Authors: Nic Widhalm
“Ade, how long have I been here?”
“The hospital called me around four.”
Ten hours
, he thought.
That bastard left me down there for ten hours.
Hunter looked at the blood pressure monitor and saw it jump to one-forty-nine. He flexed his muscles and felt them grind against the restraints. Adrianna went back to staring at her tattered nails, picking at them listlessly. Finally she looked up, shying away from Hunter’s eyes, and stood. Moving to the other side of his bed, she started fiddling with the IV cord.
“Don’t touch that,” Hunter said absently.
“Hunter.”
“Yeah.”
“The doctor said you tried to kill yourself.”
“The doctor’s an idiot.”
“And Mr. Makovich, he’s pissed. Beyond pissed. He says you did things to that corpse—that it was bruised and a bunch of the ribs were broken. He says he’s going to sue you; make sure you’re living on the street. He said a lot of things, Hunter. A lot of things about your job, stuff you haven’t even told me. He says you’ve been acting crazy lately.”
Hunter knew what she was talking about. He knew Makovich had seen him struggling with his headaches, that he’d been distant and moody over the past few weeks. But Hunter never expected Makovich to tell Adrianna.
“He’s not going to do anything, Ade. The man’s a moron, he doesn’t know
how
to sue someone.”
Adrianna moved back to the chair and picked up her purse. “Whatever. It boils down to the same thing. You don’t have a job,
again
, and you’re in the hospital,
without insurance
, and I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be the one paying for this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The hospital says they want to keep you for awhile. They say in these cases,”
There it is again
, “they have to make sure they aren’t going to see you again if you’re released. They say you’re a danger to yourself.”
“That’s crazy,” Hunter pulled at the restraints, and the bed’s metal frame groaned. “If my leg’s fine then tell them to
get me the hell out of here
.”
“Hunter,” Adrianna had gathered her purse and her coat. She came to the bed and laid a hand on his cuffed wrist. “I want a divorce.”
Hunter stared at her coldly. “Get me out of here, Ade.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” Adrianna said as she walked out the door.
Hunter pulled at his cuffs and the bed groaned again, metal screeching against metal. He smelled something burning. “Adrianna!” Hunter yelled. “Goddamn it, come back here!” The curtain pulled aside and several figures rushed into the room. A pair of hands pushed Hunter down, holding his arms in their cuffs. The room suddenly filled with voices, yelling at each other over Hunter’s screams.
“
Adrianna!
” Hunter cried again, then fell silent as one of the nurses pulled a syringe out of his arm. As darkness closed he could see the polite smile of Dr. Maison as he apologized to a nurse and made a twirling gesture with his hand pointing to his ear.
The corpse of Mrs. Munse was waiting in Hunter’s dreams. Only this time her pale skin was flushed with life, and her smile was warm and naturally formed of sinew and muscle.
She sat with Hunter in the foyer of the funeral home, drinking iced tea from a chipped plastic cup. She was younger than he remembered.
“You look tired Hunter,” she said. “Are you getting enough rest?”
He shrugged. “I guess. There have been…issues lately.”
“Have you tried warm milk?” Mrs. Munse sipped her tea and smiled kindly.
Hunter returned the smile and drank from the glass of warm milk he found in his hand.
“Pleasant, right?”
“Very. Thank you,” Hunter tried to place the glass of milk on the table, and found himself in the icy basement of the funeral home. Mrs. Munse was gone, and in her place laid a corpse, pale and bloated. Unrecognizable.
Hunter reached forward, the milk replaced by a scalpel, and began to cut bits of dried blood from the body. As he worked he found himself whistling “Blue Skies.” The same tune his mother had sung whenever Hunter had nightmares.
Blood and gristle fell from the corpse, slowly revealing a squashed nose and overbite…Adrianna. Her skin was ice, but her eyes were still warm and brown and watched Hunter intently as he went about his work.
She opened her mouth and the whispered, buzzing sound Mrs. Munse repeated that morning spilled from Adrianna’s lips. He was sure he recognized it. Welsh? Some kind of African dialect?
The syllables danced through Hunter’s head, teasing, cajoling, the meaning on the tip of his tongue. Then Adrianna’s hand shot up, wrapping around his throat. He clawed at her knuckles, staggering backward and sending his instruments crashing to the floor. Adrianna moved smoothly from the table to her feet, forcing Hunter back toward the wall. He slashed at her bloated face, but his scalpel left no mark. The foreign words continued to dance through his mind, so close, so close.
There. That word again—
legion
. But the rest slipped his grasp, like water through a sieve.
Hunter’s fingers scrabbled against Adrianna’s hand, but he might have been clawing stone for all the good it did. Blackness flickered in the corner of his vision, threatening to blot out Adrianna’s face.
Legion
, floated through the air and Hunter felt himself give way to the darkness. Then another word broke through, and suddenly he made sense of what Adrianna kept repeating.
“We are legion,” she said. “We are many.”
Hunter roared, throwing everything he had against her implacable grip, and Adrianna’s hand tore away with a wet rip. His vision fragmented and he found himself back in his hospital bed, the restraints a twisted mass of Velcro on the floor.
He didn’t hesitate.
Throwing the sheets aside, he lowered himself to the cold vinyl floor. The clock on the wall read two A.M. As he started to move toward the door, Hunter almost tripped on a foot sticking out from under his bed. Leaning down, he traced the foot to the body of a young nurse he’d seen earlier; a stocky, blond woman in her late thirties. Angry red welts ran up and down her neck.
Hunter hoped he hadn’t hurt the poor lady, but he didn’t have time to apologize. Creeping to the door, he peered out the small window, saw an empty corridor, and slipped into the dimly lit hall. As he walked—
slowly, no need to make anyone stare
—his hand slipped backward and closed his gown. He prayed the halls would stay empty, and thanked whatever god was watching he hadn’t been transferred to the psych ward.
Just a few feet down the hall was a door marked “Employee’s Only.” He looked through the window, his heart leaping when he saw a laundry room inside. In the center of the room, a pile of dark blue scrubs waited to be washed. He looked quickly over both shoulders, ducked inside the room and grabbed the first pair in the pile. He would have preferred jeans and a hoodie, but hospital garb would have to do. He went through three pairs before he finally found a set of scrubs and some worn sneakers that fit his tall frame. Squaring his shoulders, Hunter gathered his courage and marched back through the door to the hallway.
Easy. Easy, now. Just act like you belong.
He marched past the reception table and pushed open the door to the stairs. Hopping down the two flights, he was out the front entrance before the nurses even made it to his room.
At least, he hoped so.
As Hunter reached the street he hesitated, sacrificing precious minutes as he tried to gather his bearings. He’d lived in Denver for seven years but had never taken the time to learn the place, despite promising Adrianna he would try. He’d spent most of his life traveling mountain towns on the western slope of the Rockies, and later the eastern plains. He never had time for the larger cities, couldn’t bring himself to care. Hell, every street in Denver looked the same to him.
Finally, Hunter shrugged his shoulders and picked a direction at random, trusting to fate.
The fickle bitch got me here, maybe she can get me out
.
He didn’t know who the unconscious nurse had been, or how she had ended up in his room, but he didn’t want to be anywhere near the hospital when the cops arrived. A patient admitted for attempted suicide and roughing up a dead Sunday-school teacher, not to mention the nurse thing…it wouldn’t take much for Hunter to wind up at the police station on the wrong end of an awkward conversation.
So he walked. And as he made his way toward what he hoped was downtown, he tried to remember a time in his life where he wasn’t running from something.
Hunter was seven-years-old when he got in his first fight.
It was at school, in the cafeteria where most elementary brawls begin. He had forgotten to bring any money that day, and was reduced to what the school called “pot luck.” It mostly consisted of the unlucky boy going table to table and begging for leftovers. It was humiliating and did a number on your reputation, but the school was more concerned with fed children than happy ones.
When Hunter realized he had forgotten his lunch money he panicked. “I’m on a diet,” he told Mrs. Bryls. “I’m concerned about my cholesterol.”
But, unfortunately for Hunter, Mrs. Bryls was not in a believing mood. She marched him to the cafeteria, arm in hand, and watched as Hunter hung his head and did his best impression of Oliver Twist.
It didn’t start out badly. The first table took pity on him, and one of the girls gave him a cupcake and a small handful of baby carrots. The next table wasn’t as generous, and Hunter came away with a half-eaten bologna sandwich. But the third table—that’s where the trouble began.
“Aw, poor baby. Did baby forget his milk?” One of the larger boys laughed. His name was Francis and he was known for being a terror on the playground. Hunter guessed it was bound to happen when you named a boy “Francis.”
“Yeah, baby, baby, baby,” one of the other boys joined in. “Baby’s milk all gone.” The rest of the table started to chant: “All gone! All gone! Baby’s milk all gone!” Hunter had a clear memory of what happened next, despite claiming he had blacked out and only come to later in the nurse’s office.
Hunter whipped around, cupcake in hand, and smashed the dessert into Francis’ face. The table went silent as the other boys watched frosting drip down their leader’s face. Francis’ eyes widened and he started huffing like a bull about to charge. “You’re dead!” He roared.
Hunter didn’t stop to listen. He leaped on top of the table and planted his foot squarely in one of the other boy’s sternum, launching him out of his seat and half-way across the cafeteria.
The table exploded.
Hunter hurled himself at the two boys who’d been the most vocal in their mocking. Tackling them both, he dragged them to the ground, shrieking. Hunter stood, taking a second to grind his foot in one of the weeping boy’s faces, and moved on.
Teachers were rushing to the table, but Hunter didn’t pay them any mind. Instead, he turned back to Francis, whose eyes were filled with tears and cupcake frosting. Hunter stepped forward, fists raised.
“Ah God. Ah God, just leave me alone!” Francis cried.
The next part was fuzzy. Hunter remembered reaching Francis and grabbing him with both hands. He had a clear sensation of lifting the struggling boy, knowing it shouldn’t have been possible. Francis was big for his age, and must have weighed at least eighty pounds.
Then, the rest really did go black, and the next thing Hunter knew he was in the nurse’s office. His parents were there, a worried look on his mom’s face. Hunter’s dad, on the other hand, seemed like he might burst a blood vessel. The nurse had talked with his folks a bit, assuring them Hunter was fine. Later, he’d learned there hadn’t been a scratch on him. Not one. But back then all he could think about was the angry red of his dad’s cheeks, and his mom’s eyes spilling mascara down her face.
The principal had told his parents to take Hunter home, that he was suspended for a week. He told them they were lucky the kid wasn’t expelled, and his parents had assured him nothing like this would happen again.
They were all nods and smiles in the principal’s office, but when they got home Hunter’s dad exploded. “You broke a kid’s nose?” His dad screamed the moment they entered the house. “What the hell’s a’matter with you?”
Hunter’s mom grabbed his dad’s hand. “George, don’t yell at him. Those other boys were—”
“What Marie? Those other boys were what? Asking for it? He broke a kid’s
fucking nose!
”
“Language, George!”
“They called me a baby, Papa,” Hunter said. “What was I supposed to do?”
George stepped forward, pulled his hand free and smacked Hunter across the face. Hunter cried out, collapsing to the floor. He reached up, gingerly touching his stinging cheek, and looked at his father in shock. He had never hit Hunter before.
“Don’t you ever say that to me, Hunter. Not ever.”
“But Papa—”
“What did I say, boy? The next time I catch you in a fight you won’t be able to sit for a week. Someone starts picking on you, you turn away, got me? You turn away and ignore them, because that’s what
civilized
people do.” Hunter’s dad paused, his chest heaving like a marathon runner. Finally he stepped forward and offered a hand. Helping him to his feet, he roughly turned Hunter’s face and examined the swelling bruise.