Saint Philomene's Infirmary for Magical Creatures

by W. Stone Cotter

  “To cook me stew and clean up my mess and listen to my troubles and accompany me to parties. Forever. Ha-ha-ha!”

  Pauline fought against her restraints with such vigor that she nearly tipped the throne over.

  “Stop that, now,” said Rod, steadying the throne, then slapping Pauline once in the face.

  “Ow,” said Pauline, genuinely scared for the first time since she’d been here. Up till now, she’d just been incredulous. Now, she was frightened. “I’ll bite you.”

  “Don’t you know the Thropinese cannot be infected by vampiresses?”

  “Look, Rod,” said Pauline, glancing around the room, which was filled with white rubber furniture and modern-looking sculptures of black marble. “I think you’re a nice fellow, but I need to get to the first floor. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  He said, “Number one, chicken pox is not fatal, and number two, the chicken pox ward is not on the first floor. That’s where the chief of surgery’s penthouse is; that’s where Customs and Immigration is; that’s where the big freight pipes are. There’s nothing there for a vampiress. Especially not a betrothed vampiress.”

  Then Rod produced a small object seemingly out of nowhere: a green tube of some kind, tapered at one end, with writing on it too tiny to read.

  “Look, my dearest one,” he said, holding the object in the air. “My favorite Oppabof import. Superglue.”

  Pauline panicked. What the heck was he going to do? Glue her mouth shut? Her eyes? She was securely chained to the chair; there was no going anywhere. She would scream if he got near her face. She would spit.

  But instead Rod Nthn got down on all sixes and began to crawl around the throne, squeezing globs of superglue where the chair legs met the floor.

  “We can’t have you tumbling over while I’m at work, now, can we?”

  “Let me go.”

  “Now,” said Rod Nthn, circling her throne and chuckling, “let me tell you about the festivities and menu I have planned for our nuptials.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Chance had to find Yryssy Ayopy. How? He didn’t even know how to get off the basement floor. He could find only two elevators—one firmly locked, the other broken and full of cardboard boxes. Next to the broken elevator was a door marked STAIRS, but it, too, was securely locked, and no amount of prying would compromise it.

  If only he could ask someone.

  Chance smacked himself on the forehead.

  “Duh.”

  He plucked a torch out of its sconce and went up to the first cell he saw. Empty, the door wide open, the key in the lock. The next one contained a dead Balliope, and the third an actual vampire trying to jam his head through the bars. The fourth contained a particularly ugly Vyrndeet.

  “Sir,” said Chance. “Do you know where I can find Yryssy Ayopy?”

  “Ew, a human,” it said.

  “She’s a Geckasoft,” said Chance. “She knows a lot of secrets.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Well, do you know to get off this floor?”

  “The elevators are locked or broken. This place was not designed with the easy exit in mind.”

  Chance advanced to the next cage, in which an aged wizard sitting in a corner gave him the evil eye.

  “Sir, do you—”

  “I heard you. No, I don’t know Yryssy Ayopy, and I don’t know how to get out of the basement. So off with you.”

  Several hours later, Chance was about to give up when he heard a deep, rough voice.

  “I know where she is,” it said. The voice reminded Chance of cats’ tongues and aquarium gravel. It was coming from the cell across the passageway.

  “What?”

  Chance turned to behold a creature that looked like a winged crash test dummy. It was crouching in a corner, its legs crossed, its arms akimbo.

  “Oh, a human. What a disappointment.”

  “I know, I know,” said Chance. “Would you please tell me where Yryssy is?”

  “Sure, no prob. She’s on the … wait, oh darn, I … I’m having trouble remembering…”

  Chance groaned. “But you said—”

  “I might be able to remember if…”

  “What? What!”

  “… I was freed from this cage.”

  “I, uh, don’t know—”

  “You got out somehow. At least I assume you’re not here as a visitor. Do a fella a solid and get me out of here. And I will tell you where Porsyppy Papopy is. Furthermore, I will get you off this floor.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Have you got a chain in there?”

  “No, no chain.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Chance jogged up and down the passageway until he found the open cell with the key in the lock. He jogged back.

  “Let’s hope this works,” said Chance, plugging in the key and turning. A little WD-40 would’ve helped, but it worked.

  “Thank you, human,” the creature said, stretching and flapping its wings.

  “Now can you please,” said Chance, “take me to Yryssy.”

  “Well,” said the creature, “I must admit I really don’t have any idea where she is. I’ve never even heard of her. I just wanted out so bad.”

  Chance sat on the floor and put his head in his hands.

  “Jeez, sorry,” said the creature.

  “Did you know,” said Chance, “that everyone in this hospital will be dead in less than twenty-four hours unless I find Yryssy?”

  “Oh dear, are you sure?”

  “Positive,” said Chance. He actually had no idea how soon it might be, but he did know time was of the essence. He was beginning to experience the chemical and physiological changes in his body that usually preceded a powerful cry.

  “But listen,” said the creature. “I can get you out of here. That part wasn’t a lie.”

  “You can?”

  “Follow me. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Chance.”

  “I am Fer Dramwoot the Untidy, a proud and invulnerable Slipling.”

  The creature took a bow, then was off at a brisk pace, exercising its magnificent wings as they walked. Eventually, they came to the broken elevator, where the creature stopped.

  “Ta-da!”

  “This one is broken,” said Chance.

  The creature opened the doors. The elevator was still full of cardboard boxes.

  “Come on, we’re climbing through these boxes, upward.”

  After two hours of struggle, they reached the top layer of boxes. The shaft disappeared up into a blackness darker than starless space.

  “Now what?” said Chance.

  “Climb on,” said the creature, crouching down so Chance could jump up on its back. “I hope you’re not passing along any disease.”

  “I’m perfectly healthy.”

  “Good. Now, I don’t think I can fly more than one hundred stories or so with a passenger, so I’ll have to drop you off on one floor. Then, you’re on your own. Ready?”

  “Ready,” said Chance. For the first time since he’d arrived here, the sweet aroma of confidence began to waft around him.

  Fer Dramwoot the Untidy lifted off slowly and laboriously, rising higher, past the 6,240th floor, the 6,235th, the 6,230th, picking up speed, the 6,200th, the 6,190th, the 6,180th … Then the creature began to lose steam. At the 6,170th floor, he stopped, hovering in midair.

  “This is as far as I can take you, Mr. Chance. Try to stay in the crawl spaces between floors, and use the air ducts to move up and down.”

  “Are you sure you don’t know where I can find Yryssy Ayopy?” said Chance, climbing onto a five-inch ledge in front of the floor’s closed double doors, from between which a shaft of light shone.

  “No. But you will figure it out.”

  And with that, the Slipling continued upward until it disappeared into the murk in the distance.

  Chance stood precariously on the ledge. He peered down. He couldn’t
see the bottom. Terror rose up into his esophagus, stopping there to throb. He could barely move. He peered through the one-eighth-inch crack between the doors. Figures strode by, unidentifiable sounds squeezed through. He tried to pry the doors apart but could not get a grip. Chance drew his trusty iron rod and tried to jam it between the doors, but it was too thick; besides, he couldn’t get any leverage. He dared not cry for help; if he went back to the brig, they’d make sure he couldn’t get out again.

  The ledge went all the way around the inside of the elevator shaft. Chance turned his head as far as he could and noticed an object sitting on the ledge in the back right corner—a foot-long object of some kind standing straight up. What was that?

  A hammer.

  If only …

  He had no choice. Chance began to shuffle along the edge so carefully, hugging the dirty wall, his cheek flat against it, while behind him an 800-foot plunge seemed to tug at his ankles. Inch by inch, he made his way toward the hammer. The closer he got, the more anxious he became.

  Something stung the back of his neck. Chance slapped at it. He lost his balance. He pinwheeled his arms as fast as he could and just barely saved himself. He was breathing so hard he blew dust off the wall.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his attacker. Some kind of deformed June bug as big as a Ping-Pong ball. Even in the dark, Chance could make out its half-inch-long stinger. The beast orbited his head, looking for another place to strike. Chance shuffled along, filled with panic and fear. He was halfway to the hammer when the insect thing stung him in the ribs. All Chance could do was stifle a scream; he couldn’t bat it away for fear of falling. It stayed stuck to his rib cage, leaving the stinger in his flesh for a full ten seconds before withdrawing it and flying away.

  Chance got closer. The insect dive-bombed him and stung him near the hairline over his right eye. Then it hit in the same spot over his left eye. The swelling welts felt like white-hot marbles between his skin and skull.

  He made it to the hammer. He carefully lifted up one leg, sideways, and bent his body in the other direction, as if he were doing a slow-motion cartwheel. He bent more and more until he could grasp the handle between two fingers, then righted himself. Slowly, cautiously, he began his return trip.

  Halfway there, the creature stung him on the ankle. Chance roared through his teeth. Oh, how he wanted to crush that thing!

  He shuffled along, a hairbreadth at a time. The insect seemed to have gotten bored, and it was no longer hovering and darting and wheeling. When Chance finally reached the relative safety of the doors, he paused to catch his breath. He felt the lump on his side—nearly an inch high. He lifted up his shirt. The welt was a pulsing red monolith. He felt his forehead. The two bumps over his eyes, in his hairline, felt like they had risen even more than an inch. They throbbed like bad cuts, stinging like lime juice in the eye.

  Chance stuck the claw end of the hammer between the doors and began to work it in deeper and deeper. He peered through the crack. No creatures in sight at the moment, and the sounds of activity seemed distant. He pried the doors open far enough to get his fingertips securely inside. He tucked the hammer through a belt loop.

  Chance pulled apart the doors as hard as he could until they were open enough to squeeze his body through. He fell onto a hard, sandpapery, reddish-brown surface.

  Chance would never know that at that exact instant, his sister Pauline was hurtling past him at 120 miles per hour, falling down the elevator shaft from which he had just freed himself.

  He looked up.

  Standing in a half circle around him were four Balliopes, all dressed in tennis outfits and holding rackets that looked too big for their little round frames. Tennis courts. Hundreds of them, stretching off into the brightly lit distance.

  “Hey, you okay, bud?” said one of them, getting down on one knee.

  Why weren’t they handcuffing him and hauling him off to jail?

  “Yeah, you don’t look so great,” said another. “And you smell terrible, like you’ve been in a dungeon. Have you been in a dungeon, demon?”

  “Oh, uh, no. Huh?”

  “How in the world did you get inside a broken elevator shaft?” said the third. “Can’t you read the sign?”

  Chance turned around. On the elevator doors, a length of old, yellowed masking tape read in black Magic Marker: BROKEN PLEASE DON’T USE.

  He also noticed his reflection in the polished doors. The bright red bumps on his forehead looked a little like … the horns of a demon.

  “Uh, I think … um … well, I just wound up in there somehow. I don’t know how it happened. I was just sitting in my room on the, uh, ingrown-toenail ward, uh, chatting with, uh, Yryssy Ayopy, and I think she maybe sneaked some knockout drops in my drink. Or something.”

  “Knockout drops work on demons?”

  “Sometimes,” said Chance.

  The Balliopes nodded and stroked their scant yellow beards.

  “Hmm,” they all said.

  “Yeah.

  “What was the name? Assyria Karaoke?”

  “Yryssy Ayopy.”

  “Never heard of her,” said three of them. But the fourth said, “I have. She’s in a coma, acute Iptid’s Misery. My sister, who’s a nurse, told me all about her. She’s a goner. Yryssy, not my sister. No cure for Iptid’s Misery.”

  “Oh no,” said Chance. “Where is she now?”

  “Room—”

  Suddenly, a loud, electrified crackle sounded. A PA system.

  Attention: Human on premises. Cunning and wily. Location unknown. Jail escapee. Approach with extreme caution: danger of infection. Slight, brown hair, ears stick out. Disable or kill on sight.

  “Wow, that’s the second time in a couple days,” said a Balliope. “Place is just crawling with humans.”

  Chance could feel his ears turning red. If it weren’t for these bug bites, Chance knew he would be on his way back to jail. If he ever found out where the flying beastie lived, he’d send it a fruit basket.

  “It’s probably the same human,” said another Balliope. “The chances that two could get in are pretty slim.”

  “What’s your name, demon?”

  “Um, er … Jiro. What room did you say Yryssy Ayopy is in?”

  “She’s in 2222.001. I remembered the number easily because it’s easy to remember.”

  “Do you know how to get back to the ingrown-toenail ward?” said a Balliope.

  “No, but I can find my way,” said Chance.

  The red horns were beginning to throb less. He had to get away from these Balliopes. He was afraid that soon his brief disguise would disappear.

  “We’ll walk you to the right elevator. It’s about a quarter mile, thataway.

  “Oh, I think I can find it.”

  “C’mon, fellows. Let’s get Jiro where he’s going.”

  As they walked, Chance was certain his welts had reduced by at least a third. Maybe half.

  Eventually, the Balliopes paused in front of a bank of elevators. One of them pressed the UP button to an elevator that went all the way to the 1,000th floor.

  Fifteen minutes later, it finally came.

  “Now, remember to get off at 3,190,” said the Balliopes. “That’s the ingrown-toenail ward.”

  Chance jumped into the vacant elevator, his back to the Balliopes. In order to press 3,190, he would have to turn around and face them. He put his arm up to his brow, said “Bye, you guys, thanks,” then pressed the CLOSE DOORS button. Before they shut completely, Chance thought two of the Balliopes’ faces had darkened with quizzical looks.

  The elevator rose. Chance punched 2,222. He studied his welts in the polished steel walls. They still looked like the horns of a demon, but not so dramatically. Chance tapped them, squeezed them, worried them, flicked them, in hopes they would get re-inflamed so he could make it to 2,222 before someone recognized him as human, but his abuses seemed to do no good. Creatures started to board. As the elevator went higher and higher, longer and longe
r were the hard looks each being gave Chance. The elevator seemed to be stopping on every other floor, sucking creatures in, spitting them out. What was it, rush hour?

  Then, finally 2,222.

  “Excuse me,” said Chance. “Coming out, coming out.”

  All the creatures looked at him. Just as he elbowed his way off the crowded elevator and the door began to close, someone said, “Hey, was that a demon? Or a h—?”

  Then the door closed behind him.

  Chance had to work fast.

  The floor appeared to be a regular old hospital ward. There was nobody about, except for a short Vyrndeet dressed in a maid’s uniform who was bent over a laundry hamper piled high with dirty sheets and towels. It walked into a room, never noticing Chance coming down the hall toward it. Chance took the opportunity to run as fast as he could toward the hamper, looking at room numbers as he went—odd numbers on the right, 2222.035, 2222.033, 2222.031—until he reached 2222.021, the room the maid was cleaning. Chance climbed into the hamper and buried himself deep in the towels and sheets. The smell reminded Chance of wet tennis balls. He waited. He felt his forehead; the welts were nearly gone.

  Presently the maid came out of the room, tossed laundry on top of the pile, and pushed the cart to the next room on the same side of the hall: 2222.019. Again, Chance waited. He didn’t dare peek out of the hamper, as he could hear the murmurs and honks and snarls and whimpers of beings walking back and forth.

  Chance checked his pocket to make sure the plastic pouch of flerk was still there, that it hadn’t leaked. Ten minutes later, the hamper moved again: 2222.017. Only eight more to go till he reached Yryssy—

  Ktzzzkrkpop! went the PA system.

  Attention: Update.

  Here we go again, he thought.

  Human spotted, Floor 2,222, human spotted, Floor 2,222. Local agents, please respond with deadly force.

  This was getting old. The floor suddenly thundered with the commotion of what Chance assumed to be “local agents.”

  The maid had moved the laundry cart to 2222.015. Chance listened to the security guards shouting and slamming doors. Then the cart was by 2222.013. The laundry bore down on Chance, heavier and heavier. Chance held his breath. His entire left leg fell asleep. The hamper moved one room closer roughly every ten minutes.