From Here to Infirmary

Posted on Thu Dec 24th, 2020 @ 9:03am by Whit & The Narrator
Edited on on Thu Dec 24th, 2020 @ 9:29pm

Mission: Six Days to Santo
Location: St Emma's Hospital, Caster
Timeline: Day 23 - Late Afternoon

For all its murky career pathways and questionable ethics, Santo was still (if barely) a Core planet. Caster's hospital paled in comparison to those on Ariel, but it still looked impressive enough to instill at least some confidence in the caregiving within. Black stone formed the base of the functional three-story building and there were a couple of Alliance uniforms in attendance as Clixby led Whit through the reception area.

A nod, and no need to show his badge of justice reminded the Shepherd that Santo was more Border than Core though, and the two made their way from ground floor to the hospital's general ward on the first floor. Nursing staff greeted Clixby with functional politeness, then indicated the wider intensive care ward beyond their station where patients in various states of coma reclined amongst machinery keeping them alive and medicated, all in their private alcoves that were no larger than prison cells.

"Archibald Turner," the Caster Sheriff's gruff tone announced as he and Whit stopped before a particular intensive care unit. The patient within gave no immediate reaction to their presence. "In particular need of a new face."

"Greetings, Mr. Turner." Whit walked up to the bedside and stood far enough back to let the wounded man see the full view of him. "You can call me Whit. I'm a Shepherd, and I'm here to minister blessing and solace to your soul in this time of hardship. Can you tell me what led you to this terrible fate?"

There was the wet sound of a bubbly exhale as Turner readied to speak, and a hand raised to check and adjust the medical mask that rested over his ruined features. A word was mumbled, then repeated twice, the third venture forming recognisable syllables. "Archie," he said.

An awkward cough followed, and Turner pushed himself a little more upright, to sit back against the bed's pillows. From behind the mask, dark eyes regarded the Shepherd while their owner mustered up the energy and enthusiasm to speak again.

"Minding my own business, Shepherd," came that oddly moist voice once again. "Drinking a beer. Some crazy-ass kid attacked me."

Beside Whit, Sheriff Clixby raised a single eyebrow, but said nothing. Yet.

Looking at Clixby, it occurred to Whit that this Archie might be a little less than truthful with the sheriff bearing down on him. "I'm a man of God, Archie. Anything you tell me is safe. The law of God is above the law of man. Isn't that right, Sheriff?" The look on Whit's face suggested that if Clixby disagreed, then he should put a discreet distance between the shepherd and the patient.

"Mebbe," said the sheriff. He paused, then continued. "If'n you're okay for a bit, I'm gonna go check on something," Clixby noted, his drawl slow and certain. Whit's expression had already answered that, so he didn't stand on ceremony. "Be back in a few, Shepherd," he added, and strode off towards the nurses' station.

"Much obliged, Sheriff," said Whit with an appreciative nod and kindly smile.

Once the lawman had cleared his line of sight, Archie let his attention focus entirely upon the man of God. "I mighta started it, some," he said, voice slow and heavy. "But I didna deserve this. She's a demon, Shepherd. A demon..."

She. The simple pronoun informed Whit of all manner of nuance to the situation. He kept up the ministerial act in order to find out more, but the kindly smile on his face no longer touched his eyes.

"A demon, you say? That's a mighty terrifying thing. You know the Good Lord has given me authority over all the power of evil. Tell me more of this demon." Whit's tone suggested that he believed the man. "Who was its servant? What did they do?"

Hopped up on painkillers and keenly aware of the fact that his facial expressions, even had he not been wearing a mask, wasn't about to reveal anything, Archie relaxed a little more. This preacher was here to listen to him, and he had a lot of things to get off his chest.

"Yao Nu, yessir," he confirmed. "Hella scary I tell ya. Flew at me she did, claws at my face, howling like a banshee and keen to kill me." His body briefly trembled, his hands clutched the mattress to his sides. "Not seen her before. She serves him. Loxley. And she needs to be... exorcised or locked up, Shepherd. S'dangerous. Near as damn it coulda killed me."

Whit looked about the small enclosure in search of monitoring devices. None present, save for the medical monitors.

"What business did you have with Loxley?" he asked. "Some say he's a devil of a man himself." His tone was carefully kept gentle, but it was with growing effort. "Must'a been some reason for you not to steer clear of a man with a banshee at his side."

"Debt collecting," said Archie openly. "He owes my boss a good bit money." He might have raised an eyebrow if he had any left. "They do? I didn't know nuthin 'bout the Wei Shian Dohn Woo until today."

An enforcer for a bagman, in other words. Whit gave a knowing nod and stood to his feet. This Archie got rough with the wrong person in the commission of some crime or another -- extortion, racketeering, maybe good, ol' fashion robbery -- and he paid the price. Normally this would be the duty of the law of the land, but from where Whit stood it seemed Sheriff Clixby favored the local color over Alden Loxley. That neatly slid the necessary judicial response from the realm of men to the realm of God. Or so Whit would say if questioned, which, of course, he wouldn't be. Everyone trusts a shepherd.

By reputation, Alden was a good enough man. The fact Whit had covertly arranged transport to Ghost with him didn't hurt either. Archie here, on the other hand, got his face rearranged by a young girl who likely feared for her life against the shen shi.

Whit just had one piece of information he required of Archie.

"So who's your boss, Archie?" He let out a sassy chuckle and held up his hand. "No, it's all right. You don't have to say his name. I'll just guess."

One by one, Whit named off the Caster's wannabe crime lords.

"Tomtun. Seamus. Ulysses. Duke. Morty. Smythe." Each name failed to yield a positive reaction from Archie's limited autonomous reactions. "Howson."

Archie's body stiffened ever so slightly while his pupils narrowed just a pinch. As if that wasn't obvious enough, his pulse spiked up along with his breathing, or the monitors weren't worth a hill of beans.

"Looks like I'll be paying a visit to Huck Howson," Whit said. "As for you, Archibald Turner, it seems you're in need of last rites."

"What? Doc says I'm--"

The man's last words were cut off as Whit grabbed the man's IV tube and injected a full liter of air into it from an empty syringe he had pilfered from the supply drawer.

"Shhh," Whit said. "You're about to experience an embolism, son. That's when a pocket of air gets into your veins and rides up to a major organ. Only the Good Lord knows whether it will be your heart, lungs, or brain, but the end result will be the same."

Archie started gasping for air. He clutched at his throat as if his fingers could pull in more, but the problem was much deeper in his chest.

"Lungs it is," Whit said with a grim frown. Holding out his hand over the dying man with a hacking coughing fit, he began to intone a doxology in a simple rhyme and meter. A distinctive if faded tattoo flourished above the wrist.

"And Shepherds we shall be
For Thee, O Lord, for Thee.
Thou hath anointed our crimson frocks,
For the wolves have come, sparing not the flocks,
And we shall be avenging Shepherds over them,
In the name of the Alpha and Omega,
The Beginning and the End."

When he finished, just as Archie's eyes were red and bulging from oxygen depravation, Whit pulled back the privacy curtain that covered the transparent door and called for help. But not before he stowed the syringe back in storage and ensured the unit was precisely as Clixby had left it.

"Nurse! Help! This man needs a doctor!"

Technically that was not untrue.