Shadow

Shadow

"CODE SILVER. CODE SILVER. CORRIDOR FIVE. CODE SILVER." The robo-voice on the PA made John Winstone flinch.

"Did you do that?!" He didn't flinch when the armed man at his side jerked his head around and narrowed his eyes.

Adrenaline still surging from his toes to his forehead, John shook his head and calmly assured him, "No, sir. Just part of the security system."

John felt his life measured in heartbeats, moments, and racing thoughts. It was the evening shift and he'd been working the ER security desk at the Creosote Valley Medical Center. Stretching to see what the vending machines had, he encountered a disheveled man in a gray jacket wedging open a fire door. When he approached him, the man pulled out a small, black Ruger handgun and ordered to be taken to the ICU.

In his thundering heart, John imagined overpowering the guy and turning his gun around, along with dozens of other fragments from movies that flashed in his head. Instead, he did his best to breathe and think through procedure. He couldn't reach for his belt to trigger the emergency code on his walkie-talkie. He just held his hands out and said, "You don't want to harm anyone. Let's talk. Just talk. Okay?"

The man pressed the gun up against him and spat, "Talk talk talk. No one wanted to talk before. Not about what happened to my wife. No talking. In...open it."

No sudden movements. No excited words. Just comply but keep people safe. He followed the bits of his security training he could remember at that moment.

They got a few corridors before the alarm went off. John figured one of the staff had seen them and phoned it in. The guy aimed at the flashing alarms and then around at the doors as they closed on both sides of them, leaving them in a small hallway near the elevators. A screaming nurse ran behind a desk. The guy clenched his gun but didn't put his finger on the trigger. John suspected he didn't have a lot of training, just bought something on impulse.

"Listen to me. Listen. I'm here to help. What's going on?" John spoke as well as he could above the alarm.

The guy turned his attention back on John. "Listen? No one here listens! No one talks and no one listens! You just want people to die. Die!" He aimed the gun at John's head. That blackness, that soul-eating blackness. It could be the last thing he saw. He held his hands up but away from the gun. No provocation.

"I want to help. Tell me how to help you." He didn't care but this is what they told him to say. He wished it was someone else and he was far away, at home with his black cat, Schroeder, enjoying some pizza and a beer.

He lowered his gun but only enough that he could still shoot John in the gut. "Take me to the ICU, station two. Right now."

"What do you need in there? I can go in and get...whatever you need. But the people in there need help...need to be safe."

Flaring his teeth, the man growled, "They are not safe. Not with that monster in there. My wife wasn't safe."

"I don't...understand. Help me understand to help you."

By now, the alarm was a constant wave of sound and light. Distantly, John thought he could hear police sirens. If the man heard them, he didn't react, he just responded to John's question by reiterating, "ICU, station two."

Slowly and carefully, he walked in the direction of the ICU. He had no intention of going inside but walking there would buy him time. Pushing on the door, he checked that everyone had evacuated. Some visitors were hiding around a wall and behind furniture with whimpering pleas.

John walked between the gunman and them. He figured he couldn't do much but he was a big guy and maybe he could block a shot. His hand definitely wouldn't stop it but he prayed that maybe it could stop inside him, not in anyone else. Sweat dripped down his bare head, despite the bracing cold of the hospital. The gunman made no motion towards the others.

The windows to the ICU were reinforced and the waiting room was empty. Gesturing with his weapon, the gunman pressed the intercom button. The garbled voice said they were in lock down. Before John could think about the "Paging Silverman" code for danger, the man yelled, "GET AUGUST COPPER. I WANT THAT MURDERING PIECE OF SHIT...OUT HERE NOW!" John took a deep breath.

A flurry of yells and questions were shouted down as the gunman repeated his words over the answer. He aimed the gun right at the intercom and John debated again whether he could wrestle it away. The guy was several inches shorter than him and it didn't look like he worked out. His beard was rough and glossy, like he hadn't washed his face in a while.

Before the shouting match could escalate, the door to the ICU clicked opened and a lanky, thin but familiar man stepped out. The door slid shut the instant he was through.

"Mister Travis Halvers. Good evening. What can I do you for?"

It was August Copper, CNA. His eyes were a blank, stark tone of gray. Unlike everyone else on the medical staff, he wore pure-white scrubs with a matching top. He always had a white face mask on, even when he was off-duty. He cast a long shadow in their direction with the overhead light behind him.

All attention the gunman had on John immediately turned to August. "You monster. You evil fucking monster. Why did you do it?!"

August cocked his head at the raised gun like it was a curiosity. "Your wife...passed away from natural causes. The staff did everything possible to save her, Mister Halvers."

Travis laid his finger on the trigger but the gun shook in his hands. He looked uncomfortable but still bitterly angry. "You killed her. She was fine. She was getting better. And you stole her from me. You murdered her!"

Flexing his hidden mouth with a little pop, August stated, "She just died. It happens every single day to so many. It was her time."

"LIAR! I saw what you did to her. Like a snake. Like a beast."

John puzzled, wondering if the guy was accusing August of assaulting his wife. Not that he cared. The man bought a gun and crossed the line.

Keeping his eyes on the gun, even though it wasn't pointed at him anymore, John's heartbeat quickened when Travis fumbled and the weapon dropped to the floor. A long shadow fell across it as it plunged. Acting quickly, he tensed up as it clinked against the tile but didn't discharge. Then, he booted it hard across the room. It felt like it was traveling across Velcro for a second before it slipped loose and spun under a chair.

He expected the gunman to dash over to grab it and then he'd need to tackle him into the wall. But, Travis stood in place, sputtering as if someone was gripping his neck. Despite the amount of light in room, heavy shadows crossed his body, especially his throat. August stepped forward and said, "Thank you, Mister Winstone. I'll take it from here."

Before John could speak, he felt the air catch in his throat. Trying to suck breath, he watched shadows overwhelm and consume the gunman. Before he passed out, he heard a sound like a tube of toothpaste pressed in a vice.

John woke from dreamless sleep to find himself in one of the patient rooms of telemetry, dressed in a hospital gown. A kindly LVN gave him some water and assured him he was fine. After a few quick tests, he reached for answers.

"The man shot himself. Terrible thing. Horrible."

Gulping down the water, John took a breath, cleared his throat, and agreed, "Terrible thing."

It wasn't long before a man from administration visited him and reiterated it was a "terrible thing".

He asked John for his account. It went smoothly until the end, when he said he kicked the gun away. The man corrected him, "You must be mistaken. The shooter turned the gun on themselves. The shot must've disoriented you and...with the tension and emotion of the moment, there's no shame in passing out."

The image of those shadows, those moving shadows, remained in John's memory as the last solid thing he knew. But he understood the expression on the man's face and slowly agreed, "You're right. I was mistaken. Terrible thing. I'll be alright."

After John had signed a document pledging that was what happened, the administrator dealt with the police.

It wasn't long before John was discharged and checked in with the security office. He finished his shift and tiredly trudged home.

"Mister Winstone..."

Turning around slowly, John wasn't surprised to see August with his face mask, although now clad in a plain, vanilla t-shirt and colorless, corduroy pants. "Yeah?"

"Are you well? It's been quite a night."

He nodded and watched the shadows between himself and August. Nothing looked strange.

"I'm headed home."

Extending a hand, August asked, "Would you like a lift? I know you usually wait on your co-worker, Mister Hampton, to finish his shift and ride home with him."

Rubbing his elbows, John shook his head, "I'm fine waiting. Thanks."

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Mister Winstone", August tipped his head and walked away.

Out the main entrance, John noticed a smattering of local news reporters with vans set up behind them. No one noticed him or stopped to ask him questions. But, after waiting a bit, he noticed August. One of the reporters, a young blond with her hair pulled in a tight ponytail, approached him and inquired, "Hello, I'm Madelyn Oats with News 27. Do you know anything about the incident earlier this evening?"

She pressed a microphone in his face and wore an pleasant smile. A camera guy stood behind her. John watched as August folded his hands and answered, "It's a terrible thing. Such a tragedy for that family."

Madelyn ran through a few quick questions that August answered simply before asking, "We've gotten word someone heroically stopped the shooter? Is that correct?"
August cocked his head with a thin, sharp smile. John watched a shadow trace the reporter's arm as he answered, "I can't say anything about that. I just want to get home to the wife and kids. I'm no hero myself."

Clearing his throat, John called over to August. Madelyn brushed her arm with a frown, like a bug had suddenly crawled over it. With a deep breath and his heart racing, John said, "Hey...I uh...changed my mind. I'll take that lift, if you're still offering."

Feeling sensations crawling over his body, John didn't flinch as August nodded and said, "Of course, Mister Winstone. I'm always happy to help."

He followed August to his old truck at the edge of the parking lot, where street lights never worked. Without a word, he slipped into the dark embrace of the passenger seat and shut the door behind him.