Blood Trilogy (Book 2): Draw Blood (2 page)

“Holy …!”
he manages.

For as long as he’s lived in northern Colorado, he has never seen a wildfire like this. Above the homes in the immediate foreground, the horizon is choked with thick white and black smoke, urgent and roiling, and there appears to be multiple zones to the fire, dotting the length of the Front Range. But the largest conflagration is the closest, rising over Horsetooth Rock and reaching across the sky to the north. It is a towering, humbling sight, and it has the ominous dread of apocalypse. Michael knows that if he were outside right now, he would have trouble breathing. Tiny particles of ash are floating down like gray snow.

Somewhere in the midst of his shock, he wonders if those fires are the reason everything is so quiet. Has the entire city been evacuated?

Impossible!

Even an out-of-control blaze wouldn’t be able to cross from the mountains and foothills into the city.

Would it?

He brings his gaze lower and scans the immediate vicinity. He recognizes Lemay Avenue, and that tells him that, yes, he’s at Poudre Valley Hospital. He’s about two miles from home. But that thought wisps away as he comes to the realization that there are no moving cars, no people, on the street. No activity. He keeps waiting for a vehicle to round the corner, or a bicyclist, or a pedestrian. He peers as far south down Lemay as his head will allow, then does the same to the north.

There’s nothing.

Gotta be an evacuation, then. Amazing.

Several parked cars aren’t actually parked but rather jammed up against the curb—and, in one case, a fence—as if they crashed gently there and their drivers abandoned them. The driver’s-side doors of two of the vehicles are still flung open.

Michael’s heart is at a steady throb now, and each beat seems to squeeze the lump on his forehead a little harder. He makes a strangled sound, closing his eyes for a moment even though the scene before him demands investigation.

He needs to get out of this room.

Just as he’s pushing away from the window, he opens his eyes into a squint, and his gaze locks onto what appears to be the body of a human being across the street, partially concealed by the limbs of large pine tree. The body is squashed against the tree, and the head appears to be attached savagely to the trunk, the jaw open wide, far too wide, as if cracked open, and there’s a repulsive mound of pulp below it on the ground.

It’s a woman’s body, splayed backward upon itself in an obviously painful position, the arms thrown back and grasping at the tree’s trunk and the legs bent so far beneath the body as to appear broken or at least yanked from their hip joints. A bathrobe is hanging from the otherwise naked body. Michael stares at the woman’s bluntly exposed genitals with morbid fascination.

The lower branches of the pine have been splintered away from whatever this person has done. And the body is shifting. The movements are slow and deliberate, reminding Michael absurdly of a tree sloth—that oddly sluggish shifting of limbs, that unhurried progress toward some weird inner purpose.

Now the woman is releasing an arm from its grasp of higher branches, and the hand—cramped into a claw—appears to scratch at the tree’s bark above her upturned head.

It is one of the strangest, most incomprehensible sights he has ever seen.

Michael only barely returns to the desk without falling unconscious to the floor. He plants his hands on the surface, gritting his teeth in frustration. He desperately wants answers, wants to see up close what the hell is happening out there, but he’s hobbled by this injury—whose source he can’t even imagine. He’s left wondering not only what happened to his head but also what could possibly have happened to empty this hospital and its immediate surroundings, and to cause … whatever is happening out there. The questions are increasing the agony above his eye, and he feels real concern for the injury now.

“Okay, okay …” he breathes, steadying himself, then carefully taking a step toward the door. He’s focusing on that bloody doorknob, trying not to let his imagination run wild and yet powerless to prevent it. Whatever is beyond that door, it can’t be good.

Clank!

That goddamn rattling sound again, right above him. Metal on metal. Dragging.

“Jesus!”

He can’t afford to jerk his head around like that. He lets out a long, shaky sigh, and takes another step. He has never felt uneasy pain in his head like this before.

What in the hell did he do to himself?

Is this some kind of nightmare?

Black spots begin firing across his vision, and he feels his legs go useless.

“No!” he cries helplessly.

He slumps to the floor, instantly pulled down into unconsciousness again.

This time, there is a dream, although its logic is splintered, feverish. There are images of his office colleagues—of Steven’s goofy smile deadening on his fleshy face as he turns toward something, and of Carol’s voice cut off mid-shout. Of computer screens flickering as hard drives rev up loudly, of windows vibrating. Numbers on the screen—their money—fluttering and going blank.

Are these memories? Did these things happen? He asks himself these questions inside the dream. And there are the faces of his family, again and again, flashes of Susanna’s emotion and Rachel’s anger, coming as a jangle of sound—

Michael wakes from the shifty, nightmarish imagery, staring at the ceiling.

Bleary-eyed, he glances around again, not recognizing where he is. Then it comes back to him in slivers. He has a sensory memory of the pain he felt upon waking before; that pain has loosened now, thankfully, but his brain still feels splintered.

All he hears now is the dragging noise above him, the dragging and the metallic rattle. It sounds like a caged animal, quietly considering its confinement and then erupting with frustrated anger. After a flurry of loud activity, it goes quiet again.

Very carefully, not wanting to bring on more pain, he pushes himself off the floor, frowning with revulsion at the coagulated blood beneath him. It’s syrupy in its worst spots, clinging to him like mucus. He gets to one knee, using the bed for balance, then slowly rises to a standing position—and dizziness threatens to drop him again. He wipes his hand and forearm on his pants, staring at the bloody doorknob. He needs to get to it now, fears be damned, needs to see what is beyond it, needs to get outside, anywhere but here, and at these thoughts, his brain sends black spots into his vision again.

“
No, no, no …” he breathes, holding his chin to his chest, bending over as far as he dares, warding off another dead faint. “Need to rest first.”

As the worst of the dizziness passes, he maneuvers himself onto the bed, finally swinging his right leg up and exhaling raggedly. He lets his head fall to the left and stares at that bloody knob, his teeth gritted.

Exploration will have to wait.

Before the thought is even fully formed in his mind, he feels himself falling unconscious again. His first instinct is to fight against it—
Will I never wake up again?—
but then lets it happen, eager for more healing.

He wakes to a blast.

His arms flail, startled. He is disoriented, rudderless. He clutches at the sides of the bed, keeping his head still, not wanting it to explode in chunks across the pillow. His skull seems to squeeze in on his brain.

The blast sounds again—deafening.

That’s a weapon. That sounds like a shotgun. Right at the door.

He opens his eyes, his insides seized in alarm.

The veneer around the door handle has splintered, and chunks of wood have scattered everywhere. The metal handle hangs for a moment on a section of veneer, then falls to the bloody floor with a clatter.

Now someone is kicking at the door.

Oh Jesus, this is it!

Michael’s injured mind whirls, and he reaches out instinctively for some kind of protection,
any
kind of protection from this threat. There’s nothing here!

The door cracks further and finally swings open.

Rachel is standing there.

Michael stares at her. Is his mind playing tricks on him?

No, that’s really her.

His daughter looks ashen and exhausted, lines of sweat and tears etched down her face, smears of blood on her arms and clothes. She looks as if she’s been through a warzone. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Despite her appearance, he realizes that it is relief that is flooding him.

Rachel’s eyes fill with tears as she comes fully into the room.

A flood of recent memory crashes through Michael’s injured brain. Tears in those same eyes last night, her expression of teen indignation and disappointment and rebellion directed straight at him, the shouted words, Susanna quiet in the doorway. And for the life of him, he still can’t remember the source of all that emotion. Just the same old arguments.

“Hi Daddy,” Rachel says now, her face looking like a prelude to shock.

Michael stares at her, squinting. He can’t find words for a moment. He can’t process her. Then, finally:

“What on Earth are you—? What happened? Where are we?”

“We’re at the hospital.” She just stands there, seeming about to fall down. “I’ll explain everything.”

Michael takes several deep breaths, watching her.

“Did I fall?” Michael reaches up to the wound at his forehead, touching the dressing there. “I remember—”

There’s something more in his memory now, teasing him even as he speaks, but it remains elusive, foggy under pain. Something happened at his office. Some kind of violence?

Rachel is shaking her head. “Better not mess with that.”

Michael drops his hand and watches Rachel standing there. She looks so far removed from the Rachel he knows—older, tougher, more rugged—that she might as well be a different person.

He takes another slow breath, lets it out. He’s immensely glad to see her, but the questions remain. For the moment, he lets the questions go and simply lets the words come out.

“Listen, Rachel, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to take all that out on you.” He doesn’t fully know what he’s apologizing for, but he’s sure it’s necessary.

And then Rachel says something remarkable.

“No, I’m sorry, Dad.”

It’s at that moment when Michael understands that something has happened that is bigger than he can easily grasp. He feels a surge of trepidation, and he scans his surroundings again. The hospital’s atmosphere still feels all wrong, feels bloated with bitter energy, like stress or anger. Just as you can sense the aftermath of a bad argument or a fight, like a foul vibe, he feels it here. He looks at his daughter again and sees that she’s not merely smeared with blood but injured herself. There are superficial wounds on her arms.

“Hey, you’re all scraped up—you’re bloody! What happened? What’s going on?”

Emotion blooms across Rachel’s features.

A different kind of emotion than Michael has seen her exhibit since her mother’s death.

Rachel has been through something, and whatever it is, he can see in her expression that somehow, some way, for some reason, it has brought her closer to him. After the upheaval of their home over the past three years—some of it Michael’s own fault, he admits, but some of it Rachel’s fault, and most of it no one’s fault at all—he can’t help but feel a wave of relief even as a precursor to the knowledge of this horrible thing that has happened outside.

Rachel leans over his supine body, and he feels the feverish heat of her, the exhausted tremble. He feels a tear drop into his hair.

She says, “I saved you.”

Confused by the words, Michael lets them hang in the air. She saved him? From what? The police? An accident? Where’s Susanna?

He lies there bewildered, with his aching head, with his blurry confusion and fractured memory. What terrible thing has Rachel endured to cause this complete reversal in attitude and emotion? What in heaven’s name has he missed?

“What do you mean? How long was I out?”

But Rachel only burrows into him, and he bears her exhausted weight, holding her. He lets her cling to him more and more tightly, and he feels her sobs against his chest. Questions are reverberating against the walls of his skull—
Why are fires raging out of control above the town? Why is this humid hospital desolate and silent? Why is that woman outside bent back upon herself, crammed against a tree? Where is everybody?!
—but the needs of his child outweigh his own, and he holds her silently.

The world itself is silent around them, and as he embraces his daughter, feeling the emotion pour out of her, Michael knows that everything in his world is terribly wrong.

Everything except this embrace.

Michael wakes violently again, cursing himself. Apparently the concussion has done its work again, squashing him down into unconsciousness. He has to get up; he has to be able to rise.

He still feels the phantom weight of Rachel embracing him. He supposes he should feel grateful that he has been able to retain new memories.

He blinks his eyes, staring around at the room. The light is still bright in the window. How much time has passed? Where did she go?

Holy shit, that wasn’t a dream, was it? She was really here, right?

And then he finds her, slightly behind and to the left of the bed, curled up on a starchy blanket against the wall. Her position is fetal. The shotgun is lying next to her, within her reach, and several shells are scattered out around it. Her backpack is next to her, partially spilling its contents on the floor: Michael sees a browning banana, a bottle of water, some kind of large syringe, and what appears to be—of all things—a unit of blood.

Rachel is clutching her ratty old bear, a stuffed animal she’s had since he bought it for her seventeen years ago. The bear’s matted fur peeks through the gaps in her arms, which are pulled in tight. He can’t see her closed eyes, but he can see her dirty brown hair and dried sweat on her forehead.

He can only stare at this young woman whom he barely recognizes. Even in slumber, fiercely clutching that ratty bear, she’s a different human being. He thinks again of his wife, Susanna, at home, and he’s filled with even more anxiety. He feels restless and yet cautious. He has to catch up with what Rachel obviously knows—even though he almost certainly doesn’t crave that knowledge. Whatever has happened, it can’t be good.

The metallic clank sounds again from above, and he flinches. He glances up warily. Whatever is up there is in the same spot, repeating the same mindless motion, but it’s random enough to convince him that it’s either human or animal. And though his imagination might be getting the better of him, whatever it is sounds angry.

He has to find out what it is. In an apparently empty hospital, it might be his only way to find out what happened.

With effort, testing his limits, Michael maneuvers himself to a sitting position, stops, takes a long breath. He gingerly touches his forehead.

He notices that his daughter hasn’t moved at all, not even the tiniest shift, but he can see her deep, even suspiration.

After long minutes, he eases himself off the bed. Steadying himself, he walks flat-footed to the door. He grasps the door by its splintered veneer and eases it open.

His breath catches in his throat.

The hallway is caked with blood. He has never seen so much blood in his life. It’s spattered on the walls and even the ceiling. It’s printed in frantic hand prints on the wall across from him, sprayed toward what he judges to be the hospital’s emergency entrance. Mostly, it’s spilled across the floor in great chaotic puddles, tacky and crusted and putrid.

He peers around the doorframe to take it all in.

Something has happened here, something violent—there’s much more tacky blood in splotches across the floor, practically a muddy lake of it toward the double doors leading to the reception area.

“Jesus Christ!” he cries. “Hello? Anyone?”

Many of the gurneys are overturned and even broken. It’s a nightmarish scene, made even more so by the faintly buzzing emergency lighting. Michael finds it impossible to make sense of what lies before him, or place it into context with whatever is happening outside. The hospital looks like a slaughterhouse. The air is humid and smoky and
wrong
, as if the entire world has descended into some kind of apocalyptic nightmare.

At the thought, Michael’s breath catches, and he turns consciously away from the scene, back into his room. Immediately he feels cowardly.

“Okay, okay, okay …” he breathes, staring in at the bed and at Rachel beyond it.

He doesn’t want to fall back onto that bed. He doesn’t crave further unconsciousness. He paces restlessly, nearly slips on a moist patch of blood. He anchors himself at the foot of the bed and closes his eyes, willing himself calm. There are words tumbling through his consciousness, serene words, mumbled words that he sometimes uses during the more stressful moments at home, when Rachel screams at him with all the venom of her late-teen youth, or when his new wife adds her own fuel to the domestic fire, or when he feels the hot trill of paranoia about the money in his closet.

He looks down at his sleeping daughter now, curled up with her bear, then moves back to the door and peers out again.

The smell is dreadful—rotting and stagnant.

Michael steps out into the hallway, feels the stickiness and slipperiness of the blood patches under his feet. Guiding himself along the edges of gurneys, careful not to touch any blood with his hands, he trudges through the hallway that runs along the west side of the hospital.

He finds a room with a half-closed door, into which innumerable bloody footprints lead. He stares for a moment at the floor, trying to imagine the scene. Everything is quiet and dim beyond the door. He reaches out and pushes the door. It swings inward.

This is the source of the sour stench.

Swallowing, Michael steps into the large, open room, squinting to make out details. When he sees the bodies stacked against the far wall, he lets out an involuntary cry. One hand at his mouth, he edges closer to the corpses. There are at least fifty bodies there. Most are wrapped carefully, tightly, in white hospital sheets, but the bodies at the periphery are wrapped more haphazardly, their pale flesh showing through gaps in the cloth. He comes within ten feet of the closest corpses, examining them even though every instinct is screaming at him to get the hell out of this room.

The bodies appear to have suffered in horrific ways—great patches of twisted, mottled flesh on the exposed skin. Some of their facial expressions are equally ghastly. One of the bodies is a young girl, so badly injured that her eyes are white with cataracts and her skin is sloughing from her bloated face.

Michael backs hurriedly from the sight, bumping into a metal table and then dashing out.

His heart is thudding. A terrible event occurred here—very probably while he was asleep—and he’s now convinced that his daughter witnessed it. She might have even been at the center of it.

He’s finding it difficult to breathe. He stumbles forward through the hallway, needing fresh air.

Scuffed and bloodied double metal doors give way to the admissions area. Michael pushes through one of them and stands before a scene of further stinking atrocity. The floor is so caked with blood that it’s more dirty reddish brown than its original gray tile. The admissions desk is in utter disarray, papers and computer hardware flung everywhere, torn and broken. The stench of putrefaction is overlaid by smoke and, Michael believes, the cordite reek of gunpowder.

On the far side of the large waiting room, a makeshift barricade has been assembled out of chairs and tables and other items. There’s even a large framed print—some generic mountain scene—leaning askew in the teetering assemblage. It appears as if the barricade was built and then destroyed. Many of the items are broken and flung helter-skelter. There are bullet holes all over the wall behind the barricade.

Oh Jesus,
Michael keeps repeating in his head.
Oh Jesus.

It’s the silence that fills him with the deepest disquiet. The sense that this place was the scene of unspeakable violence and is now abandoned. A sensation of failure, that a tremendous fight was lost. And the overriding feeling that he was powerless for the duration of it.

“Hello?” he calls again, but his voice falters and trails away.

He steps into the large area.

“Hello!” he calls, louder.

He hears a distant clamor upstairs, as if in response to him—it’s the same sound he heard above him in his room. A metallic clatter. He peers up the open stairwell beyond the fallen barricade. There’s no one at the landing that looks down on the lobby. He swallows hard.

He makes his way toward the front windows, stepping over the larger puddles and blood swipes and smeared footprints. He can feel his heartbeat at his scalp wound. He tries to take long, slow breaths to keep it under control.

The glass sliding doors there are wrenched halfway open and skewed slightly as if off the tracks. He steps up next to them and feels a waft of warm air. The day is bright out there. What might have been a beautiful day in northern Colorado, if not for the horror, the death. To the south, below a bruised veil of smoke, blue sky is dotted with other disastrous plumes in the far distance. Still no people or animals of any kind. No aircraft. No movement. Nothing. Just empty streets and about a dozen abandoned cars, at skewed angles down Lemay Avenue. Ash drifts from the sky. It’s warm out there, and inside the hospital it’s humid and foul.

Worst of all, just beyond the small parking lot are two more human beings crammed beneath a pine tree, whose needled limbs have been splintered out of the way to make room for the bodies. The bodies—both of them doughy, nearly naked men—are painfully bent backward, the limbs wrenched out of their sockets, so severely that the position almost seems natural—as if these people have been, under the force of some cruel god, remade into an entirely new monstrous species. Their mouths are locked against the bark. Michael sees movement at the throat, and a slow drip of splinters and saliva and sap has created mushy stalagmites of mulch below their inverted, sap-caked faces. Michael feels a gag forming at the back of his throat and has to force his gaze away.

He’s breathing very quickly, and he feels a knot of emotion building at his chest.

He’s summoning the courage to try the stairs when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. South on Lemay, a police cruiser is heading north, toward the hospital, winding its way around two wrecks in the middle of the street.

“Oh shit,” he breathes, feeling as if his worst fear has come true. It has come down to the money after all. Even as the thought slashes through his brain, he understands its irrationality, and yet it’s potent enough to fill his veins with acid.

He braces himself to bolt, his thoughts immediately turning to Rachel.

He can’t leave her. No way will he leave her.

And then he sees, following in the wake of the police cruiser, a large blue Chevy truck. A civilian vehicle. Both are headed this way.

Michael is frozen to the spot, caught between impulses to run outside and wave them down or to get back to Rachel and gather her up and get the hell out of here. Can he even trust that the police car is occupied by an actual policeman? Why is a civilian truck following it?

He moves to the edge of the window and watches the vehicles approach, straight north along an otherwise deserted street. In a moment, he sees that the man driving the cruiser is indeed wearing a police uniform. The sight fills him with despair.

The cop’s passenger is a woman, in her forties maybe. She looks exhausted, her head lolling against the window. He can’t tell if anyone is in the back seats. The driver of the truck is a large man with a determined expression on his face. Next to him is a young blond woman. And now Michael notices several people in the back of that truck. They also appear exhausted, sprawled out and heads bowed.

The vehicles pull into the emergency parking lot. Michael decides to fall back to the double doors leading toward Rachel, see what these people decide to do. He walks purposefully across the destroyed lobby, nearly slipping and falling in front of the registration desk but finally making it. He maneuvers behind the door. He touches his head wound carefully, relieved to find that the pain there has subsided by several orders of magnitude. He still feels a bit blurry and thick, but the dizziness is gone for the moment. He watches the entrance.

The vehicles rumble straight up to the door, and their engines shut off. Car doors clank shut.

Voices just outside the wrenched-open outer doors.

“—not something I ever thought I’d say seriously.” This voice is pitched authoritatively. It’s the voice of someone in charge. It must be the cop. “I mean, in real life.”

“Me neither.” A female voice.

“It’s ridiculous,” comes another male voice—the driver of the truck? “But I keep trying to think of a less batshit idea, and I can’t. And then I start arguing with myself, and I sound like Scott.”

Michael watches through a gap in the doors, and now the men appear at the entrance. Yes, the cop is leading the way in, wrenching the doors back further. Michael is amazed by his haggard appearance: His uniform is extremely unkempt, covered with stains, ripped in places, and his cheeks are starkly unshaven below his military crewcut. He’s laughing humorlessly at what the large man has just said. The big man steps in behind him, and he’s similarly splashed with blood. His massive forearms are smeared with it. His hair is greasy, thinning.

“I mean, bodies struck down and … and … inhabited by something,” the cop says as he comes further into the lobby. “And that light, that’s the weirdest thing, right? This red … thing. Like a possession. I’ll probably never understand that.”

“We all saw it. Believe me, you’re not alone.”

Michael is listening hard but is thrown into confusion by what this man saying. Squinting under a persistent dull throb, he watches the middle-aged woman make her way through the doorway. She’s dirty blond, just on the verge of heavy, but still attractive—at least she would probably be on a better day. She’s red-eyed, on the brink of collapse. As she steps into the lobby, she says: