Something Stirs, page 24
Gonna get out.
No way in hell.
Even the rats knew that, goddamn goddamn, they had run away when he’d run past them, squealing like baby pigs, back into the sewer mouths that opened along the tracks, back to get ready for when he came back to the alley.
They knew he wasn’t gonna get out.
They knew it all along, goddamn little shits.
Bonita had tried. She had reached out to touch the express, and it had sucked her onto the tracks. No time for screaming. Not even his. After staring a while, scratching his head, he’d just trudged across the park and talked to one of the cops by the ruined Apollo. An hour later, they came. Less than an hour after that, they were gone.
Getting out.
Murtaugh cried, blew his nose, cried again and prayed he wouldn’t hear the screaming anymore.
If he didn’t, he’d get out.
Like hell.
That’s the way it was.
He sniffed and turned away when the snow clawed at his face, reached out beside him and pulled the Queen’s turban into his lap. Thumbed the silver diamond as if it were a magic lamp. No more screaming, he’d get out. Take a bath. Take a job.
Hat Trick Boy.
Goddamn.
Chapter Thirty-One
The acoustical tiles in the ceiling looked like they hadn’t been changed in a thousand years, and those damn tiny holes were probably filled with a secret nerve gas that kept the patients quiet whenever the nurses weren’t around to torture them, give them shots, feed them the garbage that pretended to be food, wake them up to give them a sleeping pill, tell them to get some rest in the middle of the afternoon.
He had figured that out yesterday.
He had been ready to go home the day before that, when he first woke up and found himself alone, the second bed empty.
So far, however, no luck with figuring out how to get out of here before he went bananas.
“Scott,” his mother scolded with a laugh in her voice, “if you don’t stop twitching, I’m going to strap you down, you hear?”
“Well, what’s taking them so long, Mom? God, it isn’t like they have to make one from scratch. It’s only a temporary one, until the new one gets done.”
She rose from the chair by the window and walked over to the bed, fussed with the sheet, sighed, and walked to the open door and looked out.
“See?” he said, gleefully vindicated. “See?”
“Oh hush up.”
He chuckled.
He swung his leg over the side of the bed, rubbed the side of his neck, and stared out the tinted window.
As far as he could tell, the sky was clear, the air was cold, and it would probably be a white Christmas.
Big … deal.
“You know,” she said, leaning against the frame, “I’m surprised the kids haven’t visited you more often.”
He shrugged.
“It’s not like them. Especially Fern. She’s only one floor down.”
He refused the bait.
The radiator snapped at him.
“Well, if you’re okay, I’m going down there to see what’s taking so long. They were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“You’ll be all right?”
“Sure. What am I going to do, fly?”
She left.
He didn’t see or hear her go; he felt her absence.
As he felt someone walk into the room a minute later, felt someone stand at his back until he turned around and grinned.
“Hey, Dale.”
Dale, his face uncovered, unsightly tracks where most of the stitches still lay, grinned back. “You looking for Santa?”
“Something like that.”
Dale leaned over the radiator, his nose close to the window. It reminded Scott of another time, too long ago, and he touched the boy’s shoulder to move him back.
“I’m okay, really. I’m not gonna fall.” He pointed at Scott’s hip. “You gonna get your leg today?”
Scott grunted.
“Can I see it?”
“Sure, why not?”
A nurse wheeled in a cart to take his temperature, blood pressure, suggest that perhaps Mr. Byrns would like to lie back for a while, until the doctor and therapist arrived. Scott said he’d rather sit up, he’d been on his back too long already, he was about ready to scream. Dale agreed. The nurse shrugged and left with her equipment.
A bird flew by the window.
He waited for it to come back.
Dale left to take his nap.
His mother returned with the day’s newspaper, scowled at the headlines, scowled at the weather report, probably would have scowled at the obituaries if he hadn’t begged her to stop. Besides, he didn’t give a damn about the news. He’d already read about the Queen jumping in front of a train—the story stuck way the hell in back like nobody cared—had already made himself a promise to find Blade as soon as he got out, no matter what his mother said.
He only hoped the little guy wouldn’t die on him before he did.
When, despite his best intentions to cover it, he yawned and she caught him, he was ordered into bed.
“Rest,” she commanded, closing the door behind her.
Right, he thought.
The door opened again.
“God, Mom—”
It was Fern. On crutches.
He sat up hastily, not sure what to say. When Barnaby had led the Pack back to the hospital that night, it had been Fern who had come up with the story that fooling around on the street had caused the injuries they’d taken. That she had been bleeding herself, her shoe nearly chewed off, gave credence to Pancho’s addition that they’d attracted some dogs who’d gone after them, and run away when Tang scattered them with her car.
If there were doubts among the staff, they hadn’t been mentioned.
“Hi,” she said, still on the threshold. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” He didn’t know what else to say. “Sure. I’m going nuts in here.”
She sat on the empty bed and lifted her foot to rest on the mattress. “I’m getting out in an hour.”
“Hey, that’s great.”
“Your leg?”
He nodded. “This afternoon. A temporary. Dr. Freelin’s got some connections or something, he’s going to fit me with one of those motorized jobs when the stump heals.”
“Motorized?”
He grinned.
“Creep.”
She looked great. A little pale. But her eyes were bright, her voice strong and steady.
It tore him apart.
“Scott—”
He waved her silent.
“No,” she said. “I can’t. This isn’t right.”
But it was, and they both knew it.
During the only time the Pack had come to see them, the only time Scott would see them, he had told them what they wanted to know, what they hadn’t wanted to hear. Pancho hadn’t slept because he was afraid his walls would open up one night and let out the bees. Scott told him it wouldn’t happen, not if the Pack broke up. For good.
It was the only way, he told them while they turned their heads, tried not to weep; it was the only way to break the energy chain Eddie Roman had created.
Soon enough, he had reasoned, all that fear would weaken, all that terror would subside. Soon enough, it wouldn’t be any worse than anyone else’s vague feelings of unease. Soon enough, they’d be strong enough to let in some doubt. And the other people, the ones who’d never known what was going on—Blade and Slap and who knew who all else—soon enough they would barely remember a thing.
They would never be totally free, but neither would they be endangered.
The monsters were real, but if they didn’t scare you—
Soon enough.
“What if you’re wrong?” Fern asked tearfully, almost stuttering in her anger. “You were wrong once, suppose you’re wrong again? Suppose some frightened little kid, or some guy who’s about to lose his life savings, suppose they tap in before it’s all gone? Suppose—” Angrily she grabbed the crutches and hauled herself up. “The hell with it. I don’t care.”
He yelped and shoved back against the headboard, pointing at the floor. “Jesus, a bug!”
She didn’t move. “Big deal.” She looked around, only mildly perturbed. “So where is it, I’ll squash it.”
He grinned smugly. “See? You’re learning already.”
She didn’t return the grin. Instead she came to his bed and leaned over it, frowning. “I don’t want to never have to see you again, Scott. I mean it.”
“Me neither,” he answered truthfully. “But for a while—”
“Yeah, yeah.” She turned away. “Right.” At the door she stopped, and he saw her back straighten as she took a slow breath. “We killed them, Scott. Katie’s dead and Joey’s dead, but we both killed our monsters. It’s supposed to be a happy ending.”
“It will be,” he promised, closed his eyes, made a wish. “Swear to God, Fern, it will be.”
She left without responding.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling, counted the holes, said nothing when his mother and the doctors finally returned and fussed and fitted with his new prosthesis; said nothing as he test-walked the halls and ignored the twinges and fire in his leg; said nothing but a mumbled “goodbye” when visiting hours were over and his mother finally left him alone.
He watched television.
He walked a little more.
He stopped at Dale’s door, remembering his promise. The boy was on his knees on his bed, testing its bounce and laughing. When he saw Scott in the doorway, he clapped his hands and said, “Will you say the magic for me? Laine’s not here. She probably forgot.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, pal. It’s kind of late, you know.”
“Bedtime.”
“Just about.”
“No dragons.”
Scott grinned. “That’s right, no dragons.”
“I know that sometimes. Really I do.” He scrambled under the covers, pointed at the television on its stand bolted to the wall. “Watch cartoons with me?”
“Hey, you think I’m stupid? It’s too late for that.”
“Pretend cartoons, Scottie. Boy, you’re silly.”
Scott watched him settle in, and wanted to cry again, and wanted to laugh. Thanks, buddy, he thought as he walked across the room, holding the hospital gown up so Dale could see how the leg worked; thanks, I needed that.
“Neat,” Dale decided sleepily.
“I think so.” He perched on the edge of the bed. “So, what’s on?”
“Bugs Bunny.”
“Good. Cool guy.”
Dale nodded.
Scott watched the blank screen and saw Fern, saw Tang, saw Barnaby and Pancho. For a brief moment he felt like a murderer, almost ran from the room to find the nearest telephone.
Dale giggled.
Scott relaxed.
“No witches,” Dale whispered.
“No witches,” he agreed. And: “Always,” he added.
“Dragons, sometimes, though,” the boy mumbled, shifting to lie on his side.
Scott tickled him, rearranged his covers. “What do you mean by that, you little punk?”
Dale looked at him like he was stupid.
Scott crossed his eyes.
The boy giggled again.
“Okay,” Scott conceded, “so I’m stupid, okay? So what do you mean, dragons sometimes.”
“Well … sometimes.”
“Sometimes what?”
Dale sat up then and looked out the window. “Sometimes they get waked up, Scottie. And they get mad when they get waked up, you know, really mad.”
“Well, so would I, somebody wakes me up when I’m sleeping.”
“But I bet you don’t yell.”
Scott saw their reflection, and Foxriver through it. “No. No, I guess I don’t.”
“Well, they do. And they sound just like people.”
Scott eased off the bed, turned off the light. Through the open door, he heard a moaning drift down the hallway.
“Can’t you hear them, Scottie?”
He stood in the dark and looked out the window.
“Can’t you hear them?”
Charles L. Grant, Something Stirs
