Creature (40 page)

“Sick?” Blake echoed. “But—But he was fine this morning.” He glanced at his watch. It was barely ten-thirty. “Christ, I only saw him three hours ago! What’s wrong?”

Harris took a deep breath, then stood up and came around his desk. He leaned against it, gazing down at Blake. “I’m afraid something’s gone wrong with his treatment,” he began.

Blake felt a sudden chill. “I—I’m not sure I understand,” he replied.

Harris’s hands spread in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m not sure I can explain it to you precisely,” he said. “As I told you, Ames is doing experimental work and—”

But Blake didn’t let him finish. He was on his feet now, his eyes sparkling angrily. “Now, just a minute, Jerry. You told me that what he was doing was perfectly harmless.”

Harris shook his head doggedly. “No, I didn’t. I said there was an element of risk to it. Slight, yes, but there.”

Blake’s jaw tightened. “All right,” he said, regaining his composure. “Let’s not argue about that right now. What’s wrong with Mark, and why were you told even before I was?”

Harris’s tongue ran nervously over his lower lip. “I guess Ames thought I should be the one to break it to you.”

Blake sank back into his chair, his face ashen. His voice desolate, he whispered, “He—He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Harris took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Not yet,” he said, and saw the tension in Blake ease slightly. “But I’m not going to tell you it can’t still happen. In fact,” he went on, “you’re going to have to prepare yourself for that possibility.”

Blake stared up at Harris. “No …”he breathed. “You told me—”

Harris’s voice turned cold. “I told you there was an element of risk involved,” he said heavily. “And it was you who signed the releases allowing Ames to treat Mark. Nobody forced you.”

The words struck Blake like a series of blows. So Sharon had been right all along that something was wrong with the sports center, that whatever they were doing out there wasn’t nearly as harmless as Harris had claimed. “Sharon,” he said out loud, “I’ve got to talk to her.”

He started to get to his feet, but Harris stopped him with a gesture. “She’s at the sports center now, Blake.”

For a split-second Blake felt relieved. At least she was there, at least she already knew. Then he realized that Jerry Harris had spoken in the same icy tones he’d used only a moment ago. Before he could say anything else, Harris continued.

“She’s out there trying to make trouble.” His eyes fixed on Blake. “When we talked about this, you told me there’d be no trouble from Sharon. You assured me that she’d go along with what we’re trying to do here!”

Blake’s mind reeled. What the hell was Harris talking about? Was he only worried about the company’s project? And then, with terrible clarity, he realized that that was exactly the case. He’d been used, manipulated into allowing TarrenTech to use his own son as a guinea pig. But it wasn’t possible. The others—

And then he understood.

“Jeff LaConner,” he breathed. “That’s what happened to him, too, isn’t it?”

Harris offered a single nod. “Chuck knew the risks, and he knew the payoff.” As Blake stared mutely at him, his tone softened. “And this doesn’t have to be the end of the world for you, either, Blake. The company is prepared to take care of Mark. If he survives, everything will be done for him. And for you and Sharon, and Kelly, too, life can go on. You’ll be transferred, of course, and there will be a major promotion, with a pay raise in keeping with”—he hesitated, groping for the right word—“well, let’s just say that although your raise can’t possibly compensate for”—he hesitated again, then pushed on—“for your loss, I think you’ll find that it’s surprisingly generous. And, of course, there will be stock options.”

Blake gazed at Jerry Harris, hardly able to recognize him. Was this really the man he’d known for more than a decade and had thought of as a friend? Did he really think that any amount of money, any kind of job, could ever begin to assuage the guilt and loss he would suffer for the rest of his life? It was impossible—incredible! And then he realized that Harris was still speaking.

“…  we’ll take care of Sharon, too, of course, in the event you aren’t able to make her listen to reason. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but—”

Take care of Sharon
.

Kill her.

That was what the words meant. The translations were battering at his mind now; all the true meanings of the euphemisms he’d heard from Jerry Harris over the past weeks.

“New compound …”

That meant experimental medicine. Hormones? Drugs?
Vitamins! How could he have been so stupid!
“We can help Mark …”

That one was easy: we can change your son into someone else. We can make him whatever you want him to be. “Of course, there’s always a slight element of risk.” Your son might die. “We’ll take care of him.”

They’d taken care of Ricardo Ramirez, too, but it hadn’t kept the boy alive. And Harris had already told him Mark was going to die.

“We’ll take care of Sharon.”

We’ll kill her. If you can’t make her listen to reason, if you can’t convince her to keep her mouth shut and be happy with a fancy job for you and unlimited money—for he was quite certain the money would indeed be unlimited—then we’ll kill her.

Suddenly it all closed in on Blake, and a cold fury, only made more intense by the knowledge that he was as much responsible for what had happened as anyone else, coursed through him. He rose to his feet, staring at Jerry Harris.

“What the hell do you think I am?” he demanded. “Do you really believe I’ll trade my son for a raise and a promotion? Do you really think I’ll just stand by and let you kill my wife and son? I thought I knew you, Harris, but I don’t know you at all!”

Blake shoved Harris aside, slamming him hard against the desk, then jerked the door open.

In the outer office, waiting for him, were two uniformed guards. Their guns were drawn and trained steadily on him.

“I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to let you go anywhere, Mr. Tanner,” one of them said.

   Mark woke up slowly, his mind rising grudgingly from the black depths of unconsciousness. For a few minutes the disorientation was total, then fragments of memory began to come back to him.

The terrible headache he’d suffered during his first class of the day.

Going to see the nurse, with Linda Harris walking beside him, supporting him when the blinding waves of pain threatened to knock him to the floor.

The rage that built in the nurse’s office.

Then the terrible confines of the heavy restraints the three attendants had put him in.

He knew where he was now—they’d brought him to the sports center.

He opened his eyes a crack, and for a second was certain that he must be dreaming, for there was heavy wire mesh all around him, fastened to a framework of iron pipes.

He was in a cage.

His eyes popped wide open then, and he swung himself upright, letting his feet drop to the concrete floor of the small cubicle. He was sitting on a bare iron cot that held no mattress whatsoever, and his muscles felt stiff from the cold of the metal. He was still wearing the clothes he’d put on that
morning, but his jeans felt tight, and his shirt, one arm ripped almost completely away from it, had lost most of its buttons.

The upper portion of his left arm felt sore. He rubbed it for a moment before noticing the twin punctures where the two needles had been placed, and the shallow cut where the broken needle had been removed.

His shoes felt too tight, and he bent down, loosened the laces, kicked them off and flexed his toes.

Then he heard a sound.

He glanced around, and for the first time saw the rest of the large room in which he was held captive. There were more cages, lining one entire wall, and in the cage two down from his own he saw a strange creature staring back at him. Its lips, stretched taut over enormous teeth, were working spasmodically, and a strangled sound bubbled ominously from its throat.

Mark frowned. It looked almost like some kind of ape, but it wasn’t like any ape he’d ever seen before. Then, as the sound issuing from its throat began to take form, he felt a chill.

“Maaaarg …” the creature uttered. Then again, a little clearer this time. “Maaarkhh!”

Mark staggered back. It wasn’t possible, and yet as he gazed at the creature and it stood up to reach out to him, its full six-and-a-half feet rising up from the floor where it had been crouching, he realized it was true.

He was staring at what had once been Jeff LaConner.

A scream of horror rose in Mark’s throat, but he stifled it before it managed to escape his lips. His mind was working furiously now, and he was remembering more.

The fits of rage.

Like Jeff had had, before they’d finally taken him away that night.

The strange changes he’d seen in his own face just last night.

His hands rose to his face and he traced his features with his fingers. They felt different now. His brow was jutting
forward, and his nose seemed to have changed, too. And his jaw …

He ran his tongue over the suddenly unfamiliar contours of his teeth. They felt large—too large for his mouth. Then he looked at his hands.

His fingers, long and thick, seemed to splay out from his enlarged knuckles, and where before his skin had been smooth, tufts of hair were now sprouting on the backs of his hands.

His fingernails, thicker than they should have been, were curving downward, almost like claws.

Panic welled up in him, and again he felt the urge to scream. But again he stifled the urge as his eyes flicked wildly around the room, searching for a means of escape.

That was when he saw what had once been Randy Stevens, no longer in the least recognizable as human, huddled in the corner of one of the cages, chewing obsessively at one finger while his eyes darted aimlessly from one place to another.

Then Mark looked up and saw the television monitor suspended from the ceiling, beyond the confines of his cage.

He recognized the image on the screen at once, and this time an enraged scream rose in his throat before he could contain it.

The image on the screen was that of his mother.

She was strapped on a straight-backed chair, a look of abject terror on her face.

As Mark stared at the image, his maniacal howl rose once more, echoing off the tiles that lined the room, bouncing back at him again and again, then becoming lost in the sounds of his next high-pitched shriek of fury.

The door at the end of the long narrow room flew open and three men hurried in. One of them was unreeling a fire hose and another carried a cattle prod. The third man waited nervously by the door, ready to open the valve as soon as the hose was straightened out.

The first attendant jabbed the cattle prod through the wire mesh of the cage, but before he could trigger it, Mark snatched
it from his hands, jerking it into the cage, then shattering it against the side of the cot.

“Get the goddamn water on,” he heard the attendant shout. As the hose bulged with the pressurized water of the fire system, Mark hurled himself against the gate.

The mesh bulged out, but held.

Then water spewed from the nozzle, and as the attendant struggled to control it, Mark grasped the wire mesh with both arms and began to shake it, hurling his full weight back and forth. He felt the mesh give slightly, and redoubled his efforts. Finally, as the full force of the jet of water struck him, the mesh gave way, the entire panel covering the cage door coming loose from its frame. Bellowing with rage, Mark threw the mesh aside and plunged through the opening, his hands reaching out to grasp at the nearest attendant. The man screamed as Mark picked him up, his scream cut short as Mark smashed him to the floor. The attendant’s head struck the concrete with a crunching noise and immediately a pool of blood began to form around his skull.

The stream of water hit Mark full on the chest then, and he staggered back, his balance momentarily lost. Then, as if spurred on by Mark’s own action, Jeff LaConner hurled himself against the door of his cage, too, the force of his greater weight enough to burst the mesh from its stays. The attendant with the hose tried to scream a warning, and for a moment the jet of water strayed from Mark. Instantly, Mark threw himself on the man, his right arm snaking around the attendant’s neck, then jerking backward. There was a sharp popping sound from the man’s spine and he went limp in Mark’s grasp. The third attendant froze, stunned into total inaction by what had happened. An instant later, as he realized his danger and tried to slam the door of the room, Jeff LaConner leaped past Mark, his fingers closing around the man’s throat. While Mark watched, Jeff lifted the man off the floor, shaking him like a rag doll, then spun around, slamming the attendant against the hard tiles of the wall. Dropping the man to the floor, Jeff disappeared out of the door to the cage room.

Mark paused for a moment. All his instincts told him to follow Jeff, to escape while he could! But then his eyes caught a glimpse of Randy Stevens and his mind suddenly cleared. He reached down and ripped the key ring loose from the belt on the body at his feet. Working quickly, he shoved one key after another into the last of the locked cages, until one turned and the door swung open. Leaving the keys where they were, Mark scuttled after Jeff LaConner.

In the cage, Randy Stevens gazed blankly at the open door for a few moments, then his eyes focused slightly and he shuffled forward, slowly stepping across the threshold. He paused by the body of the dead attendant for a moment, poking experimentally at the flaccid corpse, then moved on to the man Jeff LaConner had slammed against the wall.

That man lay on the floor, his spine shattered, unable to move anything below his waist. He was moaning softly and his fingers were working spasmodically at the floor as he tried to drag himself toward the door.

Randy studied him curiously for a moment, then reached out and jabbed at the man with one finger.

The man screamed in agony, his face turning pale as the blood drained out of it.

Chuckling insanely, Randy repeated the jab, then repeated it once more. As each jab produced its scream, Randy’s giggling increased, as did the pace of his mindless game of torture.