The Clinic

by David Jester

  He scoured the floor, trying to see past the blood and the piles of bodies. He saw that the knife was lying within arm’s reach, right where he had dropped it.

  He felt a surge of adrenaline flush his body when his fingers curled around the handle of the knife. He grinned through the pain, clenched his teeth, and hissed his breaths out of his lungs. He looked up to see that the big man still had his back to him, he hadn’t anticipated that Malcolm would fight, hadn’t anticipated that he wasn’t dealing with a feeble kid who would let him do what he wanted.

  It angered him that the man had such a disregard for human life and it angered him more that he had nearly been his next victim. He held onto that anger, used it to fire his brain and his body into action as he clambered, as silently as he could, to his feet. He was covered in blood now, but he didn’t linger on that, didn’t let it get to him. Instead he thought about avenging the people whose blood now covered him like some crimson camouflage. They had died at the hands of this sociopathic monster, and now Malcolm would deliver them justice and he would deliver it in the very room where the beast had senselessly butchered them.

  He hauled himself upright, his breath coming in gasps; the big man still wasn’t paying any attention to him, his back was still turned. Malcolm stood behind the bloodied giant, staring at the back of his head.

  He had something pressed to his ear; it looked like a radio or a walkie-talkie. Malcolm’s eyes were smeared with blood; a drop had stuck to his eyelashes and hovered over his right eye like a veil, shrouding everything in a deathly red hue.

  He lifted the knife, aimed, inhaled a deep breath and then threw himself at the big man. He plunged the knife into the center of his back. The blade sunk into his flesh, slicing easily through the mass of muscle and fat and then puncturing his heart and his lungs. Malcolm pulled it out with a satisfying gasp, nearly losing his balance in the process. The beast staggered forward but Malcolm followed, stabbing him again and again, until blood gushed out of the wounds, mixing with the blood already coating the floor and the walls.

  The radio fell out of his grasp and hit the floor, shattering on impact. It had been fizzing, buzzing with words or music, but they stopped as soon as it clattered into the bloody floor.

  Malcolm reached for the beast again, prepared to attack him for the dozenth time, but the big man toppled over something on the floor and fell. Malcolm nearly followed him, but he stopped short of tumbling over the large corpse on the ground. He watched the big man as he squirmed and groaned, he thought about jumping on him, delivering a few more blows, but he knew it wasn’t necessary. He watched as he slowly turned over and he prepared himself to look into the face of a dying murderer, to stare into his twisted eyes. But it wasn’t the same man. His face wasn’t as strong or as bloodied. It was chubby and somewhat innocent. It was smiling slightly, despite what had happened; a smile of an innocent idiot.

  Malcolm’s jaw hung open, he looked to the knife and then back to the body.

  “I don’t—” he said, staggering his words before allowing them to trail off.

  The man he had stabbed was staring at him and Malcolm hoped that his thin blue lips would give him the answer he wanted. He returned the stare, waiting, but eventually he realized that those glassy eyes weren’t looking into his eyes, they weren’t seeing him or anything else. He was already dead.

  He looked at the knife again and dropped it, watching it fall to the floor.

  How long had he been out? Had he imagined the man with the bloodied face, had he—

  He stopped his rapid thoughts, felt a freeze grab his heart and rush through his body. He took a step backwards, his eyes on the body on the floor, the body that the dead man had tripped over. It was the body of the butcher, the man who had knocked Malcolm unconscious. He was dead; it looked like his neck had been broken. He had been taken by surprise, attacked from behind, and then—

  Malcolm looked at both of the dead men.

  “Shit,” he whispered softly, realizing he had just murdered a man who had saved his life.

  30

  Eddie was the first past the door, he turned around and waited for Darren to pass but Darren paused. The two voices inside the room didn’t sound angry or menacing, they weren’t filled with bile, rage and insanity; they sounded normal, scared. They were doing their best to keep their voices low and Darren was sure he even heard one of them telling the other to be quiet.

  He turned to Eddie, wondering if he had heard it as well, but Eddie’s expression hadn’t changed. He glared at Darren for a moment and the gestured for him to hurry up; Darren shook his head and nodded to the door, trying to get his point across.

  Eddie raised his eyebrows, an expression of impatience. When Darren still didn’t follow him, he openly asked, “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  Darren felt his heart sink. He heard the voices in the room fall silent, heard one of them shush the other. He deflated and turned to the door, ready to open it and embrace who was on the other side—they needed as many allies as they could get and he was confident that the two men on the other side of the door were good guys—but the voice on the other side stopped him.

  “Back off, we’re armed!” It was filled with faux bravado; Darren could hear the fear in every word. They suspected that Darren and Eddie were about to launch into an attack, they had probably already fought off a few madmen in the last few hours and, as far as they were concerned, the angry voices outside the door were just another pair of blood-thirsty psychopaths.

  “Leave,” another voice ordered. “Or you’ll regret it.” The second voice was just as scared as the first, but he hid the fear better.

  Darren took a step forward, “Come on,” he motioned to Eddie, brushing past him. He didn’t want to enter, didn’t need to talk to the two men inside. He knew they were good guys, but he also knew they were scared and, if they were armed, he knew there was a good chance they would lash out at whoever walked through the door, be they friend or foe.

  Eddie didn’t budge; he was still looking ahead, at and around the door. Darren tugged on his jumper, urging him away, but Eddie moved a step closer to the door. He seemed transfixed by it; a smile curled the corners of his lips but the rest of his features were set in deep concentration.

  “Eddie, come on.”

  Eddie took another step forward, then the trance broke, he averted his eyes, turned his grin to Darren. “We need to do this,” he said with a sinister smile.

  “This?”

  Eddie simply nodded. He turned back to the door and then pushed it open. Inside it was dark, lit only by the moonlight that streamed in through a small barred window and by a lamp that sat on a desk against the back wall. Two men had been standing near the doorway, they immediately jumped back when Eddie entered and moved further away when he strode into the room.

  Darren reluctantly walked by his friend’s side. He could see that the men were innocent, could see that they were terrified. He could also see that they weren’t armed and even if they were, he doubted they would be capable of using a weapon.

  Eddie stopped in the center of the room and the two men stopped backing away, trying to regain some composure, to fix a stance of intimidation.

  Darren looked from their horrified expressions to the one of glee on his friend’s face. “Now what?” he asked Eddie.

  He didn’t like the look he received in reply.

  Malcolm rushed back into the bathroom, slapping on the light and practically throwing himself at the sink. He twisted the tap until his hand hurt and stuck his face close to the sink, allowing the ice-cold water to quickly fill his hands before splashing it on his face.

  He watched the blood mingle with the water, watched as the watery concoction dripped onto the cold porcelain bowl like wet paint onto a blank canvas. He thought about the beast, the man that had dragged him into the room of death. He thought about how close he had been to joining the bodies on the floor; thought about the man who had saved his life and how he hadn’t e
xactly returned the favor.

  The drip-drip-drip of the blood, diluted to a tame pink, steadied, and slowed.

  He didn’t know why the man had saved his life, but he didn’t think it was intentional. The hospital was rife with murder and madness, patients butchering staff—and each other—without a second thought. The man he had killed wasn’t the one that had dragged him to that room, but he was still a murderer and there was a good chance that if he knew Malcolm was alive, he would have chosen him as his next victim.

  That made him feel better, but he was still sick to his stomach. No matter which way he looked at it, no matter how he tried to justify it, he had taken someone’s life.

  He straightened up and stared at his gaunt and blood-smeared expression in the mirror. He looked into his own empty eyes, into the worry, regret, and fear that resided there. He looked away when he sensed movement beside him. At first he thought someone was sneaking up on him and he was surprised by his initial reaction: it wasn’t one of rigid fear or worry, instead he turned around, feeling a surge of anger, and prepared to launch himself at his attacker.

  A small mouse looked up at him from underneath one of the cubicles, its whiskers twitching the air, its pinpoint eyes glistening in the darkness. It looked up at Malcolm who stood just a foot or two away. Malcolm wasn’t struck rigid by fear, but the mouse was.

  The bitterness and aggression on his face shifted, replaced by a smile.

  “Hello little dude,” he said softly.

  He watched as the rodent took a cautious step forward, its face close to the ground, looking for a scent of food, a morsel of something satisfying in the cold, empty hospital.

  Malcolm squatted down, pursed his lips and made a clicking sound with his tongue before slowly reaching out a hand.

  The mouse looked at the extended appendage and studied its approach.

  “It’s okay, I ain’t gonna hurt you,” Malcolm said. He extended a finger and then watched as the mouse quickly darted past it, under his legs, and through the door.

  It was hiding in the main room, pushed up against a corner. Malcolm heard it emitting a strange noise, a murmuring sound that he took to be panic, hunger, or desperation. He creased his face, feeling pity for the small animal as it pinned itself up against the wall and hoped that it hadn’t been seen.

  Malcolm dug around in his pockets until he found the remnants of a cereal bar. He walked steadily over to the rodent, keeping low and unassuming, and held out the honey-coated crumbs, hoping it would venture forward and take it out of his hand. The noise had increased, the rodent now extremely worried with the human so near. Malcolm put the crumbs down on the floor and began to retreat, but he stopped himself. He gave the rodent another glance, one of bemusement this time. He had dealt with hamsters, rats, and mice before and had never heard any of them make a sound. One of them, a pet mouse, often sat in his hand, trembling and defecating in fear and uncertainty, but it never made a sound.

  Once he realized that the noise wasn’t coming from the rodent, couldn’t be coming from the rodent, he realized that it wasn’t even coming from this side of the room. He straightened up, looked around and then saw the source of the noise. Nestled in an alcove in the far corner, obscured from the entrance and the bathroom door, a grief-stricken man sat hunched in the fetal position, his teeth nervously and mercilessly chomping on his fingernails and the nibs of his fingers; his sunken eyes staring straight at Malcolm.

  They were in a standoff, four people waiting to tear each other apart. Darren was the only one with a knife and he wasn’t moving, he didn’t look like he was prepared to use it. He was a wimp, just like Eddie had always suspected. Eddie turned to his friend to urge him into action, or at least to ask for backup as Eddie prepared to fight; he saw desperation in Darren’s eyes and knew that he wasn’t going to fight. He watched as Darren lifted his hand slowly, all eyes in the room on the knife that he held loosely in his palm.

  “I can’t do it,” Eddie heard Darren say. “They need to die, we need to kill them before they kill us, but I’m not man enough to do it.”

  Eddie had known all along; it didn’t come as a surprise. He waited for Darren to drop the knife, for the sound of the metal to ring out as it clattered against the floor. The other two crept out from their hiding positions, ready to fight now that the weapon had been taken out of the equation, but Eddie quickly picked it up.

  He glared at them with a glint in his eye. “I ain’t a soft fuck like him,” he announced, tossing the knife from one hand to the other, seeing the realization dawn on the two madmen.

  He attacked them before they could attack him. He moved quickly, he had to; Darren wasn’t prepared to back him up and, although he had the knife, he was outnumbered and disadvantaged.

  He grabbed the closest one by the throat and squeezed tightly. He didn’t do anything to defend himself, didn’t try to throw a punch or a kick. He seemed to succumb to his fate, his eyes wide and pleading, as Eddie drove the blade into his stomach. He struck half a dozen times in quick succession before he let go, watching as the madman slumped against the wall, his hands clutching at his stomach, his legs unstable.

  The second man came at him, showing some fight, but Eddie was too quick for him. He jabbed him with his left hand, caught him on the nose and caused him to stumble backwards, nearly toppling over his dying friend who was on his knees, breathing his last breaths. After staggering him with another quick jab, Eddie lashed out with the knife, driving it across his throat in an arcing motion. He felt the resistance rattle through the handle as the blade met with flesh and tore an opening; he heard the satisfying rip, felt the spray of blood as vital arteries opened and the madman fell to his knees, inches away from his friend, clutching at the mass of blood that rushed from his throat like a crimson tide.

  “What the fuck?”

  Eddie turned around and saw Darren staring at him, shock and awe in his eyes.

  “That was amazing,” Darren said, still standing rigid, seemingly too in awe of his friend’s talents to do anything. “You saved my life.”

  Edie nodded proudly. He studied his friend, studied the awe in his face and his words. He hated him and if he wanted he could slaughter him in heartbeat, just like he had with the two men that were breathing their last at his feet, but something told him he needed to keep Darren alive, and it wasn’t just because he was a kiss-ass.

  As Malcolm edged towards the exit, he saw that the man in the corner was just a kid. He had a young face, no doubt helped by his gaunt features and gangly frame, but he looked to be the same age as Malcolm and his friends, if not younger. He was in his pajamas and a loose dressing gown, the uniform of the psychotic, at least as far as this building was concerned. But Malcolm didn’t think he was psychotic, he looked like he could be a patient, but not one with an appetite for murder.

  He also looked innocent. Malcolm knew not to trust appearances, madness and murder hides behind all facades, but there was no deception behind his face, no evil lurking in his eyes. He looked lost, petrified. When Malcolm stared at him, the youngster even averted his eyes.

  “Hello, there,” Malcolm said eventually, deciding not to walk away. Something told him to stay, to try to talk to the kid, to get answers or to help him.

  The kid didn’t answer but he did look at him.

  “What’s your name?” Malcolm asked.

  The murmuring had stopped; the boy wasn’t making a sound now.

  “What are you doing here?” Malcolm asked.

  The boy’s eyes moved behind Malcolm and gave him a fright, and for a moment he thought that somebody was behind him, another murderous psychopath, but when he turned he didn’t see anyone standing there. He only saw the mouse, who had ventured towards the crumbs from the cereal bar and was munching them hungrily while keeping his eyes and ears pointed towards Malcolm.

  Malcolm asked, “You like the mouse?”

  The boy nodded, peeling his hands away from his face as he did so. He saw his lips move, perhaps
to answer his question, but only a murmur escaped.

  “Is he your friend?” Malcolm had moved slowly towards him and was now just a few feet away. The boy didn’t seem to mind and was swapping his glances between Malcolm and the mouse, Malcolm saw a smile creased his eyes and crack his dried lips when he watched the mouse.

  The youngster nodded, enthusiasm in his eyes.

  “What’s his name?”

  The boy turned to Malcolm and looked confused for a moment. Malcolm stopped moving, sensing he might have crossed the line, even though he didn’t know where or what the line was.

  “—e—e—e doesn’t have—a—name.” He stuttered slowly, his lips peeling apart with great difficultly.

  Malcolm nodded slowly and moved forwards another couple of steps, until he was within touching distance. He could smell the boy now, a strong scent of body odor mixed with the rancid stench of stale urine. He squatted down, like he had done with the mouse, until he was eye level with him. The boy seemed more alert and open. He was smiling gently now, his eyes on Malcolm who was returning the smile.

  “And what about you?” Malcolm asked. “Do you have a name?”

  The youngster nodded slowly and then paused, as if remembering. “Neil,” he said eventually.

  “Nice to meet you Neil,” Malcolm said. “So, what are you doing here?”

  Neil looked back to the mouse and seemed disappointed and slightly alarmed when he noticed that the little rodent had scurried away. “I followed him,” he explained.

  “Do you always follow him?”

  Neil nodded.

  “Fascinating creatures, aren’t they?”

  Again, Neil nodded, before adding, “I like the way they eat. And move.”

  “Cute, eh?”

  “I like that they don’t change. Life changes. I change. I don’t like that. The mouse doesn’t change.”

  Malcolm nodded, not wanting to delve any deeper into what Neil was talking about. Clearly the kid had issues, otherwise he wouldn’t be in the hospital in the first place, but now wasn’t the time to bring those issues to light.