by Jack Castle
As Simon lay there dying he waved him closer with a weak hand.
“Don’t go near him, Hank.” Dr. Burnett warned from behind him.
Hank frowned back at her.
Spying Simon’s dropped scalpel, he kicked it down the hall for good measure. He then moved over to Simon and knelt down beside him. Simon could barely speak, and with a feeble hand, waved Hank even closer.
Hank leaned his ear close to Simon’s mouth.
With his dying breath Simon whispered, “What amazes me the most, Hank, is you still think this is all real.”
And then Simon Privet died.
Hank tucked the gun in his waistband and then helped Emma up. As feeling returned to her limbs she began to straighten. He slung her arm over his shoulders and half carried her toward the exit.
Paula shouted after him. “Hank, stop. Where are you going?”
Hank felt an upwell of anger inside him. “I’m getting us the hell out of here. We’re done being your lab rats.”
He opened the door and was blinded by a brilliant white light.
Chapter 35
Dead Reckoning
“Welcome aboard the HMS Explorer World Cruise!”
The resounding pain of the cruise ship’s horn still lingered in Hank’s ears. His body trembled violently for a few seconds while he emerged from his deep slumber. It took him another moment to realize where he was, standing on a gangplank boarding a … a cruiseship?
Where am I?
A light touch on his shoulder revealed creamy white, French-manicured fingers. Their owner lovely: Almond-shaped eyes, perfect white teeth, and curly nutmeg hair framing a face that would make even a fairytale princess envious. His wife, Sarah. She was shuffling up the gangplank behind him.
“Wow, babe,” she laughed nervously. “I knew you were tired but you were really out of it there.”
Hank’s throat was so dry his tongue had swelled two sizes. When he finally managed to talk it was barely above a hoarse whisper. “Honey, where are we?” He wanted to scream the question at her. The whisper was all he could manage.
“Hurry up, Daddy, hurry up?” He lowered his gaze and saw his daughter, sweet Annabelle tugging on his hand.
“Patience sweetheart,” Sarah answered for him. “We have to wait in line like everyone else.”
“But I’m so-o hungry,” Annabelle complained.
“Have some more Goldfishes, honey,” Sarah answered. Without missing a beat the box came out of her purse, and with two quick shakes Annabelle beheld the delicious golden baked treats in her small hands.
His son was still snoozing soundly in the kid carrier upon his back.
Hank took this all in, but none of it answered the question that still burned in his aching head: Where the hell am I?
He peered at the people in the port around him. The port was a bustle of activity as a thousand passengers waited in line to board the majestic cruise ship at the dock.
When did we decide to take a cruise? This didn’t make a lick of sense.
“Look Mommy, look!” Annabelle yelled wildly beside him. “A seal, Mommy, a seal!”
Hank turned his head and groaned at the stabbing pain in his temples. He rubbed at them: If his hand wasn’t already there, he’d have thought he’d been stabbed on both sides of his head with an ice pick.
Must’ve slept wrong.
“Oh Hank, she’s right.” Sarah cooed beside him. “There’s a seal in the water over there.”
Just beyond the end of the dock he could make out a seal frolicking in the bay.
The line started moving again and Hank suppressed the urge to throw the overweight passenger plodding in front of him over the railing. The guy had the height and build of a former WWF wrestler who had let himself go about a decade ago. And if he was moving any slower he’d be moving backwards. When the rollers of his equally oversized luggage got stuck in-between the floorboards of the gangplank, Hank instinctively lent a hand and lifted the errant wheels out of the cracks for him.
The guy turned around to see who had grabbed his luggage. He sported a bushy walrus mustache and a grey comb-over that barely covered his baldness. His face and neck were unshaven by at least several days. When he muttered a word of thanks, Hank could see a mouth full of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. This was a man who stopped caring about his job, his life, and personal hygiene a long time ago.
Sarah tapped him on his shoulder. “Do you see him?” Before he could answer, she dug frantically through her mommy purse the size of a saddlebag. “Now where’s my camera?” To their daughter she said, “Annabelle, honey, do you know where mommy’s camera is?”
This doesn’t make sense. We live in Wyoming. I don’t even remember deciding to take a cruise, let alone driving to the port.
A cheery voice at a podium located at the top of the gangway suddenly announced, “Okay, whose next?”
The cruise director at the podium was a short, middle-aged, cherubic woman, plump as she was cheerful. Hank thought he detected a Canadian accent. He could just make out her nametag.
Ophy, what an odd name.
And the young woman she was talking to had the lithe form of a dancer. The way she was gazing around at her surroundings with uncertainty, she appeared as dazed and confused as he was.
Spotting the girl, the cruise director said, “Ah, you must be Emma Hudson. It’s not often we get a New York City Ballet dancer on board. I’m sure you’re going to enjoy working with the entertainment department.”
“Oh, bag boy!” the cruise ship director called, practically yelling. A luggage handler appeared as she commanded, “Please help Mrs. Hudson carry her bags to her room.”
The luggage handler was an oversized man dressed in overalls and a baseball cap, with big meaty hands. Baggage handler and ballet dancer entered into the dark corridor behind the podium and vanished into bowels of the ship. Although he couldn’t explain it, Hank was fairly certain he didn’t want to follow them.
A second luggage handler appeared and stretched out his scrawny arm towards him. “Allow me sir,” the handler said.
Hank studied the porter. Although he couldn’t place him, there was something oddly familiar about the guy.
The man was hardly threatening, little more than 5’9” and impossibly lean, like a marathon runner. In fact, there wasn’t an ounce of body fat on him. An emaciated athlete would have been a good way to describe him. But that wasn’t the strangest thing about the lean porter. The strangest thing about him was the creepy smile upon the guy’s face. It reminded Hank of the jack-o’-lanterns he had carved on Halloween; the same wide, toothy grin with firelight flickering behind the eyes.
“Thanks,” was all Hank could manage, handing over his bags, his mind in a fog.
Before letting go of his luggage completely however; Hank asked him. “Hey buddy. Do I know you?”
The luggage handler thought seriously about this for a moment before answering, “Why, I don’t think so, sir.”
Hank stood there, forehead sweating despite the brisk morning air. He finally let go of the bags. “Thanks,” he said a second time.
The luggage handler flashed him another creepy mischievous grin and replied, “You are most welcome sir.” He was about to turn away and lead them into the ship, but he stopped in his tracks and said back to Hank. “You know, I think you, and your family, are going to absolutely love it here.”
Afterword
I first visited the little seaside town of Whittier when the only way in or out of the town was to drive your car up a dirt ramp and onto flatbed train cars. The train would then take you through an awesome three-mile tunnel through solid rock and into the town.
Much like the town in the novel, the town is cut off from the rest of the world by a crown of impassable mountains. And other than the tunnel, the only way in or out is by port or small plan
e airport.
The former military base and much of the town actually exists to this day and is still worth a visit. You can’t go inside the old WWII military base because it is off limits and boarded up. As illustrated in the novel, it is also extremely unsafe. As you might’ve guessed from my detailed descriptions of the building’s interiors, I may have peeked inside a time or two.
The funny thing about using this town for a setting was I actually composed a letter to one of my favorite authors, Stephen King, telling him about this creepy little town that might make the perfect setting for one of his future books. Needless to say, I’m glad I never sent it (mainly because I thought he’d never read it). Although I am certain I would’ve thoroughly enjoyed the novel if he had written it instead.
As for the title, I blame my mentor, Dr. J.P. Waller for that one. He once introduced me to the painting mentioned in the book: William Hogarth’s 18th century painting of London’s celebrated mental hospital, The Bethlehem Royal Hospital, more derisively known as Bedlam. The literal definition of Bedlam is “uproar and confusion.” Hogarth’s masterful Bedlam painting depicts mentally ill patients on cruel display for the upper class’s sheer amusement.
As for the ending of Bedlam. Well, you might be interested to know that I actually wrote three endings. I let my Beta-readers make the final decision. Ironically, the two Beta-readers who can never agree on anything, (Charlsie and Ryan, you know who you are) actually picked the same ending and were extremely vocal about it.
As for a sequel, that really depends on you, my dear readers. If you liked Bedlam, be sure and drop me a line either on Facebook (Author Jack Castle), or on my website (JackCastleBooks.com).
As always, I hope you enjoyed reading these stories as much as I did writing them.
Until next time…
— Jack Castle
Here’s a sneak peek for the next new novel by real life adventurer Jack Castle
White Death
Prologue
“Iditarod Dad”
Unless you’re the lead dog, the view never changes. Har-har-har.
These were the thoughts of Tom Holden as he stared at the rumps of his dog sled team. He was running the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race in Alaska, traveling through 1200 miles of the most rugged and cruel landscape of the Last Frontier … and he was in last place.
Holden had never had any illusions about winning. In fact, it surprised him he had made it this far over the harsh tundra, through the jagged mountain passes, and across deadly rivers of ice. He wasn’t a professional musher, not by a long shot. In fact, the only reason he was running this ridiculous test of endurance was the locket hanging around his neck. Inside was a picture of his beautiful nineteen-year-old daughter, Shannon. The picture was taken before the spinal-meningitis had done its job and she’d wasted away before his eyes. These were Shannon’s dogs, not his. Shannon had raised them from pups and trained them. Her dying wish had been that he run her dogs in the Iditarod. She told him he didn’t have to win or anything, “Just run ‘em dad, run ‘em for me.” Now he wasn’t a musher but he had helped Shannon train her dogs enough to know what he was doing, and he was damned if he was going to let his little girl down, even if it killed him.
Like every year, print and television journalists, along with crowds of spectators, attended the various checkpoints along the trail. Somehow, word had gotten out about why he was running the race and the reporters swelled in number at each checkpoint. The Skwentna checkpoint had been the worst. Three-time Iditarod champions had been rudely ignored when he had finally entered the town. It seemed the world couldn’t get enough of a father trying to fulfill his daughter’s dying wish. At least the press had put a nice photo of Shannon in the paper. That had made Shannon’s mother happy, which she hadn’t been for some time.
The trail from the ceremonial start in Anchorage to Moose Pass had started out easy enough, sledding over low flat lowlands, and well-marked by flags and reflectors. But from there the trail had gotten pretty tough. So much so that mushers started dropping out of the race at a rate of about one every seventy-five miles.
The race had started with 42 mushers, each with approximately 16 dogs, but one musher broke her hand right outside of Willow, and another had three of his dogs trampled by a charging moose in “Moose Alley”. Another nine teams had dropped out in a fierce blizzard that had struck them in Nome. That storm had caused whiteout conditions and sub-zero temperatures. Plus, the gale force winds had erased all the trail markers making the path hard to follow; but his daughter had programmed his GPS accordingly and he had weathered the storm just fine. Shannon had also made sure her dad had all the right gear: food, spare dog booties, headlamps, tools, sled parts for repairs, spare batteries for his night headlamp, and even a satellite phone. They had made the final preparations for his trip in her hospital room, spreading out maps on the foot of her bed. Shannon had made him study the route as carefully as he had scrutinized maps on missions in Afghanistan as a younger man over twenty years ago. The trip plan had become a welcome relief from the constant reminder of her imminent departure.
Holden took small comfort in the fact that he was past the worst stretch of the trail, the Dalzell Gorge, a divide that dropped 1,000 feet in elevation in as little as five miles. Going down, Holden had to ride the brake most of the way and sometimes use his snow hook for traction. At the bottom of the gorge, one musher had fallen through an ice bridge and had to be airlifted out, bringing the total mushers left in the race to less than thirty. If by some miracle Holden did finish, he knew he was a shoe in for the Red Lantern award. Traditionally, a kerosene lamp was hung outside a roadhouse for a musher carrying goods who was en route. For this reason, a glowing “Widow’s Lamp” would hang on the racing arch until the last competitor crossed the finish line and the last musher to complete the Iditarod was referred to as the “Red Lantern”.
The banks of the trail were lined with snow-covered alders as quarter-sized snowflakes fell from the sky. For most, the wilderness was inspiring, but Holden felt this portion of the trail was ninety miles of vast emptiness and his tired muscles ached for a couple of hours of bunking down at the next checkpoint.
After what seemed like an eternity, the narrow corridor through the woods finally began to widen. As the trees became sparser, Holden could make out a huge bonfire in the town up ahead. He knew from Shannon’s meticulous tutorial that the next checkpoint would be the ghost town of Takota; a real commercial hub during the Alaska’s gold rush days, but now, with the exception of Iditarod week, a genuine ghost town.
Already he was dreading the host of the reporters that would be there to greet him. All he wanted to do was feed his dogs and lay down for some rest, but he’d talk to the reporters for Shannon’s sake, and her mothers.
The bonfire seemed bigger than the others, which was weird because this was easily the most remote and desolate checkpoint on the trail.
As the trail broadened into an open field before him Holden realized … it wasn’t a bonfire that was burning.
It was Takota.
*****
Holden pulled on the reins, kicked the brake, and brought his team to a stop as he reached the farthest outskirts of the town. He dropped his snow hook for good measure and dismounted the sled in disbelief.
He yanked off his snow mitts and dropped them on the sled. Discarding the gloves was a decision he would come to regret later. As he raised his goggles onto his forehead, he noted that not all the buildings were on fire. The big buildings on the corners were ablaze, but thus far, the remainder of the abandoned ghost town was still unscathed. And thanks to the wet snow, the fires were steadily dying out on their own with minimal risk of spreading.
Where the Hell is everybody?
The place should’ve been swarming with reporters, Musher’s and invaluable support personnel. Now there wasn’t a soul to be found. Before venturing deeper into the o
ld town he noted the dogs were sniffing the air as though their noses were detecting something unfamiliar. Normally they would be barking with excitement and pulling at their tethers to be free. It was these kinds of observations that had kept him and his squad alive overseas.
Holden began searching the old faded buildings. Dropped belongings, backpacks, cameras, clothes, lay discarded in the middle of the street. He knew there weren’t any phones, electricity, or running water in Tokata. It was abandoned except for the brief period every winter when the Iditarod race passed through and the volunteers piled in and turned the old ghost town into a comfortable rest stop.
Skirting the burning buildings he approached the tiny main street located between two rows of dilapidated shopfronts. Immediately apparent was a large orange Buick in the middle of the street. The left blinker was flashing and the door was wide open. He could hear the engine still chugging and see vapor puffing out the tailpipe. Whatever had happened here it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours ago.
As he rounded the Buick’s trunk, he glanced down and noticed red stains on the snow. The streaks of blood originated from the open car door. They scratched across the fresh white powder and went over to one of the buildings. The rickety wooden structure was labeled ‘HARDWARE STORE’, only most of the letters were partially illegible from neglect. The funny thing was that the blood trails didn’t go inside the slanted broken doorway but up the sides of the wallboards and up onto the tin roof. Holden had hiked through the woods enough to know bears were more than capable of climbing trees; but could they climb up the side of walls?
It was common for mushers to suffer from sleep deprivation and experience hallucinations, but Holden had survived Ranger school, the toughest combat course in the world. Even though that had been twenty years ago, and the Iditarod had been grueling, he didn’t think he was seeing things now.