George Chesbro: Bleeding in the Eye of a Brainstorm

"Just keep pressing here, Bailey," I said. "Don't pass out. I'll be right back."

"Mongo, you can't go back in there! The gases-!"

But I had already bounded back up the steps to the delivery door. I sucked in a deep breath, held it, shut my eyes, and went back in. Relying on my memory of the layout and my sense of touch, I felt my way back along the short corridor to the testing area, stopped when I felt intense heat on my face and heard the wheezy, crackling laughter of flames, almost drowning out the whir of the giant ventilation fans. Still holding my breath, I dropped down to my hands and knees and opened my left eye to a slit. Almost immediately the eye began to sting and tear, but I had seen enough to get my bearings and the lay of this flaming land. I closed my eye again and began to crawl toward what had been the mixing table, which was about fifteen feet away, to my left. When I bumped my head against the table, I put my left shoulder against it and scampered to the far end, where the prepared dosages had been swept to the floor. I put my face close to the floor, opened my right eye slightly. There, literally in front of my nose, was a residue of the light brown powder that meant life to a dozen people, and presumably one more whom I had no interest in saving. I closed the eye as it began to tear, then used both hands to sweep the floor around me, gathering up as much of the compound as I could. I scooped up what amounted to half a handful and put it into my shirt pocket. I had no idea whether the drug would now be effective; it had been "unmixed" and contaminated by other drugs and chemicals, but I figured that what I had collected was better than nothing.

My lungs were bursting, and I knew I had only a few more seconds before I would pass out-and die. I remembered an old diver's trick I had read about, and I swallowed, allowing the tiny amount of air that had been trapped in my throat and larynx to enter my lungs. Then I got to my feet, opened my eyes, and sprinted through the flames and clouds of gas and smoke, down the narrow corridor, and out the back door. I collapsed onto my knees on the gravel, gasping for air while at the same time resisting the impulse to rub my eyes, which were both flooded with tears.

I could hear the wail of approaching police and fire sirens, and I knew I could not afford a lot of recovery time. Still gulping in great drafts of air, I got to my feet. I peered around me until I could see the blurred figure of Bailey Kramer, went over to him.

"Bailey, I've got to get out of here," I croaked, wiping tears from my cheeks but still being careful not to touch my eyes, which were continuing to cleanse themselves quite nicely. "You'll be all right. The bullet didn't hit an artery, and the police and firemen will be here any moment. They'll call an ambulance to get you to a hospital."

He clutched at my sleeve. "Mongo?! What should I tell them?!"

"The truth. Tell them everything that's happened-except about where I am, the patients with me, and the rendezvous at Rockefeller Center. They'll take you to the hospital for treatment before they start questioning you, and that will take some time. When the police do start to question you, ask to speak to Captain MacWhorter personally. He's clued in on most of what's been happening. String him out until dusk, and then you can tell him everything."

"The killers knew about the rendezvous. There could be more of them waiting for you there."

"There'll be a regular contingent of cops at the rink and around the plaza. I'm counting on the hunters not to know what specific individuals to look for, while I will. If there's an army of uniforms over there, I'm afraid it might scare the other patients away. I think MacWhorter will agree. If he does decide to send extra people to the rink, and he almost certainly will, tell him to make sure they're in plainclothes, and they shouldn't interfere while I'm gathering up the patients. I'd also like to see some cops at the hospital, after nightfall. I don't know when we'll be there, but we will be there. Thanks again for everything, Bailey, and I can't tell you how sorry I am for leading those two jokers to you. Talk to you later."

"But Mongo-!"

I didn't wait to see what else Bailey had to say, because I had too much else to do and I didn't want to waste time evading questions from the police and being fussed over by paramedics. I pushed through the knot of people that had gathered at the head of the driveway, reached the sidewalk just as two police cars and a fire truck pulled up to the curb. I headed south, and, with my breathing labored and tears still streaming from my eyes, walked as fast as I could the few blocks to my brownstone. By the time I got there my eyes had stopped stinging and tearing, and I could breathe easier. I hurried through the front entrance, past the open office door. A startled Francisco looked at me and spilled his morning coffee.

"Mongo? What. .? Your eyes are all-"

"Call upstairs and tell the women to meet me up in my living room," I said, and started up the stairway.

When I entered my apartment I found Michael, still in his pajamas, sitting stiffly in a chair by the window, staring out through a crack in the blinds. He didn't turn to greet me, and I went directly into the bathroom, where I turned on the tap and began carefully rinsing out my eyes. After a couple of minutes I looked at myself in the mirror; my eyes were still very bloodshot, but I could now see clearly, and I did not think there had been any permanent damage from the gases in the burning laboratory. When I came back out into the living room, Sharon Stephens, Margaret, and Emily were waiting for me, standing in the center of the room next to Michael's sleeping bag, worried expressions on their faces. Michael was still sitting, unmoving and with his back to us, at the window.

Margaret gasped and put a hand to her mouth. "Mongo, what's wrong with your eyes?!"

"I'm all right. Now, listen up. I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that I found the chemist I told you about, and he's discovered a way to make more of your meds. The bad news is that most of what he'd already made has been destroyed. It will probably be a few days before he can make up another batch, and so you're just going to have to somehow hold out until then. Here's the drill. I-" I paused, turned toward the figure who remained in the chair by the window. "Michael? I hope I'm not boring you. Would you come over here and join us? What I have to say is important."

His answer was to make a dry, rasping sound deep in his throat that sounded like a chuckle but wasn't. It reminded me of rustling leaves.

"Michael? Are you all right?"

The sound came again, this time louder. I hurried across the room and stepped in front of him. What I saw filled me with horror, and I choked off a cry. Blood was running in two steadily streaming rivulets from his nostrils, running down over his lips, dripping off his chin onto the front of his pajamas, which were stained a bright crimson. His eyes were totally vacant, and as I looked on, blood suddenly squirted in a tiny font from the left one, hitting me in the face.

"Get me his capsules!" I shouted to Margaret, wrapping my arms around Michael and easing him off the chair and onto his back on the floor. "They're in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, bottom shelf! Hurry!"

Margaret rushed out of the room and down the narrow corridor leading to the bathroom as I cradled Michael's head in my arms. The sound of dry, rustling leaves emanating from his chest grew louder, and he was springing deadly crimson leaks everywhere. A dark stain had appeared at his crotch and was spreading down his pajama bottoms as blood flowed from his urethra and anus. Even his high forehead had become spotted; he was sweating blood from his pores.