Gray Matter

“I don’t think so,” Zakarian said. “Hands high. All of you.”

One of the masked children was holding a large syringe, one of several on a tray, ready to be inserted into the brain probe of the child on the left table—the one with the red wristband. Two others were manning the drill probes, the high-whining motor still cutting the air.

“Drop it and hands in the air.”

Rachel moved closer to the child banded with green.

It was Dylan.

Rachel groaned. He was breathing through a respirator. His head had been shaved and slathered with some bitter-smelling jelly-stuff-like burnt almonds. Clamped to his skull was a metal frame that looked like some medieval torture device. No probes had yet been inserted into his head, but a high-speed drill was poised to bore its way through his skull above his left ear. On the stainless steel tray beside Dylan’s head lay surgical knives, drill bits, and other glistening steel tools.

Unconscious beside him was some hapless child whose brain matter they were ready to harvest. Several probes aligned at his skull at different angles were poised for insertions. Beside his head were half a dozen large syringes for extraction.

“Turn off that drill,” she growled to one of the kids, who looked about twelve.

He shot a look to Malenko for help.

With both hands Rachel raised the pistol. “Turn it off, or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

He turned it off.

“But isn’t this what you wanted, Mrs. Whitman?” Malenko asked. “To undo the damage you’d done? To make him a brilliant little boy so he could learn to love literature like that of the poet whose name he carries? Isn’t that what you wanted, Mrs. Whitman? Wasn’t that your dream—the scientifically correct child?”

“You son of a bitch,” she hissed.

Malenko looked at Martin. “And wasn’t it you who wanted a son to follow in Daddy’s footsteps?”

“But you’re harvesting other kids,” Martin said in utter disbelief.

“And where do you think incandescence comes from—battery implants? Just ask him,” he said, flashing his grin at Brendan LaMotte.

Brendan looked in shock.

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” Malenko continued. “When they brought you to us, you had little more language capabilities than the domestic cat. But we fixed you, didn’t we, Brendan? Perhaps a bit too much, I hear. But we solved your language deficiencies, no?”

“Y-y-you messed me up.”

“Messed you up? If it weren’t for me, you’d still be working on your ABCs.”

“You made me a f-f-freak.”

“No system’s perfect, but we’re getting there.”

Malenko did not seem the least bit intimidated by Zakarian or their weapons. He looked over Rachel’s shoulder.

Zakarian shouted to the other man behind the computer terminal. “Over here and hands high.”

Rachel looked at the child beside Dylan. “But you’re killing them.”

“Not technically,” Malenko said. “Just a little … simplified.” Then he smiled, showing that row of white teeth and sugary pink gums. “The universe loves a balance.”

“You monster.”

“Monster? But you hired me, Mrs. Whitman. What does that make you? Or all the other good earnest parents who want their supertots. Should I be crucified because I’ve raised the dead?”

“We didn’t know.”

“And now you do.”

Why was he confessing all this with a police officer here and the guns on him? They had to get Dylan out of here. “Take that thing off his head now!”

Malenko looked at her without expression for a moment. “Ahh,” he sighed. “About time.”

A voice behind them: “Freeze!”

Behind them stood a woman holding a pistol, which she moved between Rachel and Zakarian. Martin raised his hands, Brendan was frozen in place. The woman she had seen earlier at the camp. With little Daniel and Tanya, the girl in the room.

“You too, asshole!” A man’s voice. Coming up from behind the woman was the guard they had encountered outside. He too had a pistol. The woman had freed him. He and the other man were closing in on Rachel and Zakarian.

“Is there a safety on this?” she said under her breath.

Zakarian looked. “It’s off.”

“Drop them,” the guard shouted.

“Get them out of here,” Malenko bellowed. “Immediately. Outside, and get rid of them.”

In a flash, Zakarian spun around and dropped to his knees and fired. The huge explosion reverberated in the closed structure. Rachel fell to the ground. When she looked, the woman was on the floor half in and half out of the swinging doors, the front of her blasted in red.

The guard shouted something to the other man, and fired his pistol. People scattered everywhere as the shots rang out.

But all Rachel could think was that a stray bullet would hit Dylan and the other boy. She held her breath and took aim with both hands as she had seen in movies …

Just squeeze

… and she did. The explosion instantly jolted her backward. But the guard was hit, because he fell backward against some equipment. His left sleeve had been torn away and was turning red.

The next instant erupted into frenzied and deafening commotion. The guard began firing with his good hand. The operating-team kids were hollering and scattering for cover. From behind computer terminals, the other man had scrambled over for the dead woman’s pistol. On his knees with the shotgun, Zakarian shot at the man, who collapsed to his knees, bleeding in the hand and side. The air filled with sulfurous smoke, and Rachel was nearly deaf from the gunfire. Her only thought was Dylan and the other child on the operating tables.

But the guard was up with his gun taking aim. Rachel took one look and squeezed off another shot.

The explosion rocked the room again, and when she opened her eyes, the guard was on the floor clutching his leg. And Zakarian was upon him.

With Martin scrambling on the floor, Rachel dashed to the operating tables. Neither of the children had been hit by the gunfire.

Dylan was still breathing through the respirator, his vital functions pulsing on the monitor overhead. His skull had been marked with black ink, long evil-looking metal probes poised for insertion into his head, calibrated brain scans on the screen above. All she could think was: God, what have we done to you?

She flashed the gun at a female in a mask cowering behind the surgical table. She still wore her mask and cap. There was a bandage on one of her thumbs. “Take that off his head.”

The girl stood up. A tall girl.

From behind her, Brendan suddenly snapped off her mask. “Nicole!”

That girl. Rachel knew that girl. At Bloomfield. The girl in the psych lab.

“You asshole! You just wouldn’t let go, would you?” Nicole said to Brendan. “Now you ruined everything.”

She lunged toward him, but Rachel whacked her in the chest with her left arm. She raised the pistol to Nicole’s face. “Take that off him or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Nicole regarded the fury in Rachel’s face and the gun trained at a spot between her eyes, and she began to unfasten the screws.

On the floor the other kids were huddled together. Rachel flashed the pistol at them. “Help her. NOW!”

They shot up and began to remove the head frame apparatus from Dylan while Martin started to disconnect the IVs.

“NO!” Brendan shouted.