Aliens on Aventine Hill

The Fourth of July [Part 1]

It was nearing one in the morning, and Rachel was reaching her limit.

Her eyes dropped to her watch as she shut the door quietly behind herself. She watched the seconds tick by, wishing that little red hand would pick up the pace. It was only fifteen minutes now—fifteen minutes until she could strip off her scrubs, drag herself to her car, drive home and collapse into her bed—but fifteen minutes was fifteen minutes.

She didn't normally work this late—hell, Rachel didn't even normally work Tuesdays—but it was the Fourth, and that meant an influx of stupidity and second-degree burns to the emergency room.

It was quieter here on the third floor where the lights were dim and the doors were shut. This part of the hospital had a tranquility to it that was disturbed only by the faint, far off booms of fireworks—and the tap, tap, tap of her footsteps.

Rachel drummed her nails on the back of her clipboard as she checked it again. One last room, one last patient, and then she could slip out for a smoke. This would be quick; all the patients were asleep anyways. In and out, and then away...

Even at first glance, Rachel could tell the patient—one Mr. Arnold Shephard, her clipboard said—had been here for a while now. There were plants on the windowsills, not bouquets, and she recognized most of the stack of dog-eared magazines on the table from the waiting room: souvenirs brought up to pass the time between procedures.

Nestled amongst them was a casserole dish. Her stomach grumbled at the scent of home-cooked food, and Rachel tried to remember when she had last eaten. She curiously lifted the lid off the casserole dish only to drop it again as the person in front of her shifted.

She hadn't even noticed him there, sitting in the uncomfortable vinyl armchair with his arms crossed. Rachel stared at him, whole body tense. The expression of worry on his face was so clear that it took her more than a moment to realize he was asleep. She let out a soft sigh of relief, grateful that her fumble with the casserole dish hadn't woken him.

Straightening up, Rachel considered him again with irritation. She glanced again at her watch. Visiting hours were long over. 

But she knew what it was to be sitting in that chair, and she knew what that meant.

Rachel kept the lights turned off as she turned towards the patient: an elderly man with snow white hair. His coke bottle glasses were set on the endtable beside him. The white sheets had been covered with an old patchwork quilt.

Rachel approached his bedside with a warm smile, quietly checking the IV bags and then picking up the clipboard hanging off the side of the bed. Eyes flicking between the letters and their subject, she marveled at how serene his face looked, especially in contrast with the young man's.

Rachel hesitated as a cold feeling prickled across her skin. She gently set the clipboards aside and studied the patient.

His face was pale as bone, almost blue in the moonlight. His hand was cold to the touch. She leaned in, ear over his mouth, but there was only silence. Her fingertips found the vein in his neck, the skin cold and papery. Rachel stepped back.

He was dead.

Looking at him now, she could see the blood beginning to settle in his body. She picked up her clipboard, clutching it tightly. Again, she felt that spark of irritation—freedom seemed farther away than ever now—but she smothered it with a click of her pen and reached for the light switch—only for her hand to hit something else.

She whirled around, the clipboard clattering to the floor, and found the young man risen and standing there behind her like a vampire. Her eyes widened; her mouth formed an oh as she took a startled step backwards.