Separation

by J. S. Frankel

  Well, there was the fact that Allenby’s body had never been recovered. There was the fact that ASR probably still had research labs operating, and there was also the fact a number of transgenics were loyal to Allenby. However, Harry didn’t mention it. It would have been like rubbing salt into an open wound.

  He did, however, pose the obvious question. “So what do we do now?”

  “We wait.”

  Overton excused himself to check on the set-up. While he walked around shouting orders, Anastasia shook her head. “Nothing ever changes, does it?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, simply walked inside. Harry watched the sway of her hips as she disappeared behind the bedroom door and reminded himself of how lucky he had been to find her. Still, the fact that others out there were in the mood for blood took away some of his feelings of romance.

  Over the next three days, Harry and Anastasia met with the various representatives from the Social Service agency, the head of a large garment factory, and two education professionals from a local high school and a university. The meetings were not fruitful, to say the least.

  “Explain to me again why you can’t fund any programs,” Anastasia said.

  They were sitting in a café in downtown Manhattan, with Overton’s men on guard outside. A waitress had served their coffee, giggling as she put the cups down, and asked for autographs from both of them. “It’s for me.”

  It seemed somewhat incongruous for her to act so coy and girlish, considering she was in her late fifties and was well past the girlish stage. However, protocol had to be observed.

  “I’m a rock star,” Anastasia muttered as she scribbled out her name. The waitress thanked her repeatedly, and flounced off to take care of the other customers.

  “At least you’re the more photogenic one,” Harry quipped as a few members of the populace decided to do the snappy-snappy thing.

  It was bothersome, to say the least, and as the flashes continued to go off, a few reporters drove up to ask questions and take still more pictures. Harry got the sudden urge to rip the cameras and selfie sticks from the hands of the total jerks that just had to thrust said sticks over their table in order to take a picture. People being intrusive—it was so not his style, and he stood up in order to deliver an ultimatum.

  “Let it go,” Anastasia whispered.

  Her voice had a calming effect. He relaxed, the gawkers eventually dissipated, and she repeated the question to the person who’d come to meet them. Her name was Carla Withers, a youngish black woman, calm and professionally dressed.

  “It’s not that we can’t fund any programs,” Ms. Withers said. “But the economy still isn’t at full capacity, and we have to think of our own first.”

  From her usage of the term our own she meant the human population. “I know that sounds bad,” she continued, “but you’ve given us very little to work with. We don’t know how many people like, er, how many transgenics are out there. We don’t know what their level of education is or what their mindset is. If you had some concrete numbers, we could make arrangements, but as it stands...”

  Her voice trailed away, but it wasn’t necessary for her to say anything else. Harry knew what the score was. He’d heard the same thing from the other professionals he’d consulted. Throw us some numbers, give us a breakdown, and please, for the love of God, tell us who we’re working with and that they’re not dangerous...

  Admittedly, they had a point. So far, in spite of setting up a couple of websites specifically for transgenics to respond to, and despite sending out dozens of e-mails through private as well as three volunteer NGO’s, not one transgenic person had responded. So either they didn’t exist in North America—which he found hard to believe—or else they were in hiding, which, sadly, he found all too believable.

  Unfortunately, the enemy had found them. Allenby had survived the explosion. He knew where they were, and he’d sent those two transgenic deer monstrosities as a test. Harry knew that. He just wanted to find out where Allenby was.

  The answer to his question came two days later. It was morning, the sun was out full and bright, and Anastasia was sleeping in. She got tired more easily than usual, the result, she said, of her body being in overdrive. “I can feel the baby growing fast,” she said. “It’s like my body’s telling me I have to rest and get ready.”

  “So rest and get ready.” Knowing nothing about this kind of birth thing and still in a state of wonder-flux over becoming a first-time father, he fretted at the possibility of bringing new life into this world. What kind of life would it be, what kind of future would the baby have... those questions and more whirled in his mind.

  While he was at work—the concept of devolvement was vexing him to no end—Overton called him from Manhattan. “I’m on my computer right now and I’m sending you a link in order for you to hook up with me. This video came in roughly ten minutes ago. You’ll want to see this.”

  He sent the link, and Harry clicked on it. Overton’s face hovered in the upper right corner, looking on, but what dominated the screen was the picture of Allenby as he spoke from an undisclosed location. It looked as though he was standing in a cave. In spite of the dim lighting, massive cables snaked along stone walls and a number of machines stood out. Among them were DNA differentiators and Genesis Chambers.

  Allenby, though, presented a horrific figure, enough to take someone’s breath away permanently. He’d become a nightmare. Formerly short and stocky, he now stood well over six feet and resembled a cross between a bull and a spider, a horrible image.

  His torso was similar to a bull’s, with dark leathery skin and a heavy, thick-looking musculature. The slightest breath caused muscle to ripple up and down like waves. On either side of the torso, though, arms had started to sprout, three each. They were still small, but if the mutation continued, they’d soon become longer and more than likely much stronger.

  What got Harry’s attention was Allenby’s face. Bumpy and lumpy, it resembled an Ugli fruit on a very bad day. The port wine stain had disappeared. In its place was a purplish mark, something that covered the right side of his face. The left side had turned a dark gray. Demonic red eyes stared at the camera, and the voice sounded as if something had crawled out of the lower depths to settle in his throat.

  “Goldman, if you and your friends are watching this, then I hold you personally responsible for turning me into this... this thing.”

  He glanced down at his body, clad only in a loincloth. No normally sized clothes seemed capable of containing his bulk. With grunts accompanying every word, his eyes seemed to pierce the screen and his rage practically leaped out of the monitor.

  “My body has changed, as you can see. I’ve become a freak, like you, and this is all of your doing. You gave me false information and tossed me into that chamber. You turned me into... into this.”

  Yeah, and you used it. You should have tested the theory through computer simulations first. Harry thought about tossing off a smartass reply, but realized the video feed was a one-way link.

  Allenby then leaned forward until his face filled the screen and he screamed, “You made me into a freak! For that, you shall pay. You shall pay dearly.” A second later, the video faded out.

  Why did all villains have to speak in such a dramatic manner? He’d gone from merely pompous to ridiculous overacting. Nevertheless, his words were enough to send a chill down a corpse’s spine. Overton’s face wore a somber expression. “You saw, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Harry sat back, deflated at the prospect of facing off against a monstrosity once again. A whisper of fear ran through him. Was he ready? He’d defeated Szabo—barely—but against this aberration... he wasn’t sure. To cover up his personal misgivings, he asked, “Did he send this to anyone else?”

  Silence greeted his question and he pressed, “Well... did he?”

  “He posted it on all the major Internet social sites as well as sending it to the news networks.”

  Anyone’s imme
diate reaction would have been to say, “Oh hell,” and Harry’s was no different. A number of curse words ran through his head, but overriding his angry response was the worry of what the average citizen would say, think, and most importantly, do. “Do we have anything to be worried about,” he asked in the calmest, most careful manner possible.

  “Why do you think we put up all that surveillance equipment?”

  Overton’s answer was really no answer at all, yet it explained everything. It was intended to not only track the half-human element, but also the human element, the lynch mobs and lone wolves who couldn’t stand the thought of anything less human than human inhabiting space on this planet.

  “Yeah, I got it.” Harry heard the tone in his voice, dull and resigned to being forced to defend his existence to the average bigot yet again. “How about the signal... did you manage to trace it?”

  “No such luck, but we’re getting close. Jason and Tina are monitoring every source of energy output around, checking for spikes, same as they did in Europe. Security is also being beefed up around the airports, piers, and in the major cities.”

  Would it be enough, though? Allenby and his minions had already shown the ability to not only infiltrate places everyone had formerly deemed safe, they’d also been able to place their presence in such a manner as to sow discontent among the populace.

  “Sit tight,” Overton urged. “We’re here for you.”

  He broke the connection and Harry, now totally dispirited, leaned back in his chair and wondered what the next day would bring. While he was concerned about his own well-being, he was more afraid for the two lives in the next room. He also knew John Q. Citizen wouldn’t have the same concern.

  The next day brought rain. The heat had been building for quite a while, and a sudden shower cut the heat in half. “It’s sort of refreshing,” said Anastasia in a hopeful voice as she stood by the window, holding a plate of six freshly cut apples smothered in honey, which she dug into with gusto. Her appetite was still off the scale, yet she barely showed or gave evidence of being pregnant outside of a slight bulge in her stomach.

  “Yeah, it is,” Harry responded, giving the air a quick sniff. He found nothing unusual, and decided to hop in his car and drive over to Herkimer.

  “I’m coming with you,” Anastasia said once he told her of his plan.

  No arguing with her, and after lunch they set off, driving slowly over the roads until they reached their destination. The rain eventually petered out, but the sky continued to be overcast, and a quick check on the radio indicated showers might happen intermittently for the rest of the afternoon.

  Once they arrived, Harry abruptly braked and killed the engine. He remembered the cabin as being a large and well-appointed job with the latest in computer tech and security set-ups. As he looked out the window, he saw a pile of logs to his left... but didn’t see any of the lights or sensors on the cabin itself.

  Something is wrong here. As he rolled down the window, the smell of smoke hung in the air, and it provided clue number one something bad had happened. Clue number two came in the form of bullet holes dotting the cabin walls.

  “You get the feeling something isn’t quite right with this scenario?” asked Harry as he opened the door. “Sorry for stating the obvious.”

  She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she sniffed the air and then pointed to the cabin. “Yeah, I’d say someone didn’t give up without a fight.”

  They got out of the car, but Anastasia slid out on the driver’s side, the furthest spot away from the cabin. A few sunbeams filtered through the gray sky up above and lit up the area in a dull yellowish glow.

  Time for clue number three to happen, and it came when Overton stepped out of the cabin, Istvan in front of him. Overton’s formerly dark hair had turned blond, and his eyes stared vacantly at the surroundings. He moved in stiff, robotic movements, his mouth opening and closing, but no sounds coming out. It seemed as though he’d gone into a trance. And why had he drawn his weapon, and where were the other guards?

  In contrast to his empty-eyed visage, Istvan looked positively terrified, his eyes round, and his face streaked with tears. “Help me,” he mouthed.

  Clue number four was another smell, one that had been formerly been masked by the rain. Wet dog au natural, and immediately Harry figured out what the plan was. “Get down,” he cried and pulled his wife down with him behind the car.

  It proved to be a smart move as Overton suddenly pivoted in their direction and fired three shots. The bullets pinged off the metal of the car. Silence followed, and then Overton’s voice, quiet and unemotional, split the quiet. “We’re taking him,” he announced.

  The smell of gunpowder hung in the air along with the stink of animal. It seemed Allenby’s concept of cloning had progressed much faster than anyone had realized. “Stay down,” she said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  The baby, wasn’t she thinking about the baby? Apparently not, as she moved out in a quick sprint. The crack of the gun sounded as three more bullets whizzed over her head. She threw herself behind the pile of logs and stayed down. Overton fired again and again, and once the gun’s chambers clicked empty, he tossed it away. “I’m leaving now,” he said, and picked up Istvan in his arms.

  “Not yet you aren’t.”

  Harry snarled out those words as he crept out of hiding. Moving faster than he thought he could, he tore over to Overton’s position and threw a rocket-like punch to his jaw. The impact caused the clone to let go of Istvan and he—it—growled. “You... you stand with the humans?”

  “I stand with my wife,” Harry answered as he launched another shot.

  It connected, and this time the false Overton collapsed and lay groaning. Istvan took the opportunity to run into the cabin. Harry’s senses remained on full alert, but the smell of danger had already dissipated. Whoever else had been here had long vanished. He bent over the imitation to ask, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Overton, can’t you tell?”

  “Let me take a shot at this,” Anastasia said, striding over in a fury.

  She proceeded to extend her claws and raked the thing’s face. Blood poured from its wounds, but he said nothing. “Talk,” she exhorted. “You shot at me. I don’t like that, and I don’t have all day!”

  Mr. Fake FBI agent still said nothing as she kept up her assault. With each slash, more skin disappeared from his face. He merely lay there and grinned. Finally, Harry pulled his wife off as she screamed in frustration.

  The false Overton put his hand up to his ruined face. His fingers came away stained with his life’s essence and he stared in wonder at the redness as it traced its way down his fingers. “Oh, will you look at this? I’m wounded.”

  “You’ll be worse if my wife gets another shot at you,” Harry warned. “You’re one of Allenby’s clones.”

  The thing didn’t respond. It—or he—simply breathed in and out in heavy, harsh rasps while the cuts on its face began to knit. Madness shone out from its eyes, a hate that threatened to engulf everything and everyone. Finally, he spoke in a faint voice. “You state the obvious. This was just a trial run. It was what we wanted...”

  Abruptly, he stopped speaking and his head lolled. Harry fingered the monster’s neck and checked for a pulse. Finding none, he arose, bewildered. “He’s dead.” The thought of a famous doctor on an old television show saying the same thing—”He’s dead, Jim”—ran briefly through his mind, and why would he be thinking that in the first place...

  “Dead, how could he be dead?”

  Someone had to ask the obvious question, and for a change, Harry was glad he hadn’t asked it first. Still... why had this thing died so quickly? Blood loss was the logical cause, but its wounds had already begun to heal, and then it had suddenly expired. Perhaps it had something to do with molecular instability, cellular integrity...

  No... Allenby’s words about multiple organ failure reverberated in his memory. That scumbag had been lying all the time. The organ failure
hadn’t come about due to the mixing of genes. He’d designed these things to break down.

  Anastasia touched him on the shoulder and pointed to the cabin. “Worry about this thing later. Let’s talk to Istvan.”

  Entering the room, they found it awash in blood and parts of the agents who’d been on duty. Numerous bullet holes had traced their path along the inside in crazy arcs over the walls and the floor. All of the computers had been smashed, along with the surveillance equipment. The smell of blood and recently released inner waste hung in the air like a blanket and it was enough to make a person’s nose hairs wilt.

  A moan came from the kitchen. Harry ran over to where Overton, the real one, lay, his face covered in blood and his hand held to his temple, covering a nasty gash. “Hey, glad you made it,” the agent got out. “That thing beat me up good.”

  Helping him into a seated position, Harry hunted around for a piece of cloth and settled for using a patch of a towel he found. Tearing off a strip, he placed it against the gash and wound the towel around Overton’s head while listening to the injured agent relate the happenings of the past few minutes.

  “They... they came. My men were guarding the perimeter and I was watching things from inside. I heard sounds from outside... my men screaming for help.” He coughed and blood ran from his mouth. “They screamed for help, so... I opened the door...”

  “And saw you?”

  “Yeah, I saw me. I knew right away what was going on. It was just a flash, but the hair, the attitude...”

  He went on to say the attack had been frighteningly well-orchestrated as well as fast. “They hit me, killed my men, and told me they were going to take our little houseguest with them. Then you came... how’s your wife?”

  “She’s with Istvan, thanks for asking.”

  Harry looped his arm around the other man’s waist and helped him to his feet. “I still have my cellphone,” said Overton. “I’ll call this in. You have to get Istvan out of here.”