by Ron Ripley
He lay in a bed at the end of E Ward, where all of the beds lay in neat, barrack-like rows where privacy was only a dream. The staff had rails on his bed to ensure he didn’t fall out, and although he despised being treated like a child, he knew it was for his own good.
There were moments when he was lucid. His thoughts could be clear and concise. He remembered the conversations he had had with the good Reverend who came up from Amherst. Clay could even flirt with some of the nurses, so long as they didn’t try to see his face. Or rather, what was left of his face.
Clay had disliked the night as a youth. As a soldier he had hated it, fearful of the Germans who would sneak across the horrors of No-Man’s-Land to raid the trenches.
Now we love the night, don’t we, he thought, twisting in his bed. Clay looked out the open window, a bitterly cold wind bathing him. The smell on E Ward was one of illness and men fouling themselves.
Clay smiled at the darkness, the stars and moon hidden by thick clouds promising snow. The night hid Clay’s face from other people. It spared him their expressions of sympathy. In the late hours, he could close his eyes and imagine himself whole. His legs would not be missing below the knees. He would still have two eyes, and the right side of his face would not be a twisted mass of scar tissue.
I would be me, Clay thought tiredly. As I was; as I was meant to be.
For a moment longer, he looked out the window, then he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Soon, he knew, the nurse would come and close the window. Later, as the night ended and crept towards dawn, the panic would return to him. The fear of assassins.
He tapped on his blankets nervously with his hands.
There’s morphine if you want it, he reminded himself.
Clay shook his head. No. Better to deal with the demons while aware.
Someone shrieked at the far end, a case of shell shock far worse than Clay’s own. A door opened, and light burst out into the ward.
Men howled, and others shook in their beds.
A pair of large orderlies, accompanied by the new nurse, hurried out of their office. To delay was dangerous. One man screaming too long would set off the others, a chain reaction of madness in a room full of broken men.
Scream, the little voice in his head whispered. You know you want to, Clay. Go on, let out a shriek or two. You’ll enjoy it. You’ll feel better.
Clay clenched his teeth together and forced himself to remain silent.
Oh come on now, the voice pouted, let one out for me.
Clay shook his head.
I’ll make you, the voice hissed, and a sharp pain exploded in Clay’s left foot; a foot which no longer existed.
But it feels like it’s there, doesn’t it? the voice asked sweetly.
Clay’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to contain the growing agony. Soon the horrific sensation spread from his foot, up his shin, and towards his knee.
We can do this all night, the voice said, its tone one of confidence and comradeship. But, if you give a single little scream for me, well, we can end it right here. No need to go further, right, Clay?
Clay resisted, but when the patient at the end was silenced, Clay couldn’t keep his own any longer. The scream he let out was long, loud and deep, an echo of the one he had let loose when they had told him of his injuries.
In a matter of seconds, the orderlies were at his bedside, reaching out to restrain him as he thrashed in his sheets.
“He won’t be quiet!” Clay sobbed. “I just want him to be quiet!”
Large, hard hands pinned him down, and the new nurse appeared. She had a syringe in one hand and a bottle of morphine in the other. Her pale, pretty face was determined.
“What’s your name?” she asked gently.
“Clay,” he wept. “My name’s Clay.”
“Clay,” she said, her hands steady as she filled the syringe. “I’m going to give you a small shot of morphine. It will help him to be quiet. Do you understand?”
Clay nodded, relaxing partially under the grip of the orderlies.
“Excellent,” the nurse said softly. One of the men moved aside, and she slipped in. The injection was quick and nearly painless. Almost instantly Clay relaxed. The orderlies let go of him, closed the cage and locked it.
While they left to check on other patients, the nurse hesitated and looked down at him, smiling.
“Do you like the cold air?” she asked, nodding towards the open window.
“Yes,” Clay said softly.
“Alright then,” she said. “I’ll leave it open a little longer. Try to rest now, Clay. I’ll be here all night.”
“What’s your name?” Clay asked as she turned away.
She paused, glanced at him over her shoulder and said with a smile, “Ruth. My name is Ruth Williamson, and I’m going to take care of all of you here.”
Clay returned the smile, closed his eyes and drifted towards a dreamless sleep.
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Sickness Spreads, 1919
Clay had no great desire to live as an invalid, plagued by living nightmares and useless to the world.
But I don’t want to die from illness, not like the others, he thought.
Spanish Influenza had been devastating New Hampshire, as well as the rest of the world, and it had finally crept into Sanford Hospital. There had been whispers about its arrival, of some men contracting the disease. A pair of them had even attempted to escape from the building.
Guards had stopped them. Guards with gasmasks and loaded rifles.
The residents of Sanford Hospital would have to stay indoors until the disease had run its course. Until it had devoured them.
Clay sat upright in his bed. The window was still open, as per Ruth's order. She knew it took him a long time to fall asleep, and even then he would wake up, terrified at what might come for him. The cold air soothed him.
The ward was dimly lit, most of the men sleeping. Those who weren’t drugged slept fitfully. The ones who were, hardly breathed. Clay was the sole patient awake on E Ward. Even though the Influenza hadn’t crept up from the lower levels, the threat was there.
Clay shivered suddenly as a cool breeze passed by him. Clay frowned and pulled the thick, woolen blanket up higher around his waist. He looked at the various windows, but none of them were open. Some of the other patients wrapped up in their blankets, burrowing down against the chill.
Movement caught his eye, and Clay turned to the right. A pale shape stepped out of a shadow, and Clay’s breathing grew shallow.
Gil Upton stood near the office door, wearing his bedclothes and the knit cap he favored.
The one he had been buried in.
Gil had passed in December, two days before Christmas. He had been gassed at the French village of Seicheprey, and his lungs had never recovered. Clay had listened to the man slowly drown each night, until one morning, shortly after Ruth had begun working on the ward, he had been found dead.
Clay watched the deceased soldier reach out and scratch lightly on the wall. The sound was devilish, raising the hairs on the back of Clay’s neck.
Clay opened his mouth to scream for morphine, but he snapped it shut as Ruth exited the office. She closed the door behind her and looked at Gil.
Gil inclined his head towards her, and for the first time, Clay realized he could see through the man. It was as if Gil was and wasn’t there.
Over the sounds of the gathered, sleeping men, Clay heard Ruth speak.
“I’ve chosen Fredericks,” she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.
“An excellent choice,” Gil said, his voice the same faint croak he had in life.
“Yes,” she said. “I have listened to him these past few days. He is far too disturbing to the peace of this ward. It will be a blessing. He would not survive the illness if he contracted it.”
Clay watched as she went back into the office and returned a minute later. She held a syringe and several vials in her hands. Ruth walked away from the office,
Gil moving along silently beside her. She made her way directly to where Theodore Fredericks lay. The man slept restlessly at best, half of his head caved in from an angry horse.
Ruth filled the syringe with the contents of one of the vials, then she leaned forward and kissed Fredericks lightly on the forehead. A smile flickered across the man’s face and remained there as she injected him.
She stepped away, the syringe held casually in her hand.
Fredericks took several more breaths, and then he stopped. His chest remained immobile, the smile still on his face.
Gil turned, saw Clay watching them, and suddenly he was at Clay’s side.
“It’s for the best,” Gil rasped. “It is her right, and she alone will decide our fates.”
And all Clay could do was scream in response.
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Clay Continues to Watch, 1919
The night was full of terror.
Influenza had reached E Ward, and the men were dying. Some of them from the disease. Some from the tender touch of Nurse Ruth Williamson. She moved about the ward, dealing out death as she saw fit. The woman seemed to be drunk on her power to choose. Whomever she wanted dead, died.
Clay had no one with whom he could speak.
And who would believe you? the little voice asked pleasantly. You’re a madman. No one would trust your word, it's why you’ve remained silent.
Clay couldn’t argue with the voice. It was right.
When do you think she’ll come for you? The voice said. Tonight? Will Fredericks scratch at her door, like a faithful dog, and say to her 'Yes, you’re quite right. Clay, for he is ready for death.'
Clay closed his eyes tightly and tried to wish the voice away. Laughter filled his head.
Where do you think I’m going to go? the voice asked, chuckling. I’ve been here for a very long time.
No, you haven’t, Clay argued angrily. You only came after the injury.
Are you certain? the voice said. Think about it now, Clay. Are you certain? Wasn’t I there when you were a little boy, playing in the cemetery? Wasn’t I there when the Reverend told you to mind your father and your mother?
Of course, I was, the voice continued, almost cooing. I’ve always been with you. Don’t think otherwise.
Go away, Clay thought. Go away. I don’t want you here right now.
No? the voice asked innocently. Oh, I see. You’d rather listen to the dead men dying than to me. Yes, that’s right. You’re waiting to hear Ruth’s soft step by your bed. Do you think she’ll have the window open, or keep it closed when she slips you your final dose of morphine, Clay?
“Shut up!” Clay screamed, opening his eyes.
The orderlies, both of whom wore gasmasks and who stood at the office door, looked at him, one of them taking a step towards Clay. Ruth walked out of the office and put her hand on the man’s arm and shook her head. The orderly shrugged and stepped back.
Ruth walked across the ward to Clay and smiled down at him.
“Hello, Clay,” she said.
Clay swallowed nervously and said, “Hello, Nurse.”
“Would you like a sedative?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Ruth leaned over and whispered, “Clay, it’s not your time. You won’t die yet. Perhaps in a few days, perhaps longer. I haven’t made up my mind. I will give you a sedative, and only a sedative. I promise.”
Clay licked his lips, rubbed at the scar on his face and asked softly, “Will you leave the window open?”
She nodded.
“Very good, Clay,” she said, straightening up. As she walked away, Clay saw Gil and Fredericks.
The two dead men stood off to the right of the orderlies, and Gil waved to Clay when he saw him. Clay hesitantly returned the wave, and then pulled the blankets over his head.
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: The Dead Increase
Alec Greene screamed louder than a man without a tongue should have been able to.
Clay looked up, surprised.
Few of the other patients hardly paid any attention to Alec, and the orderlies didn’t bother to come out of the office. The men on E Ward were left to their own fate.
Alec was trapped in his bed much the same way Clay was confined to his. Clay, however, had more left of his legs, and he could still chew his food. Alec could not.
Yet as he looked at Alec, Clay saw the man was pointing at something.
Clay allowed his eyes to follow the line of the other man’s finger, and he stiffened.
At the far end of the ward stood Gil. And there were others too. Many of them. Clay managed to count seventeen of them, but then they shifted in and out of focus too quickly.
Especially for a man with one eye, Clay thought.
You’re a fairly stupid sod, aren’t you, the voice told him tiredly.
That wasn’t particularly pleasant, Clay retorted.
The voice snorted and replied, You are stupid, Clay. Admit it. Admit it and I’ll tell you what it is you’re not realizing.
“I’m not stupid,” Clay muttered, and he stared at the dead men as Alec continued to scream.
Have you figured it out yet? the voice sneered.
There’s nothing to figure out, Clay thought.
Alec screamed, his face red. The ghosts looked at the tongue-less man without sympathy or concern.
“They see him,” Clay whispered. “And he sees them.”
Oh, you did notice! the voice said sarcastically. I’m honestly surprised. I never thought you would have realized what was happening.
Clay ignored the voice.
If Alec sees them, then that means I’m not imagining them, Clay thought. It means they’re really there.
And what else does it mean? the voice asked. There was no humor to the question or in its tone. Think, Clay, this is important.
Clay closed his eyes tightly and thought hard, his brain hurt with the effort. Then his eyes snapped open, and he stared at the office door.
She’s really killing them, Clay thought. She’s killing all of them.
The voice sighed with satisfaction. And what else?
It means she’s going to kill me, Clay realized, looking back to the ghosts. Soon I’ll be with them. I need to tell someone.
He searched the room, attempting to look for anyone who might listen.
Clay saw no one.
He was in a room full of the dying. The orderlies wouldn’t care, even if they would believe him. Their disdain was proven each day by their actions. Ruth protected the men of E Ward from the staff.
But only so she can kill us herself, Clay thought, shivering.
He bit back a whimper and sank down into the protection of his blankets. Alec continued to scream, and Clay wondered if the tongue-less man knew what it was Ruth Williamson did on E Ward.
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: A Discussion on the Dead
Those men who had been ill, but not terribly so, had been kept on the lower wards. With the arrival of Spanish Influenza, the infected had been moved first to D Ward. Then on to C Ward, B Ward, and A Ward, until nowhere was safe and free of the disease.
Eventually, when enough men had died, A Ward was used to hold the healthy. E Ward, Clay learned, had the highest mortality rate of any in the hospital.
And why not? Clay thought morosely. We’re the worst off. The ones with the gravest of injuries. With Ruth deciding who she wanted to kill.
When Clay awoke on a Sunday morning, he had a new neighbor on E Ward. The man was old. Older than any man Clay could remember seeing.
For several minutes, Clay stared at him. The man had a beard, snow white for the most part, although it looked as though chewing tobacco had stained the edges of his mustachios. His hair was equally as white, and nearly as long. The pale locks framed a face seemingly crafted from thin paper-mache. Each cheekbone was highlighted, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets. Thick, wiry eyebrows, accentuated the valleys and grooves of his wrinkles. The new arrival’s lips were thin, a tint of blue to them as t
he man’s chest rose and fell with a ragged rhythm.
As Clay stared at him, the man opened an eye and stared back at Clay. The eye, which had an iris of deep gray, blinked several times, and then a smile appeared on the stranger’s face.
Clay returned the smile cautiously.
“You sir,” the man said, “are an impressive visage to awaken to.”
“Thank you,” Clay said.
“Your name?” the man asked, and Clay told him.
“We are well met, then, Clay,” the stranger said. “My own name is Stefan.”
Stefan’s other eye opened lazily, and Clay saw it was a pure, opal color.
“Impressive, no?” Stefan asked, grinning. “A Reb mini-ball bounced off of my skull and did the deed. Fredericksburg. My first battle, and my last, as it turned out. The same ball which colored my eye, well, it knocked me down and out, and I spent a good deal of time as a guest of the Confederate Government.”
Stefan snorted and shook his head.
“All of that is far and away,” Stefan said, sighing as he lay back on his bed. He glanced over at Clay and said, “You have an impressive set of rails there, young man. Do you climb out at night?”
“I did,” Clay admitted. “I tried to get away from the raids.”
“Even though there are no raids here,” Stefan said softly. “Was it a raid which made your face the pretty mess it is now?”
Clay nodded.
“And are your legs a bit short?”
“They are,” Clay said.
“I am impressed you are alive,” Stefan said after a minute. He looked around the ward and then asked, “Is there something wrong up here?”
“Yes,” Clay said. “Death is here and she walks among us.”
Stefan nodded. “I can feel it. There’s something wrong here, son. And it seeks us, doesn’t it.”
It wasn’t a question, but Clay responded as if it was. “Yes.”
Stefan hesitated and then said, “When I came up earlier, and you were asleep, I thought I saw someone. Someone familiar.”
