Brody came in as always with his thermos of coffee, a sandwich and a bag of corn chips in a plastic bag. In the other hand a paperback sci-fi novel, usually something from Ray Bradbury. His winter cap on and frost gathering on his mustache, he journeyed up the courthouse steps and then hung a sharp right into the Law Enforcement Center. He waved at the dispatcher as she buzzed him through to the jail office.
Jimmy Vaughn already had his jacket on and was ready to leave. The other jailer, Nellie Polk, was just coming in from the jail cells after handing out the nightly meds.
“What’s on for tonight?” Brody asked Jimmy.
“Same as always, nothin’.” Jimmy answers as he spits out his chewing tobacco into the office sink.
Brody studies the Photo Board. It displays pictures of the current inmates of the Moon Valley County jail, all 22 of them. He knows pretty much all the faces, most repeat offenders, probation violations or DWI’s. There is a new face on the board, but it’s blurry and a little distorted.
“Have a little problem with the MRAP machine?” Brody asked, the MRAP took full 360degree photos of its subject and downloaded them into a nation-wide database.
“Oh, that guy.” Jimmy rolls his eyes. “You want to try and photo him go for it, that guys a freak!”
Brody motions to the photo board with his thumb, “Do you want to tell me which one of these boys in here aren’t?”
“True enough. But there’s something about Quidam that I don’t like. Something going on behind them eyes of his.”
Nellie rolled her eyes at Jimmy and gave Brody a smile.
Brody returned it and attached his radio to his duty belt and fetched the cell keys from their respective hook. They were large and cumbersome, but after Brody’s fifteen years here, he didn’t notice.
“Gonna make a check.” He hit the button that released the door going out into the jail. “Is anybody out on work release?”
“Nope,” Nellie answered. “They should all be here.”
Jimmy left and said ‘good night’ as Brody stepped out into the jail cells.
All the inmates were either playing cards or watching wrestling on TV. Brody never understood how inmates got seventy-three channels of cable while he watched two snowy local channels at home. Some waved at him, bitched about the evening meals and some he took a minute or two to converse with. When he came to the last cell that was holding their new inmate, Quidam, he stopped.
The air was different, cold and dry. He stepped down the catwalk behind the cell’s wall and peeked in through the two-way mirror at Quidam. He was writing on the walls with a nub of a pencil. The writing was too small for him to read from here, but Brody thought he better put an end to it. He came around the front of the cell where there were bars that separated the inmate from the jailer.
“What are you doing?” Brody asked with some intimidation in his voice.
“I…I’m trying to figure out the pathway.” Quidam answered without looking up.
“Pathway? Mr. Quidam, I’m not exactly sure what you me…”
“The pathway. I’m almost there. Please, hush.”
“You’re going to have to stop writing on county property. If you need paper I can get you paper, but you cannot write on county property.”
Quidam didn’t stop. He wrote with a fury, stopping only a few times to ponder a thought and then returned to his work. Brody noticed the guy’s lips were chapped and cracked. He was constantly licking them with a dry tongue. Brody went around to the backside of the man’s cell to where the door was.
“Mr. Quidam,” he hollered. “I’m coming into your cell. I need you to stand up with your back to the wall facing me!”
There was no answer. He turned the heavy key in the door lock and pulled the door open. Quidam was crouched on the floor, writing with fervor. Brody spoke into his shoulder microphone for Nellie to come and assist and then walked in all the way to where Quidam was crouched, being careful to make sure the door didn’t lock.
“Do you have a problem following orders, Mr. Quidam?” Brody was getting agitated. The walls, table and floor were decorated with this madman’s writing.
“May 24th.” Quidam spoke, “May 24th, 1984.”
“What?”
“May 24th, 1984. That was the day that God lifted the veil from my eyes and showed me the Eight Disciplines.”
“The ‘Eight Disciplines’, right. Do they include grafitti?”
“You don’t understand. You couldn’t understand. Of course how could you? You are below the comprehension of such infinite conjecture. You are part of an ill-governed machine put together to oppress the free thinkers, the ones who contemplate the reason for existence. But I, sir, I have mastered the Eight Disciplines. I am far beyond anything even the most scholastic of men. They have been blinding our children, they’ve put the veil on all of us, but I lifted it. Thanks, be to GOD!”
“What are these Eight Disciplines, if I may so boldly ask?” Brody’s face was flushed with anger, but he kept sarcasm around to cap it.
“You don’t want your eyes opened. Besides there isn’t anytime! Now go away, I’m about to find a Ninth Discipline that God Himself knew nothing about.”
“All right, Quidam, I don’t know what kinda drugs your freakin’ out on but I’m taking your pencil and locking you down until you straighten out.”
Quidam almost growled at Brody when he bent over to take the pencil. Then, without warning, Quidam leaped at him and bit into his shoulder. Nellie and two Sheriff’s Deputies were coming down the hall at that moment and hurried when they heard the commotion. They pulled Quidam off and they all hauled him off to the isolation cell.
The isolation cell, commonly called the “Quiet Room”; consisted of a mattress, four metal loops to handcuff the inmate down in case he tried to harm himself, and a hole to piss in. A camera sat up in the ceiling so they could keep an eye on him.
The mid-shift ended at 10 o’clock and Nellie had left. Brody sat alone at the controls of the security office, nursing his bruised shoulder. Since the evening’s incident, Quidam was shouting out Bible verses and demanding that Brody repent. This went on and on until about midnight.
“I can still find it.” Quidam’s last words were, and then there was silence.
Brody turned up the microphone that was patched into the isolation cell. He only heard whispering. On the monitor, Quidam was writing something on the wall with what looked like his finger.
“The bastard cut his finger somehow and is writing in his own blood!” he thought to himself.
He hit the button on the microphone, “Mr. Quidam, if you’ve harmed yourself in any way in there, I will have to 4-point you down.”
Quidam only started to write faster and faster. Within minutes the entire south wall was covered in blood. He was starting to write another page on the west wall.
“Damn it!” Brody spat. He stood up and punched the button to go into the jail area again. He grabbed some bandages from the first aid kit and then some latex gloves.
As he approached the isolation cell he sat silently with his ear to the door. Only whispers from Quidam could be made out. Brody opened the food port in the middle of the door and peeked his head in.
Quidam was squatting there with a mad stare in his eyes. There was blood around his mouth and the stump of his index finger. He had chewed off the tip and spit it on the floor.
“I’ve found it.” Quidam grinned victoriously at Brody, “The Ninth Discipline, it’s all right here.”
Brody threw open the door and stopped just short of the entrance. The blood on the walls had congregated into a giant crimson splatter. It was bubbling and things were moving within it.
“We’re going to meet God.” Quidam cheered.
The blood started to spurt. It flecked the front of Brody’s brown uniform, and doused Quidam’s orange jumpsuit. Brody thought he heard something gargling within the splatter on the wall. He pulled on Quidam’s sleeve.
“Don’t take me away, I’m going to meet God!” he protested.
Dark clots sprung out and some rested on Brody’s badge. He fell into the hallway on his back. The door stood ajar with his legs in the way. He heard someone rattling at the office door trying to get out into hallway to assist him.
Brody tried to get up and slipped on the blood pooling on the floor. His third try was successful. The door to isolation slammed shut and he heard something roar from within. He slipped again trying to make it to the security office door. The officers saw the wideness of Brody’s eyes as he pounded on the door. He saw that one of the officers was trying to punch the button to release the door lock while the other was trying the fail-safe key.
“Open up!” Brody yelled, “Open up, for the love of God!!”
“I found it!!” yelled Quidam from the cell. “I’ve found the Ninth Discipline, Lord!! Have mercy on meeeeeeeeeeee!”
With that, Brody heard the roar again and then heard something crack. Quidam’s bones perhaps, he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to get in the office where there was a gun.
Sudden silence emanated from the cell once more with a lake of blood coming from under the door. There was a mewling sound and then a loud thump that shook the heavy metal door. Panic was renewed in Brody and some of the other inmates started to holler with a few choice words. Another thump and the door started to bend.
“Open up this door, and do it NOW!” Brody screamed.
The door to isolation was hit again and came off the hinges. The door landed on the ground. He heard the thing in isolation move towards the entrance, which was only eight feet from where Brody stood. It’s feet splashing around in the dark puddle beneath it.
“Slide your gun through the drawer!” Brody motioned to the drawer that slides from the security office into the hallway.
He reached into it and pulled out a 9mm. He cocked it back and waited for it to come. It howled inside the cell.
“If this is God, then I’m quitting church!” he thought to himself.
But nothing came. It was quiet. Only the drip of Quidam’s blood came from isolation.
“Brody?” the officer called from the security office.
Brody waved his hand at them and walked over to the cell cautiously. The door had lain there on the floor with what looked like claw marks and more blood. He swung his head into the cell quickly and then, back out. He pivoted his whole self to the entrance with the gun drawn.
It was empty. All the blood was draining into the piss hole like rain into a storm sewer. There was no sign of Quidam except for the raw stub of finger he had chewed off.
The security door swung open and about nine police and deputies flooded into the hall.
“You okay, Brody?” one officer asked.
“No.” he whispered, “I don’t think I’ll ever be okay.”
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