The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  Fitzroy rubbed his hands together again. It was too bad he didn’t have a mustache to twirl, too. It would have completed the picture.

  “The press are going to eat him alive,” he said, “He isn’t going to know what hit him.”

  And how were the press going to find out, Fitzy?

  A pointless question. The wheels were already turning in this little passion play that Fitzroy had set up. Carson clenched his hands under the table. He didn’t like being cogs in other people’s machinery. Fitzroy was definitely getting himself moved up on The List.

  The little evil Einstein twin started talking. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said. He held a hand to his brow, peering out at the crowd, “Hmm, gentlemen then. Tonight I am here to announce my breakthrough research in the field of human cloning.”

  Murmurs rose from the crowd. Dr. DeVol looked out at the crowd, fingers plucking at his tie. Carson frowned. Why would Fitzroy think he’d be interested in cloning?

  And then Dr. DeVol, his voice shaky, but growing steadier as he spoke, told Carson exactly why he should be interested. By the end of the doctor’s talk, the murmurs from the tables sounded angry, but he was smiling. His depression had vanished like mist under the morning sunshine.

  He was going to dream big.

  Four

  Kam Harley clenched her fists and chose her words carefully.

  “What do you mean, I’m fired?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  Metzker leaned back in his chair. The captain’s desk was piled with stacks of paper and files. There was a clear area right in front of where he sat. It held a single folder with the name Kamilla Harley on the tab. Metzker took a sip from his ever-present giant cup of coffee. It was the one thing Harley hated about being a cop. The constant stench of coffee. Out on the floor, in every office, in every car. Always a steaming cup of joe in someone’s hand. It took every once of control she had to not kick that damned cup right out the window behind him.

  “You’re not being fired,” Metzker said, “You’re being retired from active duty and put on permanent disability.”

  “I’m only forty-two,” she said. Her one eye stung. She blinked and drove her nails into her palm. God dammit. She was not going to cry. Not in front of this turd bomb. “Why are you doing this?”

  Metzker leaned forward. He set his cup on a stack of folders. It wobbled. She hoped it would fall and dump its steaming contents on his crotch.

  “Kam, you never really recovered from what happened with, you know,” he said. His voice was gentle, like he was talking to a child. If he kept that up, she was going to dump that cup on his lap herself. “I was hesitant to let you come back, but I promised you we’d give it a try. Well, it’s been four years. Your performance has been erratic. I know Graves has tried to cover for you, but he can’t hide it all.”

  “I’m a good cop,” Harley said, “Don’t do this to me.”

  “You’re a broken cop,” Metzker said, “The complaints of unnecessary force, not filing reports, not showing up for meetings or court dates. You’re not doing your job.”

  “I do my job,” Harley said, “I catch the bad guys, that’s what I’m supposed to do, right?”

  Metzker frowned and drummed his fingers on her file. “Your job is to enforce the law. Sticking a gun in someone’s face and threatening to blow their head off if they don’t talk is–”

  “It’s called: getting results,” Harley said.

  Metzker slapped his hand on the desk. “No, it’s called giving the bad guys a free pass out of jail because their lawyer can threaten to sue for unnecessary force. One of these days you’re going to kill one of those idiots. And you know what happens then?”

  Harley clamped her teeth together. Red crowded the edges of her vision.

  “You’re the one who will end up in prison,” Metzker said, “That’s why it’s time for you to stand down. You’re carrying too much rage. And I don’t see you letting go of it any time soon, if ever.”

  “My cases–”

  “Will be given to other detectives,” Metzker said. He held up his hand before she could say anything else. “Yes, including your grim reaper.”

  Harley put her hand on the desk and leaned in. Metzker didn’t pull back. He held his ground and stared right back at her.

  “The Reaper is mine,” she said, “You can’t take him away from me.”

  Metzker sighed and shook his head. “Kam, I already have,” he said, “You’re no closer to catching him than you were five years ago.”

  “One of these days he’s going to slip up,” Harley said.

  “Yes, one of these days. But it’s going to be someone else who brings him in,” Metzker said, “You’re done. Give me your gun and your badge.”

  Harley stared at him for a long moment. There was pity in his eyes. She looked away.

  She dropped her badge and gun on his desk and walked out. Graves tried to say something to her, but she couldn’t hear him. The blood was roaring in her ears. She needed a drink.

  Five

  Graves eventually tracked her down at a bar across town. She was halfway down the bottle of Jack Daniels when he slid onto the bar stool beside her.

  “Man, it stinks here,” he said, “Why do you come here?”

  “They give me the whole bottle and leave me alone,” she said, “You should take the hint.”

  The bar was a dive. A hole in the wall where she came to kill some brain cells. The seats on the stools were cracked and taped, the bases wobbly. The old wooden bar itself was pitted and stained. A few drunkwits had carved their initials, among other things into the wood. The bottle of Jack’s was, for the moment, covering a detailed rendition of male genitalia.

  The stale vomit smell didn’t bother her. It was almost her perfume any more. Besides, if she kept her nose over her glass of booze, all she got was the sharp tang of Jack’s.

  Graves dropped a stack of papers beside her glass. “You’re going to need those.”

  She glanced at the top sheet. Lines of dense type below the police department logo. "I don't want it, I'm not a cop anymore," she said.

  “It’s your pension and disability paperwork,” he said, “You have to fill this out and get it down to HR so they can send you checks to keep a roof over your head. Or, if you want to look at it in a more practical way, you need this to keep paying for your booze.”

  She pushed the papers away. “Who gives a shit,” she said, “Put almost fifteen years into it. What’d I get out of it? Took it all away from me.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Graves said, “And you’re drunk.”

  “Whatever.”

  Graves pulled the papers to him. The bartender came up and asked what he wanted. Harley almost laughed when he asked for a Coke.

  “How did you ever become a cop without learning how to drink?” she asked.

  “Drinking alcohol is optional,” he said, “It’s not a need like air or water.”

  “There’s water in alcohol,” she said.

  “Not enough to make it worth the aftereffects,” he said. He picked up the papers and tapped them on the bar, squaring the edges. “I’ll get these filled out for you. You’re welcome.”

  "Thanks, mom."

  “Seriously, Harley, what are you going to do now?” he asked.

  She shrugged. "My plan right now is to get so drunk I fall off the barstool," she said, "After that, my good man Roy the bartender will probably call me a cab, stuff me into it and send me home. By the time the cab gets to my place I'll probably be sober enough to stumble to another bar. Then I'll repeat the process."

  Graves gave her a sour look. The bartender set a fizzing glass of cola in front of him. He wrinkled his nose. Probably at the spots on the glass.

  “Shit, Harley, why don’t you put a gun to your head and blow your brains out. It’d be quicker.”

  “Cap’n took my gun,” she said.

  “You want to borrow mine?” he asked.

  “Aw, that’s sweet. You’d do t
hat for me?”

  “No. Now, come on, Harley, let me drive you home,” he said.

  She flicked her finger against the Jack Daniels’ bottle. It chimed like a misshapen bell. “Bottle’s not empty yet.”

  “Maybe your bartender buddy can save it for you,” Graves said.

  He eventually wore her down, but not until the bottle was empty. He drove her home. She watched the lights of the city rolling past, her head against the window.

  “He’s still out there,” she said.

  “I know,” Graves said.

  “I want to find him.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I want to kill him.”

  “No shit, really? I thought you wanted to bake him a cake.”

  “I don’t bake cakes, but if I did, I’d fill ‘em with razor blades and broken glass and cyanide,” she said.

  “You’d be hell at a church bake sale.”

  She thumped her head against the window. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked.

  Graves drove through the empty streets. Tires hissed against pavement and the gentle rocking of the road made her sleepy. Grave’s car smelled clean, like it always did.

  “You’re a cop,” he said, “It’s in your blood.”

  “Then why did I throw it away?” she asked.

  He drove in silence for a long minute. On the street a homeless person shuffled along the sidewalk, tipping a bottle to his lips as he did. How long until that’s me?

  “You got scared,” Graves said, “And you covered the scared with rage. And booze.”

  A lump stuck in her throat. Her eye stung. Suddenly the bottle of Jack’s in her stomach decided it wasn’t going to stay there.

  Graves barely got the car stopped in time for her to puke it all out in the curb.

  “Great, now my car’s going to smell like booze and puke,” he said.

  She wiped her mouth on her coat sleeve. “You’re welcome.”

  He drove her the rest of the way home in silence. Despite her protests, he made sure she got up to her apartment and into bed. He pulled the covers up to her chin.

  “Get some sleep,” he said, “Tomorrow’s a new day. Try not to fuck it up too much, okay.”

  “Yeah, go cram it up your ass,” she said.

  He grinned at her then left, closing the door softly behind him.

  She lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time.

  You got scared. And you covered the scared with rage.

  Six

  The good doctor’s announcement did indeed blow up in his face. Carson followed the new reports with a fevered interest he hadn’t felt since those first heady days after he set on his Great Mission to eradicate humanity from the earth. The poor doctor was hounded by the press, not to mention religious leaders on every continent. The President called a special commission to study the feasibility of DeVol’s research. Hysterical, table pounding speeches shook the chambers of Congress. Every single Congressman fought to introduce their own bill banning Dr. DeVol’s research. Editorials in respected newspapers called for stringing up the doctor from the nearest tree.

  Fitzroy would have found it all very entertaining if he hadn’t had been killed by his mistress’ enraged husband.

  Not being able to personally claim Fitzroy was the only disappointment Carlson felt. He was almost giddy with anticipation as the frenzy began to die down at last.

  The good doctor had lost his tenure at the respected university where he did his research. Apparently having his lab firebombed was enough to convince the board of regents that DeVol was too hot of a potato to handle.

  Carlson didn’t worry about the research being lost. Having ridiculous amounts of money allowed him to do things normal people wouldn’t. Keeping secrets was also easier when one didn’t mind killing the messengers.

  Carlson pulled the hood off Dr. Devol. The scientist’s mop of unruly hair was greasy and flat, like he hadn’t washed it in weeks. The good doctor also smelled like he had become unfamiliar with the process of bathing.

  DeVol blinked at the bright spotlight shining in his eyes. He was securely strapped to a chair and the chair was bolted to the concrete. A black curtain hung behind him. Carlson was rather proud of the setup. It was quite dramatic.

  The doctor slumped down in the chair and cast his eyes to the floor. “So this is it, at last,” he said, “The punctuation mark of my fall from grace. I suppose there will be torture and lectures before death. Ah well, such is my fate for thinking I could wrest fire from the gods. Let us get on with it then. I suppose it would be too much to ask to skip the torturing and lecturing about my sins and go straight to the death part.”

  Carlson had expected a bit more fight. Most of his subjects would plead and struggle. Some accepted their fate quietly, with nary a sniffle. None had delivered any speeches.

  “Who do you think I am?” Carlson asked. His voice was undisguised. It gave him a little shiver of trepidation. He never said a word to his victims. Death was silent. Death did not deliver soliloquies. Plus, if something should go wrong, silence gave the authorities one less possible way to identify him.

  DeVol shrugged. His whole body seemed to sag. The skin on his face looked like it would simply drip off his skull at any moment.

  "You are my death," he said, "I have felt you stalking me since I spoke all those months ago. I knew my work would be controversial, but I had no idea that it would inflame the world against me. When I heard those murmurs from the audience, a pit of dread formed in my stomach. I should have listened to it. I should have run away. Run away and renounced my work. I am a modern day Galileo, persecuted for truth, and forced to recant. So, I expect that is what you want. You want me to admit my work is evil, that the truths I uncovered are wrong. Fine, if you agree to kill me quickly, I shall recant. My life's work is evil and wrong and I shall spend an eternity burning in hell for it. Please forgive my transgressions against god, man, and nature, etc. etc."

  Carlson tapped gloved fingers against his pants. Was the doctor pliable enough? The preceding months had no doubt crushed his spirit. Carlson was taking the biggest chance of his life with this project. But only for the biggest gain. He had prepared for months, working every detail over and over. He had even cut back on his death work to get everything ready. And it all rested on this slumping, matted-haired fossil.

  “I am death,” Carlson said, “But I am not here to kill you. I need your help.”

  DeVol raised watery eyes toward him. He wouldn’t be able to see Carlson through the glare of the spotlight, but his gaze seemed to find him anyway.

  “Are you military, then?” DeVol asked, “I once expected the military to seek my research, but until now I have gone unwooed.”

  “I don’t represent the military,” Carlson said, “As I said, I am death, and I speak only for myself.”

  “You are death? Are you a skeleton in a black robe with a scythe?” DeVol asked, “Since when does death have a basement out in the country?”

  Carlson’s chest tightened. “What makes you think you are in a basement? Out in the country.”

  The doctor tapped his foot on the floor. “Concrete, slightly damp. There is a musty odor, along with the scent of clover. There are other scents, too. Intriguing odors of metal and new things freshly released from plastic wrappings. I do not know what your purpose is, but you have my attention, sir.”

  Carlson shifted from foot to foot. Perhaps the doctor wasn’t as beaten as he first appeared.

  “I admire your work and wish to make use of it, doctor,” Carlson said.

  “How so?” DeVol asked. His eyes had narrowed and there was some color in his cheeks again.

  "According to your research, you have discovered a way to clone a human and accelerate their growth. So instead of taking years to make a full grown human, you can do it in weeks. Is this correct?"

  DeVol nodded. “Yes, there are issues with stopping the aging at the proper point, but nothing I could not fix given time,” he said
.

  "And, you have found a way to copy the memories and personality of the original to these clones," Carlson said, "Along with inserting programming within the cloned mind."

  “Programming of a sort,” DeVol said, “I consider it more to be enhanced suggestions. But of course, the media latched onto the programming concept.”

  Carlson felt the excitement stirring within him. His body tingled with the anticipation.

  “Then you can create a more of less exact physical and mental duplicate of an adult person? In a matter of weeks?” Carlson asked.

  “With proper equipment and resources, yes,” Dr. DeVol said, “But that will not happen. It would take millions of dollars to equip a lab. I tried to raise funds for such a place, but that did not work out as I hoped it would. So if you are asking me to create an army of zombie slaves, as the media portrayed my work, then I am afraid you will be disappointed.”

  "And what if I want you to clone just one individual," Carlson said, "Clone him over and over again. And what if I had the resources to allow you to do this?"

  DeVol sighed and stared at the concrete floor. “My research notes were destroyed when my lab burned. It would take years to recreate them.”

  “And you kept no backups?” Carlson asked.

  A wan smile crossed DeVol’s lips. “Of course, but the government seized those. I have nothing.”

  Carlson trembled with excitement. It was hard to keep it out of his voice.

  “What if your research was saved?” Carlson asked, “What if it was right here, and around you was a state of the art lab with everything you needed to continue your work?”

  DeVol grew very still. His throat worked for a long moment before he spoke. His voice shook.

  “Sir, who are you?” he asked. “Either you are mad or you are playing a joke on a broken old man. Please just kill me and be done with this charade.”

  “I will kill you,” Carlson said, “But only if you do not obey me.”