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The screams started in Room 407.
Nurse Evelyn Carter had been working night shifts long enough to know the difference between pain and terror.
What came from behind the maternity ward doors was not the cry of a woman in labor, it was something else.
Something wrong.
She rushed down the dimly lit corridor, the overhead fluorescents flickering weakly as if the hospital itself was holding its breath.
The security guard, James, was already outside the room, his face pale, his hand trembling over his holstered gun.
“What’s happening?” Evelyn demanded.
James just shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The monitors went crazy, then the mother to be started screaming.
Evelyn did not wait. She shoved the door open.
And stopped cold.
The room reeked of blood.
Doctor Patel was dead, his body crumpled against the far wall, his chest cavity torn open.
The monitors beeped wildly, flashing erratic warnings.
The mother, Kara Whitman lay on the hospital bed, her stomach a ruined cavity, ripped open from the inside.
And the baby.
Only, it wasn’t a baby anymore.
PRAGMATIC ISSUES 