Free Armageddon?? by Stuart Slade

since the
voices had first come, was sealed and complete. Heaven's gates were closed and
locked, the whole of humanity damned without hope of rescue or reprieve.
    Her
cell was locked, as always. The white walls were padded, and she was sitting on
her cot in the corner murmuring to herself when one of the voices –
Domiklespharatu, it called itself – whispered, "Look to the door!"
She did; the lock on the door clicked and lifted. "They're coming to get
you ... coming to take you away ... to experiment on you ... to rape and
torture and mutilate and humiliate you ... ."
    The
voices were never wrong. She hurled herself back into the corner, away from the
strange people filing into the room. Then there was Dr. Becky, her presence a
welcome familiarity that was dispelled by the presence others, more people in
uniforms and more in white lab coats. Domiklespharatu laughed. “Look at you, pitiful
little girl.” The floor reared up, and she stumbled backward into the walls.
    Dr
Becky Skillman had worked at Arkham for fifteen years, and in all that time
she’d never been visited by the government. Two men in suits, with dark
sunglasses, guns, and no sense of humor had knocked on her office door, shown
her a pair of bright and very impressive badges, and asked her for a list of
the patients at Arkham for whom treatment had done absolutely no good.
Especially the ones who heard voices.
    She
wasn’t one to deny the government a request, especially not in this day and
age, with the Message, a quarter of the Arkham staff were gone, and the strange
reports filing through the news were unsettling. There was fighting, of some
sort, the sort that reminded her of the nightmarish hallucinations of her
patients. The men had been from the Secret Service and they’d thanked her
cordially, gone, and then a half hour later were back with an entire platoon of
men in fatigues with rifles, asking to be taken to Room 352A on the third
floor.
    Julie
Adams had been at the top of the list, and they’d decided to take her first.
Before Skillman had a chance to ask any questions, they’d waved a piece of
paper – subpoena or something like that – in her face, and were demanding the
case files.
    Adams
was an untreatable schizophrenic, and had only gotten worse through the eight
years she’d been in Arkham. No treatment had worked – and they’d tried them
all, from the newest drugs to some of the oldest tricks in the books, the sort
that the staff all mutually agreed to keep quiet because people who didn’t work
at psychiatric hospitals just didn’t understand. And now the government wanted
to take her away?
    Skillman
shrugged. Eh – not her place to question or worry. As they filed into the pure
white cell, Adams was scrabbling against the back wall, face contorted in fear,
the greasy tangles of her long, black hair swabbing the wall. “No! NO! I’m not
gonna let you take me!”
    The
soldiers impassively moved forward, seemingly deaf to the woman’s harsh,
pathetic screams. Reaching down, two deftly warded off her slaps and kicks and
lifted her by the shoulders so that she hung between them like a rag doll.
Brushing past Skillman, they filed back out of the room, Adams’ screams echoing
down the corridor. The two men in black thanked her, and walked out, leaving
her standing in the silent room, listening to the sick woman being dragged down
the hall.
    Temporary
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
    James
Randi sighed and rolled his eyes. While the search teams were scouring the
nation’s medical facilities for the apparently insane who might not be insane
after all, the fakes and charlatans had continued to pour into the Institute in
unimaginable numbers. The publicity combined with the persuasive talents of the
US Secret Service and the FBI had achieved results that even his million dollar
prize had failed to attain. Privately, Randi kicked himself, he should have
involved the Secret Service