The Fallen and the Elect

by Jerry J. K. Rogers

  Chapter 40

  “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight , thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one.”

  The orderly observed the disheveled patient in the corner lying on his side curled into a fetal position, taking a break from counting. Then the senior orderly just as muscular as his partner, walked over to stand next to his junior peer from the doorway of the large dayroom fascinated with the odd behavior of their charge. No other patients allowed in during this time; this one was their responsibility. This was interesting to both men because he didn’t seem to be a threat.

  The patient sneaked a glance up at the ceiling at the aged light-tinted tiles and continued counting, rocking incessantly on the floor. “One, two, three, four, five, six…ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one.”

  He paused again but the rocking continued. The patient’s upward glance made the orderlies think he might have been counting the ceiling tiles. When the younger of the two orderlies took a long look at the grid of ceiling tiles and did a quick count, the 20 by 30 segments didn’t add up to one hundred and one. So he dismissed the idea of some sort of autistic or psychotic episode. This was the first time he considered the patient to act distinctly peculiar. He typically performed in a way they didn’t understand, standing erect, hands to his side, and looking down at the ground. After standing still for several minutes, he would then raise his arms from the side, look straight ahead, then cower on the ground.

  “Is that all he’s been doing?” the older orderly asked. “Just counting like that?”

  “Yeah, he was quiet when I brought him up from his room. As soon as he got in here and I closed the security gate, he started counting. He’s been doin’ that for the last five minutes.”

  “He hasn’t said anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  “So why in the hell are they so interested in keeping this 51-50 isolated from the other head cases?”

  “It’s nothing you two need to be concerned about,” an alto voice with Hindi accent remarked from behind them. They both snapped their heads around to see a tall, thin Indian doctor with a metal clipboard. “It’s my job to worry about why we do things in here, not yours.” The doctor himself didn’t know why the patient was to be kept segregated from the general patient population, just that the order had been given.

  Walking up to the cross-patterned white gate separating the dayroom from the hallway with its flaking paint, and observing the man on the floor, the doctor glanced through several sheets of notes and charts as he walked away from the orderlies.

  “Uhh, Doc, whaddya want to do with our patient?” the younger of the two asked.

  “Don’t do anything, just keep an eye on him,” the doctor responded, still reviewing the paperwork on the clipboard to make sure there weren’t any changes to the patient’s medical orders. Stopping midstep, one of the forms caught his attention. “When did they bring him in?” he asked.

  “A few day ago.”

  “Well, looking here,” the doctor commented, puzzled, “I don’t see anything on his chart about him acting this way since he was admitted. He was disoriented and catatonic, maybe mumbling something every so often. Anything interesting happened that you’re aware of?”

  “Nope, we weren’t briefed on anything this morning. He just seems to go from quiet crazy to number-counting crazy,” the older of the two orderlies answered.

  “Wellllllll,” the younger orderly interjected, “down in the locker room during shift change, Bull told me that last night this wing lost power and that a weird light could be seen down the hallway from the security observation pen. That’s when our friend in there really started to flip out. Of course, no one could explain the light in his …”

  “How come this wasn’t recorded in the shift log? What time did this happen?” the doctor interrupted.

  “Around 9:30 last night.”

  Flipping aggressively through the sheets of paper on the clipboard, nearly ripping several in the process, he glowered at the orderly. “There’s nothing noting any change with our patient here.”

  “Kinda quiet up here, isn’t it?” Father Hernandez said as he walked up to the three men, unnerving the two orderlies unaware of his presence walking up to them. The Father, astonished by the silence on the floor, expected a considerable amount of activity from patients who were normally allowed to spend time in the dayroom. The only activity he could hear apart from the conversation of the doctor and two orderlies was that of the patient in the background counting.

  “Hello Padre,” the doctor returned. “I’d thought you’d be in a counseling group, in the south wing with the druggies and alchies.”

  The Father disregarded the doctor’s insensitivity, having already been warned about his character by other staff members. “My counseling sessions aren’t till this afternoon. I’m still trying to get a lay of the land. Anyway, I’m here for these souls, to aid those here who are suffering from the enemy’s vices that hold them.”

  “Whatever,” the doctor said as he rolled his eyes, thinking no one would notice. The other men did. The doctor focused his attention on the younger orderly. “The only thing here is the order to isolate our patient during his dayroom time. What happened?”

  “The evening security staff and Bull went down to take a look at why our friend in there had a weird, glowing, goldenish, dancing light coming from his room. At first they thought it was a fire, but the closer they got, Bull said all three of them started to notice a strong sweet smell. I don’t know, he said they couldn’t quite describe it, just smelled real flowery and...”

  “Smelled like what?” Father Hernandez asked, somewhat excitedly interrupting the orderly and considerably upsetting the doctor.

  “Padre, please,” the doctor responded, unsuccessfully holding back a display of irritation at the priest.

  “Go ahead and finish,” Father Hernandez continued.

  “Well, they ran down and when they got there, he said they couldn’t see through the window because the light was so bright coming from inside. When they tried to open the door, everyone swore they got a big static electricity shock. A few minutes later, power came back on, and the weird light was gone, and they were able to open the door again.

  “Didn’t the generator kick on or the battery-powered emergency lights?

  “Bull did say that was odd. Nothin’ else but the patient’s floor of the wing went dark. The rest of the facility didn’t experience any problems whatsoever.”

  “So what else happened at the patient’s room?” Father Hernandez asked.

  The orderly, himself irritated at being interrupted again, continued. “After getting into the patient’s room when the power came back on, and they could unlock the door without getting zapped, our boy over there was on the floor balled up, counting to himself. He didn’t say much of anything. When he did say something, they think it was like Gishal, Gishmal, or something like that.”

  “Gishmael
?” the Father asked.

  “Yeah, that could’ve been it.”

  “He didn’t say anything else? Where did he come from?”

  The doctor knew he needed to interject before allowing the orderly to answer. “Whoaaa buckaroo. You’re not entitled to that information.”

  “Look, I just want to find out ...”

  “Padre, he’s my patient as of the start of this shift and these two couldn’t release the information even if they wanted to.”

  “Well, can I at least talk to him to assess his spiritual state? It’s not against your rules to know his name, is it?” Father Hernandez inquired. He was pleased with himself for coming up with this option in attempting to maneuver around the doctor, who responded by curling his lips and grimacing.

  After a tense minute of quiet, the doctor finally commented. “We don’t know his name. He was brought to us by the police for evaluation. Go ahead and talk to him about your spiritual bullshit. Just make sure one of these guys is with you.”

  With that, the doctor left and Father Hernandez made his way to the gate that secured the dayroom entrance. The older of the two orderlies searched his set of keys and isolated the one needed. The gate was opened and all three men walked up to the patient still lying on the floor counting to one hundred one. Father Hernandez was about to kneel to attempt and ask a question when the younger orderly motioned for him to remain still.

  “You have a visitor,” the younger orderly commented, kneeling next to the patient and keeping a close distance to make sure the patient didn’t try to unbalance him.

  Looking up toward the orderly, the patient displayed a temporary semblance of lucidity while trying to have a long look at the person talking to him. Looking at the other two men, seeing the countenance of Father Hernandez and observing the collar around his neck, the patient’s face became pale. He tried scurrying along the tile floor away from the three men.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” the orderly said, reaching out attempting to arrest the movement of the patient, who skidded himself on the floor over to the windowed wall of the dayroom. “The good Father just wants to talk to you.”

  “Well I don’t want to talk to him,” the patient blurted out coherently, leaving the younger orderly astounded by the patient’s snap to mental clarity.

  “And why not?” Father Hernandez asked.

  “I know I should confess, but he told me not to worry about confessing to any man, penance has already been made and I have so much to conf… I didn’t know he would … all of them … one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight …”

  “Hey there buddy,” the older orderly barked. “The Father is still talking to you.”

  “Who told you not to confess?” the Father said, rocketing toward the patient.

  “We thought we were serving the greater good of man. I began to question if what we … deceived … the four who came … all one hundred and one …” A tear seeped out from the patient’s right eye as he looked up into the soft turquoise sky through the crossbar-covered window.

  The two orderlies moved in closer, interested in the patient’s comments. Father Hernandez concluded their presence would prevent him from finding out anything substantive.

  “You know what, could you two please give me some time alone with the patient?” he asked the orderlies.

  “Sorry Father, can’t do that,” the older and slightly stockier of the two responded.

  “I’m asking because there’s something spiritually distressing our friend here, and many times one is more than likely to open up without others around. And he mentioned confessing. That must be done one on one and in privacy. Please offer us that? Is either of you Catholic?”

  The younger one sheepishly raised his hand. After a couple of minutes presenting the two ward aides an impassioned expression to petition their empathy, they capitulated.

  “We’ll be back by the dayroom entrance if you need us.”

  “Thank you both.”

  Making sure both men fully departed from his vicinity, Father Hernandez continued. “My son,” he said in a soothing tone, kneeling down next to the patient, “I’m afraid you’re not making any sense. Please allow me to help you. What exactly are you trying to say?”

  The patient stared directly into the Father’s eyes. “They say I can be forgiven, but with what I helped to create, could there really be any forgiveness? That’s why they are all dead, because of me.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “All one hundred and one.”

  “What are you saying? All one hundred and one in Los Angeles?” Father Hernandez asked, remembering the number of those who died in the incident.

  The patient returned a look of disbelief. “No, they were the reflection of what was to come. He came to visit me you know. He told me one and his friends who seek why the angels have come. Are you him? If you are, he said what you do, can defend the chosen.”

  “Who, who are you talking about? Defend who?” Father Hernandez queried, becoming frustrated with the change in focus in the context of what the patient said.

  “Did you know the four who came to the lab already knew of Aurora, of its intent? Our helicopter patrol saw them walking in the desert to the lab. They brought them in, we interrogated them, our investigators couldn’t find any information on who they were. We were gonna test a prototype bug on them since they each were representative of one of the major races. I was the one to release it on them. I definitely had my hesitations realizing what I was about to do. They somehow knew and told me directly, my repentance will be rewarded and to leave right away and not to look back. Somehow I was able to leave without being caught. The four had said the other’s mind would be clouded.”

  “What four? What are you talking about? And what do you know about Aurora?” Father Hernandez needed to ask. Maybe the name was just a coincidence with no correlation to his earlier explorations.

  “Four in league with Abriel and Gishmael? It was Gishmael who came to visit me the other night.” The patient’s eyes glistened with the formation of tears. “He said all who remained were killed.”

  The Father’s eyes widened, his body shuddered from the revelation. Enthralled by the Father’s reaction, the patient grabbed the priest’s shirt to pull him closer to his own face knowing what he said was important. “Do you know of Aurora Father, know of its evil?”

  Father Hernandez raised his hand for the two orderlies to stop and not come over to provide assistance knowing they thought the patient was attempting to attack him. They both complied.

  “You’re talking of the clone child?” the Father whispered, thankful still to have isolated time with the patient.

  The patient’s facial expression showed he thought the Father should have been the one in the institution based on his question. “What are you talking about? I was talking about a virus. The child, that abomination, he was only half of what we were working on.”

  The conversation caused Father Hernandez to question why this patient was committed to the psych ward based on his apparent rational intercourse. Father Hernandez forgot the psychotic episodes he’d witnessed just prior to their discussion.

  “Wait a minute, what are you talking about?” Father Hernandez asked, continuing to whisper.

  “I’m talking about the work on Aurora I did down in Aguascalientes.”

  Father Hernandez felt an icy apprehension fill his veins. The name Aurora had made him extremely curious. Now for the stranger to mention the city of the first recorded deaths related to angels, a city he’d recently visited, was chilling. “What do you mean down in Aguascalientes?” he asked. “What happened in Aguascalientes?”

  The patient once again glared at the priest in disbelief. “I thought you knew Aurora? Our work was done on the outskirts of the city.”

  “You mentioned a virus. What were you working on?”

  “Something so … the intent … it was engineered to
attempt to kill as many racially pure Jews as possible, and those remaining would accept the child as the Messiah for their belief in him. Then all men would follow him; the miracle child finally able to bring all religions together.”

  “Do you know how fantastical this sounds?”

  “I’m not the one chasing angels. I’m surprised I’ve stayed alive this long,” the patient noted, upset. “They’ll find me. God may forgive; men do not.”

  The patient’s eyes glazed, he began his litany of counting from one to one hundred one continuously no matter how many times Father Hernandez attempted to interrupt him to probe for more answers. The orderlies, observing from the opposite side of the dayroom by the entrance, witnessed the conversation between the priest and the patient deteriorate to being one sided. They escorted Father Hernandez away from the patient for his own safety. The doctor returned from a couple of quick assessments on other patients down the hall as part of his rounds, checked on the status of the consultation between the priest and the dayroom patient, and noted it appeared to be complete. Hearing a simple bell sound from his smartphone, the doctor realized he had received a text message.

  “Well padre, it looks like our friend in there has a name. It’s Dr. Justin Cochrane. I guess he works for some company called Waterfall Medical Research. I guess some staff from E.B.G., Waterfall’s parent company, will be coming to pick him up.”

  Reflecting on everything said, Father Hernandez felt a yearning to tell someone about the conversation he’d just experienced. Aurora, Waterfall, Everest, Aguascalientes had all reemerged after he’d thought they weren’t of concern to him anymore. These were also the reasons he’d been sent to the desert of New Mexico. The problem was who he would discuss these new revelations with. He no longer wanted to mention the situation with his former mentor, Bishop Grielle. The Bishop had shown himself to be unreliable and untrustworthy. Without telling him why, the Bishop issued orders for him to report to New Mexico after squaring away all of his personal and Church matters. Father Hernandez didn’t trust his new administering Principal Bishop in charge of his newly assigned diocese and counseling center-support ministries. The Father considered him more of a poster boy for Machiavellian politics. After several minutes of contemplation, his two former associates came to mind: Sister Justine and Michael Saunders. He would attempt to call both, hoping he could get in touch with at least one of them.