Jorge rolled his eyes again, but followed gamely enough as Paul started walking. Shockingly, they reached the generator shack after only a few minutes of pushing through the storm.
Jorge gasped when he saw it. The outside of it was wrecked. There were dents in the concrete walls, as though a padded wrecking ball had hit it over and over again. The door was torn off its hinges and ripped in half, and there were strange markings on and around it, marks that looked like some kind of etchings or blowtorch burns on the steel door.
"What happened?" yelled Jorge.
Paul shrugged and went inside. Jorge followed, swinging his flashlight right and left. "Oh, man, this just gets better and better."
The place was a mess. The generator looked as though the wrecking ball that had attacked the area outside had removed its pads and gone at the machine full force. It was in pieces all over the interior of the shack, and Jorge, though no engineer and hardly even capable of changing the oil on his car, could immediately tell that the generator was beyond repair.
And the blood. It was everywhere. Bright sprays of it on the walls, small pools on the ground, interspersed with those same strange burn patterns that he had seen on what remained of the door.
"Where are the bodies?" asked Paul.
"What?" said Jorge.
"All this blood. Where did it come from? Or who?"
Jorge had no answer.
GAME
Steiger stepped into the hallway of the staff facility.
Where to begin? he thought. He knew from his long tenure at the facility that the closest door was the kitchen where meals were cooked, with numerous doctor's offices lining the hall. There was the stairway that led to the second floor – a promising possibility, he thought – and at the end of the hall was the door to the lobby, and beyond that the outside world.
Steiger thought briefly about trying to leave. Power was off, he had the advantage of surprise. Now was probably the most sensible time to go.
But he also had to admit that the prospect of staying for some...fun...also held its charms.
He wondered if he might find a knife or two in the kitchen, and opened it using one of the keys on Marty's key ring, which had been considerately marked, "Kitchen." Steiger would have to thank the dead guard for that next time he saw him.
He had just unlatched the door when there was a crackling, ripping, shredding noise behind him. Steiger reacted automatically, throwing the door open and throwing himself into the kitchen. He turned as he did and glimpsed the door to the lobby come crashing off its hinges before he was in the kitchen, door slammed shut behind him. He wondered about his reaction at the same moment – usually a door coming undone would not have unnerved him in the slightest. Steiger was fairly proud of the fact that very little in this confused world of his rattled him. But some animal instinct within him was suddenly fully alert, sniffing the air. It told him that whatever had just broken the door was something unusual. Something new.
Dangerous.
Fun.
Steiger peeked through the mesh-reinforced porthole that was inset in the top half of the kitchen door.
A dark shape moved by the kitchen. Steiger couldn't see much, it was just black in a sea of black. But something about the strange, fluid way it moved through the darkness made him stay silent.
It wouldn't be as much fun if he were dead.
The thing moved toward the door that led through the tunnel and into the prison.
Steiger waited for several minutes, then stepped out.
Whoever – or whatever – it had been, the thing was gone.
Steiger rubbed his hands together contemplatively, feeling for all the world like a child who has been told that it may play whatever game it wishes, and that there would be only one rule: people had to die.
HURT
Paul looked at the generator while Jorge stood, shivering, with his trank gun drawn and pointed out the door.
After no more than a few moments, Paul confirmed what had been clearly evident from the first second he entered the generator shack: the machine was completely destroyed.
"It's trashed," he said.
"Steiger?" asked Jorge, not looking away from the door.
"No," said Paul. "Maybe. I don't know."
The wind howled wildly, a piercing ghost call that made Paul feel as though some kind of evil spirit was beckoning for his soul to follow it to the depths of hell.
"I think we should get outta here," he said.
Then a thump sounded, harsh and hollow in the darkness. Paul almost jumped out of his skin when he heard it, and saw Jorge jerk in fright.
The storage cabinet opened.
Slowly.
Paul tensed. He felt like an eight-year-old, watching a horror movie through splayed fingers, waiting for something to grab him from behind while he watched the show with a terrified gaze.
The door fell open, and Crane pulled himself out. The doctor looked up at Paul with pain-saturated eyes and whispered, "Help," before passing out.
"Dios!" hollered Jorge, and gagged.
Paul couldn't blame him. Crane was a mess. There was a hole on his forehead that trickled blood, bright read on the white, snow-covered floor. His body and face wherever visible were covered in bruises. Blood was all over him.
And his legs...one was gone at the knee, another ended in a stump near the ankle. Paul was shocked at first that the doctor hadn't bled to death already, and started yanking at his belt to make a tourniquet before he realized that the stumps weren't bleeding; that Crane's legs had somehow been cauterized and sealed shut.
"Is he..." began Jorge.
Paul checked Crane's pulse. "Alive," he said. He examined the legs. Cauterized all right, but not by fire. It looked almost like a chemical burn, ashy dead skin flaking off all around the circumference of the charred flesh. "What did this?" said Paul, as much to himself as anything.
There was blood leading down some kind of stairway that was in the back of the storage closet, and suddenly Paul realized why only Crane had the key to this place: it was something secret, something he didn't want anyone else to know about. What that secret could be, Paul had no idea, but he somehow intuited that it was tied in to the mess they all had been suffering through on this horrific night.
Paul hesitated, then said, "Help me with him."
"What're we doing?" asked Jorge.
Paul nodded to the stairwell. "Going down."
"Are you crazy, man?" asked Jorge. "We don't know what's down there."
Paul motioned at the blood on the stairs. "Sandy or Wade or any of the others could be down there. Hurt."
Jorge closed his eyes as though praying, then said, "Fine. But if I die my sister's going to be seriously pissed."
Paul grinned. "I'll try to keep that in mind," he said.
But the words sounded hollow, even to him.
He still didn't know what was going on, but he was gripped by the sudden feeling that neither he nor Jorge would make it through the night alive.
CRYPT
The prison was silent, a vast mausoleum where the corpses didn't know they were dead yet.
Then, the silence was broken by a thud. One of the prisoners crashed against the door of his dark cell. Then another, then another...and now there were thumps and thuds everywhere.
The inmates were panicking, losing whatever tenuous hold on self-control they might have had. Men's faces appeared at the portholes of the inner cells. Wary faces, frightened faces, paranoid faces, manic faces. Mouths open in silent screams.
Some of the prisoners, including one who was named after a president but whom everyone called Bloodhound, starting head butting the porthole window in his cell. Blood smeared as Bloodhound's nose shattered.
He smiled and licked the blood up, nostrils flaring as he did so.
And under it all was the sound: the wind.
The elements were raging. The storm had at last reached full force.
Part Four: The Feeding
It's less than a rustl
e in my ear -
An instant of black where night should be.
A sensing of something drawing near.
A fragment of heart-beat stilled, then free;
A flicker of shadow behind the moon.
The moment I tense...it's stalking me.
- Visitor by Starlight
It's here. I feel it crouching in cold night
Behind my door. It waits its own
Still time to tendril out
And touch my toes.
I shiver and groan...
- Secret Shadow
STORM
The sound of Mitchell's walkie-talkie crackling suddenly to life startled Rachel. Paul's voice sounded out. Rachel strained to hear, though: the storm was whistling and wailing constantly now, and almost drowned out the kind doctor's words.
"Mitchell?" said Paul.
Mitchell thumbed the button on his radio and answered, "Yeah, where are you?"
"Good question. We found some sort of a tunnel that goes under the courtyard."
"What?" Mitchell said, and Rachel could see surprise writ large across the huge man's face.
"Who's with you?" said Paul, ignoring the question.
"The ladies, and Donald and Vincent," answered Mitchell.
"And I've got Jorge with me."
Rachel's heart fluttered when she heard Jorge was with Paul. She didn't know all that was going on, but knew that someone had escaped the prison, and that others were hurt, maybe even dead. But not Jorge. Thank God, not Jorge.
"Hey, sis," said her brother over the radio. "How's that big buffoon treating you and the brat?"
Mitchell handed the walkie-talkie to Rachel, quickly pantomiming where to push to send the signal. "He's been fine," she said. "I'm okay."
"And the brat?" asked Jorge. Rachel couldn't help but smile. She handed her daughter the radio. The little girl was hesitant, her movements still sparing, as though she did not want to draw attention to herself. But as she heard her uncle's voice, Rachel saw her daughter's eyes change. She was going to be brave. To survive.
Rachel was both happy and sad at this. Happy that her daughter was going to speak, and had clearly decided to come out of the self-induced trance that had held her in its sway since their arrival. But sad that such a thing should be necessary. No child should have to concentrate on survival like that.
FUN
Steiger held Hip-Hop's walkie-talkie loosely in his hands, listening to the exchange. He had wondered who this Becky might be, and sure enough the universe had once again altered its path to accommodate him. He was standing in front of the lobby door, having decided that, fun as this place might be, it was time to leave. So he pushed at the door, shoving it open to a wind that almost took him off his feet.
Just a short walk to the gate. Then freedom. And more fun. More setting the universe to rights in the way that only he could do.
He pushed out into the storm, taking his first step when the mysterious Becky's voice came across the walkie-talkie he still held.
"I'm okay, Uncle Jorge. I'm with Mommy," said the voice.
Steiger stopped moving. The voice was beautiful. Innocent. It spoke of milk and cookies left out for Saint Nick, of red balls that bounced with a hollow sound off black pavement in a schoolyard, of ice cream on a hot summer day, of cocoa in the frosty winter nights.
The voice spoke to Steiger. She was a little girl. Just a little girl.
Little girls could be so much fun.
So he stepped backward.
Closed the door behind him.
He would stay for a while.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he sang quietly, and laughed a little laugh. Just the kind of laugh that a young girl – that Becky – would love. Come play, said the laugh. Come play and laugh and sing until we are ashes and ashes and all fall down.
He would stay after all.
Little girls could be so much fun.
STRESS
Mitchell took his walkie-talkie back from the little girl and winked at her. She didn't wink back, but her eyes no longer held that dull, glazed look that they had for the entire time in the office. That was good, Mitchell thought.
Out loud, he said, "What about Marty and Crane? Sandy?"
"Crane's with us," answered Paul's voice. "Hurt. We're bringing him in."
"And the others?"
There was a long pause, broken only by the sustained screaming of the wind and the ever-so-soft crackle of the walkie-talkie. Finally, Paul said, "Close the door to Bryson's office. Lock it. And keep a gun pointed at it. We'll warn you before knocking."
Mitchell flinched then as someone yanked the walkie-talkie out of his hand. It was Vincent, the wannabe mobster must have forgotten his own radio in his gutless hurry to get over here. "What the hell's going on?" said the weaselly twit in a nasal, panic-ridden voice.
Another pause. Then Paul said, "Steiger's out. The generator's trashed. And something else is going on, too."
Vincent looked like he was about an inch away from pitching headfirst into an abyss of insanity. "What does that mean, huh, Wiseman? You wanna tell me what that means?"
Mitchell used one of his huge hands to wrest the walkie-talkie away from Vincent, not taking much care to be gentle. "Shut up," he hissed. "This isn't the time or the place." He glowered at Vincent, rolling his eyes toward Becky to indicate that Vincent shouldn't scare the kid. Vincent went back and sat next to Donald.
Donald put an arm around his friend, squeezing Vincent's shoulder, then went and locked the door. Rachel and Becky watched calmly, and Mitchell was glad that neither of them was acting as terror-stricken as Vincent.
Vincent he could punch if the guy went too bonkers. But Mitchell knew he didn't have it in him to strike a girl. Call him sexist, but that was the way he had been raised.
Paul's voice inserted itself into Mitchell's train of thought. "I don't know what's going on, Vincent. I'll radio you as soon as Jorge and I find out where we are. Until then, keep your guard up and stay safe.
"Out."
DISSOLVED
A door is in the way.
It doesn't matter.
It goes under the door, its body flattening out against the cold concrete floor. Somehow it retains its ability to think, to act, to do, to be, even in its dissolution.
Once on the other side of the door, it re-solidifies.
Eyes appear along one side. They move independently, half a dozen moving in every direction. Though it does not know how it knows, it is aware that it has found its way into the prison.
The silent prison. The prison of its first life.
There is food here.
It will feed.
WARY
Just a tunnel. Nothing less, nothing more. But in spite of that, Paul was wary, walking carefully through the secret passage that led from the generator shack to a place unknown.
Crane was unconscious beside him, being held aloft in an emergency carry position by Paul and Jorge. Jorge was muttering in Spanish, praying from what little Paul knew of the language.
They followed the passage until they reached the end. A door stood before them. They opened it carefully.
Wary of what might be on the other side.
LUCKY
Mitchell tried making shadow figures in the pitiful light of Becky's Mickey Mouse flashlight, but his heart wasn't in it. For one thing, the light wasn't strong enough. For another, his hands were too big. But most of all, it was because he simply could not stop shaking.
He looked around. Donald was guarding the door, the quiet guard covering it with his half-raised gun. Vincent stared out Dr. Bryson's office window, looking like a man at Confession. He spoke a moment later, his voice dreadful and broken: the voice of a man about to shatter.
"When I was a kid, I was in this gang. And it was so great being...part of something. And then I realize one day that I got no family, I got no job, I got no prospects. Nothing. And so I tell Roger – he was the leader, King Shit of Turd Mountain, he ca
lled himself – I says, I'm getting out. Gonna make something of myself. And he says, 'My ass, you're getting out.'"
Donald apparently sensed as Mitchell did that Vincent's reminiscing was not going anywhere helpful or healthy, because he whispered, "Vincent, don't."
The room was quiet as a sepulcher at midnight. Then Vincent continued, "But I did, you know. I got out, and I thought, now I'm done and made it out." He inhaled, a deep, shuddering breath. "Then I realize that knocking over corner stores is all I know, and only one place will hire me, so I end up working at this factory as a minimum wage night watchmen. Me, on the legal side of a gun for once. And then I'm in charge of security at the place. And then I land me a nice fat job on the staff of the Crane Institute and I think how lucky I am. Making more honest money than I ever thought I could. How lucky. Lucky...."
His voice trailed off, and a moment later Becky said from her mother's lap, "Mommy, are we going to die?"
Mitchell looked at Rachel and could instantly see that she couldn't answer. Whether it was because she didn't know or simply was too tired to deal with the question, Mitchell couldn't say. But she looked at him pleadingly.
"No, kid," said Mitchell. "We're not going to die."
Becky smiled at him, just the barest hint of a smile actually, but even that little bit was warm and radiant, like the sun had peeked through the storm for one small moment. The sun fled, though, when Vincent said, "We are, though. You can feel it. You can feel -"
Mitchell felt himself leap across the room in an instant, slamming Vincent against the wall, shaking him like a naughty puppy. "What the hell are you trying to do?" he rasped in a low whisper. "Scare the little girl? Huh?"
Vincent threw Mitchell's hands off. "Touch me with your big mitts again and I'll break your -" began Vincent, but before he could finish the thought, there was a knock at the door.
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