The creation was hissing, oozing, almost appearing to melt before Crane's eyes.
Unstable, he thought. They are all unstable.
Out loud, he said, "Restless? Can't say I blame you. I wouldn't worry though. Tomorrow morning I'll have your replacement, and you'll be just a bad dream."
OPTIONS
Paul walked into his office and was struck again by the beauty of the woman who now sat with her daughter on her lap, both of them watching Jacky as though they were worried he might erupt out of his seat at any moment and start beating them with a nightstick.
After what Paul supposed they had been through, however, he couldn't say he blamed them.
He glanced away as soon as they looked at him, hoping that neither had noticed how his gaze lingered a moment too long on Rachel's lovely face; how it lasted just a smidge too long on Becky's childlike sorrow.
He thought of Sammy again.
And now, here was another child who would, like it or not, depend on him for the next few days. He prayed silently that this time it would work out better than it had the first time.
The little girl again buried her face in her mother's clothes when Paul walked in. He didn't try to jolly her out of it again. She was grieving, perhaps in shock. She needed a bit of peace and quiet.
He looked at Jacky. "Jacky," he said, "Why don't you go downstairs and help the guys in the large kitchen. They're getting dinner ready for the inmates and could use some help. Then Hip-Hop wants you to assist him with the meals themselves."
Jacky nodded, then tipped an imaginary cap at Rachel and Becky before leaving the room. Paul turned to face the woman and her daughter. "My name's Dr. Paul Wiseman. I'm Chief of Staff at this facility." He waited a moment, and when no response was forthcoming, asked, "Do you know where this is?"
"The Loon," said Rachel quietly.
The little girl continued looking away; continued to say nothing.
"What were you doing out there in this storm? You knew it was coming, didn't you?" Rachel shook her head. "You didn't? Why were you out?"
He didn't expect an answer; not really. And he got what he expected: evasion. "Where's Jorge?" asked Rachel.
"He's patrolling the prison," said Paul. "We don't have enough people to really go around right now. Bad time to visit."
"I'm sorry," said Rachel. "If you can help me get my car dug out we'll leave."
Paul saw in her eyes that she already knew that was impossible, so he answered her truthfully and quickly: "You can't. You're stuck here with us, I'm afraid."
"How long?" she asked.
"Until the roads clear. Late tomorrow at the earliest. We'll get the county people or the Rangers to dig your car out then."
Rachel paled. Paul could see her going through her options. And when she quietly whispered, "What are we going to do?" he had no answer.
Because he suspected the question was not really for him.
He suspected that whatever these women weren't telling him, it was much worse than what he had originally thought.
SOON
Crane threw a long last look at the creature. It was still shifting, pulsing in the darkness of its prison, which now seemed wet; coated with slime. The thing was almost dissolving, its metabolism going so fast to keep up with its transformations that unless it got something to eat fast – which Crane had no intention of providing it – it would perhaps just literally fall apart.
A hissing sound came.
Crane looked closer.
The thing was writing again. Etching words on the ground. That was disturbing to Crane. Highly disturbing. All the other test subjects had shown great promise for what he wanted, but none of them had shown the least trace of humanity or even awareness.
The writing shouldn't be possible. Not with what had been done to this creature's brain.
For a moment Crane debated letting it live. But only a moment. If it could write, who knew what other surprises – some of them probably much less pleasant – this thing was hiding?
The sizzling stopped.
Crane flashed his ever-present LED light at the creature. It shrieked and pulled away, leaving only the words on the floor:
SoON
soOn SOon
sooN Soon
SOON
MUTE
Becky felt like her blanket had been thrown over her head ever since Daddy had hit her earlier in the day. It hadn't been the first time he had beaten her, but it had been the first time that he had hit her with his fist.
The first time Mamá ever hurt him.
Then she thrust the thought out of her mind. It was hard. So much blood.
Then the blanket fell again around her mind. Making it hard to think, but at the same time cloaking her, shielding her. Protecting her, just like a good blanket should. Blankets were for babies, that's what Daddy said –
So much blood -
Stop. Don't think of that!
She shuddered.
The Nice Man must have seen it, because he said, "Is she okay?"
"She's fine," said Mommy. But she said it too fast. Too fast.
Rachel wanted to talk, but couldn't.
She was not fine.
Nothing was fine.
BLOOD
Paul was getting seriously worried about the little girl, but knew that his mother would not permit him to touch her. So he took them across the hall to the staff sleeping quarters. It looked more like a barracks than ever to his eyes, though he knew he was projecting his version of what Rachel was seeing onto the place. Still, even if it was a barracks, it was the safest place to sleep.
"You can sleep here," he said, gesturing at the cots.
"With other people?" asked Rachel.
Paul saw instantly what was coming, and grimaced inwardly. Stupid, he thought of himself. But there was no helping it. "Yes, everybody sleeps here," he said.
"We can't stay," said Rachel.
"Look," began Paul. "The roads are closed, and you can't leave. None of us can lea -"
"No, I mean we can't stay here. Not if everyone is sleeping here. I won't let my daughter...."
Her voice trailed off, and Paul examined her face. Becky was in serious shock, and if he couldn't get her to respond to him soon, he would have to do something about it whether Rachel approved or not. But now was not the time. He could see that the woman was on the verge of breaking.
"Miss, please," he pleaded.
"No," was all she said.
She bit her lip. Hard. Paul thought he could see blood.
DELIVERIES
Hip-Hop was nervous. So much depended on the next few minutes. He was wracking his brain, thinking of the best way to get Jacky alone.
The soon-to-be-dead new kid.
Hip-Hop thrust the thought from his mind. Don't think of him as Jacky, he thought. It's just Hales or the new kid.
But it was hard. The kid had an infectious smile that made people want to like him, to help him.
To not kill him.
Hip-Hop focused on two things: the plan and all the money he was making here.
The new kid was nice.
Money was nicer.
How do I get him alone?
Then, as so often seemed to happen when Crane was planning things, the universe seemed to bend itself to the plan. Hip-Hop was in the main kitchen – the galley, the staff called it – getting a bunch of microwave dinners ready for the inmates. No forks, no spoons, no knives. Never any cutlery for the inmates. Just finger foods and soft plastic cups with water.
Vincent and Donald were there, helping out. Or coming as close to helping as the Mafia wannabe and his split-lipped retard of a pal ever came, which wasn't too close. Mitchell was there, too, the gigantic man as quiet and hard-working as ever, doing the work of both Vincent and Donald as well as his own.
Wade was there, too, Hip-Hop's co-conspirator quietly helping, clearly waiting for Hip-Hop to take the lead on what to do.
And then there was Jacky.
The new kid
had picked up on the procedure for laying out the food on the trays quickly, which seemed silly but wasn't when you were dealing with over one hundred people who all needed to be fed and who would gladly use anything you gave them to kill someone with if at all possible.
He'll be a good guard.
Another thought to thrust out of his mind. Hales wasn't going to get a chance to be a good guard. Because Hip-Hop's job was to get him alone with Steiger and let nature take its course. Steiger would get the new kid's card, would get the new kid's code...
Don't think about how he'll get it.
...and would get out. Steiger was too smart not to. Too smart for his own good.
So how do I get him alone? Hip-Hop thought again, and that was when the intercom buzzed. "Guys?" said Wiseman, his voice tinny and filtered through the speaker.
Hip-Hop thumbed the 'com on from their end. "Yeah, Wiseman?"
"Could two of you come upstairs please? I need some help moving stuff."
Hip-Hop rejoiced at how easy this was suddenly going to be, but he gave no sign of it. "Moving stuff?"
"Interior redecorating."
Hip-Hop looked at the wall clock. Six fifty p.m. Things were going to go down soon. He caught Wade's eye, and his fellow planner crooked an eyebrow.
Hip-Hop thumbed the button. "I'll send up Vincent, Donald, and Mitchell. Their shift was going to end soon, they can help you then finish early and bunk down while me and Jacky play waiter."
"Hey!" said Vincent. Even though he had the opportunity to be done early, evidently the little prick didn't like the idea of having to do anything as laborious as lifting something. "Don't I get no say in this?" The idiot switched to the worst De Niro imitation ever. "Are you talkin' to me? Are you talkin' to me?"
Hip-Hop ignored him. Apparently Wiseman either did the same or didn't hear him, because the doctor said right over Vincent's bitching: "Sounds good. Send them up to Dr. Bryson's office, please."
"Bryson ain't even here, man," said Vincent.
"And tell Vincent to quit complaining," said Wiseman, and Hip-Hop smiled as Donald and Mitchell laughed and pointed at Vincent, who flipped them off. Wiseman was a goody two shoes – no way would Crane even have thought about inviting him to be a part of what was going on below The Loon – but at least he could be funny sometimes.
"Okeydoke," said Hip-Hop into the mic.
"And Hip-Hop," continued Wiseman, "make sure you keep an eye on Jacky when you're doing the deliveries."
Hip-Hop noted that Wiseman was already calling the new kid Jacky. He hoped that no one was really attached to the kid. It would make the coming hours just that much harder. Still, a job was a job. He looked at Jacky and smiled.
"I'll take good care of him."
OFFICE
Paul watched half-attentively as Vincent and Donald struggled to get a pair of beds into Dr. Bryson's office without banging into a wall or some other furniture. Like most of the staff, Bryson – the staff physician who was in charge of the inmates' physical health – was waiting out the storm in nearby Stonetree, so it made sense for Paul to have Rachel and Becky sleep in here. They were close to the staff quarters, they were reasonably safe. Plus, Bryson was a neat freak who went a bit overboard on his standards for cleanliness, and Paul had to admit to himself that it would be fun seeing Bryson come back to a changed office.
He glanced out the barred windows. Outside The Loon, Darkness reigned. The kind of weather where you couldn't see anything other than snow and the dim electric lights of The Loon, shining like multiple weak eyes, their lenses filmy with a blizzard cataract.
The weather was now no longer dangerous, it was deadly.
"Hold your end, dammit," said Vincent.
"Hold your own end," murmured Donald in a rare display of gumption.
Paul jumped in before Vincent could start a fight. "Easy guys, it's not quantum physics."
Vincent was unmollified. "Why we gotta do this, anyway?"
"Lady and her daughter don't feel really comfortable spending the night with us," was all Paul said in return. More than that would probably be lost on Vincent anyway.
He watched for another moment to make sure everything was going along as it should, then left the room, leaving the door wedged open behind him. He crossed the hall to the staff sleeping facility. Inside, Mitchell was quietly making up the bed closest to the wall. As always, Paul marveled that the cots would even hold the silent monster of a man.
On another cot, Rachel held Becky tightly on her lap, the little girl's face dreadfully white as both watched Mitchell with clear distrust.
Paul felt a pang of sympathy for the two women, part of it because of their obvious discomfort, part of it because he couldn't help but imagine Sammy when looking at Becky.
He cleared his throat before any tears could work their way to the surface and went to the small sink. He grabbed a pair of disposable cups from a nearby dispenser and filled them with water. "We're almost done with the bed," he said, holding out the water to Rachel and her daughter. Neither of them took a cup. "Sorry, but we won't be able to fit two cots in the other room, so you'll have to double up."
"That's all right," said Rachel.
Paul locked eyes with Rachel at that moment, and felt a surge of electricity thrum through him. He remembered a cool kiss, and remembered that he had known what it felt to be loved once.
That was a long time ago, he thought, and turned to leave.
"Dr. Wiseman?" came Rachel's voice.
He turned back to them. "Paul," he said.
There was a long pause, as though Rachel struggled before she finally managed, "Thank you. Doctor."
A sudden gust hit the walls. Different than the others had been; stronger. Strong enough to rattle not just the windows but the walls themselves.
The wind howled, an almost-human sound of angry gusting.
Then there was a snap as the lights went out.
OFFICIAL
Mitchell O'Hallan felt the lights go out as much as he saw them. He was the largest person on staff – by far – and the largest person in The Loon, but he was also desperately afraid of the dark. Had been ever since his mother had locked him in a closet when he was a kid for stealing brown sugar. He knew he shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have stuck his hands in the bag and felt the delicious stuff crumple as he crushed doughy clods of the stuff between his already-massive fingers and then shoved the sweet grit into his mouth. But it was just too tempting. And when his mother threw open the door to the pantry and saw him there, he was neither surprised nor concerned. Whatever was coming, it had been worth it.
Or so he thought.
But it must have been one of Mother's bad days, for without a word she took Mitchell and threw him into the coat closet, leaving him there for several hours. He had been quiet at first, then panic had set in and he had attempted to get out. She had put something heavy in front of the door, though, and Mitchell was stuck. Stuck and at her mercy...the mercy of a woman who was generally a good and caring person but who occasionally did not even know her own children's names.
So now whenever he was in the dark, he could feel it. Heavy, like the coats that had rested on his shoulders like wraiths ready to eat his soul on that day so long ago. The dark was real to Mitchell, and it was not a friend.
Still, he had managed if not to conquer his fear over the years then at least to control it. He no longer wet himself when the dark came. And now, as though to prove to himself that he could still function in the nightmarish world of black in which he found himself, he said in as calm a voice as he could muster, "It's official."
Near him, the woman and her daughter gasped as the lights went out. "What's going on?" said the woman. She sounded on the verge of panic.
"Don't worry," said Paul. Mitchell knew Paul was a good man; knew that if the woman had needed or wanted it, Paul would have held out a hand for her to hold.
Sometimes it stank being the size of a small whale. No one ever offered to hold Mitchell's h
and.
"It'll just take a second," Paul continued, "and then the generator should kick in."
Mitchell hated that Paul had used the word "should" instead of "will." "Should" implied that the generator might not kick in.
And what would happen then?
Part Three: The Dark
Of thought and fear and loneliness. Window glass
Feels icy to my touch, double panes
Against my wrists as cold as graveyard brass,
Bringing yet more chill into my veins
To dissipate what little warming hope remains.
- The Little That it Takes
But inside...inside, where dark
Shadows roam in rooms
Abandoned to waiting, stark
Emptiness, shapes loom -
Unfocused, horror's birthmarks...
- In the House Beyond the Field
FLASHES
The galley. Dark. Hip-Hop, Jacky, and Wade were frozen in the positions they had been in when the darkness fell. Two conspirators, one planned victim...and all were silent. No sound but the wind outside, rushing past the walls.
***
Dr. Bryson's office. Vincent and Donald had still been struggling to get the cot set up in the cramped space when the darkness fell. They had been arguing.
They were not arguing now.
***
The door to the prison area. The electromagnetic seal unlocked for a moment, a soft sigh as a vacuum was released.
***
The prison. Marty and Jorge both jumped violently as the lights went out, the area transforming suddenly into a medieval dungeon, full of hiding places and terror. Even through the soundproofed walls of the cells, the inmates could be heard.
The Loon Page 13
