Spun in Relentless Circles

Katherine Branson watched the news report on former Governor Timothy Wilton's gruesome murder in his city residence. She leaned closer and listened carefully for more information, immediately realizing it was Martin Wilkerson's fault. Significant amounts of the killer's blood were discovered across the body, and the reporter disclosed that the assailant had suffered serious injuries at the hands of the governor. Oddly, DNA analysis revealed that the two blood samples were almost identical, indicating that the attacker was a close relative of the governor. Jacqueline Wilton, his widow, who had not been present during the attack, found the body and called the police, according to the story.

Martin Wilkerson was probably seriously injured and in a nearby hospital, Katherine Branson concluded. As she hurried to his house, she looked at a map and found the nearest hospital, which was only three miles away from the Wiltons' home. To see how he was doing, she drove there right away.

She asked for his room number at the hospital after seeing his name on the "recent surgery" list. She was told by the nurse that Martin Wilkerson may still be visited in room 234 but was still comatose due to his injuries and surgery. After thanking her, Katherine Branson rushed down the corridor.

She discovered him on the bed, still, wrapped in bandages. Shaking his head incredulously, the doctor was leaving the room. As he vanished down the hallway, Katherine Branson heard him mutter, "I don't know how he managed to survive…."

She sat next to the bed, watching the bandaged figure, hoping for some sign of consciousness, some hint that he was well enough to wake and talk. What had he done? Why did he kill his father even though he gave him an opportunity to defend himself? Was death still looming over him, or would he actually live? As she watched her friend with tears running down her cheeks, these questions raced through her head.

Even though she hadn't expected the police to show there, they did. After observing Martin Wilkerson's comatose condition, two officers entered the room and started questioning Katherine Branson.

One person said, "Do you know why this man might kill someone?"

She answered, "Well, he's fiercely independent, delusional, and paranoid." "He gets upset when people do things for him that he can do on his own, especially when they think he's incapable because of his mental illness."

"I understand. Is there any reason why he killed former Governor Timothy Wilton?

"His dad?"

"What? Are you implying that Timothy Wilton's kid is this Wilkerson man?

Indeed. They left him in a psychiatric hospital when he was a toddler, saying he had passed away on a family boat trip. The truth was just recently revealed to Martin Wilkerson.

The officers clustered close, and Katherine Branson heard bits of their whispered talk.

"He's probably crazy."

"That would account for the blood."

"Burtally violent..."

Although she made an effort to ignore them, their comments continued to reverberate in her head in ceaseless circles. It felt almost inevitable that Martin Wilkerson had slain his father. Martin Wilkerson struggled to live, while Timothy Wilton had wished for his son's death. They had to lose one of them. As Martin Wilkerson lay there, still asleep, she wondered what was going through his head.

There was nothing I could do as the rifle was pointing at me.

I wasn't initially required to be there.

He would have murdered me, though.

I had the option to flee.

He would have come after me.

It wasn't necessary for me to murder him.

Last time, I believed that, and he came back to haunt me.

What if, however, he didn't this time? He would be aware that I could locate him.

I would have to run for the rest of my life because he is so obstinate. And consider Katherine Branson's risk. Could I allow her to live that way?

No.

No.

Sweat trickled down Martin Wilkerson's brow from the emotional battle he had just gone through as he sprang upright in bed, gasping for oxygen. His vision was fuzzy, with indistinct shapes that sharpened over time but never cleared completely. It was still a fog in the room. With a quick blink, he opened his eyes after closing them. His sight restored as the sting of tears and sweat faded. Katherine Branson caught his eye. Two policemen caught his eye. He noticed that his arm was bound to the hospital bed with handcuffs. He needed to know why he was here, struggling to remember what had happened after killing his father.

disorientation, pain, and bleeding. The gunshot had caused me to lose a lot of blood. I was on my way to the hospital via car. I needed to have it repaired. I had to pay attention to the road. I was so exhausted that I had to go to bed. What was going on with me? Then he lost his memories.

"What happened to me?" he said in a dazed voice, his speech and ideas distorted by the residual effects of the narcotics.

Katherine Branson had a response prepared. "A lot of blood was lost by you. You went down a steep embankment while driving.

"What keeps me alive? I ought to be dead.

"Did you intend to end your life?" An officer stepped in.

Attempting? No, I don't believe that. I can't recall. Why would I attempt suicide? Then, in a more defensive tone, he yelled, "You believe that attempting suicide is an indication of guilt! You're all attempting to murder me! Don't try to murder me! Avoid me! I am aware of your kind! Don't come! Martin Wilkerson broke down in tears, his voice trailing off as he repeatedly said, "Stay away, stay away."

As he unwound, Katherine Branson took hold of his hand. Martin Wilkerson was unable to comprehend the situation. He had never experienced remorse or guilt before and was unprepared to deal with it now.

The officers looked on pityingly. There was obviously a problem with the man they had been dispatched to apprehend. They had never met someone like him and were not sure how to handle him, even if he might be psychologically ill.

Could we ask you any questions, sir? "Are you okay with that?" one asked.

Inhaling sharply through his nose, Martin Wilkerson wiped his eyes. "Why not?"

To make sure Martin Wilkerson was aware of his rights in advance—they didn't want any blunders—one officer asked questions while the other took notes.

"Did you visit the Wilton estate earlier today, sir?"

"I'm not sure. Which day is it? Is Thursday still here?

"It is Thursday night, sir."

"So, yes, earlier today I was at the Wilton estate."

"Why did you go there?"

"I could have done this weeks ago, but I didn't."

"And, sir, what could that be?"

"Enjoying a reunion with family." His statements were dripping with sarcasm.

"A reunion with family?"

"Yes, reminiscing with my father about the good old days."

"Who is your father, sir?"

"Tim Wilton, why?"

"Did you murder your father in the process of 'catching up'?"

Now that you bring it up, I believe I did. Even if he was shooting at me, did I really need to? Martin Wilkerson appeared to dispute himself inside for a few minutes before going silent, and his voice drifted into muttering.

"Why did he try to kill you, sir?"

"Because I was aware of the reality." For the second time in my life, I was able to destroy his political career.

"What does'second time' mean to you?"

It indicates that this was the second time, and there was a first time. I'm only willing to say that today. Farewell.

The cops walked out of the room, puzzled. Squeezing Martin Wilkerson's hand, Katherine Branson faced him. "Are you okay?"

No, not at all. I had to do it, but why? I could have done nothing, but I had to take action.

You did it for us both, I believe. Imagine the life we would have led if you hadn't—always escaping from shadows and ghosts.

"I guess you're correct, but I'm not sure if it was warranted."

"In that circumstance, you took the only action possible."

However, did I? Was that the only way? Or did I choose the simple route? Was it right, or did I merely make my life easier?

"I wish I knew the answer, but I don't know myself."

The apparatus for the radiation shield was built under Jonathan Aston's supervision. When the sun engulfed Maris in a few years, the complex technology created a physical barrier to stop the waves of solar radiation. He watched the power plant emerge across the river, close to the new American capital—a winter wilderness turned into a calm, warm oasis, supported by shields that allowed for agriculture. Although the climate controls created comfortable circumstances, the artificial sunlight wasn't really uplifting.

Jonathan Aston was now standing outside the shield, in the chilly weather that the crash had created. The icy circumstances of previous millennia had vanished, and Canadia now enjoyed pleasant temperatures and gentle rains instead of snow and sleet, but the rain felt more like mud dropping. He peered up at the enormous dust clouds that were circling the earth and blocking out the light through his goggles and face mask. He pondered whether he would ever see it again or whether it would kill him right away if he did. He pushed such ideas away and returned his attention to his task.

I have to make sure that no employee loses a component or disconnects a wire. My work is essential. I am saving lives. Or am I? Are we only saving a few thousand while billions are being destroyed? If we tried, could we preserve more? Was this the thing that haunted Hubert Montgomery prior to his suicide? Why must a few survive while billions perish? What makes someone saved? Cash? Why are human lives valued?