Anodyne Eyes

by Milt Mays

  Alex should be safe. Outside their family, only Rock knew he was alive. Or did Sam?

  She wondered about Sam, the way he kept a steady gaze on Rocca. Sam had access to almost every area of the government and had contacts that could give him information even most government agencies were ignorant about: truly low places. Could he possibly know about Alex? He’d found out about Jabril and the location of this vault. Had Rocca told him?

  The look Rocca gave Sam wasn’t pretty. “You got any ideas or you staring at me for a reason?”

  “Yes.” Sam’s eyes didn’t move.

  “Fuck you. I’m outta here. Come on, Rachel.” Rocca shouldered his M4 MWS, and started walking toward the elevator.

  “Look,” Sam said, “you both know we need him.”

  The back of Rocca’s head wagged in disbelief, but he continued walking. Rachel didn’t follow Rock. She pulled off her gloves, gave Sam her best “asshole” look, and tossed the gloves at him.

  Sam dodged the gloves. His reflexes always were quick. Blood on inside-out gloves was no real threat. Satisfying to see him flinch, though.

  Sam persisted, “I could really use your help here, Rock. Try to figure out where Jabril went. You were . . . uh, are one of the best investigators I know.”

  Since retiring from his gig as a soldier-for-hire in 2002, Rock had started his own private investigative service, mostly looking into international crimes. After all, he’d been in almost every major city in the world. Not only had he “been there, done that,” but he’d seen their sleazy underbellies. He knew how to find people and how to punish them, without ever laying a finger on them. Follow the sleazy money and find . . . leverage. A few phone calls, a few keystrokes then sip Chivas. It had finally allowed him time with his sister and his daughter in Colorado. He’d been the oldest of them all back in ’01, those weeks after 9/11. Spent a lot of time away from family, and now he was trying to catch up. His daughter Stephanie was twenty-two and Rachel recalled there was a wedding planned soon.

  “So now you want my help.” Rock stopped and turned to face Sam. “What happened to ‘past my prime’?”

  “I meant in any direct confrontation with Jabril you would not have a chance, and neither would anyone else. We need a tank or the Incredible Hulk, or—I know—What about Alex?”

  “Alex is dead. Did you forget?” Rachel put her index finger to her lips. She wanted to rip Sam’s vocal cords out. He had to know this place had ears. If the Army ever found out Alex was alive, they’d have him in a similar quarantine: prodding, cutting, sampling. And now that Jabril was gone, Alex was a prime target.

  Sam nodded and hit his forehead with his palm. She smiled. Yep, you’re an idiot.

  “Right,” Sam said. “I meant someone like Alex. Do you think the Army has built their perfect soldier yet from Jabril’s DNA samples?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” she said.

  Rock turned around and grinned widely, obviously glad she’d put Sam in his place.

  Truthfully, Rachel didn’t really know what had been happening for some time with Jabril and the quest for the perfect soldier. Had it been her fault? Too busy with her research? Her daughter was more important. Thinking back, it seemed the regular communications about Jabril had stopped several months ago. Until that time, the Army had tried again and again to create the perfect soldier from Jabril’s samples. But something was always missing. A new life form, it seemed, could not be created out of pieces of the old. Frankenstein was indeed a myth. But Jabril was real. He was real and human. Not a monster. He deserved to die, but not like the General wanted. A bullet . . . okay, several bullets in the brain pan and a swift sword to the neck. But a humane death. Not torture. Unless.

  The way Rock held his head, the glint in his eyes, the pleasant smile, it all reminded her of one other possibility—torture and violence, unless someone threatened her family, most especially Alexis. Rock had given her that same look holding little Alexis after she was born. He’d been captivated by her aspen-green eyes, identical to her father’s. She’d also inherited Alex’s mutated DNA, able to change her form and communicate telepathically.

  Though Alexis had more, much more: an accidental miracle. In the past, accidents were responsible for major leaps forward in science. Someone in the lab noticed what looked like a mistake or happenstance, and then . . . accidentally leaving uranium on camera film indoors on a cloudy day and discovering X-rays; mistakenly dropping a mixture of sulfur and lead onto a hot stove and discovering vulcanized rubber and tires for cars; accidentally installing the wrong transistor in an oscillator and discovering cardiac pacemakers . . . and the list went on and on and on. Rachel gave birth to Alexis and her gene that would end violence, murder, mass shootings, and even wars, a mutation given to her by Alex and Rachel. The world was in a death spiral, about to consume all life due to man’s violent nature, and Alexis was the key to stop the spiral.

  It had been a hard decision for her and Alex to take that a step further. They had wanted to talk to Alexis about it, but then if she objected . . . All parents wanted what was best for their children, to allow them the best chance at succeeding. And if you could modify your daughter to save the world? Not just succeed better in life, but change humankind’s worst fault forever? You wouldn’t change her looks or the way she feels or thinks, just the way that her offspring inherit her genes. And only one gene—even less, really. Just a tiny segment of DNA—ten base pairs. Ten base pairs out of three billion in a human genome. It was like throwing a miracle rock in the ocean that raised the ocean ten feet, drowning almost all of mankind’s major cities. Yet this rock would not drown the human race; it would wash away its worst sin and save it.

  She and Alex had argued about it for over a year. He couldn’t do that to his own daughter. She felt they had to. Then the Oil War and the desolation it left afterward solidified Rachel’s opinion and she won the argument. And now it was over. Once Alexis had children, they would all share her qualities, not just 50 percent. And their children the same, on and on until the world would change in three generations, not fifty.

  Yet three generations took about seventy-five years. The world could destroy itself in twenty-five, or even less. Rachel had pawed over that for years. A month ago she’d discovered a way to rapidly spread Alexis’s DNA to millions.

  But before Rachel could begin the process, Alexis had decided to spread her wings and leave home to help others. Always to help. It was in her genes.

  Perhaps Alexis could help Rachel now. In 2001, Alex had telepathically connected with Jabril, had known his location in the U.S. even when they were in Brazil at La Riva’s highly classified bioweapons lab. Maybe Alexis could do the same.

  She was someplace in Texas helping post-war veterans and others recover psychologically. Rachel had argued against her going. But Alexis had been adamant. Texas was the heart of oil country and many veterans lived close. If she could convince them, everyone else would follow.

  Rachel had seen what Alexis could do when she was six: looking into the eyes of a PTSD-affected veteran who immediately stopped his ranting and told the doctor he could now remember everything before the IED. Rachel had quickly swept Alexis up and told the doctor it was a miracle, “God did it,” and rushed out. Though she was a scientist, evolution and God still mixed up in her head.

  There was also the time Alexis had found a hunter on their land in the Sierras, touched the man on the shoulder, and gazed into his eyes. The hunter wept and said he would never hunt again.

  Yes, she knew Alexis could help the Texans. And Rachel hadn’t wanted a confrontation like she’d had with her own father, hadn’t wanted Alexis to run away, as she had. So she’d let her go. A young woman, far older than her age, but still Rachel’s only child. Not to mention the hope of the world.

  Rachel would never forgive herself if Jabril got hold of Alexis. Jabril had a thing for brutal sex. Some geneticists believed that was the future of mankind: smarter, stronger, and sex to the max. P
rocreate to recreate. Nothing new about that. Going on since the Dark Ages. Except with the morning after pills, and now with the nano-condoms and nano-plugs of fallopian tubes, not to mention how cheap it had become for IVF embryonic choice; it was not about procreation, it was only about the sex, the sex, the sex. Sex and reproduction were no longer linked, especially for the wealthy. Sex was the new designer drug. Only better. Pure pleasure, no risk.

  Except with Jabril, the first time usually meant death for the woman. Alexis would survive, yes. She was too strong. But even one of Jabril’s sperm could mean the end of humankind, not the beginning.

  So, Jabril did not deserve torture . . . unless . . . unless he ever touched Alexis. Then torture would be the least of his worries, no matter how Alex felt, peace be damned.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. Maybe there was another way. Was it really Jabril’s fault he was cursed? It was genetic modification that caused Jabril’s ultra-violence, his hyper sexuality. What if there was a way to undo that, modify his genes to take away that terrible sexual violence? That would mean capturing him alive and bringing him back. Or maybe Alexis could actually help him.

  Sam’s smartphone began playing the chords from Eye of the Tiger. He could never get enough of Rocky. She had to admit the best tunes were the old ones, though this was not her favorite.

  He swiped a finger over the screen and held it to his ear. “Yeah, whadaya got? . . . Okay. Thanks.”

  He ended the call and smiled again, though not showing any teeth and his lids at half-mast. “I know where he is.”

  Chapter 6

  Rachel and Rocca both gave Sam a deadpan look. His “guess where?” game was an old one, and not one they enjoyed.

  Sam eyed them and rolled his eyes. “All right, you don’t have to get all huffy. He’s about ten miles from here, riding a train west.”

  “I’ll drive,” he said.

  Once, Sam had told her that when she was mad there were flecks of green in her eyes that flashed like fire in the brown irises while the black pupils bored a hole right through you. She gave him that look.

  He put a hand up as if shielding bright sun. It was good to know the look still worked.

  “Not a chance. That Jeep is a turtle.” Rachel said, already running toward the elevator.

  Sam and Rocca trotted behind her. In the ride up the elevator, the two traded glances and shrugs. Rachel agreed with their implied assessment. This was going to be interesting: Chinese interesting—really a curse invented by the Brits and attributed to the Chinese, “May you live in interesting times.” Oh yeah. Way interesting.

  Sam apologetically explained why he and Rocca had been in the area. One of Rocca’s happy clients had arranged a fishing trip. Beer, fishing for rockfish bass in the Chesapeake, on someone else’s tab? Damn straight. But, the hurricane put a damper on the last day. That’s when they’d received the call. When she asked why security’d called him, he merely smiled, shrugged and said, “You know. Friends.” Yeah, she knew. Only too well.

  “But,” he continued, obviously trying to change the subject, “it took hours after the hurricane before those idiot guards realized the temperature monitor had failed. By then they had already paid the price. They won’t be going home after the hurricane. Except for their own funerals.” He chuckled. Sam had always enjoyed dumbshits paying the price.

  Rocca frowned at him. He was a tad more sympathetic. A tad.

  “Anyway,” Sam continued, “that’s how we got here. How about you? I thought you were in the Sierras.”

  The elevator came to a gentle halt, yet she felt as if Sam had slapped her. No one except Rocca was supposed to know that she and Alex lived in the Sierras. She punched Sam in the chest and glared at Rocca. He must have told Sam. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have a house in Denver and an apartment here. Not been to the Sierras. I’m working for La Riva; takes up a lot of time, too.”

  “And you just happened to be checking on Jabril.”

  A ping sounded, the elevator door slid open and she strode out. The two men followed.

  Once they were outside, Rocca’s words bounced off her back, “Rachel, you know I would never say anything to anyone, much less Sam.”

  She whipped around, stopping them in their tracks. “Sure! You two and your Boy’s Club. Does the rest of the world know, too?”

  She spun around and strode toward the Beemer.

  “Rachel,” Rocca pleaded.

  She kept walking.

  “We gotta get our gear,” Sam said, nudging Rocca. The two ran to the Jeep.

  Rachel shed her raincoat and tossed it in the back, got in and revved the engine. The Boy’s Club was going to have to hurry.

  Each man hustled a duffel and jogged to the Beemer. Sam started for the front passenger seat, but Rocca shouldered him to the back and got in the front. No sooner had they tossed their duffels in the back seat than the car lurched forward. The tires slipped on the wet road, then squealed. The doors slammed shut and Sam and Rocca were thrown against the back of their seats.

  “Come on, Rachel,” Sam said, snapping his seatbelt on. “Get a grip and slow down. You don’t even know where you’re going.”

  “So direct me.”

  “Take a right at the next light, hit the Beltway then 270 to Hagerstown.”

  The peach-colored, long-sleeved synthetic shirt she’d donned this morning was perfect for a long drive. The roads glistened; power lines hung low where telephone poles tilted from the recent winds. An Outback Steakhouse sign was partially wrapped around the end of a bus. The air was humid and rank with downtown garbage that floated too high from the flooding. The only thing different between this and other hurricanes that had hit D.C. was the lack of cars on the roads. Even though Rachel’s intelligence sources told her the U.S. had plenty of oil after the Oil War, the big corporations and the military scarfed up most of it. The little man got only leftovers, a pittance and at a high price. Only the wealthy drove much. The lack of cars allowed Rachel to drive with abandon. She loved that. What she hated was the humidity and the smell.

  She rolled up her window and turned on the air. “You think they’d have known this storm would be a problem, especially after they decided to name her Matilda. Really? Give me a name like that and I’d tear out half the Eastern Seaboard, too.”

  She sighed deeply and cracked the top of the Buzz Cola in the center drink-holder, one with a temperature controller; this one set on thirty-five degrees. She took a long swig. “Where’s he headed? Any ideas?” She spoke to the windshield, never taking her eyes off the road, and turned right at the light, narrowly fitting in front of an oncoming white Ford pickup. The driver laid on his horn. She flipped him the bird and sped off.

  Rocca raised an eyebrow at her.

  “What? The light was broken. I had plenty of time to turn. That guy was an asshole.”

  “Jabril might be going for Alex,” Sam said from the back seat.

  Rachel frowned and the car seemed to lurch forward, rpm’s revving.

  “Rache, we all want Jabril dead.” Rocca said. “But if you kill us, no one else will have a clue.”

  Sam leaned forward and grabbed the back of Rocca’s seat. “He had a, you know, connection with Alex back then. Maybe he still does.”

  What Sam never knew, no one knew, was that Alex would never kill Jabril, or send him back to that torture. If it weren’t for Jabril, Alex would have never been born.

  She blew air out her nose and took another long drink. Sticking the can back in the holder, she belched loud and long, then laughed. “Are you trying to piss me off, or being your usual debonair self?”

  She slowed and twisted her head around to yell at Sam. “What train is he on? Where is it going? And how do you know?”

  She faced forward and punched the accelerator, hitting the entrance ramp to Interstate 270 at over eighty MPH, slamming Sam back against his seat.

  “Amtrak to Chicago. Another low friend.”

  Ahead, a semi-tan
ker truck was jackknifed at a forty-five-degree angle on the freeway, blocking all but the far left emergency lane. A line of four cars, probably the only ones on the road that could afford gas, waited. Their red taillights lit up like Christmas out of sync. Rachel never slowed. She ran the Beemer about four inches from the left divider and passed everyone using the flat-tire lane, holding the wheel with one hand and taking another sip from her soda as she cleared the semi.

  The road ahead was empty.

  Rocca breathed out a “Jesus,” then added “I’d kinda like to make it to Stephanie’s wedding next month.”

  “Okay. Let’s do it.” She punched the accelerator and the powerful engine hummed an even higher tune. She put the soda down and tapped on the music screen. Whitesnake played loud and she giggled. She thought of driving to LA last summer with Alexis and Alex. Breakneck speeds, same song, good memories.

  The digital speedometer read 110. Rocca glanced at it and closed his eyes. “I haven’t seen this speed since the autobahn on leave after Desert Storm. Maybe if I go to sleep, I won’t feel death. Tell Stephanie I love her.”

  “Do you really think Jabril’s going after Alex?” Rachel said, now serious.

  Chapter 7

  The last thing Jabril El Fahd remembered was that damnable guard from Jakarta airport, Rocca, the prick of Rocca’s knife under his chin after a car crash on a desolate road in Colorado, then nightmares of pain: searing cuts into his eyes, his head, his balls. Until yesterday. He had begun to wake, slowly at first, then lightning fast . . .

  First he smelled their cigarette smoke and sweet cologne for hours, then heard their laughter for minutes, then saw their faces for microseconds. He laughed long and hard at their look of horror. Hadn’t felt that good in a few nights, since he’d been asleep. Though it felt like only a few days he’d been out, something else tickled at his brain, his subconscious telling him it had been longer.

  He stood barefooted before the carnage, calm and satisfied, white diaper the only clothing on his rail-thin, brown Arab physique. He had no memory for what exactly he’d done after he awoke, other than enjoying the terror on the faces of guards who now lay before him in pieces. Without thinking, he dipped his hand in the open chest of the nearest dead man, closed his eyes, and smeared his wet hand all over his face and chest, ending with smelling his hand and licking and sucking each finger. Delicious.