The Loon

by Michaelbrent Collings

  "I got my truck out front," said Vincent. "We could take it and pile in and get out of this place."

  "We wouldn't make it a mile," said Jorge. "Stop talking stupid."

  "We would, though," insisted Vincent. "We'd make it."

  Paul started work on Crane's other leg, speaking quietly. "Vincent, your truck could only hold three or four people, max. Anyone in back would freeze."

  Vincent looked at everyone in the room. Paul could practically hear the gears spinning as the kid did the math. Eight people total. Too many. But instead of that, Vincent said matter-of-factly, "Who's staying then?"

  The room erupted around Paul in a sort of controlled pandemonium as everyone tried to talk at once. Only Rachel and Becky remained silent.

  "Hold it," shouted Paul. "Shut up!" Everyone grew silent. "That's better." He turned to Vincent. "We can't go. One, your truck won't make it. Two, we aren't leaving anyone behind. Anyone. You got me?"

  "Then we're dead, boss."

  Paul grew angry. "Don't talk like that," he whispered, motioning toward Becky with his eyes.

  Vincent saw him and grinned. "Why?" he said, his smile now a white slash across a bloodless face. "Kid ought to know who killed her."

  Paul moved before he knew what he was doing. He leapt up and yanked Vincent to his feet, throwing him across the room. Vincent seemed to weigh less than a book, his arms flapping madly as he careened into a wall and bounced off. Paul grabbed him again, fist cocked, ready to pummel him into nonexistence for saying he had killed...

  (Sammy)

  ...the little girl.

  Donald and Jorge piled into him, driving him to the floor before he could mash Vincent's stupid face into the wall. They were both yelling at him to stop, think what he was doing, stop it stop it!

  "It ain't worth it for this Italian piece of shit, man," said Jorge.

  Paul slowly stood. He pushed Vincent away from him, then saw something horrible.

  Rachel and Becky. They were staring at him with fear. Paul felt himself deflate, all the anger leaving him in a millisecond. How would they have viewed his outburst? he wondered. These two abused women, how would they have seen him? As another violent man, another source of danger.

  It all came crashing down on him then: Sammy's birthday, trying to talk to his ex-wife who still hated him for killing their son, Steiger's escape, the storm, the thing that was somewhere in The Loon, everything. Tears welled out of his eyes, and he walked out of the barracks as fast as he could.

  In the hallway, Mitchell looked up from the papers he was reading, as imperturbable as ever. "What was all the noise about?" he asked, as though sounds of a scuffle in a dark lunatic asylum were something he experienced every day and twice a day on weekends.

  "Little disagreement," said Paul.

  He walked toward his office. He couldn't be around other people right now. Not him.

  Not a murderer like him.

  SAMMY

  Jorge watched Paul leave, then shut the door quietly behind him.

  He returned to Vincent, helped him up...and then buried his fist as far in Vincent's gut as he could. He heard a satisfying "oof" as the air burst out of Vincent's lungs, and the man keeled over. Jorge jerked him back up again, held the twit nose to nose, and said, "You ever say something like that again, man, and I'll kill you."

  He slapped Vincent right across the mouth to drive in the seriousness of what he was saying.

  To his surprise, Vincent began to cry. "What?" said the wise guy, whose bravura had utterly deserted him. "What'd I say?" he asked.

  "What did you say?" repeated Jorge incredulously. He relaxed his grip, and now it was his turn to look surprised. "You didn't know?" he said.

  "Know what?" asked Vincent.

  Jorge paused, wondering whether to share this or not, but decided that Vincent needed to know. That way he could stay away from the subject in the future...and if he didn't Jorge would pound him. Simple.

  "Paul was married once," said Jorge. "Had a beautiful wife, and the cutest little boy I've ever seen. One day the kid was playing, and he ran into the street after a toy. Paul saw the car coming, and he ran out and knocked Sammy out of the way. The car – truck actually – hit Paul, and he was in full traction and a body cast for six months."

  "What about the kid?" asked Donald.

  Jorge gulped. "Hit his head on the curb when Paul pushed him. Died the next morning of a fractured skull. So Paul wakes up three days later, and there's his wife, telling him he killed their kid."

  "Jesus," whispered Donald, and Rachel crossed herself nearby.

  "That was the last time he ever saw her, outside of court. She raked him over the coals, and he let her."

  Vincent looked almost remorseful for a full second, then his expression hardened once again.

  "Well, it's not my fault," he said. "Can't expect me to know all that."

  Jorge clenched his teeth and said, "You know now. And I meant what I said."

  "What are you talking about?" said Vincent.

  "Bring up Sammy ever again, Vincent, and I don't care how tough you think you are. I'll kill you."

  FATHER

  Paul sat in his dark office, holding the picture of his boy, his beautiful boy who would never smile like that again, and felt the tears dripping down his cheeks.

  Then the door opened and Rachel and Becky entered. Both of them – especially the little girl – looked shy and nervous as girls about to go on their first date.

  Paul wiped the tears from his cheeks as best he could.

  "Hi," he said to Rachel.

  "Becky wanted to talk to you," responded the young mother. Then she let go of her daughter's hand and stood just outside Paul's office. He was surprised at the amount of trust she was implicitly extending to him.

  "Why are you crying?" asked Becky, moving slowly toward him.

  He thought a moment about how best to answer the question. "It's my son's birthday," he finally said, "but he's not here and I can't celebrate with him."

  "Where'd he go?" she said.

  "Away," he replied.

  "He's dead," said the girl. It wasn't a question. Paul nodded. "Are we going to die, too?" she asked.

  Paul was struck momentarily dumb by the question, especially given as it was in such a matter-of-fact tone. He held out his hands to her. And, slowly, she reached out and held them. He embraced her, hugged her tight and for that moment felt as though he had his family back again. Then he put her on his lap and said, "No, honey. We're not going to die."

  "Honey," said Rachel from the doorway. Implicit trust only went so far, it seemed, because she said, "Come back to the room with the others. Dr. Wiseman has things to do."

  Mitchell entered at that moment, the big man squeezing in next to Rachel. "Yeah," he said. "Like answer a question I've got."

  Rachel jumped; Mitchell's entrance had been as silent as a plague. She gathered her daughter to her and both were gone in an instant. Paul watched them go, aching for the feel of the little girl in his arms. God, he missed being a dad.

  Finally he looked at Mitchell. "Who's guarding the stairs?" he asked.

  "Jorge's on it. Donald and Vince are sulking in the barracks."

  "What's the problem?"

  Mitchell waved the paper he was holding. "This thing's diet is the problem."

  "Eats every fifteen minutes," said Paul. "Crane already told us that."

  "Yeah," nodded Mitchell. "But what's it been eating?

  Paul thought a long moment. Then: "I'd imagine that's what happened to Wade, Sandy, Jeff, and Leann. It would explain the burns all over the place where they should have been."

  Mitchell nodded. "Sounds about right."

  "So what's your question?" asked Paul.

  "That happened almost four hours ago," said the big man. "What's it been eating since then?"

  SCREAMS

  It heard the screams when it first came to this place. Loud screams, soft screams. Screams like the wind outside, airy and light; s
creams like the shrieks of a dying dog, heavy and wet.

  Now other screams abounded. Short, harsh cries that burst out and then were gone.

  It was eating.

  It finished its last meal, a person that had seemed familiar to it, perhaps someone from its first life, the life before it had become...what it is.

  It pushes against the sealed door the person had been behind, willing itself to thin out, to lengthen, to flatten. There is a slot at the bottom of the door, and soon it is thin enough to get through. The effort tires it, but there is no other way.

  It must have food.

  Food.

  It stays in its quasi-solid state, pushing through the bars that surround each cell, reforming enough on the other side to grow feet and hands, disgusting appendages it uses to walk/slide/slither/pull its way to the next cell.

  Empty. It can tell. It has many noses, all of them excellent, and it cannot smell the sweat/anger/fear of a man in the cell.

  It moves to the next cell, and reverses its shift, pushing back through the bars, then pressing itself into the food slot in the inner cell door.

  It reforms slowly on the other side, taking its time. The cell's occupant barely even notices it has company, and the beast makes no sound until it is ready.

  Then it feeds.

  Another scream joins those around it.

  Another scream rises to the ceiling.

  Then another scream ends.

  Dies.

  The beast feeds.

  QUESTIONS

  Paul held the door open for Rachel and Becky, then followed them into the barracks. He looked at Donald and Vincent, who were quiet and sullen. Jorge stood behind him in the hall, Mitchell guarding the stairwell once again.

  "We have a problem," he said.

  "That's the understatement of the century," said Vincent.

  "Stow it, Vince," said Jorge. Vincent glared at the man, but remained silent.

  "Remember I said that that thing needs to eat every ten or fifteen minutes? And that it could go under doors?" Everyone, even Jorge and the two girls, who had already heard this, nodded. "It's been four hours," said Paul. "What's it eating?"

  Surprisingly, it was Donald who answered. "Oh, no. The other prisoners."

  RESCUE

  Paul stood at the top of the stairs and tried not to feel doomed. He and Mitchell were looking at the meager supplies and weapons they had: a pair of trank guns, and a few improvised Molotov cocktails they had made from some cleaning fluid, rags, and a few empty beer bottles they had found in the barracks under the sink. Hardly the kind of thing you wanted to go visit an army of psychotics with, not to mention the thing that was now somewhere in The Loon.

  Paul held one of the few flashlights they had, Mitchell held the other, and though they both had their game faces on, Paul suspected they both wore the same strained expressions. They were scared.

  “I need a lighter; matches,” said Paul, suddenly realizing he had no way to light the Molotovs if necessary.

  Jorge, who was going to take over guarding the stairs for Mitchell, pitched him a lighter.

  Rachel and Becky were standing in the door to the barracks, and Becky's little girl voice whispered, “You smoke, Uncle Jorge?”

  Jorge looked embarrassed. “No, I think I just quit, honey.”

  Vincent and Donald also stood nearby. Vincent had been pestering them for the last half hour while they got ready, insisting that this was a very bad idea. “You're nuts,” he said from nearby.

  “There are one hundred twenty-six people still in the prison,” said Paul yet again. “They might be in trouble.” To Jorge, he said, “Stay here. You've got seniority, you take care of things. We'll have to go down without walkie-talkies: Steiger's somewhere, and if he hears us talking on them we're gone. So cover the stairwell, and shoot anything that comes up without calling first.”

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Vincent. “Let them all out? They're crazy. That means they're not going to be good and just make a deal They're just a bunch of psychos.”

  “And they're still people!” said Paul as loudly as he dared. “I don't know what I'll do, but I have to see. Maybe I'll, I don't know, unlock their cells and we can barricade them in the prison.”

  “What?” shrieked Vincent, not bothering to speak quietly.

  “Paul,” said Jorge. “As much as I hate to agree with Don Wimpione here, I don't think that's a good idea.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Paul. “It's a terrible idea.” He flicked his flashlight on and off, making sure it worked. Stalling, he knew, but he was terrified. “I don't know what we'll do. I have to see,” he added again.

  He turned to go down the stairwell, Mitchell and his trank gun right behind.

  “What'll you do if you find...it?” asked Jorge.

  Paul flicked the lighter, holding one of the bottles in a throwing grip. “I'm gonna douse the thing and torch it.”

  “And Steiger?” said Jorge. “What if you run into him?”

  Mitchell answered, holding up his trank and a tazer. “Call me old-fashioned,” he said.

  NICE

  Becky watched as Paul and Mitchell slowly descended the gaunt stairwell.

  “They're going away,” she said.

  “They'll be back,” said Mommy.

  Becky curled her hand in her mother's. “I hope so,” she said, then added, “Paul's nice.”

  “Yeah," said Rachel, and Becky felt her mother's hand grow slick with sweat.

  PLAN

  Paul and Mitchell stood before the tunnel that led to the prison. Both were panting, not from exhaustion but from the physical exertion of maintaining complete stealth in the gloom of the prison. Terror had left Paul feeling sluggish and fatigued, and he could tell from Mitchell's eyes that the big man felt the same.

  They looked at the closed door to the tunnel.

  “So what's the plan?” said Mitchell. “We let those guys loose one at a time and we're dead before we've done two of them. And no offense, but that is not an okay plan for me.”

  Paul's brow furrowed in thought, then he said, “The master door circuit. It's on its own battery.”

  “What?” said Mitchell in a whisper loud enough to be heard in the next state over.

  Paul nodded. “It's the only way. I go inside each outer cell, I unlock the inner cell, real quiet, then leave and lock the outer door behind me. Then when they're all done we go down and hit the master release button twice. The inner doors will open, and we make some noise, draw the guys out of the inner cells. Then when they all know they're loose, we hit the button three times, the outer doors unlock, and we run.”

  “And we hope we're faster out the tunnel than the nuts who are nearest to the door.”

  Paul nodded. “We get here, we lock this door from the outside. That way they're still contained, but at least they're not just sitting ducks waiting to get...dissolved or however that thing eats.”

  “I hate this idea,” said Mitchell.

  “Me, too,” agreed Paul. “You let me know if you think of anything better, okay?”

  “What's to stop them from just popping out at you after you've unlocked the inner door but are still in the outer cell?”

  “You,” said Paul. “You'll be covering me.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” said Mitchell with a sigh.

  “Would you rather have my job?” asked Paul.

  CRAWL

  Steiger moved at a slow crawl through the air duct. He didn't know where he was exactly, but knew he was on the second floor somewhere: he had climbed a vertical shaft with a small ladder inset in it that connected the two floors. But beyond that, he had no clue.

  That was fine. He could go with the flow. Things always worked out when you went with the flow.

  He heard a noise. Looked ahead.

  There was a dim light in front of him. Coming from a vent in the floor of the duct. A ceiling vent to one of the second floor rooms, he guessed.

  Li
ght meant people.

  And people meant fun.

  He grinned.

  ESCAPE

  Vincent sat on his bed, dangling the keys to his truck before his eyes.

  His thoughts were confused; jumbled. He felt like he couldn't put things together right. But he knew one thing: he was getting the hell out of Dodge, whether he went alone or not.

  He finally looked over at the little girl, still so quiet, still sitting on her mother's lap, and Vincent Marcuzzi came to a decision.

  He looked at Donald, who nodded as though reading his mind. Then Vincent stood and, in one single fluid motion, grabbed Becky by the arm. The little girl screamed as he pulled on her, and said, “Come on, kid.”

  Rachel was on her feet instantaneously, battering at Vincent's arm ineffectually. “You let go of her,” she screamed.

  Vince had to wrestle with her for a quick moment before Donald stepped in and grabbed the young mother from behind. “It's okay, lady,” said Donald. “We're getting out of here.”

  “What?” said Rachel quietly. “How?”

  Becky pulled out of Vincent's grasp and went to Rachel.

  Vincent sighed. “Lady,” he said, “I got the baddest four wheel drive in three counties. It'll get us to Dayton or Stonetree.”

  “Dr. Wiseman said it wouldn't make it,” said Rachel.

  “He's wrong.”

  “He said it wouldn't fit everybody,” she replied.

  “And he's not here, is he?” asked Vincent pointedly. “So I'm not suggesting we take him with us.”

  “You mean, you want to...to....”

  “Come on, lady,” said Vincent. “You want to get your daughter out of here, right?” He dangled the keys before her, and said, “This is the way home.”

  A hand darted out of nowhere, snatching the keys out of Vincent's hand.

  “Shame on you, man,” said Jorge.