The Eye of Madness (23 page)

“Well then,” Musial said rubbing his hands together, “I better get going then … daylight is wasting.”

His final comment was as true as it was unnecessary. It served no purpose other than to raise everyone's blood pressure.

“Help me up,” Burt said, holding his hands up to Cecil.

Cecil took his hands while Sally supported him from behind as they brought him to his feet. He clung to both of their shoulders while his legs wobbled like a new born calf. Burt glanced at Musial and, with his right hand draped over Cecil's shoulder; he motioned for him to come.

“You have the basics down. Just remember the red octagon sign means to stop. The yellow triangle means yield, a red light means stop and a green light means go. You shouldn't have much, if any, traffic to deal with. If you see a cop, tell him you are going to Quantico for evacuation. Remember, you are Sam Andrews so use his identification,” Burt said, nodding at his shirt pocket.

Musial stuck his hand in the pocket and pulled out a thin brown leather wallet. He opened it up and thumbed through the plastic pages. Out of six potential pages, only two contained anything. One held Andrews's driver's license and the other his military ID. He squinted at the pictures and gave an exaggerated wince.

“I suppose it wasn't in my cards to find a more handsome host,” he said.

“Do you have any questions?” Burt asked.

“Yes, where would I find a red light and a green light? In my day, a red light signified an area of ill repute. A green light, well, I think it meant the coast was clear … I never paid attention to such things.”

“Let's stick to the basics,” Burt said. “You can read, can't you?”

Musial folded his arms scornfully. “Of course I can!” he snapped. “Do you think just because I was a magician it means I am an uneducated, illiterate prat?”

“Good,” Burt said, ignoring his wounded tone. He was certain that Musial was not upset at all, only toying with him. “As I said, keep it simple, keep it slow and remember the basics.”

Charlotte drew a makeshift map on a piece of notebook paper. While the vehicle had GPS, they decided it would be too complicated to teach Musial to use it, not to mention it would waste valuable time. They were not sure if GPS would work in the storm either. Musial walked back down the hill and retrieved the SUV while Burt lay back down on the grass. The vehicle was undamaged except for a few scratches and a dent on the rear bumper.

Once he pulled in front of the cabin, they loaded all the empty gas canisters in the back. They also included an assortment of canning jars and containers from the kitchen. They packed anything capable of holding gasoline. Barring a miracle, this would be their one and only chance for procuring fuel. They just hoped they could collect enough to outlast the eye of the storm. How much they would need, God only knew.

Burt gave a few more last minute instructions, which went ignored, then Musial left with a wise remarks.
“See you in a few days.”
He then sped away clumsily. He still didn't seem to have the full grasp of acceleration. Even when he was gone from view, they could still hear the revving of the engine.

“Do you think he will come back?” Derrick asked.

Cecil shrugged. “I don't know, but we didn't have much choice.”

“I think he will,” Burt said as he squeezed Sally and Cecil's shoulders. “I think he was serious about wanting salvation. Not coming back would seriously jeopardize his goal.”

“How in the hell can you be so sure?” Sally asked.

“I spent some time with him today in the vehicle, got to know him a little,” Burt said.

“I didn't hear you discussing anything. You yelled at him about how he was screwing up,” Derrick interjected. “And I was with you the whole time.”

Burt acted as if he hadn't heard him. “Anyway, I feel like my head is going to explode. Can we go inside and sit down?” he asked.

They had refueled the generator before loading the canisters. With its current payload, it should last till mid-morning tomorrow. Then, they would have to use their last canister of gas, assuming Musial didn't return by then. If he didn't return, they would be powerless the following evening and the dark would have its way with them.

Cecil and Derrick helped Burt to his palette. They each donated one of their own pillows to help keep his head elevated as much as possible.

“How do you feel, now?” Cecil asked as he sat down in a nearby chair, his elbows on his knees.

Burt touched his hand to the bandages on his forehead, and then gave a half-grimace and half-smile.

“I feel like a tractor ran over my head. Otherwise, I'm in mint condition.”

Cecil took out a flashlight and leaned closer.

“Look at me,” he said. Burt obliged with a pained expression. His eyes squinted as if he was staring into the sun rather than a flashlight.

“You have a concussion,” Cecil said. “I hope that's the least of your worries.”

“Don't give me this doomsday vibe, jerk. Shoot me straight.”

“I'm not a doctor and even if I were we couldn't tell anything without a cat scan or an x-ray. For right now, you should rest and keep your head elevated. I think Charlotte has more aspirin or acetaminophen,” he paused and took a deep breath. “We should ice it too.”

“I'll get some,” Sally volunteered as she scampered into the kitchen.

A few moments later she returned with a handful of ice cubes sealed in a large sealable freezer bag.

“So that's it?” Burt asked. “Just rest and freeze my noggin?”

Cecil gave him a reassuring nod, but deep down he knew it was not the whole truth. He had given him the best-case scenario. Worst-case scenario is Burt might have brain swelling or hemorrhaging, which doesn't get better. If so, his headaches would grow to an agonizing level before he slipped into a coma, never to wake up again.

Cecil watched his friend as worry began to eat away at him. Burt was slowly fading.

“Do you know where you are?” Cecil asked as Sally changed positions with the freezer bag, moving it to his right temple.

Burt first regarded him with annoyance, as if it was the most stupid question he ever heard. His countenance soon faded to confusion, followed by panic. He looked around the room for some clue, some reminder. After several desperate moments, his gaze fell on Charlotte. His expression changed course as if he shifted into reverse.

“Her place,” he said with a meek smile nodding at Charlotte.

Cecil glanced at Sally and saw her wearing a triumphant smile. He had gotten the question right, which must mean he would be okay. When she saw Cecil's worried eyes, her smile vanished.

“Try and keep him awake for as long as you can,” Cecil said as he got up and walked out the front door.

He descended the stairs and stared up at the menacing red sky with its orange clouds.

“Where are you, Abbs?” he asked out loud.

Was she standing there beside him, just as the Impals had done for thousands of years before the storm arrived? He reached out his hand as if he were beckoning some unseen person to take it. He waited for well over a minute, but when the cold and warm sensation did not come, he began to cry. He had never felt more alone. For all intents and purposes, his whole family was gone. He squinted, trying to fight back the stinging burn of his tears, and saw the makeshift grave of Dr. Winder a few feet away.

Would he soon be burying another friend? Would they all be buried out here … save one last person. Or, would they die all together when the dark finally spilled in? Cecil walked as far away from the cabin as possible without going into the shadows. For a fleeting second, he considered running into the woods and ending it all, ending the misery. It would all be over and he would not have to worry about anything again. Maybe he would see Abbs. He could tell her he was sorry and beg her forgiveness. Then he thought of the rows and rows of sleeping Impals lined up at the base, ready to be dumped into the Tesla Gate. They were the suicides, the ones who gave up on life and took the easy way out. If he ran into the woods voluntarily, wouldn't it make him a suicide? He wouldn't do anyone any good.

“You damn coward,” he muttered as he wiped a tear from his eye.

If he wasn't so distraught, so stressed, so disgusted … so terrified, he might have noticed a faint cold touch in the center of his back.

CHAPTER 25

THE WAIT

“Curiosity is lying in wait for every secret.”

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Jack sat in his cell the rest of the day and all through the night with no contact from anyone. Of course, he had his companions in the dark to keep him company. They visited each time the guards flicked the lights off and on at five-minute intervals. When the experiments first started he tried to fake an insatiable desire to harm himself. This only lasted so long. After a minute or two, it was evident Jack was not affected by the dark. If he were, he would have been dead many times over.

Whoever administered this experimental light show seemed to take great joy in it. They sometimes blinked the lights in the rhythm of popular show tunes. By the time morning rolled around, Jack was exhausted. If he could, he would have murdered his mystery tormenter in front of the whole base.

“If I see the rhythm of
Copa Cabaña
tapped out again like some sort of hellish Morse code, I'm going to put a dull knife through the wankstain's throat,” he thought to himself.

He was pretty sure the whole base knew his ‘dark' little secret by now. The question was, did they know half of it or all of it? Did they send troops out to his house this morning to turn it inside out? He knew they would be desperate to find some important piece of information explaining his ability. He was sure a half dozen soldiers were going through his flat as he sat here. The more important question was, what
would
they find? Was he as careful and discreet as he believed? He thought so, but on TV didn't they always find some piece of evidence the killer overlooked? He still didn't believe he had done anything wrong. Perhaps his inner peace and his insatiable arrogance made him careless. This thought turned his emotionless guts upside down. He broke into a sweat, feeling as if he was going to be ill at any moment. He bent over and clutched his stomach as he rocked back and forth. He felt dizzy and knew he must channel his thoughts elsewhere, to focus on something else. Just as he thought it was going to be impossible, his thoughts came together. With laser focus, they coalesced into a single image in his head.

“Bitch,” he said loud enough it echoed around his small steel cell.

He thought of Donna and her treachery. His twisted guts filled with a burning, homicidal rage. He was going to kill her the next time he saw her. Oh yes, he would put a dull knife through her throat, but only after he tortured her for a satisfactory amount of time. How long would that be? Well, the way he felt right now, it would be a pretty damned long time.

What Jack did not know was that the British Army was very much interested in him. Not because he was a murdering psychopath in their midst. They
had
sent a small platoon to his house and found nothing except for a few blood spots on the floor where he hit his head on the stool. They took blood samples and, when analyzed, they would confirm it was his blood. The cage, Jack's favorite killing stage, had been disassembled and put away after last night's bloody mess. He hid it well. He used plastic sheets under the cage which caught the excess blood. Jack had disposed of them when he disposed of the old lady's body. Forensically speaking, he was clean. However, their interest was in Jack's ability. Little did Jack know, he wasn't quite as unique as he thought.

The acting President of the United States shared this trait along with his current cabinet. There were also reports of similar people around the world. The base had two of them in confinement a few yards away from Jack's cell. These two were receiving the same rhythmic torment as Jack, but their tormenter was more partial to Slim Whitman tunes. The discovery of these individuals was via their own stupidity and arrogance. The scientists could not find a single factor that would make these two different from anyone else. Of course, if they dug deeper into their personal lives, they would find a common link as obvious as the nose on their faces.

Their dark behavior made them kindred spirits with the whispering lunatics in the shadows. They had committed their own terrible acts. The dark was now a litmus test of the arrogant psychopaths and sociopaths of the world, but the world had too many other things to worry now.

Yet, not all these people were the same either. Take the dark soul of a man who called himself Ruth; or Musial for examples. There were many others around the world committing corporeal hijacking. All done for the possibility of salvation from their eternal dark void. They did not have hope before the eye of the cosmic storm opened the door to their realm. These souls were desperate to escape their hopelessness. In the absence of hope their only purpose was to perpetrate their ignorance and arrogance.

Jack heard voices and shuffling of feet outside his door. Shadows passed by his tiny portal window and he stood up. The veins stuck out on his neck and he dug his fingers into the steel door, breaking a couple of nails. A trickle of blood flowed down his fingers, but he did not notice. He focused on what he saw in the hallway. Donna passed by with two armed guards.

“You!” Jack screamed. “I'll kill you!”

The door was thick, but it was not sound proof. The soldiers faced forward, unflinching. However, Donna glanced over her shoulder as they passed. Instead of regarding him with contempt or gloating; she regarded him with pity. Even in his conscious free heart, he felt a sudden glimmer of the sorrow in Donna's eyes. It was as if all the wind went out of him at one time.

“You bitch,” he whispered. He jerked his hands back from the door as if it scorched him. He tucked his fingers under his armpits as he plopped down on his cot.