The Dark Ones (25 page)

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Authors: Anthony Izzo

BOOK: The Dark Ones
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He looked up. The demon, horned and leather faced, flicked out a pebbled tongue, as if mocking him.
 
 
Laura followed Sara to the top of the stairs. The house had taken on a stale odor. Laura became aware of the shapes all around, in the kitchen and blocking the doorways leading into other rooms. Pale-skinned shapes with all sort of deformities and wounds. Ones with split-open skulls and gray brain matter poking out, others missing lips and eyes, still more with incisions baring shriveled and rotting intestines. All of them carried exotic, dark weapons. Murder swirled in their silvery eyes.
“Get close to me,” Sara said.
Laura moved in closer. As she did, something swung toward her from the right. She ducked and a blade bit into the basement doorjamb. She skidded down the steps, grabbing the railing to stop her slide. Now, Sara looked down at her. The girl retreated as the mutants filled the doorway.
Sara reached her and offered a hand. She pulled Laura to her feet. Her hip and leg ached, but she was grateful for the railing stopping her less-than-graceful descent. Looking up, she saw one of them coming, a short sword in its hand. Its chest and face were decorated with pink fleshy scars. It grinned and said, “Guardian.”
Sara put her arm around Laura’s waist. “Hang on.”
They were instantly bathed in white light. It surrounded them in a globe and radiated from Sara’s body, auralike. Outside the globe, the creature slunk back up the stairs. Sara might have been on to something, because it seemed afraid.
Despite the brilliant glow, Laura was able to see the stairs, and she moved upward. The creature backed up. Laura and Sara moved into the kitchen. Outside the glowing ball, she saw them backing up and as they moved through the house, the Light kept the creatures at bay. They reached the foyer and stepped outside.
Laura saw them gathered on the lawn, raising their weapons, stomping and grunting. They were in a loose circle and through the light Laura saw someone on the grass. A larger, winged creature towered over the others. The group of demons on the lawn continued to stomp and hiss and grunt.
“Stay close. We’re getting that person out of here.”
Moving forward, the demons closest to them backed away from the Light. Now, as they reached the circle, more of the mutants scattered. The outside sphere of light touched one of them and its skin popped and hissed. It fled back inside the house.
In the center of the circle, a man in a flannel shirt lay pinned beneath the winged creature’s foot. Taking notice of the Light, the creature shielded its eyes and raised its leathery hands as if to block out the glow.
“David, I mean, Dad!” Sara said, and moved next to him, enfolding him in the Light.
So this was the son of a bitch she had to thank for holding her daughter all these years, Laura thought.
The man was sprawled on his back. A nasty gash was open in his upper arm. He got to his feet, kissed Sara on the cheek, and said, “You’re alive.”
“We need to go,” Sara said. “I can’t hold it much longer.”
Now a weapon sliced into the Light. There was a
pop-hiss
and the weapon turned to dust.
“My truck’s over there,” David said, pointing to the street.
They made their way to the street, walking slowly, the sphere of Light protecting them. The ugly bastards outside the Light grew restless, and a throng of them followed, keeping a distance, but still agitated, stomping and growling.
They reached the driver’s side of the truck. Laura didn’t know how much longer she could hold off the demons. Behind the main group, the winged one took flight and circled above.
“Sara, I’ll open the door,” David said. “When I tell you, cut the Light and the two of you haul ass across the seat. I’ll get in last.”
David opened the door. The Light around them seemed to collapse and Sara crawled into the truck, Laura following. The Dark Ones advanced. David got in last and as he did a beam of hot white light shot from his hands and hit the ground in front of the horde. Chunks of asphalt flew up and tinkled against the windshield. The enemy advanced. David started the truck and backed up.
The mass of freaks charged. Some of them broke off and headed for the other houses, climbing front steps, smashing in doors and windows. Screams erupted from inside the houses. Laura could only hope that God would intervene and somehow they would ignore the children’s hospital.
David managed to cut the wheel, back up, and get them turned around. He pressed on the gas and the truck sped down the street.
In the rearview, the horde soon broke off. The truck proved too fast for them.
They drove through the deserted streets. Every so often Laura looked up but saw nothing flying in the sky. They were heading toward Laura’s apartment building. They passed Millionaires’ Row, a section of Delaware lined with pillared mansions left over from the Gilded Age. Most of them had been turned into offices. One of them was now a high-class hotel.
“Where do we go?” Sara asked.
“We need to find Charles. Did you look for him?”
“No, we just let him roam free among the freaks in the street. Of course we did,” Laura said.
This drew a frown from David.
“When this is over, I’m turning you in,” Laura said.
“To?”
“FBI, State Police, whoever will listen.”
“I didn’t kidnap her, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“She didn’t wander off on her own,” Laura said. “You’ve been lying to this girl all her life.”
“It can be explained,” David said. “I know it doesn’t make it any easier to take, but it can be explained.”
“Explain away taking my child, leaving me with nothing.”
“We have to get off the streets.”
“Answer me,” Laura said, and gripped David’s arm. He pulled it away.
“I’m trying to drive, damn it.”
Sara said, “Please stop.”
Laura gave her a look that would melt steel. “Don’t tell me to stop.”
“He’s hurt,” Sara said. “His arm.”
David glanced at his arm. Laura took a closer look. The shirt was torn and through a hole in the fabric she saw a gash in the skin, near the shoulder.
Why wasn’t it bleeding more?
“Pull over,” Laura said.
David gave her a suspicious look. “We need to get away.”
Laura looked behind her. For now, the street was empty. A fire glowed from somewhere past City Hall, oily smoke rising in the air. It would be safe to stop for a moment. She wanted another look at that wound.
“Do it,” Laura said. “I want to look at your arm.”
David pulled the truck to the curb. He left the engine running and his foot on the brake.
“Take off your shirt.”
David put the truck in park. He pulled off the shirt, wincing as he did so. He had on a black T-shirt under the flannel. Very carefully, Laura pulled up the short sleeve to get a better look at the wound.
This was bad. The skin around the wound was an ugly red. An orange tributary branched out about two inches from the wound. “When did this happen?”
“Just before I got to the house. One of them stabbed me.”
“You’re going to the hospital.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“You need treatment. Now.”
“Why?”
“That wound’s necrotic. We need to run a Gram stain, start debridement, get you on antibiotics.”
“English, doctor,” David said.
“The tissue around the wound is dead. And it looks as if it’s spreading.”
“That’s some bedside manner you’ve got.”
“I don’t have time to screw around. The General’s that way,” she said, pointing.
David put the car in drive and they pulled away.
Chaos had paid a visit to Buffalo General Hospital.
David parked the truck a block away. They could not get closer because ambulances and police cars clogged the street outside the emergency room entrance. The wounded, some in bandages, others in blood-soaked clothing, staggered toward the doors.
After parking the truck, Laura, David, and Sara moved toward the doors. Laura kept watch on David. Sweat dotted his forehead, and his respiration had become shallow.
They weaved through the wounded and Laura led them through a set of double doors and into the ER’s main corridor. Gurneys, all of them occupied, lined the walls. The smells of burned and putrid flesh hung in the corridor. From down the hall, a baby wailed. To either side, beds were full.
Laura spotted an orange plastic chair normally reserved for visitors. She grabbed it and set it against the wall. “David, sit down.”
He did, muttering, “Don’t feel so good.”
“How does your arm feel?”
“It hurts bad.”
Laura looked at Sara, who was looking at David and biting her lower lip.
Laura patted her on the arm. “Stay with him a minute. I’m going to see what I can do.”
“Will he be okay?” Sara asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” she said, and began winding her way through the wounded and the dying.
 
 
Laura found Dr. Peter Ostrow, one of her fellow ER docs, in room twelve. He was tall, with gray hair and glasses, and wore a look of perpetual state of concentration. He would have been handsome if his mouth weren’t set in a permanent grimace.
After stepping around the curtain, Laura found him standing at the bedside of a balding man with a face full of stubble. The man’s eyes were closed. An IV drip hung on a pole. The beep of heart and pulse ox monitors filled the room. A sheet came up to the man’s chest.
Ostrow stroked the arm of his glasses with his index finger. He glanced at Laura, then continued to study the patient.
“Peter, I’ve got a possible necrotic wound. What the hell is going on out there?”
Still not turning his head, Ostrow said, “All hell’s broken loose. We’re not equipped to handle all this.”
“I need to run a Gram stain on someone. We’ll need to start antibiotics, most likely, maybe get him to surgery.”
“ORs are full. And don’t bother.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got a strong stomach, right?”
“Peter, look at the line of work we’re in,” Laura said.
He grabbed a pair of latex gloves from a dispenser on the wall. Ostrow reached over and pulled back the sheet that covered the patient. Laura gasped. The man’s right arm was devoid of skin from the shoulder to the elbow. The tissue underneath had turned a shade between black and gray. A stench of rot, thick and heavy, arose from the man’s ruined arm. She had seen many horrible wounds—among them a toddler burned over 90 percent of his body—but this was the worst.
Ostrow gently placed the sheet back. “Michael Plant. Arrived three hours ago. Wound on his arm was the size of a quarter. Said one of the
freaks
stabbed him. I immediately took it to be a necrotic wound. Strange that it started so fast. Negative for strep and
E. coli
. Within an hour it ate almost to his elbow. Started him on antibiotics, heaviest stuff we’ve got. No effect whatsoever. We’ve got him on morphine to keep him comfortable.”
“Others?”
“We’ve lost six this hour to it.”
“Spreading fast,” Laura said. “Have you seen them?”
Ostrow looked at her. “Who?”
“The
freaks
.”
“Just their handiwork.”
From the depths of his morphine-induced slumber, Plant moaned.
“Is it contagious?” Laura asked.
“Far as I can tell, it’s not spreading. It’s the rapidity that scares the hell out of me. And none of our heavy hitters—vanomyicin, mainly, are touching it.”
That didn’t bode well for David. As angry as she was, Laura had to treat him, had to find a way to cure him. It appeared to be a lost cause. “What if we amputate?”
Ostrow rubbed the bridge of his nose. “ORs are booked solid. They’re taking the most critical first. We had an MVA with multiple cars come in. I’ve had three amputations come in the past hour, poor souls had their arms cut off. Lost two of them.”
Laura imagined a conversation with the grim reaper would offer more hope than Peter Ostrow. Wishing him luck, she left the room to break the bad news to David.
 
 
She found him slumped in the plastic chair, moaning. Sara knelt at his side and was making small circles on his back with the palm of her hand. Trying to comfort him. What a good kid.
After telling them she’d be right back, she searched the corridors until she found an empty gurney. She wheeled it back to them and with Sara’s help got David on the gurney. The two of them wheeled him down a corridor and, finding an empty spot against the peach-colored wall, rolled him against it.

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