Original Stories Fan Fiction / Horror Fan Fiction ❯ Watcher in the Darkness Book 3: Imprisoned ❯ Chapter 6 ( Chapter 6 )

The Sanctuary had gone straight to hell in the few months I'd been gone. Going back over it in my head, I really should have seen it coming. There were just too many Disavowed surviving without the Watchers around to thin the herd. Rows of cheap bunkbeds lined the walls of the common room, and almost every one of them was occupied. In the corners, three outdated televisions blared three different channels. Several of the pathetic bastards were snoring.

I knew I should try to get some sleep, but it wouldn't do any good. I hadn't been able to sleep since long before my release from prison. Admittedly, I didn't need much, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd gotten more than a catnap.

My mind was just too active, frenetic thoughts tap-dancing on my already tender brain. I couldn't stop obsessing about Karen. Where was she? How was I going to get rid of Bad Karen? I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid as to give that demon three days to figure out how to screw me over. I might as well have given her a thousand years. I should have killed her when I had the chance. Or fucked her and have been done with it.

Or maybe I would just rip down those blackout curtains, break out the windows, then finally get some goddamn privacy.

I tried to summon the energy to go hunting, but I couldn't even bring myself to stand. I'd had nothing but cold blood for months, and I didn't care. I wasn't even that hungry. The migraine had turned my stomach. It could be that the shitty conditions at the prison had taken their toll on my body and the damage was already done. Again, whatever.

Every few minutes, my phone vibrated to let me know that I had fresh hate mail and I couldn't help but smile. Each message filled me with a weird satisfaction that bordered on joy; well, joy as I remembered it. So many random strangers whipped into a frenzy because they didn't like something I'd said. It was hilarious.

I was so distracted that I didn't realize Michael had come into the room until he started talking. “Tobias, I'm glad you're awake. Are you busy? I was hoping I could discuss something important with you.”

“I don't want to talk to my lawyer,” I said without looking up. I had blocked his number on my phone, but I was aware that the man had called the Sanctuary sometime earlier that day. I didn't care. According to Google, it wasn't too late to change my plea, but I had important business to tend to first.

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but that wasn't what I needed to talk to you about.” I gave Michael a flat, unfriendly look, but it didn't seem to faze him. “Come to my office so we can discuss this privately.”

I was suddenly positive that he was going to ask me to leave. Michael could fit four more Disavowed into my dedicated room, and the city was overrun with those losers. An oily anger seeped through my veins as I got to my feet, and a whisper in my head urged me to use Michael's self-righteous blood to end my hunger.

I managed to keep my hands to myself as I followed him down the long, dark hallway. We entered his office, and the bright sunlight that streamed through the windows sent crackles of pain throughout my skull. I raised my arm on reflex, and Michael frowned in concern at the look on my face.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“No.” My tone made it clear that he was an asshole for even asking. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Michael stared at me for a second, then gestured to a corkboard stuck with a half-dozen newspaper articles. Under each article was a photocopied page of what appeared to be very old text.

“Look at this,” he said with endless patience. I stood next to him, because it was simpler than arguing. “As soon as you told me what Justine had become, I started watching the obituaries.”

I felt a menacing look settle over my face. I didn't like that Michael had taken that liberty, and the very mention of Justine's name made the scar tissue over my heart tighten. Was that why he had brought me into his office? To make me feel guilty because I hadn't gone after Justine? Where the hell did he get off making that sort of call for me?

Michael was still talking. “It was a few weeks before I saw anything that sent up a red flag because they don't always put in cause of death.” He pointed toward the first article. “For this one, they did. I was looking for a few keywords. Sudden fever, rash, nausea and vomiting.”

The obituary was dated six weeks after I got locked up. My scowl deepened. “What does this have to do with Justine?” I remembered very well that Justine had made Karen sick too, but faking ignorance made me feel better.

“Revenants have always been linked to deadly diseases. The Black Death. Typhus. The Yellow Fever outbreak in Philadelphia. In 1633, a smallpox epidemic all but wiped out the native tribes of New England. A revenant sighting correlated with every single one of those plagues.”

“How do you know that?” My hands were in my pockets and my eyes were half-closed. Apathetic didn't begin to describe me.

“The church has always been very diligent about keeping track of that sort of thing, so I've spent the last several months doing research. Yes, the diseases themselves may have varied, but certain symptoms remained the same every time.”

“Let me guess; fever, rash, nausea and vomiting?”

Michael smiled, though I had no idea why and found it very annoying. “Exactly. It's the same thing that's happening now.”

“You don't know that.” My stubborn refusal to face facts let the air out of his balloon. “People get sick all the time. That's just about all humans are good for.” Michael opened his mouth to argue but I cut him off. “And even if you're right, what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I've never fought a revenant before, and I wasn't a match for Justine when she was alive. I sure as fuck don't have the power to stop a plague. So, even if Justine is responsible, what do you want me to do?”

“Something. Anything.” Michael seemed amazed that he had to spell this out for me. “Toby, innocent people are going to die. Don't you care about that at all?”

Before I could break it to him that I really didn't, we were interrupted by the baby monitor on his desk. It crackled, hissed, then began to emit a staticky thumping sound. Michael groaned, his shoulders slumped as he trudged out of the office.

I followed because I could smell blood and suffering. I wasn't concerned at all, but I was intrigued. “What's going on?”

“It's Song.” Michael sounded very tired. “She does this whenever she gets too thirsty. She still tries to hold out for as long as she can.”

“Why?” Where was the guilt in cold blood? Housewives donated that shit while their kids were in school so they could afford new shoes.

Michael shrugged as he opened the door to Song's room. The light from the hall struck the pathetic, thin, maimed creature on the bed and even I winced. Her skin was literally as white as snow, her eyes sunken and her mouth withered like a prune. Her fangs were long enough to scrape her bottom lip, and the open, dry gash in her forehead was raw and jagged. She blinked at us several times, dazed, then resumed banging her head against the wall.

“Let her die.” I may have said it without thinking, but I stood by my words.

Michael gave me a look of profound disapproval. “You know I can't do that,” he said before he walked into the room then gathered her in his arms

I shook my head, disgusted, as a scent caught my attention like a flash of light out of the corner of my eye. My gaze was drawn to it immediately, then I felt my heart sink.

Karen's little brother, Scotty, stood at the end of the hall.