Monstrosity

by Edward Lee

  Mrs. Grable made a precocious giggle that defied her age. “It’s very tempting to just walk around naked; you get all the sunlight but no one can actually see you. And when the sun gets too bright—” The next button drew heavy blackout drapes across the glass.

  “Wow,” was all Clare could say. “This place is just fantastic.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to get settled.”

  Clare began a question. “My—” But then she stopped awkwardly, to think. What could she say? Uh, up until a few hours ago I was homeless. I don’t have any possessions, including clothes. Where’s the nearest store? Clare didn’t like to lie but she thought a mere fib, in this case, would be appropriate. “Most of my belongings are in storage but there are some things I need to get right away. Are there any stores nearby?”

  “Oh, yes, lots of shopping on the other side of the bridge. The Wal-Mart on Tyrone is huge. But if you don’t want to go that far, just go back out on Gulf. There are lots of little shops. You can’t miss them.”

  “Back out on Gulf. Thanks.”

  “I suppose you’ll be working a lot at night. The previous security chief worked late shifts mainly.”

  “Yes, I’ll be midnight to noon during the week, and on call on the weekends.” A pause. Clare’s curiosity kept scratching at her. “The previous chief—Grace Fletcher, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she lived in this same unit?”

  “Yes, she did. The other two guards each had a cottage out here too.”

  Clare rubbed her chin; the mystery wouldn’t let go. “I just can’t understand why they quit. The pay’s great, the duty can’t be that hard, and a rent-free cottage on the beach? I don’t get it.”

  Mrs. Grable put her arm about Clare’s shoulder, as a mother might when giving advice. “I don’t like to speak ill of people, dear, but Grace and the other two? Well, they certainly took advantage of things. Dellin had no choice but to let them go.”

  “So they were fired. I heard they all quit at the same time.”

  “That’s not quite the case, I’m afraid. There was quite a bit of drinking going on. Oh, you should have seen the empty bottles and cans that were lying around here after they left. And the parties? Everyone needs to have some fun, but it was just absolutely shameful what they were doing out here.”

  “What…were they doing?”

  “Donna and Rob—the other two guards? They would always come here in the wee hours—because of the jaccuzi, of course. And the three of them would party so loud—it sounded like a Roman orgy, I tell you. I can’t imagine young people could be that naive; just because there’s a fence around that sundeck doesn’t mean the people can’t hear what’s going on. And it wasn’t just on the weekends, either. They’d be getting together like that during the week, too—during their shifts. I’d see them, sneaking back here through the woods, for goodness sake! Who did they think they were fooling?” Mrs. Grable stopped for a moment. “I’ll say no more. I never gossip.”

  Well then…thanks for the gossip.

  The elder woman’s arm tightened around Clare’s shoulder, more motherly gestures. “Rick and Joyce are wonderful tenants, though, and I can tell just by looking at you—you’re a smart, responsible woman.”

  “I’d like to think so.” Clare chuckled. “And don’t worry, there won’t be any wild jaccuzi parties going on, either.”

  “I’m sure there won’t be, and I’m sure you’ll be just fine here.” But now came something like a stern expression. “And, dear, if you don’t mind my saying so—you’re awfully thin. So do get some meat on your bones. Honestly, working out there in this heat? You’ll shrivel right up!”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Grable, I don’t plan on shriveling up anytime soon. First thing I’m going to do after I get to the store is have a big meal.”

  “Make sure that you do—and if you ever need anything, I’m just next door.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “‘Bye!”

  Clare smiled after the woman left. A bit nattering, but I like her. She’s sweet. And she knew she was right about being too thin. She took another look around the apartment and remained astounded. Couldn’t have asked for anything better in a million years… The next impulse was irresistible: with all the things that she knew she needed to do now, she had to look around one more time.

  The living room, the bedroom, the sundeck. Wow, was all she could think. She motored the drapes back and forth several times, just for fun, watching the beach beyond appear and then disappear. Back in the bedroom, she caught herself staring at the big king-sized bed. What a luxury… After so many months of shelter cots and, worse, the ground under a bridge? She knew she would never take things for granted again—even simple things like beds and showers. Another quick glance at the jaccuzi left her sorely tempted to just take all her clothes off right there and get in but the more responsible part of her nixed the idea. I still have to go to the store, get clothes, food, then work tonight!

  Working, yes. Another thing she’d never take for granted. She had a job now.

  She had a home.

  Now she was looking at herself in the bedroom mirror, and that’s when it fully dawned on her.

  I have a life again.

  An impulse, then. She wasn’t fully aware of it when her fingers slipped into her pocket and withdrew the crumpled fortune from the cookie this morning. She flattened it back out and stuck it on the mirror, sliding one edge under the frame so it would stay.

  SOMETHING VERY GOOD WILL HAPPEN TO YOU TODAY

  “It sure as hell did,” she said to herself.

  Yes, she had a life again, and she was determined not to disappoint the people who had given it to her. Dellin, and this Harry guy, the director. I’m going to be the best security chief those guys have ever seen.

  She was about to leave when she noticed the box at the end of the dresser. It was just a little vanity box but beautifully fashioned in different tones of inlaid woods. When she raised the lid, she found the top tray empty, but when she lifted out the top tray—

  Hmmm.

  A stack of snapshots lay inside, and the one on the very top of the stack…

  Grace Fletcher, I presume, Clare thought.

  The bright color picture was a shot from the waist up of an attractive woman in her thirties. Brunet hair pulled back, no makeup. The faintest smile suggested someone serious, smart, and competent. All business, no nonsense. And the nameplate on the uniform could easily be read: FLETCHER, G.

  But it wasn’t a security uniform she wore, it was an Air Force uniform, showing captain’s bars on the shoulders. Clare found this odd but only for a moment. That Clare herself was ex-Air Force, replacing a previous security chief who was also ex-Air Force didn’t seem like much of a coincidence after a second’s thought. Dellin’s explanation made perfect sense: the clinic was technically Air Force property. Why pay extra money for background checks on civilian trainees when they could hire ex-Air Force personnel who’ve already been cleared and trained? Rick and Joyce were ex-Air Force—

  So it’s no big surprise that Grace Fletcher was ex-Air Force too.

  Curious as she was, Clare didn’t have time to look at the other photos, and she supposed it was only fitting that she make some attempt to find out where Grace Fletcher had relocated to, to return the pictures. But… No time to worry about it now, and then, on a lark, she stuck the picture on the mirror, next to the lucky fortune cookie.

  “Thanks for the great job, Grace Fletcher,” Clare said to the snapshot. “I hope you’re doing well…wherever you are…”

  She rushed out, excited to get on with her tasks and officially begin her new job. When she was locking the front door, though, she noticed the door knocker. It hadn’t caught her eye earlier because the door had been open when she first entered.

  Strange, she thought.

  The door knocker couldn’t have been more inappropriate for such a living quarter: it was just a small oval of dull, old brass in
the shape of a face. But the face was bereft of features, save for two, wide empty eyes. There was no mouth, no nose, no jawline really—just the eyes.

  The eyes, at first, bothered her. They seemed ominous. But then as she looked at the knocker for a few more moments those same ominous blank eyes seemed to change. They seemed to somehow welcome her.

  (II)

  Help.

  Oh.

  What’s…wrong.

  With.

  Me.

  Can’t—

  —can’t—

  Think.

  Something’s.

  Wrong—

  —with my—

  Brain.

  Yes. Something was quite wrong, due to the series of short-wave para-orbital lobotomies. The brain damage was resolute. She couldn’t think any more, not really. Just pieces of thoughts seemed to appear, like blobs of words she could barely understand. Even if someone had sat down right next to her and explained right to her face what had been done to her, she wouldn’t be able to comprehend.

  It wasn’t her brain they were interested in.

  She still had motor function, but it was uncontrolled now. The thick canvas straps kept her held down fast to the table. She could see the letters on the canvas straps, their manufacturer’s name—POSEY—but she didn’t really remember what letters were. At least she was fortunate in one respect: enough synaptic connections in her brain had been destroyed that, by now, the discomfort and the pain didn’t register.

  Lights came on and then went off. She heard voices but usually couldn’t understand them because she’d pretty much forgotten what talking was. She felt things but didn’t feel them: things going into her, parts of her being opened and prodded. At one point she turned her head when the lights were on and saw an intravenous line going into her arm…but she didn’t know what it was.

  She really didn’t even know what her arm was either.

  Once she looked up and saw faces peering back at her.

  But couldn’t comprehend it.

  Something.

  Wrong.

  My brain.

  “You’re doing wonderfully,” a voice said once.

  Sometimes she convulsed. Her head whipped up and down for a few moments, spit flying off her lips. In her eyes an image registered. Her belly was swollen, the skin stretched pin-prick tight.

  But she didn’t know that the belly was hers. Didn’t know that she was pregnant, didn’t even know anymore what that meant. The only thing she really knew was that something had happened to her that wasn’t right.

  Who.

  Did this.

  To me?

  The lights went off again.

  She liked it better when the lights were off.

  Her name was Grace Fletcher. But of course, by now, she didn’t even know what a name was.

  — | — | —

  Chapter Five

  (I)

  Clare didn’t want to use time unnecessarily. Making the longer drive to a department store back on the peninsula would’ve saved her some money but she wanted to get back to the clinic perimeter as fast as she could; she still had a lot to learn about the site, and even though her shift didn’t technically begin until midnight, she saw it as her responsibility to get back promptly, get another look at the grounds before sundown. She also wanted to go back and read some of Grace Fletcher’s shift reports, get an idea how she ran things. So instead, Clare had her shopping spree at the first beach store she saw and concentrated on sensible essentials—several pairs of summer-weight shorts; some light, airy blouses, sneakers, sandals, and—What the hell? she decided—a couple of swimsuits. But even the overly high prices scarcely put a dent in the cash Dellin had given her as a relocation allowance. Then she made a quick stop at the Publix supermarket for some groceries and toiletries and was back on the park grounds well before seven p.m.

  First, back to the cottage to put the groceries in the fridge, then back to the clinic. The Blazer rode well, even over the rougher interior roads of the park which were mostly either gravel or grooved dirt. By seven it was cooling down, and when she’d progressed deeper into the property she found herself distracted again by the site’s sheer natural beauty. Palmetto bushes and banks of widgeon grass grew wild between the endless palm trees. Petite green parrots squawked at her from nests of Spanish moss. Tiny lizards seemed flash-frozen against tree trunks, and at one point she saw a four-foot-high egret watching her as she drove by. When she stopped, the magnificent thing stared her down and spread its great white wings, as if to challenge her. Don’t worry, bird, I’m not messing with your turf. She suspected the bird must be harmless; nevertheless, the sharp foot-long lance for a beak looked threatening enough.

  “Oh, damn it… Don’t tell me—”

  Around the next bend, the small sign rose:

  LAKE STEPHANIE 0.5 MILES

  NO FISHING, NO BOATING, NO TRESPASSING

  THIS IS A PROTECTED FEDERAL NATURE HABITAT

  But the sign verified Clare’s fear. “Airhead. I’m on the wrong spur.” She must’ve missed her turn off the main road back to the park. Careful, she warned herself. She didn’t want to drive all the way to the lake to turn around so she gingerly attempted a three-point reversal. The road was little more than a service road, very narrow. With my luck I’ll back up over some rare endangered fern bush or something, but when she was halfway finished with the maneuver—

  CRUNCH!

  Oh, no!

  She stopped, got out quickly with her flashlight, and rushed to the rear of the vehicle. She couldn’t imagine what she’d backed up over but the sound left no doubt that she’d hit something. She looked around, but…

  Nothing.

  Just mounds of dead leaves, palm fronds, vines and weeds. It didn’t matter that it would still be light out for another hour and a half; this deep in the woods it was dark as early evening. She roved her flashlight back and forth, squinting, but still couldn’t see that she’d hit anything.

  What was the crunch?

  She squinted harder, noticed a strange dip in the terrain, then finally she figured it out. It was a gully lining the road, but she couldn’t see it because it was full of leaves. When she reached down, she felt something.

  Sheet metal?

  She brushed the leaves back and soon uncovered a small rowboat.

  She shook her head, complaining to herself. “Why on earth is there a rowboat sitting in a ravine a half a mile away from the lake and even further from the bay?” Obviously someone had put it here, had deliberately hidden it under all the brush.

  What for?

  She scooped out some leaves, felt around inside the hull. She didn’t expect to find anything but after only a few seconds she hauled up a tackle box.

  All right, not that big a deal. It was a poacher’s boat. They go after the fish stocked in the lake. But that still didn’t explain why they’d hide the boat here.

  I guess I better get this back to the clinic.

  It was a small boat, made of light-weight aluminum, and it would easily fit in the back of the Blazer. At first she thought of calling Rick for some assistance but then dismissed the idea. Best to bring it in myself, show these people I can take care of things on my own. Clare wasn’t one to call on men whenever there was some dirty work to be done. She idled the Blazer forward, till the rear tire came off the boat, then got back out. Part of the bow was crushed by the tire. She flipped open the Blazer’s back door, then walked right down into the ravine.

  Her aim was to simply grab the edge of the boat, lift it up, and then slide the whole thing into the back of the Blazer. But there was one problem.

  The instant she stepped into the ravine, she couldn’t move her feet.

  Yuck. Mud.

  But she realized it wasn’t exactly mud when she began to sink.

  Quicksand.

  The acknowledgment jolted her but she didn’t panic. She willed herself not to move quickly, and for the moment, it worked; she could feel nothing solid benea
th her feet but she wasn’t sinking anymore. Was it an old wives’ tale: the more you struggle, the faster you sink? She found out a second later when she carefully leaned to her side and reached up for the Blazer’s rear bumper. In only a few seconds, she sunk from mid-calf to mid-thigh. With the flashlight, she scanned the edge of the road for vines, branches, anything she could grab, but there was nothing, and those few movements sunk her a few more inches.

  “Don’t panic,” she whispered to herself.

  But now she was getting scared.

  Even the rim of the boat was too far for her to reach; she stretched her hand out, grasping the flashlight, tried to hook its widened head against the boat’s rim but—

  clack!

  The flashlight slipped out of her hand and fell in the boat.

  Clare wasn’t quite to the panic stage, even though, now, she was waist deep and sinking further. Calling out would do no good, and she couldn’t get to the radio or the horn.

  But I can still make some noise.

  Very slowly, she unholstered her gun, shook off the oatmeal-like quicksand that clung to it, and raised it in the air.

  Someone will hear, she resolved, still fairly calm given the predicament. Someone will come.

  At least that’s what she was telling herself as she sunk another inch. She cocked her pistol—

  “Now don’t you go and do that, Clare. Your muzzleflash could start a fire. All this fallen brush out here—it’s like tinder.”

  Clare looked up at the voice in shocked relief. It was Adam Corey, the park ranger.

  “Thank God!” she exclaimed. “I’m in quicksand!”

  “Yeah, you sure are, just like the sign says.” Adam stood grinning, a hip cocked as he lazily pointed his own flashlight to a sign posted a few feet in from the road.

  DANGER! QUICKSAND!