The needle sank into the drywall to the left of Willis’s head. He let the syringe fall away, the side of his hand aching from the impact. Jake lifted his head to look into Willis’s eyes, but they were not the doctor’s.
The political wraith was cackling, raising its bony arm to fling Jake aside. Jake crashed into the wall above the couch, smacking his head. He fell in a heap, dazed from the concussion. Behind him, crumbled drywall from the impact fell onto the couch and the floor.
“You have failed, Jake. You know what this means.”
“NO! Please! Spare them! Take me instead!” Jake choked out through a mist of confusion. He lifted himself to one knee, one hand on the ground for support. He reached out to the ghostly apparition. “L-Let me sacrifice myself, Please!” Disorientation grabbed Jake, forcing him into what felt like another plane of existence. He felt as if he were in another world.
“That would be too easy, Jake. You would have taken that choice from the beginning, had I offered it.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t live—“
“I believe I do understand, Jake.” The wraith’s voice boomed inside Jake’s head. “You were to follow orders, which you have failed to complete by the deadline assigned. There is nothing left but to follow the path you have chosen for yourself. However, rest with the knowledge that their ends will be swift and painless.”
Suddenly, rage coursed through Jake’s veins. His temple throbbed with hate for the masked ghoul standing before him. “You denied me my chance! I would’ve struck, but Willis became you! I would’ve fulfilled my deed!” Jake was on his feet now, moving towards the wraith.
The monster laughed. “You cannot deceive me. You do not have murder in your heart.”
“Curse you, wraith! I didn’t ask for this!”
“No, but it has been done. And what is done cannot be undone. Live with the choices you have made and suffer your fate!” The ghost cackled hysterically.
“What fate? I don’t understand!”
“I have foreseen your destiny, Jake. Had you chosen death, it would have been for two. That syringe you hold, was it merely for show? Or, perhaps you had another use for it…”
“Stop. Don’t say it.”
“Ah, but I must.” The ghost whispered the last word in a condescending tone. “Your motive for the second syringe, what was it?”
“I won’t…”
“Say it!”
Jake hung his head in defeat. “I was going to use it on…myself. I couldn’t allow myself to go through this without penalty. To become a murderer, what would I say to my wife and children?”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Defeat; found even in victory! You would have chosen martyrdom rather than face your family and the consequences. Escape rather than face the truth! Oh, to watch you become so foolish! The last ten years have shown me much!”
“You speak in riddles, monster. You make no sense!” Jake stared at the ghastly politician in anger and confusion. His mind swam as he tried to piece together the being’s statements.
The ghoul raised a pointed finger at Jake as Jake backed away. “You know, just as I do, that sacrifice means nothing to you! Nor do you understand what it means to sacrifice one’s self for the sake of others! You have proved that here tonight!”
Jake cradled his head in frustration. Nothing the demon spoke was true. “Sacrifice is everything to me! If you have watched for so long, you would know that my family is everything to me and I have sacrificed everything for them!”
“Yet you stand before me while the man I have assigned to death still lives. Where is the sacrifice I have demanded of you!?”
Jake’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Take me, demon. I am your prize. Just…spare my family.”
“I do not crave your soul, fool. She is who I desire. My child. My life, who you stole from me!” The masked ghost’s voice was ominous and black. The room seemed to shake as it spoke.
“Your child? I don’t understand. Who—“
“Haven’t figured it out yet? Must I spell it out for you?” A look of satisfaction slithered in to replace the wraith’s scowl.
Jake’s eyebrows furrowed together in concentration. “You…Abigail. She’s your daughter? You’re…her father? That’s not possible, he’s still—Annabeth!? Is it true!? Have you become this, this…thing!?” He stumbled back in shock and fear.
“Very good!” the monster said condescendingly as it clapped its bony hands in a slow, steady rhythm. The ghost of Abigail’s mother stood before Jake. Annabeth’s ghost reached back behind its head to the base of its skull. It pulled the mask off to reveal a frightening, haggard skull with strands of variously-shaded grey hair scattered across the crown. A deathly cackle filled the air as it clapped.
The being’s voice rose to a higher octave, giving it a feminine tone. “Years I have waited for this moment; for when I could take my revenge!” It sent icicles racing down Jake’s spine. The atmosphere grew cold, to the point where Jake could see his breath. And the monster’s.
The room was suddenly dark. Jake and Annabeth’s ghost stood, each highlighted by spotlights shining from unseen sources. “What sorcery is this!? Why have you come back?”
The ghoul calmed its demeanor, composing itself again. “Jake, Jake. I have already told you. I have come to reclaim my daughter from you. She is mine.”
“She belongs to NO ONE! She chooses with whom she wants to be with. No one owns her!” Jake tried to lower his temper. Slowly, he composed himself as well. “No one can claim her, demon. She is free, just as I am and you once were.”
“Wrong, Jake. I will take her from your menacing hold. She deserves to be with someone who will not hurt her, as you have.”
“What are you talking about? Have I not been faithful? Have I not treated her with the love and respect that she deserves?”
The ancient ghost laughed heartily. “Yes, I would say you have. So much so that you have damaged her and her relationships with others.”
“What! How can you say—“
“Listen to me, Jake!” The wraith’s voice boomed over Jake’s, becoming angrier. “Imagine her life with you. Six children and a demanding husband, leaving no time for others. Destroying established relationships. Destroying her relationship with me!” Annabeth’s ghost shook with anger.
“She makes her own decisions! Sometimes complications come up! She can’t control everything! You can’t take her life away from her just to salvage a damaged relationship you helped create!” Jake pointed at the ghoul, charging it with the guilt he felt it deserved.
“Lies! You took her from me. You hid her away from me and she was forced to leave me behind! She couldn’t help me when I was forced into that home! She couldn’t comfort me when I grew ill! She couldn’t tend to the preparations for my death! You stole her from me!”
Tremors shook the room, sending Jake staggering backward. The demon attempted to compose itself once again. Jake regained his balance. His heart drummed in his chest viciously as he tried to settle himself down. Fear had slipped in place with his anger. The ghost was unstable and Jake feared that if he didn’t end this now, things would get too dangerous.
“Annabeth, this is ludicrous. Why would you want to take Abigail away from her family? Are you so selfish that you must have her all to yourself?!”
“Yes! If I can’t have her, no one can! With me, she will be appreciated more than you know!” The ghost shook its fist at Jake with fire in its eye sockets.
“You are willing to destroy my life in order to have your daughter for eternity! Spare my wife and torment me! I deserve it! Give me what I deserve!”
“No, payment is due! And now I shall claim it!” The ghost roared a poisonous laugh, filling the atmosphere with an invisible, noxious gas. Jake hacked and coughed, trying to cover his mouth and nose by hiding his face in his elbow.
From behind the clothed elbow, Jake bellowed a muffled cry, “No! Please! I cannot live without her!” The ground began to tremble again, the atmosphere swelling with claustrophobia and viscosity. He watched the demon slowly disappear, cackling as it went. He felt another strange sense of distortion send him between planes of existence. Before unconciousness took him, he cried out weakly, “Abigail…”
Jake woke with a start. He placed his palm on his chest to acknowledge the beat of his heart. He ran his hands furiously over his body, his legs and through his hair, checking to see that he was alive and that everything was where it should be. Suddenly aware of his surroundings, he scrambled to his feet.
He found himself with his back against the cold, sterile wall outside the delivery room where his wife had been in. “Abigail!” He sprinted to the door. He checked the knob as he looked in through the small window. Empty.
He raced down the hall, through the steel double doors, to the receptionist’s desk. Déjà vu hit him at that moment. He felt as if he had done this before; his mind was foggy, unclear. He asked the secretary for his wife’s location. She told him Abigail was in the ICU. He asked for directions, then sped through the halls toward his ailing wife.
How long have I been unconscious?
He turned down the last hall and sprinted to the end. On the left side of the corridor, he knocked gently on the door before entering. His wife lay peacefully; her eyes closed and her hair matted to her forehead.
He walked over and slowly lowered himself to one knee beside her. He listened to the soft beep of the heart monitor and the slow drip of the IV. He took her hand in his and stroked it lightly to soothe her. He didn’t notice as raised her hand to his lips that she opened her eyes. She watched her husband in admiration while he caressed her small hand with his lips.
With her other hand, Abigail reached over to graze his stubbly chin. “Hi,” she said quietly.
“Hi,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I you. Has it been long?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. How are you feeling?” He spoke with gentle words, caressing her hand during their conversation.
“I’ve been better, but I can’t complain.”
“And the baby?”
“They say she’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
“Quite the change from earlier. It seems so long ago.” His voice sounded distant, like he was lost in thought.
“Have we put you through a lot? I’m sorry…”
“No…no, it wasn’t you, but it just feels like I’ve been through hell and back just to keep you here with me. For a moment, I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said with a roguish grin.
“I’m not worried,” he said with a smile matching hers. “It’s funny though. For what felt like days, I was running around trying to find someone. That person was, somehow, the key to your survival. It’s all so fuzzy now, I can’t remember it clearly.”
“It’s okay, dear. I’m fine now.”
“I’m glad.” His smile bared his teeth this time.
A curious look masked Abigail’s face. “I just remembered a dream I had. I met my mother in some strange place, like purgatory. She was angry with me for abandoning her when she moved into the home. She said I wasn’t there for her just before she died. We argued about me staying with her in that creepy place. It was like she was trapped between this world and the next, but I think I helped her move on. What a weird nightmare.”
Her story triggered a thought for Jake. In his mind’s eye, he saw something that resembled a dark figure with a Ronald Reagan mask and bony fingers. The figure was heaving a soundless cackle. “Yeah, weird,” he said, lost in thought.
“What’s on your mind,” she asked curiously.
“Oh, I was just thinking how glad I am that I didn’t lose you…And how I won’t take anything for granted anymore.”
“I believe that when I see it, mister!”
Abigail’s familiar laught put Jake at ease.
“Together forever,” he joked.
“Together forever,” she trilled, cackling an acidic laugh as she stretched her bony hand across his face.
Chapter 6 Part I
Jake decided it was time to learn his destiny. He unfurled the scrap of paper containing his sentence. Will it be someone I know? Whose life will I end in order to spare my wife and child? Jake prepared himself to bear the news. Only a few words manufactured from old, random newspaper letters told him his fate.
Ted Willis.
Tuesday, October 29.
7:00 p.m.
Why does that name sound so familiar? Jake shook his head and forced himself to concentrate. He looked at his watch. A little less than three hours from now. Is this the deadline? That meant he had to act fast in order to find Ted Willis and finish the task, or his wife and child would lose their lives. Where do I start? Jake felt hopeless. Dread clawed at his stomach as he digested his menacing responsibility.
He scanned the room with frantic eyes, searching for a place to begin. He turned to his ailing wife. She was unaware of her surroundings and the goings-on around her. For a brief moment, Jake was jealous. Inspiration suddenly struck him. He jumped to his feet and kissed his wife’s forehead, tasting the determination and the love that Abigail exuded simply by existing.
He ran through the room, exiting into the hallway. He raced along the empty, sterile corridor searching for that inspiration. He twisted his way back to the receptionist’s desk, thinking she would have the information he craved.
Panting, Jake sprinted to the desk, coming to an abrupt stop with his hands sprawled across the counter top. “May… I use your… Internet?” he breathed.
“D-Down the hall past the vending machines on the right,” said the startled receptionist. She pointed down the hall opposite of Jake’s entrance.
Jake sped toward his new destination with egregious agility. His heart raced. He turned into the room and found a vacant Internet station. He wiped his arm across his forehead to remove the ocean of sweat, but new perspiration spilled from his pores to stake new ground on his face.
The computer screen blinked to life when he moved the mouse. He fumbled with his wallet to extract a dollar to place in the payment slot. The machine inhaled his money with a greedy screech of acceptance. He began his search on a familiar search engine, entering in the target’s name. Thousands of results appeared instantly, swimming before his eyes. Most of the results highlighted the last name Willis scattered throughout articles about the famous actor.
Out of frustration, Jake grabbed at his matted hair. He had found nothing helpful. How will I find Ted Willis in time? It felt like the sands of time were sifting through a massive, gaping hole in the hourglass created by the mad, cackling politician. The ghoul had sped time with its sinister magic to destroy Jake. His body temperature rose to scalding heights, distorting his field of vision with waves of heat. He was doomed.
He set his elbows on the desk, with his head in his hands. The pressure of the deadline compressed his insides. The sound of patrons clicking away in the cubicles surrounding him filled his ears. He stood and stared out into the hallway, feeling lost and helpless. He glanced at the time on the computer screen. 5:17 p.m.Indeed, time was racing at a precarious speed.
He stood up to leave and looked out into the hallway again. A directory listing doctors’ office locations, hanging from the wall opposite the Internet café, caught his eye. An arrow pointing down the hall to the left preceded the name Ted Willis, M.D. That’s it! Jake felt an arctic sense of relief cool down his volcanic body temperature. He had found his mark.
He remembered where the name came from. Dr. Ted Willis is the attending looking after my Abigail and the baby. If Jake completed the “financial sacrifice” the wraith had charged him with, who would take care of his wife and child? Surely they would have another doctor to fill in. But why does he want me to take this man’s life?
This thought drove him back to the computer and the Internet. Jacob refined his search to include the town and state along with the doctor’s name. The first result had a promising headline. He clicked on it.
An article discussing the exploits of a powerful, yet relatively unknown man read like a novel as Jake scanned key parts of the document. He noticed the name of the website. It was known for uncovering and releasing the stories and information it felt the public needed to know.
Is any of this true? Jake thought. The site claimed that Willis was a financial wizard who held large amounts of stock in various companies not only in the United States, but also across the world. It went on to say that he controlled these companies with his majority ownership of their shares. The intricacy of Willis’s involvement in business world was deep and convoluted.
Is this what the ghoul had meant by “financial sacrifice”? Was Willis’s the innocent blood the ghastly being wanted shed?Was this some elaborate hoax or some kind of hallucination I created from the stress involving my wife and child? The thought was chilling. I am forced to end this man’s life just to keep Abigail and the baby safe.
Jake made his decision. With steely determination, he stood from his seat and headed through the exit. As he coursed through the ward in search of Willis, he wrestled with the decision he had made. Even trading one man’s life for his wife and child was enough to fill Jake with guilt. I must not think of the consequences.
Off on the left, in the hallway that led to Dr. Willis’s office, Jake found a supply room. It was locked, with access granted by a keycard. Jake had thought of a plan as he paced the empty corridors. He would use an exorbitant amount of pain medication delivered through a syringe, but he still had to get into the supply room. He needed a keycard. He looked at his watch. 5:45 p.m. How was this possible? Time was flying…
An empty nurses station, across the hall, was just what Jake was looking for. He walked nimbly inside and looked around. He spotted a hanger rack with nursing scrubs dangling neatly. He rifled through the clothing, searching furiously for a keycard. He took a step back, thinking of what to do next. Then, a nurse entered the room from the bathroom in the back.
“Oh. Hi, I’m Tammy. Are you new?” she asked.
Jake looked down at himself. He had forgotten about the magenta scrubs he was wearing while in the delivery room with Abigail. He made up a story on the fly. “Y-yeah, I’m running a little late and I’m supposed to get into the supply room for a med run. I’m Tony, by the way.”
“I have to switch meds in the west corridor, you sure you know your way around?”
“For the most part. Damn, I left my keycard in the car. I’ll have to go get it.” Jake chose his words carefully to lure in his prey. He motioned towards the hall.
“Wait. I’ll let you in. You can grab your keycard on your break,” Tammy said.
“Thanks!” Jake hoped he didn’t overdo the excitement in his voice. He was nervous. He would break the law in a matter of moments, yet he felt compelled to save his family from the mad politician.
Tammy swiped her keycard across the sensor. A clicking sound reached their ears as the lock unsealed itself to allow their entry. “There you go. See ya later!” She waved and disappeared down the hallway.
I’m in. Jake smiled to himself briefly as he checked the locking mechanism to ensure that the door would not lock on him from the inside. The small room held a variety of glass containers stacked neatly on shelves that bordered the walls. From head to knee, the steel shelves were stacked evenly, giving the supply room a claustrophobic feeling.
Jake browsed the labels, looking for something he could use. Most of the vials carried unfamiliar names and had effects that he was not aware of. Then he spotted vials of a name he recognized as morphine. He grabbed two vials and stuffed them in his jeans pocket, under his scrubs. On the floor, in boxes, were syringes. He grabbed several and exited the room.
The steady drum beat of his heart filled his ears as he marched through the baren halls. High on the wall, as he entered the doctors’ ward, the clock ticked like gun shots. 6:16 p.m. Jake suspected the politician must have been Father Time; there was no other explanation for the blistering speed at which time currently travelled.
Jake circumvented the secretary while she was occupied with a phone call. He found Dr. Willis’s office and entered. The room felt like a loft. The fine, maroon carpet stretched to the wood paneling covering the walls. The spacious area held a large maple desk with a sleek, shiny black PC resting next to pictures of Dr. Willis’s family. A large, plush leather couch sat against the wall adjacent to the desk. Tucked in the opposite corner was a large high-definition television resting neatly on top of a black entertainment center. Even with all the elegant furniture, Jake was astounded that there was so much room left.
He spied the bathroom door standing ajar, opposite the wall with the couch. He entered, careful to leave the door just as he found it, and took out the vials of morphine and the syringes. Penetrating the rubber barrier, Jake drew the silent assassin into both syringes. His heart was a caged gorilla, determined to be set free. For a brief moment, he thought his ribcage had been fractured by the desperate animal.
The flow of time was constant as he stared at his watch. 6:47 p.m.Jake could not wait for the doctor any longer, he would have to search elsewhere. He left his hiding spot and strode to the office door. As his hand fell on the knob he felt it turn. Instinct drove Jake behind the arc of the door. Silently, he pressed himself against the wall. With his eyes pinched shut, Jake prepared himself to be apprehended.
Time slowed down as Jake watched the door swing open halfway. Engrossed in some documents he was flipping through, Willis reached with his left hand to press the door shut. The moment for Jake to strike had presented itself, yet he could not force his hand. He stood frozen with anxiety, staring at the doctor’s back.
Willis’s lavender, collared shirt stood out brightly against the deep burgundy and woodgrain colors of the room. His sleeves were rolled up just below his elbows. Jake noticed the doctor’s neatly pressed dress slacks and matching black loafers.
Jake memorized Willis’s features unwillingly while the struggle inside him took its toll. The choice between his wife and child and this man should not be this difficult, but he could not force his body to comply. The temperature inside him rose to an excruciating level.
He felt time freeze around him, holding the horrific moment for what seemed like eternity. Jake feared when it would return to normal and the doctor discovered him in his wake. He stared at the fabricated weapons he had withdrawn from his pockets. He stuffed one back in. Now was the time. One for the doctor. The other…
Willis turned slowly as he made to sit. Recognition will hit him any moment now. Jake thought. Willis’s eyes panned poderously towards Jake. Willis stumbled back, knocking his chair aside.
“My God, you scared me.” Willis clutched his chest as if to prevent his heart from escaping. A pause. “Wait, you look familiar. Why are you in here?” the doctor said.
Jake stood wide-eyed like a deer frozen in headlights. His heart raced up his throat. Reality snapped back into place and Jake fumbled with his words. “I-I came to speak with you ab—“
The doctor interrupted, “I remember now. You’re Jacob Stone. I am tending to your wife in the ICU. What are you doing in my office?”
Jake took a deep breath. “I…” He looked up at the clock again. 6:59 p.m. The second hand climbed the left side of the clock in a smooth, steady motion. Jake’s time was nearly up.
He surged toward Willis, removing the cap from one of the syringe needles. He raised his arm in a stabbing motion and brought it down swiftly. The doctor pinned himself against the wall. The clock struck 7 p.m.
Chapter 5
STUMBLING FORWARD, LOOKING BACK
Chapter 5 of All Write was submitted by a writer who asked to remain anonymous.
The woman in the bed looked nothing like his sweet Abigail. Her face, disguised by tubes and a mask, swelled like a puffer fish. Gray arcs filled the soft, sagging flesh beneath her eyes. Just this morning, her plump body curved with the outline of the baby she carried. Now Jake could barely make out her figure beneath the lump of covers tossed over her.
Jake allowed guilt to seep in. He had done this to her. He had changed Abigail from the beautiful sprite she was not so long ago to this weathered woman barely hanging on to her life.
He pulled the chair next to the bed and grasped her hand, careful not to dislodge the IV needle. He lay his head on the edge of the bed and caressed her, apologizing in his mind as he remembered the happiness they shared about the birth of this child.
Abigail interrupted the rundown she gave Jake about the goings-on at the house to scold Josiah for leaving his dirty sweatsocks in the kitchen again. She stood over the stove, preparing supper one early spring evening.
“Josiah, that’s gross,” Johanna kicked in her two cents. She lined the bottoms of the flatware on the table with the precision of an obsessive perfectionist.
The preteen boy’s off-color comment earned a flick on the ear from his mother. “Don’t talk to your sister like that, young man. You’re not so old I can’t paddle your butt,” Abigail offered the common threat she never made good on. “And Miss Johanna, you mind your own business.”
Their oldest daughter’s response became lost in the commotion of Jessica inquiring about the supper menu and the twins toddling through the kitchen drumming on mismatched Tupperware containers singing, “Ooooooo, who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Absorbant and yellow and porous is he!”
“We’re having baby shrimp and baby carrots and for dessert we’re having pickles,” Abigail answered over the raucous.
“Pickles!?” Josiah, Johanna and Jessica shrieked in unison.
She flashed a demure, telling smile at Jake, “…and ice cream."
Pickles and ice cream, baby shrimp, baby carrots. Jake didn’t need a rocket scientist to solve her riddle. A long time ago, Jake and Abigail decided to have a house full of children. Both lived empty lives as only children growing up; they craved the laughter and commotion and chaos that accompanied the runny noses, poopy diapers and sibling rivalry. Another baby wasn’t another mouth to feed but rather another joy to welcome.
Oh, Jake could already hear it from his co-workers.
"You knocked up your wife…again?”
“You know what causes that right?”
“You know they invented things that prevent that?”
“How can you afford all those kids?”
Their condemnation of happiness didn’t matter. Jake knew as long as he and Abigail had love in their hearts, they would have room for more children in their home.
Jake grinned, wrapped his arms around Abigail and planted his lips upon hers.
“Oh great,” Josiah’s sarcastic remark to Johanna echoed from the table, “Mom’s pregnant again.”
Jake watched Abigail’s eyes sparkle when he pulled away. He waited for her to zap their eldest son with another snappy comment for being cold to the idea of another sibling.
“Well, I hope it’s a boy,” Johanna said in response. “Because I ain’t sharin’ my room with anyone else.”
The smile Jake and Abigail shared evolved into laughter at the reasoning of their oldest daughter, and the commotion of the evening continued around them.
Time seemed a paradox.
Jake felt like he’d lived a lifetime of sadness in one morning , and yet that happy announcement felt like it happened just yesterday. He wanted that happiness back. He couldn’t let go of the dream they shared for the noisy, blissful family. And he’d be damned to let that life happen without Abigail. Yet, he’d be damned if he did what was required to make her better.
Abigail murmurred. Her body jerked and fluttered in an unconscious spasm and pulled Jake back to the moment. He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the scroll. His hand swept over his wife’s hairline, his lips alit upon her tender cheek.
“I love you,” he whispered. “ And I hope you understand.”
Chapter 4
IT ALL COMES CRASHING DOWN
By TINA SCHUMACHER AND TOM PAGANO
Editor's Note: Chapter four is a combination of two submissions. The first and last part of the chapter was provided by Tina Schumacher. She lives in Lindsay with her husband Russ and four children. She teaches English at St. Francis High School in Humphrey. Tina said she always liked to write and found it especially fun to add her own twist to the developing story on the Daily News' Web site. "It is interesting to see the different angles that a story takes when many different people contribute," she said. "I've done things like this in my classroom, and it is a good exercise in writing, thinking, and imagination."
The middle of the story was provided by Tom Pagano.
Jake shook himself to grasp the reality of the picture he saw on the screen. Was it really Joe? He’d never thought he’d have trouble recognizing one of his own precious children — but to see his Joey’s face on a late-breaking news story running on CNN was surreal, especially with the events of the previous night. He stopped directly in front of the screen and listened to the matter-of-fact voice of Brenda Barnes, one of the many catch-a –story- when- you- can reporters.
“….found wandering alone along a busy stretch of Interstate 80, just outside of Omaha. Luckily he was picked up by a family on their way to Colorado. We all know the dangers this child, who tells us his name is Joe, could have faced. Anyone with news regarding the identity of the child should dial this toll-free number 800-4 A Child. Again that number is 800 422 4453. This line has been established……”
As Jake’s hands shook uncontrollably he tried desperately to dial the number on the screen, but his squatty sausage fingers were suddenly too fat to hit the miniscule buttons on his razor. And inside his head his voice screamed, “What? I don’t understand! What is Joe doing out by himself? Where is Mom? And the rest of my kids? How can I deal with this when Abby lay dying in a room…oh my dear God, Abby…dying…in a room…what room? I don’t even know where she is. I don’t know where anyone is.” Jake had never felt so alone, yet there were people around him everywhere. Hospital noises filled the room where he stood.
Where should he turn for help?
What should he do first?
How can this be happening?
The white noise began to corrode Jake’s eardrums and dilute his thoughts. His eyes locked on the television. Rational thinking escaped him as he felt himself screaming at the freeze frame of his boy holding the Teddy Bear.
Suddenly, the corners of Joe’s eyes rose to a malevolent height as a sinister grin streaked across his face. His facial features slowly melded into that of Jake’s newest nightmare, the ghastly politician. A venomous cackle flew from the lips of the politician, replacing the piercing white noise.
“I am omnipotent, Jake. I see all. Do not force my hand. Heed my instructions and you shall have your wish. Fail and I shall take everything. Do not disappoint me, Jake.”
A talon now gripped the Teddy Bear in the television. With the other talon, the politician tore head from body and tossed it casually. Impossibly, the bear’s head struck Jake in the chest and fell between his knees, the glossy eyes penetrating his soul. He picked up the head, staring absently at it.
The cackling rose again as Jake ground his teeth in despair. A sudden, quick burst of sound exploded, disorienting him. He pinched his eyes shut to combat the pain, but it was over just as soon as it had begun. Jake opened his eyes and found the residents of the waiting room staring at him.
He rushed to the television. He began to press buttons, not knowing what he was looking for. Would he find it again? He didn’t know. Murmurs of confusion and disregard wafted in the room. Jake understood now. He had been the only one to see. Was it a dream? Am I hallucinating? How much of this is real?
Jake held onto the bear’s head with a clenched fist. That much had been real. Did this figure have his Joe? Had it known where to strike? what buttons to press? Jake knew in order to save his family he must comply with the wraith’s wishes.
But where do I start? How do I begin?
Jake relaxed his hold on the bear head. He felt loss and despair. Dropping the stuffed head, he clutched his face in hopelessness. His eyes welled with scalding tears of hate and frustration. He would not shed them. He would not wipe them away.
Then he saw it.
The scrap of paper rolled into a scroll lay, bound by a silky red ribbon, next to the cottony remains of the plush toy. He knelt, grasped the scroll and stood to open it, but the icy cold fingers of death upon his shoulder made him jump with a start.
“I’m sorry Mr. Stone. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
It was a nurse Jake didn’t recognize.
“I spoke your name several times, but you didn’t seem to hear me. My name is Mary, and I’ll be attending to your wife, Abigail for the next twelve hours," she said. "We have her settled comfortably in a room and the doctor would like to speak to you before you go to see her. Please, come with me to the family room just to the left of this corridor and the doctor will be with you in just a few moments. Mr. Stone, is there anyone I can call for you?”
Jake just stared at her through eyes muddied with emotion.
Mary spoke again. “Mr. Stone? Do you understand what I’ve been saying?”
“My son,” Jake spat out at her, “my son Joe . . . I saw him on the news. Abby is alone in a room. I don’t know where my mom and my kids went. No one answers the phone when I call.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Stone, I don’t understand. Your son? On the news?” Mary looked at Jake with gentle concern, and he knew instinctively she was someone he could trust. He quickly told her everything he had heard, without mentioning the politician. Certainly mention of the wraith-politician would land him in a straight-jacket.
Mary had her supervisor at the nurses’ station call the number that was given on CNN and to find out all the information that they could about the situation with the little boy found on the Interstate. She also made arrangements for another nurse to take over her care of Abby for the time being. She then walked Joe to the family room, got him a cup of coffee, and sat with him until Dr. Willis came to the room to discuss Abby’s prognosis.
“Mr. Stone, I’m Ted Willis, and I’ll be Abigail’s doctor, unless there is someone you would like to call in for her case.”
“I don’t know whom I’d call,” Jake muttered, almost to himself. His fingers fumbled the scroll he stuffed in his pocket.
Dr. Willis proceeded, carefully choosing his words. “Mr. Stone, your wife and daughter are both alive, but both of them are barely hanging on at this point. The baby is on a ventilator and she is very small, only four and a half pounds. But her size isn’t her biggest problem, it is her heart — she has a weak heartbeat and it is very erratic. We will need to take some pictures of her heart to know if there is a problem with the way it developed.”
Jake just looked at the doctor, his eyes looking not unlike those of a deer about to be shot. “And Abigail?”
“Well, Mr. Stone, Abigail is breathing on her own, but she is non responsive at this point. She is not comatose, but she is a close as one can get without actually being there. We will need to run some tests, take some pictures of her brain, and see if there is any internal bleeding that will need to be dealt with as soon as possible. The nurse will bring you the forms to sign, giving us consent to perform the necessary tests and to treat both Abigail and the baby as necessary. I am sorry, Mr. Stone, but I’m afraid I have very little good news for you at this point. After we run the tests, I’ll come back and hopefully I’ll have something better to offer you at that point.”
With that, the doctor left and Jake was once again very alone. Again, he prayed aloud, but this time he was angry and he let God have it. “What have I done? Why is this happening to my family? I work my fingers to the bone trying to support the children you have given us! I am faithful to my wife—I never so much as think about any other women! Why is this happening?” And he dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. Through the tears he softened and when he spoke again, it was with humility. “God, please, don’t take them now.” He got down on his knees and lay his head on the cushion of the sofa and allowed the tears to flow freely.
Mary entered the family room and spoke his name softly. “Mr. Stone? Mr. Stone, I have news about your son and I think it is time you go see your wife and daughter.”
Trembling, Jake pushed the scroll deeper into his pocket and nodded.
Chapter 3
NO NEWS IS BAD NEWS
By DORIS MARKLAND
Editor's Note: Doris Markland, an Iowa native who moved to Norfolk in 1963, is married with three children, five grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren. She and her husband, Gene, will celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary this summer. In her years as a stay-at-home mom, Doris began writing verse for greeting cards and was published by companies like Hallmark Cards and eventually became a special assignment writer.Later in life, she is once again writing. In the past year, she has had articles in Good Old Days and Plus magazines, and her light verse appears periodically in The Saturday Evening Post (see January and July 08 issues, Post Scripts page) and Mature Living magazine. Doris said she does not write fiction, but gave the All Write challenge a try . . just for the novelty of it.
“What you want me to do?” He was mumbling when the shift changed and a fresh young man in faded scrubs leaned down near him.
“Here, man, let’s get you up off that floor. Rough night, huh?”
Jake shook off the disorientation and thanked him. He wandered down the hall to a public restroom. Leaning over the sink, throwing handfuls of water onto his burning eyes, he flashed back to brief glimpses of an outlandish form with a strange face.
Reagan? Ye gads, dreams do strange things. Maybe the election had been on his mind when he fell asleep.
He raised his head and winced into the mirror at the dripping stubble, tinged with gray. Startled by the depth of his own tired eyes, he remembered the rest of the dream. Still standing, staring, he acknowledged the test. It must be a test of some sort.
“Would I?” The sound of his voice in the empty restroom echoed against the cold walls. “Do I love my family enough to kill for them? Do I love Abigail enough to kill for her?”
Killing was not in Jake’s blood. A good son from a large Sunday-going family, he had never even been in a fight -- except the kind of scuffles that roll brothers in dirt and dust them off with grins.
And guns?
They were for geese and pheasants, ducks and deer. In just that way he had, he realized, killed for his family. In fact, his freezer was full.
Now, he turned and almost ran back to where he’d left Abigail, but when he opened the door it was to an empty room.
“They took her up to the big surgery unit,” said the woman who had quietly followed him and now looked in, one hand curved around the door jamb. “There wasn’t time . . you understand . . . it was an emergency.”
She turned to leave, and then swiveled in again. “And, sir . . I believe there’s a message for you at the desk, right out here.”
The kids. It had to be the kids. But why didn’t they just call him on his cell phone?
Must be Grandma. She doesn’t trust cell phones.
Well, she has a point, Jake thought. He took the slim Razr out of his shirt pocket and hit #1 to speed dial the house. Yes, home was #1 to Jake, and he always felt his connection with it the moment he touched the button. Waiting for an answer he pictured Johanna and Jessica, hair brushes in hand, vying to see who could reach it first and curly-haired Joe, flashing by in Superman pajamas, bare feet on wood, screaming, “Me . . me . . it’s for me,” as if he ever had a phone call.
Jake snapped the phone shut, opened, and then tried it again. This time he dialed the number with his finger, starting with the area code and punching with authority.
Damn phones, he thought, and guessed he didn’t trust them either. But on this and subsequent calls there was no answer. Maybe his mom had piled all the kids into her car and gone to her house, though he couldn’t imagine why. So he punched #2 and waited, growing more and more uneasy.
No answer.
Now, what to do? He walked down the hall to the general waiting room for obstetrics and glanced about at the expectant faces that turned to him when he entered.
Sorry, he thought, no baby news from me. No baby news for me either.
And then he froze.
The blaring television tilting down from the high corner of the room had become a blur, its sound stretched to a loud buzzing roar that echoed through his head, its picture stopped on the frame that held his Joe, his little curly-headed Joe, just standing there in his Superman pajamas, a teddy bear dangling from his right hand.
Chapter 2:
THE DEAL
By ANGELO KOYZIS
Editor's Note: Angelo Koyzis is majoring in English/creative writing at Wayne State College and plans to pursue a Master of Fine Arts. He hopes to teach creative writing at a two- or four-year college. He was born in Iowa and moved to Wisconsin as a toddler. After graduating from high school in 2005, he followed his parents to Norfolk. Angelo said he has been interested in writing since he was a "little kid."
"I would always write ghost stories and work it out so my friends were the main characters. When a teacher read one of these stories to my third-grade class, my classmates loved it and asked me to write more stories that included them. Since then my parents and teachers have encouraged me to pursue my interest in writing," he said.
Jake admitted to praying out loud only two other times in his life: The day his father walked out and the day his best friend died. He sank against the wall outside the delivery room, covered his salty eyes with a hand and added a third time to that list. He inhaled deeply, the sharp scent of sterilized corridors chafing at his sinuses. Behind his eyelids Jake saw blood-spattered fireworks and the horrific livelihoods of an unwritten future.
“Please. God,” he whispered. His face was a battleground of emotional intensity. Contorted in a terrific sob, he bowed his head in reverence toward the higher power of desperation and a hope for divine intervention.
“Don’t let my wife and child die,” he begged. The tears of grown men had always filled Jake with disdain. But the tremors that wracked his slouched frame were uncontrollable and his shoulders shook with each gasping breath. The lights began to flicker and the sounds of the hospital dissolved into silence. Then darkness. Deep and disconcerting.
“God?” he croaked, a mix of confusion and wonder swimming in his words.
When the lights returned Jake was still in a hospital, but with his back to a cold stone wall he was faced with a seemingly endless hallway illuminated by unreliable tube lights that flickered erratically. Silence soaked the disconcerting new interior. Jake slowly began to climb to his feet when he heard the clap of footsteps on the weathered tile floor. A shadowy figure gradually emerged from the darkness, with the broad shoulders and gait of a man with unprecedented height and stature.
The man wore a white collared dress shirt with a sharp black tie under a black suit coat. A matching white handkerchief protruded elegantly from his breast pocket and he reminded Jake of a well dressed businessman on his way to a funeral.
The hypnotic clacking of the superfluously polished Oxford shoes on the approaching man were unsettling enough in the darkened solitude, but as the figure emerged under the sputtering hall light, Jake felt the chill of emotional ice cubes down the buttons of his spine. The comically exaggerated face of former president Ronald Reagan beamed atop the well dressed being. Like an overgrown trick-or-treater wearing a newly bought mask, the sight filled Jake’s gut with fear like swallowed shards of broken glass.
The synthetic skin jiggled and streaks of light were reflected off the permanently plastered hairdo of the 40th president of the United States. For a split second Jake felt he was sure this was all an elaborate hoax. Then he saw the hands. They were the hands of a dead man. The chalky bones of each finger were visible under the decaying strands of flesh and connective tissue like a corpse.
Jake stood his ground, silent and patient. With each breath his pulse was an explosive detonation in his eardrums.
“Hello Jake. You do not know me, but I know you very well,” said the masked man. His voice was distorted and unnatural, like a vocoder or voice synthesizer. It was muffled by the mask but Jake heard the hollowed out digital words clearly.
“Where are my wife and baby?”
“You’re wife is on the verge of death. Your unborn daughter is undersized and weakly clinging to the strands of life. Like the rest of her body, her heart is too small to beat freely. And as you know, nothing is free Jake.”
Desperately Jake reached for his wallet in his back pocket. But there was nothing there. His blue jeans were completely empty and his throat constricted in the realization that even after all the years of scratching in the dirt and scheming for a better life, his pockets were still empty. Like a rat trapped in a corner, his mind raced feebly for an escape route.
“I don’t have my money on me. Let me see them and then I’ll take you to the nearest ATM.”
Distorted laughter echoed down the dimly lit hall as the façade of the Commander in Chief laughed in a mutated tone.
“Oh that’s hilarious. Dramatic irony,” the man managed between fits of laughter. “But it’s not money I’m after. Quite the contrary, come to think of it. No I’m out to finance the economic progress of suffering. All for the betterment of mankind. To prove a point, if you will.”
“Anything. Name your price and it’s yours. Just don’t hurt my family,” Jake said.
“Then do as I say and you will earn the blood of the innocent. Disregard my instructions and your wife and child will die.”
“No. Please.”
“I want you to shed innocent blood in the name of financial sacrifice.”
“What?”
“Kill. In the name-”
“I heard you. But why?”
“Because she is unwell, Jake.” The being motioned toward his outstretched palm. The fetal form of a premature baby girl appeared. Cupped in skeletal fingers, the miniscule infant lay blood-stained and shriveled. She trembled and her diminutive lips struggled to open under glossy amniotic fluids. Instead of the shriek of a newborn, she spoke in the voice of his wife, the sound of which jolted his nerves with electricity at the familiar voice.
“Please Jake. Help us.”
“Abigail!”
“Daddy,” the baby whispered.
“No!” Jake screamed as he rushed toward the masked creature.
“That’s close enough,” replied the suit and tie clad individual. With the wave of his bony hand the baby was gone. Without the slightest touch from the ghostly figure Jake was thrown backward. As he landed Jake felt a searing pain and swore he saw his breath spark from his lips as it was forced out of him.
“Don’t hurt them,” Jake coughed. He saw the tube lights blinking above his head and his mind swam in a sea of pain and disbelief. “God please. God,” he whimpered, slowly crawling toward the gleaming cap toes and looming shadows.
“In God we trust? Isn’t that the way it’s said? And isn’t it also known as the source of all evil? Which begs the question, in whom do you trust Jake?”
“Please. There must be another way.”
“Financial hunger soaked in blood, quite the metaphor if I do say so myself.”
“I’m not a murder, please anything but that.”
“I’m not a murderer either Jake. I’m just telling you how it is. Either you agree to offer this sacrificial payment or your unborn daughter will choke on her own-”
“No! Stop, please stop. I’ll do it. Okay, okay. What is it you want me to do?
Chapter 1
Jake Stone would never be comfortable watching his wife endure pain. He certainly took no pleasure from it. Standing beside her, coaching her throughout the births of their five children was his duty as a husband. In the midst of labor with the sixth, he thought he could feel a fraction of her agony.
Abigail snickered and told him no man alive – not even her sweet, loving mate of 15 years – would be able to bear the pain of childbirth.
But that was before the contractions made her stop caring about her appearance, before she told him they would, under no circumstances, share the same bed again. Jake took her words as seriously as any uttered by a woman whose insides were bearing down to expel a slimy, basketball-sized bundle of joy. He recalled her delivering a similar threat when Josiah was born…and Johanna and Jessica and Joseph and Jason. But the fact that they were back in the delivery room proved his wife was either a liar or a fool.
Having been formed from the same cast, Jake knew it was the latter. After all, he owned partial responsibility for putting his wife back into this painful situation, where the light-hearted conversations about hopes and dreams for their sixth child faded into long intervals of breathless anguish.
He thought Abigail would have given birth by now. He had been under the impression that the more children a woman had, the shorter the labor became. Up until this baby, that had been the case.
Jake couldn’t push from his mind the gnawing unease that something was amiss this time. Abigail’s color had faded to pale ash, and her words slurred and made little sense. The nurse who gave him constant updates on effacement percentages and dilation measurements told him not to worry.
Strong painkillers and intense situations can make people say crazy things, she reassured him. But Stadol and pain never affected her in such a way during the births of their other children.
Holding her hand, helping her breathe through another painful contraction, Jake forced the concerns to the back of his mind. He watched the line on the monitor crest. The strength with which she wrenched his stout fingers gauged her pain. Numbness filled his fingertips; this was the worst so far.
When the spasm ebbed, he swept the sweaty, black hair from her brow and watched her dark, beautiful eyes close. The short cycles of sleep she managed between contractions provided little rest. In his mind, he traded places with her so she could fall into that realm of subdued lucidity. It didn’t work that way in reality, though.
He forced an understanding smile when her eyes opened again, but his expression quickly turned to confusion and fear at the words that tumbled from her mouth.
“What’s mama doin’ here?” Abigail whispered.
Jake’s forehead creased at the bizarre question: Abigail’s mother had been dead for ten years. His head turned the direction of her outstretched hand, but when it fell like dead weight against her swollen body, Jake’s focus shot back to her. Her eyelids collapsed like heavy, steel doors and alarms blared in the sterile delivery room.
Four nurses charged through the door and toward the bed where Abigail lay. Moments later, a doctor joined them and barked urgent orders that made little sense to Jake.
Defibrilator.
Crash cart.
Epinephrine.
“What’s happening?” Jake heard his own voice, but it felt like someone outside his body spoke. He didn’t recognize his own diction.
A firm hand rested upon his shoulder, steering him out of the room. “Please come with me, Mr. Stone.” The woman’s voice, a tightly coiled ball of empathy and sobriety, did little to distract him from the rampant chaos surrounding his wife and unborn son. “You need to let us take care of your wife.”
In a daze, Jake stepped backward until his body no longer shared the room with Abigail and the strangers who held her life and the life of their child in their hands. The heavy door slammed shut in front of him, and he watched them keep her earthbound through a small rectangular window.
Jake admitted to praying out loud only two other times in his life: The day his father walked out and the day his best friend died. He sank against the wall outside the delivery room, covered his salty eyes with a hand and added a third time to that list.
