The Loon

by Michaelbrent Collings

  "Move, son!" screamed the man. He was twenty feet away, and now there was something. His boy was no longer alone, his son was no longer safe.

  A pickup truck came screeching around the bend of the street, oversized wheels screaming with banshee wails as they grasped for traction on a turn taken too fast for safety. The cries of the tires assaulted the man, and time slowed down as he heard the thick gun of the engine. Each turn of the wheels could be clearly discerned by the man in this slow-time where everything moved through the thick syrup that had suddenly drowned the world in its cloying grasp. Only terror sped along at its normal speed, the vines wrapped around the man's neck pulling tighter, choking him with fear.

  The man could see each turn of the wheels, each revolution of the tires as the machine hurtled down the street. The truck was a custom job. In bright light it was probably cherry red, bright and cheerful, but in this murky light it looked like blood, dark and arterial. Its tires stood well over three feet high. A lift kit had been installed, jacking the chassis of the truck up even higher. The top of the vehicle was adorned with a roll cage and powerful lights that stood easily ten feet above the ground.

  The man's son was not ten feet tall, he was only three feet from toe to crown. He was barely as tall as the tires, and the truck's driver would not be able to see the child.

  The man was ten feet away, and his boy was not alone, his son was not safe.

  He could dimly hear his wife screaming behind him, the cool kisses fled from her lips, the translucent perfection of her brow undoubtedly marred by horror. He was screaming, too, or thought he was. He could not be sure, for the air, so thick and dim, tried to steal his breath as it pushed against him, trying to keep him from his son. The man heard a noise, a high-pitched whine: brakes being engaged, but too late. The fairies had pulled his boy into the street, urging him to follow his little ball. Now they laughed as the truck driver saw, not the boy standing motionless before the truck, but the man hurtling at his vehicle from the side. The brake's screams increased in pitch and intensity as the truck laid down black tracks of molten rubber, darker swaths on the dark concrete behind.

  Time continued its awkward dilation, slowing down even further as the man ran through air that felt thick as mud, clawed through an atmosphere suddenly hostile and unyielding to reach his son. Every detail of the boy's shocked face imprinted itself on the man's mind, an overexposed photograph etched into his cerebrum. Each hair, each pore, each feature and aspect of the boy hung before him with preternatural detail.

  The man's fingers stretched forth, stiff and unyielding, only inches away from the boy, only inches away from the oncoming truck. Only inches away, and his boy was not alone, his son was not safe.

  The man knew he could not grab his child and run; knew there was no time to pick him up and move him to safety. So he didn't try. His hand twisted up, palm to the child, and he shoved forward with all his strength. He felt his son's soft, unyielding form as his hands contacted shoulder and chest. He pushed with every ounce of his power, using his own forward momentum to add force and speed to the movement.

  Centimeters away from the still-onrushing truck, he saw his boy's mouth open in a wide "O" of shock and pain, and then the boy's face was turned away as he spun out of the truck's path, as he flew to safety, propelled not by fairy wings but by his own father's own strong hands. The truck was millimeters away, but his boy was safe.

  Time returned to normal speed, then, and the man did not have the opportunity to do more than half-twist as the truck struck him. It smashed into his hip, and the man felt his pelvis disintegrate, fragment into a thousand pieces in his body. Then the truck moved forward still more, an unstoppable juggernaut powered by the irresistible laws of physics and momentum, and the man's spine was wracked by the thrust of the chrome bumper, twisted and bent. His body flew up, but the truck was so high that he never got higher than the grill, his head smashing into the decorative logo, his ear scorched by the hot metal.

  Then downward again, the man's trunk was propelled forward and down as the truck finally came to a halt behind him. He did not stop, however, but continued his trajectory with mind-numbing force, hitting the cool concrete before him, bouncing, flipping over, bouncing again, and then all was black.

  And then all was pain. His eyes opened, and the man knew he was in a hospital. He could not move, his body utterly unresponsive, as though frozen in ice, or encased in steel. He could only move his eyes, and the miniscule effort required to use the tiny muscles surrounding those orbs was almost too much for him to bear.

  His wife was there. Thank God, he thought, for he knew that no matter what happened, he could bear it with his family's help.

  But then he saw something that chilled his heart.

  The kiss. That cool, refreshing kiss that waited to be stolen from her lips was gone. It was gone, and in its place was only ice and barrenness. His wife's blue eyes flashed, crackled with electricity.

  "You killed my son," she said, and then was gone.

  She left, and the man was alone in the room, and the lights in the room were dim, and did not kiss him with golden touches like the sun in the park, and his only sky was a white tile ceiling. The man had lost his child, though he did not know how. He had lost his wife, for her kisses were gone. He was alone, and could not even weep, for his eyes were too tired for tears.

  He closed his eyes, and wished for death, and knew that God was dead, and that his wish would not be granted.

  Part One:

  The Calm Before

  Dreams brought me to this catacomb

  Dank necropolis breathing heavy rot

  Through sable soil moldering with age.

  Dreams unspeakable - drawn from ancient tomes,

  Dark whisperings - brought me here. I wait, caught

  Between sleep and madness - in this close cage.

  - ...Is Death

  Cold beyond white fields it stands,

  Empty, lone, outlined

  With grey, landscape winter-bland,

  Blind façade unlined

  By twisted, dead ivy strands.

  - In the House Beyond the Field

  COLD

  Paul Wiseman stared out between the bars on his window, and shivered.

  It was cold outside the Crane Institute. Freezing, in fact. Snow draped the ground in a thick blanket that not only stole all warmth from his view, but somehow added yet another layer of frost to his heart.

  A storm was coming.

  Sammy was gone.

  He momentarily saw his boy's beautiful eyes, his son's crooked smile. Then the vision disappeared, as though the snow outside had the ability to not only blind the eyes, but to cloud the mind. Paul believed that was entirely possible, so thick was the white blanket of frozen water.

  This part of the world was far from the temperate zones of southern California, and winter here was more than just a date on the calendar. Unlike the "seasons" of Hundred Pines near the Pacific Ocean, the seasons in Dayton County, Montana, were real things, beautiful, ever-changing, potentially deadly. Snow was not something made by machines on a mountain, it was a constant companion from as early as August, and could remain on the ground as late as April or even May. It could soothe the soul with its spare beauty, or could kill the body with its biting touch.

  Once, a few days before Paul had come to this place, he had found a deer on the side of the road. It was dead, but no marks, either from gunshots or from impact with a passing car, were visible on its coat. When Paul had put forth his hand to touch the animal, he felt only an unyielding shape, rather than the soft, pliant form of death. The deer had frozen to death, and lay as a block of ice beside the country highway.

  The snow was a constant companion, but not necessarily a friend.

  Paul sat down on his small chair. The room he spent most of his time in was as small and Spartan as any other cell in this massive penitentiary: only a few items were personal in nature. The rest had been given him upon his entering this i
nstitution, and would be taken from him if and when he left.

  He did not know when that would be. Some days he longed to walk out of this place. Others days he knew it was the only comfort he had left, to know that at least he belonged somewhere. Those were the dark days, the black days, the days when he felt bitterness rising up within him like a bilious, hideous beast. Those were the days he missed Sammy, and missed the life he had once led.

  A picture of his boy sat nearby. A picture from a happier time, the boy clutching at his bear, the bear that had protected him for so many years until a day when it rested for just a moment...and the moment was just a moment too long.

  Paul took the picture in trembling hands, and ran his fingers slowly over the glass protecting the photo from the elements. The glass was smudged and smeared, for he often touched it in this manner, as though the frame were a talisman, a magic lamp that could grant wishes if properly rubbed.

  It was not, of course, and Paul knew it. Because if it had been possessed of such powers, he would long ago have been returned to the company of his son.

  He put the frame down and stared out the window. The sky was gray, thick, roiling. Pregnant storm clouds hung low, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the threatened storm began. When it did, life would get very dangerous around this place. It always did during a storm. The inmates of any prison could be goaded into violence by the electricity of a severe storm, but in this place it was worse than that.

  The Crane Institute was a prison, but its inmates were far from being run-of-the-mill thugs or robbers. Severe weather of any kind always urged the inhabitants of this singular fortress into worse-than-usual activity levels. And considering that most of them were people the Menendez brothers would have felt uncomfortable around, that was saying a lot.

  Still, for Paul the storm and its attendant dangers were of only secondary importance. As much as he dreaded the possible threats to life and limb that were coming, he dreaded the conversation he was about to have still more.

  Marsha. He was going to have to call her, he knew. Neither he nor she wanted the call to happen, but both knew it would. He was aware of her deep hatred of him, and his own self-revulsion reared up powerfully whenever he spoke to her. Sometimes, he could almost forget what had happened. His son was gone, but occasionally he could forget that fact as he buried himself in work and study and survival. He could never forget when he was speaking to Marsha, though. She reminded him without speaking of what had happened, of what he had done.

  Of the fact that he had killed their son.

  Paul hitched in his breath, drawing the cold air of this frigid room deep into his lungs, feeling the chill seep deeply into his bones before he exhaled. His fingers tingled in the cold, but were not – unfortunately – too numb to make the call.

  He picked up the telephone that sat on his desk and dialed the number. The dial tone went through immediately, which was something of a surprise and a disappointment: Paul had been hoping that phone communications would be knocked out by now. It would have been a good excuse. But no, the dial tone was strong and clear. One, two, three, four rings and then Marsha's answering machine picked up.

  "Leave . . . a . . . message," said the machine, its sexless tones as perfectly straight and cheerless as his ex-wife's smiles. Marsha never recorded her own messages. Normally the phone message would have bothered Paul, would have made him feel strangely uncomfortable with its lack of humanity. Today, however, the voice was sweet to him. Marsha wasn't home, so the discomfort he felt on this day would not be sharpened even more by her silent remonstrances.

  The machine beeped. "Hi, Marsha, it's me," he said. It had been almost five years, but he continued to announce himself that way every time he spoke to her. She would not – could not – ever forget his voice, any more than he would ever forget hers. "It's Sammy's birthday," he continued. "You're probably at the cemetery, but I . . . I just wanted to call and see how you are. It's been awhile."

  That last sentence sounded lame, even to his own ears. It had indeed been awhile. Exactly one year, in fact. Since Sammy's last birthday. He strove to think of something that would make up for his feeble speech, but all he could think to say was, "The storm might keep me here for a day or two, but I'll call again when I get back home if I don't hear from you before then."

  Paul's mouth hung open for another moment, as though trying to push out a few more words, but nothing came. At last he closed his mouth and then hung up the phone. He missed the cradle, pinching his finger between the receiver and the base. The cold air made the contact more painful, and he cried out slightly, slipping his finger into his mouth and sucking it for a moment before hopping up onto his desk.

  He stood and unlatched the large vent on the ceiling. The heating vent was almost two feet across, designed to deliver massive amounts of heat to counteract the Arctic temperatures outside. Currently, however, it was doing nothing, a gawking hole in his ceiling that served no purpose except to provide plenty of comfortable space for rats to breed.

  The vent's removal exposed a dark void. Paul knew from experience that the hole led to a large duct which wound throughout the staff compound, making its way gradually to the basement, where a gas heater was supposed to work around the clock to keep everyone from freezing to death.

  "Hey," he shouted into dark maw above him. "How about some heat? I'm getting hypothermia!"

  He waited a moment, then repeated, "It's too damn cold, I'm freezing! You hear me?"

  A moment later, a voice responded to his cries: "Don't get your panties in a knot!"

  The voice belonged to Vincent, who was supposed to be in the basement fixing the heater. Apparently that was what he was doing, because the heating ducts carried sound from the basement like Dixie cups and string. Paul thought about asking how long it was going to be before the prison had heat again, but realized that Vincent's repairs would not be hurried along by such needless verbiage. The guard who doubled as a general maintenance technician was operating under the same pressure they all felt: heat would mean the difference between life and death over the next few days.

  So Paul stepped down off his desk. He looked at the nameplate that sat on the table: "Dr. Paul Wiseman, chief of staff." Paul almost laughed when he saw that. Such a fancy title, he thought, considering that I'm little more than an inmate myself. Don't want to stay, but can't leave. Chief of staff indeed.

  He actually did chuckle a bit, but the sound was cheerless. Laughter was not a thing that would come easy on a day like today. The storm was too close, and the past was all-too present.

  He looked again at the picture of his son.

  "Happy birthday, kiddo," he said. "I love you, you know?"

  His son's eyes peered back at him from behind the glass. As always, though, there was no reply to Paul's words. He stared for a long moment at the photo, then turned it face-down next to his overturned nameplate.

  He pulled a post-it note from under a pile of papers on his desk. "No reply from Hales, call again," it said.

  Paul had never met Jack Hales in person. The actual hiring of guards was not something he was generally involved in, but Paul did have to train them when they arrived, so he knew that Hales was scheduled to start work today. Normally that would be a good thing, but today that was bad news.

  The prison was a dangerous, even deadly place. And the level of danger went up exponentially during severe storms, so now would not be a good time to break in new help. Paul had left several messages for the man over the last few days, telling him not to come in until further notice, but had not received any return calls to acknowledge his instructions.

  He quickly dialed the new employee's number again. As before, the machine picked up after only two rings. "Hi," said a pleasant young baritone. "This is Jack. Leave a message or I'll kill you."

  Paul smiled tightly. "Mr. Hales," he said after the beep, "This is Dr. Wiseman, the chief of staff and head psychiatrist at the Crane Institute. I hope you've gotten my preceding m
essages, but haven't yet heard back from you. We'll probably lose communications here in the next few hours, so someone from the Institute will call you to reschedule your orientation as soon as the weather permits. Maybe late tomorrow or the next day. I probably won't be able to call again before the white-out hits, so I'll have to assume you've gotten my messages."

  As if to reinforce his guess that communications with the outside world would soon be lost, a sudden gust hit his window. The double-paned glass shook and rattled slightly, and when the quivering died down the low ghost-whistle of the wind could still be heard clearly.

  A "white-out" was what the prison staff called a storm that knocked power and phone capability. This one coming up looked like it would also probably keep them from having CB capability, either. Cell-phones were also not an option, as apparently Ma Bell had decided a population that averaged one eighth of a person per square mile wasn't enough to make providing coverage cost-effective. The prison was about to be effectively cut off from the rest of the world, and Paul didn't need some new guy coming in and getting himself or anyone else killed.

  He continued the message. "So like I say, hopefully you've gotten my messages. Just settle down and enjoy a last day off, and we'll be in contact soon. Bye." Paul hung up the receiver, this time managing not to smash his fingers in the process, and once again looked out the window. The bars were still there, but somehow he felt less safe than he usually did; more exposed. It was the storm, he knew. Hard to feel safe when you were so completely and utterly at the mercy of mother nature. The banshee wind moaned slightly, a deep song of ice and terror.

  The storm was coming.