by Ron Ripley
Maybe she has, Shane thought.
He walked to the desk and stopped in front of it. In silence, he waited for her.
She was texting on her phone, glanced up at him and smiled. Her name tag read, ‘Jane S.’
“May I help you?” Jane asked.
“Yes, miss,” Shane said. “I’m Shane Ryan. I have an appointment with Doctor Georges.”
“Dr. Georges called in sick today,” Jane said apologetically. “We have Nurse Platte covering for him.”
“Okay,” Shane said. “Where do I find Nurse Platte?”
“She’s on B Ward,” Jane said. “Second floor. The elevator is out today, so you’ll have to use the main stairs.”
“Tough day?” Shane asked.
“No,” Jane said, sighing. “It’s pretty normal.”
“Great,” Shane muttered. He turned, saw the tiled stairs which led up to the second floor, and he headed towards them.
When he reached the first landing, he found himself at a pair of doors. Above them was a sign, B Ward. He pushed them open and walked in. The floor was polished to a high sheen, the lights were bright, and the area looked well-cared for. A male nurse sat at the main station and looked up at Shane.
“Hello,” Shane said, “I’m here to see Nurse Platte.”
The man nodded and called out over his shoulder, “Nancy, you’ve got a patient.”
From a back office, a woman appeared. She looked to be in her sixties, her gray hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and glasses on her face. The woman was short, round, and Shane could see she wouldn’t take any grief from anyone.
“You’re Mr. Ryan?” she asked, her voice like broken glass on gravel.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Shane answered.
“Right this way,” she turned around and went back to the office. Shane hurried after her. She sat down and nodded to him. Shane took the seat and waited.
Nurse Platte picked up a file, scanned through it, closed it, and said, “You’re here for burn treatment?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Shane said.
She put the file down, took her glasses off and looked at him. In a low voice, she asked, “Is there any way you can afford to go back to where you were?”
He shook his head.
“Dr. Georges is a nice enough man,” she continued, “but he shouldn’t be doing most procedures. Hell, I don’t even trust him to take someone’s temperature properly.”
“Great,” Shane muttered. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Alright,” Nurse Platte said. “I will do my best for you. I promise you that, Mr. Ryan. However, even in the best of facilities, there is a high chance for infection when caring for burn injuries.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “I know. Okay, what now?”
“I’m going to send you to the lab, make sure you have all of the blood work up to date,” she replied. “Then I’m going to admit you and schedule you for tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.”
“Why so soon and so early?” Shane asked, surprised.
“Best to get it done sooner rather than later,” Nurse Platte said. “Dr. Georges usually doesn’t start drinking until lunch time.”
“Usually?” Shane said.
She nodded. “Usually.”
Chapter 6: Brett Keeps an Eye Open
After having checked on Pedro, Brett went into Howard Case’s room. He found Howard asleep, but the man’s roommate, Bill “Doc” Kiernan, was awake. The younger man’s pale skin and short cropped red hair, like his name, spoke of his Irish heritage. His green eyes sunk in their sockets above high cheekbones, confirmed the diagnosis that Bill was not long for the world.
“Hey, Doc,” Brett said, walking in and sitting down. “How are you, tonight?”
“Well,” the young man said. “I just turned thirty last week and I’m dying, how about yourself?”
“Can’t complain too much when you put it like that,” Brett said.
“Sure, you can,” Bill said, grinning. “One of my drill sergeants told us that we had very few rights in the Army. One of them was the right to complain, and that we should do it as often and as much as we could possibly get away with.”
Brett laughed. “Sounds like good advice. How are you feeling tonight?”
“I’m dying, Brett,” Bill said, the grin faltering for a moment. “Other than that, I’m feeling okay.”
“I wish there was more I could do,” Brett said sincerely.
“Don’t worry about it. You do what you can, and I appreciate it. I know Howard does, too.”
Brett nodded.
“Anyway,” Bill said, sighing, “anything new on E Ward?”
“No,” Brett replied, shaking his head. “No new arrivals. No new staff. What about you, what’s the rumor mill got going during the day?”
“Well,” Bill said, adjusting himself on his bed. “Let’s see. Heard we got a new patient downstairs on B Ward. Poor guy’s going under Dr. George’s knife in the morning.”
“How did you hear about him?” Brett asked. “Kind of far for word to travel, isn’t it?”
“Guess he’s completely bald,” Bill said. “No hair anywhere. The nurses were joking about how they weren’t going to have to shave him.”
“No hair at all?”
“Zero,” Bill said.
“Guy probably has alopecia,” Brett said, more to himself than to Bill.
“What’s that?” Bill asked.
“Unexplained hair loss,” Brett said. “An autoimmune disorder.”
“Might make it tough to chat up some of the ladies,” Bill said with a grin.
Brett nodded, chuckling as he stood up.
“That’s true. Very true. You need anything, Doc?”
“A cure for whatever cancer I got from those Iraqi burn-pits would be nice,” Bill said. “But, if you don’t have that lying around, make Karen get up and bring me a cup of coffee to wash my pain meds down.”
“You got it,” Brett said. “Tell Howard I said ‘hello’ when he wakes up.”
“Will do.”
Brett left the room, and checked in on Logan Tran. The man and his roommate were asleep. He did the rest of his rounds, ended up back at the nurse’s station and found Karen upright in her chair with her eyes closed, fast asleep.
He shook his head in disgust and sat down in his own seat. Quietly, he picked up the newest Jack Reacher novel and opened up to his bookmark.
Chapter 7: Feeling Good
Shane walked up the main stairwell. He had managed to get out to his car, have a couple nips of whiskey, and then slipped back inside. The security guard was an old Marine, and he and Shane had talked about Okinawa, less than reputable drinking establishments, and the best ways they had eluded the arrest by the Shore Patrol.
It was a quarter to midnight, and Shane knew he wouldn’t be able to eat or drink anything else prior to his surgery in the morning. The fact that they were putting him under the knife didn’t bother him as much as the risk of infection did. He had no idea about the whole skin grafting procedure, but he knew there were dangers to any surgery.
That’ll be my luck, Shane told himself, passing the landing for the third floor and heading towards the fourth. I’m going to die on the operating table of a backwater VA hospital because I don’t have private insurance.
His body burned through the alcohol quickly, and he considered, briefly, a second trip to the car. He shook the idea away and focused on the stairs. The plan was to tire himself out enough so he would sleep.
Preferably without nightmares, he thought, sighing. He paused on the steps, adjusted the pull-strings of the pajamas they had issued him, and then continued on. Soon he passed the fourth floor, and he reached the end of the stairs at the landing for E Ward. He hesitated in front of the doors, then he pushed them open and stepped onto the fifth floor.
Shane noticed the temperature immediately.
It was easily ten degrees colder than the rest of the building. The ward was filled with the ambient noise of diff
erent medical equipment. A curious, unidentifiable stench hung in the air, but the two people at the nurse’s station didn’t seem to notice.
The nurse, in fact, looked as if she were asleep. Beside her was a man in a doctor’s coat, and his head was down, intent upon the book he was reading. Only when the doors whispered closed did the man look up.
His eyes widened in surprise, and he hastily put the book down. The man looked to be in his early thirties. His face was round, as if he enjoyed pastries more than he should. The man’s brown hair was messy and his ears, which were more pointed than curved, protruded sharply through the locks.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“Not really,” Shane replied. “I’m just out for a walk.”
“You’re the man who came in today,” the doctor said.
“Yeah,” Shane said warily. “How’d you know?”
“Your alopecia,” the doctor answered. “It made the rounds of the hospital. Even came up here to some of the patients.”
Shane shook his head. “Glad I can help people gossip.”
“Beats what the last guy was known for,” the doctor said.
“Oh yeah?” Shane asked.
The doctor nodded. “Syphilis.”
“Unreal,” Shane said, laughing in spite of himself, “yeah, guess it does.”
A soft clink echoed through the ward.
Both Shane and the doctor looked down the left wing.
“No!” The shout came from one of the closed rooms.
Shane turned to the doctor, but the man was already out from behind the desk and racing down the hall towards the voice. Without hesitating, Shane ran after him.
The doctor slammed open a door and barreled into the room. Shane was close behind him. Close enough to see a woman in an old nurse’s uniform standing beside the bed of another patient, an old man. His skin a sickly yellow, and wisps of white hair clinging to scalp.
She snapped her head up at Shane and the doctor, anger and determination on her face. Shane groaned inwardly as he saw the wall through her. Not again. Her hands were over the mouth of the patient, and he struggled weakly beneath her.
“You’re too loud,” the nurse spat, and she flicked her hand towards the door.
Shane felt himself thrown backward, his feet leaving the floor as he went hurtling into the hallway. He stumbled and caught himself only to have the doctor slam into him. Shane’s head struck the cement wall and everything went dark.
Chapter 8: On the Wrong Floor
“Hey,” a man said. “Can you hear me?”
Someone pried open one of his eyelids and Shane jerked his head away. He blinked, tried to see, but his eyes wouldn’t focus, so he closed them again.
“Yeah,” Shane mumbled.
“What’s your name?”
“Gunnery Sergeant,” Shane responded.
“Come on, your name, not your rank,” the stranger said.
“Shane. Shane Ryan,” Shane said.
“Stay awake, Shane,” the unknown man said. “You’ve got to do that for me, Marine.”
“Damn,” Shane said, the word slurred as it exited his mouth. “I’m tired.”
“No rest for the wicked, Marine,” the man said. “Keep those eyes open. Come on.”
Grumbling, Shane did as he was told. The world came into focus, and he saw a young man squatting beside him. The stranger was wearing pajamas and a robe with Looney Tune characters all over it.
“What’s going on?” Shane asked, frowning at the slow tempo of his speech.
The young man smiled. “You can call me Doc, Shane. Listen, you hit your head pretty hard when you came out of Pedro’s room. Doctor Pelletier said some crazy stuff about ghosts, but I’m more concerned with your head right now. Think you can help me out?”
“Sure,” Shane said. “What do you need?”
“How many fingers do you see?” Doc asked, holding up one hand.
Shane counted seven fingers, which didn’t seem quite right, but he told Doc the number anyway.
“Yeah,” Doc said, chuckling. “I never would have made it into the service if I had seven fingers. No, you’ve got a concussion, Marine. No surgery for you in the morning.”
“The hell,” Shane said. He yawned, closed his eyes and tried to rest against the wall.
“No, no, no,” Doc said, shaking Shane’s shoulder to keep him conscious. “No one’s given you the okay for sleep. You’ve got to stay awake for me. You need to be awake until they get a gurney up here for you, and that’s going to be in a little bit. They’re trying to get a service elevator up and running to bring you and Brett downstairs. If they can’t, well, you’re going to be in the Waiting Room until tomorrow sometime.”
“You got spare beds up here?” Shane asked, looking at Doc.
“Two as of right now,” Doc said. “Pedro died.”
“Pedro?” Shane slurred. “Who’s Pedro?”
“The man in the room you and Brett ran to,” Doc answered.
“She killed him,” Shane murmured.
“Who killed him?” Doc asked sharply.
“The nurse,” Shane said, trying to force his eyes to focus on Doc. “The dead nurse killed him. She was smothering him when we went in.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Doc asked, his voice low.
Shane closed one eye and was able to see Doc clearly with the other. Taking a deep breath, Shane said, “There was a ghost. In the room. She was killing him. Pedro. When we went in. When we went in, she threw us.”
“Bull,” Doc hissed. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Brett was seeing things.”
Shane shook his head and instantly regretted it. Pain exploded behind his eyes and churned his stomach. He managed to calm down, looked at Doc and said, “A ghost in Pedro’s room. She killed him. Mad we were interrupting her.”
Doc licked his lips nervously, glanced around as if to make certain no one else was close by and he whispered, “Did Brett see this ghost too?”
“Yup,” Shane answered. “Hey. Hey, Doc.”
“Yes?” Doc said, the tone of his voice leveling off. “What do you need?”
“You said no surgery for me tomorrow?”
“Not with a concussion,” Doc said. “Plus you’re talking like your brains are really scrambled up there. Traumatic Brain Injury is what you’re sounding like, Marine.”
Shane waved the comment away. “Already been checked for TBI. Hit an IED in Helmand Province. You know. I don’t know. Anyway. No surgery?”
“No. No surgery.”
“Good,” Shane said, sighing. “Do me a favor.”
“What?” Doc asked.
“My keys are in my robe pocket,” Shane said. “I got a fifth of whiskey in the trunk. Bring it up will you?”
Before the younger man could reply, darkness swept over Shane, and the world went still. He felt hands lift him up. Someone adjusted his head, and he could feel them carrying him.
Shane smiled in spite of the pain in his head and his back. No surgery, he thought, chuckling. No surgery. Dr. Georges will have to cut into some other poor sap tomorrow. From a distance, he heard Doc or someone else speak his name.
Shane laughed and said one word in reply.
“Whiskey.”
Chapter 9: Brett talks with Shane
Shane sat in a chair and stared at the television. He had the volume muted, barely registering the show; something about finding and rebuilding vintage muscle cars.
Shane had suffered a few concussions before, and he hated them. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and he was exhausted but couldn’t go to sleep.
There was a knock at the door, and Shane managed to say, “Come in.”
Brett entered, a swath of painfully bright light blinding Shane.
“Sorry about the light,” Brett said, hastily closing the door.
“It’s alright,”
Shane picked up the remote and turned the television off. “Came to check on your newest patient?”
/> Brett nodded, pulled the room’s other chair over and sat down. “How are you feeling?”
“Miserable,” Shane said, sighing. “How about you?”
“Not as bad,” Brett said. “At least I don’t have a concussion.”
“Yup,” Shane agreed. “What’s on your mind?”
The man cleared his throat uncomfortably, scratched the back of his head and said, “Did you see anything when we went into Pedro’s room?”
“Yeah,” Shane said.
Brett waited for Shane to continue, but when he didn’t, he stammered, “I mean. Well, did you … did you see a woman?”
“A nurse?” Shane asked.
A look of relief filled Brett’s face. “Yes. Oh my God, yes, a nurse.”
“Yes,” Shane said. “I saw her. I saw her smothering Pedro. She threw us out of the room.”
“Oh, thank you,” Brett said. “I was worried you hadn’t. I hoped you had.”
“I did,” Shane said. “Have you seen her before?”
“Yes,” Brett whispered, nodding. “The other night when Ray, another patient, died. Or was killed, I guess. Can ghosts kill?”
“Ghosts can do a lot.” Shane stared at the wall for a moment, then he looked back to Brett.
“I was thinking,” Brett said, “could she be the reason there are so many deaths on E Ward?”
“Definitely,” Shane said. “Who’s the guy called Doc?”
“Bill Kiernan,” Brett said. “Combat medic. Did a few tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He helped out when you and I were down.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “You may want to talk to him about this ghost, too. I vaguely remember mentioning it to him when he was treating me.”
“Is it that bad?” Brett asked.
Shane shrugged. “Depends on whether or not he believes me. Feel him out. If he thinks I’m crazy, don’t say you saw her too. You don’t need the grief. If he sounds like he thought I was telling the truth and I’m not insane, you might want to see if he’s seen or heard anything strange.”