Chapter Four
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Shane McMahon picked up the phone and dialed the number carefully.
"West Hope General Hospital," said a curt voice on the other end.
"Hello," Shane said neutrally. "I was hoping you could tell me what room a friend of mine is in."
"Yes. Who is the patient in question?"
"His name is Christopher Irvine," Shane said, nervously plucking a strand from the sweater he had on.
"He's in stable condition," said the receptionist. "Would you like me to connect you with his room?"
"That would be great," Shane answered politely.
There was a buzzing noise on the end of the phone. Shane waited impatiently, staring out the window of the bus. He only hoped that his sister hadn't left yet. It was a long shot; she had been gone for more than four hours. She had wanted to make a quick check-up and would be back soon. He had tried her cell phone to no avail though. Hopefully she had it only turned off.
The phone in his ear began to ring.
"Hello?" said a voice tiredly on the other end.
"Hello? Who's this?"
"Shane?" The voice was bewildered. "It's Kurt."
"Oh, hi Kurt. How's Chris?"
There was a silence on the other end.
"Kurt? Are you still there?"
"I'm here, man." His voice was hesitant. "I think Chris is alright. The doctor says he's alright."
"What's wrong with him? Is he just sick?"
"She says it may be post-traumatic stress, you know, from the earthquake."
"In Chris?" Shane didn't believe it.
"She says it's common in adults, especially ones who haven't lived through earthquakes before. Chris has never in his life been in an earthquake. Canada, man."
"True," Shane admitted, but he hesitated. "You sound worried, Kurt. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Kurt said, a little too quickly. "It's just strange. Did you want something?"
Shane made a sound in his throat. "I want to see if my sister's still there."
Again, another silence. Shane watched as rain poured into the streets, splashing on the window. The world was distorted. It was gray. It was eerie. He leaned back against the seat, trying to calm his nerves. Things hadn't been going very well today.
"She's here, Shane." His voice was cautious. "But I don't think she wants to talk right now."
"Tell her it's important. I really need to speak with her." He didn't realize how desperate he sounded. Vainly, he clutched the seat in front of him with his other hand. The woman looked at him rudely. He didn't care. His sanity was spiraling away from him. "I really, really need to talk to her."
Again, Kurt spoke cautiously, but this time with an edge in his voice. "I can't, Shane. She's sleeping."
"Sleeping?" He almost exploded. She had gone out for a quick run! And now she was sleeping? "Wake her up!"
"She's had a long day, Shane," Kurt said, his voice husky. "I won't wake her up."
"Kurt, I'm not asking you to wake her up," Shane replied, his voice gravel. "I'm telling you. Now wake her up."
A silence that seemed to fill the air. "I won't, Shane. I'm sorry. We've all had a long day and even a longer night. Do you realize it's almost one in the morning?"
"I don't care, Kurt. Wake her up." Now he was getting angry. It was bad enough he was on a bus in the middle of the night in some God- forsaken city; it was bad enough it was raining enough for Noah to drown if he had the right mind to sail in the sea; it was bad enough his employee and good friend was sitting in a hospital bed, sick, and his sister was with him; it was bad enough that his head was pounding and he was going crazy. Couldn't he just listen?
"Shane, for the last time, I'm telling you no. I have to go. They'll kick us out if we make anymore noise. Chris is sleeping, thank God."
"KURT! Put her on the phone before I fire your ass!"
"I don't care, Shane. I have to go. I'll have her call you later. Bye."
"Kurt, don't!"
But it was too late. Only a dial tone hummed in his ear.
"Beautiful," he muttered, slumping back against the seat. "Just beautiful."
The gray and black world floated in the rain.
He felt sick, suddenly, again. He rubbed his temples. He had no clue to where he was, but he knew he didn't want to go home. He had left his parents' home without an answer to their questions. All he knew was that he had to get away. He had gotten on the nearest bus that ran in the late night and rode silently. He didn't care where he was going.
His eyes ached to close. He wanted to sleep. His mind was on the verge of collapsing.
But he didn't want to go home.
As far as he was concerned, God could decide the time was right for the Rapture, a comet could come slamming into earth, and pigs could fly; he wasn't going home.
Nothing could make him go home.
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Kurt's eyes were drawn to Stephanie, sleeping in the chair, a blanket pushed up to just under her chin. He looked at Chris, who was soundly asleep in his hospital bed, with some urging from the helpful morphine Simmons had decided to shoot him with.
He rubbed his head. He was exhausted. He wanted to leave and check into a motel and drop into a blissful sleep. But his stomach was still hurting him. He felt that at any moment, he would have to stop and have a private moment with the bathroom. His head felt swelled, expanded, twisted.
He felt sick. Stephanie had her private time with the bathroom already; he hadn't quite needed his yet, but he felt so sick.
The doctor has let them stay in the hospital room, even though it was past visiting hours and any normal doctor would have long ago kicked them out. But Simmons had let them, her eyes cautious as she ordered some extra blankets into the room and two pillows.
Kurt thought crazily, she probably thinks we have whatever Chris has. Maybe it's Ebola. How fun. An Olympic gold medalist running around infected with Ebola. I'm thrilled.
He was far from it.
He curled up in the chair, resting his head against the pillow, closing his eyes, willing whatever sickness he had away from him. He wanted peace. He wanted rest.
Suddenly, massively, his stomach gave a heave. He leapt up.
In the chair, he saw Stephanie's eyes spring open, her eyes bulging.
He didn't have time to think.
He didn't have time to do anything but dart to the bathroom.
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~*~*~*~* Blood was gushing from his hand, teeth ripping, snapping, crackling.
He wanted to scream; he wanted everything to stop. The pain was unbearable. It was a monster, a machine that tacked into his hand and wouldn't let go.
He tried ripping his hand away; he was aware of the person behind him, screaming pointlessly. He was screaming too, but his scream was in pain, in horror.
He felt something in his hand snap. Pain rushed up his body, swift, deadly. He threw his head back and cried, asking God for help, anything to save him.
He stumbled back. He felt something slip from underneath his feet.
He fell.
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"Thanks for the ride," Shane told the bus driver politely. He was the last one on the bus. They were at the far end of town, the run down town teaming with drug dealers and low lives. At that point, Shane just didn't care.
"No problem," the old man said, kindly. "You look troubled."
"No trouble," Shane assured the man.
"Watch out in this neighborhood," the man said, still kindly. "You look strong, but they'll gang up on you like fleas on a dog."
"Thanks-"
Something in his throat! Rising, flooding, open floodgates, teaming, streaming, rocketing!
He gasped, trying to choke. He felt his eyes grow, his body tense, his muscles spasming.
He turned around and fell down the bus stairs, landing in the grass of a strip. On all fours, he clutched the grass. He felt empty stalks break in his hand. His head was going to implode, it was going to burst, and he was going to die in some black abyss that was fog . . .
Rain washed over him, drenched him, carried him.
"Hey, are you alright?" he heard the bus driver say in alarm.
No, he wanted to gasp, no, I'm dying.
His forehead touched the ground. His hand clutched his stomach, still holding the grass he had ripped from the ground. Rain dripped off his head. He rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
The pain was too much. He fell onto his side, still holding his stomach, his eyes clenched, his hand still clutching the blades of grass.
Rain dripped into his eyes.
He opened them and with hand wiped his eyes furiously, still rocking.
He looked at his hand.
It was red.
It was blood.
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I know there are no answers, yet, but I'm setting the mood. Don't worry; we'll get there soon enough.
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Shane McMahon picked up the phone and dialed the number carefully.
"West Hope General Hospital," said a curt voice on the other end.
"Hello," Shane said neutrally. "I was hoping you could tell me what room a friend of mine is in."
"Yes. Who is the patient in question?"
"His name is Christopher Irvine," Shane said, nervously plucking a strand from the sweater he had on.
"He's in stable condition," said the receptionist. "Would you like me to connect you with his room?"
"That would be great," Shane answered politely.
There was a buzzing noise on the end of the phone. Shane waited impatiently, staring out the window of the bus. He only hoped that his sister hadn't left yet. It was a long shot; she had been gone for more than four hours. She had wanted to make a quick check-up and would be back soon. He had tried her cell phone to no avail though. Hopefully she had it only turned off.
The phone in his ear began to ring.
"Hello?" said a voice tiredly on the other end.
"Hello? Who's this?"
"Shane?" The voice was bewildered. "It's Kurt."
"Oh, hi Kurt. How's Chris?"
There was a silence on the other end.
"Kurt? Are you still there?"
"I'm here, man." His voice was hesitant. "I think Chris is alright. The doctor says he's alright."
"What's wrong with him? Is he just sick?"
"She says it may be post-traumatic stress, you know, from the earthquake."
"In Chris?" Shane didn't believe it.
"She says it's common in adults, especially ones who haven't lived through earthquakes before. Chris has never in his life been in an earthquake. Canada, man."
"True," Shane admitted, but he hesitated. "You sound worried, Kurt. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Kurt said, a little too quickly. "It's just strange. Did you want something?"
Shane made a sound in his throat. "I want to see if my sister's still there."
Again, another silence. Shane watched as rain poured into the streets, splashing on the window. The world was distorted. It was gray. It was eerie. He leaned back against the seat, trying to calm his nerves. Things hadn't been going very well today.
"She's here, Shane." His voice was cautious. "But I don't think she wants to talk right now."
"Tell her it's important. I really need to speak with her." He didn't realize how desperate he sounded. Vainly, he clutched the seat in front of him with his other hand. The woman looked at him rudely. He didn't care. His sanity was spiraling away from him. "I really, really need to talk to her."
Again, Kurt spoke cautiously, but this time with an edge in his voice. "I can't, Shane. She's sleeping."
"Sleeping?" He almost exploded. She had gone out for a quick run! And now she was sleeping? "Wake her up!"
"She's had a long day, Shane," Kurt said, his voice husky. "I won't wake her up."
"Kurt, I'm not asking you to wake her up," Shane replied, his voice gravel. "I'm telling you. Now wake her up."
A silence that seemed to fill the air. "I won't, Shane. I'm sorry. We've all had a long day and even a longer night. Do you realize it's almost one in the morning?"
"I don't care, Kurt. Wake her up." Now he was getting angry. It was bad enough he was on a bus in the middle of the night in some God- forsaken city; it was bad enough it was raining enough for Noah to drown if he had the right mind to sail in the sea; it was bad enough his employee and good friend was sitting in a hospital bed, sick, and his sister was with him; it was bad enough that his head was pounding and he was going crazy. Couldn't he just listen?
"Shane, for the last time, I'm telling you no. I have to go. They'll kick us out if we make anymore noise. Chris is sleeping, thank God."
"KURT! Put her on the phone before I fire your ass!"
"I don't care, Shane. I have to go. I'll have her call you later. Bye."
"Kurt, don't!"
But it was too late. Only a dial tone hummed in his ear.
"Beautiful," he muttered, slumping back against the seat. "Just beautiful."
The gray and black world floated in the rain.
He felt sick, suddenly, again. He rubbed his temples. He had no clue to where he was, but he knew he didn't want to go home. He had left his parents' home without an answer to their questions. All he knew was that he had to get away. He had gotten on the nearest bus that ran in the late night and rode silently. He didn't care where he was going.
His eyes ached to close. He wanted to sleep. His mind was on the verge of collapsing.
But he didn't want to go home.
As far as he was concerned, God could decide the time was right for the Rapture, a comet could come slamming into earth, and pigs could fly; he wasn't going home.
Nothing could make him go home.
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Kurt's eyes were drawn to Stephanie, sleeping in the chair, a blanket pushed up to just under her chin. He looked at Chris, who was soundly asleep in his hospital bed, with some urging from the helpful morphine Simmons had decided to shoot him with.
He rubbed his head. He was exhausted. He wanted to leave and check into a motel and drop into a blissful sleep. But his stomach was still hurting him. He felt that at any moment, he would have to stop and have a private moment with the bathroom. His head felt swelled, expanded, twisted.
He felt sick. Stephanie had her private time with the bathroom already; he hadn't quite needed his yet, but he felt so sick.
The doctor has let them stay in the hospital room, even though it was past visiting hours and any normal doctor would have long ago kicked them out. But Simmons had let them, her eyes cautious as she ordered some extra blankets into the room and two pillows.
Kurt thought crazily, she probably thinks we have whatever Chris has. Maybe it's Ebola. How fun. An Olympic gold medalist running around infected with Ebola. I'm thrilled.
He was far from it.
He curled up in the chair, resting his head against the pillow, closing his eyes, willing whatever sickness he had away from him. He wanted peace. He wanted rest.
Suddenly, massively, his stomach gave a heave. He leapt up.
In the chair, he saw Stephanie's eyes spring open, her eyes bulging.
He didn't have time to think.
He didn't have time to do anything but dart to the bathroom.
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~*~*~*~* Blood was gushing from his hand, teeth ripping, snapping, crackling.
He wanted to scream; he wanted everything to stop. The pain was unbearable. It was a monster, a machine that tacked into his hand and wouldn't let go.
He tried ripping his hand away; he was aware of the person behind him, screaming pointlessly. He was screaming too, but his scream was in pain, in horror.
He felt something in his hand snap. Pain rushed up his body, swift, deadly. He threw his head back and cried, asking God for help, anything to save him.
He stumbled back. He felt something slip from underneath his feet.
He fell.
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"Thanks for the ride," Shane told the bus driver politely. He was the last one on the bus. They were at the far end of town, the run down town teaming with drug dealers and low lives. At that point, Shane just didn't care.
"No problem," the old man said, kindly. "You look troubled."
"No trouble," Shane assured the man.
"Watch out in this neighborhood," the man said, still kindly. "You look strong, but they'll gang up on you like fleas on a dog."
"Thanks-"
Something in his throat! Rising, flooding, open floodgates, teaming, streaming, rocketing!
He gasped, trying to choke. He felt his eyes grow, his body tense, his muscles spasming.
He turned around and fell down the bus stairs, landing in the grass of a strip. On all fours, he clutched the grass. He felt empty stalks break in his hand. His head was going to implode, it was going to burst, and he was going to die in some black abyss that was fog . . .
Rain washed over him, drenched him, carried him.
"Hey, are you alright?" he heard the bus driver say in alarm.
No, he wanted to gasp, no, I'm dying.
His forehead touched the ground. His hand clutched his stomach, still holding the grass he had ripped from the ground. Rain dripped off his head. He rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
The pain was too much. He fell onto his side, still holding his stomach, his eyes clenched, his hand still clutching the blades of grass.
Rain dripped into his eyes.
He opened them and with hand wiped his eyes furiously, still rocking.
He looked at his hand.
It was red.
It was blood.
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I know there are no answers, yet, but I'm setting the mood. Don't worry; we'll get there soon enough.