Blood Ties Book One: The Turning. Jennifer Armintrout

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СКАЧАТЬ my father’s words and Dr. Fuller’s hurtful evaluation of my abilities bounced around in my brain. I didn’t want to be the failure I’d been in my father’s eyes. The failure I’d become in Dr. Fuller’s. It spurred me toward the table.

      I was no coward.

      Before I gave myself a chance to change my mind, I whipped the sheet completely off the cadaver.

      Every second passed in slow motion, frame by frame. The very instant I pulled the covering off the body, I saw a brightly colored sole of an athletic shoe poking from under the sheet. There wasn’t time for this to register as I ripped away the shroud, revealing hospital-issue scrubs and the face of the morgue attendant, his features frozen in terror.

      I didn’t scream right away, either from shock or the fact that the scene didn’t make sense. John Doe was supposed to be here, not this young man. The sight transfixed me.

      His neck had obviously been broken. The flesh of his throat had been torn the way it would look after a dog attack. Extreme blood loss left his dark skin ashen, though the table and most of his clothing were spotless. His eyes were open. One was missing.

      I saw the telephone perched on the gleaming steel counter, but it seemed miles away as I ran to it. My hands shook so badly that I could barely punch the numbers to issue a code blue. But no reassuring calm came over me when I hung up. I was still stranded, still isolated in this weird nightmare. I picked up the phone again.

      I was dialing the number for the night security office when something brushed my shoulder. The touch was so light I barely noticed it, but I wound up inexplicably on my back.

      The force of my landing knocked the wind out of me. Confused and frightened, I scrambled to my knees, but that was as far as I got.

      In the next instant, I was airborne again. Shattering glass crashed, the consequence of my impact against the cabinets. I had flown into the glass with enough momentum to break it and splinter the wooden doors. Pain ripped down my spine. The shelves collapsed and the plastic tubs within slipped to the floor, overturning and spilling their contents. I fell to my hands and knees in a mire of formaldehyde and human livers, unable to efficiently crawl through the slippery mess.

      A hand grabbed my hair and dragged me upward. When I tried to regain my footing I slipped to my knees again and writhed painfully in the grasp of my attacker. I looked up.

      John Doe looked down at me.

      His once-mangled face showed only the faintest remnants of injury in the form of purplish scars. His pale chest bore no marks at all, save for a long, straight scar that bisected it, obviously an old wound. His jaw was no longer torn, but had twisted, along with the rest of his features, into a demonic visage with a crumpled snout and weirdly elongated jaws. Dried blood stained his long blond hair, though his skull had neatly closed. The clear, blue eye that had stared so intently at me as he lay helpless on the gurney in the E.R. was piercing and ruthless. The other, formerly empty socket held a brown eye, the white occluded with blood.

      The missing eye of the morgue worker.

      John Doe bared his teeth, revealing needle-sharp canines.

      “Fangs,” I whispered in horror. Vampire.

      He laughed then, the sound distorted by his changed facial structure as though it had been slowed on a tape recorder.

      Everything about the creature suggested the calculated fury of a predator who killed not from necessity, but from love of carnage. He stroked my cheek with one talonlike fingernail. He was a cat playing with a mouse, a thief admiring his stolen prize.

      I would not be that prize. My hands groped the floor and seized a piece of broken glass, and I stabbed the shard into his thigh. His blood sprayed across my face. I tasted the coppery wetness on my lips and gagged.

      Howling in rage, he wielded his free hand like a claw and slashed my neck. The burning pain followed seconds later, but I didn’t care. I was free. I held one hand to my throat, desperate to stop the warm blood that flowed between my fingers. It was hopeless, and I knew it. I would bleed to death on the morgue floor before anyone found me.

      Then I saw the white shoes of the code team as they entered. I raised my free hand weakly to signal them. Only one moved toward me. The rest stood petrified by the scene.

      “You’re going to be all right,” the young nurse said as he pried my fingers from the wound at my neck.

      It was the last thing I remembered.

       Two

       A Few (More) Unpleasant Surprises

      I spent nearly a month in the hospital. Detectives visited me on several occasions. They took down my description of John Doe, fangs and all, but no doubt wondered what kind of painkillers I was on. The first to arrive on the scene didn’t see him. The last police interview was short, and though they assured me the case was still being investigated, I didn’t hold out much hope for justice. Whatever John Doe was, he was probably smart enough to evade capture.

      A few nurses from the E.R. came to see me. They looked uncomfortable and didn’t stay long. We joked about the Day-After-Thanksgiving sales I’d missed and the frantic shopping I’d have to do if I got out in time for Christmas. I didn’t bother mentioning I had no one to buy gifts for.

      The bright side of the interminable visits were the newspaper clippings that people brought. While I wasn’t about to make a scrapbook of them, the articles offered more details of the crime and investigation than the vague answers I’d been given by the cops.

      According to the press, the morgue attendant, Cedric Kebbler, had been attacked and killed by an unknown suspect, possibly an escaped mental patient. I had walked in on the murder in progress and had been attacked myself. I’d struggled, and the murderer fled through the morgue’s only window. I wasn’t interviewed due to my “critical medical condition” and “acute anxiety and post-traumatic stress,” the latter affliction diagnosed in a rush interview conducted by the staff psychiatrist while I was in a morphine-induced haze.

      None of the articles mentioned John Doe’s missing body or the bizarre way the attendant’s body had been found. Either the police had neglected to mention these details, or the hospital had a crackerjack P.R. staff.

      The most uncomfortable visit had been Dr. Fuller’s. Apparently, it wasn’t enough for him to have written me off as a doctor. He had to write me off as a living person, too. He’d come to the end of my bed, my chart in his hand, barely acknowledging me as he read the details. Finally, he snapped the chart shut with a deep sigh. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”

      He was right. In the first week after my encounter with John Doe, I’d needed two surgeries. One repaired my damaged carotid artery, and the other removed the shards of glass embedded in my skull. In the recovery room after the first surgery, I flatlined, something my doctor noted later with a breezy wave of his hand, as though his disregard for the seriousness of the situation would somehow put me at ease.

      I’d also endured a delightful course of precautionary inoculations, including tetanus and rabies vaccinations. I didn’t think John Doe had attacked me in a fit of hydrophobia, but no one asked my opinion on the matter, and I certainly hadn’t been in a position to argue.

      During my lengthy hospital stay, I began to suffer strange symptoms. СКАЧАТЬ