Chapter Twelve

Hadamar Wellness Retreat looked to be a cross between a senior’s complex and a Detox Center. The halls were permeated with the smell of fresh paint that covered up the odor of the former rotting residents-though a hint of bed sores could still be detected by the keenest of noses. Portraits of serene landscapes dotted the corridors that had once meant to remind the residents that peace existed beyond the walls.

Beyond the entry and administrative areas, the stark reality existed. In this place death was harbored and fostered into reality. Hadamar was death; it merely hid its motives and did the worst thing possible. It provided hope to the residents where no such thought should ever have existed.

The facade of the institution was really no different than any other mental hospital. It was nothing more than an illusion; smoke and mirrors to make the public feel better about the treatment of the mentally defunct and deficient. What the image did was encourage families of patients from other states to send their loved ones to Hadamar; by choice or force was inconsequential.

The patient facilities were not as pleasant as the administrative areas. Despite the lower quality, they still boasted services and comforts not traditionally seen in a mental hospital setting. The day room—or TV room as it might have been referred to at Riverview—was made to look like a lobby in a mid-range hotel. Plush carpeting, couches and floor lamps were designed to make the room feel like a home; the first steps in making the patients feel human.

Down the hall was the game room where there was TV and a large selection of video games. This room was carpeted with a Berber style rug and had fun decorations on the wall like old cola advertisements, but it could have easily passed for a recreation room in someone’s home. The pool table was set up ready for its first game that would likely never come but it assured any passing visitors of the good intentions the hospital had.

Kimbel and Giddon had arranged to meet Dave Cronin at Hadamar after they had completed their tour with Doctor Gagnon. The walk around Hadamar was nothing more than a formality, Riverview had weeks, if not days to live and any objections by the duo would only be given lip service.

The administrator and doctor both chuckled to themselves at the posh environment. The patients would soil the furnishings in a matter of days and within weeks the carpets would be destroyed through involuntary and intentional fecal discharges.

“Novices,” Doctor Giddon said under his breath as he stroked the whiskers of his short beard.

“Attractive, but inappropriate for the clientele,” Kimbel replied.

“The living units are down this corridor gentleman. They are much more Spartan than what you are seeing here, but we tried to continue the upbeat feel through a bright and airy decorum.” Doctor Gagnon, walking well ahead of the small tour, stopped to swipe her ID card to unlock the living unit doors. She could hear the muffled comments of the men, but she played on as though her human ears were ignorant to their critical conversation.

“Are the patients single celled or are you double bunking them?” Doctor Giddon asked, raising his voice to catch the attention of their speeding tour guide.

Gagnon said, “We prefer to call them living quarters. The term ‘cell’ has a negative connotation attached to it, but to answer your question, most rooms are single occupied. We do have a few rooms that have the ability to house two patients, but we would reserve use of these rooms for spouses and family members wanting to spend time with their loved ones.”

Doctor Giddon burst into a laugh that he quickly stifled when he realized he was the only one who found the notion amusing. “You are joking, right? I don’t mean to demean your concept here. In another time and place this might work-they’re gonna trash this place in a matter of days, you realize this? The idea of housing family with patients is ludicrous! It’s not safe!”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence, but that is now my concern,” Doctor Gagnon quickly shot back. “Hadamar has been designed utilizing some of the world’s foremost studies on mental health initiatives. We have eliminated the elements that don’t work and have opted to exemplify components that have been proven effective in similar settings. This is in addition to the calming environment and a rigorous and proactive approach to medication and psychological interventions. Hadamar, I believe, will become a model for all future facilities.”

Giddon replied becoming more unglued, “I get that except for one thing…the idea won’t work! You can change the wallpaper, put art on the wall if you want…but you can’t make the patient see the beauty. If they see the dark shadows chasing them, hear the voices telling them to kill their families or open the sores on their leg talking to them continuously until they snap-it’s all for not. You can’t change the nature of the mentally ill. Their brain doesn’t work that way; if it did, they wouldn’t be here. I don’t know what reports you’ve been reading, but you’re setting yourself up for failure.”

“Statistics show that inmates in the penitentiary system reintegrate into society more readily if they are treated like a normal member of society during their incarceration.”

The tour guide stopped with the living unit door partially ajar.

Giddon continued, imploring, “and you know as well as I do that statistics are often fudged to achieve a purpose. Numbers are a wonderful thing but just because they get published in a journal doesn’t make them true. In our politically correct left-leaning world, the powers that be want to believe we are changing people for the better. We can’t spend money on housing them indefinitely—there has to be a happy outcome. Here’s a news flash, it doesn’t work that way. I can make my statistics look like gold if I change the criteria in which they are produced. If I lower my expectations to almost zero, my success rate soars to one-hundred percent. That doesn’t make it right. I can’t believe you’d buy into it.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree I guess. I expect the first shipment from Riverview on Monday. It’s now my problem, whatever the outcome I will have to live with it,” Doctor Gagnon replied as professional as she could, holding back her growing animal. “I think we should cut our tour short, Dave Cronin is here.”

Both men looked puzzled as silence still filled the vacant hospital. The hard woman had shut down, and nothing more needed to be said. Doctor Giddon had worn out their welcome and they would never know the full potential of the facility. Beyond the doors that Doctor Gagnon held open by a few inches laid the frame work for what Hadamar truly stood for.

It had been a gamble. The tour was never going to proceed past the doors, and if it had, both Kimbel and Giddon would have disappeared that very moment. The living units told a story that would raise too many questions. The halls provided a continuation of the lie from the common areas, but the cells were far worse than any prison.

* * * *

What patients were housed at Hadamar would be confined to their beds by force. Chains and straps would fasten them tightly to the thin mattresses. Leather head gear and mouth restraints were in close reach to further limit the patient’s communications and senses.

It was decided that the orbital sockets and ear drums should be destroyed upon admittance to Hadamar. Escape as well as any form of resistance would be far more challenging if they were unable to see or hear. A simple system of compressed air would be forced down the ear canal bursting the ear drums. After this procedure was complete, the patient would have their eyelids removed, which would eventually result in blindness and an aggravation of an already existent insanity.

Evita Gagnon had fallen from her Hippocratic Oath into the realm of total hypocrisy in her short time as head of New Haven Medical Services. With near perfect health in all citizens the purpose of a doctor had merely become that of window dressing. Evita, in the early months, had labored to keep busy but as they say, idol hands are the devil’s play thing.

For the others, the transition from human to werewolf had been relatively easy. The lust for death consumed the average person in short order. A high from the kill and the pleasurable physical reaction hooked the young pups into the new life faster than a heroin addict; but the citizens of New Haven never saw it that way.

Evita had been slow to embrace the acts of death. It was true that she indulged in the lycan delicacies no less than any other member of New Haven, but she avoided killing. She was an aristocrat, or that’s how she carried herself. Tearing her former patients limb from limb was beneath her, even though the thought fascinated her. She was probably the only citizen that could name each muscle and bone in the human body. Still, she opted to have prepared meals from properly butchered specimens.

Her sadistic side only began to emerge when it occurred to her that she could do medical experiments—without guilt-for the purposes of advancing her understanding. In addition, working on live cadavers would give Evita the rare opportunity of watching the mental and psychological changes that would occur before the subject became a bona fide carcass.

Death was, after all, the inevitable outcome for all of the Hadamar residents. It amused Evita to an unhealthy level by referring to the dying of Hadamar as corpses while still working on live flesh. It was this dark sense of humor that brought Evita Gagnon out of her shell.

At Special Handling in the spring, she had selected certain undesirables to “play” with. She would never have admitted it to anyone—selfish pride, perhaps—but in her mind that was exactly how she referred to it.

Her first withdrawals from the mine were twins. Evita had no feelings towards the brothers, only a zealous interest in the responses she would receive if both twins were exposed to certain stimuli separately. As a Doctor she had read numerous articles and journals on the phenomena of twins but she wanted to duplicate the findings herself.

Cut off one’s foot; will the other feel the pain? This singular question rattled around inside her head for weeks before she finally broke down and did it. Her findings, though unscientific, discovered no correlation between real pain in one and possible sympathy pains in the other.

It was a disheartening revelation.

She did discover that direct actions brought direct results. After the failure of the foot severing, she realized the best way to achieve results was to physically tamper with the subjects. She contemplated running basic cognitive functions tests and even rudimentary surgical procedures to compare healing rates.

In the end she decided to explore neurology, an area of medicine that baffled science and researchers since the dawn of reason. Her experiments were brutal and uncouth. With the skull cap of each brother removed she placed electrodes into the brains. One twin having the right hemisphere wired while the other had the left engaged. Each light shock caused twitching and stammering, but the emotional response differed with one twin appearing almost euphoric while the other appeared furious and ready to kill.

She had wanted to run the same experiment twice, reversing the position of the electrodes to see if the side of the brain stimulated was the driving force behind the form of seizure. Unfortunately, a moment of clumsiness with the voltage and slow reaction time caused a spike in the electrical charge in the younger of the two twins…younger by two minutes, that is. By the time smoke was billowing from his exposed cranium, Evita could only stand there watching as his body convulsed on the table. Part of her wanted to watch the brain burst into flames, but the smell of the cooking meat made her hungry and it caused a momentary loss of sophistication which disturbed her.

She partially changed in the operating room while her potential dinner was about to flambé. Her white lab coat ripped at the seams as her control weakened. She pulled herself back, wrenching the electrode from the crisping matter. She spun around to the other brother; her eyes still aglow with desires.

“Please,” Was all the remaining brother could say.

“I’m sorry about that. I should have been more careful,” Doctor Gagnon announced as she regained her human appearance. “I guess we’ll have to move on to another question that makes me wonder; it’s far more dangerous though.”

On that day Doctor Evita Gagnon began experimentation of “the gift”. It was a task that Darwin had asked her to do, to learn what they could about it; but Evita wanted to know more. What caused it? Was it viral? If it was a virus could it mutate? What could destroy the gene and ultimately kill the wolf? Could it be cured and if so, was there a way to prevent a cure? Could the lycan gene be isolated and genetically modified to make werewolves completely resistant to death? Could infected blood reanimate the recently deceased?

In a normal laboratory setting the good doctor would have begun by extracting samples of tissue from the deceased. After exposing it to her own blood she would watch under a microscope to see if reanimation occurred. She was eager and did not want to wait and follow proper scientific guidelines.

She grabbed a syringe and took a large sampling of blood from her arm. Unsure of where to place the blood, she opted to inject 4cc’s into the brain of the deceased twin who was still warm with a light trail of smoke rising from his meat. He was barely dead, could the wolf cure him?

After ten minutes, there were no signs of resurrection. Frustrated but not totally surprised, Evita turned her attention to the live brother who sat silently waiting for his own end. Hooking up a blunt tip blood drawing needle, she drew several vials of human blood from his arm that she would use as a base comparison after she turned him. She planned to expose one vial of her own blood to see how quickly the assimilation process took. The other vials would be stored to compare against findings.

Without further delay or consultation, Evita stuck herself with a needle and pulled it out immediately with no blood drawn. She stuck her “dirty needle” into the corroded artery of the live twin and began the waiting game. Had exposure to such a small amount of infected blood been enough to turn the subject? It was like waiting for Christmas morning.

At Hadamar, Doctor Gagnon would conduct experiments on a select few subjects revolving around the regenerative properties of “the gift” on neurological disorders, but her prime goal—as dictated by Darwin—was to expand the breeding program. Women would be strapped to the bed and used as a vessel to produce human children for consumption.

Men would also be strapped to beds and milked as needed.

The elimination of stimuli for the breeding stock leaned to Evita’s growing and changing sadism. She convinced herself it was good for security, and in reality it was, although there were other ways to contain the patients. It was not about safety and security; it was a chance to accelerate and test the limits of madness. These people were already insane; could insanity be amplified and what were the limitations before death occurred?

* * * *

Kimbel and Giddon walked away from Evita Gagnon not knowing how close to the scientific show they had truly come. They retreated to the entrance, only taking Doctor Gagnon’s word that Dave Cronin had indeed arrived. Both men were angry with what they had seen and heard. It was mostly their own vanity that hurt, knowing that their years of personal torture at Riverview were being discarded as though it had meant nothing.

“Who the hell wears Old Spice? That’s something my grandfather use to wear.” Dave commented from the waiting area while he sucked on a cigarette.

“My grand kids bought it for me, so I wear it because I love them,” Kimbel replied as they rounded the corner. “This is a hospital, you shouldn’t smoke in here.”

Dave took another long drag before exhaling the smoke in the direction of the unsuspecting humans. “Not open for business yet,” he replied with a smirk.

“Thank you for coming Mister Cronin. I’m Edward Giddon and this is Sam Kimbel. May we call you Dave?” Giddon asked politely.

“No,” Dave said bluntly.

Caught off-guard, both men looked to each other through their peripheral vision. They knew what Dave was; they had both dealt with men like Dave over the years. He was a self-absorbed asshole with a hint of little man syndrome. You didn’t need a medical license to diagnose it.

Doctor Giddon asked, “Mister Cronin, we understand you were the lone survivor of an attack in December by some kind of animal. We’re interested in hearing about that night. Could you tell us what you saw and heard?”

“I wasn’t the lone survivor, unless you mean lone in the sense I was the only one who didn’t die from their wounds,” Dave replied with another devilish smirk.

“Yes of course,” Doctor Giddon corrected himself. “I’m doing research on survivor guilt. That’s when—”

“I know what survivor guilt is,” Dave interrupted. “What makes you think I have any guilt?”

“You might not. A lot of people do—”

“And I don’t,” Dave interrupted, louder than before. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

Kimbel jumped in trying to help out his friend, “Your case is similar to another one we’re working on. We were hoping you could give us some insight into what happened.”

“It’s all in my statement to the police, why not ask them?” Dave replied, throwing up his first blockade. They would have to work for the story.

“Sometimes hearing it from the person brings about a new prospective, and in some cases it helps the victim remember things they had forgotten. It’s very important to us; your answers may help us,” Kimbel replied as diplomatically as he could.

“I could never forget that night. I was reborn. Seeing my own mortality ebb away from me, it was an amazing experience. I’ll never be the same again, and I don’t want to be the old weak me. I love the power and confidence that has been given to me.” Dave looked at Kimbel and taunted, “you should try it.”

“How long were you in hospital after the attack?” Doctor Giddon queried.

“A few days for observation. I was ready for discharge the next day in my opinion,” Dave calculated.

“So you would describe your wounds as superficial?” Giddon asked, knowing the question would strike a nerve. After only a few minutes he was beginning to see the narcissism contained in Dave and he wanted to exploit it.

Dave said angrily with a low growl under his tongue, “Superficial! I saw my friends torn apart. I heard them die. What attacked me was not of this world. Now I live with the memory of that night, my last night as a human. It consumes me, so it’s a little more than fucking superficial!”

“Your wounds could not have been severe if you were feeling well enough to leave the hospital after only a day. Your mental anguish is clear; a clear indication of survivor guilt. I was just curious about your physical wounds.

“Mister Cronin, we didn’t mean to minimize your trauma…I apologize.” Kimbel back peddled.

“You’re a bad liar, Sammy,” Dave replied. “Who’s the girl?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality. I’m sorry I can’t tell you her name,” Giddon said.

“She told you something, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. An animal attack, what is there to learn about it that intrigues you? She said something to you—you’re looking for the truth, aren’t you?” Dave toyed.

“The pursuit of the truth is always important. If you have the chance to investigate something, shouldn’t you do it?” Giddon asked calmly.

Dave asked with a sneer, “what do you want?”

“Maybe we should try this another time. I’m sorry we bothered you.” Kimbel rose from his seat signaling the end of the interview.

“Thanks for wasting my time,” Dave said as he removed another cigarette from a nearly new package.

“If you feel like opening up, here’s my card.” Doctor Giddon held out a business card for Dave who only looked at it. Doctor Giddon then placed it on the coffee table and walked away, leaving the closed and angry man to himself.

Outside Hadamar the two men regrouped, knowing conclusively that something was off in New Haven. Leaning against Kimbel’s car, they talked softly about what their guts were telling them and what to do next.

“At what point did you get uncomfortable?” Kimbel asked.

“I don’t know if I was or not. There’s something here though. Hadamar, Gagnon, Cronin, Foster…we know nothing yet we know lots. Betmin might just be telling us the truth.” Giddon concluded.

“Eddie, seriously! Werewolves take over small town America? I can’t even begin to explain what’s wrong with that idea,” Kimbel rationalized.

“Foster escaped using means that can only be described as supernatural. Their eyes exploded and she disappeared. Where was she from-New Haven! We can’t explain it scientifically because it’s not possible. Betmin shows up with this wild story about the very town that is taking over our patients. The patients will be used as food! That’s why the hospital looks so absurd, it’s not meant to be a hospital. The more and more I look at it the more it begins to fit.”

“You’re really loop-da-loop on this,” Kimbel said before contemplating his own position. “I agree something is off here, but can we try to keep our speculations to the realm of reality?”

Giddon begged for acceptance of the possibility. “Cronin himself said, ‘I haven’t been human since that night’. Betmin says they are werewolves, she’s seen it with her own eyes. After talking to Cronin don’t you feel like he was toying with us, as though he knew why we were here?”

“I’m stuck on werewolves. No such thing, Eddie.” Kimbel chuckled softly. “Look, I’ll grant you that something is wrong here. Yes my intuition says something is being hidden here, and somewhere between what we have been told and what has been hidden probably lies the truth. I mean, how did he know the patient was a woman? We never told him that.”

“I caught that too. Well, in fairness, it was a fifty-fifty shot on his part but still he was convinced he was right,” Giddon surmised. “I’m coming back on the full moon; that will put the notion to rest.”

Kimbel mocked, “It will be a nice night for a drive and won’t you feel stupid the next morning when you’ve seen and heard nothing.”

“At least I’ll know.”

“Say hi to Nancy for me! Tell her we all really miss her!” Dave shouted as he waved from the steps of Hadamar…some three hundred feet from where the two humans were parked.

“How the hell do you explain that?” Giddon asked lowering his voice to almost a whisper.

“Let’s go,” Kimbel nervously replied without taking his eyes of Cronin who remained by the doors to Hadamar, continuing to puff away on his cigarette.