Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part nine…

30 Oct

Hello there, it’s Sunday, so it’s about time I found out what prompt Linda G Hill left us for SoCS this week, to inspire the next part of this story;

” “in/out.” Use one, use both, use ’em any way you’d like. “

Hmm, ok then…

The Accumulator, part nine.

Scene: Patrick Busey’s living quarters. It is eleven years ago.

The door swings open to reveal Endicott and one of his medical henchmen, although Endicott appears to be talking to someone out of shot in the hallway.

“I’m sorry my dear, we didn’t mean to get under your feet.”

We see the two men step politely aside to allow a nurse, whom Patrick had christened Philippa, to enter the room pushing a small trolley. She glances at Endicott as she passes and he smiles down at her, indicating she should carry on with her work with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t let us obstruct you in your duties, please, we can wait.”

The smile the nurse returns is a nervous one, but it becomes more genuine as she turns to Patrick and motions for him to roll up his sleeve; blood pressure readings being one of the battery of tests he is put through each week.

Patrick complies, moving towards her so that her body blocks the ever-watchful Endicott’s view of him for a few crucial seconds. The orderly is closing the door into the hall, momentarily facing away from them and Patrick seizes the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

His narration once more takes up the story;

“I knew I wasn’t going to get another chance like this and I knew that they wouldn’t be expecting me to try anything with Philippa there.

You see, I was banking on them not knowing I’d seen through their plan to use her as a sacrificial lamb on the altar of their evil ambition, but more importantly, I was counting on my developing ability to control the accumulation and discharge of stored energy.

Because there was one other thing they didn’t know, something I had discovered for myself a few weeks before; I could save small fractions of each new surge of energy, storing them in the dense, churning vortex in my chest and I could shield it from them, when they poked and prodded me in the lab after each new abomination was committed. So at least each of the unfortunate creatures which had died in pursuit of The Department’s depraved goal would contribute a small part of their essence to his downfall.

The moment I was out of Endicott’s line of sight, I slipped the glove from my right hand and grabbed Philippa’s left wrist as she reached for the inflatable blood pressure cuff on the trolley. Only a month ago, this would have been an instant death sentence for the young nurse, but now, with my new found restraint in operation, the only reaction was a look of surprise on her face and the reflexive jerk of her arm as she tried to pull away from my grip.

“What are you doing, Patrick? Let me see your hands, please.”

Endicott’s voice was sharp and commanding, but I detected a note of alarm there too and I took advantage of it at once, squeezing poor little Philippa’s arm until she cried out in pain. This finally got the attention of Goon Of The Day and he lumbered towards us, just as I’d hoped he would; even henchmen respond to a damsel in distress, it would seem and this oaf was no exception.

“Wait! Don’t…”

But Endicott’s warning came just too late and the orderly had already grabbed Philippa roughly by her bare upper arm.

Which was when I discharged a split-second burst of accumulated lethal power.

I had been going purely on guesswork, not knowing if my plan would work, right up until the moment the orderly gave a strangled yell and crashed heavily into the wall, hands clutching his chest and eyes bulging alarmingly. Philippa, however, seems completely unharmed by having been a conduit for so powerful a jolt of energy, although a puzzled, disoriented expression clouds her features; maybe she has experienced a similar sensation to the one I get from the transfer of life force.

Before Endicott has time to react, I’m moving, pulling off my remaining glove and lunging for him with my bare hands. He stumbles backwards into a chair and trips, his arms coming up in a hopeless attempt to defend himself as he falls onto the low glass coffee table. The thick black glass shatters under the impact and suddenly a geyser of blood erupts from Endicott’s mouth; a wickedly sharp splinter has pierced his neck from back to front and his body thrashes uncontrollably for a few seconds, until he settles lower onto the needle of glass, it severs his spinal column and he abruptly goes limp.

This unexpected development briefly catches me off guard, but I recover quickly and drag the now-unresisting Philippa over to the door and open it carefully, looking out into the hallway for signs of approaching security before realising there are cameras everywhere, especially in my rooms!

How could I have overlooked such an obvious consideration when planning my escape? They must have been watching all along and even now would be rushing to capture me! I curse my stupidity and prepare for the sounds of running feet and shouts of alarm, but it all seems peaceful.

That’s when it occurs to me that Endicott’s little “project” might not be entirely sanctioned by the mysterious Department that employed him and that he may have ensured his latest sadistic experiment went unobserved.

I look at Philippa, who is staring down at Endicott’s gore-splattered corpse with a strangely calm expression that I realise contains a certain amount of satisfaction.

“You can stay here,” I say to her, “or you can come with me. Your choice, but make it now.”

She shook her head. “I’m not staying here.”

She looked at me, “I’m sorry, they made us. I…”

“Save it, Philippa, or whatever your bloody name is, I’m not interested in your guilt trip, just don’t slow me down or you’re on your own.”


The puzzled expression returns and she’s obviously about to ask a stupid question

“Never mind, just move.”

There’s a groan from the unconscious orderly, but apart from that I still don’t hear any other sound, including from out in the hallway, so I take her hand and we leave, closing the door behind us. We head towards the central part of the facility, where the main entrance offers the only exit from the building and our only chance of escape.

There was one dicey moment, when we ran into a couple of the medical staff, but Philippa greeted them cheerfully and gave some excuse about needing to do blood work in the lab, which seemed to satisfy them and we made it to the reception area without further incident.

We see Patrick and the young nurse cautiously enter a brightly lit lobby, a double set of glass doors giving a view across the lawn and sweeping gravel drive at the front of the building. Patrick leads the way to the entrance and has just opened the first of the two doors when the quiet of the lobby is suddenly shattered by the shriek of a siren.

Patrick and his new companion look at each other in panic, then heave open the glass doors and race out into the glare of sun.


To be continued (using next week’s prompt {which can now be found HERE})…


Pingback to Linda G Hill.


Tags: , , , , ,

5 responses to “Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part nine…

  1. John W. Howell

    October 30, 2016 at 19:54

    A good way to get rid of Endicott. An accident for sure. Good one.

    • dalecooper57

      October 30, 2016 at 20:34

      Thanks, John. I’m not sure what Patrick’s plan was, but he never needed to execute that part of it after all.

      • John W. Howell

        October 30, 2016 at 22:17

        He now has plausible deniability as long as he keeps the nurse alive.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


I can write. So I do.

Running with the Pack

An American Gypsy

Chet Desmond Has Vanished

But Where Did He Go?


Art and Visual Culture Magazine


The online presence of dark fiction writer C.M. Saunders


"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect"

Little Fears

Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes


The ramblings of a very troublesome haemorrhoid on travel, art, sport, bad dogs, good cats and other fake news at

The Lessons

that time forgot to teach


The Best of British Bullshit

Homeschool To UnSchool

Teaching Our Kids to Wonder Again


words and scribble.


hedy bach original photography mixed stories and music

Isabella Morgan

Opinions not otherwise specified

A Life in Transition

Poetry & Fiction

Author Kyle Perkins

The latest and greatest of my documented daydreams

Rereading Jane Eyre

Author Luccia Gray

Luca Sartoni

Protector of Asynchronicity at Automattic

Pages That Rustle

The journey from words to stories.


For your mind only!

Waruni Anuruddhika

Film and photography

An Artist’s Path

A space for creative seekers.


Learn WordPress & SEO from the beginning...

Tyler Charles Austen

Foul mouthed, Queer and Angry


The facepainting and balloon twisting lady

Jamaica Ponder

...only a little bit famous

Art by Rob Goldstein

There is no common truth, but there are facts.

Kristin King Author

True Story...


- a creative lifestyle blog -


To Share, To Connect, To Create, To Inspire.

unbolt me

the literary asylum


Music means something

Broken Castles

Shattered long ago...

Joshi Daniel Photography

Images of People Photoblog


Every day I'm jugglin'.

The Write Project

"The answer is to write." - Richard Rhodes

%d bloggers like this: