Seaforth Prison (The Haunted Book 3)

by Patrick Logan

  “We gotta go,” Aiden said, leaning in with his hand.

  Cal stared at it for a second.

  “Is it over?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Nope. More coming, we need to move now.”

  Cal reached out and grabbed the man’s hand. His grip was tight, unforgiving. Then, with one yank, Cal found himself on his feet again.

  His t-shirt and jeans clung to him uncomfortably, and it was all he could do to not look down at the gore that he knew he was soaked with. He blinked several times, but the sensation was strange as his lids were tacky with blood and kept sticking together.

  He looked around and cringed at the carnage.

  There were bodies everywhere, hanging, lying on the ground, even stuck to the walls.

  “Fuuuuuck,” he moaned, unable to help himself.

  “Fuck is right,” a female voice to his left said sharply. “You done hiding?”

  Cal turned to stare at Shelly, who looked as horrible as he felt. Her hair, usually platinum blonde, was completely red, and blood streaked her cheeks.

  “You look like shit,” she said, pressing her lips together.

  “You too,” he replied.

  “Let’s go. Don’t know how many more of them there are,” Aiden said, “but they’re coming.

  Cal looked around Shelly, searching for Allan.

  He found him standing by the entrance to the mess hall, looking like he had aged more than a decade over the past hour. One of the lenses of his glasses was smashed, and the camera he held in his hand had been reduced to a hunk of metal and plastic. Cal even thought he could see a bullet embedded in case, and yet the boy still held it as if he were going to take some Pulitzer-worthy photos.

  Glancing around, Cal was glad that the camera was broken. There was no need to have visual proof of what happened here, a reminder of the horror.

  Best if this was all forgotten. If that was at all possible.

  “Wait—where’s Robert?” he asked suddenly.

  Aiden just shook his head. For all of the gore that covered Cal, Shelly, and Allen, Aiden was relatively clean. Aside from some blood on his boots, the lower half of his pants and the muzzle of his assault rifle, he looked much like he had when Cal had first seen him in the hallway less than an hour ago.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Cal said quickly. “No way. I’m not leaving without Robbo.”

  Aiden shook his head again and raised his gun. Cal didn’t perceive this as an aggressive gesture, more like a simple reminder.

  “Sean gave specific instructions. We need to leave, now!”

  He took a step forward, and Cal was surprised that Shelly actually moved toward the door with him.

  “I’m not leaving—”

  “Oh, so now you are mister bravery? Is that it?” Shelly demanded, her expression transitioning into a scowl. “A few minutes ago, you were—”

  The static of a radio interrupted her.

  “Mark, bring the chopper in. Get the gray ready.”

  Cal eyed him.

  The gray? What the fuck is the gray?

  Aiden didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he clicked the walkie to his belt and then motioned to the door with the muzzle of his gun.

  “Move. Now.”

  Shelly hurried toward the door, making it to Allan’s side, but Cal refused and held his ground.

  “I won’t—”

  “Move, or I’ll knock you out and drag your body out the door.”

  For good measure, he spat a wad of brown juice onto the door at Cal’s feet.

  What choice did he have?

  Cal reluctantly turned and hurried after Shelly and Allan.

  When he got to the door, he made a final turn, his stomach twisting into a knot as he surveyed the carnage once more.

  I’m sorry, Robert. I’m so, so sorry.

  And then the four of them left Seaforth Prison.

  Chapter 43

  “You shoot Father Callahan, and I’ll cut you in half,” Ben informed him.

  Robert’s eyes whipped back and forth, jumping from Ben to Sean to Carson to Father Callahan’s ruined body.

  “He’s gone,” Sean said. “We need to close the rift.”

  Movement in the center of the priest’s chest drew Robert’s gaze.

  Fingers appeared, grasping the sides of Callahan’s ribcage, pushing into the man’s innards. They tensed, as if preparing to hoist something out.

  Someone out.

  It was Leland.

  “Hurry, Robert, close the rift!” Sean shouted.

  “Ohhhhh, Daddy’s here!” Carson said gleefully. “Wait for Daddy, Rrrrrrobbo!”

  Robert’s finger tensed on the trigger.

  “I’m warning you,” Ben said calmly.

  Robert stared at the hands protruding from Father Callahan’s body cavity, and then his heart skipped a beat when the top of a black hat appeared.

  Whatever he decided, he had to do it soon; otherwise his decision would be for naught.

  The light suddenly blinked out of Father Callahan’s eyes and mouth, and the man somehow managed to move his neck. His eye holes were smoking, the eyes themselves long since melted away by whatever energy had made him a conduit. His mouth was likewise a blackened, molten mess.

  “Father!” Ben shouted.

  Despite the words coming from Robert’s right, the priest’s head turned toward him. And then the lips started to move, silently forming words.

  Close the rift, Robert. And then get the book. Get Inter vivos et mortuos.

  Robert wasn’t sure if he was lip reading, or if the words were actually in his head.

  “Father!” Ben shouted again, then he made the mistake of lowering the gun and sliding closer to the fallen man.

  Sean acted quickly and decisively. His left arm shot out and swatted the shotgun to one side before the older man could react. Ben cried out and tried to regain control, but Sean grabbed his arm next, and pulled him forward, fueling his momentum.

  Inter vivos et mortuos.

  The priest mouthed over and over and over again.

  Inter vivos et mortuos.

  Robert’s eyes flicked from Carson, who was beaming, to Father Callahan’s horribly mangled mouth.

  Do it. Close the rift. Please.

  Back and forth Robert’s eyes bounced.

  And then another voice entered the fray.

  It was the Goat.

  “Robert? That you again, Robert? Oh, how I’ve—”

  Robert closed his eyes and fired a single shot.

  Someone screamed, but Robert had no idea who. The vibrations from Sean’s gun were surprisingly powerful, and it fell from his hand.

  “No! Robert! No!”

  Robert opened his eyes and stared directly into the horrible face that was peeking out of the Marrow, everything but the eyes visible from beneath the large brim of the black hat.

  Only it wasn’t a skull or a demon like he had expected, that he tried desperately but couldn’t remember from the first time he had met Leland, his father.

  Instead, Robert was staring into his face. Older, more weathered, but undeniably his face.

  And then the man’s mouth opened in a scream, and he fell back, his hands flailing as he cascaded into the sea below.

  “You motherfucker!” Ben screamed.

  Robert turned just in time to see the Warden regain his balance and aim the shotgun at him. Robert didn’t move, didn’t even try to avoid the blast. Instead, he accepted what was coming, the image of Father Callahan’s slack face, a smoldering bullet hole in his forehead etched in his mind.

  But the blast he expected never came, and Robert eventually opened his eyes again.

  Sean had somehow managed to trip Ben, and the man stumbled. When his foot hit Father Callahan’s lifeless leg, he slipped.

  And then he too went tumbling into the narrowing hole in the priest’s chest to the Marrow Sea below.

  Carson jumped to his feet, screaming in anger. His face twisted into
a horrible sneer.

  “Robert! What have you done?”

  Robert, fighting back tears, raised the gun at the brother that two days ago he’d never known he had.

  “Go,” he said over his shoulder to Sean. “Get the fuck out of here before I shoot you, too.”

  When the man didn’t move, Robert started to scream.

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  Sean bolted for the door, pulling it wide and sprinting from the room.

  Finally, Robert turned back to his brother, the gun still aimed at the man’s thin, naked chest.

  Carson spat on the floor at their feet.

  “What, now you’re going to shoot your brother in cold blood?”

  Robert clenched his teeth.

  “You know, we’re not so different, are we?”

  And then the smile returned to Carson’s face.

  EPILOGUE

  Aiden set the final charge at the base of the front door to Seaforth Prison, before turning back to the helicopter. The wind and rain was still relentless, but it didn’t bother him as much as the others.

  He had been through worse—much worse.

  Pressing the radio receiver into the gray, briefcase-sized block of C4, he started to walk backwards toward the helicopter, all the while keeping his rifle aimed at the door.

  He had his orders.

  They were to leave, with or without Sean and Robert. They had to get the package to safety.

  There was still one Guardian left, and they needed to keep it that way.

  Static erupted from the walkie on his belt.

  It was Mark.

  “Ready to lift, Aiden. Get your ass in here.”

  Aiden nodded, not sure if his friend could see him through the rain, but not caring either way.

  When the sound of the helicopter blades became loud enough to block out the rain, he turned and sprinted the rest of the way to the chopper. He could see three faces inside, three pale, scared civilians that had no reason to be here.

  He was barely inside when the man named Cal started shouting at him.

  “Are those explosives? Are you going to blow up the prison?” His voice was shrill, his eyes wide.

  Aiden didn’t answer. Instead, he put an index finger in the air and spun it in a circle. Mark, peering back at him from the cockpit, nodded, then turned his attention to the controls.

  “It is, isn’t it? We can’t—Robert—we—”

  Shelly started on him next.

  “We can’t fucking leave him here! He’s still inside! You have to wait!”

  Aiden couldn’t help feel a pang of guilt looking at her pretty face, contorted the way it was.

  She loved him, Aiden knew. He knew, because he had seen the same look on his wife’s face when she had still been alive.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Take us up, Mark.”

  “No!” Shelly shouted. She reached for him, and he quickly moved the gun to the other side, out of her reach. Her fists rained down on his arm, but Aiden kept his eyes trained straight ahead.

  A second later, he felt the familiar lurch in his stomach as the helicopter slowly started to rise off the ground.

  “No! Please! You can’t do this!” Shelly pleaded. Cal started to reach for him too, but he shoved the man away with a strong hand.

  “Wait!” This time it was Mark, and Aiden raised his head. “There! Someone’s coming out, stay hot, Aiden.”

  Aiden shifted so that he was by the open helicopter door, and raised his gun again, his finger on the trigger.

  A second later, he lifted his finger.

  It was Sean Sommers.

  “Bring ‘er down again, Mark!”

  The helicopter lowered again.

  “Is it him?! Shel, is it him?”

  Even the kid, who had been silent for so long now that Aiden feared for his sanity, leaned forward and spoke.

  “Is it Robert?”

  Shelly tried to push by Aiden to get a better look, but he shifted his body so that she wouldn’t be tempted to jump out.

  “It’s—I dunno—”

  “Hurry!” Aiden shouted, waving his free arm frantically.

  “Fuck! It’s not him! Cal, it’s not him!”

  “No!”

  Sean ran to the helicopter, the rain and wind pelting him, serving to wash off some of the grime that covered his previously white shirt and blond hair.

  Aiden helped hoist the man into the helicopter, who promptly collapsed into the nearest seat, his eyes closed, his head hung low.

  “Mark, get us out of here…I’m gonna blow this place.”

  This time, there was no response from either Cal or Shelly.

  “Aiden?” Mark said.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s one more…there’s someone else coming out of the prison.”

  ***

  Carson Ford sprinted from his cell and burst into the hallway.

  He couldn’t believe that he had failed, that Robert of all people had fucked things up. All of the years of preparation were lost because he had underestimated his own kin.

  But Leland had been smart. Leland had made sure that he had an escape plan, despite Carson insisting that it wasn’t necessary.

  Lungs burning, knowing that he had little time, Carson pumped his arms and legs, tearing through Cell Block E, the place that he had called home for nearly a decade. He knew where he was headed.

  Carson burst through the door to the chapel, and ran through the aisle without hesitation. He rammed his hands into the altar at full speed, ignoring the pain in his wrists as he shoved the solid piece of marble toward the back wall.

  His blood pumped in his ears, and his vision narrowed.

  The altar butted against the back wall, driving more pain into his wrists that also went ignored. In one fluid movement, he hoisted himself onto the makeshift table, and then scrabbled more than three feet up the bricks before throwing his body through the stained-glass window depicting Jesus on the cross.

  The pain from the cuts all over his body were quickly replaced by the stinging sensation of the freezing rain and wind.

  Carson landed on the top of the dumpster that he had convinced Peter to put there for him. The initial drop was more than ten feet, and he jammed his right ankle on landing despite rolling with the fall. The injury caused him to tilt to one side, and his back smashed into the corner of a cement step more than six feet below. The air was forced out of his lungs and he saw stars. For a second, he did nothing; he just stared up at the rain, trying desperately to catch his breath.

  Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of helicopter blades chuffing, and he grunted and rolled onto his front. A moment later, he was up and running again.

  Carson didn’t hesitate when he hit the shore. He dove head first.

  As he pumped his legs and blew air from his nose in the icy cold water, the sky above him erupted into a fantastic ball of fire. The ocean suddenly became turbulent, clawing at his hands and feet like tiny hands, the undertow from the collapsing Seaforth Prison threatening to make this his final resting place.

  But Carson kicked hard, and concentrated on holding his breath for as long as possible.

  Years of training in his cell came in handy, as he’d known it would.

  Forty yards from the collapsing inferno, the dark outline of a head poked out of the water. The head bobbed for a moment, and then it plunged back into the depths below.

  END

  Author’s Note

  For a long while now, I have been fascinated with the idea of self-awareness. Artificial intelligence, universal morality, and—in Sam Harris’ words—understanding what it means to be something, if it means anything at all, are topics that I expend considerable energy exploring. And for whatever reason, Carl Jung’s psychological philosophies have stuck with me since I was first introduced to his ideas decades ago. As a forever pragmatist, I’m not sure that I believe much, or any of his writings, but what should be obvious after reading
Seaforth Prison is that in the very least I find them captivating and worthy of contemplation.

  I hope you enjoyed Seaforth Prison. There is more of this tale to tell…there are many more mysteries to unravel in this world. You can find Book 4 of the Haunted Series, Scarsdale Crematorium on pre-order now. So point your browser to Amazon if you want to continue joining Rob, Shelly, and Cal on their adventures.

  Leland knows, they’d be lonely without you.

  Keep on reading and I’ll keep on writing,

  Patrick

  Montreal, 2016