Frankenstorm: Chaos Theory

R
AY
G
ARTON

PINNACLE E-BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

“I’m alone now, so I can speak freely,” Corcoran said as he leaned back in the chair again and put his feet back up on the desk. “Things have gone straight to hell. A disaster, top to bottom.”

“What kind of disaster?”

“Well, I told Sylvia about some of it, and—”

“You haven’t told me. What kind of disaster?”

“The worst. These, these, I don’t know what to call them, these lunatics, these vigilante militia
lunatics
come bursting in here and hold everyone at fucking
gunpoint
while they release the test subjects.”

“The monkeys?”

“No. The, uh . . . the off-the-books test subjects.”

There was a long silence on the line, then: “I see. And how did they know about them?”

“I have no clue! None!”

“None at all? You have no idea whatsoever how this could have happened?”

“Look, there are a couple of guys who do nothing but make trouble for us. Or try to make trouble for us. One is that Internet radio host I told you about. He does a show about conspiracies and, I don’t know, the Illuminati’s plan to enslave us all, or whatever, and he got it into his head that something suspicious was going on here at Springmeier because Vendon Labs and DeCamp Pharmaceuticals were involved with and have a long and fruitful relationship with the government, and—”

“Breathe, Jeremy. Are you high?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t been doing anything.”

“I know you too well. That you haven’t been doing any drugs would be ridiculous. Go on with your story.”

“Well, the show is on the Internet, so it’s heard everywhere, but it stirred up all the paranoid nutballs here, and apparently this militia, this armed, paramilitary group of gun-loving thugs just broke in. As far as I know, they’ve killed our entire security team! Just
killed
them!”

“You’re sure about that? The entire team?”

“According to the leader of that mob. His name is Ollie. One of our janitors seems to know him.”

“Is that so? One of your janitors?”

“Yes. That’s not important, though.”

“You don’t think so? You’ve had a catastrophic security breach and your janitor is friends with the man who leads the team that pulled it off and . . . you don’t think that’s important?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t think—”

“That’s becoming a problem, Jeremy, the fact that you don’t think. The fact that you do drugs and throw sex parties and you’re becoming more and more careless all the time. I’m afraid we’re going to have to reevaluate your relationship with Vendon Labs, Jeremy.”

Corcoran laughed. “Be serious. Where are you going to find anyone who can do what I can do for you? Nobody else could have done for you all the things I’ve done over the years. That includes
this
. Yes, this project may be fucked, but I’ve been doing what you were paying me to do, and with more time, I would have finished. What do you care if I do drugs or have a party now and then as long as I get the job done?”

“Getting the job done includes maintaining the security and safety of your facility, you know that. I strongly suggested that you let me send someone in to manage things, but you wouldn’t—”

Corcoran lowered his feet to the floor and sat up straight in the squeaky chair. “I don’t work
under
anyone. After all the years I’ve—with the career I’ve had, you want me to—I shouldn’t
have
to work under anyone.”

“Are you done sputtering?”

“Well, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable to think that someone of my status—”

“Your status, Jeremy, is as follows: You are a sixty-eight-year-old man who still tries to pass for sixty-five, who’s rapidly falling apart, but who insists on living like a twenty-year-old and who takes drugs like a rock star. All of those things have begun to outweigh any talents you have. Talents that are slipping, I might add, because the drugs are destroying your brain.
And
your mind. You used to have a
few
leadership qualities in addition to your talents as a scientist, but not anymore. You’ve made that clear with this disaster.”

“You are
not
going to lay this at
my
feet! The biggest problem here from the beginning has been Fara. And now she’s talking about going public with her story. She claims she’s sent some recording to that radio host I told you about. If you want to blast somebody on this team, it should be
her
.”

“She’s not in charge of the project. You are. You should stop thinking of yourself as irreplaceable. You’re not
that
Dr. Jeremy Corcoran anymore.”

“Then . . . then what Jeremy Corcoran
am
I? I’m still the Jeremy Corcoran who did all those great things for you, those things others laughed at when you told them what you wanted. And some of those things . . .” He leaned forward, put an elbow on the desk and his forehead in his hand. When he continued, it was in a whisper. “Some of them were terrible things. What I did to those people in that little Italian village. The things you’ve had me do to our own soldiers. And those children. My God, what you had me to do to all those children you kept in cages.
Cages
! I mean, Jesus, it’s almost funny, it’s almost
hilarious
”—he giggled—“that you’re ragging on
me
for doing some
drugs
!” More giggling. “It doesn’t make sense. You guys? Children in cages, drugging people, messing with their minds without their knowledge, putting things in the water supply. Me? I like drugs and I enjoy sex with one or more people at once, as much of it as possible, preferably
while
using drugs. But
I’m
the bad guy here?
Me
?”

“You’re looking at it the wrong way. No one is saying you’re a bad guy. We never minded the drugs as long as you remained useful to us. But now the drugs have destroyed in you whatever it was that was useful to us. Do you understand? It’s simply a matter of . . . moving on. And there’s plenty of young talent out there, don’t make the mistake of thinking there’s not. Most of it is coming from Asia, but it’s out there in abundance. You are no longer able to fulfill our needs, so we have to look elsewhere. In fact . . . I think it’s time for retirement, Jeremy.”

Gooseflesh crawled across Corcoran’s shoulders and upper back and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood erect and his scrotum shriveled up tight until his testicles were snugly tucked away. He had been working for these people most of his adult life. He’d done plenty of other work as well, of course, but working for Vendon and DeCamp was how he’d made most of his money, and it was on that work that most of his reputation was based. He knew these people, he knew how they thought, how they worked. He knew about enough of the cold, cruel things they did to get what they wanted to know that all the stuff he
didn’t
know about was far worse.

When dealing with these people, the word “retirement” could be taken in more than one way.

“What, uh . . . what kind of retirement do you mean . . . exactly?”

“What kind of retirement do you
think
I mean, Jeremy?”

When he did not respond, the voice at the other end chuckled.

“Have the test subjects been contained in the building, Jeremy?”

“As far as I know. So far.”

“Encouraging. That must be the goal of everyone there, do you understand? Keeping those people inside the hospital until we get there.”

“We? You’re coming here? When?”

“You’re in the middle of a hurricane right now, but the moment the weather calms down sufficiently, we’ll be sending in a team to solve the problem and . . . clean up this mess.”

Corcoran found that he had no saliva left in his mouth. He rolled his tongue around, then tried to swallow, but gulped loudly instead.

“The problem?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Which . . . problem?”

“The problem we’ve been discussing, of course. You see? You’re difficult to talk to when you’re on drugs, Jeremy. It makes you . . . foggy and unreasonable. You can no longer afford that.”

Drugs had nothing to do with it. Corcoran was paralyzed with fear. He was wondering if they would be sending a team to solve the problem of the released test subjects . . . or the problem of Dr. Jeremy Corcoran.

“Is there anything else you want me to do until you get here?” he said.

“Just keep everyone inside. Including yourself, Jeremy.”

The connection was severed.

Corcoran always became clumsy when he was nervous and afraid, and he nearly dropped the phone three times before getting it back in his pocket. He pushed the chair back, leaned down, and started opening Fara’s drawers. He knew she smoked, she had to have cigarettes around here somewhere. The craving for a smoke was suddenly pawing at Corcoran’s throat. He found an unopened pack of Pall Malls in the bottom drawer on the left and began digging at the plastic wrap on the box. When he couldn’t peel it off, he clawed at it with his fingernails, tearing it off the box. He opened the box, pulled out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. He hadn’t smoked cigarettes in a long time, but he always carried a lighter in his pocket. He lit the cigarette with a trembling hand, sucked the smoke into his lungs, and went into a fit of hacking coughs. He looked around for an ashtray and snuffed the cigarette out in the potted plant on the end table by the couch.

What he needed was a joint. But he didn’t have one. Everything was in his quarters. He was freezing his ass off in scrubs and his coat was in his quarters. He didn’t want to go back there. Even his car keys were there. But should he feel the need to make a quick exit, he always kept a spare key in a small magnetized box under the left rear fender in case he found himself without access to his keys.

He paced the office in the candlelight and wondered if he could drive through the storm. Even if he could, where would he go? He lived there at Springmeier. He had no friends in the area, he knew no one because he hadn’t wanted to know anyone. It was a rural area filled with pot farmers, potheads, artists, and nut jobs waiting for Armageddon. The only locals who interested him were the college students, of course. He’d spoken at the university a couple of times and managed to lure a couple of them back to Springmeier for a tour of the facility. Not a
real
tour, of course, but something that would pass for a tour. Then an offer of Dr. Corcoran’s magic dust, and like the horses in the Kentucky Derby, they were off.

Those days were over. This whole project was over. And now Vendon Labs was sending a team to clean up. That was the fat lady singing. That meant things were
really
over. For some people, anyway. But this time, Corcoran was certain he was one of them.

The possibility had never entered his head. He’d always known he was safe because he was too valuable. If that was no longer the case, then this project wasn’t the only thing that was over. His whole
world
was over, because that had been the only thing in his whole life that he could rely on. That value had been his security.

Now it didn’t come to him as a possibility, but as a certainty, because they were talking retirement. Not censure, not suspension, none of the disciplinary measures, no, they leaped way over all that in a single bound and went straight to
retirement
.

They were not going to give him a gold watch or a box of Cuban cigars.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” he muttered as he paced. “Now. Go now, take my chances with the storm . . .”

But having no destination in mind made him pull away from the idea. He had never done anything unless he had a destination or a goal in mind, an outcome, a place to go,
something
. Without that, he wouldn’t know what he was doing.

Maybe the problem was that he’d always known what he was doing. He’d always tried to control his environment so everything worked out the way he wanted. He was able to do that in a lab, but doing it in real life was a different proposition altogether. That did not, however, keep him from trying. Maybe it was time to simply jump into the abyss and leave here with nowhere to go, no living family, no real friends.

Corcoran’s mother and father had been great scientists who, among other accomplishments, had helped found DeCamp Pharmaceuticals. Corcoran had grown up knowing that he would become a great scientist who would do great things for the world, but he would do it through DeCamp.

As a boy, he’d sailed through school, leaving everyone else in his dust, and had degrees before most boys his age had kissed a girl. Everything he had done, every decision he’d made had a specific goal. He reached that goal significantly sooner than the average scientist, and before long he was doing work that other scientists more seasoned than he would dismiss as something from the plot of a comic book, government-funded work that was usually of secret variety, with an appropriate cover story. Great work that no one outside of those projects would know he’d done. With no one watching, there were no rules.

He had always been brilliant, always been lauded and respected and awarded special treatment because he was such a genius. If all of that was over, then his life was over.

He stopped pacing.
Don’t be crazy,
he thought.
They’re not going to ruin your life. They’re going to kill you. This has nothing to do with whether or not I have anything to live for. The question is do I want to live?

He decided he did.

He went to Fara’s small closet and searched for a coat he could wear. The only one that was acceptable was a shapeless blob of black corduroy with a fuzzy wool collar and cuffs. He put it on, went to the door and slowly, cautiously pulled it open to see what he could see in the corridor outside.