After a time, Skorpion spoke. “Say, can you short out communications with that tech?"
"I need a strong power supply."
"We can link up and I can boost your signal."
"We hardly know each other,” he said, smiling.
"I'm serious! It is one of my special talents that I keep quiet. If we short out their radios, at least they can't call in backup."
"Let us commence, then.” Ursa Major moved his gloved hand, and cocked his head until he picked up the right signal. “I have their wavelength; all their radios and computers will go kaput, Da? Land line, if they have, I cannot help. Give me your hand, comrade darling."
He took Skorpion's hand; sparks danced along Skorpion's arms and around Ursa Major's glove.
There was a dull buzzing sound. Ursa Major tensed for a second, then released her hand. He massaged his temple.
"Well? Did it work?” Skorpion asked.
"I certainly hope so...” he said with a grim smile. “I have quite a headache, now."
* * * *
At The Bodyguard's New York headquarters, Goldstrike was seated at the main computer console in the command center massaging his temples.
"You got a headache, son?” The Veteran asked.
"No, I'll be fine,” Matthew said. “Nothing a few weeks in intensive care won't cure."
"I had a doozy of a headache after a week-long stakeout in ‘89! I took some leave time in New Orleans to make it go away!"
"Really?” Matthew said; the total disinterest clear to anyone but The Veteran.
"Yep, I just rode on down the whole way on my Indian."
"Indian?” Goldstrike said, suddenly alert.
"Yep, an Indian Chief Power Plus."
"An Indian ... motorcycle? You ride motorcycles?"
"Ride ‘em?” The Veteran said. “Hellfire, boy, I collect ‘em! Got me two Indians, a Fatboy, a ‘99 Victory, and Shuriken 1100."
Goldstrike pulled up a chair next to the Veteran, his eyes suddenly wide and alert. “The one with desmodromic vales?"
"And triple electromagnetic discs,” The Veteran said with pride.
"And a carbon fiber frame?” Matthew was suddenly a child on Christmas morning.
"That's the one!” The Veteran said. He took out his wallet. “Got pictures of ‘em right here."
Matthew slid his chair closer and leaned in to look at the photos. “Cool!"
Goldstrike picked up a coffee pot, and poured himself and The Veteran each a cup.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 21
"One lump or two?” Johann Briejer asked. When there was no reply, he nodded his head and said, “Two it is, then.” He was seated at a table set up in the gazebo on the grounds of the plantation. Briejer was having tea with a young female dressed in a pink taffeta dress, wearing small white gloves. She sat quietly, unmoving in her wicker chair. There was a resemblance between them in coloring and in the eyes, though her eyes were unfocused and staring straight ahead.
Two soldiers escorted Temper and Sunray, heavily bound, up to the gazebo.
"Ah, our guests!” Briejer said. “You see, my dear? I told you we'd have interesting company, today.” Temper and Sunray sat down in chairs provided at the table.
"Please have some tea,” he said, pouring. “It's a special blend.” Temper looked suspiciously at him.
"Oh, don't worry, my dear,” Briejer said. “It's quite safe. Princess used to love it ... before her accident.” He paused as emotions welled up in him. He suppressed them with visible effort and smiled.
"Oh, I'm such a poor host. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Evangeline Briejer. Dear, this is Miss Temper, and Miss Sunray. They're here from the United States—temporarily."
Temper looked at Sunray, who nodded. There was an unspoken agreement in their eyes that recognized the weirdness of the situation.
"How long has ... um, when was Evangeline's accident?” Temper asked.
"Oh, dear, me, it's been so long...” He looked at his daughter. “It was back in ‘33—wasn't it, Evangeline?"
Temper's eyes widened with disbelief.
"She does not look a day over twenty,” Sunray said. Sunray leaned over to Temper as Briejer became preoccupied with fixing a crease in his daughter's lace collar. While he was fussing, the Korean activated her thermal intense lenses.
"She has no heat signature,” Sunray whispered. “There is no life there!"
"Now, now! No whispering!” he said. “We don't want to be rude, do we?"
Evangeline reached forward, picked up the teapot and tried to pour tea into her cup. Her hands were shaking so she spilled scalding tea on her arm.
She didn't react to the spill at all. Briejer took the pot from her calmly, and tenderly wiped the tea from her arm. “Oh, sweetheart, you're making quite a mess, aren't you?” He focused on cleaning his daughter up while while Temper and Sunray exchanged looks of horror. When he finished, the Dutchman stood up.
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I must be going. I'll leave you young ladies to talk about female things.” Briejer smiled and kissed his daughter on the cheek. “Ta-ta!"
He left the gazebo with the guards staying behind. Temper and Sunray just sat there, as Evangeline stared off into space, all three under the watchful eye of the soldiers, their rifles trained on the two Exceptionals.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 22
"Zombies,” Lastshot said with skepticism in his voice. “Okay..."
It was not long after the tea party that Briejer visited Firststrike and the tall Exceptional to explain his plans. They were still in the shed and the two guards still had their guns trained on the prisoners.
"You know, Lastshot,” Firststrike said in a calm tone. “Considering the things we've run into, this isn't so farfetched."
Briejer smiled at the Exceptional's observation. “I see your handicap doesn't truly hamper your vision."
"There is evidence that voodoo priests discovered a way of drugging and controlling humans,” Firststrike said. “But they weren't dead."
"A very good analogy, Mr. Firststrike,” Briejer replied. “If you have ever seen the native healer women of the countryside, their healing rituals are much like voodoo priestesses: they ‘become’ the spirit they are invoking by donning the ‘costume of that spirit', such as the grandfather spirit or old mother farmer. Or what have you."
"Nice they have quaint customs, doc,” Lastshot said. “But what does that have to do with the price of rice?"
"Just so,” Briejer said. “To the point, when I first came here to start my rubber plantation in the twenties, I discovered the ruins of the fortress cave of an ancient cult. The Khmer empire of Ankhor in the eighth or ninth century drove out this cult on the shores of Tan-le-sap Lake in central Cambodia. This cult existed in secret for many years. It had perfected a way of raising or, more accurately, animating the dead with an herbal-chemical elixir. As near as I can determine, the secret is at least two thousand years old."
"Hell of a pick-me-up,” a skeptical Lastshot said.
"Given to the dead, it creates perfect, if somewhat dull, employees.” The Dutchman seemed happy to have an intelligent audience and delighted in his own voice. “They make up for their dearth of conversational skills by their complete lack of union organizing ... or eating ... or sleeping. Given to the living, it is a veritable fountain of youth."
He walked directly up to Firststrike and said, “How old do you think I am?"
"Early fifties,” Firststrike guessed.
"The twenties I spoke of were the nineteen twenties. My birthday is in three weeks; I'll be one hundred and thirty nine. Our friend, Tamok, is a mere baby of ninety four.” Neither Exceptional could hide their amazement at the man's statements.
"Your discovery could benefit mankind,” Firststrike ventured. “And make you rich, legally. Why hide it?"
"Ingredients, my one-eyed friend.” He waggled his head back and forth and made a ‘tsk’ sound. “I
need an assortment of internal organs extracted from human beings, preferably while alive. Proctor and Gamble might not approve."
"I see your point."
"So,” Lastshot said. “That's what you have us lined up for?"
"Yes. Strong specimens like you who have the Regen factor in your blood and organs are a wonderful find. I have discovered that the two formulas are much alike: the healing factor you so cherish is, really just a short step from the constant renewing effect I seek. With your vitality, the harvested organs should take me into my two hundreds and Tamok well into his first hundred."
"What about Miss Winters, Temper and Sunray?
"I'm still working on refining the process to restore my daughter from her accident.” Firststrike tensed, then quickly regained control; his Catholic upbringing made him very uncomfortable with the whole subject of bringing back the dead, at least en mass.
Lastshot lowered his tone and stared a direct challenge to the Dutchman. “You'd better make sure I'm really dead, you sick piece of flesh, or I'll peel you like an onion."
"Creative.” Briejer smiled with nostalgia. “You know, I do miss the Vietnam conflict. We had quite a cottage industry with our pit fighting. Guards, be very careful, get some more help when you take them to the pit."
Briejer nodded pleasantly to his captives and exited.
Two of the guards cocked and aimed their weapons at the two Exceptionals, as several others unshackled them.
* * * *
Two Khmer Rouge guards walked the perimeter of the poppy field towards each other, exchanged greetings, then turned and walked back they way they had come. It was simple sector patrolling, basic military procedure. And it was a flawed tactic.
As soon as their backs were to each to other, Ursa Major and Skorpion emerged from the jungle. With a quick twist, the Russian broke the neck of one guard. Skorpion slipped a garrote around the neck of the other, and strangled him without a sound. They dragged the bodies silently back into the foliage.
"That's six,” Skorpion whispered. “You know, these guys were more vigilant than the others.” Skorpion and Ursa smiled at each other. “They will start noticing people are missing, so we have a time factor besides the bombing run."
The Russian observed, “From the look of that cargo under the tarpaulins, I would say they were getting ready to make a move; the bomb run will be just in time."
Skorpion agreed. “They must have had an inkling the heat was going to be on them: they have quite a crop of opium here—now we know how they've financed their operations."
"Well,” Skorpion continued. “We need a better—"
"Shhh!” the Russian said. “Look!"
He pointed to the central area of the plantation where Lastshot and Firststrike, hands bound behind them, were being herded from the ‘guest room’ shed towards another part of the compound. Keeping to the tree line, Ursa Major and Skorpion followed.
* * * *
Torches on poles gave an eerie light to an eerie scene. A thirty-foot diameter, ten-foot deep pit sat among the rubber trees and poppy fields. Briejer, Tamok, and Susan, her jumpsuit torn and her hair disheveled, sat in three large armchairs on a raised platform. It was lit by four torches and overlooked the pit.
A table with plates of food was in front of the chairs. A squad of armed Khmer Rouge was stationed around the makeshift arena. A group of zombies stood off to one side, milling in aimless fashion. Lastshot and Firststrike were led in and stood in front of the platform.
"Welcome to an all-to-infrequent event here at my humble abode!” Briejer said. “My employees, quiet as they are, do so enjoy their exercise.” He and Tamok laughed.
Firststrike leaned in close to Lastshot. “All hail Nero,” he said under his breath.
"Shut up!” Tamok commanded.
A soldier standing next to Firststrike attempted to hit him with the butt of his rifle, but, Firststrike easily dodged and the soldier missed wildly, his momentum spinning him around so that he fell to the ground. Tamok, Briejer and the other soldiers laughed as the embarrassed soldier picked himself up, glaring at Firststrike.
"Obviously, our guests are anxious for the festivities to begin. Gentlemen, and ladies, place your bets!” Briejer laughed at his own joke.
Several guards began exchanging fistfuls of money. Briejer and Tamok tossed handfuls of fingers onto the table between them, laughing the entire time. Tamok gestured to one of the guards, who pushed an old zombie into the pit. The creature fell in, then picked itself up, and stood there, weaving slightly.
"Will you do the honors?” Briejer said to Tamok.
The Cambodian pointed to Firststrike. “Put him in the pit!"
"Where are Temper and Sunray?” the one-eyed Exceptional asked.
"Please; ladies do not fight in my pit,” Briejer said. “They are safe; unless you give me trouble. Put him in!"
Firststrike's hands were cut loose as he was shoved into the pit.
He landed smoothly on his feet and spun to face his opponent. The old zombie facing him was thickset, and had in life been muscular, though he was looking about a thousand years old. He shuffled forward, and lunged at Firststrike.
The Exceptional said a prayer as he sidestepped the creature, which, with surprising speed, pivoted and slammed his arm like a club into Firststrike's shoulder. The Exceptional dove and rolled, coming up to his feet. The zombie moved in, swinging his arm at Firststrike's head.
Firststrike locked its arm and, with a quick jerk, broke it at the elbow with a snap that was audible all around the pit. The zombie swung its other arm around and Firststrike grabbed that one, pulled savagely, and calmly dislocated it at the shoulder. Then, the Exceptional stepped back.
The zombie continued to advance; its useless arms hanging limply by its side. Firststrike darted to one side and delivered a low kick to its right knee, shattering it just below the joint. The old zombie, now lurching sickeningly, still dragged itself towards Firststrike.
I usually admire persistence, he thought, but, this is very annoying.
Firststrike stepped forward, kicked hard and shattered the zombie's other knee with a crack. Jumping to one side, he lashed out with a sidekick, crushing the undead thing's spine.
The zombie slumped to the dirt, but still tried to move, jerking and spasming on the ground. Firststrike turned away. He climbed out of the pit up a series of hand and foot holds in the dirt walled side. He stood looking at Briejer.
"That was singularly unfulfilling,” he said to the Dutchman. “I hope you enjoyed yourself."
Tamok smiled as he reached forward and took his winnings—fingers and a few other limbs—and slid them into a wicker basket by his chair.
"Perhaps you will find our next match more enlightening,” Briejer said. “Put Mr. Lastshot in."
The tall Exceptional was cut loose and urged over the edge of the pit. When he stood in the center of the space, Lastshot asked “So? You want me to fight myself?” He was alone in the pit.
"In a way...” the Dutchman said with a friendly laugh. He gestured and a soldier pushed a zombie into the pit. After the thing had hit the ground and stumbled to its feet, the zombie's face became clear.
"Oh, Jesus...” Lastshot cried. “Eddie."
It was the animated corpse of Major Edmund Winters.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 23
In the tree line at the edge of the plantation, Skorpion and Ursa Major were hidden in the brush. They tried to see what was happening in the pit itself, but any tree they could scale that would allow them to see down into the pit would also expose them.
"Can you see anything at all?” Skorpion asked the Russian Exceptional who had scaled a tree further back in the jungle in an attempt to get a better angle.
"No.” He jumped down next to her. “There are too many around the edge. Firststrike has come out and they have put our tall comrade in the hole. We must move closer and be prepared to act, da?"
"Da!” she said and the
two began to belly crawl into the clearing.
* * * *
In the gladiatorial pit that the mad Dutchman had created, Lastshot stood faced the zombie who had been Major Edmund Winters. The Exceptional was frozen by the nearness of his once friend and mentor. He just stared at him: six foot tall, narrow shoulders and a once handsome face now with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes that stared listlessly back at him. And the strong mouth that once was so ready to smile was now a fleshy slit that showed no emotion at all.
On the edge of the pit, Susan Winters had to be restrained from jumping forward. She looked on in horror and whimpered, “Oh, Daddy..."
Briejer stood and walked to the edge of the platform to look down directly at Lastshot. “You think I am not right in the head, yes? That I have not the sharp thoughts and memory, eh? Not so, Mr. Lastshot, I remember. I know. I was there when you left this man Winters to die.” Susan gasped and looked in increasing horror at Briejer who turned to her.
"Did not he tell you, my dear? Oh he did not look quite as he does now, but we are more than our face, yes? I know the marks of plastic surgery: I have memory for such things: hands you cannot change, and the eyes. Especially the eyes. When he was a young man, he ran when your poor father was lying there, bleeding.” He turned back to Lastshot “What a brave young man you were!"
"No, it can't be true!” Susan screamed at Lastshot, “You—you're supposed to be a hero!"
"Susan,” Lastshot began, “I ... I'm sorry. I—” He was cut off by a blow from behind. He staggered forward, and then turned to look into the dead eyes of his former friend. Winters swung an arm and Lastshot blocked it.
"Eddie!” he began. “I swear—” He blocked another wildly thrown arm. “I swear I tried to come back for you!” He blocked another club-like arm, “The fire was too heavy—even Abe thought you were dead!"
The Measure of a Man [The Exceptionals Book 1] Page 11