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Grian’s footfalls ring hollow on the metal flooring of the van, drowning out the rain drumming onto the roof. He passes by the vitals’ screen, reaches the edge of Skizz’ beloved cork board and turns on his heel. With every step, his soaked trainers leave shining smudges on the traction nubs. He’s huffing; muttering to himself, but it changes nothing. The evidence is damning.
‘Might wanna shoot up there, buddy,’ says Impulse. ‘Just to avoid any accidents.’
‘I’m fine.’
Grian’s face has gone from pale to pallid. Dark sweat curls the hair at his temples into sticky clumps. He’s clenching his hands into white-knuckled fists, probably to stop them shaking, and the purple of the bags under his eyes has bleached to a concerning mid-tone gray. He looks like he hasn’t slept in three weeks, in between bouncing around the kitchen this morning, psyched for a new job, and now.
Impulse pitches his voice carefully neutral. ‘Board says otherwise.’
His bar – red, of course – is scraping zero. Has been for a while. He’s lower than the rest of them combined, almost as if he got cursed by the particularly vindictive ghost.
‘I’m fine, Impulse.’
The words seem to grind against his teeth. Even from a distance, the burst veins are visible in the white of his sclera, leaking pink.
‘You’re not, though.’
Grian stops pacing and scrubs his hand across his face. His palm comes back bloody, his dry lips have split. He opens his mouth, ostensibly to say something, but the crackle of the intercom interrupts him before a single sound makes it out.
‘You seen anything on the cameras yet, Dipple-Dop?’
Impulse holds up his radio. ‘Negative.’
‘Ah, dang. Scar and I haven’t, either.’
The line goes quiet.
Impulse takes in the sudden rigidity of Grian’s spine and his drawn-up shoulders and suppresses a half-fond, half-exasperated sigh. He plucks one of the syringes from the tray by the truck door. Held up to the light, the liquid inside is clear with a faint, aqua-blue tint.
It’s mostly epinephrine, he’s been told, mixed with a dash of fast-acting anti-psychotic. They switched from the pills because intravenous takes effect quicker and also goes easier on the kidneys.
Impulse flicks the barrel, but no bubbles form. Good. ‘Roll up your sleeve.’
Grian jerks away, back pressing against the screens. ‘I said I’m fine!’
‘Better safe than sorry. It’ll be just a tiny little pinch. We took the slimmest needles.’
Grian ducks past him, dislodging several pictures from the cork board and tangling the red threads lovingly strung up by Skizz and Scar, until he has his back to the computer.
‘No!’
Impulse stops, brows furrowing. ‘Grian–’
‘I said ‘no’!’
He brings up his flash-light, holding it like a club.
The expression on his face is clearly meant to be a scowl – and a menacing one – but at this point, Impulse has travelled a quarter of the universe alongside Grian. They have fought full-fledged wars against each other only to become allies, side by side, for the next one. By now, Impulse knows what genuine terror looks like on Grian. He really hadn’t expected to see it here, in a tiny truck in the middle of nowhere.
He lowers the syringe. ‘I won’t to force you, obviously, but are you sure?’
The issue is, they might be past the time of having a choice. The ghost they’re dealing with has been getting increasingly violent, so much so that they’ve had to ban half the team from the building, just to prevent all of them being compromised at once.
Impulse reaches for his radio. ‘Hey, uh, guys? How far are you from the exit?’
It’s Scar who replies. ‘Dude, I got no idea. I don’t even know where we are any more. We walked forever.’
‘Why did they have to make these asylums so bloody large back in the day?’ Skizz complains, followed by a wash of static and a shout.
Grian jumps.
‘It’s just an event,’ Impulse soothes. They wouldn’t have been able to hear the yelling otherwise.
‘Phew, that was close,’ says Scar. ‘By the way, we saw some rotting corpses in the basement and I think one moved. Are we certain we’re dealing with a ghost here and not a zombie apocalypse?’
Wide black eyes meet Impulse’s. ‘They aren’t gonna make it, are they?’
Grian’s gaze drifts to the board, where his bar has firmly dropped to zero. The others’ vitals aren’t looking too great, either. Him taking the shot might be the only thing that ends up standing between Scar and a rabid ghost. Impulse sees the moment that realization ticks past.
He shakes his head. ‘They could get lucky, but this thing’s been hunting early all night.’
Grian’s attention lands briefly on the crucifixes. Both of them are still here – even if they knew where the ghost had rooted, they wouldn’t be quick enough. He slumps.
Impulse takes his hand. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
They’ll make it back from the dead one way or another. Eventually.
‘No,’ says Grian. ‘Argh. Go ahead.’
Impulse’s heart squeezes. He steps around Grian. ‘Here, let’s do it this way.’ He pulls out the singular bar stool they have in the van. ‘Sit down, face me.’
Grian hesitates, but does as told. His movements are sluggish and he’s shaking.
‘Don’t look at the needle,’ Impulse instructs. ‘Watch the front door. So you’ll see if it closes.’
The opening cuts a reassuring dark rectangle into the ugly façade of the building.
Impulse pushes up Grian’s sleeve and swipes his elbow with a disinfecting wipe. Grian’s knuckles crack around his flash-light. He looks like he’s about to flinch. That won’t do. Impulse moves in between the other’s legs, turning his back on the asylum. ‘Put your head on my shoulder.’
‘I thought I was supposed to watch the door.’
Grian’s forehead settles against the nape of Impulse’s neck. It’s not the most comfortable position to give someone an injection, but he will deal. Grian not panicking in advance and injuring himself while trying to get away is more important.
Impulse pulls the cap off the syringe with a soft pop.
Grian goes very still.
Impulse lines up the shot. ‘You know I wouldn’t hurt you, right?’
He knows Grian gets what he means. They’ve hurt each other plenty over the years. The Death Games come to mind. They’ve sold out and betrayed one another, made use of each other’s talents to the bitter end, but all of that was… well, it was for… it wasn’t. That’s the thing. It wasn’t.
‘Yeah,’ Grian whispers, barely audible on his next exhale. ‘Just do it.’
‘It’s gonna be over before you know it.’
As he’s speaking the words, he slides the needle under Grian’s skin. Grian makes a noise like a hiccup, but Impulse doesn’t wait for him to adjust. He depresses the plunger until it hits the bottom, pulls out and presses a wad of cotton to the injection site.
‘There we go. Done.’
He tries to step away, but Grian’s legs snap shut around him like a bear trap. He’s trembling, heaving huge breaths, and Impulse winces in sympathy. That first moment, when the adrenaline kicks in and makes your heartbeat skyrocket, is always intense.
He rubs soothing circles into Grian’s shoulder. ‘We’re switching back to pills for you after this.’
Grian lifts his head. He still looks sweaty but his cheeks are pink, and when he slides off the stool and snatches a crucifix from the wall, his hand is steady. There’s a glint of teeth to his smile. A raptor’s grin.
‘We’re going to show this ghost. Our friends need us. Let’s go!’