Doc Mortis

by Barry Hutchison

  Doc stared down at the scattered remains of his assistant. The porters holding me didn’t react. For a few long moments, the only sound in the theatre was I.C.’s raspy breathing, which formed billowing clouds of mist as it left his body.

  ‘What... what are you waiting for?’ Doc bellowed, at last. He stabbed a finger towards the boy. ‘Get him!’

  The porter on my right released its grip and scuttled across to where I.C. was swinging his legs down from the table. The one on my left kept hold of me, but its grip slackened, as if it wasn’t quite sure what it should be doing.

  I seized my chance and hurled myself sideways, knocking the creature off balance. We stumbled a few paces across the room, before it slammed hard against the second operating table and let out a screech of shock.

  Stepping forward, I twisted my body free from the arm-lock and brought my right foot sharply up between the porter’s legs. I wasn’t sure if there was anything there to connect with, but it seemed like an obvious target.

  With a low groan, the porter released its grip and grabbed for its crotch. Result! I fired another kick against its spindly leg. It buckled outwards at the knee, and the porter dropped like a sack of bricks.

  I was turning when I heard I.C. scream. The other porter was at him, but keeping a safe distance from the boy’s hands. Its long arms reached out, the deformed fingers wrapping round I.C.’s ankles and jerking him into the air, upside down.

  I raced forward, shoulder-barging Doc out of the way. As I ran, I snatched up the metal hook. Launching myself into the air, I plunged the hook’s point deep into the porter’s shoulder. A lurid green ichor sprayed from the wound.

  My hand held on to the hook as I landed, and the porter was pulled backwards. Releasing its grip on I.C., it clawed for its shoulder, trying to yank the hook free.

  I left it to it, dodged past it, and hauled I.C. upright. Behind us, the first porter I’d taken down got back to its feet and snapped its knee back into place with a damp click.

  ‘Di’n’t mean to do it, di’n’t mean to,’ I.C. was gibbering, his eyes scanning the slowly thawing shards of porter scattered amongst the junk at our feet. ‘Not my fault, not my fault.’

  ‘Come on,’ I barked, pulling him towards the door. ‘Move!’

  ‘Get back here!’ I heard Doc yell, as we raced out into the corridor. ‘You won’t escape. No vun ever escapes!’

  His words echoed all around us. I.C. had stopped muttering to himself as we rounded a corner and sped on to the second corridor, but I was still having to drag him along with me. Behind us, I heard the strange, uneven footsteps of at least one porter giving chase.

  We came to a junction and I was forced to slow. I’d memorised the route – or thought I had, at least – but in my panic I was having doubts. Should we be going left, or right? The clattering of footsteps reverberated all around us as I peered along both corridors, hoping to spot something that would tell me which way to go.

  ‘It’s coming!’ I.C. said, half whisper, half sob. ‘It’s coming!’

  ‘This way,’ I decided, at last, and we ran along the corridor on the right. A few steps in, I stopped and turned, recognising nothing in that direction. ‘Wait, no, this way!’

  We sprinted back to the junction and took the left-hand corridor. As we ran down it I caught a glimpse of both remaining porters rounding the corner just ten or so metres behind us. The one at the front still had the hook embedded in its neck. The one behind was slower, limping along on its injured leg.

  I.C. saw them too. I heard him whimper, and he pulled free of my grip, darting ahead in his mouse-like way, threatening to leave me behind. No longer dragging him along, I picked up my own pace, and we soon reached the freshly painted door that marked the entrance to the Gallery.

  If only I could’ve done something for the long-suffering souls on display in there. If only I could’ve ended their pain, right there and then. But there was no time, not if I wanted to avoid the same fate.

  The door leading to the next building grew larger as I raced up to it, calling for I.C. to join me. The lights flickered all along the corridor, and for a moment I saw the freeze-framed shadows of the porters on the wall beside us.

  I turned the handle, but the door didn’t budge. I stepped back, then drove my shoulder against the wood. Still the door didn’t budge.

  ‘Hurry!’ I.C. pleaded, as the lights blinked again and the porters’ shadows splashed across the wall. ‘They’re coming, hurry!’

  I took all my fear and my anger and I put it into the next charge. Roaring, I slammed my full weight against the door. With a sharp squeak, the top hinge tore loose, and the door fell away from me into the corridor beyond.

  Clambering quickly over the wreckage, I entered the corridor, with I.C. coming through right behind me. It was dark, but I hurried on, taking I.C. by the hand to make sure he didn’t get lost. Or no more lost than me, anyway.

  We were several steps into the corridor when the light in the one we’d left flashed on. It lasted less than a second, but that was long enough. Long enough for the glare to be reflected in a dozen or more sets of inhuman eyes dotted all along the corridor.

  We stopped dead in our tracks. A chorus of malformed voices rose up through the darkness around us.

  Hungry, they shrieked. Hungryhungryhungry.

  Chapter Sixteen

  CREATURE CLASH

  ‘Don’t move,’ I said. Even though it would attract more attention to ourselves, I had to speak normally. A whisper wouldn’t have been heard above the chittering of the things all around us. ‘Stay completely still until I say.’

  ‘Until you say what?’

  I felt hot breath swirling across the back of my neck. ‘Leg it!’ I cried, and I took off along the corridor, one hand pulling I.C., the other straight out in front of me like a rugby player in mid-charge.

  My outstretched hand caught a few of the creatures a glancing blow. I felt long, matted fur, then a rough, scaly hide. The next skin I touched was smooth, like a human’s. That one probably troubled me the most.

  I was thirty paces into the run when I realised none of the creatures were attacking. I could hear them lumbering past us in the opposite direction, back the way we’d come.

  Slowing a little, I looked back over my shoulder. The light outside the Gallery was on, and it showed the first few misshapen creatures launching themselves through the broken door and into the main hospital building.

  The lights flickered, turning the next few moments into a series of still images, like a scene from a comic book. The two porters and the... other things were locked in a ferocious battle. They ripped and tore and clawed at each other, swinging with wild punches and wilder kicks.

  ‘They’re not after me,’ I said quietly, as the truth finally dawned. All those “patients” he’d set loose and left to their fate. They’d come back. ‘They’re after him.’

  I stopped and wasted five or six seconds watching the show, hardly daring to believe our luck. Then I led I.C. on towards Ward 13.

  Just a few steps on, I made a grim discovery. The passageway was blocked by what felt like a stack of corrugated iron and other scrap metal. A cool breeze wafted in from high up on the left, and I realised this must’ve been where the creatures had come in, finally finding a way past one of the barricaded windows.

  I let go of I.C.’s hand.

  ‘Where are you going? Don’t leave me!’ he begged.

  ‘Not going anywhere,’ I said.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Reaching up towards the flowing air, I felt for the window ledge. Finding it, I was able to pull myself up on top of the metal heap. It rocked beneath me, shaken by my weight. I knelt down and reached out through the darkness, ignoring the howls and screams of battle from all around.

  ‘My hand is in front of you. Um... somewhere,’ I said. ‘Grab it and I’ll pull you up.’

  I.C.’s feet scuffed on the floor. It seemed to take an age, but eventually
I felt his fingers brush against mine. I leaned further down and caught him by the wrist.

  ‘I’ll pull, you use your feet,’ I instructed, and together we got him up beside me.

  Getting down was easier. A sheet of metal had slid sideways as it had fallen in, forming a ramp that led all the way down to the floor. It sagged a bit as we walked along it, but soon we were leaving it behind, racing headlong towards the end of the—

  Thud.

  My forehead struck something hard and I stepped back, dazed.

  ‘Why’d you stop?’ asked I.C., worried.

  ‘Door,’ I said. My hand found the handle. ‘Be ready.’

  I was about to swing it open when I hesitated. ‘That freeze thing,’ I said, ‘how did you do that?’

  There was a lengthy pause before I.C. spoke. ‘Can’t everyone?’

  I left it at that and pushed down on the handle. The door opened quietly, and we blinked in the sudden light.

  This part of the hospital was nothing like the rest I’d seen. Dark blue carpet tiles covered the floor, still intact and devoid of all but the occasional stain. Most of the walls were cream-coloured, peeling here and there, but generally looking in decent shape.

  One wall, though, was different. A mural had been painted across it, depicting a jolly woodland village filled with grinning characters from at least eight different well-known cartoons. Like the rest of the walls, the paint here was more or less sound, but with the occasional scrap of face or patch of cottage peeling away.

  Above our heads, several lights were set into the ceiling. They glowed brightly, never once fading or flickering.

  The change of scenery brightened I.C.’s mood right away. ‘Pretty nice in here,’ he declared. ‘Is Toby here? Toby would like this. Toby likes cartoons.’ He curved his hands round his mouth and shouted. ‘To-beeee!’

  ‘Ssh,’ I hissed, pushing his hands away and clamping one of my own over his mouth. ‘Don’t shout, we don’t know what’s in here.’

  Only when I was sure I.C. wasn’t going to start shouting again did I move my hand.

  ‘Maybe Toby?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. The sentence continued inside my head: But I doubt it.

  Three doors led off from the little foyer we were standing in. None of them were marked, and there were no signs anywhere to indicate what the rooms were. One of them, I knew, had to be Ward 13. But which one?

  Fishing around in my back pocket, I pulled out the map and unfolded it.

  ‘Map!’ I.C. cried, doing his best to keep his voice down. ‘I love maps. Can I see? Is it a map of the world? Does it show where Toby is? Let’s have a look.’

  ‘Just wait a minute,’ I snapped, shocking him. Tears welled up in his eyes and I immediately felt guilty. ‘You can have it – to keep – but I need to check something first.’

  I looked for the circle Joseph had marked out on the page. Ward 13. Middle room. Middle door.

  ‘Here you go.’ Folding the map closed, I passed it to I.C., who immediately began opening it back out. ‘Not yet,’ I said, stopping him. ‘In a minute. Once we’re safe.’

  He glanced back at the door, puzzled. ‘We’re safe now, aren’t we?’

  The cartoon faces on the wall seemed to leer out at me. ‘I doubt it,’ I said, and I swung open the door and stepped through into Ward 13.

  A long, narrow room stretched out before us. Eight beds – shorter than the few others I’d seen scattered around the hospital – lined one wall. Posters were pinned above them, of pop stars, film stars and yet more cartoon faces. The posters were old and tatty, the images faded as if bleached by the sun. Presumably they had been put there to make the place look more cheerful. The effect was almost the exact opposite.

  Along the other wall stood a row of lockers. They had been haphazardly painted a sunny shade of orange, but here and there the original gun-metal grey poked through.

  The room contained a few other things. A desk, some medical equipment, a few chairs with the seats ripped. What it did not contain, as far as I could tell, was anything resembling a cure for the infection that was keeping me here.

  For the first time in a long while, I reached up and felt the scars on my head. The marks of the Crowmaster’s claws were still there, scabbed over. I ran my fingertips over one of the bumps as I tried to figure out my next step.

  ‘Check the drawers in the desk,’ I said. I entered the room. My footsteps made hollow thuds on the floor. ‘Then help me with these lockers.’

  The lockers all had keys in them. I turned the first and looked inside. Empty. I closed it with a clank then moved on to the next one.

  ‘There’s a ruler, a notebook and some mints,’ I.C. reported. ‘Can I have the mints?’

  ‘Yes, whatever,’ I replied. The next locker was also empty. On to the next.

  I heard a tearing of paper, then, a few seconds later, ‘I don’t like mints.’

  Almost. I almost lost my temper then, but I controlled it. ‘Just come here and help me, will you? Start at the other end and work towards the middle.’

  ‘Mints are horrible,’ he complained. He scraped his tongue as he came strolling past me. He fiddled with the key and pulled open the final locker in the row. ‘Nothing here.’

  ‘Go on to the next one then,’ I said, doing the same myself.

  ‘They’re quite teeny, aren’t they? I don’t think Toby will be in one of these. He’s way too big.’

  I didn’t reply, just kept throwing open empty lockers, then slamming them closed. In no time at all we met somewhere near the middle. I.C. looked up at me, then patted me on the hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, with absolute sincerity. ‘We’ll find him.’

  Turning away, I scanned the room. There were a couple of small cupboards beside the beds, but their doors were open, revealing nothing inside. It wasn’t there. The cure I’d been counting on, it wasn’t there.

  Slowly, at their own command, my legs bent and my back slid down the lockers until I was sitting on the floor, staring blankly ahead. I.C. said something, but I didn’t hear it. The cure. It wasn’t there.

  I could never get home.

  My head hung down, as if my spirit was too broken to hold it up. I looked down at the floor, only now realising that it was made of bare wood, the carpet tiles in this room all having been removed.

  Something on the board right between the gap in my legs caught my eye. I leaned down to examine it more closely, and must’ve made some sound – a gasp, maybe, or a cry of shock – because I.C. leaned in and looked too.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, shifting back and forth as he tried to peer past me.

  He didn’t get an answer. I was too focused on the marks scored into the wooden floor. Thin, narrow strokes, carved with a knife, or a nail, or something else sharp.

  KYLE, it said, in capital letters. THIS WAY.

  A line extended from the top right stroke of the Y. It stretched off across the floor, wandered a little, then crossed to the skirting board on the opposite wall. There was more writing there, carved into the white wood, so small that it would be virtually impossible to see without knowing it was there. I had to squint and shift my head round to view the carving from a few different angles before I was able to read what it said.

  BOY’S HANDS HERE. COUNT TEN ELEPHANTS.

  Another scratched line led off from beside the last word, climbing a few metres straight up the wall, before banking sharply to the left, where it disappeared beneath a faded poster of a cartoon bear that was positioned directly above one of the beds.

  I leapt on to the bed and pulled the poster away from the wall. Two circles had been scraped into the paint, each one about the size of a Ping-Pong ball. They were at equal height, a metre above the bed, seven or eight centimetres apart. My fingers brushed across them and came away sticky. Some kind of liquid had been applied to the wall around the circles and up to the right. I avoided rubbing it any more, in case I was smearing away some important clue.

  �
��Trust me. Joseph.’

  I whipped round at the sound of I.C.’s voice. He was holding the torn poster, reading the message written on its back.

  Joseph. Here? How?

  “Boy’s hands” – that’s what the message had said. Did that mean my hands, or...

  ‘Come up here,’ I said, taking a bouncy step to the left to allow I.C. to clamber up. He did and I showed him the circles. ‘Put your hands there.’

  He hesitated. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s so... Because... Just do it,’ I said. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘It’s not going to hurt?’ he asked, looking suspiciously at the marks.

  ‘No, it won’t hurt,’ I told him, hoping it was true.

  ‘Promise?’

  This time I hesitated. ‘Promise.’

  He cautiously reached out both hands, palms open towards the wall. A centimetre away he stopped, pulled back a little, then gave me a worried look. I nodded at him encouragingly. He swallowed with a theatrical gulp, closed his eyes, then placed his hands on the circles.

  BOOM!

  Out in the foyer, the door was thrown inwards with great force. I.C. leapt back at the sound. His feet tangled in the bedclothes and he tumbled down on to the mattress.

  My body started moving before my mind had time to figure out exactly what was happening. I bounded from bed to bed, crossing the ward in seconds. At the final bed I jumped down, grabbed the end of the desk, and dragged it noisily across the bare wooden floorboards.

  Muscles straining, I shoved the desk in front of the door, just as someone pushed against it from the other side. The desk was heavy, but I kept my weight behind it, just in case.

  ‘I warned you, didn’t I?’ Doc’s voice was a squeal of rage through the door, his accent becoming more and more outrageous with each word he spoke. ‘No one escapes my hospital. No one! I’m coming to get you, kiddievinkles, and mark my vurds – the doctor vill get in!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  TEN ELEPHANTS