Ghouls

CHAPTER TEN

Vicky was beginning to think that nature had cursed her. She kept her fingers crossed all night at work, and as closing time approached, she caught herself peeking out the Anvil’s front door every few minutes, to see if the rain had started yet. The sky churned in wait, a black caul, but there was no rain as of 1:59 a.m.

The storm broke at exactly 2 a.m., the precise instant Vicky stepped out the front door.

Windblown rain swept her in gales, and for the second night in a row she had to run home through the teeming, wild dark. She swore aloud the entire way, using words that would make even Chief Bard recoil. Splashing along 154, she decided that of all the things she hated, she hated rain the most. By the time she was back at the house, she looked like she’d just been through a car wash, but without a car.

Inside now, she closed the front door like a vault cover, and sealed out the splattering, hissing rain. She turned drippingly in darkness, and when she turned on the nearest lamp, she saw that the living room was a repeat of last night, perhaps worse. Drained beer cans lay crushed about the floor. Roach ends filled an ashtray like droppings, and pot smoke lingered stalely everywhere. None of this surprised her, not even the garment she then saw at her feet. Last night it had been a bra, and tonight a pair of evenly faded designer jeans lay in the middle of the floor, like shed skin. At the Anvil, Joanne Sulley had spun her last dance at half past midnight, and had grinned leeringly at Vicky before leaving. Again, she’d come here, while Vicky was at work, and the jeans proved that Joanne was still in the house.

Vicky listened then, to verify what she already knew. Her head began to hurt from forced hearing, at the muffled sounds which filtered down from upstairs. She heard dull, intermittent thumps. The faint but viciously rapid rocking of bedsprings. A cry, a groan, a heated murmur. They were upstairs right now.

Vicky struggled to organize her outrage. Not the outrage of adultery, but the galling fact that Lenny would have his women in the same bed that Vicky had to sleep in. She decided then that she’d sleep on the ironing board before she’d ever sleep in that bed again.

She leaned back against the door, brought a hand to her forehead, and looked up without seeing. Somehow a smile came to her lips, and the relieving thought: Not much longer. The unnoticed shavings from her weekly pay were now beginning to grow to something substantial. Soon, another couple of months perhaps, and she’d have enough to take her far away.

The orgy of commotion upstairs finally maxed itself out. There was only silence in the resultant minutes. Then she listened for and eventually heard the quiet footfalls moving across the upstairs hall, over the landing, and at last down the stairs. A whisper came with their descent—“Shit, I hope she ain’t home yet”—but why would Lenny bother even to whisper? Why should he care? Vicky held her eyes on the oblong, black maw that was the bottom of the stairwell. She stood very still, her face a sketch of cold lines. She waited.

In time, two figures stepped out from the darkness, Lenny in Levi’s, naked from the waist up; and Joanne in a tight, pink tube top, naked from the waist down. Joanne’s hair hung in tousled strings; her bare, slim hips seemed even slimmer, more like an adolescent’s, as if the shadows stole substance. Her face was sharply dark and light in the dim lamp-glow. Mascara and liner made sockets of her eyes, and the harsh lipstick shone dark as blood. All that kept her from exposing herself was a tiny, pink G-string, a triangle of cupped flesh between her legs.

Both of them stopped when they noticed Vicky by the door. Silence stretched between them like putty, adding distance. Vicky felt ablaze in rage.

Finally Lenny stepped into the light. He was smiling. “What happened ta you? You get inta the shower and forgit ta take off yer clothes?”

“No,” Vicky said. “Since my fine husband was too busy, he couldn’t pick me up, so I had to walk home from work in the rain.”

Joanne stood up next to Lenny now, showing a wet, red grin. “Well, gee, Vicky, you know how it is. Sometimes people just lose track of time.”

“Then I’ll tell you what time it is,” Vicky said. “It’s time for you to get out. Go fuck your brains out someplace else.”

Joanne brought her hands to her mouth, and she looked over at Lenny with theatrical compassion. “Oh, no, Lenny. Look what we’ve gone and done. We’ve upset your sweet little wife, shame on us. Isn’t there anything we can do to make her feel better?”

“Oh, I think a little liberation might do her a whole lotta good,” Lenny said. His grin increased to match Joanne’s’. “What do you think?”

“I think that’s a fantastic idea!” Joanne exclaimed. She flounced boldly toward Vicky, speaking as she moved. “I say we all go upstairs, get you out of those icky wet clothes, and have a threesome. Ever been banged and eaten at the same time? It’ll blow your mind. Come on, Vicky, let’s go.”

Vicky was pleased at her ability to deflect their mockery, and to regulate what was now easily hatred; her response to the proposition came cool and undaunted. “I’d cut my throat first,” she said, “and yours in the same swipe”; then her gaze turned robotically from Joanne to Lenny. “I want this whore out of here, Lenny. Now. I don’t want her in my house, my bed, or my sight.”

“Your house? Your bed?” Lenny said. “You don’t have ta look at her if you don’t want, I’ll give you that. But you seem ta be forgittin’ it’s my house and my bed, and I’ll have anyone I want in either.”

Vicky turned to Joanne, who now stood right in front of her. “Leave on your own, or I’ll throw you out.”

Joanne threw her head back and laughed. But only for a second. Vicky punched her loudly in the chin, making a ridiculous smear of the lipstick; the laughter ceased at once. Then Vicky spun Joanne around and shoved her hard toward the door. The shove sent Joanne a dozen feet across the room, where she soon enough tripped over some beer cans and hit the floor flat on her chest. Dazed, Joanne yipped, “You little dipshit!” and just as she attempted to get up, Vicky assisted her by grabbing a handful of her hair and lifting; Joanne squealed through the entire process. With her free hand Vicky opened the front door and then pushed the girl out onto the porch. This time Joanne landed directly on her buttocks. A yelp like a hiccup jerked out of her throat when she hit.

“Start walking, asshole,” Vicky said from the doorway.

Wincing and holding her bottom, Joanne dragged herself to her feet. “Little bitch,” she mumbled. “Just wait’ll I—”

“You heard me. Start walking.”

“I can’t walk home like this! At least gimme my pants!”

“You can pick them out of the garbage can in the morning. Now shove off, or I’ll kick your ass from here to the next county.”

Joanne was steaming, a five-foot-eight joke with red-smeared lips and no pants. She huffed and clenched her fists at her sides. Then, after a final seething, grimacing pause, she turned and walked down the porch steps, where the storm devoured her.

Vicky watched till Joanne could no longer be seen within the blowing layers of rain. Ass, she thought. Try that on for size.

She came back in and slammed the door so hard the house shook. Lenny remained in the half-lit corner, his face still warped by a drunk grin. He was clapping. “That’s really sockin’ it to her,” he said. “A real hardass little chick—that’s what I’ve always liked about you.”

“And you know what I’ve always liked about you, Lenny?”

“What, babe?”

“Nothing.”

At this, Lenny seemed to contemplate the air. She knew she would have to be very careful now. If she threw too many insults at him, he would just start throwing his fists. She would have liked to tell him everything just then, everything she thought of him—to release with words the disgust that had built up in her since the beginning of their marriage. She knew, though, that she would have to control herself, or suffer the inevitable consequences.

“You’re just jealous, that’s all,” he said after a time. “Jealous that other girls get turned on by me.”

“It’s got nothing to do with jealousy. If you think I haven’t known about your affairs all along, then you’re even dumber than I thought.” She paused abruptly, to force back the acid that seemed to be crawling up her throat. Then, “No, I’ve known all about it, and I don’t care anymore. I haven’t cared in a year. I tried. I waited. I used to think—” but she pulled the words back when she felt tears wanting to come out. She couldn’t let herself cry in front of Lenny. That would be the worst defeat.

“See, I know you, Vicky,” he said, grinning sharper now. “You think I don’t, but I know you real good. You say things, but you mean jus’ the opposite. I’ve lived round rubes all my life; it’s jus’ like a rube chick to go apeshit when she finds her man with another girl. You cain’t stand the thought of another girl puttin’ her hands on me.”

“I welcome it,” she said with no hesitation. “It’s my relief. Because when you’re with another woman, I don’t have to be around you. That’s my relief, Lenny. That’s all I live for anymore, to come home from work every night and hope that you’re not here.”

Lenny laughed hoarsely. “You’re really puttin’ on some show, ain’t ya? Girl, you’d go crazy without me. Remember ‘fore we got married? You begged for it, you couldn’t get enough. You were nuts about me, and you still are, you jus’ don’t wanna show it. You get your kicks this way, tryin’ ta make me think I don’t excite you no more.”

“You excite me about as much as the bottom of a garbage can. I don’t know where you get your ideas, Lenny. Must be all that dope and beer, it’s pickled your brain. You’ve got enough shit in your head to fill a horse trough.”

“Look,” he said, and took a step forward. “I screw around a little, all right? All guys do. So you don’t gotta give me a load of crap jus’ ’cause I bring a chick back to the house. That ain’t a crime.”

“It’s a crime to marry someone and make no attempt to fulfill your obligations as a husband.”

“Shit, girl, you been watchin’ too many soaps. You got more than most girls in this town. What more do you want? You got a roof over your head, don’t ya? You got food in your stomach every day. You have everything you need, and you still complain.”

“All I have is a two-bit job at a strip joint and a lazy dishonest cockhound for a husband. And like I said, I don’t care what you do anymore. You can blow your load all over this whole town”—now she even dared to point a finger at him—“but at least have the decency to keep your little honeypots out of the same bed I have to sleep in.”

Lenny’s expression began to flatten. He took two more steps toward the center of the room, then stood and looked at her with a raised eye. “You don’t have ta sleep in it,” he said. “Maybe you’d rather sleep in the street.”

“With pleasure.”

Vicky turned at once, yanked open the front door, and began walking out across the porch. Lenny stormed after her. She was just about to step into the rain when he grabbed her by the belt and jerked her back onto the porch. She shrieked, but the sound was absorbed by the rain.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere now, babe,” he said, pulling her back toward the door. ”A little therapy’s all you need. A little nut up the love hole’ll fix things up real nice.”

She yanked away from him completely, amazed at the sudden burst of strength. But she was cut off; Lenny blocked the porch steps. He began to back her into the house.

“Keep away from me,” she said, walking in reverse. Her voice broke like a child’s. Her hands trembled. “Don’t touch me. Please, don’t touch me.”

“But you want me to touch you. I know you do.”

He stepped forward mechanically, edging her further into the room. Before she knew it, he’d backed her up against the wall along the stairs.

There was no place she could go now, no escape. His shadow grew huge and rose over her as he approached. A tight pain spread across her chest; she felt sweat trickle down her sides. At that moment she wished she were a ghost, she wished she could vanish into the wall.

The distance between them drew in, step by step. Lenny faced her now, just inches away, blackened to a silhouette-shape from the light behind him. Her eyes darted left and right; she needed a weapon. A large, cornered glass ashtray glimmered from the coffee table. But it was just too far away.

Lenny’s silhouette spoke. “Upstairs, girl. Right now.”

She knew how close she was to another beating; a single word of protest now would set him off. She gulped thickly, and shuddered when his hands touched her breasts. She turned her head to one side, cheek to wall, shivering. Then one hand moved around to cup her buttocks. The other hand spread over her crotch and squeezed.

“See, baby?” he said. “That’s all you need. You just need a good fucking.”

Vicky felt the certainty explode in her head. She could save herself, by submitting. But now she knew she would not submit to him, not now, not ever again. She’d debased herself for the last time; she’d had enough. It was time for an end to living like this, even if it meant an end to living.

“Stop,” she said.

“No, you don’t want me ta stop. You wanna get fucked.”

Her hand hooked around in a swift arc, and she slapped the side of his face. The sound, however, was disappointingly thin, like slapping water; Lenny’s head barely flinched at all. His hands came off her slowly. He didn’t strike back as she expected. He only stood there, staring, staking her to the wall with his gaze.

Her words came out wearily, without bite, without emotion. “I hate you,” she told him. “I hate you so much. You’re the lowest, Lenny, the absolute lowest. You make me so sick I could vomit.”

“You got exactly one second to take that back, or I’ll give you somethin’ to vomit about.”

“You’re a thief, a liar, and a wretch. I could shoot myself for marrying you, I must have been out of my mind. All you’ll ever be is a punk, Lenny, a grade-A number-one asshole. You’re the sorriest excuse for a man I ever saw.”

He cocked a hip, looking down. “Cunt,” he said calmly. “Rube trash. When I’m through with you, you ain’t gonna be able ta walk fer a week. I’m gonna rake you over the coals.”

“I don’t care,” she said. Then she spat in his face.

She could feel it coming. She ducked in time to miss the blow, then dove to her knees. A dull hollow boom sounded— she looked up and saw that Lenny had knocked a hole in the wall with his fist.

She lunged across the floor, reaching out toward the coffee table. Her fingers fell on the ashtray. Grabbed it. Picked it up.

And dropped it when Lenny’s second strike connected. Like a lump of granite, his fist sailed down and slammed into the back of her head. The impact flattened her; her vision blanked. She could see nothing for seconds, and only dull fuzz for seconds more.

Lenny was laughing. “You always gotta have things the hard way, huh? Well, that’s jus’ fine with me.”

He stepped on her hand. Vicky shrieked. Then he came down on her back with his knee. His laughter deepened; he grabbed her hair and banged her head against the floor several times. Vicky couldn’t breathe.

He flipped her over and mauled her breasts, buttons flying off her blouse. He pushed up her bra. She glimpsed his face through dizzy spangles of light—he was grinning at her, chortling like a pig. Suddenly pain wound through her chest; he began twisting her nipples as if to twist them off. He seemed to enjoy the way her shrieks rose the harder he twisted.

“Gettin’ hot, baby?” he said. “Ain’t this really the way you like it?”

She squirmed under his weight. Each time she tried to thrash away, he punched her in the stomach. Only terror kept her conscious now; her vision cleared unmercifully and showed her his intent, evil face. When he shoved his hand down her pants, her arm flew up blindly, and she poked him in the eye with her thumb.

Lenny fell off her, both hands over his eye. Vicky slipped away from him, too aware that he’d only been stunned—she’d never make it out of the house.

The big glass ashtray lay off to the right.

She sprang forward, on hands and knees, in a sudden ignition of energy. Behind her she sensed movement, Lenny regaining his wits. Her knees and palms burned across the carpet. She fell on the ashtray and picked it up.

Lenny had already risen to his feet. Vicky got up on her knees, pulled back, and threw the ashtray as hard as she could. It seemed a wild, misguided throw; nonetheless, it flew through the air like a missile and struck Lenny solidly in the middle of his forehead. She didn’t hear the sound of the blow, just the ashtray clunking to the carpet afterward. She felt triumph, delight, victory, when Lenny fell hard on his back.

She felt horror when he got back up again.

There was blood on his face now, the gash in his head glistening and running red. The scariest part wasn’t that the blow hadn’t knocked him out. It was the way he looked at her then, bloodied but unhurt, with eyes of ice.

She wondered if he would kill her.

“So you want out, is that it?” he said, standing still. “You wanna walk out on ol’ Lenny boy.” Blood pulsed down his face as he spoke. “And where’re you gonna go? Tell me that? Who’s gonna take you in, huh? Pretty Boy Morris? Even he’s got more class than ta take in a rube little piece of trash like you.” Then he paused, his wet red grin widening. A line of blood slid quickly down his chest.

Vicky tried to plead with him, but the words swelled in her throat. She tried to move, tried to get up and get away, yet her wrists and ankles seemed manacled to the floor.

“But wherever you go,” he continued, “I hope you ain’t gonna have ta rely on your looks ta get you there, ‘cause I’m gonna ugly you up real good.”

Finally she spat out broken words. “Please let me go. Please just let me get out of here.”

“Sure, baby. If you wanna leave, I won’t stop you. But you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I give you somethin’ ta remember me by.”

He broke from where he stood, and took long, quick steps across the room. The last thing she saw as she screamed was his hands opening and closing as he reached down for her.

««—»»

Kurt could barely see anything at all through the rain. The windshield wipers were on high, but they did little more than swipe the water around to make room for more. He leaned forward, chin nearly touching the steering wheel, and he had to squint just to make out the double yellow line on the asphalt. The road seemed to be splattering before him, breaking up. The headlights didn’t improve visibility as much as articulate the density of the rain. Several times he almost went off the road, even at just a few miles per hour. At this rate it would take half an hour just to get back to the station.

As he made the next bend, the headlights reflected off something on the shoulder, something erect and raw-white with a band of pink. He slowed nearly to a halt.

“What the hell?” he mouthed aloud. It was a person walking along the right-hand shoulder. The figure stopped when he did. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger window a few inches. A face almost touched the glass; two wild eyes looked at him through the gap. Only a complete jackass would be walking the Route this late, in this weather, he thought. And it didn’t surprise him the least to see that the face belonged to Joanne Sulley. The temptation was there, of course, to roll the window up and drive on without a word; he couldn’t think of anything more fulfilling. Instead, he said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m walking home,” she said, her defiance pathetic in the rain. “It’s not against the law to walk home.”

“No, but it’s against the law to walk home with no pants on.”

“Well, I’m wearing my G-string.”

“Thank God. I was beginning to think you were uninhibited.”

Her hands pressed the window, fingers curling over the lip. “Will you drive me home?”

“This is a police car, not a Checker cab.”

“Come on, you’re a cop,” she whined. “You can’t let me walk—I could get raped.”

“That’s right, you could. And walking the streets at three in the morning with no pants on probably won’t reduce that possibility.”

“Gimme a break,” she not quite pleaded. “I don’t want to walk home in this shit.”

“The solution is quite simple, really. Buy a car.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not busy right now. You can drive me home.”

“Only if you say please.”

She glared at him. “Please!”

“Pretty please.”

“Goddamn it!”

Kurt shrugged and reached to roll up the window.

“Pretty please!” she shouted.

“All right.”

She got into the car as if fleeing killers, and she slammed the door so hard he thought the window might break. Kurt could’ve laughed at the sight of her, so he did. Rain beaded every inch of her exposed skin, of which there was a lot. Her tube-top was water-logged, her hair a tangled brunette mop.

“You know,” he said, “just because you dance at the Anvil in a G-string doesn’t mean you can parade around town in one.”

“If you must know,” she said without looking at him, “I didn’t have time to get dressed. Don’t ask me to explain.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Jesus Christ, you’re dripping on my seat.” He let the cruiser resume its slow crawl through the rain, wipers thudding. The car rocked in the wind.

Joanne was pushing droplets off her thighs; it made a sound like a squeegee. “Got a cigarette?” she asked.

“Sure, but none for you.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Give me a goddamned cigarette.”

“Plenty of butts in the ashtray. Help yourself.”

Her lips pressed into a smirk. “It’s obvious that you don’t think highly of me—”

Kurt laughed out loud.

“—but you don’t have to be rude.” She paused, focusing on him. “Why, I bet if you gave me a chance, you’d like me a lot.”

“I doubt it.”

She slid over closer to him. “Just because you and Lenny don’t get along, you don’t have to take it out on me.”

“Lenny’s got nothing to do with it,” he said, eyes on the road. “I can’t stand either of you.”

“You don’t really mean that,” she said. Her voice was very soft, very unlike her. He could smell the rain-scent in her hair; in fact, he found it pleasant. She moved over a little more. “We ought to go out sometime, you and me,” she said.

“Sorry. I don’t go out with Kirby vacuum cleaners.”

She began to run her finger along the rim of her tube-top, unaffected by his insults. The rim crept lower, showing the edge of a nipple. “You know, I could make you feel real good if you let me… Why don’t you let me?” Then she leaned very close and placed a hand on his leg.

He flung her hand away immediately. “One more word like that and this free ride home turns into a free ride in the county detention center. One more word.”

“Well,” she cooed, “there’s no reason why we can’t at least be friends.”

“There’re plenty of reasons, Joanne, the first of which is I don’t have assholes for friends.”

She shoved herself back against the door, and glowered. Kurt could see her fuming in the dash-glow; he expected to see steam come out of her ears. Shutting her up so abruptly almost made driving her home worth it.

He eyed the guardrail around the next bend, using it to guide him through the rain. He seemed to be getting the hang of this now, and he let his speed pick up. He put a cigarette in his mouth and briefly took his eyes off the road to push in the dash lighter. At that exact moment, Joanne lurched forward and shouted, “Look out!”

Reflex made Kurt stomp the brakes. The car fishtailed into the bend, and by the time it had stopped completely, it had nearly revolved 180 degrees. The rear fender missed the guardrail by an inch.

“What!” Kurt barked. He pulled the car safely to the shoulder. The near miss made his hands shake.

Joanne sank back, her hand to her heart. “You almost hit that guy.”

“What guy?”

“While you were busy lighting your cigarette, some guy jumped over the rail and ran across the road into the woods.”

Kurt turned on the remote-control spotlight and turned it into the forest. The two hundred thousand candle-power lamp scanned back and forth across the trees, and revealed nothing unusual.

“You’re stoned,” he said.

“No, I’m not! A guy ran across the road, and you would’ve hit him if I hadn’t yelled.”

Kurt clicked the light back off. “A guy, huh? Well, what did this guy look like?”

Joanne’s hair dripped water onto her legs and the seat. “He was running so fast, Jesus… I didn’t see him too good. Looked skinny, though. Looked like he was wearing gray clothes, maybe overalls.”

Kurt thought about it, then threw the possibility out the window when he considered its source. “It was probably just a deer.”

“Deers don’t walk on two legs.”

“That’s right, and guys don’t dash in front of cars during a monsoon at 3:00 a.m., either. You better lay off the booze, Joanne; you’re starting to get the DT’s.”

“I’m not drunk… I admit, I had a few beers tonight—”

“Yeah, a few as in eight or ten, and God knows how many bong hits of that homegrown horseshit Stokes sells.”

Now she was almost shouting at him. “I’m not a lush, Morris, and I ain Mort no pothead, either! I’m a lot straighter than you think.”

“Straight as a U-bolt,” Kurt replied. He righted the car and continued. “I can just see me wrecking this three-day-old cruiser because you’re having hallucinations.”

Shortly afterwards, Kurt turned around in the parking lot of one of Tylersville’s monolithic apartments. He stopped, looked at her, and said, “Bye-bye time.”

Joanne got out. Rain pelted her back as she leaned over. “Thanks for the ride…prick.”

“It was a pleasure. It’s not every day I get to be so close to the town sperm bank.”

She showed him her middle finger, slammed the door, and walked off.

So much for her, he thought, turning back onto the Route. Next time she can ride in the trunk.

He’d had enough patrol in this weather; he may as well have been driving blindfolded. A coffee break now seemed well deserved. He headed for the Jiffy-Stop, to park till the storm let up; he only hoped the road didn’t wash out before he got there.

Around the next bend, Uncle Roy’s house appeared only as a ghost of itself in the pouring, black rain. Kurt checked the TV-room windows for lights, hoping to see Melissa up past her bedtime so he could yell at her in the morning. The windows were black, but at the same time, he noticed a dark, ragged heap at the end of the driveway. This did not yet strike him as odd; after all, it could be garbage, though that in itself seemed odd because Melissa didn’t generally put the garbage out two days early, if she put it out at all, and Kurt certainly hadn’t...

Then he slammed on his brakes, skidding to an angled halt.

The heap, whatever it was, had moved.

He backed the cruiser up and then pulled the front end into the drive. The heap seemed to be doggedly crawling toward the house, like a tortoise. By then Kurt knew the heap was a person, probably a drunk, or an accident victim. He jumped out of the car and trotted up.

The rain crashed against him in heavy, irritating layers, drenching him. Kurt knelt before the collapsed figure. His hands touched sodden fabric and cool flesh. He carefully raised the figure’s head and shoulders into the glare.

The head lolled; the face was a swollen, blue mask of bruises and blood. It was Vicky.

Kurt’s heart shouted at him to move, but the clout of shock left him helpless for many seconds; all he could do was stare, as if into the lamp of an oncoming train. Her blouse was an eerie, pale pink from blood thinned by rain; she’d bled a lot. Red crust sealed one eye shut, the other eye twitched. She’d been beaten so severely he thought she must be dead. But then her hands clenched his shirt; she was trying to lift herself up.

“Don’t say anything, don’t move,” he stammered. She squealed when he picked her up; he doubted he could touch her at all without hurting her. The rain laughed at him, blowing harder. Twice he almost slipped carrying her to the car. He slid her into the front seat as gently as he could, then got in behind the wheel and turned on the dome light. She was only part conscious. She moaned with her mouth closed, touching things around her shakily, as if blind. Her body jerked once very hard as she held back a cough. She opened her mouth to speak, but drooled blood instead.

Kurt flicked on his siren and the blue revolving light. His tires whined on the slick road, and as he raced south on 154 he begged God and the universe one wish—that he get her to the hospital alive.

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