by Lee Deadkeys
The Gordian Event
By
Lee Deadkeys
Copyright © 2017 Lee Deadkeys; Bone Hare Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The Bone Hare ™ logo and Bone Hare Press ™ name are a Trademark of Bone Hare Press ™ and Lee Deadkeys ™. All rights reserved. No part shall be copied, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying or other electronic or mechanical methods, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Visit the author’s website at: www.LeeDeadkeys.com
Bone Hare Press
Lee Deadkeys
PO Box 2185
Camden, SC
29020
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Hayley Faye; Faye Faye Designs
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank some people for their support during the writing of this novel.
My father, who I miss every day and wish he was here to see this novel published.
My mother, for always loving me.
My brother, we know where we’ve been, we’ve got that concrete street skin.
My sister, who believed in me from the start.
My husband, Ron, and our most beautiful, most awesomest daughter, M—
My longtime friend, Alan Matthews, who’s been there from the beginning.
My editor, formatter and friend, Micael Perrin, who’s cussed this book with me.
Adam Poe at Frostbite Publishing and his team of Beta readers.
Thank you all—it’s been a hell of a good time getting here!
For my father
1946-2015
If not in Heaven, may we meet again in the hills near the old wooden cross.
Forensic Evidence Log: Item A-17: Note, found on body of;
Unidentified Decedent: Doe, John aka Solomon
Self-inflicted; Gunshot wound; Head
My name is Solomon, or maybe it’s Solo Man? It’s not important, I must get this noted before my hand betrays my memory.
I am a Professor at…someplace, ok, I’ll start at the beginning.
I unearthed a device, a beacon of sorts, a few months (?) back. It speaks to me, and I believe it is driving me mad.
I believe They, the prophets of the Blue World, are at war with a sister planet. I hear the imagery of their thoughts, their intentions…I see their thoughts transferred to me through the beacon.
This is what I see:
A distant world wrapped in perpetual Blue, so cold, so pale…
…a squat figure bent at a terminal. The figure, compacted from birth under a crush of gravity, examines a view screen comprised of an active, metallic liquid.
Within the substance of the view screen, I see worlds form and take shape, sculpted in incredible depth and dimension. The figure’s Aegean flesh—not flesh but a pitted, pliant ore—reflects the light from the liquid viewer as its stunted digits move over a terminal covered in glyphs. The glyphs flash as they are selected and depressed, each glyph representing a world…I see our world, selected, the glyph pressed.
A forceful blow at the outer hatch. The figure turns glacially, it senses its enemy is near.
Another forceful blow to the hatch as the figure returns its attention to the view screen. Its brethren are nearly through the hatch.
I sense triumphant resolve as the last coordinates are entered and executed…
…And I shudder, for Death has come to us all. — Solomon
TO DO LIST:
Find my gun… and that damn key!
Kill the spiders
Pick up eggs and lightbulbs
Today I found the beacon, and it speaks. The blue world summons, and my sanity nswersss
My mind invaded
(I found MY GUN)
Day 1, Early Morning
Sergeant Sam Story
Wormwood Penitentiary
“Third time’s a charm, right, Doc?”
Dr. Thomas turned his pockets out, emptying the loose coins, money clip and antique black key into the small plastic container the guard held out to him.
“I’m certainly hopeful, Sergeant. How has his behavior been? Have there been any further outbursts?”
“Nothing much, he’s been pretty quiet this morning. But Karl, the night man, said he almost had to give him a Hickory Shampoo, and you know Karl is pretty tough to rile.”
“I’m sorry, a Hickory Shampoo?” Dr. Thomas asked, confused.
The big sergeant laughed, “It means he almost had to crack him one with the baton. Fortunately for him, Karl got the situation under control before it came to that, but they did have to use the hose on him.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m glad Karl could defuse the situation before the Hickory Shampoo was necessary. I find it much easier to talk to them when their jaws aren’t wired shut,” Dr. Thomas said with a smile and a wink. “Did Karl mention to you the reason for the ruckus?”
Sergeant Story shrugged, “From what I read in the incident report, he’s been raving about the same thing the last two nights, earthquakes in his head or some crazy shit like that. I try not to dwell too much on the crap they babble about, it damages my calm, if you know what I mean.”
Dr. Thomas nodded and stepped through the arch of the materials detector. A gentle blast of air buffeted his suit as the machine sniffed for narcotics, explosives and signs of infection; high temperature, excess mucus, etc. He un-tucked his dress shirt and turned. The machine puffed again, his shirt and pants billowed.
Dr. Thomas shivered, not because the air was uncomfortably cool, but simply because Wormwood Penitentiary gave him the creeps. He saw the building as a disturbing, chaotic blend of Inquisition antiquity and modern technological marvel, an unholy union between a moldering Dark Age dungeon and the soulless sterility of a modern autopsy room.
If the visual appearance of this super max facility weren’t enough to test the soundness of a man’s decision to enter, the fact that this penitentiary housed the most horrifically insane murderers in the country certainly would.
Dr. Thomas knew that much of Wormwood Penitentiary’s population was so unstable that parole hearings would never be anything more than a cursory interview, a unanimous rejection from the panel of three psychiatrists, followed by a hasty recycling back into the system. He often wondered how anyone could work in this type of environment, day in and day out, and not be adversely affected.
“You can step on through now, Doc,” Sgt. Story said, absently jiggling the Doctor’s items around the container.
“I think you should leave that here though,” he said, indicating an ancient four-inch metal key. “You carry that thing with you everywhere? I bet it’d suck to sit on it wrong, probably punch straight through a testicle. What’s it for, anyway?
Doctor Thomas chuckled. “It was a gift from one of my colleagues. I guess you could call it a gag gift of sorts. It’s supposed to help me ‘unlock the mysteries of the patient’s mind’ or something to that effect.”
“Cute. But I don’t know if you should be doing that with this inmate,” Story said with a smirk. “You may want to keep whatever is locked up in that messed up head right where it is.”
“Well, I assure you it will not leave my pocket,
Sergeant, if that will sway your position?”
Story looked at the key again. It was a relic, a thing that reminded him of old days when penitentiaries used keys similar to this one.
“I don’t see what harm could come of it, Doc, take your key. But I will insist on full restraints.”
Dr. Thomas’s hand froze as he grasped the key, “Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“I do, Doc. Better safe than sorry. His behavior has been more unpredictable and violent than usual, and this is the guy who ate three of his own fingers before he started acting really crazy. If I had my way, you wouldn’t be allowed to step one foot onto the same cellblock with that maniac, let alone into his cell.”
“I appreciate your concern, Sergeant. And while it may seem unreasonable to you, the man does have a right to speak with a mental health professional, the same as he has a right to clergy.”
Story shrugged. “I’m not going to argue inmate’s rights with you, Doc. You seem like a good guy to me but I think you, and a lot of people like you, are looking for humanity where there just isn’t any. Sometimes an animal is just an animal, and no matter how hard you try, or how much you wish it were different, you aren’t going to change what it is.”
Sergeant Story keyed a mic built into the control board, “This is Story, bring inmate two-zero-one-two up from the tank and restrain him in his cell. The shrink is here for him.”
* * *
Dr. Thomas heard the screaming first, it sounded far off, distant, but brimming with imminent danger. An alarm shrieked, drowning out the scream and causing him to grind his teeth painfully together. Strong hands grasped him harshly and he was dragged backward across a cold floor and out to a long corridor. He was on his back, staring up into hot white light that hurt his eyes; he couldn’t close them to shut out the brightness. I’m paralyzed, he thought, mind panicking, body unable to act.
Mercifully, a face appeared over him, blocking out the light. He’d seen it before but had no name to put with it. The face was yelling at him in another language or gibberish. Someone slapped his face, hard, and his head banged violently to the left.
His unblinking eyes were now looking into a room where an orange man wrapped in a bloody coat appeared to be violently cleaning his ear with something clenched in his fist. More men were bursting into the room with the man now. They were yelling also but he couldn’t understand their words either.
Someone jerked his face back toward the harsh white light; it was the familiar face, the one with no name. He was struck in the face again, and this time he felt warm blood ooze from a nostril and snake down his cheek. He blinked. Identical tears escaped the corners of his eyes and raced down the sides of his upturned face.
His hearing returned in a concussive blast, and he found he could move his head again. His stupor broken, he noticed the red flashing lights, the deafening klaxons, and knew something horrible had happened.
“DOC, DOC… CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
Dr. Thomas tried to speak, his throat felt torn like he’d been screaming nonstop for an hour. He nodded. His eyes were drawn back to the cell and he saw three guards beating and trying to wrestle the orange jump-suited inmate to the floor.
“Doc! Look at me!” Story grabbed Thomas by the front of his jacket and shook. The Doctor’s head banged on the hard linoleum but his eyes remained locked on the action inside the cell. “Snap out of it, Doc! What the hell is wrong with you?”
Dr. Thomas began to sob. Story jerked him to his feet and half walked, half dragged him to the security station and plopped him in a chair. He bashed a button on the control panel and the alarm on this cellblock mercifully cut off in mid-wail. The entire penitentiary would be on lockdown until the severity of the situation could be determined, and elsewhere on the grounds, Story knew the emergency extraction team was rushing to their riot gear.
Sergeant Story pulled a bottle of water from the small fridge built into the bottom of the control bank and gave it to the shaken doctor. Dr. Thomas took the water but seemed unable to figure out what to do with it; he just sat there, blubbering like a fool. Story was just about to strike him across the face again when the Doctor started babbling.
“I felt, I feel… strange….” He tried to stand and Story shoved him back in the chair.
“I don’t give a shit how you feel, Doc, I want to know what happened in there?”
Thomas shook his head from side to side, openly weeping. “You don’t understand!” he shouted and grabbed the sides of his head. “He lied! Solomon lied!”
A scream rose up from the area of inmate 2012’s cell and drowned out the doctor’s senseless words. “Stay right here, Doc, don’t you move!”
Story looked over his shoulder in time to see Chad, the rookie, stagger from the cell holding his profusely bleeding hand. His blanched face held an unsettling expression of humor and horror. “Fucker bit off my fingers,” Chad chuckled, and then fell to the floor, unconscious.
Story ran down the corridor, stripping off his shirt and wrapping up what was left of Chad’s hand. “Save the fingers!” he yelled into the cell, hoping he could be heard over the ruckus.
The prisoner kicked out viciously, hitting a short, stocky guard named Luke in the legs and nearly knocking him to the floor while his partner, Big Ted, maneuvered his massive frame into the cell.
“Put that sonafabitch down!” Luke yelled.
Big Ted took a step back, raised his baton and struck the inmate across the head. The inmate crumpled to the floor and then tried to get back up. Ted cocked back his baton and struck once more. The inmate flattened out on the floor, his rampage mercifully ended. The Doctor’s key clinked from the prisoner’s hand and landed next to Big Ted’s boot. It was covered in stringy gore.
The large, middle-aged guard’s bald head glistened with perspiration from the struggle; he took in deep breaths, trying to return his heart to a normal rhythm.
“You two all right?” Story asked. They both nodded, still trying to catch their breath after the ten-minute ordeal. Story noted that Luke was trembling slightly, the adrenaline still pumping.
“What about him?” Luke asked and motioned in the direction of the unconscious prisoner.
Story bent and felt for a pulse, “He’s alive.” He began searching around the prisoner for Chad’s severed fingers. He found nothing so rolled the body over. Hesitantly, he pried open the bloody mouth and found partially chewed bits of what he took to be fingers. Unfortunately, they were as far beyond salvage as a meatball. He uttered a curse under his breath and stood.
Story scanned the cell. Blood, tissue, and feces splatters were everywhere in the small space. Somehow the thin mattress had been jammed halfway under the bed frame.
“God damn, what a friggin mess,” Big Ted muttered, echoing his own thoughts. “And I’m pretty sure that stuff coming out his ear is supposed to stay on the inside.” Ted toed the key with the tip of his boot. “What the hell is that?”
Story groaned inwardly; it had been a tragic error in judgment to let the Doc hold on to that stupid key. It sure unlocked something in his mind, he thought, looking once again at the stuff oozing from the prisoner’s ear.
Luke grabbed the open shackles from the corner of the cell, “What I want to know is, how in the hell did he slip his restraints?”
“I don’t know—Christ!” Story said and punched the wall. “You guys see to Chad, I’m going to find out what the hell the good Doctor was thinking.”
He stooped beside Chad on his way to the security station. The young man moaned; he was regaining consciousness.
This injury would surely end the rookie’s career in corrections, but then, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing; not after what had happened today. At least Chad would receive some compensation. As for himself, Story figured he’d be terminated at the very least and possibly face charges of gross negligence.
At the security station, the doctor sat with his head in his hands, his shoulders shook as he wept silently.
“I sure hope to fuck you have an explanation for what just happened!”
Dr. Thomas only continued his silent sobbing. Story kicked out his foot, pushing the doctor’s chair into the corner of the station.
“Well?! How did he get your goddamn key?” Story waited while the doctor trembled. “I swear to Christ, if you let him out of those restraints—”
“It’s near,” the doctor whispered.
“What! What is?” Story demanded.
“The eve… the Event.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re as bat-shit as he is.”
Thomas cackled. Slowly he raised his head and looked up. Story gasped and took a step away from him; his bladder suddenly felt too full.
The doctor’s eyes were blotched with bloody motes and he was smiling a horrible half-snarl, half-lunatic grin that Story would have expected from any one of Wormwood’s residents.
“Uh, Doc?” he said, taking a step back.
Before he could say another word the doctor’s hand snaked out, lightning fast, and snatched a ballpoint pen from the clipboard on the control panel. Story instinctively reached for his baton. Thomas cackled again, “The Event, it has begun!” He raised the pen up and stabbed it repeatedly into his own neck. Blood sprayed over the front of Sergeant Story’s undershirt. He yelled for Ted and Luke as the doctor continued his suicide.
Day 1, Mid-Morning
Cecil “Ox” Fougel
Good Guy’s Welding and Fabrication
“Boss, phone!” Gary yelled to the owner of the shop.
Cecil “Ox” Fougel lifted his face shield. “Who’s it?”
Gary looked around the shop and then looked back at the phone, unsure what he should say with all the other guys around. “It’s, uh, your mom, Ox.”
A couple of the guys made bottle-sucking noises as Ox cut the torch off and walked to the phone. Gary threw a torch lighter at the closest one, Jose, the greasy little Mexican Ox had hired two months ago and told him to get back to work.