Christopher knew that it all could be a trap, but there was no other trail of bread crumbs left to him. The nice man was imprisoned somewhere. David Olson was his only friend left in this horrible place. And there was only one way out for all of them.
We have to kill the hissing lady.
We have to get the key.
Christopher backed away from the chimney and looked in his backyard. The deer were picking the last of the meat from the people’s bones. He couldn’t climb down, or he would be the next course. Christopher looked at the log cabin across the street. It was a far jump, but it was his only choice.
And he had been trained now.
Christopher closed his eyes and quieted his mind, priming his imagination like a water pump. In his mind’s eye, he ran as fast as he could to the front of the house. He planted his foot right at the gutter and jumped. He saw the street below him, covered in blood gushing down the sidewalk. Christopher landed on the log cabin’s roof, opened his eyes, and backed into the shadows. Almost slipping on the icy shingles.
He looked at the Mission Street Woods standing tall right in front of him. Branches swaying in the breeze like arms in the air on Sunday. He quickly turned his gaze down to make sure the lawn was clear. Then, he climbed down the gutter, landed quiet as a feather, and sprinted as fast as he could through the field. He looked back at the street as the mad carnival raged on. People hurting themselves over and over. Their screams falling like trees in the middle of the forest where no one was left to hear them.
Except Christopher.
He listened for a moment to make sure there wasn’t a trap right behind the trees. He checked his pocket for the dull, silver blade. Then, Christopher followed David Olson into the Mission Street Woods.
Chapter 88
106.1 degrees
beEp.
Christopher’s mother stood outside of her son’s room. She could have broken the glass window with her bare hands to get to him. She promised herself that when he hit 107, and his brain began to cook, she would. But the orderlies stood like two sentries on either side of the door. Scratching their sweaty, feverish faces. Looking for a reason to drag her away.
106.2 degrees
beEp.
The entrance door buzzed like a hornet’s nest, and Nurse Tammy walked back into the ICU, cigarette smoke stuck to her scrubs like Velcro. Christopher’s mother approached her just as she started washing her hands, then slathering them with a sweet lotion that made her smell like a lavender ashtray.
“Excuse me, Nurse?” Christopher’s mother said as gently as she could manage. “I need to get back in to see my son now.”
Nurse Tammy rubbed her tired eyes and looked through the window. The doctor shot back a loaded shake of the head. Any child would have known that the answer was a decided NO. And GET YOUR ASS IN HERE.
“I’m sorry, hun,” she said in her kindest Western PA.
Then, feeling sorry for her, she studied Christopher’s vitals through the window with a trained eye.
“Mrs. Reese, I know his temperature is high, but don’t worry. He won’t die.”
“How do you know that?” Christopher’s mother asked.
Nurse Tammy dropped her voice to a whisper, making sure that none of her colleagues could hear her.
“Because no one has died in over a month. And I can’t imagine God will start again with yours.”
“What?”
“Yeah. No one has died since they found that little boy’s skeleton in the woods. It’s a Christmas miracle.”
“Jesus,” Ambrose said.
The word was right, but Nurse Tammy’s expression seemed to indicate she found the old man’s tone rather odd.
“Yes, sir,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Praise Jesus.”
With that, Nurse Tammy went into Christopher’s room, leaving the two in the ICU. Their silence had its own pulse. Kate Reese’s mind instantly moved from her son’s struggle for life to something far bigger in scope. She gripped Ambrose’s wheelchair and began to walk them around the ICU. The feeling was palpable. In the hours that they had been reading David’s diary, the number of people crowding the rooms had tripled. There were no more gurneys. No more beds. Just screaming and illness. So many sick people. So many angry souls. Sweaty faces. Itchy. Feverish. The itch wouldn’t stop. The hospital was on the verge of mutiny.