by R. W. Ridley
“Oz,” Lou continued.
“What can I do?”
“What...” She bit her lip. “Don’t you remember the comic book? Stevie made you a hero.”
“That was a different time and a different story. I’m not the hero here.”
As the words left my mouth, the four Délons holding onto Ajax’s chains let go. He immediately leapt on one of them and broke its neck in the blink of an eye. He turned his fury on the crowd of Délons behind him.
“Hey!” A shout came from the other end of the clearing. Pepper stepped forward.
Ajax turned toward him. Rage and fury rose from him like heat waves from a searing blacktop. I felt the feeling rise in me as well. Again, I was able to call up the rage and strength I had endured and demonstrated immediately after my marking. I fought it. It would drive me to interfere, and I knew I couldn’t.
“You big dumb ape,” Pepper shouted. “The fight’s over here!”
Ajax spun around and let out a tongueless roar that sounded like a lion with a gag over its mouth.
Lou grabbed my arm. She was looking to me for strength when all I wanted to do was turn and run like hell.
“Lord help me,” Wes said. “This ain’t a fight. It’s an execution.” He was still holding Valerie in his arms and, at that moment, she buried her tear-stained face into his shoulder.
“Ajax won’t kill him,” Tyrone said. “He’s a good guy.”
I envied his hope and innocence. I wanted to believe in the good in Ajax desperately. But I knew now that good warriors are forced to do bad things in the name of the mission. The mission here was to save the world from the Destroyers and bring everything back to the way it was. Pepper’s death would bring us closer to that.
Pepper rushed Ajax and grabbed one of his chains. He tried to pull him to the center of the clearing, but Ajax pulled back on the chain and sent Pepper flying into the crowd of Délons to the side. Ajax leapt into the crowd after him and they both momentarily disappeared into the swarm. It wasn’t long until Délons were flying everywhere, discarded like the trash they were.
Ajax and Pepper tumbled out of the Délon horde. Their arms were locked. Ajax could have easily snapped Pepper’s arm in half, but he didn’t. In fact, Pepper tossed Ajax back into the wall of Délons, and in doing so took out more of the purple pukes. This was the theme of the match, both fighters would manage to toss the other into the Délons, and squash as many in the crowd as they could. This went on for what seemed hours, but in reality was ten minutes tops.
I glanced at the luxury boxes and could see the displeasure on the general’s face. Délons were not to suffer at the hands of their champions, yet here they were falling like pins in a bowling alley. And nothing could be done because it was collateral damage.
Hollis stepped out and with both palms facing up, and both hands bent, he brought them downward on each side of his body.
Lou and I both saw him at the same time. She spoke the sign out loud “Now!”
The fighters didn’t see him immediately. They continued to pummel each other to force one another into the Délons. It was Pepper who spotted him first. He freed himself from Ajax and bolted for the middle of the clearing. Ajax didn’t follow. He jumped to the edge of the clearing, and shook his head violently. Why didn’t he follow his opponent? He let out a pained cry.
Pepper stood and faced him. He was bruised and battered. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he fought to catch his breath. He himself gave Ajax the “Now” sign.
Ajax stood on two legs and pounded his chest. He shook his head again. Pepper repeated the sign. The crowd began to stomp and sway. They were growing impatient.
Hollis fell to the turf in tears. What was going on? It was as if Pepper was giving up. More than that, it was as if... he, Hollis, and Ajax had planned it.
Ajax slowly, hesitantly made his way to the center of the clearing. The Délons were growing more and more impatient. They sensed a kill, and they were screaming for blood.
I watched slack jawed as Pepper gave the sign for “Brother.”
With one horrifying blow with the back of his massive hand, Ajax sent Pepper flying backwards and tumbling to the turf. Ajax had done what he was supposed to do. He killed his brother and fellow warrior.
SEVENTEEN
The man in the white coat does not know how to react. I brought myself out of hypnosis. I had watched Pepper die, and he would not be the last. I didn’t want to be in the story any more. I didn’t have the heart for it.
He scribbles something on a piece of paper. “Chester is on his way. He and I will escort you to your room. We’ll stop along the way at the pharmacy. I have a new prescription I want you to try.”
“Drugs?”
He raises an eyebrow as he peers up from his clipboard.
“Medication. To make you better.”
“Why do you use that word?”
“What word?”
“Better. Better than what?”
He smirks. “What a strange question. You’re sick, Oz. I’m
trying to make you better.”
“You’re not really.”
“Of course I am.” He becomes uneasy. “Why else do you
think you’re here?”
I sit up. “You want to know the Source.”
Chester enters the office. “You rang, Doc.”
The man in the white coat keeps his eyes on me. “Mr. Griffin
will be going back to his room.” He stands, and I notice his hands are shaking. “I’ll be coming with you. We need to stop at the pharmacy along the way.”
Chester approaches me. “With or without restraints, Doc?” “Dr. Graham,” I say.
“Yes,” He says as he turns to me.
“Nothing,” I reply. “I just wanted to say your name out loud.” “No restraints,” Dr. Graham says to Chester.
“You sure? The pharmacy is down by...” He looks at me and
then back at the doctor. “You know.”
“It will be fine.”
Chester puts a hand under my arm and helps me to my feet.
He is a huge man. He was hired for his size not his brains. I had heard him say so on many occasions, although I’m not sure where or when. I’m not sure of anything.
We exit the office. Chester walks on my left still holding onto my arm. Dr. Graham walks on my right. There is something about their walks that catches my attention. It’s so uniform. They have almost identical walks. I find this odd, although I’m not sure why.
There are lines painted on the floor, a yellow line, a green line, and a red line. The sign above us breaks the building into sections. Yellow is pharmacy, women’s dorms, and examination rooms. Green is detention ward, treatment room A, and group room. Red is cafeteria, recreation room, treatment room B, and men’s dorm. We follow the yellow line.
As we pass people in the hall, I can’t help but recognize their faces. I don’t know how I know them, but I do. Some look at me with an angry glare, others an encouraging smile.
I am struck with the feeling that none of us belong here. My problem is that I don’t know if my feelings can be trusted. Maybe I do belong here, and I’m just looking for a way out.
Dr. Graham is in front of me. I watch the back of his head as he leads us toward the pharmacy. I wait for the first spider leg to pop out. He is a Délon. He has to be. Don’t trust ‘G.’
I pass a woman standing in the doorway. She is old, too old to be alive by the looks of her. She raises her right arm. Her hand is missing.
At the pharmacy, I wait with Chester while Dr. Graham enters the small room. The people passing us in the hallway look like the living dead. They walk, heads down, shuffling their feet.
Two orderlies approach pushing a gurney, a body under a sheet. Chester forgets about me and joins his coworkers.
“Who kicked it?”
“Sands,” the younger of the two orderlies replies.
“He had some help,” the older orderly replies.
“They found the new patient from 22A in his room.”
“The deaf mute – big hairy guy?”
“Yeah, man,” the younger orderly replies. “He was huddled in the corner grunting like a gorilla.”
“No way! I always miss the fun,” Chester laments.
I listen to their conversation in disbelief. At one point, I cover my ears. They aren’t real. None of this is real. I have to keep telling myself this place isn’t real.
I open the pharmacy door and step inside unnoticed. Dr. Graham is behind the counter talking with the pharmacist. Their conversation is casual. I can tell they are old friends.
“So, this is for the DH perp?” The pharmacist says.
“He’s not a perp, Bill. He’s a patient.”
“He killed two people, Doc. He’s dangerous.”
“All of our patients are dangerous,” Dr. Graham says as he scans the shelves.
“Yeah, but most of them can be managed,” he says as he shakes a bottle of pills to emphasize his point.
“Mr. Griffin can be, too,” Graham replies. “We just haven’t found the right cocktail.”
“Chester says he thinks he’s twelve, and he has no idea what he’s done.”
Dr. Graham looks angry. “Chester talks too much, and he thinks he’s fourteen.”
The pharmacist snickers. “He has no idea that he killed his wife and best friend?”
I swallow hard. My wife and best friend? My memory conjures up the time jump. I was standing over Lou with J.J. in my hand, and Canter had Gordy pinned against the wall.
“It’s a traumatic event in his life. It’s not unusual for a person to block memories he can’t bear to relive over and over again.” Dr. Graham joins the pharmacist and places three white bottles on the counter. “We’re close to a breakthrough. He’s looking for something he calls the Source when I have him under. I really think he wants to remember. Something in me believes he wants to get better.”
I start to go cold. I don’t want to hear what they are saying. I am Oz Griffin. I live on 334 Terrace Street in Tullahoma. I am 14 years old.
I close my eyes tight. I am not what they think. I open my eyes and watch from my darkened corner of the room as the pharmacist dumps the pills on a tray. He divides them into two groups with a straight-edged plastic tool.
Dr. Graham reaches for the second bottle and reads the label. For the first time, I notice his black fingernails, and the purple rash on his hand.
I can’t take it anymore. I move quietly to the pharmacy door and exit. Chester is still chatting up his friends. They are practically giddy about the murder. They have forgotten I even exist.
I follow the yellow line to a long corridor with a half dozen doors on either side. Flickering fluorescent lights hum above my head as I tiptoe down the hallway. I can see my distorted reflection in the laminate flooring. I am not the man staring back at me. I can’t be.
A familiar sound comes from the door to my left. It’s a highpitched sucking noise. There is a porthole window in the door. I slide my feet closer and press my forehead against the glass. A young boy lies on a metal table in the middle of an otherwise empty room. There is something on his face.
I push the door open and step inside. I am strangely detached from where I am and what I am doing. It’s as if I’m not here.
I reach the boy on the table, and I am not surprised at all to see a shunter attached to his face. The jellyfish blob seemingly screams with delight now that it has an audience. I look through the purple transparent flesh and see my eyes staring back at me. I am the boy on the table. I am the boy whose humanity is being sucked from his body. I stumble away from the table. There is a tightness in my chest that smothers me. I breathe in thick uneven waves.
“What is real?” A voice whispers in my head. Canter steps out of the darkest corner of the room.
“What’s happening? I don’t understand.”
“Time is a funny thing when it doesn’t matter any more. It comes and goes as it pleases.” He strolls around the table. “You can be in two places at once.” He gently strokes the shunter with one of his spiked fingers. “Three even.”
The dark corner of the room lights up and reveals a large warehouse. I see myself again. I am pulling J.J. from Lou’s stomach. Gordy is screaming bloody murder from the far end of the warehouse as Canter is mutilating him.
“Stop it! I don’t want to see anymore.”
“What are you feeling?” Canter asks.
I think about his question. I look down at myself on the table. The shunter is sucking with a grotesque fury. “Ashamed,” I say.
I feel Canter smile. “He likes that answer.”
“Who?”
“He would have accepted humbled, but ashamed is so much better.” Canter moves away from the table. The warehouse gives way to the darkness.
“Who is he?”
Canter glides effortlessly toward the harsh shadows. “He is why you are here.”
“What…”
“Did you really think you could drive a retarded boy to suicide and survive the guilt?”
The room begins to morph before my eyes. I slowly fade away from the table. The table shifts to an iron cot bolted to a padded wall. The room shrinks to a quarter its original size. My ankle is shackled to a bolt in the middle of the room.
“You’re crazy, Oz Griffin. That’s all you are.”
I fall on the spongy mattress. The room is a bright haze of white. I am haunted once again by the flickering, humming fluorescent light above my head.
I chuckle. I’m crazy. That’s all I am.
The End of Book Two