Modern Rituals

by J. S. Leonard

  James pushed his way to the platform’s edge, planted a hand on the ground and hopped down, avoiding the rails. The man startled, tripping on a wooden board. He slammed to the ground, followed by a blinding flash of light, smoke and the smell of cooked meat.

  The crowd gasped and screamed.

  James forced himself to ignore the macabre mass of charred flesh. He bolted to the woman, yelling at her to stop moving.

  Forty-five seconds until arrival.

  James managed to kneel beside her without electrocuting himself.

  “You are going to be okay—just put your arms around me.”

  She did. He hoisted her onto his shoulders and tip-toed over the rails toward the platform. When he arrived, three women helped the old woman onto the concrete bearing and carried her to safety. Someone offered James a hand and as he took it, a terrifying, discomforting noise pierced the echoey tunnel.

  James twisted his head around in horror.

  The large man writhed in agony, mangled arms outstretched—a gurgled scream expelled from his massive, barrel chest.

  James released the rescuer’s hand.

  “Kid, he’s gone! You can’t save him!”

  Twenty-five seconds until arrival.

  James ignored the plea and rushed onto the tracks. He hoped he possessed enough strength to lift the man—rolling him wasn’t an option.

  James pulled the man’s flakey, charcoal arms around his neck. Screams ricocheted in the subway: from the crowd, from the burned victim, from within James’ head. A piece of flesh dangling from the man’s arm tore free, sticking to James’ blazer—and whether from the adrenaline surging through his veins, or a hidden strength, James hoisted the man onto his shoulders.

  The squelch of a train’s brakes squealed, grinding James’ ears.

  Fifteen seconds until arrival.

  James lurched and swayed under the heavy burden. He barely avoided the rails.

  Ten seconds.

  He lifted the man onto the platform with the help of several others. A few more joined in, grabbing James’ blazer.

  “You’re going to make it kid—pull yourself up!”

  He ascended. A glimmer of hope shone through his despair—then his pant leg caught on something. The sound of the train bore down upon the station.

  Five.

  Panic knotted his mind. He convulsed his leg upward—lodged. Alarmed faces altered from hope to horror.

  It wasn’t meant to end like this.

  James found the face of the old woman. Tears welled in her eyes.

  All went black.

  3

  Time obliterated space.

  James opened his eyes mid-flight. His legs involuntarily catapulted him skyward. Gravity, a merciless tether, snagged him from the air. He plummeted. His hands slapped a sealed, wooden floor—his knees followed with a nauseating thud and he swam in that terrible moment between impact and pain. A numbing fire then scorched his kneecaps.

  He curled into a ball, winced and sucked a breath through his teeth. The surroundings snuck into his vision.

  Impossible.

  The people. The station. New York.

  Gone.

  He rolled onto his back. He lay on the floor of a cavernous room. Huge, canned fluorescent lights hung dark from the scaffolding above. Daylight crept its way in through several skylights set into the high ceiling. He raised his head and scanned the space around him.

  Retracted bleacher seats outlined the walls. A stage occupied the opposite side of the hall, roughly a hundred feet from him. Basketball hoops, pulled parallel with the ceiling, hung awkwardly.

  Is this a gymnasium? He thought. Then: What the fuck?

  James’ hands went clammy, his stomach knotted, he felt faint and his breathing grew heavy. An urge to vomit rose in his throat. What he felt, saw, tasted, smelled and heard confirmed this place was real—or a convincing facsimile. Every logic circuit in his brain conflicted. He knew this experience was impossible, yet here he lay.

  Get ahold of yourself. Worry about how you got here later. Get up. Now!

  An atavistic force welled within him. He steadied his wobbly arms and pushed himself onto a pair of shaky, bruised knees. Three breaths eased his dizziness and he chanced standing upright.

  His shirt squeezed his chest—he pulled it straight and discovered his blazer missing. He now wore a buttoned shirt with a neatly knotted tie and a pair of khakis ending in penny loafers.

  What happened to my clothes?

  He smoothed his shirt as if inspecting a foreign artifact from another world. His hands moved from chest to belly to belt (reversible, ugh) to pants and then pockets.

  His right pocket protruded. He reached in and removed a small, folded slip of parchment, rough against his fingertips.

  A terrifying quiet had descended—so quiet that his heart thumped over his breath.

  He looked to his hands and unfolded the paper.

  James stared, puzzled by the vague message—then he became aware of his mental state: his breathing found its familiar rhythm, his heart beat as expected and he no longer swallowed against retching—the speed at which he regained control of his faculties shocked him.

  Perhaps I’ve decided that this really is just a dream.

  A ray of sunshine traveled across James’ face—a mote of dust flittered by, swirling and whooshing in the air on an invisible roller coaster. He estimated the light’s quality as either late afternoon or early morning—likely late afternoon.

  “Well, I’d better get a move on and figure out just what the hell is going on here,” he said, testing his voice.

  He took a step. A panicked woman burst through the gym doors.

  4

  A particularly beautiful afternoon alighted on Royal Victoria Hospital—one of those afternoons only Belfast could muster with so little effort. Olivia Young worked her regular shift in the Accident and Emergency Ward. With two hours already clocked, she had attended to three heart attacks, two flus and one nasty hip fracture, and now she examined an elderly Irish man complaining of severe fatigue and shortness of breath.

  She relished every moment of her job as senior nurse.

  “Now thay-t’s a mightay fane arse you got there missy!” the man said. Olivia had just bent over to pick up a loose piece of trash off the floor.

  “I thank me’ heart can’t handle much more!”

  His laughter erupted into a wheezy cough.

  “God willin’, I could die right hare!”

  Olivia had grown used to this type of commentary and presented her sardonic, that’s-really-funny smile to the man, then said, “If bending over again will finish the job, you shouldn’t tempt me.”

  The old man hooted and hollered, turning blue in the face as he gasped for air.

  She recorded his vitals and made her way to exit. With most of her body outside of the hospital bed’s perimeter curtain, she explained to the old man that his doctor would review his vitals and then see him.

  She closed the curtain behind her—the man muttered some bawdy nonsense about her British accent, pushing her to purge from her memory the description of what he would like her to do with her lips—then raced to the nearest sink to scrub from her skin the icky feeling.

  She relished nearly every moment of her job.

  “Whoa, what’s got you looking so down?” Dr. Montgomery said as he sidled into the hand sanitization station next to Olivia.

  “Oh, sorry. Nothing really—just one of those days, you know?” Olivia said, this time with a half-cracked, genuine smile.

  He returned the smile, dried his hands, gave her a gentle pat on the back and fled to his next patient.

  Doctor Montgomery had always been kind to her, especially when she’d first taken her position as senior nurse. She’d moved to Belfast for the position, arriving as an excited 22-year-old, fresh off a train from London aside her then-boyfriend, with whom she’d been madly in love—his love for her, however, had been fickle at best—and when they’d par
ted ways, she’d found herself isolated and unable to afford her flat. Doctor Montgomery, a father of three daughters, had offered her a place to live with his family until she got back on her feet. She’d never forgotten his generosity.

  Olivia’s love life had so far consisted of a barrage of ill-willed suitors—they swarmed to her well-placed curves and towering height. Dainty freckles dotted her face, framed by fussy, though full-bodied auburn hair. For all her beauty, which she could leave or take, she was most proud of her cool confidence and magnetic wit—it was a shame those assets didn’t attract a better mate. After the last failed relationship, she’d decided love had deserted her, and for better or worse, would cease placing energy into it, leaving the whole matter to serendipity.

  She headed to the front desk to review the incoming roster. Two in the queue: an arm fracture and a catatonic man with severe bruising to his hands and face. Olivia allocated staff to each patient and opted for a break.

  She swiped her employee badge through the time clock. Before it chirped in confirmation, she scurried outside where she inhaled a lungful of autumn air and started her customary walk to Berries Coffee Shop, her favorite coffeehouse across the street.

  These brief escapes cleared her mind, allowing her to dream. Though fond of Belfast, what she truly desired was to return to London. That required money, of which she had saved a small amount, but it would be at least a year before she could consider leaving. That was perfectly acceptable, for she had yet to see much of Ireland—perhaps in a month she might ask for a week’s leave to adventure through many of the countryside’s famous castles. Between her motivation-sucking breakup and new position, her free time had dwindled. The longing to travel had goaded her into leaving London in the first place.

  Funny how that works.

  Berries approached faster than she liked. The storefront offered its familiar, inviting entrance, from which the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans emanated. Her mouth watered as her mind’s eye envisioned beans ground and filtered into a delicious, steaming cup. A tiny bell rang as she opened the door and entered the foyer.

  Margerie, one of Berries’ baristas, welcomed Olivia with her usual warm salutation.

  “Hey, love—what’ll it be today? The usual?” Margerie said.

  Olivia smiled, nodded and made her way to an open table. As she leafed through a fitness magazine, an unexpected pang of anxiety hit her. Alarmed, she closed the magazine and sat back, considering the feeling’s origin.

  Off in the distance, the sound of fireworks exploded in rapid succession.

  Gunfire.

  From the hospital.

  Olivia bolted—the tiny bell swung.

  5

  Screams issued from the entrance to the A&E, and gunshots deafened Olivia’s ears. Dr. Montgomery yelled at someone to stop firing. Another gunshot—he fell silent. Olivia crouched a few feet from the sliding glass doors that led into the waiting room—they were propped open.

  She pressed her back to the left side of the entrance and craned her neck around the corner. Victims lay on the waiting room’s floor—some with their hands over their heads, some in the fetal position, some motionless. Olivia’s heart pounded. An awful silence hung in the air, interrupted by sirens in the distance that mingled with moans from within.

  She focused on Dr. Montgomery. She needed to get him to safety—if it wasn’t too late.

  Olivia crouched and edged her way into the waiting area, scrambling toward the waiting-desk’s end. She peeked around. The inpatient area’s open doors framed a pair of men’s boots within an examination area. A curtain concealed the rest of his body.

  The man spoke: “Where is he? I’m done with the warnings—as you can see I’m quite serious.”

  “I’m so sorry! We don’t have anyone under that name—please!”

  “I know he was brought here no more than thirty minutes ago. Where would he be?”

  “Patients are either in the waiting room or placed into one of these temporary beds. He’d be here! I don’t know any more!”

  “Useless cunt!”

  Olivia watched him step toward the nurse then heard a loud thud. She fell to the ground.

  The boots spun and pointed toward Olivia—she retreated further behind the desk, removing herself from sight. A curtain whooshed. She tensed, readying for a mad dash as stampeding boots echoed her way—but they grew softer.

  Olivia dared another look and could now see all of the man: his head scratched the ceiling, his rotund midsection blocked the aisle. Short red hair covered his head, melding into a scruffy beard. He wore fatigue pants and a green cargo jacket. A fire burned in his eyes that sucked the air from Olivia’s lungs. Patients screamed as the man made his way from one bed to the next throwing privacy curtains aside.

  The inpatient area comprised three wards. The man neared the end of Ward A, which connected to Ward B via a hallway at the back of the room. When he finished inspecting all of the beds, he followed the hallway and moved out of Olivia’s view.

  She stood and tip-toed through Ward A in search of Dr. Montgomery. Her investigation revealed no sign of his presence, leaving her hopeless. There. Underneath the curtain to her left: Montgomery’s black slacks lay slouched on the floor. A cold fever washed over her. She gasped, froze for a second, then forced herself to duck under the curtain.

  Montgomery lay unconscious, legs sprawled, with his back against a blood-spattered medical monitor. Blood leaked from a bullet wound near his collarbone. Her heart lightened—the gaping hole wouldn’t take his life under normal circumstances, but it required immediate attention. She hurried to his side, grabbed a towel from the bedside cabinet and applied pressure to his chest.

  In the bed next to him lay the bawdy, old Irish man, his wide eyes trembling, his attention focused at a point far beyond the ceiling. She decided against rousing the man and continued tending to Montgomery.

  How can I get Montgomery to safety?

  “Olivia… What are you doing?” Doctor Montgomery said with his eyes half-open.

  “Quiet now—you’ve been hurt. I’ve got to get you out of here,” Olivia said, glancing over her shoulder.

  “No, no—I’m fine. Leave before it’s too late.”

  “What would I tell Janet if I left you here?”

  He didn’t argue.

  The towel Olivia held against his chest had hardened into a bright red brick. Montgomery reached up with his right hand and began to apply pressure himself.

  “I’ve got this—just figure out what we’re going to do next,” he said under his breath.

  Olivia nodded and turned toward the curtain. A gunshot reverberated throughout the room. Yowls rang from nearby beds. Olivia’s estimation placed the shot in Ward C—far enough to provide time to move Montgomery.

  She turned back. “Can you walk if I help?”

  Montgomery attempted to lean forward but winced in pain—the bullet had nicked a sensitive shoulder nerve.

  “No—I can’t move at all,” he said.

  Think, Olivia—Think!

  Her options dwindled. Perhaps if they waited, they would go unnoticed until the authorities arrived.

  Where are the police? This is a hospital! They should be here by now.

  A bizarre idea throttled her brain—she reached for the curtain.

  Another gunshot—closer, but not by much.

  She bolted through the curtain, racing to the primary care station where she snatched a bottle of Lorazepam and a syringe, sprung to the closest stretcher and wheeled it to Montgomery. The gurney cramped the room.

  Well, that went much smoother than I expected.

  “Are you insane? What are you doing?” Montgomery said.

  “I’m getting you out of here. Who knows what this guy is going to do to next.”

  “I can’t move Olivia—” he said. Olivia jabbed him in the arm with Lorazepam.

  “What in the…” he said as he blacked out.

  Fear twisted her stomach. What if she could
n’t lift him onto the gurney? She reached underneath his knees, placed her other arm behind his neck and hefted upward. He didn’t budge. Fear propelled her, and red and black filled her vision. A dizzy moment later, Montgomery lay on the gurney. Olivia wobbled, rubbed her temples.

  This is no time to slow down—move!

  She peered under the curtain, searching for the assailant. All clear. Forty feet remained between her and the exit. If she rushed, it might only be a ten second trip—that timing encouraged her.

  They burst through the curtain and nearly ran into the medical station. Upon correcting their trajectory, the old man started to scream.

  “Ah! The one you are lookin’ for is here! I seen em’ I did!”

  With no time to consider the repercussions from the old man’s outburst, she rushed toward the exit. Boots clopped behind her. Adrenaline coursed through her body—it was now or never.

  Someone said, “Stop them!” as she entered the waiting area. Then, the gurney halted and Montgomery toppled sideways. Olivia’s torso folded over the bed as her legs buckled beneath her, and she twisted, rolling over the gurney’s side and fell to the ground, her head crashing into Montgomery’s.

  “Where do you think you are going, love?” a man’s voice said. All she saw was boots—he had kicked the gurney’s front breaks. Olivia struggled to place the man’s voice, to look up at him—he was a blur.

  “Oh, you are a pretty one. And brave as well. I like it when little girls think they are brave,” the man said looking down on her.

  The other man caught up to them.

  “What in the fuck is going on here?”

  “It looks like these two were trying to make a getaway, though the bloke on the floor isn’t moving. Got a thing for stiffs, love?” the gurney-kicking man said.

  The large, red-headed man who Olivia recognized from earlier considered Montgomery and said, “I thought I finished that one off. Fuck it if I don’t always have to clean up after myself.”

  “Speaking of which, did you find our man?” the man standing over Olivia said.

  “Yeah, he’s done, just like this one is about to be,” the large man said as he withdrew his gun and pointed it at Montgomery.