“Stay in touch,” he says. “You’ll need to relay us a pick-up spot.”
“I’ll find a suitable location and send you the coordinates.”
I leave the boy in the cartoon’s custody and quietly slip into the cold morning. I’m in the middle of a cheap-rent apartment complex. On the second storey. Apartments stand across a small courtyard. There are more apartments along the balcony to my left and right. I believe they call this concentrated residential.
I paid little attention to my surroundings when I stumbled in here. I was led by a keen woman. There is a heavy fog rolling between the apartments and I’m not exactly sure where I am. I head to my right, arrive at a flight of stairs and then cross a small grassed area until I’m at a road. Although blurred with fog, the world around me looks different. A car rolls by. A jogger gallops on the other side of the street. An older woman walks a hound. Everything is at peace. Naïve. Blind to what I am. I walk up the footpath, ignoring the threat of recognition. I don’t feel as I expected I would. I feel guilt. Immense, crippling guilt.
When I arrive back at my apartment, the confirmation of my rescue weighs heavily. I go to the spare room and open the wardrobe. I pull the suitcase and it wheels into the centre of the room. It is large and metal. The most sturdy travel case I could find. I unlock the latches and lift it open.
Inside are samples. Specimens. Hundreds of objects packaged in containers, and jars and sealed bags to preserve them. There are a dozen external hard drives, each loaded with information. Published works, dictionaries from all eras, textbooks, historical documents and all manner of encyclopaedia. I’ve amassed every piece of information I could download. I have a laptop with which to read the data, plus all its necessary peripherals. I’ve also collected every cure for cancer that I could lay my hands on. In my freezer is an array of liquid samples. When we tour I visit oceans and lakes in different climates.
I’m no biologist. Collecting specimens was not in my job description. But I was briefed on what was required. I sit on the floor of my bedroom and stare at the samples. It’s not going to be enough. I should have amassed more than this in the time I’ve been here. They’ll be suspicious. And, as much as I try to push the thought away, I can’t deny that the most vital and truly enlightening specimen is too big to fit in this travel case. I cannot greet them empty-handed.
Chapter Thirty
There are a number of abhorrent creations around the workshop. Many are beneath white sheets that are stained with brown patches of dried blood and other substances. But the three main attractions are on display.
In various states of taxidermy and artistic completion are three sculptures in the centre of the room. They are an atrocious hybrid of human and labbia. The body is that of one of Brannagh’s majestic pets, but the skin has been removed. The muscular flesh and sinews glisten beneath the wide lamps that hang from the bunker’s ceiling. The labbia’s head has been removed and replaced with a human one. As the skin has also been removed from this addition, it is difficult to tell the sex of the human victim. Running along the raw, muscular flanks of the labbia’s body are human arms, arranged and fixed so they remain perpendicular to the creature. Each of the three sculptures has eight human arms attached to it. The five workers in the room, all in surgeon’s garb, are in the process of flaying the skin from these arms, to stay in tune with the overall skinless vibe of the entire piece.
“Very creative,” I say to the surgeon at the door.
“They are the steeds of the fallen ones. They will be their carriage when they return,” he says.
“Is that before or after their global art gallery tour?” I ask.
The man looks puzzled. “Sorry, Messiah. I don’t understand.”
I look down at Mr Roeg. “Have you been in here before?”
“Yes, but they weren’t this far along on my last visit. I am supposed to be doing some artwork on them when the fusing is complete,” replies Mr Roeg. He seems sheepish now, as if the morally questionable nature of the situation is dawning on him.
“Would you like a closer look at our work?” asks the surgeon, gesturing for me to step further into the room.
“No,” I reply. “I’ve seen enough.”
The surgeon nods politely and watches me leave. Mr Roeg follows. As I step back into the room of amputees, I’m confronted by a group of people. They’re on the other side of the bunker, beyond the beds and limbless sleepers. They’re armed with machine guns and wear black, military attire. Like a SWAT team. Natalie stands front and centre.
Each of the armed men is frozen. Beneath the helmets their wide eyes look across the beds, coming to terms with the horrifying vision before them. Natalie appears equally unsettled. I step across the room towards her and all the men, in unison, raise their guns at me.
“Hold,” barks Natalie, extending an arm to keep her goons at bay.
“Did you know about any of this?” I ask her.
“Of course not,” says Natalie, clearly peeved at my accusation.
“You’ve been getting close to Brannagh. You’re trying to tell me you had no idea he had a fucking underground lair? There’s hundreds of bodies down here!”
“If I had any clue it was this bad, he would have been arrested instantly,” she replies.
“Is that right?” I say, with a very deliberate tone of sarcasm.
“Hey!” says Natalie. “If you had given a shit about those missing girls and had told us everything you knew months ago, then maybe we could have saved some of these people!”
“Fuck you!” I scowl. In a rush of blood I march at Natalie, not stopping until our faces are inches apart. “You knew he had Narc dens, you fucking took me to one!”
The clicks of over a dozen automatic weapons, now readied to fire, fill my ears. Adrenaline-fuelled anger surges through my body. I’m shaking.
Natalie stares back, unwavering. “You’ve been living a sweet life here on our planet,” she says. “But that’s over now, Jack. It’s too bad that you don’t want to hear what a self-absorbed, narcissistic and vacuous person you are. But you can’t escape the truth. If you cared, then these people would still have their arms and legs.”
I feel myself losing control. My arms raise and I squeeze Natalie’s shoulders with all my strength. She remains calm, as the barrels of two guns are pressed into either side of my temple.
“Stand down!” yells one of the gunmen.
“It’s okay!” replies Natalie, her eyes locked with mine. “He’s not going to hurt me. He’s too accomplished in self-preservation.”
“None of this is my fault,” I say, just loud enough for Natalie to hear.
“It’s partly your fault,” smiles Natalie.
“Take that back,” I growl.
“No,” says Natalie, resisting the grip I have on her.
“You will take it back,” I nod. “It might not happen in the next five minutes, but you will eat your words.”
“My mission is over, Jack. This little charade is over. We own you now. No more fun. You’re going to tell us what we want to know.”
“Ah,” I smile, letting go of her slender frame and stepping back. “But what if you find out something that you didn’t want to know?”
Natalie’s brow furrows for a millisecond and I know I’ve gotten under her skin.
“You two,” she says to the men that had their guns trained on my frontal lobe, “escort Jack upstairs and take him to the Lower Easton Facility. I’ll be close behind you.” Then to the rest of her squad she commands, “Clear out every room. I want everyone you find taken into custody. Look for hidden doors.”
As the two guards grab me by each arm and take me from the room, I glance back at Mr Roeg. “See you, neighbour,” I say with a small wave.
Mr Roeg’s face widens with alarm as one of the armed operatives picks him up by the collar of his shirt and lifts him from the ground.
I’m taken to the surface and thrown in the back of a large, black four-wheel drive. There are two operatives in t
he front and two sit on either side of me in the backseat, all with machine guns. The weapons are primitive by Earth standards, but only marginally less effective at killing.
As the vehicle rolls through Godiva’s gates and onto the darkened road, I can’t avoid my regret. I knew I’d be cornered like this if I didn’t keep out of it. But my damn conscience finally overpowered me. I did a decent job of keeping it at bay. There was too much at stake for me to get arrested and removed from my blissful, boundless lifestyle. But here I am. Natalie’s words ring in my ears. I’m angry with her because she is correct. Had I acted sooner, there might be a lot less people under the labbia enclosure.
As we follow the winding roads to Easton, my anger becomes refocuses on Brannagh. I can’t be mad at Natalie for doing her job, but I can be furious at my record label’s owner for royally fucking everything up for me. My mind ticks and ticks and my blood boils as I dwell on the fact that he will somehow use his power and influence to escape punishment. The legal system on this planet is idealistic and rose-coloured. Rehabilitation is always a goal and true psychopaths are studied in comfortable accommodation.
There is no death penalty here. Brannagh won’t have his limbs severed or be decimated and transformed into a sideshow art exhibit. He’ll be locked away but shown mercy and sympathy for the tortured nature of his mental condition. Justice won’t find him in the halls of his asylum. Justice won’t obtain any grip on him as his slimy demeanour sees him slip through its fingers. On Heaven, justice simply doesn’t have the required disposition. But I do. After all, I wouldn’t have been chosen for my deep space mission if I was anything less than focused and robotic. I’m cold and calm and collected when I need to be. It switches on. It stays on.
The spirits I drank before leaving my apartment have accumulated in my bladder. I take a deep breath and break the silence by asking, “Pardon me soldiers, but could we possibly pull over for a bathroom break?”
My fellow passengers look at each other. “You’ll have to hold on,” says the uniformed man in the passenger seat.
“That’s not an option,” I say. “I have to urinate. There’s no avoiding that fact.”
“You’ll have to hold on,” repeats the passenger seat soldier, this time more sternly. He doesn’t even bother to turn and face me.
“Listen Rambo,” I smile, still a little heady from the alcohol and the intense nature of my current situation, “but if we don’t pull over, I am going to syphon into my pants. Don’t forget, kids, that I am a rock star. So pissing myself is going to upset you a lot more than it upsets me.”
“If you urinate in here,” says the driver, “we will have to charge you with desecration of a government vehicle.”
“If you pull over and allow me to go potty on the side of the road, then no charges need be laid. I don’t care if you surround me, with your guns aimed at Jack Junior, I promise to behave myself while I slash and then return to this very seat.”
The passenger seat soldier sighs loudly. “Alright, maybe we should take five while he gushes somewhere. If he tries to run we can put a bullet in his kneecap.”
“No way,” says the driver to his fellow soldier. “Look, you’re the new guy so don’t rock the tree. Wait till you’ve been doing this for more than five hours and we’ll let you make a few suggestions about how we escort a prisoner.”
“Hey,” says the passenger seat soldier. “When Jack says he’s going to soil himself, I have to believe him. I’ve heard stories about this guy and he’s a total fuckin’ animal.”
“I promise I won’t run,” I say. “Where the fuck am I going to hide. I’m this planet’s equivalent to Michael Jackson.”
“To who?” asks the guy next to me.
“Michael Jackson,” I sigh. “You know that song I wrote called ‘Smooth Criminal’?”
“Yeah, I know that song,” says the guy to my right. “That song played at my wedding.”
“Really?” I ask. “Please tell me it wasn’t the bridal waltz.”
“Enough!” yells the driver. “I will pull over so you can piss. But if you do anything other than flop it out and aim at a patch of grass, I swear I will break your arms myself.”
“Duly noted,” I smile. “You’re a reasonable man and sound of mind.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he replies and slows down. The vehicle rolls onto the shoulder of the road. We stop and the two soldiers in the front exit and aim their guns at the rear doors. Then the two soldiers next to me also exit and I’m ordered out of the vehicle.
I step two metres away from the road until there is grass beneath my feet. The dark night is only illuminated by the glow of the jeep’s interior, which pours through the rear passenger door. I unzip my jeans and begin to urinate. The soldiers stand around me, guns raised. As I finish emptying my bladder, I hear a whooshing sound as three silenced shots are fired. My muscles tense and as I spin, a trio of soldiers fall to the ground. One is left standing. He turns his gun on me. I stare at his face for the first time. This was the man sitting in the passenger seat. Beneath his helmet I recognise that smug, conniving expression. It’s Michael McCarthy.
“Wow, that’s very impressive,” I say, putting away Jack Junior and zipping up my jeans.
“I thought you’d be impressed,” he smiles back.
“What the fuck are you doing wearing that stupid uniform?”
“I’m just keeping an eye on you,” he says.
“Did you need to kill three government operatives to do that? It seems like you’re just adding to the reasons why they’re going to lock you away for the rest of your life.”
“Relax,” says McCarthy. “They’re non-fatal bullets. Tranquiliser capsules. These boys will wake up with a bad hangover.”
I examine McCarthy’s weapon and decide it must be a Bandoff 240. I’ve read about this type of rifle. It’s semi-automatic and can switch between ammunition settings. Deadly, traditional bullets or tranquiliser capsules that bring a man down instantly. Another “peaceful concept” used by this planet’s military. Don’t kill ‘em, just put them to sleep.
“So…” I say, “you’ve infiltrated the government? How did you pull that off? I’ll be taking this up with their employment office.”
“Brannagh has many friends,” he smiles.
“Shouldn’t you be in an office crunching his numbers for him? The military get-up doesn’t … suit you.”
“I am doing my job,” shrugs McCarthy. “I’m protecting one of Mr Brannagh’s investments.”
“An investment?” I ask, shaking my head. “Why would he risk everything when his life is already so decadent?”
“Why not?”
“He could lose everything,” I reply.
“Well it’s like he said before all of this,” says McCarthy. “When you have everything, the only challenge left in life is to have more than everything.”
“How very ill-advised,” I say.
McCarthy grins then reaches into his pocket and tosses me a small object. In the dim light I can see that it’s a bag of white powder.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s a meteor,” says McCarthy. “I’m sure you’ve dabbled in that particular concoction.”
Drugs. It’s a mixture of uppers and downers. Very dangerous, but also quite brilliant if you get the dosage right. “There will surely be more soldiers coming very soon,” I say. “Do we really have time to party? You’ll want to escape at some point in the next twelve hours.”
“It’s all for you,” smiles McCarthy. “Eat the whole bag.”
“That would kill me,” I say. “Plus, I don’t want you feeling left out. You should be involved.”
“These are your options,” says McCarthy, impatience building in his voice. “You either eat that whole bag and peacefully drift off into a permanent sleep, or I shoot you in the stomach and knee caps and leave you here to bleed to death.” McCarthy raises his gun and points it at my abdomen. He then uses his thumb to flip a switch on the barrel, cha
nging the ammunition setting to live rounds instead of tranquilisers. “If I were you, I’d start eating.”
“It seems such a waste to kill me,” I say. “Brannagh will lose billions from all the albums that Big Bang Theory could make. Why slaughter his biggest cash cow?”
“We’ll sell one hundred times what we’re selling now once you’re dead. It’s a lot more valuable to have an artist struck down in their prime than lose money on the marketing and recording of their final forty shitty albums. There’s no way you’ll keep making music as good as what you’ve already released.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” I smile. I open the mouth of the bag as wide as it will part without tearing the translucent plastic. “I think I’ll have to choose the first option. The drugs have got to be better than bullets, yeah?”
“I should think so,” says McCarthy.
As I move to shovel the powder into my mouth, I glance down at one of the soldiers and stare hard. My eyes widen with concern. “These guys aren’t breathing,” I say, pointing. “Their chests aren’t moving.”
“Shut your mouth,” warns McCarthy down the barrel of his weapon.
“No, seriously, I’m not kidding. They’re all dead.”
“Start eating!” he yells.
“If you’ve killed them,” I say, thinking out loud, “then that means that you had your gun on the wrong ammunition setting. Which also means that it’s currently set to tranquiliser rounds.”
“One more word and I will shoot you in the face.”
“It won’t kill me,” I shrug.
A groan emerges from the back of McCarthy’s throat and he takes a menacing step forward. His gun is still levelled at me. McCarthy’s eyes then move down to the two soldiers to our right. They’re just out of the vehicle’s inner glow and their thick vesting makes it difficult to notice the rise and fall of their chests.
“I swear I’m not trying to fool you,” I say. “These men are dead.”
“Fine,” says McCarthy, forcing a smile as his paranoia creeps in. “I’m going to call your bluff. I will change settings and then shoot you. If you’re telling the truth, then you will be shot with a real bullet and you will die. If you have lied, you will be shot with a tranquiliser and collapse. I will then cut your throat.”
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