Beginnings

by J. S. Frankel

  Parking outside a restaurant called The Eatery, a number of trucks sat in a row in the lot. A few large men clad in jeans and lumberjack shirts sat in booths with plates of steak and eggs in front of them, chatting, eating and smoking. The pleasant smell of frying eggs and bacon permeated the air. Sitting at a booth, Paul sniffed the air. Food, he thought, now this was more like it…

  “Hi, I’m Paige,” a voice said.

  He looked up to find that a young slender blonde woman in her early twenties with a pretty face stood next to the table. “Can I get you something…?”

  Her voice trailed away to nothing when she saw Angela’s complexion…or lack of it thereof. “Uh, get you something to eat?” she said, finally finding her voice.

  Angela caught the look and turned her head away. “Nothing for me, thanks,” she muttered in a sullen voice.

  “I’ll have the morning set,” Paul said.

  The waitress noted it down. “Are you sure you’re okay, miss?”

  “She’s not feeling well,” Paul said, trying to find a way out of this situation and going with the obvious excuse.

  A nod came from the waitress as if to say she understood and she left to in order to fill another order. “I guess going to restaurants is sort of out of the question,” Angela said in a low voice once the waitress was out of earshot. “You saw how she looked at me.”

  Paul was about to suggest she wear makeup, but then decided against it. Her psyche was fragile enough as it was and he didn’t want to set her off. “Um, what happens if you eat?” he asked.

  “I toss it up. My body’s not made for food.”

  That settled the question of whether she could eat or not. A few of the truckers were glancing in their direction, but no one had made any moves—yet. Angela stared at the Formica, but picked her head up when a squeal of rage came from a few tables over and her eyes narrowed. “What is it?” Paul asked.

  “It’s trouble.”

  Trouble came in the form of a short and very rotund man who had one hand on Paige’s butt while the other massaged her shoulder. With a gut that sagged over his belt, he resembled a walking bucket of lard. His girth didn’t seem to bother him as he was living his moment—acting like an asshat.

  “Stop it,” she protested, her voice filled with loathing.

  “It’s just a love pat, girl,” the man replied with a grin on his bearded porcine face. He seemed to think this kind of behavior was acceptable. Paul thought it disgusting. The other patrons either looked on with amusement or contempt, but no one seemed to want to do anything about it.

  Apparently, love pats didn’t do it for Angela, either, as she slid out of her seat and stalked over the site of the conflict. The fat man was either very sexist or just plain stupid. From his vantage point, it was hard for Paul to tell which. Probably both, he decided. “You’ve got bad manners,” he heard Angela say. “The girl probably said no, didn’t she?”

  Fat-guy eyed her in the same way a scientist would eye a specimen. “You got a problem? I can see that you do.”

  “No, it’s you who has a problem,” responded Angela as her voice dropped an octave. She repeated her earlier statement. “I’m guessing she said no. Am I right?”

  Her reply temporarily stopped the man in his tracks and he took his hands away from the waitress’ anatomy. His face wore a look of confusion. If he expected her to back down, then he’d just picked the wrong person to bully. “This is between me and her, china-doll, so you can leave any time you want to.”

  Paul walked over just in time to see Angela smile, but there was no humor behind it. “Make me,” she said.

  Her teeth started to elongate. The ice in her eyes began to grow so deep the man practically froze and his voice came out fifty shades of terrified. “Sweet mother of God, are you some kind of a freak?”

  The waitress scuttled away to safety, and Angela, smile now gone, snatched his forearm in a lightning fast grab and twisted it sharply in a downward motion. The swiftness of the move caused him to bend over. His stomach got in the way and a ripping sound came from his butt. His pants’ seat had torn open and no, Paul did not want to look.

  “Hey…let go,” the fat man grunted, and his voice rose to a scream when she twisted it harder. “Let go!”

  “How about I grab your butt and you see how you feel?” she asked.

  “Get off me, you freak!” he cried.

  A few of the larger truckers in the room started to get up, but Angela speared them with a glance and they stayed where they were. As for her prey, he continued to struggle and managed to recover enough to launch a punch straight at her jaw. It connected, but she didn’t even blink. “Freak,” she spat out. “You molested that girl and you call me a freak?”

  With a flick of her wrist, she sent the man sailing into the wall. He sagged down and she whirled around, fangs out. “Does anyone else want to add their comments to this conversation?”

  No one else did. They were too busy staring then a choking sound came from the fat man. The guy had his hands clasped to his chest and his face had gone from pale to ashen. “He’s having a heart attack!” someone cried.

  Angela turned to see what was happening and immediately backed off with a look of horror spreading across her face. Her fangs retracted and she waved her hands as if to say it hadn’t been her fault.

  “No,” she whispered, “no…no…”

  Two other patrons rushed to the fallen man’s side while a third pulled out his cellphone and started dialing. “We have to go,” Paul said as his sense of urgency went from worried into full-scale panic mode. “We have to go now!”

  He grabbed Angela’s hand and pulled her outside. Inside the van, she sat like a rock behind the wheel staring blindly through the windshield. “We have to go!” he yelled and banged on the dashboard.

  His plea seemed to take effect as she started the van and gunned the motor. They took off, the van fishtailing out of the parking lot. Snatching a look behind them, no one seemed to be following. He leaned back in his seat and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I told you,” she said between gritted teeth as they zoomed down the highway. Tears—perhaps of rage or shame and probably both—coursed down her cheeks. “I told you this would happen. You said people were nice.” She shot him a look that made him feel more than insignificant. “You lied…then this happened. I caused him to have his heart attack.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Paul protested over the roar of the engine. “The guy’s probably been eating bacon since he was two.”

  Angela shook her head in dismay. “He’s a porker, but maybe he was right. I am a freak.”

  Back at the house, she stormed inside. Ooze and CF sat in their familiar positions on the couch. “Have a good time?” asked Ooze. He was in the middle of searching for a program and flicked the remote from channel to channel until he found what he was looking for. “Ah, pro wrestling, that’s my kind of sport. Are you interested, CF? You’d be a winner.”

  “I’m hungry,” replied the zombie as he got off the couch and lumbered over to the kitchen.

  “That figures.” Ooze swiveled around. “So, are we on for tonight?”

  Her mouth set in a straight line and she burst out with, “Screw this monster mash. I’m tired of being the star. If this is what it means to be human, then forget it.” She shook off Paul’s arm and ran upstairs.

  With a sigh, Ooze shut off the television. “I guess that’s a no.”

  * * * *

  Two days passed with no surprises and no outdoor excursions, except at night. Paul caught the news of their outing on the afternoon report with Ooze. A shot on television indicated the restaurant and the reporter interviewed the witnesses.

  “It was like she had some kind of super strength or something,” one man said. “She lifted Jim up like he was nothing, and he ain’t light.”

  Paige offered her testimony. “I’m grateful this woman helped me out,” she said. “That customer was sexually harassing me. I’m sorry he had a
heart attack, but he…” She broke down then, wiping her eyes, and ran off-camera.

  The reporter went on to add the victim, one James Matthews, had been hospitalized. “And we have learned that Mr. Matthews had been suffering from heart disease for a number of years,” he said.

  “While fear undoubtedly played a role, it is more important to note Mr. Matthews’ condition was a severe one. It is also important to note that he was sexually harassing the waitress, Ms. Paige Waters, who, in light of his illness, is refusing to press charges.”

  “Let’s hear it for decency,” Ooze offered as an aside.

  “Authorities are more worried as to what kind of person was in the restaurant,” the reporter continued. “Reportedly, she was the same individual that was seen in New York the previous week, and if so, the authorities are anxious to contact her…”

  Clicking off the television, Ooze offered, “Well, look on the bright side. You’re in the clear. I’m just glad I don’t eat. Trans-fats will kill you.”

  Sarcasm was so not needed right now, Paul considered. “Try telling that to Angela,” he replied. “She thinks she’s responsible.”

  “You should tell her.”

  Paul tried, but her door remained locked and she didn’t come out except to go downstairs twice a day to take her shot. She said nothing to anyone during that time. At night she went out on her own, came back early in the morning and went straight to her room. Sandstorm practiced his shape shifting in all corners of the house.

  Ooze busied himself at the computer, trying to work the kinks out. When not working on the computer, he went about performing analyses of various chemicals and studied the ‘effects of various combinations of amino acids and proteins on the building blocks of life’ as he put it.

  With nothing better to do, Paul spent most of the daytime reading, but at night he went out with CF, as the zombie was into cleaning mode. He figured it best to keep an eye on the big guy, just in case. “I like a pretty river,” CF said as he effortlessly yanked out the garbage and molded it into small cubes of metal and plastic.

  Life went on and the news reports continued. Various accounts had The Nightmare Crew—the name seemed to be official—heading due east after their accounts. This was partially true, as Angela was the only one on the job.

  Images of her flying over the city were enough to scare the would-be crooks from committing any misdemeanors. When the reporters asked the people on the street for their opinions, they cautiously approved of the new arrivals, even though they weren’t sure who or what they were.

  On the other hand, the police took a more jaundiced view. “Whoever or whatever these people are,” said the Chief of Police, “while we applaud them taking care of our streets, that is our responsibility. We do not condone vigilantism in any way, shape or form. If these individuals are really on the side of the law, then they should come into police headquarters and talk to us. We promise to listen.”

  BS was more like it, Paul thought. However, keeping the concept of a low profile in mind, he did nothing. While he wanted to work things out with Angela, she kept her door locked. Discussion was out for now.

  Bored and frustrated, he went down to the lab on the third day and found Ooze peering at the computer. “Have you found anything?” he asked.

  Ooze turned around, a troubled expression on his face. “Yeah, I found a couple of files, but they were incomplete. The first said something about an additional member, but our maker never got around to doing anything about it. He had another chamber, but it’s an experimental model.”

  Paul looked around, but saw nothing. “Where is it?”

  “In the garage,” Ooze replied. “After you mentioned the door to me, I went outside, picked the lock and found a spare chamber. I don’t know why he never brought it in here, but whatever.”

  Turning around, he searched on the table for something and found it, picking up a notebook and waving it in the air. “I wrote down the equations, just in case.”

  “What about the second file?” Paul asked.

  Ooze’s look of concern deepened and he shook his head. “Read it and you’ll get the picture,” he said as he got off the chair and waved his hand at the computer.

  Paul sat down and began to read through the data. The file was only a couple of pages long, but the first two paragraphs made him gasp.

  The file was marked Longevity. His heart began to pound as the awful truth hit home. It couldn’t be true. He didn’t want it to be true, but the facts were right there in front of him.

  Subjects Angela and Cannon Fodder will exhibit evidence of cell decay. Molecular instability in subjects is irreversible. No possibility of regeneration.

  “Damn,” he muttered. The truth hurt sometimes. They’d been engineered to die. It seemed as though the scientist had built in an expiration date to his subjects. “No…no…” he mumbled, and nothing else came out.

  No, it couldn’t be possible…but it was. They—meaning Angela and CF—had a very short shelf life. Their cells were unstable and…

  A sudden fizzling sound jerked him back to reality. The files abruptly vanished and then the screen went black. “Oh crap,” he said, and turned off the computer. After turning it on, he tried to reboot it, but while the power worked, the screen remained black.

  “Move.” Ooze waved him off.

  Paul got off the chair, speechless as the moving bag of water tried to reboot the computer. He muttered something dire under his breath, slid a disc into the side port and shook his head. “Well, it’s out again…but you saw it, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  A sense of grief overwhelmed Paul. “So what are we going to do now?” he managed to choke out. He was worried sick over what might and probably would occur. He bit his lip so hard that blood ran out and spilled onto the table.

  Ooze’s face wore a placid expression and he briefly gazed at the drops of blood. “You understand what the term molecular instability means, right? You understand they’re on a time limit.”

  Sick at heart, Paul nodded dumbly. “I know enough. Just fix the computer if you can. I have to know more.”

  The water-bag turned around, and this time his face held an expression Paul had never seen before. It was one of loss. “It doesn’t matter. I read through the file. I know all about it.”

  Chapter Nine

  “What do we do now?”

  Adrenaline overload time and Paul thought his heart would explode from the influx of the hormone. A million thoughts ran through his mind at light speed, yet he couldn’t find the proper words and transfer them from his brain to his tongue. Only after a massive effort did he come out with, “You knew?”

  Ooze swept his hand at the chemicals and slides and beakers on one of the worktables. “Yeah, I knew and that’s why I’ve been down here so much. I’ve been trying to find a cure or at least, a stopgap,” he replied then added, “I tried telling myself if I didn’t say anything, then no one would be the wiser.” For a change the sarcasm was absent in his voice. Instead, it sounded altogether sad.

  “Try keeping that kind of secret and it does a number on your mind,” he continued. Turning back to the computer, he continued to tinker with it. Heavy as his oversized hands appeared he manipulated them in such a manner as to delicately tap each key lightly, almost reverently.

  Paul licked suddenly dry lips. “I thought Bolson transferred his, um, knowledge to you.”

  “He did, most of it,” Ooze said and pointed to what would have been the top of his head. “Like I said earlier on, I got most of the smarts and most of the background, but there are gaps. I think Bolson didn’t want us finding out the truth.”

  It seemed like an extremely cruel thing to do, to give life then have it end just as suddenly. Perhaps that had been the scientist’s intention all along, to create life and see what would happen. They were the experiment, and right now Paul didn’t know what to say, except, “That’s pretty harsh.”

  Ooze shrugged, and the movement
sent water inside him rolling around in a gentle wave. “Yeah, but it’s sort of practical when you think about it.”

  The notion of practicality made Paul’s blood boil. He’d just had his first date a few days ago with someone he really liked. At the time, he figured he and Angela had made some kind of connection that would lead to something further. Now it seemed as though the object of his affection was going to expire. “How do you figure?”

  Ooze stopped tinkering and swung around in the chair. “Think about it. We were created for reasons, right? You read the file. I’m supposed to go in via some kind of waterway and spy on people. Sandstorm was designed to go in by land and spy on people. Angela and CF are supposed to raise hell.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just plowed ahead. “If you had superpowers and you knew that you were going to die, what would you do? Hang on ‘til the end or go out and take the bad guys with you?”

  Paul had no way to answer the question. He’d never been in either situation. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.”

  “Huh,” the watery man responded. “Well, from what I figured out, either Bolson or the people who ran Rallan were afraid their creations—us—would go rogue. You read about that all the time in the comics, right? Well, welcome to reality show number one. If anyone did decide to switch sides, Bolson took that into account. He built in a safety program. He tinkered with the genetic makeup, and basically, he gave us a limited lifespan. After a time, cellular breakdown occurs and that’s all she wrote.”

  His thick fingers danced over the keyboard. A few seconds later, he leaned back and gave what sounded like a sigh of supreme sadness. “According to the info, if I’m reading it right, the subjects decay really fast, like in ten seconds fast. He also figured if people like us had nothing to lose, they’d do something really crazy, like go out and kill the President or someone just as famous.”

  “Did he say when, exactly?”

  Ooze threw up his arms in frustration. “No, and that’s what’s driving me crazy. I tried searching my memory, but all I come up with are gaps. That means maybe Bolson didn’t know or maybe he didn’t want anyone else copying his research. Either he did it or the owners did it.