The Smiley-Face Witches

by George Traikovich

  “What do we do?” Barnes repeated.

  “Take it easy. I’ll handle this,” Griffith said, and shuffled toward the Blue Berets.

  Barnes watched the animated conversation at a distance. They went back and forth, each man leaning forward to make their point. But the dialog turned into a monologue when Bell flashed the prerequisite paperwork.

  The sheriff ambled back, shoulders slumped.

  “That didn’t take long,” Barnes said.

  “Let’s go…”

  “What is it?” Barnes asked, “Terrorists?”

  “It’s none of our business, is what it is,” the sheriff said.

  “What are we gonna do?” Barnes asked, “This town’s our responsibility.”

  Griffith knew better than to stick his nose in matters beyond his pay grade, even if his deputy didn’t. “You’re right, this town is our responsibility.”

  “Then what are we gonna do?” Barnes asked.

  Griffith opened the patrol car’s door. “Mrs. Fletcher said some kids were messing ‘round back near her barn…”

  “What about the school?” Barnes asked.

  The sheriff climbed behind the wheel. “They’ll call us if they need us.”

  Captain Bell waited for the sheriff to drive away before initiating the forensics protocol. But he didn’t need the team’s report to tell him what happened. He’d seen this kind of surgical strike before—and it wasn’t terrorists.

  He dialed a preprogrammed number on his cell. “Colonel Runyon, I’m on site now…Affirmative…The blast profile is the same as the other school.”

  ***

  Drew limped across the deck in time to jump into the coaster’s last car before it started the next circuit.

  The Moonclipper breached the mist beyond the coaster’s highest point, bleeding helium from multiple wounds inflicted to its durable skin.

  Harley clasped his taloned hands together, bringing them down on the crescent moon like a sledgehammer.

  Drew leapfrogged from car to car, scrambling toward the front of the train as it climbed the coaster’s initial slope.

  Harley’s tail tightened around the crescent moon, but still the airship swam through the churning black clouds.

  Thunder shook the ancient coaster’s wooden frame but Drew struggled to his feet as the train reached the crest.

  He hoisted the prod and launched…

  Hit! The sharpened tip buried itself deep inside the airship’s rubber shell.

  Lightning arced out from the thunderhead and connected with the shaft.

  The jolt charged the airship’s skin, blasting Harley clear. The raging wind lifted him higher and higher until time ticked to a stop. But then gravity grabbed hold and pulled him through the swirling clouds below.

  Drew listened to the wind whistle through the coaster’s resonant architecture. He waited for the half-faced girl and she appeared beside him as the song started.

  She opened her mouth to speak but he couldn’t hear her over the music.

  She called him in closer and whispered in his ear…

  ***

  The drone of the chair powering down woke him from his dream. His eyes adjusted to the flickering fluorescent lighting and he realized where he wasn’t .

  “This ain’t my room,” Drew muttered.

  The dingy upholstery padding the ten by ten cell’s walls indicated abandonment, though not location.

  “How’d I get here? Was in the alley running from the G-Men…but then…but then…” He struggled to remember what happened next but the details blurred into a confused collage of sounds and images.

  Drew struggled to get up but couldn’t. The leather straps binding him to the chair’s wooden frame kept him from moving, though not from trying. The antiquated mechanism must have been reclaimed from some defunct penitentiary’s death row, repainted and repurposed to suit his captor’s needs, whatever they…

  “The chair…”

  He remembered the chair because he’d endured it once before, back in Bixby Elementary’s bomb shelter. The experience left him drained and disoriented, wiping out chunks of memory in the process while implanting recollections he’d never experienced before.

  But that was four years ago, and there could only be one man with reason to strap him in again.

  “Frost,” he muttered.

  ***

  The camera covered most of the grimy cell, though the dim lighting blurred the details. Drew struggled to rise before slumping back down into the chair and starting all over again.

  Colonel Runyon got up to adjust the monitor’s contrast but still wasn’t satisfied. “Can’t hear him.”

  Space was at a premium inside the cramped control room, so Doctor Jagger was careful where she set her mug. She lifted her chin out of her cardigan and turned the volume up a few notches. “Sounds like some kinda interference.”

  Runyon scowled. The black fatigues added another layer of menace to his already imposing frame, though the pastel beret tempered his hard edge. “Interference? We’re thirty feet down. What interference?”

  “Relax!” she huffed. She fiddled with the levels but only made it worse.

  “Still can’t hear him,” Runyon grumbled. He picked up the black landline and dialed his extension. The antique rotary model was a cold war relic and a security concession he insisted on, though Jagger didn’t see the point.

  She lit another cigarette. “Why’d you bring him in anyway?”

  “Had to.”

  “But why?” she asked.

  “Blue Beret Security wasn’t the only one out there looking for him…Yeah, get me tech support…”

  “You make the call?”

  “To bring him in?” Runyon asked.

  “Yeah…”

  “No.”

  “Did the client?”

  “Call it an executive decision,” he said. “Yeah…No…Tech support.”

  Runyon served at the client’s pleasure and she served at his, shooting the tracking chip into Drew when he showed up inside the ER as predicted. But following Runyon’s instructions didn’t mean she agreed with them. “How much longer is this gonna go on?”

  “What?”

  “How much longer are we gonna do this?” she said.

  He’d developed a pathological disdain for the civilian contractors the project required and would be glad to be rid of them. He was used to issuing orders and subordinates obeying them, something she resisted at every turn.

  “He’s a kid,” Jagger reminded him. “He’s got a breaking...”

  Runyon didn’t let her finish. “That’s what I’m counting on. I need to know what he knows.”

  She blew a smoke ring in his direction. “Pumping him full of psychoactive drugs won’t get you what you want.”

  “Sure it will,” he said, and turned his attention to the tech on the other end of the phone. “Yeah, this is control room six. Send one of your geeks down here.”

  Jagger grabbed one of the prescription bottles from the top of the console and read the label. “Ya know what the potential side effects for this one are? Gigantism.”

  She didn’t get a reaction, so she reached for another bottle. “This one may cause goldfish eyes…goldfish eyes? Don’t know what that is but it doesn’t sound good.”

  She grabbed another. “This one has a lot…including Lady-fingers.”

  “You made that last one up.”

  She showed him the label.

  “Just because it’s spelled the same way doesn’t mean that’s what it is,” he said.

  “Even I had to look some of these drugs up,” she said. “We don’t know what kind of long-term effects these drugs will have.”

  Her argument left him unmoved. “There’s worse stuff in the junk they’re eating and drinking. Read the label on a can of Red Bull, and then tell me something different.”

  “I have, and there isn’t.”

  He paused to collect himself. She’d developed a habit of provo
king him and he wasn’t going to let her win this time. “I know this kid. He’s a tough little SOB. He can take it, I promise you.”

  “You’ve got kids of your own don’t you?”

  “Two boys,” he said.

  “Take another look in there,” she said. “That could just as easily be one of your kids strapped to that chair.”

  Runyon’s tone softened. “Doctor, I sympathize, but you don’t know just how important this work is.”

  She didn’t know, but that was because they revealed only as much of the project to her as she needed to see. And all she could see was a kid scared out of his mind.

  The phone rang.

  She’d never heard the red hotline ring before. She thought they’d installed it as some kind of inside joke and didn’t think it was even connected. “You gonna answer?”

  Runyon picked up. “Control Room Six…No, their extension is 416.”

  She smirked. “You really need an unlisted number.”

  He hung up but the red hotline rang again.

  “Control Room Six,” Runyon said. “Yeah...Yes, this is him.”

  His change in tone signaled the rank of the voice on the other end of the line. She listened for a few seconds, watching his face for a clue as to what their next order was.

  Runyon hung up the phone. “Turn the chair to eleven.”

  The chair’s knob only went to ten, but Jagger knew what he meant. “That’ll cause long-term permanent damage. And we don’t know what kind of…”

  “Eleven,” Runyon repeated.

  She put out her cigarette and folded her arms against her chest.

  “Doctor, I’m talking to you…”

  “No…I won’t do it.”

  “You will,” Runyon said. “Doctor…”

  She waved him off. “Wait…you hear that?”

  “Stop stalling and…”

  “No!” she insisted, “listen…”

  The power inside the control room flickered on and off.

  He picked up the phone again. “Thought maintenance fixed all those fuses last week.”

  The lights inside the control room fizzled and detonated. Sparks blasted out from the exploding ceiling panels, bouncing across the tiled floor before burning out.

  Jagger’s face paled. “What’s going on?”

  Tremors rippled through the foundation, cracking the concrete and buckling the walls. Plaster particulates spraying from the weakening ceiling formed a toxic cloud threatening to choke them into submission.

  Jagger panicked. She’d never been in an earthquake and didn’t know what to do. “We gotta get outta here!”

  Runyon tried the door but it was jammed shut. “Don’t panic.”

  But she was a civilian, not a soldier, and couldn’t help it. She slid under the console and braced herself.

  The shaking stopped after a few seconds and an unsettling quiet fell over the control room.

  He tried the door again and this time it opened. “See? What’d I tell you.”

  She hated when he was right, but he wouldn’t be right much longer. A second later and the walls came down around them.

  CHAPTER 5

  They pushed through Mercy General’s revolving door and entered the tiled lobby, already bustling by noon.

  Denise rubbed her boots back and forth across the rubber welcome mat, scraping the slush away before unbuttoning her peacoat. “I hate hospitals.”

  “I know…me too. But it won’t take long,” Clementine promised. “And at least it’s warm in here.”

  “How’d you get stuck with this?” Denise asked.

  Clementine unzipped her jacket and took off her slouchy. “Volunteered.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Peck got me my internship at the station,” Clementine said.

  “How’s that going?”

  “Not as glamorous as I thought it’d be,” Clementine admitted. “Mostly picking up dry-cleaning and buying lottery tickets.”

  “Guess ya gotta start at the bottom before ya get your own reality show,” Denise said.

  “Reality shows are like the bottom,” Clementine said. “Over here.”

  They caught the volunteer working the front desk between bites of her sandwich. “May I help you?”

  While they’d seen each other around the neighborhood, they didn’t know each other by name, so Clementine snuck a glance at the name tag hanging from the girl’s extra-large pastel smock. “Which room is Mr. Peck in?”

  Carla jabbed at the keyboard with remarkable efficiency despite her extravagantly sculpted nails. “Peck…Ain’t nobody named Peck registered.”

  “That’s weird,” Clementine said.

  “Think he’s under another name?” Denise asked. “What’s his first name?”

  “Don’t know,” Clementine said. “Wait…Peter. I think it’s Peter.”

  Denise grinned, knowing she couldn’t help herself. “Peter Peck picked a peck of pickled...”

  Carla sipped her soda through a mouth that seemed absurdly small given the size of her head. “Y’all sure ya got the right hospital?”

  “Thought so,” Clementine said, but now she wasn’t sure. Mr. Peck left school by ambulance and Mercy General was the closest hospital. Where else would they take him?

  Denise showed Carla the get well card they’d brought with them. “We go to Central…He’s our teacher.”

  Carla’s disposition sweetened, her dull eyes coming to life. She held her hand up for a high-five and Clementine delivered.

  “Go Pugs,” Carla said.

  “Go Pugs,” Clementine repeated.

  “If he came in by ambulance, they mighta got the name wrong,” Carla whispered. “Happens sometimes when it gets real busy. Y’all can check with administration.”

  “Where’s that?” Clementine asked.

  “Top floor…Elevators are just down the hall,” Carla said.

  They’d only taken a few steps away from the front desk when Clementine felt her phone vibrate. She stopped to answer and wasn’t looking when the security guard brushed past her.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, but the rent-a-cop didn’t slow down.

  “What floor did she say?” Denise asked.

  “Top floor,” Clementine said.

  Denise hit the button and the elevator door opened. Clementine took a few halting steps forward but didn’t get in.

  “What?”

  Clementine turned sideways. “That guard…”

  “What do ya mean?”

  “He’s wearin’ a blue beret,” Clementine said.

  Denise hit the hold button and the doors slid back. “So? He ain’t even cute.”

  Clementine watched the stocky guard head toward the hospital’s West Wing. ‘Under Construction’ signs kept visitors from straying too far, which made his interest in the out of order section…curious.

  He pushed through double doors marked ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY,’ slyly looking over his shoulder every few feet to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He couldn’t have acted more suspicious without dastardly twirling his mustache, which in his case was attached to his not-so-dastardly neckbeard.

  ***

  Clementine lowered her surgical mask after passing the nurse’s station. Sorting through the laundry hamper for the scrubs almost sent her into a panic attack, but they needed disguises to get past security.

  Denise said something, but Clementine couldn’t understand her. “Pull your mask down.”

  “How’d I let you talk me into this?” Denise moaned. “Who knows what kinda cooties I got crawling all over me.”

  “Girls give cooties, boys get ‘em,” Clementine said, but Denise didn’t think it was funny.

  They pushed through the ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY’ doors and paused.

  “Where is everybody?” Clementine whispered.

  Not seeing any construction workers during a weekday afternoon seemed curious. And while the dim halls were quiet, they weren’t silent. She
could hear the faint mechanical cadence of machinery working.

  “That him?” Denise asked.

  The guard came out of Ward Forty-Two with his hand buried in his pocket. He parked in front of the vending machines next to the elevator, trying to decide what kind of candy bar he wanted.

  Clementine yanked Denise back into the door well out of sight.

  “Guess he’s alright if ya like older guys,” Denise said. “You gonna talk to ‘im?”

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Clementine said.

  The guard spent a few frustrating minutes folding and unfolding a dollar bill the machine wouldn’t take before leaving to find the correct change.

  “Hope that Zero bar is worth the hassle,” Clementine muttered, and when she was sure he was gone, entered Ward Forty-Two.

  ***

  The ward’s cracked plaster reflected the same general level of neglect afflicting the rest of the hospital, but aside from the uneven lighting, conditions seemed at least tolerable.

  “Twenty beds, twenty patients,” Clementine said. “Men and women, young and old. Nothing special ‘bout any of ‘em.”

  “Clem…”

  “What?”

  “Over here,” Denise said.

  Clementine joined her at Mr. Peck’s bedside. Seeing him laid out like the other patients didn’t shock her as much as it shocked Denise. But seeing him there at all puzzled her. “How come Carla said he wasn’t here?”

  “Who’s…”

  “The girl at the front desk,” Clementine said.

  Denise considered Carla’s motives before deciding there weren’t any. “Paperwork.”

  “What do ya mean paperwork?”

  “My mom works for a dentist…”

  “Yeah…”

  “They’re always losing patient files,” Denise said.

  “Losing files is one thing,” Clementine said. “Losing patients is totally something else.”

  They stood at his bedside in awkward silence for a moment before Clementine put the card on the night stand beside him.

  “Now what?” Denise asked.

  “Guess we pay our respects,” Clementine said.

  The absence of flowers piqued Denise’s curiosity. “He got family?”

  “No,” Clementine said. “His wife died a long time ago and they never had kids.”

  “How ya know all that?” Denise asked.

  “His Facebook page.”

  “Wonder what’s wrong with ‘im?” Denise asked.

  “He’s in a coma.”

  “Duh. But why?” Denise asked.

  Clementine grabbed his chart. “Subject number 31063423 Peck, Peter.”