by Stevie Barry
Everything about his interaction with her had been a mistake. Even at the time, Von Ratched had known he was deluding himself, but that was crystal-clear now. He ought to have killed her as soon as he met her, and spared himself all of this.
He set a pot of water onto his camp stove, warming his hands over the gas flame. This bolt-hole was a cave, the stone damp and chilly, but at least it was big enough for him to properly stretch out in. Stretch he did, and lay staring at the roof of the cave while waiting for the water to boil.
There was no way to undo what he'd done, no way of salvaging something that had never existed in the first place. Once Lorna and all she represented was gone, perhaps he could move on. Perhaps he could build a new life, away from humanity and all its inferiority.
It was a nice thought. If he tried very hard, he could almost make himself believe it.
----
Lorna woke the next morning sore as ever, but the stove had kept the little room marginally warm, and it was easy to restart the gas.
It had dumped snow in the night, and it was still falling steadily, tiny white flakes undisturbed by even a breath of wind. The sky was so dark it looked like dusk rather than morning, and she knew she wasn't going anywhere today. If it kept on like this, she might not be going anywhere ever, because in her condition she wasn't sure she was capable of walking in deep snow. She had a hard enough time as it was, thanks to her damn leg.
The little cupboard produced some instant coffee, so she put some on while she made more soup, and filled the biggest kettle with water. Working the pump made her shoulder hurt worse than ever, but the thought of a bath and some clean clothes was worth it.
She wondered, a little uneasily, what Von Ratched was doing now. There was no way of knowing what was going on at the Institute, if he'd stayed there or gone haring off after her. The wilderness was so vast he'd probably never find her, but it was worrisome nonetheless.
Lorna stripped off her undershirt with no small amount of difficulty, and wrinkled her nose at its odor of stale sweat. Into the kettle it went, along with her socks, and she picked up a pot in hopes of using it as a mirror. She needed to see what was going on with her shoulder.
The wound had mostly scarred over, from what little she could tell. It was raised and bumpy underneath her fingers, the texture unpleasantly alien. It was a scar she would probably carry for life. Dammit.
There was a greenish-yellow bruise on her upper arm, and she knew all too well where that had come from. What disturbed her even more, however, was the ring of bruising around her throat. Good God, Von Ratched really had tried to strangle her, hadn't he?
Bile rose in her throat, and she set the pot down. Suddenly her skin felt unbearably filthy, and she winced when she scoured at her arm with hot water. She had nothing to be ashamed of, but ashamed she was, with little shivers of self-hate crawling up her back. It was hardly her fault she couldn’t overpower Von Ratched, but part of her mind blamed herself anyway. Physical strength had been one of her few constants, small though she was, and he'd broken through that with what felt like an unfair lack of effort.
You stabbed him, Lorna reminded herself, scrubbing her bruised neck. You almost tore his throat out. You've left him with more scars than he's given you.
It was true, at least in the physical sense. Mentally, on the other hand…Lorna had always thought she had the mental toughness of a brick, but the bastard had chipped away at that since she met him. He'd made her feel so goddamn weak, so useless.
She tossed her rag back into the water, and let out a scream so loud it hurt her ears. It was a sound of pure, frustrated rage, as she fisted handfuls of her dirty hair. She had to get a lid on this before she destroyed the tower, but her fury was almost all-consuming. It didn't matter that she couldn't remember any of it -- knowing that bastard had had his hands all over her was bad enough. And the lingering evidence was worse.
Pack it in, Lorna, she ordered herself. She was hyperventilating, her head spinning from a lack of oxygen, and she had to force herself back into breathing normally. She wished she could cry, that she could purge it all as she had with the Lady, but tears were too alien to her nature. She'd only wept three times in her life -- in the Garden, and when her mother and Liam died.
The anger ebbed, but it left her trembling. There was nothing for her to hit out here, nothing she could do but finish bathing and washing her clothes. Unsurprisingly, she found more bruises when she pulled off her pants, but it was her leg she focused on.
It had scarred over as well, but her calf looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. Lorna's medical knowledge was hazy, but she wondered if she'd ever have full use of it again. Right now it hurt like a bitch, so of course she favored it when she walked, but would it stay weakened even when it was healed?
Add that to the list of things I can't think about yet, she thought. The idea of having a permanent limp didn't appeal to her at all, so she would ignore it for now.
Washing her hair was a whole other order of irritation, compounded by the fact that she didn't have a hairbrush. It took a lot of cursing and some painful gymnastics, but it was wonderful to feel clean again. She wrapped herself in her coat while her clothing dried by the stove, and drifted off into a fitful, uneasy sleep.
----
Katje was quite startled when Miranda summoned her. Things were busy in the hospital, but Julifer had all but dragged her to Miranda's office.
It was an odd room, with three walls out of four taken up with racks of weapons. The desk was stainless steel, its sparse contents organized with military precision. Behind it sat Miranda, looking irritated.
"I need your help," she said, without preamble. "This organization has to go public, and I'm fucked if I know how to do it right. Somebody's gotta run PR."
Katje sat facing her, bewildered. "And you want me to do it? What make you think I could? I know nothing about it, either."
"You're good with people," Miranda said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "You were in the Institute, and you're pretty. I'll give you a team, but this is your baby."
The thought appalled Katje, as well as confused her. In an organization this size, there had to be a hundred people better suited to this task, so why her? Miranda never did anything without a reason, but Katje couldn't begin to guess what that reason could be now.
She really had no idea what she was doing, but there was a challenge in Miranda's hectically blue eyes. It was almost like she dared Katje to say no, and Katje, stupid though it was at times, could never say no to a dare. "Fine," she said. "But I want English lessons."
"Anything you want, you've got it. Julifer will introduce you to your team."
The thought was still beyond daunting, but Katje had yet to fail at anything she really put her mind to. She knew damn well she was good at seducing people, and this was just a different form of seduction, wasn't it? Swaying public opinion might not be a sexual thing, but she could be persuasive in other ways. She could do this, dammit. "I need to pick former inmates to interview," she said, "and it is better I do that alone. I will meet with team later."
"Do what you need to do," Miranda said, and there was something like smugness in her expression. She'd played Katje like a violin, but for some reason, Katje couldn't be too annoyed by it.
You wanted a purpose, she thought, a little wryly. You have it now. Did she ever. There was no way she could let herself fail.
She was troubled when she left Miranda, but surprisingly excited, too. Going back into prostitution held no appeal at all for her, thanks to Gerald, but she hadn't known how to do anything else. Technically she still didn't, but no one had ever accused her of being a slow learner. There was a spring in her step that hadn't been there since before the Institute.
It didn't take her long to hunt down Gerald, who looked harried. Maybe some of her good mood would rub off on him. She wanted his help with her English, before she threw herself on the mercy of a tutor -- though honestly, she just want
ed to spend time with him. They'd both been so busy since their escape.
"You look like hell," she said critically, eying him. He really did, too, slumped at a table in the break room. His eyes were red-rimmed, sandy hair in bad need of a comb. His expression was so bleak he looked much older than his twenty-seven years. "Cheer up. Institute is gone."
Gerald gave her a wan smile. "It is, but it isn't," he said quietly. "I think a lot of these people may never really recover."
Katje pulled out a chair and sat facing him. "Geezer teach me word for you," she said. "It is 'pessimist'. Have more faith. People are stronger than you think." She thought of her grandmother, who had survived Bergen-Belsen as a child. Oh, she'd had nightmares for the rest of her life, but she'd made a lot of that life, raising a happy family. She'd been very distant by the time she raised Katje, but that had more to do with losing her daughter than anything else. The inmates would move on, even if it took years.
"You're an inveterate optimist," Gerald sighed. "You haven't seen what I have."
"No, but I am going to," she retorted. She had to get him away from this damn hospital, before he fell into clinical depression. "And you are going to help me." Her tone left no room for argument, and she laid out the task Miranda had saddled her with. "I know you. I trust you. And you really are going to help me."
He opened his mouth, but closed it again when she arched an eyebrow at him. "There's no arguing with you, is there?" he asked.
"You can try, but you will lose. Hospital has many doctors, but I have only one you. Is bad enough Ratiri wanders around like a ghost -- I will not let you do it, too." She fixed him with a steady gaze that was almost a glare.
Gerald sighed again, this time in defeat. He didn't look displeased, though. "All right," he said, "but I'm starving. I want lunch before we try to tackle the planet."
Katje beamed at him. Wrangling Gerald would be good practice for dealing with the rest of the world.
----
Von Ratched touched his helicopter down outside of Anchorage, and walked until he found a small motel at the edge of the city. It was easy enough to make the desk clerk think he looked like someone else, a nondescript businessman. He wanted a real bed and a hot shower, and a chance to check the news. Perhaps it would keep the nightmares at bay.
Clean, warm, and totally exhausted, he sat on the sagging mattress and channel-surfed. There was no news of what had once been the Institute, but there were plenty of other items of interest.
One of the leading groups of anti-cursed had fallen apart, thanks to the fact that their leader had woken up and set his bed afire with pyrokinesis. The same thing had happened to a militant, fringe religious group, resulting in its leader's messy murder.
It all made Von Ratched smile, though there was little humor in it. There we be no second Holocaust out of this, however much some people might wish it. Magic was spreading too fast, and predicting where it might strike next was pointless. Even he couldn't do it, and if he couldn't, nobody else stood a chance. That wasn't arrogance talking, either; he knew more about magic than anyone else on the planet.
The next item, though, made him sit bolt upright. It was an advertisement for a BBC program, the same one that had interviewed Duncan and the others.
"In three days, we will have an exclusive interview with some of the survivors of what was known as the Alaskan Institute for the Criminally Insane. Previously we spoke with four who had escaped, and now others are willing to share their stories with us."
The picture cut to footage of the Institute itself, on the night he'd left it. Black, oily smoke obscured the stars, spread on the wind. Though the camera was high-quality, likely professional, the hand that held it was unsteady. Flame glowed orange on the other side of the building, making the lower levels of the smoke glow hellishly. People scurried to and fro, moving like driver ants among dozens of helicopters. To Von Ratched's dark amusement, they all wore gas masks -- someone had been smart enough to spot his trap.
Surprisingly, he wasn't terribly angry over what he saw. Months of research were lost, all his patients and the possessions he'd carried throughout his long life, yet he didn't really care. None of it mattered now; the only thing of importance was his mission.
But even that was going to have to wait. He had to watch that interview. If Lorna was still alive, she should remain so for another three days -- if she was dead, he had plenty of time to hunt for her corpse. This had piqued his interest to a level he couldn’t ignore.
Lingering here was not wise, but he was willing to kill anyone who got in his way. His objections to murder without cause had died when he left the Institute.
He rose, and went to the mini-bar. It was surprising that such a cheap motel had one, but on the other hand, this was a truck-stop establishment. It probably saw plenty of people who wanted to unwind with a drink after a long day of driving.
The selection was pathetic, but he found a small bottle of Southern Comfort. He'd grown up drinking the finest liquor, yet he preferred this one. It was harsh, burning his sinuses and his throat, but it reminded him that he was alive. Von Ratched had felt like a zombie these last days, numb in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. For the first time, his head was clear, and he sat back on the bed to nurse his bottle and think.
Did he really want to die? He deserved it, but did he truly wish it?
No. No, I do not.
Free of Lorna, free of the evidence of what he'd done to her, he was re-evaluating everything. Yes, he had made a truly terrible mistake, one he still had to rectify, but he no longer wanted to kill himself over it. There was too much yet to do, to study. Given greater opportunity, perhaps he really could unlock the secrets of magic. Once he'd put Lorna out of her misery….
Out of your misery, a nasty little voice whispered in his mind.
Von Ratched scowled. His motives were no longer a thing he cared to examine. If he did, if he even partially admitted that he wanted to kill Lorna for any selfish reasons, his resolve would waver.
If she's dead, no one need know what you've done, the voice persisted You will go down in history as a monster, but not a rapist.
It was a thought he'd had before, and he shoved it away again, disgusted with himself. That has nothing to do with it, he told himself, but he didn't truly believe it.
Dammit, alcohol just wasn't enough. He fetched his morphine case, and let the drug soothe him as nothing else could. The dose was high enough to relax all his muscles, draining his physical tension. His mind, unfortunately, was as clear and accusatory as ever.
You don't want her to be found by anyone else. You do not want her to truly escape you, to forge a new life apart from you. You cannot abide the thought of her happiness, not after she betrayed you so.
Von Ratched shut his eyes, sighing irritably. Lorna hadn't done a damn thing to betray him. She'd neither asked for nor wanted anything he'd given her. Forced on her, if he was to be brutally honest. He couldn't possibly be petty enough to wish her dead because she'd rejected him -- he loved her too much, didn't he?
Didn't he?
Free of her presence, part of him was forced to admit she'd been right all along. He'd been obsessed, possessive, even infatuated in his own way -- but he didn't really love her. And oh, did that realization gall him. He hadn't loved her, and now he hated her, hated what he'd become on her behalf. His life had started falling apart the moment he met her, that maddening little creature he couldn’t control.
Yes, he'd kill her. Once she was dead, he could scour her and their association from his mind. He was sure of that. He had to be, or he risked losing his mind.
----
It took three days for the snow to stop, and Lorna had to force herself to leave her tower.
She took all the freeze-dried food with her, wrapped in one of the blankets like a crude rucksack. She would have liked to take more, but she simply couldn’t have carried it.
It was so tempting to stay put, but she knew better. Her food and fu
el would run out in a few more days, and if the snow grew too deep, she wouldn't be able to walk in it. At her height, the six or so inches on the ground were bad enough.
She took another bath the night before she left, so at least she set off feeling clean. Her clothes were more or less clean as well, though that wouldn't last long. Oh well. It couldn't be helped.
The air was so cold that her face was numb by the time she reached the bottom of the ladder. The sky was blue and crystal-clear, and thankfully there wasn't any wind. If she had to trek back out into the unknown, at least the weather was cooperating.
There had to be a road somewhere nearby. There was nowhere for a helicopter to safely land, and the supplies had to be brought in somehow, right? A road would be so much easier to traverse in all this snow, and it had to lead to civilization sooner or later.
Maybe much later, Lorna thought grimly, wading with difficulty. Snowshoes would have been nice, but with her leg as weak as it was, they probably wouldn’t have worked. At least she still had her walking-stick.
To her immense surprise, one of the wolves came trotting out of the trees. Had it been waiting for her the entire time? The creature actually licked her hand like a dog.
"Hello to you, too," she said, smiling. Her voice was surprisingly rusty, and it occurred to her that she'd actually spoken very little since she left the Institute. Once she'd got over her screaming fit in the tower, she hadn't said a word. That was…a little troubling, honestly.
She shook her head, following her lupine guide. Difficult though her trek was, she felt far more at peace than she had at any point in the tower. Being under open sky calmed her -- the sleepy quiet of the forest calmed her, too.
Maybe I should stay out here, she thought. Civilization was great in theory, but Lorna wasn't sure just how she would fare among other people. People with questions. She was a rotten liar; when someone asked how she'd escaped, what the hell was she to tell them?
