Crypto-Punk

by George Traikovich

  “What’s that stupid song anyway?” Drew asked, coming out from behind the hedges.

  Clementine popped her head up and over the school sign before joining him. “It’s from the Wizard of Oz. Ya know, ‘We’re off to see the wizard...’”

  “Their vacant expressions and catatonic stupor can mean only one thing,” Newton said, climbing down from the tree.

  Clementine stuck her hand on her hip and waited for an explanation of his explanation.

  “Post-hypnotic suggestion,” Newton explained, “like in the chair.”

  “But I was in the chair,” Drew said. “We all was. I didn’t walk around like a zombie.”

  “Don’t work on everybody,” Newton said. “But those that it does work on can be controlled—made to follow orders. Like puppets.”

  They watched the cars leave the parking lot in an orderly ballet without any horn honking, swearing, or fisticuffs—a miraculous achievement in itself.

  “Well, that didn’t work,” Clementine said, turning to face Drew. “Now what?”

  * * *

  The next day after school, Clementine arrived at the Windmill to find Spider and Grady sitting outside the door.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Door’s locked,” Spider said.

  “Did ya knock?” she asked.

  Grady clapped his hands to the sides of his head. “Dude, no, I didn’t. Lucky ya got here when ya did. We would’ve never thought of that.”

  He got up and pretended to knock, exaggerating for effect. “Nobody home.”

  “They must be holed up in there working on something,” Clementine said.

  “Spider, what’s Spanish for duh?” Grady asked.

  “Don’t know,” Spider answered, “can’t talk Spanish.”

  Newton rolled up a minute later on his Huffy. He lowered the kickstand and chained the bike to the rack. “Ain’t me. Might be homeless guys like last time.”

  But that didn’t make sense either. Between the police substation on the corner and the surveillance lights from the junkyard next door, they didn’t get many visitors.

  Clementine’s brow furrowed, and her eyes turned to focused slits. She was already tired of waiting, even though she hadn’t been waiting very long at all. “Stand back.”

  She brushed them aside and stepped backward a few paces, digging in her heels.

  “Not this again,” Grady lamented.

  She lowered her shoulder and shot out of the blocks like a sprinter, launching herself against the door and blasting it off its hinges.

  “It ain’t locked no more,” she said.

  Grady could only throw up his arms in disgust. “Redheads.”

  * * *

  Clementine inched forward, arms outstretched, as the others filed in behind her. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the cool blue darkness before asking the obvious question: “What is that thing?”

  The thing reached from floor to ceiling, disappearing into the rafters high above. A canvas sheet hid its features but clung to enough of the bulging muscles and powerful sinews beneath to give them some idea of the anatomy in question.

  Drew appeared from behind the colossus, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “How ya like it?”

  “What is it?” Clementine repeated.

  “The answer to y’all’s problem, of course.”

  Lazy-Eye Susan’s sudden manifestation caught them by surprise. They all knew her from around the neighborhood, but materializing from out of the dark like she did spooked them.

  “What problem?” Clementine said.

  “Enzyme Seven only works on some kids now, but what if this fella Frost fixes it so that it works on all y’all?” Susan said.

  “I’m a kid,” Newton said.

  “Yeah, and some of the popular kids—the kids that ain’t changin’—they’re goin’ Crypto-Punk, dressin’ like kids that did change…like it’s cool or something,” Spider said, his head dipping toward Grady.

  Newton agreed. “It’s gettin’ to where ya can’t tell the real Cryptos from all the posers and wannabes.”

  “My sister showed me a dance called the Crypto-Shuffle on Youtube,” Clementine said. “Got like a million views.”

  “Let’s call the cops,” Grady said.

  “They won’t believe us,” Newton shot back.

  “Or worse. They’ll call our folks. You saw what happened at the PTA meeting,” Clementine added.

  “Yeah. Yeah, my mom still ain’t right,” Spider said. “Don’t know what they did to her in there, but she just smiles and nods, no matter what I say.”

  Clementine put the pieces together before the others did. “We gotta make our own. We gotta use Enzyme Seven to make our own Crypto.”

  “Why we gotta do that?” Grady asked. “How’s that gonna help?”

  “Because we don’t want the Army to think that Enzyme Seven really works,” Clementine said.

  “But it really does work,” Grady said. “And makin’ our own will prove it—prove it works so good that a bunch of kids can do it.”

  “This fella Frost is gonna show them bigwigs Enzyme Seven in action,” Susan said. “Well, we’ll put on a show of our own. We’ll show ’em just how unpredictable Enzyme Seven is—scare some sense into ’em ’fore they go too far.”

  “How?” Newton asked.

  “By sendin’ our Crypto on a mission all his own,” Susan said. “And after our boy gets through wreckin’ their little party, those Army muckety-mucks will see they can’t control Enzyme Seven and give up on this nonsense all by theyselves!”

  “Dude, that seems like a really complicated plan,” Grady said. But the others were already caught up in her machinations and just tuned him out. Lazy-Eye Susan had a way of making even the most outlandish scheme seem plausible.

  “But we still don’t know much about Enzyme Seven,” Newton said.

  “You keep callin’ it an enzyme, which ain’t quite right—strictly speaking,” Susan said. “It’s a livin’ thing. Like a parasite.”

  “What makes ya say that?” Spider asked.

  She led them to a rusty shopping cart parked in the corner. A tangle of glass coils and copper tubing wound around a tarnished brass tank bolted to the bottom of the cart.

  “What’s all this junk?” Grady asked.

  “Ain’t junk. It’s a distillery, a still,” Susan said with a wink. “I use it to make…medicine.”

  Drew sniffed the air. “Yeah, my gramps drinks his medicine out of a shot glass.”

  She ignored him and poured a gallon of the Enzyme Seven-infused water into the funnel at one end of the makeshift contraption. The liquid flowed through the tubes and passed through filter after filter, finally collecting in a brass kettle suspended over a burner at the other end. Bubbling and boiling, the witch’s brew tried to punch its way out of the sealed kettle with sentient ferocity.

  “That stuff’s really alive!” Clementine shouted.

  “Wait—wait. When I boiled it down, it didn’t jump around like that. How come?” Newton asked.

  Susan pointed to the grimy car battery sitting next to the distillery. Bringing the leads together sent furious blue sparks dancing across the gap. “It’s dormant ’til activated, and it’s activated by a ’lectrical charge modulated at just the right frequency.”

  “We didn’t activate Romeo’s dose,” Newton said.

  “Ya didn’t need to,” Susan said. “His dose was activated ‘fore you grabbed him. You was just addin’ fuel to the fire, so to speak.”

  Clementine pointed to the canvas-draped colossus behind them. “Wait. Then what’s under the cover?”

  “Stand back,” Susan cautioned.

  She grabbed one end of the canvas, and Drew grabbed the other, and together they pulled the sheet away, unveiling what was beneath: a six-inch Frankenstein glued together from the parts of different action figures.

  “We had the sheet tailored to fit the eventual dimensions of our Crypto to save time,�
�� Drew explained.

  “You are so stupid!” Clementine huffed.

  The model’s patchwork anatomy fused limbs and organs harvested from the broken and forgotten toys they’d outgrown--A Mr. Potato head kit, a Tickle-Me Elmo doll, an old, headless GI Joe and some Star Wars figurines--among others, all stitched together like something that crawled out of their collective nightmares

  “Yeah. Yeah, this could work,” Spider said.

  “Yeah,” Drew said. “We saw what Enzyme Seven did to Romeo and Harley and ’em.”

  “What we need to get started?” Spider asked.

  “DNA,” Susan said.

  “Who gets to volunteer?” Clementine asked.

  Susan held a gleaming sewing needle up to the light and flashed a menacing smile. “Y’all do.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The chopper appeared over the curve of the horizon at dawn, skimming across the water’s glassy surface like a dragonfly. Flying this low kept the helicopter beneath the radar and the pilot from having to answer tough questions from civilian air traffic controllers, something his passengers wanted to avoid at all costs.

  General Hyde leaned over and pointed out the port-side window, almost spilling his coffee on his uniform. “There it is…Transylvania Island!”

  Frost stared out across the terrain, his sunglasses reflecting the forested landscape rushing past in a blur. The island was the peak of a submerged mountain a few miles across, with a working dock and a rudimentary road system in place, though not much else.

  “My dad brought me here when I was a kid,” the General said. “It was kinda like Disneyland, except creepier. Guess it had to be since they made monster movies and such. All kinds of robot…”

  “Animatronic,” Frost said, correcting him.

  “Right…animatronic…all kinds of animatronic characters popping out around every corner. Scared the hell out of me then. Still kinda creepy even now, when I think about it.”

  The missile’s impact crater was massive, as big as a football field and half as deep. The explosion had left the midway and surrounding rides intact, though exposure to the elements over the years had ravaged the existing machinery almost beyond repair.

  “We’ve got teams of engineers working in shifts to restore the site to a basic level of functionality,” Hyde said.

  Frost watched the cranes and bulldozers excavating around the crater rim, while the engineers tore down the damaged infrastructure to make way for the new construction.

  “This part of the island is below sea level. Water seeped in through the soil and flooded the crater not long after the initial impact,” Hyde said.

  A heavy cargo helicopter lowered girders into the crater, its double rotors wheezing beneath the strain of the load. The workers at ground level guided the girders into position, bolting them together as fast as the cargo chopper could drop them in.

  “When it’s finished, the dome will cover the majority of the crater. We’ll be able to house all of the Crypto training modules inside,” Hyde said.

  “Impressive,” Frost said. “Your men look like they’ve done this kind of work before.”

  Hyde pulled a silver flask out of his inside coat pocket and offered some to Frost before topping off his mug. “Well, maybe not them, but some of their granddaddies mighta worked on the same kind of thing during the war.”

  Frost turned his head away from the window and waited for the explanation he knew was forthcoming.

  “Your project ain’t our first rodeo,” Hyde said. “The Army tried something like this during WWII. You ever hear of the Transylvania Brigade?”

  Frost smiled nonchalantly. “I remember reading something about it. A public relations stunt during the war, wasn’t it?”

  Hyde shook his head.

  “No?”

  “No,” Hyde said. “The Army used that as the cover story after the original experiment was compromised.”

  Frost listened to the rotor’s dull drone while the General filled him in on the program’s history. “Tell me, what happened to the test subjects?”

  “There were unfortunate…side effects,” Hyde said.

  * * *

  Lazy-Eye Susan insisted that the kids stay away from the Windmill for the next few days while their Crypto grew. She explained that she wanted to avoid contaminating the samples, which seemed odd given how messy the Windmill’s interior already was.

  Because they’d never grown their own Crypto before and she appeared to have had much more experience doing so, they did as she asked.

  After a few days passed and they’d heard nothing from her, they rode their bikes to the Windmill after school to check on the progress.

  They gave the secret knock, and she answered the door. She cracked the door open just enough so she could see out, but not enough for them to be able to see in.

  “Ain’t done yet, but we’re gettin’ closer. Come back tomorrow,” she said, and shut the door behind her.

  This went on for a few days more and ended the same way each time, with Susan repeating what she told them before: “Ain’t done yet, but we’re gettin’ closer. Come back tomorrow.”

  Their patience ran dry by the seventh day, and they rode their bikes to the Windmill determined to get answers.

  They gave the secret knock and waited. The sky above darkened dramatically, and a soft rain began falling, rhythmically pelting the broken ground around them.

  A few moments later, Susan came to the door.

  Her face was pale, her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. “We might have a teeny-tiny problem,” she said, and let them in.

  * * *

  The gargantuan Crypto towered over them, all pink and bloody scarlet, wrapped from head to toe in gauze and bandages. Like a reflection in a funhouse mirror, the jigsaw anatomy was twisted and strange, recognizable--but misshapen and distorted.

  “Looks like something that should be hangin’ in a deli window,” Newton said.

  “The bandages will help promote healing and sorta hold ’im together,” Susan said.

  “What happened?” Clementine asked. “This don’t look nothin’ like the model ya showed us.”

  “Well…now…I don’t know exactly,” Susan said. “That Enzyme Seven was a bit more ornery than I expected…and, well…”

  “And?” Clementine repeated.

  “And there mighta, uh…maybe been…contamination.”

  “Contamination? From what?” Clementine said.

  “Can’t say fer sure,” Susan admitted.

  Clementine made her way to the dark corner where Susan had set up her little lab. No wonder she wasn’t sure what had happened. A hodge-podge collection of unlabeled vials and specimens cluttered the makeshift workbench, defying any semblance of organization.

  Clementine held the vials up to the light, one at a time, but it was impossible to tell what was what. “That thing could be made up of any of these—or all of these.”

  “Whoa! Careful with that one, child,” Susan said.

  The silvery liquid inside the vial flowed back and forth with the consistency of molasses.

  “What’s so special ’bout this?” Clementine asked.

  “That there is the closest thing to lightnin’ in a bottle you’ll ever see.”

  Clementine rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  Susan took the vial from her and put it gently back in its place. “Might as well run through a thunderstorm wearin’ tinfoil underwear as soon as spill a drop of that.”

  Spider’s head twisted in the Crypto’s direction. “Wait. Wait…did that thing move?”

  They watched the inanimate creature for a moment, looking for signs of life.

  “Dude, you’re losin’ it,” Grady said.

  “Yeah. It’s your imagination,” Drew assured him.

  Spider exhaled. “Yeah. Yeah, musta been my…”

  The Crypto lurched forward, and the kids scattered like roaches, taking shelter among the ju
nk inside the Windmill.

  “Relax. It’s just static electricity,” Susan said.

  But the kids weren’t convinced.

  “You sure?” Grady asked, popping his head over the table.

  “I’m sure,” Susan said, posing with her arm around the lifeless Crypto to prove it.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” Clementine asked, inching forward.

  “Snips and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what this little boy is made of!” Susan winked.

  “How ya know?” Grady asked.

  The others waited for him to figure it out.

  “Oh, yeah,” Grady said, his face turning red.

  “What do we call him?” Spider asked.

  Newton shook his head. “What do we call him? That’s not important.”

  “Sure is,” Clementine insisted. “I got an Uncle Marvin and an Uncle Scorpio. One of ’em manages a fast food joint, and the other built a giant laser in my Aunt’s garage. Guess who did what?”

  “You made that up,” Grady said.

  Spider turned to Susan. “He do anything?”

  “Not yet,” Susan answered.

  “Whatcha mean?” Clementine asked.

  “Well, he hain’t quite done yet,” Susan said, waddling to the back of the Windmill. “There’s still one itty-bitty thing missin’.”

  She was back a minute later, carrying a battered wooden case beneath her arm. “We got the body. Now all we need is the soul!”

  She cleared a space on the table and set the record player down between Romeo and Juliet’s cages.

  “What’s wrong with Romeo?” Newton asked, pressing his face up against his cage.

  Susan was supposed to take care of the mice while they were gone, but it didn’t look like she’d done a very good job. Romeo staggered back and forth in his cage like he was drunk. Bare patches in his fur marred his glossy coat, and his eyes, once shiny and vibrant, now seemed dull and vacant.

  “He’s been a bit under the weather the last few days,” Susan said. “But I’m sure he’ll snap out of it and be his ol’ self in no time.”

  She pushed the cage aside to avoid further distractions.

  “Where was I? Oh, I ’member.” Susan rummaged through her satchel until she found what she wanted to show them. She blew the dust off the cover and slid the vinyl seventy-eight gingerly out of the sleeve. “Been savin’ this fer an emergency, and I s’pose this occasion fits the requirement.”

  “What is it?” Spider asked.