Crime Rave

by Sezin Koehler

  “You mean The Blob?” Günn does not believe a word of this, and even raises her head sniffing the air to see if her sixth sense is missing something. Nothing.

  “Yes, that one. The pink ooze ate him up. Left only some bones. Those women were remarkable.” Chamelia looks almost nostalgic.

  Red Feather has to ask: “How did you know it was her vulva that detached?” Words he never imagined would come out of his mouth, part one.

  “Kudos on saying the word vulva, detective. And, well, it came from between her legs and looked like a place setting in Judy Chicago’s Dinner Party. Specific enough for you?”

  “Judy Who?” Günn doesn’t like it when people make her feel ignorant.

  “Feminist artist? Did this installation with dinner settings representing famous women through history, each plate a stylized vulva? It’s glorious.” How do I know this shit and you don’t? I’m not even human. Or technically female. Anyway, gender is a construct.

  Günn shakes her head. “Forget it.” This is not the time for an art history lesson. “So, what you’re saying that a vagina detached and turned into the blob and then killed Charles Wallace Crane?” Günn feels her temper rising, but she smells zip. There’s no way this is true. Or this creature is the best liar I’ve ever met.

  “Not a vagina, a vulva. But otherwise, yes, that is exactly what I am telling you, Detective.” Chamelia does not like her integrity questioned and anger makes her human façade shimmer, her true self wanting to come through in retribution for the slight.

  Red Feather looks at Günn, who thinks her lie detector sense is crazy on the fritz. Chamelia continues.

  “We go back downstairs to the party and the people are dropping like flies. The DJ was doing something with the music, making people’s brains explode. They were bleeding from the ears and convulsing. It was horrifying. That girl with the detachable vulva? She made it happen again and the pink ooze ate the DJ. She looked wrecked and collapsed into the crowd seizing on the floor. But the music was still playing. So, then, these three bird girls shot fireballs from their hands at the speakers. But the music was still everywhere. Like hardwired into the house. I heard this rumble, felt it under my feet, then BOOM. The world exploded. I woke up in that operating room, strapped to the table with a bunch of humans staring at me.” She raises her hands. That’s all I’m holding.

  A blob that begins as a vulva. Girls who shoot fire from their hands. A DJ making brains explode. Günn thinks her own brain is about ready to explode.

  At the mention of bird girls Red Feather wonders about the blonde creature down the hall who’s lost human language and gained flight. He takes out a stack of Polaroids from his pocket, pulling out the bird girl as well as Lily’s picture.

  “Do you recognize these two women?”

  “Yes, Lily, that’s our Lily. And that one’s one of the bird girls. What did she call herself?” Chamelia taps a long green-nailed finger on her mouth. “Galactic Canary.”

  Red Feather is puzzled. “What kind of name is that?”

  “Raver name, I guess. I don’t really understand either.” Chamelia shrugs. “But who am I to judge, right?”

  Red Feather scribbles Galactic Canary on the back of the Polaroid in quotes. He pulls out another. “Do you recognize this man?” Red Feather shows her a photo of Charles Wallace Crane, mansion owner.

  Chamelia snarls. “That’s the bastard who tried to kill us.” Chamelia’s rage forces her into her natural shape, but this time she’s covered in red patches and her amber double-irised eyes are yellow with fury.

  “You saw this man at the party?”

  “Yes. We showed him.” Her smile is a grimace.

  “Do you recognize any more of these photos? Maybe the woman with the,” clears his throat, “ooze?” Red Feather hands her the stack of Polaroids.

  Chamelia’s face crinkles as she looks through the stack. “Yeah, they all look sort of familiar, the eyes mainly, but I can’t remember their names. Keep in mind that my vision is heat sensitive, so faces change depending on the circumstances. Plus, they were in costume. I’m not sure I ever would have recognized them if I’d seen them walking down the street. Except Lily, of course. And the bird chick had a distinct aura, bright yellow like her name. I think these two,” points to the photo of Karma Devi and an as-yet-unidentified curly-haired long-nailed woman, “were dressed as Poison Ivy and Catwoman. Maybe. But they had masks on so I can’t be a hundred percent sure. These two are my friends I already told you about, NRG and Secrete.” She puts the photos down. “I think the woman with the ooze was wearing a Powerpuff Girl costume? But I’m really not sure.”

  “And you were on drugs as well, further compromising your ability to recall,” Günn says, her forensics bedside manner coming to the fore. Chamelia does not like anything about this woman who is combative for combat’s sake.

  “Yes, I was. But not by choice. Don’t forget that,” Chamelia warns. “So, how did I get here? And what was that explosion?”

  Red Feather clears his throat. “Well, ma’am, somebody blew up not just the mansion, but the hill it was on. The whole thing is vaporized.”

  Chamelia’s forehead creases, her double blinking eyes work overtime. “I don’t understand. How did I get out?”

  “You didn’t. We found your—ahem—tail at the explosion site. You, grew back.” Red Feather doesn’t know why he’s mortified having witnessed the alien’s regenerative powers, but hearing those words come from his own mouth feels like an out of body experience, part two.

  Praise the Gods, thinks Chamelia.

  “So all these people, they were also just body parts when you found them?” She gestures at the photographs.

  “Not all, but the majority yes.”

  “That’s why you asked if I had anything to do with it before? Because of my thumb?” Chamelia laughs—a mad sound that frightens Red Feather—and holds her belly. “I assure you, Detective. I had nothing to do with any of this. And oh, your scientists are going to have so much fun trying to explain this one! Your entire belief structure is going to collapse!” She has no idea why that is so very funny, but it feels good to laugh until she realizes she can’t stop. Get a grip, girl, get a grip.

  “You said before that the Roswell Institute are coming for you. Can you tell us more about that?”

  Chamelia’s borderline hysteria cuts short. An inadvertent tear trickles from her left eye.

  “Dangerous, ruthless men. Part of an organization that is so secret they will kill every possible witness just to reclaim us from here.” She pauses, thinking. “You know, they’ll probably want the other survivors, too. For their collection.” She spits the last word.

  A secret government agency with aliens in custody? Red Feather scratches away in his notebook, fighting the urge to scratch his head as well.

  “If you tell us who they are and where we can find them, we can better protect you.” What is she hiding? “You can trust us.”

  A sad smile drifts across Chamelia’s face. “Sorry, Detective. They’re ghosts. You can’t protect anyone from spooks.” She considers, liking Red Feather and feeling uncustomarily helpful. “If I were you, I’d station the best teams you’ve got on the roof of this hospital. Put some in the basement, too. I don’t know when they’ll come, but they will. Is that all, detectives?” I’m just so tired. Of this. Of your planet. These small rooms you in which you insist on housing people. Your voices give me a headache.

  Red Feather knows a dismissal when he hears one and Günn knows better than to press it in this case.

  “We appreciate your help, Chamelia.”

  She nods.

  Red Feather and Günn have so many more questions for her. Where did she come from? How long has she been a prisoner? What is the Roswell Institute? And what else is out there in the universe?


  But it’s clear Chamelia will not be talking about any of that. Not now anyway. Her proud face is etched with anxiety, even though she seems accepting of an eventual recapture. Red Feather wishes there were more he could do to help.

  Red Feather hands her his card. “Please call me if you remember anything else or feel like talking about some of the other stuff…”

  “Don’t hold your breath, detective.”

  “OK then. Just get some rest in the meantime.”

  Günn turns off the video camera. As the detectives leave the room Red Feather sees Chamelia shimmer back into her lizard form. She resumes staring outside the window, enjoying—if briefly—a view that doesn’t consist of cell walls, and taking in the sounds of traffic instead of The Institute’s soundtrack of tortured screams.

  Chamelia

  You’re anxious as an atheist in a witch hunt. There’s no way you’re going back to The Institute. No way in hell. No way, no how. Even if you have to leave your daughters behind, it’s not in your future. You’ve decided, and you’re sticking to it.

  Your form shivers and shifts from one former guise to another, unable to settle your nerves. You pace the room. You feel claustrophobic. You stick your head out the open window. You think about jumping out. You get vertigo looking down.

  You open the door to your room, maybe that will help the walls stop closing in. Now the humans are staring. Are they staring? You can’t tell, their eyes are so beady, they could be looking anywhere. You close the door. You close the window. You can’t breathe. You open the window. The smog smell chokes you. The traffic sounds comfort you.

  You turn on the television. You ask the nurse for a pizza; she’s been told you can have anything you want. Pizza is your favorite human food. The algae here doesn’t taste right, not like home. You order a meat pizza, extra meat. The protein will calm you down; the starch will take these knots out of your belly.

  Try to sleep, try to sleep, try to sleep. You’re so tired you can’t. You find the station with old black and white movies, hoping for some Judy Garland or Marilyn Monroe. In luck. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Marilyn sings you to sleep, though your dreams are troubled memories of your years of abuse and the dread certainty that there’s more to come.

  9:30 AM The Roswell Institute

  Using a dummy line leading back to the FBI, Colonel Randall Ransom calls the LAPD, asks for Captain Anderson.

  “I’m sorry, sir, the captain is unavailable. Can I take a message?” The voice tells him.

  “Who’s in charge?” Ransom’s hand tightens around the phone.

  “At the moment, Special Agent Linus. He’s one of yours. The assistant chief is back on site—”

  Ransom hangs up the phone. “FUCK!” He screams and drops to the floor for more push-ups.

  He picks up the phone and calls Spruce-Musa directly, this time from an NSA dummy line.

  “This is Roger Waters from the NSA. Patch me through to the floor with the Crane Massacre survivors.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” a woman’s voice says, “I’m not authorized—”

  “Who is the doctor in charge of recovery?” Ransom starts seeing red, imagining pulling this woman’s hair out with his bare hands. Ripper calms.

  “He’s in surgery at the moment—”

  Ransom tries to keep his voice level but the pissed off creeps through. “Is there not a damn soul there actually doing their jobs?”

  “Sir, they are doing their jobs. That’s why they aren’t available. I can patch you through to one of the head nurses if—”

  “Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Get her on the phone NOW.”

  “Yes, sir,” her voice squeaks. “Right away.”

  Insipid muzak pours through the phone, a watered down version of The Sound of Silence, as if that song could get any more pussified. Ransom’s heart starts racing again. He balls his free hand into a fist, feeling his nails cut into his palm. Better.

  “This is Nurse Pratchett, how may I assist you?” The voice is clipped and formal, a British accent.

  “Yes, I’m Agent Roger Waters from the NSA. I need a status update on the survivors. And don’t you dare tell me you can’t give me that information over the phone.”

  “Well, then, you’ve beat me to it. I’m under strict instructions from the police here. Would you like to speak to one of the detectives? Maybe they’re authorized to—”

  The colonel hangs up. Motherfuckers.

  “They wanna play rough?” Ransom growls. “Well then, here comes Johnny.”

  Colonel Ransom writes a memo to Julie Keaton, authorizing her to hack into the Spruce-Musa computer system, find the location of the survivors, and download the blueprints for a special ops. Those rogue bitches are coming home, along with their new friends.

  9:40 AM Spruce-Musa Hospital

  Detective Red Feather calls the station to request rooftop and basement back-up per Chamelia’s recommendation, to find that Captain Anderson had a heart attack and Detective Murphy’s suspended for botching an interrogation with one of the Crane Massacre terrorists.

  Reeling, Red Feather waits as dispatch connects him with the assistant chief, Gabriel Ortiz. He fills his new boss in, and Chief Ortiz, while dubious, agrees to step up the police presence on the roof and basement levels.

  “Hey, have you heard any whispers about a secret government agency that deals with alien life forms?” Red Feather asks the assistant chief.

  “Not outside of a science fiction movie or that ridiculous show on TV at the moment. But if what Chang said is true, we’re going to have to start entertaining all kinds of notions.” Chief Ortiz pauses. Red Feather hears him taking a drag of a cigarette. Ortiz exhales hard. “Keep plugging away at the interviews. You call me with updates every hour.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  “Good luck, Detective.”

  Red Feather hangs up the phone to see Nurse Pratchett walking toward him, a concerned look on her face. “Detective, a man just called wanting to know the location of the survivors.” Red Feather’s eyes widen. “Don’t worry,” Pratchett assures him, “I didn’t tell him anything. Said his name was Roger Waters and was from the NSA. Rather funny his name is that of the singer from Pink Floyd. He hung up, didn’t leave a message.”

  Red Feather’s brow furrows. The NSA has zero jurisdiction with the survivors. “OK. Thank you for letting me know. We’re stepping up security as we speak. Something fishy is going on.”

  “To say the least,” Pratchett says and walks away. She turns back. “He sounded angry. Like the drunk fellow at the bar who’s had one too many and that last-straw rejection from a lady.”

  Red Feather nods, troubled. “Appreciate your help, Nurse Pratchett.”

  Günn returns from the bathroom where she once again fought the urge to vomit and failed. This is a bad day to be a pregnant detective. The worst.

  “You ready for the next ‘alien’ interview?” Günn says.

  “Ready as apple pie on a windowsill,” Red Feather replies. Günn snorts.

  They walk into knife girl’s room, the one Chamelia called NRG. Nurse Jonelle, a portly African-American nurse with a warm smile and quick laugh, tries to draw blood but the needle breaks at NRG’s skin.

  “I told you it wouldn’t work,” NRG says. Her voice has a metallic edge, the taste of blood. Her skin shimmers like a fresh-waxed car. Her eyes are saucer-sized and silver, set back in her face, an H.R. Giger vision come to life.

  “No harm in trying, sugar,” Nurse Jonelle laughs and shrugs. “You are a wonder to behold, miss.”

  NRG can’t help but smile. Nurse Jonelle is infectious joy.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Günn says. “We’re Detectives Günn and Red Feather from the LAPD. Can we ask you some questions about the rave last night?”

  “I’ll
get out of your hair,” Nurse Jonelle chortles. “You call if you need anything, honey.” NRG nods. “Oh and detectives, you watch out for this one. She spits knives!” Nurse Jonelle cracks up. “Oh Lordy Lord, the things I seen today!” They hear her laughing as she walks down the hallway.

  “Well, she’s certainly dealing with this better than the rest of us,” Red Feather says.

  “She’s religious,” NRG responds, “thinks all this is proof of divine intervention. Who knows, maybe she’s right.”

  Günn sets up the video camera and begins recording. Looking at the woman is like staring into a mirage. Günn feels her eyes begin to cross, blinks to clear her vision.

  “So, what’s your name?” Red Feather starts.

  “I don’t really have a name. They just call me NRG. Pronounced energy.” She sits like an obedient child, hands folded in her lap.

  “Does NRG stand for something?”

  “Knife Regeneration Project.”

  Red Feather does his best not to raise his eyebrows and fails. “And where do you live?”

  “At the moment nowhere. And the other place, I wouldn’t say I live there, I’m more of a prisoner. ‘We made you, you belong to us.’ Macho bullshit.” NRG’s face contorts imitating Ripper Ransom. Knife points start to tremble underneath her skin. “Oh shit, you better stand back, I can’t quite remember how to control them yet.” She turns her body and a volley of knives spits out through her dermis, plunking into a chair in the corner. “Fuck,” she says. “Seems to happen when I get upset.”

  “So, um, who made you?” Red Feather hopes she’ll not be as evasive as her friend Chamelia in the next room.

  “The Roswell Institute. I’m a pet project. They used recombinant alien DNA and a bunch of other stuff I don’t understand. I’m supposed to be the newest super soldier version. Cyborg tech. Cool word. Painful process. My friends and I escaped. Twice! Hah. Gotta love our gumption, right? And those fuckers are probably on their way to take us back to hell right now.” Bravado drops from her face. “I don’t want to go back there. Can you help us?”