Chapter 7 - The Cabin in the Pines
The drive to Devils Lake took forty-five minutes through winding, fog-shrouded roads lined with dense pine trees.
Mark drove our SUV, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. I sat in the passenger seat, while Elena Gomez sat in the back with a folder full of old newspaper clippings and aerial maps.
Ethan was safe back at UW Health, guarded by police officers and monitored round-the-clock by Dr. Hayes and her team.
At 2:30 p.m., Mark turned off the paved highway onto a rutted, dirt logging trail that wound deep into the woods. At the end of the trail sat a weathered, single-story wooden cabin surrounded by overgrown brush and stacks of firewood. Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney.
We stepped out of the car. The autumn air was sharp, damp, and smelled of decaying leaves and pine sap.
Mark walked up the creaking wooden steps of the porch and knocked firmly on the heavy oak door.
Silence.
“Dr. Vance!” Mark called out. “My name is Mark Mitchell! Ten years ago, you operated on my son, Ethan, at Saint Jude’s Memorial! We know about Project Prometheus! We know about Apex!”
A curtain twitched in the small front window. A moment later, the heavy deadbolt clicked open.
The man who opened the door looked nothing like the polished, world-renowned surgeon depicted in old news photographs. Dr. Richard Vance was in his late sixties, with a unkempt gray beard, hollow eyes, and a frayed flannel shirt. In his right hand, he held a double-barreled shotgun pointed straight at Mark’s chest.
“Get off my property,” Vance rasped, his voice wild with paranoia. “Apex sent you! They promised they’d leave me alone if I stayed quiet!”
“Apex didn't send us!” I shouted, stepping in front of Mark despite the barrel of the gun. “Look at me, Dr. Vance! I am Sarah Mitchell! Ten years ago, I was in a coma in the ICU while you used my newborn baby as an unapproved test subject for your experimental bio-graft!”
Vance froze. His eyes shifted from Mark to me, and the wild, frantic look in his gaze slowly faded into profound, agonizing recognition.
“Ethan...” Vance whispered, his hand trembling on the shotgun. “The boy from Room 304...”
“His graft calcified three weeks ago,” I said, tears leaking down my face. “He almost died of septic shock on my kitchen floor. They took it out last night at UW Health. And now Apex’s lawyers are trying to steal my son.”
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Vance stared at me for three long seconds. Slowly, he lowered the barrel of the shotgun toward the porch floor. He let out a deep, broken breath, stepping back into the shadow of his doorway.
“Come inside,” Vance said quietly. “Before their spotter drones find this house.”
