Eliza.
I had known it, part of me had surely known it. There were only so many people alive in this world now, certainly only a few with the same tenacity to survive. She was an angel compared to these others though, her kindness and willingness to share and her wish to fondly remember the past was somehow a divine trait in this setting. The bottle of methadone shook in my hand.
“You,” she said when she came into the light, staring at me through puffy eyelids, her mouth a mass of blood and bruising. “Of course, you would be here.” The anger and bitterness in her voice was a knife into my heart. I dropped the methadone, somehow unable to keep a hold of it. The tall man tutted as I reached down, scrabbling in the dirty blankets to find it.
Bearded Jason slapped Eliza viciously on the side of her head. “Shut up slut, Vince here doesn't want a talker. That's why the doc's here, to make you feel a bit more receptive. Vince loves you, don't you Vince...”
I looked to the tall man, who I now knew was Vince. He had placed his knife on the floor and was breathing deeply, his eyes wide and fixed on Eliza as he once again ran his teeth over his top lip. He started to twist his body, pulling his clothes off, revealing a wiry torso, muscled but with folds of skin, obviously from sudden weight loss. Maybe he had forgotten to eat since he entered this new heaven of murder. The name Vince didn't carry the same pop culture connotations for me, as I coldly realised it must be his real name. He didn't even feel the slightest remorse at his actions; he had no need to hide behind a character. Hate bubbled within me, as my right hand slid into my pocket, my fingers opening and closing over the knife handle, in time with the heartbeat that was pounding in my ears.
Freddy and Jason pulled Eliza forward and onto the bloody sheets, wrestling her to the floor. She still fought, kicking her legs as wildly as she could, though I could tell she was tired and the fire was fading.
I balled my hands in front of my eyes, rubbing them hard in an effort to... what? To rid myself of the sight? To find myself back on the island, safe with those three? Yes, that was it, some part of me still longed for that ghostly existence, that simple time of scavenging, sleep and discussion, even if it had been fraught with tension. It had never been as bad as this. At that moment I would have rather been anywhere else, or been anyone else.
Vince pulled my hand away from my face, spitting words at me.
“Get up. Dose the bitch. I'm ready to fuck...”
My hand closed around the bottle... didn't it? No, my hand closed around... a wrist. I looked down in shock and saw a huge hand, strong and heavy, holding the knife, blade glowing yellow in the candlelight. Beyond it was an arm, buried in the sheets but pulling itself out, and beyond that, a head, covered in black, crawling... glorious spikes. All I had to do was pull.
At that moment, there was nothing I wanted to do more.
8
Purgatory
Marcus gave a guttural howl, his bellowing giving voice to all the hatred, fear and anger that was coursing through me. The knife pushed hard and fast into Vince's ribs, digging the flesh and forcing the tall man backwards. He screamed and fell sideways, scrabbling at the sheets as blood started to pump out of the vicious wound in his side.
Marcus pulled himself up to his full height, bearing his teeth wide, snapping them at the two men on the floor who had pulled away from Eliza and were struggling to get to their feet whilst diving for the weaponry spread upon the reception counter. The shock that flashed across their faces was a gleeful fuel to his fury. They started yelling to whatever other torturers were resident in the station, trying to bring all their force to bear upon this new threat.
Vince was reaching for his knife, but Marcus thrust his boot down hard, letting out a quick laugh as the man's fingers crunched under his sole. His red eyes were lit by fire, a furnace casting the room in a blood red light, windows to a hell that these devils deserved, rich with pain that they had so sadistically doled out to others. I watched with a mixture of horror and grim satisfaction as Marcus kicked out at Vince's face, the impact almost flattening the tall man's nose, causing a fresh groan of agony.
Jason and Freddy were now armed though, the bearded man with a sharpened garden fork and the youth with a butcher's cleaver and serrated combat knife. They were trying to circle around from either side, but the reception wasn't quite large enough for this to be effective. Their feet were catching on the sheets, as if the cloth was gaining some sort of minor revenge for the acts that had been perpetrated in its presence. Marcus stepped over Vince to stand in the middle of the men, taunting them to attack. He was still only wielding the small knife, but in his hand it may as well have been a sword. Raw power seemed to flow in his veins. The thick black spikes were reaching out from his face, grasping the air around him, reaching for violence.
It was obvious from their eyes that the two were trying to co-ordinate their attack for the same moment, but they were clearly more used to dealing with helpless prey. As Jason lunged – spittle flying from his bearded mouth as he thrust the garden fork forwards – Freddy stalled, still waving the weapons in front of him but not advancing. This hesitation made Jason pull up a little short, allowing Marcus to twist and grab at the shaft of the fork as it scraped his torso, before bringing his knife around and slashing at Jason's forearm. Jason fell back, stumbling on the cloth and letting go of the fork, clutching at his wrist as blood started to drip from the open wound. Marcus held onto the fork and turned, throwing it like a javelin towards Freddy. It was a sloppy throw, although Marcus' strong point wasn’t finesse but simply pure, unstoppable force. The fork turned in mid air, hitting Freddy across the arms and chest, making him drop the knife as he tried to stop it. Marcus charged forwards while he was off balance, throwing himself bodily at the youth and slamming his back into the reception desk. The blade of the cleaver, still held in Freddy's hand, bit into Marcus' shoulder. The pain of the wound didn't stop him though, as he wrestled his opponent to the floor, before driving his elbow down hard onto Freddy's face, twice, three times, brutally breaking his nose. Every time Marcus connected, the youth's head struck the floor with a crunch. Freddy's hands quickly went limp, dropping the cleaver.
The station was alive with sounds now, yells and calls from various corridors, and although there were still one or two screams audible it was clear that Marcus was now the torturer’s priority.
As Marcus turned from where he was crouched over the crumpled form of Freddy, he saw Eliza grappling with the legs of Jason, as the bearded man tried to kick her off with Vince's knife in his hand. I couldn't do any more than Marcus could so I watched helplessly as Jason landed a blow on Eliza's shoulder, causing her grip to weaken as she yelled in pain. She still held on though, fingers dug into his belt, resilient to the last. Jason started to twist so he was lying on his back, allowing him the chance to cut at her with the kitchen knife. He managed one slice, forcing Eliza to release him, before Marcus was upon him, thrusting the re-acquired garden fork forcefully down into Jason's chest. The shock of the blow stopped Jason dead, his arms twisting as he instinctively grabbed at the weapon, but he had nowhere near enough leverage to pull it out as Marcus used his boot to force it through his chest, cracking his breast bone and rupturing his heart. His breath bubbled in his throat as his eyes rolled back in his head. He convulsed as he died, the stench of his released bowels spreading throughout the room of slaughter.
Marcus let go of the fork as he heard footsteps running down the corridors. Putting a finger to his lips, he told me to be quiet before leaping over the still writhing Vince and ducking to the side of the reception desk, his hand closing around the handle of a vicious and rusty sickle that was resting on the counter. As the footsteps came around the corner I saw the barrel of Arthur's shotgun, held in the hands of a flabby man whose brow was beaded with sweat and whose corpulent, naked, pale body glistened with bright, fresh arterial blood, undoubtedly some poor soul the man had been... dealing with. He waddled past the desk, his spongy legs rubbing with each st
ep, before pausing in momentary shock at the sight of the fork standing in Jason's chest like some sort of violent totem. This moment of hesitation was all the advantage Marcus needed, as he sprung forwards from his hiding place, bringing the sickle down in a deadly arc and all but severing the fat man's right wrist. It hung from the remaining muscle and skin, squirting gouts of blood as his shriek echoed shrilly around the station. He fell backwards, releasing the shotgun as he fell, his throat croaking with sounds I'd never previously heard from a human being. Marcus picked up the shotgun and cracked it open to check it was fully loaded, before setting off down the corridor. I glanced back as I followed him, seeing Eliza still cradling her arm as it bled, but I had no time to help her yet. I had to follow this until its conclusion.
Marcus was raw, violent energy incarnate, moving from corridor to room to corridor, eliminating the plague. Two more, cowering in the fruit of their deeds, died under a hail of lead shot. When the shells were gone, a wild, blood soaked woman leapt from the shadows swinging a replica sword, which broke pathetically against a door frame as she swung it in the confined area. Marcus shattered the assailant’s face with the butt of the shotgun before shoving the remains of the broken sword through its owner's throat.
At last, the only one left was the nondescript man, who now seemed to represent everything that evil was capable of, but had somehow retained his human form. The deeds that he had committed, alluded to by the grisly remains that spilled out of his "workshop", were demonic beyond reason, yet this man had not grown horns and he did not bare cloven hooves. He was simply a man. His deeds were the deeds of a men, deeds that men had done before and may yet do again. This was the most terrifying thing of all.
Marcus swatted the man's attacks aside and knocked him into unconsciousness with one terrible blow, before dragging him to the fire escape door, opening it and throwing him outside, where the dead were still gathered, ready to consume him.
From the blood that was on the man's lips, it was no more than he had done to others...
The station was clear. The deeds were done. Marcus bowed deeply, stepped out of the fire escape and into the dead, closing the door behind him and leaving me to pick up the pieces.
I ran full pelt back towards Eliza, stepping past bodies, blood and sights I would never have imagined in my worst nightmares. I tried to put them all out of my mind and focus on the task at hand. There were three to save; three that must live.
Eliza had hidden behind the desk, in case Marcus had failed in his gruesome crusade. She gave a start when I turned the corner, scrabbling away from me with wide eyes, her hand clutched tightly over the cut on her arm, which was still slowly bleeding.
"Eliza, please, let me look at that wound," I said quickly, crouching down as near to her as I could without appearing aggressive.
"Is he gone?" she asked quietly, looking deep into my eyes with her her lips trembling, probably from adrenalin. I assumed she was talking about Marcus and nodded, before looking around at the shelves under the reception desk. I dug my way through magazines, paperwork, pens and boxes before finding a small first aid kit. I looked to the heavens instinctively, as if to give thanks, before composing myself. Had I believed in God in my days before the island? If I were to give thanks for such small mercies in this sea of violence, should I equally curse him for allowing this house of slaughter to exist? Or had Marcus been meant to cleanse it, an avenging angel with blood stained hands...
I opened the kit and pulled out a few sterile pads, antiseptic wipes and a roll of elastic bandage. Eliza still cradled her afflicted limb, but eventually pain must have overcome any fear and she released it, showing me the extent of the damage. I was careful, methodical and quick. I cleaned the wound, dressed it securely and packed the dressings I didn't use back into the kit to use later if necessary. Eliza was breathing a little more calmly now, though her eyes still followed my every move.
"I'll see to your eye... and cheek... later," I said carefully, not wanting to let her know just yet how aggressively swollen the wounds were. "First I have to get to the cells. There are others..."
She nodded, letting me help her to her feet. I grabbed the sports bag and we picked our way out of the reception and back down the corridors, through the crimson maze that this police station had become. When I spotted them, I broke into a jog, although I pulled up a little as I got closer. My stomach seemed filled with lead, as suddenly each step was a thunderclap, a harbinger of despair.
Arthur lay with his arm outstretched, cradling Dorothy's head. His body heaved with deep breaths that had probably started out as racking sobs, but had expended all their power as the truth of the unchanging nature of the situation had gripped him. He looked up as I approached, his face a true mask of despair, a living legacy to the lost moments, the thousands of days and tens of thousands of hours and millions of minutes and countless seconds that they had spent together and never would again. Dorothy was dead.
I stood there for... I have no idea how long. Time had long ago lost any meaning past the day and night cycle and in these shadowy corridors that simple measurement no longer held any relevance either. Eliza stood with me, her hand resting on my arm, the violence of the past forgotten in the face of this scene of tragedy. Yes, she had been old... older than Arthur by a good few years, from the look of her. Maybe in different circumstances she may not have lived much longer anyway, but it was clear from the expression of absolute, irreconcilable loss shown in Arthur's face that he would have given anything to have those lost moments with her.
I moved forwards, gently reaching over Arthur and feeling Dorothy's brow. It was already cold, indicating she had been dead for at least two hours, probably succumbing to the fever not long after I had left for the pharmacy. The fact that she had not returned from the dead indicated that I had been right, it had simply been an infection. I could have saved her, but after all of my efforts it had all been for nothing. There was nothing I could say now. I didn't want any words to fill this stillness, which was punctuated only with Arthur's ragged breathing.
We needed to leave. This place was secure, but it was a coffin, a microcosm of Hell within purgatory. I glanced at Eliza and indicated with my eyes for her to follow me. Dorothy was gone, but I had seen other shapes in the cells as I had first been led out, so maybe there were others.
The first cell I checked was empty, stained with patches of blood. Eliza sucked her breath in as we moved closer to it, a shiver running through her body.
"That's where they kept me. I can't believe it was only... it must have only been a day or two, but every hour, someone came, and..."
She shook her head, pursing her lips. She stood staring at the room, her eyes narrowed. I didn't want to know what she was remembering.
"I always fought back," she said firmly.
"I have no doubt about that," I said, gently pulling her away from the cell. I didn't want her to dwell on the past, not when it was so raw.
The other cell still contained two shadows, huddled in opposite corners against the far wall. The door was locked, but the keys were nearby, bunched on a keyring and resting on a chair for easy access should any of the maniacs have wanted entertainment. I unlocked the door pensively, not being able to really see any details of the two within. Eliza was equally careful, walking behind me and holding her injured arm to her chest. The room reeked, a disgusting mixture of different smells – sweat, waste and rot combining to fill me with nausea.
It soon became clear that the person on the left of the room was dead. It had been a woman with long black hair, aquiline cheekbones and slender limbs, twisted in a heap on the floor. It was hard to discern her age as she had been beaten beyond the physical limits of her body and left to rot. In some ways it was stranger to see a corpse that had no signs of movement, no hunger for my flesh. Her eyes were closed, that was the key difference. There was no gazing around, blindly searching for something. There was a sense of peace.
The other body was also relatively still, b
ut as I moved closer I could see colour in the skin. It was a young girl, around eight or nine from the size of her, huddled with her arms around her knees. Her hair was the same shade of black, but shorter, stuck together in ragged tufts as if it had been crudely cut. Her fingers were bloody, one or two of them looking severely bruised if not broken, clutched feebly around her bony shins. She was only wearing shorts and with her shoulders hunched I could see ugly welts from lashings that she had endured at the hands of her captors. There was no way of knowing how many other injuries of different kinds she had suffered during her time here. Her breathing was almost silent and I could tell from the slight tremor in her torso that she was staying quiet out of fear, pain, or both. I knelt down next to her, trying not to scare her, though from the way she tried to squeeze herself further into the corner it was clear my actions had the opposite effect.
"Don't worry," I said gently, trying to sound as non-threatening as I could. I wanted to tell her the worst was over, but there was no way I could promise such a thing, not in this world. I settled for some generic platitudes, hoping their familiarity would breed some sort of comfort. "You're safe now."
The girl didn't move, but I didn't blame her. A morbid suspicion was crawling into my mind, with Cato creeping out of my collar and voicing it, low and reedy into my ear.
"Look at her hair, then look at the rot sack in the opposite corner. Very similar, no? Can you imagine sitting here as your mother lies dead across from you for... how long? Come on, you're the doctor, how long?"
"Three days at least," I said quietly, my soul cold.
"Three days, yes," continued Cato. "All of that time you were helpless, too small, too young to help her, to save the one person you have left. Clearly we can now be sure that this infection is definitely not airborne, otherwise she would have risen. No, it must surely be spread by bite, or scratch... interesting. A worthy sacrifice, to give us this information..."
Heal the Sick, Raise the Dead Page 15
