All Conscience Fled (The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Two)

by Randall Farmer

  I found five tagged Transforms from four different Focuses. I stopped more often for food. I had run myself too low on calories the day before to short myself again.

  At 2:30 in the afternoon, I spotted him, on the second floor of an office building in central Oakland. An untagged Transform man.

  Did I search the area? Did I find the most likely places for him to have parked his car? Did I identify the local bus stops? Did I figure out what company he worked for? Did I find out the name of the building, even? Did I analyze the traffic flow in and out of the building? Look for delivery trucks? Did I figure out what he was doing at his job? Did I think of contingency plans for alternate ways to extract him?

  Nope. I got buck fever. The only thing I could remember was ‘wait’, so I waited.

  By 5:05 in the afternoon, I was ravenously hungry, my muscles screamed protest at the long inactivity, and I had an urgent need to pee. None of which I heeded, because of ‘wait’. At 5:05, my kill left the building. He came down the stairs, went out the front door, crossed the street to a parking lot, and got into a car. When he pulled out into traffic, I followed him in my car.

  If it wasn’t for the fact he was a low juice Transform about to go psychotic, he would have noticed the fact I followed him, right on his bumper, the entire trip. I was too terrified I would lose him. I even ran red lights to stay with him.

  He continued on, oblivious.

  Fifteen minutes later he stopped in front of a small apartment building, box shaped and run down, with the walkways on the outside. He parked the car and got out. My prey turned out to be a small thin man with limp brown hair. He was tired, slack faced, and moved slowly. He leaned on his car for a few seconds after he got out before dragging himself up the single flight of stairs to his apartment. I parked my car and followed him, ready to do him the biggest favor of his life: save him from the torture of juice withdrawal.

  I got far, far luckier than I deserved. Given my complete absence of any sort of plan or control over the situation, I should have failed. Instead, I hit the jackpot. He lived alone. I followed him to his apartment with my metasense and my feet, and knocked on the door. My prey answered.

  I barged into his apartment, kicked the door shut behind me and grabbed hold of my prey. He wore too many clothes, but hands and face was enough skin. I killed.

  Oh, the ecstasy! The overwhelming, absorbing, thrilling and consuming ecstasy. Nothing in the world was better than this.

  I came out of it too early, in the living room of that tiny apartment, wrapped around the dead body of my prey. I wanted to spend hours enjoying the pleasure, but the danger dragged me back to consciousness. This wasn’t the safe clinic, or the comparative safety of Keaton’s control. I couldn’t afford to leave myself vulnerable. I unwrapped myself from the body and pulled myself to my feet.

  I saw my face mirrored on the dark screen of an ‘off’ television, impassive, stone cold, without affect. Inside me, though, I celebrated. I had killed for myself. No one helped me. I hunted, waited and made my own kill. I ran my hands down along my body, and my nerves thrilled to the touch. I needed to find someone. Soon. Now would be good, actually.

  Before I found someone to use, I needed to deal with the body. Quickly, as I had other priorities, including using the bathroom facilities in this apartment. After that, I stripped a blanket off the bed, and wrapped the stinking corpse in it.

  I appreciated my new strength when I lifted him over my shoulder and carried him to the car. Streetlights dimly lit the path I took, as the sun had set an hour ago. Only a few cars drove by as I hoisted the corpse to my car. Even so, I caught a few strange looks from the people who drove by. I ignored them. I waited until the street emptied before I dumped the body in my trunk.

  I found ‘McPearsey’s Bar’ only three blocks away. The men started drooling in their beer the instant I walked in, projecting an overwhelming presence of aroused and slightly dangerous woman. Not every man is overcome by such a display, but damned few won’t notice.

  I smiled and came farther in through the smoke, my walk feline and sensual. In the back, a jukebox played ‘Walking After Midnight’, by Patsy Cline, one of my favorites. I knew exactly what I wanted, and so did everyone else. I twisted sinuously, just for the pleasure. There were murmurs all around the bar as I did my thing, and one whispered “God.”

  I glared challengingly at the room and found the man I wanted. He was in his late twenties, sitting on the end of the bar with a couple of friends, and wore a stunned expression on his face. I stalked him, my eyes not leaving his as I weaved my way through the tables.

  He smiled a sort of startled stupid smile when he realized he was the one I wanted. I slipped up next to him as his friends cheered and made catcalls, and wrapped my hand around his waist and slipped my hand under his belt.

  “Take me away from here,” I whispered in his ear.

  I wiggled luxuriously in the bed. Jim, lying in bed next to me, smiled a tired dreamy smile. His dark eyes were half-lidded, and his neat hair was tousled. He had been good. He had been very good.

  Jim leaned over towards me, and cupped a hand around my breast.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  I just smiled up at him and ignored the flattery. I kissed him affectionately, pulling him down to me. He was warm, with a slow, languid comfort.

  Jim rubbed my nipple between his thumb and index finger. I caught his hand.

  “I thought you were too tired,” I said. I let go of his hand and ran my own hand down his chest. His chest was lean, with a patch of hair in the center. His chest hair tapered down to a point a few inches above his navel. I twisted the hair around my fingers.

  “You never told me your name,” he said. “How do I get in touch with you again?”

  I thought fast. “Ann,” I told him.

  “You have a beautiful name, Ann. Ann.” He lingered over the sound of it. “How can I see you again, Ann?”

  I put a finger over his lips and silenced him with a “Shhh.” He was beginning to make me uncomfortable. He liked me too much. He was a normal human and he had no idea what I was. He was the first normal human I had interacted with since I came under Her control. I didn’t count the men she set me up with. They were all Her creatures at some level.

  This man, though, was half-ready to fall in love with me. He lay next to me and thought of me as a normal human woman. He didn’t know I killed people. He didn’t know I had sold my soul to the antichrist. He didn’t know what I did for Her, and how inhuman she made me.

  A lonely part of me wanted to be human again. I wanted to hold him and cry on his shoulder and let him comfort me. In his arms, I might be able to re-grow my humanity, and recover, just a bit, the person I was.

  The idea scared me. The scars Keaton laid into me were too deep.

  I sat up in the bed. Jim struggled to sit up next to me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to ask personal questions.”

  That last was too much caring.

  “I have to go.”

  “At 3:00 in the morning? Ann, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. You don’t have to go.”

  I got up and started hurriedly putting my clothes back on.

  “Ann,” he tried again. “Come and lay back down here with me. I promise I won’t ask any more questions.”

  “Good-bye, Jim. You were wonderful. I have to go.”

  “Wait! How are you going to get back to your car? We came here in my car. Let me give you a ride.”

  His voice faded out as I shut the door behind me. I was on the walkway of the Rising Phoenix Motel, hourly rates available. I shook my head, partly to clear it, and partly in disgust. I was done. I was done with my kill, and I was done with Jim. I didn’t have to think about the disturbing things he brought up anymore, or the wedding ring on his finger.

  I got back to Keaton’s motel just before sunrise. I moved with a big bounce in my step and happiness in my heart. I had hunted, alone, and succee
ded. I did it! Me! Only two days!

  Keaton opened the room door before I was able to knock. “I…” I smiled at Her in bouncy excitement, ready to tell Her gleefully about my success.

  However, I dealt with Keaton.

  “Come here and stand in front of me, you little worthless piece of shit,” Keaton said. She sat down in a cheap hotel chair, square vinyl cushion on plywood. She wore her business suit from yesterday. Her reading material covered the table next to her. Yesterday’s newspaper, Time Magazine, Gun & Ammo, a catalog from Private Investigator’s Supply, all mixed with candy wrappers and four empty bags of potato chips. The bed hadn’t been slept in. I stood in front of her, now nervous and frightened, but the juice high made my nervous reaction a distant thing. She studied me with her cold dead eyes. Her voice was like stone.

  “You seem to be suffering a serious attitude problem.”

  “Ma’am,” I said. ‘Yes, ma’am’ didn’t seem like a good answer.

  “I’ve spent the last four weeks straightening out your attitude. I let you out of my sight for two days and you completely forget everything I’ve taught you. How much more pain do you need, skag?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I apologize. I’ll straighten out my attitude immediately.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t like my response.

  “Let me see it now, bitch.”

  I dropped to my knees to the cheap motel carpet, cramped in the narrow space between Keaton and the bed and figured out the reason for her anger. I returned from a successful hunt, and I was the one who got the kill. Not her. If I hadn’t been hunting, maybe she would have gotten that kill herself. Somewhere, deep inside of her, she must feel like I had stolen her kill. I couldn’t have done something more terrible if I had tried.

  The realization went through me like ice water. I was in bone chilling danger here. What Keaton might do to me didn’t bear thinking about and wouldn’t involve my survival.

  Panic gripped me, but I shook it off. I would do whatever it took to survive. I already knelt. I leaned all the way forward and put my cheek down on the carpet. I cowered and tried to make myself as submissive as possible, and shivered in fear. If she didn’t respond to this, I would lick her shoes. I tried to think of more gestures of submission to use. I thought of dogs and wolves, and twisted my head against the carpet to expose my neck to her.

  She still spoke, though I hadn’t heard a word she said. Her cold voice stopped. I didn’t move. For almost a minute, she didn’t either.

  Let me live, I thought at her. I knew she could read my mind. If only she would read my mind now. I am helpless and weak. I will do anything for you. Tell me how to abase myself and I will do so. Just let me live.

  After a long silence, I felt the weight of her foot on my neck. She accepted my gesture. She kept her foot on my neck for the entire remainder of that conversation. The shivering started after the first minute and I couldn’t make it stop.

  Nevertheless, with her foot on my neck, she backed off. Her fury was gone. My groveling had eased something inside of her and she no longer wore that air of deadly threat. Best of all, she stopped going after me about my attitude.

  Instead, she said, “Where’s your diaphragm?”

  Oh, shit! It was in the pocket of my coat. I had forgotten to put it in.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I forgot.” Her foot pressed down harder on my neck and I shut up. This mistake of mine eased the tension, giving Keaton a chance to laugh at my imbecility.

  I didn’t need a pregnancy. I couldn’t believe I was this stupid.

  Keaton ordered me to tell my tale; as I did so she picked apart every mistake, pounding in my stupidity. Part way through, she made one of her many phone calls, saying she wanted to leave a message for a “Dr. Z”. “Your prize student finally succeeded at her first hunt,” Keaton said. She went on to explain all of my failings during the hunt. She ended by saying that I was little more than a sulky crybaby without any self-discipline “just like you feared.” Bastards, both of them. “She’s led too pampered a life. Perhaps if her husband had beaten the crap out of her every once in a while she’d have a clue.”

  Down on the floor, with Keaton’s foot on my neck, I wondered what sort of reaction Dr. Zielinski would have to her message.

  I remained a pawn in the hands of far too many people.

  At 8:00 the next morning we left San Francisco. I followed Keaton in the blue Chevy to a bad section of town. Another bad section of town. I swear Keaton knew every seedy neighborhood in the entire country.

  Keaton ordered me to wipe down the car and get my diaphragm, and then leave the car parked with the window partly down, and the keys clearly visible on the seat. Except Keaton had exchanged the trunk key with one from another Chevy.

  When I got into Keaton’s car, she told me, “We’re doing body disposal on the cheap. You fucked up so badly it isn’t worth doing more. Whoever steals that car is going to be in for a nasty surprise when they open the trunk.” She grinned.

  I didn’t figure out her plan for several seconds. Someone ignorant and stupid would steal the car. The key to the trunk wouldn’t work, but when you’re stealing a car, you can’t have everything. Eventually, he would smell the odor of rot and figure out he had a body on his hands. He wouldn’t be able to go to the police, because he stole the car. He might just dump the car somewhere and run, but if he had any brains at all, he would realize that his main chance of getting away clean would be to dispose of both the body and the car in an untraceable manner. I couldn’t help smiling myself. It really was funny. I could almost see the expression on the face of some hapless crook when he tracked down the bad smell to the trunk.

  (9)

  After we returned to Philadelphia, Keaton ran me through several unusually brutal exercise sessions. I didn’t object much. I had let my body go while I hunted and I hurt bad. Ludicrous, but what wasn’t ludicrous about being an Arm? The intense, exhausting exercise made my muscle aches better, even after taking into account the effects of Keaton’s ‘attitude adjustments’. At this rate, my muscle problems were sure to go away. All I needed was Keaton to keep beating me…

  At night, as I lay on my mat in the storage room, my thoughts lingered on my kill. I thought of the pain of the long wait, the thrill when everything came together, the unfettered ecstasy of the kill itself. Little shattered pieces of my soul pieced themselves back together.

  I’m Carol Hancock, I told myself. I’m not evil. I’m a decent human being just doing what I need to do to survive.

  I refused to give up and I would not now. Despite Keaton’s assertions, I wasn’t evil and I wouldn’t become a monster. I refused to let the monster escape from within me.

  I let my success push away my anxieties. I had hunted down a kill successfully. I was an Arm. Keaton couldn’t take my success away from me.

  My two successes. I still considered myself a decent person.

  The contradiction didn’t occur to me.

  The next morning, after Keaton left and I finished drying the breakfast dishes and put the last spoon away, I went to the dressing room to satisfy my curiosity. Carefully avoiding the mirror, I took off my clothes, the man’s t-shirt and shorts Keaton gave me to wear at home. The once white t-shirt was gray now, from blood and grease and filth I couldn’t completely clean no matter how much bleach I used, and both were ripped from that terrible belt Keaton wielded when I exercised.

  I ignored the clothes. I took a breath, braced myself, and turned to Keaton’s three-part mirror.

  I had muscles. I couldn’t deny them. They were as ugly as I feared, but nothing like Keaton’s muscles. My shoulders bulged a bit, my arms had thickened, and the curves on my legs came from muscle lines. I had several little ripples on my stomach. I was also losing a woman’s normal padding of fat. My breasts were much smaller.

  The changes weren’t all bad. I certainly didn’t sag any more. My tummy was flat as a board, my waist narrow, and my rear end firm and tight. If I put on some p
adding, and puffed up my breasts a bit, and didn’t put on any more muscle mass, I wouldn’t look too bad at all, at least if a person liked the athletic type.

  I really was an Arm.

  I put my worn and shredded clothes back on and went back to work. I also went back to thinking about my real priority, my latest plan for handling Keaton.

  I would do anything she wanted me to, of course. I would give her whatever subservience gestures she wanted, and submit to whatever degradations she wanted. I would do my best to please her in all things. All the result of my previous plans.

  I had new information, though. I knew she didn’t like me to show symptoms of juice depletion. She considered me weak and beat me when I showed it. Now, though, I realized I also needed to conceal the effects of high juice. Concealing my high juice might be even more important than concealing my low juice reactions. Any time I showed my high, I reminded her of a kill she didn’t get.

  After pledging to myself to work on better emotional control, I went back to making my minor plans. I planned meals and snacks for her. I came up with ways of making the warehouse more pleasant. I tried to think of more gestures that I could use to express my submission to her.

  The work of survival. All day, every day.

  After I put our dinner on the table, both of us seated and ready to eat, Keaton dropped one of the Sunday supplements, Parade, on the plate in front of me.

  It was a special issue on Transform Sickness. My face, a picture from my time at the Detention Center, graced the cover. The title was ‘A New Kind of Monster?’ Good Lord. My face was on the cover of Parade.

  Keaton let me read as I ate. The title article was about me, almost five pages long, and the writer believed an Arm transformation was another way of becoming a Monster. The police knew I killed the nurse in St. Louis, but nothing about the Brooklyn clinic massacre. They hadn’t tied the Brooklyn massacre to me. Yet.