Ike Hamill: The Vivisectionist

He touched the finger to the pad and nothing happened. Reaching down to drop the finger and try the next, it occurred to him that he didn’t know how these things worked. He tried touching his own finger to the sensor and got no response. After a second, he got the idea to swipe his finger and the sensor emitted two sharp beeps. Next, he re-tried the severed finger.

A light on the unit flashed green and the lock buzzed open. Stephen pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed it at the handle. The buzzing stopped — he hadn’t moved quick enough. He swiped the finger again and dropped it. He opened the door with his left hand and pointed the gun with his right. The door swung outward, revealing a dim room packed with surveillance equipment lining each wall.

Stephen, moving stiffly with the gun leading the way, crept in. When he stood halfway through the door the buzzing stopped again and Stephen nearly dropped the gun. He blinked away the distraction and kept moving. This door stayed open on its own, so he left it and proceeded to the center of the room.

Racks of equipment lined the walls. Stephen recognized the tape machines and monitors, but the computers seemed foreign to him. He had seen laptops and desktop machines — these were big servers. Each monitor showed a different video feed; some from cameras mounted in rooms that he recognized. He wondered if the crazy man had watched him on the monitor that showed the top of the soda machine.

One panel contained a series of lighted switches. Each switch had a descriptive vertical label — “Room 217,” “Library,” “Hall 2 Vending.” He suddenly thought he might not need Jack after all — perhaps if he just flipped off these switches, he would have a way to escape. He flipped all the switches that were lit. He paid special attention when he flipped the switches that had “Vending” in the name, but saw no change in the monitor that showed the machines.

“Now what?” he asked aloud. He glanced around nervously at the sound of his own voice and considered his choices one more time — he could try to escape alone, or try to rescue Jack. He wanted to run, but still believed he had little chance without rescuing Jack. With the strength of revelation he realized he could do both. He would try to escape, and then if his plan didn’t work, he would return for Jack.

Bolstered by this decision, he headed back through the door to the bloody hallway. Consulting his mental map, he found his way through the bright hall and the dim shrine to Ben’s family. Back outside the crazy guy’s room, he headed for the door to the man’s lair. Stephen hoped that the door was still unlocked. It was the only obstacle between him and the secret passage that led to the soda room.

He reached out and grabbed the handle. It turned easily in his left hand as he raised the gun and his right hand, just in case.

“What do you mean — ‘Wait for Stephen’?” Jack asked. He craned his neck to see what the man was doing to his thigh. The pain came to Jack in little bursts and throbs. It didn't hurt as much as he had feared — maybe he still had some of that anesthetic in his system after all.

“I’m almost certain that Stephen’s going to try to fight back,” said the man.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Jack. “He…” Jack started to continue and then gasped for breath because of a new stab of pain. “He was pretty pissed that I tied him up.”

The man looked at Jack and slid the magnifying glasses up so he could look Jack in the eye. “You wouldn’t believe how loyal kids your age are. Everyone else is an outsider, and they bond almost instantly against outsiders,” he said. “That’s another thing I would have taught you. How to spot the bonds between people. Those bonds inform you exactly how to divide your prey from the herd.”

Jack didn’t return the man’s stare. He instead tried to see the damage to his thigh. The man blocked most of Jack’s view with a spotlight.

“How are you signing that? And isn’t it risky to ‘sign’ a victim?” asked Jack. With his questions, Jack hoped to slow the man down. He also wanted to take his mind off the pain.

“I fold back the skin and burn the muscle. It looks really good — much better than a brand or a tattoo,” said the man. “And it will be destroyed when I dispose of you. It’s completely temporary, that’s part of what makes it so beautiful. It’s a wilting flower from the second it’s complete. For most artists, their reward comes when others appreciate their work. I’m more evolved. I know that I’m the only one that can appreciate what I’ve created, and I have no interest in getting caught. But I also know that it’s time to pass on my wisdom to the next generation, just as it was passed to me.”

“So you were taught?” asked Jack.

“Yes, didn’t you guess that from your research? Of course you did, you’re just trying to stall,” said the man.

“No, I’m not,” said Jack. “But why do you want to teach someone?”

“When you perfect something, you want it to be passed on,” answered the man. “Imagine a detective intelligent enough to see the pattern. He’d soon find out the pattern went back over one-hundred years. That would blow his mind.”

“Sounds like you do want an audience,” said Jack.

“Just an audience of one: my eventual pupil,” the man pulled his glasses back down over his eyes and returned his focus to Jack’s thigh.

Jack tried to think of another question that might recapture the man's attention. “How long did you study with the last guy? And what happened to him?” he asked.

“Honestly, not long,” replied the man, pausing again. “I had to get rid of him pretty quickly and then figure out most of the stuff on my own. It’s almost like I replaced him.”

“How did you learn everything on your own?” asked Jack.

“He had a couple of journals stored under the floor of his place. I eventually found them,” replied the man. “Some things I pieced together when he caught me.”

“He caught you? How did you get away?” asked Jack.

“He was careless. Probably wanted me to get the upper hand,” the man looked away and seemed distracted. He perked up very quickly and looked Jack in the eye. “That’ll never happen to me though,” he said.

The doorknob turned. It startled Jack, but the man seemed unfazed. In fact, the man didn’t even turn around to see the door opening.

“Hello Stephen,” said the man to the slowly opening door.

Stephen’s shoe entered first — he slid the door open with his toe so both his hands could grip the gun.

“Turn around,” said Stephen. The man still bent over Jack’s thigh. First, he looked up at Jack and raised his glasses again. He gave Jack a small shrug as if he was perplexed by Stephen’s order.

“Slowly,” said Stephen.

“Okay,” said the man. He pushed away from Jack and turned on his rolling stool to face Stephen. “Is that better?” he asked as he held up his hands; his left still holding his instrument.

“Farther away from Jack,” said Stephen. “And put that thing down.”

“This thing is very expensive,” said the man. He tilted his head down slightly and leveled his cold eyes on Stephen. “I’m not going to just drop it on the floor.”

“Put it down or I’ll shoot your fucking hand off,” said Stephen. He spoke at an even pace, careful not to sound panicked, but a tremor crept into his voice.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said the man. “Let me reason with you, Stephen. By the way, you can call me ‘Patrick.’ It’s a name that Jack made up for me, but it fits nicely.”