Succubi Part 2

The nightmare, she thought. The hands on her. she thought. The hands on her.

"That'll work out too-you watch," Martin said, and sipped his Wild Goose lager. "It's all stressrelated. All the hours you put in, plus worrying about Melanie, it gangs up on you. Harold's a great doctor. I know a bunch of profs at the college who see him. The guy works wonders."

But was that really the answer to her problem? Ann wasn't even sure what her problems were. Beyond the great window, the city extended in glittery darkness. The moon suspended above the old post office; it seemed pink. Ann was staring at it. Its gibbous shape fixated her, and its bizarre pinkness.

"Mom, are you okay?" came Melanie's voice.

Now they were both giving her long looks. "Maybe we should go," Martin said. "You need to get some rest."

"I'm fine, really," she feebled. "Once I eat something, I'll be fine."

Ann had to force herself to act normal, but everything distracted her. Subconscious ideas of reference, Subconscious ideas of reference, Dr. Harold had called it. Dr. Harold had called it. Image symbolization. Image symbolization. Even irrelevancies reminded her of the nightmare. The gla.s.s candle orb on the table. The pretty hands of the waitress as she set out their appetizers. The fleshy pinkness of Martin's poached salmon, like the pink flesh of the dream which seemed the same eerie pink as the bulbous moon beyond the window. The moon looked bloated, pregnant. Even irrelevancies reminded her of the nightmare. The gla.s.s candle orb on the table. The pretty hands of the waitress as she set out their appetizers. The fleshy pinkness of Martin's poached salmon, like the pink flesh of the dream which seemed the same eerie pink as the bulbous moon beyond the window. The moon looked bloated, pregnant.

She was pregnant in the dream. Her belly was stretched huge and pink. pink. Then she saw the faces... Then she saw the faces...

The faceless faces.

"Some guy called you a bunch of times yesterday," Melanie said. "I asked what he wanted but he wouldn't say."

Martin looked up. "Did his voice sound-"

"It sounded creepy, like he had a chest cold maybe."

The same person Martin had mentioned. "It's probably somebody selling magazine subscriptions," Ann attempted. But now her curiosity was festering. She didn't like the idea of someone calling her and not knowing who or even why.

"Whoever he is, I'm sure he'll call back," Martin remarked. "I'm a little curious myself now."

Ann felt a little better when she got something in her stomach. Her glazed Muscovy duck appetizer had been prepared to perfection, and Martin devoured his poached salmon. But Ann realized that her sudden weird behavior had dampened the entire evening. Melanie and Martin were good sports but it showed. They knew something was wrong. Again, Ann struggled to make conversation, to normalize. "I'll be able to drive Melanie to school most mornings," she said, but the fact a.s.sailed her. Melanie had been in high school two years now, and Ann didn't even know what the place looked like. She didn't even know where it was. Martin had registered Melanie.

"Next week I figure I'll take her to some of the museums in the District," Martin said. "Too bad you can't get off."

Ann didn't know what he was talking about. "Museums?"

"Sure, and some of the galleries."

"I've always wanted to go to the National Gallery," Melanie said.

This observation made Ann feel worse; it was just another thing she'd been promising Melanie for years but had never made good on. Still, though, she didn't understand. "Martin, how can you take her downtown? She has school."

Martin tried not to frown at her neglect. "It's spring break, Ann. I've been reminding you for weeks."

Had he been? G.o.d, G.o.d, she thought. She remembered now. It had slipped her mind completely. she thought. She remembered now. It had slipped her mind completely.

"Melanie's off for the whole week, and so am I," Martin said.

A vacation, it dawned on her. It would be perfect. "I'm sorry, I forgot all about it. We'll go someplace, the three of us." it dawned on her. It would be perfect. "I'm sorry, I forgot all about it. We'll go someplace, the three of us."

Martin looked at her funny. She hadn't had a vacation in years, and in the past, whenever he brought it up, an argument usually resulted. "You serious? They'll give you a week off just like that?"

"Martin, I'm one of them now. I can take off whenever I want provided everything's in order."

Martin looked incredulous, poised over his salmon. "This I don't believe," Melanie scoffed. "Mom's going to take time time off? That's a change." off? That's a change."

"A lot of things are going to change now, honey," Ann a.s.sured her.

Melanie was ecstatic. "I don't believe it. I'm finally going to get to see the National Gallery and the Corcoran."

"Since your mother's talking mighty big now," Martin added, "maybe she can do you one better. Maybe Giverny. Maybe the Louvre."

They think I'm bulls.h.i.tting? Ann couldn't help but smile. Finally, she could do something for them that involved her. "It's settled, then," she stated. "This weekend we leave for Paris." Ann couldn't help but smile. Finally, she could do something for them that involved her. "It's settled, then," she stated. "This weekend we leave for Paris."

Melanie squealed.

"You better check with your bosses first," Martin suggested. "We don't want to get our hopes up for nothing."

"Don't you understand, Martin? I am am one of the bosses now. This'll be great. Paris. The three of us together. The timing couldn't be better." one of the bosses now. This'll be great. Paris. The three of us together. The timing couldn't be better."

That much was true. The timing couldn't have been better. But what Ann Slavik didn't realize just then was that the circ.u.mstances couldn't have been worse.

Chapter 2.

They never came to him here. They could, he knew, if they wanted to, but there was no reason. He could still see them in his mind and in his dreams; he was always dreaming of them: their swollen, perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s, their beautiful bodies glazed in sweat and moonlight, their unearthly faces. They were like the drugs he used to take, euphoric, potent without mercy. In his dreams he remembered how he'd cowered before them in the promise of flesh. Five years ago they hadn't been dreams at all.

The phone rang and rang. No one home, No one home, he thought, and hung up. He retrieved his quarter and dime and waited. he thought, and hung up. He retrieved his quarter and dime and waited.

"Hurry it up," Duke complained. "I'm missin' PingPong."

"Just a few more minutes," Erik grated. "Please."

Duke shrugged. "It'll cost ya, fairy."

Yeah, he thought. "All right. Five minutes?" he thought. "All right. Five minutes?"

Duke grinned.

Erik Tharp didn't even care anymore. He was doing what he had to do. "The Rubber Ramada," the staff called this place. It was the state mental hospital. He'd been locked away, forgotten, but that was good, wasn't it? The world had forgotten about him now, after five years. But so had they. they.

They'd never been able to control him as well as the others. They had no use for people they couldn't control. The kid thing had been a frame; Erik hadn't done any of it. He'd dug for them, sure, and he'd s.n.a.t.c.hed some people. But he hadn't murdered those kids.

Duke was another story; he was was crazy. Not like the schizoaffectives or the delusional psychotics. He was just plain don't giveas.h.i.t, meana.s.s crazy. Ganser syndrome, it was called, He belonged in prison, not here. He'd made up a story in court about how aliens from the Orion complex communicated through a transmitter that had been implanted in one of his fillings. "The dentist was in on it," he'd told the judge. "They forced me to do it." He raped a sixteenyearold girl and cut off her arms. "They said they needed the arms," Duke had informed the jury. "Never said what for, though. Just bring us the arms." He'd been found not guilty by reason of clinical insanity. In a state like this, Duke would never walk the street again. crazy. Not like the schizoaffectives or the delusional psychotics. He was just plain don't giveas.h.i.t, meana.s.s crazy. Ganser syndrome, it was called, He belonged in prison, not here. He'd made up a story in court about how aliens from the Orion complex communicated through a transmitter that had been implanted in one of his fillings. "The dentist was in on it," he'd told the judge. "They forced me to do it." He raped a sixteenyearold girl and cut off her arms. "They said they needed the arms," Duke had informed the jury. "Never said what for, though. Just bring us the arms." He'd been found not guilty by reason of clinical insanity. In a state like this, Duke would never walk the street again.

But neither would Erik. They'd seen to that.

Erik knew what they were doing. He'd been one of their ilk once. Brygorwreccan. Digger. Brygorwreccan. Digger.

I've got to get through, he thought. he thought.

"You don't hurry it up, you'll have to do it twice," Duke informed him.

There were four cla.s.ses of patients here. Precaution, Cla.s.s I, Cla.s.s II, and Cla.s.s III. Precautions were restricted to the observation dorm. Mostly autistics and suicidals. Two techs were in the room at all times, and most of the pats remained restrained, either in Posey bed nets or BardParker straitjackets. Cla.s.s I's couldn't leave A Building, the main wing; their world was a dorm and a dayroom. But Cla.s.s II's got to live in B Building and were allowed to eat in the cafeteria. II's also enjoyed the luxury of supervised field trips, outside volleyball, and full roam of Buildings B through E. They could go to the rec unit which had a library, a music room, and an automat-provided they signed out with a tech or a Cla.s.s III patient.

Last week Erik had pa.s.sed his board review for Cla.s.s II status. And Duke had been Cla.s.s III for almost a year.

The two of them made a deal.

Another luxury of the highercla.s.s status was that you got to use the pay phone in the rec unit anytime between 9 a.m. and 10 p.m. Duke's deal was this: he'd use his Cla.s.s III escort privilege to take Erik to the pay phone, and he'd also give him change to make calls. Duke had an uncle who sent him money and cigarettes every month. In the automat II's and III's could buy anything they wanted from the machines: microwave sandwiches, candy bars, c.o.kes. The Diebold magnetometer at the entrance would prevent any sharp metal objects like bottle caps and pop tops from being brought back into the dorm. "So here's the deal," Duke had proposed. "One trip to the phone and thirty-five cents per nut."

The first few times had been awful, but Erik forced himself to get used to it. He had money on the outside, but there was no one to bring it to him. How else could he earn money here? Several times Duke refused to pay. "Not till you get it right, fairy. Keep your lips over the teeth." Eventually, Erik learned to "get it right."

"Just 'cause I let you do it," Duke had once verified, "I don't want you thinking I'm some kind of f.a.ggot. I think about all the chicks I reamed while you're gettin' down on it."

Duke was what the doctors called a "stage sociopath with unipolar hypererotic tendencies." He bragged about the s.e.x crimes of his past. He'd raped dozens of girls, mostly "bar rednecks and druggers," he called them.

"Killed a lot of them too."

"Why?" Erik had queried with his shredded voice.

"Aw, s.h.i.t, fairy. Killing them's the best part. Ain't no kick if ya don't kill 'em." He'd cackled laughter. "One time I picked up this skinny blond b.i.t.c.h. I got her in the back of my van, see, and I'm cornholing the s.h.i.t out of her. Man, she was so f.u.c.ked up on drugs she didn't know which way was up; I coulda stuck a leg of lamb up her a.s.s. Anyway, just as I'm gettin' ready to come, I blow the back of her head off with my Ruger Redhawk."

"That's disgusting, man," Erik replied. "You're a f.u.c.kin' monster."

"Look who's talking," Duke came back. "You snuff a bunch of babies and you call me me a monster. The fact is, b.i.t.c.h, we're all monsters on the inside." a monster. The fact is, b.i.t.c.h, we're all monsters on the inside."

It was almost funny the way he'd said that. Erik knew some people who were monsters on the outside as well.

Please be home, he prayed. The change fell into the slot. He held his breath as he dialed. he prayed. The change fell into the slot. He held his breath as he dialed.

"Got a big nut for my b.i.t.c.h tonight," Duke said, and laughed.

The phone was ringing.

Please be home.

-and ringing- Jesus, please.

Twenty rings later, he hung up. He retrieved the quarter and dime.

"Who you callin' anyway?"

Destiny, he thought. "Just someone." he thought. "Just someone."

Duke chuckled. "Don't matter none to me."

"Listen, Duke, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"f.u.c.k talking, fairy. You're out of time. PingPong's startin' and you got something to take care of first."

"It's important, man. It's about the lawn contractors."

"The f.u.c.kin' what?" what?"

"The people who cut the gra.s.s. They come out every day with their mowers and do the hospital grounds. They park right out-"

"Quit stallin', f.a.ggot." Duke shoved him toward the hall. "You're just tryin' to get out of the suck."

They left the rec unit and crossed to B Building via the promenade. It was dark now. Above the trees, Erik could see the moon.

Almost spring, he realized. he realized.

The moon was pink.

They signed back in on the ward after walking through the metal detector and pa.s.sing their change through in a plastic bucket. "No PingPong tonight, Duke?" one of the techs asked. Duke was the champ. "I'll be in. Gotta hang a p.i.s.s first." But Erik was already walking down the hall.

"How's your eye?" Jeff asked. Jeff was a delusional narcomaniac.

"My eye?" Erik grated back.

"Yeah, I saw it hanging out of its socket yesterday. I was concerned that your brain might get infected."

You had to go along with these people. "Oh, right. It's fine now. I just popped it right back in."

"Good, good," Jeff said, and shuffled away.

Nurse Walsh was tapping up a needle full of chlorpromazine in the med station while a bunch of burly techs fourpointed Christofer the hydrophobe. "Fourpointing" was just more psychward rhetoric. "We'll fourpoint you if you don't cooperate" was a polite way of saying, "These goons will pin you to the f.u.c.king floor if you don't stop acting like an a.s.shole." "Techa.s.sisted med administration" was executed when a patient "physically resisted chemical therapy."

In the dayroom several pats were vegged out on the couch. Ten years of antipsychotics will take the zing out of anyone. All they made Erik take were mild tricyclics, none of the heavy stuff like Stelazine or Prolixin. "Zombie pills," the pats called them. Many of the heavily drugged patients had to take large doses of Cogentin in conjunction with their psych meds, to offset the accompanying dyskinesia.

He went into the john, into the stall. You could always tell a psych ward bathroom from a normal one: there were never any locks on the stall doors, and the graffiti took diverse turns. "Do the Thorazine shuffle," someone had written. "G.o.d stole my brain but He can have it," and, "ECT, what a rush!"

Erik sat down and waited. He tried to concentrate on his plan, the lawn contractors, the supervisor, but the ideas kept slipping away. Sometimes he couldn't think right.

But he could always remember.

Them.

Their sleek bodies, their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and legs-all flawless. The things they did to him, and the things they made him do. Blud. Mete. You are the meat of our spirit, Erik. Feed us. Blud. Mete. You are the meat of our spirit, Erik. Feed us. They'd consumed him, hadn't they? With their kisses and their s.e.x? They'd consumed him, hadn't they? With their kisses and their s.e.x?

"Them," he whispered.

He could still see them clearly as if they were standing before him.