"The Sardonic Vulture"
by Greg Marsden

Taken by kind permission from Father's On-Line Library.

"That is the horror, gentlemen... that there is no horror!"
Kuprin, Russian author

Chapter 1

Henry Garson looked at his black clock, ticking away the
seconds. It was 6:30 in the evening, but that hardly mattered. He
looked around his apartment, noting the disheveled condition. Did
it really matter? When he left, there would still be someone else
here in this room. The deathwatch-beetle ticking of the clock
confirmed his apprehensions. He took his brown bag with him and
started to walk outside, heading toward Central Park.
Heading toward a bench, he sat down and looked at the
lights around him. This was a city for the living, the frenzied
living. What was he? A dinosaur? Someone who didn't adapt to
changing times... or didn't want to? No matter. He was tired of
looking for jobs in vain and for friends who only used him. This
time, he would be doing the whole city a service. He would commit
suicide. After all, the city, the monster, needed younger men
and women to run things. People like him... well, the monster
viewed him as a piece of gristle, an indigestible thing that
preferred the past to the present. There could be no place for
him in the future order. What was it Rod Serling's teleplay had
said? Obsolete. Yes, that was what he was. Obsolete. An obsolete
vulture ready to die.
He looked into his brown bag. First, he removed the bottle
of lithium carbonate tablets. There were 300 milligrams in each
tablet. Taking the whole bottle should kill him since lithium was
reactive. Once inside the system, it would be impossible to
purge. Strange, mused Henry, that the medicine used to stabilize
his depression, medicine he hated taking since it reminded him of
his weakness, was now the desired key to his destination.
He put the bottle down, then looked at his envelope. It
read, "My suicide note - by hand." Those words really didn't
matter. In this age of computers and printers, who would read it?
If someone did, it would be dismissed and filed in some case.
However, he should have some justification for taking his life.
Maybe someone else would read it and avoid the same mistakes he
did.
He replaced that in the bag and removed two more objects.
The first was a photograph of his family. He looked at his
smiling face, his parents standing in front of him, and his
sister putting bunny ears behind his head with her two fingers.
Was he really that happy once? Was there some innocence, some
hope inside of him? He looked deeply into his soul, only to find
the darkness of his fear and hatred toward his condition. He had
been unemployed for four years. It was ironic, he thought, having
a library science degree but having to trudge into every store
and restaurant to look for work. He ran his hand through his
black, straight hair. Well, no one wanted him. They rejected him
in condescendingly polite language, which rankled Garson. Better
to have said, "You lout!" than to be so polite about leaving a
person to fend for himself.
"Sorry, we don't think you are qualified for this post..."
-- in real language, you have too many qualifications. We think
you would leave us at the end of the week.
"You misled us on your application..." -- in real
language, you worked in food service. You should move quicker.
Garson tried to explain that he wanted to work quicker but he had
only two days of training on the job. The employer didn't care to
listen and booted him out..
Well, the game would be over soon. The city would have one
more body to classify, categorize, and dump in some pauper's
grave. He lifted the last object from his brown bag, a small
mirror. He stared at it for a long time, looking at his hazel
eyes and haggard face. There was nothing worth redeeming here. He
put down the mirror and crumpled the bag.
He was about to reach for the bottle when his conscience
called to him. What was there worth dying for, it reasoned. He
could help others, have a better life.
Garson argued out loud, "Well, what is there worth living
for? I search for a job, only to find that I'm overqualified or
unwanted. I live on government welfare because of a mental
disability. My family is dead, while my sister won't talk to me.
The God I pray to is somewhere listening while the Jesus I
worship is around me but I push him away. My friends use me as a
bank or sounding board without listening to me. No, my dear
conscience, I think I will prefer being a functionary in Hell. At
least, I share the misery around with others. Here, on this
earth, I am the lowest rank. I am the one that gets beaten, every
time. In Hell, I could be one of the oppressors. After all, isn't
it the desire of the slave to see the wheel turn one day? That
his oppressors will taste the bitter gall and cracking whip that
he had to bear?"
-That is not what you believed in, reminded his conscience.
After all, Jesus died for you. He still cares for you-.
"Then, my good friend, what about my real life? True,
sparrows should not worry about their nests or their food, but
they do not have dreams. I do. I have desires to talk to others,
not read their e-mail. I want to see people and enjoy a life
where I have a steady job, then return home to my writing. With
my track record, I am at home writing than working. Anyway, they
want me to learn about HTML and other things. I hated computers,
preferring books. Computers killed my father. Of course, not
directly, but they and television found a way to encircle and
crush his spirit, worse than any bodily harm. No, this brave new
world has a noble savage. And just like him, I would rather die
than suffer more indignity."
With those last words, Garson reached for the bottle. He
twisted off the cap, pouring
the bright pink pills into his left hand. To him, they looked
like harbingers of his release. Bright pink steps to his
afterlife. So what if he suffered in Hell? The earth was
problematic enough with his unemployment, rising costs, and his
sister's estrangement. He was about to swallow when a gun was
shoved under his chin.
"Hey. Give us your money, buddy," spoke a thin man dressed
with a blue bandanna and black clothes. The other cretin, an
blue-haired man, was a little paunchier, with a brown leather
jacket, black shirt, and brown slacks.
"Gladly," Garson answered, handing over his wallet. "I have
little need for it anyway."
"What gives," asked the thin man. Garson's estimate of his
robber's intelligence did the impossible, dropping further into
contempt. "You ain't going to put up a fight? Call the cops?"
"You imbecile," hissed Garson. "See these pills? I'm going
to swallow them," gesturing with his left hand. "If I'm lucky,
I'll die within an hour. Then I'm free for the picking. After
all, why risk armed robbery when you can take it from a corpse?"
"Audley, he's right," spoke Blue Hair. Thank God, mused
Garson, the cretin had some
sense. Blue Hair continued, "Leave him alone. Once he kicks the
bucket, what can the cops do? There's only a fine for robbing a
corpse."
"Spinner, shut up," began Audley. "He could be pretending.
Anyway, I need my kicks."
While all three were debating, a figure moved closer toward
them. He needed to be stealthy, making out bits of the
conversation. Perhaps they were forcing the seated man on the
bench to take a fatal overdose. The figure ran with adrenaline
speed toward them.
"Look, Audley," Garson began. "You've got my wallet. What
more do you need? I'm unemployed, have no car, and no future.
What more do you want?"
"To see you die, old man," Audley responded. Garson was
about to protest at the last remark when a roar broke the sedate
noises of the city. Garson dropped his tablets. Great, he
thought, I was debating death with two idiots, now I hear a beast
in Central Park. What will happen now?
The black-hooded figure ran into the fray. Audley aimed
his gun, only to get his pock-marked face with red lines. Garson
did the sane thing, stand up and run for it, when Spinner
screamed, "You ain't leaving me here." Spinner caught him, then
gave him a punch on the jaw. Total blackness overcame Garson, who
mused, -Well, either I'll be robbed by these two predators or
dinner for another. A nice choice of epitaphs....

Chapter 2

Garson awoke to a sore jaw, feeling the covers around him.
Great, this must have been some weird nightmare... only to see
the covers were white. The covers on his bed were blue. He took a
look at his surroundings, noting the stone walls. He must be
underground, but where? Why? He looked at himself, noting his
wallet and watch were on his person. Well, if I get out of here,
I could call a cab, Garson mused. He forced himself to stand up,
feeling dizzy when he got both legs on the ground.
"Don't get up. You suffered a concussion when you hit the
ground," stated a gruff voice. Garson forced himself to stare at
the speaker, a brown-bearded man with some sort of brown cloth
over him, patched together. His blurred vision made it difficult
to define distinct features, only an outline. Garson asked, "Who
are you? Wher-where...," before collapsing into the bed. "You're
not the police," Garson finally stated as he felt the soft covers
engulf him.
"No, we're not. You're in a place of sanctuary. My name is
Father," replied the voice.
"I'm also a doctor. You should rest."
Garson obeyed that advice and closed his eyes. Questioning
the man could come later. The next time he awoke, Garson noticed
a large, hooded figure walking away from his bed. "Please,"
pleaded Garson, "Could I have a drink of water?"
The hooded figure stopped, handing Garson a small glass.
Garson looked at the yellow hand. "Who are you? And where am I?
Underground?"
"Yes, you are underneath the city," the man spoke. His voice
was soft, almost honeyed like his hair. "My name is Vincent. You
are in a place of safety, within the tunnels." The man paused, "I
must be going."
"Please stay, sir," pleaded Garson. "Vincent," he mused.
"Reminds me of my favorite saint, Vincent de Paul, patron saint
of the poor. You are named after him, yes?"
"I was named since I was discovered by Father at St.
Vincent's hospital," the man paused. Garson's vision cleared and
he looked at the six-foot build of his speaker and the hair on
his hands. "Well, my name," continued Garson, "is Henry Garson. I
am... well, was a librarian."
"You must have enjoyed reading many books," Vincent answered.
"I did, Vincent, before losing my job," Garson answered
soberly. For some reason, he felt secure talking to this
stranger. "Actually, Vincent, I was depressed. I lost my job
because the former library went into bankruptcy. I've been trying
to find a job for four years. What do they tell me?!" Garson
answered the question, "I'm too old! Too overqualified! They need
youth, someone under their control! Well, when I get out of here,
I intend to finish what I started."
"Killing yourself is not an answer," Vincent countered.
Henry Garson looked at the black-hooded figure and leapt at
the man with his fingers outstretched. When he pushed one part of
the hood aside, he looked with amazement and horror at Vincent.
It was impossible, rationalized Garson. He looked at the feline
features of the man standing before him. He took a deep breath,
screaming, "What are you?! You were at the park! Don't hurt me!"
For once, Garson was crying and cowering. His
self-pity and loathing transformed into self-preservation.
Mary and Lena ran into the infirmary. Lena asked, "Is
everything all right, Vincent?" Garson looked at the two ladies
in disbelief. This man... this thing... was accepted by this
community. Garson asked the blond-haired lady, "What is he? Why
did he save my life from those two muggers? What would it profit
him?"
Blond replied, "Vincent found you in the park and protected
you. My name is Lena." She gestured to the dark-haired woman,
"This is Mary. We're here to help you."
"Why," Garson sardonically asked. "I have a right to choose
my life... or demise."
"We can discuss this later," Mary replied matter-of-factly.
"Now, you will stay here and rest." Her stern tone convinced
Garson that further arguing was unproductive. Vincent departed
from the infirmary, leaving a confused and interested Garson.
The tapping of the pipes could be heard throughout
Father's chamber. Vincent headed there, while Father looked
through Henry Garson's belongings. "Vincent, we must deal with
this man," Father looked at him reprovingly. "We do not have the
facilities to deal with him. He must find help in a psychiatric
hospital."
"Why," Vincent asked with a tone of genuine innocence.
Father gestured to the lithium tablets and the suicide
note. "Vincent, this man is unstable," he began. "He's tried to
kill himself once. He might do it again. Our world is the perfect
place for him to jump off a cliff or drown..."
Vincent interrupted, "He may need some help. We could give
it to him."
"Or he could jeopardize our secret and our people. After
all, if we send him Above, he will have to account for the time
he was missing. He could have family. Anyway, in his condition,
sending him Above would be the best option. If he kills himself,
that is his affair. If he doesn't, there would better help for
him. I'm a physician, Vincent, not a psychiatrist."
"Father, I will look after him," Vincent defiantly
responded.
"Vincent, this is not Catherine or Lena. This man wants to
die, regardless of the consequences." Vincent angrily left the
room, while Father yelled, "Vincent, listen to me! Vincent!"

Chapter 3

Henry Garson looked at his watch, seeing it was seven in
the morning. It was interesting, not running to the frantic pace
of the world above him. Here, it was somewhat serene. Yet, he was
hungry and needed to find a way to get back. These people might
release him... or keep him against his will. Fearing the worst,
Garson looked around the room. He found a small stone and tore
one of the sheets of his bed, making a crude sling. If he needed,
he could hurl it with deadly force. He saw the approaching shadow
of someone and stashed the weapon in his shirt.
"Good morning," Vincent said as he entered the room.
"Good morning, Vincent," replied Henry, carefully looking
over his new visitor. Vincent reminded him of the legends of
Tybalt and catlike creatures who walked among men with two legs.
He noticed Vincent's hands and mouth, mentally noting the claws
and fangs. Henry decided that fighting against Vincent would make
him into instant hamburger. So, the first action was to wait and
find a way when Vincent was distracted or was not nearby. The
next sentence dashed Henry's hopes.
"I would like to invite you to breakfast. Then, I can show
you around our sanctuary." Great, mused Henry, a tour guide to
boot. Well, he's got to sleep sometime.
"Thank you, Vincent," Henry lied. "I am interested in this
place." Vincent tried to avoid expressing distaste at Henry's
transparent lie. Henry wanted to escape, but was he trying to
return Above to live... or to die again? That question, unasked
and unanswered, remained on Vincent's mind as he led Henry into
the dining hall.
While the other Tunnel dwellers ate, Henry noted the
varieties of people in the hall. How many were living here? Why
did they dwell here? What was Father's role in this? Was he a
cult leader? Visions of the Jonestown suicide flashed through
Henry's mind. He forced himself to eat some oatmeal and start
carefully observing his surroundings. He was about to take a
spoonful when he felt something furry and soft crawl into his
lap. He looked down and saw a raccoon looking around him, perhaps
to find something to eat. Henry stared at the raccoon with a
quizzical look. The raccoon met his gaze unflinchingly.
"Bard, come back here," yelled an unfamiliar voice. Henry
looked at the source of the sound, a young boy with blond hair
and a cherubic face. "Mouse wants you back here." Henry was
amazed at this development. This child was mentally challenged.
Perhaps, if he could be plied, this kid could be his ticket. With
an insincere grin, Henry grabbed Bard and handed it to the kid.
"What's your name, kid," Henry asked.
"Mouse," the kid innocently replied.
"You look too big for that," Henry joked.
"Everyone call me Mouse," the kid answered with some
confusion. Some of the other Tunnel dwellers laughed at Henry's
joke. Henry chuckled a little, partly at his cleverness and
partly out of nervousness.
After breakfast was finished, Henry followed Vincent as he
showed him the Tunnels. Henry was semidistracted as he saw the
waterfalls and various caverns. The cavern of the winds held a
fascination for Henry. Their howling seemed to mirror the torment
within his soul. While he walked with Vincent, they saw someone
approaching.
"Vincent," screamed Henry, trying to make his voice
louder than the blowing winds. "Who is approaching us?"
Vincent answered calmly, "It is a friend. Henry, meet
Narcissa." Even in these winds, Vincent's gentle voice was more
powerful than the raging noise around them. Henry gawked at the
approaching figure. She was African-American, blind in both eyes,
yet stared directly at Henry. It was just an uncanny coincidence,
Henry assumed, but realized he was lying to himself. Her garb was
better quality than Vincent's, Father's, or any of the other
dwellers. She supported herself on her stick, beckoning both to
follow her into a niche. Vincent quickly obeyed while Henry
hesitated. After a few seconds, Henry ran after Vincent.
When they entered the niche, Henry was amazed at the calm
air inside the niche contrasted with the raging tempest outside
this sanctuary. It was hard to believe this was the same New
York City that he lived above and worked. This was unreal, an
elven fantasy come to life.
Narcissa began, "Good day, Vincent. I see you are visiting.
This one," pointing at Henry, "is not a visitor. He needs to be
here." Henry was shocked at the woman's choice of words. Needs to
be here? Forget it, I need to get out of here, thought Henry.
"You doubt me," asked Narcissa.
"Well, I find it difficult that anyone needs me, Narcissa,"
Henry replied. "How can you know a lot about me when you do not
know my name?"
"Do you need to know a bird's name to know that flying is
in it's nature," Narcissa replied with that question. She
continued, "You think I am a crazy old woman like Father. To you,
everything is explainable either by God or science."
"Well," Henry ignored Vincent's warning stare. "The thought
is definitely in my mind."
Narcissa pulled close to Henry. "There are other things
beyond your definitions of science and theology. I know that
your soul is divided in two. One wants to be destroyed, spreading
misery like a plague. The other wants to live, trying to find
happiness. After all, everyone is born with those two desires.
Even Vincent has them... for the one he loved."
"We must be going," Vincent started. For once, Henry was in
complete agreement. This woman was unnerving. She could read some
of his thoughts. Henry rationalized his next statement: if a
person is perceptive enough, he or she can say something that
sounds like truth, but is a generalization. However, facts
appeared irrelevant while fantasy was possible in this world.
Both faced the winds outside as they trudged back to the main
Tunnels.

Chapter 4

Henry and Vincent headed toward Vincent's quarters. Henry
looked approvingly at Vincent's collection of books. "I envy you,
Vincent," Henry said as he lifted a collection of poems by
William Blake. "You read and enjoy these poems, but the upper
world does to."
"You have read Blake's poetry?"
"And others. However, I always liked 'The Sick Rose.' It
reminded me of my life."
"Why that one?"
"Let us not dodge in shadows, Vincent. I'll tell you about
myself while you tell me about the one you loved. Is that fair,"
sneered Henry.
To his surprise, Vincent replied, "Go ahead and speak."
Henry was confused and alarmed. What possessed this thing
with such calm and tranquillity? He would have given anything to
possess it... or destroy it in others. After all, that is what
Henry did before he came down here.

Chapter 5

"I was the oldest brother in my family, Vincent," Henry
began. "My only sister was the youngest. I had no other siblings.
However, my dream was to be a history professor, to inspire
others to learn and be proud of being an American." Henry paused,
noting Vincent's interest. Why was this freak listening so
intently? Vincent reminded him of a psychiatrist noting every
action.
Vincent stared at Henry with equal curiosity. Why did this
man want to die? Why would he commit suicide if he had family? To
know your mother, father, and have a sister... Vincent would have
given anything to know who his parents were.
Henry decided to continue. "However, dreams and reality
never mix well. When I went into college, my dreams came to a
crashing halt. I entered into library science because I needed
the money. My father made a few bad investments and I had no
scholarship. After that..." Henry paused, "Our family degenerated
when my mother got cancer."
Henry closed his eyes, thinking of the moments when he saw
his father on the porch,
smoking a cigarette. His father's broad hands would clasp around
that cigarette, grasping it, if it was some form of comfort and
solace. His father's expressive blue eyes would be watery, yet he
would never cry.
"When my mother died, my father fell to pieces. I did also,
but I kept my anger in. After all, he was a smoker. We both
reserved our feelings and continued on with our separate paths.
Yet, I could never forgive him for surviving while my mother
didn't. Then, my younger sister began attending university. When
she became fluent in two languages and became a lawyer in a law
practice, that was when the worm ate into me. After all I was
three years her senior and where am I? In some public library
where most of the patrons barely cared or knew about the
literature of Shakespeare and other writers. Where was she?
Wining and dining clients at her own law practice in four years."
Henry paused to take a few breaths, forcing his voice to
keep a level tone. "After that,
the city began downsizing, so I lost my job. I've been trying to
find work and living off unemployment. So far, I had nothing and
still remain with nothing. Now, you understand the reasons for me
killing myself. I should have had my sister's ambition and
dreams. Instead, I am some petty clerk. If I had money and
power, I would never care about happiness. After all, the former
are better consolers."
"Are they," asked Vincent. "My love had both, but that was
not what made her special."
"Love," mused Henry. "To me, it is an idle word. It means
so many things, but I consider it poison. After all, my family
had love but it didn't keep us together. What got me going after
my mother's death was hatred, Vincent. Hatred like Madam
Defarge's. I hated this world, my father, and my sister's
success. I intended not to end up like my father, some broken
investor, and surpass my sister. What could love provide? Comfort
is for sheep. I presume you know Nieztche. 'One is either a
hammer or an anvil.' I prefer being the hammer."
"Catherine was special," Vincent began while Henry rolled
his eyes. "Her name was Catherine Chandler. She was attacked,
like yourself, but she had an inner beauty and courage. We always
wanted to be together. She was an assistant district attorney,
until
someone killed her during an investigation. I wanted to save
her..." Vincent stopped,
distracted.
Henry sneered, "Well, I presume you were unsuccessful. That
is what love gives you. Heartache and misery. Give me hatred.
It's like a sugar crystal, clear and pure. When the fire's inside
you, it cauterizes all other feelings and gives you energy. What
did she give you before departing her mortal coil?"
Vincent pointed to a cradle with his baby son. "His name's
Jacob. That is the gift she left me." Henry noted the baby and
the pouch around Vincent's neck.
"That pouch was given to you by her, wasn't it?"
Vincent removed it from his neck and opened it. An ivory
rose and a quartz crystal with a gold chain spilled out into
Henry's hands. "The ivory rose was given to you," Henry observed.
"She saw nobility as I do."
Vincent nodded. "I gave her the crystal. It was different
from the others. I know not how, but it was better than the
rest."
"Ah," replied Henry. "I said I saw your nobility. What I
think about it is another matter. After all, nobility has led to
assassinations, murders, and other tumultuous events in history.
If I didn't know better, I would say you're almost naive." Henry
spoke the next sentence in distaste, "Innocent."
"I am not innocent," replied Vincent. "I have killed many
people with my hands. I cannot see why you are so bitter about
others. You have not done what I have, killing to protect
anyone."
"Not with claws, Vincent. I'm too clumsy for
assassinations. Give me innuendo and gossip and I work well.
After all, that is what scares me about this place. You trust
each other, like lambs in a herd. You are a lion pretending to be
a lamb."
"But I am happy. You are not," Vincent answered.
"Happy because you live down here in this isolated area. You
may see the world above at night, but that is nothing compared to
living up there every day. It is Luciferian, I admit, but when
you live up there, one can make a paradise."
"Then why did you fall if it was paradise?"
"Because I couldn't keep up with technology. Computers were
entering my workplace, making what I did obsolete. I hate
machines. They have no feeling, no concern. The people who run
them also mimic them. That's why I want to die, Vincent. Without
caring people, I would rather die."
"You could belong here."
"Here? Vincent," Henry chuckled. "Let us not deceive
ourselves. Your world is built on trust, a trust I could never
possess. Why? Because when I see an open hand, I look for the
concealed one. For every olive branch, I see a chance to hit me
with a stick."
"Why must you distrust everything?"
"Why do you trust Father? The others?"
The last question was unanswered when a child came running
toward them. Vincent turned, "What is it, Jamie?"
The brown-haired teenager stopped to take a few breaths.
"It's Diana and the others. There's been a steam leak in the
Tunnels."
Vincent hurried and Henry came after him. "This does not
concern you," Vincent responded.
"It might," replied Henry. "I have some rudimentary
first-aid," Henry removed his wallet and opened it, showing his
American Red Cross cards, "and CPR skills. You may need my help."
Vincent let him come along. Henry marveled at his agility
as they ran through the tunnels. When they arrived at the area,
scalding steam was pouring into the passageway. Henry looked at
those who were outside the cavern. Fortunately, their burns were
first- degree. The howling inside the steam-filled room hinted
that there were more victims. Vincent ran into the steam-filled
cavern while Henry yelled, "Vincent, wait for help!"
Vincent ran into the cavern, disregarding Henry's warning.
The heat crawled into his skin and his hair, gradually forcing
each pore in his skin to feel pain. However, that only enhanced
his quest for Diana Bennett. He found her lying amidst the
rubble. As he tried to lift it, another burst of steam scalded
him. He fell in pain while a chip of rubble hit the back of his
head. He fell unconscious.
Henry looked desperately at the Tunnels. Mouse came up
behind him. "What can Mouse do?"
Henry looked at Mouse. This was his chance to escape. He
could take the little twerp and use him to get out of here. His
dark half was screaming to die. Instead, Henry replied, "Mouse,
get Father and the others. There's been an accident. I want you
to give Father this number," handing Mouse a piece of paper.
"He's a doctor who I trust. Hurry."
"Mouse go!" Henry watched him depart, then looked into the
steaming cavern. "Well," Henry said to himself, "I always wanted
to die a hero. Guess this is it." He took some cloths from the
other victims, forming a crude hood and gloves. Next, he got a
small wood beam and some other rags to form a splint. He forced
himself to run into the cavern. The heat tore at him, but that
didn't matter. He found the injured Vincent and a woman, perhaps
Diana. He grabbed Diana first, putting her in a classic fireman's
carry. Henry stumbled, but kept himself erect as he dragged her
toward the entrance. There were some other people there. Henry
yelled, "Help me! Vincent's behind me!"
Father answered, "You need to rest. You've been badly
burned."
"I'm not leaving Vincent," Henry retorted and returned
back into the steam-filled torment. He saw Vincent's
semiconscious form. "Vincent, can you hear me?"
"Yes, Henry."
"Bear with me, Vincent. I'm burned also. We'll need to
support each other to get out of here. Can you do it?"
"Yes..." Henry moved toward Vincent while Vincent raised
himself. Both clasped each other at the waist, dragging and
stumbling toward the outside of this hole. Henry collapsed when
he saw four hands reaching toward him.

Chapter 6

They were taken to the infirmary. Diana was lucky to have
recovered quickly. Henry stared at the ceiling. After he was
given treatment, he moved toward Vincent's bed. Henry looked at
Vincent's form, murmuring, "I was wrong. It was love that moved
you to save this woman... and the same love that convinced me to
save you. I promise you this, Vincent. From this day, I will
never hurt myself. Your actions and nobility are the proof
against my cynicism."
Diana Bennett moved to Henry Garson. "Who are you?"
"Henry Garson. You must be Diana."
"Diana Bennett."
Garson asked, "Tell me how you met Vincent and about
Catherine Chandler."
Vincent arose, "Let us both tell you."
The rest of the day and evening was spent telling many
stories of the tunnels and those who lived here.

Chapter 7

Garson looked expectantly at the Tunnel entrance. He was
returning to the outside world. Vincent asked him, "Are you sure
you do not wish to stay here?"
"Sorry, Vincent," Garson apologized. "I need to be out
there... where the people are. They do not have this place and
friends like yourselves. Well, I better be going to the hospital.
I do hate long good-byes."
"Perhaps this isn't good-bye," Diana suggested.
"You're right, Diana. It isn't. After I get out of
hospital, I want Vincent to stand outside and see the sun and the
meadow he read about. His wish deserves to be granted. When I
return, he'll get his chance. I vow."
"Are you sure? You know Vincent is needed here. He's their
protector, their guardian."
"Diana, this is a new Henry Garson. Well, not new. But the
past four days since I've been here, I realized that I was a
selfish, grasping man. I don't know how to change the past. But I
want to make two good futures from it-- mine and Vincent's. You
know, it's hard to believe that I was afraid of what I saw on the
outside. I guess I still have many prejudices to conquer."
"At least, you admit to your faults," Diana replied, her
red hair gleaming in the sunlight.
"Take care of yourself, Henry," Vincent began.
"And you too, Vincent," Henry headed toward the entrance.
"By the way, Vincent, have you read David Morrell?"
"I cannot say that I have," he answered.
"Let me bring you a book of his. You might like it," Henry
answered and headed toward the entrance Above.
"He will return and survive. I know it. He is a man of his
word. He judges himself too harshly, but he cares about those he
befriends," Vincent spoke to Diana.
"I see that too, Vincent. Do you think he will find a way
to get you outside in the run?"
"I think he sees that nothing is impossible now," Vincent
replied cryptically.
Both Diana and Vincent headed back into the Tunnels to have
a game of chess.

The End... for now.

About the Author

Greg Marsden is the pseudonym of a University of North Texas
college student. He wrote this story because he loved "Beauty and
the Beast," and had some traumatic experiences in his life. He
resides in Denton, Texas while his mother, father and sister
reside in other areas of the state.

Please send all comments to agm6@swbell.net
Criticism is welcome and appreciated. Also, for those who are
thinking about suicide, consider the American Red Cross and other
charitable agencies. They need your help with volunteers and
money. Thank you.

Credits: Rod Serling, Beauty and the Beast, Nietzche, William
Blake, Kuprin and the American Red Cross are the owners of the
copyrights. I have no intention to sell or publish this material.
This is nonprofit.