Intercepts: a horror novel Read online

  Bishop continued rolling on her back from side to side as she swatted at the air like a drunken cat, oblivious to Carson’s presence.

  “I’m feeling bathtime first,” he said for her.

  He set his things back in the cart and wheeled it all over to Bishop.

  “Let’s make a deal. You don’t like this routine, I don’t like this routine. Why waste time dealing with restraints? You’re a good girl, right? What do you think about us just getting right to business?”

  Her mouth stretched into a wide, gaping oval. She screamed.

  “Totally agree,” Carson said in response. “Cool, no restraints then.”

  That would save him a few minutes. Having to take the time to strap their arms and legs to the rings embedded in the floor felt like yet another procedure that served no real purpose here. Maybe it was a good idea if he were working in a prison, or mental institution, or anywhere where the patients were actually dangerous. But here? These things were harmless. He never even saw one of them stand. They just spent all day rolling on the floor and flailing their arms. Apparently, allowing them to use their muscles in those sporadic movements helped them live longer, but Carson sure didn’t think it made them dangerous.

  He bent down beside her. In a firm, practiced motion he held down her kicking leg with one hand as his other hand slid up under her hospital gown.

  “So, what you got for me today?”

  He pulled a thick diaper out from under her gown.

  “Yummy.”

  He flung the diaper with a one-handed hook shot. It arced through the air and landed with a clang into the trash bin of his diaper cart.

  “Two points!”

  Then, with a sanitizing wipe, he reached back under the gown and cleaned her. He went through one wipe… two wipes… three wipes… four wipes before the little square of damp tissue came back without a single brown streak. He bundled up the wipes in a plastic bag and tossed them all into the bin.

  With that, he pulled more wipes from his cart. He firmly grasped Bishop’s right arm, stopping it from waving around. He undid the strap that held her safety mitt in place and slid it off her hand.

  Her now-freed fingers stretched and clawed at the air.

  He wiped down her arm, taking care to give her muscles a massage as he did. He hummed softly to himself, blocking out Bishop’s moans and occasional screams.

  When Carson finished, he moved to perform the same task on Bishop’s right leg, releasing his grip on her arm.

  Bishop’s mouth twisted up.

  “I feel nothing… They did this to me… He did this to me…”

  Carson looked up, startled. “What?”

  “He loves you, Kate… You are his weakness…”

  For a moment, Carson sat there, unsure how to proceed. He had only heard them speak — form actual words and sentences — during the tuning sessions. Otherwise it was just mumbled gibberish and screams.

  At first he figured that maybe his mask and the hissing of oxygen through his suit had played a trick on his ears. Or maybe it was a prank. Someone was screwing around on a walkie-talkie, pretending to be the voice of Bishop. Carson didn’t want to overreact. He didn’t want to do anything that might make him the butt of some lame joke.

  And so, he sat at Bishop’s side, slowly scrubbing her leg while keeping his gaze firmly focused on her lips. Her mouth twisted and contorted. These were common muscle movements, although that didn’t make the bizarre grins that formed any less eerie.

  Then Carson saw it. Bishop’s jaw, lips and tongue moved, but not in some random assortment of shapes. She formed words.

  “I know you know him. His name is Joe. Joe Gerhard,” she said, her eyes still staring at the wall as though there was someone else in the room she was talking to.

  Carson glanced up at the camera mounted in the corner of the room. Did the control room hear this?

  He grabbed his walkie-talkie from the cart and held it to his hood. “Hey, Control? I’m in Bishop’s cell and she’s saying some really freaky shit.”

  “Like what?” said the voice on the other end.

  “Well, she’s saying things like—”

  He looked back down at Bishop. In the moment it took for him to grab the walkie-talkie, her entire posture had changed. She didn’t loll or swat anymore. Her head had stopped moving. Her eyes seemed to stare at him, right through him, in fact. Even though her eyes couldn’t quite focus on Carson’s face, he could feel the gaze.

  “I see you,” she said directly to Carson.

  And then, Bishop’s right hand — still free of the safety mitt — swung out.

  It latched onto the hood of Carson’s suit.

  “Let go! Bishop, let go!” Carson shouted.

  In a sudden, firm motion, she ripped the hood and mask from his face.

  Carson heaved in panicked breaths of the room’s air. He stood and ran toward the door.

  “Help! Somebody hel…” The words slurred in his mouth.

  With each breath he took of the room’s air, his legs became more like gelatin. They crumpled under the weight of his body. He collapsed to his knees. With all the strength he could force, he rose back to his feet. Only a step later and his muscles gave out entirely, sending him tumbling back to the floor. He tried to pull himself forward, but his hands merely flopped about as if they were dead fish.

  “Helpth meeth… pleastht…” he tried calling out. His mouth couldn’t form the words, and his lungs couldn’t push enough air out to make them more than a whisper.

  His vision blurred.

  The darkness closed in from the sides, narrowing down until there was only a pinprick of light in front of him. It was as if his world became one of those old televisions that maintained a slight ghost image of the picture for a second or two after the power shut off. He tried to focus on that image, tried to use it to ground himself to the urgency of the task at hand.

  He couldn’t hear Bishop’s moans anymore.

  He couldn’t hear the hissing of the air through the vents.

  All he could hear was a single high-frequency note, unwavering in his ear, but slowly fading out. It hung in the darkness of his mind as though he were floating in a black sea, listening to the horn of a ship as it sped off into the distance.

  Until finally, nothing.

  Silence.

  Blackness.

  For a brief moment, Carson thought he felt something on his back.

  First it was a sharp pain.

  Then it felt like little more than an itch.

  Then just a tingle.

  And then, he felt nothing.

  Whatever had been on his back must have left.

  Carson was now adrift in that sea, feeling, hearing, and seeing nothing.

  ***

  As Carson lay sprawled on the floor, Bishop had thrown herself on his body.

  The swatting motions of her hands, which had been so erratic and almost playful, now had a firm and violent purpose.

  She propped herself into a sitting position and clawed furiously.

  Her free hand dug into his suit. Again and again, faster and faster, until her fingers tore through the fabric. She was like a mole digging through dirt, constantly moving. She threw all of her meager weight behind her gouging hands.

  She tore through his outer suit and then progressed quickly through his t-shirt underneath.

  At last she reached the flesh of his back.

  Her hands, never slowing, clawed at the flesh, tearing out large chunks of skin as she went. She ripped out bone and organ.

  Never pausing.

  Just burrowing.

  Digging a hole straight through the man’s body.

  Red lights flashed in the room and in the corridor outside.

  People in the hallway screamed and shouted orders.

  But Bishop kept digging.

  Her face remained blank. Her eyes continued to roam around her head, unable to see or lock onto any object in particular.

  And down sh
e dug.

  Through skin.

  Through muscle.

  Through tendon.

  Through bone.

  She dug and clawed until she had reached the padded floor beneath Carson’s shredded body.

  And still she didn’t stop.

  CHAPTER 2

  Joe Gerhard paced his office.

  Although, in all honesty, “pacing” constituted a total of five steps of his massive frame in one direction before he reached a beige concrete wall. Then he would turn around and pace the five steps in the other direction.

  The office was tight, windowless, and always a-little-too-cool from the recycled air. But at least it was an office. A place for Joe to practice his little speech in private.

  “It’s my duty to let you know that my boys ain’t had a…” he stopped his pacing and made a note to correct his phrasing, “… have not had a weekend off since March.”

  He shook his head and repeated to himself, “‘Ain’t’ ain’t a word. ‘Ain’t’ ain’t a word. ‘Ain’t’ ain’t a word.”

  For the past twenty years, he’d been in a state of constant battle against his West Virginian accent. One of his coworkers, Hannah, had joked that Joe needed a swear jar for every time he said “ain’t” or “y’all.” He laughed it off, but he knew it was true. No matter how persuasive his arguments and counter-arguments were to the brass up in D.C., if he let a single y’all slip, it would remind them that he wasn’t Yale, Harvard, or West Point like them. They’d see him as some yokel whom they kept promoting because he was damned good at his job.

  But a non-college-educated yokel, all the same.

  “My colleagues have not had a weekend off since March,” he said to himself, beginning again while trying out what he considered an Ivy-League accent. “This is manufacturing a work environment of unsatisfactory quality.”

  He paused.

  “Jesus H. Christ, that’s stuffy as shit,” he said. “Oh, fuck it.”

  With a shrug, he began again. “Look here, y’all, I respect the challenges of staffing a place like this as much as the next man, but when I put in position requests, they get sucked into some black hole over yonder in your offices. Coming up on two years now, I’ve had three open janitorial spots listed as ‘pending review.’ You’ve got me using doctors — souls with honest-to-god M.D.s — on their hands and knees bleaching the shit off the floors. This is unacceptable. Morale is low and sinking like an iron turd. So, don’t stonewall me on this anymore. I gotta protect my team. These people are my brothers and sisters. Who do I got to talk to if I wanna pry open them purse strings?” He paused. “You tight-ass, hoity-toity, sons-a-bitches.”

  He smiled to himself. Then...

  BEEP!

  The walkie-talkie that was propped on a cradle on his desk sounded. Joe picked it up. “This is Gerhard.”

  “Joe! Something happened in Bishop’s cell. Carson’s hurt!” The voice belonged to Dr. Hannah Chao.

  Joe went to his desk and turned on his computer monitor.

  Security feeds filled his screen. Most of the images were of people lying on their backs in padded cells, swaying and swatting at the air. The feeds of the corridors, though, showed a mass panic. Staff members — many in nurse scrubs, but some in body armor and holding rifles — raced to and from the scene of the emergency.

  In an instant, Joe processed all the information.

  He enlarged one particular security feed — on the screen, in the center of the room, Bishop clawed through the mushy lump on the floor. She dug out handfuls of red, gooey material, throwing it behind her as she went in for more. A pool of blood grew around her on the non-absorbent padded floor.

  Hannah’s voice came through the walkie-talkie again. “I’m at the outer door. I’m masked up. I’m going in.”

  “Hold position, Medical,” Joe said. “Security, where are you?”

  “We’re in the Cell Two airlock,” a man said over the walkie-talkie. “Field masks on. Door is unlocked and room pressure is optimized. We are ready for incursion.”

  Joe glanced at his monitor. A team of three guards, all armed and wearing gas masks, waited at the airlock. Their leader’s hand gripped the handle, waiting only for the green light.

  “Security, you are to enter Cell Two,” Joe said. “You are not authorized to use lethal force. You are to restrain the Antenna, but under no circumstances are you to terminate or injure her. Do you understand?”

  “No lethal force. Affirmative.”

  “Proceed,” Joe said.

  “Entering Cell Two.”

  With that, Joe watched as the gas-masked guards pulled open the door and stormed into the room. They swooped in on both sides of Bishop before grabbing her and pulling her off of Carson.

  Bishop didn’t resist. She didn’t even seem to recognize they were there. Even as they held her to the ground, her limbs continued to claw and dig at the air, but her motions seemed almost playful and innocent.

  “My mask’s on,” Hannah announced. “I’m going in.”

  “Medical, hold position in corridor,” Joe said. “Do not enter until Cell Two is secure.”

  “Jesus, Joe! Lemme check on Carson!”

  “Hold position.”

  He glanced at the security feeds. Hannah stood in the corridor with her mask on. She paced with her hands on her head, staring in the cell’s main observation window, but she obeyed orders and made no motion to enter the room.

  “Security, check Mr. Phillips vitals at first opportunity,” Joe said.

  A long silence overtook the radio.

  Joe watched the feeds. Two of the guards strapped restraints onto Bishop’s wrists and ankles. The third knelt by Carson’s body.

  “There’s no way. Not with this blood loss,” the guard said. “He’s gone. I’m sorry, Hannah.”

  Joe watched as Hannah, seemingly overcome by it all, knelt down and took a seat in the middle of the corridor. She bowed her head and held it in her hands.

  “Shit,” she said softly over the mic.

  Joe took a deep breath. “Control, keep on recording for another thirty minutes. I want that file to have our unedited response and cleanup. Then transmit it to HQ.”

  “You got it, boss,” came the response. “And what about Case 10598?”

  “What about it?” Joe asked.

  “Everything is set up in Cell Eight. Should we proceed?”

  Joe clicked away from the bloodbath in Cell Two to the work that was proceeding in Cell Eight.

  Medics, orderlies and technicians stood around a man who was strapped to a chair. The man had sensors attached to his body. An array of large screens had been propped just inches from his face. Clips held the man’s eyelids open. The man didn’t notice or care; his eyes roamed around his head, looking everywhere and focusing on nothing.

  Joe picked up his phone and hit the intercom button.

  “Attention, staff,” he said.

  He could hear his voice echoing down the hallways as the speaker system broadcast his message to every room and department in the Facility.

  “This is Site B Supervisor, Joe Gerhard,” he continued. “There’s been an incident on Level Two. Due to that, we’ll be gathering no intercepts today. Break down your gear and equipment. Nonessential personnel, clear Level Two.”

  He clicked off his intercom. He thought for a moment before reaching out toward the intercom button again. After a brief pause, he turned it on.

  “For those of you who don’t know, yes, there’s been a loss-of-life,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and dispassionate. “It’s a sad day for our little family. I know you’re all aware of the rules, but I’m gonna remind you anyway. You are not to contact the deceased’s family without Company approval. No money, no cards, no phone calls. Wait ‘til HR holds a staff-wide briefing on appropriate conversation topics. If you feel you must do something…”

  He immediately regretted even starting that last sentence. The Company wouldn’t allow anyone to do anything. Carso
n’s employment records were sure to be scrubbed. There were rumors that during situations such as this, the Company hired actors to pretend to be the deceased’s coworkers and supervisors. Those would be the people attending the funeral and paying house visits to the relatives. Joe didn’t quite believe the Company went that far, but he did know that anyone who actually worked with Carson would be prohibited from communication.

  After a long, expectant pause, he finally muttered into the microphone, “If you feel you must do something, say a prayer for him.”

  With that, he turned off his intercom again. Then he picked up his walkie-talkie. “I’m comin’ down.”

  Joe pushed himself up from his desk and marched out of the room.

  CHAPTER 3

  Joe stepped out of his office and into the hallway of Level One.

  With the practice that came from putting out hundreds of fires over his ten-year career, he speed-walked with a briskness that never actually became a full jog. As the many posted signs on the beige walls explicitly said, running was forbidden.

  Level One was the office level of the Facility where the white-collar members of the staff toiled. Or in Joe’s case, the blue-collar workers who found themselves promoted to white-collar jobs; it was always easier to promote from within.

  Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the hall from cages mounted to the ceiling. The bulbs, toned to a cool “daylight” temperature that was meant to invigorate workers by mimicking natural sunlight, fooled no one. The lack of windows and the hum of fans constantly recycling the air made it hard for any staffer to forget that they were several floors underground.

  For all intents and purposes, it was a bunker — a concrete tomb buried in rock.

  The place always had a strong scent of bleach that lingered from the nightly scrub-down. Joe’s shoes, as fast as his feet were moving, squeaked against the sealed and spotless linoleum floor. With nothing to catch the sound — and every office door having to remain closed at all times — the squeaking of Joe’s shoes bounced around the hall, making the place feel even emptier.

  As he neared the elevator door at the end of the hall, he passed large posters hanging from the walls. They were designed in the style of classic World War II posters, the “Loose Lips Sink Ships” and “We Can Do It!” variety.