CALL IT REAPER’S INSOMNIA, but the dead wouldn’t let me sleep at night. Every time the sun went down, I swore I sensed them stirring, starving. Killing. Tonight was no different. As the boys and I pulled up to St. Mary’s Hospital, the scene seized and held my nerves at knife-point. The hospital’s power? Out. Patients spilled into the streets—some barefoot, and blanket clad; others clutching IV stands for support. They gaped at our Humvee, shying back from the glare of our emergency lights. No doubt they’d recognized the decals on our vehicles—the famous H formed by interlocking crosses—and knew who we were. Or more specifically, what we meant: The Helsing Corps only showed up when someone didn’t stay dead. People jabbed fingers in our direction, questioning the nurses and security guards. Best they couldn’t see the staccato flash of ghostlight in the fourth-story windows, or for that matter, the spatters that light silhouetted on the glass. If these people saw the place the way I did, knew what I knew about ghostlight and death, they’d riot and run.
