Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

164 :: JOHN R. MABRY
In his imagination, he stopped as close to the violet light
as he could. The light was strong, now, and he could dimly
see the energy field of the magician’s body.
Just as he had done before, he reached out his hands—or
imagined that he was reaching—and with a couple of careful
strokes, adjusted the connection between the angelic spirit
and the meat puppet of Webber’s body.
No sooner had he done that than a banshee wail ripped
through the hospital lobby. The sound was so shreddingly
loud, so pain-riddled, so ghastly, that it reached to nearly
every floor, stopping people cold in their tracks in the hallways.
Terry jumped up and made for the sound, doubling back
when the wail became muffled, and having to nearly hold his
hands over his ears as he made ground.
Then he saw them. Two men were on the ground, their
faces grimacing against the magnitude of the unearthly wail.
The body, mouth opened in a continuous scream, sat bolt
upright on a gurney, halfway in and halfway out of a service
elevator.
Not sure what to do, Terry saw movement and turned to
see Richard and Susan running towards him. He gulped his
relief, and, hands still affixed to his ears, strode towards the
gurney.
He leaned his head in to touch it against the head of the
screaming angel, and once again disconnected the angel’s
spirit from the body. As if a switch had been thrown, the
screaming stopped, and the body fell into a prone position as
if it had been dropped.
Security was not far behind, the officers pounding down
the hall towards them, their hands fumbling at their service
revolvers. Richard nodded at Susan, and they both sat down
on the men still writhing on the floor.