by Morris, Jacy
The male nurse blocked Courtney just as he was about to attack Clara. The veins in the nurse's forearms stood out as he wrestled with Curtney. Eventually, the nurse flipped Courtney around and tripped him to the ground. "Molly, get some Haldol in this guy."
Courtney continued to wrestle with the nurse, his teeth gnashing and clicking together in bites that would be sure to take off a finger if the nurse wasn't too careful. Molly opened up drawers feverishly until she found what she was looking for. She pulled a syringe out of another drawer, stuck it in a vial of clear liquid and filled it.
"What are you doing?" Clara asked.
After squirting out the air bubbles, she plunged the syringe into Courtney's arm. "Don't worry, doll. We're just sedating him."
There was nothing she could do. She just hoped it would take effect quickly so that Courtney didn't wind up hurting himself. They waited, but Courtney wasn't becoming any less violent.
"Jesus, is this guy on drugs or something? He should be snoozing by now," the male nurse said while straining to hold Courtney down.
"You think I should give him some more?" asked Molly.
"Is that safe?" Courtney asked.
Without acknowledging her, the male nurse simply said, "Go get Joan. She can make the call."
Molly walked out of the room, yelling for someone named Joan.
Clara sat patiently, chewing on her finger nails. "Are you hurting him?"
The male nurse looked up at her and smiled, "Lady, if anyone is going to do the hurting around here, it's going to be this guy." The nurse stopped smiling when she saw the worry on her face. "I'm sorry," he grunted, "is this your guy?"
Clara nodded her head in the affirmative. She didn't want it to happen, but a tear came to her eye.
"We'll help him out lady." He smiled again. "My name is Miles. I'd shake your hand, but that might not be a good idea considering the circumstances."
A group of people entered into the room, led by a tired but attractive lady with a brown ponytail and an air of exhaustion about her. She was followed by the frazzled Molly, still clutching her bleeding hand to her chest, and a few burly looking security guards.
The doctor took one look at the situation, and sighed, "Alright, you guys, let's get him strapped down."
The security guards moved to Courtney and grabbed him by the arms. As Miles rolled off of him, the guards pulled Courtney to his feet. He dangled in the air, the toes of his boots scraping against the tile of the floor as they dragged him to a gurney in the hallway. They dumped him on the gurney, and that's when Courtney made his move. He sat up quickly and bit the first man on the forearm. For as big as he was, the security guard's scream was surprisingly high-pitched. The burly guard's first reaction was to shove Courtney away, which sent him and his gurney wheeling away down the hall.
It would have been comical if the gurney hadn't knocked over another doctor who hadn't been paying attention. Courtney rolled off the gurney, blood smeared all over his face, and pounced on the back of the doctor who was trying to get to his feet after being knocked over.
Before they could get to him, Courtney had sunk his teeth into the nape of the doctor's neck. The two security guards had trouble prying Courtney's teeth apart. One of them actually began hitting Courtney, and that's when Clara sprung into action.
She charged the security guard who had punched Courtney and kicked him between the legs. He fell to the ground like a sack of doorknobs. The other security guard with the bite on his forearm blocked her second kick, which was aimed for the exact same place. He put his arms on her shoulders and pushed her away. She slid across the floor, and came to rest at the foot of an oxygen tank. That's when the screaming began.
It wasn't from anyone that could be seen. It was from another curtained off room. The doctor, Joan, said it all for everyone involved... "What now?"
Chapter 13: Use Your Head
Mort strained his ears when he heard the police radio squawk to life.
"Car 32, what's your status? Over," said a male voice over the radio.
Weasel picked up the microphone and replied, "Dispatch, we're on the way in with two suspects in custody. Over."
"We're going to need you to shoot on over to 2378 Lincoln. We've got a mother and a minor trapped in a room. Sounds like the father is possibly intoxicated. We need you to head on over there and check it out. Over."
"Isn't there anyone else? We've got two suspects in the car already. Over."
There was a pause on the other end, and then the dispatcher spoke again, "Sorry, 32. The switchboard's flooded tonight, and all others are occupied. Must be the full moon. You guys are the closest and most available. Over."
"Alright, dispatch. En route. Over." Weasel slammed the receiver home. "Fuck. I can't believe this shit. Hit the lights, Arnie." Weasel looked over at his partner, who was either sleeping or unconscious. "Fucking, Arnie. Wake up, man."
"Hey. Is he alright?" Mort asked from the backseat, which caused a fresh round of stirring and struggling from Dirty Kurt.
Weasel looked at Mort using the rearview mirror and said, "Don't you worry about him. He's just catching some winks. He's got a newborn baby at home. Bastard's probably dead tired."
"Some dad he's going to be, beating up on homeless people. That kid doesn't have a chance." Mort knew he shouldn't have said it, but he was still pretty pissed off about the whole situation.
Just then Weasel pulled up to a red light and he turned around in his seat and regarded Mort with his squinty brown eyes. "I'm only gonna tell you once. You shut your face for the rest of the night, or you won't be making it to the police station. You got that?"
Mort glared at the policeman, and that anti-authority, free as fuck part of him wanted to tell the cop to kiss his ass. The part of him that enjoyed not bleeding decided to just nod his head, but slowly so the cop knew he wasn't totally on board.
It was good enough for Weasel, so he turned around and began driving. The houses of the night flew by, silent in the city's darkness. They would occasionally pass a denizen of the night, stumbling along to God knows where. Mort thought there were more than usual, shambling around in last night's clothes or sometimes pajamas, eyes glazed over, placing one foot in front of the other. It was beautiful to Mort, the silence of the city at 2:30 in the morning. He understood why some people would want to go out for a walk at night, away from all the stares, the judgment, and the harassment.
Mort was lost in thought as they cruised past an alley. He thought he saw a figure covered in blood crouched over another prone figure, but the alley flashed by so quick that he couldn't be sure. Perhaps he just needed to nap. Mort looked over at Dirty Kurt, who hadn't stopped biting at the bag over his head for the entire ride, the clicking of his teeth sent shivers up his spine. He could wait to sleep.
They pulled over in front of a two-story house, yellow and generic. Weasel, whose forehead was beaded with sweat, undid his seatbelt, and said, "C'mon, partner. Time to work." Weasel opened the car door partway and made to get out of the car, until he noticed that his partner wasn't waking up. He closed the door with a meaty thunk, and then Weasel leaned over and shook Arnie by the shoulder. "Wake up, man. We got stuff to do."
Worry washed over Weasel's face, and he leaned in close to Arnie, "Are you ok? Stop fucking around, man." Weasel put his fingers on Arnie's throat, searching for a pulse.
"Is he alive?" Mort asked, genuinely concerned.
Weasel took his fingers away from Arnie's throat, and replied, "Barely, but he's burning up. I better call for some help."
Weasel turned away from Arnie and reached for the police radio. Mort jumped as Arnie's eyes snapped open and he grasped Weasel's hand. Weasel's eyes opened wide, and he was clearly in shock as Arnie pulled his hand toward his yawning mouth lined with big, square teeth. Without hesitation, Arnie chomped down on Weasel's fingers.
Weasel screamed, "What the fuck are you doing..." and then the words turned to screaming as blood poured out of Arnie's mouth. He
twisted his head from side to side, and when Weasel finally yanked his hand free, the fingers were gone. Weasel held his hand up in front of his face, as blood squirted out of the stumps of his index and middle finger. He only stared at them for a second before Arnie began crawling toward him for seconds.
"Shoot him! He's gone crazy!" Mort screamed.
Weasel seemed to have heard him, and he tried to pull his pistol free. He hissed through his teeth as he bashed his finger stumps against the butt of his pistol. Arnie crawled closer, but the seatbelt he had been wearing was impeding him. Weasel kicked at the man, and Arnie's nose crumpled underneath the force of his police boot. With his other hand, Weasel tried to reach across his body and pull the pistol free. He was undoing the strap on the holster, when Arnie sunk his teeth into Weasel's inner thigh.
With his fingers, he clawed at the flesh of Weasel. His screams echoed throughout the squad car, and Mort put his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, as if it were all a dream that would go away. His eyeballs ached from the pressure. The screaming continued, and when he could stand it no more, Mort opened his eyes to see Weasel shuddering in the driver's seat, his hand smearing blood on the mesh that separated the front seat from the back seat, while Arnie continued to chew on his flesh. At some point while his eyes were closed, Arnie had gotten free from the seatbelt, and crawled all the way over. Just now, he was clawing at the eye of Weasel, but the tough, rubbery morsel wouldn't come free.
At this point, Mort realized just how bad his situation was. He was trapped in a car with two madmen and a corpse that was soon to rot. He looked down at Dirty Kurt, who was still gnashing his teeth back and forth in the hopes of finding some flesh of his own to chew. If he had been alone in the backseat, he could have laid down on his back and used his legs to kick out a window, but with Dirty Kurt taking up half of the backseat and intent on biting whatever came near him, he only had two options... his head or his elbow, and who ever heard of someone breaking out of a police car by using their head?
He was wondering how bad it was going to hurt, when Weasel's eyes opened.
"Aw, what the fuck?" Mort groaned.
Weasel sat up, and Arnie lost interest in his latest meal. They both turned their attention to Mort and smashed their faces against the metal mesh that separated the front seat from the back. Their fingers wriggled frantically poking through the mesh as if they could reach him with just their fingers, and when they started drooling, Mort couldn't stand it anymore.
He began hysterically bashing at the window of the police car with his elbow. The first hit was especially painful, and the glass didn't even crack. He hit it again and again, but the pain in his elbow was intense, and with each bash it hurt more and more. Maybe he would have to use his head.
Chapter 14: Speakerphones and 12-Gauge Shotgun Shells
Zeke wasn't unconscious for long, but it had almost been long enough. A police siren pierced the veil of unconsciousness that he was shrouded in. His head throbbed and each peak of the siren had made it seem as if his head was going to explode... so when the sound was completely gone, and no one was there to help him, he finally opened his eyes, only to see the dead man from the car stumbling toward him, his pants around his ankles and blood and shreds of flesh in place of what should usually be there.
The ex-soldier propped himself up on his shoulders and cleared his parched throat, "Holy shit. I thought you were dead," he slurred, still trying to clear his throat. There was no response from the man, just more awkward stumbling as he shuffled across Zeke's front yard.
Zeke didn't like the way the man looked, so he pulled himself to his feet, still trying to make sense of the new world around him. At any moment, he was sure that his brain would shoot out the front of his forehead. The pain and the pressure were intense, and he had to squint to focus his eyes. The man came closer, shreds of groin flesh jiggling with each awkward step.
Zeke had seen enough. He turned around and walked inside his house. He closed the door, and turned the two extra deadbolts he had installed just the other week. Inside, Zeke grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table, and then he grabbed the phone. After lighting the cigarette, he held the phone in one hand and dialed the police.
A robotic voice informed him that all lines were busy and that he should stay on the line.
"What the fuck do you mean 'all lines are fucking busy'?" He placed the cigarette in his mouth and with his free hand he reached into his pocket and pulled out a Zippo lighter. He snapped it open by applying pressure to the edge of the Zippo's cap. Why did it work? He didn't know... but it was a handy little trick when you had one hand busy holding a gun on someone. It also worked when you were holding a phone in one hand. He lit the cigarette and let the smoke clear his mind.
The stumbling, bleeding bastard on his lawn finally reached the front of his house, whereupon he immediately began banging on the door. The metal grate of the screen door rattled loudly, and he could only imagine it would be a matter of time before one of his neighbors stopped by to investigate.
He pressed the speakerphone button on the phone's cradle and calmly walked into the kitchen to grab a beer. He had a feeling tonight was going to be a long night. With one calloused thumb, he popped the top of his Budweiser, and took a nice long sip as the message from the police continued to loop.
Zeke put out the stub of his cigarette in an ashtray, and walked over to his gun cabinet. He considered his options for a few seconds before pulling the shotgun out. He loaded it with shells and then walked to the front window to look at the man that was banging on his door.
He was a middle-aged man, white, balding on top, and sporting an outfit that gave him the feel of a used car salesman. The eyeglasses on his face were crooked and looked ready to fall off. His arms and knuckles looked like they were quickly becoming damaged from all of the banging, but the most disconcerting aspect of the man, besides his shredded gear, was the fact that there simply was no emotion in his face. Though his wounds must have been painful as hell, there was simply nothing there.
"Hey, dumbfuck," he taunted.
The only response was that the man moved to the window he was looking out of and resumed his banging. He was glad that he had put the bars on his windows. "What's the matter, buddy, can't get laid for free like the rest of us?"
There was no response, and at this point, Zeke expected as much. He pulled the shotgun up, racked home a shell and pointed the barrel at the man's face. Again there was nothing. The man didn't even blink He lowered his shotgun, and closed the blinds.
If this were overseas, there would already be a bloody, headless mess sitting on his porch. But this was America, land of the free, and he could tell something was wrong with the guy outside. You didn't just go around executing people, especially if they were ill.
"Hello? Thank you for waiting," announced a voice on the speakerphone.
Zeke took a swig from his beer and said, "Well, it's about damn time. I thought you guys were out to lunch."
"What is the nature of your emergency?" asked the voice on the phone.
Zeke just laughed, and said, "Honey, you ought to get over here and see for yourself."
"Is anyone hurt? Do you need an ambulance?" she replied, unmoved by his humor.
Zeke fumbled around in his pocket for another cigarette. "I'm not sure an ambulance is going to help any of these people, but yeah, we've got some injuries here. 212 SE Thompkins. See you soon."
"Sir, stay on the..." Zeke hung up the phone with the press of a button. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag from it. If those damn cops didn't get here within the next fifteen minutes, he was going to dump all nine pellets from the 12-gauge shotgun shell of his SPAS right into that man's face. And if that didn't work, he would do it again until it did
.Chapter 15: Old Han
Bill had been banging on the door for a good twenty minutes when he heard a commotion in the bar. At first, Dustin didn't know what to make of all the noise. Then he heard someo
ne shout, "Freeze or I'll blow your brains out!" When he heard that iconic cop cliché, he knew that the cavalry had finally arrived.
"I'm in here! Help! This guy is crazy!" he had shouted.
Apparently Bill wasn't very good at following instructions, because a few seconds later, he heard one cop tell the other one to taze Bill. He heard a pop as the tazer was fired, but he couldn't tell what the result was.
"What the hell is wrong with this guy?" asked one cop.
"I don't know. Let's hit him again," his partner replied, his voice muffled by the door between them and Dustin.
"Jesus, he just keeps coming," he heard one of the cops say, disbelief in his voice. "That's a tough old fucker, right there."
Apparently, Bill was something of a Superman. He heard a struggle ensue, and after some wrestling around, one of the cops yelled at him, "It's alright. You can come out now."
Dustin looked around the room and picked up a broom, just in case. Slowly he turned the doorknob and poked his head out into the bar. He saw one cop with a knee pressed down on Bill's back, while the other officer was looking at a bite mark on his arm.
"Oh, fuck," Dustin said. Dustin turned right back around and locked himself inside the bar office.
There was some pounding on the door. "Sir? Would you like to explain what's going on here?"
"Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but this evening, it was last call, and this guy comes in and takes a bite out of another guy. I help him out. We're rolling around, tusslin' you might say, and then he takes a bite out of the old guy's neck."
