HAUNTED SONA
CHAPTER 9
Across the yard, tucked out of plain view but still visible, were seven oil drums. All empty. More would collect there before inmates were finally assigned to dispose of them. After all, Sona wasn't some cozy suburb. Like most other things there, the removal of trash wasn't at the top of the priority list.
Michael looked around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear them. Then he leaned in closer to Bellick.
"All we need is two of those, you think?" he asked.
"Yeah. The table Mahone told you about?" Bellick wrinkled his nose. "Thing's not gonna float unless you got two of those or somethin' like them strapped onto it. Even then, we're taking a chance."
"Fine. Nobody's gonna miss two oil drums, right?"
"I doubt it. Especially not if we move them one at a time. Get them down to that elevator you guys talked about."
"Good."
"But we'll need something to strap them on there with. Where are we gonna get rope? And what're we using for oars?"
Michael paused. He hadn't thought that far ahead yet. Also, he was more than a bit distracted. That conversation with his brother had left him with an uneasy feeling. He was worried about Sara and Linc had done nothing to ease his fears.
"You seem to be on good terms with Mr. Witchdoctor," Michael said, smiling. "Why don't you see if he can conjure up some rope for us?"
"I'll see about that today and let you know."
"Great."
"So, what about the oars?"
"Give me some time. Gotta be something we can use that'll be strong and go down ten or twenty feet, so we can navigate the raft."
Bellick nodded but looked doubtful. "Say this doesn't work. The thing don't float. I mean, I know this is gonna come as a shock to you, Scofield, but I was no boy scout growing up. I never made a raft before. We can just swim through, right? Water's dirty and it's got bugs in it, but we can swim it?"
"No. We can't swim through there. They're not just bugs, they're leeches. And there are…other things in that water, Bellick. Worse than leeches. They tried to kill Mahone."
Understanding, Bellick nodded. "Raft or no raft, what's to stop them from coming after us again?"
"Nothing." The answer was brutally honest. Michael glared straight at him. "If you don't want to take that chance, back out now."
"I'm not backing out. I just want to know what we're up against. That's all."
The response had been firm but soft-spoken. Now that was as strange as some of the other things that had been going on there. Bellick? Soft-spoken? That was a new one.
"You seem different," Michael remarked.
"Different? What do you mean?"
"I don't know. You don't seem yourself lately." Realizing those words could be viewed as confrontational, Michael shook his head and looked away.
"You seen T-Bag lately?"
"No. Come to think of it, I haven't."
"Well, now, there's a fella who ain't been himself lately."
"Oh, yeah? Who's he been?"
Bellick gave a mysterious little laugh, though he rubbed his hands nervously against his pants leg. "Trust me. You don't wanna know."
Michael frowned. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Mahone across the way. He was half walking, half trotting out of one door, almost tripping over his own feet.
"You talk to El Cura." Michael added then, cautioning, "But don't tell him too much."
"We have nothing to fear from the old man."
"Don't. Trust. Anyone!" Michael admonished sternly. "I'll talk to you tonight. We'll need to get one of the drums down there late, maybe near dawn."
He didn't wait for Bellick's reply. Michael had already begun making his way over to Mahone, who'd also seen him.
Something was wrong with him. Michael noticed it right away. The tall, lanky rogue lawman was shaking almost uncontrollably and his face was ashen. More encounters with those other prisoners in Sona? The ones who'd never been buried? Instinctively Michael looked up at the blaring sun in the canopy of azure sky above then. This had happened in broad daylight?
On second thought, considering where they were, Michael wasn't surprised.
"Calm down, Alex," he whispered.
Bleary-eyed, his hair so mussed that he looked like a madman, Mahone met his stare.
"I gotta get outta here," he blurted out. "I wanna go home. This place—you won't believe it, you won't believe what I saw—"
"Come here. And shut up!"
Instantly, Michael's temper flared. He almost dragged Alex out of the yard, gripping handfuls of his shirt.
"You sonofabitch!" Michael spat out. "You took something, didn't you? Answer me!"
He was close enough to see how dilated Mahone's pupils were, the black in them almost pushing out the blue of his eyes. He was clearly dazed, disoriented, waking up slightly when Michael shoved him back against the wall. He managed to control himself; though not a physically violent man by nature, he felt dangerously close to beating Mahone with his fists.
"I don't see where that's any of your damn business," Alex snapped. "But, yeah, I took something. So what?"
"So? I'm trusting you, Alex. I'm trusting you to help me get us out of this place. And you're off somewhere, getting your fix. What the hell did you take, anyway?"
"Man, I don't need to hear this crap—"
"YES, you DO!" Michael shoved him a second time.
As expected, Mahone grabbed a fistful of his jacket and yanked him forward, snarling at him.
"I…just…saw…Apolskis!" Seeing the shock register in Michael's expression, Alex gave a sharp nod of his head. "Yeah. David Apolskis. You know, your little buddy, Tweener. I saw him, Michael. As clear as I'm seeing you right now." Roughly, he released Michael. "He's my ghost. He's the one who followed me into this hellhole."
"What are you talking about?"
"AREN'T YOU PAYING ATTENTION?" Alex bellowed. Realizing he was drawing the attention of other prisoners, he lowered his voice. "You get a sweet angel. I get the ghost of a kid I killed. How's that for fair, huh? And you wonder why I'm popping whatever pills I get my hands on."
Perhaps when he'd first arrived there, Michael would have written the Tweener incident off to a drug-induced hallucination. But now, with all he'd seen and heard, he doubted nothing from the supernatural realm.
Still, he sought to put the topic back on track.
"I need you totally sober, Alex," he said, keeping his voice low.
"Did you hear me? I saw him." It looked like Alex was even having trouble swallowing, his Adam's apple appearing to rise and fall painfully. "I killed that kid. I blew him away. Tonight, he didn't—he didn't look like he'd been shot. He was dressed like—like the last time I saw him, standing next to that SUV. But no cuffs, no…blood."
"What did he want?"
"What? Did you think I'd stick around to find out? I ran out of there was soon as he told me…" Alex lifted his head, his expression one of pleading. For the first time, Michael actually feared for the man's sanity. "He said…'You won't have any peace until I can rest.'"
Michael caught Alex by the arm, holding him steady against the wall. Either the experience of being haunted by the ghost of the young man whose life he'd callously taken or the drugs had made his knees buckle. Michael didn't know which was to blame, but he went on with fierce determination.
"I need to know you'll be sober," he said again. "And strong. If you can't, then I take Bellick with me and I leave you here."
"No. Hell, no, you are not doing that!" Mahone was adamant.
"Alex, listen to me. Keep your voice down. I won't have you drugged up or going out of your mind—"
"I won't, okay? I won't. And you will not leave me here in this place, Michael. You can't leave me here," he said, his voice hoarse. "Please. You can trust me. I won't take any more drugs. I promise. Please. Don't do that to me."
Michael wavered. He didn't know how true those words could ring, how much trust could be invested in a junkie. Even more disturbing was his own reaction, that stirring of compassion he felt within himself. And all for a man who'd done more to deserve his contempt than his compassion. Though he reminded himself inwardly that this was the man who'd gunned down his father, just like he'd gunned down Tweener, he was seeing Mahone through eyes he wasn't prepared to see him with at all.
"Let's see about getting the tabletop down there tonight," he said, reverting to a cool, business-like manner.
"Yeah." Mahone nodded and swallowed hard again. He ventured a grin, bravely. "Okay."
Turning, the man shuffled down the corridor, his head bowed. He didn't look so arrogant now; he looked like a man who'd been humbled. Michael had to look away, incensed with himself for seeing not a cold-hearted killing machine, only a broken human being.
Too much like himself.
