Weeping Season

by Seán O'Connor

  With a deep breath, he took a step back, not sure what was true anymore. Were they being manipulated? Then a visual of Daniel, lifeless on the roadside, flashed behind his eyes, the boy’s empty gaze connecting with his under the flashing blue lights as paramedics struggled to revive him.

  It was real. It had to be. More real than where he stood now, pointing a gun at the man who’d driven the wedge between husband and wife, forcing his family from him. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked, the sound drawn out, as if in slow motion. The gun kicked and the bullet cut through the air, and before he could comprehend his actions, Tom hit the floor, leaving a misty red bloom where his head had been.

  Tiff screamed.

  The men opened fire from below, dragging Richard out of his fugue. He dropped the weapon, grabbed Tiff’s wrist and yanked her to her feet, surprised at his sudden surge of strength. She looked at him in horror. Brickwork splintered around their heads as bullets ricocheted through the foyer. He kicked the control-room door open and dragged Tiff inside with him.

  All sound of gunfire disappeared when the door slammed shut. The room was a glowing white, and all he could hear was a faint buzzing coming from an unknown source. More static? Another speaker? It increased in volume and soon became overbearing, filling his head to such an extent he couldn’t hear or see a thing.

  “Tiffany?”

  But she was gone. Vanished.

  Everything was white. In every direction. No up or down. No gravity. No sense of weight. Nothing, just the sound bearing in on him from every point, growing louder with every passing second. Only there was no point, no connection – and then, in a flash, everything flipped from white to black.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Hushed voices filled the shadows beyond his blurred vision. He felt alive, but aurally only. His mind was engaged in a desperate attempt to re-sync with his body, but there was nothing to connect with. The voices became clearer – a man speaking, his tone and inflections familiar. The more he blinked, the better his vision became, in both eyes – the darkness ebbing as light filtered in.

  White.

  He blinked a few more times. A room. A white room that smelled clinical – sterilised. Long fluorescent lights ran across the dank ceiling, casting a stark glow. Two figures stood within sight, off to his side. He couldn’t move to get a better look. White coats. Their faces covered with white masks. All he could make out were their eyes – a man and a woman, staring down at him, analysing.

  When he followed their gaze, he became aware of his body, naked and laid out on a dulled-grey table. Cold steel. He tried to move his arms, but realised thick black restraints held him down, with one across his chest. His mouth was moving, as if he was speaking, but no words came out, or none that he heard.

  The man leaned closer. “Hello, Richard.”

  The girl didn’t speak, typing instead at a furious pace on a silver pad in her hand.

  The room spun as his mind struggled to cope. His vision went in and out of focus, his surroundings looming at one moment, then almost disappearing into the distance. The wall to his left was tiled in a dull cream. Then he realised his trolley was one of several in some sort of ward. He could barely make them out, but working on his peripheral vision, he saw that his was the only one occupied.

  “What the fuck is happening?” he screamed, or thought he did, but again no sound came. He struggled against his bonds, to no avail – the straps didn’t budge. What the hell is going on? Where am I? He tried to move his head again, but something tugged at the back of skull. Something tight – strong. He held his breath and pulled his head forward, but nothing happened other than the feeling of his skull splitting.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Richard,” the woman said, her voice soft. “You'll hurt yourself.”

  She stepped into view and wiped his face with a damp towel, then fiddled with whatever was holding his head down. “Stay still, please. It’ll take you a while to fully come back to us.”

  “What? Come back? What’s happening?”

  “You were logged into Block Eighteen for a long time. Disorientation is normal afterwards. Try to relax, please.”

  “You can hear me?” His heart surged. “Can you hear me?”

  “Good, you’re returning,” the man said, “but if you keep struggling, I will have to administer a sedative. I don’t want you to break the link while your results are still compiling.”

  Then it came to him, like the proverbial lightbulb flashing, the shock of realisation rushing through is body. “You’re him. Aren’t you? The Host?”

  The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he looked back at his tablet. Something about those eyes… Something so familiar… The man wore a black head-set with a mic arm extending from one ear to the side of his mouth. He spoke in another language – recording notes.

  “Tell me. Please. Are you him?”

  “Give it time, Richard. Your mind will reset. But before that happens, I must congratulate you on being the only participant to return to us.”

  “What am I, some kind of fucking lab rat?” He looked up at the man – The Host. “Let me go!”

  The man didn’t respond, continuing to make notes. The woman joined him, whispered in his ear, and the man looked down at him. “Okay, Richard, we would prefer if you were fully transitioned before continuing this assessment.”

  “What? Fuck you! Let me go.”

  The man nodded to the woman, who proceeded to insert a syringe into a port on Richard’s arm.

  He cried out in protest. Moments later his consciousness shifted, but he didn’t go under, more like drifting in and out of a light doze. Even so, he was still aware of everything going on around him.

  Then the room fell silent.

  He struggled to stay awake – to hear what was being said.

  “I must say, Richard, you must be very proud of what you achieved here. Your design is perfect, mate.” The man removed his mask.

  The sedative had taken hold – Richard could only watch on with helplessness. It had to be a dream? Surely. But it wasn’t, as both Tom and Tiffany stood over him – healthy, his hair black, thick, and hers long, blonde, and both wide-eyed with excitement, as if they’d just discovered fire for the first time.

  “Yeah, really good job, Richard,” Tiff weighed in.

  “With a few patches here and there,” Tom continued, “Block Eighteen is going to be revolutionary, mate.”

  Richard’s memory flooded back. Block 18 – that horrible place. It was his creation. Its purpose to rehabilitate criminals in a virtual-reality environment. It took him nearly two years to create and BETA test the platform, but he couldn't remember it ever going live.

  “Tom, what did you do?” he mumbled. “Block Eighteen is not ready for human testing. We’re months away from that?”

  Tom shot Tiffany a look. “Go prep his room.”

  Tiffany, without hesitation, left the bedside and exited the ward.

  “Relax, Richard. I’m leading the project now. Whatever comes after the stage you left it, is no longer any concern of yours.” He smiled. “However, what matters now is what happens next. And I suppose it’s great to have the original creator play a role in taking that next step.”

  Original creator? I am the only creator. Richard repeated this to himself as he scrambled for a clear and precise answer in the back of his mind. Everything was there, and it came to him: his most recent address, even his job title – Lead Design Engineer – he clenched his hands into fists and strained against his bonds. The heart monitor beside his bed beeped as if it was going out of control.

  “And how about that Tiff one, mate? She played a fantastic role in today’s session, didn’t she? Not bad for an intern, eh? Girl should ditch the junior-designer career path and be a professional actor.”

  Tiffany. Tom was right, she was an intern. She’d come across excellent in her interview. A smart girl with an abundance of knowledge about the tech industry. He hadn’t hesitated in bringing her onto hi
s development team. Little did he know her capabilities went beyond technical troubleshooting – she was worthy of an Oscar after that session in Block 18.

  Tom checked the monitors, reached in behind Richard’s head, and released whatever was plugged into the back of his skull. “All done, mate.” His mouth lifted at one corner. “I really enjoyed that session.”

  A strange sensation rushed through Richard's body. He figured it was similar to how astronauts felt returning home after a long period in space.

  The doors opened and Tiffany returned with a wheelchair, followed by two orderlies. Richard’s limp body was hoisted from the bed into the chair. His urge to fight was strong, but his body was non-responsive.

  With his mind now clear, everything came to him – frame after frame – scene upon scene. It was all too much to process, especially when the darkest moment in his life came back to him. Emotion filled his chest and surged into his throat, and tears ran freely as sobs erupted, his shoulders shaking beyond control.

  The day after the car crash had been a cold and frosty winter’s morning. He’d learned of the affair, if it could be called that after having gone on for so long. Years. It was basically a secret marriage. And with Tom of all people? The betraying bastard. First he stole my wife and now the bastard is stealing my life's work.

  He’d given Lizzy everything. All he had. His life. His love.

  On that brisk December day, with Daniel gone, he’d decided an axe from the shed would be the instrument of choice to quench his vengeance. What came after, including his trial, went by in a blur. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d found him in his snow-covered garden, bloody axe in hand and the dismembered body of his wife scattered around him.

  The incident made national and international news. The world was curious about a guy who by society’s normal standards seemed to be straight up and successful. Some journalists referred to him as, The Axeman, while others printed silly headlines such as, The Lumberjack of London. But, out of all the media frenzy, only one tag stuck with him – the front-page article from the local paper that showed a split image of Daniel’s body on the road and Richard kneeling in his front garden. Evil, hurt, sorrow and sadness all rolled into a tabloid-sized page with a caption reading: Weeping Season.

  The authorities sent him for psychiatric assessment, and for reasons beyond him, the doctors decided to sign him up to a never-heard-of-before rehabilitation program – an experiment in which he had no choice but to participate. His rehabilitation program.

  He never asked why he wasn’t tried for murder, as he already knew the answer. His memory was crystal clear now. His actions made him the perfect candidate, and Tom knew how to work that in his favour.

  The company they worked for funded the project. Block 18. A digital homage to his fascination with concentration camps and the number to his and Lizzy’s first apartment – the same residence where he developed the ground-breaking platform – a brilliant piece of software where they could rehabilitate a person's mind through a series of tasks in a safe environment. Once complete, it was to be the making of all of them. He’d never have to work another day in his life again.

  It was all too much to process. Everything physical and mental was becoming too heavy and a numbness overtook him. In a state of shock, all he could do was watch as his limp and naked body was wheeled down a grey corridor. To his left were steel doors. All closed. On his right, tall windows provided a fleeting glimpse of snow-covered trees. He knew the facility was a long way from the United Kingdom, and his gut told him that wherever he was in the world, getting home was never going to happen.

  Tom walked ahead and opened a door at the end of the corridor. “This is him.”

  Richard was lifted out of the wheelchair and thrown to the freezing floor. One of the orderlies followed him in and threw an old, grey blanket on top of him. A light came on, harsh and high, revealing dirt-covered concrete walls, looming, cold, and unforgiving.

  The man then left.

  “Don’t worry, Richard,” Tom said, standing in the doorway, “if things go right, we may try again tomorrow. You see, for murderous people like you and the rest of the participants, when given the choice, you all did one of three things. One, you were mentality weak for rehabilitation. Two, you opted to take the easy way out. Or three, and this applies to you, Richard, you reoffended. Fuck, mate, I even gave you a chance in today’s session, and what did you do? That’s right, you put a bullet in my head.”

  Richard groaned as the visual flashed behind his eyes.

  “Now, I know you know what that means in Block Eighteen. Ha, you designed it that way, didn’t you? On your recommendation, you wanted reoffenders to be given the death penalty. Do you remember discussing that one at the board meetings a few times? I used to love sitting back and watching their reactions to your ideas. Outlandish, but brilliant.”

  Richard lay motionless, trying to wrap his mind around everything. “Tom, please.” He muttered, “I’m sorry… I really am. Please—”

  “Begging was never your style,” Tom said. “But, I’ve changed that stipulation. Just for you. You see, the entire project got shut down after what you did back in London. The bad press turned all of our major investors away. It took an incredible amount of effort and a lot of money on my part to get it going again. And here on Lyakhovsky Islands, we are allowed to operate without regulations.”

  Richard struggled up to his knees, the blanket falling behind him and he recalled the image he saw from outside the window. Beyond the glass, a baron winter wilderness. He frowned at the realisation of his situation – Tom made a deal with the Russians. The crafty son of a bitch!

  “These islands are also known as The Ghost Lands. Did you know that? Well, that is all you are now, Richie. Well, at least to the real world. Nothing more than an apparition. So, I am continuing your work, mate, with an eager bunch of supporters who want nothing more than to see the project become a success.”

  Tom pulled a pack of smokes from his trouser pocket. He lit one up, exhaling slowly. “Oh, and one last thing. Elizabeth may have been your wife, but I loved her more than you’ll ever know. She was my everything, and you took her away from me. I’ll miss working with you, mate, but I’m going to enjoy plugging you back into Block Eighteen every day for the rest of your miserable life. It is what my Lizzy would have wanted and it is what you deserve.”

  The light flickered as the walls closed in. Richard watched as the cell door slammed shut and, with it, he was nothing more than a man reduced to hysterical screams. He dropped to the ground, pressing his cheek against the cold floor and what was left of his world turned to darkness.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEGEMENTS

  When I started writing the story that would eventually become this book, I lived in a two-bed apartment in Swords. I loved that rental and at the time, it was home to my new born son and wife to be, but it was also a place where I was able to really focus on my writing and turn some of my ideas into actual books – This book was wrote in that apartment.

  I’ll be honest, when I completed the first draft, I didn’t really like the manuscript. However, somewhere along the line, the characters came to life and before I knew it, I had to turn the work in progress into an actual book. And with a newfound enthusiasm for Richard’s story, I have to thank my editor, Eamon O Cleirigh, because without his expertise and encouragement, this book simply would not exist.

  As with any novel, the completed work could not be achieved without a dedicated BETA reader team. I was lucky enough to have an eager bunch of readers who put this work through its paces. A big thank you goes out to those who helped me sculpt the final version – Lydia Capuano, Anna Hayward and Luke Newnes. Without you guys taking the time to read, compile notes and share your thoughts, I wouldn’t have reached the finish line.

  I think it goes without saying that dark/horror/weird fiction is going through a big resurgence right now with the likes of Stephen King still flying the flag and knocking out
two to three books a year and his back catalogue getting turned into TV shows every few months – I feel fortunate that my work is alive during this time and without the support of my fellow writers, I wouldn’t have any books in existence right now. With that in mind, I have to extend my thanks to Tim Lebbon and Adam Nevill for their friendship, experience sharing and above all, for allowing me access to their endless pits of advice.

  Honourable mentions go to my creative colleagues; Kealan Patrick Burke, Matt Hayward, Barry Keegan, David Merriman, Mike Griffin, Ted Grau, Alex Knudson, Charlotte Zang, Mary SanGiovanni, Sadie Hartmann, Michael Patrick Hicks, Chad Lutzke, Peter Rawlik, Philip Fracassi, Mike Davis and the rest of the Lovecraft eZine crew.

  For the epigraph, I’d like to thank Devin Holt from the band Pallbearer and Patrick Walker from the band Warning for their inspiring music which has and continues to play a major role in my creative efforts.

  To the people who matter the most, that’s YOU – the one holding this book – the reader! Thank you for the gifts of your time and attention.

  They say you should never judge a book by its cover… But I often do. And that is because I believe that one’s work should be presented in the best possible way. The reader is owed that much. I can’t thank Kenneth W. Cain and Boz Mugabe enough for the incredible job they have done with the typesetting and artwork for this novel. Thank you!

  To my parents – whom this book is dedicated – Raymond and Sandra, thank you for always supporting my creative endeavours and for providing me with a home full of love and free thinking. And to my sister, Sinéad, and her husband, Alan, thank you for always being there for me.

  And a final, heartfelt thanks goes to my darling wife, Orla and my son, Samuel. You both give me the strength to pursue my dreams and allow me to experience real love – I am eternally grateful to have you both in my life and I promise to keep trying to be the best husband and father I can possibly be.