by Dan Wells
“Very well,” says Ellie. “And the Process?”
“The Process continues at full capacity,” says the man. “One more generation, maybe two, and we will all be protected.”
“Excellent,” says Ellie. “Then it is time to begin Phase Four.” She looks at me. “We’ve waited so long for this—nearly fifty years, though it feels like even more. At last the time has come. Dr. Vanek, would you like to do the honors?”
I grow pale, and Lucy clutches my arm in terror. “The honors?”
“Yes,” she says. “It is your plan, after all, and now that you’ve returned it should be you who presents it. With only a few exceptions this is the full council—we would be … thrilled … if you would come to the front and explain Phase Four in detail.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
ONCE AGAIN THE FACES turn to me, blank and impassionate. I stare back, trying to think of what to do. I let go of Lucy’s hand, afraid that they’d see the way my hand is shaped and put all the pieces together: he’s schizophrenic, he sees people who aren’t there, we can’t trust him. Without Lucy’s hand I don’t know what to do with my arms; I hold them at my sides, too stiff to be natural. I fold them; I unfold them.
“Doctor?” asks Ellie. She’s doing this on purpose—she’s testing me. How much does he really know? How much of him is Vanek, and how much is still Michael? I look at Lucy, eyes desperate; I can’t talk now that everyone’s looking at me. If she’s in my mind, do I even have to?
Help me.
She spreads her hands and shrugs. “I can’t. I don’t know anything about this.”
Neither do I.
“No, you don’t,” says Lucy, “but he does.” She points, and I see Vanek standing at the front of the room.
Vanek. I look at him, directing my thoughts and knowing he can hear them. What did you do in the car?
“We’ll talk about that later,” he says. “They’re waiting for you.”
I lean away from the wall, walking slowly toward the front to give myself time to think.
I won’t do this.
“You have to do this,” says Vanek. “Do you know what Phase Four is?”
I don’t. I walk slowly. Phase Three has something to do with babies. Was I part of Phase Three? But no; it’s too recent. Peter talked about it as if I’d never seen it in action. I was a part of Phase Two, maybe, or even One.
“You were Phase Two,” says Vanek. I reach the front and turn to face the crowd, flanked on each side by Ellie and Vanek. “They’re waiting,” he says. “Instruct them.”
You know I can’t.
“Then let me do it.” His smile is smug and self-satisfied.
That’s exactly what you want—to control my mind.
“If you say no,” he says, “you’re exposed as a fraud and they kill you now. Or worse.”
“Doctor?” asks Ellie.
“Just a moment,” I say. “I’m … figuring out the best way to say this.”
“Remember the policeman,” says Lucy. “He can talk without controlling you.”
How do I know you won’t expose us?
“Because if you die, I die,” he says. “Believe me, Michael—if I could escape you by killing you, you’d have been dead long ago.”
I stare at Lucy, not daring to look to either side.
“Is something wrong?” asks Ellie.
“Phase One nearly killed us,” says Vanek, addressing the council. They turn to face me, listening raptly. “Phase One taught us that imprinting ourselves on adults took too long, incapacitated us too thoroughly. We’re lucky we left one of the humans empty, to take care of the bodies, or we would have starved to death. Eliska and I merged in this phase, along with Cerny and a few others.”
“One of the humans,” he said. What are they, if not human? I think of the maggot, shiver, and push it out of my mind. It has to be something else—the maggots aren’t real. They can’t be.
“They know all of this,” says Ellie.
“Allow me my moment,” says Vanek. “I created this plan, I’m more than a little proud of it. Plus the more I talk the more I cement my control over this schizophrenic meatbag.” He rolls his head to the side, glancing at me sidelong. “They didn’t hear that last part; that was just for you.”
You can’t control me. I can barely control myself.
“Phase Two were the babies,” says Vanek. “The more we learned about human physiology the more we realized—well, the more I realized—that children’s brains were more malleable, more open to the patterns we need to create in order to control them. The Process would take longer, but the results would be better, more complete. Most of the subjects in Phase Two were new, but I joined in again. I thought a newer, better link would be worth the time. You can’t imagine how many times I’ve regretted that decision.”
“But you’re okay now?” asks Ellie.
I nod, wrestling control back from Vanek. “It’s just…” What can I say? Lucy smiles encouragement from the back of the room. “It’s so much to take in,” I say. “I haven’t been here since Phase Two, and to see how far you’ve come without me is … it’s amazing.”
“That’s right,” says Vanek, “feed her ego.”
Now tell the rest.
“You can guess the rest,” he says, speaking only to me, “can’t you? Phase Two worked, in theory, but we were caught. You people get so defensive when your young are threatened, and Cerny and some of the others ended up dead, though not, apparently, Eliska. She was away from the farm, working on one of the external projects, and when the dust settled it was up to her to take the next logical step.”
I look at the council, at the audience full of pregnant women. Phase Three was impregnation, I think, looking at Vanek, but after Cerny you couldn’t steal babies anymore, so you had to make your own.
“All part of the plan,” says Vanek. “My plan, I should say, though more than ably carried out by Ellie.”
And that means Phase Four is …
“You still don’t know,” says Vanek. “All those hints, and you still can’t figure it out.”
Help me.
“Do you see now how you rely on me? How you can’t even function without me?”
“Don’t listen to him, Michael,” says Lucy. “You’re stronger than he is.”
Tell them about Phase Four.
“No.”
I pause, still resolutely avoiding Vanek’s eyes. Why won’t you tell them?
“I might eventually, but first I want to watch you squirm a little. Twist in the wind.”
I look over the crowd. They’ll find me out—one wrong word out of my mouth and they’ll know I’m an impostor, and then I’ll be sweeping the floor with a stick like that journalist—back and forth, a mind as hollow as the houses. I should have turned and run. I should have gone with the police.
The police. That’s how I can do this.
“I’ve waited too long for this,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “Twenty years. But tonight we have far more urgent concerns to deal with.” I glance at Ellie. “I did not come here peacefully—men on the outside, the police, were trying to catch me and detain me. When I crossed the fence and entered the compound they said they’d return with a warrant. They’ve wanted to come in here since we bought the place, they’ve wanted to look around and see what we’re doing and put a stop to everything, but they’ve never had an excuse before. I’m afraid I’ve given them that excuse.”
I expect them to stir and fidget, to whisper anxiously with each other, but they merely nod, accepting my words. I glance at Ellie again, looking for her reaction; she seems bothered. I was hoping my warning would pass her test, but does she know I merely sidestepped it? Why would she be so disturbed?
Vanek glowers at me, but stays silent.
“He’s right,” says Arlene. “If the police return with a warrant to search the compound, they’ll find the nursery. They’ll find the Home. We can’t allow it to happen.”
Ellie’s mood darkens—I c
an feel it like an aura around her, sparking invisibly. She’s not suspicious of me, she’s angry: I know enough of authority to recognize its hackles when I challenge it. Vanek said to feed her ego, and he was right; I was a leader here, or he was, but we’ve been gone too long and Ellie has taken over. Even deferring to me as she did, asking for me to explain Phase Four, was a way of exerting control over the group—to show them that even Ellie can command the great Dr. Vanek. By changing the subject I’ve usurped her position. I need to give it back to her.
I step back and gesture to Ellie. “When I left, our group was smaller, and twenty years later I don’t presume to know how best to lead it. Ellie is the expert here.”
She hesitates a moment—just a fraction of a second, watching me—then steps back to the foreground. “Dr. Vanek is right—the police will return in the morning, or even sooner. We must prepare.” She looks at Charles. “The nursery is our prime concern—there will be no way to conceal our plans if they find the children.”
“We have procedures in place,” says Charles. “Are we hiding or evacuating?”
“Hiding,” says Ellie, “but ready to evacuate entirely if we need to.”
“I need an hour.”
“Do it,” says Ellie. She clenches her jaw in a scowl. “This is not the right time for this! We can’t let them discover us.”
“What about the Home?” asks Arlene. “They’ll use their search for Vanek as an excuse to seize everything they can. If they find our files—”
“Leave the files to me,” says Ellie, “you need to deal with the nursery and the lab.”
“The lab?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says simply. “The last thing we need is for the police to find us with a half ton of homemade cyanide.” She turns to the others. “Go with Charles—we’ll need every member of the council to help corral the others. Go!”
“Cyanide?” I ask the question too quickly, too loudly; I know I’ve given myself away, but … cyanide. Kelly was right about the stolen chemicals. Ellie looks at me, sensing my shock, and I feel my charade falling apart. What are they doing with half a ton of cyanide?
“You seem surprised,” says Ellie, watching me closely. “You seem almost … concerned.”
She’s onto me. I need to throw her back off. “Not concerned,” I say quickly, “just surprised that … you were able to make that much. I was worried that Brandon’s death at ChemCom had cut off your supply.”
“It did,” says Ellie, “but I think we have enough.” She turns away, seemingly mollified, and leads me into the next room. Three people sit on a couch staring vacantly at a cardboard box; a crude human face has been drawn on it, like a child’s pretend television. She speaks to them brightly, eerily reminiscent of Linda’s therapy voice. “Time to go! Everybody stand up—that’s right, stand up. Now come with me.” She helps them to their feet, taking each person by the hand and pulling them up. The three walk stiffly, staring listlessly at the walls; one of them twitches arrhythmically. “These are new,” Ellie whispers, leading me back outside. “There are dozens more like them, all still struggling with the Process. They need guidance even to eat.”
The streets of the fake suburb are filled with people, half of them guiding the others in a chaotic, mindless horde. Ellie mutters in frustration.
“I don’t blame you for the police, Ambrose. But I wish you’d come at a better time.”
I have to find the answers. I summon my courage and ask the question. “Tell me about the Process.” Ellie looks at me sharply, and I continue quickly to soothe her suspicions. “What have you done to refine it?” If she tells me how it’s changed, I might be able to figure out how it works in the first place, and that will tell me how to stop it.
Ellie passes off the three human puppets to a nearby council member, and gestures for me to follow. We walk toward the nursery.
“We weren’t ready for the breeding program when the disaster with Cerny forced it onto us,” she says, “but it worked so well that we’re more or less on schedule anyway. See for yourself.”
Ellie opens the nursery door and we walk inside. As with the rest of the compound, there’s no electricity, but even in the dim light from the doorway I can see them: rows and rows of beds, from cribs to full-size bunks, stretching back and disappearing in the shadows. Each bed holds a child, small and still; sleeping or sedated or comatose, I can’t tell for sure. They have IVs in their arms and cloth bandages wrapped around their faces. I look at Ellie in shock, and she nods.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I step up to the nearest bed, a tiny cradle; the child inside is no more than a few months old. A small card on the side says MARY. I reach toward her, trembling, touching her lightly on the arm; her skin is warm. An IV tube runs into her arm, her skin tight and crinkled under the clear tape that holds it in place. The IV stand lurks over her in ominous vigil, one of a hundred stands lined up like silent soldiers.
A light flares behind me as Ellie lights another lamp. “The IVs were one of our more successful additions,” she says. “We can keep them drugged for years if we need to, though usually it’s only a week at a time. Their minds can adapt more swiftly in the absence of outside stimuli—emotions have proven particularly problematic, and this process helps to negate their impact. Still, without regular exercise their bodies will begin to degenerate.” She shakes her head. “It’s an unfortunate flaw, but it’s a flaw we accepted when we chose this path.”
I nod, trying to keep my breath even and my face impassive while inside I’m screaming in rage and fear and frustration. How can they do this? I point softly at the bandage on Mary’s head.
“And their faces?”
“A small amount of facial pressure seems to ease the transition; most of us sleep with masks on these days. You can remove the bandage if you want, but there’s nothing to see yet—just an ugly human face.”
I nod again, trying to stay calm. I think about myself as a baby, lying in a cradle just like this—maybe this very one—screaming and bawling while outside the police trade gunshots with a killer, and inside a mother murders children one by one. A slash of the knife, a splash of blood, and on to the next cradle. It’s a nightmare I’ve lived a hundred times since I learned the truth about my birth.
This is the first time I’ve sympathized with the murderer.
I walk away from the cradle, too torn to stay near it any longer. They are destroying these children, implanting them with something that pushes out their minds and takes over their bodies. To kill them would be a mercy—but even the thought of it, of doing it myself in cold blood, makes me stop and clutch the wall for support. I feel light-headed and nauseous. I want to scream and cry and run away. I want to throw down Ellie and shatter her lamp and light the nursery on fire. I want to hide in a hole and never come out.
“Are you alright?”
Murderer! I scream in my head. You did this to me! But she didn’t—it was Dr. Vanek. He started this, and then he did it to me, crawling inside of me like a hand in a puppet. And now he’s trying to get back out.
“Ambrose?”
I turn to Ellie, my eyes wet with tears. I wipe them away; I have to explain them. “It’s just…” I swallow my nausea. “I never expected that we could get this far, and in so short a time.” My excuse sounds stupid and hollow, even to me. I remember her authoritarian jealousy and add: “You’ve done an incredible job—far more than I could have done.” I curl my lips into a smile, holding back a wave of revulsion. How can I talk to her like this? How can I stand here next to a hundred tortured children? What else can I do?
She nods. “Thank you, Doctor. But I can’t take all the credit. Without your research there would have been no foundation to build on.”
I look across the room, trying not to think about the mass of children held silent and helpless. Of my apparent role in their horror. “What’s next?”
“Phase Four.”
I nod. “Of course.” I need to learn more; I need t
o find a way to stop it. I turn to her and smile. “I hope you’ve improved on my plans for that as well—”
I stop abruptly, listening. There is a sound in the far darkness of the nursery, a slow, wet, scuffle. I know that sound. I try to think of something else, to imagine a faceless nanny or a lost, mindless puppet, but I can’t. The image leaps unbidden to my mind.
A giant maggot.
I watch the sound, bracing myself for the sight. This is what this has all led to—this is what I’ve been searching for and avoiding at the same time. The answer. I put a hand on my head; I imagine I can feel the interior wriggle of a slick, larval worm.
The maggot slurps into view, a dim, writhing shape on the edge of the lamplight. “How are we going to hide them?”
Ellie follows my gaze, then looks back at me. “We’ll carry them into the corn. The initiates can help, with our guidance; they can hide in the fields while the police search the compound.”
“Carry them?” I ask. The thought of that maggot in my arms fills me with revulsion, and I suppress a shudder. “Is that really the best way?”
She shrugs. “There’s no time to wake them up, and the lingering sedation will help keep them quiet.”
“No, I mean the…” I stop. Something’s not right.
“The what?”
“The…” What do I say? I can’t talk about them without revealing my ignorance—Vanek would know so much more than I do; what they are, what they’re called, what they’re capable of. “The others.” The maggot crawls farther out of the darkness, a shadow coalescing into mucus and muscle. I point at it. “Them.”
Ellie watches the aisle as the maggot slumps slowly toward us. “Tell me something, Michael.”
“Yes?”
She looks at me. “What exactly do you think you see?”
Too late, I realize what I’ve done: she called me Michael, and I answered to it. She knows.
I take a step away. “What do you mean?” Can I play this off? Can I salvage this?
Ellie advances one step. “The schizophrenia is still in place, isn’t it? Dr. Vanek hasn’t escaped at all, you’re simply playing us for idiots.”
