The Disappeared

  But looks could be deceiving.

  “He's the same age, Cindy. How do you think he got that way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it wasn't by the love of God.”

  There was a long pause at the other end. Then Cindy said, “Maybe it was, though. Maybe that's exactly what it was. The love of God.”

  After that, it felt like an uphill battle. Teri did her best to try to convince her friend that she had nothing to lose, that neither of them had anything to lose. But that wasn't entirely true, and they both knew it. There was something to lose. There was Cody. And there was Gabe. In the end, Cindy said she needed to talk it over with her husband. They both needed to think about it, that it was not something to be taken lightly.

  The next morning, to Teri's surprise, her friend called back and reluctantly agreed to have Cody tested, too.

  [4]

  After a barrage of doctors and batteries of tests, Teri finally admitted two things to herself. First, that Childs hadn't lied after all. The physicians and specialists all agreed that Gabe's cells were not regenerating the way normal, healthy cells regenerate. It was a classic indication of Hutchinson-Gilford Syndrome, they said. After which, they went into long explanations that all boiled down to the same thing: Gabe was aging prematurely, and as with most cases of progeria, he probably wouldn't survive his teens. The news in Cody's case was equally as grim.

  Teri was devastated. The next few days, she fell into a funk that had her sleeping long hours throughout the day and struggling on and off with a barrage of headaches throughout the night. Michael helped out with most of the duties around the house – cooking the meals, doing the dishes, mowing the lawn. More important, he spent a great deal of time with Gabe. For both of them, it was time long overdue.

  Several days later, Teri bounced back. She went to Michael one night after Gabe had gone off to bed and told him that she didn't know what they were going to do, but they were going to do something.

  “Like what?” Michael asked.

  “I'm not sure,” she said. “Search for a specialist, I guess.”

  Michael looked at her, entertaining a thought he didn't seem to want to share.

  “If you have any suggestions...”

  He glanced away.

  “This is Gabe we're talking about, Michael. Your son for Christ's sake.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It'll be the hardest thing you've ever had to do.”

  “Just say it, will you.”

  “What about Childs?”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Teri was stunned. She shook her head, and climbed up from the couch. “Jesus, Michael. How could you even think such a thing? I mean—he's the cause of all this. He's the one who did this to Gabe in the first place. How could you even—”

  “He's the only one who knows what's going on inside Gabe. He may be the only one who can put a stop to it. I don't think he could make it any worse. Do you?”

  She shook her head again, and ran a hand through her hair. “Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that if I were you.”

  “Just think about it, Teri. Will you? At least give it a chance.”

  It was not an idea that deserved a chance. Not from her way of thinking. Not so soon after all that had happened. And for a while, Teri not only hated the idea, she hated Michael for bringing it up. But what she hated even more was that he was probably right. This wasn't about Dr. Childs. It was about Gabe. And if that's what it was going to take...

  [5]

  There were four branches of the Devol Research Institute nationwide: Houston, Texas; St. Charles, Illinois; Reston, Virginia, and the local branch. In those four facilities, a total of eighty-seven children, not including Gabe and Cody, had been discovered. All of them had been comatose.

  Seventy-four of the children were returned to their parents, who had to assume the responsibility of caring for a child they thought had been dead for better than ten years. Thirteen of the children were placed in state care facilities, some because efforts to locate their parents had failed, others because the parents no longer proved to be capable of providing care.

  Over the next few months, seven other children would come out of their comas.

  [6]

  Six Months Later

  The Last Day

  They left the house around ten-thirty. Gabe was dressed in the same dark blue suit Teri had bought for him for Walt's funeral shortly after that last night at the Institute. Michael did the driving on the way over. Teri didn't know if it had been the right thing or not, but she had been the one who had made the funeral arrangements for Walt. She had purchased a plot for him at the Hillcrest Cemetery, next to his father and son. Maybe in death they could find the peace that had eluded them in life.

  Gabe sat in the front seat between her and Michael on the ride over.

  All three of them were quiet.

  It was a beautiful fall day, the sky blue, the temperature in the mid-seventies, a few degrees higher than normal for this time of year. They walked hand-in-hand-in-hand down the row of tombstones, past a family mausoleum, past a cinerarium to the end of the third row where the oak tree was now barren of its leaves.

  Teri, who had brought a bouquet of roses with her, stood in silent prayer.

  Gabe looked up at her, his eyes trying to see what was going on inside her heart. A little piece of her was dying, she thought. That was what was going on.

  “I'll do it,” he said.

  She let him take the roses from her hands and place them at the base of the gravestone. Michael, who was standing behind her, placed his hand over her shoulder for comfort.

  Gabe looked up. “You think we should say something?”

  Everything she had to say was in her heart. Thank you, Walt. Thank you for helping me bring Gabe home again. Thank you for beating back your own demons long enough to be there for me. And my apologies, because I should have known. I should have tried to help. It was all right there.

  “He knows,” she said quietly. “He knows.”

  [7]

  There were only two things that had needed to be done today. The first was their visit to Walt's grave. As much as it had taken out of Teri, it was nothing compared to what was yet to come.

  Michael drove on the way back from the cemetery. Gabe sat in the back this time, quiet as a mouse. What Teri wouldn't have paid for the chance to know what was going on inside his head.

  The aging had become less theoretical and more physical the past few months. He had lost nearly fifteen pounds, much of it from his face and arms. The streaks of gray had become more prominent, especially over his ears. He had broken his right arm twice since getting the cast off from the automobile accident. The first break had been a re-break; the second had been several inches higher. Both had happened while throwing a baseball with Michael. They didn't play catch anymore.

  When it became apparent that Gabe's aging was accelerating at an alarming rate, Teri pulled Michael aside again and together they agreed that it was time to see if they could find Childs. Though luck did play its part, finding him was not as difficult as Teri had thought it would be. The key was something that had been bothering her for months. She couldn't understand the name: the Devol Research Institute. Where had that come from? Why hadn't it been called the Childs Research Institute? It was something that bothered her endlessly over the span of several months, and then she woke up one night with the answer. Dr. Timothy Childs was an alias. The man's true last name was Devol. It made perfect sense.

  She checked the California AMA membership list and discovered there was only one Devol practicing in the state. His full name was William Devol and he lived and practiced in a little town east of Sacramento called Placerville. Teri had been through there several times in her life, always on the way to Reno to play the slots or catch a show. Placerville was a five—maybe six—hour trip down the state, almost all freeways.

  She was surprised to find that he had set up a ni
ce little family practice there. Out front, a sign hung from a four-by-four redwood post, his name routed into the wood: William Devol, M.D. And under that: General Practitioner. He practiced out of an old house that had been converted, bedrooms to examination rooms, living room to waiting room, dining room to office.

  When Teri entered, she was greeted by the comforting smile of a receptionist. “I was wondering if I could see the doctor today?”

  “Certainly. Have you been in before?”

  “No.”

  The woman, who was in her late forties and had one eye slightly off center, handed her a clipboard with a pencil and several forms. “If you'll have a seat and fill these out. The doctor is busy with another patient now, but he should be available shortly.”

  Teri filled out the form, which included a brief medical history and some insurance information, using the name Jennifer Cunningham. The receptionist, who was apparently a nurse as well, took her temperature, her blood pressure, weight, and asked about the purpose of her visit—”Headaches,” Teri told her—then had Teri wait in the second examination room.

  “Dr. Devol will be in shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  He came through the door several minutes later, reading her chart and introducing himself without even looking up. “Miss Cunningham, I'm Dr. Devol—”

  The color fell out of his face, though he managed to maintain his composure far better than she ever would have imagined. He snapped her Cunningham file closed, put it aside on the counter, and sat down.

  “You never cease to amaze, Teri.”

  “The feeling's mutual, believe me.”

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “Not for me, for Gabe.”

  “It's getting worse?”

  “Yes,” she said, holding on. She wasn't sure exactly when she had started to lose her grip. Maybe when Walt had died. Or maybe when she first realized Gabe's health was getting worse. But being here in this room with the man who was largely responsible for everything that had happened...

  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  “I want my little boy back.”

  He wasn't sure he could do anything, he said. But he was willing to take a look at Gabe and at least talk about the options. The key word: options. It slipped past her when she first heard it, but later that night when she was in bed, reading an Ed Gorman mystery, that word came to mind again. Options. That was a word meant to muddy the waters, she thought. It was his subtle little way of saying there were some things they could try but nothing he would be willing to bet on.

  Eventually, they did try some things. Childs placed Gabe on a vegetarian diet, limiting his caloric intake and increasing his vitamins. In addition, he setup a regiment of growth hormone shots, using a derivative he had recently developed. And finally, he tried a synthetic version of the original Genesis drug, without the hallucinogen. It was this synthetic version that showed the most promise, somewhat inhibiting Gabe's aging process, though falling short of halting it altogether.

  Childs felt there was a good chance it might eventually provide the answer.

  But time was running out.

  Gabe was growing weaker.

  [8]

  Michael pulled the car into the driveway and parked. They sat there in silence, Teri not wanting to move because getting out would take them one step closer to what lay ahead. Just the thought of it left her feeling angry. It was what Childs had referred to as their “last great hope.”

  She glanced over the seat at Gabe. “How're you doing?”

  “Okay,” he answered.

  Michael took her hand, again for comfort. “How about you?”

  She smiled emptily and started out of the car.

  Childs was waiting for them inside the house. He had spent the morning setting up the medical equipment in Gabe's room. Everything was ready, he said as Teri came through the entryway. She nodded, asked him to give her a few minutes, and directed Gabe into the living room. They sat on the couch together, the afternoon sun slanting through the sliding glass door. It was a warm day. Gabe peeled off his jacket and sat back.

  “Come here,” she said. He moved next to her and she wrapped her arms around him, thinking distantly how tiny he felt, wondering how much weight he had lost. “Scared?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you?”

  “Not scared,” she said. “Just sad. I'm going to miss you.”

  “It won't be forever.”

  “I know.” She kissed him on the top of his head, and they stared silently out the window until Michael came into the room. He asked Gabe how he was doing, and like a trooper, Gabe said, fine. Michael picked him up and they spent a few minutes talking, Gabe looking even more fragile in his father's arms.

  And then it was time.

  Gabe's room had been refurbished, accommodating a new hospital bed, an ECG machine, and in the corner, playing sergeant at arms, a thin metal IV-stand. Childs stood off to one side, out of the way.

  Michael carried Gabe into the room and dropped him playfully on the bed. Gabe bounced and let out a laugh. “You like that, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I love you, kiddo.”

  “Love you, too.”

  It was Teri's turn next. She gave him a long, hard hug, not wanting to let go, even though she knew what they were about to do was the right choice, the only choice. It was going to save his life.

  “You're choking me, Mom.”

  “Sorry,” she said, pulling away. She smiled and tried to keep the smile from turning to tears. “I guess it's time, isn't it?”

  “I guess,” he said.

  Teri pulled a chair next to the bed, took Gabe's hand in her own, and nodded to Childs. A few short minutes later, Gabe closed his eyes and fell into a restful sleep. Minutes after that, he received a dose of AA103 and slipped effortlessly through his dreams and into a coma.

  The last thing he said was, “See you in a blink.”

  Teri held his hand and cried and refused to leave his side until late the next morning.

  [9]

  How had it come to this?

  Hovering over his bed every morning.

  Spending nights at the University Library, scouring through medical texts, looking for the last piece of the puzzle.

  Trading shifts with Michael, pleased that some of Gabe's weight had returned, wondering how much longer until they would get to wake him up.

  Turning him, moving him, stretching his muscles, reading him stories.

  Not much longer.

  Still, how had it come to this?

  She didn't want to think about it. There wasn't time to think about it.

  And that was precisely the point, wasn't it?

  [10]

  December 4th, 1981, the Central Intelligence Agency and the Department of Defense, under Executive Order 12333 were required to comply with H.H.S. (Health and Human Services) regulations regarding the protection of human subjects. Both agencies had in the past and continue through the present to conduct and support biomedical and behavioral research.

  Among other things, these regulations stated:

  “Except as provided elsewhere in this or other subparts, no investigator may involve a human being as a subject in research covered by these regulations unless the investigator has obtained the legally effective informed consent of the subject or the subject's legally authorized representative. An investigator shall seek such consent only under circumstances that provide the prospective subject or the representative sufficient opportunity to consider whether or not to participate and that minimize the possibility of coercion or undue influence. The information that is given to the subject or the representative shall be in language understandable to the subject or representative. No informal consent, whether oral or written, may include any exculpatory language through which the subject or representative is made to waive or appear to waive any of the subject's legal rights, or releases or appears to release the
investigator, the sponsor, or the institution or its agents from liability for negligence.”

  Meet the Author

  David B. Silva's short fiction has appeared in The Year’s Best Horror, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, and The Best American Mystery Stories. In 1991, he won a Bram Stoker Award for his short story, “The Calling.” His first collection, Through Shattered Glass, was published by Gaunlet Press in 2001. In 2009, Dark Regions published his collection of eleven new stories and one reprint, In The Shadows of Kingston Mills.

  In addition, he's written eight novels, including The Disappeared.

  He lives a subdued life in the surreal city of Las Vegas, where there are many stories still to be told...

  Bentley Little says: "Combining the deft characterization of vintage Stephen King with the literary subtlety of the best of Ramsey Campbell, David B. Silva has for years been turning out stunning fiction that has never gotten the audience it deserves. In my opinion, he is one of the best damn authors working today."

  Dark Regions Press has been publishing since 1985 and is an award winning press. We specialize in Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction. However our favorite niche is Horror. We have published such renowned writers as Bentley Little, Kevin J. Anderson, Michael Arnzen, Elizabeth Massie, Jeffrey Thomas and many others. Dark Regions Press has had many Bram Stoker Award nominations and four award-winning short story and poetry collections.

  Visit our website for more exciting books.