The Madman - Страница 119

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Then he fell back, thought of a dozen, perhaps a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but could not, and closed his eyes to wait for his own end.

Francis, however, could feel the Angel stiffen and die beneath his grasp. He stayed in that position, holding the dead man for what seemed to him to be a very long time, but was probably only seconds. The voices he'd heard for so long seemed to have fled from him in that moment, taking their fears, their advice, their wishes and demands along with them, and he was only aware that everything was still dark, and that his only friend on earth was still breathing, but that it was shallow, labored, and closing in on some end that Francis did not want to consider.

And so Francis carefully unwrapped himself from the embrace of the Angel, whispered, "Hang on," in Peter's ear, although he did not imagine that the Fireman actually heard him, seized hold of his friend's shoulders, tugging him alongside, and a little like a baby let loose from his mother's grasp, slowly, tentatively, began to crawl through the pitch-black basement, searching for the light, hunting for the exit, hoping to find help somewhere.

Chapter 35

The noise in my apartment had reached a crescendo, all memory, all rage. I could feel the Angel choking me, clawing at me, years of festering silence building, his fury unending, unlimited. I cowered down, feeling his blows batter me around the head and shoulders, tearing inwardly at my heart and at every thought I had. I was shouting, sobbing, my tears streaking my face, but nothing I spoke out loud seemed to have any effect, or make any sense. He was inexorable, unstoppable. I had helped to kill him that night so many years earlier, and he was with me now to exact his revenge, and he would not be dissuaded. I thought that it was probably fitting, in some perverse way. I'd had no real right to survive that night in the hospital tunnels, and that now he'd come to claim the victory that was truly his. In a way, I recognized, he had always been with me, and as hard as I'd fought then, and as hard as I'd fought this night, that I'd never really had a chance against the darkness he delivered.

I twisted about, throwing a chair across the room at his ghostly shape, watching the wooden frame splinter and shatter with a crash. I shouted defiance, measuring what little resources I had left, hoping that in the moments I had remaining, and the small space at the bottom of the wall that awaited my last words, I could finish my story.

I crawled, just as I had that other midnight, across the cold floor.

Behind me, I could hear pounding, a repetition of fierce demand, on the door to my apartment. Voices called out to me that seemed familiar, but far away, as if they came from a very great distance, across some divide I could never hope to traverse. I did not think they existed. I screamed out, "Go away! Leave me alone!" not knowing whether the sound was real or fantasy. All these things had become jumbled in my imagination, and the curses and screams of the Angel filled my ears, blocking out whatever cries came from somewhere beyond the few square feet remaining in my world.

I'd pulled, half carried, half dragged Peter across the basement storage room, trying to get away from the killer's-body remaining somewhere in the void behind us. I was feeling my way, pushing aside whatever obstacles tumbled into our path, dragging us both forward, not really knowing if I was heading in the right direction. I could sense that each foot traveled brought him closer to safety, but also to death, as if they were two convergent lines being plotted on some great graph, and when they came together, I would lose my struggle and he would die. I had held little hope that any of us would survive, and so, when I saw a door ahead of me open, and a small shaft of light tumble unheralded into the darkness that surrounded me, I swam toward it, gritting my teeth against all that had taken place. The Angel howled behind my head, but that was this night, for on that night he was dead, and I reached out toward the wall, and thought that at the very least, even if I were to die within the next few moments, I still needed to tell about looking up and seeing the unmistakable great wide shape of Big Black hovering in the tiny sliver of light, and the music of his voice, when I heard him call out: "Francis? C-Bird? You down there?"

"Francis?" Big Black shouted, standing in the doorway leading down to the power plant's basement storage area and the heating tunnels that crisscrossed beneath the hospital grounds, his brother close by his side, and Doctor Gulptilil only a foot or two to the rear. "C-Bird, you down there?"

Before he could reach out and find a switch for the solitary light that might illuminate the rickety stairs, he heard a faint but familiar voice penetrate the darkness in reply, "Mister Moses, please, help us!"

Neither of the brothers hesitated. The reedy, thin cry that seemed to slice up through the pit below told them more or less everything they needed. Bounding toward the sound, the Moses brothers raced ahead, while Doctor Gulptilil, still holding a little reluctantly in the rear, finally located the switch to give them some light, and flicked it on.

What he saw, in the faint glow from a yellowed, weak, exposed bulb, pitched him into action. Struggling through the debris and abandoned equipment, streaked with blood and grime, was a teary-eyed Francis. Right behind him, being dragged forward was Peter, who seemed to be near unconsciousness, though he held his hand over an immense wound in his side that had left a shocking path of red across the cement floor. Doctor Gulptilil looked up and was startled by the sight of a third patient deeper in the basement, eyes open in surprise and death, a large hunting knife lodged firmly in his chest. "Oh my goodness," the doctor said, as he hurried to catch up with Big Black and Little Black, who were already trying to administer some help to Peter and Francis.

Francis repeated over and over, "I'm okay, I'm okay, help him," although he was not altogether certain that he was okay, but it was the only thought that penetrated his exhaustion and relief. Big Black took everything in with a single immense glance, and seemed to understand what had taken place there that night, and he bent over Peter's form, pulling back the tatters of the Fireman's shirt, revealing the extent of his wound. Little Black pushed to Francis's side, and quickly, expertly, did more or less the same, examining him for injury, despite Francis's headshaking and protests.

"Hold still, C-Bird," Little Black said. "I need to make sure you're okay." Then, he whispered something else, as he nodded his head toward the Angel's body, "I think you done good work here tonight, C-Bird. No matter what anyone else says."

Then he seemed satisfied that Francis wasn't badly wounded, and he turned to help his brother.

"How bad is it?" Gulp-a-pill demanded, leaning over the two attendants, staring down at Peter.

"Bad enough," Big Black answered. "He needs to get to the hospital right now."

"Can we carry him upstairs?" Doctor Gulptilil asked.

Big Black didn't reply. He merely reached down, and with two massive arms cradling beneath Peter's limp form, he lifted the Fireman from the cold floor and with a heave and a grunt, carried him up the stairs to the power plant's main area, like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. He walked slowly, steadily to the front door, then gently knelt down just inside and lowered Peter's body. "We need to get the Fireman help right away," he said, turning to Doctor Gulptilil.

"I understand that," the medical director was saying. He had already seized an old black rotary dial telephone from a desktop, and was dialing a number. "Security?" he said briskly, when the line was connected. "This is Doctor Gulptilil. I need another ambulance, yes, that's correct, another ambulance, and I need it immediately at the power plant. Yes, this is a matter of life and death. Please make that call instantly, if not sooner."

Then he hung up the telephone.

Francis had trailed after Big Black, and was standing next to Little Black, who was speaking to Peter, urging him over and over to hang on, that help was coming, reminding him that this wouldn't be the right night to die, not after all that had taken place, and what had been accomplished. His steady, reassuring tone brought a smile to Peter's face, which managed to reach past all the gathered hurt and shock he felt, and the sensation of his life dripping from his side. He didn't say any words, however. Big Black cradled Peter's head, and then took off his white attendant's jacket, folded it up and began to apply it to the gash in Peter's side. "Help is on the way, Peter," Doctor Gulptilil said, bending toward the Fireman, but whether the wounded man heard this or not, neither he, nor any of the others could tell.

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