down over his blubbering lips.
The screw seemed to twitch with his pulse, vibrating just a bit, the bone beneath the skin so obviously out of place it was almost funny.
Donaldson tried not to hesitate. But twisting was unbearable. It would cause him to pass out again.
So he took a deep, stuttering breath, gripped the screw head, and yanked.
The screw popped free, tearing out a thread of flesh, the blood spurting rather than oozing.
Wailing like a baby now, Donaldson attacked the next screw. The pain became the only thing he knew. His entire world. He twisted and pulled and pried at his tortured arm, blinded by tears, thrashing his legs and feeling the skin grafts tear, shaking his head side to side and actually bending the metal brace that held his neck immobile.
It was coming… coming…
Did it!
Donaldson wiped his blurry eyes.
Three screws left.
It was worse than a tooth ache. Worse than being kicked in the balls. Worse than his father’s belt. Worse than being dragged behind the car.
Just two more.
Both arms shook so badly now that Donaldson couldn’t get a grip on the screw head. He had to keep wiping his slippery, blood-soaked fingers on the blanket. When they finally locked on, he got confused and twisted the wrong way once again, tightening the screw, ratcheting up his suffering to the nth degree, causing his eyes to roll up into his head. He used the pain, knowing it couldn’t get any worse, turning it quickly and spitting out the blanket and vomiting bile as the screw mercifully pulled free.
Okay…
Just one more…
The last one…
This was the longest of them all, pinned into his wrist.
Deep.
So deep.
Too deep.
Can’t do it.
Can’t fucking do it.
The very thought of touching that final screw, let alone manipulating it, made Donaldson gag again. He needed morphine. He needed it more than he ever needed anything in his life. He could call the nurse, and she’d give him a shot. It would knock him out. He wouldn’t hurt anymore.
But then they’d reset the screws.
Donaldson knew he couldn’t bear that.
He closed his eyes, lips pursed together as he sobbed, and in his pain-delirium he was visited by an angel.
In Donaldson’s mind, the angel had big, white wings. A glowing halo. A beatific smile.
And pink Crocs.
“Looks like I win, old man,” said the Lucy Angel.
Donaldson’s eyes flipped open.
No. You’re not going to win, little girl.
He attacked the last screw with a hatred so fierce he could handle the agony.
It took twelve complete turns to get the son of a bitch out.
And then Donaldson was done.
His arm no longer looked human. More like a giant, pulsing earthworm, gooey with blood, the skin purple with hematomas. He carefully pulled off the brace, threading his ruined appendage through it, laughing as he hefted its weight. Solid surgical steel, at least five pounds of metal, screws protruding out like spikes on a medieval war mace.
Hysterical, Donaldson’s tears turned into hoarse laughter.
You fuckers made sure there were no weapons in my room.
But you forgot one.
He focused on the cop.
Still asleep.
The clock.
2:27.
Three minutes until Winslow showed.
Donaldson yanked off his head gear, bent and twisted from his thrashing, and set it on the pillow behind him as he heaved his bulk into a sitting position. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the bandages from his skin graft surgery soaked in blood.
When he stood up Donaldson almost collapsed onto the floor. It felt like his entire body was made of pudding. His ravaged left arm hung at his side, useless, and the bloody brace clutched in his right hand looked comically inadequate.
I’m going to pass out before I even get to the cop.
Donaldson closed his eyes, feeling the blood drain from his head, knowing he was about to lose consciousness.
Once again, an image of Lucy saved him. That little whore’s face smiling after she’d handcuffed Donaldson to the car bumper.
Rage displaced the wooziness, and he took three quick, lumbering strides over to the door, reaching the cop before he could turn around, raising up the brace and savagely bringing it down onto the lawman’s skull.
There was a crack like a board splintering. The cop flopped over, off his chair, raising up his forearm to protect himself.
Donaldson adjusted his aim, swinging the brace sideways, a protruding screw connecting with the cop’s temple, where it became embedded.
Embedded, and also stuck, which Donaldson discovered when he tried to pull it back.
The cop’s hands flailed, pulling at the brace, his legs flopping around and kicking the tile floor. Donaldson shifted his bulk, dragging the man inside his room, and then with a single, violent twist, he yanked the brace free, along with a quarter-sized piece of skull.
From that point on, it was like hammering a nail, bringing down the surgical steel again and again and again and again until the cop finally stopped moving.
Sweating, shaking, and-quite incongruously- giggling, Donaldson tossed the brace back onto his bed, and used his good arm to drag the pig into the bathroom. He was exhausted, pain crawling over his entire body like red ants. But he was also exhilarated. Killing was the best drug in the world.
And like an addict, Donaldson craved more.
The plan had been to dress in the cop’s uniform. But there was no time, no possible way Donaldson could ever fit his mangled arm into a shirt sleeve. So instead Donaldson took the man’s gun-a 9mm Beretta-and flipped off the safety.
Moving quickly, he slipped into the hallway just as the clock hit 2:29, padded one door over, and ducked into the adjacent room.
There was a man asleep in bed, lightly snoring. A big guy, lumberjack type. The chart on his bed read R. Bolton. Donaldson considered his next move, judged the large man to be a potential threat if he awoke, and then moved another room down.
This bed was occupied by a sleeping old woman. Easy pickings. Even better, she was hooked up to a heart monitor.
Donaldson approached the bed and raised the gun.
Wait. No fun in that.
Better to wake her first.
“Hey. Lady.”
