The Peacock Angel: Rise of the Decarchs

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  Several hours later Thane found himself rolling southbound in a huge Sheriff's Department van. After about ninety minutes on the interstate, the silhouette of Charity Hospital emerged from the nameless sprawl surrounding it. Moments later he parked in an empty lot beside the old landmark.

  The digital block numbers on the van dash read eleven o'clock.

  Abelson Thane Connally turned twenty-one years old just three days before he began his employment with the Gale Parish Sheriff's Department. A short three years later and he had already advanced to the rank of Lieutenant. He now served as the night shift supervisor at the parish prison. The prison was one of Louisiana's largest and most modern facilities. It housed over fifteen hundred inmates. At times, the care and supervision of these prisoners fell solely into the lap of Thane. The job entailed much responsibility, and Thane took his duties very seriously. Although he was young, Thane proved very efficient as a supervisor. The Warden leaned on him, but Thane didn't mind. He liked having his number called no matter how out of his element he was. And he was far, far outside of it here.

  The moment the doors of the ramshackle elevator opened, he questioned his loyalty to the Warden for the first time. May have been a mistake taking this assignment. He had only traveled upwards four floors from the frenzied lobby below, and already he wanted to go right back down. A circus awaited underneath, but at least he could breathe down there.

  At least there was life down there.

  Too quiet up here . . . can hardly see . . . what the hell stinks?

  The hallway running adjacent to the elevator reeked of stale piss and some disinfectant of one kind or another. The potent combination threatened to overwhelm Thane as he exited the elevator. The place seemed clean enough, but smelled blasphemous. Thane pulled up his undershirt through the collar of his deputy uniform and tried to breathe as shallow as possible into the cotton fabric.

  Both to his right and to his left the hallway remained still and empty. For no particular reason he decided to head to his right. Dull lights hummed overhead. It seemed like dusk in the hallway; a dark gray quality accompanied everything.

  He couldn't see much—only floor, ceiling, and wall, all standard institution issue. An uneasy solitude hung in the air and settled in his lungs, only adding to his growing apprehension. There were no sounds, no movements, nor anything for the senses to detect beyond the horrific odor. Thane's eyes, usually clear and determined, began to redden and leak.

  The silence of the place was contagious. Thane's boots, oversized even for someone as big him, sounded perverse as they struck the hard tile floor. He wanted to be quiet. He soon found himself almost tiptoeing as he tried to lessen the echo of his gait.

  Onward he stepped, exercising caution that felt both ridiculous and necessary.

  Never again . . . never, ever again.

  A tinge of adrenaline began to rise to the surface of his skin as he continued to wander deeper and deeper into the criminal ward of New Orleans' Charity Hospital.