Chapter 4 - Blackwood Lane
The rain was falling in dark, heavy sheets by the time I slipped through the emergency exit at the back of the hospital basement.
Dr. Thorne had arranged the keycard access, distracting the guards at the main bay long enough for me to reach my car in the parking garage. The heater in my old sedan blasted warm air against the windshield, but I couldn't stop shaking.
I drove through the dark, deserted streets of Oak Creek like a woman possessed. The windshield wipers slammed back and forth in a frantic, rhythmic beat. Every red light felt like a personal insult, every passing car a potential threat.
I reached Blackwood Lane at 7:45 PM.
It was a narrow, unpaved road that wound through a dense patch of overgrown pine woods near the edge of the industrial reserve. At the end of the lane stood a dark, two-story house built of weathered gray cedar. The windows were dark, covered with heavy wooden shutters, but a thin curl of blue smoke rose from the brick chimney.
A rusted steel chain-link fence surrounded the property, bearing a faded metal sign:
PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING.
I didn't care about the sign. I slammed my car into park, jumped out into the freezing rain, and ran straight to the front gate. The latch was secured with a heavy padlock, but the bottom section of the fence was rusted away. I dragged myself through the mud beneath the wire, ignoring the sharp iron tearing through my coat and cutting into my shoulder.
I scrambled up the wooden porch steps and pounded on the heavy oak door with both fists.
"Dr. Mercer!" I screamed over the roar of the storm. "Dr. Mercer, open the door! Please!"
Silence. Only the sound of rain hitting the tin roof.
"My daughter is dying!" I shrieked, kicking the bottom of the door with my boot. "She has the Phantom Root! She picked it up at the creek! She's seven years old!"
Inside the house, a heavy bolt clicked.
The door opened two inches, caught by a thick steel security chain. In the dark gap, a single pale eye peered out at me through thick, yellowed spectacles.
"What did you say?" a raspy, ancient voice demanded.
"The carbon thread," I sobbed, pressing my face against the crack in the door, cold rainwater streaming down my cheeks. "Project Phantom Root. It's in her neck, Dr. Mercer! It's wrapped around her esophagus and her carotid! Dr. Thorne sent me! Aris Thorne!"
The old man's breath caught in his throat. "Aris...?"
"The surgical team at St. Jude’s is going to operate on her at midnight!" I cried, grabbing the edge of the door with my bare, bleeding fingers. "They don't understand what it is! They're going to use a scalpel, and it's going to kill her! Please, God, give me Compound 7-B!"
For three agonizing seconds, the old man didn't move.
Then, the chain slid free, and the door swung open.
Dr. Victor Mercer was eighty years old, stooped and thin as a reed, wearing a stained wool cardigan and thick corduroy trousers. His workshop behind him was a chaotic labyrinth of brass equipment, dusty glass retorts, micro-scopes, and yellowing notebooks stacked six feet high.
"In," he grunted, grabbing my arm with surprising strength and dragging me inside out of the storm. He slammed the heavy door shut and threw three separate deadbolts. "Did anyone follow you?"
"No," I gasped, wiping rain from my eyes. "I came alone."
"Aegis," he muttered, pacing back and forth across the creaking floorboards, his hands twitching nervously. "They know. They must know the containment at the basin failed. That's why their cars were parked at the end of the road yesterday..."
He stopped, turning to look at me. His old eyes were filled with an overwhelming, sorrowful terror.
"A seven-year-old girl?" he asked softly.
"Her name is Chloe," I choked out, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the photograph Dr. Thorne had printed from the hospital ultrasound. "Look at her. Please."
Dr. Mercer took the paper. His worn hands trembled as he looked at the black-and-white scan of the dark thread anchored inside my daughter's neck.
A tear spilled from his eye, tracking through the deep wrinkles on his weathered cheek.
"My creation," he whispered, his voice cracking with thirty years of hidden guilt. "My beautiful, terrible mistake."
He turned and walked quickly toward the back of the workshop, where a massive steel wall safe sat embedded in the brick chimney. He spun the combination dial four times, his fingers moving with practiced, mechanical memory.
The safe door swung open with a heavy clunk.
Inside, resting on a bed of faded black velvet, were three small glass ampoules filled with a clear, amber-colored fluid.
"Compound 7-B," Dr. Mercer said, picking up one of the ampoules as if it were made of spun sugar. "It destabilizes the synthetic polymer matrix within ninety seconds of contact. It will dissolve the root system harmlessly into water-soluble amino acids."
"Give it to me," I begged, holding out both hands. "Please."
"I won't just give it to you," Dr. Mercer said, pulling a leather medical kit from a shelf and placing the ampoule inside it alongside a specialized hypodermic syringe. "I'm coming with you. You don't know how to inject it into the primary node. If you miss the central core by a millimeter, the threads will react before the compound can spread."
May you like
He snapped the kit shut and looked at me with a grim, resolute expression.
"I built this nightmare, Mrs. Miller," he said. "It's time I finally killed it."
