“Something dark...something evil....” Clay finally whispered, struggling to remember.
“You said it was coming...?”
Clay shook his head and regretted it as he realized he had a giant headache. “I-I’m sorry....”
Somewhat desperate, Gallo pleaded with him. “Think Lieutenant, think! What was coming?”
“Excuse us, Father....” Dr. Amond was back with a gurney. “This man’s going to ICU.”
Gallo was politely elbowed aside as three nurses untied Clay’s urine bag from the bed, moved his intravenous bottle, switched off the monitor alarm and lifted him onto the gurney.
“Lieutenant, I must see you...” began Father Gallo, but the doc laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“Sorry Father, no more visitors for a few days at least.”
“But I must...” the priest began and his voice trailed off as he was pulled aside.
The doctor had put an arm around his shoulder and led him away. “Padre, a few hours ago this man was dying. Luckily, he woke up. Now, brain injuries are tricky things and any excitement could send him back into the coma. Just let us get him to an ICU and stabilize him...okay Father?”
Gallo saw Clay watching quietly from the bed as Amond’s team readied him for the move. The priest nodded silently. Amond clapped him on the back, moved to the foot of Clay’s bed, and snapped up and studied the soldier’s chart. Miracles did happen.
The look of distress on the priest’s face saddened Clay. The man looked beaten, almost haggard as he bit his lip and reluctantly put away his pen and notebook.
As Clay was wheeled out of the room, he felt himself lazily drifting off to sleep. Silently he prayed there wouldn’t be any more nightmares.
~ 12 ~
Father Gallo watched the gurney disappear as the medical team rolled it quickly out of the room. The extra-wide door slowly closed and he was alone; not a whisper of sound disturbed the stillness of the empty hospital room despite the flurry of activity only moments earlier.
Gingerly he sat down on the bed. He felt old and tired, and disappointed in not being allowed to question the lieutenant. He also found himself experiencing a slight guilt for his preoccupation with his theory in the face of the soldier’s amazing awakening. After all, before his very eyes, he had witnessed the return of a man who had been on a one-way journey to his final reward.
Reaching deep in his cassock, he extracted a small metal flask and downed a healthy swig of rye. It warmed his belly feeling familiar and good. Quickly he took another swig, capped the flask and furtively returned it to his inner pocket. He crossed to the hospital window and looked out at the town ablaze in the night.
The main street, a continuation of the street that wound down the small hill on which the hospital was perched, allowed him to survey the commercial part of town. It was unseasonably warm for May and had rained again, a short-lived torrent. The pavement was still shining with the fresh moisture and the streets looked rejuvenated and clean.
As far as he could see, the town was bright and alive, the Saturday night spring crowd flowing through the streets. It was a pulsing, breathing entity proudly flaunting a small collection of colorful neon signs of blinking and flowing light. The signs bubbled, winked, and snapped on and off, garishly depicting a variety of boutiques, bars, billiard parlors, cafes and Laundromats – a tacky, urban mosaic of modernism throbbing to the beat of brash rock and country music blasting from dozens of car radios. Farmhands and tourists alike flooded the Finger Lakes’ town for their Saturday night festivities.
As the moisture evaporated from the roads, it rose in wispy clouds of steam, each cloud taking on the colored hues of the neon signs nearby and becoming playful rainbows dancing and swaying, and finally rising to disappear into the night sky.
Unmindful of the spectacle, the crowd poured busily through the avenues on foot, bicycles or cars in their never-ending quest for food, drink and later, the pleasures of the flesh. Father Gallo knew if the window was open he’d hear music and war whoops from the crowds dancing on outdoor pavilions. A particularly bright star glowed almost directly overhead; he craned his neck to see it.
As a popular Finger Lakes’ resort town, the area was dead in winter but became party central for the flatlanders in summer arriving from New York and Boston to swim and sunbathe by day and raise hell by night. Idly he wondered if the permanent citizenry cared about the disappearance of their small town culture as well as its implied and inherent morale character. Inevitably small town virtues were sublimated by a crass commercialism that appeared whenever and wherever the well-heeled chose to land. Truth be told – money bred drugs, drunkenness and debauchery.
He watched the crowd below for another few minutes. Ants, decided Father Gallo. Maybe earth is just one giant ant farm to God. Maybe there is no grandiose scheme for the world, no plausible or lasting course for humanity. Perhaps we’re merely pets and when God tires of his ant farm, he’ll empty it into his equivalent of a toilet.
He chuckled to himself: now wouldn’t that be a surprise? Imagine if earth ended, not with some great apocalyptic atomic war fulfilling the prophesies of Armageddon, but with the sound of a cosmic flush? The flask reappeared. He took another swig.
After inquiring as to the condition of the soldier and being told he’d remain in the Critical Care Unit that night, he picked up what he called his “implement case” and Bible and left the hospital to walk back to his rectory.
As he walked through the warm night air, he remembered Lieutenant Montague’s words: Tell Rome, he’d begged. Tell Rome what? About a mythological Beast that was supposedly again loosed upon the earth? Indeed, this would be a gift to the Vatican. Instant justification to have Father Gallo committed to the funny farm where they’d tranquilize and neutralize him all in one foul swoop.
He decided to cut across a residential section of town and turned down a quiet street, moved past a low-rise apartment building and then into a housing area filled with Victorian homes mixed with the occasional repossessed and empty house. He could smell the scent of freshly mowed grass as he cut between some houses via a breezeway. Once he crossed the park, he’d be home in ten minutes. He looked up again at what appeared to be a particularly bright star high in the heavens. For a second he thought he saw a pencil thin ray of light shining down from it towards the hospital he had just left. Then a low lying mist from the lake drifted in, obscuring his vision of the sky. Some sort of atmospheric anomaly, he decided.
A lone dog barked forlornly off in the distance and the night grew increasingly still as he trudged on. Nearby a twig snapped. Was someone following him?
“Who’s there?” he called out.
There was no answer. Even a priest had to be careful, he thought. He should have waited and hitched a ride with one of the nurses or doctors finishing their evening shift.
Gravel again crunched off to his right and he peered toward the shadows of a darkened house and ram shackled shed beside it. Was that a person standing under a giant oak tree at the rear of the lot? It couldn’t be a man, he thought. Unless he was a giant.
The priest stopped walking and stared at the shadow under the collection of grotesquely twisted oak limbs, still half bare of leaves. Something touched his hand and he jumped: “What the—?” He found himself staring at a small, barefoot waif of a girl in a torn and dirty dress. She couldn’t be more than eight or nine he decided, his attention taken off the shadow. What was she doing outside without shoes or socks?
The child smiled innocently up at him. For a moment, however, a tiny glint of light seemed to make her eyes flash with a strange luminescence.
“Who are you little girl? Where is your Mommy and Daddy?”
Wordlessly she took his hand and attempted to lead him towards the empty lot.
“What is it? Something you want me to see?” Her tiny hand felt like a frozen stone. This is disgraceful, he thought. Where are her parents?
She smiled at him again as he gazed down at her upturned e
yes. For a split second they seemed to roll back in her head exposing two sickening egg whites. Startled, he blinked and they were back to normal – fully dilated black pupils drawing him into their depths as he stumbled on the uneven surface of the cracked and broken asphalt of the driveway. She continued to lead him across it towards the oak tree.
Gallo stared hard at her as an inner consciousness sent out increasingly dire warnings. This feeling of danger was juxtaposed against a new and strange feeling of calmness that was rapidly overtaking him like a powerful narcotic; he felt so sleepy. He looked up again. Was that a man under the tree, he wondered again? Glancing back down at the child, the calmness abruptly vanished and he grew cold with fright. The little girl’s eyes had again caught the glint of a faraway street lamp only now they glowed inhumanly greenish yellow in the dark. Suddenly they were no longer innocent child-like eyes, but the cunning eyes of an animal on the hunt.
Something crunched heavily in the gravel ahead and he looked up at the monster waiting for him. Gallo began to tremble in terror as he squeezed his personal Bible in desperation, nails marking the leather cover even as he struggled to control his bladder. The child continued to draw him closer. Unable to resist her pull on his hand, he became acutely aware of the peril he faced and summoned the strength to pray aloud for the redemption of his soul. “The Lord is my shepherd...I-I shall not want....”
The thing under the tree responded with a cavernous snarl.
~ 13 ~
For the next few weeks Clay rested and very gradually progressed from chicken broths to some thin, light, solid foods and drank gallons of water. He’d lost 35 pounds but the doctors assured him he wouldn’t be long regaining the weight. Every muscle and joint had stiffened and he’d been told he’d have to undergo physical therapy to restore lost muscle tissue and regain flexibility. His sister had paid him a brief tear-filled visit, and then, because he insisted, had returned home to wait for him after his hospital discharge.
As soon as he was able, he sent a message back to his unit thanking the patrol who rescued him from the jungle, and expressing his sadness over the deaths of the fine men who had died beside him that night. He had already started work on his report explaining the sequence of events and was soon handing it for delivery to a regular army Captain. The officer saluted him and departed.
He received a brief telegram of good-luck back from his Colonel who said he was proud to have had him in his command. Further, he understood Clay would be staying back home and he expected their entire unit to be posted back to the States for some well-deserved R & R.
Clay had had a few dizzy spells since waking up but other than that he felt fine. Dr. Amond told him he expected a full recovery but only time would tell for sure; the spells initially worried the doctors who said there was no way he could return to active duty. He was told that when they operated, they found the beginning of a potential aneurism and had clipped it. While he would likely lead a normal life, it wouldn’t allow for him to continue in the army.
Then the rehabilitation processes began – physical and mental.
For the next three weeks he was probed, stuck, CAT-scanned, X-Rayed and prodded by a variety of neurologists and other specialists. The dizziness had faded away and for that he was grateful. He spent about a dozen half-hour sessions with an army psychologist helping him get over what they called “survivor guilt” due to the loss of his patrol. After intense counseling he acknowledged an unfortunate fact: his men, his comrades – were tragic casualties of war.
Finally, after some thought, Clay had mentioned the monstrosity he’d seen bending over Private Osborne in the jungle. After listening to its description the doctor had smiled sympathetically and convinced him that it was merely a case of transference; he’d created a personification of the enemy that had been responsible for the death of his friends in the shape of something cruel, unusual and vile. In reality, there was no “monster” except the enemy soldiers.
To deal with the decline of easy mobility in his limbs, he was assigned a grey-haired, battle-axe of a physiotherapist with breath that would take the paint off a brick wall. Margie, the rehabilitative therapist, had worked with him to correct the impairment and limitations of his left hand and leg. Her relentless and demanding schedule of daily exercises made Clay think she was determined to finish what the PDF had started. Less than a month later the doctor informed Clay that he was well enough to be processed. He received an honorable discharge for medical reasons and could return to civilian life; his health was good, but not good enough for the army.
Over the next few weeks, papers were signed, options exercised and pretty soon he was released to rejoin the world. Doctor Amond shook his hand and wished him well. Then he handed Clay a small brown manila envelope. His dog tags and his Crucifix fell into the palm of his hand. He looped the Crucifix over his head, looked at the dog tags for a moment and finally slipped them into his pocket.
Amond pointed to his throat and said: “One thing we were curious about, Lieutenant – that burn?”
Clay’s hand went instinctively to the base of his Adam’s apple. He’d seen the cross-shaped burn mark as soon as he’d become well enough to start shaving.
“Your Crucifix seems to fit that burn scar on your throat,” Amond pressed. “Know how it happened?”
Clay professed ignorance; he could only assume that as he lay in the jungle, at some point he’d been in direct sunlight and it heated the tiny cross to where it burned a permanent mark on his throat.
“Strange,” observed Amond. “I thought you and your patrol were found the same night.”
Clay shrugged. He shook hands with the doctor and thanked him. Then he paid a final visit to Margie the physiotherapist as she ate in the cafeteria. He thanked her for not killing him and dodged a good-natured, meaty-pawed swipe. For a moment, as he said good-bye, he even thought he saw her eyes mist up a bit. But he quickly realized that the tears were more likely due to the onion and garlic sandwich she was in the process of devouring.
As he packed his meager belongings, Clay remembered the priest who had been with him when he awakened. He asked Helen, a pretty blond nurse who spent more than her share of time tending on him, where he could locate the elderly cleric.
Helen smiled sadly. “The Padre – Father Gallo – is not with us any longer.”
“Oh?” Clay said, and asked if he’d been transferred.
“We don’t know what happened to him. The night you woke up, he left the hospital and never showed up at his rectory. He vanished into thin air.”
“No sign of him at all?”
“None.” She paused and then added: “Pretty unusual. There’s an on-going police investigation... Unfortunately, nothing so far. It’s pretty bad when even a priest isn’t safe in a small town like this.”
Clay’s felt a flash of guilt as he remembered how desperate the priest had been to question him about something that night.
For a fleeting second a dark image flashed into memory but he quickly banished the image; it was his personal nightmare, nothing more.
Helen sighed and continued: “I liked Father Gallo.”
There was a knock at the door to his room and a tall, distinguished-looking, handsome man with black hair liberally speckled with grey and a square, handsome face entered. Though he seemed to be about 50 years old, from the way his dark suit and turtleneck hung on his frame, Clay could see he was in excellent physical condition. The man stuck out his hand. “I just thought I would wish you well, Lieutenant. Good luck in civilian life.” He accent was a curious mix of cultured English tempered with a ripe Bostonian twang characterized by its non-rhotic quality.
Clay smiled, accepted the hand. “Thank you. And you are...Doctor...?”
“My name is Malachi,” the man said, without disclosing rank or title. “Mustavias Malachi. We had a friend in common, Father Gallo.”
“The priest,” Clay said, letting go of the man’s hand. “I really didn’t know Father Gallo but I was
told he was here for me throughout my illness. I hope he’s okay.”
Malachi nodded: “So do I. Well, I’m sure the police will find something soon.”
“Yes,” Clay said. “I hope so.”
Malachi paused and looked at him a little closer. “You are well?”
“Nobody is offering me the Last Rites these days,” he responded, with a smile.
Malachi returned the smile. “Father Gallo mentioned that you’d had...” he glanced over at the departing nurse and waited till she exited the room. “...an extraordinary experience during your final patrol?”
Clay shook his head. “Just a typical patrol...with a brutal end.”
“I see,” Malachi said. “Nothing...out of the ordinary occurred. Apart from the ambush?”
Clay slowly shook his head and waited for the man to expand what he meant.
Instead, Malachi merely stuck out his hand again. “Well I wish you Godspeed in your recovery.” As he went to turn, he stopped and stared intently at the burn mark on Clay’s throat. “That mark on your throat? Have you always had it?”
Clay put his hand to his throat and shook his head. “It matches perfectly the small Crucifix I wear. Not sure how this happened. I didn’t have the burn when we went on patrol that night. Had it when I woke up here.”
Malachi nodded, shrugged and without further hesitation turned on his heel and left the room. Puzzled, Clay crossed to the window and absentmindedly toyed with the Crucifix round his neck. He wondered why his visitor hadn’t identified himself beyond his name. As for Father Gallo being a common friend? Not really. So who was this man? One thing, however, was abundantly clear. His demeanor and confidence were unmistakable – he belonged to some powerful organization. And, though Malachi was an odd name, it sounded familiar.
Abruptly a cold shiver ran up Clay’s back – the sort of chill associated with the irrational belief that someone had just walked over the site of one’s future grave.
The Plan Page 7
