The Shadowlake Project

The rain was coming down in sheets as I fumbled with the front door key. Most people would never think of putting a deadbolt lock on an old cabin in the middle of the woods, but my father was not like most people.

Mitchell, my 10 year old that didn't want to make the long drive stood next to me, an irritated traveler.

“Dad, I’m getting soaked,” Mitchell said, dripping.

“Just a sec, buddy,” I blurted from a wet mouth. A moment later, presto, the door was open. A strike of lightening illuminated the living room briefly, and I was able to grab the kerosene lamp hanging on a nail near the front door. As I struck a match and lit it, I could see the wisdom of renting the place out periodically.

Cobwebs were only marginally evident, and the layer of dust on the table, chairs and wood stove was only slightly thicker than a wrestler’s neck. I threw Mitchell the matchbook and motioned for him to light the lantern on the far wall. I took my trusty Zippo and lit the lantern on the near wall, next to the door leading to the only other room in the place, a bedroom, with the only other exit to the place, a back door.

“What are we doing way out here, Dad?” Mitchell asked, with that lilt in his voice I wasn't fond of hearing.

“We’re meeting somebody, Mitchell.”

“Out here?! Who? Bigfoot?!”

“Look, Mitch, lose the attitude.”

“Dad, I’m wet, I’m cold, I’m probably going to miss my music lesson, and I’m allergic to dust. I’m sorry if I’m not a lot of fun to be around right now.” Mitchell said, treading a thin line. “So, who are we here to see? And, don’t tell me one of your doctor friends, this isn’t the Hyatt Regency.”

“Somebody I haven’t seen in a long time... Somebody I thought I’d never see again.”

“Sounds like you don’t want to see him too much, now,” he said looking at me quizzically.

“Let’s just say where Bryson Ambile is concerned, it pays to be cautious.”

“Ambile? Is he a relative?” asked Mitchell.

We had left the door ajar when we entered, and now it began to swing open. Bryson, my twin brother, stood in the doorway. Clad in a black leather jacket, and jeans, and strangely wearing an oversized pair of dark sunglasses on this most overcast of afternoons, that was fast becoming dusk.

“Yeah,” he said in answer to Mitchell’s question. “The kind of relative they don’t talk about. How goes it, Harlan?"

“Always liked a dramatic entrance, didn’t you, Bryson?”

“They’re the best kind, Bro,” he said, as he closed the front door, it was then he noticed Mitchell. “Who’s the munchkin? I told you to come alone.”

“Jesus, Dad, he looks just like you!” Mitchell said, his anger fast turning into fascination.

“Mitchell, this is your uncle, Bryson Ambile,” I said, trying to sound positive.

“Whoa! A twin. You never even said you had a brother.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Bryson as he looked Mitchell up and down. “Mitchell...? You named him after the old man. How typical,” Bryson snorted, as he began to light his cigarette.

“Yes, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t smoke around him.”

"You smoke."

"Did. Keep a Zippo in my pocket as a reminder not to. I'd like to keep my 4th grader's lungs clean if you don't mind?"

“Anything you say, Harlan,” Bryson said, as he snapped the top closed on a black lighter with a skull and crossbones on it. “Although, I didn’t ask you to bring him.”

“Since his Mother died last year, where I go, he goes.”

“How do you ever take a shower?” Bryson responded.

“Besides, I thought he might like to meet his only living relative.”

“If you can call this living,” Bryson said under his breath, as he straddled one of the chairs next to the table. He began fiddling with the cigarette still in his mouth, and noticed me watching him. “Do you mind if I just let it dangle from my mouth?”

“Pleased to meet you, Uncle Bryson,” said Mitchell, offering his small right hand.

“Looks like you’ve trained him well enough,” Bryson said, looking past Mitchell as though he wasn’t there. “But, this isn’t about your progeny. This is important.”

“Oh, I’d say he’s pretty important. Guess you’ve never been a father,” I said, as I saw Mitchell awkwardly withdraw his outstretched hand, and walk back to my side.

“I’ve never been a fire hydrant either, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like to get pissed on.” Bryson shot back.

Thoughts of our Dad’s volatile relationship with Bry swirled in my head. The time right here in this cabin when we had just turned seven and Dad brought us up here for the first time to fish. Bry had gotten a hook stuck through his thumb. Dad made him pull it out himself without breaking off the tip. It left a scar... In so many ways.

“Look, Bry, I’m sorry you and Dad weren’t... Close. But, you brought it on yourself sometimes with that damn chickenshit attitude.” I said, after the memory parade had calmed down a bit.

“Hey, no prob Harley... Dad liked you... Mom liked you... Even the dog liked you best. Of course I didn't give a shit about Mom and the Old Man, but I really liked that German Shepherd” Bryson said.

“Not that I care, but where has biker-boy been for so long?” Mitchell chimed in.

“I don’t know, Mitchell. Your Uncle Bryson disappeared fresh out of med. school. He was a genius in genetics research even back then, all his professors said so. Rumor had it he was recruited by the government.”

“You mean this guy’s a doctor, like you?” Mitchell said, disbelieving.

“Oh, he’s a doctor all right, Mitch, but not like me...”

“Yeah, my patients occasionally live,” Bryson said, cutting me off.

“My Dad’s an Oncologist!” said Mitchell, seething. “He helps people who have cancer, and saves a lot of them. What do you do, big man, besides suck on cigarettes?!”

“Take it easy, Mitchell,” I said, trying to restrain myself from hugging my newfound defender.

“Okay, Bryson, cut to the chase! Why here? Why now? After all these years... Why not Mom’s funeral? Why not Dad’s?”

“You know why not Dad’s!” Bryson snarled.

“Okay, but even if you were still upset with them... Christ, I’m your brother! Why didn’t you try to contact me before now? Then this afternoon, out of the blue... And, you ask me to meet you way out here? What’s the story?”

“It’s a long one... Mind if I smoke?” said Bryson.

“YES!” Mitchell and I barked, in unison.

“Like, Father... Like, Son... Like, Asshole.” Bry said, putting away his lighter.

“But, enough about you!” Mitchell retorted.

“Cool it, Mitch,” I said trying to calm him down.

“Why should I?! I’ve never met this guy before in my life, and after five minutes with him, I’m hoping he stays away for the rest of my life!” Mitchell said.

“He seems to have inherited the old man’s charm, too.” Bryson said, smirking. “It was like there had to be one bad son, and one good one. And, I was elected to be the bad one, the outsider, the screw-up! Well, after awhile, Harley... You walk around with a tag like that, you begin to believe it.”

“Man, and I thought I was feeling sorry for myself for making the trip out here” Mitchell piped up, still on attack mode.

“I take it the words discipline and respect aren’t used often in your house. But, I guess since Debbie bit the big one it’s been tough to keep the boy in line, eh?” Bryson said.

“Don't you ever talk about my mother!” Mitchell said glaring at Bryson.

Bryson took a long look at Mitchell, who facially resembled Debra, but in the eyes and hair color, he was us at that age., and Bry could see it.

“You know, I can believe a lot of things about you, Bryson. I can believe you’ve been working underground for Uncle Sam all these years. I can believe you hated your family so much, you didn’t even bother to tell them if you were alive or dead your entire adult life. But, I can’t really believe you contacted me after thirteen years, had me drive out to meet you so far out in the woods the coyote's avoid it, just to open up old wounds.” I said, wanting to get to the bottom of this.

“No, not old wounds. Send the boy away, and I’ll explain it to you.”

“And, where is he supposed to send me? Summer camp?” Mitchell said, reminding me of his uncle more and more.

“Mitchell, go wait in the car.” I said.

“But, Dad, he...” Mitchell motioned for me to lean down next to him. “Dad, he’s a space-case. I don’t think I should leave you alone with him,” he whispered.

My mind went to the small caliber handgun I had tucked away in an ankle holster, a bit of insurance against my own brother's warped nature.

“I’ll be okay, just wait in the car, so we can get this over and done with,” I whispered back.

“Okay, but be careful,” he whispered to me. “At least there’s a heater in there,” Mitchell said loudly, as though now wanting to go to the car.

Bryson must have noticed the sarcastic similarities between he and my son as well, because, though I couldn’t see his eyes behind those mirrored lens, he followed Mitchell’s movements all the way out the door. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something to Mitchell, but as the door closed he simply turned away, and crushed the cigarette he had just taken from his mouth, then checked his watch.

“Okay, we’re alone. What kind of trouble are you in?” I said.

“Is that the only reason you think I’d call?”

“Am I wrong?”

“No, not at all. You always were the one to bail me out. Since before we were Mitchell’s age,” he said, then looked at his scarred thumb. “It hurts, Daddy... It really hurts... “ He said in a far away voice, then he looked at me. “You always tried to help, at least. Always managed to keep your coat tails clean though. Only this time... I got us both in trouble.”

“What do mean, Bry?”

“Shadowlake, Kentucky... A genetics research facility there. That’s where I’ve been the last ten years. Experimenting with a gene-splicing technique, for military application. Trying to create the ultimate soldier.” Bryson said, soberly.

“You mean genetically crossing animals?”

“No, Bro, humans. Government sanctioned mutations. You see no matter how intelligent an animal is, it needs the human element to be an effective assassin.”

I listened as Bryson laid his cards out on the table. The history of the Shadowlake Project, as it had come to be called, how they first experimented with terminally ill prisoners, in exchange for posthumous payments to there families on the outside. But, no matter how they altered them, how strong, how fast, how deadly they made them, they would all eventually succumb to the disease that was killing them, but I wasn't ready for what he said next.

“That’s when my superiors got greedy. You see in order for the experiment to keep its funding, they had to have some evidence of the long-term effect of the mutation. So, they started using healthy lifers, or death row inmates. When I heard about it, I suggested they subject all potential recipients to a psyche screening first, to weed out the absolute whackos.” Bryson said, seemingly pained to recall it.

“And, did they?” I asked.

“Hell no! To be honest, Harley, how many habitual offenders, and death row inmates do you think could have passed. So, we had the dregs of the Kentucky prison system lined up to become the most powerful creatures on earth. And, we gave them that power. Never thinking...” he stopped short, then said again, “Never thinking.”

He then poured out a tale that would make Mary Shelly turn over in her grave, of men who looked normal, but were endowed with unbelievable strength, speed, eyesight, hearing, or tenacity. Then he spoke of the “failures,” beings just as powerful as the others, but horribly disfigured by the “treatment.” Monstrous man-beasts that would sometimes go mad at their lack of humanity, or was it the researchers that were lacking in that. He spoke of a revolt by these hybrids, which had taken to calling themselves the Shadowmen.

“So, they took over the facility. Killed most of my colleagues, except for Marienthal, and few other key players, like me.” he said, chewing on his knuckles like he used to when we were kids and we were in trouble.

“Who’s Marienthal?” I asked.

“Project director. They keep him alive to keep reporting in to our liaison. They took over two months ago and the powers that be haven’t got a clue that anything’s wrong up there. I saw a chance to escape last week and I took it. Been on the run ever since, dodging them, and trying to find you.”

“Why? And, if they’re as deadly as you say they are, how did you manage to get out of there without a scratch?” I asked.

“Just lucky, I guess,” he said, as he took off his sunglasses to reveal a gnarled left eye. From the condition of the wound I’d say it was about a week old.

“Let me take a look at that...”

“Damn it, Harlan, don’t you get it!” he said, cutting me off, and not allowing me to examine what was left of his eye. “We instilled in every hybrid a tracking sense. They track by genetic code. It was supposed to keep them from eliminating the wrong target in the field, but it never worked right. They always had problems with similar genetic codes, like those found in close family, or...” he stopped short and looked at me.

“Twins,” I finished for him. “Is that how I’m involved in this sick nightmare, Bry?”

“There are Shadowmen all over the country now, some that can blend in, some that can’t. They’re targeting me, now that I’ve escaped... Figured I at least owed you a warning, Bro.” Bryson said.

I looked into his gray-blue eyes, just like mine, just like Mitchell’s, and I knew, as insane as it sounded, what he had just recounted to me was the truth. All except this last part. This altruistic trek across the country to warn me wasn’t in his nature thirteen years ago, and I had my doubts that this experience had changed him for the better. I watched him as he moved across the room to the door leading to the bedroom, and leaned against the wall in his usual cock-sure manner that I remembered all too well from our days growing up. Nerves had given way to something else, but what?

“This is bullshit, Bryson. You wouldn’t cross the street to give me a warning, much less cross the country. You say the Shadowmen are all over different parts of the country, but the odds of them looking for you, and finding me were remote. That is unless they were after you, and you came here. Led them right to me! So, what are you really doing here, Bryson?!” I said, already knowing the answer.

“Surviving, Bro, surviving...” he said, checking his watch again, as though he had someplace else to be. “And, for what it’s worth... I’m sorry.”

I wanted to kill him, but I needed answers first. How close were they to him now? Did they have any weaknesses? Could local authorities be of any help, if they could be made to believe this story? Then the lightening flashed outside, and I remembered the son I had waiting in the car. The son I had done my best to ignore at the time of his greatest pain, when he lost his mother. The son who at that moment walked in through the door.

“Mitchell!” I cried, as I saw his wavering, bloodied body stagger towards me.

“D-Dad...” he said weakly, as he dropped like a stone in the middle of the floor, beginning to shake involuntarily. “It hurts, Dad... It really hurts...”

His clothes were slashed, like he’d been attacked by a tiger. He was bleeding from his ears, nose, and mouth. I knew he had severe cranial trauma, and, as he began to convulse, and those gray-blue eyes rolled backwards, one thought filled my mind, all encompassing, and all consuming.

“Bryson!” I screamed, not knowing that he had already slipped out the backdoor and away from the danger.

My brother was gone just like my son, as I watched his blue-grey eyes roll back and he breathed one last time.

I looked up to see the silhouette of a misshapen creature as it stood in the doorway. My boy's blood still dripping from its teeth.

"Good evening, Dr. Ambile," it said in a deep, guttural voice.

I drew my gun and fired before it could lunge. Every bullet in every chamber found its mark, felling the creature. Thus began my pursuit, fueled by my hatred. The Shadowmen wouldn't kill Bryson, I would.