by Dan Stout
Footsteps approached from down the hall. The heavy stomps of someone knocking snow from their boots. The guard was coming. I considered covering myself with the blanket and cowering in the corner, but with no light I didn’t know how much clutter was in the closet, and if I made a noise it would surely draw attention. I turned to face the door and drew my weapon. If I had to make a noise, I might as well make a damn loud one.
The footsteps grew louder and I heard knuckles crack. First one hand, then another. My finger rested on the trigger. I held my breath. From underneath the door I saw the shifting shadows of the guard’s feet. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. The footsteps grew fainter and I let out a breath.
Leaving the blanket, I crept back into the hallway. At one end of the hallway was the door I’d come in. With no guard outside it was a safe escape. At the other end the hallway split into a T. I worked my way in that direction, listening for any warning sounds as I went.
A guttural laugh from the left of the T froze me in my tracks. It sounded like my friend Knuckles was watching an early evening sitcom. I pushed on in the other direction, after peeking around the corner to be sure I wasn’t seen.
The hallway’s bright lighting and flat, white walls left me nowhere to hide. I kept my eyes open for somewhere to lurk, and moved slowly, listening for footsteps. At the end of the hall was a pair of swinging doors, their stainless steel surface polished to a shine. From beyond the doors came another voice, different from the others I’d heard.
I couldn’t enter the doors without being seen. Double swinging doors likely led to a large workroom, the kind of place items would need to be wheeled into. To be that big, it would have to curve back the way I’d come, an oversize L that took up the west and north sides of the building.
All of that meant that there was likely more than one way into it.
The hall was lined with doors, and I tried the handle of the one closest to the swinging doors. It opened into a storage room lined with shelves bowing under the weight of their contents. Boxes upon boxes, labeled and organized. I didn’t know what was in them and at the moment I didn’t care. What mattered was the logo on their sides. Three overlapping capital Cs. A design I’d once associated with kindness and generosity. The logo of the Cedrow Care Center.
There was another door leading out of the storage area, and I hoped that it opened into the larger room at the end of the corridor. I wound my way through the narrow walkways between shelving racks and reached the far door. As gently as possible I opened it just enough to give me a look into the room beyond.
A man stood near a wall, his back to me. The overly styled mop of hair on his head was an obvious wig even from a distance. Heavyset, he was dressed in green surgical scrubs. Was this the doctor Jermaine had talked about?
The room was a large laboratory. It clearly took up most of the square footage of the building. An array of instruments and devices that I vaguely remembered from high school chemistry class lined the tables and walls. Some sections of the room were messy, with vials and beakers strewn about, while others were almost shining in obsessive-compulsive cleanliness. Large cages lined the inside wall, and what looked like office space took up the far end of the room. There was a musky, animal smell in the air, but it was so mixed in with the general antiseptic smell of a hospital that it was beyond identification.
The man nodded, listening to someone on the other end of the line. When he spoke it was with a muffled voice. The strings of a surgical mask clung to the back of his head, though even from my vantage point I could see the clump of green material at his neck that meant his mask was pulled down.
“Have patience, sir,” he said. “It will work. All of my projects eventually culminate in success. Some merely require a longer gestation period.”
There was pause, and the man said, “Yes. I shall see it done.” Then he turned, and I got my first good look at him. His face, from the tip of his nose to his chin, and back to his ears on each side, was unnaturally smooth, almost immobile, and three shades paler than the rest of his rosy face. I recognized the awkward look of extensive skin grafts. But what would burn someone so badly in such a specific region? It was as if he’d been burned in the exact place he wore a surgical mask.
The man’s eyes peered out from under thick, bushy eyebrows. His eyes and cheekbones were alive, darting and contracting with excitement, but all motion died abruptly at the scarred line below his nose. The skin graft had left him with no facial hair, but he had taken the time to draw in a luxurious handlebar mustache, thick enough to match his eyebrows.
“With the recently acquired material, we’ve made excellent progress on the new inhalant.” His eyes darted to the cages on the far wall. “I would love an opportunity to display the subjects—”
He stopped abruptly, obviously cut off by the speaker on the other end of the line. He threw his free arm in a dramatic sweep.
“I understand the terms of our agreement quite clearly. But a few words, if you please, about our mutual friend, Ambassador Paulus. If she learns I am here, then her anger wi—”
The doctor’s eyebrows peaked, though his dead lips didn’t move. Watching him talk was like sitting through the act of a deformed ventriloquist.
“Yes?” he said. Then he chuckled. “That would be perfect. It’s as big a stage as I could ever want. Indeed, yes indeed!”
He strode back to the wall-mounted phone and hung up the receiver. He rubbed his hands together and called out to someone in the adjoining office.
“Prepare yourself, Fritz! We have much work to do.” And with that, the doctor hustled out of the room, shutting the office door behind him.
* * *
I waited a long twenty count for him or Fritz to reappear. But there was no motion, no sound, and eventually I slipped into the larger room.
Big money was evident everywhere I looked. Most of the equipment had functionality that went well beyond my high school chemistry experience, but I could tell it was expensive, and it still gleamed with the shine of a fresh purchase. Presumably Rediron Drilling’s funds at work.
There were also signs of strange behavior: a table covered with broken wood, a section of wall that was being used as a notepad had a series of equations that had been overwritten with loopy, hand-drawn spirals. The entire place seemed like madness run with great efficiency.
Around the corner of the L I found a whole other type of madness.
The cages lining the wall were more involved than I’d thought. There was a central area, open and vacant, and smaller cages lining the wall. These individual cages were occupied by dogs, their snouts covered with plastic muzzles, each with a circular opening at its end. Tired eyes watched me, but they were too whipped to even whimper as I walked past the row of cages and to the open shelves at their end. The shelves were filled with dozens of metal canisters, each the size and shape of a can of spray paint. But instead of normal paint nozzles they each had round adapters, threaded like a screw.
I stared at them, unable to imagine what they were for. Then I looked back at the dogs. A few tails wagged tentatively as they watched me, curious eyes peering out from behind muzzle straps. The circular openings at the end of those muzzles were receptors, threaded to accept the canisters. The dogs were test subjects for some kind of gas. I wondered if it was the same kind of gas that had been tested on Jermaine.
There were dozens of the canisters. Maybe as many as a hundred. Were these the next generation of the rags that Flanagan had been using to spread agitation? If they were making aerosol Squib stink, then what could they do with it that wouldn’t be evil?
I scanned the room, searching for information. The source of the funds that operated the lab, the name of the scar-faced madman running the place, anything that would help me push the pieces closer together. I was aware that at any moment someone could come in through the main swinging doors, or the doctor could come
storming out of his office. At that thought I couldn’t help but glance at the office door, to make sure it was still closed. On a brass plate “Dr. Alfred Heidelbrecht” was engraved in clear, easy-to-read letters. I’m always amazed what some men’s egos will cause them to do.
There was a shuffling sound from around the corner, and the sound of a swinging door being thrown open at the other end of the L. There was no question about what I should do—I needed to get back to the Bunker and raise the alarm. I wished the dogs the best. I couldn’t take them with me, and even unlatching their locks would take too long and clue someone in that I had been there. I stepped quickly and quietly to one of the side doors, and departed before I could be seen.
* * *
I backed out the way I’d come, looking down the hallway to make sure there were no signs of movement as I silently crept to the back door. I hit the cold outside just in time to see the big human guard rounding the corner on another of his patrols, cracking his knuckles once again. He froze when he saw me, staring with a stupid expression that I almost certainly mirrored right back at him.
Knuckles fumbled at a coat pocket for a weapon or walkie-talkie. Either way, it couldn’t be good. I barreled across the distance between us, and tackled him at the waist. He was too big for me to get a lot of lift, but I still managed to get him on the ground. I tried my best to land on his solar plexus, knocking as much air out of him as I could.
It must have worked, because he didn’t call for help. With one hand stuck in his coat pocket, Knuckles swung at me with the other. It only grazed the side of my head, but still shook me. The guy had a big punch. I rolled off him, my left shoulder on the frozen ground, my right foot swinging in a short, powerful arc that ended in his crotch.
His legs folded up, and pinned my foot between his knees. I’d hit him hard enough that he might be pissing blood that night, but he rolled with my foot still trapped, and it took precious seconds to get free from his tangled legs. In that time he managed to pull his hand from his coat, clutching the gun I’d feared he was going for. But he fumbled it as he drew, and he held it awkwardly around the barrel.
Both of us still prone, I grabbed his gun hand and rolled into him, so that my shoulder was wedged into his right armpit. With both my arms I pushed down, cracking his hand onto the rock-hard ground. I did it again, and saw the gun clatter from his grip. But I paid for it, as his left hand slammed into my kidney once, twice, a third time. I curled up, half from pain, and half from an attempt to kick his lost gun a safe distance away.
He stopped punching and wrapped his left arm around me, while also curling in the arm I had pinned to the ground. My back pressed to his chest and he held me like a sleeping lover as he fought to reach my throat. I jabbed backward with outstretched fingers. My thumb found his eye socket and dug in, twisting. He jerked away and I rolled again, worming back to maintain leverage.
He lashed out and caught me in the ribs. I jerked away and we were out of each other’s reach. I struggled to my feet, while Knuckles raised to a crouch then sprang at me.
I spun, trying to dodge, but he was faster and knocked my legs out from underneath me. I landed on my stomach, the ground hard and unyielding. My head snapped forward, striking the cold ground. I was aware of the non-taste of frozen dirt as it pressed into my lips and up my nose. I turned over as Knuckles scrambled on top of me. Thick fingers clawed at my face.
His thumb caught in my cheek. He yanked up and away, sending a wave of fiery pain across the left side of my face. I shoved my free hand under his jaw and he dropped his chin to protect his throat. As he did, he let up the pressure on my head and I was able to crane my neck and catch his thumb in my teeth. I bit as hard as I could. It might not have been enough by itself, but he pulled away, surprised, and my teeth sliced into his skin. The taste of oil and dirt on his flesh gave way to a rush of warm, coppery blood. He flailed and shook me loose from his hand. I spit a mouthful of blood at him and he backed off. I sat up and stuck a hand under my coat.
Amazingly, my revolver was still in its holster. I pulled it out as he lunged at me again. We were too tight to aim, but I was at least able to swing. Revolver connected with his nose in one of the most satisfying crunches I’d ever heard.
But he didn’t go down. One of his big hands struck my temple, and rocked me back on my heels. Somehow I kept my head enough to not fire my weapon, which would have drawn whatever other guards were inside. Or maybe I was just too punch-drunk for it to occur to me.
Everything was spinning. I looked straight ahead, and focused on Knuckles’s bloody face. I swung out again with the butt of my gun. The force of the impact numbed my arm.
Knuckles dropped, and this time he didn’t move. I spit out a mouthful of blood and took a deep breath, but the world didn’t stop spinning. I knew I had to get out of there. I managed one step, then another. I felt good about taking a third. But when I tried it there was no sense of ground beneath my shoe. The night opened up, and darkness surrounded me.
28
I DREAMT OF A FIELD of wheat. Golden stalks covered the land clear to the horizon, the kind of agricultural paradise they showed us in junior high social studies classes. I was in the thick of the wheat, but my perspective was above my own body and I could see me—Carter, the world’s worst cop—standing with arms outstretched, letting the stalks of wheat graze my hand as they waved in the power of the wind.
I could see the wind move through the crops, sections of it bowing then straightening, bowing then straightening. It was beautiful, in the way that only nature can be, lulling you into forgetting its poison thorns and venomous fangs.
My dreamer’s eye shifted, and in the distance stalks of wheat moved not with the breeze, but in response to the movement of some hidden thing. Something was coming through the wheat, something big, headed straight for dream-Carter. I tried to wake him/me up, but I had no voice. When I opened my mouth there was only a dry, rattling sound, like the pounding of distant jackhammers. The thing kept coming and I tried again to call out, but my voice was still stolen. Nothing more than a bzzt-bzzt-bzzt. The wheat stalks nearest to dream-Carter parted, and even though the thing was right there, I still did not know its face, or if it were there to kill my dream-self or beg for help.
Wake up! I thought at myself, while my screams rang bzzt-bzzt-bzzt until my throat was raw and bloody. Wake up!
* * *
I woke to the sound of an insistent buzzing, pulsing through darkness. I tried to look for the source and a crack of light sliced into my vision. My eyes were stuck closed. I fumbled a hand around, scooping snow from my coat and pressing it to my eyes, letting my body heat melt it. The first thing I saw was rust-colored snowmelt dripping from my hand. Blood had covered my eyes, and they had gummed over while I was unconscious.
My pager buzzed, rattling and shaking its plastic case on the hard ground: bzzt-bzzt-bzzt.
I tried to sit and pain danced across my body, settling in my kidneys and my spine. I reached out for the pager and saw that one of my fingers bent at a weird angle. I dragged the pager closer, so I could see the display. I didn’t recognize the number.
I fought to my knees, then my feet. Knuckles was still sprawled out on the ground. I was glad to see he was still breathing, and even happier to see the dark blush of bruising spread across his face. Every movement was agony, but I patted him down. My bloodied knuckles left red smears across his clothes as I pulled his wallet and piece. I took the wallet to get an ID on him in case it would come in handy later, and I took the gun on the off chance he woke as I made my getaway.
Judging from the snow on my coat and the coagulated blood on my face, I’d been out for a solid fifteen minutes. The good doctor would be expecting Knuckles back inside any minute now. Luck was the only reason I hadn’t been discovered while unconscious.
I moved along as quickly as I could, rolled back under the fence, and had never been so happy to see a H
asam Motors vehicle as when I made it back to the car. I drove several blocks before pulling over. I fumbled in the back, shoving aside the top of the bench seat from where I’d left it before. I pushed aside the warm parka, and pulled out the emergency kit. It had the usual items, including wooden tongue depressors, one of which I bit down on as I sandwiched two more against my broken finger. They forced the digit back into a semblance of straightness, then I bound the whole thing with medical tape.
Breathing deep, I took a moment to think about what I’d seen in the lab, and how I could act on it. The guard had assaulted me, but I hadn’t identified myself as a cop, and what good would it do me to jail low-level muscle? But what I’d seen and heard was more than enough to start the wheels in motion to bring down Harlan, Paulus, and anyone else who was wrapped up in this madness.
I looked at the pager that had woken me. The number I didn’t recognize was followed by the number 2323. That was the code I’d given to Simon for when he needed to talk to me.
Simon. I hadn’t even thought of him since Talena had been hospitalized. My priority was to get back to the Bunker, to report on what I’d seen. But I hesitated. Simon never pestered me this much. I thought about what Ajax had told me about the long-extinct whales, and the short life spans of CIs. After a moment I eased the car back into traffic and searched for a pay phone.
* * *
Twenty minutes later I was in Old Town, mingling with the tourists and panhandlers. Titanshade is a mix of old and new, a town where close quarters force opulence and poverty to live shoulder to shoulder. Old Town was one of the neighborhoods that highlighted the polarized nature of the city. Dating back to the first days of Titanshade, when the need for an outpost at the northern crown of the world was in question, it had been built by settlers with more stubbornness than common sense. Many of its historic buildings were made of wood, an inordinately expensive building material in a city where every joist had to be imported from the south. Newly minted buildings were made of steel, glass, and plastic. Still imported, but at far less cost.