Pk

By John V. Diehl, Jr

Dave Bierko was forced to retire from his S.W.A.T. team after sustaining an injury in the line of duty. He switched to the field of private security, and just took a job at a state hospital. What was meant to be a simple job takes a turn for the worst. He learns he is to guard a single patient, who possesses a special gift, who is a research subject for a PK (psychokinesis) study.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John V. Diehl, Jr
• Release date: Dec 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311754837

John V. Diehl, Jr

My name is John V. Diehl, Jr. I was born and raised in Pecos, Texas. I graduated from Pecos High School in 1994. I have worked as a correctional officer, security officer, the front desk clerk of a hotel, and was even a Group Manager at an Alco in Ulysses, Kansas.

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PK

Published by John V. Diehl, Jr. at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by John V. Diehl, Jr.

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Chapter 1: In One Hour

Curvature; it was the one element Dave Bierko did not expect to find in what the good doctor called ‘The Special Wing’. His nerves started running fast and furious the moment he pulled into the employee parking lot of the state hospital, and felt a strange sensation within the depths of his mind; a sensation that reminded him of the older model vehicle radios where manual tuning revealed white noise filling the void between stations.

Now, in what his mind labeled ‘No Man’s Land’, his brain triggered the nitrous oxide boost. Gone were the calming pastels, familiar corners, and the essence of hope.

Dave knew he crossed an event horizon the moment he passed through the electronic security door and felt the sudden drop in temperature. Claustrophobia coursed through his veins like molten fire; an inferno fueled by the unholy trinity of ivory walls, cream-hued floor tiles, and the chalky white of the ceiling panels. He felt as though the ground beneath him caved in and gravity pulled him into a rabbit hole; a rabbit hole that led to a dream, which threatened to turn into a nightmare at a moment’s notice. He clenched the fingers of his right hand, applying enough pressure to make each joint crack.

He repressed a violent shudder at the way the hall—rabbit tunnel—seemed to feast upon sound like an Incubi feasts upon sexual energy. The hard rubber soles of his black leather side-zip S.W.A.T. issue boots struck the perfect square tiles without making the familiar sharp reports. The rhythmic pounding of his heart faded into dull thumps.

Dave berated himself for the way he was acting. He stood an impressive six-six and, at thirty-five, managed to retain his linebacker physique. He had a history of being intimidating; he cut swaths through defenders for eight years on both high school and college gridirons, he had seven successful years as a S.W.A.T. officer, and had spent the past five years working for the city’s most prominent security firm.

Burnout was a familiar friend unlike regret. Regret snaked an arm around his waist and led him like a father walking his daughter down the aisle. That visual did nothing to sooth his hyperactive nerves; neither did the presence of the hospital’s head psychiatrist. Dr. Grigore Mascovitz, fourth generation Romania born within the United States, was a mousy balding man with a taste for cheap cologne and cheaper suits.

Dave kept his eyes focused straight ahead, catching the occasional glimpse of the prominent patch of freckled flesh encircled by wild thatches of thinning black hair.

We, Grigore informed, reserve this ward for special patients. He came to a sudden stop, turned, and craned his neck in order to look directly into the taller man’s blue eyes. Right now we have only one patient.

Just the one? Dave asked. He peered into the tired brown eyes of his tour guided and wondered if this was how Dante felt when Virgil guided him through the depths of the Inferno. He repressed both a laugh and grin at the resemblance between the doctor and a walking corpse. Are you sure a guard is needed to watch over a single catatonic male?

Grigore stared dumbfounded at the sandy-haired giant, blinking twice before the right corner of his mouth twitched.

I do not know what the administrator told you, Grigore replied, eyes darting side-to-side, but the patient is anything but catatonic.

Dave felt his gorge rise, lodging in the general vicinity of his Adam’s apple. He felt a slight burst of white noise behind his right eye, an infinitesimal sensation he once again disregarded as the byproduct of his nerves. He folded arms across chest and felt an unexpected explosion of rage.

He, upon later reflection, could not understand this random evil thought, but found himself wondering what it would feel like to wrap the crook of his arm around the doctor’s pencil neck, to apply increasing pressure until he delivered Grigore into the arms of Death.

Violent? Dave asked as the bloodlust started to wane.

Medicated. Grigore answered, voice almost faltering at the underlying malice within Dave’s voice. Heavily. He added as an afterthought to the sudden narrowing of Dave’s eyes. He will not be a problem for a man of your size. He waited for a moment to see if Dave’s posture would relax; he expelled a defeated breath when it did not. Mr. Bierko, truth is this. The patient is schizophrenic and, when enraged, possesses great strength.

Dave once again felt the static burst. This time is was stronger, more defined, and seemed to spread like seismic waves to the depths of his brain. His right hand shot up to his temple and he winced.

"—ie." A male voice whispered.

Mr. Bierko, Grigore asked after Dave drew in a sharp breath, are you alright?

Yeah. Dave answered once the white noise faded. Just the onset of a headache. He locked eyes with the doctor. Perhaps you should just tell me the truth.

Grigore nodded. He knew the story of David and Goliath; he also knew he needed a man with Dave’s particular skill set. There would be no giant slaying; no, he would play Mephistopheles to Dave’s Faust.

The patient’s name is Alexavier, age twenty-eight. Dave nodded acceptance. He was en route to his high school graduation when his parents died and he was badly beaten during a street fight. According to the police report, Alexavier’s father honked the car horn and, as a result, four men pulled them from the car. That was ten years ago.

Jesus. Dave remarked. He knew from firsthand experience just how dangerous a street fight could be, especially when it involved rival gangs. I fail to see how that would put him in a state hospital.

That was my decision. Grigore admitted. "I received a call from the hospital he had been admitted to stating they had a patient