No, this is not an April Fools' Day joke. This is serious business. This is...Sparta! And Chapter 10.
All strangeness aside, thanks as always to my reviewers. I will stand and deliver on the Russian dancing bear, but not in this chapter. Sorry.
Just before his highly evolved—but sometimes misused—mind was thrown into chaos, Joe tasted tangy copper and knew it meant one thing: he'd bitten the Scarecrow's hand so hard it had started to bleed. The thought nearly made him nauseous. Here he was, fastened on like a pit bull, and he was getting another man's blood in his mouth. A crazy man's blood. A crazy man who liked to dress up as a scarecrow and torture people who were just trying to make it out of life alive.
And then the cohesion and logic was knocked from his head. It was as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to him. Joe's mind reeled, his five senses were sent sprawling, his basic cognitive function all but destroyed. He couldn't think, couldn't reason, couldn't smart-mouth the Scarecrow. All he could do was choke.
A clinical observer removed from the physical and emotional effects of fear toxin would have found logic in what Joe was suddenly experiencing. If the cabbie believed the Scarecrows hands were inhuman, it would make perfect sense for his blood to be some abnormal ichor, as well. Joe, however, didn't have the luxury of distance. He was in the thick of it, his mind taken prisoner by a ruthless enemy. When a taste too horrible to describe flooded his mouth, the only thing he could do was choke.
Joe spat out the hand just in time to avoid getting a needle in the eye. Scarecrow, as desperate to escape as any animal with its foot caught in a trap, had only one weapon to assistant him. He was on the verge of stabbing the now empty syringe into Joe's face, probably killing him in the process, when the teeth were removed.
Scarecrow wasted no time wrenching his hand away. He impulsively considered driving the needle into the cabbie's eye out of rage, but held back for one reason. Death would be a one and done affair. Though it would be quite satisfying to snuff the cabbie out by stabbing a medical instrument into his brain, it was too quick an end. Slow, agonizing, terrifying revenge would be more fulfilling. He dropped the needle so he couldn't be tempted with instant gratification.
Crane was removed to a degree from the pain in his hand, but he was still practically shrieking. Since Scarecrow was too focused on plotting revenge, it was Crane who had to worry about things like tetanus, the billions of bacteria that thrived in the human mouth, the infection some of those bacteria could cause, and how badly it would suck if he had to have his hand amputated because gangrene set in. To prevent such a scenario from occurring, Crane momentarily regained control.
That might have been a mistake. While Scarecrow dealt with pain by becoming loud and violent, Crane tended to deal with it by moaning and seeking out medication. Without his violent half to filter some of the agony from the bite, Crane was forced to take it all and manage best he could.
There was a clear, deep impression of a complete set of human teeth pressed into the meat of his hand. His thumb refused to work right—it was stiff and any movement of the digit doubled the pain Crane felt—and there was a frightening amount of blood dripping from the wound. He had to take care of this now. Breaking the cabbie would have to wait until he got his hand bandaged.
"Don't you even think about trying to escape. Don't even think about leaving that chair!" Crane said to Danielle. She nodded automatically, her eyes fixed on the rivulets of blood that were streaking his hand.
Having warned Danielle, Crane headed for the door. He would get Thomas to guard the test subjects again. Then he would do what he could for his poor, poor hand.
Crane left his ghastly white laboratory and proceeded down a few doors. Without bothering to knock, Crane opened the door and wasn't particularly thrilled with what he found.
Schiff was seated mere inches from the television, his face bathed in the glow of the idiot box. If TVs were ever proven to be carcinogenic, Thomas Schiff would doubtlessly wind up with all known types of cancer.
"Thomas! Stop staring down Nancy Grace and help me!"
The schizophrenic muttered something too low for Crane to hear. That only served to darken the doctor's already jet-black mood. On a more normal day, he would have simply told Thomas to speak louder and clearer so human ears could perceive him. Tonight, Crane threatened to reduce Thomas to a sniveling heap in the corner.
That broke whatever spell the television had over Thomas. His head whipped from the three arguing lawyers on the screen to the figure standing in his doorway. Much to Thomas' horror, the figure was wearing a mask he just couldn't stand no matter how hard he tried.
"Forget the mask, I'm not catering to your sickness right now! Thomas, either stop hiding your head or I will let Scarecrow play with you."
"Dr. Crane, please…"
Crane let his control slip a notch and Scarecrow spoke, "Tommy, it's been a while. I always did like you, you know. Your screams have this unique timbre and-"
"Alright! Just put him away, please, Dr. Crane."
When Schiff finally removed his hands from his eyes, Crane explained the situation. He showed Thomas his gory hand and the schizophrenic reacted with a surprising amount of compassion and outrage. That was a good sign, relating to his recovery. Schizophrenics had a difficult time relating to people and expressing empathy. If not for the fact his hand had just been mauled, Crane would have congratulated Thomas on his great step forward.
"I need you to watch the cabbie and the woman until I fix this. He's not going to be a threat. He may scream or talk to people who aren't there, but ignore him. The woman, keep your focus on her," Crane said.
Schiff nodded like a bobble head. He obediently followed Crane from the room, forgetting all about the things Nancy had been in the middle of telling him. They didn't seem very important right now.
Crane and Thomas parted ways. The schizo entered the room that housed Danielle and Joe, while Crane went to fetch the well-stocked first aid kit he kept alongside his chemicals. He always kept the kit handy when he was brewing fear toxin, because if anything did go wrong with the process, he probably wouldn't make it a very long distance before being overcome with terror.
As soon as Crane had left the room, Danielle had sprung into action. She didn't know what kept her from freezing up—survival instinct, probably—but she was digging through her suitcase like a madwoman before Crane made it to Thomas' room. The jumbled mess made the search harder, but she was not going to quit until she had the phone in her hands.
With clothing and various toiletries littering the floor, she finally emerged triumphant. Wasting no time, she powered on the cell phone. Danielle held her breath as the various loading screens and company logos flashed on the screen.
Just as the home screen lit up, the door opened. No, no, please not yet. She needed just five more seconds.
"What's that?"
Thank you God and Allah and Buddha and Brahma and Zeus and Elvis. That wasn't the Scarecrow's voice, it was the twitchy man. Danielle was quite sure she could distract him long enough to dial three numbers.
"It's nothing," she said as her finger carefully crept towards the '9' button.
"It's something," Schiff countered.
"It's nothing for you." Her finger now resting on the one. Two quick jabs and rescue would be on the way.
"911, what is your emergency?"
Schiff looked at the phone as though it had just suggested he have intercourse with a light socket. Danielle looked at it as a pilgrim would a holy shrine.
"I'm being held by the Scarecrow in the Narrows! The apartment building I'm in is at least three stories and-"
Putting all that restless, relentless energy to good use, Schiff bounded across the room and tackled Danielle. She tumbled from the chair, the phone flying from her hands. Thomas landed on top of her, squashing her, and immediately scrambled for the cell phone. Danielle managed to grab his shoe and trip him before he could snatch the phone from the floor.
"Let go!" Schiff yelled, kicking his foot to free it from Danielle's grip. She held on with grim tenacity.
Some lizards and salamanders have detachable tails they can shed if a predator grabs them. Though Thomas was strictly warm-blooded, he did have a similar defense mechanism. Danielle had grabbed the shoe that lacked laces. With a little manipulation of his ankle, he slipped the shoe off and scrambled on his hands and knees towards the phone.
Oh, shit. Danielle was left flat on the floor, clutching a sneaker. Before she could even hope to stop the schizophrenic ball of nervous energy, he had seized the phone and was looking for a button to cancel the call. The 911 operator was still on the line, asking for names and details nobody could provide. Finally, Schiff located the power button and shut the phone off. The operator was cut off mid-question and Danielle wondered if she'd even bother sending out police. What would the responding officers even have to look for? An apartment building with over three floors. How many of those were in the Narrows?
"Dr. Crane won't like this. He won't at all. He's going to set Scarecrow on you," Schiff said.
"I'm going to kick your ass if you don't give back my phone!" Danielle said. Her threat fell flat mainly because she was still sprawled on the ground.
Schiff tittered and backed away from Danielle on the off chance she did try to plant her foot on his posterior. He wanted to run to Dr. Crane and explain what had happened, but he didn't want to abandon his post. He had been instructed to remain in the room no matter what. Disobeying Dr. Crane might mean awful consequences. Dancing around with a stolen cell phone until the doctor got back didn't look very appealing, either. Schiff wasn't a particularly good fighter—his brain couldn't stay on task long enough to form a strategy—and he'd been ground into the dirt before. Not by girls, but there was a first time for everything.
While Thomas was busy confiscating phones, Crane was busy patching himself up. He had taken his first aid kit from the laboratory into the bathroom, where'd he have a sink to drip blood into. Now he gently prodded the bite, trying to determine just how much damage Joe had done to him.
The teeth marks were probably clear enough to make an accurate dental cast. Crane grimaced at the ugly wound. It was revolting to think what germs had been allowed freely past the barrier of his skin and might now be plotting to settle down in his tissue and multiple. He'd have to do something to prevent that.
Unfortunately, that something was going to hurt. He'd have to first wash all the blood off, then disinfect the bite.
To make matters worse, Scarecrow was growling with impatience. He wanted the cleanup over and done with so he could get on to the good part, namely torturing the hell out of the biting cabbie. It was quite hard to effectively treat any kind of injury while the voices in your head were banging around like enraged chimpanzees.
After what felt like roughly an infinity plus a few eons—but was hardly two minutes—of hesitation on Crane's part, Scarecrow volunteered to take care of the messy and unpleasant business. Crane and his low pain tolerance happily retreated. Focusing on how badly he was going to maim Joe, Scarecrow turned on the tap and stuck his hand into the water.
A few minutes later, Scarecrow finished bandaging his hand. The job wasn't as neat or precise as Crane's would have been, but it served its purpose. Before Crane could suggest he waste any time cleaning up the sink—supplies from the first aid kit were strewn all over the bathroom—Scarecrow headed out the door. Crane could spend the next nine years scrubbing every inch of grout for all Scarecrow cared. Right now, he had business to attend to.
Trying not to flex his thumb or use the bitten hand unless absolutely necessary, the Scarecrow hurried back to his unwilling captives. Leaving Thomas alone with anyone for an extended period of time couldn't end well. The sooner he could send the schizophrenic back to the loving embrace of Nancy Grace and her shrieking team of lawyers and her parade of victims, the sooner the cabbie would learn what it truly meant to be afraid.
Arriving at the door, the Scarecrow opened it and stepped in. He was greeted with a truly bizarre scene. Schiff had climbed onto the table and was holding something over his head. The pose he struck made him look a bit like the Statue of Liberty. The woman was scowling at him, her face flushed and stormy. Something had obviously occurred while the Scarecrow had been away.
"Does anyone care to explain this situation or should I just gas the both of you and watch you writhe around on the floor?"
For a second, nobody spoke. Then Thomas went off like a bomb. Madly waving his arm, he leapt off the table and ran straight for the Scarecrow. Apparently, whatever he had clutched in his hand trumped his fear of the burlap mask.
"Dr. Crane, she had this!"
"And what is this, exactly?" the Scarecrow inquired.
"Phone. Cell phone. She called the cops. Or tried to. I hung up on them."
The Scarecrow's blood boiled. How could he have been stupid enough not to assume a woman in her twenties carried a cell phone? Everyone on Earth had a cell phone! The goddamn Dali Lama had one!
Turning the fury he felt at his own grave error on Danielle, Scarecrow stalked towards her. Schiff, sensing things were about to turn ugly, quietly made his escape. Danielle had nowhere to run. She backed up until she collided with the table.
Danielle was struck with a feeling of dread so strong it could only be called a premonition. The Scarecrow, approaching with all the grimness of the Reaper, was going to kill her.
Since I doubt if there will be a new chapter by Easter, I'll wish everyone an early happy Easter.