Revolution

by J. S. Frankel

  “Athletics,” Harry repeated. “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Better living through science, kid,” Farrell answered and gazed at Bartok. “Am I right?”

  “You are.”

  Bartok went on to say that the state-sponsored socialist programs often used secret labs in order to train the genetic elite. Those labs were scattered all over the Soviet Union and its territories. There, scientists used steroids, growth enhancers or blockers and many more drugs in an attempt to achieve the ultimate in human perfection. “There is an old saying, the Russians had. If we cannot beat you on the battlefield, then we shall beat you on the sports field. It worked for them very well, don’t you think?”

  It certainly had worked. The Russians and the satellite Soviet-bloc countries won in athletics time and again. Naturally, the Americans and their allies turned to using steroids. The race on the battlefield became one of scientists and not athletes.

  “After Glasnost, many of these secret labs fell into disuse,” Bartok continued. “However, the Russians who were opposed to Glasnost often used these places to hide drugs, money, artwork and more. In this case, they hid science and created monsters.”

  Harry thought about what the Nurmelev and Grushenko had told him. They’d both had backers, rich industrialists, ex-KGB, Spetznatz and others who’d supported their vision. The money had to come from somewhere. “Uh, did you check on who’s connected to Szabo? I mean, he’s a strong guy, but I don’t think he’s smart enough to come up with transgenic ideas on his own.”

  Bartok chewed on his lower lip, silence reigned, and Farrell prodded him with a “Well” comment. “Spill it, mister, you asked us here. You asked us. We’ve been pretty cooperative, so it’s time to share.”

  “Very well,” Bartok said at length. “We were not sure, but we think there is one other person connected to all this. His name is Kulakov. No first name, no date of birth, no information... nothing. I have been in contact with the Russian government, but they also claim to have no knowledge of him. We think he’s a member of the KBG, or maybe he was. We just don’t know...”

  A screech from overhead interrupted his musings. Harry jerked his head up just in time to see an enormous bird hurtle their way. “Company’s here!” Anastasia cried. “Get down!”

  With a cry of rage, the bird swooped over their heads, uttering a raucous cry. Its wingspan practically blotted out the sun and it slashed at their heads with talons. Harry had seen the scratch marks on the corpses. This thing had talons maybe a foot in length and they shone in the sunlight.

  Istvan squealed and ran for cover under a mound of leaves. The cry from above came again. The bird came back for another dive-bombing run. As it neared their position, Harry saw that it wasn’t a bird, not exactly. It had a woman’s body and face with an extremely long and sharp-looking beak. Her eyes were deep and black pools of ink, the color of death.

  This was not a time for aesthetics, though. The bird-woman came in fast and knocked Bartok and Farrell flying when they drew their pistols. Farrell rolled over on his back and let off a few shots. They all missed.

  Above them, the bird-woman banked sharply. In an impossible maneuver, she pulled up and went after Bartok, who had gotten to his feet and was drawing a bead on his target.

  “Get it, get it!” Farrell yelled.

  “I am trying!” Bartok yelled back. He shot three times, the bullets hit the mark, but the thing came in fast and clamped its talons onto his left shoulder. “Get it off me!” he screamed and beat at it with his pistol.

  As Farrell tried to shoot it, the creature slashed his arm with its wing and he dropped his gun. “Not again!” he cried and fell to the ground, blood spurting from his forearm. “It’s got blades for feathers!”

  The enemy let go of Bartok and took off like a shot. It circled around for a third run and came back fast. Harry grabbed Anastasia and they hit the dirt just before she could slash them as well.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked from his prone position.

  “Stand up,” Anastasia ordered.

  “You gotta be kidding me!”

  “Nope,” she said with a fierce grin. “Trust me.”

  Reluctantly, Harry got to his feet and waved his hands. “Hey, birdy, come and get me!”

  A second later, a horrid screech came from the bird-woman as she turned around. The thought of oh crap, she’s pissed ran through his mind at light speed. He fought down the desire to run. Instead, he stood waving his arms as the enemy jetted toward him.

  At the point of impact, though, Anastasia blindsided her, and they tumbled to the ground in a flurry of feathers and fur, both of them spitting and slashing at one another. The bird-woman’s talons raked Anastasia’s side as well as the side of her face. She yowled in pain, but continued her assault, and her slashes to her opponents’ wings brought inhuman screams.

  Harry jumped into action and pinned down her wings. As Anastasia had said, they were sharp and bit into his hands. He ignored the searing pain and tried to block out the screaming. It continued unabated until Bartok, who’d gotten over his initial shock, ran over with his pistol and repeatedly clubbed the bird-woman on the head until she stopped moving.

  Harry released his hold. His hands were bloody, but his regenerative powers kicked in the wounds soon closed. “Is she alive?” he asked.

  Bartok hesitantly put his ear to her beak. “She is still breathing.” A sour expression appeared on his face, as if he’d sniffed something most vile. “That is a shame.”

  If there were any other word he could have used, Harry would have used it. In this situation, looking at her, there was no other word to employ than monster. At roughly six feet in height with a body of a bird and long, spindly although incredibly powerful legs, she reminded him of a hawk. However, her face looked more human than avian.

  “What could have made this... thing,” Bartok muttered. His uniform was covered in blood and he was still shaking.

  Harry felt himself trembling as well. “What are we going to do with her, keep her in the lab downstairs?”

  Bartok shook his head. “No, this place is too open. If this Szabo knows her, then he also knows this place. We must take her back to the morgue.”

  That meant taking her back to the car. Everyone looked at each other in a how do you do that manner until Anastasia stated with heavy distaste, “Tie her up.” She wiped the blood from her face and waved Harry off when he came over to look. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  Bartok supplied his leather belt, as did Farrell. One belt went around the bird-woman’s wings, while the other belt went around her legs so she couldn’t claw anyone. “What about the beak?” Harry asked. It was nasty, long and more than likely, very hard. Getting hit by that guaranteed an injury or something worse.

  “Use this,” a voice said.

  Istvan had come out of hiding holding a length of rope in his hoof-like hands. “I hid under the leaves and found this,” he said in an apologetic tone. “I know her,” he said, gazing at the unconscious bird-woman with a mixture of awe and fear. “Her name is Martuska.”

  Martuska—it was a start. Harry hefted her body over his shoulder and they set off back to the car. Once there, they tossed her body into the trunk and locked it securely. “Is she going to be able to breathe in there?” he asked. “Not that I care.”

  “Air will circulate there, do not worry,” Bartok reassured him. “We must hurry, before anyone comes back. After we get to the morgue, I must contact my superiors. We cannot risk putting her in a public jail.”

  Putting her in a public institution surrounded by civilians wasn’t the best plan, Harry thought, but they didn’t have much of a choice. Tiredly, he got in the rear seat. Anastasia sat next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “You did okay back there,” she whispered.

  Maybe he had, but Harry still felt afraid. Fear came with the job, but he told himself that if there was ever a time to man up, it was now. He couldn’t afford t
o show weakness here. The enemy wouldn’t.

  Chapter Six: The Next Step

  Reaching the morgue mid-morning, they brought Martuska upstairs, put her in a bed, and Harry held her down. He was afraid that she might wake up at any moment, and right now, he wasn’t in the mood for another fight. “You’re still bleeding,” Harry said to Anastasia as they worked.

  He half expected her to say, “I ain’t got time to bleed,” but instead she simply offered in a sour voice, “I’ll heal.”

  As he looked on, her wounds had already begun to close, but she moved stiffly, and sharp grunts of pain came from her mouth.

  “What are we going to use for straps?” he asked.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Since nothing was immediately available, Anastasia ran to the lounge and came back a few moments later holding some rough looking strips of leather. “Use these,” she said. “I got them from the chairs.”

  Once she was secured, Harry hunted down some bandages and he and Anastasia did their best to bind the wounds of the two older men. Neither Farrell nor Bartok complained during the procedure. After they finished, Bartok lit a cigarette and blew out a plume of bluish-gray smoke. Anastasia pulled a face, but said nothing. She did, however, open a window to let the fresh air in.

  Harry glanced inside the holding room. Martuska still hadn’t regained consciousness, but he was pretty sure that when she did, she was going to be pissed. He went back to where the others were sitting. “Are those going to hold her?” he asked, skeptical of the whole idea.

  “They should,” Bartok replied. He turned his gaze on Istvan. “You need to tell us everything. You know this... thing. Tell us.”

  Istvan gulped down air, his mouth quivering. “She came to the laboratory almost at the same time I was there. She was... university student, I think. I do not know for sure, as the scientists and guards beat us if we spoke to each other. But I listen, always I listen. She say she come from northern area of Hungary. They steal her from home one night and bring here to this place.”

  Tears began to run down his cheeks. “She scream when they started experiment on her. Scream and beg...” His voice trailed off.

  “Istvan, you must tell us,” Bartok urged and this time he didn’t sound so overbearing. “Talk to me.”

  Immediately, Istvan switched to Hungarian. The conversation continued, the little man speaking passionately, his vocal chords straining and his voice full of loss. In contrast, Bartok’s voice sounded soothing, almost fatherly in nature. He led the conversation by asking questions, sometimes in English and sometimes in his native language.

  Haltingly, the details emerged. At the underground lab, Martuska had been drugged and her memory wiped. Once the transformation was complete, she became the eyes and ears from up on high. “You mean, for Grushenko?” Harry asked.

  Istvan nodded dully. “Yes, she... how you say it... she scouted for him? He tell her to search for people to bring in. He always look for young people, always fit and healthy and strong people.”

  “They killed a lot of older people in Russia and Hungary. Serbia, too,” Farrell pointed out.

  “They were target practice. That is what guards told me,” Istvan whispered. “I do not know why they brought me.”

  Harry cut in. “Let’s find out.”

  Going over to the medical cabinet, he found a syringe, a dropper and a slide. “I also need a centrifuge and some more equipment. Do you have a DNA analyzer?” he asked Bartok.

  “I can get one,” Bartok replied. “Why do you need it?”

  Now Harry was in his element. “I want to find out why Istvan is so special. We all have enhanced immune and regenerative systems, but Szabo and maybe this Kulakov or whoever found something different. I want to know why.”

  “I will make a call.”

  Bartok walked off to make the arrangements. A few seconds later, they heard a faint moan from the next room. Martuska had woken up. Harry, Anastasia and Istvan went to the room and found her struggling against her bonds, her eyes full of hate. When she spoke, it came out in a raspy, incoherent voice. Farrell came in a few seconds later. “Do you understand what she’s saying?” he asked.

  Istvan shook his head. “No, she does not make any understanding to me,” he replied, shivering at the sight of her. “I think she say a word, but I cannot be sure. When Grushenko did his experiments, he say that sometimes vocal chords do not work so well. I can talk, Szabo can talk, but there are others who could not.”

  Ivan the bear-man couldn’t speak very well, Harry recalled. Nurmelev said that when the subject was transformed, they sometimes lost their ability to speak and sometimes the scientists had sacrificed certain abilities in order to enhance others. Speech was one of them.

  Anastasia had retained her ability to speak and think at a human level, as had Doug and Lyudmila. Martuska’s eyes, though, told an entirely different story. They were full of hate. Even if she had a normal IQ, Harry knew that if she got free, she’d try to kill everyone.

  “What do you think she’s saying?” asked Anastasia, warily eyeing the monster on the bed.

  “It is vadasz. It means hunter.”

  Hunter... the word sent a chill down Harry’s spine. In a burst of clarity, he realized that Szabo’s plan was a lot wider in scope than he first thought. “She’s a scout,” he said. “The kidnappings, the murders... Szabo or Kulakov or whoever’s in charge has others like us doing his dirty work for him.”

  A soft growl came from Anastasia. “Are you sure?”

  Right now, Harry wasn’t sure of anything. He was in way over his head and he knew it. After another glance at the bed, he asked, “What are we going to do with her? She’s on their side, right?”

  Istvan nodded. “She has no memory of what she was. She is like Szabo, a killer. I must leave this room. It make me sick to look at her.”

  He quickly left and Martuska continued to stare and screech. She also began to thrash around and her movements practically caused the bed to jump to the other side of the room. Anastasia held her down, avoiding the thrusts of her beak.

  “Find something to put her out!” Farrell yelled.

  Harry ran outside to find Bartok. Spotting him, he called out, “Come on!”

  Together, they raced down to the third floor. Inside the lab, Harry found a syringe, but because he didn’t understand Hungarian, he told Bartok what to look for. After a few frantic seconds of searching, Bartok found a vial. “I have it!” he cried.

  It would have to do. Harry stabbed the end of the needle in, withdrew the fluid and ran upstairs, where he injected Martuska. She continued to thrash around, but eventually the sedative took hold and her struggles grew weaker. Seconds later, she was out. He blew out a deep breath. “I had to give her a double dose. I don’t know how long it’ll keep her out.”

  “I will watch her,” Bartok said, still breathing heavily. Blood had soaked through his bandage and he didn’t look too healthy, but he gave a confident nod. “I have ordered the equipment. It is from our best hospital and will arrive tonight. Please be patient.”

  With nothing better to do, Harry took Anastasia’s hand and led her outside to the lounge. Farrell trailed behind them, talking into his cellphone. “I’ve got your friends working on this,” he said when they all took seats. “They’re checking on who this Kulakov might be, and we’re also coordinating with the Russians. When they find something, they’ll let us know.”

  It seemed like a plan. Harry sat down, Anastasia leaned her head against him, and they decided to sleep off their jetlag.

  Two hours later, someone knocked on the door downstairs. Bartok went to answer it and came back carrying two bags of groceries along with another laptop. “Come with me,” he said to Farrell.

  They went downstairs and came back carrying a centrifuge and another machine that was a DNA analyzer. Harry knew which model it was. It wasn’t as fast as the DNA strand analyzer he’d used back in New York, but it would work. Bartok set up the computer.
“This has a greater memory than the other computers here. It is now ready to work in English,” he said. “What else do you need?”

  Harry looked at Istvan. “I need a sample of your blood,” he said. After getting a vial full of it, he started his analysis. “This will take about twelve hours,” he said.

  While waiting, they passed the time talking, watching television which none of them understood except for Istvan and Bartok, and raiding the food supply. Harry had just finished stuffing a loaf of bread into his mouth along with a number of tasty sausages when Anastasia popped in.

  “Are you feeling better?” Harry asked. He noticed that her wounds had just about healed. The scars on her face faded... faded... and were gone.

  Anastasia twirled around gracefully on the ball of her left foot. “Yep, and I’m hungry,” she declared. “Oh, chicken,” she gushed as she spotted a bag and took a sniff.

  She opened it up, pulled out an entire roasted chicken, and held it up, tilting it this way and that as if appraising its value. Taking a bite, she chewed and savored it, tilting her head back in a move of gastronomic ecstasy. Before long, she’d devoured every bit of her meal. “I didn’t realize I ate so much,” she said, daintily wiping her lips with a napkin.

  “Hyper-charged metabolism,” Harry said, wiping his mouth. “I’ve been eating more, too.”

  “It comes with the territory.”

  Another screech sounded and Anastasia snapped her head around. “Unfortunately, so does that,” she said.

  Martuska had shaken off her drug dose and it had been only a couple of hours. “Vadasz, vadasz,” she kept screaming and almost got out of her restraints until Anastasia clobbered her and knocked her cold.

  “That’s for slicing me open,” Anastasia muttered. “Next time I’ll do the slice and dice deal.”