Trolls in the Hamptons by Celia Jerome Page A

hear splashing, then thumping, then the water flushing again. He must have figured it out, except the toilet wouldn’t refill fast enough.
    I heard an explosion that turned out to be the porcelain toilet being wrenched off its foundation. Now the water kept running.
    The woman in the other stall cursed, then ran out, the hems of her slacks wet. I’d throw them out, myself.
    The first woman started to open the door to the hall, shouting for a maintenance man, just as the partitions between the stalls began to go down like dominoes. The second woman pushed past the first one, yelling that the building was collapsing. She held her hand over her head, as if that could protect her from the walls and ceilings caving in, which they did not, because Fafhrd hadn’t finished his washup.
    Now staff workers and patients started to peer in the open bathroom door, in time to see Fafhrd, big red Fafhrd, pick up another toilet bowl and toss it across the room into the sink. Water gushed everywhere, to his grinning delight. He pulled out the soap dispensers, making himself a bubble bath. The water ran off, though, when he tried to lay down in it, no matter how his huge hands tried to gather it back.
    With every fixture in the ladies’ room spouting torrents, Fafhrd’s bath puddle turned into a stream, then a river, flowing out the door, to the corridor and down the hall, where people were screaming.
    I was too stunned to move, even when the rushing water—from who knew where—covered my sneakers.
    Porcelain kept smashing, the water level kept rising, and the people were yelling about the torrent, not the troll.
    â€œGet out!” I shouted, kicking up a tidal wave myself.
    â€œWhat, is someone trapped in there?” A janitor type person rushed past me—with a mop. Now there was an optimist.
    â€œIt’s . . . it’s . . . ”
    â€œAnother bowl shattering. Must be shock waves from that new atomic disintegrator they’re testing downstairs to fragment tumors.”
    To disintegrate tumors? This kind of force could disassemble an automobile. Heaven knew what it could do to a person.
    Then I saw that Fafhrd was trying to float the toilets like rubber duckies. “Stop that!”
    â€œYeah, lady, I would if I could.” The janitor dragged me out into the corridor.
    Alarms were going off, and other men in the same uniform were on walkie-talkies, shouting at once so I doubt anyone could hear what they were saying over the sound of the water and the screams from the people running toward the exits.
    â€œShut the frigging water off at the main.”
    â€œEvacuate the building?”
    â€œAssess damage to the floors below.”
    â€œBreak a hole in the outer wall to let the water out onto the street instead of letting it seep through to the basement levels.”
    â€œAnd for Chrissake, don’t let anyone use a toilet!”
    I wouldn’t say there was panic in the hospital. After all, these people were used to disaster, and this was only water. But the corridors were full. Someone had sense enough to shut down the elevators before the electric lines got wet, so people were bunched up at the stairs and emergency exits. They were all wet, all angry, all bitching about the budget cuts that left the building in disrepair. No one mentioned the monster that pushed through the wall to leave the rest room.
    People ducked.
    â€œGet down. It’s another bursting bowl!”
    Fafhrd blew me a soapy kiss and disappeared.
    I had to wait, my feet getting waterlogged in my sneakers, because the stairwells were jammed.
    Announcements came over the PA system that all nonessential personnel from the upper floors were to assist people below out of the building. Emergency exits were flooded but passable. All maintenance men report to the water main. Operations were canceled. Hand washing was canceled. Appointments were canceled.
    What if they had to cancel treatments that might save