Waiting

He sits in the chair, watching the door. Waiting for an opportunity. Waiting like a patient animal, knowing there’s only one right moment to bite.

He’s close now . . . so close . . . but there are too many eyes.

Around him, the usual chorus: slurred arguments, wet coughs, the rattle of phlegm sliding loose, groans leaking from clenched teeth. Alcohol and pain. The air tastes faintly of old beer mats, a chemical sweetness that fails to hide the rot underneath. His hand rests in his lap, still wrapped in the wet cloth, cool as meat from a butcher’s counter, red with paint.

Beside the door, the reception desk. A large woman sits behind it. She looks unamused, her face set in the slack, heavy way of someone who’s been eroded by years of this place. Like she’s replaying every bad decision that brought her here . . . behind that desk, boxed in by these walls, surrounded by these people, working these hours.

There are other doors in the waiting room. Most lead somewhere else . . . to a GP, a triage nurse, a private examination bay. But one, the one beside the desk, is the way he needs.

Intensive Care Unit.

A doctor approaches the desk. They exchange a few words. She reaches under, presses something. A muted buzz. The door unlocks. The doctor slips through. The lock clicks shut again.

He stays where he is. Not sure why the shadows have brought him here. His focus drifts, slow and glassy, like a cat watching moths circle a lamp.

They move above him in all directions . . . across the ceiling tiles, along the walls. There are more here than anywhere else he’s seen. Like a wasps’ nest hidden in the rafters. They slip from the corners in growing numbers. They like it here.

It’s a feeding ground.

He doesn’t know exactly what they feed on. But it’s here, in abundance.

One moves close, sliding under chairs, touching shadows so it can move faster, more fluid. It stops beneath the seat next to him.

A working girl occupies it. One hand pressing a bag of ice to a split lip, the other holding a pair of stiletto heels. The thing writhes beneath her, distorting the outline of her shadow like heat shimmer.

She turns toward him. Leans in. Grins through yellow teeth.

“My babies… they’ll wait for me. They’ll keep waiting,” she says.

He jerks back. A memory slams into him.

He stares into her eyes. Something else stares back.

She moves fast . . . heel raised, arm a blur. Metal tip down, like an ice pick. A wet, meaty punch of sound.

The woman beside her stumbles to her feet, a scream caught in her throat. A stiletto protrudes from her chest.

Now the screaming breaks loose.

Two drunks hit the floor nearby, grappling. The one on top rears back with a howl, something pink and wet dangling between his teeth . . . an ear.

More shouting. More chaos.

He looks to the desk. The receptionist is gone . . . gone to get the guard. But she never makes it. Someone barrels into her, dragging her to the ground. She screams.

He doesn’t watch the rest.

He’s already at the desk, reaching over, fingers searching. Underneath . . . there.

A button.

He presses it.

A buzz.

A click.

The door gives way.

He slips through, pushing the cloth back into his pocket. His hand comes away wet. The smell rises, metallic and sticky. Wipes it down his trousers . . . red on red. No one will notice.

A hallway. At the far end, a junction. Which way?

The lights ahead flicker. One dies just before he reaches it. When he passes, it wakes again behind him.

That way.

He walks. Each lamp bows to darkness as he approaches, flaring back to life once the shadows pass, as if they’re afraid to look directly at him. The wellies are tight, his feet aching, but it won’t be for long.

Another junction. Another light dies ahead.

He follows.

At last, the lights lead him to a door. The creatures vanish. The glow returns.

A small whiteboard is clipped to the wall beside the frame, marker scrawled across it in quick, careless strokes: M. Orpheus.

He’s on his own now.

He pushes it open.

He walks inside.

The door closes quietly shut behind him.