Halloween 2

by Jack Martin

  "No, you won't, said Mrs. Alves. "Visiting hours are definitely over."

  Jimmy signaled from behind the nurse.

  "I'm warning you," said Mrs. Alves.

  With a mocking gesture, Jimmy left.

  Mrs. Alves examined the dressing on Laurie's arm. For the first time Laurie noticed that it was heavily bandaged. "Men," said Mrs. Alves. "You can't live with them, you can't live without them. How's that shoulder feel?"

  "A little better."

  "Good." Mrs. Alves softened and smiled maternally. Laurie decided she liked the woman. "We've been trying to get hold of your parents. Dr. Mixter told me they were at the same party he was, but they're not there now and they're not at home. Do you have any idea where else they might be?"

  Laurie twisted the ends of her hair with her good hand. She wanted to pull it over her eyes to keep the pictures from coming again. She wanted to crawl down and draw the sheet over her head. But she couldn't. Instead she played with her hair. "No," she said, as Mrs.

  Alves' voice seemed to recede.

  "I'll just keep trying."

  Laurie repositioned her head on the pillow, following the voice before Mrs. Alves would slip away and leave her here alone.

  Behind the woman's head Halloween decorations were visible in the hall: orange and black lettering, even a real jack-o'-lantern with a candle inside sending black smoke trails into the air over the desk.

  You know what the lettering said.

  Mrs. Alves picked up the phone next to the bed. She dialed. She rattled the cradle in frustration. "Oh, this is just . . ." Laurie heard her say under her breath.

  Somewhere down the hall an elevator door shuttled open and closed.

  Mrs. Alves said, "Janet!"

  The dark-haired nurse popped in.

  "Yes, Mrs. Alves?"

  "Go tell Mr. Garrett we're having trouble with the phones. Right now."

  "He's at the other end of the hall . . . !"

  "Janet," said Mrs. Alves sternly.

  "Yes, Mrs. Alves." Janet hurried away.

  The feeling Laurie had had all along was beginning to surface now. She could not hold it down. It was the worst feeling she had ever known in her life, and it was getting worse. She did not know what to do about it except to wait, and keep on waiting, until she could wake up all the way.

  "What's wrong with the phones?" she asked weakly.

  "It's nothing for you to worry about." Mrs. Alves smiled, but Laurie could see something else in her face, impatience and . . . something else. What was it? Simultaneously Laurie did not want to know. "Just get some rest right now. I'll let you know as soon as we get ahold of your parents."

  Mrs. Alves smiled her easy smile again and left.

  The door closed and Laurie was alone.

  She sat up in bed. The effort made her dizzy. The room: chair, closet, bathroom, nightstand, window. Moonlight outside.

  Something moving.

  Laurie gripped the sheet until her knuckles went white.

  The movement repeated. It was branches. That was all it was. The branches of an oak tree rustling and scrubbing their details against the pane. They seemed to be scraping the window; she was absolutely sure she was hearing a sound that was not in the closed room a minute ago. It was—

  It was not a scraping of leaves. It was a throbbing. Swelling, quiet. Swelling, quiet. Getting louder.Closer.

  She put her hands to her ears and pain shot up her injured arm. But still she heard it.

  Louder, louder.

  It was the sound of her own heart pulsing in her ears like a drum beaten underwater.

  Laurie shook it off and took up the phone.

  Mrs. Alves was right, of course. It was dead.

  Dead, she thought. Dead. Dead. . . .

  The sound repeated. Ticking. Like a dripping. Like—

  An airplane made a low pass over the hospital, breaking the white noise. Laurie concentrated and held to it till it was gone, passed over like giant wings beating the air, rattling the venetian blinds, tick, tick, ticking. . . .

  Then there was only the sound of her breathing, alone in darkness.

  But it was not completely dark. She could see shapes begin to shift and move, the chair tilting, the parallel lines of the blinds bowing, the drawcord undulating, like the white sheet over her legs, rising and falling, beginning to glow with a light of its own

  She shut her eyes tightly.

  The white light went out, then came on again.

  It was within her. It had about it the whiteness of eyes, the cold glare of pearlescent flesh.

  Now she did not know which was worse, the light or the lack of it.

  Chapter Seven

  The darkness had found a way into the building.

  It glided down the untended corridors of empty floors; it sank into doors left open, filling the spaces there and pressing doors closed on shadow; it followed the contours of light that connected halls and offices, leaving them dimmer in its wake. It gravitated toward the night wards, where it gained strength.

  It moved on.

  At first there were only a few holiday decorations visible to disturb the sterile symmetry of the hospital. But as the darkness flowed in, swiftly and silently, deeper into the inner chambers of this antiseptic fortress, more signposts of the season greeted its coming, as if it was no stranger but had been expected for a long time. Simple orange-and-black lettering gave way to animal cutouts and pointed hats, fluttering tails of paper chains pointed the way to handmade drawings and life-sized skeletons beckoning it forth. Pumpkins were everywhere in the east wing. Small ones, crooked ones, gigantic leering faces the size of ancient idols, strung along walls and doors and partitions like roadsigns. At the end of one corridor a mad jumble of primitive colors clung to the angles of an otherwise transparent, glassed-in area festooned with masses of crepe bunting and two-dimensional black cats which arched their backs behind every cart and counter.

  It was the pediatric ward.

  The darkness was drawn closer, leaving flickering bulbs and buzzing sockets in its wake.

  A shadow passed over the first of the cribs.

  On the other side of the glass, at the nurses' station, Karen was catching up on her charting as Mrs. Alves came up beside her.

  "You were late again tonight," said Mrs. Alves.

  "Fifteen minutes."

  "That could be the difference between life and death for one of those kids."

  "You're right. I'm sorry, Mrs. Alves, I just—"

  Mrs. Alves cut her off. "I don't want to hear any excuses. You're a good nurse, Karen. I'd hate to lose you. But you've got to learn to be on time."

  Karen lowered her head.

  "Let's go over this list," said Mrs. Alves.

  In the infant enclosure, a baby stirred. The sound it made was like a kitten stretching in its sleep.

  Karen looked up.

  A tiny, wrinkled pink hand with perfect miniature seashell fingernails raised in the air above one of the cribs. It retracted, and a sucking sound could be heard.

  "Anything you want me to do," said Karen. "I'm really sorry."

  "Carr. Mrs. Carr. Nine-thirty tomorrow morning. . ."

  They compared their charts.

  Unseen by either of them, a shape moved on, spreading darkness.

  "I don't even know how to use this thing," said Janet disgustedly.

  She was in the guard office. Mr. Garrett kept it so dim that she could hardly see what she was doing. She banged the walkie talkie against the palm of her hand.

  "I'm gonna go check the pole," said Garrett. "It'll take five minutes."

  He hefted the other walkie talkie and his flashlight and let himself out the back door, leaving Janet with an expression on her face that was somewhere between boredom and outright hostility. As the door sealed behind him, she sighed and shifted her weight onto one foot, holding her walkie talkie as if it were an overfull specimen beaker.

  Outside, everything seemed to be in order.

&nb
sp; Around the corner of the building the lights of the shops a quarter-mile away glimmered like stars through the mist. A few cars were parked in the hospital lot. A '57 Chevy, a Mustang convertible, others that were not familiar.

  Garrett activated his walkie talkie.

  "Garrett here," he said, cupping his hand unnecessarily around the mouthpiece.

  "W'll who else would it be?" came Janet's crackling voice from inside. "Have you fixed it yet?"

  "We're checking it out," said Garrett in a forced monotone. "Tell Karen we've spotted her car in the lot. She better get out there next break and roll the top up. Looks like it's gonna be a foggy one."

  There was a dumbfounded pause. "Yes, sir," came Janet's disbelieving voice. "Ten-four. Hurry up, will you? Mrs. Alves is waiting!"

  "Roger," said Garrett. "We copy your ten-four."

  Garrett directed his attention to the structure at the back of the hospital. He followed the line of the building until the lot was cut off from his view.

  He was in an outside loading dock, surrounded by cement walls and a ramp. A steel door was rolled down tight and padlocked. He spun his flashlight beam over its corrugations.

  "Everything in order here, sir," he mumbled to himself.

  There was a sputtering sound.

  Garrett hooked his beam up. The beam found a telephone pole and hit the ceramic insulators. A solid line of wires fed into the connectors. Unbroken. The voltage was crackling, but that was to be expected in damp weather. Nonetheless Garrett checked it out with eagle eyes, tracing each strand with his flashlight.

  Not even frayed insulation.

  He wrinkled his brow, puzzled.

  He retraced his footsteps to the security entrance.

  Suddenly there was a loud crash.

  He crouched, flashlight at the ready.

  A few feet away, an industrial trash bin was rocking slightly on its wheels.

  Garrett tensed.

  He reached for his walkie talkie, glanced back at the door, at the trash bin.

  "Uh," he said into the microphone.

  "Yes? Is it fixed? Can I tell Mrs.—?"

  "Never mind. Everything's under control. Stand by."

  "But—"

  He clicked off and hooked it to his belt. Sucked in his chin. Raised his flashlight like a gun.

  And started for the trash bin.

  His foot struck an empty medical supply carton. He avoided it as if it were a snake and nailed it with the beam. Papers, empty bottles. Pages of a catalog flapping in the breeze.

  He came to the bin. DEMPSTER DUMPSTER, read the decal. The lid was closed.

  He rubbed his fingertips on his jacket, inhaled, and flipped the lid up.

  More cartons. Cardboard dividers. A mangled bedpan. A week's collection of newspapers.

  On the top newspaper, something wet and red.

  Garrett probed for it.

  With a snarl, a cat sprang out of the bin and over Garrett's shoulder. He was knocked off balance.

  He almost fell into the Dempster Dumpster.

  His gut jiggled as a wheezing laugh began low in his chest.

  He aimed his flashlight at the cat as it darted across the open space and disappeared.

  Impossible, of course. There were no exits from the concrete cul-de-sac.

  Garrett followed.

  His footsteps echoed around him.

  He came to a door marked KEEP CLOSED.

  It was open slightly.

  "Locked that myself," said Garrett.

  The padlock was broken.

  He swabbed the crack with his beam, then pushed inside.

  The big steel door rumbled like thunder. The lock swung clicking behind him.

  The cone of light swept boxes and crates. Electrical parts. Tools. Clippers, shears, staple guns. They cast jagged shadows on the walls. All exactly where he had left them. At least they appeared to be. There was, however, an empty space at the end of the row of claw hammers.

  "Someone gettin' into my tools again," Garrett grumbled.

  He activated the walkie talkie.

  "I'm gonna move into the storeroom," he announced. "The lock was out of order."

  No response.

  He walked on down a narrow passage. Along one wall, a series of storage closet doors.

  The first one he came to had a broken latch. The padlock was nowhere in sight.

  Garrett screwed up his courage, gripped the doorknob in his meaty fist, clenched his teeth and pulled.

  A shape fell on him.

  A carton of medical supplies. Small, elongated plastic packages scattered over him.

  He hefted his communicator. "Somebody's been into the OR-9's," he reported. "Don't look like staff this time. The lock was busted." He groaned to his feet.

  "Mr. Garrett?"

  "Stand by."

  He was holding to a supply cabinet. Its lock, too, had been broken. Twisted off, as if by someone with superhuman strength.

  He proceeded deeper into the storage hall.

  "Better call Brackett's boys for this one," he said. "Do you read? Acknowledge, Janet, damn you, girl! I'm not playing around now. Someone's—"

  Before he could finish, the next door in line burst open at his back and tall blackness flowed out. He didn't even have time to get his flashlight up.

  "Mr. Garrett? Mr. Garrett . . . ?"

  The walkie talkie bounced on the concrete floor and cracked open. Janet's voice continued to filter out weakly, weaker, and was finally cut off as a heavy, very heavy foot came down on it, stepped over Garrett with utter unconcern, and lumbered away.

  Mr. Garrett had found his missing claw hammer.

  "Where is Janet? I sent her to check with Mr. Garrett half an hour ago. And now I can't get ahold of either one of them unless I go down there myself. The phones are still on the fritz."

  "Do you want me to find out for you, Mrs. Alves?" offered Karen without enthusiasm.

  Mrs. Alves tapped her pencil on the metal cover of a chart and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't really spare you, Karen. What if there's another emergency admission? This is a small hospital. I wouldn't be able to leave the children unattended."

  "Whatever you say, Mrs. Alves."

  The head nurse tested the phone again. She punched buttons with her pencil, gave up, exasperated. "There's no way I can get either one of them. I can't even page them. Well. I definitely cannot have any more of this after tonight. This is most certainly not the way to run a hospital. Remember that, Karen."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "It must be my eyes, but does it seem to be getting darker in here to you?"

  "I hadn't noticed, ma'am."

  "It's my age. That's another thing for you to remember, Karen. Don't get old. It doesn't make for efficiency."

  "Ma'am? Excuse me, but is that a party?"

  Loud voices and footsteps reverberated off the walls at the end of a spotless corridor.

  "It certainly sounds like one, doesn't it?" Mrs. Alves set down the chart and straightened her hat. "We'll just have to see about that."

  She marched off.

  "Bud, you fool," whispered Karen, "if that's you . . . !"

  Karen was alone. On the other side of the glassed-in room babies struggled in fitful sleep. Karen's own face hung reflected in the glass, lighted by the orange pumpkin on the desk. It was beginning to smolder and stink a bit as hot wax melted further and further down inside. Karen wrinkled her nose. She reached for the pumpkin to throw it out or at least to move it. As her hand sank into the warm, softened sides, she glanced up.

  A shadow loomed behind her in the glass.

  She spun around.

  "How's Laurie doin'?" said Jimmy.

  "Ohl Jimmy, you scared the shit out of me! Don't do things like that. It's hard enough working the graveyard shift."

  "What am I supposed to do, knock?"

  "Keep your voice down. You'll wake the children."

  "Well?"

  "About Laurie Strode? They finally got her to sl
eep. You'll have to talk to Mrs. Alves."

  Jimmy's eyes narrowed intensely. "Oh, great. They weren't supposed to do that."

  Karen laughed. "And why not? She's in shock, Jimmy. Do you know what that means?"

  "Yes, I know what that means."

  "Sleep's the best thing for her."

  "Where's Mrs. Alves now? In with Laurie?"

  "No. There was some kind of commotion. She went to—"

  "I know. A TV crew just drove up. They must want to talk to Laurie."

  "They'll have to get through Mrs. Alves first."

  "Yeah." Jimmy bit his thumbnail. "I'm gonna go check it out. See you later, Karen."

  " 'Bye." She leaned against the counter and kicked off one of her shoes. "Oh, and if you see Bud, tell him . . ."

  But it was too late. Jimmy was already at the end of the hall.

  Karen breathed wearily and yawned. "Nice guy," she said to herself. "Too nice. Laurie Strode, look out." She toed back into her shoe and made an effort to appear busy.

  As Jimmy rounded the corner, was that a shadow in the fire doorway that led down to the basement? Karen leaned around the smelly pumpkin, trying to see.

  "Ooh, when do we get to throw these damned things out? They give me the creeps. . . ."

  She sat. The corridor was clean and empty. The doors were closed. The neon lights hummed reassuringly, erasing any shadows she might have thought she had seen.

  She lifted her hair and massaged the back of her own neck awkwardly. "Bud," she said, "oh, Bud. Where are you when I need you?"

  A full-fledged argument was in progress.

  Jimmy sidled up next to Janet and Jill. Janet was overwrought, as always, perhaps a bit moreso than usual right now. She was waiting to get Mrs. Alves' attention. But the head nurse was facing down the camera crew, as immovable as a master sergeant.

  "No cameras allowed inside the hospital," she was saying. "Those are the rules. So just pack up your gear and move out of here."

  A young man in a jacket liner folded his arms. "Debra told us to meet her here. Didn't she work everything out? She's the producer of Eyeline News. She's—"