by Tim Marquitz
“I received a report, about three months later. The lab said there was no cure for the results of the waters of Mictlan. Once ingested, the victim would die the same way every time.”
“But it worked,” Derek said.
“Worked? Oh, you mean the increased strength, faster speeds, quicker eyes, night vision, canine like hearing, and able to fight after a gunshot wound? Yes, in a way.”
“What do you mean?”
Ben leaned forward, “The human body is more powerful than we believe. For example, sixty percent of gunshot victims who die, do so from non-fatal injuries. They believed so strongly that if you were shot, you died—they did.
“Most of our limitations are self-imposed. We don’t put our hand through a solid core door because we believe we can’t. We don’t hit as hard because our brains protect us from injury so we pull the punch. The waters of Mictlan remove all of those limiters while restraining pain from hindering movement. In a few weeks you won’t feel pain at all, which of course is very dangerous to you. Your skin gets tighter, and the muscle tissue becomes harder. But then—”
“What? Then what?” Derek asked.
Ben leaned back again and looked at his hands, inventorying the room once more. When he finished he said, “You rot Derek. You dry up and shrink in. You don’t feel it. From what I gathered there is no pain involved. Then you die. Your heart stops or your brain suffers too much rot and you just die. At some point during the process you go mad. You become blood-lusted. You’ll attack everything and anything.”
Derek sat silent, looking at the surface of the desk but not focused on anything. Ben watched him. It was a lot to process. He inventoried and played through scenarios. When he saw Derek’s lips express a slight smile, he said, “You don’t believe me.”
Derek met his eyes, “Not true. I believe every word.”
Ben didn’t respond.
After a long moment Derek said, “You know more than is healthy for an accountant. I’m doubting the mere bookkeeper story. What were you down in Nicaragua?”
Ben kept his eyes solid. He could smell Derek now. Ashen dirt smell. It was light earthy dry taint in the air, almost not there. “A terrorist.”
Derek raised an eyebrow.
“I was one of the Special Forces working with the rebels. Training, bombing, spreading propaganda, undermining the government. Torture. Assassin,” Ben told him. “It’s why I left the Military.”
Derek’s smile became a thin line. Then a look of recognition. “Holy shit, you’re one of the Judges. I heard about you back in Boston. The cleaner.” He leaned forward, “Mr. Clean. Oh this is mad.” Derek rocked back and forth, and then came hard back his hands slapping the desktop. “Thirteen, maybe fourteen, just a kehd. I heard about you. The stories were impossible. Who’d believe them? I thought my dad and his friends were making shit up like they always did after a ripper.”
Ben said nothing.
Derek laughed and leaned back in the chair. “Holy fuck, those Massholes!”
He spun a little in the chair, back and forth, and then returned to Ben. “You got most of it right. Even that Aztec shit, which didn’t mean crap to me. All that honor and puck. Being the chosen few. What a load of shite. This shit turns you into a monster. Only a monster would take it after learning all that crap. Right? And fuck if I’m not a mad one!”
Ben watched him. Time was spilling out fast. The tension in Derek, the need, the impatience to prove himself, it brightened his eye.
Ben asked, “What did I miss?”
“Doses.”
“Doses?” For the first time since stepping into the bar, Ben felt doubt about leaving again.
“Yeah. See, the Aztecs only gave those fucked-up-few one dose. But if you take two, the effects are stronger and last longer. I took my primer back in October.”
Ben studied him. If that was true what else would more doses do? How many could a man endure?
Derek’s smile widened. “I see that impresses you. So, yeah, longevity happens with further doses. See my skin?” He pinched the fleshy part between his thumb and finger, showing the thickness of the area. “It’s thick as leather. Hell, sometimes bullets don’t go all the way through. They stick there. The guys in the Circle, their skin is like marble. You can shoot them point blank with a shotgun. Sure, it knocks them back a few feet but doesn’t leave a mark. I have to tell you, until you gave me that story, I wasn’t sure they were on the level. Caused me a nut of worry.”
“And now?”
“Shit, I’m ready for the third dose. Let wartime begin. Third dose is a ten year stretch and a huge jump in strength.”
“I see,” Ben nodded. “And to get that third dose—”
“Yep. It’s been fun, but it is high time to kill you,” Derek laughed.
Ben smiled, “I already told you Derek, you’re dead.”
Derek rose from the chair, “Aren’t you an arrogant old snot.”
“Me?” Ben asked, remaining as he was. “The Circle sent you here with four other men. You leave them out there and face me alone. That is arrogance. I locked the door as I came inside. So too late now. You’re locked in here with me, and there is no getting out.”
Ben watched Derek’s face flush with red, noting the event as important—then Derek was a blur coming around the desk. Ben’s body reacted faster than he could observe. He tossed the six-inch glass ashtray to the floor near the corner of the desk. His vision blurred, then sharpened, and his hand was holding the gold pen with four inches buried into Derek’s brain through his left eye. Derek’s legs were spread out all the way. Ben jerked Derek up, using the pen like a handle. Then the letter opener spiked through Derek’s ear, powered by his left hand. Jerking it back and forth, Derek’s body convulsed several times as the letter opener mauled his gray matter. The last spasm collapsed the body into dead weight and Ben let go.
All stop.
Breathing hard, the rush of adrenaline subsiding, he studied Derek.
He spotted the glass ashtray against the far wall. “Slipped on it, sending him into a splits, head falling forward into the gold pen—good enough.”
Flipping Derek over, snatching the gun and finding another in his back, Ben patted him down. Taking the knife from Derek’s belt he slashed open the T-shirt. Several bullet wounds puckered the chest and abs. Ben counted five in the chest area, another three in the gut.
“So, you can heal. Not perfectly. Not like the movies, but you do heal. That’s new.”
Then he checked Derek’s skin. The body had several types of skin. Each with different thicknesses. The chest was hide, just as Derek boasted. Close to armor. He sliced open his pants, checked his balls, finding the sack soft. The underside of the wrist, and the hollow space in the throat above the collar bone were the same—still soft, pliable. Back of the neck, at the base of the skull, the tissue felt pliable.
“So, not invulnerable. Soft spots exist.”
Checking the nose he found it and the cheeks thicker, armored. The eyelids were normal though. “Good.”
Behind the desk he searched until he found two more automatics in the drawers, both 9mm. Both loaded with full mags.
“Four guns then,” he told himself and set them on the desk.
Clicking on the computer monitor he found what he hoped for: the view from the cameras in the bar.
The ROTs out there were all in the same position. The guy at the bar, the one beside Greg, was looking at the office door, showing signs of nervousness.
He heard something, Ben decided. Settling down, clearing his mind he spent a minute watching the screen and studying the guns on the desk. He guessed the size of the room, studied the ROTs, noted how they moved and memorized the positioning of the tables.
“Door opens inward,” he told himself. “Have to pull it open.”
Feeling ready he picked up the guns, walked to the door, unlocked the knob, and took a deep breath. On exhale, he grabbed for the handle.
#
What Ben di
d not expect was the door closed again, with his ass sitting on the edge of the desk, and his foot on the visitor chair. Then the door burst open. The sound of the solid core cracking from the impact nearly broke his spell. Two of the ROTs were at him. His arms had just rammed both barrels of the 9s into their eyes. Several explosions happened. Then he was out in the bar. Men were yelling. Chairs toppled as they dove for the ground. The man from the door rushed him. Gunfire. Tables turned over. The ROT’s head exploded from eight rapid shots out of the second pair of 9s.
All stop.
He was standing over the last man, sucking in air. His chest burned.
“Fucking God Almighty,” Greg said behind him, his voice a worried wonder. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that.”
Ben nodded, sucked in a breath. “They were fast.”
“I wasn’t talking about them,” Greg said.
Ben looked back at Greg. Wide-eyed, terrified men stared back at him.
Placing placed both of Greg’s guns down on the bar top, Ben raised his voice, “Listen up. I’m going to tell you men what to do. You are going to do exactly what I tell you, no questions, no alterations. If you do, you will live to see the weekend. If you do not, you will die before the end of tomorrow night. I don’t care if you understand or not. Understanding is not required.”
He pointed at men, picking them out, giving them instructions. Grouping some of them into teams, sending others on solo tasks. Once done, the room was full of activity. He pulled out his cell phone and called Jake.
“22b. Now.”
“Call sign.”
“In brightest day, in blackest night.”
“Holy mother of God. How about Erika?”
“Good choice,” Ben said, and broke the connection.
#
To Erika’s credit she didn’t puke. A good sign. Jake didn’t either. Ben put the organs back in Derek, pulled the skin closed, and stapled him shut.
Snapping off the plastic blue gloves, he explained, “Derek told me some of these gun shots didn’t penetrate all the way. The slugs were trapped by his skin, like Kevlar or something. We know he wasn’t lying now. The organs heal, but there is obvious scarring. Two of those bullets didn’t reach the organs. At least I didn’t see where they might have hit. None of them went all the way through. That one in the liver worries me. That’s a kill shot. Should have died on that one. He didn’t, and he healed.”
He tossed the blue gloves into the can, and closed the lid. “The ones called the Circle, they’re tougher. Stronger and faster. If you want out, now is the time.”
They were in his garage. The four dead ROTs were on tables. Star was with Michelle, and they were at the police station. Well-guarded by now, with more on the way.
“Ben?” Erika asked. “I’m in. But, I watched the footage from the office and the bar. How did you…? You were so fucking fast.”
Erika was six-two, and the Women’s Cage Match champion of the Northwest. She also held the office of sergeant at arms for the Mustangs. Nearly ten years ago, a group from a rival club rushed the clubhouse, ambushing everyone there, including Hardline the president, Blaine the VP, and Stewart who was sergeant at the time. She was on the side of the building and saw them rush in, nine of them. Automatic weapons in hand. She killed them all using ten bullets. Headshots. Stewart, her father, died in the hospital three days later. He had wrapped himself around Hardline and hurtled him to the floor, protecting him with his body. Erika was no wimp and from a family of warriors. Her Viking ancestors would have acknowledged her as shield maiden.
Ben leaned back against his workshop bench. “You go to your closet to pick out a shirt. You glance down, then suddenly you are four feet back and the word in your mind is ‘snake!’ Then you look closer and see it’s one of your belts.”
Erika looked thoughtful, then nodded her head, “All right. Sure. Adrenaline is pounding too.”
Ben nodded agreement, “Yes. Your eyes have two sets of nerve systems attached to them. For years researchers thought the second was a redundant system. With advances during the nineties they found the second set wasn’t redundant. Unlike the first, it doesn’t process in color. Only black and white. They believe this makes it faster. It also doesn’t report to the frontal lobes. It bypasses everything and attaches straight to the spinal column.”
Erika glanced at Jake who was looking blank. She looked back to Ben, “So…no brain noise?”
Ben smiled warmly at her, “Yes. No thinking, no planning, no being surprised, no second guessing. Just action. Instinctive action.”
“But it wasn’t a snake,” Jake said, his voice ponderous.
“No, it wasn’t a snake. No processing means all instinct and instinct is certainly not infallible. In this case the error is on the side of safety and keeping you alive. Better to jump back and feel like an idiot than not realize it’s a snake and get bitten. But that’s not always the case.”
They both nodded to this, and then looked at each other, then back to him.
Erika said, “So, how did that explain the office, exactly?”
“It’s not easy to explain,” Ben started. “Instinct is trainable. You do it in your martial arts. You train your body to act a certain way if a set of actions happen. A punch to your face means an upper block or a step back. You preload your instincts because if you have to think about every action in the ring you’re going to get your ass kicked.”
“Sure.” Erika nodded. “You learn short combinations, then practice them over and over while visualizing why you are making the moves. Preload is a good term for that.”
“But you still have your mind, your frontal lobes involved in the fight. You’re still planning and processing tactics. Choosing combinations to set in motion.”
She thought about that. “Yes. There’s a lot of thinking and tactical in the ring.”
“I don’t,” Ben told her.
“You don’t think?” She asked.
“No. I turn everything over to instinct, the second sight. The animal. The part that doesn’t hold me back because the door is too thick or the man is too strong. No tactics, no second guessing.”
Erika lifted an eyebrow. After a minute she looked over at Jake, then shook her head and looked back at Ben. “No. I saw what you did in the office. The ashtray. You didn’t throw it at him, you tossed it precisely where his foot was going to land. And your hands, you were ambidextrous. You snatched up the pen and letter opener without looking at them…” She trailed off, her eyes going wide.
Ben waited.
Erika started pacing.
Jake watched her. A large hound waiting for his master to tell him who to eat, but not in a hurry.
She stopped and turned. “You preloaded. You memorized where everything was. You judged his stride length and memorized where his feet would have to land if he came around the desk at you.”
Ben nodded and moved toward the house door. “Exactly. Beer?”
“But what if he came over the desk at you,” she asked following him into the house.
“I preloaded for that as well.”
“What did you plan to do?”
Ben grabbed three beer bottles out of the fridge and handed them around. “No, you can’t plan to do. It doesn’t work that way. You have to give everything over to your instinct. Instinct runs on experience and facts. It ‘just does’ it doesn’t plan. So you memorize where the letter opener and the pen are, but you don’t decide what to do with them. You memorized where he is going to be, where he has to be, in a few scenarios, but not what to do when he is there. You can only set up facts and memorize the environment.”
“But you jumped back from the door, closing it again,” she countered.
Ben laughed. “That surprised the shit out of me as well.”
“You didn’t plan that?”
Ben shook his head. “No. Really. As soon as I realized where I was, I was surprised. The fake retreat wasn’t even on the menu.”
“Why did it happen,
do you think?” Erika asked.
“Because I just saw Derek’s speed. His agility. It was way past my estimation. Those ROTs out in the bar, they’re practically a blur on the tape. Never would have had a chance to aim at them. The door opened into the office. Turning the knob required an empty hand, using the other to hold both guns. When they saw me instead of Derek, they reacted, no hesitation at all. There was no time to get the guns right, then aim.”
“So, you blocked with the door and gave yourself time to aim,” she said softly, looking at the floor, processing. “When they came in, you shot the rolling visitor chair at them with your foot and aimed. They avoided the chair, and rammed their eyes right into the barrels of your guns. They fell away, leaving you a clear line of fire on the guy at the table.”
Ben nodded and took a long drink.
“It was scary how easy you made it look,” Erika admitted.
“Forced them together,” Jake added. “Hard to aim on opposite sides of the room.”
Ben raised an eyebrow and then nodded, “Hadn’t thought of that, but yes. Much harder with them that far apart.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” Erika said. “Turn everything over to my instinct and hope it makes good choices? Hope you thought of all the variables beforehand? Shit. That’s…no. I couldn’t do that.”
Ben watched her, then said, “Then don’t. If you can’t fully commit, if you interrupt because of fear or doubt, you’ll die. You’ll freeze up. It’s one of those all or nothing things.”
Erika studied the water condensing on her beer bottle and nodded. “I’ll put it out of my mind. At least until this is over.”
“Well done,” Ben said, then to Jake, “Turn on the news. Let’s see where we are at.”
Erika looked around, “It’s four in the morning, Ben, what are you expecting?”
Jake clicked on the TV and an announcement was in progress with a live reporter out in the street. In the background was the Bellevue Police station, surrounded by the National Guard.
“… As we have reported the Terror Threat for Seattle and surrounding areas was moved to Red—Severe—an hour ago. Most of the military focus has been here in Bellevue. We still have no word from the military as to what the threat is, or what to expect. This looks like ground zero, however. Thirty minutes ago a group of bikers arrived, talked with the soldiers, and were escorted inside. Since then no one has come in or out of the station…”