Forrest's Fate

Forrest Wheeler lay peacefully in the clean white hospital bed, his emaciated chest rising and falling rhythmically as a beaded green line drew the map of his heartbeat across a nearby monitor.

“He looks awfully thin, sir.”

“Well, he’s been in a coma for two years, hasn’t he? Of course, he looks thin.”

Jerrold was the senior of the two visitors, a grizzled veteran of such affairs. Specifically, he had been in charge of acquisitions for half a millennium, and in charge of breaking in new acquisitors for a slightly shorter time. His latest charge, Nick, was no better or worse than the previous multitudes. No, he would probably do quite well with adequate training.

After observing the customary moment or two of respect to the subject, Jerrold cleared his throat.

“Right. Let’s get started. What’s Mister Wheeler’s story?”

Nick opened a gilded clipboard and hesitated.

“Sir, can he hear us?”

Jerrold chuckled indulgently.

“No, no, my boy. Forrest is alone in himself. You may speak freely.”

Comforted by the notion that the subject could not hear his report, Nick began to read from the alabaster sheets of foolscap attached to the clipboard.

“Forrest Wheeler, age 38, father of three, husband of one, both parents survive. Profession:  Carpentry—“

“Oi! The boss’ll like that,” interrupted Jerrold gleefully. Nick looked askance at Jerrold with just a hint of irritation.

“Suffered massive head trauma in a traffic accident two years ago. Six months ago, his family took him off the respirator, prepared for his death, which did not come.”

“Of course it didn’t come. It wasn’t his bleedin’ time yet, was it?”

Nick shuffled through the papers, looking for Forrest’s timeline.

“No, sir. Collateral damage.”

“I thought as much. It explains why we weren’t here six months ago.”

An officious-looking nurse walked rapidly into the room, glanced at the various instruments arrayed around Forrest’s bed, checked her watch, and scowled squarely at Jerrold.

“Visiting hours are over in ten minutes. See that you’re out before I return.”

As quickly as she arrived in the room, she was gone.

“I thought you said no one could see us!”

“She’s one of ours. Since the insurance companies took over, we’ve had to lay on extra help. The regular staff are just spread too thin.”

Behind the two acquisitors, a third man entered the room. He walked slowly, tiredly, to stand between them at the foot of the bed.

“So what’s his record?” asked William.

“Who are you?” asked Nick, startled.

“William Oldsmar, Acquisitor First Class.” William clicked his heels and bowed curtly at Nick. Nick stifled a slight sneer of disgust.

“You’re late, Willy-boy. We started without you.” Jerrold clapped William on the shoulder with obvious affection.

“There was a thing at a stadium. Footballers. Reynolds caught the innocents; I got the rest. Reynolds got the easy end of that one.”

“Read on, Nicky, I suspect fair William is in a hurry.”

“Mr. Wheeler was devout, worked with underprivileged children, supported his local police, belonged to the Boy Scouts, read the Bible regularly, considered the priesthood but felt he could do more good in the secular world, prays often but only for unselfish things—“

“And is otherwise a saint. Right?”

Again, Nick sneered slightly at William.

“That is correct, Mr. Oldsmar.”

“Well, then, you can have him. He wouldn’t last a minute with our bunch. Good day to you both.”

William didn’t bother to walk out—he clicked his heels, bowed curtly, and popped out.

“I wish he wouldn’t do that. It upsets the clairvoyants.” Jerrold rubbed the back of his neck in exasperation.

“How so?”

“Well, Nicky, clairvoyants can feel our presence—real ones can—and if we’re just standin’ around or walkin’ about, they don’t think nothin’ of it. They figure we’re just lost souls and not worth gettin’ excited over. But if we go poppin’ about like bleedin’ magic, they start to think somethin’s up and then we got séances and channelin’s and a bleedin’ circus to contend with, don’t we? That’s why you and me do our poppin’ in empty elevators and walk in and out of rooms calmly as befits invisible agents of God.”

“I see. So who was that guy?”

“Willy? Ah, he used to be with us. ‘Til he got on the wrong side of the Boss, that is. The Boss sent him south. He didn’t just dump him, though--he set him up nice. He’s not a bad guy, Willy. Just misguided.”

“Hmmm. Well. I guess we ought to ask Mr. Wheeler what he’d like to do.”

“We bloody well won’t!”

“Why not?”

“Well. Think of it this way. If a bloke spends two years on Main Street U.S.A. waitin’ for Fantasyland to open, and you offer him a choice of Fantasyland or goin’ back to the car park, nine times out of ten, he’ll pick Fantasyland. So, we don’t let the subjects choose, or we’d be full up in no time.”

Jerrold handed Nick a flip phone.

“It’s a direct line. Just open it up and identify yourself.”

Nick opened the phone and said his name. As he listened to the voice on the other end, his hands began to tremble noticeably. He slowly folded the phone closed and handed it back to Jerrold.

“Um, the B-Boss said it’s up to us.”

“I don’t think so, Nicky-boy. The Boss said it’s up to you.” Jerrold smiled mischievously. He had long ago worked out this little initiation for all of the new acquisitors with the Boss himself. They both took great joy in unnerving the new kids.

“I-I can’t—“

“You can, and you will, my boy. Just flip a coin if you can’t decide.” And with that, Jerrold turned and walked to the door.

Nick stared at Forrest, wondering what the right thing to do was.

“Nicky,” Jerrold stopped in the doorway, smiling.

“Yes, sir?”

“One thing—if you decide to leave him here for now, which is what I would do, wake him up. But for Boss’s sake, don’t do it while his family are here. His mother has a bad heart, and I’m not scheduled for this hospital again for a fortnight. Got that?”

“Yes, sir!” Nick smiled. There would be no coin toss today, but there would be a great deal of celebration in the Wheeler family.

© 2025 Brian G Parker