The Death of Wendell Mackey by C.T. Westing Read Free Book Online Page A

outside.
    “Why are you doing this?” he remembered asking them. “Why me?”
    They stared down at him with antiseptic eyes, curious at the question. Or surprised, as if they had just heard their frog speak up from the dissection tray.
    “Here there is no reason why, Mr. Mackey,” said Dr. Thane.
    “But what did I do?”
    “You’re looking too deeply at the situation Mr. Mackey,” followed Scotia. “Just relax. You, your neighbor, your mechanic, the man whose locker is next to yours, it doesn’t matter. Randomness, Mr. Mackey, the nature of nature.”
    Their answer was that there was no answer, which was unacceptable to Wendell. There had to be a reason why they chose him. But Scotia and the other doctor remained tight-lipped, calling for the nurses, whispering to them, and then watching as they wheeled Wendell out of the room and down the hall into another room, as cold and uninviting as the first. An injection followed. Then dizziness. Strong hands moved him to another bed. Wrists tied down. Metal collar on the neck. A waist belt cinched tight. A hard piece, like a horse’s bit, jammed between his teeth. Electrodes on the forehead, collarbones and sternum. Then came the pain, metallic and electric, sucking his eyes deep into their sockets.
    He remembered almost constant pain after that—peppered throughout with periods of complete exhaustion and drug-induced lethargy—which didn’t allow him the time to consider their reasons for choosing him. But now, sitting anxiously in his mother’s apartment, Wendell’s fear of returning to the institution brought it to the fore. Whatever their ultimate goals, he had made himself an easy target, perhaps out of his timidity, his anonymity, his preternatural ability to blend into a dull wall like an even duller shade of paint. They chose him because he was someone who wouldn’t be missed. And if he didn’t want the torture to start again, he’d have to run, or fight back.
    “They’re too strong, and I’m just…”
    Just nothing , he thought. He looked down at the word nothing that he wrote on the table.
    “No, I gotta get outta here, gotta run, or fight, or something.” If not, Wendell knew they would come, and it would all start again. He looked up, and thought back.
    Every test they performed was followed by copious notes, and a gaggle of doctors would whisper about the results in the hall. He remembered overhearing one doctor calling Scotia on his cell phone:
    “We were a bit overambitious at the beginning, I’ll admit. But this won’t be like the others, of that I’m sure. Full transformation will take time, perhaps more than we initially intended, but it should arrive nonetheless.”
    Transformation was a broad term. Maybe he was a secret military test subject. Or perhaps they were trying to give human evolution a kick start. But the specifics didn’t matter. What mattered was the end result: they were turning him into some sort of creature.
    “Why me?” became the end punctuation for each test. But eventually even their responses stopped. Of course, the tests continued unabated.
    Gas tests.
    Pressure tests.
    Injections. In the arms, the neck, the base of the spine.
    He shuddered to think of what happened while he was heavily sedated, which was common, or while completely unconscious.
    And then there were the surgeries.
    Unit 200 was, among other things, the institution’s surgical center. The Unit consisted of at least two floors, Wendell determined, both underground. Its surgical floor was Sub-1 and held a few offices, what looked to be a test animal room with rows of small cages (which were always empty), and an assortment of examination and testing rooms, with which he was all too familiar. Sub-2 held more elaborate testing rooms and equipment, and a line of empty rooms that Wendell could only guess were once patients’ quarters. But surgery was Unit 200’s primary focus. Wendell would see some of the unit’s doctors and nurses on other floors