EXOSKELETON - A Novel

by Shane Stadler

  The crowd mumbled in a tone that Richard perceived as appoving. Money could buy a lot of things—even souls, it seemed.

  "According to the projections, how much longer should we expect to wait for a positive event?" asked an aged woman near the front.

  Bergman nodded for Richard to field the question.

  Richard selected a slide on the computer presentation, and spoke as he guided a laser pointer over some numbers. "Figures from numerous studies, assuming we process over seven hundred subjects per year, indicate that it should take two years to produce a positive event. But this is only a statistical projection."

  "Won't your processing rate go up when the new facility goes on line?" a navy man asked.

  "Yes," Richard replied. "The Baton Rouge facility should speed things up dramatically. But it won't be operational for another twenty-four months."

  Richard fielded a few more technical questions before Bergman adjourned the meeting.

  "Thank you all for coming. We'll meet again in six months."

  He placed some files in a metallic briefcase, then pushed a button on a remote, rolling the projector screen into the ceiling. He turned to Richard and said in a low voice, "Don't run off just yet, I need to speak with you."

  Richard nodded and packed up his things. His stomach fluttered; maybe he'd finally hear what Bergman wanted to talk to him about on New Year's Eve.

  *

  Will felt a twitch and knew his inverted wait in the darkness was over. The Exo came to life again, beginning to orbit the room as rows of lights—hundreds of them—ignited on the walls. The lights scrolled by him faster and faster, changing color from bright white to red as he accelerated around the room. His stomach churned, and after about fifteen minutes he heaved. What little came out sprayed through the head frame of the Exo and onto the walls. Will's head pounded and he faded out of consciousness momentarily.

  When he came to he was still orbiting, but at a reduced speed. Eventually he felt the machine come to a gradual halt, yet the room continued to spin. At first Will was confused, but then something dawned on him; it was the lights—they were programmed to maintain the illusion of motion. He closed his eyes but this did little to steady him, and he began to dry heave. It was the worst case of motion sickness he'd ever experienced, and the treatment had only just begun.

  *

  Richard nearly had to jog to keep up with Bergman as he followed him to his office on the seventh floor. They entered and sat down at a small conference table.

  "I think that went fairly well," Bergman said, referring to the meeting.

  "I suppose we'll know in a few days when they renew their commitments ... If they renew their commitments."

  "Yes," Bergman replied, clearing his throat before he continued. "You know as well as I do that this project carries huge risk-"

  Richard nodded. He sensed something bad was coming.

  "And it's not just because of the amount of funds involved," Bergman explained. "The biggest risk is what history is going to say about us, Richard, and our country—when the cat is out of the bag ... If that happens before we get any results, I worry what they're going to do to us."

  Richard nodded. It was a legitimate concern. They could be tried for everything up to and including mass murder.

  "We have a problem," Bergman said as he leaned back in his chair.

  "Yes?"

  "Have you heard of Jonathan McDougal?"

  The name sounded familiar but Richard shook his head.

  "He's a popular activist lawyer—been on TV here and there," Bergman explained. "He gets his nose into all sorts of things; he was involved in the death penalty moratorium in Illinois, and he's the current director of the DNA Foundation."

  "What of him?"

  Bergman took a deep breath and said, "He's the one pursuing the Thompson case. And it turns out there's a chance he could get it reopened."

  "And you think he wants to expose the program?"

  "That's precisely what he intends," Bergman replied. "Pulling an innocent man out of the program is a nightmare scenario. Investigative journalists would hone in like sharks. We'd have to shut down and scrap things in a big hurry."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "We're going to monitor McDougal's communications, and I want you to head it up," Bergman answered.

  "Why me? Security isn't my area.

  "I need someone I can trust on this one."

  The delivery of the statement, and the man's expression as he said it, made Richard uneasy. Was Richard next in the interrogation chair? He knew his imagination was getting the best of him: Bergman had no reason to think he was the source of the leak. If anything, it should be just the opposite: he would go down just as hard if the program were to be exposed. He had designed many of the system components. Just like the Israelis tracked down the designers of the death camps, the authorities would get to him, too.

  "That reminds me," Bergman continued, "any news on the missing files?"

  The words made Richard itch. "No. But I saw on the news this morning that they pulled Frank Weiss' body from the Potomac last night."

  Bergman nodded. "Yes, it's unfortunate."

  "Suicide?"

  "Of course not," Bergman replied without hesitation. "The consequences of disloyalty are quite clear."

  Richard couldn't believe Bergman had just admitted to killing the man, or having him killed. He knew such things occurred, but this was the first time he'd ever been so close to it. "I guess he rolled the dice, and lost."

  "Sure did," Bergman replied.

  Richard left Bergman's office and headed for his own. The situation was getting pretty heavy now, but it seemed an ending was in sight. He just didn't know what that ending was. He could feel a plan forming in the back of his mind—all of the pieces were there. Soon it would be his turn to roll the dice.

  *

  They'd given Will an unusually long lunch break—probably so his body had a chance to absorb the nutrients before he vomited the food out again. But his insides felt progressively worse as time went on.

  He remembered the form he'd signed giving consent for the insertion of a feeding tube. If he couldn't hold down his food, they'd probably do just that. He had no idea how it worked—but he was sure he didn't want to find out. Presently, he had new problems brewing that required his attention. The Exo twitched: it was time to commence the treatment.

  The Exo started by spinning Will around the room, legs—out now, and he felt the blood drain from his head. He grayed out continuously, just barely holding on to consciousness, and the pain in his lower abdomen progressed. Finally, the pressure buildup in his bowels was just too great—and he let it go, the contents dousing his back and legs. The stench was immediate and strong, causing him to gag. The Exo continued to spin and twist, and with the help of the horrible smell in the air, Will dry-heaved on and off for the remainder of the treatment.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the Exo decelerated and returned to the center of the room. Will felt utterly humiliated—he was coated in his own excrement, dizzy-drunk and completely exhausted. Maybe, he desperately hoped, it was over for the day.

  A male voice came over the loud speaker, "Give us the number."

  "What?" Will yelled, utterly confused. After a few seconds of silence, a horrible shock jolted his body. "What the hell?!"

  "Tell us the number," the voice repeated, more forcefully.

  Will searched desperately for a number—the walls, the Exo, the ceiling. There was no number anywhere.

  Another shock tore through him. "Tell us the number."

  "Okay, okay." He gave them the first random number he could conjure. "Twelve." He waited in anticipation. No shock, no response.

  *

  Denise opened her email and found over twenty unread messages. Weeding out the junk mail, she found four or five legitimate messages: one from Jonathan, a few from personal friends, and one from "KCamden@StanTech.net," with the subject line reading: Your Vi
sit. The email was addressed to her alias, and read:

  We received the DNA Foundation's fax formally requesting the release of the DNA samples (if we find them). My supervisor said you are welcome to help us search after hours -- which means after 8:00 p.m tonight. -Kristine

  Denise had nothing to do until 8:00 p.m. In the mean time, she'd read case files and wait.

  *

  Will thought his head would never stop spinning. The feeling persisted through his feeding, and he fought to steady his queasy stomach, still fearing the possibility of a feeding tube. It was only during the cleaning routine that he began to recover.

  It felt like a year since he'd been inserted into this earthly version of Hell, but it had only been two days, three if he counted the first day of medical and dental tests. Will already felt as if he'd been fundamentally changed. He recalled what the psychiatrist—Dr. Cole—had said about the treatment involving "spiritual aspects.' It seemed he was starting to understand what that meant. If spirituality had anything to do with hope, his so-called spiritual outlook had most certainly shifted towards the negative.

  Will examined the blue-white metal of the Exoskeleton. There was a certain beauty in its complexity—but it was still his captor and tormentor, and he felt hatred for it. He was its soft, organic inhabitant, like a snail in a shell: only his shell served a very different purpose.

  The lights dimmed, and the Exo began its slow rotation in the sleep cycle.

  Will knew a new day would arrive all too soon.

  *

  As she headed north on the interstate toward StanTech, Denise wondered about the orange glow in the sky to the northwest. Her nerves tingled, and though she wasn't sure how, she knew something was wrong. She exited the highway, but kept up her speed. As the jeep rounded the final bend, she felt the heat from the blazing inferno just a hundred feet ahead. The flames illuminated a dozen scurrying firefighters, as well as the emergency vehicles, their flashing lights almost invisible against the fiery backdrop.

  Denise's first thought was of the evidence; even if it had been there, it was gone. She drove closer, watching numbly as the firefighters sprayed down the ruined building. Flames licked high into the night sky, and hot gasses hissed sporadically. Suddenly her mind flashed to Jonathan's warnings of potential danger, and she had to fight the urge to flee. She pulled into the gravel parking lot of the convenience store across the way, then stepped out and approached a fireman.

  "How did this happen?"

  "Ma'am, I can't answer any questions unless you're law enforcement, in which case I need to see a badge," he replied as he rolled out a hose.

  "Was anyone hurt?"

  "Like I said, if you're not law enforcement you need to move along. Go on now."

  Denise was about to say something to the man, but suddenly felt sick to her stomach and ran back to her car. She got inside and pulled out her temp phone to call Kristine Camden. The call went straight to voicemail, and gooseflesh perked up all over her body. She locked the car doors, and frantically searched her purse for something. Taking out the Glock 40, she inserted the clip and clutched the weapon in her trembling hands. A few seconds later, she sighed, removed the clip, and put the gun back in her purse. She was just being paranoid.

  Denise turned the Jeep around and saw that the firemen had put up a road block to stop traffic from coming in from the west. One car had already turned around to head back when a dark SUV approached the barrier from that direction, and stopped. A large man, the driver, got out and spoke to the firemen. A second man emerged from the passenger side, and stared at Denise's car as the driver argued with the fireman; she could see he was trying to talk his way through the barrier.

  The hair on her neck bristled. She panicked and gunned the Jeep, causing the tires to spin and spit gravel until they chirped on the pavement of the road. In her rear view mirror she could see the driver was now yelling at the firemen. She sped away. She had no idea why she was fleeing in such a panic, gut instinct was directing her actions.

  Denise sped the two miles back to the gas station she'd stopped at the day before, and parked the car in the lube-service lot on the east side of the building. It was dark there, and she backed in between two cars so she could see the oncoming traffic from the west. She dialed Jonathan's number, but there was no answer. Once more she removed the handgun from her purse, cradling it in her lap. A few seconds later, she saw the headlights of the dark SUV speeding in from the west. Her heart pounded, and she slouched down as far as she could without obscuring her view of the road. The SUV slowed to a crawl as it passed the station, and she saw the face of the driver scanning the lot through an open window. She was right—they were looking for her.

  To her relief, the driver gunned it towards the interstate. They'd missed her. She could see the northbound on-ramp of I-57 out her side window, and watched the SUV speed down it and onto the highway. She'd survived their initial pass, but they would most likely double back at the next exit.

  Denise didn't want to be caught on any back roads—there might be others looking for her as well. Instead, she thought of a way to get past them on the highway. The timing of her departure was critical—she'd want to be about a mile behind them when they hit the first exit to turn around. That way she could catch them as they crossed the overpass. She turned on the GPS and found the next exit to the north—it was six miles up. She started the Jeep, and headed for the interstate.

  She drove down the ramp, and was on the highway for a mile before she turned on her lights. There were a few cars ahead of her, none of them the SUV, and a semi-truck was approaching from behind. There was little oncoming traffic from the north, and she passed the exit she thought her pursuers might use to turn around—it was dark.

  Then something happened about a mile ahead that made her heart skip a beat: she saw brake lights, and a vehicle bouncing across the grassy median—the SUV turning around. It was foolish to think they would use an exit.

  The approaching semi was now a few hundred feet behind her. Denise slowed from seventy to sixty, and prayed for the truck to pass her. To her relief, she saw the bright yellow turn signal in her side mirror, and the truck switched to the left lane. As it started to pass, she sped up slightly to keep up, shielding herself from the view of oncoming traffic. She watched her rear view mirror and saw the tail lights of the now southbound SUV. She bumped up her speed up to 80 mph—she had to get back to Jonathan.

  It was 8:20 p.m, and the GPS calculated her ETA to be 1:35 a.m.

  The situation had gone over the deep end; who were her pursuers, and how did they know who she was? She reached for a bottle of water on the passenger seat and felt her hand tremble. As Jonathan had warned, this was much bigger than a rape case.

  Denise's mind raced with her all the way back to Chicago.

  *

  Will was awakened by the sudden halt of the rotating Exo. The night had been just a flash, and morning had dawned on Day Three. He flexed and stretched—the best he could in his confinement—and the lingering pain from the activities of the previous day pulsed through his body. The pressure behind his eyes was immense; it couldn't be too healthy having one's brain sloshing around for hours.

  The feeding apparatus came down to fill him with his morning mush. The paste he was force-fed changed flavors for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—or meals one, two, and three. He felt it was better to give the meals a number—like his personal name—rather than associate them with anything from the civilized world.

  After meal one, he went through the usual maintenance and sterilization routine, and the Exo transported Will to the next room, where he noticed the faint scent of chlorine. There were no announcements, and he was given the opportunity to confess his crimes in exchange for a "day of rest." He told them to "fuck off." This, he'd decided, would be his usual response.

  "Very well," the voice boomed.

  The Exo lowered to the floor and positioned Will on his back. He heard valves squeak open and water rushing onto
the floor—they were flooding the room. He felt the cold water slowly inch up his body through the Exo. The process was the epitome of a claustrophobic nightmare.

  Soon the water level rose above Will's mouth so that he had to breathe through his nose. His ears fully submerged, he could hear the burble of running water superimposed on white noise. The water finally engulfed his nostrils. After a half minute his lungs were on fire, and he badly needed a breath. He was on the verge of panic—soon he'd inhale uncontrollably, and his lungs would fill with water.

  At the precise moment his breath would no longer hold, the Exo rose several inches, pushing Will's nose and mouth about one inch above the surface. He gasped hard, coughing violently. Snot ran out of his nose, and he tasted the salty mucous on his lips. He caught his breath and shouted, "Fuck you, assholes." His anger momentarily surmounted his fear.

  The water inched upwards.

  *

  It was 7:30 a.m. when Denise knocked on Jonathan's office door. She needed rest, but she needed his company even more. She'd made it home before 2:00 a.m. that morning, but was unable to sleep due to the residual adrenaline of her encounter, and the thought that Kristine Camden might have burned to death in the lab. She heard Jonathan's voice through the door.

  "Come in."

  She walked in and quickly sat down as her vision blurred from the tears welling in her eyes.

  "My God—What's wrong?" Jonathan asked, moving to console her.