Blackened Spiral Down (14 page)

              “Martinez, this is Gilbert Anderson.  I just got off the phone with Dr. Henson.  He said patient Six is in bad shape.  I hear he’s burning up with a 102-degree fever and his pulse is weak.  He said he didn’t think the patient would make it until morning.”

              “That’s what I heard sir.  The Doc left about an hour ago.  What do you need me to do?”  There was a pause.  Martinez could hear Gilbert breathing heavily.  He didn’t want to do anything.  It scared him to death to even walk by that last cell.

              “I’ve called Father O’Donnell.  He’ll give the last rites.  I’ll be in sometime tomorrow to check on things.  If he passes in the night, just cover him with a sheet, and I’ll deal with it when I come in.  He’s not going anywhere.  I don’t want anyone in the Bunker after the chaplain leaves,” Gilbert said, quietly drinking bourbon on ice and chain smoking.  The stress of the night was wearing thin.  So many things were going through his mind right now.  He debated against last rites, but with all things considered – it was the least he could do for the poor bastard.  “Are we good then, Benito?”

              “Yes, sir.  We’re good to go.  Merry Christmas.  We’ll see you tomorrow.”  Martinez did find it odd they weren’t going to try and save the patient.  He only had two years until retirement, and he wasn’t going to question a thing.  He just needed to show up and collect a check for two more years, so he and the wife could move to San Antonio, where they both had a lot of family. 

              “Merry Christmas to you as well.”  Gilbert hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of each hand.  He could feel one hell of a headache coming on.

2

              Thirty minutes later there was a knock on the door leading to the Bunker.  The Bunker was originally designed as a bomb shelter in the late 1940’s, when the country was worried about the Soviet Union and imminent nuclear attack.  After William Anderson was hired as the Peoria State Hospital administrator in 1946, he ordered the construction, but never did anything with the space.  His son, Gilbert, was in charge of the hospital’s nursing school and was the head of security on the grounds.  He found a use for the subterranean rooms that were kept very secret - even from his own father.  Only a select handful of security guards had keys to the Bunker, and that was the way Gilbert liked to keep it.

Martinez jumped up to answer the door and turned the television down a bit.

              “I thought you’d never get here, Father,” he said, opening the door for the elderly priest, who had served as the hospital’s chaplain for 22 years.  The door opened in from one of the steam tunnels that ran beneath the ground of the 200-acre campus.  The tunnels were dark and humid from the many steam leaks in the old galvanized pipes that delivered heat and hot water to the 66 buildings that made up the hospital.  It was almost like walking through a sauna.

              Father O’Donnell was out of breath and sweating.  He was a small man, barely 5’8” with thinning gray hair.  A lower back injury caused him to stoop over, and a stroke forced him to walk with a slight limp.  He was wearing a simple brown hassock and black walking shoes.  His glasses were slightly fogging over from the steam.  “I got here as quickly as I could.  Is he still alive?”

              “As far as I know he is, but the Doc says he’s not looking too good.”

              Father O’Donnell didn’t respond for a moment, then said, “Take me to him.”  He had not been down in the Bunker for years.  He recalled coming down there once in 1960, when Gilbert first started using the rooms.  At that time, all six cells were occupied.  That was before his stroke.  Some of the chaplain’s memory was compromised after that, and his right side had lost most of the strength he once had.  He struggled to get from building to building at the hospital.  Some days he spent 10 hours on his feet, and at 68 years old, he wasn’t holding up well.   He longed for the days when he coached boys’ basketball and was full of vigor. 

              Martinez led the way down the dark and narrow hallway, past five empty cells.  Father O’Donnell shuffled along, trying to keep up.  The lighting was poor, with bare light bulbs that hung from the ceiling.  Some bulbs were out, and some flickered, giving the hallway an extremely creepy feel.  The cells looked just like jail cells, with metal bars and gaudy old locks.  The bars were corroded from many years of exposure to the humid environment of the Bunker. The cells were sparse; each one contained a small metal bunk attached to the wall and a bucket each patient used for a toilet.  The accommodations were stark.  The walls were brick and mortar that were beginning to crumble from age, as they approached 30 years since construction.  The humid conditions had accelerated the process.  The floors were concrete and damp to the touch, and a faint odor of mold permeated the subterranean landscape.  As the two men stood outside the sixth and final cell, Martinez paused before he put his key into the lock.  The number six was stenciled to the metal header above the door like an Army footlocker.  Father O’Donnell peered into the dim light to find the patient they called Six lying on his back in a fitful sleep.  A foul smell emanated from the darkness - a combination of excrement and rank body odor, from showering only once a month.

              Martinez opened the cell doors and then stepped back into the recesses of the hallway, his black uniform making him almost invisible.  His hands shook slightly as he lit up a cigarette.  “He’s been moaning for the past two days, but today his skin got real red, and it looked like he was burning alive with fever.  That’s when I called the Doc.”  He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

              Father O’Donnell knew that the young man was in his early twenties.  They had a past. He found it odd that Gilbert wanted him to conduct last rites, since he never knew the man to be religious in any way.  He also wondered why they didn’t take him to one of the two hospital buildings on the campus.  The chaplain knew better than to question it out loud.  Gilbert obviously had his reasons. 

The priest noted that the man was sweating profusely through his uniform and onto the threadbare sheet beneath him.  On a white cloth at the foot of the bunk, the priest laid down his bible, a small container of holy oil, and a large metal crucifix that his mother got him as a gift for his First Communion.   In his 45 years as a Catholic priest, he administered last rites more than one hundred times in a variety of denominations.   Since becoming the chaplain, he performed several last rites a week, with more than 2,000 patients in his spiritual care.  While he knew the last rites prepared the dying person for the afterlife, it was still a somber ritual.

              “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit – Amen,” said Father O’Donnell, as he made the sign of the cross.  The old priest put one feeble hand on the young man’s shoulder, and the other grasped the crucifix.

“You want me to lock the cell doors, Father?” asked Martinez, his large frame standing several feet away from the cell, in the shadows of the hallway. 

              Father O’Donnell looked toward him in the shadows.  “No.  This young man is dying.  There’s no need to lock the doors.”

The patient was mumbling something under his breath.  Sweat was beading up on his gaunt face, as the priest mopped his brow with a handkerchief.  Father O’Donnell could feel the heat of the fever that had driven the patient to his death bed.  He wondered why Martinez appeared so apprehensive and was standing several steps away from the cell doors, as if he was afraid to come closer.

“Are you scared, Benito?”

              Martinez lit another cigarette.  “A little bit, Father.  I don’t like being around this little bastard, especially when he’s not locked in his cage.  When I first started working down here a few years ago, he almost killed one of the guards.”  He exhaled a cloud of smoke, shaking his head.

              “Really?  I don’t recall that.”

              “Yeah.  The kid had only been on duty for a month and was here helping a doctor make rounds.  That bastard lulled the kid into thinking it was safe to get close to the bars of his cell.  When he did, Six grabbed both his arms and pulled him face-first into the bars.  Damn near knocked him out!  He broke his jaw and busted several teeth.”  Martinez took a pull from his cigarette, staring at Six while he writhed on his bunk.

              “My God!”  said Father O’Donnell, keeping his eyes on Six the whole time.

              Martinez continued, “It was brutal.  He nearly ate all the meat off that kid’s face, while he held him tight against the bars.  He even broke both his arms before letting him fall to the concrete.  The screaming was unreal.  The Doctor nearly passed out himself.  I’ll never forget that.  So yeah, he scares me.”  His eyes remained glued on Six.  He didn’t trust him.

              The priest shook his head at the graphic details.  “Why don’t you go back to your office, and I’ll let you know when I’m done.  This shouldn’t take long.  He’s not even conscious.  I’ll be fine.”

              “You sure, Father?”

              “Yes, I’m sure.  Thank you.”

              As the priest turned toward the young patient , he could hear the guard’s shoes echo on the concrete floor of the hallway that led back to his security office.  The young man had chiseled features and a military-style buzz haircut.  Scars were evident all over his head through the stubble.  He had led a tough life.  His baggy patient uniform reeked of body odor and was stuck to his feverish body.

              “Robert.  Can you hear me?”  Only the faint sound of Christmas music could be heard down the hallway from the security office.  Six’s lips were moving, but he still appeared to be unconscious.  Father O’Donnell knew the man’s real name, though not many at the hospital did.  He knew him long before his stay in the Bunker.  He also knew his mother.

              “If you can hear me, Robert, do you wish to make a confession?  A final act of contrition, my son?”  The elderly priest looked intently at the young man for some sign of acknowledgement before he proceeded with the last rites.  Six’s eyes remained closed, his breathing labored.  The fever was consuming him.

              The priest turned to pick up his Bible and continued, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth.”

              As he turned around, Father O’Donnell was shocked to see Six no longer lying down next to him.  The bunk was empty!  His heart began to thump loudly in his chest beneath the brown hassock he wore.  He looked under the bunk.  He saw nothing in the gloom.

              “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve asking me to confess my sins, Father!”  His voice was ice cold and steeping with vengeance.  His face was contorted into a snarling fury.

              Father O’Donnell turned around as a lump settled in his throat.  He knew that voice.  Before he could cry out, the young man was upon him, shoving him down to the damp concrete floor in the middle of the cell.  He could smell the stench of human feces and urine in the wooden slop bucket as Six kicked him across the floor toward the back wall.  The crucifix fell from his grasp and clanged on the concrete.  In one fluid motion, Six picked it up and landed on top of the priest, who was on his back and panicking at the situation.

              “I trusted you!  You took advantage of a scared kid!”  Six uttered through clenched teetg,  His eyes were alive with anger. 

              With incredible power, Six forced the priest’s mouth open and grabbed for his tongue.  The clergyman desperately tried to resist and instinctively bit down on his attacker, but within seconds, Six forced the metal crucifix into his mouth, and hacked off his tongue with a crude cutting motion.  The metallic taste of blood filled Father O’Donnell’s mouth as only muted grunts could be heard.  The priest felt intense pain and a burning sensation, while blood poured down his hassock and onto the concrete floor of the cell.  He felt like he might choke on what was left of his tongue, as frothing blood filled his mouth.  His eyes were open wide in terror!

              Six laughed, tossing the tongue to the floor. “Cat got your tongue, Father?”  He paced the cell like a wild animal, sizing up his next meal.

              The priest was on his knees, as the cell began to spin around him.  He tried to speak, but nothing came out – only a garbled mess of grunts and cries.  The pain was unbearable! 
My God, please help me!  Please save me!

             
“God isn’t going to save you tonight, Father.  God isn’t anywhere near this fucking hell hole,” said Six, while the priest was in disbelief that he had read his mind.

              Six pulled the hassock from the old man, leaving him cowering on the floor in a white t-shirt and boxer shorts.  Then he reached down and grabbed the priest’s left hand and slammed it with tremendous force to the floor, shattering his wrist in several places.  It was the hand he wore his prized 1950 Illinois State high school basketball championship ring on.  He coached a boys’ team from Peoria to the March Madness games in Quincy and won it all, beating a tough Catholic high school in the final game.  He was known throughout the hospital for always wearing that ring.  It was a large gold ring with a bright red stone.  Despite his vow of poverty, the Peoria Diocese allowed him to wear it.

              Now Father O’Donnell was fighting for his life with everything he had, as searing pain radiated from his broken wrist and up his arm.  Years of captivity in his cell gave Robert lots of time to do push-ups, sit-ups and other strength exercises – in hopes that one day he would be given the chance to escape.   It seemed almost too easy to convince the guard and doctor he was dying.  He had learned how to slow his body down and control even his temperature in the countless days and nights he was captive.   Six knew his mind was an incredible weapon and had a genius-level IQ.  With the malnutrition he endured, he was often sickly and had a fever.  So it wasn’t hard to pull it off at all.  Now he had the old man face down, his left arm stretched out on the floor and twitching under his force.  He used the same metal crucifix to hack into the flesh of the priest’s forearm, just below the elbow.  He screamed out, but it was barely audible without his tongue and with a mouthful of blood.  A mist of blood spattered on the brick walls and across the cell to his bunk, as Six held the priest down and continued to cut into muscle, bone, and cartilage - tugging with ferocity at the forearm of Father O’Donnell.  Bone crunched and splintered while blood poured, as he tore the remnants of flesh holding the two pieces of his arm together.  The priest was mercifully slipping into shock.