by Amy Cross
"But -"
"Go," Gothos continued. "Find Patrick. Delay him as long as possible. Use whatever means you consider necessary."
Rasmussen opened his mouth to argue, but finally he realized that he had no choice but to do as he had been ordered. With fear in his heart, he walked toward the door and pulled it open. He glanced back one final time at Gothos, before stepping out into the hallway, ready to confront Patrick and demand an end to such violence.
Today
Mark Gregory
"She's dying. They're all dying."
It's been five hours since we found the latest batch of writhing, screaming bodies, and now I've got the news I've been dreading. An entire floor at the New Mercy hospital has been cleared for the victims, but despite the combined efforts of some of the city's best doctors, it's clear that nothing can be done. These people have been systematically tortured and weakened over a period of a few days, and even before Dr. Lawrence came to deliver the bad news, I could tell that the situation was hopeless. I guess the only thing left to do is to systematically manage their final hours as humanely as possible.
"What's the cause of death going to be?" I ask, as we stand in a darkened corridor just outside a room where several of the victims are being treated. There are moans of pain coming from a nearby door, testament to the fact that even morphine isn't working in every case. Since the victims were brought here, the hospital has rapidly begun to resemble Hell. As they desperately try to find a way to help these people, or at least to ease their pain, all the medical staff have a strained and horrified look in their eyes. No-one was ever prepared for this kind of situation.
"That's for the coroner to decide," Dr. Lawrence replies a little unsteadily, clearly struggling - like his colleagues - to deal with the mess. "All these people have been drained of significant quantities of blood, but there's also a toxin in their systems. This isn't going to be an easy one to figure out. I've never seen anything like it, and all the lab tests so far have come back negative. Whatever this thing is, it's something we haven't seen before, and it's not in any of the databases. Do you understand what that means?"
"It's new."
"It's more than new. It's..." He pauses, as if he's searching for the right word. "I'd say it's impossible, but I'm surrounded by proof that the damn thing is real." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a glass vial containing a small amount of black liquid. "We've managed to isolate a few samples," he continues. "It's extremely potent, so each victim only required a very small amount. It's organic, and it's highly abrasive. I don't know how it works, but we've already got people working on it in the lab."
"Anything so far?"
He shakes his head. "I've had to inform various agencies, of course. When something new shows up, the obvious assumption is that it was created deliberately, maybe as some kind of weapon. The thing is, this stuff has all the hallmarks of a naturally-occurring compound, as if it's existed in nature all this time without anyone noticing it. I don't mind admitting that I've never come across anything so unusual." Staring at the vial, he seems lots in thought for a moment. "Whenever we think we understand the world," he continues after a moment, "something new comes along and reminds us to temper our hubris."
"I've seen it before," I say, walking over to a nearby door and looking into the nearest room, where a nurse is hanging up a drip bag next to a bed. "The only difference is, last time, the victims were already dead when we found them." I pause for a moment, unable to take my eyes of the black substance. "Tell me about this toxin. If we know what it does, we can work out why someone would use it."
"It's some kind of highly caustic substance that seems to promote blood production," he explains. "It has regenerative properties, but its effects are only short-term. Over a matter of a few days, it burns the insides of every vein and artery in the victims' bodies. The method of introduction seems to be through two small puncture wounds on the neck, which allows the substance to be introduced to the bloodstream. As far as I can tell, once it's in, there's no hope." He shrugs. "It's not Halloween yet, is it?"
"Halloween?"
"Vampires," he replies. "I mean, sure, it's pretty ghoulish, but I don't see why there have to be two puncture wounds when one would suffice. It's kind of theatrical, don't you think? Hell, it's almost as if someone wants us to think that there's a bunch of neck-biters running around. Are vampires still fashionable these days, or is it werewolves and zombies? I've lost track."
"So they were producing extra blood?" I ask, keen to stick to the subject.
"Seems that way," he replies, "although it wasn't staying in their bodies. The toxin was making them produce blood at double, maybe triple the speed of a regular person. In normal circumstances, this would have been fatal pretty quickly, but they were being sucked dry by some kind of process. I can't figure it out, but it must have been industrial if it was happening on this scale. I guess that might be why there were two holes. One to introduce the toxin, and one to remove the blood." He pauses again. "We have certain guidelines for this type of thing, Detective Gregory. When unknown biological or chemical agents present to the hospital, we have to follow a set of clearly defined procedures. For one thing, we've already had to inform Washington. If this thing spreads in the wild, there's no way of knowing how much damage it could cause."
"Hold back on that for a few hours," I tell him. "I need to speak to someone first."
"It's too late," he replies. "I've already made the phone call, and there are people on their way to take over. We're not equipped to deal with situations involving unknown toxins. If this becomes a pandemic -"
"It won't," I say, stepping into the room and approaching the bed, where one of the victims has been heavily sedated. He looks so thin and frail, and his skin has a kind of pale, jaundiced quality. Frankly, I've seen healthier-looking corpses, and that's not an exaggeration. It's hard to believe that this guy is still alive, but his shallow breathing indicates that he probably isn't long for this world. "How long does he have?" I ask, turning back to Dr. Lawrence.
"It's impossible to say," he replies. "We're not dealing with something that has a known pathology. Besides, all these people are in agony. Keeping them alive would only prolong things. There comes a point at which you just have to let them go. Imagine having your body burnt from the inside. Whoever's giving this stuff to these kids, they deserve to be strung up from the nearest lamppost. There's no drug that's worth this amount of pain." He pauses. "That's what this is, right? Something to do with the drug market?"
"Sure," I mutter, figuring I should let him have the easy answers for now. I could try to tell him everything I know, of course, but I don't even understand it myself.
"At least they were just..." He pauses, as if he's caught himself at the last minute.
"At least they were just what?" I ask.
"Never mind."
"Tell me," I say. "What were you going to say?"
"The victims were all homeless," he continues. "All prior drug users, too, as far as we can tell. There are certain tell-tale signs. Old needle marks. Sores and cankers. These kids were already having a rough life before any of this happened. I don't mean to sound harsh, but their lives... They weren't headed anywhere. It's the brutal, honest truth. It's not as if their time on the streets was a precursor to some kind of remarkable change. They never would have contributed to society. Still..." He pauses, as if he's perhaps aware that he might have gone a little too far. "Do you want to see something, Detective Gregory? Do you want me to show you the full extent of what's happening to these people?"
I nod, even though I feel as if I've already seen enough
"This patient is heavily sedated," he says, leading me over to the bed. "He can't feel a thing. Believe me, that's the only kindness we can offer him right now. But if you look at his arms, tell me what you see."
Looking down at the victim's pale, yellowing arms, I see that his veins and arteries are extremely prominent, looking like dark lines running close to the
surface of his skin. I'm no doctor, but there's definitely something not quite right about this body, as if the veins and arteries have somehow become thicker and darker.
"The human body typically contains roughly five liters of blood," he continues, "of which a little under half is composed of red blood cells. If you start dramatically increasing the amount of blood, the body can't take it. Things go wrong, organs start to fail, and the body just..." His voice trails off.
"Just what?"
"I know what you're thinking," Dr. Lawrence continues. "You're thinking this is typical junkie stuff. He's been injecting for years and years, so his body's already pretty fucked up. That's true, to an extent, but there's something different here." He grabs a pair of latex gloves. "I hope you've got a strong stomach," he adds, as he reaches down to the guy's arm, "because this is quite possibly one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen." Slowly, he runs his fingers across the victim's skin, and to my shock I see that his fingertips have caught one of the veins, pulling it out from beneath the skin.
"How's that possible?" I ask, feeling a shiver run through my body.
"The toxin is causing his blood vessels to move to the surface," he explains. "At the same time, the skin is becoming softer, which makes the process easier. If I didn't know better, I'd say that whoever gave them this toxin was doing everything within their power to make the blood collection process easier." He slips a fingertip under the vein, pulling it out from the patient's arm like a guitar string, before letting go; the vein settles on the surface of the skin. "No-one can survive something like this," he continues. "This was clearly designed to be a short-term condition, just to keep them alive while the extra blood was produced and extracted. It's hard to believe that one of these poor bastards could live for more than three or four weeks. If I didn't know better -"
"They wanted blood," I say, interrupting him as the patient lets out a dull groan. "That's what the victims were to them. Sources of blood. They didn't see them as people. They just saw them as living, breathing sources of blood, and they took as much as they could before moving on to their next victims." The patient groans again. "Is something happening?" I ask.
"Don't worry," Dr. Lawrence replies, "he's not feeling any pain."
"You can't be sure about that," I point out. Staring at the victim, I find myself thinking back to the old days, before I was a detective. "I was out in Afghanistan," I say after a moment. "I've seen people in pain before. I've seen people doped up on morphine, and sometimes they still scream. He might still be in agony."
"With the amount of morphine he's on?" He pauses. "His body might be reacting occasionally, but I can assure you, his mind is gone. He's out. There's no point bringing him around."
"Can he talk?" I ask.
"You want to have a chat?"
"If these people are dying," I continue, "I need to talk to at least one of them before it's too late. I need to find out what happened. They might have seen something useful."
"You can't ask me to bring them out of these induced comas," he replies. "The pain would be immense, and anyway, I doubt you could even get one of them to speak sensibly. When pain is this great, it overwhelms the body and the mind. In good conscience, there's no way I can allow one of my patients to be put through such a high level of suffering when there's clearly no benefit.""
"Just one," I say firmly. "I can't allow more than a hundred potential witnesses to die without telling us anything. This is all I've got right now. If it means we can get a lead, I'm willing to risk it."
"It's not your decision," he replies firmly.
Looking down at the patient, I realize two things. First, the doctor's right: waking one of these people up would be unbelievably cruel, and the pain alone might prove fatal. Second, I have no choice: if these people die, I'm left with no leads and no way to find out what happened. I can't allow these killings to continue, but at the same time I'm struggling to find any kind of clues. One way or another, I need to find a way to get these people to talk to me.
"I'll be back in an hour," I say, heading to the door, "and then you're going to wake one of them up. I'm going to have someone with me, and I think she'll be able to help." Feeling something brushing against my shoulder, I turn, expecting to find a nurse or a doctor walking past. Instead, there's no-one nearby. Figuring I've got no time to lose, I make my way along the corridor, ignoring the sounds of pain and misery coming from every door I pass. I hate to admit it, but right now I've got no idea how I'm going to deal with this case, and I can only think of one person who might be able to help.
Abby Hart
"I don't want to be here," I say, turning to him, already able to feel the pain that's radiating out from all the minds around me. "There's no point. I can't help you."
"There's no-one else I can ask," Detective Gregory replies as we stand at the entrance to the ward. "There's not much time. These people are dying, and once they're gone, I've lost my best hope of getting to the truth. It might sound harsh, but I'm willing to put one of these people though more pain if it means I can stop hundreds more from suffering."
"That's a very cold and logical conclusion," I say, surprised by his mettle.
"It's the only approach that makes sense," he replies. "Fewer people will suffer in the long run if we stop this now."
"But why me?" I ask, keen to work out what's really happening here. After all, I'm still not entirely certain how much this guy knows about me. The other day, he seemed to be on the verge of accusing me of being... Well, it was as if he'd understood my true nature but was too scared to say the word. Since then, I've been conspicuously avoiding him, while wondering whether I made a mistake by not letting him die. When he came to find me today at the lab, I was already considering the possibility of taking action to neutralize him, but now I find myself called upon to help with the investigation. I wish I could just make a decision. I know I should kill him, to make sure that my secrets are preserved, but something's holding me back.
"I've got a feeling you might be useful," he says. "These people are dying. There's some kind of toxin in their systems, and their bodies are falling apart. They're heavily sedated, and if we bring one of them around, the pain is going to be..." He pauses. "I just figured you might know something. You might be able to meet them halfway. I know it's a last-ditch attempt, but I'm hoping that bringing you into the mix might shake things up."
"Wake them up," I say with a shrug.
"Isn't there something you can do?" he asks.
I take a deep breath. I can already feel the pain of these victims. Sure, they're sedated, but their minds are still alive and I can feel a screaming wall of agony resonating from each of the rooms. If this is what they're like when they're doped up to their eyeballs on morphine, I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like if they were forced to experience the full strength of their pain. Frankly, I don't think the human mind is capable of surviving such a thing. Their souls would shatter if they had to deal with what's happening to them. Even a vampire would struggle.
"What are we waiting for?" I ask eventually. "This isn't going to get any easier."
"This way," he says, leading me along the corridor until we reach a room at the far end. "The girl in here is named Clare Stamler," he continues, turning to me. "She's the girl who gave us the information about the church. She must have been picked up by these people shortly after we released her, which at least means we have some kind of idea about the time-frame. She can't have been in this condition for more than five days."
Glancing into the room, I see that there's a nurse attending to the girl. Although she seems to be perfectly still in the bed, I can already feel the victim's mind starting to reach out to me. It's almost as if she senses that I might be able to hear her, but I'm not ready to listen, not yet. The truth is, I know that I can deal with the amount of pain that this girl must be feeling. If I eventually allow our minds to connect, I'm going to experience a huge, agonizing rush, but I've felt far worse before. Hu
mans have a pathetically low pain threshold, and the kind of agony that can kill one of these weak creatures would barely be enough to make me flinch. Still, having had my mind invaded by the Disgrace so recently, I'm reluctant to do the same thing to another person.
I pause for a moment. "What exactly do you think I am?" I ask, keen to get him to say the words. I know he has his suspicions, but I'm not sure whether he actually believes that it could be true. Is Detective Mark Gregory the kind of man to dismiss vampires as a product of superstition, or is he willing to consider the possibility that I might be part of a world he doesn't understand?
"I just need you to help." He pauses. "In two or three hours, Clare Stamler is going to be dead, and so are all the rest of them. If there's anything you can do here, anything at all, I need you to do it right now. I can see it in your eyes, Dr. Hart. You know what's happening, or at least you've got an idea. I'm not asking you to tell me everything. Right now, I don't even care who are what you really are. I just need to know what this girl experienced. I need..." He pauses again. "Anything you can do would be better than the mess I have at the moment."
"I thought you already had a lead?" I ask. "What about the church?"
"Seems like a dead end," he replies. "I've had a guy stationed outside, but there's nothing going on there. Apart from the priest, no-one goes in and no-one goes out. The whole place seems totally dead. I need something new. Something more solid."
"And you came to me?"
"Believe me," he says darkly, "I was desperate."
I stare at him. "Get the nurse out of here," I say after a moment.
"We need to be alone," he says, turning to the nurse, who immediately leaves the room, shutting the door as she goes.
"Very obedient," I say with a smile.
"You don't have a very high opinion of most people, do you?" he asks.