Don't Be Shy 19 (Patreon)

Lena had a hatred for hospitals that was born out of long familiarity. The jangling and never-ending alerts, alarms, klaxons. The smell of cleaning products instead of cleanliness. The sour body odor of unwashed humanity in its mourning and hoping and madness and dying. Vomit, sweat, blood, shit. Even tears had a smell. Then there was the rancidly neutral colors, inoffensiveness curdling into foulness. Like a mirror: with no strong statements of its own, the place was imprinted with the awfulness people brought here.

It was a place of necessity that pretended to be a place of luxury, or even of choice. Lena avoided it when she could, availing herself of the Outfit and the doctors they could send to make house calls to her. She hadn’t sat on a plush examination table or worn one of those stupid gowns in a good ten years. But now she was back. Her edginess made her overimaginative. Lena pictured the doctors roping her into a shot or a blood drive or a scan, as long as they had her here.

She met with Sanders outside of Walsh’s room. Even with the door closed, she could hear the commotion inside. It made her reappraise hospitals. At least usually, they didn’t sound like madhouses.

“Cops found him an hour ago. The doctors thought it was just a bad trip, but he’s not coming out of it. They’re doing blood tests, trying to figure out—”

Lena was shaking her head. “Walsh didn’t take drugs.”

“Cops also found a hooker chained to his bed. She was high as a kite too.”

“I’m not saying he was a saint, I’m saying—” Lena sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “What’d the hooker say?”

“Nothing. She’s almost as zapped as him. Last thing she remembers is what a big deal the final episode of Friends was.” Sanders’ eyebrows knit together. “This could be very bad for the Outfit, you know. Walsh was a good boy. People liked him. But this—this is just irresponsible.”

“Which is why he doesn’t take drugs,” Lena reiterated, tone strong.

“I don’t care if he thought he was just treating himself to a nice fucking brownie,” Sanders said, voice firming to override Lena’s own. “He’s unreliable now. The boss is going to want options.”

“So do I,” Lena agreed, holding his gaze.

“Anyone spring to mind?”

“Not off-hand.”

“No?”

“No,” Lena confirmed. “You’re not asking for a good lawyer, you’re asking for a bad lawyer who looks good. You think they advertise those in the Yellow Pages?”

Sanders seemed to scoff and chuckle both at once. “You need to socialize more. If I needed a guy for a job, any job, I’d have at least five names.”

“Alright, Sanders—what name do you have for my job?”

Sanders’ face froze.

“I’m going to visit my friend now,” Lena said, letting the verbal slap echo until it didn’t.

He muttered something under his breath as Lena walked into the hospital room. She didn’t try too hard to make it out. It was probably something she already knew.

Lena went into the room. It was more honest than the careful attempts at neutrality outside. That didn't make it better. She smelled the sweat that had soaked through Walsh's clothes, heard his leather restraints creak and fray as he tried to break them. And his face… it was the look a man would make if he had to scream, but his teeth were locked in a rictus grin. 

“Oh, James.” She shut the door behind her. There were yellow lines on the floor showing where she should stand so he couldn't reach her. She put her toes on them. Then her heels. “What happened to you? Don't tell me you did this to yourself…”

He looked at her with wide eyes, animal eyes, eyes that could only express fear. After glancing back at the closed door for a moment, Lena removed her mask.

“Don't be afraid. It's me, you see. It's Lena.”

His eyes registered confusion. Then they focused. He saw her.

“Coming for you,” Walsh gritted out. “Coming for you!”

***

The parking garage of the Metropolitan General Hospital was a cathedral of the modern age: ton after ton of grim concrete piled up, barely shaped, barely painted, until it achieved a brutal utility. Just about everyone who worked at, visited, or resided in the Met Gen could park their cars inside the almighty standing parking lot, which at twelve stories was almost as tall as the building it provided access to.

Sanders walked out of the Met Gen and was immediately underneath the covered walkway that, were it day, would’ve provided him relief from sunlight. As it was, it made his walk to the parking garage almost as unrelievedly dank as it would be inside the towering structure.

Inside the garage, he used the elevator to climb to the seventh floor, where he browsed the rows of cars until he easily found the 2020 Porsche 911 that was his home away from home. At this time of night, it was easy to find. Not only was it one of the few cars still in the building, but it was about the only one that didn’t look like it might have a family of raccoons living in it.

Sanders took good care of his car. He took it to the carwash and got it waxed every Friday to start his weekend off right. It was bumblebee-yellow, paint as bright as when he’d first bought it. He’d wanted to get a black racing stripe on it too, but his wife had told him not to be an asshole.

As he approached, though, Sanders saw that someone was kneeling next to his Porsche, head stuck underneath the car. Sanders reached into his coat, gripping his Taurus Judge 4510—a snub-nosed revolver that chambered man-eating .45 rounds.

“Hey, what’re you doing with my car, asshole?”

The man stayed down on all fours, looking into the shadow underneath the Porsche. “It’s my cat.”

“Your what?”

“My cat. Philip?” The man took a look at Sanders. He was a dweeb. No other way to put it. A sandy mop of too-long hair, some patchy facial hair like he shaved with a butter knife, glasses. He wore a plaid shirt under a corduroy jacket, with slacks tucked into the white socks that shoved above his black dress shoes.

“My name’s not Philip, bro.”

“Of course not, that’s my cat. Philip. Philip the cat. He’s an indoor cat, but he got out. He’s got out before, he always comes here for the rats, and now he’s under your car. Can’t quite get to him. Your car rides really low. Have you had your shocks tested recently?”

Sanders let go of the butt of the revolver. This guy was no problem. Just another of the city’s nuts. “Yeah, I need to go. Hope your cat doesn’t run under another car.”

“Hey, whoa!” The man slipped in front of Sanders, between him and the front door of his Porsche. “Could you maybe back out really slow, just in case Philip panics and runs under one of your tires? In fact, you think you could sound the horn while you’re still in Park? He’ll probably come running right to me. He always does when he gets scared.”

“Yeah, buddy, sure thing,” said Sanders, who had already decided he would drive away from this whackjob as fast as he could without scratching his paint.

“Thanks,” the man said, pathetically grateful, and stepped out of the way.

Sanders opened the door, stooped to get in, and felt something unforgivingly hard impact the back of his neck and take away everything but a bright burst of pain. And then, even that was gone and he had nothing to think about and nothing to think with.