by C. J. Sutton
“Ahhhhh,” screamed Lee, falling to the ground and scurrying to Magnus, sobbing, tears falling away and pelting the hotel room floor.
“You should’ve left us alone, but now I’m going to cut his cock off and make you swallow it whole.”
A final, charged kick freed Magnus’ second leg from the bed, and he proceeded to kick away the knife and wrap his legs around Astrid like a wrestler readying for a submission. Without so much as a thought, Lee picked up a large, splintered piece of wood and drove it straight through the woman’s throat, the sharp part of the bed post poking out through the other side. Wide-eyed, Astrid raised her uninjured arm and tried to pry the stake away, coughing and spluttering as blood covered her jaw.
“Mmmmmm,” she said, falling to her knees, and Magnus thought of the children who received a similar fate due to their perceived sexual incompetence, teenagers assuming a teacher would provide education, comfort and assistance in a difficult stage of life. Lee stared in horror, unable to believe she was capable of such a gruesome act. She snatched at Magnus’ hand as they watched Astrid Ellen take her last gulps of breath, her once seductive eyes flashing from Magnus to Lee, Lee to Magnus, a silent curse of helplessness that accepted the end. Despite her stubbornness, she collapsed on the hotel room floor in an S shape, the black dress still snug on her body. Lee hugged Magnus, crying into his white shirt that was stained with all forms of gore, secretion and dirt.
“Lee, can you cut away these binds,” he said softly, tugging at the ropes.
“Yeah…yeah,” she said to herself, finding the dripping knife and sawing away. With limbs free Magnus massaged feeling into hands and feet, struggling to take his attention away from the corpse lying freshly dead on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” said Lee, her head bowed.
“Lee, if you hadn’t knocked I’d be the one with my throat cut.”
“I’m not talking about now,” she continued, her blonde hair falling out of its ponytail without assistance, “I’m talking about the other night with the cop. I shouldn’t–”
Magnus stood, placing the knife in his belt; Lonie had stolen the tranquiliser gun.
“It’s your job, I was wrong to accuse you. Your job is to service men, mine is to service people like Astrid Ellen. Each comes with dangers, with consequences, with outcomes we’re not satisfied with. I’m sorry, Lee. Dortmund Asylum does nothing to help the sick; it simply holds them prisoner and allows the issue to fester until opportunity arises.”
They embraced, but Magnus stared out onto the street through the curtains, seeing the movement of shadows, a dance on the pavement.
“They’re all out, Lee. There’s five left.”
Mind The Glass
In my experience, madness is contagious Magnus.
Lee tried to explain her role in Dortmund. She confessed her desire to leave not only the profession, but the town. It wasn’t for her she said; give me an office job, a computer, a phone. But Magnus was too focused on what continued to lurk in the streets, what continued to place the residents in danger. He walked her up the stairs and back to her room, the cut in her thigh still seeping despite the doctor having wrapped a towel tightly around the limb.
“I want to help,” she tried, but Magnus turned her away.
“You can help me by staying in your room, keep the door locked, and don’t open it for anyone. No matter the request, the voice or the temptation, do not open this door. Promise me that, and you’ll be safe.”
“Only if you promise to come here in the morning.”
Magnus nodded, but couldn’t make eye contact. She kissed him then, full of meaning, her red dress stuck to the sweat of her skin, hair a lion’s mane, lips cracked and eyes the resemblance of a panda stalking new ground. And he tried to detach, to keep his mind on the mission outdoors, but even the most determined falter when pressed with the touch of deep affection. The dim light of the corridor afforded his face to come to a separate conclusion to his mind; that he would very much like to come back in the morning. But he knew this to be impossible. Without further words he broke away, marching to and down the stairs, leaving the body of Astrid Ellen alongside the bed, for he never expected to return to that room again.
Gun shots shattered the night.
Magnus went for his tranquiliser to realise yet again that Carter was Lonie, and had stolen the piece and tricked them all. At the front door he peered out, nobody present. He entered the street, feeling naked and vulnerable and the easiest of targets. The thought of boosting a car and driving away presented, but he’d come too far for that; police at the borders would halt that move anyway. Nobody leaves while inmates continue to inhabit the town. Fair enough too.
“Freeze,” said a voice, and Magnus felt the cool touch of a gun nozzle on the back of his neck, “I can’t believe you’re still alive.”
The voice brought calmness, for Walter Perch had his back pressed against the brick wall of the hotel, his face forever expecting a beast to jump out and stab him in the heart.
“You’re bleeding?” he said, searching for the wound…but he found nothing, his nose itched from the frayed moustache.
“It’s not my blood,” he stated, not paying the spilled crimson any mind, “it’s Astrid’s, or Donnie’s, or…one of the many dead in the pub.”
Their tones were sombre, despite finding one another in a town where the odds weren’t in their favour. Magnus heard a car engine start somewhere off in the distance. He left Lee out of the equation, feeling no need to add her pain to the symphony of madness.
“Have you seen any others?” asked Magnus, unsure if he wanted the inmate count to decrease, sick of death no matter the fallen.
“My night since I left you, doc, has been largely uneventful, all I’ve seen in the past two hours has been Shirley…dragged away by Chaos. I fired a tranq and I’m sure it got him in the shoulder, but her screams as she scratched against asphalt…”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes, last I saw, but with Chaos.”
Each man took a moment to breathe, to reflect on all that had come to pass, and all that would eventuate. The gurgling of Astrid struggling for air, the brush of anaconda against dirt as it swallowed Claude, the pleading face of Donnie a millisecond before Lonie blew his brains across the Dortmund Pub…Lonie…
“Have you seen Carter?” asked Walter, as though reading the mind before him.
“I have some news about him.”
And he relayed the story of Carter and Lonie, the swap that allowed this night to blossom, the puppeteering of Jasper who waited a decade before springing the true escape. The guard who was a man rated on equal danger levels to Jasper and who had free reign of Dortmund and the wider world for so long. Walter called bullshit at first, but as each new detail was siphoned into his psyche the truth became too clear to ignore. He thought back to every argument with the old man, every opportunity Lonie could’ve killed Walter and set everyone free…yet he’d waited for a green light…and the lead guard took it as insult.
“I’m an idiot, aren’t I? Under my nose for so long, it’s all my fault.”
He leaned over, as if to vomit, struggling with the news, visibly sickened.
“You know, Walt, there’s this saying in psychology; the person who tries to keep everyone happy ends up the loneliest. All that time you were protecting Brian, Shirley and even Lonie from the inhabitants you called inmates. Stopping him from drinking was a way to save him from being mauled. But the three of them, and likely many before them, created this mess. Astrid, Chaos, even Lonie; they’re playing the role of villain because that’s how they’ve been treated for so long. That place,” said Magnus pointing up the hill, “created this night. Teach someone enough hate and they’ll eventually aim it at you. And trust me, the nine are certainly aiming it at Dortmund.”
Magnus realised he was yelling, angry, utterly pissed off at the Asylum, the mental illnesses that had festered into hate rather than society seeking a cure.
�
�All the funding went to the guards, Walt. Not to the patients, the facility or the security, but straight to the pockets of the guards to keep them patrolling such a dark, forgotten corner of the country.”
Walter Perch received each line like an accomplice to murder. He raised his head, more fatigued than Magnus had ever seen him.
“Dortmund Asylum ends tonight, Mag. But, I’m afraid…” he confessed, not elaborating.
“You are born with two fears, Walt. A fear of falling, and a fear of loud noises. Every other fear, my friend, is learnt.”
Magnus helped Walter upright and they scanned the streets, such quiet despite the bubbling potential of an implosion. The cool air blew litter across the pavement, swaying to the music of the wind, a whistle speaking a language of warning. And they walked, with Magnus being handed a tranquiliser to reconstruct his arsenal. All that kept his focus was that he hadn’t killed on this night. For many, he knew they wouldn’t be able to say the same when the sun rose. Directions were chosen by the angles of their feet, minds a wander, the lead guard struck with vivid memories of Carter now Lonie, trying to pinpoint precise moments where the trickery was obvious. Magnus thought of the flashback that had occurred when Lonie struck him over the head, and the vision continued as they moved forward, side by side.
Magnus glanced upward to see his brother outside the bomb of a car, motioning him away from the glass as though shooing a giant fly from a steak. Magnus obeyed; the glass exploded into a million pieces and fell away onto the torn leather seats.
“What are you doing in here, little brother?” he asked, helping Magnus out through the jagged gap.
“Her boyfriend locked me in here, said they wouldn’t be long, it’s been an hour.”
“Is he like Mitch?” he asked, tongue in cheek and with a lowered voice.
“Worse. He calls me little dude.”
His brother smiled, roughing Magnus’ hair and leading him to the house. In the lessening light the building had little to present, a winding path through brownish shrubs leading to a cream door with the gold number 9 nailed near the top, hanging diagonally. His brother scratched at the few hairs that sprouted out of his chin, new additions to a poor moustache and what little else he could grow on his cheeks. Magnus didn’t know what he was contemplating, but guessed it was the manner of entry. He knocked three times, calm.
“The fuck you want?” came a voice, annoyed.
“To come in, my sister texted me.”
The lie worked, and a boy hardly older than Magnus opened the door, giving each male before him a look of disgust.
“Through there,” he said, cocking his head, “what the fuck, you want me to hold your hands?”
His brother snorted, but Magnus didn’t like this kid, a reflection of everything he didn’t want to be at this age.
“This is why you study hard in school,” said his brother from the corner of his mouth, the hallway opening up to a wide room with a dozen men and their sister seated on the floor, surrounded by an array of pills, plants and liquids, smoke wafting above like the shrine of the drug god. When she saw them she panicked.
“Relax,” said Marlon in a tone that forgot to add respect, “these are your brothers? Sorry, little dude, should’ve let you out. Hey dude, I’m Marlon,” he said to Magnus’ older brother, wiping his hands on his ripped jeans first before sticking it out to shake. Magnus watched as his brother glared into the eyes of the budding drug dealer, everyone in the room now focused on the exchange…wondering if he’d reciprocate and shake the hand of a man who was corrupting his sister with a gateway to a rough life.
“Nice little operation you have here,” said his brother, shaking with a wide smile and moving over to the stash, in awe…but Magnus knew the game, he knew his brother assessed the options before choosing this mood, for there were two men with knives in reach, and another who had a handgun tucked in the front of his pants. While everyone was attentive to whether the Paul brothers were a threat, the boys had scoped out the room for danger. Magnus moved to his sister, grabbing her hand tightly and wanting to lead her away…but she was immovable, a part of the furniture, her eyes half closed and a strange wheezing noise flowing from her chest.
“This,” said the older Paul, moving his hand across the stash, “would be worth fair coin, no? Are you sellers or buyers?”
Marlon seemed to hesitate, tugging at his filthy hair, unsure if to speak freely to the brother of the teenage girl he was fucking, or if to kick him to the curb.
“Both,” he answered, “we usually stick to the weed and some pills, and sell off the heroin and ice.”
Magnus saw the needle marks on his sister’s arm. He knew she was a buyer of the latter drugs.
“Well, how about I call my boys in and we have a little exchange. They’re big buyers, trust me, and will pay well. I mean, I’m the brother of the girl you’re with, we’re practically family.”
Marlon took in his surroundings, mind ticking.
Magnus wanted to scream, to protest, but his brother turned around and winked. In that exchange, he knew the Pauls would always stick together. He knew in that exchange, that Marlon and his crew were in grave danger.
His brother texted someone, received a response and nodded. He sat on a large, throne-like chair, taking in the men and continuing his small-talk with Marlon, who took a large hit of weed and relaxed. His posse diverted their focus, but Magnus remained alert and by his sister’s side.
A buzzing sound, far off in the distance, soon became deafening.
Reality came crashing back to Magnus like a speed hump to a sleepy driver. Gun shots, roars and the impact of debris on metal made both men jolt, reaching for their respective weapons. They jogged to the corner and peered at one of the three barriers set up around Dortmund, astonished at the set piece unravelling before them. Three cops manned the boundary station, and they were under attack.
Smashing Pumpkins
All actions and responses have a purpose, Magnus. Watch a child closely, and you will see traits begin to develop that will someday cause the end of a life. You can’t blame a child though. They hardly differ from an animal.
It was a scene from the great war of Troy. The cops, with two squad cars parked nose to nose blocking off the town exit, hid behind their barriers and fired rapidly at the bulging escapee whenever the barrage from the open air ceased, emulating the Trojans protecting their supposedly unconquerable city. The attacker, like a Greek God, used an upturned car as a shield and continued to push it closer to the boundary, tossing jagged chunks of broken asphalt from the day’s roadworks at the enemy and smashing windows in the process. One hurled throw, in the style of a spear from the beach, struck Good Cop on the shoulder and caused the gun to soar off into the nearby shrubs, the stocky man dropping low. Brutus Willows, bleeding yet barely taxed from the effort, growled as he pushed the bullet-holed, busted and unusable sedan nearer and nearer his target. Twenty metres further and Brutus would crush through their barrier with ease, steal their weaponry and charge off into the free horizon.
“Jesus…he’s been confined to a cell for years yet he’s fitter than the cops,” said Magnus, trying to mask the awe in his voice. Walter nodded. “He spent every day doing push ups, sit ups, lifting his bed like a dumbbell, a barbell. It kept him occupied, his anger well placed.”
Magnus turned from the war. “You should’ve been a psychologist.”
“Excuse the French, doc, but no fucking way.”
The gunshots were less frequent with one man losing his gun, but accuracy and impact was close to useless. Bad Cop’s face was hidden beneath his hat, shadow erasing obvious fear; his gun barely pointed at the target, instead focused on dodging the giant scraps of ground that had demolished his squad car. The third cop was unknown to Magnus, but of the three he displayed the most courage; he waited until Bad Cop would reload, and then slid out on the far left of his car to shoot at the engine of the sedan in the hope of blowing it up and burning the muscle off Brutus.
“I think…” said Walter, not wanting to say the words, “that they’re almost out of bullets. If they stay where they are, they’ll be trampled like mice beneath elephants. If I were them, I’d move the squad cars and use their remaining ammo as he flees. Should that not work, they have the driving advantage and could run him down.”
Magnus shook his head in disappointment.
“You think this is about escape for Brutus? Look at him,” he said, pointing directly at the bald head of the most physical inmate Dortmund Asylum had ever seen, “this is a blast. He’ll kill those cops. If they were to let him through, he’d turn around and squeeze their heads like cherries. We have the element of surprise, and you told me you’re an ace with this.”
The doctor handed the guard the tranquiliser, the acceptance coupled with a look of trepidation. And then there was a click from behind the squad car; someone ran out of bullets and failed to reload. Brutus roared into the night and pushed the sedan forward, sparks screeching off the freshly set concrete, his momentum gaining and edging closer to the barrier. Walter sprinted into action, but not before Brutus hurled a piece of pointed metal scrap like a javelin, ripping directly through flesh as Good Cop lifted his head above the squad car. Skin tore away as though a tender piece of meat from a senior citizen’s lunch, spraying Bad Cop and their fellow officer in a rainbow splash of innards. Both men were stunned, staring at their slain comrade, dead before he hit the ground. Brutus didn’t stop. His sedan rammed into the squad cars with such force that both cops were hurled backwards, losing all forms of defence. They scrambled on hands and feet, breathing distinct even from Magnus’ point thirty metres away. Brutus stepped onto the closest car and cracked his knuckles, thunder above land.