Page 32 of Emerald Malice

“Byron, I’ve gotta go; they’re calling my name.”

Relieved, I put my phone away. But it’s another twenty anxious minutes before the nurse finally rounds the corner and calls me forward.

“Third floor. Room 12. There’s a gown in there. Put it on.”

I wait for her to escort me, but she just plops herself down at the front desk, leaving me to amble upstairs on my own.

It’s a dark, twisted stairwell with a jagged chunk of metal for a railing that has almost certainly given more than one unlucky patient tetanus.

When I get to Room 12, things aren’t much better. The floor is dirty and something that looks an awful lot like rodent droppings has been lazily swept into the corner.

I shuck my clothes and step into the papery gown waiting for me. I’ve never been more grateful for the sheet of plastic rolled out over the exam table. It’s one thin barrier between my bare ass and whatever nightmarish superbugs are haunting this place, but it’s better than nothing.

God, I can’t wait to get out of here.

While I wait for the doctor to show up, I count two more sirens in the distance and a few short, sharp blasts that sound suspiciously like gunshots.

Then again, I can’t really trust myself in that regard. I’ve spent most of my life since age seven hearing gunshots that aren’t there.

The shrink that Aunt Annie took me to called it PTSD. Whatever it is, it gets worse when I have too much time on my hands and nothing to focus on.

Like, for example… right now.

Thankfully, the door opens a second later and a reedy doctor in a lab coat walks in. He’s got about five hairs on his “mustache,” which is bushy compared to his beard. He looks like he graduated medical school two days ago.

“Hi,” I squeak.

Doogie Howser here doesn’t return my cheery greeting. Instead, he consults his clipboard with a squint. “Natalia Boone, aged twenty-seven, three months pregnant.”

He doesn’t look up, so it takes me a second to realize it’s a question. “Um… that’s correct.”

“Have you been examined before?”

“No. This is my first time. I was hoping?—”

“Lie flat.”

Before I’ve fully reclined on the examination table, there’s a loud boom and then a scramble of footsteps outside the door. People are hollering in the hallway, but their voices overlap and I can’t make out what anyone is saying.

“Is something wrong, Doc?—”

“Wait here,” Doogie blurts, dropping his clipboard onto the floor. “Just… fuck, just put your legs in the stirrups and wait for me.”

He stumbles out the door and I gawk after him in disbelief. Something tells me that none of this is standard medical procedure.

I pry myself off the table and creep to the door, which I crack open just enough to allow me to peek out. I spy two burly men, their back muscles clenched as they support a third man who’s slumped lifelessly between them.

There’s no mistaking the blood staining his torn shirt.

I jerk away from the door.

I’ve had enough of guns and mob bullshit to last me a lifetime. Whatever is going on outside that door is none of my business.

Maybe, if I pretend not to have noticed, I can just get on with my appointment and then get the hell out of here when it’s over. I’m not exactly flush with other options, so I resume my place on the examination table.

For luck, I even place my legs in the stirrups. Let no one say I’m not a good listener.

Minutes tick past. One, two, five. The sounds quiet down.

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