The Broken Ones (Book 1)

by Jobe, David

  With hands still trembling from withdrawal, he wiped the tears away from his face. Whatever the reason for the focus of the visions, they were accurate, and every time, they foretold of good people losing their lives. He was granted this power by some unseen hand, and by the gods, he intended to start making something of it. He may have been a wash out, a failure as a detective, but now he was given the opportunity to do some good in the community again.

  The problem was the cost. It felt that he could only have visions if he was high on crack. Each and every time he had seen these visions, he had just taken a huge hit from the rock. He sat in his hospital bed, watching the news and trying to process what the defining factors of his power was. He could get glimpses or clues from the future, centering around death. Each death thus far was one of intent. One suicide and two murders or with the last, a spree killing. Was crack the only key? Had it been coincidental? Would the visions have come otherwise? Was he expected to sit in his bed and wait for the next blood-soaked vision to take him? Something in his gut said that was the coward in his thinking out loud. No, he suspected that he would have to jump start these things. The question was if it was only crack. He remembered when he had first started dabbling in drugs, he had sat with some zealous smokers who postulated on everything. They had told him an urban myth he had never thought to seek out to see if it was the truth. The myth went that Native Americans had several rituals where they would commune with the spirit world. Granted, Chris has some Native American blood in him, but didn't most American's these days? Hell, he couldn't even remember the percentage or the tribe. The part that had stuck with him was that they had used a particular hallucinogen that had assisted with these walks in the spirit world. Perhaps the crack had kicked open that door for him. Perhaps if he tried his hand at some other powerful narcotic, he might slip through that same door and redeem himself with the next vision.

  What if he was to acquire some drugs here that would do the trick?

  That was not only a long shot, but a mission impossible from where he was. He had a better chance of using his cell to call a dealer and sneaking him in some crack, then being able to find something here that would be as effective, and be where his feeble body could manage to find.

  He sat for a good long while, debating his options. His mind told him that he should just call a dealer, but the rational part of him suspected that it was just a ploy to slide back into addiction. Besides, he also needed to know if something other than crack could work for him. He realized how crazy all of this sounded, but he was determined to start investigating. The screen showed the flying fat guy get gut shot. It was then that he knew he had to do something. Some guy who was not suited for this was out there, using what random power he was given to try and stop this madness, and here he tried to rationalize his way out of helping.

  The first step in this mission would be that he needed to get detached from all of these machines without them knowing. He had already coded the night he had seen the teacher's face. They would not give him a wide window to work within. He waited until the nurse came to get his vitals. She was a sweet plump lady who sounded like she tonight handled a heavier than normal workload. It would felt as if the fates had smiled on him. He asked her if he would be able to go to the bathroom. He might take a while, but he promised he would hit the button in there when he was ready to go. For a moment she seemed to contemplate telling him to use the bed pan, but then opted against it. He suspected it was because that meant one more nasty thing for her to clean out later. He thanked her for her kindness and sat patiently as she unhooked him from all the sensors, leaving only the bag of fluids attached. Then she turned off the bed sensor that he was told was to make sure if he tried to get up, nurse warden cell keeper would come running to push him back into bed. He laughed and thanked her, and using her shoulder to fake steady himself, he struggled to walk to the bathroom.

  She waited until he was seated before she eased back on her wary stance around him. She made him promise again that he would call when he was ready to go back to bed. He promised, but assured her it would be at least ten minutes he figured. She laughed and left.

  As soon as the door was closed, he was back up, using the IV bag pole to help him stay steady. It did not help that it had wheels of its own, but he found he could use it as a sort of staff if he walked with a certain motion. He made it from the bathroom to the door of his room with little problem, though he had started to become dizzy when he saw the bright lights outside the room.

  Peeking out, he saw that the immediate area was clear. He suspected that the nurse assisted another patient, and that the remaining staff worked on their own people. He would have a few minutes to work, if luck was with him. The problem was that he had no idea where to find meds or what he could use. He decided that he would just start walking toward the nurse's station and go from there. He slipped out of his room, easing the door closed behind him. He had closed the bathroom too, hoping that it might give him a few more minutes before his absence might be discovered.

  One of the things they teach you in police training is that you should look out for the people who look out of place. If you want to get away with a crime, look like you belong there. It's the fugitive glances and the nervous twitches that will get you caught every time. So, with that in mind, he moved with slow but steady purpose, looking as if he not only had a destination, but that he was damned sure no one would keep him from it. With him as frail and as worn out as he was, he hoped he would come across as a crotchety old grump was forced to do his walk-about to keep from getting blood clots in his legs.

  Though he kept his gaze forward and his jaw set, he kept an eye out for anything that might help him in his pursuits. As he neared a joint hallway he heard several people coming, discussing the news. He slipped into a vacant bathroom and eased the door closed enough so that he could peer through the crack. He sat on the can with his hospital gown up in case they happened upon him, he could lie and say he had forgotten to shut the door. He hoped their embarrassment would keep them from asking what was wrong with her personal one. He hoped it wasn't his nurse or else the attempted heist would be foiled.

  The stood outside the bathroom for a good while, discussing how busy the night was and how they had a guy down the way that had grown additional arms before trying to kill himself with a pistol. They lingered between feeling bad for the guy and dropping cruel jokes at his expense. It was another reason he decided that if this did work, he would be selective about who he let know he had the ability. After a while, they left and he slipped out again. He decided that he would have a hard time finding anything up here. Everything was would be under lock and key, and he was fairly sure the nurses on this area were on their game. He remembered back in his patrol days that the Emergency Room was often a place of utter chaos and that there would be plenty of high potency stuff down there.

  He made his way down the hallway until he found the elevators. He wasn't sure what floor he was on, but he was sure that the Emergency Rooms would be on the ground floor. Pushing the Level One button, he got to work as soon as the door closed. He unhooked the bag from the rolling stand and, with delicate care, wrapped it around his neck so that the bag hung just under the front of his gown. He doubted that he could pull off walking with a stand into the emergency room. That would set off their bullshit detectors for sure. Then he laced up his gown even tighter, so he looked a little better off. The people in there would be struggling, and while it was not advisable for patients to be up and about, it was no unheard of one of the more elderly to be found wandering around for some reason. Old people were notorious for being bull-headed. He was going to use that to his advantage.

  As the door to the elevator opened, he slipped into character, moving for the Emergency Room with purpose. He was in luck that the elevator he had chosen had deposited him in one of the back hallways where the sick wandered. He pasted a few people doing their own walks. Each was a woman, she he suspected that he wandered near the matern
ity area. Is that even what they called them?

  It took a few minutes, and by now he suspected that his nurse had discovered his absence. He hoped they would search the floor first before alerting anyone. Most people didn't follow protocol if it meant their own job was on the line. Maybe he would get lucky and be able to get back to his floor before she called it in and she wouldn't get in trouble. He didn't want to get her in trouble, but he knew that she wasn't going to get him what he needed.

  He stood outside of the Emergency Room now, and with one final breath he pushed into a world consumed by chaos. As soon as he slipped through the door, a large nurse with jowls contorted in discontent locked eyes on him. In her hands she held a syringe and some clear bottle full of liquid. Brown eyes narrowed as she regarded him. She placed both needle and bottle on a rolling cart and began to make for him with obvious purpose. He was sure that the jig was up, but he intended to try and sell it.

  "Sir, what are you doing? You should be in your room,” her tone was forceful and made it clear she would brook no discussion on the matter.

  Chris started to cry. He surprised himself that they were real tears. They were tears of frustration, but they were real. "My wife," he blubbered. "I need to find her. Accident. Worse than me. Please help,” he sniffled as if fighting snot and just watched her with eyes wet with tears.

  He could see her resolve budge, her clenched jaw easing from full blown lock jaw to mild irritation. "She would want you to be in your room, being taken care of."

  "Please," he whimpered. "We were arguing when the truck hit. Please don't let my last words be about her cooking. Oh, god, please."

  She softened again, but this time, before she could respond, the waiting room dissolved into confusion. Shouting and yelling erupted. Then people started pushing. He could see part of it through the glass panels in the door. Someone on the other side shouted for help.

  A doctor rushed by and pointed at her. "You. Grab a gurney and help. Now!"

  She straightened and nodded. "Yes, Sir." She turned to Chris and said in a whisper. "Find her and give her your love. Then promise me you will go back to your room."

  "Scout’s honor," he told her, but she had not stayed to hear his reply. She moved with speed he had not thought her bulk would have been capable of achieving. The whole of the back area where the nurses and doctors hung out was cleared out. Other than a few startled onlookers, the main area of the Emergency Room stood empty. Whatever was going on up front caused quite the scene. He shuffled over to the nurse's cart and began to look for something that would work. He looked at the bottle the woman had used with the syringe on and found it contained Morphine. He had to admit that he knew jack shit about the stuff, only that it would knock you on your ass with just the littlest amount. The needle had about half of it full with the stuff. He had no idea what that meant or how much it might be, but he reasoned that the woman wouldn't have filled the needle with more than one person could take. They wouldn't poke two people with the same needle.

  He snatched up the needle and considered it. He could jam it into the extra port on his IV and it would go into his system. Or he could jam it into his arm and hope he hit a vein. He wasn't even sure the stuff needed a vein. Shrugging, he took the gambit and injected it into the port. He set the needle back where it was, hoping when the nurse returned she might think she hadn't filled it up yet. Her moment of kindness didn't deserve his treachery, but he had no other choice. He also had no idea how quick the stuff would take effect. He opted that he should make his way back to the elevator and hope he got back to his floor before he was down for the count. At least then he would have the most chance of keeping anyone from getting in trouble for his brazen act.

  He started off, moving as quick as his shaking legs would carry him. As he neared the door he had entered through, he knew he wasn't going to make the elevator. The feeling spread like fire in his veins. He staggered, feeling his weight starting to shift.

  The door to the emergency room blew open from where the waiting room was. They carted in a large man in a superhero outfit on a gurney, blood already dripping from the white sheets. It occurred to him that he had seen the gut shot guy from the television.

  "I should have saved you," he whispered. "You are a real hero." He fell backward through the door to the back hallway. Turning, he began to try and run to the elevator. He got about five feet before a woman turned the corner in front of him. She was a beautiful young lady with long brown hair and a smile that lit up her face. She eyed him with wary concern as he took a few more unbalanced steps. "I can see why you got preggo,” he told her in a voice that was far too loud.

  She flinched.

  He stumbled and was out before his face hit the tile.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It was a landscape of red, black and green that stood before him. Chris stood at the base of a hill looking up at a huge tree that grow from its summit. He knew next to nothing about trees, but he was sure this one was not one that existed in the real world. It loomed enormous and was spread out so wide that it stretched upwards and outwards to a point where it engulfed the sky before him. Though the sky was pitch black with no stars, he could see well enough to see that someone sat at the base of the tree. From the looks of it, it was two people, lovers perhaps. One sat upright while the other lay with their head in the first one's lap. From here, he could hear a soft sound of someone weeping.

  He knew death waited under that tree. His visions never came without the evil specter. As he resolved his mind to climb the hill and talk with these two, he noticed that in the tree itself, he could see something else. There, the shadows were too thick to make out, but he could feel hundreds of eyes upon him.

  He began to climb, turning his gaze from the couple to the shadowy tree then back again. The couple did not appear to know he was there, but he was sure whatever lurked in the supernatural tree was well aware of his presence, and not the least bit happy with him being there.

  He could smell the foul stench of decay starting to rise around him. Each step felt like the soil under his feet got less solid. It was as if the way got muddier the higher he went. That wouldn't make sense in the real world, but here, it seemed to make perfect sense. Higher he climbed until he stood near enough that he could make out the couple.

  The one sitting up was a young woman with brown hair. He head was bowed over the other, the weeping coming from her. He knew the one laying on her lap. He had just seen the man mere moments ago. Before him lay fat flying hero that was gut shot. The man still wore the same outfit, though something about the chest piece had changed. As he stepped closer, he realized that the head was not attached to the torso. The hero was beheaded at some point. Blood still oozed from the wounds, and soaked the ground around the woman so much so that she appeared to be sitting in a dark red dress that was pooled out around her crossed legs. The eyes of the deceased man stared at him unblinking. An unsettling scene, but in it there was hope. If the man was alive to be beheaded in the future, then he would survive the wounds he had received on the freeway. A small victory to be sure, but at this point, Chris would take whatever he could get.

  He knew that the clues he needed to solve this before it happened would be here. He just had to look. He had to become a detective again.

  The woman raised her head to look at him, her eyes dark with ruined mascara. The shadows of her hair hid her eye color, but did nothing to hide the black and purple marks that wrapped around her neck.

  Chris knew that wound well enough. His own neck held a less colorful but similar marking. The woman was hanged. He couldn't be sure if it was her doing or another, but it was another clue.

  She looked at him, fresh tears washing down her face. "I shouldn't have pushed him," she told Chris. "I should have just told him to stay home. I didn't need him to be a hero. I just needed him to be happy with who he was."

  Chris didn't know what to say. The dead often seemed to speak in cryptic sentences, but he wondered if it was because
he never asked them point blank questions. "Who did this to him?"

  "His father always belittled him," she told Chris. "Nothing he ever did was good enough for his father. No, matter how good he was at anything, all his father saw was a fat loser."

  That wasn't helpful at all, Chris thought. "Who did this?"

  "Will you save us?"

  "Did you kill yourself?" Chris was trying, but he felt like the blood-soaked mud at his feet did a number on his mind too.

  Above him, a dozen tiny voices laughing in unison. He had forgotten about the things in the tree. He looked up and saw for the first time what was hidden in the lower branches of the tree. Dozens of bodies were hung there, miniature little versions of people. Some hung lower than the others, showing signs of slow decay. Other's remained pristine in their final moments. Of those that looked fresh from death, he noticed that they were somewhat off in appearance.