Rise of the Outcasts: The Outcasts Saga, #3

By Jeff Kalac

The Outcasts saga concludes in this breathless last installment from author Jeff Kalac.

 

Scott Ingram and Sarah Bollinger have no reason to celebrate. The darkness they have worked so hard to vanquish has awakened and is growing far more powerful than ever before. With so much lost and their group fractured, they must rely on a man who rejects the very thing that could help them the most.

 

The will to survive has brought the need to kill, and trust often proves to be an open door to betrayal. They have only each other, and must protect what they have left. To build a better tomorrow, they must first embrace what they have allowed themselves to become. They must rise.

 

But even in victory, will there be anything left worth saving?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penscribe Publishing
• Release date: Jun 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393024446

Jeff Kalac

Jeff Kalac is a North American author of horror and suspense thrillers. His love of film led to an interest in screenwriting, and evolved into writing fiction. He is the author of Through the Eyes of Outcasts (2017), the seminal novel which led to two other entries: On the Path of Outcasts (2018) and Rise of the Outcasts (2019). His writing style has been noted for its fast pace and focus on character development. Jeff lives in Idaho with his family.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

And so it ends—just how all things must, and all things will.  Too melodramatic?  Ah, what the hell:  I write suspense and horror fiction.  You knew that when you grabbed this book and sat down.

At least, I hope you knew that.  I hope this isn’t our first meeting.

By now we should know each other well. 

What you’re holding in your hands is the third book of a three-book series.  If you’re starting here, you’re skipping to the end and you’re bound to feel rather lost.  I’ve made no attempt at introducing our motley little crew in the following pages, nor have I spent much time dressing the stage.  Those things started with the first entry, Through the Eyes of Outcasts, and continued through the second entry, On the Path of Outcasts.

If you are new here, I’m not saying you’re not welcome.  I’m saying that you’ve arrived late for dinner.  Nothing to be ashamed of; it happens to the best of us.  It’s just that you’re not bound to enjoy dessert as much if you’re expecting a full meal.

For the rest of you who have mowed down everything I’ve set in front of you up to this point, I’m proud and honored to serve our last dish in this series.

Bon appétit.

—JK

CHAPTER ONE

Rob Blacksmen still couldn’t see.  Even when the dressings which covered his eyes were changed, the darkness was complete.  There were no shades of light like normal people might sense even with their eyes closed.  No phosphenes or dancing stars.  No variations of gray, no visions of shadows.

His world was black.

His world was defined by sounds: the steady beep and hiss of equipment; the coarse brush of clothing; the rasping of breath; the clink of metal.  The voices of his medical providers as well as his accusers.

His captors.

There were also the smells, now that the previously-ruptured linings of his sinuses had healed.  The hissing oxygen tubes in his nose had a plastic artificial aroma—which was constant, and as such was easy for his brain to disregard—but on top of this base odor there was often the unpleasant acidic tang of bleach or the harsh dryness of rubbing alcohol.  He knew which nurses smoked, and which visitors were poor at judging the amount of perfume or cologne they wore.

These olfactory sensations were part of this day as well—but today there was something new.  The odor was of something greasy; maybe something with bacon, and most certainly with onion.  The scents were making him ravenous with hunger.  He was salivating, trying his best to swallow while making his throat move as little as possible.  His captors had to be convinced that his condition had not changed.  They had to be convinced that he was still unconscious.

But the smells were powerful.  They tortured him.

Because he could not let it be known that he was indeed capable of eating, he had simply lain still as past attempts to rouse him were made.  In response, the medical staff had taken to feeding him intravenously.  It had been days since he had eaten in the conventional sense, and his stomach rumbled.  Whether it would draw attention or not, there was little he could do about it; his digestive system acted on its own.

Bacon.  Indeed.  It was unmistakable.  Along with... yes, those were French fries.  A burger, he concluded.  A bacon cheeseburger with fries, which was no doubt about to be devoured by someone who would not take the time to appreciate his meal.  Someone who could just order such things and consume them at will, someone who had every reason to take such food for granted as part of daily life. 

Something Rob, confined to his bed, could not do if he was to keep them fooled.  But oh, to be able to sink his teeth into...

He shouldn’t even care about something as unrefined as cheeseburgers when he lived in a world that had much better food.  Burgers were disposable and cheap, on the menu of the poor.  He must be really suffering here to be tempted by such a trashy offering. After all, respect must be given to salmon and bluefin tuna.  Black truffle pasta.  Wine and cheese:  like a Pinot Gris, and the flavor of buche maitre seguin. 

Blacksmen swallowed again, his mouth thick with saliva, hoping the muscular movement of his throat went unobserved.  He could not allow himself to think about feeding himself, as seductive as the thought may be.  At least they had removed his ventilator; he hadn’t been able to fake the inability to breathe on his own, and the medical staff had thus deemed it unnecessary.  And so in lieu of a ventilator, the tubes and their plastic stench fed oxygenated air into his nostrils.  The tubes placed unpleasant pressure where they were anchored behind each ear—and on top of that, they itched.  It would be so simple a thing, to scratch and relieve himself of that particular irritation.  To tear the tubing free from his face.  So, so simple.

Also stupid.  Rob Blacksmen was regarded as a vegetable, only one step above a corpse, and it was in his best interest to leave that impression unchanged.  It would keep him here, and here his environment would remain largely the same.  He could figure it out.  He could escape. 

If he could solve it.  If he could find a way.

There was the crumple and scrape of paper (probably from the bag which had contained the food, or perhaps the wrapping, he figured), and the wet mop-bucket sounds of someone chewing loudly.  There was something crisp and crunchy in the meal being consumed, making each new bite easy to identify as they happened.  Lettuce, if his burger theory was correct.  There was a flatulating noise that Blacksmen knew (or at least hoped) was the sound of a chair’s upholstery as it rubbed against the clothes and weight of the person seated upon it; hospitals, Rob recalled, either used cheap plastic seats or that pseudo leather material on visitors’ chairs because it was easy to clean and sterilize.  His mattress was also covered in either plastic or vinyl for the same reason, even if covered by a fitted sheet.

Now that Rob’s memory was working better, he knew that he had stayed in a hospital before, once upon a time.  Not this particular hospital, no—while the exact location escaped him, he knew it was far away from where he was now lying.  While he couldn’t recall how long ago this experience was (at least a decade ago, if he was forced to guess), he remembered that his appendix had been removed at the time, and he had been recovering from the surgery. He could recall being told to periodically take a walk along the bright and sterile hallway outside of his room, while pushing a rickety metal IV stand to which he had been tethered by an octopus of cords, tubes, and cables, as a nurse changed his bedding in his recovery room.  He often found himself standing in front of the waiting area’s fish aquarium, watching as an assortment of bored fish—mostly tetras—picked at plastic plants and gaily-colored gravel for anything resembling food, unaware or uncaring of their captive environment.

His situation was different now.

Presently, his medical staff simply wheeled in a new bed and transferred Rob into it.  The old one would be removed for cleaning.  It was faster and safer for all concerned.

It was safer because Rob was seen as potentially dangerous.

Enough so that he had been handcuffed to the side railing of his bed.  The first few times Blacksmen had been moved, someone (a police officer, he had learned) removed the cuff, the orderlies rolled Rob onto his side, and then the officer would cuff both of Rob’s hands behind his back.  He would then be moved, laid upon his side again, and the officer would remove one cuff in order to restrain him to the new bed just as he had been previously.  The first few times this process happened, it was done quickly and efficiently.

On the last few occasions, however, everyone had grown lax.  The handcuffs would be freed from the bed, but left alone as he was moved; Rob’s hands had been unrestrained during the entirety of the bed exchange.  The length of time between laying him upon the mattress and securing him to the new bed was steadily increasing, as well.

Rob sensed this as a potential opportunity, should that particular door hold itself open—or even (dare he hope?) continue to widen.  He had known that until his senses fully returned he was best not to show the improvement of his physical condition.  He was wise not to respond to the questions he had been asked, and indeed acted as if he had never even heard them.  For all his inquisitors knew, they had might as well have been talking to a department store mannequin.

He did hear them, however.  He listened as they questioned him about why he had been found with stolen police reports.  They asked him about a murdered sheriff.  They asked him about whether he knew various names which presently had no meaning to him; names belonging to people whom he was told had been killed.  These were things he did not have memories for, and he found the questions confusing.  All the same, he filed them away as potentially useful.  Each day brought with it fresh connections, and Blacksmen sensed that the answers were locked away, soon to escape at a moment’s notice.

Many of the answers he did have had come to him in such a fashion.  There was no reason to think it wouldn’t happen again.

No.  For now all that he allowed for them to see was a sleeping, unresponsive man.  And they were convinced:  the man occupying a bed in room 618 was indeed passive and vegetative.  Blacksmen had heard them say so.

Rob had so much to learn about his situation before he could risk doing anything about it—and even the dimmest light in the fog of his mind showed him that his predicament was dire.  He was restrained by handcuffs to his bed, and of course had been asked questions pertaining to the murder of a sheriff; very clearly he was being considered as a suspect.  It did not escape his notice that he felt fear and repulsion toward the very idea of police officers, and he knew his emotions were anchored to something currently hidden in the murkiness of his memories.  Since he was being detained, he also knew that security would tighten if he were to show physical improvement.  By continuing to pretend that his condition was as close to the same as possible, the reverse was happening:  he was being seen dismissively.

This satisfied him for now.  His instincts screamed for the need to escape, and the less seriously his captors treated him, the greater his chances of that happening.  Until then, he needed to remember.

And again, some important details had emerged.  He knew his name, and that he was a businessman of considerable importance.  While he had taken great pains to promote the image of running a technology consulting firm, he knew this business was fake.  He wasn’t sure why he felt that way about it, but knew it was true all the same.  Money moved through from something different.  Whatever that something was, Rob had made a killing.

Thinking about it in those terms seemed important.  He did not yet know why.

The sudden crumpling of the paper bag was thunderously loud, and it startled him.  He almost jumped, but became glad when he realized that he had not—it would have been disastrous.  As it was, his ever-present heart rate monitor started to beep faster.  Forcing his breath to remain steady, he waited.  Instead of any sign of acknowledgment, he heard what was clearly the sound of the bag being tossed into the trash bin beside the bed.  The chair farted as his captor seated himself again.  Rob allowed himself to relax.

The television was on, as it often was.  His captors bored easily, and the sound of that contraption had become an expected and normal part of the noises within the room.

It was also one of the most useful noise-makers Blacksmen could imagine.  At least most times it was, when some advertiser wasn’t yammering on about some car as it currently was.  (Apparently, Rob learned, it was impressive to be able to buy a new car which was capable of the same gas mileage as a vehicle which had already been on the road twenty years ago—but at double the price.  Rob could agree that it was impressive that any consumer would agree to such a thing.)  Useful information seemed often to rest atop a stairway of fluff and filler.

Fluff and filler which also came complete with commentary.  The man who had not so long ago impartially wolfed down a bacon greaseburger that Rob would have killed for also had a voice.  It wasn’t odd for that voice to speak to him, just as it wasn’t odd for the voice to do so in contempt.  Tonight was no different.  Well, let’s see if you get to be on TV again tonight, asshole.  ‘Course, they’ll talk about how we caught you, too.  A humorless huff of a laugh followed, as if for punctuation.

Rob felt a flare of anger and the almost undeniable urge to kill the fucker.  To attempt such a thing, of course, would have been a mistake: not only was Blacksmen chained to the bed, he could not see said fucker in order to have much of an opportunity to kill said fucker.  All he would manage to do by surrendering to his emotions would be to alert everyone who cared to know that the vegetable in room 618 had once again become a dangerous man. 

Unfortunately for Rob, there were a lot of people who cared to know.

Losing his temper would do nothing to further Rob’s cause, and instead do plenty to hamper it.  He was better off if he could stay calm.

Consider yourself lucky, Rob thought, then added:  Officer Orifice.  At that, he wanted to smile.  Officer Orifice.  It fit.  Jamming that burger into that maw of his, such a maw capable of producing so much sh—

No.  Rob was getting distracted again.  He forced himself to redirect his attention to the comment itself.  As he was teaching himself to do, he asked himself what new information each statement or sound provided him.  Officer Orifice, Rob thought (with satisfaction) had talked about Blacksmen being on television—and not only that, being on said television again.  Since the nightly news had run a brief mention of him during the previous evening (a mention which was even briefer than the night before that), he could assume...

Yes.  The nightly news was about to air.  It also meant that evening had fallen away to nighttime, and it was nearing ten o’clock.  This was the time the television was most useful to Rob, no longer vibrating with the brainless drivel of daytime talk shows and laundry detergent ads.  It also meant that Rob was about to have a new roommate an hour later, since from what he had heard over the past few nights, Officer Orifice would be heading home and there would be a new butt in that seat.  At least the butt’s replacement knew all about the right to remain silent.

But there he was getting distracted yet again.  Rob refocused, waiting for what he knew would succeed the advertising blather about expensive wheels and antiquated gas mileage.  As if to reward his discipline, the car commercial traded itself in for the self-important musical opening of the nightly news.  The anchor introduced himself authoritatively, and then—enough with the small talk—launched into a report about new developments concerning last week’s gunfire and a sunken boat in the waters off Boston.

Rob felt an electric jolt, a tingle that started in the base of his neck and traveled to the ends of his toes.  What was it about Boston?  It seemed important that a gunman had set up a sniper’s nest on the rooftop of a nearby business in full sight of the harbor.  It sounded strangely familiar that this gunman had used his position to fire upon a yacht which had been docked there.  While those particular details brought an odd feeling of comfort, as if those things were an expected part of a plan, what Blacksmen couldn’t make peace with was the feeling that these events and this particular location should mean something personal to him.

The newscaster, stating that the identities of the victims had finally been released, began listing the names of those killed during the incident.  One—Elizabeth Somethingorother—sounded mistily familiar, like an echo from the past.  He tried to grasp the full name so that he may remember it, only to have it slip away; had it been rope, it would have sanded the flesh from his palms.  Elizabeth, then.  He did at least manage to remember Elizabeth.  He committed the name to memory.

There was another name:  Peter Bollinger.  The forename didn’t feel particular, and blurred by like any other trivial detail.  It was the man’s last name which created an unexpected and sudden flare of rage.  Bollinger.  Rob knew it.  He felt it.  It resonated within him, even if he couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.  It was nonetheless important, and he instantly filed it away.  He had to remember.  It felt vital.

The blaring television continued to provide more new developments.  A man who was being held for questioning by local authorities had been released, and had given a statement to the awaiting press.  Far from being a suspect, this man was onboard the boat when it was being fired upon.  This man had returned fire and killed the attacking gunman before he took control of the vessel and drove it out to sea, in fear of the possibility of another shooter.  It was because the attacking sniper had damaged the hull enough to cause the boat to begin sinking that this man had returned to harbor, where the vessel did eventually descend beneath the surface of the water.  While the reporter was careful to state that the man was to remain in Boston until the investigation was finished, the evidence thus far pointed to self-defense and the state of Massachusetts did not require one to obey the duty of retreat; he was within his legal rights to return a show of force with one of his own.

This buffet of information was followed by a voice clip which burned like fire.

We chartered this vessel because after my divorce I wanted to do some things I haven’t done, you know?  My friend told me about some people he knew who had a boat, and that the fishing was good up here, so I figured why not?  We were just about to head out when... the voice trailed, weighed by emotion.  Pete... the shooting just started.  I don’t know why they did this, you know?  We didn’t do anything to them.  I just... I had to get us out of there.  Then when I saw we were sinking, and I saw how badly everyone was... hurt... I came back in.

Rob had felt the cold tug of steel against his wrist as his arm pulled against his restraints.  It was an involuntary reaction which drew plenty of attention from his company within the room.  Hey! he heard Officer Orifice yelp, followed by the sound of running and the door opening.  Nurse!  I need a nurse in here!

Rob’s arm continued to pull at his restraints.  Because he knew.  Oh, yes he did.  Douglass Stevens.  The reporter had called the man Scott Stevens, and the last name had made him bristle upon hearing it... but he knew.  No, not Scott.  Scott felt like a name that belonged somewhere else (Bollinger? he wondered then abruptly rejected), but not to that voice.  Rob was certain.  A switch had been thrown.

Douglass Stevens.  Douglass Stevens, a man who had been employed by Rob during the time of his empire—an empire