The Haunts of Cruelty

by R. G. Ryan

  She let go of the rope and tested the stability of the cart. Thankfully it stayed in one spot. Squatting down in the bottom, she pondered the dilemma she now faced. On her best day, and at full strength, she doubted her ability to pull the cart to the top of the grade. And given her present condition it was at the same time ludicrous and utterly terrifying to contemplate even making the effort.

  “This is it. I have nothing left.”

  She fell against the side of the cart and wept bitterly as hopelessness broke with the power of a tsunami washing over her soul, leaving complete emotional devastation in its path.

  “You’re going to die!”

  Paul Morgan’s leering face was hovering inches away from hers.

  She screamed, swung a pitiful blow toward the apparition and then passed out once more.

  Chapter Forty-one

  “How far do you think we’ve come?” Washington asked, pausing to lean against a large outcropping of rock.

  “There’s no way to tell. My body thinks we’ve covered about a hundred miles.” I turned slightly in an attempt to see the cabin behind us. “I can’t see any light behind us, so it’s far enough that the cabin is no longer in view.”

  He laughed dryly.

  “What?” I asked.

  “It’s funny, but I keep expecting that joker to come stumbling up behind us like those freaks on The Walking Dead.”

  “I know what you mean. And, based on what I’ve observed thus far, it is entirely possible. So we need to stay ready.”

  I flexed my knee and felt virtually no pain. It was an enigma.

  “I’m curious, agent Washington. You got a first name?”

  He chuckled low in his chest.

  “Grover. My parents were huge Grover Washington Jr. fans and named me after him.”

  “That’s a fairly unique name.”

  “Not for black men my age. Apparently our boy GW Jr. made some music to get busy by, because I’ve run into quite a few of my contemporaries who are also named Grover.”

  “’Music to get busy by,’” I echoed with a laugh. “That’s a new one on me.”

  A sudden rockslide behind us made us both jump involuntarily.

  “Man!” Grover said. “I can’t believe how jumpy that dude made me.” He was silent and then asked, “How’d he do that, Jake?”

  As we turned and started moving slowly up the trail, I said, “I was just thinking about when I first got out of Quantico.”

  “You went through Quantico?” he asked in surprise.

  “Yes, I did. And I’m glad of it. Anyway, one of the first missing person cases I caught was in Spokane, Washington. I hadn’t been on the ground for two hours before we got an all hands on deck call to a bank robbery that had turned into a hostage situation. I’m not sure why, but the SAC put me with the Hostage Rescue Team. It was fine with me, because I was young and ready to show everyone what I could do. So the hostage negotiator talks the bad guy into letting the hostages go and as soon as they are out the door, we bum rushed the bad guy. He’s maybe 5’6” and skinny—and I’m talking heroin skinny.”

  He said, “Let me guess…he threw you guys around like Morgan did with us.”

  “Yeah! He did! Turns out he was on PCP or something like what Morgan is using that gave him almost superhuman strength. We finally took him down, but it took eight of us to do it!”

  We came around a bend and in the moonlight I could see the trail ahead rising more steeply than any section we had encountered previously.

  “Going to get steep. You okay, Grover?”

  An odd expression crossed his face.

  “You know what…I think I am. It’s almost like with every step I’m getting stronger. What the hell is going on out here, Jake?”

  I wanted to be able to tell him that there was a completely logical explanation for it all.

  I wanted to tell him that neither one of us had been hurt as badly as we had first believed and that our constant movement was promoting blood flow through the damaged tissue, thus, speeding up the healing process.

  I wanted to tell him that in spite of the apparent miraculous recovery we both seemed to be making…miracles don’t exist.

  I wanted to tell him all of that…but I couldn’t. And the reason I couldn’t was that somewhere in my core, I didn’t believe a word of it!

  The rain came without warning…a cold and vicious rain seemingly dedicated to washing us off the steep ascent.

  “Well,” I said. “Isn’t that just perfect!”

  “So do we keep going, or find a place to shelter and ride out this squall?”

  I glanced around, trying to see through the torrent.

  “There’s nowhere to shelter, bro. So, I guess we keep going.”

  He nodded resolutely.

  “Okay. Hope you know how to swim.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Cassie opened her eyes slowly, the disorientation now more profound than ever. But at least Morgan’s face was gone. And even though the tremor was still present in her hand, the stench was either dissipating, or she was growing used to it.

  “Is this your idea of fun, torturing me with hope only to snatch it away at the last minute? Is that what this is?” Cassie shouted into the darkness.

  Feeling control quickly slipping away, she knew she had to pull things together or she would die as a raving lunatic right where she sat.

  “I am sitting here all alone, who knows how far beneath the surface, talking out loud to someone I can’t see and whose voice I only hear in my head. And I really don’t know who you are. I mean, I think it’s probably God…right? Is that who this is?”

  Silence.

  “All right, I didn’t expect an answer on that one, I guess. But, this is killing me and…”

  The headache—now easily the worst thing she had ever felt—when coupled with the extreme nausea made it tempting to just surrender to the inevitable and die. But she pressed on.

  “I’m not ready to die yet. I want to be married—I want to be married to Michael and live together and love each other for a long, long time.”

  She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping both arms around them as she thought over what she wanted to say.

  “Oh boy, this is gonna’ be really hard. Okay, all the nasty sex stuff…you know about that, right? Of course you do. Well, it’s like I have told my uncle so many times, there was no enjoyment in any of it except for the drugs—it was all about the drugs. But then when Paul would get me really high—pretty sure I almost OD’d a couple of times—and all the kinky stuff started and all those guys kept showing up and doing those terrible…ah…you know, basically using my body as their own private playground. And then the…”

  Her narrative was broken by a wracking sob, and then another. Before she could rein it in, her body was shaking under the onslaught.

  She finally managed, “…the torture. Even the drugs couldn’t numb me to feeling so…dirty…so worthless. I hated myself for allowing it to happen; for letting cruel and heartless men use me like that, but…you know, it’s like Uncle Jake always says—as soon as you convince yourself that you need something, you can justify any action.”

  She paused, wiping the tears with a dirty shirtsleeve.

  “Since we’re talking—well, since I’m talking and you’re listening…I mean you are listening, right? Anyway, I really could use help with something.”

  Emotion overwhelmed her and it took a moment to find her voice.

  “Michael and I haven’t had sex. I mean I want to, but…no, that’s not entirely true. I actually don’t want to. Not ever again! You see, every time we come even close to being, well, intimate…the images begin running in a loop in my head and…ah…I just run away to somewhere inside of myself. Michael—oh, my sweet Michael—he’s been so good, so understanding about it, but, you know, he’s a man.”

  She paused to allow another wave of emotion to subside.

  “
Besides that, I can’t figure out how to tell Michael…about the HIV. He needs to know. My therapist feels I’m getting close to maybe being able to have normal relations, and, I don’t know…she may be right. Most days it doesn’t feel like it. But, regardless of how I’m feeling…he just needs to know. I suppose that’s one reason why I’m so desperate to get out of here because I feel like I’m going to die soon anyway and…well…I guess I just want to experience all of life that I can with Michael before the, ah, you know…before the inevitable happens.

  “Anyway, there it is. There’s my confession and my plea. And since I don’t really have a track record of faith, I’ll completely understand if you just disappear now. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t waste any more time helping someone like me if I were you.”

  Understanding dawned on her conscious mind like a new day and with it the awareness that from one heartbeat to the next everything had changed. She suddenly knew what she had to do, and in that knowing, also knew that it was going to be okay. The realization was like an arc spotlight cutting through the darkness and illuminating a specific spot on a blackened stage.

  In the illumination, she realized that Michael was different—had always been different. The only time he had ever left her was when she had pushed him away. Even then, unknown to her, as the hound tracks a scent, he had pursued her—never giving up, always close behind nipping at her heels.

  “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter.”

  What were those words? So familiar, yet she failed to name a source.

  Of course! Mrs. Johnson’s high school English class and one torturous semester spent memorizing the Francis Thompson classic, “The Hound of Heaven.” She’d despised every minute and had paid not the slightest bit of attention to the arcane language contained in the poem. Nevertheless, she had memorized it and then promptly forgotten all about it. But why was she remembering it now?

  “For though I knew His love who followed, yet I was sore adread lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.”

  “It’s true. Every word of it,” she whispered. Then more loudly, “What is it with me, anyway? Why am I so afraid of giving myself to him? Why can’t I just let go and let him love me?”

  “Now of that long pursuit comes on at hand the bruit; that Voice is round me like a bursting sea.”

  Through her sobs she managed, “He’s always loved me. Right? Always! And…I’ve been so cruel to him—only giving him a part of my heart. Why did I do that?” In the silence, the answer came with brutal clarity. “It was because I couldn’t let him really know me, because if he did, he might not like what he saw and…”

  “Strange, piteous, futile thing! Rise, clasp my hand, and come.”

  “Oh, Michael. I love you so much. If you’re still reaching when I get out of here—if I ever get out of here—I’m yours, baby.”

  “Halts by me that footfall: is my gloom, after all, shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?”

  “He’s never stopped reaching for me and I’ve never stopped running.”

  Through the massive sobs that now wracked her exhausted body, came the final refrain.

  “Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He whom thou seekest.”

  Feeling suddenly unstained, washed and energized she stood, and with renewed purpose began pulling on the rope with all her strength, grunting with the effort. But as the cart started up the incline the burn in the muscles of her arms reminded her that no matter how much energy she had, it wasn’t going to be enough. This was quickly proven on her next pull when the cart didn’t move. She leaned back against the rope, refusing to let go, growing wearier by the second. Finally, exhaustion claimed her and she relaxed her grip on the rope and waited for the rush backwards. But nothing happened—the cart just sat there.

  “This is really weird.”

  The cart should have been charging backwards and yet it was still. Grabbing the rope in both hands, she pulled with all her might and felt the cart move forward, followed by a clicking sound. It reminded her of the sound the gears on the undercarriage of the gondola had made, giving her a glimmer of understanding.

  “I wonder…”

  She thought of the likelihood of simple miners coming up with an engineering system that would include a device to prevent the cart from rolling backwards once it started up the incline.

  “Not very likely.”

  But then, neither was it likely that anyone, even a strong man, could pull a cart heavily loaded with ore up so steep an incline.

  “They had to have help—like horses or donkeys.”

  But how did the animals navigate the climb?

  “They didn’t! Oh, I’m so dense!”

  She grabbed the pick and stepped cautiously over the front of the cart and onto the tracks where she dropped to all fours and began feeling gingerly along the ground. As before when she had been exploring she found that the tracks were elevated slightly but that there was solid ground to the right.

  “Please, oh please,” she whispered as she expanded her search literally inch by inch. When her hands found and identified crudely cut steps she nearly wept for joy. “Oh, thank-you.”

  In her mind, she could see it as clearly as if the men were right in front of her working. The cart was sent down empty, filled up with ore then pulled to the beginning of the climb. Then a signal would be given to the men waiting topside who would prompt their work animals to pull against a secondary pulley that would carry the cart the rest of the way. The steps obviously served as the main access in and out of the mine and seemed to have remained in tact. Having gained the first step on her hands and knees she tried standing and then thought better of it when she lost all sense of equilibrium.

  “I’ll crawl if I have to,” she said to the empty tunnel.

  Progress was slow and along the way she found that many of the steps had degraded over time and would have crumbled under her full weight had she attempted to climb normally. As it was, however, with her weight evenly distributed between her hands and knees, she was able to proceed in spite of the vertigo.

  When it seemed as if she had been climbing for hours, she began to wonder how far the mine had been dug into the earth. It had to be hundreds of feet, she guessed. Every muscle in her body felt as if it were on fire, and her hands had picked up more splinters from the loose boards than she could count. Knees bloodied, skin scraped raw from her tumble into the canyon, hungry and desperate for water, she paused in the ascent to rest and take stock.

  Leaning back against the side of the shaft, she moaned, “I don’t think I can make it,” as she strained to see ahead, hoping against hope that some sign of outside light would be visible. Instead, there was blackness—a thick, dense, total absence of light. She put her head in her hands and searched her soul for the will to continue.

  “Oh, my head!” Her ragged voice whispered into the piceous darkness.

  Suddenly she picked up the faintest of sounds—a sound that didn’t belong to this underworld. Listening intently, she heard it again and then once more—the sound of voices echoing down the tunnel from the surface. She sat up quickly nearly losing her balance in the process and opened her mouth to shout a call for help…but nothing came. So parched was her throat that vocal production was now impossible.

  Dimly, against the abject blackness and further away than she would have believed possible, she could barely make out the faint flickering of two flashlights.

  They have to be standing right at the opening, she thought. I’ve got to signal them somehow before whoever it is leaves and I’m left behind.

  Physical exhaustion gave rise to mental exhaustion, leaving her mind grasping for anything that might provide a solution to her problem.

  An idea suddenly presented itself. It was so simple—reach over and start shaking the rope pu
lley. Shakily she turned and reached tentatively toward where the track should have been. She found it after only a couple of feet or so, however, a new problem presented itself—how to get from the steps to the tracks and back again without plunging down the steep grade.

  At full strength, she might have pulled it off. As it was, however, there was no way.

  Frustrated and spent, she made her way back to a sitting position on one of the steps. Then, she heard the voices again—a little louder this time. After another attempt at shouting produced only a croaking mockery of her voice, she gave up and concentrated on coming up with an alternative plan. It was while she was so occupied that her body finally surrendered to the effects of the gas. Slumping against the side of the tunnel she slid several feet before coming to rest against a beam set in the wall, and there she remained slipping rapidly toward a coma.

  Chapter Forty-three

  The passageway through the rocks that led toward the mine was right where the map said it would be. Rain whipped through the narrow confines of the passage, driven before a wind that shrieked like the voices of souls in agony. Washington and I were threading our way carefully between its narrow walls when it seemed as if the very heavens were rent with peals of thunder.

  “Is it possible to drown in falling rain?” Washington hollered over the din.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I believe we’re about to find out.”

  With the moon hidden behind the cloud cover, our flashlights seemed woefully inadequate against the gloom. I found myself fighting the urge to run knowing that to do so would be certain disaster. But, our clothing was thoroughly drenched and I knew that to stay in the downpour would be to invite hypothermia.

  “We’ve got to find shelter!” I hollered, turning my head back toward Grover to be heard.

  And had he not returned a sharp warning, I would have plunged headlong into an opening that had suddenly appeared in the ground one step away.

  “Bro, you almost bought the farm,” he said as we stood gazing into the opening of the mine.