Benjamin's Parasite

by Jeff Strand

  When the alarm went off, he felt fantastic. Margaret rolled over and smiled.

  "Honey, I had the weirdest dream..."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "The cow got loose, sir."

  In his line of work, there were plenty of sentences that Paul Cantren didn't want to hear. "The populace has been infected" was a pretty big one. So were "There were civilian casualties—lots of them," "Gee, I don't remember that red stuff being explosive," and, most importantly, "Uh-oh."

  "The cow got loose" was not the worst news that one of his employees could deliver, but it certainly distracted Paul from his game of computer solitaire.

  Paul swiveled his chair around and faced Hank Burkett, who looked positively ill. "Do you mean the cow got loose but the problem has been addressed, or that the cow is currently loose?"

  "Currently loose. Permission to terminate the specimen, sir?"

  "Absolutely not. Contain it."

  "It's not behaving normally, sir."

  "Of course it's not behaving normally! It's a goddamn experimental cow! Just tranquilize it and get it back in its cage."

  "The tranquilizers aren't working. And it's sort of, well...sort of on a rampage, sir."

  "Is Downes involved?"

  "It bit his arm off, sir."

  "Bit his arm off?"

  "Not in one bite, but yes, sir."

  The lab, which had no official name, not even The Lab, was privately funded by people who wanted results but weren't particularly concerned with the details. However, it was not well funded for this type of research. Paul was constantly insisting that they needed a higher budget, and the investors were constantly insisting that if he couldn't work with the money they gave him, they'd find somebody who could. The "Oh, by the way, then we'll have to kill you and all of your employees," part was implied.

  The one area where they refused to cut corners was in safety. The lab had the funds for a state of the art security system, ensuring that no specimens could escape, and that no harm could come to Paul and his three employees during their experiments. Paul agreed with the importance of safety precautions. He also agreed with the importance of a new Mercedes and full-service massages. Since the investors never actually visited the lab, he occasionally cut corners. One example was the cage in which the cow was kept.

  It wasn't as if the cage was made out of balsa wood or drinking straws. The steel bars were perfectly solid. And they'd invested in a nice cattle prod that should have kept any bovine rampages to a minimum.

  "Did you zap it?" Paul asked.

  Hank nodded. "That's how Downes lost his arm."

  There was a loud thump on the door. It sounded vaguely cow-like. Hank recoiled.

  "You mean it got out of the specimen room?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Holy crap!"

  "Agreed, sir. Permission to unlock the gun case?"

  Paul shook his head. "You don't shoot two years' worth of work just because somebody lost an arm."

  Another thump. The door shook on its hinges.

  "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

  "Hell no."

  Paul closed his eyes and tried to analyze the situation. They couldn't afford to eliminate the cow. The fact that it had gotten out of its cage was a major breakthrough, though admittedly one that was rather inconveniently timed. Too much was invested in this project to start from scratch.

  "Sir, I feel very strongly that—"

  "One more word and I'll feed you to that thing!"

  Another thump. The doorframe splintered.

  Paul considered his options. He hadn't been serious about feeding Hank to the cow, but such an act would allow him time to escape and gather more tranquilizers...

  No, no, he needed an option that retained his humanity.

  Think...think...

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of Hank's fist bashing into his jaw. He struck the table, knocking over several beakers of yellow liquid that should have exploded but fortunately did not, and then dropped onto the tile floor.

  He couldn't believe it. Hank had punched him. Hank—his underling—had punched him. He'd been punched in the face by a scrawny little nerd in his employ. Hank had clenched his thin-fingered hand into an actual fist, swung it at Paul's face on purpose, and struck him. What the hell?

  Hank ran over to the cabinet in which the guns were kept. Though he'd been given a key, the purpose of the guns was to defend their research, not defend themselves from their research. Paul tried to shout something to that effect, but his mouth hurt.

  The door burst open. The cow entered.

  It didn't look much like a cow anymore, and hadn't for the past several months. Its skin was a sickly gray color, with several patches of red where open sores covered its hide. Numerous growths, stalks, and odd protrusions stuck out at every angle. Its muzzle was slick with blood.

  It made a noise that sounded like a moo filtered through Satan.

  "Do not kill it!" Paul shouted as Hank opened the cabinet and grabbed a rifle. "If you pull the trigger I'll shoot you myself!"

  Paul momentarily questioned the wisdom of this threat, considering that Hank was the one with the gun. Still, his employees had to respect his authority.

  The cow looked back and forth between Paul and Hank, as if trying to decide who presented the easier target. Paul kind of hoped it would choose Hank. But the cow fixed its gaze on Paul, opened its mouth wide, and rushed forward. Paul let out an unauthoritative cry of terror.

  Hank fired. A spray of black fluid jettisoned from the cow's side where the bullet struck it. Paul scrambled under the table as the cow lunged at him, almost biting his shoe. It snapped its jaws at him again, and Paul kicked it in the face.

  Hank fired twice more, punching two more holes into the cow's side. The cow seemed unfazed. This was another remarkable yet poorly timed development.

  "Keep shooting it!" Paul shouted. "Empty the gun!"

  Hank only fired off one more shot before the cow pulled back and turned its attention to the man who'd been shooting bullets into it. It let out what sounded like a snarl, and then stampeded across the room toward Hank, not reacting to the bullet that got it in the nose.

  Hank shrieked. Paul couldn't quite see what happened next, but the cow lunged at Hank's face, there was a loud crunch, and then Paul's former employee dropped to the ground, no longer recognizable by facial structure.

  Start dining, Paul silently begged. Just chew away and give me a chance to escape. Enjoy that nummy nummy Hank.

  The cow ran its tongue over Hank's face as if it were a salt lick.

  Paul carefully and quietly crawled out from under the desk, trying to keep his panicked breathing from giving him away.

  That's it...just keep licking...mmmmmmm...

  "Help me," Hank gurgled.

  No, no! Don't add a moral dilemma to this situation! Just die and be food!

  "Please..."

  Paul cursed under his breath. Instead of taking the more desirable action of getting the hell out of there and leaving Hank to die, he hurriedly walked up behind the cow and kicked it in the flank as hard as he could. Then he immediately turned and fled from the room, hoping that his plan to distract the cow from its feast had failed but that he'd get karmic credit for it anyway.

  The cow followed.

  Cows were not typically known for their haste, and none of their experiments had tested the animal's speed. So Paul was unpleasantly surprised to discover that the thing was fast. He sprinted down the hallway, feeling like one of the suicidal idiots in Pamplona, the cow brushing its muzzle against his back.

  Then the cow let out a surprised-yet-still-scary moo and bashed into the wall. Paul risked a glance over his shoulder and watched as the cow bounced off the wall, struck the opposite one, then dropped to the floor, legs splayed out to the sides.

  He threw open the door to the specimen lab and rushed inside.

  A dart struck him in the chest.

  "Sir!" Downes cried out, holding a
tranquilizer gun in his remaining hand. "You're not what I meant to shoot!"

  Paul plucked out the dart, already feeling dizzy. "How...unproductive..."

  He fell to the floor and dreamed of hamburger.

  * * *

  Trevor Downes was feeling more than a little lightheaded from blood loss, and the tourniquet he'd fashioned out of his lab coat and a broken broom handle didn't seem to be helping. It was impossible to get it tight enough with only one arm. But he vowed to subdue that cow before he passed out. No creature that he performed ghastly experiments on was going to get the better of him.

  He could hear the beast outside in the hallway. Trevor cackled with laughter as he set the tranquilizer gun on the desk and made a one-handed effort to load another dart into it.

  Cackling with laughter. Not good. Sign of insanity. Needed sanity to dispatch cow. Or moose. No, cow. Bad cow.

  He snapped the dart into place and cackled with laughter again, even though he didn't think it was very funny. Then he realized that not only had he not loaded the dart, but he'd dropped it on the floor, along with the gun. This amused him.

  Trevor's eyes crossed, and he collapsed.

  * * *

  Hank touched his shredded face and screamed. The irony that he'd passed up a perfectly good career as a plastic surgeon in favor of illegal scientific research was not lost on him. He grabbed the rifle and slowly got to his feet. His feet didn't particularly want to cooperate, and his ankle gave a nasty twist after the first step, yet he forged onward.

  He didn't think the cow could get outside the lab, but if it did...

  Paul, that wretched prick, had assured them that the containment system was secure. "What if the cow gets out?" "Oh, don't you worry, the cow won't get out." "But what if it does?" "You're just being paranoid; the cow isn't going anywhere." "The cow seems kind of irritable; maybe we should rethink the security precautions." "No, no, no, that will take valuable resources away from our research. You're acting like a silly little girl."

  Hank knew what had to be done. He had to kill the cow, and then he had to kill Paul. There was no doubt in his mind that the slimy cretin had set things up so Hank and the others would take the fall if something like this happened.

  Then he had to kill Downes, because Downes would know he killed Paul.

  He wasn't sure about Taylor. Taylor was off today.

  Hank's face really hurt.

  He stepped into the hallway. The cow was struggling to get back up. A tendril on its neck swayed back and forth, as if waving a friendly greeting.

  "Mr. Cantren! Downes! Is anybody alive?" he called out.

  Nobody responded in the affirmative.

  Hank pointed the rifle at the cow and took careful aim at the back of its neck. The damn thing might be Bessie the Wonder Cow, but a couple of bullets to the neck would sure end its rampage.

  His cell phone rang, playing the theme song to Family Ties.

  Hank unclipped the phone from his belt, snapped it open, and placed it to his ear. Since half of his ear was inside the cow, this stung like hell and he winced.

  "Hank? You okay?"

  "Taylor?"

  "Yeah. Hey, I think I left my iPod in my desk. Any chance you could take a look for me? If it's not there then I might have left it at Burger King, and that'll suck. I'm pretty sure I did leave it at Burger King, because I set it on the window sill and had to run to the bathroom when I took a bite out of my Whopper and the tomato popped out and got all over my new pants, but I'm still hoping I just left it in my desk."

  "This is a bad time, Taylor."

  "Paul being a prick again?"

  "I think Paul's dead."

  "Sweet!"

  "I'm serious!"

  The cow stood up all the way and began to walk toward him. Backwards. Yet another unexpected element in a very unpleasant afternoon.

  Hank screamed as he fired the remaining bullets, and continued screaming long after the gun was empty.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Benjamin stepped on the scale and gasped. He'd put on seven pounds in a week. This was despite the calories he burned while he and Margaret went at it like crazed animals every night. Over the weekend, Cindy had spent the night at a friend's house, so they'd done it on the living room floor, standing up against the bedroom wall, and on the kitchen table. Their cover story for the broken table ("It just broke!") was less than convincing, and he'd have to pay a visit to the hardware store this evening.

  He couldn't help but be a little concerned about his recent behavior. Sure, he'd always loved candy, and he'd always been a horndog, but to have these two addictions simultaneously go berserk could be the product of some sort of medical issue.

  Or, he was just about to reach that delightful "over the hill" milestone, and his subconscious mind wanted to start acting like a teenager.

  Hell, his conscious mind wanted to start acting like a teenager. The idea of turning forty sucked. If he were to perish in a gruesome car accident today, people would say "Oh, what a tragedy, he was only thirty-nine." If he perished in that same car accident after his birthday, people would say "Oh, what a tragedy, but at least he made it to forty."

  If he responded to middle age by simply eating chocolate and banging his wife into another dimension, he was doing a lot better than his contemporaries. No mistress, no Jaguar, and no comb-over. He was doing fine.

  * * *

  Benjamin walked through the automatic doors of the hardware store. I remember the good ol' days when hardware stores weren't the size of a Roman coliseum, he thought, and then felt old all over again. All he needed was some glue. They had glue at home, but their innovative use of the dining room table had been a lot of fun, and he wanted quality carpenter's glue to ensure that the leg didn't pop off again during the encore performance.

  He strolled down the main aisle, not quite certain where the glue was located and not willing to be the type of pathetic loser who would ask. He passed a display of shower curtain rods and thought Oooh, Margaret and I could have fun with those.

  He quickly shook away the thought. Shower curtain rods? As marital aids? Was he delusional?

  Well, no. It's multi-purpose. Attach it to the headboard and it would make a handy place to secure fur-lined handcuffs, if you picked up some fur-lined handcuffs on the way home. Or you could watch while she uses it to—

  Okay, now that was the thought process of a pervert.

  Shower curtain rods. Yeah, right. If he brought those home and gave Margaret a knowing wink, she'd lock him out of the house and install bars over the windows.

  You're a high school English teacher. Have some mental dignity, for God's sake.

  He continued walking down the main aisle.

  Clamps and vices...nice.

  They didn't have a chimney, but he could get in some nice tickling with that chimney cleaning brush.

  The electric paint mixer could be fun. On a low speed, of course.

  Duct tape. A perfect backup if he couldn't find fuzzy handcuffs.

  Plungers. Extension cords. Gear lube. A rake, or at least the handle.

  The whole frickin' place was a sex toy emporium! He needed to call Margaret and have her meet him so they could grab a shopping cart and—

  He needed to get out of there before he purchased something that he would really, really, really regret explaining the purpose behind buying. Even the glue sounded arousing, and there was no possible erotic use for glue that could end happily.

  He left the store and made a beeline for his car. This was absolutely out of control. He had to find some way to take his mind off of it. There was no reason that an almost-forty-year-old should be acting like a teenager going through five puberties at once.

  He started the engine and drove out of the parking lot. What could he do to distract himself?

  Hmmmmm.

  There was a casino on the Native American reservation. That might help.

  * * *

  "Yes!" Benjamin clenched his fist in victory as the th
ree 7's lined up on the display. Playing three coins on the quarter slots, that was worth fifty bucks. He was now well on his way to recouping the nine hundred dollars he'd lost so far.

  Damn casinos. They made it so easy to succumb to addiction. How could he have ever known that ATMs would be so readily available? And the service fee, which had seemed so reasonable after inserting his credit card, was in retrospect three times higher than the service fee at his local grocery's ATM.

  Still, he wasn't quite yet doomed to a sexless night upon the couch. By definition, you were only a loser if you walked out of the casino having lost nine hundred dollars. (Nine hundred and eighty-five, technically, but he'd round down.) As long as he stood in front of the slot machines, he could win back everything he'd lost, and then some. Maybe he'd win enough to let him really stock up at the hardware store.

  He played some more. His hot streak, which had begun with the fifty dollar win, also ended there.

  Okay. This was bad. However, as long as he kept his losses under four figures, it was still explainable. After all, gambling was meant to be entertaining, and he felt he'd received nine hundred and eighty-five dollars' worth of entertainment value out of playing the slots. Yes indeed. It was fun. The flashing lights and loud noises and colorful cherries—this was way better than a movie or a concert.