Made in the U.S.A.: The 10th Anniversary Edition

by Jack X. McCallum

  Uh-oh! Look! Mr. Kraft’s mean-looking special helper was walking over to her! Well, Johnny may have been a silly old man, but he was still a Gentle Man. He had always tried to be a Gentle Man and he sure wasn’t going to stop now. What he was going to stop, was Mr. Kraft!

  “I have to poop now,” Johnny said to the orderly beside him.

  The orderly rolled his eyes and reached for a bedpan.

  * * *

  Kraft was sitting on the stool thinking about sucking some more Oxygen because it gave him such a nice kick, when what was left of his hair stood on end. He had just recognized the man on the gurney. He gestured to his remaining bodyguard.

  * * *

  Betsy let her strength come back. Sure, this situation was weird, but then her whole life had been totally weird, hadn’t it? Fuck it, she thought. The bitch-mother was right there. She’d probably never get another chance like this. She gathered her will and took a step and realized that the woman with the bandaged tit was grabbing at her again. She snarled and drove a fist into the mound under the bandages and got a cry of pain in return. The woman was driven back past the end of her bed where she slammed into a guy standing by the next bed over. Betsy started walking again.

  * * *

  Stella was dancing backward, blind with pain and fighting to keep on her feet. She saw the guy with the bandaged face just as one flailing fist slamming into his gauze-covered nose. The guy let out a bellow and the two of them fell back onto another bed, on top of a guy wrapped in so many surgical dressings it looked like the gauze was holding him together.

  * * *

  Betsy was ten feet from the bitch-mother when a cacophony of cries and moans from behind her made the woman, the doctor, and the female guard all turn around. The doctor and the guard stepped past her, but all Betsy could see was the woman standing before her.

  * * *

  For Jeannie, it seemed as if time had stopped. She noticed no movement around her and felt as if her lungs and heart were frozen. She couldn’t move. A young woman was standing in front of her and staring back. She was wearing the same ill-fitting hospital gown Jeannie had on, and her hair was the same shade of jet-black, only Jeannie could see highlights flashing in it that told her the color was true. Jeannie’s eyes slipped downward, from the glossy hair to the girl’s bare toes. She looked like she was not yet twenty. She had Jeannie’s body of a decade ago. Thighs and breasts that looked plump but were as firm as rock. Trim waist, flat stomach, flaring hips. Her height was the same. Her eye color was the exact shade of blue Jeannie had only seen in the mirror until now, a blue that shifted and flashed from the clarity of a summer sky to the dark of twilight, glimmering from green to hazel, from black and then to blue depending on the light or the color of her clothes. Jeannie put a hand over her mouth as if she were unconsciously trying to stifle a cry. She was surprised to feel tears on her cheeks.

  “Oh my God.” Her voice was breathless. “Betsy?”

  * * *

  Betsy Jones felt as if she were standing on a wall dividing worlds.

  On one side of the wall was her mother. Her mother! Betsy saw a face so much like hers that it made her want to cry, not that she could allow herself such a luxury. The eyes, the expression, even the way tension was shaping her body this very moment, her left hip jutting a little, one leg bent just a bit, one hand over her open mouth, the other balled into a fist pressed against her stomach. Betsy was also able to reflect that aging might not be so bad if this was how she was going to look one day. The woman tearing up in front of her had to be pushing forty but she was still undeniably a babe. How hard would it be to just reach out and touch one of those trembling hands? Did this look like a woman who had dumped a baby out of spite and never looked back? Betsy wasn’t sure. She thought maybe she could reach out and take one of those hands and then the woman might hold her close and tight and she could call her mom . . .

  Betsy’s eyes, like Jeannie’s, did one of those subtle shifts of color triggered by thought alone. Her thoughts were darkening. So were her eyes. Betsy was still on that wall between worlds. Her mother and her future were on one side of the wall. On the other side was the life she had lived to this moment, without her mother. A life she had endured to achieve only one goal. Vengeance. A chance to make her mother experience just a small measure of the bitter hopelessness her entire life had been. A chance to inflict pain.

  How should she choose?

  * * *

  Will figured this was as good a time as any. He got off the gurney, moving toward a guard who was gawking at some commotion at the far end of the infirmary. Will delivered two quick kicks that momentarily incapacitated the guard in the black jumpsuit and nearly got his hand on the guard’s gun when somebody grabbed him from behind. He tried to shake the man off but it was no good. The guy had a grip like the Hulk. He looked over his shoulder and saw that it was one of Kraft’s goons hanging on to him. Shit, he thought, I fucked up.

  Someone began jabbing bony fists into Will’s throat and face. “Bad boy!” the old man screeched. “Filthy boy! Evil boy! You must be punished you bad boy! Punished for your filthiness! Filthy punishments for filthy boys!”

  It took a moment, but Will finally recognized Doctor Zane. Will thought he’d aged poorly; the man looked like hell. He wasn’t going to age any more, though. Will may have been tired of being pushed around, but his ghosts were beyond that. This scrofulous old fuck made your life hell for years! He tried to kill you when you were a kid! Nail him! Nail his old ass to the wall so he won’t hurt any other kids!

  As the guard behind him got busy tying Will’s wrists behind his back with a pair of zip cuffs, Will brought one foot up into Zane’s truss and mashed the old buzzard’s gonads to cream. Zane’s mouth opened and his tongue dangled in an unvoiced scream. The old man’s head drooped as he collapsed and as soon as his face was within range Will raised his knee, crushing Zane’s nose and changing his facial geometry from convex to concave.

  Kraft gasped as Zane’s head and feet changed places. The old man was flipped like a rag doll and then thumped onto the floor quite dead. Kraft wasn’t really that upset about Zane. James had become a bit of a pest lately. What astounded Kraft was William Hill’s speed and ruthlessness.

  As the last breath wheezed out of Zane’s body the guard Will had kicked stood up and drove a fist into Will’s stomach. Will was glad he hadn’t eaten. Nothing to puke up. As it was his stomach folded in on itself and felt like it was going to drop out his ass. Then the black-clad guard hoofed him in the nuts. Will sagged, wondering if Zane was now laughing his ass off from beyond. He saw old man Kraft grinning at him as the guard began using his head for a workout bag. Between blows he spotted Jeannie standing at the far end of the room in front of some dark-haired kid.

  * * *

  Betsy decided to take a chance. She whispered, “Mother?” in a voice almost identical to that of the woman before her. But the woman wasn’t looking at her. She was looking over Betsy’s shoulder.

  * * *

  Jeannie was about to open her arms, grab hold of her baby and never let go, when she saw Will leap up out of nowhere. Then a man began beating Will senseless, and Jeannie knew she had to go to him, had to help him.

  * * *

  So that’s the way it is, just like it always was, Betsy thought bitterly. I come second, if I even count at all. She clenched her fists. “Bitch-mother,” she snarled. “Fuck you!”

  She got a grip on the hateful whore’s throat and began to squeeze the life out of her.

  * * *

  Doors burst open and armed men dispatched by Galderson rushed into the infirmary. Will, Jeannie, and Betsy were brought before Randall Kraft. As Galderson entered the room Stella and Dicks were roughly tossed back into their beds. Johnny remained quiet, still holding the bedpan the orderly had given him.

  Kraft sat on his stool and studied the three people before him. William Hill was a nuisance and a threat. Kraft knew how to deal with him. The women were another ma
tter. Could this young woman with the long black hair be the daughter of their clone? It appeared so, although the circumstances of her conception were anyone’s guess. The daughter who was cursing at Jeannie Norman seemed to have more spunk than her mooncalf mother who was alternately swooning over Hill and shivering with fear. This would certainly be worth some study. He would alert Mondani at once, though the doctor should have been aware of the commotion by now.

  Randall Kraft pointed at Jeannie. “She lives.” He saw Hill slump with relief, and gestured at the young woman. “Her daughter lives.” Hill looked at Jeannie Norman and mouthed daughter? She nodded. Kraft eyed the doctor and guard who had been with Jeannie. Women. “Take them to one of the aid stations and finish the examinations there.” His voice was thin, a wheezy rasp. “In private, you incompetent cunts.”

  Glancing at Will, Kraft waved an indifferent hand in his direction and spoke to Galderson. “He is a consistent irritant and a threat too great to be ignored. Therefore, he dies. That is all.” Kraft had spoken and was turning away from the group, his stool squeaking as it swiveled.

  Jeannie’s voice was a wild shriek. “No! You can’t!”

  Wow, Betsy thought, she must really love this pretty-boy. If these jerk-offs in the black coveralls don’t kill him, I will. Then bitch-mother will get a little taste of the loveless life I’ve lived all these years!

  They were dragged out into the hall and shoved in opposite directions.

  “One more thing,” Kraft said. Galderson paused. “Doctor Mondani wants to study Hill’s brain. Keep the head intact. Dispose of the rest of him as you see fit.”

  “Of course, Mr. Kraft,” Galderson said, giving Will a push forward.

  “Will,” Jeannie cried, “Don’t let them kill you!”

  “Okay, honey!” he replied. “See ya soon!”

  Galderson pulled a Glock from a holster clipped on his belt. “Move it jerkoff!” A slab of beef from security named Robinson was following them, carrying a machine pistol.

  Galderson pushed Will through a doorway. “Up those fucking stairs now!”

  “Alright, alright,” Will said.

  “Hurry up, fuckwad.” Galderson was losing his temper.

  “Mellow out, man,” Will said, stepping up.

  They reached the top of the stairs. Another door. Another hall. More stairs.

  * * *

  The infirmary was quiet again. Kraft had sent one of his bodyguards to his office to see that a number of reports he wanted to review were on his desk as he had ordered. The remaining bodyguard, a walking tower of tumescent muscle named Pinker, had taken a look around the infirmary to make sure all was sound and then walked a few feet away to get a drink of water from a dispenser nearby.

  Kraft heard a whisper, but his ears weren’t what they used to be. He turned his head and saw JFK still sitting on an examination table close by. Decrepit old fart, he thought, looking at the concavity in the side of Kennedy’s head. Pinker was leaning down near JFK, holding a paper cup under the water dispenser spigot and watching bubbles gurgle as they rose in the big plastic bottle. Kennedy whispered again, and this time Kraft heard him.

  “I’ll save you,” Johnny said. “This time I won’t let them get you.”

  Kraft chuckled, I’m sure you will, you cretin. His chuckle was abruptly cut off when he saw Jack Kennedy swing a heavy stainless steel bedpan into the side of Pinker’s skull like Joe DiMaggio hitting a line drive. There was a crunch like a kid at the county fair biting down on a mouthful of caramel corn and Pinker collapsed, taking the water dispenser down with him. Kraft looked up from the spreading pink pool of water and blood to see Kennedy still gripping the bloodied bedpan and easing his old bones off the table. JFK lurched toward Randall Kraft who frantically looked around and realized that for the moment, he was completely alone.

  * * *

  Jeannie and Betsy were in another examination room, going through more tests. Jeannie was only half aware of the poking and prodding. Her thoughts were of Will and her daughter. She hoped Will was okay. She should have been ecstatic to know her daughter was alive and well, that she had grown into such a healthy and beautiful woman, but Jeannie was stunned by Betsy’s rage. She knew her daughter had every right to be angry with her. After all, she had abandoned her own little girl, but the singular ferocity of Betsy’s hatred for her approached outright madness, and reminded Jeannie of herself years ago, when she had been on the run after killing Eicher and leaving her baby behind. Dark emotions were twisting Betsy’s beautiful features into a horrific mask.

  The last time Jeannie had seen that face it had been her own reflection in the spotted mirror of a truck-stop rest-room. She had changed bus lines halfway to San Francisco, and had used the time between buses to dye her hair. She’d been thinking of Eicher’s final moments as she squeezed the foul-smelling liquid out of the plastic bottle and worked it into her hair.

  Remembering all the things he had done to her, she had seen her face transformed by hatred, and it had frightened her. She had been younger then, and now Betsy’s youthful face looked exactly like hers had all those years ago.

  Jeannie glanced at Betsy who was staring straight ahead, shutting out everything but her anger toward her mother. Two guards stood with stun guns ready while a doctor and two nurses, all women, examined mother and daughter. Jeannie wanted out of here. She wanted to know Will was safe. She wanted to tell her daughter how sorry she was. She wanted these examinations to end. And she wondered, not for the first time, if she would ever stop being afraid.

  * * *

  Kraft tried to stand on weak legs and failed, easing back onto the stool. He pointed at Kennedy with what he thought was authority, willing his finger not to dance about with its accustomed palsy. “Stay where you are, Johnny. You don’t want to be confined to your room again do you? I know you like sharing the swing set with the children at Schoolhouse West.”

  “You’re a bad man, Mr. Kraft. Bad!” JFK was walking steady and straight. For the first time in years Johnny’s back wasn’t hurting. He felt good!

  Kraft looked around wildly. Where the hell were all the doctors and nurses on the payroll? The only other people in the damned infirmary were the three idiots in their beds at the far end of the big room. Kraft grinned when he spotted his cane. It was a smooth length of oak. He hefted the cane in his trembling grip and took a swing at Kennedy. The old crater-head walked right into the cane. It slammed against Kennedy’s head and bounced off.

  Johnny shook his head. “That’s the dark side of my head.” Kraft’s cane swung at JFK’s head again, and the President caught its length in one gnarled but steady hand.

  “My head is like the moon,” Johnny said. He yanked on the cane, pulling Kraft up off the stool onto unsteady legs. “The bright side is awake and alive. The dark side is dead. You can’t hurt me there anymore. And you will not hurt the pretty lady.”

  A Page from the Past

  Compound West (Devil’s Playground, Mojave Desert California),

  June 20, 1996

  The meeting was nearly over. Doctor Mark Mondani sat behind an expanse of polished oak in the office that had once belonged to Zane. There were three chairs in front of the desk. Stern-faced men occupied two of the chairs. In the third was a cross between the Michelin Man and Albert Einstein.

  Lawrence Tupper was pudgy, nervous and prone to untimely outbursts of enthusiasm. Mondani had personally recruited young Tupper out of the University of California at San Francisco. The young man had two doctorates in medicine and one each in biochemistry, physics, engineering, and mathematics. Tupper was as brilliant as he was socially inept, and Mondani had no doubt Tupper would one day achieve greatness. He had already solved a problem no one else at the Compound could. Tupper had successfully transmitted signals to the 333X2 tracking modules implanted under the skin of William Hill and Jeannie Norman and received sporadic responses in the form of global coordinates. Now he was on the verge of devising a way to boost their signal strength of the
modules. Soon, tracking down the Compound’s last two loose ends would be as easy as it was necessary.

  From Washington DC came rumors that President Clinton might soon demand all results of ethically questionable research conducted in the past and funded by tax dollars be destroyed. Clinton was apparently unaware that he might echo a noli scribo Executive Order issued by his political idol decades ago.

  Like Kennedy, Clinton simply wanted to avoid any potential scandal, and he thought that by destroying notes on new weapons systems or sterilizing Petri dishes containing the mixed and mutated DNA of a cow and a jalapeño pepper, an attempt to create perfectly flavored beef jerky, he would have one less thing for the people to howl about should these experiments ever come to light. Clinton was also considering ending unsanctioned human research, specifically, cryogenics, eugenics, and cloning, and demanding that any and all related research materials be destroyed. He had learned from his experiences of the last few years. If you don’t fund Doctor X and let him fill his filing cabinets and incubators and metal shops with God-knows-what, then you don’t get your ass chewed ragged when the controversial works of Doctor X are exposed to the self-righteously outraged public who unknowingly paid his expenses.