HAUNTED SONA

CHAPTER 16

The sound of footsteps, becoming louder as they drew nearer, alerted Sara Tancredi that someone was in her presence. A man or a woman's steps, she couldn't quite tell. All she knew was that the sound was as welcomed to her as a favorite old song, maybe something from her childhood, would have been. Anything, other than having to hear the constant whir and beeps and humming and other mechanical noises made by the machines around her.

Maybe the steps belonged to Michael. Maybe he had come finally to take her out of there. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Her heart danced with hope at that prospect. Someday—all right, probably not anytime soon, but someday—everything would be all right.

But that wasn't Michael. She could tell when she heard the voice connected with the footsteps. A female voice, speaking English, though heavily accented with the stranger's native Spanish.

"Hello, little girl. How are you feeling today? Oh, you poor little girl."

For possibly the thousandth time, Sara tried to move. To open her eyes. Yet not one part of her body would obey her anymore. Her body had become her prison, trapping her soul inside with no way out.

Her only chance for reprieve were those dreams. They weren't many but they were frequent. However long she'd been in that place—it had to be a hospital, that she could tell—she'd had five dreams. Each time she'd dreamt of Michael.

Michael, peeking out from under an umbrella on a stormy day. Out on a Chicago street near the lake. He'd smiled at her, that sweet smile of his. He'd called her "baby" and she'd taken shelter under his umbrella and in his arms.

Michael, in the kitchen of her apartment back home. That had been a fun dream. He'd been fixing them a breakfast of omelets and coffee. Cooking in her kitchen…in the nude. Now that was her kind of cook.

Michael, sitting on a crowded city bus with her and telling her he loved her. Other passengers, strangers around them, had overheard and cheered.

Michael, walking alongside her in a park with her hand protectively in his own.

Michael, in her bed, making love to her.

They were all just dreams, but so powerful, they had given her strength.

"Everything seems to be in order, my dear," the feminine voice said kindly. "Here, let me fix your pillow for you."

Excuse me, nurse—you are a nurse, aren't you? If she could only speak those words out loud. Words that were trapped with her in that lifeless body. Where is Michael? Please tell me. Is he alive? If he is, is he coming for me?

Sara wanted to cry. She wanted to cry and scream and break something so badly. She could recall that moment her body had hit the ground, that terrifying freefall down fifty feet or so when she'd been thrown from the roof.

She recalled nothing else until the moment she'd realized she was in that room.

For…what? Days? Months? Had she been in there for years? Would she ever be able to walk out of it?

"All right, little girl. I have some other patients to see, but I'll be back to check on you. Okay? I'll see you later."

Footsteps now moving away from her.

Oh, no, no, please. Please don't leave me. I don't want to be left alone. I can't stand to be alone, nurse, please. I'm so afraid. Don't leave me…

She needed another dream. Like a drug, she needed it. If she couldn't have Michael, there in the flesh, then at least she could have him in her dreams. There, in that dreamworld, she could touch him and kiss him, be safe and nestled in his strong arms.

Even if it was only a dream.

Because maybe she would never recover. What if she were to be trapped in her body forever? What if she was brain-damaged or she would never be able to walk again?

Maybe, then, it was better if Michael never returned to her. He couldn't ever see her that way. She didn't want him to see her that way. She preferred to die before that happened.

She was crying. She only was aware of that fact because she could feel something wet in her eyes.

Yes, she could feel. They didn't think she could, the doctors and nurses. As a doctor, she had seen her share of patients in deep comas. How different, seeing the situation from this perspective. She'd felt the prick of the IV needle. She'd felt the coolness in the air one day when the AC had been too high.

And she could hear everything that went on in that room.

She could see, too. Sara opened her eyes and saw the lamp overhead, its light too bright for her. The walls were too stark-white, too sterile.

Sara blinked twice. Just to ensure that this was really happening.

Her eyes. She'd opened her eyes! A wave of excitement washed over her as she struggled to accept that truth, that she had managed to open her eyes after all that time.

She'd been in that same position before, some time ago. She'd beaten death once before. Could she dare to believe that she could beat it again?

And if she did—if she was able eventually to rise from that bed, to walk, to speak, to regain the use of her mind and body—would she learn that Michael somehow hadn't survived? That he'd been murdered?

More tears heated the skin of her face. Sara tried to lift her hand to wipe at them, but her motionless hand refused to budge from her sides.

So she could see. But she was still a prisoner.

And perhaps only death would be able to free her.

"Whooooooooooooooaa!"

That was Bellick's voice, shouting over the sound of a horrific rumble as the ground in the tunnel gave way. For Alex, that was both a good thing and trouble.

A good thing, because it had loosened T-Bag's hold on his neck, allowing him to take his first gasps of air after coming within inches of certain death. But it was also trouble—make that BIG trouble—because Alex, along with the other men, had found himself falling several feet.

The collapse had sent up a huge cloud of dust, some of which seemed to go straight into their throats. For seconds they were all coughing, including Bellick, who tried to spit out the excess dust in his mouth.

Alex rubbed his neck and literally waited for the dust to clear to survey their surroundings. They had landed on a pile of rubble. Several yards away he spied the source of the heat they'd experienced above—an underground fire, lighting up a corridor. Scofield had landed close to him and appeared to be getting his bearings and rubbing dust from his eyes.

"That was—what?" Michael asked, more to himself. "A fifteen-, twenty-foot drop?"

"Lucky it wasn't any deeper."

The response had come from Bagwell. Alex spat off to the side. T-Bag, partially covered in dust, attempted to rise to his feet, only to yelp like a sick dog and fell back down onto his scrawny rump.

"My ankle!" he screeched. "I think it's broken!"

"Aww, that's too bad," Mahone mumbled. "I know just the thing to make you forget a broken ankle."

"Really? What's that?"

"A concussion."

He wasn't in the best of shape right now, and he'd be the first to admit that. Alex had almost died at the hands of that possessed madman. He'd also just taken a good spill from one level of that subterranean tunnel to another.

Nevertheless, he was going to give it the old college try. On wobbly legs, with his neck still aching and his lungs burning for air, he made his way over to T-Bag, picked up a sizable rock, and proceeded to beat the living crap out of him with it.

"Stop! Scofield—help me!" T-Bag screamed. "Bellick, do something! Stop this brute!"

Mahone stopped, the rock at his side. "What was that? You're asking these gentlemen for help? Well, let's see about that, all right, chief?" He turned to Michael first. "Hey, Mike. Can I kill this piece of shit? That okay with you?"

"Sure, Alex, go 'head," Michael said pleasantly as he slapped dust from his hands and pants.

Alex turned to Bellick. "Hey, Brad. You mind if I draw blood from your little buddy here?"

"Knock yourself out."

It made Alex flash a million-dollar smile, hearing T-Bag whimper like that. He bounced a little like an excited kid on Christmas morning.

"Oh, boy! Looks like it's unanimous: I get to kill you."

Desperately, T-Bag reached up and grabbed a fistful of Alex's shirt, drawing him closer.

"Mr. Mahone—amigo. Now please. We're reasonable men, you and I, sir." T-Bag swallowed before going on. "I'm not—that is to say, you understand, don't you? I mean, those were not solely my actions up there before the earthquake sent us down here."

"Oh, I know. The devil made you do it, right? No problema…amigo." A dark scowl replaced Alex's smile. "I'm gonna beat the devil right outta you."

Holding him with his left arm, Alex drew back his fist. He could tell by the fear in T-Bag's face that the man knew what he was in for. Alex was going to put his full force into that punch, knock out some teeth while he was at it. That would bring him some satisfaction after the hell he'd been put through up there. Then he'd then finish him off by breaking his skinny neck effortlessly. That would be The End of Mr. Theodore Bagwell.

But within moments the fear was gone. In its place were two glowing red eyes.

And a demonic sneer.

Alex froze in place, his fist still drawn back, listening to the guttural laughter coming from the back of T-Bag's throat.

"Let him go, Alex. I said, let him go."

He didn't move fast enough. An invisible force tore T-Bag from his hands and tossed him roughly back onto the rubble. He grunted and cried out. More rocks rained down, half burying his slight frame up to his waist.

Alex fell a step backward and was caught by Michael and Bellick, who steadied him back onto his feet. He realized that the order for him to release Bagwll had come from neither of those men. He followed their gaze to the ghostly figure standing on top of the heap.

David Apolskis. He appeared dressed in a pristine white shirt and pants. Like Veronica, he seemed…lost. Saddened. Mahone looked around, his first instinct to run, to hide. That wouldn't be happening, though.

Because, even if he hid himself this time, he knew Tweener would appear to him again. He sighed deeply and met the young man's heartbreaking gaze.

"The collapse came from me," the ghost told him. "He would've killed you unless I stopped him."

Mahone was speechless at first, then he tripped over his words. "You—you rescued me? Why?"

"You know why. You won't have any peace, Alex…until I can rest."

Michael was on his left and Bellick on his right, but Alex forgot about them momentarily. He ventured a couple steps forward and spoke sincerely.

"David, look…" He shook his head and fought the urge to cry. He marveled at the ghost of what had once been a handsome young person before him. "Oh, God. You were so young. You were just a kid. David, I know it doesn't change anything, but I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry I took your life. I don't know what else to say."

"Rest, Alex. I need rest. I don't deserve to be thrown away and forgotten. And you need to have peace."

"David, please. Look, son, I'm begging you. I don't know what that means. What does that mean, what does that—uh—where are you going?"

Tweener had taken a small jump to the side. And then, as quickly as he appeared, he vanished right before their eyes.

Alex turned to Bellick. "You see? What does that mean?"

"I told you. You need to find that out for yourself," Brad reiterated.

"And we need to keep moving," Michael reminded them. "I don't have—we don't have much time. Let's go."

"A lot of good that'll do," Brad said. "We were supposed to go in that direction, the way your angel said. Which way are we supposed to go now?"

"Well, we can't go that way," Michael told him, indicating the corridor lit up by the underground fire. Another path, much darker and more ominous, stretched out before them. "This is the only way we can go now."

Mahone, still shaken from the encounter with Tweener, asked, "How do we know that's not going to be a dead end? How do we know that'll take us to the ocean?"

"We don't. But we have to try. We're following the same direction, just underneath it."

"Now wait a minute, gentleman!" An outraged T-Bag sat up on the heap. "You are NOT just going to ride off into the sunset together like three damn cowboys and leave me here to suffer alone. I DEMAND that you take me with you—right now! Do you here me? It would be inhumane for you to leave a disabled, helpless man here to die…"

Alex gave him one final, long stare. Tweener had instructed him to leave T-Bag alone, probably for his own good. Neither the fall nor the ghost had shaken the entity out of him. Theodore Bagwell was now more dangerous than ever. For that reason, it was probably best to leave him alone.

So resigning himself, Alex followed Michael and was followed by Brad.

"STOP, I said! If you bastards leave me, I'll die down here!" T-Bag's voice was filled with despair. "Don't do this to me! No one knows we're here! I'll die here! You can't so this! DON'T DO THIS TO ME!"

Pretending not to hear him, they continued on, though it wasn't long before they came to a halt again. Alex had been staring down at his feet as they walked, thinking about what Tweener had said. Michael had stopped ahead of him, gasping loudly in shock. Together, they behind an amazing sight, almost unable to believe their eyes.

Bellick whispered, "That's it. I guess—I guess it's real. El Cura did mention it, but I didn't think anything of it. That must be the legend…"