Seamus Grant

Grant

A warm bath of sun was washing Seamus Grant and the room when he returned to consciousness.  He would soon be sweating, he knew.  He lay on a bed in the middle of a large hospital-like room.  The white vinyl tile crept from under his twin bed in all directions to white walls.  The walls he was facing had a large painting of an office. Why an office?  The wall to his right was interrupted by an enormous window about the size of his bed.  The one to his left only had more white and a machine he was connected to that made a beep now and again.  So the door must be behind me Grant surmised.  It hurt to turn and look.  When he did pain shot through his whole body and he remembered the gun, and it shooting.

‘Beep’ announced the machine.

He looked all over his body.  There were his toes, he looked, they were purple peeking out from the blanket.  They looked bad, did all of his body look that way?  His hands were weak and the typically cream color of the skin was far more pale than normal.  But short of a few bruises he appeared fine.  The pain must be from bed sores or maybe I was trampled, back in the courtroom.  He looked up confused and exhausted at the little movement already performed from his brief examination.  So he stared and listened.  From behind him not-so-distant voices came from approximately forty feet away.  And then there was a shuffle.  Grant did not recognize this noise.  Then there came a second one.  It was a quiet low shuffle like a rolled up carpet being dragged over a laid out one.  After which came a quiet shorter squeak. And another from the machine next to him, ‘Beep.’

‘Swish, squeak, swish, hiss, squeak, beep.’ 

It was getting louder. ‘Squeak, swish.’  When it finally got to him what would that mean?  Is it a food cart with a bent frame?  Could it be an injured mutant crawling through the hall seeking flesh, to devour me?  Is it the assassin that had failed to kill me coming to finish the job? The ridiculous nature of his second consideration would have made him laugh had the last one not been so damn possible.

He screamed as loud as he could but a tube in his throat muted him.  No weapon and no defense nearby. Even if he had a weapon what could he do against a trained killer?

‘Squeak, hiss, beep.’

The shooter had missed which might mean he wasn’t any good.  But that was worse because it meant Grant had a fighting chance because with a fighting chance he had to get moving Seamus!  He delegated the first task to his purple toes which flexed and went with his feet and legs off the bed.  Every move was difficult and every move made him dizzy.

‘Squeak, swish.’

He pushed up with his right arm and tried with his left.  The message wasn’t being communicated except to his wrist while his elbow lay, non-compliant.

‘Squeak, swish.’

He could roll, he realized. But the weight of his legs suddenly jerked.

Looking up after hitting the floor was harder than anything he had ever done.  And just as he did the bright white around him turned to shadow.

The old man looked down and yelled, “Nurse, damn, just-how? Nurse!”  He turned back to Grant and left the ranks of his walker but kept the hunch.  He knelt next to Grant as best he could and said, “Son, what the hell?  You have been shot twice.  I am your warden and your killer”

“Huh?”

“Your warden and your keeper.  You are safe calm down.” 

Grant yielded to the pain in his head and neck crying out, “uuugg, no,” loud and long.  One of the nurses yelped when she entered.  Grant put his head down since he was no longer concerned for his safety, feeling more embarrassed than anything.  He wanted to fall asleep right there on the floor but the nurse who had yelped earlier was moving him on his back.  “Don’t do that,” another said chastising the first, “Don’t move people with head injuries if all it does is aggravate the pain.”  It was a female voice.  But he saw the sun dancing in all directions.  It split into colors and the glow that covered him earlier finally took him under.

He was swimming in nothing and could breathe.  He liked this and laughed.  But he was rising to the surface slowly.  He could see the skin of his white ocean end above him and peel into the blue-grey horizon.  He wanted to stay so he turned to his mom and asked her to help.  She smiled genially at him but did nothing because he said nothing.  I can’t talk, he realized.  The white water took to his larynx and muted him before he could make any noise.  He turned to his fiancé who floated there now.  And then Tony Barccelli looked at him and grabbed him.  Bubbles rose from their mouths and noses.  He grabbed his mom and then grabbed his fiancé.  He grabbed Barccelli with his left arm and had to let his mom go.  He watched his mom disappear as they sank deep into the white.  His brother in one hand and Nancy Hope in the other.