The Eye of Madness

  Cecil shook his head. “I don’t know, but we’re going to have to do something in the next day or so. We’ve got maybe forty-eight hours of fuel left if we are lucky.”

  “I’ll take a bunch of lanterns in the SUV and drive to get fuel … it’s the only way,” Burt said.

  “The hell it is!” Cecil said. “If anyone is going, it’s me!”

  “No, you’ve got Barbara to take care of,” Burt argued.

  “You have Sally to take care of!” Cecil retorted.

  “I don’t have any kids … you have daughters to think about,” Burt said, but the instant the words left his mouth he regretted them. “I … I’m sorry, Cecil … I didn’t mean,” he said shamefully.

  The words cut Cecil, but not from insult. Instead, it was the sorrow of a painful memory.

  “It’s okay, Burt,” he said. “I still have Abbs; she’s just not here right now. So I do have more than one daughter.”

  Burt rubbed the back of his head and frowned. “Do you think … they will be back … the Impals?” he asked.

  “Without a doubt,” Cecil said as he rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head. “Dr. Winder seemed to think that this was the ‘eye’ of the cosmic storm and, as with all eyes, it will pass and the storm will return. That’s what I believe … it’s what I have to believe.”

  “You forgot one important point,” Burt said.

  “What?”

  “Your old man is full of shit,” he said flippantly.

  There were a few moments of uncertain silence before both men broke into a fit of laughter.

  “That he is,” Cecil chuckled, “as full as a septic tank.”

  “Yep, the White House needs an enema,” Burt laughed

  Cecil felt a sharp pang again deep inside. The pang was more numb and deeper than ever. This was good because he knew exactly what giving the White House an enema meant. His father would have to be removed and most likely it would take an assassination to accomplish it.

  The most important thing right now was that it felt good to share a laugh with his friend; it was something they hadn’t been able to do for a while.

  “What joke did I miss?” Sally said, rolling over and peering through sleepy eyes over Burt’s shoulder.

  “Nothing … potty humor,” Burt snorted.

  The two men laughed until Sally finally turned in a huff with her back to them. Burt reached over and patted her on the rear, but she swatted his hand away.

  “Not tonight,” she hissed.

  Burt glanced over his shoulder with a comical grin and then back at Cecil.

  “You wouldn’t mind if we did it tonight, would you?”

  “Oh, by all means,” Cecil said. “I’ll close my eyes.”

  “Oh please don’t,” Charlotte called from the other side of the sofa.

  They all began laughing again and were even joined by Sally and Charlotte, and then finally Derek.

  “So anyone know any good dirty jokes?” Derek asked.

  Burt was about to volunteer one when a foreign yet familiar voice broke the mood. It was Musial.

  “You all seem rather chipper considering what horror you are facing,” he said evenly.

  They all turned their heads in unison toward the chair where Musial was bound. Terror seized them when they realized the chair was empty. A pile of rope and chain was coiled beside it. It didn’t take them long to find him. He was standing in a dark corner of the room, an area dark enough to mean certain death to any of them.

  “What the hell are you doing, Musial?” Cecil shouted as he leapt to his feet.

  “The chair was uncomfortable,” he said massaging his wrists. “I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty to stretch my legs.”

  Burt pulled his pistol and aimed it at Musial. “Get your ass back in the chair!” he barked.

  Musial slowly stepped forward into the light with incredulity etched on his face. “Indeed, captain?” he said. “If I was a threat I can assure you one thing. You would all be dead right now.”

  “Really?” Cecil said, pulling his own pistol.

  “Really, major … I have been free for at least an hour.”

  Sally retreated back to Charlotte and Derek. Derek stepped forward and stood behind Burt and Cecil.

  “I could have flipped these at any moment. None of you would have known what hit you,” he said, flexing his index finger up and down above one of the light switches.

  “How did you get out?” Derek asked.

  A warm smile washed over Musial’s face. “I thought you would never ask!” he beamed. “You see, in life, my flesh and blood life, I was a magician and escape artist.”

  “Bull!” Burt retorted. “I bet you got one of your buddies outside to help you.”

  Musial shook his head in slow motion. “Major, I am disappointed in the intelligence of the officers serving under your command,” he said. “Did we not already cover that the dark can’t interact with the physical world, except through the mind. Once you step into the dark you are driven to death by the suggestion of those butchers,” he said motioning toward the window. For one small instant the insidious chorus seemed to intensify. “They don’t pick up a knife and cut your throat,” he continued, “or hoist you up in a tree and drop you to your death like Dr. Winder. They don’t do those things any more than they could come in here and untie me.”

  “So you were a magician?” Cecil asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where and when?”

  “In Europe, about a hundred years ago,” he said.

  “Is Musial your last name?”

  “Musial is my name.”

  “But what was your given name?” Burt asked, still holding the gun steady.

  “Musial,” he replied, annoyed.

  “Huh, he thinks he’s a rock star like Madonna or Sting,” Derek muttered.

  “Not a rock star, good sir,” Musial said, making Derek jump with surprise. “But I was a star in my day!”

  “So what did a star magician—escape artist do to wind up in the dark void for eternity?” Burt asked sarcastically.

  “I loved my work so much that I wanted others to take part. I thought it would give me great pleasure, but I found it gave me more satisfaction when they didn’t succeed.”

  “Succeed at pulling a rabbit out of a hat?” Burt sneered.

  “No,” Musial said casually. “They didn’t succeed at escaping from chains underwater or from a wooden casket buried in three feet of earth.”

  “And you enjoyed it when they suffocated or drowned?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes, I did. It surprised me at first, but then I came to believe that it was serving a purpose. I began to choose my victims after a while, convincing them that it was completely safe and a most exhilarating experience. My selections were always racial in nature.”

  “What race?” Charlotte asked.

  “It didn’t matter … gypsy, African, Arabic … maybe an occasional China man. Anyone who wasn’t, well, an equal.”

  Charlotte could feel rage building inside her, but she managed to keep it in check. Having grown up an African-American in the South she had experienced a small degree of racism. Although it was nothing compared to what her parents and grandparents endured.

  “How sad for you,” she said as she sat back down on her blanket.

  Musial seemed hurt by her comment, yet he made no reply.

  “So what the hell do you want, Musial?” Cecil asked. “What did you mean by salvation?”

  “Exactly what it means, major. Salvation is liberation from ignorance or illusion. Most important, it is deliverance from the power and effects of sin.”

  “So … you want to repent?” Burt asked.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “How do you propose you do that?” Derek snapped. “Gather by the creek and have a good old fashioned revival and baptism?”

  “No, that would only have worked when I was living and in the flesh. Now it is a little more co
mplicated for me.”

  “Well why don’t you un-complicate it for us?” Cecil said.

  “I believe if I commit some good and selfless acts in my present state, then it just might be possible.”

  “That’s it?” Burt asked.

  “Not exactly, I can’t just do a good deed or two and expect to be welcomed through the ethereal door. I have to be sorry for what I did.”

  “Are you?” Burt asked.

  “I am working on it,” Musial said flatly.

  “How in the world can you know? Was it on a ‘how to reach salvation’ brochure handed out to you and your kind for eternal reading in your dark void?” Sally sneered.

  Musial regarded her for several moments before answering. “I know my dear, that’s all … I just know.”

  “So what good deed do you propose first?” Cecil asked.

  Musial’s face broke into an excited grin as he turned to face Cecil. “That’s the beauty of it! I think we can establish a symbiotic relationship for the time being.”

  “How?” Burt asked.

  “Well since I didn’t have much else to do but listen to your yammering as I sat in the chair for the last several hours; I picked up on quite a lot.”

  “Such as?” Cecil asked.

  “Well it would seem that I am the perfect candidate to solve your little problem.”

  “And what problem would that be?” Burt asked.

  Musial turned his face up to the overhead light and closed his eyes as if he was basking in the glow of the sun. He then opened his eyes and pointed up.

  “The most important thing to you right now, the thing that is keeping you alive,” he said.

  They all knew exactly what he was talking about. They needed to keep the lights on.

  “You can pass through the dark?” Cecil more stated than asked.

  “Yes,” Musial said. “I can go and get the gas you need.”

  CHAPTER 18

  SHOWERS AND BURGERS

  “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

  ~Friedrich Nietzsche

  The man known as Ruth did not sleep; he did not need it. Although, the body he inhabited did. He watched all night through the pale and cataract-veiled eyes of the geriatric woman. Of course, he could see with perfect clarity. He stared at Rebekah and Malakhi, unable to look away from the only thing that both sides of his psyche desired most. The mother and child represented both satisfaction to his dark side and hope for his desire of salvation. He did not know which was strongest and which would win out in the end. Any time he felt himself giving in to his desire, he reminded himself of the dark void.

  It was a never-ending void, sometimes crossing paths with the world he was now a part of again. Physical interaction was never possible. The dark souls’ interaction was more similar to an interactive movie. It provided a small degree of satisfaction to those few fortunate enough to be a part of those intrusions. They took great pleasure in whispering their malevolent suggestions to their hapless victim. Of course, it was nothing compared to how it is now. It was analogous to the difference of looking at a picture of a steak and eating steak. Although they couldn’t harm in the physical sense, the influence they now enjoyed was the next best thing. After centuries of dark and formless existence, this newfound freedom was intoxicating. Discrimination of victims was a distant afterthought in their new playground. Everyone must die.

  Ruth resisted for several hours and for that he gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back. The prospect of salvation might be an assumption, a tall tale weaved in the minds of dark and desperate individuals; a false hope offered to an otherwise hopeless existence. There were many in the void who did not consider hope, nor did they want it. They were content in their anger and hatred, which had consumed them for so long. Yet, they did not realize the one thing that Ruth and Musial, and so many other dark souls, believed. The first step in a person’s salvation is a knowledge and an acknowledgement of their evil. As much as Ruth wanted to return to his old ways, he came to understand over the centuries what he did was wrong. It did not serve humanity as his dark nature led him to believe. He believed if he helped someone in the world, salvation might be possible. How he knew, he did not know. Nor did he know exactly what salvation meant. Was it an escape from the dark void or was it something more? Perhaps the ability to join the souls known as Impals? But … move on to where? He was not sure, nor were any of the other salvation minded dark souls. One thing they believed was that it must be better than where they had been.

  Ruth stood up at the first sign of light and listened as the sound of the darkness began to recede. He stumbled and caught himself on the flap of the tent. This old body was not only worn out by years of chemical abuse, it was exhausted and it had not slept. He would have to remedy that after breakfast, perhaps with a nap. The woman needed to eat and drink as much as she needed to sleep. She was also arthritic and he had no clue how to deal with it. He cursed himself for not finding a more fitting host, but this woman was in the right place, in the right condition, and at the right time. She was still present; he could feel her stirring in the back of her mind, a mind she was terrified out of at the moment. He harbored no desire to harm her, well … maybe a small one, but his intentions were to use her for his purposes, and then he would let her go. One thing he knew that the old woman didn’t, was if she wanted to, now she was sober, she could force him out. He couldn’t betray his secret, not if he had any hope of salvation.

  “Ruth, are you okay?” Rebekah asked, sitting up and stroking Malakhi’s back.

  “Oh yes, yes … just stood up too fast,” Ruth lied.

  “Momma, I’m hungry,” Malakhi said as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

  The two other women got up and folded their palettes. “Let’s go find the chow line,” one of them said as she scooted around Ruth and peered out the front flap of the tent.

  “Where’s the boy?” Rebekah asked, noting the empty palette on the far side of the tent.

  “I don’t know,” the other woman shrugged. “I guess he is really hungry.”

  As they weaved through the forest of tents, they passed a field littered with a mix of body bags and white sheets in semi straight rows. The soldiers had gathered the dead from the perimeter of the base and were preparing a mass burial. A backhoe roared to life a few yards away making them all jump with surprise.

  “My God,” the heavy set woman said. “Why did they even bother with the bags and the sheets?”

  “Because they still deserve their dignity!” Rebekah snapped.

  The woman’s mouth hung open, but she made no reply.

  “Indeed they do,” Ruth agreed. He surprised himself because he realized he wasn’t just playing along, he really meant it. “Everyone deserves their dignity.”

  “Everyone other than harlots, single mothers, and their brats,” Ruth thought to himself. He tamped this idea down deep. Old habits were going to be hard to change.

  As they passed the field and headed through another row of tents, a sheet flapped in the breeze as if it were waving goodbye. This blood stained sheet covered the body of the teenage boy who slept in their tent last night, although, he hadn’t slept. He got up in the middle of the night, grabbed one of the lanterns, and then lifted one of the women’s flashlights. He had no nefarious plans in mind, other than to find his mother and sister whom he was separated from yesterday. The poor boy made it to the perimeter of lights without the guards spotting him, but he only made it a few yards into the darkness beyond. The lantern and the flashlight were not enough protection from the moonless night. They found him sliced to bits on the razor wire coiled over the base fence. The lantern and flashlight lay a few feet from where the parade ground lights would have ended. The poor nameless boy, who only wanted to find his family, was scooped into a mass grave before their eyes.

  Breakfast consisted of humus, bread, and chicken broth. Not exactly five star dining, but hunger has a tendency to enhance flavor and quell finicky eaters.
After breakfast, Rebekah located the showers a short distance away. They were in a makeshift building with a canvas roof and plywood walls. The line was at least a hundred people deep. Even though the wait would be most of the morning, Rebekah, Malakhi, and Ruth staked their place in line.

  “We can all use a good shower,” Rebekah said.

  Ruth didn’t argue. He did not particularly care whether his host practiced good hygiene or not. Ruth would not let Rebekah and Malakhi out of his sight. They were his ticket to salvation, he was sure of it.

  Jack awoke with a gasp as he heard a loud knocking. He squinted at the window, expecting the knocking to continue. All he saw was bright sunlight streaming in and an occasional bird flutter past. It was morning, but what time was it? He jumped when the knock came again, this time it was more of a pounding on his bedroom door.

  “You up yet you stupid tosser?” Donna called in her fake British accent.

  Jack jumped out of bed and stomped to the door. He considered throwing it open then decided to take a more cautious approach instead. He remembered he did not trust his tiny and unusual visitor. For all he knew, she could be standing there with a gun or a knife, ready to gut him the instant he opened the door. He stepped to the side, twisted the knob, and flung it open.

  Donna made no move to attack. She just stood there with her hands on her hips, scowling at him. “You haven’t got any damned food!” she barked in a half British, half southern accent.

  “I don’t eat here, I eat at the base,” Jack said irritably as he opened the door all the way and stepped into the living room.

  “How far is the base?” she huffed.

  Before Jack could answer, the phone rang. It was his commanding officer.

  Jack assured him he was fine and had managed to survive the night with a bunch of candles and flashlights. He declined the offer of transportation with a medic to check out his head. He finally convinced him he was fine and would be back within the hour. He hung up the phone and looked at Donna, who was sulking in a chair by the window. She seemed rough enough last night, but the sun revealed a deplorable appearance. The girl had been on drugs, there was no doubt. The evidence was on almost every square inch of her body. He pondered whether to take her back with him. Jack was somewhat confident she would not say anything about seeing him in the moors last night. She was like him in one way; they both could pass through the dark. This was a secret neither one of them wanted to let out.