We Are Monsters (22 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

There was nowhere to run. Alex was locked in a cage, with no way to fight the man off. Devon was far too big. And angry. His eyes like two narrow slits on a burning furnace. They were virtually aflame.

“Christmas done come in July,” Devon said as he stalked forward, his top lip curled back in a snarl. He bent over and ducked his head under the top bunk in order to look Alex in the eyes. “They brought me my damn alibi.”

Alex was still reeling from the sudden shift in reality—from the airy conference room to the cramped confines of this cell. He was certain it must have been caused by a hallucination or, perhaps, he had somehow fainted and was experiencing a lucid dream. But that wouldn't account for the level of sensory detail. The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the buzzing of the overhead light, the nauseating stench of bad breath and body odor coming from Devon. These were not the things of dreams. This was something different.

“Hold on.” Alex formed a T with his hands, like a referee calling a time-out. “I need time to think.”

“The fuck you do!”

Alex shied away from the shout, but resisted the urge to plug his nose.
What the fuck are they feeding him?
he thought.
Putrefied fish?

Devon reached in and grabbed Alex by the collar of his jumpsuit and pulled him forward. “I already spent too much damn time up in this place, understand? All because of your bitch-ass wife and your crazy motherfucking brother. And you know I ain't done shit. But did you say anything? Hell no. I guess you been too busy, huh? Well you've already taken up too much of my damn time. Time's up, motherfucker. Now you're going to help get me the fuck out of here.”

Alex began to shake. He had never felt such fear in his life. Such confusion. Such uncertainty. “I-I…” he stammered.
I don't know where we are!
he wanted to say.
I don't know how I got here!
he wanted to scream.
But I'll do whatever I can to get you, me and anyone else out of here as soon as I figure out what the fuck is going on!
He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a wet jumble of words washed away in a flood of tears.

A second of silence ticked by as Alex stopped blubbering and took a hyperventilating inhalation.

Then Devon yanked him from the cot and slammed him to the floor, landing on top. He straddled Alex's body, grabbing him by the hair and pinning his head against the concrete with his left hand. He began to hammer Alex's face with his right, punctuating each punch with an animalistic grunt.

The first few punches produced flashes of light in Alex's eyes. The next few brought pain. His face soon became slick with a wetness that created a splat sound for each subsequent punch, like a line cook flattening hamburger patties before slapping them on the grill. The last few blows brought relief, blessed escape. Blackness.

“What a waste,” he heard, the voice distant, faint. It sounded like whispered words through a neighboring wall. “All that potential, and look what he does with it.”

“We're all disappointed.” This voice louder, familiar. Female.

Alex shifted and his head shrieked in pain. He nearly passed out again.

“Looks like he's moving,” the man said.

“Yes. He's coming around.” This from the female. “Honey, can you hear me?”

He strained to open his eyes. They were swollen. A thin sliver of light stabbed through his lids with the sharp edge of an ice pick. He squeezed them shut. His head began to throb. It felt like all of his blood had migrated to his brain. He moaned, rolled over and forced open his swollen eyes again. Two blurred figures stood on the other side of the cell door. Dreamlike wraiths in this insane reality.

“Good God!” the female said.

“Eh, serves him right. He deserves worse.”

“He could have been killed.”

“I wish he was the one who was dead.”

Alex managed to rise up on an elbow. Blood dripped from his chin and plinked in the widening pool of blood below.

It plinked again. Again. Again.

He tried to breathe in through his nose, but it was clogged, busted closed. He blinked and fought to focus his eyes. Finally, he was able to identify the people outside his cell and he tried to get to his feet. But fell, banging his face on the concrete floor. “Help,” he gasped in pain.

“Oh no. You got yourself in this mess. There's nothing we can do,” Alex's father said. “You've disgraced us once and for all.”

“Stop it. How is that productive?” Rachel said.

“Productive?” Mr. Drexler's chortle devolved into a cough. “If only his supposed medicine had been productive. Then I might still have my firstborn son. Instead of this self-serving fraudster.”

Alex wormed his way up to his knees. The room whirled while cymbals crashed against both sides of his brain. Then, his vision steadied and he could see more clearly. “What's happened?” he said.

“I'll tell you what's happened!” Mr. Drexler began, but Rachel placed a calming hand on his shoulder to silence him.

She waited to make sure he wasn't planning another outburst before addressing Alex, “We're going to get you looked at as soon as we can. I bet you have a concussion, but your memory should return soon. I knew it was wrong to put you in the same cell as him.”

Alex slowly scanned his cell. Someone was still sleeping in the top bunk, but Devon had disappeared.

“They took him away,” Rachel said. “He's being released. Which is ridiculous, after what he did to you. But they seem to sympathize with his position. Improper imprisonment.”

“But you said…”

“I know what I said. I know what I saw. Or what I thought I saw. I realize that I was wrong. Stress-induced hallucination is what they tell me. But you probably know all about that. It was the formula you experimented on your brother with. It…It drove him crazy, I guess. Jerry…well, he… Alex, your brother killed himself.”

Mr. Drexler burst into a prolonged cry of anguish. It was a strange, ugly sound. It reverberated within the small concrete cell, seeming to build upon itself. Watching his father cry had not gotten easier over time.

Alex staggered to his feet. His head pounded heavily, nearly driving him back down to the floor, and then the pounding diminished. “There's no way. That wasn't a self-inflicted wound. Plus, he had been doing so much better. He was like his old self again.”

Rachel averted her eyes, shrugged. “I don't know,” she said.

“But what about…” Talking caused his brain to throb. He waved an arm around him to reference the room. “Why this?”

“You don't remember?”

Alex shook his head once and winced.

“The formula, Alex. You were testing it illegally. On your own patients. On your own…” she tapered off, motioning towards Mr. Drexler, who had his faced buried in his hands.

A trial? A conviction? Impossible. I would remember.

“But I had authorization. I need to speak to someone. Get me Mr. Bearman.”

Rachel offered him a sympathetic smile, as though humoring him. “Just wait until your memory comes back.”

A booming voice came bellowing from down the hallway. “Okay, folks! Visit's over!”

Bearman's doppelgänger walked up and stepped between Rachel and Mr. Drexler. He peered in at Alex. “Damn, son. You sure got whooped, there, didn't you? Well, not likely to be the last time. Want a word of advice?”

Alex's lower jaw dropped; his mind was void of any possible reply.

“Learn to fight,” the man said. He grabbed Rachel and Mr. Drexler by the arms and ushered them away. “Come on, folks. Say goodbye. As you can see, he's in good hands.”

And then they were gone. Alex turned around. Despite all the sound and commotion, the man in the top bunk still hadn't stirred.

Chapter Forty-Four

The priest scampered into the room, quick as a lizard, and closed the door behind him. A sickly yellow light began to emanate from unseen sources, as though from the very air itself. It spread with a grim luminescence, revealing two rows of white-clad women lining either side of a four-poster bed. Christ hung from a wooden cross on the wall behind the bed, his skin torn and bleeding. His sorrowful eyes bearing the pain of all men.

The priest grabbed Angela up from the floor by her arm. He spoke. His voice had changed again. It sounded even older, ancient. But it also sounded familiar. The inflection of a younger man weakened over eons. “You have fallen back into your old, wicked ways, Sister. You must repent.”

The women joined hands and began to sing in a foreign language. Some archaic hymn. Their angelic voices rose to the rafters and rained down with a caustic harmony, their innocent intonations grating on Angela's ears like steel wool. And through the whirling eye of their rapturous song, she could feel the wickedness inside her, the need to be scrubbed clean.

The wan light flickered as if from a candle flame. For a moment, the shadowed interior of the priest's hood receded and she again glimpsed his face. His skin was lucent. The shimmering exterior was a shriveled mask of withered skin and sunken cheeks spotted with lesions. Underneath that surface image was another face. Younger, yet still old. And underneath that, another. This one younger still. And again, layer upon layer of regression. Of regeneration. Of rebirth.

She recognized the middle-aged man within the myriad masks, and his eyes burned with recognition as well. Then the shadow returned to conceal the priest's features, cloaking the infinite faces with a dark slate without depth, like a puddle of oil.

His voice came from beyond the black hole, echoing all the way back from the beginning of time. “Repent, Sister. You must be made clean.”

He thrust her upon the bed. Her head whiplashed when she landed on the firm, unforgiving mattress. She could taste the metallic tang of blood. It smeared on her hand when she wiped her lips.

And the singing grew louder—more earnest—as though fueled by the blood. It caught in the canopy above the bed, reflecting upon itself, offering its own refrain.

The hem of her black cloak had bunched up when she bounced on the bed, riding up her legs, showing the sinuous shape of her thighs. The low light showed the smoothness of her skin. She attempted to push the skirt back down in a desperate act of modesty, but it would not budge, as if held in place by unseen hands.

“Unclean! Impure!” the priest shouted. He raised his arms and shook his gnarled fists towards the sky.

“Wicked! Wicked!” the women chanted, incorporating it into their song.

The priest approached the bed. He pulled back his hood. His face was solid again. Just that of the old, wizened man.

The women stopped singing and circled behind him. They reached out to remove his robe. It peeled away from his frail and cadaverous frame. Sharp bones pressed against age-spotted skin. A fine pelt of wispy, white hair sprouted from his shoulders.

The robe fell away completely and the member between his legs rose up like a staff. It was gorged and disproportionately large, pointing at her like an angry accusation.

I'm dead,
she thought as she gaped at the distorted figure before her.
I've been sent to hell.

The women encircled the bed.

Angela searched their faces for a friend. Her eyes flashed wide.

She was looking at herself. The women in white surrounding the bed were all her. Or, rather, a version of her. Pure, clean, unsullied. They wore their white with grace and impunity. They looked at her through her own kind and compassionate eyes.

The priest began to mount the bed.

“Wait,” Angela said, surprised that she was still able to voice a word. That she still held some dominion in this twisted unreality. “Please, just stop.”

The other Angelas reached out, grabbing her legs and arms, pulling them apart so that she formed the letter X, lifting her, momentarily, up from the bed with the extent of their force. Her hair was grasped and pulled back. She could feel the cloak being pulled farther up her thighs, exposing her groin. She felt a dank heat building down below. A sick, perverse desire.

“No,” she cried, but in her mind she heard
Yes, yes. Do it, do it. I deserve it. I know I do.

The women began to sing again in that angelic alto that mocked the ugliness of the coming act. The priest crawled towards her, wheezing from exertion, his ornamental chains tinkling like wind chimes. Christ loomed down from above, his agony, forever frozen in time, mirroring her own.

“It's the pain that purifies us,” the priest said when he reached her, pushing himself between her legs. “We must die to be reborn.”

No,
Angela thought, looking up at the leering priest in revulsion.
Not again,
she thought, remembering, feeling once more like a confused and helpless child.

Say it!
she thought.
Say it!

She opened her mouth to scream.

Chapter Forty-Five

“Wait!” Eli yelled. He shoved Dr. Francis aside and activated the intercom. “Stop! Don't shoot.”

Sergeant Wagner spun in an angry circle, spitting a string of obscenities that went unheard in the soundproof room. Then he remembered the intercom and switched on his lapel speaker. “What the fuck is the holdup?”

Dr. Francis looked troubled. “Give us a minute,” he said, and switched off the intercom. Sergeant Wagner stormed silently across the room, gesticulating like some angry mime.

“What's with you?”

Eli had no idea how to answer. He was far too confused. But to admit as much would be to acknowledge the fact that he had suffered a psychotic break of some kind. But, then again, so would playing along. Both options seemed insane.

“I already told you. We're done for the day. That's enough.”

The children's ravenous keening turned into a tortured cry. They were clearly suffering. There was a heart-wrenching quality to their cries.

“Then it's all been done in vain,” Dr. Francis said. “What meaning do we give their deaths if it doesn't give life to someone else?”

“I don't understand. Why do they have to die?”

Dr. Francis smirked. “Forming a conscience now? Sorry, Eli. It's too late for that. Morality is fragile in this field. Those who can't be cured die to help those who can. It's the way it's always been.”

The desperate cawing of the cannibalistic kids was distracting Eli.

Why try and reason with insanity,
he thought.

Because insanity has its own rationality,
his mind replied.

The children had emptied the man's head. He could hear their fingers scraping against the inside of his skull.

“Eli, we need another donor for the treatment to take effect. Do they look remedied to you?” Dr. Francis pointed towards the pit of writhing children, their blood-slick arms digging into the dead man's hollow head, their eyes wide, vacant, brackish gore smeared across frantic faces.

Another donor.

Why do they always have to die?

Eli looked back through the window. “Who are they?”

Dr. Francis scoffed. “I really don't know what's gotten into you. Who are they? Christ, Eli. This is your project. When has it ever mattered before? They're donors. They're as good as dead. What is it that you say? ‘The greatest use of one's life is to help another live.' They die so that others may come alive. That's their purpose. That's their meaning. Remember, they all volunteered for this. No one forced them to make this sacrifice. They do it for you. For your work. Don't turn your back on them now. Don't make their lives meaningless.”

Eli kept waiting to wake up, although he knew this wasn't a dream. His senses were too sharp. His thoughts and actions too organized. His confusion and dismay too intricate and complete.

In dreams, emotions are archetypal—fear, lust, joy, sorrow—there is little nuance. But now, Eli's emotions were a tangled ball of twine, with each frayed thread representing a different line of perception and understanding.

He felt revulsion towards the children gorging on the dead man's brain, but also a keen sense of curiosity and compassion. He wanted to study them, learn their ailment and alleviate their pain.

He wondered who the woman was who had been escorted away. A mother, he assumed. Or perhaps the wife of the donor. Now that she was gone, he desperately wanted to question her to determine her role.

Above all else, however, he felt baffled by the presence of familiar people. His old boss, Dr. Francis. His old squad leader, Sergeant Wagner. And if his eyesight was correct, his old patient, Miranda, now standing among the seven members of the firing squad.

Yet, no matter how real it all felt, it still bore all the arbitrary absurdity of a dream. The exaggerated scenario, the loosely symbolic themes.

This must be either delirium or death. But this is no dream.

There was something empowering about that realization. Something liberating. It diminished his sense of responsibility for making the right decision. It reduced the perception of grave importance. While Eli could not determine what this was or how he'd gotten here, it most certainly had to be a fabrication of the mind—some simulated scenario. And, if that was the case, then he, in essence, could do no wrong. There couldn't be any true ramifications from his actions.

If he was dead, then he needn't fear death. If he was delusional, then he needn't fear for his sanity. It may not feel like a dream, but he may as well treat it as if it were one while he waited to be resuscitated. Or for understanding to arrive.

Unless this is a test,
he thought, just as he was about to turn and march out the door.
A test of what?
That made little to no sense, but it was enough to give him pause. Enough to bring his frantic mind's attempt at logic full circle.
A test of my convictions—to see if I can make the right decision, even under the most extreme scenarios. A test I have failed my whole life.

Eli straightened and strode towards Dr. Francis. He looked him in the eye and, in a stern voice full of conviction, said, “No, there's already been enough death in my name.” He pressed the intercom button. His lips brushed the speaker grate as he spoke, “That's it. We're done for the day. No more.”

Sergeant Walker glared back through the two-way mirror with a look of anger and dismay.

Dr. Francis reached for the intercom button and Eli grabbed his wrist. He could feel the man's pulse thump as he tightened his grip. “This is absurd!” Dr. Francis said.

Eli almost laughed. “I couldn't agree more.”

“What do you think you're doing?”

Eli squeezed the man's wrist until he could feel the rigid edge of bone. “We're going to find a way to help those kids, one that doesn't require anyone to die.”

Dr. Francis tried to yank his arm away, but Eli held firm. The man stopped struggling. He attempted a strained facsimile of a smile. It wavered between petulance and pain. “Your morality is misguided. You think you're helping these people by sparing their lives? No, all you're doing is ensuring that everyone suffers in order to make yourself feel better. It's all about the greater good, you self-righteous coward.

“Sacrifice takes strength. It takes courage. You can't play God and cry over the casualties. You must be willing to sacrifice your only son. It's part of the job.”

The dead man was pulled from the table into the mewling pit. The kids began to wrestle over the lifeless carcass, fighting over remaining scraps, their cries rising into animalistic screams. It was like listening to an altercation between howler monkeys at the zoo.

Eli released Dr. Francis's wrist and approached the pit. The kids were clawing at one another and gnashing their teeth. The screaming increased in intensity. Urine sprayed in the excitement and wet feces splashed to the floor. The hole in the man's head was being gripped by a ring of little hands, with more scrabbling for purchase, each one pulling in opposite directions. The man's head fractured and split, chunks of skull and scalp were torn free and discarded. His face began to rip, the bone underneath cracking with a popping sound, stretching the skin tight and out of shape—like a rubber mask being removed—which then began to tear. The man's head peeled open like a flower, exposing the inside of his neck. His esophagus stuck up like a stalk.

The children threw the desiccated body to the floor. Eli stood paralyzed on the edge of the pit. The kids below him were like a pack of wild predators. A hand shot out and grabbed the cuff of his pants. Then another, its grip surprisingly strong. The kids below surged towards the side where Eli was standing, reaching up towards him with clawed hands, grabbing his legs and pulling him off his feet, their insane screams assaulting his ears.

He slid towards the pit in spurts, as the hands crawled higher, pulling him closer, his legs extending out over the ledge. He tried to find purchase on the slick tile floor, but couldn't. His hands kept slipping as the kids jerked him towards them. Their strength was extraordinary. Fueled by an insatiable hunger to be healed.

Eli arched his back and looked behind him. Dr. Francis was watching with gaping eyes and a cavernous mouth. Eli reached towards him, stretching as far as his body would allow, but Dr. Francis remained rooted in place. He closed his mouth to swallow, but it sprang open again.

One of the kids wrapped his arms around Eli's legs, trapping them, and pulled. He slid farther out over the ledge. Then others piled on in a human tidal wave and he went over, falling down to the gore-splattered floor.

Kids began clawing at his head as though trying to dig a hole. Others tried to bite through his skull, sinking their sharp teeth into the thin flesh of his scalp.

Eli could feel the cutting of their teeth, the tearing of their hands. He could smell the copper odor of the dead man's blood mixing with the acrid smell of urine and fresh feces. It was ripe, like raw sewage.

This is no dream. This is no dream.
The thought became a chant, a mantra. Eli repeated it over and over in his mind—he was screaming now—as he curled himself into a ball, covering his head with both hands.

Pop. Pop. Pop-pop,pop,poppop.

It sounded like fireworks, like M-80s popping in rapid succession.

Then, closer, a fleshier sound, like meat being slapped.

Kids began to fall away. He felt their attack weaken.

Fireworks continued to explode. Flesh continued to smack. Kids fell away until Eli was able to rise to a knee and look around.

The young soldier was standing beside the pit, the stock of his assault rifle pinned to his shoulder, an unblinking eye peering down the barrel. He squeezed off two more rounds and blood splashed Eli's upturned face as it sprayed from two kids beside him—two pigtailed twins no older than four.

Once their screaming had stopped, the room fell silent. Above the rank odor of gore, Eli could smell burnt cordite. Smoke drifted from the soldier's gun.

Eli rose to his feet, his legs shaking. Blood dripped from his brow down into his eyes, and he blinked it away. He looked down at the massacre. At the tangle of bullet-riddled bodies and blood-soaked limbs. At the adolescent faces turned innocent by death.

The greater good,
he thought.
My God, this is no dream.