Seven-X (21 page)

The satellite maps show about a hundred fifty crop circles around the dell, and once you get past the farms and go off road, it’s no man’s land with Dell City’s four hundred residents being the last vestige of humanity.

I figured Dell City was safe, but now I’m convinced they played a big part in Uphir’s development, and all that money bought off the town, and provided privacy, water and food routes.  I never talked to the food truck guy, but I saw him leave last Thursday, then bring back a load Friday. At the time I didn’t think much of it. 

But now that I think about it, only he, Billings and Prescott have ever left and returned, other than me. Maybe God is smiling on me.

Tonight was another shining example and I dodged another warning shot, literally. I’ll recap these events while they are fresh in my head, like the seven stitches I just had sewn in. 

How’d my head split open? I’ll answer that soon. After I got off the phone, Sheriff Mason arrived like he was checking out a crime scene. He jumped me like a rabid dog, took my phone, frisked me, and then confiscated my camera from the trunk.  

Luckily I transferred all the data and cleared the cards during dinner. He’s too much of a back ass dip shit to understand digital video, so I gladly cooperated and proved to him that I did not film anything without permission. 

I led him through the camera menus and showed him how to check everything. I kept some photos of LA, Melody and Uphir with Dr. Haworth, Reverend Billings and of course, my lovely cottage, so he wouldn’t be suspicious about me deleting everything.

It’s a thousand dollar fine, payable in cash, or ten days in jail he warned me, as he cuffed me and dragged me to the Police Station; then preceded to rifle through my belongings. My computer was clean of any evidence I gathered. I only let them see what I want them to see. That’s my plan. 

It’s worked so far as I sat in my cell, getting a taste of what it feels like on the inside. My life hangs on two 16-gigabyte thumb drives, cleverly designed to look like a credit cards. One is American Express and the other is a MasterCard. Luckily, the Sheriff had no idea what they were when he glanced through my wallet. Those drives have everything on it, all my journals, video and audio recordings. 

I have another backup in the glove compartment of my car shaped like a key, in case of emergency.

After checking through my things, the Sheriff left and returned about ten minutes later, saying that Dr. Haworth requested I return to Uphir. 

That got me thinking. There must be an emergency phone line out of Uphir and the Sheriff must have access and communication with Haworth. 

I wonder now if my package was even mailed out to Melody? 

Is Dell City is a part of this whole setup? How much is really at stake? Everything that’s happened to me may be planned, coordinated and calculated down to the minute detail. 

I was escorted out of the station and back to my car. The Sheriff trailed me all the way back, following a few car lengths behind. He seemed to know the roads as well, if not better than I did. As I weaved down the trails, he’d flash his high beams giving me direction by turning on a blinker to guide me. 

We were pretty deep into the woods when I heard a gunshot. The first one was deafening and ripped through the silence with a thundering crack!

 I froze for a second on the tiny road, in the pitch-black forest and looked around, only seeing the light of a flickering campfire well in the distance. The blast of the Sheriff’s horn shook me and I kept driving deeper into the woods toward Uphir, now slower and cautiously. 

My headlights were cutting through the blackness when I saw something dart across the road. I thought it was a deer but it moved too quickly, and the color was lighter brown, more like a leopard, now that I think of it. It moved fast and I barely saw what was out there, but it was big. Real big. Maybe someone was after it, or after me.

A moment later another gunshot roared through the air, but this time within a second I heard it rip through the metal of my car and wedge into something. The next bullet went through the hood! Then one shattered my rear window and my nerves shot into high alert! 

The hairs on my arms were standing on edge, and my hands were shaking, gripping tightly to the wheel as I peered into the rear view mirror and saw the sheriff, in front of his car, firing back into the night. 

Another bullet whisked through the back window. I lost control and the next thing I know I swerved into a tree.

I hit it me really hard and I got knocked back with the airbag. A tree limb snapped through the driver’s window, ripping into the side of my forehead. I was dazed and got out of my car, yelling. The Sheriff drove up and tried to get me to ride with him, but I wasn’t leaving my car in the woods, alone with my camera, computer and thumb drives and no way back. I rushed back into my car and locked myself in. I couldn’t hear any more gunshots and I think that freaked me out even more. 

Trying to start the car in dead silence was terrifying. I kept thinking about death, and how I chose it, and how any second the next shot could come ripping through the window, and take me out. I could feel the warm blood dripping down the left side of my face, and all I wanted was for that car to start. 

I yelled, “God save me. I don’t want to die,” as I kept turning the ignition, but nothing happened. 

Then just as the Sheriff pulled along side of me and BANG! 

The car started and I backed away fast, leaving scraps of metal wedged in the tree. I backed out on to the road and sputtered through the woods, praying all the way that I’d make it back alive.

The drive was excruciating, mentally, physically and emotionally. I could taste my blood hitting my lips, running down my face, blinding my eyes, as the headlights kept flickering, making the nebulous woods seem like they were strobing in front of me. It felt surreal, winding through silent black roads, shadows reflecting off trees, and the sound of my engine sputtering and tires spinning, anticipating another crack of a shotgun any second, that could usher in my last breath.

Somehow I made it to the threshold, and could see the pale lights of the asylum welcoming me home. As we pulled up to the gate, smoke began pouring out of my hood.

The night security guard arrived to greet me, but it wasn’t Curtis. It was a new guy, Reggie, this dark mountain of a man, who I guess did some serious time, judging by that menacing look in his eye, and ice-cold stare that seemed to ward me off. 

When I asked him where Curtis was, he finally perked up with a salacious grin and said, “You don’t want to know brother.” 

“What?” I asked.

“You don’t want to see him,” Reggie told me grinning. “But he’d love to see you!” And then with a stern look he told me, “Report to Ward A. Doctor Haworth is waiting for you.” 

I drove off and the Sheriff followed me into Ward A, where the night nurse met me and cleaned up my wounds, sewing seven stitches into my forehead. She removed a few chunks of glass from my skull, then bandaged up my wrist and ankle for support.

Dr. Haworth and Sheriff Mason had a quiet conversation in the hallway. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I don’t think it was good, because two more security guards came up within minutes and positioned themselves outside my door. The looks they threw me were not inviting, as I tried to make conversation. When the nurse finally finished, they forcefully escorted me down the hall to my room. 

Making matters worse, I passed Santiago on my way. I heard someone crying and looked inside the room as I was dragged past.

It was Santiago, propped up on the bed, motionless with his head bandaged and his leg strapped up high, in a harness. He looked like he was being tormented by something. His eyes were wide open and tears ran down his frozen face. His skin was ghostly pale and his body frail. 

His face was locked in this expression of terror, like he was trapped in a constant nightmare he could not escape. 

He was disturbing to look at, and even though it was a brief second, it seemed like eternity. Time froze up, like the midnight air, and my body tightened to the fact that I was alone in this fight, and my search for allies was narrowing by the minute. 

I was greeted by icy stares and silent answers. Now trapped inside the recovery room, my options for finding the truth of this story, and getting it back to the outside world, are significantly diminishing. 

I have a sinking feeling that I am no longer a visitor, but a patient judging by my hospital wristband, new patient number and gown. I’m probably staying here under observation until the morning, but this place is far better than sitting in that seclusion room. 

I’ve been stripped of all my things, except for my laptop, so I’m being careful with what I write for now. This is the one freedom that allows my mind to focus on the task at hand, and take it off Santiago’s desperate crying. 

His moans are a constant, dulling background noise, like the space heater, fluorescent bulbs and medical machines, that accompany the tapping of my keyboard, the footsteps of the guards, and the occasional gust of wind that taps on the window behind me, beckoning me to see the world outside. 

That won’t come until tomorrow, when I’m scheduled to meet with Dr. Haworth for my re-evaluation.

AUDIO LOG:                                             

WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 15, 2010 – 9:00 AM

Here I was again, face to face with Haworth in his office. With the dulling silence killing me, I decided to turn on my recorder and get this party started.

“This is Eddie Hansen, Wednesday December 15
^th
and I am at the Uphir Behavioral Center in Uphir Texas. May I have permission to tape this interview Dr. Haworth?”

“You may. May I have permission to examine your computer?”

“Excuse me,” I responded.

“I’d like to see your files, Mr. Hansen,” he told me, getting up from his desk. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t,” I told him, playing innocent.

“Would you like me to play a video to refresh your memory?”

“That’s okay,” I said, watching him walk toward me and circle around like a vulture as he stated, “What impressed me is how you figured out my password.”

“I didn’t figure out any…”

“Mr. Hansen,” said Haworth interrupting harshly. “I hoped our relationship would be built on trust. But you seem to keep violating that trust and creating your own rules for this assignment.”

“Investigation,” I corrected.

“Certainly, investigation,” smiled Haworth, peering over my shoulder. “Call it what you wish.  But let me ask you, what are you trying to find that I haven’t already shared with you?”

“Why did you let me in here?” I asked him, standing up so we could meet eye to eye.

“You led yourself. I have nothing to hide,” he told me, squaring off to me. 

“Really, then I’d like to see your video control room, your tape archive. I’d like to see Ward E.  To see what you’ve done here.”

Dr. Haworth sighed and returned to his seat, “Oh you will see everything, firsthand. But first we must address the rules,” he said, pulling out my file from his desk. He slid a contract in front of me, stating, “You knowingly violated article seven of your consent agreement, which states, explicitly, that no alcohol or drugs may be brought on to this premises during your visit. Not only did you violate this rule, you provided excessive amounts of alcohol to staff security, who became negligent in their duties, and allowed a fatality on our property.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I said, surprised at this news. 

Haworth stood up again and confronted me, “You didn’t know or you didn’t care. The first is ignorance, the second is foolishness and foolishness is not tolerated. Foolishness is why Curtis Anderson is being held in Ward D, awaiting his sentence, why Simon Manning is dead, and why Santiago Ortiz is in a coma. Foolishness!”

“What?” I said, trying to defend myself and comprehend what happened.

“Foolishness, Mr. Hansen,” Haworth stated, meeting me face to face again. “A blatant, disregard for authority. A brash, sense of entitlement. A complete, lack of respect.”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t patronize me with impersonal appeals because of a sudden realization that you lost control.”

I stood up to eyeball him, saying, “I haven’t lost anything.”

“You’ve lost everything!”

“Enlighten me,” I ordered.

He turned and walked away stating, “I’m sure you are intelligent enough to figure it out. You are a very predictable creature.”

“Don’t patronize me with arrogant assessments of your perceived authority over my life.”

“What’s left of it,” Haworth casually stated, rubbing his hand over the leopard statue on his desk.

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s fact,” he responded, making eye contact again. “Based on the cycle of your behavior and the nature of this situation. You’re not the first person to travel down this road.”

“Nor the last,” I told him, moving closer to gain my advantage. “You’re not off the grid anymore. People know where I am, and if they don’t hear from me… BANG! The calvary rushes in.”