Dortmund Hibernate

by C. J. Sutton

  “Here, love,” said the cop, with Magnus noticing his badge read ‘Officer Clip’, “let’s push the nigger off the roof, that’ll help, right?”

  Shirley wasn’t listening to Clip, or Magnus, or anything in present Dortmund. Clip didn’t care, seizing Chaos by the ankle and dragging him over tin, the regular thwomp of head smacking surface almost rhythmic. He offered Shirley the ankle, but she backed away and leaned against the exit door. Clip shrugged, took one disgusted look into the skull of Matthew Chaos, cave dwelling, and hurled him over the side, a two second wait before his remains splattered on the road beneath.

  “We’ll have that cleaned up before morning, doc,” he said, tipping his cap, “now—”

  Magnus cut him off, raising a hand: “The final three inmates are up at the Asylum. Walter is with them, against his will.”

  Everyone turned to see the burning bright bulb on the horizon, smoke wafting into the air to create a cloud of cursed memory.

  “I’ve got an unmarked car downstairs,” said Clip, taking charge and sticking out his chest. Magnus’ skinned crawled and tongue recoiled at the sight of him.

  “The way I see it, we’re heading up there with a guard, a cop and a doctor who knows the bastards. Add into the fact we have another guard up there, and a fire hopefully doing the dirty work, and this can all be over soon.”

  The decision to leave out the Carter-Lonie conundrum wasn’t easy on Magnus, but he felt giving Clip any information would only make him more arrogant, more authoritative. Shirley didn’t need more bad news. The trio left the roof, and on passing Lee’s room Magnus felt the stares of Clip, the knowledge of a feeling that transcended sex, the encounter which could have been deadly, where death had been contemplated.

  “Women, huh?” was all he said, a whisper out of Shirley’s earshot, but it was in that fleeting revelation that Magnus knew he didn’t care for the survival of Officer Clip. In psychology, Clip was a means to an end; a cap on a beer bottle.

  Into the Crowded Kitchen

  Some do not see death as the worst outcome, Magnus. Opportunity, sacrifice, a service…everyone has different beliefs. Yours may often be proved wrong.

  “Officer Blake, you there? Officer Blake?”

  “Here boss, what’s happening at the Asylum?”

  Clip clicked his tongue.

  “I want you to pass it on that the fire is under control, and that nobody is in the building. It has been empty for weeks. Can you pass that on to anyone who asks? That includes news stations, fire departments and any other jurisdiction. Nobody is to come near Dortmund Asylum.”

  “But boss…”

  Magnus could hear the radio change hands, muffled arguments. He sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked four-wheel drive, with Shirley in the back and Officer Clip at the wheel, speaking in to his radio. The car remained stationary, with Clip scratching his head in thought as he assessed the rear; a boot capable of holding secrets.

  “No worries, boss,” came the voice, Bad Cop taking point. “Nobody is coming in and nobody is going out until I get the call that nine are dead from either you or Walter. I’ll stop the damn Queen if she rocks up in a horse and cart in a fucking bikini with ballistics for bosoms.”

  The anger in his tone hadn’t ceased, every word shot, every curse venom from a fanged tooth. Officer Clip turned off the radio, placing it in the glove compartment clumsily.

  “Jasper’s up there, isn’t he? I’m going to be the one that puts him down. I’m going to end that bastard. I was here when he went in, and I’ll be here when he takes his final breath after a bullet pierces his chest.”

  The chatter trailed off to be a one-man discussion, a pep talk, and then fired up again like the stallion he operated.

  “They set a fire like an alarm, a plea for help, but the only person who’ll answer the call is me with a load of bullets.”

  When the doctor first encountered Clip in Lee’s room, few features were noticed as the surprise, despite the profession, overrode analysis. But here, in this beat-up four-wheel drive, Magnus saw the deep lines on the Officer’s face, the age spots, eyes that drove forward but saw only a past riddled with regret. If fishing for a word to describe Clip, the choice was ‘weathered’. Magnus glanced into the rear-view mirror, Shirley’s face a curtain without a cord to let in the light. Up ahead, the building burned a visible heat.

  “That would make a great shot, hey Shirley,” said Magnus, waiting for a response or even the slightest nod of recognition. Nothing. No care for her love of photography, all love in life removed by force. To visibly lose weight in a matter of hours was impossible, but the plump face and bulging stomach seemed to withdraw into the body, storage for hibernation or a lighter day. Magnus struggled to assess her image without feeling that all hope evacuated Dortmund. There was no mention of her partner, her need to return and check her status. To take his mind off the guard, he engaged.

  “So, you put Jasper in?” asked Magnus, breaking Clip’s lonesome conversation.

  “Not directly, but I drove Jasper up this very hill, must’ve been nearly a decade ago. Others, they kicked and screamed and called me names I’ve never goddamn heard, but Jasper, he acted like he was off to a day at school and I was his daddy. Dortmund Asylum is a hated place. Once you’re put in there, you’re not supposed to come out. It’s no different to dying. These bastards resurrected, a goddamn zombie apocalypse, I never thought I’d see the day. How’d they do it?”

  Magnus knew the question wasn’t meant to be answered. He had the answer, but Clip didn’t prod for it, so he kept the release to himself.

  “At least we’re leaving town and the people. At least the battlefield is where it should be.”

  The black four-wheel drive began to ascend like a scorned thief, tyres pressing earth further into the ground and leaving their distinct mark on a sacred route. For Magnus recalled his first time journeying this path, driven by a taxi driver slain by Lonie, a taxi driver who Jasper suggested was more than what was claimed. From a cell without access to the world, he pulled his strings and the puppets danced tango.

  The crackling gravel and stone beneath the car grew louder, the air tight. The boring grey up ahead was replaced by orange and yellow and black, smoke and fire demolishing foundations that appeared unbreakable from the outside. Dortmund smelled like ash, a scent marking the end of days, an aroma to alter every other deep sniff forever. Even the air had razors, cutting in its attempted escape from the top of the hill. In Walter’s company Magnus sensed capability, purpose, a chance against all that rallied; in the company of Officer Clip and a forlorn Shirley, a sickening churn replaced hope. The world was black and erased, for only the roasting building could be seen outside the windows of the brave four-wheel drive.

  “I can’t see them. I can’t see fucking anything,” said Clip, turning off the engine and shielding his eyes from the neon burn.

  “What’s the plan?”

  Magnus tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice, but it was a trait well honed, delivered like an early morning parcel waking the receiver.

  “If they’re in there, they’re dead. If they’re out here, I’ll shoot them. You big city rich-ass doctors always complicate things, especially with these people. Not everything can be spoken about. Some people just need to be eradicated, their minds ain’t right.”

  The Officer twirled his finger by his ear.

  “It’s a sickness,” growled Magnus, his remark masked by a falling wall.

  Clip exited the vehicle, followed by Magnus. They approached, noticing one side of the building crackled with ember while the other earned its first touch by the essence. Heat scorched their faces, a summer’s day without sunscreen, and no sunglasses to shield the light.

  “He said something to me, the day I brought him here. Just one sentence, and I never forgot it. Those eyes of ice, they took in the Asylum, no fear or emotion in them,” said Clip, transfixed by the blaze, teleported to a decade prior. “I hope you’re up here when I get ou
t, I really do. That’s what he said. Not angry, or hateful. Just a statement of fact. That was before I pulled him out and kicked him in the shins a few times. Can’t be too careful with crazies.”

  The steel door entrance remained upright, along with the wall which held its rectangular piece firmly in place. Both men crept towards the entry, weary, Officer Clip withdrawing his gun and pointing it as though he expected a man to walk out wild. No voices purified the air, black smoke floating skyward in sharp swirls.

  BANG.

  Both men pivoted…but it was Shirley, slamming the car door upon exit.

  “Where did you find her?” asked Magnus, taking in her lobotomised state, blood and rips and tears ruining her black Dortmund Asylum uniform. Yet the flames danced upon her face from the distance, and she didn’t shy away. If anything, renewed purpose found a gap into her step.

  “I heard screaming,” said Clip, unable to take his focus away from the door, “it wasn’t hers. It was that black bloke I hurled off the building. She was blank while he pumped it into her, already destroyed, or maybe disconnecting to take away from the pain he was dealing. Never seen so much blood pooled on the floor, and I’m a damned veteran. Not much goes on around here. I fired a warning shot and he went like a raccoon out a rubbish bin. I helped her with the clothes, didn’t want to see the damage that nigger caused. Was probably the first dick she ever had, imagine that.”

  “Poor woman…” said Magnus, turning to see the shell of the guard, wishing to use his education to calm her, to deflect her feelings so she could clear her mind for the night and deal with the pain as the sun rose…only she was no longer alongside the four-wheel drive. Her body moved effortlessly to the most ravishing section of the fire, shades of the brightest tone forking into the sky, crisping anything in reach and offering her a hand into a domain without a past. And she accepted, taking her first step into the flames without so much as a blink.

  “No!” screamed Magnus, sprinting towards her position, feet smashing on gravel, maracas in a Spanish quartet. He was too late, for her black uniform caught with ease and engulfed her entirely, her feet still walking as though never touched, moving deeper and deeper into the devil’s lair, wanting to leave Dortmund and all that took place in darkness as quickly as possible. Magnus lunged to grab her ankle, missing by a metre and feeling the hairs on his arm singe away.

  “Shirley!” he yelled, but the dark silhouette became light, a part of the blaze, adding wood to the fireplace to help the flames burn this place down, to remove it from memory, and history, and capability. For the sick rested here, and now their stories left the cells and soared up into the sky, to join the audience of stars watching the anarchy take another life, absorb another mind. No final words to her partner.

  “Get away from there,” said Clip, but as he spoke the door to Dortmund Asylum creaked open, billowing out so much black smoke that the escapee fell to the gravelled ground and let out a wail of pain and subsequent coughs and wheezing.

  Officer Clip levelled his gun, closing one eye, readying to fire, to claim his bounty.

  “Carter,” he said, looking up from the handgun, part puzzled and part relieved, “what are you doing here?”

  Taming Dortmund Asylum

  People are not characters in a storybook, Magnus. It’s not the good versus the bad, the light versus the dark. What is an attempt at good that results in death? Perception differs in even the darkest alley.

  Lonie’s face, covered in soot, looked like a politically incorrect blackface to be condemned by all who witnessed the performance. The old man crawled away from the vaping door-mouth, moving his fingers through gravel and appreciating the touch of unburnt surface. The soot and smoke had blinded him momentarily, which Magnus cited as ironic.

  “Carter, are you okay?” said Clip, and Lonie’s ears pricked to surroundings for the first time, eyes struggling to open, white against darkness. Officer Clip approached Lonie, and Magnus could see that the name ‘Carter’ was now foreign to the man who had hidden behind it for so long. Nothing would have been easier for Officer Clip than to shoot the balding man in the skull.

  “Who’s there? I’ll fucking have all of you,” said Lonie, withdrawing his handgun and pointing it in a range of directions, Marco Polo with a side of bullets. He sported no burns, affected only by the unrelenting smoke still escaping the Asylum.

  “It’s me – Clip. Here,” said the cop, wiping Lonie’s eyes with his uniform, “get that shit off your face, you’ll be alright, mate.”

  Panic began strangling at Magnus’ throat. Where were the others? Lonie’s eyes were open, tears streaking despite not crying, cheeks puffed and skin red from the rubbing.

  “Clip? What are you doing up here? Dangerous times, inmates on the loose.”

  Magnus noticed Lonie slowly bringing the gun up to Clip’s torso, but then the old man laid eyes on the other participant who remained silent in the vicinity, cautious, unaware of what was about to take place. Despite the sting, Magnus saw wonder in Lonie’s seeping eyeballs; a wonder that asked why Officer Clip still called the deceiving inmate ‘Carter’. With danger lowered, the gun followed suit. Clip helped Lonie to his feet, and the man addressed the pair equally, trying to rediscover the personality used for ten years, knowing the doctor wouldn’t believe a word spoken.

  “I followed the final two bastards up here with Walter. That ugly motherfucker Reaper set this place on fire, and – shit – did it go up; never seen a damn building light like that.”

  They took a moment to appreciate the wild flames, the aggressive crackling, the desire to burn down every part of its structure and everyone close enough to see what remained.

  “Jasper, where is he?” asked Clip, still focused on his mission. Magnus too, focused on his own mission. Lonie pointed within.

  “Well, he’s as good as gone. Walter too. A shame; he worked hard, that man.”

  A stupid thing it is to run into a building exhaling enough smoke to cover a town like the one sleeping below in a cloud, to enter a space where air long surrendered, to risk one’s life to save another in a sanctuary reserved for demons. But Magnus took a deep breath, lifted his shirt to cover his mouth and charged within, aware that this part of the Asylum was next to succumb to destruction. No voice halted his progression. Left with Lonie and Clip, Magnus believed the safer path was the one that spat soot and threatened to crumble.

  Constant white noise filled his ears, a combination of harsh winds, snapping bones and suppression removing the sense of hearing. With eyes closed, nose blocked and touch restricted to the shirt, Magnus relied on memory to guide his footsteps, memory of the hallway walked so many times. It wasn’t the heat that caused pain, but the stifling compression of all that wanted to give up with the onrush of natural chaos.

  “Hello?” he tried, muffled. Sight was hopeless. How far in had he pressed? The social room became the goal, a likely hiding place for a man restricted to helplessness. For no epic battle between Jasper and Reaper was waged here. No trumpets calling out combatants, a joust to the death between the notorious biker and the youth-hating drug lord with a face to match the most fearsome villain…and then the environment began to evolve. The whispers of a woman tickled the lobes, a seductive voice pushing Magnus in the chest, asking him to retreat, to find her resurrected body in his hotel room and try again. Another, from behind, shouldered him forward with immense strength like a sedan before a boundary. From the left, a young man trying to rip Magnus’ arm out of its socket in wild tugs, and from the right a slithering snake wrapping its body around a bicep and squeezing like a blood-pressure pump.

  “Get out of my fucking head!” said Magnus, thrashing his body to rid himself of the torment, pleading with the voices to walk back into their cages, but hands moved across his limbs, his chest, his legs, his face. Some caressed, others scratched, one patted in encouragement. And Magnus fell to the hard floor, overcome with thought and smoke, searching for clean air to fill his lungs and reset his mind, the despe
rate mission at breaking point. As he reached out for the support of a wall, he found a wrist. It jolted, a cough following the action.

  With all strength remaining and unsure who filled his palms, Magnus dragged the body backwards towards the exit, moaning with the effort, his shoulders aching and the long night setting into his muscles for slumber. They coughed, they spluttered, they craved the fresh night air of Dortmund. The voices…they remained, some cursing and crying for help, others saying goodbye to the doctor and the man he held, for when they collapsed outside and the cool winds smacked their faces, all manner of frightful chatter from beyond the grave ceased.

  Magnus rubbed at his eyes as he greedily gulped air, remembering the state of Lonie and eager to see who he saved from certain death. But vision blurred, a car in the mist as the rain pelted the windscreen.

  “Thank…thanks. Thought it was over.”

  Walter’s voice became the first coherent sound heard since entering Dortmund Asylum. He felt for and shook the doctor’s hand, unaware of those who stood before him. When the mist cleared and the rain ceased in the eyes of the escapees, they realised a stand-off was in motion; their position featured in-between both lines of sight.

  “Well, well,” said Lonie, no longer having the luxury of a cowboy hat or cigar, physically drained but still upright. He stood alone, pointing two handguns not at the doctor or the lead guard of a building no longer functional, but another party: “It seems we have a hero in our company.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Magnus turned to see where the guns were focused; Reaper, shirtless, held Jasper in the nook of his arm and pointed a quivering handgun to his temple. Scars covered every inch of Reaper’s exposed skin, thick raised lines that didn’t receive treatment on occurrence. His face, blotched and cratered on one side with a missing eye and head hairless on the other, twitched with each inhale.