Now We Are Monsters (The Commander)

by Farmer, Randall

  Their words were better than the pressure of their panic. Without the other Crows, he crept forward. Slowly. Twilight turned toward night and he found his going easier, especially if he stopped to take a few sips of dross every few minutes from the immense dross pool created from Tiamat’s injuries. Just after sunset, he reached the warehouse door.

  He hadn’t sicked-up at all.

  Opening the heavy corrugated steel door took all his nerve.

  The stench in the warehouse nearly knocked him over. Blood and piss and shit. Terror and pain and lust. Burnt flesh, juice, and madness. His skin crawled and he knew he entered a place he didn’t remotely belong.

  It’s only bad odors, he told himself. He had smelled worse in his time as a Crow. Some he had eaten for dinner. He pushed the panic down and stepped past the row of concealing boxes into the warehouse itself.

  Tiamat appeared as a formless shape in the darkness, barely alive. She had been deteriorating badly as he approached, her deterioration one of the things that pressed him forward. Gilgamesh approached the mess of her, strung up in an impossible convoluted position…

  Had the Skinner done this on purpose? She had actually crucified Tiamat, save for the part about the legs. Instead of hanging straight down, her legs spread wide, bent at the knees, and extended out behind Tiamat, shackled to the metal contraption behind her. Tiamat’s incredible weight dragged down on her arms, and she hung with her knees about four inches off the floor. A true crucifixion.

  Gilgamesh looked the Arm over with care. She was beautiful, even like this. He had imagined her as a terrible Monster, a parody of humanity. No, she possessed the beauty of youth, powerful and muscular, perfectly formed for what she was. Predator. Amazon warrior-woman. Goddess.

  He hadn’t expected beauty or his reaction to it. Tiamat’s appearance exploded his preconceptions of her as a semi-divine source of dross. She was, instead, an exotic and beautiful Major Transform, with a captivating glow whispering to his secret longings.

  Burns and horrific wounds covered Tiamat, but he had been around Tiamat long enough to know none of them were life threatening. Tiamat’s real problem was the strap around her neck. Barely able to breathe, her rare breaths came only once every minute or so. Her heart beat off rhythm, and not often. With her lungs filled with fluid from the crucifixion, he knew her death approached.

  Crucifying a goddess was bad form. This sort of thing would lead to major social repercussions in the months and years ahead. Bad Skinner! Bad Skinner!

  Gilgamesh grinned, giddy with stress. His feet felt like they ever so slightly floated above the floor. Had he gone somewhere beyond panic? His question increased his panic, so he turned his metasense to his Crow friends for a few moments, to calm himself down. He wasn’t sure, but…yes, they were listening to the Phillies game on a transistor radio.

  The Phillies were losing. Fancy that.

  Even after her divine destruction, Tiamat was terrifying. Beautiful and terrible all at once. His knees buckled in awe of her presence, but he stopped himself before he fell to the floor. Her mortal human form had failed, not the divine spark in her that he worshipped. She needed his help.

  The first thing he had to do was to loosen the whatever-it-was constricting her neck. He went around behind her and began to work on the thick leather strap. He hardly believed his hands and eyes: her neck was as thick as his thighs. It took him fifteen minutes but he did succeed in loosening the knot, all the while fighting the urge to lose himself in the beauty of her glow.

  He couldn’t cut the tie around Tiamat’s neck; if he did, the Skinner would know someone had helped Tiamat. Gilgamesh couldn’t even think about doing something that might reveal his help.

  Once loosened, Tiamat recovered almost immediately. Somewhat.

  “I’ll kill you, McIntyre! Yaaaah! Yaaah!” Tiamat’s voice trailed off into expletives worthy of a soldier. She thrashed on the rack, twisting it back and forth, her hands still tied, still grasping at air, still raining down her divine curses on this McIntyre person. Gilgamesh skittered back, terrified. He almost ran, but some instinct stopped him. He stayed still, behind Tiamat, out of her reach, his hands clenched in reverence and terror.

  Free yourself! Rip the metal contraption apart! But, don’t destroy me!

  Tiamat’s convulsions and exhortations stopped after several minutes. Her mind had gone into some other delusion. If he heard right, Tiamat mooed.

  After her exertions, though, he couldn’t contemplate going anywhere near her hands. Other thoughts and desires filled his head, fixated on her impossible arms. He couldn’t believe the size of her biceps. Optical illusion. Must be.

  Nope. He wouldn’t free those hands. He doubted he would survive the attempt.

  He found a sponge and filled it with water from the sink of a tiny bathroom. He stood behind her, well away from her hands, and dribbled water into her mouth. He let his hands linger on Tiamat’s magnificent biceps, probably for far too long.

  Gilgamesh stayed in that hell for an hour, a priest serving at the altar of his goddess, before his nerves failed him and he finally ran. He managed to get food and water for her, but nothing else. Something about the service he provided felt right; he didn’t know quite what, but helping Tiamat, in her need, pleased him.

  When he left, Tiamat still hung from the rack with her guts hanging out of her. He hated himself for leaving.

  Tiamat would live.

  Ezekiel, on the other hand, never did stop running. He ran all the way to his own home, packed up his belongings, and left town on the next freight train, never to return.

  Carol Hancock: July 24, 1967 – July 25, 1967

  “Damn. Did I do this? Fuuuuck me.”

  My late daughter laughed and laughed. She came by every hour or so, to laugh at me and threaten to tie my loose intestines into a knot. The voice didn’t sound like my daughter, though, or that of my parents.

  All this time strung up on the rack and I still wanted to live. I focused my eyes on the voice. Keaton. Not a hallucination. She stood in front of me, waving her hand in front of her nose. I tried to scramble away from her in terror, but I did not move. Too weak.

  She leaned forward and untied the belt around my neck. Somehow, the belt had loosened while I hung from the rack, enough to save my life. I took several full breaths. I didn’t care about the pain. I had air!

  Keaton unshackled my wrists and ankles and I fell into the filth below me. The minute I hit the floor, I went into convulsions. My abused muscles all contracted at once and sent me spasming and thrashing helplessly. Keaton stood over me and, incredibly, began to laugh.

  “You were stuck here for three days? Trying to stay alive with your guts hanging out on the floor and me, like an idiot, out in a juice hunt I can’t remember at all.” She sat on a bench and roared laughter.

  “Damn, what it must have done to your mind! Three days trying to breathe like that.” She laughed again. “With your guts hanging out!”

  Her laughter faded to muffled snorts. “You a bit hungry, dear?” Her comment set her off again. “Maybe you want a bit to drink? You might want to do something about your intestines first. They’re just sort of lying there.”

  I didn’t move as she laughed. I couldn’t even summon the energy to hate her. I knew about being high on juice. I wanted to live, damn it. I was going to live.

  Eventually she gained control of herself again. She stood over me once again and she shook her head.

  “Oh what I fucking mess I’ve made of things this time. You still got a mind in there, Hancock?” She leaned over and rapped her knuckles on the side of my head. “Anybody home?”

  “I –,” my voice rasped. I couldn’t manage anything else.

  “Gonna have to do better than grunt if you want to convince me you’re still sane, Hancock. Otherwise, you’re Chimera bait. You got any marbles left in your rat trap of a mind?”

  I lay in the filth and breathed. I pulled the air in, and in again, and in a third time. Th
ere wasn’t much room in my lungs. Finally, I let out one breath: “I want to live.”

  Keaton’s ears made out my bare whisper. “Well, what do you know? Something is in there. Looks like Zielinski’s still ahead of me in the dead Arms race, four to one.”

  She pulled back and studied me. “How did you survive this bit of psychotic idiocy, anyhow?” she asked. A moment later, she shook her head and said, “I guess Arms are harder to kill than I thought. You did a good job surviving.”

  Keaton rolled her eyes, shook her head again and quit with the damned sarcasm. “The stink’ll knock you over at ten paces, though. You’re even too damned weak to clean it up, skag.” She dragged me across the floor and out of the filth, put me back together and treated my wounds. When she finished she propped me up against a kitchen wall and wrapped me in blankets. I cringed whenever she came near me, which she liked.

  “Oooh, this opens up all sorts of interesting possibilities,” Keaton said, as she fed me some chocolate milk. “How much damage can an Arm live through, anyway? I’m dying to find out.” I tried not to hear her sarcasm and concentrated on survival.

  About ten minutes after Keaton started to feed me, my insides began to settle back into their proper spots. Excruciating. I curled into a fetal position, set my teeth, and hoped I would not break my own jaw as I endured yet more incredible pain.

  Keaton stayed with me, real close, as my insides moved. Every fifteen minutes or so, she fed me more water and food. Except for the time she left to clean up the mess under the squat rack, she stayed with me all night. She enjoyed every minute of my recovery. At least she didn’t try the damned trick with the uncooked rice, like the last time she tended me.

  I hadn’t slept for the entire time I hung on the rack and hallucinated. Now, despite everything, I drifted in and out of sleep.

  ---

  Keaton cooked breakfast for me the next morning, for the first time ever. I ate my breakfast without her help, about as much effort as I could manage. Someone knocked on the door while I ate my second plate of food, and I nearly dropped my fork with shock. Keaton didn’t seem surprised. She went over to the garage door we used, called the person over from the kitchen end door, and invited him in. A moment later, she came back into the kitchen, leading our guest.

  Ed, my first recruit. As soon as his eyes found me, he rushed over.

  “Beth, are you all right? Your hair! Your roommate told me you’d been hurt but I didn’t realize it was this bad. Tell me you’re okay.” He pulled the empty chair over and tried to hold me. I winced at the pain of his touch and he pulled back immediately. Tears pooled in the corners of Ed’s eyes. I couldn’t believe Keaton had called him.

  “Beth, I’m so sorry. I want to help.” He glanced at Keaton. “Have the police caught the person who did this to her?”

  Keaton shook her head. She had her predator effect muted and she wore her ‘normal woman’ disguise. “The police don’t know. We can’t tell them. It’s her old boyfriend and he’s a mobster.”

  Ed digested Keaton’s comment for a moment. “She needs to see a doctor. Miss? What did you say your name was?”

  “Stacy,” Keaton said. Her real name.

  Ed was dead. Keaton watched me to make sure I caught her signal. My eyes went wide for a moment, and then back to normal. My control was off.

  Keaton shook her head. “I’m not going to put her through that. Look at her. Do you think she’s up to dealing with the police? I called you because she cares for you, and she needs your help. She thinks she can count on you when she needs you. Is she right?” Keaton played Ed, chilling to recognize.

  “Of course. I’ll help any way I can. But she needs a doctor.”

  “She’s got a doctor friend in Boston who’ll fix her up at no charge, Ed. She needs you to take her to him.”

  Ed glanced over at me again. “Do you want me to do this, Beth? Is this what you want?”

  I nodded. What choice did I have?

  Ed turned back to Keaton. His back was straight and firm. “What’s his address?”

  Keaton wrote the address down on a piece of paper. Zielinski’s address. My doctor, thankfully. “Here,” she said. “Go. The faster we can get Beth to him, the better.”

  I let fatigue take me into semi-consciousness. The drive to Boston took all day.

  Henry Zielinski: July 25, 1967

  The doorbell rang. Zielinski woke out of his depressed stupor, stumbled from his recliner, rubbed his face, and realized he hadn’t shaved today. Yesterday, either. Tina, one of Lori’s bodyguards, had mentioned he might want to get a haircut. He didn’t much care.

  He opened the door to see a young man, wild-eyed and nearly hysterical. “Hello, my name’s Ed. Stacy told me to get Beth to you. She’s in real bad shape.”

  Zielinski almost said, “Beth who?” before he caught himself. This was a Transform matter; he smelled juice on this guy. Beth had to be a Hancock alias. He wondered what Keaton had done this time.

  Poor Ed, though, was in serious trouble, if he knew Keaton’s first name. Zielinski walked out to the car, saw a body, and after a beat recognized the body was Carol. She was out cold in a Focus-like healing trance. He couldn’t tell how much damage Keaton had done to her, but it was extensive. Skinned. Burned. Likely more.

  He had wondered before why Keaton held back on Carol. Well, Keaton hadn’t held back this time. His hands shook for just a moment as he reached out to her, and he realized how much of his life and dreams he had invested in this woman. She was the only thing he had done with his life that hadn’t yet failed.

  “Help me with her,” Zielinski said.

  “What?”

  “I have a place I can take her,” he said. “Help me get her into the van.”

  Ed was a little slow on the uptake but he finally helped Carol into the VW van he had on loan from Lori’s household. He suspected the van was hot.

  Once Zielinski ensured Carol’s comfort on the floor of the van and tucked a blanket around her, he turned to Ed. “Do you understand how much trouble you’re in?”

  “Trouble?” Ed shook his head. “For what?”

  “If I told you that to save your life, your best bet would be to leave the country, get to South America, would you believe me?”

  “Why? Because Beth’s old boyfriend’s a mobster?” Ed asked.

  Zielinski shook his head. “Because of her roommate.”

  “Her I can’t figure out. I’ve never seen muscles like that on a woman before, save in those television documentaries on the Arm, what’s-her-name Keaton…”

  Ed almost passed out as his face went pale. “Stacy…” he said. Zielinski nodded.

  “How much do you want to live? How much are you in love with, ahem, Beth?”

  “Lots.” A pause for reflection. “Not so much.”

  “Good. Leave the country. South America. Europe. Fast. Today.” Zielinski took a deep breath. “You’re not thinking of going to the police, are you?”

  Ed thought for a moment. “They couldn’t protect the last person who ratted out Keaton, so how could they protect me? One problem, though. I don’t have much…”

  Zielinski nodded. If this kept up, he would need to start borrowing against his pension. He reached into his wallet, found it empty, went inside his house and came back with eight hundred dollars in twenties and fifties, the last of his poker winnings. He had already sold his Mercedes to cover the mortgage on the house. “This will help, but you’ll need to make your own way from here. Don’t worry about getting a new identity until after you reach wherever you’re going outside the country. Canada and Mexico won’t do, by the way, and no, you don’t want me knowing where you’re going.”

  “I don’t have a passport,” Ed said. Zielinski sighed, went and got one of his spares, for his Mike Ryker identity. The one he had used in the past for going to medical conferences in Europe that the Focuses didn’t want him attending. He didn’t suspect he would ever need the Ryker identity again, anyway.

&nbs
p; “Passport, drivers’ license, social security card, the works. Try and look a decade older, okay,” Zielinski said. “There’s a bus stop down the street. Run, man, run!”

  Ed jogged off. Zielinski shook his head. If this worked, he would be surprised. He doubted poor old Ed realized his real danger slept, bloody, on the floor of the VW van. Whom else would Keaton delegate the dirty work to?

  Ed had no idea how to deal with Arms. Zielinski stopped first at the local McDonalds, where he got four bags of burgers, fries and sodas. After leaving the parking lot, he woke Carol up and made her chug two sodas. The instant glucose hit woke her up, enough to allow Carol to start digging into the real food, as best as possible with her mangled hands. While she ate, he called the lab to make sure no Transforms were around. Thankfully, none were in the building. Next, he called Lori’s household and warned Lori to keep her people away from the lab, and why.

  By the time they reached Boston College, Carol had told him what Keaton had done to her. She had already started to heal, but from the reek of juice in Ed’s car, he suspected she would soon have juice trouble. The VW van would likely reek of juice as well, once he finished with it. If Lori was correct, one of her Crow friends would have the makings of an all-night party out of this.

  Zielinski fought hard to keep from panicking. He housed an achingly familiar feeling in his gut: the horrible moment when he realized one of his Arms would die, no matter what he did. Arms were social predators, dammit! There had to be a way for one Arm to settle the issue of dominance with another without having to kill her. Only dumb luck had saved Carol’s life this time. This recurring problem refused to go away. Next time she would likely die.

  He didn’t have even the slightest bit of advice to offer the Arms. The terrible familiar helplessness twisted inside him.

  He led Carol down into the basement lab, Carol half leaning on him, half protectively clutching the three remaining bags of fast food. She commented on the obvious legality of this lab when they arrived and he keyed open the door. Carol stopped cold, though, when she entered the lab, putting down her sacks of Big Macs and fries. Interesting. The lab had none of the ambience of a Transform Clinic, Detention Center or even a normal doctor’s office. He doubted he would be able to explain to Carol what a gas chromatograph did, much less…