When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [75]
The Mickey Mouse room was a rip-roaring horror show, the scariest thing I had ever seen in my life. Nothing even came close to this. There was high color in Max’s face now. She seemed unaware of my presence. She was talking to herself, all sibilant phrasing, her speech lapsing into unintelligible phrases.
All I could make out was “skitters” and “put to sleep.”
We entered the Mouse room. I saw immediately that the mice weren’t ordinary lab animals. Knobs of flesh protruded from unlikely junctures. Some of the mice had extra limbs and strange markings.
Mice are so genetically close to humans, it’s a little scary. Eighty-five percent of their genes are identical to ours, which is why they make perfect lab animals. It’s why you can give them human diseases: cancer, heart disease, muscular dystrophy—and from their reactions possibly learn how to cure these diseases in humans.
I love animals, and I’m also a doctor who’s benefited from animal research. I can argue both sides of the animal-research issue passionately. But either way, I cannot abide cruelty. No matter what your reasons, you take responsibility for the animals.
I began pulling down the cages one at a time, shaking them. “There’s no food in these cages. All of these animals are dead. Son of a bitch,” I whispered.
“Put to sleep,” Max said. Tears welled up in her eyes.
It was something to see—this beautiful little girl crying over the fate of dead mice.
Chapter 79
MAX HATED IT when she cried, hated to show weakness. She wouldn’t let on to Frannie, but she was freaking out, creeping out real bad, scaring herself with her own thoughts, but the worst thing was the anger she felt. The rage inside of her. No one should be allowed to do these things.
Her senses were incredibly alive right now. Sight, hearing, smell, tactile. She’d felt this way when she was running away from the School. She hadn’t known how powerful her senses were until then.
Her nostrils differentiated the smells of burnt coffee, various chemicals, heated metal, and somewhere nearby—decaying flesh.
This was all wrong. It was so wrong. How could Harding Thomas and the other cretins do this? Was it because she had run away? Had she caused these deaths? Oh please, don’t let it be that. Not because of me.
The second hand of the clock hanging above the cryogenic tanks had stopped, and that made her think maybe time had died.
She kept moving. She entered the familiar Main Office Control, and was seized with quick, flashing memories. Memories of Uncle Thomas, his large hand protectively on her head. He liked to remind her that he was “a scientist at heart.” He loved his little Tinkerbell, or so he always told her. She was such a smart girl. Precious little Tink.
Liar! she thought. Murderer. Creep—lower than amoebae.
She felt like curling up and having a good cry. Where was everyone? Uncle Thomas and the others? Were they hiding on her? Were they watching? They loved to watch, then spring out and catch you when you least expected it.
Her life here had been like a military school, or what she knew about them. Her days were always organized and controlled. She studied, worked, underwent tests, exercised or watched TV. She never received love, encouragement, satisfaction. She was one of their specimens, except she was smart enough to make herself useful. And to know, somewhere inside her, that she wasn’t a specimen.
Beyond the Main Office Control, the corridor branched two ways. Automatically, Max turned right. She knew the way, every inch of this place. She could find her way around it blindfolded.
Twenty paces became ten, became five. Ready for countdown.
And finally she came to the heavy metal door of the Nursery.
She heard something behind her and her breathing stopped. Her mind was racing like crazy. She definitely heard—footsteps. Running!