ADULT: Meeting Of Minds - Part 10b
Dana Short (DanaShort@aol.com)
Fri, 23 Apr 2004 04:53:10 EDT
This story may be concidered PG-13 due to both the situation, and
the occasional use of profanity (Chapter 11) when a char was upset.
Please direct flames/comments to DanaShort@aol.com
Please note the story title in the subject line, or your message will
be lost to my SPAM filter.
Legal Disclaimer: Not all mine, and I didn't intend any harm to any
marketable products either, Follow below URL for full disclaimer.
Fully formatted text of Chapters 1-10 available at:
http://www.DanaShort.com/HL-MOM.htm
========================== ==========================
And now for the (Thrilling?) conclusion of Chapter Ten - "Memphis
Mayhem"
========================== ==========================
Back in the present, Eadgils figured he had at least a few hours
before Patrick would try waking up, longer even if the doctors tried
to do an autopsy on him, however unless the coroner had a night
shift, that probably wasn't a concern.
It was coming up on eight in the evening, and Eadgils decided he
would need some supplies; it wasn't like he could just walk in and
carry Patrick out. Patrick would have to leave on his own two feet.
And to get out without raising a huge fuss, Patrick would also have
to look more like one of the living, not one of the dead. That meant
shoes, pants, shirt, etc. But Eadgils had a problem with that - he
had no idea what sizes Patrick would wear.
But, at 8:00pm on a Sunday, where could he get clothes in Memphis?
Looking down at the phone book, he came up with a good possibility;
Wal-Mart.
Heading back down to the office, he stopped in and got directions to
the nearest Wal-Mart.
Fifteen minutes later, he was wandering the florescent lighted isles,
pushing a silver and red cart, in search of clothes for a man whose
sizes he really didn't know.
Stopping off in the shoes section, he decided when in doubt, go a bit
large.
Patrick had stood enough higher than Sue that Eadgils, standing next
to him found his Adam's Apple at eye height. That put him about
eight inches taller than Sue's 5'6, or about 6'2. Based on that, he
selected a pair of black size 13 track shoes, and then because they
were hopefully a bit too large, a whole package of thick, black tube
type socks.
In the camping section, he obtained a spool of fishing line, the
brightest six cell Mag-light, and the largest holstered knife they
had.
He added a set of batteries for the flashlight, and some lead sinker
weights before he literally pushed on into the store, heading for the
clothing section.
Over in the Men's Clothing area, he selected a large black T-Shirt,
and a pair of black workout pants, size 36, 38. Again hopefully too
large, but the cuffs could be rolled up, and the waist cinched in
with the drawstring until they fit. The t-shirt should cover them,
hopefully.
Finally, he added a nice four and a half foot long black trench
coat. After all, he would need such a coat in the future.
Continuing through the store, he added a medium sized black canvas
duffel bag, a can of Hair Spray, and a case of Gatorade in large
sports bottles.
Finally, he swung through the school supply isle and picked up a the
largest, strongest looking pair of scissors he could find before
heading up to the front to ring up his purchases.
Once in the car, he used the scissors to cut the tags off of
everything, then he transferred all the purchases into the duffel
bag, discarding the carton from the Gatorade in a dumpster along with
the tags and the plastic bags from the store.
He then returned to the hotel, where he removed the Katana and its
scabbard from his coat, pulled off his shirt, and removed the Bowie
Knife and its carrier as well.
Opening Sue's suitcase, he removed a low cut black t-shirt, and a red
top with a collar. He pulled off the blue jeans he was wearing and
switched them for one of the two pairs of black jeans, then donned
first the black top, followed by the red one on top of it, rolling up
the sleeves of the black top so they wouldn't show.
He then collected his jacket, and returned to the car.
Once in the car, he added the jacket to the duffel bag, then started
the engine and drove back to the Hospital.
Parking once again in the public lot, he collected the duffel bag and
headed into the Hospital. Once in the lobby, instead of bothering
the nurse, he strode purposefully towards the elevator, and pushed
the DOWN button.
He had learned long ago, if you acted like you knew what you were
doing and belonged where you were, you were almost never questioned
as to who you were or what you were doing. On the other hand, if you
looked around confused, people were more likely to challenge you,
either to get you out of somewhere you didn't belong, or to help you
out because that was their job.
Entering the elevator, he noted there were two sub-levels which
didn't require a key, and a third which did.
Since he didn't have a key for the lowest level, he pushed the button
for the one above it. Hopefully that was where the Morgue was. If
not, he could always look around and try to find some stairs.
As the elevator descended, he removed the red top, placing it in the
duffle bag.
Emerging on S2, he was relieved to see a sign labeled "Morgue" with
an arrow pointing down the hall to his right. He was a bit less
relieved to see the not too subtly mounted video camera pointing at
the door labeled "No Admittance", but that was what the hairspray was
for.
A brief squirt, not enough to do much to the lens, but enough to fog
it so recognition would be difficult at best from any footage
obtained, and he went on in through the door, can held in front of
his body so the image from the camera would not show it.
On the other side of the door, there was another camera, fortunately
pointing at the small empty, call it reception room, with it's single
Stelecase desk and roller chair, computer console and phone. The
phone had a line light active, so Eadgils assumed that somewhere was
an attendant, speaking on the phone to someone about something. But
whoever and wherever they were, they were not here.
Another hit with the hairspray on the new camera, and Eadgils was
ready to try something he had not attempted in over two hundred years.
He set the duffel bag at his feet, and slipped the hairspray can into
his pocket, then he stood in the center of the reception room, and
tried to focus his mind and body into a single conscious force.
As his breathing and heart rate slowed, he relaxed his awareness of
his body, focusing instead within himself. He then stretched himself
out, focusing all his energy on the part of his mind which responded
to other Immortals. He could almost feel himself expanding,
stretching out in an ever growing sphere, and then, there. He felt
Patrick. Off to the left, perhaps sixty feet away.
Even at full strength an Immortal as young and new to the Game should
be undetectable unless he was within a couple dozen feet or less.
Furthermore, some Immortals could not sense a dead Immortal at all,
but that was a trick Eadgils had learned thousands of years before,
from his first Immortal student, a fellow victim of Death and his
Horsemen named Cassandra. She must be long gone by now, despite her
mental and spiritual talents, the poor girl had been so twisted by
her term of captivity as a slave and a plaything for Death that she
was not quite sane. But she had been able to teach her teacher some
tricks he had never heard of anywhere else.
That talent, coupled with the meditative focus he had learned
thousands of years later, combined with the strength of his own
Quickening allowed him to pull off some pretty impressive tricks as
well, he reflected as he gathered himself back in, his eyes again
opening as he took a deep, cleansing breath, almost like waking from
the dead, only without the convulsions.
Bending down to pick up the duffel bag, he approached the doorway on
his left, and cautiously looked through it.
His luck so far with cameras failed him here, as he could see a
camera mounted on the far wall which would cover anyone entering the
room.
There was a simple solution which he had planned on, but it was not
as subtle as his actions so far. If anyone was monitoring the
cameras, what Eadgils was about to do would almost certainly be
noticed, even though it would be as effective as the hair spray for
preserving anonymity should he get away.
Pulling out the flashlight, he turned it on and pointed it at the far
wall, focusing it to the tightest beam he could. He then lifted the
flashlight up and held it directly in front of his face, bathing the
camera in the light. He then walked forward as quickly as he could,
and with his free hand, pulled out the hair spray, and gave this
camera a good thick coat, until the lens actually looked frosted.
Shutting off the flashlight, he went back to the door and retrieved
the duffel bag, and entered the storage room again.
This time, no meditation was needed to identify the proper drawer.
He could feel the faint whickering of Patrick's Quickening as it
worked to heal his body and restore life.
Opening the proper drawer as quickly and quietly as possible, he
pulled the first bottle of Gatorade out of the duffel bag, twisted
off the top, and literally poured it into Patrick's mouth. He
followed the first bottle with a second, and then a third.
As he did so, he listened as well as he could for any sign of
activity outside the room.
He fingered the fishing weights held loosely in his left hand, as he
lifted the fourth bottle of fluid to pour into Patrick's mouth.
Eadgils could feel the strength of Patrick's Quickening building fast
now. So far, there was no sign anyone had noticed anything unusual
and come to investigate.
With a shuddering gasp, Patrick suddenly sat up, spitting out
Gatorade.
"Wha-what's hapennin?" he asked, taking in the morgue and his
location in it with a bewildered glance.
"No time for that," Eadgils said, closing the lid on the half empty
fourth bottle of Gatorade, and returning it to the duffel bag. "We
got to get you out of here, without being noticed. Now, here, put
this on. He said, handing the T-Shirt and workout pants to
Patrick. "Quickly!"
Patrick automatically grasped the proffered clothes, but did no more
than bemusedly stare at them as they dangled from his hand.
"Look, I'll explain later, but any minute, either an attendant or a
guard is going to come walking through that door, and in either case
I don't want to be around to try and explain things to THEM. Do you
understand me, we have to HURRY! Now, get dressed!"
As Patrick started to put the shirt on, Eadgils fished out the
scissors, and reached for the tag on Patrick's left big toe. "Hold
your foot still for a moment." He said, snipping the wire and letting
the tag flutter to land on the steel table top with a soft "tink".
"Ouch! That hurt" Patrick complained, his head poking through the
top of the T-Shirt.
"Sorry. Now get your pants on. Come on, we gotta get OUT OF HERE!"
Patrick pulled on the sweat pants, and tied the string snuggly around
his waist. The waist was bunched, but the length was actually about
a half-inch too short, ending at his ankles.
"What shoe size are you?" Eadgils asked Patrick.
"What kinda question's that? I thought you said we had ta get outa
here?" Patrick answered.
"A very simple one, oh, Mr. Barefoot one. Now, WHAT SIZE SHOES DO
YOU WEAR?" Eadgils responded, the aggravation evident in his rising
tone, even though his voice remained at the same quite volume it had
retained the entire time.
"Uh, Size eleven. What, You mad 'cause I got big feet?"
"No, here," Eadgils said, passing the bag filled with Tube Socks to
Patrick, "Put at least four pairs of these on."
"Ain't one pair usually 'nuff?" Patrick asked with a grin, pulling
out the first pair, separating one of the socks, and pulling first
it, then it's partner over his right foot.
"Not when you have size eleven feet, and size thirteen shoes it
isn't. You can only tighten them up so much with the laces, you
know."
"I woan even ax why, for now." Patrick responded, pulling the second
pair out of the bag, and adding them both to his already covered
fight foot again.
"That's a good idea." Eadgils answered.
Suddenly, Eadgils heard a door open in the lobby, he could not tell
if it was the other door to the right of the desk, or the door from
the hallway leading to the elevator, but in either case it was not
exactly a welcome sound to his ears. "Shhh. Someone's outside.
Finish getting dressed." He said, laying the shoes on the table.
Creeping to the door, he looked out into the lobby. The light on the
phone had gone off, and a young man was now sitting at the desk,
poking unenthusiastically at the computer's keyboard.
"Damn!" Eadgils hissed.
Patrick was finished getting dressed, and now stood anxiously by the
table he had been laying down on.
Eadgils returned to his side, and gestured to the table. "Ok, lay
down."
"What?" Patrick said, his voice rising to a squeak at the end.
"I said, lay down. We have to get out of here PAST the attendant,
without raising an alarm, and I'd rather do it without killing
anyone."
Patrick laid down as instructed, and Eadgils lifted the duffel bag
and laid it between Patrick's knees. "Now, I'm going to close the
drawer. I want you to count to thirty, slowly, and then start
banging like you want to get out of there."
"What do a mean 'like', I'm not even in there, 'an I already wan
out. Boy are you gonna owe me big time for this." He replied.
Eadgils slid the drawer back in, and closed the door, then crept over
to the door. He was about half way across the room when Patrick
started banging enough to wake the dead. "Next time, I'd better make
it sixty." He said to himself, forgoing stealth for speed, hurrying
to place himself just behind the door, even as it swung open and the
attendant rushed in to see what was making the noise.
Patrick's voice filtered faintly from the box, "Hey! Leme outa
here!" and the attendant stared in horror, his attention so focused
on the impossible scene in front of him that he did not notice the
movement as Eadgils shuffled up behind him, paused focusing his
energy, then darted out with his hands and grasped the man's neck,
pinching the carotid artery and squeezed for all he was worth,
shutting off the flow of blood to the attendant's brain.
As the man passed out, Eadgils caught him, staggering under the
unaccustomed weight, and lowered him to the floor, then opened up the
door, and slid the still yelling Patrick out.
"Man! Don' 'yall EVER do that ta me again!" he said, leaping off the
table, and bending over to take a deep, shaking breath.
"Quiet. This may work better than I thought. Help me get him on the
table." Eadgils said, walking back over to the unconscious
attendant's body.
"You don't mean you're gonna. Oh man. That's evil!" Patrick said,
as he helped lift the man and carried him over, to dump him on the
table he himself had so recently vacated.
"Take his shirt, and put it on over your T-Shirt." Eadgils instructed
tersely, collecting the duffel bag from the floor where it had fallen
when Patrick leapt off the table.
Eadgils then slid the drawer back into the wall, and pushed the door
closed, leaving it just a bit ajar, not wanting to accidentally
suffocate the attendant.
Checking that Patrick had the light blue hospital shirt on, he said
tersely, "Now follow me, and if anything happens, let me handle it."
Handing Patrick the duffel bag, Eadgils took the flashlight in his
left hand, and transferred the fishing weights from his coat pocket
back to his right hand, then pushed the door open with his fist, and
looked out at the morgue's reception room.
Proceeding through the room, he repeated the process of carefully
opening the door to the hallway, then he turned to Patrick and
said, "Wait here. I'm going to get the elevator. When I tell you
to, I want you to RUN, you got it?"
"Ok." Patrick said.
Eadgils strode down the hallway, stopped before the elevator, and
pushed the UP button.
As the up light came on, and the bell dinged, he called "Ok, Patrick,
RUN!"
Patrick dashed down the hall even as the doors were opening, and
followed Eadgils into the elevator.
Eadgils took the duffle bag from Patrick at this point and fished in
it for the red top and both jackets. Pulling them out of the duffel,
he pushed the first floor button, and pulled on the red top as the
doors closed saying, "Ok, toss that blue shirt in the bag, and put on
the coat."
Shrugging into his own coat, Eadgils zipped up the duffel and lifted
the strap over his shoulder even as the door opened on the main lobby
of the hospital.
A glance to his left showed Patrick, now wearing the black t-shirt
and trench coat, standing nervously by his side.
"Ok, last part. Follow me out, act normal, and like you are in a
hurry. Don't talk to anyone, or even look at anything other than the
door. Got that?" he asked Patrick.
"Ok."
They proceeded across the lobby and out the door, across the drive,
and into the parking lot without incident. Once to the car, Eadgils
opened the doors, threw the duffle bag in the back seat, and got
behind the steering wheel.
"We'll be at the hotel in just a few minutes. Just hold it
together 'till we get there, and then I'll try to explain
everything. Ok?" he asked, starting the car as Patrick settled
himself in the passenger seat.
"Ok." Patrick responded flatly.
Five silent minutes later, Eadgils parked the car, collected the
duffel bag from the back seat and went around to the back of the
car. Setting the duffel bag down, he opened the trunk and extracted
the knapsack which held the bloody blouse Sue had been wearing the
day she died. Closing the trunk back up, he lifted the duffel bag,
which he handed to Patrick saying "Here, carry this," and led the way
upstairs to their rooms.
Once inside Patrick's room, Eadgils opened the duffel bag and
extracted the blue scrub shirt, which he transferred to the
knapsack. "Gotta remember to burn this somewhere safe. Too much in
here would raise too many questions if it turned up anywhere. Ok
Patrick. Go ahead. You can now ask whatever questions you may have."
"Ok. Why?" Patrick asked.
"Why what?" Eadgils responded, confused.
"Why all that rigmarole at the 'ospittal for one. Why was I in a
Morgue, and why'd ya have to practically bust me out of it like I was
inna prison for 'nother. WHY?" he asked, an edge of panic creeping
in to his voice at the end.
"Well, before all that, what's the last thing you remember" Eadgils
asked.
"Last thing? You dropped me off at Uncle Phil's, and then there was
some cops." His voice suddenly trailed off into silence.
"And?" Eadgils prompted.
"And, then they shot me?" Patrick answered in confusion.
"Yes. That's about right. And then you died. You might not
remember that part. Sometimes you will forget the actual dying."
"I'm dead?" Patrick squeaked. "I mean, I know I was in a morgue, but
DEAD?"
"Not quite. You died. You just got better. Happens sometimes."
Eadgils explained.
"But. How? I'm not a Vampire or something, am I? Or one of those
Living Dead like in the movies?"
"No, you aren't a Vampire, nor are you a Living Dead. You my young
friend are an Immortal." Eadgils answered.
"What's that? Like some sort of comic book character?"
"No, not really. As an Immortal, we heal from almost any wounds, all
but one." Eadgils responded.
"We?" Patrick queried.
"We. I, like you am an Immortal." That said, he bent down, and
pulled the boot knife from it's folder on is right calf, and
clenching his teeth against the anticipated pain, sliced the heel of
his left hand, and holding it out for inspection as the blood welled
up from the razor thin cut.
"Oh my gawd" Patrick said, starting to panic, however his attention
was suddenly captured as small bluish sparks started stitching their
way back and forth all along the cut, until nothing was left but the
blood on the hand. "What was that?" he asked.
"That, Patrick was what we call the Quickening. It is the force
within all Immortals, to a greater or a lesser degree. It is what
heals our wounds, restarts our hearts, and stores our memories. It
is also acts as a warning as well, letting us know of the presence of
others of our kind."
"How is that?" Patrick asked.
"When two Immortals meet, their Quickenings interact, kind of like
some sort of radar, letting each know of the other's presence, and if
one pays enough attention to it of their relative strengths in the
Game?"
"What game's that? Somethin' like football, or more like checkers?
I'm good at checkers, but I suck eggs at football." Patrick added.
"More like Chess, only with one piece, and you are that piece. Lose
the piece, and lose the Game. Lose the Game, and lose your life.
For good."
"Whah. I don't like the idea of playin for stakes that high. How do
ya tell folks ya doan wanna play?"
"You can't. If two Immortals meet, they don't automatically have to
fight. I know lots of Immortals, and none of them would raise a hand
against another without provocation. But if a challenge is extended,
it must be met. And if it is met, a fight will result, and from that
fight, only one Immortal will walk away.
"We live by three rules as Immortals. First is 'All fights are one-
on-one' This rule is mostly a matter of honor, and some will violate
it on occasion, so you must always be wary. Rule two, is 'Holy
ground is off limits for fights and challenges.' Basically, when two
Immortals meet on holy ground, any type of holy ground, it matters
not the god, goddess, or faith, they can not fight. If you try, bad
things happen. Trust me, you never want to be involved in a fight on
Holy Ground. I was forced once to defend myself and after the second
blow we were both on the ground, and it felt like my head was going
to explode. And finally, rule three, 'In The End, There Can Be Only
One.' That rule is sort of self explanatory."
"But, I don't understand. What makes people Immortal? Is it
somethin ya did ta me?"
"No, Immortals are born that way, not Immortal per say, they start
out, grow up, and live as a normal Mortal. The only differences
being all of them are foundlings,"
"I was adopted." Patrick interrupted, "never really thought much of
it, I was treated just like the rest of my family, but Ma and Pa,
they had ta adopt 'cause Ma had some problem."
"Yes, no one knows where infant Immortals come from. In almost four
thousand years no Immortal I have ever heard of has found the source
of the babies. Secondly,"
"Maybe when a Mama Immortal and a Papa Immortal get together in
that 'special way..." Patrick interrupted again.
"No. As I was saying, secondly, all Immortals are sterile. They can
neither sire nor bear children."
"Anything else?" Patrick asked.
"I suppose two other things, pre-imortals have a Quickening like all
full Immortals, only very faint, hard to detect, that was how I knew
what you were though. And finally, when they first die, unless they
lose their heads, they will rise again."
"So that's why ya wanted me to keep calm in the morgue? So I
wouldn't lose my head?"
"No, that's silly. I mean really lose your head. Decapitation. It
is the one permanent way to kill an Immortal."
"But why would someone want to kill me for? I ain't gonna do nuttin
to them, honest." Patrick complained.
"Doesn't matter. Some will want your head just for your Quickening.
Remember the third rule."
"So then what?" Patrick asked.
"Then, whatever you want. You could live for thousands of years, if
you keep your head about you." Eadgils answered with a grin, turning
for the door to his room. "We'll talk more tomorrow. Whatever you
do, don't answer the door or use the phone. Remember, you are dead
as far as everyone is concerned, and considering the circumstances,
we have to keep it that way. You said you wanted a new start, well
this is about as new as you can get."
"Too bad I had ta die ta get it." Patrick muttered.
"Tell me about it." Eadgils replied, "Good night."
Eadgils exited the room, and closed the adjoining door, locking it on
his side, before turning to the bathroom to wash his hand, get a
shower, and get to bed.
========================== ==========================
To be continued in Chapter Eleven - "And Then There Were None"
Coming Monday, 4-26