Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

Hastings noticed my sudden change of mood. “Yes?” he asked.

“May I ask you something?” I asked. “It is a question of delicacy, but I wish an honest answer.”

He squinted through a cloud of cigar smoke. “Of course.”

“With the freedom here — the men and the women — do they…” My heart beat rapidly, my face grew hot. “What I mean, has Gerta — “ I searched for the proper words.

Hastings sucked on the end of his cigar and blew out a ring of smoke. He said, “With the liberties the patients enjoy here, there are of course occasional, shall we say, flings.” He smiled. “But Gerta, I assure you, has been steadfastly chaste.”

Now, Christoph — again, I will be honest. Your mother is fourteen years my junior, yet she is no longer as viable and lovely as when we first met, before her madness set in. Wrinkles cross her face like cracks in bread crust. The skin of her neck sags, and her hair runs with streaks of silver. But I caught something in the superintendent’s eye, in his tone of voice, and I knew at once he lied. Lied to protect my feelings, my honor — of this I have no doubt. But nonetheless — my insides felt like a rag squeezed tight.

Does your mother have lovers here? Can I blame her? It is the essence of nature, is it not?

I must stop torturing myself with these thoughts.

While in the men’s wing, we came to the room of a patient named Branagh. Before entering, Hastings informed me that Branagh had been the one responsible for digging the caves.

He sat in a chair, his wrists restrained by rope.

Hastings introduced me, but before I could say anything, Branagh asked in a thick Irish brogue, “Are you one of Satan’s imps?” His muscles flexed beneath a tight black shirt.

I looked at Hastings, then back at Branagh. “I assure you, I am not.”

“Then why do you converse with him?”

Hastings shrugged. “Mr. Branagh believes himself to be the Son of God.”

I asked, “You’re the one in charge of digging the caves? They’re quite ingenious.”

Mr. Branagh’s thick hands relaxed on the arms of his chair. His face brightened and became at once youthful.

It was fascinating, Christoph, as he explained in detail the logistics of such an undertaking. Amazing how one so delusional can also be so intelligent, so gifted.

“But it is God’s work,” Branagh said. “It is not a place meant for the wicked doings that go on there.”

Outside the room, Hastings raised his arms. “So much talent wasted to the trappings of delusion. Wouldn’t it be much easier to comprehend if all the mad were mere idiots? Thick-skulled criminals?”

As we made our way back toward the rotunda, quick, light footsteps approached from behind. Before I could turn, a hand grabbed hold of me.

The man was pale as snow, with a large Adam’s apple that bobbed violently with each swallow. He winked lasciviously. “I know your Gerta.” He straightened to his full height and bowed to me. “It is an honor, sir.”

“Ignore him,” Hastings said.

The man’s stomach appeared grossly distended, like that of a starving man. He took hold of my hand and pulled it to his belly. “See?” He smiled. “He’s fine. Everything is fine.”

Hastings wrenched the man’s hand from my own. “James!”

“It is an honor, sir. An honor. ” He looked nervously to Dr. Hastings, then back to me. “There are worse ways to die,” he whispered.

Hastings’ hand shot out and slapped him hard across the jaw. “Leave at once!”

The patient cowered and felt his lip. A speck of blood came off on his thumb. He slunk away like a chastised dog.

Hastings shook his head, staring after the man. “Forgive me. I feared for your safety. I am not normally a man of such temper.”

“What was that about?”

“More of the same — a poor man with enough delusions to fill an entire wing.” He stubbed his cigar out on the wall and dropped the butt to the floor, waving an attendant over to sweep it up.

Christoph, when I pass through these halls, patients and attendants alike stop to watch me pass. Do I carry the mark of Cain on my forehead? Am I being paranoid?

Your mother grows more delusional by the hour. “A miracle,” she said only an hour ago. “Tonight you shall see.”

She’s become giddy. It has grown so hard not to slap some sense into her. But that would do nothing to cure her. It would merely result in petulance.

A miracle…

She obviously believes that you, my dear son, will communicate with us. Is it to be a séance? Are others to be involved? Perhaps that is why they stare at me so.

I must not get upset. Why is it that I am such an understanding and patient man, except when it comes to your mother? Around her, I am so often a beast.

A miracle…

If indeed you can speak to me, Christoph, I’d value nothing more. But as you know, I am a man cursed with common sense.

A miracle, Christoph. It will be a miracle if I can keep my wits about me through this ordeal.

She comes now, brandishing a bottle of brandy. “From Hastings,” she says.

January 17, 1898

Christoph? How can I continue to write coherently? To whom do I truly write? Surely not the Christoph I’d imagined. The Christoph of youth?

Or no — to myself. I write these letters to myself so that I might keep some semblance of sanity about me.

My God, what have I done?

Do you understand that I am no longer the same man I was only days ago? Yes, I am still Brahm Zwick, but such a fundamental part of me has changed. How much like clay are we?

I must gather my wits.

The brandy was drugged. I should’ve guessed by the strange taste, but the drug overtook me so quickly.

I awoke to a sharp ringing in my ears. My brain felt full of broken glass. I didn’t know where I was, only that I was cold. A straightjacket bound me. My eyes adjusted to the light of burning torches, and I realized that I sat on the floor of a cave, my back against the rough stone wall.

Gerta kneeled before me. She brushed the hair from my eyes and stroked my face.

“Unbind me,” I sputtered, the words echoing painfully in my skull.

“Brahm, my husband, who committed me here against my will — how can I trust you not to flee?”

“This is madness.”

Gerta lifted a flask to my lips.

“Haven’t you drugged me enough?” I gasped.

“It’s only water.”

I sipped, and then gulped until Gerta pulled the flask away.

Other figures stood against the cave walls. I recognized the woman with the pulsing neck tumor, and the patient called James with the distended belly. And there were more.

As I looked from one to the other, bile rose in my throat. Everyone here bore a strange protrusion on his or her body. A man with an apple-sized lump on his forehead. A woman with a hump the size of a bread-loaf on her thigh. Another man’s shoulders rippled with tumors. In the flickering torchlight, all of the growths appeared to pulse.

Was the drug toying with my senses? For the growths not only pulsed, but they pulsed in synchronicity with each other. Surely I dreamt! If not, I had lost my mind. Was my brain conjuring these images while I sat locked in a padded room back in Berlin?

“ My good friend, Brahm.”

I recognized Hastings voice immediately and saw his small frame enter the chilled cavern. At last someone sane come to rescue me from this nightmare!

“Hastings,” I said. “Unbind me.”

He adjusted his red velvet tie. He was a lone island of refinery in a sea of savages. Not only did he wear his double-breasted suit, but he sported a silver-headed cane, white gloves, and a black derby.

He pulled a curved dagger from inside his suit, and then mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. He kneeled in front of me. “You are here to take part in a miracle,” he said.