Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest #12

by Apex Authors

  The Illustrated Man, Becker thought again, My specialty: to hunt and kill Death-Watch Beatles.

  He studied himself awhile. Curiously, almost, as he often had over the last two years. As if he were looking at someone else. He stared back into those other eyes. First, the ones that had been cut into him. Then, the pair in the mirror.

  Himself.

  And behind it, the shadows of the room assumed their own shapes. Almost human.

  'Your old pal, Jacky.'

  Becker turned away from his reflection and reached for his phone. His call was answered on the first ring.

  "Becker."

  "Durbin."

  "I'm glad you called, kiddo,” the Major General said. “We're in a new place here."

  "Very true."

  "And it's not a good one."

  "Also true."

  "You need to come in, Captain, and you need to come in now. This one's over. That's an order."

  "Not yet."

  "Shawn, if you continue—"

  "Not yet."

  "What do you want?"

  Becker flipped open his laptop. “I want you to release more of those things."

  "I don't know what—"

  "Sure you do,” Becker stopped him. “Like the one that recently murdered Jacobson for you. Was it the same you sent into Iran two years ago?"

  "When I saved your fucking ass?"

  "Do this,” Becker said. “Or I go to the press with everything."

  "Would you really?"

  Becker honestly didn't know. “I would."

  "But would they believe you?"

  "Considering the current popular opinion of our bosses, I have a feeling they might. Release them."

  "To what end?” Durbin asked.

  "What end do you think? So they can find the last boys. Just like the other one did. How'd they track them down before? Are they made from the same stuff, some kind of connection or ... you tell me."

  "You killed it, Shawn. There are no others."

  "Sure there are, Brad. You're the guys who love to make copies, right? Death's very own Kinko's."

  Durbin grunted a half laugh. “I don't know if we can do that now."

  "Sure you do,” Becker moved back to his laptop. “And I need to know when it finds them. I want to be there."

  "To end this yourself."

  Becker ignored him, tapped at his keyboard. “I'm sending you a private ICR to contact the moment you know something. Do that, and you won't have to worry about me ever again."

  "It's my job to worry. And what about Jeffrey? Do I need to worry about him?"

  "Who?"

  "Dahmer. Jacobson. Whatever name he's going by. Jeff #22. His DNA's all over Jacobson's house. At the park in Missouri. In your hotel room in Florence. It was only a matter of time before we realized there was another one roaming about. How long have you—"

  "I'm sure he's already dead,” Becker said. He almost hoped as much. “He's not an issue. Never was."

  "Sure. Anything else?"

  "Only that this needs to be done immediately."

  "What's the hurry?"

  Becker suppressed his first response. “Immediately."

  "I understand you request, but Shawn..."

  "Yes."

  "If we do this. If we do this your way ... I can't help you when this is all over. You'll be on your own after this. You understand?"

  "I do,” he said and ended the call.

  'And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.'

  But how many, Becker wondered aloud, and his body trembled in the empty room. How many?

  As he flipped off the light to let the darkness cover him completely, he could only think of one.

  * * * *

  Jeffrey Dahmer sat in a chair before a rusted metal table, a small pile of bones spread before his hands.

  Jeffrey Dahmer stood closely behind the chair, watching him.

  The first, the one Jacobson had raised, had been stripped naked and looked as if he'd been crying. There were abrasions on his wrists and legs from the duct tape. The other one, the one Ted knew from school, was a couple years older and heavier, too. But, fuck yeah, these two were cut-and-paste jobs for sure.

  It was certainly something to see.

  And Ted could hardly take his eyes off it. Any of it.

  When they'd first snatched the kid in Scofield, it had been a pretty random act. Thought they were pulling one over on that asshole Jacobson. But when they saw, when they really understood who this kid fucking was ... amazing.

  Another version of Jeff. 2.0 or 3.0 or 40.1, they hadn't a clue. He was a couple years younger, for sure. But the real kicker, this pussy had lived with Jacobson most of his life. Al thought he recognized him. Another lab rat who'd apparently only been snuck into DSTI a couple times for counseling and testing over the years. One of the lab rats who'd gotten off easy.

  The bones were only animal bones. Small stuff, too. Mice and birds, mostly. A squirrel Jeff had found in Mt. Sterling. And a cat, the Alsip's cat. A fun little pile of tiny vertebrae, ribs, tibia, and skulls that Jeff had pulled together over the last few weeks. He usually kept ‘em in an emptied box of Frosted Flakes, a box he'd recently had to reinforce with silver duct tape. Now they were dumped out onto the table again so the other kid, the other Jeff, could play with them.

  Would play with them. Had to. Or be punished.

  Just like they'd forced the first Jeff to do when he was younger. One of the many tests, treatments, they'd been secretly subjected to over the years by the fine men of DSTI. When Jeff'd been only five, they'd made sure he found the bones behind the facility one morning with the hope that he'd find them amusing and play with them. And they hoped this because that's exactly what another Jeffrey Dahmer, the “real” one, had done when he was a kid. They must have been quite pleased with the results. But this other kid, this other Jeff, hadn't gotten any of that. He'd been in another test group all together. Until now.

  "It's the sound,” the older Jeff said. “When they rub together. Or when the pile collapses and they roll off each other. That click, click, click.” He leaned in close behind the second Jeff as he spoke. “I don't think they ever understood that, the ones who were watching me all these years. Click, click, click. They'd call it something else, no doubt. Some psycho babble about a God complex, I suppose. Playing God. A power trip. But it was never that.” He picked up some of the pile and let the tiny bones trickle back off his fingers onto the table.

  Click, click, click.

  Ted listened too, but couldn't understand what the big deal was. Just sounded like dice rolling on a table. But he could see the look on Jeff's face. And he could recognize it well.

  "Do you hear it?” Jeff asked the kid. “Do you?” He picked up and dropped another handful.

  Click, click, click.

  The kid didn't answer.

  "Are you fuckin’ playin'?” Jeff's face sharpened like a knife blade. “Maybe you need another beer first.” There was a half-emptied case of Budweiser on the table, and he angrily reached for a can. “Go for it, faggot.” He pushed the kid's head back and poured.

  The younger boy spurted and choked as the beer ran over his throat and chin and piss-colored streaks traced down his bare chest. The boy thrashed against the weight of Jeff's hand, but throughout, Jeff held him in place.

  Ted reached to scratch his arm again.

  It stung and he reluctantly pushed back the shirt sleeve to get a better look.

  The blotch looked even worse than before.

  A rounded stain that ran from the lower half of his bicep past the crook of his arm and grew toward his wrist. Growing. It had bubbled up in the center with what looked like several giant zits. Big whiteheads, but yellowy and the size of quarters. The skin was darker than brown now, almost black. A nigger's arm. Two weeks before, it had only been a small smudge. He'd thought it was a bruise.

  But there were others now. A small one on his chest. And another growing slowly up his calf. By the
day, by the hour. He didn't know. But only thinking about it made him want to scratch it again. Made him want to cut it out.

  Ted turned his attention back to the Jeffs.

  "No?” the older was shouting. “Then we better give it some time, I guess.” He tossed the empty can across the room. “You'll get used to it. Even start to like it, I bet."

  The boy coughed, gagged as some of the beer spewed from his mouth.

  "Fuck,” Jeff laughed. “They had me drinking by ten. Wanted a genuine alcoholic. Just like the original.” He'd moved behind the boy again, but kept his hand on his face.

  There, his fingers moved slowly over the chin, forced their way into the boy's mouth, where he slipped them, long and wet, in again and again.

  "Do you love me?” he asked the boy. Jeff's voice had taken on a different emotion. And it was another that Ted was familiar with.

  Jeff's other hand now moved slowly down the boy's chest. “I love you,” he said. It came out like a whisper as his hand slipped lower. “But, you know what?” He pulled his hand away from the kid's mouth and leaned closer so their two faces were pressed together. It looked like one of them had mashed up against a mirror. “I hate you, too.” Jeff's lips now brushed across the boy's cheek, and Ted wondered if the kid was even listening anymore. If he was even there. He also wondered if it really mattered.

  Ted smiled and stepped slowly from the room.

  It was clear that Jeff needed some more time alone with himself.

  * * * *

  Major General Durbin was an asshole.

  And even more so, Robert decided, than the other stock Nazi Big Brother republican dogs-of-war who sporadically appeared at the lab. This guy was another breed altogether. Seven letters for Durbin? Asshole. Gestapo. Certain. Unmoved. Monster.

  Ten letters for the current situation?

  Precarious. Iniquitous. Inevitable. Fuckedcity.

  A little word game he'd quickly invented to take his mind off the real task at hand. Not quite the same as his customary morning ownage of the NY Times puzzle, but it was getting the job done. His hands weren't shaking hardly at all anymore.

  Robert looked across the lab to where Durbin and some other defense department clown stood with Dr. Erdman. Watching him from the relative safety of the control room. Dr. Molenbrok was at the other console beside his, reading out the latest vitals.

  The thing in the tank shifted again.

  It moved with new life. A single dark hand suddenly slammed against the side of the Plexiglas, and Robert instinctively stepped back. Snot-colored bubbles rolled between the long, skeletal fingers as it dragged its hand slowly across the inside surface.

  Robert would not look up. He knew that if he did, it would be looking straight at him. They always did that. And he knew it would be smiling. He refocused.

  Nine for the thing in the tanks?

  Procedure. Evolution. Destroyer. Paycheck.

  They'd used these things before in Afghanistan and Yemen. Lots of tests in central America. Short shelf life on these fellas, they—

  No, he realized suddenly. ‘Paycheck’ is only eight letters. And then he moved to the tank itself and typed in the last codes. Listened to the whirr and spurt of the remaining dark fluids. I should be home playing my guitar, he thought. I should be rolling a nice fatty ‘bout now and crankin’ those new speakers. Robert patted the release check, and the sealed hinges of the front panel hissed back at him like something else alive. Maybe hit the library on the way home, the one in Camden where there's never a wait for the new stuff because none of those poor bastards can read. He could almost hear the other men talking behind him. Durbin and Dr. Erdman. Muffled, unrecognized words about killing more children, no doubt. Word was that DSTI had eliminated all the other waiting embryos. Also that some of the developed specimens had been destroyed or chemically lobotomized. A million rumors after Jacobson had up and vanished. Some kind of accident in the “Cain” tests.

  Rumors, he told himself. Nothing more than that. He wondered again why he hadn't been sent home with the others. Most of DSTI was temporarily shut down, the employees shipped off to university study or interim assignments in other development branches within DSTI. Instead, he remained part of the skeleton crew. For cleanup. I haven't had a good night's sleep in almost nine years, he realized. His shrink felt that his anxiety attacks were induced by stress from work. Ya think?

  The thing stepped freely from the tank. Its legs wobbled like a newborn deer or someone who'd just cum for a third time, and it grabbed the sides of the hatchway to steady itself. Robert thought again of a book he'd recently read, something called Planet Dora, about the Nazi's work on V-1 and V-2 rockets at the Dora concentration camp. The mountain hideaway in Thuringia with its endless secret tunnels and 20,000 slave laborers. The torture and hangings in the name of science. The 15,000 corpses.

  How many corpses would this one make? Robert wondered. And every time that vulture ripped into the warm belly anew, did Prometheus ever regret the whole fire thing?

  Robert half closed his eyes to the thought and stepped aside to let the thing pass by.

  But it didn't. It stopped.

  And now stood beside him. Its head turned to watch Robert, and he could hear the fluids dripping off its charcoal skin onto the floor. He could smell the synthetic stench of something between cheap fruity wine and formaldehyde.

  A twelve letter word for—

  The thing opened its mouth and the fetid breath blew rank and hot over Robert's face. No words came to mind. Robert gagged and a deep gargle burbled down the thing's throat. He assumed it was laughing. Something gently touched Robert's arm, tugging him closer, and he turned slightly.

  A single eye caught his own, and he stood frozen before it again. His body trembled, yet he was too terrified to move a single step away. In that one glance, Robert would have sworn he saw all that was behind the stare. In the novels he loved to read, the killers always had uncaring, vacant eyes. Shark eyes, glossy doll eyes. But in this gaze was something else. This eye was the collective refined chromosomes of men named Bundy, Desalvo, Dahmer, Gacy, Rodrigez, and a dozen others. This eye was the authentic “all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world” and empowered by that same truth. This eye wasn't vacant at all. It was totally aware. It was all-knowing. This eye was the eye of God.

  And God wanted Robert dead.

  Its mouth opened and moved toward Robert's throat.

  "No,” someone said behind them. It was Durbin.

  The jaws cracked, widening. Something sticky dripped down Robert's neck.

  Would there be a space age without the extraordinary work accomplished at Dora? Would—

  Robert knew then he would die.

  "No,” Durbin said again. “At least not today,” he added and laughed, patting Robert on the back. “Move aside, doctor,” he suggested, and Robert quickly did as he was told.

  Major General Durbin stood directly in front of the dark creature. “We need you to find someone,” he told it, handing over a blanket. “Your brothers."

  The thing literally growled in understanding.

  "You will find them and kill them,” Durbin explained.

  "Becker, too,” Erdman added.

  Durbin turned and fixed the geneticist with an icy stare of endless contempt, then looked slowly back. “Anyone,” Durbin agreed. “Who gets in your way."

  The deformed pinhead had broken into a hellish grin. It tilted back in anticipated pleasures.

  "First,” Durbin said. “You'll need some clothes and intel. There's a chopper leaving in thirty minutes. Better follow me."

  Six letters for The Damned?

  Durbin. Erdman. Some guy named Becker.

  The Lot.

  Robert.

  "Dr. Fietsam?"

  Robert looked up to where Durbin had his hand on the back of the swathed creature, leading it from the room.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "We'll also need the other two,” Durbin said.

  * * * *


  Kristin was beautiful. She almost shined.

  Two years couldn't change that, Becker thought, Not even a hundred.

  "Shawn."

  "Thanks for coming,” he said and sat quickly in the opposite booth while his eyes scanned the rest of the small café. “I know I ... It, ah, it means a lot."

  "You knew I'd be here."

  "I thought, I hoped you would."

  "Shawn, I'm sorry about Durbin and—"

  "Forget it. You were doing your job."

  "That makes it worse."

  "And you thought you were helping me."

  "I did. You must hate me."

  "There's nothing you could ever do for that."

  "Stop. I can't.” She looked away, collected herself. “You look terrible,” she said, turning back.

  Becker laughed. “Thanks, babe."

  "I'm sorry.” She found a genuine smile. “You know what I meant."

  "Yeah, yeah. I'm sure I do. Just water for now, thanks,” he told the waitress, who scurried back to the kitchen. “Well, though I apparently look like shit, you ... You look great, Kristin."

  "Shawn."

  "This thing is almost over I think."

  "Then let me help you finish it.” She grabbed his hands together. He let her, and she squeezed them tightly in her own, the touch proving so very familiar. “We can figure this thing out together. You and me. Whatever it is. Please."

  "It's..."

  "Can't you simply walk away?” she asked. “Just this once?"

  "I don't think so. Thanks.” He took the water the waitress set down, and then waited for her to leave again. “It's gotten too thorny. It's gone too far."

  "In this hole lives the Wicked King."

  "What's that?"

  "A quote."

  "Timberlake or Gandhi?"

  "Neither, smart ass. Berkowitz. The Son of Sam."

  "Ah. So close."

  "He wrote it all over his apartment wall when he was killing people."

  "It's very Hallmark. Your point?"

  "That it sounds like you've climbed down into some dark places the past few months. Like before. The kind of pits that are sometimes tough to get out of alone."