by Justin Bell
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As hospital rooms went, it wasn't bad. It was bland and generic, with boring white tile, light curtains, and the requisite flowers in a vase to "cheer things up." Gary Irizarry could think of a few hundred things that would make him happy more than flowers in a jar, but most of those things involved William Strickland in various forms of decomposition. He wasn't likely to find that salvation here in the hospital. A small television set was on and Irizarry was watching one of the various nameless reality TV hunting shows that often appeared during daytime television. Instinctively, he reached for the remote with his right hand, but realized a millisecond too late that he no longer had an arm there with which to retrieve it. Jesus, he thought, it's been over two weeks and I still can't get this straight.
Remembering back to that night at the construction site brought the anger to the surface. Yet no fear. Even as he saw Strickland transform before his eyes into this monstrous wolf-like beast? even though he saw first-hand as this beast practically tore his guts out and ripped off his arm, he felt no fear. He had fired on this creature, and he had seen the blood, bone, and gore as his pistol tore a chunk out of it. He knew the thing could be killed, and next time it wouldn't surprise him.
Oh, fuck yeah. There would be a next time.
His brain already calculated the weak spots he had witnessed in the creature's attack patterns, and his tactical mind designed plans to capitalize on them. His door squeaked and Agent Grace quietly slipped into the small hospital room. Along with the NSA funded laboratory, this secret wing of the medical center was also concealed in this medical school library, mostly used for evaluations, experiments, and basic treatments. A full surgeon remained on staff in case it was necessary, and sixteen days ago, it had been necessary.
Irizarry was in surprisingly good health even though his arm had been chewed off and cast aside like a rawhide chew toy by a seven-foot tall wolf monster. He had recovered from emergency surgery and rather than sitting in bed, he was already rehabbing his left arm and preparing for round two. Grace was acutely aware that he had been working with Physical Therapy but he suspected it was to get back on the professional horse, not necessarily out of some secret agenda. In truth, Irizarry's main motivation was finding a way to get healthy, so he could find the son of a bitch that did this to him and put him in the fucking ground. Gary did not take kindly to defeat.
"How are you feeling, Gary?" Grace asked nicely.
Irizarry smiled. Grace had been extra nice to him since this little incident, and he knew why. Not only did he witness some big scary top-secret event, but also his three teammates on the job had gotten fucking eaten. The NSA could also no longer expect Brooklyn Security and Protection to keep sending them cannon fodder, so Irizarry had leveraged his stockpile of freelancers to help fill the void.
"Hey? You okay?" Grace spoke a bit louder into the silent hospital room.
"Sorry, bro," Irizarry replied, turning his head a bit. "Lost in thought. Yeah, I'm all right. Did some morning PT, hoping to do more this afternoon. You never realize how fucking right-handed you really are until you don't have one."
"Whatever you need for rehab, make sure you're just keeping it tracked. We've got you covered."
"Yeah, I got it."
"Godsoe and Smits are back on Night Watch tonight. We could use a few more guys, if you can reach out."
"Already done, Grace. I've got guys coming all the way from Detroit. We want this to be untraceable, right?"
"Yes," Grace replied.
A few quiet moments passed, as Grace tried to find the right words to say. Irizarry watched the television set.
"Gary, I want you to know your country appreciates your sacrifice. We will do whatever we have to do to support your recovery." The words felt a little hollow. Irizarry wasn't dumb; he knew what this was about, but the agent wanted to say it anyway.
Irizarry cast a look over to the NSA Agent and chuckled softly. "No need to blow smoke up my ass, Grace. I won't talk. Whatever happened two weeks ago stays dead and buried in that vacant lot. I have no reason to talk about it. I just want to heal, get better, and get back to doing my job."
"We'll make sure of it," Grace replied, feeling oddly satisfied. In his line of work, he didn't trust many, but for some reason, he trusted Gary Irizarry, and he knew that he would do what was expected of him.