Broken Toe

(This update contains mild spoilers for Tales from the Gas Station: Volume 3 and Volume 4)

Salutations bloglings,

Once again, this is Jack's newest and best lawyer, running the blog in his absence better than he ever did. In the interest of keeping things simplified, this will probably be the last time I use this little framing device before posting. Just know that I'm here, rootling around behind the scenes, doing very important and very billable things.

And by the way, I don't know how I can make it any clearer about whether or not Jack is still alive. But enough about that, let's get on to more important matters:

I think this is supposed to be the next journal entry.

Tales from the Road: Part (??? + 1) of ???

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I woke up the way I usually do–confused, disoriented, uncertain of where I was or how I got there. But unlike most of my wake-ups, those feelings didn’t go away after I took in my surroundings.

Uh oh.

I was in a bed I didn’t recognize in a room I couldn’t remember. There were machines nearby beeping and booping, no windows, a few empty padded chairs, and another bed just like mine against the opposite wall. Most interesting of all, the room was sweltering hot.

I wiped the moisture off my face as another realization dawned on me: These were not my clothes. The thin, single-piece of fabric covering my body was drenched in what I hoped was sweat. A hospital gown, I assumed. The needle and tube sticking out of my right hand supported that theory. I was definitely in a recovery room of some sort.

“Whatcha in for?”

I finally registered the man sitting atop the covers of the other bed. He looked… odd. He wore a gown just like mine. His hair was wild, unbrushed, and mostly gray with a few curly streaks of black. He was short and lean, and his face was gaunt and clean-shaven. I couldn’t tell if he was thirteen or sixty or somewhere in between.

“What?” I asked.

“I said, ‘whatcha in for?’ You must have done something cool for them to put you in the nutter wing.”

The nutter wing? Okay, I guess that means I’m in the psychiatric ward. Great.

I studied the needle jutting from the back of my hand and tried to figure out how I ended up like this, but all my recent memories were buried under fog. “I don’t know. How long have I been here?”

“This is day three,” he answered. “First time you’ve been lucid though.”

Three days?!

I quickly checked beneath the damp garment, then sighed in relief to discover no catheter. Pulling this IV out of my hand vein was going to be bad enough as it was. And that was just step one. I still needed to find some clothes, get to a phone, figure out what happened to my friends…

“Hey, where am I, anyway?”

I looked back at my roommate’s bed, but it was empty now. Shit, am I hallucinating already? This would hardly be the first time I’d seen someone who wasn’t there. My latest medication adjustment had done wonders to keep that symptom at bay, but if I missed a dose, then all bets were off.

I almost swallowed my tongue in shock once he sprang back into view, crawling up onto the foot of my bed. With a big, crooked smile, he crossed his legs and sat right where my missing leg would have been.

“You’re in the sleepy town of Broken Toe, Arizona.” He shot out a hand and said, “I’m Skeeter.”

“Jack.” I took the offered hand and gave it a half-hearted shake. It was somehow both warm and clammy. “Skeeter? I had a friend with a dog named Skeeter.”

He frowned. It was only then, seeing that hurt in his eyes–such a pure emotion–that I concluded he must have been a child. The wild grays and lines around his eyes weren’t an effect of time. Something else was eating away at him, which made sense considering we were in a hospital.

“Sorry,” I said. “Was that offensive?”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, unconvincingly. “That’s the reaction most people have to my name.”

“If it helps,” I added. “Skeeter was a very good girl.”

I could tell from his reaction that no, it did not help. I decided to put some distance between us and my faux pas, “Hey, Skeeter, do you know what happened to my friends?”

“Dead,” he answered, matter-of-factly.

“I sincerely doubt that. They’re… how do I put this? Hard to kill.”

“Well, if they’re like the rest of the people in Broken Toe, the demons have already gotten them.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“About the demons? To be honest, I try to keep an open mind about these things. But considering we’re in the ‘nutter wing,’ I’d like to collect a bit of evidence before jumping to any conclusions.”

“That’s fair,” Skeeter said. He seemed a little more relaxed than what I’d consider appropriate for someone who believed demons were killing his town.

“Hey, Skeeter?”

“Yeah?”

“Why is it so freakin’ hot?”

“Global warming. But be careful who you say that around or you’ll end up with a lot of nasty emails calling you ‘woke’ like it’s a bad thing.”

“Noted.”

“But also, demons have started taking over everything and everyone in town. They started replacing the hospital staff around the time they brought you in. My theory is that they’re used to the temperatures in Hell, and now that the Earth has finally heated up enough, they feel comfortable here, too.”

“Okay. But I meant, why is it so hot in this room?”

“The air conditioner stopped working a couple hours ago.”

“Seriously? You think we could open a window or something?” I looked around, then remembered that there weren’t any windows in this room. Psychiatric ward wouldn’t have anything made of glass.

“That would be a bad idea,” Skeeter explained. “As hot as it is in here, the temperature outside is worse. It’s been triple digits for days. Did you know, when it’s 99 degrees out, an ice cube would melt slower if you put it inside your mouth?”

“Makes sense.”

“And did you know, standard hot tub temperature is 102 degrees? That means, the air outside is literally hotter than jacuzzi water.”

A fragmented memory flashed into place. It was… confusing.

“What?” Skeeter asked.

“I remember leaving Broken Toe… I remember it was hot as hell before the sun even came up… and I remember…” I almost said this next part out loud. I remember Jerry, butt-ass naked, standing in the back of the van and threatening to shave Gaston. It was incredibly hot, and our vehicle broke down on the side of the road. No air conditioning. No shade. No cover. Just us, trying everything in our power to cool off while the sun turned our vehicle into a brass bull. But how did I end up here?

“Okay, assuming you’re telling the truth and demons are trying to burn us to death, what’s to stop us from just leaving?”

“Ah,” he said with a big, exaggerated nod. “This must be your first time in psyche. Yeah, it’s pretty much like prison. Doors are locked. Electrical outlets are glued in place. Medicine cabinets are deadbolted. No television at all!”

My mind was already hard at work, trying to figure out my next step, but I needed more information. I couldn’t outright ignore the possibility that Skeeter was actually right. I’d seen too much to discount the possibility that demons were taking over his town and trying to exterminate us. But I’d also seen enough to know that the truth is rarely served up on a silver platter like this.

Okay, first things first. “Do you know where my leg went?”

“You mean this thing?” He bent over the edge of the bed and retrieved my prosthetic limb. How considerate of these alleged demons to leave me with a way to run.

“You don’t see any clothes over there, do you?”

“Nope. They took all your other stuff and burned it when you got here.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Educated guess.”

I scooted over in the bed, trying to make enough room to put on my leg. That’s when I noticed the small, black, electronic device that had been tucked underneath my pillow.

“What’s this thing?” I asked.

“Looks like one of the walkie-talkies the orderlies use.”

Another memory clicked into place. They carried me into this room, kicking and screaming. They held me down and strapped me in. But they didn’t notice I’d swiped this radio off one of their belts.

I leaned forward to make sure I hadn’t just imagined that part. Sure enough, there were rows of fabric straps as thick as belts dangling from the edge of the bedframe. I had been trapped in this bed, tied in place while they sedated me. And then… what? They let me roam free after I calmed down? When did I calm down? Why had I ever calmed up in the first place?

I looked at Skeeter. He was my only lifeline, my only connection to this town. He may have had a few screws loose, but he was my best (and only) resource. If he was delusional, I’d just need to translate his delusions. And if he wasn’t, I’d need to know as soon as possible.

God, it’s so freakin’ hot!

“Did you know,” he asked, “That hot saké is served at 104 degrees? That means the air outside is hotter than hot saké.”

“I did not know that.” He smiled proudly. Then, I asked, “What about you? What are you in for?”

“I bit a cop.”

“Why?”

“Because he was actually a demon.”

“How did you know?”

He raised his hands like he was praying for rain and said, “It was obvious.”

With my leg secured in place, I took a careful step away from the bed. My IV had me tethered to a plastic bag on a stand with wheels. I rolled it alongside me as I shuffled around, investigating this prison. There was a closet-sized bathroom in the corner with running water in the sink but no mirror. No surprise there. The door to the hallway was locked, just as Skeeter had said. Nothing else in here gave me any clues as to what was going on. All in all, not the worst cage I’ve ever been trapped in.

I saw two options, neither of which felt particularly appealing:

One: I could start smashing things. If anyone out there was monitoring us, they’d come running. But that would only work if they cared about the cost of all this expensive looking machinery. If they really were murder-demons, a bit of property damage wouldn’t bother them. And if they weren’t demons, then it meant they were probably human, and they’d probably expect me to pay for whatever I broke.

Two: I could sit tight and wait until someone, or something, came through that door.

“How often do they check on us?” I asked.

“Check on us?” Skeeter asked back.

“Yeah. Isn’t there a nurse or somebody who does the rounds every hour?”

Skeeter was slow to answer. “There was. But nobody’s been here since yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yeah. We didn’t get dinner last night or breakfast this morning either.”

“So… Nobody’s out there?”

He shook his head. “They are. I could hear them talking and laughing and moving around all night. I tried banging on the door, but they don’t care. Why would they? We’re not supposed to eat. We’re just supposed to cook.”

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t desperate enough to do anything crazy. Not yet. But I was getting close.

Then, another flash:

We were dead in the water, stranded with no phone service. Rosa was starting to panic as the sun came up and the temperature began to climb.

101.

102.

103.

104.

How long could we last like this?

All the power of all the gods inside our dog were useless. We were out of water. We were desperate.

And then, “Do you guys hear that?”

Jerry opened the sliding side door of the van, causing a wave of air to rush over me, heat blasting into my eyes. It was so bright out, I could barely see. So hot I could barely think.

Rosa sounded delirious as she asked, “Is that what I think it is?!”

The sound grew louder, and closer. Jerry, now clad in a pair of boxer shorts (after Rosa threatened to stab him if he didn’t put something on), stepped out and waved at the approaching vehicle. It came to a stop right next to us and turned off the blaring carnival music. The driver rolled his window down and smiled. Every instinct in my brain screamed that this was sus–sus as hell–susser than a stranger at a kid’s birthday party–susser than the Willy Wonka boat ride–susser than a grown man who still uses the word sus–susser than… a fuck it. We were as good as dead if we didn’t get out of the heat soon.

It was an ice cream truck.

The driver stepped out of his vehicle and gave the four of us a once over.

“I’ll take fifty popsicles,” I said.

He laughed, showing all of his teeth.

Jerry, who for some strange reason seemed perfectly oblivious to the heat, did all the talking for us. I couldn’t remember everything that was said, but there was enough to set off alarm bells. No, we couldn’t borrow the man’s phone. Yes, they were happy to give us a ride into town. (‘They’?) Two other people stepped out of the back of the freezer truck–a couple of women. One middle-aged, one a little younger than us. Both of them were dressed in the same ice-cream man uniform as the driver. Steam emerged from the doorway as hot and cold air mixed. Steam continued to rise from all of their bodies well after they’d left their vehicle. Why were they even getting out in the first place? Both of the ice cream ladies were tougher-looking than I would have expected from people in their profession. The older one had a neck tattoo of flames that vanished beneath her collar, and for a split-second, I was convinced I saw it move.

Then, they dropped the bombshell.

“No, the dog can’t come with us.”

I would sooner have tried my luck starting a fist-fight and stealing their truck than leave Gaston behind to die. Neck-tattoo tried to argue that Gaston would be fine and dogs have a higher temperature tolerance and yadda yadda, but I knew bullshit when I heard it.

But, somehow, they got their way.

I left Gaston with the van.

Why would I do that?

It wasn’t just Gaston, I remembered. Jerry volunteered to stay with him. The ice cream folk loaded Jerry up with bottled waters and told him how to find us. Rosa and I went with the truck, leaving Jerry and Gaston to walk the whole way back to town.

We split the party.

What the hell were we thinking?

In my defense, I was way too hot to think rationally.

The sudden sound of the AC system kicking on gave me hope that things weren’t nearly as bad as Skeeter had implied, but that feeling only lasted for a few short seconds before reality caught up. I could feel the musty hospital air recirculating around me. I could smell the new air coming in from the vent over Skeeter’s bed, and it smelled wrong. It tasted like something was burnt in the next room over. I approached and held up my hand, reaching for confirmation.

Skeeter asked, “What are you doing?”

“The air,” I answered. “It’s back on.”

“Good.”

“No, it isn’t.” I pulled my hand back and started working on a new plan. “They’re blowing hot air. Somebody just turned on the heat!”

I wiped the fresh sweat off my face and raced back to my bed, stopping suddenly once the slack in my IV line ran out, yanking the needle free and casting a stream of deep-red blood all over the wall and ceiling. I collapsed from the pain, gave myself a few seconds to whimper, then jumped back into action.

“Whoa,” Skeeter said, eyes wide with horror. “That was cool! Do it again!”

“Maybe later,” I responded, grabbing the radio I’d stolen off the orderly. “First, we gotta get out of here.”

I turned the knob on the device. Nothing happened. I pressed a few buttons, but it was clear that the thing’s batteries were dead. I turned it over, pried off the back, pulled out the two AA’s, switched their positions, and tried again. Still nothing. (I didn’t really expect that trick to work, but hey, worth a shot, right?)

“Do you have any batteries on you?” I asked.

“Why would I have batteries on me?” he asked back.

“I don’t know your life, Skeeter!”

“No, I ain’t got no batteries!”

I scanned the room, but there weren’t any electronics other than the ones plugged into the walls. If Jerry were here, he could MacGyver this thing, no problem. Of course, if he were here, I probably wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. Where was he? And where was Rosa?!

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Tap, tap, tap, tap… the drip of blood from my wrist onto the tile floor was like a rhythmic metronome behind the steady whoosh of heated air pumping through the vent–both clear reminders that I was running out of time.

I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling as a crazy plan began to form. I had done something similar to this years before, and it almost worked that time. (Of course, it almost got me killed, too. But that’s literally a different story.) I needed to find the fire sprinklers. Smack one of those bad boys with enough force and boom, the whole place will fill up with water in no time!

The thing most people don’t know about psyche wards is just how thoroughly they prepare for patients like me. Patients who might try anything. I’m sure you could probably find the news article if you looked hard enough, about the man or woman who already tried that idea, the one who inspired an engineer to create a tamper-proof sprinkler system that remained inside a recessed metal enclosure until it detected a real fire. Whoever you are, brave pioneer, I salute you for getting there first. But thanks to you, I couldn’t make it rain like I wanted.

Luckily, I was able to pivot to an even worse plan. The sprinklers may have been locked away, but you know what wasn’t? The combination smoke alarm/carbon monoxide detector mounted in the center of the ceiling.

I dragged my bed to the middle of the room and climbed on top of it. With my hands outstretched, I was barely able to reach and pry the round plastic device free. There was a cable on the back that I had to break, probably the one feeding it power. But if I was lucky, it may have had a battery backup. And if I was really lucky, those batteries were AA’s, just like the radio.

Turns out, I was medium-lucky. There were batteries! But they were AAA’s–just a tad smaller than what I needed.

I closed my eyes again and tried to think, what would Jerry do?

Jerry’s voice answered right away. Somewhere deep in my mind, I could hear him scoff and say, “Battery’s are like mouths–they come in different shapes and sizes, but they can all get the same job done if you’re not a prude about it. Now quit overthinking and start breaking shit until the problem fixes itself!”

With that bizarre mental pep talk, I went to work. First, I smashed up one of the random medical appliances by my bed until it gave me a couple pieces of metal bits I could wedge into place, connecting the smaller batteries to the radio terminals. Then, I held my breath and turned the switch. Immediately, the LED light on top turned green and a sound of static came through. It worked! 

Thank you, Jerry!

“Okay,” Skeeter said from over my shoulder. “You got the radio to turn on. Now what?”

“Now, the hard part,” I explained. “I send a message to one of those people or demons or whatever it is out there, and I pretend I’m one of them. I give them an instruction to come to this room and check on us. Then, we hide and wait and when they come through that door, we ambush them!”

“We’re supposed to fight one of those things?!”

“I know it sounds like suicide, but trust me. All we need is the element of surprise.”

At that exact moment, with me crouched over the radio and wedged between the broken machine and displaced bed, the door behind us swung outward. (Fun fact: most doors in the psyche wing don’t put hinges on the inside. I wonder why?) We turned around just in time to see an enormous, burly man with a twirly moustache and pink scrubs walk into the room. He looked at the damage, then at the blood, then at me. Then, he growled.

“What are you doing out of bed?!”

I stood up straight, turned, and yelled, “SURPRISE!” as I flung the walkie talkie as hard as I could. A second arc of hand blood painted a line across the room, and the radio connected with the man’s face and shattered. He fell backwards, and when he hit the ground, he hit hard.

“Holy crapoli!” Skeeter exclaimed.

I rushed for the open door, yelling behind me for Skeeter to “Come on!”

I looked both ways down the hall, but I didn’t see anyone else. The coast was clear. So, I picked the direction with the exit arrow and started to run. A few seconds later, I skidded to a stop. Then, I turned around and ran back to the room.

“Skeet!” I yelled. “Let’s go!” 

He shook his head, no. 

“What?!” I shouted. “You’re the one who said demons are taking over the town! You know the stakes better than anyone! Don’t get cold feet now!”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?!”

He stared at the ground as his lips began to quiver. Tears welled up in his eyes. “It’s… too scary.”

The man in the pink scrubs grabbed my ankle (the flesh one, not the prosthetic). I jerked it free and made an executive decision. “I’ll go get help. I promise!”

Then, I ran.

And ran.

And ran.

And then, I stopped to wonder if that empty nurse’s station looked familiar. Then I ran some more.

Then I stopped again and realized that I was completely lost and none of the directional signs in this hospital made any sense at all. Then I ran again. Then I looked down and realized that I’d left a trail of blood and crimson footprints everywhere I’d been, and that pretty much confirmed that I was going in circles. Then I ran, but a little less enthusiastically. Then, I heard frantic voices around the corner up ahead. Took them long enough.

Borrowing a page from The Shining, I backtracked, stepping backwards into my own bloody footprints until I was close enough to duck inside a random room and hide. This turned out to be a really good decision, because this room actually had clothes that fit me in the closet! Probably because this room was currently occupied by another patient.

An unconscious older man was in this room’s only bed. He looked like he was on death’s doorstep already. And despite the insane heat, he was covered in blankets. It occurred to me that this man might have already known what was coming for him. Here he was, all dressed up and ready for his epilogue. Asleep. Unlikely to ever wake. It wasn’t the worst way to go, by far.

Another voice suddenly came to me, speaking from somewhere deep inside my mind. It was Rosa. “How many other people are there in this building who still have plenty of years left? How many more experiences will they be robbed of if they don’t escape? What about them? What about Skeeter? How many more cops could he bite if he were only given the chance?”

She made her case, and there was no way I could argue against it. Instead, I put on the clothes from the closet–jeans, black shirt, and even the brown hat with a short rim around the top. I tied the laces of my stolen shoes and wrapped my wound in gauze. And I prepared myself for what I had to do next. 

Rosa was right. I couldn’t just run away. I’d never find help in time. If it was even remotely possible, I had to try and save everyone.