CHAPTER 72: AMERICAN HOLIDAY

  GARLAND HEIGHTS—NOVEMBER 26th, 1992 | MORNING

  ?

  Cameron’s eyes opened slowly.

  One of his arms was covered in a cast—his hand all the way up to his shoulder. Runes had been etched into the cast itself, and the casting mold had a strange look to it. Pulpy, almost, with a brown beige coloring to it, and rough along the skin like tree bark. His opposite arm had an IV attached to it, which fed him a steady supply of fluids. Just below that, a copious amount of bandages were wrapped around his forearm.

  It didn’t feel as heavy as his other arm, and the stinging pain was less prominent, but there all the same. His hospital gown felt light in comparison, and it was a feeling he didn’t enjoy. To be naked was to be vulnerable, and to be naked and injured was something worse than vulnerable.

  Curtains kept him enclosed, and all he had in the way of company, at the moment, was the hospital bed he was laid out on and the droning of monitoring machines that he wouldn’t know the name even after a hundred guesses.

  No Reign 18. No vials. No Guts.

  He doubted that he could even don the Skin of Armisthor, and using Ivoryworks was a non-starter. An impossibility. He still couldn’t even move that side of his body.

  The curtains were drawn open

  A woman in a a lab coat and a black button up approached. She was on the shorter side, older, and had a pen resting along one of her ears. She didn’t have much hair, and that was by choice. What was left of it was styled into a pixie cut, and plagued by the occasional white and gray streak. Her name tag read DR.VOINOVICH.

  “You’re up sooner than I expected, good,” she said cooly, clipboard in hand. “Your name. What is it?”

  Cameron blinked. “What?”

  “Your name.”

  “Uh, Cameron,” he said. “Cameron Kessler.”

  Dr. Voinovich withdrew her pen from behind her ear and checked something on her clipboard. “That’s that ruled out. Splendid.”

  “That’s what ruled out, lady?” Cameron asked, his voice straining.

  “We had to perform an emergency procedure on you, Mr. Kessler, which required that we make use of an alchemical solution to put you under. There are.. certain side effects that are not entirely unheard of. Temporary memory loss being chief among them. But, clearly, you have nothing to worry about,” she said.

  Cameron glanced towards his arm. “You pump me up with p-blood, or something?”

  Dr. Voionovich followed his gaze. “Not quite. Pasteurized demon blood is excellent, but when it comes to rapid response for the more grievous injuries one might sustain, it requires a certain window of time to be used effectively. By the time you were loaded up into the ambulance and brought here to Garland Heights General, Mr. Kessler, that window had long since passed.”

  Cameron exhaled. “So, am I fucked, or what?”

  Dr. Voinovich smiled and shook her head. “Well, as you can see, you still have the arm, so no. Far from fucked. You’ll notice that the cast along your arm there, Mr. Kessler, is quite different. Our surgeons, you see, removed much of the shrapnel in your arm, and corrected your torn muscle fibers via myorrhaphy—”

  “In words I can understand, doc,” Cameron said.

  “Surgical stitching and suturing, Mr. Kessler. You came to us with a torn bicep, a torn tricep, and torn trapezius. Most of your arm suffered strains to varying levels of severity as well.”

  Cameron grimaced. “Right.”

  Dr. Voinovich crossed over to the right side of the bed, towards where Cameron’s cast-covered arm was raised by way of a suspension frame that kept it elevated and fixed in place. “Surgery was the first step. Our on-staff artificers are to thank for this cast, which you’ll have noticed is a bit different. It is made of a birchbark pulp composite, and those runes you see express conditions meant to promote healing.”

  Cameron’s face drew into a scowl. “How long am I looking at, then?”

  “A period of two to three weeks, minimum,” Dr. Voinovich advised. “The first of which you will remain here for monitoring.”

  Cameron leaned his head back along the pillow. “Yeah, well. Could use a break anyways, if I’m being honest.”

  The curtain swung open.

  Arthur Yeager stood relatively unscathed, save for a few scrapes and bruises that lingered along his face. Otherwise, he looked no different—tactical grey sweater, camo pants, a bandolier armed with vials of diluted p-blood, Canis along his back. His dreadlocks were pulled into a bun, and his deepset brown eyes looked less perturbed than they had before. He tugged along the red ascot around his neck, and exhaled.

  “Looking a little worse for wear, townie,” Arthur said.

  Cameron sneered at him. “Glad you noticed.”

  Dr. Voinovich smiled. With her free hand, she paced towards the curtains and drew them both open. The hospital room had only one other bed, and sat in it was Silvio Lieberman, covered in far more casts than Cameron, with a set of reading glasses on his face. His hair was just as greasy as Cameron remembered, and that five-o-clock-shadow on his face had grown quite a bit. He lacked his usual New York Yankees sports jersey, and instead wore a gown a few sizes larger than Cameron’s, in spite of the man’s otherwise short and stubby stature.

  Janice had pulled up a chair next to him. Her brown curly hair dangled along her neck, and she wore a green blouse with a brown vest over it. She had a book in her hands. Cameron couldn’t make out the title of it.

  “Next,” Silvio croaked.

  “I… well, are you sure? I just flipped the page,” Janice asked.

  “Don’t like this part of the story,” Silvio muttered.

  Janice flipped the page.

  “Carmine! Hah! Good to see you up,” Silvio said, glancing towards Cameron.

  Janice smiled at Cameron, and he nodded back to her.

  “You too, Silvio,” Cameron said.

  Cameron was too tired to correct him, and too happy to see the idiot in one piece.

  Last he’d heard about Silvio was from Captain Holmes, who had reached out to him due to his uncle’s passing—only to find out that in addition to killing Silvio’s uncle, Anthony, Dean Dresker had also beaten Silvio halfway to death in order to get Leroy’s location on the day he’d attacked them at Lieberman Scrap and Stack.

  The mere thought of Captain Holmes filled Cameron’s stomach with a heaviness he couldn’t find the words for. He was out there, somewhere, not quite alive and not quite dead, and nowhere near himself.

  Opposite of them and situated on the couch was Leroy, who’d turned one side of it into an impromptu bed. His feet were kicked up on a small table in front of the couch, and his checkered flat cap was pulled over his face to cover his eyes. He had his arms crossed along his chest, and snored.

  On the opposite end of the couch was Esme, in her usual military-green button up and utility pants. Her forearm tattoos were on full display, and her goggles, usually set around the black bandana on her head, settled around her neck. She sipped on a cup of coffee and flipped through a magazine. Cameron recalled how she’d secured a dinner date with Captain Holmes, and wondered if anyone had told her about what had happened to him. Esme had always been reserved, and he wondered if tragedy pushed her further into whatever shell she had around her body, or if she was entirely ignorant to the situation.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours, Mr. Kessler, to check in on you. There is a button along the side of your hospital bed. Should something come up, press it, and I’ll send a nurse to your room,” Dr. Voinovich said.

  She offered a nod to Arthur, who nodded back, and promptly exited the room.

  The door lingered open, and Cameron noticed an arm covered in a dark trench coat holding the door for Dr. Voinovich. She offered a nod in thanks, and a man nodded back to her.

  He wasn’t the first to step in, however. Before he entered, Tania walked through, and by some miracle she was wearing that blank black baseball cap she’d thrown off her head before the raid. Hoop earrings too. She’d replaced her white thermal shirt with another white thermal shirt, but wore black cargo pants instead of very long black cargo shorts.

  She shuffled towards Cameron and Arthur with her hands in her pockets, and nodded at him.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Hey,” Tania said.

  “Hey,” Cameron said back.

  Arthur glanced towards the door. “Aw, fuck.”

  Cameron raised a brow.

  The man who’d held the door open stepped inside. He was no taller than Cameron himself, with a medium frame cheekbones so sharp that they could’ve cut through stone. But he didn’t look human. He looked more fiendish than any fiend Cameron had seen before; maybe even more than Tania when she went full-step. His eyes were a pale pink, and his skin was so white that it could’ve been chalk, or snow, or paper. His hair was the same exact color, medium-length but styled into a slick back. His beard was thin and well groomed.

  Cameron recognized the uniform. He was Civic and Occult Authority, but that trench coat made him stick out like a sore thumb. And his utility belt didn’t have the standard issue odds and ends, it just had vials—not pasteurized demon blood, just blood. A dull red blood. Black leather gloves covered his hands, and he reeked of cigarette smoke.

  “Cameron Kessler,” he began. “Chief Montgrave. Civic and Occult Authority.”

  “Where’s my shit?” Cameron asked plainly.

  “Ah, yes. Your equipment. The hospital is holding onto it until you are discharged,” Chief Montgrave explained.

  Poor Guts. A small frown emerged along Cameron’s face.

  “How are you feeling?” Chief Montgrave asked.

  “Hopefully better than he looks,” Tania said.

  Arthur suppressed a laugh. Tania noticed and raised a scrutinizing brow, as if to remind him of the fact that she very much wanted to spill his guts out on the floor due to the red cross he proudly wore on his neck. His face tightened into a taciturn and forced neutral expression soon after.

  “Doing fine,” Cameron answered.

  “Good, good,” Chief Montgrave said with a nod. “I’ll shed some light on the current situation, then. Each of you are here in this room under the protective custody of the Civic and Occult Authority for the time being. While we have apprehended a number of suspects in relation to the Philterworks Incident and the subsequent raid on Spectre, we cannot at this time confirm whether or not there are further bad actors at play. You will all remain here, then, until the day of the trial at city hall.”

  “Who else would be left?” Arthur asked.

  “Argent Group, maybe,” Cameron muttered.

  “We have declared the Argent Group a criminal organization,” Chief Montgrave said. “And at the moment, we are working closely with the Order of the Wardens to apprehend all active members to screen them for prior or current involvement with their company’s illicit undercurrents.”

  “Then hired muscle, I guess, like Rachel Chen,” Cameron said. “Don’t know. Maybe Marcus had some more aces up his sleeve that we don’t know about. Won’t do him much good now though. Is he…?”

  “Dead, yes,” Chief Montgrave said. “Killed in quite a gruesome fashion, I might add.”

  Cameron glanced towards Leroy. His gambit with Gideon Draves paid off after all.

  “You ask me, we still can’t rule out Bluestein though,” Arthur said.

  “And how the fuck would that work, exactly? Bluestein doesn’t have a damn processing plant anymore. No plant, no money to spend,” Tania said, bitterness framing her voice.

  Chief Montgrave cleared his throat. “While the Commonwealth has seized the company’s assets, the Bluestein family is itself quite wealthy, Ms. Ackerman. The absence of its CEO, Norman Bluestein, is itself a testament to such wealth. We have yet to find him—though we have managed to apprehend COO Maude Dupre, and were issued emergency subpoenas through the Department of Ordinance to place the entire executive branch of the company in OCA custody.”

  “Sounds to me like you have the evidence you need, at this point,” Cameron said. “All that’s left is some testimonies to sweeten the deal.”

  “Yes,” Chief Montgrave said. “Yourself and Mr. Waters will be called to the stands as expert witnesses, given the nature of your profession.”

  A half smile emerged along Cameron’s features.

  Things had a funny way of working out. Not too long ago, he was in city hall accused of just about everything he’d done wrong in relation to David St. James’s deal went wrong. That day, like many other days, had been burned into his memory. But that day was special, more so than others, because it was the first domino to fall among a line of many that Cameron hadn’t realized were stacked up in front of him. The South End Sables. Elizabeth Hausser. Mercedes. Leroy. His trial. His choice to rot in Blackpool Penitentiary with the likes of crooks like Sean Malley, Arnie Goodbrother, and Fat Rudolf—or his choice to work, live, and bleed with the one man who had taken everything from him, and in the same vein, the one one man who had given him more than anybody else.

  Cameron studied the snoring Leroy.

  One day, he’d kill him.

  But that one day wouldn’t be tomorrow, or anytime soon. A few weeks ago, he never would’ve admitted that he had things to learn from Leroy. Now, he wanted to learn everything he could from the man. Every lesson, every stupid lecture. Leroy had gathered enough scars to make him the force to be reckoned with he was today—Cameron had only just started his own collection, curating wounds like lessons of his own that couldn’t be taught, only earned. And for each one that he’d added to his body, Leroy had added twice as many, and not just for the sake of it, and not even for the sake of himself, but for Cameron.

  In realizing that, Cameron realized something else.

  For each day that came to pass, that man would be the only constant in his life, and there was a special kind of pain that came with accepting that he—more than anybody else he’d ever known—would be ringside of Cameron. He wasn’t David St. James. He wasn’t Mercedes. He wasn’t Cameron’s mother. He wasn’t Cameron’s friend. He wasn't Cameron's family. But he was there. Always.

  And that was worth something.

  ?

  Cameron woke to the sound of Silvio barking at Janice. Following Chief Montgrave’s recital, he departed, and Cameron only spoke briefly with Tania and Arthur before allowing himself to fall back asleep. His vision was a bit blurry as he gathered his senses and leaned up along his hospital bed as best he could.

  Leroy shoved his way inside of the hospital room. In one hand was a large, grease stained paper bag. In the other was a tray filled with milkshakes. Esme, still seated on the couch, placed the magazine down, and Tania had just kicked her feet up on the table when Leroy entered the room, scowl lingering on her face.

  Janice smiled in Leroy’s direction as he entered, and he nodded back to her. Arthur sat in the chair next to Cameron’s bed, and had been napping before Leroy’s unceremonious entrance broke him out of his trance.

  “Oh! Big L to the rescue!” Silvio said triumphantly. “You got the goods, big fella?”

  “No,” Leroy said, placing the bag down and cardboard drink tray onto the waiting table. “Montgrave had one of his constables get the goods for me, and constable-whoever handed them off to me in the lobby. Seven Robert’s Classics from Ruby’s Diner, four chocolate milkshakes. Some of you guys will have to pair up, share. That’s the best we’re gonna get on Thanksgiving.”

  “It’s an American holiday,” Esme said. “I cannot remember the last time somebody in this city celebrated it.”

  “We’re celebrating it for Silvio,” Leroy said, reaching into the grease soaked bag. He placed two wrapped burgers between one hand, and with his other, grabbed a milkshake before crossing over to Silvio and Janice. “He’s from New York. But he’ll have to make do without a turkey.”

  Silvio was practically salivating. “Most of the damn turkeys I’ve had were dry as hell anyways, and nothin’, and I mean nothin’, beats a burger from Ruby’s. Janice, darling, be a dear and uh—”

  “Just Janice is fine, Silvio,” Janice said, as if it were a warning. “And yes, I’ll find some utensils somewhere and cut it up into pieces for you.. supposing I can find any.”

  Leroy returned to the table, grabbed another wrapped burger, and whistled in Arthur’s direction. “Think fast, kid.”

  Arthur only just barely caught it, and fumbled up and out of his chair. “Dickhead.”

  Tania had already grabbed hers from the bag when Leroy hadn’t been looking, and Esme was reaching into it to retrieve her own as Leroy turned back around. She handed it off to Tania, who had already begun devouring the first.

  “Any word?” Esme asked.

  Leroy reached into the bag to grab another and shook his head. “Asked the constable. He said they’ve got teams out there tracking Holmes, but no updates. Mentioned that they might go as far as to put out a bounty poster. Sorry, Esme.”

  Esme nodded. “It’s alright.”

  But it wasn’t, and everybody knew it. Cameron’s features lowered, and without him realizing, his face fell victim to half of a frown.

  Captain Holmes was a decent man, and a better man than any man in that hospital room. An honest man. Cameron thought back to the day he’d first met him, and how resistant he was to any of his insights, or his wisdom, and how he tuned out most all of the words Captain Holmes barked in his face on the day he was sworn in as an underarbiter. But he didn’t need to remember them in fullness to know that Captain Holmes meant well by them.

  The whole room felt it—and Cameron couldn’t think to call it loss. It seemed to be the only thing keeping everyone at bay, in spite of the troubles that persisted: Leroy lying to Tania about Arthur, and Tania resisting the urge to kill Arthur being chief among them. It was an armistice born from a special kind of grief that came with acknowledging that someone you knew would never be the same.

  Arthur likely felt it as a fear, as a haunting. Esme, if Cameron had to guess, felt a tug in her heart, and grieved what might have been or what could have been. Cameron had a hard time knowing what Tania was feeling, maybe indifference, but he knew Janice to be empathetic, the kind of person who didn’t need to know another super well to feel sad or sorry for them.

  Leroy was the only one who he truly couldn’t place. He wore some level of sorrow on his face, but it was subtle, and if there was woe in his eyes, he hid it well. He looked more like a man who had failed to uphold a responsibility, anchored in the kind of disappointment that stung more as a consequence of it being self-inflicted. He didn’t need anyone to tell him he’d failed, or messed something up.

  Leroy approached Cameron with a wrapped burger, and placed it onto the small stand by his side. He reached inside of his brown leather jacket and withdrew a small cage. Inside, Guts whirred, and Cameron’s eyes widened briefly. Leroy opened the lock, and Guts zipped out, whizzing around Cameron’s head in a fit of glee that was too obvious to deny.

  “You good?” Leroy asked.

  Cameron nodded. “Yeah.”

  Leroy tipped his hat to Cameron, and paced towards the window, hands shuffled in the pockets of his brown leather jacket.

  “You?” Cameron asked.

  Leroy walked away from the window with a half-smile on his face. Cameron glanced out the window.

  “Yeah,” Leroy said.

  It was snowing outside.

  epilogue a bit later today.

  There will be some more announcements in that chapter, so keep an eye out!

  LEROY WATERS

  CAMERON KESSLER

  GUTS

  JANICE OLIVERA

  ESME O'DOHERTY

  TANIA ACKERMAN

  ARTHUR YEAGER

  SILVIO LIEBErMAN

  CHIEF MONTGRAVE

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