free.

Peter took a sip of his coke.

Sensing the reluctance of his prospect beginning to thaw, Miles eased off. Of course, nothing can or will be done to prolong your life. After all I’m only a Doctor, not a God. He chuckled. I’ll just try and make your last few wee….months, as pleasant as possible. Miles leaned back against the red vinyl of the booth grinning like a used car salesman, a salesmen who knew he had hooked a guy with solid gold credit on an overpriced lemon. So, what do you say? I need a decision today. I have two other patients interested. I can only accept one.

Peter looked up at Miles, swallowed the last bite of his burger and rubbed his mouth with a wadded paper napkin. Is this guy for real? He was out of options. At the moment he was camping in a refrigerator box behind a burned out building, blocks from the nearest public bathroom and miles from the nearest soup kitchen: his only current source for food. Staring blankly at his empty plate, Peter wondered if the snip of parsley was edible. He looked up at Miles and for a second saw his own reflection drowning in the black pools of Miles’s pupils. How about pain, can you control my pain?

Miles sipped his tea. That should be no problem.

And so Peter had agreed. Now here he was, waiting to die, his skull studded with electrodes, his hair gone, replaced by a sparse tangle of colored wires. Although he had never said anything, Peter knew what Miles thought: he wished he would just give up. Let go, for Christ’s sake, you’re holding up the project. What are you clinging to life for?

Who knows, maybe it was better on the other side. At this point even oblivion would be a welcome improvement.

Peter soon discovered that Miles was a brilliant but egotistical physician who cared more about his research, then his patients. He had an enormous family fortune at his disposal and he used it to indulge his every whim, both scientific and sexual.

It was rumored that Miles would sit for hours, waiting for patients to die. Once he was banished from Denver General Hospital for screaming at a room full of grieving relatives. He had demanded that they leave the room of their dead relative because he needed to take his readings before the body grew cold. It had taken a large donation from his trust fund to get him back on staff.

Miles was convinced his latest computer program would prove successful. He had hired a new Associate to help: Kim Harper, a Professor of Behavioral Science from the University of Colorado and a renowned expert on near-death experiences.

Later Miles drafted the services of a reluctant neurologist, Dr. Abraham Koufax. He had to snare Koufax by luring him into a bogus investment with Brecktal Laboratories. Brecktal was later caught concocting, then selling biological evidence used to shore up shaky court cases.

Miles’s trap was sprung with a phone call. The lab was busted and Abe Koufax not only lost his borrowed investment but he was held liable for a portion of the lab’s fines and legal fees. Pretending to sympathize with his dilemma, Miles volunteered to bail Abe out, paying close to a quarter of a million dollars to salvage his medical career.

Miles’s offer was well timed. Abe was out of work and strapped for cash when Miles made his pitch but he had to promise to keep Abe’s participation confidential. So Abe, like Peter had made a grave decision: he too had agreed to lend his expertise to Miles VanBurin’s Death Connection Project.

CHAPTER 2

DEATH COMES A KNOCKING

Miles leaned forward, jabbing the air with a silver steak knife, emphasizing his points as if popping invisible balloons. And finally, don’t underestimate the power of the Cray. I keep it powered up twenty-four hours a day. The program sequences are set to domino the moment Peter dies. Soon I will follow him into the void. You’ll see.

Abe reached for the bottle of Nuits-St. George’s and poured, refilling Kim’s glass, then his own. That is, if you’ have actually detected Peter’s soul hidden within his medulla oblongata.

Miles lifted his glass and drained it. I have Koufax, I have.

Abe watched a drop of wax fall from the candelabra sat between them. The half consumed sticks of tallow made him think of their own mortality: how many years do we have left? Who among us will die first? Pushing morbid musings from his mind he said, Well Miles, as far as I am concerned, when Peter’s suffering ends, so does my involvement with your Death Connection Project. You said you needed my assistance with the neurological link-ups. And then you conned me into implanting those electrodes into your head. Abe said, gesturing to Miles’ shaved head and the tangled braid of colored wires sprouting from it. Well I’ve done all that and more. I agree that Peter has very little time left and we all know that soon you and Kim will have the chance you’ve both been waiting for. I personally think it’s all a huge waste of time and money.

Kim dabbed her lips with a napkin, slid her gilded plate aside and broke her silence. "I’m sorry you feel that way Abe. Even if Miles’ program fails to prove my theory, I will not abandon my faith or my beliefs. I have spoken to people all over the World who have described Near-Death experiences that were similar, down to the smallest detail. And there are volumes of documented cases. I assure you, there is an existence—of some kind, after death.

Unconvinced, Abe asked, So you’re offering guarantees now? Didn’t a Pope do that back in the fourteenth century?

Kim refused to be lured into a fight. We have a rare opportunity here, an opportunity to settle questions asked by men since the dawn of human-civilization: what awaits us on the other side. And if there is…or isn’t, a Supreme Being or Beings. That discovery could result in the unification of religions.

Miles quipped, or destruction.

She continued, We all know, religious differences are the most common cause of strife and bloodshed throughout the world.

Abe laughed then, regretted it. You really think hooking that poor man up to a Cray computer is going to bring about world peace?

Kim’s cheeks flushed. I sure hope so Doctor. She decided to flip focus. Why don’t you tell us about your beliefs. If you have any.

Abe placed his napkin on the table. What do you mean by that?

Tell us your thoughts on the afterlife. I’d love to hear what you’ll have to say after Miles’ experiment proves us right.

Miles grinned. Yes Doctor, do enlighten us about the foundations of your faith.

Ignoring Miles’ sarcasm, Abe took a sip of his wine, removed his glasses and rubbed a small crease on his forehead. He looked up at her and for a moment time stood still.

Kim turned away from his thoughtful green eyes. She had kept their relationship strictly professional since the beginning, ignoring her feelings, denying the attraction she felt for him. Soon the project would come to an end and they would go their separate ways. Why am I apprehensive about that?

Abe Koufax was one of those rare, handsome men, who did not seem to realize it. He was thirty-nine, six foot something with thick black hair that fell in natural ringlets across his forehead. He appeared deceptively playful. Is he dangerous? Is that why I have kept him away? She wondered. She watched him poke the Cornish hen centered on his plate with his fork and wondered what he was thinking.

He was suspecting the bird on his plate was a goddamned pigeon.

Kim knew little about his personal life. He was well mannered, intense, not married: she knew that for certain. Has he been in the past?

Abe felt Kim was sizing him up: he hated it when women did that. Why is she so stubborn and unyielding? He couldn’t help being captivated by her beauty, all men were. Many avoided her because of it. They usually assumed she was either taken or would not be interested. As she reached for her wine, Abe noticed how her long dark hair perfectly framed her oval face, a face lit by eyes of blue ice. Was it love at first sight? Can such a thing actually happen outside the world of fiction? He suspected it was simply lust that drew him to her?

Love for Abe, had been as allusive as Miles’ quest for the Human Soul. The day they met there was a spark and both secretly had hopes. But when they began discussing the project, a wall rose between them. As he’d drawn her out in conversation and unsheathed her personality he discovered a razor edge to Kim’s character, especially when his views contradicted hers’. She would get defensive and if pressed she could be quick tempered. Kim had been cool to him ever since that first confrontation, so any thoughts of sex or romance…besides, she wasn’t Jewish. To Abe that was more of a cultural difference than a theological one. Anyway, at the moment he needed a reason not to want her, being Catholic would have to do. Kim’s views did not square with any church doctrine he knew of. She was one of those ‘New Age’ thinkers who took a philosophy from one religion, a ritual from another, lit some incense and called it, ‘My beliefs.’

So? She asked. Interrupting his silent reflection of their relationship.

Abe slipped his glasses into his breast pocket and despite his annoyance, tried to honestly answer her question. Jews, for the most part believe that when you die the soul often has difficulty separating itself from the physical body. It might even experience a loss of identity. To prevent this from occurring, Dumah, which means silence, is the Guardian Angel of the dead. Dumah asks each soul for its Hebrew name. If the soul in life has memorized a verse from the Torah beginning with the last letter of its name, that soul will remember its name in death. Jews believe the Torah to be eternal.

Kim took a sip of wine. That’s interesting. I believe the Soul to be eternal.

Their eyes met again and for a second Abe forgot the topic of discussion. He didn’t even hear Miles summon Armund for another bottle of wine. When Kim looked away, the spell broke. Abe continued. The Jewish people also believe the soul is eternal but it may have difficultly quelling memories that echo its existence on earth. Images from this world may cling to it. The Jews believe two mighty Angels stand at either side of this other world tossing the soul back and forth to rid it of stagnant, earthly memories. Otherwise it would wander in a place called Tohu, which means confusion and emptiness.

Fascinated, Kim commented, I think we Catholics call that Limbo. Coming from a Catholic family, she had never heard any of this. So do Jews believe in Hell too?

Abe smiled. "Gehenna, I guess is what the Jews would call Hell. It’s described as infinitely large, dark and cold but within it run rivers of fire, where souls are purged of the defilement they’ve accumulated during life.

Punishments are said to consist of being tossed into fires and being hung by the limbs of their spiritual bodies."

Miles quipped. Sounds like Dante’s Inferno to me.

Abe said. The truly evil are thought to remain there forever.

Miles snapped, Doesn’t sound like a very nice place to spend eternity but don’t worry, I’m about to prove it all to be a myth.

Abe glared at him. Arrogance towards God is a dangerous game Miles. Wise men say, such men risk the loss of their souls. If you’d studied the Scriptures, you’d know that.

Miles downed the remainder of his wine as if it were a shot of tequila and shuddered. Yea! Right Koufax, may God strike me dead…if I’m wrong. He held his hands aloft Christ like. See, still here! Guess God loves me after all.

For once Abe was enjoying a conversation with Kim, so he ignored Miles attempts to pick a fight and continued his dissertation. Once the soul has gained understanding, it is permitted to work towards further perfection here on Earth through reincarnation, a process repeated until the soul attains spiritual perfection through good deeds. A Rabbi once told me that once the number of souls, ‘meant to be created’ has been achieved, God will then, bring about the reunion of souls and their bodies. Then the Messiah, a perfect ruler of the earthly Kingdom, will summon, all-mankind to dwell in peace under Divine Sovereignty. Only then will the resurrection of the dead take place.

Kim leaned forward and asked, So do you believe all that? I mean that some day the dead will dig themselves out of their graves and…?

Not any more. I believe that when we die that’s it, nothing more. End of story, If you and Miles prove there is some form of existence after…well? Perhaps that’s why I actually hope we succeed.

Miles chimed in, Very touching Koufax very touching. Don’t worry, I’ll succeed!

Abe had his doubts. One problem you’re going to have is determining just when Peter is actually dead. Is it when he stops breathing? When his heart fails? Or when his brain waves flatten out? As you mentioned in your book, ‘Lost Souls’ Kim, many people have been resuscitated after experiencing these definitions of death and….

Miles interrupted. That’s what my program has been written for. It will detect the exact moment Peter’s soul flees his body. The world’s new definition of death will be mine! When I return from the other side I will shatter the silly beliefs of the three one God religions. He ticked them off on his fingers. The Jews, Christians and the Moslems.

Kim looked at Abe, I didn’t know you’d read my book.

Fibbing, he said, Skimmed it, long time ago: before we met. He changed the subject. My belief in non-existence has no chance of being proven by this project. If the experiment fails, Miles will attribute it to something technical.

Kim agreed. Maybe that’s true but look at the bright side Abe, the experiment could restore your faith by proving everything you’ve just told us.

Yes, it might. Abe laughed for the first time all night. Trying not to return Kim’s magnetic gaze, he thought it best to shift focus. I must admit Miles, interfacing your mind and Peter’s through the Cray is an astonishing achievement. I’m curious though, how did you achieve such rapid advances without the use of prior human subjects?

Miles dropped his napkin and snapped, by being a fucking genius, that’s how! Ignoring Abe’s insinuation, he fondled the wires draped over his shoulders like an insecure woman playing with her hair. Miles never seemed to realize how bizarre he looked. Did I mention that yesterday I was able to listen to Peter’s thoughts? Not only that but we watched one of his dreams on that monitor!

Abe’s eyes bored into him.

You look surprised Koufax. How much closer to the soul, can you get? They mention dreams in the Old Testament don’t they?

Abe was astounded by Miles’ revelation. The question was still, how in the hell had Miles made such rapid advances in his research if Peter was his first human subject?

Kim had planned to tell Abe about the breakthrough during dinner. Now Miles was making it look like they had been keeping secrets. Abe we’ve left Peter’s thoughts to himself up until now, except when running tests. Peter admitted he’s terrified of being alone when—well when it happens. I assured him that the warning system would alert us in time, so I can be with him. It made him feel better.

Abe wondered how long Kim had known about Miles’ breakthrough. Why hadn’t she told him? He was beginning to feel left out of the loop. So what, that’s what I want isn’t it?

Kim exclaimed, "I