Consciousness wasn't something he wanted.  The dark, soft world of forgetful sleep was a much better place to be.  In that murky realm, the pain was just a faint dispatch from a distant land.

But reality demanded attention and after several minutes, it became clear to Horus that he was pretending to sleep more than he was actually sleeping.

Deep bands of agony stretched across his chest and thighs, unwelcome mementos of the crash and the punch of the airbag.  There was a sickening rawness in the back of his skull, like a metal shard embedded in his scalp.  It reminded him of the men.

They came after his car marooned itself in the scrubby dirt at the side of the highway.  They got him out.  Prised the door open, deflated the airbag, and pulled him from the BMW.  They got there too quickly to be EMTs.  Helpful motorists, he thought until he saw they were masked.  Their gloved hands were too rough with him—gripping hard, tugging painfully, dragging him through the broken glass, and dumping him face-first in the dirt.

Still stunned from the crash, the threat his rescuers posed was abstract.   He knew he should get away from them but there was no urgency to his fear.  When he should flee was just as mystifying as to why. The only concrete things his mind could grasp were the hot ground beneath him, the baking sun above, and the layers of pain in the middle.

There had been a pickup truck.  It had come out of nowhere and swerved into him.   No, it had hit him square on—it had rammed him.  It must have been waiting.

The tingling panic that flooded through his body clarified the need to escape—escape now.

He began to struggle to his feet.  Horus got as far as raising himself up on his knees when the restrictive feeling in his chest—the thickness filling in his lungs as though they were filled with mud—started an uncontrollable coughing fit.  His hand shot out to support him as he collapsed forward with wracking convulsions. 

 Horus never saw what cracked against the back of his skull.  There was only the sharp impact and then the void of unconsciousness.

That abyss of non-being was in all ways a better place than the netherworld of darkness he found himself in now.  This real-world was hot and airless.  Jarring vibrations bumped him around but he couldn't move his body.  The noise was awful—a demonic screech that clawed at his ears.

There was absolutely no curiosity about where he was.  That knowledge was tainted with deep dread.  Horus was absolutely certain that the answer to the mystery was more terrible than anything he could imagine.

But despite himself, things began to clarify as time dragged on.  He was in a vehicle, sitting on a hard bench.  His hands were bound to metal rings in the seat.  It wasn't the night that made things dark, although it very well may have been night.  Just as easily as it might have been day.  A heavy sack over his head hid the truth.  The air inside was humid and stale from his recycled breaths.

The last thing that came into focus was the noise.  The horrible, torturous noise.  The concussive thumps, the whining like a cat in heat—they were drums and guitars.  Horus recognized the series of shrieking machine shop sounds as what could loosely be called a tune.  A radio was blasting the Princes of Darkness.  It echoed in the vaulted space of the mysterious container that imprisoned Horus.

On the radio, Kyle Silver began to sing.  The incoherent voice of his Strafer persona was too familiar to mistake.

Someone near him began to sing along.  Horus wasn't alone.  He was about to call out when another person joined in.  Soon a whole chorus was chanting to Kyle Silver's words.

Horus really had woken up in hell.

***

Barbara had never felt less.  Numbness spread through her as though she'd been injected with a fast acting drug—a novocaine of nothingness drowned everything inside of her.  Like a lost doll, she stared off blankly, while still holding onto to Carlos.  Slowly she raised herself out of the blood she was lying in.  Standing up, the weight of the medic pack tugged at her arm.  Somehow it was still hooked onto her.  She didn't have the strength to shrug it off.  Stepping out from behind the desk, she walked into the barrage of gunfire.

I really hope that the rest of your pointless existence will be filled with all the misery you deserve.  Carol Higgins' words seemed like a curse.  Were the people around her doomed to suffer because of her?  Was that her fate?

 A group of four commandos were pushing their way toward the few survivors behind the desk.  Barbara blinked slowly as they came.

The end was rushing at her just as it had when Carol Higgins threatened to steal her career away from her. 

Who was she if not a surgeon?

The woman's hand was on the receiver to make the call to the police and send Barbara off to prison.  Higgins' chipped nail polish helped focus Barbara's stunned thoughts.  She couldn't let this mess of a woman get the best of her.

"Wait." Barbara rose to her feet.    "You don't understand.  I was helping them." 

"What I understand is you killed patients.  You murdered them in cold blood."

Barbara paced nervously over to the window and looked out past the parking lot—past the gas stations, pizzerias, and 7-Elevens frosted with week-old snow.  She looked to the black swath of water in the distance, barely visible in the night.  Putting Higgins at her back calmed her.  It was easier to explain things without that cocky, little troll doll glaring at her with her look of superiority.

"It wasn't murder.  I was saving them from suffering.  Their quality of life was horrible.  None of them could hope for any meaningful improvement if they had lived."

"That isn't your decision to make.  And even if they did consent, it's still against the law."  There was a pause as her tongue clucked against the roof of her mouth.  "But I find it very hard to believe that Mrs. Sinclair asked you to end her coma.  Sixteen people are dead because you thought their lives weren't worth anything.  I just wish the law had some worse punishment for people like you."

In the quiet office, the phone's receiver made a clattering sound as it was lifted off the cradle.  A soft beep tolled out as the first number was dialed.

"Twenty," Barbara said.  She had meant to be forceful but in the silence, it sounded shrill.  "There were twenty.  You missed some."  She turned away from the night to see Higgins' reaction.  "It looks like you're not as smart as you think you are."

Carol Higgins lowered the phone as though it had suddenly gained mass and weight.  It hovered limply above the surface of the desk.  "You are absolutely horrible.  And I may have missed them but I'll be sure to tell the police.  They'll uncover all your crimes."

She drew the receiver back to her ear and began to redial.  Barbara took two steps and stood right behind the loathsome woman.

"Oh, you're not stupid because you didn't find every patient.  You're stupid because you chose to meet me here alone."

Higgins' head made a satisfying thump as it smashed down on the desk.  Barbara wrapped one hand around the woman's neck almost in a caress.  Carol began to recover from her daze and struggle but Barbara grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face down again.

The next one was easier—there wasn't nearly as much fight.  There was no resistance at all the fourth time.  The skull slapped against the blotter with a crack.  Blood splattered out and sprayed her pens and paper, the phone, and the silver-framed photo of Carol Higgins on the beach with her three small children.

Barbara propped her up in the chair and wrapped her hands around her throat, swiveling her around to look her in the eyes.  "Do you really think that's how life works?  That people get what they deserve?  No.  People take what they want, every chance they get.  That's all there is."

Feeble fingers clawed at the back of her hands.  But there was too little strength left—her life was slipping away.  Her face was turning the shade of a bruise and her eyes were bulging out of her head.  Blood ran down from her scalp like rain on a window.

"Those patients are dead because it was the best thing for them and I had the will to do it.  And you will die because I have the power to do it.  It's what I want.  And unlike you, I'm not afraid to get what I want."

A bullet tore across her arm.  The stinging pain felt good.  It helped her feel the reality around her.  The Major's forces were nearly out of bullets and men.  Only three of them kept up sporadic shots.  It would be all over for them soon, except there was a change in the atmosphere.  Both the security guards and the commandos sensed it.  It slowed them—made them hesitate.

Black helicopters swarmed in the night sky above the shattered atrium.  The cavalry was almost there.  Too late to help Carlos.  Too late to do anything but mop things up and carry the survivors off to be interrogated in some secret facility. 

The black-clad invaders must have been thinking the same thing. They began to retreat.  The ones in position by the door poured out and made for the vans.  The advance team of four turned and bolted, keeping their heads down and staying close to one another for protection.

Without any hurry, Barbara bent down and picked up the RPG.  It was already loaded.  How hard could it be to fire?

She pointed it directly at the huddle of men racing for the door.  The blast felt as though it would rip her arms from their sockets.  The RPG dropped from her shaking fingers but she couldn't hear it over the ringing in her ears. 

After the explosion settled, the atrium felt empty.  The bullets weaned out to a sporadic, half-hearted volley, leaving in its place the sound of whimpering.  Outside, the rotors of the copters cut the air with a staccato buzz and car engines roared to life.

The last few of Delgado's men rushed out, pressing the attack on the escaping vans.

Barbara walked over to her victims.  One was clearly deceased.  Another was dead or dying.  The third was missing a leg.  The last one seemed to have only minor wounds to his arms and chest.  She knelt next to him.

With speed she didn't expect, he drew his sidearm.  He got it out and aimed it but the strain of the effort was visible on his face.

"Can you hear me?  Focus on my lips.  I'm a doctor."  Barbara held up the white medic bag with the red cross on it so he could see it.  "Here's the situation.  You are suffered multiple shrapnel wounds.  These are survivable.  But your proximity to the explosion has likely caused internal injuries and hemorrhaging.  You can shoot me and hope that someone comes for you before it's too late, or you can let me work on you."

"You can save me?"  The weapon wavered.

"I can."

He lowered the pistol and let it fall to the floor, groaning from the small movement.

"This isn't going to be easy, but you need to get on your feet.  We need to get someplace safe. There's too much broken glass and garbage around here to work.  And who knows how long we have before someone starts shooting again."

With Barbara's help, he stood.  She wrapped one of his arms across her shoulders and supported his weight so he could hobble over to the hallway.   

"Where are we going?"

"Not far.  It'll be safe.  What's your name soldier?" she asked to distract him from the pain.

"Daniel."

"Trust me, Daniel.  I'll take care of you.  I promise."

The door to the janitor's closet kept getting closer.  Barbara dug her fingers into his arm, keeping him from slipping.   The medical bag slipped from her shoulder and tugged on the crook of her arm.  Its weight bounced against her thigh with each step—a steady reminder of its presence and the old familiar tools it contained.  It had been a while since she'd used a scalpel but she knew it would all come back to her once she started.

She hadn't lied.  She could save him if she wanted to.  Barbara would take care of him and keep him alive for as long as it suited her.  In the end, there was no fate—no karma.  There was only want.  And all Barbara wanted was to find out who ordered this attack and make him pay. 

Daniel didn't know it yet, but he was going to help her.

***

Author's Note: So just a brief check-in with Horus. I didn't want anyone to forget about him, but I doubt I'll keep this scene in the final draft, as nothing very important happens.

The big thing is Barbara. This was the second part of her big moment. I asked this question before: does this change the way you think of her?