'Better the devil you know, huh?'
Dipes tapped on the rail of Freeman's bed.
A couple of guys were talking across the aisle. One of them snickered.
'Tell us what happens,' Freeman said to Dipes. 'What you see.'
'I don't know what the deadscape is, all I know is there's a white door in the floor. And the door swings open, and it's real bright, and all these people pour out and their eyes are crazy and they want to get us-'
'Calm down,' Freeman said.
'They're people, but they don't have no bodies. They scream, but their lips don't move. And we start dying. And I'm scared.'
Freeman fought off an urge to hug Dipes and comfort the little guy. The only way to survive this thing was to worry only about himself, numero uno; the budget Clint Eastwood a.k.a. the Kid, starring as The Man With No Name in his most insensitive role ever. Because the future was looking pretty bleak, even from the spiderhole view of a manic depressive.
Whatever he'd seen in the deadscape was more than just a triptrap illusion, and couldn't be explained away by screwed-up brain chemistry and misaligned neurons. Whatever walked down there was real. He believed without a doubt Dipes could see the future. At Wendover, everything was now believable, even the impossible.
Especially the impossible.
Isaac pulled his sheet over his head and made 'whoooh' noises in imitation of a ghost. He lifted the sheet and stared at Freeman and Dipes, his face made eerie by the blue lighting. 'Okay, let me get this straight. You're trying to tell me a bunch of restless spirits are living in the basement-I mean, are dying in the basement. And they're going to crawl out of the floor and do bad stuff to us. Okay, I'll buy that, since we all know that ghosts do bad stuff because they're jealous of us breathers and-'
'Isaac, you talk way too much.' Freeman wished they would go to sleep so he could be alone with his thoughts of Vicky. He'd had enough doom and gloom for one day.
To Dipes, he said, 'When does this door of yours open?'
'I can see the future, but I ain't learned to tell time yet.'
'Guys,' said Isaac. 'Ghosts aren't real. And nobody knows the future but God.'
'What are you fuckwits talking about?' It was Army Jacket, who had crept out from the shadows.
Freeman felt brave in his despair, so he said, 'Where's your buddy?'
'What buddy?'
'Deke.'
Army Jacket's eyes were black as beetles. 'He ran away. He could blow this joint any time he wanted to.'
'Sure. And he didn't invite you to run away with him. A goon like him needs a brainless sidekick. It's hard to picture Deke out there in the real world, getting by on his wits.'
'Don't be a smartass.'
'Somebody around here better be smart. Because we're in trouble.'
'What the hell is this 'ghost' stuff?'
'Ghosts are what got Deke. Down in me basement.'
'Bullshit. That's baby crap.'
Dipes stuttered in the presence of his tormentor, but managed to say, 'Wuh-we had those treatments. Now we can see through the walls.'
Army Jacket snickered. 'I had me treatment, too, and I'm not crazy yet. Unless they're giving you some pills or something. If they are, I want some.'
'Ghosts aren't real,' Isaac said.
'Oh, yeah?' Freeman said, pointing to the wall on the far side of the dorm. 'Try telling her that.'
Against the painted cinder blocks, flickering like the image cast by an old film projector, the woman without eyes smiled her dead smile.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Bondurant stepped back from the window. Dawn was still an hour away, and he knew he'd be unable to sleep until the sun rose. No matter how much he drank.
Since fleeing the basement, he'd wandered the halls of Wendover, flashlight in hand, trying to forget what he'd seen. Or what he thought he'd seen. The memories were blurred now, softened by Kentucky bourbon and that trick of the night that allowed you to delude yourself.
Now he was checking out the dark rooms on the second floor where classes and group sessions were held. All the rooms were empty.
No, not empty. The stink of something strange clung to the shadows, and a couple of times he'd seen movement from the corners of his eyes. But when he turned his head, the fluttering shapes evaporated.
Bondurant sat in one of a circle of chairs and flipped off the flashlight to save batteries. He closed his eyes and felt for the chair beside him. Kids sat here and tried to solve their problems, trapped in this evil church of psychology, with an overly educated counselor serving as minister. If Bondurant had his way, the little sinners would bend in prayer instead, talking to God instead of each other.
Bondurant felt for the flask in his coat pocket, pulled it out and twisted the lid free. He held the flask in the air.
'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,' he said. The words bounced off the cinder block walls.
He put the flask to his lips, tasting the sting of liquor around the rim. He drank, but only a few drops remained. He pushed his tongue against his teeth and took a deep breath. Wendover's air was full of dust and dead things.
The bourbon was gone. He was alone.
'I don't have a problem,' he said to the dark room.
That's what they always say. He'd read enough case files to know that even young children could become alcoholics. But Bondurant wasn't an alcoholic. Alcoholics had problems with drinking, and he had no problems. He occasionally sinned, but his sins were forgiven because someone had died for them. Someone else's blood had washed those sins away.
The solution was so simple that he could never understand why the psychological establishment didn't embrace it with joy.
His head swam too much to wrap completely around the angry thought and he slumped in his chair. This was his church, he realized. Not a church in the way the Baptists built them, strong and expensive, like military bunkers. This was a mental church, standing under a steeple of his own solitude and power.
Out there, in the real world, he was nothing but a suit and a handshake. Even at his expensive home in Deer Run Estates, he was just a shadow passing between the furniture, no more substantial than the photograph of his ex-wife that rested on the mantel. Here at Wendover, he was important. He had value. He was admired and appreciated, even loved.
Loved by the weak, and by those he tried to lead to salvation. Those who sat in this circle of chairs.
His group.
Lost in the blackness.
'What would Jesus do?' he asked the silence. No one answered. Some group this was. You come in expecting to be understood but all you got were stupid stares.
He spoke louder now, a preacher at the lectern. 'Jesus would say, 'Take another drink,' mat's what Jesus would say.'
'Sounds good to me,' came a voice from the darkness.
Bondurant shuddered himself alert, thinking he'd drifted into unconsciousness. 'Who said that?'
'Me,' said the voice.
Bondurant's hand trembled around the flashlight. He put his thumb on the switch, but was afraid to see the thing that had spoken. It was a female voice, calm and doomed and coming from a chair across the circle. He
