“If I didn't care.... would I feel this way?” It continued.
I didn't. I didn't want to see, or even know. I wanted to leave, but I swear my feet were frozen in place by the bizarre spectacle. The music grew louder as she undid the tie on her robe, slowly.
“If this isn't love... then why do I thrill?”
"I can't finish on my own Jonas. I can't finish unless you help me." Out of the corner of my eye I saw on her nightstand a hand mirror and a dozen broken pens she'd taken earlier in the day.
“And makes my head go 'round and round... while my heart stands still...”
Shot glasses were lined up, filled with colored inks, black, blue, red, green. Next to them a small drinking glass with nails, needles, and other small sharp implements sat in blue liquid. A sterilizer, like at the barber shop.
“If I didn't care... would it be the same?”
Empty containers of vodka, hydrogen peroxide, and others I couldn't read littered the floor by the bed. My hand was on the doorknob when she dropped the robe. She stood nude, perfect and proud, posing like a model as the unspeakable abominations came into full view.
“Would my ev'ry prayer... begin and end... with just your name?”
Tattoos. Horrifying, obscene things; they crawled and fought and entwined across her torso. Young, flaxen-haired women being ravaged by dark beasts. Creatures I cannot even begin to describe and would not if I could, slaughtering and... feeding.
“Would I be sure that this is love.... beyond compare.”
And in the center of her flat stomach, the image of a a raven-haired, pale woman, dressed all in white; beckoning to me. With each breath Sarah took, each slow undulation, the shapes seemed to move and writhe across her.
To come alive.
“Would all of this be true...”
And I heard the voice of the woman in white in my ear. Half Sarah's, half from somewhere else... no, someone else.
“If I didn't care... for... you...”
She whispered to me, promising me things that I now feel ashamed for even hearing. Everything I really wanted, not just the things I'm willing to admit... even to myself. Even in a private journal.
She was so beautiful, so divinely beautiful. The goddess and Sarah, her vessel. She stepped towards me, and something broke in my mind. I could not trust myself anymore, and if I stayed I...
I don't know what. I don't want to know.
I ran.
I slammed the door bedroom behind me, the sounds of her mocking laughter burning in my ears. Sarah's or the White Lady's or both, or neither. I couldn't trust my eyes, or my ears or my mind and I needed to get away so I could set things right.
Sarah didn't even try to stop me as I set a new speed record for getting into my winter clothes, snatched up the pack and burst out the door. She didn't leave the radio. But she did laugh. The radio went off, but the music did not. Not inside my head. The same with the whispers.
Pushing my way out the door, I nearly knocked over Willy Fetch. I was too focused on getting away from Sarah to worry about him, but I worry about it now. He gave me a look that made me glad he wasn't carrying his rifle.
What started as a fast walk became a jog. The jog became a run. Then I was running the entire way home. I slammed my door behind me, then checking and double checking the locks as though a door could stop what I was already fighting inside my brain.
The voice still whispered in my ear, locked inside my head. Falling to the ground with my back against the door, I rhythmically knocked my head against the door. She made dark promises... forbidden knowledge... experiences that would have made queen Jezebel blush.
I couldn't get her out of my head.
I panicked. Desperate to have my mind to myself I grabbed a cigarette lighter from my pocket and lit it, holding the palm of my left hand over the flame.
I don't know if I screamed.
I don't remember much after that other the pain when I poured what was left of my rubbing alcohol out onto the charred wound on my palm. I do remember one thing, actually. No dreams. For once my sleep was peaceful.
I've got to get the fuck out of this place. Something is wrong here... more wrong than the Dead Things outside the Barricade.
If I stay... I don't even want to think about it.
Jonas Waight
Trapped
[File Notes:]
I looked over the coroners report for the AO on which the notebook was found. No signs of trauma to the left hand consistent with burning.
That shoots down one of my theories about the identity of Mr. Waight... unless... well, delusions and hallucinations ARE consistent with Schizophrenia, (paranoid or disorganized type) which could explain the auditory aspect of some of what he described.
Even if he were hallucinating, it's unlikely that any self-inflicted injuries would only be hallucinations. It's probable that Jonas actually burned himself if he says he did. There seems to be little reason for a man to lie to himself.
So it's unlikely that Jonas WAS the AO that delivered the notebook.
[Long pause]
I'm still uncomfortable with the term "delivered..." Try to rephrase for final report.
As to Jonas' mental state, References to the “Woman in White,” and "the Dark Thing" are well within Schneiderian classification of first rank symptoms of Schizophrenia, specifically delusions of being controlled by an external intelligence.
What it doesn't explain the fact that Jonas' schizophrenia should have been apparent since early adolescence (if that's what we're truly dealing with here.)
Without access to medical records, we have to take Mr. Waight at his word, and it seems like he'd have mentioned this. He talks quite a bit about his history, enough that something as serious as Schizophrenia would have been mentioned.
[Long Pause]
I'm not... discounting... a
[Pause]
“supernatural explanation.” Clearly nothing can be discounted considering recent events.
But I believe that jumping to such a conclusion simply because we live in extra-ordinary times is sloppy science.
[Personal notes:]
The new analyst seems to be doing well. I'm keeping her several pages behind me, however, until we can get a idea stock of her psychological well being.
We moved forward far too quickly with Vaughn and Moore, before we knew what we were dealing with.
Hopefully this one's made of sturdier stuff.
Chapter 4:
Louisville Sucker-Punch
“Be aggressive
B-E aggressive.”
Faith No More, Be Aggressive
February 17th, 2008
Turns out I can take a punch. Actually, let me rephrase that. Turns out I can take a fairly severe ass beating. While that's nice to know in theory, I'm less excited having had the chance to test that hypothesis.
It's been a bad day and writing is painful, but I'll get as much said as I can before I have to stop.
(You know what? "Bad day" may be the understatement of the century.)
Let me start at the beginning. I went to church today, less for the religion than the company. Everyone in town goes to Sunday services at our Lutheran Church, so it's normally standing room only. Since there are no television, movies, or video games, church is one of the few things that makes one day any different than the other.
That, and the heat. During church Horace fires up a wood stove and a few propane heaters, and for two hours we can all take our coats off and stink together.
There aren't many true holy-rollers anymore; it's hard to put your heart into the celebration of a being that if real is clearly asleep at the wheel. So, no, I am not personally religious. I used to be, but not any more.
If God exists, and has a plan for all this, I'm not sure what it is. Who knows, though, maybe he's very real and this is the second flood. Maybe he plans to wash us all away and start over fresh with what's left. Unfortunately, if Greenly is an ark, he left us without a drunk to
steer us to the mountaintop.
We don't have a Pastor any more, (since he was part of the Paradise Falls expedition,) so we take turns reading the services. This adds an awful lot of "ums" and "ers" to the Bible that may not have been in the original text, but at least they're trying.
We avoid Revelations. It hits too close to home.
After the sermon, half a choir trudges it's way through a few hymns, and then we hold a memorial service for everyone who we've lost in the previous week. For the first few months these were somber, serious affairs but after so many deaths, it's hard to take them personally anymore.
If the rest of the family is already gone, and the deceased had no close friends, we just go through the motions. If it's my day to read the eulogy I'm more partial to Hamlet or Emily Dickinson than the Bible. After so many deaths we know all of the good funeral verses by heart.
People rarely cry, even for family members or close friends. You just get to the point where you don't have any tears left. Death is as much a part of life as breathing to us now, and most of the somberness has to do with the society we lost, not the person. Another dead body is just a symptom of the greater disease.
The last funeral that really made an impression was the service for the Paradise Falls expedition. But even then, we weren't really mourning the deaths of our friends, or family members.
It was a funeral for hope. That was the last time anyone who wasn't a Deputy left Greenly, and the day most of us finally accepted that we'd die here.
Horace did that service himself, reading the names of the group one by one, as Sarah sang "Amazing Grace" quietly in the background. That was the last time I cried at a funeral. To me, it was a funeral for civilization.
When services finish we gather in the common room for some coffee made with re-brewed grounds that's still surprisingly drinkable, if extra bitter. If we're lucky and Horace is being generous, we can cut it with some sugar or syrup. I prefer the honey, but syrup isn't bad.
We talk, catch up on gossip, and people fantasize about what they're going to do when this is all over. We like to pretend that one day the government will sweep in here, and tell us everything has been put right, and then we can go back to watching prime-time TV.
The best part of coffee hour is when Margret Hess and I get to play book swap. Margret runs our town library, and that's as close to a movie theater as we have in Greenly.
On Sundays she gives me first crack at the new acquisitions. Her living-room walls are covered in mismatched bookshelves, organized by subject instead of author.
There's a bookshelf for detective paperbacks, a shelf for textbooks, half a shelf of poetry. She keeps and organizes comic books and magazines for the less serious readers, and I try to pick up a few comics for Wendell when I can. Wendell is obsessed with comics.
Margret has a huge hope chest filled with collateral, and tips are completely up to the borrower. I leave a hammer, and take Keats. I return it, throw some bullets or soap her way, and grab a few Sanford paperbacks. If I need the hammer, no sweat. I come back and replace it with something else.
It's very good system, and Margret and her son Luke run it like true professionals. Luke is in his late twenties and used to be a damn good car salesman from what I've heard. Most of what they earn with the library they spend to expand it; good people, both of them. I just wish they'd let me buy instead of rent.
"Don't be greedy, Mr Waight," Margret will say in her stern, librarian way, "Knowledge is for everyone." She's right of course, I just wish she'd sell me a few.
I've got a minor book fetish and I have to admit I like to keep books I've read for reference (and as trophies. Everyone's got a vanity.)
Today, however, I skipped coffee hour at Church to avoid Sarah. It was almost painful because Margret had been hinting about some new textbooks the Deputies scavenged on a hunting expedition. Non-Fiction is my favorite to the point where I've even perused an anatomy text book when I was hard up for reading material.
But I couldn't deal with Sarah, not after what she showed me on Saturday. I felt her watching me the whole service, giving me evil little smiles whenever she managed to catch my eye.
She was wearing a white, long sleeved dress, and looked angelic, but I could feel the tattoos hiding underneath, pictures of things a seventeen-year-old girl shouldn't know about, let alone be able to depict in ink.
She made the whole place feel dirty. Like she was defiling it with her presence. When the final hymn was sung I was first out the door and I didn't look back.
I delivered the goods to Alex after Church, but I left out ninety percent of the story. I think he could tell I wasn't shooting straight with him, especially about my hand. I've got it wrapped tightly with newspaper and rags to keep it clean, and I blamed it on an accidental steam vent from Mr. Hurley's still.
He didn't ask too many questions after I showed him what I'd brought. He was too excited at finally having some good ingredients to teach Wendell with.
I watched them for a while, Wendell whisking away as Caroline slowly added flour to some sort of batter. Alex behind, arms folded; giving both support and pointers. A strong father figure. All the other families in Greenly are struggling and this accidental clan seemed so damn happy.
Foster mother, foster son and Alex.
I never ask Alex about Caroline but I suspect they're in bed together. I feel like if I asked him point-blank it would embarrass him. Alex left his wife and son on the East Coast when he came to Greenly to play in his Bed and Breakfast. In his mind, he might as well have pulled the trigger on them himself.
That's probably why he throws so much of his time into cooking for the rest of the town. It's a problem to occupy his mind with. We all find hobbies so we don't have to think about what we no longer have. Fetch shoots, I collect illegal electronics, Sarah collects men. Alex cooks.
Regardless of ethics, I hope he's sleeping with her. They'd be good for each other, and I think they need each other. She helps keep him level.
I did my trading rounds, picking up some tools I'd loaned out and scoring some rice and a few cans of corn in the process. Then I met up with Mr. Hurley and shot the breeze with him over some fresh moonshine, which dulled the pain in my hand considerably.
“You ain't left handed, are ya Jonas?” Mr. Hurley asked as he sorted the potatoes I'd gotten from Alex- in too poor shape to eat, but not so bad rotten that we couldn't drink them. Waste not, want not.
“No,” I replied.
“Good. Cause if you were you'd be in for some lonely nights.” Mr. Hurley said.
“I'm ambidextrous,” I said and he chortled.
That's what I love about Mr. Hurley. He knows how to put even the worst things in perspective. Perspective (even regarding self-abuse) is in short supply in our insular community.
I spent the rest of the afternoon continuing to avoid Sarah, and wondering how much of what had happened I'd imagined.
What if it's all in my head?
Sometimes my dreams are so vivid that I get confused, and it takes me a few minutes to figure out whats real and what isn't. When I'm dreaming and when I'm not.
How does a person know what's real and what isn't when we're surrounded by so much unreality?
I think Sarah's in real danger. I also think she's put herself in that danger on purpose. I know she's in trouble, but I'm pondering how much of that is my fault, or my responsibility, and I've decided: none.
Someone needs to help that girl. That someone, I've decided, is not going to be me. Jonas can barely look after Jonas; he doesn't need another mouth to feed.
I've been speculating on how many people know about her condition. If she's doing what I think she's doing to get what she wants, it's got to be more than just Fetch. Fetch has some pull with the Deputies, but he's still a 17 year old kid.
It couldn't be Jeb. Jeb wouldn't have the stones, and he cares too much about his respectability to go running around with a spoiled little girl. The town's too small for that sort o
f thing to go on and not have everyone know about it.
Maybe Horace.
(Ugh. The thought of that sweaty hog rutting away on “poor” Sarah makes me want to bleach my mind.)
I've considered going back and breaking Sarah's radio, but I honestly don't trust myself around the temptation. When I was in that house, I didn't want to leave and I still feel it calling to me. The radio and all.
She caught sight of me for a moment today and I pretended not to see her, or the black eye she'd done her best to cover with concealer and foundation. I turned away from her and didn't exactly run, but didn't exactly walk away either.
I don't want to save anyone. I just want to get by until I can figure out what to do about leaving. If Alex goes, I want to help him. Maybe take Luke and Margaret. A few others. But that's it.
It's not my job to save everyone.
I was walking home considering all this when Fetch's aluminum baseball bat caught me behind the knee and sent me sprawling into the snow. From the sounds of the hyena like laughter, this was pretty funny to watch.
He wasn't alone, of course. Fetch is a big guy, but I still out-weigh him by a good twenty pounds, and enough years on him to know where to hit him. I wasn't always an academic; you grow up in a small town, you'll learn how to fight whether you want to or not. Fetch isn't stupid, or the kind to take his chances on a fair fight.
Four of them surrounded me and before I could see exactly who, there were fists and boots coming in from all sides. Robert Valentine and his kid brother Anthony were there for sure, both proudly wearing their little tin stars as they did a lovely little tap-dance on my burnt hand.
Fetch mostly directed traffic, pointing out when there was an open spot to punch, pulling tired ones back for fresh Stormtroopers. The beating was organized, and I'd give Fetch credit for that if I wasn't the one who got to enjoy the fruits of his well-planned ambush.
Safety (One Eighteen: Migration Book 1) Page 6