The Shadow Fabric

by Mark Cassell

  So far the route proved similar to the previous corridors, and just as creepy. As yet, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary, simply rooms containing linen and cleaning materials, medical supplies and the like. Many were empty, some with gurneys covered with leather straps. No more patients. And we hadn’t yet come across the tattooed patient.

  We continued along the passages, taking lefts and rights, and headed through a number of double doors. There weren’t a great number of alternative routes beneath the House, and I guessed most linked back to the main area. I had no doubt we still followed the nurse, and every room we entered, I expected to find her either wheeling the gurney or operating on the patient, undertaking another weird experiment.

  “Must be another lift somewhere,” I said. “Wonder where it comes out.”

  “I doubt Goodwin would want people coming in and out of his office,” Victor said.

  “I doubt everything about Goodwin, full stop.”

  Isidore held her pistol again—I’d lost count how many times she’d pulled it from her waistband, popped the magazine to check it was loaded, and slipped it away again.

  Before we came to another set of doors, a concreted area stretched out beside us and became an uneven expanse of bare rock. I ducked beneath a lintel and entered, stopping beside Isidore. Victor had ventured a little further inside. We remained in the glow of corridor light. The echo of dripping stalactites bounced around us. No lights here, and by the looks of it the area was unfinished. More like a construction site with its heaped rubble and masonry, and I assumed Goodwin was expanding further, creating another room for more bizarre experiments. No downed tools, though, only rock rising from the ground. It was a cave, and reminded me of Goodwin’s silhouette at the entrance to the place in the woods. Was this where it led to? Perhaps this wasn’t an expansion at all. The drips reverberated. Modest stalagmites dotted the immediate area, and further back a slanted rock face acted as a backdrop to our shadows. It was more than a cave…it was a cavern.

  Isidore visibly shivered.

  “Want my jacket again?” I said.

  “You’re not wearing one.”

  “I know.”

  A noise from deep within the cavern killed her amusement. Victor held up a hand, with the Witchblade in the other. Even in the semi-darkness it glinted.

  I had an image of Lucas ripped apart by tentacles of shadow, and I stepped in front of Isidore. She grabbed my arm, trying to pull me back. Already, she had her finger curled around the trigger of her gun.

  My heart hammered, and a warmth throbbed in my ears.

  From somewhere beyond the reaching light, a chain rattled. Chink, chink-chink…followed by a rasp of metal over stone. Then a rapid pounding of feet and a splash, and the grunt of someone—something—fast approaching.

  The shadows came alive. A solid hulk of darkness dislodged itself and came at us.

  Victor said something.

  I clenched my fists, unworried that I had no weapon, and I hunched. Fuelled by adrenaline, I stepped sideways, keeping low and shot my arm up. I blocked the charging shadow as it swung at me with a rock.

  It was a man.

  His forearm smacked into mine and he roared, teeth bared, spittle flying. Between us, the rock crashed to the ground. In the half-light, the man’s eyes were burning orbs of hatred and fear. He was out for one thing: survival.

  And we’d stepped into his domain. His territory.

  The stink of shit and sweat fogged my senses and I took several paces backwards.

  With one leg behind him, supported in the air by a taut chain, the veins in his neck bulged like threads of rope. His muscles flexed and he swung each massive arm. He hissed and grunted and whined as if unsure which reaction to display.

  Filth dripped from his shaven head, rage contorting his features, while he clawed the air with nails chipped and raw.

  I’d taken another step back, and flanked by Victor and Isidore, we gaped at this man. This madman. This beast…

  “Victor,” I said, my breath heavy. “Is this a necromeleon?”

  “No, they’re worse than this. This man is still human.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Having left the cavern and followed more corridors, another pair of eyes locked with mine. This time the guy raged behind reinforced glass. His tongue wriggled in a toothless mouth, froth collecting around his gums. The tendons in his neck, taut and huge. He pummelled his fists against the glass one final time, broke eye contact, then stomped away, giving me an over-the-shoulder glare. His jeans, bloodied and soiled, flapped around bare feet. His back slammed into the far wall. High above his head a pattern of bloody smudges streaked the steel surface.

  There wasn’t even a bed for him. Nothing. Only an empty cell. Grabbing his knees to his chest, his toes curled upwards and he sank his head into his arms. His shoulders heaved.

  “What’s wrong with these men?” Victor walked towards Isidore, whose silence said everything.

  “Guess we’ve found why Goodwin needed tranquillisers,” I said.

  The two of them continued to pace the corridor. On both sides, between two sets of familiar double doors, every cell offered a similar scene. Each contained madness, some more than others. The cells, with soundproofed glass, accessed by heavy-duty doors with a keypad entry, were numbered one through twelve. A couple of the occupants wore expressions of loss and loneliness. Others, simple confusion. Most, however, wore a bestial glare of little more than violence.

  There was something about the silence of that place, the way the mute hammering and yelling of these prisoners closed in. With my periphery clogged with silent screams and rage, I had no idea where to turn.

  We pushed on through the doors and into another area.

  Darkness and silence greeted us, and the familiar stink of damp…and something else. Something heavy. The light behind us did little to penetrate the room, and in the dimness, I could just make out steel surfaces reflecting blinking lights. Victor found a wall switch and thumbed it. The sudden glare of overhead lights made me squint for a second.

  “A morgue.” Suddenly I felt cold.

  “This place is wrong,” Victor said.

  Isidore shook her head repeatedly as she glared around the room.

  A dozen gurneys littered the place. Each, unlike elsewhere, covered by a black plastic sheet and showing the unmistakable outline of a body. The smell, I assumed, must’ve been formaldehyde and it clogged my nose. There was a mixture of something else—I guessed it was the smell of the dead. A strange smell, and stranger still to be among them. Again. Unlike the other bodies I’d seen this week, these weren’t drained of life force. Beneath the sheets, the outlines were too full. Too normal. But what is normal?

  Steel panels and the sickly yellow walls seemed to be the general decor throughout this underground network of rooms and corridors. In this room, between huge panels of dull steel, many compartments covered one wall. I headed for it, gripped a handle and pulled it open. Inside, as expected, lay a dead body. Toe-tagged, like in the movies.

  Isidore joined me. “Horrible.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your friend Goodwin’s behind this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s he playing at?”

  I slammed the door shut and mumbled, “I don’t know.” A part of me didn’t want to know what game Goodwin played. All of this was way above me.

  She circled a couple of the gurneys while I stood motionless. I didn’t want to know anymore. I felt defeated and cheated.

  I dragged my hand—always gloved now—from my forehead down to my chin. The leather rasped against stubble. I pinched my jaw and blew air between bulging cheeks. I was hungry, unclean, and I’d just seen a dead person’s feet.

  I stepped away.

  A rumpling, stiff sound claimed my attention, and there was Isidore pulling back one of the black sheets. Underneath, dead eyes stared at her. Curled around the ear and running down his neck was a tattoo, a tribal design.


  “Our friend here didn’t make it.” Her hand was steadier than mine would’ve been.

  “She killed him?” I said through dry lips.

  “Yes.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He looked more drugged than dying.”

  Victor stood at a desk in front of a computer. With one hand on the back of a chair, he slid the Witchblade under his belt and prodded the keyboard. The computer hummed into life. As it booted up, he slid the chair back and slumped into it.

  I walked over to him. Behind me, I heard the sheet rustle back into place.

  No company logos or password requests flashed on the screen. I’d expected it, as I’m certain anybody would. It displayed the usual desktop screen: black background, a few icons, and a taskbar.

  Near the desk, a door I’d failed to notice creaked open. Slowly at first, and then it swung inwards. It whipped wide and smacked the wall beside Victor. I jumped, my breath catching.

  Victor leapt to his feet and reached for the Witchblade. He brandished it like a sword, legs wide, jaw firm. His eyebrows wriggled above unblinking eyes.

  And there stood the nurse, hands on hips. Her red hair accentuated the outrage in her eyes. Her voice echoed. “What is this?”

  “Katrina?” Victor said, and lowered the Witchblade.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Missed you last night, Victor.” Katrina ignored Isidore’s raised gun. “You said you’d be there.”

  I frowned so hard it hurt. This was Victor’s yoga instructor.

  Victor said, “What are you doing here?”

  “More to the point, what are you doing here?” Her eyes retained their anger, and possibly fear. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Victor’s eyebrows twitched.

  Stepping fully into the room, Katrina dropped her handbag on the desk. Her eyes moved from Victor and rested on me for a moment, and then to Isidore and her gun. “Please, put that away.”

  Isidore hesitated, flicked her eyes to Victor, whose nod was enough, and she lowered the weapon.

  “Thank you,” Katrina said.

  I had a bombardment of questions and didn’t know where to begin, and I suspected Isidore had many herself. I’d let Victor handle it. After all, he had some kind of connection with this woman.

  “Goodwin isn’t going to be happy when he finds out about this,” she said.

  “What’s he up to?” Victor collapsed in the chair, his leg hooked beneath him, the Witchblade now hidden.

  “Where to start…” She touched her hair, her face softening.

  “Whatever can help us understand. Not only this, but everything else that’s happening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re all in danger. Goodwin’s in danger, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Just tell us what these experiments are about. From the beginning.”

  For a moment, she didn’t blink. Then her lips parted, her tongue moved, but she said nothing.

  “Katrina?”

  Her shoulders rounded. “Goodwin has developed a means of combining ancient apparatus and modern technology to remove evil from the thoughts of man.”

  I scratched my chin. Goodwin the scientist? I didn’t…couldn’t understand.

  “Years ago,” she continued, “he discovered the potential to cure the darkness which consumes some people. His theories are intense.”

  Victor leaned back into the chair and it creaked. The sound reminded me of the dead bodies behind me.

  “He has nothing but good intentions. He’s desperate to rid the world of its evil.”

  I almost laughed.

  “Okay,” Victor said, “I won’t ask how this is even possible. Clearly, you have the equipment here to play such a game. But those men you’ve been experimenting on are either mad or dead.”

  I said, “Even the guy you experimented on earlier is dead.”

  Katrina’s lips whitened.

  “Yes,” she said eventually. “Over the years there have been many failures. Too many. And we’ve never given up. The potential is there.”

  “Are you saying you’ve never been successful?” Victor’s mouth twisted.

  “I’m not saying that.” She averted her eyes, settling on her feet. “It’s all for the good of mankind. That’s what Goodwin always says.”

  It sounded like exactly the sort of thing he’d say.

  Victor said, “These men are taken from a prison—”

  “Willingly.” Katrina dragged her eyes to meet Victor’s. “They see it as a ticket to freedom.”

  “Even with the chance they’ll die?”

  “Not all of them die.”

  “This can’t be legal,” I said.

  “Goodwin has contacts very, very high up in the ranks.”

  “Ranks?” I raised an eyebrow. “You mean the prison system? That’s crazy.”

  “Goodwin has influence in certain circles. It’s as legitimate as it needs to be.”

  “It’s corrupt. That’s what it is.” My ears felt sunburnt.

  “So,” Victor said, and stood up, “these men willingly hand over their lives so you can possibly cure their evil ways by extracting their shadowleaves. Do you realise how dangerous this is? Playing with such dark power?”

  “Victor,” she said, “please. You don’t understand—”

  “Enough to see the madness in it.”

  “No, Victor—”

  “Those poor men out there. Mad. All of them. Mad, if not dead. Your ideas and theories, just as mad!”

  “Tell us about the mad ones.” Isidore’s voice sounded distant. “Can’t you cure them?”

  Katrina barely nodded. “Afterwards, everyone shows different symptoms, all have different results. The side effects are varied, always. One claimed she saw angels.”

  “She?” Isidore’s voice was no longer soft. “You experiment on women as well?”

  “Of course.”

  “Drain their minds,” I said, “and leave them as vegetables. Unable to cure them. It’s sick.”

  “No,” Katrina said, “you don’t understand. The science behind this is incredible. Goodwin’s theories are sound. Solid. We’re so close.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Victor shook his head.

  “Our results are impressive,” Katrina continued. “We’ve made such discoveries. Such progress.”

  “You’re my yoga instructor, for God’s sake.”

  She gestured at the computer. “This is what I do. Yoga is a front.”

  “You’re not joking.” Victor almost spat the words in her face.

  She took a step back. “I’m a scientist.”

  And there we were, I thought, thinking you were a nurse.

  “This is the wrong kind of science.” Victor darted for the nearest gurney, his shoes stamping on the tiles. He yanked back a sheet covering the head. “This is madness.”

  “Victor, you don’t under—”

  “Stop saying that.” Victor pointed at the dead man’s face. “This poor bastard, regardless of his crime, doesn’t deserve to be your guinea pig.”

  Their crimes had been listed like a shopping receipt, and I wanted to speak out, to tell Victor I disagreed with him. Granted, it was utter madness, but each one of those prisoners had chosen this. Maybe these people deserved their fate. Each played a dangerous round of roulette, a chance for freedom, and so possibly free to commit their crimes again.

  I settled on saying, “It’s all messed up.”

  Katrina’s eyes were small and wandering. Her lips quivered. “Victor…”

  He tugged the sheet back over the head.

  Isidore said, “Show me the CCTV monitors. I want to see what you are doing.”

  I gawped at her, and she pointed up into a far corner.

  “Smile,” she said.

  A camera spied on us.

  “Didn’t notice them,” I admitted.

  Victor laughed. It sounded false.

  Isidore nodded. “I looked out for them as soon
as we got down here. There aren’t any in the corridors.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “I’m a thief, remember? I look for these things.”

  Katrina threw a thumb over her shoulder. “Down there, second door on the left. Help yourself.”

  “Too right I will,” I heard Isidore say as she left the room, and I considered following her.

  “Tell me,” Victor said, “where’s Goodwin now?”

  I decided to stay.

  Katrina tried to smile and failed. “He was here earlier.”

  “How long ago?”

  “An hour or two.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Funny you should say that…”

  Victor arched an eyebrow.

  “He was with your brother.” She raked fingers through her hair. “They were acting strange.”

  “How so?”

  “Not sure. Recently, I’ve noticed Goodwin’s been on edge. Paranoid, you could say.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “They headed for the other side of the complex.”

  “Doing what?”

  “It’s where the main machines are. Over here is just routine stuff.”

  “Routine stuff?” Victor frowned, and grunted. He nodded at the computer. “Show us what’s in there, Katrina.”

  The screen saver—random coloured patterns—spread across the screen. Katrina removed her jacket and draped it over the chair. She sat and opened a program. Minutes passed where no doubt Victor and I had similar thoughts.

  “You said Goodwin has been paranoid recently,” Victor said eventually. “Why?”

  “He fears his collection has attracted some attention. Unwanted attention at that.”

  “Collection? What collection? Whose attention?”

  Katrina started to reply, when Isidore’s voice leapt along the corridor, reaching us in an echo.

  “Hey, you need to see this.”