by Ron Ripley
He shook his head in amazement, leaned forward to read more of the document, but paused as he heard a door open. Brett twisted in the chair and looked down the length of the hall to the opposite end. The door was closing, and someone was walking down the hallway towards him.
For a brief second fear spiked in him, but when he realized he couldn’t see through the new arrival, Brett relaxed. He waved and the person waved back before they stopped at one of the locked doors.
Brett turned back to the computer and tried to find his place.
“Hey, Brett!” a voice called.
Brett turned again, saw the unknown person back in the hallway, something small and black in their hands.
“What?” Brett asked.
Two suppressed shots answered him, the bullets smashing into his chest. He slumped slightly, tried to catch his breath but discovered he couldn’t. Warmth spread out across his breast.
Oh, Brett thought numbly, I’m dying.
Chapter 37: Preparing for Battle
“Do you think it’ll work?” Dom Francis asked.
“What’s that?” Shane asked. He passed the whiskey over to the monk.
Dom Francis accepted it, took a long swallow and then said, “The betony.”
“I hope to hell it does,” Shane said. “Otherwise, the Nurse will pick off both Matias and Doc Kiernan, and we won’t be able to do anything about it. At least if they’re awake when she comes they might be able to do something. Anything to get away and to give them a fighting chance.”
The monk nodded.
They sat in Shane’s car, passing the bottle back and forth while Shane indulged in chain smoking. When the meeting with the others had wrapped up, Shane and Dom Francis had walked out to the parking lot together. Neither of the men had wanted to leave, so the decision had been made to hang around in one of their cars.
Since Shane couldn’t smoke in the monk’s vehicle, the only logical choice was Shane’s own ride. For hours, they had talked about the military, their first taste of combat, and how different the world was outside of the armed forces. The conversation had then drifted, wandering from education to families, and finally to ghosts.
And Shane had told Dom Francis everything.
It had been good to tell his whole story. The struggle of growing up in the house on Berkley Street, the nightmares that continued to plague him, and even of the death of Courtney.
Dom Francis returned to the subject after he passed the bottle back to Shane.
“You said she’s a ghost now?” Dom Francis asked.
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
“Can you tell me how her ghost is with you?” the monk said. “Not her death, but how she became bound to your tags.”
“I don’t know how exactly,” Shane said. “All I can do is guess. At some point, when she was dying, she must have focused on my dog tags. I’m sure there are books out there on how a person becomes bound to an item, but I haven’t read any of them.”
Shane cleared his throat, rubbed at his eyes and said in a hoarse whisper, “It’s tough, you know?”
Dom Francis waited for Shane to continue.
“I mean,” Shane said, stumbling on the words, “it was hard to lose her. Really hard. I buried friends. Saw them wounded. Lost my parents. All sorts of crap. Yeah, it hurt, but not like this. Not like this at all.”
Shane closed his eyes and sighed.
“I swear,” he whispered, “it feels like someone reached in and tore a chunk out of my heart.”
“I’m sorry,” Dom Francis said.
Shane nodded, wiped his eyes again and said, “Well, she’s with me in one way at least.”
He looked at Francis. “You know, I feel like I killed her.”
“How so?” Francis asked.
“If I hadn’t been there in the first place,” Shane said, “she wouldn’t have come. If she hadn’t come, she’d be alive.”
“You know better than that,” Francis replied. His voice was firm. “You can’t think like that. You’ll end up second guessing yourself about everything, and it’ll cost you. And considering what you do on the side, it’ll more than likely be your life.”
Shane cleared his throat and said, “Enough of that talk, huh? Tell me, what do the Catholics have to say about ghosts?”
“You know,” Dom Francis said, “the Catholic Church doesn’t say anything against ghosts, contrary to what many people believe.”
“Really?” Shane asked, surprised. “Honestly, I thought they would have been against the whole ghost idea.”
“Why?” the monk asked, grinning. “Spirit is a pretty essential part of our faith. And there are more than a few mentions in the Bible about ghosts. Anyway, I suppose my point is I’m curious about how ghosts come about. I don’t mean any disrespect concerning Courtney.”
A wave of sadness washed over Shane as he heard her name.
“It’s alright,” Shane said. “I know you didn’t. I wish I had an answer for you.”
“Have you asked Courtney if she wants to leave?” Dom Francis asked. “I know it sounds silly, but in some of the haunted house movies I watched as a kid, they always said to ask the ghost if they need help going to the light.”
“I haven’t asked her, no,” Shane said. He took a long drink of whiskey. “She knows she’s dead. There’s no light she’s avoiding. Pretty sure she’ll make her way along when she’s good and ready.”
They were silent for a minute, and then Dom Francis said, “If you were to wear your dog tags, would she come with you?”
Shane nodded. “Yeah. That’s how it works. She’s bound to them. If I were to mail them to Timbuktu, she’d go along. She doesn’t have a choice, not until she either frees herself, or someone does it for her when she’s ready.”
“Can she free herself?” the monk asked.
“Honestly, I have no idea,” Shane said.
Faintly, Shane heard the sound of a siren, and as he twisted in his seat to look out the back window, Dom Francis did the same. An ambulance raced up the road, its lights flashing and the siren screaming louder. When it reached the main lot, the vehicle went silent, but its emergency lights continued to spin. The ambulance cut around into the back lot and sped to the rear bay.
Shane watched as the driver deftly cut the wheel and reversed into the parking space. Both doors opened, and the paramedics inside leaped out. They ran into the building and disappeared.
“Do you think it’s for one of our guys?” Shane asked, looking at Dom Francis.
“I hope not,” the monk said. He frowned. “They’d call, right?”
“It’s why we gave them my number,” Shane said. The phone rang and he took it out.
He answered it. “Hello?”
“Shane? It’s Doc.”
“What’s going on?” Shane asked.
“Someone murdered Brett!” Doc said. His voice was tight. “He was shot. Two rounds, center mass.”
“Anything we can do?” Shane asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Stay where you are,” Doc said. “I think you’d draw too much attention if you came inside.”
“Alright,” Shane said. He ended the call.
“Who was it?” Francis asked.
“Doc,” Shane replied, putting his phone away. “Brett’s been killed.”
In silence they looked at the ambulance, and Shane wondered who had murdered the man.
Chapter 38: Parking Lot Troubles
The air didn’t feel right.
Shane had gotten out of his car to stretch, but the strange scent in the morning breeze, and Brett’s murder left him uncomfortable. Dom Francis had gone inside the building to check on Matias and Doc.
It’s a musty smell, Shane realized, tilting his head back a bit and inhaling deeply. Like someone’s opened an attic that’s been closed off for years.
He sensed an electrical charge in the air, static electricity building up around him.
Carefully, Shane leaned into his car and took out h
is backpack. He scanned the parking lot while he grabbed his knuckledusters and then his shotgun. Shane slipped the iron over his fingers and put the shotgun in the crook of his arm. He looked back at the hospital.
If I fire this off, he thought, I am going to have an incredible amount of explaining to do.
But, having to explain myself beats being dead, Shane told himself, grinning. From the pack, he pulled out a handful of shells and stuffed them into his back pocket. He looked around and tried to see where he might be able to establish some sort of defense for himself.
Shane knew nothing offered him protection, then he grinned.
There, he thought, the far end of the parking lot. A clear field of fire.
Shane checked quickly for any vehicles in motion, and when he saw it was clear, he moved towards the open pavement. As he did so, the air at the edges of his vision flickered, light paled and intensified.
The dead were coming.
He picked up the pace, his heartbeat quickening. A smile slipped onto his face, and he felt a familiar, joyous sensation.
The thrill of a fight; the chance to destroy something. All of it spoke to a deeper, darker part of him.
Remember who you are, Shane thought. They don’t know who it is they’re dealing with. Or what you’ve done.
By the time Shane reached the far end of the lot, five spirits had appeared. They were all men. One of them was the bloody young man he had beaten the night before, and another was an old, naked man. The rest of them were of various ages and races, yet all five wore the same expression, one of anger and determination.
Shane understood them perfectly.
He came to a stop a short distance from them and nodded.
“Good morning,” he said.
“You’re Shane,” the old, naked man said.
“And you’re Jacob,” Shane replied, remembering the man’s name from the story Brett had told.
A smile flickered across the old man’s face. “I am.”
“What can I do for you, Jacob?” Shane asked.
“You can die!” the young, bloody man spat.
Jacob held up a hand, and the young man took a cautious step back.
“He is impetuous,” Jacob said. “He is, however, correct. If you don’t leave the Nurse alone, you will die.”
Shane shrugged. “I appreciate the warning, but I can’t leave her alone. She’s killing people.”
“So did you,” Jacob said. “I can smell death on you. It taints you.”
“I imagine it would,” Shane said. “You’re never exactly the same again.”
“None of us are,” Jacob agreed. “Will you leave the Nurse to her business?”
“Nope,” Shane said. He brought the shotgun up and put a round into the bloody young man, who vanished.
Jacob’s laughter rang out in the morning air, and the rest of the dead swarmed towards Shane. He managed to get the second shot off, eliminating a middle-aged Asian man before the others were on him.
A fist slammed into Shane’s head, causing his left eye to instantly darken. Silently Shane struck out with the knuckleduster, his hand passing through a cold form. A blow to his bicep deadened his arm, forcing him to drop the shotgun. Grimacing from the pain, Shane struck another ghost before he staggered several steps back.
Jacob remained and a smile appeared on the old man’s face.
“You’ve fought our kind before,” Jacob said.
“Once or twice,” Shane said through clenched teeth and bent down, picking up the shotgun.
“You will not relent?” Jacob asked.
“Not a chance,” Shane said.
Jacob nodded. “I admire your determination. It will be the death of you. Perhaps not at our hands, but eventually, and more than likely, at the hands of our kind.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Pretty much how I’ve figured it, too.”
“We will see you again soon,” Jacob said.
“Could you do me a favor?” Shane asked.
“What is that?” Jacob said.
“Is there a way for you to put some clothes on?” Shane said. “This is distracting as hell.”
“Keep your humor,” Jacob said, smiling coldly. “It will warm you when you bury your friends.”
Jacob vanished, and Shane heard someone call out to him. Shane twisted around, brought the shotgun up and pulled the trigger. Dom Francis jerked to the right even as the weapon’s hammer fell on a spent casing. There was nothing to shoot and Shane collapsed to the ground, sitting down hard on the asphalt. He let the shotgun drop into his lap and he looked at Dom Francis.
“I’m so sorry,” Shane muttered.
The monk approached him with cautious steps. “Are you alright?”
“I need sleep,” Shane said. “If there had been a round in the chamber you’d be picking rock salt out of your gut.”
Dom Francis nodded as he came to a stop, squatting down beside him.
“What did you find out?” Shane asked. “Was it the Nurse who killed Brett?”
Dom Francis shook his head. “No. He was shot to death.”
Shane stopped and looked at the hospital. No one had come out when he had fired the shotgun. No one had even seemed to notice. And now, he knew why.
It was more than the dead and one living person helping the Nurse.
Much, much more, Shane thought, and he opened the shotgun and reloaded it.
Chapter 39: Getting Away
“What now?” Dom Francis asked.
They stood at the back of the parking lot, leaning against Shane’s car. Shane stretched, his back aching.
“I need some sleep,” Shane said. “Some real sleep. I’ll head home, rest and then come back.”
“What about Matias and Doc?”
“They won’t be any better or worse if I’m not here,” Shane said. “At least for a few hours. It seems like no one’s too worried about them, since they’re both dying.”
Dom Francis nodded. “What are you going to do about your surgery?”
Shane’s burns had been discussed in depth while they were in the car. “I’m going to have it scheduled for here.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Dom Francis asked. “Seriously. Have you lost it?”
“No,” Shane said. “I want to see if I can get a shot at the Nurse.”
“With the shotgun?” the monk asked.
“Or the knuckledusters, either one,” Shane said.
“It’s not just the dead we have to worry about,” Dom Francis said. “Brett was murdered by a living person.”
“I know,” Shane said. “I think I might be able to get someone to talk if they attack me.”
“That’s a big change,” Dom Francis said. He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t like it. You’re the only one who really knows what to do here, Shane. If you die, or become incapacitated, then we’ll be out of luck.”
“No,” Shane said. “You’ll do fine. I know it. But hey, this is my decision. I’ll get a little rest, then be back and get ready to take care of the Nurse.”
“You have the gear here,” Dom Francis argued. “Can’t you do it today?”
“Not like this,” Shane answered. “You have my number?”
The monk nodded.
“Good,” Shane said. He straightened up and offered Dom Francis his hand. The man shook it.
“Come back soon,” Dom Francis said.
“I will,” Shane promised. The monk stepped away from the car, and Shane climbed in.
Chapter 40: No Help in Sight
Shane had left Sanford Hospital with a cold, uncomfortable knot in his stomach. Part of it was fear, the rest was anger. A miserable, energy-consuming rage.
He had expected the dead to raise their hands against him, and against the others. In a way, he enjoyed it. A battle with ghosts lacked the burden of morality while it freed him to use violence.
But, the sudden and deadly intervention of a living person made him grind his teeth. He was also enraged with the way the
battle in the parking lot had been pointedly ignored by the staff of the hospital. Shane knew how loud the shotgun was, how the sound of the shots had rung out through the morning air. And no one had gone out to investigate. Not a single person. Even after Brett’s murder, the security hadn’t even come out. Rage filled Shane’s mind, a dangerous undercurrent he knew he had to control. Security is in on it. Probably most of everyone in there. At least staff.
He doubted the entire hospital was involved. But there were definitely enough people to ensure that the dead operated with impunity.
Shaking his head, Shane turned onto Berkley Street, drove to his home and pulled into the driveway. He took only his phone and keys with him as he left the car.
When he entered the house, he paused and listened. Above him, somewhere on the third floor, he heard a violin, and he smiled. The Musician had been quiet for far too long. Shane lit a cigarette, closed the main door and walked to the kitchen. He grabbed a protein bar out of an open box on the counter, tore the pack open and ate it in a rush. He washed it down with a drink of water from the faucet, then he took out a fresh bottle of whiskey.
“Shane,” Courtney said softly.
“Hey,” Shane said, his throat dry and his voice raspy. He turned and faced her. She held back to a shadow, a hint of her body. “How’s it been?”
“Quiet,” Courtney answered.
“No more fighting between you and Carl?” he asked.
“A little,” she replied. Shane watched as she moved to the right, standing beside the pantry door. Her form pulsed, alternating in solidity. “Are you hurt?”
“Not much,” he said. He took another drink.
She stepped forward, her neck at its odd, disturbed angle, the brutal reminder of her death at the hands of Abel Latham. Courtney frowned. “You’re drinking too much again.”
He shrugged and took another swallow.
Sadness replaced the frown. In a whisper, she said, “You’re going to kill yourself.”
“Always a chance,” he replied. Shane capped the bottle and put it beside the protein bars. He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray by the sink.
