Worthe's Village

by Ron Ripley

  There has to be a pump somewhere, Marcus thought. At least that would make sense, the way that this place is set up.

  Buckets first, he told himself and went back into the kitchen. When he dragged the buckets out from beneath the cabinet, he saw a set of old tools. Wooden-handled screwdrivers and a hatchet.

  He took them out, held one of the flat-head screwdrivers in his hand, and then smiled.

  Turning to the door that led out of the house, Marcus swiftly removed the pins, grunting as he slipped the heavy door down and onto the ground outside.

  ***

  Such a curious man, Abel mused.

  He watched as Subject B used a length of clothesline from the Reverend’s house and tied it around one end of the back door, whose hinges he had taken off. In the morning light, the old brass doorknobs glittered in the grass, abandoned and discarded.

  Abel’s face spread into a broad smile as Subject B placed the filled drawer, then the makeshift bag on the door, securing them with extra clothesline.

  Clever, Abel thought. Damned clever indeed.

  Subject B had transformed the backdoor into a rough sled. The man moved off slowly, dragging the scavenged items behind him, the iron chain draped over his neck like an oxbow.

  “You most certainly do not have far to go,” Abel said in a low voice to the figure of the man on the screen. “What a marvelous adaptation.”

  Abel jotted several lines down on his notepad, and as he finished, his private line rang twice.

  “Hello, David,” Abel said into the receiver.

  “Hello, sir. I wanted to let you know that Subject C has arrived,” David said.

  “Oh, excellent,” Abel said, laughing happily. “Listen, David, there’s one other item I’ve thought of.”

  “Of course, sir,” David said.

  And as his favorite employee listened, Abel told him what he wanted.

  Chapter 23: Maggie’s Arrival

  Rough hands slapped her and Maggie screamed as she clawed her way up and out of sleep.

  What a nightmare! she thought, opening her eyes.

  But it hadn’t been a nightmare.

  Maggie was supported between a pair of black-clad men, their faces hidden behind mirrored visors. A third man stood in front of her, his hand raised up for another slap.

  When she winced away, he lowered it.

  Her eyes darted around, and she saw others dressed in identical black uniforms. They carried ridiculously large shotguns she had seen on police dramas, and they stood in front of an impressive, wrought iron gate. The gate was connected to a fence made of the same material, and it stretched to both the left and right. On either side of the gate stood towers with armed guards in them. Beyond the fence was a small village, old houses lining a quaint, cobblestone street.

  “Where am I?” Maggie asked, her voice slurred, her jaw aching. “Why am I here?”

  Her questions seemed to satisfy something in the man in front of her, and he nodded.

  At his gesture, the gate opened, and the men holding onto her dragged her forward, her shoes scraping on the dirt road that led toward the first of the cobblestones.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, her fear burning away the last vestiges of sleep and whatever drug they had used to incapacitate her.

  None of them responded to her question, and when she struggled to free herself, they only tightened their grip. She began to yell, then to scream, wrenching herself back and forth, trying to kick out at the men, twisting her head down to try and bite the hands that held her.

  Nothing worked.

  Halfway to the first of the houses, she heard a loud, dull hammering. It came from the right, and her eyes sought out the source of the noise.

  They found it soon enough, and as she gasped, she desperately wished that she had not seen the cause of the hammering.

  On a large, makeshift crucifix, a pair of the black uniformed men were nailing up the naked body of a young man. His head lolled back and forth with the strike of each hammer, his hands twitching as if keeping count of the blows.

  His chest bore two black marks, the size, and shape of small hands. The uniformed men seemed unconcerned with their chore, and when they pushed the young man’s head up to secure it to the crucifix with barbed wire, his jaw dropped, and his tongue tumbled out of his mouth to drape over his lower lip.

  Horrified, Maggie opened her mouth and shrieked.

  ***

  Tired and sore, Marcus sat in the chapel, eating a meal of stale bread with the supplies from the Reverend’s house stacked on the pews around him.

  When the hammering began, he didn’t pay much mind to it. He needed to think of how he might escape his predicament.

  But when shrieks broke the stillness of the experiment, he straightened up, his food forgotten.

  Marcus had heard true fear before, in Vietnam. He remembered the bitter sound of a friend, gut-shot and dying slowly in a firefight, and the shriek that rang out as he sat in the chapel was reminiscent of that day in 1974.

  Before he realized what he was doing, Marcus was up and out of the chapel, the iron chain in his hands as he hurried among the headstones. The hammering grew louder the closer as he drew to the houses, and he angled his path so that he might catch a glimpse of the street.

  Two sights leaped into view, and both spurred him on to greater speed.

  The first was the crucifixion of a young man who, by his lack of reaction to his fate, was undoubtedly dead.

  It was the second that Marcus was fixated upon.

  A pair of guards dragged a young woman toward the Reverend’s house.

  And Marcus knew what awaited her there.

  Fear kicked his heart into a stuttering rhythm for a moment, and when he regained some marginal control over the muscle, Marcus moved toward the open back doorway of 114 Broad Street.

  ***

  The house was wrong.

  Maggie felt it in the pit of her stomach, and her fearful resistance took on a frenzied pitch.

  I’ll die in there, she realized, trying to wrench herself backward away from the building. I know I will.

  The men holding her were strong, and despite her efforts, they continued to drag her toward the front door. One of them hesitated briefly to twist the doorknob with a gloved hand, then gave the door a slight kick to open it all the way.

  Maggie didn’t beg or plead.

  She knew it wouldn’t work.

  Instead, she continued to fight as they pushed and pulled her down a narrow hallway. A set of stairs stood at the far end, and she knew it was there they wanted to bring her.

  Maggie threw herself backward, inhaled to scream, and then let it out in a gasp of surprise as something dark and thick hurtled out of an open doorway.

  The guard nearest the door let go of her as he stumbled back, the polarized glass of his visor raining down on the floor. His companion uttered an unintelligible question, and then he too was falling back.

  Maggie fell forward, managed to catch herself and pull away to one side as an older man stepped out of the doorway. He was dressed in plain, unremarkable clothes, but his face was harsh and stamped with grim determination. His white hair was swept back from his head, and his blue eyes blazed as he swung a length of chain.

  The guards managed to get to their feet, but not before the man with the chain had struck each of them several more times. His hands were a blur, the chain rattling out and connecting loudly. He drove them out of the house with it, and at least once she was certain she heard a bone break. Possibly two.

  As soon as the men were out the door, the older man kicked it closed, locked it and turned to her, saying in a raspy voice, “Quick now! Out the back!”

  He hurried to her, helped her to her feet, and led her through a kitchen, and out a doorway missing its door.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder, fearful of the uniformed men.

  They were nowhere to be seen.

  “The chapel,” the ol
d man replied.

  “The chapel?” Maggie murmured and didn’t press for any more information.

  She was almost too tired to think.

  Chapter 24: At the Chapel

  “How are they?” Abel asked, sipping at his mineral water.

  “Embarrassed more than anything, sir,” David replied.

  Abel noticed how tired the man looked.

  “Have you been sleeping enough, David?” Abel asked.

  David blushed, hesitated and then stated, “No. Not nearly enough, sir. We have a lot to do.”

  “Undeniably,” Abel agreed, “but those good works cannot be accomplished, not to the degree I need them to be, with you being under the weather. Take the rest of the day and rest. I do mean this, David. This project would collapse without you at the helm. You should realize this by now.”

  The man flushed with pride and nodded.

  “Excellent,” Abel said, setting his glass down. “Now, tell me, what are the extent of the injuries?”

  “A broken femur, several loose teeth, and multiple minor lacerations,” David reported. “And, to be honest, sir, I think they’re extremely lucky. Subject B is far more capable than any of us would have surmised, and I like to think I have an eye for talent. He is quite skilled.”

  “Oh, he is,” Abel agreed, smiling. “He most certainly is,”

  A look of concern flashed across David’s usually closed features and brought a frown to Abel’s brow.

  “What is it?” Abel asked.

  David cleared his throat and said, “Sir, I would respectfully suggest that we terminate the experiment with Subject B. We should liquidate him and focus on Subject C.”

  “And what is behind this suggestion?” Abel asked, genuinely curious.

  “Sir, Subject B injured two members of the acquisitions team,” David stated flatly. “And he killed a third. He has successfully escaped from, and held at bay, the Reverend, a ghost who we believe to be of significant strength.”

  “All true,” Abel said pleasantly.

  “And now,” David continued, “Subject B has established a position of strength within the Village and managed to injure a pair of guards. He is, I am afraid to say, sir, the proverbial monkey wrench thrown into the works. I believe he will cause more harm than good.”

  “I appreciate your concern, David,” Abel said, straightening up in his chair. “And, I will admit, you are absolutely correct. If anyone is going to be a thorn in my side, it will be Subject B. He has already proven that. But he has also shown me a new avenue of research, the fear of the hero. I think that might even be the title of the book when I’m finished with it.”

  David didn’t respond, and Abel let out a sigh.

  “David,” Abel said, “I promise you this, that should the situation become untenable, then I will authorize the execution of all subjects still on the property. And the first, if he is still alive, would be Subject B. Does that satisfy you?”

  David’s face relaxed slightly, and the man nodded. “It does indeed, sir.”

  “Excellent,” Abel said with a clap of his hands. “Now, I must return to the monitors. I would like to see what, if anything, our two subjects are doing.”

  David gave a short bow and then followed Abel out of the room.

  Abel wasn’t surprised to find himself trying to skip along, his excitement reaching an almost fevered pitch.

  ***

  The young woman hugged her knees to her chest, huddled beneath one of the blankets and pressed against the wall. She kept her gaze on the floor, away from the windows opposite her, and off Marcus’s face. Her black hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, the lines of her jaw and cheekbones standing out starkly on her narrow face. Brown eyes looked dully from sockets that were hollow and dark with fear and exhaustion. She was a slight woman, and was, Marcus, suspected, no taller than five feet.

  The two of them were in the chapel, and Marcus had not pressed the young woman for her name or how she had gotten there. She was, he discerned, clearly upset, and he did not wish to add to her anxiety.

  Marcus stood up, walked to the door and stopped as she asked in a hoarse whisper, “Where are you going?”

  He heard the panic and fear in her voice, and he understood them both perfectly.

  Marcus turned around and sat down, his back to the door, careful not to disrupt the thick line of salt across the threshold.

  “I was going to make some coffee,” he replied, nodding toward the old stoneware coffee pot he had pilfered from the Reverend’s home. “If you would like some.”

  She shook her head.

  “I would like it if you didn’t leave,” she said, her voice no longer hoarse but still not reaching above a whisper. “If that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine,” Marcus smiled. “I don’t mind at all.”

  He adjusted his position, tucked his feet under him as best he could and clasped his hands together. Marcus had little knowledge of how to interact with women on a personal level, but he was able to recognize someone in distress.

  And who can blame her? he wondered. She had been kidnapped and dragged out into the middle of nowhere. Unlike himself, she had been awakened and then brought into the experiment. They had specifically brought her to see the crucified man, and Marcus suspected that it had been a carefully calculated move, although he could not imagine why.

  Marcus cleared his throat and asked in a gentle tone, “May I ask your name?”

  “Maggie,” she replied, blinked, and then straightened up. Maggie tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and said in a louder, firmer voice, “Maggie. Well, Margaret Reich.”

  “We are well met then, Maggie,” he said. “I am Marcus Holt.”

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  Marcus shook his head. “I am afraid that I do not have an answer for you. I awoke here yesterday, but they took me from my home in Norwich, Connecticut.”

  “I was in Commack, Long Island,” she said softly. “I was at work. I pulled an extra shift. I’m a bartender.”

  Marcus nodded.

  “Why are we out here?” she asked. “Will they not let you in the houses?”

  “Maggie,” Marcus said in a gentle voice. “The last place we want to be is in one of the houses.”

  When she frowned in confusion, Marcus explained the history of 114 Broad Street to her, and of his own experiences there.

  Her face paled, then reddened.

  “No,” she finally said, shaking her head. “That can’t be true. Ghosts don’t exist.”

  “They do,” Marcus said, digging his pipe out of his pocket and filling the bowl. “And they’re not particularly pleasant. I’m sure that some are. Perhaps a handful. Possibly even the Reverend’s wife. But I want you to understand, the Reverend is real, and he’s a terrible man. Our warden here managed to purchase the entire building and have it transported here. He had it reconstructed in a compound containing similar homes. That means our warden has a significant supply of money and a disturbing hobby that we should discover sooner rather than later.”

  “This isn’t real,” she whispered.

  “It is,” Marcus said with greater force than he had intended. “Listen to me, Maggie, this is all real. Every last bit of it. There was a young man crucified out on the street. You and I have both been kidnapped. I don’t believe I was meant to survive the encounter with the Reverend, which makes me wonder why you’re here. Unless, of course, he wishes to see us struggle and attempt to overcome the fear of the unknown.”

  “If you’re right,” she said, looking at him tiredly, “then we know what he wants us to overcome. This ghost of yours. The Reverend.”

  Marcus refrained from telling her that the Reverend wasn’t his ghost.

  “Is he going to let us go?” Maggie asked after a moment.

  Before Marcus could respond, she let out a bitter laugh tinged heavily with madness.

  “Stupid question, Maggie,” she said. “I don’t think he would have let us see the littl
e crucifixion if he planned on dropping us off at the nearest Grey Hound station.”

  “That, dear Maggie,” Marcus said in a tone he had once reserved for students panicking over mid-terms, “is why we have to find some sort of way to escape from this place.”

  She looked at him with an expression of dull shock.

  “No offense, Marcus, but how the hell are we going to do that?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “But we have food and a safe place from the Reverend. That will give us time to fashion some sort of plan.”

  “And what happens if they come and turn us out?” she asked, her voice rising to a shriek. “What then? Do we find some other place to hide? Some other hole and pray we don’t get found?”

  “Maggie,” he began.

  Before he could finish, she leaped to her feet, the blanket dropping to the floor.

  “Look at me!” she screamed. “I saw someone get crucified! They kidnapped me, and I am as good as dead!”

  A howl of pure agony escaped the young woman’s thin lips and pierced Marcus’ ears.

  The sound reverberated against the chapel’s granite walls, then Maggie’s eyes rolled back to reveal their whites, and she collapsed to the floor, thumping against it loudly.

  Marcus remained seated for a moment in the sudden, stark silence.

  Then, he took a deep breath, got to his feet and went to the young woman. He picked her up, placed her on one of the pews, and used one blanket as a pillow and draped the other over her. In silence, Marcus untied her worn, black sneakers, tucking the laces in before he placed them beneath the pew. Finally, he covered her feet with the edge of the blanket and returned to the door. He picked up the stoneware coffee pot, the coffee he had stolen, and the iron chain.

  Marcus opened the door, looked out at the headstones and stepped out and over the line of salt. He walked to a small collection of branches and twigs, and in sight of the chapel’s solitary door, he began to build a fire.