Frostbitten: The Complete Series (53 page)

To die, to sleep—No more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!
To die, to sleep—To sleep, perchance to dream
—ay, there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause. There’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET, ACT III

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
THE SLEEPLESS HERO

Connor began to close his eyes and the world began to turn black. Ready to give in, Connor was lifted up by an impressive strength.

They say that, under certain circumstances, the human body is capable of far beyond what is physically possible. Everyone’s heard the story of the mother who lifted the car with her bare hands in order to save her trapped son. In the realm of physics and human biology, such a feat is beyond impossible. When we hear the stories, like the one about the feeble mother and the half-tonne car, we immediately disregard them as mythology.
Certainly, they can’t be possible
.

Michael Fenner carried Connor five miles in his arms to the hospital. Carrying a one-hundred and sixty pound man five miles is an impressive accomplishment in its own right—but to do so through two feet of freshly fallen snow, with frozen muscles and numb joints, and without having slept in nearly a week—made the feat all the more impossible.

That night, Michael pushed the limits of human capacity—the limits of possibility.

And by some miracle—by some magic, Michael saved Connor’s life. As he walked through the emergency ward doors, he collapsed onto the ground. Nurses and paramedics rushed to Connor’s unconscious body. The exhausted Michael waned between states of consciousness on the hospital floor.

Michael was a true hero, in every sense of the word.

Where his impossible strength and endurance came from—that was something he would never know for sure.

Tarun’s sentencing was short. He didn’t even get a change to speak one word, because he didn’t get a proper hearing—no jury, no courtroom—just a small boardroom with the town’s only aged judge, the police, and a decorated prosecution lawyer from the big city.

Before the sentencing, Tarun’s assigned lawyer made it very clear that Tarun was looking at the death sentence, and “there probably wasn’t anything he could do about it.” The lawyer was part of the whole scandal.

Tarun insisted on representing himself, and the lawyer was sent home.

The evidence against the young man was shaky, and a lot of it was fabricated. The prosecution was quick to point out the speed in which the Mumbars received their immigration papers. They were quick to inform the judge about Tarun’s fight with Andrew outside of the university, in descriptive, exaggerated detail.

And with time to spare before their dinner plans, they concluded: “Tarun
obviously
killed Andrew and it was
evident
that the Mumbar family blackmailed the Walker for immigration papers. By all reasonable accounts, Tarun was also responsible for the other thirteen murders.” It was a claim with no supporting evidence, aside from a few unfortunate coincidental occurrences and their fabricated documents.

The prosecution also theorized that the Mumbar’s rental business was an obvious cover—seeing as the Mumbars had been in the country for two years without any record of a single rental. The fortunate timing of Kane cleaning out his apartment before Tarun’s arrest was unfortunate for the Mumbars. Their claim that: “A man named Kane lives upstairs,” appeared to be a lie—there was no tax record, voting record, or employment record of any “Kane” in Snowbrooke, and the apartment was empty—spotless, even.

Even the university administrator made a statement at the hearing: “Tarun was
enraged
about the university application process, just before the death of university professor, Wade Fenner.”

Guilty.

Death
.

The next morning, Tarun found himself in handcuffs, being walked through the thick iron gates of The Fort Daevins Penitentiary. It was the darkest day of the year—one of three that the sun didn’t so much as peek over the horizon. 

“Take a good look—have a good smell,” the prison guard said as they approached the large iron doors of the windowless cement building. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see the glorious mother nature.”

Tarun stopped and looked around. The mountains looked more beautiful than ever, even in the dark gloom of the arctic winter—their colossal magnificence, their unforgiving splendour. Tarun began to tear up.

“What’s the matter? You people believe in second lives and all that shit, don’t you?” the guard said.

“No,” Tarun said.

“Oh,” the guard said. “Well, you should have thought of that before you killed all those people then.” The guard began to laugh.

“I killed nobody. I’m innocent,” Tarun said.

“Sure you are,” the guard said as he opened the door and pushed Tarun in.

“I would never hurt another man.”

“Okay man, sure.”

“I don’t believe in violence.”

“Smell that?” the guard asked.

The prison smelled rotten—like old milk and rotting flesh. The stench in the air was thick; you could taste it’s sour tinge on the tip of your tongue. The guard took a deep breath in through his nose and smiled. “Learn to love it, Ghandi. Because that’s all you’re going to smell for the rest of your short life. Ghandi went to prison, right?”

Tarun was led down a series of dingy, never-before-cleaned hallways. The smell only became more and more foul. The guard led Tarun into a small room with a stack of old faded orange jumpsuits.

“Strip down,” the guard demanded.

Tarun reluctantly obliged. As he took off his shirt, the guard began to laugh.

“They’re going to love you,” he said.

“Why?”

“Let’s just say you have a very
feminine figure
.”

Tarun stared at the guard for a moment, taking a moment to understand what he was saying. His face flushed and turned white.

“Hey—I’m just warning you,” the guard said.

“I—” Tarun tried to speak.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re innocent. I get it,” the guard said.

Once in his new faded orange jumpsuit, Tarun was led down another series of labyrinth hallways. The noise of rowdy inmates became louder and louder with every single step. Tarun was led through a large empty cafeteria, complete with blood-stained floors and greenish-brown mouldy tables.

“That hallway there leads to the new wing. That’s where they put low-risk offenders—not like you.” The guard pointed down a long hallway which ended at a mechanical steel door. “It’s nice over there. They just finished renovating it a couple of years ago,” the guard chatted nonchalantly. “Everything’s run a computer system—timers open all of the cells, instead of keys you use fingerprint scanners and swipe cards. They’ve got it all: TVs—it’s actually pretty nice. Sometimes I forget that it even exists, I hardly ever have to go over there.”

The two continued walking. “There’s no fingerprint scanners where you’re going. Just me and this rusty key ring.”

Tarun looked down at the guard’s belt, attached to which was a large ring with dozens of keys attached to it.

“Just down that hallway is the chair,” the guard pointed out. At the end of a long hallway was an open door. Through the doorway, was the old iron chair—the last chair Tarun would ever sit upon. “Most people here are waiting for their turn. From what I understand, they want to push you to the front of the line.”

“So be it...” Tarun muttered. There was nothing he could do or say to persuade anyone of his innocence at this point.

“Can’t promise it will be too soon, although you’re going to wish it was. They haven’t found a replacement for the old executioner yet. But hey—once they find one, it will be quick. That’s better than most people get, am I right?” the prison guard asked with a laugh.

“Why don’t you do it?” Tarun asked.

“What?”

“Why don’t you do it? You just pull the lever, right?” Tarun asked.

The guard stared at Tarun in silence for a moment. “Man, there isn’t enough money in the world to get me to do that.”

“You’re a good man,” Tarun said.

“What?”

“Even though I killed all those people—as far as you know, that much is true.”

“Okay…” the guard said.

“But still, you wouldn’t pull the lever on me. Not even for
all the money in the world
, you said. You’re a good man.”

“Just keep moving, okay?” the guard said.

With heavy metal cuffs still around his wrists, Tarun was led through another iron door, into a large space, filled with barred cells. The moment Tarun entered the room, all of the heads turned, and the loud voices of the high-profile criminals became silent. Everyone watched as Tarun was paraded down towards his cell.

Everyone in the building knew who Tarun was—at least, they thought they knew. Accused of murdering over one dozen people, Tarun’s alleged crimes made the other criminals in the building look like petty thieves. Even to the criminals in The Fort Daevins Penitentiary, Tarun was a monster.

The long walk ended in a flickering, dimly lit cell, with a particularly nasty body-odour.

“Don’t expect a warm welcome, kid,” the guard said as he pulled a key from his belt. “Give me your wrists.” The guard began to undo Tarun’s handcuffs. He looked up into Tarun’s eyes. The guard wasn’t sure what to believe—he was overcome by the realization that he may be leaving an innocent man in the worst place on the planet. “Try not to look weak,” the guard said quietly. “Keep your head up—and for the love of God, don’t let them see you cry.”

The guard turned around and closed the cell door. Without looking back, he walked away.

Tarun looked around the small cell. There was a rusty metal bunk bed bolted into the floor, a metal toilet and a green-tinged old metal sink. A bearded man—only a few years older than Tarun, with a large scar on his face, sat on the bottom bunk. The other inmates in the prison had shaved heads—this man did not. This man had hair down to his chest, and a face with years of untouched hair growth. 

The man looked up at Tarun. His eyes were dark, tortured. The scars and the deep lines running through his face made the man look twice his age.

Tarun looked away from the intimidating man.

“You must’ve done somethin’ real bad to end up in this cell, here with me,” the man said. There was a slur to his voice—probably from the nerve damage done by whatever left the large scar across his face.

“So they say,” Tarun replied nervously. He walked up to the bars and looked around the prison. The many heads of the many inmates were still turned towards him—still silent as they inspected the fresh meat.

“They don’t like you,” the bearded man said.

“I can see that,”  Tarun replied.

“They really don’t like you,” the man said again with his slurred speech.

“I don’t blame them,” Tarun said.

“What’s your name?”

“Tarun.”

“What kind of name’s that?” the man asked.

“It’s Indian.”

“Place full of cowboys isn’t no place for an Indian,” the bearded man said.

“Not that kind of Indian—I’m from India.”

“What’s that?” the man asked.

“India?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a country. In South Asia.”

“Asia, like you mean China?”

“South of China,” Tarun said.

“India, huh?” the bearded man said. His eyes remained dark and intimidating as he stared at Tarun. The man snickered for a moment before returning to his dead stare. “The Indian—From India. That makes sense, don’t it?”