Ted Kosmatka: Prophet of Bones

Ekman found him in the hall. They ran together. They rounded the bend. It was a nightmare he’d once had. Down two flights of stairs. Lab lights flickering. A dream he woke sweating from. Only in the dream his feet were swollen and sticky, mired to the floor. In the dream, he couldn’t move at all. They pushed through a double set of doors and entered the lab.

An Asian man stood swaying in the hall, holding an obviously dislocated shoulder. He was in shock, his white lab coat red with gore. From the other side of the wall came the sound of screams.

“Where are you cut?” Martial asked, catching his breath.

“I’m not,” the man said.

Martial’s other two guards burst into the room. Phillips, the youngest, didn’t hesitate. He ran ahead, toward the screams.

Martial and his remaining guards followed.

The researcher shouted after them, “Don’t go in there!”

They pushed through another set of double doors, the word ANTHROPOGENY stenciled across the white surface.

Inside, a woman clutched at the mangled gore of her wrist. Her hand dangled at an obscene angle. “It bit me… it bit me” was all she could say.

Farther in were more researchers. He knew some of their names. Others he couldn’t be sure of.

Behind him, the woman continued, “It bit…”

Another researcher stood at the shattered glass doors. He didn’t seem hurt, but he looked dazed.

“What happened?” Martial snapped.

“A routine examination,” he said. “There was the sound of the helicopter outside. We tried to get it back inside… but it… it didn’t want to go.”

Martial stepped through the broken glass doors and moved farther into the room. Somewhere, the screaming man went silent. Scholler pulled out his gun.

Up ahead, Phillips, the new asset, crouched low and kept moving.

“Stay back!” Martial called.

“There are people still alive in there!” Phillips shouted. On the opposite side of the room was another set of doors, bright red, leading to a secured area. Phillips pushed through and disappeared. From inside came a loud clang. Metal on metal.

Martial turned to Scholler. “Give me your gun.”

“Sir?”

“Your gun. Now.”

The guard handed it over. “The safety’s off.”

Martial strode forward and looked through the safety glass, into the next room.

“You should stay back, sir.”

“Get the tranquilizers.”

Scholler hesitated.

“Now!”

The big man crossed the room to the metal shelves.

“No live ammo, tranqs only!” Martial shouted after him.

Scholler opened the metal cabinets, fumbling with the tranq gun. He turned. “Sir, wait!”

Martial hit the button and the doors opened.

“Wait!”

Martial stepped through.

Blood everywhere, a severed arm.

A dead researcher lay spun at an odd angle, neck arched, face a mask of surprise. Scattered around him on the floor were blood and broken glass. Pieces of swivel chair, smashed lights. Broken ceiling tiles. And in the dark shadows farther into the room, a shape. The sound of weeping. This was the behavior lab.

Martial couldn’t see Phillips.

Behind him, Scholler entered the lab, tranquilizer gun raised. Ekman was close behind him, his pale hair standing out in the shadows. Martial held up his hand. “Stop.”

“Sir?” Ekman said.

Lights swung free of their cases, dangling on swaying chords. The sound of moaning. Then a flash of movement near an overturned table. Martial saw Phillips, up ahead, standing near the wall, saw his gun come up, tracking the flash of movement in the shadows.

“Phillips, stand down!” Martial shouted.

“There are people still alive.”

“Phillips!”

The shape moved in the shadows.

“My God.” There was panic in the young guard’s voice, and disbelief. It was the first time Phillips had seen it. The gun came up.

“Stand the fuck down!” Martial screamed.

Phillips fired. The gun went off, lighting the darkness with a muzzle flash.

Martial raised his own gun at Phillips and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked.

Phillips turned toward Martial, eyes going wide.

Martial pulled the trigger again and again, the barrel pointed at Phillips’s chest—but the gun carried only blanks. Only two guards had loaded guns. Nobody knew which two, not even guards.

Phillips stared at Martial in disbelief—at the gun, the pulled trigger.

“I told you not to shoot,” Martial said, gun still raised.

Phillips raised his own gun toward Martial, a reflex.

There were two pops, in quick succession. Red flowers bloomed on Phillips’s shirt, center of mass.

Behind Martial, Ekman reholstered his weapon.

Phillips crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.

“He was raising his weapon toward you, sir,” Ekman said.

Martial nodded.

A flash of movement crossed the room. The dark shape slid behind a desk that had been flipped onto its side.

Martial moved into the center of the room and sank to his knees. He dropped the gun, which clacked loudly on the tile floor. Around him, the room was a disaster. He saw strange prints in the blood. Something not quite a hand. Not quite a foot.

From the shadows came the sound of sobbing. The scrape of movement, the slap of bare skin on the floor.

“Come out,” Martial said.

The sobbing grew louder. Then a strange voice, almost unintelligible: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Martial said softly. “Just come out. Come to me.”

The dark shape moved into the light.

Gavin McMaster stepped into the bright room.

“So this is where the actual testing is done?” he asked. The accent was urban Australian.

“Yes,” Mr. Lyons answered.

Gavin shifted his weight and glanced around the room. His hair was long, more salt than pepper, worn in a thick ponytail that hung down over the back of his shirt collar. Behind him, the door swung shut with the telltale hiss of positive air pressure—a hedge against contamination.

It never ceased to amaze him how alike laboratories are across the world. Cultures that could not agree on anything agreed on this: how to design a centrifuge, where to put the test tube rack, what color to paint the walls—white, always. The bench tops, black. Gavin had been in a dozen similar labs over the years. Only the people made them different.

“Please wait here; I’ll see if he’s available.”

Gavin nodded. “Of course.”

He watched the small man scamper toward the research team working at the lab bench.

One of the team members, a broad, dark-haired man, sat hunched over a test tray of PCR tubes, pipette in hand. The young man straightened when Mr. Lyons whispered in his ear. He was big and young—Asian cheekbones, blocky shoulders. His father’s shoulders, Gavin thought. Gavin knew it was Paul without being told.

Paul stood, pulled off his latex gloves, and followed Mr. Lyons across the room for an introduction.

“Gavin McMaster.” Gavin stuck out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carlsson.”

They shook.

“Paul,” the young man said. “You can call me Paul.”

“I apologize for interrupting your work.”

“It’s time I took a break anyway. I’d been sitting at that stool all morning.”