TWENTY
We prop the door open and wait a little while, just to be sure. When nothing seems to change, we venture inside.
The lab is dark, both from a lack of light and from the layer of ash that covers everything. The fire burned while it could, and the more combustible materials went up quickly. If there was a fire suppression system, it never went off. The walls are scorched black, the paint and wallpaper gone. Metal struts for movable walls and desk units are still there, but the synthetic and plastic overlays are all melted or gone. There's a large planter—several meters in diameter—in the center of the lobby that held a few flowering shrubs, but they're nothing but blackened sticks poking out of char-covered dirt.
There are a few bodies too, twisted in unnatural positions. Mere gags when we find the first one, though she doesn't vomit. “Were they dead before the fire reached…?” she mumbles through her hand.
“From smoke inhalation?” I shrug. “Let's hope so.”
There are four wings off the central hub: the entrance, where the few rooms off the central hallway seem to have been administrative; two research wings, though it is difficult to tell exactly what sort of research was done—the lab equipment (what hasn't been melted and charred by the fire) is used for chemical analysis, protein therapy studies, and biological tissue analysis; and the last wing, opposite the entrance, that looks to be more administrative services—executive offices, a kitchen, a quartet of conferences rooms, and a break room. The elevator in the central hub has a large set of doors—freight-sized doors. There is only one button on the pad next to the doors, and it isn't marked.
“Only one way to go,” Mere says. “Down.” She pushes the button, and nothing happens.
She's sweating. The ambient temperature inside the lab is higher than outside, and not just because the central air handling system has failed.
It hasn't been that long since the fire snuffed itself out.
“There has to be another access,” I point out. “Where's all the heat exchanges, the air control infrastructure? It's not up on the roof, which means it's all below ground. That has to vent somewhere.”
She nods. “And the server room. I see computer workstations, but where does the network collapse back to?”
It's odd there's only one door into the building. No windows. No emergency exits. A good design criteria if you are building something that can be hermetically sealed, but, well, Mere and I are looking at what happens when good designs become deathtraps.
There's an unmarked door near the end of the right-hand lab wing that is thicker than the others. The seal hisses when I pull it open, and colder air wafts out. Stairs, going down. We prop this door open too, and descend, feeling our way in the dark.
We reach a landing and find—by feel—another heavy door. I force it open, and weak light streams out into the stairwell. Emergency lighting, a track of tiny lights that runs along the ceiling of the hallway beyond. The hallway is nondescript and I spot a few generalized signs. Maintenance and HVAC systems. Separate from the lab upstairs, and unaffected by the fire. They're in low power mode, but they're still functional.
“We should find flashlights,” Mere says, squeezing past me.
I hesitate, looking back at the stairs that continue going down. The walls of the stairwell aren't the same prefab material of the lab. They're actually stone. We're in the bedrock of the island.
“This stairwell predates the lab,” I point out. “I know what's down there.”
The old temple.
“Silas,” Mere says, “wait a second, will you?” She's found a panel in the wall, a recessed locker of some kind. She rummages through its contents and produces a heavy flashlight. Shining its beam around, she does a quick visual check of the hall and then comes back to me. “Okay,” she says, “let's go.”
I let her lead and we descend one more floor. She shines the light down the next flight, and the stairs go down a few more metals and then end. A heavy metal grate lies across the floor. She moves the flashlight around too quickly for me to make out any details of what lies beneath the grate. I almost reach out and grab the light from her, but she steps out of reach. Trying to get my attention, she raps the handle against another security door. “One more door,” she says.
I drag myself away from the grate and pull open the door. The same dull glow of emergency lighting greets us, as well as the distinct odor of blood.
The short hall beyond the door leads to three rooms: two tiny observation lounges and an operating theater. The last has been recently used—dramatically so—and the last person out hadn't bothered to clean up. There's a dried crust of blood on the tile floor, some of it built up around the drain not far from the metal table. Several trays of used equipment sit nearby, and there are tracks in the blood as if a large cart was parked nearby for a while and then moved once the patient had been… emptied.
There's power too. Mere spots a workstation nearby with a laptop still attached to the network. She investigates it, and I hear her make a noise somewhere between surprise and alarm. “What is it?” I ask, still looking at the blood stains on the table.
I used to read the future this way, in the spatter of blood from an animal sacrifice.
Something's not right. I recognize the scent, though I can't place it. There's panic rising in my chest, a flight response brought on by the scent of the blood. I should know what is causing it. I should—
“Silas.” Mere gets my attention. A second later, she's got her hand to her mouth and she's backing away from the laptop. As soon as the sound starts, she puts her hands over her ears.
The video is jerky, shot with a hand-held camera, but I recognize the room. And the chair. And the man in the chair.
He is being dissected while still alive, and judging by the noise he is making, they aren't using anesthetic.
I'm dimly aware of Mere running out of the room, but I can't move to stop her.
I can only watch as Nigel is taken apart.
Piece by piece.
“They knew we were coming.”
She's huddled in the stairwell, her back pressed against the stone wall. She doesn't want to look at me, her eyes dart up once—fixating on the oblong shape of the laptop in my right hand—and then return to staring at the floor directly in front of her feet.
“Yes,” I agree.
“They burned this place less than a day ago. Maybe even after you sprung me from Eden Park.”
I agree with that statement too. I put the laptop on the ground and Mere flinches from it.
“I've removed the video,” I say. “At least, it doesn't auto-run anymore. I'm not sure I've wiped it off the drive.”
“And you want me to do it?” Mere stares at me.
“No,” I shake my head, “I want you to see if there's anything else on it.”
“I'm not touching that thing.”
I shrug and hold out my hand. “Give me the flashlight.”
“Why?”
“I'm going to go look for something.”
“I'm coming with you.”
I shake my head. My hand stays outstretched.
“You're going to leave me here?” Her voice rises in pitch. “With that? With God knows what other sadistic shit is lying around for us to find.”
“So don't go looking,” I say. “Stay put.” I nudge the laptop with my toe. “Look. Please.”
“Where are you going?” she asks with a sigh, handing over the flashlight.
“Down,” I say. “I want to know why there is a grate. Why isn't it a solid floor? What's on the other side?”
She looks at me again. “You know, don't you?”
“It's the old temple. The spa, remember?”
“They blocked it off,” she says. “There's nothing down there anymore.”
“I want to see it for myself,” I argue.
“Why?” she asks again.
“I saw something,” I tell her as truthfully as I can, “back there. Before the video started. I saw a… pattern.”
“A what?”
“I'll explain later.” I flap my hand at her. “Flashlight, please. Don't sit in the dark waiting for me to return. Do something to keep busy. Look at this computer. You know more about them than I do. Are you going to let a stupid trick like auto-running a video file keep you from digging for data?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” She slowly offers me the flashlight. She doesn't move toward the laptop, though. I click on the flashlight and head downstairs. I give her a minute or so before she opens the laptop.
At the very least, it'll be a source of light.
As I descend to the grate that lies across the floor at the base of the stairs, I try to remember the temple the way it used to be. Above ground, it had been a simple ring of raised stones—modeled on the old celestial calendars of Central America. In the center, there had been a triangular divot in the ground, a sloped incline that had led down into the first of several natural caves. Sunlight filtered down to the first cave, which was as deep as the native peoples were allowed to go. This was the offering chamber. Below had been a honeycomb of smaller niches, where the steward catalogued and kept the samples: tiny shoots growing in clay urns, long troughs filled with quiescent ferns, and a vast assortment of sealed jars that held seeds and nuts of lost and extinct species. It was a seed bank, and it would be incredibly valuable if it still existed.
So why had they blocked it off, but not sealed it?
The grate is securely wedged between the bottom of the stairwell and a lip of stone directly beneath it. There are a few large iron spikes pounded into the wall ensuring that the grate doesn't shift. I kneel on the metal floor and peer through the narrow gaps. The flashlight beam bounces off worn stone steps and vanishes into the darkness below. On the wall, winding down, is a painted line of narrow-petaled flowers and tiny birds. White sea birds and hyacinths.
I lean my forehead against the cool metal of the grate. The darkness of the stairwell seems more oppressive suddenly, and my palms are slick with sweat. I'm having all the symptoms of claustrophobia, which I know isn't the case. Arcadians don't get claustrophobic. But it's a feeling of being hemmed in, of being constricted and bound.
I remember white feathers. I remember the rush of wind on my face. The rocky ground rushing past. The spray of water as waves leap up, trying to catch me.
I hate falling.
What's down there? What am I afraid of finding?
Also, lying there, I realize there's something else too. What am I not supposed to remember? If I'm not hiding it from myself, then it was taken from me. Why would Mother do that?