Mask of Flies (20 page)

The Jane had told Rick
that creatures, like Russell, used her as a conduit to feed on the
living, from some unknown place. This Russell, like a malicious
mirage, bent his host’s imagination to his advantage. Each of
Rick’s encounters with him was surreal—obtuse imagery manipulated
into a hackneyed version of reality. Every attack implemented with
the same ham-fisted tenacity as an overproduced, 1950’s sci-fi
flick. And Rick had fallen into his ambush at the falls, unaware.

The sole reason Rick
had crossed the border into Canada stemmed from his conversation with
The Jane. She had told him the woman from the motel lived and needed
his help, told him that the imagery of beating her to death was one
of Russell’s tricks.

Lies.

All of his own wicked
devices had been turned on, like a switch, that night in the motel.
He remembered, before killing the woman, he had awoken from a dream,
more so a reenactment of a suppressed memory: In the yard at Attica,
facing Greytop in the circle.

* * *

In Attica, racial
segregation had been alive and well; social codes regressed 100
years. The Black Guerilla Family, BGF for short, the Aryan Nation,
and NETA were the main gangs. Despite the obvious racial hate for
each other, the leaders were surprisingly cordial, after coexisting
for years under the same roof. But, instilling racial pride was still
a top priority for each gang.

The leadership arranged
one-on-one, bare-knuckled fights—some of them extremely
mismatched—as a form of competitive entertainment. If one side felt
slighted by the other, in regard to the interchanges of prison life,
considerations were made in the fighter selection. The slighted side
was insured a win, thus smoothing over the tension and avoiding war.

When Rick first got to
Attica, he was not a part of the Aryan Brotherhood, nor did he have
the desire to ever become a member, but they handpicked him to
represent them in the fight against a member of the BGF.

A few members of the Aryan
Brotherhood allegedly beaten and raped a young member of the BGF in
the showers, during what was supposed to be a truce between the
gangs. The leaders of the Aryan Brotherhood thought a bare-knuckle
fight in favor of the BGF would ease things over. Rick, fresh meat,
not even a member, would be thrown in against BGF’s champion.

In the yard, during
rec time, Rick was pushed from behind, into a circle of onlookers.
Inside awaited a monster. His opponent was coal black, powerfully
built: 6’3, roughly 250lbs; he had a large scar that ran down the
center of his right cheek ,his cauliflowered ears looked like
poisonous mushrooms growing from the man’s head . He was completely
grey with a flattop
.

“Greytop gonna kill
that Opie lookin’ mutha’ fucka’,” a BGF member said from
outside the circle.

Rick—still a sinewy
youth, growing into his body— was physically outmatched to a gross
degree. His fighting experience consisted of a few altercations in
high school, which were broken up before the better man had a chance
to prove himself.

Greytop displayed fluid
movement for a man the size of an NFL linebacker. He encircled in a
tight boxer’s stance, elbows tucked to his sides, fists guarding
his face, chin tucked down, and eyes forward. He stood a southpaw.

Marvelous Marvin
Haggler systematically pulverized his opponents from the southpaw
stance. If professional fighters had a hard time figuring out how to
approach a lefty, Rick knew he would be completely baffled. He
resigned to failure even before the first blow was thrown.

The large, graceful man
closed the distance and snapped a few jabs, testing Rick’s reflexes
and timing his movements. Rick shuffled back and scarcely ducked his
head away.

Knowing this would be
an easy win, Greytop flashed a devious grin and glided backwards and
away. Then he circled some more, putting a show for his brothers in
the BGF.

Rick stood mid circle
with his hands up, spinning listlessly in the direction of his
opponent.

Greytop leapt in with a
straight right, and to the shock of the audience, Rick barely escaped
again. But the shot was bait; Greytop side stepped into Rick’s
retreat, positioning himself within striking distance of open meat to
pound. A thunderous right hook struck Rick in his solar plexus,
knocking the wind out of him, followed by a left hook to the kidney.
As Rick slumped, Greytop landed an earth shattering uppercut. With a
broken, bleeding nose, Rick fell to his hands and knees, searching
for some unnamed lost thing amongst the dirt.

“Is that all you
got—pussy-ass-cracka,” Greytop said, kicking dirt into Rick’s
face.

Rick got to his feet,
still wobbled by the onslaught of blows, but he put his hands up. And
Greytop circled again, but now his stance was loose, and he danced
around. He pawed a few jabs at Rick, like a cat playing with a
wounded mouse, dropping his guard and bobbing his head in
over-exaggerated head movements, ala Roy Jones Jr.

But Rick ate the sloppy
jabs, and shot in when his opponent sauntered away, showboating. When
Rick interlocked his grip behind Greytop’s knees, he conjured up
all the adrenaline from his 170lb frame and lifted him up, dumping
the 250 pounder head first into the soil.

Cheers erupted from the
Aryan brothers, as their sacrificial lamb slammed the BGF’s
champion. On the ground, Rick landed a few short punches to Greytop’s
face, now covered in blood: the slam opened a sizeable gash on his
forehead.

The advantage was short
lived—Greytop bull rushed him during the scramble for position and
mounted. The beast reigned down heavy blows to Rick’s skull.

He pulled the bigger
man close—avoiding being pounded like a post into dirt. But he lost
control, unsuccessful in containing the more powerful fighter; he
reached behind Greytop’s cauliflower ear, and pulled down, tearing
it completely off, like some arbitrary elastic accessory.

The BGF champ hollered out in pain,
but still remained on top. Rick jammed his index finger, which was
nicely lubricated in blood, into Greytop’s exposed ear canal. He
hooked it to shred the eardrum.

The earless man
rolled onto the dirt, crying out in a mixture of loud sobs and
shrieks. He spewed vomit and choked, in the worst pain of his life.

The decimation their
champion enraged the already infuriated BGF, and an all-out brawl
between the rival gangs broke out. Rick got up and ducked out of the
fray, only to be shot with bean bag, riot shot. On his back, tear gas
had canvassed the yard.

* * *

Something inside of
Rick had broken that day, the restraint of civility. All in the name
of self-preservation. His own life he would had exchanged for Vince
and Amanda, but he maimed a man to keep it, accumulating a little
more of that ugliness. After serving his time, he had met Allie. He
worked so hard to burry that rage, but it resurfaced that night in
the motel.

Russell
must have drawn it out of me.

And The Jane lied about
the woman from the hotel being alive . . . yes the woman walked and
perched herself up on the guardrail above the falls and laughed
before falling, but her wounds, her skin, and that smell. Most of all
it was her eyes, shrunken and black, that told Rick the woman was
dead all along and somehow manipulated into moving, like some
terrible marionette.

Rick thought that now
the same hands operated his own body, as he resumed the role of
prisoner, inside The Jane: the alpha and omega. That buzzing force,
the same that emitted from the woman from the motel, had washed over
his body and forcibly ejected his consciousness into the Jane. Packed
away in the unused vessel, like old furniture in a storage unit.

The lie was used to
bait him into a trap, to give him to Russell, but what was so
important about his body? He was an ordinary person, of ordinary
talent. The answers lied within The Jane, in the mind he inhabited,
but nothing of hers was accessible, except for the impeding vision of
suicide and the black electric feeling all around.

Rick saw the door open
in the reflection of the window. In the doorway, Marco’s face went
completely white. He must’ve expected The Jane to be lying in bed,
wrapped in bandages.

“Ah . . . Angeni?”
Marco said.

Rick tried respond, but
all that came out was an unintelligible mumble. He tried again, but
he felt tremendous pain from the throat. But then he heard something.

Oh
shit, I’ll have to reapply her bandages. I need to get Tony.

Marco’s lips did not
move, but Rick heard his voice.

Rick concentrated to
return the message in the same capacity he listened to his friend’s
thoughts. “Marco, wait. It’s me, Rick.”
Inside the Jane’s head, Rick’s mental voice projected
similar to how he spoke, although he was unsure that it would be
received as such.

“How are you doing
that? How are you using his voice?” Marco asked.

“It’s me,” Rick
went on trying to prove it. “I know you’ve worked here over five
years, first as a respiratory therapist, but then transferred to
exercise and recreation. You and Tiffany have been friends with me
and Allie ever since I started working here. In fact, you invited us
the Albright Knox—to see some crazy sculpture made by one of Tiff’s
art students.”

Marco entered and
squatted next to Rick in the chair.”H-how the hell is this
happening?”

“I do not have a
clear answer for you, only guesswork. You know how people think there
are haunted houses right?” Then Rick saw something, another
interceding transmission. A red door was cracked open, outside of a
small house. A little hand pushed it open. Inside, across a debris
cluttered floor, a dark haired man lay face down.

“Yeah, we got an old
abandoned house at the end of my street. All the kids think is
haunted. And?” Marco cleared his throat when his eyes began to
water.

“My theory is that
The Jane is a haunted person . . . ”

More imagery flashed
before Rick. Small hands dumped a heavy backpack on the ground and
rushed over to the man on the ground. Shaking his pant leg the little
boy said, “Wake up daddy, wake up,” cutting away to sobs. The boy
went to turn his dad’s head.

Marco fell back on his
ass and hands; he blinked tears out of his eyes. “I-I . . . ” He
got to his feet and went out the door.

As Marco exited, Rick
noticed something strange on the dresser: A worn top hat.

“Rick Soblinski is
talking to you through Ms. Kingbird?” After discovering the three
missing residents, Tony had to reaffirm what he heard.

Marco’s eyes were
watery and red. “That’s right, I know it sounds crazy, but I
heard him in there.”

When Tony looked over
to Kaja, she made a face that said, “I’m not even entertaining
this.” He ran the palm of his hand down his face, and looked back
at Marco. “I’ll check in on her if it makes you feel better.”

Marco nodded.

Tony went into the
room, finding Ms. Kingbird lying on the bed, staring blankly at the
wall. “Excuse me Angeni . . .” He walked closer to the bedside;
her rheumy eye stayed focused on the wall, ignoring him. “ . . .
Just checkin’ up on you.” Tony waved his hand in front of her
face—no response. He took a breath and exited into the hallway.

Marco greeted him at
the door with a questioning look.

“She didn’t make a
sound for me, must be enjoying her sedative—”

Shaking his head, Marco
reached for room 137’s doorknob, “No, we have to wake her up. You
have to see this.”

“Marco, stop.” Tony
pressed his hand on the larger man’s chest and hoped he didn’t
get bulled over. “Let’s take a step back for now, and I promise
I’ll check again later.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry.”
He raised his hands and backed away from the door.

“It’s okay,” Kaja
said. “Most of staff not show, and we clean mess—it’s
stressful.

Marco,
of all people, thaws the ice queen’s heart.
“Listen,”
Tony said, arms crossed, eyes to the ground. “Go back to
Recreation. I’ll get somebody else to cover Summer. Who had this
hall to begin with?”

Marco’s face
slackened. “With everyone calling in this week, we’ve been
drawing straws to see who covers Summer. Lydia drew the short straw
this morning.”

Lydia—the same
caretaker Tony was looking for in Spring Hall in the morning—a
middle age woman, whose quiet disposition cast her amongst the
inanimate objects in the background.

“I thought Lydia was on vacation,”
Tony said.

Before dropping the
news on Haynes, Tony doubled back to the office to check the vacation
schedule. He needed more than Marco’s word, especially after what
he had to say regarding Ms Kingbird. In the book, Lydia’s cruise
was in two weeks—bringing the running total of the missing to four.

Through the doorway to
Haynes’s office, Tony spotted his boss sitting at his desk with
several financial spreadsheets neatly laid out. It wasn’t a rare
thing for Mr. Haynes to stay late; he was a workaholic, married to
the job. Jim had once told him, in his first year as office manager,
“People have lazy eyes when it comes to screens, channel surfing,
movies—watchin’ porn—nothing to do with work. Hard paper is
hard paper. Can’t conjure up pictures of girls in bikinis, or what
your loser friends ate for breakfast.”

Tony looked to Jim as
mentor back then—not knowing he was more fickle and crotchety than
most of Oak Leaf’s residents. Jim became the epitome of what Tony
did not
want to
become, ever.

“What you got?” Mr.
Haynes kept his eyes glued to the documents neatly placed on his
desk.

The day’s events left
Tony with little time to craft a succinct report, suitable for
Haynes’s impatient disposition. He entered and sat in the hot seat,
facing Mr. Haynes’s desk. “After our earlier conversation,
regarding the hospitalization of Tom McKinney, I went to Summer Hall
to follow up on a lead on a possible attacker. When I got there, Kaja
came to me with some . . . disturbing findings.”