With a shiver, I hauled the body into my office and laid it out on the patient's examining bench. Perhaps four feet in length, the monster rested messily, its legs and arms twisted into near impossible angles, dangling from the table's edge like the limbs of a strewn marionette. Its face had a furry coating of ice on it, like a beard. It could've passed as one of Santa's elves gone to hell and back.
I spread the body out (like a patient, I suppose), the bones making hard white snapping sounds as I wrenched the limbs back into form. Smears of slimy deposits and muck saturated the pure white paper sheathing the table.
The clock in my office tolled four. Darkness crept in like a murderer's hand. Soon, I knew they would be coming for the body. Which meant I had only one chance to get it right. And not much time to do it.
I could hear my wife and daughter pacing about upstairs as they prepared to flee this God-forsaken town. I wondered for a moment if the Isolates were out there right now, perching against the barricaded windows and monitoring our actions: obtaining a handle on our intentions. There'd be no telling. I could only pray that they didn't find out right away—their heedlessness acted as our only prospect for freedom.
As I went about mentally preparing my plan, curiosity got the best of me and I took a moment to study the body more closely. Its face was horrible, like that of a child's stricken with Progeria: skin pruned, teeth overgrown and terribly misshapen. Wispy strands of hair lay straggled atop its warped head like cobwebs. Its rib cage was sunken, the stomach cavity ripped with sinewy muscle, limbs long and gangly and broomstick-thin. So different than us—yet so genetically similar.
So genetically similar...
In this abstract moment of thought I considered the fact—a single tidbit of information culled from my years at Columbia—that only one singular gene differentiates man from the apes. And yet, gazing at this creature, it can be readily observed that all primates vary in much greater inhuman-like detail than the Isolates. Was it possible that these golden-eyed demons were in fact some unique race of homo sapiens? If one could assume for a moment the theory of evolution, then their bi-pedal status would undeniably confirm the Isolates to have branched off from no other mammal than man. But then what of the glowing eyes? I could only premise them to be the result of an adaptation to their subterranean environment. And the feet? Five toed, yes, but more reptilian in nature than those of common bipeds, something unexplainable by evolutionary standards. Dozens of suppositions existed that could be studied. It seemed they would have to remain unanswered for now.
Or would they?
Despite my obeisant willingness to heed their command, in the back of my mind I'd always considered how I might actually go about successfully putting an end to their survival. Setting fire to their lair had been an indiscriminate option. But concerns arose with this means of action. Would there be enough oxygen to keep the flames unbridled in their subterranean den? Plus, would fire take in the dampness? They did run torches down there, proving the presence of oxygen...but, could something wholly uncontrolled flourish down there as well? Not anything I could set in a moment's time. Yes, I might end up killing off a number of them by smoking out the entrance, but as previously discussed with Sam Huxtable, there existed many additional accesses leading in and out of the great den—ones I had no knowledge of—that would provide easy escape.
Other theories seemed even more implausible: flooding them out, sniping them one by one; it was futile to even consider these options, their numbers were too extensive, and there seemed no means of alerting outside forces of their presence without blockage or disdain. At the first indication of threat, the Isolates would come after me, capture and torture me. And then they would murder my family and take pleasure in making me watch.
So when Christine mentioned in the road earlier today that they might actually have a weakness, it became immediately obvious to me that they did indeed possess some limitations, and that Neil Farris had known about them, and that was why he was running. Because the Isolates had caught on to his plan and took him down before he could do anything about it.
I surmised my only option as I saw it—I needed to finish what Neil Farris started.
I snapped on a pair of surgical gloves then went into my office and unlocked the small icebox hugging the corner of the room between the bookshelf and the armoire. This is where Neil Farris had kept samples of his patients' blood. Upon first discovery of the icebox, I'd wondered why in God's name he had done this, putting aside the fact that harboring samples tainted with Bubonic Plague was a federal violation; the government would toss your ass in jail for thirty years if they found you doing this.
Inside the icebox were seventeen plastic tubes in total, containing four different strains of viruses. Bubonic Plague, Malaria, HIV+, and Hantavirus. I was most interested in the last one: Hantavirus.
For the first time in six months, I smiled.
I picked out a tube crudely labeled Hantavirus and took it back to the examining room, placing it in a clamp on the steel supply table opposite the examining bench. I then retrieved a syringe from the cabinet above my head, armed it with a needle, and confronted the dead beast.
The needle slid into its jugular with ease, and I pulled back on the syringe, filling it with the Isolate's blood which at this point had only begun to coagulate. I then placed a drop of the blood on a glass specimen slide and hooked it under the microscope I kept on the steel table.
I looked through the eyepiece. And saw it immediately. Fluttering on the slide. A germ, propelling itself through the blood by means of hairlike flagellum.
This is too easy...
This was microbiology 101. The presence of the germ in the blood at once confirmed the most profound mystery of all: that these creatures were human, grossly infected humans. This germ I was looking at had somehow over the years wreaked havoc on their genetic system and mutated these people to a degree previously unheard of in any biological string. Their warped features, their withered skin and stooped posture, even their maniacal aggressiveness were all resultant of this little bugger in the microscope, this horribly transfigured germ.
It was an amazing discovery. Perhaps tens of thousands of years ago the spread of this germ had brought disease and eventual death to a large population of humans—a plague of insurmountable proportions. Miraculously, the survivors of the plague had built a resistance to the germ—but not without any consequences. The ramifications of their exposure emanated as pure genetic mutation, effecting in a disfigurement of growth, appearance, and demeanor. Over time, through the retardation of genes in conjunction with environmental adaptation, the humans slowly evolved into Isolates and thrived to become the alienated race of creatures living in the woods today.
Genetically altered human beings. Naturally genetically altered, like the genus of six-legged frogs found only in one small lake in the northwest United States, or the two-headed snakes indigenous to a mere twenty square miles of Amazonian forest.
So...if the Isolates were indeed susceptible to germs, as evident to the bacillus in their blood, then they could catch a virus too, just like we humans do. And with the right virus, they could be killed. Quickly. Viciously.
Neil Farris knew this. And now, so do I.
Reflecting again on my past education, I recalled that when biological conditions become unfavorable, certain categories of bacterial germs become capable of creating bodies called spores. These bodies detach themselves and eventually become free spores, highly resistant to physical and chemical change. Later, when conditions become more productive for survival, the spores regerminate and reproduce the original qualities of the bacteria. It is at this point the bacteria become communicable. This is how we end up catching colds, or the flu. Through sporulation.
Deep in their den of aggression, where physical contact is high and the damp environment is supporting, sporulation would work masterfully.
A patient came in to me a few years back. He complained of diarrhea, vomiting, fever, con
gestion, cough. It had all snowballed upon him one day after being bitten by a rat while cleaning out his barn during a weekend getaway in the Hamptons. I'd took his blood, tested it.
His blood had tested positive for Hantaan virus.
Two days later my patient died from acute respiratory distress syndrome and hemorrhagic fever—the brutal side-effects of the virus.
Haantan virus is highly communicable, with a near 100% death rate if not treated in time.
All I needed to do was infect one of them. Just one.
40
Night fell. Most of the preliminary work had been completed. I waited, peeking though the once-barricaded window in my office, awaiting their emergence from the woods. The body lay on a chair beside me, legs and arms dangling as if it'd been mostly unsuccessful in trying to find a comfortable position to rest in. It had fully defrosted now and was reeking up a storm of decay. The skin had turned a muddy shade of gray. Its eyes were shut and I could see a thin layer of hair on the lids. I raised my right hand, armed with a syringe filled with Hantaan-infected blood, and for the hundredth time in the last hour, stared at the syrupy brick-red contents inside.
I waited. Checked the Isolate's body to make certain it was still really there and that this wasn't just another vivid dream: one perhaps mentally induced by the Isolates to trick me into thinking I'd actually had a chance against them. Despite the amount of time that'd passed since my dream (or sleepwalk, if you must), it still had me in its iron grip.
The clock tolled ten. It was at the moment of the tenth chime that I realized I hadn't heard Christine or Jessica moving around in the house for at least an hour now.
I shuddered.
A twinkling flash of golden light flitted in my peripheral vision.
The time has come...
I looked out the window. They appeared like magic, golden eyes, a half-dozen or more floating in from the damp gloom of the woods. My heart pounded in my chest so hard that white ghostly images appeared in my sights, and when I looked outside again I saw their dark bodies stepping slowly forward, dry snow clinging to their limbs like patches of cotton. I leaped up, choked back a lump in my throat, and quickly jammed the needle into the dead demon's stomach, injecting half the contents.
I bent down and cradled the body as I would a baby, with care and caution; this horrid corpse was my only weapon against the evil breed and I didn't want anything to happen to it. Carrying the creature, I scooted from the office into the waiting room, then out the side door onto the walkway. A wind picked up and sent the stench of the creature into my nose, making me gag. A full moon splayed dreamy beams across my path; a ground mist encircled my feet. The ground was cold and hard beneath my feet, the frigid air like needles against my face.
This is what hell must be like: cold, forbidding, deadly.
The dead Isolate lay limply in my arms, like a virgin sacrifice. When the nausea passed, I turned the corner into the backyard. The Isolates spotted me and immediately bounded forward, some on two legs, most on all fours. Ignited only by the golden hue of their eyes, they appeared to move as though part of a simulation, like computer generated beings in some dark fantastical game. In a flash, they surrounded me, perhaps eight or nine beasts, teeth bared, sneering, poking at me and puncturing my skin with their vicious claws. I felt like a pony caught in the center of a pack of jackals.
I handed over the body. It's what they came for, what they wanted. Two of them yanked it from my arms, pawing at it like kittens wrestling over a piece of yarn. The rest of them followed suit, practically dancing in their agitation.
All except one. I grabbed it by its long gangly hair and yanked it back.
Without hesitation I plunged the needle into its jugular and injected it with Hantaan-tainted blood. It howled and its body stiffened, arms reaching for the plunger but unable to gather the mobility to grasp it. The wind rose as if to echo the severe act, shrieking through the trees and causing me to look around uneasily, as though there might be more Isolates nearby, poised to deliver vengeance for the death of Old Lady Zellis. It staggered away as I let it go, the needle still dangling from its neck, its injury unnoticed by its over-eager brothers who'd begun to feast on the body of the corpse.
Again, I smiled. And prayed. And then, quickly returned to the sanctuary of my home, wondering as I went inside why they simply didn't kill me for ending the life of the old lady. Perhaps they were grateful for the meal?
41
I walked into the living room, grimacing at the sudden stab of pain in my stomach; somewhere along the line, I'd twisted an abdominal muscle and it felt as though I'd been knifed. Christine and Jessica were sitting on the couch like patients in a waiting room, hunched with apprehension, hands folded across their laps. Christine stood in questioning silence, gripping her belly along the way, eyes wide and hopeful for a positive reaction. Jessica remained seated behind her, struggling to remain awake, aspiring not to miss anything crucial. We stood in silence for a short stretch of time, staring at each other and wondering how the hell it all came down to this. Suddenly the fear I should've felt outside with the Isolates hit me like a barrage of bullets, and I began to teeter back and forth on both feet, trying to keep my wits from succumbing to dizziness: to the jittery weight trying to bring me down.
Your family, Michael. Be strong. Don't give in now!
It didn't really matter, I thought, and before I could say anything to Christine, I collapsed to the floor.
I came to, immediately worried about Christine and Jessica. Christine's face came into view, a cool washcloth in her hand swathing my brow. I tried to perch up on my elbows, but fatigue had me in full grasp, and I slumped back to the floor in exhaustion.
"Don't move," Christine said. "Not yet."
She continued to comfort me with the washcloth. Minutes passed before I could find the strength to ask, "How long was I out for?"
"Only a few minutes."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," she answered, nodding slightly.
"Jessica?"
"Sleeping on the couch."
Despite the apparent security of the moment, I felt a vague sense of worry prodding my mind. I kept asking myself, what if it doesn't work? Then what? Are we all dead, like Neil Farris? Perhaps not. After all, they let the widow Farris go. I wondered if that might've been part of the arrangement, if Farris had been forced to sacrifice himself for the sake of his family. Or was it perhaps just another part of the Grand Scheme? Maybe the widow Farris had taken up a position of border sentry, watching the coming and goings (mostly comings) of those on the outskirts of Ashborough. Like those Sam Huxtable had talked about.
I questioned whether I'd be man enough to surrender my life for the guaranteed safety of my family, but soon realized that only a failure would escape their tormentors through death. This consideration came to me unprovoked, as no other alternative seemed to exist; only one road led out of Ashborough, and it would be traveled with my family in tow. I clenched my teeth with frustration and worry and wondered how this would all play out. Either life or death, I figured. There didn't seem to exist some acceptable medium. I took a deep breath, held it, and blew it out long and slow, trying to calm my body and mind of the anxiety of the moment.
Somewhere along the line, I passed out again.
In my swoon, I recalled having a dream. A nightmare. Old Lady Zellis had returned from the dead to touch me with her wicked ways, spoiling all my intentions and fixing everything I'd accomplished up until this point. She escorted me back to the circle of stones and stood there beside me as the cannibal Isolates gorged themselves on a smiling Lou Scully, who lay naked and spread-eagled on the big center stone. Lou Scully...in the past he'd acted as a friend, helping me to find this place...this place that was supposed to have been my haven, but turned out to be my bane. At the time he seemed to be a Godsend... now, as far as I could tell, he'd very much been an acting participant in the Grand Scheme, either with purposeful intent, or as a manipulated pawn wholly
ignorant of his actions. Regardless, it didn't really matter. He'd led us here, a harbinger of our fates. So I gazed around the surreal scene, pulling my sights away from the man whom I suddenly detested. And from out of nowhere Phillip and Rosy Deighton appeared. They began helping themselves to Lou's flesh, clawing it away in strips and stuffing it gleefully into their gaping mouths just as the Isolates did. Blood poured down their chins, and it was at this moment I realized that Rosy was the woman she used to be before she'd obtained her disfiguring injuries, her jaw complete, her skin unblemished. To my right I heard a barking noise. I turned away from the feeding and saw Lauren Hunter, just as she'd been in her previously untouched state: neatly clothed, tanned, her hair and make-up perfectly attended to. She sat cross-legged in the soil alongside one of the vertical stones, smiling and clapping her hands in a monotonic rhythm and periodically breaking the cadence with a series of dog-like barks. The tone of the barks sounded eerily familiar, and when a deer suddenly appeared alongside her, I realized that she'd been emulating the horrid bleats of the dying deer in my shed. I looked down at Old Lady Zellis, who used a crooked finger to point toward the left. When I looked in that direction, I saw Sam Huxtable. He was riding atop the back of another deer and guiding it across the open area to the center stone. When he got there, he jumped down and reached deep into Lou's open stomach (who crazily, was still smiling at me, eyebrows leaping up and down as if to crudely say, nice set of titties on that bitch, eh, Michael?) and removed a liver or a kidney, caught it before it slipped through his fingers, and slurped it down his throat in a jerking reflexive motion, as though he were taking a mouthful of pills.
All the players were here, smiling gleefully as the feast went on and on.
And then suddenly, rising behind the tallest white stone to a height of the trees behind it, was an unnamable creature, with dark hairy skin and glowing golden eyes that spotlighted the six twisting horns and long braided hair atop its head. All those in attendance stopped what they were doing, turned their attention from me and peered up at this great black beast whose long yellow claws gripped the top of the tallest stone before it. And then, in the span of a blink, Christine was here, walking—no, floating—into the scene from behind me. I leaned out to grab her but she moved forward out of my reach, unaware of me or ignoring my presence. I tried to scream but only a harsh whisper emerged from my sore throat. I tried to move but my feet were glued to the ground, and when I looked down I saw that I was buried into the soil up to my ankles, Isolate claws emerging from the earth, gripping my calves. The crowd parted, pulling Lou Scully's body with them, leaving the center stone bare save for the thick wash of blood coating its surface. Christine shed her clothing and sat down on the center stone. Her eyes were empty and glazed, staring up at the great creature who stepped out from behind the stone. Its entire body rippled like water, as though insects crawled just beneath the surface of its skin. Clumps of mud and wet leaves fell from its hairy skin in rotten clumps. It emitted a powerful odor, like that of the leaves in Old Lady Zellis's basement—like Rosy Deighton's tea. It then leaned down on its knees, one claw breaking its fall. The other gripped what appeared to be its penis, a black mottled spade erect and secreting yellow fluid. Its eyes glowed a miraculous gold.
Deep in the Darkness Page 25