Hugo in the High Castle
1.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come
Sometimes the appropriate response to reality is to go insane. - Philip K. Dick, VALIS
* * *
5150. More numbers. Add 'em. Eleven. Add those, two. Not a number. Okay. Five times one. Five. Times five. Twenty-five. Not a number. Okay. Alright. It's a good number. It's a safe number. Wait. Five and one. Reverse them. One and five. Fifteen. Fifteen. It's a number, it's got a number in it. Ah, crap, dude, it's a number. Not directly, but still pretty uncool. I shoulda thought of that when the guy put me in here. Should have thought of it when he finished the form.
5150. 72-hour involuntary psychiatric hold, as processed by a police officer. Not so involuntary for Hugo Reyes – he'd all but skipped to the officer's Ford Interceptor to be dropped off at Santa Rosa. Not exactly 72 hours, either. He'd given up on tracking time. Every three days (three was safe), his ma would visit. Every Friday, the pudding was chocolate with sprinkles. The sixth day of the week. That one was safe, too, mostly. Sixteen, there was a six, but without the one, it might be okay. How many threes and sixes had there been since he freaked out in a stop and shop? He didn't know. Didn't worry about it. Every twenty-five hours a nurse would come by with the Clonazepam, and things would be better again. For a while. He'd insisted on the just slightly off-kilter schedule, twenty-four had a four in it and he liked to hedge his bets if he could. With the two there, it was probably safe. It wasn't really a four. But it was a chance he could control.
Is he gone yet? Bracing himself, Hurley slowly winched open an eye. He was alone at last. No sign of Charlie. Sorry, dude. I just gotta hold on a little while. Just a couple more hours, man, and you're out of here. I just gotta wait for Brooks.
Is this how, like, crackheads feel waiting for a dealer? Man. Lame. But I'm getting my dosage upped. That's good, right? Wouldn't let it go up if it was bad. But you're coming around way too much, dude. I can't take it. You're not supposed to see dead people, right, and you're dead. I said goodbye. I said goodbye to all of you.
Something moved by the door and he jerked in his seat, the heavy cotton bathrobe swishing around his ankles. It wasn't even dawn yet, the morning rounds still to come, the floor locked and secure. He looked around, huge eyes darting, picking out details of cheap corners, of cobwebs, of tree shadows on the bland off-white of the door. Just shadows. Not Charlie. It didn't make him feel any better. Hurley knew what could be in shadows.
Three more hours. Three was safe. Then the pill.
Maybe Charlie would finally leave him alone.
* * *
"How's the new dosage settling in, Hugo?"The doctor scribbled something illegible on the clipboard, glasses sliding down his nose. He absently shoved them back up and gave Hurley a quick glance, like a bird. His blond hair had given way to a little more grey, but the lips were still pursed in that tight but genuinely friendly smile. He always seemed to like Hurley, and Hurley had long since forgiven him for being so blunt over the Dave thing.
"Pretty okay, Dr. Brooks." Hurley cocked his head and looked around, trying to be sure he was telling the truth. Nope. No Charlie hanging out in the corner, no little wave, no grunge-rock sweater that smelled like strong Irish beer. How did you smell a hallucination? Hurley was deathly afraid to ask the doc.
Nod, nod. Scribble, scribble. "Any side effects? Hearing anything, sleeping more? It was a pretty strong jump for you, full half milligram. I'll be surprised if nothing's changed."
Hurley shrugged, looking sheepish. "I dunno." He tried to think, still feeling a little dopey. "I guess I'm not as hungry."
"Do you remember me asking you this exact question yesterday?" Brooks looked down at him, expectant.
"Uhhh..."
Nod. Scribble. The pen was clipped into place. "It's all right. It'll mess with your memory a little, probably to be expected. I'll check with you again tomorrow. If memory trouble persists, we're going to have to drop you back."
"Do you gotta, dude? I've really slept a lot better." It was true. Heck, it was like playing catchup on three years worth of sleep. Brooks gave him a hard stare, and Hurley tried to take it without feeling too self-conscious. There was more color in his face, less tension. Three days with no Charlie. No sounds. No whispers. It had been pretty awesome, actually. He'd have to really work to remember the question for tomorrow. He liked the new dose.
"We'll take it day by day, Hugo. Just like we always do." Reassuring smile. The fingers flexed, wanting to take up the pen, but just grasped the side of the clipboard. He gave Hurley the same birdlike headbob and left. Just lunch remained. Pudding. Must be Friday.
Hurley took a look around the room, silent and alone. He felt comforted for the first time since coming back to Los Angeles.
* * *
Day five. Hurley felt a little snappish, mumbling cranky things under his breath in Spanish while Brooks took his notes. He kept it quiet, though. Cranky, tired, but no Charlie. No ghosts. Anything was worth that. He could suck up the irritability. Just so long as he didn't haul off and smack that one dude in the game room. Guy laughed like a horse, long and loud and weird.
The therapy session was pretty unremarkable otherwise. Brooks checked him over, asked him about his dreams, talked more about the crash – everything was about getting over the past. Like erasing stuff was going to do any good, but Hurley just rolled with it like he always did. Kept up the lie. Anything for the pills. For the sleep.
"Well... it looks like you're doing pretty okay, big guy." Brooks looked at him with a hawklike expression. Different than the meek bird he usually was– a sparrow maybe, or a thrush. The piercing eyes were something else. Hurley fidgeted. Was he picking up on what Hurley was holding back? The .5 just hadn't been enough. It hadn't. He couldn't go back. He offered the doctor a big smile. Madre de Dios, buy it, dude. Brooks nodded and dropped his eyes. "We'll keep going with this a little longer. Now," and at this he got up from his chair. "I'm on vacation for the next week. You'll be working with Dr. Stillman until I get back."
"'Kay, dude. Have fun." He scratched under his chin. "Where you going?"
"Oh, Guam. My son's stationed at Andersen." Quick smile. Little wave. Hurley blinked a little. Who goes to Guam?
"Oh! I forgot." Dr. Brooks spun on his heel and pointed his pen at Hurley. "You have a visitor today."
"Uh... I don't think my Ma's due till day after, man."
"Someone else. I didn't catch the name. They're down in the lobby."
Hurley racked his brain. "Jack?" But the doctor had already slipped out the door.
* * *
Hurley shuffled down the hall, his feet in slippers, his robe clean, soft clothes with no ties all set. He looked as presentable as a man can get in a mental institute. It'd be okay to see Jack, he supposed. Sun would be better, but pretty much nobody else. He liked being alone more and more these days. Because until the drugs had really kicked in... he was never alone.
Down the corridor and around the corner, he saw the barest bit of a man in a dark suit. He paused. It was pretty small to be Jack. Maybe it was Sun, after all. He moved closer, his shaggy, curly head tilting. No, male shoulders. Slender, small, but still broad enough to be definitely male. The figure stood up, out of his view for a moment, and then, suddenly, was framed at the end of the hall.
"Oh. Oh no, dude. Not you." He backed away, feet nearly tangling. He put a hand against the wall to steady himself. "You can't be here, dude. No frigging way!"
"Hugo." The voice was soft, low and almost musical, the tone somber. "Hello again, Hugo." The small form gave a quick dip of the head, like a beckoning. Hurley wanted to retreat further, but found himself frozen by that stare. Cold blue eyes, like a snake. It was a nightmare come to life.
"You're still back there, dude!"
Benjamin Linus cocked his head, and gave him a look of polite disbelief. "And yet here I am." The strange little smile, scuttling across crooked lips. "We need to talk."
"No way, dude!" Hurley broke free of his horrified trance and began to back away fast, never taking his eyes off the small man. Nurses stuck their heads into the corridor watching him retreat, his face deathly white.
Hurley made it back to the door that marked the living areas where visitors couldn't go. No footsteps chased him. No soft thwick! of that baton.
Just words, carried down the antiseptic hall.
"Tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Hugo."
It sounded like a promise from Lucifer.