Falcon Quinn and the Black Mirror (8 page)

“Yeah,” said Jonny as if this was not a particularly interesting event.

He lay down on the couch and played the Strat. As he
played, his ears vibrated back and forth like the speakers on an amplifier.

Then Jonny looked up and turned his eyes on Megan. She was standing there with her mouth wide-open, as if lost in a dream.

“What are
you
?” he said.

“I'm Megan,” she said, and then, as if this was not enough, added, “I'm from Maine.”

“Hi, Megan,” said Jonny Frankenstein.

“Where are
you
from, Jonny?” said Merideath, who, like the other girls, appeared to be instantly and completely in love with him.

Jonny shook his head. “Where am I from?” he said with a bitter laugh. “The
junkpile
.”

The girls thought this over. “O-kaaay,” said Destynee. “Now when you say ‘junkpile,' you mean—”

“I'm not talking about it,” Jonny said firmly, and played a loud chord, by way of emphasis, on his Strat.

“His origins are of no consequence!” said Pearl. “We shall welcome him, as our friend! To you, Señor Frankenstein, we shall pledge our lives!”

Jonny just shook his head and looked out the window, playing his riff.

“Excuse me, young people,” said Quimby. “May I remind you of the schedule? It's time to head down for breakfast. After that, it's over to the Wellness Center.
They'll be doing testing all day. When you're done there, come back here and get some rest. Monsters' Bash tonight! You'll all need dates. I'm available, by the way! I am! I can do the hustle! Do any of you do the hustle?”

There was another awkward moment as they all stood there, listening to Jonny Frankenstein play his guitar.

“Let's go, already,” said Merideath. “You coming, Des?”

“I'm coming,” said Destynee. Her eyes were on Jonny.

“We're heading downstairs,” said Falcon. “You need to unpack, Jonny? You can use the empty bed in there.” He nodded toward the boys' bunkroom.

Jonny hit another loud chord, then took the jack out of his neck. “Fine,” he said. He put his guitar down on the couch, then pulled a few old comic books out of his duffel—
X-Men, Silver Surfer, Watchmen.
He went into the dorm room and threw the comics onto the empty bed. “Okay,” he said. “I'm unpacked.”

F
alcon was one of the last students called into the examining room at the Wellness Center. In the meantime, he sat out in the chaotic waiting room with the hundred-odd mutants, zombies, and miscellaneous aberrations. Every few moments a nurse with a clipboard called a student's name, and one of the young monsters walked through a set of swinging doors toward the examining chambers. Just as regularly, the same doors would swing open, and a student would come out, and another nurse with a clipboard would announce the student's name, a number, and the student's diagnosis. Most of these were fairly straightforward—even before their examinations it was clear who was a Sasquatch, who was a vampire. There were a few surprises, however. A set of three Irish boys came out of the examining rooms as the nurse announced that they were a leprechaun, a leprechaun, and an abominable snowman.

“Falcon Quinn?” said the nurse, a woman with long, black hair tied up in a bun.

Falcon followed the woman, whose name tag read
MISS CUSPID
, through the doors and into a small room.

“All right, then,” she said. “Let's get your measurements. Can you step onto the scale?”

Falcon stepped onto a raised portion of the examining room, a circular steel plate that was actually part of a very large, old-fashioned set of scales. By the opposite plate stood a hunched-over man with thinning hair and one goggle eye. There was an enormous pile of rocks next to him, and as Falcon watched, he rolled two huge boulders onto the plate, counterbalancing Falcon's own weight.

“Mr. Algol,” said Miss Cuspid. “What's the weigh-in?”

“Two boulders, miss,” said Algol, who had a Cockney accent. “Four stones. Eight rocks. Sixteen pebbles. And two 'ard-boiled eggs.”

“Two, four, eight, sixteen, and two,” said Miss Cuspid, writing this down.

“Ah, ah,” said Mr. Algol. “Make that three 'ard-boiled eggs.”

“Three hard-boiled eggs. Good. Mr. Quinn, I'm going to take a blood sample now,” she said.

“Okay,” said Falcon timidly. He hoped it would not hurt.

The beautiful woman took Falcon's hand, and her lips parted. Then she bit his finger.

For an instant he stood there, with Miss Cuspid sucking on his finger. Falcon wasn't sure how much time went by. But then Miss Cuspid let him go.

“Hmmm,” she said. “That's odd.” She wrote something down.

“What's odd?”

The nurse looked concerned. “Nothing. Let's get you settled in exam room seven. Mr. Algol will be in to check your blood pressure, and then Dr. Medulla will perform the diagnosis.” She smiled. “Dr. Medulla's the head of the Wellness Center. We bring him in on the hard cases.”

“Okay,” said Falcon. He followed the woman into a small chamber with an examining table in one corner, covered with crinkly paper. One wall was covered from floor to ceiling with bubbling multicolored potions in glass jars. On other walls were posters of kittens and puppies. One sign said
HANG ON
,
BABY
,
FRIDAY'S COMING
! Another one read
YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE, BUT IT HELPS
!

“You should strip down to your underpants,” said Miss Cuspid. “And put on this robe.” Miss Cuspid turned and left him there, standing alone in the exam room.

As he put on the robe, Falcon heard the sounds of the other students playing outside. There were shouts and laughter. In the distance he heard the sound of Irish music.

“‘Allo, squire,” said Algol, the hunchback, standing in the doorway. “I'm 'ere to check your pressure.”

“Okay,” said Falcon, and the odd man with the strange eye drew near. He grasped Falcon's upper arm with his fingers and then began to squeeze, hard.

“Ow,” said Falcon. “That hurts.”

“Aye,” said Algol. “It does. That's 'ow we measures the pressure.”

The man squeezed him harder, with both hands now, and he grimaced. “Now it gets tighter,” said Algol. “To see what it can stand.”

“Ow!” said Falcon. But Algol just kept squeezing.

“I don't think you're going to fit in here,” said Algol. “But you've reached that conclusion yourself, I wager. You're not like anyone a'tall, are you, squire?”

“Mr. Algol,” said Dr. Medulla, standing in the doorway. “That'll be enough.”

“Yes, master!” said Algol, kowtowing to the doctor, who now stepped into the room. Dr. Medulla had a giant, swelled-up head with an exposed, pulsing brain. Veins wriggled on its wrinkled surface.

“‘E's one forty-one over ninety,” said Algol. “As you'd expect, given 'is circumstances. A bit of a squirmer, though.”

“Very good,” said Dr. Medulla, nodding, reading through a thick stack of papers. “Well, Falcon. I'm Dr.
Medulla. Are you settling in well so far? Everyone treating you all right?”

Falcon wanted to say
Everyone except that hunchback
, but he didn't want to show any weakness in front of the cruel little man. “I'm okay,” he said.

Dr. Medulla's brain pulsed. “I must say, you're a very interesting case,” he said. “You've got us in a bit of a quandary.”

“A—quandary?” said Falcon.

“Yes,” said the doctor. “You know, most of these examinations are open and shut; the atmosphere here at the Academy makes the taxonomy self-evident. But you, Falcon, are a bit of a mystery.” He turned to the hunchback. “You're excused, Mr. Algol.”

Algol clearly did not wish to leave, but he obeyed the doctor's wishes. “Yes, master,” he said, and slunk out of the room.

“Well, let's take a look at you, Falcon. Stick out your tongue and say
‘Auugghhhh!'
”

“Auugghhh!”
said Falcon. The doctor shone a small flashlight into the back of Falcon's throat. “Hmm,” he said. “No sign of forking on the tongue. That's good. No evidence of fire. You've never breathed fire, have you, son?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“My, my, look at those bicolored eyes. Have you always had one eye black, one eye blue?”

“Yes,” said Falcon. “Since I was born.”

“Interesting,” said the doctor. He turned off the lights in the room and illuminated a chart on the far wall. “Okay, can you read the symbols on the chart, starting with the top line?”

Falcon squinted. “Um—dagger, uh, what's that, a glass?”

“A foaming beaker of poison.”

“Okay, beaker, and, I guess that's a headstone.”

“Very good. Now read the next line.”

“There's a puddle of something—”

“Pool of blood, correct.”

“Okay, pool of blood, dagger, headstone, another puddle of, like, brown stuff—

“Vomit, good, good.”

“Vomit. Then another headstone.”

“Fine, fine,” said Dr. Medulla. “Okay, close your left eye and read the next line.”

“Kitten, puppy, uh—something I can't make out—rainbow, then two more things I can't make out—”

“Very interesting,” said the doctor. “Cover your right eye and read the same line again.”

This time Falcon couldn't make out the first two symbols, even though he knew they were a kitten and a puppy. “That's weird,” said Falcon. “First one I can make out is the—uh, is that a vulture?”

“Yes, vulture. What next?”

“I can't see the next one, although I know it's a rainbow. Then the last two are a Ouija board and I guess it's a guy, like, clutching his chest? Is he…?”

“Man having a heart attack, that's right.” Dr. Medulla nodded. “Now, this is very interesting. Okay. Let's look at your brain.”

“My brain?”

“Steady.” Dr. Medulla put an otoscope into Falcon's right ear and looked around. “Hmm,” he said. “Okay, let's check the other side.” Dr. Medulla moved to the left and inserted the otoscope into the other ear. “Hmmm,” said Dr. Medulla. “Curious.”

“What?” said Falcon.

Dr. Medulla rubbed his chin. “Very odd.”

“What?”

Dr. Medulla didn't answer. He opened a large book entitled
DSM-XIII
and began leafing through it.

“What's that?”

“What?” said Dr. Medulla.

“What's that book?”

“Oh, this,” said Dr. Medulla. “The
DSM
. It's the
Directory of Standard Monsters
. Thirteenth edition. Ah yes. The highly controversial thirteenth edition.” He smiled. “You see, Falcon, every form of monstrosity is catalogued by the members of the profession, and given a number.
That way we can differentiate between the different kinds of abominations—your undead types, your humans who revert to an animal form at night, your bloodsuckers. Virtually every aberration known is catalogued within these pages, including some that we suspect to be extinct. I tell you, it's a very handy text when it comes to billing. Yes, very handy indeed.”

He went over to a cabinet and pulled out a large platter. There was meat on it, some of it well done, some of it rare, some of it apparently raw.

“Falcon,” said Dr. Medulla. “If you had to eat a steak right now, which one of these steaks would you choose?”

Falcon looked at the cuts of meat. None of it looked particularly appetizing. “I don't know,” said Falcon. “This one, maybe?” he said.

“The medium,” said Dr. Medulla.

“Yeah,” said Falcon.

“If I told you this was human flesh, would that make you more, or less, likely to eat it?”

“Less,” said Falcon.

“Fair enough,” said the doctor. “What if it was well done, the human flesh—burned to a crisp? Would it appeal to you then, perhaps?”

“No,” said Falcon. “Are you kidding?”

“Just making sure,” said the doctor. His big brain pulsed. “Now let me ask you some questions. You just
answer yes or no, without thinking too hard, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Have you ever been to Egypt?”

“No.”

“Can you see your own reflection in a mirror?”

“Yes.”

“Fire—good or bad?”

“Uh—good?”

“Would you like to live forever?”

“What?”

“Immortality. Is that something that appeals to you?”

“Not really.”

“Do you like Hannah Montana?”

“No.”

“Do you drink diet sodas?”

“Sometimes. Yes.”

“What's the capital of Vermont?”

“Uh—Montpelier?”

“Good. Okay. Is Pluto a planet?”

“What?”

“Pluto—planet or asteroid?”

“Planet, I guess.”

“Would you rather sleep at night, or in the day?”

“The night.”

“Your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

“Chocolate.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Falcon looked at the doctor suspiciously. “You're not holding up any fingers,” he said. “Are you?”

Dr. Medulla put his stethoscope's earpieces into his ears and placed its cold chestpiece just above Falcon's heart. He listened for a few moments, and then his eyes grew wide. He moved the stethoscope around Falcon's chest, his eyes getting larger with each reading. Dr. Medulla's brain began to jiggle and throb.

“Good heavens,” said the doctor, taking the stethoscope out of his ears and standing up in alarm.

“What is it?” said Falcon. “What's wrong?”

The doctor looked at Falcon with an expression of what seemed like panic. Then he said, “Wait here. I need to—Just wait here!”

Falcon nodded, and the doctor moved toward the door. Just before he left the room, however, he paused to take one more look at Falcon, and in that moment, Falcon saw a strange expression on the man's face—a mixture of bafflement, and fear, and—who knows?—pity, perhaps.

He was gone for two minutes, then three, then five. As Falcon sat there, he listened to the sounds of other mutants playing outside: Sasquatches playing Hacky Sack, leprechauns playing a reel on the fiddle and the Uilleann pipes.

As Falcon waited, he remembered his strange half
dream of the night before. That shadow, coming for Gamm. Was it a vision of something that had actually happened? Or was it just a dream? As he thought about it, he realized that the figure he had dreamed of was the same one he had seen in the graveyard, standing by the tombs of Megan's sisters.

Again he heard the sound that Gamm had made in the dream, when she'd learned that Falcon was gone. It was a terrible, haunting sound. Inhuman, almost.

When Dr. Medulla did return, he seemed more discouraged than ever. His giant throbbing brain pulsed red.

“What is it?” asked Falcon. “Doctor? What am I?”