a good man in an evil society . . .
. . . is the greatest villain of all.
The heavy metal door burst open with a thundering crash. Mr. Vertigas looked up from his empty examining table, alerted by the noise to the arrival of his associates.
Autzen and Beckham had appeared in the doorway, lugging between them a young woman, passed out, her head lolling to the side, her long blonde ponytail bobbing along with the labored steps of the men dragging her along.
Mr. Vertigas, who has been cleaning his tools, swept them all back into their box and snapped into action.
"Where did you pick her up?" He asked, moving closer to assist.
"Autzen picked her up at some bar" Beckham, a tall, thick, broad man in a blue polo shirt and beaten jeans, grunted. He had taken a firm grip of her ankles and was undoubtedly responsible for the new dent in Mr. Vertigas' door. Autzen, a significantly smaller, wiry young man with longish brown hair tied back soon appeared, his arms looped through the unconscious woman's and looking significantly harried. He was sporting a black eye.
"Whatever" he snapped, a little short of breath. He crossly attempted to blow a stray strand of hair out of his face. "Just hurry up and get her on the table."
With a soft grunt, Beckham adjusted his grip and hauled the woman up onto the metal examining table that shone beneath the sole ceiling lamp. Autzen slammed the door shut and twisted the hefty lock.
She was less of a woman and more of a girl, Mr. Vertigas noticed, staring down at her pale face. She had fine features, high cheekbones, a heart-shaped face with pale eyebrows like light tracings on her forehead. She was wearing mascara, he could tell, since her eyelashes were a ghostly blonde at the base. She was dressed somewhat provocatively, in a crimson shirt that was too short and dark jeans that barely covered her hips. He could see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the denim.
"Jesus, how old is she?" He asked, hurriedly rummaging through the wooden box that contained his tools.
"Hell if I know," Autzen shot back, grabbing her right wrist and smoothly securing it in the leather buckle on the table. "I picked her up in Campson, she was picking the wallets out of the pockets of thirty-somethings there to get girls. I didn’t want to take her, but she knocked off my sunglasses. I had no choice. Bitch hits like a boxer."
“It’s not her fault.” The joint of the light above the examining table squeaked slightly as Mr. Vertigas pulled it closer. Beckham, having fumbled for a moment with the girl's left wrist, moved down to secure the straps on her ankles. Autzen stepped swiftly towards the counter, cranking the volume on the gramophone and moving the arm onto the record. Beckham, his task done, moved out of Mr. Vertigas’ way.
Though the room was surrounded by thick cement walls and had been soundproofed to the best of Mr. Vertigas' ability, it was far from perfect. As the first notes of Beethoven’s ninth swelled forth into the air, Autzen and Beckham stepped back against the wall.
The girl was beginning to stir. Mr. Vertigas watched as her head lolled first in one direction, then the other, her lips parted releasing a small gasp of air. He didn’t have much time.
His hand finally alighted upon the familiar contours of what he sought.
In one smooth motion he drew out two short iron rods, striking them together twice over the young woman’s semi-conscious form. Next came a small vial of water with which he wet his fingers and sprinkled it over the examining table. He pulled the long string of green prayer beads off his neck and began to roll it between his palms.
The girl’s eyes snapped open.
They were yellow, just as he’d known they’d be. Her face contorted painfully in what Mr. Vertigas knew to be an unconscious response to his actions. It was only a split second before she came to herself.
“What the hell…?” She muttered, her words sounded thick and muffled. She was suffering a splitting headache, Mr. Vertigas knew, and nausea that could not possibly be described in words. It would take an extra moment for her to see clearly and think straight.
Then came the panicking.
“W-“ there was a sharp jerk as she attempted to move her hand to cover her eyes. “What the fuck!”
Yelling first.
“Who the hell are you? Freaks!” She was glaring daggers at the three men, two of them idly leaning against the red cushioned walls in shadow and the third standing next to the table just beyond the glare of the light, rolling the beads between his hands. “Freaks! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Mr. Vertigas closed his eyes and began muttering something unintelligible under his breath, rubbing the beads faster and faster. The muffled clatter of the beads was hypnotizing beneath the thunderous classical music.
She began to scream.
Obscenities at first, terrible strings of curses directed at Autzen and Beckham and Vertigas, interspersed with violent wrenching at the restraints and threats of pain and exponentially brutal forms of death.
Through it all the gentleman kept at it with the beads, drops of sweat beginning to form on his brow, glittering like crystals in the limited light. In the heavy atmosphere of the red room the green beads shimmered softly.
The screams soon descended into wordless howls of pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Vertigas noticed Beckham shift slightly, doubtless empathizing with the young woman’s pain. Autzen was steel-faced, glaring straight off into nothing.
The screaming continued on for what seemed like forever. Lost in concentration Mr. Vertigas was adrift, and through the vertigo could see more clearly. The face of the spirit floated, superimposed over the face of the girl. It was sickening. The black hole of their mouth gaped wider and wider, drawing the room deeper and deeper, spiraling down, down, down into darkness and-
She paused only to gag. Gasping for air, her stomach heaved and her head fell first to one side, then the other. Autzen and Beckham sprang into action, the first grabbing a silver garbage can from the corner and the second, burying his fingers in her hair, lifted her head slightly off the table.
She was silent now, breathing heavily, the air rasping raw in her throat. She was shaking.
Mr. Vertigas tiredly fumbled the beads back around his neck and grabbed at the strap trapping her right wrist. Autzen had already released the left one and was working on the ankles. All three men knew that the storm was not quite through.
“What will we call her?” Beckham asked, nervously watching the young woman’s eyelids start to flutter.
“Miriam.” Mr. Vertigas answered firmly, not lifting his eyes. The name had come to him sometime during the final push. It didn’t matter what her actual name had been. She wouldn’t know the difference. It was better to have these things prepared somewhat ahead of time: the waking up was scary enough already. “Miriam Green.”
Her stomach heaved again and she instinctively tried to roll onto her side. Beckham guided her to the side with the trash can with a gentleness belied by his size.
She vomited. The bile was a sickly yellow-orange color, spattered on the aluminum. Beckham was frowning; it was his poker face. He knew how badly it burned. Between the screaming and the sickness, this girl would be able to eat nothing but yoghurt for at least three days. When her eyes flickered open between heaves, Mr. Vertigas could see that they were a bright, clear blue.
“She’s clean” He sighed. Then, louder: “Miriam, are you alright?”
“…Miriam?” She rasped, gasping. “Is that me?”
She coughed and, looking up, her eye was caught by Autzen moving to turn down the music.
“Who hit you? That’s terrible!”
The young man locked eyes with Mr. Vertigas. He looked angry. Mr. Vertigas understood; Autzen had woken up not six months ago himself. Despite the exorcism, goodness did not come easily to him. He had never known it. No one had. It was why Vertigas did what he did, drawing out the poison.
“We’ll explain everything to you later, Miriam.” Vertigas said, pulling a slim glasses case out of his box of tools as Beckham slowly lowered her head onto the table. “For now, take these sunglasses. Wear them everywhere: no one can ever be allowed to see your eyes.”
Reaching out with a trembling hand, her wrist rubbed red from the restraints, she took the glasses case.
“Welcome to the good guys.” Autzen muttered scathingly. “It’s just the four of us.”