~RUTLEDGE ASYLUM AND FOSTER HOME FOR THE GIFTED~
Warden Jones should have remembered to lock that door. But he was old, and fed up, and the crazies in Section Zero were getting on what remained of his nerves. He'd spent half an hour trying to persuade the juting collection of limbs and heads called Ricardo to eat it's damn food, and that had been the last straw. Now all he wanted to do was get out, go home and get his own dinner - what amounted to it, anyway. He knew that, sooner or later, his vegetables would cease growing altogether, and then he'd have to move out before the ice reached him.
It also didn't help that he was drunk. He'd been indulging himself from his looted stash prior to his rounds - his method of coping with the screaming, jabbering and God knows what other noises he'd have to deal with. The only reason he hadn't been fired for this was because he was really good at his job, and in any case management knew they wouldn't be able to replace him. And, in any case, alcohol didn't impair him enough to stop him doing his job, although the stink of it made the freaks howl even worse.
At the time of writing, he'd just had to cart Patient Zero back to its cell. The Water Tests had been producing nothing new, except that the kid was surviving longer and longer, and what that was supposed to tell anyone, Jones had no clue. He didn't see how it was supposed to help them survive in this damned hellhole, where wolves and spiders and much worse prowled around and got those who didn't pay attention. But then again, Patient Zero was just another crazy to his mind - a quiet one, and much easier to manage, but not worth shedding tears about.
It was a little odd that they gave it this particular cell, though. A lot bigger than the others, and with more facilities - running water, an actual bed, a few board or puzzle games. Jones often wondered why this was necessary, but on this occasion he was drunk and fed up, and so didn't give it much thought at all, more concerned with bundling the shivering, whmpering thing into its bed than pondering the mysteries of life.
He slammed the heavy iron double-doors shut with a grunt of irritation, causing some of the rowdier monsters to start jabbering.And then, in a freakish, thousand-to-one chance, forgot to draw the sturdy, iron bolts that locked the door. Experience taught him that there should have been a beep to confirm if they were closed or not, but irritation and alcohol shoved that aside, and he simply assumed that it had already happened instead of double-checking. Who was he to doubt himself, after all, if not the best Warden in the entire asylum?
Taking his trolley and doing his best to shut out the noises of the other inmates, Jones turned and made for the exit door as fast as he could.
-------
"Robbie! Robbie!"
The thing called Robbie rolled over in his bed, trying to ignore the hissing voice.
It didn't work
"Robbie, it's me! Ol' Flat-Head! I've got news!"
Patient Zero's cell was different from the others in another respect. The other cells were all shut off from each other, with no windows into each other to prevent the inmates from looking at each other and causing any amount of chaos. But Patient Zero had a small window in the upper part of the back wall, modified from a basement window when it had been deemed too much trouble to simply block it up. It was vaguely hemispherical, and blocked off by little more than an iron grate, so that fresh air might come into the room.
And it was through this window that the goatish, chinless face of "Flat-Head" Whateley, as he was called, peered through.
"Listen," hissed Flat-Head. "I saw the cat - he asked me to tell you something. The door... the door... Oh, corpse-lillies and fireflies, what was it about the door?! That damn cat talks a mile a minute, I couldn't get much out of him, and there ain't much room left-"
Robbie gave a sudden wail and began thrashing about, startling the stranger into silence. Even from where he was, Flat-Head could see the milky-white eyes, wide with panic-terror and repressed anger, staring up at nothing as the incumbent struggled against something that wasn't there.
"No! I- I can't!" howled the boy. "I'll do anything, just not the water- don't make me go back in the water! I'll fight- Ia, Gorr'Rylaehotep- white coats-"
"It ain't the Whitecoats, Robbie!" Flat-Head's face contorted as he tried and failed to push his hooked nose through the grating. "It's me- Whateley! Keep still, you'll wake up everyone else with that hollerin'!" A frantic skittering or sliding noise had started up from behind him, and something like a claw poked at the iron bars - whatever the face was attached to wasn't human, or at least hadn't been for some time
With a jerk, Robbie was awake. He blinked owlishly, trying to understand what was happening. Then, with no small amount of effort, he pulled himself out of his bed, feeling his way into a sitting position via clumsy movements of his limbs that bespoke uncertainty. The chinless face watched this event with interest as he sat upright, breathing as though he'd been holding it for hours and trying to recover his senses.
"The cat," the boy gasped, at last. "You said something about a cat. What was it?"
"That's right," said Whateley, more cheerfully now. "I got a message from the cat, only I can't seem to remember now. Too many stars in my head, you know - they take up too much room. Something about a door...? Come this way, Robbie, you'll hear me better."
This took longer than it should have done. The itching behind his eyes confirmed to Whately that the boy was "seeing" using his own vision, and yet co-ordinating his limbs without bumping into things was a struggle. By the time Robbie had got upon his bed so he could peer sightlessly up at the curiously flat head and pointed face, he was exhausted all over again - but Whately waited patiently until he'd gotten his breath back.
"I can't stand the water anymore, Flat-Head," muttered Robbie, after a time. "Every time I shut my eyes, I see it coming after me. Then, when I open them, it goes away - like the ocean used to do. Before the Quiet came, I mean. I hate it, Flat-Head - the water's terrible."
"How d'you get out?" asked Flat-Head, scratching his ear with that same three-fingered claw. "D'you drink it, or does the heat dry it up, or what?
Robbie shook his head, and his hopeless expression made the other turn away for a moment, biting his lip in a mixture of grief and anger. Whateley himself had only barely avoided Section Zero, deemed ultimately harmless by the callous higher-ups despite his own deformities - thus, the sympathy he felt for the boy was immense.
"There's gotta be some reason for it," he whispered to himself. "It's gotta do some sort of good." But the words felt hollow and tasteless in his mouth.
"Why do they do it?" Robbie sounded as though he was about to start crying. "I've not been bad, have I? I haven't done anything wrong, I promise!" Whately turned back despite himself, and his chest tightened at the sight of the blind, white eyes looking back at him in search of answers.
"...I don't think they do it because you're bad, Robbie," was as close to the truth as he could say.
Just then, a terrific banging came from an adjacent cell, causing them both to jump and look towards the source of the noise. Audible even through the heavy doors, the crashing and rythmic thumping was quickly accompanied by a kind of baying or barking - or, more accurately, a human voice in imitation of barking. Clearly, whatever was in there had grown bored and was now trying to amuse itself in the limited capacity their mind could now conjure.
The response to this cacophony was unanimous. There was the usual avalanche of paranoid screaming and jabbered nonsense of other cellmates, who were also expressing their dissaitisfaction - but mixed in were the voices of those lucid enough to put words to their annoyance.
"Ah, shaddap!" snapped a voice from another cell.
"There he goes again!" cried another. "Bark, bark, bark! The man who wants to be a wolf!"
"I'd fight you, too," growled a voice like grinding rocks, "if only I could get at you!"
"Why don't you give us some peace, you God-damned freak?!" shrieked someone else.
Whateley rolled his eyes. "Take no notice, Robbie. Ol' Harley, he ain't satisfied unless he's had a good run. He won't bother you if you just-"
He stopped as soon as he noticed the change, and shrank back, muttering a prayer. A shadow had fallen over Robbie's face - a shadow that blacked out his features and left only shining pinpricks and bared teeth visible. The air began to distort, fuzzy and disjointed as if viewed through poor reception on a television or camcorder, and the vague suggestion of tentacles seemed to catch the eye as the child - or, what had been one - turned to the door. A screeching or hissing noise filled the air, inaudible at first, but growing louder by the moment.
And then Robbie spoke in a voice that nearly made Old Flat-Head scream in terror.
"Do you think you're t̸he ̀only͞ ̨o̡ne ͠ẁh͠ò H̀͢A͢͢TĘ̵͞S̕ ̡̛T̕͘H̴͢I͏̶̶S ͜D̴͘͟A̶̶͟M̛͜N̵̶È̶Ḑ̵͡ ̷P͡L̀́ÀC̨E͝҉?͝!̵"̵̡͡
Frankly, it was a miracle that the force that burst out from the boy at that moment didn't set off any alarms. It shot out like an invisible fist, slammed into the double doors and ripped them open - ripped the latch apart as they sprang open like a steel trap and nearly came off their hinges. A noise like a cannon firing revebrated about the halls as the force roared down the corridor and dissapated, and when it was gone the entirety of Section Zero was silent and trembling.
Then the Observer faded, and was Robbie again.
He stared, uncomprehending and bewildered, at the gaping apeture in front of him, and then backed away, whimpering as though something might come through it. But the significance of it was much greater to Flat-Head Whateley, who's expression suddenly brightened up as though he'd solved a puzzle.
"Now I remember!" he cried. "That's what the cat told me! He said the Whiskey-Man - I think he means Jones - left your door unlocked!" He readjusted himself, with another scratching and sliding, so as to have a better look at the wide-open doors and the corridor they revealed, lined with the doors of other cells.
"You could go through that, Robbie," he whispered, hardly daring to believe he was saying it. "It's just your size, you know?"
Robbie shook his head. "No, they'd- They'd only take me back- Safer in here-"
"I don't mean out of your cell, Robbie!" hissed Whateley in exasperation. "I mean, out of here! This whole asylum! You could do it, Robbie - leave here and get to somewhere else!"
But Robbie was shaking, frightened and unable to understand.
"There's nothing out there," he whined. "Nothing but ice and darkness, and the awful Stiltwalkers that walk on their toes and eat dead things - Ia, Ia, Annai Gorr'Rylaehotep - and the stars went out, and the Quiet took everything away... There's nowhere to go, it's all bad, I know that much because it was my fault, I was there when the dark things were swept away and replaced with nothing... Where's Karl, Noah? My head's no good, and I can't see..."
Whately worked his chinless jaw as he tried to think of what to say. It was clear the boy was terrified of what was out there - but how much of it did the Wardens and Nurses tell him? What incentive could there be in order to get the boy to leave, like the cat had asked him to? For a moment, he was stuck on a solution - then it came to him with a flash, brighter than what any star or sun had been in the time of his forefathers.
"Robbie!" he snapped, butting in on the kid's inchorerant rambling. "What about the water? What's out there that's worse than that? Hours of struggling in the metal water, day in and day out, and they take you out and bring you back, only to throw you in again!" He saw Robbie hesitate, indecisive, and knew that his words were having some effect, at least.
"And one day," he hissed, "they ain't gonna let you out. They gonna let you drown, Robbie."
The boy paused, and looked back at him. And in that moment, something flickered in his eyes - a spark of understanding, that gave the Warden the impression that, just maybe, he knew what he meant. It was often a matter of debate, in Flat-Head's mind, wherever the kid actually was as damaged as he seemed - if maybe he really did understand, and just couldn't express himself for whatever reason. Ah, well, mystery for another time.
"What about you?" asked Robbie. "I... I have to take you, you're my friend-"
But Whately shook the curious, snake-like head that had earned him his name.
"I'm in too much trouble already, kid. If them damn Wardens caught me tryin' ta sneak out, they'd put me down with those crazies, for sure. You're small, and you ain't givin' em any trouble - nobody would suspect you ever got out. And besides, the cat sent me - I'm sure if he said so, then it'd be alright. Go on, get goin', before Harley starts up again!"
Robbie hesitated, once again unsure. But then a muttering set up from the cell next door, and it seemed to click inside his mind that if he didn't go, then he'd never get away from those who talked to themselves all night and kept him awake, and away from that awful metal tank. So, trusting to his surroundings to not pull any tricks, he took a step forward.
And another...
And then two more, because the last two had gone well...
And before he knew it, he was out of the cell and shuffling down the corridor.
"Good luck, kid," called Flat-Head Whateley as he disappeared.
-------
The journey wasn't a good one, not by any means. It was dark as he fumbled his way down the corridor, and the things that lived in the other cells were watching him through their peepholes - watching with almost every kind of emotion there was. He tried to look out of the eyes of some of them to find his way around, but a lot of them pushed him away, or weren't open to him. And when one of them did let him in, the things he saw inside that cell made him jump and hurry on, not wanting to see any more.
He wasn't stopped, though - that was the good thing. Nobody tried to tell him he was breaking a rule, or shouted at him, or made any noise that would alert somebody. The only person who took any notice was Suzie, but she just went on about how the Whitecoats kept making her ill and then better again, so that was of no use. He didn't like being around Suzie much, anyway - he didn't need eyes to know that the Whitecoats had lied when they promised her a new body to put her face on.
It occured to him that the Whitecoats seemed to lie about a lot of things.
By chance, a fat rat that scuttled in front of him in search of a meal lead him to the doorway. Using it's sight, he reached the heavy apeture and, after a few false starts and pushes, found the keypad that was the single obstacle between him and the rest of the building. He vaguely remembered hearing, with his mind, what the Whiskey-Man thought when he touched the buttons - one, one, seven, two - and with a few clicks the door swung open, eliciting the usual chorus whenever anyone came and went into Section Zero. He ignored them as he pushed through it, glad to be putting some distance between himself and the noise.
He was half-way down the long hallway he found when he bumped into something soft - or, rather, someone soft.
"Oh, sorry," he began to say, and then realized that this was probably a bad idea. Were there still Wardens around? Had one been waiting for him when he'd come through the door? No, this was closing time, he knew that much. But why...?
"Hello," came a voice that was not a Warden's - soft, accented, female. "Are you Robbie?"
"...yes?" he responded, unsure of what was going on.
"You took your time," said someone else, a deeper and grumpy male who sounded like he'd just finished emptying a bottle. "We've been waiting for you for about a damn hour now."
"...did the cat send you?" A stupid question to ask, but he had to be sure. If Old Flat-Head had spoken with the cat, then surely it must have spoken to somebody else. He can't have been the only person...
"As a matter of fact, I did."
The voice, bass and smooth, came from a four-legged animal that dropped down from a nearby shelf. The group approached, and Robbie quickly realized that this had been a planned thing, something that had been decided upon for a long while before anyone told him of it. With his mind, he quickly switched between the eyes of everyone present, and caught vague glimpses of colour and shape - orange hair here, black and spiky there... Two people, a man and a woman, and something that might have been a cat if seeing out of it didn't feel like peering out of a huge aquarium tank.
And in an instant, he felt he could trust these people.
"Are we leaving?" he asked, bolder this time.
"Yes, Robert," said the cat. "We're getting out of here. All of us."
-------
The rest, as they say, is history.
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