“That’s my Igor up there, so don’t go playing hero,” Briggs said. “He’s an excellent shot.”
Igor. That’s what Briggs had called Alexis when she’d been selected as his graduate assistant. We’ll save the world, my little Igor, he’d say, patting her “hump” and letting his hand linger. And she’d endured it because she had a career to consider, and Briggs was gaining notice.
Why am I just now remembering all this? Could he have developed a regimen that would have us all breaking down right here, right now?
But of course that was what Seethe was all about. A timed disintegration, a mass-market chaos, insanity prescribed and delivered on schedule. Part of Alexis had suspected it, even back then, but she was so intent on the beneficial Halcyon research, she’d overlooked the dark side.
“Oh, Alexis, I can see the disappointment on your face,” Briggs said. “I believe you understand now. But I wasn’t trying to steal all the credit. I was trying to protect you from the fallout.”
Wendy, who’d been lethargic after taking part of the pill, stirred and said, “Where are we? Roland?”
“Right here, babe,” he said, leaning down to help her stand. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Wendy,” Briggs said. “It’s really good to see you again.”
Alexis noted the pathetic tremor in his voice. The schoolboy crush. It had been no secret the two had been carrying on. Back then, when Wendy was innocent and Briggs was still young and vital and charismatic, it had almost seemed normal. And the affair had lessened Briggs’s fondling of Alexis, so she was grateful for the reprieve.
Now, though, it seemed like a terrible betrayal.
Seethe. It was all because of the Seethe. We wouldn’t have done those things otherwise.
“Here’s the deal,” Roland said. “We get Anita and David, and we leave. Nobody says a word about any of this. You can go back to boiling your witch’s brew and cutting livers out of rats for the rest of your life. But we’re out of it.”
“Roland. You don’t mind if I call you Roland, if we’re indulging in fantasies? You’re in no position to make demands. The only two doors are locked, the retracting door has been welded shut for decades, and the only people who know we’re here are already here.”
“Then what do you want?” Alexis said, eyeing the pipe on the floor. The urge to grab it and smash his head came and went in waves, one moment hot and pulsing and right, and the next repulsive and impossible.
“Why, to finish the trials,” Briggs said, as if amazed at the simplistic view of a student. “That’s what we all want.”
Roland clutched Wendy in a protective hug, which caused Briggs to shoot him a menacing glare. “You married out of guilt, but we know your real fear, Roland. You’re scared somebody will count on you. Because you always fail them, don’t you?”
Before Roland could react, Briggs shouted, “Are you ready, Mr. Kleingarten?”
“Just give the word, Doc,” said the man on the sorter.
David Underwood’s weird ululations were the only sound, reverberating around the hulking machinery, gaining brittleness and depth from the steel and the high glass: “Where seldom is heard…a disss…kurrr-ajin’ word…and the skies are not kuhloudeeeeeeeeee…”
Briggs took a bottle out of his pocket. “In this vial is a special version of Halcyon. One pill each. These don’t last four hours. They will stave off the worst symptoms for maybe fifteen minutes, maybe twenty minutes. We don’t know yet.” He beamed at Alexis. “If we knew everything, we wouldn’t need to experiment anymore, would we?”
“…alllll…daaaaaayyyyy,” David wailed.
“So what now?” Roland said.
“We see which of you get out of here alive, just like last time,” Briggs said, leaning forward and placing the vial on the floor at his feet. “Susan was the weakest ten years ago, but I suspect it will be Wendy this time.”
“You fucking bastard,” Roland roared, rushing forward at the same moment Alexis went for the pipe.
“Now!” Briggs shouted.
There was a click and hum as the factory went pitch-black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mark put his ear to the wall, but the insane man’s singing drowned out any hope of hearing what was going on. He thought he heard Alexis’s voice, but he couldn’t be sure. Then the lights went out, and he felt along the wall to the door, trying the handle for the tenth time.
A hissing emanated from somewhere to his right, and in the dark he felt along the wall. Inches off the floor was a tiny metal grill, and air was circulating through it.
No, not just air. Something vaguely metallic and acrid. He sniffed, trying to place it.
He retreated to the far side of the room and slumped in the corner, his heart slamming against his ribs. Someone pounded on the wall to his left. Burchfield had probably made the same discovery.
Now I know how prisoners in the gas chamber feel. Except I don’t know whether I go brain dead and forget who I am, or if I get lizard-brained and tear my own eyes out.
Mark yanked his shirt up, tearing buttons, and held the fabric to his face, hoping it would serve as a filter. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, but the panic caused him to forget and take huge gulps of the contaminated air.
He scrambled to the door, bumping into it hard enough to see lime-colored sparks behind his eyelids, and he wondered if he was hallucinating. He punched the door twice, and by then the acrid odor had permeated his nostrils and left residue at the base of his throat.
Shit. It’s in me, whatever it is.
He grabbed the handle out of instinct, and this time it turned.
The surge of relief was stronger than his wariness, and he propelled himself into the fresher air of the hallway, even though it, too, was in darkness.
“Mark Morgan, is that you?” It was Burchfield, somewhere to his left.
“Yeah. Briggs must have used a remote control to unlock the doors. Why did he let us out?”
“Because we’re free.” It was a woman, and it sounded like she was still inside her cell. Mark hadn’t realized there might be other captives besides the lunatic singer of “Home on the Range.”
“Who are you?” Burchfield bellowed in his authoritative voice.
“Anita Mann,” she said with a giggle. “Who wants to be first?”
“Where’s Forsyth?” Mark called to Burchfield. The hallway had a main door, which Kleingarten had unlocked when depositing them in their cells, then locked again upon exiting; the acoustics suggested the hallway was still sealed off. The cell doors must have been sprung by remote control.
“Wallace?” Burchfield called.
“Come on, handsome,” Anita said. “I have a cozy cot right here waiting. And you don’t have to take turns. There’s plenty for everybody.”
“Nuh-nita,” someone blubbered. Mark recognized the voice as the singer’s.
“David?” The woman now sounded almost normal, though groggy, as if waking from a dream.
“They…killed Susan.”
The woman screeched in the dark. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up! That never happened, any way you remember it.”
“Mark, these people are off their rockers,” Burchfield said. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Wallace!”
Mark heard Burchfield scrabbling and scratching along the wall, then a metallic ding opposite him as a door closed.
“Goddamned,” Burchfield said. “He went back into his cell.”
Or maybe Briggs didn’t let him out, for whatever reason. Although Mark recalled his door had a privacy lock as well.
“He’s probably safer in there,” Mark said, thinking the elder statesman wouldn’t be much good if they had to fight or tear their way out of the hallway.
