Chương 121: Chapter 120 – Being the Angel of Death is Complicated

"It will all be over soon," Trula said as he depressed the plunger on the syringe. The faint chemical smell of the lab drifted around him, sharp and sterile.

"I wish there was another way," he added, looking into Armand's eyes.

"Just ride the wave, my friend. Let go and drift away." Trula watched as Armand's eyes fluttered closed, his breathing growing shallow. The rise and fall of his chest slowed… then stopped. The room felt suddenly colder. He shoved the syringe into his pocket and hurried to the storeroom, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry insects. As he reached for the case of specimen jars, the lab door opened with a whoosh.

"Trula!" Wentworth's voice cracked through the room like a whip.

"Where are those jars? I want to get started!" Trula grabbed the box with shaking hands.

"I'm right here," he said, forcing his voice steady. His palms were slick with sweat. He had to play it cool… he couldn't give Wentworth even the slightest hint that he knew the hybrid was dead or that he was the one who caused his untimely demise. He spotted Wentworth through the doorway, took a deep breath, and walked out as calmly as he could manage.

"What was the hold up? I expected this to be done by the time I got back," Wentworth said, arranging instruments on the rolling table. Metal clinked sharply against metal.

"You really are slacking, Trula. Maybe it's time you were reassigned to an area that was…" he paused, "let's just say not so time sensitive."

"I'm sorry, sir," Trula said, his face flushing hot.

"I needed to use the… um… facilities, if you know what I mean." He feigned embarrassment.

"I don't think my lunch agreed with me," he added rubbing his stomach. Wentworth shook his head.

"Whatever. Are your bodily issues under control, or can I expect you to dart out of here unexpectedly once we proceed?"

"I think I'm good," Trula said, placing the box on the cabinet and taking out jars. His fingers trembled as glass tapped against glass.

"But you know… these things can be… unpredictable in nature." Wentworth looked over at Armand's body. The overhead lights cast a harsh glare across the hybrid's still form.

"Well, let's see what makes you work, shall we?" he said, his mouth curling into a devious smile. He glanced back at Trula, who was still arranging jars of various shapes and sizes.

"Pick up the pace. I haven't got all day to stand around while you putter with those jars. Mordak is eager to get this…" he paused, "project completed." The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Yes, sir," Trula said, finishing quickly, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. As Wentworth approached Armand's body, one of the specimen jars slipped from Trula's hand and shattered on the floor. The sharp crack echoed through the lab.

"Damn it, Trula!" Wentworth shouted.

"What is wrong with you? Go get a broom and clean that mess up!" Relief washed over Trula as he scurried out of the room. The hallway felt cooler, quieter. He leaned against the wall, taking a series of deep breaths, trying to stop the rising panic. Just run. Leave now. Don't stick around for the fallout. His mind screamed. He took a sharp breath. If he left now, it would be the equivalent of shouting It was me! I did it! His hands trembled as he reached for the janitor's closet door.

"Trula!" Wentworth's voice boomed from the lab, making him jump.

"Coming, Dr. Wentworth!" he replied, grabbing the dustpan and broom before rushing back.

"Right here, sir!" he said breathlessly, sweeping up the shards of glass. The broken pieces scraped loudly against the tile. Did he figure it out? Does he know Armand is dead? Trula wondered, his stomach twisting. Wentworth watched him with intense frustration.

"Whenever you're ready," he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. Trula dumped the glass into the trash. This is agony. Just figure it out already and be done with it! His mind screamed. I can't take much more. He walked back toward Wentworth, who glared at him. All Trula could do was stand there, staring blankly. The room felt too bright, too loud.

"I need the specimen jar," Wentworth said through clenched teeth.

"Of course, sir," Trula said, moving toward the stretcher. It's now or never, he told himself.

"Sir… I don't believe the specimen is breathing," he said, feigning surprise, before starting chest compressions.

"What do you mean?" Wentworth barked, rushing over and shoving Trula aside.

"How can he not be breathing?"

"I don't know, sir, but I believe he may be deceased," Trula said, forcing confusion into his voice.

"I can see that, you moron!" Wentworth screamed, grabbing the defibrillator from the wall. He ripped open Armand's shirt and placed the paddles on his chest.

"Clear!" he yelled. The electric current jolted Armand's body violently. Wentworth checked for a pulse, then increased the charge.

"Clear!" he shouted again. The smell of ozone filled the air. Resignation crept across Wentworth's face as he realized his efforts were pointless.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered, then spit on Armand's face. Trula watched silently from the corner, relief washing over him now that Wentworth knew beyond a doubt the hybrid was gone. With each passing moment, he grew more confident that Wentworth suspected nothing.

"Is there anything I can do, sir?" he asked softly.

"What do you think, Trula?" Wentworth snapped.

"Can you suddenly bring this thing back to life?"

"No, sir," Trula said, solemnly.

"Then, no, there is nothing you can do." Wentworth rubbed the back of his neck.

"Draw some blood samples from this… this… thing, while I prepare for a full autopsy. Now not only do I need to figure out how he works, but I need to know what killed him so suddenly."