Ghouls (59 page)

“Now’s your chance to impress us,” Sanders said. “Give us a rundown.”

Willard spoke in illusionary fragments. “Maximum
scotopic
vision. Auditory perceptibility in excess of 100,000
hertzes
. Pulmonary volume, oxygen transport, and carbon-dioxide disposal close to twice that of men. Voluntary cardiac and
catecholamic
innervation; they can raise or lower their heart rates and certain hormonal levels at will. A completely hermaphroditic reproductive mode, full larva gestation in fifteen days. Hyperosmotic urine synthesis, specific gravity 1.08, absolute fluid retention—which all means they can live weeks without water. Their central and peripheral nervous systems alone surpass anything man has yet seen; conduction velocities and reaction times may triple or even quadruple those of human beings. They defy everything we’ve ever thought of as axiomatic in vertebrate life. There are organs in their bodies I haven’t even been able to identify yet. Most important of all, they possess an additional physical system that drastically reduces metabolic energy demands in extreme states of hypoxia—living proof of the theories of cellular hibernation, a self-contained mode to live for extended periods with little or no oxygen.”

For the whole time Willard talked, Kurt’s eyes remained riveted to the things in the pen. A block of shadow engulfed the back of the compartment, but soon he became aware of something only part in view near the farthest corner. It was an odd, ragged heap of some sort, and the one that crouched seemed to be guarding it.

Kurt looked demandingly to Willard. “What is that?”

“What is what?”

“That.”
Kurt pointed, anger rising like steam. “That stuff in the corner of the cell.”

“You’d be better off not knowing.”

Kurt took Sanders’s flashlight and turned it on, this time keeping a safe distance from the frame. He then learned why Willard had made no reference to the exact nature of Glen’s murder.

The heap in the corner was a pile of bones, all gnawed clean and glistening in the shaft of light. The largest of the bones had been split and drained of marrow. The skull had been pried apart. A pair of jeans lay in shreds nearby, and also Glen’s old poplin jacket.

Vicky moaned wanly. She turned away.

“You fed him to those things,” Kurt said.

“I had no choice,”
Willard countered. A definite crack could be detected in his voice: For the first time, he was beginning to lose control. “I already told you. Glen and my wife were conspiring against me. It was them or me, can’t you see that?”

“You’re insane,” Kurt said, though by now all he felt and thought had been tapped dry of emotion. A great chill filled his soul now, not shock, not horror; the reality was finalized at last. These things behind the bars were not men, but obscenely less. Willard had unleashed monsters.

Kurt reached for his handcuffs. His voice was like the drone of a machine. “Dr. Willard, I’m arresting you for the murder of Glen
Rodz
and Nancy Willard…”

“Don’t be a fool,” Willard exclaimed, straightening against the counter. “Can’t you comprehend the importance of my work? I’ll carve milestones of knowledge from what I learn of the ghala.”

“Please understand that from this moment on you have the right to remain silent—”

“No! Please, I—” Willard snapped his gaze to Sanders. “Sergeant, kill him, I’ll make you rich. If I’m taken into custody, the authorities will
destroy
the ghala. All my work will have been in vain; no one will benefit. Kill him and the girl, and you can name your price.”

Sanders offered him a remiss grin. “Eat shit and die.”

“—anything you say can be used against you—”

Willard moved with stupefying quickness. Before anyone could react, he’d grabbed a bottle of ethyl chloride and sprayed it precisely across Sanders’s eyes, while at the same time flinging a tray of instruments at Kurt’s face. Sanders tottered back, firing several rounds into the ceiling. Blinded, he tripped and fell, and the rifle slid across the room.

Before Kurt could draw his gun, Willard was holding Vicky in front of him, using her as a shield. He held a #22-blade scalpel to her throat.

“I seem to have regained a few cards in the shuffle,” Willard said, tightening his arm around Vicky’s waist. The scalpel turned, glinting. “Shall we try the old routine one more time? Very carefully now, with your left index finger and thumb, I want you to remove your service revolver by the tip of the hammer and place it on the counter. You will then take one step back.”

Kurt stood as though his joints had fused. He couldn’t move, not even slightly. Vicky looked at him in squirming silence. Terror made her eyes seem large as cue balls.

“Please, Officer Morris. Do as I say, or I’ll cut her throat to the bone.”

“If you hurt her…”

“Not hurt,
kill.
And I
will
kill her unless you do exactly as I say. You’ll get to watch her bleed to death before your very eyes, and there’ll be nothing you can do to stop it.”

Kurt’s hand began to lower. He would have to give it to him.

“Jackass,” Sanders said, only now getting his sight back. He blinked painfully and leaned up off the floor. “Never surrender your weapon.
Never.”

“He’ll kill her!”

“He’ll kill us all if you give him that gun.”

I could try for a head shot,
Kurt thought perilously.
Chances can’t be any worse than a million to one.

Willard was smiling. The scalpel edge gleamed like a thread of molten silver. “Officer Morris, if you don’t place that pistol on the counter by the time I count three, I will punch this blade right through her carotid artery.”

Shit.

“Don’t do it,” Sanders said.

“One,” Willard said.

A headshot was impossible. By the time he drew and lined up, it would be over. There had to be another way. But what?

“Two.”

Vicky whined, cheeks and forehead reddened to a blaze of panic. She rose up on her tiptoes, some visceral compulsion causing her back to arch. The scalpel began to push against her throat, soft flesh going white around the tip.

“Three—”

Kurt withdrew his revolver as instructed and set it on the counter. Sanders mouthed several hopeless obscenities, closing his eyes, shaking his head. Willard then
laxed
his grip, leaving an inch between the blade and Vicky’s throat. He reached across for the gun.

Go for it,
Kurt’s mind flashed, and without conscious direction he
sidearmed
his handcuffs forward as hard as he could. It was perhaps the most reckless, imprudent thing he’d ever done. He’d thrown Vicky’s life away, and his own, with less calculation than a hand of twenty-one, for surely the handcuffs would miss by a country mile and Dr. Willard would laugh uproariously as he pumped them all full of bullets from Kurt’s own gun…

The handcuffs smacked solidly into the bridge of Willard’s nose. There was a delightful hard metal
clack,
a sound that hurt just to listen to. Willard’s head jerked back in pain and utter surprise. A star of blood broke between his eyes, and for one precious second his concentration fell apart.

Kurt bulled forward. He tore Vicky away and pushed her behind him, where she immediately tripped and fell over Sanders, who was just getting up.

The idea of rearranging Willard’s face was very illuminating. Kurt turned to do exactly that, but only in time to miss the first swipe of Willard’s sparkling scalpel. The doctor’s speed and precision was marveling; perhaps he had an additional degree in knife fighting. With a brute
swoosh,
the scalpel blazed by two more times before Kurt was backed against the counter.

Willard held the knife in his fist now. He plunged it down in a swift, silent arc. Kurt tried to catch Willard’s fist but instead caught the scalpel blade in the center of his palm and saw it punch through the other side of his hand between the second and third knuckles.

“Thanks for the stigmata,” Kurt said. Blood burned out of his palm like scalding water. “I’m gonna twirl that scalpel right up your crapper, you old piece of shit.”

“Oh?” Willard replied. Like a fencer, he lunged forward, stepping out and swiping the scalpel in a tight figure eight with each driving step. Kurt’s skin prickled from a mixture of terror and embarrassment; he scurried back like a frantic tightrope walker. The first two swipes missed. The third nicked his shoulder, and the fourth drew a perfect bleeding line across his chest. He felt the blade pass through a nipple.

“How’s that for an old piece of shit?” Willard said, poised for another strike.

“You ruined a perfectly good shirt, motherfucker. I’ll send you the bill after your arraignment.”

“Young man, by the time I’m through carving, there won’t be enough left of you to even
wear
a shirt. Ah, yes, yours will be a death of the most deliberate slowness.”

“Fuck you, and your mom and dad, too.”

“Don’t stand there and gab!” Sanders yelled. “Defend yourself! Get your feet apart, lean low! Stand like you’re ready to fight, you stupid schmuck!”

This was not one of Sanders’s more illustrious days. Just as he was about to get up again, Willard pulled down an entire wall shelf of glassware on him. A rich variety of bottles, flasks, and storage flagons clunked Sanders repeatedly in the head and back. Glass burst all around him like fireworks.

Grunting, Kurt hurled a big binocular microscope, but Willard ducked out of the way with little effort. The microscope clanged against the pen frame, then thudded to the floor. Within the pen, the two macabre figures remained inhumanly still and staring out with swollen, vitreous eyes.

“Crafty hands,” Willard said. “It will be my pleasure to cut them off.”

“You’re crazier than a rat in a shit heap, Willard. You make Henry Lee Lucas look like Bozo the Clown.” Kurt picked up a pair of retractors—the only thing he could get his hands on— and tried to hold them up threateningly. “What do you think you’re going to do, anyway? Kill us all and just continue with your ‘work’?”

“Yes. Precisely.”

This standoff wouldn’t last; Kurt knew he’d lose if he didn’t do something now. The pistol lay temptingly between them on the counter.

Kurt tried to edge in, but Willard made his move too fast, a graceful charge of swipes and sidesteps. Kurt said “Fuck!” very loudly four times in a row, as he was nicked by the scalpel four times in a row.

To beat Willard off the mark, Kurt needed just a second’s lead, and there was only one way to get. He switched the retractors to his left hand.
No choice,
he thought with relatively little fear.
I’m gonna have to give Willard something to cut.

He stepped forward and jabbed the retractors at Willard’s ribs. Willard’s scalpel blazed down and up, punching hard into the
undermuscle
of Kurt’s forearm. The blade felt like a white-hot rivet; the rush of pain nearly dropped Kurt to his knees.

They both reached for the gun at the same time.

Kurt’s hand landed on it first. Willard’s scalpel then promptly nailed Kurt’s hand to the counter.

Blew it,
Kurt thought.
That’s all, folks.

Willard picked up the gun. He cocked the hammer in an even motion, keeping the barrel leveled. He aimed the gun at Kurt’s face—

—and froze, staring down.

Something green and round rolled across the floor, toward Willard. Sanders had quickly curled up into a fetal-like ball, sticking his fingers in his ears, and from the back of the room, Vicky screamed. Kurt detached his hand from the counter and dove aside—when he realized that the object on the floor was a hand grenade.