The Howling III

Chapter Ten

Malcolm awoke sweating.

The grey rectangle of the window told him it was early morning. The sensations of last night jolted back into his consciousness. He remembered the terrible certainty that something out there in the woods had called to him. His own wild urge to answer that call. Then the quieting mind picture of Dr Holly Lang, and the troubled dreams that followed.

He strained his senses now, and he could still feel the presence of something out there. It was much fainter now, but not completely gone. Malcolm was frightened, yet his blood surged with a strange exhilaration. He resolved to tell Holly all about it. She would understand. She would know how to help him.

A few minutes later the door opened and a nurse entered. She had orange hair and a lumpy potato nose. She was not one of the nurses Malcolm had seen before. She carried a small tray that was covered with a white cloth. When she set the tray down on the table across the room from his bed it made a little clinking sound.

"Well, already awake, are we?" the nurse said in that fake-cheerful voice they use. "And my, how chipper we look. Did we have a good sleep?"

Malcolm did not bother to answer. He knew the nurse wouldn't pay any attention to what he said anyway.

"Are we ready for a surprise this morning?"

Malcolm turned his head away.

"Malcolm's going on a little trip."

He turned back to look at the nurse. She had a mole on the side of her neck with a single orange hair growing out of it.

"I thought that might interest you," she said brightly.

"A trip where?"

"That's going to be the surprise. I don't want to spoil it for you."

A oily-haired man in a white doctor's coat came through the door. Malcolm remembered him. He was the nasty one who gave Holly a hard time when Malcolm was first brought in.

"This is Dr Pastory," the nurse said like she was giving him a great big present. "He's going to beyour doctor now."

"I don't want a new doctor."

"You don't know how lucky you are," Potato Nose told him. "A lot of people in your position don't have any doctor at all."

"Where's Holly?" Malcolm said.

Pastory spoke for the first time. "Dr Lang has other patients to attend to." His voice was as oily as his hair.

"I'd rather have her."

"You will find, Malcolm, that in this life we don't always get what we want." He turned to the orange-haired nurse and said in a low voice, as though Malcolm could not hear, "Give him fifty ccs."

The nurse lifted one edge of the white cloth and took something from the tray she had brought in with her. She held it down low, shielded by her body, so Malcolm wouldn't see it. He knew what it was though.

"How about rolling over for me, big fella," she said, all palsy again.

"What for?"

"We've got to poke a little medicine into you, that's all. A tiny pinprick in your bottom. You've had them before."

"But what is it?"

"It will make you feel better."

"I feel fine."

Dr Pastory moved over closer to the bed and frowned down at Malcolm. His eyes were small and bright, and there was something in them Malcolm didn't like.

"Do as the nurse says, Malcolm. We have some strong young fellows working here who can come in and flip you over if you won't co-operate. Do you want me to call them?"

Malcolm looked at the nurse and saw he would get no help from her. Feeling trapped, he rolled over on his side, facing away from them. The nurse yanked the blanket and sheet down and pulled the short hospital gown up to expose his buttock. He felt the sharp sting of the needle and a tightening of the flesh down there as something was pumped into him.

He felt the needle slide out and smelled the tang of alcohol as the nurse swabbed him off. She gave him a familiar little pat and pulled the gown back into place. Malcolm rolled on to his back and looked up at the two of them.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" the nurse recited.

"I want to see Holly," Malcolm said. "Dr Lang."

Pastory showed his small, even teeth. "I'm your doctor now, Malcolm. You'd better get used to that."

Malcolm felt a tingling sensation spread over his body. He braced his hands and tried to sit up, but found he was dizzy and lay back down.

"Just relax," Pastory told him. "Don't try to fight the medicine. You can't win, you know." The words had a funny echoing sound.

"I don't want to relax. I don't want you for my doctor." That was what Malcolm tried to say, but it came out all mushy. His tongue felt thick and foreign, like a hunk of strange meat.

"The more you fight it, the more trouble it makes for everybody." Pastory's oily little face swam in and out of focus.

With a great effort Malcolm sat up. The doctor reached for him and Malcolm batted his hands away. "You're not my doctor," he mumbled.

Pastory bared his teeth, and for a moment Malcolm thought the doctor was going to strike him. But he got control of himself and turned to the nurse.

"Better give him another fifty ccs."

"But doctor, for a boy his age that's — "

Pastory's little eyes flashed, though his voice remained calm. "Please do what I ask, Nurse."

With her cheeks reddening, the nurse turned her back and did something with the things on the cloth-covered tray. Pastory stared impassively down at Malcolm.

"Don" wan" any more shots." Malcolm had trouble getting the words out past the tongue that did not belong to him. "Wan" see Holly."

"Will you hurry?" Pastory snapped at the nurse, who was still fumbling at the tray.

"No more shots," Malcolm said feebly.

The orange-haired nurse turned toward him, making no attempt this time to conceal the hypodermic needle. She reached down with one hand and flipped Malcolm on to his side as easily as though he were stuffed with straw. His body would not respond to the messages sent by his brain.

He barely felt the second needle prick. The nurse eased him over on his back and he watched as she and Dr Pastory floated side by side in some murky void. The room grew warm, then hot. Malcolm could feel the sweat rolling off him, but he could not move a hand up to clear his eyes. His power of speech was gone. All he could manage were soft grunting noises. The light grew dim, and dimmer.

"That's done it." Dr Pastory's voice floated to him through a long tunnel, distorted and barely audible. "I won't be needing you any more, Nurse."

The shadow-shape that was the nurse floated back away from him and disappeared. Dr Pastory went away too, but just for a moment. Then he was back with somebody else. Another man. The features were only a blur to Malcolm, but he sensed that the newcomer was not a doctor or a hospital employee. He smelled wrong. There was none of the astrigent tang of surgical soap, medicine, and alcohol that clung to the hospital people. This one smelled of tobacco, stale sweat, and urine.

Malcolm felt himself lifted roughly from the bed and placed on another flat, yielding surface. He sensed the door to his room being opened, and he was floating out through it into the corridor. No, not floating, rolling on soft rubber wheels. Rolling, rolling. The fluorescent lights passed overhead in dim, wavery images, as though seen from underwater.

Suddenly the air was cool on his face. There was a breeze with the scent of pine in it. He was outside. A dim recollection of a voice that called him from out here fought for a space in his consciousness, but the drug was too strong.

Malcolm was lifted again, placed inside some sort of metallic box. A van. Dr Pastory got in beside him. He gave an order. An engine fired and Malcolm sensed movement. Then the fever returned and consciousness slipped away.

At ten o'clock Dr Dennis Qualen strolled in through the entrance of La Reina County Hospital. He was, as always, impeccably turned out. Today he had chosen a dark-blue worsted with muted pinstripe and a tie of pale yellow. He acknowledged the greetings of staff and employees with a nod and half smile. Dr Qualen did not believe in becoming too familiar with the people under him, particularly since he did not intend to spend one day longer than necessary at La Reina. He had feelers out to bigger institutions in San Francisco, Houston, and Miami. Once he had straightened out the budgetary problems here, and had the figures to show it, he would surely be hearing from them.

He rode the elevator to the second floor, passing an encouraging word to a small boy in a wheelchair. The boy stared at him dully. He watched as the nurse wheeled the boy toward the orthopaedic ward, then turned and walked briskly toward the glass doors to Administration. Once beyond them he felt a tangible relief. Those doors represented a barrier to Dr Qualen that kept the sordidness of disease and death separate from the nice clean business of running a hospital.

He barely noticed a neatly dressed young man with sandy hair who sat in one of the chairs across from the reception desk. A salesman, the doctor surmised. Some new wonder drug, or a piece of expensive equipment that no modern hospital should be without. La Reina was not in a buying cycle at present, but Qualen tolerated salesmen for the gossip they carried of the outside medical community.

The doctor smiled cooly at Mrs Thayer as he went by. For his own taste he would have preferred a receptionist with a bit more style and better tits. However, he knew that the matronly Mrs Thayer gave his office a solid, businesslike appearance. And she was excellent at guarding his door from patients and other unwanted visitors.

As soon as he settled himself in the burgundy leather chair behind the mahogany desk, the intercom buzzed. With a sigh he reached over and flipped the switch.

"Yes,Mrs Thayer."

"A gentleman out here to see you, Doctor."

"Who is he with?"

"Apparently he is not representing any firm."

"Then what does he want with me?"

"He says it's about the boy they brought in from the woods. The boy in 108."

Qualen frowned. He glanced over at the transfer papers for Malcolm, riffled through them and saw that Dr Pastory's name had been correctly entered making him the responsible party.

He said, "Did you tell him I am not concerned with patient's affairs?"

"The gentleman was quite adamant about wanting to see the man in charge. He's been here since I came in at eight o'clock."

Damn. Qualen hated to start the day with some petty annoyance. "Does he have a name?"

"Yes, doctor. Mr Derak."

It meant nothing to Dr Qualen. Had an unpleasant foreign sound. He sighed. Might as well get it over.

"Ask Mr Derak to come in."

The doctor assumed a businesslike pose and watched as his visitor entered. He was not so young as he had appeared at first glance. It was difficult to guess his age. Something about the eyes, a deep shade of green, seemed very, very odd. Nevertheless, he was presentable enough. His sandy hair was cut short and neatly brushed. The jacket and slacks were not top quality, but good. He had a nice smile. Strong.

"Good morning, Mr Derak," said Qualen with just the right mixture of cordiality and restraint. "What can I do for you?"

"You have a boy here. I understand he was found wandering in the forest and was brought in by deputy sheriffs."

"Ah, yes," Qualen said, after a pause to indicate he was trying to remember the case.

"I'd like to see him."

"Mr Derak, visits with patients are handled through the desk in the main lobby. You must have passed it when you came in."

"I talked to the woman there, and I talked to her supervisor. I could not get satisfactory answers from them. They suggested I see you." A rather unpleasant note crept into Derak's voice.

Qualen resolved to have a talk with that woman and her supervisor at the first opportunity. He said, "You are a relative of… " making a show of looking through the papers on his desk'… Malcolm."

"In a way."

The doctor looked up, expecting a further explanation. Derak offered none. His green-eyed gaze was uncomfortably direct.

"As it happens," Qualen said, "that patient has been transferred."

"Transferred?" Derak took a step closer to the desk. "He was here last night."

"That's true. The transfer was effected early this morning."

The sandy-haired man became agitated. One hand pulled loose the knot of his necktie. "Where was he taken?" His voice sounded different. Coarser.

"I'm really not at liberty to say. If you will leave your name and address with my — "

"You will tell me now," said Derak. The voice had roughened into a growl.

Dr Qualen stared at the man in astonishment. He had thrown off his jacket and was actually tearing at his shirt. And his face, my God, it was twisting itself into something quite inhuman.

The doctor reached for the intercom box. Derak's hand clamped on to his wrist with a grip that crackled the bones. Qualen stared at the hand. Before his bulging eyes it changed. Grew into a terrible mutant paw. Thick wiry hair sprouted from the back. The nails thickened and pushed out into claws. Qualen looked up at the face.

Even as he began to scream, the doctor knew the acoustic walls would let no more than a murmur escape to Mrs Thayer outside.

With a strength born of terror, Qualen wrenched his wrist free of the terrible grip. He ran around his desk and tried to make it to the door. Derak, or whatever this thing was that Derak had become, was faster. He threw himself past the doctor and used that misshapen hairy paw to roll the dead bolt home, locking them in.

The only other way out was the window of reinforced glass, and that gave on a sheer drop of twenty feet to the concrete parking lot. Qualen backed away, watching in horrified fascination the transformation taking place before him.

The man's body twisted and swelled and grew to a height that towered over the six-foot doctor. There was a terrible cracking as the skeleton reshaped itself inside the creature. The face… the face was all muzzle and teeth and burning eyes of green hellfire.

In a movement too swift for him to follow, Qualen felt himself seized under the arms and lifted clear of the floor. His shrieks echoed dully off the soundproofed walls. He felt the hot breath of the creature as the great jaws opened, smelled the stench of it. There was a moment of searing agony as the teeth sank into his throat. A hot gush of his life's blood. A last roar in his ears. Then blackness and oblivion.

It was the faint but unmistakeable crash of glass from inside Dr Qualen's office that roused Mrs Thayer. The only thing in there that could make a crash like that was the window. She buzzed the intercom, but got no answer. With mounting unease, Mrs Thayer rose from her chair, walked to the door of Dr Qualen's office, and tried the knob. Locked. She rapped lightly; then again, louder. There was no response. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

Mrs Thayer snatched the telephone from her desk and punched out the internal emergency code. In less than a minute two burly orderlies came running in from the corridor outside.

"There's trouble in Dr Qualen's office," she cried. "The door's locked and he won't answer me."

The orderlies hesitated only a moment, then attacked the door while Mrs Thayer stood back out of the way. The door soon splintered under their combined assault. The men rushed inside, stopping as though they had hit a wall when they saw the bloody thing sprawled over the desk of the administrative chief. Behind them Mrs Thayer started into the room, then gave a little cry and backed away, her hand covering her mouth.

At the same moment the men turned toward the broken window. They crossed the room together and looked out, scanning the parking lot below. Nothing.

One of them pointed up at the hillside. "Look!"

The other followed his pointing finger. "What is it? I don't see anything."

"I thought… for a minute it looked like something up there. Running."

"A man? What?"

"I don't know. I can't see it now. It was more like a big dog. Or… Christ, I don't know. Let's get help."

Later, of all the ghastly events of that morning, the two men would remember the sound they heard from somewhere up on the wooded hill. They would remember the howling.