The Eye of Madness (35 page)

Donna became the unwitting host of Mary during a heroine-induced stupor. She was many things, a drug addict, a prostitute … an enigma. More than anything else, she was terrified. Her body had suffered from the withdrawals of the last several days, but Mary handled it. The dark souls shared little connections to their inhabited body, outside of normal body functions. This was a good thing for Mary and Donna. The very fact of her presence was a saving grace for the young girl who would have died in a short time from an overdose. She smiled as she considered the young girl who might be scared straight from this ordeal. Her smile faded when her thoughts turned to her former life.

Mary was many things, but one thing she was not was a liar. She told Jack the truth of her identity. Whether he chose to believe her or not was up to him. She did her best to help him. Maybe her best was just getting him off the streets so he wouldn't harm anyone again.

As Jack wasted away in his cell, she sat in her private room a couple of buildings away, reflecting on her past. She shuddered when she remembered the ignorance of her former life. Her arrogance sent two hundred eighty-three souls to their deaths during her short five-year reign as Mary I, Queen of England. These poor souls died for the crime of being protestant. They refused to recognize the Catholic Church as the supreme religious authority of England. She had hated her father, King Henry VIII, for taking England out of the good graces of what she believed to be the one true church. She was determined to rectify his error once she assumed the throne. Her hatred consumed her. It led to the genesis of her ignorance which soon birthed the most arrogant queen Britain had ever known … and the bloodiest.

This was not the worst of it. She enjoyed the executions, most of which were burnings at the stake. She could imagine the soul receiving purification from the flames as the condemned screamed. The smell of burning flesh was a scent she soon began to associate with redemption and purification. It was an aroma that began to give her pleasure, not only spiritually, but corporally. Her notorious nickname, which was well earned, was the only thing that bothered her about the whole affair. How could anyone say such vile things about someone who carried out the will of the church?

There was not much physical connection between the dark souls and their body, but this time was an exception. Mary started to feel nauseous as she thought back to the horrific scenes which had earned her nickname. She dwelled on these images many times in the dark void. Yet without the aid of the olfactory senses, she had almost forgotten the smell of cremation. The more she thought, the more the memory of the smell came forward. The unmistakable aroma of burning pork and almonds filled her head and nostrils like a smell from a nightmare. It no longer brought her pleasure. If not for a convenient trashcan in the corner, she would have vomited all over the sterile white tile of her room.

When she finished, she walked over to a small sofa on the far wall and stretched out. Mary lay on her side, clutched a pillow to her churning stomach, and then she began to cry. She had not cried in over four hundred years. It felt good to cry. It was liberating and relaxing. Donna's body needed sleep and Mary needed rest. After several minutes of steady weeping, she fell asleep. It would not be a restful sleep; her slumber would be filled with the horrific screams and the tormented faces of her victims.

“How could I have been so wrong?” she asked herself.

She had asked herself the question many times in the void. Now, wrapped in the flesh of her host, it resonated through every pore with agony. She knew she was being watched, more from perversion than security. She was not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her lose control.

The visual images were bad enough in her dreaming mind, but the smell also followed her into sleep. She didn't think she would ever forget the smell.

CHAPTER 37

LOST AND SAVED

“Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.”

~Albert Camus

There comes a moment in everyone's life when inspiration takes over. It is a momentary flash, an instant of an instant, but in that small moment a life can change forever. Rebekah had been cowering in her own mind the last several hours, too afraid to act or move. She feared any action on her part would cause herself harm, or even worse, harm to Malakhi.

This dark entity made one fatal mistake. It left her with no option but to fight. If soul and consciousness possessed such a thing as adrenaline, it coursed through her now. She flew across the space within her mind and hit the dark soul in the back. She then jumped on top of him. He buckled and fell forward, spinning to meet the challenge. She attacked faster than he could have imagined. Rebekah attacked with the fires of fury burning in her eyes; the raw instinct of a protective mother fueled her rage.

“Get out of my body and leave my son alone you damned dark bastard!” she roared.

Gestas watched with utter incredulity. He wasn't sure if he was more shocked by Rebekah's aggression or the language coming from her mouth. Either way, he found himself enjoying it very much.

Rebekah raised her octave to an ear splitting pitch. “Get the hell out of me and go back to your dark friends you piece of shit!”

The dark souls gaped at her in terror. Before he could retaliate, Rebekah wrapped her hands around his throat and squeezed.

“Get out of me now!” she growled, squeezing as hard as she could.

Choking or suffocation was not a fate that any non-corporeal entity could suffer. However, the point of the action was every bit as potent. The dark soul's face shifted in a kaleidoscope of terror, rage, surprise, and hatred. Over and over again it changed as Rebekah increased pressure. Rebekah fell forward and landed on her hands and knees as the dark soul vanished in a wisp of black smoke. Similar to waking from a deep anesthesia, Rebekah began to feel herself regaining control of her body. She was utterly exhausted. Gestas rushed forward and pushed her out of the way.

“Let me handle this, before it is too late!” he said.

Rebekah was too weak to do anything other than step aside. She knew she was in no condition to be of any good at the moment.

Gestas came forward and peered through Rebekah's eyes. He took control of her arms and legs, however he hadn't meshed with the rest of her body yet. The right hand grasped Malakhi. To his horror, the whole right side of Rebekah's body lay beyond the lighted perimeter of the base. Malakhi was shrieking in the dark. It was all Gestas could do to hold on as the child thrashed about and slammed his head into the ground. As Gestas fought to pull the flailing boy towards him, he saw lights and movement to his left. He turned towards them, hurling Malakhi before him. An instant later, they were lying face down on the grass, heaving and panting. Gestas barely registered the sound of soldier's boots surrounding them. He was more concerned with the artificial light now bathing them from head to toe. It was like escaping a raging inferno into an ice-cold pool.

“Don't move!” one of the soldiers shouted.

Gestas was staring at the ground and could not see. He heard the click of an assault rifle and knew it was aimed at him. When satisfied Malakhi was safe, he retreated into Rebekah's mind.

“Malakhi is a little shaken up but he is okay. It's time for you to come forward now,” Gestas said, taking Rebekah by the hand and pulling her forward.

She seemed reluctant. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

Ruth was being carried away by two soldiers to the medical tent. They would have taken her to the psychiatric tent if one existed. She kept babbling about the ghost in a tunic and sandals. When examined, they would find traces of drugs and alcohol in her system. Her incredible stories would be chalked up to one big delusional dream of an addict in withdrawal. The one good thing was, whether it was scared straight or a major epiphany, she remained sober for the rest of her life. Regardless of the old woman's condition, Rebekah knew Gestas could not return to her.

Gestas looked at her sheepishly as he asked. “Would it be okay if I remain? You know, just until the eye of the storm has passed.”

Rebekah gave him a wary frown.

“I promise I will stay out of the way. If I don't, you know how to get rid of me,” he said and then pretended to choke an invisible neck.

Rebekah smiled. “Okay, but please give me my privacy.”

Gestas nodded. “Of course,” he said.

Rebekah came forward and took control in time to feel herself seized by strong hands and jerked to her feet.

Carmella had not wept as hard in her life as when she went outside to see Steff's body lying amongst the azalea bushes on the north lawn. Even her own mother's passing did not invoke such an emotional response. Perhaps it was because her mother's death was expected. She was ninety years old and in declining health for years. This was part of it, but not all. She felt a tremendous guilt because she was supposed to be watching over the poor girl. She failed. In the short time she spent with Steff, she developed a real affection for her. They formed a kinship of two tormented souls who had both faced hardship in their lives under the banner of ignorance.

“Oh you poor dear child,” she wailed, dropping to her knees beside Steff's body and stroking her long, blood soaked hair.

A few guards and Secret Service milled around nearby. They seemed more interested in the pedestrians who stopped to gawp at the scene.

There was nothing more Carmella could do or say so she just cried until another White House aide came out and ushered her back inside. The Secret Service transported the body to nearby Bethesda Hospital. It was one of the few buildings in the city left with power after the mandatory black outs. Those who weren't dead were now in one of a dozen bases surrounding the nation's capital.

Carmella spent the next hour composing herself. She gave strict instructions that the president was not to be disturbed in any way. “He is on important business,” she told them. She did know it was important to the president's attempt to squash dissent.

Even though Carmella was around the mid-range level in authority at the White House, no one questioned her. Everyone who would have been above her were now dead or in the company of President Garrison. Those with him at the moment would have killed her if they were there.

As Carmella sat alone in her office, a strange emotion started to take hold. Not that the emotion itself was strange, but rather it was strange to feel it in her current state. She started to feel hope and a little bit of relief. Carmella felt guilty about these new emotions. Yet the more she considered them she began to realize it made complete sense.

Carmella knew, and so did Steff, that President Ott Garrison must die. It was the right thing for the country and it was the right thing for the world. Death was the only thing that could break his ignorance and humble his arrogance. The car Steff saw Carmella loading was not loaded with traditional duffle bags. These bags contained high powered explosives. Two of her conspirators were Secret Service Agents and they would insure the car got to Quantico and picked up the president. The next leg of his journey would be to another base. There, he would weed out more rebels. The agents' plan was to weed out Garrison himself and as many cronies as they could take with him. The car was scheduled to leave Washington that evening to pick him up for the trip to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.

As Carmella wiped her tears, a memo caught her attention. It had been placed on top of her work stack on her desk. She reached over and picked it up, squinting through swollen tear filled eyes to read.

To: White House Sr. Staff

From: Vice President Avery Cooper

Please be advised, the president has scored another great victory today in the fight to keep America free. He will not stop until every evil spirit is put down along with every traitor who supports them. Today, at approximately 1430 hours EST, public enemy number one was captured. Major Cecil Garrison, the president's dishonorable son, along with four other conspirators were captured. They are now held in maximum security at Quantico where they await judgment for their crimes. More information will be forthcoming as these traitors face justice
.

Long live President Ott Garrison and long live the United States of America!

Signed
,

The honorable Avery Cooper

Carmella felt a sudden sting of anger. The memo dripped with hypocrisy and downright ignorance. Not to mention, it disregarded one of the primary tenants of the Constitution. Weren't they innocent until proven guilty? This memo not only angered and sickened her, it added more fuel to the hope she felt. As much as it disturbed her, she felt relieved that Steff was gone. This freed her up to do what must be done in regards to Garrison. An emotional cyclone raged within her as she shifted from hope to disgust to relief to self-loathing. Finally, she summoned enough strength to pick up the phone and make a call.

Carmella was determined to be in the car when it left tonight, not for a suicide mission but rather a rescue mission. She saw an opportunity to do right by Steff. She could at least save her parents. If nothing else, she also owed it to them to deliver the news of their daughter's passing in person. This was not a task she relished, yet it needed to be done.

They would be there to pick her up within the hour. They must move fast because it would be dark in three hours. Carmella pulled a small hand mirror out of her desk and began to compose herself. She found it quite difficult as her hands trembled, so she set it face up on her desk to complete the task. She knew the chances were good she would not succeed in even getting close to Steff's parents. She would probably die in the process. She took a deep breath and fought through the fear. She had not been afraid of death before, especially after the Impals appeared. Their presence gave a hope and certainty of something beyond our existence. But now the eye of storm dictated a new reality; a reality where darkness and death ruled. How did it affect beliefs? What did it mean to the soul? If she died now, in the eye of the storm, would she be condemned to join the darkness? Was it Steff's fate? Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to convince herself it wasn't true, it was only pure imaginative fiction. However, fact and fiction had become interchangeable since the storm arrived. Four months ago, she would have thought ghosts were fiction. What if all the tens of thousands, if not millions, of people who were killed by the darkness not been victims, but recruits? Perhaps the dark demanded their suicide while pulling the soul into the shadows. She didn't think this was the case and did not want to believe it, but the mere thread of a possibility scared the hell out of her.