The Loon

by Michaelbrent Collings

  “Into anything it wants,” said Crane.

  Jorge looked disgusted at the thought of such an aberration. “Why would you do that, man?” he asked.

  “Idiots,” whispered Crane, and Paul could feel the mood of the room darken even more than it already had. “If we can unlock the secrets we keep in ourselves, everything will change. Imagine a world where if your kidneys stop working, you can just grow a new one. Same with arms or...” he glanced at his burnt stumps, “...or legs. Or fingers or anything else. This is the key to making ourselves perfect.”

  “Maybe someday,” Paul snorted, looking at some of the notes beside Crane. “But right now it means we have an escaped psychopath that you've made into a monster that can change its arm into a mouth, right Dr. Crane?”

  Paul's cold anger morphed into icy fear as Crane said, “It's much worse than that, Dr. Wiseman. It can secrete highly concentrated stomach acid in huge quantities...enough to burn a horse into nothing. Or it could flatten out and slide under a locked door.”

  Paul felt himself and everyone else look at the door, as though it would happen right that moment.

  “Shit,” said Vincent. “Could that really happen?”

  Jorge looked at his sister and niece. “Next year I pick the family reunion location, okay?” he said, and in spite of their dire straits Paul felt relief when the little girl actually smiled at the comment.

  Then he looked at Crane, who was also smiling, but for a different reason. “You're proud of it, aren't you?” said Paul.

  “I'm afraid, first and foremost,” said Crane, and his pale face seemed to whiten a bit further for a moment before he continued. “But yes, I am proud of what I have accomplished.”

  “Why here?” asked Vincent. “Why The Loon?”

  “Obvious,” answered Crane with a sniff which turned into a gasp when he moved. Paul couldn't understand why the man wasn't screaming: apparently the opportunity to brag in public for the first time about his work was keeping the man focused on the conversation and keeping his mind off the pain. “The inmates here,” Crane continued, “they're not people. No one cares if they disappear...as long as they don't reappear, either.”

  “You bastard,” said Paul. Then he asked, “How do we get away from it?”

  Crane's eyes closed meditatively. “You don't. This was a final stage experiment. It has to take in tremendous amounts of sustenance. Has to eat every fifteen minutes or so, especially after changing. If it doesn't, it will die. So it's very hungry, and we probably look like a big smorgasbord to him.”

  “So what, we can't kill it?” asked Vincent.

  Crane looked amused. “No, it's killable, Mr. Marcuzzi. Enough fire might do it, or blowing it into small enough pieces. And it's highly photosensitive: enough bright light will kill it.”

  “You knew that?” Jorge said to Paul.

  Paul nodded. “I suspected it, based on the setup of the lab and some of the notes I saw while we were in the basement.”

  “Then why'd you have me turn off my light, man?”

  “Because a little light just hurts it and makes it mad,” answered Crane. “It probably wouldn't have come near you if you were pointing it at him, but the second you wavered or turned your back...” and he made a slicing motion across his neck.

  “A Jorge-d'oeuvre,” said Paul. Then he turned to Crane. “Will the trank guns work on it?” he asked.

  The doctor shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “Probably not.”

  Paul looked at Crane's legs. “It attacked you in the shack, didn't it? Why didn't it kill you?”

  Crane hesitated. “You remember Luke Rodney?” he said.

  “Of course. Escaped a few months ago.”

  “No,” said Crane. “He never left. And right now he's probably coming toward us. Luke never liked me much.” Crane drew in a shuddering breath, then continued, “It didn't want me dead. Luke – the thing that Luke has become – wanted me hurting. Dead comes next. For all of us, I suspect.”

  “What do we do?” asked Vincent in the quivering tones of someone about to dissolve into hysteria.

  A moment of silence passed. Then Rachel said, “Food. Water.”

  “Lady,” began Vincent. “This is not the time to –“

  “No, she's right,” said Paul. “We should check this floor, one room at a time, then close it off and guard the stairs. We need to have access to the staff kitchen, sleeping area, and bathrooms.”

  “Why?” demanded Vincent in that same high-pitched, fearful voice. “Why don't we just stay here until the storm ends?”

  “Because we might get real hungry before that happens, and all our food is in the kitchen,” said Jorge. Then he added with a snort, “And I don't feel like crapping in the corner for the next two days, either.”

  "And I need to look around to see if I can find some meds for Dr. Crane," added Paul. Everyone looked darkly at the institute owner at that, but no one challenged him.

  Mitchell nodded. “We have everything we need to hold out up here,” he agreed.

  “So we check the floor, then decide what to do next,” said Paul.

  The others nodded slowly, then Crane spoke up. “I know what we do next,” he said, his voice slurring as he began to lose consciousness once again. Everyone looked at him.

  He spoke two more words before his eyes closed and he was silent: two words and nothing more. But the words were enough to chill Paul to his core.

  “We die.”

  HALL

  Mitchell moved slowly, carefully. He felt like he was opening a lion's mouth and preparing to stick his head in it, rather than opening a door and looking out. Paul had wanted to be the one to open the door, but Mitchell argued successfully that it should be him. After all, he had reasoned, he was the most physically formidable, so he should go first.

  For the first time ever, though, Mitchell wished he had been born a weakling.

  He looked out of Dr. Bryson's office. Shone a flashlight down the hall toward the staircase. Nothing. He swung the beam the other way: Paul's office. Door closed. Nothing in the hall.

  The door to the staff sleeping quarters was directly in front of him, and on either side of that door stood the doors to the bathrooms, like silent sentinels keeping watch. And beside him was the staff kitchen door. All closed.

  "Nothing," he whispered behind him, and crept into the hall. Paul stood behind him a half-second later, followed by Donald who was holding the Mickey Mouse flashlight in one hand and his trank in the other. Vincent followed last.

  "Okay," said Paul. "Mitchell and I will check my office. Donald, you aim Mickey at the stairs. Anything comes up and you shoot it. Vincent, you watch the door to the barracks to make sure nothing jumps out at us."

  For once, surprisingly, neither Vincent nor Donald complained. They just nodded quietly, though Mitchell could see the strain around Vincent's eyes, and it worried him.

  No time to ponder that, though, as Paul walked quietly to his office and Mitchell had to follow to give cover. When Paul unlocked the door, the noise sounded like a hammer blow to Mitchell, who couldn't help but look around to see if any predators had been summoned by the rasp of the door lock.

  After Paul unlocked the door, he stood there for a long time before moving. Mitchell couldn't blame him: planning to throw open the door to a room that might or might not have a lunatic – or something worse – waiting inside was a hard idea.

  Mitchell saw Paul tense, and steeled himself for movement. Mitchell nodded encouragement, his own trank gun out and ready.

  Paul opened the door.

  RATS

  Rachel sat as close as she could to her little brother, marveling and luxuriating in the confidence that he threw out. She knew it was an act – it had to be, no one could be as mindlessly optimistic as he appeared in a time like this – but she appreciated it nonetheless.

  Nearby, Crane moaned, still unconscious. She envied him his nightmares: they couldn't possibly be as bad as what they were all going through. />
  With that thought came another, accompanied by a pang of guilt: People are dead because of me.

  Murderess.

  "Jorge, I'm..." she faltered, searching for some way to communicate the depth of her feelings. She failed, however, settling for, "I'm sorry."

  "Don't worry," responded her little brother, her hermanito. "Paul's the smartest guy around. He'll get us out of this."

  There was a clinking noise above them, and Rachel felt Becky's neck snap upward, the little girl searching for the source of the noise in the frightening darkness.

  "Just rats," said Jorge. "They crawl around in the vents. It's the warmest spot in The Loon."

  Rachel looked around in the dark. Crane moaned in his unconsciousness, and Rachel moved toward the man.

  "Sis, don't," said Jorge, but he had misunderstood her intent. She didn't want to touch the doctor, but rather started feeling around in the desk. "What are you doing?" he asked.

  She didn't answer, but a moment later she pulled the letter opener out of her sleeve where she had kept it hidden and used it to pry at one of the seams on the desk, opening it until there was a gap big enough to slip her pinky into.

  Then, satisfied, she replaced the letter opener in her sleeve and returned to Becky and Jorge.

  He was staring at her like she had gone mad. Perhaps he was right. "Sis?" he said with a query in his gaze.

  "Just in case," she responded.

  Jorge waited for more, but she had expended her small talk for the moment. Her brother looked at Becky and said, "Your mom is crazy, you know?"

  Becky nodded.

  BEDS

  Paul motioned for Mitchell to shine his flashlight beneath his desk.

  Empty. Nothing there.

  Paul exhaled in relief, then nodded to Mitchell. "So far, so good," he said.

  "Famous last words," replied Mitchell with a lukewarm smile.

  Paul led Mitchell back into the hallway, going to where Donald and Vincent were still standing guard at the door to the office where Rachel, Becky, and Crane were ensconced.

  "It's clean," Paul whispered.

  Vincent motioned toward the staff barracks. "Who goes in there?" he asked, clearly hoping for an answer that didn't involve him.

  "Need more people on this one," said Paul. "So you, me, and Mitchell." To Donald he said, "Donald, you keep watching the stairs. Anything comes up, you shoot and then yell, got it?"

  "I don't wanna go in there," said Vincent. "I got no light."

  "Me either," said Paul. "At least you have a gun."

  The ploy worked: Vincent was a coward and a bully, but he wasn't about to be shamed in front of what was left of his posse.

  Paul sidled over to the door to the barracks and opened it. He tried not to weep when he saw the place. Though he had spent many nights there, and had been in it thousands of times over the years, he had never before looked at it as a potential hiding spot. As such, it was terrifying. Only about six million places to hide, the space under each bed a potential deathtrap waiting to be sprung.

  He took a deep breath and went to the first bed. Looked under it. Nothing. Vincent and Mitchell watched him as Paul moved to the next bed.

  DESK

  Rachel pushed a door near to the doorjamb, close enough that it could be wedged under the handle if need be.

  Then, groaning under the weight, she moved the desk with Crane on it so that the gap she had opened was facing the doorway.

  Jorge watched her, clearly wondering what she was doing.

  She didn't tell him; couldn't tell him that she had turned into the kind of person who could calmly plan to maim someone this way.

  She finished her work, then returned to her daughter.

  ARRANGEMENTS

  An hour later, Paul thought they were as ready as they ever would be. Several dismantled beds from the barracks created a misshapen barrier between the bathroom doors and the stairway. Mitchell stood behind it, vigilant, watching the stairs. He had a flashlight aimed at the top of the stairs, his expression as dark as the space around him.

  Donald was in the barracks, standing protectively over Vincent. The mafia kid had taken a turn for the worse over the last hour, growing more and more sullen. Finally he refused to speak altogether and was now curled up on one of the beds in the barracks, mumbling incoherently to himself.

  Dr. Crane was on another one of the beds, insensible. Paul had found some medication in Bryson's desk – some codeine the doctor had needed after a squash injury last year – and gave it to Crane when the man had woken. He was asleep again, shock keeping unconscious more often than not.

  Becky had also found a small toolbox somewhere in Bryson's office, and that had supplied the tools necessary for them to dismantle the beds. Paul liked the kid. She was tough and though quiet she struck him as very smart. He had tried to tousle her hair when she had brought the toolbox to him, but she ducked under his hand and avoided the movement. Still, it was as close as he had gotten to touching her, so he counted it as an improvement.

  Now, Paul pushed the last of the extra beds into one corner of the barracks, leaving seven in the back of the room. One of them held Crane's unconscious form, the other six were for them.

  Rachel and Becky were watching him. When he finished, Rachel said. "Six beds? There are eight of us."

  "I didn't know if you and Becky would want to stay in Dr. Bryson's office or not. I hoped you would stay here, but...." He shrugged. "Didn't want to force you to stay with us."

  Rachel looked as though she were about to agree with his assessment, then an expression of gratitude flashed over her face. "We'll stay here. With you and Jorge," she said, and the expression dazzled Paul, even in the dark room. He smiled at her, and though she didn't exactly smile back, the corners of her mouth did seem to tilt up ever-so-slightly.

  Rachel went to the pile of extra beds and pulled one next to the others. "We'll sleep on this one."

  "Okay," said Paul, and was amazed to find that he was already planning on taking the bed next to Rachel and Becky.

  What about Sammy? he thought momentarily. It was still the date of his son's birth, and the anniversary of his son's death, and Paul suddenly felt ashamed, as though the attraction he felt to this woman and the protective urge he had toward her daughter were shameful and to be buried deep down.

  Then he thought of Sammy's smile and wondered if his son would have wanted Paul to watch over these girls.

  The thought made him smile, the first smile he had had in connection with his son since that day in the park.

  Vincent's voice, muffled since the man had his face turned away from them, staring at a blank wall, said, "So that's it?"

  "I can't think of anything else to do," said Paul.

  "We just sit here?" Vincent sat up and stared at Paul, a glare on his face. "Why don't we make it easier for Steiger and whatever else is running around out there? Maybe we could blindfold ourselves and sit naked in one of the cells."

  "If that's what you want to do, be my guest," said Paul coldly.

  Surprisingly, Donald spoke up. "Vincent, put a sock in it," said the man.

  "Yeah, man," added Jorge from the doorway. "Cállate."

  "No way," said Vincent. "I wanna know what the brilliant doctor has in mind. We don't even know what's out there. Maybe Steiger's not even here anymore. Maybe he left."

  "No," said Jorge decisively. "He didn't, and you know it."

  FILES

  Mitchell looked at the barricade. When Paul had inspected it a few minutes back, he had left the file of documents and photos he'd lifted from Dr. Crane's secret lab, and Mitchell was burning with curiosity.

  He opened the file.

  Began to read.

  SYMPHONY

  Inside the prison area, the mad thumps still resounded as more and more of the inmates shook off the last dregs of their medication and began throwing themselves bodily against their walls.

  Some of them had managed to pry open the food slots that were inset
in the base of each door and were holding them open with bloody fingers. They screamed.

  The screams echoed in the darkness. Music of a terrifying symphony, a symphony of madness that answered to no conductor, but only to the urge to rip, to kill, to rend and destroy.

  The screams went on and on. Never stopping, never letting up.

  They would scream until the end of time.

  VIOLENCE

  Paul tore some clean cloths he had found into strips, examining Crane's legs as he did so. Rachel was standing nearby, holding Becky to her, covering the girl's eyes so she couldn't see the charred stumps that were all that was left of Crane's legs.

  "He gonna be all right, man?" asked Jorge from nearby.

  "Don't know," said Paul. "At least he's not bleeding. His little pet cauterizes as it goes. But he's in a coma, so all we can do right now is leave him alone, try and keep him comfortable."

  The wind rattled the window, moving the double-paned glass so much it seemed like it would hit the bars that covered it from outside and shatter into a million pieces.

  Vincent, still on his bed nearby, shuddered. "Are you sure Steiger's not gone? Maybe he took off and croaked out there."

  Paul shook his head. "I doubt it. Steiger wants to escape, not kill himself. That means he's in here, and his only chance is to kill us and wait until the storm rides itself out tomorrow or the next day." He tied one of the makeshift bandages onto Crane's left leg. The doctor groaned but did not wake. Just as well. "After the storm's over he's got a good chance of going overland and getting away. So our best bet right now is just sitting tight and as soon as the storm clears we can call out for help."

  Vincent snapped his fingers. "That's it!" he shouted.

  "What?" asked Donald. Paul kept working.