Dennis Lehane - Shutter Island

“That’s us,” Chuck said. “Ha ha.”

“Ha fucking ha,” the guard said.

Teddy pointed back at him and said, “You got us, pal,” and turned up the stairs. “You really got our number.”

The idiot’s laughter trailed them up the stairs.

At the first landing, they paused. They faced a great hall with an arched ceiling of hammered copper, a dark floor polished to mirror gloss. Teddy knew he could throw a baseball or one of Chuck’s apples from the landing and not reach the other side of the room. It was empty and the gate facing them was ajar, and Teddy felt mice scurry along his ribs as he stepped into the room because it reminded him of the room in his dream, the one where Laeddis had offered him a drink and Rachel had slaughtered her children. It was hardly the same room—the one in his dream had had high windows with thick curtains and streams of light and a parquet floor and heavy chandeliers—but it was close enough.

Chuck clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Teddy felt beads of sweat pop out along the side of his neck.

“I repeat,” Chuck whispered with a weak smile, “this is too easy. Where’s the guard on that gate? Why isn’t it locked?”

Teddy could see Rachel, wild-haired and shrieking, as she ran through the room with a cleaver.

“I don’t know.”

Chuck leaned in and hissed in his ear. “This is a setup, boss.”

Teddy began to cross the room. His head hurt from the lack of sleep. From the rain. From the muffled shouting and running feet above him. The two boys and the little girl had held hands, looking over their shoulders. Trembled.

Teddy could hear the singing patient again: “…you take one down, pass it around, fifty-four bottles of beer on the wall.”

They flashed before his eyes, the two boys and that girl, swimming through the swimming air, and Teddy saw those yellow pills Cawley had placed in his hand last night, felt a slick of nausea eddy in his stomach.

“Fifty-four bottles of beer on the wall, fifty-four bottles of beer…”

“We need to go right back out, Teddy. We need to leave. This is bad. You can feel it, I can feel it.”

At the other end of the hall, a man jumped into the doorway.

He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of white pajama bottoms. His head was shaved, but the rest of his features were impossible to see in the dim light.

He said, “Hi!”

Teddy walked faster.

The man said, “Tag! You’re it!” and bolted from the doorway.

Chuck caught up with Teddy. “Boss, for Christ’s sake.”

He was in here. Laeddis. Somewhere. Teddy could feel him.

They reached the end of the hall and were met with a wide stone landing and a stairwell that curved down steeply into darkness, another that rose toward the shouting and the chattering, all of it louder now, and Teddy could hear snaps of metal and chains. Heard someone shout, “Billings! All right now, boy! Just calm down! Nowhere to run. Hear?”

Teddy heard someone breathing beside him. He turned his head to the left, and the shaven head was an inch from his own.

“You’re it,” the guy said and tapped Teddy’s arm with his index finger.

Teddy looked into the guy’s gleaming face.

“I’m it,” Teddy said.

“’Course, I’m so close,” the guy said, “you could just flick your wrist and I’d be it again and then I could flick mine and you’d be it and we could go on like that for hours, all day even, we could just stand here turning each other into it, over and over, not even break for lunch, not even break for dinner, we could just go on and on.”

“What fun would that be?” Teddy said.

“You know what’s out there?” The guy gestured with his head in the direction of the stairs. “In the sea?”

“Fish,” Teddy said.

“Fish.” The guy nodded. “Very good. Fish, yes. Lots of fish. But, yes, fish, very good, fish, yes, but also, also? Subs. Yeah. That’s right. Soviet submarines. Two hundred, three hundred miles off our coast. We hear that, right? We’re told. Sure. And we get used to the idea. We forget, really. I mean, ‘Okay, there are subs. Thanks for the info.’ They become part of our daily existence. We know they’re there, but we stop thinking about it. Okay? But there they are and they’re armed with rockets. They’re pointing them at New York and Washington. At Boston. And they’re out there. Just sitting. Does that ever bother you?”

Teddy could hear Chuck beside him taking slow breaths, waiting for his cue.

Teddy said, “Like you said, I choose not to think about it too much.”

“Mmm.” The guy nodded. He stroked the stubble on his chin. “We hear things in here. You wouldn’t think so, right? But we do. A new guy comes in, he tells us things. The guards talk. You orderlies, you talk. We know, we know. About the outside world. About the H-bomb tests, the atolls. You know how a hydrogen bomb works?”

“With hydrogen?” Teddy said.

“Very good. Very clever. Yes, yes.” The guy nodded several times. “With hydrogen, yes. But, also, also, not like any other bombs. You drop a bomb, even an atom bomb, it explodes. Right? Right you are. But a hydrogen bomb, it implodes. It falls in on itself and goes through a series of internal breakdowns, collapsing and collapsing. But all that collapsing? It creates mass and density. See, the fury of its own self-destruction creates an entirely new monster. You get it? Do you? The bigger the breakdown, then the bigger the destruction of self, then the more potent it becomes. And then, okay, okay? Fucking blammo ! Just…bang, boom, whoosh. In its absence of self, it spreads. Creates an ex plosion off of its im plosion that is a hundred times, a thousand times, a million times more devastating than any bomb in history. That’s our legacy. And don’t you forget it.” He tapped Teddy’s arm several times, light taps, as if playing a drumbeat with his fingers. “You’re it! To the tenth degree. Hee!”

He leapt down the dark stairwell and they heard him shouting “Blammo” all the way down.

“…forty-nine bottles of beer! You take one down…”

Teddy looked over at Chuck. His face was damp, and he exhaled carefully through his mouth.

“You’re right,” Teddy said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Now you’re talking.”

It came from the top of the stairwell:

“Somebody give me a fucking hand here! Jesus!”

Teddy and Chuck looked up and saw two men coming down the stairs in a ball. One wore guard blues, the other patient whites, and they slammed to a stop at the curve in the staircase on the widest stair. The patient got a hand free and dug it into the guard’s face just below his left eye and pulled a flap of skin free, and the guard screamed and wrenched his head back.

Teddy and Chuck ran up the steps. The patient’s hand plunged down again, but Chuck grabbed it at the wrist.

The guard wiped at his eye and smeared blood down to his chin. Teddy could hear all four of them take breaths, hear the distant beer-bottle song, that patient on forty-two now, rounding the corner for forty-one, and then he saw the guy below him rear up with his mouth wide open, and he said, “Chuck, watch it,” and slammed the heel of his hand into the patient’s forehead before he could take a bite out of Chuck’s wrist.

“You got to get off him,” he said to the guard. “Come on. Get off.”

The guard freed himself of the patient’s legs and scrambled back up two steps. Teddy came over the patient’s body and clamped down hard on his shoulder, pinning it to the stone, and he looked back over his shoulder at Chuck, and the baton sliced between them, cut the air with a hiss and a whistle, and broke the patient’s nose.