EXOSKELETON - A Novel

by Shane Stadler

  Wendler stared out the window for a minute. "Release the hornets."

  "What? Sir, those aren't scheduled until this afternoon," the technician argued.

  "Just do it," Wendler commanded.

  The tech pushed a button and an iris opened in the room below them. Hundreds of hornets swarmed in. The Exo released a fine mist over Will's body, and the hornets attacked. A moment later, a light on the control panel indicated that the patient had received an injection on the right side of his neck.

  "There goes the epinephrine," said the medic.

  The hornets were all over the man's body and stinging repeatedly. A moment later they were in flight, and in that instant they all sparked like flash bulbs. Their burnt remains floated to the floor like singed dandelion spores.

  Wendler stood perfectly still, staring out the window and mumbling incoherently to himself. He spun around and faced the controllers, his eyes blinking.

  "I need to get the Warden—don't do anything—ANYTHING!" Wendler yelled. He rubbed his eyes, then almost fell over a trash can as he ran from the control room.

  "We won't," the tech said, assuring himself more than Wendler.

  *

  Richard drove into the dark, underground parking structure, turned off his car and sat in silence. He was sure Bergman wouldn't be on his case for the delayed reports—the man was preoccupied with other problems—terminating Thompson and locating the missing project files. Richard got out of his car and walked to a secure elevator, which took him up to the seventh floor. Sunlight shone through the large windows in the front office area, and people bustled about; it seemed like a normal Monday morning. Once in his office, he checked his e-mail: a few meeting reminders, but otherwise nothing important. He'd hold onto the previous week's reports until the new batch arrived, in two days. With any luck, Thompson would be dead by then. He just hoped McDougal could deliver on his end.

  Will didn't want to experience the invasive medical tests that were planned for the day, so he exited his body the minute they started. During his explorations of the room, and some of the adjacent rooms that included those above and below him, he had noticed something peculiar. While he was at the ceiling near the control booth, he saw a digital display screen on the support appendage of the Exoskeleton, about two feet from the insertion point on the small of his back. The screen was about three inches long and an inch wide, and displayed three digits: 761. It hit Will immediately—give us the number. It was subtly placed, but he should have noticed it by now. He was intrigued: there was no way he could have seen the display from his body; it seemed they were expecting him to view it another way. He'd give them all a good shakeup when he felt the time was right.

  *

  Will felt the day's treatment had ended early. He didn't know for certain, since he'd spent most of the late morning and early afternoon separated. Action was something he could perceive clearly in that state, but time was a little skewed.

  He sensed Landau after the evening feeding.

  "You've been very active today," Landau said. "I know what you've been doing, and what you're capable of doing at this point ... But I'm not sure you fully understand your potential."

  "I'm not sure I really care," Will replied. Even with the development of his new abilities, he was still completely and utterly alone in the world.

  "I know—because you've lost everything, everyone."

  "Yes," Will replied. Again, Landau knew what he'd been thinking.

  "Then you should feel content."

  "What the hell does that mean?" Will spit back.

  "You've already thought this out: there is nothing more they can take from you," Landau replied. "You have no possessions. No one can harm your family or destroy your career. No reputation or honor to worry about. They can't even inflict pain on you anymore—if you choose to remove yourself."

  "You need to listen to me carefully," Landau said in a deliberate tone. "You are coming close to fulfilling a unique dichotomy—a link between two worlds. They have been conducting this experiment for over half a century, and many thousands of people have died. They have not yet succeeded—and this is probably their last chance."

  "I don't understand what that means," Will said.

  "You'll will soon face hard decisions—in the heat of rage and the depths of despair. And if you get out of here alive, you will have the responsibility to do something good in this world."

  "What do you mean by something good?" Will asked.

  "Trust your own judgment. It's the only reason you've lasted as long as you have ... Now I will say good night."

  "Good night, Landau." Will faded to sleep.

  VII

  Apocalypse

  It was 7:30 p.m. on February 2nd when Heinrich Bergman got a call from Warden Halbreath.

  "Your man, Lenny, is here," Halbreath said. "He's trying to set up the removal of Patient 523."

  Bergman never liked Halbreath. The man was always asking questions he shouldn't be asking, disrupting things when it was not his place to do so. It was a typical case of an ex-military officer wanting to hold on to authority.

  "When will it be finished?" Bergman asked.

  "I think you should see what's going on here before you do anything drastic."

  "Why are you delaying this?" Bergman was becoming agitated. "All you need to know is that this man is a security risk to the entire program."

  "I'll admit I don't know exactly what's been happening, but I think you really need to come see for yourself."

  Bergman sensed a pleading in the man's voice: he wanted to say more, but security protocol forbade certain things in phone conversations.

  "You're telling me I need to come out there personally?"

  "Yes," Halbreath replied, without delay.

  Bergman was silent. What could be going on?

  Halbreath continued, "And far stranger things have occurred since last week's report."

  Bergman was confused. "Last week's report?"

  "Yes, there were incidents reported for Patient 523."

  Bergman was startled. If there had been anything in the weekly report, Richard would have told him. Then he remembered that Richard had been out sick. "Tell Lenny to hold up until I get there," Bergman ordered. "I'll get the first flight out tomorrow."

  Bergman hung up on Halbreath and immediately called Richard. "Get up to my office, and bring last week's CP report."

  What a quandary he was in now, Bergman thought. The longer the termination was delayed, the more time the girl had to start communicating—and possibly to claim Thompson's innocence. Whatever was happening at the Detroit facility, it had better not be a false alarm. Otherwise he'd have to seriously consider removing Halbreath from his post, in the most permanent sense.

  *

  Jonathan hung up the phone, got up from his desk, and sat down at the large table in his office. Denise was sitting across from him, and seemed anxious to hear his report.

  "The Governor will see me as soon as he has an opening—they said within the next twenty-four hours," Jonathan replied. "I'll show him the report, and some of the supporting documents we've found. He's a good man, and may be able to expedite a move on this."

  *

  Richard was much calmer than he expected to be when he got the call from Bergman. He knew it was just a matter of time before word of the incidents got out, but he'd hoped it would be a few more days.

  Bergman was on the phone when Richard arrived at his office, but waved him in and pointed to a chair. Richard took a seat, opened the reports and tried to look interested in its contents. He'd play it off like it was news to him as well.

  Bergman got off the phone, and sat at the table. "You look like shit," Bergman said.

  Richard was suddenly grateful for his lack of sleep; it helped him look the part.

  "Well, I feel like it too."

  Bergman nodded. "Evidently, a lot has occurred while you were out."

  "Yes?"

  "Halbreath requested that I c
ome out to the Red Box to see a patient."

  "What's going on?" Richard tried to look surprised.

  "No idea," Bergman replied, and pointed to the binder in front of Richard. "Those are from last week?"

  "Yes, and this week's reports should be in tomorrow."

  Bergman grabbed the binder, and turned it sideways on the table so both men could see. "Let's have a look at Thompson—523," he said as he thumbed his way through the tabs. "Here it is." He opened it up to the tab for 523, and began to read.

  Richard already knew what it said, but pretended to read anyway. From the man's breathing alone, he knew Bergman understood the implications of the report. Thompson was clearly exhibiting the precursor signs of an incident: no reaction to pain, and talking to himself in muffled gibberish.

  "Holy shit," Bergman said. "We nearly lost this man! And Halbreath implied that more incidents have occurred since this report. This could have been a disaster—I was having him removed from the system."

  Richard wished it had been done—just one more day might have been enough. He had taken huge risks, and all for nothing. Now, even if McDougal got the files to the right people, the government would shield the project instead of disowning it.

  "Pack your bags, Richard. You're coming with me to Detroit," Bergman said almost gleefully. "I'll get us on the 5 a.m. from Reagan International."

  Richard nodded and forced a smile.

  He could see only one option now, considering the circumstances.

  He'd have to pack his gun.

  *

  Richard sat down on the couch, and looked at the clock above the fireplace; it was 10:30 p.m. He was in the house where he and his wife had made their life together, and now, even though all of the furniture was still there, it seemed like an empty shell. It saddened him deeply, but he knew he'd done the right thing sending her and the girls away.

  He programmed Jonathan McDougal's number into his pre-paid temp phone. He then put the phone, some files, and his snub-nosed .38 Special in a lead-shielded, steel case. During the flight, the case would be put in a special compartment along with Bergman's, and they'd pick it up as they disembarked. He knew Bergman carried a gun regularly, but it would be his first time. It made him nervous; he hadn't even fired the weapon in more than three years.

  Richard reached back into the case and retrieved the phone. He dialed McDougal's number, and he heard the man answer after two rings.

  "Who is this?"

  "I made a visit a few days ago," Richard replied. They wouldn't use their names. "My boss already knows about the incidents—he called off the hit on the subject. The supervisor of the facility requested we go there in person. Evidently there have been more incidents. What's the status on your side?"

  "I have a meeting with the governor of Illinois tomorrow. He will have some immediate influence, if I can convince him that this is real."

  "If anyone is going to take action, let me know," Richard said. "You can reach me safely at this number. If I don't hear from you, I'm going to assume things aren't moving forward, and I may have to take drastic steps ... Is there anything else?"

  "I also sent one of my people, the young woman you met, to try and communicate with the girl," Jonathan informed. "We're doing everything we can on this end."

  "I wouldn't have expected anything less," Richard said, and ended the call.

  *

  After an unusually long wait following the morning feeding, Will was startled by a loud click, and felt a needle stab into his right upper arm. He immediately felt a warm sensation spread from the injection site, fluming through his blood-stream. It wasn't unpleasant at first, but then, in a split second, it felt as if he was burning from the inside out. He screamed uncontrollably, and felt another hypodermic needle jab into his left inner thigh. Again ... warm ... warmer ... fire. The pain was too intense, and he left his body. All he could do was watch it quietly suffer.

  *

  Richard thought the control room had to be beyond its recommended capacity; everyone had to contort their bodies so they didn't accidently push a button or hit a switch. All the important people were there: Bergman, Lenny, Halbreath, Wendler, and the two treatment controllers.

  "What am I supposed to be looking at here?" Bergman asked, looking out the window.

  The tech explained as he pushed a button, "I'm injecting him with a chemical we call fire fluid—it's horrible. The patients usually scream until they pass out, then wake up screaming again. The process just repeats and repeats."

  "Okay, okay," Bergman said quickly. "Are you sure it's working?"

  "Don't know for sure," the tech replied. "But it's from the same batch we used on the last guy. Seems this patient isn't responding—he's not passed out, but he's not in pain either ... In fact, his face even looks calm—see the monitor?"

  Bergman glanced at Halbreath. "I'm hoping we didn't fly out just for this ... There's more?"

  "Let's go to the conference room," Halbreath said. "I'll show you why I asked you to come."

  As they headed for the door, Richard couldn't take his eyes off Thompson, first from the window that overlooked the treatment room, and then from a monitor on the wall. The man's eyes were closed most of the way, the narrow slits showing only white. He could be in the wraith state right now, Richard thought.

  "Intriguing, isn't it?" Bergman said. "Let's go see what else they have."

  Despite the situation, Richard couldn't help being fascinated by what else might be in store.

  *

  Will watched the men leave the control room. There was only one person in the group he thought he recognized—it was the man who welcomed him to this hell on that first, horrific day. He wanted to know who the others were—something was happening.

  Will saw one of the two remaining controllers scan some sensor readouts on the wall, and heard him say to the other, "His pain level is at eight point one—he should be screaming his lungs out."

  "Let's up the dose a little," the other replied, turning a dial and pressing a button labeled INJECT.

  After a few seconds, Will sensed an increase in his background agitation—his suffering body—and went back into the treatment room just in time to see the Exo eject a spent needle cartridge to the floor. The clanging of the metallic cartridge on the tile set off a tidal wave of emotion within him; an anger rising, eclipsing all else. He decided it was time to do something about it.

  Will pressed through the glass into the control room once more, and examined the two people there. Their nametags read: Paulson, Technician 34; and Schmidt, Medic 34. He then went back into the treatment room to read the three digit digital display behind the head-cage of the Exo.

  Oh yeah, Will thought. This should shake them up all right.

  *

  "Looks like he's back," Schmidt said. "About time."

  "Wait," Paulson sat up. "He said something." Both controllers listened for a moment. It became clear: the man was repeating a number.

  Schmidt looked at his computer monitor, and then turning to Paulson said:

  "Jesus ... He's right."

  "Really?" Paulson leaned over to look at the number on Schmidt's screen. "Have you ever heard of anyone getting it right?"

  "I'm sure it has happened, it's just a one in a thousand chance," Schmidt said and turned to the keyboard. "There's protocol for this." He pushed a button that activated the intercom in the treatment room. "Patient 523, what's the number now?"

  After about ten seconds came the reply, "311."

  Schmidt nodded, typed, and called to the treatment room again. "And now?"

  After a short delay, the patient replied, "172."

  "Holy crap," Paulson said, walking to the window. "It would be impossible for him to see it in that position. Do it again.

  Schmidt put in a new number and called once more. "And how about now?"

  "879 ... How long are we going to play this game, Schmidt?"

  Schmidt looked to Paulson with an expression of confused fear. "But h
ow ... "

  "I don't know," Paulson replied, just as confused. He went to the intercom and spoke. "How do you know his name?"

  "It's on his nametag, Paulson," the patient replied.

  Both controllers stared at each other wide-eyed.

  Finally Schmidt said "Let's get the warden—right now."

  *

  Richard, Bergman, and Lenny sat down at a large conference table as Halbreath and Wendler set up a computer and projector. Bergman was trying to remain calm, but his excitement was obvious. For some reason, Richard thought of something an old physics professor from his college days had said. He said that if something was possible, referring to science or engineering or whatever, humans would eventually do it, even if they destroyed themselves in the process. Richard knew the idea applied to Red Wraith project: it had already cost too much.

  Wendler dimmed the lights and Halbreath narrated the presentation.

  "This is the video of Thompson in the insect room," Halbreath explained and pushed the play button. A view of one of the treatment rooms appeared with Thompson and the Exoskeleton at its center—the date and time appeared in the lower right-hand corner: January 31, 9:36 a.m. EST.

  They watched as black flies swarmed in on Thompson's body, crawling on top of one another to get to his flesh. The audio was clear: the buzzing of thousands of flies, and intermittent screams. Then the screaming stopped, and a few seconds later the flies all took to the air as if they'd been blown off by a breeze—only to return to the body. After another few seconds of gorging, the flies went airborne a second time, but before they could return, the screen flashed white multiple times—making it impossible to see. The flashes were in unison with crackling sounds—like those of thousands of flashbulbs igniting. A few seconds later, the picture recovered, and the full view was restored.