The Orchard

by Charles L. Grant

  Marc kept on talking, almost urgently now.

  The scratching, louder. And no one complaining.

  “Damnit, Mike, are you listening to me?”

  The scratching stopped.

  Making faces and rubbing his temples as the headache grew stronger.

  “Kolle, are you there?”

  Footsteps now, from the other direction, heavy and uneven, a man on a bad leg, or a man on a false one. Step-tap, a deep breath; step-tap, and a sigh.

  “Michael!”

  “I’m here, I’m here,” he said, cupping his hand around the mouthpiece, staring at the door.

  “Well, did you hear anything I said?”

  Step-tap, a deep breath; step-tap, and a moan.

  “Jesus Christ,” Michael whispered.

  “Mike, what the hell’s going on?” Clayton demanded. “Did they give you something? A sedative?”

  “Marc, I need to get hold of Cora, okay? She didn’t give me her home number and I need her here, now.”

  Step-tap, and silence.

  The nightwind soughing in the pines.

  He was watching a dim glow grow brighter up by the front of the building when something Clayton said made him turn from the door. “What? Say that again?” And he could hear strained patience in a long exhalation.

  “I said, ‘Cora who?’ “

  “Cora who? C’mon, Marc. Cora from the paper, the kid, who else?” The cord wrapped around a finger, the base sliding along the table. “She said … she told me you said she was supposed to work with me.”

  “Mike, I …” Clayton stopped and cleared his throat. “Mike, I don’t have any Cora working for me. Never did.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  The room brightened, whitely.

  “In fact, the only Cora I know is Cora Keane.”

  “Then it must have been her.”

  “Not likely, Mike. She committed suicide after her sister disappeared.”

  “Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait a minute, let me get this straight. Are you telling me—”

  The dial tone stopped him, and stopped completely when he tried to regain the connection. He didn’t try a second time because the light grew even brighter, slamming shadows against the back wall, painting the window a dead black. The crutches felt chilled, but he flexed his fingers as he moved, to the end of the bed, to the edge of the door, looking out after swallowing and licking his lips, closing his eyes against the pain that swelled from his nape and filled his skull with a roaring.

  Breathe, he ordered sternly; breathe, it’ll pass.

  And when it did, he looked out again.

  There was no one to his left, no one to his right, everything touched and washed by the same source-less white.

  He told himself not to worry, that something was wrong with the power, like bulbs that flare up just before they blow out, and all he had to do was sit down and wait and someone would be around to let him know what was going on.

  An elevator opened.

  A dark figure stepped out, paused, and walked away.

  He didn’t bother to squint or shade his eyes because he recognized Janey immediately from her walk, the swing of her hips, the way her winged cap sat on her hair as if ready to fly away. Relieved and somewhat angry, he stumped out of the room and called her name, half turning his head against the glare and calling again when she ignored him. Stopping when she disappeared into the nurses’ station, he heard something coming toward him, quickly on his right.

  Step-tap, and sighing.

  Black and still a part of the light, a fragment broken off and moving, the white glow around it as if turned to fog, forming,, re-forming, erasing it and bringing it back, this time much smaller, and the step-tap was a padding, and the sighing was a growl.

  He started to run and almost fell, blinked sweat from his eyes, and forced himself to use the gait of crutches and cast. Hitting the elevator call button as he passed, both up and down, then swinging into the station where Janey was sitting.

  “You’re supposed to be in bed,” she said.

  “Janey, what the …” He looked around in dumb amazement, looked back for an answer, and saw her roll the chair away from the report she was writing.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?” she asked, shaking a naughty-boy finger as though she were his mother.

  “Janey, for god’s sake, come on, huh?”

  She rose and put her hands on her hips. “I won’t tell you again, you hear? I’ve had enough.”

  It’s all right, he thought, when he felt the fear touch him. It’s ail right; she’s just tired and you’re still a bit punchy.

  “Janey—”

  “I think … Miss Clark, to you.”

  “—just tell me what the hell is going on? What’s that thing out there? I mean, what—”

  He was babbling, and he clamped his jaws tightly, closed his eyes until they stung, knowing he sounded like a madman, the last thing he wanted when Janey herself sounded mad.

  Then the headache returned in such a rush he gasped and nearly fell. “Janey, it’s killing me.”

  “I know, poor thing. It must be terrible.”

  “Look, can you give me something? Something to help me? Jesus, it hurts!”

  A patient sigh while the pain expanded, staggering him, throwing him up against the counter’s rounded corner. “Oh, Jesus, it’s killing me, Janey!” The heels of his hands step-tap pushing against his temples, grinding at the fire step-tap while the muscles in his neck bulged to reddened cords.

  “Michael?”

  “She’s dead,” he said. Babbling; damnit, stop babbling. “She’s dead.”

  “Dead? Who’s dead, Michael?”

  “Cora. God, didn’t you know that? Cora’s dead, I saw her and she gave me this apple and I ate it and she’s dead, she was always dead, Janey, and Jesus Christ it hurts so bad!”

  “Michael?”

  His eyes opened.

  “Michael, do you love me?”

  Something moved in the white hall.

  “Janey, please, you’ve got to call somebody. Call the security guards, the police. There’s—”

  She whirled away from him, her cap spinning to the floor, and he told himself, it’s only the headache, only the drugs, when he saw her eyebrows thicken, and darken, and meet over her nose while her lips pulled back in a low steady hissing and her teeth bared and sharpened while her uniform turned black.

  He yelled, stumbled back, and fell against the wall. Yelled again when she lashed the chair to one side and lunged over the counter, to fall on the dark creature that sprang out of the white and met her in midflight.

  “Janey!” Almost weeping. “Jesus God, Janey!”

  Too afraid to move, one palm pressed against the tile, he held the crutches tightly to his chest and sidled to the right until he was stopped by the corner.

  Listening to the snarling that sounded more like thunder, the screeching that echoed in gunshots from the walls and down the hall; seeing flashes of black limbs coiling madly over black, and flashes of red that hung in the light, spattered on the counter, landed on his arm and dripped to his fingers until he wiped them off on his nightclothes with a shudder and a moan.

  Listening to the sound that began as a moan and rose to a scream that made him cover his ears and press his face against the wall and kick at the baseboard with the side of his cast until there was just a silence laced only with his sobs.

  His nose ran, and he wiped it with his arm.

  He put a shoulder to the wall until he could lean on the crutches, move to the desk, and grab a tissue for his eyes.

  The ache that burned his head had faded, had gone, and he felt as if his skull were filled now with cool air.

  Migraine, he concluded as he stumbled around the counter; on top of everything else, I’m getting goddamned migraines. Which would explain the intensity of the light, and his inability to distinguish features until he was close enough to touch. But it didn’t, he thought, explain the night
mare he had seen, Janey’s transformation, the battle, the blood on his arm.

  The hall was empty.

  He swayed.

  All the elevator doors were open, and there were shadows inside.

  Christ, he thought, I gotta get out of here. I gotta find a doctor; I’ve gotta find Carolyn.

  He kept to the center of the floor, not looking to the side, not listening to the husking that came from the open doors. Not bothering to call Janey because Janey was gone—if she had ever been there, if what he had wasn’t ruining his mind.

  His leg began aching from the pounding he gave it. The crutches bored into his armpits and hunched his shoulders to bear them. At the intersection he paused only long enough to look left, then swung into the corridor and headed toward the back, toward the place where he knew the fire exit was though its soft red letters were hidden by the white.

  “I’m crazy,” he said and heard the catch in his voice.

  “I’m sick, that’s all,” and that sounded much better.

  One step, one step, scraping the cast over the floor, looking into the other rooms and seeing nothing but white, hearing no voices but the rasp of his breathing, not even the smells to tell him where he was; one step, and he swerved when his left leg gave way, stiffened before he toppled and the sweat ran from his chin.

  God, he thought.

  “Oh, god, please help me.”

  Dragging the cast.

  One step at a time.

  Staring at the window at the far end of the hall, watching it steadily, watching it grow, not caring that all he saw was a shabby white ghost with curious wooden arms and a laughable gait and a head of wild hair that gave his skull spikes. Watching it, pacing it, once tilting his head sharply to be sure it was him, and laughing until he heard the hysterical trill and shut himself off before the scream came again.

  One step, dragging; one step at a time.

  Thinking about his father, hearty and loud and chasing off the night demons with a flick of his hand; thinking about his mother, slim and always grey and banishing the night creatures with a smile and a lamp.

  Thinking of Cora—no! She’s dead, you didn’t see her.

  Thinking of Rory when he reached corridor’s end and looked at the fire door and knew without trying it was going to be locked.

  Rory.

  He had to get Rory out of this place, and nothing his fear told him could change his direction as he passed the door with a groan and rounded the corner.

  On his right, an alcove lined with monitors and dials and things he’d never seen that watched the rooms across the way. There were numbers on each screen, a name taped above, and when he saw the boy’s place, he moved on again, veering toward the blinded windows that looked in on the dying until he reached an open door, stopped, and looked in.

  The bed was small, and Rory even smaller, his hair completely covered by a red-stained cap. Wires. Tubes. A soft-beeping tone that matched a wriggling line on a pale green screen. And no one inside, on the chair by the bed or the chair by the door.

  He rapped the jamb with a crutch, not wanting to startle the kid, and when the sound died, he heard the scratching behind.

  Sharp wood on tile; a nail along the wall.

  “Rory,” he whispered, and took a step in.

  “Rory, old pal, it’s me, Mike. Wake up.”

  Scratching, much softer, steady and sharp.

  To the bed and leaning over, seeing the eyes move beneath the closed eyelids, seeing the chest rise and fall, and seeing the thin red stain on the cap stain the pillow.

  “Rory,” he said as he shook the boy’s arm.

  This time, when the pain came, he refused to admit it, widening his eyes for a clarity that was frightening, breathing slowly and deeply and feeling winter air pass over his teeth. He leaned down and touched the boy’s shoulder, pushed it, pushed it harder, and turned when he heard something stop in the door.

  “Michael, you should be in bed, you know.”

  Rory stirred, muttered something.

  “Carolyn,” he said, and sagged onto the bed. “My god, I’m glad to see you. I’m—” The pain; his head expanding. “God, I hurt so bad. You don’t know. And I’m scared. I’ve got to have something, I gotta get Rory, I’ve got to—”

  “Michael,” she said, the white against her white, seemingly floating. “Michael, I do think you should go back to bed.”

  Scratching, intermittent and turning softer still, turning Carolyn around to put a hand to her mouth.

  He was off the bed at once, swinging toward her like a sailor fresh to dry land, damning the headache, damning the pain, damning Rory, who was groaning and asking for him.

  “Carolyn, listen, I’ve got to tell you something.”

  Her arm lowered and she shook her head. “Not now, Michael. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Angry, suddenly and uncontrollably angry, he grabbed her arm and turned her, pulled her close to his face so she could better see his eyes and the taut slash of his lips. “I don’t give a shit if you’re busy,” he said, spraying her with spittle. “I am in agony, goddamnit, and we have to get the boy out of here before something else goes wrong!”

  “Something else?” she said, easily pulling away.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he muttered. “I swear to Christ, I’m going to kill you.”

  The scratching was gone; the sound of wings now, and Carolyn lifted her arms, threw back her head, and he told himself it was only the pain he was seeing, only the pain that made him crazy, only the pain that lifted her slowly off the floor and turned her long hair into long shimmering feathers, turned her hands and arms into long outstretched wings, turned her face to a demon’s face that spat acid on the walls and met his gaze with slanting eyes before sweeping away, out of sight.

  Rory whimpered.

  The pillow reddened.

  Michael held onto the doorframe and watched what was Carolyn meet what was following in a slashing of claws and a slashing of beaks and a shrieking that resounded like screams against stone; a whirling, a thudding, the clear rending of flesh that splattered against the walls and made him duck back inside. Look out and see a wing lying on the floor, feebly twitching, convulsing, making him retch and pull back to see Rory lift his arms and grab for the ceiling.

  Where do monsters come from, Mr. Kolle?

  It hurt. Dear God, it hurt.

  From here, pal, in your head.

  Wailing in the hall, and the crack of snapped bone, the thud of collisions and the rainsplash of blood.

  No, he thought, as best he could think through the fire in his brain; and he took a step toward the bed, lost a crutch, and fell. He landed on his side, his cast striking the floor in time to his scream, the scream driving off the pain as he crawled for the footboard and pulled himself to the boy’s side.

  “Rory!”

  Grabbing an arm and yanking, digging his nails into the wrist and yanking again.

  “Rory, wake up!”

  No, he thought again as he climbed onto the mattress and stared down at the boy, who was shaking, not trembling, so that the flesh of his cheeks quivered and his arms flopped about and his ankles drummed the sheet until Michael clamped them down with the weight of his legs. Then he slapped him. And again. And the skullcap seemed to bulge while the noise in the hail rose to a keening, and held there, and held, until Michael slapped the boy again and drew blood at his mouth.

  And no a third time. Imagination wasn’t real, and monsters weren’t real and a little boy in a small hospital couldn’t create them just because he was afraid of what he didn’t understand.

  More gently: “Rory.”

  And there was silence in the hall.

  He heard it when he heard the beeping in the room and saw the boy’s shaking calm and finally end.

  “Michael?” It was Janey.

  “Michael?” It was Carolyn.

  “I’m sorry,” they said, “but you’ll have to go to bed.”

  He looked over and saw
them standing in the doorway, not changed, just as always, with a wheelchair between them and faint smiles on their lips. For a moment he couldn’t move, then he looked down at Rory, who was smiling in his sleep, the bandage cap on his hair white and untorn. A finger to the boy’s cheek, an apology, and he crawled off, waited for the chair to take him, and leaned back and sighed.

  “Am I crazy?” he asked as they wheeled him from the room.

  The white was gone, no blood, no feathers, no talons, no fangs.

  “You’re tired,” Janey told him, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “You’re not a superman, Michael. That stuff’s for kids.”

  “But the hallucinations,” he said, and tensed as he waited for the migraine to return.

  “Your leg,” Carolyn told him, stepping around the side to rap a hand against the cast. “You ignore the pain there and it’ll cause stress and eventually find a place somewhere else. It was foolish, Michael. You’re not a kid anymore.”

  “I want to go home,” he said when they reached his own room. “I want to go home, take a bath—I don’t care if I have to hang my leg over the side—get a bottle of scotch, and listen to my records. I want to—”

  “No,” Janey said, pursing her lips as she lifted him to the bed. Stripped off his gown and pulled another, a white one, from the bedtable drawer. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I don’t think you can. Not for a while.”

  He lay back, then sat up. “Wait a minute.”

  “She’s right,” Carolyn said, picking up his chart and tucking it under her arm. “I think …” She put a finger to her lips and looked at the ceiling. “No, I think not.”

  “Well, why the hell not? Jesus, do you know, do you have any idea what the hell I’ve been through tonight? Christ, I’ll be lucky to get any sleep at all here.” He lifted a hand, pounded it angrily on the mattress. “First thing tomorrow, I’m checking myself out.”

  Carolyn shook her head.

  Janey waved a careful finger.

  “Why not?” he demanded, feeling heat on his face, feeling his heart racing. “Is it the leg? I don’t have to walk. I can stay in bed there just as good as here? Medicine? Aspirin, that’s all. The stuff you gave me sent me into orbit.”

  “Michael,” Janey said sternly.