Anodyne Eyes

by Milt Mays

  “Rachel,” Sam whispered behind her, “let me go first.”

  She ignored him and moved forward quickly and quietly on her trail runners, HK held ready, every muscle in her arms tense.

  If Jabril was there, tentative peeking around the corner would not work. He would see any movement and come at them. She vaulted over the dead man and landed on both feet, ready to fire.

  Another guard sat behind a table, his body leaning against the wall. His head lay on the floor, mouth parted around a well-trimmed Van Dyke beard. His dead hazel eyes stared at Rachel. Blood puddled the floor under the man’s chair and painted the wall in long swipes. The room smelled like an animal lab, musk with a hint of feces and urine under the alcohol and lemony aroma of a disinfectant and room deodorant. Rustling and scurrying sounds came from the cages that stood in rows. No Jabril.

  There were three bloody tennis shoe prints, now the entire left shoe, all pointing out the door she’d come.

  Sam came around behind her left shoulder. “He’s gone. Maybe if we hurry we can catch him.”

  “Give me a sec.” Her arms relaxed. She put on the safety and walked into the room. Get the mice and samples of the GMO grains and try to get into a computer and download the research files. She’d almost forgotten about the two flash drives in her pocket, a last-minute thought eons ago when she had left her apartment in D.C. Hopefully the drives still worked and hadn’t been destroyed in all their hurry.

  She walked hastily by the headless man, slipped briefly on blood, then kept walking, lips pursed, head up. The police would find her footprints, sure, if she and Sam could get out of here before they arrived. If not, it would be a long night in a Milwaukee jail and an even longer year in a federal prison.

  Off to the left were two rooms with glass partitions revealing exactly what she needed: computers. The doors were closed.

  She surveyed the room she was in. In front were rows of neatly stacked cages that held mice. In the back, behind the rows of cages were plants growing in a greenhouse next to several large windows. The cages had laminated labels with numbers and letters of each type. One cage was gone from the front of a row. Several other cages were toppled with no mice inside, the labels gone. Jabril must have packed several mice inside one cage and made sure he kept the labels for reference. Smart but dumb.

  The numbers on the mice cages were like the ones she’d seen on prior e-mails to the lab and to Ambrosia. She walked down one aisle reading the labels, looking for one she remembered. They all started with H1. In the middle of the row was H1S7G9. Two white mice with pink tails and pink eyes fidgeted around the cage and looked at her. There was something not right about their mouths. It looked like the lips were puffy, or bulged. It brought back memories of looking in a mirror as a teenager and making sure her braces were covered by her lips. Odd. Their gaze was unnerving, like they were trying to discern if she was visiting, or was food. She lifted the cage by the wire handle on top and they jumped up at her hand, large fangs bared.

  She dropped the cage. “Shit!” Those fangs were definitely worse than braces. The cage rattled on top of the other one, and the two mice hissed at her. Hissing mice with fangs. Joy. She looked for Sam.

  “What’s going on?” Sam said. He was leaning over the headless guy, riffling through his pockets.

  “Does the movie Willard ring a bell? These mutant mice are like werewolf rats on steroids. You see any gloves?” Then she realized she had been so focused that she had walked right over a pair of thick leather gloves. “Never mind.” They were gray and looked like conductor gloves for the railroad, but they were thicker than normal leather and very stiff once on, with cuffs that came halfway up her arm.

  Gloves on, she picked up the cage again, and held it away from her body as she walked back to Sam. The mice did not attack this time, but stayed mellow in the bottom of the cage. Almost like they knew they couldn’t hurt her now. Weird.

  Sam held up a key. “From a guard. I’ll bet these get us into the computers.”

  The phone on the desk rang. For a frozen moment they both looked at it.

  She put the cage down. “See if the key gets into the computer rooms. If it does, call Dan.” She pulled the flash drives out of her pants pocket. “Take these. I’ll be there in a minute, right after I get some GMO plant samples.”

  She ran to the back of the room and the greenhouse, found and grabbed the plants she wanted. She tore off a couple of leaves of each, stuck them inside a plastic glove, the glove inside her jacket pocket. She ran to Sam and started typing on the keyboard. She tried a few possible passwords on the computer, but got nowhere. The files were important.

  Sam dialed Dan on the cell phone and got no answer.

  She tried another password. The computer screen started flashing and another alarm went off inside the room, this one a much more annoying high-pitched buzz.

  “Let’s go.” Sam grabbed her hand away from the keyboard.

  She pulled her hand from his. “I need these files.”

  Shouts echoed outside the hall. “Milwaukee police. Is anyone there?”

  “We don’t have time for them,” Sam said. “Let’s go out the east exit.” He fired the shotgun at the ceiling outside the door, slipped a hand inside a glove, grabbed the mouse cage, and started toward the door.

  “Rachel.”

  She pulled out the flash drives, pocketed them in her inside jacket pocket, picked up one cage of normal mice, and jogged after Sam out the door and down the south hallway. The hallway was way too long. She felt as if her back had a big bull’s-eye on it for even a poor marksman.

  A ceiling tile pocked and white dust puffed onto her head. The bark of the shot from a handgun followed an instant later. They were aiming high or they were worse than poor marksmen.

  Sam turned around long enough to unload another shotgun blast. A roar and she heard crumbling ceiling hit the floor. He had returned the favor, aiming high. She kept running, her head down, but no more shots came.

  They found the stairs and were down them and out the east door in minutes. This would be easy. Dan could drive up and—then she remembered: He was supposed to be at the north entrance. It would be crawling with cops.

  Her phone rang and she was struggling to get it out of her pocket when she noticed the car parked ahead of them. Dan was in the driver’s seat, smiling and waving.

  Chapter 36

  Jabril’s head swirled, chest pounded and he was as stealthy and powerful as a Russian brown bear as he walked out onto the street from the lab. It had taken mere minutes to overcome three armed guards, enter the mouse lab and extract exactly what he needed. Even got some cash off one of the guards. He didn’t need Allah. Yes, Mother, I killed, but so what? She tried to barge in again with her holy Muslim guilt trip. He ignored her. He was better than Muhammad, better than twenty of Iraq’s Republican Guard in their prime. Better than one hundred. And he had not said one prayer.

  He strode toward his car, never more sure of his purpose, gun tucked between back and pants, plants in one hand and mice in the other. The damn mice kept leaping and tearing at his hand. Or maybe they were after the blood that still dripped from that hand. One snagged his finger with its dagger teeth and he dropped the cage, then picked up the cage with two hands and shook it, hard, bouncing the mice off the sides. They bared their fangs even more, hissed, and started growling and jumping at his hands that held the side of the cage. He had to end this commotion or someone would notice.

  Maybe if he killed one, the rest would get the message. As one jumped at his hand, he skewered it with a claw, right in the eye. It went limp and he shook it off.

  The mice quieted and started eating the dead mouse. Watching them, he realized how hungry he was.

  He quickly grabbed the cage by the top handle and started jogging to his car. He slowed at what he saw, then hid behind a tree a quarter block away. The light from a streetlight fell on two people at the car, one leaning inside the opened rear left door, the other leaning on th
e door talking to someone inside. The window to the rear door was broken out, pieces glittering on the sidewalk, crags of it left around the frame like a puzzle left unfinished. Helene must have awakened and punched her feet out the window. Resourceful. Strong, beautiful, brave and resourceful. She would be a wonderful wife.

  He put the plants and mice down and took three steps toward the car. The car was necessary. Helene was in the car. She was his. They could not take her.

  He stopped. Control was important. Control was imperative. He gripped both hands into fists. The knuckles hurt. His normal fingernails bit into his palms. Control. Deep breath in, slow and easy out. Relax. He took one last look at the car, remembering her long legs, her unflawed skin, and walked back to the mice.

  Fading thoughts crept in like a radio on low volume, like Mother’s words as he stood in the corner as a boy after stealing a piece of bread. She cannot love you, Jabril. Will not. You will only hurt her.

  He stumbled, caught himself, blinked, gripped his hands into hard fists again. Why do you speak to me, Mother? I do not need you. I do not need Allah. I do not need anyone. I know what to do. Go away. Breathe in, out. In, out. Relax. Walk. Complete the mission.

  The mice were still chewing on their fallen comrade. He grabbed the cage and the plants and started walking east across a small corner garden lit by another streetlight, illuminating pink tulips and yellow daffodils. He walked under a tree into deep shadows.

  The control he had over his changing form was much better. Now he could stay in a semi-strong, semi-dangerous form, allowing him to carry his baggage with ease and be ready for anything. But he felt drained. If he didn’t get food and find a place to safely rest, he would become that skinny little man again, and probably drop to the ground in exhaustion.

  A car and food. Food, food, food. The cash from the guard was enough for food and gas. He didn’t dare use the credit card from the dead guard in D.C. The FBI could trace it. But it still might be useful. He kept it.

  An old VW Vanagon was parked not twenty feet away in the shadows of two trees. He’d used one, years ago when he was recruiting in Arizona. Lots of Muslims in Arizona. Go figure. And there had been Jessibelle and the back couch. The thought of Jessibelle, first loving her, and then at the end . . . almost two decades ago, yet as fresh as his childhood. Bad and good. Terrible and wonderful. Never in between for him.

  He looked up and down the block. No one was coming. He checked the door of the van. Unlocked. Such trusting people, these Midwesterners. Like Helene. He missed her already. Suddenly he felt so alone. Forget her! Now it was Rachel and Alex. Find their child. He was beginning to sense that their child was also a genetic change. Was he dreaming or was the child’s signal, that feeling of connectedness, stronger now? Like Alex, but more loving. Could this child be a woman? He wanted that. Maybe he wanted it so bad he was arriving at the wrong conclusion? But how wonderful if it were true. And if she was blond? Maybe she would have him. Another mutant. Could she love him?

  He put the mice and plants in the back of the Vanagon, took his gun from the small of his back and tossed it on the passenger seat, then got in. Another great thing about this old van was it would be an easy hot-wire. Except that wasn’t necessary. The keys were in the ignition. Trusting Americans.

  It started on the first crank. Like everything else in his life, this was meant to be. Allah was with him.

  “Fuck that!” he screamed.

  It was not Allah who killed those guards. It was not Allah who gave him this strength, these claws. It was not Allah who left the keys in the van. He wanted to kiss the back of his left ear.

  “Fuck Allah!” He screamed it out the window. How does that sound, Mother? He wanted to yell, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Have someone stare at him, wonder, perhaps care. Fuck.

  He drove three blocks and parked again. The phone was such a handy thing. Find a parking garage with lots of cars and little security. Had to make changes to the van, unnoticed. And food. Meat. Around here there were too many suspicious old women looking out windows. Return to the airport? No. Security would be too tight there. Then another thought caused him to smile. Americans loved their sports. He did a search on his phone for “Milwaukee sports,” and found a basketball game. He’d loved basketball in college. Thoughts of Jessibelle circled. She had loved him once, hadn’t she? And he had killed her.

  The Bucks had a game tonight at the Bradley Center. It wasn’t far. There were also comments on the site about good fast food and parking, though there was a relative lack of security. Exactly what he needed. He put the phone down and drove.

  Within forty-five minutes he had driven into the Bradley Center parking garage, lit by yellowish-white overhead lights. He found a vacant spot, almost cheerfully switched plates with another car, and drove out into the city looking for fast-food restaurants. But there were too many people. Stopped at a traffic light, he glanced down at his shirt. Covered in blood. There were security cameras on the light poles. Had there been any at the parking garage? Fatigue was making him careless.

  The light turned green and he sped forward and turned onto the entrance to Interstate 43 going southwest. His eyes drooped. His stomach growled. So tired. Hungry. Empty.

  A Milwaukee police car followed him onto the interstate. Had the police seen him switch license plates? He wished he hadn’t sped so fast to the interstate.

  He slowed and turned at the next exit. If the police car turned with him, pulled him over, saw his shirt, he would have to kill him. Someone might see. Detours. Evasion. Hide.

  There was no time for this. He sensed Alex was south. Where Alex went, Rachel followed. Jabril knew nothing about these mice or the plants, but Rachel did. He would find her and use her . . . use her in many ways.

  Jabril drove down the exit, stopped at the light. The policeman did not follow. The light turned green and Jabril drove back onto the interstate.

  The city lights receded. Trees and dark fields of plowed earth were on either side of the highway. Yet he barely saw anything. It was as if a plug had been pulled and everything had drained out. He drifted into the other lane twice before he decided he must stop. At the next exit, a McDonald’s sign caught his eye.

  He parked on a side street behind the McDonald’s, turned the engine off, and in a bent-headed manner, shuffled inside to the back of the van. There was a sleeping bag on a narrow couch, a propane stove, and a sink with a mirror above it. He wanted to curl up inside the bag and sleep. No. Move on. Find a safer place. Flicking on the light over the sink, he cleaned off most of the blood from his pants, but the shirt was unsalvageable. He opened one thin closet next to the couch. Tee shirts were folded and stacked on the top shelf. A black hooded jacket hung from a hanger. He pulled on a navy blue tee shirt with “Brewers” in gold on the front and then the hoodie. It had “Santana” in large block letters bent like a rainbow on the back. He smiled at the multicolored lion’s head on front. Nice, though a sloppy fit. The owner of this bus must have been another decadent, obese American. But the air was chilled and the clothes felt warm.

  He drove to the McDonald’s and ordered at the drive-through, then drove back around and parked on the side street again. After three Big Macs, two large fries and a chocolate shake, he felt better, but still tired.

  A light came on in the one-story brick home across the street, curtains moved aside and a face looked at Jabril’s van. Jabril started the van and drove on. He had to find a place to park the van without the police finding him. He must sleep. In the next block he parked and used the phone’s search to find Country View, an RV park ten miles down the road. He drove onto the highway.

  He almost missed the entrance to the place, which was hidden by several large trees and a billboard. That seclusion made him feel safe. They had several vacancies. After paying for the night, he only had a twenty left. The gas tank was half full, so he could get down the road, but he would have to acquire more cash. He yawned. Tomorrow.

  He drove into a vacant pull-in, three
spots away from any neighbors, got out and plugged the van to the electric outlet. Then got back in and shut and locked the door. Before getting into the sleeping bag, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. The three-day beard made him look haggard, criminal. He rummaged through the drawers but found nothing. He peered at the mirror again and realized it was a medicine cabinet and he could open it. A supply of disposable Bic razors was there along with Barbasol shaving cream. In a few minutes he was clean-shaven. He wriggled down into the sleeping bag, asleep almost instantly. Werewolf mice and plants with hands filled his dreams.

  A knock on his door woke him.

  Chapter 37

  Jeff’s heart galloped and he held his breath when the car dropped into darkness, sure they were going over a cliff. The car banged down into a huge cavern, not a cliff. He grunted a sigh of relief and relaxed his death grip on the door handle. On the ceiling of the cavern, strings of what looked like red Christmas lights imparted a macabre black and red coloration to a large wheat combine, several trucks, cars, and lots of friendly Realfood farmers and townspeople. At least he could see more than their red teeth. Noses, cheeks, hair: all great things to lend comfort to a person’s face.

  He got out of the car. A few other cars straggled in. Fifteen minutes passed without another vehicle arriving. A handful of men unfurled camouflage netting over the entrance, and then in front of that they hauled on ropes connected to block and tackle, and lowered large trees to completely disguise the entrance. It wasn’t the six-inch metal wall Jeff wanted, but he supposed it would do for now, until they could drive out and leave tomorrow to meet his dad.

  A hand gripped his shoulder. In the red light, Alex’s eyes were dark shadows and the skin on his hand a deep mahogany. His grip was gentle though firm. “We won’t be going tomorrow. Not sure when we’ll get away. Ambrosia means business this time. Realfood will need all the help they can get.”