FLOOD [Pokémon]

Chapter 16: Bad to Worse

DARWIN

Monday, March 19, 2018

"And... Done. You can look now."

Mrs. Allen turned away in her swivel chair, and I took a breath a looked. No blood, just a cocoon of tightly bound bandages reaching up to my elbow. I lifted my arm off the table and braced for pain, but there was very little — a mild ache, maybe a sting if I moved it in the wrong direction.

Thank Arceus. May I'd dreamed up the red jet I' remembered shooting from my arm.

And I had passed out somewhere between the pool and the infirmary. The last things I remembered before my temporary blackout were Marshall screeching hysterically, the pops of tranquilizer guns, and the dizzying sensation of being jolted up-and-down as I was carried between six out-of-shape security guards. Next thing I knew, I was flat on an infirmary cot, and Nurse Allen was bandaging up my flesh.

The portly old woman with chains on her glasses turned back towards me. Her lips fire-engine red — the outrageous color did not flatter her. "With it, Darwin?" she asked.

I blinked once or twice, assessing my mental state. The shock that had struck me unconscious had worn off, but that wasn't exactly a good thing. "With it," I said.

"Good. Sign here, buddy." She handed me a clipboard and a busy-looking form, which had been highlighted at the bottom: patient signature. Trying to find focus, I scanned the rest of the page as I signed the bottom, and saw words like non-life-threatening and mild bruising and bite. Bite. Yes, Sharpedo's teeth, closing down on my arm. Bite.

The memory made me woozy all over again.

"Do you know your mother's cell phone number?" Mrs. Allen asked when I handed her back the clipboard. "Her work phone is in your student file, but she's not answering."

Unsurprising. Mom's secretarial job ran her ragged at the best of times. "Yeah—"

The door to the nurse's office flew open, and a red-faced Sergeant Marshall stomped in. Behind him, I could see the security guards lining the wall, looking anxious. Then they saw me sitting bright-eyed and bushy-tailed beside Mrs. Allen and they visibly deflated — their relief was very Thank-Arceus-we-can-keep-our-jobs-ish.

No such relief was to be found in Marshall, though — he stomped right up to me and boomed, "Is he fit to be discharged, Mrs. Allen?"

"From what I can tell," she said.

"Good. Hallway," he snarled at me. "Now."

Woodenly, I got up and followed him into the hall, which was an offshoot from the Armstrong Ed Building's administrative hub. Meaning, thank heavens, there was very little foot traffic from other students; I saw a couple of upperclassmen pass by a junction down the way, but the corridor was otherwise empty. Good. I really didn't want an audience for the tongue-lashing coming my way.

And Marshall looked ready to deliver — now that I was hale and hearty, the fury had returned to his eyes, and his teeth gnashed, ready to release some verbal torment. But to my surprise, all he said was, "What's your mom's phone number?"

I gave it, and he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and punched it in. Again, she didn't pick up. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Sorry, sir, she's usually pretty busy at work."

"Oh now it's sorry, is it?" Marshall leaned in close, his thumbs tapping his phone's screen. "Too bad I don't give a rip. You know who I'm calling next, Blakesley? Guess."