Ashes (2 page)

 
Her tears resembled hot coals. Smoke rose from her center, all of the glass in the room melting or shattering. Steam thickened the air. The doctor was motionless. One of the nurses fainted, sliding onto a table of sharp instruments.
 

A trail of spit had formed between Frances's crimson smile, as she stretched her jaw one last time to call out a name: “Stephen.”

Then she collapsed, her head dropping back, eyes spiraling into emptiness. In a blink, the flesh on her belly peeled, a growing fire eating and folding the skin away from whatever was moving underneath, blistering the ripped flesh. All they heard was a slight murmur, one that came off the lips of a baby who couldn't have weighed any more than five pounds. Its skin appeared grainy, bits of ash and liquid mess wrapping the frail skeleton within what remained of the mother's womb. Slowly, it moved and bent its fingers, as Isaac saw its hands briefly surrounded by tiny, gloved flames. It didn't cry or long for
breath
. It simply lay still, silenced perhaps by the wind scratching at the window from the outside world.
 

Isaac flared his nostrils and fought to catch his breath, slowly moving closer to her body. There was nothing holding her head up, nothing to honor her. Smoke engulfed the dark room. The tops of her fingers had melted off at the nails, hands charred. He imagined the emotions Kay and Henry were enduring outside those swinging doors and down the hall. Imagined what it was going to be like telling them how she…. No, he couldn't even bear the thought of her being gone, let alone conveying the terrible news to them. They never had been too welcoming of him, sure, but he did love them, at least enough for her.
 

But now she was gone? Now she was spread open and soaking in this mess of life, pieces of her fingertips missing. What happened?

Isaac thought his insides were going to explode. He glanced down at her, noticing that the thing still connected to her body did not even stir. “Stephen,” Isaac mumbled. “Stephen Gable. My…s—” He couldn't say it.

Isaac forced his eyelids shut. He reached for it, but something stopped him midway. Its hands no longer glowed, but Isaac didn't wish to hold it. He remained disturbed by it.
 
 

“What…just happened?” Dr. Raymond whispered hoarsely, lip quivering.

Isaac stared at him, barely able to make out the holes in the old doctor's face. The alarms blared, but the sprinklers above their frightened, awestruck heads spun out of water, puddles of red and pink and clear fluid dampening their feet.

Isaac looked one last time at the doctor but not at the quiet, stained menace that had replaced the woman he loved. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Falling in love, getting her pregnant, being in this room at this moment.
All of it.
That's what he would have to tell himself in order to live without regret, if such a thing were possible.
 

“
It
burned through her.” Dr. Raymond coughed, the dark realization culminating all at once.

Isaac breathed deeply and wiped his hands against his shirt. Then he moved back, every wary step pulling him closer to the exit, closer to escape from Salvation Hospital, and whatever had burned through.

He couldn't stay. Isaac couldn't be a father to this thing.

There was a beating in his chest just then. Perhaps it was his heart, or maybe it was something else entirely, a gut kind of thing. It didn't really matter. All that mattered was that he was leaving this place. He needed to. He wouldn't tell a soul where he was going.
It
was safer with Henry and Kay anyway. They'd know what to do.

2

 

17 years later

 

ARSON LISTENED TO THEIR whispers.
He struggled to make out what was said, but it was all muffled
;
blending shapes and words looming over him.
 

Is this the hospital?
his
mind lulled. The feeling of suffocation set in deep in his lungs.
Claustrophobia and fear and confusion.
A nasty flavor lingered on his tongue, something he couldn't shake. The air didn't taste right, didn't smell right. How long had it been?

He tried to move, but he couldn't; tried to scream, but his vocal cords burned cold. “Who-h-where-the-kill-Emer-y.” They were just small, simple words and half syllables bleeding out. He could feel his muscles fighting to do something, but a dark lullaby was fluently touring his veins. It didn't want him to.
 
 

“Wakey-wakey,” one of the shapes said, hot breath crawling down Arson's neck.
How many of them are there?
Quiet voices came out like lost echoes, appearing and disappearing, but not enough to cancel the noise of machines and beeping panels. Wires twisted around every corner of the table, connected to metal creatures. They were wrapping him in their hybrid cocoon. They chirped and constantly blinked green.
 

Arson exhaled, the foggy shapes beginning to form vital parts for his mental image of them, like they were searching for true form. A gasp turned into several more ill words, too few for even him to know what he was trying to say.

Swallow, breathe,
repeat
. The process was numbing.
 

“You're dreaming, aren't you?” Arson recognized the slimy voice this time; it slithered out and cradled around his spine, which was now stuck to a cold bed.
 
 

“He's def-definitely dreaming,” another blur said. From the volume, Arson guessed he was in some far-off area or in an office he wasn't able to perceive.

Arson blinked again, noticing the brief flickers of light tracing the outlines of every phantom within this space.

 
“Whatever it is, it's not friendly,” the far-off blur said.

“The dose seems to be wearin' off, Krane. Somebody's starting to come to.”

A brief period of silence spread over the room.

“How many failed experiments, Doc? How many godforsaken times are we
gonna
do this? Maybe your theory's whacked.”

“Years of research and st-st-study are correct. The theory is sound.”

“Stubborn jackass. Maybe you lucked out with the other one, but this is…I just don't see any point in searching for something that ain't there.”

“You witnessed it with your o-own-own eyes.”

“Not sure what I seen anymore. Maybe this fire thing's not like we thought.”

“All brilliant men face consequence when they are on the cusp of something great. We're going to do this until we get what we need.”

“And what's that?”

“More data. M-more-more…answers to how their minds work, so we can duplicate it perfectly.”

“Leave it to a geek to get all excited over his toys.”

Another gap of silence.

Arson struggled to speak, but the syllables wouldn't come out.

“I've got orders, Lamont.” Krane started murmuring to himself. “Just do what you're told.”

“Yeah, yeah, everybody's lips are chapped from kissin' somebody's butt.”

Lamont.
That was the guy's name. It was coming back, but only in part.
Remember
,
just remember
.

“Little punk's got some fight in him, don't he? Maybe we should get one of the loonies down here. Start ourselves a little circus.” Lamont swallowed a full, groggy laugh, his hot breath circling Arson's nostrils. The smell pouring out from the row of crowded,
unhinged teeth was
familiar. Disgusting. “What dark secrets are crawling inside that messed-up mind?”

Several other phantoms surrounded the table,
all staring
down at him.
Looming, lidless eyes.
Arson didn't like it. Through the confusion, he perceived their coats, some white, some black, or shades of all colors. Some constricted by ties and long skirts. But what his mind focused on the most was the ugliness above him. Lamont looked like a horned devil.

Suddenly, their tones became clearer. “I think it's time,” the one identified as Krane said. He looked at Arson through oversized, thick lenses. A stitch of tape held one piece of the frame to another, but the cheap plastic wanted to break.

The skinny apparition had changed positions.
Far away.
Then close.
It's hard to keep track
.
Hard to capture everything.
Now the blur hovered over Arson's bare chest as he began to add red lines with a permanent marker. The lines traveled in multiple directions from his naked upper torso down to his boxers.

“Get away from him, Lamont,” Krane ordered. He leaned down and continued pressing the marker's tip against the soft flesh. A dark color bled short, sporadic lines across Arson's forehead. “Hold still,” the voice assured. “It will only hurt a little.” The figure turned to his assistants. “He's waking quickly. We need-need another dose.” Krane finished tracing the lines and covered the tip of the marker, pushing up his glasses so they'd sit more firmly on the long bridge of his nose. One of his assistants stuck Arson in the neck. It stung. “Prepare to initiate Morpheus.”
 

“Help me, plea—” Arson struggled.

Two other blurs wheeled a large device toward the table: the thing they called Morpheus. The machine's wide, metallic grip stretched to Arson's feet, while the remainder of it rested above his head. It was shaped like half of a coin, or a comb without teeth, hollowed out at the top and complete with wiry fingers that jutted out on each end.

Krane turned a switch and tiny spikes instantly protruded from a center wire and stabbed into the sides of Arson's temples, twisting until the machine got a verifiable scan. The hovering mechanical beast buzzed and sliced into his mind like a whirlwind, emitting a blinding light that kept Arson's eyes glued shut.

“It's like staring straight into the sun, ain't it?” Lamont snickered, fingering his tobacco dip with his pinkie and sliding the brown chunk into his gums. He savored the taste.

“Can you keep-k-keep it down?” Krane asked. It was clear the skinny doctor wasn't comfortable with spectators circling his work.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Krane focused on controlling the movements of Morpheus. It was a meticulous machine.

“What…doing…me?” Arson gasped. Light penetrated his closed lids enough to create many wildly colorful splashes that corrupted his true vision.
 
 
 
 

“I don't think Mikey likes it.” A sick cackle disturbed the air. “Looks like you're putting baby in a corner.”

Krane was perfectly mute.
 

“Sure he's not gonna remember any of this?” Lamont asked, stepping forward. “'Cause I'd be pretty ripped if you were walking around inside my head.”

Krane waited. “
Lamont,
shut your trap, b-be-before I give Hoven an excuse to remove you permanently. Besides, no one's brave enough for that journey.”

Lamont mocked him silently, the dip in his teeth squishing back and forth. He folded his lips, producing a trail of mixed saliva that ran down the cleft in his chin. The sticky brown spit dripped onto Arson's cheek.

“Would someone get this brute away from my work? He's disrupting the trial.”

Lamont felt a hand tugging at his jacket. “Take it easy. I'll leave you geeks with your rusty gadgets. Don't, uh, hurt yourself, yeah?” Then, looking at the orderly who had him by the forearm, he wiped his chin and spat. “Get your claws off. I know my way out of this nuthouse.”
 
 

Krane muttered something under his breath, keeping his attention on the slab and the subject struggling to move. He walked over to the monitors, punched in some keys, and flipped his eyes toward the oversized screen to his left. The machine breathed, several metal fingers drawing nearer to the boy's skull. Their thin needles restricted the amount of blood.

Morpheus continued to scan Arson's brain matter horizontally then vertically. The blinding light forced him to keep his eyes closed. But he wasn't strong enough to fire up, not even a little.
 

Arson drooled involuntarily. He pressed his fingers together, hoping that by snapping them he might initiate some sort of spark. Where on earth was he, anyway? What did these men want?

The machine vibrated endlessly around him, a pounding, wretched sound, like a tortured baby screaming for his mother. He grunted, weak.
A coldness
covered his limbs. It was useless. There was no fire left, nothing inside him but pictures of things he couldn't remember.

What had they done to him?

“Emery,” he barely whispered.

3

 

SHE FELT NAKED. EMERY shook her head violently, trying to stumble out of the fog. She was awake, just not fully aware. Her eyes started to drift. Her stomach and chest felt sore. She lifted up her shirt, confused by the slight scars that had never been there before, next to her ribs.
 

There were no clocks in this room to watch her. Little to mark the passage of time but peculiar stares now and then, a small meal, and plenty of fear to share with the shadows. The spells of fear or shakes, as she called them, were beginning to consume her more and more.

Peaceless. Sleepless. Forgotten.

Her mind was a jumbled puzzle. She couldn't remember which events came first and which second.
Dreams and reality and everything in between.
Some things she remembered clearly. Like moving into a new house near a boy who seemed different, cute.
Arson.
She couldn't forget him. Never. She remembered going bowling and having a strangely amusing night.
Then volunteering at some hospital and meeting an old man.
But in her memory, the old man didn't have a name.

It was so frustrating. Who knew thinking could get so complicated? With
shut eyes
, she forced herself to remember as much detail as she could. She had to in order to keep from scratching at the drywall.

It was summer.
Somewhere in Connecticut, right?
The 'rents were on the rocks because Mom didn't know how to keep her hands to herself; and Dad,
well,
he had loved the bottle a little too much.

Emery dragged her wrinkled hands down her face. Where was she? Where had she been? How many nights had she been in this tiny, deformed room?
More like a cell, come to think of it.
Were the screams she heard when she slept real or imaginary? She swore they came from somewhere above her, but she wasn't certain.
Of anything.
Was the air getting thinner? Would she eventually disintegrate because of some chemical virus being pumped into the ventilation units?
 

Don't flip out, Emery. Get a friggin' grip.
Her eyes drifted to the corner wall, almost too dark to make out, but the glaring scratches cleared it all up.

No way out.

Had she drowned? Been knocked out for days, weeks? Had she been tortured? Suddenly, all the cheap slasher flicks she'd stumbled on over the years filled her brain with gut-wrenching scenarios. It felt like something ugly was crawling across her skin too. Arson was the only boy, the only person who had made her feel beautiful, for real; but he wasn't here. No one was.

Her face started to itch. She missed her mask. Emery closed her eyes and opened them. Blinked once, twice. Arson. The beach. A flood of angry memories stormed her. Mandy.
Her sick friends.
The worst and best night of her life.
“We're going to fix your face!”

Screaming. Alcohol. Safety. Hatred. Violence.

Then the quiet.

Which part of it was real?
Arson.
He was real. He saved her. When she was freaking out. When the mask was burning. Yes, that's when he went…nuclear. She could still feel the fire licking the flesh on her leg as it tickled and then scarred some of her skin. She was ten years old, then seventeen,
then
ten again. “No!” she cried.
Where is he? What happened to my parents? What is this place?

She couldn't shake the sensation like she'd been in this room before. As sick as it was, it didn't feel strange.
But why?
She seemed to sleep and wake up like clockwork but with no memories in between. It didn't make sense.

Emery cradled her arms on the floor. She shoved her head between her knees, fighting tears. The headache was increasing. She didn't want to think anymore.

Unless it was about Arson.
His skinny arms, his curly hair.
Those chapped lips and dirty fingernails.
The sweet taste of his breath mixing with hers.
Why could she remember some things and not others? What lay inside these walls?
Behind them?
Above them?
What lingered in this thinner air? What was wrong with her?

Other than your messed-up face?

Other than being completely alone?

Why am I here?

She spent a moment biting her lip, and then she ripped at a fingernail until its edge tore off. The pain was a horrible friend. She wanted to hurt, as long as it was by her own doing.
 

“Can anybody hear me!” she yelled. Sometimes she imagined a person breaking down the walls and taking her out of this torment. She daydreamed that she had conversations about love, God, and death with the unknown world above her.
But not now.
Now, it seemed like nothing but emptiness. Her voice climbed up and down the walls and then died.
 

Emery couldn't keep the tears back anymore. She tried to concentrate. “Think, Emery, think.” She was standing there alone on the beach. Slowly, the night's sick crowd appeared. Mandy and her friends tried to breathe, but air and hope were stripped, along with
their
…

Skin. And faces.

Arson remained. Dead on the sandy floor, but then he came back to life.

How?

The room still found ways to be dark. Ways to terrify her. She looked up, and the violent memory tucked itself back into the creases of her mind. She had hoped that just once, she'd find a window above her, or some sunlight. But there was only a door with no key. Not even a handle.

She felt hungry one moment, and the next she didn't. There were sessions she went to, but couldn't remember anything about them or discover a point to it all. Just some guy who wrote things down while eyeballing her like some sort of…

“Freak!” Leaning her back against the wall, Emery wiped her nose with a sleeve. Why couldn't she remember what had happened next? Suddenly she feared to admit what her thoughts forced upon her.

Arson was gone.