by C. L. Bevill
“We’re in an asylum,” Cybil said. “There doesn’t have to be a reason the average sane person would understand, silly Sophie.”
Bubba glanced back at Cybil. Abel was standing behind her. He mentally counted again. There was the doctor, the nurse, Peyton, David, Tandy, and himself. Then there was Cybil and Abel. And a dog, of course. That was meant one person was all alone. “Where’s Jesus?”
“Heaven?” Tandy said. “Oh, you mean Jesus. He was in the cafeteria with the rest of us.” She craned her neck. “And he’s not here, which is a bad thing. God, did I give up pot at the worse time ever.”
Cybil glanced over her shoulder. “Jesus was right behind us.”
Abel looked around in an apprehensive way. “He can’t be far. What were you saying about Mrs. Ferryjig and Mr. Tanner?”
“Bubba thinks it’s the same person doing it,” Tandy said. She puffed again and didn’t bother taking the cigarette out of her mouth. “I gather that’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it, Bubba?”
“‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’” David quoted, obviously using his best British accent.
“What’s been eliminated?” Abel asked.
“We could say that the dead didn’t do this,” Tandy suggested. “They’re dead, and this isn’t a zombie movie.” She grimaced. “I probably shouldn’t say that.”
Bubba pushed past everyone and rushed back toward the cafeteria. The clicking of toe nails told him that Precious was in close pursuit. The clicking was followed by footsteps. “Jesus!” he yelled.
He burst through the doors and stopped, staring. No one was there. There wasn’t a man in a hockey mask with a machete or man with steel-tipped fingers and a burned face, and there wasn’t a man with a screaming mask wearing a black cloak. There wasn’t even a chainsaw present.
It was almost anticlimactic. Everyone else piled in behind him as he made his way into the kitchen. He found no one in there either.
Bubba returned to the cafeteria with a glum expression. He glanced around, and his gaze settled on one of the tables. He didn’t really like what he was looking at because he frowned deeply.
The seven remaining people and one pooch stared at Bubba expectantly.
“The answer to the question that you dint really ask, Tandy,” Bubba said finally, “is that someone was planning it for a reason I don’t reckon I understand. Might be because that person is crazy, nuttier than a five-pound fruitcake at a Christmas dinner, and it might be because someone’s got a plan I don’t get, but it’s happening all the same.”
“You don’t know that,” Tandy said.
“Someone thought ahead,” Bubba said. “They searched on the Internet, planted evidence, and when they thought the hospital was goin’ to be the most empty, they blew up the cell phone tower and caused an avalanche to take out the only road in or out. Don’t sound that crazy to me that someone is doing all them things so methodically. Sounds like premeditation to me. Except he or she dint count on a couple extra folks crashing their party.”
“You mean you and the wedding guy,” Tandy said.
“Wedding planner,” Peyton corrected. “And I’ve never crashed a party.”
Bubba nodded. “Look,” he said and pointed at the cupcake stand on the middle table. Only eight cupcakes remained.
* * *
Bubba dragged all of them from one end of the hospital to the other. Then he dragged them outside into the dense fog. Eight people trudged around the perimeter of the hospital only stopping when he ran into the solid chain-link fence the construction company had erected to keep people out of the wing that was to be renovated.
Bubba stared into the fence and said, “Doc, ain’t no one supposed to be in that wing, right?”
“It was cleared and then the doors were sealed. The administrator had them nailed shut to prevent anyone from going in from the hospital side once the renovations started. There’s an asbestos issue. The abatement will take at least two weeks. They’ve already put up plastic sheeting on the inside of the wing.” Dr. Adair looked around and shivered. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t particularly warm either.
Bubba weighed in his mind whether to break into the wing or not, just to be sure. He couldn’t find an entrance by which someone could be carrying in bodies. He chewed on his lower lip and thought, I could et something. Not cupcakes. Mebe eggs. Eggs with peanut butter on top. Wonder what Willodean is doin’ right now.
“Jesus wouldn’t go anywhere with a stranger,” David said into Bubba’s ear. “He was planning on visiting his family next week. They’re doing a charitable vacation in Bolivia. Feeding the poor, building a clinic, and there was something about immunizations for the people who didn’t have access to medicine. He wouldn’t just disappear.”
Bubba knew Jesus. He’d known Jesus for a while now. He wasn’t a bad sort for a man who thought he was the savior. It was true that he didn’t favor underwear and that he’d once stolen a case of hemorrhoid cream, but that had only been a nonverbal cry for assistance. Jesus was also loyal to his fellow mental patients. Perhaps he was trying to get help for Thelda and Leeza. Perhaps he’d eaten the cupcake and then gotten lost in the fog.
“We should go back inside,” Tandy said. “I think the schizophrenic in room 34 keeps a carton of Luckies in her nightstand.”
“We should stay together until help comes,” Abel said.
Ratchley said, “I’m afraid to go the bathroom by myself. I have the bladder the size of a walnut.” Everyone looked at her. “What? Too much information?”
“I’m afraid that this fog is going to eat me,” Cybil said. “I think I read too much Stephen King when I was younger.”
Bubba wanted to growl with frustration. Eight people left. No ideas on what was happening. The sun wasn’t going to come up for another three hours. Who knew when someone would figure out that the hospital had been cut off?
He led them back to the front door and waited while Dr. Adair opened it. Bubba made a decision. “David, keep an eye on Precious, will you?”
“Sherlock,” David corrected automatically. “I will watch the hound of the Baskervilles, but if she begins to salivate salaciously, I will not hold myself accountable.”
“She’s had her rabies shots,” Bubba said, “and the only way she’ll salivate is if you hold a steak above her head and don’t give it to her.”
“I don’t have a steak,” David said.
Bubba pulled a baggie of Milk-Bones out of his pocket and passed it to David. Precious’s head directed itself to the baggie and followed it like a laser beam locked on target.
“What are you going to do?” Tandy asked.
“Goin’ for help,” Bubba said. “I’m goin’ to hike on out and hit the nearest house with a working phone. I reckon it’s about five miles to the northeast. I swim the river and head for the Wormwood place.”
“I should go with you,” Peyton said.
“You’ll ruin your loafers, Peyton,” Bubba warned.
“And you’re on your own, my dear pedantic redneck,” Peyton added cheerily. “I shall attach myself to Sherlock Holmes and weather out the remainder of the foggy night. I’ll pee in a bottle in the corner if I have to.”
Dr. Adair frowned. “The hospital can’t be responsible for what happens once you step off the grounds.”
“Why not cross the bridge and clamber over the rocks and such?” Tandy asked.
“Ifin there’s another fella running around, isn’t that where he would expect a soul to go?” Bubba asked. “So I won’t go there. It’ll give me a better chance. I reckon I can be to the Wormwood’s place in two hours or less. In three hours the po-lice will be at the avalanche area. They’ll send some folks over to take care of things. Ya’ll stay together. Take bathroom breaks together and such. Keep the dog handy.” Precious whined. “We’ll be laughing about it come suppertime.”
Abel giggled halfheartedly. “What if there’s two of them?”
“What do you mean?” Tandy asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Abel said. “This was all planned. Very well planned. But stuff happens. No one can predict everything. They couldn’t predict Bubba would be here, but they probably had an idea that things wouldn’t go exactly the way they wanted. That doesn’t sound like one person to me. It sounds like two.”
“Keep together,” Bubba said. “Lock the door after me, doc.”
“I do not approve,” the doctor said, but he opened the door for Bubba.
Bubba hesitated and held out a hand toward Tandy. “Borrow one of them phones, Miz North?”
Tandy handed him the Samsung Galaxy. “That gets the best reception. Maybe after you’ve crossed the river, you can find a bar or two.”
Bubba stuck it into his pocket and started to turn away.
Cybil said, “Wait.” She turned to David and said, “Empty out that baggie with the Milk-Bones.” While she waited, she pulled a Mini Maglite out of her pocket and handed it to Bubba.
Precious’s ears flipped as she heard key vital words. David shrugged and obliged. Then Cybil plucked the baggie out of his hand and handed it to Bubba. “Put the phone in there. If you swim across the river, you’ll need to keep it dry. Maybe you can call for help way before you get to the Wormwood’s place.”
Bubba removed the Samsung and put it into the baggie. He sealed the bag and tested it to make sure. “There. All tighty and dry.” He put it into his pocket and took a last look at the other seven people and one dog. “Stay, Precious,” he said and went into the fog.
* * *
The only thing that reassured Bubba was that a killer, or killers, couldn’t have known about the odd nighttime fog that covered the area like a thick blanket. On the other hand, the Sturgis River was right there, and fogs in an area adjacent to the river were common, especially in the spring.
Still, Bubba thought, it ain’t like someone has a row of fog machines all ready to make a fog so thick a slasher movie director would be happy. He waded through the murk toward the road and almost brained himself on a light pole. The gennys inside might be powering the inside lights, but it didn’t include the street lights in the parking lot. He would have pulled out the Mini Maglite that Cybil had provided, but he didn’t want to be a big walking, flash-lit target. He’d save the flashlight until he was well away from the hospital and possible murderers.
Bubba made it all the way to the end of the parking lot, passing the Mercedes Benz and the Volkswagen Rabbit with Ol’ Green between them, before someone clocked him in the back of the head with what felt like a 4x4 post dipped it cement. His last thought was that Doc Goodjoint had been correct about him needing a football helmet.
Chapter 14
Bubba and the Treacherous Escape
Sunday, April 7th
There was something tickling Bubba’s nose. He would have picked up a hand and scratched it, but he couldn’t move his hands. In fact, he couldn’t move anything below the neck and above the waist. Paralyzed?
Nope.
Bubba slowly looked around and could see gloomy walls and a solitary window up high as if he was in a storeroom or such. The trickle of light was almost as vague as the room. He glanced down at himself and realized he was encased in an old-fashioned straitjacket. Leather straps crossed in front and one through the legs. All the buckles were secured; the arms wrapped around his front as if he was hugging himself. The cloth went around to the back where he assumed more buckles were securely attached.
In addition, his head hurt, and he could feel something trickling down the back of his neck. Someone had hit him, he comprehended. Again! At least it hadn’t been with a set of manacles. No one could hit like Willodean could hit. It was a fact that he should have been grateful for at the moment.
Running through a mental checklist, he went over the parts of his body. His knees seemed sore, and his feet were a little cold. He looked down and saw that the knees of his jeans were torn, and his boots were missing. It took him another minute to understand that someone had dragged him from Point A to this place, Point B.
Bubba glowered. His nose still tickled. A piece of cobweb hanging from his hair and fluttering in his face was the responsible culprit.
He wasn’t glowering about the cobweb, however. He was glowering about the fact that someone had dragged off all two hundred forty pounds of him. That made him think that Abel’s belief might be correct. There were two of them. It was possible there were three of them. One was still with the other seven people, keeping an eye on them until they could get their hands on whoever was the prize and ready to melt into the woodwork when the authorities arrived. One or two were outside in the fog, waiting to pick off those silly or stupid enough to wander off alone. After all, they’d seen someone with a light in the fog before, and Bubba hadn’t put it together.
More importantly they hadn’t killed Bubba. They had knocked him out and incapacitated him. Somewhere an angel was watching over him, giggling helplessly but still watching over him.
Bubba rolled onto his side and looked around for something to help him get out of the straitjacket. He didn’t even know how anyone got out of the danged things. He’d once seen a movie where Mel Gibson’s character dislocated his shoulder to do it, but Bubba didn’t think he could dislocate even his finger, so that was out. He’d a knife in his pocket but had given it to Cybil when he’d first entered the hospital, so that was out, as well.
He looked at his feet and found that the same someone who’d bundled him up also had tied his feet together with thick jute twine. It shouldn’t have done much, but it was wrapped around his ankles about a hundred times and tied in a nice neat knot.
Bubba was momentarily at a loss. He didn’t have anything at hand. He didn’t have a knife. The flashlight was still in his pocket, but he couldn’t feel the boxy shape of the Samsung, so he could only assume that someone had taken that. He would have shrugged if he had been able, but the straitjacket wasn’t about to let him shrug. It wasn’t like the cell phone would have helped him get out of the restrictive garment.
Why not just slit his throat out in the fog? Bubba frowned in concentration. The frown pulled on the muscles of his head and reminded him that someone had smashed him there. One person was a murderer. The other person was not a murderer. Bubba hadn’t seen their face, so voila, he was spared.
Perhaps there were other people who had been spared. Jesus, Thelda, and Leeza, for example. None of it really made sense. Why kill a social worker and spare a local redneck?
Bubba began to struggle. He kicked, rolled, and bumped. His head throbbed in concert with his exertions. Most of what he accomplished was to sweat like a pig and that reminded him that he was still hungry. What he really wanted was something bizarre. Deep-fried pineapple with a side drink of pickle juice. The sweet/salty combo would perk him right up. What was wrong with him?
His foot pulled free of the twine, and he panted appreciatively. A fella was supposed to rescue himself. Then he would rescue all the other damsels in distress, or in this case, the loonies in liability. Of course, he had to remember that some of them weren’t really loonies. He wasn’t positive about Peyton, but a certain amount of insanity had to go hand in hand with being a wedding planner.
Bubba raised his right foot and admired the sock. That was one of his favorite pair of socks. Willodean had given him those socks. They were comfortable and didn’t bind up when he put on his best pair of boots. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it. He eyed the straitjacket and thought about it. If he could just get a little bit of leeway, then he could wiggle one arm over his head. If he pressed his back and neck into the floor he could feel the top buckle pressing into the flesh there. It wasn’t a complicated affair; they were simple buckles that merely needed to be unlatched.
Bubba began to struggle anew. He jerked his arms back and forth, stretching the material and the leather straps. He heard the crackle of old leather as it pulled. It wasn’t a brand ne
w piece of equipment; it had probably been sitting around the hospital for a decade. Did the original hospital need a straitjacket or two even though it had started off as a regular hospital? That wasn’t unlikely. It was probably a piece of just-to-be-on-the-safe-side gear. Emergency rations, generators, extra bandages and sutures, gallons of water, and…a couple of straitjackets for those who might need to be battened down because they were inclined to stick a knife in all the purple elephants they were seeing.
Stopping to catch his breath, Bubba thought that he could make a million bucks by making a new type of exercise video. Straitjacketercizing. Talk about the calories someone would burn. The DVD comes with its own straitjacket. Try two for extra weight loss.
The thing was that Bubba didn’t want some law enforcement type like Sheriff John walking in on him while he was still encased in canvas and leather straps, laying on the floor like a beached whale. Sheriff John would be laughing until the following Christmas. That would be the good part because if the man figured out that he could take a few photos with his cell phone and post them to the social media of his choice, Bubba would be hearing about it for the next decade.
Bubba struggled harder. His head was a drum solo in a heavy metal group’s favorite song. The last thing he needed was another concussion. At the rate he was going, Willodean was going to refuse to marry him. Their baby would be born without a real last name. She would go on to marry a Kardashian and do a reality show. Then Bubba would be stuck forever in a straitjacket. He might even be buried in it. His child would forever wonder what happened to his or her daddy. Miz Demetrice would be ashamed to admit that her only son had died in a straitjacket even though she had purportedly once done the same to her infamous dead spouse. Bubba wouldn’t even be there to say in a snarky fashion, “It was a heart attack, Ma.”
