Chapter 29 - The Doctor
-March 2009
Walter started at a sudden rush of footsteps in the corridor outside his tiny room, accompanied by the murmur of excited voices passing by. There was a rhythmic thudding, as if a ball were being bounced down the hallway, and then a gush of raucous laughter. Glancing back at the door, he frowned shaking his head at the interruption, before returning to the view outside his window.
He'd been pondering the dreariness of life, the colorless day to day existence of living inside the fenced in borders of the Home, as they all called it. It was not the name he would have chosen, nor the name he used in the private recesses of the internal monologue of his thoughts. A home was a place one lived. A place where families came together, a place where one felt safe and secure.
These people have the secure part correct, he thought as he rubbed his palms together to fight off the chill in his room, but little else.
A prison by another name was still a prison, and his own knowledge of this fact was firsthand. As for the rest, where was his family? Peter was gone. Elizabeth was gone. He had lost both of them, years ago. Living required more than tepid water and the pale illumination of light bulbs. As if in response to his disagreement, the single bare light bulb dangling down from the cracked plaster ceiling grew strangely bright, and then went dark for the span of a heartbeat before resuming its dim luminance.
His frown deepened as more footsteps echoed outside his room. Would no one leave him in peace? There were dozens of halls and corridors throughout the asylum that anyone might choose from to stroll down, without his room. He had chosen this particular room on the third floor for its remoteness from the others, a sanctuary where he might find solitude. It seemed it was not to be on this day, as the footsteps came to a stop outside his door.
What was it now? Time for dish duty already? It seemed he'd only just finished, the flesh of his fingertips still tender and waterlogged. Or perhaps it was some new task they wanted of him. Perhaps to sweep the floors as if he were some uneducated custodian? He had been the Chairman of Biochemistry at a world-renowned university, not some janitor or dishwasher to be ordered about.
The ensuing knock on his door tore his gaze from the view of the yard below, where little Ella and her friend were booting a checkered soccer ball back and forth. The knocks were loud and official-sounding, and there was hardly a pause between the last echoing thud before the door swung open.
Walter recoiled at the intrusion, shrinking back against the window as the man everyone referred to as Overbeek swept into the room. He wore a blank expression and a tight, black t-shirt despite the chill in the air. Hanging below his left arm was a menacing-looking pistol that shone like silver. Slate gray eyes surveyed the room, giving away not a hint of his intentions.
"Umm... hello there," Walter said, working the sudden dryness from his throat. Fidgeting under the man's gaze, his fingers closed on the hem of his pants, squeezing. "Can I help you, Mister-"
"Walter, is it?" the burly man cut in, eyes narrowing. "You came in with the last group?"
"Yes, Walter," he nodded. "By which I mean to say the I am Walter. Obviously, you're, you... and, not me. Obviously. And I came here only recently, but whether or not we were the last group to arrive, I can't say. You would need to ask Astro... or... perhaps Miss Francis or..." Falling silent, he offered the fellow a tremulous smile. "...And how may I help you?"
"You have a visitor," the man said.
"Oh? A visitor?" he said, clapping his palms together. "How exciting!"
Overbeek merely grunted in reply, then stepped to one side. Behind him stood a shorter man wearing a gray lab coat. The dome of his receding hairline gleamed faintly above a gray-streaked beard. His face was of a droopy sort, not unlike a bloodhound. He held a clipboard against his chest, beside a black pen cap and thin medical light in his lab coat's breast pocket. A green stethoscope looped around his neck was the final piece of his attire.
The man stepped into the room.
So. This is the so-called Doctor. It's about time you showed your face. He proffered his counterpart a smile. "Ah. You must be the doctor I've heard so much about," he said, stepping away from the window. The fellow was clearly younger than himself, by at least a decade or more, he judged from his lack of significant signs of rhytides in his facial region. "The one who started this place. I've never had a chance to thank you for your treatment of my... infirmity, when we first arrived here. For doctoring me back to health, as it were. I'd thought it was merely a chest cold at the time, perhaps even atypical pneumonia."
The Doctor's eyebrows lifted. "There's was nothing common about your condition, sir." His voice was cultured but bland, almost nasally. The sort of voices Walter had heard most of his adult life, populating the halls and classrooms of Ivy League schools up and down the East Coast. "You were a sick man. Nor was it the walking variety of pneumonia," he continued. "Yours was a case of full-blown pneumococcus. Another day or two, and you might have numbered among the dead yourself. It is fortunate for you indeed that my men acquired a large supply of amoxicillin some time ago."
"Then I must thank you for saving my life, sir," Walter beamed. He held out his hand.
The Doctor reached out, giving him a perfunctory shake, and then hesitated, eyes sharpening. "You are Walter...?" he asked. "I'm afraid I never caught your full name. Have we met before? Your face seems... familiar in some way. I thought so when you first arrived here, but now even more so."
Walter swallowed. His mouth went dry, immediately followed by an intense tightening in his rectum. Did the fellow know him? Could he have been recognized? Why it should matter, he wasn't sure, but for some reason he very much did not want this man to know his true identity. The name Walter Bishop was not unknown in certain circles.
"My name?" Panicking, he gently disengaged his hand, and turned away, swerving over to his narrow bed. "My name is Walter... Bentley. And I don't believe we've met before. It seems unlikely," he added quickly. "You see, I was... out of the country for some number of years, and had only just returned before the outbreak." He waited for the other man to reciprocate with his own name, but his eyebrows merely shot upward in response before shrugging as if it were all of no consequence.
"Bentley, is it?" the Doctor said. "I see." The curiosity faded from his eyes, and he threw his bald underling who was watching from off to one side a pointed glance. "I'll be fine here, Kyle. Go make sure Joseph is still on task. Several links in the grid have been acting up as of late. They may need replacement. Remind him I'll be there to check on him shortly, after I finish my examination of Mister Bentley, here."
Overbeek nodded, then gave Walter a hard look before leaving the room.
When he was gone, the Doctor turned back to him. "Do you have any family left?" he asked. "Any loved ones?"
"I... have a son. He's out there. Outside the fence. I'm afraid I... I haven't seen him in some time. Astro... she told me she wasn't allowed to leave and go search for him. I would so very much like to find him."
"Astro...?" The Doctor frowned, and then nodded. "Ah. The girl. Yes, I'm afraid that will have to wait. Outside of the hunting parties, we can't have anyone leaving just yet. Maybe in a few weeks." He stepped closer, unwinding the stethoscope from where it dangled over his shoulders as if the matter were settled. "How have you been feeling?" he asked in a bland voice. "Have any of your symptoms returned? Coughing, sore throat? Drowsiness? Any heaviness on your chest?"
"No, none of those things," Walter replied, hoping the man would simply take his word for it. "I've been feeling quite well as of late. Better than ever, in fact."
"I see. I'd like to do a full examination, in any case. Please remove your shirt, sir."
Walter opened his mouth to protest, but something in the other man's gaze announced that it was not a request. Something cold, almost reptilian. As if he thought Walter Bentley was no longer worthy of consideration, or even a person. A dull shock went through him. Was that what he'd been like? Was this what his test subjects had felt like? What if he refused? Out in the corridor, another man waited, a disagreeable-looking fellow lounging idly against the wall opposite the door. The man seemed to sense his gaze, and smirked. Was he a guard? Or was he there to provide assistance, if the Doctor required it. No. He couldn't refuse. It was best to lay low, and do as required of him.
"Of course," he said, trying to sound casual. "Whatever you like."
The Doctor nodded as if his compliance was a given, a matter of course. Which it was, he supposed. He peeled off his flannel shirt and sat down on the edge of the bed. The air in his room was chilly, and the stethoscope felt like an ice cube against his back as the doctor listened to his heart, his breathing, and then proceeded to perform a full physical exam, from his head down to his toes, followed up with a series of inquiries regarding his medical history.
"No heart disease? No cancer in your bloodline? Mother or father? Grandparents?"
Walter shook his head. "None that I'm aware of," he answered truthfully as he rebuttoned his shirt. "My mother died of natural causes, and my father was killed in the war."
"I see." The Doctor marked something down on his clipboard, out of sight. "Any history of mental illness?"
"In my family...?" he blurted out. Dread began pooling in his gut, and he discreetly wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Or at least he hoped the gesture had been discrete.
The other man looked up, face expressionless. "Yes. In you, or your ancestors."
"No, nothing," he said, digging his fingernails into his palm. "We're all... perfectly sane." He half expected him to choose that moment to make an appearance, but his personal revenant remained thankfully absent from the proceedings.
"Have you ever undergone electroconvulsive therapy?"
"Electro-convulsive..." Walter gasped. The pool of dread turned to ice, freezing his bowels solid. "Why in God's name do you need to know that?"
"Just answer the question please, Mister Bentley," the Doctor said evenly. "It is important. Have you ever received electro-convulsive therapy?"
Walter struggled to remain calm. Images flooded his inner eye; memories of pain, of Sumner's arrogant assurances, the slimy coolness of electro-gel on his temples. It's for the best, Walter, the voice whispered, as another was pressed into place. You'll feel better when it's all over. You'll feel right again. The metallic taste of anesthesia flooding his lungs, a cacophony of distant voices, blackness intruding around the edges of his vision.
He took in a breath, and then let it out, staring at a spot on the floor. "No. I've never been the recipient of electro-convulsive therapy," he said in a rush, nostrils flaring. Rattled, he began to gather speed, hackles rising, words spilling out like vomit. "Not that it's any of your business, as I see it. Nor does electro-convulsive therapy — or electro-shock therapy, as it was known before they changed the name to a slightly less torturous one — have any place outside a very narrow window of applications, none of which are part of any physical exam I have ever given or received!" He closed his mouth with a snap, before he could say anything more.
Had he gone too far? Damn it. He'd let his foolish mouth run amok once again. It was always getting him into trouble. Peter had warned him frequently when they'd left the safety of their hotel, back in the old world. The Doctor's blank face regarded him for a moment, and then he bent over the clipboard, scribbling furiously. The ball point pen rolling across the paper whispered in the intervening silence. For several minutes this went on, until Walter could take it no longer.
"If... you don't mind me asking," he said, lifting up from his seat to try and get a glimpse of the clipboard. "Just what was your area of expertise before the outbreak? That is, if you don't mind my asking."
"My field was highly... specialized," the Doctor replied, slipping his pen back into his coat pocket. "It was private sector work. Medical research. But I wasn't always in a lab. And what of yourself? You appear to possess some medical knowledge? Were you in the field?"
Walter cleared his throat. "I was a... professor at Harvard Medical School," he offered cautiously. "Retired at present."
"Harvard?" The other man's eyebrows shot upward, ruffling the smooth curve of his forehead. "That's very interesting. I spent a great deal of time recruiting at the medical school, and yet, for some reason I recall no one with your name being on staff, Mister Bentley."
Another bead of sweat tumbled down Walter's cheek in slow motion. He angled his face away, glancing out the window at the shroud of gray blanketing the morning. "Well, it... it was... many years ago," he said, stumbling over the words. "Well before your time, I'm sure. I suppose you might say I had a bit of a falling out with the school administration."
The Doctor folded his clipboard under one arm. "What sort of falling out?"
The question hung in the air between them. Walter searched for an explanation but found none in the darkened corners of his room, nor in the pitted concrete beneath his feet, or in the dreary light outside the window. Absurdly, a voice began singing in his head, accompanied by a pounding piano.
...One lie, leads to another... Two lies, covers the other... Three lies, now you're in awful fix...
"Mister Bentley?"
The Doctor's gaze was sharp, insistent for a reply. Sweat was trickling down Walter's sides in rivers, soaking the inside of his shirt. He had no explanation. There was none. None that he could say out loud. His fingers wove nervous gesticulation, yet he was helpless to stop. Tony Bennett's voice was singing in his ear. ...Four lies you're getting in deeper... Five lies piling up steeper... Six lies...Blinking, he tried to drown out the dead jazz player with an internal shout.
"Well, um... you see...," he started with a gulp. "I... there was an accid-"
He broke off at the heavy thud of footsteps in the corridor outside. The guard slouched against the wall across the hall straightened, alarm flickering across his face as the thundering footsteps drew closer. An instant later the man Overbeek came rushing back into the room.
The big man's chest was heaving, as if he'd run the entire way from wherever he'd been. "We got a problem, boss," he said in between breaths. The man's eyes flickered between them, and then he inclined his head toward the door.
The Doctor glanced at Walter. "You should get some rest, Mister Bentley. Perhaps we'll speak again soon." Without waiting for a reply, he swept out of the room, swinging the door shut behind him.
In the vacuum of the Doctor's departure Walter fell back onto his cot, expelling a huge breath of air. He covered his face, pounding his palm against his forehead, hard enough to summon stars. What had just happened? Had he given the game away? What in God's name had possessed him to tell the man he'd been a professor at Harvard? His wits had left him entirely. It was pure idiocy. He'd done nothing but pique the man's interest. And Bentley? Where had that come from?
He shook his head. You damn fool.
A thought struck, sitting him up straight. The others. He had to tell them, warn them, before he became entangled in his own web of deception, like some half-brained villain from a bad mystery novel.
Walter lurched off the bed. As he approached the door, muted voices resonated from the hall outside. The voice sounded urgent, even panicked. Frowning, he hesitated, then carefully cracked the door open. The Doctor's droll monotone and the overbearing baritone of the man Overbeek — whose surname was apparently Kyle — reached his ears through the narrow gap.
...can't tell who it was, other than a man.
What are you saying, Kyle? How can you not tell?
His face was... missing.
Missing?
The body was... cut up. Butchered. I've never seen anything like it. His clothes were gone. And whoever did it, they made sure he wouldn't come back. We should have another gathering, see who turns up missing. But I think it might be one of us. Not one of the civs.
There was a pause, Walter pulled back slightly from the door frame. Someone had been killed, the body made unidentifiable. Eyes wide, he pressed closer smashing his ear into the gap. What was this gathering they had spoken of? He held his breath as the Doctor began speaking again.
I see... And who found this body?
Jonas.
Jonas...?
That guy from Brooklyn. He's been with us for a while now. Never asks questions, never causes any trouble. He's good at following orders though.
Does he have access to the grid?
No. I use him on hunting detail. He's a good shot, has experience in the back country. I trust him.
So, he's a good shot. Are you certain you know him? Are you vouching for him, Kyle?
Vouching for him? I just met the guy six months ago. But I don't think he had anything to do with it. Why would he? He's got a good thing going here. They all do.
And yet we have a dead body. Who is killing my men?
How the hell should I know? I ain't Columbo, you know.
What of this man in Peterborough? I'm told he was never found. I'm told he mutilated Dale Mueller.
Yeah... chopped him up good. Guy was some kind of weirdo-freak. Dale's wasn't the only body we found there. Have you questioned the woman? She was with him.
Not yet. She was under sedation only until recently, and I suspect will require some softening up. Does this man know of this place? Could he have followed?
You think it was him? I don't see how he could have, Jones reported that they disabled their vehicle. And we already tripled the guard. There's not a stretch of fence that isn't under watch twenty-four hours a day. It's been that way for a week, since the woman was brought in. There's no way he got in. If he even knows about us here.
And yet we have a mutilated body on our hands. I've left the day to day operations in your hands, Kyle, as you seemed to have at least some limited intelligence. Was that a mistake? Do I need to see to this personally?
No. No. What do you want me to do?
Do any of the civilians know?
I don't think so. The body was outside the fence, back behind the research building. It stinks to high heaven though, which was how Jonas found it. He came straight to me and I told him to make sure nobody came near it.
Good. Call your gathering. I was about to do so anyway, as we needed two fresh links for the grid, and now have only one, due to Mister Mueller's incompetence.
Shit. Another drawing? They ain't gonna like that, Doc. Not at all. We almost had a riot la-
It will be fine, Kyle. With Mueller gone perhaps it is time to bring this Jonas into the fold, if he's trustworthy and as good at following orders as you claim. Arrange another...
The voices grew distant, and then faded into silence.
Walter closed his door, then pressed up against the scarred panels, holding a hand to his thundering heart. The conversation between the Doctor and his lieutenant underling played again inside his head.
Some kind of intrigue was taking place. And someone was dead. Murdered, face mutilated beyond recognition. Who would do such a thing? Was there a madman in their midst? A psycho-killer? And what was this grid they had mentioned? Links? What was this doctor up to? What of his strange line of questioning before they'd been interrupted? Electro-shock therapy? There were few reasons anyone would need such information, and none had anything to do with recovering from an elementary bout of pneumonia. It was the sort of random question he once might have asked on a questionnaire, the sort meant to weed through potential test subjects for particular attributes.
Walter froze. His mouth fell open as the Doctor's rigorous interrogation suddenly struck him from an entirely different angle. Of course it had bothered him. Of course it had. How could it not?
Test subjects.
For an experiment.
He had to tell someone. Agent Broyles, certainly. Or Agent Farnsworth. Surely, they would know what to do. He felt a twisting in his gut, and pressed a hand to his belly at the sudden pressure in his bowels.
But first, before anything else, he had to find a toilet.
#
#
There was a buzz in the air as Astrid made her way through the crowd. Overlapping voices, murmurs, whispers of unanswered questions abounded from all sides. Tension was woven throughout, tangible, thick, heavy, like a low fog on a winter morning. She made through the choke of men and women, excusing herself discreetly as she went.
The crowd was men mostly; few women beside herself and the others from her group resided at the Home. Few enough that she could count them on one hand. There was Charlene, of course, and her pretty little granddaughter, Gina. And a doe-eyed MRI technician from New Jersey named Juliet who had endured watching her entire family torn apart before her eyes, and there was Sharon, a middle-aged toll booth worker from Queens. And then there was Claire, her new friend born and raised in Massachusetts. That was it. The male-female ratio at the Home swung lopsidedly in the direction of the less than fair sex.
She had come to know a few of their fellow survivors in the weeks since their arrival, and several smiles and friendly nods were sent her way. The strangeness of being around people again had mostly worn off. And like a dormant muscle, the ins and outs of navigating the undercurrents of society — even one as small as theirs — were starting to come back to her.
Overhead, thick rays of sunlight pierced the cloud cover, mitigating the gasps of cold air sighing across the yard. As she slipped through the gaps between bodies, Overbeek's filthy proposition hung in the back of her mind, stuck there like a bad song. Had the man come up with it himself? Or had someone approached him? Inevitably, such questions bubbled to the surface of her thoughts whenever she found herself in the company of men. When she felt the brush of their gazes moving across her flesh, like a film of rancid oil on water. Was is it him? Or him? Or was it him? The questions never ended. Who had it been? And how many? The weight of the sharpened table knife in her pocket evoked a calming effect as it bounced against her thigh. She carried the shiv everywhere these days, including keeping it tucked beneath her pillow at night.
Ahead, through a gap in the crowd, she spotted Agent Broyles towering over most of the throng. "Excuse me," she said with a smile to a heavyset man with a pinkish complexion who might have been her father's age. The older man stepped back amicably, giving her a nod. As she passed him by, she added his face to her list of men she thought might be okay — a list that was at present, depressingly short.
Continuing her sidling maneuvers, she eventually found Broyles and Sonia waiting near the center of the crowd, talking quietly to each other in a top-heavy shadow cast by the clock tower rising overhead. Charlene Watson stood nearby, lips pursed in a worried frown. She liked the older woman and her motherly aspect, even though she was a head taller than herself. There was no sign of Rachel, who she thought was still on fence duty, or of Ella and Gina, to her surprise. Whatever they were up to, she hoped the little scamps were staying out of trouble.
"What's going on you guys?" she said approaching the trio.
Sonia met her gaze with a grin. "Hey Astrid. We're just waiting to hear what this is all about like everybody else. Where were you?"
"Just out of the shower," she replied. Showers were a blessing from god, she'd decided, even if they were only available once a week. She glanced around, searching the nearby faces. "Where's Walter and the girls?"
Agent Broyles shrugged. His dark eyes flashed irritation. "Who knows?" he snorted. "I haven't seen Walter since breakfast. He never showed up to help with the dishes after lunch."
"And as for the girls," Charlene added, "they were going on expedition down into the dungeons, so little Miss Ella told me. They were supposed to be back by now, but you know how them kids are, always losin' track of time. I've been down in the basements before, though, nothing but a whole lot of empty rooms. So I gave them a couple of flashlights, and figured they were okay." She shook her head. "I'm glad Gina is more like herself again, or almost. I tell you, you all were a God send, especially that little Ella. That girl's a sweetheart."
Astrid smiled and nodded. Privately, she suspected Rachel Dunham would probably disagree on several of the older woman's points, not the least of which was the part about letting two children explore the basement ruins of a century old hospital by themselves. But Olivia's little sister was a tad over-protective at times, and also had a flare for the over-dramatic. She'd been down in the basements once herself, and other than being filthy and dark and slightly creepy, there wasn't much there, other than a whole lot of crumbling rooms that looked as if they'd been transported forward through time from the Middle Ages. She could understand the appeal though, what else was there for a pair of six and seven-year-olds to do but explore?
"You got any idea what this is all about, Charlene?" she asked, scanning the other faces in the crowd. More than a few appeared worried. "Have they called everyone together like this since you've been here?"
"Just on the night we arrived, and I think that was mostly for our benefit. I don't know what's going on today."
"Whatever it is," Broyles murmured under his breath, "not everyone appears happy about it."
"You're right, Phillip," Sonia said, eying the people around them. "There are a lot of frowns."
Astrid peered about, taking note of the faces around her. There were more frowns than not — nervous frowns, worried frowns, anxious glances darting up at the old hospital's facade. Her gaze fell upon one man whose face was as white as a sheet, eyes bulging with what only could be fright, bordering on terror. Was his name Drew? He was an odd one. The guy looked like he might need a change of underwear. Was he part of the group that had been at the Home the longest? She thought he might be. What did he know?
What's going on here? she wondered. Why does everyone look like we've been invited to our own funeral?
Lifting up on her toes, she found one of the few people she'd gotten to know more than in passing — Claire, with her short raven hair peeking out from beneath a yellow slouching beanie — standing with a group of her own people not far away. Her normally good-natured friend appeared just as worried as everyone else, chewing on her lips nervously. And there was someone else missing also, she realized.
"Hey, where's Chris at?" she said to Charlene. "I don't see him anywhere. Is he on the fence today?"
"He left late this morning," Charlene replied. "Went on a hunting trip with that man Jonas, and one or two others, I think. Mister Overbeek asked if he'd like to go, and he jumped at the chance. Said they'd be back in a day or two."
"Oh..." Astrid frowned, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "I didn't see him before he went. We were gonna play cards tonight. Me and him and Rachel and Claire." It seemed their poker tournament was going to be put on hold.
"Don't you worry, girl, he'll be back soon enough. Told me to tell you goodbye, though." Charlene's eyes twinkled then, her voice filling with mirth, and something else. "I think he likes you, you know," she grinned. "Though he'd never admit it. Not to me, at least. I think he'd be perfect for you, though, and you for him I should think. Those hips are made for babies. Now more than ever, I should think."
Astrid blinked at the woman's directness. "Oh... Really?" she managed to say with a cough. "I uh... okay..." She fell silent as her cheeks began to grow hot, and she caught sight of Sonia giving her a sideways look, lips crooking with amusement, while her former boss merely shook his head, eyes fixed on the entrance centered beneath the clock tower.
Face flaming, she turned away from all three of them. The woman was playing matchmaker with her own son. How was she supposed to even respond to that? She and Chris had become friends certainly, but beyond that, she didn't know what she wanted. From him, or from anyone else. Couldn't they just be friends? What was the big rush? And babies? She needed a baby like she needed a puss-filled boil. She glanced back at Sonia, who was still sporting a grin, and wondered if her suspicions about the other woman were correct.
She saw movement among the conflux of bodies, a parting wave as someone approached from the direction of the west wing where she and the others from her group had made their homes. A moment later a familiar head of hair came into view, gray waves bobbing and weaving.
"Hey, here comes Walter," she announced, throwing her hand out. " I wonder where he's been."
"Knowing him, we're probably better off not knowing," Sonia added under her breath, and Astrid couldn't help but agree.
The old scientist picked his way toward them, apologizing profusely at every turn. Walter's eccentricities and peculiarities were tolerated for the most part by other survivors, mostly for their oft-humorous nature, but it did not appear to be the case today. From the number of foul looks he was the recipient of, more than a few toes had been stepped on.
"Has it started yet?" he said after finally wedging his way between Sonia and Agent Broyles. Excitement was etched across his lined face, eye darting about as if he were afraid of eavesdropping. "Have they made the announcement?"
"What announcement?" Broyles frowned.
Walter ducked his head, hunching forward into their circle. "The murder!" he whispered loudly enough for anyone standing in the general vicinity to hear.
"What?" Astrid said, grabbing his arm. She heard several echoing gasps, and not all had come from within their group. Charlene's face paled, eyes bulging. "What did you say? And for god's sake be quiet, you can't just say that out loud, Walter."
"There's been a homicide, Agent Farnsworth," he said, only slightly quieter than before. "A murder most foul. A killing. An assina-"
"I know what a murder is," she cut in with a glare. "I want to know what you're talking about. There's been no announcement, other than this gathering."
"Who was killed, Walter?" Broyles hissed. His dark eyes scanned the crowd. "And how do you know about it?"
"This so-called Doctor visited me this morning, and... and... Oh!" He raised his hands index fingers waggling at the sky. "From now on, it would be best if you all refer to me as Walter Bentley in public, just to be safe."
"What...?" Astrid said, glancing at the others. It was a relief to see her confusion mirrored on their faces.
"Walter, are you high?" Sonia asked. "You're not tripping again, are you?"
"High? Tripping? Don't I wish, my dear! What I wouldn't give for even a dime bag of Hindu Kush. Hah!" His voice dropped to a murmur, pale blue eyes shifting from side to side. "No. They found a body this morning. A body with no face. It had been disfigured. Cut off, so as to make it unidentifiable. That's what I overheard that man Overbeek say."
"You're serious, aren't you?" Broyles said.
"Of course, I'm serious," Walter replied stiffly, disgruntlement clear on his face. "Why on earth would I make it up? What logical-"
"Hey, something's happening!" Sonia broke in.
Turning, Astrid saw movement beneath the clock tower entrance. Men were filing out of the main building, men armed with assault rifles. Shit. What's that about?
The men formed a barrier in front of the hulking searchlight, and then the Doctor emerged, draped in the same gray lab coat he'd been wearing the night they'd arrived — the last time she had even seen the reclusive man. Absently, she wondered if he had a closet full of them somewhere. Did he sleep in it? Her pulse quickened as another man followed the Doctor outside, wearing an olive army jacket, collar turned up.
Her teeth clamped together. Bastard. Fucking asshole, she thought, clamping her teeth together. She had avoided Overbeek since their encounter in his office, but the sight of him sent her hand darting into her pocket for the comforting weight of the shiv. No one had tried anything, or even approached her on the subject — or any of the others, for all that she knew — but that didn't stop the rush of heat climbing up her neck, suffusing into her cheeks.
The two men climbed atop the narrow platform on the edge of the searchlight trailer, and the Doctor turned to address the crowd. Compared to his second-in-command, the man was almost comically diminutive, and his droopy face brought to mind an old Basset hound, in particular a half-lame stray that had haunted their neighborhood when she was a girl. She found herself grinning as the Doctor cleared his throat, and began to speak.
"I'd like to thank you all for coming today," he began, holding up his hands to hush the few remaining voices in the crowd. He had a quiet, almost sterile voice, though Astrid had no problem hearing him after the murmurs had died down. She wondered if he had done much public speaking before the outbreak, and what sort of medicine he had practiced. "I know it was short notice, and that many of you surely had other plans this afternoon, but I have a few announcements I'd like to make.
"First and foremost, as you are no doubt aware, we've had another influx of survivors recently, who after a few days, I'm told are integrating well into the new society we are creating here. They've been of great help along the fence and in the kitchens, and it is a heartening sight indeed to see children playing together once more."
A slow clap went through the mass of people, before gaining speed with the addition of hoots and hollers and the occasional name called out. Astrid's face grew hot when most of the names called were her own. She found herself smiling through a gap at the dark-haired Claire, who tossed a mischievous wink her way, then rolled her eyes, gesturing at all the people. Astrid shook her head, corkscrewing her index finger where here friend could see.
The balding doctor smiled, raising his hands for silence. When the noise fell off, he continued, laying a hand on the massive cylinder of the searchlight behind him. "The light will go on at sundown tomorrow night," he announced. "The dead are gathering in the city below, and it is necessary to cull their numbers once more, before they grow too great. I will leave Mister Overbeek to fill in the necessary assignments once we are finished here. Also. A hunting party left this morning, and when they return we will hold a great feast, celebrating our new arrivals."
Voices roared their approval. Fists shook toward the sky as screams and cheers filled the air. Astrid glanced about at the smiling faces. The crowd's earlier apprehension had melted away, though not completely. To her left, Walter was frowning, brow furrowed with obvious distrust. She noticed Broyles wasn't smiling either, his eyes narrowed to thin slits, or Sonia, who was busily scanning the crowd.
The cheering went on for several more moments until the Doctor gestured once more for silence. As the noise fell off, he surveyed the crowd below, sweeping his gaze from side to side. "I trust you all remember the importance of what we're doing here, and that we are the only beacon of hope left in the ashes of the apocalypse, the only light holding back the darkness. Humanity's very survival depends on us, on our own continued existence," he said, pausing for a breath. "As you are aware, I am not among you as much as I would like. My research on the sickness afflicting mankind occupies all but a fraction of my time and energy. The research is slow, and painstaking, but progress has been made. Great progress, and I believe a vaccine is finally within our grasp. Not a cure as I had originally envisioned — it will not help those who have already underwent the change. But if we can prevent any further spread of the virus, then finally we can begin to rebuild, to restart the great wheel of civilization." The Doctor's voice became somber, as if he were speaking at a funeral, though Astrid had no problem hearing what he said next. The crowd had drawn in its collective breath, and the atmosphere became choked with crackling tension. "But... like all great endeavors, sacrifice is required. Sacrifice, for the greater good."
Astrid started as chaos erupted out of the blue. Furious shouts sounded from all corners of the crowd, men's and women's voices, all overlapping. No! Not again! You promised! Lewis died for nothing! The last voice came somewhere behind her, and she turned to find a mosaic of angry faces confronting her.
She flinched back, pressing in closer to her own group. What the hell is going on? What had happened to all the people she'd come to know in recent weeks? The fervor increased, growing increasingly rowdy, curses and threats coming in waves. Shouts deafened her ears. Bodies pressed in tight, pushing, shoving, as the crowd moved en mass toward the trailer. Far to the front, a quiet man she'd met once or twice on fence duty surged toward the trailer. She heard a dull crack over the fray, and saw the fellow stagger back, covering his face as blood poured from a gash across his forehead where he'd been struck by the butt of a rifle. The crowd screamed its defiance.
Glancing at Broyles, she found his face filled with alarm. Sonia appeared on the verge of sicking up, while Walter was staring distantly, muttering under his breath. Getting her boss's attention, she pulled his head down with a look. "What do we do, sir?" she yelled over the noise. "This is gonna get ugly fast."
Agent Broyles opened his mouth to reply, but a thunderous gunshot interceded. Astrid gasped, ducking down as a second blast shook the air. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the crowd fell rapidly silent as only the imminent threat of deadly force could manage.
Standing with one foot raised on the edge of the trailer, Overbeek slowly lowered his chrome-plated automatic. "I do believe the good doctor wasn't finished talking yet," he said sternly, gaze roving over the throng as if daring someone to disagree. When no one did, he stepped back, re-holstering the gun beneath his left arm.
"Thank you, Kyle," the Doctor said with a nod to his second before returning his attention back to the mass of people standing below the trailer.
For an instant, Astrid felt the brush of his gaze, the tickle of awareness as their eyes met. Was he lingering on her? On them — her group? Why? There was no reason for him to do so. None of them had been shouting or carrying on. But then she noticed Walter, and the icy glare he was directing the Doctor's way. What the hell did he think he was doing? Trying to get them all turned out, or worse?
"Walter, stop that!" she whispered. She took hold of his tweed coat. "Are you trying to get us kicked out of here?"
Instead of replying, Walter merely shrugged free of her grip, muttering something beneath his breath. She sighed, turning away from him, and found a head of yellow hair approaching along the fence perimeter. Rachel was easy to pick out in a crowd, even without the high, tight ponytail she'd taken to wearing, so much like her sister's. Even from a distance, her stance exuded worry and alarm, no doubt for her daughter, who Astrid was suddenly glad was nowhere near this mob of people.
"I understand your reluctance," the Doctor continued. "No one wishes there was another way more than I. What happened to young Lewis was... unfortunate. I take full responsibility for what happened. My evaluation of my own progress toward a cure was flawed, regrettably. But be that as it may, I still require a volunteer from among you. Someone willing to test the vaccine's efficacy. If there is anyone willing to step forward, please do so now. If not, then someone will be selected tomorrow, in the same manner as before, by random drawing. Other than the children, all residents of the Home will be included. Any who refused will be put out, and declared our enemy, and an enemy of mankind, refused help or succor. So, I ask again, are there any willing volunteers? I have such high hope for this vaccine, such high hopes." His voice grew harder. "But it must be tested. It is true there is some risk involved, there is always risk when testing untried medicines and drugs, but-"
"I'll do it!" a voice called out nearby.
"Who was that?" the doctor said, peering about. "Who spoke? Do we have a volunteer?"
Astrid looked and saw Walter with his hand raised. She gasped, blood turning to ice. What the hell was he thinking? Other gasps echoed hers; Broyles, Sonia, even Charlene seemed stunned.
"Walter, no you can't!" she hissed, shaking her head as dozens of eyes swiveled toward them. "You can't. You don't know what you're doing! Peter would never let you do this!"
"It was me," Walter said over top her, not even giving her a glance. "I'll volunteer, Doctor. I'm... older, closer to my end than anyone else here. And it is as you said, without sacrifice, no progress can be made."
The Doctor appeared taken aback, utterly befuddled. It was the first emotion Astrid could recall ever seeing on his face. "Mister Bentley...," he said after a moment. "Well. I must say this is something of a surprise. Very well. Later today, I'll have someone collect you." He cast his gaze over the crowd. "Look at this man. He is a hero, only among us a few weeks and already willing to put the needs of many over those of the few."
The crowd roared its approval, claps and whistles, shouts of thanks and praise. Those nearest Walter shook his hand, others going so far as to hug him, which he had not at all expected from the surprised look he was sporting.
It was certainly brave, Astrid thought, but why would he volunteer for such a thing? It made no sense. Was he trying to get himself killed? Peter would never forgive her if she allowed it to happen. I have to stop him. I can't let him do this. But how could she? He had already done it, and in front of everyone.
"There is one more thing we must speak of," the Doctor said when the cheers had subsided. "And I'm afraid it is not good news. This morning, a body was discovered, just outside the fence. The cause of death was not... natural, nor was this body one of the dead."
"Who is it?" a female voice that sounded like Juliet's called out. "Was it one of us? Or someone from outside?"
"It was a male, but beyond that I can't say who it was, or whether they were one of us."
"Why not?" a man near the front said.
"There was some... disfigurement to the man's face. We were unable to ascertain exactly who it was, but I can tell you that he appears to have been murdered."
Rippling waves of terrified gasps filtered through the crowd. Voices called out in question, in panic. Walter nodded slowly, eyes narrowed. He'd been right. There was a killer on the prowl. The only question was, were they inside the fence, or outside? Icy tendrils spread through Astrid's chest. Oh, my god. Ella. She and Gina were off by themselves, down in a dark basement with some kind of psychotic on the loose. She looked around, and found Charlene shoving her way through the crowd.
"Now for the time being...," Overbeek's grating voice cut through her troubled thoughts. He had stepped forward, and was directing a cold gaze over the crowd. "The home is on lockdown. No one leaves or even goes outside except for fence duty and approved hunting parties. Every one of you is going to be questioned, by me, personally. Now everybody line up. We need to find out if anyone's missing."
Astrid swallowed. The bald overseer appeared to be looking straight into her eyes.
#
As it turned out, the only person unaccounted for was a man named Martin who had been one of the Doctor's men for many months, or so Astrid had been told. She had never spoken to the man, nor could she even remember seeing him, though that wasn't so surprising. By all accounts he had been a solitary sort, who had spent most of his time alone or on scavenging runs, and then working for the Doctor himself inside his research building. If the revelation that the victim was one of his own people had disturbed him, they hadn't shown it. Instead, Overbeek had simply announced that he would be paying them all a visit before marching back inside with the Doctor and his other men in tow.
Afterward, the crowd had dispersed, leaving Astrid and the others standing alone in front of the searchlight trailer. She hadn't missed the suspicious looks that had been cast their way. So much for their earlier cheers, though in truth she could hardly blame them. They were the new arrivals, and the most likely to have brought a killer into their midst. After all, no one had been killed before they arrived, had they? It only made sense — from their point of view.
"But it wasn't one of us," she whispered to herself, hugging her chest against a freezing wind blowing out of the west like an ill omen. Whoever the killer was, if it was one of them, one of the survivors living at the home, they had already been among them, and likely had been for some time. Then why start killing now, after we showed up? And why this Martin guy?
"Surely you don't mean to go through with this?" Broyles was saying to Walter. "Letting him test his cure on you? I can't allow you to do it, Doctor Bishop."
Walter frowned. "Of course, I mean to go through with it, Agent Broyles," he replied, lifting his shoulders. "Why wouldn't I? The man is a charlatan. He has no vaccine, nor is he anywhere close to making a cure, now or ever. There can be no cure, no vaccination against what is afflicting us. The infection has no biological component. I've told you this before, yes? I'm certain I have. It is not possible."
"How can you be so sure, Walter?" Sonia wanted to know. She was rubbing a hand absently at her waist, making slow, two-fingered circles. She'd been doing that a lot, lately. "Maybe you're wrong?"
"Wrong...?" Walter's frown deepened into a scowl as if he'd smelled something bad. "Wrong? Ridiculous." He shook his head, blinking, before continuing. "But, perhaps I may be able to ascertain what exactly is happening here, yes? As I've thought from the moment I woke up in this place, I suspect not all is as it seems."
"Explain that," Agent Broyles said. "And keep your voice down, Walter."
Astrid felt a hand on her sleeve. She turned and found her friend Claire standing behind. Worry creased the smooth lines of her forehead above her horn-rimmed glasses.
"Hey...," Claire said. "Some news, huh?"
"You're telling me." She pulled her friend aside, just out of earshot of the others. Claire Danfield's hair was cut short, hanging down in black waves above her shoulders, gathering about the collar of her olive-drab bomber jacket. Before the outbreak, she'd been a grad student studying computer engineering at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, not far outside of Worcester. With their common interest in computers and tech — not that either hobbies were much use in the post-civilization world — the two of them had hit it off at once, becoming fast friends. "Claire, who was this Lewis person people were yelling about? What happened to him?"
Claire's oval face became troubled, hazel eyes shifting behind her glasses. "I only heard about it after the fact," she said. "We got here a few weeks after it was all over with. From the story I heard, the Doc had been working on a cure for a while, and there was no Walter — no one volunteered. So, they had a drawing, and there was some kind of trouble. Everyone was supposed to put their name in, and I guess not everyone was willing. It got ugly, and a few people were forced out, and they never came back. Lewis was just an unlucky kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old."
"So, what happened to him? Did the cure kill him?"
Claire shook her head. "That's the thing. It didn't. He came back. Only he was crazy afterward."
A chill went down Astrid's spine. "Crazy? Crazy how? Like violent?"
"No, like... crazy. Insane. Raving. Saying all kinds of fucked up shit. Juliet came in with him. She said it was like he'd become a different person. One day he killed himself. Slit his wrists with his combat knife. That's why they don't let anybody have any real weapons now — because he turned, and then killed a few people, and it almost started up again, in here. That's what I heard happened, at least."
Astrid glanced over at Walter, who was still in deep discussion with Broyles and Sonia. I have to stop him, but how? He already volunteered — it's too late. "What do you know about the man that was killed? Martin? Did you know him? I don't think I ever met him."
"I know about as much as you do," Claire replied with a shrug. "He was one of Overbeek's stooges, I guess, going way back, almost from the beginning. He didn't spend much time out of the workshop, almost none, lately. I've never really met him, either."
The workshop, Astrid had learned, was what the other survivors called the Doctor's research building. It was as good a name as any, she supposed, though she had yet to see him produce anything of worth. Why had the man been killed? And why disfigure his face? To hide his identity? It made no sense, as they had quickly determined the body belonged to him in any case. She gave Broyles a sideways look and wondered whether or not he'd thought about offering up his services as a former investigator, Special Agent of the FBI. The case was right up his alley, or Olivia's, at least. She missed the stubborn woman more than ever, now. And Peter. He would certainly have never allowed his father to go through with his mad plan.
"I saw the looks some of them were giving you guys," Claire said after a moment, reaching out and taking one of Astrid's hands. "For what it's worth, I don't think it was any of you."
Astrid smiled, squeezing back lightly. "Thanks, Claire. I know it wasn't any of us. Not a chance. But I can understand their suspicion. We were the last to arrive."
Over Claire's shoulder, Charlene was approaching, with Gina and Ella in tow, along with Rachel, whose shift along the fence had finally ended. As they drew near, Rachel hauled Ella up onto her hip, speaking with her intently. She wondered if Charlene had told her what was happening, and what her response might be. The younger Dunham was prickly when it came to her daughter's safety. Would she demand to leave? She might very well lose her shit, such as on the night she and Sonia had learned of Overbeek's disgusting proposition.
As they approached, Ella squirmed free of her mother's arms and raced toward them, hair blowing wildly. From the excitement in her eyes, Astrid guessed she hadn't been told about the dead body, or what Walter had volunteered for. In sharp contrast to her daughter's, Rachel's face was drawn tight, pinched like she'd eaten something rotten and was doing her best not to spew like a water fountain.
"Astrid!" Ella cried, bounding toward her.
"Hey, girl," she grinned, picking the young girl up. "What've you been up to, kiddo? Find any treasure down in the dungeons?"
Ella rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "There's no treasure down there, Astrid," she said in a lofty voice. "Just a bunch of stinky old trash and nothing else. I don't even think they're dungeons. Just more empty rooms."
In the corner of her eyes, she saw Claire grinning faintly. "Really? No monsters down there, either?" she asked, and the little girl shook her head. "What about secret passages? You find any of them?"
The small body in her arm seemed to flinch at the question, but at the same moment, Astrid noticed a pale, bald head approaching their group. Crap. What now? They can't want Walter already, can they?
"I gotta put you down, sweetie," she said, then deposited Ella gently on the ground. "Don't go far though. Actually, why don't you go find Gina and her grandma."
Ella scampered away, and turning back to the approaching man, Astrid noticed that Overbeek wasn't alone. Striding beside him was a shorter man with black, wavy hair. The fellow wore a dirty lab coat and was of Asian descent, and oddly, she was certain that she had never seen him before. Where did you come from? she wondered. How many people did the Doctor have living in his workshop who never saw the light of day? She knew that food was delivered to the building daily, though she had never paid attention to how much. The sight of the previously unknown man bothered her for some reason she couldn't quite nail down.
"What the hell is going on?" Rachel hissed as she and Claire joined the others. "Walter volunteered to test the Doctor's vaccine? Is he crazy?" She shook her head, flinging her ponytail about. "What am I saying? Of course, he's crazy. And what's this Charlene was telling me about somebody being found dead?"
"One of Overbeek's men," Astrid explained. "Somebody killed him, and dumped his body outside the fence."
"And that's not all," Sonia added softly. "They cut his face up, mutilated him. We had to line everybody up to see who was missing."
Rachel's eyes came close to dropping on the ground. "Oh, my god. Do they have any clues? Any suspects?"
"Other than one of us, the new arrivals?" she said with a tight smile. "No. No one at all."
"What...? They think it was one of us?"
But the time for talking had ended. Overbeek and the unknown man in the lab coat had arrived, and had eyes only for Walter. It was time. They were going to take him away, and charlatan or not, the Doctor's cure or vaccine or whatever he was working on was clearly not benign. Would he return as the other test subject had? Mad? Or, at least, madder than he was already? She tried to picture the old scientist, always gentle, always a gentleman, turned violent, turned into someone else, like the boy Lewis? I have to stop this. I can't let him do it.
She stepped up beside him, grabbing his coat sleeve. "Walter, you don't have to do this," she said in an urgent whisper. "Peter wouldn't let you do this. He wouldn't want you to do it, no matter what. You can still say no."
Walter glanced back, meeting her gaze finally. A sad smile crept across his face. "I'm afraid I can't do that, my dear." His voice was quiet, somber. He reached out, patting her hand. "What if you were the one chosen? Or Sonia, or Agent Dunham's sister? Or even Agent Broyles? There are consequences, my dear Astrid, for every action under the sun, sometimes years, or even decades in the making. In all endeavors, the universe demands balance. Don't you see? My son..." He paused, swallowing, lips trembling. "Well. Perhaps I can pay back the smallest portion of my debts here. It is the least that I can do. I believe that my son would want that." Releasing her hand, he turned away, stepping forward to meeting the approaching men. "Gentlemen. I believe you've come for me?"
Overbeek's eyes narrowed, and he gave the man beside him a glance. "The Doctor would like to thank you for your cooperation, Mister Bentley. Alex will take you back."
"So, you're Walter." The stranger whose name was apparently Alex smiled, exposing rows of perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. "Well on behalf of everyone else living at the Home, I'd like to thank you also for volunteering. What you're doing is very brave, despite the risks being... minimal, or so we believe."
"And when will he be returned to us," Agent Broyles demanded, moving forward alongside of Walter.
The man named Alex spread his hands wide, shrugging. "Not long, I should think. If everything goes well, he might even be back today. Separating him from the rest of us is just a precautionary measure, more than anything else. Are you ready to go?"
Walter turned his head, his breath rising in puffs of condensation as he stared back at them, eyes watery in the cold air. Now that the time had come, Astrid thought he might be having second thoughts. But it was too late. He swung away, padding slowly over to the man Alex. He seemed smaller than normal, his shoulders hunched forward inside his coat.
"Mommy, where is Walter going?" Ella said suddenly, squirming her way into the middle of their group.
Rachel sighed, brushing her hair back as she knelt down. "Honey," she began, "Ella-bear. Walter volunteered to help the Doctor with some medicine he's been working on for the infection. A vaccine. You remember vaccines, don't you? He has to go away for a little while."
"He what...?" The color drained from the six-year-old's face. "Vaccine? You mean when they put the dead things in your blood? But won't he turn into one? Mom, you have to stop him! You can't let him go in there!"
"I... I can't stop him, sweetheart. He's already made his decision. He's doing it for us, so one of us doesn't have to. He's very brave. I'm sure he'll be okay, Ella."
Ella's lower lip emerged as she watched Walter depart, pinched and quivering as she fought off tears. "But I don't want him to," she whispered. "I don't want him to go." Before anyone could stop her, she charged out of their circle, flying across the grass toward the two men. "Walter! Walter!" He turned back and she crashed into him, burying her face into the waist of his coat. Walter bent down, hugging her about the shoulders.
"It's gonna break her heart if anything happens to him," Rachel said, climbing to her feet.
Astrid's throat clenched painfully. He was going to be okay. She tried to imagine the world without Walter in it, and found it a place irrevocably dark and empty. "She's not the only one," she whispered, wiping her face with the arm of her coat.
Shortly, Walter carefully disengaged from Ella. His eyes were red, possibly wet with tears, though the space between them was too great for Astrid to be sure. He turned and strode away from Ella, leaving her standing alone and staring at the ground between her feet, before catching up with the man named Alex, who had stopped to watch from afar.
In the interim, Overbeek had approached. He stopped in front of Agent Broyles, gray eyes determined, and if Astrid wasn't mistaken, harboring a look of boredom at the entire affair. She pressed her lips together as her cheeks suffused with heat, with fury. How dare the bastard make light of Walter's sacrifice? Her fingers curled around the shiv in her pocket, squeezing until her knuckles hurt. He glanced back, as if making sure Walter and the other man were out of the way before speaking.
"All right, people," he said, clapping his hands together. "Charlene, Claire. Head on inside now, ladies. I have things to discuss with our newest arrivals. You can take the other little one with you also. I'm fairly certain that, she, at least, wasn't involved in Martin's death."
"You're goddamn right she wasn't," Rachel glowered. "None of us were. Ella!" she called out without taking her eyes off the bald overseer. "Go on inside with Mrs. Watson, and stay with her until I come for you."
Ella flicked an uncertain gaze between her mother and Overbeek and Charlene, who frowned, but then collected both of the girls without comment, calling them to her side with a single word. The older woman's face was troubled, and she threw occasional glances back at Agent Broyles as they left the yard. Was she having doubts about them? Surely, she couldn't believe any of them had been involved in a murder. It was simply ludicrous.
"Good luck, Astrid," Claire said under her breath. "I'll put in a good word with the others." Their eyes locked, and then she was gone, hurrying forward into the shadow of the clock tower.
When they were finally alone, Overbeek's swarthy face hardened as his gaze shifted between them, lingering first on Broyles, and on to Rachel. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, fingertips resting alarmingly near the automatic bulging beneath his jacket. When it was her turn, Astrid met his eye without flinching. She didn't like him, and he no doubt knew it.
Bring it, you son of a bitch.
#
#
Up close, the tall building that housed the Doctor's research had faded, sandstone colored bricks set in slightly wavering rows. Some sections of the facade appeared scorched by fire, and exuded a kind of sinister aura that settled in Walter's gut, like a monster house from an old horror picture. Something made by Robert Wise, perhaps, he concluded. Or even a picture by the master himself, Mr. Hitchcock.
Of course, such feelings and emotions were only conjuration of his mind, of his imagination. He knew that. Old fears from a childhood spent in terror of such places spurred chemical reactions along his neural pathways, his bloodstream injected with shots of adrenaline and cortisol. His eyes lingered on the metal grates covering each window, the interior varying shades of darkness behind the glass. And why wouldn't a place such as this provoke such feelings of dread? The building's original use was obvious, to anyone who had spent any amount of time in a mental institution, at least. Or anyone who had ever been incarcerated, he amended.
Would he find remnants of padded cells inside? Heavy, iron doors that opened only from the outside? Those places reserved for the most troublesome of patients, the most violent? Or was it reserved for those unwilling to accede to the former administrator's no doubt tender ministrations. Such attributes were the required accoutrements for the use in which the so-called Doctor — an obvious hack — was putting the building to now, he suspected.
And he had volunteered for this.
"Is your leg hurting, Walter?" the little man said suddenly as they were passing by the remains of a circular foundation jutting up from a shroud of weeds and dried grass. "I noticed you had a limp. Is it your knee? Ankle? Do you mind if I ask how you injured it?"
Walter gave the man a glance. It was the first time he had spoken since they had left the others behind. What was his name? Allen? Andrew? He was fairly certain he had never seen the fellow before. Though, of the forty or so people living in the asylum, he could hardly tell one face from another. Was he a doctor also? A nurse? Or some poor sap from down the street. Maybe a delivery man. Or an accountant. Perhaps even a former gas station attendant putting on airs. If one charlatan, why not another? Why not indeed? The more the merrier!
"It happened some time ago," he said with a wince. Regrettably, the man's question had brought the pain in his knee back, full force. "I fell on it badly, grappling with one of the undead."
The man's black eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Really? You?"
"Yes. Me." He glared down at the fellow. "Do you doubt my words, young man?"
"No. I just wouldn't have expected someone of your-"
"Someone of my age, you mean?" he cut in, peering down at the fool. "The creature was attacking a young girl — hardly six years of age. What would you have me do? Stand by and watch as she's devoured? Torn to pieces?"
"No, no... I meant nothing by it, I assure you," the man stammered, holding up his hands. "I just assumed the injury was older than that, older than the sickness. That little girl who hugged you?"
Walter nodded, turning away and staring up at the approaching structures. A thin stream of gray smoke rose upward from the shorter building's chimney, scattering in the wind. "Yes. Little Ella. She's a dear and a treasure."
"Your granddaughter?"
"No, though I could be no prouder if she were," he said, and then grinned. It was a true statement, though he couldn't say for certain when that particular threshold had been crossed, only that it had.
"How did you come upon her, if I may ask? Was that blonde woman her mother?"
"Miss Dunham?" he replied automatically. "Yes, she is indeed the girl's mother. They were with us for many months back in Cambridge. Agent Dunham was quite determined to see them to safety." No sooner than the words had left his mouth that he regretted saying them, with Agent Broyles warning to keep silent about their status as former federal officers echoing inside his head. Had the fellow heard him? Had he even been paying attention? He snuck a covert look down at the fellow, and found his gaze locked on the pair of armed guards waiting just ahead. Why all the questions? Had he been fishing for information, or merely making conversation? And what had possessed him to say anything about Olive at all? You damn fool. Stop pretending this man is your friend. "What I meant to say was the girl's aunt saved her," he added, clearing his throat. "And her mother. But she... isn't here. We lost contact with her some time ago, I'm afraid. With her, and with my son."
"Hmm... that's too bad," the shorter man said in a distracted tone of voice. "We can always use more bodies. The younger, the better." It was a rather disconcerting statement, and Walter found himself eyeing the man again. Seeming to sense his regard, the man glanced up at him, grinning, exposing teeth that were surprisingly white. "For helping out at the fence and keeping up with the repairs, of course."
"Of... course," Walter said, and forced his lips into the shape of a smile.
A sudden itch began in the middle of his shoulder blades, traveling down his spine. Why did it feel as if they had been participating in entirely different conversations? Or was that merely his own paranoia at work? He had certainly experienced more than his share since waking up in the former insane asylum.
His guide remained silent as they reached the armed guards and were waved past, with one of the men — a tall and lanky bearded fellow wearing a New York Yankees hat — greeting the Doctor's assistant with a lazy salute. Neither of the men even glanced his direction, Walter noticed, not even for an instant. As if his presence were immaterial, or, as if he didn't even exist.
They climbed up a short flight of weathered stairs to the entrance, and the other man held the door open for him, ushering him into a dimly lit corridor. "And here we are, Walter," he said with a grin.
Walter crossed the threshold, taking in the darkened interior with a frown. If the rest of the asylum was in poor condition, the building the Doctor had chosen as his research facility might well be considered on the verge of fossilization. The lobby was a smorgasbord of trash, all the detritus left behind in the havoc of time's wake. Tumbled tables and remnants of furniture, a pile of oxidizing gurneys stashed in narrow alcove that once might have been a receptionist's desk. The plaster ceiling and walls resembled nothing so much as molded swiss cheese, pocked full of crumbling holes, sagging as if the entire building had been immersed in a great flood. Further in, the plaster was missing entirely, skeletal frameworks of brick and mortar exposed like the bones of a decaying beast. Odors both sharp and thorny singed the inside of his nose.
"Sorry for the mess," the younger man said. "But we don't really use this floor. There was a pretty bad fire here at some point, damaged most of the upper floors, and several buildings were destroyed altogether. I'm sure you've seen their foundations outside. But the basement level is okay, and that's where we're headed. This way, please. It's not far."
The man led him down the dingy corridor to a painted metal door that opened into a cramped stairwell that went both up and down, and was veiled in angled shadows cast by a cobweb-filled wall sconce at an intermediate landing. The light grew dim for a heartbeat, then went over-bright before settling back down to a flickering glow. He passed underneath it, and wondered darkly why it had chosen that precise moment to fluctuate. He followed his guide downward to a darkened room on the basement level, not far from the stairwell.
The room was bare, with only a narrow cot for furniture. Beside it stood a shiny medical tray holding a packaged syringe and a thin medical vial with an orange stopper. Walter stared down at the vial, at the clear liquid waiting within.
"Are there any other people here, Allen?" he asked with a frown as he inspected the room. The building seemed silent, which was odd, all things considered. "Where is the Doctor? Will he be administering the vaccine himself?"
"It's Alex," the man replied, peeling the wrapper off the syringe. "And no, he has far more important things to attend to. Such trivial tasks as giving you a shot are left to me, I'm afraid." He motioned toward the cot. "Why don't you take a seat, and we'll get started."
The cot groaned beneath Walter's weight as he sat down. "What type of vaccine is it... if I may ask?" he asked, watching as the other man held the vial up to the overhead light and carefully inserted the needle into the stopper. His stomach began a slow twist, as if it were being slowly wrung out like a wet dish rag. "I have some... knowledge of viral research," he added with a swallow, "back from my days at Harvard Med, many years ago."
The man named Allen nodded, squinting as he pulled back the syringe's plunger. "Yes. I was told you had been a professor. As for the vaccine, are you familiar with recombinant vector DNA?" Before Walter could formulate a reply, the man continued. "I assume you've noticed how the virus doesn't seem to affect any animals other than us humans? The Doctor believes he has isolated a gene from the bovine family that could be the source of their immunity..."
The Asian fellow continued to drone about DNA vectors and nucleotide sequences, but Walter stopped paying attention, focusing on a fascinating spot on the ceiling above the man's left shoulder. He had heard everything he needed to — as Gene could have easily attested, had the poor girl not been butchered and eaten, and been able to speak.
So. It is a charade, after all. A sham. But why? he wondered. What are they hiding? What is their true purpose here?
And what was in that vial? What were they going to inject him with? The clear liquid could have been anything, from saline to deuterium oxide. But it was no vaccine, of that he was certain.
It couldn't be. It was impossible.
But something else, perhaps? Poison? But would they be trying to kill him? After they had just healed him? And with antibiotics that were surely worth more than gold in the post-apocalyptic world. Could they have guessed he would be the one to volunteer? It didn't seem possible. Would they not have assumed that no one would step forward, as evidenced by the lottery they'd been prepared for? Why would anyone volunteer? Why would anyone in their right mind step forward, knowing what was at stake? Nothing less than their very lives. But if it wasn't a vaccine and they weren't trying to poison him, what was the purpose of the experiment? It was a mystery, and he wished Peter were there, to use as a sounding board, and so he could hear his voice again, and so he would know his son was still alive.
Could their actions here be benevolent? Perhaps they were merely promoting hope among the survivors, false hope, even as it was. Perhaps being seen doing something was better than the futile reality. He had employed such tactics himself, back in Cambridge. The cause might even be a worthy one, if it were true. But something told him it wasn't true, and that the rabbit's hole went much deeper. There had been something in this Doctor's manner, in his countenance, that had reached out, touching him. A kind of arrogance he was all too familiar with.
The man approached with the syringe. His arm was cleaned, wiped with alcohol, all the while his thoughts were a torrent of what-ifs and maybes. What was this Doctor up to? Why go through the charade with his toady?
When the needle pricked his bicep, he hardly even noticed. A moment later, he was drowning in the thick fog a part of him distantly recognized as an anesthetic, and then the world was gone.
#
#
Olivia came awake choking, gasping for air that tasted both foul and rancid in her nose. For several bemused moments, she forgot where she was, and what was happening. Her mind flailed about, grasping for the meaning of such indignity, eyes darting from the cracked and crumbling ceiling overhead to the heavy door cast in an iron so black it appeared doused in pitch. Then her personal reality reasserted itself, crashing down with the weight of a collapsing star.
She was in a cell. She was a prisoner.
And her body was dying. Or at least it felt that way.
The tiny room reeked of stale human waste and bile — no doubt her own, though she doubted there could be much more of either left inside her. She rolled her head to the left. The IV was gone, though when it had been removed she couldn't say. Had she known it was gone before looking for it? It was hard to remember. It was hard to even form coherent thoughts, as if each and every one of them had to first filter down from some great, unimaginable height. Her head ached, pulsing waves that originated high on the back of her skull. Inside her mouth was a swollen, foreign object she only vaguely recognized as her own tongue, while her throat was coated with sharp bits of gravel and sand. Breathing hurt, swallowing even more so. With a dazed panic, she realized her arms and legs were missing from her list of senses, and most of her body along with them. A kind numbness had fallen over her, except for her stomach, which had shriveled down to a fist-sized ball of aching pain.
When had she eaten last? Or had had anything to drink? How much time had passed? Days? Weeks? Surely it hadn't been so long, had it? Had it? There was no way to judge the passing of time, no windows, no sky, no sun, no stars. There was only her cell door with its barred window that was more a mockery than anything else.
It would open. Someone would come. They would have water. Someone had come before. Hadn't they? Or was that merely a dream? Had she thought such thoughts before? How many times had she woken up starving and confused?
She remembered cool water splashing over her face. She remembered lapping at it, struggling to swallow, and agony shooting down her spine as she craned her head forward for more, the bite of the straps pinching the skin beneath her breasts. Other memories broke through the surface of her quagmired thoughts. The prick of needles. Voices talking above her. Men standing in shadows. Hands touching her forehead, turning her face this way and that, as if she were under inspection. Had she seen Agent Rodriguez? How was that possible? She shivered, suddenly freezing cold all over. Someone had licked her, someone had groped at her breasts like an animal. The memory took on a dreamlike quality, not unlike the old nightmares of her childhood. Part of her wasn't sure that it was real, that any of it had happened. But at the same time, she found herself wanting to hide, to cower down, to whimper in a darkened corner somewhere where no one would ever find her.
Suddenly her face grew hot despite the chill in the air. Rage boiled up inside her, filling her to the brim — and that was how she knew that it wasn't a dream, that it had happened. The anger brought back feeling in the form of pins and needles pressing into her backside, into the soles of her bare feet. With sensation returning, the knot of hunger in her gut flared to life, an ungentle reminder of just who was in charge of who. Intense pangs left waves of dizziness and nausea in their wake. She closed her eyes, praying the sick feeling would pass her by.
Floating alone in the darkness of her thoughts, her mind summoned images of her family; of Rachel and Ella, with love in their eyes, with their distant voices echoing. She could hear Peter's laugh, could see his beautiful eyes, so like the morning sky the instant before sunrise. Then she heard other things, other voices. Screams. Shouting. The clicks and clacks of boots on a tiled floor.
Olivia opened her eyes. The voices weren't in her head, but there, right outside her cell. A man was shouting. Another prisoner? His voice delivered raw agony. Pain beyond endurance. Her own panic began to rise then, and she strained against the straps holding her wrists before falling back, chest heaving. It was no use. She was too weak, too long on her back. Too long without proper food or water. After a few minutes, the commotion subsided.
Time passed, moments measured in solitary heartbeats, and then the door to her cell suddenly screeched open without warning.
The bearded man wearing a gray lab coat who stepped into the room was familiar. She knew him. She had seen him once before, through the magnified lenses of binoculars. Olivia found herself paralyzed, frozen stiff, as an animal might freeze before a pair of oncoming headlights, or, confronted by its natural predator. It was too late to feign sleep as she suddenly remembered doing so before, too late to pretend she was still unconscious, submerged beneath whatever drugs they had forced into her veins.
Their eyes met, and somehow his name popped into her head. She knew him, or of him, at least. As if she were reading directly from the pages of his file at the Federal Building.
Jacob Fischer, M.D. Known Aliases: John Fraser. Jason Fleming. Single. D.O.B July 19, 1947, Hartford, Connecticut. Wanted for extradition - U.S., Canada, Romania, Poland. Known Infractions: Two counts unlawful human drug trials. Three counts unlawful human experimentation on a minor. Five counts murder in the second degree. Three counts voluntary manslaughter. Subject should be considered extremely dangerous. Approach with caution. Termination priority one. Known associates...
The information materialized out of nowhere, and Olivia realized she was on the verge of blurting it all out — his name, his record, his everything — her lips already forming the first letters. She closed her mouth with a snap.
Stopping just inside the doorway, the man studied her in silence. She kept her face still as emotionless, gray eyes swept over her, as if he were deciding how best to begin removing her skin. He was short for a man, she noticed, and perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties, which neatly matched the imaginary file inside her head. Pale skin beneath a well-trimmed beard was just starting to wrinkle, around his eyes and above his nose.
How could she possibly know his name? I don't know his name. I've never read his file, not once. Not ever. But somehow, she could remember holding it, somehow she could picture her hands flipping through page after page filled with horrific images. And at the same time, the rest of her kept insisting that that was a lie, that she had never heard of him before his name had suddenly appeared inside her head. The conflict sent her mind reeling, tail-spinning, plummeting into a death spiral.
The room began to close in, walls grinding inexorably closer, as if she were caught in the jaws of some gruesome trap. She could feel the core of her very self, fracturing, cracking, splitting in two. As if she were being nudged aside. As if there were another person occupying the space inside her head. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe whatever they'd done to her had driven her mad.
"Good afternoon."
The sound of the bearded doctor's voice — somehow managing to be both soft and unyielding at the same time — brought her back to her present predicament. Speaking with clear enunciation, he sounded out each syllable before moving on to the next.
"My name is Dr. Jacob Fischer," he went on, confirming what she in some inconceivable way already knew. Was she reading his mind? Did that mean she wasn't crazy? Or that she was just a freak — which she already knew. The doctor paused, stepping further into the room. He came to a stop when he was standing over her, one hand resting in lazy fashion on the corroded rail of the gurney, inches from where her left arm was strapped down. "How are you feeling today? Better, I hope?"
Olivia shrank back without replying, pressing up against the far side of the gurney away from him, or at least as much as her bonds would allow. He would get nothing out of her. Not a word. Not a sound. She looked away, resting her eyes on a pattern of jagged cracks, following the lines of crumbling mortar running across the ceiling. Not a single fucking word. Another thought came to her then — she now knew for certain where she was. The old Kirkbride Building in Worcester. The insane asylum Peter had put a name to. How the knowledge might help she couldn't say, but it was something.
"Don't feel like talking? Surely you can tell me your name, at least, young lady, as I have already given you mine. It is only polite." He paused again, giving her time to answer before moving on. "No? Very well then. In any event, it isn't really required." He shook his head, and something that might have been pity passed over his features for an instant. "I can only imagine how surreal it must be to find yourself here, how confused you must be. But you should feel honored, however. Honored that you've been selected for improvement."
A blast of cold dread swept through her tiny cell. Improvement? What was that supposed to mean? ...unlawful human experimentation. Oh god, what the hell is he going to do me? She darted a panicked glance up at her captor and found his gaze distant, focused on the wall to her right. He wasn't even looking at her! As if already bored of the entire affair. The sight sent chills rippling down her spine. How many times had he given this speech? How many others had been selected for improvement, whatever that even meant? Fear crept up her throat, halting her breath.
"Yes. You should be honored," he said again, and she thought he might be looking at her now, as her skin suddenly felt as if it were coated by a layer of foulness. "And your acquiescence will be a boon — not only to us here, at the Home, as most of my people have come to call this place — but to all of mankind. Civilization is going to rise again, rise from the ashes of the old world, and it is going to begin here. With us, and with the work we are doing here."
She should feel honored he was going to conduct some kind of horrific experiment on her? Olivia swallowed. He was insane, utterly. She had never been more certain of anything in her life. She had fallen into the hands of a true monster, an actual mad scientist, the sort told of in stories and bad science-fiction movies. Was this Walter, before his incarceration? Had he been as cruel? And did she have willing guinea pig stamped across her forehead? How could this be happening to her again?
"Are you hungry? Thirsty?" he asked. At mention of food and water, she met his gaze for an instant, despite herself. "Yes. You are, aren't you? Very much so, I should think, all things considered. Would you like some food? Some water?" He glanced back at the door to her cell and called out, "Alex?"
There was a noise outside her cell and a moment later a short and stocky man of Asian descent came through the door, pushing an ancient metal cart before him. In spite of her intention to remain silent, she couldn't stop the gasp that escaped her lips.
The cart was laden with a pair of plastic utensils, a glass of crystal clear ice water, and, she saw with bulging eyes, plates of hot food. Steak and potatoes. Pasta in a white sauce. Even a medley of steamed vegetables, carrots, and some kind of squash or zucchini. Wisps of steam rose up from each plate and the aromas alone were enough to make her head swim. Her mouth erupted with moisture, saliva dripping onto her lower lip. The hunger pangs emanating from the empty bag of her stomach intensified, to the point of agony. So much food! Her throat cried out for just a sip of water.
"The steak is venison, but still quite delicious, nonetheless," Jacob Fischer said in a pleasant tone, gesturing toward the cart. "You may have some, if you like. Not too much at once, of course, or you'll likely vomit." He paused, catching her eyes. "But first, you must stop resisting. Your life could be so much better here. Wouldn't you like to get cleaned up? To have a bed to lie on?" His voice was honeyed and soothing, like a father doing his best to convince a wayward child to see reason. "But you must stop resisting. Resistance will only bring you more pain, more suffering. Surely you can see that, young lady. Wouldn't you like to get up? Wouldn't you like to be released from your bonds?"
Resisting? She couldn't remember resisting anything. It was pure psychology. He was trying to manipulate her, trying to break her down, bend her to his will. A distant part of her recognized this fact in an instant, but her stomach had a mind of its own, disconnected from the rest of her.
The smells rising from the plates of food were torturous, sabotaging. She tried to ignore them, to fight it, but the concentration required was beyond her. Her head was filled with the wafting odors of freshly cooked meat, the buttery scent of the pangs grew worse, more intense, as if her stomach was twisting itself into a contorted knot. She noticed drops of condensation sliding down the outside of the glass of ice water and unbidden came knowledge of how good it would feel going down, how cool it must be, how incredibly refreshing it would taste. Oh god, I'm so thirsty... She found herself rationalizing that giving in would mean a greater chance of escape. She was as weak as a newborn babe. Starving herself would only lead to more suffering, possibly even her death, and the Doctor would still do with her as he wished.
It's only one battle, she told herself as a tear stung her left eye. It doesn't mean I've lost the war. Once she was stronger, she could fight. And she would. Of course she would. Jacob Fisher stared down at her, waiting.
Meeting his gaze, Olivia nodded, and the Doctor smiled.
#
#
The cafeteria was quiet except for the murmur of hushed voices from where the adults were gathered in one dim corner, huddled in a tight ring around the chair where Mister Broyles sat, resting his leg. His foot was propped up on his knee, and he leaned forward, rubbing his injured ankle with both hands as he listened to something Astrid was saying.
Ella watched them from where she was seated at a long, narrow lunch table not far away. Head bowed, she listened, hoping to glean something of their intent, but other than the occasional word or two, their voices were mostly indistinct mumbles. Not that she couldn't guess what they were saying; either it was about how Walter had been taken away with the strange man she'd never seen before, or it was Mister Overbeek, and how he'd looked all mad and puffed up like that tall old rooster she'd seen on a cartoon her Mom had once shown her, laughing about how she'd watched the show when she was a kid. Something bad had happened, something really bad, but no one would tell her what. No one would tell her anything. Whatever it was though, Mister Overbeek must have thought one of them had done it, that much she had figured out on her own.
Letting out an irritated huff, she picked at a loose thread hanging down from the palm of the glove on her left hand. She pulled at it, slowly unraveling the pink thread until it came to her that the glove might unravel all the way, and then where would she be? With cold fingers and a pile of yarn, and more importantly, an angry mother. It was chilly in the cafeteria, but not cold enough for her breath to show up like it did outside.
She glanced down at the book lying open on the table between her elbows and sighed. She didn't feel like reading — even if all the secrets she'd been keeping weren't taking up all the empty spaces inside her head. The horrible things she had seen through that window were all she could think about, from the instant she woke up in the morning to the moment she lay down to sleep and shut her eyes. And then Walter had been taken away.
Was he okay? He'd been gone for hours and hours. Dinner had come and gone, and it would soon be time for bed. What were they doing to him? Only bad things happened in the Doctor's building. She pictured his face covered by a pale mask, she pictured hoses poking out all over him, she saw him trapped, struggling to escape from an impossible spiderweb of black wires. Was he dead? Oh geez, I should have told someone what I saw. I should have told them. Only now it was too late.
Pain rose up her chest, up into her throat. Icicles pierced her skin, sliding in between the rounded bones she could feel above her tummy, pricking with jagged points. Her insides were turning to ice. Suddenly there was no air inside her, either that or she'd forgotten how to breathe. Inside her coat and in her head, her heart sounded like a distant drumbeat, going faster and faster. And then her eyes began to sting.
She caught a glimpse of her mother, her sideways glance. She saw her eyebrows arching upward, the frown forming on her lips, her mouth opening, preceding the inevitable question. Time slowed to a crawl.
She's going to ask me what's wrong.
And then the lies would come rushing out, like water spilling over the edge of a tall cliff. She wouldn't be able to stop them. Ella knew that, not when her mother's eyes locked onto her face, when her hands would land on each shoulder, squeezing, squeezing. They would all know what she'd done, what she'd made Gina do. They would know she'd been a bad girl, the worst girl, that she'd lied to them all, and that if something happened to Walter, it would be her fault for keeping secrets. It was all her fault.
The words were balanced on the tip of her tongue, waiting for the slightest nudge to send them over the edge of the cliff. Despite her terror, something deep inside her chest was begging for it to happen, for it to all to be over with, no matter what would happen later. Her mother's mouth was opening. It was going to happen. She saw her mother's face through a blur of tears. They were rolling down her cheeks, dripping onto her coat.
But then the door into the cafeteria creaked open, and Walter came waltzing in, wearing his tan coat and pants, his red and black shirt. He looked at her and grinned, the lines of his wrinkled face dimpling along the corners of his mouth.
"Walter!" Ella cried out, then sprang to her feet, ignoring the crash of the metal folding chair collapsing behind her. She raced down the aisle scattering furniture in her wake. He was okay! She couldn't believe he was even real until she crashed into him, throwing her arms around his waist. "You're really okay," she told him. "You're okay." Her body felt light, as if she might float away. The rough fabric of his coat scratched against her cheek, then turned wet with her tears.
Walter patted her back gently. "I'm quite all right, my dear," his quavery voice said above her. "Quite all right, indeed, and I may have never been in any danger at all."
With a sniffle, she pulled away from him. "You weren't?" She peered up at him with a frown. "But why not?"
Before he could reply the others had approached, forming a ragged circle around them, bombarding him with questions. She moved aside as Astrid gave Walter a hug and a kiss on his cheek, which brought a wide smile to his face. Ella saw tears on her friend's cheek as she stepped away, and immediately felt better about her own bout of weeping.
"Walter, what happened?" Mister Broyles said. "Did they test this vaccine on you? Did they try to infect you?"
"Yeah, what did happen?" Sonia echoed, giving Walter a hug also. "We didn't expect you back until tomorrow... or maybe not ever," she added under her breath, "from what Claire said about the other guy they tested it on."
"Well. As to the... experiment," he said, glancing toward the kitchen and wetting his lips, "if it could even be called an experiment, I can tell you very little, other than that the Doctor has access to a powerful anesthetic, possibly sodium thiopental. Though it is difficult to be certain, given that I experienced its effects for a moment only before falling unconscious."
"Unconscious?" Mom asked. Her arms were crossed, and she was rubbing the bump on her wrist where it had broken. "What kind of vaccine is that?"
Walter blinked, staring at Ella's mother. "Oh. Miss Dunham. I didn't see you standing there. Have you been here all along?" After she assured him that she had, he continued, eyes narrowing to thin slits. "As for the supposed vaccine, I was told by the little Asian fellow that he would check on me in a few days, and that is all. But as I told little Ella, I don't believe I was ever in any real danger."
"What do you mean? Did he test it on you or not?"
"I was injected with something, to be sure, but whether it was merely a placebo, or something else that was benign, I can't say. What I can say is that I'm more certain than ever that this Doctor is nothing more than a charlatan, and that his so-called research on the infection is merely a facade behind which he and his associated are hiding something, possibly some sort of nefarious activity."
"Tell me what happened, Walter," Mister Broyles said. His dark eyes flashed between the doors leading out into the corridors. "And keep your voice down. If what you're saying is true, we don't know how many of them are involved. Maybe it's all of them."
Ella saw Astrid shake her head as Walter nodded in agreement. "Oh yes! You're quite right, Agent Broyles," he said, peering about the dim cafeteria as if he thought someone might be spying on them. "Stealth is of the utmost importance! There's no way to know who might involve in the conspiracy."
Conspiracy? What does that mean? The word seemed familiar — she had heard it before, but where? For some reason, it made her think of that cartoon movie with all the talking cars. Was that important? She couldn't quite figure out how it could be. Maybe it was a kind of secret. The kind adults only told to each other. She was sure they did that, sometimes, at least.
She followed the adults back over to the corner where they'd been talking before, but her mother stopped her with a look and a firm hand across her shoulders.
"Uh uh. The adults need to talk, Ella," Mom said, shaking her head. "You can go finish your book. It looks like you still have a few pages left. Afterward, we'll see about getting a snack."
"But Mom...," she whined, pressing her lips together. "It's not fair. I want to know what's happening too..."
"Life isn't fair, sweetheart," her mom replied with a shrug. Ella found herself being guided back to the table and her book. "If it were, none of this would have happened, now would it? If life were fair, your aunt would be here with us, not god only knows where with Peter." Then her voice grew hard, the way it did when she was serious, and meant business. "The things we have to talk about don't concern you right now. It's not for you to worry about. It's for the adults to worry about. Someday, when you're older and stronger, then you can worry about it, too. Okay?"
She wanted to tell her that she was already strong, that she had shot an infected with a real gun, that she had saved Astrid's life — Astrid had said so herself — and that she could help out, too. She had already found out more than they had, about the Doctor, and the evil things he was doing down in his workshop.
But she didn't say any of those things. She couldn't. Instead, she nodded her head, staring down at the ugly floor tiles beneath her shoes. There was no point in arguing with her mom; she had learned that also.
As her mother went to join the others, she picked up her collapsed folding chair, catching a look from Astrid that said she was sorry. Ella shrugged her shoulders, giving her friend a sad smile. It was all so unfair.
She sat down, dropping her gaze back the book lying open on the table. Inside, an owl and a glowing firefly were chasing each other across the night, stretching across both pages. The tiny little firefly was about to cause all sorts of trouble on the following pages before an adult would finally stop him, imprisoning him in a glass jar. It was not her first time reading this particular book, or even the second, and after a few minutes the words and pictures on the pages disappeared.
Instead, she saw something else in the place inside her mind where thoughts and ideas came to life. She saw the secret thing she and Gina had found down in the basement, perhaps even beneath where she was sitting at that moment. Now that Walter was okay, she finally let herself think about it again. It had been a close call, with Gina's grandmother nearly discovering what they'd been up to when she'd come to fetch them.
What was it? What was in there and where did it go? Did it go anywhere at all? It had been dark, and hard to see much of anything. Their little flashlight had hardly showed anything through the tiny gaps in the rubble. Was there a space? A room? What could it be? They had been trying to push some of the smaller chunks of rock and glued-together bricks out of the way, trying to clear a space big enough for one of them to squeeze through. Most of the chunks were bigger than her head, bigger than her entire body, and it would be a tight fit, even if the thought of climbing through made her tummy all cold and heavy like it was full of concrete. What if it all fell on her, crushing her flat like a piece of gum on the bottom of her shoe?
In place of the open book, she saw the crack again, the gap in the rubble up near the ceiling, and again felt the faint feathers of air brushing across her cheek when she'd peered inside. The air had felt wet, had smelled like a pile of wet leaves. It was the smell that had drawn them to the collapsed wall in the first place. But there had been something else, something she had only seen without the flashlight.
Far, far back in the darkness, there had been a light.
#
#
The searchlight turned on without warning.
Blazing upward, it cut a glowing swathe through the darkness, tinting the surrounding buildings with a bluish haze. Peter froze in his chair, staring out through the muddy glass at the light where it penetrated the clouds. Now that it had finally happened, he found himself paralyzed with uncertainty.
Four days he had been waiting for it, four days and five nights since Olivia had been taken from him. Five nights of shivering in the frigid darkness in front of the window, four days of cowering down in front of the fireplace back at the ranch, trying to find what sleep he could. Every moment a torture, a constant stream of horrific possibilities playing out in vivid detail in the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to shut them out. Was she okay? What had they done to her? Was she still herself? That last bit worried him most of all. Dale Mueller's vague description of what happened to those taken by this Doctor character was slowly driving him mad.
Outside the window and down on the other side of the fence, the wide-open space behind the main building glowed dimly under the night sky. Shadows moved past his point of view, moving in opposite directions. Would they go to join the others? His assumption that they would was vital, if he were to have any chance of infiltrating the facility since he'd been reluctantly forced to abandon his original plan to lure a horde of undead to their gate.
He thought of the children he'd seen on the second day, kicking a soccer ball back and forth. At least two kids were in there, and maybe more, though he hadn't seen them since. Dressed in cold weather gear, it had been impossible to determine their ages, and whether they were even boys or girls — not that it mattered in the end. The sight of them had driven home the point, that there were innocents living inside the walls. And some of the guards were women also — mothers, daughters, sisters. He counted at least six of them, possibly seven among all the men, though it was difficult to be sure. With the drop in temperature, everyone was bundled up, and the shift changes on the fence were frequent. And that was just the guards. How many more were inside, making all the food required to feed the thirty or so people he thought might be living there? Could he put so many innocents in danger? It was the realization that he was on the verge of becoming a monster himself that had finally penetrated the single-minded fury that had become his daily driver. So he'd scrapped his plan with the undead, and come up with a riskier alternative.
His gaze fell to the spot on the encircling fence where he'd completed his sabotage two days ago, just before sunrise when the guards were most lax. It was a calculated risk, snipping enough links for a man to slip through. But what choice did he have? Walking up to the front gate was out of the question. He had made the cuts carefully, however, hiding the broken links behind a fence support, and none of the guards seemed the wiser. Or at least it seemed that way from his vantage on the top floor of the circular out-building nestled back at the edge of the forest, on the farthest edge of the property. It was the nearest building to the fence that was still outside it, and whoever was in charge had chosen foolishly to ignore its existence. Their stupidity was his gain.
Peter rose to his feet, grunting at the sharp pain in his left side. Out of habit, he pressed his hand against the slow-healing wound. With the weather turning cold again, it had grown stiff, almost brittle, aching constantly. Beneath the bandage the skin around his shoddy stitching was an angry red, striated with veins of purple. The sight of it was more than a little alarming, but it had stopped bleeding, and that was all that mattered in the short term.
Exhaling slowly, his breath clouded the glass, obscuring his view of the searchlight. It was time — there would never be a better opportunity than now. He reached for his backpack, slinging it over his right shoulder. The bag was heavy, weighed down with the items he'd selected, carefully wrapped in old rags to dampen any sound. He would take with him only what he needed. Everything else would be left behind; the cumbersome night vision goggles, his small supply of food and water, even his sword, which he was loathe to part with. Swinging it had become too painful, too awkward for it to be of any use. If he succeeded, he could retrieve it all later.
And if not, then not.
He could still hold a gun, however. He checked the automatic on his belt, then drew back the bolt of the M4, holding the chamber up to the dim light before slamming it home and walking out of the room.
Keeping the beam of his flashlight low, he hurried down through the decaying building to the first floor, and then outside. A harsh wind blew in from the west, bringing with it the poignant odor of pine needles. The air was frigid, biting into his legs through his jeans, stinging his bare fingers as he pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves he'd found in a drawer back at the vacant ranch.
Ahead, the bluish beam of the searchlight rose above the buildings, just to the right of the pointed silhouette of the clock tower in the distance. He angled toward the light, stepping through a wide stretch of knee-high stalks of dried thistle and the withered remains of foxtail and witchgrass. The weeds extended all the way to the narrow drive encircling the compound. Beyond lay the fence, topped with rows of barbed wire slanted outward.
He hunched forward, staying low, following a slight rent in stalks left behind by his prior passage until he came to a curving driveway, where he crouched down at the edge of the weeds. The cut in the fence was dead ahead. Far to his right were the pair of buildings under armed guard, and his ultimate goal. He held still, breath rising in the chill air. A sentry would pass by; they always did, unless the searchlight had drastically changed their schedule. He suspected it would not, and soon enough was proved right when a man in a striped stocking hat walked past, carrying one of their absurdly large pole-spears on his shoulder. The man's head swiveled about, eyes passing over his location, but he passed by without a glimmer of awareness.
Peter waited until the man was out of earshot, then crept forward, crossing over the loose gravel of the drive. As he neared the fence, it suddenly hit him that the guards' schedule had already changed. He recalled the night he and Olivia had first approached the Kirkbride facility, and how there had been no guards walking the fence, none at all on the rear side when the light was on. Not a single one. Yet the fence was under watch now, nonstop, twenty-four hours a day.
What did that mean? What had changed?
One possible answer seemed obvious enough. Peterborough, and the brutal death of one of their men. And himself. They were expecting him. Or, at least, they had prepared for the possibility of something.
Well, I'd hate to disappoint them, he thought upon reaching the fence and dropping to his knees. He winced at the jarring impact, then ripped the cut section of fence back and tossed the rifle through ahead of him, before slithering through on hands and knees after it. His side ached as he did so, and even more so when his coat snagged on the cut edge of a link, but he forced himself through, locking his jaw against the pain. An instant later he was free, and inside the perimeter. He pulled the fence back in place, or as close as he could manage in a hurry.
Snatching up the rifle, he crouched there for a heartbeat, studying the nearby darkness. The sentry was an indistinct shadow heading back toward the front of the compound, but another would surely be along in a few moments. And he could be nowhere in the vicinity when that happened.
Peter lunged to his feet, biting off a grunt as he did so. Ducking down, he raced across the wide field, zeroing in on the blocky outline of what he assumed were the living quarters of the complex. The bluish searchlight lit up the night sky overhead without waver. He plunged into the shadows behind the tall building, crossing over a decaying asphalt parking lot covered in loose gravel that bounced and skittered beneath his feet and then pressed his back up against a wall of uneven bricks rounded with age. He glanced to either side, then headed to his left passing in front of a row of darkened windows before coming to a closed door. He gave the handle a yank, and to his surprise it swung open silently, as if the hinges had just been given a fresh coat of oil. Inside was a cavernous darkness, giving away not a hint of the interior.
Stepping inside, he pressed the rifle tight to his shoulder and let the door close behind him. Immediately his nose was assaulted, stomach lurching at the odors of home cooking. Of food. Lowering the rifle, he thumbed on his flashlight covering the lens with his palm. His fist glowed red as he looked around.
It was a kitchen, and huge. Large enough to feed the massive Kirkbride complex back in its heyday. Rows of wooden tables pressed together ran parallel to the interior walls. On his left was what looked like a long dish sink, and then a row of tall shelves crammed full of pots and pans. To the right were several massive cast iron stoves that looked as if they were a hundred years old, at least. It seemed doubtful they could possibly still function, yet the odors of cooking hung in the air; fresh scents of bread, and the succulent odor of some kind of grilled meat, if he wasn't mistaken. His mouth watered. Pangs of hunger lanced through his gut. Across the kitchen were a pair of tiny green lights. He moved closer and found a pair of modern refrigerators, with LCD temperature readouts.
Unable to help himself, he pulled open the nearest refrigerator door, and then froze. Holy shit. The refrigerator was stuffed full of tupperware containers, each labeled with masking tape and black handwriting scrawled in permanent marker. He read the labels, on the brink of drooling. Venison. Macaroni. Chili. Gravy. Potatoes. Cabbage. Carrots. Linguine. He found himself reaching for the container of carrots, but stopped himself short. Once he started eating, he wouldn't be able to stop. Of that he was certain.
Stop wasting time, Bishop. Move. Do what you came here to do. You think Olivia is getting a steak dinner?
Reluctantly closing the refrigerator door, he wondered again how they managed to power their lights, their appliances. Trailing out from behind the refrigerators and into the darkness was a thick extension cord. He suppressed the urge to follow it, and instead set his backpack down on the nearest work table, beside a tray of shiny new cutlery. Opening the main pocket, he removed the pair of cloth-wrapped bundles, careful not to make a clink as he unwound the ragged shirts from about each of the glass bottles. Inside each was a dark liquid that sloshed about as he unscrewed the caps, letting out the pungent fumes of the gasoline trapped inside. He poured a bit of gas onto each rag, then shoved each into a bottle top, pushing them in as far as they would go. When the makeshift molotov cocktails were ready, set them aside, then reached into the pack for the handful of smoke flares, lining them up in a row.
With that part finished, he glanced around, shining the flashlight over the kitchen. The floors were a beige ceramic tile, the ceiling and walls a mixture of brick and concrete covered by cracked and crumbling plaster. The kitchen was as good a spot as he would find, barring a basement somewhere. Swallowing, he thought of the children, the women, he'd seen from afar, and told himself that a little arson paled in comparison to a horde of undead crashing through their gate. With any luck, the fire wouldn't spread too far. But he had to get their attention, and keep it here, away from the outbuilding, and for as long as possible.
It was the only way.
He zipped his bag shut and slung it over his shoulder, then pulled a lighter from his pocket. He thumbed it alight, holding the flame near the rag trailing from the first bottle. It lit at once, casting flickering shadows about the kitchen as he moved on to the second, lighting it also. Acrid black smoke curled upward as picked it up, holding the bottle away from him. They needed to see it, they needed to feel fear, to feel panic and chaos.
He swallowed again, and then reared back and hurled the flaming bottle at the wall just below a pair of windows that faced north, toward the open field behind the kitchen. The bottle exploded with a fiery crash. Flames whooshed upward, climbing up the wall, over the window to the ceiling, smoke and orange and blue tendrils fanning out like a blooming flower. Turning, he shattered the second firebomb across the old stovetop, sending another gout of flame roaring upward, licking the inside of an ancient exhaust hood mounted overhead. With that accomplished, he quickly set off one flare after another, rolling them beneath the kitchen equipment, the counters, the stove, even tossing on behind the pair of refrigerators. White smoke mixed with black, coming together in a solid gray mass that billowed in plumes across the ceiling.
It was going to work. It had to work.
I'm coming Olivia. I'm coming.
#
With his act of arson under way, it was time for the next phase. He grabbed the rifle and raced toward the door, turning his face away from the intense blast of heat that washed across his face as he passed by the conflagration.
"Fire!" Peter shouted, racing outside. "Fire! Fire in the kitchen!" An answering voice shouted something unintelligible, somewhere out near the fence to his right. "Fire! Kitchen's on fire! Help!"
He spotted a silhouetted figure off to the left, and far across the open field the pair of armed guards were already moving his way, drawn in by his cries for help. Without slowing, he sprinted across the parking lot and dove into the tall grass. He gasped at the impact, at the fire shooting all through his left side. Gasping, clamping his teeth against the pain, he crawled forward, angling toward a low mound protruding from the grass ahead.
More shouts erupted in the night, to either side and from just ahead. He kept going, and the shadowed mound resolved into a circular pile of rubble, into stones and bricks sprinkled with weeds. An old foundation wall, he figured probably from a structure not unlike the one he'd been spending his nights in for the last week. Glancing back, he found flames through the windows and the open kitchen door, easily visible to anyone on the outside.
It was going to work.
Shouts rang out in the night. Cries for help, for water. Footsteps sounded in the darkness as he reached the low mound and wedged himself into the gap between two sections of jagged foundation walls. Lifting up for an instant, he saw a pair of shadows approaching, each carrying rifles that caught the occasional glint of light.
The armed guards.
"What the hell is going on, Jonas?" one of them said.
"No idea," a second voice replied, and Peter thought the man sounded vaguely familiar. A New Yorker. Brooklynite. Where had he heard it before? "Probably one of them kids was playing with matches while all the adults were busy. I knew they'd be trouble. Kids always are. I was the same way at that age."
"Shit... Overbeek's gonna flip."
"You ain't kidding, Danny-boy. He's gonna shit a brick. The Doc don't like being interrupted."
Peter pressed himself flat as the men drew near, mashing his face into the cold dirt and bits of rock and gravel. He heard the crackle of a radio, and then a scratchy voice demanding to know what the fuck was going on. And then the two men passed by off to his left, the Brooklynite's voice panicked as he replied into the radio.
When the men were gone, he scrambled to his feet and sped over the grass, homing in the shadowed entrance of the now unguarded building on the left. His plan had worked — so far, at least. But now timing was critical, his window of opportunity just a short sliver of time, and growing shorter by the second. As the pair of buildings drew near, a sudden movement off to his left caught his eye. Turning, panic gripped his chest at the sight of another person rushing straight toward him through the darkness. Clearly, they had seen him.
"What hell is going on?" The New England voice belonged to a woman. "What's all this shouting about? Is someone attacking us?"
Cursing inside his head, Peter slowed up, keeping his face averted. The woman was short and young-looking, with pale skin and dark hair peeking out from beneath a yellow stocking hat. "No, there's a fire," he said, coughing into his palm. He hunched over, coughing again. "It's in the kitchen. It's bad. Jonas sent me for help."
"A fire!" The woman gasped, throwing her gaze toward the burning building. "Oh fuck! Why was there anyone even in there right now?" She started to turn away, then stopped, giving him another look. "Hey, are you okay? You don't sound so good, buddy."
He shook his head, waving her away. "I'll be fine," he said, moving away from her. "Just inhaled... a little too much smoke is all. You should go help, the whole building could go up, you know what I mean? I'll get the others." The woman seemed to frown, but then nodded and hurried off, soon vanishing into the night.
Peter didn't wait to see if the woman turned back. He flew across the field, over a narrow walkway, and then up a short flight of steps to a pair of doors with inset windows covered by thick bars of iron. The doors had no locks, only gaping holes where a dead-bolt must have once resided. He yanked open the door on the left and slipped inside, into yawning blackness.
The building was silent, the only sound that of his pounding heart. He thumbed on his flashlight and found himself in what must have been the reception area, long ago. The space where a desk might have once been was littered with piles of rusted junk. Ancient medical equipment, old bed springs, all the refuse of decades' past, as if whoever had been in charge of clearing out the place had simply given up, consigning all of it to go down with the ship. He moved past the junk piles, down a long, straight corridor, shining his light to either side, passing by room after gutted room, all of which were empty, vacant.
She would not be held on ground level, he decided after a few minutes of searching. It was clear that the ground floor was not in use at all, having at some point in the past suffered severe water damage, or perhaps a fire, or both. Most of the walls and ceilings were bare, showing their structural components. And the man Dale Mueller had called the Doctor would do his work in private, away from the light of day, away from inquisitive eyes. Such was the way of mad men and torturers.
After a few minutes of searching, he came upon a stairwell rising up from below and continuing upward to the floors above. He held still on the top step, listening. Were there voices below? How many people were down there? How many men? How many would they commit to the fence? He would know shortly.
Gripping the rifle, he hurried down the steps. Time was flying, gathering momentum. He could feel it, like a nail being slowly driven into the center of his shoulders. The stairwell was narrow, block walls pitted with cracks, stained with spots of creeping black mold that gave off a sharp, stinging odor. The scrape of his boots echoed in the darkness. The flight of steps turned once, then came to an end at a closed door, from which a faint light glowed from underneath. Carefully, he pulled the door open and found himself in another corridor.
Like the ground floor above, the basement level was silent. What was different were the lights hanging down from an arched ceiling overhead, rusted fixtures giving off a dim, wavering glow. The rooms were in better shape here, and he rushed from door to door, searching them quickly. In one tiny room, not far from the stairwell, he found a modern cot, along with a medical tray on wheels. But other than that, there was nothing, only bits of trash and signs of recent vermin infestations. And there were no people, no Doctor, no guards.
No Olivia.
Peter stopped in the middle of the corridor. She had to be there. She had to.
He hung his head, and it was then that he noticed a wad of black cables, each as big as his thumb, snaking out from beneath a pair of doors just a short way down the hall from where he'd stopped. The cables curved out from a lighted gap beneath one of the doors, then continued down the hall until they disappeared around a corner. He moved closer and found the doors different from all the others he'd seen so far; solid wood with vertical metal handles wrapped in thick layers of shiny black electrical tape. The tape stood out as a strange addition, and with a frown, he reached out, touching one of the handles with the tip of his index finger. He wasn't sure what he expected to happen — flashes of light, the blare of an alarm, the screeching wail of a siren — but nothing did.
Somebody just put it there for a better grip, you idiot. Are you gonna stand here all day? Peter exhaled, turning his head. He pulled the door open carefully, just enough to get a glimpse inside.
At first, it was hard to make out what he was seeing through the gap, as if his eyes and mind refused to make sense of it. But then, after several confused moments, the contents of the room suddenly came into focus, like a terrible histogram.
The clamor of his beating heart filled the inside of his head, fear turning his insides to ice. He wrenched the door open, and the stench of human waste rolled over him like an oncoming tidal wave, carried out by a hot and humid change of atmosphere. Across the room were a pair of high windows, inset in the stone foundation wall up near the ceiling. Overhead, a single, flickering light glowed, casting a dim haze over a scene out of a nightmare, out of a monster's imagination. Beneath the light were three rows of beds, or rather bed frames, as none of them had any sort of mattress that he could see, only springs. Beds occupied by the still forms of human beings. His mind counted nine in all before he realized he was even counting. Beside each stood an IV pole, laden with several bags of fluid, one clear, the others filled with a briny liquid he didn't like the look of. Loops of dangling wires were strewn about the room, running in parallel between each row of beds. Masks unlike anything he had ever seen before covered the faces and heads of each body, masks with protruding hoses and wreathes of smaller, curling wires his brain automatically associated with EEG electrodes. The tiny wires emerged from the end of slightly thicker cables which all gathered in several new-looking junction boxes bolted to the floor at the end of each row, which in turn were the endpoints of the bundled cables he'd seen from the corridor.
Bile rose up Peter's throat, as a terrible realization bulged his eyes wide open. Dale Mueller had mentioned something about a grid.
A power grid.
No way. It can't be. It's impossible.
Everything he knew about physics and particle interactions in the real world told him it was impossible, but the evidence was right there, right in front of him, beyond contradiction. He was looking at some kind of bizarre power system, only one made entirely of people, of live human beings. It was a concept from the annals of bad science fiction movies, and should have been impossible. Yet it wasn't.
Olivia. Oh no.
He entered the room, hand shaking as he shined his light over the array of prostrate bodies, searching for a female, for anything that looked familiar. The bodies were all naked, and bound tight to the bed rails by thick, leather straps. And they were alive. Their combined breaths filled the room with whispering sighs, tickling the insides of his ears. Two of the bed frames in the center row were unoccupied. From the dark stains on the floor beneath them, they clearly hadn't been at some point, and were now merely awaiting their next victims.
If they're using people as batteries, I guess they run out of juice. The thought flittered across his mind, repeating in a loop. They run out of juice. He couldn't stop the thought. It kept going and going, accompanied by an impending pressure in his chest, the urge to laugh like a mad man. Or was it cry? He couldn't tell. He was going crazy, insane. None of it could be real. Out of juice. Out of juice.
He moved from body to body, muscles tightening into cramps. They were all male. All white men, except for one lone African-American. All male. She wasn't there. Olivia wasn't there. The intense relief that followed came close to knocking him down, to buckling his knees.
Maybe they haven't done it to her yet, he thought. Whatever it is. What kind of sick fuck would make something like this? Even Walter would be sickened by what was being done to these people. Even his father, who had experimented on children. The thought was sobering.
Should he help them?
No. He could not. They were not why he'd come. Even if he could somehow help them all — without hurting them by pulling them out of whatever kind of suspended state they were trapped in — they would only slow him down. Just as they were slowing him down at that moment.
He turned to leave and there was a groan behind him. Spinning around, he saw something he'd missed before; a mound of blankets in the corner, upon which a man with a thick beard was writhing, hands gripping the curls of his dark hair. Unlike the others, he wore no mask. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes swiveled behind his closed lids, face twisting into a savage snarl. Peter took a step closer. The man was unbound and fully clothed, absurdly wearing blue Converse high-top sneakers.
Was he asleep? In some kind of trance?
He took another step toward the squirming man. As he did, a strange kind of pressure filled the room, settling on the surface of his skin, like walking through a cobweb, or being caressed by a thousand feather-tips at once. The tingling sensation was everywhere; on top of his head, beneath his coat, running up and down his legs beneath his pants.
"What the hell...?" he whispered, shining the flashlight onto his hand. The fine hairs on his wrist and on the back of his hand were standing straight up. From the way his head tingled, he thought his hair might be doing the same, like the time he'd stood beneath one of the Van de Graff generators at the now-destroyed Museum of Science back in Boston. Once upon a time the giant globes had generated millions of volts of electrical potential, enough to power MIT's particle accelerator.
Volts. Amperage. Electrical potential. His thoughts screeched to a halt.
Oh shit! Peter lunged for the door, sprinting out into the hall.
Behind him, as he turned the corner, there came a loud snap, and then a long torturous scream. Light fixtures up and down the corridor began to blink, strobing off and on as if he were running through a dance club. He raced further into the building, past open doorways and tiny alcoves. Duct-taped to the center of the floor was the thick wad of cables, and he followed them to another stairwell, a rickety spiral staircase in the rear of what might have been an administrator's office once, long ago. The stairwell was suffocatingly narrow, and led only downward. Ancient wall sconces covered by rusted wire guards that somehow still functioned lit the way, providing a dirty, almost mottled light as they continued to flicker, though less intense than before.
He flew down the steps, taking three at a time. Time was passing, faster than ever. He could feel it, feel it draining away as if it were running through a sieve. As if there now were a target on his back. How long would it take to put out the fire? How much time had he wasted in that room? Five minutes? Ten? The horror of it still lingered.
The winding steps paused on a door of gray metal with clouded glass at eye level. Light glowed within, but he could make out nothing but indistinct blurs and shapes through the glass. The door opened inward, hinges on the inside. He gave the handle a push but a sturdy-looking deadbolt held the door secure. Was she in there? Or further down? How many levels could there be? Surely he was far underground. Shining his light down the center, the spiraling staircase seemed to have no end. One level, at least, and possibly more. There was no time to search them all. No time. And getting the door open would not be a quiet affair.
He hesitated, indecision tying his head into a knot. "Fuck. Fuck!" he hissed, rubbing at sudden crick between his shoulders blades. Whatever he did, the wrong choice would more than likely doom them both. If they weren't doomed already. Yet he had to do something. Suddenly he made his choice, and spun back into the stairwell, leaping down step after step. The door and whatever lay behind it would wait. He would search below first, and then work his way back up.
The stairwell creaked as he made his way downward, and he told himself that he'd made the only choice he could, the one with the highest probability of success. More than anything though, it all rung hollow, it all reeked of pride and wishful thinking. The truth was that he was winging it, navigating the currents of chaos, and had been from the moment he'd thrown the first firebomb.
In what he chose to see as a stroke of luck, the spiral staircase came to an abrupt end. At the bottom was an open doorway leading out into a dark corridor straight out of a medieval dungeon, complete with crumbling stone walls and an arched ceiling low enough that it would brush the top of his head. If there was anywhere where prisoners might be kept, surely it was here. He dipped his head and plunged into a cloud of stale air that reeked of mold and rot, as if he were entering an animal's lair. The smell brought to mind the strange hybrid monstrosity, currently haunting Cambridge, but surely there wasn't another one hiding down in the basement. Surely.
The floor of the corridor was uneven. Spots of bare earth showed through worn bricks and shattered floor tile. Instead of cells and rooms of torture, there were no doors at all, no intersecting corridors. And after a minute or two it was clear that his assumption was dead wrong. It wasn't another level at all, but some kind of ancient access tunnel, more than likely left over from when the Kirkbride complex had first been constructed, near one-hundred-fifty years ago. Possibly it was part of an even larger network that had connected different wings of the hospital together at some point, but no longer.
The tunnel ended suddenly as he turned a corner, where a single wall light still glowed, still connected to the electrical system powered by the grid of human beings two floors above. A steep hill of rubble and debris emerged from the darkness, where the ceiling had collapsed in on itself. There would be no passing it by.
Peter approached the mound of bricks and dirt, tree roots and chunks of cemented gravel. "Well this was a gigantic waste of time," he muttered, clenching his jaw. He'd made a mistake, possibly a fatal one. He should have never come down this far, and now he was out of time. Surely they were aware by now that the fire had been intentional, that someone from the outside had infiltrated their perimeter. The probability of making it out by himself, much less with Olivia, was approaching zero. "Fuck. FUCK!" He picked up a chunk of rock and hurled it at the imposing mound. The rock plinked ineffectually, tumbling back down the hill until it rested almost at his feet once more. "Perfect. Just perfect, Bishop." he said to himself with a sigh, then turned to go.
Then muffled voice spoke out of the darkness behind him.
"Peter...?"
Peter gasped, whirling around, lifting and pressing the rifle hard against his shoulder in one motion. What the fuck? There was no one there, only debris stretching all the way to the ceiling. "Who's there?" he called out. "Show yourself!"
"Uncle Peter," the voice said, "is that you?"
The voice was female, and tiny, puny sounding. It had come from above, up near the ceiling. How could they know him? How? And uncle? No one had ever called him that before, ever, unless…
It can't be, can it?
"Ella? Ella is that you?" he hissed. "Where are you?"
"Peter!" The joy in her tone was unmistakable. "You're here! I knew you'd come! I knew it!"
He scrambled up the mound of rocks and dirt, homing in on the sound of her voice. Up near the ceiling there was a spot, an almost negligible gap in the debris. Ducking down, he shone his light in the hole and found himself staring into the tear and dirt-streaked face of Olivia's niece. Some part of him deep inside cried out in joy at the sight of her, pushing back the cloud of darkness and rage that had been hovering over him day and night.
"Ella! What are you doing down here, baby girl?" he asked, using Olivia's pet name for her. He reached through the gap and felt tiny fingers gripping his hand. A lump rose up his throat and his eyes watered, stinging with salt.
"I found a tunnel down in the basement," she said. "I was trying to find a way through, but I can't move the rocks. They're too big."
Her explanation made no sense to him, but he let it pass for now. Time was screaming past now, faster than thought. "Are the others with you? Are they all here?"
"Yeah. All of us. Me and Mom, Astrid and Sonia and Mister Broyles and Walter. We're all here. The lab got attacked by all the dead people from the city, Peter. We had to run away."
"I know, sweetheart, I know," he said, squeezing her hand. "Your aunt and I saw it afterward. We weren't sure any of you were still alive. We didn't know where you'd gone." Walter was alive. His father was still alive. The shock of it left him breathless. Incredibly, they'd made it all out. But they were still in grave danger. " Ella, you guys have to get out of here, this place. The people here, they're bad. At least some of them are. You're all in danger. You have to tell the others. You have to get out."
"I know," she said to his surprise. "That's why I was trying to get through. I know the Doctor's doing bad things to people. Is Aunt Liv with you?"
Peter hesitated. "Ella, your aunt was captured by them. This Doctor person has her. That's why I'm here."
Through the gap, Ella's eyes grew huge. "But the Doctor will hurt her, Peter! He hurts them! I saw them once, through a window. He hurts them really bad!"
"I know he does," he assured her. "I know he does. I saw it, too. That's why I'm here. Ella, you have to tell the others. Tell Broyles or Astrid. You guys have to get out of here. Now. Tonight, if you can."
"They took all our guns and stuff when we got here, Peter. And they said we can't leave. I heard Astrid telling my Mom. She wanted to go out and look for you and Aunt Liv, but Mister Overbeek told her no."
Overbeek? Who the hell was this Overbeek? Was he the Doctor? Peter frowned. "What did Broyles say about what the Doctor was doing?"
Ella's voice fell so quiet he could hardly make out what she said next. "He... he doesn't know. I haven't told him. I haven't told anyone. Only me and Gina know. I didn't think they would believe me. They told me to stay out of trouble. They all like it here. And I do too, but... then I saw-"
"Ella," he cut in. "You have to tell them everything right now. You have to go back now. They'll believe you, I promise." He gave her hand another squeeze, then released her, pulling back until he could see her entire face again, and the tears streaming down her cheeks. "You have to go. I'm running out of time here. I have to find Olivia. Tell them. Tell them they have to get out of here."
"I will," she replied in a voice that was braver than her years. How old was she? Was she six yet? He had no idea. He'd never asked Olivia about her birthday. But she had the heart of a lion, just like her aunt. "Peter, I love you," she said. "I'm glad you're okay, and not dead."
The lump in Peter's throat grew to the size of a tennis ball. He swallowed, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I... I love you, too, sweetheart," he said roughly. "Now, you have to go. Go!"
Ella nodded, and then vanished from sight. Through the gap, he heard the wash of falling rocks and gravel, and then the faint pounding of small feet that faded quickly in the distance. She was gone. And he needed to be gone also.
Peter leapt down to the tunnel floor, then dashed back to the stairwell, ignoring the sharp pains shooting through his abdomen. From the fiery heat growing there, something had probably just torn, but there was not a thing he could do about it. He sped back up the winding stairwell, back to the locked door he'd left behind. She had to be in there. There was no other place, and the time for stealth had passed.
Backing away, he raised the assault rifle and blasted a ring of holes around the lock above the door handle. The detonations battered his eardrums. Sparks flew, and bits of dust and stone filled the air, crumbling down from above. Before the thunderous echoes had died out, he smashed his heel into the metal beside the lock, crushing it inward around the mangled lock. Another blow, and the door sprang back, crashing into the wall with a thud. His side burned as he stepped through the door, aiming down the barrel of the rifle.
Inside was a short corridor that ran perpendicular into another, filled with blinding light by modern floodlights on yellow stands. It was the place — it had to be. As he raced toward the next corridor, voices began shouting somewhere ahead. He peeked around the corner and found the next corridor lined with doors on either side, heavy doors with barred windows and sliding slots for food trays in their lower halves. Dozens of rooms, of cells — and that was just what he counted in front of him. How many were out of sight? He charged from door to door, window to window, zigzagging down the corridor like a human pinball, peering inside each cell for Olivia, until he came to another intersection of corridors.
Turning the corner, he found a pair of men hurrying toward him, one of whom he recognized. An older man, with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard and wearing a gray lab coat. He'd seen the man once before, but only from a distance. It was him. The Doctor. The man responsible for all the horrors taking place here. The man ultimately responsible for Olivia's kidnapping. The men saw him at the same instant and skidded to a halt, backing away slowly.
"Don't fucking move!" he shouted, swinging the barrel between them as he moved closer. The other man, a squat Asian fellow with black hair watched the barrel swing back and forth with strangely calm eyes. He was a stooge. And worthless. "You," he said, and pointed the rifle at the man's face. "Get on the ground. Face down, against the wall. Hands on your head. If I see you even flinch, you're dead."
His words seemed to get the guy's attention, and his head bobbed as he dropped to his knees, and then lay down as ordered. The Doctor stepped back, raising his arms. His face was calm, as if he were the one in control of the situation. Peter's finger tightened on the trigger. He should just kill him, and remove his stain from the earth. Without a doubt, the man deserved it, for everything he'd done. For Olivia.
But you still need him, a voice whispered. He can take you to her.
Yes, he could. Peter moved forward, until he was close enough to touch the other man. Up close, the front of the Doctor's gray lab coat was speckled with dark stains he recognized from his time spent working at the meat packing plant in another life, only it wasn't cow's blood he was looking at, of that he was certain.
"Where is Olivia?" he said, voice rising to a shout. He pressed the rifle against the man's forehead.
"Olivia...?" The bearded doctor's eyebrows climbed up his forehead, and his face became as innocent as a babe's. "I'm afraid I don't know to whom you are referring, sir. Please lower your weapon and we can talk about this like civilized men. You don't want to hurt anyone, do you?"
Civilized? After what he'd seen above, the bastard had the nerve to speak of being civilized? And he most certainly did want to hurt someone. "Take me to her," he said through the rage choking up his throat. "Take me to her now, or I'll kill him, and then you."
"And I told you," the doctor replied, sounding oddly confident, all things considered, "that I don't know anyone named Olivia. Not with a gun pointed at my head." For an instant, his dark-eyed gaze snapped over Peter's shoulder, and he gave the barest of nods.
Peter started to whirl around, but there was a loud snap behind him and all of a sudden, he couldn't move. His muscles spasmed, tightening all at once into rigid bands. Something was burning, pulsing into the small of his back. Through the roar of sudden agony, he heard a distinct buzz, like an electric arc. Then another spot of agony flared on his left shoulder-blade, and another on his right thigh. He tried to scream but his mouth was no longer his own, his lips and jaws suddenly wired shut.
Tasers... no... fuck... Olivia...
It was too late. The assault rifle slipped from knotted fingers that no longer worked, clattering to the floor. His knees buckled, and then the world tilted, and the mottled concrete floor loomed large in his vision. Something white flashed before his eyes a moment later, as a heavy blow landed across the back of his head. As darkness closed around him, the bearded man in the blood-stained coat stood over him, staring down with pitiless eyes.
"Thank you, Kyle," the Doctor said, voice growing more distant with every word. "Put him in with the others."
