Carnivore

Prologue

Jack Tillman inserted his card into the slot and pecked his personal I.D. number on the push button plate. A dull THUNK echoed down the deserted corridors as the electronic bolt slid back, and the over-sized steel door swung outward. It was heavy but precisely balanced and pulled easily as he hooked his foot around its edge. Carefully balancing an aluminum tray containing uniform rows of glass vials, he gave a jerk and a half-hop, closing the door. A click...THUNK vibrated the walls.

Jack continued down a corridor lined with countless ornately carved but unmarked mahogany doors, each permanently locked and painted white like sealed crypts. As he walked, these thickly-coated doors with their levered handles began to taunt his imagination. He had heard stories about these rooms from Benton--nightmarish stories, the kind kids tell around campfires. But since they changed a little with each telling, he discounted them as just that--Benton’s stories.

Each morning for six months Jack had performed this ritual, and each morning he couldn’t help but wonder why Jacobson had brought the nine of them out to this God forsaken wilderness—to an abandoned military hospital hidden deep in Montana’s Bitterroot Mountains.

Accompanied only by the muffled squeak of his badly worn loafers, Jack continued down the corridor when a curious feeling that something was wrong began to slowly creep over him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever it was made him uneasy. Then he realized it was the stillness. He had never heard it so quiet.

Though he had only come about forty yards and still had nearly twice that left to go before he reached the labs, he could usually hear music mixed with the sound of running water. Normally, the cavernous hallways acted like a giant echo chamber, amplifying Lorrie’s powder blue tape player. But this morning the only sounds were a muffled squeak and the occasional tinkle of glass.

Careful not to tilt the tray, Jack glanced down at the Seiko his parents had given him for graduation. 4:06 a.m. He and Lorrie would have just over an hour together. Though he wasn’t scheduled to relieve her until five, this was the only time they could steal a few intimate moments away from the others.

Rounding a corner, Jack caught sight of something peculiar at the next bend nearly forty yards ahead. He picked up his pace. The muffled squeaking and tinkling accelerated until they blended into a steady hum.

Nearing the bend, Jack found what looked like a puddle of oil in the middle of the hall. It wasn’t until he stepped right up to it that the realization stopped him mid-stride. All the little hairs on his body turned to tiny shards of ice, pricking his skin. A warm wave rolled through his stomach.

A large brown smudge stretched the width of the corridor, trailing up and along the wall and disappearing beyond the turn. In the center sat a single high-top Nike tennis shoe, still tied. A dark brown sock hung limp from its mouth.

Balancing the tray, Jack started toward the shoe. As his foot touched down in the middle of the brown pool, its crusted top crunched under his foot like a stale cracker. Underneath, it was wet and slick. His foot slid outward, bringing him to one knee. Then, from just around the turn, came a brief but distinct scraping noise. It sounded unnatural--like heavy nails dragged across polished slate. Jack’s eyes jerked up to the vanishing curve of the corridor fifteen feet in front of him. He slowly raised himself to a standing position. A wet stain on the knee of his baggy white pants stuck to his skin.

Someone or something was there--just around the corner, out of sight. He suddenly felt very alone and realized he was holding his breath. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. As he stepped back, his loafer was pulled from his heel with a sucking sound.

Scrape... There was a pause. Scrape... Another pause. Then a rapid burst of scrapes—-the sound of claws desperately trying to gain traction on linoleum--blending together into one shrill, nerve-grating screech.

The neatly lined rows of glass vials exploded as the tray hit the floor. Jack bolted at an all-out run. Every muscle and every nerve burned with adrenalin. The screeching shot around the corner, right behind him, getting louder, closer.

The steel door to the lobby was too far away. He couldn’t make it. Frantically, he began slapping at the levered handles of the doors, praying for one of the painted crypts to open. The screeching was almost on him now, accompanied by a hideous snapping.

Please, God, he thought and dived for one last handle.

The door flew open, jerking him through the black opening. He spun and hit the floor. A sharp pop deep inside his chest was followed by jagged splinters of pain spiraling throughout his rib cage. His fingers fumbled for the edge of the door, and pushed it shut.

Just as the latch slid home, something heavy hit the door with so much force it cracked the molding. BAM! It hit again. Jack scrambled to his knees. His fingers spidered up the door, fumbling in the dark for the deadbolt. He turned the miniature knob, just as the door handle wiggled up and down against his belly. The deadbolt held.

Jack fell back to the floor gasping for air. The door and then the wall began to shake violently. The darkness magnified a new sound——claws digging into wood, paring corkscrew shavings from the door. Swollen vessels squeezed his skull, making his head throb.

It was difficult to think clearly. It almost had me. My God, I could feel its breath. It… Then, it dawned on him. What is..."IT?"

The instant he heard the scraping sounds he had panicked. In a millisecond, some instinct for survival sensed danger, disconnected his brain, and sent him bolting down the corridor. He hadn’t looked back. As if somehow knowing that the mere sight of "It" would freeze him in mid-stride, he abandoned all conscious thought for one primal urge--escape.

Now, intellect raced to catch up. A bear? That’s it! A grizzly. They have grizzlies in the mountains. Or a wolf! No, a mountain lion! A mountain lion must have found its way inside. Good job, Benton. You let a mountain lion wander into the building, and it killed. Lorrie.

The pounding was suddenly deafening, getting louder as the door weakened. Jack slowly gained control enough to focus in on organized thought.

Lights!

He struggled to his knees. His fingers fumbled for a switch. The pitch of the pounding changed. It was more of a clawing now, and sounded as if wooden strips were being shredded from the door. A sickening, splintering noise filled the room and a sliver of light streaked to the floor. The first thin slit was followed by another and still another, growing longer and wider, and melting together until they formed a pale oval island of light. Then, silence.

Jack stood motionless, watching the saucer-sized patch of light disappear and reappear as the beast on the other side of the door swayed back and forth. He strained to catch any sound that may indicate the creature’s next move.

"IT" was in control. The light stopped pulsing. Jack slowly crouched to his knees and quietly crawled toward the jagged hole. As he inched to the opening, he could see the opposite door across the corridor.

A glazed red eye the size of a silver dollar filled the hole. A frigid spark trickled down Jack’s spine and a scream lodged in his throat. He jerked back. The huge eye rolled back and forth, searching for its prey. Veined with thin yellow streaks, it looked as cold and mindless as the eye of a fish. But there was an unnatural awareness in it—a relentless cunning that was alien to anything Jack had ever seen in either man or beast. Then, to Jack’s revulsion, it blinked--but not the lid. There was no lid. Instead, a mucousy, gray membrane slid from left to right and then back again. Then, the eye disappeared.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the hole; Jack crawled backwards to a spot in the darkness and settled, cross legged, on the floor. Maybe it couldn’t see in. It couldn’t possibly see in. It’s too dark in here...Oh, God...Benton! How did you let this thing in?

He went over the scene again and again, trying to extract some clue that would make sense of any of it. Trapped, a compelling, almost claustrophobic, need to get out flooded through him. He crawled back to the hole on all fours, and scanned the small angle of corridor it allowed him to see. There was no movement. It was quiet.

A long expanse of worn, gray linoleum stretched both right and left, but directly in front of the door laid a pile of splintered mahogany. Across the hall an intricately-carved lion’s head, its features dulled from countless coats of paint, adorned another door. Then, he spotted it. There, on the opposite wall less than ten feet away, was a fire alarm.

That would bring the others. It would warn them something is wrong. But bring them to what? At least they would be together and expecting something... not wandering in like Lorrie and I did. They would be on their guard. They’re probably already at breakfast and Weaver must be half way here. I can’t just sit and watch that thing greet her.

Jack raised his Seiko to the light. 4:11 a.m. My God! It’s only been six minutes. I’ve only been here six minutes! They won’t even wake up for another two hours. What if it comes back? The door won’t keep it out if it comes back.

He sat for a moment, inhaling deeply, building courage. Finally, his fingers grasped the lever on the deadbolt. He stopped. He thought he heard something--something barely audible. He looked through the hole again, first up and then down the hall.

Listening.

His fingers tightened on the lever and turned slowly. The bolt eased back with a click, clearing its groove in the doorjamb. In the silence, the click sounded like a gunshot, making him flinch.

Again, he listened.

Nothing.

The mindless red eye must have gone back to wherever Lorrie, or what had once been Lorrie, now lay. Pulling down on the handle, he edged the door open an inch and peered out. There at the far end of the corridor, by the turn, sat Lorrie’s shoe. His skin crawled in cold little ripples.

There was the alarm, not ten feet away. No sign of anything else.

Just jump out, slap that sucker, and jump back. One fluid move.

Inching the door open a little wider, he poked his head around the frame. Instantly, a black hole, lined with serrated teeth, shot toward his face. A wet crackle, like the sound of a bite being torn out of a crisp apple, shattered the silence.

*******

Chapter 1

The first light of dawn drifted over the forest and filtered in through the shutters. An occasional bead of perspiration trickled down Dr. Dorothy Weaver’s neck, dampening the sheets in the relentless August heat. She glanced over at the clock by the side of the bed. 5:58. another night sleepless from the heat.

She lay there thinking about her father and wondered if he ever thought of her. He seemed to be on her mind a lot lately--which both pleased and pained her. She could picture his weathered old face spread wide in a grin beneath his snow white hair. She always envisioned him in his bib overalls, sitting on the back porch back home. Home, now there was strange sounding word. How long had it been since she had been home Then she remembered how his voice had sounded that last time she had talked to him over the phone so many years ago--and the pain returned. No matter how or when she thought of him and no matter how wonderful it made her feel at first, the memory always ended with the pain.

Dr. Dorothy Weaver felt restless and realized it wasn’t just the heat. It was her life. She thought what a waste these last six months had been and half-laughed at the way she and the others had jumped at the chance to work on a project headed by the great Dr. Samuel Jacobson.

The digital clock flicked 6:00 and blurted out static--the closest thing to a radio station in this remote part of the mountains. Weaver dragged herself from the bed and hobbled to the bathroom. Stepping into the shower, she turned the gilded handles and gritted her teeth at the first surge of icy water. She stiffened, and then relaxed as the water began to warm. This liquid slap-in-the-face had been her normal method of greeting the day ever since medical school. She believed it made her tough, and she was tough--she wouldn’t allow herself to be any other way.

She lifted her face and let the water slide down her body. The bad dreams and memories washed away with the film of perspiration, swirled in circles on the imported Italian tile, and disappeared down the drain. She turned off the water and, leaving her towel on the hook, walked back into the bedroom, still dripping. Wet footprints followed her across the parquet floor to the shutters. The fan rustled the thick air bringing momentary relief.

Each morning she looked out this window, but this was the first time she saw the beauty. A mixture of pine and spruce trees covered the endless ripples of mountains like thick green fur. Mist rose off the deep blue of the lake in the distance. Squirrels scurried back and forth madly collecting nuts as if somehow aware of a particularly nasty upcoming winter.

Dr. Dorothy Weaver was weary. Her career wasn’t enough anymore. But it was all she had--all she knew. It had taken her around the world several times and had introduced her to the most brilliant minds of the Twentieth Century. She had won the respect and admiration of her colleagues only to end up here--at an abandoned military installation with eight other people who looked at life through microscopes and measured it in elemental particles.

They analyzed life instead of living it, and this realization frightened her. The fact that she had become one of them suddenly terrified her. Her life was her work and her work consisted of fourteen hour days absorbed in statistics, test tubes, petri dishes, slide samples, and an endless proliferation of computer read-outs. Her career had been exciting once, even exhilarating, although now, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why. A gnawing emptiness was growing inside of Dorothy Weaver, and it was a void that couldn’t be filled by work any longer.

A full-length mirror, held to the wardrobe by scrolled wooden fingers, reflected her slender body as she crossed the room. She studied the figure looking back at her with a critical eye. Her thighs were a little thicker, and though her stomach was still flat, she was surprised to find that there was no longer any definition. Her skin had lost that healthy luster of youth, exposing tiny hair—line wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her once delicate breasts had lost a little of their firmness. Her body now ached from time to time, especially her right leg.

She turned sideways and inspected the scars that circled her kneecap in an arcing half—moon before trailing down her shin—her only memento of Vietnam. A sniper’s bullet had shattered her kneecap, ending her tour of duty as well as the best opportunity she would ever have to gain surgical experience. The specialists had all agreed she would never regain the use of her leg, but she proved them wrong. After making it through Derek, med school, and ten months of war, there was no way in hell she would have allowed a piece of lead to beat her. Though her leg was numb half of the time and ached the other half, she made it work.

After sixteen years, the scar had faded some, but even with it she decided she was still worth more than a second look. She still looked more like thirty-five than forty-five. Chalk it up to strong Weaver genes and sturdy Midwestern stock.

I’m going to end up alone, she thought. No children. No grandchildren. Alone. She shivered. I’ll be sitting in front of the fire every Christmas curled up with nothing but my awards and my journals. I’ve accomplished all I set out to do, but I wasted my youth in the process.

Damn you, Derek, she hissed. You manipulative parasite. Will I ever be rid of you?

Even after twenty years, his memory still contorted her life. Had it been that long since a handsome young intern charmed his way into her heart and stole her innocence and pride along with her money?

She had always told herself that she should be grateful for the experience--the education. The pain had opened her eyes to what the world was really like—to what men were like. Her small town naiveté had been ravaged, leaving her cynical. But cynicism had made her careful, self-sufficient. It had made her strong—and she must be strong. But now the emptiness that grew more each day was beginning to make her take a long hard look at herself and the dreams that had somehow become distorted. In an odd way she felt beaten.

Dr. Weaver!

Startled, her head snapped around in the direction of the intercom. The voice from the speaker beside the door was tinny, but she immediately recognized it as Craton’s.

What’s that doing on? She limped across the floor to the intercom and flipped on the TALK switch. Yes.

Jacobson needs you at the morning meeting right away. Craton was as arrogant as Jacobson.

Oh, does he? I’m fully aware of his need for an audience, but the meeting is scheduled for six-thirty. I’ll be there then.

Have you seen Lorrie? Craton asked, oblivious to her response.

No, why?

She’s late again. Really, Weaver, she’s your responsibility. If you can’t make sure...

Weaver flipped both the TALK and LISTEN switches off. She wasn’t in the mood for one of Jacobson’s yes-men this morning. She walked back to the window, not ready to dress just yet. The fan felt good, and she would be locked away in the windowless cryo-lab soon enough.

Again she looked out the window at the encroaching forest, slowly reclaiming land stolen from it half a century before. Being almost at the end of the east wing, she could see most of the west wing as the Hospital curved back around on itself. Located almost at the top of the mountain, the Hospital’s main lobby connected two three-story wings laid out in a giant crescent to take full advantage of the view. Originally built as a grand hotel for the idle rich, the military had taken it over in the mid-sixties and converted it to a mental hospital--a secluded place to treat the more uniquely lethal psychological casualties spawned by Vietnam.

The elegant furniture of the resort era had been locked away in storerooms, slowly rotting under canvass tarps. Huge, arched doors of finely carved oak framed the entrance to the east wing which included offices, dining rooms, and sleeping quarters for over three hundred residents. The west wing, barricaded behind electronic steel doors, contained the labs and a seemingly endless line of sealed white doors where the psychiatric patients had once been kept.

What an oddball place, Weaver thought. Luxury accommodations at the end of a dirt road--inlaid teak cabinets with Formica counter tops. Why in hell did Jacobson drag us all the way out here when any number of private labs were available?

Suddenly she was aware of her nakedness, as though someone was watching her. She quickly stepped to the side of the window, pulling the shutters closed, then opened a single pair of louvers and peered out. The only movement came from a pair of squirrels darting through a stand of pines. Still, an uneasy feeling raised chilled little bumps on her arms and back.

She stepped to the bed and pulled a pale blue T-shirt over her head. Across the front was stenciled HARVARD DEBATE and just below that was Faculty Sponsor The snug feel of the cotton against her skin somehow made her feel more secure. She wriggled her panties up her legs and sat down on the edge of the bed. Pulling her right ankle onto her left knee, she shinnied a tube-shaped ace wrap up over her right calf and grabbed the chrome brace leaning against the foot of the bed. The fur-lined straps fit snugly over the ace wrap, buckling just above and below the knee. Raising her leg, she inspected the tiny hinges that allowed the chrome supports to pivot. Now she pulled baggy white lab pants on over the brace and tied her sneakers. At the dresser, she began filling the pockets of her lab jacket with articles from the top drawer. She tugged a brush through her shoulder-length, auburn hair with four brisk strokes and looked at the stranger in the mirror--no make-up, plain, aging. Again she thought of her father--the only living person who, at least at one time, had loved her.

Just when was that sweet, Kansas farm girl transformed into this bitter, hard driven bitch starring back at her now? Had she been so obsessed in achieving her goals that she didn’t realize what was happening or had the process been so gradual it escaped detection? She wanted to change. She wanted to recapture the wide-eyed, exuberant love for life that once allowed her to face the world with hope and wonder. But how? In order to change she would have to open up, become vulnerable, and Derek had taught her what happened to people who were vulnerable. Even if she was willing to take the chance, it had been so long and she had guarded herself so well that she didn’t know how to go about it. An old, familiar tightening in her neck muscles returned--she was beginning to get a headache. For the first time in nineteen years, she felt like crying. Her eyes teared, but she instinctively regained her composure. Even alone, she couldn’t allow herself a sign of weakness.

Then, with a sigh, she muttered aloud, What’s wrong with this picture?

*******

Chapter 2

The others were nearly done with breakfast, and in the middle of Jacobson’s daily ass chewing when Weaver entered the kitchen. The first thing that hit her was the heat--heat from the stove, from summer, from confrontation. Her first impulse was to turn around and walk back to her room.

Carla, the cook and maid, scraped grease from the oversized cast-iron griddle, oblivious to the beads of sweat making blue-gray streaks down the sides of her cheeks. Around the table sat Dr. Jacobson, Dr. Craton, Dr. Michaels, Master Sergeant Benton and Dr. Lindsay.

Dr. Caroll Lindsay, all five-foot-one of her, stood at her place at the table, shouting at Jacobson. Her diminutive size and short, blonde hair gave her an almost pixie-like appearance which had been misread by many a doctor, much to their misfortune. She, like Weaver, had fought her way to distinction in the male dominated field of science which, in itself, gave her a strength and determination not possessed by many of her male counterparts. But unlike Weaver, she was in her early thirties and still trusted and even embraced life. Make no mistake, when her back was against the wall or when anyone violated her territory, Caroll Lindsay was a formidable adversary. And this was one of those times.

I don’t’ give a damn if you are head of this project, you don’t have the authority to alter my data. Dr. Lindsay paused when she saw Weaver. Dorothy! He’s trying to dismiss us like a couple of lab students.

Weaver studied the faces around the table. Jacobson, smug and self—assured, leaned back in his chair, inviting a confrontation. Craton and Michaels sat on either side of him, equally bloated with ego.

Weaver! Say something, Lindsay demanded.

Weaver envied Lindsay’s ability to enjoy life. But this morning, Weaver just couldn’t come to her colleague’s aid. She welcomed the news that she would soon be leaving. Yesterday, she would have relished an opportunity to cut loose with a scathing commentary on all three men, putting them promptly in their places, but this morning she only turned and poured herself a cup of coffee. Good. It will save me the trouble of resigning.

Lindsay was momentarily taken back. That’s all you can say? Good? She turned back toward Jacobson. I turned down a position with Liberman to come on this project, and I refuse to leave until my work is finished.

Don’t worry, Craton broke in, yours and Dr. Weaver’s contribution will be duly noted.

I haven’t slaved in this mausoleum for the last six months to be categorized in some obscure footnote as hired help. Your lack of professionalism is a discredit to the academy.

You dare speak of professionalism? roared Jacobson. Where’s that excuse for an assistant you continually apologize for? She’s late again with last night’s comps. He looked at the others. Why am I always surrounded by incompetence? This is a research project, Miss Lindsay...

That’s Doctor Lindsay, she corrected.

"…not a summer camp. This Jack Tillman and Lorrie what’s-her-name are so enamored with each other that they’re neglecting their work. In my opinion they’ve jeopardized this project. And that’s your responsibility, Dr. Lindsay--yours and Dr. Weaver’s."

Sergeant Benton looked up from his plate of sausage and eggs. That’s enough, Jacobson. Shut... up. His voice was deep and serious--almost a growl--and surprised everyone, especially Jacobson. Benton was the type who rarely spoke unless he had something to say, and what he did say, he meant.

Apart from Carla, Sergeant Benton was the only other current resident of the Hospital who wasn’t a member of the project. Technically, this was still an Army instillation, and standard operating procedure required military personnel to be on site when occupied. Benton had been assigned merely as a formality.

Jacobson hesitated, but only for a second. "Well, it appears the Neanderthal has learned how to formulate words. At least your association with us during these past few months has accomplished this seemingly insurmountable feat. Do you have any idea who you are speaking to?"

A pompous ass, replied Benton. We’re all tired of these verbal floggings you call meetings. You may have brains, but you have the emotional maturity of an eight-year-old. At first you were comical. Now, you’re just boring.

Amused, Weaver buttered a piece of toast from a plate beside the stove. It may not be a bad day after all.

Jacobson was concentrating on Benton. Enraged, he jumped to his feet, How dare you speak to me like this. Your superiors will hear about this.

My superiors are asses just like you. Benton stood up and leaned over within inches of Jacobson’s face. You get old real quick. These people may have to kiss your ass, but I don’t have to listen to your crap.

Jacobson took a step back.

The way you continually degrade these people makes me sick. God only knows why they put up with it. What’s really remarkable is that no one has strangled you yet. Now, I’m not in the mood for you this morning, so sit down, and shut up.

Jacobson looked at the others sitting around the table as if he wasn’t sure what to do next. His power and money had allowed him to bully people all his life, but this soldier couldn’t care less how many degrees or stock portfolios he owned or who his family was. This man wouldn’t just volley insults. This man would get physical. The room was quiet. Jacobson slowly sat down.

Benton calmly sat back down and resumed eating. Everyone waited for someone else to speak first.

Weaver picked up her coffee and toast. On her way out of the kitchen, she called back over her shoulder, Thank you, Benton. I’ve been wanting to do that for six months.

*******

Chapter 3

Weaver stopped at the security office--Benton’s office--to enjoy her coffee away from the others. Besides being the coolest room in the east wing, it also served as Benton’s quarters. Master Sergeant Benton was security--military security. Although why they needed security out here in the middle of nowhere was anyone’s guess, even his.

She leaned back in the oak chair, swung her left leg onto the desk, and hoisted her right leg up beside it. The tiny beads of perspiration that had clustered along her hair-line during her brief pass through the kitchen now cooled as she relaxed and sipped her coffee.

The room was neat and orderly, like Benton. The desk under Weaver’s feet stretched the length of one wall. Positioned in a row on top were eight monitors displaying grainy black-and-white pictures of the building and grounds. Next to the last monitor sat a short wave radio. On the wall to her right, hung a detailed map of each floor. Etched on transparent plastic, it electronically displayed the status of all cameras, electronic doors, and fire alarms. Below that was a cot, army issue, with the dark brown blanket tucked and taught. To the right of the cot stood a gray locker with the contents, no doubt, meticulously arranged.

Two bookcases were beside the locker. The first was filled with how to books from carpentry to gardening, textbooks on subjects ranging from geometry to history, and a number of paperbacks on puzzles in logic. The second bookcase held literature; The Great Books of the Western World and a wide variety of novels ranging from Homer and Dickens to Hemingway and Joyce.

Weaver found this interesting. Well, check this out, she thought. I wonder how many of these he’s read and how many are just for show.

A typewriter sat on the desk beside the monitors, and in front of the typewriter laid a manila folder. Weaver pulled the folder toward her and opened the cover. Inside was a stack of typing paper. Centered on the first page was Waiting In The Warm and doubled spaced below that was by Adam Charles Benton. Weaver began flipping through the pages, reading.