Island 731

by Jeremy Robinson

  These are the failures, Hawkins thought.

  He pushed forward, intending to slosh through the gelatinous puddle, but a second explosion of glass and gel stopped him in his tracks. The creature that emerged had a powerful chimplike body. Its face was distorted, like some kind of pushed-in pig’s snout. It turned toward them as gel dripped from its black fur-coated limbs. The creature snapped its jaws open and closed, revealing a mix of long incisors and canines—like a beaver’s teeth combined with a wolf’s. A nasty bite.

  Hawkins raised the rifle to fire, but a sudden alarm sounded, distracting him and the creature. Warning lights flashed all around. A voice spoke, in English. “Warning. Containment breach detected. Burn will commence in one minute. Please vacate immediately.”

  Hawkins pulled the trigger.

  The creature spun with a squeal as the round punched through its chest and burst out its back.

  “Let’s go!” Hawkins resumed his charge for the door, but more shattering glass stopped him. Something large stepped out of one of the center tanks, cutting off his path. He fired twice, but only managed to get the monster’s attention. With a grunt, it turned toward him. The bulbous body was hairless. Sagging gray flesh covered much of its features, but not the tusks protruding from beneath its jowls, or the claws on its hands, which looked more like talons than actual hands.

  Hawkins backed away and shouted in surprise when Bray took his shoulder.

  “We can’t get out that way,” Bray said. “But maybe up there!” He pointed to the ceiling above the third-floor walkway, where a ladder led to a hatch in the ceiling. “I saw a ladder running down the outside.”

  Hawkins didn’t wait. By his count, they had just thirty seconds to escape the “burn,” and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant. The path to the elevator at the back of the room had been blocked by a spreading layer of gel and waking creatures that either flopped on the floor or gathered their wits. “The stairs!” he shouted, charging up the metal steps.

  As they rounded the top of the stairs, a resounding crash split the air over their heads. Clear gel rained down from the floor above, coating the men. Hawkins winced as the scent of noxious chemicals and excrement covered his body. But still, he ran. The countdown would not wait for him to clean himself off.

  At the top of the third floor, the creature that had escaped its containment vessel and covered Hawkins and Bray with fluid got to its feet. It had the body of a lynx and the head of a lop-eared bunny. At first glance, the thing appeared pitiful and harmless, with its water-logged, long ears. But it had the cat’s aggression, and dove for Hawkins’s leg, retractable claws extended, sharp incisors ready to puncture flesh.

  Bray swung down hard with a shout, separating rabbit from cat. As the body convulsed, the pair ran to the ladder.

  Glass shattered all around them. The cries and shrieks of the escaped chimeras began to sound like a zoo full of agitated animals—which wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Ten seconds,” came the feminine voice. “Nine.”

  “Go!” Hawkins shouted.

  Bray started up the ladder rungs. Hawkins followed close behind. Bray paused at the hatch. He fought with the lever for a moment, but then tugged it ninety degrees counterclockwise, unlocking the hatch.

  “Five.”

  Bray pushed up the hatch with a grunt and climbed quickly up.

  “Three.”

  A loud hiss below Hawkins turned his eyes down as he climbed. A mist of liquid shot from nozzles all around the large chamber.

  “Two.”

  Hawkins emerged into the light of day, yanked his feet out of the hole, and rolled to the side.

  “One.”

  Bray slammed the hatch shut, but didn’t lock it. Instead, he dove away from the hatch and covered his head.

  A muffled whump rippled through the concrete. The roof shook beneath Hawkins.

  The unsecured hatch rocketed open and then, torn from its hinges, launched into the air, chased by a forty-foot-tall column of fire. Heat washed over Hawkins. He covered his face and rolled away from the flames.

  Then, as quickly as it began, the flames shrank away. Whatever fuel had been sprayed into the building’s interior had been burned away. And since the majority of the building’s contents—concrete, metal, and glass—didn’t burn, the building structure remained intact. Black smoke—all that remained of the twisted menagerie—billowed from the open hatch.

  “If they didn’t know where we were before,” Bray said, climbing to his feet, “they know now.”

  Hawkins stood. “They knew before.”

  “You think the pressure we felt was some kind of signal?”

  With a nod, Hawkins said, “I felt the same thing before Jim attacked. He had some kind of implant where his ears should have been.”

  Bray winced.

  “I think that pressure we’re feeling is actually a sound. A tone maybe. Just out of the range of human hearing. I think most of the chimeras here, with the exception of the crocs, have been trained to obey audio commands. The tones. The bells. The—”

  “—horn,” Bray finished. “We heard it just before DeWinter was taken.”

  “And before Joliet was taken.”

  As though on cue, the horn ripped through the air. The deep bass tremble of the horn sounded louder than ever. Both men covered their ears until the five-second-long blast finished.

  Hawkins raised the rifle. He’d lost count of the number of rounds he had left, but thought there were at least three or four. But there was nothing to shoot. They stood alone atop the massive, slightly domed roof. Most of the 360-degree view was jungle, but Hawkins could see the orchard, garden, and farm beyond. On the other side of the building was a dirt road that wrapped around a bend. Hawkins drew an imaginary line where he thought the road would lead and found a bit of light gray concrete that signified the presence of another, newer building. He pointed to it. “Let’s go that way.”

  Bray headed to the building’s side. “The ladder is over here.”

  Just a few steps into his dash for the ladder, Bray flinched and grabbed his shoulder. “Ow!”

  Hawkins rushed to his side. “What happened?”

  “Felt like something stung me,” Bray said.

  Hawkins knew that bullet wounds could sometimes feel like insect bites when the victim had no context for the pain. It would hurt like hell a few seconds later, but the initial pinch of bullet piercing skin could be deceptively minor. He pulled Bray’s hand away from his shoulder and was happy to see no blood. What he did find was a small, oily stain and the remains of a small plastic capsule.

  “Smells like flowers,” Bray observed.

  Hawkins nodded. It was the same smell Joliet had pointed out before she’d been taken. He didn’t think it was a coincidence.

  The horn.

  The scent.

  Bray was about to be taken.

  Hawkins slapped his hand on his back. “Ouch!” His hand came away wet with oil.

  He spun, looking for whoever was shooting at them. The small, plastic balls couldn’t travel far. He found his answer at the ladder.

  Kam climbed into view. He was dressed, as usual, in blue pants and a red polo shirt. Only his Red Sox cap was missing. There were two additions to the outfit, though. He had one handgun tucked into his waist, and another in his hand, aimed at Hawkins.

  “Kam?” Bray said. “What the hell?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bray,” Kam said. His voice held no amount of malice. The apology sounded genuine.

  Bray took a menacing step toward Kam, but Hawkins grabbed his arm, stopping him cold. “Hold on.”

  Kam walked toward them, stopping halfway between them and the roof.

  “Are you okay, Kam?” Hawkins asked, thinking about how Jim had been altered. As much as it seemed Kam was complicit, it was possible he simply had no choice. “Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you?”

  Kam flinched with surprise. “You’re concerned for me?”


  “You’re my friend,” Hawkins said.

  A frown appeared on Kam’s face. “I am sorry.” He pulled the trigger twice.

  Hawkins looked down and found a dart buried in his chest. He yanked it out, but knew he was too late. His legs already felt weak.

  Bray fell to his knees. He tugged a dart from his shoulder. Then he slumped forward onto the roof, unconscious.

  Hawkins fought to stay upright. He knew what was coming, even before he felt its hot breath on his neck, before its shadow fell over him. The horn somehow activated the creature. The scent, maybe some kind of pheromone or powerful extract, provided a target.

  With a shout, Hawkins raised the rifle and turned.

  The weapon was pulled easily from his grasp and smashed on the concrete roof.

  His vision blacked out for a moment, but a tight, painful compress around his already bruised ribs ripped him back to consciousness long enough for him to look the thing in the face. It stared at him through the horizontal, rectangular pupils of a goat. The skin above its heavy brows was tinged green and looked crocodilian. It’s open mouth held the teeth of a big cat and its ears, which stuck out like two orchid petals, belonged to some form of bat. But the facial structure—the shape of the eyes, the nose, the brows, the soft-looking skin—they were all human.

  And feminine.

  Despite all of the disparate species blended into just the face of this chimera, it didn’t look like some kind of haphazard Frankenstein’s monster. It was a single, purposeful design that brought several different animal traits together and made them look almost like they belonged together.

  The horrible face was the last thing Hawkins saw before losing consciousness. But the last thing Hawkins heard was Kam’s voice shouting, “Be careful. Don’t hurt him, Mother!”

  38.

  Hawkins flinched awake, confused and disoriented. His eyes opened, but he couldn’t see. He could hear, but the ambient background noise sounded muffled. He breathed through his nose, but smelled only his own breath. Cool air caressed the bare skin of his arms and legs, but his face felt warm and stuffy.

  There’s a hood over my head.

  The hood was a mixed blessing. On one hand, he was blind to his surroundings. On the other, his captors wouldn’t know he was awake. He focused on his senses, paying attention to his body first. He lay on his side atop a hard but smooth surface. Wood, he thought. His wrists were bound, but his feet were free, which meant he was most likely in some kind of cell.

  He tried listening again, but the only sound he could distinguish was the slight buzz of electricity. Power meant that he was being kept in one of the newer buildings, but that wasn’t exactly helpful information.

  Hawkins tried to remember some words of wisdom passed down from Howie GoodTracks, but came up with nothing. The man knew everything about tracking and hunting, but being held captive never came up. Yes, it did, Hawkins thought. Be the more aggressive predator. When the time came, Hawkins would put that advice to good use again. It wouldn’t matter against the monster he’d seen before losing consciousness, but he’d rather die fighting than end up like Jim.

  “Hey!” Bray shouted from someplace nearby. He shouted again, more loudly. “Hey! Let me the hell out of here!”

  Hawkins wanted to shush the man, but couldn’t without revealing that he, too, was awake.

  “Bray, is that you?”

  Hawkins recognized the new voice. Jones.

  “What about Hawkins? And Drake?” This voice belonged to Blok.

  Bennett had been wrong about the entire crew. They’d been taken, but not killed. Not yet, anyway. And Hawkins knew the reason: Why kill a perfectly good test subject?

  Hawkins waited, hoping to hear Joliet’s voice, but only heard one other person, Bennett himself, weeping not too far away.

  “Where are we?” Bray asked.

  “Don’t know,” Blok said. “We’ve been masked the whole time.”

  Bray grunted, probably sitting up. “Is Hawkins here?”

  “Haven’t heard him,” Jones said. “Did you all see Jackie anywhere?”

  “No,” Bray replied. His voice burned with rage. “But we know who brought us here.”

  “Was Kam,” Bennett said with something resembling a sob.

  “We heard the son of a bitch talking to someone when Bennett was brought in,” Blok said. “Whoever brought you in didn’t say a word,” Blok added.

  “It was Kam,” Bray said. “He tranquilized Hawkins and me.”

  “Kam carried you?” Blok asked, sounding dubious. “You’re at least twice his size.”

  After a few moments of silence, Bray asked, “How sure are you guys that we’re alone?”

  Nobody answered.

  Hawkins wanted to second Bray’s observation, but remained silent. If they weren’t alone, whoever was listening in would be learning far more about them than vice versa.

  “Actually, I’m right here.”

  Kam’s voice was so close that Hawkins couldn’t stop himself from flinching and revealing his ruse. Dammit! He felt a tug on his head and the black shroud was yanked away. Brilliant white light forced his eyes shut. He took a slow, squinted look and found Kam squatting beside him, a hood in his hands and a frown on his face. For a moment, he looked like the same sheepish kid Hawkins had come to know aboard the Magellan. He looked almost apologetic. And then he mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  Hawkins nearly replied aloud, but when Kam saw this, his expression became pleading. If he’s mouthing the words, Hawkins realized, he doesn’t want someone to hear. Maybe some part of the kid really did regret what he was doing, but it didn’t change the fact that he had captured all of them.

  The apologetic expression disappeared as Kam stood up. “You can speak now, Ranger.”

  In a flash, Hawkins remembered the last time he’d heard Kam’s voice. Mother. He called the monster “Mother.” Was it just a name, or was that thing somehow Kam’s actual mother?

  “Hawkins?” Bray said. “You’re here?”

  “Yeah, Eight. I’m here.” Hawkins turned toward Bray’s voice. He was sitting on a metal bench in a cell identical to Hawkins’s—thirty-six square feet surrounded by metal bars. The smooth, gray floor held a drain at the sloped center. The cells were modern, but ultimately not very dissimilar to those of the old laboratory. Beyond Bray, Hawkins saw Jones, Blok, and Bennett, bound with plastic cuffs and sitting in identical cells, each with a hood over their heads.

  Kam stepped back, out of the cell, and locked the door. It was a simple sliding lock, like an animal cage. If not for the plastic cuffs, it would be easy to escape. Hawkins strained at his bonds. There would be no breaking them, nor slipping free.

  When Kam stepped to Bray’s cell and unlocked the door, Hawkins got a view of the rest of the room. It wasn’t just a holding cell, it was a surgical suite! The bright light filling the room came from an array of floodlights hanging down from the ceiling above a single operating table. The brushed metal surface was clean, but the floor around it was stained red from blood. There had clearly been some effort put into cleaning the mess and keeping the place sanitary, but whatever surgery had taken place here recently had been mopped up hastily. Next to the table were two carts. The first was empty, but no doubt meant for holding tools of the trade. The second was full of monitoring equipment and held a portable defibrillator, just in case the subject tried to go and die before the mutilation was complete.

  Glass cabinets lined the walls. They were packed with medical supplies, lines of orange plastic pill containers, thick brown glass bottles, and an array of well-organized cleaning supplies. Bright blue rubber aprons hung by the exit. Matching gloves and boots rested on a bench below. On the wall opposite the supplies was a pegboard similar to the one in the barn’s slaughter shed, and some of the tools hanging from the pegs looked similar—hacksaws, scalpels, scoops, forceps, clamps, retractors, scissors, and drills. Below the wall of tools was a countertop. It held a small refrigerator, two microscope
s, rows of tubes, syringes, and other nonsurgical tools. A flat-screen monitor on a swiveling arm was mounted above the microscopes.

  This is Charles Manson’s dream come true, Hawkins thought.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Bray said. His hood had been removed and he was looking over the room.

  Kam moved from cell to cell, removing hoods and relocking doors. He waited in silence as each man expressed his revolt at their surroundings. He was never rough. Never cruel. Almost polite. This was not the kind of man who kidnaps his friends. So who is pulling his strings? Maybe no one. The apology could have been a deception, like everything else on this island.

  “Is this where you did it?” Bray asked. “Where you operated on Jim?”

  “What happened to Jim?” Bennett asked, eyes wide. The kid was in shock. Hawkins didn’t know how Bennett ended up here, but guessed he’d been plucked from his hiding spot by the big chimera. That encounter probably did a number on his psyche.

  “He was mutilated,” Hawkins said. “Blades attached to his wrists. Eyes removed. Ears replaced with some kind of devices. And he’d been lobotomized.” Hawkins knew the news wouldn’t be received well by his cellmates, but he wanted to see Kam’s reaction. He had none, aside from a slight frown.

  “What about Ray?” Bennett asked. “Where is he?”

  Hawkins turned to Bennett. He looked like a shell-shocked POW, but still had the presence of mind to ask all the right questions.

  Jones stood and kicked the bars of his cell. “And Jackie! Where the hell is my daughter!”

  “Ray did not survive his alterations,” Kam said after a moment. “Jackie is … alive.” He turned to Hawkins. “As is Joliet.”

  “‘Alive’ isn’t exactly the same as okay,” Hawkins said. “Is it?”

  Kam turned away.

  “Why are you doing this?” Jones shouted. “Tell me, you son of a bitch!”

  Kam stood still, head nodded toward the floor. Hawkins couldn’t tell if he felt bad, was deep in thought, or indifferent to the questions.