Free Frankenstorm: Chaos Theory by Ray Garton Page B

foggy and unreasonable. You can no longer afford that.”
    Drugs had nothing to do with it. Corcoran was paralyzed with fear. He was wondering if they would be sending a team to solve the problem of the released test subjects . . . or the problem of Dr. Jeremy Corcoran.
    “Is there anything else you want me to do until you get here?” he said.
    “Just keep everyone inside. Including yourself, Jeremy.”
    The connection was severed.
    Corcoran always became clumsy when he was nervous and afraid, and he nearly dropped the phone three times before getting it back in his pocket. He pushed the chair back, leaned down, and started opening Fara’s drawers. He knew she smoked, she had to have cigarettes around here somewhere. The craving for a smoke was suddenly pawing at Corcoran’s throat. He found an unopened pack of Pall Malls in the bottom drawer on the left and began digging at the plastic wrap on the box. When he couldn’t peel it off, he clawed at it with his fingernails, tearing it off the box. He opened the box, pulled out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. He hadn’t smoked cigarettes in a long time, but he always carried a lighter in his pocket. He lit the cigarette with a trembling hand, sucked the smoke into his lungs, and went into a fit of hacking coughs. He looked around for an ashtray and snuffed the cigarette out in the potted plant on the end table by the couch.
    What he needed was a joint. But he didn’t have one. Everything was in his quarters. He was freezing his ass off in scrubs and his coat was in his quarters. He didn’t want to go back there. Even his car keys were there. But should he feel the need to make a quick exit, he always kept a spare key in a small magnetized box under the left rear fender in case he found himself without access to his keys.
    He paced the office in the candlelight and wondered if he could drive through the storm. Even if he could, where would he go? He lived there at Springmeier. He had no friends in the area, he knew no one because he hadn’t wanted to know anyone. It was a rural area filled with pot farmers, potheads, artists, and nut jobs waiting for Armageddon. The only locals who interested him were the college students, of course. He’d spoken at the university a couple of times and managed to lure a couple of them back to Springmeier for a tour of the facility. Not a real tour, of course, but something that would pass for a tour. Then an offer of Dr. Corcoran’s magic dust, and like the horses in the Kentucky Derby, they were off.
    Those days were over. This whole project was over. And now Vendon Labs was sending a team to clean up. That was the fat lady singing. That meant things were really over. For some people, anyway. But this time, Corcoran was certain he was one of them.
    The possibility had never entered his head. He’d always known he was safe because he was too valuable. If that was no longer the case, then this project wasn’t the only thing that was over. His whole world was over, because that had been the only thing in his whole life that he could rely on. That value had been his security.
    Now it didn’t come to him as a possibility, but as a certainty, because they were talking retirement. Not censure, not suspension, none of the disciplinary measures, no, they leaped way over all that in a single bound and went straight to retirement .
    They were not going to give him a gold watch or a box of Cuban cigars.
    “I’ve got to get out of here,” he muttered as he paced. “Now. Go now, take my chances with the storm . . .”
    But having no destination in mind made him pull away from the idea. He had never done anything unless he had a destination or a goal in mind, an outcome, a place to go, something . Without that, he wouldn’t know what he was doing.
    Maybe the problem was that he’d always known what he was doing. He’d always tried to control his environment so everything worked out the way he wanted. He was able to do that in a lab,