Sara Reinke - Backwoods

“It’s Andrew Braddock,” Andrew said, obligingly stepping back, hoisting the IV stand again, leveling it protectively in front of him. “Remember? Just-Andrew.”

The rational part of his mind, usually so calm and collected, was nowhere to be found. In its place was something shrill and panic-stricken. What’s wrong with him? Jesus Christ, what happened to his skin?

“You’re sick,” he said, inching sideways, trying to ease his way behind a nearby cart and use it as a crude barrier between himself and O’Malley. “You…oh, God, you’re in bad shape, man. Let me go get Dr. Montgomery. She can help.”

O’Malley’s head whipped on his neck again, his entire body pivoting, squaring off in his direction. Baring his teeth in a vicious grin, he hissed like a cat, sending a spray of spittle flying from the loose skin of his lips.

He can’t see, Andrew realized. In Dani’s room earlier that night, he’d noticed how the nodules on O’Malley’s face had swelled around his eyes, nearly sealing them shut. It’s happened all the way, then, when those growths on his head spread. He’s tracking me, but not by sight—with his sense of smell, his ears.

If O’Malley couldn’t see, Andrew knew he might stand a chance of reaching the door, getting out of there without his notice. But when he took a step in that direction, O’Malley hissed again, aware enough of his footsteps to be alerted by the sound.

“Listen to me,” Andrew said. “Dani’s worried about you. She’s right down the hallway. Let me get her. Let me get Dr. Montgomery.”

He had no intention, of course, of bringing Dani anywhere near the grotesque thing now shambling in his direction. The shock alone at seeing what had happened to her friend would probably have killed her. But he had to say something, anything to try and reason with him.

It’s still O’Malley, Dani’s friend. He’s a good guy and he’s still in there somewhere, no matter what’s happening to his body. He has to be.

Because the alternative was too horrifying to even consider.

“You’re sick, Thomas. I just want to help you.” Without abandoning the IV stand, his only semblance of a weapon, Andrew shut up and stepped again toward the door, this time quietly enough to not attract O’Malley’s notice.

As he moved, O’Malley hunkered down to the ground, panning his head this way and that in a sweeping arc, uttering those loud snuffling sounds again. Morbidly curious, disgusted but fascinated, Andrew paused, watching. O’Malley’s movements were primitive, nearly bestial. Using his arms for forelegs, O’Malley scuttled forward, quick and spider-like, tracking Andrew to the cart, then pausing there, sniffing curiously.

He turned his face toward Andrew, and for a moment, Andrew could have sworn that he could see him somehow, that he knew who Andrew was.

“O’Malley?” he whispered. “Are you in there?”

O’Malley sprang at him, moving so fast, Andrew had no time to recoil or fight back. He barely even had time to cry out before O’Malley slammed into him, plowing him off his feet and sending him sprawling to the floor. His voice cut short in a breathless whoof! as the wind got knocked from his lungs and he smacked the back of his head against the tiles hard enough to leave him seeing spots of light twinkling in front of his eyes.

In a flash, O’Malley lunged at him, snapping his teeth directly at Andrew’s face. When he’d landed, Andrew had managed to wedge the IV pole between them laterally, and wrenched it up now in front of his face so the bite—meant for his head—sank instead around the metal shaft. O’Malley reared back, straddling Andrew, and shook his head like a Rottweiler shaking off a dousing of water, trying to wrestle the pole away.

Andrew swung the right side of the IV stand around, ripping it loose from O’Malley’s mouth and slamming the T-junction into his head. O’Malley fell sideways and Andrew scrambled backwards, flipping himself over, hurrying to his feet. He felt O’Malley’s hands slap and paw for purchase on his pant legs, his ankles, then slip away as he bolted for the infirmary door.

Though he reached it, he heard the thunder of footsteps in heavy pursuit, felt the thrumming in the floor beneath him as O’Malley approached, and he whirled, again swinging the IV stand. This time, O’Malley ducked around the blow and grabbed the shaft. He jerked against the pole, incredibly strong, and Andrew heard a sharp, metallic snap as it broke in two. He staggered back, blinking in wide-eyed, stricken shock at the severed remnant of metal in his hand.

Oh, shit.

O’Malley seized him by the throat, clamping down with a powerful ferocity that made Moore’s earlier stranglehold seem now like a snuggle. Andrew gulped, jerked off his feet and into O’Malley’s face, close enough to feel the sharp, moist huff of his breath, close enough so that when he bared his teeth and hissed again, droplets of mucous and spit peppered his cheeks.

“O’Malley,” Andrew gasped, pawing at the iron-like grip on his throat. “Please!”

O’Malley threw him like a rag doll, sending him sailing across the room. With a rush of wind in his ears, Andrew slammed into the far wall. He fell the floor in a shuddering heap, panting for breath. Forcing himself to move, he stumbled to his feet, clutching his broken piece of IV stand in hand.

What do I do? Andrew forced his lips together in a tight seal, muffling his ragged gasps. He tried to be quiet, limping sideways, following the counter, cabinets and wall back toward the door while O’Malley, crouched again and dog-like, sniffed the floor and drew closer to his side of the infirmary.

What do I do? What the fuck do I do? Andrew panned a quick, frantic gaze around him. On one of the counters, he saw glass jars neatly arranged, some filled with cotton balls, others filled with paper-wrapped swabs and others filled with wooden tongue depressors. He inched toward these now, reaching out and slowly raising the metal lid from this last jar. It made a soft, nearly imperceptible scraping sound as the threaded grooves in the lid brushed the glass lip of the jar, but it was enough to attract O’Malley’s attention. Cat-like, he leaped, collapsing the distance between him and Andrew to less than three feet as he landed on all fours, hunkered near the floor, the bulbous, swollen mass of his nose twitching as he sniffed.

Holding his breath, frightened that the racing, pounding cadence of his heart would be enough to further alert him, Andrew dipped his free hand into the glass jar, curling his fingers around a cluster of tongue depressors. He eased them out then cut his gaze across the room, away from the door. With a deliberate flick of his wrist, he tossed one of the wooden sticks, sending it flipping end over end into the shadows. It hit the floor, skittered and spun, and O’Malley’s head snapped around to follow the noise. Again moving with preternatural, impossible speed, he darted across the room.

For each step Andrew took toward the door, he chucked another tongue depressor, luring O’Malley away from him, driving him to the opposite end of the infirmary. Just when he thought he was nearly home free, well within five easy strides of the door, he turned around, meaning to risk it and dart to the threshold, punch in his code and escape. Instead, he stumbled headlong into the same goddamn crash cart he’d tripped over on his way into the room, and as he fell, first against the defibrillator console, then to the floor, its little computer screen reactivated, its tinny voice loud and shrill.

“You have activated the Head Start Heart Smart.”

Shit, Andrew thought, scrambling to his feet as O’Malley wheeled toward the sound. Shit, shit, shit!