Wolf Island (8 page)

No one speaks until the doors open. As Pip and Terry nudge out, Antoine says, “A moment, please.” He’s tapping the control
panel of the elevator. “Could you tell me some more about the attack you mentioned?”

“I thought we were going to do that in your office,” Shark growls suspiciously.

“That was my intention,” Antoine replies. “But upon reconsideration I think there might be a better place for our discussion.
There’s no need to go into the full story here, but if you could provide me with just a few details…”

Shark looks at Meera. She shrugs, then quickly runs through the attack at Carcery Vale. Antoine listens silently. His smile
never slips, but it starts to strain at the edges. When Meera finishes, he nods soberly and presses a button low on the panel.
There’s a buzzing noise. Everyone tenses.

“Nothing to worry about,” Antoine says calmly, pushing a series of buttons. “I’m taking us to the lower levels. That requires
a security code.”

“How low does this thing go?” Shark asks.

“There are ten floors beneath the ground,” Antoine says. “I thought we’d check out the lower fourth and fifth.” He pauses,
his finger hovering over the number 2. “This is the final digit. Once I press this, the doors will shut and we’ll drop. If
you have any objections, this is the time to raise them.”

Shark thinks about it, then sniffs as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Antoine presses the button. The buzzer stops. The
doors slide shut. We slip further into the bowels of the building.

We step out of the elevator and find ourselves in a corridor much like any other. But when we follow Antoine through an ordinary-looking
door, we discover something completely unexpected.

We’re in a huge, open room, dotted with cages, banks of machines, and steel cabinets. The cages all seem to be several yards
square and three or four yards high. Some show evidence of having been inhabited recently — feces and scraps of food litter
the floors — but most look like they’ve never been used.

“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 apologize for my insensitivity. I never meant to cause offense.”

“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 makes 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 authorized 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 plowed 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 unraveled 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 recognizably 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 inquire 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 that 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 farther 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.

“This smells almost as bad as that world of guts we visited,” Shark mutters to Meera. She looks at him blankly. “Oh right.
You weren’t there. It was Sharmila.”

“Nice to know you can’t tell the difference between me and an Indian woman twice my age,” Meera snaps. Shark winces — he’s
made the sort of error a woman never forgets or forgives.

“This is another holding pen,” Antoine says. “But it’s more than just a place to hold specimens. It’s where we breed our own
varieties, to increase our stock.”

For a moment I don’t catch his meaning. Then I stop dead. “You’ve been
breeding
werewolves?” I roar.

“The reproductive organs alter during transformation,” Antoine explains, “but most specimens remain fertile. We always knew
it was possible for them to breed, but we didn’t follow up on that for many years. It’s a delicate process. The pair have
to be united at precisely the right moment, otherwise they rip each other apart. We tried artificial insemination, but the
mothers refused to accept the young, killing them as they emerged from the womb. We could sedate and restrain them during
the birthing process, of course, but it’s much easier to —”

Losing my head completely, I take a swing at Antoine Horwitzer, intent on squeezing his brains out through his nose and ears,
then stomping them into mincemeat.

Shark catches my fist. The suited leader of the Lambs ducks and recoils from me with a startled cry, while Shark restrains
my trembling hand, staring at me coldly.

“Let go,” I cry, angry tears trickling from my eyes.

“This isn’t the time,” he says quietly.

“I don’t care. It’s barbaric. I’m going to —”

“Kill him?” Shark hisses. “What will that achieve? He’s just a pretty face in a suit. They’d replace him in an instant.”

“But —”

“Remember our mission. Think about what’s at stake. This guy’s an ant. We can come after him later — and the rest of his foul
kind. Right now we have bigger fish to fry. Don’t lose track of the rabbit, Grubbs.”

I struggle to break free. Then my brain kicks in and I relax. Shark releases me, but watches warily in case I make another
break for Antoine, who’s squinting at me nervously.

“You know your problem?” I snap at Shark. “You use too many metaphors. Ants, fish, and rabbits, all in the same breath. That’s
an abuse of the language.”

Shark smiles. “I never was much good at school. Too busy reading about guns.” He steps away, clearing the area between me
and Antoine.