“Jesus Christ,” I murmur, gripping Presley’s hand tight as we step over prone bodies on the floor, making our way into the decrepit main building. The old hospital has clearly been shut down for years. It’s on the outskirts of Mattapan, near the Milton border. It’s set across four different-sized structures, some in better shape than others. Ivy creeps up the sides of the red-bricked buildings, most of the windows are cracked and boarded up, and parts of the roofs are missing in places. The old parking garage is cracked and broken, and debris litters the asphalt.
Inside is worse. Although it’s bright outside, you can’t tell in here. It’s pitch-black with the exception of faint lights that flicker from makeshift fires some of the residents have erected in old trash cans and large steel cans. I purposely scrunch my nose up, blocking my nostrils, to ward off the noxious smells so I don’t lose the contents of my stomach.
It pains me that Presley knows her way around this place. She avoids making eye contact with the people we pass as we stride through the main section, heading toward a hallway at the very back, and I follow her lead, keeping my head down while subtly staying aware of my surroundings. Some people are huddled together in small groups while most are alone, passed out on the cold floor unless they are lucky enough to occupy one of the sparse, filthy mattresses. Evidence of drug use litters the floor amid rusted food cans and the occasional food wrapper and empty bottle.
“Don’t draw their attention,” Presley whispers, dragging me down the hallway. “Don’t assume they are all strung-out junkies. Most of these addicts would gut you in a heartbeat if they thought you had drugs or money. We need to find Chris and get the fuck out of here ASAP.”
“Okay.” There’s no way I’m arguing with her. I’ve never seen anything like this, and it’s the wake-up call I need.
I never want this to be me.
I’ve got to clean all the junk from my system and stop relying on drugs to get me through the hard parts of my life.
Following her up a set of stairs to the next level, I vault over the broken steps when she points them out. The second level is different from the ground level. Up here, there are several smaller rooms, some with doors, most without, and I ignore looking at the people inside as I clutch Presley’s hand.
The gun in my back pocket gives me some peace of mind. She doesn’t know I have it because I store it in the trunk of my car, and I retrieved it without her noticing. There was no way I was coming into a place like this without some way to protect me and my girl.
After today, hell will freeze over before I let Presley return to this place. She can fight me all she wants, but she is not stepping foot in this hellhole ever again. I will fucking chain her to my bed if I have to. This place isn’t safe, and I want to kick Chris’s ass for putting her in danger.
Presley slams to a halt in front of the door at the end of the hallway, turning around and flinging herself into my arms. I hold her trembling body, realizing now how much of a front she’s been putting on. “I’m scared, Kent. What if we’re too late?”
“I’m here for you,” I say, pressing a fierce kiss to her brow. “You’re not doing this alone anymore.”
She eases back, staring up at me. “Thank you for being here.”
I hate that she’s thanking my pitiful ass, but I don’t call her out on it. This is for her. It’s not about me. “Let’s get this over and done with.” I link our hands while my free hand goes to my back pocket, ready to grab my gun should I need it.
Presley looks petrified as we step foot in the room. It’s much smaller than the big room downstairs but larger than the individual rooms we passed. I gag at the smell of sweat, piss, shit, and vomit, silently urging my stomach not to rebel. I was already feeling nauseated before stepping foot inside this building.
There are other smells too. A clinical chemical type smell along with a familiar vinegary, acidic smell and the scent of burning plastic. There are about twenty people in this room. All of them on dirty, lumpy mattresses. Some are passed out, needles still in their arms, while others are semi-conscious, half sitting and half lying. They stare vacantly at us as we pass, and their ghastly faces and haunted eyes burn holes in my skull. An icy shiver crawls up my spine, and acid churns in my gut.
This place gives me the creeps, and I want to get my woman out of here stat.
Presley has to lean down to see their faces in the darkened room, and I hate it. I keep one hand in hers and the other on my gun as she makes her way through the room.
“No!” Her shrill cry rings out in the quiet room a few moments later. I keep pace with her as she runs to the corner of the room, making a beeline for the man slumped on his side with a needle poking from a vein in his arm. “Oh my God, Chris!” Her panicked cries bounce off the walls, but no one else seems to register them.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” I extract my cell as she kneels on the floor in front of the mattress where her ex is lying immobile. She moves to take the needle from his arm, and I reach for her. “Should you be touching that?” This place has got to be germ infested, and we don’t have gloves. Besides, the vial is empty. Whatever he shot into his veins is already in his system.
“Chris.” Leaving the needle in his arm, she grabs hold of his face. I watch her as I talk to the operator, giving our location and explaining the circumstances. Presley turns on the flashlight on her phone, propping it against the side of the mattress. The light illuminates Chris’s pale features. His dark hair makes his skin seem even whiter, and his lips are cracked and devoid of color, his green eyes vacant as he stares off into space. He hasn’t moved since we approached, and Presley’s fingers are trembling as she presses them to his neck. “Chris, no!”
I end the call as she looks up at me with anguished eyes. “I can’t find a pulse,” she whispers with tears streaming down her face.
“Let me try.” She scoots back, as if in a daze, watching numbly as I check for a pulse at his wrist and his neck, not finding one either. Although it’s probably futile, I push Chris onto his back, rip his shirt open, and begin compressions, pushing up and down on his chest with my hands.
Presley doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, just sitting there, watching as silent tears course down her cheeks.
I’m just about to give up when a strangled sound emerges from his throat and his eyes blink.
“Chris!” Presley shrieks, crawling forward and hovering over his face. “Oh my God,” she sobs, crying into his shoulder. “You died!”
I’m still looming over him, and his eyes flit to mine. His pupils enlarge, and his body shakes and jerks, his limbs thrashing about. Presley lifts her head, terror etched upon her face.
“You,” he croaks, staring at me. “No.” He turns his head to Presley, opening his mouth to say something, but no words come out. He makes a last gasp for air, and then all the light extinguishes in his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Kent
