Author's Note: I will have the next Chapter up by the beginning of next week (sometime on October 3). I wish I could update you guys more often, but I post these up earlier on my deviantart if you guys really want them earlier. I do periodic updates on there because it's easier. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this rewrite I did of the first chapter while I finish the next chapter.
The night was cool and dark, a soft breeze had been blowing for about an hour, and a solitary street lamp gave the only light in the area. George looked up at the stars that were still visible, and wished once more for everything to end. Nothing worked ever since that night with his wife—no, his ex-wife. He couldn't think straight, he couldn't function at work, and he'd lost two patients on the operating table to simple mistakes.
Number one surgeon in Raccoon City my ass, George thought. He blamed himself for why Sharon left him. It was mostly his fault; had he not been so focused on the hospital, staying late nights, going in early, and remaining on call at all hours of the day, then maybe Sharon and he could have worked out their problems. George started to feel the self-loathing creeping back into his mind, and so he shoved thoughts of Sharon away and focused on where he was going.
It was still relatively early, eight o'clock by his watch, and since he—with the help of the chief of medicine— decided to take some sick leave he didn't have to go to work the next day. Therefore, as George walked into the hospital parking lot, for the first time in a while, George didn't know what to do. He could go home and relax, or, the more appealing of the two, he could go and get drunk somewhere.
George reached into his pocket and took out a quarter. Sometimes these decisions were better left to fate. He flicked the quarter in the air, caught it, and slapped it down on his hand.
Jay's bar was noisy, but George didn't care. He sipped his scotch, and twirled the glass around in front of his face. The ice cubes chased each other in their prison of glass; he felt a sympathetic connection with them, their prison was glass, and his was depression. He took another sip and smiled at the warmth he felt.
The waitress skirted passed him with a tray balanced delicately on her palm. She smiled and stopped to place another scotch next to him. "This one is on the house."
"Really? Thank you." George said.
"You look like you could use it, and please don't tell Will because he doesn't know." She put her tray down on the bar and patted him softly on the shoulder.
"Thanks, I guess I could use it, and my lips are sealed." George nodded and drained the rest of the mostly empty glass in his hand.
"I have to get back to work, but I hope whatever's got you down goes away." She said, picking her tray back up, and walking toward the large windows at the front of the bar where a woman was typing furiously on a laptop.
George watched her make her rounds in the mirror behind the bar; she placed a drink next to the woman, talked to her for a little while, and moved around the room checking on the other patrons. By the time she made it to half of the customers, the bartender; Will, George remembered the waitress saying; walked up to him and leaned on the bar.
"I'm going to go to step out for a minute, so is there anything you need before I go?"
George held up the full glass of scotch. "No, thank you, the waitress has already seen to me."
"That figures, Cindy's always doing things before I can, I swear that girl can read my mind." Will laughed, and moved down the bar to recite the same speech to a police officer. The officer tapped his glass, and Will reached under the bar and took out a bottle half-full of an amber colored liquor. He refilled the officer's glass and tapped the bottle to the rim of the glass.
The bell above the entrance dinged and George turned to where a man stood. He was slumped over, his long hair dangled down below the neck line of his tattered denim jacket. He stumbled into the bar, leaving the door open.
"Hey now, you look like you've had plenty already, we don't serve drunk customers here." Will called from behind the bar. He placed the bottle of liquor down and walked around the bar. "God this guy's drunk. Hey, I'll call you a cab, but you can't drink anything here."
"Will, I don't like the look of him, why don't you just call the police?" Cindy suggested. She turned to the officer at the bar. "Can you do something?"
"I'm off duty, and my radio's in the car, but I'll put a call in when I leave." He said before sipping his drink.
"What happens when he hurts someone?" Cindy asked.
He shrugged.
"Cindy, relax, I've thrown out drunks before." Will said as he approached the man. "Hey, can you hear me?"
The man took a step toward Will and stopped. Will stepped closer; he was within arm's distance now. He reached out and took the man's shoulders in his hands. The man looked at Will's hand and then looked up at Will. The attack happened faster than anyone was prepared for. The man reached out and wrapped himself around Will and bit into his neck.
Will screamed and pushed the man through the open door. He slammed the door shut and threw the bolt into place. "Did he just…?"
Cindy dropped her tray and ran over to Will as he slumped down along the door, leaving a trail of blood. "Will! Oh God, Will, I told you…I told you."
"He's crazy; I can't believe he did that." Will whispered, but it was quiet enough in the bar to hear. He turned to Cindy. "Did you see him?"
"I saw him Will." Cindy took Will's hand away from his neck. "We need to get you to a hospital," she turned to the patrons. "Does anyone know where the nearest hospital is?"
George stood up from his stool. "It's about three miles down the road; he won't make it if we don't stop the bleeding first. Get me a towel, some rubbing alcohol and any antibiotics you people have. I don't care if it's only Neosporin." George crossed the room to where Will sat. He gently pushed Cindy to the side. "Please, get whatever you can."
Cindy gave Will's shoulder a squeeze and went to gather the supplies. She began to ask the other customers for any medication they had on them. A man in brown overalls handed George a clean towel. George thanked him and put the towel on Will's neck. The towel held the blood at bay for a few seconds, but soon the blood began to leak through.
"I need another towel." George screamed over his shoulder. He pushed down harder; Will's blood seeped through his fingers. "Come on!"
The wound shouldn't have been bleeding this much, it must have missed the aorta be inches, but the blood kept coming. Will's breathing became labored. He was getting pale, his brow was dotted with beads of sweat, his whole body began to shake, and then, the blood just stopped. George didn't notice at first because the blood had gotten everywhere, but when he realized, he removed the towel, and saw that the wound was already clotting.
"What the hell?" George leaned forward. Crusted blood covered the lip of the wound, and rapidly spread out over the rest of the exposed area. The dark red scab turned pus-colored yellow, then brown, and finally black. With the edge of the whole wound covered in a blackened scab, Will's breathing stopped. "My God."
"Oh shit!" Someone yelled. George looked up; people surrounded the outside of the bar, they tapped blood-covered hands on the windows, smashed their heads against them, and…moaned. George stood up. Cindy came back to him with the materials he had asked for. She pushed them into his arms.
"What are you doing? Help him!"
George didn't hear her. What was going on?