There Will Be Killing Read Free

who stared numbly back at Colonel Kohn while the loud drone of the air conditioner blended with another shriek of “HELP ME!”
    â€œOkay then, we have an interesting catatonic patient with Dr. Thibeaux to discuss, along with our rather vocal Sergeant Waters in the restraints over there. Dr. Mikel, Dr. Moskowitz?” The colonel got up, his attention carefully trained on the new child psychiatrist. “After you.”
    As they moved toward the mind-blasted Sergeant Waters, Israel tried to wrap his brain around what he’d been repeatedly told in officer’s training: His first priority was to “preserve the fighting force,” which meant not getting damaged soldiers like these home. No, his job was to get them back to their units and the same combat zones that had landed them in this front line mental hospital that made Bellevue look like Club Med.
    â€œAs you can see, we have fourteen beds here,” Colonel Kohn was saying. “These patients have been brought in from the field or came through our Camp McDermott outpatient clinic. It’s just a short drive and for now the two of you will be accompanying Dr. Kelly out there every day directly after rounds.” Having caught up with the group, Kohn addressed the leader, mid-thirties at most, with thinning brown hair spared from a comb-over. “This is our chief psychiatrist, Dr. Robert David Thibeaux. Robert David, I believe you were on call last night. Would you care to fill us in on the situation here with Sergeant Waters?”
    â€œWell, now thank you Dr. Kohn, it would surely be my pleasure.” Robert David Thibeaux’s refined southern accent and aristocratic bearing struck Israel as absurd in this setting as the military making attempted suicide a punishable, criminal offense because it damaged government property. “It was a quiet night except for Waters. The Sergeant has been agitated, and ranting and hallucinating constantly about this so-called Boogeyman story that got started a few weeks ago and seems to be spreading like a bad case of VD.”
    â€œAnd what has the Sergeant said about this Boogeyman?” Mikel asked.
    Waters cried out a terrible sound, a keening wail punctuated by “Ghost Soldier! He gets you in the dark. Shep’s dead, everyone’s dead . Oh god, please,” he gasped, pleaded, “ Help me!”  
    For a blessed moment Israel was able to completely detach, to step outside his body and observe the macabre scene like he was back home in the movie theater, watching the horror film he’d seen last year, Night of the Living Dead. Only now starring in the show was Sergeant Waters, eyes bulging, panting, and sobbing; writhing in restraints on the mattress like he was being attacked by ghouls. And Mikel, he could be the director, stroking his chin and strangely untouched by the riveting performance. The surrounding audience, all dressed in mottled green, zoomed in and out, then snap .
    A SLAM of metal bed to steel Quonset wall coincided with the sudden shriek of “STOP”—Slam—“STOP”—Slam—“STOP!” Waters’ earlier shrieking and writhing violently escalated, accompanied now by terrible grimaces and facial tics that were hideous to watch.
    Thibeaux urgently tried to calm him with that low, soothing voice that dripped culture from somewhere down south, an assurance of “Shh, nothing will hurt you here. All the bad things have gone away.” Then, to Margie asked, “How much Thorazine did you give him before?”
    â€œTwo hundred and fifty milligrams. He gets it b.i.d.”
    â€œMy god,” Israel blurted, disbelief overtaking his horror of the whole scene. “Two-fifty twice a day? That is a ton. He shouldn’t even be conscious.”
    â€œBut as you can see, it is not even touching him,” responded Thibeaux. “More Margie, up it stat to three hundred fifty q.i.d. The hallucinations are driving