Backwoods Read online

  “Camel spider?” Andrew shook his head.

  “They’re all over the place in Iraq,” Turner said.

  “Nasty fuckers,” LaFollette added. “Bigger than your hand. Seriously. And they can run up to like thirty miles an hour. When they bite you, it can rot the skin and shit, clear down to the bone.”

  “Jesus,” Andrew remarked, brows raised.

  “Here, look. I’ve got a video saved of one.” Turner pivoted so Andrew could see his iPhone screen. “Langley sent it to me back when the internet was working. Said he’d shot it over in Baghdad, about six weeks before he left. That’s him right there.”

  In the video, a young man stood in extreme close-up, grinning broadly as he addressed the camera. His hair was shorn in the close-cropped style of an active-duty soldier, and he wore desert-grade military fatigues.

  “I’m sending a little care package home,” he said. He had heavy brows that hung low over his eyes, lending them a slitted, nearly predatory appearance. “Check it out.”

  The camera panned down as he flapped his hand in directive, showing a large box on a table top. Wrapped in brown paper, it looked indeed like something that might be shipped. Except for the enormous, wriggling creature pinned beneath the intersecting lines of tautly bound packing rope wrapped around the box.

  “Holy shit,” Andrew whispered, leaning closer.

  “It’s something else, huh?” Turner grinned.

  “What is it?” Andrew asked.

  “We told you, man, it’s a camel spider,” LaFollette said with a laugh.

  The thing sort of looked like a spider. But it appeared to have five pairs of legs, not four, all of which flapped and flailed as it struggled to escape the ropes. It took Andrew a moment to realize these weren’t an extra set of legs, but the creature’s palpi, which were sort of like antennae or mandibles in other similar arachnid species.

  “They say these fuckers can scream like a bitch,” Langley said, off-camera. “Well, boys and girls, we’re going to find out if that’s true.”

  “Here it comes.” LaFollette sounded giddy with excitement as he jabbed his elbow into Andrew’s arm. “Watch, man. This is the best part.”

  Although he remained out of view, his hand came on-screen, his fingers curled around the hilt of a large knife. “You going to scream for us?” he asked the thrashing animal in a taunting, sing-song sort of voice. “Huh, you little fucker? You going to scream for me?”

  The spider didn’t scream as Langley used the knife to cut off its legs one by one, then its large mandibles, then pieces of its abdomen segment by segment. It struggled beneath the ropes, until at last falling still, and then the camera panned back up to show Langley’s face, his mouth still stretched into a broad grin.

  “I guess that answers that, huh?” he asked the camera. Drawing the knife blade to his mouth, he licked it, then smacked his lips together. “Mmmm.”

  “So what do you think?” Turner asked Andrew as the video stopped.

  “That’s some sick shit,” Andrew replied.

  Turner and LaFollette laughed.

  “You showed him that stupid video, didn’t you?” Santoro said as she re-entered the rec room. When she saw Turner putting his iPhone away, she scowled.

  “Come on, Santoro.” Turner rolled his eyes. “We’re just having a little fun.”

  “Some fun.” She snatched her cue stick in hand and scowled at them. “Come on, Turner. It’s your turn.”

  When the game was over, Santoro having sank the eight in the side pocket to secure the win, she beamed brightly and offered her fist to Andrew, just as O’Malley had earlier to her. “Good job, partner.”

  Stunned by this warm turn in her reception, he knocked his knuckles against hers, as he’d seen O’Malley do. “Not bad for a civilian, huh?”

  She laughed. Turning to LaFollette and Turner, she held out her hand expectantly. “Alright, Privates,” she said. “Ante up.”

  “Ante? You mean we were playing for money?” Andrew asked, glad now that he hadn’t known this from the start, considering all of his available cash remained water-logged and probably mildewing on his bed upstairs.

  “Not really,” Santoro said, as LaFollette and Turner dug around in their pockets, fishing out loose change. “For Cokes out of the machine.”

  The PFCs continued playing pool while Santoro and Andrew sat together on a couch across the room, each of them holding an ice-cold plastic bottle of Coca-Cola.

  “Cheers.” Santoro tapped her bottle into his in a toast, then took a sip.

  “Cheers,” Andrew replied, doing likewise. She was being nice to him now and he found he didn’t mind. There was something to be said for having earned his way onto Dani Santoro’s good side.

  After a moment in which she took a long drink from her Coke, she glanced at him. “Sorry for earlier. The camel spider thing. LaFollette and Turner were just messing with you.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much.”

  “All that stuff’s bullshit and they know it. Hell, Turner’s never even been to Iraq. His tour was in Afghanistan. Camel spiders are harmless. I mean, they’ll bite you, sure, but they’re not poisonous. And that’s why they tell you to shake out your boots in the morning, your sleeping bags every night when you’re over there.” She shook her head, took another sip, then glanced at him. “So did they tell you I was jealous of Langley? Mad because Prendick put him in charge of some so-called elite training squad?”

  “Well, I…” Andrew cut his eyes toward the pool table, then down at the bottle in his hands.

  “I was pissed about that. Grant Langley’s a sadistic creep. He likes to pick fights with people he thought were weak.”

  Andrew wondered if that had included Santoro, if only because she was a woman.

  “He didn’t deserve to get seniority over that squad, not when there are at least a dozen other non-comms in this unit more qualified and capable than he is any day of the week. But apparently, Major Prendick didn’t agree.”

  Andrew studied her for a moment, then said carefully, “Doesn’t sound like you care much for him, either.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t really know him much to say.” Taking a quick swig of soda, she added, “I’m not too impressed with him so far, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I kind of figured that, yeah,” he said, drawing her gaze, making her laugh again.

  * * *

  The PFCs returned to their quarters in the barracks annex shortly after that, and Santoro had followed, switching off the lights in the rec room as she and Andrew made their ways to their respective rooms. The building was dark and quiet as they crossed the foyer together. Beyond the glass doors near the back courtyard, security lights outside cut swaths of pale glow across the floor in irregular puddles. By this dim glow, he could just make out the stark outline of the laboratory building near the trees. The house of pain, he thought.

  “What exactly is Dr. Moore up to out here anyway?” he asked Santoro. “What kind of research is he doing?”

  She paused alongside him at the glass doors and looked outside. “I don’t know,” she replied. When he glanced at her in surprise, she said, “Nobody’s told us, except that it’s top secret.”

  “Aren’t you kind of worried?” he asked, brow raised. “I mean, he could be out there making anthrax or something.”

  “Of course I am,” she said. “But what am I supposed to do? I’m under orders. It’s not like I can just walk out of here. Believe me, I’d much rather be back in New York.”

  “Is that where you’re from?” he asked and she nodded.

  “The Bronx, yeah.” She glanced over her shoulder almost as if uneasy, or if she feared being overheard. “Between you and me, this is the strangest assignment I’ve ever had.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Because we’re all reservists here—National Guard, not full time Army. I’m usually deployed with a maintenance battalion. This set up is a hodge-podge of different units, differen
t companies, different regiments. I didn’t know any of these guys up until we got here. And there’s only twenty-four of us here. Well, sixteen now that they sent Lieutenant Carter and all of Alpha squad home.”

  “Is that unusual?” Andrew asked.

  “When I was in Iraq, I was part of a five-hundred man battalion,” she said. “My platoon had more manpower than this operation. Yeah, I’d say it’s very unusual.”

  She clapped him affably on the shoulder, then turned to walk away.

  “Hey, Santoro,” he said, and she paused, glancing at him, her expression curious. “I’m sorry about earlier, what I said when you came by my room. I just…It was a long time ago, but it was really hard on my family, what happened to Beth. I really don’t like to talk about it.”

  Santoro nodded once. “Fair enough. I shouldn’t have tried to joke with you about it. I’m sorry, too.”

  They both stood there, the silence growing prolonged and pronounced, as if they waited for something. “Well,” she said at length. “Guess I’ll see you around sometime.”

  “Yeah.” He watched her leave, thinking again that it wasn’t so bad, being on her good side. “See you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Andrew stood alone by the back doors as the sounds of Santoro’s footsteps had faded down the corridor. Just as he moved to head for the stairwell, a blur of sudden movement out of the corner of his gaze drew his attention to the doors, the courtyard beyond.

  What the…?

  He could see a small figure crossing the lawn outside, marking a slow but steady bisecting line across the courtyard. He caught a glimpse of long, dark, disheveled hair and bare feet beneath the long hem of a nightgown. Alice Moore.

  What’s she doing? For an uncertain moment, he glanced over his shoulder toward the hall behind him, at the end of which were the stairs leading up to Dr. Moore’s apartment. Suzette had told him Alice wasn’t allowed to go anywhere on her own, but he saw no sign of Suzette, Moore or anyone else out in the yard with the girl.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Shoving the door open with both hands, Andrew ran out onto the sidewalk. “Alice!”

  If she heard him calling to her, she didn’t stop, didn’t turn around or even pause. Maintaining her bee-line across the yard, she walked ahead of him, and she had enough of a lead that he had to sprint to catch up. As he approached, he could have sworn he heard her counting, whispering with each step.

  “Hey.” He caught her by the shoulder, winded. “Hold up. What are you doing?”

  She looked up at him. “I’m walking.”

  Still trying to catch his breath, Andrew laughed. “Yeah. I can see that.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I meant what are you doing outside by yourself?”

  “Then why didn’t you ask that?”

  He shook his head, wishing all at once that he’d chosen the lady over the tiger and had gone upstairs to get Suzette.

  Alice turned around, started walking again.

  “Wait.” He hurried after her. “Where are you going?”

  Her path led them to her father’s laboratory building, its featureless white stone façade bathed in the stark, pale glow of security lights. Fearless, she went straight to the main entrance, an entry alcove in which a polarized glass and steel door had been recessed. Without a pause, she reached up, typed a quick series of numbers into the key pad.

  “What are you doing?” he asked in wide-eyed alarm as she opened the door. O’Malley had called this place the house of pain, and all at once, he didn’t really want to find out why. As she walked inside, he reached for her, fumbled with her sleeve, then missed. The door started to swing shut behind her with a hiss of pneumatics. He hadn’t taken note of the pass code and realized if it shut between them, he’d be locked outside.

  “Shit.” Catching the door with his hand within inches of it closing fully, he drew it open again and ducked inside after Alice.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered again. “Alice, wait. Stop. You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  She was already on the move ahead of him. “Neither are you,” she replied without sparing him a glance.

  He opened his mouth, then shut it again. She had him there.

  As Andrew trailed the girl along the brightly lit corridors, their footsteps marked a whispered cadence against the glossy tiled floors. Everything looked white-washed, stark and sterile. The air felt sharp and cold, smelling distinctly of antiseptics and bleach. He looked all around, wide-eyed as they passed by closed doors, all barred with individual key pad locks, all bearing a variety of brightly colored alert labels in prominent view.

  CAUTION: BIOHAZARD, some read, additionally emblazoned with three interlocking circles forming a triangular shape against a neon orange background. Perhaps more ominous were the ones that read CANCER HAZARD and BIOSAFETY LEVEL 2.

  “What the hell does your dad do here?” he whispered. It was a good thing he hadn’t really expected an answer from Alice, because she didn’t offer one.

  She paused outside a pair of automatic doors, and punched in a pass code. The doors obligingly swung inward, and Andrew followed her hesitantly across the threshold. Inside, beneath that sterile, sanitary smell was the distinctive odor of musk and ammonia he associated with a zoo. One side of the room contained with animal cages, like oversized dog carriers, white plastic with chrome gates, stacked in neat columns and lined up in tidy rows. On the other side stood a peculiar phalanx of tall red chemical tanks connected to a network of pipes that branched up to the ceiling. CARBON DIOXIDE, the black-on-gold labels read on each.

  “For in case there’s a fire,” Alice explained, noticing his attention. He glanced at her, curious, and she said, “It’s so water from a sprinkler system won’t mess up Daddy’s equipment. See?” She pointed behind him and mounted beside the doorway, he saw a bright blue box. “There’s oxygen, too. Little portable tanks, a mask. They’re in all the rooms. Daddy said it’s an ocean standard.”

  It took him a minute to decipher and he laughed. “Not ocean. OSHA. It stands for Occupational Safety and Health Administration.”

  Alice studied him for a moment, then walked away. “Daddy says it’s just another bunch of bureaucratic bullshit.”

  “He’s probably right on that one,” Andrew murmured. As he followed Alice across the room, the animals inside the cages began to stir, a sudden din of scrabbling feet and curious chirrups.

  Monkeys, he realized as several of them suddenly pressed their faces against the gates, clutching at the cage bars with tiny, human-like hands.

  Suzette had told him that Dr. Moore’s house in Massachusetts had been firebombed. They think it might have been a group of animal rights zealots, she’d said. PACA, I think they’re called. People Against Cruelty to Animals.

  Is this why? he wondered. Whatever Moore’s working on, he’s been experimenting on animals?

  The chattering from the monkeys grew louder and more insistent as Alice walked across the room and approached one of the larger crates. Before he could fully grasp what she was doing, never mind stop her, she’d reached for a key pad near the cage’s gate.

  “Wait, don’t,” he said, but it was too late. She’d already tapped in the pass code to unlock it and pulled open the gate. “Alice, stop. What are you doing?”

  He drew back as a chimp emerged from the cage. It was nearly as tall as Alice herself, with preternaturally long arms and a dense, silky coat of shiny black fur. Hesitating at the threshold of its crate, it studied Andrew for a moment, then allowed Alice to take it by the hand, drawing it out fully. Even though the chimpanzee seemed curious and cautious of his presence, awarding him glances now and then, Alice ignored Andrew as she led the ape toward the back of the room. Here, she punched the access code into another key pad and disappeared into what he first mistook for a closet.

  “Alice, we have to go now,” he said, and because the other monkeys continued to grow more and more agitated, their voices louder and louder,
he hurried after her. “We have to go now. What if your father finds out we’re here?”

  “He won’t,” Alice replied. The room wasn’t a closet at all, but instead, some sort of playroom, where board games had been stacked on small shelving units alongside picture books, puzzles, assorted toys and stuffed animals. She had delivered the chimp to a small table in the center of the room then walked over to a nearby bookshelf.

  The chimp shot a wary glance at Andrew as he loitered in the doorway, then began to bounce on its shorter, stouter hind legs, uttering sharp little enthusiastic barks when Alice selected Candyland from among the neatly arranged games and boxes.

  “What are you doing?” Andrew asked. “Put that away, then put the chimp back. I’ll take you back to the apartment, to your room.”

  “She’s not a chimp,” Alice said mildly, sitting across from the ape at the table. “She’s a Siamang, the largest variety of lesser ape species called gibbons. Her name is Lucy.” As she opened the box and began to set up the playing board, she glanced at him. “Do you want to play?”

  “I want to go back to the barracks.”

  She shrugged. “So go.”

  Andrew watched as the game began. Not only could Lucy match the colors and numbers of required spaces for each of her plays, but she could identify, find, then move her gingerbread man to the correct character spaces—ice cream cone, candy cane, gumdrop—whenever she’d draw them. She understood what the squares designated with licorice sticks meant—losing a turn—and would slap the table and hoot, her mouth open in an elongated O of bad sportsmanship.

  “She can play Chutes and Ladders, too,” Alice supplied. “And Memory. But this one’s her favorite.”

  “Did you teach her?”

  She shook her head. “Daddy did. It’s part of his experiment.”

  Andrew tried to picture Dr. Moore doing something as light-hearted as playing a preschooler’s board game, but couldn’t. “What experiment?”

  “To see how smart she is.”

  Smart though she may have been, Lucy the Siamang also appeared to be blind in one eye. The lens on her left side was milky and clouded. That side of her face seemed palsied somehow, too, the corner of her mouth hanging lankly, her eyelid drooping. Spongy growths of flesh had developed in places as well, disfiguring tumors that left her head misshapen, like half-kneaded clay.