The Loon

by Michaelbrent Collings

  Vincent clenched his fist and turned to strike. Who the hell does this beaner think he is? he thought, but the movement to lash out stopped dead as he came face to muzzle with Jorge's trank gun.

  “I imagine a dart in the eye would really hurt, Vince. So calm down.” Jorge waited a moment, then slowly lowered his gun. “This is a real bad time to be at each others' throats, man.”

  Vincent deflated. It just isn't fair, he thought. I should be at home right now, watching TV or maybe even getting laid or something if I'm lucky. Not here, not now, not like this.

  Jorge put the keys in his pocket and headed back into the hallway. Rachel grabbed her daughter's hand and followed instantly.

  “Where you going?” he said to Rachel. “The nutcase is out there.”

  “I feel safer out there than I do with someone who would abandon his friends and leave them to die,” said Rachel.

  FRENZY

  The beast moves into another cell.

  A moment, then there is a thud and a muffled wail.

  It's moving faster now, tendrils and pseudopodia rippling out of it randomly as it slakes its hunger with blood and flesh.

  Hungry, it thinks, and then feeds.

  It is frenzied, the blood lust from its first life rising to join with the desperate need to feed of its second life.

  Food.

  Everything here is food.

  INSIDE

  Paul and Mitchell entered the prison, Mitchell swinging his light left and right in a sweep pattern that mostly caused more shadows to leap out of the darkness, illusions of movement that drew Paul's gaze to them like magnets drew iron slivers from sand.

  “See anything?” whispered Paul. Mitchell shook his head. “Cover the light,” Paul said. “If they see us doing this, we're screwed.”

  The light died, only a red glow through Mitchell's fingers now as Paul crept to the nearest cell. He took a deep breath. This was it.

  He went to the cell and realized both hands were full, so he put one of the Molotovs next to the outer cell, holding the other in his free hand. Then he carefully – quietly – unlocked the outer cell and stepped in. Mitchell covered him, flashlight now pointed at his leg so that there was a small glow of light while leaving his free hand available to hold the trank.

  Paul wished that the trank gun made him feel safe.

  But it didn't.

  He moved to the inner cell. The tension in his body felt like thick air, cloying at him, clawing at him, slowing him down. He couldn't peek in to see if the inmate – a deeply disturbed man named Eves – was waiting to jump out at him: the very act of doing that might alert the man that he could get out of the cell. Paul had to go in blind and hoping for the best.

  He reached out slowly, carefully with the key.

  Inserted it as quietly as he could, but still heard the rasp like thunder in his ears, even louder than the sound of the ever-present wind outside. How could Eves not hear that? he thought, but nothing emerged from the cell. Paul quickly retraced his steps backwards and locked the prison cell behind him.

  He looked at Mitchell. “One hundred twenty-five to go,” he said.

  SCRATCHING

  Steiger lay silently, looking down through a vent that led to the sleeping area. Cobwebs drifted lazily across his face, but he did not move. The touch was like a gentle caress to him, reminding him that all life must end a withered husk, the juices sucked out of it and as dry as a spider's prey after feeding time.

  He had caught glimpses of two guards – Vincent and Donald – in the room. He could also barely see that the door to the hallway was closed.

  “I hate that shit-eating beaner,” said Vincent below him.

  Steiger smiled. He began scratching lightly at the vent.

  “What's that?” said Vincent.

  Steiger moved back as someone shone a flashlight on the vent.

  “Rats,” said Donald.

  Steiger moved back into position and smiled. This promised to be very fun.

  THIRD

  Paul and Mitchell finished the last cell on the second floor and moved quickly, silently, up the stairs to the third floor. Nothing had jumped out at them, nothing had even moved outside the cells. But Paul had the disquieting feeling that some of the cells he had opened were already empty. As though whoever was in them had been...he hesitated even in his own mind to use the word “eaten,” but nothing else was coming to him.

  FALLING

  Vincent shone his light on Crane's unconscious face. He felt like he was breaking inside, cracking like a vase that had been thrown to the ground and stomped on.

  “Your fault, old man,” he whispered. “This is all your fault.”

  Without realizing it, he began beating the man's still form, bringing down his flashlight like a hammer on ribs, arms, face. Crane moaned but did not wake.

  Donald threw himself on him. Vincent punched the other man, feeling his hand sink deep into his fat gut. The cracks in his mind were fissures now, great chasms that led down, down, down into a pit of insanity.

  Vincent was falling. Falling, and couldn't stop.

  ATTACK

  Steiger carefully popped out the vent. It made a small noise, but neither of the men in the room noticed him. They were too busy fighting with one another. Once again the universe had provided Steiger with a way to see his plans and dreams come true.

  He saw Vincent hit Donald over the head with a flashlight, and Donald went down, poleaxed and insensible for the time being. Vincent turned toward something...it was Crane. Steiger licked his lips and thought, for some reason, of the song Itsy Bitsy Spider. He even hummed a bar under his breath as he closed in on Vincent and Crane. This was going to be so much fun.

  Vincent had his arm raised, ready to smash his heavy light down on Crane's face. Steiger had a moment of indecision. What to do, what to do? he thought.

  Then Vincent's hand dropped, and Steiger felt his own arm reaching it, his own hand arresting the downward motion of the flashlight.

  Vincent spun around to face him, mouth curled, spittle flying from a wildly open mouth.

  His face drained of all blood as soon as he saw Steiger, grinning cheerfully at him. Steiger really didn't know why so many people had that reaction to him. He tried so hard to be pleasant.

  “Please,” he said. “If someone's going to kill the good doctor, I really think it should be me.”

  And with a vicious motion, he swung his hands up and broke Vincent's neck.

  WAITING

  Rachel stood by Jorge at the barricade near the stairs, adding her vigilance to that of her brother. Becky was between them, as though they could possibly shield her from the nightmare in which they had found themselves.

  “Would they have left you and Mitchell and Pau – and Dr. Wiseman – behind?” she asked.

  Jorge shrugged. “Who can say. They're not going to leave us now. In fact,” he said, pulling Vincent's keys out of his pocket and holding them out to Becky. “Who do you think should hold onto these? 'Cause it's kind of an important job, you know?”

  “Mom can hold them,” said the little girl seriously. Jorge smiled and handed the keys to Rachel.

  She took them solemnly, but she mouthed “thanks” to her brother. He nodded back, his eyes saying, “you're welcome,” and then they both looked back down the hall, waiting for Paul to come back up the stairs.

  Fearing that he would not.

  PENS

  Donald opened his eyes woozily, and realized that even though he wasn't dead, he had somehow fallen into hell.

  Steiger was there. Steiger was there and Vince was dead on the floor next to him, his head bent at an impossible angle, neck bent so far back it was almost a pillow on which his friend's corpse could rest.

  Steiger was standing over Crane's body, holding Vincent's flashlight. Donald watched, utterly transfixed, as Steiger opened Crane's mouth with one hand, then plunged the flashlight downward into the doctor's mouth. Donald heard a crack as Crane's jaw broke into pieces, and
teeth flew across the room.

  The pain must have woken the doctor up, for he screamed a muffled scream around the base of the flashlight that was still in his ruined mouth.

  “Afraid?” said Steiger as Donald heard the awful retching/gasping/vomiting sound of Crane drowning on his own blood. “Worried what I'll do? Now you know what it feels like to have your destiny in someone else's hands.” The madman yanked the flashlight loose, muffling the accompanying scream with a wide hand. “And now you're about to know what it feels like to be dead.”

  And with a whip-quick motion, Steiger grabbed a pair of pens from beside Crane on the desk. In a single motion he plunged them down and buried them in Crane's eyes. Crane gave a single, awful jerk, then was silent.

  Donald cried out in spite of himself, and felt his pants grow damp as he lost control of his bowels.

  Steiger must have heard the noise, for he turned to Donald.

  And grinned.

  SCARS

  Paul was inside the outer cell, about to unlock the inner door, when he noticed something. He leaned down, motioning for Mitchell to aim his flashlight where Paul was.

  The floor was covered in acid streaks, like ugly scars on the concrete.

  He looked through the porthole to the inmate's cell, momentarily heedless of the danger he was in. The cell was empty.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  He was too late.

  The beast was near.

  ANSWER

  Jorge heard it first: a low thud from inside the barracks.

  “What was that?” he said. Rachel, still holding Becky's hand, shook her head: no idea. Then a second thump sounded, this time louder, and all three of them jumped.

  Jorge pointed his trank gun at the closed barracks door, then moved close to it. He whispered through the door loudly, “Donald? Vince?” A moment later he followed that with, “Dr. Crane?”

  There was no answer.

  ABOVE

  Mitchell covered Paul as he moved from cell to cell, no longer being careful and quiet, instead moving quickly as possible. The flashlight covered him with light from behind, but was insufficient to rend through the gloom in the prison and the matching dread that had settled on Mitchell's heart.

  Each cell was worse than the last. Acid-etchings on the floor, the walls, the bars. No sign of life.

  He felt like someone was watching him.

  He swung the flashlight around suddenly, as though he might catch whoever it was sneaking up on him.

  Nothing.

  Or rather, not nothing. He became aware that the inmates on the second and first levels – the levels where Paul had opened the inner doors – had come out of their soundproofed cells. But strangely, they made no sound. They simply pressed their foreheads into the bars, silent as an army of specters, waiting. Watching.

  “What's going on?” asked Paul from the darkness. Mitchell turned back to him, to tell him that the crazies were out. But the instant that he turned, he forgot what he was going to say.

  Drip. Hissss....

  Mitchell glanced to his right and saw something sizzling next to him on the gangplank.

  Drip. Hissss....

  Again it happened.

  Mitchell felt himself grow loose, his knees wobbling as he looked up, aimed the flashlight up, and then screamed as something dropped from above to the catwalk. He had an instant to see Paul's startled face. Then the thing, whatever it was, stood tall, taller even than Mitchell, massive and wet and frightening, and Paul was blocked from his view.

  They had found the beast.

  BARRICADE

  There was still no sound coming from within the barracks. Jorge aimed his light at the doorway and gently pushed Rachel and Becky behind him.

  “What is it?” whispered his sister.

  “Don't know,” he said. “Move back.”

  He walked backward, backing away from the barracks door, trying to keep his trank and his flashlight aimed at it.

  He forgot about the makeshift barricade, though. The disassembled cots that had been piled in the hall near the stairwell. So did Rachel and Becky, it seemed, for none of them made a sound to warn how close the barricade was until after all three had backed into it.

  They tumbled to the ground as one, falling in a tangle of limbs and clothing, Jorge trying to get out from under Rachel and Becky.

  And that was when Steiger exploded through the door to the barracks and attacked them.

  MITCHELL

  Paul leapt toward Mitchell as the thing dropped down, cutting off Mitchell's flashlight beam with its massive shape.

  “Oh, God,” said the big man, his voice seeming muffled and faraway.

  “Mitchell!” screamed Paul.

  The beast was near.

  INNOCENCE

  Steiger jumped at the small group of people, practically salivating at them. There was Jorge, a guard who was clearly one of those people who believed in such outdated concepts as honor and values and morality, a guard with whom Steiger had much in common.

  Tangled up with Jorge was a woman, mid- to late-twenties, perhaps. Beautiful. Flaring nostrils and fright-dilated pupils that only added to her appearance.

  And the little girl. More beautiful even than her mother, more fragile-seeming than fine porcelain. A darling, innocent little girl.

  Innocence was Steiger's favorite trait. There was nothing quite like ripping it out of the beating heart of a child.

  He jumped at the small group, ripping a bed support from the tangle of cots that they were struggling to extricate themselves from. He lashed out with it, sending it careening toward the woman, toward her face, her tender, beautiful face that he wanted to mash and destroy.

  THUCK. The support hit and shattered bone and was accompanied by a satisfying shriek. But it wasn't the woman it had impacted: Jorge had blocked with his arm at the last second, probably sacrificing its use forever. He screamed again, but stood, cradling his shattered arm as he shoved Steiger momentarily away and then stood between him and the girls.

  “Go!” shouted Jorge.

  “No!” screamed the woman.

  “Go!” shouted Jorge again, and charged at Steiger.

  Steiger smiled, still holding the bed support. He swung it, but Jorge ducked out of the way at the last second.

  The guard looked behind him; saw that the woman and her daughter, though they were standing, had not yet moved away. “Go now!” screamed Jorge.

  The guard went to grab his trank, but Steiger had used the moment to his advantage. In the split-second that Jorge looked away, he struck again with the bed support. This time Jorge screamed louder as the support hit his clavicle with a crack and the deliciously peculiar sound of breaking bone and shredding meat. Now both the guard's arms were limp and useless.

  Jorge threw himself on Steiger, undaunted, and the two of them went down in a heap.

  At last the woman and her child moved, running past Jorge and Steiger to Dr. Wiseman's office.

  “Not that way!” screamed Jorge. “It's a dead end.”

  But the girls had already run into the room and slammed the door shut.

  Again Steiger seized on the split attention of his opponent. Again he swung his makeshift club. This time it found a more permanent mark: it cracked wickedly into the side of Jorge's head, and Steiger both saw and felt the club sink deep into the man's skull, rendering it concave where once it had been convex.

  Jorge's dead eyes rolled up in his head and he dropped, nerveless, insensible, the last breath rushing from his body in a whoosh as he fell, a lifeless corpse.

  Steiger laughed.

  Then he turned to the door to Dr. Wiseman's office. Innocence was calling him.

  BLIND

  Paul watched, horrified, as the monster hit Mitchell like a wet wrecking ball. Mitchell screamed as the monster enveloped him, the scream whistling and gurgling. Paul reacted automatically, running into the horrific melding of the two bodies and slamming into it as though he were playing hockey with the t
hing. The beast went down, trapping Mitchell beneath it.

  One of Mitchell's hands could be seen, grasping at air, trying to pull him out from under the nightmare above him.

  Paul grabbed onto the hand and pulled, yanking as hard as he could, screaming.

  The inmates in the cells below started to hoot and shriek as one. A mindless cacophony of horror.

  Paul pulled and pulled, then fell over on his butt. He couldn't think what had happened, until he saw Mitchell's disembodied hand, still clenched tightly in his, and realized that about five feet away Mitchell was no longer screaming. All that could be heard was the horrific sizzle and slurp of the beast feeding.

  Paul screamed and threw the hand away from himself, then ran blindly for the stairs.

  TRAP

  Rachel couldn't believe this was happening. First Tommy, then the storm, now she had lost Jorge.

  No time, she thought. No time for such thoughts. Have to save Becky. Have to stay alive.

  She grabbed the chair she had placed nearby earlier and shoved it under the door handle an instant before something hit it from the other side. WHAM! Becky whimpered behind her, clutching at Mr. Huggles with white hands.

  Another slam as Steiger hit the door from the other side. He was laughing.

  The door and the chair both held, but she didn't know how long they would.

  She looked around. Couldn't go out the windows. Couldn't go out the door. Trapped.

  Then Becky, apparently sensing Rachel's thoughts, pointed up.