by The Behrg
“And God saw that it was good.”
Verse XX.
Grey unzipped a pocket on the waist strap of his Kenmore pack, removing a pair of Rayban sunglasses. The sun had already crept over the trees in the East and was enough to give him an early headache. That and the smell of feces with every breath of air he inhaled. God, what he’d give for a shower.
He and his band of unlucky desperados marched down the dirt road leading back to the center of town, luggage and equipment in tow. At least some of it. The emergency supplies and food were gone; Faye had been told the local police would be distributing them. Grey suspected not even the officer speaking with Faye had believed that tall tale.
One of their camera bags had also vanished as well as every iPad and cellphone. At least they had recovered a few of the laptops, though Grey’s MacBook and Malcolm’s Dell had gone missing. Luckily, Grey had backed up his content on several zip drives. Malcolm had been livid, but Grey convinced him not to bring it up. When the mob steals from you, you don’t ask for your money back; you just thank God you lived to tell about it.
And then you never tell about it.
Several baby chicks darted beneath a crumbling fence on the side of the road, disappearing into patches of weed and snag-grass. Kenny hiccupped loudly, a long drawn out chortle that was unlike anything Grey had heard before. Grey quickly decided against asking him what was so funny. The biggest realization of how dejected they were came when he noticed not a single one of them had thought to film their walk from the prison. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.
“I should never have come here,” Malcolm said. “I don’t even like Mexican food.”
Despite everything, Grey laughed.
“This ain’t Mexico, bro. You seen any Taco Bells around?” Kenny asked, followed by a loud hiccup. The large rolling crate of camera equipment he dragged behind him left a jittery trail in the dirt.
“Helicopters ready?” Grey asked. “They’re still here, right?”
“One of them, yeah.” The bag hanging from Faye’s shoulder pulled her beige collared shirt down, revealing more of the tattoo than Grey had seen before. It made him wonder where the rest of that calligraphic beast had wound itself.
“Only one?”
“The other left soon after we arrived,” Faye said.
“So how do we call it back?” Kenny asked.
Here it comes, Grey thought.
“We have to wait until it returns. Besides we haven’t accomplished what we came here for.”
Both Malcolm and Kenny stopped, a loud hiccup escaping from Kenny. They both turned to Grey, the silent and unanimously-chosen ambassador of the film crew.
This was a battle, however, he was ready to fight.
“Do you have any idea what we’ve been through?” He kept his voice calm. Something that required an immense amount of effort. He let his pack slump to the dirt road. “We could have been killed in there and no one would have known. Do you honestly think anyone would notice a few more missing bodies amongst the wreckage from this earthquake?”
“There’s not that much wreckage,” Faye began.
“You don’t get it – these people, they don’t have rules! They locked us up because we’re American. What do you think’ll happen when we try shutting down their plant? A nice civil conversation? Open negotiation? No! They’re likely to shove machine guns down our throats!”
“He’s right,” Donavon said, folding his arms. “It’s not worth risking our lives over.”
Faye let her bag slip down off her shoulder, not bothering to straighten her shirt. A white tank top poked out from beneath. No one else spoke, yet she looked at each of them in turn, her barrel of a boyfriend included.
A loud hiccup escaped from Kenny’s open mouth.
“That’s it? One setback and you’re ready to jump ship? After everything it’s taken to get us this far, two years of planning, preparing for this day, this event! I mean did you really think we wouldn’t encounter some opposition? That we’d march in to cheers on the streets, streamers in the air? That we’d be heroes? Is that what you thought?
“Well get over yourselves! This is bigger than you or me or any one of us. I don’t care if I have to set up a tripod and march around in a circle filming myself, I am going to get this footage, and I am going to shut this plant down even if it’s just for a single day – a single hour – because I believe in our cause. And I believe there are millions of others who would fight right alongside us if they just knew how; knew that others cared. That they could … make a difference.”
She waited for a response but no one had one.
“There’s a reason our campaign is called Regener–Nation,” Faye continued, speaking softer. “We can’t do this alone. We need a nation, an army, the whole world on our side, but if you make me, I’ll do it alone. I’ll try. I’d die trying.”
Twenty minutes later Grey found himself standing in front of the road to the lumber mill recording a now disheveled looking Donavon as he told the story of how they had been thrown into prison. Dirt had been applied to his face like makeup before a scene, his cargo shorts and Lacoste polo shirt torn. He carried it off like a hero, jaw set, his eyes full of sparkling hope.
“No obstacle will stop us from doing what we came here to do,” he said. “Because each of us, no matter our circumstance, can make a difference.”
He just needed someone to give him his lines, Grey thought. Maybe they all had.
He smiled back at the performing actor, giving a thumbs up and said, “Perfect.”
Verse XXI.
A great big splotch of green crème fell from the pastry Zachary Morley bit into, hitting the ground with a disgusting splat. Ear buds hung from the top of his faded Aerosmith t-shirt, dangling down between the flaps of his lab coat.
Dugan flicked his fingers impatiently against the leg of his Columbia pants, the fabric making a flitting noise. Not surprisingly, the screen on the wall display Morley tapped at was filthy with dried swipes of oily food from whenever he had last entered the Freezer.
The section of the hallway they stood in rocked side to side briefly, a precursor to their descent. And then a four foot section of flooring began to lower, Morley stepping away from the wall. Upon passing the ground level, a replacement floor slid into place above them.
The faux flooring was eight feet thick, all but guaranteeing it would go unnoticed by any casual observer in the Facility. Not that anyone with access to the area above could be considered casual. But with the stakes as high as they were, no precaution had been deemed unnecessary. Supposedly even Stanton didn’t know where the entrance to the Freezer was located.
“When were you gonna tell me?” Morley shouted at Dugan once the flooring overhead had sealed completely. His words echoed in the thick polycarbonate tubing they rode through.
“You think I knew about them pulling the plug?”
“Screw the plug, we just find another outlet. Plugs are universal.” He made a ring with one hand, sticking his finger in and out, in an obscene gesture. “I’m talking about your man. Escaping. Flying the coop.”
“We’ll get him.”
“You’re gettin’ old, Dugan,” Morley said. “Losing your touch.”
“Yeah? Well if you had your shit together I wouldn’t be forced to look for alternatives. God knows we have enough guinea pigs for you to work on.”
“Ah, I don’t believe that for a second. You’d find some reason to keep up the hunt. It’s what men like you do.” Morley stuffed the last of his pastry into his mouth, wiping his fingers on his coattails. Green goop clung to the front of his beard.
“At least one of us gets results,” Dugan said.
“Man, the stuff we’re doing down here? No one’ll come close to in twenty years. If I could publish this I’d be set for life.”
“You’d also be in prison.”
“Eh, to each their own. Remember, no smoking.”
Dugan felt the drop in temperature immediately as
the platform lowered into the center of the dark warehouse. Even without being able to see much, there was a sense of vastness here, like entering a huge cavern with no end. The air felt electric; alive, as if unimaginable creatures were pressed to the very edges of where the light failed.
“Be a shame to see all this go to waste,” Morley said absently. He pressed a button on a small penlight keychain, grabbing a remote from a pillar next to the landing.
Dugan followed him through a winding path in the dark.
“You haven’t asked what I’m about to show you,” Morley said.
“You’re about to show me. Why should I ask?”
“New guy working out?”
“The Kid? Yeah, he’s alright.”
“You should have seen the knockers on the assistant they sent me the other day. Would’ve made Dolly Parton look flat!” Morley said, his breathing heavy from their walk.
“What, was she tripping on them?”
“We all were!” Morley said, laughing.
They stopped in front of a number painted on the ground. D-14. Reflecting off of Morley’s light, the numbers seemed to glow with an eerie luminescence. Morley pulled the remote from his pocket, a device that looked like a smartphone. Keyed something in.
A sharp light broke through the darkness from overhead, shining down on a lone hospital bed. The body of a small native child lay prone upon it, cords and wires zipping from his arms, neck and head to the silent machinery around him.
He was unconscious, eyes not even roaming behind his closed lids. Only the slight rise and fall of the sheet above his chest gave sign that he was in fact alive. The bed dwarfed him, making it feel as if the white sheets and mattress were slowly consuming him.
In a way, Dugan thought, they were.
The machinery and hospital equipment surrounding the bed were half cast in shadow, humming softly in a language no human understood.
Morley stepped to the edge of the bed, pulling the sheet back from the boy’s body. The child was naked beneath, a grotesque scar like a maniacal smile crossing his lower abdomen.
“You know we don’t even bother stitching them anymore?” Morley traced the jagged curve of the scar with one finger. “I mean look at this, after two days? The acceleration of fibrous tissue and collagen equates to almost four weeks of recuperation.”
Dugan remained where Morley had left him, the light passing just over his head. “Now I’m asking. I know you didn’t bring me here just to admire your artwork.”
Morley’s finger continued sweeping across the boy’s skin, his face enraptured. “We broke new ground with this one. Removed his pancreas, intestines and stomach.”
“How long?”
“I told you, two days ago. And he’s still here, clinging to life. But it’s the organs, Dugan, that I’m really proud of – they’re still alive! Repairing themselves almost as fast as they’re dying! We’re close.” Morley put his face next to the child’s skin and inhaled deeply. “I want to do a heart next. See how long it’ll keep beating.”
“Congratulations. You’re a modern Doctor Frankenstein. Now while you’re busy diddling your ex-experiments do I need to hire someone who will actually do what needs to be done? Isolating whatever it is that gives these primitives their regenerative abilities?”
“There is no way to isolate it! Not when there’s no it! If you were a little smarter I would go into the pathogenic mutations in their millions of genomic variants and the billions of microbiomes unique to their exome sequencing. The homozygous variants we’ve identified through SNP microarrays during the prioritization process contain more potential causative mutations than horny school girls at a Justin Beiber concert. In layman’s terms, it’s like looking for a particular person with squinty eyes in China.”
“So much for being close.”
“Really? You’re really gonna go there? You and your band of outlaws searching for a mythical sasquatch?” Morley left the bed, coming over to stand directly in front of Dugan. The overhead light shone on the top of his head, highlighting his greasy brown and greying locks. “Even if you found him – if he even exists – what makes you think he’d sign up to help you, this Shaman? Your profound reciprocity?”
“He exists. And trust me, he’ll have no choice. Not if he wants to save his people.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Morley asked. “I mean, if he was out there don’t you think he would’ve shown himself by now? If for no other reason than to stop you? Look around, Dugan. I’m surprised there are any natives left.”
A squawk sounded from the walkie-talkie on Dugan’s belt. He turned away, using it as an excuse to break from Morley’s terrible breath. “Yeah.”
Zephyr’s voice came from the small device. “Boyscouts’re ready.”
“Be there in five,” Dugan said.
“Copy.”
Dugan clipped the walkie-talkie back in. “We’re going to find this Shaman and he’s going to break open whatever code you and your boys have missed and then you and I and everyone involved with Umner Corps are going to change the world. Morley?”
Dugan stepped around the man who stood as if frozen in place, the cause for Morley’s silence readily apparent.
The native child in the bed was sitting up.
Dugan unholstered his gun, a semi-automatic Glock, in a single motion, raising it to point at the child. He glanced from side to side. Of all the monsters creeping in the dark, one had just woke. How many others were conscious?
“No way, man, no frickin’ way. This can’t be happening,” Morley said. “It’s impossible.”
“If the past year has taught us anything, it’s that that word has … limitations.”
The kid twitched violently, body going taut. His back began to arch, head staring straight up. It looked like he was being controlled by invisible strings, his body torquing in ways Dugan had believed only possible in the movies. Movies like The Exorcist.
Morley was panting. He kept blinking and rubbing at his eyes, maybe wondering if he wasn’t hallucinating. Dugan knew the man was wont to the occasional acid tab, finding occasions with some regularity. Maybe he thought he was just on another trip.
“Why isn’t he bound? Morley!”
“I, uh … I must have forgot.” Morley hit into the metal shelving, having backed up as far from the bed as he could. A scalpel and thin pair of forceps fell to the floor with a rattle.
Still staring up at the darkness above, the kid opened his mouth as if preparing to speak.
Instead, he screamed.
Shrill and unearthly, his cry was worse than a siren’s blare. Morley moaned, squeezing his head with both hands.
Dugan shot forward to put an end to the hysterics when the boy’s head whipped around, his scream silenced. He stared directly at Dugan. Looking, but not seeing. One arm stretched out toward him, a finger extending. Then the child began to chant.
“Shan’ti K’lompi Lia’hona K’lan Malaki-ahkan …” The kid continued speaking almost without breath.
“Get Oso down here now!”
Morley’s feet skid on the tiled floor as he turned and fled. Dugan unsnapped his walkie-talkie. “Zephyr, get the Bear to the war hall asap. Doc’s on his way.” He didn’t register whatever Zephyr said in response, listening instead to the monosyllabic message spilling from the kids’ mouth.
“… Bela’aal Shan’tu-kompi Inktomi …”
A penetrating alarm sounded from everywhere at once, bleating in rhythmic pulses. One by one, every overhead light flickered on. The entire room came awash with an artificial glow. Dugan blinked, letting his eyes adjust.
“… Fehener Takushkansh’kan La’a’ione …”
Takushkansh’kan.
The name of the Shaman.
Dugan stared into the vacant eyes of the child, wondering who was looking back at him. Like staring into a camera lens trying to glimpse whoever was on the other side. His heart pattered at an accelerated rate, his throat tightening. Without looking away, he pulled th
e worn pack from his back pocket, shaking out a cigarette and bringing it to his lips.
Looking into those unseeing eyes, he shouted, “I’m coming for you. You hear me in there? I’m coming for you!”
Around him row upon row of hospital beds now had lights shining down on their occupants – men, women, children, their names in the only book Dugan believed in.
The book that would change the world.
The book in the pocket of his blazer.
“Tell him if you can,” Dugan said. “I’m coming.”
Verse XXII.
The perimeter around the lumber mill was cordoned off by a thick fence of standing logs dug deep into the earth. Totem poles, one lined up after the next, boldly pronouncing the sins of a corporate machine fed by greed and avarice. It created an impenetrable wall twelve feet tall or higher, blocking all but the tallest of structures within from sight.
The dirt road leading into the mill was wide, a thick metal gate pulled back on both sides of the fencing. Even from outside the noise was overpowering – saws screaming, engines rumbling, heavy equipment and machinery in constant motion.
Sir William stood at the entrance, leaning heavily on his wooden cane. He wore a dark silver suit, with a ruffled white shirt beneath, and looked more like a washed up rock star than a philanthropist astronomer. Faye was surprised to see him.
“You came.”
“My dear, was there any doubts as to whether I might?” Despite the early hour, the smell of sour brandy poured off his breath. “I see you managed to save the day?”
“You’re the one who deserves that credit. Meet the rest of our group,” she said, introducing them one by one. Grey came to her rescue with the name of the intern. Malcolm. She needed to remember that.
“Sir William was kind enough to open his home to us last night,” Donavon said, sensing the group’s questions. “He also pulled some strings to help us get you out this morning.”
Grey nodded, Kenny and Malcolm offering awkward thanks.
“I should have mentioned he might be joining us,” Faye said. “He liked the idea of our protest and wanted to help.” She didn’t mention she had thought he’d be too hammered to remember.
