Darklings, p.6
Darklings, page 6
Megan left the office and turned left into the ladies’ room. She hung her uniform on the door of the stall, then turned to the sink, looking at her reflection in the mirror on the wall above it.
Not exactly a Pam Brewster, she thought, but I can’t complain too much.
Her hair was a sort of dirty blond, which she wasn’t so crazy about. But if it didn’t shine a whole lot, at least it was full and looked very soft. Her eyes were a pretty blue and were rather round. A boy in the eighth grade had once told her, with a nervously quivering voice, that he’d like to spend a whole Sunday afternoon just staring into those eyes. The memory made her laugh now, but then, just three years ago, she’d lived for weeks off of the remark. Megan thought her lips were her face’s strong point. They were nicely shaped, very kissable. Sometimes people thought she was wearing some sort of lipstick when she really wasn’t.
She went on to her neck, frowning a bit, wondering if it was a nice neck. She couldn’t really tell. She looked at the reflection of her small breasts in the mirror
(Definitely no Pam Brewster there, kiddo; in fact, there’s hardly any Megan Crawford there)
and wanted to spit, they made her so angry. What the hell were breasts but a couple of lumps of fat with little rosy hats on? What was the fascination guys had with them, and what the hell, besides big tits, did Pam Brewster have that Megan Crawford didn’t?
(Maybe he just doesn’t like you anymore, maybe he’s just bored with you and Pam-baby is a little more exciting. Did you ever think of that, didja, huh?)
“He’s just an asshole,” she hissed at her reflection, “that’s what his problem is.” Realizing that she looked and sounded like a little girl, she turned away from the mirror and changed into her uniform.
She was standing in front of the mirror again, running a brush through her hair, when the door opened and Beth Lim came in. She was a tall, thin Oriental girl with hair that fell nearly to her waist. She was a candy striper, too, but Megan knew her mostly from school. They exchanged greetings and Beth went into the stall.
“Did you hear about what happened early this morning, Megan?” Beth asked, her words accompanied by the rustling of her movements.
“No. Where?”
“In ER.” Beth told her what she’d heard on the news that morning.
“God, that’s awful,” Megan replied, halfheartedly, as she rummaged through her purse for her lip balm. Her lips were beginning to sting and she wanted to keep them from getting too chapped if she could.
“Not so awful. The guy did kill over twenty people, you know.”
Megan could hear the trickling sound of the girl urinating.
“Know what else?” Beth asked. “Dr. Hunt—you know, in ER?—everybody’s saying he thinks he saw something crawl out of the guy’s face. Out of his mouth or nose or something. It was a worm, long and black. Crazy, huh?”
Megan’s hand, the lip balm held between her fingers, stopped halfway to her face. Her eyebrows curled together and her forehead wrinkled. She’d worked with Dr. Hunt before, delivering things to ER for him or one of the nurses. Seeing him always seemed to brighten her day; he always made her feel good.
A worm?
“What was it?” she asked.
“Nobody knows. It crawled away. Convenient, huh?” The toilet paper roll began to rattle as Beth unrolled some of it.
“What do you mean by that?” Megan asked defensively, turning toward the closed stall.
“Well, just that … c’mon, Megan, you don’t think he really saw something like that, do you? That’s crazy.” There was more rustling. Then the toilet flushed loudly.
“He must’ve seen something.”
The stall door opened and Beth stepped out, running her hands smoothingly over her uniform. “The guy’s just too fast at the mouth, that’s all. Remember that thing with Dr. Porter?”
“He was just trying to help his—” Megan stopped abruptly, stepping aside so Beth could wash her hands. She really didn’t know Dr. Hunt that well, she just liked him. He was so nice to her, and he was … well, he was very good-looking, she had to admit. Very appealing.
Knock it off, she thought. He’s just a nice guy and you’re trying to stand up for him, is all. She quickly applied the lip balm.
(Of course, there was that dream a few nights ago when you licked him all over. Remember that, kiddo? Huh?)
“I guess it is pretty crazy,” Megan said quietly, returning the lip balm to her purse. “I’ll see you later, Beth.” She left the bathroom and went back to Mrs. Munson’s office.
Mrs. Munson was on the phone, but she ended the call just a few seconds after Megan came in. She told Megan that the lady in room 307, bed A, needed to be taken to X ray.
Megan caught an elevator in the lobby and punched the button for the third floor. The elevator had apparently just been cleaned because it smelled of some sort of disinfectant. Everything smelled funny in the hospital, but Megan got used to it rather quickly.
It had been her mother’s idea that she do volunteer work at the hospital. Megan had said something, just in passing, about becoming a nurse, like her mother, and the woman had immediately taken in a breath and started talking.
“Well, then, Megan, it’s about time you started hanging around the hospital, because nursing isn’t all General Hospital and Medical Center, it’s real stuff, and if you really want to test your potential as a nurse, then become a candy striper, or some other kind of volunteer. Then we’ll see what kind of nurse you’ll make.”
Megan hadn’t been too crazy about the idea at first, but she’d found that she really did enjoy the work. The work itself wasn’t always enjoyable. Sometimes it was very depressing, in fact, being around so many sick people, people who had lost their minds, who were old and dying. But the fact that she was doing it made her feel kind of good about herself. She was seriously considering nursing now.
Just as long, she often thought, as I don’t have to work with Mother.
When the elevator stopped, she stepped out and turned right, going through the double doors that led into the geriatric ward. The smell hit her like a gust of wind. It was always there waiting on the other side of those doors. It was stale air that carried the smell of urine and disinfectant with it. And there was something else mixed in, too, something that Megan had never been able to identify. It was sweet, almost a pleasant smell. But there was also something rank about it. It was very weak and sometimes she didn’t smell it at all. Whenever she had to spend any time on that ward, though, it usually hit her sooner or later.
It’s almost as if you can smell the people in here wasting away, it occurred to her.
Clair wheeled by. She always seemed to be there, riding in her wheelchair up and down the corridor, her wrinkled old face determined. She would get to the double doors Megan had just come through, and then she would turn the chair around and wheel down to the window that looked out on the garden below at the other end of the corridor. Then she would turn around and do it again.
Megan stopped at the nurse’s station and told the nurse that she’d come for the lady in 307-A.
“That’s Mrs. Webster,” the nurse said, pointing across the corridor to the room.
Megan stepped into room 307. Mrs. Rosella Webster was sitting on the edge of her bed, smacking her lips. She was a big woman, a mountain under a multicolored, short-sleeved robe. Huge folds of flesh hung down over her elbows and quivered when she moved, and her lips, moist and rubbery, never seemed to stop moving. Now and then her mouth would fall open and she’d take in a deep breath, then let it out loudly. Her gray hair looked dirty; it clung together in clumps, leaving patches of her scalp open and looking bare.
“Hello, Mrs. Webster,” Megan said with a smile, introducing herself and telling the old woman why she was there. There was a wheelchair folded up against the wall by the bed and Megan pulled it out and opened it up. “You want to just sit in here, Mrs. Webster?”
“Take me out of here,” the woman said, and her voice startled Megan. It was like the sound the drain in the kitchen sink made when the last of the dishwater gurgled down the pipe. “’Bout time. I hate this room, you know that?”
“Why’s that?”
“See her?” Mrs. Webster lifted her massive form from the bed, turned, and lowered herself into the wheelchair, at the same time pointing one fat finger toward the other bed in the room.
A fragile-looking old woman lay in it, still except for the tiny breaths she was taking through her gaping mouth, which looked like it had sort of fallen in on itself. With each breath, she made a little mewing sound. Her wide, foggy eyes stared up at the ceiling.
“All she does,” Mrs. Webster said in her rattly voice, “is lay over there and whimper. Whimper, whimper, whimper. That’s all she does. Can’t get a word out of her.” She stopped talking for a moment, but those rubbery lips kept twitching and wiggling. She looked down at Megan, who was adjusting the footrests on the chair. The woman’s eyes were reduced to small, wrinkled slits because of the puffy skin that hung down over them from below her eyebrows, and because of her great, round cheeks. The cheeks were pale and pasty, like the rest of her skin. Megan noticed that there was the shadow of a mustache above her upper lip.
“Well,” Megan said reassuringly, “I’m sure she’s a very sick lady.”
“I’m a sick lady, too,” Mrs. Webster gurgled. “Don’t know why they don’t take care of me.”
Megan wheeled the heavy woman out the door and down the corridor. “You’re taken care of, aren’t you, Mrs. Webster? They take good care of patients here.”
“Not me, they don’t. I never get enough to eat. They never feed me. Just those little snacks three times a day. I’m hungry. And I never get enough to eat around here. I get so hungry I could eat that whiner in my room. It’d shut her up, at least.”
Megan had to stifle a little laugh. “You wouldn’t want to do that, Mrs. Webster.”
“They don’t keep this place clean, either.”
Megan wheeled the chair into the elevator just beyond Three-South and punched a button. She didn’t reply to Mrs. Webster’s remark.
“This place is just full of things,” the old lady continued.
“Things?” Megan asked absently.
“Diseases. There are diseases crawling all over the place. On the floors and walls, under the beds. Black, ugly diseases.”
Megan noticed that Mrs. Webster’s hands were clenching and unclenching the ends of the armrests on the wheelchair, constantly moving, just like those moist, rubbery lips.
“Well, it is a hospital. There are a lot of sick people here. It’s a lot of work to keep the place clean, but they try.” Megan was getting used to these kinds of conversations. Patients were always complaining to her about the hospital and the workers, telling her they were being held prisoner against their will, or that they secretly owned the hospital and were just checking up on its efficiency.
(It’s a nice place to visit, but … et cetera, et cetera)
The elevator doors opened and Megan pushed Mrs. Webster out. When they got to X ray, Megan told the receptionist that Mrs. Webster had arrived. Then she stood before the woman in the wheelchair and smiled.
“I’m going to go now, Mrs. Webster,” she said, “but someone will be back to get you when you’re done with your X rays.”
“Will you come back?” Mrs. Webster croaked.
“I might. If I can.”
“Know what? I used to look like you.” Those wiggly lips that seemed to have a mind of their own turned up in what seemed to be a bizarre parody of a smile, revealing long, Old teeth. “I used to be pretty, like you.”
Megan wanted to say something like, Well, you’re still a handsome woman, Mrs. Webster. But she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. So she just smiled and swallowed the wet lump that was starting to grow in her throat.
(Yes, Mrs. Webster, and someday I may look like you, so I guess I shouldn’t complain too much about these little boobs of mine right now, should I?)
“Maybe I’ll come visit you, Mrs. Webster,” Megan said through her stiff smile.
Mrs. Webster’s head nodded and the sack of flesh in which her chin was buried trembled. “Yes, I’d like that. I’d like that.” Her smile disappeared and her face suddenly became solemn. “Watch out for those diseases, now, you hear? They’re crawling all over the place.”
Megan nodded weakly.
“And,” Mrs. Webster whispered, trying to lean forward a bit, “maybe you could bring me something to eat.”
Megan decided not to tell her that she wasn’t allowed to do that, because she wanted to be somewhere else right now. Anywhere else, it really didn’t matter. She took one more look into those glistening eyes half buried in flesh, smiled, and left X ray, getting back into the elevator.
6
Hunt
* * *
When sleep finally came to Martin Hunt on that morning, it brought with it strange dreams. One of them found Hunt in ER, alone, with the lights down low. He was smoking a cigarette, knowing full well that he wasn’t supposed to smoke in the emergency room; but he was doing it anyway. He heard a sound, the sound of feet shuffling over the hard tile floor, and he suddenly noticed that Jeffery Collinson was standing beside him in the shadows. His eyes were bulging and watery, his clothes were dirty and torn, just like before, but the splint on his arm was gone. His arm was still broken, though; it was crooked and lumpy. There was blood on his clothes and he smelled dreadful. He smiled, those dirty, crooked teeth sticking out in all directions, the thumb of one hand hooked in his pants pocket, the other hand holding a cigarette. The cigarette was bent and dirty, with … was that a … yes, that was a tire track on the cigarette. It had been run over right along with Collinson.
“Hey, Doc,” Collinson rasped, “you got a light? I need a smoke. Need t’clear my sinuses. Got something crawlin’ around up in my sinuses. Gotta clear it up. You got a light, Doc?”
Hunt took out his Bic, flicked it, and held it up to Collinson’s cigarette.
“Gotta be careful, though,” Collinson mumbled with the bent cigarette in his lips, “them things bite.”
And it had come then—that black, wet-looking thing had poured from Collinson’s nostril and wrapped itself around Hunt’s hand and wrist, and it just kept coming and coming from Collinson’s nose, crawling up Hunt’s arm to his shoulder until he could hold his scream in no longer and the dream stopped suddenly.
So did his sleep.
He got up and smoked a cigarette and ate half of a pastrami sandwich that was in a Baggie in the fridge. He’d just popped the last bite into his mouth when the phone rang.
“Martin Hunt,” he said.
“Hello, Dr. Hunt,” said a pleasant female voice. It sounded as if she was smiling into the mouthpiece of the receiver. “My name is Candice Bentley. I’m a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle. I wanted to ask you a few questions about Jeffery—”
“Collinson, yes, I know,” Hunt finished for her. “But there’s really nothing I can tell you except that I examined him when he died.”
“Did he say anything before—”
“He said nothing that I wouldn’t expect from someone in a great deal of pain.”
(It’s gonna come now)
“Well, is there anything you can tell me about—”
“Look,” Hunt interrupted gently, “I’m going to prepare a statement for the press that should answer all of your questions. I haven’t even gotten the coroner’s report yet. I will pass the information on to you, though, all right? And, Miss … uh … Bentley, I’d greatly appreciate it if you not call me at home anymore, okay? Goodbye.” He hung the phone up with a sigh.
He wondered, as he went back into the kitchen for a beer, what Candice Bentley of the San Francisco Chronicle would have said had he told her what he’d seen, what had really happened. He would have if he’d had someone to back him up, someone else who had seen that thing. Someone like Tom Conrad. He’d just popped the tab on the beer can when he heard voices outside his front door.
“—just a friend of Dr. Hunt’s. I really can’t answer any of your questions.”
The front door opened and he could hear several people all speaking at once, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying; their words were all jumbled and quickly spoken. He didn’t need to understand them, though, to know who they were. Putting the beer down on the counter, he hurried out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Julie was just closing the front door. She twisted the lock on the knob, then turned, her eyebrows bouncing up a little when she saw Hunt. She held a white bag in one arm.
“You’re up,” she said simply, a little disappointed.
“Are those reporters out there?” he asked her, walking toward the door.
“You didn’t know? Good god, it’s like a convention in your front yard.”
“Jesus! Don’t they ever give up?” He turned the knob, found it was locked, and started to fumble with the lock button.
“Uh … Martin.”
He looked over his shoulder at her.
She looked him over with a smirk. “It wouldn’t look very good for you to face the press looking like that.”
He looked down at himself; he was wearing a T-shirt with a faded picture of Beethoven on it and an old pair of gym shorts. He chuckled, dropping his hand from the doorknob. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.” He walked over to her and took the white bag from her, peeking into it. “This smells suspiciously like food,” he said, sniffing theatrically. “Chinese, no less.”
“Thought I’d come crawl into bed with you and we could munch out between the sheets.” She took off her sweater and tossed it onto the sofa. “I’m not sure I have enough energy left to crawl into bed. I’m exhausted.”
He stepped over to her and kissed her with a smile. “Then crawl into bed you must. I’ll be right in. I’m going to call Tom.” He curled the top of the bag over and handed it to her, then turned and went back into the kitchen.
“You mean about this morning?” she asked, following him.
