The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  He drifted in and out of consciousness for the balance of the night, the births and deaths of the crackling light a steady annoyance. Laurence had hoped the guards would release the two for a bathroom break at midnight, but they never came. It was just as well, because Rick was still too weak to generate the force required to sever the remainder of the heavy cloth. In fact, as was fairly usual, the guards hadn’t arrived to take them to the fetid lavatory for many, many hours. So, with some reluctance, Rick urinated in his pants while cursing everything—his life, his lot, his pain, his world.

  At eight AM a guard briefly opened the door and tossed in two pieces of bread and an undenominated scrap of meat. The captives never touched the beef that was thrown their way—they had suspicions of its origins. Moreover, they hadn’t reached that acme of starvation when such reservations are subverted by the will to live. The two men rolled over to the bread. As Rick rolled, his equilibrium collapsed in a brilliant nova, and he stared, mouth open, at the ceiling.

  “Fuck, Rick, you okay?”

  Rick heard the lament from afar, though it was mere inches away.

  “C’mon, man. Pull out of it. You gotta break free so we can get our revenge—so we can get our justice. Do it for your wife and kid, man. C’mon—it’s just a few concussions—you can pull through it. Be tough.”

  Rick struggled to gnaw the bread from his side. After he had consumed half, it regurgitated in a slick of bile.

  “The rest is yours, bro.” Rick offered his companion the remainder of the bread, then rested his body, supine. He closed his eyes, and left the room in a boat of sleep.

  The next words he heard were Laurence’s. “C’mon, Rick, it’s now or never. You’ve gotta break free—they’ll be here in three hours!”

  At seven that evening, two guards entered the room brandishing tazer rods. They led the captives down a series of halls, then into the room familiar to Rick from his psychological evaluation. This time, there would be no waiting for the doctor; he was already busy behind the instrument panel. The malformed right hand, useless to manipulate tiny buttons, hung dumbly by his side, while his left flit along the panel.

  “Welcome, my test subjects.” He looked up momentarily. “Guards, lead each subject to an operating table.”

  Rick shuddered at the metal, paralleled tables behind the console.

  “Just what the hell are you gonna do to us, ugly-fuck?” asked Laurence.

  “Oh, nothing extraordinary. I’m going to saw off and exchange your right arms. If you survive for a week, I’m going to do the same with your left legs. I’ll proceed until one of you dies. The remaining man will have the honor of becoming an American—a heavily sutured one, that is.”

  “What if we both die?” muttered Rick weakly. “’Cause that’s what’s going to happen, you dumb-ass.”

  “Then two less Aliens will befoul this country.” The doctor incised with a dismissive flick of his hand.

  The prisoners were shoved toward the operating tables. Rick looked over his shoulder to gage his range. Then, his arms emerged from the blood soaked tatters of his jacket. He couldn’t risk a wrestling match with his guard to pry the tazer from his grip; surely the other would comfortably baton him. So he launched a spinning elbow with all his might, and did his utmost to repel the vertigo flaming in his mind upon execution of the rapid head movement. Unfortunately, he impacted with the meat of his triceps instead of the point of his elbow along the guard’s head. Still, the captor bumbled toward a glass door and splashed through it. Rick rushed after him and into an icy room teeming with vials of colorful liquid.

  The other guard was flying toward him, the baton raised awkwardly above his head in a two-handed broadsword grip. Rick grasped the fallen guard’s tazer baton, and pumped the tip into his assailant’s chest like an elegant foil before his opponent’s weapon could be brought down over his head. The recipient of the tazer strike wriggled sharply, then collapsed into a frosty tray of vials. The contents spilled out over his gray flesh as he sprawled on the floor, and a liquefied rainbow was on his face nestled with shards of glass. Rick issued a baton strike to the first guard for good measure, then stepped through the shattered portal and back into the operating room.

  In a surge of raw hate the doctor was upon him, mouth agape and bellowing. Defensively, Rick stabbed the blunt weapon into Mangallah’s mouth, and watched as the giant body jerked and twitched in a grotesque dance. Then, as the black tube withdrew from his lips, the doctor fumbled backward and collapsed into the mental evaluation chair.

  “Yes! Yes!” exploded Laurence. “Now cut me free—c’mon, before you pass out again or puke yourself to death.”

  Rick cautiously eyed Mangallah. The doctor’s head was lurched back, jaw jutting, eyeballs revolved and skull-white. He prodded his adversary once more, and an undulation pulled the body from its torpor. But then it was slumping again, the great, vascular forearms protruding from rolled up sleeves lifeless on the armrests.

  “C’mon, bro, what the fuck are you waiting for?” asked Laurence.

  “I’m waiting for him to jolt back to life and squeeze my head, damn it,” muttered Rick as he seized a knife and began hewing his friend’s bonds.

  “Not after I’m through with him.” The lawyer grinned excitedly.

  As soon as Laurence’s hands were freed he darted to the rickety chair upon which Mangallah sprawled.

  “What the hell are you doing? Just slit his throat or something then help me decide how we’re gonna get out of here.”

  “Nope. Got something special in mind. You ever hear of lex talionis, Rick?”

  “Huh-uh—not into attorney vocab.”

  “It’s just a pompous way to say ‘eye for an eye.’ Know where I’m goin’ with this?”

  Rick watched his companion enclose the doctor’s massive, bony wrists in restraints.

  “Ah, shit Laurence! Don’t fuck around with him. Kill him and be done with it.”

  “But that wouldn’t be any fun, now, would it? You don’t know what these bastards put me through, man—I’m not missing this for the world,” Laurence half whispered, as he strained a headset over the ears and covered the upturned eyes with goggles.

  “That’s scary shit, Laurence—you look like you’ve done this before.”

  “I have,” he said impatiently, all-consumed with his work. “They made me torture other inmates this way—and they monitored my own brainwaves for indications of pity or delight. They had a special word for delight in another’s pain or misfortune—schadenfreude.”

  “Is that an attorney word, too?”

  “Nope. And I’m happy to say I ranked low in that category. Okay, now it’s time to start the show.”

  A screen rapidly constructed in miniature glowing squares that were seamless by the time of their completion. It was blank—a cool, default blue.

  “Oh, man, I just can’t wait. Rick, make sure he’s awake enough to see this shit. I don’t want him to miss this—he’s gonna piss his pants.”

  “Like we pissed ours last night.” Rick’s apprehension had diminished, and he clenched his fist and dug in a body shot right to the solar plexus. The giant gasped and leaned forward as much as his shackles would permit.

  “Let me go . . . you subhuman Alien filth.” The voice rumbled deep in the barrel chest.

  “Not yet, you bastard.” Laurence drooled, eyes wide with euphoria. “I know exactly which clips I’m gonna play for you, too. And if you decide to shut your eyes and miss the fun then your own machine’s gonna fry you up nice.”

  Rick watched as an imposing database of entries columned down the screen. He saw the cursor flick expertly to a portion labeled “History,” then after penetration into numerous sub-folders, a single phrase was highlighted on the screen: “Nazi Marches.” There was a confirmatory double-click behind the panel, and the screen faded to black.

  Mangallah saw the selection and screamed in horror.

  “No! No! You are trying to infect me with the sickness o
f my antithesis!” he screeched, pulling against the restraints until they bit into his flesh.

  “Yep. And come to think of it, I want you to hear my narrations.” Laurence ripped the headset off the thick black hair. “Kill the lights, bro.”

  And there was darkness.

  Rick heard the incremental climb of volume as his companion cranked a dial. Even though no instruments had yet begun, the volume was now so loud that each new increment made the sound of a finger’s tap on wood, and the white background noise was audible and portentous.

  Suddenly, there was a scratchy drum roll. It wasn’t the crisp sound of a contemporary recording; it was the eerie sound that accompanies recordings from old, imperfect mediums, and it was almost deafening.

  “Turn it down!” screamed Rick, as robust German voices broke out in song amid trumpets and more drums.

  “No!” Laurence retorted defiantly.

  The video had begun; Hitler was standing behind a podium, gesticulating passionately in black-and-white film. His sharp, caustic voice beckoned from the speakers and rose above the background music. Mangallah was sizzling himself rather than watching. His lips peeled back in pain, then his teeth clenched, and gray froth exploded between interstices in the enamel.

  “Yeah—hell yeah!” Laurence pumped his fist as he peered over the console and saw the doctor writhing in the electric chair. “Look at that old Adolf fucker.” He moved beside the giant and pointed toward the screen. “He’s comin’ to kick your gray ass! He’s coming to kill you. Look at him—look how bad he wants to rip your guts out. That man was born to hate you!” The attorney was screaming directly into the gray ear. Mangallah’s chin was bobbing so rapidly from the electrocution that it appeared as if he were agreeing with Laurence. Rick laughed, and alternated his gaze between doctor and movie screen.

  Now the film depicted a motorcade of glowering soldiers speeding along atop tanks and motorcycles. They looked coldly at the doctor and two captives through black sunglasses worn to shield their eyes from a Normandy sun.

  “Oh, shit!” exulted Laurence. “They’re comin’ to get you, mother fucker! Look—they’re riding on those tanks and bikes to reach you quicker! In fact, I bet they’re busting down your front door right now! I bet they’re climbin’ the steps and punchin’ holes in your ugly-ass gray walls with their fists as they go. They’re climbin’ up to our level—they’re coming to this room! Can’t you hear them? Can’t you hear their machine guns cockin’, their SS daggers ripping out of sheathes?”

  Mangallah’s head was smoking, and with a mournful cry he slid down in the chair, his goggled face pointed directly at the screen.

  “No! Don’t die on me now—I’m not through with you yet!” Laurence ran behind the console and spun a dial. The database returned to the screen, and this time “Personalities of the Reich” was selected.

  After a brief pause and flicker, a photograph of a grinning fat man appeared. His portly frame was covered in a fancy white uniform dripping with regalia. In his hand was a jewel-studded baton, and the caption “Göring” appeared beneath his boots.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Laurence returned to the ear of the doctor, and roared over the blaring Nazi march. “He’s gonna eat you, Mangallah! Look—you think you can fit in that gut ‘o his?”

  But the screen had already transitioned to a new photograph. This time, a dour faced general pondered the three men in his gaze.

  “Rundstedt—Rundstedt’s this guy’s name. He looks mean and tough—don’t you think so, Mangallah? C’mon, bitch, I can still see you breathing—I know you’re still alive behind those goggles!”

  Rick watched the doctor’s massive chest rise and fall in expiration. “Okay, Laurence, you’ve had your fun—let’s decide how best to get out of here. God damn it, would you turn that damned music down?”

  “I’m still getting my revenge!” challenged the lawyer. “I deserve to have my justice, and I’m gonna have it! So if you’re so antsy-ass to get out of here well then get the fuck out yourself, ‘cause I’m not leavin’ till his whole body’s cooked and his eye balls are hangin’ down his face.” He had advanced across the room and was screaming in Rick’s ear.

  “Listen, you may not care if you live or die here, but I care if I do!”

  “Yeah, ‘cause you have a wife and kid to go home to. No one took ‘em from you! No one took ‘em out of your hands! Where’s Trisha and Kevin, huh? Fucking dead! You don’t know what the fuck revenge means, Rick. You don’t know shit, do you hear me, you don’t know fuckin’ shit!”

  “If you don’t turn that damned Nazi music down there are gonna be guards up here coming to ask just what the hell is going on! I’m shocked they’re not here already. Now turn it down so I can at least open the door and slip out without it blasting down the fucking hall!”

  “Not until he’s cooked himself—you hear me? This music ain’t turnin’ down till he’s deep fried!”

  “God damn it, he’s not even shocking himself anymore! So how the hell do you expect him to kill himself if . . . shit.” Rick looked past the militant face of his comrade and swore quietly. Mangallah’s left arm had torn free from its restraint, and was reaching back to the console. Before the current photograph on the screen faded, the doctor’s fingers found the pause button.

  The music played on, and reached a blasphemous crescendo. The military trumpets, the drums, the guttural voices—together they were a baleful entity breathing heavily on Rick’s neck and into his ears, into his soul.

  Mangallah seemed both captivated and repulsed by the old photo on the screen. It depicted a tall man with black, slicked back hair and mustache. There was a malefic intelligence in his eyes, and he was measuring the cranium of a human skull. Beneath the photo, in Germanic script, read one surname: Mengele.

  The doctor tore free his tyrant hand and felt the rocky contours of his face, still eyeing the Nazi doctor. Then he squeezed both his fists like a child at a tantrum’s threshold. The huge body was shaking, and in one lightning dash he charged at the immaterial screen. His fists clove the air, and his roars dwarfed the martial cadence.

  Rick and Laurence were bolting for the door when they were tackled to the ground. A descending hammer fist banged off the attorney’s face and drove his head into the waiting anvil of the floor. Laurence was motionless, and his eyes were half open and looking askance. Rick rolled briskly as another fist smote the floor where a second before had lingered his head.

  “I’m not that man!” The giant pointed at the screen, tears streaming from his eyes. “That man is evil—I am good!”

  “The hell if you’re good! You’re evil as sin,” roared the captive, as Mangallah stalked closer and cut him off from escape. Rick was panting heavily. His hair was plastered to his brow, and the tatters of his jacket had fallen away revealing his lean and heaving upper body. For a split moment the doctor didn’t know if he had cornered a man or a desperate beast.

  In a primordial surge both men collided. Rick’s leading fist turned Mangallah’s jaw, but a second later the great gray hand clouted the prisoner’s sternum and knocked him against a wall. That same hand was groping for his head now, the fingers flexed, the gashed, warted skin a palm reader’s nightmare. Rick scrunched low, covering his head, but the fingers were inexorable. Soon they were gripping his skull, this time far from his gnashing teeth. The pressure mounted.

  Rick tried to pry them away, but each had rooted to his head. His vision swam with strange colors and distortions, like an antique flat panel monitor depressed by a thumb.

  Suddenly, there was shouting outside and the door crashed in. Gunfire intermingled with the swell and pump of the Nazi march, and Rick felt the grip relax. He broke free and slid into a corner just as torrents of lead ribboned Mangallah’s body, the tyrant hand flailing clownishly as it, too, took bullets. A tide of blood lapped over the doctor’s bottom lip. He staggered toward his assailants, one eye blown out, half his brains muraling the back wall. It was as if some wh
isper of necromancy animated his corpse. But another fusillade dispelled his magic, and the torn parody of his body hit the floor like dog food chunking out of a can.

  “Fue él señor? Ese debe haber sido él.”

  “Tiene que haber sido—mira ese mano enorma!”

  Rick’s eyes widened as he heard the bellow of voices.

  “Help, help!” he beckoned for aid before standing up slowly, hands in the air. “Don’t shoot me! I’m an American—I mean, a real American.”

  A soldier pumped a round into the console, and the music died.

  Rick stared at the entourage, blinking in disbelief at his good fortune. There was a score of them, fitted in jade-colored armor and underlying drake-skin body suits, helmets inscribed with skulls and serpents. Each bore a sub-machine gun and a peculiar, seemingly anachronistic sword.

  “Poor soul,” their leader murmured at the sight of the wan, battered prisoner. “There’s hell in your eyes.”

  “That’s because I’ve seen it.” Rick’s lips crinkled, and his eyes were wet. He limped over to Laurence, who was already beginning to stir, and knelt at his side.

  “My friend,” addressed the Aztec leader, “you and your companion are now safe. My name is Juan Guerrero, President of Aztlan, and I have come to liberate your country from its oppressors. In fact, my troops and I just routed Hommler’s special forces unit last night. We will hound them to New England, to the castle where they hold my daughter.”

  Rick tried to focus on the leader through wavering vision as he stumbled for the door.

  “Then we have something in common, Juan,” he muttered. “Because I’m trying to find my wife and son.”

  The ranks parted to let the prisoner through. “See to my friend—he’s just unconscious,” Rick called back, progressed down the hall a ways, then slumped to the floor.

  Chapter 42