Freeney

by Clay Zimmerman

  SCREE-SCREE

  SCREE

  SCREE

  Rory was fascinated by his captive. It was still bouncing off the walls in there, flapping it’s wings wildly, making a great bit of noise and it’s little chirp/screech incantation.

  “Rory, stop. Let it go.”

  He wasn’t paying attention though, entertainment spread across his face. The longer the episode unfolded, the more captivating the candy pail became.

  “Rory, please.” Maddy insisted.

  Her voice finally bringing him back.

  “Oh. O.k., yeah.”

  He flipped the pail right side up and the distress instantly ceased.

  The Henley’s porch light hadn’t been turned on yet but the waning sunset provided little clarity as to what was transpiring inside. No shadows were being projected on the thin layered plastic sides. And still, yet even, not a sound emanated from within. The children were no more than a 5ft radius from the bucket. No one dared peak inside, though curiosity beckoned.

  Rory was brave enough. Or if he wasn’t, he simply couldn’t resist any further, slowly crept up to the pail. He didn’t stand over it and look down into the aperture at the top. No. Gingerly, got down on all fours and crawled forward until he was nearly right above it so that he might peer in and make out what was taking place.

  The bat was standing upright, it’s wings wrapped around each other like a trench coat, wearing a quizzical expression with it’s head cocked to the side as if it was wondering what had taken so long for someone to conduct a welfare check. It chirped lightly.

  “He’s cute. What’s your name, little buddy?”

  Rory was charmed. He began to notice the piercing, dark purple eyes. After another moment more, the eyes, to him, felt seemingly like the only thing existing in the world with any real substance.

  Is this love? He thought.

  SCREEEEEEEE

  The bat hissed ominously. A cloud of bright green gas materialized in front of Rory’s face with a poof. It was thick, lush. Rory breathed it in innocently, quickly began coughing with extreme violence.

  “Oh, my God!” Maddy shouted. “Somebody help him!”

  He was on his back now. She rushed to his side, as those who witness an accident often do, even if their resourcefulness allows them only to kneel around their fellow comrade, prop his or her head up and plead with them, “Are you o.k.? Are you alright?” When they are clearly not alright.

  But Rory was alright.

  Aside from a cold sweat that had broken out, he was regaining consciousness rapidly.

  “Yeah. Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Here, help me up.”

  The pail was empty.

  “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you o.k.?”

  “Yeah. Yes.”

  “What was that?” More urgently.

  “I don’t know. A bat, I guess.”

  “What did it spray you with?”

  “It didn’t spray me, I don’t think. It just shot this green cloud at me. Or it made that green cloud come at me or something. Or, it turned into that green cloud.”

  “Calm down.”

  Maddy vanished inside, returned instantly with a glass of water, no ice. He guzzled it.

  Patrick, “Where’s your dad?”

  “I don’t know. I think he’s taking a nap.”

  “I think it was some sort of Halloween trick. I think someone is playing a trick on us. I bet there’s a camera around here or something. O, cool! We might be on TV!”

  “Do you want to come inside for a little bit and lie down, Rory?”

  Patrick resisted the impulse to make innuendo (the situation was decidedly comical) but Rory was his friend and he was taking far too long to answer her concerns.

  “Rory?”

  His eyes were wide, focused on something far away. He was standing up now, staring blankly, pupils dilated, even though there wasn’t much light outside, taking shallow breaths rapidly. He was scared shitless. No, he was petrified with fear. A moustache of sweat had taken shape and his friends’ discomfort was reaching an apex.

  “What do we do?” Patrick urged.

  The kids were standing around, exchanging nervous glances. Their eyes darted back and forth between each other at a high rate. Jimmy was holding his teddy bear so tightly with both arms, it actually looked painful for both him and the bear.

  Maddy was the first to take initiative, “I’m going to wake up papa.” She said as she vaulted up the steps.

  To the young men, it felt like years she was gone. Patrick had one hand on his friend’s shoulder, the other on his forearm, trying to ease his trepidation or at least offer a safe passage back from some distant realm where Rory’s mind was held captive. Surely there was the perception that Rory’s balance was not static in nature.

  Soon enough, Mr. Henley appeared behind Madison, leading an unenthusiastic father who worked no less than sixty hours. What now? They don’t pay me enough for this shit.

  “He’s just standing there. He won’t move.” Patrick explained.

  Probably what I should’ve done a second ago, in my bed.

  Big Bob eyed the boy skeptically. I guess they’re never too young to start doing drugs. Gotta getem started early, hey! Probably nothing good like what we had.

  “Wanna come inside, son? Got some sodas in the ice box.”

  Nothing.

  Bob attempted to impede his view with a hand gesture but his focus was resolute. He waved the wand in front of his face exaggeratedly.

  Still, no.

  Oh, man. I carved a pumpkin and Maddy is old enough to keep an eye on her brother. What do I have to do to get a nap around here?

  “Come on in. You can ogle my daughter a little bit better in the light.” He hadn’t truly intended to say that out loud beyond that of a mutter under his breath but he was halfway hoping the boy had picked it up.

  “O.k., what did you guys do to him?” He diverted to the conscious.

  “Nothing, dad. I promise.”

  “Yeah, it was that bat.”

  “You hit him with a bat?”

  “No!” Maddy retorted. “You know, it was the flying kind.” The look of alarm in her eyes was not far gone, Bob was still expecting a punch line.

  “What. Did it bite him or something? Where is it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s gone. I mean, it didn’t bite him, I don’t think. It was that green gas the bat sprayed him with.”

  Bob took a moment to digest this. “What are you talking about?” He looked to the others for help.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Henley. She’s right. It’s true.”

  He looked over to Jimmy. Surely, my seven year old will be the voice of reason. But the youngster only nodded in agreement with the previous accounts. And he wasn’t the type to play pranks.

  Now we will be going inside, he thought, before the neighbors start prying. At least there is beer in there.

  “O.k., let’s get him inside. Every one calm down. We’ll talk about it in there. Sound o.k., Rory?” Not that he was expecting a reply.

  He and Patrick took either side of the boy, placing one hand on his back, one on his elbow, began gently rotating him, trying to guide him toward the house.

  O.k., at least his motor skills were still functional. They slowly, steadily got him inside and laid him down on the couch. Maddy brought a cool, wet hand towel and placed it on his forehead. She put forth a glass of water and cupped it in his hand but astutely realized it would be dropped if she didn’t hold it for him. He still wasn’t here. Keeping with the troubled look, his eyes, they didn’t search the room or show any sign of interest in anything pertaining to the physical realm.

  “What’s his home phone number? I’m going to call his mom.”

  “I don’t know if it would do much good, sir. He comes from like a broken home. His parents probably don’t know where he is and wouldn’t notice if he didn’t come home tonight according to him. I’ve never even seen them. I just
go over there and knock on his window. He doesn’t even have a cell phone.” Patrick offered.

  Maybe that’s what’s bothering him. Don’t know what kids these days would do without their phones.

  “What did you say happened again?” Maybe their story had changed.

  “It was this bat.” Maddy recalled. “It was in Jimmy’s jack-o-lantern. He went to go check it out and it sprayed him with this green gas. That’s what did it to him.”

  Robert was growing impatient. “What are you guys not telling me? I’m not stupid, you know. Are you guys on drugs?”

  “No! I swear it!”

  “Well, I’m about ready to call an ambulance. Or the cops.” He threatened, mostly to gage their reactions. But that didn’t increase their panic in any perceptible way. Huh.

  He briefly explored the ramifications in his mind. If his folks were really some dead beats, would they try to ambulance chase him for medical bills, pain and suffering, gross negligence? They were in his living room. In his house. Bob didn’t much care for that scenario. But should he call 9-1-1? If he didn’t have a headache already, when the cops did get there he surely would.

  He rolled his mental sleeves up, went over to the boy, shook him thoughtfully.

  “Hey, Rory. Are you in there? Hellooo. Anybody there? C’mon back. C’mon back to us. You know you want to. C’mon.”

  Rory may as well have been a mannequin.

  “Hey!” He clapped several times, inches from the boy’s face but to no avail.

  “Dad, stop.” His daughter’s voice seeped in.

  Great. This little punk is trying to sniff my daughter’s panties and he’s already motionless on my couch. That was quick.

  Bob was running out of ideas. Then the wheel barrel in the backyard sprang into his thought process. There. Problem solved. One drugged out teenager on somebody else’s porch. But it’s just not an ideal world. Time to man up. He reached for the phone.

  That’s when Rory, to the relief of the room, finally stirred.

  “Uuuuuuuunhhhh.” He groaned.

  “Rory! Are you alright, sweetie? Are you o.k.?” A concerned Madison inquired. “Here, drink some water.” She guided the glass into his hand and towards his mouth. Halfway sat up and reluctantly complied with her directions.

  “What happened? Where am I?”

  “Bro, you were outta there.” Levity was attempting to regroup.

  Rory exhaled, placed the glass down, started rubbing his eyes.

  “You o.k., son? What happened? Do you remember?”

  “No. I mean, I was going to look in that jack-o-lantern and then…..” He trailed off with a far away look in his eye. “They’re going to kill us all.”

  Robert Henley grimaced, “Excuse me?”

  “They’re going to kill us all. Every last one of us.” Delivered void of emotion.

  “Who’s they?”

  “I don’t know. But they work for the devil.”

  “They work for the devil?”

  “Yes. I saw it. The sky was turned blood red. The town. Everyone. Everything. Was drenched in blood. It was lamb’s blood. And everyone’s blood. And they were laughing and celebrating.”

  Man. They don’t make’em like they used to. He’d witnessed a few bad trips in his day but this was a whole different animal.

  “Who was?”

  “Some people I’ve seen before. Others, I don’t know. They look weird.”

  You don’t say? Well, so much for ‘kids say the darndest things’! Gee, if Madison wants to take this guy to the prom one day, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  “Man. Whew!” Rory shook his head as if someone had told a bad joke. Rubbed his eyes with his fingers, aerated his eyelids. “Do you have any food? I’m really hungry.”

  Chapter 3

  Ward E11 was Mr. Hudgens’ favorite. Not because he particularly liked it but because he liked to be reminded of things. As Dr. Kovac’s administrative enforcer, he expected to be reminded a lot. If someone wasn’t reminding him of something, he would assume that he should be the one doing the reminding. Dr. Pedrag Kovac didn’t like to be reachable, so he relied on Mr. Hudgens as his go-between. He would collect information and redistribute it at his boss’ behest. However, state law still required that the resident psychiatrist make himself available on the unit at least once a week and Dr. Kovac religiously met that requirement but was meticulously careful not to exceed it. Overzealous hands on psychoanalysis by the provider leads to somatic behaviors. If somebody was always holding the patient’s hand and babying them, they might start second guessing themselves subconsciously. Critical thinking the unspoken law of the day, if we want to enable our wards and not become a crutch to their development, best to leave the conjecturing to the professionals.

  The central variable that reminded Mr. Hudgens he was in E11 was the smell. Desperation. Anxiety. Urgency. Failure. Not to mention the undeniable presence of urine and urine. E11 was home to some of A.S.H.’s most paranoid, unstable individuals. Extreme cases of schizophrenia and obsessive compulsive disorder were the norm here. Everyone in this unit had been committed for long term stays. Because of the need for constant monitoring, closed circuit cameras were mounted above every cell. Sometimes Mr. Hudgens wondered if this was truly conducive to recovery for someone with such fragile a grasp on reality. Regardless, he reasoned, if they could take care of themselves, they wouldn’t require someone else to do it for them.

  “Hi, Dr. Kovac. Hello, Mr. Hudgens.”

  They willfully sidestepped the safety officer’s greeting as they traveled through the door he was holding open for them next to the security kiosk. They kept a brisk pace. The quack wanted to avoid any unnecessary engagement with the patients. One might consider how helpful the doctor’s presence really was to the tranquility of the unit. Their concerns were usually unable to be accommodated anyway, if not outlandish in nature to begin with.

  Kovac liked to take a furtive peek in on some of the cells at the end of the run. They were reserved for those deemed to be more or less unpredictable. Commonly, by the time they’d reached this point in their treatment, they’d been approved for more than normal dosages of medication and were usually relatively sedated. He liked to make sure the tranquilizers were having the proper effect. Some patients had demonstrated resistance to certain brands. Everyone’s body is different.

  The doctor of Eastern European descent crept most surreptitiously in his corduroy moccasins, hands clasped behind his back. Resembling a count maybe, he was virtually silent as he approached cell 15. He would gauge the angle of his approach just right in order to have a look in on his stead without them knowing he was ever there. He preferred to assess from a distance based off objective reports and data, his presence among the disturbed only seemed to further their consternation.

  Today was a little bit different he noticed. No one appeared to be inside. The room was stoically uniform and devoid of stimulus. Partly for the desired effect of noninterference in the self-reflection and recovery process but also, and perhaps more importantly, virtually any object could be used to inflict pain and damage or even death in the form of a choking hazard or make shift bludgeoning object. Hence, there was little more than a pallet, heavy blanket and commode. So it was rather unmistakable for one to assess that no one was inside the quarters.

  “Hudgens, what of Mr. Simon?”

  “Same old kook last I heard. Helluva tolerance. Talks to himself constantly.”

  “Praytell, Mr. Hudgens, why is he not located in his housing?”

  Hudgens leaned over to peer through the window slit of the steel reinforced door.

  “Mr. Simon is not to be permitted outside of his quarters at this time. There is no one documented on his visitor’s list. Why is the patient not in his housing? He is dangerous.”

  Hudgens leveled an accusatory glare back down the hallway towards the kiosk and beckoned over the guardsman.

  “Maybe they’re in the middle of moving him to a different unit or somethi
ng.”

  Kovac’s silent agitation simmered as the safety officer made his way up the corridor. As soon as he was within earshot, Hudgens met him with the question.

  “Gregory, where is Mr. Simon? Gary Simon, cell 15.”

  Gregory changed his expression to a pensive one.

  “Excuse me.”

  He gently ushered himself to the observation window, just to verify for himself. They were telling the truth, though, even a simpleton could determine that. No chance at a tasteless joke. Same disheveled room. Messed up bedding. Grunge. Filth. No Gary. He looked back at Hudgens. This did not look good. Either way he answered, he was going to get his ass chewed at the end of the day. Action. That was the only way to save him now, with the boss man glaring at him as though he had perpetrated the Holocaust or something. Frankly, he could give a damn if one of these retards got free, touched a pizza, maybe even got a piece of ass. They didn’t pay him enough to. But he did care about that paycheck. He sidestepped the lingering discomfort by simply activating his walkie-talkie.

  BLEEP-EEP

  “Control, this is Blakely. Are there any open transfers in E11?” Maybe not best to broadcast a potential missing patient on an open channel.

  “This is control. Negative. All cells are occupied.”

  BLEEP-EEP

  BLEEP-EEP

  “Can you switch to channel 3 for me?”

  “O.K.”

  This was not good. But the one saving grace was the progression of modern technology, every square foot in the facility was under continuous video surveillance. All the doors were monitored by computer and outfitted to trigger alarms, should they be perforated, along with security personnel issue RFID chip badges. The walkways and perimeters were patrolled hourly. It was a maximum security wing. Of course, his training and Murphy’s law had informed him that if a mistake could potentially be made, eventually it would. At the very least, if somebody had gotten out of their cell somehow, surely they couldn’t have gotten far. And there would be video evidence.

  Gregory felt a rush of adrenaline. He had never gotten the opportunity to chase down an escapee before. But, given that he hadn’t seen too much action since the conclusion of his football days, he was secretly relishing the chance. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t a fair contest, though. He lifted weights, ate well and maintained high morale. Not to mention, a naturally gifted athlete, whoever he would be pursuing would be weak and atrophied from the nutrient deficient food, vitamin depleting medication and lack of physical activity.