“Trent. I’m surprised you’re still around. I thought everyone had changed.”
I sat down on his cot. “No one’s told me anything. What do you know?”
He remained standing. “First Peter did it, then Antonio. Frankly, I wanted a chance to see if I could do something better with my life, so I came here.”
“Did what? I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Remember Jerry?”
“Yeah, he lives with me. He gets kinda annoying when the sun comes up,” I said.
“He changed into a crow and never changed back. It’s like he got his freedom. Peter took a sound clip of crows and made himself change too. After that, a bunch of the others got together and did it en masse. They wanted me to join ‘em but I decided to do some work at the clinic instead. These people here don’t care what I look like. They’re just happy I’m here to help.”
“How do you know the change was their choice?” I asked.
“What would make you think it wasn’t?” he countered.
“Diego, you talked.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I heard it. Sounded like a confession,” I said.
He sat in the lone chair. “That’s privileged. He was a man of the cloth.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a rope and a pair of headphones. Before Diego could process what had happened I put the rope around his wrists.
He said, “You don’t need to tie me up for this.”
“You know what I’m going to do?” I asked.
“Yeah, and if the brass is willing to track what I say in private all the way out here, I don’t stand a chance. At least I’ll have closure.”
I loosened the rope, placed large padded headphones over his ears and hit play on a cassette player set to maximum volume. I expected him to scream, but he’d lived through changes before.
His form dwindled until a crow sat in the place of a good man. A good man who had finally been given his freedom from a life as dreadful as my own. I wished it could have been me so I could be free, so I could be the one with closure. I guess after so many horrific memories, what’s one more to carry around with me?
I collected the Diego-crow to transport back home and give Jerry some company.
No, I lied again. I promise not to lie anymore.
I couldn’t do it. Diego told me the transformation would give him closure. Closure? Who deserved closure more than me? My whole life was a disaster, and I had a way out in my very own hands. I had to find a way to keep it for myself.
“Diego,” I said, “You’re a better man than me. Let me do this, you walk out of here in my wrap and let me be the crow. I’m willing to give my life up to let you keep searching for your answers.”
Diego paused in thought, and I took the opening to throw my wrappings and my wallet at him and put the headphones on myself. Changing was all the agony I remembered refreshed, but when it was over, I was the crow. Diego had already started wrapping himself in my coverings. I considered myself more deserving of the freedom from my life than Diego, so I took it for myself.
In the end, it was pride that made me do it.
All right, that was one last lie.
A Word from Thomas Robins
I’m going to use this space to admit that I made a huge mistake. When I was invited to participate in this anthology, I didn’t realize there were expectations for shapeshifter stories. I recently heard that shifter stories were supposed to be about romance and teenage angst. So, let me apologize for giving you a story with no romance and a character whose disposition goes way beyond angst.
One of the early readers told me “Of Bats and Atomic Bombs” was a “dark” story. However, I prefer to think of this story as an exploration of changes, both forced and chosen. So many of us live our lives just thinking of the next thing that will complete us: education, status, money, or things. Some people dig deeper and search for relationships, friends, or God. In the end, is it not the belief that happiness can be pursued that causes our unhappiness? At the very least, once a person realizes life is unfair, life becomes much easier.
I am supposed to take a moment to tell you about some of my other works. I’ll suggest two. If you liked “Of Bats and Atomic Bombs” because the protagonist was never likable, then check out Where Dragons Lie. On the other hand, if you like to like your main characters, go read Desperate to Escape.
Oh, and you should know that this is not the first story Doctor Jupiter has made an appearance in. If you want to know where else to find him, feel free to email me at [email protected].
I hope you are enjoying this anthology.
Thomas Robins
www.thomasrobins.com (join the mailing list!)
Breakdown
by Christopher Boore
JACK BANKS GLARED through one crusty eye at the silent alarm clock.
You.
2:30 AM. Cool blue digits were winking back as if to say, "Don't look at me. I didn't do it." The little black plastic box wasn't lying. It was the piece-of-junk first-gen iPhone, sadistically grinning. Email notifications its teeth.
Anxiety washed through Jack like a wave of molten lava. "Again?" he muttered to himself, low enough to not rouse Genny.
Something mechanical had decided to keel over. Instant agitation made Jack's stomach slosh and gurgle like an alien practicing gymnastics in a paddling pool filled with Jell-O. To still the rebellion threatening to overtake his lower GI tract Jack reached over to the nightstand, and in one fluid sweep he grabbed the antacids, flipped the cap open with a thumb, and shook four out, sending them spiraling into his mouth. Returning the calcium crusaders to their post, Jack reached for his phone and swiped it on.
Five missed alarms. The boss man’s gonna flip.
Wondering why he hadn’t yet received an angry phone call, Jack dug further, opening the remote maintenance app, only to delight in the joy of waiting for the sluggish processor to play catch up.
Come on, come on, come on.
Uplink syncing with ISA, flashed in white letters across the black screen. Flashing… Flashing… Flashing…
The hatred for being on-call was strong with this one. A necessary evil that hounded his existence. The pay was great, but at what cost? Jack’s waning sanity? The money earned from catering to his arch nemesis’s tantrums had helped Genny and him fly her folk’s coop. They now had a house of their own, ten minutes from the facility. The quick drive made things a little sweeter, not by much, but it was something. It was just coming up on a year and they had found a comfort that was irreplaceable. They enjoyed a simple life, as people who were one paycheck away from being broke tend to do. No kids yet; Genny had begun the playfully taunting process of hinting that in the near future she may be interested. Poor Jack was more worried about the financial aspects of child rearing and was solid in his decision of waiting a long, long time.
Solid as a slab of granite.
A flashing yellow bar brought his blurry eyes into focus, letting Jack know what he already assumed. The temperamental steam boiler had been patiently waiting for an overdue PM, and patience had run thin. This was the fifth time the bucket of rust had decided to fart out the pilot light and flip him the mechanical finger this week. It was getting old. Jack was just about ready to set a match to the place. Start from scratch. A new building, a new boiler. A man could dream, but the law liked to poke their big fat noses in when things got messy.
If it were summer, the machine made of nightmares could have waited until an appropriate hour. But an abnormal winter had risen to its peak in South Florida. When things are used to being warm and humid all year round, then you plunge them into the dry, frigid grips of hell they get a little testy. The steam boiler was well beyond testy and not planning on making a return trip, possibly ever. There was no point in putting off the inevitable so Jack got out of bed, and by the spectral glow of the phone’s flashlight, slipped a worn pair of Wranglers on over his boxer briefs.
A
voice half awake whispered from under the rumpled comforter, “Drive safe.”
“I shouldn’t be long. It’s just that damn boiler again.”
That better be all it is. With a grumpy pout, Jack threw on a shirt and slipped on his untied boots. He grabbed his keys and wallet, pocketed the wireless ball and chain, and headed out the door, making sure to try the lock twice on his way out to the truck. Good ol’ Jack, the self-proclaimed king of doubt.
The ride to the facility was quick, and Genny’s plea for safety flew right out the window. Jack shed new light on the saying pedal to the metal.
The sooner I get there, the sooner I get home.
His hunk of a truck had recently decided it was time for its alternator to die, aiding in the constant struggle to keep Jack’s anxiety at bay. The economy was tight, and not many green-faced paper politicians were heading into research and development. Money only seemed to high-dive willingly into the deep, dirty pockets of capitalist America.
The monetary cutbacks forced Jack to have to charge the truck at home, and he had to drive as fast as possible in the hopes of getting to the building before vehicular suicide took ownership of the night’s center stage, rendering him deserted. Genny’s ride was also up the creek. It had its own share of issues, but was at least slightly more drivable than his rolling junkyard. Machines seemed to have a dire hatred for Jack for being a maintenance man. Every inch of progress toward Campburn was accompanied by a systematic dimming of the headlights. Jack’s only hope was that he’d get to his destination before the inevitable laid claim to his ill-fated, forced venture.
* * *
Campburn BioTech’s metal-halide beams pierced the night. A lighthouse calling a lost sailor home. Jack knew he was okay. Close enough to push the truck now if he had to. Turning into the grounds, he saw an anomaly. Bill Watkins, the Monday-through-Thursday-night security guard, was absent from his post.
It wasn’t alarming, Bill being absent. He was more than likely on rounds. Concern for Bill was minimal, far down the list. Bill had a couple of screws loose and an off-putting lazy eye, which made him seem more off-kilter. Jack was somewhat pleased; he might be able to get in and out before encountering the weirdo. What was strange was that the gate was wide open, sitting back on its tracks. Jack’s spidey-sense was tingling. It would be just his luck that some hippy terrorist in league with PETA had rushed the building and was now attempting to exonerate all the drugged-up critters from their shady future.
Keep the imagination in check Jacky-boy. Stay focused.
He drove the truck through the gate, across the asphalt, and parked near the maintenance shop, out back beside the loading dock.
One boot on the ground, the iPhone pinged and glowed in his pocket. Jack plucked it out. A low-volume alarm on what Jack called the slushy machine. A device Jack didn't know too much about, but what he did know was the half-a-million-buckaroo piece of equipment shouldn't be in alarm. The bio-print lab used the slushy feeder to pump a chemical and vitamin cocktail into 3D printed tissue to keep it alive. But Lab 206 didn't operate after hours. The work was too sensitive and had to be frequently monitored. The slushy machine should be offline.
And the list grows…
After he reset the pilot light and checked out 206, he would hook the truck’s battery up to the Quicky-Charge rapid charger and steal a leftover donut and some top-shelf coffee from the executive fridge. That would at least make the trip tolerable.
Somewhat.
Coffee this early could be disastrous, but a risk worth taking. Jack’s stomach was lined with flower petals, a sensitive mess not to be trifled with. He’d just eat his donut, sip his coffee, wait for the boiler to cycle a couple of times, and bail before Watkins found him.
* * *
After a short detour to close the gate, Jack rerouted and jogged through the cold toward the double doors, one of only two entrances into the fortress, the other on the south side exiting the vivarium out onto the loading dock. His head was swiveling, peering into every shadow, paranoia tap-dancing in stiletto heels across his brain. Rootless imagination was on a romp through his overactive mind. He placed a cold finger to the keypad by the door, and a high-pitched buzz responded. His attempt to enter had been revoked. The pad shrieked an unintelligible electronic insult in Jack’s general direction, then proceeded to let him know his error in a mechanized female British accent.
“Skin temperature too low, please try again.”
Jack huffed warm breath onto his fingertip and placed it again on the LED backlit screen. “Welcome to the Campburn Facility for Bio-Robotic Research. You are authorized to enter, Jack Banks. Please enjoy your visit.”
I’m here every day fixing her up, where’s the “Jack, I’m so happy you’re here, not one of those other wrench-swinging apes. Thank you for coming so fast, I know I’m in good hands now." All these years of going above and beyond and she still treats me like a stranger. My feelings are hurt, ISA.
A magnetic click echoed behind bulletproof glass doors, permitting entry into the pristine, marble-tiled foyer. Jack reached out and grabbed the handle. Pulling the door open, a breath of warmer air escaped, caressing his frigid face like a warm welcome mat.
* * *
Silence greeted Jack, not true silence, but the kind you'd find in a place like Campburn. Random creaks as the temperature changes caused the walls to bow and flex. Water whooshing overhead, racing through cooling valves. The pops and whines of dampers shifting to change air flow. Minuscule details most would overlook. Almost everything was in its place. Almost. No lazy-eyed security guard perched cheerfully behind the desk, waiting for the opportunity to talk someone's ear off at a ridiculous hour. This ridiculous hour.
Has to be on rounds.
Shrugging off the thought, Jack picked up the pace and made his way to the pair of elevators at the end of the pristine atrium. He tapped the button for the service elevator, the one that'd take him where he needed to be. The penthouse, land of mechanical monstrosities. It lit up, confirming his choice. Impatiently waiting for his chariot to arrive, Jack saw something else slightly off. Lab 206's lights were on. Maybe someone had been given authorization. No, that was impossible. They would've had to clear it. Jack hadn't received a memo, and there were no other cars in the parking lot.
Must have had a power blip. First the slushy machine, now the lights. Probably another cheap relay shorted out.
A soft chime echoed off the empty atrium walls, announcing the elevator's arrival. "First things first, then you, 206." Jack groaned to no one. It just keeps getting better.
* * *
The stainless steel doors parted to a dirty and pitted, worn gray floor of concrete.
The hum and drone of motors, purring of air compressors, and the high-pitched whine of a weeping pressure-relief valve all welcomed Jack. A choir of machinery. All awake, all excited to see him. The feeling was miles away from mutual. Out of habit, Jack glanced around to catch any other unseen issues, then weaved his way to the boiler room. The closed safety doors were all that stood in his way to the dormant thief of slumber. Retrieving the keys from his pocket, Jack unlocked and opened the door that stood between him and the steam boiler. There she was, in all her alarming glory. He'd disabled the irritating audible alarm about a year ago. Every time he stood in front of the beast and performed the morning ritual of blowing out the crud, she'd belch and set off in a screaming rage and he'd almost soil his pants. When it came to safety versus sanity, there was no question. Sanity won. The angry red LED glared at him.
What took you so long, Jack? Now I'm cold.
Pressure was at zero, the temp gauge's needle was working its way down to a similar number. It was going to take at least an hour to recover in this weather. He couldn't leave until it cycled. Jack would head home and his rebellious luck would take over, the quirky contraption would go down again. It happened every time.
"Guess it gives me time to check on 206." Way to think positive, Jack.
Jack
opened the control cabinet and flicked the reset button. Flame failure, the cause of her dismay. The nocturnal interloper. You better hang in there until tomorrow. If I have to come out again...
The steam boiler clicked to life, and the smell of gas filled the air as the fuel line purged. A change in pitch. Another click. Whoosh. Jack peeked in the sight glass. Flame.
Stay lit. I'll be back.
* * *
The elevator announced its arrival on the second floor with a chipper ping. Jack disembarked and strutted straight for Lab 206.
"All right, Jack, we’re gonna scope this puppy out, hopefully repairs can wait until Monday."
Saying the lights were on was an understatement. The entire lab was lit up like a gaudy house at Christmas. Equipment was hot. Running. It shouldn't be. Intermittent hissing and popping, pressure getting to where it should be and releasing cause it got a little too much. No, no, no. Everything was wrong. Where the hell is Watkins? Passing each switch, Jack began shutting down everything he was comfortable touching. Last thing he needed was to stick his head where it didn't belong and nuke one of the pricy machines. He rounded the lab's first bench and stopped short.
Campburn was lucky enough to have secured a grant to start testing larger, more controversial bio-printing prospects. Last year the facility had acquired a state of the art dual-chambered printer. You could put living tissue into one chamber and recreate it identically, or alter it to the scientist's specific needs in the second using some fancy bio-nano 3D-printing technology. Supposedly it made tissue in minutes, not months or years.
The Shapeshifter Chronicles Page 7