The Institute

by Stephen King

  Mrs. Sigsby said, “There was a time—long before yours and mine—when there were over a hundred children here. There was a waiting list.”

  “All right, there was a waiting list. Good to know. Now what did you call me here for? The Opal team is in place, and at least one of these pickups is going to be delicate. I’m flying out tonight. The kid’s in a closely supervised environment.”

  “A rehab, you mean.”

  “That is correct.” High-functioning TKs seemed to get along relatively well in society, but similarly high-functioning TPs had problems, and often turned to booze or drugs. They damped the torrent of input, Stackhouse supposed. “But she’s worth it. Not up there with the Dixon boy—he’s a powerhouse—but close. So tell me what’s concerning you, and let me go about my business.”

  “Not a concern, just a heads-up. And don’t hover behind me, it gives me the willies. Drag up a rock.”

  While he got the visitor’s chair from the other side of her desk, Mrs. Sigsby opened a video file on her desktop and started it playing. It showed the snack machines outside the cafeteria. The picture was cloudy, it jittered every ten seconds or so, and was occasionally interrupted by static frizz. Mrs. Sigsby paused it during one of these.

  “The first thing I want you to notice,” she said, using the dry lecture-hall voice he had so come to dislike, “is the quality of this video. It’s totally unacceptable. The same is true of at least half the surveillance cams. The one in that shitty little convenience store in the Bend is better than most of ours.” Meaning Dennison River Bend, and it was true.

  “I’ll pass that on, but we both know the basic infrastructure of this place is shit. The last total renovation was forty years ago, when things in this country were different. A lot looser. As it stands, we have just two IT guys, and one of them is currently on leave. The computer equipment is outdated, and so are the generators. You know all this.”

  Mrs. Sigsby absolutely did. It wasn’t lack of funds; it was their inability to bring in outside help. Your basic catch-22, in other words. The Institute had to stay airtight, and in the age of social media and hackers, that became ever more difficult. Even a whisper of what they were up to out here would be the kiss of death. For the vitally important work they did, yes, but also for the staff. It made hiring hard, it made resupply hard, and repairs were a nightmare.

  “That fritzing is coming from kitchen equipment,” he said. “Mixers, garbage disposals, the microwaves. I might be able to get something done about that.”

  “Perhaps you can even get something done about the bulbs in which the cameras are enclosed. Something low-tech. I believe it’s called ‘dusting.’ We do have janitors.”

  Stackhouse looked at his watch.

  “All right, Trevor. I can take a hint.” She started the video again. Maureen Alvorson appeared with her cleaning basket. She was accompanied by two residents: Luke Ellis and Avery Dixon, the exceptional TP-pos who was now bunking in with Ellis most nights. The video might have been substandard, but the audio was good.

  “We can talk here,” Maureen told the boys. “There’s a mic, but it hasn’t worked for years. Just smile a lot, so if anyone looks at the video, they think you’re buttering me up for tokens. Now what’s on your minds? And keep it short.”

  There was a pause. The little boy scratched at his arms, pinched his nostrils, then looked at Luke. So Dixon was only along for the ride. This was Ellis’s deal. Stackhouse wasn’t surprised; Ellis was the smart one. The chess player.

  “Well,” Luke said, “it’s about what happened in the cafeteria. To Harry and the little Gs. That’s what’s on our minds.”

  Maureen sighed and put down her basket. “I heard about it. It was too bad, but from what I hear, they’re okay.”

  “Really? All three of them?”

  Maureen paused. Avery was staring up at her anxiously, scratching his arms, pinching his nose, and generally looking like he needed to pee. She said finally, “Maybe not okay right now, at least not completely, I heard Dr. Evans say they were taken to the infirmary in Back Half. They have a fine one there.”

  “What else do they have—”

  “Quiet.” She raised a hand to Luke and looked around. The picture fritzed, but the sound stayed clear. “Don’t you ask me about Back Half. I can’t talk about that, except to say it’s nice, nicer than Front Half, and after the boys and girls spend some time there, they go back home.”

  She had her arms around them when the video cleared. Holding them close. “Look at that,” Stackhouse said admiringly. “Mother Courage. She’s good.”

  “Hush,” Mrs. Sigsby said.

  Luke asked Maureen if she was absolutely sure Harry and Greta were alive. “Because they looked . . . well . . . dead.”

  “Yeah, all the kids are saying that,” Avery agreed, and gave his nose a particularly vicious honk. “Harry spazzed out and stopped breathing. Greta’s head looked all crooked and weird on her neck.”

  Maureen didn’t rush ahead; Stackhouse could see her choosing her words. He thought she might have made a decent intelligence agent in a place where intelligence-gathering actually mattered. Meanwhile, both boys were looking up at her, waiting.

  At last she said, “Of course I wasn’t there, and I know it must have been scary, but I have to think it looked much worse than it was.” She stopped again, but after Avery gave his nose another comforting squeeze, she pushed on. “If the Cross boy had a seizure—I said if—they’ll be giving him the correct medication. As for Greta, I was passing the break room and heard Dr. Evans tell Dr. Hendricks she’s suffering from a sprained neck. They probably put her in a brace. Her sister must be with her. For comfort, you know.”

  “Okay,” Luke said, sounding relieved. “As long as you’re sure.”

  “As sure as I can be, that’s all I can tell you, Luke. A fair amount of lying goes on in this place, but I was raised not to lie to folks, especially not to children. So all I can say is I’m as sure as I can be. Now why is it so important? Just because you’re worried about your friends, or is there something more?”

  Luke looked at Avery, who gave his nose an actual yank, then nodded.

  Stackhouse rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, kid, if you have to pick it, go on and pick it. The foreplay is driving me crazy.”

  Mrs. Sigsby paused the video. “It’s a self-comforting gesture, and better than grabbing his basket. I’ve had a fair number of crotch-grabbers in my time, girls as well as boys. Now be quiet. This is the interesting part.”

  “If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it to yourself?” Luke asked.

  She thought this over while Avery continued to torture his poor schnozz. Then she nodded.

  Luke lowered his voice. Mrs. Sigsby turned up the volume.

  “Some of the kids are talking about going on a hunger strike. No more food until we can be sure the little Gs and Harry are all right.”

  Maureen lowered her own voice. “Which kids?”

  “I don’t exactly know,” Luke said. “Some of the new ones.”

  “You tell them that would be a very bad idea. You’re a smart boy, Luke, very smart, and I’m sure you know what the word reprisals means. You can explain it to Avery later.” She looked fixedly at the younger boy, who withdrew from her arm and put a protective hand to his nose, as if he were afraid she meant to grab it herself, maybe even pull it off. “Now I have to go. I don’t want you guys to get in trouble, and I don’t want to get in trouble myself. If someone asks what we were talking about—”

  “Coaxing you for chores to get more tokes,” Avery said. “Got it.”

  “Good.” She glanced up at the camera, started away, then turned back. “You’ll be out of here soon, and back home. Until then, be smart. Don’t rock the boat.”

  She grabbed a dust rag, gave the delivery tray of the booze-dispensing machine a quick wipe, then picked up her basket and left. Luke and Avery lingered a moment or two, then also went on their way. Mrs. Sigsby killed the video.
>
  “Hunger strike,” Stackhouse said, smiling. “That’s a new one.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Sigsby agreed.

  “The very idea fills me with terror.” His smile widened into a grin. Siggers might disapprove, but he couldn’t help it.

  To his surprise, she actually laughed. When had he last heard her do that? The correct answer might be never. “It does have its funny side. Growing children would make the world’s worst hunger strikers. They’re eating machines. But you’re right, it’s something new under the sun. Which of the new intakes do you think floated it?”

  “Oh, come on. None of them. We’ve only got one kid smart enough to even know what a hunger strike is, and he’s been here for almost a month.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “And I’ll be glad when he’s out of Front Half. Wilholm was an annoyance, but at least he was out front with his anger. Ellis, though . . . he’s sneaky. I don’t like sneaky children.”

  “How long until he’s gone?”

  “Sunday or Monday, if Hallas and James in Back Half agree. Which they will. Hendricks is pretty much through with him.”

  “Good. Will you address this hunger strike idea, or let it go? I’d suggest letting it go. It’ll die a natural death, if it happens at all.”

  “I believe I’ll address it. As you say, we’ve currently got a lot of residents, and it might be well to speak to them at least once en masse.”

  “If you do, Ellis is probably going to figure out Alvorson’s a rat.” Given the kid’s IQ, there was no probably about it.

  “Doesn’t matter. He’ll be gone in a few days, and his nose-tweaking little friend will follow soon after. Now about those surveillance cameras . . .”

  “I’ll write a memo to Andy Fellowes before I leave tonight, and we’ll make them a priority as soon as I’m back.” He leaned forward, hands clasped, his brown eyes fixed on her steel-gray ones. “In the meantime, lighten up. You’ll give yourself an ulcer. Remind yourself at least once a day that we’re dealing with kids, not hardened criminals.”

  Mrs. Sigsby made no reply, because she knew he was right. Even Luke Ellis, smart as he might be, was only a kid, and after he spent some time in Back Half, he’d still be a kid, but he wouldn’t be smart at all.

  16

  When Mrs. Sigsby walked into the cafeteria that night, slim and erect in a crimson suit, gray blouse, and single strand of pearls, there was no need for her to tap a spoon against a glass and call for attention. All chatter ceased at once. Techs and caretakers drifted into the doorway giving on the West Lounge. Even the kitchen staff came out, gathering behind the salad bar.

  “As most of you know,” Mrs. Sigsby said in a pleasant, carrying voice, “there was an unfortunate incident here in the cafeteria two nights ago. There have been rumors and gossip that two children died in that incident. This is absolutely untrue. We do not kill children here in the Institute.”

  She surveyed them. They looked back, eyes wide, food forgotten.

  “In case some of you were concentrating on your fruit cocktail and not paying attention, let me repeat my last statement: we do not kill children.” She paused to let that sink in. “You did not ask to be here. We all understand that, but we do not apologize for it. You are here to serve not only your country, but the entire world. When your service is done, you will not be given medals. There will be no parades in your honor. You will not be aware of our heartfelt thanks, because before you leave, your memories of the Institute will be expunged. Wiped away, for those of you who don’t know that word.” Her eyes found Luke’s for a moment and they said But of course you know it. “Please understand that you have those thanks, nonetheless. You will be tested in your time here, and some of the tests may be hard, but you will survive and rejoin your families. We have never lost a child.”

  She paused again, waiting for anyone to respond or object. Wilholm might have, but Wilholm was gone. Ellis didn’t, because direct response wasn’t his way. As a chess player, he preferred sneaky gambits to direct assault. Much good would it do him.

  “Harold Cross had a brief seizure following the visual field and acuity test some of you, those who’ve had it, call ‘the dots’ or ‘the lights.’ He inadvertently struck Greta Wilcox, who was trying—admirably, I’m sure we all feel—to comfort him. She suffered a severely sprained neck, but is recovering. Her sister is with her. The Wilcox twins and Harold are to be sent home next week, and I’m sure we will send our good wishes with them.”

  Her eyes again sought Luke, sitting at a table against the far wall. His little friend was with him. Dixon’s mouth was hanging agape, but at least he was leaving his nose alone for the time being.

  “If anyone should contradict what I’ve just told you, you may be sure that person is lying, and his lies should be immediately reported to one of the caretakers or technicians. Is that understood?”

  Silence, without even a nervous cough to break it.

  “If it’s understood, I would like you to say ‘Yes, Mrs. Sigsby.’ ”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sigsby,” the kids responded.

  She offered a thin smile. “I think you can do better.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sigsby!”

  “And now with real conviction.”

  “YES, MRS. SIGSBY!” This time even the kitchen staff, techs, and caretakers joined in.

  “Good.” Mrs. Sigsby smiled. “There’s nothing like an affirmative shout to clear the lungs and the mind, is there? Now carry on with your meals.” She turned to the white-coated kitchen staff. “And extra desserts before bedtime, assuming you can provide cake and ice cream, Chef Doug?”

  Chef Doug made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Someone began to clap. Others joined in. Mrs. Sigsby nodded right and left to acknowledge the applause as she left the room, walking with her head up and her hands swinging back and forth in tiny, precise arcs. A small smile, what Luke thought of as a Mona Lisa smile, curved the corners of her mouth. The white-coats parted to let her pass.

  Still applauding, Avery leaned close to Luke and whispered, “She lied about everything.”

  Luke gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “That fucking bitch,” Avery said.

  Luke gave the same tiny nod and sent a brief mental message: Keep clapping.

  17

  That night Luke and Avery lay side by side in Luke’s bed as the Institute wound down for another night.

  Avery whispered, recounting everything Maureen told him each time he went to his nose, signaling her to send. Luke had been afraid Maureen might not understand the note he’d dropped into her basket (a little unconscious prejudice there, maybe based on the brown housekeeper’s uni she wore, he’d have to work on that), but she had understood perfectly, and provided Avery with the step-by-step list. Luke thought the Avester could have been a little more subtle about the signals, but it seemed to have turned out okay. He had to hope it had. Supposing that were true, Luke’s only real question was whether or not the first step could actually work. It was simple to the point of crudity.

  The two boys lay on their backs, staring into the dark. Luke was going over the steps for the tenth time—or maybe the fifteenth—when Avery invaded his mind with three words that flashed on like a red neon, then faded out, leaving an afterimage.

  Yes, Mrs. Sigsby.

  Luke poked him.

  Avery sniggered.

  A few seconds later, the words came again, this time even brighter.

  Yes, Mrs. Sigsby!

  Luke gave him another poke, but he was smiling, and Avery probably knew it, dark or not. The smile was in his mind as well as on his mouth, and Luke thought he had a right to it. He might not be able to escape the Institute—he had to admit the odds were against—but today had been a good one. Hope was such a fine word, such a fine thing to feel.

  YES, MRS. SIGSBY, YOU FUCKING BITCH!

  “Stop, or I’ll tickle you,” Luke murmured.

  “It worked, didn’t it?” Avery whispered. “It really worked. Do you think you ca
n really . . .”

  “I don’t know, I only know I’m going to try. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

  “I wish you could take me with you. I wish it bad.”

  “Me too,” Luke said, and he meant it. It would be tough for Avery here on his own. He was more socially adjusted than the little Gs or Stevie Whipple, but nobody was ever going to crown him Mr. Personality.

  “When you come back, bring about a thousand cops with you,” Avery whispered. “And do it fast, before they take me to Back Half. Do it while we can still save Sha.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Luke promised. “Now stop yelling in my head. That joke wears out fast.”

  “I wish you had more TP. And that it didn’t hurt you to send. We could talk better.”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. For the last time, go to sleep.”

  Avery did, and Luke began to drift off himself. Maureen’s first step was as clanky as the ice machine where they sometimes talked, but he had to admit that it tallied with all the things he’d already observed: dusty camera housings, baseboards where paint had chipped off years ago and had never been touched up, an elevator card carelessly left behind. He mused again on how this place was like a rocket with its engines off, still moving but now in an inertial glide.

  18

  The next day Winona escorted him down to C-Level, where he was given a quick once-over: blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, O2 level. When Luke asked what came next, Dave checked his clipboard, gave him a sunny grin—as if he had never knocked him to the floor—and said there was nothing on the schedule.

  “You’ve got an off-day, Luke. Enjoy it.” He raised his hand, palm out.

  Luke grinned back and slapped him five, but it was Maureen’s note he was thinking of: When they stop testing, you might only have 3 days.