The Loon

by Michaelbrent Collings

  " . . . the big one is still moving toward Cherry County. Residents are advised to stay indoors, as temperatures are expected with wind-chill to drop to eighty-below tonight . . . ."

  Crane smiled. He didn't like the cold, particularly. But he did like the isolation it brought.

  PROTECTION

  "Mommy, are we gonna get caught in the storm?" asked Becky.

  Rachel had no real answer. Not one that she could back up with any hard evidence. Finally she settled on the best alternative to a lie: "Better the storm than your father."

  Then she added, "Díos not protegerá."

  God will protect us.

  She hoped it was true.

  PREPARATIONS

  Crane turned away from the mirror where he had been examining his face once again when the knock sounded at the door. He turned irritably toward the door, which led out to the "lobby," as the staff sardonically called the monitoring center which was the eyes of the Institute.

  "In," Crane snapped.

  Hip-Hop entered, setting a sheaf of papers on Crane's desk, and without preamble said, "Wiseman sent these for you."

  Crane stifled the urge to fire the man. It wasn't bad enough that he insisted on being called Hip-Hop, as though Nowhere, Montana, was the black recording capital of the world. But he acted as though he were . . . important.

  Crane would disavow him of that notion soon enough. For now, though, he needed the man. In fact . . .

  "How is everything proceeding outside? With Steiger?" Crane's lips curled inadvertently at the last word. Of all the inmates that had come through the Crane Institute over the years, Steiger was the one who most disconcerted, even – Crane had to admit it – frightened him.

  "Nothing yet," Hip-Hop was saying. "But soon, I'm sure."

  "He has a code card."

  "Yes, sir," said Hip-Hop, and Crane was pleased to see the man look uncomfortable at the thought. Which was fine by Crane. Not merely because it validated his own fears of the lunatic, but because it made him happy to see others tremble. Best if they trembled at Crane himself, but still . . . any port in a storm, as the saying went.

  Hip-Hop apparently took Crane's silence as a dismissal, for he turned to go.

  "Lock the door on your way out. And hang a sign or something," said Crane.

  Hip-Hop turned. "Sir?" he asked.

  "I don't wish to be disturbed. For any reason."

  "What about when -"

  "For any reason."

  "Yes, sir."

  Hip-Hop waited for a moment, and Crane could see that there was something else. "Yes?" he almost barked. He was anxious to see Hip-Hop go. So he could go and play with his current toy.

  "What about the new employee?" asked Hip-Hop.

  That surprised Crane. "He's here?" he asked. He knew that Wiseman – a do-gooder and sometimes a royal pain, but someone who was very detail-oriented – had been sending the new man messages for days, warning him to stay away until after the storm.

  "Yes, sir," said Hip-Hop. "Do you want to meet him?"

  "Later," said Crane. He waved Hip-Hop away, turning back to his mirror. "Don't forget the sign," said Crane as the man left.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, and Crane heard the hum of the electromagnetic locks that were standard throughout the Institute engaging, he stood from his chair. Waiting for a moment to make sure that Hip-Hop would not return with some item he had forgotten to mention – the man's mind could be like a sieve on occasion – Crane went to another corner of the room. There was a refrigerator there, as well as a bed and a television. Crane didn't like to leave his office unless he had to. Or unless he was going – as he was now – to his other office. The more electrifying – the more world-changing – one.

  There were flashlights placed in a semi-circle around his bed. He knew that Hip-Hop and Wiseman – the only two men who regularly intruded on him here – had looked askance at the dozen or so high-powered LED flashlights on more than one occasion. But then, neither of them knew what Crane did.

  The scientist picked one of the lights. He checked it to make sure it was in good working order – force of habit that he had developed over the last several years of staying alive – and then went to the refrigerator. He pulled it away from the wall. It was on rollers, so slid fairly easily back. Not far, just enough for Crane to reach back and slip his hand onto a panel on the wall.

  He pressed it.

  The panel slid back with an almost inaudible sigh, exposing a dark stairwell.

  Crane flicked on his light.

  He squeezed behind the refrigerator, taking a few steps downward before reaching out and pulling the appliance back into position.

  The panel slid closed.

  And Crane was gone.

  QUALITY

  The long dark corridor that wended its way through the staff building of the Crane Institute was dim and dreary. Like the wintry landscape outside, it seemed isolated somehow, and Jacky couldn't help but think of Alice in Wonderland again. Or The Wizard of Oz. Only those books had at least started out pleasantly enough before turning into nightmares.

  Wiseman was talking to Jacky, who pulled his thoughts away from the darkness of the area, which was lit only dimly by recessed fluorescents, to listen:

  "The Crane Institute is the largest privately-funded facility for the criminally insane in the country," Wiseman droned, clearly repeating something memorized from an employment guide or a sales brochure. Although what this place could offer to sell was completely beyond Jacky. "Dr. Whitman Crane," continued Wiseman, "won a Nobel prize in the early seventies for his work on cellular structure and diversity. He also invested in several of what are now two or three of the biggest pharmaceutical suppliers in the country. He's worth approximately seven hundred million dollars, and a substantial portion of that is invested here, at the Crane Institute."

  "The Loon," Jacky said, guessing that this was what all the staff called it.

  "Yes," said Wiseman, but his features darkened. "Just don't let Dr. Crane hear you refer to it that way. At any rate, The Loon," and here he cracked the barest hint of a grin, "was a federal pen in the twenties. It was closed for . . . ." Dr. Wiseman paused, and Jacky could see that he was struggling to find the words that would sound least horrifying. "Well, it was closed because the wardens' choice of behavioral modification wasn't what you'd call exemplary."

  "Whoa!" said Jacky, stopping in mid-step. "You mean the guy tortured the inmates?" Jacky knew that such practices had occurred in the Prohibition era, but this was the first time he heard of a specific place where they had occurred.

  Wiseman paused again, then shook his head. That relieved Jacky until he said, "I don't think what they did would give the word 'torture' a very good name, Mr. Hales." Wiseman continued walking, and Jacky had no choice but to follow. "At any rate, Dr. Crane purchased the place in the nineties, when government cutbacks required that many institutions be either destroyed or taken over by private parties. Since then it has housed over seven hundred of the country's most deeply screwed-up people."

  Jacky couldn't help but offer up a grin. "'Deeply screwed-up.' That a fancy medical term?"

  Wiseman didn't grin back. "For most of these people, Mr. Hales, there are no 'fancy medical terms.' At least, not until we name one after them."

  "Why is Crane –" began Jacky, but a semi-harsh look from Wiseman corrected his wording. "– I mean, Dr. Crane – interested in psychos?"

  They had reached the end of the hall. A steel door identical to the one Hip-Hop had brought Jacky through from the monitoring station stood before them. Wiseman swiped an ID card through the magnetic reader and typed a code into the keypad as he continued his orientation speech.

  "The Loon holds up to one hundred eighty-five prisoners at a time, Mr. Hales. Currently, due to the storm conditions, we only have one hundred twenty-seven in the prison area. But they are quality."

  "Quality?" asked Hales.

  The door unsealed. Wiseman put a hand on the door, b
ut didn't push it open. He looked at Jacky earnestly. "Quality means that of the one hundred twenty-seven men at the other end of this corridor, one hundred twenty-six of them would be more than happy to pull your eyes out with their fingers and eat them."

  "What about the last one?"

  "Steiger?" Wiseman finally did crack a smile. But it was a cold smile, the kind of smile Jacky associated with kids who want to stay in a movie theater even though the monster is about to pop out of the screen and they know they're going to have nightmares. "Steiger isn't quality. If the others are evil, Steiger's the Devil."

  "Happy thought."

  "The Loon is not a happy place, Mr. Hales."

  Wiseman swung the door open.

  COFFIN

  The long dark corridor that connected the staff building to what Dr. Wiseman had called "the prison area" was no more inviting on the inside than it had appeared from the outside. Long and dark, no windows, absolutely lifeless.

  Even before he stepped in, Jacky felt like he was looking into his own coffin.

  Wiseman fumbled next to the door and a red light switched on, illuminating the corridor in blood-glows that were if anything less comforting than the darkness had been. "Make no mistake," said Wiseman as he began to walk the tunnel, Jacky staying as close as he could, trying not to let the fear he felt creeping up on him show in his face, "I'd rather have you wash out now than when – and I say when, not if – an emergency occurs."

  Emergency? thought Jacky. This whole place already seems like an emergency in progress.

  As though sensing his thoughts, Wiseman continued, "And by emergency I mean this: since The Loon opened, there have been forty-six breakout attempts. Twenty-four successful. Of the forty-six, fourteen resulted in inmate fatalities." Wiseman stopped for a moment, gripping Jacky's arm, clearly wanting to emphasize what came next. He needn't have bothered: Jacky already felt like he had been hit by a hammer. "And forty-three resulted in staff fatalities."

  "God."

  "That's what we're paying you the big bucks for, Mr. Hales. Or didn't you wonder why the average security guard here makes six figures a year?"

  "I don't know if I need to be that rich."

  "Scared?"

  "Shitless."

  "Good." They had reached the inner door – the door to the "prison area." Wiseman stared at Jacky again. "Scared is the right frame of mind here. Scared and careful. You stay that way, you live through the day. No second chances at The Loon."

  Paul again swiped his card through this door's card-reader. "I'll give you a quick run-through of security protocols," he said, "and a manual. The manual has procedures for every possible contingency. Study it, and you'll always know what to do in any emergency. Don't study, and the only thing you'll know how to do is get killed." Wiseman began typing his key code, still talking as he pushed the buttons: the actions of someone who had done this a thousand times and could run on automatic pilot, though Jacky was also growing aware of the fact that no matter how off-hand Wiseman seemed at first, in reality he was tense. His whole body was alert, his eyes darting into shadows, left, right, left, right.

  It feels like we're the ones in prison, thought Jacky.

  "You'll notice," said Wiseman as he keyed in the last numbers, "that this tunnel is sealed from both ends. It's the only way in or out of The Loon prison. Electromagnetic locks hold the doors in place, and those seals will only disengage with the use of the correct card and its accompanying code." Paul flashed his card at Jacky before putting it in an inner pocket in his coat. "You'll get a card and a code of your own. Don't lose either. The card identifies you to the security system, and the code is in case one of the inmates escapes and takes the card off your body."

  "Body?" Jacky said. He was dismayed to hear his voice crack on the second syllable. Six figures a year was seeming like a lot less money than it had when the recruiter had contacted him in Idaho a few months ago, where he'd been working at a state correctional facility for less than a quarter what the recruiter had offered.

  No such thing as a free ride, Jacky thought.

  Wiseman smiled tightly, but didn't say "It's a joke" as Jacky secretly hoped he would. Rather, he continued his orientation lecture. "The card can't break the electromagnetic seal without the matching code. So don't tell it to anybody, understand?" Jacky nodded. Who would he tell the code to? "Good," said Wiseman. "Any questions."

  "No – yeah. You said the doors are electromagnetically sealed. What happens if there's a power failure?"

  Wiseman nodded as though Jacky had just passed his first test. Jacky's fear didn't dissipate, but it was suddenly tinged with a bit of pride, as though he'd gotten the first right answer on the first day of school. He suddenly realized that Wiseman, in spite of his stoic demeanor, was a good guy. Jacky didn't know exactly how he knew that, but he did. Wiseman could be believed. Could be trusted.

  "Did you notice the shack out in the yard?" asked Wiseman by way of response. "The one with all the wiring coming off it?" Jacky nodded, and again Wiseman gave him what Jacky thought to be an approving look. "It's an onsite generator, good for up to two weeks of constant use. The building is highly reinforced, and only Dr. Crane has the key."

  Wiseman paused for a moment, as though he might say something more, but the door hummed and clicked, and he simply pulled it open instead. "First floor," he said in a pretty good imitation of an old-fashioned elevator operator, gesturing for Jacky to precede him. "Lingerie, dirty magazines, FBI's most wanted."

  FOOD

  It slithers back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

  Not far to move. Too far is pain. Too far is light, and that is also pain.

  Now it doesn't slither. It has feet now. Walking. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

  Not too far.

  Sound comes from nearby. Clip-clop, clip-clop.

  The monster is coming, it thinks. The monster is bringing pain.

  It moves to the back of its cell.

  Don't touch the bars.

  Not far to move. Too far is pain. But the monster is also pain. Always. Never goodness. Sometimes food, but always pain.

  Its feet retract, disappearing within its mass as it tries to stay away. From the monster that is coming down the stairs.

  Someday, somehow, it will escape.

  And it will kill the monster.

  It's hungry. The walking made it hungry. Everything makes it hungry.

  It must eat.

  Clip-clop, clip-clop. Monster at the stairs. Food. It needs food.

  It will die without food.

  Food.

  It moves forward again, even though the monster is coming.

  Food.

  It needs food.

  Food.

  Food, food.

  Food, food, food, food, food, food, food, food, food, food....

  MONSTER

  Dr. Crane walked down the steps that led into his favorite part of the building.

  No, not his favorite. The entire reason for the building. The only reason for the entirety of the Crane Institute. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, as he always did, taking a moment to admire the space, to worship at the feet of what he had wrought.

  The front half of the room – which took up nearly half the basement space in the staff facility – gleamed brightly under sets of precisely-aimed high-intensity halogen track lights. They illuminated the lab area of the room.

  Two supercomputers and their memory storage and processing units, each about the size of a refrigerator, hummed and clicked, making computations that would have flummoxed a NASA scientist. Next to them was an ultra-modern lab. Elaborate bio-testing machinery sat on a long table: centrifuges, DNA testers, sampling trays, refrigerant units.

  Everything he needed. There was even a refrigerator with some candy bars in it. Crane loved candy bars. Especially with caramel. He opened the refrigerator now and took out one of the candy bars, opening it and taking a bite.

  A low growl sounded. The so
und made Crane smile.

  "Hungry?" he asked, as he looked at the other side – the dark side – of the lab. The track lights' precise aim resulted in a sharp demarcation right down the middle of the lab. On Crane's side, all was bright and neat. But at the line a curtain of darkness fell over everything, as though a black hole rested just beyond, with its event horizon ending at the light. Beyond that line, everything – even the brightness – was sucked into the black hole and disappeared.

  Of course, Crane knew there was no black hole in the darkness. What was there was something far more amazing. And far more deadly.

  The growl came again. Lower than any animal's voice, it thrummed through the room at an almost cellular level. Crane sometimes felt like checking his fillings when the thing growled like that. "Definitely hungry," he said.

  He looked into the darkness, only barely able to make out the cage. It was a perfect square, twelve feet to a side, with close set bars that you could barely fit a hand through.

  It was in the back. Still growling, an amorphous mass whose details could not be made out. Not in the darkness. Perhaps not ever.

  Crane flipped a switch on one of the computers. It hummed as myriad sensors that were hidden both inside and out of the cage came online, ready to measure everything about the beast, from its temperature to its brain functions to its body mass fluctuations.

  The beast heard the sensors come on. It whimpered.

  Crane smiled. His creation feared him. And that was as it should be. Creations should always fear their God.

  "Let's begin," said Crane. He took another bite of his candy bar, and then quickly flicked his flashlight upward, so that the sharp LED beam glanced off the beast's undulating skin.

  It was only a fraction of a second, but the reaction was instantaneous. The whimper was replaced by an enraged roar of pain. The thing shot forward, and Crane got the barest glimpse. A misshapen body – if body was even the right word any more – hitting the bars. A sense of the inhuman. A flash of sparks. Another howl of fury, so loud that if the room had not been utterly soundproofed Crane knew it could have been heard for a mile.