by R. A. Evans
The older man nodded the gist of Brady’s response slow to settle over him. Soon he was laughing, a deep baritone of a howl that that seemed almost fitting as it echoed through the empty asylum.
From the shadows of the doorway, Collins smiled, watching the two men share a moment of levity. His voice broke the moment. His words without thought yet left all in deep contemplation.
“Definitely no place for a baby,” gazing around the shadowy recesses of the old building, “Lionel drew his first breaths here…somewhere amongst this wickedness.”
Brady exchanged a puzzled glance with Frank. “Come again, Reverend?”
Collins dropped his eyes, stepping into the office for the first time, balancing the weight of the oversized Bible as he navigated the rubble. “Seems that list of yours isn’t quite as complete as it should be,” he stated dryly. The Reverend paused, standing across a large pile of debris from the two men; he slowly raised his weary eyes from the floor to their faces.
“The place was quite a mess; literally and figuratively.” He chuckled nervously, his graze growing distant as the memory drew closer. “Junior pastors don’t get to choose their flocks. In those days I was little more than a teenager with a Bible but I was strong in the Lord.”
Again, Brady glanced at Frank. The brief shrug of his friend’s massive shoulders convinced Brady that he, too, was unsure what the strange old man was talking about.
“I had been at the asylum just two days, not even enough time for formal introductions, when it happened. They had Melody and I bunking at one of the farm cottages, not here in the hospital itself.” The man’s tone and pace were gaining strength. “I was the one who found the….remains.”
Collins’s dirty knuckles whitened around the Bible as he continued. “His birth had been a miracle of course – a blessing swathed in bloody rags.” He looked directly into their faces, “We took him, made him our own.”
Brady couldn’t keep his thoughts silent any longer. “You stole a baby!” It was more accusation than question.
Frank interjected, placing himself between Brady and Collins. A deep roll of thunder shook the very walls around them. “Listen, all things being considered, we have enough shit to deal with right now without adding to it.” Glancing uncomfortably at Collins, “Now, unless there’s anything else you have to tell us, anything that might actually be helpful to the task at hand, I say we get back to work.”
Collins said nothing, dropping his gaze once again to the floor. Brady nodded in agreement; aware that time was already working against them. “Wait,” he suddenly reconsidered, lurching over the rubble toward Collins. “You found a newborn alive and unharmed…here, among the dead?”
Collins nodded.
Brady looked from the haggard old man to Frank, “No women were listed among the dead, Frank, all men.” More thunder greeted his comments. “How does a mother, sane or not, give birth amidst this chaos, allow her child to be taken, and then not say or do anything once help arrives?”
Ellis cradled Emily in his arms, the stench of death thick in the rear of the ambulance. He could hear them laughing in the cabin of the old Packard; a sound that tied his stomach in knots.
His eyes, always sensitive to light, slowly grew accustomed to the blackness, allowing him to barely discern the shadowy form of the woman he held in his blood-soaked arms.
“My love,” he whispered gently, leaning down and placing his trembling lips upon her forehead. At his touch, she stirred, sending a momentarily jolt of elation through his tired body. She lives.
“Emily,” he whispered through the darkness, “I am here.”
The laughter from beyond ceased as the Packard roared to life; he could feel the vibrating mass of metal lumber down the road, surely back to the hospital from which they had just fled.
Emily groaned, arching her back against a bursting dam of pain. Her shallow breathing became deeper. “The baby, Ellis…the baby is coming.”
Ellis looked from Emily’s tear streaked face to her bulging belly. No, no…not here, not now! Removing his torn and soiled shirt he balled it into a rumpled pillow and laid Emily back. The windows on the rear doors of the Packard had been painted over. Ellis dug at the paint with his nails, each fleck allowing sunlight to filter through.
Emily’s pained moaning drew his attention from the windows. “Ellis, please. Promise me, Ellis; promise me that you will run.”
Ellis ran a gentle hand through her sweaty hair, combing the hair away from her face with his shaking fingers. “No time to run, my love,” he whispered with a soothing smile. “We’re about to have a baby.”
For the briefest of moments Ellis’s smile lifted the weight of worry from her shoulders. Emily closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and pushed with every ounce of energy she could muster. Ellis knelt between her spread legs, eyes trained on the crown of hair budding from Emily’s tired body, and waited.
The baby’s delicate shoulders emerged with a gush of blood. Reaching forward, Ellis scooped the newborn into his arms, pulling it from the mess of the Packard’s floor. In the excitement of the moment the proud papa had not felt the Packard stagger to a halt. Holding the newborn in his arms, he called for Emily. “My love, it’s a boy, a beautiful healthy boy.”
Emily raised herself onto wobbly elbows, eager to greet her new son. Instead, the rear doors of the old ambulance were torn open; blinding sunlight filling the dim interior.
“My, my, my,” Douglas Wyatt sneered from the open hatch. “What do we have here?”
Ellis cradled the baby protectively, turning his body to the open doors and raising an arm to shield his sensitive eyes from the burning light.
“Clovis said to bring you back…preferably alive, but dead would be acceptable.” The orderly paused, turning to the bulky figure beside him. “Get the girl, Bill,” Wyatt ordered with a smile, “Doctor didn’t say what to do with her, though I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
A shadowed arm reached into the Packard and grabbed Emily by the hair. Her scream filled the metal cabin, echoing into the sunlight beyond. A lone gull cried in response.
Ellis reached for her, his hand slick with blood. “Nooo!” he screamed, clutching the crying baby to his chest. Her fingernails bit into the flesh of his forearm, tracing deep gashes across his pale skin as Bill hauled her violently from the ambulance. Her last frantic efforts for help from the man she had loved yet never seen would leave her with his bloodied hospital bracelet clutched between her fingers.
The baby, still connected to its screaming mother, was nearly wrenched from Ellis tiring arms. Ellis held on, gripping the child like a football, and bracing his feet against the Packard’s slick floor.
“Dammit, Bill,” Wyatt complained with a laugh, “Let me give you a hand.”
The Packard’s rear doors slammed, catching the umbilical cord in its metal teeth. Ellis felt a stiff tug on the bundle in his arms. Panicked, he pulled against the strain, wrapping his free hand around the slick cord and jerking it towards him.
The door opened, Wyatt’s face haloed in a burst of sunlight. Instantly, the door slammed again; over and over. Finally, the tug of the cord ceased and Ellis fell back into the darkness of the Packard’s interior
The overpowering sound of his beating heart drowned out the baby’s shrill wail, but not Emily’s last agonized scream. That sound, Ellis would take to his grave.
Brady led them deeper into the building, questions of Lionel’s parentage weighing heavily on him. Frank had grown quiet, a fact that was both a relief and a worry. The man’s incessant banter, although tiring, had also proven to be a welcome reprieve from the serious work at hand. Without it, Brady was left to continue his reckless planning in silence.
Jeff’s directions led them down winding staircases deep into the bowels of the forsaken structure. The beams from their flashlights provided terrifyingly brief and mysterious glimpses of rusted bed frames with tattered linens, rotted furniture, and crumbling walls. Up and down the h
allways they walked, through vacant rooms and offices.
The dripping sound of water echoed through the barren tunnel as they emerged into the basement of the asylum. According to Jeff, the tunnel to the left ended with the morgue and furnace room. To the right waited a series of small offices and one large space labeled simply:
Brady’s phone buzzed. “Talk to me, Jeff,” he answered nervously.
“National Weather Service is reporting heavy rotational activity in the storms coming in through Kent City, Brady. That’s about 25 miles south and heading this way fast. Wind gusts as high as seventy-five miles per hour. Power is out from Muskegon down to South Haven.”
“Great,” Brady replied. “We’ve just reached the basement. Keep us posted.”
Brady turned to Frank, “Running out of time. Why don’t you and the good Reverend head down to the treatment room and offices. I’ll take a peak in the morgue. Something tells me that maybe that’s where an undertaker would be doing the majority of his business.”
Frank shook his head, “No way, son. I’m not sure splitting up is the right idea. You heard your friend. We got weather coming down hard on us.”
Brady disagreed, “That’s exactly why we need to split up, Frank. Come on, I’m a big boy, and Jeff’s got your number now too, in case you get scared.” Brady smiled at the retired lawman.
Frank puffed his barrel chest out and snickered, “Fine, you got ten minutes and then we meet back here.” He paused, a look of concern passing over his otherwise stoic face. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”
Brady smiled, “Never. Ten minutes, Frank.” He brushed by the older man, pointing his light down the pitch-black hallway. Collins remained a step behind the former Sheriff, waiting for Brady to pass.
Brady stepped clumsily around the rubble on the floor and fell awkwardly against the frail Reverend. Collins’s flashlight and Bible clattered to the ground.
“Pardon me, Reverend,” Brady said, kneeling down to help gather the scattered papers. “Nerves,” he explained.
Collins returned Brady’s anxious smile and nodded. Tattered Bible once again intact and flashlight in hand, Brady watched the old man turn and follow Frank down the empty corridor. He waited until their lights disappeared from view before opening his closed fist. Lying across his sweaty palm, beneath the pale beam of his flashlight, was Ellis’s bracelet.
“Okay, Mr. Arkema,” Brady challenged the darkness ahead as his fingers closed once again around the cold plastic, “Let’s dance.”
Jeff sat in front of his bank of computer monitors and danced his fingers across two separate keyboards. Doppler Radar colored the screen to his right, a splotch of greens and reds covering nearly half of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. The screen in front of him was finalizing an additional search on Clovis. This search was a bit more…elaborate, and included hacking into several law enforcement and governmental databases; something Jeff had grown quite proficient at. The screen to the right was tuned to C-SPAN. Manson lay in a heap across his feet.
Already, he could feel the familiar itch that came from withdrawal. It started behind his eyes and worked its way throughout his body. Jeff chewed four Motrin and tried to ignore the ache.
What a fucking day. He thought, stretching his arms out above his head. Never in a million years would he have ever dreamed he’d be parked outside the old nut house while Brady Tanner and his merry band of fools paraded through its wreckage.
“Not exactly our first rodeo, hey Manson,” Jeff stated, rubbing his bare feet across the course hair of the Rottweiler’s stomach. “Remember the time we partied with that roller derby team?” Jeff’s hoarse laughter whistled from between his rotted teeth. “We kinda learned the hard way about that Jammer being a transvestite.”
Jeff’s laughter was interrupted by the unmistakable wail of emergency sirens in the distance. Their cries drowned out the howling wind and rain that had battered the aged Winnebago for the last forty-minutes.
“Shit,” Jeff muttered, turning his attention back to the radar as he reached for the phone. “Things are about to get a little hairy, Manson.”
The patch of red on the radar screen had settled squarely over Bedlam County. Jeff recalled enough from his days practicing tornado drills as a school boy that the warning sirens meant that a funnel cloud had been spotted. He nervously punched in Brady’s digits, ready to warn his companions against the coming storm. The phone fell from his hand as the music of an unanswered ring back tone drained the color from his already pale and gaunt face.
When there's lightning - it only always brings me down
Cause it's free and I see that it's me
Who's lost and never found
I cry for magic - I feel it dancing in the light
But it was cold - I lost my hold
To the shadows of the night
There's no sign of the morning coming
You've been left on your own
Like a Rainbow in the Dark
Between Frank and the good Reverend, neither had much of an idea what they should be looking for. Even if trying however, Frank couldn’t possibly overlook the sight before his tired eyes.
“Toto,” he whispered breathlessly as he settled the unsteady beam from his flashlight onto the stone wall, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
Beneath the varied layers of dust and cobwebs, scrawled onto the stone wall in what could only be blood, was a single word:
“I think we’ve found something, Reverend,” Frank noted, leaning down for a closer look. He heard the sharp intake of breath from Collins as the man drew back in revulsion. “Yep, my thoughts exactly,”
The ring of Frank’s cell phone shattered the silence, startling the two nervous explorers. Frank slid the phone from his pocket, flipping it open. “Yeah,” he answered angrily, keeping his light trained on the wall.
“Twisters Frank, heading this way – you need to get your asses out of there.”
Frank closed his eyes, concentrating on the muted sounds around him. From beyond the stone walls and over the thunderous storms raging outside, he could hear the wailing of emergency sirens.
“Shit, things were just starting to get interesting, too.” Frank’s knees popped as he stood. The first sign of age he had shown since the entire affair began. “I imagine you’ve talked with Brady and he’s wrapping things up, too?”
Jeff’s hesitation sounded warning bells in Frank’s already troubled mind. “Brady’s phone must be acting up…I couldn’t get through.”
Frank noted the clever way Jeff worded his statement and drew his own conclusions from the young man’s worried tone.
“Son of a bitch!” he cursed, “Keep trying him. The Reverend and I will circle back and see if we can find him.”
Frank ended the call with Jeff, shaking his head in frustration. Turning to alert Collins to their change in plans, Frank found himself alone in the TREATMENT room.
“Perfect, just fucking perfect,” he muttered, the pale beam from his flashlight passing over the darkened corners of the giant room. Odd contraptions of steel and wood littered the floor; each painfully mysterious in appearance and function. A fleeting flash of light from inside one of the treatment devices caught his eye. He approached slowly, his booted feet kicking a path through the rubble. It took a moment for his flashlight to pierce the shadows before him. As his weary eyes adjusted to the light, he recoiled, nearly tripping over the cluttered floor.
Rising before him, Frank gazed at a large wooden chair covered in dust. Suspended from atop the high back of the chair was a metal helmet of sorts; a simple ring of steel below what appeared to be a vice of some sort. It was the sight of what rested beneath the helmet that sickened Frank. Bound to the treatment chair by rusted manacles across both arms and legs; skeletal remains dressed in a ragged blue uniform which Frank quickly recognized.
The skull had been crushed down, collapsing into the jaw bone and leaving several vertebra dislodged from the spine column. Frank
scanned the light across the tangled mess of bone and cloth, letting it rest on the badge and nametag. LT. J. Bowling.
Frank reached forward, plucking the badge from the tattered remains of the Michigan State Police Trooper he had never thought of as a friend.
“You bastard, dying on me before I could shove that damn cigar down your throat.”
Wiping his thumb across the dusty surface of the badge, Frank paused, “Rest easy, Jim, I’ll be back,” he whispered, tucking the golden shield into his pocket.
Frank Griggs departed the TREATMENT room, retreating along the cluttered corridor in search of Brady. Collins, for the moment, was merely an afterthought. Passing the decaying sign directing passersby to the Morgue, the retired Sheriff’s nervous stomach crept into his chest. Nothing good ever happens in a morgue!
Brady had always wanted an Ouija Board as a kid. Something about the thought of communicating with ghosts had always intrigued him. Maybe it was his obsession with reading Stephen King, from haunted cars and hotels to vampires, the dead seemed very much alive in the works of his favorite author.
Alone in the confines of the asylum’s icy morgue, Brady clutched Ellis’s bracelet, unsure of how one actually goes about summoning a spirit. Hell, if a five-year-old can do it. He mused, thinking of Abby. Then I sure as hell ought to be able to figure it out.
He peered around the room, noting the bank of metal drawers on the far wall. Nine iron boxes, he cringed, imagining what they may still contain. No way am I checking to see if they’re empty!
The light from Brady’s flashlight danced around the shadow filled room, reflecting off the oversized porcelain table dominating the center of the tiled floor. Rusted stains traced down the table’s sides, spreading in jagged fingers across the cold floor. Brady was left to imagine what gruesome acts had been committed; flesh and bone memories leaving the stench of death to linger long afterward in the abandoned room.
