“Calm down,” I scolded. “The train won’t sneak up on us.”
“Maybe not,” Sumire responded snidely. “But, then again, who the fuck are they?”
It was like my feet were rooted to the ground, as if the concrete came up to my knees rather than scraping the bottom of my shoes. Sumire pulled on my sleeve and hissed in my ear like a panicked cat, but I could only watch while two men in dark suits descended the stairs in front of us wearing earpieces and sunglasses, so close to identical that they could have twins, complete with matching receding hairlines and noticeable bulges underneath their blazers where shoulder-holsters sat. They were followed by a nurse in traditional whites flanked by two more guys in suits with guns. The nurse was a bitchy-looking redhead with a pinched face and she led April along rather roughly by the wrist. April’s hands were zip-tied together, but she was otherwise unrestrained, though they had her so profoundly drugged that she could barely walk. Bringing up the rear of the group with all the self-assurance of a man certain of his place on top of the world was the person I wanted to least to see.
He noticed me immediately despite our attempts at disguise, and came running over so fast that his immaculately pressed trousers wrinkled, his bald palate flushed and his thin face twisted into a parody of relief and concern. Then he grabbed my hand and shook it so furiously that Sumire flinched, mistaking the gesture for some sort of attack.
“Dr. Tauschen,” he said gently, one hand resting on my shoulder in a gesture that was almost paternal. “Thank God. We have been looking for you everywhere. We’ve been worried sick that we would never see you again, that you were lost forever.”
I wish.
13. Neurasthenia
Command interrupt.
“Preston?”
“Dr. Tauschen?”
“Who are these guys?”
“Who is this girl, Dr. Tauschen?”
“And why do they keep calling you that name? Are you really a doctor? There’s no way some as dumb as you could possibly be a doctor.”
“Wherever did you pick up that name, ‘Preston’? What have you been doing with yourself these last five years? You look, if I may be perfectly frank, rather unwell.”
I brushed aside all questions and concerns excepting my own. The grip I took on Crowley’s lapel could be generously considered rough.
“If you did anything to hurt her…” I warned, my face close to the placid one that had haunted my sleep for years. “Give April back to me now, Crowley. Otherwise things get ugly.”
The guards were not gentle in removing me. I felt a sudden pain in my side when one of them pushed me away from Crowley and knew that stitches had given way. Didn’t matter. I reached for the thing in my front pocket. Sumire took a step forward, so that she was standing next to me on the balls of her feet, her hands open and relaxed, waiting for a guard to advance.
No such luck. Crowley straightened his jacket and gave me a wan smile.
“Things are already rather ugly, wouldn’t you agree? Your recent departure from our Institute was not without casualties, Doctor Tauschen, innocent victims of your mania. By April, I suppose you mean the patient that you kidnapped from the induced savant project? I see that you chose a name for her. I suppose the day and month of her creation is as good a basis as any. We will have to return her to the Restricted Ward for the protection of the populace at large…”
Sumire snarled at him.
“A precaution against what? Are you that afraid of Preston?”
Crowley turned his attention fully to Sumire for the first time. She wilted under his cold eyes and predatory attention, something I could relate to. From the bushy eyebrows to the sharp nose and the shallow brown eyes, his face had haunted me for years, hiding behind my eyes when I wanted to sleep. It seemed wrong that genuine evil could appear so banal.
“Afraid of Dr. Tauschen? Hardly,” Crowley said jovially. “We are simply concerned for our colleague. We collected the experiment that he is calling ‘April Ersten’ because she is a danger to herself and others. We are removing her before that danger can grow any more pronounced. Particularly as our friend and co-worker is directly affected by the situation.”
Sumire shifted her eyes from the nearest guard to Crowley, as if checking to see if he was serious.
“What are you talking about? What experiment?”
“April, since you insist on calling her that, is part of a research project on isolation and facilitated neural dysfunction. Rather, she was part of an attempt to manufacture savants – the main success of the project, as a matter of fact – before she came into contact with the chief physician on the project and drove him seemingly mad. An experiment that was intended, I might add, as the start of a tremendously promising medical career, a puzzle that the doctor in charge fully intended to spend years unraveling. That doctor…”
“Sumire…”
She never even looked my way. Crowley had that affect on people. He never had to request anyone’s attention, because of the fear his presence commanded, his terrible sincerity.
“That doctor is the man you call Preston, the rather excitable fellow standing beside you. I hope you will forgive you our colleague his erratic behavior of late. He had suffered a series of terrible shocks.”
“Now, Sumire. Do it,” I ordered softly, my attention focused completely on April, whose eyes rolled madly in her head like a terrified animal, saliva leaking out of a mouth that she couldn’t close.
“But how can that be?” Sumire glanced over at me helplessly. “Preston’s only a couple years older than April. And he’s an idiot. How can he be her doctor?”
“Dr. Preston was quite a prodigy. He earned his medical license before he was eighteen, and took over the project shortly after. He wasn’t the first staff member we lost to this particular research,” Crowley said, continuing on blithely while the station began to rattle and vibrate. I tasted air pushed from the very depths of the system, air that hadn’t seen light in so many years that it had gone stale. “The project’s first two attending physicians, as well as a number of research assistants and nursing personnel, were similarly affected. As a matter of fact, everyone who has come into contact with the subject has been affected in some way. Most of them, fortunately, were not irrevocably damaged by the experience. Tell me, my dear girl,” Crowley suggested, leaning his long face and pinched chin close to Sumire. “Have you had a great deal of contact with the subject?”
“Ah…”
“Have you noticed any unusual…feelings regarding the subject?” Crowley asked, pronouncing ‘feelings’ with the distaste other people might have used for ‘unexplained sores’ while Sumire stammered and looked from one of us to the other. “An inexplicable concern for her safety, wellbeing and happiness? A sudden and unexplained willingness to suffer in order to protect her?”
“Well, I, uh…”
“You see,” Crowley simpered. “It’s practically a given where this subject is concerned. A most remarkable savant, but suffering from Mean World Syndrome, hallucinogen persisting perception disorder, depersonalization disorder, and a particularly nasty strain of sociopathy. The kind of patient that can make a doctor’s entire career. A wonderful enigma created by the brightest and most unhinged young mind in the Institute.”
“I don’t understand…”
“At the Institute we practice a particularly proactive form of medicine, for lack of a better term. The problem with the conventional study of disease, of course,” Crowley lectured, “is the lack of control. Control over the source and geography of occurrence, the spread of the affliction, and the gender and physiology of the subject affected is needed to do quality research. What, I ask you, is the point of confronting an epidemic once it is already loose in the world, ravaging the populace at large? Would it not be better if a cure were already prepared, waiting in reserve for just such a day? Imagine how many future plagues might be avoided, how many epidemics might die in the cradle?”
Sumire looked aghast
.
“You mean you did all of that stuff to April on purpose?”
“We sacrifice an unfortunate few,” Crowley said with satisfaction, “to save the many, my dear.”
“But… why? What were you hoping to learn from April? What problem does she have that you were hoping to cure?”
“The subject you are referring to is a rather unique case, an innovation, really, in the methods of the Institute. While researching our extensive records on neurological damage and treatment, one of physicians catalogued numerous cases where severe trauma, often in the form of a stroke, caused spontaneous savant-level talents. Talents with every possible application, from mathematics to art. It was thought that with the proper application of social conditions and pharmacological tampering, the effect could be replicated under controlled conditions. Savants, raised, if you will, like vegetables in the garden.”
Sumire’s jaw couldn’t have fallen any further. It would have been comical in any other situation.
“Sumire,” I hissed, hoping to break Crowley’s trance. “Don’t believe him. He’s full of shit.”
“The main trouble with the experiment,” Crowley continued, oblivious to Sumire’s reaction and eager as always to discuss his work, “was that we had no idea exactly which segments of the brain needed to be damaged to produce the required results…”
“That’s why she can’t be alone, why she hates to go outside,” Sumire said icily, flexing her hands at her sides. “That’s why she cries when she watches television. Because you were developing her talent for languages. Because you wanted a savant.”
“I can hardly take all the credit,” Crowley said modestly. “While I admit to intending to create savants, when young Dr. Tauschen took over the project, the subject that you call April was regarded merely as one of many failures in the pursuit of knowledge. The private language she had developed was considered an oddity, perhaps even a sign of mental impairment. It was Dr. Tauschen who saw the value in the subject, the application of her fascination with language. Without his intervention, she very likely would have been retired from the project as a failure.”
“Is that so?” Sumire asked, standing as rigid as a pole.
“Absolutely. Young Dr. Tauschen oversaw the modification of her treatment and medication, with the entirely successful intent of producing the remarkable, if dangerous, savant that she is today…”
“Now, Sumire. Please.”
My vision was dimmed by the steady fall of dust and iron filings from the station rafters, shaken loose by the increasing vibration. Metal screamed distantly against metal as something woke deep within the bowels of the city. It ran along tracks that groaned from rust and disuse, moving inexorably toward the station through abandoned and forgotten tunnels. The nurse gripped April by both shoulders as she convulsed and shook, white foam leaking from one side of her mouth as she struggled to speak.
“Dr. Tauschen’s success was so complete, it is little wonder that he fell victim to it. Perhaps you, to, have suffered from delusions,” Crowley suggested cheerfully, crowding Sumire. “Perhaps you have found yourself tormented by reoccurring dreams? Tell me, my dear, have you ever received instructions in your sleep? Have you ever had a dream so perfectly realized that you began to question the reality of waking life?”
The whistle came howling up from the tunnel along with gusts of stale, cool air. The hair on my arms stood on end and my whole body vibrated in sympathy with the station around me. April’s knees buckled, and it took both guards and the nurse to keep her upright while she flailed and ground her teeth like an epileptic in the midst of a seizure. Even poor Sumire, who couldn’t have known what was coming, seemed apprehensive, her fists bunched at her sides and her legs bent in a defensive crouch. Crowley’s smile widened by a millimeter, never touching his eyes.
“My dear, you should come with us,” Crowley purred, extending one manicured hand. “For an examination. You may have been adversely affected by prolonged proximity to the subject…”
“Sumire,” I tried once last time. “Please. You have to do it now.”
There was no time to see if she obeyed me. I charged toward April as fast as my feet would carry me across the slick, greasy concrete, head down, arms spread out in front of me. There was no way I was making it through four guys, obviously. But if things went to plan, I wouldn’t have to.
All I needed to do was convince them to kick my ass. The first guy was reaching for a gun inside a holster in the interior of his jacket when I drove my scalpel directly into his throat, pressing until it lodged in his spinal column and the blade snapped with a grotesque sound. His eyes widened and his hands clutched his violated throat, but he never made a noise as he fell. I had already moved past him by the time he hit the ground. I hit the next guard with a shoulder block before he could draw a bead on me with his pistol, wrapping my arms around him in a football tackle and dragging him to the ground, pinned beneath me. It must have hurt, hitting the concrete with his head like that. He must have yelled. I saw his mouth open. But the sound of the train approaching was continuous thunder, as loud as hail on a sheet metal roof. The fillings in my teeth vibrated along with the throbbing of the engine, sinister as a heartbeat, shaking the very roots of the city.
A Black Train.
The other two guards came after me with an aggression that was decidedly unprofessional. I figured that they might not like it when one of them was taken down, so I shrugged off their attempts to grab at me and focused on beating the crap out of their stunned friend. I got in a couple good punches to his dazed and bleeding face before they managed to peel me off of him, then laid me out with a pistol-whip I never even saw.
It only got uglier once I hit the ground. I’m not much of a fighter under the best of circumstances, and these were not the best of circumstances. I couldn’t figure out which part of my body to protect – I held my hands up around my head, but then one of them kicked me in my injured side and my nerves lit up like a winning slot machine. It was all I could do to keep from vomiting, the pain was so astonishing. I think I may have missed a couple follow-up blows, still reeling from that particular kick.
There was no way for me to know whether the plan was working, not from my position. This continued to get worse by the second. All I could do, honestly, was trust in Sumire. Fortunately I had a lot of faith in that girl.
After all, she believed herself to be invulnerable. Even if Sumire was smart enough not to trust me, she trusted April. Of the two of us, she’s a much better liar.
I caught a kick right on the tip of my chin, the tassels on a wingtip slapping my bottom lip. My vision went all sparkly while I writhed, convinced that my jaw was broken. The pain was so intense that I didn’t notice that the guards had stopped kicking me for a long moment. When I looked up, it was as if everything had gone silent.
Of course, it wasn’t. But the Black Train was close, and the whole station shook and rattled in sympathy or dread, debris raining down from unsettled concrete and crumbling tile, the whole underground shuddering in horror at the thing emerging from its forgotten depths.
That’s how it seemed to me, anyway.
Crowley had stumbled to his knees by the yellow safety line when Sumire pushed him aside, his long fingers splayed on the stained concrete reminding me of a spider scurrying across the floor, inspiring instinctive horror. Sumire sprinted on like a track star – a track star being chased by two guys in sunglasses and suits with guns. I couldn’t tell whether the nurse was clutching April to keep her from running or to maintain her own balance. Either way, it wasn’t working very well. April swayed back in forth, following some obscure rhythm embedded in the monstrous clamor of the Black Train.
Sumire’s sneakers damn near slid out from underneath her when she reached April. She rectified the situation by planting her open hand in the nurse’s face, sending her sprawling, while April gently collapsed to the concrete floor. Concern etched across her face, Sumire put a hand on the nape of April’s neck, co
mforting her, seemingly oblivious to the guards and their imminent proximity. Sumire’s hand closed briefly over April’s, delicately stroking the inside of her wrist, leaving behind a fragment of paper browned with age in the palm of April’s hand like a magician’s trick. April turned her drug-addled eyes to Sumire as if she had never seen her before.
“April,” Sumire suggested gently. “Why don’t you read it?”
Then the guards were on them – or rather, they were entangled with a suddenly animated Sumire, who appeared to have tripped one of them while simultaneously grabbing the other in some sort of arm lock.
Crowley shook his head as if it were packed with cotton that he hoped to dislodge, then rose to his feet. Somehow I managed to do the same, ignoring feeble attempts from the battered guard to clutch at my ankles. I’m not sure I would call it walking, but I did stumble in Crowley’s direction, determined to at least drag him to the ground and bleed on him, if that was all I could manage.
Paranoid Magical Thinking (Unknown Kadath Estates) Page 22