by Ron Ripley
Chapter 4: Brett Keeps Quiet
The night after Ray Antonio died, Brett was back at work for his shift. A sense of anxiety hovered around him.
Was she real? he asked himself. Did I imagine it?
He had heard rumors of a ghost. But what old building doesn’t have a ghost story or two?
Officially, Ray had died of a massive heart attack. Not unusual for someone who had been born in the early part of the 20th century.
Hell, Brett thought, it wouldn’t be unusual for someone like me, born in the eighties.
But Brett knew it wasn’t a heart attack that had killed Ray. A ghost had killed him, and Brett wasn’t able to tell anyone about it.
Be a good way to lose the job, he thought angrily. It had taken him three years of applications to make it into the system. Telling people you saw a ghost kill Ray, well, that’s how you end up in the nuthouse.
Brett walked into the nurse’s station and nodded to Karen. The older woman waved, asking, “Doctor Pelletier, are you feeling okay?”
“Fine,” Brett said, forcing himself to smile. “Little tired tonight.”
“Antonio?” she said.
“No,” Brett said. Not the old man. The ghost with her hand in his chest, yeah. But not Ray. “Couldn’t sleep, is all.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said, turning her attention back to the television and the news program. “Kind of tough trying to get used to this shift. You’ll be okay, though.”
“Thanks, Karen,” Brett said. He walked to the back desk, put his lunch bag under it and flipped open the file to look at the patients on the ward. The staff referred to ‘E’ Ward as ‘God’s Waiting Room’. Most of the patients moved into E were on death’s doorstep. It seemed like the slightest breeze could send them on their way.
Out of all of the other wards, E had the highest mortality rate. Even for a place with critically ill patients. On Brett’s first day at work, a Vietnam vet had died from liver failure. The county coroner, laughingly, had told them he should have his own office in the building with the rate the vets were dying off.
Brett hadn’t found the joke to be funny then, and it was even less so as he remembered it.
He shook the memory away and focused on the men who would be under his care for the night.
She said Ray was better, Brett thought. He stared hard at the list. She was acting out of mercy. Twisted, but still a mercy. So who would benefit from her ‘gentle’ touch?
Brett picked up the list and walked over to the desk. He sat down beside Karen, who glanced at him.
“What are you reading that for?” she asked.
“Just looking at specifics,” Brett answered. “One case of mesothelioma, and two of stage four cancer. Myeloma and leukemia”
“Why do you even care?” Karen said, looking back to the television.
Brett held his tongue, not wishing to fight with someone he was going to have to spend the unforeseeable future with.
“Just want to be thorough, Karen,” Brett said, keeping his tone light and pleasant.
“Okay, Doctor,” she said, taking a drink from her travel mug. “Knock yourself out.”
Brett didn’t answer. Instead, he read the list.
And who was Ray Antonio? Brett thought. What would make him worthy of the ghost’s attention? He tried to remember Ray’s file. Raymond Antonio had suffered from Stage 4 breast cancer. Double amputee for over seventy years. He had never had any visitors. No phone calls. No letters.
Raymond Antonio had been alone in the world.
Alone and dying, Brett realized.
He took a pen from the holder on the desk and went through the list. Three other men matched the same criteria. A trio of men to watch and keep safe. Safer than the rest, at least. Pedro Martinez, Logan Tran, and Howard Case. Three men from different wars, each with a separate malady.
And not a friend in the world, Brett thought. He closed the file, put it aside and stood up.
“Where you headed?” Karen asked without looking at him.
“Checking on the patients,” Brett said.
She snorted. “Have fun with that, Doctor.”
Brett resisted the urge to yell at her, looped his stethoscope around his neck and left the nurse’s station. He walked towards Pedro’s room to check on the man and to let him know he wasn’t alone.
Chapter 5: Going to Sanford
Shane was not encouraged by what he saw.
Sanford Hospital was old, with the distinctive architecture of the late Victorian period. Tall, wide windows with ornate ledges and brickwork. The roof was still slate, and in spite of the fact that it had recently been renovated, Shane couldn’t help but wonder if there was even heat on all five floors. Ivy grew up along the front doors, the roots of the vine had dug themselves in deep, the individual leaves a deep, rich green. A few men and one woman sat on the long granite steps leading up to the entrance. They were smoking, and Shane smiled when he saw them.
He had gotten a good chewing out for smoking in the Manchester VA.
Worth it, Shane thought, chuckling. Definitely worth it.
He followed the narrow, one-way road around the right of the building to a large, surprisingly well-kept parking lot at the back. A newer looking docking bay at the hospital’s rear was occupied with a red ambulance, the lettering on the side stating the vehicle was from Milford.
Shane turned his attention away from the emergency vehicle to the parking lot. He read the signs posted on the various lamp posts and saw one which read “D” Ward Parking.
That’s me, he thought. He guided his car to an open space, backed in and shut the engine off. Pocketing his keys he got out, locked the door and started towards the front of the hospital. He caught sight of a few others walking around, some were pushed in wheelchairs, others moved along with the help of canes or relatives. Shane saw men older than himself, and younger.
He sighed and focused on the hospital.
Why? he wondered. Why the hell did they put a hospital way out here, to begin with?
The question remained unanswered as he reached the front of the building. He waved hello to the smokers, paused and pulled out his own cigarettes. As he put one in his mouth and lit it, Shane asked, “How is it here?”
An older African-American man shook his head.
“What branch?” a woman asked.
“Marines,” Shane answered.
“East Coast or West?” another man asked.
“East,” Shane said.
“Blake Cassidy,” the man said, offering his hand.
Shane shook it.
“This is Alan Moore,” Blake said, nodding to the African-American. “And Judy Witherspoon.”
“Pleased to meet you all. Shane Ryan.”
“So, you’re a Parris Island Marine,” Blake said.
“Yup,” Shane said.
“You there before they put the barracks up?” Blake asked.
Shane nodded.
“Fine, fine,” Blake said, stubbing out his cigarette and slowly field stripping it, peeling away the filter’s paper cover and putting the remains in his pockets. “Sanford is worse.”
“Damn” Shane said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Are you serious?”
All three of them nodded.
“Best to hope they don’t admit you,” Judy said.
“That good, huh?” Shane asked.
The three nodded in unison.
“Great,” Shane said, sighing. “Great.”
He finished his cigarette, field stripped it as always and walked up the stairs. The old doors were heavy; a solid, almost comforting weight.
When he entered the building, Shane paused. He could smell sickness and death beneath the strong odor of cleaning products. The lobby was narrow and occupied by a single desk. Behind it was a young woman who looked worn and tired, as though she had been chained to the piece of furniture for years.
Maybe she has, Shane thought.
He walked to the desk and stoppe
d in front of it. In silence, he waited for her.
She was texting on her phone, glanced up at him and smiled. Her name tag read, “Jane S.”
“May I help you?” Jane asked.
“Yes, miss,” Shane said. “I’m Shane Ryan. I have an appointment with Doctor Georges.”
“Dr. Georges called in sick today,” Jane said apologetically. “We have Nurse Platte covering for him.”
“Okay,” Shane said. “Where do I find Nurse Platte?”
“She’s on B Ward,” Jane said. “Second floor. The elevator is out today, so you’ll have to use the main stairs.”
“Tough day?” Shane asked.
“No,” Jane said, sighing. “It’s pretty normal.”
“Great,” Shane muttered. He turned, saw the tiled stairs which led up to the second floor, and he headed towards them.
When he reached the first landing, he found himself at a pair of doors. Above them was a sign, B Ward. He pushed them open and walked in. The floor was polished to a high sheen, the lights were bright, and the area looked well-cared for. A male nurse sat at the main station and looked up at Shane.
“Hello,” Shane said, “I’m here to see Nurse Platte.”
The man nodded and called out over his shoulder, “Nancy, you’ve got a patient.”
From a back office, a woman appeared. She looked to be in her sixties, her gray hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and glasses on her face. The woman was short, round, and Shane could see she wouldn’t take any grief from anyone.
“You’re Mr. Ryan?” she asked, her voice like broken glass on gravel.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Shane answered.
“Right this way,” she turned around and went back to the office. Shane hurried after her. She sat down and nodded to him. Shane took the seat and waited.
Nurse Platte picked up a file, scanned through it, closed it, and said, “You’re here for burn treatment?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Shane said.
She put the file down, took her glasses off and looked at him. In a low voice, she asked, “Is there any way you can afford to go back to where you were?”
He shook his head.
“Dr. Georges is a nice enough man,” she continued, “but he shouldn’t be doing most procedures. Hell, I don’t even trust him to take someone’s temperature properly.”
“Great,” Shane muttered. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Alright,” Nurse Platte said. “I will do my best for you. I promise you that, Mr. Ryan. However, even in the best of facilities, there is a high chance for infection when caring for burn injuries.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “I know. Okay, what now?”
“I’m going to send you to the lab, make sure you have all of the blood work up to date,” she replied. “Then I’m going to admit you and schedule you for tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.”
“Why so soon and so early?” Shane asked, surprised.
“Best to get it done sooner rather than later,” Nurse Platte said. “Dr. Georges usually doesn’t start drinking until lunch time.”
“Usually?” Shane said.
She nodded. “Usually.”
Chapter 6: Brett Keeps an Eye Open
After having checked on Pedro, Brett went into Howard Case’s room. He found Howard asleep, but the man’s roommate, Bill “Doc” Kiernan, was awake. The younger man’s pale skin and short cropped red hair, like his name, spoke of his Irish heritage. His green eyes sunk in their sockets above high cheekbones, confirmed the diagnosis that Bill was not long for the world.
“Hey, Doc,” Brett said, walking in and sitting down. “How are you, tonight?”
“Well,” the young man said. “I just turned thirty last week and I’m dying, how about yourself?”
“Can’t complain too much when you put it like that,” Brett said.
“Sure, you can,” Bill said, grinning. “One of my drill sergeants told us that we had very few rights in the Army. One of them was the right to complain, and that we should do it as often and as much as we could possibly get away with.”
Brett laughed. “Sounds like good advice. How are you feeling tonight?”
“I’m dying, Brett,” Bill said, the grin faltering for a moment. “Other than that, I’m feeling okay.”
“I wish there was more I could do,” Brett said sincerely.
“Don’t worry about it. You do what you can, and I appreciate it. I know Howard does, too.”
Brett nodded.
“Anyway,” Bill said, sighing, “anything new on E Ward?”
“No,” Brett replied, shaking his head. “No new arrivals. No new staff. What about you, what’s the rumor mill got going during the day?”
“Well,” Bill said, adjusting himself on his bed. “Let’s see. Heard we got a new patient downstairs on B Ward. Poor guy’s going under Dr. George’s knife in the morning.”
“How did you hear about him?” Brett asked. “Kind of far for word to travel, isn’t it?”
“Guess he’s completely bald,” Bill said. “No hair anywhere. The nurses were joking about how they weren’t going to have to shave him.”
“No hair at all?”
“Zero,” Bill said.
“Guy probably has alopecia,” Brett said, more to himself than to Bill.
“What’s that?” Bill asked.
“Unexplained hair loss,” Brett said. “An autoimmune disorder.”
“Might make it tough to chat up some of the ladies,” Bill said with a grin.
Brett nodded, chuckling as he stood up.
“That’s true. Very true. You need anything, Doc?”
“A cure for whatever cancer I got from those Iraqi burn-pits would be nice,” Bill said. “But, if you don’t have that lying around, make Karen get up and bring me a cup of coffee to wash my pain meds down.”
“You got it,” Brett said. “Tell Howard I said ‘hello’ when he wakes up.”
“Will do.”
Brett left the room, and checked in on Logan Tran. The man and his roommate were asleep. He did the rest of his rounds, ended up back at the nurse’s station and found Karen upright in her chair with her eyes closed, fast asleep.
He shook his head in disgust and sat down in his own seat. Quietly, he picked up the newest Jack Reacher novel and opened up to his bookmark.
Chapter 7: Feeling Good
Shane walked up the main stairwell. He had managed to get out to his car, have a couple nips of whiskey, and then slipped back inside. The security guard was an old Marine, and he and Shane had talked about Okinawa, less than reputable drinking establishments, and the best ways they had eluded the arrest by the Shore Patrol.
It was a quarter to midnight, and Shane knew he wouldn’t be able to eat or drink anything else prior to his surgery in the morning. The fact that they were putting him under the knife didn’t bother him as much as the risk of infection did. He had no idea about the whole skin grafting procedure, but he knew there were dangers to any surgery.
That’ll be my luck, Shane told himself, passing the landing for the third floor and heading towards the fourth. I’m going to die on the operating table of a backwater VA hospital because I don’t have private insurance.
His body burned through the alcohol quickly, and he considered, briefly, a second trip to the car. He shook the idea away and focused on the stairs. The plan was to tire himself out enough so he would sleep.
Preferably without nightmares, he thought, sighing. He paused on the steps, adjusted the pull-strings of the pajamas they had issued him, and then continued on. Soon he passed the fourth floor, and he reached the end of the stairs at the landing for E Ward. He hesitated in front of the doors, then he pushed them open and stepped onto the fifth floor.
Shane noticed the temperature immediately.
It was easily ten degrees colder than the rest of the building. The ward was filled with the ambient noise of different medical equipment. A curious, unidentifiable stench hung in the air, but the two people at the
nurse’s station didn’t seem to notice.
The nurse, in fact, looked as if she were asleep. Beside her was a man in a doctor’s coat, and his head was down, intent upon the book he was reading. Only when the doors whispered closed did the man look up.
His eyes widened in surprise, and he hastily put the book down. The man looked to be in his early thirties. His face was round, as if he enjoyed pastries more than he should. The man’s brown hair was messy and his ears, which were more pointed than curved, protruded sharply through the locks.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“Not really,” Shane replied. “I’m just out for a walk.”
“You’re the man who came in today,” the doctor said.
“Yeah,” Shane said warily. “How’d you know?”
“Your alopecia,” the doctor answered. “It made the rounds of the hospital. Even came up here to some of the patients.”
Shane shook his head. “Glad I can help people gossip.”
“Beats what the last guy was known for,” the doctor said.
“Oh yeah?” Shane asked.
The doctor nodded. “Syphilis.”
“Unreal,” Shane said, laughing in spite of himself, “yeah, guess it does.”
A soft clink echoed through the ward.
Both Shane and the doctor looked down the left wing.
“No!” The shout came from one of the closed rooms.
Shane turned to the doctor, but the man was already out from behind the desk and racing down the hall towards the voice. Without hesitating, Shane ran after him.
The doctor slammed open a door and barreled into the room. Shane was close behind him. Close enough to see a woman in an old nurse’s uniform standing beside the bed of another patient, an old man. His skin a sickly yellow, and wisps of white hair clinging to scalp.
She snapped her head up at Shane and the doctor, anger and determination on her face. Shane groaned inwardly as he saw the wall through her. Not again. Her hands were over the mouth of the patient, and he struggled weakly beneath her.
“You’re too loud,” the nurse spat, and she flicked her hand towards the door.
