ELIJAH: A Suspense Novel

by Frank Redman

  “The office is set up for private sessions with clients. Advertising and activities. Very secretive. Everyone respects the privacy, the secretive nature, even those who are not involved with the activities. They, of course, know nothing of the scale. That is, everyone until you and your friends visited.” He glowered at me for a brief moment.

  He continued, “Next you will ask me, what I am going to do with you, and your friends? I have decided that you, and the lovely creature with you, will be used. You both will procure handsome fees. It will take time, of course. Programming adults is more difficult than children, and far more expensive. The black man will be kept alive, at least for now. I have not yet had the opportunity to test on an adult of his size. I have no other use for him. He will scare people.”

  Winchester continued to stare at me.

  Another orderly entered the room pushing a cart with a familiar chrome lid covering a tray. A second orderly followed, also pushing a cart. The first wheeled the cart next to Lynch, the second next to me.

  Winchester turned to see the orderly next to him, then looked back at me. That orderly lifted the lid and placed a tray of food in front of Lynch. It looked to be duck.

  Lynch bobbed his head, sniffing, smiling appreciatively.

  I’ve never had duck, but I’ve seen pictures. It’s one of those things I want to try someday… Or, that is, if I’m not turned into an automaton.

  The orderly next to me left the tray covered.

  Lynch eyed me, then said, “You have no further questions. I have enjoyed our visit. I’d say, please come back again, but you will not be you!” Then, not exhibiting his normal neat freak etiquette, grabbed a duck leg and ripped it off the cooked duck. Tissue and juice flew in a miniature explosion from the torn carcass.

  Winchester seemed undisturbed, still sitting in a corner on the desk.

  Since I’d been at the hospital, at least while conscious, the scars on my left arm had burned slightly but constantly, an ever-present warning. Because it had been constant, I discounted the warning as an effect of this place.

  When my scars burn, there is no intelligence to the burning. There’s no psychic link instructing me, Incoming baseball bat behind you! It’s just a general warning of potential danger. It makes me wary, but I have to figure out the source of the danger.

  When entering Lynch’s office, the burning intensified marginally, but again stayed constant. I thought it was Lynch’s malign presence.

  Lynch tore into the duck leg, growling, shaking his head side-to-side like a dog trying to break a rabbit’s neck. Grease rolled down his chin along with bits of meat. The scene was a stark contrast to his gracefulness before. He glared at me, and yelled while feasting, “I’m going to eat you, little duck! Impudent little duck! Eat you!”

  My scars flared.

  I glanced to see who was behind me: no one.

  Lynch threw the desecrated duck leg at my head.

  I jerked to the side as the leg struck the chair to my left, leaving a greasy smear spot, then bounced to the floor.

  My scars still burned, though I didn’t think the thrown duck leg was a real danger.

  Then the orderly swiftly lifted the lid off the tray on the cart next to me as I recoiled from the flying duck leg. I had time to see a syringe, but before I could react, it was in my shoulder.

  Lynch shouted, “Eat you, little duck! You are MINE!”

  I heard a soft voice in my head, as Winchester projected, Elijah, do not take the pills.

  Then nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I woke up in my room. Once again, I had no idea how long I had been there. Which, as I thought about it, was a good thing, because that meant I wasn’t stoned, or reprogrammed.

  I wasn’t strapped to the bed either. Though not stoned, that fact did make me quite happy. Knowing my brain was scheduled to be turned into Windows 3.1, having the freedom to both think and move around was an immense relief, even if only mock freedom.

  In other words, there was still hope.

  Now, what to do about it?

  One thing I knew, I’d been here long enough to need to go to the bathroom.

  And, as before, the stupid door was locked. Why would the bathroom door be locked? Did they think I was going to drown myself in the toilet?

  I sat on the bed and did my best Winnie the Pooh impersonation. Think think think. Pooh Bear was an uber genius compared to what I was to become. Then I did as much praying as I did thinking.

  Even though much of the time I considered my gift a curse, I knew without doubt the gift was given for me to help people. This time, I hoped people was me.

  I knew Winchester was my way out of here. Aha! Maybe he had a lightsaber.

  Yeah, probably not.

  The cat kept telling me to not take the pills. Not quite sure how I had much choice about that. Unless… there was a choice between the pills and the shots. Each time an evil orderly brought meds to me, they offered a choice between pills or syringe. It seemed too easy to try to cheek the pills. That’s a trick you quickly learn in kids’ homes where you push the pill to the side of your mouth, hiding it between cheek and gum. When requested to open your mouth to prove you’ve swallowed the pill, unsuspecting houseparents believe the pill to be in your tummy when they don’t see it in your mouth or under your tongue.

  The really careful ones would take a tongue suppressor and a flashlight and investigate the sides of your mouth.

  But I had an additional talent for subterfuge. Well, if you call bone structure a talent. On the floor of my mouth where the tongue rests, there is a bump, or tiny shelf, of bone on each side just underneath the teeth. A dentist told me it’s called torus mandibularis, or tori plural. It doesn’t bother me except when the dentist puts those x-ray plates in my mouth. If I live long enough to get dentures, the bone will cause problems with denture fabrication.

  The bone is large enough for me to hide a pill. While not especially rare, it is uncommon enough for even the most thorough youth care workers to not think about looking under the bone shelf under the tongue. Once I figured that out, I never again took a pill I didn’t want.

  What I believed Winchester was telling me, was to choose the pills, and fake it. The degree of difficulty is, um, slightly higher in faking the injection of a shot. Winchester couldn’t have known about my ninja skills with hiding pills. Maybe he’d seen previous victims try to cheek the pills. Surely they were not successful.

  Maybe he was just a deranged cat with a fetish about pill avoidance.

  No, I had another theory, one that I believed to be truth. I think Winchester was simply a secret agent for relaying a message from a Creator Who knew me better than any other being in the universe.

  I am thick-headed, stubborn, and dense. I am human.

  The ‘mobile’ connection to my head had probably been ringing off the hook. That is, if said connection really ringed, and there was a hook for the line to be on or off… If I knew how to check the voicemail, there might be an important message.

  Wouldn’t that be cool? To get a voicemail from God?

  Message one: “Hello, Elijah. This is God. Today you are going to be tempted to [insert vice here]. Don’t.”

  Message two: “Hello, Elijah. This is God again. I heard what you said about the man who cut you off in traffic. His mother had nothing to do with that.”

  Okay, maybe not so great to get voicemail from God. But again, a loving Father would not be all about admonishing.

  I believe God is constantly trying to communicate with us. We’re just not in a mindset or mood to hear Him most of the time. The line is fuzzy because of interference on our end. Or many times we don’t recognize His voice.

  Animals don’t have the problems with static that we do. They also don’t have the intellect, which, of course, is why the line is crystal clear.

  Why doesn’t God just take the interference away so I have a crystal clear connection too? That whole free will thing. And that whole faith thin
g.

  But of course, who am I kidding? I don’t have the answer to this or things like why God allows bad things to happen to good people. Why did Chloe die? Why did Ben? Or Billy? Why was I abused? Why this? Why that?

  I learned I would never be smart enough to know the answers.

  The door opened and an orderly entered pushing a cart, followed by a second orderly, Taser held at the ready. A chrome lid covered some goody for me. I leaned so I could see around their feet and was relieved when Winchester came in as well. I’m not necessarily sure why I was relieved. Did I expect Winchester to really smuggle in a lightsaber for me? Or maybe he’d slice the jugular open on each orderly with his killer kitty claws.

  He jumped onto the bed.

  The first orderly lifted the lid, exposing a pill cup and a syringe. He waved a hand over them, waiting for me to choose.

  I didn’t know what kind of sick satisfaction Lynch got out of presenting a choice of administration.

  Winchester said, Don’t take the pills. He looked at me and winked. Or that may have been my imagination.

  I pointed to the pills.

  The orderly opened a drawer on the cart and handed me a miniature bottle of water.

  I took the two white pills, pressed them into their hiding spots in my mouth and quickly took a drink of water, throwing my head back as if swallowing something difficult.

  The pills were surrounded by skin-covered bone, so they were not in danger of being absorbed like nitrogen pills placed under the tongue. But I did not want to take a chance of them dissolving even a little. I didn’t know if these pills were supposed to make me happy or sleep.

  I opened my mouth before being asked, and the first orderly prodded in my mouth with a stick and a flashlight. He did not care about being gentle. He did not say anything, as usual—I wondered if the orderlies were moot—but he had a look of distaste. Either because he was a germaphobe like me and knew that mouths were demon spawn for germs, or because he much preferred to stab me with the syringe.

  He probably told Lynch he was being stupid with the pills vs. shot thing. Lynch probably ripped the orderly’s tongue out with his fat fingers.

  Satisfied, he stood, turned the cart around and left with the second orderly.

  Winchester stayed.

  I retrieved the hidden pills and spit both to the floor. Thwoop. Thwoop.

  I stepped on the pills, crushing them with my heel, and then kicked them to spread the powder.

  Winchester said, Excellent.

  I said, sarcastically, “I’m glad my actions meet your approval.”

  Child.

  Oh, another thing about animals. Most of them love to insult me.

  “Rodent licker.”

  Showing maturity I did not possess, Winchester ignored me. He said, Shortly, they will bring you dinner and more medication. Too bad it will not be leg of rodent. Tonight, one of them will return, believing you to be asleep.

  I nodded to show Winchester I understood him.

  He will give you a shot to force sleep. Tomorrow morning, another sleep shot and then they change you.

  “How do you know this?”

  I have seen it. Hundreds of times. Same routine each time. You have one chance tonight. Good luck. My time with you is over. He jumped off the bed and walked to the door.

  I said, “What do you mean? Forever?”

  The door opened and an orderly hurried in, only one this time, and opened the bathroom door. He pointed impatiently.

  I imagined he was the Orderly of Bathrooms, running around to each room, unlocking the loo. I wondered how happy he was.

  Winchester left the room.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  As Winchester described, orderlies brought food—meatloaf, which could have been rodent—and medicine for dinner. I ninja skilled the pills and spit them out. Again I didn’t know if they were supposed to make me happy or sleepy. I guessed the latter and feigned sleepiness.

  Winchester did not accompany the orderlies.

  The Orderly of Bathrooms did his thing so I could do mine, then I went to bed.

  I had no way of accurately tracking time, but I knew I’d been in bed for quite a while. Despite the lengthy period of inactivity, I was too wired to sleep. From what Winchester described, I had one chance to get out of here. But I did not know how, when, or where I could take that chance.

  My mind raced with possibilities. But with so much unknown, the only conclusion I came to was that I was nervous. Which helped me figure out nothing.

  The door opened and adrenaline instantly replaced anxiety.

  I lay on my side on top of the sheets facing the door. My light was off, but light from the hallway wandered in, casting a figure in silhouette. I expected to see a second figure, but only one appeared. It approached without hesitation, holding a syringe at the side.

  Every adult I had seen in this place had been male. I hoped this one was also male. Not that I had a moral challenge hitting a woman who wanted to reprogram me.

  I knew it was likely that most every adult working here had been programmed. They were not themselves. But I could not allow myself to follow that train of thought because then I would be unable to act when needed to secure my freedom. I had to act without compunction, leaving no room for regret. If I worried about, for example, whether evil orderly was programmed to give me sedatives, I would become the next evil orderly.

  Or sex toy.

  Besides, and maybe I was inaccurately passing moral judgment, but most—probably all—of the adults there deserved to die.

  Anyway, the reason I hoped a male entered the room was because I planned to plant the top side of my foot as far into the man’s groin as was anatomically possible, with extreme force. While a severe kick to that region would also be painful for a female, it would not be as debilitating an event as it would be for a male.

  I needed to strike with enough force to not only debilitate, but drive the air out of the person so that he or she could not cry out. My leg had been resting in a ready position for so long I was afraid it might cramp. I did not want anyone to see me move to get into a position to kick.

  The figure walked up to me and extended the arm holding the syringe.

  I kicked. Hard.

  I was rewarded with a male’s breathless, “Hoomf.” He dropped the syringe and fell to the floor.

  I had but only a few seconds to react before he recovered sufficiently for movement or voiced a cry for help, or before someone saw us.

  I could see the syringe’s needle glinting in the light from the hallway. I stabbed the man’s upper arm and plunged the shot into him. “Take that.”

  He was either going to sleep for a long time, or be happy enough to ask me to kick him again.

  I searched his pockets and found four more shots, some keys, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and gum. There wasn’t enough light for me to see if the keys were labeled, but I got lucky with the third one, and unlocked the bathroom door.

  Since the room door locked from the outside, I left it open and prayed no one would walk by.

  I dragged the downed man to the bathroom and shut the door. The bathroom had no nightlight so the blackness was perfect. I felt for a wall switch and risked turning on the light.

  Which stung.

  The orderly snored on the floor with his mouth open. I had not seen him before. Since none of the orderlies ever talked, out of morbid curiosity, I angled his head to the light so I could see whether he had a tongue. He did.

  He was about my same size, maybe a little shorter. I removed his clothes, which consisted of what you’d expect an orderly to wear: white shirt and pants, t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Thanks to my germophobia, I almost wigged out when I put on the t-shirt, but the t-shirt’s absence could easily be noted because of the V-neck in the outer shirt. Anyone seeing me up close would recognize I obviously did not belong. But I hoped to only be seen from a distance, if at all. Even though I had not been provided underwear, I could not consider wearing
this man’s. I went commando.

  The shoes were a tight fit, otherwise all was well… except for the slight body odor I detected on the shirt. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. I dampened my feather duster hair and did my best to paste it to my head.

  I pocketed the shots, keys, and lighter, left the cancer sticks and gum, turned off the light and exited the bathroom.

  Another figure waited for me in the gloom.

  But, thank God, this one had four legs.

  Winchester said, Follow me.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I said, “Where are Jenny and Ray?”

  Winchester replied, They are not here.

  I frowned. “Lynch said they were.”

  He lied to kill your hope.

  On a previous occasion in which I briefly roamed the halls, escorted, I tried to memorize the layout. I was glad I had the feline guide, because I would certainly get lost in the maze of hallways filled with closed doors. Bright, shiny floors reflected the overhead fluorescent lighting. Hallway after hallway looked identical in crème colored walls. There were signs pointing to specific points in the hospital and room numbers by the doors, but they had no meaning for me. There were exit signs as well, though I was sure they would sound an alarm if opened.

  Winchester seemed to know that as well, because he did not lead me to any of them as we hustled down the halls. Being faster than me, and far quieter than I would have been if I sprinted, the cat ran to the next intersection, waited for me to catch up, then led in the new direction.

  Tyler led me through the culverts—what seemed ages ago—but hurriedly following Winchester down hallways in near silence in a seemingly vacant hospital had a definite dreamlike quality.

  The place was dead. I didn’t know if there was a fully staffed nightshift, or just a skeleton crew, but I only saw one person. He sat at a desk with his head buried in a magazine.

  But then it only made sense. If everyone was drugged to sleep, the hospital would seem to be dead.

  We ran down a descending hallway that ended in frosted glass double doors. This area was different than every other section we’d been in.