"Incoming!"
Goon's bellow gave me a start. I started so hard I smacked my head on the examination table I was under. "Ritzaziffle!" I told the table what I thought of it in frank terms. Of course, I didn't really say "Ritzaziffle." Elliot won't record what I really said.
"Incoming!" Goon shouted.
"Ritzaziffle!" I complained.
Into the ER Goon staggered. For a box of rocks, the guy sure was strong. He must have had five casualties, all tangled limbs and torsos, in his arms. I peered out from under the table as his tree trunk legs stumped by and thanked any god listening I wasn't in the way.
Now, Elliot, don't ask why I was under the table. You know why.
There are some things Elliot just can't do, for all he -- it -- is the hospital's lifeline and responsible for things like making clean water and, well, making clean water. He can't fry griddlecakes or churn butter or replace a "ritzaziffle" transistor in one of the many pinging machines that can prolong the lives of the poor sods -- like me! Ha! -- who come here to get patched up.
Was that a chuckle, Elliot? Yes, I'm glaring at you. Your sensors hot yet?
Now Goon's appearance sent the docs into a tizzy of white coats and technical jargon that equated to "ritzaziffle! gadzooks! morphine!" I deemed it safer under the table and moved back to nurse my sore head and to hope none remembered I was under here. I'd just pulled 18 hours in the ER and I was tired. The transistor shuffle was supposed to be my last duty.
There's always one more thing to do, Elliot. Who else is gonna do them?
Out of sight of the docs and the dying, I rested my back against the pinging machine and closed my eyes. It was an easy thing to do. The noise of the ER became a soothing drone and my headache faded. I did the classic nodding, catching myself before I actually fell into sleep by flinging my head up and back into the table. I groaned. I couldn't do anything else because I now had company.
Half in and out of the floor were three ghosts, presumably the spirits that were housed in the shreds Goon had brought in. They sandwiched me between their shimmering, mangled bodies and stared at me with dead, white eyes. One of them touched my shoulder -- his hand went through my shoulder! -- and I began to shake. I gave them my best scowl, but I think my chattering teeth ruined the effect. They remained unimpressed, and I gave up. The ghosts have always shaken me, no matter my resolve.
"Tell me," I whispered. They started yammering at once.
Yes, Elliot. I'll continue, but right now, I gotta few errands to run. I gotta tell a few mamas their boys are dead.