The Vivisectionist (47 page)

“Okay,” he challenged, “five more minutes and we’re leaving.”

Two minutes later, The Management contacted Jack.

A scratchy, dusty voice came from the ceiling. Jack looked up.

“(click) Jack. (click),” said a man's voice. “(click) How good of you to come. (click)”

“My pleasure,” said Jack, “what’s next.” He could hardly keep his voice calm. The gravity of his situation threatened to collapse on him and ruin his facility for rational thought.

Jack waited, this had turned back into a one-way conversation.

“Hello?” asked Jack after several more moments.

“(click) First, we’ll need to teach you patience. (click),” said the voice. “(click) Next, manners. Do you know what you’re supposed to do with Stephen? (click)”

“I think so,” said Jack. “But I want to meet you in person first.”

Jack waited through another long pause. Some of his adrenaline started to fade, and he considered different ways to get The Management to comply.

Jack decided to start with logic and work his way over to threats if that didn’t work. “How long have you been looking for me?” asked Jack. “I’m guessing it’s been years, maybe decades. Am I right?” Jack continued.

Jack looked at the ceiling and waited for an answer, but none came.

“Okay,” said Jack. “I’m going to assume that I’m right—you’ve been searching for me, or someone like me, for at least ten years. Maybe a few have come close, but they weren’t smart enough. Or maybe they were smart, but didn’t have the stomach for the blood.” Jack lowered his voice, “Maybe some of them liked the blood a little too much.”

Jack focused on the ceiling and circled the chair as he spoke—“But I’m the real thing. Not psychotic, but just detached enough to do what you do, and follow in your footsteps. I’ll study your writing, and learn from you.” Jack had come back around to Stephen again. He placed one foot on his blindfolded friend and looked at the ceiling. “But being all those things, I have to know that you’re right too. I won’t jump into this before we meet,” said Jack.

“(click) Yes. (click),” came from the speaker.

Jack waited ten seconds, holding his position. Stephen began to squirm again and kicked out violently, sending the dolly sliding away. Jack removed his foot from Stephen’s stomach and crossed around him to get to his bag. He plucked it off the floor and sat it on the chair in front of him, removing items and laying them on the counter: duck tape, his mother’s big carving knife, tie-wraps, and a stack of plastic bags.

The door behind him clicked, and Jack paused. He heard the ambient sound of the room change when the door swung open. Jack spun slowly to glimpse The Management for the first time. On the floor, Stephen squirmed towards the wall, making a muffled, humping racket, but Jack didn’t hear. All of Jack’s senses focused on the empty doorframe.

A foot slid into view, clad in a dark leather sneaker. The leg that followed wore loose khaki slacks. Next to come around the corner was a head, but it was an animal head. Jack recognized Baal from the picture drawn on the mirror. Half-man, half-bull came to join him in the small exam room.

Jack never hesitated. His whole plan hinged on this one possible moment of surprise. He had studied the mind of the psychotic killer, and knew that one of the defining characteristics in his rival was a sense of infallible immortality. Jack figured that he had one chance to exploit that before the creature’s natural self-preservation made any kind of attack unwise and unlikely to succeed.

Jack pulled the last item from his bag. It was a cold, oily handgun he had purchased from Smoker the day before. At first sight of the gun, before Jack even had time to raise it, the half-man, half-bull in the doorway started to jerk backwards. Jack didn’t aim, he simply squeezed his eyes and the trigger until a loud report rang out and the gun nearly kicked out of his hand.

Stephen erupted in renewed thrashing and Jack took a long step over him as he headed to the door. Baal had retreated around the corner and out the door but then had crashed into the wall of the hallway, leaving a long red streak down the white wall. Jack raised the gun and aimed this time. The second kick jerked the gun again and he had to fight it back down to pull the trigger a third time.

On the floor the mask slid partway from Baal’s head, and he convulsed as the third shot tore through the left half of his neck. The body slumped and Jack knew the man he thought of as “The Management,” and as “Baal” was dead.

He stepped around the widening pool of blood and pulled the mask away from the man’s head. The mask was more stiff than Jack expected. The brown face sported a long nose complete with a brass ring, and very sharp horns emerging from the forehead. When he pulled away the mask, the dead man’s head fell back to the floor. Jack didn’t recognize the face. He dropped the mask and paused to look at the man one more time. He wanted to spend some time studying his kill, but knew he couldn’t, not yet. Now, he had to deal with Stephen. It occurred to Jack that this might be the hardest part of the day: convincing Stephen that his actions had been justified.

Jack returned to the exam room and fixed a look of concern on his face as he ran to Stephen. “Are you okay?” Jack asked.

Stephen had wriggled out of his blindfold, but faced the wrong way. When Jack helped him up, Stephen scrutinized Jack with half-lidded eyes.

“I’m going to pull this off,” Jack motioned to the tape. “You’ve got to believe me—it was the only way to fool him,” Jack pleaded. Tears welled up and carved tracks down Jack’s face. He reached to the tape, grabbed a corner, and flinched as he pulled the tape off in one quick motion.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked Stephen, unmoved by Jack’s emotion. “Untie me, now,” he ordered.

“Of course, sure,” said Jack. He stood and came back down with his mom’s big knife. “Hold still,” he said as he cut Stephen’s hands free. Jack moved down and worked on the tape binding Stephen’s legs. He sniffed back more tears. “You gotta understand, he could see and hear everything. I had to fool 
you
 so we could fool 
him
.”

“Right,” said Stephen. “I should kick your fucking ass.”

“I know, I know,” begged Jack. “But please, he killed Gabe and I had to trick him. The only way I could think was to trick you.”

“I thought you said he was over in New Mexico—what’s he even doing here?”

Jack had just finished cutting the tape around Stephen’s legs and he sat back on his heels, considering the question. He looked down at the knife in his right hand an then set it aside quickly, lowering his eyes. When he looked back up, Stephen thought Jack looked sheepish and a bit pitiful.

“Jeez,” said Jack as he looked away, “I’ve got a lot of stuff to tell you that I couldn’t say before. I’ve come here a couple of times without you so I could do some exploring.”

Stephen had waited for Jack to put down the knife. Then, he saw his opportunity. Stephen slowly pulled back his right leg and grabbed it around the knee with both hands, as if to stretch a sore muscle. He kept his voice calm and said, “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me exactly what’s been going on.”

As Stephen finished his sentence, he released his knee and shot his foot forward towards Jack’s face. His heel connected perfectly with Jack’s chin, snapping Jack's head back and away. Jack rocked back and straightened his own legs to flee the attack. The angle of his body, now tipped back, sent the back of Jack’s head directly towards the base of the exam chair. With that contact, Jack’s arms sailed out for a second and then his whole body went limp and collapsed on the floor next to Stephen’s legs.

“Jack?” asked Stephen. He had seen people knocked out in mixed martial arts fights on television, and was pretty certain that Jack was unconscious. Stephen crawled away, grabbed the knife, and then got to his feet halfway to the door. By the time he reached at the door, Stephen moved fast, unsure where to go. In the bright hall he saw the crumpled form in a large pool of blood to his right, so he bolted down the hall to the left.

Jack’s left leg started to twitch first, then his eyelids began to flutter. His chin dropped and his head slumped, causing him to snore on his next inhale, which roused him. He opened his eyes and stretched his head back, trying to make his neck feel normal. He lifted his right hand and gingerly touched the back of his head where blood matted down his hair. Jack leaned over and considered the floor. His head throbbed and he couldn’t quite remember the last few moments.

Drool dripped from Jack’s mouth to the tile floor. He wiped it with the back of his right hand, his left hand still propping him up. The first thing to come back to Jack was his plan. Then, slowly, the details of which steps he had already executed. The answer flashed in his memory—Stephen. He had failed to convince him and Stephen had run. Jack felt disappointed, but not desperate. He had predicted trouble in this area and had considered a backup plan.

Jack rolled to his knees and rose slowly, leaning heavily on the chair for support. With his feet in a wide stance, and his left arm still bracing against the chair, Jack raised his head. His left ear was ringing so he turned his right towards the doorway and listened. He expected to hear running, frantic footsteps, but heard nothing. Jack wondered how long he had been unconscious—it seemed like just an instant.

A buzzing sound leaked from the overhead speaker. Jack jerked his head up and winced at the throbbing response from his neck. He realized that he recognized the buzzing sound just as bass and drums kicked in. Music came through the speakers, and compared to the scratchy voice, the fidelity was quite high.

After two measures of bass, drums, and buzzing, another sound joined the mix—it sounded like imitation seagulls played with kazoos.

“The feel of the sun on my back makes me want to burrow into the earth,” sang a voice. Now Jack could identify at least the band—his dad played music from this band.

He listened and then started to consider the possible implications of the song. “Taste the soft damp dirt,” continued the lyric. “And be alone with the rocks.”

Jack circled behind the chair and grabbed the gun from the counter. He stuffed some of his supplies back into his pack and carefully shouldered it, while pointing the gun at the doorway. Moving cautiously, and still favoring his hurt foot, Jack approached the doorway. He wondered if the music could have started on a timer, but that didn’t seem likely. Someone played this music on purpose, to tell Jack that he wasn’t alone here. He reminded himself that he had three shots left in the gun.

Jack approached the door from an oblique angle, so he could see down the hall to where the bull-man had come from. Pointing the gun, he approached the door and whipped his head around the jam to see down the other direction. He saw closed doors. One belonged to the pole room, and another to the closet where he had found the dolly, but the other doors had been locked each time he had tried them.

He backed away and thought through these new facts. The music suggested to him that the man on the floor was not alone, and Jack might have an even more formidable adversary awaiting him. Furthermore, he had lost track of Stephen. Jack prioritized and figured his most important goal was to locate the other player, or determine that he and Stephen were now alone. He had lost the element of surprise, if indeed he had ever had it, but Jack trusted himself and his ability to deal with any problem that might arise.

Immediately after starting forward, an encouraging thought occurred to Jack: this was just part of the game. The last time Jack had explored this hallway, he had uncovered all the unlocked doors and the locked ones were impenetrable. But, he reasoned, there must be a way to solve this problem if he thought about it. Once he opened himself to this possibility, another thought occurred to Jack. He had seen an electronic device mounted next to one of the doors that he had guessed was a fingerprint reader. If that was true then he might already have the key to that door.

Jack just needed to get the dead man’s hand down to the door to test his theory. With the safety set, Jack tucked the gun under his belt and walked down the hall to inspect the device. Crouching, he examined the black box. It had a thin indentation with a metallic strip area across the middle. He swiped his own finger down the indentation and a red light flashed. It flashed twice and was accompanied by two high-pitch beeps. Jack smiled.

He returned to the body and stopped at the edge of the puddle of blood. Jack braced himself against the wall and leaned over to grab the man’s right hand.  Thick goo covered the side of the man's palm. The blood had already begun to coagulate, and it dripped in thick clots to the floor as Jack held the thumb. Jack stayed cautious—he didn’t want to ruin his clothes by smearing them with this man’s blood.

Carefully arranging his grip, he pulled the cold hand. The dead man slid, but it was tough going and a wave of clot-blood rolled towards Jack’s shoes as soon as he stopped pulling. Jack decided on an easier way to accomplish his task.