Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,27
stat!”
Bobby peered in to where the man lay on the bed, still moving his legs, then moved aside as the code team rushed in. They performed C.P.R. and used the defibrillator, but the man continued to flatline.
“Doctor,” one nurse said, “why is he still moving?”
“It must be some reaction,” he told her, his eyes wild.
Grace stopped a paramedic as he left the tiny area. “What’s happening?”
“There’s no pulse,” the man said, looking spooked, “but there’s motor activity.”
Through the curtain, they could see the man’s eyes staring upward, his legs moving up and down as if walking.
The code team started talking excitedly, rushing around and checking the equipment. “Everything’s working, doctor,” a nurse told him.
The doctor’s voice bellowed over the chaos. “Get this patient down to M.R.I. immediately.”
“But…” the nurse started, confused.
“Do it!”
She and two paramedics hurriedly wheeled the gurney out from the examination area and raced toward the elevators.
Bobby and Grace followed after them, taking the stairs. They rushed down to the hallway below in time to see the hospital staff with the gurney disappear through the M.R.I. admitting door. They stood outside in the corridor.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t like this.” Grace’s brow furrowed. “What did they mean he didn’t have a pulse? Do you… think he was like that in the car with us?”
Bobby shrugged. “Could be. Neither of us checked, we just assumed.”
As they waited, more doctors rushed in, but none came out. Bobby started to wonder if any were left in the hospital at large.
Finally, the original E.R. doctor emerged, looking exhausted. Bobby stopped him, flashing his F.B.I. credentials. “Can you tell me what happened with the man we brought in?”
The doctor stopped, blinking dazedly. “What?”
Bobby gestured toward the M.R.I. room. “What were the results?”
The doctor’s mouth opened and closed again. “We tried to sedate him so we could do the M.R.I. It didn’t take. He kept trying to get up and walk away… and then finally, he just collapsed.” The doctor stared blankly down the empty hallway. “We managed to run the M.R.I. and…”
When it became clear the doctor had fallen silent, Bobby prompted, “Yes?”
Slowly the doctor’s eyes shifted up and met Bobby’s. “He was full of organs. Other people’s organs.”
“What?”
“We counted at least four spleens, two appendices, enough intestines to fill up his whole stomach cavity and part of his chest.” He met Grace’s eyes. “And most of his own organs were missing. He had no lungs or heart, no stomach, or liver.” The doctor’s voice shook. “It was like someone had stuffed him full of parts and sealed him back up with some kind of super-sticky adhesive.”
“What were those wounds?” Bobby asked.
“Puncture holes. The only marks on the body. His organs must have been sucked out through them, and the others pushed in through the same holes.” The doctor flushed and covered his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said.
As he walked away, Grace said, “What kind of messed-up killer would do that? Does that sound like the work of the murderer you’re after?”
Bobby stared at her. “To be honest, I’ve never heard of anything like that. I need to find my colleagues.”
“I need to go check in at the station.” She squeezed his shoulder in a surprisingly affectionate gesture and returned to the stairwell.
Bobby stood a moment, collecting himself. He had no idea what they were dealing with, and that was unsettling. Most of his books had been destroyed in the fire that had consumed his house, though he’d stashed a few here and there. A trip to the Toiyabe College library tonight was in order. But first he was going to get as much information about the walking organ donor as he could.
As he headed after the queasy doctor, he hoped Sam and Dean were okay, out there in the forest with that thing.
FIFTEEN
At the Truckee General Hospital, Sam sat on the edge of an examination table, wincing as the E.R. doctor injected him with a local anesthetic. She was the same person who had stitched up Dean two nights before. Dean stood next to the bed.
“You boys keep getting into trouble,” she said. “You want to tell me about it?”
Sam fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out his F.B.I. credentials. “We’re undercover. Here working on a homicide case.”
Her eyes widened, and she paused before she started stitching, needle hovering over the wound. “And that’s who did this to you?”
“We’re not sure,” Sam told her. “We didn’t get a good look at him.”