by Brad Murray
“Imagine the possibilities,” Dr. Brumeux had famously written. “Imagine a world in which disease did not exist. Imagine humanity unbound from the limitations we instinctively prescribe to. I believe in the possibility of this world, and I believe it can exist within our lifetimes. It is within this belief that I devote the full resources of the Order to locating the ‘Superstes’. He exists. I have seen him with my own eyes.”
Tragically, the Super discovered in 1970 was killed in a car accident. Along with the Super, two of the three valued field agents who gave pursuit were also lost. But news of the finding and rumors of the Super’s having a living bloodline shot a bolt of electricity through the organization. It was scintillating – Supers were real after all. Adding to the exhilaration was the fact that the field agent who managed to survive the accident was the founder’s grandson – at least as far as everyone knew. Benoit Brumeux, who had always been viewed as a natural to one day take the reins, saw his path to the top greatly accelerated. Less than a year later, Benoit Brumeux was in charge.
And how things had flourished since.
Minkowski took a sip of lukewarm coffee and waited for the CD player to load the next track. Beethoven’s 5th – one of his favorites. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the pane of glass protecting his sacred picture of Pierre-Louis Brumeux. Minkowski’s bald head gleamed in the early morning light that stretched through the basement window; it shined almost as brightly as Minkowski’s spirit. He was in his lab, listening to the music that comforted him, content that he was about to fly off to another important, meaningful, gratifying day of work.
The doorbell rang, giving him a start that sent tepid coffee splashing on his neatly pressed khaki pants. He cursed and jumped up from his chair to wipe the dark liquid away. The doorbell was like a hammer, driving a spike through the harmonious tranquility that was his morning routine.
No one ever rang his doorbell. Ever.
He abhorred unexpected visitors, and did everything in his power to prevent such unpleasant disturbances – the “NO SOLICITATION” signs in the front of the house couldn’t be missed by anyone who didn’t walk with a seeing-eye dog. He chose to ignore the bell, hoping whoever it was would conclude he wasn’t home. He narrowed his eyes and continued about his work. But the bell clanged again. And again. And again.
Furious, he marched to the stairs and stomped his way to the top, cursing with each step. Reaching the front door, he peered through the peep-hole and was annoyed to see a young girl standing on his porch, arms innocently draped behind her.
“Selling damned Girl Scout cookies,” thought Minkowski. He threw open the door and glared down. She was older than he had first assumed; her eyes carried a maturity that belied her early-teenaged body. Parted down the middle, her bright red hair twisted into twin pigtails. A single daisy decorated each of the tightly woven orange ropes, which hung closely behind her ears and ended just above her shoulders. She could easily pass for fifteen or sixteen, but those eyes…
“I don’t want whatever you’re selling,” bellowed Minkowski in his deep, Russian voice. He expected her to turn tail and disappear down his driveway, but the girl put her hands on her hips and took a step closer.
“I’m not selling anything, ye fuckin’ dickbrain,” she said in a heavy Irish accent. “Are ye off your nut?”
Minkowski’s mouth hung open, taken aback. “What do you want then?” he said, his tone less pointed.
“What do I want? What we want, you plonker,” she said looking over his shoulder, “is a piece of your bald arse!”
Minkowski felt a presence behind him. He turned to find, standing in his living room, the mirror image of the pigtailed girl standing on his porch. She wore her hair in the same daisy-adorned pigtails and dressed in the same denim overalls with a light-colored floral print blouse underneath. She was planted in a firm stance, hands on her hips, glaring. Confused, Minkowski swung his head from one girl to the other.
“What’s wrong ye ugly mug? Seein’ double are ye?” laughed the girl inside the house. “He sure is a nasty wanker, eh Sis?”
“Got a face like a well chewed chip,” laughed the other. She stepped forward, one foot inside the house.
“Who are you? How did you get in my house?” asked Minkowski, his normally intimidating tone cracked and hinted of timidity. Despite their diminutive stature, the look in their eyes transmitted wickedness, and he sensed danger. He felt stuck in the middle of a spider web, encircled by a pair of black widows.
“I’ll call the police,” said Minkowski weakly. “You should leave now.”
The girls said nothing as they cautiously inched closer, the girl on the porch now fully inside the house, closing the door behind her. Minkowski balled his fists. Intuition told him there was no way out of a physical confrontation. Rather than take on both at the same time, Minkowski decided to make the first move. He lunged for the one in the living room, hoping he could bowl past her and into the kitchen where an assortment of butcher knives were stored. But before his first step hit the floor, the girl had reared back on one leg and violently spun forward with a blur of a roundhouse kick. Her heel hit its target – Minkowski’s chin – and he toppled sideways into a wall. His vision went bleary and his ears rang. Before he could regain his balance he was pummeled with a kick to the temple, followed by a heavy blow to the back of his head. He crashed face first into the carpet, completely powerless. High-pitched Irish voices flittered about in his head, but the words wouldn’t register. He was in a woozy dream-like state, unable to focus. The girls turned him over, forcing him onto his back. His eyes opened in slits, and he tried in vain to sit up. The last image he registered before going black was the crushing sole of a shoe to his forehead.
***
“He’s got dry balls, this one,” said a girl’s voice. “S’posed to be some type of high falutin’ big shot, but he lives like a common plonker.”
“Aye he does, Sis. Lars said he was important but he doesn’t look like much, does he?”
“Nah, and just look at ‘em. Sittin’ there bleedin’. Face like a fuckin’ busted cabbage. Reminds me of that hoor Betsy O’Shea that night in Belfast. ”
“Aye, ‘Bucktooth Betsy’, I remember. That slut uh had it comin’, Sis. Thinkin’ she could buck with yer man. Give her a firm shakin’ and the dicks fall outta ‘er, that one.”
“Couldn’t call her ‘Bucktooth Betsy’ after we was through wit’ her, could ya? We was only helpin’ her looks if ye ask me. Girl could chew an apple through a tennis racket.” The girls snickered.
Minkowski stirred to life. He opened his eyes, or at least tried to. His right eye was nearly swollen shut. The bitter taste of blood on his tongue and the pounding in his head made his stomach churn. As he came to, he realized he was in his basement laboratory, tightly bound to a chair, his arms behind him and his ankles underneath him. The clock showed 8:15 - he’d been out for over an hour.
“Well, what do we have ‘ere, Sis? Sleepyhead is alive! We was beginnin’ to wonder ‘bout ya.”
Minkowski groaned. “What do you want?” he croaked. “I don’t have cash - no valuables that you’d want.”
The closer of the two girls backhanded Minkowski across the face. Blood splashed across his dress shirt and sprayed onto the framed picture of Dr. Brumeux.
“Ye mistake us for common thieves? If we wanted to lift yer shit, we’d of taken it all without ye even knowin’. Ye must be thick or somethin’ - we work fer the Alicante, ye bald bastard!”
Minkowski flinched - just the mention of “Alicante” caused a physical reaction. The Order had always taken every precaution to fly under the Alicante’s radar; their power was unparalleled. Its members had shaped the course of world history and had become more intent on shaping its future. But over the last decade it had become evident to Benoit Brumeux that the Alicante and the Order could not coexist. Their philosophies had become at odds. A war had been waged, but for the time being it would be a guerrilla war – wi
th the Order fighting anonymously as long as possible. Brumeux had long speculated the Alicante would one day discover who they were fighting against, but there had been no indications to date that such a discovery had been made. The presence of the girls meant otherwise.
Minkowski spat a mouthful of blood at their feet.
“Oh no, Sis! Looks like someone has a case of the red arse,” said one.
“Aye, he looks a right bit pissed,” laughed the other. “Are ye pissed, sir?” She poked his forehead with a finger. The girls cackled in delight like deranged teenaged girls at a sleepover.
“Let’s get down to business now, Mister Minkowski,” said one.
“Yer gonna tell us whatchu know ‘bout the Order and ‘bout yer creation of anti-viruses,” said the other. She held a pair of needle-nose pliers to the light and studied them intently. “Every. Single. Fuckin’. Detail.”
Minkowski glanced at the blood spotted picture of Dr. Brumeux. With steely resolve he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh don’t be like that,” she said, snapping the pliers open and closed repeatedly. “How are we s’posed to make chicken soup when all yer givin’ us is chicken shite? Ye see what I hold here in me hand, Mr. Minkowski? Look like common household utensils to ye, do they? They’re not common at all, no. They hold special powers, they do.”
She slowly lowered the pliers to his nose as she spoke.
“These are me truth pullers, Mr. Minkowski. Don’t be a wanker, make it easy on yerself. Now tell us what it is ye do fer the Order.”
“I don’t understand anything you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
The Sisters smiled.
“Stubborn fella, this one! If he had two brains, he’d be twice as stupid!” said one.
“Aye, fuckin’ plonker! We’ll have to rearrange his face for ‘im,” said the other.
She leaned forward and traced his cheekbones with the tip of the pliers.
“Listen, Dr. Dickhead. Don’t lie to us. If yeh haven’t figger’d it out yet, we ain’t shy ‘bout gettin’ a little blood on our hands. In fact, we quite prefer it. I suggest yeh start to talkin’, and do it in a bit of a hurry if yeh know what’s good fer yeh.”
Minkowski exhaled audibly but said nothing.
“Yeh burnt yer one chance,” said one, shaking her head.
“Have it yer way then,” said the other.
While one sister held Minkowski’s head firm, the other spread the pliers open wide and slid one prong deep into each nostril. She squeezed the pliers together with both hands, with all her strength. Minkowski squealed like a baby. Just when he thought he couldn’t possibly take the pain any longer, she violently twisted the pliers, cracking his nose in a loud snap. Minkowski moaned and went limp, blacking out for the second time.
***
Over the course of five hours, Minkowski passed out six times. And each time he awoke, the Sisters had something more sinister in store for him. Five hours of the worst, most unimaginable sort of pain and torment. To his credit, he never uttered a word about the Order; denied any knowledge of its existence. He begged and pleaded. He cried. He attempted to reason. But the more he dragged his feet, the crueler the punishment became.
“Ye gotta hand it to ‘im. He’s lasted much longer than we expected,” said one.
“Aye,” said the other, taking practice swings with a hammer. “almost noon. Much better than I would have given ‘im credit fer. But wait til he gets a load of what’s comin’ next, bet he’ll give up his own mother…wait, what was that?”
The Sisters froze and listened intently. The floorboards above them creaked softly. One of the Sisters crammed a rag into Minkowski’s mouth.
“Yeh make so much as a whimper and I’ll cut yer fuckin’ tongue out,” she hissed.
The floorboards creaked again directly above them - slow, cautious footsteps. One of the Sisters pointed to the hallway with her chin, the other acknowledged with a nod. The two turned their backs on Minkowski - each with a hammer in hand - and silently disappeared into the hallway. He was left behind in his laboratory. The room that had always been his heavenly sanctuary had become a hellish prison. He was as helpless as a newborn baby; robbed of the control he so coveted - more aptly - required to maintain his sanity. He swallowed, the musty taste of the rag washing over his dry tongue. He yearned for water - just a sip would have been heaven-sent.
He strained to perceive even the slightest of noises, anything that would help paint the picture of what was happening above. But the beating of his heart, the pulsing of blood through his veins, and the sound of his own labored breathing interfered. He wondered who it was sneaking across the floor above him. Another member of the Alicante? Perhaps it was a neighbor who had heard his cries?
Maybe they called the police, he thought. Perhaps he’d be saved from the pair of monsters whose torment seemed to know no bounds. For the first time all morning, there was a ray of hope.
For several minutes there was no sound; not a whisper from the Sisters or as much as a squeak from above. Minkowski pondered spitting out the rag and screaming for help but found he was too petrified of the risks. He imagined the police officer running down the stairs to come to his aid where a couple of hammer-wielding demons were waiting for him in the shadows. Besides, he had no doubt the Sisters would make do on the promise to cut out his tongue.
At last the silence was broken. Creaking again – four quick steps - but this time not directly above him. The unknown visitor had crept from the living room to the hallway near the stairs.
Silence again - perpetual silence it seemed.
He was left behind to his own imagination - which was another form of torture entirely. Agonizing. Wondering. Hoping. Helplessly waiting.
Minkowski felt certain of one thing – the longer the silence ensued, the less chance the mystery visitor was an ally of the Sisters. And, if he wasn’t their ally, he was on Minkowski’s side; a thought that offered a small amount of comfort.
Suddenly, a dull thud followed by two softer thumps – something falling and bouncing on the floor. A terrible smashing sound – glass breaking – and the boom of something heavy crashing to the floor. The entire ceiling felt as though it were going to give way. The light fixtures shook and the floor joists groaned. A flurry of feet running across the floor and an explosion – a gunshot. There were muffled shouts and grunts – a scuffle. Another crash on the floor above him – this one not as heavy as the first. Two more dull thuds. Silence. Eerie silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity.
Finally, creaking again. Footsteps moving towards the stairs. Slow footsteps - labored and irregular, erratic. Was it one person or two? He couldn’t be sure. And then the stairs squeaked – someone was coming down. He could hear heavy breathing coming from the stairwell and an odd scraping noise. Grunting. Breathing. Scraping. Heavy, strenuous steps. Whoever was coming down was moving at a snail’s pace, and doing so under heavy exertion.
He eyed the open doorway and waited in agonizing anticipation for a figure to appear. The bottom of the stairs had been reached. Only seconds away now. His pulse quickened.
And then his heart sank.
“Fuckin’ help me, why dontcha?” said the voice – the dreadfully recognizable voice. Just the sound of that voice made his stomach churn. Hope had cruelly floated in, filling his heart with teasing promises of an end to his agony, only to pop in his face like a balloon. His spirits sank – this nightmare appeared to know no end.
“Bugger off yeh bitch,” said the other Sister, huffing and puffing.
The two shouldered their way into the laboratory, each under one arm of a slumping figure. A woman. She appeared to be passed out. Her long blonde hair was frazzled, disheveled - matted with blood and draped over her face. She was small, but far larger than the Sisters. A drop of blood hung from her chin and fell, disappearing into her black shirt. They dragged her into the center of room, a few feet in front of Minkowski, and dropped he
r unceremoniously. She fell like a heavy bag of sand and her body thudded brutally, face first onto the cement floor.
“Who’s yer little friend?” said one of the Sisters, hands on her knees trying to catch her breath.
Minkowski glanced at the body and, with gloomy eyes, shrugged his shoulders.
“Let’s see ‘ere. Black shirt, black pants…seems familiar, eh Sis?”
“Yeah,” she said, pulling the rag from Minkowski’s mouth. “Gonna try and deny yer not with the Order now, Dr. Dickhead?”
Minkowski said nothing, just stared expressionlessly at the woman lying on the floor. She was still alive, he noticed. Her torso rose and fell softly, her fingers twitched.
“Jaysus! That was fuckin’ close, Sis. ‘Bout met me maker on that one, I did. Could hear the bullet a’whizzin’ over me head.”
“Aye, lucky fer you I was there to beat ‘er arse fer ye. Ye grabbed ‘er gun?”
“Aye, got it in me back pocket. Ye think there’ll be more of ‘em?”
“Bloody likely,” she said. She stepped closer to Minkowski, her freckled forehead furled, her serpent-like green eyes narrowed. “We’ll haftuh pick up the pace then, won’t we now? Yeh better get to talkin’, yeh wrinkled old cocksack. Else I’ll have me Sis put a plug in ‘er.”
She turned and nodded to her sister, who pulled the gun from her back pocket. With her foot she rolled the woman onto her back and knelt over her – gun flush with the woman’s forehead. Overwhelming fear seized his heart.
Her name was Tatiana.
She’d been a field agent with the Order for a few years. And, unlike most people he came across, he could actually tolerate her. But it was more than that. He rather enjoyed their exchanges – limited though they had been. She had grown up in Moscow, just as he had, and she had a certain way of disarming him in conversation. He felt at ease with her – a rare sensation for Minkowski. Perhaps it was the way she talked, the familiarity of her accent that made him feel at home. Or it might have been her smile; one that seemed to radiate infectious happiness from somewhere deep within her soul. Often times, Tatiana would materialize out of nowhere in his thoughts. He would speculate about what she was doing at that moment in time. He would daydream about what it would be like to kiss her. And most of all, he wondered whether someone so wonderful could fall in love with such a cantankerous, bald-headed, old man. But he had never summoned the courage to find out. And for that he despised himself. For all his gruff, tough exterior, deep down Minkowski was a man who was controlled by his own fears.