Finalium Effugiorum

Palmer State Psychiatric Hospital, Long Island, NY—1962

The crimson stain spread quickly, blooming across the front of the patient’s gown and dribbling in rivulets to soak into the concrete. The patient lay panting in a heap against a pile of tarps, a manic grin revealing blood-stained teeth. 

The doctor sagged against the furnace room wall, hooking an arm through the metal ladder leading to an emergency exit for support. His fingers slipped around a metal object and he dropped the bloody awl in disgust. He had swiped the tool from the custodial closet in his pursuit of the patient after he succeeded in escaping his room—on a gurney, no less.

“Dr. Casin?” The doctor hurried to shut the nurse out of the room, sliding the deadbolt in place just as her anxious voice came from outside. “Dr. Casin, is everything alright?”

“Fine, fine—I’m just calming Mr. Gleason down. We may be awhile.” The staff needn’t be alerted to the patient’s injuries yet, at least not before the doctor obtained necessary information. Further, no one would begrudge the doctor a plea of self-defense later—Arlo Gleason was a New York sewer rat, through and through

The doctor turned back to his patient. “Quite a stunt you pulled in your room.”

Arlo smiled again. “I’m good with wires. Piano wire holds a lotta weight, Doc.”

“Why not just pick the lock?”

“Now, where’s the fun in that? Dead and decaying place like this—plus I barely sleep. I get bored pickin' locks—why not go for some shock value?”

“Well, you were successful in that. The poor custodian sent to cut you down is still recovering.”

“Aw, well, he’ll be back on his feet in no time. Marty’s a smart fella. Prob’ly still a little sore that I used up so much of his wire—he collects all kinds. Speaking of which, what time you got, Doc?”

“Eight minutes to four.”

“Good, good. ‘Cause you know, Margie’s got to take her diabetes medication at four sharp. The diabetes don’t just evaporate ‘cause you only got half a brain, am I right?”

The doctor eyed the steadily darkening stain in the concrete beneath Arlo with distaste before upending a bucket used for a recent ceiling leak and sitting.

“Don’t worry, Doc, this’ll come right up with some hydrogen peroxide. I know you got tons—along with some other stuff I won’t mention, eh?” Arlo drummed his fingers lightly above the wound in his abdomen. “Although how’d you get so much of that one powder—can’t say the name, I can’t even spell it. If I didn’t know better, you being a doctor and all, I’d say you were into some shady backdoor deals.” He chuckled. “Want that Nobel prize bad, don’t ya, Doc?”

The doctor's eyes narrowed. The patient had deduced much more than he would have ever given him credit for, but he would deal with that later. “Picking locks. So, it was you in the storage room, my laboratory, you stealing files? Why let other patients take the fall for you all these months?”

“We’re all in this together, Doc. We all want freedom and I promised I’d get it.”

The doctor couldn’t help a sarcastic laugh. “Yes, they should be very pleased with you now. I should drag you upstairs and let them watch.”

Arlo shrugged. “They knew the risks. We all did.”

“I did tell you that I wouldn’t tolerate another incident of your violence.”

“Too true, too true.” Arlo coughed, causing fresh blood to appear along his gumline. “Speaking of which, I wouldn’t guess you’ve got too much more time with me to ask questions.”

“Alright, so you gathered this information—what have you done with it?”

“… That’s it? You wanna know what I done with it—not what I got?”

“Proceed then, Mr. Gleason,” the doctor’s mouth twitched. “This is, after all, your session.”

“Well, I started with the patient files, Doc. Wanted to see who these people were before you sauced ‘em.”

“Before I what?”

“Little joke,” Arlo winked and flashed a sliver of crimson teeth. “I was curious, plain and simple. Same reason you decided to put down your scalpel and experiment with chemicals, isn’t it?”

“Alright, so you stole the files. What next?”

“Well, it took me a fair bit of conniving, but I finally got it. Your recipe.”

“My recipe?”

“The Secret Sauce. Lobotomy in a bottle-y.”

The doctor nodded. There was no way the patient was able to break into his lock box—at least, not without outside help. The slight possibility, considering Arlo’s latest antics, gave him pause, but he would simply entertain what he was fairly certain were his patient’s delusions for now.

“And what do you intend to do with my recipe?”

“Oh, it’s done, Doc.”

“… Go on.”

“You wanna know how I recognized that powder? Find that a little funny, Doc?” Arlo squinted and the doctor wondered fleetingly if his vision had begun to spot. “Well I got friends in low places, too, and I made some promises out there, as well. Pretty neat thing about this city. You can find all kinds of characters in New York—they can find you. Syrians,” he added, and the doctor quickly rearranged his features to iron out the crease in his brow.

“I see. And what do these … Syrians … plan to do with my recipe?”

“Oh, same as you, Doc. See, it’s all about control, isn’t it? You control the bleeding, cut out the gangrene, keep only the good parts. Well, they got all kinds of uses for your sauce in Syria. Prisons, hospitals, you name it.”

“I see. And the files?”

“Gave ‘em those, too. For good measure.”

Thank goodness none of that was true, the doctor thought, shuddering at the idea of U.S. government property in the hands of the enemy.

“Yeah …” Arlo looked thoughtful and almost dreamy for a moment. “Those Syrians are true to their word, too—got me in here nice and easy.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. I was under the impression that you landed yourself in here.”

“Well, sure, that’s what we’d have you believe. Ya know, one a those fellas is a lawyer.” The patient winced and an additional shade of color drained from his cheeks. “Oh, but it was easy, though—proving I had to be here. ‘Oh, Mr. P’liceman, if I hadn’t blown up that orphanage, the demons in my head woulda come for me in my sleep!’”

“Yes, well … needless to say, our sessions seem to have done nothing for your humanity.”

“Aw, c’mon now. You and I both know those kids woulda been nothin' but criminals. Take me and my sister for example—both orphans, both criminals. ‘Course you knew that, didn’t you, Doc.? You remember my sister, ‘Melia? One of your first test subjects for the sauce, wasn’t she? Thought you’d cure all her little quirks.”

The doctor paused. “Amelia was immensely helpful to my work. I always appreciated her, uh … sacrifice.”

Arlo nodded conversationally. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure. Wouldn’t hurt to give her a proper burial, though, would it, Doc? I mean, a dumpster doesn’t exactly fit that definition—just my opinion.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. The remains of any patient who passes away within this facility have always been treated with the utmost dignity and respect.”

Arlo pushed himself up a fraction before sagging back against the tarps. “Well, beggin’ your pardon, but I found her, Doc. Heard what your sauce did to her mind, too. You know there’s a gap in your fence—through the hedges. I could hear her at her window, but I couldn’t do anything else ‘cause of the bars—ya know, comfort her or anything.” The patient’s eyes became suddenly over-bright, a single tear making a track down his filthy skin before mixing with the sweat and blood at the edge of his mouth. “After she was gone, I’ll admit that’s when I lost my way. Turned to my own brand of sauce. Did a deal with a Syrian fellow one day and that’s when I told him my story. Very interested in what you do, Doc. Very interested. By the way, what time you got?”

The doctor glanced at his watch. “Three minutes till four.”

“You know, that Margie, she used to be a chemist. Knows all about chemical reactions and such—she told me she used to be a school teacher.”

“Margie doesn’t speak.”

“You’re right, Doc, she doesn’t speak—she can point, though. I can ask her questions and sorta lay things out for her, and she can point to things to let me know the answer.”

A trickle of unease made its way down the doctor’s spine. “And what kind of questions have you been asking our dear, sweet Margie?”

Arlo looked thoughtful. “Ya know, a caretaker at the orphanage used to say that ‘good helpers get extra privileges.’ So I always tried to do a little somethin’ extra every day. Help Simpleton Stevie do up his laces, get a spoonful of extra oatmeal in the mornin’. Help Little Liezel with her mathematics—oh, look, an extra apple at lunch. Can’t hurt to help around places, can it, Doc? Gets ya in with the right people. Ya know, Frank used to be a plumber.”

The doctor frowned, attempting to grasp the change of subject before the past few days—the unexpected flooding for which there was no apparent fix—materialized in his head. “The dining room?”

“Weird how that water keeps coming, no matter how many times youse fix the pipes. Shame these exits wouldn’t work if we needed to make one.” The doctor looked fleetingly at the ceiling; the dining room was directly above them. “Water’s just too heavy, I imagine,” Arlo continued. “Good thing I’m down for the count, eh Doc?”

All at once, numerous pops like firecrackers sounded from upstairs, followed by several screams and what sounded like a small explosion.

“Four o’clock, I guess,” said Arlo.

“What have you—”

A larger explosion shook the walls of the furnace room.

“Good thing you locked us in, Doc,” said Arlo. “Prob’ly best to have a door between us and whatever’s goin’ on outside.”

The doctor rushed to unbolt the door and yank it open, staring in horror at the rubble that had already shaken loose from the ceiling. He shut it again as sparks began to pop down the hall.

“What in God’s name have you done?” The doctor seized Arlo by the shoulders and shook him hard as the patient laughed, red spit bubbles blossoming at the corners of his mouth. Disgusted, the doctor flung him backward again and Arlo’s head flopped on his neck like a rag doll. The patient groaned, then gave himself over to an acute coughing fit as blood pooled at the fold in his abdomen.

“We all just wanna be free, Doc,” he said at last, his voice considerably weaker than before. “And I’m the luckiest bastard in here because at least I’m gettin’ out before you sauced me—no offense.”

The doctor tore at his hair in a rage, gazing hopelessly at the unaccessible emergency exits. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?” he hissed through his teeth. “I was going to make medical history. All of my work—all of these lives—you would waste them all on your useless, reeking, maggot of a sister?”

“Ah, well that’s the thing, Doc. There’s the whole world and then there’s my world—ever since we were kids. She was it.”

An ominous crackle and popping noise beyond the door made the doctor whirl and fixate on a wire he hadn’t noticed before, trailing from underneath the door. His mouth slackened as he followed the wire to the furnace, and he contemplated making a run for it, despite the increased volume of continued explosions upstairs.

As the wire began to sizzle, Arlo chuckled, then looked back at the doctor in an eerily convincing impression of sympathy. “Aw, now, don’t worry, Doc. This won’t hurt a bit.”

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This piece was originally submitted to Autumn Writing Battle 2024 with the following prompts:

• espionage

• furnace room

• psychopath