Sanford Hospital (Berkley Street Series Book 4)

by Ron Ripley

  “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.

  “You’re tired,” she observed.

  “Exhausted.”

  “Will you come to bed?” she asked, and the question was like a knife, pushed deep into his guts and turned slowly back and forth.

  Words failed him, so he no
dded instead. She led the way out of the kitchen, and he followed her back into the hall and up the main stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of some of the others. Eloise and Thaddeus looking nervously at him. Shane waved hello to them, and they slipped away quickly.

  Carl met them on the second floor, barely containing an expression of disdain.

  “You need to rest,” Carl said, ignoring Courtney.

  “He is,” she snapped.

  Carl raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  Shane nodded.

  “Did you tell him he had a message?” Carl asked.

  Shane saw Courtney stiffen, and a small smile crept across Carl’s face.

  “What message?” Shane asked.

  Courtney shot an angry look at Carl and then said, “Someone from the Sanford Hospital called and said they had an opening for you tomorrow for the skin graft.”

  “Alright,” Shane said. “I’ll listen to it, later. I need to sleep now. Didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  “Was it bad, my friend?” Carl asked in German.

  “Yes,” Shane replied, answering in the same. “One of the living helped them. There’s a man dead, and I’m sure there’ll be more before this is through.”

  Shane switched to English and said, “I’ll see you for lunch. Or dinner. Or whenever I wake up, Carl. Please make sure the others are quiet. I am not in the best of moods.”

  Carl gave a short bow and vanished.

  A cold touch reminded Shane of Courtney’s presence, and he looked down at her small form.

  “You need to rest,” she repeated.

  Shane nodded. An ache settled into his heart as he looked at her, her once elfin features blurred by death. She smiled at him, and there was only love in the expression.

  For a moment, he wondered if she ever blamed him for her death, if she ever held him responsible for her murder.

  With a sigh, Shane followed her into his bedroom and hoped he would be able to sleep.

  Chapter 41: Alone in His Room

  “You have to keep him home today,” Matias said.

  His youngest son’s confusion came through in the phone. “Why? He loves to see you.”

  A pang of remorse punched through Matias and he nodded. Then, remembering he was on the phone he said, “And I love to see him. But we’ve had a murder here. Several, in fact, and I could not live with myself if he was hurt.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very,” Matias replied. “Now listen. Under no circumstances are any of you to come and see me. Not until I call and tell you everything is alright.”

  “Dad,” his son began.

  “Alright?!” Matias demanded.

  “Sure, dad, sure.” His son’s tone was placating. “I’ll let everyone know.”

  “Thank you,” Matias said. “Good bye.”

  He didn’t wait for his son to reply before he hung up.

  Matias shivered in bed and turned his eyes away from the phone.

  The call had been difficult to make, but Matias knew it had been necessary.

  As much as he longed for the companionship of his family, Sanford was too dangerous. He had dealt with many tragedies in his life, he would not suffer the death of a grandchild or great-grandchild caused by his own negligence.

  He was alone in the room. Doc had been moved out shortly after Brett’s murder, returned to E Ward. Matias looked at the betony scattered around his bed. More of the herb was on his pillow, and for a moment he wondered if it would be better to wipe the dried bits of leaves away.

  Why not let her come in your sleep? he asked himself. Would it not be easier? Is that not what she wants? What you want, after all?

  Matias couldn’t argue with himself. The idea of death didn’t normally bother him. For some reason, however, the thought of dying at the Nurse’s hands filled him with fear. It was an unusual sensation for him and one that he didn’t find particularly enjoyable.

  What bothered him even more was the fact that if she killed him, his death would most certainly not be the last.

  She will continue to intervene, he thought. When nature should be allowed to run its course, however brutal it might be.

  Matias looked at his cards and realized he had no desire to play, nor any interest in the television or the stack of Jack Reacher novels that Nurse Platte had so thoughtfully brought in to him.

  I only want this finished, Matias thought. I want her gone, sent to either Heaven or Hell, I don’t care which.

  Matias yawned, turned a little to the left and looked out the window. Beyond the clear glass, he could see the night sky. The stars shined brightly, the crescent moon glowing a curious yellow. Autumn would quickly run its course and winter would settle in brutally upon New England.

  The idea of the cold weather sent a shiver through him, and Matias shook his head. He had never been fond of the cold.

  Best not to think about it, he thought, chiding himself. Stay alert and focused on the Nurse, and whoever she has as an assistant.

  Really, he thought. What chance do I have? If I close the door, she can pass through it. Or a nurse or an aide, even a janitor or someone on security could come in and finish me off.

  Panic ate at the edges of his reason. He fought back the urge to call for a nurse, to ask to be brought to another room. To be given some sort of living companion who wouldn’t try to shoot him in the chest.

  Matias let out a short, harsh laugh.

  Is this what you’ve come to? An old, frightened man trying to hide from death? he asked himself.

  Let them come for me, Matias thought, closing his eyes. Let them come. I will live, or I will die. But I will fight, and I will finish this task if I can.

  Chapter 42: Never Alone

  He passed by Matias’ door several times, peering in as he did so.

  Always, the Watcher saw the old man awake, eyes looking at some distant point.

  It wasn’t until well after midnight that the old man was finally asleep.

  The Watcher hesitated by the door and stared hard at Matias. When the old man didn’t react, he moved into the room.

  He walked quietly, each step carefully placed. If Matias was to awaken, the Watcher would smile and ask the old man how he was.

  But Matias didn’t wake.

  Instead, he snored gently, a bit of saliva gathering in the corner of his mouth.

  Soon, the Watcher thought, backing out of the room. The Nurse will usher you along, and you will find the peace you need.

  When he reached the hallway, the Watcher glanced to the nurse’s station and saw Nurse Emily there. She nodded and looked down.

  The Watcher closed the door to Matias’ room and went to the supply closet. From it, he withdrew security tape and carried it back. Silently, the Watcher sealed the entry. Then, from his breast pocket, he removed a small sign and attached it to the door.

  The message, written in bold black letters on a red background, declared the patient in the room to be quarantined.

  No one will listen to your screams, Matias, the Watcher thought, returning the tape to the supply closet. Pity you? Yes. Listen? No.

  Chapter 43: A Time for Violence

  Dom Francis Benedict had given up violence when he had taken his vows.

  He had forsaken it after leaving the Army. Years of fighting had cost him; emotionally and spiritually. He had been able to separate himself from it, as all good soldiers can, but after he had become a civilian, he remembered what he had done.

  Dom Francis recalled who had done it, too.

  Occasionally his dreams were haunted, filled with bitter memories of the past.

  He sat on his small cot in his austere room. His previous life was boxed away, left with his brother in Vermont. The sole decoration on his walls was a crucifix.

  Dom Francis looked at the image of his Savior and thought, Must I resort to violence?

  He did not expect an answer, and he wasn’t disappointed when none was given.

  Dom Francis got of
f of his cot, knelt down on the floor and crossed himself. He let his chin drop to his chest, and he sank into prayer.

  Time passed, and he continued to seek guidance.

  Then, a flash of memory.

  He was crouched on a hilltop, making sure he didn’t silhouette himself against the night sky. The rest of the team was around him and the enemy approached. They had come upon a caravan coming in from Pakistan. The men below them, burdened with supplies, chattered in Pashto. Some complained and their friends mocked them. They were almost home to their village. From there, the supplies would go out to various Taliban units.

  Weapons, ammunition, information.

  All of it would be used against Coalition troops and Afghanis who had allied themselves with the United States.

  Dom Francis and his team had struck quickly, killing every member of the caravan. Some of the supplies were destroyed. Others were booby-trapped. Dom Francis had helped to sow destruction in order to save others.

  He opened his eyes and saw the sun had risen.

  A single beam of sunlight pierced the clouds, passed through the clear glass of his window and fell upon the small bedtable beside his cot. The light illuminated his Bible, and the small red book of the Rule of St. Benedict.

  The petit volume glowed.

  With his joints aching, Dom Francis got to his feet. Carefully he went and picked up the book. It fell open in his hands and his eyes latched onto a paragraph.

  “Thanks to the help and guidance of man, they are now trained to fight against the devil. They have built up their strength and went from the battle line in the ranks of their brothers to the single combat of the desert.”

  She may not be the devil, Dom Francis thought grimly, closing the small book, but she certainly does his work for him.

  He returned the book to the bed table and looked at the crucifix. Dom Francis crossed himself and thought, There’s work to be done.

  He left the safety of his room to prepare for battle with the Nurse.