The Vivisectionist (24 page)

Jack and Stephen entered behind him.

"No windows, no outlets, no switches,” said Ben. "Just these lights." He pointed to the ceiling—it was a drop-ceiling but instead of acoustic tiles, the entire ceiling was composed of the diffuse plastic panels covering fluorescent lights. "I wonder if these lights were on before the door opened."

"What's that buzzing?" asked Jack.

"Probably just from the lights,” said Stephen.

“I don’t think so,” said Ben. “I think it’s coming from down here.” Ben was walking to the far end of the room and pointing with his unnecessary flashlight.

When Jack and Stephen reached Ben he was hunched over with his ear near the wall at about stomach height. “There’s a thing here,” said Ben, touching one finger to the wall. Jack looked closer and saw a rectangle cut into the drywall. While Jack and Stephen looked on, Ben poked at a corner of the rectangle and the piece of drywall came loose. Once a corner was protruding, Ben was able to pull it away. The resulting hole was nearly ten inches tall and five inches wide.

Inside the hole, was a life-size diagram of a handprint. “Put your hand on it,” said Stephen. “I bet it opens something.”

“No, don’t,” said Jack.

“Yeah, not about to,” said Ben. “Looks like it grabs your hand. These plexiglass parts probably close together and clamp around your wrist.”

“I think you’re right,” said Jack. “Maybe we can press it with something else.”

Ben still had the flashlight in his hand, so he centered it on the palm-print and pressed it firmly.

“Nothing,” said Ben.

“You probably have to touch the whole thing,” said Jack.

“Or maybe it only reacts to skin,” offered Stephen. “My dad used to have a stereo like that.”

“Really,” said Ben. It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

“Seriously,” said Stephen. He made his hand narrow, squeezing together his fingers, and pushed against the center of the palm-print. The diagram was recessed behind the plexiglass a couple of inches, and when his fingers touched the switch a loud buzzer sounded. Instantly, the two halves of plexiglass snapped together. They encircled his fingers, but didn’t trap his stretched hand.

“See?” Stephen said.

Nobody answered as they listened to yet another distant, rumbling sound.

“That’s coming from the hall,” said Jack. He started off in that direction and Ben and Stephen followed him. When Stephen’s hand released the switch the sound stopped and the plexiglass reset.

“I think you have to keep holding it,” said Jack.

“Okay,” said Stephen, “but you have to tell me what you find.”

Jack and Ben went to the doorway through which they had entered the white room and Stephen manned the palm-panel.

“Ready?” asked Stephen.

“Go,” said Ben.

Stephen pressed the panel again and this time his hand wasn’t exactly centered. “Ow!” he exclaimed as the collapsing plastic pinched his hand.

“You okay?” asked Ben.

“Yeah,” said Stephen.

“Hey,” said Jack, “it’s another ladder.” He and Ben were looking through the doorway to where they had found the dead-end in the tripwire hall. The rumbling sound was a ladder descending through a disguised hole in the ceiling.

“Who would go to all this trouble?” asked Ben. “What is this place?”

Jack ignored his questions. “Try letting go,” he said to Stephen when the ladder had stopped descending.

“Okay,” said Stephen. He removed his hand from the panel and the plexiglass withdrew.

“Huh,” said Jack. “The ladder stayed here.”

Stephen joined Jack and Ben. “So why the hand trap?”

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “I was just wondering that.”

“Maybe he didn’t finish something, or he was just sloppy,” said Ben.

“There’s something written,” said Jack. He turned on his light and shone it into the dark hallway, but none of the boys seemed eager to cross from the well-lit white room, back into the tripwire hall. “Go look,” he said to Ben.

“You go look,” replied Ben.

“Fine,” said Jack. He walked the few feet across the hall to the dead-end they had found earlier and peered at a middle rung of the black ladder. He crossed back to the white room before announcing his find: “It says ‘Level 2.’”

“This is like a video game,” said Stephen. “We’ve finished level one and now we’re going on to the next level. But isn’t there usually a ‘boss’ at the end of a level?”

“What do you mean?” asked Jack.

“You don’t play the shooter games,” explained Ben. “When you play a shooter, there’s always a big, bad creature you have to defeat at the end of each level. Like that Mario game—you played that one.”

“So we should be looking for a boss?” asked Jack.

“Could just be a really hard thing to get past,” replied Stephen. “Who knows, maybe there’s not one—we’re not exactly playing a video game here.”

“Better safe than sorry,” said Ben. He shone his light up through the hole in the ceiling. “How come we didn’t see this hole earlier?”

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “I wonder how long it stays open, too.”

“Maybe the boss thing was that hand-trap back there,” said Stephen.

“Seems kinda easy for that,” said Ben.

“Yeah, but maybe we just got lucky—figuring that out.”

“Well, even if it had trapped your hand, couldn’t you just pull back enough to break contact?” asked Jack. “I mean the trap is only on when you touch the thing, right?”

“Another solid point,” said Ben. “And yet another thing that doesn’t add up.”

“Settle down, son,” Stephen said to Ben. “Just because we haven’t figured it out, doesn’t mean it’s not logical.”

“Why are you so convinced this place has to make sense?” said Ben. “I’m serious—I’m realizing what a really terrible idea this whole thing is.”

“I’m pretty sure this whole thing was your idea,” said Jack. “And what terrible things have happened?”

“All right, fine,” said Ben. “You need something horrible to happen? Let’s keep going then.”

“Roger that. Too much talking, anyway,” said Jack as he approached the ladder.

They each took a turn inspecting the ladder from all angles and shining their lights up through the new hole in the ceiling. Producing the letter once again, Jack compared the handwriting to that on the Level 2 sign. “I think it’s the same,” he pronounced.

Jack put the letter away, and then started up. He reached for each new rung cautiously—ready for a surprise each time. When he got within reach of the ceiling, Jack paused and pulled his flashlight from his pocket. He slowly extended it past where the ceiling started and waved it around.

“I think it’s okay,” said Jack. He tucked the light back in his pocket and reached for the next rung. Remembering the first ladder, he lightly touched the rung before committing to grabbing it. No shock was forthcoming, so he gripped the rung and pulled himself up. The rung shifted in his hand and dropped a quarter inch when he pulled. Jack released the rung and pushed away from the ladder to drop to the floor.

Before he could get away from the ladder a cascade of liquid rained down on Jack from above. Stephen and Ben were confused by all the sudden movement and stepped back. Unable to avoid the liquid, Jack was soaked. Ben’s light was trained on his face, and Stephen’s light showed his hands. Jack’s hands, face, and shirt were all bright, angry red.

“What happened?” asked Stephen.

“Gross. What is it? Blood?” asked Ben.

“Nope—I don’t think so,” said Jack. He sniffed his hand. “I think it’s just dye.” Jack was covered from head to toe. “The rung triggered it. I’m sure of it.”

“Holy shit,” said Stephen. “Does it come off?”

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Stephen.

Jack wiped dye away from his brow and tried to clear it from his eyes. He held his arms out, away from his body and looked at his clothes. The dye had soaked in and covered almost every square inch of his shirt and pants.

“Maybe that’s the boss trap?” said Ben, smiling.

“Just lead the way,” said Jack.

They retreated down the trip-wire hallway and gingerly stepped through the Bishop’s room. Jack left faint red footprints on the tile. Down in the drawing room, Jack and Ben headed for their rope ladder, but Stephen studied the artwork.

“C’mon, man,” said Ben.

Jack was the first back in daylight. Ben and Stephen followed soon after. Accustomed to the routine, they quickly stowed the rope-ladder, reset the hatch, and hid the stepladder.

**********

“How’s it look?” Jack held up his dyed shirt.

“Better,” said Ben.

Jack was washing his clothes in the creek. He stood ankle-deep in the cold water, wearing only his underwear. Stephen was wringing out Jack’s socks.

“We should hide clothes over there,” said Jack. “In case something like this happens again.”

Ben was sitting on a rock, eating a sandwich from his backpack. They didn’t have to ask him his opinion of this plan—it was clear from his silence and his body-language that he disapproved of all their recent plans.

“You should wash your hair,” said Stephen.

The boy woke with a clear head. He could tell the difference, and it was a tremendous relief to not feel drugged. He knew that he had to act now; he couldn't survive just by waiting for the crazy man to let him free. His next realization brought a warm glow to his neck and cheeks—he had hope at last: his wrist was loose and he could move his right arm.

He looked feverishly around the room and saw no trace of the crazy man. No lurking lab coats or bull’s heads were in sight. The boy clenched his teeth and pulled back on his right arm slowly. It was caught. Of course, he realized, it would never be that easy.

He lifted his head to look at his wrist, and hope dawned again. The strap that should be holding his hand in place was just caught on his thumb. Rotating his hand he quickly shed the strap and had his right arm free. His hand flew to his face and he swooned as he looked closely at his withered hand.

Instantly, he understood why his hand was free—he had lost so much weight that the straps had become loose. His hand danced across the strap on his chest until he found the buckle. Unlatched, he could lean over to work on the strap holding his left hand. At first his hand was trembling too much to grasp the strap, but he took a deep breath and unhooked it.

With both hands he removed the strap from his waist. A jab of pain shot through his left arm as he leaned forward to work on his feet. The port in his vein was being pulled back at a severe angle by the intravenous tube. The boy bit his lower lip and removed the tape from the inside of his elbow. He grasped the shaft of the port and pulled back quickly. He shuddered at the ease with which it slid out of his vein.

Back on task, he leaned over and freed his legs and ankles. The drug-fantasy of abdominal surgery and a half-skinned foot now seemed foolish. He had a bruised incision on his right thigh that was a bit swollen, but it didn’t look nearly as bad as he thought it would. Only now did it occur to him that he wasn’t painted with pictures of organs.