The freeway was about two-hundred feet from where they had crashed. Tyreese saw several cars had pulled over, the silhouettes of drivers caught in the headlights. They were waving to him and yelling, asking if he was okay. He raised a hand and beckoned them to come help but they were stuck behind the wire fence that separated the freeway from the access road they had crashed on.
"Give me your hand," Tyreese said, turning his attention back to Genie. He reached a hand into the rear cabin for her. His head was throbbing badly now. His eyes watered from the smoke blowing through the demolished cabin from the small but fierce fire that burned in the plane's engine. If there had been any fuel left in the tank when they hit... well, he didn't think any one of them would have made it out alive. His vision swam for a moment and Tyreese grabbed for the fuselage to keep himself from falling. He coughed loudly as his lungs filled with the thick black smoke.
"You okay?" Genie asked, taking his still-outstretched hand.
"Fine," Tyreese croaked. He pulled Genie toward him. She slid across the top of the seats, then not very elegantly climbed over the dead detective.
"Lean on me," Tyreese said as the woman stepped down to the ground.
"I don't need no more help," Genie said as she propped herself against the plane's fuselage. "Get the girl out of there."
Tyreese leaned back into the cockpit, supporting himself with his right arm against the exterior fuselage—his head spun as he inhaled another deep breath of the noxious fumes burning off the engine. He reached down with his left hand, searched blindly for a few seconds and finally found Birdy's legs. His hands were so big he could wrap one of them around both the girl's ankles. He pulled... and almost fainted.
His world had suddenly turned into little more than a kaleidoscope of colors reeling around his head. His blood pounded in his ears.
"You okay, son?" Genie asked.
Tyreese felt Genie's hand against his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." He fixed his grip on Birdy's ankles and pulled again. Birdy slid closer. He moved his hand up her leg until he found the waistband of her jeans, and pulled her all the way to him. Leaning over the back of the seat—his head swimming crazily, Tyreese slipped a hand under Birdy's back and gently lifted the girl free. There was an opaque haze around the peripheral of his sight; the haze was gradually contracting, toward the center of his vision.
"Here, let me take her," Genie said. She was standing just behind Tyreese with both arms extended.
Tyreese didn't argue. His head was pounding. His vision barely there. He swayed from side to side as he placed Birdy's limp body into Genie's arms. He felt so tired, all he wanted to do right now was lay down and close his eyes.
Concussion, Tyreese thought as he followed Genie toward a sandy embankment just off the side of the road. He tried to help Genie as she lowered Birdy to the ground, but all strength seemed to have left his body. He tumbled to his butt; the world was swaying in and out of focus now. He turned and vomited onto the sand then collapsed onto his back. Tyreese looked to the east through the smoke and flames of the destroyed Cessna; a glow had begun to push away the darkness of the night painting the eastern horizon with red and orange.
Sunrise.
The last thing Tyreese registered before he tumbled into the deep well of unconsciousness that opened up around him was the wail of emergency vehicles approaching in the distance.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"Wake up."
Tyreese heard his wife's voice calling to him, but he didn't want to wake up, not yet. Emma must be somewhere else in the apartment because her voice sounded different; muffled, distant. His head ached horribly, and all he wanted to do right now was stay here in the darkness that enveloped him, a little longer; at least long enough for the throbbing pain that started above his right eye and ran down into his jaw to go away. The pain in his head made him want to stay very, very still. It hurt even when he breathed.
"Mr. Douglass? Wake up." The voice sounded much closer this time, and much clearer. And it did not belong to his wife.
Tyreese opened his eyes. He wasn't in the apartment. He wasn't... well, he had no idea where he was. A woman in her mid-forties with tired eyes leaned over him, her face about eight inches away from his. She was close enough that he could smell mint on her breath when she spoke, "Ah! There you are. Welcome back." The woman stood upright and smiled at Tyreese.
He looked around, his head moving slowly, a disorienting fog clung to both his sight and his brain. He was in a hospital room, that much he could tell from the machines that sat on either side of his bed, beeping quietly. His eyes smarted as he tried to focus on a window in the wall opposite the bed he lay on, but the light, daylight, was just too bright. He closed his eyes again.
"Who..." he croaked, his throat dry and voice raspy. "Who are you? Where am—" Tyreese was shocked into silence by a lightning bolt of pain that exploded from left to right across his forehead. Blackness closed in on him again, momentarily...
Only it must have been longer than a moment, because when Tyreese opened his eyes again, the woman was gone. He glanced over at the window; it was dark out there now.
His mind was a maelstrom of competing memories and images, all jumbled together within his brain by the constant throbbing ache in his head. He remembered everything up to the plane crash, but it was as though he were looking at it from a distance, as though the events had been related to him by someone else. It all seemed so impossible now, here in the sterile normality of this hospital room.
Tyreese put a hand up to his head, and felt some kind of bandage or gauze stretched across his forehead. Everything after the plane crash was just a blur. He remembered bits and pieces of it, but it was all a jigsaw of confusion. I've obviously suffered some kind of head injury, he thought, touching the bandage on his head again. That would account for his screwed-up recollection.
The door squeaked open and the woman he had seen earlier walked in. She was dressed in a white jacket and had a stethoscope hanging around her neck. "Hello again, Mr. Douglass, I'm Dr. Wu," she said as she walked across to his bed. "How are we feeling?" She took his left arm and checked his pulse.
"Where am I?" Tyreese asked in a croaky whisper.
The doctor took the stethoscope from around her neck, placed the eartips in her ears then put the diaphragm against Tyreese's chest.
"Sounds good," Wu said, after listening for a few seconds. She replaced the stethoscope around her neck. "You're at Sunrise Hospital, in Las Vegas. Can you tell me what you remember?"
Tyreese thought for a second, trying to get his memories into some semblance of order. "We came in from Los Angeles... Ran out of fuel and had to put the plane down... But we crashed. Shit! The people I was with, where are they?"
Doctor Wu gave a contrite smile and ignored the question. "Anything else you remember, after that?"
"Collins, the cop, he was the pilot. He didn't make it. But Genie and Birdy, I got them out." He paused for a second as the vague memory of him helping Genie get Birdy out of the crashed Cessna came back to him. "Are they okay?" he asked. "Birdy and Genie."
The doctor sat on the edge of the bed. "Are you related to them?" she asked, her voice low.
Tyreese almost said no, instead he said, "I'm the girl's uncle. Genie's a... family friend."
The doctor gathered her thoughts for a second. "And why were you all in the plane in such bad weather? I mean the storm they're having out there in California is pretty serious. The power's out in lots of places, emergency services aren't getting in or out, and I've heard that the National Guard is being mobilized. Must have been pretty bad?"
"Doc," Tyreese interrupted, "how are my friends doing?"
Doctor Wu inhaled slowly. "Ms. Prescod, Genie, is doing well. She has some minor injuries, but she'll recover. We expect her to be well enough to be released in the next day or so, but she's refused to answer any of our questions."
"And Birdy?"
Doctor Wu cocked her head quizzically.
"
Annabelle," Tyreese said, "she prefers to be called Birdy. The girl who was with us on the plane."
Doctor Wu took an even deeper breath. "I'm very sorry to tell you that Annabelle... Birdy, died as a result of her injuries."
Jesus! Oh, no, Tyreese thought. Collins had been so damn sure that she was going to make it. He had been too, even after the crash.
The doctor smiled sympathetically at him. "If there's anyone you would like me to contact, or—"
It was the blood loss from those goddamned vampires, Tyreese was sure of it. They had drained her until there was almost no life left in the kid. He felt hot tears roll down his cheeks. His emotion was quickly smothered by a terrible, terrible thought.
"Was she dead when the paramedics got to us?" Tyreese interrupted.
"I'm not really sure how that is—"
Tyreese's hand flashed out and grabbed the doctor's left wrist.
"Was she dead when the paramedics got to us?" He enunciated each word individually and slowly, as if talking to an imbecile.
Doctor Wu looked startled, her expression of sympathy slipping. She tried to pull her hand free of Tyreese's grip but he was far too strong.
"Mr. Douglass this is just not—"
"Was she dead when the paramedics found us?" Tyreese repeated, almost yelling the words this time, spittle flying from his lips.
Doctor Wu gave a little yelp, like a surprised puppy. "Yes," she blurted. "Yes, she was already dead when the emergency crew reached the crash site. She had bled out at some point; she was completely exsanguinated."
"What?"
"She had no blood left in her body. It was all gone."
Tyreese felt his mind swirling.
"Where did you put her body? Is it here, in the mortuary?"
"Yes," Wu said, "but Mr. Douglass—"
"Jesus!" he whispered. "God help us. God help us all," Tyreese said, then added, "How do I get to the mortuary?"
"Please," Doctor Wu said, "My wrist. You're hurting me."
Tyreese released Wu's wrist. The doctor looked puzzled, then outright concerned as Tyreese pulled the drip from his arm, flung back the bedsheets, and swung his legs out of the bed. Only his legs were not there, they had been removed at some point while he was unconscious. His eyes searched the room for his missing prosthetics. They had been placed neatly next to his bedside table. He reached over and grabbed them, then quickly fitted them to each leg stump.
"Mr. Douglass, I have to insist you return to your bed," Doctor Wu said. She placed a hand on his elbow as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. "Please, Mr. Douglass, you're in no condition to be moving around."
Tyreese shrugged her hand away. When he looked down at himself he saw he was wearing one of those standard issue hospital gowns; the ones that leave you bare-ass-naked. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded.
"They were incinerated," Doctor Wu said. "We had to cut them off you when you were brought in."
Tyreese scowled at her. Then took a step toward the door... and staggered, as his head did loops around the room. He felt the doctor's hands against him, holding him up.
"You see? I told you. You're not well enough to be on your feet, you need to get back in bed."
Tyreese allowed her to support him just long enough for his vision to clear then he pushed his way past her, pulled open the door of his room and stepped out into a brightly lit corridor; the faint sour smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils. He checked the corridor, looking for anything that might tell him where the mortuary was. Ahead of him, a young nurse with a shock of auburn hair watched him from behind the desk of a nurse's station. He shambled toward her, Doctor Wu following behind.
"Which way is the morgue?" he demanded of the nurse.
"Mr. Douglass, you have to return to your bed." Doctor Wu's voice came from over his shoulder but he ignored her.
"I... I..." the nurse stuttered, her gaze moving between Tyreese and the doctor.
Tyreese slammed a fist down hard on the top of the desk. The nurse jumped in her seat. "Which way!"
"That way," the nurse spluttered, pointing off to her right. "Down the stairs. It's in the basement."
Tyreese moved off in the direction the nurse had pointed, then stopped and walked back to the desk.
"That," he said, pointing behind the nurse, "give it to me."
"What?" the nurse said, looking to where Tyreese was pointing.
"The planter, give it to me." Tyreese beckoned with his right hand at a large brown plant pot that contained some kind of half-wilted shrub. "Give it to me."
The nurse looked at Doctor Wu, a confused expression on her face. "No," she said, "I'm sorry I can't let you—"
Tyreese sighed and walked around the counter to the planter. Whatever species the plant was, it was large enough that it needed an equally tall wooden pole to support its growth. The plant was secured to the pole by three pieces of green plastic tape which Tyreese quickly snapped before pulling the pole free of the pot. He wiped dirt off the bottom of the pole and nodded grimly when he saw the pointed end used to drive it into the dirt. This would have to do.
Doctor Wu buzzed alongside Tyreese as he made his way back around the counter, "Mr. Douglass, please, for your own good, I have to insist that you return to your room." She was starting to sound exasperated now, and more than a little nervous. When she saw him heft the three-foot long stake, she took a step back from him.
"You've got nothing to worry about, not from me, at least," Tyreese said to her when he saw Doctor Wu reach for a phone sitting on the nurse's station countertop. He turned and headed toward the door the nurse had pointed to.
Behind him, Tyreese heard the doctor talking on the phone: "Security, I need you at station four, right now!"
•••
Tyreese headed unsteadily down the flight of steps until he reached the basement. Ahead of him was another short corridor with a single door. There was no sign to indicate that it was the mortuary, just the letters B1 stenciled above the door. There was a push-button security lock next to the door handle.
Tyreese gave the handle a couple of tries anyway but the door wouldn't budge even a little. He cursed under his breath and took a step back to look around, but there was no other way in. There wasn't even a window in the door to see inside the room.
Which means that if there's anyone in there, they can't see out, Tyreese reasoned.
He rapped his knuckles hard against the door three times.
It took about thirty seconds, but eventually a man—probably a morgue attendant, Tyreese guessed—in his late forties with an annoyed look on his face, opened the door wide. He blinked a couple of times when he saw Tyreese standing there dressed in his hospital gown, and holding a plant stake, then said, "I think you're—"
Tyreese reached out and grabbed the attendant by the scruff of his shirt and jerked him out into the corridor. He hit the wall and stumbled to the floor.
"What the hell are you doing?" he yelled.
Tyreese ignored him, slipped through the slowly closing gap and pushed the door closed behind him.
Ahead of him, two large doors were still swinging shut. Tyreese eased his way between them and found himself in a large room. The attendant who had opened the door must have been the only employee down here, because the place was empty. In the center of the room were two large glistening steel tables, on the right was a mortuary rack; three rows of stainless steel doors, four bays in each row. The constant thrum of a refrigerator motor whirred quietly somewhere within the storage unit. Off to his right was an elevator door that Tyreese assumed was used to transport bodies down here.
He was in the right place then.
Across the other side of the room was a door, propped open by a gray plastic doorstop that Tyreese assumed had been left open to get some fresh air into the room, or maybe the morgue attendant had just been out there for a quick smoke on his break. Tyreese leaned his head around the open door to make sure he really was alone. A single orange sodium light illuminated
the area just enough that he could make out a concrete loading dock where funeral home employees came to discreetly pick up bodies. There was no sign of anyone else, so he ducked back inside.
From back down the corridor he could hear the thump, thump, thump of the attendant banging against the door. He was yelling something but Tyreese couldn't make it out.
Tyreese placed the wooden plant stake against the side of one of the cadaver tables then walked over to the mortuary rack. He started with the top-left bay; a wave of cold air rolled over him when he opened the door, but the space within was empty. The next two bays were empty too, but when he opened the fourth door, inside was the body of an old man in his eighties; cold and stiff and withered. Tyreese quickly closed the door and moved to the next bay; another body, this time of a middle-aged woman. He continued opening doors until he reached the next-to-last bay; that was where he found Birdy.
Birdy's skin was almost as white as the sheet her naked body was wrapped in. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, a slight sheen of frost, already beginning to melt, covered her hair.
Tyreese stifled a moan of sadness as he looked at Birdy's still, bloodless face. He had failed her, he knew that, and he felt the icy-hot spike of guilt at his failure thrust deep into his own heart. As deep as he knew he was going to have to drive the stake into Birdy. That was the only way he could make up for what had—would—happen to her if he left the unnatural process he was sure she was undergoing run its terrible, terrible course.
Tyreese drew in a long, deep breath, steadying his nerves while attempting to calm his emotions, but succeeding only enough to slow the trickle of tears that ran down his cheeks. He wiped them away with the back of his hand then reached down and rolled the metal tray Birdy's body lay on completely out of the mortuary rack. He leaned over her, slid both of his hands under her cold form and lifted Birdy off the rack.
The Darkening Page 29
