EXOSKELETON - A Novel

by Shane Stadler

  "What the hell just happened? Where are the flies?" Bergman said, his eyes bulging.

  "They burned up. See the floor and the burnt parts floating in the air?" Halbreath said as he pointed to the screen.

  Richard was overwhelmed; he had never seen anything like it. He turned to see Bergman's expression, which was like that of a child on Christmas morning.

  "Let's look at the hornets now," Halbreath said as he fast-forwarded.

  "There's more?" Bergman asked, elated.

  "Yes. The hornets, and also the dental assistant."

  The video showed the hornets flying out of an iris and attacking Thompson voraciously. In just a few seconds, an event occurred that was identical to that of the flies, and the camera was again saturated with bright flashes.

  Bergman sat down. "This might be the real thing ... A real incident ... And what about the dental-"

  The door to the conference room flew open and slammed into the wall as Paulson and Schmidt burst into the room. Richard nearly fell out of his chair.

  "He's reading the numbers," Schmidt said, out of breath.

  Richard could hardly believe what he'd just heard. The numbers. It wasn't uncommon for patients to report a correct number from time to time—a one in a thousand chance is not difficult when over three hundred guesses are made each day. What really mattered was the number of times a patient would give the correct number. Nobody ever got two correct.

  "How many times did he get it right?" Richard asked, knowing the protocol.

  Paulson looked to the Schmidt, who shrugged. "At least four times," Paulson finally replied.

  Richard was astonished.

  "That has to be real. Let's get down there," Bergman said, looking at Richard with wide eyes.

  Richard knew the odds of guessing a number between one and a thousand four times in a row was miniscule—one in a trillion. It had to be real.

  "But wait," Paulson said. "He also knew our names."

  Bergman put his hand on the man's shoulder.

  "You're sure of that?"

  "Yes sir ... When he gave us the numbers, he used our names."

  Bergman turned to Richard once again. "Let's get down there."

  *

  Back in the control room, Paulson sat at a computer terminal and checked the treatment parameters. "The pain level indicators all read zero, and there is no active treatment right now," he said as he turned up the volume for the room microphone. The treatment floor was silent.

  "Can you talk to him?" Bergman asked.

  "Here, you can," Paulson said, and handed him a portable mic.

  Bergman hesitated briefly, finally saying: "Thompson."

  There was no response.

  He waited a few seconds and said it again, this time louder, "Thompson."

  Again, no response.

  Bergman turned to Halbreath. "Is he unconscious?"

  "I have no idea," Halbreath replied, "but the medical crew is already on their way down there—they want to try a direct injection of concentrated fire fluid."

  "Can we go down there—on the floor?" Bergman asked.

  "Yes, follow me."

  Richard didn't know if it was safe to go down to the treatment room, but then he remembered his contingency plan. Personal safety was not a factor anymore—it couldn't be. This might be his only opportunity to get close to Thompson. He pulled his left arm tight against his body, and pressed the hard object against his chest to reassure himself: the gun was loaded and ready.

  *

  Will watched the warden, and all but two of the other men leave the control booth. He knew they were on their way to him. He listened in on the controllers'conversation.

  "What the hell's going on?" Paulson asked.

  "No idea," Schmidt replied. "But I am freaked out."

  Will needed to know who he was dealing with. He went back to his body, and said "Paulson, who were those men?"

  He waited ten seconds for an answer.

  "Better answer me before they get down here."

  *

  Paulson and Schmidt stared at each other, frozen. Neither man replied.

  Schmidt's coffee cup suddenly smashed against the wall, seemingly of its own volition, spraying him with coffee and ceramic chips. The door handle made a horrible screeching noise as it spontaneously ripped itself from the control room door, leaving a gaping hole surrounded by shards of jagged metal.

  "Who are they?" Will screamed.

  Paulson pushed the intercom button, shaking. "They're government guys—some research agency. The boss is Bergman, his partner is Richard—I don't know his last name. The tall guy with slicked hair is the warden. That's all we know for sure."

  "What's the warden's name?"

  "Halbreath, Jack Halbreath," Paulson yelled hysterically.

  "Now go away—get the hell out of there," Will commanded.

  After a brief moment of hesitation, Schmidt rushed for the door and tugged at it frantically. He kicked and strained, but it was thoroughly jammed.

  Paulson ran over and tried to help, only to be thrown across the room by an unseen force—the same thing happening to his partner. The door then ripped itself from its hinges with a deafening screech, and flew into the hall.

  The two men ran out.

  *

  Will waited for the men from the control room, but was confused when he saw three different, yet familiar faces enter through the access door. The doctors strode in, Poliakov assembling a hypodermic needle and filling the syringe with a yellow fluid. He then approached Will.

  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline treatment today," Will said. "I'm just not in the mood for more needles."

  Poliakov ignored him and continued his approach.

  Will exited his body and advanced upon the man. From the perspective of the other doctors, Poliakov suddenly thrust the needle into his own thigh, plunging its contents into his bloodstream.

  Will returned to his body to watch Poliakov's reaction: he thought the doctor deserved a taste of his own medicine.

  "Why did you do that?" Dr. Noh yelled at Poliakov.

  "I didn't ... I ... " Poliakov trailed off as his eyes bulged.

  His face distorted into a terrible grimace, and he burst into a blood-curdling scream. He then dropped to the floor, convulsing wildly. Dr. Johnson approached to aid him, but took a wild kick to her midsection. Poliakov suddenly went silent, no longer moving.

  Johnson's face was pale as she cradled her stomach. "We better get him to the lab."

  Will watched as the two doctors dragged Poliakov out of the room, leaving a double trail of dark streaks from the heels of the man's shoes. Will knew he didn't have to let them go, but he did—there might be bigger fish to fry.

  The access door swung back slowly, but didn't close completely. A few seconds later Will heard Poliakov's screams recommence: it was a relentless chemical.

  Now he'd wait for the others.

  *

  Richard followed Bergman and Halbreath down the narrow service channel that led to the treatment floor. Lenny followed closely behind. Without warning, there was a horrific scream about fifty feet in front of them that echoed down the corridor. Halbreath and Bergman both stopped suddenly, and Richard peered around them to see what was happening. He saw two people in white coats struggling to drag a third, who thrashed for a few seconds before falling limp and silent.

  "What's going on?" Halbreath asked as he approached.

  "Not sure," Johnson replied. "We'll explain in the medical lab."

  When they got to the med lab, Poliakov was laid on one of the exam tables. For the half hour that followed, the man repeatedly awoke, then screamed and thrashed himself back into unconsciousness.

  Johnson recounted what occurred in the treatment room—what Thompson had said, how Poliakov injected himself with the chemical.

  Halbreath took a call on his cell phone out in the hall. When he came back in, he told Bergman that the two controllers had fled their post, and described wh
at they reported witnessing in the control room.

  "Okay," Bergman took the lead. "I want to have a meeting in one hour. Halbreath, you set it up."

  Halbreath nodded.

  "I want all of the relevant personnel to be here," Bergman added, "that means the controllers who are responsible for the next treatment room, the engineers—and the entire medical staff. I don't care if they aren't on duty—get them here. One hour."

  Bergman dialed his cell phone as he left the room. Richard knew he'd want all of the project contributors there to witness the first controlled event. This was Bergman's moment—what he hoped to be remembered for. But Richard wasn't sure it was going to work out the way he hoped.

  *

  At 9:00 p.m., Richard sat at a large table in a conference room with all of the other personnel that Halbreath had gathered. Bergman sat at the head of the table.

  "What room is he in tomorrow?"

  Halbreath answered, "He was supposed go through a surgery prep routine. He has a precancerous cist ... Just maintenance, really."

  "We'll need something else," Bergman said. "Something more severe."

  "The electrical dental stimulation has been the most effective treatment thus far," Halbreath replied. "But if you want him to talk, then the bone-bending program would be best."

  "Does the room, or the Exo, have a mechanism for terminating the subject if the need arises?" Bergman asked.

  "Why?" Halbreath seemed confused.

  "A safety precaution," Bergman snapped. "There's potential danger here. I'll be carrying a weapon, but we'll need a backup plan."

  One of the engineers, a thin, balding man in his late thirties, cut in. "We could load sodium pentothal into one of the injection chambers ... The program is designed to keep the subject alive for as long as possible, but we could override that interlock with the warden's access code."

  "Good," Bergman said. "Set it up so it can be activated with the push of a button—there might not be time to do anything more, understand?"

  The man nodded.

  "Now," Bergman addressed everyone, "you must understand that everything we've talked about here, and everything you see tomorrow, is strictly classified ... This might be the most important discovery in recent times, but it needs to remain a secret." His phone rang in his jacket pocket. "I have to take this. I want all of you here at 5 a.m. tomorrow." He turned away and answered the call. "Admiral Sparkes, yes, you should get here tonight if possible ... "

  *

  Will was exhausted but could not sleep. He sensed Landau's presence.

  "I'm aware of your activities today," Landau said.

  "Yes, it seems I have the tools to survive—if I want to ... But I can't find much to live for here ... "

  "What has happened to you is something that usually takes a complete lifetime to occur," Landau replied. "It is the purpose of this life. You are now fully stripped."

  "It's the purpose of this life to be stripped?" Will asked. "I don't understand."

  "Everything you lost you were going to lose anyway," Landau said. "All of it ... People try to forget that by clinging to the people around them, their careers, physical belongings, youth ... but it will all be lost ... You no longer have to live through that long, tortuous process."

  "Those are things that bring people happiness," Will replied. "How can losing them be the purpose of this life?"

  "All the things that make you think you're happy in this world do not," Landau replied. "It is a façade. Not one thing in this world is permanent. A hundred years from now, everyone you have ever seen or heard of will be dead. Everyone ... There is only one objective of this life—to strip you of your desires, lies, and misconceptions. Real life starts after this is accomplished."

  Will couldn't speak.

  "Is it really such a dark idea?" Landau asked. "When a man thinks he is happy in life—with his job, wife, family, health—he immediately starts to fear the loss of these things, and feels his own mortality by proxy ... The purpose of your life, of everyone's life, is to shed the real Exoskeleton—fear," Landau said. "Fear of losing youth, loved ones, material belongings—fear of pain, fear of death and what lies beyond ... You have already shed all these things."

  "It feels like something big is happening," Will said. "I can't sleep."

  "You're right, Will. Something big is happening ... And I've taken you as far as I can. You will be on your own from here."

  "I understand."

  "One last thing," Landau added. "You've experienced first-hand that you are not limited by the physical world—even the Exoskeleton cannot contain you. But let me remind you of something else: you are not limited by time, either. That was the purpose of my question: where were you in 1952? The correct answer to that question is somewhere ... You have been, and always will be somewhere."

  Will was silent.

  "Goodbye William."

  "Goodbye Landau," Will replied with a meek voice. He would not hear from Landau again—but he was at peace with the thought; it seemed he no longer needed him.

  The Exo started its rotation.

  *

  "What the hell was he saying?" Bergman asked Richard. They'd been sitting in the control room for an hour, listening intently to Thompson's muffled gibberish.

  Richard shrugged. He had no idea—it sounded like someone speaking in tongues, but with two different voices, alternating like a conversation. From the camera trained on the Thompson's face, Richard noticed that even his facial expression changed as he switched voices.

  "All I can tell you is that he's not sleeping," the night tech chimed in, pointing to a brain-wave monitor on the control panel. "Seems to do this a lot." He handed Richard a ringed binder labeled Nightly Reports.

  Richard paged through it—there were a dozen such reports of Thompson carrying out garbled conversations. "Do the other patients do this?" Richard asked, and handed the binder to Bergman.

  "Some, yes," the tech replied. "But they're usually talking in their sleep, or crying to themselves; nothing like this, and not nearly as often ... Guy might have a split personality."

  Lenny walked into the room with a hot cup of coffee, and Bergman asked the night tech and medic to step out for a few minutes.

  The controllers obliged, and closed the door behind them.

  "As you both know," Bergman began, "our Thompson problem has not changed, but the solution to the problem obviously must."

  Richard didn't understand.

  Bergman continued, "Thompson is the program right now. And, therefore, a threat to him, is a threat to the entire project." He looked to Lenny.

  Lenny nodded. "I'll get the first flight out," he said.

  "Where's he going?" Richard asked.

  "Southern Illinois," Bergman answered.

  It took Richard a few seconds to process the information. When he realized what Bergman meant, his guts twisted, and he felt sick.

  He had to contact McDougal.

  *

  Richard got to his hotel room a little before 11:00 p.m., took off his jacket, and unstrapped the shoulder holster for his .38 Special. He pulled out his temp phone and called Jonathan.

  "I have some news for you," Jonathan said immediately.

  "Go ahead."

  "I went to Springfield and spoke with Governor McGuinness today. He's going to help us get the ball rolling on this."

  "It might already be too late," Richard responded. "There's going to be a test tomorrow. Everyone is convinced that Thompson is transforming—I'm convinced, too."

  "We'll keep pressing—we're doing everything we can."

  "I believe you," Richard responded, "but that's not why I'm calling." There was only silence on the other end, so Richard continued, "Bergman ordered a hit on the victim—the girl that just came out of a coma. She's a threat."

  "My God!" Jonathan shouted. "Denise is there with her."

  "The assassin's name is Lenny Butrolsky," Richard explained. "He's flying to St. Louis from Detroit Metro early tomorrow
morning. I don't know any other details."

  "Okay, I have to make some calls immediately. Thanks for the info," Jonathan said and hung up.

  Richard hung up his temp phone, and picked up his permanent one. He stared at it for a minute: it occurred to him that the upcoming conversation with his wife might be their last.

  *

  Denise plugged her phone into the car charger and turned it on—seeing she had missed calls, she then dialed her voicemail. There were eight new messages. As she listened to the fifth, she almost drove her car into a ditch. The clock on the dashboard read 10:07 a.m. She searched frantically through her purse, and quickly resorted to dumping it out on the seat. She grabbed the Glock 40 and put it in her jacket, pushing the accelerator to the floor. She had to get to the hospital.

  *

  When the Exo halted its rotation, Will knew immediately that something was wrong. It didn't place him in the feeding position, and there was no maintenance routine.

  A few minutes later, the access door opened and a dozen people walked in—some in suits, others in military uniforms and lab coats. A tall man in a dark suit walked over, his hard-soled shoes making loud clicks on the tile floor. It was one of the men from the control room the previous day.

  He walked under Will, who was suspended about ten feet above him, and opened his mouth to say something.