What the—?
Cal opened his eyes, mere inches from Justine’s, which were closed. Frantic, he bucked his hips, causing the nurse’s unconscious body to rock just enough for him to scoot out from beneath her.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yelled, spitting blood onto the floor while at the same time wiping at his mouth with his hands.
He looked up and saw the impossible: Justine seemed to be levitating just a few inches from the ground, blood from the back of her head dripping off her sagging cheeks and forming a steady trail onto the floor. The skin around her eyes was turning blue, and her breathing was incredibly labored.
Cal again felt his stomach lurch.
How is this possible?
He raised his eyes a little higher and saw Shelly standing above Justine, her legs spread, the heavy flashlight in one hand, the end marred by red and flecks of pink. Her eyes were squinted, her expression fierce.
Cal gaped.
“You got beat up by a girl,” Shelly said with a smirk. “A fucking girl.”
Chapter 37
Robert’s feet seemed to be embedded in ice. He was still holding the flashlight in his hand, but it seemed wholly ineffective versus Andrew and his scalpel. His eyes darted about the room, looking for anything that he might be able to use, a welcome distraction to the confusion that washed over him.
Can Andrew kill Dr. Mansfield…again?
Both of the men were already dead, that much Robert was sure of. Everything else, however…
What he knew for certain was that he didn’t want Dr. Mansfield to be sent to the Goat. The man deserved better than that. After all, he had saved Robert.
Now it was his turn to return the favor, if that was at all possible.
His eyes fell on the backpack that Shelly had handed him, and her voice ripped through his brain.
Blowtorch!
The ice that gripped his legs suddenly thawed and he scrambled for the blowtorch out of sheer instinct. He had no idea what he was going to do with it, but as Andrew drove the knife deeper and the blood began to flow out of Dr. Mansfield’s mouth and drip to the floor, any semblance of rationality left him.
Robert somehow managed to light the blowtorch on the first try and it hissed to life, illuminating the room in a wash of yellow that battled with the incandescent blue from the flashlight that he had set down on the desk. The eerie lighting reminded him of the Marrow after Leland had showed up and the sky had changed from clouds to flames.
The light reflected off Dr. Shaw’s eyes, making the dark orbs glitter as he continued to grind his hand back and forth.
His fist was almost completely buried inside Dr. Mansfield now.
Robert stepped from behind the desk, holding the blowtorch with the four-inch flame out in front of him.
“Andrew, let him go!” Robert shouted. Dr. Shaw’s only response was to stare into Dr. Mansfield’s eyes and drive the blade even deeper. A hollow croak joined the blood pouring out of Dr. Mansfield’s mouth.
Robert took another step forward, and this time Dr. Shaw turned to face him.
The man was even more sinister now that his face was turned toward the flames; his entire pale face seemed to flicker and shimmer.
“You think that will hurt me?” he laughed a dry cackle. “Did you learn nothing, Robert Watts? Did Leland teach you nothing?”
Robert was advancing as the other man spoke, but at the mention of Leland’s name and the resulting image of the man in the hat that flashed in his mind, he stopped.
Dr. Andrew Shaw laughed and twisted the knife again.
“You can’t kill me with that,” he said, lifting his chin toward the blowtorch. “You can’t kill me at all.”
Robert glanced at the flame and knew deep down that what the man was saying was right. The paltry comfort that it offered him was superficial; a torch would do nothing to a dead man like Shaw.
But the man’s blade, on the other hand, seemed more than capable of harming Dr. Mansfield, who moaned and slumped.
Desperation overcame Robert as he stared into the psychopath’s flickering face.
If the torch wouldn’t help him, what would? How could he ever save his friends? His daughter?
He was on the verge of giving up, of resigning himself to using the blowtorch and seeing what happened, when Dr. Mansfield’s mouth started to move.
There was no way for him to hear the man over the hissing of the torch, so he tried to read lips instead.
The boulder? The molder? The colder?
Robert squinted hard, knowing that at any moment Andrew could slip Dr. Mansfield off his blade and then come for him. And when he got to Robert, he wouldn’t have to shiv him; all he would have to do was touch him and Robert would be back in Leland’s grasp.
His eyes continued to whip around the room at a frenzied pace, until he got dizzy and he was forced to rest a hand on the desk to keep his balance.
I’m sorry, Cal. I’m sorry, Shelly. I’m—
But then his eyes fell on the blue notepad that he had taken from the desk earlier.
The folder!
Robert lunged for it.
Shelly’s words from what seemed a lifetime ago sounded in his head.
You need to bind the quiddity to something…something that means something to them.
He grabbed the folder and held it up to Andrew like some sort of effigy. Dr. Shaw’s expression, previously one of maniacal glee, suddenly became serious.
“Don’t,” he said simply. And then he used the hand that was holding Dr. Mansfield’s shoulder to push him off the scalpel. Dr. Mansfield slumped to the floor, unmoving.
“Don’t,” the man warned.
Robert didn’t hesitate. Before Andrew could leap at him, he brought the book up to the end of the blowtorch and set it alight.
“No!” Dr. Shaw bellowed. When the man was within a foot of Robert, he thrust the burning book at him and then scrambled backward.
Dr. Andrew Shaw couldn’t help himself. He dropped the scalpel, then grabbed the flaming book with both hands, clutching it to his chest in an attempt to smother it.
Robert didn’t know if quiddity were particularly flammable, or if it was just because Andrew Shaw had been bound to an object that meant something to him, but he ignited as if soaked in kerosene.
And judging by the way he cradled the burning book against his chest with both hands, it meant more than something to him.
It meant everything.
Dr. Shaw shuddered, and his figure all of a sudden became less whole. The man’s eyes whipped up, and it was immediately apparent to Robert that the man with the flames leaping up his lab coat and licking at his face, melting his shaggy brown hair, wasn’t Dr. Shaw anymore.
It was Andrew Shaw, the obedient, intelligent medical student that Dr. Mansfield had described.
Sadness unexpectedly overcame Robert as he watched the man’s outline start to waver.
The man didn’t say anything as he burned, which somehow made things worse. He didn’t cry, he didn’t scream, he didn’t plead for his soul. He simply faded in silence, his body burning quickly, reminding Robert of the way the sky had looked in the Marrow, the way the tortured faces had grown and shrunk, bellowing in flames.
And then Andrew Shaw was gone; the only evidence that he had ever been there was a piled of soot in the center of the room.
Robert stared at that pile for a good minute, trying to understand what had just happened. Then he heard a soft moan, and remembered that Dr. Mansfield was still crumpled in a ball on the floor. He ran to him, crouching, nearly touching him before remembering.
“Dr. Mansfield?” he said, only partly expecting a response.
But Dr. Mansfield surprised him by raising his eyes and turning his head to face him.
“I’m sorry,” the man said softly, which was followed by a cough and a thin stream of blood that trickled down his chin.
“Sorry? For what?”
“I—I—” But the man couldn’t finish.
>
“It’s okay, Dr. Mansfield,” Robert consoled him. He gave the doctor’s body a onceover, trying to figure out what the fuck he was going to do. The man was on his side, his knees curled up to his chest, his hands clutching his midsection. Blood was starting to pool beneath his body.
“What’s going to happen next?” Dr. Mansfield asked unexpectedly.
Robert hesitated, and then answered with the first thing that came to mind.
“I don’t know…”
But Robert thought that he knew. Inside, he knew.
This man wasn’t going to the serene shores of the Marrow.
No, Dr. George Mansfield was going to the other place. The one with the flames, the faces in the fire, the muddy hands on the shore. He was going to see Leland Black.
Bringing Robert back meant that he was destined to answer to the Goat.
“Doctor, I—Doctor!”
The man’s eyes rolled back into his head and went a pitch black, whites and all.
“Doctor!”
Robert felt a tingling in his lids, and knew that tears were coming. But then a deep, thundering cry filled the Seventh Ward and he forced them away.
There was more work to do.
There was another George that needed to be purged.
Chapter 38
“What do we do? What the fuck do we do?” Cal begged desperately. A shout for George rang out in the hallway, and he quickly glanced back into the room. The monster was still tied down, but he was awake now and pulling hard against the restraints. Judging by the way the leather was beginning to split, it was clear that they wouldn’t hold for long.
“Shit, Shelly. What the fuck do we do?”
His eyes darted from Shelly, who was still standing in that same dominant pose, the flashlight gripped in one hand, to Justine.
The woman wasn’t levitating as he had first thought, but she was choking to death. Her face had turned a deep blue, and bubbles had started to form in the corners of her lips.
Her scrubs had gotten trapped in the door when it closed, and now it was holding her parallel to the ground, the V-neck opening pressing into her throat, cutting off her air supply.
“Let the bitch die,” Shelly said bluntly.
Cal made a face and his eyes whipped about again.
What the hell should we do?
Justine was probably the worst of the bunch, worse than even George because she was alive, but it still didn’t feel right to just let her die here like this.
He reached up and pulled at his hair.
“Fuck,” he shouted.
There was the sound of stirring in the room, but he didn’t dare look. Whatever they were going to do, be it leave or free Justine, they had to do it quickly.
Cal brought a hand from his head to the wound on his face, hissing at the pain. There was no doubt that Justine’s handiwork would leave a mark.
Not as bad as George, but bad nonetheless. Cal was suddenly reminded of Danny Dekeyser, the man who had provided the face that was stitched to the monster inside the cell.
You promise you will help us? That you will send us home?
Cal’s eyes whipped down to Justine as a thought occurred to him. It was a long shot, but if it worked, it would solve a lot of their problems.
“Quick,” he said, dropping to one knee in front of the dying nurse. “Help me get her out of the door.”
At first, Shelly didn’t move and Cal glanced up at her.
“Please, Shel, I have a plan.”
Again, nothing.
“For fuck’s sake, Shelly, just give me a fucking hand!”
Shelly finally moved to action, quickly reaching for the door. She tried to pull it open, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Get the keycard,” Cal said, lifting Justine’s head. A horrible wheeze escaped her as she finally drew in a full breath. Her blue pallor faded slightly, and for a second Cal thought that she was going to wake and attack him again. But as her breathing regulated, she remained unconscious.
Shelly dropped to the floor and began searching through the woman’s pockets. Justine’s head was so heavy that Cal had to use both hands to hold it up.
“You find it?”
“Looking…fuck.”
“What?”
Shelly flicked a taut wire that ran from the waist of Shelly’s scrubs to the door. Like the scrubs themselves, the keycard was stuck inside the room. Which meant that they were going to have to cut the woman’s clothes off her.
There was a loud snapping sound from inside the room followed by a deep, resonating groan.
And it also meant that George would be able to use the card to get out.
“Cut the clothes off, Shelly, hurry!”
She looked at him, an eyebrow raised.
“With what? You think I’ve got knitting shears in my back pocket?”
Cal swore under his breath and looked around.
“Shine the flashlight over there,” he instructed, indicating behind him.
Shelly obliged, and the light reflected off the crowbar.
“There! Grab the crowbar. Use the sharp end to tear the fabric.”
Shelly ran to it and brought it back.
Cal, still holding the nurse’s head so that she could breathe, indicated a spot by the neck where the fabric had frayed slightly.
“Start there. Once you make a hole, we can just rip it.”
There was another snap from inside the room—which made two. Cal only hoped that it was George’s legs straps, because if they were his arms, then he would be able to unbuckle the legs.
And then they would have seconds and not minutes.
Shelly, sensing his urgency, put the flashlight on the ground and used both hands to plant the curved end of the crowbar in the frayed area. She pushed hard, and Justine groaned.
“What?” she asked when Cal gave her a look.
Then she pulled, and Cal heard the satisfying sound of fabric tearing. He let her head go again, and together he and Shelly tore the shirt from her body. When they were done, Justine fell face first onto the hard linoleum, and Cal heard a crunch of what he suspected was her nose breaking.
Meh, she deserved that.
“Okay, quick, grab a leg.”
But again, Shelly hesitated. In fact, she appeared frozen.
Cal reached for the flashlight and shone it up at her. Not even the bright light aimed directly in her eyes elicited a response.
Her expression was one of pure horror. At first, Cal thought that she was staring at the door, that George was coming out, but then he realized that she was looking at Justine’s back.
Cal couldn’t stomach another glance, as just the recollection of the gaping wounds, the scars, the stitches, was enough to force him to swallow hard.
“Don’t look,” he said between gulps. “Don’t look, just pull.”
Shelly blinked, and held an arm up in front of her face to shield herself from the bright light and to block out the gruesome sight.
With her other hand, she reached down and grabbed one of Shelly’s legs while Cal took the other.
Both of them stood and started to pull, grunting as they dragged Justine across the floor. A quick glance back revealed a meandering trail of blood from her face on the dark tiles.
“Where are we going?” Shelly grunted.
Cal gave a stiff yank, and they picked up the pace, now at least a dozen feet from the door to the cell.
“Back to—”
But then they heard a beep, and Cal’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat.
“Pull!” he yelled. “Shelly, fucking pull!”
Cal and Shelly had barely yanked Justine’s still unconscious body through the threshold of their cell before George rushed by.
Heaving, sweating, Cal pushed his back against the wall, praying that the monster didn’t see him. For at least a minute, he stood there with Shelly beside him, waiting and listening. Even after the monster’s footsteps had receded out of earshot, they remained rooted in place.
Chapter 39
Robert froze.
Even as the heavy, off-balance footsteps neared, he couldn’t find it in himself to actually move. He knew that he should run, or at worst hide behind the desk before George approached, but he didn’t.
Fear was part of it, but there was something else, too, something that he didn’t quite understand.
George turned the corner and filled the doorway of the office, his heavy breathing audible even over the hissing of the blowtorch that sat unattended on the desk.
They locked eyes, and Robert did his best to hold his ground. It was an unnerving experience, something that took all of his effort, particularly given the horrible stitches and the sloped, uneven shape of his head.
“I’m going to tear your heart out,” George said at last. The beast took an off-balance step forward, but still Robert didn’t move. His lack of apparent fear seemed to render George uncertain, as he stopped after just one step. It was then that Robert saw the bloody calf muscle on George’s right leg.
His calf muscle.
Robert swallowed hard and then instinctively pulled up his right pant leg. He wasn’t sure why he did this—perhaps he thought that it might incite some strange sort of kinship, seeing as George now possessed a part of him, or maybe it was just to make it known that they had both been injured by the same person. But when George’s dark black eyes fell on the wound, they suddenly went wide.
George gasped, and he shuffled backward awkwardly.
“You’ve been touched by him! By the Goat!”
Robert’s eyes quickly flicked down, and locked on the three gray, elongated claw marks.
“I won’t go back,” George bellowed, before turning and running in his off-balance gait out of the room.
Robert waited for a moment, contemplating the monster’s words.
Back? He’s been before? I thought no one came back…
But Robert himself was clear evidence that one could come back.
Something came over him then, a sudden desire—need, even—to send George back to the Marrow. To banish him.
And that time was of the essence.
There was no way that he could let this quiddity remain with the living.
The Seventh Ward (The Haunted Book 2) Page 16
