A/N: Gruesomeness warning for this chapter. Sorry it's a short one, but I had an incredibly tough time getting it to come out right. Hope it does not disappoint. ------------------ The nausea medication combined with the Morphine proved too much for Matt, and he fell into a deep sleep. Later, he would describe it as a coma, although it wasn't a true one; he did not dream, and had no awareness of time having passed. When he opened his eyes, Emily was gone. The room was freezing cold, and as silent as the grave. He fumbled around for the call button, but couldn't find it anywhere, so instead, he tried calling, "Hey!" There was no answer, but his throat was dry, and it surely hadn't been his best shouting voice. He tried again. "Hey! I need some help in here!" Matt expected to hear footsteps running his way, or at least a voice responding to him, but again, he heard nothing. He sat up on the gurney, clutching its sides for balance when a wave of dizziness took him by surprise. Slowly, carefully, put lowered his bare feet to the icy floor and forced himself to stand up. Half a second after he put weight on his ankles, he fell, and this time he didn't even try to hold back his yell. The pain he'd been feeling in his legs earlier had just increased tenfold, and suddenly the Morphine they had given him seemed no more effective than a simple aspirin. Maybe half an aspirin. Baby aspirin. He managed to grab the edge of the gurney and ease himself the rest of the way down. Now he was lying full out on that sub-zero tile floor, and he didn't even want to consider what his hospital gown wasn't covering. "Need some help here!" he called again. "Emily? Doc? Karen?" The eerie silence was beginning to get on his nerves. Matt tried to crawl toward the cubicle's opening, and felt something tugging on his arm. He looked down, and gasped in horror. Skeletal fingers--too abnormally long to be those of a human skeleton--had latched onto his left hand and were squeezing it hard. The nails scrabbled and scratched at his skin until blood began to run from his hand in deep, dark rivulets. This time, Matt didn't hold back. "I need some help!" he yelled. "Emily! Someone help me!" In the next second, the room changed. It was suddenly warmer, though not nearly warm enough, and there were the expected hospital background noises--voices murmuring, machines beeping--and most importantly, Emily was there. She and Karen each grabbed an arm and lifted him from the floor back to the gurney. Karen staunched the bleeding from his pulled IV with a clean washcloth while Emily found a wet one and began wiping blood from his arm. "Matt, what on earth were you doing?" she scolded. Then, seeing how her partner shivered, she tucked the blanket tightly around him. "I'll hold that, you get him some more warm blankets. He's freezing," she directed, taking over the pressure cloth from the nurse. Karen didn't argue. She left, and was back in a flash with two more of the heated blankets. The two women removed the chilled blanket and covered Matt with the warm ones. Matt closed his eyes, still shivering, and tried to figure out what the heck was going on. Things just weren't making sense. The bleeding stopped at last, Karen told Emily, "I'll have to restart his IV. Be right back." Emily nodded. "How did you manage to fall out of bed?" she asked him when they were alone. Matt started to shake his head, remembered the cannonball rolling around in there, and thought better of it. "I didn't fall," he whispered urgently. "Emily, there's something really wrong with this place." She shook her head in confusion. "I don't know what you mean." He didn't have time to explain before the nurse returned. Matt still felt the pain from the fingers that had ripped at him a few minutes earlier, but when he forced himself to look at his hand, it appeared normal, except that his IV was gone. That was odd. He couldn't remember anyone removing it. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel sleepy again, and it was entirely possible it had been removed while he was out. He knew the drugs were doing a number on him. He stared at the ceiling, waiting to feel the prick of the needle in his arm, but it never came. Instead, there was a flash of silver, and Matt found himself plunged into the most gruesome type of horror movie. The needle in Karen's hand had changed into a scalpel, and as Matt watched horrified, she turned toward Emily, grabbed a handful of his partner's hair, and slit her throat. Emily's blood gushed forth, splattering the floor and drenching him with its warmth. He tried to reach for her, but found he was unable to move. Karen dropped Emily to the floor and turned her attention back to him. He was vaguely aware that Emily was still alive, that she was making a choked effort to speak, but his eyes were glued to the scalpel in Karen's hand. All at once, he could move again. He twisted, struggled, tried to pull away from her, called for help, and it was all a wasted effort. Even before he could slide away from her, several more hospital employees appeaed out of nowhere, holding him down, keeping him helpless while Karen stuck her scalpel in his arm, not just into his vein, but ripping it up his arm, ripping the veins out from under his skin and splitting them, so the blood flooded down his arm and made an ever-widening pool of harsh red against the white tile of the floor. Matt fought as hard as he could, but he could feel his strength ebbing out from his wounds. And Emily--he could no longer hear her. She was still. Dead. Adrenaline coursed through him, and for a moment he thought he just might make it, but even as he made one last desperate attempt for freedom, a plastic mask was brought down over his nose and mouth. He just had time to register an odd smell before he found himself losing consciousness. Even though he fought valiantly to keep his eyes open, in the end, there was no way he could win. Matt felt himself sinking into blackness, and then it was cold again.