The Nightmare Song – Part 2

     “The Walter Reed Army Institute of Research is the largest and most diverse biomedical research laboratory in the Department of Defense.” – description from the WRAIR website.   

 The main facility of The Walter Reed Army Institute of Research resides in Silver Spring, Maryland, an unassuming campus resembling a small state college, with a central building that from the outside looks to be nothing more than a just another bureaucratic office in the swamps around D.C.. The National Archives building appears more sinister from the parking lot. Inside, however, the Institute conducts aggressive biomedical research in a wide variety of programs, their most well-known division being the Center for Infectious Disease, or CID, that favorite bogeyman of so many horror films and conspiracy theories. Other spheres of study include advanced neuroscience, the psychology of the Warfighter (their disturbingly grandiose term for combat soldier), and last but not least, genetic manipulation. The collective brain-power assembled at the Institute is generally regarded as a national treasure, maintaining the delirious pace of a serious breakthrough every six months. They do a lot of good work at the WRAIR.    

They also do not so good work – secret divisions performing bleeding edge, pants of the seat, “let’s-see-what-happens” experimentation that can only occur when very smart, very curious people are safe in the cocoon of government security and Pentagon funding.  Most of this experimentation occurs at the level of the micro – germs and drugs, mainly – but once in a while a few ambitious scientists will attempt something larger. These special projects don’t always go well, and it is a well contained secret that there are things inside the Institute that cannot be killed. Big things. Dangerous things.    

Some claim it is for this reason they built The Tomb.   

As Eudora Temple follows Victor Monroe down the narrow corridors, her vision of a state-of the-art, ultra-classified facility is contradicted at each corner. Decades of accumulated grime has turned blue walls a moldy-green, the white tiles floors are now cracked and yellowed. A third of the overhead lights are dark or too dim to be useful, making every step Eudora takes a small adventure. The construction appears to have more in common with an old submarine than a medical laboratory, as Eudora, a tall woman at 5’10”, finds herself having to duck her head through the small rounded doorways framed in thick rusted metal. The doors are mounted with central spinning handles, which to Eudora look suspiciously like air-locks. At each doorway is a guard, usually sitting in a comfortable, decidedly non-government issue reading chair, which are by far the newest pieces of equipment she has seen, fresher even than the men who sit in them, who stand only grudgingly for Eudora. Like Rudy, every one of these men has been disfigured by violence. Their faces are patchworks of scars, skin grafts and countless plastic surgeries, inviting either stares or aversion. But it is the the hollow expression in these men’s eyes that disturbs Eudora the most. The youngest soldier she has passed is over thirty-five and all carry themselves as much older, even Monroe, who seems physically intact. There is a sense of the grave to these men, she thinks. They have the sadness of ghosts. She doubts any one of them has much in the way of a home life.                                                         

“I see why the call it The Tomb,” she says, wondering how long she will last down here.                                              

“We’re not literally a mile down, but close enough that it’s not quite hyperbole,” Monroe tells her, either missing or dodging her meaning.   

As they approach a set of large steel doors, Eudora tries to wipe an oily smudge from her skirt. “Doesn’t anyone clean?”                                                                                                                                                                                         

Monroe shrugs. “Maintenance used to be routine back in they day, but they kept finding nasty surprises under the muck, so it’s no longer a priority. We’re only allowed to keep our personal areas tidy, and never with actual cleaning products. I’ve been here for eight years and seen a janitorial crew maybe twice. They don’t even restock the vending machines regularly. The Zagnut bars are positively antique.”                                                                                          

Eudora frowns. “Out of sight and out of mind, apparently.”                                                                                            

“We’re not even the lowest level.”                                                                                                                                                  

Eudora squints at Monroe, “There’s more below us?”                                                                     

“Where the real magic happens,” he smirks.  “But we aren’t allowed down there.”                                                     

Eudora puts her hand out to stop Monroe. “I’m sorry, but I’m finding this all bit confusing. Set aside the fact that this place looks like someone crossed a U-boat with an insane asylum, it seems to have been constructed decades before the buildings above us, which would make it pre-war, which doesn’t make sense considering the Institute wasn’t even founded until 1953."                                                                                                                                                                         

“I don’t…”   Eudora cuts him  off."                                                                                                                                            

“More than that, there was no mention in my briefing of anything more to this facility. Certainly nothing deeper. Which seems odd, considering how casually you just informed me of it.”                                                                                

“We aren’t so much classified as suppressed.”                                                                                                                        

Well, Eudora thinks, that’s obvious. “Sure, the dirty little secret, but…”                                                                        

Monroe shakes his head. “More like the recurring nightmare.”                                                              

Eudora notices the trace of a smile on Monroe’s lips and wonders how thoroughly she’s being toyed with. This guy smirks a lot, she notes, but not always with mirth, and while it is not possible to make an outright fool of Eudora Temple, she would be lying if she said she wasn’t the tiniest bit rattled.

Monroe moves to the steel double doors. “Further revelations await, Doctor,” he says. The guard at the large doors, a man with a false-eye and no ears, rises out of his easy chair and offers Monroe a lazy salute.   “We’d like to enter, please,” says Monroe loudly.  The guard walks to a long crank embedded in the wall, spits in his palms – rather theatrically, Eudora thinks - and begins to turn the crank with some effort. The large doors break open, releasing a scream of foul smelling air from the darkness beyond. Eudora covers her nose as the satanic belch swamps her. 

“My God,” Eudora gasps through her fingers, “it smells like a slaughterhouse!”  

Monroe laughs. “Sorry, I should have warned you about that.” He steps towards the door, but stops when he sees Eudora has not moved. “No going back, I’m afraid.”                                                                                                     

Eudora regards Monroe steadily until the grin fades from his mouth. She needs him to be serious right now, to show her that he’s serious. 

He matches her stare. “There is no going back at all.”                                                            

She draws a deep breath to steel herself for whatever comes next, then joins him at the giant doorway.   

Together they enter the fetid darkness.