Lock the Truth Up

By: Hugo Reed

Prologue: Keep it Quiet

I stood in the center of a cemetery with my black slacks and white dress shirt hidden well underneath my overcoat. My posture and clothing indicated that I was from some formal event, though I felt as though I shouldn't have been clothed at all. I felt as though my boiling rage needed to rip through the mere guard of flesh and bone holding it back. It deserved to, because I had been cheated, robbed, of a person who was very special to me. My mother didn't deserve death.

She was always supportive of me. She had pushed me on when nobody else could or would. She always supported my thoughts and ideas just as they were. She was so unlike others. John, my father, on the other hand, never once supported my ideas or my dreams.

"The world doesn't need another damn idealist," he had said so often. "Go to work in the factories. That's where the real money is."

It was always the damn factories with him. I've never been good enough for him no matter how hard I tried. These things forced me to wonder if my tears that spilled onto my mother's grave were my anguish, or my despair. I turned to leave. It wasn't that I wanted to; I just couldn't stand there any longer. While I walked back to my car I saw another car pull up. This new car was slim, sleek and black. It was barely visible in the darkness of the night. Then a black-haired man stepped out of the van.

Everything about his appearance was official. He wore a trim, black suit, and his hair was neatly parted. He had an earpiece in his right ear, and slim sunglasses covered his eyes. He kept glancing around cautiously, tightly gripping a silver shovel. He didn't seem to notice me or my car on the other side of the cemetery. This peeked my interest. What would an official-looking man be doing with a shovel, in a cemetery, in the middle of St. Charles, Missouri, in the dead of night?

I slowly walked over so I could watch the man. He walked through the gravestones, occasionally checking a name. Then, he stopped in front of my mother's grave. He leaned down and examined the headstone. Then he began to dig quickly. I wanted so desperately to yell out at him, but for some reason, fear had me rooted to the spot so that I couldn't move. He flung dirt into a pile and it had began to add up. He had almost covered up the wonderfully sculpted words on the tombstone.

Mary Millison

1954 - 2006

Loving Wife and Mother

I saw him hoist the body on his shoulders. My mouth and body was still immobile. My eyes could move though. They never left my mother's pale face. The face that I had often seen wrapped in kindness was the same in death. It was as though death himself had wished to respect the woman, and had left her body alone. It had been a full week from the time of her death. Yet, no maggots were feasting on her body. Neither of her eyes were missing and her skin wasn't decaying or disturbing to look at.

Had more blood been in her face, I would've sworn she was merely asleep. The only thing even slightly strange was that her eyes seemed too blank, even for the dead. These thoughtsa gave me the energy to run, though, it seems, not to think. I didn't run to the cops or to anyone who could've helped. I didn't even take down his license plate number so I could find him later. I ran to my car and angrily torn the door open. Then, I slammed the key into the ignition. My foot hit the accelerator, and as though it knew of the danger, the car roared to life far quicker then usual.

Soon, we hit the road, and I struggled to keep behind the sleek, black car. It was very difficult as I didn't have my headlights on, but I could easily tell that this car was heading a fair distance away. I followed the bastard for about an hour. Finally, he stopped, and I sure to stop a good quarter-mile behind him. Then, I saw him pick up my mother's body again, and walk towards an old factory. My head was spinning.

"We're deep in Lincoln county. What the hell are we doing here?"

I noticed the factory. It was a very old nuclear waste plant. It was at least twenty years old and had suffered an accident some time ago. Something had gone wrong and most of the workers had died young of cancer. So what the hell was this man in a suit doing with my mother's body in an old factory? It didn't add up at all. I slunk low to the ground, thankful I had worn black, as my white shirt would've given me away quickly, though I wish I'd thought to bring gloves. My hands slipped all over the slick gravel road, and then through all the mud.

Gusts of wind blew my dark hair backwards and forwards. I eventually reached the gate that encircled the factory. I lifted my arms, and pulled my body up and over the chain-link fence. Then, I grinned. For once, it paid off to be thinner and lanky. My feet hit the hard, dirt ground, and I crouched down so that I couldn't be picked out from the dirt. Then, I crawled. I was so close to the ground I may as well have been a damn snake. I was careful never to loose sight of the man in the suit.

I saw him grab the metal door and force it open with his hands. The door didn't even seemed to be locked. Maybe it was blocked slightly, but not locked. He walked in with my mothers body still draped over him as though she were nothing more than a rag. I followed, as stealthy as a shadow. Once I was inside, I took notice of the long hallways. Everything was a cold hard chromium. It was strange; It didn't look as old as it should've. Sure the color and material was right, but there was no rust, and the floors sparkled as though recently mopped.

Then, I saw there wasn't going to be anywhere for me to hide anymore. All he had to do was turn around, and I would be caught. I felt around in my pocket for the small knife that I carried with me at all times. It wasn't a practical thing, but sentimental. My mother gave it to me as her father had given it to her. It was crafted in late world war two, but that didn't mean it couldn't kill. I'd never let it taste blood before. Now, it was ready. I drew it and quickly followed the man, still not making a sound.

He hit the down button on the elevator pad, and I doubled my pace. He would turn when he closed the door. I knew it was unavoidable. So, as he got in I flattened myself against the wall were the pad was. He didn't catch the tip of my coat flipping around the corner, and I breathed easier. As soon as I heard the door close I leapt out and watched the floor indicator. It read B3. So this man was three floors below me? I hammered on the down button and paced back and forward a little.

"You better hope I don't find you when I get down there you son of a bitch." I muttered to myself.

As soon as the door opened I jumped it and swung the knife. Yet no blood splattered across the walls; it was empty. I hit the button labeled 'B3' and waited. The lift slowly shimmied down the floors and then the great metal gates slid open. I saw two differences immediately. One, the man with the suit was gone. Two, the place upstairs was empty. This place was anything but. Files upon files lay everywhere. I walked over and grabbed one of the white things at once. It read as follows:

7, Oct. 1998

We've found a possible starting link to a success! The Hewitt bug we found in the deserts of Egypt carries an abnormally high amount of electrical currents or shock waves. If it were to bite a recent body, and if we were lucky, then it might come back to life!

11, Dec. 1999

We've found a fine specimen and made it bite a body by exposing the blood. It was successful, partially. The currents weren't as high as we thought and the subject lasted only two minutes then failed again. Perhaps if we were to inject the bug with the right fluids...

21, June 2003

It has taken a little while, but we found out how we can do it. The body lasted a full half-hour after being revived. The real problem we had was when the body started thinking and having individual thoughts and feelings. We can't have that now can we?

15, Mar. 2005

We've got it figured out! The cure to the issue we were having with the individuality that is. It turns out that the air and thusly, the oxygen getting to the subjects brain is causing the brain waves and thusly, thoughts to activate again. Maybe if we could find subjects who can't breathe, or else can't breath properly?

19, Aug. 2005

We thought it could never happen, but we were wrong. They all said it didn't exist but we found it. The answer, as ironic this may seem. Is lung cancer from smoking. We need to find a way if we can get a lot of smokers together, their lungs are perfect.

I froze. Lung cancer? My mother had died of lung cancer.

If you killed them beforehand with some Dinotic, it'll work even better. They last longer if you do. Because they can't breathe properly they can't think or have any feelings or a single thought of their own. If we are lucky then we'll be done before the next decade.

8, Jan. 2006

Well, we were right all the way. Some of the new boys ended being true geniuses. Anyway, the subjects of the lung cancer will obey any and every one of our orders and commands. It has all come together. We'll begin the nuclear testing at once.

That's what was going on in there. Those sons-a-bitches were bring a lot of lung cancer patients back to life and then forcing them to go into nuclear wastes and other such things. That was just wrong! Not only physically but morally. I needed to stop this and now! I spun on my heel and there, breathing heavily, was the man with the suit.

"Hello," he said. "And what's a little bastard like you doing down here?"

I brought my knife up and swung at him calling, "YOU BAST--"

I don't remember what happened next. When I woke up I was in a place that was entirely white. In fact, there was a bright white light shining at me that caused pain to seep into my eyes. I moaned a little and rolled over. Outside I heard two people talking to each other.

"So you found him in that old factory huh?" said I voice I knew.

"Yeah," I knew that voice too. "But he's crazy Mr. Millison, says we're raising the dead and using them for nuclear testing and such."

"Well alright," said that voice, which I found was my father's. "Ok, I'll keep him here if you think it is for the best."

"Sadly sir, I must insist," said the man in the suit. "He may need to become a resident here for a very long time, decades even."

"Well tell him I love him for me then. I would, but I'm busy and don't want to wake him."

"Will do sir."

I yelled out to catch my father's attention. I did all I could so he could hear me. There wasn't any response.