The Bedlamite Obligation (A Matt Savage Adventure) Chapter 28

[seymoure]

All Kinds of Monsters 

“Everyone carries around his own monsters.”
-Richard Pryor 

What follows was put together from reports gathered later. 

 

The room was quiet and dark.

The hospital was also mostly without activity.  I hesitate to say lifeless, but you know what I mean.

The taller one was at least 5 foot 10 inches and wide in the shoulders. The shorter one was at least 4 inches shorter than his comrade, but was muscled like he had little else to do in his life besides work out.

The pair of them walked in the lobby with a detached air that said, “We were told what to do, and we’re going to do it.”

They stopped at some flowers inside the front door, pausing for a second to act casual. Then they strolled to the elevator, but their steps picked up intensity as they got close to getting near the end of their charade.

When the elevator doors closed on them, they took out their guns and put silencers on them. That action seemed to calm the pair. The tall, dark-brown-haired one with the brown eyes stood in the front of the lift. The shorter, dirty blonde one with the grey-blue eyes shifted from foot to foot as he waited for the ride to end.

They put their pistols out of sight as the bell rang and the doors opened. There was no one in the halls, so they checked out the room numbers on the walls and narrowed down their hunting grounds.

They peered around the door of their destination. The room was being shared, and their target was in the far bed. The nearer bed was occupied by someone who had been in some kind of horrible accident. He was bandaged on every inch of his body they could see. He didn’t move, it was almost as if he never took a breath. Next to the bed was a woman, probably his wife.

She was old, asleep in her chair. It might have struck them as odd that she wore a veil and hat, but that would have taken less obsession with their goal. They walked to the second bed, with the curtain drawn around it. The silhouette of the bed showed a very large man who also wasn’t breathing.

They didn’t get any closer than three feet. Instead they just pulled out their guns and started to quietly blaze away at the figure in the bed.

After they had emptied their pistols they, at least, could breath again.

The short one felt the cold metal come in contact with his temple.

“Hellava thing to do to Santa, boys,” the accident victim said, now standing next to them with a .45 in his hand.

The taller of the two young men considered trying something.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Rayleen, with her veil pulled back and the shot gun lodging in the center of the boy’s back.

Cooper walked into the room and pulled the curtain back, exposing the stuffed figure with stuffing coming out of it all over the space.

“Poor old St. Nick,” he said and took out his hand cuffs.

© C. Wayne Owens
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