See Jack Die
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Epilog ue
See Jack Die
Copyright 2008, 2012 by Nicholas Black
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage, photocopying, recording, and(or) any retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.
Prologue
21 June, 325 AD . . .
The first ecclesiastical gathering in history, to eventually be known as the Council of Nicaea, was summoned on the day of the summer solstice. Constantine, ruler of Rome, chose this date to celebrate his initiation into the religious order of Sol Invictus, one of the two thriving cults that regarded the Sun as the one and only Supreme God.
It was held in a hall of Osius's Palace, and there were hundreds in attendance. The intention of Constantine, through this convention, was to create an entirely new god for his empire. A god that would unite all religions, and other very vocal and violent factions under one deity.
The factions were diametrically opposed and all argued vigorously for the adoption of their beliefs and their Gods to be a part of this new, unified religion. Throughout these debates the different factions became quite heated as they argued their positions.
Fifty-three gods were tabled for discussion. For 17 months they continued to ballot in order to narrow this list of potential deities. In the end, the list of gods had been voted down to just 5 prospects: Caesar, Mithras, Horus, Drisna, and Zeus.
Constantine, the ruling voice at the Council of Nicaea, had another idea. He proposed a merger of sorts, an amalgamation of the different deities. And this proposal enraged many of the independent factions.
Behind the scenes, while these decisions were being argued and debated vigorously, several religious factions were angered by this process. A secret group was formed to counteract the Council's actions. When the scripture and books were presented that would eventually become the text of the Christian Bible, this secret group had their own scriptures and text. They went beyond the books and Gospels of the bibles we now read.
And the story they told . . . is much darker.
1,685 years later . . .
R.H.Dedman Memorial Hospital, Dallas.
May, 9th . . .
My name is Jack Pagan . . . and I might as well be four months and sixteen days old. I need to tell you about them. I need to prepare you for the monsters.
My name—Jack Pagan—is one that the doctors at the hospital gave me. Jack, because that was a hell of a lot better than John Doe. And my last name—Pagan—well . . . that's because I told those doctors they could keep all of their religious propaganda. Save somebody else. If there is a god, he doesn't seem to be in my corner.
Like when my life disappeared, where was He then? When the first few decades of my existence were snatched away . . . I could have used some faith. I didn't need a big sea splitting miracle. A floating bible would have been enough. I'd have settled for a toasted Jesus on a grilled-cheese sandwich, even.
But nope.
Just silence.
I don't actually remember what made the darkness come. There's this shrill ringing sound that seems to permanently echo in my head. Like some loud explosion that's stuck bouncing around in my mind, forever. A stagnant memory being replayed, over and over.
Imagine a DVD scratched just right to repeat, and repeat, and repeat the same second in time. An answering machine stuck on one fraction of one message. An anonymous frame in time that I won't be allowed to forget.
It never gets any duller, this sound. And it never leads me any closer to what actually happened. Whatever crashed my hard drive, did it completely. It's like, with that one loud pop, everything else was wiped-out.
These know-it-all doctors, they keep saying how lucky I am to be alive. Massive trauma to the base of my skull which caused,
“ . . . localized bilateral lesions in the limbic system, notably in the hippocampus and medial side of the temporal lobe, as well as parts of the thalamus, and their associated connections.”
That's doctor talk for messed-up head. They tested me for all kinds of brain disorders and diseases—Cerebral arteriosclerosis (hardening of the brain arteries), Korsakoff's Syndrome (deficiency of vitamin-B, or Cerebral tumors involving the third ventricle of the brain), and encephalitis (brain inflammation).
I was negative on all of those.
Of course, that still doesn’t explain the things I see crawling around.
They, in their white lab coats, with their European sounding names, and their accents, keep telling me that I am a testament to the advances in emergency medicine. They say I'm an example of the breakthroughs in neurosurgery.
They don't know the half of it.
I was told, by the attractive, tall neurosurgeon, that losing my memory was like being reborn. Like I was fresh to the world. I could start over. Do anything I could imagine.
I told her that I liked my old life. Wanted it back.
She smiled one of those knowing, learned smiles, her greenish-grey eyes looking down on me like I was a fool, “But, Mr. Pagan . . . how would you know if you liked your old life? All your long-term memories are gone. Forever.” She shrugged, “Those parts of your brain are damaged beyond repair. You can't miss what you can't remember.”
And even though she wasn't trying to be mean, there was this condescending undertone to her words that told me I was an idiot. Maybe she didn't mean it. Maybe this was part of her getting me to cope with my new reality. But all I got out of it was, idiot, idiot, idiot.
They take an oath, those doctors, to save everyone . . . even idiots. So then I tell her that, other
than my head wound, I feel fine. I explain to her how I want to work on getting my life back. She then corrects me, and I rephrase . . . I want to get my new life started.
And here comes that pity-laden smile again. And she gives me all this fancy talk about how the parts of my brain that hold long-term memories—predominately the mammilary bodies, circumscribed parts of the thalamus, and of the temporal lobe (hippocampus)—how they're destroyed, and will never be repaired. How I'll never remember anything that happened before Christmas Eve of last year. And she emphasizes the word never each time she says it.
“It's all gone, Mr. Pagan. You need to find a way to stop looking for your old life. It doesn't exist anymore. Try to imagine that it never did.”
I asked her why I still remembered words and locations on a map. I wondered, if my brain is so messed up, why I can still figure out the area of a square? How I remember that I like Rocky Road ice cream? How I like the Victoria's Secret models? How I could almost taste a thick crust pizza with pepperonis and mushrooms?
She carefully explained, with her eyes looking down her nose at me, that those things were stored in different parts of my brain. Parts that were still functioning normally. In fact, she said, my brain was performing quite exceptionally . . . considering the trauma that my head suffered.
I'm tired of this hospital. I'm sick of the food. I don't like the pastel colors that everything is painted. Mood calming colors. It's always cold and everybody that works here, from the doctors, to the janitors, are emotionally cold and distant. Like they're waiting for me to die, or leave.
I want to leave.
They want me to leave.
Then she asks me how the classes are coming. Amnesia patients—like myself—have to go to all of these special classes that the hospital offers. I think it's an insurance set-up. Kind of like them hedging their bets if we go loopy. The classes are on different subjects that are supposed to drastically affect our “ . . . new life scenarios.”
There's a class on Coping.
A class about Nutrition.
One about Anger Management.
A boring set of videos on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Oh, and a long spiel about the 'Dangers of Prescription Medicine Abuse'. That particular class is good if you're ever thinking about picking up an addiction, because they tell you everything you need to know to get your 'fix'. I learned more about drugs in that class, than most junkies learn in a lifetime.
Anyway, it's all legislated living skills. All of those important things you need to know about life, broken-down, sub-divided, and agreed upon by a board of doctors somewhere in New England—where they really know what it takes to have a productive life.
I told the lady doctor that I liked the classes just fine. That I'd whole-heartedly recommend them to anyone in my position. That they were really helping me put this all into perspective. They like to hear things like that, one of the nurses—a young kid—whispered to me after one of the classes.
I made it clear to the lady doctor that I would soon be ready to start my life anew. And maybe I was selling it too much. A bit overly optimistic. Because there were some things I was leaving out.
She nodded as she scribbled some notes down, asking me about my eating habits. I shrugged. I haven't been so hungry lately. Nothing has much taste. But that could be a commentary on hospital food. She laughed at that.
After all of these questions, she looks at me, like I'm an injured stray puppy. Like I'm cute, but too broken to take home. Her face is thin and symmetrical with a small perfect nose.
“Is there anything else going on that you would like to talk about?” she asks carefully.
And while I'm considering her question, she adds, “ . . . anything strange? Anything at all?”
Did I tell her about the shadows?
Did I tell her about the things I see just before I fall asleep and just as I wake-up in those blue minutes near dusk and dawn?
About the screaming that comes from that other place?
Doctors—even fancy, know-it-all, neurospecialists—they don't understand things like that. Heck, I don't understand things like that. But I know that you get a padded cell and a Thorazine drip if you mention creatures crawling around in the darkness. People like me, who talk about the monsters . . . we end up slobbering pharmaceutical test subjects.
We become numbers.
Lab rats.
So, no. I didn't tell her about any of the things I see lately. And the whole time we're talking, I'm trying not to stare at the dark grey shadow behind the door, that's looking at this lady doctor as if she might just be dinner.
Chapter 1
Deep Ellum, Downtown Dallas . . .
I'm about to turn five months old, so I decided I should treat myself. Because of my outstanding progress, and because there seems to be no criminal record of my DNA, finger prints, and dental records, I have been allowed to go out on my own, and search for a part-time job.
If I get a job and maintain it successfully for a few months, they will consider moving me into off-campus housing. That means I wouldn't be living at the hospital anymore. And that would be just like being released from prison. I guess.
Ricky, that young nurse I mentioned, he told me where I could find a good psychic. He knows things like that. Life things. Ever since I woke-up in the hospital he and I kind of became friends. He was working in my area, tending to all the head cases, like me, and we hit it off.
Anyway, I decided that instead of hunting for a job, I was going to do a little investigation into the paranormal. See, I've been reading everything I can about Amnesia, Retro-grade Amnesia, Organic Mental Disorder, Nervous System and Brain Dysfunction. All of it. I feel like I took a mini course in Neuropathology. But I'm looking for answers to questions that don't appear in books written by Nobel laureates.
Ricky says that doctors don't really know shit, and that I need someone who can see. And the only place he knows is a psychic by the name of Josephine. She has a small tarot card, psychic paraphernalia store in Deep Ellum—a rather seedy part of Downtown Dallas where you can find tons of bars, small clubs, and head shops. People in this part of town have lots of piercings, and motorcycles, and track marks running up and down their arms. From my classes I know that probably means methamphetamines. And those people are typically unpredictable and dangerous.
I have a yellow, crumpled page that I ripped out of the Yellow Pages, with Ms. Josephine 'Channeler and Psychic' in small black print at the bottom left of the page. And as I look up from the smudged page to the street signs, I see that I must be getting pretty close. Ricky said that I'd see a big red-neon marijuana leaf, right next to her place. And from the way Ricky seems to always have bloodshot eyes and a bag of Doritos, I figure he knows the area pretty well.
The street smells like it might explode at any moment. Like all of the fumes are flammable enough to start a runaway chain reaction. It's unseasonably hot in Dallas for the end of April. At least, that's what the local news says. I have to take their word for it.
When I walk by people, I look at them a little longer than I probably should, wondering if they are somebody I knew. But as I see the pieces of shinny steel poking out of their ears, and chins, and eyebrows, and nipples, I figure probably not.
All of this walking is kicking my ass. I'm in pretty good shape, just looking at myself in the mirror. But several months of lying on my back in a hospital bed have made my body lazy. I find myself breathing hard after just a short walk. My classes stressed how important exercise is, and there is probably something to that. I'm going to mark 'Cardio' as an area for improvement.
My clothes are generic. Blue jeans and a green polo-style shirt. I don't remember my past, but I know, beyond any doubt, that I wore nicer clothes than these. These hospital handouts are itchy, and smell like mothballs. Ricky said it was good to look like a bum in Deep Ellum because that would keep me from getting mugged. I told him that if people robbed me they'd be upset because I don't remember w
here my wallet is. He didn't think that was funny.
Walking. Walking. Walking.
And with each street that I pass, I feel like I'm getting closer to something important. Something that will explain what the hell is happening to me. I'm trying to handle this like a detective might. I've been reading all sorts of detective novels that Ricky has been giving me. They balance out all the medical journals I've been lording over.
Fiction to combat the Non-fiction.
Fantasy to wrestle with reality.
Too much of either is a bad thing, I suppose.
In these detective novels, the guy is always facing some intricate, woven mélange of unconnected facts and details. Information in every direction. And what he does—Detective Todd Steele—is to test the most logical things first. Every detail. One by one. Until he's left with the oddball, ridiculous, unorthodox possibilities. Good fiction works that way. So that's the way I'm doing it.
I've tried the hospital's doctors. The scientists. The Medical Journals. The courses. Nothing. Ricky got me onto the Internet, and we searched around for hours that melted into weeks. Nothing of substance. So I thought to myself, what would Detective Todd Steele do? Once out of grounded and logical answers, he would investigate the not-so-normal. And here I am, surrounded by the people that society tries to forget.
The homeless.
The degenerate.
The despicable.
And I just know that I'm close. The sun is hidden behind clouds for the moment, and it's a respite from the atomic level of heat that has been bathing all of us for the last thirty minutes. My green shirt is sticking to my chest and stomach, and I can feel the drops of sweat crawling down the sides of my chest, from underneath my arms, down to my hips. It's a dirty feeling. Sticky.
A large, red truck honks at me as I cross the street, and I wonder if he knows me. I smile and wave at him, But then he yells, “Get the fuck out of the way you homeless piece of shit!” And it's pretty clear from the way that he inflects his words that we were probably not acquaintances in my forgotten past.
See Jack Die (Part 1 in the Paranormal Series) (See Jack Die Series) Page 1
