"Huh?" Jacky felt totally lost. Forget the rabbit hole, he thought. That sucker's been nuked and I'm falling into the center of the earth. "Leave my car out here?"
The voice either misunderstood him or intentionally ignored Jacky's confusion. "It's okay. The cars are on the sheltered side of The Loon, so you won't have to dig yours out when you leave."
"Dig it out?" Jacky began, but the intercom clicked off again. "Hey!" he shouted.
No response.
Sighing, Jacky pulled through the fully-open gate, almost jumping again when another klaxon sounded the instant he was through. The gate slid closed behind him.
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought.
He pulled up next to the other cars parked on the inside of the chain-link fence. Most of them were cars, not much more snow-ready than his, though there was one exception: a tricked-out four-by-four that Jacky suspected could probably haul a load of Sherpas up Mount Everest without so much as a single slide.
He got out of his car, the frigid Montana wind cutting through his uniform with impunity. He hurried to the steel door in the side of the concrete wall, breath pluming in front of him like a white razor slicing his way through the arctic environment.
The second before he reached the door, it opened. A woman dressed in a thick parka and holding what looked like some kind of modified rifle stepped out. She had a large pin on her jacket that said "Leann." It was the kind of thing that Jacky would imagine a waitress in a diner would wear. But he suspected that if he made that observation to Leann, she would probably break him in two. She wasn't particularly large, but her face was rough and weathered, the kind of face that bespoke of decades of work and the strength to not only survive, but thrive.
"In," said Leann, beckoning with the rifle.
Jacky entered the door.
Through the looking glass, he thought as he stepped through and left the real world behind.
INSIDE
The door clanged shut behind him, and Jacky was finally in.
And immediately wondered if he hadn't been better off half-marooned in the snow on the trip over.
To his left was a small building, wires running off what looked like some kind of transformer on the top of it.
"Generator," said Leann, though he hadn't asked. "Don't want to lose power in The Loon. Ever."
"Huh," was all Jacky could manage before his gaze was arrested by another sight: the guard tower above the entrance where two figures stood, looking down at Jacky and Leann, rifles like hers covering both of them.
What are they protecting us from? wondered Jacky. But only for a moment, because almost immediately he saw another security guard ("Jeff" said his name tag, and again Jacky had to stifle the urge to ask for some waffles and a refill on his coffee) nervously standing watch over fifteen men in orange jump suits. The men – clearly inmates – were shackled together, hands and arms chained behind them. Most of them were obviously drugged, some of them actually drooling in the frigid air, the spittle sticking to their chins and freezing like repugnant icicles.
Jeff, unlike the tough-as-exceptionally-tough-nails Leann and the two guards on the watchtower, did not hold a rifle. Rather, he held a drawn gun of some kind, pointed directly at one of the inmates. Unlike the others, this inmate did not appear drugged. Rather he looked strangely . . . normal. A pleasant-faced man in his forties, he nodded cordially at Jacky, who nodded back automatically.
"Don't, Steiger" said Jeff, gesturing with his strange gun. The kind-faced man just grinned, and continued looking at Jacky in spite of the weapon being pointed at him.
It's a trank, Jacky finally realized. They're all using tranquilizer guns.
Somehow the thought that people would be shot by drug-filled syringes rather than good old-fashioned bullets and ball bearings made Jacky feel about two hundred percent less safe than he had already been feeling.
"Through sight-seeing?" asked Leann, the question almost a bark that snapped Jacky out of his half-stupor of amazement. He nodded. "Good," said Leann, and began trudging through the thick snow to the closest part of the large building that stood like an angry cement troll before them. "C'mon, you're screwing up their play time."
Jacky hurried after her, catching up just as she arrived at another steel door, a carbon copy of the one in the massive outer gate. She buzzed an intercom, and Jacky looked around.
The inmates were still standing in a row under the watchful gaze of Jeff and the two watchtower guards. Beyond them was the generator shack, and then the large building that Jacky now stood before. It was huge, the size of a large inner-city high school. It consisted of two buildings, connected in the middle by a thick, windowless concrete tunnel, like some strange umbilical cord between concrete parent and child. The building that Jacky stood before was the smaller of the two, a two-story building with barred windows on the second floor.
The other, larger building was at least three stories tall. No windows.
It was ominous. An eyeless monster that would eat anything that came close enough to it.
"Wow," Jacky mumbled inadvertently.
"What?" snapped Leann. Her voice was sharp. Not a joker, Jacky decided. Then again, he wondered how many people could be jokers and work at a place like this.
"Nothing," he said.
Then the intercom that Leann had pressed buzzed and the same gravelly voice Jacky had heard on the intercom at the chain-link gate said, "Well?"
"Sending him in," said Leann. The door buzzed, and Jacky went in.
DIS-ORIENTATION
The room Jacky stepped into was small, much smaller than he had expected. Just big enough for a monitor station with myriad closed circuit television screens, a line of heavy parkas with "CRANE INSTITUTE" written on their backs in heavy yellow stitching, and two doors behind the monitor station, the other sides of which Jacky could only guess at.
Two men sat at the monitor station. Like everyone else in this place, they wore name plates. One, a baby-faced man with arms that Jacky figured could probably tie telephone poles into pretzel knots, was "Darryl." The other one, a grizzled black man who looked to be in his early fifties, had a tag that said merely "H.H."
The man must have noticed Jacky's look of confusion, because he laughed and said, "Hip-Hop." It was the same voice that had been speaking to Jacky on the intercom. He laughed again, holding out a hand for Jacky to shake. Then, growing almost too-quickly serious, he repeated the words he had already said to Jacky outside: "Didn't you get the message?"
ANGELS
As soon as the door closed behind the newbie, Leann turned and marched back to Jeff, who was still nervously covering the fifteen orange-suited men. And even though only one of them was worth being nervous around, Leann didn't blame Jeff in the least. She looked up at the guard tower before walking to close to the group, assuring herself that two extra rifles were covering the situation before she stepped into the range of any of the deeply disturbed and very deadly men.
As soon as she was next to Jeff, the younger man said, "All right, you know the drill." The inmates looked at each other stupidly, the drugs in their systems acting as a filter that kept them from fully understanding what was going on.
All except for Steiger. Always Steiger. The middle-aged man sighed good-naturedly, then lay face-down in the snow. His action pulled the next man down as well, shackled together as they were, and soon all the men were on their stomachs on the frozen, snowy ground, hands still behind them.
Leann approached slowly. Carefully. Careful was the watchword at the Crane Institute. At The Loon. Careful meant you went home at the end of the shift.
One by one, she unlocked the men's shackles and cuffs.
As always, she saved Steiger for last. He watched her with eyes so gray they were almost silver, the barest trace of a smile playing across his face.
She moved very, very slowly when unchaining him. And when he was free, he didn't move. Just continued to look at her. "You look very pretty today," he said. "The new ea
rrings suit you."
Leann didn't answer. Indeed, she wasn't sure she could have answered had she wanted to. Then she jumped as Steiger suddenly flipped over, stifling a cry that wanted to explode out of her mouth as the demon in human form moved.
She hadn't made a sound, but Steiger's smile grew larger. He knew how much he scared her, she could tell.
But then, Steiger scared everyone.
Leann stepped away with the chains as the inmates moved around the area, groggily walking about and making the most of their short exercise period.
All except one. Steiger didn't rise. He just smiled at Leann once more, then – at last – freed her from the binding effect of his gaze as he looked up at the darkening sky and started to make snow angels on the white ground.
WELCOME
"As you can see," Hip-Hop said to Jacky, "this here is Darryl. You need any bars bent or grizzly bears punched out, this is the guy to call."
"Pleasure," said the tree-trunk of a man, enveloping Jacky's right hand in his huge paw. But he did it without looking at Jacky, his gaze never wavering from the bank of television monitors that Jacky could see covered dozens of locations both inside and outside of the Crane Institute.
Hip-Hop moved to one of the two doors behind the monitor station – the one on the right. He pulled what looked like a credit card from an inside pocket and swiped it through a card reader on the side of the door, then entered a long code on the ten-digit keypad attached to the reader. A green light blinked, and the door opened.
"Hold down the fort for a sec?" Hip-Hop asked Darryl. The big man nodded, eyes still never straying from the monitors. Jacky had to respect the man's intensity. "Come on," said Hip-Hop, gesturing for Jacky to step through the open door.
Jacky did so, Hip-Hop close behind. As Jacky expected, the door shut quickly and automatically behind them, clicking shut with a sort of finality that made Jacky want to shudder.
Hip-Hop led him down a short hall and then turned into a doorway. Unlike all the others, this door had no keypad, no card reader. Just a simple door that opened into something that looked like any of the million other employee break rooms Jacky had seen in his life: Mr. Coffee, vending machine, cheap plastic seats, cheaper plastic floors. The only thing that distinguished this particular break room was the line of tranquilizer pistols on a rack near the door, and a much-larger-than-average first aid kit that Jacky suspected probably had enough supplies to perform any medical action this side of open heart surgery.
Jacky's thoughts were halted by the sound of Hip-Hop pouring himself a mug of coffee. The black man gestured with his mug, offering Jacky some. Jacky shook his head.
Hip-Hop took a deep drink of the coffee, then grimaced as though he'd just made a serious mistake. Finally, he looked up at Jacky and said, "All right, Newbie, welcome to The Loon."
"The Loon?" Jacky felt confusion once again threatening to overwhelm him. "What's The Loon? And are you the one who's supposed to show me around?"
"Nah," said Hip-Hop, apparently ignoring the first part of Jacky's question. Another painful sip of his coffee, and then he said, "I don't do the tours. That's Wiseman's job."
TOUR
Paul was stapling reports together and trying to concentrate on the show playing on the TV in the corner of his office. It was playing a documentary about Eskimos. Anything to avoid thinking about Sammy.
" . . . enabling the Eskimo to survive, even in the harsh, sub-freezing weather of -"
The picture suddenly flickered, then disappeared completely, obscured by the snowy static of lost reception. Paul whacked the television a few times, but he knew it was hopeless. He'd seen this before: when a white-out was on its way, the first thing to go was always the television.
"Lucky Eskimos," he said to himself, continuing to staple his reports and hoping against hope that he would be able to get through this day without thinking too much about his dead son. "Don't have to live in Montana." Then he shouted as he carelessly slipped his thumb into the stapler before slamming it shut. A blood blister erupted immediately on his thumb and he popped it in his mouth, sucking it and staring at the still-white television as though it was the Eskimos' fault that he had just pinched himself.
"I should move to Hawaii," he said. Then grew immediately silent. It had been a stupid thing to say, a stupid thing to even think. He and Marsha had gone to Hawaii on their honeymoon, and had planned to take Sammy when he was old enough.
He's never going to be old enough now.
The phone rang at that instant, the noise jarring him away from his thoughts. He picked it up eagerly, knowing he was hiding from himself in his work, and knowing just as well that he was fine with that.
"Wiseman speaking," he said. Then, a moment later: "You're kidding."
He slammed the phone down on its cradle, grabbed the papers he had been stapling, and bolted out of his office. He stepped into the hall, and quickly stomped over to the stairwell that was one of the most distinctive and – to Paul's eyes – disconcerting features of the staff building. It was a clanky, winding steel staircase that looked like it had been made by a psychotic seven-year old with an Erector set. The stairs dumped out into the downstairs hall, and then continued to the basement. Paul got off on the first floor and hustled past several doors, heading for the staff lounge.
Before he got to the door, Hip-Hop popped his head out and grinned a wide, insincere grin. "Oh, hey, great, you're here." The chief of security motioned with his head. "The newbie's in the lounge."
"Didn't he get my message?" asked Paul. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Okay, fine. Here." He handed the papers he had been working on to Hip-Hop. "Give these to God for me."
For the first time in quite some time, Paul saw Hip-Hop look visibly disconcerted. That wasn't surprising. The mention of God could do that to people. But Hip-Hop finally nodded and headed down the hall, swiping his card and entering his code to get back into the lobby where Darryl was no doubt watching the goings-on of the Institute with the single-minded intensity that Paul so admired about the huge man.
As soon as Hip-Hop was gone, Paul stepped into the lounge, immediately seeing Jack Hales, dressed in his guard's uniform as though he was actually supposed to be here.
Geez, thought Paul. He looks like he's twelve.
"Jack Hales?" said Paul, even though he knew the answer.
"Jacky," said the other man, sticking out his hand.
Paul took it. Good handshake, he thought. "Dr. Paul Wiseman," he said. "I'm -"
"Chief of staff, right?" finished Jacky for him.
"You got it. Didn't you get my message?"
Paul saw a flicker of irritation pass over Jacky's eyes, but the man quickly masked it. "What message?" said the new guard. "Everyone keeps asking that, and I don't have the foggiest idea what anyone's saying, and no one seems real eager to explain it to me, either."
Paul pursed his lips. "There's a big storm coming in," he said to Jacky. "It's expected to snow over all the roads around here. That's why we're so minimally staffed right now. Anyone here is here for the next day or two, I'm afraid."
"You mean -" began Jacky.
Paul nodded, silencing him. "'Fraid so. The storm should blow over by tomorrow afternoon, but I sent you a message – several, actually – asking you to come in after the storm broke."
Jacky's expression fell into what Paul thought looked like that of an embarrassed five-year-old. "Oh," said Jacky. Paul half-expected him to put his hands in his pockets and start rubbing his toe on the ground. "My machine's been on the fritz." He paused for a moment, clearly trying to think of something to say that would make him sound less incompetent, finally settling on a simple, "Sorry."
"Yeah, me too," said Paul. He sighed, putting his hands behind his head as though stretching would turn this situation into anything other than a hassle-at-best-nightmare-at-worst sort of thing. Finally he blew out his cheeks and said, "Well, might as well make the best of it while you're here. We can assign you a
bunk in the sleeping quarters tonight."
Paul looked at his watch. "I have half an hour before I start rounds. Time enough for the Grand Tour."
He stepped to the door to the hall, then stopped and turned back to Jacky. "You meet God yet?"
"Who?" said Jacky, his face growing confused.
Paul almost laughed in relief. "Good," he said, and went out the door.
GOD
Dr. Whitman Crane knew that the others called him God behind his back. And didn't mind one bit. If anything, he felt that God should be rather pleased to be compared to someone like Whitman Crane.
Crane turned in his seat to look at the mirror behind his desk. Long, patrician features accentuated laser-blue eyes and a gaze that could cook a filet mignon. Just the way Crane pictured God actually looking. But not the pansy God of the New Testament. No, Crane was the spitting image of the God of the Old Testament. The one who had destroyed the Pharaoh's armies without a second thought, the God who had conjured armies of angels to strike down his enemies.
The God who created life.
Crane smiled at the thought, as he always did.
He turned to survey his domain. His office took up over one-quarter of the floor space on the first floor of the staff building. Research papers and scientific journals were stacked neatly in wall sconces, packed tightly among the many diplomas and awards Crane had received in his illustrious career.
And I'm just getting started, he thought.
A radio blared in the corner. Normally, Crane disdained listening to such things. He preferred to get his news from the internet. But with the storm coming, the internet connections had been lost some hours ago. The radio was going, too, the voice crackly and at times indistinct.
The Loon Page 5
