Integration

by J. S. Frankel

  “I’m going with you,” the girl said. “I’m not staying here.”

  Paul glanced at her. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded. Her manner seemed a lot surer, and she thrust her jaw forward. “You know what I look like. I wanna kick that man’s ass.”

  “Revenge is something that clouds judgment,” Stander observed, as he took out his pistol, checked that the clips’ contents were full, then, satisfied, thrust it back into its holster. “But…you’re entitled.”

  The girl bared her teeth. They looked surprisingly sharp. Not lethal, but pretty close to it. “Yeah, I’m entitled. And I decided on my name. Call me Quill. If I look like a porcupine, then you might as well call me that.”

  As if to underscore her point, she flung a number of barbs from her arm at the wall. They hit hard in a tight, compact circle. She whipped her tail around and did the same, then stopped to stare at the wall. “That’s what I’m going to do to him.”

  “Nice grouping,” Angela said, and she went over to touch the barbs. With a look of admiration in her eyes, she added, “You might be able to help us. It’s going to be dangerous, though.”

  “It’s better than staying here,” Quill stated and repeated, “I’m going with you.”

  Stander looked on at the target practice and nodded with what seemed like approval. “It seems we have a plan,” he said. “Let’s get going.”

  ****

  The Black Hills in South Dakota looked to be quiet at this time of night. It was almost eleven-thirty when they arrived. Stander had flown the plane himself and skillfully guided the aircraft in to touch down on a flat piece of land. There was no airport. Ooze remained onboard. “I’ll watch over him,” Stander promised. “Once you get to where you’re going, check in.”

  “Where should we meet up?” Paul asked.

  Stander replied, “Your headquarters seems like the best place. I can’t risk the lives of any other personnel.”

  After mulling it over in his mind, Paul silently admitted it wasn’t the best plan around. Meeting in New York—one of the most densely populated cities in America—seemed like a sure plan for disaster, but right now it seemed no one had a better suggestion, and he wasn’t in any position to argue. “Okay, what else is there?”

  “I still have to square this with Washington,” said Stander, as he cautiously surveyed the surroundings. “They have the final word on what to do.”

  Before they left, Ooze asked Quill for a blood sample. “I want to run some tests, just to be sure of something,” he said.

  Wordlessly, she offered her arm. After he’d taken the sample, Ooze said, “I’ll get back to you on this. Take care.”

  The plane took off and circled once over top of them before disappearing into the distance. Once Paul had turned around to survey the area, he understood why Peterson had wanted to meet here. Nothing outside of wildlife lived in this particular area. A cold wind blew, harsh and unforgiving. Rock mesas, flatlands bordered by scrubby trees and patches of grass dominated. A town lay roughly twenty minutes away by car, but the area was very inaccessible.

  “Do you see anything?” Angela asked. She tapped him on the arm. “Get ready. We might have company any moment.”

  “Nothing,” he replied and tasted the air with his nose. “I can’t smell anything, either.”

  Angela glanced around, cocked her head to one side and frowned. “I can’t hear any movement. “I can fly now, so I’ll take Quill. You come in from the ground.”

  Quill’s eyes widened. “You can fly?”

  Angela put her arm around the girl’s waist. “Hang on, and don’t stab me.”

  They lifted off. Sandstorm had come with them, and he signed, I’ll follow them.

  After he slithered off at high speed, Paul began to run. The doctor had to be here—somewhere—but with no sign and no trail, there was nothing he could do except survey the area as fast as possible. With a clear sky overhead, the stars twinkled and lit the way.

  As he ran, he wondered how Peterson could get around the country so fast. Rallan, Inc., his old company, had various holdings, so maybe he’d arranged to have a private airplane or two at his disposal.

  Even more troubling was that no one had seemed to spot the monsters until the very last moment. Monsters didn’t simply up and disappear. Well, these disappeared. They dissolved, but it still didn’t explain how they could just appear on the scene without anyone spotting them.

  Thoughts of the hows and whys would have to wait, though, as he pulled up short when he heard a rumbling sound. It came from up ahead. The rumbling intensified, and he wondered if earthquakes occurred in this part of the country.

  After trying his intercom, he heard only static. A curse burst from his mouth, and he wished Ooze were around to fix all these little but oh-so-important foul-ups. “Angela!” he called. “If you can hear me, check this out!”

  A voice replied, “Coming!”

  Two seconds later, the rumbling increased to deafening levels, the ground ahead split asunder and a dilapidated house literally rose from the depths. “Holy crap,” Paul muttered. If Peterson wanted privacy, he’d picked a perfect location. From where he stood, the house didn’t look to be very large, but he remembered something Quill had said. Underground—I saw light streaming in.

  Light streaming in meant there was some kind of cellar. There was no reason for her to think she’d been in a house such as this, but it showed the enemy was indeed a clever one. With all the resources Peterson had at his disposal, he’d probably been planning this for a long time, getting work crews in to dig pits and construct chambers and more. And to make matters worse, he’d done it right under the noses of the authorities.

  A whistle from overhead made him glance up. Angela landed with Quill in her arms. After she touched down, the younger girl slumped to the ground and promptly threw up. “I’m…not used to flying,” she said, between spewing out bits of food and bile.

  “You’ll get used to it,” said Angela.

  “Don’t want to.”

  She finished retching and stood, rubbing the back of her head with a short and violent motion. “So, what do we do now?”

  Paul surveyed the house, saw no movement but knew something could come out of there at any time. If it did, it would move fast. “We wait,” he said, hunkering down in the grass and waving them down as well. “If one of them shows, we take him—or it—down. We go inside then get the job done.”

  Angela nodded and said, “You really know how to throw those barbs.”

  Even in the darkness, Paul saw Quill’s face turn red. “I don’t know how I do it,” she said. “It’s just natural for me. All I need is a target.”

  The tone in Angela’s voice turned urgent. “Then get ready for some target practice,” she said. “We’ve got company, and they’re coming fast!”

  Getting to their feet, a group of zombies approached, shambling along in a loose kind of lockstep formation. Their arms swung back and forth, and with vacant eyes, they seemed ready to follow any orders given. In this case, the order was to kill.

  Quill looked nervous. “Uh, what do we do?”

  Allow me, Sandstorm signed. A second later, he formed his grainy form into a wall and smacked the zombie horde to the ground. They got up a second later, so he switched to his usual blinding attack, shoving his body—stinging bits of sand—into their eyes. They put up their arms and tried to swat him aside, but it proved to be useless.

  While the diversion was going on, Paul asked the newest group member, “How far can you throw your barbs?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

  Sandstorm stopped his attack and signed, They’re all yours.

  Let them be someone else’s, Paul decided, as the group of the manufactured undead, twenty in all, began their approach once more. “Try now.”

  Quill took a de
ep breath, wrapped her arms around her body then flung them wide open. An army of sharp metal barbs exploded from her torso and impaled each and every zombie right between the eyes. They gave a collective grunt, sank to their knees then fell to the ground without making another sound. Ten seconds later they dissolved into organic goo.

  “That seemed easy enough,” Angela remarked, but a note of warning entered her voice. “Oh crap, they’ve got reinforcements!”

  As Paul looked on, six beings seemed to emerge from the land itself in front of the house and rose up, their bodies expanding and thickening like flowers unfolding, but these were no flowers. They grew like Chia Pets! “They must be on some kind of time-release growth plan,” he yelled.

  “I don’t care if they’re on Medicare,” Angela shot back. “These are going to be tougher.”

  Indeed, they looked tougher than the previous batch. Six beings, three zombies, one slug and two other creatures that looked like a mix of elk and sheep, bounded toward them. Angela tensed, but Quill beat her to it.

  “Mine!” she cried, and flung three barbs from her tail at the elk-sheep monstrosities. The steel points sank into their foreheads and the animals pitched forward to hit the ground hard, tumbling over and over until they came to a stop. After that, they didn’t move.

  Paul went after the zombies. In spite of the size differential, they didn’t move any faster than the previous group of the undead. As if drugged, they almost shambled along, and it was an easy matter for him to snap their necks. He got two of them, but overconfidence nearly did him in as the third monstrosity grabbed him in a bear-hug. The zombie’s strength was enormous, and he felt his ribs begin to bend. In a few more seconds, they’d break. “A little help,” he gasped.

  “Hang on,” Angela said. She ran over, bit into the giant’s neck and tore it out. It let go of Paul, fell over, spasmed then dissolved.

  As for the final assailant—the slug—it sprayed something foul-smelling in their direction. “Look out!” cried Angela, as she snatched Quill by the shoulder and the two of them rolled out of the way. The spray of liquid hit the ground, and it started to steam.

  “Acid,” muttered Angela. “Be careful.”

  “They have to be careful. Not me,” yelled Quill, and flung a series of barbs at the slug from her position on the turf. They bounced off its iron-hard hide.

  “That won’t work,” it rasped.

  Another barb sang out and embedded itself in the slug’s throat. A horrible choking sound emerged from its mouth, and it fell over. “That will,” said Quill, with immense satisfaction.

  After waiting for a few seconds for the next wave, it seemed a little disappointing when no more creatures appeared. Quill posed the obvious question. “What now?”

  “We enter,” Angela replied.

  Cautiously making their way inside, they found themselves in a small, unfurnished room. It looked like any other room, just four walls and a creaky floor. Paul took a step, and the door abruptly slammed shut. Whirling around, he ran and tried to open it, but an electric charge ran through him, and he staggered back.

  “Wired… This whole place must be wired,” he murmured.

  “So where do we go?” wondered Angela.

  “Nowhere,” a voice answered. “You are going nowhere.”

  A small speaker stood in the far corner. “Welcome to my web, said the spider to the fly,” the voice said again.

  This time, a series of blue bolts shot out from various positions in the room. Angela cried out and tried to escape, but electricity was her weakness, and she soon collapsed. Quill tried to run, but a shot of blue light speared her between the shoulder blades and she, too, fell over, her body and tail twitching.

  Paul went swiftly to his girlfriend’s side. She was out, but breathing normally. So was Quill, when he checked on her. “Okay, you got me. What do you want?” Paul asked, as he stood up.

  “You,” a voice answered.

  The voice was familiar—Sluggo’s. Paul whirled around, but a massive arm clubbed him across his neck and stunned him. Dazed, he fell to the floor, wishing this was a dream and that he’d soon wake up.

  However, this scenario becoming one of fantasy was not to be. In life, reality always intruded, and the reality was that he was a prisoner, and there would be no way out. Miracles didn’t happen and the cavalry didn’t ride over the hill anymore. Through rapidly fading eyesight, he saw the grinning faces of Peterson, Sluggo and Hija as they converged on his position.

  Chapter Eight

  A Dose of Reality

  In the past, Paul had remembered the punches or the kicks or both that sent him into oblivion. He’d remembered spitting out blood and feeling the shots on his bruised and battered body. He’d recalled with blinding clarity the brief flash of pain he experienced before darkness settled in.

  However, he’d never remembered the one punch that knocked him out. This time he did. It had started with Sluggo working on his stomach, raining blow after blow with his club-like topmost arms. Hija had chopped repeatedly at his neck and upper back, and once they were done and once Paul had felt like dying, something else had hit him with a haymaker. Stars had exploded in his field of vision, and he’d descended into blackness.

  Seconds or hours later—he’d lost all track of time—he awoke, chained securely with hands and legs bound together. He sensed…movement, and he heard the whine of an airplane’s engine. “He’s coming to,” a voice said. He recognized it as Hija’s.

  “Nighty-night,” another voice sang out.

  “Where am—” Paul started to say.

  “Hey, I said nighty-night.”

  A face moved into Paul’s field of vision. It was Sluggo, and he looked uglier than ever. “And when I say it, I mean it,” he said and his arms started whirling around.

  Knockout time again… Paul tensed up, accepted his fate and he only hoped his girlfriend, Sandstorm and Quill had survived.

  ****

  A kick in the ribs woke him, and he groaned from the pain. “Get up,” a voice said. It belonged to Sluggo. “I said, get up!”

  Paul felt the thing’s arm clubbing him about the head. Right, smack a guy who’d previously taken a multitude of shots to his head. Considering all the punishment he’d taken so far, he was amazed he could put two thoughts together.

  Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, he stiffly turned over and levered his body into a sitting position. He found himself in a cell with a cot, a toilet and a sink. A single yellow light bulb sent down a sickly glow from overhead, and it illuminated the beyond-filthy cell floor.

  “Tidy up,” Sluggo ordered. “The man is coming to see you, and you want to be pretty for him, don’t you?”

  “I don’t have to work at it like you do,” Paul replied. Sluggo started forward then stopped with Paul’s statement of “I took you out before, and I can do it again. Don’t give me another excuse, pal.”

  “I’ll excuse your ugliness if you’ll excuse my doing it.” Pithy comment made, Paul waited for the inevitable blow. When it came, he wasn’t surprised at all. The next thirty or so shots made him reconsider running his mouth, though. Once the beating had stopped, he blinked up at the ugly form of his assailant. “Is that all?”

  A snort came from the slug, and he reached down. “Fine, don’t get clean. It’s all the same to me, anyway.”

  Paul was dragged along the stone floor, and he heard the sound of the jail cell being opened. A moment later, he landed at Peterson’s misshapen feet.

  He’d once been a doctor, a man of science and reason and logic. He wasn’t now. Even the word ‘mutation’ didn’t apply. Peterson stood in front of him like a monolith, roughly seven feet in height and almost half as wide. He wore a pair of skintight pants and nothing else. As Quill had said, his body resembled a hairless bear’s. His legs made Paul think of tree trunks. Even with pants on, thick slabs of muscl
e hung around his knees and made the material bulge. The very size and shape of the muscle would have made any Olympic weightlifter green with envy.

  His head had grown to the size of twin watermelons and with a shark’s grin, a long needle nose and jug ears, his visage couldn’t be classified as anything in the animal world. Along with eight-toed feet resembling pancakes, it was a sure bet that Peterson had left the animal world—as well as the world of humanity—behind long ago.

  “Like what you see?” he asked in a deep raspy voice. “I’m feeling satisfied.”

  He scratched his chin with a long, muscular arm—one of ten. Octopus… He resembled an octopus, and were those flippers with suckers on the end of each arm where a hand should have been?

  They were. In a moment of the absurd, he wondered what this monster ate and how, then decided not to ask. Instead, he came out with the most obvious question. “What do…you want?” he managed to get out through swollen lips. “And where are Angela and my other friends?”

  Peterson gave a harsh laugh. “Believe it or not, they’re fine. We weren’t interested in them, so we sent them home.”

  Mind cloudy, Paul shook his head to clear it. “But I thought you wanted them—”

  “Wanted them out of the way? Yes, I did. I didn’t bother killing them. What for? They can’t stop me. No one can.”

  He clapped his flippers and Sluggo trundled over. “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring him to the lab.”

  Sluggo started to bend over, but Paul, in a burst of defiance, waved him off and got to his feet. “I can walk.”

  The doctor led the way to a room down the hallway. An enormous room the size of an airplane hangar that had been hollowed out of the earth, it housed another lab, complete with chambers and other assorted gadgets. A large and round wooden table sat in the center of the room, encircled by chairs. The only thing on it was a computer, and a program of some kind was running, as numbers and what looked to be formulae flashed across the screen. Paul queried, “Plans for the future?”