HAUNTED SONA
CHAPTER SEVEN
Running through that place in sheer terror was, simply put, an invitation to abuse. Brad Bellick knew that, and yet he couldn't help himself. Whatever had come over T-Bag wasn't human. It wasn't even of this world.
He didn't get far, though. One of the goons who'd raped him placed a well-aimed foot in his way, sending Brad flying. He landed unceremoniously in a puddle of mud. Behind him, coarse laughter rained. Their fun over, the audience moved on.
In another time, Brad wouldn't have put up with it. Now, with no choice, he slowly pulled himself to his feet, cringing from the two-inch gash on his knee. Had he broken a bone? It sure felt like it. Walking gave him enough difficulty as it was.
"Señor, oyeme—ven aqui!"
A young man of dark olive complexion, apparently calling to him, stood in a doorway. Knowing he couldn't afford to disrespect anyone, even some young punk, Brad gave him a wave. The kid shook his head.
"El Cura need to see you," he said in broken English. "You come to his house. Now."
"Ahhhh…" Frustrated, he coughed out a laugh.
An invitation. To the man's "house", no less. Whatever "El Cura" meant, Brad wasn't prepared for it. He was still shaking after seeing T-Bag do something right in front of him that wasn't humanly possible.
But if he didn't comply, if he refused…how would this "El Cura" retaliate?
Dear God, why don't they just leave me alone? Please. And Scofield and Mahone—where were they? What the hell was taking them so long? Had they gotten themselves into something they couldn't get out of?
"I really—I—"
"You come in. Please, señor."
Señor. That meant "mister" or "sir", right? No one had called him that, there in Sona. Reluctantly, he nodded and entered the "house" where his presence had been requested.
What was he getting himself into? He surveyed the room, with its framed pictures of the Virgin Mary and other religious art, of beads and maracas and other items on a small table covered with a white cloth. Off to the side, another young man, his eyes closed, beat skillfully at the skins of some old bongos.
Into the room from another stepped an elderly man. His leathery skin lined, his hands much steadier than Bellick's, he was dressed all in white from his shirt to his well-worn moccasins. He smiled at Bellick—the first person there besides the few he knew who'd smiled at him—and set a bowl of stew down onto another table.
"You sit," the old man told him. "You eat."
Brad sighed. Could he argue with that? Man, he was starving. He hadn't sat down to a decent meal in all the time he'd been there.
But why was this happening? Why was the old man being so kind to him? Didn't he know he was one of Sona's punching bags?
"Uh, I think I need to speak with somebody named…El Cura."
"I am El Cura." The old man brought out another temptation in the form of a bowl of bread. "Please. Eat."
What could a man do? His stomach growled just at the sight of the food. Brad didn't need to be told again. He sat down and ate what was put before him.
"Sancocho," the first young man said, indicating the stew. "El Cura makes it very good, no?"
"Yeah, he does. My compliments to the chef!" Stupid thing to say, Brad thought, but maybe if he showed himself to be agreeable and a polite guest, no one would hurt him.
It had come down to that. Hoping others wouldn't treat him cruelly. The sancocho was a delight, a hearty mix of meat, chicken and vegetables in a savory broth. Brad tried not to embarrass himself. What he wanted was to gobble it down like a savage; his hunger was that brutal. Instead he ate slowly, minding his manners as much as he could while being ravenous. He dipped pieces of the bread in the bowl to moisten it.
"Muy bueno!" he told El Cura.
The old man chuckled. He motioned to the young man, who dutifully brought Brad a glass of ice and, of all things, a frosty can of Coke.
"Oh-my-God," Brad breathed.
"Is okay?" The young man looked worried.
"Oh, oh, everything's great. Thank you."
Coca Cola. He never thought he'd ever see that again. It might as well have been the finest wine on earth. He didn't rush, admiring the white-and-red can for a moment before he poured it into the glass of ice. It looked like black gold, cascading over the ice cubes and forming that creamy lather like a good, imported beer.
Brad couldn't help himself; he gulped that one down in a few wonderful swallows.
El Cura sat down facing him. He spoke in Spanish as the young man on the bongos stopped playing to join them. The old man addressed him as Armando.
"He wants me to tell you," Armando relayed to Bellick, "that he knows you were frightened before by the man with the evil spirit in him."
Brad looked from the young man to El Cura and nodded. "Yeah. You're right. I was scared. I was—I don't even know how to explain it."
Again El Cura spoke, and the translation said: "Never show fear in the face of evil."
And that's one to file under, Easier Said Than Done, Brad thought.
Yet he was grateful to his generous host and only gave a respectful nod.
"All I've done here in Sona is fear," he admitted softly, speaking more to himself. "I'm afraid of everyone. I'm afraid…I'm gonna die here."
He waited patiently as his words were translated for El Cura. There were only a few spoonfuls of the sancocho left, but he made sure to get every last drop of it. The food sent warmth not only through his belly but through his whole being. Amazing, the power a bit of nourishment had to strengthen a man's body.
El Cura attempted to speak English again. "In life, you do some bad things. I see another prison was in your life."
Brad's eyes widened. Who was this man? A Spanish-speaking Kreskin?
"Yeah. I was a prison guard. And yeah…I did a lot of bad things to people. A lot of things I'm ashamed of now."
El Cura nodded. He spoke at length in Spanish, and Armando gave the translation.
"Today is a new day, Mr. Bellick. Your hands have done wrong things, but there is also much good in you. What you need—what you have searched for—is purpose."
He still wasn't used to being so well treated. Brad folded his hands in his lap, watching as El Cura poured a cup of coffee from a pot behind him.
Was that for him? All right! First Coke, now coffee. He'd been denied fresh water, never mind a heavenly cup of joe. The old man was adding drops of cream and sugar, and Brad could have sworn every nerve ending in his body was jumping up and cheering in anticipation of all that caffeine.
"I appreciate that," he spoke earnestly. "Tell him I said that, please. Tell him that I've thought about that ever since I've been here. I've been doing a lot of thinking…"
He stopped to accept the cup from the old man's hands.
"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!" His voice broke with emotion on the last two words. In his excitement, he shook El Cura's hand, then kissed it, something he would have been too proud to ever do before. "I want to be a good person. I do. I don't want to go back to being who I was before. I'm being punished here for everything I've done. But I'm gonna change, I swear it."
As the young man translated, Brad took the chance to drink his coffee. It tasted strong and creamy and sweet. It tasted like the nectar of the gods. It tasted of a thousand mornings lived in freedom, before he'd been in that place…of his mother's kitchen, often filled with the aroma of bacon and eggs frying…of newspapers read and talking baseball and politics with buddies.
And it tasted of…something else. What was that, exactly?
El Cura hummed a tune absently as he turned his attention to a plain wooden box in the corner. From it he drew a handmade necklace. A simple, beaded piece, adorned by a single amulet fashioned with seeds surrounding a tiny seashell. Holding it in front of Brad, El Cura spoke some more in his native tongue.
"He wants you to have this gift," Armando explained. "He says you are to wear the macuto. It will bring you protection from evil among the spirits…" He paused as El Cura placed the necklace over Brad's head. "…and evil among the living."
"A necklace will protect me? From people here? No disrespect, but I wish I could believe that."
"Wear it, Mr. Bellick. If you wear it, everyone here knows who made it. And El Cura is the only one Lechero and his men fear."
"Okay, sure. I'll wear it. Thank you."
Brad touched the strange little amulet, inspecting it. It seemed to have an herbal scent to it. Then it blurred right before his eyes.
"Something's happening to me," he slurred the words.
It hadn't been his imagination. The old man had spiked his coffee with something. He should have known better than to believe someone would show him kindness for no good reason. Here, he thought El Cura had given him a meal out of the goodness of his heart.
But the room was spinning. And, when it stopped, he could see that he, El Cura, and the young men weren't the only ones in the room. There were others—several others. Hooded figures dressed in shrouds. Faceless, nameless figures appearing out of the shadows. He could taste fear rising in the back of his throat.
Brad opened his mouth to cry for help, but in a moment the darkness, like a heavy curtain, fell over his eyes.
The old man had poisoned him.
"Answer me, please. Who are you?"
Not that Michael had really expected the ghost to reply. He'd asked the same question twice before and had been met with the same reaction: silence. The spirit had just continued to walk on ahead of them with her head bowed.
Where was she taking them? And how far did that walkway extend? They couldn't have possibly still been within the confines of the prison. The walkway had led them to another cave, this one with stalagmites and stalactites. It would have been pitch-dark within the cave, but the spirit carried a lantern ahead of them to light their way. Although she walked with determination, it seemed to Michael that she walked as someone who was weary. Someone who was tired of her journey.
As he had several times before, he glanced back at Mahone, the third person in their quirky little procession. Alex said nothing but he offered Michael an encouraging wink.
Michael turned around and again attempted to speak to the ghost. "Could you at least tell me where we're going? Where are you taking us?"
"You have nothing to fear from me."
"I'm not afraid…uh…miss. I'm just asking. I—"
The ghost raised her hand. It was a gentle gesture, but still it silenced him.
They were passing through another portion of the cave where the walkway narrowed. As soon as they entered it, an uneasy feeling came over him. There was a sense there of oppression, of hopelessness. And of something evil. On either side, rooms had been built into the wall, each with heavy wooden doors. Each door had a small barred window through which projected light.
As they passed, men who had died in those rooms banged against the doors, making them shake precariously. Through one window was a face, the expression maniacal, the low rumble of its laughter diabolical. Another face, further up, stared at them with bright magenta eyes, its long, serpent-like tongue slithering out through the bars. A sickening stench filled the hallway.
"Mi-chael Sco-field, Alex-ander Ma-hone!"it chanted out in sing-song fashion. "Come inside here with me, sweet bitches. AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Michael glanced back at Alex. He wasn't winking now, but he sure was walking faster, his face as white as a sheet.
"Michael, Alex—don't listen to them. Stay close to me."
Without hesitation, Michael obeyed, slightly closing in the space between himself and the ghost.
I feel safe with her, he realized. Wasn't that the craziest thing? He felt safe and protected by this ghost.
Oh, that's right: Mahone had referred to her as an angel. He'd specified that she wasn't a ghost but an angel.
Gratefully, they were at last a safe distance from those horrible cells. The pathway led them through another cave, but Michael could see that it was better lit. They seemed to be coming to the end of their trek.
He knew that for certain when he looked ahead. There it was—a huge gap, an opening, through which came the last glimmers of daylight. Though night was approaching, they could see the sun's light at its most golden.
Michael listened to the sounds in the distance. He drank in a breath, smelling something wonderfully familiar.
"That's the ocean," he said.
Carefully, he and Alex stood in the opening. It wasn't a very high drop, only fifteen feet or so, but there didn't appear to be anywhere nearby to swim to and a person could only float in open water for so long before tiring themselves out and drowning.
Still, Michael knew what that discovery meant. He shared a carefree laugh with Alex.
"We're free," Michael said.
"Yeah, but we're gonna need a boat," Alex pointed out, grinning mischievously. "You got the Christina Rose stashed away somewhere, you wicked mastermind, you?"
Michael laughed heartily. "No. But have faith. We can do this. We'll be free." He straightened up. That sounded too much like a friendly exchange between them. In a frostier tone, he added, "And then we'll go our separate ways."
"Yeah, sure. I know." Alex averted his eyes. It was undeniable that he looked wounded, but Michael told himself that was fine by him.
He didn't need nor did he desire Alex Mahone's friendship. Clearly, they needed each other to escape Sona. That, Michael understood. But after that, they would become as they once were to each other—total strangers. Suddenly, he heard light footsteps.
The angel was walking away. With her back to them, her slender shoulders were hunched. She cut a plaintive, heartbreaking figure.
"Listen," Alex whispered. "Hear that? Your angel's crying."
Michael called after her, "Angel. Angel! Don't leave. Please tell me who you are."
She didn't stop. She continued to walk, her soft crying fading as she disappeared down another corridor….