Darren Shan - Wolf Island

“This is a holding area,” Antoine says, taking us on a tour. “As you can see, we try not to cram too many specimens into one place. Despite this limit, if you’d come here a couple of months ago, you’d have had to wear ear plugs—the din they create is unbelievable.”

Timas stops by one of the machines and studies it with interest.

“That locks and unlocks the cage doors,” Antoine explains. “There are other devices linked to it—overhead cameras, lights, air conditioner, water hoses, implant initiators.”

“Implants?” I ask.

“Most of the specimens are implanted with control chips. In the event of a mass escape, we could disable them within seconds. We take as few risks as possible when dealing with creatures as swift, powerful and savage as these.”

“You don’t need such bulky equipment,” Timas says disapprovingly.

“It’s psychological,” Antoine counters. “Staff feel safer if they have a big, obvious machine to turn to in case of an emergency.”

“Ah,” Timas smiles. “The human factor. What silly beings we are.”

Antoine looks at Timas oddly, then leads us out of the room, into a smaller laboratory. There are several people at work, some in white coats, others in normal clothes. Glass cases line the walls. I go cold when I see what’s in them—hands, heads, feet, ears, bits of flesh and bone, all taken from deformed humans… from werewolves.

“What is this?” I croak.

“Unsettling, aren’t they?” Antoine remarks, studying a pair of oversized eyes floating in a jar of clear liquid. “I’m not convinced it’s necessary for them to be displayed in so lurid a fashion, but our technical geniuses insist—”

“What the hell is this?” I shout, losing my temper.

Antoine blinks at me, surprised by my anger. Then his expression clears. “How thoughtless of me. These remains come from relatives of yours. I must apologise for my insensitivity. I never meant to cause offence.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Shark says, squeezing my shoulder to calm me. “But Grubbs is right—what is this place? It looks like Frankenstein’s lab.”

“To an extent it is.” Antoine sighs. “This is where we experiment upon many of our unfortunate specimens. As you know, we’ve been trying to find the genetic source of the Grady disease for decades, searching for a cure. Our experts need a place to dissect and reassemble, to study and collate. It’s an unpleasant business, but no worse, I assure you, than any institute devoted to animal experiments.”

“These aren’t animals,” I snarl. “They’re human.”

“They were once,” Antoine corrects me. “Now…” He pulls a face. “As you said, your uncle was attacked by werewolves. You didn’t qualify that because you don’t think of them as humans with a defect. When the genes mutate, the specimens become something inhuman—although, if we ever crack the rogue genes, perhaps we can restore their humanity.”

Timas has wandered over to a computer console. “I assume all of your results and data are backed up here.”

“They’re stored on a mainframe,” Antoine says, “but they’re accessible through most of the computers in the building if you have clearance.”

“You still use mainframes?” Timas tuts. “How primitive.” He runs a finger over the keys. “I’d like to study your records. I know nothing of lycanthropy. I find myself intrigued.”

“Sorry,” Antoine says stiffly. “Our database is off-limits to all but the most strictly authorised personnel. As I’m sure you’ll agree, this is a sensitive matter. We wouldn’t want just anybody to have access to such incendiary material.”

“This is all very interesting,” Meera butts in, “but it doesn’t explain about Prae Athim or what you said on the roof regarding the missing specimens .”

“I’m coming to that,” Antoine says patiently. “Trust me, this will be simpler if we proceed step by step.” He walks ahead of us and turns, gesturing around the room. “As I was saying, we’ve been extremely busy, cutting specimens up, running tests on live subjects, introducing various chemical substances into the veins of random guinea pigs in the hopes of stumbling upon a cure.”

“Any luck?” Shark asks.

“No,”Antoine says. “We’ve ploughed untold millions into this project—and others around the globe—with zero success. If not for the continued support of wealthy Gradys, and our dabbling in parallel medical fields, we would have faced bankruptcy long ago.”

“ ‘Parallel medical fields’?” Meera echoes.

“We might not have unravelled the mysteries of the Grady genes, but our research has led to breakthroughs in other areas. As a result, we have become a worldwide pharmaceutical giant. Steroids are our speciality, though we’re by no means limited to so finite a field.”

Antoine looks like he’s about to give us a breakdown of the Lambs’ success stories. But then, remembering why we’re here, he returns to the relevant facts.

“As you can imagine, specimens are difficult to come by. Very few parents wish to hand their children over for medical experimentation, even if they’re no longer recognisably human. Many children have been placed in the care of the Lambs in the past, but only to be… decommissioned.”

“You mean executed,” I growl.

Antoine nods slowly. “In most circumstances, the parents never enquire after the child once we take it into custody. The less they know about the grisly details, the better. A few ask for ashes to be returned, but almost nobody requests a body for burial. And since ashes are easy to fake…”

“You don’t kill them!” I’m furious. This could have happened to Gret or Bill-E. The thought of them winding up here, caged, experimented on, humiliated, treated like lab rats… It makes me want to hit somebody. My hands clench into fists and I glare at Antoine. It takes all my self-control not to attack.

“It sounds inhumane,” Antoine says quietly. “I admit it’s a betrayal of trust. But it’s necessary. We do this for the good of the family. I’ve seen the grief and anguish in the eyes of parents who’ve watched their children turn into nightmarish beasts. If we have to lie to prevent that from happening to others, so be it.”

“It’s wrong,” I disagree. “They wouldn’t have given their children to you if they knew what you planned to do with them.”

“True,” Antoine says. “But we can’t search for a cure without specimens to work on. Isn’t it better to experiment than execute? To seek a remedy rather than accept defeat?”

“Not without permission,” I mutter obstinately.

“I wish you could see it our way,” Antoine sighs. “But I understand your point of view. This is a delicate matter.” He looks decidedly miserable now. “But if you can’t find any positives in what I’ve shown you so far, please be warned—you’re absolutely going to hate what I reveal next.”

Before I can ask what he means, he turns and pushes ahead, leading us to an exit, then down a set of stairs to the next level and the most horrific revelation yet.

A cavernous room, even larger than the holding area above. Hundreds of cages, many obscured by panels which have been set between them, dividing the room into semi-private segments. The stink is nauseating. Antoine offers us masks, but nobody takes one. As we progress further into the room, I feel sorry that I didn’t accept.

Some of the cages look like they’ve never been used, but many show signs of long-term occupancy, caked with ground-in filth. There are old blood and urine stains, scraps of hair everywhere. I spot the occasional fingernail or tooth. There are people at work in several cages, trying to clean them out. It’s a job I wouldn’t accept for the highest of wages.