TWELVE

Gruber met Sam in the hospital lobby and walked with him to the security office.

To pass the time, Sam asked, “So, how did the truck driver get his hands on a scalpel?”

“Not a scalpel,” Gruber said. “Pocket knife from his jeans. And, obviously, he didn’t bother to sterilize the damn thing. Or his hands, which he used to reach inside his gut and… Never mind, you probably don’t want to know the details. Doctor says if the wound doesn’t kill him, the inevitable staph infection will. They’re pumping him full of antibiotics.”

After a moment, a security guard let them in, then excused himself to grab a cup of coffee. Gruber sat at a desk facing a computer with security footage frozen on it. Grabbing the nearest chair, Sam positioned himself to Gruber’s left.

“Show me,” he said.

“We have recorded footage from two cameras in the emergency room,” Gruber said. He switched to a split-screen view and played the recording from the two cameras side by side. One camera had a view from the fish tank wall toward the restrooms and the hallway leading back to the curtained treatment areas; the other camera faced the front of the emergency room from behind the clerical station. The time stamps on both playbacks matched and they picked up moments before the fighting began. Both cameras recorded in black and white. Neither recorded sound, but it was evident that an argument had begun even before the ponytailed man with the vomit bucket climbed out of his seat and turned to face Archie Davick.

“That’s Cal Bonkowski with the bucket.”

As Sam remembered, the fighting escalated quickly from the moment Cal’s bucket splashed leather jacket man.

“Biker-chic there is Augie Mills.”

The fighting spread like a brushfire after a long drought. The slightest contact set people off, shoving, punching, kicking. Nobody turned the other cheek. And it soon overwhelmed the room. Sam watched the digital recording of himself and Dean, attempting to break up combatants, stop squabbles before they turned violent and bloody. But no sooner had they pried apart two fighters than another pair squared off. In spots, whole groups clawed and punched and kicked each other, in what looked like an ultraviolent rugby scrum.

“What am I looking for?”

“Focus on the fighters who never give up,” Gruber said. “Some never stop until they are unconscious, cuffed or zip-tied. The others seem to get swept up in the madness but—”

“They bail at the first opportunity.”

“All it takes is one good punch, a solid kick, a bloody nose,” Gruber said, “and they decide enough is enough. That’s what I’d call normal behavior. Everyone’s tough until they get punched in the mouth. They’re willing to see reason at that point.”

“The ones cowering behind overturned chairs and tables.”

“You and Tench are in the middle of the worst of it,” Gruber said. “By choice. You put yourselves in harm’s way. But I think you were too close to the action to see what was happening with the others.”

“So, some had the stomach for it,” Sam reasoned, “to keep fighting, while others called it quits. Makes sense. They were already hurt or sick.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you,” Gruber said. “But some who kept fighting were in worse shape than some who tagged out. Bonkowski could barely keep himself from heaving in his bucket until the fight started.”

Sam thought it possible that whatever possessed the Moyer residents had control of those who refused to quit, but he couldn’t really make that point with Gruber. If he started talking about possession, he had a good idea where the conversation would lead. Instead, he asked, “You see a pattern?”

“I made a list of the fighters and the quitters,” Gruber said. “I know a bunch of them—Moyer’s a relatively small town and I make a point to know the residents—and the ones I don’t know, I looked up while I was waiting to talk to Mr. DIY Liposuction.”

“This is a county hospital,” Sam said. “Are we outside the city limits?”

“Yes, we are,” Gruber said.

“They’re all from Moyer,” Sam guessed. “The fighters?”

“Every single one,” Gruber said, nodding. “A few of the quitters are from Moyer, but most are not. Majority are from here, Bakersburg.”

“Was anyone outside Moyer affected by the blackout?” Sam asked.

“Been asking around,” Gruber said. “So far, nobody outside Moyer lost consciousness at midnight.”

“So, whatever it was, it specifically targeted Moyer residents.”

“How is that even possible?” Gruber asked. “If you draw an outline around the town’s borders, it’s not a perfect circle, not even a square. Looks more like a long rectangle on end, tilting east. You can’t release a chemical agent or anything else dead center and limit the effects to the border but not beyond.”

Sam thought he’d noticed something during the playback of the security footage, but needed confirmation. “Can you replay that?”

“The whole thing?”

Sam nodded. Gruber zipped backward to the first argument, then hit play.

Sam watched as the bickering and threats between Davick and Bonkowski turned into an emergency room riot. But this time, he kept his eyes attuned to the Moyer fighters, the ones who wouldn’t quit until unconscious or forcibly restrained.

Gruber leaned toward the screen. “What do you see?”

“Look at their faces,” Sam said, pointing. “Whenever they take a hit to the face, punch to a kidney, or a kick to a shin.”

Nodding, Gruber said, “Their faces never seem to change.”

“They were sick or injured before this began,” Sam said. “But you’d never know it. While they fought, they didn’t feel pain.”

“Huh.”

“But later, after the fighting ends, they seem to feel the new wounds, wincing, clutching their sides, rubbing bruises, hands pressed to facial lacerations.”

Sam wondered if whatever possessed the Moyer residents could switch off pain receptors. Maybe they could live the experience à la carte. Emotions switched on, pain awareness nullified. That might be a way to make the experience—the joyride—last longer. Unfortunately, once the intruder vacated the body, the human host suffered the consequences of the ordeal. Legal, physical… and mental.