Wormwood Dawn (Episode IV) (3 page)

A whirring sound lulled Dan from unconsciousness. It echoed around in his mind for a few moments before he finally realized it was an actual sound, and not a figment of his imagination. It was a steady noise, accentuated with tiny clicks that sounded off in a regular pattern. Dan’s eyes fluttered open as he sought its source.

The first thing he noticed was that he was lying down in a bed with his arms strapped to the railings. The bed was in the alcove, with the foot facing the opening, and the metal straps were in place as they were before.

“F—fuck,” he stammered faintly.

Though he was weak and his senses were dull, he managed to turn his head enough to look to his left. Through the blur, he saw a machine. It was familiar to him; a medical pump used to administer regular doses of liquid medications. It whirred and clicked as it pumped fluid into his veins. He turned his eyes to his left arm, seeing the IV taped securely to his wrist. It stung, and the saline was cold as it entered his veins.

There were two bags attached to the pump; a standard saline bag, and what nurses called a
banana bag
, full of vitamins and other life-sustaining minerals to nourish the body. The pump itself contained two large vials that were also connected to the line. Though he couldn’t quite read their labels, the shape of the words on them slowly formed in his mind.

Hydromorphone.
Dilaudid. It was an opiate much more effective than morphine, but with a shorter half-life—and twice as addictive.

Dan sighed, letting his head roll back to face the ceiling. A single, bare bulb hung there like the moon in a damp and oppressive sky of stone. He closed his eyes again as the sense of doom came over him. His heart ached with sorrow, and his mind was becoming numb with the grim outlook of spending the rest of his life in this prison.

Death seemed like a welcome friend.

There was a beep, and the whirring sound increased in intensity as the pump came to life. In seconds, the familiar rush of opiates filled him up, sending a slight wave of nausea through him, but warming and cradling him like a loving mother.

He almost laughed as he slipped into a trance. Almost.

For an unknown length of time, Dan slipped in and out of consciousness. When he awoke, it was only for a few minutes. Then, he would be dosed again, and the cycle would restart. Awake, then asleep, then awake, then asleep. Sometimes, the window would show the light of the setting or rising sun, and other times it would be totally black with the fog of night.

He had lost any sense of time.

It was only when he awoke with the urge to piss that he realized he had been provided with a catheter. It was shoved up his dick quite expertly. So expertly, in fact, that he hadn’t even noticed. His narcotic fog had dulled any awareness he had of his body, and only the increasingly painful sting of the tube in his arm gave him any connection to the real world.

When he was awake, that is.

When he slept, he didn’t dream. When he was awake, he didn’t think. The world alternated between black and gray, with no semblance of time passing at all. He was in limbo, it seemed. Or Hell…

Or worse.

He did manage to wake occasionally during the day. The sunshine that came through the window felt warm and inviting. He longed to be outside to bask in its rays; to twirl on his feet with his arms spread out, giggling like a little girl in a sundress. It didn’t matter that winter was approaching; it would still be Heaven to him. But then, the pump would activate and send him back into the void; only to wake in the dark of night once again.

He would listen to the dripping of moisture from the ceiling when he was awake. It was a steady drone that accompanied the music of the whirring pump. He would put them together into a beat, humming a bass line along with it to create a monotonous song that played in his head over and over again; even in his sleep.

Soon, his waking periods were marked with sobbing; longing. He felt the pain of isolation. Though he had spent most of his adult life alone, being trapped in this damp basement was a true purgatory. He had never felt so lonely, or longed for the voice of another human in his life.

He would even welcome the horrifying voice of his captor.

It would be better than nothing.

Finally, a reprieve.

He awoke on the floor of the alcove, curled up in the corner wearing only a pair of jeans that were damp with the basement moisture. He was cold and shivering, but he was free. Free of the bed anyway.

His catheter and IV were gone, and the pump had been removed along with the bed and the metal straps. Beyond the alcove, the room appeared as it usually did; empty, damp, and sloping down toward that dark drain.

He managed to stumble onto his feet, but quickly sat back down as a wave of nausea overtook him. He was trembling, but not with the cold. His skin was crawling, and his heart seemed to be beating painfully fast and in an irregular pattern. He suddenly wanted the pump back.

“Fuck,” he whispered as he realized that he would go through withdrawal.

It would be painful, he knew; even more painful than alcohol withdrawal. The thought made him even more nervous. His heart beat even faster, fueled by the prospect of his body begging for opium. Any kind of opium.

“No, no, no…” he whimpered, curling up into a ball on the floor.

He was freezing, and had nothing to cover himself. Nothing at all. He would suffer not only the pain of withdrawal, but the pain and discomfort of the cold, damp environment. His teeth began to chatter, and his body trembled. The stone floor was cold against his skin and added to his chill—and his Hell. But he lay there suffering without a thought. There was nothing to think about, anyway. There was only the longing for drugs, and a desperate prayer to God for a nice, warm blanket.

But, apparently, God was not listening. He probably didn’t even care.

Shoving his discomfort aside, he stood again, feeling his way around the dark basement. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, as he had already tried the panel door before. He simply hoped that some miracle would happen and a stone block would come loose, or maybe the tiny window would magically grow in size.

Neither of those things were reality.

It seemed warmer by the panel door, so Dan sat down next to it. He curled his feet underneath him, wrapping his arms around him and leaning against the wall. There, he shivered and shook as the pains in his chest grew. His stomach was churning as well, and he could feel it cramping and gurgling as it protested his abstinence.

In his mind, he pictured a bottle of Vicodin, and even a syringe of morphine. A nice little half-pint of whiskey would help, too, he thought, and his gut did flips as he pictured himself chugging a shot. He could almost feel the warm liquid going down, feel the gentle nudging of Vicodin tightening his face and settling his stomach.

Almost.

But soon, the pain grew. His shaking got worse, and the thumping of his heart became unbearable. There was nothing he could do to alleviate the pain. He would have to suffer through it. Sobbing, he laid his head down on the floor, gripping himself tightly and scrunching up into a little ball of misery.

If there was a Hell, this was surely it.

He didn’t sleep, as was expected. The pain and discomfort was too great. He simply lay still on the floor, shivering and groaning with the intense pain that was getting worse every hour. The cramping in his gut was growing to epic proportions, feeling as if his stomach was turning inside out. At one point, the sickening taste of bile gathered in his mouth, and he crawled to the drain, unleashing a deluge of the bitter, stinking fluid.

After that, the dehydration started creeping up on him. He no longer had anything to puke out and repeatedly wretched and heaved to no avail. The pain of withdrawal, coupled with trying to puke on an empty stomach, was enough to send him into a coma-like trance.

His skin was crawling like crazy, too. It felt like a million biting ants crawling around on him, swarming his most sensitive spots, digging their little fangs into him. Even his eyeballs hurt. They hurt so bad, that he couldn’t even look up at the window that was showing signs of daybreak. He just lay, immobile, with his face pressed against the stone, staring off into space.

Once, a tiny mouse crawled into view, stopping to sniff him, and scampered off into the shadows. Dan laughed, not realizing why, and began sobbing again. Perhaps it was the realization that even a little mouse could easily escape and be free, but he was trapped; doomed to suffer in solitude.

He missed his friends.

Dan awoke with a jolt as the slamming of a door boomed in his ears. He shot up, glancing around to find the source of the sound. The door into the rest of the basement had slammed, he realized, and now there was an ax leaning against the wall near it.

Still surprised that he had fallen asleep, he sat staring at the tool, unsure as to why it was there. He could barely move because of the pain, but began crawling toward it anyway, his stomach shooting stabbing pain through him with every inch. When he reached it, he touched its cold, steel surface, running his fingers along the shaft and up to the blade. It appeared brand new, and gleamed even in the dim moonlight.

It was an Estwing;
his
Estwing.

“What the fuck?” he asked out loud.

Before he could contemplate any further, a clank sounded behind him. He turned quickly, just as the panel door opened. He grabbed the ax, gripping it tightly as he scooted back against the wall, glaring at the dark portal that was now open.

Dan’s breath quickened, and his heart began to thump; even more so than it already was. A low moan echoed from the darkness, sending him into a panic that sent his mind racing. Something was about to join him in his prison, he knew, and he gripped the ax tightly as he stumbled into a standing position.

Then, without any warning, a filthy man tumbled into the room. He was dressed in rags, covered in mud and puke, and was disheveled and wild-looking. He was not a Shuffler or a Shambler, simply a man who had apparently just been infected. He laid prone, moaning and groaning in pain, gagging and retching as vomit streamed from his curled lips.

“H—help… m—me…” the man whispered.

Dan stood still, confused and ready to defend himself. The man turned his face toward him, and Dan could see that his eyes were ablaze with pain and terror. He was definitely infected, but had not yet succumbed to the pathogen. He was more like big tits, or the kid in the liquor store; feral, but still mostly human.

“Stay back,” Dan warned him, backing away.

The man puked on the floor, curling up and clutching his stomach as the sickening fluid glopped on the floor. He rose up to his hands and knees, growling in pain as mucus dripped from his nose.

“Help me,” he pleaded. “Please.”

“Fuck off,” Dan replied.

The man got up on his knees, raising his head back to sob at the ceiling. Dan could see something around his neck; a necklace perhaps, maybe a medallion. He looked closer, stepping forward cautiously, the ax out in front of him.

It was a small zipper bag with a single, white caplet inside. A Vicodin?

Dan’s heart jumped. Vicodin was white, and shaped like that.
Exactly
like that, and the exact same size. Oh, how good it would be to pop that and chase the pain away. He stepped forward, eager to reach out and pluck the bag from the string. But the man screamed, and rolled away when he saw the ax.

“
What are you doing?”
the man shouted. “Help me.”

Dan was torn. He could kill the guy and take the Vicodin, or just wait for him to die; if he even
would
die. He could suddenly attack once the infection took hold, just like the loonies in Bloomington. In that case, killing him would make no difference. He was fucked anyway. Chopping his head off would be a mercy killing.

Maybe he would wait…

No. It was inevitable. The guy was going to turn. There was no question about that. Why risk becoming infected when he could just end the guy’s misery—and his own—with a single chop?

“I’m sorry, dude,” Dan said, stepping forward and raising the ax.

“
Wait!”
the man protested, shuffling back and holding out his hands. “I’m not one of them. I swear!”

He knelt down and puked again, and Dan could see the feral look grow worse on the man’s face as he turned to look up at him. Dan held his breath and closed his eyes.

“
No!”
the man begged.

Dan chopped.

He felt the ax split the man’s skull, and heard the sickening splat as his brains fell to the floor. When he opened his eyes, he ignored the gruesome sight and knelt down to grab the baggy. He pulled it off, holding it in front of his eyes like Gollum finding the One Ring.

“Myyyyyyy preciousssss,” he hissed.

He dropped the ax and tore the baggy open, holding the pill in the light to read its imprint.

M357.