P.I.T. Episode 11 Section 2

“First, “ Carl says , panting, “ you havn’t been shot my something like this before. 12 different isomers of cyanide coat these little guys, if you breathe, these will stop it, completely illegal, but provided to us, for just this situation. Second, that is called a filter , your not supposed to smoke it past the gold stripe.” His tone is both angry and fearful as he nods his head toward the cigarette.

I look down and see the cigarette burning and melting a bit, still putting off that stench. And suddenly I feel silly, I feel more than silly, I feel dangerous. But not in the way I enjoyed a few weeks ago. I feel like a rabid dog, desperately trying to prove he is still a good pet.  I drop the doc, and sit down. 

“ That is the kind of shit I am talking about. You realize you aren’t the first , right? We have had all kinds of guys just like yourself, and each one has either ended up dead by their own hand , or someone here. And I believe I speak for the entire group when I say we are sick of living our lives in this hole. Do you have any idea how long we have been in here? “ as he says this I shake my head.  “ WE want to get out, and my best guess is that you being another drooling psychopath, is not going to facilitate that course of action. “

I give a contemplating nod. 

“All I can do for you is try and keep that arm clean, I don’t have any sedatives, I don’t have any anti psychotics, this is all going to be up to you. You need to keep your shit together long enough to find out what in the hell that insane bastard wants you to do, and do it. And no one can help you with that. On the list that things people can’t help you with, is the shower you are in dire need of taking, I suggest getting on that as quick as possible, or I can’t guarantee that those wounds will stay uninfected. ” He says this in a very final tone , he walks over to a small desk and starts writing, I take this to be my cue that the conversation is over.

When I leave Carl’s office, I am greeted by a sight that even I recognize is odd. An older man, somewhere in his 60’s , silver rimmed glasses and a grey suit, with a long set of elaborately decorated dreadlocks, I may not know too terribly much about societal norms, but this instantly raises one of my eyebrows, and the man notices rather quickly. 

“ They remind me of my wife, she was…lost here, a while back, one of the people we got sent did it, not that I am blaming you, you see. But that is just the way things worked out. “ The man extends his hand, “ My name is Derrek, Derrek Lancaster, anthropology professor, and the resident rambling old man.” He says this with a grin and extends his hand, “ And I was wondering if you could help me out on somewhat of a mystery. “

“ What kind?” I say scratching my face and realizing my right hand is dripping again.

“Well it actually coincides nicely with what I have to do at the moment, which is show you your room.” As Derrek says this he starts to walk down the hallway, “ You see, we have kept the people like yourself in a certain room, both for pragmatic concerns, and just as a kind of tradition. “ we take a left turn, and walk down an empty hallway into another set of about a half dozen sparsely furnished rooms.  “And we have found, that there is kind of an interesting trend.” We reach the end of the new corridor, and he opens the last door. 

The room looks much more disused than the rest, the desk sits at an odd angle, one leg being at least 6 inches shorter than the others, the bed , while made with fresh sheets, has a large burned hole at one end, about the size of a bowling ball, and the walls are covered in graffiti , that at first seems random, but as I look, I realize that it does have a certain organization to it. 

The wall to my left has a large, 1 written at the top in an attempt at a scary font. The one in front of me has a 4 written in the same style, and the one to my right has a 9.

“I have no idea what 149 means, I’ve tried every possible permutation of the numbers, have ran through every bit of symbolism I can remember, and nothing. “ Derrek says as he walks into the room. 

“Not that I can’t pick out certain things. The 9 wall, for example, all quotes I recognize, maybe not some that I am familiar with, but things I can make sense out of. “ He begins to point at some of the scrawls, all written in different handwriting, but all having a slashing, jerking psychotic vibe about them. 

“See what we have here: Loki lives in us all, fuck the Toronto accord, “ The man laughs a bit as if swearing is something he seldom does, “ , EJA = Tyrany, Gravedigger lives. All things that I get, but look at the 1 wall.” He says this and I do, though his grasp of my mental state seems a bit off if he is asking me for clarification. 

“9/11 was an inside job, Keep on truckin, Don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes, Seig Heil, Bush is a terrorist…” he says this pointing to more random selections of graffiti, then to the wall with a 4 painted on it, “ Who is Mike? President McMillian is god, watch the allies, and it goes on and on. Interesting stuff, no?” he smiles at me as if expecting an enthusiastic positive reply. 

“ If you say so.” I say noncommittally, as I sit on the bed, getting a nice whiff of long burned fabric.

“My guess, and I admit it is a rather basic one, is that they all come from different places. They might not necessarily have any deep meaning, but it begs the question, where are they from?” I can feel him really trying to stoke the flames of my interest, and his enthusiasm makes me feel bad for not having so much as a spark of it. So I fake a contemplating nod.

“So my question is, does any of this seem to, ring a bell, with you?” his eyes are toddler-on-christmas wide.

As I think this last statement, I realize something, that word, Christmas, is sitting somewhere high on the wall inscribed with a 1, the phrase being “ It is MERRY CHRISTMAS.” Written in an angrier than average scrawl. 

“ That word, right there, presents , a tree, some fat guy in red,  happy kids, that rings a bell.” Derrek looks like he is going to fall over as I say this. 

“Really? That is most interesting, I did a lecture on religious movements that never quite took off a decade or so back, and from what I remember Christmas was the holiday celebrated during Christianities’ brief rise, before the Romans decided to put an end to it, in short order. But you seem to be thinking it is something modern, am I correct?” the man is almost panting , I find myself suppressing a laugh when I realize he is perfectly willing to be trapped in a room with someone like myself to get a few extra tidbits of knowledge. 

I try to think, to really put a point on ‘christmas’ but I can’t, I have the broad strokes, the meaning, and some images all seeming to fight for my mental attention, but ‘modern’ is about as specific as I can get. I can’t remember what my Christmas was like, should I ever of had one.

“ Yeah, modern, I think.” I say, condensing this information as best as I can.

“ What about the other wall, is there anything you see on there that makes sense?” I am annoyed, and bored, but there is something about this guy, his happiness in the face of adversity, or his love of his work, that makes me want to do my best to help him. 

I browse the walls a bit, little bits of information trying to break their way through, but hazy, like trying to listen to someone who has a terrible habit of mumbling. 

I stare and start to lose myself, I don’t know how long I was in my own little world for , but when I snap back to reality Derrek, is looking at me with utter shock. My heart drops and I immediately survey him and the room, thinking I did something horrible and violent. I see no blood, I see no gore, or holes in the walls, so I affix Derrek with a glance. 

“ What’s wrong?” I say, concerned, but sounding a bit defensive. 

“ Well, um…” he tries to snap himself back into a conversational state of mind, “ You see, you somewhat zoned out there for 5 minutes or so, then you came back, and… you didn’t sound like you.” He says this last part with a combination of dread and fascination. 

“What did I say?” I ask.

“Not much, it didn’t sound like you were talking to me even, almost like, hmmm, a recording I guess. “ His voice tells me that his explanation is not as complete as he would like it. “ You said ‘Actually my name is Mike’ and then, I was actually somewhat worried, your nose bled somewhat, and you started , well , there is no real way to put this nicely, rambling, in your own voice again though. Quite interesting really.”

Derrek takes out a worn notebook and writes a few things down, and before he leaves, shows me to the communal showers, dank mold infested things, but seemingly limitless hot water, is a major plus.

I stand there, my wounds stinging, and dripping disgusting fluid onto the floor. At one point I find myself shoving small pieces of flesh and scabs through the drain, to avoid a flood. 

I like to solitude, not the solitude of a booze soaked closet, but that weird kind of alone feeling that comes from being comfortable for the first time in a long time, and finally realizing it. The sound of water on tile echoes for over two hours before I find myself grabbing a towel, and wishing I had some more clean clothing. 

The first week goes by with much paranoia, both from myself and my new roommates. But with each day, I can feel my mind a little less clouded, I find my thoughts a little less jumbled, and this directly seems to coincide with how friendly my new friends treat me. 

Every day I go to Carl, and every day after about an hour of ripping grey flesh from my arms, and me screaming loud enough to attract the attention of people at the far end of the compound ( for the first 5 days or so anyway.) , he tells me the arm needs to come off. And every day I tell him that is not an option. 

By the end of that first week, large patches of my arm are debrided enough to see muscle and bone. And as a courtesy I remove myself from the communal meals. The stink, and the look don’t seem to do much for my new friend's appetites. 

Sometime in the second week though, a turd rocketed toward a fan in a rather epic way. 

It was late night, around 2 in the morning, and the lessened, but still ever present level of inebriation in my body was keeping me up. I find myself reading the walls, like I often do, and still not making much sense out of it. 

“Mike?” I say to myself, I find talking to myself is becoming a hobby of mine. “ No, I’m not Mike, who is Mike, that is the question i….” I am interrupted by a tiny voice. After a second I realize it is not one in my head ( and there seem to be a decent amount of those. Like someone playing random 5 second clips of a 24 hour conversation.) , but rather , it belongs to that of the youngest member of our team. Ollie Mcdonald, son of Alex, and Janice Mcdonald.  8 years of age, and one of my favorite people.

“ I know who you are.” He says meekly, and is holding a piece of paper. 

I smile, something about the kid, really pushes back the rage, the instinct to just walk in a straight line and kill to get out of here. 

“You do?” I say, taking some pleasure in childlike innocence in this situation. 

“Yep, and I want a autograph.” He says proudly.

I laugh a bit, and am surprised to find the kid enjoys it. I assume the kid has mistaken me for some celebrity, and encourage his detective game.

“And why would you want ‘a autograph’ from me?” I say mocking, playfully his grammatical failing. 

“Why?” he says laughing a bit , as if it should be plain as day. “ ‘Cause your…” 

I suddenly realize that this conversation is going no where good. This kid is seconds away from saying something that , from everything I have been told, will have lethal consequences for him, and maybe others. 

I leap off of my bed , and without thinking grab his mouth with my right hand. I feel a sense of empathetic revulsion as his face gets smeared with pus that is now an unhealthy pinkish color. I realize that I am going to fast though, and if I don’t do something to change my momentum I am going to break his neck. I lift the kid up, grabbing the back of his shirt with one hand, and spin into the hallway, I slam against a wall, but Ollie seems unhurt, which isn’t to say he isn’t scared out of his mind. 

He starts to struggle and thrash, and I am suddenly stymied as to what to do. 

“Ollie” I scream, failing to keep my tone calm in any way shape or form. “ I don’t want to hurt ya, kid, you just were going to say something you can’t, and I don’t want to see you …” the sound of a gun being cocked interrupts me. Standing to my left is Alex Mcdonald, with a small pistol aimed at my body. He is scared, but he has the determination of a father with the life of his child in the balance. 

“5 seconds” he says simply.

“ Okay, fine, but your kid was going to….”, I am interrupted again , “ three seconds.” Alex says actually walking toward me. 

On one hand, I think that maybe the power of the bullets is exaggerated, and Alex is going to wind up a stupid looking target after he fires his first shot. But I don’t want to hurt Alex, if not just because it would upset Ollie. On the other I think that if he does fire , maybe these bullets are everything they say they are, but I doubt this guy is going to be able to hit me without hitting his kid. 

I open my mouth one more time, and don’t even get out a word before Alex says “ Two seconds.”, I drop the kid, who scrambles over to his father. He uncocks the gun, but gives me a look that says “This isn’t over.”

We had a trial of sorts, in which everyone agreed it was just a situation that got out of control. But after that I didn’t see Ollie again, and my relations with everyone in The Pit ( as they called it.) were strained to almost the breaking point. 

The second and third weeks found me in a state of depression, the mixture of my ever changing brain chemistry, and the cold shoulder I had been receiving, tossed me into a realm of inebriated introspection. My mood wasn’t at all helped by the fact that these were also the weeks where I started to lose fingers. 

The first one was the most shocking. I was sitting in the common room ( devoid of any entertainment besides an old checker board and one magazine about medicine.) , losing at checkers for the 4 dozenth time, when in an act of humor, I cracked my knuckles as if it was all just part of my plan, and my next move would turn the tide of the game. The middle finger of my right hand, with a surprisingly small amount of force, snapped cleanly off and hit the board, tossing my remaining 2 pieces to the ground. Derrek looked on in horror and immediately ran to get a towel. 

The wound was bleeding a dark greyish red coagulated gel, and didn’t require too much in the way of absorption. But the resulting trip to Carl, got me more of the same bad news.

By this time, Carl had taken a keep interest into trying to win this uphill battle, and as our sessions extended from one to three hours, he became increasingly frustrated at the lack of any improvement. By the time I was down to a thumb and ring finger, I was convinced that the arm was doing me no good. 

The 4^th week was surgery week. 

By this time the drunken feeling was almost gone, down to a mild buzz. But this raised a few red flags. The voices, they didn’t want to stop, and as I started to work in my newfound thought processes, I realize that, compared to my Pit-mates, my thinking, was still very much ‘off center’ to put it mildly. 

Nothing to eat for three days, I walk into Carl’s room starving, angry, but able to not fly into a rage about these facts. I give myself a mental pat on the back about this as I sit down, strip, and get into a paper thin green gown with one sleeve removed. 

Carl closes the door, and slides his triple locks into place. He brings out a small electric saw with a wicked looking serrated blade on it. 

“ Do I need to mention this is going to hurt?” he says, trying to make a joke, but the morbid overtones to it steal the humor. 

“ Not really.” I say, sighing. My conversational skills are greatly improving as well. I would almost say I feel human. 

He straps the arm, useless and dripping pus down to the chair, and hands me a leather wrapped broom handle to bite down on. “ Remember, you hit me, I die, I die, you die. “ I roll my eyes as he says this , “ If this was 2 weeks ago you might have something to worry about.” I say as Carl gives me a nod that says “ Point taken.”

The saw gets to speed with a hellish whirring screech, and Carl kneels by the arm, he picks a spot just below the elbow and starts the saw’s descent. 

The first inch or so goes without a hitch, necrotic flesh comes off in chunks, too rotten to even stay together , but after than suddenly there is a grinding noise, a popping noise, and I feel some random scattered sharp pain in my chest. Carl drops the saw, exclaiming “ For Pan’s fucking sake…” , as I see dime sized dots of blood well up from behind my shirt. I pluck 3 pieces of the saw blade out with my left hand and show them to him with a raised eyebrow. 

“ Your first time doing this?” I say fairly perturbed. 

“ My first time having that happen.” He says quizzically, as he replaces the saw blade. “ I’m guessing wherever Billy-jo gets his supplies, its probably second hand. “ he picks a slightly different spot, about an inch more down the elbow, and starts again. This time the blade just starts to smoke, and an ozone like smell starts to fill the room, he shuts off the saw, swears under his breath, and seems to think for a moment. 

“There is no fucking way…” he says, as he grabs a third saw blade from a drawer. “ By the way, if anyone asks, you didn’t see this.” He says as he does something very strange. 

Carl licks the tips of his thumb and first finger, and pinches the serrated edge of the blade between them, he runs his fingers around the circular blade, and as he does so, bits of metal are flaking off, leaving him with a non serated  edge that looks like it could shave god’s beard. 

“What did you just do?” I ask , curious.

“ Nothing you need to worry about.” He says, distracted, as he brings the saw in for its third go. Just like the first two it makes that first inch, but instead of exploding this one merely skims on top of whatever is blocking its advance. Carl turns off the saw and sits back, looking at me for a minute.

Without another word to me, he wanders behind the screen, and I hear some rustling of drawers, he comes back with a selection of scalpels, and some other equipment that I couldn’t put a name on.

He straps all of my body down this time, and for the next 2 hours, removes every bit of flesh from the arm.

What was underneath was not the collection of bone, and tendon that one would have expected. The first inch or so was as normal as normal could be ( as per Carl’s commentary.) but after that was a solid mass that could be best described as a bone cocoon. 

As I sit there in the chair, freed from my bonds  now sitting in a pool of blood.  Carl looks quizzically at the irregular tubular bone , I find myself wondering at what point will have even the slightest handle on what the hell is going on. 

“Please tell me this is something you see all the time?” I say through gritted teeth, my entire arm consisting of a dull, rotten throb of pain. 

“ Certainly, “ Carl says, “ On my rounds to planet What-The-Fuck, this is a common occurrence.”, he tentatively leans down and taps the closed tube of bone with a small steel hammer. 

“Kind of hollow, I think.” He says, tapping at different parts, then standing back and looking at me as if I am suddenly a cheap model of car that has went for a shit. 

“Parasite maybe? Effect of the poison?” he mumbles more possibilities to himself, then suddenly says , “ What are you doing?” to me loudly, as I scratch around my elbow, where my arm turns from human, into the giant bone club I now have. 

“Isn’t there a medical term for scratching?” I joke, trying to do anything other than fixate on my situation.

“Yes, but… close your eyes.” As Carl says this, I comply. Suddenly there is a sharp pinching pain around where I was scratching. 

I open my eyes and fix Carl with a glare. “ Any reason for that?” I say, holding back a wall of red rage at what I think is just him messing with me out of frustration. 

“No, I just enjoy bothering you. Look at this.” He pinches a bit of dark grey skin, right above the non-standard part of my arm. Again a bolt of pain. “ That flesh is grey, steak left in the sun grey. There is no reason you should have feeling in it. And…” he goes in for a closer look “ No reason it should flow seamlessly into this God’s be damned thing.”

I can see the wheels turning in his brain, as he runs his gaze along the border between flesh and bone.

“ Its like… your body is trying to fool me, or you, or someone.” He says, the tone of his voice starts to change as if he is putting some pieces of the mystery together. 

“There is no way…” he says to himself as he starts to think deeply, he reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a small vial. He cocks his head to the side , looking at the door as if he noticed something alarming, I follow his lead, and before I realize what is going on, I have a damp rag over my face, and I feel a deadly sharp instrument jabbing into the side of my neck, not a needle, but a blade of some form. Whatever the rag is soaked in, starts to set my internal alarms ringing, my heart races, as I realize that all of this has been a lead up to this part of the trap. Those people are all in on it, and the only way out, is the only way that strange part of me wants to take, the road paved with blood, gore, hatred and insanity. 

I try to stand and find my muscles don’t want to obey my call, Carl tightens his grip on the cloth, and I realize that contrary to his frail doctors body, he has a grip of steel. Maybe something I could break if I wasn’t breathing god knows what, but whatever it is he had up his sleeve, it is potent.

I growl and shake, I grit my teeth, and try to push past this grey fog that is rolling across my field of vision, but it is of no use.

And that realization suddenly sends me into a fit of survival instinct only matched by creatures with little brain and many claws. I hear my voice start as a whisper, and suddenly like a dam breaking , it expands into a scream, I slowly start rising, and as I do, I feel a bright bolt of pain, and there is a sound, like the worlds thickest ceramic plate hitting a steel beam. I stand, whipping my right hand outward, as Carl scrambles across the room. Almost immediately the fog begins to clear, and I focus my gaze on the Doctor.

Instinctively I cock my right hand back as I stalk forward , readying a first and final blow, rapidly my senses start to come back to me, and I notice Carl’s attitude has changed. He is screaming something, and I shake my head to try and understand what it is. 

I keep my pace though, and as I get within inches of my reach I finally absorb what he is saying. 

“Look at your fucking arm!” he is screaming in panic. It could be a trick, but something in the back of my mind tells me to heed his advice. At least for the second it takes, he can always be crushed afterwards. 

I can feel the rage, and clouded senses start to wash away like dirt on a filthy windshield, and when I do look at my arm, my remaining ire is replaced with fear and curiosity. 

The outer shell had broken off, as evidenced by the pieces of yellowish bone scattered around the room, and what was left was a more symmetrical bone tube, with several raised rings, almost like knuckles going down its length. Inside is a maw filled with needle like pointed teeth, and as I move my face in closer, I can see a tongue , think and whip like, darting around. It ends in 6 inch spikes, jointed where they meet the tube, and they open and close, somewhat out of my control. 

My head starts to spin and I fall onto the bed, I raise myself to a sitting position, through much effort, and look to Carl, almost childlike for some kind of explanation. 

“God’s wrath, God’s, fucking, drunken, senseless apocalyptic, wrath. I was right.” He laughs a bit and seems both incredibly happy, and perplexed. 

“Want to let me in on the joke?” I say, slurring a bit as my body suddenly feels very worn out, very tired. 

“ First , sorry for the theatrics. I had to get you scared, and I didn’t know how else I could do that. What you were breathing was a mixture of human adrenal hormone, ammonia, and  chlorine. Don’t ask how I made it, you really don’t want to know. What it did was amp you up to the point where your body went into full on caged animal survival mode, which is what I needed. “ As he says this he walks over, taking small steps to ensure I am not just waiting to attack. 

I stare at this new appendage, and am surprised to discover that it is not 100% under my control. The tongue licks outward, catching drips of slightly yellow fluid before they leave the tube, the hinged spikes seem to react to any noises, almost like a flinch.

Carl looks down the tube, probably not the smartest thing in the universe to do, but I can only assume he knows what he is doing. 

“ Peristalsis, secretion of…some kind of digestive enzyme, I think, maybe a poison, I always wanted to see this up close.” He says, more to himself than to me. 

“See what up close?” I say getting tired of 10 per cent of any piece of information. 

“ If I told you I can’t say, would that surprize you?” Carl laughs a bit toward the end of that statement. “What I can tell you is a few things about myself.”

I give the doc a raised eyebrow.

“First off, as you probably have put together by now, you and I are cut from the same cloth, somewhat. In the sense that we are both a little more than your average person.” As he says this I nod, though looking at the two of us, I am coming up empty for similarities. 

“They called me Sharps. I work with friction like an artist works with paint, and I actually do have a PHD, making me a pretty perfect candidate for situations in which folks like us need to be patched up. I can take a plastic…wait, this will actually be more effective if I actually do it.” After this statement he wanders off and I see him searching through a garbage can, eventually pulling out a plastic spoon. He walks over and tosses it to me, some grime, probably pudding covers it. 

“So that is a real plastic spoon, right?” he says giving me some time to look it over. “ Hand it over.”

As I do so he looks at it for a moment, seems to be coming to some kind of conclusion, then does that same thumb licking maneuver I saw him use on the saw, and approvingly look over the business end of the spoon. 

He lets the tension build for a second and drives the thin plastic spoon a few inches into the wooden arm of his chair. He removes his hand, and it stays, at a perfect 90 degree angle. 

“Holy shit.” I say, nodding my head, legitimately impressed. 

“I get that a lot. Anyway, I was a natural fit to be a doctor for people like us. Besides graduating in the top 1% of my class, I could get through a lot of things that a standard doctor, even armed with an almost unlimited budget , couldn’t. Folks like us , especially the type to end up hurt a lot, tend to be pretty solidly put together, and this makes a problem when your trying to remove a chunk of shrapnel from a guy who can laugh off a 30 megajoule laser. “ he laughs a bit as he says this last part, leading me to believe he was relating an actual story, versus a random example. 

“ Then what was the issue with me?” I say, trying to input something into the conversation. 

He looks unimpressed, and a bit angry as he says, “ If I had some decent steel, or maybe a bone saw that wasn’t 2 decades old, I probably could have cut off the chrysalis , but even with my talent, you can only do so much. “ I notice a tone of cockiness I didn’t before, it gives me the unsettling sensation of being lied to, very well for the past few weeks. This is something that immediately sends up that wall of reactionary rage, and I have to work hard to suppress it.

“So where do you fit in in all of this? Does everyone out there have some kind of power?” I say this thinking I finally have solved a decent chunk of this mystery. 

He laughs , just a chuckle, but something about it irks me. 

“No, not at all. You want to know what my role in all of this was? The same as yours, I was the first. My problem was, when I got here, it was before everyone, and I just couldn’t do what was asked of me. “ He says this matter of factly, I get the impression whatever dick move he is pulling, he has rationalized it to himself long ago.