by Darren Shan
He stares at me uncertainly, apparently troubled by my words. But then the vision fades and I find myself returning to reality, moaning weakly on the floor, the clown hopping around, giggling insanely, poking me with a severed arm while Kinslow looks on wearily.
The pair carry me over to the vat of blood and brains. Kinslow tries to undress me, but I snap at him that I can do it myself. He starts to argue, but Mr. Dowling must have a word, because he stops and makes a whatever gesture. Wriggling out of my clothes, I crawl into the vat to soak. Mr. Dowling checks that I’m okay, then heads up the stairs with Kinslow, off to deal with whatever today’s mad business entails.
I’m weary after my tour of the complex, so I relax and soak up nutrients for a while. When I’m feeling sprightlier, I slip out of the vat and shuffle across the floor, not worrying about the stains I’m leaving behind—the floor’s already covered with old blood smears, so a few more won’t make any difference. I climb the stairs, only to find the door at the top locked. I return to the room and go on a circuit, giving it a full sweep, looking for ways out.
I find a shower hidden behind a screen in one corner, which cheers me up to no end–I don’t want to have to crawl around covered in blood and muck every day–but there are no obvious exits. This seems to be a sealed chamber. I’m sure it isn’t–I can’t believe that Mr. Dowling would box himself in with no way out if he ever came under attack–but if there are secret doorways, they’re too cunningly hidden for me to locate, at least in my current subdued state.
I look at the area above the vat, thinking I might be able to climb out through the hearse, but the walls are smooth, solid steel. Too high for me to jump. I could build a pyramid out of furniture, but I doubt I’d be able to break through the covering at the top. It’s steel, the same as the walls, and Mr. Dowling doesn’t strike me as someone who overlooks the minor details.
I limp across to the lab and study the implements that are lying out in open view. Knives, saws, drills, needles, Bunsen burners. I could tool up, lie in wait for Mr. Dowling, attack when he returns.
But he’s surely anticipating that. I’d be swatted like a fly. Better to leave these for the time being. Maybe strike at him later, when he’s not expecting it. Play along, pretend to fall for him, wait for him to lower his defenses, then…
I pick up a knife, smiling grimly at the thought of slitting the clown’s throat. The smile fades as I realize I could slit mine instead. Well, no, that wouldn’t put me out of action. But I could pound it through my skull, dig it into my brain, free myself from Mr. Dowling’s influence, escape this whole stinking cesspit of a world.
I stand there for ages, toying with the idea, wondering if this is the moment for me to check out.
In the end, I turn my back on the darkness. The thought of Dr. Oystein stays my hand. The doc wouldn’t give up, not when there’s so much of the game to be played. He’d hang tough, watch things develop, wait for his chance to round on the clown. The doc would never have abandoned me to the mercy of his most bitter enemy, but now that I’ve fallen into Mr. Dowling’s clutches, it could be a golden opportunity to strike a fatal blow.
I have to be careful. The clown might have left orders for his sample of Schlesinger-10 to be released if he’s killed. I must not attack him until I’m sure it’s safe, that Kinslow won’t wipe out the remnants of humanity in retaliation. But the option is on the table. If I removed myself from the equation, that chance would be taken away. This isn’t my time to die, not while I might still be of use to Dr. Oystein.
Reluctantly I set down the knife, shuffle back across the cave, climb into the vat and float in the crimson goo, soaking up goodness, feeling slivers of my vitality return, thinking, plotting, waiting.
FOURTEEN
The great courtship continues in much the same way as it started. Mr. Dowling doesn’t spend much time with me, but pays a visit every day, hits the pair of us with his boom-boom stick, then slips inside the eye of my mind while we’re writhing uncontrollably on the floor.
The details he shares have become more intimate. I’m also able to probe his thoughts to an extent now, and access memories of my choosing. For instance, if I want to see more of his family, I can spend a session tapping into that particular part of his brain and watch him cuddling his wife or playing games with his children, reading bedtime stories to his three daughters, swinging his son around in the air.
There are limits to how far I can probe. Whenever I try to find out where he might be storing his Schlesinger-10 sample, the curtains come crashing down and I get redirected. Still, as he opens up further to me, I keep on digging. It will be hard for him, as he reveals so much about himself, to guard his privacy from every angle. I might be able to slide in on the sly one day and find something that I can use against him.
I must admit, I’ve started to feel sorry for the psychotic clown. Owl Man was right when he said that Mr. Dowling was a tragic figure. If his memories are to be believed, he was a man of dignity once. He loved his family. He helped out in the community. He was charitable.
What turned his world upside down and left him in this mad, tempestuous state? I try to figure him out, but he always steers me away from those memories. There are almost no images of Dr. Oystein or Owl Man that I can access. No footage of the respectable Mr. Dowling losing his mind, coming undone, donning the clown’s outfit for the first time.
It’s like he’s split his life in three. He’ll share old memories with me, the good times, his normal life. And he’s happy for me to see him in his current shambolic condition. But he’s cut out the middle section, his fall from grace. Maybe he’s deliberately hiding it from me, or maybe he’s buried it so deep that even he can’t access it. Perhaps those memories are too painful for him to face again.
I have to remind myself, when I feel pity building within me, that he’s a killer, a sadist, a loose cannon who can strike at anyone, anytime. It doesn’t matter that he was once a good man, if fate dealt him a horrible hand. Right now he’s the greatest threat this world has ever faced, with the power to wipe out every living person. I can feel sorry for him later, if I find a way to overcome him. Until then I have to look for chinks in his armor and do all in my power to chip away at them.
When I complain about being bored, he lets me out of his private chambers a few times to visit the babies. Kinslow and some of the other mutants always tag along to escort me, then wait outside the nursery, guarding the exit in case I make a break for freedom.
The babies like it when I sit with them. I join in their lessons and help Mrs. Reed teach them, though they get distracted easily when I’m there. I can tell she’d rather I stayed away, but she can’t say anything in case I order the babies to attack her.
I learn a lot about the tiny terrors during the course of our time together. For instance, I already knew they weren’t reliant on brains for nourishment, but I find out that they hardly need to eat anything. Each of them can go weeks, even months without feeding or drinking.
They don’t excrete as humans do. Their bodies break down the waste into liquid and they sweat it all out. I thought that was gross when Mrs. Reed explained it to me, and I avoided cuddling up close to the infants for a while, but I’ve adjusted to the idea and it doesn’t bother me now.
The baby with the hole in its head always waddles up close to me when I sit down with them. I feel more of a connection to that one than the others. The rest all look the same. At least I can tell Holy Moly apart. (I know—stupid name! But it suits the little monster and it was the best I could come up with.)
“Do they have individual personalities?” I ask Mrs. Reed one day.
“Not that I’m aware of,” she says. “They blend together in their lessons. I’ve tried isolating individuals–I made a few wear name tags of my choosing, and taught them separately from the others–but they consistently thwart my efforts. If one of them learns something, they all learn it. They share everything telepathically.”
“Holy Moly is di
fferent though, isn’t it?” I note. “The others don’t come up to me every time.”
“How can you be sure?” she counters. “Several slip up close to you whenever you visit. Perhaps they’re always the same, and the one with the hole in its cranium just happens to be among those assigned the task of personally guarding you.”
I stare at the babies, wondering if they have secret names for one another, if they see tiny differences in each other that we’re unaware of.
“It’s not the same as our old school, is it?” I mutter.
“I prefer the setup here,” Mrs. Reed sniffs. “At least my students pay attention now.”
I asked her about my classmates during an earlier visit. A few of my friends escaped with my dad on the day of the zombie apocalypse and I’d love to know if they got out of London, or if they ran out of luck in the end, like poor Vinyl. But she couldn’t tell me anything.
“You were the only pupil I cared about,” she said. “I had no interest in the rest of the unruly, ignorant mob.”
I rub Holy Moly’s head, ignoring the ever-present temptation to stick a finger into the hole in the baby’s skull. I’ve tried having conversations with Holy Moly and some of the others, with limited success. They’ll sometimes answer basic questions, but more often than not they’ll simply respond with their familiar croons.
“we love you mummy.”
“stay with us mummy.”
“we want to hold you forever.”
“Why do you do this?” I ask Mrs. Reed. “Why betray the human race in favor of Mr. Dowling and his mutants?”
“Long life is one reason,” she says after a moment’s pause. “We don’t live anywhere near as long as your kind, but I could last a few hundred years if I’m lucky. And Mr. Dowling might find a way to extend that even further.”
“But who wants to live that long in a hellhole like this?” I grunt.
“Lots of us evidently,” she says curtly. “There’s also the appeal of reshaping the future. When Mr. Dowling’s people convinced me that the end of the world was coming, I saw a chance to contribute to the creation of its replacement. These are monumental times. When the history books are written, I’ll have a place in them as one of the architects of the new society.”
“A society of mutants,” I drawl. “Big deal.”
“It will be,” she says. “These babies are only the first generation. Think what our ancient ancestors must have been like when they crawled out of their caves, rough, brute creatures. The descendants of these infants will go much farther than we ever did.”
I frown. “You think the babies will be able to reproduce?”
“Of course not,” she snorts. “They have no sexual organs. But they can be cloned, and we–or they–will find ways to improve upon what we’ve already created.”
“You reckon there could be some budding scientists among this lot?” I smile.
“Certainly,” she says. “It’s hard to judge their IQ since they’re so introverted, but we’re fairly sure they’re more intelligent than we are. We should be able to get a clearer idea as they age. We think they’ll become more open with us as they mature.”
“How long will that take?” I ask.
“They should hit adolescence within seventy years,” she says. “Full adulthood will come forty or fifty years after that, along with the ability to tap into the staggering potential that Mr. Dowling has imbued them with—he has designed them to have control of many more areas of their brains than we do.
“Don’t you see, Becky?” she beams. “We’ve been given a chance to play God. Who could walk away from the opportunity to sculpt the world as they see fit, to guide the early steps of a whole new civilization?”
“What was wrong with the old bunch?” I growl.
“Small-minded animals,” she says dismissively. “Mankind had plenty of time to change but we didn’t. Wars, hatred and bigotry were our legacy. Forgive me if I show our people no allegiance, but I would rather focus on those with genuine promise.”
“Judas,” I sneer.
“Do you think so?” She smiles icily. “According to the Bible, Judas betrayed the son of God. Who have I betrayed? Thugs, polluters, warmongers, killers, wife-beaters, crooked politicians, thieving bankers, splintered family units, the blank-eyed TV generation, children who could only connect to the world via a computer.”
“Mr. Dowling is a crazy killer,” I point out bitterly.
“Yes,” she says, “but he will pass. We all will. Our stain will be wiped clean eventually. My hope is that once we’re gone a kinder race can evolve peacefully, achieve more than we ever did, be capable of getting more from–and doing more for–the world than we ever could.”
“Nothing can come of violence except more violence,” I argue.
“The Big Bang was the most violent moment in the history of the universe,” she counters, “and look at everything good that came out of that.”
“That’s hardly a fair comparison,” I note.
“Maybe not,” she sighs, “but I live in hope. I know we’re evil individuals, but we’re products of an evil society. I believe we can only make a clean break with the past by ridding ourselves of the baggage that has weighed down the human race for so long. Perhaps I’m deluded, and the babies will turn out even worse than their creators, but I’ve gambled everything–my soul included–on the hope that good can spring from the ashes of wickedness.
“And that is why I pledged myself to Mr. Dowling,” she concludes as I stare at her mutely, confused by what she’s said. “So tell me, Miss Smith, do I still seem like a cold-hearted monster to you now?”
FIFTEEN
Mrs. Reed’s comments trail me back to Mr. Dowling’s personal quarters and plague me. I hadn’t really thought about the mutants and why they threw in their lot with the clown. I assumed they were all bad to the bone, that in their twisted wretchedness they’d sought him out. Or maybe they were good people whose minds had been corrupted, unwilling servants who’d been kidnapped and modified. But Mrs. Reed’s reasons for lending her support to Mr. Dowling have made me reevaluate things.
A few days later Kinslow and a couple of his mutant colleagues drop in on me as I’m exercising, trying to pass the time while knocking my body back into shape. I didn’t think I’d ever bounce back to anything like normal when I first arrived here after my mauling at the hands of Dan-Dan, but daily soakings in the vat of blood and brains have worked wonders. I’m not up to gladiatorial standards, and maybe never again will be, but I’m getting stronger every day, almost at the same sort of levels as before I began training with the Angels.
“Looking good,” Kinslow says, and it’s hard to tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.
“Good enough to take you in a fair fight,” I grunt, finishing my push-ups before getting to my feet.
“You probably could,” he says sourly. “That’s why I prefer to fight dirty. Now, if you’re done working out…”
“Where are we going?” I ask as we head up the stairs. “To see the babies?”
“No,” he says, surprising me. “Mr. Dowling’s noted your restlessness. He wants to show you some things, to get you more involved in our affairs. He meant to take you himself, but he’s been called away.”
We weave our way through the maze of rooms, and I’m pleased to note that I’m moving much more fluidly than when I first toured the chambers. I spot some mutants in the middle of a kickboxing contest. I’d like to stay and watch, maybe even take part to test myself, but Kinslow hustles me forward.
I try to map our route as we proceed. I’ve been doing this every time I’m led out of Mr. Dowling’s personal quarters, building up an overview of the complex, looking for possible exit points or places where I could hide. Of course the babies would be able to track me down mentally if I hid, which is a major fly in the ointment, but that doesn’t stop me from toying with ideas of escape.
Kinslow takes me to an area of the den that I didn’t know existed. There are five
linked but otherwise isolated rooms. A sign over the door–painted in blood naturally–informs me that I’m about to enter Mr. Dowling’s Zoo.
“It’s not a real zoo, is it?” I ask.
“Sure it is,” Kinslow says. “There are no lions, elephants or anything like that, but plenty of interesting exhibits all the same.”
The interesting exhibits are insects, spiders, butterflies, reptiles and the like, dozens of different species stored in a variety of tanks and cages, each room cluttered with them. This is where Mr. Dowling stores the creatures that he places in his mouth when he wants to make an impression.
“He doesn’t keep an animal in his mouth all the time, does he?” I ask Kinslow as we wander from one glass cage to another.
“Not when he’s at home,” Kinslow says, “but he usually pops something in whenever he’s heading up to the streets.”
“Why?” I ask. “What are they for?”
Kinslow shrugs. “I’m not sure even he knows. Maybe it makes him feel more alive, to have something living inside himself. Maybe it’s just to freak people out when he meets them. Maybe they help him focus. Whatever, it’s up to us to care for them. I oversee a small team and we make sure the temperatures are maintained at the correct levels. We feed the creatures, clean up around the place, keep them in tip-top shape.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a zookeeper,” I chuckle.
“I hate it,” he scowls. “It’s a waste of time and resources. But you don’t say no to Mr. Dowling.”
“Tell me about it,” I grunt.
“You can help us look after them,” Kinslow says.
“So that you can slack off?” I grin.
“I wish,” he sighs. “I’ll still have to come and keep an eye on things. But it will give you something to do and provide you with a chance to get out a bit more.”
I’ve no real interest in tending to a load of bugs, but this could work in my favor when it comes to plotting an escape. The zoo’s situated in a quiet part of the complex. Maybe I could make use of the insects, sneak some out, hit the mutants with them as we’re returning to my quarters, startle them, club them senseless in the confusion, slip away without any of the others noticing. Not today, but when I’ve got the hang of the place, when they’re accustomed to me coming and going, when I’m in better shape than I am now.
