Gated

by Matt Drabble

  “Nothing?” Michael asked incredulously.

  “Nope. You could stand to drop your cholesterol a little, but even that doesn’t require medication yet. Just throw some salad in with those steaks when you BBQ.”

  “Then what’s with all the tests?”

  “Hey, I’m like a kid in a candy store here. Look at all the shit they got.” Creed leaned and whispered with a grin, “Besides, I wouldn’t want to piss off your wife and she demanded that I made sure.”

  Michael smiled; he’d been on the end of more than a few of Emily’s rants when he was in the doghouse. “So what about the blackout the day that I went out to the woods?”

  “You got me,” Creed stated succinctly.

  “Is that your professional opinion?” Michael laughed.

  “Hey, this world can be a freaky place, Mike. You know, some guy fell 47 floors from a skyscraper in New York and lived. Some other dude was paralyzed in a motorbike accident and one day he was bitten by a brown recluse spider and walked again. Every day weird things happen in the medical world that baffles us all, and often we never get an answer. All I can tell you is that medically speaking there is nothing wrong with you.” He leafed through the thick file of freshly prepared paperwork for emphasis. “Nothing that would explain a single, solitary episode of losing some time. Has it ever happened before?”

  “No, never.”

  “Then I wouldn’t worry too much about it, to be honest. Stress is the mother of all killers. Just relax a little, find a hobby.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Em keeps telling me.”

  “How are things at home?” Creed asked casually.

  Michael waited for a flinch that never came. Normally, just the idea of talking openly - especially with another man - would set his British sensibilities into overdrive. Men, especially British men, did not open up. But somehow Creed was easy to talk to. His manner was open and inviting and he gave off an aura of welcoming friendliness. He could see just why Emily had been so taken with the doctor. “Things are good, great even, as long as everything is alright with the baby.” He suddenly looked up, panicked.

  Creed’s face was relaxed and calm and he held up a settling hand. “Everything is fine with your wife and the baby. I always take good care of my best customers. I understand that Emily is a little out of kilter with her emotions.” The look on Michael’s face confirmed the fact.

  “Yeah, you could say that,” Michael sighed. “She can go from out-of-control angry, to horny, to sad and back again before breakfast.”

  “Well that’s the price that you have to pay, my friend, I’m afraid. You did the crime and now you’ve got to do the time. Emily’s got to carry the load for nine months before the joy of childbirth. If you have to put up with a few mood swings then I’d suggest that you’ve got the better side of the deal.”

  “Is there anything wrong with Eden?” Michael suddenly asked, deliberately off topic, wanting to see a genuine reaction.

  Creed’s expression changed to a creased and puzzled one. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this town; it’s a little too Stepford, don’t you think? Everything’s a little too perfect, a little too wonderful?”

  “Let me get this right. You’re concerned that everything is too good here. I gotta say, Mike, that’s kind of a strange thing to worry about.”

  Michael laughed aloud. “When you say it like that, I guess I do sound a little paranoid.”

  “Just a touch.” Creed joined in with the laughter.

  “How long have you been here, doc?”

  “About two years now, and I have to say that after paying my dues in the emergency rooms of county hospitals around LA, I was ready for a change of pace.”

  “Rough?”

  “Man, you have no idea.” Creed’s natural sunny disposition darkened. “There came a morning when I just couldn’t face stitching up another gangbanger throwing his life away. The faces that came through the ER were just broken and soulless, Mike - dead men walking. There’s only so many times that a man can look into the eyes of that particular monster and stay sane.”

  “So how did you end up here?”

  “A drop of fortune from the heavens that fell like a warm rain when I was at my lowest.”

  “Hey, that’s poetic. I might steal that,” Michael smiled.

  “I saw an advert for this town; it looked like everything that I’d ever dreamed of. Warm friendly people, no crime, no murders, no patch up jobs, just nice people and unheard of facilities to play with.”

  “Some people nicer than others?” Michael asked cryptically.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hey, you know the temper that my wife’s got; she’ll kill me if I don’t bring home the juicy gossip on you and the fair Sarah-Jane.”

  Michael watched amusedly as Dr Creed’s reddening cheeks told him everything that Emily wished to know.

  ----------

  Thom Bray dug through the box. The lighting in the attic wasn’t the best and the box was fusty. Damp odors filled his nose with unpleasant wafts as he turned the books over, looking for one in particular. He held a rubber-handled torch in his mouth, using the thin beam to differentiate between titles. The taste was bitter and reminded him of the fear that the big sheriff had put in him. His senses had been as taut as cranked wire when he’d pushed open that bathroom door.

  He’d taken the keys from his mom’s office as she worked for Casper Christian’s Real Estate Company and she often kept unwise items at home. The house had been the scene for Janet Beaumont’s suicide and had been empty ever since. He was a fourteen year old with a borderline obsession with the macabre and it didn’t take a genius to put those two facts together. His room was a shrine to horror; posters lined the walls with faces of death and his shelves were stuffed with books from contemporary authors. His DVD collection was filled with many volumes that his mother wrinkled her nose in displeasure over and a secret drawer that she would have blown a gasket over had she looked inside. He didn’t consider his to be an unhealthy love for the genre. He didn’t paint his face white and fanaticize about gunning down his fellow students in a rampage. His interest was simply borne out of a connection to his father. It was a passion that they had shared, up until he had inexplicably walked out on them, and his mother still refused to even speak his name in the house.

  When he discovered that his mom had the keys to the suicide house he had been overcome with a desire to step inside the room that had witnessed death’s icy fingers. He had not expected to see anything until he had stood outside the bathroom in the dark and deserted house. He had driven his mind into a state of imaginative frenzy until he could stand it no longer. When he’d reached out and opened the door, he had been fully expecting to see the bloated corpse in the bathtub, reaching out to drag him to hell. He had actually convinced himself that he was indeed seeing Mrs. Beaumont when the massive, powerful hand had clamped down hard on his shoulder from behind and he had screamed like a girl. He shuddered as he remembered the huge sheriff bearing down on him, the real life fear suddenly expunging the imagined terrors of his mind. He’d expected to receive a scolding of sorts and he wasn’t unduly concerned as the people of Eden had been unwaveringly friendly and nice since his arrival in town. The sheriff might look big and scary, but he was bound to be a pussycat. His view had rapidly altered when the huge paw had squeezed his narrow shoulder with painful and malicious strength. The big cop had damn near dragged him down the stairs faster than he could walk and all the while the big man had a frozen grin that scared Thom badly. He had watched and read enough fictitious scares to be scared in the real world. He had stumbled down the hallway, trembling with fear and not knowing just what the sheriff had in store for him, but it did not look pleasant. His fear was expanding exponentially as the cop had yanked him into the open lounge of the house. He’d assumed that he’d be given a ride home and would have to sit through one of his mother's lectures. His opinion was rapidly changing, as the sheriff showed no
signs of wishing to conclude their conversation in public, and manhandled him roughly. The sheriff had reached into his back pocket and said something about teaching him a lesson. He’d only just won the battle of his bladder when the writer from next door had shown up. Mr. Torrance had yelled at the sheriff and suddenly the cop was all politeness again: just the town welcome wagon mascot, all please and thank you. He had almost collapsed with relief at the opportune interruption. Thom was a boy blessed with a quick mind and he had realised that the writer was letting the sheriff know that he would be checking up on Thom later that day. The cop still had hold of him at that point, and he’d felt the tension grip tighten as though the sheriff was battling with his own temper. Eventually, the grip had eased and he was indeed being given a ride home. The sheriff was instructing him on the consequences of his actions but he’d stopped listening by then. Whatever the cop’s intentions had been, they’d been cut off at the knees when he’d been interrupted by Mr. Michael Torrance.

  He turned his attention back to the dusty box of books. Suddenly, he spotted what he was looking for; it was a copy of the one book of Torrance’s that he owned. It was a novel called “Vengeance Has Fangs”. He pulled the book from its hiding place and brushed the dust from the paperback cover. It had been a while since he’d read the novel and he wondered how it had aged.

  For the rest of the afternoon and early evening he sat in the back garden engrossed in the novel, and after a while he even forgot to mentally curse the unbearable constant hot sunshine. Thom was a redhead like his father and not naturally predisposed for tanning. He would blister, peel, and then blister all over again. He knew that his mother loved the hot weather, but he found it a tiring drag. As he read, he realised that the last time he had read the book had been a few years ago. The story now ran deep and thoughtful, whereas before he had grown a little bored at the lack of instant action. He began to feel for the characters, appreciating their three-dimensional rounded edges. There was wit and charm to the story and he began to feel as though he was reading through the eyes of a young man, rather than those of an impatient boy.

  It was a little after 8pm when he was shaken from his literary world by his mother returning from some town duties to do with the Woodland Festival.

  “Thom, for heaven’s sake!” she shouted at him, annoyed.

  Thom looked up puzzled. “What?”

  “I’ve been shouting you for hours,” she said exasperated.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Past dinner time; get in here.”

  Thom followed the enticing aroma of fresh steaks and baked potatoes into the house. He looked at the kitchen wall clock and was shocked at the time; the day had passed into dusk around him as he’d read. The book was certainly more engrossing than he remembered it and he made a mental note to seek out some of Torrance’s other work.

  “So how was your day?” his mother asked through a mouthful of sour creamed potato. “Anything exciting happen?”

  Thom feigned boredom, surprised that the sheriff hadn’t been in instant contact with his mother as he’d assumed. He had been expecting a grilling from his mother and was not looking forward to it. Maybe the big cop had forgotten; maybe for once, something demanding his attention had actually happened in Eden. Whatever the reason was, he was pleased. He loved his mother very much and did not want to see her in trouble because he’d taken the unsecured keys from her office and entered the empty house. He rose and walked around to the fridge; he grabbed the orange juice and poured two glasses out, placing one on the table for her.

  “Why thank you, kind sir,” she said teasingly. “And what have you done to feel the need to be so considerate?”

  Thom shrugged. “Nothing, honest,” he lied.

  “Yeah, right” she viewed him suspiciously.

  “I was thinking of having that writer who just moved into town autograph his book for me.”

  “I thought you said that it wasn’t very good when I asked you before?”

  “Well I’m much older and wiser now,” he joked. “I am a man of more refined tastes these days.”

  His mother laughed. “Just don’t go bothering anyone, Thom. Seriously, the new folks are very important people to the town.”

  As he cleaned the table after dinner whilst his mother was going through some paperwork in her small office, it suddenly dawned on him that it was a very strange phrase to use. She’d said “important to the town”, not “important in the town”. He went to bed after kissing her goodnight later, still with the same thought rattling around his mind even as his eyes closed and sleep rolled in.

  Kurt Stillson patrolled Eden. The night had drawn in around him and his shift, but the town was illuminated by the myriad of powerful streetlights that were run from their solar power sources. Eden had to be the greenest town in the country as far as he could tell. They had fully embraced the concept of solar energy and made full use of the constant sunshine. He had often wondered at how the greenery of the town maintained its lush condition despite the lack of rain. Tommy Ross - the other deputy on the town’s payroll - had told him that there was a natural underground spring stream that was utilized for irrigation. He had wanted to question the effectiveness of this system but did not want to contradict Tommy; as far as he was concerned, Tommy now walked on water. It had been Tommy that had forced his hand into taking the delectable Ellen Barlow to the town carnival. In the following weeks, their budding romance had begun to blossom slowly. They had been on several dates around town for ice-cream, drinks, and meals, and he was enjoying the almost innocent nature of the courtship. Ellen was strictly an old-fashioned woman who believed in establishing a firm foundation before any funny business. As quaint and cute as the courtship was, the tension was getting unbearable. They had indulged in several - what could only be described in Eden as - heavy petting sessions, but these left Kurt with a lapful of stressful lust. He was seriously beginning to wonder if they would have to get married before she would share breakfast with him. Although the idea was not unappealing, he was not sure if he could muster the sufficient self-control.

  He wandered around slowly in the warm night; he really had no idea why the sheriff bothered to send anyone out this late. The people of Eden were so used to the lack of crime that even his presence seemed unnecessary. Normally, just the sight of a uniformed officer was enough to set the local minds at ease, but here his night shift was perfunctory. For whatever reason, the all powerful town council, under Casper Christian’s direction, had deigned that the police department must operate a random and rotating rota. This meant that the three of them - himself, Tommy and Sheriff Quinn - all worked 8 hour shifts that could be any time of the day or night. He had yet to uncover a single crime during any of his shifts, and that suited him just fine; he was all for the quiet life.

  He strolled across the town square. His mind drifted back pleasantly to his first date with Ellen; one that had ended in their first feather-light brushed kiss. He checked his watch; it was a little after 2am and the residents of the town were sleeping quietly in their beds. Back in Chicago, he would never have dreamt of drifting through the streets alone and after dark.

  He was enjoying the peace and solitude, entertained by images of Ellen’s lithe and coy body, when a flash of movement caught his attention. His shift ended at 2.15am but his interest was piqued and he went to investigate.

  Whatever the movement had been, the square was now still. He walked across the immaculate lawns towards the sculpted bushes that bordered the town hall. The lighting was bright around the square but faded away behind the attractive town hall building as the street lights did not quite reach all the way into the shadows. Kurt did not carry a firearm, only a long metallic sturdy torch that he now hefted for comfort and support. He edged his way slowly and silently around the town hall. He ducked low and approached stealthily and he held his breath as he crept forward. Just then he heard a strange dim hissing sound; puzzled, he slunk forward closer to the noise. In the d
ark he could just make out a figure hugging the shadows obscured in the dark corner. His heart pounded in the darkness, his lungs protested as he forgot to breathe and his forehead felt clammy despite the warm night air. His foot inadvertently landed on a branch lying on the ground. The snap sounded like a cannon going off and shattered the encasing silence. He switched the powerful torch on, shining the powerful beam into the blackness. Suddenly, the shape snapped its head around in his direction, caught in the bright light.

  The slender figure was dressed completely in black with its face concealed beneath a balaclava; only small, narrow eyes poked out. For what seemed like an eternity, they stared at each other - eyes locked, peering through the gloom. Whoever the person was, they had a backpack slung over their shoulder. All of a sudden, a metallic object spun through the air towards him and it smashed into his face with a precision aim and fuelled by adrenaline. The metal object exploded pain into his face as it crunched into his nose. Tears welled and flooded his eyesight as the figure sprinted past him.

  He clutched at the runner; his fingers brushed woolen fabric, briefly snagging before losing his weak grip. He sank to his knees as blood flowed from his nose. He touched it gingerly; it was already swollen but didn’t feel broken. He pulled a wad of tissues from his pocket, which he carried due to a pollen allergy, and held the makeshift bandage to his wounded face as he attempted to stem the flow. He picked up the torch he had dropped when the object had hit him; the beam of light still shone brightly, and it caught the offending item still rolling on the floor. He bent and picked up the metallic cylinder. It was a can of spray paint. The green liquid was already congealing around the nozzle and smudged his fingers as he picked it up. He used the torch and illuminated the side of the town hall where the figure had been spraying; in large letters, it spelled two words: “WAKE UP”.