Vincent Zandri Presents
Chase Baker
& the Humanzees from Hell
(A Chase Baker Thriller #8)
By Benjamin Sobieck
Edited by Vincent Zandri
FACT: In the 1920s, Soviet scientist Ilya Ivanovich Ivanov traveled to French Guinea to carry out experiments aimed at creating a “humanzee,” or a human-chimpanzee hybrid. From Scientific American: “He only attempted to inseminate three females before being forced to abandon the project as useless. Desperate to make use of his limited funding, Ivanov then made the horrific decision to attempt the insemination of African women with chimpanzee sperm without their knowledge.”
FACT: In the 1960s, a supposed half-man, half-ape creature frozen in a block of ice known as the “Minnesota Iceman” made its way through the sideshow circuit in the United States. Its origins remain a mystery, but some believe the creature was shot and killed in Vietnam. In the May 1969 issue of Argosy Magazine, Science Editor Ivan T. Sanderson wrote, “There is a comparatively fresh corpse, preserved in ice, of a specimen of at least one kind of ultra-primitive, fully-haired man-thing, that displays so many heretofore unexpected and non-human characters as to warrant our dubbing it a ‘missing link.’”
“Toward the end of the American war in Vietnam, numerous sightings by Viet Cong and NVA soldiers of ape-like creatures walking upright became so overwhelming that the North Vietnamese party secretariat ordered scientists into the region to investigate the nguoi run while the war was still going on.” ~Very Crazy G.I.: Strange but True Stories of the Vietnam War, by Kregg P. Jorgenson
1.
Memorial Hospital
Albany, New York, USA
Did that dead guy just say something? Or is that the painkillers talking?
It wouldn’t be the first time I heard someone who is supposed to be deceased sound like they’re reciting Shakespeare. A sudden deflation of gas within decomposing bowels can sound melodramatic if you catch it at the right moment. But this guy, the one on the other side of the curtain from me in Albany’s most available hospital room, is a little too fresh for that. I feigned sleep while the doctors came in to pronounce him dead. Some old guy. Heart problems or something. Never did catch his name.
But before they can wheel him off to the morgue, they’re called to the paperwork needed to put the ink on my short-lived roommate’s transition into corpse. That leaves the corpse and I in what should be a quiet hospital. Too much noise outside the door. No wonder hospitals are full of sick people. No one can rest in here.
Case in point: this is day four of my ass digging its personal groove into this bed. Woke up one morning to a tight feeling in my chest that only got worse as the day went on. Called for an ambulance after it spread into my guts. Whole body felt like I swallowed a boa constrictor. Wound up here for observation and pain meds.
“You beat the hell out of your body. It’s not going to last forever,” the doctors said.
They’re right, even if I don’t want them to be. I’ve asked a lot of my body ever since signing up for the military around the time of the first Gulf War. Figured the only antidote was sex, but even that’s pushing it at this point. “Exhaustion” is the interim diagnosis. Didn’t know that was a thing until now.
Wait. There it is again. That dead guy. I swear he said something.
I shuffle in my hospital gown, damp from days of bed rest, and cup my hand around my ear. Painkillers make it hard to hear, mentally and physically.
“Ice…man…,” I make out from my side of the thin curtain. No mistaking it this time. Still, the faint outline of his abnormally relaxed body against the loose cloth remains motionless. He doesn’t smell dead, either. There’s a certain aroma that releases upon a person’s death. Take my word for it. It’s like shit, roses, French fries and cheap glue all mixed together. It’s the smell of the soul farting, if you will.
But before I can listen for more, a pair of nurses enters the room, one male and one female. It’s bad timing. These painkillers, they’ve got my synapses firing in weird ways. I spend some close-quarter time with a female nurse checking up on me, and it takes a full hour for the crease to show up in the blanket over my waist. As in, right now. These nurses here, they’ve probably seen everything there is to see in a hospital, but I rearrange the blanket all the same.
“Good to see you up and at it, Mr. Baker,” the female nurse says. She casually walks past my deceased roommate like it’s a vending machine full of old newspapers and expired meat snacks. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“Not at all,” I say and lean back into the mountain of pillows. Can’t seem to ever get comfortable with those, so I keep asking for more. No use. “But they just did rounds 15 minutes ago. Did they forget something?”
“We’re actually here from a different department. Mental health,” the female nurse says, arranging some papers on her clipboard.
I notice the male nurse position himself at the head of my bed while his partner stays closer to my feet. They’re being cautious around me. Probably caught a whiff of my Wikipedia page. Adventurer. Tour guide. Writer. Sand hog. Dual residency in the U.S. and Italy. Alleged world-saver several times over. Occasional time traveler. And, most importantly, combat vet. Which, of course, calls everything else into question.
It’s such bullshit. You sign up for the military so someone else’s kid doesn’t have to, put your life into Uncle Sam’s hands, do things that in any other circumstance would put you in prison, then make it back to civilian life to the tune of The Star-Spangled Banner only to be treated like a fucking drug addict any time you have a bad day.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not ashamed of my time in the service or what I did as an Army Ranger, but this is why I can’t live a “normal” life. I don’t live in the periphery of society by choice. But once I got there and saw the kind of the company I’d be keeping, I came to understand real quick what it took to sink or swim. That’s why this stint in the hospital marks a rare occasion that I’m without my Colt .45 pistol, the model 1911 that’s saved my ass more times than I care to admit. It’s a gun-free hospital. They didn’t say anything about knives, though. How could they? This place is full of them, from scalpels to saws. That’s why the ESEE-5, my beast of a fixed blade knife, is hidden beneath my pillows.
“Mr. Baker, we’d like to ask you a few questions. It’s standard protocol for someone with your…background,” the female nurse says.
See what I mean?
“By law, given the circumstances, you have to see if I’m mentally fit,” I say and sigh. “You’re just doing your job. I get it.”
“Exactly. This should only take a few minutes. Just answer the questions honestly. There are no right or wrong responses,” the nurse says. She takes a pen out and holds it at the ready against the clipboard. “How would you rate your general level of happiness today from one to 10?”
I look her up and down.
I was at a 3 before you got here.
Can’t help myself. I’m sharing a windowless room with a corpse and a TV that doesn’t work. Not much to look at around here.
“About a seven,” I say.
The nurse scratches some notes onto the paper in the clipboard. From the sounds of that pen, she’s writing a hell of a lot more than the number seven.
“On that same scale from one to 10, how favorable do you think others view you?” the nurse says.
I start to give an answer, but pause. I’ve put my knife to a lot of throats.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“
Your family and friends, how well do you think they view you?” the nurse says, looking up from the clipboard.
My “friends” usually try to kill me within 72 hours of meeting me. My family, if you count the ones where giving a damn about each other is mutual, consists solely of my daughter, Ava. She’s what keeps me grounded, despite how the only stability I can offer as a father is my reliable absence.
“About a seven,” I say, sparking another scribble session on the clipboard.
“What about the future? What’s your general outlook, from one to 10?” the nurse says.
My bread and butter is living on my feet, save for the time I spend writing. Health is my greatest asset, which means a pit stop in the hospital for chest pains is a step in the wrong direction. Not that I’m about to call it quits. If my death doesn’t involve an explosion, wait to write the obituary. I’m probably not dead yet.
“About a seven,” I say.
The nurse raises an eyebrow.
“You told me to be honest, I’m being honest. About a seven,” I say.
Her pen continues its dance across the clipboard.
“Alright, Mr. Baker, this next one is a little more open ended,” the nurse says. “Let’s pretend you’re on a bridge above a set of railroad tracks running through a town. You look down the tracks and see that the train is about to derail. It’s going to crash into a crowd of 50 people. However, there’s a lever next to you that, if pulled, will redirect the tracks so the train derails into a crowd of only five people. Would you pull the lever?”
Of course I’d pull the lever. If death and destruction are absolutely unavoidable, it’s always better to choose the lesser of two evils.
This simple scenario seems like a no-brainer, but it’s a set up for the next question. Got this quiz a while ago, and I don’t like where it’s headed. It’s going to paint me into a corner and keep me in this hospital a lot longer than I intended.
“Yeah, I’d pull the lever,” I say.
“Good,” the nurse says and jots down a few more notes.
“Wait a minute. I thought you said there weren’t any correct answers,” I say, propping myself up against the pillows with my elbows.
“There aren’t. I’m acknowledging your response,” she says.
I’m not convinced, but I say, “Alright, what’s the next question?” just to play along.
“Take that same scenario, but add the following variable. Instead of a lever to pull, there’s a rather large man standing next to you on the bridge. If you can push him down onto the tracks, the train will derail into the smaller crowd of people. Would you push the man?”
This is the trick question I knew was coming. What we have here, folks, is a classic psychological test, framed as a simple quiz on morality. The idea is to root out who is a psychopath, a possible danger to society, and who isn’t. Ninety-nine percent of people would answer “pull the lever” to the first question, and rightfully so. But the average person would hesitate on the second question. Answer “push the man,” and you’re a clinical psychopath.
That doesn’t mean you’re automatically an evil person. Psychopaths make up a significant chunk of the population, particularly in the boardrooms of corporate America, where a lack of empathy in the face of what needs to get done is seen as a positive rather than a negative. However, that same attitude, when applied to a person with a grim worldview in the first place, can also express itself in dangerous behavior. In fact, it might be enough for the hospital staff to keep me here for observation long after my physical ailments pass.
Here again is where my military service, as well as my more recent adventures across the globe, fucks me over. The average recruit, fresh out of the civilian world, would hesitate on that second question about pushing the man. It’s human nature. It’s the military’s job, its obligation, to exorcise any trace of hesitation from its soldiers. Yes, the military turns people into psychopaths, but that moral lapse is what separates soldiers from civilians. Like the corporate suits, exhibiting psychopathic behavior isn’t necessarily a bad thing when the bullets start flying and lives are on the line. The trick is turning off that switch when soldiers return to civilian life, where a lack of empathy at home and at work isn’t seen as a good thing.
Add hospitals to that list, too. They know who I am, and they know what I might do once I leave this hospital. Truth be told, they’re right to be concerned. But my only plans for the rest of the month are to fly back to Italy, get some writing done, relax with some of the world’s best chow and, if I’m lucky, find some female companionship that won’t try to poison, shoot or stab me.
Although I absolutely would push that man off the bridge onto the tracks, and have in so many ways before, I answer, “Hard to say. That’s a tricky one.”
The nurse’s pen pauses. “Are you sure? Can you give me a definite yes or no?”
It’s almost like she knows I know what this test is about.
“Again, you said there weren’t any correct answers,” I say.
The nurse clicks her pen on and off. She says, “Your answer wasn’t really an answer.”
“What kind of test is this anyway?” I say, playing dumb.
“It’s a simple exam. It’s…”
“Yeah, I know it’s an exam. But what’s…”
“Just answer the question.”
I cross my arms and say, “Fine. I wouldn’t push the man off the bridge.”
“Even if you knew that your inaction would result in the deaths of 50 people instead of five?” the nurse says. “That’s a lot different from your first answer.”
She’s gut checking me, seeing if I’ll slip up under pressure. It’s not going to work, though.
“It’s different because there’s something about being up close like that to another person and causing them harm directly. The lever was just a lever. But a human being? That changes everything,” I say. It’s a lie. Some people need to die. Once you figure that out, the world makes a hell of a lot more sense.
The nurse seems satisfied. She lowers the clipboard and nods to the male nurse standing to my side. “Thank you, Mr. Baker. I wish you a speedy recovery.”
“So I passed the test?” I say.
“There wasn’t anything to pass, Mr. Baker. This was purely a routine assessment,” the nurse says as they turn to leave.
Yeah, right, unless I imagined this entire conversation. With the way these painkillers feel, maybe I did.
The nurses are gone for barely a second before I hear my dead roommate’s voice again. Maybe they should’ve asked me about that instead of trains and bridges.
“….ice…man…,” the man’s corpse seems to say.
I lean over as close as I can to the curtain that separates us. Keeping my voice at a whisper, I say, “Hey, buddy. I’m listening.”
The response I get damn near sends me running from the room as fast as I can.
2.
I like my dead people to stay dead, thank you very much. I’ve seen enough of “the other side” for one mortal lifetime, and as a god-fearing atheist, I’m in no hurry for another preview. Which is why, despite the sin of sloth the painkillers wrought into my body, I have to fight to keep myself in place as this dead guy talks. I’d normally be curious, seeing as how I am Chase Baker, but I’m not in the mood.
“…find…,” the man’s voice says. I figure he’s on the old side, but the parched vibrato in his voice adds another dozen decades.
“Find what?” I say in a hushed tone.
“…missing…”
I string together what he’s told me so far.
Ice. Man. Find. Missing.
My thoughts turn to a missing fisherman from last winter. Read about it in the newspapers. Went out ice fishing and never came back. Everyone figured he went through the ice, but the body never turned up.
Maybe my roommate is saying he’s the missing fisherman? But so what? Why use your last breath to confess to that?
“…moo…see…them…A
ustin…Texas…”
Ice. Man. Find. Missing. Moo. See. Them. Austin. Texas.
I grab a spare pen and paper from the stand by my bed and write down the words before I forget them.
“Hey, buddy, I’m still not clear on this,” I say. “The only ice in Texas is in the drinks.”
After waiting a minute for a response and hearing none, I reach my hand up to the curtain to get a better look at my roommate. Maybe he can only mouth the words now. But before I can do that, the door opens and a cadre of medical staff walks in. I’m sure the hospital gives them job titles with a more sensitive ring to it, but I can only assume these are the undertakers.
I lower my hand and listen to them prepping the body on the other side of the curtain. It takes a moment for my brain to register how big of a problem that is for my roommate.
“Hey, wait a minute. He’s not dead yet,” I say.
One of the staffers pokes her head around the curtain. “Mr. Baker, I know this may be disturbing for you, but please let us do our jobs for the sake of this man’s family,” she says.
“But he was just talking to me,” I say and immediately regret it. I don’t need another visit from those mental health people.
The staffer excuses herself from her colleagues and steps onto my side of the curtain. She gives me a pitiful smile and leans down over my bed. I don’t mind at all. If she’s one of the last faces you see before dying, I can think of worse ways to go out. At first I think she’s going to whisper something close to my cheek, maybe give me her number, but it turns out I’m more deluded than I even realize. She goes not for a sweet nothing in my ear, but instead reaches for the button that delivers a fresh dose of painkillers into my IV.
“Relax, Mr. Baker,” she says before leaving my side.
And relax I do. The painkillers wash away my protests along with my ability to stay awake. I ride the drowsy tide into a cold sleep against my mountain of pillows.
Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) Page 1