Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror

by Matt Drabble

  Donald had been content in his life when it had all come suddenly crashing down around his ears. Some madman with dreams of dictatorship high on his perverted agenda had invaded his neighboring country, and Donald’s life was ruined. His father had pulled more strings than Donald had known existed and he had found himself selected to lead a small unit on a recon mission.

  Donald scanned the woodland with expert eyes that were currently using their fullest ability to hopefully avoid being detected. His initial brief had been one of a strict “Look but don’t touch” policy. The world was being informed that Ricktenstien’s forces had been merely operating preventative measures to protect themselves from terrorist incursions into their borders. But intelligence had suggested that actually Ricktenstien was carrying out a cleansing operation to rid itself of undesirables. Donald was leading his small unit of six men beyond the borders to gain Intel on just what the reality of the situation really was.

  Donald had done everything that he could possibly imagine to try and get out of the assignment, but apparently his father’s influence had far exceeded his own. He had held onto the grim hope that he could indeed carry out the operation without his terrible secret becoming public knowledge. He had held onto that hope right up until he had met Sergeant Hoffman.

  Hoffman was a rugged grunt of a man; six feet three of broad muscle and real experience. He was powerful with muscles born of sweat and hard work; he had piercing green eyes and a shock of bright ginger hair. Hoffman had seen straight through Donald’s careful reserve in an instant with a steely sourly amused glare. Donald had addressed his men and briefed them on the incursion mission, whilst all the while Hoffman had just stared straight through him with contempt. Donald had soon discovered that his cowardice was not only limited to the battlefield, he was also found wanting when it came to any confrontations, armed or otherwise.

  “Hummingbird what’s your twenty?” Donald jumped as the radio in his ear sparked into life. He had instructed Hoffman to refer to him as eagle-eye but the impudent sergeant had renamed him with a suitably mocking moniker. Donald looked around nervously, as though the muffled earpiece had broadcasted his location across the open valley. His stomach twisted into knots with suppressed anger that would forever lay dormant. Hoffman just seemed to be able to sense all of his weaknesses and all of his comments walked a tightrope between banter and insubordination. Donald wished that Hoffman would cross that line and then he could use the bureaucratic might of his position to squash the sergeant like a bug.

  “Hummingbird,” the radio squawked again, “This is eagle-one,” came Hoffman’s smug voice.

  “Hummingbird to eagle-one,” Donald whispered swallowing more angry bile, “Coast clear, proceed two by two.”

  “Eagle-one out,” Hoffman signed off.

  Donald watched as the five man team moved out in full fatigues. They moved under his position high on the mound. Donald should have been in the valley walking point and leading his men, but his cowardice was a streak that was long and wide. Hoffman had known that he would never be able to run point and had offered to lead whilst Donald sat in the crow’s nest keeping watch. Donald shuddered at the presumed conversations going on between the men under his command. No doubt Hoffman had taken great delight in announcing his lack of courage. The sergeant was a grunt of the first order, poorly educated from a rough working class background, and Donald could only imagine the size of the chip on Hoffman’s shoulder.

  He waited until they were in the valley basement, then he hoisted himself up and followed their progress from above. He wore a Burlap Ghillie, a dense full body suit in woodland colours. The suit was designed to cover a lying figure and was hard to walk in; the long bushy outfit dragged on the ground and he had to work hard to keep his balance. He was paralleling his men when suddenly Hoffman raised a clenched fist and the other four men immediately dropped to their knees and Donald collapsed as best he could.

  The night had closed in fast around them and the fog was thick and almost impenetrable. Donald cursed Hoffman’s instincts, but he trusted them just the same. If Hoffman felt something was wrong he wasn’t going to argue.

  He peered carefully through the darkness for the source of the sergeants concern, but he could neither see nor hear anything out of place. Five silhouettes sank below him waiting silently in the darkness, their breathing slowed and hearts calm. Donald was shamed by their icy cool calm as he sweated nervously. He eased himself flat onto the ground; the camouflage suit fell over him and covered all but his two eyes.

  Hoffman regained his feet and pressed forward, slower and more cautiously than before. Donald lay rooted to the spot whilst his men moved forward below him. Suddenly he felt movement to the side of him; dark shadows crept out of cover and towards the unsuspecting soldiers below. Donald’s heart pounded furiously against his chest as the insurgents expertly moved with stealth and precision. They slunk on their bellies down the stony ravine towards the unsuspecting soldiers. Donald’s voice was frozen in his throat; his body refused to answer any of his calls and his nerves were shredded. He knew that he had to warn his men; he had to raise the alarm as they were supposed to be under his protective eye, but he could only shiver in fear. He trembled under his protective covering and prayed that he wouldn’t make a sound to attract any attention. The black night was silent but no longer empty, and Donald held his breath until he thought that he might pass out. A figure slithered past him barely four feet away; the insurgent was covered in dark fatigues and his face was painted completely black. Donald caught a pungent aroma of body odour and stale strong tobacco from the man. And then he was gone, descending into the darkness below.

  The dead night suddenly exploded into life. Shouts of surprise were soon joined with the echo of strong men’s cries of battle. Small arms’ gunfire spat viciously, shattering the quiet. Donald quivered, his camouflage may have offered secrecy but it was scant protection. Shouts and screams of two nationalities pierced the fog. Insults and struggles drifted up through the darkness and Donald could only hope that he wouldn’t be discovered. He drew his knees up to his chest in a fetal position and prayed that it would be over soon.

  Slowly the gunfire and screams were replaced by soft moans and whimpers. Donald struggled to free the 9mm Browning L9A1 from his hip holster with a trembling hand. He was finding that a little courage had returned, now that the men below seemed silent on both sides of the argument.

  He crept out from under his full body suit, shucking off the heavy garment in case he had to flee. He pulled the Browning free and slipped off the safety; the gun was a small metallic comfort in his hand. He gripped the pistol as tightly as he could, feeling the heft of the weight and praying for his father’s strength. The Browning had originally belonged to his father and had been fired in battle by him on numerous occasions. His father had presented him with the gun for luck and he had promised to take good care of the weapon. He had kept his word; the Browning gleamed and shone with care and maintenance. Donald was an expert with weapons, just as long as he didn’t have to fire one in anger.

  He crawled forwards to the edge of the ravine as quietly as he could manage, terrified to announce his presence. The fog was thicker now than before and Donald could barely see his outstretched hand that held the shaking 9mm Browning handgun. He cocked his head and tried to listen for sounds of survival at the bottom of the ravine. There were several different toned whimpering prayers but no immediate strong voices.

  He turned to head back the way he’d come, back towards the safety of the border and away from the death below. As far as he was concerned he had fulfilled his officer’s duty to his men by creeping a few feet forward. He wasn’t about to reveal his position by actually calling out, or putting himself in danger.

  He stilled his heavy panting and tried to relax. He was alive and undiscovered. As far as he was concerned there was no sound from below and thus no reason to climb down into the darkness below.

  “Major?” A voice drifted out o
f the fog from the bottom of the ravine, “Major?” The voice struggled.

  Donald recognised the voice immediately. It was Hoffman, it would have to be him. Of all the possible survivors, why Hoffman?

  “Major, I’m hurt real bad,” Hoffman panted, his voice was weak and shaky. “Please Major, you have to climb down and help me.”

  Donald waited, praying for the cold hand of death to take the miserable sergeant swiftly. It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, Donald thought bitterly.

  “Major…” the voice trailed off.

  He turned to leave when a bloody hand exploded out of the fog and gripped his arm. Adrenaline infused his body and he spun around in terror. The gun in his hand spat venom several times before he realised that he was even firing. The gunshots were monstrous in the dead night and his ears rang with the deafening noise. The bloody hand released him and the shadow fell backwards into the ravine with barely a grunt as the bullets struck home with deadly force. Donald ran. He didn’t care who had grabbed him or who was left behind; he only knew that he had to get away. The area was notorious with carnivorous wildlife and he knew that by the time the sun broke through and lifted the fog there would be little left.

  He ran until his lungs threatened to burst out of his chest. He ran until his legs burned with acid and his throat roared with fire. He ran until he was through the border and had reached the extraction point. He ran until he thought that he was safe.

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  The evening gala celebrations were finally winding down. Major Donald Carragher felt that he would need to spend the following day in the company of a renowned chiropractor, considering the amount of back slapping that he’d had to endure.

  He was standing in full uniform, ram rod straight and proud on the balcony overlooking the ballroom floor. He was now a hero of the battlefield in the vein of his father before him. He was the sole survivor of his unit; a man who had heroically fought his way clear of overwhelming enemy forces. His was no longer a name associated with the theory of conflict. Now he was man forged in fire. It had only been when he was being extracted out of Ricktenstien that he’d even had time to think about just what he was going to tell his superiors. One of the medics had taken one look at his face and misinterpreted his shame for that of battlefield horrors.

  “I can’t imagine what you went through buddy,” the medic had said as the chopper lifted him to safety.

  Donald had decided that maybe he could do a little imagining of his own when it came to making his report.

  He smiled to himself as the band began packing away and the cleaners started to do their job. Admittedly he may have gotten a little carried away. By the time that he had finished it would have been sacrilegious to have not awarded him a medal. Apparently his unit had been overwhelmed by enemy forces. His sergeant - who had been thought to be a solid and reliable soldier - had frozen in the face of the enemy and failed to sound the alarm. Donald had fought like a tiger against impossible odds in order to save his men, refusing to run from the onslaught; a Custer who had lived to tell the tale. His men had fallen one by one, including the now discredited Sergeant Hoffman. Donald had killed more insurgents than he could remember before eventually managing to stagger clear. Only returning to the extraction point after the enemy had fled for the trees. Donald had retired from active duty with his reputation and now freshly self-penned legend set in concrete.

  He puffed on the excellent cigar and swirled the brandy in his hand to warm the glass. He was finding that he had quite an appetite for the finer things in life now that he was a hero. His father had insisted on putting on the gala evening after his medal ceremony. The old man was positively falling over himself with pride. Donald had a whole future of possibilities laid out in front of him now. He had a burgeoning collection of luxurious business cards nestling in his pocket, each promising riches for just the cache of his name attached to their various firms. Life was good and it was going to get a whole lot better. He would fill the shame hole in his soul with wealth and privilege. He was finding that the more times he lied to himself, the more he was starting to believe his own story.

  He was about to retire for the evening when he felt eyes staring at him. He turned quickly towards the open ballroom below. The streamers were now hanging limply across the dance floor and balloons were either saggy reminders or else empty skins. A man stood in front of the open fire exit door; he was tall and broad and stood motionless. Donald felt strangely drawn to the man’s gaze; something about the man seemed oddly familiar. The man remained rock still in the soft glow of the moonlight that streamed through the open door. Even from this distance Donald felt nervous. The man was making no visible threatening motions, but Donald could feel waves of anger emanating towards him. Suddenly the man turned and walked out through the door. As he turned the main lights of the ballroom came on as the cleaners went about their business. Just as the man turned the sudden explosion of light caught him as he moved outside. Donald’s heart stopped as he suddenly saw a shock of bright ginger hair. Hoffman, he thought, terrified.

  He utilized the alcoholic courage that currently ran through his system and charged down the stairs from the balcony towards the fire exit. He reached the door but the man was gone. He stuck his head out into the car park, but there was no sign of the ginger haired man.

  “Where did he go?” he demanded of the closest cleaner.

  “Sorry?” The cleaner spluttered, un-nerved at the inquisition.

  “The red haired bloke, he was right here seconds ago,” Donald insisted as he grabbed the cleaner by the shirt roughly.

  “I didn’t see anyone,” the cleaner managed as he tried to squirm away from the much bigger officer.

  Donald released the custodian without any kind of apology and dismissed him with a contemptuous wave of the hand. He pondered the vision of Hoffman in the doorway. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that his mind was playing tricks on him, on this night of all nights. Eventually he figured that as Charles Dickens had once written, “There was more of gravy than of the grave about you”. He turned and left for good night’s sleep.

  It was three days later when he saw the man again. He was sitting in a café on the high street enjoying a luxurious frothy coffee. The day was pleasant and passing pleasantly. The weather was unseasonably warm and Donald was appreciating the sunshine’s influence on the female wardrobe choice. He was watching one particular filly strut past when he suddenly felt an angry glare burning a hole in the back of his head. He turned around on the high backed Italian armchair and saw him. Across the street was a small park; a green lawn expanse designed for families and sitting. There was a bench around fifty feet from where Donald was sitting. On the bench sat a tall broad man. The man was wearing a non-descript dark blue hooded sweatshirt and matching jogging bottoms. The hood was up and the face within seemed fixed on Donald. The man sat motionless, but similar to the ballroom, Donald could feel waves of hatred emanating across the park and directed at him.

  The man suddenly stood; he raised a hand slowly and dramatically to his head and pushed the hood back. The last thing that Donald saw before the man turned and jogged casually away was a shock of bright red hair.

  Donald’s life followed a similar path for the next month. Wherever he went, whatever he did, the red haired man was there. Donald would be sitting in a restaurant and suddenly he would feel that hateful burning glare. He would turn around slowly and see the red haired man standing outside on the street. He would be driving and suddenly feel that burning glare and the red haired man would be in the car behind him in the rear view mirror. The red haired man would always be just out of reach, dancing just beyond his clear vision. Always the red haired man was there. Donald began to see his clouded face everywhere, even when he wasn’t there.

  The first thing that Donald did of course was to ascertain the details of the remains’ recovery of his team. There had indeed been a recovery mission launched; a small unit had penetrated the Ricktenstie
n border. But according to the files there had been no bodies found. Reports stated that evidence of a fire fight was found with multiple rounds found from multiple weapons, along with blood traces but no bodies. Donald knew that the Ricktenstien government would have cleaned up the scene quickly and efficiently, but what if? What if there had been survivors? What if there had been prisoners taken? What if Hoffman was still alive somehow and what if he was back? Donald had parlayed his cowardice into a hero’s welcome and a lucrative private sector position with a UK arms manufacturer. His life consisted of long lunches and longer dinner events. His Victoria Cross medal was the highest award in the British services and it opened many doors for him. His salary was commensurate with his ability to wine and dine those politicians with influence that his new employers wished to utilize. His life was set, his bank account was swelling quickly and his future was rosy. Only the truth could ruin him.