The Eye of Madness Read online

  Jack walked into his bedroom and opened the door to a large walk-in closet. The closet had a motion-activated light and the five foot by six foot nook glowed with one hundred watt brilliance. The closet was empty except for one very strange thing. An iron cage occupied over half its volume. He smiled at the cage with satisfaction.

  “Good, the bitch is finally gone,” he murmured through clinched teeth.

  Jack caressed the metal bars as if its cold surface was the skin of a lover. He was lost in the moment; spellbound, enthralled, rapturous, at peace … remembering … remembering … remembering … what was that?

  Agnes had awakened in the other room and was making her pitiful whining noise again. Anger welled up in Jack.

  “The stupid old crone!” he raved. “Whining, like they all do. Whining and getting blood on my carpet!”

  He patted the bars to the cage and then turned and strode into the other room. He found Agnes lying face down and moving her arms as if she were swimming. She had managed to move a few feet from the sofa and trailed blood behind her in crimson tire tracks.

  “Damn you!” Jack shouted and grabbed her by the back of the hair. He jerked her up on her toes to where her neck supported the entire weight of her body. Her unseeing eyes flashed with terror and she tried to scream, but she didn’t have any air left in her tired old lungs. He threw her over his shoulder and charged into the bedroom, banging her head on the doorframe in the process. He jerked open the door to the cage and flung her inside. She collapsed in a sobbing heap on the cold metal floor. Jack slammed the door and jingled it a few times to make sure it latched properly. He then sat across the room on the edge of his bed and watched.

  Agnes was not the first elderly woman to pay Jack Abernathy a visit, over the years there were dozens. Some came as voluntary trusting guests, but most had been abducted and brought here. Some might say it was all for Jack’s twisted amusement. Of course, Jack would disagree. He served a purpose, clearing society of old, weak, and dead weight. Jack believed this made the world a better place, pruning the demographic garden. Besides, they were not long for the grave anyway. His service also came with fringe benefits, he enjoyed every second of it.

  To Jack, the elderly were a useless drain on society. Their weakened state and infirmities were a burden and what did they contribute? Not a damn thing. Old ladies were the worst. The putrid smell of age, mingled with a heavy scent of lotion and cheap dime store perfume was enough to make his head explode. Yet, it wasn’t the worst of it. They all held an opinion. They all exuded a self-righteous attitude, damning anyone who didn’t fall in line with their antiquated view of the world. They were selfish, they were gossips, they were burdens who begged to be removed like the malignant tumors they were. Jack was a social surgeon, he prided himself in this, but first and foremost he was a teacher. What good did it do to punish someone if they did not know what they were being punished for?

  The cage was his classroom; a classroom where a captive audience of one could receive an education. They all learned the lesson of their inadequacy to society. His students always misbehaved though. The screaming, the pleading, and the crying was more than he could stand. Very few pupils got to hear Jack’s entire lecture. Most were expelled on the first day, eternal expulsion to the murky depths of the nearby moors.

  Some of his pupils had made the news, but not many. Most were forgotten by their families and society a long time ago. He was careful in his choices. Forgotten old ladies were the best candidates.

  He prided himself in his neatness. No blood, no mess … just a slow suffocation with a thin link of rope. His favorite way was to lure them to the side of the cage with a false promise of release, or perhaps to offer them a drink of water. Then he would pounce and wrap the rope around their neck. Once secure, he would apply more and more pressure, and then release it. This gave them a second or two to pull air into their restricted airway. Then he would start the pressure again. Sometimes he would let this process go on for hours before ending it with one hard yank.

  No, the real reason Jack returned home today was to see if his houseguest of two months was gone. An elderly woman named Gwenda Harcourt from Comstock was his latest pupil. He trailed her home one Sunday morning after worship service at the Comstock Presbyterian Church. Jack thought that church services were the best place to find aging parishioners. If they attended church alone, they likely lived alone, easy pickings.

  Gwenda received her final lesson the morning the cosmic storm arrived. Before Jack had time to take her out of the cage and deposit her in the moors, he was shocked to see two Gwenda Harcourts in the cage. One was old, pallid and dead. One was young and beautiful with a shimmering luminescence like a lake on a sunny day. Jack fled from the house in terror, only to return later when he realized what was happening. He held the Impal, Gwenda, at bay with an iron bar as he dragged her body out of the cage. After disposing of the corpse, he returned to marvel at the being now inhabiting his iron classroom.

  But Gwenda was no longer a member of his murderous demographic. She was a young version of her former self, probably as she appeared in her mid-30s. She seemed sad and frightened, yet she was not vengeful, even though she realized what Jack had done to her. She didn’t qualify to be one of his condemned students. What good would it do to lecture her on the evils of the old when she was not elderly? Of course, she wasn’t human either, but he couldn’t let her go. She would leave and she would tell … he couldn’t have that.

  His flat had no neighbors within fifty yards and the walls of his home were thick cinder blocks. It would be difficult to hear the screams of an Impal closed up in the closet. Jack had become so confident in his seclusion; he began to have great fun every time he came home by prodding Gwenda with an iron bar. Her tinny, high-pitched scream gave him chills at first. After a while, he found it exhilarating. He was glad his unwanted house guest was now gone, but he also kind of missed her.

  “It is okay,” he thought to himself. He had a new pupil now, something he desperately needed, a Godsend. It was over two months since anyone occupied his cage other than an Impal. He was craving another pupil. With everything locked down on the base, who knew how long it would be before another opportunity?

  He didn’t believe in God. Jack was not a religious man and church was nothing more than a hunting ground for him. Even so, he gave a silent prayer of thanks for this opportunity to make the world a little better place. His prayer was more an act of self-gratification than it was a profession of thankfulness to a deity.

  When he finished his hollow prayer, he regarded Gwenda with a soul-freezing smile. She knew what was coming and there was nothing she could do about it. She pushed herself as far away from the door to the iron cage as she could, her arthritic legs drawn as close as possible to her body. Jack casually got up and strolled to his dresser where he opened a drawer and produced a thin link of nylon rope. He rolled it up and shoved it in his pocket. He then strolled back to the cage and knelt down. Jack put his nose and mouth through one of the narrow openings in the bars and puckered his lips as if he wanted to give her a big goodbye kiss.

  He wanted to taunt her, but he knew he must move fast because there were only a few hours left until sunset. What happened next, Jack did not anticipate or even imagine in his wildest dreams. He saw a quick flash and then felt excruciating pain as something impacted his lips and chin. He flew backwards and hit his head on the seat of a wooden footstool. Consciousness left his body in a dissipating fog.

  Jack did not know that Gwenda had very long legs for her small frame. Though injured, the leverage provided by the back of the cage made them formidable weapons. He also did not know her right fibula was shattered in the attack. She writhed on the bottom of the cage in pain. He would have enjoyed that.

  Jack didn’t know anything right now. He would not know anything for several hours, if and when he regained consciousness. The sunlight streaming in his large picture window would be gone by the time he awakened. The bedroom and th
e closet would be dark.

  CHAPTER 7

  ON BOARD

  “Whoever is out of patience is out of possession of their soul.”

  ~Francis Bacon

  Dr. Winder lay in the woods for over an hour before the men could retrieve his body. They gathered every flashlight and built a small fire to cast enough light to cross the short distance to his mangled corpse. Cecil and Burt were not up to the task. They tried to assist, but they knew the man. Not to mention, he was not recognizable as his former self. No one knew for sure how high he climbed before his fatal dive, but every bone in his body was shattered. Cecil and Burt sat on the front steps of the cabin wiping tendrils of vomit from their chins.

  Sam Andrews made the crude comment that he was like dragging a bag full of jelly. Cecil had to restrain himself from picking up one of Sam’s discarded beer bottles and pelting him in the head. He wasn’t sure whether they were glad Charlotte’s father kept the cabin well stocked with beer or not. Andrews had been a violent and shorttempered ass at the Impal camp. All that time without a drink was enough to push any alcoholic to the edge. He was still an ass, but the alcohol seemed to have quelled his temper for now. The beer wouldn’t last forever.

  Cecil glanced over at the metal canisters of gasoline stored beside the house for the generator. There were twelve in all and they already went through two in a little over ten hours. He did a quick calculation in his head and figured the generator would be able to run another ninety-six hours. Only four days until the gas was gone. Of course, this was assuming the electric consumption remained at the same level, which he knew it would not. The nights would put a strain on their electrical needs. They could cut back during the daylight and spend time outside. Nevertheless, the increased need at night would knock about a day off their time. They had three days to find a safe way out of the woods or succumb to the darkness.

  They would discuss a plan soon, but right now they had more pressing matters. As luck would have it, there was a tool rack mounted on the house next to the gas canisters. An assortment of rusty garden tools hung on its weathered pegs. Cecil and Burt each grabbed an old shovel and dug a grave in a well-lit area to the side of the drive. When they finished, Sam and Derek deposited Dr. Winder’s body in the hole. Cecil did not want to see the doctor, not in this state. He handed his shovel to Derek and strode towards the house.

  “I’m going to check on Barbara,” he called, keeping his eyes on the house.

  Burt handed his shovel to Sam. “I’ll go get the ladies so we can have a service for the doctor,” he said and turned to follow his friend inside.

  “Why bother,” Sam mumbled. “He was an jerk anyway.”

  Without thought, Burt rounded on him with his uninjured arm and clocked him on the jaw. He had wanted to hit Andrews for a long time, but he immediately regretted it. The motion strained his injured arm sending a stabbing pain through his shoulder. However, the pain was secondary to his nausea as Andrews tumbled backward into the hole. He landed on top of Dr. Winder with a sickening smack.

  Burt turned and headed back toward the house. He glanced at Derek who wore a strange expression of horror and amusement on his face. A stream of slurred curses flew from Andrews as he struggled to pull himself out of the hole. Burt couldn’t help smiling.

  Soon he was upstairs where Sally met him at the door in a tight embrace. Cecil had given the women the sad news and Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed crying. Barbara still lay unmoving with her eyes closed. She breathed in and out in an awkward, yet rhythmic, cadence. Cecil sat beside her and stroked her hair while whispering in her ear.

  Cecil carried Barbara downstairs and placed her on the sofa. It was much brighter and he wanted to keep an eye on her. He left the front door open while they conducted a brief service for Dr. Winder. There was a clear view from the grave to the sofa. Cecil never took his eyes off of her, even when he said a few kind words about the former scientist. He found it hard to concentrate on his words as he watched his wife and listened to the inhuman hissing and clicking. They were a chorus of hellish insects and reptiles trying to form cruel words.

  Cecil was so engrossed, he did not notice Andrews’s irreverent behavior, but everyone else did. He stood by the grave taking long swigs of beer, while acting impatient and bored. He emphasized his boredom with an occasional belch. When the service was over he took his empty bottle and shoved it neck first into the soft dirt of Dr. Winder’s grave.

  “Have a drink,” he murmured.

  Burt wanted to deck him again and moved in his direction, but Derek moved to intercept him. “Come on, let’s go talk to the major,” he said, giving Burt a reassuring pat on his uninjured shoulder. “Maybe the lush will get drunk and stumble into the woods.”

  Even though they both hated Andrews, Derek immediately wanted to take it back. The thought of anyone stumbling into the woods sent a clammy coldness through them.

  They went into the kitchen and poured themselves a cup of coffee while they waited on Cecil to sit with Barbara. A few minutes later, Sally and Charlotte came in and sat with her so Cecil got up and trudged to the kitchen. He was a hollow shell of his former self. His gaunt and pale countenance resembled a man who just crawled to Hell and back. They couldn’t imagine Hell being much worse than today.

  “Where’s Andrews?” Burt asked, glancing at the windows.

  “On the front porch drinking another cold one,” Derek said, motioning toward the door. “You better hope he doesn’t sober up,” he added with a grin. “He is liable to come looking for payback.”

  “He probably won’t even remember it,” Burt growled.

  When Burt told Cecil the story, the dark cloud dominating the major’s features seemed to break, if only for a moment or two. He grinned and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Damn, I wish I had been there to see it,” he said.

  “Well it’s obvious we can’t count on him,” Burt said. “Especially as long as there is alcohol in the house … and even if he runs out, well, you remember what he was like at the camp.”

  The three men agreed that any plans made would not include Sam Andrews in the discussions. They would take turns babysitting him to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid to harm himself or someone else.

  They also agreed that there were about three days of gasoline left, give or take a few hours. It was the take part that worried them. They must prepare a Plan B in case they were unable to get more gas. The problem was, there was no Plan B, at least not a feasible one. No gas meant no electricity, which meant no light, which meant no protection from the dark. They could make it through the days with caution, but the nights would be indefensible. Also, God forbid a thunderstorm came through in the middle of the day. The unanimous decision was that they must figure some way to get out and get gas. There was no alternative. In just three days, unless this phenomenon passed, they would all be taken by the dark.

  The three men walked out onto the front porch and scanned the woods and the road leading to the house. The whole area was pocked with dark patches.

  “How many flashlights do we have?” Burt asked.

  “Not enough,” Derek replied. “Maybe three or so and I’m not sure the batteries are good on all of those. I found a fourth one upstairs, but it did not even have any batteries in it.”

  “Well, damn,” Burt muttered. “The ones we have don’t put out enough light to find a shiny penny in a shadow.”

  They pondered their dilemma. Would the overhead light in the vehicle be enough to protect them if it was subsidized by a few discount store flashlights? Cecil was hopeful, but he didn’t truly believe they had a chance to make it out. There were too many dark patches in the woods. No, the only safe option was to wait a month and let fall do its thing. Of course, they didn’t have a month and fall was far behind this year. In spite of several cool spells the last couple of weeks, not a single leaf had changed color yet.

  “We’re going to have to try,” Derek said, breaking the tense silence.

&nbs
p; “I’ll do it,” Cecil said.

  “The hell you will!” Burt shouted. “You have a wife and daugh—daughter who needs you!” He stopped himself from saying daughters because Abigail Garrison, Abbs, had been killed yesterday. She disappeared with the other Impals around the world that morning. Cecil’s youngest daughter was in the clutches of General Garrison. Whether he went on this mission or not would not help her. He couldn’t get to her even if he knew where she was.

  “You have a wife, Burt!” Cecil snapped. “Besides, I’m the ranking person here and it’s my decision!”

  “With all due respect, major. I’m not sure our ranks mean a whole hell of a lot right now!’ Burt retorted. “I’m the logical choice.”

  Cecil glanced over his shoulder and saw Charlotte and Sally watching them. He jerked his head towards Burt, indicating they needed to tone the volume down.

  “I don’t care what the ranks are here; I’m a civilian in any case,” Derek said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’m not married, I have no kids, and I have a mother I haven’t seen since before I graduated high school. You want to talk about logical choices? Well I am the clear cut choice to do this!”

  The argument of who was the most qualified to die continued for several minutes before it was broken up by Sally and Charlotte. The women insisted that nobody was going, not until certain it would be safe. This was their official, public stance, but deep down they knew the men were right. Safe or not, somebody was going to have to attempt it.

  Everyone had become so involved in the argument; nobody took notice of Andrews who lounged a few feet away. They didn’t notice when he rolled off the glider swing after he drained the remainder of a six-pack. He lay face down on the edge of the porch, one arm dangling mere inches from the dark underside of the porch. If he were awake, if he were sober, he might hear the faint clicking and hissing noise coming from the darkness beneath.