Frankenstorm

by Ray Garton

There was a good-sized tree on the western side of the hospital that was going to fall on the fence, which would short out the current flowing through it and render it harmless.

  “Team Two, the eastern fence.”

  That would allow his men to scale the fence on the other side of the hospital without getting shocked on their asses like the guy who’d interviewed Ivan Renner. Ollie would lead Team Two.

  “Team Three, the tunnel. And we’ve got Ricky Jessom to thank for that,” he added, turning and gesturing toward the man in the apron leaning against the buffet.

  Ricky was a recruit, but he was seventy and would not be participating in Operation Vendonectomy. He was, however, an experienced cook who’d worked in restaurants, diners, bars, and hospital and school cafeterias, so Ollie had put him in charge of the kitchen a few years ago. He had worked in the kitchen of the Humboldt County Mental Hospital for most of the 1970s and he’d become quite familiar with the place.

  During his time there, he’d learned about an underground tunnel that went from the hospital to the old boiler house behind it. Back in the old days, the management didn’t like to upset or offend those visiting family members in the hospital. The tunnel had been designed to conceal any patients brought to the hospital during visiting hours whose behavior might be disturbing to the visitors. One of the hospital’s janitors—a crotchety old black man named Merian who’d been there forever and simply hadn’t gotten around to retiring—had told Ricky about it one evening when they went outside and walked a good distance away from the hospital to smoke a joint on their lunch break. He’d taken Ricky into the old boiler house and shown him the rickety stairs that led down into the tunnel. It had been a mess, but it was still there, and it ended in a rear section of the hospital basement that was never used anymore, not even for storage. The tunnel did not appear in the hospital’s floor plan or blueprints, and when Ricky learned of it in 1972, he and Merian were the only people at the hospital who knew about it, as far as he could determine. Ricky had made a point of asking around, but nobody was aware of any underground tunnels, and he hadn’t told them about it.

  The old boiler house was outside the electrified fence that now surrounded the hospital and late one rainy night six months ago, Ricky had taken Ollie down into the tunnel. It wasn’t safe, but it was worth the risk to get into the hospital before anyone even knew they were there.

  There was a moment of raucous applause for Ricky and he took an exaggerated bow.

  “I think I’ve outfitted you pretty good,” Ollie said when it was quiet again. “Those of you going inside have your Batman utility belts. A knife, small bolt cutters, your cell phone, all that other stuff. You’ve got night-vision goggles, your weapons, your training, including the ability to improvise, which is going to come in handy, I’m sure. No radio communication because we want stealth, silence, no talking back and forth. You know the drill by now, so you know your jobs when you get in there. And don’t forget to use your cameras. That’s important. Get video of everything you can, especially the people. Remember why we’re there and who we’re looking for. If we find them, we get them out through the tunnel and into the vans behind the boiler house. Everybody else there is . . . just in the way.”

  8

  In the Cuppa Joe diner, Andy Rodriguez reversed the sign on the door so CLOSED was facing outward. May was at the register tallying up the drawer. The dull, grey light coming in from outside was gradually disappearing as Grady and Norman boarded up the windows. The hammering wrestled with the sounds of the wind and rain and filled the empty diner with noise.

  Andy wandered around straightening chairs and absently wiping off a table here and there with a towel. May stood at the register with her head down, counting money, but her eyes kept peering at him through a few stray strands of her brown hair.

  “What’s going on with you, Andy?” she said.

  “What?” He hadn’t understood her through all the noise. He turned and walked to the register.

  “What’s wrong? You’re . . . nervous. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m worried about the storm.”

  “Is everything okay, though? I mean . . . everything with you. How about Donny? How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him in here for a while.”

  “No, he’s been, uh . . . with his mother.”

  Thinking about Donny made Andy’s stomach knot up, but before he could change the subject, May said, “What about that sheriff ’s deputy?”

  “Who? You mean Ram?”

  “Yeah, you had him in here last week, ate with him, bought him lunch. I didn’t think you liked him. Didn’t you say he was a big bully back in school?”

  Andy chuckled. “Yeah, he was. And I didn’t like him. I was terrified of him. But he’s changed. He’s got kids of his own now. That makes you see things a little differently, I guess.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  He looked at her and tried to push a gentle smile onto his face. “I’m fine. I’ve just been—”

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and checked the screen. Ram was calling.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Andy said as he hurried around the coffee counter and pushed through the door into the kitchen. He put the phone to his ear and said, “Yeah.”

  “Tonight’s the night,” Ram said.

  “Okay. Tonight’s the night . . . we do what?”

  “I told you I’d think about the problem and come up with something. Well, I have. And we do it tonight. Everybody’s distracted by this storm, getting ready for the hurricane in the morning. It’ll be the perfect cover. When you get off work, go home and wait for my call. Sound good?”

  “Uh, sure. Sounds good.”

  Andy couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with the guy who’d caused him so much misery during his school years, the guy he’d hated so intensely for so long, the very sight of whom used to make Andy sick to his stomach. He also couldn’t believe he was agreeing to do it. Although Ram wouldn’t tell him how he planned to change Jodi’s mind, Andy had a pretty good idea, and he hoped it didn’t end badly. But he remained focused on Donny’s safety. That was all that mattered.

  Andy said, “Just tell me when to be ready. And I’ll be ready.”

  9

  The old hospital stood oblivious to the wind and rain that continued to assault it. The front half of the building was dark and invisible in the black, stormy night. The Vendon Labs team occupied the rear half of the hospital, and in back, bright lights illuminated the gravel parking lot and part of the new road that had been cut through the woods. The road passed through the gate by the small guardhouse where security guards gave authorized personnel entry to the grounds within the fence, and on past the old boiler house and the woods. There was no movement or activity back there, just several parked cars.

  There was movement, however, at the western fence. A small group of men were helping a tree to fall. The ground around it was already wet and soft after many days of continuous rain. Ollie had spent a day searching for just the right tree to suit their purpose. Now they shoved the tree with the front bumper of a Cadillac Escalade.

  When the tree fell, it took down the fence.

  A short time later, there was movement on the eastern side of the hospital. Dark figures materialized out of the night and scrambled over the fence, then gathered together on the inside.

  A figure made three sharp gestures with his right arm and four men wearing night-vision goggles hurried through the rain to the oak trees within the fence and climbed the trunks. More arm gestures sent the rest of the men fanning out in both directions around the building.

  The downpour and raging wind covered whatever sounds they made, and they quickly disappeared in the darkness, leaving the night undisturbed.

  A full three minutes passed before the first crack of gunfire sounded. It was not the last.

  10

  The old Springmeier Neuropsychiatric Hospital was as prepared as it ever
would be for a hurricane, and Fara was ready to go home and hunker down. For the duration of her stay in Humboldt County, she’d rented a lovely little cottage in McKinleyville, where she would much rather be. McKinleyville though was under an evacuation order, like every other town along the coast. A crescent-shaped slice of the western end of Eureka was ordered to evacuate, the part closest to the bay, while the rest of the city was not. But it was strongly urged by officials. The hospital was located at the eastern edge of Eureka in an area known as Batten, and nobody in it was going anywhere for the weekend because it was probably one of the safest places to be.

  Fara was of the opinion that Dr. Corcoran was crazier than a shithouse rat, but he was right about one thing: the old hospital was a fortress. It was built over a century ago and had been built to last by people who knew what they were doing. Back in a time, apparently, when there were people who knew what they were doing. It had an enormous basement and subbasement. The place was like something out of those Edgar Allan Poe movies directed by Roger Corman. Driving toward it on a foggy morning would give chills to the most diehard skeptic. If this place were in a movie, Fara would be cast opposite Vincent Price as Dr. Corcoran.

  Normally a thought like that would make her smile, but she hadn’t smiled all day and saw no reason to start out in the evening. Besides, she had no reason to smile because she was about to do something that could—no, it would get her into a lot of trouble.

  The security was top-of-the-line. It was a government-funded operation, which was obvious, but that funding came mostly through CIA front companies. Officially, this was not a government project and had no connection to the government or military whatsoever. Having military personnel around would make that claim pretty unbelievable and draw as much suspicion as attention. Fara knew nothing about the security team protecting the hospital except that it was not a typical security team. They were like ghosts.

  As far as the storm went, the hospital was probably the safest place to be. But it wasn’t safe at all. Aside from the fact that Corcoran, who was a disaster waiting to happen, was overseeing a potentially deadly project even though he did not display any of the necessary qualities—like leadership, integrity, good judgment, sobriety, a conscience—it was unsafe for Fara because of what she was about to do.

  Her office window had been boarded up, but wind and rain battered it like an angry mob. The darkness had deepened as night fell.

  When Emilio came into her office, she closed and locked the door. She told him to have a seat in the chair facing her desk, then went around the desk and sat, as well.

  “Well, Emilio, was I right?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You work for Renner, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “And you’re trying to expose the project, aren’t you?”

  He blinked several times, surprised that she was getting down to business immediately. “If there’s something to expose.”

  “Have you found anything that you feel should be exposed?”

  Emilio chuckled. “You kidding?”

  “The problem is, nobody will believe you.”

  “Plenty will believe me.”

  “Your boss’s listening audience? What good would that do? I’m guessing most of them are already considered paranoid nut jobs by those who know them because they believe aliens built the pyramids, or the moon landing was faked, or something. Am I right?”

  “Some. But not as many as you think. Ivan Renner’s not like the other conspiracy guys. He tries to appeal to practical, commonsense folks. He doesn’t go along with the alien stuff, or all that Satanic Illuminati crap. He has a slightly different audience than Alex Jones, or even Coast to Coast AM. He appeals to the people who don’t believe in any of that sci-fi supernatural stuff, but who think something’s going on that they don’t know about, something under the surface of . . . just about everything. And he’s getting real popular. If he breaks this story, more reasonable people will believe him than any other conspiracy guy. More than you probably think.”

  “Especially if you’ve got someone from this project corroborating your story.”

  “You? You’re sure about this? It’ll cause a world of trouble for you.”

  “I can’t live with it anymore. I can’t live with myself anymore. But I want to do it right away. Now. Can your phone do video?”

  “Sure,” he said, removing his phone from his pocket.

  “I’ll give you all the information you need. When I’m done, I want you to send it to your boss right away. Then get out of here.”

  Emilio held up his phone and centered her on the screen. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “I’m Dr. Fara McManus, a microbiologist currently employed by Vendon Labs here at the former Springmeier Neuropsychiatric Hospital in Eureka, California. I am going to tell you the truth about the work that’s being done here.”

  Emilio was so excited, it was difficult to hold his hand still as he recorded the video with his phone. Ivan was going to fall over when this showed up on his phone. If Dr. McManus was honest and gave them something juicy.

  “We are not developing new antibiotics here,” Fara said to Emilio’s phone. “We have been creating a virus that will be used for military application. A bioweapon. I can provide no documentation to support that claim because none exists. We have not been told by anyone in charge that this virus will be used as a weapon, but it’s very obvious to anyone here who’s privy to the details of the project and is capable of critical thought.”

  Holy shit, Emilio thought. He wondered if this would break outside the conspiracy bubble, or if the fact that it came from a conspiracy guy with an Internet radio show would make everyone turn a deaf ear and a blind eye, as Fara had suggested. No, he had a feeling this was going to get some mainstream attention.

  “Worst of all,” Dr. McManus said, then stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “We have been testing the virus on human subjects. This was not part of the original plan. It was the brainchild of the man in charge of this project, Dr. Jeremy Corcoran, who claims to have done this before and who—”

  Fara stopped talking when a series of sounds outside cut through the noise of the storm. Four popping sounds. Pop . . . pop-pop-pop. Frowning, she cocked her head and listened for more.

  “Did you hear that?” she said.

  Emilio had been tense with shock ever since she’d said they were working on human subjects—It’s MK-Ultra all over again, he thought—and sent a splash of ice-cold water over his lungs. Now he snapped out of it with a jerk of his head. “What?”

  “That popping sound outside.”

  “Nuh-no, I didn’t.”

  “It sounded like gunfire.”

  “You serious?” He listened closely, but heard nothing but the wind.

  Emilio’s whole body jerked when he heard an explosive sound somewhere in the hospital. It sounded like it came from the corridor outside the office, but some distance away. And it sounded like a gunshot.

  Their eyes locked and Emilio said quietly, “The hell was that?”

  Emilio slipped the phone back in his pocket and went to the door.

  Fara’s hands clutched the plastic armrests of her chair as she watched Emilio go to the door.

  Someone, a man, shouted, and his voice echoed down the corridor.

  Another gunshot.

  Fara shuddered with an overwhelming feeling of dread, and she sucked in a breath to tell Emilio to stop as he opened the door and stepped outside.

  A male voice in the corridor shouted, “On the floor! Now! On the floor!”

  Emilio tossed her a frightened glance, then dropped facedown to the floor, lay flat, and spread his arms out at his sides.

  Fara shot to her feet with a quiet gasp.

  The intruder was tall and lean and wore dark clothes and a black ski mask over his head. He raised his right arm and aimed the Ruger SR40 in his hand at her face.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  Fara gr
ew dizzy and swayed a bit before catching herself. Her head was swirling with thoughts. Who was this man? Some kind of activist? A terrorist? The shock of the situation had made her world stop revolving for a moment, but now it continued in the opposite direction. Suddenly, nothing seemed quite real.

  “Who are you?” he said again.

  “I-I’m Dr. Fara McManus.”

  “Are you in charge here?”

  “Yes. No. I mean I-I-I—no, I’m not in charge, no.”

  “Who is?”

  Before she could reply, another voice spoke in the corridor and drew Fara’s eye to the open door.

  “Emilio? Is that you?”

  The man holding the gun on her shifted his position so he could see the door without taking his attention from her.

  Emilio lifted his head from the floor and looked up at someone standing just out of sight.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Emilio?”

  Emilio said, “I could ask the same of you.”

  He knows these people? Fara thought, feeling dizzy again. The man she couldn’t see said, “Get up and don’t try anything or my men will shoot you.”

  As Emilio got to his feet, the man stepped through the doorway. He was dressed like the first man, but short and stocky. He held a gun at his side in his right hand.

  “Dr. Fara McManus,” said the man aiming the gun at her. “She’s not in charge, but she’s in a position of authority.”

  “Good, thank you,” the shorter man said as he walked toward her. “Who is in charge?”

  She glanced at the gun leveled at her head and said, “That would be Dr. Jeremy Corcoran.”

  He nodded. “They’ll find him.”

  “They?”

  Another nod. “My men. They’re all through this hospital right now. Looking for your victims.”

  “The test subjects?” she said.

  He moved so quickly that she felt the slap before she saw it coming. His left palm struck the side of her face so hard that she spun to her left, toward the other man, and fell to the floor.