by Ron Ripley
Chapter 44: Leaving Berkley Street
“It’s dangerous at this hospital?” Courtney asked.
Shane sat on the edge of his bed, his shades drawn against the morning light. He lit a cigarette and replied, “Yes.”
“And the operation is dangerous?” she said.
Courtney was close by, the room cold and causing him to shiver occasionally. He couldn’t see her in the darkness, and he was thankful.
“Yes,” Shane said.
“Then why are you going?”
“So I can use myself as bait,” Shane explained. “I need more information. Someone has to know where her body is.”
“But they want to kill you,” Courtney said, her voice coming closer.
“Some of them do, sure,” Shane agreed.
“I want to come with you,” Courtney demanded. “I can make sure no one interferes with the surgery.”
“I don’t know if you’re strong enough,” Shane said gently.
The door to the bedroom opened with a thud, light from the hall causing him to wince. Then it was slammed shut, shuddering in its frame.
“I’m strong enough,” she declared. “I get stronger each day. The children, they help me.”
“Eloise and Thaddeus?” Shane asked, surprised.
“Yes,” Courtney answered. “They say it is their penance to care for me after they chased me away.”
Shane had no reply for the statement. He held himself responsible for her murder.
“Shane,” Courtney said softly. “Do not blame yourself for my death.”
Shane’s throat tightened, and he couldn’t reply.
“Will you let me come with you?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Then put them back on,” Courtney whispered.
In the darkness, Shane stretched out his hand and found his dog tags on his pillow. The metal was cold and familiar, the chain was a comfort as he slipped it over his head and let it hang around his neck.
Courtney sighed.
“When will we leave?” she asked.
“Soon as I’m showered and dressed,” Shane answered. He finished his cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray on his nightstand and stood up.
It was time to go to the hospital.
Chapter 45: Waking Up Alone
Sunlight woke Matias up. He was surprised he had slept through to the morning.
He straightened up as his body complained; aged joints and bones upset at being disturbed. Matias looked to his tray and saw there was no breakfast.
Evidently, I haven’t slept as late as I thought, he told himself. Matias glanced at the clock on his bureau and paused. Quarter past 7? Breakfast should have been delivered. Hm, perhaps they’re late.
Matias turned himself partially on the bed and saw the door.
It was closed.
Frowning, Matias picked up the call button for the nurse and pressed it. A moment later, the speaker above his bed squawked.
“Yes, Matias?” a woman asked.
“Marilyn?” Matias asked.
“No. My name is Irene,” she said. “Marilyn’s been moved up to another Ward.”
Matias hesitated, pressed the reply button and said, “Irene, my door’s been closed, and there’s been no breakfast. Is everything alright?”
“We’re all fine out here,” Irene replied. “Did you forget that you’re under quarantine?”
“What?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes,” she said, her tone one of sympathy and patience. “Last night you were quarantined. You were exposed to a toxic chemical. One of the janitors accidently trailed it into your room. We have to keep you isolated for a brief time.”
“No,” Matias said, “this is unacceptable. I need my door open.”
“Now, now,” Irene said soothingly. “We’ll bring your food in shortly. We have Mark suiting up right now.”
“Mark?” Matias asked. “Why aren’t you? And what about Nurse Platte? Does she know about this?”
“I’m not trained to work in a hazmat suit,” Irene replied. “And Nurse Platte is busy. She said she’ll check in on you later.”
“I would prefer you or Nurse Platte,” Matias said.
“I know,” Irene said. “Listen, I don’t want to alarm you, but the chemical you were exposed to, has been known to induce hallucinations, both audio and visual. And, because of your age, there really isn’t anything we can prescribe to help you with them.”
Matias didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
He knew there was no chemical, toxic or otherwise.
They’ve isolated me, Matias thought. Have they done the same to Doc on E Ward?
“Matias?” Irene said.
“Yes,” Matias said, sighing.
“Mark will be in shortly. Let us know if there’s anything we can do to make you comfortable,” Irene said, her voice full of sympathy.
“I will,” Matias replied. He set the call button down on his bed.
This was deftly done, he thought. A chemical, one which induces hallucinations. Should the Nurse come and I call for help, who is to believe me? An old man, seeing a dreaded rumor. They might feel terrible about my passing, but they will think I was old and that my body couldn’t withstand the shock of the toxin or of the hallucinations it induced. Clever. Quite clever.
The door to his room opened. A man in yellow, protective gear entered the room. Matias could see it was Mark behind the clear plastic of the face plate and the man carried with him a tray of food. Beyond the door was a small foyer made of heavy plastic sheeting.
For a moment, Matias considered the possibility of a real chemical spill.
Then Mark was at his bedside, putting the tray down on the table.
“Anything else?” Mark asked.
Matias shook his head.
“Don’t worry,” Mark said with a smile. “This will all be over before you know it.”
“I hope so,” Matias replied, picking up a piece of toast.
“I know it will,” Mark said. “The Nurse will arrive soon.”
Matias stopped mid-bite and looked at Mark in surprise.
Mark nodded. “Yes. She’ll come for you and you will know peace, Matias.”
The man patted Matias’s leg affectionately and left the room.
Matias put the toast back onto his plate. He had lost his appetite.
Chapter 46: Preparing for Battle
Dom Francis walked into the Lithuanian Club, and the conversation stopped.
Several old men sat at the bar, and Uri Popovich looked at him in surprise from behind the same.
“Francis,” Uri, the large man, said, coming around and offering his hand. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Francis shook it and said, “I need a favor, Uri.”
“Sure, anything. You name it.”
“I need a shotgun and your loader,” Francis said.
Uri blinked, and the men at the bar suddenly had stunned expressions.
“Damn,” Uri said when he found his voice again. “No offense, Francis, but what do you need a weapon for? I thought you gave all that up when you left the Army.”
“Can you accept that I need it, without explanation?” Francis asked his old comrade in arms.
“Sure,” Uri said, grinning, half of his teeth gold. “You know that. You could have walked in and asked for an RPG, and I’d get it for you.”
“I know, my friend,” Francis said. “And I thank you. But all I need is the shotgun and the loader.”
Uri turned to the bar and said, “Gary.”
One of the men nodded.
“Mind the shop, will you? I’ve got to go upstairs for a minute,” Uri said.
“Sure,” Gary replied.
“Come on, Francis,” Uri said, and he led the way to a set of stairs tucked away in a deep shadow. Francis followed him to the second floor, where Uri lived and repaired weapons. Various tools for gunsmithing, as well as more than a few weapons of different makes and models, were set neatl
y on the workbench. To the right of Uri’s equipment was a riotgun- a fast-shooting shotgun with a drum magazine.
“Take it,” Uri said, gesturing towards the weapon while he went to a cabinet.
Francis picked the weapon up, the weight familiar and comfortable in his hands.
From the cabinet, Uri withdrew the loader and several boxes of empty shells. He set them on the table and then took out a large black duffel bag. Francis watched as Uri placed the items into the duffel, and then held his hand out for the shotgun. After he had handed it over, Uri asked Francis, “What type of shot do you need?”
“Nothing,” Francis said.
Uri shrugged, zipped up the bag and handed it to Francis.
“Francis,” Uri said.
“Yes?”
“What are you loading it with?” Uri asked.
“Rock salt.”
Uri looked at Francis, confused. “Rock salt?”
Francis nodded.
“What the hell are you shooting with rock salt?” Uri said.
Francis smiled. “I’m hunting the dead, Uri.”
Uri narrowed his eyes and stared at Francis for a moment.
“You’re serious,” Uri said finally.
“Yes,” Francis responded.
“Hm,” Uri said. He scratched the back of his head and then said, “Anything else you need for it?”
“Do you have any iron?” Francis asked.
“Iron?” Uri repeated. “No. Wait. Yeah, yeah I might.”
Uri left the room and returned a short time later. He carried a length of dark wood, one end of it wrapped in iron bands with pointed studs.
Francis laughed and shook his head. “What is that?”
“World War One trench weapon,” Uri said, grinning. “It was used to convince German troops to surrender peacefully.”
“I can see how it would be effective,” Francis said. He unzipped the duffel and Uri put it in with the other items.
“Anyone else,” Uri said, “and I’d say they were on a bad acid trip. But you, I know you’re telling me the truth, and it scares the hell out of me. Be safe.”
“I’ll be as safe as I can, my friend,” Francis said. Once more they shook hands and Francis followed him out.
When they reached the main floor, and Francis walked to the door, he heard one of the men at the bar ask in a low voice, “What’s going on?”
“Francis is going to save the world,” Uri said, holding the door open for Francis to exit.
Not the world, Francis thought, stepping out into the morning light, but hopefully some who are in it.
Chapter 47: Returning to Sanford
The parking lot was empty when Shane pulled into it. He had an unpleasant taste at the back of his throat, a symptom of the fear he felt.
Shane knew he would be at risk when he was on the table, waiting for the surgery.
Am I really scheduled for a surgery? he wondered. Or are they taking the bait and are ready to finish me off?
Hell, Shane thought, with the VA running their own security, they could make up any reason they want and never have to even involve the local police. They could kill me and no one would be the wiser. And since I don’t have any real family left, they could bury me here somewhere.
As soon as the thought ended, Shane straightened up in his seat.
Bury me here. He looked out the window at the wide expanse of the hospital’s grounds.
There has to be some sort of burial ground here, he realized. Every hospital had one. It might not be taking any new residents, but a Nurse who died decades ago. One who gave her life to this place? Yeah, I bet she’s buried here. Somewhere.
I need to find out where the cemetery is, Shane thought. Matias probably knows. Or Doc. One of them has to.
He got out of his vehicle, grabbed the bag he had packed for an overnight, and closed the door. He headed for the front of the hospital, glancing back occasionally. No ghosts appeared, and he couldn’t see any sign of the cemetery either.
You’ll find it, Shane thought.
When he reached the main entrance, he walked in and found a different receptionist than the first time he had arrived. The man wore a name tag which read, “Mark”.
“Hello, Mark,” Shane said.
“Good morning,” Mark said, smiling. “How may I help you, today?”
“Evidently, I have a surgery scheduled for six o’clock,” Shane said. “The message said to be in by nine since I have to fast for eight hours prior.”
“Very good,” Mark said. “What’s your name?”
Shane gave the man his name, date of birth, and social security number. Mark quickly typed all of the information into the system, found Shane’s file, and nodded.
“Yes,” Mark said, “you need to see Nurse Platte first, and then she’ll have someone show you to your room. She’s in the office; follow this hall back, turn left at the second door and you’ll find her there.”
“Thank you,” Shane said, and Mark waved as he walked away.
When he reached her door, Shane found it closed, so he knocked on it. A moment later, it opened, and Nurse Platte gave him a weak smile.
“Come in, please,” she said, returning to a cluttered desk. “Take a seat.”
Shane did so and thought, I wonder if she knows what’s going on. Is she part of it?
“You look a little frazzled,” Shane said.
“Not a little, a lot,” she said. “They’re still investigating Brett’s death, but it doesn’t seem like they’re going to solve it.”
“Was anything stolen?” Shane asked.
Nurse Platte nodded. “Several discs which were loaded with personal information. Social security numbers, military records; everything someone could want in order to establish themselves somewhere else with a new identity.”
“Great,” Shane said, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” Nurse Platte said. “We all viewed it the same way. Right now it’s a matter of damage control and fielding all of the questions about financial security. Not only from the men and women here, but their family members and people we’ve treated who aren’t residents. It’s a mess.”
Then she smiled at him. “Well, we’re not here to talk about the hospital’s newest problem. We’re here to talk about your upcoming skin graft.”
“Yup,” Shane said.
“It’ll be a straightforward procedure,” Nurse Platte said. “We’ll get you upstairs, get you well-prepped before surgery, and make certain everything is going to work out well. Do you have any questions for me before I send you up to D Ward?”
“No,” Shane said, shaking his head. “No questions.”
“Good,” Nurse Platte said, standing up. “I’ll be by your room in a few hours to check on you.”
“Thanks,” Shane said, standing up. He left the room and went back to the elevators. After he had pressed the ‘up’ arrow, he waited for several minutes until the doors opened and he stepped in. His finger hesitated over the ‘D’ button, and then he pressed the one for E Ward instead.
Need to check on Doc, Shane thought to himself. I’ve got to make sure he’s okay.
Chapter 48: A Visit from the Abbot
Francis sat on the floor in his room.
He had spent nearly two hours carefully loading shotgun shells with rock salt. With the preparations finished, someone knocked at his door.
“Come in,” Francis said without looking up.
The hinges creaked, and the unknown individual gasped in surprise.
Francis looked to the doorway and saw Abbot Gregory. The older man adjusted his glasses, shook his head and said, “Francis, what are you doing?”
Francis tried to think of a way he could explain the situation delicately to his superior and found there was none. Sighing, Francis told Abbot Gregory everything.
The abbot listened intently, eventually moving to sit upon Francis’s cot. Abbot Gregory’s back straightened, and he took his glasses off, absently wiping them off with the cuff o
f his sleeve. Finally, when Francis finished, the abbot put his glasses back on.
The older man looked at Francis and asked, “Do you need anything else?”
“What do you mean?” Francis said, confused.
“You have the shotgun and the ammunition,” Abbot Gregory said patiently. “You have iron. Have you any iron rings for your fingers?”
Francis looked down at his hands as if to confirm what he already knew about his lack of additional iron, and then looked up and asked, “Do you have some?”
“Yes,” Abbot Gregory said, a small smile playing across his face. “The college has existed for over one hundred years, Francis. We have had our share of difficult spirits. It is not something we usually speak of, and there are few in the Order who have sufficient strength and wherewithal to battle the dead. But just because there are few of us, doesn’t mean that there aren’t any. You have, from what you told me, moved beyond the realm of a simple monk.”
Francis looked at his Abbot. “You’re saying there are members of our Order who have fought the dead before?”
Abbot Gregory nodded. “Indeed. Not many, mind you, for God does not call us all to this purpose. Evidently, He has called you.”
“How come I’ve never heard of this before?” Francis asked. “I’ve never even read anything of the sort. Were records kept?”
“They were,” the older man said. “There are books, journals which are kept in my quarters, and within the special collections of the library. You may read them, when you are ready. Some will test your skills for they have not been translated from either French or Latin.”
“Thank you,” Francis said.
Abbot Gregory sighed, looked down at his hands and continued. “Well, you are more, now, Francis. You have passed through to a place many will never reach. There is a strength within you, a gift, which will allow you to battle those who have either intentionally or accidentally aligned themselves with evil.”
“You, you’re alright with this?” Francis said, gesturing towards the ammunition and the weapons.
“Quite,” the older man said. “It is new, and I would not have thought to employ a shotgun, but upon reflection, it is no surprise that you would. You were a soldier, Francis, and in your heart, you still are.”
