by Eve Langlais
Copyright © 2018/19, Eve Langlais
Cover Dreams2Media © 2018
Produced in Canada
Published by Eve Langlais ~ www.EveLanglais.com
eBook ISBN: 978 177 384 068 0
Print ISBN: 978 177 384 069 7
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email, photocopying, and printing without permission in writing from the author.
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Introduction
Duty or love? Will a guard make the right choice?
Becky needs a scoop to make her mark in the journalism world and gets her chance when she’s hired as a nurse for a top-secret clinic hidden in the Rockies.
What she doesn’t expect is to become one of the patients and kept prisoner.
The doctors are playing God and have found a way to change people. Change them into something else. In her case, she becomes a mermaid. The only one of her kind and about to be sold to the highest bidder unless she can convince the man guarding her to set her free.
Jett ain’t no hero, yet, he finds himself rescuing Becky, over and over. Even starts liking the talkative nurse, which is a bad idea. He knows better than to get involved with a woman. Didn’t his daddy teach him love always hurts?
It hurts, alright, especially because he ends up having to make a choice; doing his job or protecting Becky.
Is it even possible for a man to love a mermaid? Might be time to take some scuba diving lessons to find out.
Chapter One
The vomit hit her right in the chest, thankfully missing her face. Not for the first time, Becky wondered why the heck she’d thought nursing was her calling.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, coming out of high school with no idea what to do. Her aunt, who acted as her guardian after her parents died in a car crash, touted the benefits of it. “Just think of it, Becky-bee,”—a nickname she’d once hated but now missed since her aunt had passed— “a guaranteed job no matter where you go.” Sounded ideal.
With nothing better to do, Becky completed all the training, which proved more difficult than expected. But she persevered, and her aunt turned out to be right. Being a nurse had its perks, such as medical and dental insurance and the ability to work pretty much anywhere—not that she tested that theory, remaining in Edmonton, about two hours from the small town she grew up in.
The less glamorous aspects of nursing included projectile puke. Blood and other bodily fluids stained her scrubs on a daily basis. She had to learn to become nose blind to the smells. Dealt with the long hours. Harder, though, was the misery and the daily litany from families ranting at her to do something about their loved one.
“Fix him. Now.” Often accusing Becky of not doing enough because the loved ones suffered under some notion she held back a special pill that instantly fixed all booboos. She wished she had a magical cure.
I’d use it on myself. Those lying in the beds weren’t the only ones with problems. Having medical knowledge only meant she understood better than most the gravity of her issues. She lived on borrowed time.
At moments like this one, as she mopped the majority of the vomit from her chest—trying not to heave herself—she wished she’d pursued another path. Something that made her happy. Given her days on Earth were getting shorter and shorter, in her off time, which wasn’t as plentiful as she’d hoped for, she studied journalism.
She ignored the naysayers that claimed the art of news was dying. The need for people to know the truth would never cease. But she couldn’t deny that the opportunities to make a good living at it proved difficult to find.
Newspapers showed no interest in an inexperienced journalist. They would never take Becky seriously until she came up with the story of a lifetime. The investigative piece that would make her mark and put her name on everyone’s lips. A legacy that might make people remember her.
A story she’d never find working in a hospital all day long.
Exiting the lounge for nurses—which sounded fancier than the small room deserved with its pockmarked lockers, two bathroom stalls, trough sink, and warped mirror that belonged in a carnival—she heard a commotion coming from the emergency room. Which wasn’t all that unusual. Most of the action in hospitals usually centered around incoming patients. Especially in the wee hours before dawn.
She’d yet to discern why the witching hour between midnight and four caused the most traumas. Drinking and drugs were only part of it. It was as if the crazy gene, the one that sent people galloping through the ER neighing and clomping like a horse or had them standing on a chair extolling the end of the world, activated most heavily in the dark of night.
The cacophony of excited voices continued, interspersed with screeching, the high-pitched squealing almost animal-like.
What on earth? Had someone brought in a pig? She’d seen stranger sights. Frantic children bringing in hamsters. Once even a squirrel.
She headed toward the center of confusion and saw a man, his hair long and messy, the snarled knots in need of scissors more than a comb. His clothes, the parts visible at least, appeared ragged where he drooped in the grips of two policemen. He wore an aluminum hat with more of the aluminum wrapped around his arms, chest, and thighs. Oddly enough, that wasn’t the weirdest part of his appearance. Between the hanks of greasy hair, the man’s eyes glowed yellow.
Like jack-o’-lantern glowed. She wondered what drugs he’d taken to cause that to happen because the effect certainly wasn’t natural.
The man collapsed to the floor the moment the cops released him, hugging his knees, sobbing.
Becky neared enough to hear the police officers explaining the situation to the triage nurse—Jenny, a no-nonsense matron in her fifties who took pride in her nickname Battle Axe. Get in her way and she was liable to chop you off at the knees and have you emptying bedpans for a month.
“…found him in the park, scrounging through the garbage cans.”
“Is he under the influence of alcohol or drugs?” Jenny made notes on a clipboard while the hobo with the freaky eyes and aluminum armor continued to keen, a guttural noise that raised all the hairs on Becky’s body. He sounded afraid. A common occurrence. All too many people didn’t trust hospitals or doctors.
The cop with a granite face and a lip bisected by an old scar shrugged. “We didn’t find any drugs on him. Nor any signs of needle marks on his arms. We got him to blow, too. The breathalyzer showed nothing.”
His partner, a younger fellow with tanned skin and glossy dark hair, added, “He could be high. You should have seen him scarfing down some discarded sub he found. I don
’t think he was even chewing he swallowed stuff so fast.”
Jenny continued to tick off boxes. “Name?”
“No idea. We didn’t find a wallet or anything that might identify him, and he’s yet to answer any questions.”
“Unless you can understand cave-man grunt,” muttered the partner.
“Violent?” Jenny asked.
“Nope. Other than making noise, he didn’t resist at all. But he’s not been cooperative either.” The hobo still sat hunched on the floor, head bowed, moaning.
“Escort him into cubicle nine. You”—the stern gaze of the triage nurse zeroed in on Becky—“get him started on some fluids and take his vitals.” Jenny handed her the clipboard. “And put him into something clean. God only knows what vermin he’s got crawling under that tin foil.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Becky could almost hear the groan of those in the waiting room, some who’d probably been sitting there hours waiting for someone to diagnose their runny nose or have a doctor explain that a tummy ache wasn’t always an emergency. Having worked years in the medical field, she knew how people abused the medical system in Canada. Socialized care meant accessing free emergency care. It also meant people misused it for the silliest of symptoms, which, in turn, increased the wait time for everyone.
The unenviable job of the triage nurse was to prioritize the cases that arrived. Copious bleeding and heart attacks? Those got seen first. Need a few stitches, running a light fever, able to argue your case? Those got to sit while the true emergencies got dealt with.
The tin foil hobo fell under possible emergency, given he was glowing, which indicated he’d probably ingested something he shouldn’t. Another reason to put him in a room was because she doubted if they planted his butt in a chair he’d stay there quietly—and Jenny was right about vermin. They didn’t want to have to fumigate the emergency room again.
Jenny pointed down the hall. “Cubicle nine is that way.”
“Let’s go, bud.” The scarred older officer bravely put his hand on the shoulder of the shuddering hobo.
Who didn’t budge.
“You heard the nice lady. There’s a room waiting for you. Food, too, if you behave.”
A violent shake of his head was the reply, with dirty fingers reaching up to hold his hat in place.
“You ain’t got a choice. Let’s go.” The cops reached down and grabbed hold of an arm each, then half carried, half dragged the man into a small room. The hobo keened the whole way.
When he refused to stand on his own two feet, the officers hefted him onto the bed. She half expected him to leap off and run. Instead he slumped and whimpered. Poor guy.
The cop with the scar hesitated before leaving. “You got someone else coming to help you?”
“Not with the latest budgets cuts,” Becky quipped. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” Having worked the emergency room for a few years now, she’d dealt with her fair share of strange individuals. This one actually seemed more docile than most who arrived in the grips of a drug-induced high. Still, despite his subdued appearance, Becky left the door open.
She faced him and smiled. “My name is Becky. And you are?”
Silence met her cheerful attempt. Becky laid the clipboard on the small counter running along the wall. It held a box with gloves, a plastic jar with cotton swabs, and not much else.
In the small confines of the room, the stench rolling off the hobo proved pungent. Turning partially away, she kept an eye on him while dipping her hand into her pocket. The container of Vaseline had an easy lid to pop open, which meant she could smear some on her finger. She rubbed the cream under her nose, making the odor manageable. Then she snapped a pair of latex gloves on.
During that time, the hobo didn’t move.
She wetted some paper napkins, the large sturdy kind, and started with the hands clasped on his knees. He didn’t react as she cleaned the surface dirt from him. Not exactly what the triage nurse ordered, but Becky wanted to start slow. Show the man she meant him no harm.
When some of his tension eased, she said softly, “Can you tell me your name?”
To her surprise, he replied. “Doubleueffninetytwo.”
He said it quickly, and she frowned. It almost sounded like he’d said WF92. Which was obviously gibberish, but gibberish that appeared English.
She kept wiping at his hands, noticing the abrasions on them, the engrained dirt. “Do you know where you live?”
“No home.” That emerged clear as a bell.
Dumping the paper towel, she decided to tackle the foil next. Seeing a rip in the metal sheathing around his forearm, she tugged at it, the aluminum ripping easily.
He didn’t like it. “No.” Said with a violent shake of his head as he reached to grab the foil from her.
She crumpled it and put it in the garbage pail at her back. Then, because he seemed to be more inclined to speak, again asked, “What is your name?” Before he could react, she tore the aluminum covering his chest.
No reply other than a shudder. With his tin foil gone, she got treated to the ragged state of his clothes. Track pants that might have once been blue. A plaid shirt over a dirty cotton tee. All of it beyond repair.
“I’m going to strip you and give you something clean to wear.”
He sat there, a breathing rag doll who allowed her to strip him and dress him in a gown open at the back.
She kept up a constant chatter with him, explaining what she was doing, not that he replied. However, his shuddering did ease, his whole body slumped, and she noted that the glow in his eyes was gone.
She made a note on his chart. Eyes: brown. Age: unknown. Hard to tell with the layer of filth on him and the scraggly nature of his hair. He appeared gaunt. Undernourished. His skin pulled taut over bone and muscle.
“You poor thing,” she cooed. “Looks like you haven’t had a proper meal in ages. The kitchen is closed right now, but I’ll see if I can scrounge you up something once I’m done.”
He said nothing, but he did lift his head and peek at her.
“Do you know where you are?” Becky asked.
“The bad place.”
The reply startled her. “Not bad. You’re in a hospital.”
“No. No. No. Bad place.” The man’s wild eyes darted from side to side, and agitation had his body rocking.
“Sir, I need you to remain calm.”
“Out. I need out.”
“Soon. First, we need to make sure you’re okay. Did you take any drugs?” She spoke in a low soothing tone.
“So many drugs,” the man cackled.
“Can you give me a name?”
“No name. Noooo name,” he sang, still rocking.
“Where did you get the drugs?”
“The bad place.” His voice dropped an octave.
The reply made her wonder if he’d escaped from a care facility. It would make sense, a place that gave him drugs, his fear of hospitals.
“Is there someone I can call?”
“No. No. I need my shield. Give it back.” He lunged off the table, and his hands dug into the garbage bin. He emerged with his tin foil hat, which he plopped on his head. “Now they can’t see me.”
Definitely some kind of mental imbalance happening. And maybe something else. The strange light in his eyes had returned, a golden hue most unnatural.
“Sir, can you tell me what drugs you might have taken?” She knew of nothing that could make someone glow. In the movies, it usually meant something radioactive. She sure as hell hoped not. She had enough problems already.
“Not me. Bad. Drugs bad,” the man keened as he rocked on the balls of his feet, his skinny legs poking out of the bottom of his gown. “Hurts.”
“Where does it hurt?” She’d seen no obvious wounds when she stripped him.
“Hurts everywhere.”
“Did someone hurt you?” She guided him to the edge of the bed again, and he sat.
“Yesss.” The word spilled from him. “Chimera. Chimera did t
his.” The guy leaned forward suddenly, his eyes wide, and beyond the glow she noticed the iris. His very strange, vertically slitted iris.
“Can you hold still? I’d like to check something.” She grabbed a penlight from her pocket and flicked it on. She raised it to shine it in the man’s eye.
The man hissed. “No doctors!”
“I’m a nurse.”
“No. No Not again.” The hobo shrieked again as he lunged for her, his hands reaching for her neck, the tips of his fingers sharp, his nails unshorn and long.
“Help,” she squeaked. She hit the cabinet behind her and grabbed at his wrists, doing her best to keep him from crushing her windpipe. Not that it did much good. The transient appeared intent on choking her to death.
Spots danced in front of her eyes. She opened her mouth for a breath, only she couldn’t get any air.
Was this how it ended? Not wasting away in a hospital bed but a victim of her work?
She heard shouts. The pounding of feet. And still the pressure continued despite her best efforts to pry him loose.
“Let her go, asshole.” The deep voice wasn’t one she recognized, but she welcomed it, especially since the fingers around her neck were suddenly gone. She hit the floor on her knees, gasping and choking, her neck throbbing.
Glancing up through streaming eyes, she saw a tall man, dressed in black. His hair dark, the gaze he sent her way even darker.
“Thank you.” The words never made a sound even though her lips moved.
“You never saw me,” snapped the man before he frog-marched the screaming hobo out of the room. Screams that faded as she remained on her knees, sucking in air.
Only moments later, Jenny and Dr. Morrison entered. Made a fuss over her. Exclaimed about the attack. Declared her bruised but okay. Becky didn’t feel okay. She could barely swallow, the pain of the swollen tissue too intense for mere acetaminophen.