Lampreys

by Alan Spencer

  Lampreys

  Alan Spencer

  Chapter One

  Dr. Chan feared this day would come.

  Research termination.

  The assistant director of PROJECT EV-180 PREY nervously paced the private conference room. One question burdened Dr. Chan's thoughts. How could she ensure the safety of hundreds of scientists and lower level lab techs? The team was drawing close to a successful end to the project, but the way things had been going lately, PROJECT EV-180 PREY would have to be put on hold or altogether terminated. The risk of public contamination was also becoming a serious threat.

  Things were getting too dangerous too fast. Up to date, five people were missing on the top secret installation. The missing persons' whereabouts were still unknown. Worse yet, there was a fatality this morning. One of the lab techs, Edward Campbell, didn't report for morning duty. They discovered Campbell's private quarters splattered in blood. Shards of bones were embedded in the walls and parts of Edward were left behind in chewed up pieces.

  Dr. Chan had opened up many specimens on her lab tables over the course of twenty-seven years in the global/marine research business, but she'd never seen anything this gruesome. The project was ambitious and demanded sacrifices, but Campbell's death drove her to take Dr. Sutherland aside and convince him to put the staff on lockdown until further notice. The director of PROJECT EV-180 PREY had to listen to reason. Everybody was in immediate danger, and Dr. Sutherland had to make the right call when proceeding with these delicate matters.

  "You saw Dr. Campbell's room, didn't you?" Dr. Chan begged Dr. Sutherland to take this seriously. "Campbell looked like his body was sent through a blender. Only one thing on this installation could've done that kind of damage to a person. We have to lockdown everybody, contain the escaped subjects, and retool the project. I don't even know who released the subjects in the first place."

  Were her words sinking into the stubborn director's head? What the hell was wrong with Dr. Sutherland lately? His bold white hair was out of its ponytail and hanging wildly about his shoulders. A curious smile was drawn on his haggard face. What was Dr. Sutherland thinking about?

  "Dr. Campbell was a good man," Dr. Sutherland said, breaking the long-held awkward silence between them. "Maybe not a great scientist, Campbell, but every research team needs its pencil pushers. But his death will contribute to the cause. That's what matters. No human life is too great a price."

  Dr. Chan was mortified hearing the response. "Who are you? Can you hear yourself? I want you to lock down the base and call in for help. This is beyond our control. We'll all die like Campbell if we don't. If you won't do it, so help me God, I'll call ENTECH myself and go over your head. I'll them how you've lost your mind. This was only supposed to last a year, and PROJECT EV-180 PREY has gone on for three long years. You need to get off this installation and get your head back on straight. Frankly, doctor, I question your sanity."

  Had Dr. Sutherland heard a single word she'd been saying?

  Didn't he understand the urgency of the matter?

  "Nothing is too great a price to see this project to its full conclusion," Dr. Sutherland said in a disturbing monotone. "I'm in constant contact with our superiors. Everything is as it should be. Deaths will occur. ENTECH is willing to pay that price. This is what the company wants. This is what Mama wants too."

  "Excuse me? Who is Mama?"

  "You haven't met Mama. She's above your clearance level, good doctor."

  Dr. Chan couldn't stand how matter-of-factly the director was talking about these matters of life and death. "If ENTECH knows this is going on, then why aren't they helping us? Are they planning to let these things have their way with the staff? Did you let the lampreys out of their tanks, Dr. Sutherland? My God, if that's true, then how long have they been free?"

  Dr. Sutherland couldn't contain that knowing grin.

  "The lampreys have had free rein since the beginning. They were just waiting for the right time to feed. Mama knows when the time is right. They're only getting hungrier, Dr. Chan, and what we're feeding them in the labs isn't enough. Fish guts and pig brains won't cut it anymore. So, the only right thing to do, good doctor, is to give them what they want, and that's meat, pounds and pounds of it. It's the only way to see their true potential. We must all die in the name of science."

  A chunk of the ceiling collapsed right above Dr. Chan's head. She dodged the falling debris after unleashing a scream. Next, she heard banging and drumming above in the duct system. It sounded like a sledgehammer bashing against sheet metal. The noises were coming closer and closer. Then Dr. Chan heard something else. She imagined bone grinding against bone.

  Crick-clack-crick-clack-crick-clack-crick-clack-crick-clack.

  Dr. Chan was paralyzed. She couldn't take her eyes off the large gaping hole in the ceiling. She could only see darkness staring back at her.

  "Come and get it!" Dr. Sutherland invited. "I know you're hungry. We're all so...very...hungry. ENTECH's given you free rein. Show us your full potential."

  Something horrific happened to Dr. Sutherland's face. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. The eyes literally fell back into his skull. The sockets were now empty pink holes. Around the circumference of his eyes, jagged teeth sprouted. The teeth were long enough for light to reflect against the off-white veneers. Then the teeth retracted and Dr. Sutherland's eyes rolled back up into the sockets.

  "They got to you," Dr. Chan gasped, "but how? What did they do to you? They can't think for themselves. They can't infect us. We didn't create them to do anything else, except—no, nooooooooooo!"

  The banging stopped right above Dr. Chan. The dark hole in the ceiling was replaced by a writhing tube of gray meat. The subject's maw was the size of a manhole cover. Jagged teeth sprouted around the circumference of the circle mouth, protracting for the kill. Rubber glue saliva pelted Dr. Chan in thick wads. Those deadly teeth spun in a circular motion at high speeds. A motor's whine echoed down to her; the song of her impending death.

  The walls of the subject's inner body created a suction. That suction forced Dr. Chan's long black hair to stand up on end. She reached to grab onto something to anchor herself in place, but her feet were already up off the ground. Her arms shot up involuntarily over her head. Screaming did no good, but she did so anyway. Her peals were loud enough to rip the paint from the walls. Launching up to the ceiling, Dr. Chan was sucked up into the subject's mouth.

  Dr. Sutherland stood by and watched her body vanish into the ceiling. The rewarding sound of bone teeth shredding through flesh soon followed. Swirling jets of crimson splattered everything in a few yard's radius of the kill zone. Dr. Chan was nothing more than matter to be digested and excreted.

  "I knew you were hungry," Dr. Sutherland said out loud. "So am I. Our appetites are insatiable."

  Dr. Sutherland exited the private conference room. He casually walked down three halls to his private office. There, he watched a wall of TVs playing monitor feeds from every room in the installation. Those who didn't know the situation would soon find out what was happening. That gave the doctor very little time to act. He worked the security system. He locked down every exit out of the research installation.

  Nobody was leaving.

  It was time to feed.

  Chapter Two

  Conrad Garfield heard knocking and had zero interest in answering the front door. Early afternoon sunlight bled through the curtains of his apartment. Conrad glanced at his digital clock. It was already past noon. Conrad didn't care. The new semester at Texas University started in two weeks. He resigned from his job as an English professor last semester. That was after his disastrous wedding. The ceremony was the biggest blunder of his life. The video shot at the wedding reception of his wife was an Internet sensation,
and Conrad's ultimate humiliation. Conrad still didn't know who posted that video. He imagined it was probably one of his ex-wife's dumbass friends.

  The knocking stopped. Conrad stayed in bed. A moment passed when he thought the person would go away, but then Conrad heard the key turning in the door. Only one person had a spare key.

  Oh no, not now.

  Conrad heard his brother and father talking to each other as they burst into his apartment. First, it was Duke, his older brother, saying, "God, this place is a disaster area. There's trash everywhere. If I realized Conrad was taking it this hard, I would've stepped in a long time ago."

  Then his dad, Henry, defending Conrad, said, "A man needs time alone after he gets his balls crushed."

  Henry raised his voice. "Conrad, where are you? You still in bed? Come on out, son. We need to talk."

  "I'll be right there," Conrad said. His voice was heavy with sleep and a hangover. "Wait for me in the living room. You guys should've called first."

  "So you can hide your shame?" Duke laughed. "You're keeping Keno's Pizza in business. There's like ten empty boxes stacked up here. And you haven't been drinking alone, have you? Or are you just collecting empty bourbon bottles?" Under Duke's breath, "Arielle really did a number on the poor guy. It's almost a good thing this worked out like it did. Conrad needs to get out of his head."

  Conrad threw on a t-shirt and basketball shorts, and rubbed the sleep out of his face. He stumbled on a 2-liter bottle of soda, took a swig, and gagged. The soda was flat. He would need more than flat soda to take in what his family would soon ask him to do.

  Duke was studying the living room with disdain playing on his face. He was shaking his head and passing judgments. Henry, on the other hand, was sitting on the couch thumbing through the scrapbook Conrad and Arielle had made over the two years they had dated. Conrad felt the heat of tears rush to his eyes.

  How was he ever going to get over Arielle?

  Henry invited Conrad to sit down. When Conrad did, Duke walked to the fridge. "All you eat is crap, Conrad. How do you expect to feel better when all you're eating is junk?"

  "Duke, enough," Henry said. "We're here to talk to Conrad, not judge him. We need his help, remember?"

  "He's going to say no, because he's a little bitch. You want to take him along, go ahead, but I'm not going to be changing his tampon the whole time. Conrad can't handle himself. He's not a physical guy. He likes to read and pontificate, whatever the fuck that means."

  "He might want to come along," Henry said. "Now would you sit down and shut up, Duke?"

  Duke and Henry's father/son relationship was much like a drill sergeant/cadet. They both served time in the military. Father and son were both wearing khaki pants and button up shirts. Both of their heads were buzzed. Conrad's hair was long and in a ponytail, and his clothes were as dressed down as possible. Even growing up, Conrad was different from his father and brother. Conrad read Faulkner, Twain, Keats, and Steinbeck, while Duke was out shooting small arms and semi-automatics at the local firing range with his dad. Duke and Henry shared a subscription to Guns & Ammo. They hunted deer on the weekends, while Conrad stayed home and hung out with his mother. Duke and Conrad were polar opposites. That's why it was strange they were trying to include Conrad in something that appeared to be physically challenging and out of Conrad's wheelhouse.

  Conrad couldn't help but ask, "What is this about?"

  Henry closed the photo scrapbook. "You need to get over Arielle. We know what she did was bad, but I'm not going to watch you get any worse. You need to call her a bitch and move on."

  "What she did wasn't just bad." Duke scoffed. "The bitch got so drunk at the wedding, she went through a laundry list of the people she'd slept with while dating Conrad. And man, it was a long list. I think I checked my watch a few times waiting for her to get to the end."

  Conrad's pulse was pounding hard. The same anger and humiliation on his wedding day hit him again fresh. "You guys don't understand. Arielle humiliated me, and everybody, including you two guys, laughed at me. My friends, my co-workers at the university, even the dean, were all there to see it happen. I quit my job, because Arielle works in the English department. It's embarrassing. I can't see her, and I can't see everybody else either."

  Duke's smile was growing on his face. He hadn't heard a single word Conrad had just said. "I remember that toast before you guys were supposed to cut the wedding cake. Arielle was sloshed as hell, man. How could you not laugh? Arielle said she wanted to, "Have her cake and fuck it too." I mean, damn."

  "Duke, enough." Henry picked up an empty bottle of bourbon. "You've been drinking, Conrad. You didn't used to be a drinker."

  "I'm an adult," Conrad said. "I can do whatever I want."

  "I know you're an adult, and I know how you get sometimes. You do that things writers and creative types do. They drink, they look inwards, they go in too deep, and they don't come out of the darkness. Who's that tragic writer guy? Edgar Allan Poe, that's the guy. You don't want to end up like Poe? Didn't he fall into something and die? I can't remember. Anyway, you need a fresh start, and you're not getting it in this apartment. So what if Arielle screwed you over? Thank God, you two didn't have kids. It could be worse, Conrad. You have a good life, son. I want you to realize that."

  "I loved her," Conrad said. "I was ready for kids. I was ready for it all."

  "She was out blowing dudes while you were keeping house," Duke blurted out. "Snap out of it. She no longer has control over you. You're a free man."

  "It's been two months," Henry said. "You haven't called home. We check in on you, and all you do is stay in this apartment and wallow. And I didn't know you quit your job."

  "Arielle's in the English department," Conrad said, defending his decision. "I can't see her, because I'm still in love with her."

  "It's amazing what women can do to us," Duke said. "She's out of your life, and she's still got your balls in a vice. Look, Conrad, you're my brother, but it's time to take back your balls."

  "Enough about my balls!"

  Conrad stomped across the room, stood in front of the screen door room, and looked outside. He needed a break from his family's interrogation.

  Henry got up, turned Conrad around, and gave him a hug. "I love you, Conrad. Forget everything we're saying. It's your life. You do what you need to do to get better, but you need to come up for air. Will you hear us out?"

  Duke had picked up a copy of the Charles Dickens novel Hard Times that was on the kitchen table between two giant piles of literary books. Duke eyed the book as if he expected it to be a Hustler, and he instead got an issue of Southern Living.

  "You going to tell him what's up, Dad?"

  Henry invited Conrad to sit back down on the couch. Conrad would be glad he was sitting, because he would've fallen over after hearing what was coming his way.

  "We've both done our time in the service, as you know," Henry explained. "I was in Vietnam, and Duke served in Iraq. It's okay that you're not into what we do, Conrad. I appreciate the differences between you and your brother. I apologize if it seems like I'm closer to Duke."

  Duke was shifting in his chair. He was on the verge of words and kept cutting himself off. It was making Conrad nervous the way they were both acting.

  "Sometimes ex-military get called upon to do side jobs by private companies," Henry continued. "Sometimes it's government related, and other times, the jobs come from independent entities. These special jobs are few and far between. I have a crew of people I lead, and Duke's a member of that crew. It's important what we do, but it's also top secret. We're all close, because we've seen tough combat situations together. That's probably why I've formed special bonds with Duke that I don't have with you, Conrad. I have to work on that, and I have a solution for that problem."

  Conrad's stomach kept dropping.

  What were they trying to tell him?

  "Do you guys want me to go on one of your secret missions? Do you guys fight terrorists in your spar
e time?"

  Duke smiled. "Yeah, sometimes."

  "We do jobs under the radar," Henry said. "Research companies run into problems, or the government doesn't want to allocate bigger resources to solve issues, so they use small teams of trusted people like us to complete odd jobs. We're small and effective teams. We get out and get the job done and shut up about it. Off the books, off the record."

  "You guys never told me this before." Conrad's concern was growing. "I don't know what to say. So what do I have to do with this? You're not seriously asking me to get involved, are you?"

  "One of our team members is out of commission. A skiing accident in Colorado. The guy broke his pelvis. Gibbons is out, so we've got an open seat. I need a quick replacement."

  Conrad suddenly felt nauseous. He leaned forward, took a breath, and braced himself for more information. "Me? I can't even look at a gun, never mind fire one."

  Duke threw up his hands. "Are you certain we should be telling him about what we do?"

  "He's your brother, and he's a member of the family. He should've known a long time ago. Your mom's always said that, and she was right. Conrad's fine. I'm not asking you to shoot a gun, buddy. I'm not even asking you to enter a hot zone. This is a humanitarian gig. It's a volunteer job. We're going to Africa. We're going to be digging ditches and working on creating a clean water supply in the village of—"

  "Wait, I still don't understand what you guys do," Conrad said. "Do you seriously go after terrorists? And Mom knows?"

  Henry grabbed Conrad's arm. His father didn't want Conrad to blow his top. "Yes, your mom knows. Listen to me. It doesn't matter what we do, necessarily. It's nothing you have to worry about. This is a humanitarian job we're talking about. It doesn't pay money. It's not like our other gigs. It's a mission of peace. Don't worry about what else we do otherwise. That's our burden to shoulder.

  "You need to come up for air, Conrad. A big dose of perspective will show you your life isn't all that bad. Other people have it a lot worse than we do. I'm not watching my son feel sorry for himself a moment longer. I want to include you in a family tradition; at least the volunteer stuff. Your grandfather did this kind of work after World War II. A few of your uncles do this work too, and I just wanted to include you, Conrad. You might like it, or you might not, and it's no big deal if you don't. I'm asking you a favor this one time. We're under the gun here. The opportunity happened a week ago. A private group offered to pay for tickets, lodging, and meals in exchange for our labor. I got all of our crew to sign up. The job's tomorrow. One seat's open, and your name is on it."