The Ferryman by Christopher Golden Read Free Book Online Page B

him I’d love to see him.”
    The intensive-care unit was quiet, save for the steady beep of monitors and pumps. Not that there was generally a lot of noise in ICU beyond the conversations between doctors and nurses, but often enough, there would be the sounds of despair. Stefanie Harlow was always relieved when she could finish a shift without losing a patient or hearing someone sob. Though she had chosen the ICU, and she believed that she brought some comfort to all her patients, both those who survived and those who did not, it was a constant drain on her emotions.
    Two days earlier she had heard a teenage boy singing softly to his unconscious mother. An hour later the woman had died. Stefanie still could not get the song out of her head.
    But this evening it was quiet. That was always good.
    Then, almost as if summoned by her thoughts, an alarm went off on one of the monitors.
    â€œDamn it,” she hissed.
    Mr. Haupt was a cancer patient. He had been undergoing radical chemotherapy and had had a heart attack that put him into a coma. Less than two days had passed, and hope for his recovery had dwindled to almost zero. His wife and children had gone home for dinner and a shower, and were due at eight, less than half an hour away.
    Stefanie wondered if perhaps he hadn’t just grown impatient. Despite all they had done for him, she knew that he must be in a lot of pain.
    Chaos erupted in the curtained-off unit around Mr. Haupt as nurses and doctors rushed in. With one look at the patient—and without any need to look at the monitors—Stefanie knew that the man had had another cardiac episode. She also knew that it would be his last.
    It’s not fair, she thought.
    Dr. Pulaski glanced at the monitors, studied Mr. Haupt for a moment, and then held up one hand.
    â€œDon’t,” he said. “He has a DNR order.”
    As if a switch had been thrown, the chaos dissipated. Though the monitors still showed the man’s fast decline, the alarms were shut off. Stefanie knew that with a do-not-resuscitate order there was nothing more they could do for the man. It just seemed so wrong that his family—who had spent two days in vigil at his bedside—had gone home for a few hours only to return and find him dead.
    The others milled around, beginning in advance the work that would need to be done once Mr. Haupt was dead. Stefanie thought it in exceptionally bad taste. She sat on the edge of the bed and held tight to Mr. Haupt’s limp hand as the old man’s life slipped away.
    â€œDon’t go,” she whispered to him. “Wait for them, just a little longer.”
    â€œDid you say something, Stefanie?” one of the other nurses asked.
    â€œJust a shame they won’t get to say good-bye,” she admitted.
    â€œIt always is,” the other woman replied.
    On the monitor, Mr. Haupt’s pulse flat-lined. Stefanie did not need to see it to know the man was dead. His cold hand had twitched once, squeezing her fingers as though trying to send her a signal.Then it had been still.
    Almost instantly, at least it seemed to her, his skin had taken on the waxy sheen of dead flesh. No longer was the thing before her a human being, but a dried husk, a hollowed-out shell.
    Tenderly, Stefanie reached her fingers up to touch the man’s cheek. When she did, she hissed and pulled her hand away. The dead man’s skin was not simply cold; it felt icy, frozen.
    â€œKaren?” she said, softly at first. Then louder. “Karen, could you come over here?”
    The other nurse approached. Even as she did, Stefanie watched in horror as Mr. Haupt’s skin began to change. He had been drawn and pale at the end, of course, but now his flesh began to look mottled.
    â€œWhat is it?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Karen said quickly, alarm in her tone. “Could be some sort of virus or something.”
    For the dead man’s skin had lost its mottling,