The Drawing of the Three (The Dark Tower #2)(66)

George tied off as many veins and arteries as he could tie off, and when her heart started to be-bop he had shot her full of Digitalin. Whole blood arrived. Cops brought it. Want to bring her up, doc? one of them had asked and George had told him not yet, and he got out the needle and stuck the juice to her like she was a junkie in dire need of a fix.

Then he let them take her up.

Then they had taken her back.

On the way she had awakened.

Then the weirdness started.

3

George gave her a shot of Demerol when the paras loaded her into the ambulance―she had begun to stir and cry out weakly. He gave her a boost hefty enough for him to be confident she would remain quiet until they got to Sisters of Mercy. He was ninety per cent sure she would still be with them when they got there, and that was one for the good guys.

Her eyes began to flutter while they were still six blocks from the hospital, however. She uttered a thick moan.

"We can shoot her up again, doc," one of the paras said.

George was hardly aware this was the first time a paramedic had deigned to call him anything other than George or, worse, Georgie. "Are you nuts? I'd just as soon not confuse D.O.A. and O.D. if it's all the same to you."

The paramedic drew back.

George looked back at the young black woman and saw the eyes returning his gaze were awake and aware.

"What has happened to me?" she asked.

George remembered the man who had told another man about what the woman had supposedly said (how she was going to hunt the motherf*cker down and kill his ass, etc., etc.). That man had been white. George decided now it had been pure invention, inspired either by that odd human urge to make naturally dramatic situations even more dramatic, or just race prejudice. This was a cultured, intelligent woman.

"You've had an accident," he said. "You were―"

Her eyes slipped shut and he thought she was going to sleep again. Good. Let someone else tell her she had lost her legs. Someone who made more than $7,600 a year. He had shifted a little to the left, wanting to check her b.p. again, when she opened her eyes once more. When she did, George Shavers was looking at a different woman.

"Fuckah cut off mah laigs. I felt 'em go. Dis d'amblance?"

"Y-Y-Yes," George said. Suddenly he needed something to drink. Not necessarily alcohol. Just something wet. His voice was dry. This was like watching Spencer Tracy in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, only for real.

"Dey get dat honkey mahfah?"

"No," George said, thinking The guy got it right, goddam, the guy did actually get it right.

He was vaguely aware that the paramedics, who had been hovering (perhaps hoping he would do something wrong) were now backing off.

"Good. Honky fuzz jus be lettin him off anyway. I be gittin him. I be cuttin his c**k off. Sumbitch! I tell you what I goan do t'dat sumbitch! I tell you one thing, you sumbitch honky! I goan tell you ... tell ..."

Her eyes fluttered again and George had thought Yes, go to sleep, please go to sleep, I don't get paid for this, I don't understand this, they told us about shock but nobody mentioned schizophrenia as one of the -

The eyes opened. The first woman was there.

"What sort of accident was it?" she asked. "I remember coming out of the I - "

"Eye?" he said stupidly.

She smiled a little. It was a painful smile. "The Hungry I. It's a coffee house."

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

The other one, hurt or not, had made him feel dirty and a little ill. This one made him feel like a knight in an Arthurian tale, a knight who has successfully rescued the Lady Fair from the jaws of the dragon.

"I remember walking down the stairs to the platform, and after that―"

''Someone pushed you. "It sounded stupid, but what was wrong with that? It was stupid.

"Pushed me in front of the train?"

"Yes."

"Have I lost my legs?"

George tried to swallow and couldn't. There seemed to be nothing in his throat to grease the machinery.

"Not all of them," he said inanely, and her eyes closed.

Let it be a faint, he thought then, please let it be a f―

They opened, blazing. One hand came up and slashed five slits through the air within an inch of his face - any closer and he would have been in the E.R. getting his cheek stitched up instead of smoking Chesties with Julio Estavez.

"YOU AIN'T NUTHIN BUT A BUNCH A HONKY SONSA BITCHES!" she screamed. Her face was monstrous, her eyes full of hell's own light. It wasn't even the face of a human being. "GOAN KILL EVERY MAHFAHIN HONKY I SEE! GOAN GELD EM FUST! GOAN CUT OFF THEIR BALLS AND SPIT EM IN THEY FACES! GOAN―"

It was crazy. She talked like a cartoon black woman, Butterfly McQueen gone Loony Tunes. She―or it―also seemed superhuman. This screaming, writhing thing could not have just undergone impromptu surgery by subway train half an hour ago. She bit. She clawed out at him again and again. Snot spat from her nose. Spit flew from her lips. Filth poured from her mouth.

"Shoot her up, doc!" one of the paras yelled. His face was pale. "Fa crissakes shoot her up!" The para reached toward the supply case. George shoved his hand aside.

"Fuck off, chickenshit."

George looked back at his patient and saw the calm, cultured eyes of the other one looking at him.