Infernal: Emergence

by Ricky Fleet

  “You think my power might be evil?” Malachi still felt the dark taint.

  “It’s all relative, man. Power is power. If you use it to do ill, then it becomes evil. If you use it to protect people, then it is good. The choice is in your hands,” Des explained.

  “I guess that makes sense,” Malachi replied. If he had ultimate control over the forces rather than the forces controlling him like a puppet, he could help people.

  “What are you grinning at? A minute ago you had a face as miserable as sin.”

  “Sorry, Des. Just imagining that I may be able to use this for good like you suggested. If I can ever figure it out.”

  “Tomorrow I make the call. Come and see me in the afternoon and I will take you to see my friend.”

  “Thanks, mate. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Malachi said, hugging the huge, dreadlocked Jamaican.

  “Don’t thank me. If you have powers I’m going to use you as security for the bar,” he laughed, “I’d never have any trouble again.”

  They entered the bar to another round of applause and more back patting. The only difference was the food was gone and the congratulations were a great deal more slurred than earlier. Chloe jumped from the booth and kissed him, softly at first but quickly developing into a more passionate clinch.

  “Get a room you two,” Kevin made a gagging sound.

  Chloe laughed straight into Malachi’s mouth, ending the contact in fits of drink fuelled giggles.

  “You’re just jealous,” Malachi teased, reaching down to plant a sloppy kiss on Kevin’s lips.

  “Eww, get off you wrong’un,” Kevin spluttered, pushing him away.

  “Don’t even act like you didn’t enjoy it,” Laura teased.

  “He could have had a shave first,” Kevin complained with a grin, “I’m going to get stubble rash now.”

  “It won’t be the worst rash you have ever had, you dirtbag!” Malachi laughed.

  “I was young and single. There’s no law says I wasn’t allowed to have some fun.”

  “There is now, my law,” Laura said sternly.

  “Sweetie, you know I only have eyes for you,” Kevin declared.

  “Yeah, right. That’s why you’ve been eyeing up that blonde at the bar for the past half hour,” she fired back.

  Kevin pulled a shocked face, “I can’t help it if she is in me eye line, can I?”

  “Your eye line is that way,” Laura pointed at the opposite side of the booth, “You have to crane your neck to even see her!”

  “You know I get a stiff neck if I don’t exercise it. I was just making sure I didn’t seize up so I can drive you home safely with a full range of movement,” Kevin explained with a straight face.

  “You are so full of shit,” Laura giggled, pushing him in the shoulder.

  “You know I’d never cheat on you, babes,” said Kevin, leaning over for a kiss.

  “Get a room you two!” Malachi shouted out, much to the amusement of the other partygoers.

  “So, what are your plans tonight, my little lovebirds?” Kevin inquired.

  “He will be coming home with me where we will get to know each other more intimately,” Chloe said, stroking his leg under the table

  “Be gentle with him, he’s only just come out of hospital,” Kevin chuckled.

  Malachi’s mouth was dry and he could only grin stupidly. If he had tried to talk it would have come out as a croak.

  “I can’t make any promises,” Chloe giggled.

  The front door crashed against the wall where someone slammed it open. Everyone turned to scowl at the noisy intrusion as seven men poured in.

  “Hey, be careful. What the fuck is this all about?” Des shouted, coming from behind the bar to see what was going on.

  Dr. Llyod looked around the room, flanked by four burly men in white hospital uniforms and with two police officers to the rear. Seeing Malachi, recognition and relief pinched his features.

  “That’s him, that’s the one!” he ordered and the four orderlies pushed through the crowd.

  “What’s this all about?” Chloe asked.

  Malachi was dumbfounded, “I have no idea, but that’s Dr. Llyod. He’s the psychiatrist I am seeing to help me get over my dreams.”

  “It doesn’t look like he is here to help now,” Kevin growled and put himself between the four men and his friend.

  “Get out of the way, sir. This doesn’t concern you,” grunted the biggest of them.

  “I think it does. What the fuck do you want with my friend?”

  “Your friend has to come with us right now or there will be trouble,” he threatened.

  “I don’t think so,” Kevin said, squaring up to the man.

  Malachi stood and called to Dr. Llyod, “What’s this all about, Kenny? I thought we had arranged a visit for next week?”

  His manic eyes and sweat drenched brow did not belong on any rational professional and what had earlier seemed a friendly face was now something to be feared. Something was very wrong here. The nurses, for that’s what their identification badges showed them to be, were losing patience. Every time they would try and reach for Malachi, Kevin would block their arm.

  “You have to come with us, you are a danger to all these people and yourself,” Dr. Llyod ranted.

  The crowd started to jostle the men, reminding him that Malachi was a hero.

  “Where’s the paperwork then?” Desmond demanded, confronting the doctor. “You can’t just grab people off the street like soviet Russia.”

  “As a trained psychiatrist, I assure you I am correct in my diagnosis. That man has a history of violence and shows psychotic tendencies. His terrible dreams are a manifestation of his desire to maim and kill,” Dr. Llyod babbled.

  “That was meant to be confidential!” Malachi shouted furiously.

  “See,” the doctor remarked to the crowd, “Prone to uncontrollable anger.”

  “Go fuck yourself, I’m not going anywhere with you,” Malachi replied.

  “Oh I think you are,” growled the head nurse, trying to push Kevin to one side.

  The atmosphere was already charged but at the contact all hell broke loose. Kevin ducked away from the meaty hand, rolling underneath it before throwing an uppercut. The crack carried throughout the whole bar and the big man fell back, his broken jaw lolling. The two policemen were wrestling with Desmond, and Malachi used his body to shield Chloe and Laura from the danger. The nurses had underestimated Kevin and each time one would try and take him down, another punch opened up their faces. Four more nurses barged through the entrance, making eight beefy men for a single man. Malachi’s mind was suddenly clear and he knew what had also confused him. The nurses had far more in common with a group of mercenaries he had seen on a documentary. Scarred and tattooed with dead eyes from the horror they had witnessed or perpetrated.

  “You’re not medical staff, who the fuck are these people?” Malachi shouted at the doctor.

  Kevin had finally been taken down and thrashed on the floor. Laura screamed her rage and threw herself into the fray, raining kicks and punches on the dazed nurses.

  “You have to come with us, Malachi,” pleaded the doctor, “Please don’t let anyone else get hurt.” The implied threat was enough.

  “Ok, call off your dogs and I will come with you. Let my friends go. Now!”

  “Malachi, you can’t,” Chloe whispered fearfully.

  “I have to,” he replied, reaching down and squeezing her hand, “It will all get sorted, I promise.”

  “Ok,” agreed Dr. Llyod and the men carefully released Desmond and Kevin.

  The four new arrivals took hold of Malachi and guided him towards the door. Kevin was still facing down the other group and the head nurse stepped forward.

  Words garbled by the sagging jaw, he said, “I’ll see you again.”

  “Come and find me when you can take a punch,” Kevin laughed dismissively and his men dragged him away before he could be hurt further.

&nb
sp; Desmond was already dialling on the phone and called out, “Don’t worry, Mal. I won’t let the bastards get away with this, you’re all going to lose your jobs!”

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” said one of the policemen as they exited.

  “Fuck your cooperation,” shouted Chloe, pushing towards the bar.

  Everyone gathered around to hear the one-sided conversation.

  “Police… Yeah, I want to speak to whoever is in charge… I don’t care if this is a call centre, put me through to my local station… You can’t help, just put me through… Thanks…” he cupped the receiver, “They are just putting me through to the Metropolitan Police.

  Chloe was sobbing and Laura did her best to console her, “Don’t panic, we will have him back in a jiffy, sweetheart.”

  Desmond held a hand to quieten the crowd, “Yes, I want to report two of your officers and find out why the hell they assaulted me to facilitate the kidnap of one of my dear friends… My name is Desmond DeCosta… As I explained, two of your officers, badge numbers 3226 and 6701 came into my bar and assaulted me… Why? Because I wouldn’t allow them to kidnap my friend without showing me any paperwork… His name is Malachi Alderton… No, they were accompanied by eight men dressed in hospital whites, and a Dr. Llyod who is a psychiatrist… They claimed that Malachi was a danger and he needed to accompany the doctor. Now I know bullshit when I hear it and the amount of muscle they brought with them was totally over the top… No, as I said before, they showed me no paperwork, just started to rough myself and my customers up until he went with them willingly… No that’s not the end of it, he only went with them willingly so that no one else got hurt. I want to know where he has been taken so I can contact my solicitor… Yes, I’ll hold.”

  “What’s going on?” Chloe asked.

  “The sergeant is just checking the database to see what facility he is being taken to. As soon as I mentioned the solicitor he was a bit more helpful.”

  “Yes, hello… Of course I am sure about the badge numbers, they were an inch from my face when they were trying to wrestle me to the floor,” Desmond explained. His face changed from angry to bewildered before the conversation continued, “But that’s just not possible, these guys were in their thirties at most. Shaved heads, thick set from working out… Ok, I’ll wait by the phone, but for fuck sake, please hurry.”

  A hush of apprehension fell over the bar as he slowly replaced the phone.

  “What’s wrong?” Chloe tried to ask while chewing on her knuckle in dread.

  Desmond took a few moments to compose himself before speaking, “The badge numbers are obsolete; the officers they belonged to retired last year and were both in their late fifties. There is also no record of an operation involving a Dr. Llyod from the mental health service.”

  “What does it mean?” Kevin asked.

  “It means they weren’t real police, and they have no idea where Malachi is being taken,” Desmond replied vacantly, mind reeling.

  Chloe broke down completely and fell to the floor.

  “What are the police going to do?” Kevin demanded.

  “They are coming to take statements and will send a car to Dr. Llyods address. Did anyone see the vehicles they left in?” Desmond asked the crowd.

  “There was one police car and two private ambulances. Not like the ones which attend emergencies, more like patient transports,” explained a young woman who had been stood by the front window.

  “How will they find him?” asked Laura, cradling Chloe as she wept.

  “I have no idea. I think we may need some help,” he admitted, taking out his mobile phone and dialling. “Legacy, we need you and your boys, Malachi has been taken. I’ll explain it all when you get here, but make sure you come locked and loaded, whoever they are, they mean business.”

  Desmond ended the call and stared at the wall phone, willing it to ring with good news. The green plastic mocked him with its silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The drummer finished with a flourish and an audience of ghosts cheered their appreciation. Gordon Franken smiled and leaned back in the leather recliner, basking in the glory years of jazz. A saxophonist blew the first chords of Moment’s Notice, the next song on a John Coltrane album that he adored. Music was infinitely more enjoyable back in the fifties and sixties than the awful modern hullabaloo. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself sat at a table in the front row of Manhattan’s Jazz Gallery Club. The hazy atmosphere of cigarette smoke giving the world famous quartet on the stage a spectral quality. Gordon was totally lost in the moment until the shrill din of the smoke alarm ripped him from the bygone era.

  “Oh, my goodness!”

  Rushing into the kitchen, the bloated silver foil of the popcorn dish had ruptured and the kernels were ablaze on the stove. Twisting the lever on the tap, cold water flowed into the sink, and using a cloth, he quickly tossed the fiery contents into it with a clatter and a hiss. Steam carried the stench of charred corn and Gordon shook his head with amusement. This was the second time it had happened this month.

  “No more jazz during popcorn preparation,” he told himself while wafting another cloth across the tripped detector.

  In a few seconds the clamour of the alarm stopped and he opened the window to air out the stinking room. Once the pan had cooled he wrapped and binned the blackened popcorn packet and wiped it dry. Igniting the burner again, he set another portion of buttered popcorn to heat through. For a moment he considered returning to listen to another song.

  “Don’t be a fool. That’s what got you into this predicament in the first place,” he warned himself.

  Giving the pan a final shake, the last kernels popped and he carefully poured the contents into a glass dish. Taking a bottle of popcorn butter, he looked around guiltily and drizzled the yellow liquid over the steaming treat. Life was far too short to worry about cholesterol, he thought with a grin. He patted his thin stomach and thanked his fast metabolism for hiding the evidence of his overindulgences. God forbid his colleagues or patients finding out about the naughty habit with all the lectures he gave on the subject of obesity.

  “Nothing wrong with a little hypocrisy, Gordon,” he chuckled as he sat back down at the desk.

  His hand hovered by the small stereo on the right, before turning it off completely. The distraction would be too great and he wanted to fully focus on the rough draft of his examination plan for Malachi. Saying goodnight to John Coltrane, he pulled down his tattered note pad. Years of scribbles and cut out articles were spread throughout the leather bound jotter. It was beyond priceless to him and had been a gift on his first wedding anniversary to Marjorie. She had passed eight years ago and this played no small part in his melancholy demeanour. A part of him had died in that hospital room that night.

  “That’s quite enough of that,” he said with a firm nod. Memories could be dangerous and if he gave them free reign, inevitably the brandy bottle would be taken down which would end any meaningful research.

  Twin screens glowed in the low light of the office. Apart from those and a small desk light, all was shadow which is the way Gordon preferred it. A spreadsheet lay open on the left screen which he had started to populate with dates and times. Each would be used for a different set of examinations and tests, some with the aid of the colleagues he had presented to Malachi earlier. Their fields were varied which ensured the greatest chance of unlocking the gifts he possessed. On the other was a browser tab with a dozen pages open. Looking at the subject matter it was varied, and in some cases, downright bizarre. Religious healing and folk medicine, alongside medical studies and science fiction. Gordon was a firm believer that as humanity developed, science fiction would ultimately become science fact. Clubs and rocks had been replaced by nuclear armaments in the space of a few thousand years. This raised the obvious possibility that humanity was far better at creating ways to kill each other than ways to heal each other.

  “If we blow the planet up, all of this will have been for not
hing.”

  There was that morbidity again. Shaking himself, he opened the emails and clicked on one of the messages. He had read it over fifty times and it still sent shivers down his spine. It was dated two days ago and carried the name: Dr Lance Olsen. Gordon read it again.

  Dear Gordon,

  Thank you for your email, it is always nice to hear from a physician that is as deeply committed to furthering our understanding of medicine as I once was. Sadly, time hasn’t been kind to me and with my failing eyesight I can only work in a limited capacity as a verbal consultant.

  I spoke to Jenny, with whom you inquired about myself, and she assures me you are well respected in Britain. I apologise for the need to do some background research on you, but that case has always haunted me and I wanted to be sure you weren’t affiliated with THEM. The threats I received toward my family have always troubled me, but as I near the end of my life I can only assume I have been long forgotten.

  Mr. Voight, or Clarence, was brought in on a stormy night with ferocious lightning the likes of which I had never seen. The clothing was fused to his body from the fire, and as the attending physician on duty, I put his chances of survival at lower than one percent. We stabilised him and called in the burn specialist who agreed with my initial prognosis. He was in surgery for many hours to remove the charred clothing and clean the wounds. I have to be honest and admit that I was shocked upon arrival for my next shift that he had not succumbed in the night. Fluids were being administered intravenously and his condition was critical but stable. After a few more hours the surgeon who had saved his life even had begun the process of planning skin grafts. It was remarkable.

  My initial wonderment was as nothing compared to what I felt after just three days. Suppuration of the wounds had stopped which was unheard of for such a short space of time. One of the nurses came running to find me during a routine dressing change and what I found was incredible. The burnt tissue had started to peel like a common sunburn and underneath was smooth, undamaged skin. Morphine was being administered at a high enough dose to ensure any normal person would remain unconscious to facilitate the healing process. I say this so that you can fully appreciate the profound confusion I felt at seeing his eyes open and, for the most part, alert.