by TJ Vargo
That was Kirtland. Jackson tightened as he heard Kirtland add, "But don't worry. I won't hurt you. You're with us now, and we'll take good care of you. Here, let me look you over."
Jackson held down an urge to pull himself up on the vent and watch. Too risky. Better to just listen.
"She doesn't like that Doctor..."
"Quiet! Hold her down."
"I can't. She's..."
Sounds of his sister struggling passed through the vent. Whatever Kirtland was trying to do, it didn't sound very successful. "Kick his ass Sis," Jackson whispered, hearing a loud grunt from his sister followed by someone making a pained little yell, then a low moan.
"Are you okay Doctor?"
Jackson smiled broadly. He put a hand to his mouth. Don't laugh. He'll hear you. There was no way to stop it. He put his head down, trying to muffle short bursts of laughter. A groan from Kirtland. The old guy really sounded hurt.
"Achh, just put that food and water down in front of her."
A pause. The sound of dragging footsteps. Was Felicia helping Kirtland out of the room?
"She's a product of an institution, undoubtedly. Probably a mental asylum by those bruises on her arms and legs."
There was a little squeak of pain. Jackson shook his head. Whatever his sister did, it hurt Kirtland good. He heard a couple of shaky breaths, then Kirtland continued.
"She's a dangerous product of an institution."
Jackson was still giggling as Kirtland's voice receded. The old coot's balls were probably swelling up real nice by now.
"See if she'll let you get close to her. Take her that tray of food Felicia."
A few moments passed and then Kirtland's voice continued. That's it, excellent. She seems to like you Felicia. Maybe you can help us prepare her for tonight."
Jackson's blood iced over. The whispery dry laugh of Kirtland didn't help.
"Yes, tonight child. Your father will fully introduce himself tonight. We'll be putting a seed in that belly of yours that will grow over all the Earth. Eat and drink. You'll need your strength. Leave her be Felicia."
The sound of the door closing muffled Kirtland's laughter. Jackson forgot his humor. He pushed away from the wall and began pacing the room. Tonight. Not much time to plan. He stopped halfway across the room to look back up toward the vent. Was the dream real? Did he talk to her? And if it was real, why wouldn't she talk now?
Exhaling hard he sat down and ran his hands through his greasy hair. It didn't matter. Even if he had just imagined the dream, Nathaniel was real and his sister was naked one room over. He reached down and swept the hay away, finding the spot where he'd buried the knife. The time to act was coming soon.
No one came to see Jackson through the morning, giving him the opportunity to try to dig out the stones around the ledge with his knife. What had at first seemed promising (the first layer of stone crumbled right off) became a muscle tearing effort in futility. Just holding himself up there took all his strength. And the stone under that first layer of crumbling rock was solid and impenetrable. It was useless. After a couple tries and nearly breaking off the blade on the knife he finally gave up. Worse than that was the way his sister responded to his attempts to talk to her. He agreed with Kirtland. She was mental, only able to smile and stare at him. He would have sworn that she understood him when he saw the way she looked at him, her eyes responding to his questions. But every time he thought she would open her mouth to talk her head would drop and she would look at the floor in complete silence. So he reburied the knife and sat, trying to come up with some way to get out. Some way to act. It was a long lonely morning. Being trapped wouldn't have been near as bad, if she would only talk to him.
By afternoon, Jackson was sitting in the dirt having visions of gulping down a nice cold drink of water while he rubbed his hand over the gnawing hole where his stomach used to be. Contemplating whether or not he should start banging on the door and yelling for a drink of water and some food, Jackson heard the squeak of the door's hinges. He was on his feet in an instant, looking back at where he'd buried the knife and then staring at the door as it swung open. Why hadn't he been ready? This might be his only chance to fight his way out. With no time to dig up the knife and nothing to lose, he decided to rush the door anyhow. He hadn't gone more than a step before a voice yelled.
"Don't do that. Stay right there."
"Okay," he held his hands up and slowed. It was Felicia. No one was with her. He took small almost meaningless steps forward. If he got another couple feet closer, he could jump and she'd never get that door closed...
"Goddam it Jackson, I said stop!"
The way she said it, more of a plea than an order, brought him to a halt. She was scared. He couldn't take his eyes off her face. How worried she looked. Worried and downright pitiful. He held his hands in front of him, trying to calm her. "It's okay Felicia. I'm stopped. I won't come any closer, I promise." Slowly, keeping eye contact with her, he backed up, looking at the floor until he was sure he was in the right spot, and then sat down cross legged on the dirt floor. He shrugged, showing a little smile. "See? I'll just sit here." He patted the two inches of dirt that separated his hand from the knife.
Felicia smiled back and wiped at her nose, sniffling. Her eyes got glossy with tears and she let out a quiet, shaky laugh of relief. She stifled it quickly, looking in the hall behind her, her hands shaking. Wiping her nose again with the back of her wrist, she spoke in a whisper.
"I can't stay very long." She looked down, running her tongue over her lips. "I'm not even supposed to be here."
"I'm glad you are." (Just come in a little more bitch. I've got something to show you). He smiled.
She looked confused at his happy, almost welcoming manner. A smile fought its way onto her face and she wiped her hand across it as if she were confirming its existence.
"I am too. I had to see you before tonight."
Jackson decided not to ask her what was happening tonight. This was her decision to come down here. He'd let her tell him why in her own good time. That is, if she didn't get too close before she finished. He tried to stay relaxed, digging absently in the dirt to get his fingers closer to the knife.
"I thought you'd hate me. And if you do, I understand."
"You kind of left me hanging back there at the church."
She nodded. "I know."
Feeling a cramp, Jackson straightened his legs out. Immediately, Felicia jerked the door half shut, only stopping when she saw he was still sitting.
"Hey, take it easy." He raised a hand (and kept digging with the other). "I told you I was going to sit here and that's what I'm doing. I don't lie Felicia. You should know that by now."
She was shaking more than ever. Let out a trembly sigh and pushed the door back open. "I know you wouldn't lie. I'm just afraid that I'm going to make a mistake and let you out."
"I'm kind of hungry and thirsty here, you know? Maybe you could get me something to drink, huh?"
He watched her look down, a deep furrow in her brow. Anguished about something he couldn't get a fix on. The way she was wringing and twisting her hands in the front of her shirt. She seemed to want to wrap herself up in it. "You ought to take it easy on that poor shirt," he said. When her fingers unwrapped themselves, he recognized the shirt and his hand (now touching the handle of the knife) stopped digging. It was the threadbare Freedonia College shirt he'd worn the night he searched the castle for her room. She looked down at the shirt, then back up at him.
"I found it in your room," she said softly, then quickly changed subjects, seeing him smile in a pained kind of way. "So we're still okay, huh?"
He waited a beat, his fingers sliding back out of the dirt. "Yeah." He looked her over for a moment and added, "You haven't done anything you can't take back... yet. I have faith in you Felicia."
A sweet smile of disbelief showed itself as she shook her head. "I don't understand you."
"Either do I," he answered. He leaned back and dug his fing
ers in the dirt, pushed the dirt back over the knife. God, one more second and he would have had that knife at her throat. He shook his head. He wanted to walk over to her and put his arms around her. She looked like she needed a hug. He knew he did.
She turned her head away from him to look out into the hall. "Someone's going to catch me here. I have to go." Before Jackson had a chance to get to his feet, she ducked out the door, closing it behind her. He ran over to it and pressed his face against the thick wood slats, raising his voice. "I know you're only with him because you think you have to be to survive. It's not a good choice Felicia. We can still get out of here if you help me."
From the other side of the door he heard her say, "I'll try to bring you some food and something to drink later." He listened as she walked away.
Time passed slowly after she left. At some point the sound of hammering started up from somewhere outside. Jackson circled the room, listening to the hammering for a long while. The townspeople were building something. Probably for tonight. Each blow of hammer on nail reminded him of what Nathaniel intended to do to his sister. He finally dropped on the floor and held his head in his hands, too tired to walk and run it through his mind anymore. Too worried to sleep. Grabbing a handful of dirt off the floor he sifted it back and forth like brown talcum in his hands. Cool and soft. Back and forth. The hammering sounds receded. Cool and soft. Back and forth. His mind quieted. Cool and soft. Back and forth. No reason to think about it anymore. His sister would be taken tonight, and there was nothing he could do about it. A baby might come of it, his half-brother, or she could die, like the girl he'd seen in the coffins outside the church with eyes like pools of ink. The girls with black marbled eyes. It could go either way, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He traced the cut Frida had slit down his palm. The dirt stuck to the scab, making a brown line arc down the middle of his palm and into the fleshy part at the base of his thumb. He couldn't lie to himself. His sister wouldn't die. She was the one, the only woman that carried Nathaniel's blood in her. Nathaniel said he would make a baby with a daughter of his own blood. It would happen. It was what was meant to happen - what Nathaniel had been trying to make happen for a very long time. Jackson shut his eyes, trying to stop his thoughts. It didn't work. His eyes jerked back open when he saw a baby in his mind's eye. Another image came. Of his sister's legs spread wide, the baby squeezing its way into the world. The gates of hell were between those legs and Nathaniel was about to bring that hell out for a look-see.
The dirt he held sifted through his fingers, falling away to the floor. He dropped his head and shut his eyes, letting his beaten and ravaged mind fall into a black hole of fear and confusion. He'd never believed in miracles. Didn't believe in a God that gave a damn. But there was evil. Hell yeah. It gave a damn, and it was coming, the sounds of its hooves beating the ground, coming closer, echoing in his head.
Chapter Twenty One
Jackson sat in one spot, unmoving for the rest of the day. He sat where the small slivers of light that passed through the vent made it down to the floor. He held himself tight, hunched over, wrapping his arms around himself. Getting as much of himself in those small beams of light as possible. Staying in the light was important. Night was coming, one that might never end. He marked the passage of time by the slow crawl of the light across the floor. Occasionally, he scooted himself a couple inches forward to stay in the light. One of those times was now. He scooted forward and looked up.
Something was missing. He looked around. The same gray stone walls all around. Same dirt floor with the flattened pile of hay he'd slept in. Then he cocked his head, looking to the vent. That was it. All the hammering and sawing from outside had stopped.
He sighed and rubbed his hand over the beard stubble on his chin. Time runs right on by when you're having fun, yesiree, it sure does. He dropped his gaze from the vent. The faithful followers of Nathaniel Thorne must be done building whatever it was that Nathaniel would perform on tonight. He sighed. Can't wait to see the show - the townspeople giving a good cheer – One, two, three four five, Beelzebub is still alive. Six, seven, eight nine ten, the time for Hell on Earth has come again.
Unable to sit still, he got to his feet. He dusted his pants off and turned to look up at the feeble rays of light still making it through the vent. Damn, Felicia hadn't even brought him the drink of water she promised and the whole day was almost gone. He licked his lips. His tongue was swollen and clumsy, but there was no hunger anymore. The hole in his stomach had gone numb. At least there was that to be thankful for. His stomach groaned and he put a hand on it, as if calming a baby. He rubbed it until the groans died off. An edge of panic popped up in his mind. What would it be like to starve? Nope - that wouldn't happen. Thirst killed first. And dehydration was supposed to be a real wicked way to go, muscle cramps, delirium... Or maybe Nathaniel had something better in mind. Human sacrifice was the first thing that came to mind, but maybe there were worse alternatives that would...
The sound of a key clicking in his door surprised him. Heavy and thick as the door was, with bands of forged iron wrapped around thick wooden planks, it swung open soundlessly.
"Here's your water. I couldn't sneak any food without someone seeing me, but I did bring the water."
In the ever dimming light, she was more of a shadow than a flesh and blood person, but his heart jumped when he heard her voice. Her silhouette made it look like her head was shaved. He moved toward her, getting close enough to see she was wearing a filthy pullover with the hood covering her head. Her beautiful hair was still there, trailing out in soft blue-black spirals from under her chin. With the hood on, her face was angelic. Her eyes as big as a doe's. She held a rusty galvanized metal pot out toward him and bent down to place it on the ground at her feet. It was filled with water that trembled like quicksilver.
"I know," she said, fingering a crusted stain on the pullover, "I look terrible in this. But it got cold outside."
"You look great. I'm just glad you came."
She let out a small nervous laugh. Her fingers fluttered in front of her chest. "No, no I don't. I look terrible." She shook her head and pulled disgustedly at the pullover. "It wasn't dirty when I put it on. In fact, it wasn't even... it wasn't even..." She looked down at herself. "It wasn't even this. It was a black leather coat. A short black leather coat that was so soft you wouldn't believe it." She stroked the filthy material, as if she were still feeling the leather. She stopped abruptly, her eyes focusing on Jackson, anxiety running in the lines that formed in her brow. "I've started to see things changing. Changing in bad ways."
"What do you mean?" Jackson asked. He watched her open her mouth and freeze, the struggle of how to explain what she meant overwhelming her. Finally she closed her mouth and stared at him blankly.
"It doesn't matter, I don't want any of it anymore. Nice clothes, jewelry, money, all the things I thought I needed - I really don't."
Jackson held her gaze for a moment, seeing the circles under her eyes and the worry that made her mouth seem small and tight. She looked dead tired, but in spite of all those things her eyes were clear and focused. "You look like you've made your mind up about something," he said.
The tightness around her mouth disappeared. "I have," she said.
"Can you tell me?"
Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "I’ve decided I care about you. I've decided that people can be good."
Why that made him blush, he couldn't explain. He was embarrassed with himself, remembering how he threw away the belt buckle. It was the thing he'd used to keep himself from hurting other people, and now it was gone because he had given up on Felicia. Shame crept through him.
"I was thinking that maybe you might care about me. Maybe you could even love me, if such a thing could be true," she added.
He didn't know what to say, and he could see that made her uncomfortable. Before he could fix it and tell her that yes, he did love her, she started talking again.
> "You don’t have to say anything. I know I don’t deserve love - especially from you."
He looked up, feeling the heat of a blush in his cheeks. "That sounds like something I’d say," he said, feeling awkward. “But you shouldn’t talk like that. It’s not true. Not at all.”
She beamed.
Licking his lips, he asked, "Hey, do you think I can get a drink now?"
The softness in her eyes disappeared. Her mouth tightened. She turned to look out the door, then back to him. "Not until I close the door behind me," she said warily.
"You still think I'll try to get away?"
She nodded.
He turned his back on her and laughed, saying, "You're right. I would," then spun back to face her. He began to walk toward her.
"We can go somewhere where no one can find us. Maybe the beach. Get some margaritas. Listen to the ocean."
She shook her head, not reacting to his humor. "The whole town's in the castle. You'd never get past everyone. They'd catch us. And they'd kill you."
"Better than rotting in here." He kept walking toward her and he saw that she was ready to bolt, her eyes uncertain. "Felicia don't move," he said, putting one hand out. Only six feet separated them. He held his hand out to her, still walking. "Just don't move. I just want to touch you before..."
She stepped back quickly, just as his foot banged into the metal bucket of water between them, and began to pull the door shut.
He stopped and his eyes widened as he said, "Don't." It was all he could think to say.
"I have to… I have to get your sister ready."
He carefully moved his foot around the bucket. His hand stretched toward her. The skin on her hand felt soft.
"I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay," he said, pulling her hand off the door handle. He stepped back, pulling her with him into the room, pushing the door closed with his other hand. It clicked shut with a soft wooden thunk.
