REG CAME to his senses for the second time, and for the second time was aware of the scourge of throbbing in his head. He awoke facing the high wattage bulb. He squinted and ughed the four anvils down to three.
The Lugz Tractor Trailer that crashed into his face hadn’t changed the cavern, but he was different. Dried blood caked tight on his brow, and cheeks, told him so. As did the sizable lump on his forehead, from where the blood had oozed.
He had been hogtied for hours, and could barely feel his numb limbs attached to their sockets. The cold, foul-smelling breeze goose-bumping his skin, was another matter.
I’m naked? No, not naked, stripped down to my boxers.
The thought was as sluggish as it was disturbing. It made his head feel like there was a never-ending chorus line of anvils being dropped on it. He gingerly maneuvered his head to scan the bunker. He spotted Fare sitting in one of the folding chairs, next to the storage chest, nodding off.
This is it.
If he held any hopes of escape, and avoiding being sifted like wheat by the devil in the Animal, he needed to get free. Take Fare down while he was half asleep. On even terms, and at current strength, Fare would rag-doll him from one rock wall to the other.
Detective Reginald Thomas Williams gyrated, manipulated, wrestled, struggled, twisted, turned, and silently cursed the ties that bound him. He thought of Fare waking and discovering what he was trying to do. He thought of the Artemisians, and the horrors they committed against innocent children. KIWI Incorporated added fuel to his determinate fire.
His thoughts turned inward, and how his downfall began with a stray bullet that killed a family man. A family man whose funeral he was kept from attending, because of politics.
The gathering storm of anger helped him loosen his ties. But the final thought which allowed him to slip his left hand free, was of Carol. If it took re-convincing the world that the earth was flat, he would be blissfully reunited with his wife.
Hurry up, Reg, get the leg knots off. Take this sick bastard out before he wakes up.
His heart pounded. The anvils fell on his head harder and faster. Numb fingers bungled over tangles of rope, pulling and loosening frantically. Every muscle in his body screamed in defiant ache. His lower back felt as if there was an assassin's dagger sticking in it. If he managed to get out alive, he would need a week to heal.
Got it!
The shrill voice from behind ripped through his elation. "Where do you think you’re going?”
Fare tackled him off the stone slab, and onto the bedrock floor. Immediately, wild fists connected with the back of his head.
{You said he couldn't get free if his life depended on it.}
"Shut up, Johnnie.”
Reg wasn't about to let Fare get the best of him a second time, no matter who was calling the shots in the Cuckoo’s Nest. He combusted the fumes of his strength and flung off his attacker.
Fare hit the stone wall, below the high wattage bulb. He thumped down on his backside. Reg wasted no time reveling in the achievement. He fought gravity on rubbery legs and wobbled over to him.
{Here he comes, Jeremy. Give me control—}
"Dammit, John, I said no. Now you will never get back control.”
{But you said…}
Their distracting conversation was cut short by a right to their jaw, followed by a left cross. Their head slammed off the wall. But they were more resilient than their flatfoot attacker anticipated, and managed a hard kick to his stomach.
Reg backstroked out of control toward the stone slab. As he flipped over the pillar, crumbling onto the unforgiving ground on the other side, the last word the Animal spoke replayed in his head—Control!
That is what this whole thing is about. Him had it, Jeremy wanted it. Jeremy finally managed to take it, and Him wanted it back.
He remembered something Dr. Whitfield told him, following her blow up with Reuben.
“I was trying to build his confidence in making decisions on his own, instead of being manipulated by others. Whether it was the Artemisians, Jeremy, or anyone else.”
Reg changed his mind about killing the Animal. Like Dr. Whitfield, he now wanted to help. It didn’t mean Fare wouldn’t pay for his crimes, but in the play he was about to make, he would leave that part out.
He forced his body parts to their feet. "Him, I know you can hear me inside of Jeremy. That is your body. You are in control. Don't let Jeremy tell you what to do anymore. I know you want to make your own decisions. Dr. Whitfield told me so.”
Jeremy snickered like a hyena foaming at the mouth. “You gotta stop, man, you’re killing me. You think the retard can take back control, just because he was born in this body? Johnnie boy is never seeing the light of day again.”
"That’s what he wants you to think, Him. It’s not true. Dr. Whitfield is alive. She’s not dead like Hilliard told you. She’s alive and wants to help you get control. All you have to do is come out.”
{Whitfield alive? Could that be true? Did Dr. Hilliard lie?}
Jeremy sneered, baring pink gums, and jumped on top of the table to tower over Reg.
"Don't listen to this sack of shit, Johnnie. He’s a lying flatfoot. Remember the cage? If you listen to this sack of balls, you’re going to be in a cage for the rest of your life. Isn’t that right, Detective Piss-ant? Tell Johnnie boy the truth, if you can.”
Reg saw him coming this time. He sidestepped Fare’s lunge and cold-cocked him in the left temple. He followed the Animal’s stagger to the end of the table, and hit him again.
Johnathan Fare torpedoed into the wall storage unit. Dust, expired food stuffs, and rusty shelves exploded around him. Instead of pouncing on him again, Reg continued his play.
"I wasn’t lying, Him. Whitfield is alive and I can prove it. She told me she used to make you blueberry marmalade, and you liked the marmalade more than chocolate.”
Him considered that the cop was telling the truth. He gave enough respect to know what was really wanted—Control. He spoke like Whitfield used to speak, and gave confidence Him could make it on his own. If Whitfield was alive, and she must be, or how would the cop know about marmalade, then maybe Him could finally get control for good.
Jeremy shook his head free of cobwebs, and growled up at Reg like a real animal. He scrambled upright, slipping on packages of meals-ready-to-eat, before gaining his balance.
"You should have killed me when I was down. Now it’s time for you to go inside, flatfoot. Inside of hell.”
Jeremy pulled Reg’s glock out of the front pocket of baggy jeans.
"Any last words?”
"It’s now or never, Him. Now or never,” Reg pleaded.
"Ha! Personally, I would have gone with fuck you, or kiss my balls. You just wasted your last words on earth on a retard.”
Jeremy took aim at the flatfoot’s hairy, barreled chest. He cackled a high-pitched Joker’s laugh and pulled the trigger. Then confusion hit him like the bullet was supposed to hit the cop.
{What the shit? I know I shot that flatfoot right in his—Dammit! Johnnie boy? Him? I didn't mean any of those things I said. You’re not a retard. You’re the smartest person I know. Just let me out to finish what I started, and I promise, I will give you control again.}
“No, Jeremy. You are the one never getting back out.”
{Half-wit. You let me out right now, or I swear, when I do get out, you’ll be sorry. Give up control, retard.}
"I am in control now, and I like it," Him said.
"Okay, Him, you got what you wanted. Hand me my gun and we can go see Whitfield, and put you in charge for good."
Him had taken control, but hadn’t lowered the gun aimed at Reg's chest.
"Not too fast, R-Reggie. That is your name, right? Reggie W-Williams?”
"That’s me. Now, let's be calm and not do anything bad."
"I am in control, and I don't want cages. You said Whitfield is alive?"
Reg nodded. "How else would I know about the marmalade?"
"And you speak like Whitfield says is the truth?”
"What do you want to know?"
"Promise there will be no cages.”
The tormented look in Fare’s eyes pained Reg, but he didn’t want to lie to the kid. He began to see what Dr. Whitfield must have seen, the day Johnathan walked into her home. Beneath his golden locks and the anguish in his sea-blue eyes, there was a lost child crying out for help.
"How about a big room like this one? No cages, just big rooms. Would you be okay with that?" Reg said.
"I could live in a big room,” Him said. “I live in a big room now, in the basement. What about Whitfield? I will see her like you said?"
"Johna—I mean, Him, if you hand me that gun right now, I’ll make sure Whitfield visits you every week for at least an hour."
Him believed everything the detective said, and was wracked with guilt.
Startling both men, Reuben burst into the underground chamber, a white-knuckle grip on his glock. He saw two things, but reacted to only one. A beaten, bloody, underwear-clad partner surprised him, but wasn’t the sight he reacted to. Their suspect pointing a weapon at Reg was the sight that garnered Reuben’s aim, and fire, into Fare's chest.
"Reuben, no—!” was as far as Reg got in protest.
Johnathan Fare screamed. His wail of pain echoed through the underground chamber. As Reg’s face pinched tight in anguish, the Animal clutched his chest and collapsed onto the grimy bedrock.