by Jack Kilborn
Will it be locked? I left my key inside.
The knob turned. She hesitated.
Is someone in my room?
Deb considered going back upstairs, asking Florence for help.
Just run in, grab the knife. It will only take three seconds.
Deb braced herself, bending her knees, leaning slightly forward.
I’ll go on three.
One…
Two…
Three!
She shoved open the door—the room looked empty—took four quick steps and ran to the bathroom—also empty—reached for her fanny pack on the sink—dug out her knife—flicked open the blade.
So far so good.
Next stop, the closet. Deb wasn’t going to leave her prosthetics in there. It would take weeks to get replacements made, and she needed to have spares on her in case something happened to the Cheetahs.
The closet door was closed. She approached it slowly, tightening her grip on the folding knife. Placing her ear against the door, she held her breath, listening for any sounds.
There was only silence.
She shifted from one leg to the other. Without her gel socks, the sockets on the prosthetics were starting to chafe, because they no longer had a perfect fit.
I’ll snag them after I grab my legs.
Deb opened the closet door.
Two naked men were sitting on the closet floor, going through her suitcase, throwing her clothes everywhere. They had bulbous, bald heads, and crooked mouths. One had three nostrils. The other had an empty hole where his nose should be. The whites of their eyes were stop-light red.
Before Deb was even able to gasp, three hands reached out at her, grabbing her Cheetahs, pulling them out from under her so she fell onto her ass.
Deb kicked out, trying to pull away, but the two men were already crawling on her, pawing at her thighs, her hips, her chest.
And that’s when Deb realized, to her horror, that it wasn’t two bodies on top of her.
It’s one body with two different heads.
Kelly felt sick. Sick and scared and hurt and overwhelmed and most of all, young. She felt more like a first-grader than a teenager.
She looked at Mom, who was in a heated conversation with Maria about which way to go. The pregnant woman, Sue, stood there like a zombie, completely zoned out. JD was sniffing around, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. The only one who seemed to be okay was Cam. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking vaguely bored.
I wish I could act more like him.
Kelly was wracked with worry. Even though she was out of that horrible cell, they were still trapped in these tunnels. And according to Maria, there were a lot of bad people who lived here. Kelly knew that even if they got away, they wouldn’t have anywhere to go. They were in the middle of the woods. The car didn’t work. Maria and Sue and Larry had been here for a long time, and hadn’t been able to escape.
What if we’re trapped here forever?
“Mom?” Kelly said.
“In a second, Kelly.”
Kelly wished Grandma was with them. Mom was strong, but Grandma was strong in a different kind of way. She was calmer, more rational. Though Kelly didn’t know her grandmother very well, she knew that if anyone could get them out of this situation, Grandma could.
“You okay?”
Kelly glanced up at Cam, who had moved next to her.
“Yeah,” she managed.
“You’re very brave,” Cam said.
“You think so?” Kelly hugged herself. “I’m scared out of my freakin’ mind.”
“We’re all scared, Kelly.”
“Even you?”
Cam nodded.
“Even when you… broke that man’s neck?”
Cam glanced away. “Yeah. That was scary. But he was hurting bad and wanted to die, so I did him a favor. Besides, death isn’t so bad.”
“How do you know?”
Cam took off one of his leather gloves and showed Kelly his wrist. It was covered with scars.
“After my friend died, I killed myself.”
“You mean you tried to kill yourself,” Kelly corrected.
“No. I succeeded. I was actually dead for two and a half minutes before they revived me.”
Cam held out his arm, so Kelly could touch it. They scars were creepy, but kind of cool, too. She ran a finger across one, surprised by how bumpy it was.
“What did it feel like?” she asked. “To die?”
Cam shrugged, tugging his glove back on. “It was like going to sleep.”
“It wasn’t scary?”
“There are a lot scarier things than dying, Kelly.”
“Like what?”
Cam stared at her. “Like living.”
Kelly decided she liked Cam. She liked his straight talk, and how open he was.
He’s also kind of cute.
“We’re going this way,” Mom said. “C’mon, Kelly.”
Kelly began to follow.
Cam thinks I’m brave. How do brave girls act around cute guys?
Without second-guessing herself, she reached out and took Cam’s hand.
When she felt him squeeze it back, Kelly wasn’t as scared as she was before.
As expected, Letti’s room was empty. Florence found the secret entrance in the back of Letti’s closet, and considered going in.
Not yet. I should check all the other rooms first.
Florence was still shaken up by what she’d done to the Sheriff. After witnessing suffering, misery, and man’s inhumanity to man on six continents, Florence would have bet her life she’d never do something so atrocious.
And yet, she’d done it without even hesitating.
Because they have my family.
It put things into perspective. In a big way.
If I’m ready to throw out my ideals and morals for the people I love, why did I spend so much of my life helping strangers?
For the first time ever, she understood why Letti was so mad at her for missing her husband’s funeral. The realization was like a splash of ice water in the face.
I blew it. I’m so sorry, Letti. I’ll make it up to you. I swear I will.
Exiting the Grover Cleveland room, she crept quietly down the hallway and moved one door over to Lyndon B. Johnson.
Never did care for LBJ. Let’s see if anyone is home.
She put her hand on the knob, and found it to be unlocked. Moments ago she’d double-checked the Sheriff’s Colt revolver, and made sure there were two bullets left, one under the hammer. Florence held it at her side and went into the room fast, putting both hands on the gun so it couldn’t be knocked away.
There wasn’t a bed. No desk or dresser, either. The room had an eerie, pink glow to it, coming from three china cabinets along the rear wall.
Florence had seen some things in her day. Some terrible things.
This was one of the worst.
Back when she was a child, a travelling carnival came to town. Her father paid a nickel extra so they could get into the freakshow tent. Florence cringed at the sight of deformed people, some of them real, some fake. A human torso. A woman with bird feathers. An ape man. A fellow who stuck skewers through his cheek and tongue. A woman who ate glass. But the thing that stood out the most in her juvenile brain—the thing that scared her more than anything else—was a jar.
“It’s a pickled punk,” her father had said.
Florence later learned that was a carny term for a baby with birth defects, preserved in formaldehyde. That particular child had four legs and a harelip.
Florence now faced an entire wall of deformed babies in jars, lit from behind. Traces of blood in the preservation fluid made the jars give off a soft, red glow.
My God. There are dozens of them.
Babies with multiple limbs. Babies with no limbs. Some had organs on the outside. Some had feet where the arms should be. Some had flippers like seals. Some were completely covered in fine hair. Some were tiny, their umbilical
cords still attached, no more than embryos. Others filled their jars completely, their malformed little bodies crammed inside.
There were misshapen heads, distended bellies, twisted spines, shrunken limbs. Every way the human genome could be perverted was on display.
There were even a few that looked perfectly healthy.
Before Florence tore her eyes away, she noticed a commonality among them all. The overwhelming majority were females. Each jar had a handwritten label, listing names and birthdays.
They’re all named after First Ladies.
You poor, poor things.
Florence wondered how many of them died naturally and how many were killed on purpose. She brushed a tear from her eye, then left the room quietly, as if she might disturb them.
After taking a moment to compose herself, Florence pressed onward. The Warren G. Harding bedroom was next. Again, the door was open. Florence went in fast, entering a dark room. She paused, listening.
Snoring. Loud snoring.
Florence felt for the light switch along the wall, flipping it on.
“Ma?”
The man on the bed was massive. His head—double normal size—looked eerily similar to the Elephant Man’s from that black and white movie, his forehead bulging out in large bumps, his cheekbones uneven and making his mouth crooked. His torso and legs were also malformed, twisted and lumpy, as round as tree trunks.
Proteus Syndrome, Florence knew. She’d seen it in South Africa. His body won’t stop growing.
But unlike gigantism, where a person grew in relative proportion, Proteus meant that different parts grew at different speeds. The overall effect was like making a figure out of clay, then squeezing some parts and adding more clay to others.
“You ain’t Ma.”
Warren—Florence assumed that was his name—rolled out of bed with surprising speed. His bare feet, swollen as big as Thanksgiving turkeys, slammed onto the floor.
He had to weigh over four hundred pounds, and his gigantic head lolled to the side when he stood up. But Warren was able to walk.
And he was walking toward Florence.
She raised her pistol. “I need to know where my family is.”
He moved closer. With each step, the floor shook. He wore a bed sheet wrapped over his shoulder like a toga.
“Youse pretty.”
Warren stuck out his tongue, licking his huge, flabby lips. A line of drool slid down his crooked chin.
“Don’t come any closer.”
“Youse wanna make babies with Warren?”
Florence aimed at his head.
“One more step, I’ll shoot.”
Warren took one more step.
Florence made good on her threat.
The two shots hit him in his oversized forehead.
Warren lunged at her, moving so fast Florence barely had time to dive to the side.
His skull is too thick. The bullets bounced off the bone.
The giant turned around and faced her.
“Warren’s head hurts,” he said. Then his eyes got narrow. “Now Warren gonna make you hurt, too.”
Mal placed the pointed end of his exposed ulna against his throat, ready to kill himself before he let any more freaks operate on him.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t Eleanor or her monstrous brood.
It’s a dog.
A German Shepherd, tail wagging. It put its front paws on the embalming table and licked Mal’s face.
“JD! Oh, Jesus…”
Mal watched a blonde woman enter the room, followed by several others. The blonde wore a tee shirt, but no pants or shoes. A younger version of her—obviously her daughter—followed, holding hands with a boy wearing black leather gloves. A pregnant woman followed, clutching her belly with a thousand yard stare. The last person in was a woman in a tattered jogging outfit. She had limp hair and hollow eyes and looked like she’d lived through a war.
They immediately went about unstrapping him, bombarding him with multiple questions.
“Who are you?” “What happened?” “Are you okay?” “Where’s Eleanor?” “Where’s the exit?” “What’s your name?”
“I’m Mal,” he said. The pain in his wrist was bad, but bearable. He sat up, and the movement made him woozy. The older blonde put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“Do you know how to get out of here, Mal?”
“I think so. But I need a favor first.”
“What?”
“Your dog has something that belongs to me.”
The woman snapped her head around and pointed. “JD! Drop it!”
The German Shepherd opened his jaws, and Mal’s hand flopped onto the ground. The blonde picked it up without hesitation.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mal said, “since we already seem to be shaking hands.”
The woman set the hand down next to Mal. Then she took a roll of gauze from the instrument tray and began to wrap it around Mal’s stump. “I’m Letti.”
“I know. I was supposed to interview you and your family.” Mal blinked twice, trying to keep it together. “Where’s Florence?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen a woman with no legs? Her name is Deb?”
Letti shook her head. Mal eyed the other people in the room. He recognized the girl, Letti’s daughter, and the thin woman. She was also an Iron Woman triathlete, a high-ranked contender who vanished last year before the competition. Maria somebody.
Apparently, I’ve discovered the reason for all the disappearances in the area.
Though close to being in shock, Mal was still enough of a reporter to recognize what a terrific story this would make.
If we get out of here alive.
“I think my clothes are in a pile over there.”
Kelly turned away while Letti and Maria helped him get off the table and dress. Mal’s cell phone was still in his pants pocket. He tried it.
No signal. And why would there be? We’re underground.
Letti found a plastic bag for his hand. She placed his severed appendage inside, and tied the bag to his belt.
“Thanks. There’s another door,” Mal said. “Far end of the room. That’s where Eleanor went. I think it’s the way out.”
Everyone loaded up on surgical tools—scalpels, knives, saws, cannulas—filling hands and pockets. Then they walked to the door, giving the corpse of Jimmy a wide berth. Letti let JD go through first.
“Clear,” she said.
They shuffled through the doorway, one by one. Rather than the exit, this was another room. It was large, a few hundred square feet. Concrete walls. Dirt floor, but muddy in parts. In the corner was a hole in the ground, several pipes leading into it. A pump and two water heaters stood next to the hole.
The rest of the room was packed, floor to ceiling, with cardboard boxes. Dozens and dozens of them, many of them crumbling and moldy.
Mal squinted at the nearest box.
DruTech Pharmaceuticals – Contergan.
He touched the cardboard and his finger went right through it, like tissue paper. Powder spilled out. Mal stared at the floor, and saw a great deal of the powder mixing with the dirt. Near the water pump, there was so much powder it had turned the mud a lighter color.
“What’s Distoval?” Kelly said, staring at a box.
“Distoval is another name for Contergan,” Mal said. He’d just read about this very subject when researching the history of Monk Creek. “It was a sedative, developed in the 1950s in Germany. They thought it was a wonder drug. DruTech was the company set to manufacture it in the US. But the FDA didn’t approve it. DruTech lost a fortune, and closed up their factory in town. They were supposed to dispose of their supply. I guess they paid off Eleanor, and it ended up here.”
“Why wasn’t it approved?” Letti asked.
“You probably know it by its other name. Billy Joel even mentioned it in a song.”
“Thalidomide,” Sue whispered.
