by Ron Ripley
“Run,” Timmy said to Alex, and the boy took off toward the remnants of the chapel. Gwen and Timmy continued to drag Marcus through the snow, his arms numb from the bitter cold of their touch. Suddenly, they let go of him and he crashed to the ground, crying out in pain.
Gwen leaped between Marcus and her home while Timmy vanished a heartbeat before the house exploded.
For a split second, Gwen stood in front of Marcus, her back to him and her arms spread wide. Debris from the house hurtled toward him, but none of it passed through Gwen. She blocked it all.
As Marcus watched, Gwen flickered and faded as she turned to him. A triumphant smile appeared on her face, and she whispered, “I love you.”
Gwen Hamilton disappeared, and Marcus sobbed as the house burned to the ground.
Chapter 43: Truth or Lies
They were in a small storage closet, about to read a note found on that door, when the floor shook beneath them. The four of them hurried out, found a room with windows, and looked out toward the Village. Black and dark gray smoke billowed toward the clear blue sky, and Joyce knew a house had been destroyed.
Ellen placed a hand on her arm. “We don’t know if it was your house.”
“No,” Joyce said, “but it’s a damned good chance that it might be. Did we trigger something in here? Was it set on a timer? Were they even alive when the note was written?”
Fear swelled within her and darkened her vision. She leaned against the wall, hating her weakness. She felt hands on her shoulders, and then she was being hugged by Ellen.
“Hey,” Ellen said. “Listen to me. We’re going down to the bays now, and we’re going to grab a Humvee. We’ll take a ride up to the Village and see what house is burning. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Joyce said roughly. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“We’ll come, too,” Victor chimed in.
Tom nodded his agreement. “We don’t split up,” he added. “Damned good advice.”
“No,” Victor confirmed. “We don’t split up.”
Leaning heavily on Ellen, Joyce limped out of the room. They made their way slowly to the bays to find a Humvee they could use.
***
“Can you stand up?” Alex asked.
“If you help me, I believe I will be able to,” Marcus croaked, his voice hoarse. Alex pulled on Marcus’ hands, and the old man got to his feet. He wavered for a moment, but Alex offered his shoulder to help him balance.
They walked carefully, picking their way through the snow until they came to a beaten down path which would lead them home. The two followed it in silence, and Marcus felt certain the boy was as drained as he was.
When they reached the cobblestone road, they paused, staring at 114 Broad. The front door had been blown open, and there was debris from the Hamilton House scattered about the street.
“He’s in there,” Alex said sadly.
“His body is,” Marcus replied. “His ghost, however, could be anywhere at the moment.”
Alex nodded, then offered a melancholy smile. “He stayed. He said he would, and he did.”
“He did,” Marcus grinned sadly. “Would you like me to go in first, to see how it is?”
“No,” Alex said. “We don’t have to worry about the bodies. They’re just meat now, and that’s okay. I don’t have a problem with that.”
“All right.”
They walked the rest of the way to the house and went inside. Marcus' stomach churned at the sight before him, and he fought hard to keep his sadness under control.
Timmy lay on the sofa, and David was bent over the back. Both men were dead, and it appeared they had died within seconds of each other.
“Looks like he shot him through the couch,” Alex said. “I bet he did. Bet he figured out someone would try and get him, so he kept his gun with him.”
“More than likely,” Marcus agreed. He sat down on the floor, too tired to move any further. “I wonder what he said to David.”
“Some really funny stuff,” Timmy said, coming out of the kitchen. “Hey, you know you can’t make a sandwich when you’re dead? It’s really lame. Like, unbelievably so. Anyway, I can’t even explain how funny I am at times, and David, no sense of humor. None at all.”
Marcus could only nod. He swallowed dryly and finally managed to ask, “Timmy, what do you want done with your body?”
The words stung his heart as they left his mouth.
“Well.” Timmy struck a thoughtful pose, “I suppose you can’t burn me. At least not until you remove what I’ve anchored myself to. Huh, anchor. Now I sound like a damned hipster. Anyway, don’t cook me up yet. Might prove a bit embarrassing if I’m in the middle of a conversation, you know? You know what I’m saying, right, kid?”
Alex giggled and nodded.
“Kid gets it, Pop,” Timmy laughed, winking at the boy. “Definitely does.”
When Marcus didn’t react, Timmy smiled sadly at him. “Hey, Pop, it’s okay. We all die. I went out pretty well. Not a bad guy for once. Take my body outside, put it by what’s left of the chapel, and then, when it’s warm, dig me a nice hole, and plant me. See if I grow, you know?”
The dull, familiar roar of an engine cut off any response Marcus might have made to Timmy’s remark, and the three of them turned toward the front of the house. Philip raced into the room, speaking quickly in his language to Alex.
The boy nodded, replied, then turned to Marcus and Timmy as the ghost ran back out. “There’s a vehicle coming this way,” Alex said. “I told Philip to get everybody to the gate.”
“Everyone?” Marcus asked.
The boy nodded grimly. “Nobody comes in here anymore. Not unless we want them to.”
“You will have to help me if you are still able, Alex.”
The child smiled at him, flashing his chipped teeth in his joy. “Marcus, I’ll always help you. You’re my dad.”
***
Ellen drove like a bat out of hell. Joyce held on tightly as the Humvee raced and thumped over the ground. Ahead of them, the wrought iron fence appeared. Guard towers were on their sides and equipment lay abandoned in the snow. Smoke continued to rise from the Village, but Joyce felt a surge of relief when she realized it came from the back and not 114 Broad.
As understanding settled over her, Tom spoke from the back. “Who the hell is that?”
Joyce took her eyes away from the smoke to focus on the gate. There, in front of a pair of damaged Humvees, she saw Marcus and Alex.
“It’s them,” she whispered. “It’s them!”
A fierce joy swept through her, and she leaned forward as if doing so could make the Humvee move faster. Behind her, Victor chuckled with pleasure while Tom let out a laugh, clapping Ellen on the shoulder. Ellen grinned broadly as she cut the wheel hard and slammed on the brakes, causing the Humvee to slide toward the gate and stop a few feet away with Joyce’s door facing the gate and her friends.
***
Despite pain and exhaustion, Marcus forced himself to stand tall, knowing the dead were hidden around him, and that there was a strange power building around Alex. I might die, he thought. But I know the boy can care for himself now.
The doors to the Humvee popped open, and it took a moment for Marcus to recognize Joyce without her hair.
“Marcus!” Alex cried, jumping up and down excitedly. “It’s Joyce! She made it!”
Unable to stand any longer, Marcus collapsed to the cobblestones and listened to the gate of his prison open wide.
Chapter 44: Settling In
They were in a conference room. Marcus sat in a large, comfortable chair, smoking his pipe and smiling despite his exhaustion. He had showered, shaved, and was wearing a surprisingly comfortable uniform. Alex was beside him, clean and clad in a uniform quickly adapted to fit him. The boy was on his third hot chocolate, and he yawned as he sat in the overly large chair.
Around the table were the others. Joyce and the young woman named Ellen, who Marcus remembered from the Village, sat on one side. Victor
and Tom, father and son, sat across from them.
Marcus and Alex had listened to Joyce’s tale of her escape, and they, in turn, had shared with the others how they had fared during her time away from them.
Tom leaned forward, looked at Alex, and said, “So, you can speak any language?”
“Only if I hear some of it first,” Alex answered, yawning.
“And you can see the dead all the time, even when they don’t want to be seen?” Tom asked.
“Yup,” Alex said, smiling.
Tom grinned and looked at Victor. “Sound like anyone you know?”
Victor nodded. “We have a friend, much like yourself, Alex. He can speak any language he hears. He can see the dead, and, as you did with the young lady in the chapel, he can tear them apart when necessary.”
“He’s completely bald, too,” Tom added. “Lost all his hair one day when he was a kid. Sort of like your hair going white.”
“Cool,” Alex said. “He should come and visit us sometime.”
The room went silent. Ellen, Victor, and Tom looked at the boy with surprise.
“He’s right,” Joyce said. “We can’t leave here now. Our lives, they were erased.”
“Can’t you reverse it?” Tom asked.
“No.” Marcus shook his head. “Everything I had is gone. How am I to recover that? I am not a young man, and I suspect my life has been significantly shortened by my experiences here.”
No one argued the point.
“And,” Joyce added, “it looks like everything connected to this place has been left to us by this woman, Erica Schomp.”
“Definitely looks that way,” Ellen agreed. “I mean, maybe not legally, but hey, possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?”
“We could probably do something for Alex,” Victor said after a moment. “I had to, for Tom.”
“But I don’t want to,” Alex replied. He smiled. “I like it here. It’s nice. The dead listen to me, and Marcus is really smart. He’ll teach me whatever I need to know. Same thing with Joyce, she knows so much. Plus, Timmy’s here. I don’t want to leave him. The others, they like it, too. I have a lot of friends here. More than I ever had before.”
Tom shrugged and leaned back in his chair, grinning. “That sounds good to me.”
“I agree,” Victor said, smiling.
“Mind if I hang out for a while?” Ellen asked. “I kind of like it here, when no one’s trying to kill me or make me kill anyone.”
“I think this will all work out quite fine,” Marcus smiled. “There’s decades’ worth of food in storage here. By the time we’re even close to running out, I’m sure we’ll have established some connection in the nearby communities. However, we need to be alert. Worthe is still out and about, and while he cannot live forever, there is nothing to say he won’t return and try to tidy up his mess.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Alex yawned, rubbing his eyes. “If he shows up, I’ll kill him.”
No one in the room doubted the boy.
His innocence was gone.
His hatred was not.
Chapter 45: Healing the Heart
“How are you feeling?”
The question caused Abel Worthe to open his eyes, then quickly close them against the harsh sunlight streaming into the room.
“Ah, sorry about that,” a man said, and the light was suddenly dimmed.
Abel opened his eyes again cautiously, and he was pleased to find the light significantly less offensive.
“Can you sit up?” a woman asked.
“Of course I can,” Abel snapped irritably, his throat dry, his body aching. “Why wouldn’t I be able to?”
“You’ve had some severe shocks,” the woman explained, and finally, Abel focused on her.
She was a young woman, exceptionally pretty. Her red hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, an easy smile on her face.
“My name’s Lizzie,” she introduced herself, extending her hand. A gold ring caught his eye, and the metal felt cool and pleasant against his skin.
“Professor Abel Worthe,” he replied. “A pleasure.”
Movement on the left caught his eye, and Abel saw a large young man standing by the window. The window’s blinds, Abel noticed, were between the panes of glass.
“Professor,” Lizzie said gently, “we need to do a little more intake work on you. You were fairly well sedated when you arrived this morning.”
“Intake?” he asked. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the State of Connecticut’s Mental Health Clinic in Norwich,” she replied, still smiling. “You’ve had a few issues and your primary care provider, Erica Schomp, brought you here. She signed off on the paperwork this morning, but felt it would do you good to fill out some of the history paperwork on your own.”
“She?” Abel asked, furious. “She!”
The young man moved a step closer, and the door to the small room opened. Another pair of men stood in the doorway. Lizzie didn’t move.
Her smile didn’t even falter.
“Yes, she,” Lizzie said. “She told me you were having some episodes and thought it best if you were here while you came to grips with them. From what we know of the situation, we happen to agree with her.”
“What sort of treatment are you suggesting?” he snarled.
“We’ll play around, at first,” she explained seriously. “A little group therapy usually goes a long way. Then, individual therapy and physical therapy can work wonders. Medication, of course. Minor doses to begin with. Most brain chemical imbalances can be resolved with the bare minimum of medication and a solid regimen of mental and physical exercises.”
“You think I’m mad,” Abel snapped.
“Not at all,” Lizzie returned. “I think you have some issues you need to deal with. I believe working within the constructs of a regimented environment will enable you to do your best work. If you’re able to adapt to the program, I think you’ll be out of here in a matter of months.”
“Months!” he screamed, lurching out of the bed. “Months! Do you know the work I was doing? Do you have any idea as to the importance of it?”
“I don’t,” Lizzie replied, “but I feel certain it’s something we can discuss in group today.”
“You don’t understand!” Abel howled. He took two tottering steps toward Lizzie, and the orderlies were there. The three men restrained him easily, despite his flailing arms and kicking feet.
Lizzie smiled at him patiently and stood up. “Abel, I’m not going to sedate you right now. I think you’ve had enough in your system today. We’re going to leave, but if you give us a hard time, I will restrain you. The last thing I want is to see you in restraints, so, please, help us out and behave, just a little bit. Dinner is in two hours, and I would love to have you at least sit in with the rest of your group so you can meet them.”
Lizzie exited the room, and the three men deposited Abel gently on the bed before making a coordinated and strategic retreat. The steel door was closed behind them, the lock clicking loudly into place.
For several minutes, Abel sat, completely stunned. Then, his mind began to race, and he stood up, pacing about the room.
“No,” he said out loud, striding to the door and pounding on it with his hands. “This isn’t right! You’re lying to me! It wasn’t Nurse Schomp who brought me in. It was Subject B! Marcus Holt! That filthy dog did this to me! I should have killed him! Do you understand me?”
Abel shrieked and stomped back to his bed, flopping onto it and panting. Finally, when he had caught his breath, Abel lay on his back and started to chant.
“I hate you, Marcus Holt,” he whispered. “I hate you. I hate you, Marcus Holt. I hate you.”
Endlessly, he repeated himself. Soon, the room became cold, his breath coming out in thin streams of vapor as he shivered.
A woman appeared in the corner of his eye. She was battered and beaten, an image too horrific to look upon.
“Go away!” Abel screamed, squeez
ing his eyes closed. “Leave me alone!”
“Don’t you go hatin’ on Slim,” the ghost whispered, a cold hand wrapping around Abel’s throat. “Don’t you say anything about my Slim.”
Abel shuddered, and the dead woman squeezed.
* * *
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