by Greig Beck
He shrugged and picked up his model.
“Benji?” she pressed.
“My friends swam in it. But I didn’t.” His words tumbled out fast. “Neither did Isabella.”
“Okay.” Mitch turned in his seat. “Who did go in?”
“James, he went in first, then Kenny, Gemma, and also fat Alf.”
“Don’t call him fat.” Karen frowned. “He’s just well fed.”
No wonder she’s in politics, Mitch thought. But alarms went off in Mitch’s head at hearing the kid’s name.
“Alf is Alfie Bell, Hank’s son, right?” Mitch asked.
“That’s right.” Karen stared, hard now. “What is it?”
He held up a hand. “So, just four kids, huh? I remember there were a lot of footprints up there for just four of them. When did you say you went in?”
Benji thought for a moment. “Weeks and weeks back, when it was real hot. Maybe they went back there, or it was some other kids. Everyone knew the pond was full again. It was real nice.”
“A few weeks back.” Mitch seemed to remember seeing the kid, James, come in with a mild rash, but that was it. He turned to Benji again. “Hey, have you seen, uh, James, Gemma, or any of the others since?”
Benji tilted his head and his brow furrowed. “Nah, not for a long time.”
Mitch frowned. “Not even at school?”
“It’s school holidays,” Karen said.
“But out of school, or anywhere?” Mitch pressed.
Benji shook his head and Mitch rubbed his chin for a moment. “Maybe I should visit them then, just to check they’re okay.”
“Mitch?” A deep line appeared between Karen’s brows.
He shook his head. “Probably nothing.”
“You need to see them,” Karen pronounced.
“I could come…show you where they live,” Benji pronounced.
“We should go, now,” Karen said. “If it was Benji, I’d want him checked out, like yesterday.”
“I agree, but it might panic Mom or Dad if the town doctor turns up with the vice mayor.”
Karen snorted. “I know just about everyone in the town. You’re more likely to scare them than me.”
Benji shook his head. “He’s not that scary, Mom.” He swung to Mitch. “She can stay in the car, and we can go and see them. They all know me.”
Mitch grinned. “Hey, maybe your mom and I should stay in the car so just you can examine them.”
“Sure. Can I wear one of those listening things around my neck?” Benji immediately was onboard with the idea.
“It’s called a stethoscope. And the only people who wear them around their neck are actors playing doctors.” Mitch pushed his coffee mug back onto the table. “Okay, gang, let’s go and pay some people a visit.”
CHAPTER 32
Town of Jasper, Pickens County, Georgia
Greg Samson got out of his rental and stretched his back. The town was small, even smaller than Eldon, and colder, with a range of white-peaked mountains lying like slumbering leviathans just to the north.
Greg bet that on a clear and cloudless day, they’d seem like they were right in your backyard. In fact, he’d read that Jasper was nicknamed The First Mountain City, and he could see why.
But what brought him here was that it was just 50 miles north of Atlanta, the headquarters of the Center for Disease Control, or CDC. He doubted many people cared about that. But what wasn’t too widely known, at least from the public’s perspective, was it was home to one of the CDC’s test and storage laboratories. It was an out-of-the-way, secluded place, where they could conduct research experiments or store the results of those experiments that might not have thrilled the locals if they knew what was going on.
His CDC contacts had given him the location of the lab after he had pressed them hard about the people taken from Eldon in 1977, and it seemed this is where they ended up.
The Jasper CDC facility wasn’t used much anymore and seemed to have been mothballed. But Greg was betting that its secrets lay undisturbed, and given that the only security was an occasional drive-by from the local sheriff once or twice an evening, he knew he’d be able to take a little look-see to satisfy his, and Mitch’s, curiosity.
Greg climbed back into his car and drove off the main street, heading to the outskirts of the town, and soon he came to a small and well-maintained road with a single signpost telling him to, Keep Out – Private Property.
Greg slowed but kept on going. It was afternoon, and he’d been driving for many hours. He’d grab a bite in town and just hang-out until dusk, and then pay them a little visit then.
He’d been given access codes and slide keys, plus a warning—don’t get caught. And if he did, to flatly refuse to tell them about where he got his information.
He grinned—he already had his story straight: blame the dead guy. He could simply say that Eldon’s old Doc Wainright had a notebook that detailed what happened to the missing people. He was just following the old guy’s lead.
Greg drove back into town, pulled up down the road from a burger joint, spent a few hours having the best hamburger, fries, pie, and endless coffee he’d had in years. He knew why Mitch liked Eldon; there was something about small towns that weren’t as rushed, were friendlier, and much better value.
He sat staring out the window for a while. I could live in a place like this, he thought. He straightened. And why didn’t he? Life was too short to be stuck in an office in a big city forever.
“More coffee?” the pretty waitress asked, breaking his reverie.
“Yes, please.” He smiled up at her. “I like this town.”
She smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth that would have been at home in a toothpaste commercial. “So do I.” She held his eyes for a moment, and then headed back to the counter.
Greg watched her go. I am definitely looking into this when I get back, he thought resolutely.
In a blink, he folded the newspaper, checked his watch, and looked out through the large window. The sun was hitting the horizon and he wanted to check out the facility then be on the road back home within a few hours.
He paid, tipping big, and earned another wide smile from the waitress. “I’ll see you again soon.”
“I hope so,” she said and toasted him with the coffee pot.
Greg headed back to his car, feeling good. He checked he had everything: flashlight, card keys, and codes. And finally, a flat K-bar knife. He didn’t expect to need it for self-defense and if he was challenged, he’d certainly comply with any law enforcement. But the military knives had a stout blade, tanto edge, and were immensely strong. If he needed a knife, a chisel, or a jemmy, the K-bar would do wonders.
He drove up the unnamed road to the facility and then slowed as he approached the wire fence. He had the key to the padlock and got out to unlock and push it back.
He noticed that the padlock was a little hard to turn, which for him was a good sign—no one had entered here for a while.
Greg shut the gate and hung the lock back in place without closing it, and then drove the few hundred yards to the large, flat building. He had no doubt that it extended below-ground—for covert work, best to leave a small footprint above but make use of the below-ground real estate.
Greg eased the car door open and then turned slowly. The sun was now just an orange blush on the horizon. From what he could see, inside the building were no lights, no sound, and the smell was more of the surrounding forest than of any sort of industry or human habitation.
If it wasn’t for the well-kept state of the building, he’d have thought the facility was abandoned. Maybe that was the idea, he thought.
He ignored the large front doors, as he had been told there was a service entrance around the side, and he quickly found the smaller steel door. The code pad took his numbers, a small red light flicked to green, there was a sturdy clunk, and the door popped open. He took one last look around and then entered quickly, shutting the door behind him to stand with his back to it, th
en just listened.
Inside was darker than Hades itself, and he had no chance of his eyes adapting, so in another few seconds, he switched on his flashlight and panned it around.
He found himself in a storage room with what looked like medical supplies, toilet paper, stationery, and other odds and ends in boxes and crates. There were two doors on the far wall, and his contact had described the layout and suggested the northern door was the one he should take.
Greg went in and quickly crossed through several rooms, down corridors, and ignored an elevator to instead use the fire stairs to drop down two floors to the lower storage and containment areas.
Once again, he needed a code to enter the more fortified area of the facility and eased in to shine his light down a long and wide corridor—it was bigger than he expected and also had more technical equipment.
The final piece of information he was given was a sign-on code for the computer system. He knew that logging in was a risk, because his computer skills were good but not good enough for him to know how to totally erase his visit into the system. But he had no choice—the facility was too big for him to start opening every door and box he found. The online inventory system should tell him what and where immediately.
He started up the computer and typed in the username and passcode. It went blank for several seconds as he held his breath, but then he was presented with a simple and succinct menu. He ran his eyes down the list.
“Bingo,” he whispered. There it was: Eldon specimens – 1977 – 1–22.
He clicked on the link and was given further lists and codes that he knew would match rooms and areas. He clicked on one of the menu options.
“What the hell?” His brows came together as he read.
Billy Allison, aged 12 – full transformation
Adelle Johnson, age 38 – partial transformation
Max Johnson, age 41 – partial transformation
Cindy Carol, age 8 – full transformation
There were 22 names overall—most were children, and the adults were either their parents or close relatives.
There was also another list of suspected transformation candidates that numbered in the dozens but a simple tag of whereabouts unknown accompanied each.
The first group of eight, oddly called guests, were four children and four adults and were housed in Section-F, Room-3. He looked up and saw helpful arrows on walls that indicated which direction that was.
He headed down the black corridor and felt his heart racing as fast as it had done when he was on night-time incursions many years ago. The place was tomb silent and just as dark, and something about it unnerved the hell out of him.
In another few minutes, he found Room-3 and slid the card key down the slot. There was a buzz and a click, and the door popped open. Greg sucked in a deep breath and pushed the door inward.
He stepped inside and the first thing he noticed was that his breath fogged from the cold. The entire room was refrigerated, and from somewhere in the darkness he heard the hum of machines.
Looking around, he couldn’t locate a light but moving his flashlight beam, he saw the room was quite large, save for some operating equipment and also a long steel surgical or autopsy table on one side. One wall also had large upright capsules about seven-and-a-half feet tall, with a line of lights on a pad, and what might have been a glass porthole on the upper front.
He crossed to one and shone his light inside but the glass had either stained or become encrusted in grime and he couldn’t make out anything inside.
He shone his light down to the hanging clipboard and lifted it to read: Ainsworth, Martin, male, age 36 – determination: full transmogrification.
“Transmogrification?” That word was never used in a medical situation and usually meant something changed in a mysterious or even magical way. Johnson Nightbird’s warnings of curses rushed back into his mind.
Greg got up on his toes and peered in through the porthole. He then used a sleeve to wipe the exterior and tried again, spending a few seconds trying to see through the grime or condensation on the inside. But still nothing showed.
Down one side were a series of latches, and he put his hand on one. He hesitated but only for a moment because he knew he needed to see, needed his proof. He unlatched the two levers, and with a slight squeal of hinges he drew the heavy lid back, and then stood away a step. There was an escape of a gas cloud, and a smell like spoiled fruit.
“What the fuck?” Inside was completely filled with fibrous growth, like a seven-foot root bundle with a solid core.
Greg couldn’t even get his head around what it was supposed to be, but it damned didn’t look like anything that was once human. Was this the end result of the transformation I had seen occurring at the DNA level? he wondered.
“Weird,” he whispered as he carefully closed the door. He left it unlocked because before he left he wanted a sample to take back to analyze.
He went to the next container and read the clipboard’s notes: “Cindy Maxwell, aged 11 – partial transmogrification.”
He peered in but didn’t expect to see anything because if it was a child, they’d be well below the porthole level.
He eased back and then pointed his light down along the row and saw there were over 20 of the coffin-like cylinders. He knew the CDC and them providing such an expansive storage facility meant these things were of interest and also of value. And by the look of their laboratory, they were undoubtedly still examining their samples.
Plus, the autopsy table and invasive medical equipment told him that they were performing both external and internal examinations on their guests.
Bottom line, if Cindy was only partially altered, he needed to see her, or what was left of her.
Greg unlatched Cindy’s cylinder and pulled the door open. Inside was a smaller body. It was grossly deformed but still vaguely human-shaped and he guessed that was because she was only partially transformed. And still potentially transforming.
He ran the light over her; the child was covered in spidery webbing-like roots and also had thorns, lumps, and bumps sprouting over every inch of exposed skin that was the color of old teak, and even running up through her hair.
Her entire frame looked like old, gnarled bark and he reached out with his flashlight to tap on Cindy’s breast—there was a hard clacking sound as if he had rapped on a tree stump.
He lifted his gaze to the face, just in time to see the tiny yellow eyes open.
“Fuck.”
It, she, Cindy, was still alive. He slammed the door, quickly latching it as something hard like claws skittered against the steel interior.
He shone his light in through the porthole and this time, he could make out frantic movement and a pair of yellow glowing orbs further down.
They’re still here, he thought. And still changing. Or transmogrifying. Since 1977, they’ve been kept here, entombed alive in these steel containers.
Greg backed up, knowing he needed to warn Mitch. It was then he heard the slight squeal of hinges again and remembered Martin Ainsworth’s isolation chamber was unlocked.
Greg spun but found himself staring at something roughly seven feet tall that was all monstrous plates, tendrils, and thorns, that reached out to take him by the neck.
Thorns pierced his flesh and he beat down on its arm that seemed solid wood and only ended in shredding his own skin from his fists. He was drawn toward the monstrous thing and then horrifyingly, it opened a mouth like a dark hole.
“No, please.”
He remembered the last thing Johnson Nightbird had said to him: curiosity killed the cat.
CHAPTER 33
Home of Joanne and Gary Adams, parents of James
“That one.” Benji pointed. “The one with the big tree in the yard.”
“Got it.” Mitch pulled in at the manicured streetscape. In the front yard of Number 12 was a pushbike on its side and a football under a huge oak tree.
It was getting late in the afternoon, but as
Mitch stepped out, his stomach rumbled as his appetite told him it thought it was dinner time soon even if his watch didn’t.
Karen joined him and Benji immediately maneuvered himself to be in front.
“James’ parents are Joanne and Gary,” Karen said. “I know them, nice couple, and James is an only child.”
Mitch was first up onto the porch and knocked on the door. He turned to face Karen and Benji. The boy kept his eyes on the door as though trying to see right through it.
Karen mouthed, again.
Mitch did, this time harder.
They saw there was a flicker of movement in the slats of the glass panels in the door and then a shadow appeared there. A soft voice floated through the wooden door. “Hello.”
“Jo, it’s me, Karen. I’ve got Doctor Mitch Taylor with me.” She turned to face Mitch and folded her arms. “We’re just following up with a few people on some general community things and, ah, it’s your turn.”
They waited for a full minute but there was no response or movement from the shadow. Karen frowned. “Can you open up, please, Joanne?”
They waited again then finally the latch was slowly drawn back and the inside handle squeaked. The door was pulled inward just a crack. A woman, probably mid-30s, stared out. Mitch noticed that the eye was red-rimmed with a dark circle beneath it.
Karen stepped a little closer. “Joanne, are you okay, honey? Can we come in?”
The eye stared back for a moment more before the door was pulled fully open.
The first thing Mitch noticed was the smell. He turned to Karen, lowering his voice. “Like at the mine site.”
Karen went to the woman standing so still in the darkness she might have been an apparition. “Joanne, what is it?”
The woman sucked in a deep breath, held it, as she bit both her lips for a second or two. Her eyes screwed shut as she talked in little more than a squeak. “They’re gone.”
“Who? James? Is James gone?” Mitch asked.
“And Gary as well.” She looked up, but Mitch couldn’t see her clearly in the darkness.