by J. D. Weston
“Sounds nice.”
Harvey stepped over to the kitchen door and peered out at his small plot of land, making a mental note that he’d need to cover the small vegetable plot that Melody had started during the summer. In the reflection of the glass, his house seemed to have translucent trees across the walls, and the glow of the log burner shone like an orange window in the centre of his land.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come and spend Christmas here with Reg, Jess and me?” asked Melody. “I could do with someone to keep me warm.”
“We spoke about this already, Melody,” replied Harvey. “I’m better here. Besides, I’m not really a Christmas type of guy, am I?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I could imagine you dressed up in a little Santa hat. Maybe some tinsel?”
“You know I can’t. I’m better off here alone. Things happen whenever I go back to London.”
“Only because you let them, Harvey.”
“Well, however it happens, it happens. I’ll stay here and keep the farmhouse going. You enjoy yourself, and when you come back, we can spend some time together. How does that sound?”
“Like a weak excuse for not coming to see your friends for Christmas. You know we invited Tyler too?”
“They will understand. Tell them I’m sorry.”
“Really? The famous Harvey Stone is saying sorry?”
“Well,” said Harvey, “not sorry. But they’ll understand why I can’t come to London.”
“So what are you going to do on Christmas day?” asked Melody.
“Sit by the fire. Go for a walk. I don’t really know. The same as usual, I guess.”
“Don’t forget to cover the vegetables. It’ll be cold down there by now. Have you done it already?”
“It’s on my list.”
“You have a list now?” said Melody. “What’s on it?”
“It’s a short list,” said Harvey.
“So tell me.”
“Cover the vegetables.”
“And?”
“Sit by the fire.”
“And?”
“Go for a walk.”
“Is that it?”
“It’s enough to keep me busy,” said Harvey. “What’s on your list?”
“Shopping. Drinks with Reg and Jess. More shopping. And I might meet up with some old friends.”
“So you won’t be sitting by the fire?”
“Reg doesn’t have a fire.”
“And you won’t be going for a walk in the forest?”
“It’s London, Harvey.”
“So I guess you won’t be covering the vegetables either then?”
“Only with olive oil before we put them in the oven.”
“Doesn’t sound so relaxing.”
“Is that your sense of humour coming through again?”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“You should relax more, Harvey,” said Melody. “I’m liking this funny side of Harvey Stone. Will he still be around when I get back?”
“That depends,” said Harvey.
“On what?”
“How much time I get in front of the fire,” said Harvey, still peering through the window. A light rain had started to fall, leaving wet dots on the small patio. He watched the drops as Melody spoke. The gaps between each dot grew smaller until the entire area was wet and small pools of water formed on the uneven surface.
“Am I keeping you?” said Melody.
“No,” said Harvey.
“Well, I should go anyway. Jess is cooking up a roast for tonight. I think she’s practising for Christmas day.”
“A roast dinner?” said Harvey, imagining the spread. “I’d come just for that.”
“So why don’t you?” said Melody, sounding hopeful. “What have you been eating?”
“Fish.”
“And?”
“Vegetables.”
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you? All your friends will be here. Are you really going to let them down just because you’re afraid to leave the house?”
“I’m not afraid, Melody.”
“So come then. You can make it if you leave today.”
“Melody, don’t push it.”
“Why not? I’d like to spend Christmas with you for once as well. I miss you, Harvey. We all do.”
Harvey sucked in a long breath, then exhaled and fogged the window.
“So that’s it, is it?” said Melody. “You need to snap out of whatever cloud you’re on, Harvey, and have a think about the people that care about you. Trust me, you don’t have many. So if I were you, I’d be trying to hold on to whatever friends I had.”
“It’s lucky you’re not me then, Melody,” said Harvey, stepping across to the small lounge. He held the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, pulled open the glass door of the log burner, and placed four small logs inside.
“So should I call you tonight?” asked Melody. “I don’t want to tear you away from your fire.”
“Call if you want. I’m sure I can find the time,” said Harvey, closing the small glass door and watching the flames take hold of the fresh fuel.
In the reflection of the glass panel, his kitchen appeared to be ablaze behind him. He watched for a moment as the flames grew higher and the logs settled into place.
“I love you, Harvey Stone,” said Melody. “I don’t want to fight. Not at Christmas.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” said Harvey.
He dropped the phone from his shoulder into his hand then tossed it onto the couch. He stood and stared down at the log burner, feeling the warmth through his towel. Then he took a fire iron from the bucket of brass tools on the brick fireplace. Dropping to a crouch once more, he opened the burner door and buried the tip of the iron deep into the coals. Then, when the tip was hot enough, Harvey closed the door, stood, and turned to face the room.
“You’ve got three-seconds to show yourself.”
The hard soles of Cassius Kane’s service shoes clicked against the pristine, painted, screed floor of his purpose-built research and development centre, a U-shaped, brick building in the grounds of a disused factory. Behind him, Jones walked beside Doctor Farrow, a tall, lean man wearing a white lab coat and thick glasses, with a thin layer of hair pulled across his bald head.
“The subjects escaped from observation room three, sir,” said Farrow. “It’s just here on the right.”
Ahead of Kane was a glass door. It was wide open, revealing a room with two gurneys inside and a small trolley containing a tray of syringes and a tray of vials full of prototype SFS. A thick plastic-coated cushion material covered the far wall and the floor was spongy underfoot, made of self-levelling rubber. To one side was a glass panel that allowed the staff in the adjacent control room to monitor the subjects. The door was six-inches thick with a similar cushioned material on the inside. Inside the frame, a large electro-magnet aligned with a steel plate to keep the door closed. Only those with an access card could swipe entry and exit to and from the room.
“So this is the observation room?” asked Kane.
“Yes,” said Farrow. “It’s one of three identical rooms.”
“And the other rooms?” said Kane, peering along the corridor.
“All the observation rooms are identical, sir,” said Farrow. His voice betrayed his attempt to regain Kane’s confidence. “Only I and my staff have access cards. I’ve retracted all other access cards until we can bridge the design flaw.”
“The design flaw?” said Jones. “But it was you who designed this entire facility, Doctor Farrow.”
A bitter exchange of hatred passed between the two men in the guise of locked stares and tight lips.
“Let’s keep it professional, boys,” said Kane, as he walked across the room and peered into the control room. “There’s no sign of a forced exit. No damage?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Farrow.
“Jones, how would you get out?” said Kane. “If you were trapped in here, how would you make your escape? Maybe you could o
ffer us an insight into the criminal mind?”
Taking the elevated compliment with all the grace of a bulldog, Jones ran his hand along the inside of the door, then did the same with the frame.
“And they had no implements?” said Jones, directing his question to Farrow.
“None at all. What you see is what you get. We like to reduce the distractions until we need them distracted. If we want to see them run, we bring in a treadmill. If we want to measure their strength, we bring in resistance machines. Nothing is left lying around.”
“I don’t see how they did it,” said Jones. “Someone had to open the doors for them. My men don’t have access cards.”
“It was the night shift, Mr Jones,” said Farrow. “There was nobody here to open the doors for them except the duty doctor.”
“And can I presume the duty doctor was observing them?” said Kane. “Being as they were in the observation room?”
“Yes. They were being observed. Both subjects received a dose of undiluted SFS several hours earlier and were being monitored for deterioration.”
“Deterioration?” said Jones.
“A comedown. Cold turkey. Whatever you want to call it. All subjects using the older prototype, the diluted mixture, without having a way of working the drug out of their system, experienced severe symptoms.”
“Such as?” said Kane.
“Cold sweats. Fever. Cramps. Diarrhoea. Some hallucinated. One girl tried to tear her own eyes out a few weeks ago,” said Farrow. “Her heart gave out before she could manage it fully and she died with her eyeballs hanging from her face.”
The statement caught the attention of Kane and Jones, who stared at Farrow with incredulity.
“And you gave these two girls an undiluted batch?” said Kane.
“We had reason to believe the dilution was sending mixed messages. You see, you can take the drug, but it’ll have no physical effect at all unless you give it stimulation. Otherwise, the drug will work itself out of your body, leaving you with trace elements. That’s why they were getting withdrawal symptoms. We need to be able to administer the drug to hosts for everyday use. The vials in the storeroom are diluted; they are just prototypes. They’ll do the job but the withdrawals will be heavy and the effects are less potent. If you’re looking for long-term use, the undiluted version provides unmatched results.”
“How do you stimulate the drug?” asked Jones.
Farrow glanced at Kane, who nodded his approval at disclosing the information.
“Adrenaline,” said Farrow with a smile. “Imagine you have a small army of men, highly trained and each and every one of them with this dormant drug inside them. And then something happens. Something forces them into action. The tension rises. Perhaps they’re in battle. Perhaps they’re performing a robbery of some kind. The adrenaline kicks in, triggering the SFS and the host fires into life. The rest, as they say, is history.”
Jones nodded thoughtfully as if he was considering the possibilities.
“But if they were in the observation room, surely somebody was observing them? Where are they now?”
“The morgue, sir,” said Farrow.
Both Kane and Jones raised their eyebrows in surprise.
“Doctor Harold Goldsborough,” said Farrow. “He was one of my best.”
Again both Kane and Jones stared at the doctor with questioning expressions.
“He swallowed his tongue. We found him on the control room floor. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Did you just say he swallowed his tongue?” said Kane.
Farrow nodded.
“How does that have anything to do with how the two girls got out of here?” said Jones.
“It doesn’t. But it explains why he didn’t try to stop them or raise the alarm,” said Farrow.
Kane ran his finger across the glass as he began to pace the circumference of the room. He stopped beside the door and nodded at Jones, who followed him, blocking Farrow’s exit.
“You say only those with an access card can open this door from the outside,” said Kane.
“There’re no manual locks or handles,” replied Farrow, with a growing suspicion of what was about to happen.
“And the undiluted SFS, would you call it a finished product?”
“I still have some testing to do,” said Farrow. “But I’m quietly confident.”
“And where is the undiluted SFS, Doctor Farrow? I want to see the finished product.”
“We only made three batches,” said Farrow. “We gave two to the test subjects.”
“Well, one of them is dead and the other is missing,” said Kane. “Where’s the third batch?”
Farrow averted his eyes from Kane’s stare and studied the floor.
“Farrow?” said Kane. “Where’s the undiluted SFS?”
“I need some more time. I just need to run some more tests,” said Farrow. “To be sure, you understand?”
“Farrow, I’ll ask you one more time,” said Kane. “Where is the vial of undiluted SFS?”
“She stole it,” said Farrow. “It was missing when I found Doctor Goldsborough this morning. But I can make some more. I just need time.”
Kane’s hands flexed then bunched into fists. He locked his arms behind his back then stepped outside into the corridor, followed by Jones, who blocked the exit and pulled the door closed behind him.
“Where are you going?” said Farrow, seeing what was happening. “I can make more.”
But it was too late. Just as Doctor Farrow launched himself at the door, the magnetic lock kicked into place. All they heard was a dull thump masked by three layers of steel and two layers of padded cushioning.
Kane moved to the control room followed by Jones. They could hear everything the doctor was saying through the internal microphones. On the control desk, among sliders, knobs and switches, was a round, green button marked with the letters MIC.
“This one,” said Jones, seeing Kane search for the microphone.
Kane pressed the button with his index finger and it illuminated, green beneath his skin.
“The door works well,” said Kane. “I should congratulate you on your design.”
“This isn’t funny, Kane,” said Farrow. He slammed his hand against the glass. “You get me out of here. You’ll never find her without me.”
“Oh, I’ll find her,” said Kane.
“The tests aren’t finished yet,” said Farrow. “There’s still a lot to do.”
“Yes, you’re right, Doctor Farrow. But, as you mentioned, we still have tests to run.”
“So you need me?” said Farrow. “Let me out and let me finish the job.”
“Oh, I’ll need you alright, Doctor Farrow,” said Kane with a smile.
4
Red House
Crouched in the kitchen behind the centre island, Gabriella prepared to defend herself. A trickle of warmth fed into her bloodstream and she felt her eyes dilate.
From nowhere, an iron poker swung around the corner where she was hiding. Gabriella ducked, rolled and bounced to her feet, swiping a knife from the block on the counter as the poker slammed against the wooden door.
“I told you I can’t help you,” said Harvey. His earlier nonchalant expression remained but anger was also shining through.
“I’ve got nowhere to go,” said Gabriella. “I just need a place to hide until the sun goes down. That’s all I need.”
There was a calmness about Harvey Stone that was rare in men. He dropped the fire iron back into the bucket with the fire tools, then he let his head fall back, and rolled his neck as if he enjoyed the release of tension.
“You’ve got three seconds to get out of my house,” said Harvey. “You’ve had all the help I can give.”
“Just a day,” said Gabriella. “That’s all I need.”
“Three,” said Harvey, stepping forward, his eyes finding Gabriella’s and locking on tight.
“Don’t do this,” she replied, holding the knife in front of her but
backing away to give herself room to fight.
“Two,” said Harvey. He took another step, forcing Gabriella to step back out of the kitchen area. Sliding a knife out from the wooden block, he spun it in his hand then extended his arm with the point of the blade aimed at Gabriella’s face.
“Last chance to get out alive,” said Harvey, collecting a dish towel with his other hand.
Gabriella glanced at the kitchen door and then back to Harvey.
“You wouldn’t hurt a girl, would you?”
“If someone breaks into my house and threatens me with a knife, you’d be surprised at the things I would do. Have you finished stalling for time?”
“Just let me stay,” said Gabriella, offering him her best sorrowful look and lowering her knife in a gesture of peace.
As quick as a flash, his knife cut through the air before Gabriella’s eyes. She leaned back while returning the attack with a lunge to his torso. But Harvey twisted, arching his back, then delivered a left jab to Gabriella’s face. The blow stunned her but triggered a fresh release of chemicals.
Three jabs with her blade were blocked, dodged and avoided by Harvey with a control that was, in Gabriella’s mind, almost an art. She dropped to one knee to dodge a series of swipes and lunges from Harvey then slammed her knife down towards Harvey’s foot. But he was light on his feet, switching stance in time to deliver a knee to her face. Reeling from the blow, Gabriella staggered back. Through her tangled mass of hair, she saw Harvey approaching fast.
She ducked and weaved to avoid two swipes of Harvey’s knife, returning with her own, which he caught with the towel. Then he wrapped it around her hand and twisted until she dropped her knife. Somehow, he managed to twist her over his back and launch her across the room.
Landing on her back on a wooden coffee table, which exploded with a crack of splintered wood, Gabriella rolled and got to one knee in time to see his oncoming punch. She leaned back, and felt the rush of air as Harvey’s arm swung past and missed her by fractions of an inch. Then, grabbing a handful of his groin, she squeezed as hard as she could through the towel that was wrapped around his waist.
To Gabriella’s surprise, he didn’t cry out or retreat. He stared down at her, his lips tight as he fought to control the pain. His strong hand found Gabriella’s neck, returning the squeeze with an animal-like strength. For a long moment, the two shared a battle of the tightest grip, and no matter how hard Gabriella tried, the tightness on her neck became overwhelming.
