Project Pallid (17 page)

Still,
Mr. Laverdier’s work continued, unaffected and unaltered from its original
objective. The paperwork that he submitted to his superiors reflected only
cancer-related benefits of his research, and their vehement demands went
unacknowledged and unexplored.

The
back and forth, tug-of-war continued and, as the brains behind the work, the
government couldn’t afford to let him go—not until they brought his
replacement up to speed. And with his dying wife at home, Mr. Laverdier stayed
the course for as long as possible.

But
eventually, the union between worker and machine reached its precipice and he
was relieved of his duties—replaced with someone more agreeable, no
doubt—before he was able to achieve reliable results in human trials. His
research was seized, his lab taken, and with a contingency of silence, Mr.
Laverdier was reassigned to Madison and to a cushy position as Head of Medicine
at Madison General—a hole-in-the-wall place where his knowledge and work
could be swept under a suburbial rug.

Catee’s
mom passed away that same week.

And
with the fuel behind his inexhaustible work cut short, he accepted without
pushback. He’d lost his fight with them, and he’d lost his battle for the life
of Catee’s mom.

“Woahhhh.”
I filled the office with a heavy exhale, still cross-legged on the floor, and
with the full story of Mr. Laverdier spread before me.

Catee
gave no response. Her look was total, glazed-over bewilderment at the shock of
our discovery. It was understandable. Anyone else would’ve reacted the same.

I
put my hand to her thigh and gave it a light squeeze to retrieve her from the
recesses of her mind.

“Catee?”
I asked.

She
looked dazedly my way.

“Are
you okay?”

“Okay?”
she responded.

“Okay?
Are you okay?”

“I
don’t know, Damian.”

“What
do you need? What can I do?” I asked, knowing that nothing would ease the
burden of our discovery.

“Nothing.
Don’t worry about it. I can deal with it,” she said.

“Catee,
I want to help you. What can I do? What do we do now?”

“What
do you mean, what do
we
do now? Nothing, Damian.
We
don’t
do
anything.” Her words bordered on anger.

“Just
think of what we know, Catee. Think of the cover-up going on here.”

“Cover-up?
What cover-up?” she asked, perplexed.

“Your
dad. You guys being moved here. Just think of what he knows. Think of what he
can—”

“What?
Now you’re faulting him for being smart?” Her words were accusatory—like
I was under-valuing her familial devotion to him, or like I was misjudging the
integrity of his work.

“That’s
not what I’m saying at all, Catee. I’m just saying that we need to keep an eye
on him—even if he
is
your father. There’s something not right
going on. Can’t you see it? The way he acts? The way he treats you? The way
he’s gone, eighteen hours a day? It sounds just like before … like, when your
mom was sick. He’s working on something. He’s up to something. Maybe you’ve
been too close for too long to even notice it anymore … ”

Her
look hardened to become primevally protective of her dad and his actions. “I
get all
this
, Damian,” she gestured to the stack of paperwork, then
outstretched her arms to address the room and house. “I get it. Trust me. I
know why I’m here now. I know what happened. But I don’t know what it has to do
with anything now. It’s over. Done. We’re here now, and it’s a fresh start. I
don’t know why you’re trying to read into something that isn’t there to begin
with.” Her words rang of self-protective denial.

“Your
dad’s up to something, Catee.” I spoke resolutely and without waver.

She
looked to me, then back to the stacked paperwork.

And
my heart broke as she conceded the undeniable truth that had been staring her
in the face all along.

May 10
^th:
Day 9

My
first instinct is to run, but where do I go? To him? Away from him? My entire
body tenses and readies to spring itself from the cot in search of safety, but
I close my eyes and concentrate on silent, methodic breathing instead. I’ve got
to stay calm.

“DAM—I—AN
…” each grating syllable is forced from his mouth, and although the pitch might
be different—metallic and shrill—it’s unmistakably my dad. He's
still using my name.

But
his words lose all familiarity and turn to desperate cries and enraged screams
as pale hands bang and claw at the floorboards between us.

The
pounding stops and his eye—once a mischievous, sparkling blue, now turned
empty and white—drags along the crack. Instinct says that’s how you look
for something, but its careless mistreatment across the splintered floor tells
me that it’s lost all functionality.

The
heavy breathing—the scenting—continues, and the pickled crap on the
floor’s a total waste. He
knows
I’m down here.

With
a THUD, he leaps from four, to two feet. His footpads connect hard with the
ground, and there’s a quick scramble across it to the pantry’s hidden door.

Silence.

And
then the door moves. Barely, but it moves.

My
breathing stops.

The
thump of my heart bangs in my ears.

And
the door moves again. This time, pulled far enough up that the morning light
outlines its perimeter at the top of the steep stairs.

The
light comes and goes as it’s lifted again and again, and it comes down harder
and harder in its frame with each tug—banging closed before its pulled
back up.

My
wooden jam strains against the handle and threatens to snap at any second.

I
planned for something like this before, but never imagined it’d be my dad on
the other side. And as quickly and quietly as possible, I get up and move to
the far wall. I’d practiced squeezing behind the shelves already, so I know I
can do it—even if it’s a tight squeeze, holding my breath.

I
shimmy along, about four feet in and midway down its length, and I’m mostly
concealed from sight, but sight has little to do with anything anymore. I can
see small pieces of the basement between the rows of contents that line the
shelves, and I freeze. I wait.

Entirely
on autopilot until now, the gravity of it all hits me and I can’t stop myself
from crying. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I have to bite my lip to stifle the
inevitable sobbing that follows.
Is this finally my time? My turn to suffer
like everyone else? Like my dad?
From
my dad?
And I worry that it’ll
hurt. That it won’t be quick. That I’ll suffer.

The
banging of the door hasn’t stopped. It’s become more vicious. More angry. More
determined.

He’s
not leaving.

He’s
coming for me.

The
sounds he’s making—ground-up mixtures of mechanical syllables—are
entirely unintelligible and interlaced with screechy, scraping wails.

My
face is entirely tear-soaked. My clothes are just as wet and cling to my
sweat-soaked body. My whimpering is uncontrollable, and I remember my knife.

With
a crane and contort, I’m able to twist enough to look through some pasta boxes
to see it where I left it: on the crate by my bed. “Shit!” I hiss.

I
consider going back for it—the bangs and shrieks from above demand
it—but I can only wriggle about a foot down the wall before the cracking
of wood and the soul-shattering creak of hinges stops me dead.

A
trajectory of morning light shoots down the shaft and into the basement. It
illuminates the dust filled air and sets its puddles aglow in an ominous, white
light.

My
crying stops. My breathing stops. My heart stops.

And
my ears listen for his next move.

In
one step, two steps, and a leap to the gravel floor, he tackles the staircase
in record time.

I
can see him now, and I almost scream, but he doesn’t see me.

More
like an animal than a person, he sniffs the ground. Nostrils flared, he
breathes deeply—the ground, the air, the ground, the air—and he’s a
dog on a scent.

With
a single leap, he springs to my bed and frantically claws at its sheets,
shredding them away until the air is filled with their settling pieces. He
scrambles from it, knocks over my bedside crate, and scatters my things to the
ground.

And
then I can’t see him and can only hear as he continues his frantic search
around the outside of the room. There’s the squish and splash of his feet
through puddles and pickled piles of produce. There’s the shatter of glass as
he knocks over and crunches glass jars under his feet.

I
catch another glimpse of him as he bangs into the shelves that conceal me, and
I almost throw up from terror and disgust. And then he’s back at the bottom of
the stairs.

A
series of prayers and promises cycle through my head. I just want him to go
away. I don’t want to see him again. I just want to close the door, find a
better lock, and erase the jarring image of him from my mind.

But
he doesn’t go.

He
turns back around and with another smell—one I hear but don’t
see—he comes straight toward my hiding spot. With a swoop of his arm, he
clears out the shelf above and sends its contents down on my head.

I
can’t stifle the scream anymore when he does it again and this time, I’m
looking out at him—or what used to be him—through an empty shelf.

His
lips are almost entirely gone. His tongue flashes in and out between what
remain of snarled teeth, and it’s entirely white and coated in thick mucous.
His nose is partially gone, his ears and hair are entirely missing, and his
eyes are two bulging cue balls: shining, white, and unemotional. The skin of
his partially hunched body would be almost translucent, if not for the
spatterings of dried blood and grime that coat it in parts.

“Dad,”
I choke out a desperate plea. “Dad, it’s me, Dad. Dad … !”

His
head turns to face me directly and a horrible clicking echoes from his throat.
His arms shoot through the shelf and his hands grab my shirt and hair.

“Dad!”
I grab his hand and struggle to pry his fingers from my hair, but before I can,
it snaps back and tears a clump free that makes me scream out in pain.

In
a blur of wild arms, he clears out the shelves around me and exposes me
entirely, taking away the only plan I had.

“STOP!
DAD! IT’S ME! DAMIAN!” My desperate screams fall on absent ears. “DAD!” I yell,
and wriggle along the wall to avoid him. He follows, clearing shelves as he
goes, crashing and smashing everything between him and me until there’s only
the two of us, separated by a hulled-out barrier.

“DON’T
YOU REMEMBER ME?! IT’S ME! YOUR SON!! PLEASE STOP! DAD!! STOP!!!”

At
this, his screams resume, and I have to cover my ears to keep my eardrums from
exploding. It’s an impossible sound. It’s nothing like my dad anymore. This
isn’t
my dad anymore. And it
isn’t
going away until I’m dead. And my only option
is to get out, get up the stairs, and to lock the door before he gets to
it—to trap him down here, instead. The quick flash of what might be
waiting for me up there isn’t so scary anymore.

He’s
given up clawing through the shelf, and he’s latched onto its frame.
 
He’s pulling and tugging it
now—testing the limits of the old screws that hold it to the wall. I hear
one spring free, bounce across it, and land on the ground. Then another. And
there’s more room to move as my hiding space grows wider and wider.

By
the time I can turn sideways, I’m moving forward and making my run, but he’s
just as reactive and reaches its end before me.

I
double back, turning and running for the other side as he enters my planned
exit. I hear him hit the wall, and the flurry of limbs as he closes the divide.

I
make it out the other side, but I’ll never make it to the stairs. I’ll never
make it up. I’ll never make it out.

But
I make it halfway when his leap catches me by the ankle, mid-basement, and
crashes me down on my tossed-around things.

My
hand lands on my pocketknife as he climbs over my crumpled-up body, and I’ve
got just enough time and strength to roll over and plunge its blade, hilt-deep,
into his gleaming, bloodthirsty eye.

February
12
^th:

I
suspected something was wrong when Catee didn’t come to school that Thursday.
Aside from her one-day suspension, she’d never missed a day before. And to do
so on that particular one—the day after we broke into her dad’s
office—was especially alarming.

Suspicion
turned to knowing
when Catee didn’t return any of my texts or calls. The
same thing happened Friday, too. It wasn’t like her. She would have never
ignored me. And by lunchtime, I just couldn’t take it any more. I had to know
why she wasn’t responding. I needed to know that she was okay.