The guard stumbled to his feet when Wally reached for the keys and tossed them to Roger who bolted through the door, locking it behind him.
Before he dashed out, Roger gave Wally a last look. "Sorry."
Wally shrugged weakly. "All rock and roll while it lasted."
The guard reached for a remote control switch on his belt. Before he could trigger it, Wally rolled off the cot full-body onto him.
By the time the alarm went off, Roger was out the front door and into his car, feeling as if his heart would break.
They moved Wally to another cell in the basement of the building. He did not let on how bad he felt. Even if they brought him to a hospital, they could do nothing for him. The antidote for his condition lay in a dried up puddle on the floor upstairs.
He slept most of the afternoon. At suppertime a different guard brought him a tray of food. He didn't touch it. When the guard asked if he was feeling okay, Wally nodded that he was fine, just tired. The guard asked if he wanted to call anybody-his lawyer, friends, wife-but Wally grunted no. He just wanted to be left alone to sleep.
In a semi-dozing dream state, he imagined Roger had returned, this time disguised as a guard and quietly giving him his stabilizing shot. So convincing was the dream that he fell into a deep peaceful sleep. And for several hours, nobody again disturbed him. Sometime the next morning, which was Monday, he would be taken to the Madison courthouse for arraignment. Then he would be released on bail.
A little after midnight, Wally shook himself awake from an awful dream of being eaten alive by lice. He woke up clawing his face and ears. He pushed himself up. His whole head felt inflamed and swollen including his eyelids, which were so thick he could barely open them. And when he did, his vision was fragmented, as if looking through cracked lenses.
Worse, his ears were filled with a high-pitched tinnitis that over the minutes became louder, as if somebody were turning up the audio.
Soon the sound was unbearable, condensing into hot filaments of pain shooting through his brain; yet he could not stop it with his fingers. It was coming from inside his skull-as if a million insects were filling his head with mad music.
What's happening to me?
He heard himself yell, but it seemed to come from somebody else.
In his mind he floated high above the cell. He banged his head so hard against the ceiling that he was sure his skull was crushed. But it wasn't, nor did the cluttering stop. Nor did he pass out as hoped.
He dropped to the floor screaming. Blood trickled over his brows and into his eyes from where the skin split. He rolled around the floor as a strange hot pain twisted the muscles and tendons of his limbs, throbbing in agony as if turned on a rack. Voices yelled at him.
"Cut the fucking noise."
"The sumbitch woke me up."
"Somebody shut him the fuck up."
His brain was a noisy animal thing that couldn't hold awareness. He'd focus on a thought, and suddenly it was gone as if holes were opening up in his brain like bubbles in cheese.
Help me.
For an instant, he was in his dorm suite at Pennypacker, playing bridge and drinking a Haffenreffer because it was the cheapest stuff at the package store, and when you're low on cash a good beer is whatever you can afford. And the Beatles were singing "When I'm Sixty-four," and Wendy and Chris were dancing naked, and Sheila was sitting on his lap kissing his new hair.
Somebody opened the window, and hot yellow pus poured over the sill.
His mind screamed, Help me. Chris gotta help me.
Lungs filled with wet air. He was having trouble breathing, flushing out the sacs. As if the old tissue had lost its suppleness.
Drown. You 're going to drown.
He rolled to his side and spit up stringy fluid. His lungs were filling up. He couldn't get air.
More yelling.
Then hands were on him. Turning him. Wiping his forehead.
"It's only superficial. Put a Band-Aid on it."
"Chris? That you?"
"What he say?"
"He wants to know if you're Christ."
"Yeah, J. Christ himself at your service."
"We get a screamer once a month, which is why we got this."
Somebody pulled his arm and pushed up his sleeve.
"His buddy came in yesterday and tried to shoot him up. Bopped Clint in the throat, and this one held him down while needle man got away. Want a little fix?" he asked Wally. "Well, here you go."
Wally could barely feel the prick of the needle.
Thank you, Chris… Roger.
He heard his mouth mumble something.
"What he say?"
"Thislicksa?"
"He wants to know if you lick it."
"Yeah, lick this, pal."
Jab.
"A lick sir?"
"Yeah, a lick, sir, and a promise, buddy boy. Now go to sleep."
"Frensfalife."
"Yeah, friends for life. You'll feel better in the morning."
Monday morning came six hours later.
Outside a cold sun rose over the horizon and sent shafts of light through the window of the guard's office.
The Monday day deputy was Lenny Novak. On the docket filled out by Clint Marino, a weekend night guard, was the name of the men being held. In cell number four was one Walter P. Olafsson, age fifty-seven, brought in two nights ago for assaulting a federal officer. He was to be taken to the courthouse in the center of town by 9:30 where he would be arraigned.
Every morning Lenny would slip in a breakfast tray. He was a new guy who made an effort to say good morning to the inmates. At cell three, he said, "How you doing this morning, Tom?"
Tom shuffled to the tray slot. "Be doing a lot better if that asshole didn't keep me awake half the night." He nodded to the cell on the other side of his wall.
"Happens sometimes. The walls close in, and they flip out."
Lenny pushed the cart down to the next cell. "Hey, Mr. Olafsson, breakfast." And Lenny pushed the tray into the transfer slot.
No response.
"Time to get up. I'm taking you to courthouse at nine."
Nothing.
Lenny called again. Still no response. Not even a stir. It must have been the sedative they'd given him.
He checked his watch. It was 7:38. He had to be fed and ready to go in little over an hour.
"Hey, pal. Rise and shine."
Nothing.
Because Olafsson was sleeping on his side against the wall, Lenny could not see his face.
He took out his keys and unlocked the door, automatically dropping his hand onto the handle of his baton. It was an unnecessary precaution in this case, because the guy was probably still dopey from the shot. Lenny put his hand on the man's shoulder and shook it. "Come on, guy, time to get up."
Still the man did not stir.
What hit Lenny first was the odor. A sweet sick smell of dead meat. An instant later it registered that Lenny had felt no heat from the man's body.
In one smooth movement he tore off the blanket and pulled the man onto his back.
The man was dead, all right. Lenny's first thought was that he had the wrong prisoner. The docket said the man was supposed to be Caucasian. But this guy was black.
He flicked on his pocket flash. "Jesus Christ!" Gooseflesh spasmed across his scalp.
The man's head did not look human. It was twice the size of normal and covered with dark red lesions. The eyes were swollen balls. His nose looked like a huge deformed black potato covered with lichens. One exposed ear had doubled in size-a fat ragged leaf with dark liquid running out of the canal.
What nearly stopped Lenny's heart was the realization that those scaly lesions were moving. No trick of the light-the skin on the man's face-if you could call it skin-was actually rippling as wet new growths continued to bud off from the man's flesh like some alien organism.