Those Who Follow
Page 3
They held their position as the patient kicked at his bed and punched wildly at the wall.
“Don’t you hear her?” he asked.
“Hear what, Martin?” Jackie asked from her safe place behind Cameron and Javier.
“That fuckin’ singing!” Martin leaned his back against the wall and slid down it to sit on the floor. “She’s going to call down the apocalypse. You know that!”
He slammed the back of his head against the wall. “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”
Cameron and Javier stepped forward as Martin continued pounding his head into the bricks. In sick, muted thuds, his flesh split open, a crimson circle of blood and scalp left sticking to the cream-colored paint from his abuse.
“Stop him, Cameron!’ Jackie ordered.
The orderlies handled Martin firmly yet with care. Both Javier and Cameron didn’t want to intentionally harm Martin in their pursuit of stopping him from bashing his own brains out. Jackie and Alicia righted the thin patient bed and prepared to help restrain him as Cameron and Javier forced him down on top of it. Nurse Jackie administered the sedative after Mr. Benchman’s wrists and ankles were restrained. He fought and bucked against the straps, spit up at Jackie and called her every filthy name in the book before the meds took hold of him.
He whimpered, a tear slid from the corner of his eye. “We’re all gonna die.”
“You have to relax, Martin. Nothing will happen to you or any of us. We’ve got Cameron and Javier here to make sure of that, honey,” Jackie said soothingly.
“Alicia, please bring the med kit,” she said over her shoulder.
She eased Mr. Benchman’s head over to the side, so she could get a look at his injury. She shook her head, hoping Dr. Greenburg wouldn’t blame her for not intervening earlier. His scalp was bleeding and a gash was left behind, but it didn’t appear too serious. She made a note to have him checked out by the infirmary doctor in the morning, but he didn’t require any stitches so she carefully bandaged the wound and shifted his head back to where he could stare up at a ceiling he could never make out.
Cameron and Javier cleaned the blood from the wall before exiting his room, leaving him to tremble with each roll of thunder outside and ramble himself to sleep.
“She’s still singing… The Wayfaring Stranger,” he whispered as his eyes lulled shut. “Better stop her before she opens the door.”
CHAPTER THREE
14
“He’s been sayin’ some scary shit lately. He wasn’t quite so loony before,” Cameron spoke as he and Javier walked to the elevator.
“His mind is in turmoil. Many things can push a sensitive person over the line,” Javier said.
“Don’t start with that psychic bullshit again. These people have mental problems, brain injuries, chemical imbalances, nothing else,” Cameron said.
“I never said all of them were psychic, I said some of them are sensitive, they can feel vibrations…”
“Are you the lunatic whisperer?” Cameron teased. “You told me before all that shit about vibrations from other worlds. Do yourself a favor and don’t let Dr. Greenburg hear you say nonsense like that or you’ll find yourself in the room next to Martin.”
“It’s not bullshit. A lot of different cultures believe this stuff,” Javier said.
“Third world shamans don’t count, Javier. They have no idea how true medicine works. All they know are plants and nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. People from all over the world seek out unconventional cures for their ills.”
“Unconventional equals unproven, which equals false hope given to desperate people. It’s cruel,” Cameron said. “Don’t get me started on demons trying to communicate with these people either. It’s creepy enough around here without thinking that ghosts are tormenting the patients.”
“I’m not talking snake-oil salesmen. I’m talking about ancient cures that have been used for centuries… and they have worked. And I never said anything about demons. I said energies. There’s a difference.”
“There’s no proof in that,” Cameron argued.
Javier went silent. He could never admit to knowing from personal experience that what he was suggesting was far from bullshit.
A voice screeched from the radio hanging on Cameron’s belt. “Can someone please come down to room 13C. We have a little bird down here that won’t quit singing and she’s keeping the others awake.”
Javier knew the room. It was Casey’s. He hoped that maybe Cameron would finally see the difference between insane and sensitive.
“She’s singing,” he said.
“So?” Cameron asked as he quickened his pace towards the elevator.
“Benchman said he heard singing,”
“That doesn’t prove shit. He probably has really keen ears. Sometimes when people lose one sense, it is compensated by another.”
****
They hesitated before the door of room 13C, listening to Casey sing. It was quickly becoming a labored wailing, her voice shaking as she cried out the lyrics to a song on a constant loop in her mind.
“I know dark clouds will hover o’er me, I know my pathway is rough and steep…”
Javier slid his key into the lock of the door and she fell silent.
“Casey, we’re comin’ in now,” he announced.
Cameron was ready at Javier’s side. All that could be heard was the rolling thunder of the storm outside the facility.
“She stopped, maybe she will just stay quiet,” Cameron whispered.
“She’s in need. We can’t just walk away now,” Javier said. His palm gripping the door handle tingled with static electricity—a sign only known to him.
He pushed the door open slowly as the electricity blinked out, leaving the back-up generator struggling to operate the lighting. It was dim. She was silhouetted against the window as the storm flashed and danced beyond it.
“Casey,” Javier spoke.
She didn’t move, but responded in a ragged whisper, “She’s in danger.”
“Are you ok?” Cameron asked.
“She showed him to me.”
“There are no mirrors in here,” Cameron said.
“She’s in me, always has been,” Casey answered.
She turned to face the orderlies. Her face shone beneath the emergency lights powered by the thrumming generator. Casey’s face was colorless. Sweat beaded in her hairline and clung to her upper lip.
“Are you feelin’ sick?” Javier asked.
She nodded and her eyes snapped shut. Her mouth hung open, Her heavy breathing soared into a pitiful scream as her forehead began to split open. Blood traced its way down her face as new lines appeared. Javier stepped forward but Cameron caught him by the shoulder.
“Did you cut yourself?” Javier asked her.
“She could stab you,” Cameron spoke quietly in his partner’s ear.
“No. Look.” Javier told him.
Casey’s skin opened as if being scored by an unseen blade, blood ran down over her closed eyelids.
“He has marked her and so shall I be marked,” she spoke.
“What the hell is goin’ on?” Cameron said, pulling Javier back out the door, slamming it behind them.
“Is she fuckin’ possessed?” he asked.
“No, but she’s in a lot of trouble,” Javier answered solemnly.
****
Celia ran the tip of her finger between the shackle around her ankle and her skin. The blisters were weeping, leaving raw, open spots in her flesh. Her arm was swollen and it ached. She was sure that the bone was broken or fractured, but the torment she found herself in was far worse. Her stomach churned, full of acid and empty of food. It hadn’t been filled in days… not since her last meal. Shame filled her each time her guts complained. She never wanted to eat again after what she had to do. She would rather starve than partake of the stranger’s repasts again.
“Be thankful you’re alive,” The old woman spoke.
“This ain’t livin
’. It’s only surviving.”
That stubborn reply reminded her of her response to her own mother, arguing with her when life was much better compared to the splintered church and its shackles. Celia’s heart broke as she recalled how she pushed the old woman away. Hate replaced that lonesome longing for her life before when she realized her belongings were gone, along with the tiny jewelry box and the ring her mother had left her when she had passed away.
“Either way, you coulda been the one it happened to… the one that became the sow.”
Celia looked to the old woman, face scarred like the other two huddling amongst the ruins of their flesh. She thought that if ghosts could be real, these three women would be called such for they were truly lifeless, chained to the world in a pitiful existence that seemed for all eternity.
It was bright outside. The sun beat against the dusty window pane revealing a multitude of fingerprints smudging the years of grime. How many had tried to break it with their bare hands? How many had never escaped the church in the middle of nowhere?
She looked up to the ceiling, its rickety beams adorned with identification cards, driver’s licenses, faded pictures and it reminded her of how many. Celia found herself hoping the roof would just cave in, destroying the macabre sanctuary of her captor and, if she was really lucky, it would become her tomb.
A rumble in the distance sent the women scrambling to cower amongst the decaying pews. All but Celia. She sat just where she was. The engine of that old, black car roared like a hungry animal outside as her eyes rested on those shaking in terror. Defiance burned in her. She refused to give the yellow-toothed bastard what he wanted—fealty through terror. Celia would recede into her own mind, daydream about being somewhere far away from fear and pain, like a child seeking solace in make-believe worlds and people once those in real life turned out to be nothing but monsters.
The sounds of heavy footsteps creaked up the wooden steps outside. She knew it was him. There was no one else it could be. He was followed by the clomping paws of his beast. The hound was as big as a grown man with a hide as black as pitch. Celia could smell its rancid breath as it panted just on the other side of the old wooden wall, like meat that had spoiled in the sun. Dust motes danced in the sunlight lazily as Celia closed her eyes and sang to herself the song she would often hum while wandering the backroads of America, a song about a wayfaring stranger for that’s all she was in every town.
Celia flinched as the door swung open. Through her eyelids, she could see the sun invading the darkness inside the church and his shadow passing through its rays. Her song died away and, in seconds, a hot breath spilled over her face. It smelled and felt sickening as it bathed her cheeks. The death machine stood over her, awaiting its master’s orders. The dog turned away at a high-pitched whistle to go take stock of the old man’s other possessions, all chained and obediently sitting together.
“Open your eyes, Fourteen.”
She wanted to disobey him, to hold them shut and never curse her vision with the sight of him again, but she wasn’t suicidal. Not quite yet.
“Open them or I’ll burn ‘em shut!”
She could tell by the sound of his voice that he clenched his teeth. She believed his threat too, knowing how he had taken ninety-seven’s tongue.
“I sense rebellion in you,” he said.
His hand shot out with the speed of a striking serpent to grip her by the jaw. His free hand drew a knife from his belt, the same that always hung there, waiting to spill blood.
“Let your blood remind you of who you belong to. Blood and pain, they never lie.”
He brought the tip of the blade down to open the scabbed wound in her forehead. The number fourteen bled freely down into her eyes, its coppery taste, mingled with her own salty tears, met her tongue, reminding her that she was marked and could not leave the stranger’s world alive.
****
“We had two head injuries on your shift. Anyone care to explain?” Dr. Greenburg asked, folding his hands in his lap and glaring at them.
Cameron often wanted to tell him how much he resembled Grandpa Munster from the old television show, yet he figured that this was the worst possible time. Jackie sat in silence, looking to Cameron, Javier and Alicia, desperately attempting to formulate an answer that would appease their supervisor.
“Martin was in a very bad state last night. He was agitated and violent. He hurt himself before we had the chance to intervene,” Javier spoke.
“And Casey?”
“She was terribly delusionary. I’ve never seen her so bad. She cut herself,” Jackie said.
“With what? She’s on the close watch floor,” Dr. Greenburg said.
“Possibly her fingernail,” Cameron answered.
Dr. Greenburg nodded, “I want to make this clear to all of you. I’m well aware that we are treating people that are known for hurting themselves, but if I think they are able to do so because of a group of neglectful caretakers, then I will be seeking a new team of people to fill those roles.”
“Yes, sir.” Alicia said as the others nodded.
****
They were in the parking lot before any of them opened their mouth about the meeting. Cameron broke the silence between them.
“What a complete asshole.”
“Yeah. He’s never pulled an overnighter,” Jackie said, shoving a menthol cigarette in her mouth while she searched her purse for a lighter. Cameron obliged her with his own.
“Jackie, we watched those cuts just appear on that girl’s forehead.” He lit his own cigarette before continuing, “But I sure as hell ain’t tellin’ him that. He’ll think we’re as crazy as the rest of them tied to their beds.”
Javier stood silent, his mind couldn’t erase the memory of Casey’s flesh splitting open. Her warning. It felt more like an oath to him than any senseless rambling… she believed what she was saying and so did he.
“We’re on again tonight. We can’t let anymore shit like this happen,” Jackie said, blowing smoke out of both nostrils. Her eyes looked exhausted and worried.
“Can’t believe Greenburg is being such a dick. He knows that storms do something to them,” Alicia said.
“He never understands that. He’s a college boy—all book smarts and no hands-on care experience. He can sit down and do his sessions or whatever, but he’s never had shit thrown on him or chunks bitten out of his arm,” Jackie said.
“He can kiss my ass,” Cameron tossed his cigarette to the asphalt, grabbed Alicia by the hand and said, “We’re getting’ outta here. See you guys tonight.”
“Be careful with that PDA or Greenburg will get you for that next,” Jackie warned.
“He can blow me!” Cameron called back over his shoulder as he opened the car door for Alicia.
****
Javier found it hard to sleep during the day. Night shifts always played hell on his internal clock, but he stayed because the job had health benefits that he couldn’t find elsewhere.
He stood in the shower of his small apartment, letting the hot water run down his face. It felt cleansing after feeling Casey’s sorrow crawl over him. Her words left him sick inside. He could feel that she was one of the few admitted to the facility that weren’t like the others. Her illness was brought on by outside forces, her psyche assaulted daily by foreign energies from worlds beyond those that her eyes could see.
He knew how she felt, but to a lesser degree, because he had experienced this before, when he was younger and unfamiliar with the ways of the spirit. His battle to block his sensitivity had led him to street drugs, a path to hell that turned him into the walking dead for six years, until he had been sent home… to be cured
CHAPTER FOUR
THE CROWN AND
THE BLACK HIGHWAY
Betty stood at the front window. Her hand shook as she dared to part the curtains. He was still there. Byron didn’t believe in cellular phones. He said he was too old to learn how to use one. She had already tried calling the shop, but B
ill had told her Byron was out on a run. She had no idea when he’d be home. It gave her such anxiety to look out the window and see the man in the blue car again.
Betty thought about calling the police, but Byron would throw a conniption. He had already told her there was nothing the law would do. It was a public street and she had no way to prove the man was stalking her, but she knew in her heart that he was.
Byron had left his pistol for her in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser. There had been several times in the past two months when Betty had to restrain herself from grabbing the gun, sticking it through the window of the blue car and telling the driver to get lost and never come back, but that would only get her hauled away by the police.
She found herself praying that she’d hear her husband’s old car rumbling as it sped down the block; it always drove the man away. Once, after the stranger left, she walked out to see the sidewalk littered with smoked cigarettes and an empty liquor bottle left behind from his vigil of her home.
She had no idea who the man was, only that when she caught a glimpse of his face, she could see his eyes were like those of a desperate animal—wild and untrustworthy. It frightened her and reminded Betty why her husband would not allow her to leave the house alone. The world was full of psychos just waiting to hurt her. She knew it was true.
Betty gently closed the curtains and went to get her husband’s pistol. She would keep it beside her while she finished up fixing Byron’s supper. He was always exhausted after a long day at work and she never wanted to keep his empty stomach waiting to be fed.
****
He preached himself into a rabid fury, quoting things that Celia didn’t recognize from any bible that she had ever been forced to read. His ramblings made no sense to her, like the ravings of the insane. Only he felt the significance of his words and acted as though his gospel was of the utmost importance.
“You were all marked. It was shown to me,” He pointed a gnarled fingertip to his forehead. “Before I ever branded you as my own, you were meant to be mine.”