Mr. 8

Chapter 22: Case Closed

Denton looked up into the dull winter sky. His bleary eyes barely perceived the varying layers of gray. The slate cloud cover was marred by the darker hues of an approaching storm. The sky itself was masked by streaks of dirt and dust on the window that had been shaped by rain since it was last washed.

"There. All done," the nurse said, withdrawing the needle and pressing cotton down on his arm.

She held the syringe with the same hand she used to keep the cotton ball in place. Her free hand stuck tape over it with a practiced motion. The vial was filled with dark blood destined for a lab somewhere in the basement of the hospital.

Denton's attention lingered on it for a second, before shifting his focus to the foot of the bed.

The painkillers were making him woozy. A fog hovered over his mind and a slight nausea circled around his belly. But on the plus side, they had numbed him to everything else, and he felt a hundred times better than he had earlier.

In the cabin, the smoke billowed from an unseen source behind the kitchen counter, rapidly filling the room. It didn't smell like fire but instead burned like acid. Alvin was gone—just suddenly gone. The back door burst open. Hands hooked under Denton's armpits and dragged him out as boots thundered by his head. Voices shouted an incomprehensible confusion of orders and commands.

"Down—Tango—Down—Charlie—Team—Perimeter—Down—All Clear—Asset secured—Roger that."

Denton was propped up against the building, where the eaves had prevented the snow from building up. He sank only an inch before settling on the frozen ground. He coughed the teargas out of his lungs. His eyes burned like coals and shed water in constant streams down his face. He fumbled his hand toward his back pants pocket.

"Hang in there," a deep, muffled voice said. "The EMTs will be here soon. The snow's slowing them down."

He managed to get two fingers on his handkerchief and pull it out from underneath him. He wiped his eyes clear and rubbed the mucus from his nose. Through his squinted vision, he could see the cloth stained with glistening red. Tentatively, he felt his head. His fingertips came back coated in blood. The cut on his forehead was flowing freely. He pressed the hanky to it to try and staunch the bleeding.

By being flat on his back when the raid began, he had avoided the full effect of the gas. After about ten minutes in the fresh morning air, he began to feel clear of it with only a lingering burning in his eyes and throat. There was also a thumping forming in his head. Although it was hard to be certain since he'd had a headache all night and the pain from where his head had come into contact with the door did a good job of camouflaging the new sensation.

"Sir, can you hear me?" The officer leaned over into Denton's face. He had removed his gas mask. It hung to the side from a strap at his neck and looked like a second head. The man's voice had a much less rich tone than with it on. He was young, maybe only a year or two older than the boys who had held him captive.

Denton opened his mouth to speak, but instead of a voice he found only muddy gravel. He nodded.

A second man in a much less militaristic uniform knelt down in front of him. He pulled Denton's hand away from his head and after a glance pressed it back to the wound.

"Keep it there," he said.

"We're going to put you on the stretcher now. Do you understand?" the officer asked.

He nodded again.

They maneuvered him in the snow, shifting him around until he was stretched out flat. He was handled like a mannequin, something devoid of free will and incapable of moving on its own. He was far too relieved to care about his loss of control or how they manipulated him. They could put their hands on him all they wanted. It was finally over.