Chapter Thirty-Five
I was tied in a chair in the room I’d come to learn was called the “Special Treatment Room’. In the basement hidden away at the end of a long maintenance tunnel, it was an eight-foot square box with padded walls and a cement floor with a drain. The only heat inside was what leached in from the furnace and boiler room next door.
I didn’t know why I was down here; I hadn’t done anything wrong or refused any of Albans’ requests. I’d been out of my room three more times performing miracles for him and each time, I was laid low from the energy drain yet I bounced back within a day or so. He was careful to keep the healings to one every two weeks, afraid that it would burn me out. By my closest guess, he had made nearly twelve million dollars. How much money, how rich did one man need to be? I’d also heard that Senator Lourdes had taken the four more states he’d needed to win his party’s nomination for the Presidential race. Rumors of his ill health were just that - unfounded rumors.
I knew my continued health and well-being was of utmost importance to the doctor so I couldn’t understand why he had brought me down to this spare room. It was damp, dark and depressing. The cement floor stained an ugly blotched gray paint, the walls padded with old mattresses and the only illumination was a pull light ten feet above the center of the room on a steel beamed ceiling joist. He had dosed me with a stiff shot of Thorazine so I sat like a lobotomy patient as he locked the chair in place and handcuffed my wrists to the armrests and my ankles to the frame, not the leg rests. Those came off, resting on pins that allowed them to swivel.
The door slamming shut and locking echoed with the same ponderous note of doom as the one in the Indiana Jones movie. Only I wasn’t the intrepid archeologist and I didn’t own a trusty bullwhip.
It seemed hours later that men returned. These men were none I’d seen before, dressed in chinos with heavy parkas covering their torsos. Armed and serious. They unlocked my chair and one pulled out a handcuff key, removing the cuffs from my limbs but he replaced them with zip ties. As he brought out a black hood, fear made the drug’s hold ease back a little. I groaned and tried to speak but all I could manage to do was drool all over myself. He put the hood over my face and I panicked. I couldn’t believe that they were doing this to me again.
A curious thing happened next. Sound disappeared except for the rapid pounding of my heart. I no longer felt anyone’s hands on me, nor smelled the acrid scent of our sweat. I rubbed my face on my shoulder and was able to lift the hood over my eyes. What I saw made my fear escalate. Everyone around me was frozen in place as if time stood still. I stared only for a second and began furiously throwing myself against the back of the chair. It didn’t move at all, stuck in the same special stasis as the men. I turned my attention to my wrists. Pulling against the ties hurt but they stretched until they broke; it was like pulling taffy. The plastic made no sound as they fractured.
I had no idea how long this strange cessation of time would remain so I hurriedly unbelted my waist and tore the ties holding my ankles to the leg rests.
Standing took as much energy a wading through deep mud; I could see my blood descending from my wrists as if the drops were floating rather than falling yet I moved faster than the droplets. I was down the hallway and out of the main entrance before the blood hit the floor.
I didn’t spare a glance back or study my surroundings. I headed for the tree line I could see along the long driveway instinctively cataloging the various trees. Sweet gum, magnolia. Dogwood, pine, Catawba and cedar. Somewhere south then. It wasn’t until I heard red-eyed vireos chirping that I realized that time had resumed its normal pace.
Behind me, I heard strident alarms and shouting voices. I ran deeper into the woods, tearing off my coat and reversing it so that its bright blue nylon was now a dark gray that would blend better in the shadows.
I ran on a carpet of leaves that rustled and crackled as I scanned for the best route through these woods heading for the deep heart of the forest where I could elude pursuit. I ran on trembling legs that drugs and inactivity had made weak but as I looked at my back trail, I was gratified to see that I was leaving no trace of my passage on the trail.
There were trails through here - dirt bikes and horse-hooves had torn up the ground and I followed some for the first mile or so until they crossed a wider jeep trail marked by Forest Service signs. There, I left the trod-upon ways and worked my way uphill towards a ridge thickly covered with hemlocks where the red clay was slippery and wet. Cattails trembled softly around the edges of small bogs and late season berry bushes where long thorns snagged my clothes. I was grateful for the jeans as they stopped most of the damage from briars but they tore at the nylon of my jacket and my exposed face. I turned around to make sure I hadn’t left any material on their voracious points to give away my position.
The slope became almost a 60° incline and slowed my progress even further than my exhaustion. In some places, I had to use my hands and knees to pull me up using tree trunks and rocks. More and more rocks broke the ground until I was on an escarpment too sloping to be called a cliff but it sure came close.
Two hours later, I had reached the crest without skylining myself. From the top of the ridge, I could see down into the valley where the institution lay in a small cove of woods near a winding road that went southeast towards a highway. I saw flashing lights on vehicles parked in the driveway but was too far away to make out the ant-sized figures. I assumed the doctor had told the State Police and Rescue that a mental patient had escaped.
I looked beyond the ridge and saw a vast expanse of forest laid out before me. In that wilderness, I saw no roads, no houses and precious few patches of open land. I had no supplies, no weapons, and no means to survive on my own outdoors. On the plus side, I was clothed, warmly dressed and highly motivated to stay free. I began walking with a sense of determination and an eagerness that I hadn’t felt in years, walking downhill aiming West towards the setting sun. I knew that the searchers would stop when it became too dark to track me unless they brought dogs. That was the one thing I feared, I knew I could break my back trail with men but dogs were harder to fool.
I reached down and grabbed a handful of red clay and squeezed, it went through my fingers like very wet Playdoh. Georgia clay. I was willing to bet that I was in Georgia.
Sliding down the steep slope on the other side of the ridge left more sign than I wanted but it was too steep to walk down in places. Still, I disguised most of my passage by using the available deer trails. I saw where they had taken advantage of the easiest route and followed in their path. I passed spots where the big bucks had rubbed the velvet from their horns and other places where the black bear had scraped their claw marks 8-eight foot-high up on the tree trunks.
Coyotes followed me as I made it down into the hollows at the ridge’s base but backtracked when my feet stepped onto a well-traveled hidden road.
Cautiously, I followed it, emerging in a clearing of ten acres of young plants that stood only a foot or so high. At first, I thought it was corn planted in neat rows to attract the deer but then, my eyes caught the glimmer of nets overhead. Camouflage nets.
Skirting the edges of the clearing, I saw booby-traps laid out. Knew then that this was one of those illegal marijuana patches hidden on state or federal land and was probably guarded by big dogs and/or armed men.
When I heard the click of a trigger pulled back, I froze. I raised my hands slowly and spoke. “I’m a fugitive! Don’t shoot!” I felt a barrel touch the back of my neck and did not move as another pair of hands searched me.
“No ID but he’s wearing a hospital bracelet from Pine Valley Mental Clinic,” a cracker voice whispered. “Ain’t that down in Georgia somewhere?”
“You escape from the loony bin?” Definite southern with its corn pone twang. My mind raced trying to decide what to say. For me, it was an eternity, to them it was only a second that I hesitated.
“Yes, but I’m not crazy. My parents put me in because I have a drug problem and won’t quit.”
He guffawed. “What kind?”
I didn’t look like a meth addict, my nose showed no sign of coke use but I did have a collection of needle marks on both arms. “Heroin.”
“Well, fancy that. How old are you?”
“Sixteen. What are you going to do to me?” I didn’t have to put the quiver in my voice, it was already there. “I haven’t seen your faces, I don’t know where I am or where your plot is and besides, no one would believe an escaped mental patient anyway.”
“You know that nuthouse is 40 miles over the ridge from here? How did you make it that?”
“Desperation,” I answered honestly. “I followed the deer trails.”
“Who’s lookin’ for you?”
“State Cops. Search and Rescue, the hospital staff.”
“They’ll follow your tracks and find our patch.” Now he sounded ominous.
“Bro, I looked. He didn’t leave no tracks.Cain’t even find where he came down the road,” the second voice said. “I ain’t stiffen’ no kid, especially if the state pigs want him. What are we going to do with him?”
“You always was too squeamish,” the one holding the gun said and pulled the trigger.
Time stopped. Again. I threw myself sideways and down, saw the bullet leave the barrel where my head had been seconds before. I saw the slender doughy-looking redneck with a twenty-two Ruger in his large well-calloused hand. He wore camouflage like his brother. And like his brother, he was 5’8” tall, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, none too clean. Neither man would have stood out in a crowd of country people but if there was ever a description of a shifty character, it was this pair. I would have drowned them at birth.
From the looks of his camos, I probably wasn’t the first one he’d shot in the head. They were blood-spattered and filthy. I watched the bullet slowly make its way along its trajectory and realized that it would hit a steel shed on the tree line that was barely visible under the hemlocks. One of those kit ones you put together with a hex lock and screwdriver.
Trig equations went through my head instantly and I calculated that the bullet would ricochet off that and hit the second brother in the belly. I hesitated, the second man hadn’t wanted to hurt me. The other had been going to kill me and still might if I didn’t leave before time resumed.
I tried to move the bullet and found that almost as hard as moving the wheelchair had been. I could move freely in the stasis but objects required massive energy to shift them. I did succeed in moving its trajectory enough so that the twenty-two bullet went straight through the shed and impacted a tree behind it.
I searched their camp and came up with enough gear to help me survive. A drop cloth, cooking utensils, hunting knife, fish hooks and line, sleeping bag and a backpack in which to stuff it. it all in. I took some of their food – stuff I could carry easily like the MREs. Even so, the pack weighed close to 40 pounds by the time I was done. I sort of hesitated over the sleeping bag. I was afraid it was crawling with lice after having seen the two’s hygiene arrangements. They had none.
As I took my first steps out of their camp under the hemlocks, I heard the sounds of the forest come back. That and the screaming. I ran. As quietly as I could through the brush, not following any trails but taking an easterly direction away from them and back towards the Institute. Within minutes, I had lost them and when I continued at a jog until it was so dark that even I couldn’t see. Night had finally claimed the woods and I needed to find a hiding spot.
In a small gully where water collected and ran off below me into a stream, I made my way down. I could hear the water trickling so I followed it as best I could. The footing was terrible, rocks rolled under my feet and I was afraid that I would turn an ankle. Or worse, fall in and soak my clothes. Of course, I could raise my metabolism so I didn’t freeze to death but that would make me stand out like a supernova on FLIR helicopters. I was positive that they would use choppers to track me. I wasn’t sure how far Albans would go to recapture me; I was more afraid that his search would bring Chase’s attention to the affair.
Ash began drifting slowly and settled on my lashes and hair. I smiled. I had set fire to the pot patch before I’d left knowing that both men would try to rescue what they could rather than chase me. When the authorities checked, they’d find the burned area, maybe the two if they were stupid enough to stay there but nothing to indicate I had been there.
Now the ravine opened up to a small clearing on the edge of an escarpment. It was only a drop of 20 feet yet it offered a spectacular view and a place to camp. A small crescent moon had risen, providing just enough light so that I could see. Endless miles of trees, giant pines and firs spread far into the darkening distance. To my right, the sky was brighter indicating the glow of some big city. To the left, more darkness but I could see winking lights of amber and white with occasional blue ones. It must have been a major highway for that many headlights. What I did not see were any search or aircraft lights.
Once I spread out the drop sheet, I unrolled the sleeping bag. I couldn’t stand the thought of lying on it so I risked a ten-second flare of intense hear that literally fried whatever was living in the down and nylon folds. Then, I shook it out and was amazed at the microscopic debris that fell off.
Satisfied that I wouldn’t become infested, I crawled into the subzero bag and fell asleep in minutes as it held the warmth of my body. I didn’t dream or I didn’t remember any of them.
It was the sun climbing through a gap in the mountains that woke me. Which meant that my traveling had turned me from west to east. I poked my head up and watched the sunrise. Not having seen one for two years, I was especially appreciative for the ever-changing display. I whispered a prayer for Rachel and my great-grandfather and then blessed the morning.
I turned my attention to my wrists where I’d torn them breaking the zip ties. Both had already scabbed over with nearly healed lesions beneath. Another few hours and they would be totally gone.
I was starving. Opening three packages of MREs, I bolted down the first two before the growling in my belly quit. After the third, I was satisfied but thirst began to plague me. Digging through the pack, I found the canteen I had taken from the drug growers. It was full but I wasn’t sure if it was water or booze. If it was booze, I was going to dump it out and refill it from the stream I could hear nearby.
Pouring a little into my palm, I stared dumbstruck as my hand turned blue. A cautious sip and I was tasting blueberry Kool-Aid, the drug duos’ drink of choice. It was sickeningly sweet but my body took it in with happy abandon.
Doing your business in the woods took a lot of careful planning. You wanted it far enough away from your camp that the smell didn’t hit you but not so far that you might get lost or hurt in the dark. You didn’t want to leave any sign that you had been there and a big stinking pile of human feces was a dead giveaway that humans were in the area.
I hadn’t thought to bring a shovel but there were plenty of rocks available. Digging a latrine was out of the question but I could scrape out a small ditch and covered it when I was done. Some leaves kicked over the disturbed soil and no one would notice it before they ever stumbled onto my campsite. If they ever found it.
The escarpment didn’t offer an easy way down, not without ropes and climbing gear. I did find a narrow trail along the cliff’s edge made by deer that I could easily follow. Clever creatures, they had descended the ridgetop in a ravine that brought them concealment, water and an easy escape route up to the places where they yarded for the night. Grass lay flattened in a small series of open patches, too small to be called clearings. I found plenty of deer pellets scattered about; I didn’t linger. Kept going down the trail.
It was midmorning when I stepped on a small berm above the highway hidden by Cherokee Rose bushes and massive thickets of oak leaf hydrangeas. Live oaks were scattered around, huge trees that formed enormous umbrellas of leaves. Some of these covered acres with their low hanging branches and offered an easily accessible hiding place if I wanted to climb. Not much of an escape route once up in the tree and I would have to share my perch with fire ants. They weren’t kind neighbors. Over the top of the mound of sand and dirt, I was looking at I-20 which went from the Georgia coast to Texas. Not where I wanted to go but then, I was heading back towards the east coast, not Colorado.
Traffic was pretty heavy, especially the 18 wheelers. I saw so many of them that it made my mind ache. I was pretty tired from the forced activity I’d done in the last few hours. After all, I’d been stuck in a room for a year while they experimented on me. Once again, I wondered if I was tagged like a piece of luggage or a lost pet.
An occasional State Police SUV or car whizzed by yet the one thing I didn’t see were choppers. They were conspicuously absent from the sky, I did not even see a local news one.
Hitchhiking was definitely out. I knew that the minute I stepped onto the pavement, I would be on every trucker’s CB and the cops would pick me up. Same thing if I attempted to walk on the shoulders; pedestrians weren’t allowed on the interstates. No sense heading for the next exit; I had no money to get a bus ticket, train seat or rent a car. Not that anyone would rent me one - my age, lack of credit resources and no ID were all against that happening. I didn’t know how to steal one and although I knew the theory of hotwiring the ignition, I wasn’t sure if I could.
I looked at the next rest area and for once, my luck was with me. It was only a few miles up the road and I could walk on the edge of the wood line where no one could spot me.
A brisk twenty minutes through the leading edge of the tree-line brought me to the off-ramp leading into the next town of Poplar’s Bluff. It was a village of some 35,000 people, small enough to get around on foot but large enough to not be immediately noticed as a stranger. Unless, you hitchhiked in. I timed my arrival with a school bus, mingling with the teenagers as they disembarked, flying off the bus and down the street towards a Burger King. My stomach chose that moment to decide it was hungry and had no qualms about letting the entire world know about it. I dug through the backpack and found a hidden slot cut in the lining. Inside that was a wallet from the brother who had wanted to shoot me.
To my surprise, he had four IDs inside, along with credit cards in eight names with addresses in GA, TN, and NJ., and a wad of fifty and hundred dollar bills. The only driver’s license that looked like the brother was the one with the name DWAYNE DAVID PEEBLES. The others probably belonged to the people unfortunate enough to stumble on the pair. They were most likely dead. I had been lucky not to be their next victim.
I shivered with excitement as I sidled up to the counter and ordered my first ever take out meal on my own. A giant Whopper, large fries, salad and a large black coffee. Sat down at a table near the back doors and ate in slow contentment as the dining room erupted with the noisy and cheerful chatter of fifty teenagers.
I was aware of them studying me but their attention was diverted when a State Trooper strode in and ordered at the counter. He turned around and stared at the kids, grinning as a dead silence fell over the raucous group. I was with them, my hand froze at my mouth with a dripping burger running down my arm.
When he left carrying a bag and a coffee, talk resumed. A pretty girl with white blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes stood up, dumped her tray and walked over to my table.