tanks of poisonous spiders, snakes, and scorpions. Tubes ran from the lethal beasts into a jar of milky fluid labeled “Venom.” More tubes ran from the Venom jar to the plants on the other table.
One plant twitched as it received the toxins. It was a good sign.
“If I can only find the correct dose of Venom,” she said into the recorder, “these plants will be able to fight back like animals. I will have given flora a chance against the thoughtless . . .”
Her lip curled as she remembered.
Her mother’s flower shop back in Seattle. The way those vandals had trashed it for a lark. The way they’d used their switchblades to cut and slash every living thing in it—every blessed shrub and perennial and houseplant.
And the way her mother had never gotten over it.
She could still smell the spilled-chlorophyll scent of death. The stomach-churning stench of rotting cellulose. The bitter taste of fear and helplessness . . .
“. . . the thoughtless ravages of man,” she finished.
Suddenly, she heard something. Not thunder. Something higher-pitched, but muffled. Some bird, maybe, screeching in the night? She listened, but the sound didn’t repeat itself. She spoke again into her recorder.
“Where was I? Oh yes. On a more personal note, my work would proceed a lot faster if Dr. Woodrue weren’t always whisking my Venom samples back to his mysterious Gilgamesh Wing.”
She negotiated a path through the tents until she reached the old, massive-looking prison door to which the last tent was affixed. A sign referred to Woodrue’s experiments, the ones conducted within the prison building, as Project Gilgamesh.
He had never explained what that meant. Nor had he showed her any of his work since she’d arrived.
“Why won’t he let me into his lab?” she wondered out loud.
There was another scream—but this time, she was sure it hadn’t come from any bird. It was too bloodcurdling. Too human.
And it had come from the other side of the prison door. Cold sweat trickling down her back, Pamela turned off the recorder. “What is he doing in there?” she whispered.
Her mouth dry, her heart beating wildly, she came closer to the door. Put her ear to it. Listened for the scream.
Just then, the door opened. Pamela dropped her recorder as lightning flashed, illuminating Dr. Jason Woodrue, a man with Albert Einstein’s hair and Charles Manson’s eyes.
She’d always thought of him that way. But now, the comparisons took on a whole new significance.
“Dr. Isley,” he said in his nasal voice, “loveliest flower in our garden. How fare our little wards?”
Before Pamela could reply, before she could force her heart back down her throat, Woodrue moved in too close for comfort. He backed her all the way to her worktable, his face mere inches from hers. Then his eyes fell on the jar of Venom in the farthest tent.
“What do we have here?” he inquired as he made his way through her equipment and supplies. “A lovely new supply of Venom?”
He reached the table, lifted the jar, and held it up for inspection. “I’ll just take this to my laboratory for further study.”
Pamela screwed up her courage. “What exactly are you working on in there?” she asked. “What are those screams I keep hearing?”
There was a bright flash of lightning. His face caught in its glare, Woodrue advanced on Pamela again.
“How I’d love to share my secrets with you,” he told her. “But I ask you, sweet sapling, can you be trusted? You refuse my invitations to dine. You hide your honeyed buds behind these sallow robes.”
He took the lapel of her lab coat between his spindly fingers. She pulled it away.
There was more lightning, followed by a deafening roll of thunder.
“Ah,” whispered Woodrue, fashioning a toothy grin, “but there’s romance in the air tonight. Perhaps a moonlit stroll in the jungle, eh? And then later, in the dark, we can share everything .”
Abruptly, Woodrue backed her up against a table, his
One plant twitched as it received the toxins. It was a good sign.
“If I can only find the correct dose of Venom,” she said into the recorder, “these plants will be able to fight back like animals. I will have given flora a chance against the thoughtless . . .”
Her lip curled as she remembered.
Her mother’s flower shop back in Seattle. The way those vandals had trashed it for a lark. The way they’d used their switchblades to cut and slash every living thing in it—every blessed shrub and perennial and houseplant.
And the way her mother had never gotten over it.
She could still smell the spilled-chlorophyll scent of death. The stomach-churning stench of rotting cellulose. The bitter taste of fear and helplessness . . .
“. . . the thoughtless ravages of man,” she finished.
Suddenly, she heard something. Not thunder. Something higher-pitched, but muffled. Some bird, maybe, screeching in the night? She listened, but the sound didn’t repeat itself. She spoke again into her recorder.
“Where was I? Oh yes. On a more personal note, my work would proceed a lot faster if Dr. Woodrue weren’t always whisking my Venom samples back to his mysterious Gilgamesh Wing.”
She negotiated a path through the tents until she reached the old, massive-looking prison door to which the last tent was affixed. A sign referred to Woodrue’s experiments, the ones conducted within the prison building, as Project Gilgamesh.
He had never explained what that meant. Nor had he showed her any of his work since she’d arrived.
“Why won’t he let me into his lab?” she wondered out loud.
There was another scream—but this time, she was sure it hadn’t come from any bird. It was too bloodcurdling. Too human.
And it had come from the other side of the prison door. Cold sweat trickling down her back, Pamela turned off the recorder. “What is he doing in there?” she whispered.
Her mouth dry, her heart beating wildly, she came closer to the door. Put her ear to it. Listened for the scream.
Just then, the door opened. Pamela dropped her recorder as lightning flashed, illuminating Dr. Jason Woodrue, a man with Albert Einstein’s hair and Charles Manson’s eyes.
She’d always thought of him that way. But now, the comparisons took on a whole new significance.
“Dr. Isley,” he said in his nasal voice, “loveliest flower in our garden. How fare our little wards?”
Before Pamela could reply, before she could force her heart back down her throat, Woodrue moved in too close for comfort. He backed her all the way to her worktable, his face mere inches from hers. Then his eyes fell on the jar of Venom in the farthest tent.
“What do we have here?” he inquired as he made his way through her equipment and supplies. “A lovely new supply of Venom?”
He reached the table, lifted the jar, and held it up for inspection. “I’ll just take this to my laboratory for further study.”
Pamela screwed up her courage. “What exactly are you working on in there?” she asked. “What are those screams I keep hearing?”
There was a bright flash of lightning. His face caught in its glare, Woodrue advanced on Pamela again.
“How I’d love to share my secrets with you,” he told her. “But I ask you, sweet sapling, can you be trusted? You refuse my invitations to dine. You hide your honeyed buds behind these sallow robes.”
He took the lapel of her lab coat between his spindly fingers. She pulled it away.
There was more lightning, followed by a deafening roll of thunder.
“Ah,” whispered Woodrue, fashioning a toothy grin, “but there’s romance in the air tonight. Perhaps a moonlit stroll in the jungle, eh? And then later, in the dark, we can share everything .”
Abruptly, Woodrue backed her up against a table, his
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