Into the Inferno - Earl Emerson [144]
On the floor, Donovan whimpered. Strange to hear him actually whimper. It was easy to see why. Stephanie had buried the syringe in his right temple. It was hanging there like an errant dart.
When Donovan grabbed the syringe and yanked it out, the needle broke off in his skull.
He looked up at Stephanie, his pale eyes burning, and for the first time since I’d met him, his tone of voice actually sounded menacing. “I’m going to keep you alive, doc. I’m going to keep you alive all night.”
By now I was at the desk searching for a weapon. I was clutching a pen when he grabbed me from behind, knocked me down, got hold of my scrubs, and, as I kicked at him, pulled one pant leg off, then the other. The cloth caught on my foot and he dragged me across the room by the pants.
Once clear of the mess around the desk, he stood over me like a big-time professional wrestler, The Chemist, arms held high. Then he fell on me. It was almost in slow motion. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop him. I had only enough time to raise the pen before he landed on me like a sack of steer manure.
Oddly, his weight sagged. It took a moment for me to realize what happened.
I pushed him off and rolled across the floor.
His breathing was heavy and ragged.
Propping himself upright on the floor, he peered about the room with one eye. The pen was protruding from his other eyeball, a good four inches of it buried in his socket. He hadn’t quite figured it out yet. I was finding it difficult to believe, myself.
When he began crawling toward me, I noticed a trickle of clear fluid dribbling down his cheek.
“Stop right there,” I said. “It’s over.”
“Not bloody likely. I’m gonna tie your guts around your neck and use ’em for a choker,” he whispered, reaching for me.
A single Bible lay on the floor between us. I grabbed it with both hands and hit him in the face with the flat of it.
The blow drove the pen in, so that now only the tip showed.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” he said, toppling over sideways. He stopped breathing for a while and then started again.
I turned to Stephanie. “You think he’s going to make it?”
“I’ve seen people take that much trauma to the brain and live.”
We stood on either side, watching his chest heave.
My own breathing was rapid and shallow, my voice hoarse, my pulped mouth dripping blood and saliva. Two fingers of my left hand were beginning to stiffen at unnatural angles. Several of my remaining teeth teetered back and forth when I ran my tongue over them. No matter. After tomorrow only a numbskull would feed me solid food.
“Why’d you stick me?”
“I had to give you the antidote.”
“You have the antidote?”
“I found it in the vault while you were in the shower. Right before I heard him coming.”
“Couldn’t you have used a smaller needle?”
“It was the only one I could find.”
“Are you telling me I’m going to be okay?”
Stephanie held up a bottle of clear fluid. “The instructions on the inside of the vault claim it’s ninety percent effective if taken within the first hour of infection. Eighty if taken on day two. Seventy on day three. And so forth. It’s a linear progression.”
“I’m afraid I’m not up to the math,” I said, leaning against DiMaggio’s desk.
“You’re on the evening of day six. That gives you a forty percent chance. Maybe thirty.”
“They must have gone through a shitload of victims to have it worked out so meticulously.”
“Or a trainload of chimpanzees.”
“Does it say anything about afterward? For people like Holly?”
“Zero cures after the first seven days.”
“They had the antidote all along. Your aunt. This clod. Any of them could have handed it to us.”
“I’m sure that’s why Achara was killed. I know she wanted to help you.”
Donovan was crawling across the floor now in what appeared to be a random pattern. Like a slug on a sunny sidewalk.
“What about him?” Stephanie asked.
“After we get out, we call the police. Anonymously.”
Except somebody had already called the police.
We heard sirens and reached the window in time to see Marge DiMaggio and two coworkers