Anodyne Eyes

by Milt Mays

  A dull detonation vibrated his feet, started his gaze wandering. Thirty yards to his right, a circular crater as deep as a grave smoldered. Must have been a grenade. Someone on the other side meant business and had the ammo to do real damage. He started to drag Charlie inside. Man, he was a heavy dude.

  The wooden walls to his left splintered like diseased blisters popped open. Had to be gunshots. Should have been cracking sounds. Nothing but a tiny, high-pitched humming in his head. Another memory: explosions in a distant war that had left him without hearing for an hour. Maybe this time he would never hear again. He and Beethoven were a lot alike, really. Yeah.

  The walls splintered again. He dropped Charlie and ran. There were a few stragglers in front of him, but not for long. Maybe he couldn’t hear, but he could still run, very well. The drunken feeling was gone. Way gone.

  In moments he was into fields with new wheat stubble tapping his ankles. His breathing was fast, way fast. He slowed and tried to get his bearings. It was damn dark. Which way? His scalp tingled just like the time he rode in a Humvee shooting at people he didn’t know, his wacko sergeant holding a gun to his groin. Shit!

  He stopped and tried to take in what was happening. A few muffled baseball-bat thumps in the distance with bright flashes. Much farther away. Beethoven be damned. He could hear again.

  Alexis hugged him and started pulling him along behind her.

  “Where did you come from? Where are we going?” His voice sounded too high, like a small boy. One of these days he would be a manly man with her.

  “You ran to me. We’re going to the car.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  She pulled him by one hand. In his other hand he gripped the gun. A shield of immense value. If he lost that, he would be done. Guns: the great equalizers. Bullets would definitely help.

  The vice grip pulling reminded him: She didn’t need a gun. What was with that? He had to have a heart-to-heart with her. Next time they got a breather. Maybe in a few years.

  His legs were into their tenth year of running when Alexis stopped, probably because he was gasping and wheezing. She let go of his hand. He bent over, hand and gun on knees, catching his breath. Except he couldn’t. No matter how fast he breathed in and out, his breath kept running away.

  A car door squeaked open. Guess she didn’t stop for him.

  “Get in,” she said.

  A great shadow pounced on the ground to his right and flew over the top of the car. Okay. That was interesting. Instantly his breathing slowed. What was that? The passenger door opened and the shadow got in.

  Alexis looked at him out the driver’s side. “Guess you’ll have to get in the back.”

  He couldn’t see much in the dark, but he could see the whites of her eyes and her white teeth in a big smile. “Dad’s back.”

  He climbed into the back seat behind her. Dad smiled back at him. Bigger. Like father like daughter.

  She punched it, and he was flung back against the seat. Another memory of bouncing inside a Humvee. Realfood was not turning out to be the nice, cozy place of a few hours ago. Yet he felt safe in the car with these two in the front.

  They were moving fast when they screeched to a halt. He grabbed the seat backs to keep from going into the windshield. Headlights illuminated a white truck with a camper on it. Alex jumped out. “You can get up front now, Jeff.” Alex ran to the truck and got in.

  Jeff quickly ran around the car and got in, and in a blink they were following the camper at a speed Jeff never thought a truck with a camper could have mustered. The road was smooth, a highway. Cool air came in his open window; stubbled fields flew by; headlight beams bounced back and forth off the back of the camper like a light-saber fight in Star Wars. A sour smell wafted from his pits. Everything was so loud: The wind whished, the motor hummed, and his heart sounded like a snare drum in a Sousa march.

  They took a sharp right onto a dirt road, then bounced along for several minutes. The road seemed to disappear. They descended into a black hole. His dad always loved black holes. Now Jeff could tell him all about it. He hoped.

  Chapter 34

  The wounds were bigger than Jabril had experienced. And they hurt worse than the scalpels and scissors. Different bullets perhaps. It didn’t matter; he was healing fast.

  A few more deep breaths behind the cover of a budding hedge and he was ready. Helene and Rachel were still back there. He needed Helene’s knowledge of the medical school. More than that, he wanted her. Barring that, there was Rachel. How wonderful she was still alive.

  Running faster than a horse, he was at the house. Instinct told him to go in the picture window. He jumped through and thrilled at the flying glass and splintered window frame, and the challenge of a Milwaukee policeman on his right, turning toward him, machine gun in hand. The man was quick, but too close. Jabril swept his claws up and down. No more arms. The man started to scream, but . . . another swipe. No more head. Much easier than a sword.

  Jabril felt it rather than saw it and jumped sideways. A loud crack of the shotgun mirrored a pop hitting the wall behind where he’d been. Helene was standing behind and to his left. Where were Rachel and Sam? If they were here, they would be firing too? Helene must be the only one left. Simple.

  The distinct sound of the ten-gauge racking another shell and the determined look on her face made him jump straight up. She was quicker than the other man had been. The barrel of the shotgun followed his upward trajectory. She fired and immediately racked another shell. The slug caught him in the lower leg. He screamed, more in anger than in pain. He wanted her, all of her. But she would kill him if he didn’t act.

  Before she could pull the trigger again, he batted the shotgun out of her hands. She started to pull her revolver from its holster, but he gripped and pinned her arms above her head to the wall. The revolver clattered to the floor. The pain in his right lower leg was already waning. Her face was inches from his, yet she showed no fear.

  “Hello, Helene.”

  He bared his fangs, saliva and blood dripping on her chest. She closed her eyes, then opened them and spat in his face.

  A brave woman. Deep inside a bubble burst. He had been alone for so long. Too long. This woman he could love. He started to laugh and relaxed.

  As fast as an eel slithering through mud, she slid her arms out of his loosened grip and was on the floor with the revolver in her hands, pointed at his chest.

  Yes, she would be useful to show him the mouse lab. But she would require persuasion. She fired. He ducked and caught her in the face with a punch. Love was maybe out of the question.

  The shot went wide and she went out. He perused the room then ran through the house, checking all the rooms. No one else. Rachel and Sam gone.

  He must find Rachel. But when he returned to Helene’s form, lying on her left side, one leg up and one arm out, revealing curves of beauty, a roaring filled his head. To hell with love. Rock hard for an hour, seeing her blond hair fall across the pixie nose, flushed cheeks and full lips, he almost burst.

  A deep breath and let it out slow. This he was going to enjoy. Here and now. There would be no waiting. He pushed one claw out and slid it inside her shirt and bra and pulled it forward, feeling the bra tug, then sling-shot apart, enjoying the gradual cutting and ripping sound of the shirt. So much better to take it slow. It revealed larger and larger glimpses of white, smooth, delicious skin. She was leaning to her left, so the shirt fell off that side, revealing one perfect breast. They were all perfect, he thought, but this? This was exquisite.

  Another thought barged in. He must leave, find Rachel, complete the mission.

  He gazed at Helene’s breast. No. He must see everything, feel everything. The slower the better.

  He retracted his claw and with the tip of his index finger traced the pink areola around and around. The nipple perked. She might be unconscious, but was still responsive. A shiver ran through him. He undid the button on her pants and started to unzip them.

 
Sirens sounded in the distance.

  All his claws jumped out. One touched the skin below her navel, a lovely navel that sat in the center of a wonderful, soft abdomen. He jerked his hand back, but not quick enough to avoid one claw touching her snow-white skin.

  He swore, then peered closely. There was no blood. Still unblemished. Ahh.

  Then a small dark bead of blood formed, like a scarlet ruby on a white sheet. How clumsy he was in this monstrous form. No control. He’d spoiled a wonderfully virginal skin. This reminded him of his mother’s beliefs, her Muslim faith in helping others. Everything wilted; his muscles, his desire.

  The sirens were distant, but growing louder. A breeze fluttered the curtains at the broken window. The zipper was not down far enough to see the color of her pubic hair. Still lovely mysteries to discover. But it would have to be later. He had to think of what he was doing. He would take control. Must take control. The death of all infidels was more important than his clumsy urges. He retracted his claws and zipped up and buttoned her pants.

  The pain where she had shot him in the right lower leg was all but gone. Below the tattered pants at his knee the bone was a bit crooked, but healed, as was the skin and muscle. On testing it with a few steps, he did not limp.

  The dead hand of the other policeman still gripped the machine pistol. Jabril freed the gun, carried it with one hand, threw her over his shoulder and went out the front door.

  No one was visible outside. He ran, and within minutes arrived at the park. Slinking in shadows, he found his car. He put her in the back seat, got the duct tape and wrapped it around her trunk, pulling her shirt together, breathing deeply as her lovely breasts disappeared under the shirt. A few turns around her head and mouth, wrists and ankles, and he was ready. He put a blanket over her, closed the back door, hopped in the front.

  He drove slightly north of the multi-vehicle backup, fire trucks mounding up like mud after a desert rain around his explosive diversion. The charred Subaru would have no fingerprints, that was for sure. Planning was everything, control the key. He weaved through back roads for five minutes, then slowed and parked in the shadow of another large maple, a block from the mouse lab. Movement and groans came from the back seat.

  Now was her chance to help him. If she did, he would make her death quick. If not, after he was done enjoying her body, she would have a few more blemishes.

  He turned around and uncovered her face. Angry eyes flashed at him above the gray duct tape.

  “You are still beautiful, Helene.” He put a hand close to her face so she could see the claw grow and watch as he weaved the tip of it back and forth across her eyes. “And you can still see.” He quickly moved the razor-sharp tip to touch her left temple.

  “One flick of my finger, though, and . . .”

  The glare evaporated, and her eyes got wide.

  “Good. I have your attention. I am in search of mice, the ones that are causing all the problems. If you tell me what floor, what general direction, and the room number, I will spare you. If not, I may still spare you, but you will no longer be beautiful, and will wish you were dead.”

  He moved his claw away from her temple. In truth, he was beginning to wonder if he would hurt her. At this thought his claw retracted.

  She sighed through her nose and nodded her head.

  He glanced over at the three-story building that was the medical school lab. It would all be so easy if he could risk taking the tape off her mouth. Perhaps he could convince her. After all, he was truly a good man. He only wanted to rid the world of the evil infidels. Surely she would understand. He remembered her angry, resistant eyes. No, she would scream.

  “What floor?” He held up successive fingers; one, two, and was about to go to three when she nodded.

  “Two?”

  She nodded again.

  Now for the general direction. He figured as a cop she would know compass directions. The building had an entrance on the east, facing his car, and the north side, up a block.

  “South?” She did not move her head. “East?” Nothing. “North?” She nodded.

  He smiled and patted the side of her head. “Very good.”

  Her eyes looked away.

  As he remembered the online schematic, there were about fifty rooms on each floor.

  “Is the room number between one and twenty-five?” She shook her head. “Twenty-five to fifty?” She nodded. “Thirty to thirty-five?” She nodded.

  He narrowed it to 234. “Thank you. You are a strong woman and a good cop.” She rolled her eyes. He slapped her hard on the side of the head. She was out again.

  Afterwards he would drive to a nice secluded spot on some country road. Wisconsin must be full of them. He would turn on the dome light and see every detail.

  No! He would let her go. Forget about Rachel and Alex and their child.

  A painful vibration threatened to burst his brain, the origin once again behind his left ear. He gripped the steering wheel. His heart skipped and fluttered. Bile tainted his throat.

  One thought pervaded, flooded, burned into his mind. He must complete his mission. He must find Rachel and Alex and spread the GMO foods through the USA. Though this thought was in his mind, a sliver of doubt began to grow about it being his own.

  The searing pain worsened.

  He panted, wanted to tear out whatever was behind his left ear, wanted to shriek. Forget the doubt. He didn’t know if that was his thought, or the pain that did it, but the sliver of doubt vanished.

  Yes, he would complete the mission. Of course.

  The pain disappeared. He covered Helene with the blanket and got out, looked around, then locked the car and ran toward the northern entrance to the lab.

  Chapter 35

  Rachel ran behind Sam, not liking him leading, but allowing it because he knew where they were going. Also, he was the field agent, he’d reminded her, as if he’d never told her before. She was going to say he was unable to save Alex at a critical time, unable to save his own friends and coworkers, or even Dan’s son, so what made him so good? But he already felt bad enough about all of those things, so she held her tongue and followed.

  It took too long to cover the two miles. She kept looking behind her for Jabril. Sam stopped at the east door. It was locked. “There will likely be security at the north entrance. But it will be closer to the room we need. Once we’re through security, we can be in and out quickly.”

  “What kind of security, anyhow? It’s a medical school. These are mice. It’s not exactly Fort Knox.”

  He was already pulling away, so she wasn’t sure he had heard her. About ten yards from the north end of the building, he stopped and turned toward her.

  “Ambrosia sponsors these guys. They don’t like to lose.” He chambered a round in the ten-gauge. “And, Jabril may be close.”

  She released the safety on the HK. Her heartbeat thumped in her fingertips, behind her eyes, in her throat: a steady thrum of blood moving through as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. What would she do if Jabril killed Sam? She could not outrun Jabril. She wasn’t like Alex. There would be no fighting. Maybe this was not such a good idea. Dan was right. She had power in this organization. Her product was being used in these mice and plants. Call the supervisor in the morning, tell him what she needed and she could walk in, get the mice and plants, and walk out.

  “Sam, maybe we should wait.”

  He was turning to resume walking, then turned to her, a frown on his face.

  “If Jabril gets these contaminated mice and grains out into the general population—Hell, you saw what happened on the plane. Think of thousands, millions like that. We have to get them first, and you and Dan have to figure out a way to end this.”

  She slowed her breathing. Sam needed her. Alexis needed her. Hell, everyone did.

  “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Sam nodded as he started walking toward the northeast corner of the building.

  She felt each step: heel and toe, push-off, heel and toe
, push-off. It felt like a slow-motion movie. The corner of the building seemed a mile away.

  They rounded the corner and Sam slowed. She peered around him. The large glass doors were wide-open. Two men in gray uniforms lay on the ground at the entrance. The one closest to them held his arms outstretched, one hand cut off, a puddle of dark red under the stump. Light from inside the lab flowed out and over his body onto his severed hand, still gripping a pistol. A bloody crescent heel print of a large tennis shoe led through the entrance.

  Inside the building, a beeping sound issued, barely audible, like the backing-up alarm on a truck two blocks away.

  The other man lay on his back at the entrance. He lifted his head. They ran to him. He had a gray crew cut and a well-muscled neck. His eyes fluttered open and his lips moved. Pink foam oozed from his mouth. His eyes pleaded with them; his body tensed; he opened his mouth as if to force a word out. Then his eyes closed and he went limp. Sam turned him over to see if he could find bleeding to stop. Long gashes ran diagonally down the left side of his chest, as if four parallel knife blades had cut into his lungs.

  Sam and Rachel looked at each other.

  “Let’s back off,” she said. “If he’s still here, we’ll be no match.” What she really wanted to do was put a bullet in Jabril’s brain, preferably twenty bullets. But Jabril had the element of surprise.

  “No. We have to stop him. You stay here if you want, but I’m going up.”

  Sam was right. They had to do this. Jabril could be stopped. He was part human, and the other part . . . She had a machine pistol, for Christ’s sake. Get some backbone, woman. Another thought, a thought that kept her moving forward: She would put him out of his misery and keep him from ever being tortured again.

  Sam was ahead of her, but she ran around him and started up the stairs, each step as stealthy as possible, but not tentative. Jabril was hers.

  At the halfway landing, the beeping grew louder. She listened carefully but heard no other sounds. She made it to the top of the stairs. The beeping came from room 234, two rooms down on the right. One uniformed guard lay on the floor, half outside the open doorway to 234. He was young, clean-shaven and muscular, but sported the same four parallel slashes horizontally across both thick upper arms and chest. His eyes were closed.