The Dead Man: Ring of Knives

walls. In the middle of the left wall was a closed metal door. At the foot of the center wall was a mattress with a crumpled sheet on it. And in the middle of the right wall was Jesse, acting nuts.

A thick, dark horizontal band of static rose slowly from the bottom of the screen to the top. When it passed, the monitor showed a bearded Jesse in pajama bottoms and white T-shirt, standing against a wall on his tiptoes, like a ballerina en pointe. He was pressing the tops of his fists against the underside of his jaw. His eyes were clenched shut. He had white bandages plastered over his nose and his right hand, where Dindren had munched him, apparently. It was hard to read his expression from the downward angle, but he didn't look happy. His mouth was moving, but no sounds came out.

Was he talking or singing to himself? Matt couldn't tell. He adjusted the volume, but all he heard was the soft roar of static.

On the monitor, Jesse sank to his heels, then stood on his tiptoes again. Then did it again. And again. His eyes never opened. His mouth worked silently.

What am I seeing? Matt wondered. Is he having some kind of fit—or just goofing around? Maybe having a bad reaction to his meds?

Matt hit the 'rewind' button.

The fat horizontal line of static appeared again, this time scrolling quickly from the top of the screen to the bottom. When it was gone, Matt watched as Jesse dropped quickly into a sitting position and flung out his arms, flattening them against the wall Jesus-like. Now his mouth was mashed shut, but his eyes were wide open: and not just normal wide open, but crazy wide open, like the eyes of Rasputin or Charles Manson or the bald wack job that shot that senator in Arizona.

As the rewinding continued, Jesse quickly began scooting on his butt—arms still stretched cruciform—down the right-hand wall to the corner, then halfway across the central wall, until he was sitting on the mattress with the crumpled sheet. There he stopped. Mouth still clenched shut, bug eyes still watching the left wall, where there was nothing to see but a closed door.

Insane, Matt thought, and the word gave him a chill. If this was what Rotting Jack had done to Jesse Weston, how long would it be before Mr. Dark had the same effect on—

He saw something.

'What the hell?'

On the grainy screen, the door in the left wall had quickly swung open, then shut. Now that it was shut, Jesse slumped suddenly into a sleeping position on the mattress.

Matt's heart started to pound. What had he just seen?

He hit 'pause,' then 'fast forward.'

Jesse sleeping on the mattress. The door in the left wall swinging open. The door swinging closed. When it closed, Jesse jerking upright, eyes widening, hands flattening against the wall.

. . . the fuck?

Matt's mind raced. Maybe the door was unlocked, had just opened on its own, and then an air current shut it. Or maybe—much more likely—someone in the hall was trying to freak out Jesse.

He rewound it again, and this time hit 'play.'

When the door swung open in real time, he watched carefully to see if he could glimpse someone opening it. But the angle of the camera didn't allow it to see out into the hall.

Must be someone out there, Matt thought. Unlock the door and kick it open—that'd be easy enough—they'd probably yelled at Jesse, or taunted him, then . . .

Then how did they close the door, once it was open?

Rewind. Play.

This time, Matt watched to see if he could see a string attached to the door. He stepped closer, so that his eyes were just ten inches from the monitor.

Jesse sleeping.

Door swings open quickly, forcefully. No accident.

Matt stared. He couldn't see a string. That didn't mean there wasn't one.

Then the door, all the way open, swings all the way shut.

Jesse jerks awake, disoriented, sits up, looks towards the closed door.

Then—and only then—do Jesse's eyes flip open.

Then—and only then—does his mouth clamp shut.

Then—and only then—do his arms flatten against the wall.

Matt's heart thudded in his chest as he watched Jesse, in real time, press himself against the wall, chin lifted, eyes locked on nothing, and begin backpedaling with his feet, shoving himself into the corner, around it, and halfway down the right-hand wall.

There he stopped, his big eyes got bigger, and his hands clutched in fists at his throat.

Then he stood quickly, eyes shut, mouth wide open.

This was the point in the tape where Matt had started viewing. Only now he could tell that Jesse wasn't talking. He was screaming.

Tiptoes, heels. Tiptoes, heels. Tiptoes, heels.

What was Jesse doing?

Tiptoes . . . Tiptoes . . .

Suddenly, Jesse's toes left the floor.

Matt gasped, eyes glued, as Jesse slid up the wall.

Stayed there . . . three feet above the floor. Still clutching his throat. Still screaming.

Then he slid—fast—horizontally, into the corner, where he crashed into the center wall.

Matt backed up, holding his hands out in front of him, as if to ward off the sight of Jesse sliding up, faster now, to crash into the ceiling, then roll onto it, his back and arms and legs spread-eagled against it, and then and only then did the TV's sound kick in, just for a second, blaring way too loud Jesse's scream of terror—

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!' . . . as he slid across the ceiling on his back, straight into the camera—

The screen went black.

'Oh . . . my . . . God.'

Matt's panic increased as he suddenly smelled something overpowering, like a body left out in the heat for a week.

Sudden knowledge: he wasn't alone in the room. He was sure of it.

Matt spun around, his heart pounding triple time.

No one there.

At least, no one he could see. But where was that awful smell coming from? Mr. Dark? Or just a whiff of his own sweat?

He turned back to the TV/VCR. He banged the 'eject' button, pulled out the video gingerly, like it was radioactive, and dropped it into his rucksack. His knees felt weak. How the hell was he supposed to deal with something that could do that? He didn't have a chance. Had no idea what he was dealing with.

His heart was lunging in his chest; his hands shook as bad as Dindren's.

Dindren . . .

Ten seconds later he had shoved his rucksack in a closet, grabbed a mop, and was out the door making a beeline for Module Two.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dindren looked up as Matt entered his cell, and licked his chapped lips. 'In the interest of full disclosure: I can't promise you that I don't have any blood-borne pathogens.'

'Cut it out.' Matt shut the door behind him.

'Also, as a courtesy, if you could use an aloe-based exfoliant on your right hand, it'll go better for both of us in