Three

The emergency room was full. It was unusually busy for a Thursday night. But it wasn't just that. There was something unsettled in the atmosphere, something swirling in the air that Angie couldn't place.

“Wow,” said Freeda next to her, looking around. “Things are bat-crap tonight.”

And they were. Injured people were everywhere. A man with scratches on his face and a quickly bandaged leg. A woman in a torn and dirty dress, holding a cloth to deep red gashes on her arm. A young boy standing as his parents showed Nurse Paula gouges on his shoulder.

Paula looked over and nodded at Freeda. “Hey,” she called, “come give me a hand.”

Freeda turned to Angie. “Duty screams,” she said, then rushed to the boy.

Angie stood in the middle of the room, taking it all in. There was definitely something wrong. The tone was off. The patients didn't look annoyed or embarrassed, the way most mildly injured people looked in the emergency room. They looked confused. And afraid.

That's it, thought Angie. They look afraid.

Call home.

“Hey, Anj,” came a voice behind her.

She turned and saw Rick sitting at his dispatch desk. An old CB radio sat on the desk, waiting for the ambulance to call. Angie's eyes moved from the radio back to Rick. He was middle-aged, round and pleasant. Angie liked him. “What a night, huh?”

“No kidding.” Angie nodded. “I hear we got a gunshot victim coming in.”

“Yeah, someone tried to stick up Ed's. Can you believe it?” He looked around and rubbed his bristly goatee in a conspiratorial way, then leaned forward. “You know, that robber was not the only person to leave Ed's on a stretcher tonight. Only the coroner took the other one.”

Angie's back went taut. The feeling returned. Something sneaking up. She stayed outwardly calm and leaned forward, raising an eyebrow.

Rick nodded. “Old Timmins.”

“Oh god,” said Angie. She'd seen Timmins here and there her whole life. He was a drunk, but a pleasant enough one. “Heart attack?”

“More like a stroke. He started biting people. Hard. As in drawing blood. By the time the cops and the ambulance showed up, he'd bit both Ed and some guy who tried to help. Even tried to bite a cop. Cop ended up shooting him.”

“My god,” said Angie.

Angie heard a stern cough from behind her. Rick made an “oops” face and quickly started looking busy. Angie turned to see Nurse Ruby.

“There's no time for chit-chat,” Ruby said. “Please go straighten up the waiting room, Angela. We've had an unusual amount of traffic tonight.”

No kidding, Angie thought. “Yes, ma'am.” She gave a little parting smile to Rick and headed for the waiting room.

* * *

“I'm dying,” said Dalton, clutching his stomach as he lay on the couch.

“You're not dying,” said Brooke. She sat in Mom's chair with the TV remote in her hand. She hit the up button again and again, flipping through channels.

Maylee sat on the edge of another chair, across the room. “Can I have your stuff?”

Dalton said nothing, watching TV channels flash by. He slid his hand inside his open over-shirt and rested his palm on the t-shirt underneath.

“Hey, ass turtle!” said Maylee.

“What?” said Dalton, looking over.

“Can I have your stuff, since you're dying?”

Dalton shook his head and rubbed his stomach. The TV flipped past a news report, something about masses of people holding up traffic in a big city. “No, you'd better not. My things may be contaminated.”

Maylee rolled her eyes. “I thought you were starving to death.”

Dalton nodded. “I am starving, yes. But it may be a coincidence. I may be both starving and have a highly contagious disease.”

Brooke chuckled as she clicked the remote. “You use lots of big words for a little brother.”

Dalton beamed. “Mom says I'm smart.”

“Sure,” said Maylee. “To your face. To me, she says you're an ass turtle.”

Dalton sat up and scowled at Maylee. “No she doesn't!”

Maylee held up her hands and sat back. “Hey, don't blame the messenger.”

“I blame your ugly face,” said Dalton. He stood, ignoring Maylee's quickly-flashed middle finger.

He frowned. “Is the pizza ever coming?”

The TV flipped past another news report, something about slow-moving mobs and random killings.

“Maybe food will save me.” Dalton grabbed his stomach and made a big show of stumbling to the front window.

The usual view of their street greeted him outside. No car with a pizza sign.

He sighed and put his forehead on the glass. It felt cold. He gazed at a lit window in a house across the street. The light snapped out, sending an odd chill through Dalton. It was like the window had died.

A figure shuffled into view. It stumbled in from Dalton's right, headed to the left.

Dalton gasped and pulled away. The curtain fell back into place.

“What?” said Maylee from across the room. “The pizza?”

“No,” said Dalton. He pushed the curtain over and squinted outside.

It was a man, stumbling slowly across the lawn. He looked like a man staggering just before falling down, only he never fell. He just kept taking one slow, herky-jerky step after another.

There was something wrong in the man's walk. No, Dalton thought. There was something wrong in the fact that the man was walking at all. Something said he shouldn't be walking. Shouldn't be doing anything.

The man jerked out from under a tree and into the moonlight, giving Dalton a clearer view. The man's head leaned all the way back, bouncing limply as he moved. His eyes were wide open, staring solidly at the moon.

Or at nothing.

“Dalton?” said Maylee, suddenly right behind him and breathing on his neck.

He jerked. “Crap, Maylee! Don't do that!” He turned to glare at her.

“What's your problem?” Maylee said, leaning to one side to look past him and out the window. “What's got you screeching like a little girl?”

“Nothing,” said Dalton, embarrassed now. He turned back to gesture out the window. “There's just some weird guy on the lawn.”

“Where? Oh, there he is.” Maylee fell quiet as they both watched the man continue his deeply wrong walk across the lawn. A few seconds later, Dalton realized they were both holding their breath.

Then Brooke was behind them both. “For heaven's sake,” she said. Both Dalton and Maylee jerked. Dalton heard Maylee gasp.

“It's just a drunk or something,” said Brooke. “Go sit back down. The pizza should be here soon.”

“Yeah,” said Maylee, not sounding very convinced.

Dalton nodded and moved away from the window. He was blushing. He'd acted like a scared little kid. Don't be such a baby, he thought as he sat back down on the couch. Look at Brooke, she's not afraid.

But he noticed she stared out the window for a few extra seconds before turning away.

Two

Angie walked back into the laundry room and dumped the dirty sheet into one of several large baskets. She put her hands on the base of her spine, then bent backward until a sore spot popped and felt relief. Around her, the washers rumbled and moaned.

“Troubles at home?” asked Freeda from behind the folding table. Freeda was chewing gum. She blew a little bubble and smiled.

Angie straightened and shrugged. She walked over to the table and grabbed a sheet to fold. “No new ones, if that's what you mean. Maylee just really chafes at having a babysitter.”

“Well...” Freeda started. She looked at Angie, then back down at the sheets. Angie knew the look Freeda had just given her. It was Freeda's cautious look, the look she had when she was choosing her words carefully. “She is fourteen.”

“Oh god.” Angie shook her head, but smiled while she did it. “Not you too.”

Freeda laughed. “I know, I know. They're your babies. And you've had Maylee since you were practically a baby yourself. But you have to start letting go a little.”

Angie nodded and finished the sheet she was folding. She felt bad for being cold to Maylee. Call home, her mind nagged at her. Tell her you're sorry. “I know you're right, but...” She trailed off, putting the folded sheet on the stack Freeda had made. “Well, I don't know but what, just but something.”

“I see,” said Freeda, nodding as she finished the last sheet. She put it on the pile and raised an eyebrow at Angie. “but as in butt out.”

Angie laughed. “No, no. Not like that.” She helped Freeda straighten the stack, then they both headed for the door. Angie snapped off the light as they both left.

They walked down the hall quietly for a moment. “Speaking of butts,” Angie said, “Sam Shuab...”

“Oh god, that prick.” Freeda laughed. “You'd think Shuab Auto Sales was worth billions, the way he acts. What's he want?”

“A doctor,” said Angie. “He's demanding one come talk to him.”

They turned a corner and headed up a hallway toward the break room. Freeda frowned. “Mr. Paulson's refusing the surgery again?”

“Yep.” Angie nodded, then thought for a moment. “Who's the doctor on duty, anyway?”

“Doctor Gordon.”

“Oh great. Well, at least he and Sam should hit it off.”

Freeda laughed. “I swear, if that little jackass was half the doctor he thought he was, he wouldn't have the late shift on a Thursday night.”

Angie nodded. “This is true. He probably wouldn't even have this shift if he didn't have so many buddies on the board of directors.”

They both turned another corner and almost collided with Nurse Ruby Meyer. Ruby had been headed the other direction and looked very annoyed at having been stopped. She was a tight-looking woman with a stern face and her hair pulled back taut.

“Where are you two going?” she said.

“Break room,” said Angie as pleasantly as she could. Ruby made her nervous, but she refused to show it. “We're both pulling a double tonight, so I thought we'd take the chance to sit for a few minutes.”

Ruby frowned for a tiny moment, then pushed past them. “Not yet, girls,” she said as she walked up the hall. “I'll need everyone we can spare in ER. We've got a gunshot victim coming in. Someone who tried to rob Ed's.”

Then she was gone around the corner. Angie and Freeda listened to the receding pat of Ruby's sneakers. Even with those sneakers, Angie could usually hear Ruby coming. Something was distracting her tonight. Something was wrong.

When Ruby was out of both sight and sound, Freeda turned to Angie. “What if we just don't show?”     

Angie shook her head. “You know Ruby. That would be a bad idea.” Then Angie felt a dread come over her. A feeling of something awful creeping up. Call home, she thought. No, no time. Have to work.  “A very bad idea.”

* * *

“I told you it was a bad idea,” said Parker Welch as he whipped his groaning pickup into the parking lot of Lakewood Memorial. He ignored a speed bump and his muffler clattered in protest. His hunting cap began sliding off his long, unkempt hair and he tossed it off impatiently.

“The guy looked hurt, Park,” said Morton Buck from the passenger seat. Park had known Moe for most of his thirty-five years, and Moe was constantly saying things like that. Stupidly nice things.

Moe rocked from side to side in rhythm with the truck. His teeth were clenched and he had one hand clamped over his left arm. Blood seeped from between his fingers.

“Fuck him,” said Park. The truck's headlights bounced as he swung around, looking for a place to park. He found a spot near the emergency entrance and aimed for it. It was a handicapped spot, but Park ignored that. He was in a hurry. “That's what I said, and it's what you should have said too.”

“Now, Park,” said Moe, leaning to one side as the truck banked hard into the spot and stopped. “You can't ignore a fellow who's hurt.”

Park let the engine run and stared across the front of the truck. He wondered what the hell had happened. The sun was going down on what was supposed to have been Parker's dying day. A nice, long-overdue hunting session with Moe, then home again to blow off the back of his head with a shotgun. Maybe he'd even feel the breeze against the back of his eyeballs before he winked out.

He hadn't told Moe, of course. Moe would have tried to stop him, showing the same stupid helpfulness that had gotten him bit.

“Well, he wasn't hurt, was he?” said Park, turning to him. “He was some crazy fucking asshole who bit you. Fucker was probably on meth or something.”

He jerked the engine off and the truck shuddered in complaint. He realized he was still wearing his hunting gloves and he pulled them off, tossing them into a camouflage heap at Moe's feet. “Let's get inside.”

One

Angela Land strode down a hallway in Lakewood Memorial Hospital. She moved with purpose through the florescent light and disinfectant smell. The small rural hospital had a few doctors, a few nurses and several nurse's aides. Angie was third on that list.

Her cell phone rang. She didn't stop or even slow down, sliding the phone from her smock and flipping her hair to one side.

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Mom?”

Angie sighed. “What is it, Maylee? I'm at work.”

“Brooke is being a bitch.”

“She's the babysitter. Just do what she says.”

Angie arrived at a large, dimly-lit laundry room. Several dryers were rumbling like hungry monsters. Her friend Freeda - also an aide - was folding sheets. Angie nodded and Freeda handed her one, grinning. Angie smiled and turned to leave. “And don't say bitch.”

“Brooke said bitch,” said Maylee.

Angie exhaled and walked back down the hall, holding the sheet. “Brooke's sixteen.” The same age Angie had been when Maylee was born.

“I'm fourteen.”

“Well, in two years you can start saying bitch. We'll have a party.”

“Seriously?”

“No.”

Maylee let out an exasperated groan. When Angie was in an honest mood, she knew those groans sounded just like her. “Don't you think fourteen is a little old for a babysitter?”

Angie counted the room numbers as they went by. 409, 410, 411 ... “Your brother's only twelve.”

“Twelve's a little old, too.”

“Look, Maylee, I just feel better if someone's there.”

“I'm here, Mom. Don't you think I can handle it?”

“No one can handle everything.”

“But you can?”

“I have to, Maylee, whether I want to or not. Now I have to go. Goodbye.”

“Mom...” Maylee started, but Angie was already snapping the phone shut. She dropped it back into her pocket and reached room 425. Mr. Paulson.

“I'm back,” she announced as she strode into the room and pushed the door shut with her foot. Old Mr. Paulson sat up in bed, a sheet crumpled around his ankles. The sheet was spattered with the remnants of his dinner.

“About goddamned time,” he said. He spoke like he was spitting out something nasty. “I was freezing my nuts off.”

Mr. Paulson's daughter sat in a chair next to his bed. Angie knew her to be 45, but her eyes looked older. Her name was Kristen.

“Now, Dad,” she said, shaking her head. “It was you who dumped your food on the sheets.”

“It tasted like half-digested turds,” said Mr. Paulson. He glared at Kristen, then looked back to Angie. “How could you feed that to an old man? Especially a dying one?”

Angie smiled and pulled the dirty sheet from the bed. “Now, Mr. Paulson, I don't think you're dying.”

Mr. Paulson snorted. “Well, you don't think much, then. I might look like the picture of health to a retard like you, but I ain't.” He twisted around to slap the oxygen tank next to his bed. A tube ran from the tank to under his nose. “I've dragged one of these fuckers around for ten years.”

Kristen exhaled. “Well, if you hadn't smoked for all those years...”

“Oh, monkey-clit.” Mr. Paulson folded his arms and sat back. “Now you've got my daughter bitching at me.”

Kristen smiled and shook her head. Angie dropped the dirty sheet and took the clean one in both hands. Kristen stood and held out her arms, offering to take the sheet. Angie shook her head and started unfolding.

Kristen sat. “Well, Dad, I just want to have you around as long as possible.”

Wow, thought Angie, hell of a thing to wish on yourself. She felt a little guilty for that, and turned her attention to the equipment sitting around the bed. If anything was obviously wrong, she'd have to report it to Nurse Ruby.

Then a scream came from somewhere down the hall. It was a woman, screaming loud and long. It sent a cold spike down Angie's back. All three of them turned to look at the door.

It swung open slowly.

A large man lumbered in. It was Sam Shuab, Kristen's husband. He was carrying paper cups of coffee.

“Man, some old chick's really squalling two rooms down,” he said.

And then Angie remembered. “Oh, that's just Mrs. Reddens. She always yells when she has blood drawn.” Angie had known that. Everyone on staff knew that. So why had it scared her? Something felt wrong tonight. Like something awful was sneaking up on her. She hadn't said anything to Maylee, but that was the main reason she'd insisted on a babysitter tonight. Someone else there. To keep watch. But for what?

“Poor old Mrs. Reddens,” said Kristen.

Mr. Paulson snorted. “Poor old me, for having to listen to her. Moldy old twat's always shrieking at bingo, too. Enough goddamned noise to wake a corpse.”  

“I doubt she'd wake a corpse,” said Kristen.

“Well, I'll know soon enough, first hand. Once the quacks here go cracking my chest open.” He waved his arms to indicate the whole hospital.

“It's just for a pacemaker,” said Angie. She stooped to pick up the dirty sheet. “It'll help with those chest pains.”

“I'm sorry, miss,” said Sam, handing Kristen a cup and sitting. “Are you a doctor?”

Angie's face flashed hot. “No.”

“No, you're a hospital maid is what you are.” He adjusted the glasses on his thick head. “Now go get us a damned doctor so we can talk sense to them.”

“Sam,” said Kristen sharply, looking at him.

“What?” said Sam. “He doesn't want the surgery. It's his call.”

Kristen's face went dark. Angie smirked to herself. You've done it now, asshole.

“And quit fidgeting with your glasses,” Kristen continued.

“I hate these stupid things,” said Sam, taking them off and rubbing his eyes.

Angie bunched up the dirty sheet and did her best to smile. “Well, I'll go check on the doctor.”

Sam and Mr. Paulson grunted something. Kristen smiled. Angie turned and left.

As soon as she was back in the hallway, her cell phone rang. She sighed, fished the phone out and answered.

“Mom?” came her son's voice.

“Dalton? What is it?”

“Maylee's not doing what Brooke says.”

“Dalton, I don't have time...”

“And she keeps saying bitch.”

* * *

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” said Maylee, skipping around the living room. She liked the way her hair, dyed the most screw-you black she could find, bounced with each step. How her mom hated that hair.

“I'm serious, Maylee,” said Brooke, standing across the room with her arms folded. Brooke's hair was conservative and perfect. I'm older, her hair said. It pissed Maylee off. “Knock it off right now,” said Brooke.

Maylee stopped skipping and crossed her arms, mocking Brooke. “But I don't know any better. I'm just a little baby.”

“Well, you're certainly acting like a little baby.”

Maylee rolled her eyes. “Oh, thank you, zinger queen. Your mom teach you that one?”

Brooke groaned and ran her hands through her hair. Maylee loved seeing that perfect hair falling out of place. “Why are you doing this, Maylee? Why can't we all just hang out until your mom comes home?”

“Because I don't need a babysitter, that's why!” Maylee turned and stomped toward her bedroom. She stopped when she heard Dalton's voice:

“And she keeps saying bitch.”

She growled deep in her throat and pounded to the kitchen. She found Dalton at the table, phone to his ear.

Maylee sighed. “Are you telling on me, crotch-nostrils?”

Dalton grinned. “And now she's insulting me,” he said into the phone.

Maylee snatched the phone and put it to her ear. “Mom, please. Why can't you just trust me?”

“You're just too young to be left alone all night,” said Mom.

“But I know what I'm doing! I know better than to get knocked up like you did!”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Maylee knew she'd gone too far. She felt as though she'd hit her mom across the face. She wanted desperately to snatch the words back, but it was too late.

Mom was quiet for what seemed like minutes. Maylee finally spoke, her throat dry and cracking. “Mom...”

“Put Brooke on, please.”

Brooke was already there, taking the phone from Maylee. “Ms. Land? I'm sorry.” She nodded at whatever Mom was saying and straightened her hair. “Things really aren't as out of control as they sound.”

Maylee bit the tip of her thumb and leaned back against the counter. Dalton stuck his tongue out at her. She kicked at him.

“Right,” said Brooke into the phone. “No problem. See you later on. Bye.”

“Wait,” said Maylee, pushing herself up and reaching for the phone. But Brooke was hanging up and Maylee was too late. Again.

“I wanted to tell her I was sorry,” said Maylee.

“Well, you'll get to talk to her later. I'll let you use my new cell phone.”

Maylee reached for the phone. "No. Let me do it."

"Dammit, Maylee," Brooke snapped. "Back off or I'll tell your mom what you've been doing with your friend Stacy!"

Maylee looked at Brooke, mouth open. Dalton looked from Brooke to Maylee, then back to Brooke. He looked very amused. After a few seconds, Maylee gave Brooke a very dark look and sat back against the counter. "I just want to tell her I'm sorry," she said, almost a whisper.

Brooke sighed and drummed her fingers on the wall. Maylee leaned back and pouted. Dalton shifted uncomfortably.

Brooke looked around at the two of them and smoothed out her hair. “Okay.” She picked up the phone. “I know I told your mom we might go out, but let's just order in. What do you two want on your pizza?”

Zero

For the small town of Lakewood, it began at Ed's Diner. A few customers were there, eating and talking. Ed was behind the counter, wiping at a stain that had been there longer than the waitresses. In roughly ten minutes, Ed would die screaming.

Ed idly wondered  where Old Timmins, his fishing buddy, had gotten off to. Probably on one of his week-long drunks, Ed figured. Those were common enough.

The door slammed open.

Jimmy Dotson, a teenage punk Ed had little use for, stumbled in. A big rip ran through his shirt and blood coated his arm. He looked around the diner, confused and afraid.

Trouble. Ed thought about the rifle stashed under the counter, rarely used but loaded just the same.

“Shit,” said Jimmy, looking at Ed. “You gotta lock the door.”

“Something wrong, Jimmy?” said Ed, trying to get a read on the situation. “You hurt?”

Jimmy kept looking out the large window, between the big painted letters that said Ed's in reverse. “You gotta lock the doors. Where are the keys?”

Shit, thought Ed. He's on something again. Hopefully he hasn't hurt anybody. And won't hurt anybody here.

Ed cleared his throat. “Jimmy, don't you think you should have someone look at your arm?”

Jimmy let out a pained whine and pulled a pistol from his back pocket. He pointed it at Ed.

The diner fell quiet. A waitress behind Ed gasped and dropped a dish.

Jimmy shook as he spoke. “Please. Lock the fucking door right fucking now or I will shoot you and get the fucking keys my fucking self.”

Ed stared at Jimmy. At the gun. His hand inched toward the rifle.

The gun rattled in Jimmy's shaking hand. “Please,” he said, almost whispering.

At the edge of his vision, Ed saw movement outside. A bent form was shuffling toward the diner. Ed recognized the dirty jacket and battered cap. Old Timmins, no doubt coming for some post-drunk coffee. Timmins was a drunk, but he was a good man all around. And the customers were all good people too. And this drugged-up little shit was going to burst in and start waving a gun? Anger grew in Ed.

Jimmy looked over at the figure outside. He cried out. Ed seized the chance and snatched up the gun. He brought it out over the counter and fired.

The shot hit Jimmy in the shoulder. Blood spattered backward and Jimmy fell over. Ed's ears rang and the diner was silent.

Ed breathed out, his heart pounding. “Call an ambulance,” he said to the waitress behind him.

The door jangled as Old Timmins pushed his way in.

“Picked a hell of a time to come up for air,” said Ed, replacing the rifle under the counter. He reached for a clean coffee cup.

Timmins shuffled toward the counter. His head was down and he said nothing.

Ed placed the mug down as Timmins grew near. He reached for the coffee pot. Then it struck him as odd that Timmins hadn't reacted to the gunshot or the wounded punk on the floor.

Then Ed was screaming as Old Timmins sank half-rotten teeth into his arm.