09
Motol Hospital, Prague, Czech Republic
November 28
“You will not pass this door!” Bastien growled. “Go back east, you monster!”
The Healer carefully raised a hand and tapped his right temple with a finger. Anouma glanced over as Bastien mirrored the action, a faded tattoo etched on his face, four short bars. He touched them gingerly, as if they stung.
“Yes, I remember,” Bastien spat. “And it won’t be repeated! This is my redemption! Go kill somewhere else!”
Bastien picked up the girl with some effort, glanced over at Anouma.
“I’ll be in the back. Lock the doors behind us.”
“But—” she started.
“Do it, Fanta,” he grunted. “He cannot be allowed inside.”
She nodded solemnly, opened the door for the old man, then crept in herself, locking the dead bolt in the middle of the panelling. The doors were thick and old, but something about the seal said they couldn’t really be closed against someone who wanted in badly enough. She nervously glanced outside, through the tall window in the door.
The bay was empty. Rain poured freely down, rushing off the faded ‘Ambulance’ sign like a waterfall, the backed-up drain in the centre of the pavement unable to keep up with demand. The thing had gone. She leaned closer, trying to see around the corner—
A mask shot into view, right against the window, meeting her gaze, and she yelped. Warm, processed breath hissed out of the ventilation ducts by his neck, fogging the glass in irregular bursts. Anouma recoiled, but was too scared to run.
The Healer stared at her dispassionately, then looked over, carefully and deliberately, to the dead bolt. Then he looked at her again. She shivered, shook her head ‘no’. She darted her eyes over, checked that she had really locked it.
There was no movement for some time.
He stepped back one pace, not breaking eye contact, and without warning, slammed his hand against the glass. She jumped back in shock, pushed a fist against the lock, held her breath.
He was taping a paper to the window, in short, almost mechanical motions. She backed up further from the door, bumping into a gurney left on the far wall, draped with sheets to cover the bloodstains the doctors had been unable to clean off. She gripped the cold metal bars for support.
Once the paper was fully fastened, the Healer turned and began walking away without a pause; down the steps, through the growing puddle, past the waterfall sign, and around the corner. Anouma waited another minute or two before moving forward, checking more closely.
She exhaled for the first time in what seemed like hours, and pressed her forehead against the door, trying to get back her nerves.
“He is gone,” she said to herself. “You did fine. You did fine.”
She looked up, saw the poster he’d left. An information sheet in French, in clear and clinical grammar: symptoms of a strain called ‘LS-411’. How to diagnose it. How not to treat it. It was always fatal. She lightly touched her fingers against the window, her mouth falling open, and gasped at the photo of the lesions to take care for.
She ran to the stairwell without a word.
* * *
Franz stripped the plastic wrap from a stale hospital sandwich at the bottom of a dark green dumpster, trembling hands nearly losing the cheese and ham. He shoved it into his mouth, chewing furiously, and licked off his grimy fingers, darting nervous glances out past the bags above him.
“Franz!” hissed Luka, half-peering over the edge inside.
“Still nothing!” Franz replied, trying to conceal his chewing. “Looking!”
Luka lifted his head a bit higher, leaned over the edge, but kept his eyes elsewhere.
“Not that,” he whispered urgently. “You have to see this.”
Franz frowned, got to his feet, and stood on a crushed plastic bin for a better view. Out in the clearing, slowly pacing around the west side of Building A was something he’d never seen before.
“A Healer?” Luka asked cautiously.
“Looks like it,” said Franz. “Quick, help me out.”
He landed on the wet pavement, pulling his worn hood over his hair against the rain, and joined his friend back behind the dumpster, out of sight, as the figure walked past. They watched him from the dank shadows, white eyes wide in fear, or anger.
“Come on,” Franz nudged, and they followed, hands in pockets, as if on a casual stroll.
The Healer turned a corner, into an alley, and the two of them paused at the entrance, looked around. The street was deserted. Behind them, the forest was awash in orange leaves dissolving in the rain. Franz checked a pile of garbage, found a heavy wood plank and an old rusted pipe in the mix. He handed the wood to Luka, motioned to head in.
The Healer was staring at an open window on the third floor, its fire escape too high to reach. He ran his finger along the handleless metal door before him, the only break in the ominous concrete structure. He backed away carefully, then he lowered his head, paused, and turned around to see Franz and Luka, inching toward him, closing in on their prey.
“Fuckin’ killer,” Franz spat, swinging the pipe from side to side. “Come to finish what you started, eh?”
He lashed out with the pipe at a distance, and the Healer stepped back, held his hands up, cautiously, as if he were asking for peace. Still, no words. No expression to read.
“Not so smug, are ya?” Luka said, circling the Healer menacingly. “Couldn’t kill us all with your germs, so now y’have to fight like a man!”
“He’s not a man,” Franz sneered. “A man has a soul. This is a baby-killer!”
Luka’s eyes started to water, his face twisting, and Franz gaped at the sight. Luka wiped his eyes with his sleeve furiously, choking back tears, and his face turned red as anger rushed through him.
“My son!” he screamed, and charged, swinging the board straight at the Healer’s head. Its hand moved fast, bracing up to deflect the blow, and the board snapped in two. The loose side flew against the wall in a shower of splinters. Luka skidded straight into the Healer, who caught him by the throat with the other metallic hand, held him tight.
Luka’s passion drained fast, so close to the mask, and he gasped for desperate breaths, dropping the rest of the board at his feet.
The Healer spoke in a raspy, processed voice. Words neither of them understood. Tears kept running down Luka’s cheeks, but he never stopped staring into the empty goggles.
Then, the Healer cocked his head slightly, and ducked out of the way as Franz’s pipe swung past. It missed him, smashed into the side of Luka’s face, a loud crunch echoing out. The Healer dropped the body and stepped aside, facing his next opponent.
Franz gasped at the sight of his friend in a pool of blood, his pipe smeared red too. He re-gripped the metal, inhaled slowly, letting his fury boil over.
“You fucking murderer!” he screamed, and charged again, swinging madly. The Healer side-stepped the attack, grabbed the pipe and twisted. Franz felt his wrist pop, and he lost his grip, his footing. A rough hand grabbed the back of his coat, shoving him into the hospital wall. He stumbled back, nose bleeding, then was dragged by his hair, crying out in pain.
The Healer held the pipe up as if to strike, but then tossed it away, across the alley, never taking his gaze of Franz. He spoke, again in a tongue Franz didn’t understand.
“Fuck you,” Franz said through the blood and pain. “Fuck you and fuck your Chinese whore mother.”
No reaction. Franz spat blood onto the mask.
Then he noticed it… the handle of a blade on the belt. A machete. He made a mad grab for it, snatching the tip with his fingers. The hand pulled his hair tighter, and he looked up. The Healer shook his head ‘no’. Very slowly. Very solidly.
Rain poured down, running across his battered face, drips pounding into the hand on the blade. He felt the strain of the grip on his hair, but saw no emotion in the mask, and it unnerved him.
He pulled, heard the blade come free, and in a moment of elation, pulled it back to thrust… his face betraying a smile…
But just as quickly, the Healer planted a calculated blow to his chest, felt his ribs crack, and the machete fell from his hand, straight into the enemy’s. He desperately gasped for breath, but none came. And then in an instant, he felt a hand on his chin, a quick crack, and then nothing at all.
The Healer carefully lowered the body to the ground, laying the arms across the chest respectfully. He glanced back at Luka, the pool of blood growing and diluting in the rain, running down the slight incline towards the sewers.
A woman screamed hysterically, and he stood quickly, machete ready. She stood at the entrance to the alley, hand to her mouth, her soaked clothes dripping dirty water in streams at her feet. She stumbled back, eyes darting between Franz, Luka and the Healer, terrified.
She yelled for help, called for the police, and ran off, out of view, leaving him alone, isolated. He quickly looked around himself, machete loose in his hand, backed himself into the corner with enough room to fight. He heard the sounds of angry men yelling, of metal and wood and other would-be weapons being pulled out of trash bins. The sounds of an angry mob forming.
“You!” called a French voice from behind, and he turned, saw the metal door, now open. Anouma leaned out carefully, anxiously. “This way! Hurry!” she hissed.