Haze Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  EPILOGUE

  HAZE

  By

  E. R. Torre

  The novel contained within this volume is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  Haze and Atomic Rocket Productions are Copyright © 2008 E. R. Torre

  All Rights Reserved

  Please visit my website: www.ertorre.com

  Comments or questions? Email me at: [email protected]

  ISBN: 978-0-9729115-2-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2008906505

  CHAPTER ONE

  February

  It started with blood.

  Blood and the crack of thunder.

  I walk through a long white hallway and stumble. There’s a bloody handprint on the wall.

  It’s mine.

  I’m in a dark bathroom, leaning against a porcelain sink. Blood gushes from my nose. It doesn’t stop.

  I’m in a car, driving away. I don’t know where I’m going. The steering wheel is slick. It too is covered in blood. I make a sharp turn and nearly take out an old blue Datsun. Someone curses at me, or maybe I’m cursing at myself.

  Everything goes black.

  The curtain parts. The darkness is replaced with a field of immaculate white.

  I’m standing on top of a misty, snow-covered mountain. I’m a figurine in a glass globe. Tiny structures –maybe a small town- lies in the valley below.

  The ashen mist grows thicker and swirls around, trying to envelop me. It’s hard to tell where the mist ends and the snow begins.

  A heavy breeze blows up from below and rushes past me. Loose snowflakes settle to the

  ground or continue their trip down the other side of the mountain. I watch their descent down the trail that leads to the town below.

  The town is enclosed on either side by dark, leafless trees. I could walk the trail, but it was made for skiing. I shake my head. If only I had some—

  Skis.

  I’m wearing a pair of skis. In my hands are a pair of skiing poles.

  I take a few moments to examine the trail. It is straight but makes a sharp turn half-way down. I’m eager to get started. What could be better?

  The wind speaks in hushed whispers as it glides past me. The trees dance without any sense of hurry. They dare me to make this run.

  I lean forward and gravity takes over. The swaying trees pass slowly at first, then faster and faster. Am I really moving or is the world rushing by?

  I steal a look back. A pair of tracks extends for miles before disappearing into a swirling mist. I turn with a shudder. I can’t worry about what lies behind. I must concentrate on what is to come.

  But that too is hidden in the haze. To my side, the trees are a grayish blur. Their skeletal limbs are sharp like knives. They reach out and slash at me.

  The wind blows harder. It pushes me back and almost succeeds in knocking me down. I fight it with all my strength and, for a little while, gain the upper hand. But it’s no use. My energy is spent and the wind is too fierce. I’m out of control.

  I twist my body and try to stop. A cloud of snow sprays up into my face. I’m blinded and I haven’t slowed. Vision returns, slowly.

  I’m no longer in a glass globe. I’m a bullet exiting the barrel of a gun. I race forward without any control over my flight.

  I cannot see what lies in front of me. I cannot see what lies behind.

  The wind cuts my cheeks and keeps me dangerously off balance. The haze grows thicker. The sun abandons this gloomy world.

  Am I still on the right path? Am I close to that faraway town?

  I’m going faster now. I’m in free fall.

  I cannot see what lies in front of me.

  Desperate, I yell for help but the scream dies in my throat. Even if someone could hear me, I’m beyond salvation.

  I continue the uncontrolled descent.

  I cannot see what lies in front of me...

  I awoke inside a dimly lit room. My mouth was dry and my lips were chapped and crusty. My throat was on fire and my stomach turned inside out. It took a few minutes for the nausea to pass and for my eyes to adjust to the light.

  I was lying on a bed and at an angle. Above me was a plain popcorn ceiling. Just below and screwed to the wall was a bulky television set. Its wood paneling and silver frame reminded me of those old fashioned sets you see on late night television shows or inside cheap motels. To the right and a few feet below the television was a tan intercom. Directly below it was a cabinet made of Formica that held a plain white sink. To the right of that was a closet. Beside it was a very wide door and, next to that, another very wide door. Both were designed for wheelchair access. As if to prove this point, a folded black wheelchair stood in the corner of the room.

  To my left was a window covered with a thick lavender curtain. It was impossible to tell if it was night or daytime or anywhere in between. Below it was a night table. It held a plain white telephone and an equally plain white vase. The vase was filled with a dozen or so plastic yellow daisies. They were part of the room’s décor rather than a get well gift.

  Beside the table was a tall and skinny metallic stand. Hanging on top of the stand was a transparent plastic bag half-filled with a clear liquid. Stretching from the bag and leading directly to my left arm was a long and very thin plastic tube. Its tip was buried beneath a bright white dressing on the back of my left hand.

  My brain must’ve been in a real low gear because it was only at this point that I was certain beyond a reasonable doubt that I was in a hospital room.

  As if to confirm this ingenious hypothesis, one of the doors opened and a nurse walked in. She offered me a smile.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  I tried to reply, but she laid her hand on my chest and shook her head.

  “Easy does it,” she said. She carried a thermometer and placed it in my mouth. After a few seconds it chimed and she stared at the digital reading. Satisfied all was in order, she turned and exited the room.

  I closed my eyes and felt the pull of sleep. I drifted off. For how long, I couldn’t say. I awoke to the sound of a door opening.

  A middle aged lady with stylish black rimmed glasses and a stethoscope dangling around her neck entered the room. She carried a metallic folder in her right hand and a mug in the other.

  “Hello, Mister Towne,” she said. She placed the mug on the night table and pulled a chair close to my bed. “I’m Doctor Lillian Carter, your attending physician.”

  “Morning,” I replied. I tried to sit up, but was hit with a wave of dizziness.

  “Lay back, Mr. Towne,” Dr. Carter said. “That’s all you need to do today. By the way, it’s five in the afternoon.”

  “Where am I?”

  “St. Thomas Hospital, room 534. You were transferred from the emergency room a couple
of hours ago.”

  “Emergency? What happened?”

  “Please don’t get excited,” the Doctor said. “You’re in no danger.”

  She looked at her chart and wrote a couple of notes.

  “We talked a little while back,” she said after a while.

  “In the emergency room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

  “That’s fine. You were under sedation,” Dr. Carter said. “You told me a couple of weeks ago you caught what you thought was a simple cold, but that it grew worse with each passing day.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then one day, maybe a week ago, you felt a particularly strong headache and sinus pressure. This was followed by a nosebleed.”

  “The first I’ve ever had,” I said. “Just a few drops. A few hours later, I had another, stronger bleed.”

  “How often have these bleeds occurred?”

  “Every four or five hours,” I said. “I had to call in sick to work. I was also running a temperature. A day or two after that, my sister forced me to see Dr. Dixon.”

  “You have family in town?”

  “Yes. Jennifer.”

  “Oh?” Dr. Carter replied. She frowned. “Your employer said you had no family.”

  “No one knows anyone.”

  Dr. Carter again smiled. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a candy red cell phone. “We should tell her you’re here. What’s her number?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Why not?”

  “Every time I call, all I ever get is her answering machine. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not leave a message, at least not until you tell me what’s going on. I’d rather not worry her.”

  Dr. Carter nodded. The cell phone returned to her pocket.

  “Fair enough. We’ll call her later. Now then, who’s this Dr. Dixon? I’m not familiar with the name.”

  “He has an office off the Palmetto.”

  “Do you know his number?”

  “No.”

  “Ok, what did Dr. Dixon do with you?”

  “A check-up. He said I had the flu. He prescribed some medicine.”

  “Do you remember what he prescribed?”

  “Anti-biotics. I couldn’t tell you which ones. After a couple more days of rest and medicine, I figured I was strong enough to return to work. I was wrong.”

  Dr. Carter jotted down some more information into her file. As she finished her notes, her cell phone went off.

  “Please excuse me,” she said and turned away. She talked for a while. I caught bits and pieces of her conversation but with each passing second found it harder and harder to keep focused. My eyes shut and a wave of darkness enveloped me. When I opened my eyes again, Dr. Carter was no longer in the room. A police officer sat in the chair she occupied.

  “You’ve been having nosebleeds, Mr. Towne?” the officer asked.

  “Who are you?” I replied.

  The officer was annoyed by the question.

  “Officer Bates,” he said. “Are you all right? I introduced myself when I first came in.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Where’s Doctor Carter?”

  “I’m sure she’s around,” he said. His annoyance spread to his voice.

  “What was the question?”

  “The nosebleeds. You’ve been having them for a while?”

  “For at least a week or so.”

  “As for this last nosebleed, was it another in a series, or was it caused by something else?”

  “Something else?”

  “Were you assaulted, Mr. Towne?”

  “Assaulted?” I repeated. It took a few seconds to understand exactly what he was asking. “Absolutely not.”

  “Can you tell me what happened this morning?”

  “I wish I could. Until Dr. Carter told me, I didn’t even know I was in St. Thomas.”

  “You don’t know how you got here?”

  “No.”

  The room grew silent and Bates allowed the silence to linger. He focused on his notepad.

  “This morning, at about nine A.M., one of the hospital’s security guards spotted you weaving through the parking lot. You were driving erratically. He thought you were out of control and might hit someone or something. He gave chase but, thankfully, you pulled up into a No Parking zone. When the security guard got to you, he found your shirt covered in blood. You were in and out of consciousness and talking. Most of what you said was nonsense. The security guard’s first thought was that you were attacked. He pulled you from your vehicle and had the staff rush you to the emergency room.”

  Officer Bates paused. He let the words sink in.

  “You can’t remember any of this?”

  “No. Did I…could I have had a blackout?”

  “In my experience blackouts usually involve abuse of drugs or alcohol, a pre-existing medical condition, or some kind of trauma. You were neither drunk nor high.”

  “They checked?”

  “Yes. The hospital would have been negligent if they didn’t.”

  “I understand,” I muttered, though a part of me was irritated by this invasion of privacy.

  “So we’re left with a pre-existing medical condition or some kind of trauma. Before today, have you ever experienced a blackout, Mr. Towne?”

  “No.”

  “That might rule out pre-existing medical conditions.”

  Officer Bates shifted in his chair.

  “As I said before, you were in and out of consciousness and talking. The staff was so busy checking you out that they didn’t bother writing down or remembering any of what you said. But one of the nurses did recall you repeating a name. ‘Robinson’.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Officer Bates jotted that information down.

  “You’re sure? You’re not covering for someone—”

  “No,” I replied, this time more forcefully. The questions and the effort to come up with answers were tiring me out.

  Officer Bates lowered his notepad.

  “When they searched your belongings, they found your wallet. That’s how they were able to identify you. Hospital staff made a few calls and, eventually, got in touch with your employers at the Ryan Building. As it turned out, several police officers we were already there, looking for you.”

  “Why?”

  “One of your co-workers discovered a trail of blood leading from your office to a public bathroom. In the bathroom he found more blood splatters and several bloody handprints. Needless to say, he called the police. The patrol arrived and made a quick check of the staff and you were the only person unaccounted for.”

  Officer Bates again allowed silence to envelope the room.

  “I wasn’t attacked,” I said.

  Officer Bates did not reply.

  “I’m not covering for anyone.”

  “Who is Robinson?”

  “I wish I knew! Look, rather than wasting your time, why don’t you call my physician or my sister. They’ll tell you these nose bleeds started after I got sick. It may not be what you’re looking for, but it is the truth.”

  Officer Bates’ face was firmly stuck in neutral.

  “Did they find any bruises or any other evidence of an actual assault anywhere on my body?”

  Bates kept quiet.

  “They didn’t, did they?”

  Officer Bates flipped his notebook shut. If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. Without intending to, I closed my eyes. As I drifted off to sleep, I tried to remember who this Robinson could be.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At first, the visions came like reflections on falling shards of glass: there were flashes of lights followed by a loud rumble. It scared me awake and it took a while to drift back to sleep. After the lightshow was over, a larger, more coherent dream took form.

  I was standing in an impossibly high place and looking down, down, at a terrain that lay many miles below. The sky
was eerily dark and the clouds swirled in a lazy arc, as if caught in a slow motion whirlpool. The terrain blurred and the menacing clouds faded and a new form coalesced. It was a cube made of a dull black material. It surface was smooth and lifeless and cold. It twisted and bent until it became the steering wheel of a car.

  I was sitting in the driver’s seat.

  I looked beyond the steering wheel. My car was in a parking lot adjacent to a small brown and white building. Over the building’s entrance was a modest sign that read “Police Station.” A thick layer of snow covered most of parking lot.

  Past the station was a large, angry black mountain. Its peak was jagged and sharp and looked like it could cut the sky to pieces. Surrounding the peak were those same swirling dark clouds.

  A sound, hushed yet urgent, made me turn from the mountain and back to the parking lot. It grew louder and more clearly defined. Several people were speaking at the same time. They were at the Police Station’s entrance. Their bodies were ghostly white and intangible at first, but as their voices grew louder their bodies became solid. They crowded the double doors leading into the Police Station. Their attention -and questions- were directed to someone within.

  Some carried microphones and others carried hand held recorders. At least two carried bulky video cameras. Each and every one of them jockeyed for position. They pushed and shoved each other while trying to get a better look at whoever stood just inside the Police Station’s door.

  All the while I watched with increasing curiosity. What were they doing there? What brought them here?

  Suddenly, I was no longer in the car. I was standing just outside the parking lot and staring at the road leading in from town. The journalists remained in place; their questions were like the buzz of angry bees.

  Presently, a dark vehicle appeared in the distance. Its headlights were on and it moved slowly. The car was long and black and, when it turned into the Police Station’s parking lot, I realized it was a hearse.