Sanford Hospital (Berkley Street Series Book 4)

by Ron Ripley

  An owl cried out, and a dark shape soared by.

  Get up, Francis thought. And he did. Muscles screamed and protested, dried blood cracked and wounds which had scabbed broke open. Find Shane.

  Francis got to his feet, using a headstone to steady himself. He wobbled as he walked, staggering towards the open crypt. A foul, burnt stench filled his nose and he pushed the unpleasant sensory input to the back of his mind.

  Shane was stretched out in the grass, in front of the open door. The man was unconscious, and had fresh burns along the back of his neck. Blood and dirt caked the soles of his feet.

  Francis bent down and picked Shane up. He put him in a fireman’s carry, slinging the man across his shoulders. Shane grunted, but didn’t wake up.

  Standing up, Francis took a deep breath. He adjusted his own body weight, turned and headed towards the road. The old ability to separate his mind from his body’s actions returned, and Francis found himself able to remain above the physical pain. His pace increased and he was soon at his own car. He set Shane down on the trunk, unlocked the backdoor and then put Shane in.

  He let the unconscious man lie across the seat, tucking Shane’s bare feet up before closing the door. Francis paused, caught his breath and fought back a spike of pain from his various injuries. He took in a long, slow breath through his nose and exhaled the same way. With one hand on the roof of the car Francis thought, I need to get us to a hospital. Then I need to go back to the Order.

  I have a decision to make.

  He focused his mind again, and then Francis got into his car. The engine started when he turned the key, and the car moved when he shifted into ‘drive’.

  Francis smiled.

  Everything’s going to be fine, he thought, and he left Sanford Hospital.

  Chapter 66: Francis Makes a Move

  “Are you quite certain, Francis?” Abbot Gregory asked.

  Francis nodded, not quite trusting his own voice to contain the raw emotion flowing through him. His small travel bag was packed and on the cot beside him. The linens had been stripped and sent to the laundry. Abbot Gregory stood in the doorway, his hands clasped together.

  “Where will you go?” Abbot Gregory said, concern in his voice.

  “I’ll be asking a friend if I can stay with him for a bit,” Francis replied.

  “And if he says no?” the abbot asked.

  Francis smiled wryly. “Well, then, Abbot, I’ll figure it out.”

  Abbot Gregory nodded, then he stepped into the room. “Hold out your hand, Francis.”

  He did so.

  The abbot dropped the two iron rings Francis had used at Sanford into his open palm. He looked at the older man, confused.

  “I have spoken with the older members of the Order,” Abbot Gregory explained. “We feel you are not done with the unquiet dead, and so you will need these.”

  “What if someone else does?” Francis asked, looking down at the rings.

  “Then we will have more forged,” the abbot said.

  “Thank you,” he said as he slipped the rings onto his fingers. “Thank you very much, Abbot.”

  “You are quite welcome,” Abbot Gregory replied. “Will you send us your address as soon as you have it? I have forwarded your request to withdraw from the Order, and while I am certain it is forthcoming, we will need to know where to send the permission.”

  “As soon as I know,” Francis said, “I will let you know.”

  “Excellent,” the old man said. “Now come, I will give you a ride to where you need to go.”

  Francis nodded, stood up and took his bag off the bed.

  “St. Joseph’s hospital in Nashua, Abbot,” he said. “My friend, Shane, is there. I must speak to him.”

  Abbot Gregory nodded. “Let us be on our way, then, Francis.”

  Holding onto his bag tightly, Francis followed Abbot Gregory out of the room, and out of the Order.

  Chapter 67: At St. Joseph’s Hospital

  I am going to be paying these bills forever, Shane thought, staring up at the ceiling.

  Well, a cold voice in his head replied, you could be dead.

  Shut up, Shane told himself.

  “Hello,” a voice said.

  Shane turned to look at the doorway and saw a young nurse. She was pretty, a tall, thin woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties.

  “Hello,” Shane replied, returning his attention to the ceiling. His body ached in spite of the morphine that dripped through the intravenous line. He knew he could tell them, but part of him was afraid to have the dosage increased. Alcohol is enough of a problem, he thought. With a sigh, he scratched at his left shoulder, where they had put the nicotine patch to help with his cigarette cravings.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, coming into the room to stand beside his bed.

  “Peachy,” Shane answered. “Think I can go home now?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Not yet. The police were here again while you were sleeping.”

  “That’s nice of them,” Shane said.

  The smile on the woman’s face became a frown. “They’re concerned about who stabbed you.”

  “Stabbed me?” Shane said, feigning surprise.

  “Yes. Are you going to tell them who stabbed you?” she asked.

  “Why would someone stab me?” Shane said, stifling a yawn. The young nurse sighed in exasperation.

  “The police would like to see you later on if it's convenient,” she said.

  Shane looked at her. “It’s not. Tell them I said ‘No, thank you.’”

  “Shane,” she started, and he frowned.

  She blushed slightly. “Mr. Ryan, they have to investigate the crime.”

  “There was no crime,” Shane said. “Nothing happened.”

  “You were burned, given a concussion, and stabbed, and nothing happened?” she asked.

  “Exactly,” Shane said.

  The nurse shook her head and left the room without saying another word. A few minutes later, the dog tags shifted on his chest, and Courtney was there. She looked at the room’s door and said, “She’s pretty.”

  “She’s not you,” Shane said.

  Courtney smiled down at him. “Shane Ryan, you know exactly what to say.”

  “Glad you think so,” Shane said. He looked at Courtney and blinked away tears.

  She smiled at him. “All will be well.” Shane shook his head. His heart hurt too much to speak. Courtney reached out, her touch cold against his cheek. Goosebumps raced along his flesh. He cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, for everything,” he whispered.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied. Her finger traced the line of his jaw.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Courtney vanished.

  “Come in,” Shane said.

  Dom Francis entered a moment later, carrying a travel bag and wearing street clothes.

  “Dom Francis, what’s going on?” Shane asked in surprise.

  “I’ve left the Order,” Dom Francis said, smiling apologetically. “And call me Frank, please.”

  “Sure, Frank. Do you need help or something?” Shane said.

  Frank nodded. “I, well, I need a place to stay.”

  “And you want to stay with me?” Shane asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” Frank said, then added hurriedly, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No,” Shane said. “It’s not any trouble at all. It’s just, well, I’ll need to talk to you about the other residents in the house.”

  “Are they difficult?” Frank asked.

  “No. No, Frank,” Shane said, “They’re dead.”

  The expression of surprise on Frank’s face made Shane laugh, and Frank soon joined him. Their laughter filled the small room, and Shane wondered what it would be like to have a living person in the house again.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: The End of the War, 1918

  Clay Getchell wasn’t mad, but he was close to it, and he knew it.
/>   He lay in a bed at the end of E Ward, where all of the beds lay in neat, barrack-like rows where privacy was only a dream. The staff had rails on his bed to ensure he didn’t fall out, and although he despised being treated like a child, he knew it was for his own good.

  There were moments when he was lucid. His thoughts could be clear and concise. He remembered the conversations he had had with the good Reverend who came up from Amherst. Clay could even flirt with some of the nurses, so long as they didn’t try to see his face. Or rather, what was left of his face.

  Clay had disliked the night as a youth. As a soldier he had hated it, fearful of the Germans who would sneak across the horrors of No-Man’s-Land to raid the trenches.

  Now we love the night, don’t we, he thought, twisting in his bed. Clay looked out the open window, a bitterly cold wind bathing him. The smell on E Ward was one of illness and men fouling themselves.

  Clay smiled at the darkness, the stars and moon hidden by thick clouds promising snow. The night hid Clay’s face from other people. It spared him their expressions of sympathy. In the late hours, he could close his eyes and imagine himself whole. His legs would not be missing below the knees. He would still have two eyes, and the right side of his face would not be a twisted mass of scar tissue.

  I would be me, Clay thought tiredly. As I was; as I was meant to be.

  For a moment longer, he looked out the window, then he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Soon, he knew, the nurse would come and close the window. Later, as the night ended and crept towards dawn, the panic would return to him. The fear of assassins.

  He tapped on his blankets nervously with his hands.

  There’s morphine if you want it, he reminded himself.

  Clay shook his head. No. Better to deal with the demons while aware.

  Someone shrieked at the far end, a case of shell shock far worse than Clay’s own. A door opened, and light burst out into the ward.

  Men howled, and others shook in their beds.

  A pair of large orderlies, accompanied by the new nurse, hurried out of their office. To delay was dangerous. One man screaming too long would set off the others, a chain reaction of madness in a room full of broken men.

  Scream, the little voice in his head whispered. You know you want to, Clay. Go on, let out a shriek or two. You’ll enjoy it. You’ll feel better.

  Clay clenched his teeth together and forced himself to remain silent.

  Oh come on now, the voice pouted, let one out for me.

  Clay shook his head.

  I’ll make you, the voice hissed, and a sharp pain exploded in Clay’s left foot; a foot which no longer existed.

  But it feels like it’s there, doesn’t it? the voice asked sweetly.

  Clay’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to contain the growing agony. Soon the horrific sensation spread from his foot, up his shin, and towards his knee.

  We can do this all night, the voice said, its tone one of confidence and comradeship. But, if you give a single little scream for me, well, we can end it right here. No need to go further, right, Clay?

  Clay resisted, but when the patient at the end was silenced, Clay couldn’t keep his own any longer. The scream he let out was long, loud and deep, an echo of the one he had let loose when they had told him of his injuries.

  In a matter of seconds, the orderlies were at his bedside, reaching out to restrain him as he thrashed in his sheets.

  “He won’t be quiet!” Clay sobbed. “I just want him to be quiet!”

  Large, hard hands pinned him down, and the new nurse appeared. She had a syringe in one hand and a bottle of morphine in the other. Her pale, pretty face was determined.

  “What’s your’ name?” she asked gently.

  “Clay,” he wept. “My name’s Clay.”

  “Clay,” she said, her hands steady as she filled the syringe. “I’m going to give you a small shot of morphine. It will help him to be quiet. Do you understand?”

  Clay nodded, relaxing partially under the grip of the orderlies.

  “Excellent,” the nurse said softly. One of the men moved aside, and she slipped in. The injection was quick and nearly painless. Almost instantly Clay relaxed. The orderlies let go of him, closed the cage and locked it.

  While they left to check on other patients, the nurse hesitated and looked down at him, smiling.

  “Do you like the cold air?” she asked, nodding towards the open window.

  “Yes,” Clay said softly.

  “Alright then,” she said. “I’ll leave it open a little longer. Try to rest now, Clay. I’ll be here all night.”

  “What’s your name?” Clay asked as she turned away.

  She paused, glanced at him over her shoulder and said with a smile, “Ruth. My name is Ruth Williamson, and I’m going to take care of all of you here.”

  Clay returned the smile, closed his eyes and drifted towards a dreamless sleep.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Sickness Spreads, 1919

  Clay had no great desire to live as an invalid, plagued by living nightmares and useless to the world.

  But I don’t want to die from illness, not like the others, he thought.

  Spanish Influenza had been devastating New Hampshire, as well as the rest of the world, and it had finally crept into Sanford Hospital. There had been whispers about its arrival, of some men contracting the disease. A pair of them had even attempted to escape from the building.

  Guards had stopped them. Guards with gasmasks and loaded rifles.

  The residents of Sanford Hospital would have to stay indoors until the disease had run its course. Until it had devoured them.

  Clay sat upright in his bed. The window was still open, as per Ruth's order. She knew it took him a long time to fall asleep, and even then he would wake up, terrified at what might come for him. The cold air soothed him.

  The ward was dimly lit, most of the men sleeping. Those who weren’t drugged slept fitfully. The ones who were, hardly breathed. Clay was the sole patient awake on E Ward. Even though the Influenza hadn’t crept up from the lower levels, the threat was there.

  Clay shivered suddenly as a cool breeze passed by him. Clay frowned and pulled the thick, woolen blanket up higher around his waist. He looked at the various windows, but none of them were open. Some of the other patients wrapped up in their blankets, burrowing down against the chill.

  Movement caught his eye, and Clay turned to the right. A pale shape stepped out of a shadow, and Clay’s breathing grew shallow.

  Gil Upton stood near the office door, wearing his bedclothes and the knit cap he favored.

  The one he had been buried in.

  Gil had passed in December, two days before Christmas. He had been gassed at the French village of Seicheprey, and his lungs had never recovered. Clay had listened to the man slowly drown each night, until one morning, shortly after Ruth had begun working on the ward, he had been found dead.

  Clay watched the deceased soldier reach out and scratch lightly on the wall. The sound was devilish, raising the hairs on the back of Clay’s neck.

  Clay opened his mouth to scream for morphine, but he snapped it shut as Ruth exited the office. She closed the door behind her and looked at Gil.

  Gil inclined his head towards her, and for the first time, Clay realized he could see through the man. It was as if Gil was and wasn’t there.

  Over the sounds of the gathered, sleeping men, Clay heard Ruth speak.

  “I’ve chosen Fredericks,” she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  “An excellent choice,” Gil said, his voice the same faint croak he had in life.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have listened to him these past few days. He is far too disturbing to the peace of this ward. It will be a blessing. He would not survive the illness if he contracted it.”

  Clay watched as she went back into the office and returned a minute later. She held a syringe and several vials in her hands. Ruth walked away from the office, Gil m
oving along silently beside her. She made her way directly to where Theodore Fredericks lay. The man slept restlessly at best, half of his head caved in from an angry horse.

  Ruth filled the syringe with the contents of one of the vials, then she leaned forward and kissed Fredericks lightly on the forehead. A smile flickered across the man’s face and remained there as she injected him.

  She stepped away, the syringe held casually in her hand.

  Fredericks took several more breaths, and then he stopped. His chest remained immobile, the smile still on his face.

  Gil turned, saw Clay watching them, and suddenly he was at Clay’s side.

  “It’s for the best,” Gil rasped. “It is her right, and she alone will decide our fates.”

  And all Clay could do was scream in response.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Clay Continues to Watch, 1919

  The night was full of terror.

  Influenza had reached E Ward, and the men were dying. Some of them from the disease. Some from the tender touch of Nurse Ruth Williamson. She moved about the ward, dealing out death as she saw fit. The woman seemed to be drunk on her power to choose. Whomever she wanted dead, died.

  Clay had no one with whom he could speak.

  And who would believe you? the little voice asked pleasantly. You’re a madman. No one would trust your word, it's why you’ve remained silent.

  Clay couldn’t argue with the voice. It was right.

  When do you think she’ll come for you? The voice said. Tonight? Will Fredericks scratch at her door, like a faithful dog, and say to her 'Yes, you’re quite right. Clay, for he is ready for death.'

  Clay closed his eyes tightly and tried to wish the voice away. Laughter filled his head.

  Where do you think I’m going to go? the voice asked, chuckling. I’ve been here for a very long time.

  No, you haven’t, Clay argued angrily. You only came after the injury.

  Are you certain? the voice said. Think about it now, Clay. Are you certain? Wasn’t I there when you were a little boy, playing in the cemetery? Wasn’t I there when the Reverend told you to mind your father and your mother?