Chapter Eight:
That night, the hospital wards were nearly deserted and the silence made my skin crawl. My room was pitch dark and just as quiet as the outlying rooms and halls. I had almost fallen asleep multiple times, but I was on too much of an adrenaline high to do so fully. And I hadn't even busted out of the hospital yet.
Almost too quietly, my door swung inward. Two shadows entered my room and a beam of light crossed the span of my eyes. I squinted.
"Rise and shine Evie. It's jailbreak time," Dean whispered humoringly as he and Sam both entered my room.
I ripped off my blankets and tore the IV's out of my arm. Excitedly, I pulled my hospital robe over my head and announced, "Ready," with a satisfied exhale. Then I grunted when my ribs complained at the build-up of sudden movement.
"Wow," Sam said.
I peered down to my red converse, jeans, shirt, and hoodie, rocking back onto my heels. "I learned a few things from you guys. I'm a convincing fake-sleeper if I do say so myself," I smiled, pocketing my hands.
"Not bad," Dean said, his face matching his words. "Let's go."
I rushed out behind them as fast as I could as they creeped back into the deserted hallway. "Is that a compliment I hear?" I harshly whispered, holding my groaning side. It was interesting, especially coming from Dean.
I followed close behind him, and Sam behind me; we slinked down the hallway. Careful and quiet were we.
"Hey. Don't press your luck, Evie," he replied, the flashlight's ray panning over the objects in the path before us.
"Stop calling me that. It sounds ridiculous."
"Nah, I don't think I will." He gazed upwards, the circle of light following his eyes. He switched the flashlight to the empty gurney up against the wall and then to the walls on either side of us.
All the doors were closed to the rest of the hospital; only some of the doors had patients on the other side of them. All of which were undoubtedly stuck in slumber. The lights were all off, with the exception of the tiny lamp on the nurse's desk at the end of the corridor. That same desk was empty.
"Dean. Sam," I whispered, my breathing heavy and the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end from the sudden chills (even though there was no steep drop in temperature). "Where are the nurses?"
"What I want to know," Dean started, as we came up on the desk, "is why poor old nurse lady would leave her precious kitten keys." He picked up a key ring. The handful of adorably fluffy kittens printed on the keys and key chains clanged together. He glanced at us before setting the keys down and marched to the double doors at very end of the hall.
He disappeared behind them.
Sam touched my arm gently and his eyes darted to the side.
I nodded, knowing what to do.
There was a hallway to our right, the direction to which Sammy had motioned. I tiptoed down it. I crept along, ducking under the windows to the various rooms belonging to the sleeping patients within them, feeling Sam practically on top of me.
We halted at the corner and scanned the hall we brought ourselves to. Sam removed the handgun from his pants and slowly pulled down the hammer with his thumb. Alert.
"'Get out of here' plan? Or 'go help Dean by sneaking up on the bad guys from the other side' plan?" I whispered my question.
"For you?" he answered, "The first option. Come on." He moved over to the opposite wall, holding his gun next to his cheek. I could see the muscles clenching.
This was so cool. The stakes are high and I'm sneaking around No Man's Land with one of my favorite fictional (or…not so fictional. Factual?) character. This is the best thing ever.
Sam rounded the corner and crawled slowly along the corridor. His eyes darted from the window on the wall to our left, down the hall, and to every door placed numerically on the wall to our right.
If only I had a gun. This could complete my whole image of being a hunter. Even if it was only temporary.
Sam flashed around, pointing his gun at me and I held my head back, my arms up like 'whoa dude, personal boundaries!'. He jerked the gun to the side and I moved away from the wrong end of the weapon. He kept his gun pointing down the hall where I had previously stood in the way.
"There's a door at the end of the hall. There are stairs behind it that'll take you to the ground floor where you can get out to the car," he swung his chin over his shoulder, motioning for me to get a move on.
"You aren't coming?" I asked, suddenly petrified. This honestly could not end well. It never does. Dean was not back yet, and Sam and I both knew what that meant.
"I'll find Dean and we will get out of here. Go. Down the stairs. Be quiet and run."
"Sam. No. This kind of thing never ends on a happy note," I said, "And no offense, but it especially doesn't with you and Dean involved."
"It will if it means you are safe. Go."
I looked at him, taking a breath and hoping he did not see how afraid I was. For him. For Dean. For whoever the hell they were hunting. It was a final silent plea.
He nodded at me once, his expression fearless for the sake of me and me only. He waited until I left to follow up on Dean.
I ran down those stairs at the end of the hallway. It was meant to be a fire exit, but it didn't sound an alarm when I went through, confirming my idea of Dean and Sam having tampered with the system. I ran when my legs stung and my side heaved in on itself. I gasped and clutched it, still jogging as fast as I could go down the flights of stairs. There had to be ten in all, but it felt like I was running a marathon. A marathon in a compressor of some sorts—God it was hard to breathe and my ribcage ached stupendously.
"Damn. If this doesn't kill me, I don't know what will," I panted.
Tell me agent Nugent, have you thought about where you might spend eternity?
I heard the voice. It belonged to someone who knew they had the authority and the say-so, and it was low, but not in tone—I don't know how to describe it. All except I had never heard it before.
"Hello?" I turned around to look behind me, up the stairs. I stopped, gripping the rail to steady me with both hands. My breath was ragged from all the effort I had exerted to get here.
All the damn time.
"Dean? Is that you?"
The second voice sounded like him. As if he was right here in front of me.
I clung to the railing and tipped myself over the side, peering directly through to the ground floor a few flights under. "Hello?"
I stepped back from the railing. No. I am being the stupid teenager at the beginning of the horror flick, asking if someone is in her house. Yes, someone is in your house and he isn't in the bloody kitchen preparing you a sandwich. For cripes sake.
Ugh. Keep your head in the game.
I ran the rest of the way and shoved my way past the door. I was immediately submerged into the gloomy morning atmosphere, with an insane cold gust of wind sweeping my hair about my face. I zipped up my hoodie hurriedly and my eyes swept through the poorly lit parking lot for the Impala.
When at last I spotted it—solitary and in a space next to the curb—I sprinted for it. My side automatically rejected the nonsense I was shoving it into and whined with seething threats. I dropped to my knees upon arriving to the car, grunting and twisting around to sit on the ground. I rested my head on the back tail lights. Heaving breaths from a labor unknown to my healing yet distressed body took savage hold of me. I opened my eyes, taking a deep breath again and again, my heart working so hard I could hear it in my ears. My eyes spanned the landscape around me. I knocked my head against the car, grimacing purposefully, knowing what I was doing was wrong.
This was the part where Dean and Sam subject themselves into that situation. That one where they are wedged between a cliff and a really hard place. I could not just sit out here while they hurt themselves in there. I had to do something. But I didn't know what I was up against. Neither did Dean or Sam, I guessed, if they hadn't reached it yet.
They'll hate me for this, I thought sourly.
I rolled my head, facing the lock on the trunk of the car.
Going on a tiny thread of hope and a bucket full of luck I didn't know I had, I glanced at the asphalt. Looking for what? Anything small and sharp enough.
Aha! There. I picked up the rusting paperclip in my hand and unbent its curving edges. Then I wedged that sucker into the lock. I wrestled with it for a good solid six or seven minutes maybe, cursing under my breath, but it was all worth it when I heard the satisfying click within the lock. I pushed upwards, using my shoulder as the lever 'cause frankly, my legs couldn't do it right now.
My hand dove into the trunk. I half stood, half hung on the rim of the trunk opening, using my other hand to prop open the lid. My chest hurt because of all the pressure I was putting on it. I fished out a gun. Handgun. Possibly semiautomatic. I didn't know. But it was loaded and it shot bullets and that is all that mattered.
I shoved it in the front of my pants and pulled my shirt over to conceal it and also slammed the trunk shut. I raced back to the side door on the west wing of the stabilizing unit, hiked up the torturous flights of stairs, and retraced my steps all the way back to where we first broke up.
My fingers found their hold on the gun as I took it in hand almost instinctively. My heartbeat went to top speed and suddenly it was like my ears could detect the smallest pinprick of a change in the atmosphere. The drop of a pin. The exhaled of a person in deep sleep. Or the muffled groans two hallways away.
"Sam. Dean." I sprinted towards the halls, feeling some stitches on my side itch and rip. I felt the blood ooze from the tear in my skin as I flew across the polished floors. Tears from the pain slid down my face, but I kept running. I could take it. Only one thing was on my mind.
The sounds grew louder—more to the point where the grunts sounded like only primitive animals would make. Then, talking—first the calm, in-charge notes of whoever held Dean or Sam, and then the sound of one of the brothers hissing their retorts either because they had binds on their mouths or they were in immense pain.
I hoped I knew what I was doing. My index finger of my right hand found the trigger. My hand shook. And I was scared.
Nothing I can't handle.
Finally, I came to the disgusting scene. It was out in the children's ward, smack-dab in the middle of the waiting area. Dean lay next to the blue toy box, with several colored wooden building blocks spilled out on top of him and on the floor in front of his stomach. He was unconscious and lying on his side with his arms over his head and his arms were fastened to one leg of a row of chairs that were nailed to the floor next to his head. His brow was bleeding and his gun was set too far away, on the end table on the other side of the row of chairs.
Then, there was the mano-y-mano showdown going on between Sam (currently on the ground, taking a few punches to the jaw and trying to get Dean's attention) and one of the nurse ladies. The old woman, actually. Her keys were the ones with the kittens on them. But this woman was one mentally insane cat lover—her weak looking hands scathed in blood, and her rose pink scrubs tainted with more red as she sat over Sam, repeatedly punching him with the kind of strength a boxing champion would have in his prime (not an old crone like her).
Two extra bodies lay next to the nurse's desk in the children's ward. Both were mangled and bloody, missing chunks of themselves as if they were eaten by some rabid animal. Blood coated the floor around the cadavers, and some unrecognizable organs spilled out of the first dead person's abdomen.
I hid back behind the corner a moment to see if Sam would gain the upper hand. Also, I had to muster up the courage, I was petrified.
The old lady that had shortish curly grey hair drew a tiny blade from her pocket and stuck it like a needle into Sam's arm as he struggled, pinned to the ground. He yelled out, eyes rolling and the woman removed the knife with an evil sneer. She placed the blade on her bottom lip, lathering it over her mouth as if the blood was crimson shaded lipstick. Then she licked it up with her tongue.
I gagged. Gross. Come on Sammy.
"Dean," Sam made a noise halfway between a gasp and a choke, "Dean."
He wasn't gaining the upper hand. The woman was too strong—what the hell is she? And she sliced his arm again. This time, she lowered her head onto his arm and sucked the bodily fluid straight from the source.
Dean stirred.
In a strangely kind old woman voice, the blood-drinking-nurse said, "You taste different. It's yummy." She smiled delightfully as if she just walked in on an all you can eat buffet.
That's it. "Hey!" I leapt from behind my shield of protection and stretched my arm out.
The lady turned and faced me, a new sort of hunger in her eyes. She was no lady. "Hello dear. My, you're bleeding," her eyes grazed my wound and I covered it with the flap of my jacket. "I'll be glad to clean that up for you."
Sam tried to get free, angry at a whole new level.
I pulled the trigger.
Grey curls flew in all directions, followed by splatters of red. A headless elderly body slouched over to the side. Dead as nails on the floor.
Sam scrambled out from under the thing, his face smeared in red. He gawked at me, "How'd you know to shoot the head?"
My eyes flicked to Dean (who was now awake and had the same shocked expression as Sam, but more to the handcuffs around his hands) and then back to Sam. I shrugged, holding the gun out to the side, "I don't know. I just did."
"Dean," Sam scooted around, facing his brother who was coming fully into consciousness now. Sam held his bleeding arm, "You didn't tell me she was such a natural."
I smiled.
Dean yanked on the hand cuffs securing his hands and they clanged against the metal chair leg. Wrenching himself away from the chairs, he pulled using all his weight. The chain broke in half and he stood, dusting off the toy blocks off of him and rubbing down his arms and wrists (which now adorned useless broken cuffs). "How'd you get the gun? Didn't Sam tell you to stay out in the car?" He sounded like he was scolding me.
"Well somebody's gotta save your ass," I replied smartly.
Dean snatched his .45 off the table, irritated by the very presence of me.
Sam climbed his way to his feet, using the chairs near him. He still held his bleeding cuts on his arm, his hand running over with red liquid like a glove.
"I will go burn the bodies. I think they were shoved into that janitor's closet down the hall. Damn ghouls, man. This was the perfect place for them to hang out—all the food they would ever need, freakin' sick bastards. You two go out to the car and get stitched up," Dean said, already moving towards the door with the label 'cleaning closet'.
Sam had his gun slack in his hand as he and I walked back to the car, relaxed and knowing we did our job adequately. Sam was walking a tiny bit slower than I was, yet again I was probably just proud of myself, and that might have contributed to my faster pace. Too much, I think now, because I was still in pain and bleeding profusely, and normally that would've been enough to influence me.
"You did good," Sam assured, once we were a good five floors away from Dean.
I beamed; my cheeks hurt from all this smiling. I had stopped the killer-monster-ghoul-thing. I killed it. I saved Sam and Dean from a very painful possible slow death.
This was so cool.
Outside, I assisted Sam in stitching himself up. He leaned against the back of the Impala, the first aid kit open on the trunk to his side. I taped a square pad of gauze over the slices in his flesh after cleaning the wounds the best I could.
"You know, I can do it myself," Sam reminded me.
I made a face and a short, assertive 'shh' noise, concentrating on my handiwork.
He smiled and laughed. It was more like a 'Hmph' through the nose—but it was full of amusement. Sam watched as I finished and put the supplies back in the box.
"Alright. Sorry, but your turn," Sam said. He took a needle and threaded some string in through the eye.
My eyes grew to the size of saucers and I looked down to my blood soaked shirt. "Aw man. That's going to stain."
Sam chortled again and I lifted my shirt to just above my last three rib bones, only going as far up on the side. A nasty gouge had reopened over my ribs, trails of the surgeon's surgical string stuck in the blood and the wound itself; only about a quarter of the wound had remained sewn shut. Sam knelt on the ground and pulled the old thread from the flaps of my separated skin. That didn't hurt much, just tickled a little; tugged here and there.
Next I endured about ten minutes of excruciating pain. I had to bite my tongue and look away from Sam as he stitched humpty dumpty back together again. I could feel the needle sliding in and out and the tug of the thread. Oh my God, it hurt. I was conscious. There was a sharp pointy thing going into my skin and I could feel it. No anesthesia.
"Sorry," Sam winced every few punctures. He was sorry he had to do this but he knew what he was doing fortunately, so I was glad.
I breathed heavily through my teeth, keeping my eyes shut and my shirt lifted only so high. It seemed like forever that I was standing there, just enduring. But finally, Sam tied the wound shut and placed the needle and spool of thread back into the first aid kit. He shut the lid.
I opened my eyes and touched the newly replaced thread on my wound. "Dude I look like a real life Frankenstein. Cool," I laughed my pain off.
Dean approached us soon after, his eyes awash in deep thoughts unbeknownst to the rest of him. As he passed me, I held out the gun I used to shoot the head off the ghoul. He plucked it from my hand without looking at me. With his sudden rash movement, I jumped back, feeling kind of hurt at his obvious air of warped disappointment and ill temper.
Dean lifted the trunk lid without having to unlock it and looked at me over his shoulder, hovering over the gadgets in the trunk. "So what'd you use?"
"A paperclip I found on the ground."
Dean shut the trunk after placing the guns in side and pivoted to face Sam. "Looks like we have a real MacGyver with us Sammy," he stated with distasteful dry humor.
"Look, if I didn't get the gun, you would probably be beaten 'till you couldn't move and then eaten! I know you and Sam are capable on your own, but I couldn't sit idly by while that happened to you."
"Just get in the car," Dean held open the passenger door to the Impala.
I climbed in. Out of sheer spite, Dean slammed the door closed behind me, even though Sam still had to get in. He and Sam exchanged a few muffled words outside the vehicle and I silently buckled myself.
Sam and Dean got in the car. The engine started.
"Next stop, Tillamook, Oregon," Dean announced as if it was the best this to happen all day. It probably was.
I closed my eyes; an overwhelming tidal wave of exhaustion settling over me.
