by B. C. CHASE
Chiang-gong sat in the front seat of the car while Stacy was in the back with the girl. Trying to be friendly, Chiang-gong spoke to the girl.
“Jia Ling,” she said reluctantly.
“Hěn gāoxìng rènshi nǐ,” he replied. Then he explained to Stacy, “She says her name is Jia Ling. I told her it was nice to meet her.”
It was an odd moment, Stacy thought, Chiang-gong trying to make friends with their hostage.
Suddenly, Jia Ling's backpack moved. Stacy asked, “What is in your bag?”
Her reply via Chiang-gong was, “Nothing.”
But when the backpack whimpered, Stacy slowly unzipped it, and immediately the white and brown head of a chihuahua emerged, its huge eyes pleadingly fixed on the girl. Stacy looked at the girl inquisitively.
Jia Ling pulled the whole puppy out, as she did so revealing that he was missing half of his front leg. She held the pup in her lap and stroked him fondly, “They do terrible things to them. I had to save this one.”
“You speak English?” Stacy said, surprised.
She nodded with a slight roll of her eyes. Then she explained, “When you caught me, I thought they had discovered that I was stealing the animals. But I can see that you are also trying to save someone.”
“Yes, we are. We are trying to save our son.”
Inside the next room had been cages with puppies of various breeds. Most of them were laying on the hard metal with wistful faces, or were sleeping. Almost all of them were missing limbs or parts of limbs, but some of them had bandages where their legs should have been. When Gary stepped into the doorway within full view, the ones that were awake clambered to the backs of the cages with terrified yelps.
Suddenly, he heard voices coming from a staircase at the end of the hall. He dodged into the room with the puppies. All of the walls in the room were not lined with cages; one had a steel table and a sink. He crouched down between the sink and an empty cage.
He could hear the people talking and laughing as they walked down the hall. He was surprised to hear English, mostly vulgar swearing. A woman's voice shouted, “I'll kill that little,” she swore, “if he bites me today!” followed by the laughter of her companions. They came nearby, but then went into a different room, resulting in the loud uproar of shrieking monkeys.
As Gary waited, he surveyed his surroundings. In the middle of the room was a large steel table drenched with bloody bandages. A trail of blood led to the sink beside him.
Uneasily, he stood high enough to peer inside. There were the limbs of two puppies, bones protruding where they had been sawed off at the shoulder.
He turned back to the cages and noticed that two of the dog's bandages were stained with fresh blood. He approached them only to see that they shied away from him, violently trembling.
What were they doing to these poor animals? he thought with dread. And then, he realized …. As he compared the puppies, he noticed that each of them had a limb of a different length.
It had always been a perplexing question to medical science as to why people did not regrow their limbs. Some other creatures did. It would have been a highly beneficial trait. Gary had read a paper a while ago about scientists who were experimenting with salamanders, animals notorious for their ability to regrow lost limbs. Looking at these puppies now, it appeared to him that the scientists were lacerating their limbs from their bodies and then, through a genetic trick probably borrowed from the salamander, trying to regrow them. By all appearances, the experiments were successful.
Successful, but at what cost? Gary thought with disgust.
There was such a deafening shrieking from the monkeys now mixed with the loud laughing of the people that Gary cautiously left to step down the hall to furtively peek into the room where the sound was. Inside, he saw three people wearing plastic suits, face masks, and gloves holding a macaque firmly. One of the people was prying its mouth open while the other fed a tube down its throat.
If these were the things this facility was doing to these animals, what might they be doing to Jeffery? Gary thought.
While the people were not looking, he stealthed past the door, down the hall. He had seen enough, and didn't dare let his eyes wander inside any of the other doorways. When he reached the staircase, he saw that there was an elevator down a perpendicularly adjoining hallway, so he quickly strode to it. When the doors opened, he hit the button for six. He waited nervously. At least it seemed English-speakers worked here, so his appearance might not be totally atypical, he thought.
The elevator slowed to a stop and he walked into a wide open area that reminded him of the children's hospital he had served his residency at. Interspersed among the mostly white tile on the floor were splashes of bright primary colors. The walls were each painted a different primary color. The walls surrounding the open area had large windows into rooms that were filled with all the things you'd find at a daycare: balls, building blocks and other playthings. These rooms had glass walls overlooking the skyline. And, like a daycare, the rooms were filled with children and their caretakers. It was, really, a cheerful scene, and filled Gary with some hope. The only immediate difference between this and a preschool was that the caretakers wore lab coats.
And yet, the contrast between this and the horrors he had witnessed downstairs was a dichotomy that filled him with a dark distrust. That was when he noticed that the children were not children at all.
It was like a nightmare.
They sounded like children; their giggling was no different than any toddler's. But they had faces somewhat like humans, perhaps more like apes, and the rest of their features melded the characteristics of a menagerie of different creatures. Some of their legs were angular like kangaroos, with long feet. Most of them had tails protruding out for balance, like kangaroos. Others had reptilian skin, protuberances like horns, or claws. Each and every one of them was grotesque and horrifying. Something within Gary's being told him that this was deeply, deeply abominable.
Though clearly young, these creatures were not amiable juveniles. The giggling was not giggling at all; he realized it was a baboon-like chatter between snarls and angry flashes of teeth.
This was a nursery of devils.
Gary walked around the area, carefully examining the populace of each room, hoping to see his little boy. He followed a hallway that lead off from the main junction. Windows lined it, but most of the rooms were empty.
He was nearing the end of the hallway and was about to give up when he heard a sound. Gary stopped breathing.
He had heard a familiar little voice. The voice was saying, “That good?”
He rushed toward the voice and looked inside the window. Sitting in a little chair facing away, Jeffery was hovered over a paper with a marker, busily scribbling. A young woman sat with him, smiling and nodding as he worked. A tear flowed freely from Gary's eye. “That good? That good, teacher?” his son's tiny voice said as he cocked his head toward the lady.
Gary swallowed and blinked away his tears. Then he placed a hand on the metal handle and pushed. When he stepped into the room, Jeffery's head spun around. At first, the boy stared blankly up at his father with big eyes. When Gary saw his boy's face, he couldn't stop himself from dropping to his knees and emitting a loud cry as he opened his arms. And then, the child's face lit up and he exclaimed aloud, “Daddy!” rushing into Gary's arms.
The woman stood and stared in veneration as he embraced his son's little frame. He erupted with cries has he kissed the soft little cheeks and held his boy closely.
Jeffery pulled away from his father and said, “See, daddy, see! Look, look!” and drug him by the hand over to the paper he had been working on. There in an imperfect, though not childish, script was written,
jeffery read story.
jeffery write letter.
jeffery eat orange.
jeffery drink juice.
jeffery play toys.
jeffery go home.
“I write, see, I write!” Jeffery
exclaimed.
Slowly, Gary said, “You wrote ... sentences.” He knew his son was smart, MENSA had certified that, but not this smart.
The woman ventured, her composed voice laced with a mild German accent, “I can see you are his father, but did they not tell you he is a Preseption?”
“A Preseption?”
“Yes. I am very surprised you do not know. They told me—” and she stopped, as if suddenly thinking she could be saying too much.
“Listen,” Gary said, “He was kidnapped. We came all the way from America to bring him home. How can I get out of here?”
She stepped back, her face belying her astonishment, “You did not commit him willingly?”
“No, they took him from us.”
Her eyebrows narrowed, “What proof do you have that you are his father?”
“He called me 'daddy,' didn't he?”
“Yes, but what else?”
Gary was starting to feel uneasy, and he quickly racked his brain for anything he could posit as evidence. He couldn't think of anything. Jeffery took after Stacy. There wasn't any physical feature he could point to directly and say, “Look, that came from me.” Gary said, “Ask him! Ask him if he wants to go home!”
She shook her head, “I don't need to ask him. He has always told me he wants to go home.” The woman suggested, “Why don't we go upstairs to discuss this with the directors? There must be some mistake. I am sure they would—”
Gary shook his head, “No, you don't understand.” Now a feeling of panic was beginning to wrap its icy fingers around him. His son was within reach. He wasn't going to let him go now. “I've come halfway across the world, he's my son, and I'm taking him now. I didn't come all this way to risk—”
“Sir, I cannot allow you to take him, I have no evidence of who you are. Now if you would just follow me upstairs, we can--”
“I'm taking my son home now!” He held his hand out to his little boy, “Come, Jeffery.” The boy grasped Gary's hand and he swept him up in his arms.
“But, sir! You cannot take him!”
“Watch me,” Gary said, spinning around. As he pushed the door open, the woman's next words made him stop dead in his tracks.
“If you take him, he will die!”
Van
She received no interaction from the men in the van the rest of the hours-long journey. She could tell they had eventually reached highways because stops were infrequent and their speed had picked up. She couldn’t use her cell phone: it and her purse had been taken from her.
The van stopped. The men opened the doors and pulled out the gurney. She could see a high concrete ceiling that looked like a parking garage. The squawks and low growls of animals echoed in the structure. When she turned her head she could see giant cargo containers dotted with holes and white print that read “WARNING: LIVE CARGO.” Semi tractors, vans, and other units were parked everywhere. Spilled hay lined the concrete floor, and a stench like a zoo exhibit filled the musty air.
Suddenly a familiar voice greeted her, “Karen, I’m glad you’re here. Welcome to our facility.” It was Phillip Compton, Director of the Centers for Disease Control.
“Phil?”
“Yes, Karen?” He was beyond her feet and she couldn’t see him.
“What is this place?”
“This is a major research facility of the CDC as well as a production center for genetically engineered fauna. We are experimenting with all kinds of possibilities, amazing things.”
“Why am I strapped to this gurney?”
Doctor Compton sighed, “Everyone who comes in here has so many questions. The first rule you need to know is that I ask the questions.”
The men started pushing the gurney again, through sliding glass doors and down a white hallway. Her mind was spinning. “Phil?”
“What?”
“Where are you taking me?”
“I told you, I ask the questions. But since you are a friend, you are going to be a test subject for gene replacement. A polydnavirus vector will attack your cells without a response from your immune system. One gene at a time, in a controlled sequence, the virus will alter composition of your genome.”
“Like Robert?”
“You mean the President?”
“Yes.”
“Will I die?”
“If the experiment is successful, no, you will not die. But there will be nothing left of your former self. You will retain no memory. From your current point of view, you will no longer exist. In a way, yes, I suppose you could say you will be dead.”
“But Phil … please. Please don’t. You know me.”
He did not respond, but the gurney turned into a room with an extremely bright light above that overwhelmed her ability to see anything else.
“Why? Why would you do this to me?”
“I hate you, Karen. I hate all of you.”
She felt a sudden prick in her arm.
“Please, Phillip! Please! I have children!” she cried.
“Do you? Are you saying that they are a reason for you to live? Incidentally, you never made them that much of a priority before. You know, animals make better mothers than most women do these days.” There was a pause, then, “Please, start the recorder. Thank you. This is Doctor Phillip Compton with the Center for Disease Control. I have with me Doctors Nila Burwaji and Kenneth Angel who will be assisting. The subject is an approximately fifty-year-old Caucasian female of average build. We have injected her with the polydnaviral vector containing the genes listed in appendix C of the documentation. We will proceed with vivisection of the abdominal cavity to record and observe the transformative effects as they take place.”
Karen began to feel strange, tired.
“Scalpel, please.”
The room went black.
Facility AII-B
Wesley recognized the voice. Deep, authoritative: it was almost paternal with condescension. Immediately, an acutely unpleasant feeling of loathing consumed Wesley. He turned to look at the owner of the voice and his suspicion of who owned it was confirmed.
The doctor, wearing a white lab coat, stepped toward them, “You do remember me, don't you, Wesley? I am Kenneth Angel, your fertility doctor.”
Wesley could hardly speak, his emotion was boiling over.
Doctor Angel neared them and, with an expression of paternal concern said, “What are you doing here?”
Wesley stood there, his veins throbbing, his breathing hard. His body trembled with rage as he slowly reached for and gripped Kelle's gun. He raised it to point directly at Doctor Angel's face and seethed, “Why is my son here? And why did my wife die?”
Doctor Angel put a disarming hand out, shaking his head, “I assure you, had she remained my patient rather than going off to Doctor Kingsley, she surely would still be with you.”
Wesley growled, “What is my son doing here?”
“What makes you think that this is your son? I mean—don't get me wrong, that certainly is the fetus your wife carried. You were smart enough to figure that out on your own.” Doctor Angel blinked with regret, “But, that fetus is not genetically related to you or to Sienna.”
“What do you mean?” Wesley swallowed the dryness in his throat.
The physician said, “Under the guise of an examination, I provided your wife with the pregnancy she always wanted—albeit a pregnancy she would not ultimately carry to term.”
Wesley's lip curled with rage, “Why?”
From the other side of the table, Doctor Angel looked down at the fetus, which turned its small head as if to return his gaze, though the eyes remained shut. Doctor Angel casually dipped his hand into the water and placed his finger in the fetus’s grasp. He looked up at Wesley, “As you are aware, the fetus has a very rare genetic disorder: stone man syndrome, which always ends in early mortality. Very early mortality, usually.” Doctor Angel nodded, “The President’s Chief of Staff has so far escaped that fate, but the end is very near for him. He cannot live much more than a few
months without miraculous intervention. This fetus will become a test subject for a gene therapy treatment developed especially for him. This is an exact genetic replica—a clone—of Abael. If the treatment works on the fetus, it will save Abael's life.” He smiled, “So you see, you may be consoled in the fact that your wife played a part in the resurrection of a man's life.” Then his face darkened, “Of course, there was one other reason that I chose Sienna to bear the child. I knew that she wouldn't abort it, no matter what disease it had.”
Wesley asked through clenched teeth, “How could you do that to us?”
Doctor Angel cocked his head, “Abael was very particular about how we went about this. He wanted the fetus to have a real mother, at least at first. As he watched the pregnancy progress, some of your wife’s behaviors began to disturb him, I guess, so he told us to terminate. We extracted the fetus and placed your wife back in bed.”
“You were in my house that night?”
“No, not me. Others.”
“Who?”
“Oh,” Doctor Angel smiled knowingly, “You are not prepared to meet them. They do not interact with those who are not ready for them. Their knowledge of science, of history, of ourselves, far exceeds our own. They are highly skilled, and were able to extract the fetus without causing any trauma.” Doctor Angel straightened, “Now...tell me. Have I lightened your emotive burden, so to speak, or was ignorance bliss?” He smiled sinisterly.
Wesley cocked the gun in reply.
“What do you want from me, Wesley?”
“I want my wife alive again,” Wesley said, his eyes strained with a terrible yearning.
“That, I’m afraid, even they cannot do.”
Wesley pressed the muzzle of the gun into Doctor Angel’s chest. He felt himself beginning to lose it. His face reddened, and trembling with rage he screamed profanity at the top of his lungs, repeatedly jabbing the pistol into the man across from him. Doctor Angel suddenly tried to seize the weapon, and as Wesley pulled back, it went off. With a prevailing shout, Wesley freed the weapon and shot Doctor Angel squarely in the chest. The doctor’s white lab coat splattered with red as he tumbled backwards into equipment. Wesley pulled the trigger again, enjoying the feel of the powerful recoil in his grip and the corresponding lurch of Doctor Angel’s body.