We lifted. We hovered for a second or two. And then we flew.
Not very far, but, dear God in heaven, I was definitely flying.
Chapter 76
MAX SET ME DOWN inside the fenced perimeter. I stared up at the grotesque and depressing rows of concertina wire. I gripped the fence, clawed the wire with my fingers, and waited for my heart to slow. I glanced around and Max was gone.
She was already back on the other side of the fence. She was straining to lift Kit. Her legs just barely encircled him. Her breathing was a stuttering whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It didn’t seem possible that she could get him airborne, but I hadn’t believed she could lift me either.
I had no idea what she could tolerate, even for a few seconds. Her wings were displacing air, but she couldn’t seem to budge Kit up and over.
“Max, please stop. He’s too heavy for you,” I called to her. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“No, he isn’t too heavy. I’m superstrong. You have no idea how strong I am, Frannie. I was made that way.”
On my side of the fence, the two dogs were edging up to me. Actually, they were a little too close for comfort. The female was cutting half circles in the dust, wheeling and dancing her anxiety. The male had small, runny eyes and was rooted to the ground about three feet away from me.
A warning rattled in his throat. His lips were peeled away from his gums, showing a pristine rack of teeth.
“Oh stop,” I told him. “Get a life.” Dogs that showed their teeth and growled, I could handle.
My eyes darted back to Max and Kit, where they were still balanced on the perimeter fence. She finally pulled away, leaving him holding on to the wire, clinging there, trying to climb over. Finally he safely dropped back down to the ground.
“Nice try, sweetie,” I called to Max. But I could see she was upset. She didn’t like to fail. Had “they” made her that way, too?
She immediately flew back over the fence and joined me. She said “stay” and “good doggies” to the Dobermans. She was friendly but firm with them, and I wondered if that had anything to do with her recent escape.
Then Max was moving north away from the fence, picking up speed, heading somewhere.
I was almost jogging to keep up with her. The woods began to close around the narrow road. As each thick clump of trees was put behind us, another came and blocked my view.
A wall of firs opened onto a copse of birch that gave way to a grove of aspens shimmering like a curtain of glass beads. My heart was pounding, and it sounded louder to my ears than our footsteps. Without warning, the winding road opened into a sunlit clearing.
Before us sprawled a turn-of-the-century hunting lodge, or maybe a spa resort. There were countless windows cut into the stone face. White columns stood at the entrance. Thick vines covered the building and spilled onto the aged roof.
I looked at Max. Her pupils were the tiniest pinpoints. The irises were translucent gray disks fixed in a stare. I remembered that birds will often contract their pupils under duress.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It’s the Central Colorado Induced Mutant Lab,” she said. “The School of Genetic Research. I live here.”
Chapter 77
THERE WAS NO SOUND coming from the strange, eerie lodge, the place where Max had been kept, and God knows what else had happened to her.
There were no security guards, no parked cars or trucks. No immediate threat to us. Nothing that I could see, anyway.
“It’s too quiet. Way too quiet,” Max said in a whisper. “There should be guards somewhere. We should have been able to see them from the woods.”
“What does it mean, Max?”
“I don’t know. It’s never been like this before.”
Max and I skulked along the fringes of the clearing. We crossed quickly to one side of the building, then edged along the stone wall to an oak door halfway down the eastern side. There wasn’t any shifting of shapes or shadows behind the many windows. No one seemed to be around.
My confidence was growing a little bit. I took a breath, then I reached forward and groped the metal knob in my hand. The door opened easily. We entered the strange building and the heavy door swung shut behind us.
A dank, powerful smell of decay hit me. I knew what it was and I was repulsed.
“Something’s dead,” Max said.
She was right. Something was dead for sure. Something was decomposing inside the building and the odor was acrid and strong. We covered our noses and mouths with our hands. We continued to walk away from the front door.
Max said, “The fan must not be working.” She didn’t seem overly upset by the smell—by death.
I scanned the room for security cameras. I was certain they were there, somewhere, but I couldn’t find them. Was somebody watching us now?
I suspected that the small room we were standing in was used for decontamination. Bright yellow scrubs were piled in a large trash can near the door. Lab coats were hung from hooks. People worked here, didn’t they? Scientists, if they could call themselves that. Doctors. Researchers. They were conducting illegal experiments of some kind.
There was an open metal closet filled with clean scrubs, and shelves lined with rubber-soled shoes stood next to a bank of lockers. The lockers were empty, cleaned out.
Jesus God, what had we come to? What kind of place was this?
Max pointed to an interior door leading from the room and beckoned to me to follow her. I had the thought that this building was like a Nazi extermination camp. They put people to sleep here. They experimented on human beings.
We followed a wide main corridor. Max’s ballet slippers were quiet, but my shoes squeaked. A long fluorescent tube flickered above us in the ceiling. The beige-and-blue linoleum corridor unfurled in front of us and was crossed with transversing hallways.
We arrived in an open space, about fifty feet square. It was some kind of workplace. Where were we now?
“Max? What’s this?”
“It’s just offices. For business stuff. No big deal. Pretty boring.”
“What kind of business?”
She shrugged. “The boring kind. You know, business.”
Whatever old fixtures had once been in this part of the building were long gone. There was no wood paneling, no fireplace, no dentil moldings, just a warren of free-standing office-style cubes. Computers squatted on desktops of dull gray steel. A coffee pot on a file cabinet caught my eye. The pot was cracked, and a thick black gum coated the bottom.
I picked up a mug from a desk. O.B.’s Coffee, I read. The floating blue circle of mold told me the cup had been here at least a couple of days. Where is O.B.? Who is O.B.?
And what was dead and putrefying in the building? What had happened at this so-called School? What kind of business was conducted in this awful place?
I glanced at Max, but she was moving again. She was home sweet home. She obviously accepted all this horror and madness as normal. It was so quiet that even my normal breathing sounded loud. I held my breath and listened for a moment. I had a four-color expectation that as soon as my back was turned, someone would jump out of a closed room. But no one did.
Max pushed open another door. There was a soft, clicking sound. Were they photographing us? My heart was still pounding. I felt tired. Things were getting a little blurry. Where was Kit? Was he okay?
“This is where I work,” Max announced. “It’s usually full of doctors.”
Chapter 78
WE ENTERED a cavernous room that must have been sixty feet long and about half as wide. My eyes swept the workroom, quickly took everything in. It was a standard-issue laboratory, but a good one, with top-of-the-line, very expensive equipment. Who had funded this? Who was subsidizing this business?
There were a dozen fancy workstations. Slides were scattered everywhere on table and counter surfaces. Expensive microscopes were stacked on shelves.
I noted a scale/beam balance and several hydrometers. There were laser spe
ctrographs, cell culture hoods, high-speed centrifuges. Obviously, no expense had been spared on the equipment.
A little pride crept into Max’s voice. “This is my station, Frannie. Come look. I was taught to make myself useful. So I did. I was a good worker.”
“I’ll bet you were, sweetie.”
Max climbed up and sat proudly on a tall metal stool. Her workstation. She switched on an overhead fluorescent light. There was a small sign on the desk: TINKERBELL LIVES.
She showed me how she had used a glass pipette to transfer droplets of DNA cocktail from a tray of small wells onto plates of growing medium. “We run out the chromosomes by cooking them in here,” she explained.
I didn’t recognize the chrome-plated unit she pointed to, but it was a brand-new model. Before I could question her further, Max slid down from the stool.
“Let’s go,” she said. “There’s a lot more to see.”
I followed her. “I’m right behind you.”
“I know you are. I have a really good sense of hearing.”
“So I’ve noticed. Who’s Tinkerbell?”
Max turned to me. She looked upset. “Nobody, really. She’s dead.”
Tinkerbell, I was thinking. Was that what they called Max here at the School? I suspected it was, and that she didn’t like it. Tinkerbell was her lab name, wasn’t it?
We passed through a smaller room filled with shiny steel cryogenic tanks. What in hell had they been freezing in there? Another, even smaller room, contained half a dozen blood diagnostic machines.
No worn-out university equipment for these folks. They were extremely well funded. By whom? To do what?
“Mice,” said Max, pointing toward an enclosed room. “This is the Mickey Mouse room. It’s gross. Hold your nose, Frannie. I’m not kidding. You were warned.”
The smell of death seemed to be concentrated in here. I tried to catch my breath; I did hold my breath, but even that didn’t help much. I thought I was going to be sick. I held back a dry heave.
I peered into a windowed door and saw innumerable metal racks, each with a dozen shelves; each shelf was packed with dozens of plastic cages. As far as I could see there were cages, thousands of them filled with mice curled tightly in cedar-chip bedding.
The Mickey Mouse room was a rip-roaring horror show, the scariest thing I had ever seen in my life. Nothing even came close to this. There was high color in Max’s face now. She seemed unaware of my presence. She was talking to herself, all sibilant phrasing, her speech lapsing into unintelligible phrases.
All I could make out was “skitters” and “put to sleep.”
We entered the Mouse room. I saw immediately that the mice weren’t ordinary lab animals. Knobs of flesh protruded from unlikely junctures. Some of the mice had extra limbs and strange markings.
Mice are so genetically close to humans, it’s a little scary. Eighty-five percent of their genes are identical to ours, which is why they make perfect lab animals. It’s why you can give them human diseases: cancer, heart disease, muscular dystrophy—and from their reactions possibly learn how to cure these diseases in humans.
I love animals, and I’m also a doctor who’s benefited from animal research. I can argue both sides of the animal-research issue passionately. But either way, I cannot abide cruelty. No matter what your reasons, you take responsibility for the animals.
I began pulling down the cages one at a time, shaking them. “There’s no food in these cages. All of these animals are dead. Son of a bitch,” I whispered.
“Put to sleep,” Max said. Tears welled up in her eyes.
It was something to see—this beautiful little girl crying over the fate of dead mice.
Chapter 79
MAX HATED IT when she cried, hated to show weakness. She wouldn’t let on to Frannie, but she was freaking out, creeping out real bad, scaring herself with her own thoughts, but the worst thing was the anger she felt. The rage inside of her. No one should be allowed to do these things.
Her senses were incredibly alive right now. Sight, hearing, smell, tactile. She’d felt this way when she was running away from the School. She hadn’t known how powerful her senses were until then.
Her nostrils differentiated the smells of burnt coffee, various chemicals, heated metal, and somewhere nearby—decaying flesh.
This was all wrong. It was so wrong. How could Harding Thomas and the other cretins do this? Was it because she had run away? Had she caused these deaths? Oh please, don’t let it be that. Not because of me.
The second hand of the clock hanging above the cryogenic tanks had stopped, and that made her think maybe time had died.
She kept moving. She entered the familiar Main Office Control, and was seized with quick, flashing memories. Memories of Uncle Thomas, his large hand protectively on her head. He liked to remind her that he was “a scientist at heart.” He loved his little Tinkerbell, or so he always told her. She was such a smart girl. Precious little Tink.
Liar! she thought. Murderer. Creep—lower than amoebae.
She felt like curling up and having a good cry. Where was everyone? Uncle Thomas and the others? Were they hiding on her? Were they watching? They loved to watch, then spring out and catch you when you least expected it.
Her life here had been like a military school, or what she knew about them. Her days were always organized and controlled. She studied, worked, underwent tests, exercised or watched TV. She never received love, encouragement, satisfaction. She was one of their specimens, except she was smart enough to make herself useful. And to know, somewhere inside her, that she wasn’t a specimen.
Beyond the Main Office Control, the corridor branched two ways. Automatically, Max turned right. She knew the way, every inch of this place. She could find her way around it blindfolded.
Twenty paces became ten, became five. Ready for countdown.
And finally she came to the heavy metal door of the Nursery.
She heard something behind her and her breathing stopped. Her mind was racing like crazy. She definitely heard—footsteps. Running! Fast! More than one person was coming in a hurry.
She turned to Frannie, fear in her eyes. Prepared for the worst. Then she laughed. It was only Kit and Pip. What a relief. She could breathe again. She felt like they should all be together for whatever was going to happen next.
“We got in farther down the fence,” Kit said between gasps.
Max didn’t know what to think. Right now she didn’t care. “Kit, Frannie,” she said. “Look here. This is important. Please. It’s why I came back.”
Max opened the door to the Nursery, and she screamed.
Chapter 80
I JUMPED BACK.
What I saw inside the door made me want to scream, too, and strange as it may seem, to thank God at the same time.
There were four little ones lying in soiled blankets inside cages in the Nursery. The small children were alive and each one had wings.
“Peter, Ic, Wendy!” Max shrieked, as she ran to them. “Oz!”
“Oh poor Petey. Wendy!” she shrieked as she opened the cage that held two of the little ones. Peter and Wendy were entwined, hunched in the far corner, blinking against the sudden intrusion of light.
“Come to me,” Max called to them softly. “Come to Max.” The sounds they made together were barely audible, but loving, a little like bird songs.
Max went to the next cage. She opened the doors. A little boy came crouching forward, then staggered out of the terrible cage. “Ic!” she said. “Icarus!”
“I brought help,” she told him.
“Where’s Matthew?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s not talk about it now. How are you? You okay?”
“Cool as a ghoul,” said Ic. Finally, he smiled. Amazing.
The little ones fell over one another trying to reach Max. Once they found her, they clung to her. They whispered parched greetings, uttered sharp, high-pitched cries. And then in a burst of relief all the bird-children began
to cry.
They cried as one.
As I helped Max free the children from their cages, I was overcome with the shakes. The children were so beautiful, so exquisite in every way. It was like finding priceless treasure in the least expected place. Each of them was a miracle.
I controlled my own nerves and astonishment long enough to evaluate the kids; they were malnourished and dehydrated, but that seemed to be all. It wasn’t too bad, though it would have been soon. I ran to the sink and got them some water, they had been locked in here to die like the others. Four beautiful little kids, left to die in cages.
My eyes fell on a little boy who looked to be about seven. He had a stocky build, most of his bulk was in his upper body. His wings were feathered dark brown and pinfeathers of the same color covered his neck and shoulders, merging at the hairline with glossy chestnut-brown hair.
The boy’s skin was damp, and his face was livid from crying. But his huge round eyes were bright and unafraid.
“I’m Ozymandias,” he said, with a belligerent thrust to his chin. “Who the heck are you? Are you a scientist? A stinking doctor?”
“I’m Frannie,” I told him, “and this is my friend, Kit. We came here with Max.”
“They’re friends, Oz,” Max said. “Hard as it might be to believe.”
“Hello, Oz. Ozymandias.” Kit offered his hand to the little boy who, after a slight hesitation, shook it.
Max pushed the little girl forward. She was a rosy-cheeked cherub of four or so, with black, bowl-cut hair and almond-shaped eyes. The girl was wearing a sleeveless smock like the one Max had worn the first time I saw her. She stretched out her wings toward me. They were white, tipped with blue. Beautiful.
Her wing feathers made a swishing sound, like a taffeta skirt swirling around a dancer’s legs.
“Mama?” she said, in the most heartbreaking way.
“She calls all older women ‘Mama,’ ” Max explained. “She never had one. None of us did.”
When the Wind Blows Page 18