What to do next?
That was a question that even I didn’t have a clear answer to. I paused for a moment on the bustling sidewalk, surrounded by the faint sounds of hurried footsteps and the distant announcement echoing from the train’s tannoy system.
The air was tinged with the faint scent of coffee from a nearby café, mingling with the crispness of the cold breeze. I looked around, scanning the faces of passersby. The vibrant city buzzed around me, yet I felt oddly disconnected, as if I were watching the world from the outside, waiting for inspiration to strike.
Not wanting to attract any unwanted attention, I turned and walked back to my car. Each step felt heavy as I reflected on the chaos of the last 24 hours: running from the Voodoo Boys, falling to my death, and Henry being shot... Aw, fuck.
In the heat of the moment, desperation kicked in, and I dialed Michelle’s number.
“Max. How are you?” she answered, her voice laced with concern.
“Wha...I’m fine, Michelle. The person I was with when you found me—what happened to him?” I asked, my heart racing.
Michelle paused, and I could hear the hesitation on the other end. “Umm...”
“Michelle, please. What happened to him? You have to tell me.”
“Eva took him to a ripperdoc near where I live. They said he was in pretty bad shape,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly.
“Is he still there?” I pressed, clinging to a thread of hope.
“I don’t know, Max; he was badly bleeding and missing an eye. I really don’t think he’s going to pull through.”
“No, he will pull through; trust me, I’ve known him all of my life.” The words felt instinctual, a refusal to accept the possibility of losing him.
I hung up, frustration boiling in my chest. Determined and resolute, I navigated my way back to Pacifica, the neon lights casting an eerie glow on the slick pavement as I parked my battered car outside the dimly lit ripperdoc’s office.
As I stepped inside, the air was thick with a sterile, antiseptic smell that mingled with the metallic tang of rendered chrome. The faint beeping of machines, like the heartbeat of the place, echoed in the background but did nothing to dissipate the unsettling quiet. The office was stark and empty, save for a disinterested figure slouched behind the front desk.
He was flipping through a glossy magazine that detailed the effects of meat consumption on the human body, the pages crinkling softly under his fingers.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
With a lazy motion, he looked up, a disinterested eyebrow raised. “Can I help you with something?” His tone was flat, almost bored.
“Yeah, did someone by the name of Henry Thompson come here?” I asked.
“Actually, he did.” The man’s voice was as unyielding as the chrome-plated walls surrounding us. “Funny enough, someone else came in here not long ago asking the same question.” His apathetic delivery only intensified my growing tension.
“Who took him?” I demanded, urgency spilling over in my voice, hoping for any lead that might ignite a spark of hope in this dark abyss.
“Ah, I don’t know, man; I’m just a doctor.” He leaned back in his chair with a dismissive shrug, irritation etched across his face like a roadmap of indifference. “Look, are you here for some chrome, or are you just here to waste my time?”
“No, but thanks for the info,” I replied, attempting to mask the swirling frustration inside me.
Heavy-hearted, I turned and left the office, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft creak that punctuated the silence. I climbed back into my car and revved the engine, the harsh roar slicing through the stillness like a blade. With a sense of purpose, I directed my vehicle toward City Center.
I knew they had a fancy hospital there—perhaps, just perhaps, that was where they had taken Henry. The thought fueled my resolve as I pushed through the night, the glow of the city ahead a beacon of hope in the growing darkness.
I stepped out of my car, the cool evening air brushing against my skin as I approached the front entrance of the hospital.
Two security guards stood sentinel by the door, their stern expressions hinting at the gravity of their job. They turned their attention towards me, their eyes scanning my face with suspicion.
“Do you have any reason to be here?” one of them asked, his tone firm and no-nonsense. I took a breath, steadying myself, and replied, “I’m here to see a friend.”
The guards exchanged glances before one of them gestured for my ID. I reached into my pocket, producing my driver’s license, and handed it over. They scrutinized the information briefly before one of the guards got on his radio, “Could you please wait here a moment, sir?”
I stood there waiting. I sensed that they didn’t trust me and that there was a different reason as to why I was here. After a while, the guard finished speaking on his radio.
“Alright, you’re good to go,” he remarked, stepping aside to let me enter.
As I stepped inside, the hospital unfolded before me—a pristine environment filled with the faint scent of antiseptic, every surface gleaming under the fluorescent lights. It wasn’t overly crowded, which was somewhat reassuring. I made my way to the front desk, where a friendly receptionist greeted me. “Can I help you?” she asked with a warm smile.
“I’m looking for my friend Henry. Can you tell me what room he’s in?” I inquired, hoping for good news.
“Sure! He’s on the seventh floor, in room 7B,” she replied, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she typed in the details. I thanked her and made my way to the elevator, my heart pounding slightly in anticipation.
As the elevator doors slid open on the seventh floor, I stepped out and spotted Henry’s room at the end of the hallway. The door was firmly closed, a sense of uneasiness washing over me. I approached the door, trying to peer through its small window, but all I could see was a blurred shadow of movement inside.
Just as I leaned closer, a voice called out from behind me. “Well, I’ll be…”
I turned around, my heart skipping a beat. Staring back at me was someone I hadn’t seen in ages.
