Either way, there was only one way to find out.
When the line was straight enough for the man’s liking, he began to allow us into the building one by one, counting people carefully as they walked in. My heart raced. Would I make it into the building? If not, there was a chance that I’d lose my only opportunity to get in before the mask began to disintegrate or Little John arrived on the scene. Then what would I do?
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…” the man counted to himself as I approached him.
My breath was caught in my throat. I had to get into this building.
“Nineteen,” he counted when he reached me. And then, miraculously, I was past him and at the front entrance. I had made the cutoff. The person behind me was the last person admitted.
The inside of the building looked bright and sterile through the open front door. I filed in with the rest of the haggard, staggering crew and squinted against the sudden light.
I was in.
31
The air inside the building had a distinctive and familiar smell that simultaneously reminded me of sterilization and sickness. A few white-uniformed women walking by with a man wearing scrubs and a stethoscope hammered it in for me.
It was a hospital.
My eyes slowly adjusted to the bright light. We were walking through a hospital hallway, passing nurses and doctors in scrubs or white uniforms and lab coats, following the gentleman who had held the loudspeaker outside. We passed closed doors and nurse stations as we squeaked over yellowish linoleum floors.
I thought back to what the man with the loudspeaker said. Our group had been accepted for factory reassignments, if I heard him correctly. So why were we in a hospital?
“Follow me, please. Single file,” the man called back to us.
Our group was a ragtag bunch as we straggled behind him. There was an even mix of men and women in the group, maybe between the ages of twenty and fifty, and many of the townspeople looked tired and dirty. We stood out against the blindingly white hospital hallway in old, tattered clothing in shades of brown and gray. A man at the front of the line was limping painfully.
But the hospital itself was surprisingly state-of-the-art. We began to pass patient rooms as we walked farther into the building. The usual beeps and electronic droning came from various machines inside. There were no windows, but the rooms were well lit and clean, and the staff seemed attentive to the patients. All of the patients we passed were sleeping or in various states of rest while dressed in generic cream-colored hospital gowns.
I supposed it made sense that there would be a hospital on the compound grounds. After all, there were a lot of people here, and many of them seemed to be in failing or fragile health. And if Helping Hands really did want to get these people back to work as quickly as possible, a routine checkup seemed like the first step. But it didn’t make sense that they would have such a nice hospital here when they weren’t even providing the townspeople with adequate shelter. What was the point in curing them if their very lodgings were possibly keeping them sick?
“Keep together, please. Inside,” the man called back.
We were being led into a large room on our right, and as I walked in, I noticed a large television screen and several rows of hard plastic chairs. The townspeople were quickly taking seats as they entered, and I followed suit, careful to take a seat close to the door. I noticed that many of the townspeople seemed impressed and excited by our settings, particularly the TV. And small wonder—some of these people may never have seen one before.
The man waited until we were all inside and then shut the door behind us. He did not remain in the room. We were left alone in our uncomfortable chairs, staring curiously at the television screen.
The lights suddenly dimmed, and the screen switched on. A kind-looking nurse appeared on the screen wearing a white uniform bedecked with the red Helping Hands logo. She smiled at the camera and began to speak.
“Hello, and welcome to the Helping Hands vocational training program,” she said.
Vocational training? I thought we were just getting reassigned to different factories.
“Helping Hands is excited to assist you as you take the first steps toward a brighter and more prosperous future,” the recorded woman said. “To begin this process, we’re first going to conduct thorough medical examinations. You will then be eligible to receive medical procedures at no cost to you. We want to make sure you’re healthy and happy in your new roles.”
I noticed a hum of enthusiasm running through the small crowd of townspeople. The man with the limp was smiling and turning to the woman next to him. A few others began to whisper excitedly. These people probably hadn’t had any access to medical care in their hometowns. I hadn’t noticed a hospital at all in Millville. This was definitely good news for them.
But something about it still wasn’t sitting right with me. Why were only a few of the townspeople allowed access to healthcare at a time? And why was the hospital so much nicer than the barracks?
But mostly, why did Helping Hands care about poor people at all? The government certainly didn’t.
“Now, let’s get started. At the table in front of you, you’ll notice health assessments and writing utensils. Please fill these out to the best of your knowledge. If you require assistance to read, please inform a nurse.”
There was a desk at the front of the room, separating us from the television screen. I noticed for the first time that there was a stack of white papers on it, as well as a small pile of pencils. At this point, the man walked back in from outside and stood by the door. He didn’t look like a nurse to me, but I could only assume that he was the person we were supposed to ask if we needed help.
People were standing and approaching the front of the room to get papers and pencils. I waited until the majority of them had sat back down before I walked to the front of the room and grabbed my own paper packet and sharpened lead pencil. The woman on the video continued to speak.
“Thank you for being a part of Helping Hands. Together, we can accomplish more,” she finished. She flashed a dazzlingly white smile. Then the recording ended and the lights came back up in the room.
“Fill these out quickly and quietly,” the man said. His demeanor was nothing like that of the nurse in the video. He seemed openly contemptuous of us. His eyes were narrowed, his arms were crossed, and it was obvious that he wanted to move us through this process as quickly as possible.
I walked back to my seat with my papers and pencil. The front of the booklet showed a large Helping Hands logo and the words Health Assessment. I opened it up to the first page and squinted to read the tiny print inside. It was a strange health assessment. There were several pages of yes or no questions and, after a few pages, some basic math questions. I pursed my lips. What did arithmetic have to do with free healthcare?
I turned back to the first page to read the questions.
Do you ever hear voices when you are alone? Yes or No (circle one)
Do you ever have violent thoughts?
Do you ever worry that people can read your mind?
What? I expected questions about aches and pains, or maybe family health histories. But this was reading like a psychological evaluation.
I read further down the page and onto the next page.
Do you ever see things that other people cannot see?
Do you read messages in “random” assortments of letters and/or numbers?
All of the questions were that way. It was a psych test followed by a basic math skills test. What did that have to do with anything? I couldn’t understand what the relevancy of this information was.
The man standing beside the door was looking closely at me with his eyes squinted, and I suddenly realized that my suspicion might be obvious. I started to feel claustrophobic. I needed to get out of this room and away from these people. I needed to find a way to explore the hospital.
The man walked over to me with his arms crossed. But before he could speak, I had
a question ready for him.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked innocently.
He sighed and glared at me in annoyance. But then he waved his hand for me to come with him. I quickly stood and followed him out the door.
He pointed down the hall. “Third door on the right,” he said. “Be quick.”
I nodded and made my way down the hallway toward the bathroom. A few nurses were milling around in the hallway, and I could see a man sleeping in a hospital bed through an open door, but I didn’t see any agents or guards anywhere. The man from the assessment room was watching me, however, so I walked down to the bathroom and slipped inside.
There were four separate stalls in the restroom. I walked into one and locked the door behind myself, and then went back and stood beside the toilet. I had to think. I had no intention of filling out that assessment and then being corralled into a patient room. I needed to start exploring to see if I could find some explanation for why Helping Hands was operating a hospital and conducting these tests. Of course, it may have been for the exact reason they were claiming: factory reassignments. But I had my doubts.
I needed to start exploring the hospital inconspicuously. But how was I going to get back past the man in the room? Was he going to come looking for me after a while? Was he still waiting out in the hallway?
Time was ticking by, and Little John would be returning in less than an hour and a half, I figured. Which meant I needed to leave now.
The bathroom door opened, and I heard someone walk in and enter the stall beside me. Looking toward the floor, I saw the distinctive white shoes of a nurse, and my thoughts began to race. I had to get out of this bathroom, and I needed to get past that man. I didn’t see any other option.
I slipped my foot out of one of my heavy work boots and walked up to the stall door with it in my hand, trying to step and breathe lightly. She probably knew that I was in the restroom with her, but I needed as much of the element of surprise as possible.
The toilet flushed beside me, and the woman stood and walked through the door and out to the sinks. I heard the water turn on.
It was now or never.
I held the boot in one hand behind my back as I unlocked the stall door and pushed it open with my free hand. The woman didn’t look up to see me as she washed her hands.
I pulled the boot around, rushed out of the stall, and swung my hand forward quickly and firmly. The boot slammed against the base of her head, dropping her almost instantly. I moved to catch her before she fell. No blood, no mess, and nothing but a pounding future headache was in store for the nurse. No evidence of foul play.
The woman’s heels dragged along the floor as I pulled her back into a stall. Once inside, I worked quickly to remove her uniform and shoes and get them onto myself. I kept my unassuming T-shirt on and tied my pant legs around my waist under the dress. I was going to need my clothes back if I ever got out of the hospital. Otherwise, I would stick out like a sore thumb among the townspeople.
But there was nothing I could do about my boots. I couldn’t wear them with the nurse’s uniform without arousing some serious suspicion in the hospital. And I couldn’t sneak them under the dress, either. I was just going to have to leave them in the stall.
The woman was breathing lightly but rhythmically. If I was lucky, she’d be out for at least half an hour or longer. I propped her up as well as I could, silently apologizing for the bump on the head, and then crawled out from under the locked stall door. Now I had to move fast.
I slowly pushed open the bathroom door and peeked out. The man from the assessment room was still standing where I had left him in the hallway, and I exhaled. I couldn’t look anxious as I stepped out. I was dressed like a nurse, and I needed to look like I belonged here. I strode out of the room confidently, turned on my heel, and walked in the opposite direction, never making eye contact with the man in the hallway.
I held my breath and waited for him to call after me. But he never did.
There were a lot of nurses in the halls. I kept my eyes down as I passed them, but I couldn’t help but wonder why so many were present. If they were only letting in twenty people at a time, it sure seemed like they’d have a lot of free space in this huge building. I passed more patient rooms as I walked and wondered why exactly some patients were still here. Were that many people receiving extended care? Were these people who were deemed too unhealthy for the reassignment program? It just didn’t make any sense to me.
A doctor walked briskly by me and entered a patient room with a nurse by his side, and I looked in and saw the patient briefly before the door shut. She was a woman in her mid-forties, and she was just… sitting on her bed. She didn’t seem sick or injured. She was just sitting on her bed, silent and still.
I turned a corner and saw different types of doors ahead—automatic double doors, spaced farther apart. There were no patient rooms in this hall. I didn’t see any nurses or doctors, either. I was alone here.
The hospital felt eerily empty, and I walked a little slower now under the buzzing fluorescent lights above, straining my ears but unable to hear anything coming from behind any of the double doors. I’d need to see into these rooms.
I approached the first set of doors and pressed my ear against the cool wood. No sound. I looked down both sides of the hallway once more. There was still no one nearby. I pushed against the door, and it cracked open. I held the heavy doors open firmly with both hands and peered inside.
It was an empty operating room. There was a blue-draped gurney in the middle of the room, as well as a waist-high table with a silver tray of sharp surgical tools and a hand-washing station. But there was no one in the room.
I let the door shut. An operating room seemed pretty standard in a hospital like this. Were all of these double doors operating rooms?
I walked down to the next set of double doors and pressed my ear against them. This time I could hear voices coming from inside. I pressed the door open a crack and looked in.
A man was lying on the gurney, draped in the same blue, papery fabric I had seen in the other room. He was clearly anesthetized. He was unmoving, his eyes closed, as a small group of people worked around him.
I could see one doctor and three nurses—one of whom was handing the doctor a long metal stick. It looked to be pointed on one end and flat on the other, like a stake. Nothing like any of the medical tools I’d ever seen. The doctor grabbed it and placed the sharp end of the stick into one of the patient’s nostrils.
My eyes widened. Sinus surgery? Or what? The stick was very long and very sharp looking. It looked like it could reach all the way into the man’s brain from his nostril. What were they doing?
The nurse handed the doctor another tool, but now a different nurse was blocking my view of the surgical tray. What was he holding now? I looked back quickly to check the hallway and noticed with relief that I was still alone. I turned back to the operating room.
The doctor was holding up the second tool. It was a small metal mallet.
My breath caught in my throat.
The doctor positioned the mallet carefully over the blunt end of the metal stake. Then, with a sickening clang, the mallet hit the stake, which sank several inches into the man’s nose. The man on the gurney jerked… and then was still.
“Hey!”
I turned quickly and let the door shut at the sudden sound of a man’s voice. A doctor was standing in the hallway, looking right at me.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I didn’t take the time to answer. I turned and walked to the end of the hall, and then around a corner.
I had to get out of here.
32
“Wait!” the man yelled from around the corner.
But I had no intention of waiting. I wasn’t sure what I had just seen, but something about it seemed very, very wrong. What kind of surgery was that? Brain surgery? If so, it definitely looked like an imprecise method.
Deep down I thought I knew what I h
ad seen, but it was too frightening to entertain the idea for long. Surely it wasn’t what it looked like.
I was walking too fast. I knew that, but I didn’t want to slow down. Not with the doctor behind me and suspicious. I turned to look back but didn’t see him in the hallway yet. Maybe if I was fast enough, I could lose him before we attracted any more attention to ourselves.
I didn’t know what would happen if he caught up to me. Maybe if I had played it off better outside of the operating room, he wouldn’t be on my tail now. I could’ve said I was observing, or perhaps that I had gotten confused about where I was supposed to be during my shift. But I had been too panicked and afraid at the sight of the surgeon’s crude tools to do anything other than run.
Besides, what if the nurse in the bathroom had already come to? What if someone had found her in there with my discarded work boots? How much longer could I really have before that man from the assessment room started looking for me?
Nurses in this new hallway were watching me curiously as I sped by, and I knew I was blowing my cover. But I had to get out of here now. And that meant moving fast.
“Hey!” the voice called again.
I turned back and saw that the doctor had turned the bend in the hallway and was now within view.
I kept walking. Now all of the nurses were watching me. I knew I didn’t have long before someone tried to physically stop or restrain me. I couldn’t risk that.
I broke into a run.
I turned another bend and ran past more nurses and a female doctor. They watched me as I passed, but no one tried to stop me. I needed to find an exit. If I could get outside of the hospital and hide, there was a chance I could strip out of the uniform and blend in with the townspeople long enough to avoid capture before Little John’s diversion.
The Child Thief 5: Ghost Towns Page 29