Chapter Thirty-Eight
Arthur thought Angela was hissing at him again, so he didn't bother opening his eyes. He just rolled over a bit (damn, but these stitches itch!) and tried to go back to sleep. He had a whirl of troubles keeping him awake, not the least of which was shoring up Thorn Valley's defenses. Lock us up too tight and we're helpless. Play it fast and loose, and we're dead.
Angela's noises bothered him a bit, because they were the wrong sort, definitely out of character. Her snarls usually were more of a "ssss" and not so much of an "mmmph".
Reluctantly peeling his eyelids open, what Arthur saw didn't make much sense at first. It looked as though an orderly in a set of blue scrubs were standing in the darkened room by Angela's bed, pressing down on her face with a pillow in one paw, a syringe ready in the other.
Arthur's first urge was to shout out, but he bit his tongue and thought. He'd jab her with that thing if I called for help—or jab me… Arthur's eyes darted around, searching for anything within reach—his mind churning and turning over all he had to work with. It was short notice, but after all it was still an engineering problem.
A light grin touched his lips, and he stretched a paw toward a wrapped syringe—a big one—resting on the bedside table. He sneaked it back under the sheets, its wrapper crinkling slightly. Arthur felt sweat trickling over his eyebrows, and the stitches itched worse than ever. Taking a deep breath, he brought his paws together under the covers, stripped the syringe free, and twisted the needle off.
Still working quickly and silently, he snagged a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bundle of cotton swabs, and a roll of medical tape. Angela's muffled protests seemed to take her attacker's full attention, for which Arthur was supremely grateful. He drew up a syringe-full of the alcohol--don't spill any, this isn't going to be very safe—screwed the needle back on, strapped the cotton swabs on with a strip of tape, and discovered a small hitch in his plan. Damn. I need a light—
Angela was proving difficult to smother, even in her injured state, and the fake orderly was cutting his eyes nervously toward the door. Angela was losing the struggle, though, and her attacker kept up the murderous pressure on the pillow.
Screw it, thought Arthur, and brought his makeshift weapon out from under the covers. He fumbled at the edge of his hospital bed, found the wires he hoped were there, yanked two of them free, and crossed them. I just hope I don't blow the place sky-high--
A crackle of ozone and a spark in the blackness of the room made the would-be assassin whip around to see Arthur level a point of flame at him. The orderly brought his own syringe up and went for Angela. Arthur prayed and pushed the plunger.
A stream of liquid fire leapt across the room and splattered against the orderly's face. His syringe clattered away as he began to claw at his crackling, crisping fur, shrieking in pain and terror. Arthur figured this was a good time to hit the call button, but realized he'd just ripped it out. His pawpads clattered uselessly against it, a large lump rising in his throat.
The orderly's fur sparked and fizzled as he zeroed in on Arthur, stalking toward Arthur with both paws smoldering, as they curved into vengeful claws. He only made it a couple of steps before Arthur threw the rest of the rubbing alcohol at him.
Like one of those trick re-lighting candles, the orderly burst into flame again, the blue flicker of heat tracing his flapping outline like a demonic halo as he scrabbled at the railing of Arthur's bed. Most villains forget to stop, drop, and roll, but this one had apparently had a little education, as he fell to the hospital floor and began whirling about on the linoleum, screeching madly.
Arthur cursed himself and ripped off the leads to his heart monitor, which began to shriek almost as loud as the uninvited flaming guest. Real medical personnel came bustling through the door, to find a scene out of Bedlam, with the spinning, smoking orderly, Angela gasping for air, and Arthur clutching his chest. The nurses were taken aback for a moment, but ripped off Angela's blanket and threw it over the twitching wreck of the attacker, beating on the pitiful bundle with their paws. One nurse grabbed a pitcher of water from Angela's nightstand, splashing it on the tangle of scorched fabric and singed fur that lay there twitching and moaning. The stench was the stuff of legend, a brown stink of burnt rat hanging in the air, and it finally did set off the sprinklers.
"Keep him wrapped up!" barked Arthur. "He's an assassin!"
"He's a rat fritter," one of the nurses shook her head at Arthur. She hit the silence button on the heart monitor, and it quit its high-pitched drone. "Put that thing out!" she ordered, jabbing a finger at Arthur.
He examined his spent impromptu flamethrower. The cotton swabs were still aflame, so he dunked the whole contraption into the glass of drinking water on the nightstand. One large nurse snagged his bed and I.V. pole, dragging him toward the door and out—it was very good to be out of that room.
Arthur lay in the hallway, breathing deep and taking a personal inventory. No burns. No clawmarks, he never touched me. He looked down the front of his hospital gown. Ah, those damn stitches— Several had pulled badly, though he was more or less still sewn together. He shuddered a bit at the inevitable—they'd have to shave him again soon to tidy up their work.
Angela was rolled out of the room next, pillow now safely back under her head where it belonged, and an oxygen mask over her snout, its tubes leading to a wheeled canister of oxygen. It cost her much energy and much pain, but she waved her arms feebly at the nurse, who stopped her bed close to Arthur. Her breath came deep and gasping still, fogging the inside of the mask as the nurse popped back in to help deal with the attacker.
"You—you saved my life—"
"You were helpless. I had to try something."
"No you—you didn't! You shouldn't have! What—did you have to do--that for, you meddling old bastard?!" Angela clawed at his gown, Arthur wincing as the fabric twisted up tight against him.
"Stop that! Do I have to ask the nurse for an extra pillow and finish you off myself?"
She gave up and made a fist, but weak as she was could only thud it half-heartedly against his chest—painful but no real threat. She unclenched her paw and laid it down on the bright spots of blood showing through the fabric of Arthur's garment, gingerly touching where she'd pulled a few more of his stitches.
The mask of rage and frustration dropped from her face, and she shook her head. "Oh, God. I'm so s—" the unfamiliar word caught in her throat and nearly choked her. "—s-sorry. Please, I didn't mean to hurt you—didn't—" She drew up as close to the bars between their beds, pressed against them, and sobbed so hard Arthur thought her battered body must surely break into pieces.
Sheer pity made him reach out a paw, and she held it tight for a long while. "Snappy?" he ventured. He cursed himself a little and tried again. "Angela? I really do think you mean it. And here I thought you'd never been sorry for anything, ever."
Angela raised her head a bit and shook it emphatically as she could manage. "Never. This is new. And I don't like it one bit. I feel… awful."
"A metal spike through the middle and being near-smothered will do that," Arthur offered. Though I'll have to tell Dr. Ages we've stumbled onto a new form of therapy, if it gets results like this…
"Need to tell you—why he came after me." She sucked at the oxygen, her face gray and taut. "Wanted to shut me up for good. They thought I might tell. Now I will, when I –get the breath back to tell it."
"Tell?" Arthur would have scratched his head, but his stitches pulled when he tried. "Tell what?"
Angela sank back against her pillow. "How you're all going to die," she matter-of-facted, like a weary weathercaster calling for rain in Seattle.
Button images by Keith Elder