Dead Harvest

by Chris F. Holm

  3.

  It'd been sixty-five years since I last laid eyes on Bellevue. Sixty-five years, four months, and seventeen days. Since then, it had changed plenty, with its modern glass atrium jutting skyward and glinting in the morning sun, I almost didn't recognize it. But the cold, impassive stone face I remembered all too well stared outward from behind the glass, and my own new face twisted into a smile of grim remembrance. Try though we might, we never can quite deny who we once were.

  The hospital itself was a massive structure, occupying twenty-five floors and two city blocks. In the nearly three centuries of its existence, its halls had spread and shifted and wound among themselves like vines on a trellis. The result was a tangled labyrinth of wrong turns and dead-end corridors, peppered with the occasional brightly colored map in what I can only assume was a fit of architectural sarcasm.

  Of course, it would help if I knew what I was looking for; all I had to go on was what I read in the paper. Killing spree, coma – the girl could be anywhere. Prison and psych wards make for tricky collections – they've got armed security, locked rooms, the whole nine – but in most hospitals, they're also overflowing. My hope was they were keeping Kate somewhere a little less secure. I played the odds and headed for the ICU.

  As the elevator doors opened, I knew I'd struck pay dirt. The ICU was a sleek, modern affair, all glass and light – the better to see you with, my dear. A few rooms in, a uniformed cop sat slouched beside an open door, his nose buried in a Scudder novel. I strode past him down the hall. He didn't spare me a second glance. Through the glass-paned walls, I caught a glimpse of the room's sole occupant. She looked so tiny and so frail as she lay still in her bed, surrounded by the blip and whir of medical equipment. But her wrist was cuffed to the bedrail, and her hair was flecked with blood – no doubt about it, she was my mark.

  I continued without pause down the hall, flashing the nurse at the station a smile as I passed. She flushed and returned the favor. In my line of work, I don't get looked at that way often. Almost a shame the assignment was so easy; it'd be a waste to ditch this skin-suit so soon.

  As I neared the end of the hall, I glanced back toward the nurses' station. The nurse was clacking away at a computer terminal, her back to me. I ducked into the nearest room. In the bed was an elderly gentleman – his eyes closed, his pallor gray. A tube snaked from his mouth to a machine beside the bed that accordioned up and down, pumping breath into his lungs.

  I approached the bed, my bare feet silent on the tiled floor. The only sounds in the room were the blip of his heart monitor and the grim, mechanical hiss of the respirator. I took the man's hand in mine. It was cold and dry. At the end of one finger was a small white clip, a wire running from it to the tangle of machinery beside him.

  I grabbed the wire and yanked free the clip, letting it fall to the floor as I strode out of the room. A shrill monotone pierced the air as the heart monitor flatlined. Alarms sounded at the nurses' station, and I was buffeted by medical personnel as they rushed past me down the hall.

  As diversions go, they don't get any easier than that. Time was I'd have had to almost kill the guy to get that kind of rise out of everybody. Now all you have to do is unhook a wire. I only hoped Kate's guard would be as easily distracted.

  I snatched a chart at random from the nurses' station and set out for Kate's room. I strode with purpose toward the door, thinking doctorly thoughts. You'd be surprised how often that sort of thing works.

  This time, no such luck. The cop stood as I approached, sidestepping in front of me as I tried to shoulder past.

  "Where the hell you think you're going?"

  "I'm here to see the patient," I replied, brandishing the chart by way of evidence.

  He scowled. "You ain't her usual doctor."

  "I'm from Neurology. They called me in for a consult."

  The cop looked me up and down, eyes lingering on my bare feet. His hand crept toward the gun on his belt. "I'm gonna need to see some ID."

  I lunged forward, slamming him against the doorjamb. His hand found the gun. Steel scraped leather as it slid free of its holster. I pressed my hand to his chest and reached inside. His eyes went wide as I clenched tight his soul.

  "David," I said. "She knows. She knows what you did to him." Somewhere, an eternity from the swirling blackness where we stood, a gun clattered to the floor.

  I withdrew my grasp, and David crumpled. He was shaking, whimpering. Tears streaked his pallid face.

  "No," David whispered.

  "You know it's true, or I would not."

  "No," he repeated. "No no no no no!" He scurried backward along the wall, his gun and his assignment forgotten. He scrambled to his feet and took off at a dead run, not looking back.

  Inside, the room was quiet. Just the steady blip of the heart monitor, the soft tap of the IV drip, and the gentle sigh of Kate's breathing. She was younger than I expected – she couldn't have been more than seventeen. And Kate was beautiful. Her auburn hair spilled across the pillow like a thousand adolescent fantasies, and though her eyes fluttered in dream, her face carried no hint of worry or concern.

  I'd gladly give a limb to have dreams like hers, I thought. But then, these limbs weren't mine to give.

  I approached the bed, caressing her cheek a moment before resting my hand on her breastbone. "Sorry," I said. "It's nothing personal."

  I reached inside. My head was suddenly filled with light – blinding, beautiful. I clenched shut my eyes against it, but it wasn't any use. Still it streamed in, the purest white. Not devoid of color – full of it. And with it her song. So beautiful. So sweet. I staggered backward, blind and helpless. My hand pulled free, and the light and song were gone. I collapsed to the floor, tears streaming down my borrowed cheeks, whether from the beauty of what I'd seen or the sudden horrible absence of it, I didn't know.

  I looked around. I'd so lost myself in that light, that sound, I was unsure of where I was. The lines and angles of the hospital room seemed suddenly harsher, somehow. Colder. My heart thudded in my chest. I climbed trembling to my feet, my body drenched in a cold, acrid sweat. I knew that scent. I'd smelled it a thousand times in the moment before I tore soul from flesh.

  It was fear.

  It was fear, and it was mine.

  I approached the bed again. With shaking hands, I reached toward her. I hesitated, my fingers scant inches from her breastbone. I wasn't sure if I could do it. I knew I couldn't not. I closed my eyes, steeling myself for what was to come.

  That's when she started screaming.

  My eyes flew open. Kate was staring back at me, her eyes wide with fear. She thrashed against her restraints, cuffed wrists clanging violently against the bedrail. Her screams echoed through the tiny room, blotting out all thought.

  "My God, is she all right?"

  A nurse, in the doorway. I forced myself to focus. "She's seizing!" I replied. "Give her something to calm her down."

  The nurse hurried to Kate's bedside, snatching a needle from the cart beside the bed. "Pushing four of Ativan." Kate's thrashing slowed, and her cries died down to little more than a whimper. Her eyes met mine. Terrified, pleading. Then the spark within them guttered and died, and her lids came crashing down. Kate MacNeil was once again asleep.

  I, unfortunately, had no such luxury. My mind was reeling. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, urging me to flee. I knew I had a job to do. But that light, that song – in all my years, I'd never seen anything like that. Something wasn't right here.

  "Her wrists," I said, embarrassed by the sudden quaver in my voice. "They've been abraded by the cuffs. I'd like to have a look at them. Do you have a key?"

  "I'm not supposed to unlock her," the nurse replied.

  I nodded toward Kate's sleeping form. "You think she's going anywhere?"

  She hesitated a moment, and then fished a small set of keys from her pocket, unlocking first one set of cuffs, and then the other. "The police should really be here when she wakes up," the nurse said. "
They're going to want to talk to her."

  I nodded my agreement. "The officer that was stationed at her door was asleep when I arrived. When I woke him, he said he was gonna head down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. If I had to guess, I'd say they're not going to be too happy with him if they find out he was gone when she came to. You could catch him if you hurry. Tell him to call in, let them know that she's been stirring."

  "And her?"

  "I'll keep an eye on her until you get back."

  She gave me a curt nod, and took off at a jog. A good kid, I thought – the trusting sort. It almost made me feel bad for what I was about to do.

  Beside the bed was a wheelchair, folded and propped against the wall. I yanked it open. Then, with a glance over my shoulder to ensure I wasn't being watched, I slid the IV from Kate's arm. Blood welled red in its wake. I blotted it with the bed sheet, and replaced the tape that had held the IV in place. Then I lifted her into the wheelchair. Her eyes fluttered, but she didn't stir.

  Outside Kate's room, the hall bustled with activity. The nurse had headed left, so I went right. No one gave me a second glance as I wheeled her down the hall, her head lolling to one side.

  What the hell was I supposed to do now? It would only be a matter of minutes before they discovered she was missing, and this girl was a hot commodity. I knew what I should do was make the collection and be on my way. I also knew that wasn't going to happen – not until I figured out what the hell was going on.

  "Hey! Hey, you!"

  The call echoed down the length of the crowded hallway. I pretended not to hear – just kept on pushing Kate down the hall like I hadn't a care in the world. As soon as we were around the corner and out of view, I broke into a run. The wheelchair rattled and shimmied beneath my sweat-slick hands – any moment I expected her to spill out of the chair and onto the floor. But she stayed put, and I kept running.

  Some fucking plan this was.

  There was a clatter of footfalls behind us, a bevy of shouts. We reached a bank of elevators, and I pressed the call button. My lungs and legs were burning, and my heart thudded in my chest. Kate, for her part, seemed content to sit and drool on the shoulder of her hospital gown. At least it beat the screaming.

  The elevator door pinged open. Two uniformed cops rounded the corner, guns drawn. I rolled Kate into the elevator and chose a floor at random. Then I hit three more below it, just to keep them guessing.

  The cops were rapidly approaching, and still the door was open. I pounded on the button to close it, and slowly, it began to move. One of the cops made a leap for the door, arm extended in desperate attempt to halt the door's progress. A second more, and he might have made it, but he was too slow, too late. The door slid shut. A bang reverberated through the elevator shaft as he pounded on the door in frustration. The sound filled the elevator car, and then receded as we lurched downward.

  And just like that, we were gone.

  4.

  Shit.

  My hope was that I'd've had a couple of minutes before they noticed she was missing. And when they did, they'd be looking for a dangerous, psychotic, awake little girl; I could just wheel her out the front door unnoticed. But now they'd seen me with her, and that was going to complicate matters a bit.

  Of course, the fact that they'd seen me wasn't the end of the world. I could always leave this body behind and find another; around here, there were no shortage of volunteers. But whatever I looked like, I was still going to have to get her out, too. I couldn't afford to chance it in some broken-down old body. It just wasn't worth the cost.

  So what, then? My mother used to tell me when God closes a door, he opens a window, but I was guessing God didn't give two shits about me. Not to mention we were standing in a tin box with one door and no fucking windows. One door that was soon to open onto God knows what.

  The elevator jerked to a halt. I left Kate in the center of the car and pressed myself tight to the wall beside the door. As hiding places go, it wasn't much of one, but it would buy me a second or two, and I wasn't about to go out without a fight.

  When the doors slid open, I heaved a sigh. There was no one waiting, gun in hand, to reclaim Kate or evict me from this body. Of course, that didn't mean much – the hospital was too big to put a cop on every floor at the drop of a hat, but you can be damn sure they were gonna have the exits covered. The best I could hope for was to buy a little time, maybe come up with a game plan.

  I poked my head out into the hall. The plaque on the wall read Radiology. At the end of the hall, a couple of orderlies were wrangling an elderly woman out of a stretcher and into a wheelchair, but otherwise, the place was deserted. I wheeled Kate's sleeping form out of the elevator and down the hall. The old woman met my gaze as we approached. The orderlies paid us no mind. I flashed her a smile of reassurance, and she smiled back, wan and tired and grateful. Then the three of them disappeared into the imaging suite, leaving the empty stretcher behind.

  I said a prayer for her. It was the least I could do.

  Thanks to her, we just might get out of here alive.

  Though it was just past 8am, Bellevue's ER was already bustling. The waiting room was crammed full of the sick and injured: children, hacking away on their mothers' laps; junkies, gray and shaking from withdrawal; a man in chef's whites, bleeding into a dish towel. The staff were bustling, too, with the cold efficiency of folks who've seen worse than this more times than they could count. The only indication they'd seen us at all was the slight change in their trajectory as they strode past us in the hallway. They had a job to do, and we didn't concern them in the slightest, so long as we were out of the way.

  To tell you the truth, they didn't concern me much, either. What did concern me was the cop manning the entrance. I'd been watching him for going on ten minutes through the criss-crossed panes of safety glass set into the doors that separate the waiting room from the ER. In that time, he hadn't budged, hadn't yawned – hell, he'd barely even blinked. Getting past him wasn't going to be easy. Lucky for me, an ER is a diversion waiting to happen; all I had to do was bide my time.

  Turns out, I didn't have to wait long. My pulse quickened in anticipation as I heard the squeal of approaching sirens. And I wasn't the only one. You could see it in their drawn faces; you could hear it in their clipped, efficient tones as they relayed details and called out orders. It was an accident. A bad one. Three ambulances en route, with more to follow. Patients in critical condition. They readied examination rooms and operating suites, and I readied myself as well. There were maybe thirty yards and one cop between me and freedom, and however this went down, I was only gonna get one shot.

  A dozen doctors, nurses, and orderlies pushed past me through the double doors as the first of the ambulances rocked to a halt outside the ER. The ambulance doors burst open. Inside, the EMTs hovered over a stretchered form barely recognizable as human. The stretcher was unloaded, no small feat since one of the techs knelt atop it, straddling the patient. A woman stumbled out of the ambulance cab, her face scraped, her hair matted with blood. When she saw the man in the stretcher, she began to scream.

  Two more ambulances screeched to a stop beside the first. Stretchers were unloaded amidst a sea of shouted instructions. The whole place was swarming with people – staff, the wounded, a throng of onlookers, pressing close. Still, the cop held fast. I jumped as the double doors banged open beside me, the first of the stretchers rolling past, at the center of a medical maelstrom.

  Outside the doors, the crowd of onlookers pressed closer, eager to absorb every lurid detail. Over the din, I heard a shouted "Do something!" – and reluctantly, the cop abandoned his post. He herded the crowd backward, trying desperately to give the doctors room to work.

  That was as good a chance as I was going to get. I gripped tight my borrowed stretcher and pushed it through the double doors. Kate, strapped down atop it, didn't stir. There'd been a set of folded blankets stacked on the shelf beneath the woman's stretcher, and one of them now cove
red Kate to her chin. Her head I'd bandaged with supplies stolen from a nurse's treatment cart left unattended in the hallway. The effect was less professional than I'd intended. It wasn't going to stand up to any kind of scrutiny, but from a distance, it did the trick.

  The ER waiting room had become a triage center; dozens of people not injured enough to require an ambulance were being sorted through by doctors too hurried to spare a second glance at me. Stretcher after stretcher careened past me, headed toward the operating suites. As I pressed toward the entrance, two more ambulances arrived, and were then abandoned as their crews wheeled their respective payloads inside. In his hurry, one of the drivers left his ambulance running. I swear I could have kissed him.