L.L. Foster - The Awakening

A light glimmered for an instant before snuffing out.

Ah. A tease. A taunt.

The doctor didn't realize that God guided her through such ridiculous stunts. True surroundings seldom entered into her navigation. She moved by premonition and divine persuasion.

Grasping the knife tightly in her hand. Gaby went toward the light with anticipation.

Like a trail of bread crumbs, the nictitating illumination drew her out of the large room and down a broad corridor. Gaby's every step wrought a screech of protest from warped, moldered flooring. Like thready tentacles, cobwebs reached out to her face, sticking to her hair, tangling in her eyelashes.

A thick haze of dust choked her nostrils.

There, at the end of the corridor, a narrow line of light near the floor indicated an illuminated room beyond the door.

Gaby saw only a trap.

Whoever had led her here did not want her to reach that room.

Feeling behind and to the right of her, she verified clearance, flattened herself to the wall, and waited for proof of her suspicions.

Seconds later, a rush of wind passed close to her face as someone tried to attack her with a thick, blunt weapon.

Perfect.

So fluid it was imperceptible, Gaby countered the missed attack with a rapid slash of her knife. She kept the thrust agile, clean, meaning to wound, but without throwing herself off balance.

Her aim was perfect.

The blade sank home in spongy flesh, caught for a single breath of time against muscle and sinew, and then sliced a slick path before breaking free.

The deep gouge spilled forth a flood of blood, filling the air with the acrid scent of death. It spurted into the air, over Gaby and the walls and into those annoying cobwebs.

Shock sucked the air from her victim, then gave strength to a horrified, high-pitched scream that spurred hair-raising wails from others close by.

The corridor exploded with weak howls and pain-filled shrieks, overlaid with the thumping of heavy furniture and metallic clashes reminiscent of the raucous, fearful frenzy of animals caged in a zoo.

Doing her best to tune out the disturbing caterwauling, Gaby sidled down the wall several feet and went stock-still.

She trained her ears on the quieter sounds, the whisper of a small movement and the hushed rush of painful breathing.

The approach of evil.

Energy moved past her to the door where most of the noise emerged. As it pushed open, light spilled into the corridor.

Gaby opened her eyes and, with God's guidance, she faced the bogeyman.

Deep in the woods, mud clinging to his shoes, sweat and humidity gluing his shirt to his spine, Luther flicked the flashlight beam around the area. Swarms of mosquitoes followed the light, hungry for new blood. As far as he could see, tree trunks loomed like endless specters in the dank night. Eerie silence, but for the sounds of crawling creatures, mocked him.

He had to admit he'd gotten lost. "Damn it, Mort," he whispered low, "where did you go?"

Beside him, Ann breathed heavily and for the fifth time asked, "Are you absolutely certain we're on the right track, Luther?"

"Yes." He wasn't, not anymore, but he said, "I saw him come this way. I'm sure of it."

"There's nothing here," she complained. "Only poison ivy, hungry insects, and—"

Horrific screams carried through the woods, piercing the silence, rustling the brittle leaves.

The fine hairs on Luther's nape rose.

Beside him, Ann whispered, "Dear God in heaven."

Gaby . Luther shoved Ann behind him. "Backup should be here soon. Call in, then wait."

"Forget it. You're not leaving me here alone." She tangled a fist in the back of his shirt.

Luther didn't argue with her. Holding the flashlight out front, he broke into a run. He tripped twice over twining roots, taking Ann down with him. On his way back up, he cut his elbow on something disgustingly wet.

"Go," Ann said, reassuring him in the least amount of words that she was okay.

"Keep up." Losing sight of Morty was his first mistake—an error that could prove fatal. He didn't want to put Ann at risk, too.

As she hustled along behind him, Luther heard her talking into her radio. In the center of the dense woods, the cells couldn't get reception.

Crashing through the underbrush, shoving aside spindly tree limbs, he moved as fast as he dared. It no longer mattered if Mort knew he'd been followed. It no longer mattered if Gaby might be guilty.

Guilty or innocent, he wanted her alive.

In the distance, he heard the sirens of approaching cars. Almost at the same time, an awful stench, one he'd smelled before, choked him.

It was the smell of blood—and rotted flesh.

Something awful had happened here.

And somehow, Gaby was involved.

Expecting a monster of hideous proportions, Gaby instead witnessed the fearful limping of a wounded human, slumped against the wall, barely staying upright. Not a large, powerful man, but a woman.

A small woman.

Confusion kept Gaby immobile.

It didn't work like this. God showed her the heart of the demon, not the mortal body. The only time she'd ever seen beyond the haze of duty was… with Luther near her.

Oh God, oh God ... Gaby looked behind her, but saw no one. If Luther did lurk nearby, she still had time.

Thank you, God.

Not yet daring to look into that room of torture, Gaby said to her victim, "You can't escape."

The woman turned her face, and all thought gelled.

Dr. Chiles.

The soft-spoken doctor. The defender of the indigent patients. The trusted one.

It suddenly made sense: The duplicity. The conniving. The ability to get close to Rose.

Only a slender woman would fit through the basement window of Morty's apartment building.

Dr. Chiles was both skilled enough to do deranged, sick, perverse experimentation on ailing cancer victims and inconspicuous enough with her gentle appearance to escape a brutal crime scene without drawing suspicion.

Furious with herself. Gaby cursed low. More than anyone else, she knew the unpredictability of evil. It didn't follow a pattern, didn't fit a profile.

She'd been sloppy. Unforgivable .

Ungluing her feet, Gaby tightened her hand on her knife and stepped away from the wall. "You deserve everything you get today."

"Freak!" the doctor railed at her, her voice barely audible above the commotion from the adjoining room. She pressed a hand hard to her side. "Look at what you've done, at all you've ruined! How will I continue my work? How will I find the cure?"

Her work . Teeth locked, Gaby glanced into the yawning space ahead. What she saw repulsed her.

Frankenstein's laboratory would look like a posh hotel in comparison to the makeshift lab the doctor had erected. Kerosene lanterns illuminated filthy glass jars overflowing with rotted flesh stacked on shelves, boxes, and crates.

Pilfered equipment, including instruments that could cut, saw, and clip, littered a section of sheet-covered floor.

Crawling with cockroaches, discarded food containers, blood-soaked rags, and soiled clothing cluttered each corner.

A half-dozen crude beds, made from cots, gurneys, and splintered boards, showed signs of unbelievable cruelty. Gaby made note of the thick straps, the raw rope and wires meant to restrain the bodies, and her skin crawled.

Only two of the beds were empty.

"You sick bitch."

Blood pulsed and gurgled from below the doctor's left breast, drenching the clichéd white coat, the pale blue scrubs, in sticky crimson. "How dare you insult me? Some day soon my work will produce a cure, and then the world will hail me."

Gaby shook her head. "You will never work again." Numb from her heart to her brain, she trailed after the doctor, metering her pace the same, stalking her. It wasn't easy, not with her perception of the desolated people around her, but she kept her focus on the doctor. "Tonight you die."