The front of the Student Union stood exposed in cross-section, like an architect’s drawing, but this architect had a twisted imagination. The glowing edges of the building’s framework were holding together, at least for now, but he wondered when they might surrender to gravity or burst into flames.
Inside, some of the theater’s second-floor patrons were huddled together, close to the exposed edge. They seemed oblivious to the trails of smoke invading their space and the precariousness of their position.
“Hey!” he yelled up to them. “Get back! The edges are hot.” They gawked at him but didn’t respond, obviously still too stunned by the flash of devastation to think clearly.
A scruffy young man on the third level was standing between a rolling office chair and a metal desk that had been sliced in half. Based on the equipment and metal spools nearby, Lucas assumed the longhaired man was inside the projectionist’s booth.
Lucas was amazed his scrawny neck could hold up the weight of his head, given the bushel of hair hanging from his scalp and the medley of jewelry decorating his face. His right hand was holding the waistband of his saggy blue jeans, while the piercings covering his earlobes, eyebrows, nose, and lips twinkled in the moonlight.
The projectionist walked to about a foot away from the ledge and looked around with a glazed look on his face. He stood there, motionless, for at least thirty seconds, then stepped back to the desk and pulled his shirtsleeve up to peel off a white patch on his left bicep. He tossed the covering away before opening one of the few remaining drawers to take out a cigarette. He lit the joint with the smoldering edge of the desk, then sat in the rolling desk chair and inhaled a long drag, making the tip of the cigarette glow red-hot. He puckered his lips to puff out floating smoke rings, one after another.
* * *
When Drew arrived at the steps, he flung himself out of his chair, landing chest-first on the cold cement, which nearly knocked the wind out of him. He grimaced when his right elbow landed directly on the edge of a step, sending numbing pain up his arm and into his shoulder.
Even though he only had partial feeling in his legs, the cement stairs still hurt his kneecaps. But the pain was nothing compared to the howling emptiness swelling in his heart and the boiling knot in his stomach. He’d finally found a girl who was interested in him. A pretty girl who was smart and funny. And now she was missing. His eyes were telling him one thing, but his brain refused to accept it.
Scattered along the stairway was a trail of body parts, as if a tree shredder had shot them out from its chute. He saw an arm, a leg, a severed ear, and part of a skull. The scene was right out of a macabre horror movie, but one thing struck him: there was no blood anywhere. He tried to convince himself the fragments were only mannequin parts, but his self-trickery failed when the unmistakable odors of seared meat and burnt hair assaulted his nasal passages. He almost gagged and felt like he needed to throw up, worrying the smell might become permanently etched into his brain.
He searched the steps on his hands and knees, inspecting each body fragment to see if it belonged to Abby. As far as he could tell, none did. But of course, for some of the pieces, he couldn’t be sure. He scoured the open pit in front of the theater, but again, he found no sign of her. She was gone.
* * *
Lucas moved to the lower edge of the crater and looked inside.
“How the hell?” he asked, seeing a familiar black film covering the bottom of the depression. He bent down to sample it, rubbing the powdery substance between his fingers. Then he smelled it.
“Oranges again,” he said, wondering if it was the same substance he’d found inside the reactor core. Before he could answer his own question, a dark, sickening notion washed over him. He tried to ignore it, but it was too powerful, pushing its way to the forefront of his thoughts.
Was the second run of the E-121 experiment connected to this? Whatever this was?
He pondered the question for a moment, then pushed it aside, not ready to dwell on it or accept the possibility of a ‘yes’ answer. More data and study was needed.
Can’t jump to conclusions, he convinced himself, needing to turn his focus to Drew. His brother was priority one right now. Pull it together dickhead. Drew needs you.
He walked to Drew and knelt down beside him. He wanted to console his brother, but he couldn’t find the proper words. They were all jumbled up and backward, flailing out of control just beyond the tip of his tongue.
The same thing had happened when he’d tried to comfort Drew after their adoptive father had passed away years before. He knew he sucked at consoling people, but he needed to push past his anxiety and step up, now more than ever. Whether it be with words or actions, he needed to try. For Drew and for himself. Anything was better than nothing when a loved one was suffering from unimaginable pain.
He rubbed his brother’s neck, hoping Drew would know he was there for him. That he loved him. That he’d never leave his side. However, when his normally effervescent brother looked up with tearful eyes, Lucas almost broke down as a flood of emotions pushed up from his heart. He gave Drew a one-armed hug, fighting to remain strong and steadfast; it wasn’t easy. He needed to look away, trying to find something else to focus on so he wouldn’t totally lose it.
A few yards to his left, a lifeless body wrapped in a bloodless Denver Broncos football jersey—number 10—sat slumped over in a twisted heap. The mound of unresponsive flesh was leaning to one side, resting against the upper step, with only its right leg and arm still intact. The left side of the skull and neck were missing, making it an even more gruesome sight than it already was.
The corpse belonged to Abby’s roommate, Jasmine. She’d been wearing the same jersey only moments before it happened. He could see the girl had been sliced in half, as if by a molten hot guillotine, and there wasn’t a drop of blood anywhere. Her head was tilted back and pushed to one side, exposing the brain matter clinging to the inner membrane lining her skull. Her right eye was open and dilated, looking directly at Lucas.
He covered his mouth with his free hand, trying to ignore the nausea swelling in his gut. But his body had its own idea. A small amount of stomach bile erupted, slinking its way up his esophagus and into his mouth, leaving a rancid taste that sickened his tongue. For a moment, he thought that was going to be the end of it, but the pressure in his belly continued to grow exponentially. More was coming. Lots of it.
Lucas let go of Drew and stood up in a hurry before moving away. He bent over just as the flood arrived, sending a stream of foul-smelling puke across the steps. Part of his stomach contents had stuck to his lips and was now dripping slowly from his mouth. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and stood upright to compose himself, taking a series of deep breaths and letting them out.
It took some time, but he managed to shake off the nausea and let the scientist within him assume command. He wiped his hand on his pants, then turned and went back to her body.
Even though only half of her face remained, he could see she’d been a gorgeous young Hispanic woman—a promising medical student who’d been cut down in the prime of her life. Her death had been brutal, but he figured she wasn’t aware or plugged into her consciousness when death came to collect her. No more than if she’d been standing on the train tracks and was flattened by a speeding locomotive from behind. Instant death meant no pain—one good thing amongst all the tragedy filling the steps of the Student Union.
Lucas scanned the area for the rugby player and his cohorts, but found no sign of them. He went down to the base of the stairs, stepping over a string of cell phones and designer purses. There was a red-and-blue backpack still attached to a slender arm and shoulder, which had a heart-shaped pink tattoo that read “Billy.”
On the second-to-last step, he found a pair of half-full water bottles, each with a severed hand wrapped tightly around it. To his right was a pair of unattached legs sitting at an odd angle, as if they were propped up by something.
Lucas moved
closer and found they were resting on top of a severed head. It was mostly bald except for a streak of yellow hair down the middle, telling him what he needed to know. It belonged to the Mohawk rugby player. The skull must’ve rolled down the steps after it was decapitated, though he couldn’t fathom how the legs ended up on top of it. Perhaps they tumbled down the stairs, too.
But in the end, what did it matter? All he knew for sure was Drew got his wish—the man was gone forever, almost as if the universe had been listening and took action to erase him from existence.
Lucas took a few steps back to view the entire scene in one frame. The visual evidence across the front of the building spoke to him: when the flash obliterated the theater’s entrance, it had encompassed nearly the entire movie line, taking with it anyone unlucky enough to be standing inside its perimeter. Those persons straddling its outer edge were cut in two pieces, vertically, like a lamb shank being chopped by a cleaver on a butcher’s block. The leader of the rugby players must have been bent over—probably laughing or tying his shoe—when the flash happened, separating his head from its body.
Then, out of nowhere, his logic was replaced with a stampede of thoughts supercharged with emotion.
The flash of light—shit—it was the same type of burst they’d seen when they reviewed the video recording of the experiment. The one that coincided with the phantom power spike inside the core. Plus, there was the black powder residue appearing in both places after the flash. It must have been some type of byproduct of the energy release. And last but not least, the strange scent of oranges. Drew couldn’t smell it back in the lab, and probably couldn’t smell it now. But Lucas could, helping to firmly connect the two events in his memory.
A sense of dread slammed into Lucas’ spine. He tried to stop it but couldn’t as his chest tightened and his face went numb. His lungs began to take in a series of rapid, shallow breaths. One after another, the air rushed in, making his head swim and every muscle in his body ache. He dropped to his knees when his eyes blurred out of focus, his heart no longer able to deny the facts lying right there in front of him.
The E-121 experiment must have caused this.
This was all his fault.
He killed these people.
He didn’t want to believe it, but it was true. He was the person responsible for the bloodless massacre. He knelt there, gasping for breath, while his mind tried to process the magnitude of what he’d done.
Just when he thought he might remain frozen on the steps for the rest of his days, he heard the sound of a boy sobbing and moaning. It was Drew—behind him.
Lucas snapped out of his emotional fog, suddenly able to think clearly again. He struggled to his feet, fighting against a pair of wobbly knees and sweeping muscle fatigue. He shook the pain from his heart and turned to his brother, who was sitting in a ball, staring at the open crater with a face full of tears.
The look of despair on Drew’s face said it all—he was beaten and besieged by what had just happened. It was a completely normal reaction to a horrific set of events. Any normal person would’ve been sitting right next to Drew, bawling their eyes out, too.
But not Lucas. He couldn’t allow it, no matter what he was feeling inside. He needed to press on and find strength. Somehow, some way, he knew he needed to figure this out and make it right. For him and his brother, and for the families of all the victims. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but he had to do something because if he did cause this, he’d never be able to live with himself.
He looked around at the carnage, forcing himself to concentrate on what to do next. Then new thoughts popped into his head.
What if this wasn’t a onetime event?
What if this was just the start—of something?
How many more people might die?
How many more deaths would he be responsible for?
Just when he thought he was in control, the pain in his chest returned, this time doubling in intensity after those additional thoughts soaked in. His brain seemed to start moving in slow motion as an intense sense of doom took control of his body.
He closed his eyes and fought back with all his remaining strength. He needed to find a way to stop the guilty swell; dwelling on it wouldn’t do anyone any good.
Not now. You gotta get a grip, he told himself, getting pissed at his emotional weakness. Then he made himself a promise. Never again will you let the guilt take control. Turn it off. Shut it out. It’s the only way. You have to be strong and figure this out. For the victims and for Drew.
He ran his hands over his face and eyes, trying to wrestle control from his emotions. It took a few fist slams against his chest, but he managed to push past the random flashes of insidious thoughts and find his logic again.
Come on, asshole. You’re a scientist, he told himself. Observe, document, and verify. Science is based on facts. Observations and conclusions. There has to be an explanation. Think it through.
But how would he gather the facts?
He glanced down and found the answer right in front of him: an expensive-looking, high-resolution video camera on the bottom step. Its black safety strap was cut four inches from the digital camera’s padded handgrip. Two fingers and a thumb were lying on the ground next to the unit, probably the owner’s.
Lucas flipped the unit over to examine it. Everything appeared to be in one piece. Its red REC light was on, with display numbers steadily increasing. The thing was still recording despite being dropped several feet onto the cement stairs.
Step One, he thought, documentation. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Logic and control were returning. Guilt was being pushed aside. Find a way to fix this.
He slid his right hand into the narrow safety grip and aimed the camera at the demolition zone. He started by slowly panning from left to right across the exposed sections of the theater, making sure he stood back far enough on the mall’s grass to record all the damage.
Then he walked up to the crater, knelt down, and filmed a close-up of the black powder. He got a shot of his fingers scooping up a handful of the substance and letting it pour through the palm of his hand. He finished by documenting the precise location of each body fragment lying on the steps.
Lucas removed the camera’s flash drive and slid it into his pocket. He intended to review the evidence captured on the drive once he and his brother returned home. With any luck, the camera’s owner was facing the right way when the flash appeared.
The faint echoes of emergency sirens began in the distance as they wailed and whooped through the heavy night air. Someone had obviously called 9-1-1. He bent over to put the camera on the step and caught a glimpse of a crowd of onlookers taking refuge in the middle of the grass. Most of them were clustered together, arm in arm, trying to comfort each other. He wanted to feel compassion for them but wouldn’t let the emotion take root. He couldn’t. Not after the promise he made himself. He ignored the feelings, sending them into the blackest corner of his heart.
The emergency sirens howled suddenly in his ears, no longer a faint echo. Reflections of swirling red and blue lights danced off the building façades surrounding the grassy mall when police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances flew over concrete curbs, cut across sidewalks, and ripped up grass with their tires to reach the scene. It wouldn’t be long before the place was crawling with news media, too, and hundreds of Good Samaritans and gawkers. He needed to grab Drew and get him back to the apartment.
Lucas turned back toward the theater and out of the corner of his eye, spotted Trevor galloping toward him from the east end of the Student Union. The former wrestler was wearing a red muscle shirt and weightlifting belt, his sweat-soaked physique bulging and glistening with each stride.
“You damaged?” Trevor asked when he arrived, breathing heavily from his sprint.
“No, I’m okay and so is Drew, but I’m pretty sure Abby Park is dead.”
Lucas quickly explained what had just happened. He told his friend about the blinding flash of l
ight, where Abby and Jasmine had been standing, and the bloodless body parts. Even though Lucas suspected this incident was related to their lab incident, he wasn’t going to tell Trevor about it, at least not yet. He wanted to review the video evidence in private, first. He needed to have verifiable facts and a solid theory before he shared his conclusions with anyone else. If he was going to take the blame for this tragedy and invite a mountain of scorn upon his soul, he had to be sure—one hundred percent sure. Until he was, there was a slim chance this wasn’t his fault. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, but his heart and his mind needed to hang on to something positive. And that’s all there was at the moment.
Lucas continued with Trevor. “I’m going to wait here for the police to tell them what I saw. But Drew is in no shape to deal with the cops right now. Can you do me a huge favor?” he asked, pointing at his brother. “Get him home right now, before all hell breaks loose.”
Trevor agreed and headed up the steps. Lucas kept an eye on him as he carefully tiptoeing through the sea of body parts until he reached the top. He knelt down next to Drew, picked him up with the strength of ten men, and carried him down the stairs to his wheelchair. Moments later, he and Drew slipped into the building shadows along the west end of the Student Union.
Lucas ran to the first police car that was now arriving in a skid, waving his hands above his head. He approached the driver’s side door just as the officer shoved the gearshift into park and turned off his siren. The emergency lights were still flashing, making it difficult for him to see inside the driver’s window.
When the male officer got out of the cruiser, Lucas looked up a steep angle to make eye contact with him. The bald cop with a thick mustache was a few inches shorter than Trevor, and not nearly as muscular. The officer put on his police cap and repositioned his duty belt.
“I’m Sergeant Cherekos. Can you tell me what happened here?”
Linkage (The Narrows of Time Series Book 1) Page 11
