Demon Eggs

By Pamela Love

Saturday night in the World Capital Hospital’s Emergency Department is often full of surprises. Maybe the biggest came when Earth’s President, Derek Percy, was wheeled in strapped to a gurney after trying to claw his own face off. As the chief resident of the Emergency Department, it fell to me to investigate.

While my staff ran blood work and other tests, and after leaving a message on the President’s personal physician’s voicemail, I took his chief of security, Madeleine Baptiste, aside. “What can you tell me?”

“It was just after the World Council’s annual dinner, which was held in the World Castle’s Looking Glass Room. The President stood up, and everyone expected a speech. Instead…” Ms. Baptiste shuddered. “‘Demon eggs’—that’s what he was screaming. President Percy was a microbiologist before he went into politics. He’s not superstitious, so hearing that come out of his mouth was… highly unsettling.”

“I’m more interested in what went into his mouth. What did he eat this evening?” From a folder, she extracted a menu, which I skimmed. Spotting no obvious culprits, I asked, “Are any other guests exhibiting symptoms?”

“No. If someone does, we’ll let you know immediately. We’re questioning them along with the kitchen staff.” She jerked her chin toward the door. “Was he drugged, Dr. Johnson? Some kind of hallucinogen?”

I folded my arms. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Let me know if you learn anything. Also, I’ll want samples of all the food analyzed.” I beckoned to another resident, who led Ms. Baptiste away.

Judge Jennifer Percy, the First Lady, strode in then, adhesive bandages on her forehead and nose. It was clear she’d been one of the people helping to restrain her husband. “Derek was fine today until he started screaming. Although… he was scratching when he did. He doesn’t have allergies, but I’ve read people can develop them later in life.”

“That’s true. We aren’t ruling allergies out yet, but a number of things can cause hallucinations.”

She threw up her hands. “Well, he’s definitely having those—shouting about ‘demon eggs’ of all things. Maybe he meant deviled eggs, but those were not on the menu. No eggs were served.

“I’ve insisted on approving everything Derek eats ever since his last physical. Dr. Ali urged him to cut down on salt and fats because of his blood pressure. He’s complained about his diet ever since—says it’s too bland.” She smiled. “Tonight, though, he took third helpings. It’s probably because of the salt substitute I gave him. The doctor recommended it.”

My eyebrows shot up. “What’s it called?”

She rummaged in her purse. “Let me get the receipt—oh, no!” Her face turned ashen as she pulled out a small plastic bottle. “I—I forgot to hand it to him. But I saw him sprinkling something more than once on his fish, and there was no salt on the dining table!”

I texted Ms. Baptiste to concentrate her questioning on anyone who could have put a saltshaker by the President.

About an hour later, Ms. Baptiste marched in with a tall man who looked vaguely familiar from the news. “Councilor Edwin Alexander has something to tell you, Dr. Johnson. Councilor?”

Sheepishly, he took out a small plastic bottle and saltshaker from his suit jacket. “It’s medication. I have to take it on a full stomach.” He held out the bottle. “I’ve never been able to swallow pills, so I grind them up and sprinkle it on my food from a saltshaker.”

“The President probably thought it was salt. It’s white.” I frowned at the medication’s label. “Libarvasine. What’s this for? I’ve never heard of it.”

“My vision. I have a prescription—you can call my ophthalmologist.”

I peered at the saltshaker. “This is half full. How many pills are in here? And did your doctor approve this way of taking your medicine?”

“Um, I’m a busy man. I grind up a few dozen at once.” He blushed. “I’m supposed to take one per day. It works out to one quick shake. I’m sorry. Normally I put it right back in my pocket, but I left it on the table because I got distracted. I’ve never sat next to the President before—”

“And never will again,” growled the First Lady. “So this drug caused my husband’s hallucinations?”

I held up a hand. “Let me investigate. Councilor, what’s your ophthalmologist’s contact information?”

A half-hour later I exited my office. “Well? Did that eye medicine make Derek see things that weren’t there?” demanded Judge Percy.

“I think it made him see things that are there. You thought he said ‘demon eggs.’ Is it possible he said ‘Demodex’?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. What does that mean?”

“He was a microbiologist. Demodex is the scientific term for face mites—ghastly looking micro-organisms that live on everyone’s skin, but they’re so small we can’t see them. The President’s vision has been supercharged. He was in the Looking Glass Room—a place filled with mirrors. When he stood up, it must have been something out of a nightmare for him—his skin crawling with those little horrors.”

Judge Percy took a deep breath. “Can you help him?”

“Dr. Svensson was horrified to hear how his prescription was being taken and of its effect on you, Mr. President.” Our world’s leader finished his oatmeal while I skimmed his chart. “He sputtered about improper dosages. Then he told me it was the first time he’s ever been asked to make someone’s sight worse.”

Derek Percy hovered over his hospital bed, taking full advantage of its anti-gravity—and thus anti-bedsore—field. He chuckled. “Good thing the two of you and the manufacturer were able to do just that. I feel fine, but I think I’ll take two showers a day from now on, even though I know it won’t get rid of those ‘demon eggs’. It will just get the face mites wet.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey, and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test”, which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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