by Ben Larracey
Suddenly DeLeo’s memory cleared and he remembered where he recognized Tim from. He was the guy in the Endz Casino & Resort promo video he first saw when he woke up at the poker table. The fat guy stuffing himself full of food. That was him.
“Season one and you’re still here?” DeLeo managed to stutter out of his numb mouth.
“Yup,” Tim said slapping DeLeo on the back. He leaned in close. “Shh...he might be listening. Mr. Johnson is smart. He’s always one step ahead of us, planning, plotting, conniving. His lackeys everywhere, thier eyes and ears always perked. Just when you think you got it figure out he changes the game. These people, the nurses, Dr. Stone, they want to play with our minds, make us crazy. Experiment.” Tim pulled back and made a circling motion around his ear with his hand—the international symbol of lunacy, then flashed his cartoonish grin and winked.
Hector entered the room. Tim leaned back and pretended to be a vegetable gazing at the TV, which now was on the scene of DeLeo attacking Sadie in the closet.
Out of the corner of his eye DeLeo watched Hector make his way through the pack of drooling patients dispersing a paper cup full of medicine. He then gave the medicine to Tim, but when Hector turned his back and made his way toward DeLeo, Tim stuck out his tongue revealing two pills still on his tongue.
Hector opened DeLeo mouth and put two pills in and held his nose so he would swallow. DeLeo moved the two tablets to the corner of his mouth so they wouldn’t go down his throat and swallowed. DeLeo patiently waited for Hector to leave, before sticking out his tongue revealing the pills to Tim.
When Hector finally left Tim spat the pills into the radiator in the corner of the room. DeLeo did the same thing. He could feel his strength coming back to him. He could now move his upper body.
“Don’t trust anyone,” Tim said, “They probably have microphones and cameras in the walls.”
DeLeo glanced at the corners of the room and saw nothing but he knew that didn’t matter. Camera’s could be anywhere. “How do I know I can trust you?” DeLeo asked Tim.
“Of course, of course,” Tim responded, with an odd, lopsided grin, “You can’t trust me,” he said in a high-pitched almost hysterical voice. “You can’t trust anyone.”
“Who are all these people? These zombies?”
Tim scanned the room, “Former contestants just like you and me.”
“How long have they been here?”
“Who knows. They probably don’t even know. They take the drugs, numb their minds, like you used to do, and spend the rest of their day watching TV. They’re so out of it they don’t even know where they are anymore.” Tim grabbed DeLeo’s arm and rolled up his sleeve. “I see that’s something you’ve experienced before.”
DeLeo quickly pulled his arm away and rolled down the sleeve of his gown, covering the track marks on his arm.
“That’s all in the past.”
“Old habits die hard,” Tim said.
“How does a place like this exist?” DeLeo said changing the subject, “This can’t be legal.”
Tim ran his hand through his thinning hair, “We all signed on the dotted line or were committed by someone else. Unless we were hospitalized before, like an overdose.” The inflection in his voice made DeLeo think he was specifically talking about him.
“I know how I got here,” DeLeo said defensively. “They drugged me and shipped me out.”
“Or that’s what they want you to think,” Tim grinned. “I told you Mr. Johnson is smart, always one step a head of you. How you got here doesn’t matter anymore. After they got you to attack the girl in the closet it changed everything. You’re screwed. Just another number.” Tim motioned to the other vegetables gazing at the TV. “Just like them.”
“There has to be a way out of here.”
Tim’s playful demeanor disappeared, “There’s no way out of here. I’ve tried. Get used to it. Enjoy the simple things, and don’t think too much, or you’ll really go crazy. You could always take the pills and watch TV for the rest of your life just like them.” Tim’s eyes moved to the salivating patients. “I mean, people do it all the time out in the real world. Binging sports, reality TV, or a whole season of some damn show in a day. And most of those people aren’t even committed!” Tim burst into laugher and slapped DeLeo on the back like some old friend. “You and me have to stick together.”
The next morning DeLeo pretended to take the pills before he was rolled into the interrogation cell. Dr. Stone was waiting along with Hector and three other orderlies.
“I see you’ve made friends with one of our former contestants,” Dr. Stone said with her best poker face.
“You mean prisoners,” DeLeo said. His head was now clear. His body was rested.
“Patients,” Dr. Stone corrected with an easy smile.
“Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe all of this, the TV show, your games, your poking and prodding, is immoral?”
Dr. Stone nodded her head as if she had thought about this question before. “It’s easy to think like that when you don’t have all the details, Mr. DeLeo. Your new friend Tim Sherman is a long-standing patient of mine. If you saw his file, you might think a little differently.” Dr. Stone adjusted her glasses. “He has serious problems and needs constant supervision. We don’t have him in our care for some trivial reason.”
“He seemed fine to me.”
“Mr. DeLeo, your diagnosis is noted but please leave it to the experts. This meeting is about you not one of our other patients, so how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Tip-top, “DeLeo said forcing a smile.
“You do look better,” Dr. Stone inspected his eyes with a flashlight, then pointed to a camera in the ceiling. “I do know you stopped taking your medication.”
“Don’t I have any privacy?”
“I’m afraid not, but I will permit you to stop taking the medication for now. But if I see any signs of aggression, this whole process will start all over again. You understand?”
DeLeo bit his lip and nodded his head.
“Good,” Dr. Stone crossed her arms. “I do believe social interaction is a critical part of rehabilitation. Please don’t make me regret this.” Dr. Stone smiled and motioned for Hector to open the cell door.
“Dr. Stone,” DeLeo began, politely using her name for the first time.
“Yes, Wes?” she seemed pleasantly surprised by his civility.
“Can I have my guitar?”
Dr. Stone considered his request, “You’ve shown some progress, so I will permit it—temporarily. Hector, please see to it Mr. DeLeo has his instrument.”
An hour later DeLeo was out of his wheelchair and sitting in the ward lobby with his acoustic guitar. He didn’t care if his audience were a bunch of slobbering lunatics. He was relieved to have his guitar in his hands. He felt complete again, like and amputee whose arm or a leg had just been returned to him.
He let his fingers gently strum the strings. He thought of his daughter Delilah and how he taught her first chord a few years back between one of his now endless tour cycles. He imagined his wife sitting next to him and how bitter she must feel for being involved with this show. He wanted to kiss her. Apologize for what she went through and truly make up for all those years he was away on the road going from one dive bar to the other.
The pain melted away like butter every time he strummed the guitar. He started to sing and for the first time since the game show, he felt at peace. When he finished the song, he heard applause. He looked up and saw Tim Sherman standing behind the group of vegetables, clapping with his giant cartoon grin. “Great job, very well done.”
“Thanks,” DeLeo said.
Tim walked toward DeLeo pushing the patients out of the way until he was in front of DeLeo. Tim crouched down and whispered. “I found a way out?”
“What do you mean?” DeLeo replied.
“Shh, they’ll hear you,” Tim said softly looking at the orderlies in the far corner of the ward. “I was thinking, and then it all came to me,”
DeLeo leaned in curiously, “What, what came to you?”
“Push the reset button,” Tim said.
“Push the reset button? What are you talking about?”
“Start all over again,” Tim said matter-of-factly. “This isn’t real. None of it is,” his voice getting louder and more passionate. “This is just TV. There’s no reason to be afraid anymore.”
“Tim, relax,” Hector said from the other side of the ward room.
Tim ignored him and raised his hands above his head, “Series finale man. It’s all over. I found a way out.”
Hector and another orderly moved closer to Tim anticipating a breakdown.
“Be quiet,” DeLeo said, watching the white coats drawing closer. “They’ll take you down and pump you full of juice.”
“But I found a way out Wes. It’s okay.”
“Calm down Tim,” Hector warned growing nearer.
DeLeo could tell the white coats were coordinating with each other, preparing to follow protocol for when a patient finally snaps.
“Mr. Sherman,” Dr. Stone said entering the room. “Settle down, or we’ll have to sedate you and put you back in your room. You don’t want to go back into your room, do you?”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Tim said like a broken record. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“Tim,” DeLeo said, “Quit acting crazy. Be quiet.”
“Maybe there’s nothing wrong with being a little crazy Wes,” Tim dug for something in his pocket. DeLeo couldn’t tell what it was. “Push the reset button Wes. Push it.”
Tim flashed his loony cartoon grin and quickly jerked his hand up to his neck jamming something into his throat. Blood squirted in every direction. Tim continued to stab the object into his neck over and over, all the while maintaining the same comical smirk across his face.
Suddenly, Tim turned pale and dropped to his knees, still jabbing toward his throat. The white coats rushed over to him and tried to get him to stop.
DeLeo watched in disgust as Tim mutilated himself. Blood drenched the room. Tim burped his final breath in a giant pool of red. The other vegetables gazed at the madness like it was no different from some TV show. Their eyes were blank, their faces numb.
Anger consumed DeLeo as he watched Dr. Stone inspect Tim’s body. How did they let him do this to himself, DeLeo wondered, shocked and confused.
Chip swiftly entered the room followed by two producers wearing headsets. A look of disbelief registered on his face. “Oh my god!” Chip said, looking at the blood. It was everywhere. He ran to Tim’s body and felt his pulse. “He’s dead Helen,” he said, directing his anger at Dr. Stone. “I thought you said you had this under control!”
“I did. Well, I thought I did,” Dr. Stone responded in a panic. Her hands were shaking. She looked to Hector trying to deflect responsibility. “I thought you were watching?”
“Shut up!” Chip screamed at Dr. Stone. “You’re responsible. This is a TV show for Christ sakes. Where did he get the knife?”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Stone pleaded. “One of us must have missed it.”
“We got to get rid of the body,” Chip said. “We cannot have anyone asking questions.”
Dr. Stone looked toward Hector and the other white coats for backup, but they remained stoic and in shock. “Mr. Sherman doesn’t have a family,” Dr. Stone said quickly. “I mean he’s from season one, people don’t even watch those episodes anymore. No one will miss him.”
“You better take care of this,” Chip demanded.
“I will. I will.”
DeLeo was in disbelief. It was their fault that Tim was dead and now they were going cover it up. Like he never existed. Push the delete button on his whole life.
“It’s all your fault!” DeLeo shouted at Dr. Stone from across the room. “And yours,” DeLeo charged Chip holding the guitar like a baseball bat and swung. He slipped on the bloody floor, missing Chip, but smashing the wooden guitar into the face of one of the orderlies. DeLeo attempted to get to his feet but was tackled by Hector. He felt Hector’s knee on his back and his arms locked behind him in some impossible to escape hold.
“Get him out of here now!” Chip screamed.
“Sir, I don’t have any sedatives on me,” Hector gasped holding DeLeo to the floor.
“Who gives a shit,” Chip demanded, “Just lock him up. We’ll take care of him later. We have to clean this mess up now.”
Hector and the remaining orderlies dragged DeLeo out of the ward and down the hallway toward his cell. The last sound DeLeo heard before he was thrown into the padded chamber was Chip barking orders. “Make sure whatever footage you have is deleted. We can’t have any of this getting out.”
12
White coats rushed past the portal window in the padded cell. DeLeo couldn’t see far enough out of the small hole to tell what they were doing, but he could sense from the muffled voices that Tim Sherman’s suicide and cleanup occupied them all.
DeLeo lay on the narrow bed. He wondered what they would do to him next. Would they try and drug him again or would they try to get rid of him and make up some story like did with Tim Sherman?
He would put up a fight, that was certain. Kick, punch, eye-gouge, bite whoever put their hands on him next. He was prepared to sink to their level even if it meant jamming his hand down Hector’s throat. They would have to kill him, he thought. He was ready to die if it meant taking one of those savages down with him.
DeLeo listened to the muffled sounds outside growing fainter. They had enough surprises for today, he thought, no way they were going to deal with him tonight. Use this time to rest up, he thought. Prepare to fight tomorrow.
DeLeo nestled comfortably on the bed and closed his eyes.
Suddenly he heard a scratch, like a fingernail or a knife, on the door. He opened his eyes and stared at the door. A piece of paper slid underneath.
DeLeo sat up curiously and watched as the paper came to a floating stop in front of his hospital-issued flip flops. He picked it up. It was a note. He turned it over. In all capital letters, it read: UNDER THE MATTRESS.
DeLeo paused for a moment, thinking about what it could mean. He decided to do what the note seemed to be telling him. He picked up the mattress with one hand and looked underneath. A gas mask was placed in the corner of the bed frame. He stared at it, carefully and suspiciously inspecting every part.
Suddenly, an explosion erupted in the ward outside the cell. DeLeo flinched. He looked through the porthole. There was smoke that, seconds later, began to seep through the small cracks in the door.
DeLeo put on the mask hoping it was sealed correctly. A quick rapid succession of gunfire followed from outside. Alarmed and confused, he backed away from the door against the soft padded walls.
There was a thud against the door, blood smeared the small oval window. DeLeo’s eyes widened. What was happening?
Another note slid under the door. He picked it up, squinting through the bug-eye lens of the gas mask.
STAND BACK! the note read.
“Stand back?” DeLeo repeated aloud, confused. Then he realized. “Stand back!” He quickly dove to the other side of the room, taking cover behind the bed.
The cell door exploded. The door flew across the room, landing next to DeLeo. The small space quickly flooded with smoke. Through the thick smoke, DeLeo could make out the shape of what looked like a soldier dressed in dark green military fatigues holding a machine gun and wearing a gas mask.
The gun exploded in rapid-fire down the hallway, the muzzle flare like a giant fireball flashing through the cloud of smoke.
DeLeo’s head was ringing as the solider stopped firing and approached him, extendin
g his hand. DeLeo hesitated for a moment, trying to read the soldiers eyes through the mask, but he couldn’t see anything. He blindly grabbed for the soldier’s hand.
Before DeLeo knew it, he was following the soldier down the narrow, smoked-filled halls of the ward. The soldier signaled for DeLeo to hit the ground. Machine gun fire erupted from the other side of the room, ripping apart the plaster wall behind him. The soldier quickly returned fire, ending the threat.
The soldier nudged the limp body of one of the blue uniformed security forces as they passed to confirm that the threat was, indeed, neutralized.
“What the hell is going on?” DeLeo questioned the soldier, who ignored him and pulled him along to keep them moving.
Without warning, a muzzle flash ripped from the end of the soldier’s machine gun as they entered the main wardroom. Shapes and shadows of heavily armed security forces wearing blue military fatigues burst into the room.
Gunfire roared from all directions. The soldier flipped over the couch and pulled DeLeo to the ground. The tile floor was still a faint red, stained with Tim Sherman’s blood.
The soldier returned fire at the security forces across the room then quickly ducked behind the couch, grabbing a magazine, reloading, then unhooked a grenade tossing it across the room.
Moments later a large flash lit the cloud of smoke.
The soldier motioned for DeLeo to remain there then disappeared into the mist. DeLeo stayed low, lifting his eyes just above the couch. Muffled flashes in the smoke and the crack of gunfire was all DeLeo could see and hear.
Hurry up, he pleaded silently. He didn’t want to be left here alone.
Something strong grabbed him from behind, his feet dragging across the tile floor as he tried to get traction and figure out what was going on.
It was Hector. He pulled DeLeo into a nearby room and threw him on top of a hospital bed as three more white coats pinned him down, ripped off his mask, and began to strap his arms and legs to the bed.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Dr. Stone announced, emerging from a dark corner of the room. She held a syringe in one hand and a silver pistol in the other.