bags of feed with English-language labels, and lines of farming tools—shovels, hoes, rakes, and more.
A door at the back of the barn lead to a butcher shack. Blood stained the concrete floor, where drains had been installed. It looked eerily similar to the laboratory’s second-floor surgical suite, except for the chains and hooks that hung from the ceiling. But what really held Hawkins’s attention was the array of butchering tools hung neatly on a Peg-Board. Hawkins helped himself to a machete and tested the blade. Not as sharp as his knife, but with a little power behind it, it would probably be capable of severing a limb. There was no sheath for the blade, so he slid it under his belt.
As Hawkins headed toward the door, he spotted what looked like a spray nozzle for a garden hose, but it looked too heavy duty. He picked it up. The device was all metal and the weight felt similar to a handgun. Out of context, he might not have realized what it was, but here, in a slaughterhouse for cows, he recognized the device as a bolt stunner. Before cows are drained of blood, they must first be rendered unconscious. The bolt stunner worked by shooting a stainless-steel rod into the cattle’s forehead, punching a hole in the skull, destroying brain matter, and knocking the animal unconscious without killing it—the bloodletting did that. It only worked when placed up against something, so it was an ineffective long-range weapon, but if Hawkins encountered the creature that took Joliet again, it might do some damage. The downside was that the compressed-air cartridge had to be replaced after each use. He put the bolt stunner in his cargo shorts pocket along with two replacement cartridges.
Armed with the rifle, bolt stunner, and machete, Hawkins felt a little more confident, but not much. An antitank missile would have felt more appropriate.
After scanning the area for signs of life one more time, Hawkins slipped out of the barn’s main door. There were no roads or paths leading to the farm like there might be on the mainland, but there was a tractor. And a garden lush with vegetables and even a scarecrow. Rows of neatly arranged trees, heavy with fruit, lined the near acre of crops.
Standing out in stark contrast to the farm was a building beyond the orchard. It stood at least three stories tall—all concrete-lined like the other World War II-era structures—was round, and sported a domed room. Square windows wrapped around the building, giving it the look of a Roman coliseum, and perhaps that’s what it was. Knowing what Unit 731 had done on the island already, an arena where their victims, or perhaps creations, fought to the death for their entertainment, or even research, wouldn’t surprise him at all.
His first instinct was to head away from the building, but Joliet might be there. He had to check it out.
Halfway across the garden, his stomach growled and ached. He knelt down and yanked a carrot from the ground. After brushing it off, he placed the tip in his mouth, took a bite, and stopped midchew.
The scarecrow was gone.
He’d only seen it from a distance, standing still, dressed in overalls, arms outstretched. Given its posture, immobility, and position in the garden, he’d assumed it was nothing more than an inanimate scarecrow. But he’d been duped by the serene setting.
He spun around with the carrot in his mouth and the rifle in his hands. But the scarecrow, or whatever it was, had disappeared.
Moving fast and wary, Hawkins crossed the garden and slipped into the cover provided by rows of apple, pear, and orange trees. The sweet scent of fruit made his belly grumble again. But he forgot his hunger upon hearing the shuffle of feet and a dull, grumbling voice.
Leading with the rifle, Hawkins skirted a Honey Crisp apple tree and aimed it straight at the back of a very tall, very round man. The overalls identified the man as the scarecrow. But the thick neck and bald head and hunched shoulder revealed the man as Jim Clifton, the younger Tweedle brother.
Hawkins lowered the rifle.
Bennett said the crew had been killed. But he hadn’t actually seen it happen. He heard them die. Which means they might still be alive. Jim was proof of that.
As gently as he could, Hawkins said, “Jim.”
The man spun around fast, startled by Hawkins’s voice.
Only the towering figure wasn’t actually Jim Clifton.
Not anymore, at least.
36.
Hawkins reeled back and fell to the soft, grassy earth between the rows of fruit trees. He sat still and silent, watching the hulking form of Jim Clifton stumble about. To say the man had been deformed was an understatement. His eyes were missing and his mouth stapled shut. A hole oozing blood from the inside of his left eye revealed the man had been lobotomized. His ears had been replaced with what looked like futuristic hearing aids fused to his skin.
While the damage done to Jim’s head was unthinkable, it didn’t frighten Hawkins as much as what had been done to the man’s body. Where hands should have been, there were now blades, like butcher knives, fused to his stumpy forearms. Two large medical bags full of pink liquid were strapped to his upper arms and connected to lines embedded in his forearms. Hawkins thought the mobile drips must be providing morphine, or antibiotics, or even antirejection drugs.
A strange pressure squeezed Hawkins’s ears. He shook his head as the pressure built, but he forgot all about it when Jim’s confused countenance shifted. The man had looked confused before, like a drugged, blind, deaf, and mute man with extensive injuries and brain trauma should. But now he stood still. Focused. He turned his head down toward Hawkins like he could see.
Hawkins backed away slowly.
Jim raised one of his arms and slipped the knife blade beneath the overall straps.
For a moment, Hawkins thought the man was going to kill himself, but with a quick swipe of his arm, Jim cut through both straps. The overalls top fell forward, revealing the cook’s chest and prodigious belly.
Hawkins scrambled back while muttering a string of curses. He stopped when his back struck a tree trunk.
A single word had been carved into Jim’s chest. The lettering was intricate, created with care—the work of someone familiar with a scalpel. The wounds weren’t deep enough to kill, but swollen and fringed by pink flesh, the text was easy to read.
RANGER.
Whoever had done this knew Hawkins’s nickname. Had they been watching them so closely on the island that they overheard conversations? Did the security cameras have microphones? Or had the name been tortured out of one of the captured crew? Bennett had clearly been wrong about the fate of those he left behind. If Blok, Jones, the Tweedles, DeWinter, Joliet, and Kam had all been taken, and tortured, the person who did this could have easily learned his nickname. But why taunt him with it?
The pressure came again, this time in three quick pulses.
Jim exploded into action just as the third burst of pressure finished. He charged forward, swinging wildly with his bladed arms. The man couldn’t see, but seemed to know exactly where Hawkins sat.
Armed with a rifle, bolt stunner, and machete, Hawkins could have killed the man. Despite his modifications, Jim was still human. And killing him might have actually been the merciful thing to do, but Hawkins couldn’t bring himself to attack. The thought never even crossed his mind. A single overpowering emotion dwarfed his instincts and logic: fear.
Not just for his own safety, but for Jim’s. For Joliet’s. And Bray’s. The entire crew could have been tortured in this way. An image of Joliet mutilated in similar fashion filled his mind and he nearly failed to move clear of Jim’s first swing.
It was a wild and uncontrolled swing, as though he knew Hawkins was in front of him, but not exactly
