The Old One's Rise Chapter 3

Metal music blared behind the bright lights flashing from the sign across the street. It was a pulse-pounding Rob Zombie song. A man lay on the ground behind a fence, a dark-haired woman straddling him in the night as she rips open his shirt. A hunger boiled from within him, his hands pinned to the moist, dirt-covered ground as she ground her crotch against his.

“Do you want me?” she hissed through excited breath.

The man couldn’t have wanted her more. The tightening in his groin and his hardening member gave him away. She reached down, grabbing him by the groin and applying pressure. The familiar pleasure of the pain she was inflicting was a sense he enjoyed. He’d inflicted it on others many times. As the woman’s soft lips kissed down the side of his neck, he struggled to get his hands free.

“Do you want me?” she hissed, her body writhing against his.

The woman put his hands above his head before a sharp ratcheting sound met the feel of cold, wet steel against his wrists. She continued running her hands across his muscular frame, sliding her nails seductively across his flesh. When he looked worried and pensive, she kissed him deeply, their tongues dancing together.

The strange and seductive woman reached down between her legs and undid the button and zipper of the man’s jeans. She contracted against his body, forcing his pants down around his hips. His hardness popped free, standing straight up toward the sky. She smiled at him, kissing his neck and fiddling for something in a bag. When she found what she wanted, she sat straight up, pulling a long piece of duct tape out and covering his mouth.

“Do you want me?” she demanded, her face pressed against his, playfully biting his nose.

The sound of people walking down the city street drove his tension higher. She was so sultry, so seductive, and he was powerless to her will. Laying beneath her, staring up into the stars, the surrealness of the circumstances overtook his senses causing him to miss the moves she was making. When he looked back at the woman on top of him, her heaving bosom shining in the lights of the busy city street, the change in her eyes made him attempt to scream out through the tape over his mouth.

As her prey’s muffled screams amused her, the sultry, dark-haired young woman impaled herself onto the man beneath her, her mouth opening wide as she thrust downward, her teeth tearing into his throat. Her head thrashed side to side, her grotesque rows of teeth tearing at flesh and blood rushing out over her face.

The life drained from the man as she sat up, looked up into the stars, and spewed blood from her mouth. Crimson ran down her chin and cheeks, running across her naked form, as she continued to thrust against the man until there was nothing left of him.

His body morphed into a darkened husk, his eyes drained and then fell into the sockets, his flesh dried out, and he was gone.

Inside Stockton State Prison, in cell 118 A, Joe Mazukah woke up in a cold sweat. His cocoa skin was damp, and his tee shirt was soaked. Joe sat up on his bunk, wishing for a cigarette. The dreams were getting to him. Five times in one week, and each more bizarre than the last.

It started ten days ago. After years of surviving prison, Joe was losing his mind. The voice in his head came to him at all hours of the day. Joe couldn’t escape the voice. Worse yet, he didn’t try. She was familiar, somehow. Twenty years in prison, and not a person had come to visit. Joe felt like the outside world remembered him.

The voice in his head was familiar enough that she knew things. She even knew the sins he committed, the ones even the police didn’t know. It comforted him to talk to someone that understood, even if she was only in his head. She not only understood, but she also seemed to sympathize with Joe.

“You coming to chow?” Joe’s cellmate asked.

His name was Richie, which was short for Richard. Joe nodded as Richie stood at the door to their room, waiting for the morning door pop. Joe looked at the kid, imagining what it would feel like to slit the kid’s throat and not have to stomach with his cheery-eyed morning routine.

‘No,’ Joe told himself. He was only two weeks away from paroling and wanted to see the outside world again. Killing the kid wouldn’t serve any purpose.

The doors opened, and Joe quickly put on his button-down shirt. It was one of the things he wouldn’t miss about prison. The simplest things mattered now. Joe wanted to feel the sensation of some fine threads, the freedom of driving, and a woman’s touch. He’d been in Stockton for twenty years. No matter what, this was his last bit in prison.

‘Good,’ the voice in Joe’s head said.

The sound of her voice was pleasant. It came to him like a whisper in the wind. She sounded young. Joe developed a clear picture of what she looked like in his mind. She always said what he needed to hear, almost guiding him the past ten days.

‘You’re here,’ he said.

‘I’m always here, Joe. Don’t you know that yet?’ the voice asked him.

‘I’m still not sure I haven’t lost my mind,’ Joe replied.

Flashes of her face entered his mind. Seeing her in the middle of a clearing in a long, white dress with her arms reaching out to him was a comfort. She stood in an all-white sundress, and her hair blew in the wind. Joe could see the silhouette of her young, taught body in the sunlight. She was mesmerizing, hypnotic, and he feared a figment of his imagination.

‘I’m waiting for you,’ she whispered, as if in his ear.

‘I have two more weeks until parole, then I’ll come to you,’ he thought, not wanting anyone to hear him talking to someone they couldn’t see. ‘Do you know where you’re at yet?’

Joe followed Richie into the mess hall. There were a couple of hundred inmates filing into the lines. He struggled to focus as some of the men passed, many giving him a perfunctory “Good Morning” greeting. After twenty years in prison, Joe Mazuka was popular among the men. He had control over many of the guards at Stockton.

After twenty years of learning to survive in one of the most corrupt prisons in the country, Joe knew how to garner the kind of favor with the guards that allowed him to operate with impunity. Joe could grant favors, but they came with a price. He regulated his cell block with both fear and wisdom. Using wisdom along with violence earned him the nickname preacher.

“Good morning, Preacher Joe,” said one of the dietary workers.

Joe, and Richie, by extension, were lucky to receive extra large helpings at meals. The practice went on for years. Even the warden knew what was happening, but as long as Joe kept the peace, he didn’t care.

Joe nodded and took his tray. He struggled to keep his focus. Visits from the dream woman came at times Joe was occupied, like going to meals, working in the laundry, and during trips to the yard. He didn’t blame her. She wasn’t in prison, so how could she understand?

‘Joe, I want you to come for me. You will come to find me, won’t you?’ asked the voice.

‘Of course I will,’ he told her.

‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ he thought, putting a fork full of scrambled eggs in his mouth. ‘Very soon, I’ll be a free man. Then, I’ll come to you. I promise,’ he thought.

Jackson woke up in his bunk, his room cold and dark. He woke up sharply, sat straight up, and breathed heavily. Jackson had nightmares before but never so vivid. He flipped on a light, looking around to make sure where he was, to get his bearings.

“Jesus,” he said to himself.

Looking at his watch, Jackson realized he was late. He had a session in the detention center scheduled in ten minutes. Getting out of his bunk, Jackson grabbed a pair of pants, a blue polo with the Aero One logo, and his boots. After starting a cup of coffee, he dressed and began walking to the lift to the detention center.

Jackson was on his tenth day aboard the rig. Every day, he was amazed by the ride to the bottom. The translucent lift tubes allowed for a 360-degree view of the bottom of the sea. Before this, Jackson never imagined such sights. It would have been impossible to get such a close view without a DSV.

The door to the lift opened, and the morning shift security staff stood at attention. Jackson stepped out and presented his identification card. After putting his hand on the palm scanner and using the retinal scanner, security relaxed.

“Good morning, sir,” the Sargent greeted Jackson.

“How’s your morning?”

“Starting a little late?” asked the second officer.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” answered Jackson.

“Was it a late night in the canteen?” asked the Sargent on duty.

It had been ten days, and Jackson had yet to make it to the canteen. Some of the staff and crew mingled there in the evenings. He thought about going up there but spent most of his time studying the girl, combing the files on her for answers. It would have been easy enough to walk away from work, even if for only a while. He had yet to make time to follow up with the good doctor.

“Nope, just work,” Jackson told them as he headed toward the detention cell.

The officer in the detention center booth was named Joe. Joe Campbell pulled the assignment because of his time in the special forces. He knew security better than the rest of the staff, having designed most of the security aboard the Aero One. Joe sat carefully watching the monitor labeled Prisoner X. A buzz on the control board made Joe turn, seeing Jackson as he entered.

“Professor Cross,” he said.

“Good morning, Joe. How’s our girl today?” asked Jackson.

Joe motioned for Jackson to have a seat. He had something to show the professor. The morning watch was boring, especially before they put a tray into the cell. Joe noticed something odd early in his shift. Joe hit the playback button and told Jackson to watch closely.

“What am I looking for?” asked Jackson.

As the tape played, Joe explained how he was sitting and watching the room and noticed her lips moving. She looked like she was in a trance, but it was clear to Joe she was talking as if someone else was in the room. Joe pointed at the screen, and LeeLee’s lips were moving as he described.

“Damnedest thing, doc, I studied lip reading, and whatever she’s saying, it’s not in any language I’ve ever heard. I haven’t been able to make anything out of it, but she’s saying something,” explained Joe.

Jackson watched the monitor. He wasn’t sure what he saw, but something was going on.

“Can you zoom in on her face?” asked Jackson.

“Sure,” Joe answered, spinning a control until it was at maximum magnification.

When Joe zoomed in on her face, there was no doubt in Jackson’s mind about what he saw. The girl was dreaming. Whatever she was dreaming, she was in a deep sleep. Whether she’d remember or not, that was the question.

“She’s in R.E.M sleep. There’s a chance she wouldn’t remember what is going on in that head of hers. Is there any chance you can try to translate her lip movements into something usable?” asked Jackson.

“Doc, I can try, but as I said, it’s not something I’ve ever heard before today.”

“Give it your best shot. This might be the first bit of intel that will let me get into her head. It’s been ten days, and so far, nothing,” admitted Jackson.

“Are you going to go in there?” asked Joe.

“I’m going to give it a shot,” Jackson admitted, getting up from the chair.

Jackson walked through the door to the detention area, his notebook at his side. He said good morning. She only looked at him long enough to acknowledge his presence.

“How are you today?” he asked her, not expecting to get an answer.

LeeLee got up and walked over to the glass where Jackson stood. She put her hands against the glass, looking him up and down. She was more curious today than in past attempts. He considered it a good sign. The longer someone is detained without human interaction, the more inclined they are to talk. His heart nearly lept when she pressed the intercom on her side of the glass.

“I’m fine, Professor Cross. How are you today?”

Jackson was stunned. Her simple mannerisms aside, this was the first time she’d spoken since being transferred to the detention center.

“I’m good. Thank you for asking,” said Jackson. “Would you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“Of course, please do. That’s why you’re here, correct?”

Jackson found the question to be surprising. He opened his notebook and asked his first question.

“The prison you were in before being transferred here, how long were you there?” asked Jackson.

The girl appeared to be pondering the question as she thought. At one point, she started to count with her fingers. Jackson didn’t believe she knew an answer when she looked at him.

“What year is it?” she asked.

“2025,” he replied.

She slumped onto her bunk. The number took her by surprise. Jackson stood, anxiously hoping she would answer him. When she started speaking, it was soft, almost inaudible.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Forgive me. I just realized I’ve been locked up for almost 130 years,” said the girl.