Camballi turned and surveyed the ensuite. Shiny
white handlebars were screwed onto the wall near the toilet and sink. Emergency
cords dangled like streamers from expelled party poppers. Various bins for
specified items of waste littered the floor, and notes about the importance of
washing hands to combat the spread of deadly germs were plastered to the
cistern and storage units. None of it was news to Camballi, but after sitting
down, he read all there was to read. Twice.
Afterwards, and with some trepidation, he
approached the sink. He turned on the taps full blast and slowly moved one hand
under the cold, the powerful water stirring nerves that had been dulled by his
recent inactivity. He pushed the plug into place and muttered a quiet prayer as
the sink filled, his eyes clenched shut.
He looked down at his hands as he slowly
submerged them in the clear, tepid water. He quickly lifted them out and
squeezed liquid soap out of the vial screwed to the wall and dipped both his
hands back into the sink, rubbing them together. The water felt mild,
revitalising, the soap frothing bubbly smooth.
Then something felt wrong.
Camballi tried denial, but he knew it was
happening.
His heart began to race. He wanted to stop
rubbing his hands together, to scream ‘no’, to run out of the room, away, away.
But Rodwell was out there. If he saw… it was too soon for him to see. He wasn’t
ready.
The water cascading over his hands was no
longer revitalising, the bubbles no longer softly innocent. He daren’t look
down into the sink. He could feel something fleshy in there. Something alive.
A hard, sharp fang punctured his right index
finger. Instinctively he recoiled, suppressing the urge to yell out in pain,
pulling his dripping hands out of the water. A set of gleaming white claws lashed
out from under the soapy surface, followed by long narrow teeth that tried to sink
themselves into his wrists. Camballi wrestled the beast, pulling it out of the
water and holding it at arm’s length as it made several attempts to scratch and
bite his face. Long, thick, powerful hind legs kicked out as the beast tried to
free itself from Camballi’s clutches. Camballi summoned the little strength he
possessed and plunged the beast back into the sink that was still filling with
water and on the brink of overflowing. The blood from Camballi’s split finger dyed
the water red. Undeterred, he battled to keep the beast’s head under the
surface.
But its thrashing body was too big for the
bowl, its will to live too strong.
As deep red eyes bored into him, teeth
snarling with intent to sever his jugular, Camballi held the scrambling,
dripping beast above his head, its long feet kicking air. With a wrestle and
through gritted teeth, he gripped the beast’s neck, sustaining scratches to his
forearms as he manouvered his fingers into place.
Camballi uttered a quiet prayer then twisted
his hands with the skill of an experienced huntsman. The snap was audible, but
not loud enough to alert Rodwell in the adjacent room. There were no squeals. The
hind legs kicked air for a couple of seconds before the realisation hit home
that the rest of its body was dead.
Camballi felt its life evaporate in his hands.
He held up the limp corpse to his face, its
spiky ears features kids might find cute in another context, its deep red eyes
the sort of thing they’d find horrific in any context.
He tipped open the pedal bin with his foot,
pulled out the plastic liner bag and stuffed the corpse inside, tying it air
tight. He unceremoniously dropped the bagged beast inside and released the
pedal. He had no idea how often the bins were emptied around here, but figured it
wouldn’t be long before the corpse was discovered or started to betray its
presence through the stench of its decay.
Camballi knew he needed to get out of
Turpenton General, and soon.
‘You OK in there?’
Rodwell tapped on the other side of the door.
‘It’s just that you’ve been a while. I know these things sometimes take time,
but…’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Camballi. ‘I’ve had
a lot to do.’
Rodwell thought that sounded reasonable and
moved away from the door.
Camballi wrapped a plaster around his wounded
finger and made sure his smock covered the scratches on his arms. He looked at
himself in the mirror, his face more pale and gaunt than he remembered, a world
away from the expensive promotional shots of him and Lucille that had been
spread across the newspapers. He resisted the urge to lift his smock and
inspect the damage to his stomach. He knew there’d be little to see save blood
soaked dressings, and he could feel where each of those were, the wounds smarting.
Enough of the self-pity. It was more
important not to leave a trace of what had happened in here. He was well versed
in covering his tracks, in muting the sounds, stemming the blood, disposing of the
evidence. The worst thing Camballi had to deal with, and something he couldn’t
clear away with ease, was the guilt of the dead beast’s soul preying on his
mind. And today’s casualty wasn’t alone. Camballi had the blood of hundreds on
his hands.
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