Dead Bite: An Undead Story 63

Dead Bite: An Undead Story 63

Jordon had been alone for hours.  The doctor hadn’t come back to the hospital room, and all the other patients had been wheeled out of there for now.  The room was kept pitch black unless someone entered, and that hadn’t been in what?—Two, four, eighteen hours?

The imp had also lost track of the days.  He slept whenever he could fall asleep, but he assumed that the times he was the sleepiest were times when the sun was out.  He thought maybe three days had passed, but then again, maybe it was a week.  Maybe it was more.  He had no way to tell.

When the doctor did enter the room, he was always performing tests on Jordon.  Drawing blood.  Examining the marks on his body.  Taking swabs.  Just sitting, watching from the corner.

A few times, the doctor tried to incite Jordon to use his powers.  He beat him with some long object, but even if Jordon had wanted to levitate the weapon away and use it on his attacker, he was too weak.  He was being pumped full of drugs, some of which he had never heard of.  He could barely make out the names on the intravenous bags when the lights were on.

Not that his heart was pumping them around his body.

The doctor had figured out that Jordon’s heart didn’t beat long ago.

“It’s a medical miracle!” a nurse had exclaimed.

“Quiet, fool!” the doctor chided.  “It’s not unheard of.  There are documented cases of men without heartbeats, walking among the living.  Haven’t you heard of the case of Giuseppe Deccherini?”

“Yes, but it was supposed that he was alive, just faked his death.”

“No, it is more than that.  Something beyond the realm of the living.  Something paranormal.  Something evil.”

Then Jordon realized that this was the man who had the dossier on Jorel.  The one who had been tracking him.  This Internal Bureau of Phenomenalogy was hunting all of them, not just Jorel.  Or at least some of them.  It’s not like they had picked Jordon out of the blue.  The disappearance of Giuseppe Deccherini had been a high profile case, brought up in many history classes, especially on the history of law and mobsters.  It’s not like Jorel would have been forgotten—Damn him, he was the son of one of New York’s most notorious gangsters!

But why would they know anything about Jordon?  It’s not like he was loved.  He was sick, and his family was essentially dead to him.  It’s not like Warhol’s sponges were quite particularly followed either; they came, they went.

An inkling of a feeling seeped into Jordon’s brain.  Maybe he was loved.  Maybe Andy missed him.  Maybe his parents really did care.   Maybe he was a face on a milk carton that he never got to see.

Jordon’s musings were cut short as a key turned in the door.  Jordon looked in the general direction as the lights popped on, drowning the room in static.

“Ah, I see you are awake?” the doctor smiled.  “You’re always awake.  Do you even have a need to sleep?”

“I’m not going to give you the pleasure of finding out,” Jordon growled.

The doctor turned away and pulled out a syringe.  He was pumping the plunger as he got the air bubbles out.  “I see we are angrier and angrier.”

“You would be too if you were tied down like a fucking suitcase on the roof of a car!”  Jordon tried to calm himself.  “The least you could fucking do is tell me who the hell you are!”

“Fine.  Dr. Grant.  That’s all you require.”

“I require you to let me go.”

“No.  Not until we get the answers we need.”

“When will that be? Never?”

“Correct.  The only way you’ll leave is in a body bag.  Or in formaldehyde.”

Dr. Grant leaned in and wrapped a strap around Jordon’s bicep.  He tightened the rubber, trying to get a vein to be apparent.  How foolish.  He’d need circulating blood for that.

“Oh what the hell!” Dr. Grant grinned and aimed randomly on Jordon’s arm.  “Are you ready to die?”  The cambion somehow felt suddenly at ease, almost like he was in a puppy love, like he was ready to die again.  The angels were singing, calling him to heaven; he could finally be at peace, but their voices seemed so weak.

But before the needle could be inserted, Jordon thought he saw the lights flicker.  The edge of the light at the shadowed parts of the room seemed to waver.  The room seemed almost to begin to spin.

Dr. Grant turned his head slowly to look at the needle poised up in the air, but his smile turned to a grimace.  He dropped the needle, rubbing his arms quickly like he was cold and trying to warm up.  The needle fell, its glass shattering on the ground.  But there was no sound.

There was no sound at all, Jordon realized.  No monitors buzzing.  No whirring.  No drip-drops from the I.V.

Nothing but Dr. Grant’s heavy, growing heavier breathing.  His pupils dilated even under the harsh light above them.

It took Jordon a second to realize what was happening.

Jordon couldn’t hold back an impish grin.  “The question is, are you?”