by Ron Ripley
Then Timmy’s attitude soured as he reflected on what had been said in the conference room.
They called Amir’s death a minor hiccup, Timmy thought.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned away, walking angrily towards the small Quonset hut he shared with David.
Amir was my friend, Timmy thought with mounting fury. His death wasn’t a minor hiccup. Not by a long shot.
Breathing heavily through his mouth, Timmy wondered if there was anything else he could do for Subject B.
Chapter 36: Alone and Depressed
They had taken their pick of the supplies left for them. Fresh fruit and vegetables, canned soups and meats. Even cookies and a variety of sweets. Blankets and fresh clothes, all properly sized and labeled for Subjects B, C, and D, and even extra salt. The last had come with the broad, flourishing signature of Abel E. Worthe.
Marcus sat alone at the far end of the cemetery. Alex and Maggie were in the chapel, both sleeping the last time he had checked. Marcus was weary after a long discussion about ghosts and the brutal realities of the Village.
The boy’s mind was remarkably flexible, accepting the reality of ghosts as if acknowledging the existence of the sun.
Marcus chuckled at the memory, then glanced over at the chapel.
They will sleep well, Marcus mused. They’re exhausted. This has been too much for them. And soon, soon it will be dark. We’ll all have to sleep then.
Marcus drew out his pipe, packed it and lit it. He enjoyed the sweet flavor of the tobacco and ruminated upon the statement made by the man who had delivered the child.
Is he an ally? Marcus wondered. Or is he another aspect of Worthe’s grand design?
The bitter, angry portion of himself wanted to condemn anyone connected with Worthe, and perhaps the stranger deserved such condemnation.
Regardless, Marcus thought, getting to his feet and putting his hands in his pockets. The man took a risk to give me tobacco. I suspect he might have made certain that Alex’s book went along with him. It’s not like such people to miss something as glaringly obvious as a paperback novel tucked into a child’s pocket.
As he walked, Marcus’s thoughts returned to the large supply drop that had been left for them. That, more than anything, drove home the fact that Abel Worthe had no intention of allowing them to leave the village alive.
Should we survive, Marcus thought. All or only one, we’ll not walk out that gate. One of his men will put us down with as much compassion as they might a sick dog. Then into a grave we’ll go, and Worthe will be on his way.
The realization that this was his fate, one that he shared with Maggie and the boy, dragged at Marcus. A sense of defeat and doom settled about his shoulders, and he struggled to shrug it off, to try and think of some way out of the situation they were in.
Nothing presented itself.
Marcus found himself walking toward the wrought iron fence, the guard in the closest tower turning to watch him.
He gave the unknown man a casual wave and continued on his way, keeping himself at least three feet away from the barrier.
They won’t kill me, Marcus thought, drawing deeply on the stem of the pipe and releasing a cloud of smoke into the darkening night. I’m fairly certain about that. At least not yet. Worthe has invested far too much in this experiment of his. Oh, he would find replacements if necessary, but I don’t think that would be his first instinct. He seems too smug. Too pleased with what I’ve done.
It took Marcus a full minute to realize there was a guard keeping pace with him on the opposite side of the fence.
“Hello,” Marcus said tiredly.
“How’s the tobacco?”
Marcus stumbled slightly with surprise, turned to look at the man and heard him hiss, “Keep your eyes forward, soldier. The Boss may not have audio in this area, but he has plenty of cameras. And don’t think those guards in the towers are bored. They’re paid to watch, and well paid at that.”
Marcus kept his eyes forward.
“When we get to the next tower,” the man continued, “we will not speak, not until we’re a good 20 meters beyond it. Understood?”
“Yes,” Marcus replied.
“Good.”
“I’ll ask the obvious question,” Marcus said. “Why are you helping us?”
“You,” the man replied. “I am helping you.”
“And the boy?” Marcus asked.
The stranger’s voice took on a strained note, even through the constraints of the mechanical sound of his speaker. “The boy needed his book. We took everything else away from him.”
“It was you who put my pipe and smoking accessories in the room?” Marcus already knew the answer.
“Yes,” the man replied.
“Why did you do it? Weren’t you taking a risk?” Marcus asked.
“Perhaps it was a risk,” the stranger said. “Perhaps it wasn’t. I saw your lighter. The unit number on it.”
“Ah,” Marcus said. “And you were a soldier?”
“I was,” the man responded. “For a long, long time. And there was another reason.”
“What is that?” Marcus asked, but he had to wait for the answer as they came upon another tower. They were far from the chapel and the graveyard. The village was still visible, and the lights were coming on along either side of the single street.
The two men passed the tower, reached the appropriate distance, and the stranger stated, “You killed my friend. He would have wanted you to have it.”
Marcus felt a chill pierce his spine. “You were there?”
“It was my team,” the man continued. “You injured two, killed Amir, and you would have had me if your scissors hadn’t gotten stuck.”
“Yes,” Marcus said, nodding. “I certainly would have.”
They were silent for a short distance, then Marcus said, “I never would have made it.”
“No,” the stranger agreed. “There was a secondary team in place. And a tertiary as well. We do it well, or we don’t do it at all.”
Marcus gave a snort of understanding.
They passed another tower, and when they were clear, Marcus asked, “So, what happens now?”
“I don’t know,” the man replied, and Marcus suspected there was bitterness in the stranger’s voice. “I don’t like where this is going. But, to be honest, I’m not sure what, if anything, I should do about it.”
Marcus didn’t ask to be let out. He knew it would be a foolish question, and it might damage the tentative relationship he had with the man.
“Well,” Marcus said after a moment. “Perhaps if you could keep an eye out for items you think we might be able to use in order to make our stay at least a little more bearable, perhaps that would be enough.”
“I think I can do that,” the man remarked. “Be well, Marcus. Walk again tomorrow evening. I will be on watch.”
With that said, the man strode off, and Marcus turned to follow the fence back to the cemetery.
We are not as alone as I thought, he realized.
He smiled, relit his pipe, and walked on.
Chapter 37: The Morning and Alex
“What are you doing?”
Marcus started at the sound of the boy’s voice, and he was surprised to see the child standing in the doorway of the chapel. Alex yawned, rubbed his eyes and scratched the back of his head. He smiled shyly at Marcus and stepped out, careful of the salt.
“It’s early,” Marcus said, straightening his back and trying not to wince at the sharp pain between his shoulders.
The boy nodded. “Just after sunrise.”
“Very good,” Marcus said, smiling. “Well, in answer to your question, I am attempting to make a box.”
“Out of wood?” the boy asked, stepping closer.
Marcus shook his head. “No. Out of the liner.”
He held up the battered lead liner he had torn out of the drawer from the corner hutch.
“What type of metal is that?” Alex asked.
Alex nodded. “I read that in Victorian England, a lot of people died of lead poisoning. Some from the pots and pans they used, but most of them were young people. They worked with lead glass, and others worked as scribes. They were poisoned to death.”
“That, young man, is absolutely correct,” Marcus said, beaming at the child.
Alex blushed and sat down beside him. Without touching the metal, he asked, “How are you going to make a box?”
“The lead is malleable. Do you know what that means?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, you can bend it and stuff,” Alex said.
“Exactly,” Marcus said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Well, this lead was part of a drawer. The purpose, I suspect, was to serve as a wine holder. Enough to keep a bottle pleasantly chilled in a time when refrigeration was not always available. Anyway, that is neither here nor there. What is important is that we have the lead. So, I hope to bend and beat the damnable material into some sort of box-like shape, fashion a lid, and well, work from there.”
“Why?” Alex asked.
Marcus smiled at the boy. “Do you remember our conversation about ghosts yesterday evening?”
Alex nodded.
“Excellent,” Marcus said. “Now, ghosts are obviously difficult to overcome.”
“Yeah,” the boy grinned. “They’re already dead.”
Marcus chuckled and nodded. “That would be correct. But, it can be done.”
“And that’s what you’re doing now?” Alex asked.
“Exactly. Now, there are only two ways to hold a ghost. At least that I know of,” Marcus said. “The first is with salt. A large amount of salt, and only then if the ghost happens to inhabit a small item. This holds true for a container made of lead as well. I am hopeful that I can create the lead box, fill it with salt, then put the item the Reverend has attached himself to, into the salt and hammer the lid closed.”
“What if the ghost is part of a house?” Alex asked. “What would we do then?”
“I am not sure,” Marcus replied. “I’m hoping that this is not the case.”
“Oh.”
A silence fell over them, and Marcus pushed the unpleasant thought to the back of his mind. “Anyway, Alex. Are you hungry?”
The boy’s stomach growled in response and Marcus chuckled. “More eggs?”
“Yes, please,” Alex said happily.
For the next few minutes, Marcus went about the pleasing task of making breakfast for the child. When he finished, he handed the boy the salt and pepper, and a plate piled high with scrambled eggs.
Marcus winced at the amount of seasoning Alex put on his breakfast, but he saw the crooked shape of the boy’s nose and realized there was nothing wrong with what the child was doing.
Suddenly, the boy’s face went pale, and Marcus jerked his head around.
Elaine stood a short distance away, nervously wringing her hands in front of her.
“It’s alright,” Marcus said in a soothing tone, “she’s a ghost. She means us no harm.”
“How do you know?” Alex whispered, his empty hand hovering over his plate.
“She is as much a prisoner here as you and I,” Marcus answered. To the dead woman, he said, “Please, Elaine, come and sit with us. This is Alex. Alex, Elaine.”
Marcus watched as the boy set the plate down, brushed his hands off on his pants and stood up. Alex offered her a bright smile, and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Elaine’s face brightened, and she drew forward several steps.
“Sit down, Elaine, join us, please,” Marcus said cheerfully. “Today is looking as if it might be quite fine.”
***
Maggie shuddered when she saw the dead woman sitting across the small campfire from Marcus and Alex.
How can they sit there with her? she wondered. It didn’t matter that the ghost had helped to save her. Ghosts had put Maggie in this situation, to begin with.
She’ll just kill them, Maggie thought. I know she will. She’s just as evil as the triplets.
She stood up, pulled on the flannel coat that had been left for her the previous day, and began to bite at her thumbnail. There has to be a way out of here.
The idea had dominated her thoughts when she had gone to sleep the previous evening, and it had been the first to cross her mind when she awoke in the sleeping bag that still smelled of a store.
They wouldn’t buy all this if they didn’t want us to make it out of here, Maggie rationalized. We’ll have to figure it out.
She paced back and forth in the chapel, half-listening to the conversation in the graveyard.
What if they don’t want us all to make it out? She bit down hard on her nail and tore a small piece of it away, spitting it onto the chapel’s granite floor. What if they only want one of us to escape?
Maggie glanced at Marcus and the boy.
Marcus had risked his life to save her, and the boy deserved to be free of such a place.
So do I, she thought bitterly, taking up her pacing again. She began to work on the thumbnail of her other hand. I know it’s only one person. One person willing to take the risk. This isn’t about fear. Not like Marcus said. This is about who gets out of here alive.
And that’s going to be me.
Maggie stepped out of the chapel, smiled nervously at the others and began to walk toward the fence.
“Where are you going, Maggie?” Marcus asked conversationally.
“Out for a walk,” she replied. “Settle my stomach a little.”
“Do you want coffee?” Marcus asked. “I was going to put on a fresh pot.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” she said over her shoulder. “I won’t be long.”
“Do you want to bring the iron chain with you?” Marcus asked, a note of concern entering his voice.
She shook her head. “No need. I’ll be fine.”
He said something else, but Maggie wasn’t listening. Instead, she walked straight for the fence.
Chapter 38: A Pleasant Distraction
Abel paused a moment, rubbed his eyes and smiled ruefully at the slight tremor in his right hand.
A little too much writing? he thought, looking down at the notes scrawled across the pages of his journal.
He sighed and tried to gather his scattered thoughts. It was enjoyable, watching Subject B interact with the others, especially the Reverend’s dead wife and Subject D. Subject C was an interesting case. She had seemed on the verge of a breakdown earlier.
At least that’s what her eyes were telling me, Abel thought. I imagine that a push, perhaps a gentle nudge, might send her into the direction I would like to explore a little further.
He let the idea turn over in his mind, and he felt as he did when he was a young man and puzzle cubes had become all the craze. In his mind, Abel grasped the faint idea he had and twisted and pulled, pushed and prodded. He stretched the idea, probed the deep recesses of his own mind, and then seized upon the thought he had been chasing.
He smiled.
Time, he thought, chuckling, waits for no man.
His chuckle ended abruptly as a fresh ache raced through his body, accompanied by the unsettling tremor in his hand. Abel hoped the tremor would pass soon, not only because it inhibited his ability to write his thoughts down coherently, but for a far more practical reason.
The door to his office opened, and he shook his head. Think of the Devil, and the Devil appears.
“Professor,” Nurse Schomp said, frowning as she came into view, “you’ve not touched your breakfast, sir, nor have you taken your vitamins.”
Abel glanced down at the breakfast laid out on the small table beside him and offered her an apologetic smile.
�
��You know,” Abel said, sitting back in his chair, “you are the only one I will take such remarks from.”
She looked at him with an arched eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. “You, sir, are the type of man who needs a firm hand in regards to his health. Otherwise, you would sit in that chair, writing your book and ignoring the rest of the world. Soon enough, you’d find yourself dead and working on a book that can’t be finished. And you do want to finish it, don’t you, sir?”
The last remark caused him to straighten up, any exhaustion he felt being forced out by a jolt of adrenaline that pumped through his system.
“You are absolutely correct,” Abel said. “I won’t be able to finish the book if I’m dead, so I suppose we best get on with this business.”
“Indeed, sir,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. She set her bag on the table, opened it, and took out the tools she needed to ply her trade. “If you won’t eat your breakfast, we’ll get your blood drawn today rather than tomorrow morning.”
Abel closed his eyes and thought, How much blood will she take today?
No matter, he thought, so long as my work can be finished.
Abel heard the snap of a latex glove and waited.
There was work to be done.
***
David was always amazed at what money could do.
With the right amount, it seemed as though anything was possible, and the delivery truck pulled up at the professor’s residence proved the point.
“What do you think of my idea, David?” the professor asked.
David glanced at the smaller man and shook his head, a faint grin of mystification on his face. “I’m really not sure, sir. I know that if you think it will work, then it will. But I would never have thought of it myself.”
“You, my stalwart captain,” the professor said with a chuckle, clapping him on the arm, “are a soldier, through and through. You understand my experiment?”
“Understand it?” David shook his head. “I know what’s going on, and what you expect to gain from it, but I don’t understand it. As we used to say, that’s above my pay grade. I only know what I can do, which isn’t much, and what those beneath me can do, which is a hell of a lot less. Pardon my language, sir.”
