Beginnings

by J. S. Frankel

  Yeah, well, you had to wear what made you feel good, Paul reasoned. He was grateful he had warm clothes, even if they were about thirty years out of date. As for his treat, the donut was stale and the hot chocolate tasted like lukewarm mud, but it was a lot better than the garbage at the orphanage. Little things like this meant a lot. Angela stared at the cracked Formica and said nothing.

  Racking his brain for something clever or pithy or cool to say, nothing surfaced. Chalk this up to being dullsville time. He then recalled what she’d said on the flight over. “What did you mean before when you said freedom from what you are?”

  Angela bit her lip, and her usual cool and in-charge demeanor seemed to evaporate. “I’m not human,” she said in a low voice. “Not entirely.”

  Her eyes flicked back and forth, locking onto each customer, but they’d had their fun and were too engrossed in their own lives to bother looking around.

  “I was created,” she continued. “I don’t know what else to do with my life. This”—she swept her hand at the window, which meant going on patrol—“is all I do, I guess. I get to do that and spend time with my housemates.”

  An air of pathos permeated each word. Paul didn’t have any set answer. “Uh, well, I don’t have parents, either.” He stole a look at the streets. A young couple walked by hand in hand and an idea occurred to him. She’d said he was cute, so…“But, um, if you want to know more about what people do, we could go on a date.”

  “A date,” she repeated and a series of fine lines furrowed her brow. “You mean, with other people?”

  She really didn’t have any experience, he realized. Then again, he’d also never been on a date in his life. “Well, not with a group or anything like that. It just means, um-m,” he stammered out, “being around other people. But we’d be with each other.”

  Angela sat back in her seat, a thoughtful expression on her face. “That means…you like me?”

  It sounded really innocent, like a little girl being told she could have double helpings of ice cream. In a way, Paul could relate. He’d never had a double helping of anything. “Yeah, I do.”

  She suddenly smiled, revealing her white, even teeth…and no fangs. “Okay, let’s go out.”

  A look of curiosity settled over her face as she caught sight of the jukebox. “What is this for?” she asked.

  “You put money in. It plays music.”

  Wonder shone in her eyes and she whispered, “I’ve never listened to it before. I mean I’ve heard it, and I know what the word means, but I’ve never really listened.”

  “Now’s your chance,” he said and dug three quarters out of his pocket. “Put these in the slot and press any button you want. Then you put the earphones in your ears and listen.”

  Hesitantly, she put the money in the slot, but after pushing one of the buttons, a spark leapt out and she quickly jerked her hand back. “Ouch, that hurt!” she exclaimed and shook her finger.

  “Are you okay?” Paul leaned over for a closer look. The flesh had turned a slight brown, he noticed, and it had been only a tiny spark…

  “It jolted me,” said Angela, shaking her finger.

  A waitress, middle-aged with a mop of dyed-red hair, immediately hustled over. Manner all sympathetic, she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss. Are you okay?”

  Angela nodded, but kept her gaze averted. The waitress, flustered by this turn of events, shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “The machine’s broken. A few other people told us they got a shock from it, so we stuck a sign there, but someone must have taken it off.”

  Not wishing to draw attention to their position, he kept his hand covering the side of his face. “She’ll be fine, ma’am.”

  After the waitress left, he murmured, “I guess that means no sticking your finger in an electrical socket.”

  His comment earned him a rueful chuckle. As he looked on, the damaged flesh on her finger quickly reverted to its normal white color. “Can we leave now?” she asked.

  “Yeah, okay,” Paul said, and they went to the cashier to pay up.

  At the counter, flicking his gaze off to the left, two men sat in a booth in the far corner of the shop. They wore black suits, sunglasses and laced up shiny dress shoes. Talk about obvious! They had to be some kind of government agents. In their thirties, they both had short black hair, but that was where the resemblance ended.

  One of them was massive, almost as wide as he was tall, but not fat. Under the suit there had to be a lot of muscle. A large mug of coffee sat in front of him.

  In contrast, his partner was a tall, extremely lean man with a pale hatchet face and tiny, roving eyes. He picked up a donut from a mound that practically spilled from his plate and chewed it with a look of delight on his face. “That’s gross,” the larger man said.

  “It’s not,” answered his partner. “I’m hungry. I need the sugar.”

  As they spoke, it all sounded most casual, but both men shifted their heads every so often in a watchful, observant manner. They didn’t move very much, but from the way they scanned everything, it seemed as though they were categorizing and filing away every single detail of this place.

  Like something out of a movie—a very bad one—it seemed staged and yet creepy at the same time. If they wanted to stand out and have others look at them, they were doing a very good job of it. For some reason, Paul had the feeling they were looking at him.

  Why, though? He could understand the police searching or someone from the orphanage or Social Services, but those guys looked like government agents.

  Still, they hadn’t made any threatening moves. In fact, the taller man chose that moment to deliberately look out of the window as if the inhabitants of the donut shop were of no interest to him.

  The bad feeling persisted, though. “We should hurry,” Paul suggested, but a second later, his bowels twisted and he clenched up downstairs. “I, uh, I gotta go. Be right back. Wait for me outside.”

  Angela didn’t say anything. After a quick nod, she took the bags of groceries from him and strode out of the restaurant. He ran inside the bathroom and entered a stall. While going, he heard the clicking sound of dress shoes. It was one of them—one of the agents!

  He had to get away, but how? He waited, heart beginning to pound then the sound of the door opening and closing made him breathe out a quiet sigh of relief. After finishing his business, he flushed the toilet and cautiously poked his head out of the door. The room was empty, and he spotted a window on the wall large enough for him to squeeze out of. A radiator sat beneath it, hissing out steam.

  After he’d carefully climbed on top of the radiator, Paul opened the window then slipped out of it and fell into a trash-filled alley. No one was around, and after getting up and brushing himself off, he ran across the street then ducked into another alley to take up a spot behind a huge dumpster.

  Three seconds later, the two men emerged from the donut shop and looked up and down the block. Once again, they didn’t talk to each other. They simply scanned the area. Then they crossed the street and walked unconcernedly over to the alley where Paul was standing.

  Now, paranoia really took hold. The men in black… They’re here. He took in a series of shallow breaths. Lesson one in the secret agent’s manual—how not to be seen. Breathing quietly, he cautiously peered out from behind the dumpster.

  “You always have to go there, don’t you?” the massive man said in a tone that indicated he thought the shop and its denizens beneath him. “You’ve been there every single night for the last two weeks. That place is a dump.”

  Skinny dude offered a tiny shrug from his narrow shoulders. “I like the donuts. They’re good, and I get hungry…”

  A black van pulled up the curb near them. A shadow flew overhead—Angela moving out of harm’s way. The door opened and someone got out. Paul stole a look at the new arrival. An enormously fat man maybe six feet in height and around three hundred pounds stood in front of the two agents. The fat man held an equally enormo
us sandwich, dripping sauce and other edibles. Also clad in black, he chewed on his meal, ripping out chunks of bread and meat and chomping on them with gusto.

  Taking in a deep breath, Paul flattened his back against the wall and did his best to listen in on their conversation. His heart pounded and the cold speared him, but he ignored both. This was important.

  “Mr. Finger, Mr. Hand, have either of you spotted anyone we should know about?” the fat man asked between bites.

  Finger…Hand…Paul thought about the old joke he heard at the orphanage. ‘John broke his finger today, but on the other hand, he was fine.’ Thinking about it, it was a dumb joke and why did he have to remember it now?

  A loud throat-clearing noise by the fat man startled him back to alertness. He squinted and noticed the fat guy had a perfectly round head like a basketball. What got his attention, though, were the man’s eyes. They lit up the darkness, a cold green. “Well,” he prompted, “do you have any information?”

  The thickset man bobbed his head. “Yes, sir, but we…lost the target.”

  “You lost the target,” the fat man replied in a most withering tone after chewing and swallowing. “You lost it.”

  Silence hung in the air until finally the agent or whoever he was said, “Yes, sir, we lost it.” He hung his head. “We’re sorry, sir.”

  “Wonderful, is there any more good news?”

  The hatchet-faced man spoke up. “There’s another problem.”

  “And that would be…what?” The brick said nothing, so the fat man shifted his gaze to the thin man, ingested the rest of his meal in a single bite, and let out a loud belch. “Mr. Hand, would you mind telling me what the problem is?”

  Mr. Hand obediently piped up, “They want more money.”

  Who are they? Paul listened, breathing very shallowly now, and he strained to catch the information.

  “I should have known they’d get greedy,” said the fat man. He sighed as if he’d been expecting this all along and brushed the crumbs from his suit. “How much more do they want?”

  “Double,” said Mr. Finger.

  “Double,” the fat dude echoed and offered a brief shrug. “Then pay them double. I want a little terror on these streets and the Bangers are the ones to do it.”

  “Yes Mr. Simpson, sir,” said the two men in unison.

  His name was Simpson. Mr. Simpson gave a curt nod, and in a move that contrasted sharply with his bulk, he swiveled gracefully on the ball of one foot and entered the van. It drove off in a whirl of dust and the two men melted into the shadows.

  After waiting a few seconds just to be on the safe side, Paul cautiously edged out from the alley. A group of late night party people walked by in an unconcerned manner, laughing and talking, and he wondered what to do next.

  Turning to his left, he stopped short when he found Angela lounging against the wall, arms folded across her chest, and the grocery bags dangling from one finger. She’d landed without a sound, but he was pretty sure she’d been listening in the whole time. “Did you get what those guys said?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I was up on the roof. My hearing’s pretty decent. Who’s this Simpson guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Angela took his hand in hers and pulled him into the shadows of the alleyway. A growl from one of the denizens greeted them. It was a dog, mangy and skinny. Its hackles rose and it bared its fangs. “What’s going on?” Paul whispered, wondering if the dog would attack.

  “I told you, dogs don’t like me,” she said.

  Her fangs came out and she hissed at the animal. It immediately backed away, whimpering then took off with its tail between its legs. “I guess you’re not going to be a veterinarian,” he commented.

  Angela chuckled and after retracting her fangs, offered a wintry smile. “I’ll have to find another line of work. C’mon, patrol’s over.”

  After scanning the area, she put her arm around his waist after watching him pick up the bags. “Hang on,” she whispered, and a second later they were aloft. The ride back to the house didn’t take overly long, but Paul’s mind wasn’t on the flight. It was on the two men he’d seen and the guy who was probably their leader, Simpson. And this Simpson guy was connected to the Bangers.

  While putting away the groceries, Paul mulled over what he’d observed only a short time ago. He knew that Finger, Hand and the fat man, along with the gang-bangers, weren’t into being good Samaritans. Now he had something to work on. Who said that doing homework was boring?

  Chapter Five

  Rave to the Grave

  Simpson…it was a common enough name, but without a frame of reference, where did one start? Without a computer, Paul had no way to check, but Ooze came around his room the next afternoon.

  “I got things working,” he said.

  With a wave of his pseudopod to indicate follow me, Ooze led the way downstairs and straight into the laboratory. “The computer’s already on,” he said as they went. “I got the Internet working, but as for the files—if our maker hid any—that’s going to take a little longer.”

  “Do you mind if I play around with it?”

  “Have a party. By the way, the password is Angela.”

  After sitting down and cracking his knuckles, Paul got to work. He checked out the FBI first. Their files were encrypted. Obviously, they weren’t exactly going to advertise their presence as doing something possibly illegal.

  Same deal with the CIA and NSA. Even their information sites said any attempt to hack them would be traced back to the server. The expression of keep a low profile echoed in his mind. He did not want to be in anyone’s gun sights.

  Trying another tack and returning to his initial question, he typed in Simpson—FBI and surprisingly got a response. A news article from roughly two years ago popped up.

  Agent Thurmond Simpson, forty-two, was fired from his position as an agent of the Los Angeles branch of the FBI for excessive violence demonstrated toward criminal suspects…

  It seemed pretty amazing he’d avoided a jail sentence. Either everyone in the agency liked him or else he had a very good lawyer.

  Further checking revealed no new information, so Paul decided to check on the names of Hand and Finger. Nothing appeared onscreen. Were they ex-FBI or CIA or NSA or ex-military? It didn’t really matter where they’d come from, as they had some kind of training. At the very least, though, he knew their rendezvous point—the donut shop—and he filed that information away upstairs.

  His leg itched. When he scratched it, he felt something in his pocket. It was the paper he’d written the name on earlier. He thought of the now-dead maker…Bolson, typed in his name…and the screen came up blank. There was no connection, no name and no link. It was as if he’d never existed.

  Frustrated, he muttered to the air, “Okay, so where do I go next?”

  A tap on his shoulder made him look around. It was Sandstorm. He rapidly formed the letters and the word came out as Rallan. No hyphen needed, he added.

  “You can understand English?” Paul asked and then realized he was talking to dirt. This was somehow even weirder than talking to water.

  Sandstorm whipped his granular body through the air and quickly formed a series of words. ‘I can’t speak, but I can understand. Our maker also gave me knowledge. I don’t know everything, just what’s been downloaded into me. I know about this area, my fellow creations and Rallan. That’s all.’

  “Oh…okay, that’s cool,” Paul said. “Um, dumb question, but why don’t you talk—I mean, sign—to the others?”

  ‘I’m not much into social relationships. I like staying in my room. Nothing personal… I just like my own company. See you later.’

  A second later, he slithered out of the room and disappeared up the stairs, leaving nary a grain of sand behind. “Thanks,” Paul called out then entered the name on the computer. Immediately one company listing came up—Rallan, Inc.

  “Who are you guys?” he muttered.

  According to the s
ite it was located in Los Angeles. A biogenetic fruit company, it was in the business of mixing genes of various fruits and vegetables to create a hardier breed of food. It had been in business for the last five years, was listed in the stock exchange and had received glowing reviews as an up-and-coming leader in its field.

  “Boring…no dirt?” he murmured and clicked another icon. Lots of pretty pictures emerged, mostly of purple apples, green turnips, and pink carrots. After that, there wasn’t much else.

  After reading through page after page of reviews, his eyes grew tired and he shut off the computer. The only connection he had was that Simpson used to work in Los Angeles and Rallan was located in the same city. Had Simpson been working for them? Did Bolson work for the same company? No idea…but he’d left Los Angeles and there had to be a reason…

  “Hey, are you done here?”

  Startled, Paul looked up to find Ooze standing in front of him with an enigmatic expression on his watery face. “I just spoke to Sandstorm. Actually, he signed to me. He said he got you a name. Did you find anything?” he asked.

  Paul shook his head. “Maybe your maker, uh, worked for a company out in LA,” he answered. “But I’m not sure. I’m also worried about this computer being traced. They can do that, right?”

  Ooze gave a simulation of a nod, which meant his body bobbed forward and the water inside the containment suit sloshed back and forth. “They could if they knew the IP address. I rerouted it.”

  Call that good news, and Ooze went on to say, “At least you found something. I’ve been searching my own memory, but I just got bupkis. I’ll check on any hidden files, if I can. You didn’t see any additional discs, did you?”

  He shooed Paul of the chair and parked his butt on it. Tapping the keys quickly, lightly, almost reverently, he burbled out the lyrics to “Under the Sea, but then said, “I heard you’re going on a date.”

  Surprised, Paul stammered out, “Angela told you?”

  Ooze bobbed back and forth again. “Yeah, she seemed—I don’t know—excited. Don’t get angry or anything. It’s just that we—I mean CF and me—can’t get out and we know she can. We’d scare the neighbors. You, you’re human, and Angela looks pretty.”