Blue Sunshine: The Novelization

By Ken Johnson and Jeff Lieberman

Working from Jeff Lieberman's original draft for BLUE SUNSHINE, which was actually set in 1970s New York, Ken Johnson's novel reflects the grittiness and social turmoil of the times.

It started off as a great party—just eight of them in a ski-lodge in upstate New York. But then the last guest, Frannie, arrived. There was something wrong with Frannie's hair. And something very wrong with his eyes. And what he did to three of the girls was too hideous for description...

That was just the start. After that, things began to happen all over New York—ugly things: psychosis, insanity, murder—and no-one could find an explanation. The police were helpless—because they didn't know that behind all the grisly happenings lay a single, uncontrollable horror. A horror called BLUE SUNSHINE...

BLUE SUNSHINE is the Edgar Lansbury/Joseph Beruh Production starring Alice Ghostley, Zalman King, Deborah Winters and Mark Goddard based on an original screenplay by Jeff Lieberman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encyclopocalypse Publications
• Release date: Feb 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224193189

Ken Johnson

The Creator wired Ken Johnson to be an entrepreneur. Before he was ten, he was shoveling snow in the winter and selling hand-picked wild blackberries door-to-door in the summer. Ken graduated in 1972 from George Fox University with a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration, and then experienced seven years of rich productivity as a businessman.Surprisingly, Ken felt a divine nudge to leave the business realm where he was thriving and become a minister. He started by leading a little flock of thirty people, and years later he found himself leading thousands.Ken served on the Foursquare Church international Board, and on the Foursquare Foundation Board for six years. The Foundation has awarded more than $52,000,000 in grants to fruitful Christian leaders and ministries throughout the world. Seeing tens of thousands of people all over the world find new life in God shot adrenaline into Ken’s soul.In 2013, Ken, an avid outdoorsman, was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Ken handed the leadership of Westside Church (which is still thriving) to his assistant, but he didn’t retire. He ‘re-fired.’ He continued to speak various places and began to direct more and more of his energy to mentoring leaders and writing.Ken has published three books: Life2 – The Life You Were Created to Live, When it All Comes Down it All Comes Down to This, and Signs of Life – God’s Available Aliveness. Ken is preparing to publish a trilogy called Your Wildest Dream.Ken’s focus is helping people become more alive through his books and his blog: Much More Alive. Whether writing or speaking, Ken is a vibrant, adventurous storyteller who uses stories to open people’s minds and unbridle powerful emotions. Nothing thrills Ken more than helping people become more prolific, more purposeful, more alive!

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

February came in like a wispy specter with a scythe, hard and finely-honed, slicing through the city while several million central heating units hummed back their defiance of the bitter cold. Whoever said April was the cruelest month probably went south in February.

The lights of the Metropolitan Hospital, in their neatly serried rows, shone golden in the Manhattan night like a network of illuminated honeycombs. Which was apt because, inside, the place was exactly like a beehive, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Inside, the rattle of cutlery and stainless-steel tureens and plates and cups and saucers and beakers echoed along the basement corridors from the steam bath depths of the kitchens and up the elevator shafts and stairwells so that you could still hear the clatter, faintly, up on the fifth floor. The porters and catering staff crashed open the flapping swing doors with their wheeled trolleys, bringing in the debris from the evening meal.

In other parts, white-jacketed orderlies clanked to and fro in the labyrinthine passageways, hauling other trolley loads of soiled linen, lab equipment, trays of bottled drugs and medicines, towels, catheters and bedpans, like they were stewards on some giant luxury liner. Nurses in their uniforms, starched and pressed, scurried everywhere, up and down staircases and elevators, in and out of wards and offices, residences and operating theaters, always in a hurry, pristine white, ready for anything, anytime, because this was the way the ship is run. The patients rolled in and out, day and night, like a choppy tide, to the wail of ambulance sirens. A wave of them would wash in, right over the heads of the staff, and just as they were catching their breath, in rolled another one, and another and another and on like that forever.

Then there were the doctors, the key men and women. The whole thing was planned and timed and designed and angled around them. They were the ones, after all, who more or less decided everything: who needed surgery or stitches, drugs or tests, X-rays or stomach pumps. Even who lived or died. There were tall doctors, short doctors, dishy doctors, ugly doctors, fat and thin doctors, bushy-haired doctors, bald doctors, experienced and rookie doctors, good and bad and indifferent, young and old. You got yourself sick or injured and you took whatever was available.

Dr. David Blume was about average. He was thirty, dark and good-looking, efficient without being brilliant, five foot eleven and too skinny. He was kind and thoughtful to his patients without seeming smarmy, patronizing or over-sentimental. Up on the tenth floor, Dr. Blume was setting off on his evening rounds. He had grabbed a quick coffee from the machine in the reception foyer and, while he was drinking it, checked over the list of the most recent admissions. Then he’d taken the elevator up to the tenth and stepped into a corridor through a door marked WOMEN’S SURGICAL. The white, amorphous ghost of his surgeon’s gown, reflected from the high-gloss of the white-painted walls, flitted along silently beside him down the wide passageway. As he strode along, he casually glanced at the numbers on the doors to the wards. Outside WS104 he paused. The door was slightly ajar.

As always, he rapped politely on the wooden paneling before entering. Despite his several years’ residence at the hospital, he still felt the need for a modicum of polite formality, especially when entering the wards of women patients. You never knew what you might catch them doing, if you simply barged right in. One time he’d walked into a women’s ward without knocking and had found a thirty-six-year-old woman patient providing an unsolicited urine sample, right there in the middle of the floor. She was a psychiatric case who’d needed surgery and he’d been fairly new to the job and, despite all he’d seen in medical school, and he’d experienced during his stint as an intern, he had been surprised, to put it mildly. What the woman had been using as a receptacle for the urine sample was a size-nine, high-heeled shoe which, as anyone will tell you, is not really satisfactory. So he always knocked.

As usual, nobody answered, so he stepped inside and looked around. Mrs. Marie Rosella was sitting up in bed, supported by a barricade of pillows, freshly changed and dazzling white under the fluorescent lighting. She was just sitting there, her hands gently clasped in her lap, knees slightly raised, eyes half closed, looking at nothing. Next to her in the small, two-bed ward, a young girl was lying on her side, head propped on her hand, tapping the fingers of her other hand gently on the turned-down bedclothes in time with the beat of music coming from a portable stereo cassette machine which lay on the table beside her bed.

Mrs. Rosella did not move from her rigid, propped-up position as Dr. Blume entered, but when her eyes moved languidly towards the door and she saw him, a faint welcoming smile of recognition spread across her pale lips. Intravenous tubes snaked down to each of her sinewy, sallow skinned arms from drip-feed bottles, suspended on their chromium tubular frames on either side of the bed. Dr. Blume stepped forward and bent over her.

Mrs. Rosella, he said. Comesta?

He gently brushed her cheek with his lips. She looked over-tired and world-weary, yet the fine bone structure that almost showed through the lined, waxen texture of her skin, still affirmed that she had once been an attractive woman.

Dr. Blume glanced at the other patient to see if she was listening, but her eyes were closed as she continued her tattoo with her fingers in time to the music. He turned back to Mrs. Rosella and half whispered, conspiratorially:

Did you bring any of my favorite Fettuccini?

She had not, in fact, had time before being admitted to prepare some of the pasta that she had brought for Dr. Blume on the last two occasions. But she ignored the question. She was too busy eyeing him carefully, as if she were the doctor and he the patient.

You don’ look well, Mrs. Rosella said in the New York-Italian accent that she would never lose, even if she lived for another sixty-eight years. She said it with genuine concern, her face puckered into an admonishing look, as if at any moment she would cluck her tongue and shake her head disapprovingly. Dr. Blume smiled inwardly. Italian mamas, they were all the same. Just like Jewish ones. Always married too young, raised too many kids, loved them too much and worked and worried too hard. You could say they lived so intensively they killed themselves doing it.

You not eating? she asked, frowning at him.

You tell them old Marie is back and they should feed you good, eh?

All the time she was speaking, her eyes wandering, probingly, over his face, Dr. Blume was doing his own stock-taking on his patient. And at the same time, he was trying to avoid telegraphing anything of his own concern for her. She did not look terribly strong. Would she, he wondered, be able to stand up to the considerable surgery she would need this time? It was touch and go. This would be the fourth op. in three years and she had bronchial asthma and emphysema. He would have to have a talk with Dr Howard, the lung specialist and try to make sure they got one of the best anesthetists— Seltzer, or Larry Packmann. Mrs. Rosella was still scrutinizing him. She reached out a bony wrist and touched his cheek with her calloused fingertips.

And you’ face, she said. Something…I don’t know. You’ hair. Why you losing you’ hair? Such a handsome young boy…

And he was handsome, almost in a classical sense. Fine, unlined features, balanced jawline, a straight nose that was not too narrow, high cheekbones and a mouth that was full-lipped without being effeminate. Yet his hair…

He raised a hand to his brow self-consciously as she spoke, tracing his fingers along the obviously fast-receding hairline. His eyes took on a strange, faraway glaze as he pondered what Mrs. Rosella had said. So others were beginning to notice now…. Then he recovered himself. She was still waiting for him to say something.

Uh…too much aggravation, I guess, he shrugged with a nervous grin. Then he flashed her a warm smile; not a switched-on-bedside-manner smile, but a genuine signal of friendliness.

My patients aren’t all sweeties like you, he said. He straightened up and stepped to the foot of the bed and unhooked the clipboard progress chart that was hanging on the bed frame. He glanced over it thoughtfully for a moment, alternately darting quick looks at his patient, then rehooked it on the rail.

You try to sleep now, eh? he said, smiling again and winking at her. He turned to the girl in the other bed and, with a scarcely noticeable flutter of his delicate surgeon’s fingers, signaled her to turn down the cassette machine. The girl reached over to the low night table and complied, lowering the volume to an almost inaudible level.

Dr. Blume turned back to his patient, raising an eyebrow with an expression that silently repeated his question. Was she going to be a good bambino and try to get some rest?

Only if you give me a little more Demerol, Mrs. Rosella said.

He smiled his assent. A few tranquilizers would be okay, she needed—deserved, even—the rest. Her eyebrows, which had not turned silver like her long, straight hair, but were sharply defined and jet black, creased into the ghost of a frown. Her face pantomimed the wheedling expression of a little girl.

You gonna cut me up again, Doctor?

The way he was looking at her, she knew he was. But he did not have the heart to nod or to give her any other conscious sign of affirmation. He blinked slowly and smiled again. His expression once more repeated his request. The rest? Was she going to try to sleep? She looked at him for a moment then closed her eyes obediently. And in that brief instant before she did so, her own expression told him that she knew she’d have to have surgery again.

He turned and went out of the ward, gently closing the door behind him.

In the other wards of the sprawling great hospital, this miniature city within a city, there were thousands more patients, other people, other lives. And he was responsible for a sizeable share of them, once they were booked into the operating theater. And out there, beyond the hospital walls, were millions more, lining up, aching and dying and falling over each other, stabbing and beating and stomping each other, waiting for their turn to come in. A whole city full of them. Enough to make anyone lose his hair, even at thirty.

CHAPTER 2

The color television in Apartment 202, 1146 West Comox, twenty stories above the heart of the Bronx, was switched on and the volume was at a moderate level. But for the moment, nobody was watching. Not really. Not Wendy Flemming, not little Samantha Andretti, nor her little brother, Jason.

Normally, Wendy had it switched on from morning until night and occasionally she watched. The rest of the time it was background noise just for company. Yet even when she had company, like tonight, it was still left on. But neither she nor her company were watching. Oh, occasionally one of them would glance up at the screen for a few seconds, then look away. But that wasn’t what you could call watching. That was like glancing at the clock to see what time it was, or to check if the damned thing was still running.

No, what they were doing tonight, what Wendy was doing, at least, was reading a bedtime story. Well, half-reading, half-improvising, to tell the truth. Wendy had the book open on her lap and sometimes she read from it, pointing to the words, one by one, finger-reading. And other times she just looked up straight ahead and made bits up as she went along. And what Samantha and her brother were doing, some of the time, anyway, was listening. Samantha was snuggled right beside Wendy on the long sofa. She was the best listener. She paid attention, most of the time, hardly even glancing up at the TV screen at all. Next to Samantha was Jason and, well, he wasn’t quite such an attentive listener. He had this teddy bear on his knee and sometimes he listened and sometimes he looked up at the TV when a particularly bright picture caught his attention, and other times he fiddled about with the teddy. Sometimes he was fiddling and listening. Sometimes he was watching the TV and listening. Sometimes he was