Ashes (6 page)

“How are the boy's sessions with Carraway going?” Krane finally asked.

“As good as they can.”

“Which means not v-ver-very well. Tell you the
truth,
I didn't think enrolling Carraway into our selected was a g-goo-good-good idea. But there
was
a part of me that hoped…. Sir, what if the arson's body doesn't m-manifest the ability again?”

At this point, the female subject didn't matter. The Phoenix, as he called her, was an anomaly all her own. But the arson mattered. Because if he could really create fire, and if they could control it the way they had so far controlled the Source, then Hoven really was right. The day would come when men could become gods.

“Cure your unbelief,
Doctor
. We'll get that fire back. My overseers wouldn't have it any other way. But perhaps you shouldn't focus your attention on the
when
as opposed to the
how
. Like, how will you handle 219's powers when they do return?”

Silence split the room.

“Minor details, right, Manny? Minor details. Don't panic. We just need the right thing to call those flames out again. Get me whatever data you have. I want to see what he's been dreaming. We have spent a lot of money on project Morpheus. I need confirmation that the machine is still operating as it should.”

“Yes, sir,” Krane agreed. He stood up, gripped with fatigue. It had been a long morning.

8

 

KRANE HATED THE SOUND of Saul Hoven's voice whenever he called him by the nickname
Manny
. Like they were friends. It was obvious why he did it. The same reason the
low-lives
in high school did it: to get under his skin, create a vile home, and live there.

Along with the frustration, new doubts stumbled in. What right did he have to experiment on and cut open these children? These
subjects
? Creatures Hoven liked assigning numbers to in order to subtly identify them. There was less of a responsibility when a life boiled down to a series of random digits. It was clear that there was no room for conscience in that mental sepulcher of his.
 

Get a grip
,
Emanuel. You're on the brink of a regime change.
 

He figured the more he let Hoven's agenda into his brain, the easier it would be when he was cutting holes into theirs or stitching up the boy's chest. But was it only Hoven's agenda or had it become his own just the same?

Krane dragged his feet into the nearest restroom, ignoring the odd looks from patients and nurses. He knew he didn't belong on their turf. Whenever they spotted him, there were snide looks and occasional grunts. No one up here fully knew what took place inside the Sanctuary, but there was enough knowledge for
them
to realize it wasn't exactly
friendly
. Most left their curiosity at the front gate. But he'd been lost below so long that the upper level felt strange.

He headed for one of the urinals. After draining himself, he moseyed toward the sink, gazing into the gaudy mirror bolted to the wall. A ripe whitehead waited to spread on his left cheek.

“Great,” he moaned, drawing nearer to the glass. “Just another thing to help me look terr-terrible. You can't even insult yourself right, st-s-s-stupid skeleton.”

The stuttering had come when he was six. Dad didn't beat him raw. Mom actually baked cookies.
He
was the sore imperfection. He couldn't form the words right, the sounds. So many syllables felt so awkward on his lips.

Krane motioned both thumbs to the surface of the whitehead and pushed together until the pus squirted against the glass. The fresh spot was disgusting, but he'd bled out the imperfection. Now it was glaring at him, a wicked and judgmental stain.

He needed to recharge, to rest, if such a thing were possible. The human body could only expel so much energy before going completely dead and needing more.

“Brilliance is no good to anybody if it's wasted,” his mentor had once said. During those long nights Krane had spent studying for tests, Henry Parker was there for him, going through the motions with him. He'd gone to school for medicine but learned so much more about surgery, about the blood, the mind. How to really ask questions and experiment. It was out of respect for a brilliant man that he offered his talents—the promise he made to himself to finish what Parker had begun, even though his mentor had forsaken it all years ago.
 

Nearly seven and a half years had been spent perfecting what was left behind. The legacy of genius reduced to machines and medicines and formulas and lab rooms. Rooms that seemed like dirty secrets now.
 
 

Krane recalled his first invitation. The Sanctuary was a basement in some alley. Some time passed, and it became part of something greater. Salvation Asylum assumed the location of the once hospital, after a gas leak on the lower level completely left its former existence in ruin, providing them with a new arena to play. The asylum was reconstructed under new ownership—government ownership. The outside world would believe it to have been funded by private businessmen, and they'd be half right. But these businessmen were among the most powerful leaders in the world. Hoven irreverently referred to them as the Magnificent Seven. No one knew their true names or even what they looked like, only that they kept the media out of the asylum staff's hair and checks in their bank accounts.

Back in the days of the alley, Parker had been trying to bring dead things back to life. Then his obsession shifted to injecting potential regenerative qualities into certain species of plants and living creatures. It started with flowers of any kind; then pets, living or dead; reptiles, warm-blooded, cold-blooded. If it moved, walked, or crawled, it could be tested. But he argued never to test humans until they were sure the experiments could work successfully.

You're not sure
, Krane's thoughts intruded. His conscience had become a frequent interloper.

The chief concept behind Henry Parker's work was his notion that the sum of the human person resided in the mind.
All actions, reason, will, and soul.
He reasoned that humans did what they did because their minds birthed certain ideas and told them to. Much of life resided in the blood, Krane knew, but the purpose and control of that life rested in the mind.
A reciprocal miracle.

Project Morpheus was born less than five years later. “If I'm right, this machine will act as a filter for the human psyche,” Parker said. “It will not only articulately study brainwaves, but in time, I believe we will be able to take pictures of the real landscape in one's mind. We will essentially harvest one's dreams and thoughts and memories.” The possibilities were endless. One day, he believed that they'd be able to record such sessions in real time and dissect them
piece by piece
. “If what I'm telling you is true, Morpheus might confirm that the potential for something far more special than mankind has ever dreamed of resides within our psyche. A link to the supernatural.”

This mechanical god of dreams was constructed before Parker discovered what they would call the Source, also known as Subject 217. Krane was just out of med school, still wet behind the ears. He had his doubts. “Sir, that's not possible,” he argued then. But it wasn't until the Source that the trials began to show signs of producing significantly positive results. He knew that now. Still, a long time had passed since the more progressive cerebral scans.

“My research, my life, has led me here. I am telling you, we are finally getting our hands dirty for real. Think of the questions we might answer; think of the power we might create.”

That was it—create. It sounded like a simple, pretty idea back then.

Krane blinked, coming back to himself. He was so tired, so faithless.
What if we're wrong? What if we're wrong about all of it?
Maybe the vast human race, with all its intricacies and its fragility, couldn't handle this new shift in genetic structure. What if it weren't possible at all?

But we've already done it
, his mind reminded him.
We can do it again.

He found his reflection once more, blurred by the recent smudge of blood and mucus mixing on the glass. Krane washed his face, startled by the skeleton of a man staring back.
A middle-aged soul with no real power and no true form.

He was far from insane. He wanted to finish what he'd started, to play his part in the game Parker forfeited long ago. But Krane knew he had to ensure that the right people had this power when the world became. Maybe that was his mentor's intent all along: to uncover that lost human particle, the anomaly he named
the God gene
, and to dictate who could have it and who couldn't. To control it for what was to come. But the old dreamer didn't stick around long enough to see how the story would end.
 

A chill snaked down the doctor's spine. It really was a game with a curious conclusion after all.
Like chess.
But Krane was sick of playing as a pawn.

9

 

“HOW ARE YOU FEELING today, Stephen?” the shifting blur asked.
 

It was a struggle for Arson to keep his head up.
So heavy.
So very heavy.

“It's all right, Stephen.” The blur spoke softly. “The sedative is still navigating through your system.”

“Sedative?”

“Yes. Don't worry, it's…it's not harmful. It keeps you somewhat contained, as we've discussed before. Harmless, really.” The figure's head appeared to have another one attached to it, one that disappeared and reappeared like smoke. It had a dizzying effect.

“Who are you?”

“Good grief, don't you recall, Stephen? I thought we were past this. I am Dr. Nick Carraway, your psychologist.” The gray vapor held out his hand but was met with a long stare.
 

With a snap of his fingers, he urged Arson to follow his index finger as it moved. “Come back to earth.” The man wore a stoic expression. The movement of his lips seemed too coerced, and there were some wrinkles scattered about loose skin and jutted cheekbones. Sharp ears stuck out through salt-and-pepper hair. Gentle, younger, and seemingly freer eyes gazed into Arson's warring windows.
 

“You're…” Arson managed before slouching in his chair, “not like the others.”

“What others?”
A long pause.
“Oh, you mean, the other orderlies? Well, I can't say I agree with you there. After all, the skeletons that skulk about these halls are mere clones of other clones. That's what most of the patients here say, anyway.”

“Patients?”

“Yes. You're in a psychiatric facility. But you're safe here.”

“Where is ‘here'?”

“Salvation Asylum. This is a haven from the fears of the outside world.” The doctor kept looking at Arson like he was supposed to recognize him or something, supposed to remember this big room, but he didn't.

“You…you're strange,” Arson gasped. “This place is different.” Arson took a moment to scan the area. His pulse quickened, and his pupils dilated. The room had no windows. That part was familiar. There was nothing on the walls, but he felt like it was meant to calm him. Still, it wasn't working. Where were the lively flowers or the bright photographs of a carefree family that often decorated a typical doctor's office?

 
“Where is everybody?”

“There aren't many here like you, Stephen.”

“Am I in some kind of trouble?”
 

“Please, enough with the games. This is the same room we've conversed in for the last several months.”

Arson's ears became alert. He drew his wandering eyes up from the crisp floors and felt his chest cave in. Months? Had it really been that long since he'd scooped ice cream at Toby's or tucked Grandma into bed?
 

“Hmm,” Carraway said, massaging his jaw. He set his notepad down and pressed his hands together. “Is all of this still foreign to you? Can't you remember?”

Arson shook his head, still drowsy, eyes weak and heavy.

“It's not abnormal. Don't be afraid. This is part of the process. It can sometimes be the case. Many of my patients can't fully comprehend space and time because they are sometimes outside of it, if only in their minds. Black-outs and temporary memory lapses are…can be some of the side effects of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

 
“What are you talking about? What happened?”

The doctor appeared bothered by the thought of having to exhume the dark details of the past yet again. But Arson's eyes begged to know more.

Carraway eventually replied, “Stephen, your grandmother…”

“Is she okay?” Arson let the blanket keeping him warm slip off his shoulder. He sat up straight at the mention of
Grandma
.
 

His head was spinning as he watched beads of sweat slip from each lid.
Warm and cold and confused.
“What?” he struggled to say, feeling the twist of reality
return.

“She's dead.”

Arson's mind splintered just then. “No, she's not. I just saw her not too long ago. She's safe, at home.”

“Home? Are you sure?” Carraway questioned. “This isn't the first time I've told you. You can remember that, can't you?”

A million voices were screaming inside his head. Arson fought them all, hoping he might decipher something true within the chaos.

The doctor continued, “It must feel like a blink to you. Time can be like that sometimes. But you haven't spoken to Kay Parker in months, I'm afraid. Your grandmother…well, as much as it aches me to say this…is gone.”

“No. Don't lie to me. You're sick,” Arson said, finally starting to recognize the air in his lungs and that chill clawing up the back of his neck. His senses returned, but his mind was still a maze.

“I know it's painful to grasp. I understand your anger, your fear. You have endured immeasurable trauma and stress. But you're all right now, and believe it or not, I think you're getting better. There will be healing soon.” The doctor reached out to touch him.

 
“Leave me alone,” Arson said, shoving his heel into the table. The guard in the corner rushed to the doctor's side.

“I'm all right.” Then, addressing Arson, he said, “Please don't be frightened by me, Stephen. I'm not here to cause you any harm. All I want is to help. But you're in control of all of this. You must not let yourself become a slave to these irrational behaviors. Let me help you.”

He appeared sincere, but Arson wasn't able to fully trust his senses.
Any of them.
Not yet. How did he know they weren't messing with him? That this wasn't some kind of conspiracy? The fact that he couldn't smell right or even taste anything in his mouth, apart from something bitter, was strange enough. Every sound was a piercing
drum-beat
pounding against his skull. His chest and stomach ached. It felt like a hole had been made right at the center of him. “Was I cut?”

“The wounds you carry are self-inflicted.”

A wave of perplexity flooded Arson's mind. Hearing the doubt in the doctor's voice troubled him. He wanted to scream. “Is this a nightmare? A bad dream or something?” he asked.

“No. It's quite real.” Carraway let reality do some work before continuing. “My efforts are to secure your safety. To bring you back home. I can free your mind from the burdens and the strife you carry. You don't want them. You don't need them.” Carraway's voice was a whisper. “We've gotten quite close during your time here. Can't you remember?”

Remember? No, I can't
, he thought.
I can't remember anything after I exploded and tore the flesh from their bones. I can't remember anything except her face.

“I'll try,” Arson said.

“Good. I know you better than you might even know yourself. You can trust me, Stephen.”

The more he called him by that name, the more it seemed to sting. He wasn't Stephen.

A slight flinch disrupted Carraway's posture. He slid his glasses on and thumbed through the
print-out
affixed to the notepad on his lap.

“Why do you want to help me?”

The doctor set his pen down for a moment. “Because I'm your friend.”

“I'll bet,” Arson said, slouching. “This is just your job.”

“I want to set you free. This place is for those who need…a little more attention. For those who can't find the
way back
themselves.” He folded his lips and awaited compliance.
 

Arson settled in his chair, studied the doctor up and down.

 
“It'll all come back to you soon. Nothing stays lost forever, not even memories.”

“Memories,” Arson said. “Tell me what happened. Tell me!”

Carraway twitched his nose. “Let's not bother with specifics right now. We have more important things to discuss. Your grandmother's death will come back to you when
you're
ready.”

“I'm thirsty,” Arson said, smacking his tongue. He wanted to know why he was here. He didn't believe this man, in spite of how innocent and welcoming he appeared.
 

“Let's get you some water.” The doctor snapped his fingers, and with that, the guard accompanying them left the room. But he didn't walk through a door. The wall just moved forward at the pressing of the guard's hand. This room had no doors. Sighs rushed out of them both.

“Stephen, what is the last thing you remember before entering this institution?”

“I'm not crazy, Doctor,” Arson spat, crossing his arms.

“I never said you were. Now, please, try to focus all of your energy on your last memory. Concentrate.”

Just then, the wall opened again with a snake's hiss, and the guard entered with a glass of water. He set it down on the table and returned to his position.

Arson reluctantly shut his eyes, thinking back. He couldn't tell this man that the last thing he remembered was burning the faces off jocks and sluts. He wasn't a murderer. Instead, he thought deeper, reached for memories he hadn't experienced in some time. “There's a dock by a lake. I'm drowning. Waves, small waves rock my head back and forth under the current. No, I'm not drowning at all. I can't breathe, but…but I'm safe.
Grandma's yelling at me in my bedroom.
Doesn't like me going in, not at all. She loves me, just doesn't know how to show it.”

“Very good. This is an older memory, no doubt. Still, it's a start. What else?”

Arson's mind violently sprang to life. “Now I see a room, like this one. But I can't make out much of anything. It's so dark and cold outside. Winter.”

“Go on,” the doctor said, scribbling notes.

“A young girl? She's in pain. I just want to help her. Can I save her? I want to save her!”

“Try.”

“I can't. All I can do is watch. I hate it. Oh no, she's in so much pain. Something's happening. She's burning.” An aching sensation spread at the back of Arson's eyes, and then warm tears dripped down the sides of his face. “I can't even touch her.”

“Who else is there? Can you see anyone's face?”

“No,” Arson said, eyes shut. “Everyone's a blur.” Goosebumps bubbled on his arm. “Nurses are freaking out real bad. This girl is pregnant. There's a man next to her. I can tell he's afraid. Doesn't want to be there.
So much blood.
Is she burning alive…from the inside? She can't take it.” Arson felt his nose start to bleed. “I'm alone and I can't get out.”

Dr. Carraway snapped his fingers a few times, but Arson remained in that dark trance.
 

“Help her! No! Somebody, please help her!”

“Stephen, you must come back,” he said, shaking him. “Wake up! Stephen!”

Arson shook violently and screamed. “What? Did you hypnotize me or something?” He touched the soft flesh above his lips. “I didn't mean to bleed.”

“Don't apologize. And, no, there was no hypnotism. Are you all right?”

“I'm not sure. I feel like I don't know anything anymore.”

A grin toyed with the doctor's lips. “How did it feel?”

“How was it supposed to feel?”

“Here, have a drink.”

Arson reached for the glass, liking the way the cold felt in his grip, how the liquid satisfied the burning in his throat.
 

“Stephen, it seems that this world you were describing is very real to you. And perhaps it is. I cannot yet determine that. If it is, then what you experienced were your memories trying to come alive again in the present. Maybe you have forgotten them, but they are still there, waiting.”

Arson stared blankly.

“These images exist inside of you. They're a part of you. But you must be able to discern the dream from the real. There is nothing you can do to alter these past events. It is rather curious,” Carraway said, stroking his chin. “One sticks out the most. I think it's healthy that you have now experienced it, maybe for the first time. That's how this process works. You know, it's one thing if I simply spit rules of the mind at you, but as you can see, everything's different when you relive it.”

Arson sat quietly.

The doctor eyed him as he drank. “Perhaps these are just your memories and that's it. I'd love it if it were that cut and dry.”

“No. That last one, Dr. Carraway.
That
memory…isn't mine.”

The doctor stared at him strangely. “I assure you, once we dig a little deeper, some of these mysteries will begin to make sense.” He sighed.
 
“I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. You're very brave.”