by Alan, TS
I knew Kole best. We were close friends. He had two wire-haired terriers, brother and sister, Elvis and Clover. We had exchanged apartment keys and looked after each other’s dogs when we were out of town. It was mainly Kole that went away. He was a photographer and went out of town on shoots several times a month. I was happy to take care of his dogs and so was Max, who loved playtime and walk-time with Elvis and Clover.
I was in. I stumbled to the bedroom and fell upon my bed. My fingers felt like someone had secured my hands in a vise grip and was trying to tear out my nails with searing hot needle-nose pliers. Abruptly my spine flared with pain. An excruciating sensation ripped through my head. My ears rang with an intensity I had never experienced before, like someone had jabbed an ice pick in each one. Everything went white.
VII
Buddha, Me and Plastic Jesus
Luci came to me. I was one of them, a full-fledged transmute. We copulated again and again, tearing at one another’s flesh and biting each other repeatedly, screeching as we mated in a frenzied ritual.
I awoke; I did not know what day or time it was. How could I? I was a transmute, the concept of time was no longer known to me. How could I know that, too? My clothes remained on my body. They had not been shredded. I was still dressed in my army fatigues and body armor. Had I dreamt it all? It had been so vivid, and the pain had been so prolonged and wrenching. What changes had occurred?
My hands had burned with that too familiar pain. They had changed, specifically my fingers. My nail and nail beds had been covered with dense skin. My fingers appeared to be the same length they always had been, but the tips were covered with dark, soft and still moist scabs. It appeared the skin was decaying. I didn’t feel any pain.
I needed to get a better look at my hands. I moved to the windows, and drew back the red curtains of the bedroom to reveal the setting sun through the heavy-duty slats of the window guards. Had it been only a few hours since I lost consciousness, or days? I opened the windows to air out the foul, stale smell, which I didn’t notice upon my arrival. I knew what it was; the refrigerator. It needed to be cleaned. I shut the curtains. Darkness would soon replace the remaining daylight and it was time to prepare for night.
As a New Yorker I was prepared for just about any emergency situation. I always had plenty of bottled water and food supplies stocked up, enough for a month. I also had several portable solar generators and camping equipment in the hall closet: lanterns, a two-burner propane cooking unit, extra blankets, sleeping bags and other gear. I was also fully stocked with batteries, candles, matches, lighters, two solar powered flashlights, and most importantly, soap and toilet paper. Best of all, I lived on the third floor. This meant that water would still be running. The city’s vast underground network of delivery pipes are sloped at an angle from there upstate source which gives enough natural pressure to reach a fifth floor apartment without the need of added artificial pressure. As long as there was pressure from the street I could flush the toilet and wash dishes, though I would not cook with the current water supply.
I didn’t remember crashing into things when I stumbled into the apartment, but my home looked like it had been trashed. My Yamaha Arranger Workstation was overturned. Items from my long, low-end coffee table were on the floor and the table itself had been pushed away from the sofa at an odd angle. My Mac laptop was on the floor; if it was broken it didn’t matter much. There was no Internet anymore. My Buddha incense burner was on the wrong side of the living room, with ash dust and stubs of incense spread across the cranberry colored carpet.
As I cleaned up the mess, I picked up a brochure from the floor that was for the Lightship 87, the Ambrose, which was on display at the South Street Seaport on Pier 17.
Though I did frequent the South Street Seaport on a semi-regular basis, I never toured any of the ships. I had acquired the brochure from a manger of the South Street Seaport Museum after Siyab and I had responded to a call; a man had collapsed on the pier suffering from dehydration. It had been a hot summer’s day and the fifty-three-year-old, who had been trying to see as much as possible, forgot to drink plenty of fluids. I was sure he’d never forget again, not only because of his trip to the hospital, but for giving his wife such a fright. She appeared to be a woman who was going to remind him constantly.
The night came and went, then another. I ate, I crapped, I showered, and I waited for another change. Another day came and went, but no other major changes had come. The dead flesh on my fingertips sloughed off and revealed curved talons. They were cumbersome and were going to be an annoyance and hindrance until I learned to compensate, especially while trying to accomplish anything that needed superior manual dexterity. I took a pair of Max’s nail-clippers and trimmed them back.
There had been one other alteration I hadn’t noticed until I showered, and that was the skin on my back. Along my spine, from my upper cervical vertebrae to my lower lumber region, my skin had changed from its pinky white tone to the familiar grayish blue color of a transmute. It was barely wider than my spinal column, but I had a distinctive stripe of newly formed, protective flesh down my back; still, I was mostly human.
I didn’t know how many days I had been away from my friends, but I missed them. I missed my girl, I missed my dog, and I missed the outside world, or what was left of it.
I would rejoin them. I couldn’t bear not to. I packed some clothes and personal items into two large duffle bags.
The Humvee was a total loss, at least to me. I’m sure the whiz kid could get it running, but Sam wasn’t here and I wasn’t mechanically adept. I had an idea though. Jimmy had a bronze colored mini-van, an older model Ford Aerostar XL. It was in great shape and mechanically sound. It had to be. He used it for transportation to his part-time teaching job in Long Island, as well as the band van.
I was lucky; it was parked on the street just a few buildings east. However if his car was there, did that mean Jimmy was home? The thought of breaking into Jimmy’s apartment and finding his decayed corpse was not appealing, but it had to be done. However, I couldn’t just kick in the door and grab the keys. Jimmy had been a close friend. I needed to pray for his spirit.
I sat on the floor with my Buddha incense burner smoldering in front of me. I chanted, “I find respite in the Buddha. I find respite in the Dharma. I find respite in the Sangha.” I raised my tingsha and chimed them, so Jimmy’s spirit would take note. I gave prayer, and then finished with, “May you find solace in the arms of your god. Aum.”
I didn’t find Jimmy’s corpse on the other side of the doorway, and I didn’t go searching. What I needed—a pair of silver keys on a small ring—was just inside his door inside a glass bowl, which sat atop a small antique wood dresser. There were also several single loose keys, one of which was an emergency key to my apartment.
As I drove to the armory in Jimmy’s Aerostar I wondered, how would I be greeted?
I had once given a shoot to kill order if I became a threat, and perhaps I was a threat, but the only way to know for sure was for the doctor to run more tests.
I loaded up Jimmy’s car with items I’d probably never use: my laptop, my Nikon digital camera, and some CDs of my favorite musicians/bands. However there were a few important items I brought, two of which were my bolo machetes and one of my accordions. I also had a surprise for Max: a four-gallon Mr. Pickle container full of dry dog food, which had been given to me by Roman.
I sang the “Plastic Jesus” song as I drove, inspired by the plastic Jesus that was glued to Jimmy’s dashboard.
As I turned left onto 23rd Street I was greeted by several half-mutes that seemed to be heading in the same direction. I stepped heavily on the gas pedal and sang the refrain, a slightly altered version that referenced using Jesus’ halo as a sight to make them scatter or splatter near and far.
I took a quick right onto Lexington. I barely made it to 25th Street when gunfire peppered the windshield. The armory was under siege. I hit the brakes hard and ducked as I put the car
in park. As I exited I found myself caught up in a squeeze play. There were half-mutes coming from behind and an unknown number of assailants ahead trying to take me out.
Shooting erupted from the armory’s roof in the direction of the 26th Street gate, which was open. I could see David and Julie stopping a group from entering. The group in front of me was trying to enter, too. There were two of them at the gate, one with bolt cutters and the other with an assault rifle. He was firing in David and Julie’s direction.
I grabbed my carbine out of the Aerostar and eliminated the two charging half-mutes first, and then turned my attention to the men and rattled off a mag in their direction, hitting the man with the bolt cutters. More shots came my way, taking out the driver’s side window. Several ripped through the door next to me as I was crouched down. The shots had come from the armory’s rooftop. My friends must have thought I was part of the attack force.
I called over my radio. “Kermit, David, anyone? The guy in the bronze van is me—J.D.! Stop shooting at me! Copy?” No response came. I realized that I hadn’t turned off the radio when I fled Astor Place. The battery was dead.
I heard the ping of another bullet as the projectile ripped through the vehicle door. This time it struck me, knocking me down. I was stunned and in pain, but alive thanks to my body armor.
The enemy at the northern gate had infiltrated the compound. A succession of bangs came from the roof, followed by several quick explosions on the street. David was using the Milkor, launching grenades at them, trying to repel the hostile force. For a moment the enemy retreated to the safety of cover, but five unknown assailants at my end were still trying to break through.
I reloaded, set the trigger to semi-automatic to conserve bullets, but I hesitated to get back to the firefight. I had dry mouth, was sweating heavily, had a high pulse rate, and my hands were trembling. I knew it was caused from a dramatic rise in adrenaline and endorphin levels brought on by being shot at. Shooting paper targets in the armory’s basement range was easy. However, shooting at someone for the purpose of killing them was stressful and contradicted my moral fiber as an EMT. I had only killed someone once and shooting Deano was an act of mercy. I had never murdered anyone, and realized I may have just a moment ago. Nevertheless the men were attacking my friends, attacking my home. I drew a couple deep breaths and exhaled them to calm my mind and to help me focus. No one hurts my family, I told myself, and then committed to the fray.
I saw the doors of the armory open as Sam, Kermit and Marisol were trying to make their way out. They needed my cover fire, so I laid some down. For a moment it worked; the enemy had taken cover, but I had expended my remaining ammo. I laid down more cover with my pistol, but still couldn’t get a clear shot at any of them. Then my pistol was out of ammo.
I reached into the car and grabbed the two bolo machetes off the front seat, which were sitting next to my backpack. More shots pelted the vehicle, but this time they were from those who I had been shooting at. I quickly unsheathed my weapons. Another half-mute came from behind as I squatted behind Jimmy’s bullet-riddled car door. I caught the creature off-guard and with one fell swoop I decapitated it. Something struck me in the side, and it hurt. I had been shot again. I could see Kermit and Sam trying to get Marisol to the Stryker. I had one choice left. I pulled the only hand grenade I had attached to my uniform and lobbed it at the closest enemy. The car ahead of me exploded in a roaring upheaval. I saw a person retreat, heading east on 25th Street. The grenade was only going to attract more creatures, but I didn’t have a choice. The sound of the Stryker’s main gun ripped through the air, cutting down the intruders and striking the vehicles at the north gate, sending them into fireballs. The roar of the gun was replaced by silence. The enemy was dead.
I slowly and cautiously moved toward the southern gate, and then carefully made my way past the burning wreck, watching for anyone who may be hiding. As I approached the gate, I saw the person I had shot, the one who had cut the lock from the entrance. I had shot him in the back of the head and the bullet had exited the front, ripping off most of his face. I have seen massive bullet trauma in my years as a paramedic, but this was by my hand. As Alan Ladd said in the 1953 Western Shane, there’s no living with a killing. There’s no going back from one, no matter if it’s right or wrong. It’ll brand you. I felt the nausea welling up in the pit of my stomach from what I had done. However, my need to vomit was halted by an eruption from the Stryker. The heavy caliber machine gun was at work again, this time cutting down half-mutes that were running through the northern gate and into the compound.
I had been correct. All the explosions had summoned them. More came from where I had been. First there were two, then three, all wanting me. I quickly entered into the open space of the armory’s defenses, unable to re-secure the gate. The Stryker went silent but had not eliminated the threat from the north. There were five of them trying to surround me. They were bold in their approach, showing no fear even though I had my bolos in hand. Doubt of a successful outcome entered my mind. Would my transmute “super powers,” as Marisol had called them, be enough to get me out of the situation alive and without suffering bodily harm? I worried.
If it had been a group of humans, I would not have been concerned but these were ferocious predators that appeared to have no fear. However as Bruce Lee once said, “Do not allow negative thoughts to enter your mind for they are the weeds that strangle confidence.” That was exactly what I was doing, strangling my confidence. I was a skilled martial artist and my bolos were like my bastóns in that they were weapons that were an extension of my body, both which I had mastered. I took a few breaths and exhaled to clear my mind. I needed only to concentrate on doing my best and treat them as any other enemy that wanted to harm me. I took a balanced stance and when they charged I was ready. I spun, I blocked, I slashed, and I too was furious and without mercy. Body parts and blood flew in every direction. The deed was done quickly, the enemy lay slain, and I once again was soaked in bodily fluids.
I was surprised by the speed in which I dispatched the creatures. My swiftness and agility had indeed been augmented by my transmute mutation. However, I hadn’t come out unscathed. One of them had slashed a bicep rather significantly. Later, Dr. France explained my quickness and dexterity had to do with fast twitch fiber, specialized muscle tissue capable of delivering rapid bursts of energy. He had discovered, having dissected a transmute in his lab—much to my dismay—that a transmute’s arms and legs contained nearly one third more of this muscle fiber than humans. Though I did not gain as much fast twitch fiber as a true transmute, I did get a significant enhancement. However there was also a downside to my quick bursts of concentrated energy, and that was my metabolism demanded a greater intake of protein. I wasn’t too concerned about eating more. What concerned me was France had also revealed that transmutes had heighten aggression, restricted impulse regulation, and negative emotional memory. I wondered if that would reflect in my mutation.
I wasn’t greeted like a triumphant Octavian returning to Rome after a glorious and successful campaign. I was greeted like an enemy of the state. Kermit and Sam immediately told me to place my weapons down, put my hands behind my head, and walk slowly toward the stairs of the main entrance. Marisol was outraged at my treatment and protested greatly. I told her it was all right, that the others were doing what was necessary for their own protection, but she refused to listen. She kept shouting and kicking at Kermit and Sam until Sam finally picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like she was a ragdoll, all the while Marisol still kicking and screaming, being feisty and ferocious.
It was much later I learned from David that during my absence, Marisol had been so enraged at the fact that they had allowed me to flee after rescuing Ryan that she threatened to have Max perform his ballen hoden trick on Kermit and Sam’s private parts if they did not immediately launch a search and rescue effort. She had become so emotionally distraught that Dr. France had to sedate her just to prevent her from
leaving the armory in hopes of finding me on her own.
After the initial assessment concluded that I was not an immediate threat, I was allowed to enter the armory. I was taken directly to France. I asked if someone could bring my personal belongings from the van, but Sam wouldn’t listen. All he wanted to hear was where his Humvee had gone.
When I told him it was parked on the sidewalk, securely anchored to a bicycle stand, he was none too pleased. However, for a moment, he was impressed at my ability to hotwire a car, until I told him it was the neighbor’s and I had taken the keys.
After France took the needed blood samples and attended to my arm, I was locked in a detention cell, which was actually the Garryowen. There I passed the time by drinking a few Jack and Cokes and snacking on beef jerky—several packages. Six hours later I was released, France letting everyone know I was not a threat. When I questioned France on why I had such a dramatic change even though I was getting treatments, all he could say was that they hadn’t come soon enough, and I was lucky that the treatments I received had prevented a complete transformation.
They had been busy while I had been gone. France had been fully integrated into the armory’s hospital wing with much of his equipment, which had been salvaged from our former underground lair, though the doctor protested greatly. He didn’t want to leave his crucial network server behind, even though it was in pieces.