You'll Never Believe A Man Can Fly: Chapter Fifteen by Lee Barnett

Chapter Fifteen

It was unfortunate for Janey Evans, who was coming off shift, that she happened to be standing by the elevator doors in the North London Hospital just as they opened. If she hadn’t have been, then she’d have likely lived a long and happy life. As it was, her life ceased precisely eight seconds later as the creature that had been Samuel Withers smashed her to one side, and then pushed her into the wall, before moving on.

Thought it would not have been any consolation, she soon had plenty of company as the creature moved slowly but deliberately through the accident and emergency unit leaving mayhem and bloodshed in its path. It stopped at one bed for a brief moment, seemingly fascinated by the various items of electronic equipment, and gazed at the heart monitor connected to one patient. The patient, an elderly man, mercifully knew nothing of the chaos around him. And immediately thereafter knew nothing at all, as with a swing of a hideously mutated arm, the creature destroyed the equipment. A scream pierced the relative quiet and the creature turned towards the source of the noise. Slowly, carefully, the creature took one pace after another, walking towards the nurse that had let out the penetrating scream. It would undoubtedly have continued doing precisely that had not its body suddenly started juddering in response to the impact of bullets thudding their way into its hide.

The armed response vehicle had arrived minutes earlier and the three armed police officers had run into the reception area. They were too well and carefully trained to react to the carnage with anything other than complete and total professionalism, bearing in mind at all times that they carried a heavy responsibility. They couldn’t just go around shooting anything, they’d been warned. The lead officer took one look at the creature and all that careful training went out of the window. This thing is just pure wrong, he thought. The three armed police officers braced themselves at the main door and then opened fire, without even shouting the required warnings. (At the hearing later, the lead officer had expressed his view that in his opinion, the creature would have been unlikely, at best, to stop on hearing the words “Armed Police, Stop!” But that didn’t stop some of the newspapers running their bi-annual feature on ‘trigger happy cops’.)

The creature stopped where it was and what was left of its head cocked onto one side, puzzled at the interruption. It seemed as if stopping caused something to stick, because from that moment, and until the arrival of Davies a little over an hour later, it didn’t move at all. There was an ominous rumbling sound that was assumed to be breathing, just from the regularity of the sound, but it didn’t sound like any breathing anyone had heard before.

Louder than the strange noise coming from the creature was the sound of moaning, filled with pain, that came from various areas of the accident and emergency room. This was from the injured, both the pre-existing patients and those who had suffered damage from the thing that had once been Samuel Withers. For a moment, no one was brave enough to risk movement, knowing that the creature could move again at any signal.

The three armed officers looked at each other, not knowing what to do. The lead officer took a step back from the door and the others followed. The last one to back out looked around the room as he left, seeing it clearly for the first time. He shuddered, and swore softly to himself, before following his fellow officers, heading for the foyer to brief the senior officer who’d arrived.

Doctors crowded around the door, unsure whether or not to enter the room. Finally, one took a step into the room, warily keeping an eye on the still creature. There was no movement, no indication that the creature was stirring from what appeared to be sleep. And as the doctor thought that, he made the mental jump to a possible conclusion: the regular rhythmic sound was, of all things, snoring.

The doctor beckoned to Howard Baker, the charge nurse, who broke all decorum by mouthing an obscenity at the doctor, along the lines of suggesting that the doctor went forth and multiplied asexually. The doctor sent him an impatient look, and then, pointing at the injured, sent him what Baker correctly interpreted as a ‘patients look’, i.e. ‘look at the bloody patients!’

Baker sighed and followed the doctor as the latter dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the room. The pair of them reached the first man, a fellow physician, and the doctor gave him a cursory glance. The man was obviously dead, his chest crushed in, and the doctor swallowed hard. He looked at Baker and motioned with his head that they should move to the next body. The doctor crawled a little further, and reached slowly for the next man, who was groaning. The doctor pulled at the man’s legs, and the man groaned louder. The doctor grimaced and beckoned Baker who grabbed one leg while the doctor took a firm hold on the other. Together they pulled the man out of the emergency room to reception, where he was immediately taken away to be treated.

“OK,” the doctor said, “That’s one. Thanks, Howard.” He looked at the others. “All right, who’s going to help me with the next one?”

The floor tiling suddenly became a matter of great interest for the rest of them, except for one enterprising fellow who looked up, as if he’d always wanted to spend time examining the ceiling. Baker stepped forward. “Looks like it’s you and me again, doctor.” The doctor smiled resignedly. Baker may have not wanted to do the first journey, but now that he had, he obviously regarded it as his duty to continue. “Thanks,” said the doctor. “The one by the broken stretcher next?”

Baker nodded and the pair of them entered the room as before.

Davies had intended to stay in that night. He’d flown almost directly from the agency to the address of Williams’ apartment, which he found after a couple of wrong turnings. He was finding flying at night far more confusing than during the daytime and had already hit two lampposts on the way. In the end, he gave up and landed near a filling station, landing next to the car wash, which was closed due to the lateness of the hour. He walked into the shopping area and picked up an A-Z map book of the area. A quick look through it and he saw where he’d made his mistake. He placed the book back on the rack and was immediately struck by just how clearly he remembered the map – when he concentrated, it was as if he could see the map in front of him. He picked up the book again, and flicked through it, page by page. When he’d finished, he closed his eyes and discovered that with only a small amount of concentration, he could picture any address in the book in map format. He left, ignoring the complaints from the manager that he’d not bought anything.

Five minutes later he was inside the apartment. He’d found the flat just as Williams had promised and hadn’t even needed the key: a mental suggestion and the door swung open. He walked in to find a well sized two bedroom apartment, exquisitely decorated. Each room was done differently, but the style of each fitted the dimensions perfectly. Davies spent ten minutes just wandering around the flat, marvelling at the taste. Williams was a constant surprise, he realised when he saw a small collection of crystal figurines, the one of a ballerina almost taking his breath away, it was so beautiful.

Williams had a large DVD and video collection, he noticed, and he saw three or four titles that he’d not previously seen, but had always intended to watch sooner or later. He decided that it was much too late to be described as sooner, but after a wash and a bite to eat, he’d watch the DVDs. This could, after all, be the last night where he’d be undisturbed for some time, he realised, and he wanted to do nothing. And to do it extremely well.

A few feet away from the meeting room, there was a sudden movement and in response to a pass shown, rhe soldier moved away from the door. Sir Anthony Bowman walked into the room and with an apologetic, though completely insincere cough of apology, spoke. “Mr Docherty, Doctor Grable? If you’d come with me please?” he asked, and turned without waiting for their reply.

Docherty and Grable stood up and followed him. Grable was tired, as well as thinking that she needed a shower, and was pleased at the thought of leaving Downing Street. She realised her mistake when Bowman took a left turn and led them back into COBRA. She took a deep breath as she entered the room and at Bowman’s direction, she took her seat again, Docherty sliding into place beside her.

Where previously, the atmosphere and appearance of the room had been businesslike, there was now an air of barely restrained tension in the room. It seemed faintly familiar, and Grable thought for a moment, before she realised why she recognised the ambience. It was the identical feeling she had at the exact same moment she realised that an experiment had just suffered a catastrophic failure. She could see the military people sketching out some plans on paper, while others around the room looked expectantly towards the head of table.

The Prime Minister was in discussion with his fellow politicians, and also Bowman and some army personnel. The PM raised his voice, partly in anger, partly in order that Bowman would be left in no doubt as to his feelings.

“Is this confirmed?” he asked. Bowman said something too quietly for Grable to eavesdrop and the Prime Minister said with some force, “Don’t tell me what you don’t know – tell me what you do know.”

He stood up and looked at them all. “As I understand it, there’s no way to trace either of these people, and as a result, the considered opinion of this committee is that we find them? Brilliant,” he exclaimed, sarcasm dripping from each word. “This is amateur hour.” As he was winding up to excoriate them, a door opened and a young woman appeared. She was accompanied by a soldier; well, maybe accompanied was the wrong work to use, since he had his hand placed just above her shoulder. The picture was one of complete readiness.

The Prime Minister turned and saw the newcomers. “Yes?” he asked.

“Prime Minister,” the young woman said, “I have a message for Lady Constance.”

The woman who was the head of the intelligence services rose, walked across to the younger woman and took a piece of paper from her. She quickly read the message and then thanked the woman who then left the room. She walked slowly to the Prime Minister, her face betraying the irritation she felt at whatever she’d read.

“Prime Mister, members of the Committee. I now believe that we have identified the whereabouts of Withers.”

“Excellent,” said the PM. “I take it that’s a note from your section.” He looked at the Americans. That’ll show them how it’s done, he thought.

Lady Constance blushed. “Not exactly, Prime Minister; this comes from the television news.”

Davies felt restless, though he had no idea why. He liked the idea of doing something normal: to watch television, to take a bath, to have something normal to eat.

However, when he’d checked around the flat, he’d realised that unless he took Williams’ suggestion and acted on it, only the first of those would be accomplished. He’d opened the refrigerator and uttered a short expletive. The fridge was almost full, but with macrobiotic foodstuffs. He’d never been able to understand how something that was supposed to be so healthy for you just had to look so unappetising. He supposed that it was on the same basis as medicine always tasting horrible and remembered his mother commenting that that was how you knew it was good for you.

Mind you, his mother was equally convinced that the newsreaders on television knew she was watching and that was why they always greeted her with “Good evening,” so he didn’t place too much faith in her judgement.

There was nothing for it, he thought. I’m going to have to find that all night place.

He looked at the paper that Williams had written on and, memorising the details, he left the flat, closing the door after him. He took the narrow steps leading down to the entrance door just a tad too fast and it was with an understandable sense of alarm that he felt one foot slide on the edge of a step. For a moment, he tottered on the edge of the stair, before losing his balance. As his foot slid away from underneath him, a wave of frustration hit him and he grabbed at the stone railing that ran down the side of the steps. It crumpled and he was suddenly holding a hand full of powder. A split second later, he was hovering above the stairs and he floated down to the ground floor.

Now that wasn’t sensible, he thought, knowing that he could have been witnessed by anyone. He walked to the main door, hit the exit button and entered onto the street. He turned left and started to walk down the street away from the apartment block. As he did so, he noticed that there was an almost instinctive wish to fly, but he tamped it down, knowing that to fly would just lead to more chance of being discovered.

The next five minutes were excruciatingly long for him as he walked along the street. He knew that he had to walk at a normal speed, and it irritated him to have to do so. What would have been perfectly natural to him only forty-eight hours earlier now seemed like a chore, he came to realise. He wondered how long it would be before he started to resent it.

“Maybe I should be resenting it now,” he said out loud, gaining him a very strange look from the woman who happened to be walking past at the time.

“She’s not worth it,” the woman said, and then walked on, leaving Davies in bemused puzzlement, wondering why, of all things, it was impossible to come in half way through a conversation and then attempt to make sense of it without a cue card. He smiled at the back of the woman and continued on his way, seeing just ahead of him the pub Williams had referred to.

He soon reached the all night shop and was profoundly grateful for the money that Williams had given him. He stacked up with several cans of soft drink, a slab of butter, a bottle of pickle, some cheese and some white bread. He didn’t care that it was supposed to be less healthy. Davies was pretty sure that whatever damage the combination would do to his body, it wouldn’t be a patch on a bullet wound, and he had personal experience of his body’s restorative abilities in that regard.

The manager of the small shop greeted him at the check-out and Davies thanked him sincerely for having what he’d wanted in stock, remembering at the last moment to get some soap and shampoo. The journey back to the flat was equally as frustrating as the trip there had been, and he was grateful to get through the front door.

As he did so, he let go of the bags which obediently lifted up as if they were on invisible columns. They floated ahead of him as he entered the kitchen, and the food contents found their way into the small gaps left in the refrigerator. He felt a twinge of guilt, at storing the cans of fizzy drink next to the health foods, but quickly got over it. He placed the toiletries in the bathroom and decided to have a bite first before a bath. Williams had told him to relax and after making himself some cheese on toast, he intended to do just that.

He switched on the high definition plasma-screened television and flicked through several channels before he came across something he wanted to watch. The comedy programme was only five minutes from the end when the screen darkened and then brightened again as the word “Newsflash!” appeared. A voiceover announced “We’re going over to the Newsroom for a newsflash…” and then the voice faded, along with the news notification board. Davies saw (along with several million other viewers) the face and upper body of a senior BBC presenter, in front of a busy newsroom. The news presenter looked solemn, and Davies wondered which Royal or senior politician had died. They rarely interrupted for anything else these days.

“A siege is in its second hour at the North London Hospital. Early reports suggest that some doctors and patients have been killed. We’re going over live now to the hospital, and Amanda Robinson. Amanda, are you there?”

The scene switched to an outside shot of the hospital, and a young attractive female reporter. She looked unsure of herself, and Davies recognised the look of fear on her face.

“Yes, David, I’m here.”

“What’s going on?” asked the presenter.

“Latest confirmed numbers are nineteen dead and about forty injured, David,” the woman said. “The police are not releasing any details about the names of the deceased or those injured. However, a number of doctors are among the victims. Also, the police are withholding any details about the perpetrator in the hospital, but I’ve heard from several people that he’s a victim himself, of an industrial acci…”

Davies didn’t hear any more, since he’d opened the window and left the flat, heading for the North London Hospital.

This week’s artist: Alex de Campi
Alex de Campi isn't an artist, something you probably could have guessed from her illustration. She writes screenplays, comics, blatant lies, accidental truth, and studied insult, from her garret next to Primrose Hill in London. Her first US miniseries, SMOKE (drawn by Igor Kordey) debuts from IDW Publishing in May.