Chapter 17 - The Radiologist

It’s horrible, this headache of hers. It feels like an ice pick digging into the soft pulp of her brain, just behind her temple. She should know the feeling; she’s driven plenty of ice picks into brainy pulp in residency. But she’s never had a migraine this bad before, and now the shimmering aura makes it hard to stare at the computer screen. She tries closing one eye to see if she can focus better. No luck. Then she closes her second, third and fourth eyes, but alas, the screen remains a wet, dripping smear.

It doesn’t help that the Janitor is making a tremendous racket beneath the floorboards. She can hear him down there in the caverns, his metal-caged head scraping against the ceiling, with that preposterously large sword dragging along the stone. After weeks of endlessly skirmishing with the Pests, the Janitor was getting desperate, she could tell. Those chittering, pale-skinned vermin were emboldened somehow, digging deeper through the walls of the House of Yog in their little metal contraptions.

Even now, she can hear their thin warbling cries through the walls of her office. The power of Christ! The power of Christ! the Pests keep screaming, while they fight for their miserable lives.

The radiologist bends over her microphone until her cracked lips press into the metal grill. Her dictation software sputters and freezes, the small red wheel of death cycling on her screen. Is it another computer virus, she wonders?

Her frustration mounts. An endless number of radiographs flood her inventory, awaiting dictation. She squints at the computer screen. The images twist in front of her like an underwater mirage. Her headache sharpens.

The power of Christ, the power of Christ! scream the Pests through the floor.

Something about the Pests’ voices makes her ill, strikes a tender note in her skull. She feels sick inside, like her bones are dripping poison. But all she can do is push through it, work harder and faster.

“…reproductive organs demonstrate homunculus likely demonic in origin, implanted within walls of the uterus,” she dictates. “Recommend clinical correlation. Consider OBGYN consultation.”

Next image.

“CT head demonstrates nasogastric tube erroneously coiled within skull, near cerebellum. Recommend immediate retraction, or advancement into spine, if more pain desired.”

This headache! She can’t keep on like this. Her inbox surges with new x-ray and CT images. An automated message on her computer screen flashes red. HURRY UP! HURRY UP! But how can she work faster?

The Power of Christ! The Power of Christ!

Their voices are somehow getting louder, more insistent, as if they’re in the room beside her, as if they’re shouting in her ear. She massages her forehead as sweat drips onto her desk. The icepick thunks inside her skull.

“MRI cervical spine demonstrates nails…appropriately positioned…within spinal canal,” she gasps. “Consider advancing C7 nail two…no, three centimeters for desired paralysis.”

More images appear in her inbox.

The Janitor’s furious grunting grows louder downstairs.

HURRY UP! HURRY UP! the computer demands.

“Xray pelvis demonstrates…bilateral femur fractures. Left femur acutely comminated with angulation, positive Throckmorton sign, huge penis…”

She squeezes shut all of her eyes and clutches her temples, groaning.

THE POWER OF CHRIST…

The radiologist’s skull explodes.