Father Mulcahy carefully bussed the tray of orange juices in through post-
op, the least busy entryway to the O.R. at times like these. He patiently
turned around to shove open the swinging door with his back and shoulder,
and was halfway in before he noticed, through his own cloudy ponderings,
that the noise in the room was not the normal panic of the crowded
operating room. As he turned to face the scene, the tray of glasses
dropped from his hands. Nobody noticed.
The beast was reared back, its deformed, clawed hands crudely stretching the surgical gloves as it reached up to cover its face from the sun streaming in the window. It let out the most frightful shrieking that seemed to resonate through the room and cause every bit of glass and metal to shiver.
Everybody in the room with senses less attuned to the reality of the situation simply saw Henry reel back with the pain of the sunlight he caught in the face and yell out some pained-sounded and confused Henry- isms. Not that that wasn't a frightening enough sight; it wasn't everyday a good friend would be wounded so seriously by such a simple thing as the light of the sun.
Henry, meantime, bolted across the room towards the door, knocking over the I.V. unit that had sometime been attached to him as the creature inside decided that it had had enough of this being fried, and took charge. It was this creature, no doubt, that Father Mulcahy saw... charging... at him. Right now. Klinger strode in behind him with a second tray of orange juices, only for the second tray to end up accompanying the first. "Colonel!" he called out. Henry, needless to say, didn't reply.
"Help me catch him, Klinger!" Mulcahy shouted, and lowered his head and raised his fists to try to tackle the fleeing Brujah. Klinger, uncertain as to what was going on, followed suit.
Not that any of this did much in the way of halting Henry's pace. He slammed through the Father and Corpsman. Klinger flew to one side, batted away by a potent swipe from the Colonel. Mulcahy, on the other hand, through boxing skill or divine intervention, got a hold of the vampire. Instead of holding him there, however, he found himself lifted off the ground and borne along with incredible ease down the central aisle of the post-op ward.
"Take its life... its unholy life..." murmured the Voice.
Mulcahy's brow furrowed, and, inspired, he flipped his body to catch his foot on the metal frame of one of the empty post-op beds. As he felt his body pulled taut between the unstoppable force of the vampire and the aforementioned immovable object, he lowered his head toward the blood-and- fire scented skin of the beast and, silently reciting a prayer, took a breath, seeming almost to replicate the vampiric process. Taking life. Or, unlife, as it may be.
Henry, shocked at this new kind of pain, weakened, and, instead of tearing Father Mulcahy in two, swerved his path and fell toppling onto the post-op bed.
Somewhat surprised, himself, that it had worked, Father Mulcahy wasn't quite sure what to do next, so he sprawled on top of the writhing and howling Henry and pummeled him harshly until backups arrived with sedatives, restraints, and a fireblanket to stop any further damage from being inflicted on Henry by the sunlight that in a few minutes would begin to flood the post-op.
Henry fell still, still as death, and Mulcahy disentangled himself from the monster.
Later, anyone walking by the bed on which the blanket-covered shape lay would see an odd sign attached to the clipboard on the bedframe. It was something like an equal-armed cross with a crescent moon attached. Although not quite sure what it meant, the nurses on duty that morning got the impression that they should leave the bed alone.
The casualties came and went with no further incident. Thanks to the help of the slightly modified Henry Blake, the rest of the crew was done with their efforts only a half-hour or so after dawn arrived.
Potter, B.J., and Hawkeye made a trip past the form of the sleeping Colonel on their way out. They paused at the foot of the bed and peered at the symbol there.
"Doesn't look like your handwriting, Beej," mumbled Hawkeye.
"Nope. I don't do Hieroglyphs. Colonel?"
"I have no idea, but I'd wager I know someone who does."
"Father Mulcahy?" B.J. asked. Hawkeye leaned on the foot of the bed and seemed to be dozing off.
Colonel Potter touched his nose. "I figure I'd better have a talk with him." He yawned. "But I think that Blake here's got the right idea for now. Though we ought to move him to the VIP tent."
He stretched his back wearily, "Now, to figure out how."
"Oh, come on, Colonel. We're a M*A*S*H unit. We specialize in death. How do we cart dead folks around?" rambled Pierce, his tired tongue marking no boundaries as to acceptable or respectful words.
Potter nodded. "Yeah." He uttered resignedly. "Give the man a cigar. Or a pillow. In fact, skip the cigar, and get that man in bed right now, or I might have to order up two coffins." He shook his head at the somewhat ridiculous situation, and the three moved on their bleary way to the other end of post-op.
"Colonel?" quieried Pierce.
"Pierce?"
"Since when did we add another hundred meters to this ward?"
"I don't know, Pierce. I don't know."
~
The beast was reared back, its deformed, clawed hands crudely stretching the surgical gloves as it reached up to cover its face from the sun streaming in the window. It let out the most frightful shrieking that seemed to resonate through the room and cause every bit of glass and metal to shiver.
Everybody in the room with senses less attuned to the reality of the situation simply saw Henry reel back with the pain of the sunlight he caught in the face and yell out some pained-sounded and confused Henry- isms. Not that that wasn't a frightening enough sight; it wasn't everyday a good friend would be wounded so seriously by such a simple thing as the light of the sun.
Henry, meantime, bolted across the room towards the door, knocking over the I.V. unit that had sometime been attached to him as the creature inside decided that it had had enough of this being fried, and took charge. It was this creature, no doubt, that Father Mulcahy saw... charging... at him. Right now. Klinger strode in behind him with a second tray of orange juices, only for the second tray to end up accompanying the first. "Colonel!" he called out. Henry, needless to say, didn't reply.
"Help me catch him, Klinger!" Mulcahy shouted, and lowered his head and raised his fists to try to tackle the fleeing Brujah. Klinger, uncertain as to what was going on, followed suit.
Not that any of this did much in the way of halting Henry's pace. He slammed through the Father and Corpsman. Klinger flew to one side, batted away by a potent swipe from the Colonel. Mulcahy, on the other hand, through boxing skill or divine intervention, got a hold of the vampire. Instead of holding him there, however, he found himself lifted off the ground and borne along with incredible ease down the central aisle of the post-op ward.
"Take its life... its unholy life..." murmured the Voice.
Mulcahy's brow furrowed, and, inspired, he flipped his body to catch his foot on the metal frame of one of the empty post-op beds. As he felt his body pulled taut between the unstoppable force of the vampire and the aforementioned immovable object, he lowered his head toward the blood-and- fire scented skin of the beast and, silently reciting a prayer, took a breath, seeming almost to replicate the vampiric process. Taking life. Or, unlife, as it may be.
Henry, shocked at this new kind of pain, weakened, and, instead of tearing Father Mulcahy in two, swerved his path and fell toppling onto the post-op bed.
Somewhat surprised, himself, that it had worked, Father Mulcahy wasn't quite sure what to do next, so he sprawled on top of the writhing and howling Henry and pummeled him harshly until backups arrived with sedatives, restraints, and a fireblanket to stop any further damage from being inflicted on Henry by the sunlight that in a few minutes would begin to flood the post-op.
Henry fell still, still as death, and Mulcahy disentangled himself from the monster.
Later, anyone walking by the bed on which the blanket-covered shape lay would see an odd sign attached to the clipboard on the bedframe. It was something like an equal-armed cross with a crescent moon attached. Although not quite sure what it meant, the nurses on duty that morning got the impression that they should leave the bed alone.
The casualties came and went with no further incident. Thanks to the help of the slightly modified Henry Blake, the rest of the crew was done with their efforts only a half-hour or so after dawn arrived.
Potter, B.J., and Hawkeye made a trip past the form of the sleeping Colonel on their way out. They paused at the foot of the bed and peered at the symbol there.
"Doesn't look like your handwriting, Beej," mumbled Hawkeye.
"Nope. I don't do Hieroglyphs. Colonel?"
"I have no idea, but I'd wager I know someone who does."
"Father Mulcahy?" B.J. asked. Hawkeye leaned on the foot of the bed and seemed to be dozing off.
Colonel Potter touched his nose. "I figure I'd better have a talk with him." He yawned. "But I think that Blake here's got the right idea for now. Though we ought to move him to the VIP tent."
He stretched his back wearily, "Now, to figure out how."
"Oh, come on, Colonel. We're a M*A*S*H unit. We specialize in death. How do we cart dead folks around?" rambled Pierce, his tired tongue marking no boundaries as to acceptable or respectful words.
Potter nodded. "Yeah." He uttered resignedly. "Give the man a cigar. Or a pillow. In fact, skip the cigar, and get that man in bed right now, or I might have to order up two coffins." He shook his head at the somewhat ridiculous situation, and the three moved on their bleary way to the other end of post-op.
"Colonel?" quieried Pierce.
"Pierce?"
"Since when did we add another hundred meters to this ward?"
"I don't know, Pierce. I don't know."
~