Chapter Four
John basked in his little patch of sunlight and thought about grass. He couldn’t recall ever seeing grass, but he knew what it was, and he could picture the precise fresh green of newly sprouted blades. He conjured the smell—vegetative and almost sweet—and the tickly sensation of grass tips against skin. The only surfaces he’d experienced were hard and unforgiving: stone, tile, and steel. Yet he knew that if he lay back in a field of grass, it would be soft and springy beneath him, like a living mattress, and small insects would buzz around him as he gazed up at the limitless sky.
Sky. No—that was something to think about tomorrow. He allowed himself only one such musing per day. Yesterday he’d meditated on coffee, and today was grass. He’d save sky for tomorrow. And then the day after that….
Despair sliced into him like knives, and the hopelessness of his existence suddenly overwhelmed him, as it sometimes did. If he was being punished for something, shouldn’t he at least know how he’d transgressed? Weren’t even the worst criminals granted small mercies? He had so very little, and he didn’t understand why.
Vague notions about grass did nothing to chase away his anguish, so he comforted himself as best as he could. “John,” he whispered. “My name is John. I am.” He repeated it until the agony faded to its usual dull ache.
He settled back on the stone floor and tried to imagine he was grass growing in the warm sunshine. He would have thousands of bright blades, each reaching joyously upward. If someone stomped on him, no matter. He would bend for a time, but soon he’d stand upright again. He would find strength in his pliancy. He would—
Metal screamed.
John curled immediately into a tight ball, tucking his face into his chest and covering his head with his arms, so he wouldn’t see the light when it flooded his cell. But unlike the few other times this had happened, he didn’t crawl into a corner. He had the sun now, and he refused to give up that precious warmth for even a minute.
“Here we go!” The familiar voice of the chief. Even though the chief had never touched him—had never even come particularly close—John was terrified of him. John was certain the chief had the power to destroy him. Or worse.
“Fuck!”
John didn’t recognize the second voice, but he’d heard others like it. Younger men would stand beside the chief, exclaim in horror, and then refuse whatever task the chief had asked of them. John didn’t know whether he ought to feel relief at the refusals, but he hated their disgust and shock. He was just John. They ought to be repulsed by his situation, not by him.
“W-what is it?” the younger man demanded shakily.
Him, not it, but John didn’t say it out loud. They never listened to him anyway.
“Did you ever read Shelley’s book?” asked the chief.
“What?”
“No, I don’t suppose you did. You’re not the literary type. And the films obscured the original message, I’m afraid. In the book, the monster was rejected by his maker—and by society as a whole—because he was hideous. The dead aren’t pretty, Lowe, not even when they regain the semblance of life.”
“This is….” The younger man—Lowe—paused and cleared his throat audibly. “Did Swan do this?”
“No, no. Swan’s not the first to have these aspirations. Several decades ago, a fellow in Oakland made similar attempts, and he was successful, as you can see. Fortunately we caught up to him before he could do much damage.”
“What happened to him?”
The chief chuckled. “He’s dead, and quite permanently so. We burned his body to ashes. But we seized a lot of interesting evidence as well, including this. We studied this creature for some time, gathering what information we could, and since then we’ve kept it in storage. I thought it might eventually prove useful. And it has.”
In the silence that followed, John tried to understand what the chief had said. The only part that made sense, however, was studied. That raised memories of chains and straps, of hard hands and ruthless eyes, of scalpels and prods and fire. “No,” he moaned into his own chest, even knowing it would do no good. “Please.”
Neither Lowe nor the chief responded, but one of them took a couple of hesitant steps closer. John slowly uncurled himself enough to look. The chief remained just inside the open door, but Lowe was nearer, his body tense and handsome face drawn into a frown. Unlike the others who’d come with the chief, Lowe didn’t wear a suit. Instead he had on denim trousers, a plain white shirt with no tie, and a pale blue jacket. His coal-dark hair was longer than the crewcuts the other men had sported, and despite his clear distress, his brown eyes held surprising warmth.
“Is it… dangerous?” Lowe asked.
“No, not at all. It’s extremely weak, in fact. But that won’t matter for our purposes.”
Lowe cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “What are our purposes? I don’t understand.”
“I told you—bait. If Swan doesn’t find you enticing enough, you can lure him closer by showing him this creature. However far he’s come in his experiments, he’ll certainly be intrigued by evidence of prior success.”
“Oh.” Lowe had relaxed slightly, and now he gnawed on a thumbnail. “But… I’m supposed to convince Snow that I know how to… do this?” He waved at John. “’Cause I don’t—”
“No. The only way you could do that is if you were aware of the processes, and that information will not be given to you.”
Lowe scowled. “Right. ’Cause I’m not even an agent.”
“But perhaps you can be. If this assignment goes well. In any case, we have a credible tale for you to give Swan. I’ll give you the details later.”
That must have satisfied Lowe, who turned his full attention back to John. He came two steps closer and stopped again. This was more than any of the previous men had done, and although Lowe was frowning, at least his lips weren’t curled in repulsion.
Although John had no faith he’d be successful, he had to try. Otherwise, when he was alone in the darkness of his cell, he’d despise himself too. “I’m John. Help me, please.”
Lowe’s eyes widened and he backed off a pace. “It… he… he can—”
“The creature can speak,” said the chief. “It’s sentient to some extent, although I don’t expect it’ll be teaching at Harvard. But as I said, you needn’t worry about it being dangerous.”
“That’s not—”
“Although it occurs to me we may need to find a way to silence it before you show it to Swan. We don’t want it to ruin your cover story.”
Silence. God, would they steal his voice as well? Then who would whisper his name late at night, when the sunshine seemed only a dream and the emptiness threatened to swallow him for good? John clamped his mouth shut and curled back into a ball. He wouldn’t beg anymore; he wouldn’t let them see him cry.
In the silence that fell, John felt Lowe’s gaze heavy upon his skin. And then the chief’s voice.
“So what do you say, boy? Are you man enough to take this on? Or should I drive you back to Bunker Hill? I’ll bet the rats at the March Hotel are missing you.”
After a long pause, Lowe answered. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent! Now come with me. We’ll go over the details.”
John hazarded a peek before they left, and he discovered that Lowe still stared at him. Lowe’s expression was deeply troubled, but John couldn’t discern why. Then the chief grunted impatiently, and Lowe followed him out of the cell. The door slammed shut; the lights went out. John was left with his patch of sunshine and a new sense of unease.
***
He spent a few days thinking about words and their opaque meanings. He didn’t understand most of the conversation between Lowe and the chief, and the parts he did understand scared him. Like studied. The chief had referred to him as the creature. What did that mean? What sort of creature was he, if not a man?
He had no answers. Yet his mind stubbornly asked the questions again and again, even when John sprawled in the sunshine and tried to think about the sky.
Then one morning, just as the first tendrils of light came creeping through his window, the chief and Lowe reappeared. This time Lowe wore a lightweight collared sweater and khaki trousers. Although he still seemed nervous, he also carried an air of resignation, as if he’d made an uncertain decision but planned to stick with it.
“Put these on it,” said the chief.
When John saw what the chief pulled from his coat pocket, he cowered back into his corner. Chains. The last time he’d been chained…. Oh, no. Please.
Lowe took them with a frown. “You said he’s not dangerous.”
“It’s not. This simply makes transport easier.”
Lowe took a deep breath, crossed the cell, and crouched over John. Although Lowe was grimacing, his hands were surprisingly gentle as he manacled John’s wrists and ankles, but not tight enough to hurt. Then he stood and looked at the chief. “Okay.”
“Pick it up. It shouldn’t be too heavy for you.”
After a brief hesitation, Lowe stooped. John attempted to push himself back against the walls, to become the walls, but Lowe rather easily scooped John into his arms.
And that was strange. Because although John was terrified, he found himself leaning into the solid warmth of Lowe’s body. He felt Lowe’s rapid heartbeat, saw a tiny nick where he must have cut his chin while shaving. John smelled coffee, soap, cigarette smoke, and the hint of something sweet, like sugar or syrup. He relaxed a bit and settled his head against Lowe’s shoulder, feeling as if he was somehow scavenging a little humanity.
All right then. Whatever lay in wait for him, he could enjoy this particular moment. Could relish a man’s touch that didn’t hurt.
“Let’s go,” said the chief impatiently.
Lowe carried John out of the cell—good God, he was out of the cell!—and then through some rooms and a hallway and up a narrow flight of stairs. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Lowe was breathing hard. So was John, but from shock rather than exertion. It had been so long since he’d seen anything but his familiar four walls. Tentative relief played through him, because when he’d been studied, it was in a large room just down the hall from his cell. At least that place didn’t seem to be his immediate fate.
With the chief in the lead, Lowe carried John through a vast, high-ceilinged space with hard surfaces that echoed every footstep. John trembled at the openness of it all and fought the urge to hide his face against Lowe’s shoulder. He caught a quick glimpse of a grim-faced woman standing behind a long counter, and then—
Good Lord.
Then they were outside.
That was the sky above him, gloriously high and endless, the exact color of a robin’s egg. And it was real, not just something he’d conjured from his Swiss-cheese memory. His friend the sun looked down on him with its full glory, unencumbered by iron bars. “Outside,” he rasped.
Lowe glanced down at him but kept on walking.
They didn’t go far, just a few steps from the building’s door. The chief had led them to… a vehicle. An automobile, John’s head primly informed him, although this vehicle bore little resemblance to his notion of what an automobile was. This thing was lower, sleeker, with rounded edges that made it look more like an animal than a machine.
“In the trunk,” said the chief.
“But—”
“If you get pulled over, do you want the cop to see that right away?”
Lowe sighed. “Guess not.”
As John was set down into the small space, he felt bereft to lose the warm contact. Panic crept in when he realized that Lowe was about to close a lid, trapping him inside. But Lowe took a moment to gently rearrange John’s limbs so he lay more comfortably and then bent down to quickly whisper, “Sorry. It’s just till we get there.”
Inexplicably reassured, John remained quiet and still as Lowe closed him into darkness.