“This place is crawling with Transforms. Normally. Is one of them a Focus?” Carol turned on him with wide eyes. “I need juice. Juice! Juice!” Her comment was only half an act.
Zielinski nodded at her question. “Dr. Rizzari.”
“Oh, her. You’ve told me about her, I think,” Carol said. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I seem to be having memory problems.”
He pointed to a table in a far corner. “Up you go.” This was the fourth time she had told him she was having memory problems.
“Dammit, doc, this is an autopsy table!”
“The ambience of my current practice is somewhat lacking,” he said, and started the examination.
“It’s not healing right, Carol,” Zielinski said. Juice count ninety-eight, not too low, but Carol had a history of complaining about low juice at a higher juice level than the other Arms. Someday he would have to figure out why. He found blood in her urine and inflammation around the abdominal suture, an actual nascent infection. She heard voices, a recurrence of her Monster-juice induced schizophrenia. He took careful notes, in case one of his suspicions later proved correct.
“What?” She sat on the table and leaned, exhausted, against the wall behind her, with the remaining McDonald’s bags tucked protectively by her side. She wore a sheet over her lap, but only because he insisted. Her nudity didn’t bother the Arm at all.
“Your, um, dammit, I’m not a gynecologist. Your vagina.” He wasn’t embarrassed talking to a Focus about such things. Why the problem now? Oh, right. Focus charisma to make it easier on the doc, or make the doc forget to check the privates if doing so embarrassed the Focus.
He was dead on his feet. Hungry, too, though when he had asked for one of Carol’s dozen Big Macs, she had grabbed it away from him and said “Mine!”
Once the burgers had gone cold, Carol relented and gave Zielinski a Big Mac and fries. He munched on cold French fries and slurped instant coffee. Carol had been appalled at what passed as lab cuisine. It wasn’t his fault Carol didn’t know about the connection between Bunsen burners and instant coffee.
Between the two of them, if they were lucky, they might count as a single functional human.
Carol, oblivious to normal decorum, stuck her right middle finger in her vagina and probed. “Feels much smaller and shorter. Tighter too.” Her voice was hoarse. Her throat damage hadn’t healed yet.
Zielinski turned red. “At least one Focus reports that she heals her hymen back after every sexual encounter. I’m not surprised this occurred after your Arm regeneration triggered in that area of your body. The other…is the problem I was speaking about. Your body regenerated it incorrectly. I need to do some minor surgery.”
“Won’t it just heal back?” Carol said. She paused, as Zielinski let show on his face exactly how embarrassed he was and what the only solution was to the problem. “You’ve got to be kidding, doc. I’m going to walk around with a dildo in there until it heals?”
---
“I didn’t think I could get an infection,” Carol said, lying on the autopsy table now. She spoke with her eyes closed and exerted willpower to stay awake.
“Surprise. To become infected your healing needs to be overtaxed. If I hadn’t told you about the infection, you would have never known. Your infections aren’t life threatening.” He hoped. “On the other hand, I think I’d better re-suture your abdomen. Some pain coming.”
Carol’s eyes opened again and she shook.
Zielinski met her gaze. “Keaton.”
She nodded.
“Keaton, Keaton, Keaton…” Zielinski said, his comment an exclamation of dismay and disgust, as well as a psychological test. Carol managed to cover up her well-deserved traumatic reactions.
“Doc, I can’t afford to be traumatized by Keaton,” she said, reading him better than he read her. “I am going back to her lair.”
He started the re-suturing. “Hmmm? I’d think you’d want to be as far away from Keaton as possible.”
“I do want to be as far away from her as possible, but I can’t run. Ow! Fuck! Can’t you be a little more careful?”
“Sorry.”
“Besides, aren’t you the one who said ‘never run from an Arm’?” Hancock said.
“Yes, but I was talking literally, not metaphorically. I’m not sure my comment applies under these circumstances.”
“The comment applies because I made an agreement with her, this graduation test. If I run now I’m breaking the agreement, which isn’t a real good path to long-term survival. In any case, wouldn’t you rather I was in a cage somewhere, being fed frozen hamsters like a pet snake? So you can study me? Sell me to the FBI?”
More low juice memory problems. “You know better, Carol. From the first time we met, in the Detention Center, I’ve been working on getting you out on your own.”
Carol gritted her teeth for a moment as he tied up the last suture. “Well, then, you’ve got some catch up work to do.”
“I do need juice, doc. If I know I’m getting juice, I can heal faster.”
Zielinski frowned. “Your juice count is only ninety-eight.”
“My count feels lower, like I’m nearing withdrawal. Look,” she said, and held out one of her hands. It shook. Zielinski stepped forward and shined a light into her eyes. Dilated. “Ow!” Carol said. Light sensitive, too.
“You’re right. Those are the reactions of an Arm at about ninety-two.” He took notes and slapped her on her mostly healed right shoulder. “Luckily for you, I found three Clinics in New England with…”
“That’s not going to help much, doc. I’m having memory fugues every few minutes and I’m in no condition to drive. I think I may be having low juice memory problems.”
Zielinski nodded and licked his lips. “How about if I drive you to the Clinics?”
“That ought to be okay if I can get a little rest first,” Carol said.
Carol was half-asleep on the autopsy table, after padding it with ripped up cardboard computer paper boxes heisted from the department computer room. Doctor’s orders: lie down, eat a ton, rest, let your body heal.
“What have you been working on for me, anyway?” Carol said.
“Talking.”
“I can do that without your help, you know,” Carol said.
Zielinski sighed. “Sadie, the Transform in Focus Rizzari’s household who’s their contact with the Crow who helped me survive the juice poisoning, arranged a phone conversation between me and the Crow. From it, I can say the Crows don’t understand how their Transform capabilities work. She says there are as many Crows as Focuses. In case you were wondering.”
“Gad.” Clearly, Carol had never given his hypothesis much weight. “I really really didn’t want to know.” Zielinski smiled. “You stink. Old moldy juice. Not much, only a little.”
Zielinski stopped, the pen in his hand twitching once. “I shouldn’t. Is it uniform or localized?”
Carol sniffed the air, looked at him, sniffed again. “Abdomen area.”
Goosepimples ran up his arms. “The smell must be something left over from the assassination attempt.” He needed to get that taken care of, perhaps via another trip to visit the Crow.
Carol didn’t return a comment and Zielinski wrote down some observations on Carol’s keen sense of smell while she rested.
“What ever happened to Ed, doc?” Carol said, a few minutes later. “Didn’t he drive me to Boston? Or am I misremembering things?”
“I sent him off.”
Carol rested and thought. A piece of lab equipment chimed, finished with a blood toxicity test. Zielinski shuffled over, checked the result, which was normal. At least for an Arm.
“What do you mean, you sent him off?”
“He’d figured out who you and Keaton were,” Zielinski said. “I gave him some money and told him to get out of the country. Unless he’s stupider than he looks, he’s long gone already. He knew the story about what happened the last time one of Keaton’s contacts tri
ed to rat her out.”
“Dammit, Keaton’s going to shit bricks.”
“Don’t tell her he’s fled the country,” Zielinski said. “Tell her he’s been disposed of.”
“Great. Thanks,” Carol said. A moment later, she fell asleep.
Carol Hancock: July 26, 1967
Four blocks from the warehouse I stopped, mouth dry, hands shaking, my mind filled with flashbacks of Keaton’s torture. I had gotten two kills with Zielinski’s help and managed to drive my way back to Philadelphia in a stolen vehicle without falling apart. Now, this. I reminded myself of all the reasons I couldn’t run: I was hers, I would make an enemy for life if I ran, and she would hunt me down and torture me to death. She was an Arm.
That’s what I would do.
I drove to the warehouse, parked the car in the loading dock ramp, went to the garage door and let myself in. My heart pounded madly as I pulled up the door.
No Keaton.
The warehouse still stank. The squat rack was still in its place.
I got mad. I refused to fold up in fear. So, I had been tortured. So, I was afraid. I would live and the fear would just have to get out of my way. I refused to let the fact I relived each instant of the torture in flashbacks stop me.
I had work to do.
I metasensed Keaton on her way back to the warehouse a few minutes after six, while kneeling on a chair at the counter buttering bread for dinner. I fell to the floor when the garage door opened and I stayed on the floor until she came into the kitchen. I didn’t have to fake my fear today.
I couldn’t read her face. I couldn’t tell if she was surprised to find me here. I couldn’t tell anything at all. She studied me for several long moments before she said “Strip.”
I stripped. Keaton ordered me to lie down on the cold concrete floor; once I did so she slowly, painfully! checked over each inch of my body. I had been able to get rid of the damned dildo, thank God. She poked at my wounds and kneaded my skin. She pulled on tender spots and squeezed the broken bones. I breathed deeply and steadily through it. Pain. I concentrated on ignoring the pain and did a better job than I had been able to do before.
Keaton’s actions bothered me. She knew she hurt me a lot more than she needed to. She didn’t care or, at least, she didn’t show she cared. I didn’t see any demand for submission from her, either. I didn’t understand what she wanted. Perhaps she just wanted to cause pain. Perhaps she wanted to evaluate my injuries.
Probably both, come to think of it.
My heart rate spiked when she took out her small torture knife, but I grimly forced my heart rate back down. If she wanted my fear, I would give it to her, but she hadn’t asked. I refused to risk showing any reactions until I understood what she wanted.
She ran the knife along my stomach, and then, slowly and carefully, she cut Zielinski’s replacement stitches and took them out.
Her face never changed expression. I still couldn’t read her.
I kept my heart steady and my signals down as she cut the stitches. She laid the little knife down on my abdomen when she was done.
Then she took her belt off, slowly, and laid it along my throat.
“How’s your breathing?” she asked, watching me carefully with those cold eyes.
I gazed back with my own cold eyes. I knew her ‘time to grovel’ signals. She wasn’t giving them. This was one of her tests.
I studied her and knew I was right. She wanted to know what I was made of, whether she had broken me. When I ran from her, before the torture session, she must have lost some of her respect for me.
Well, fuck it. What am I supposed to do when she comes at me in a stalk? Say “Hurt me, please?” Not this Arm. If she wanted to know what I was made of, I would show her. I picked up the little knife and came up to my knees. I kept my heart under control, as well as my other reactions. I met her gaze, took that knife, and threw it into the air. The knife flew up about a foot, spinning furiously, and came down and buried itself hilt deep in my forearm.
I never changed expression. I never even blinked. I took the knife out and handed it to her, never looking away from her eyes.
She took it. “Crawl,” she said.
I crawled. I let the fear come over me and I cowered at her feet. I smelled of fear and I shivered with it. I didn’t change the expression in my eyes, though. I gave her the same cold gaze she gave me.
She smiled, ever so slightly. “Do better,” she said.
Now I let the fear into my eyes. I groveled miserably for her, the very picture of a broken wretch. My heart raced and my breath was ragged. I stank of fear and submission. I shivered in terror. I kissed her feet, begged her to let me prove my subservience.
Keaton rolled her eyes and said, “Dinner.”
I stood back up, put on my clothes and went to put dinner on the table.
Zielinski was right. It was time for me to leave Keaton. I wanted to be far far away the next time she exploded with one of her over-the-top psychotic episodes. I wanted to be free, on my own, and making my own decisions.
Mastering my graduation test became my number one priority.
“Get some good sleep tonight because we have a contract we’re doing tomorrow,” Keaton said, after she led me through a light after-dinner workout.
“Ma’am?”
“It seems one of the local Focuses, Biggioni, ran into a pack of Monsters led by a Chimera. On a farm just east of Pottstown.” Not far west of Philly. “Through the Network, she’s hired us to investigate and do what has to be done, if we can.”
My eyes widened in anticipation. “Ma’am, what kind of payment could justify such a risk?”
“I’m getting two free kills and you’re getting one.”
Ah. Recompense for what she did to me…and as much of an apology as I would ever get from my teacher.
That night, in the corner of the closet that was my home, I got down on my knees and prayed. The hallucination of St. Peter had spooked me, and given me hope that God wasn’t done with me. I didn’t pray for forgiveness, for I didn’t think I deserved any. I didn’t pray for guidance. I didn’t want that, either. I didn’t pray for God to smite Keaton, no matter how much she deserved an eon or so of smiting.
No, I prayed to Jesus for mercy. For the time to find my proper place, and the time to redeem the ills I did, if such was possible. For mercy on those foolish innocents who got in my way? I asked Jesus to stay my hand.
To my surprise, I slept quietly that night.
Chapter 10
The proper prey of the Arm is the Transform who is out of line. Most often, this is an unclaimed Transform, or a tagged Transform who has broken the rules laid down by their Focus. Some Arms think normal humanity is the Arm’s prey – and they are very mistaken. Some Arms consider the other Major Transforms as their competitors – and they are very mistaken. A proper Arm should not give a damn about what the other Major Transforms are doing – unless they too step out of line.
“The Book of Arms”
Carol Hancock: July 27, 1967
Keaton followed the scent trail while I identified critter-prints. Ten days had passed since Focus Biggioni’s encounter. I was sure the Chimera and its pack had moved on, but three miles out, into vacant scrubland too rocky to be farmed, Keaton caught a fresh whiff in the breeze and I spotted fresh tracks.
“Now, do that trick I taught you this morning,” Keaton signaled.
I followed her orders. The trick involved meditating and visualizing, and it damped whatever emanations an Arm emitted that allowed another Major Transform to sense her. An imperfect trick, yes, but Keaton had used it to get right on top of Focuses before. Okay, low end Focuses.
I spotted some movement up ahead. I held up a hand; Keaton stopped. She sniffed air and motioned us right, and up a boulder-strewn hill. Half way up she went to the ground and began to slither. I did the same.
The hill ended in a cliff. Below the cliff, in an overhang cave, I picked up the scent of Transforms, Monsters an
d a new one. Chimera. It couldn’t be anything else.
My metasense, though, only picked up the Transforms and Monsters.
Keaton didn’t like the situation, either. She motioned us to go back.
Keaton drew up a plan on the ground. “We come from the north side, along the rock face. We’ll have the wind and the surprise, unless the Chimera suddenly learns to metasense properly. We’ll use our heavy weapons.” That is, the Monster guns, .707s. Powerful enough to blast a hole through a building and out the other side. “Concentrate our fire on the Chimera. We do a running retreat if they charge us and hand to hand if they close. Got it?”
I nodded.
We headed back, taking a different route that would lead us around the hill, over less rocky ground and through denser trees. Summer beat down on us, a two and a half week heat wave. Dry and nasty. Traffic rumbled in the distance on US 422 into Pottstown. I curled my nose when I caught another whiff of Monster.
I wasn’t fully recovered, and I worried I might not be able to hold up my end of the fight. Other than my worries, the attack seemed like a cakewalk. We would have the drop on them, we had the heavy weapons and all they had was mean. They would be stuck defending their chained up captives. There were two of us and only one Chimera. I set my worries aside.
The Chimera let out a spine-melting hiss when we were fifty paces away from being able to get eyeballs on the camp. Keaton motioned for us to sprint and we did. When we rounded the curve in the small valley and saw the camp, a thousand feet away, a half-human Monster started firing on us with a WWII relic M-1.
Now We Are Monsters (The Commander) Page 23