The Cold Beneath

by Tonia Brown

  Lent took great pleasure in shoving me into the brig by the sole of his foot. There I collapsed on the floor, hitting my shoulder again, which elicited another loud cry of pain. The young man barked an angry laugh as he slammed the barred door closed behind me. I noticed the very key ring I had toted about for days was now in his possession. What a heavy sleep I must have been in, for I remember those keys as clipped upon my belt when I took to my bed.

  Before he left me alone, Lent leaned against the bars to take one last look at me. His anger subsided for a moment as he drew a deep breath and asked, “Why did you do it? All those men … why?”

  But I knew better than to reply. In my experience with Goode, in my struggle to expose the truth and subsequent failure to make people believe me, I learned a harsh lesson. Never confess to anything until all of your details are prepared. But more importantly, perhaps, than that? Never talk without the company of a witness. Instead of answering his question, I crawled to the bunk in the corner and made myself at home.

  “Just tell me why,” Lent demanded. “What did they ever do to you?”

  I rolled away from him. The sounds of rising phlegm met my ears, followed by the wet slop of his spittle running down my arm. Good thing I didn’t try to make a run for it; the lad was a good shot.

  Lent’s voice returned to its previous angry timbre. “You better hope Lightbridge kills you himself. You better pray he doesn’t turn you over to us.” He rattled the door in its hinges before he shouted, “You better pray!”

  Pray I did.

  No sooner had his footsteps faded than I rolled off the small cot, took to my knees and lifted my face to the Lord in supplication. I prayed in the darkness, for they left me no lantern. I filled the hours they left me alone stewing upon my deeds with mumbled prayers. They brought me clean and warmer clothes, for the brig was as icy as the cargo bay, and as I pulled on the heavy jacket and pants atop my blood-caked body, I prayed. I listened to the men coming and going, shouting obscenities at me as they tended to the boiler down the hall, and I prayed. When they at last brought me a bucket of icy water and a sliver of soap, I washed my body in the dark while I prayed.

  But I didn’t pray for forgiveness of my terrible actions, not yet. That would come later. For almost a full twenty-four hours or more, I prayed that someone among the crew would see fit to hear my tale, would take to heart what I knew to be the truth. That someone might champion my cause and lead me from this darkness into the light.

  A soft voice came to answer my prayers.

  “Philip?” Geraldine asked.

  So involved was I in my discourse with God, I hadn’t heard her approach. Nor did I realize the lights were on. I lifted my weary frame from the floor, shielded my eyes and sat on the edge of the bed as I stared through the bars at her. I think it was hysteria that spoke for me when I said, “Geraldine. It’s good of you to come see me. I would invite you in for a spot of tea, but I’m afraid I don’t have any cups.” I paused for a brief giggle before I added, “Or tea.”

  My attempt at cleverness only angered her. She frowned. “How can you make light of this? Philip, after what you did to those men …” her words faded into a choked gasp. She was weeping.

  My heart ached at the knowledge that I was the cause of her pain. I stood to join her at the bars, but when I stepped forward, she shuffled back in an effort to remain out of my reach. I grabbed the bars to steady my weak knees. The steam of a prepared meal wafted to me from a tray on the floor, but I wasn’t hungry. How long had I gone without food now? Over a full day, to be sure. They had left me tray after tray, but I couldn’t eat. Though my stomach rumbled and growled, I wasn’t hungry. My belly was too full of sorrow and anger to leave any room for hunger.

  I said, as soft as I could manage, “Geraldine, I’m sorry. I’m just half mad with grief and so weary.”

  “You need to eat,” she whispered behind her tears.

  “I will, later. But now let me assure you that I am no danger. Not to you or to the others. I know it looks like I am, I know I look like a monster but …” I stopped here, unsure of what to say.

  She sniffled, then asked, “But?”

  “You won’t believe me. I almost don’t believe me.”

  “Philip, I don’t know what happened here, but I know you. I know you’re not the kind of man who would … do this. Just tell me what happened.”

  I parted my lips to speak, but nothing issued. I found myself at a loss to explain. How could I relate the tale of walking corpses? Of the dead falling only to rise again? It sounded insane. It was insane! I decided to grasp at the common thread of our experience and weave the tapestry of my tale from there.

  “Morrow,” I said.

  Geraldine started as if shocked that I would mention the man’s name. “Morrow? What does this have to do with him?”

  “I think it all started with Morrow. I know it sounds crazy, but what if he was dead? I mean the first time. What if you were right about his condition?”

  “I don’t understand.” Yet as she spoke, I thought I saw a spark in her eyes, something that belied her words.

  “I think he was dead the first time around. He was dead when we placed him in that larder. And he was still dead when he returned that night of the wreck.”

  Geraldine gasped, and I heard a familiar tone. It wasn’t one of disgust, or shock. It was a gasp of revelation, a gasp of understanding. She knew what I was driving at. But instead of saying so, she denied it. “Philip, listen to you! Do you know how that sounds? The dead stay dead. They don’t get up and walk around.”

  I returned to the bed, hanging my head low as I sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Those have been some mighty famous last words, son,” Lightbridge said.

  I whipped about to see him standing beside Geraldine, lending her his arm in support. I ran to the bars again, grabbing them as I said, “Gideon, please. I beg of you to hear me out.”

  Lightbridge patted Geraldine’s arm, “Go on, Doctor. I want a word with our friend here.”

  She took one last look at me before she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving us men alone.

  In Lightbridge’s other hand, he carried a small stool, which he lowered to the ground as he spoke. “Mr. Syntax, I have always considered myself a fair man. I believe that it is prudent to look before one leaps, as well as to listen to all parties before drawing conclusions.”

  “You’ll listen?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

  “Yes, but don’t expect much. I would like to think I haven’t made my mind up about you, yet I cannot bring myself to lie. Things seem rather grim here. I come back to find my crew slaughtered like cattle, corpses defiled in most unspeakable ways, then the whole lot stored like meat in a locker. And you? The only man alive in the shadow of this deed? Coated with gore and asleep as if nothing happened. How can I presume anything but your guilt?”

  My heart sank. “But I didn’t kill those men.”

  “Then suppose you tell me who, or what, did.” He sat on the stool, his metal legs squeaking from a much-needed oiling as the telltale grind of a cog out of sync set my teeth on edge.

  “Your legs are in need of retuning.”

  “They can wait. I’m listening to you now.”

  “I see. Well, then …” I returned to the bed, looking to the floor as I searched for the words to describe what had transpired. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Might I suggest that you begin at the beginning?”

  I looked up to him again with a weak smile. “Yes, sir.”

  I detailed the horrific events in a flurry of passionate words and burning tears. From the moment I watched them disappear into the distance, right up to the moment I collapsed in my bed. Lightbridge sat through the bulk of my speech, the picture of patience, never interrupting, never correcting me on crossed details and never showing any emotion beyond keen interest. He let me let it all out, and never said a word in return. When I arrived at the
worst of the tale, his stony expression faltered a bit. He cocked his head at the tale of the revenants rising from the cargo bay, furrowed his brow at the descriptions of their hideous cries, and even started at my choice to fire upon the already dead corpses.

  When I reached the point where they discovered me, I fell quiet. No need to continue when he knew the rest of the details. I drew a much-needed deep breath and stared at him, awaiting his verdict. Lightbridge rubbed his bearded chin, as he eyed me through the bars in silence. After what seemed an eon of him weighing my words, he stood and came to the bars.

  “Mr. Syntax?” he asked.

  “Sir?” I replied.

  “When was the last time you ate something?”

  “Many hours. I took a small meal, as I described. But I … I’m not hungry. I don’t really want to eat. I don’t think I can.”

  He then did something I didn’t expect. He grinned. It was a small smile, but it was there. “I see.” And with that he returned to his stool. There he sat and leaned over, clasping his hands as he rested his elbows on his metal knees. It was a posture I’d seen him adopt many times before. He often took it on when about to delve into a difficult discussion.

  This did not bode well for me.

  ****

  back to toc

  ****

  Twenty-Four

  Lightbridge Spins a Tale

  “Philip,” Lightbridge started. “As a man with a medical background, I am sure you are well aware of many conditions of the body, as well as the mind.”

  I knew just what he was saying, even before he finished. “I’m not insane.”

  Lightbridge raised his hand to me, his signal for silence, which I obeyed. “I listened to you, young man. Please allow me the same courtesy.”

  I bit back a sharp retort. “Of course.”

  “I am sure you are well aware of how the mind works, far better than an old war dog like me. But, that said, I have seen things in combat that would warp the psyche of the common man. Atrocities that have burned themselves into the very souls of me and my fellow soldiers. When we come home from battle, we carry these scars with us, and though we try our best to get on with our lives, things are never the same. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “I think so. But this isn’t combat. This is—”

  He lifted his hand again, and I fell silent.

  “Once,” he said, “when I was about your age, I was sent on a reconnaissance mission with a fellow I thought I knew very well. Jackie and I fought side by side for almost ten years. Had seen so much action. So much death. The Yank and the Cracker, that’s what they called us then. It was the War, you see. Though I was born and raised in Dixie, I sided with the Union when the fighting started.”

  I wasn’t surprised to hear this. From my understanding, the origin of an American’s birth had very little to do with the side one joined when the War Between the States broke out. The whole event had brother fighting brother. Son soldiering against father. It was a terrible chapter in their history, to be sure.

  Lightbridge sighed as he continued, “But that mission, something happened, something terrible. We were on our way back from watching the movements of the enemy troops for almost six weeks. Though I thought we kept a fairly good map, it proved useless on our way back, and we got lost in the winding hills of North Carolina. We should have headed back sooner, but we didn’t. When the snows came on both early and strong, we found ourselves trapped behind the lines. Luckily we ran across an abandoned house, a gorgeous mansion filled with furniture and paintings and clothes. All of it just left behind when the owners fled the fighting. We holed up in the place, setting up camp in the spacious living room to consolidate our heat. But our supplies were few. I knew and Jackie knew that we wouldn’t last long.

  “We waited for the snow to let up enough for us to make a try for it, but by the time it finally stopped, the whole landscape was gone. Swallowed by the snow. Neither of us had any idea where we were, but we had a pretty good notion that if we headed out into that vast blanket of white, we wouldn’t make it home. Not alive anyway. So we dug in and waited for spring.” He stopped again to let out a long, weary sigh.

  I didn’t know where his story was headed, but I didn’t like the tone of that sigh. It was full of grief and misery and sour memories. It was the kind of sigh one might make at a graveside service of a longtime friend. The very same sigh that escaped just before a man drew his last breath.

  “Jackie never was a patient man,” Lightbridge said. “But he was always a good man. Until that winter. During that winter, he changed. In the first month he seemed fine, but little by little he started to crack. Said he heard things that clearly weren’t there. Saw things too. He started talking to the furniture. Then started answering for it. I took it all in stride, playing his crazy games, thinking he’d snap out of it once the snow started to melt. Meanwhile I listened to Jack talk to the table, as well as the constant rumble of my empty belly. You see, while we had plenty of things to burn to keep us warm, the larders were empty. Our rations were pitiful, the game was thin and we were hungry. So hungry. It’s the most I ever suffered in combat. It was a terrible time.”

  Lightbridge furrowed his brow at me, taking on a pained and pitiful look.

  “But Jackie, he had it worse. Where I was just hungry, he couldn’t stand being shut in like that. Even in a house as big as it was. I found him, more than once, passed out on the lawn in the snow, half frozen and almost dead, all for the want of getting out of that house for just a few hours. I got to where I kept a rope tied between us so he couldn’t get up without me knowing about it. It worked, after a fashion. But not for very long. One morning …” Lightbridge paused in his narrative to look down at his trembling hands. After a brief moment he continued. “One morning I awoke to the most amazing smell.” He paused again, far too long this time for mere dramatic effect. It was as though he didn’t want to continue.

  I spurred him on. “What was it?”

  “Meat. I woke to the smell of cooking meat. I found the rope severed and discovered Jackie running about the huge kitchen, talking to all the pots and pans as he cooked. I can still hear his laughter. Not the tittering giggles of a madman, but pure gut-busting laughter. It was a beautiful sound after not hearing it for so long. At first I laughed with him. I assumed he must have trapped some passing animal. That God Himself had seen fit to grant us reprieve from our suffering.

  “But … alas no. No, it wasn’t just some animal. A chill stirred me, and I looked out across the kitchen to the back door and saw a sight I shall never forget. In all of my days, Philip, I shall never forget it. I can see it clearly in my mind today as on that awful morning. Hanging in the open doorway was a corpse. Hauled up by the ankles and dressed like a damned deer. Do you understand what I’m saying? Jack had cut some poor slob apart and was cooking his flesh for food.”

  Despite the gruesome nature of my own recent experiences, I gasped in shock.

  “Yes,” Lightbridge affirmed. “Later he showed me a blood-soaked confederate uniform and claimed the man tried to attack us in the middle of the night, but I could never be sure of what happened. If it was an attack, why didn’t he wake me? Why didn’t I hear anything? All I knew was that I woke with drool on my pillow to the scent of that man’s fat in the frying pan, Philip. I woke with a belly so twisted with hunger, so empty that I actually considered joining in Jackie’s meal.”

  I lingered on the moment, not wanting to ask, but curiosity got the best of me. “Did you?”

  Lightbridge didn’t answer. He just stared at me, cold and calculated, through the bars. I began to get the impression he had no intention of answering, one way or the other.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I don’t see what that has to do with this.”

  “I didn’t relate this very private and very personal story just to garner your sympathy, son. I didn’t tell you to make you feel better about what happened here either. I did it to illustrate a point. To let yo
u know that I understand.”

  “You do?” I was confused by his claim. How did his tale of desperate cannibalism relate to my … I flinched in disgust as a revolting idea struck me. “I may have put a bullet in each of those corpses, but I can assure you I didn’t eat those men!”

  “I never said you did. But our stories do share a common theme none the less.” He tipped his head to one side before he added, “House sickness can strike one even in the largest of dwellings.”

  “House sickness?” I echoed. “You think I’ve gone stir crazy?”

  “You have to admit the signs all point to yes. The hysteria, the nature of your deeds. Why, not getting enough to eat is enough on its own to drive a man to desperate acts—”

  “Gideon!” I shouted over him. I leapt to my feet and rushed the bars. “Look at me! I’m not crazy. You know I’m not. Everything I confessed is the truth. Please, you must believe me.”

  “How can I? Your facts don’t make sense. The evidence is piled against you. As for your confession? Syntax, forgive me for saying this, but your story is unbearably unbelievable.”

  “I know how it sounds, but I saw those men with my own eyes, Lightbridge. I saw half-eviscerated corpses get up and fight and scream!”

  Lightbridge stood and shouted, “That’s enough!”

  “But you must—”

  “I said that was enough! I have had enough of your outrageous claims. You told me those men rose after just a few days. You then maintain that Harris came back after just an hour, that what’s happening is speeding up somehow. But I have yet to see any evidence of it.”

  “How can I provide evidence without a corpse?”

  “Well, lucky for you, we have a corpse.”

  “What! Who?”

  “Blackburn’s wound took him. He lives no more.”

  Blackburn. One of the injured men. If he was dead, then it was only a matter of time now. How I could get them to believe me? They didn’t have just a corpse on their hands, they had a ticking bomb waiting to go off at any moment. “How long ago?”