Preta's Realm (30 page)

Chapter 17

Ravna thought he could still taste the oily water in his mouth, even now. He had continued to see the twisted face of Gaki at the edge of the river as he floated towards freedom.

The drive felt almost routine.  

Seven or eight?
Ravna could not remember how many times he had been there since the event. He was still unsure what to call it. The media attention quickly faded in favor of the next sadistic crime. Even the most heinous acts of sexual depravity slip into obscure pop culture. He had lost touch with Molly when she moved with the kids to West Palm Beach. Ravna could not understand the lure of Florida. Too much humidity, too many old people, too much Disney.

He stopped at the traffic light and looked in the mirror. The new buzz cut accentuated his widow’s peak, once hidden by decades of shaggy hair. He ran a hand over his head and down his chin, pulling the straggly beard to a point. The old man would have loved the beard.

“Ravna Sumtra. Here to see a patient.”

The guard at the gate held a clipboard to the light and ran a finger down the side. He nodded and hit a button inside the booth. The gate rose and Ravna pulled through and onto the winding brick driveway leading up to the restored mansion. It took several years of renovation before the first patient was admitted, but since the grand opening, the Rader Facility for the Study of the Mind was the most prestigious institute east of the Mississippi. Surgeons and specialists from all over the country fought for the few staff positions that rarely turned over.

Ravna pulled the car into the visitor lot. He took a last swig of coffee, now cold from the drive, and grabbed the keys. He left everything else on the front seat. Ravna felt obligated to document the experience, as if Molly or some distant relative would someday ask for justification of the money spent. He knew the old man had something to do with it, but a team of high-powered attorneys managed to shut the door on any explanation. As long as he checked in four times a year, the checks would keep coming, with or without documentation beyond a checkmark on the front gate guard’s clipboard.

He walked through the main doors and felt the dryness of the air conditioning wash over his skin. May had not yet turned into the blasting heat of August, but the facility strived to maintain consistency for the patients, even down to the details of climate control and menu. Ravna stepped into the elevator with a woman in a white lab coat and glasses that came to a point at the edge of the frame. She smiled at him and contributed an obligatory wink for the ride.

“Floor?” she asked.

Ravna thought he could smell the cherry flavor of her deep red lipstick.
Librarian sexy. Work hot,
he thought to himself.

“Which floor?” she asked again.

Ravna shook himself from the daydream skidding towards sexual fantasy. “Seven. Seventh floor.”

She pushed the button and turned to face the floor indicator as it changed from L to 1.

“Are you a doctor?” Ravna asked. His face flushed red as soon as the question came out of his mouth.

“Yes,” she replied with an air of dignity.

“I didn’t mean to imply you were a nurse simply because you’re a woman.”

The chime signifying arrival at the fifth floor spared him from the slow impact of the crashing conversation.

“Have a great day,” the woman said over one shoulder, her eyes headed for an exaggerated roll.

“Stupid,” Ravna said to himself.

The doors shut and he felt the elevator pull him up two more floors. His stomach caught up a moment later as the door opened to Ward C. They could call it whatever they wanted; those who worked there or visited knew that Ward C belonged to the most mentally afflicted. A computer could douse the hallways with flame retardant foam or lock every door from the outside with magnets powerful enough to lift trucks.

He walked down the hall, turned past the lobby and its tantalizing vending machines before turning again and stopping in front of room 709. The first few visits left him shaking, fighting to enter the room. He considered running and forsaking the check from the fund until he thought of Mashoka. Ravna could live with the sense of shirked responsibility, but not the guilt that would accompany an abandonment of his pledge to the Hunter. As time and visits passed, the trip to 709 felt like a visit to the room of a family member, one unable to function outside the walls of a hospital but not facing death either. Ravna thought it was how nurses kept their sanity.

He reached for the handle, placing his thumb on the sensor at the same time. The light turned from red to green, signifying his level of access, granted by the administration. The door swung silently inward. The air felt stifling, even warm, despite the computer-controlled climate system that was probably the envy of NASA scientists.

“Drew?” Ravna called out.

No reply.

He walked forward, the stark white of the room forcing him to squint. Ward C stood in shocking brilliance. The walls, the floors, the bedding, the doors, everything glowed in pure, alabaster white.

“How ya doin’, Drew?” Ravna asked.

The door to the bathroom was pinned to the wall with its magnetic latch. The toilet and shower stall were devoid of any inhabitants, not a towel or tissue out of place. Ravna took two steps into the room, the automatic door shutting behind him. He jumped and then laughed, unsure why the sudden bout of paranoia had arrived.

Drew must be sleeping.

He walked past the chair and simple chest of drawers that looked the same as they had on all of his previous visits. Never a balloon, card, or basket. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the sheets, secured at the corners by the orderly on shift the night before. Ravna felt the moisture from his mouth escape and his bowels shook with an unnatural rumble. He spun around, half-expecting to be attacked as he was in the cavern, in what felt like another lifetime.

Nothing.

The room was completely silent. And empty. Ravna took a step towards the door, his heart racing as he anticipated the lockdown of the floor or possibly the entire facility until the staff could find Drew. He turned to the right and noticed that the door to the small closet was open. Ravna could not remember ever seeing the door open. He moved closer and saw three hangers on the closet rod, dangling in the air. It was the contrast of red on white that caught his attention. A roughly sketched doorway had been painted on the wall of the closet in finger-strokes of blood. Inside the doorway was a message, one that Ravna knew was for him before he even read it.

Bonus short story...
Retrograde

Maidens like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

--Lord Byron, Childe Harold, 1812

Time ripped the artificial stars from the black canvas, hurtling them towards a final resting place.  The show did not excite Tilla anymore.  She ignored the orphaned satellites that plunged from the heavens.  The burning refuse of metal and forgotten dreams drew bright lines across the night sky in their death throes.  Those that obeyed the laws of gravity after The Fall did so without an audience.

She reached for the knife strapped to her hip and thigh.  Tilla’s black leather pants wore thin.  She could feel her knees pushing against the thinning hide, which smelled of despair.  The ink of the dead night spilled into her lustrous hair, framing an alabaster, oval face.  Tilla’s bony fingers left the knife and moved to the edge of full, red lips.  She tasted wild sage on the gusts meandering through the trees.

The glow of the flame tugged at the weight of the expansive sky.  The new moon hid amongst the gods, not willing to spoil the primitive fury of the fire.  She recognized the leader instantly, even though Tilla stood beyond the reach of his guttural shouts.

Cut off the head to kill the beast,
she thought.

Tilla’s eyes danced across four figures clothed in shadows, his harem of personal guards.  Tilla approached her target with caution.  Scorned women could be as deadly as armed men.  She crawled down the barren hillside until an oak hid her slim figure from those below.  Tilla reached over her left shoulder and grabbed an arrow by its shaft.  She twirled it into the bow in one motion.  The arrowhead pointed at the leader of the pack as he flung chunks of flesh from the wooden spit.

She paused and drew a deep breath.

If they ever organize, I’m finished.

Tilla pushed the thought from her mind in an attempt to regain focus on the target.  The projectile delivered death on a swift wind.  The beast rocked backwards, arms outstretched in the pose of crucifixion.  He placed his foot to the right of the fire and crashed into the spit, throwing smoke and burning ash into the camp.  The man screamed while his flesh sizzled on the pulsing embers, filling the air with the smell of burning hair.

Tilla exhaled and watched the clan flee from their skewered chieftain.  Shrieks bounced off the barren slopes, rising up the valley floor to her position.  Two figures embraced in panic, which turned into an altercation, ending with one motionless figure in the dirt.

Loose scree preceded Tilla down the hill.  She darted from tree to tree, the black leathers concealing her form from the chaos below.  Another arrow split the night chill before piercing a skull of ragged hair.  Tilla lunged from behind a boulder and landed at the foot of the dying creature.  She plunged the knife deep into his chest.  A thick, dark, blood covered the Cleveland Indians logo fading from the tattered t-shirt.

Tilla spun and struck another with the heel of her boot, striking him between the eyes.  Before the body hit the ground, she buried an arrow in his chest.

The remaining members of the clan took flight into the gaping maw of the primeval forest.  Tilla sighed and sat on a wooden bench carved from a fallen tree.  The roasting flesh of the leader wafted from the fire and drew a bead of saliva from the corner of her mouth.

Now is not the time to feed.

Polaris blinked at Tilla from the zenith of the infinite dome.  She glanced at the gray band pinned to the black sky, the smear civilization called the Milky Way.  Tilla estimated three hours until the sun rose on the empty world.

“Mah.  Mah.  Mah.”

Tilla’s hair sliced through the mist as she spun to face the phantom sounds.  She notched an arrow in the bow to greet the young girl emerging from under a rotting trunk.  Dirty blond hair crawled from her scalp to her shoulders, like serpents tethered at the tail.  White eyes shone through a dirt-encrusted face.  The remains of blue denim unraveled at her knees, revealing bruised and bloodied shins.  Cotton strips clung to her torso with the help of cloying sweat.

“What is your name?” Tilla asked, not expecting an answer.

The girl shivered, mumbled again, and sat on the ground cross-legged.  Her chest hitched and her mouth opened in a silent scream.  Her eyes crawled across the leg of a man protruding from the wrecked fire.

“He was your father?”

Ragged hands with torn fingernails caressed the blackened heel of the roasting chieftain.