There were even a few that looked perfectly healthy.
Before Florence tore her eyes away, she noticed a commonality among them all. The overwhelming majority were females. Each jar had a handwritten label, listing names and birthdays.
They’re all named after First Ladies.
You poor, poor things.
Florence wondered how many of them died naturally and how many were killed on purpose. She brushed a tear from her eye, then left the room quietly, as if she might disturb them.
After taking a moment to compose herself, Florence pressed onward. The Warren G. Harding bedroom was next. Again, the door was open. Florence went in fast, entering a dark room. She paused, listening.
Snoring. Loud snoring.
Florence felt for the light switch along the wall, flipping it on.
“Ma?”
The man on the bed was massive. His head—double normal size—looked eerily similar to the Elephant Man’s from that black and white movie, his forehead bulging out in large bumps, his cheekbones uneven and making his mouth crooked. His torso and legs were also malformed, twisted and lumpy, as round as tree trunks.
Proteus Syndrome, Florence knew. She’d seen it in South Africa. His body won’t stop growing.
But unlike gigantism, where a person grew in relative proportion, Proteus meant that different parts grew at different speeds. The overall effect was like making a figure out of clay, then squeezing some parts and adding more clay to others.
“You ain’t Ma.”
Warren—Florence assumed that was his name—rolled out of bed with surprising speed. His bare feet, swollen as big as Thanksgiving turkeys, slammed onto the floor.
He had to weigh over four hundred pounds, and his gigantic head lolled to the side when he stood up. But Warren was able to walk.
And he was walking toward Florence.
She raised her pistol. “I need to know where my family is.”
He moved closer. With each step, the floor shook. He wore a bed sheet wrapped over his shoulder like a toga.
“Youse pretty.”
Warren stuck out his tongue, licking his huge, flabby lips. A line of drool slid down his crooked chin.
“Don’t come any closer.”
“Youse wanna make babies with Warren?”
Florence aimed at his head.
“One more step, I’ll shoot.”
Warren took one more step.
Florence made good on her threat.
The two shots hit him in his oversized forehead.
Warren lunged at her, moving so fast Florence barely had time to dive to the side.
His skull is too thick. The bullets bounced off the bone.
The giant turned around and faced her.
“Warren’s head hurts,” he said. Then his eyes got narrow. “Now Warren gonna make you hurt, too.”
# # #
Mal placed the pointed end of his exposed ulna against his throat, ready to kill himself before he let any more freaks operate on him.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t Eleanor or her monstrous brood.
It’s a dog.
A German Shepherd, tail wagging. It put its front paws on the embalming table and licked Mal’s face.
“JD! Oh, Jesus...”
Mal watched a blonde woman enter the room, followed by several others. The blonde wore a tee shirt, but no pants or shoes. A younger version of her—obviously her daughter—followed, holding hands with a boy wearing black leather gloves. A pregnant woman followed, clutching her belly with a thousand yard stare. The last person in was a woman in a tattered jogging outfit. She had limp hair and hollow eyes and looked like she’d lived through a war.
They immediately went about unstrapping him, bombarding him with multiple questions.
“Who are you?” “What happened?” “Are you okay?” “Where’s Eleanor?” “Where’s the exit?” “What’s your name?”
“I’m Mal,” he said. The pain in his wrist was bad, but bearable. He sat up, and the movement made him woozy. The older blonde put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“Do you know how to get out of here, Mal?”
“I think so. But I need a favor first.”
“What?”
“Your dog has something that belongs to me.”
The woman snapped her head around and pointed. “JD! Drop it!”
The German Shepherd opened his jaws, and Mal’s hand flopped onto the ground. The blonde picked it up without hesitation.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mal said, “since we already seem to be shaking hands.”
The woman set the hand down next to Mal. Then she took a roll of gauze from the instrument tray and began to wrap it around Mal’s stump. “I’m Letti.”
“I know. I was supposed to interview you and your family.” Mal blinked twice, trying to keep it together. “Where’s Florence?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen a woman with no legs? Her name is Deb?”
Letti shook her head. Mal eyed the other people in the room. He recognized the girl, Letti’s daughter, and the thin woman. She was also an Iron Woman triathlete, a high-ranked contender who vanished last year before the competition. Maria somebody.
Apparently, I’ve discovered the reason for all the disappearances in the area.
Though close to being in shock, Mal was still enough of a reporter to recognize what a terrific story this would make.
If we get out of here alive.
“I think my clothes are in a pile over there.”
Kelly turned away while Letti and Maria helped him get off the table and dress. Mal’s cell phone was still in his pants pocket. He tried it.
No signal. And why would there be? We’re underground.
Letti found a plastic bag for his hand. She placed his severed appendage inside, and tied the bag to his belt.
“Thanks. There’s another door,” Mal said. “Far end of the room. That’s where Eleanor went. I think it’s the way out.”
Everyone loaded up on surgical tools—scalpels, knives, saws, cannulas—filling hands and pockets. Then they walked to the door, giving the corpse of Jimmy a wide berth. Letti let JD go through first.
“Clear,” she said.
They shuffled through the doorway, one by one. Rather than the exit, this was another room. It was large, a few hundred square feet. Concrete walls. Dirt floor, but muddy in parts. In the corner was a hole in the ground, several pipes leading into it. A pump and two water heaters stood next to the hole.
The rest of the room was packed, floor to ceiling, with cardboard boxes. Dozens and dozens of them, many of them crumbling and moldy.
Mal squinted at the nearest box.
DruTech Pharmaceuticals - Contergan.
He touched the cardboard and his finger went right through it, like tissue paper. Powder spilled out. Mal stared at the floor, and saw a great deal of the powder mixing with the dirt. Near the water pump, there was so much powder it had turned the mud a lighter color.
“What’s Distoval?” Kelly said, staring at a box.
“Distoval is another name for Contergan,” Mal said. He’d just read about this very subject when researching the history of Monk Creek. “It was a sedative, developed in the 1950s in Germany. They thought it was a wonder drug. DruTech was the company set to manufacture it in the US. But the FDA didn’t approve it. DruTech lost a fortune, and closed up their factory in town. They were supposed to dispose of their supply. I guess they paid off Eleanor, and it ended up here.”
“Why wasn’t it approved?” Letti asked.
“You probably know it by its other name. Billy Joel even mentioned it in a song.”