and tore into her throat.
Again, the rush of the gush. For the first time in his life Lanz truly felt alive. He couldn't stop. He
wouldn't
stop!
Nurse Winslow
THE two big orderlies emerged from cold storage into the autopsy suite where Janine stood by one of the tables, gripping the stainless steel so her hands wouldn't shake. She'd been head nurse at Blessed Crucifixion since Jenny Bolton had been fired, and nothing had rattled her up until now, not even the ten burn victims who'd come through her ER six months ago when the Doublespruce Hotel had gone up in flames.
But she'd just watched Ralph and Benjamin roll a man past her on a gurney whose head had been ripped off, and she didn't have a filter for that. They'd set the victim's head in his lap with his hands positioned so it appeared as though he was holding his own noggin, one of them cracking a joke about Ichabod Crane as they wheeled past, and she would've dressed them down right then and there, but it was all she could do to keep standing, her legs threatening to give out at any moment.
Nothing about this was right. They'd brought that rich old man in several weeks ago on a morphine OD scare, and he'd barely had the strength to get himself around without a walker.
She looked up. Ralph was standing in front of her.
"Anything else, Ms. Winslow?"
Low, booming voice. Bloodshot eyes suggesting a healthy marijuana habit.
"No, but go check with Dr. Lanz."
She followed the orderlies to the entrance of the morgue. "I'm going to lock myself in," she said. "Call me when they've caught the old man."
She closed the door and turned the deadbolt, knew she
should
feel safe now--no way to open that door from the outside unless you had a key--but something about being down here in the basement with six corpses still unnerved her.
Janine drifted over to the coroner's desk and eased down into the metal folding chair. God, she was tired. Her shift should've ended an hour ago. Couldn't wait to get home, crack open that four-pack of Bartles and Jaymes Strawberry Daiquiri wine coolers, and watch the newest episode of
House
she'd TiVo'd last night.
Hugh Laurie.
Yum.
Even now, she felt that warmth between her legs. House would know how to handle a situation like this, no doubt. She'd never admitted it to anyone, but she often imagined that Lanz was House, and she was Dr. Cuddy, took the whole fantasy quite a bit farther than she was comfortable admitting, even to herself, especially after two or three wine coolers and her lounging in a bubble bath with her Natural Contours Personal Massager.
It had suddenly grown very quiet. She never liked coming down to the cooler. Not even in the middle of the day with the medical examiner and his team buzzing around. The chill that radiated out of cold storage just plain creeped her out.
She rubbed her arms, gooseflesh spreading across her skin.
Her navy scrubs wouldn't keep her warm down here.
A sound perked her head up.
Soft, muffled. Sourced from cold storage.
Temperature gradient, she figured. The metal doors of the refrigerated morgue drawers contracting and expanding.
She glanced at her watch: 9:12 P.M.
She should be home by now, dammit, already into her second--
Another sound. Unmistakable. Like someone had thumped one of the drawers. She stood up. If Ralph and Benjamin were fucking with her, she'd make certain they were drug-tested next week. Would bet her next two paychecks they'd both come back with hot UAs.
She walked through the autopsy suite toward the large door to cold storage, which stood wide open.
From what she'd heard, practical jokes were a common occurrence down here, but she couldn't believe even those two stoners would try to pull something on a night like this.
She stepped through into cold storage and put her ear to one of the drawers.
Sounded like fingernails scratching against metal.
The scratching stopped.
BANG.
She jumped back.
BANG. BANG.
What the hell?
BANG.
Again, the rush of the gush. For the first time in his life Lanz truly felt alive. He couldn't stop. He
wouldn't
stop!
Nurse Winslow
THE two big orderlies emerged from cold storage into the autopsy suite where Janine stood by one of the tables, gripping the stainless steel so her hands wouldn't shake. She'd been head nurse at Blessed Crucifixion since Jenny Bolton had been fired, and nothing had rattled her up until now, not even the ten burn victims who'd come through her ER six months ago when the Doublespruce Hotel had gone up in flames.
But she'd just watched Ralph and Benjamin roll a man past her on a gurney whose head had been ripped off, and she didn't have a filter for that. They'd set the victim's head in his lap with his hands positioned so it appeared as though he was holding his own noggin, one of them cracking a joke about Ichabod Crane as they wheeled past, and she would've dressed them down right then and there, but it was all she could do to keep standing, her legs threatening to give out at any moment.
Nothing about this was right. They'd brought that rich old man in several weeks ago on a morphine OD scare, and he'd barely had the strength to get himself around without a walker.
She looked up. Ralph was standing in front of her.
"Anything else, Ms. Winslow?"
Low, booming voice. Bloodshot eyes suggesting a healthy marijuana habit.
"No, but go check with Dr. Lanz."
She followed the orderlies to the entrance of the morgue. "I'm going to lock myself in," she said. "Call me when they've caught the old man."
She closed the door and turned the deadbolt, knew she
should
feel safe now--no way to open that door from the outside unless you had a key--but something about being down here in the basement with six corpses still unnerved her.
Janine drifted over to the coroner's desk and eased down into the metal folding chair. God, she was tired. Her shift should've ended an hour ago. Couldn't wait to get home, crack open that four-pack of Bartles and Jaymes Strawberry Daiquiri wine coolers, and watch the newest episode of
House
she'd TiVo'd last night.
Hugh Laurie.
Yum.
Even now, she felt that warmth between her legs. House would know how to handle a situation like this, no doubt. She'd never admitted it to anyone, but she often imagined that Lanz was House, and she was Dr. Cuddy, took the whole fantasy quite a bit farther than she was comfortable admitting, even to herself, especially after two or three wine coolers and her lounging in a bubble bath with her Natural Contours Personal Massager.
It had suddenly grown very quiet. She never liked coming down to the cooler. Not even in the middle of the day with the medical examiner and his team buzzing around. The chill that radiated out of cold storage just plain creeped her out.
She rubbed her arms, gooseflesh spreading across her skin.
Her navy scrubs wouldn't keep her warm down here.
A sound perked her head up.
Soft, muffled. Sourced from cold storage.
Temperature gradient, she figured. The metal doors of the refrigerated morgue drawers contracting and expanding.
She glanced at her watch: 9:12 P.M.
She should be home by now, dammit, already into her second--
Another sound. Unmistakable. Like someone had thumped one of the drawers. She stood up. If Ralph and Benjamin were fucking with her, she'd make certain they were drug-tested next week. Would bet her next two paychecks they'd both come back with hot UAs.
She walked through the autopsy suite toward the large door to cold storage, which stood wide open.
From what she'd heard, practical jokes were a common occurrence down here, but she couldn't believe even those two stoners would try to pull something on a night like this.
She stepped through into cold storage and put her ear to one of the drawers.
Sounded like fingernails scratching against metal.
The scratching stopped.
BANG.
She jumped back.
BANG. BANG.
What the hell?
BANG.
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