Seaforth Prison (The Haunted Book 3)

by Patrick Logan

  Or reach for my cross.

  Peter’s eyes became clear again, saving Ben from making a decision that would surely have resulted in bloodshed.

  And Seaforth had seen enough dying and death for one day.

  “Do you ever think about dying, Ben?”

  Ben eyed the shotgun.

  “I’ve got a fucking shotgun in my face. So, yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

  Peter snickered.

  “I mean at other times.”

  Ben shrugged.

  “Ah, shit, you must be what? Pushing seventy now?”

  “Seventy-two,” Ben corrected the man.

  “Damn, you look good for seventy-two. Anyways, you must have thought about your own death, then. It’s only natural.”

  Peter waited, and Ben couldn’t help but think back to when his wife, Angie, had passed more than two decades ago from breast cancer.

  She had looked so horrible in the end: bald, skin so thin it looked like stretched cellophane. She was barely able to talk after the chemo had ruined her voice box.

  Yeah, he had thought about dying. He had thought about it a lot.

  Peter nudged his chin at the cross that hung out from Ben’s shirt.

  “Yeah, I bet you have. Well let me tell you, that shit that you believe in? That cross? Jesus ‘n’ all that? Well, sorry to break it to you, but that’s all garbage. There is no heaven, no hell. There is only the Marrow.”

  “The what?” Ben asked, unable to keep the incredulity from creeping into his voice.

  Again, Peter chuckled.

  “The Marrow is like a communist or Marxist version of Hell, my friend. And Carson is going to change all that.”

  “You’ve lost your mind, Peter. Put the gun down and let’s talk this out. There are twenty-two crazed murderers down there that are just itching to tear us apart. You want that? You want them to leave this place, go back to the city? Is that what you want? Is that what Carson’s gonna do? Because let me tell you, it ain’t gonna happen.”

  Peter shrugged.

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that once we leave this place, we can keep who we are. You want that, don’t you?”

  “Peter, what the fuck are you talking about? You been cruising the damn conspiracy websites again?”

  “No, no websites.”

  “Well then who the hell poisoned your mind with all this shit? It’s just the stress. I get it, you’re an IT guy, weren’t cut out for this. Well, let me tell you something. It has fucked me up too. Just put the gun down.”

  “Leland,” the man whispered.

  “What?”

  “Leland told me about the Marrow.”

  Ben’s mind was spinning now. None of this made sense. But while Peter’s words seemed like the ramblings of a madman, it also sounded somehow familiar.

  As if he had heard something similar before. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  It didn’t work.

  “Who the hell is Leland?”

  “Don’t you see, Chief? Leland is the one behind it all, he’s the one that is guiding Carson. But they can’t do it alone. He needs Father Callahan to open the rift, which is why I let him back in.”

  An image of the old man in the dark robes flashed in Ben’s mind. With all that had happened, he had completely forgotten about his priest—his friend. And he was reminded of the words that Father Callahan had uttered back in the chapel and how they had sounded eerily similar to what Peter had said just now.

  I have to talk to Carson.

  Ben’s heart started racing and his eyes inadvertently flicked to the bay of monitors, while at the same time he felt a gentle tug at his belt.

  “No,” he whispered. “Please tell me you didn’t let him back in.”

  “Oh, oh yes I did, Chief. I let him in because Carson needs him. He needs him to open the door. He needs—”

  What happened next confirmed Ben’s notion that Smitts had one final act to play in this menagerie of death. And he acted so quickly that Peter didn’t even get a chance to squeeze a shot off.

  Smitts, who had been tugging at the warden’s belt for several minutes now, gave a stiff yank and pulled Ben’s Taser free. Then, in one smooth movement, the man pressed the button, activating a crackle followed by a brilliant white arc between the leads. But instead of moving toward Peter, Smitts kept moving his arm over his own body before jamming the electrical current into a large series of cables that ran across the floor to the junction box on the opposite wall.

  A second before the lights blinked out for a third time, Ben caught sight of his friend’s body convulsing, blood spraying from his mouth and from his stomach where Quinn’s spirit had stabbed him.

  And then the deafening sound of the shotgun going off filled the control room.

  Chapter 27

  Father Callahan took another step, gliding deeper into the halls of Seaforth Prison.

  He wasn’t one of the Guardians, one of the nineteen—of which there were only five left, if you counted that bastard Leland—but the keeper of the book. Still, he knew what was at stake.

  After all, he had the Inter vivos et mortuos. He had even learned Latin to translate it.

  He knew what was at stake.

  Father Callahan moved slowly, his old, ruined body barely shuffling along now; the pain that was previously contained to his ankle now seemed to envelop his entire body.

  He had to find Carson. Needed to find him before the rift was opened.

  Inter vivos et mortuos, or the Marrow, needed to remain intact.

  Ben Tristen was his friend, his good friend, and a loyal follower of the faith. But he was naive.

  Father Callahan slipped a hand beneath his robe and his gnarled hand closed around the grip of the knife buried within.

  Ben hadn’t searched him when he had entered the prison.

  Carson had to be stopped, even if it meant doing the same horrible thing that they had done to Leland all those years ago.

  The Marrow needed to remain intact.

  Their worlds needed to remain separate.

  The Inter vivos et murtuos had written of such a day, and Father Callahan would do everything in his power to stop that day from being today.

  Even if it meant dying.

  The old man coughed into his elbow.

  Even if it meant killing.

  And then, as he lifted his foot to take another step, he was suddenly shrouded in darkness as the lights above flicked out.

  Despite everything he knew about the true nature of life and death, Father Callahan started whispering Our Father.

  Chapter 28

  “Try the card I gave you,” Sean yelled to Aiden.

  The man looked back at him and shook his head. Robert, huddled against the downpour, watched the odd interaction between the two men. It was clear that Sean was in charge, that much had been obvious from their time in the chopper, but now it seemed that they had reached a standstill.

  “You open it, sir,” Aiden replied curtly. It was evident that this man had one role and one role only: to make sure that Sean and Shelly and Robert remained safe, remained alive.

  He would not put his assault rifle down to open a door and jeopardize them all.

  No matter who ordered him.

  This realization offered Robert comfort, despite the fact that he still wasn’t sure what he was doing here.

  His job would be to close the rift— but how?

  He was brought back to the time when he had first met Shelly back at the Harlop Estate, a time that seemed years ago.

  Bind the spirits.

  But how?

  Blind luck had gotten him out of that situation. He just hoped that it hadn’t run out here at Seaforth.

  Shelly nudged him forward, and Robert gave her a look.

  “Go on,” she said.

  Robert frowned.

  Fuck, looks like I’m taking orders, too.

  He took a giant step forward, and watched as the man with the rifle gave him a onceover.<
br />
  Robert did the same, and for the first time he got a good look at the man that was in charge of protecting them all.

  Aiden was square-jawed, but not in the same way as Sean; his jaw was more pronounced and covered in a five-o’clock shadow. He was the type of guy that always had the same amount of hair on his face, no matter how long ago they shaved. Sometime during the flight, he had jammed a wad of dip into his bottom lip, causing it to jut forward. There was a scar that ran vertically through his left eyebrow, which cradled dark, penetrating eyes. His hair, which appeared short beneath a plain, black do-rag, was dark like the stubble on his face. The man’s forearms, which jutted out from beneath a three-quarter-length tight shirt, were like rebar—tough, corded, muscular.

  It took Robert a moment to realize that the man was holding a pass out to him.

  As he stepped forward and took it from Aiden—who held it for a second too long, he noted—Robert stared into his eyes.

  They were dark and small, but they weren’t cold like Sean’s. The man was serious. He had a job to do, an important one, but he wasn’t unfeeling, uncaring.

  Aiden indicated the small black box beside the thick metal door. Robert nodded and moved past the man, noting that he adjusted his position so that the automatic weapon was now aimed over his shoulder.

  As Robert moved toward the door, he was suddenly struck with a sense of déjà vu.

  He was back in the Seventh Ward again, using the card to exit, and to chase after the hideous creature called George.

  But back then he didn’t have a fully automatic assault rifle at his back and twenty-two of America’s worst killers in the building before him.

  The building he was poised to unlock.

  “Robert, the door,” he heard Sean say from behind him, snapping him out of his reverie. Reaching out, he swiped the card through the reader.

  It beeped and went red.

  “Try again,” Sean instructed.

  Robert did, but the result was the same.

  “Motherfuckers. Supposed to be a skeleton key—and the fucking thing worked earlier.”

  Earlier? Sean was here earlier?

  “Try again, Robert.”

  For the third time, the keycard reader remained red after he swiped the card.

  “Sir? You want me to get Mark back here? Got some C4 in the cab.”

  Sean waved him off.

  “No, not yet. There’s another way in: the chapel.”

  Aiden’s scarred eyebrow raised.

  “Sir?”

  Sean nodded.

  “The cha—”

  But the lights on the outside of the prison suddenly went dark, cutting his words short.

  “Try it now, Robert.”

  Robert hesitated, confused by what had just happened. At the same time, Aiden switched the light on his rifle on, bathing the metal door in bright light.

  “Now, Robert—forget the card, try the door!”

  Robert grabbed the door handle and pulled it. He had expected it to remain locked, so when he pulled and the door actually opened, he stumbled backwards. If it weren’t for Aiden’s large hand on his back, he would have fallen to the mud.

  The man also somehow stepped around him at the same time, his fingers grabbing the crack between the door and the frame that Robert had opened. He pulled it wide, and held it open with his foot, while systematically scanning the interior of the room.

  Yeah, this was definitely the man that Robert wanted protecting them.

  “Clear,” Aiden said before ushering them inside.

  It wasn’t until they were all inside what appeared to Robert to be a small holding cell that he realized Sean was holding a pistol in his right hand. It was pathetic compared to what Aiden held out in front of them, but he once again felt naked.

  Like he had in the Seventh Ward.

  No crowbar for him.

  No blowtorch.

  No Cal, either.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, and Shelly shot him a confused look.

  He was an accountant, not a fucking soldier.

  Not a ghostbuster.

  Not anything, really.

  Just a family man that missed his daughter.

  Missed normal life.

  “Fuck,” he said again, this time a little louder.

  Sean reached out and grabbed the inner door. Unlike the outer door, this one didn’t appear to be electronic. Thankfully, the old-fashioned lock was hanging, as if someone had entered not long ago and had left it open for some unknown reason. The door opened without resistance, and Sean motioned for Aiden to step in front again.

  “Let’s shut this fucker Carson down before he opens the gateway,” Sean said, a strange expression on his face. “Let’s shut it all down, Robert. Once and for all.”

  Part III – Guardians of the Marrow

  Chapter 29

  The shotgun blast erupted like a small explosion in the control room, blinding and deafening all three occupants. Ben felt a gust of warm air hit him in the face, followed by a stinging sensation in his left cheek.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Being blinded and in pain didn’t slow him down. Old or not, he trained for this. He built his body every day for this exact moment. He just never thought it would be to subdue one of his own.

  Ben Tristen lunged at the spot where the blast had come from. Despite the ringing in his ears, he heard the sound of Peter calling out, muffled, as if shouted under water, and then his shoulder collided with the skinny man’s midsection. For the second time in a matter of seconds, he felt hot air on his head and face, only this time it was the air being forced out of Peter’s lungs.

  Peter grunted as Ben continued through the shoulder tackle, driving them both backward. Two agonizing steps later, there was a crunch as Peter’s back collided with something solid. And yet Ben kept shoving with his legs, grinding his shoulder into the man’s solar plexus.

  Peter tried to bring his arms, and maybe the gun, down on top of Ben’s head, but his body was folded and he couldn’t rear back and put any strength into his blows.

  When the flailing slowed and the gasping for air reached a fever pitch, Ben relaxed his quads slightly. When he felt Peter draw in a fresh breath, he drove the top of his head upward.

  Ben was a big man with a big, bald head, and when it connected with the underside of Peter’s chin, his jaws immediately smashed together. Blood or spit, or maybe both, sprayed the top of his head as Peter’s face was launched skyward. When it rebounded back and he felt the rest of the man’s body go limp, Ben knew Peter was out cold.

  Only then did he allow himself to breathe. And then, almost immediately, his body started to ache. Ben slid to one side, flipping over and into a seated position, while at the same lowering Peter’s body to the ground.

  Gently.

  Maybe too gently.

  He sat there for a second, his eyes closed, his lungs, legs, and the top of his head burning.

  And then he heard a click and he opened his eyes, still breathing heavily.

  The emergency lighting system had come on. Clearly, whatever Peter had done to the system, Smitts jamming the Taser on the cable had overridden that. Or maybe the backup would’ve always come on, eventually.

  Fuck if he knew.

  The room was awash in a grayish glow from the emergency lights above. A monitor also clicked on, just one, but it was something else that drew Ben’s attention.

  “Smitts!” he called out, before immediately scrambled toward his friend.

  As he neared, his nose and mouth were accosted by the smell and taste of singed flesh.

  “Oh god,” he moaned. When he came within a foot of the body, he tried to reach out and grab Smitts, but he instinctively recoiled instead. “Oh god.”

  He turned back to his friend, but couldn’t bring himself to hold the man.

  Smitts’s face was a molten mess, like an oversized beige candle having run its course. His eye sockets were filled with what looked like jelly, and his hair was
a smoldering mess, revealing patches of red, almost glowing skin beneath.

  Ben started to cry and gag at the same time.

  He couldn’t help either visceral reaction.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck—goddammit, Smitts.”

  Just under two days ago, the warden had been summoned from his office under the horrible circumstances of his friend being murdered.

  Less than forty-eight hours later, every single one of his staff had been killed.

  Every last one.

  Still crying, Ben looked away from Smitts’s face and turned back to Peter, who was slumped in a heap, his back pressed against the table, blood dripping down his chin.

  “You fucking asshole,” he sputtered, forcing himself to his feet. “You fucking crazy asshole.”

  Feeling the strain in both of his quads, the warden of Seaforth Prison gritted his teeth and made his way back to Peter’s fallen body, scooping up the shotgun as he passed. He checked the chamber, too; the shotgun was of the pump-action variety, and it still had five shots left.

  Ben walked right up to Peter; then, when he was hovering above him, he gritted his teeth and placed a heavy boot on the man’s shoulder. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the shotgun barrel until it was within inches of his smashed mouth.

  Peter didn’t move.

  “I should blow your head off,” he whispered. For a split second, his finger tensed on the trigger, and he turned his face to one side to avoid the brunt of the carnage that was about to ensue.

  But then he put his finger on the guard.

  He couldn’t—no matter what Peter had done, he just couldn’t kill the man in cold blood.

  The hand not clutching the shotgun reached up and fondled the cross around his neck.

  Father Callahan.

  Every one of his guards died today, as well as most of his friends.

  Except for one.

  And he was here somewhere.

  Ben wouldn’t let the last man he cared about die in this prison.

  Not today.

  Not ever.