by Ron Ripley
“But they’re dead,” Clay whispered.
Stefan looked at him sharply, studied Clay’s face, and then he nodded. “Yes. He’s dead. Only a few days, mind you. The Influenza took him.”
“You saw his ghost,” Clay said, “up here, to the right of the orderly door. Your friend stood there and looked out until he saw you.”
“You saw him?” Stefan asked.
Clay shook his head. “No. But there are others up here. She has made them, though not all she kills remain.”
“She?” Stefan asked confusion in his voice. “Who is ‘she’? Who are you talking about?”
“The Nurse,” Clay answered. The door to the office opened, and Ruth stepped out. She saw Clay and waved to him. He returned the wave politely.
“What nurse?” Stefan asked.
“That one,” Clay replied. “Nurse Williamson. She is Death on E Ward. When she decides it’s time for you to die, well, it’s time for you to die.”
Both he and Stefan watched as she walked to the far end and began her rounds, a pair of orderlies close behind her.
Stefan reached under his blanket, pulled out a plug of tobacco and bit off a piece. His finger shook with palsy as he tugged the chew in between his gum and lip. Stefan put the tobacco away, looked back at Ruth and shook his head.
“Well,” the old man said, leaning over partially and spitting a bit of brown juice onto the floor, “I suppose we’ll need to watch her then, won’t we.”
Clay nodded and wondered, When will she come for me?
Bonus Scene Chapter 6: Movement in the Dark
Clay awoke sharply and lay still, listening.
He glanced at Stefan and saw the old man was awake as well. Stefan raised a finger to his lips, and Clay remained quiet. Whispers reached his ears, and Clay realized there was a curious, otherworldly note to the voices. Each word sounded as though it was spoken in a long, narrow hallway. The syllables echoing off of stone walls.
The dead are speaking, Clay thought, and he listened harder.
“She takes too much upon herself,” a voice said.
“Silence!”
Clay recognized the second speaker as Gil.
“I’ll not,” the other ghost snapped. “She has no right to say who lives and who dies.”
“You’ll watch your mouth, Hamilton,” Gil said sharply.
Stefan’s eyes widened in surprise.
His friend, Clay thought.
“And who are you?” Hamilton sneered. “Who do you think you are, to tell me anything?”
The temperature in the ward plummeted, and Clay shivered violently in response. White clouds of his breath curled out of his mouth, streamed out of his nose, and filled the air above him. The same occurred with Stefan.
Living men began to weep, others to howl.
“See what you’ve done!” Gil yelled, and there was a horrific tearing sound. An inhuman scream caused Clay’s eyes to roll up. The noise churned his gut, caused his ears to ache and his head to pound.
Clay twisted in his bed to see what the source of the noise was, and when he had, he wished he could un-see it. Gil and some of the other ghosts stood over another spirit. And they were tearing at him. Shreds of the unknown person were cast aside like loose paper. What had once been the visage of a man was no more.
The cacophony of the living drowned out the violence of the dead. Lights came on and suddenly Ruth and the orderlies were among them.
Stefan sat upright, opened his mouth and let out a terrifying yell. The curious sound churned Clay’s soul and a wicked grin spread across Stefan’s face. The old man winked at Clay, and Stefan began shouting in German.
As the man howled and yelled in the foreign language, Nurse Williamson focused on Stefan. Within a minute, the orderlies and Ruth were trying to calm Stefan down, but the old man was exceptionally strong. He kicked out, striking the nurse in the chest and sending her back into Clay’s bed.
The syringe and morphine she carried dropped into Clay’s sheets, and she fell to the floor, unconscious.
The orderlies paused in their attempts to subdue Stefan, but when they saw Ruth’s condition, they focused their attentions on the man once more. They started to beat him. The blows were fast and violent. They had no desire to subdue the old man; merely to hurt him.
Stefan laughed at the younger men and spit a vile stream of tobacco juice at one of them. The man brought up a massive hand, clenched it into a fist and brought it down hard on Stefan’s head. Clay watched in horror as Stefan’s cheek collapsed and his nose was smeared off to the left. The man’s right eye exploded in a massive gush of blood and white matter.
Stefan drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and then released a laugh which was closer to a howl. The old man spit again, and the second orderly broke Stefan’s jaw. Bloody, shattered teeth spilled out of the old man’s mouth before he fell back to the pillow.
As the orderlies leaned over Stefan’s body and continued to brutalize him, Clay’s own hands found the syringe and the morphine.
Better to go out on your own terms, the voice said calmly.
Clay nodded his agreement, drew the items up to him, and hid them beneath the blankets.
When should I do it? Clay wondered.
You’ll know when, the voice said confidently. I’ll help you know when to go, Clay. Haven’t I always told you what you need to know?
Yes, Clay thought with a sigh.
He closed his eyes and ignored the drawn-out murder of Stefan.
Clay had slept through worse.
Bonus Scene Chapter 7: Finding the Right Time
Stefan did not return as a ghost, and for that Clay was thankful.
He had enjoyed the man’s company when alive, but Clay wasn’t certain how entertaining Stefan would be as a ghost.
Night was once again creeping upon the world. Clay sat in his bed and looked out over the ward. Some of the beds were empty, the mattresses stripped of linens and rolled up. The dull metal of the springs absorbed what little light was thrown at them. Many of the men were too sick to speak.
Clay was not.
The illness had swept over and around him. It had killed men on his left, and men on his right. Others had replaced the dead, and they too had died. Only a few ghosts remained on the ward, watching over the patients.
Ruth no longer left the ward.
All of the orderlies, regardless of their shifts, had become devoted to her. When she exited the office to perform her rounds, the staff flanked her. They protected her. No longer would they risk an attack. Stefan’s death had allowed Clay the opportunity to hide the morphine and the syringe. Many times since the older man’s murder Clay had taken the morphine out and examined it.
Will it be enough? he wondered. Will I be able to end it with this?
Shh, be at peace, the voice told him softly. Look how small she is. Larger men have been killed with smaller doses. All will be well.
The darkness grew, and several of the lights were turned off on the ward. An orderly stood on either side of the office door, and Clay suddenly had a burst of fear.
Tonight, he thought, his throat tightening with fear. She’ll come out for me tonight.
The voice made no response.
Clay stared hard at the orderlies. Neither of the men, he saw, were paying any attention to him. Or to anyone else on the ward. Instead, they spoke in low voices, and what their conversation was, Clay couldn’t hear.
With his one good eye, Clay looked down at the bottle of morphine and the syringe he had managed to hide for weeks. Each was warm from being pressed against his flesh. Clay forced himself to be calm. When the muscles of his throat had loosened, when his hands no longer trembled, Clay prepared the syringe. A sense of detachment drifted over him. Soon, he held the instrument, fully loaded with the morphine.
I will do this, Clay thought, looking down at the syringe. I alone will be responsible.
Are you ready? the voice asked. There was steel in the words. A grim determination which seemed to m
atch Clay’s own.
Yes, Clay replied. I am ready.
Good, the voice said. We come to the end of it then.
Clay pulled his blanket over the syringe, keeping the hypodermic needle ready. He settled back against his pillows and waited.
Time passed, agonizingly slow. Several times the door to the office opened, and he became tense, but Ruth only whispered to the orderlies. The men, in turn, nodded. After the third time, their eyes locked onto Clay’s and remained there.
Clay returned the stare. His hands were steady, one on the syringe, the other loose upon the blanket. He was prepared. Clay knew what was coming.
Are you ready to die? the voice asked him.
Clay considered the question for a moment, and then he said, “Yes. I’m ready.”
“Ready for what, Clay?” Ruth asked.
Clay looked up, surprised. He had drifted away from reality and missed the approach of the Nurse and her guards.
An orderly stood on either side of his bed, and Ruth on his right, smiling down at him.
“Did you hear me?” she asked politely.
Clay smiled. He felt the scar tissue on his face stretch and pull uncomfortably. Some surgeon in France had promised the scars would be fixed one day.
Another lie. One of many, Clay thought to himself. Aloud he said, “I did hear you, yes, Nurse.”
“Then answer her,” one of the orderlies snapped.
Clay’s smile twisted itself into a grin, and the orderly paled as he took a nervous step backward.
“What are you ready for?” Ruth asked again.
“Death,” Clay answered.
Her eyes widened in surprise, but an expression of relief filled her pretty face.
“I am so pleased to hear you say so,” Ruth said. “Truly I am. While I know that what I do is necessary, and a blessing, it is still difficult at times.”
Clay nodded sympathetically.
“Is there anything you require, before I go and fetch the medicine?” she asked.
Clay saw both of the orderlies were looking politely away. He decided to be daring.
“A kiss,” he whispered.
Ruth smiled and said softly, “Of course.”
She leaned over the edge of the cage, her lips pursed and a delighted smile in her eyes.
Clay tilted his head up to receive the kiss, her lips soft and glorious against his own.
He withdrew the syringe from the blanket, closed his eyes and struck. She gasped as the needle speared into her neck and he drove the plunger deeper as he opened his eyes. The morphine exploded out of the hypodermic, and she staggered back, sliding off the steel.
Clay watched her drop to the floor, smiled at her and said, “My death is my own, Nurse. No one else can decide my fate.”
With a wild swing, Clay managed to stab one of the orderlies in the eye with the needle before it was wrenched from him. Clay’s laughter joined the sudden screams of the living and the dead as the surviving orderly beat him to death in the cold, harsh confines of Sanford Hospital.
* * *
Kurkow Prison
Berkley Series Book 5
Chapter 1: Kurkow Prison
“It’s a steal is what it is,” Pete said.
Ollie glanced at him. “How, exactly, is it a steal?”
“Come on!” Pete grinned as he stepped away from the sedan. “Look at it, Ollie!”
“I am,” Ollie said. “Damned thing looks like a money pit to me.”
“No!” Pete said. He spread his arms wide as if trying to encompass the entire structure. “Look, part of the beauty of the deal is that we don’t have to fix it all up.”
“What?” Ollie said, staring at his brother. “Pete, have you lost your mind? Honestly, what part of it looks like a good deal?”
Ollie left the car then went and stood by Pete. “I’m going to tell you what I see, okay? I see acres of lead paint. I see miles of asbestos-wrapped pipes. I see lakes of foul, nasty water. The place is a superfund site without any funds to clean it up. What the hell are you thinking? Do you want to open a bed and breakfast? A museum? For God’s sake, man, what the hell do you want to buy this for?”
“First,” Pete said, holding up a thin finger, “I want you to hold onto the bed and breakfast idea. Might be a great way to put a spin on it. And, second, don’t be mad, I already bought the place.”
Ollie turned his attention away from the prison and looked at his brother. He tried to speak, but the words refused to exit his mouth.
Pete took a step back, holding his hands up in front of him, palms out.
“Oliver,” Pete said, “they were practically giving it away.”
“What was the price?” Ollie hissed.
“Well,” Pete stammered.
“Price!” Ollie screamed.
“Two!” Pete yelled.
“‘Two’ what, Peter?”
Pete loosened the collar of his shirt. “Million.”
For the first time in his life, Ollie felt faint. He took a step back, trying to catch his breath. Pete reached out to help and Ollie snapped, “Don’t.”
“Okay.”
“You already signed the paperwork?” Ollie asked, exhaling slowly.
Pete nodded.
“How much did they want down?” Ollie grumbled.
“Twenty percent,” Pete said.
“Twenty percent,” Ollie repeated. “Twenty percent!”
Ollie straightened up and focused on the prison. The building was huge, stretching for two entire blocks. Three fences wrapped around the perimeter and each fence was topped with razor wire. Old guard towers were on each corner, and the prison was three stories tall. The windows, protected by heavy metal grating, were unbroken, and for that Ollie felt thankful.
He turned and glared at his brother. “You used my part of the inheritance.”
“I had to,” Pete said.
“Fine,” Ollie said. “Fine. We’ll make a go of this, whatever the hell it is you’re thinking about. But this is how it’s going to work. You, my dear, stupid brother, are going to be in there, with the crews, going through the place. My inspector is going with you.”
“What?” Pete said, crestfallen. “Gordy hates everything I do!”
“I don’t care,” Ollie snapped. “Gordy won’t try and hand me a polished turd and tell me it’s a diamond. He goes with you. He’ll make notes. He’ll tell me whether or not your little plan is feasible.”
“It’s a great plan,” Pete said, grinning. The grin vanished and was replaced with a somber expression. “You’ll see, Ollie.”
“I better,” Ollie said, “or you are going to be in for a world of hurt.”
Without waiting for his brother to reply, Ollie turned away from both Pete and the prison and walked back to the car. He sat down hard in the passenger’s seat and sent Gordy a text.
Ollie closed his eyes and tried not to think about the financial mess his brother had gotten them into.
Chapter 2: An Honest Day’s Work
“What have you got going on today?” Frank asked.
Shane looked up at him, the morning light causing the milky portion of his right eye to glow. A fine stubble of light brown hair had started to grow on the former monk’s head, and the scars on his face stood out crisp and sharp.
Shane shook his head and shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea. I’ve taken a break from any translation work. The past couple of months have been a little too much, physically and mentally.”
Frank nodded, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.
“Why?” Shane asked. “What’s up with you?”
“When I left the Order I reached out to a few friends of mine,” Frank said. “Told them I’m looking for any work. Not too much, my knees can’t handle it, but I’ll do some day labor.”
“Someone gave you a call?” Shane asked.
Frank nodded. “Guy I knew in high school. Ollie, he wants me to work on a crew that’s going to look at demoing the old Kurkow Priso
n.”
“Where the hell is that?” Shane leaned back in his chair, knocked the head off his cigarette and said, “I’ve never heard of the place.”
“Old prison, upstate, New Hampshire. It’s a little town called Gaiman, right along the Canadian border.” Frank said.
“That’s a long ride,” Shane said.
“Yup,” Frank said, grinning. “So, you feel up to a little honest, manual labor?”
“Hell no,” Shane replied. “But I’ll go anyway. I could use the work. Get out of the house for a bit. How much is your friend paying you?”
“He hasn’t told me yet,” Frank said. “But I think he wants me to babysit his brother Pete.”
“Hard to handle?” Shane asked.
Frank shook his head. “Impulsive.”
“Ah.” Shane stubbed out his cigarette and nodded. “Yeah. Alright. When do you want to leave?”
“Soon as you’re ready,” Frank answered.
Shane stood up. “I’m ready now.”
As Frank got to his feet and Shane turned to leave, Courtney appeared in the doorway. She shimmered in the pale light thrown by the overhead kitchen lamp, and she had an expression of concern on her dead face.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Her voice sounded strange, almost too faint.
“I’m going out for a bit,” Shane said. He smiled at her. “Frank and I will be home soon enough.”
“Take me with you?” she asked.
Shane shook his head.
Courtney’s form solidified as she demanded, “Why?”
“I won’t risk losing you,” Shane said, his voice gentle but firm. “You are not a trinket for me to carry around and to lose.”
For a moment, Shane thought she might yell, but instead, she vanished.
When she did, Shane shook his head and led the way out of the house, pausing only for himself and Frank to grab their coats out of the hall closet. Once they were outside, Frank glanced over at him.
“What’s going on?” the former monk asked.
“Wish I knew,” Shane said. “Want to drive since you know the way?”