Midnight Shift (3) - Psycho Killer, Qu'est-que-c'est

                                    

                                          
For the last few hours of Steve's life, it would be his lucky dime.
                          
The little glint caught his eye and despite his grief he bent over to pick it up. The figure behind him swung its machete at Steve but missed, the whole thing almost comical in its effect.
                          
Steve recoiled and, realizing that whoever killed Petey was now going for him, jumped on his bag and grabbed his pistol from the ground. The assailant was still trying to regain his balance but Steve could not make out his features. His body shape indicated that he was a man, but his face was covered in thick black hair over a sweat soaked pair of orange prison overalls, with the label 027 printed on the right side of his chest in large black letters.
                          
Steve took aim and pulled the Beretta's trigger twice, praying to his newfound God that the magazine was full. One shot rang out and hit his attacker in the shin, leaving him screaming. The second one was a dreadful click.
                          
The attacker roared and limped towards Steve, machete in hand. Steve tossed the empty Beretta at him and started running in the direction of the road, safe in the knowledge that the assailant couldn't catch up to him now.
                          
There was a sharp zipping sound and Steve felt a searing pain in his right shoulder blade, making him lose his balance and fall to the ground.
                          
'Motherfucker!' Steve yelled from across West Harbor Road. 'What do you want?' He managed to climb up to a crawling stance and ripped the machete out of his back, falling onto his face again in pain.
                          
The assailant made no effort to reply and started limping towards Steve, a grin on his face. Steve rolled onto his back and raised the machete in his right hand when a burning pain in his right shoulder made him drop it on the floor.
                          
A loud whooping sound was followed by the car filled with drunken underage teens, driving back home. Steve hoped that the kid driver was inebriated and his hopes were confirmed when the car swerved towards the attacker.
                          
It was over in a flash. A loud splat, screams, and the screeching of brakes. The smell of burning rubber filled the air and attacked Steve's nasal cavities with the strength of a truck, and the loud whooping that had been following the car quieted down.
                          
The driver kid, clearly below eighteen, stumbled out of the car and went up to the body. He motioned towards another one of his pals. 'Hey dickhead, check this out.'
                          
Dickhead happily obliged and hopped out of the van to stare at the body. He looked at it for a minute or two and proclaimed that 'this dude was totally fucked up beyond rec-ug-nishun.' He then rambled about, regained his bearings and climbed back into the car before feeling some girl up. The driver kid grabbed some towel from the back of the car and wiped off the blood from his hood as if it were just a small water stain.
                          
He wasn't entirely successful but seemed satisfied all the same when Steve saw him toss the towel on the dead body and climb back into the car. Nobody noticed Steve, off the side of the road, grunting in pain to the rhythm of the relentless throbbing of his torn shoulder.
                          
After the kids drove off, Steve took fifteen minutes dragging himself back to the front gate, leaving a thin trail of blood in his wake. He needed medical attention fast and could feel his head buzzing like some bitch of a fly that gets in your car and decides your head is a wonderful holiday resort, complete with a beach. Steve had a fleeting image of Petey's dead body, propped up on the toilet, his right hand flashing a thumbs up towards Steve. To Petey's right, the words WISH YOU WERE HERE were scrawled in blood.
                          
The shoulder screamed at him again, harder this time, and the edges of his line of sight started to blur. His left hand was soaked in blood from covering the wound and the slightest movement in his right arm felt like a thousand volt electrocution.
                          
A little voice reminded him that the precinct's doctor's office would have gauze pads and disinfectant and Steve cursed his luck. He would have to drag himself to the other end on the building in that case. With the cockroaches.
                          
He approached Petey's bag and took a peek, hoping that there'd be some kind of clothing in there. He found another overcoat identical to the one Petey was wearing not too long ago and wrapped it around his shoulder, wincing in pain. He'd broken that shoulder when he was a kid, back when his pal Tommy believed that humans could fly and told Steve wonderful stories. Steve had wanted to fly away from his broken, hated family so he had jumped off the attic window. The sensation of wind around him, whizzing past his face with gleeful aerodynamic perfection- those beautiful images of him living free, on his own, far away - crack.
                          
His mother had threatened to break the other arm too 'unless you earn some money for yer fuckin idiet self', because her coke was fifty times more important than her children. He'd sold lemonade with a broken arm for two months in order to cover the discounted $120 bill that Dr. Ames had gracefully allowed the paying of in weekly increments.
                          
He could feel his wound numbing but it was the flow of blood running thick down his scarred back that jolted him out of his memories back into reality. He held the overcoat tighter on the wound in his left hand and balled the other into a fist, trying to focus on the pain. Dr. Keratsson had said it would help numb the pain, but then again Dr. Keratsson had never had a machete shoved into his shoulder.
                          
He saw at least twenty cockroaches on the way and for once felt thankful that he had an outdoor job. Twice he had to stop and rest, but he still made it to the office earlier than he had expected.
                          
He pushed open the door with his elbow and gagged once again, trying his best to keep the bile rising in his throat down - no mean feat.
                          
The doctor had been hung from the roof by a rope, dead eyes impassively staring at Steve. Steve noticed three knives stuck in the doctor's leg, and a syringe drooped from his right arm, ready to snap at any moment. But that wasn't the worst bit.
                          
All the shelves and drawers were empty.