by Mark Tufo
Jonathan turned to answer. “It is the pastry boy from long ago and he has a fantastic story.”
Marissa watched as the young boy placed his large hand on the back of her husband’s head. The gesture was so casual and non-threatening she barely placed any stock in it whatsoever until she saw her husband stand ramrod straight as if he had received an electrical shock. His face went slack and within the span of a second returned to its normal expressive self.
“Jonathan, are you alright?” Marissa asked, hurrying down the stairs.
“I would really like a pop tart!” Jonathan said, shaking his head.
“A what?” Marissa asked her husband. “What have you done?” Marissa asked, whirling to confront Tomas.
Tomas backed up a step. Marissa moved closer until her foot hit the corner of the bag at her feet. “My father’s suitcase, so you did take it!” she exclaimed triumphantly.
“These are the most wonderful pastries,” Jonathan said absently as he took another bite.
“He will be fine Marissa, I promise. I may have told him a few things that I perhaps should not have.”
“And so what? You have now untold him?” Marissa questioned.
Tomas did not hear her words; his attention was rapt upon the gold chain that hung around Marissa’s neck. Marissa placed her hand over her chest, covering the locket that was hidden under her dress.
“May I see the locket?” Tomas asked, his mouth rapidly drying with fear.
“Why, do you wish to take this like you took the suitcase?” Marissa asked, wondering how the boy had known it was a locket she wore around her neck.
“What is in this glaze?” Jonathan asked. “Surely it cannot just be strawberries.”
“How long will he be like this?” Marissa asked.
“Fifteen minutes at the most,” Tomas told her reassuringly.
“And you mean us no harm?”
“It has been my purpose these last eleven years to make sure that no harm befalls you.”
“Are you a charlatan influencing my thoughts like you have my husband’s? Because all of a sudden I have strong feelings that I should trust you.”
Tomas smiled. “What you feel in your heart is true, Mrs. T.”
She pulled the locket from under its resting place. Tomas initially stepped closer and then backed up an extra step when he confirmed the piece’s origin.
“What is it Tomas, you have turned so pale?” Marissa asked.
“Oh no, boy!” Jonathan exclaimed. “Are you out of pastries!”
“Jonathan, why do you not get us some drinks, I believe that the boy is parched,” Marissa told her husband.
“Wonderful idea my dear, chocolate milk would go wonderfully with these,” Jonathan answered as he held his dwindling snack up in the air. Then he happily extracted himself from the drama that was unfurling.
Tomas did not speak until he heard Jonathan in the kitchen happily singing about making chocolate milk.
“I am sorry for that,” Tomas said sheepishly, pointing in the direction of the singing.
“That?” Marissa laughed. “You did not do that, he sings to himself all the time.”
Tomas smiled a thin smile.
“Tell me Tomas, what is going on? What has you so frightened?”
Tomas was hesitant but finally spoke. “That locket belonged to my sister.”
Marissa laughed. “That is a strange way to try and take ownership, claim it as a relative’s. That cannot be true young sir, this photo had to have been taken at least seventy or eighty years ago.”
“I do not tell you this to lay false claim,” he told her gravely. “I do not wish to possess the locket, but she will want it back. She is drawn to it.”
Now it was Marissa’s turn to pale. She had not opened the locket since the day in the shop, but upon remembrance those dead mirthless cold eyes still sent chills through her. “Should I get rid of it?” Marissa asked, pulling the chain over her head. “Take it!” she said thrusting it towards him.
“No, there is a reason you have it, but I do not know why. You should not wear it so openly though. I think the best thing you can do is place it in a metal box surrounded by garlic cloves and aconite.”
“I do not know of this aconite, but garlic is for vampires that exist only in the over active minds of authors.”
“I assure you, miss, that my sister is no one’s imagination. And you would not want her as a guest of your house.”
“I do not like all of this talk Tomas, you have made me quite unsettled.”
Tomas leaned in close and placed his hand on her forehead.
Five minutes later Marissa found herself in the kitchen singing loudly with her husband as they drank down a third glass of chocolate milk.
The suitcase and locket were stored in a dark corner of the basement and a recipe for chocolate strawberry glazed baklava was lovingly written on a sheet of paper in distinctive block letters. Tomas quietly closed the door behind him, confident that he had done all in his powers to protect the Talbots. ‘At least for a while,’ he thought to himself.
* * *
Roswell, New Mexico – 1941
It was as non-descript a base as the military had ever built, fifty-one square miles of rugged desert terrain had been fenced off and were patrolled continuously. In the future they would add ground and heat sensors, but for now, MP’s did the brunt of the grunt work. In the center of this vast compound stood three warehouses made of corrugated steel. They were painted white, which stood out starkly against the brown landscape. It wasn’t so much what the warehouses housed as what they hid: three large tunnels that ran hundreds of feet underground. The vast majority of the labyrinth had been carved by mother nature but man had come in to refine the caverns for his own use.
The United States’ unwillingness to enter into WWII had necessitated the caves. Had Japan never bombed Pearl Harbor and the U.S. not seen a reason to jump head first into the fray, the Axis would have easily overpowered the Allies (as they were) within three years. However, even with all of her potential the U.S. was greatly outclassed at the onset of her entry into the war. Development of new weaponry to help change the tide of the war was needed. All manner of experiments happened in these underground caverns, from nuclear to biological, to biomechanical to magnetic; time machines were even attempted as were ray guns. If someone had the imagination to conceive of something, no matter how far-fetched, it was attempted.
Dr. Frank Arnstein was in charge of one such department in the biological wing. Dr. Arnstein had been working with compound HM103 for the better part of six months; his goal was to create a microbe capable of rendering the enemy inert. Only scientists could call ‘death’ inertia.
“Good morning Dr. Arnstein. How are the tests going?” General Bergeron asked. He looked much like he had twenty-two years earlier except for the added paunch and the steel gray hair at his temples. General Bergeron had been placed in charge of the facility, which was tentatively being called Area 51 for the amount of land it covered. It was as fitting a name for a secret installation as any other and he saw no reason to alter it. The General made rounds every morning to some of the more promising projects. He had yet to go check on the time machine. The only thing he was going to do with that if they got it working was to put an end to it before it ever got started. He considered that particular project a black hole into which America’s taxes disappeared, never to reappear again.
Dr. Arnstein looked up from his microscope. His drawn features gave him the appearance of a tired donkey and this was not lost on the staff who called him that, but never to his face. Dr. Arnstein was a no nonsense researcher who took Nazi-ism as a personal affront to all of humanity and would do all in his powers to rid the world of them. And that was exactly the reason General Bergeron placed him at the head of this department.
“Much the same as yesterday and the day before that, ad infinitum,” the doctor paused. “With one notable side effect.”
“Proceed,” the Gen
eral said, and the doctor did once he realized that he had the General’s full attention.
The doctor hit a black button and a blast screen raised to reveal an adjacent air tight lab. He then toggled a button on the intercom system. “Dr. Peak, could you please bring in Asset…” He stopped to look at his sheet. “Asset 10235.”
“Asset, huh?” the General said. “That’s a funny thing to call the prisoners that were promised an early release if they did their part to help out the war effort.” Many had volunteered not out of any previously forgotten patriotism but at a chance to get out from the prison and get back to what ever had put them there in the first place. These ‘volunteers’ were the worst of the worst, rapists, child molesters, murderers, the world would be a much better place without them. The only early release anyone of them had seen up to this point was from life, and that sat just fine with the General.
“Hey wait!” Asset 10235 yelled from the gurney he was strapped to as Dr. Peak wheeled him into the air tight lab. “Nobody said nuttin’ about being strapped down, you knowse I was incent right? That little girl was a liein!” he shouted.
“Dr. Peak, could you please silence the Asset.” Dr. Arnstein said, then toggled the speaker button off.
The General thought this an unnecessary step considering the prisoner could not be heard without the intercom system on, but thought ‘Not my experiment.’
Dr. Peak had some minor issues attaching the mouth gag to the Asset who shook his head violently from side to side in a vain avoidance of what was to come. Once Dr. Arnstein saw that the gag was in place he toggled the button to ‘Always On’.
“Dr. Peak, has your suit been verified?” Dr. Arnstein asked.
Dr. Peaks’ muffled affirmative came through the tinny sounding speaker. The General knew from prior experiments that the suit being ‘verified’ involved making sure there were no leaks.
“Alright, proceed with Stage One, decompression of the room.”
Dr. Peak walked over to the submarine hatch type door and pulled it shut, turning the handle clockwise until a green light engaged above the door. “Stage One complete,” Dr. Peak said.
“Prepare for Stage two, activation,” Dr. Arnstein said as he hit a button marked ‘Positive Pressurization.’
The Asset squirmed and his eyes began to show more white than blue as he realized that what was ever about to happen to him was not good, and that maybe now would be a good time to begin practicing his opening statements with his maker. He strained his head to see where Dr. Peak was and what he was up to. The discomfort to his ears from the pressurization was maddening and he repeatedly banged his head onto his gurney in an attempt for relief.
“Positive pressurization achieved,” Dr. Arnstein said as another green light lit up on his control panel. “Attach electrodes to the subject.”
Dr. Peak grabbed a mass of wires with a small round pad attached at the end, each color coded for the respective part of the body it was to be adhered to. One was duct taped to each side of the Asset’s head, one on his chest and one on each thigh. The General thought if the prisoner lived he was going to have a hell of a time getting that tape residue off his body.
Once Dr. Peak had all the sensors attached, he plugged them into a machine that would monitor all of the prisoner’s vital signs. The machine started with a loud ‘blurp’ and then the lines across the screen started up, representing the Asset’s vitals. The two attached to his head showed regular brain activity although at slightly elevated levels as if he was trying to process all that was going on to him. The sensor on his chest showed rapid heartbeats on the order of 172 a minute. One had to wonder if this was how his victims felt, helpless and afraid. ‘Maybe there was justice in the world after all,’ the General thought grimly. The final two attached to his legs registered the electric impulse as muscles fired, these were relatively still as the subject was restrained.
“Prepare the swab,” Arnstein said to Peak.
Dr. Peak walked over to the far side of the room where three vials of a clear solution were laid out alongside a rather large needle and some cotton balls attached to heavy wooden dowels. Dr. Peak inserted the needle into and through a rubber stopper in the first vial, and extracted a couple of cc’s of the solution.
“Are there any differences in the vials?” the General asked Dr. Arnstein.
“The one Dr. Peak is using is the strongest concentrate of the three. I wanted to use it today for the experiment.”
“And the reason for that would be?” the General inquired.
“The first vial of the original solution Dr. Mann was working with can take twenty-four to forty-eight hours to show symptoms, the second refined vial can still take on the order of six to twenty-four hours, that third vial which has not yet been tested could be near to instantaneous.”
“Instantaneous...” the General echoed. He wasn’t sure if he liked or disliked that word in this context.
Asset 10235’s eyes locked onto the needle. His body seemed to relax as he watched Dr. Peak push a little of the solution onto a cotton ball and then put the needle down.
“Swab is prepared,” Dr. Peak said.
“Apply the swab to the Asset,” Dr. Arnstein intoned.
Asset 10235, also known as Sam Kerrigan, thrashed around as violently as was possible. Considering his constraints, it wasn’t much. Dr. Peak walked over to the subject and almost tenderly wiped the soaked swab on the man’s forearm.
“Remove the Asset’s gag,” Dr. Arnstein directed.
“Is that wise?” the General asked.
“If my calculations are right, that man will begin to vomit uncontrollably in less than five minutes.”
“Wonderful,” the General answered, trying not to think of his dinner date that night with his wife.
“Is that all you’ve got!” Sam shouted. “You fucking can’t kill me with no damn cotton swab!” He laughed. “Get me out of these damn ropes, I’ve done what you asked and nows I gets to go home!” Sam’s skin tone instantly flushed a bright red.
“Holy shit!” the General said involuntarily.
“Never seen that,” Dr. Arnstein said interestedly.
Dr. Peak backed up a step, fear clearly etched on his features which were easy to see through his face plate.
Sam’s body went rigid, sweat beaded up almost instantaneously across his body. His eyes flooded with blood as the vessels within ruptured. Screams of tortured pain ruptured from his diaphragm. The General peeled his vision from the spectacle before him to take note of Dr. Arnstein’s behavior. The Asset’s reactions did not appear to be standard operating procedure, as even Dr. Arnstein’s demeanor changed from the detached clinical observer, to frightened witness, to terror stricken man.
The restraints strained at the seams, clearly inadequate to hold the violent exertions that ensued. Dr. Peak backed up until there was nowhere else to go. The sound of fabric shredding was unmistakable. Stitches pulled apart one by one as Sam snapped back and forth. Dr. Peak’s trembling voice came over the speaker. “Dr. Arnstein, I would like to depressurize the room.”
“Absolutely not!” Dr. Arnstein shouted. “It will be fine, Dr. Peak. Another minute at most,” Dr. Arnstein said without much conviction as he looked at his wristwatch.
Sam’s EKG machine accelerated up past the monitor’s capabilities before abruptly flat lining. Sam’s body landed with a thud as his arched body crashed back down. Small neurological brain patterns continued for a few seconds longer, and even longer were the muscles twitches from Sam’s thighs. As Sam’s body relaxed, so did the anxiety within and without the room.
“Is that normal?” General Bergeron asked as he wiped his brow.
“Uh, for the most part, not nearly that quickly or with that much violence,” Dr. Arnstein said unsteadily as he dragged his sleeve across his brow. All four lines on the monitoring machine were flat and alarms chimed for each one. “Shut the alarms off please, Dr. Peak,” a visibly shaken Dr. Arnstein said.
The klax
ons stopped, further easing the tension from the room. Dr. Peak turned to look through the glass. “Yes, yes, fire the sample,” Dr. Arnstein said referring to the soaked cotton swab that Dr. Peak held. ‘Firing’ meant placing the sample into a small wall mounted furnace for destruction. Dr. Peak was initializing the starting sequence for the furnace and Dr. Arnstein was going over the data compiled from the test. General Bergeron was taking all of it in as his eyes scanned over to the four flat lines only occasionally disturbed by a random ‘blip’ in their travels across the screen. The thigh sensors registered something first, followed almost immediately by the pads attached to Sam’s head.
“Is that normal?” The General asked, pointing to the monitor.
“Yes, yes,” Dr. Arnstein muttered absently without looking up. “We always fire the samples.”
“No, the monitor, it’s registering something.”
“It most certainly is not,” Dr. Arnstein said peevishly. “This is the twenty-third asset we have applied the compound to, and every single one of them has been most assuredly dead before we incinerated them.”
“Right there!” the General exclaimed, pointing into the room.
“Dr. Peak, will you check the cadaver’s body, the General is not satisfied with the results.”
Dr. Peak walked over to Sam’s prone body. He passed his right hand over the dead man’s face to press his index finger on the carotid artery. What was once Sam raised his head off the gurney, his teeth biting deeply into Dr. Peak’s forearm right above the wrist. The scream was barely muffled by the thick suit. “Help me!” he screamed.
Dr. Arnstein stood up to get a better look through the glass. “This can’t be happening,” he said in disbelief.
“It most assuredly is,” the General said. “Open the damn door.”
“I can’t without decontaminating the room and depressurizing it.”
“Well do it! How long?” he added impatiently.
“At least five minutes,” the doctor said anxiously.
Dr. Peak was frantically pulling up on his arm to free it from the vise-like attachment that Sam had on him. The ripping of material was audible through the speaker system. “He’s getting through the suit Dr. Arnstein!” Dr. Peak shrieked. “Help me!”