The ME's office was down the hall. Predictably, the door was locked.
Across the room was a fire extinguisher and a fireman's axe, sealed in a box with a glass door. I thought about smashing it with my fist, but then I'd have yet another cut to heal, and I wasn't sure my newly-resurrection form could keep up with me. I grabbed a sheet from a nearby stiff, wrapped it around my elbow, then shattered the sucker with a quick jab. I took the axe back to the ME's office, and chopped at the handle.
“What the hell are you doing?"
I turned around. A young woman in blue scrubs was staring at me. I had to think fast. A reasonable explanation for a naked, supposedly dead man trying to break into an office? Yeah, sure. Then it came to me.
I lifted up the axe and started lurching toward her, zombie-style. "Braaaiins… I chanted. “I neeed… Braaaaaiiinssss… "
My gambit paid off. The woman, who surely must have seen George Romero's Night of the Living Dead at a drive-in at some point, took off screaming down the hall. It gave me enough to time to finish my work on the door handle and force my way in. Bingo. Found my bloodied suit wrapped up in plastic with DEL WINTER, 6/76-ah, my brilliant alias-written in marker on the front.
I got dressed, washed up as best I could, then set off to look for an elevator.
This was a nice hospital, which was a relief. I wasn't stuck in a city morgue-apparently, somebody had tried to fight to save my life. I felt a bit of gratitude. Had I the time, I would have hunted down that surgeon and bought him a drink to thank him for the effort. Maybe even to tell him, “Hey-it worked!"
Finally, I located a set of stairs, which led up a level to an elevator. I was apparently still a floor or two underground. I pressed the button with the up arrow and waited. After a few short moments, the doors opened. There were four other people in the elevator. I stepped into the car, and everyone collectively gasped and inched themselves backward. Of course they would-after all, I was a walking corpse in a bloody tuxedo, carrying an axe. I felt the need to explain things.
“Head wounds,” I said. “They bleed like anything. One tiny cut on the top of your head? Boom-all of a sudden, it starts gushing like the geyser at Yellowstone Park."
Nobody said a word. They stared at everything else in the car-the lit numbers, the walls, the reflective security mirror, the translucent buttons-everything but me.
“Nobody worry-I'm going to be fine,” I said. I put the axe down and rested it against the wall, a sign of good faith.
One woman broke the holding pattern. She stared at me, looking as if she was going to burst.
“What?” I asked her.
“But your head, sir… your head…"
“It looks bad, I know. But I'm fine, honest."
The woman swallowed. “Sir… your head is still bleeding."
Now that I looked at my own shadow on the elevator wall, I could see she was right. Tiny jets of liquid were still shooting out from the top of my head. Must be an aftershock of the resurrection, I thought. Or the simple fact that I was ambulatory again, moving limbs, breathing air, pumping blood once again.
I eyed the woman up and down, then reached out and ripped the woman's blue scarf right from around her neck. “Thanks,” I told her, wrapping it around my head.
Then I pushed the CLOSE DOOR button.
The woman fainted dead away. I felt bad about that.
I left the hospital and got my bearings. The sign out front read JEFFERSON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL, and the sign plate on the corner of a nearby building read Chestnut Street. Thankfully, I knew where I was. I'd passed here a couple of days ago-rather, Paul had passed here a couple of day ago, with Susannah, on a shopping excursion.
But unless I could find a mode of transportation, I had a long walk to 473 Winding Way ahead of me. And I doubted this body was going to make it that far. I'd be lucky if I could drag this slightly warmed-over corpse back to the Art Museum.
I started down Chestnut Street, in a direction I thought would take me closer to City Hall. I walked close to the parked cars, scanning for unlocked doors. No luck. I crossed 10th Street and the same-zilch. This was ridiculous. I could hail a cab, but I didn't know what I'd pay the driver with. Under ordinary circumstances, I could have walked back to my apartment from here to pick up some cash, but this would assume I had cash to be picked up, which I of course didn't. (Damn Gard, that check-bouncing prick!) All I had to my name was a bloody tuxedo and a fire axe.
It would have to do.
I picked an older model car, thinking they'd be easier to work with. A 1968 Chevrolet something or other. I removed my jacket, wrapped it around the handle, and hammered the thing into the passenger window. It merely bumped the glass and slid off. I almost lost my balance, and got dizzy. A couple of my leg muscles were starting to freeze up. Rigor mortis? Quite possibly.
I tried again, with more force. Same thing. Now people on the street were starting to notice, and point at me. To hell with it. I grabbed the axe with both hands and swung the business end into the window. Hurt my back like hell, but the window shattered spectacularly.
I lifted the lock, brushed glass off the seat, and slid in behind the wheel. Of course, I had no idea what I was going to do next. I'd always counted on Doug to perform these petty criminal acts. And right now, Doug's soul was probably busy haunting the entrance to the Philadelphia Art Museum. I doubt he'd help now even if I could. I'd let them all down.
My bout of self-pity was cut short by a tapping on the glass.
It was a cop with a flashlight, his cruiser (and partner) right behind. He twirled his finger around. “Open up."
I looked up at him and smiled. I'd been down this road before.
He returned the smile.
And then I jumped into his body.
The cop was a tough bastard-he fought the possession every step of the way. But I thrilled to discover I still had the magic, damnit. Resurrections, soul-jumpings, you name it. The kid was back.
I put the copper in his place and assumed control. When I opened my eyes, I found myself looking at my old body slumped over in the seat. I opened the door and turned my own face around with a gloved finger. I wasn't looking too good. It was probably for the best that I'd changed bodies.
Still, I wasn't anxious to leave it. Sure, the face had changed a couple of times, and I was starting to grow a spare tire, but until tonight it had been a perfectly useful body. “What is it?” a voice said.
Ah. My new partner.
I turned around to face him and said, “It's nothing now. The guy's dead."
“You're kidding,” he said, opening the door. His name tag read SLATKOWSKI.
“See for yourself."
Slatkowski did. He shuddered. “God. This guy is ripe. You sure you saw him moving in here?"
“Yeah,” I said. “I think."
“Man. Probably some hop-head, trying to make one last boost."
In a bloodied tux? With an axe? And with those boyish good looks? Yeah, that sure fitted the drug-addict profile. But I let it pass as an easy way out to 473 Winding Way came to mind.
“Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I recognize this guy. He was the one involved in the Art Museum shooting tonight."
Slatkowski frowned. “How the hell do you know that? You've been with me all night, and I sure as shit don't…"
I interrupted him before he got carried away with the logic. “There's no time,” I said. “We've got to get over there right away.” I ran around to the driver's seat and hopped in, then hammered the gas pedal before my new partner had a chance to join me. I heard him scream for a full five seconds, then I turned a corner.