Deranged Souls

by Ron Ripley

  “This is a question which has been raised by my men,” Armand stated, shaking his head. “I’m not sure. I hope to find something they would be willing to negotiate for.”

  “I think it’s a foolish idea,” David said after a moment of silence. “I would advise a small negotiating team. No more than three or four tops. Extensive fire support and ratlines attached to the harnesses, the ends of which would be anchored to teams prepared to immediately extract the negotiating team at the first sign of an attack. Am I understood?”

  “Completely, sir,” Armand said.

  David stood up. “I wish you all the best of luck. Remember my requirements.”

  Armand and the others nodded, and David left the room. As the door clicked shut, all the men looked to Armand.

  “Pierre,” Armand said. “I want a three-man team with you as the lead negotiator. Guillermo, you’ll be in charge of security. Georgios, gather up the support team, three per man on the ratlines. Something goes wrong, I want them to be able to sprint through the snow with you three. Negotiators go armed. Everyone does. I don’t trust the dead, but I want to negotiate in good faith.”

  “How do we approach them and let them know we want to talk?” Pierre asked.

  “Get someone close enough to call out in French,” Armand said after a moment. “We should be able to open negotiations that way. It will also allow us to get a feel for their attitude concerning negotiating.”

  He smiled at them all and asked, “Any questions?”

  No one spoke up, but after he had dismissed them and they filed out, Pierre paused.

  “Armand,” Pierre said in a low voice.

  “What is it?” Armand asked, pushing in his chair.

  “Is this wise?” Pierre asked. “There is nothing to give us hope here.”

  “No, it isn’t wise,” Armand answered. “But we must do our best to create our own luck. This is a fifty-fifty chance as far as I’m concerned, which is also why we will do our best to prevent anything drastic from happening.”

  “What of the boy?”

  “What of him?”

  Pierre frowned. “We never found his body, Armand. I don’t think we should rule out the possibility that he might be alive, and, that being the case, we need to remember that he is important to the dead. You told me so yourself. So, ask yourself this, what if he isn’t dead? What if, somehow, he has survived and remains hidden from us. The dead, well, most will follow him.”

  “Yes, I agree with you,” Armand sighed. “The boy certainly does hold a special place among them. However, the likelihood that he survived is extremely slim. I think it more likely that he is dead, Pierre. In addition to this, the more I view the current situation with the ghosts, the less I believe Brother Michel was, in actuality, warning me. I think, rather, he was attempting to subtly dissuade me from attempting any sort of negotiating.”

  Armand shook his head. “I think we can negotiate with them. Pierre, I believe you can make a connection with the dead Frenchmen. If nothing else, I hope we will establish a truce. A little bit of breathing room to get a better grasp of the situation here. We are unprepared to face the dead, and I am having difficulty convincing command of this. I need you to do this, Pierre.”

  “All right, Armand,” Pierre said, shaking his head. “I will hope we are able to escape this unscathed, should it go wrong.”

  “As will I,” Armand agreed. They left the room together, discussing the best ways to approach a man who had been dead for centuries.

  ***

  He stopped and listened, pressing his ear against the door. When nothing greeted him, Abel moved down to the next door and repeated the process. Again, silence greeted him. Movement caught his eye, and he shrank back until he recognized David.

  “Professor,” David said, his face remarkably calm.

  “David,” Abel whispered, crawling forward until he was pressed against David’s leg and looking up at him. “Are you listening?”

  “Always, sir,” David answered seriously. “What are you looking for today?”

  “A tapping.” Abel’s eyes darted around the hall. “I heard someone calling my name. It might be her.”

  “Annelise?” David asked.

  Abel shook his head violently. “Meredith. I think she’s lost again. I’m trying to reach her. Maybe I should sit right here.”

  Still clutching David, Abel sat down on the floor, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the man. Abel listened and waited, certain Meredith would let him know where she was hiding.

  I know she will, Abel smiled.

  ***

  David glanced at Erica Schomp who was standing nearby and mouthed, What the hell?

  “I don’t know,” she replied in a normal tone. “I’m trying to figure it out myself. He seems like he’s completely and utterly losing his mind.”

  “This can’t be happening,” David whispered, looking at the professor.

  Erica gazed at David coldly. “Whether we want it to happen or not is a moot point, David. The professor, to put it kindly, is crazier than an outhouse rat. All I can do is take care of him.”

  “No,” David said firmly. “All we can do is take care of him. We’re the only ones left.”

  She nodded, her lips pressed together tightly. “I suppose that’s the bare truth of the matter.”

  David fell into step beside Erica, and together they followed Professor Abel Worthe as he resumed his search for Meredith, pausing now and then to whisper at closed doors.

  Chapter 27: Talking with Friends

  “What are we going to do about her?” Timmy asked.

  Marcus put the rifle down, knowing it wouldn’t get any cleaner, no matter how much he tried. “I’m not certain.”

  “Should probably blow up the house,” Timmy said with a faint smile.

  “That did not work out quite so well last time,” Marcus reminded him.

  “Minor miscalculation,” Timmy replied with a wave of his hand.

  Marcus rolled his eyes. Timmy chuckled, then coughed, his body bent over with pain as the coughs wracked him. When he managed to stop and straighten himself, Timmy wiped blood off of his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “How much longer you think I have?” Timmy asked, wheezing as he sank back, resting his head on the pillow.

  “I wish I could tell you,” Marcus replied. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any more knowledge than you.”

  “Huh,” Timmy said. “That’s terrible.”

  “Agreed.”

  Marcus once more struggled within himself to work up the courage to tell Timmy it was all right for him to die. As before, he found he didn’t have the strength and grimaced at his own weakness.

  “So, Alex made me promise to hang around,” Timmy said. “Don’t know if I can do that. Kind of want to just rest.”

  “I don’t think he’ll let you go,” Marcus replied.

  “True.” Timmy stopped speaking, his chest rising and falling quickly. Marcus waited for several minutes, finally thinking, Is he asleep?

  Marcus shifted in his seat and prepared to rise and exit the room quietly.

  “He’s going to help me stay,” Timmy whispered. “I don’t know if he can actually do that or not, but if it comes down to it, will you help me say no?”

  “Yes,” Marcus answered.

  “Awesome.” Timmy coughed again, blood flecking his lips. “Listen, Pop, I need to rest. A little bit, nothing more.”

  “All right, Timmy,” Marcus said gently. He stood up, walked to his son, and gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. Timmy smiled, and Marcus left the room. Will he die while we’re home? Will he wait until we’re out and then make his peace?

  Marcus shook his head. He put on his winter gear and left the house. The air seemed electrified as he walked out onto the cobblestone road. He glanced around, searching for Alex, who had stepped out earlier. As he scanned the areas, he saw the boy in the small graveyard. He was wagging his finger, reproaching someone inside the op
en doorway of the chapel. Finally, the boy threw up his arms in an irate imitation of someone else.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth to make a megaphone, Marcus called out to the boy. Alex turned around, waved, and then howled as something struck him in the side and sent him soaring through the air.

  ***

  Alex rolled through the snow and came to a harsh stop against one of the larger headstones. A young woman he didn’t know stood where Alex had been a moment before. She took a step toward him, and he scrambled to his feet. His eyes darted around, saw the other ghosts and Marcus approaching them, and he crouched down.

  “Who are you?” he snapped.

  He saw her eyes widen as she tried to refuse to answer. For a moment, she succeeded, then, as suddenly as she had struck him, her mouth was torn open by an unseen hand, and she shouted, “Gwen!”

  “Gwen who?” Alex demanded.

  “Gwen Hamilton!”

  She sprang toward him, and he commanded, “Stop it! Why are you attacking me?”

  Gwen froze in mid-air and collapsed to the earth almost instantly. Her head came up through the snow, and she growled, “You, you remind me of something, but I can’t remember what it is! I don’t want to not know!” She grabbed her head, her face contorted as if in pain and frustration. “It hurts! Why does my head hurt so much?” Snarling at him, she tried to jerk forward again but couldn’t. Gwen cried out in fury, “How are you doing this!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Alex said coldly. “You can’t attack me. You’re not allowed to.”

  “You’re crazy,” she hissed, getting to her feet. Gwen straightened her hair, then charged at him again. She managed to take two steps before she froze again, a look of terrible pain on her face.

  “What are you doing to me?” she snarled. Her face was a mask of pure rage, and Alex knew, if she could, she would kill him instantly.

  “I’m telling you that you can’t touch me,” Alex affirmed. He brushed snow off of himself and walked toward her. “Nobody who’s dead can touch me.”

  “I’m not dead,” she hissed, her eyes flashing brightly. “I am not dead!”

  Alex felt sympathy and sadness fill him. Some of his anger faded as he said in a low voice, “Gwen, you’re dead.”

  “I can’t be dead.” Fear laced every word. She shook her head and shuddered. “I’m not dead. No. It’s not how it works.”

  The dead woman looked frantically around her, and then she demanded, “Is he dead, too?”

  Alex glanced over his shoulder and saw Marcus walking toward him. Smiling at Gwen, Alex shook his head. “No. That’s Marcus. He’s alive. He’s the best.”

  Her eyes widened, and she whispered, “Marcus? Marcus Holt?”

  “Yup,” Alex said proudly. “He’s my friend.”

  “He’s my friend, too,” Gwen whispered, her shoulders sagging. “My mom’s friend. We were supposed to have Thanksgiving dinner together.”

  “Hello, Gwen,” Marcus greeted, reaching them and putting a hand on Alex’s shoulder. Alex looked up and smiled at him.

  Marcus returned the smile. “Perhaps you should send her home, Alex?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wait,” Gwen stopped them. She swallowed several times, her eyes shifting from Alex to Marcus and then back again. “Why am I dead, Marcus?”

  Marcus’ hand squeezed Alex’s shoulder and suddenly put more weight upon him. In a hoarse voice, Marcus replied, “You were killed. So, too, was your mother.”

  “No,” Gwen whispered. “No.”

  “Yes, Gwen. I am so sorry,” Marcus said, and Alex could see the tears rolling down his cheeks.

  She shook her head, slowly, then quicker, until it was almost a blur. A scream ripped through the air, and she lunged for Marcus.

  “Stop!” Alex yelled and stepped forward. He swung at her, expecting his iron-studded mitten to pass through her, but instead, he struck her in the stomach. A shock raced up his arm and shook him even as Gwen was sent hurtling backward. When she finally stopped, she was almost thirty feet away from them.

  She tried to take a step toward them, but the Huron were suddenly there. A score or more of the dead Natives, led by Philip. The dead men heckled her and surrounded her. She attacked them, though it did her no good. The dead men worked together, driving her back toward her home. Once the Huron had her back in the house, they returned to their business, and Alex remained in the cemetery by the chapel with Marcus.

  He looked up at the older man and smiled, asking, “Are you okay?”

  Marcus nodded. “Alex, how did you do that? You touched her as if she was solid.”

  Alex nodded, looking around and rubbing his eyes. “I guess I did.”

  “But how? You hit her and she flew back?”

  “Don’t know,” Alex said after a moment, his face becoming relaxed as he reflected on the event. “It was strange. Do you think I’ll be able to do it again?”

  “I suspect you will be,” Marcus replied softly, watching him, a curious expression on his face.

  ***

  Guillermo lowered the binoculars and shook his head.

  “I never would have believed it,” Pierre said beside him, “if I had not seen it myself.”

  “Agreed. Do you think it is the boy, or perhaps some weapon?”

  “The boy,” Pierre said. “The boy who is supposed to be dead. Why haven’t we seen him on the surveillance?”

  “I don’t know.” Guillermo shook his head. “This is strange. All of it.”

  “Agreed,” Pierre nodded. “Armand will want to know as soon as possible.”

  “Comms?” Guillermo asked.

  Pierre shook his head. “No, I’ll tell him in person.”

  “All right,” Guillermo put his binoculars away. “We’ll have to step up the preparations for negotiating with the dead. I’m certain Armand and David will both want the boy back now.”

  Chapter 28: Alterations

  Abel opened his eyes and saw he was in medical. He lay on his side, and Nurse Schomp was in a chair at his bedside. She was reading a book, the title of which he could not make out. As he looked at her, she raised her eyes, saw him, and put the book down.

  “You’re awake,” the nurse said. “Good.”

  She picked up a hypodermic and an alcohol swab.

  His voice was rough as he tried to speak. After a moment, he managed to ask, “What…”

  “Tetanus booster,” she replied, swabbing down his arm.

  Abel struggled to ask another question, but before he could, she plunged the needle into his arm and injected him with it. Her touch was not gentle, and he doubted it was meant to be. He hissed through his teeth as she drew the needle out. She cleaned the injection site again, then placed a band-aid on it. Sitting back down, she picked up her book.

  “Why a tetanus booster?” he asked, rolling onto his back.

  “Your feet are in terrible shape,” she replied. “You’ve been wandering barefoot for hours. The soles have been cut to pieces. I don’t know how many stitches I had to put in there.”

  “Why didn’t you stop me?” Abel demanded.

  Without looking up, she answered, “I tried.”

  “What stopped me then?” he sneered.

  “When you lost the last two toes on your right foot,” she stated.

  “What?” he asked horrified.

  Nurse Schomp sighed, put the book on her lap and said, “You managed to trip, fall, get your foot caught, and then you wrenched it out, severing the last two toes. No, they were not reconnected. I can’t do it, and neither can the medics who came with Alfor. Therefore, you can now only count to seventeen. Eighteen, if you’re naked.”

  Abel felt a sudden wave of loathing for the woman, and some of it must have revealed itself in his expression for she proffered a sardonic smile.

  Leaning forward, she said in a soft voice, “I don’t care how much you hate me. Or how much you may want to have me killed at times, and I know you do. You’ve said as much in your
‘Ophelia state,’ as I like to call it.”

  Abel shuddered at the comparison to Shakespeare’s suicidal madwoman.

  Nurse Schomp’s smiled broadened, and she continued in her soft tone, “Is Meredith your Hamlet, the one you pine after, dear Professor Worthe?”

  “I don’t have to take this abuse from you,” he sputtered.

  “Oh, but you do,” she responded, easing back into her seat and picking up her book again. “You see, I decide how best to treat you. David agrees with me.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Abel demanded.

  “Exactly what I said.” She opened the book, found her page, and ignored him.

  “Answer me!” he snarled.

  Without looking up, Nurse Schomp said, “David trusts my opinion regarding your treatment. Which is good. I’m afraid that David’s idea of rehabilitation at this point might be a merciful bullet to the head.”

  Abel’s throat tightened, and he shook as he considered the thought.

  She’s right, he realized, closing his eyes and trying to control his racing thoughts. I am going mad. I have lost control of the experiment. More importantly, I have lost control of myself, and that is far, far worse.

  Abel cleared his throat and said, “Nurse Schomp?”

  “Yes?’ she asked.

  “Has Alfor regained control of the Village?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied. “They most certainly have not. David has told me that they are preparing to engage in negotiations with the dead.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Do you trust me enough to give a message to David?”

  She raised an eyebrow and lowered her book. “Abel, it depends entirely on what that message might be.”

  “Until Alfor has control of the Village, I want all deliveries of supplies to the subjects stopped,” Abel said. “I leave the enforcement of this entirely in David’s hands.”

  Nurse Schomp eyed him carefully. “Anything else?”

  “No,” Abel said. “Other than the subjects are not to be touched. I have not yet been able to watch Subject B interact with the ghost in the Hamilton house.”