The Vivisectionist

by Ike Hamill

  Jack returned to the exam room and fixed a look of concern on his face as he ran to Stephen. “Are you okay?” Jack asked.

  Stephen had wriggled out of his blindfold, but faced the wrong way. When Jack helped him up, Stephen scrutinized Jack with half-lidded eyes.

  “I’m going to pull this off,” Jack motioned to the tape. “You’ve got to believe me — it was the only way to fool him,” Jack pleaded. Tears welled up and carved tracks down Jack’s face. He reached to the tape, grabbed a corner, and flinched as he pulled the tape off in one quick motion.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked Stephen, unmoved by Jack’s emotion. “Untie me, now,” he ordered.

  “Of course, sure,” said Jack. He stood and came back down with his mom’s big knife. “Hold still,” he said as he cut Stephen’s hands free. Jack moved down and worked on the tape binding Stephen’s legs. He sniffed back more tears. “You gotta understand, he could see and hear everything. I had to fool you so we could fool him.”

  “Right,” said Stephen. “I should kick your fucking ass.”

  “I know, I know,” begged Jack. “But please, he killed Gabe and I had to trick him. The only way I could think was to trick you.”

  “I thought you said he was over in New Mexico — what’s he even doing here?”

  Jack had just finished cutting the tape around Stephen’s legs and he sat back on his heels, considering the question. He looked down at the knife in his right hand an then set it aside quickly, lowering his eyes. When he looked back up, Stephen thought Jack looked sheepish and a bit pitiful.

  “Jeez,” said Jack as he looked away, “I’ve got a lot of stuff to tell you that I couldn’t say before. I’ve come here a couple of times without you so I could do some exploring.”

  Stephen had waited for Jack to put down the knife. Then, he saw his opportunity. Stephen slowly pulled back his right leg and grabbed it around the knee with both hands, as if to stretch a sore muscle. He kept his voice calm and said, “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me exactly what’s been going on.”

  As Stephen finished his sentence, he released his knee and shot his foot forward towards Jack’s face. His heel connected perfectly with Jack’s chin, snapping Jack's head back and away. Jack rocked back and straightened his own legs to flee the attack. The angle of his body, now tipped back, sent the back of Jack’s head directly towards the base of the exam chair. With that contact, Jack’s arms sailed out for a second and then his whole body went limp and collapsed on the floor next to Stephen’s legs.

  “Jack?” asked Stephen. He had seen people knocked out in mixed martial arts fights on television, and was pretty certain that Jack was unconscious. Stephen crawled away, grabbed the knife, and then got to his feet halfway to the door. By the time he reached at the door, Stephen moved fast, unsure where to go. In the bright hall he saw the crumpled form in a large pool of blood to his right, so he bolted down the hall to the left.

  Jack’s left leg started to twitch first, then his eyelids began to flutter. His chin dropped and his head slumped, causing him to snore on his next inhale, which roused him. He opened his eyes and stretched his head back, trying to make his neck feel normal. He lifted his right hand and gingerly touched the back of his head where blood matted down his hair. Jack leaned over and considered the floor. His head throbbed and he couldn’t quite remember the last few moments.

  Drool dripped from Jack’s mouth to the tile floor. He wiped it with the back of his right hand, his left hand still propping him up. The first thing to come back to Jack was his plan. Then, slowly, the details of which steps he had already executed. The answer flashed in his memory — Stephen. He had failed to convince him and Stephen had run. Jack felt disappointed, but not desperate. He had predicted trouble in this area and had considered a backup plan.

  Jack rolled to his knees and rose slowly, leaning heavily on the chair for support. With his feet in a wide stance, and his left arm still bracing against the chair, Jack raised his head. His left ear was ringing so he turned his right towards the doorway and listened. He expected to hear running, frantic footsteps, but heard nothing. Jack wondered how long he had been unconscious — it seemed like just an instant.

  A buzzing sound leaked from the overhead speaker. Jack jerked his head up and winced at the throbbing response from his neck. He realized that he recognized the buzzing sound just as bass and drums kicked in. Music came through the speakers, and compared to the scratchy voice, the fidelity was quite high.

  After two measures of bass, drums, and buzzing, another sound joined the mix — it sounded like imitation seagulls played with kazoos.

  “The feel of the sun on my back makes me want to burrow into the earth,” sang a voice. Now Jack could identify at least the band — his dad played music from this band.

  He listened and then started to consider the possible implications of the song. “Taste the soft damp dirt,” continued the lyric. “And be alone with the rocks.”

  Jack circled behind the chair and grabbed the gun from the counter. He stuffed some of his supplies back into his pack and carefully shouldered it, while pointing the gun at the doorway. Moving cautiously, and still favoring his hurt foot, Jack approached the doorway. He wondered if the music could have started on a timer, but that didn’t seem likely. Someone played this music on purpose, to tell Jack that he wasn’t alone here. He reminded himself that he had three shots left in the gun.

  Jack approached the door from an oblique angle, so he could see down the hall to where the bull-man had come from. Pointing the gun, he approached the door and whipped his head around the jam to see down the other direction. He saw closed doors. One belonged to the pole room, and another to the closet where he had found the dolly, but the other doors had been locked each time he had tried them.

  He backed away and thought through these new facts. The music suggested to him that the man on the floor was not alone, and Jack might have an even more formidable adversary awaiting him. Furthermore, he had lost track of Stephen. Jack prioritized and figured his most important goal was to locate the other player, or determine that he and Stephen were now alone. He had lost the element of surprise, if indeed he had ever had it, but Jack trusted himself and his ability to deal with any problem that might arise.

  Immediately after starting forward, an encouraging thought occurred to Jack: this was just part of the game. The last time Jack had explored this hallway, he had uncovered all the unlocked doors and the locked ones were impenetrable. But, he reasoned, there must be a way to solve this problem if he thought about it. Once he opened himself to this possibility, another thought occurred to Jack. He had seen an electronic device mounted next to one of the doors that he had guessed was a fingerprint reader. If that was true then he might already have the key to that door.

  Jack just needed to get the dead man’s hand down to the door to test his theory. With the safety set, Jack tucked the gun under his belt and walked down the hall to inspect the device. Crouching, he examined the black box. It had a thin indentation with a metallic strip area across the middle. He swiped his own finger down the indentation and a red light flashed. It flashed twice and was accompanied by two high-pitch beeps. Jack smiled.

  He returned to the body and stopped at the edge of the puddle of blood. Jack braced himself against the wall and leaned over to grab the man’s right hand. Thick goo covered the side of the man's palm. The blood had already begun to coagulate, and it dripped in thick clots to the floor as Jack held the thumb. Jack stayed cautious — he didn’t want to ruin his clothes by smearing them with this man’s blood.

  Carefully arranging his grip, he pulled the cold hand. The dead man slid, but it was tough going and a wave of clot-blood rolled towards Jack’s shoes as soon as he stopped pulling. Jack decided on an easier way to accomplish his task.

  He stepped around the pool of blood again and returned to the examination room. A quick look around turned up no knife, but he did find some wickedly sharp in
struments in one of the unlocked cabinets. The tool he chose measured almost eight inches long and looked like a miniature saw. The leading edge was serrated, and then became a straight, razor-sharp edge. Jack admired the reflective gleam and headed back to the body.

  Jack arranged the hand on the floor so that the right index finger was spread from the rest of the hand. He backed away as far as he could and raised the knife a couple of feet above the finger. He swung. The bone stopped the leading edge of the blade. The butt of the blade clanged against the floor. Jack grunted and frowned. He pulled the end of the finger and sawed through the second knuckle easily.

  Pinching the severed finger between his index finger and thumb, Jack returned to the door. He lined up the finger on the reader and swiped. The red light flashed twice as the unit beeped a rejection.

  “Shit!” exclaimed Jack. He looked around quickly, suddenly conscious of himself.

  Jack backed away from the door and tried to see it for the first time. His face lit up as he realized his mistake — the reader was on the left side of the door, so it might read only the left hand. He also realized that it might not be keyed to an index finger. The thumb was another likely candidate.

  He set the finger on the floor and returned to the body to collect the other digits. The left hand was harder to get at — when the man had collapsed, he had pinned his left hand underneath himself. Jack worked the arm free, still trying to stay clean. The index finger was easy, but the thumb gave Jack problems. He couldn’t seem to find a gap between bones and ended up sawing down the side of the man’s hand.

  Now, with both hands gripping a severed digit, Jack returned to the door. He tried the thumb first. He figured it was least likely to be the one, and he wanted to eliminate it. The red light flashed and the unit beeped.

  Jack set the thumb down and tried his last hope. He flubbed the swipe and the red light flashed once, with no noise. He took a deep breath, exhaled and then tried again. Jack dropped the finger in his excitement when the light flashed green. He heard a distant buzzing and a light “click” near the door handle.

  With no thought about the consequences, Jack reached out and pulled open the door. As the door opened, Jack had a brief glimpse of a tall figure on the other side, silhouetted by bright lights. Two metal probes shot out from the figure. Jack heard a tiny explosion from the man’s Tazer, followed by a crackle that seemed to come from inside Jack’s head.

  Just before his neck tightened, Jack’s gaze flew to his own chest where a red dot, centered on his heart, was framed by two metal spikes trailing tiny wires.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Boy

  The man stalked down the hall. The boy barely registered the approach of his pursuer. Some deep part of the boy’s brain still harbored hope and for one absurd moment he wished the man would walk right by. That hope died as the man drew alongside the boy and stopped. The man bent down and grabbed the boy’s ankles.

  The boy slumped as the man dragged him by the ankles away from the wall. His head flopped back and struck the floor; he looked up into the bright lights. They burned blue and yellow negatives on his eyes. He couldn’t see any of the man’s features — the glare and after-image were still affecting his eyes.

  With one hand, the man lifted the boy by the collar of the the lab coat. The man grabbed his shoulders and turned him around, pushing him towards the door. Reaching over the boy’s shoulder, the man opened the door. The door swung open to reveal an exam room; either the same one the boy had been trapped in before, or one exactly like it.

  The deep part of the boy’s brain, buried under layers and layers of numbness, acknowledged the exam room and registered no surprise.

  The man's rough hand pressed the boy forward and he zombie-walked towards the chair. The man moved him like a puppet, sitting him down and arranging his limbs in the chair before strapping him down. Back in the man’s chair, the boy felt an urge to protest — he had come so close to escaping, and could have tried his luck at the window. His urge to fight began to rekindle as the man tightened the straps. Despite this new activity deep in his thoughts, the boy’s expression remained slack and lifeless.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said the man.

  Now the boy wanted to struggle, but his limbs felt far away and foreign.

  “I’ve seen it all before. You came really close. I thought you were going to be the one. We could have learned a lot from each other.”

  In his desperation, the boy finally found his own voice.

  “Wait,” said the boy. “You lied to me before.”

  The man grew serious, and answered slowly — “I told you exactly what I needed to tell you.”

  “You said I would forget all this some day, and that it would be okay. But now you’re going to hurt me, aren’t you?” the boy asked.

  “That’s very astute,” said the man. “You get bonus points for paying attention, but I’m afraid they’re not going to help you much.” He paused and gathered his thoughts. “If you had passed all the tests, you would have remained unscathed. Unfortunately, you’ve failed today, and that means I have no more use for you.”

  “Then why am I still strapped to this chair?” asked the boy.

  “I follow a method,” explained the man. “Strapping you to the chair is part of that method. It’s like when your mom tells you to fasten your seatbelt, but you’ve already got it on. She can’t help saying that — it’s a compulsion. I’m the same way with this chair.”

  The boys eyes darted left and right, while he tried to figure out how the man knew about his mom. She always told him to buckle up, even after he'd just done it. That was one of their private jokes. He wondered how long the man had been spying on him, or perhaps if he could just read minds.

  “I can’t read your mind,” said the man. “If that’s what you were wondering.”

  The man walked past the boy and pulled open a drawer. Straining to look over his shoulder, the boy saw the man drawing clear liquid into a syringe.

  “So, what are you going to do to me?” asked the boy.

  “Well,” the man walked back to the boy and held up the syringe, “this is going to put you to sleep. Then, I’m going to move you to that tub and bleed you out.”

  “Why?” asked the boy. His voice wavered.

  “Honestly, you’re just not the one I wanted, so now I have to get rid of you and move on to the next one,” replied the man.

  “I can be the one you want,” said the boy. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “I can’t tell you how to be a fearless predator,” said the man. “I might as well tell you to be a different species.”

  “But you said I came really close,” said the boy.

  “You did. You escaped when you were supposed to, evaded me, killed that cat. You did almost everything. But I needed to see that extra bit of ruthlessness,” said the man.

  “Just give me one more chance,” said the boy. “I’ll do it right.”

  “Okay,” said the man. “Just this once.”

  The man grabbed the boy’s wrist and pulled his arm to straighten it. A vein popped up on the boy’s arm, and the man pierced it quickly and accurately with his needle. A second later and the boy felt a warm flood spill over his senses.

  “Why?” asked the boy again. He meant to ask more, but it was all that would come out.

  “There’s no second chance,” said the man as he pulled out the needle.

  The boy felt himself slipping away.

  CHAPTER 22

  Stephen

  Stephen ran out of the exam room and then away from the dead man to his right. He clutched the knife with the tip facing down. He saw several doors down the hall and reached one on the right first.

  The door opened inward and had a light switch on the wall next to the frame. Stephen pushed open the door and then flicked on the lights. A single bare bulb lit up a storage closet. Gray metal shelves lined one wall and held stacks of big bottles. To him they looked like large bleach bott
les like the one his mom kept in their laundry room.

  He shut the closet and moved down down the hall. Stephen didn’t want to get boxed in to a small space. The next door looked serious — big, solid, and metal, but it was locked.

  A few feet down, a door was cracked open. Stephen pushed it open and immediately backed up, closing the door again. He remembered that smell. It was the smell of the gas that had made him pass out. He cracked the door enough to feel around the corner and found a switch on the wall. When he flipped the switch, lights came on in the room and he pushed the door open but he stayed in the hallway.

  He saw the pole and the cage. He pulled up his shirt to cover his mouth and nose and stepped into the room. The gas wasn't nearly as strong, and barely made him light-headed. The pole was no help to him. He gave it a try, but couldn't even climb the rope in gym class, so he didn't expect to get anywhere. The room had no other obvious exits.

  Something about the ceiling caught his attention. Not a particular feature — the ceiling was smooth and white, except for the big hole around where the pole came through — but it stood much higher in here than in the other rooms or the hall. He poked his head back in the hall, saw only the dead guy, and looked up at the ceiling. The ceiling was definitely lower in the hall. He shut the door to the pole room and tried the rest of the doors. They were all locked.