Frankenstorm

by Ray Garton

  Simon Granger stood on a fat, sturdy branch and hugged the trunk of the oak tree he was in to keep from falling as it tossed and swayed in the raging wind. He wore night-vision goggles over his ski mask and his Remington 700, equipped with a suppressor, was strapped to his shoulder. He’d been soaked to the skin for so long now, it was almost easy to forget he was wet.

  Upon entering the hospital’s fenced-in grounds with the others earlier, he and three other men had climbed the enormous oak trees that stood like great sentries around the hospital. Simon stood in the tree on the western side. The trunk split into two fat arms that spread apart, as if it were going to hug the building, its tentaclelike branches extended in all directions.

  As Ollie’s men had headed for the back of the building to get in, Simon had watched the Vendon Labs security team as they were caught completely off guard. They’d come from the guardhouse at the gate, from the building’s rear entrance, and some had materialized out of the darkness that had concealed them. They were fast and silent and Ollie’s men did not hesitate to shoot them. Now their bodies lay scattered around the grounds. The guardhouse stood dark and empty and the chain-link gate was twisted and broken and standing open.

  Earlier, he’d watched someone crash a Jeep through the gate and speed away down the gravel road. He should have called Ollie and told him about it, but he’d been too busy hanging on to the oak’s trunk to keep from falling out of the tree. His only job was to cover the others as they went into and came out of the building.

  The storm had intensified in the last several minutes and now the tree in which Simon stood was flailing in the powerful wind, creaking and groaning, threatening to throw him to the ground. A sound came up from beneath him, one he could not identify at first—a cracking, popping sound. It came in bursts and reminded him of the sound of popcorn popping in a microwave oven.

  The wind attacked the hospital like an angry beast. The windows on the ground floor had been boarded up, but apparently not well enough. The boards over some of the windows in the rear began to come loose. One of them flapped noisily in the wind for a while, then tore away with a crunching sound and flew into the darkness. Others began to follow.

  Simon was afraid that Hurricane Quentin had arrived early and was ready to party while he was still in this tree, waiting to cover the others when they came out. But when would that be? He didn’t think it would be a good idea to stay in the tree to wait and find out. Even if there were any security guards left to protect them from, Simon knew he would be useless in that tree. He had to get down. But he didn’t feel right climbing down without calling Ollie first.

  As he reached down to take his phone from its sheath on his belt, the crackling sound continued below and suddenly grew louder. Simon did not grasp what was happening until the tree was already falling toward the building.

  The hospital’s western wall rapidly grew larger until it swallowed up Simon’s field of vision. He made no sound before his skull was crushed in an avalanche of plaster and wood and glass and metal and oak. Simon died inside the building.

  PART FOUR

  Deranged

  32

  Quentin ripped through Humboldt County like a horde of demons.

  The roof of the café and gift shop at the Sequoia Park Zoo was peeled off the building. The roar of the wind could not drown out the cries of the animals in the zoo—the hooting and howling of gibbons, the shrieking of birds. The storm destroyed much of the Barnyard petting zoo, flattening fences and tearing down porticos.

  The Old Town Shelter was the only part of Old Town that had not been evacuated. The police knew they wouldn’t be able to get all the homeless out of the area. They had hiding places where they would lay low to avoid having to move. Most of them were scared of the police and hid from them. They were suspicious of relocations and especially evacuations. The shelter remained open for those who would inevitably come out of their hiding places and need food and shelter from the storm.

  It was in a white clapboard building in a First Street storefront. It had been a flophouse back in another time. Now it stood between a restaurant supply store and FleshArt Tattoos and Piercing in the most consistently disheveled and run-down part of Old Town.

  It was dark and crowded inside. Much of the light they had came from kerosene lanterns and battery-operated lights positioned here and there, stable and unwavering, but the rest came from flashlights and handheld lanterns and flew all over the place as the lights were moved around. Someone led them in singing old campfire songs they remembered from Boy Scouts and summer camps, while waxed paper cups of hot chocolate were handed out.

  Something crashed into the front of the building with a sound that some would later describe as a bomb going off. It was a power pole, but it did not fall into the building—it was hurled into the building like a missile. It slammed into one of the front pillars in the old building as sparks flew from two overturned kerosene lanterns. The explosive crash was immediately followed by the screaming of voices in pain.

  Flashlight beams cut through the dark and converged on the damage.

  Someone shouted, “Get that lantern! It’s burning!”

  And then there were flames, and screaming, and a frantic explosion of movement.

  The steeple of St. Bernard’s Church was sheared off at the base and thrown several blocks, where it crashed through the roof of a sewing machine store and repair shop.

  A twenty-three-foot-long Airstream Flying Cloud was lifted from the Redwood Empire RV and Motorhome Park and flung a distance of two miles by the storm, until it crashed and slid loudly through a Safeway grocery store parking lot, spraying sparks as it gouged the pavement.

  It was a night when more than rain was falling from the sky and the wind was out for blood.

  A single pair of headlights moved cautiously through the street, slowly up one block, then down another, fighting the wind, easing through the downpour, as if searching the streets for something....

  33

  Sheriff Mitchell Kaufman worried about his blood pressure as he drove through the storm. He was so tense at the wheel that the muscles of his back, neck, and shoulders burned and his chest felt tight. His blood pressure was probably high and climbing. His cholesterol level probably felt pretty good about itself in comparison.

  His patrol car was rocked and jostled by the wind as he drove slowly through the eastern part of town. Farther west, closer to the bay, much of the town was already flooding. Even here, the gutters had become creeks.

  Kaufman had lived in Eureka his whole life. With a population of a little more than 27,000, it was the biggest coastal city in the state north of San Francisco, but it was still a rural town more than a 160 years after its founding. As sheriff, Kaufman’s responsibility was the entire county of Humboldt, which was home to nearly 135,000 people. Tonight, with the power outages and flooding and other damage done by the hurricane, all of those people would be a lot more stressed than usual, which meant that Kaufman’s department and Eureka’s police department were going to be busier than usual.

  Kaufman was old enough to remember the Columbus Day Storm of 1962. His little brother had been born only a month earlier and Kaufman was almost six years old. It turned out to be one of the most powerful cyclones ever recorded in the United States in the twentieth century. He remembered his father driving them to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, a big Victorian in McKinleyville with a dark, musty basement that young Kaufman refused to enter alone. They spent the entire storm huddling in that drafty basement in the flickering light of kerosene lanterns. It was fun and terrifying all at once—fun because it was a new and exciting experience and terrifying because of the constant, violent sound of the howling storm trying its best to get at them. As he listened to that sound, Mitchy, as he was then called, imagined the storm as a giant, black monster that blended in with the night as it stomped and slashed its way through towns and neighborhoods. And yet, he didn’t truly believe anything bad would happen to them because he was
with his family and he was confident they would keep him safe.

  Now, even though he was old enough to know better, he found himself imagining the same thing again as a blue-and-white-striped canopy from a porch swing slapped onto his hood, clung there for a moment as if resisting the wind, then blew away in a blur. It was easy to imagine the storm to be a living thing. Unfortunately, he no longer had the luxury of being a little boy in the arms of his family, and he did not feel confident that he would be safe.

  Hurricane Quentin promised to be worse than the 1962 storm, which had become known as the Big Blow. He knew he wouldn’t be able to drive around like this much longer, but he didn’t want to go back yet.

  In the last hour, there had been looting in Old Town, with shots fired between police officers and three subjects. There were power lines down all over the place and live wires were squirming like electric snakes over the ground, spitting venomous sparks. A car had driven into a house in Willow Creek and a fight had broken out in which someone had been stabbed. There was a report of shots fired in a mobile home park just outside of McKinleyville. A little girl was missing in Arcata. It was like a big disaster party that was getting too crowded.

  Kaufman was listening to the radio on his way to the old Springmeier hospital, but his eyes scanned the night as he drove, searching for Deputy von Pohle’s car. The drive to Springmeier was mostly a cover story. He had something else on his mind as he took a wandering, indirect route, eyes scanning, searching. He’d told no one about the real reason he was driving around in such a bad storm because he had no proof, only suspicions, and a sick feeling in his stomach that he knew wouldn’t go away until he’d either proved or disproved those suspicions.

  Something had been up with von Pohle for months. Kaufman had watched his work performance gradually deteriorate, as well as his behavior. He’d become increasingly withdrawn, distracted, and temperamental. He’d been reprimanded a couple of times for using unnecessary force, and once he was caught drinking on duty. He was quick to anger and was abusive and even threatening toward his coworkers more often and with less reason all the time. He’d been a deputy for almost thirteen years, and although he was a little loud and overbearing at times, he’d exhibited nothing but model behavior until recently.

  Kaufman had called him into the office about ten days ago and asked him what was going on.

  “Going on?” von Pohle said.

  “I don’t have time for that. You know what I’m talking about. I’ve been paying attention, you’re chewing on something, or it’s chewing on you. Is everything okay at home?”

  He got a tired, faraway look in his face and slowly slid down to a slumped position in the chair. “No. It’s not.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My wife. She’s been fuckin’ some guy. Some guy who runs a nursery. Can you imagine that? A fuckin’ gardener,” he said through clenched teeth. “He’s even a spic! And he’s younger than her!” His fists were clenched, and even though he was slumped in the chair, he was taut. His lips trembled a little when he spoke the last two sentences.

  “Look, Ram, you need to calm down, okay?” Kaufman said softly. He’d seen this kind of behavior in cops before and knew it was unpredictable and dangerous. “Just . . . calm . . . down. Take a deep breath, okay?”

  Although irritated by the direction, Ram took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and readjusted his position in the chair a little, making a clear attempt to try to get more comfortable and relax.

  “You never seem to be very far away from rage these days,” Kaufman said.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? Now she’s talking about divorce.”

  “You need some time off?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “No, I couldn’t handle this shit if I couldn’t come to work every day.”

  “Maybe you should think about it. Maybe work isn’t where you should be focusing your attention. We’ll get you some counseling, you take a week off and try to start fixing the problem.”

  He tilted his head back slightly. “Fixing the problem?”

  “Yeah. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Well . . .” His big body shook as he laughed silently. “You wanna kill her or should I?”

  Something about that silent laugh jolted Kaufman. He’d never known von Pohle to do that before. He was a loud, unabashed laugher. Seeing him shake with laughs he kept inside was somewhat disturbing.

  “You serious, von Pohle?”

  He remained slumped there for a moment, grinning at Kaufman, saying nothing. Then the grin fell away as he sat up straight, stiffened his back, leaned forward slightly, and got serious.

  “No, sir. Just letting off some steam.”

  “You want to be careful how you do that. It’s gotten you into trouble before, and if you keep it up—I’m serious about this, von Pohle—it’s going to kick you in the ass. If you don’t want to take time off, I want you to get some counseling.”

  “Look, I’m fine, really, I don’t think I need coun—”

  “I think you need counseling, and that’s all that matters. And you are not fine. Infidelity, divorce—those are traumatic things. They fuck people up. I’m going to make the call right away. So be ready. When you’re told when to go, you go. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Now, what about your wife? Is this going to be a problem you can handle?”

  “I never said I couldn’t handle it.”

  “I know you didn’t, but I’m asking. Can you?”

  He slumped in the chair again. “Yeah, I can handle it. You kidding?” He shook again as he laughed silently. “Goddamn right I’ll handle it. I’ll handle ’em both.”

  “Jesus Christ, do you hear yourself? Should I be worried? You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?”

  He turned his head slightly back and forth. “No. I’m not.”

  But by then, Kaufman was not prepared to believe him. He insisted on counseling and decided to go on keeping a close eye on von Pohle. If counseling didn’t help, or if he got worse, Kaufman would reassess the situation and act accordingly.

  Neither von Pohle’s work nor his behavior got any worse, but he became more withdrawn and isolated. He stopped going out for drinks with other deputies after his shift. But he did not step out of line. He showed up on time and did his job.

  Kaufman was not sure if that was a good sign. Did the fact that he was exhibiting decent behavior at work mean that he was giving his rage an outlet elsewhere?

  So far, Kaufman had not encountered any other cars on the streets. Unlike him, most people seemed to be smart enough to stay inside where it was warm, dry, and safe, rather than out and about, driving around in this hellish weather.

  As he watched for von Pohle’s car, he listened to the radio, keeping track of everyone and everything: downed power lines secured outside of Fortuna . . . missing girl’s parents being interviewed . . . looting quashed . . . mobile home park shooting being investigated . . .

  Earlier that day, Ivan Renner had called to warn him about Ollie Monk.

  Kaufman thought what Renner did for a living was nuttier than a Christmas cheese log, but he liked the guy. It was rare to meet someone who was exactly what he appeared to be, said exactly what he meant, and did the things he said was going to do. Kaufman had listened to his show and was surprised by how much of it didn’t sound crazy, but that was only because Renner didn’t sound crazy and was a pretty likable guy. He couldn’t buy all the things Renner believed, but Kaufman knew he was sincere and that he really believed it and wasn’t just trying to sell books, videos, website memberships, and post-apocalypse survival equipment. Kaufman had a lot of respect for Ivan Renner, enough to listen when he called or showed up for a chat.

  Several months ago, Renner had gotten it into his head that the government was up to something in the old Springmeier mental hospital. He gave Kaufman all of the research he’d done on Vendon Labs, told him about the secretive back road they’
d cut through the woods rather than reopening the front gate. Kaufman had agreed to pay an unannounced visit to the old hospital, but he would not let Renner accompany him.

  The new road was exactly where Renner had said it would be, and it led to a gate in the fence that had been erected around the hospital grounds and electrified. He told the guard at the gate that it was a friendly visit and he had some questions for the person in charge. The guard made a call, then let him in.

  Kaufman was greeted at the hospital by Dr. Jeremy Corcoran, who was in charge of the project. They went to his office and had coffee, chatted for a while. Corcoran was happy to answer Kaufman’s questions, and he answered each one thoroughly and without hesitation.

  What were they doing there? Developing new antibiotics to fight new infections that had become resistant to standard antibiotics.

  Why there? The hospital perfectly suited their needs. More accurately, it oversuited their needs, because they used only small section of the enormous old building. Most of the hospital was completely closed off because it was no longer structurally sound. They had refurbished only one section on the ground floor in the rear of the hospital.

  Is this a government-funded operation? Corcoran claimed he didn’t know because he never concerned himself with that end of any project, but it was very possible that there was some government money involved because antibiotics-resistant strains of infection were a major concern and it was in the country’s best interest to combat them.

  Corcoran was no different than any other brainy type Kaufman had encountered, and the county was full of them thanks to Humboldt State University—academics, scientists, geniuses, and brilliant students who had more intellect than sense were all over the place. Kaufman had nothing against them and recognized that they were an important part of society, and he wasn’t one of those morons who was suspicious of anyone intelligent and well educated, but the exceptionally brilliant types tended to put him off.