Frank Wasdale- First Mission

by Chris Lee Jones

  “What have you to say for yourself?” yells Stump, thrusting his red face into mine. Up close, he looks like a turkey; a turkey with flaring nostrils, if you can imagine such a thing. “Oh, of course,” he continues, “you can’t say anything, can you? You’re as dumb as you are stupid. So, let me say a few things...”

  He throws a very familiar looking box file stuffed with papers onto the floor at my feet. “I personally delivered this to my client this morning, and he threw it back in my face. Says that it’s been altered; that we’ve been duped. The Mannequin is unlikely to provide her part of the bargain, because these are not the proper documents. Can you imagine my surprise, Wasdale? Can you?”

  He slaps me hard across the face with the back of his hand, and I feel a sudden weight down below in my diaper.

  “I can't see any reason why that English fool of a lieutenant would adjust the documents, unless he knew in advance that we were coming. Do you see what I'm getting at, Wasdale, you bloody freak? They must have tagged you, the so-called British intelligence; planted a little device on you, or in you. And you must have been complicit. Damn you!" His voice has gone up several decibels in volume since he started his rant. "Where did they put it?" he yells. "Point to where they put it.”

  I feel so scared, and so bound to my double mission, that I can’t bring my trembling hands to point to where the bug is. So, Stump’s companion sets to work, pulling on a pair of white plastic gloves and plugging in a range of strange electric devices from his black case.

  I won’t write down the details, because they’ll give you nightmares. But suffice it to say that the things that the man in the white coat does to me make the taunts and clouts of silly bullies like Wayne Smith seem like warm embraces. It takes about twenty minutes, and eventually the man finds the transmitter. Stump is about to smash the tiny device under his boots when he suddenly has second thoughts.

  “Drobert, how do you feel about earning another thousand bucks?”

  The man in the white coat nods eagerly. “Put this device in the lining of your case," Stump instructs him, "and drive South. As far as you can get. To the border, if necessary. Then await my call. I’ll make sure there’s a promotion in it for you too, if you do a good job.”

  The man leaves, and Stump watches me pulling on my T-shirt and jeans. “As for you, Wasdale, you’re coming with me. There's something we have to do."

  I have a horrible feeling I know what that 'something' is.

  Stump kicks the chair out from under me and laughs as I collapse on to the floor.

  “Get up, you grotesque creature. Don’t make me carry you again.” He snatches my arm and drags me out of the room, through the empty gymnasium, and back towards Benny’s house.

  *

  It's pitch black in the back of the jeep. I wish I had the words to comfort Benny, but I don’t. All I can do lean my weight against him, partly to comfort him and partly to keep him away from the little pile of vomit I've made in the corner; a task that's made even harder by the fact that the jeep is now going uphill. I reckon we've been on the road for about three hours. From the sounds the tyres are making it seems that we've been on dirt tracks for the last twenty minutes or so. I haven't heard any other traffic for ages. We must be in the middle of nowhere.

  Suddenly the jeep veers sharply and skids to a halt, throwing us around like forgotten bags of groceries. We lose our battle to stay away from the puke. Stump throws open the canvas and hauls us out into a gloomy light. He curses the stink of us, then orders us to kneel on to the stony ground.

  "Stay here," he barks. Not that it would be too easy to move with our ankles and wrists bound tightly with cord.

  Is he just going to dump us here, I wonder? To leave us to starve, or get eaten by wild animals? I take a quick look around. We’re in the middle of a small clearing in a forest. Tall pine trees, dark and thick with needles, surround us, filling the space with shifting shadows. At the far end of the clearing is a dilapidated hut, and we watch as Stump strides towards it, pushes open its rotten front door and steps inside.

  The trees seem to gobble up the light. Even if we could cut free from our bindings, we would have nowhere to go. I begin to feel overwhelmingly tired and depressed. I really need my magic juice.

  After a few minutes, Stump emerges from the hut. “I'm taking you inside now.” I watch helplessly as he drags Benny by the feet across the clearing, leaving a runnel of damp earth amongst the fallen leaves. Then he returns for me, dragging me along the same path. He opens the door and pulls us both into the hut. Benny catches a big splinter in his palm as he rubs against the doorframe and bursts into tears.

  I smell the Mannequin before I see her. Or, rather, I smell the perfume on her sheeny skin. Through the gloom I see her standing at the back of the hut. She is wearing a long coat and tiny slip-on shoes. Next to her is a chair upon which a single candle has been lit, and four tables arranged a few metres apart, as if they were hospital beds. Dark shapes lie on three of the tables. Soldiers, in full uniform. Fast asleep, by the look of them.

  The Mannequin neither smiles nor acknowledges our arrival. She doesn't even look at Stump when he addresses her.

  "We haven't got much time," he grunts. "I have brought the boy, just in case the adults don’t take. As you suggested, Ma’am."

  The Mannequin studies the wriggling six-year-old for a while, then places her stiff palm on his forehead and closes her eyes.

  "Hurry," snaps Stump, lifting Benny on to the empty table, tying him down.

  I wriggle and twist, trying in vain to free myself from my own bindings.

  "Your foolish behaviour has forced my project into a new phase, Wasdale. How do you feel about that? Your treachery has given me no choice but to kill these three men. And this little boy."

  Kill? I can't help but let out a deep groan, followed by a wet belch.

  "I don't know what the hell you're trying to say, dumbass, but in case you're asking, let me explain. You were the first. You performed well enough in your trials to convince my clients that your type could prove very lucrative. They see you as an indestructible fighting machine. The only way to kill you is to decapitate you or slice you up into pieces. Hell, you don't even feel pain..."

  Stump, once more, decides to emphasise his point by giving me a hard kick up the butt.

  "Think about it. A platoon of mercenary soldiers made up of zombie freaks like you. Can you imagine the money in that? Money for me?"

  He's pacing back and forth now, rubbing his chin, talking to himself as much as anyone.

  "I needed those documents, Wasdale. But you screwed up!"

  He gives me another kick then leans over me, his face like as red as a blood moon.

  "I will still get the information I need, Wasdale. As soon as we’re done here, I’m going after Lieutenant Ramsbottom. I will kidnap his daughter, and torture her unless her father yields. This is what you’ve forced me to do. A new mission, but not for you, Wasdale. Your part in this is over.”

  Colonel Stump pulls a pistol from his belt and points it straight at me, inches from my face.

  I know what’s coming, and in a strange way I’ve resigned myself to it. True, I would have loved to return to London, to see Ruby again and carry on my lessons at Cheasley High. But, let’s face it, that was always going to be unlikely. I died five years ago. I'm nothing but a zombie freak. And now this man, this short ruddy-faced bully, is preparing to give me back the death that the heavens owe me. And I'm not bothered.

  But what I am bothered about is Benny. He doesn't deserve this. He has no place in Stump's twisted plan. I must do something.

  Benny screams and wriggles on the table, kicking out under his straps. The mannequin places a hand on his forehead and stands motionless, expressionless.

  Stump’s thumb moves on the pistol, releasing the safety catch.

  And then the weirdest thing happens. Just as I release the contents of my bowels, the room fills up with the sound of another voice. A female voice,
with a strange foreign-sounding accent:

  Don't worry, Frank. I won't let any harm come to you.

  I look around in the gloom. I can't see anyone new. The pistol jitters wildly in Stump’s trembling hand. He clenches his teeth hard enough to break and sweat seeps from the pores on his forehead.

  Is he having second thoughts? Is he agonising over whether to pull the trigger?

  Go, now. I can't hold him forever.

  That voice again. Nobody else seems to have heard it. Not for the first time, I begin to wonder if I'm truly losing my mind.

  Stump closes his eyes and begins to sway back and forth. A feeling deep inside tells me I should seize the moment. I drop to the floor and begin to wriggle, snake-like, across the dusty wooden boards towards the door. I find it hard to believe that Stump is not chasing after me, dragging me back in to the hut. Or firing his gun.

  The door bangs shut behind me and I roll out onto the dusty ground. It's probably only mid-afternoon, but the thickness of trees makes it feel like dusk.

  From inside the hut comes one of the strangest sounds I’ve ever heard. It begins as a human scream, but soon transforms itself into something bigger, weightier, unearthly. I instinctively cover my ears.

  Colonel Stump comes crashing out of the door, shaking his head like a wet dog. The strange sound from within the hut stops abruptly. Cursing loudly, Stump swings his pistol towards me and fires a shot. The bullet hits me in the left thigh.

  He's about to fire again but is suddenly distracted by something up in the sky. A great black shadow has appeared, like a floating whale, sweeping above the clearing.

  Now I hear it. That familiar low juddering—a helicopter. A Cobra AH-1, if I’m not mistaken.

  Stump throws his pistol into the woods and legs it, charging downhill away from the hut. Suddenly, there’s a flash of light and a crackle of fire, and the woods are full of moving forms, streaming into the clearing like ants from a nest. My head rattles to the sounds of gunfire and shouting. Troops are everywhere; army, and FBI too by the look of it. Bikes and jeeps and the clank of light artillery. It feels like the start of a tiny war.

  Several troops charge down the slopes after Stump, and the helicopter pitches forward, scattering dust and needles in its wake. Within seconds, Colonel Stump has been captured. He raises his arms in a theatrical gesture of surrender, and the troops force him to lie down with his face in the dirt. I hear someone shout my name, and see little Benny running towards me, arms outstretched.

  Stump is winched up into the helicopter. Some of the troops jump in, and the helicopter powers away, the sound of its rotors replaced now by that eerie and unearthly wailing. The soldiers that remain in the clearing drop to the ground, covering their ears. My vision becomes blurred and wavy. Benny falls to the floor, as if suddenly coaxed into a deep sleep.

  Suddenly, the ropes that bind my wrists and ankles are being cut away. Then I'm being led by the hand, deep into the woods. I keep tripping up over my own feet but still we stumble further and further into the blackness.

  And then everything goes quiet once more, and the mysterious person pulling me stops and lets me sit down amongst the pine cones and needles. I breathe deeply. Normal vision begins to return, bringing a dusky brown twilight to replace the wavering colours.

  I'm so exhausted I could just lie here on the damp ground and go to sleep, but I desperately need to find out who it is that pulled me into the woods.

  In the end, though, I don't even need my eyesight to identify my captor.

  I can smell her perfume.

  Chapter 8 - My atoms, your atoms

  I must have dozed off big time, because when I wake up, the ground beneath me is soft and dry, and a fire is crackling in a little earth pit a few metres from my feet. Above my head, branches thick with needles have been arranged into a makeshift roof. It's quite a cosy little shelter, and for a little while I feel safe. But then, staring into the flames, the bizarre events at the hut begin to creep back into my mind. I look around frantically for the Mannequin, but she's nowhere to be seen in the dark. Has she left me alone out here?

  I've made some of your magic juice

  The voice inside my head again. The same one I heard at the hut.

  You need to drink it. Please. It's by the fire.

  Down the slope, I can see a second small pit lined with plastic, like an artificial puddle. I make to stand up, but for some reason my left leg doesn't seem up to it. Instead, I drag myself across the ground until I'm lying over the puddle. I shove my stupid zombie face right down into the juice, slurping and gulping it like a thirsty moose.

  We must move on soon. You will need to eat.

  I pull my face out of the pit to find the mannequin standing over me. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to her. I notice that the polished skin around her nose is beginning to flake away.

  It is me, Frank. The voice you perceive in your head is mine.

  I shake my head in disbelief. The sound of her in my head is like the squelch and wriggle of a mouse burrowing into my brain. I try covering my ears, but it seems to make the voice even louder.

  Like you, I cannot speak. Not physically. But I can communicate, in the fashion of my species.

  My species? Did I hear that right? In fact, did I hear it at all?

  You didn't. No sound waves have passed between us. My signals are carried by other energies.

  What the hell is she?

  I watch as the mannequin walks over to the tiny fire and delicately places more twigs on it, coaxing the flames back to life.

  It is still a great wonder to me that I can feel this heat, she says. It is not my type of heat.

  Now she has lost me. She's harder to understand than some of the teachers at Cheasley High. And that's saying something. But amidst all this strangeness, something has just dawned on me, making me groan with excitement.

  I can talk!

  Hello, Miss Mannequin. Can you hear this?

  Her face, perhaps unsurprisingly, is devoid of expression. I try again:

  Thank you for my magic juice. I hadn't had any for ages. Without it, I would dry up inside and die for good.

  Still no response. Not a smile, or even a nod.

  I know that, Frank. I am the one who makes your magic juice. I secrete it from a gland near my bottom end. It requires dilution, of course, before it’s fit for your consumption.

  I can't help but look down at her bottom end.

  Would you like me to remove my coat? Do you want to see my gland?

  Inside I squirm with embarrassment. I wonder if she's teasing me.

  Colonel Stump advised me to retain a shape that matches the female of your species. But it is not perfect.

  As if to illustrate, she drops the coat, and stands there facing me, wearing nothing but her little red shoes. I look away, pretending to be suddenly fascinated by the trees behind the shelter.

  Don't be afraid to study me, Frank. You are only seeing what is on the outside.

  I turn and look at her, my heart thumping, my eyes wandering up and down her slender form. I can see why we call her the Mannequin. Her skin has the same pink-brown sheen all over, and in places looks to be almost mirroring the flames from the fire. In all fairness, she has got a lovely womanly shape. But there are no nipples on her breasts, and not a strand of hair from her top to her toes.

  Look, she says, turning to show me her rear end.

  She points to an area near the small of her back.

  Come closer, so you can see something of what I really am.

  I watch in bewilderment as she pushes her fingers in amongst the bubbles on her back, and gently pulls a flap of skin open. There's a sucking, gloopy sound as she pulls the skin down over her buttocks, revealing a mess of red-brown tissue.

  These are my secretion glands. Teats, you might call them.

  She's right, I think I would call them teats. I've seen something like them before, on a great big sow in one of Benny's wildlife programs. How we'd laughe
d when we watched all those piglets clamouring and fighting for a suck. I'm not laughing now.

  The Mannequin has six teats in total, two rows of three. Fluid slowly oozes out of one of them, welling against the folded skin.

  My glands are very active, she explains. There are many in my species who are so old that their glands have dried up. They can no longer give to others. It is sad. We call it the second death.

  I don't know what she's on about, but her ramblings have prompted a question:

  How old are you?

  The Mannequin gently pulls her plastic skin back up so that her teats are covered, then reaches for her coat.

  I am two-thousand-one-hundred-and-three. A youngster. How is your leg, Frank?

  I'm glad she's asked, because the leg that Stump shot at isn't really working properly. I don't feel any pain, of course, but it doesn't seem to be bending properly at the knee. I'm afraid it will slow us down.

  You need treatment. Especially if the bullet has embedded itself. I will try to locate Dr Babbage and take you back to him. Do not worry, because there are solutes in the magic juice that will fight off any infection.

  Take me back to Dr Babbage? Should we really be going back to the base?”

  Have you another suggestion?

  I don’t even know where we are, so I shake my head. But the mention of Dr Babbage has got me thinking.

  Doctor Babbage told me that it was you who brought me back to life after the road accident, I say. But he never told me why you did it, or how. Said that he wasn’t allowed to. I've often wondered about you. To be honest, I'm frightened of you. What the hell are you?