The Third Ten

by Jacqueline Druga

  “What? He gave you a copy, too.”

  “He said he made four copies. Gave one to you, me, Hal, and Jenny Matoose.”

  Ellen crossed her arms. “That sucks.”

  “What does?”

  “I thought I was special.”

  Dean smiled. “You are. But, you know, Frank, he’s covering his bases.”

  “Ok. I won’t feel too dejected. Oh my God, can you believe he’s a writer now. Wow.”

  Dean chuckled. “He’s entertaining El.”

  “So you read it?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s brilliant.”

  Dean laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. Brilliant? El, come on, it’s just Frank. Although I can’t believe he is writing novels now.”

  “Me either. I am so proud.”

  “Um, yeah, me too.” Dean scratched his head.

  “You’re not mad at him, are you?”

  “For what? The way he portrayed me? Nah. I’m fine with it. He’s Frank.”

  “I am.” Frank’s voice entered the lab.

  Dean tossed out his hand. “Hence the name of his book.”

  Ellen grinning spun around. “Dean and I were talking about your novel.” She walked up to him. “I have to get to work. Again, I’m proud of you.” Tip toeing, she kissed him.

  “I’ll be over in a bit,” Frank said.

  “Ok, love you Mr. Author.”

  Unseen to Ellen or Frank, Dean rolled his eyes as he replaced the manuscript back in the envelope.

  “So you liked it?” Frank asked.

  “What made you write this book?”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “I found it entertaining,” Dean said. “I was just wondering what made you start writing it.”

  Frank shrugged. “Hey,” He snapped his finger. “Did you read it all the way through?”

  “Yeah, this morning while I was waiting on results.”

  “Whoa. So you did that read it all in one sitting thing? I never did that. It must have been good. Everyone said that read Frank’s Day Out in one sitting.”

  “It was twelve pages.”

  “Still.”

  “Still?” Dean shook his head. “Anyhow, I liked it.”

  “So it’s done?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Well, yes and no. It’s been writing itself, so when I stopped writing and think I got to the end I wasn’t sure if I should write more. El says it needs more.”

  “No. You just left the readers wondering.”

  “What readers?”

  “The ones that read your book.”

  “So you, El, Hal and Jenny were wondering? About what?”

  “Never mind, Frank. It’s fine.”

  “Excellent.”

  Dean handed the manuscript back to Frank. “Thanks for letting me read this.”

  “You’re smart, I wanted only smart people to read it. So you think it’ll be another best seller?”

  “Frank, see, before you go . . .”

  “Yes!” Jenny blasted into the room, torn tissue in hand. “Oh my God, yes.” She rushed to Frank. “I can’t stop crying. It has me so emotional.”

  Dean snickered. “I can see why.”

  “Frank, your dialogue is so realistic and captivating. It’s a masterpiece.”

  “Uh, Jenny.” Dean smiled. “A masterpiece. Please.”

  Frank turned to Dean. “You said you liked it.”

  “Yeah, because it was entertaining. A masterpiece? Frank.”

  “What?”

  “You wrote it. Think about it.”

  Frank did.

  “Frank, don’t listen to him,” Jenny said. “He’s just jealous that he can’t create something so beautiful, stunning, and thrilling.”

  “Yeah, he’s jealous.”

  “I am not jealous Frank,” Dean defended.

  “Are too. You’re jealous because I’m smart.”

  “I’m smart.”

  “Not as smart as me in the creating field. The only thing you can create are viruses and cures. Does that take brains?”

  “Um, yeah.” Dean fluttered his lips.

  “Yeah, right.” Frank said. “Mother nature creates those.”

  “You know what? You are absolutely right. It doesn’t take brains or intelligence to make viruses and cures. It takes brains and intelligence to write a masterpiece novel.” Dean argued. “But that book Frank, is not a masterpiece.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “You and who else?”

  Dean growled. “Me and anyone else who isn’t Beginnings challenged.”

  Jenny gasped. “You are so rude.”

  “Jenny, you are very smart, but you are blinded by the Beginnings cloud that makes everyone illogical and strange.”

  “There’s no such thing.” Frank said. “I haven’t seen it.”

  “You can’t see it, Frank,” Dean argued. “It’s invisible. It makes people odd. Love strange things, live in some sort of twisted world. Makes them walk on a path in a twelve foot area as if it’s some sort of long trail. Ask your father, he’ll tell you about it.”

  “My father’s dead.”

  “Oh, shit, that’s right. I forgot. Sorry.”

  “That’s ok, I keep forgetting too ever since Bob is possessed by him. I’ll ask Bob.”

  “You do that.” Dean said. “In the meantime, give it to anyone. Anyone and they’ll tell you the truth. ‘I am Frank’ is not a masterpiece.”

  Danny Hoi’s voice entered the lab. “He’s right Frank.”

  Dean pointed to him. “There see, even though he’s the third person to walk right in my lab, interject into the conversation without invitation or knocking. He’s right.”

  “Man, you can be a dick,” Danny shook his head. “Anyhow, Frank, he’s right. I am Frank is not a masterpiece. It’s . . . it’s much more than that. It’s a legend.”

  Jenny grinned. “Like you, Frank. You’re a legend.”

  “I am.” Frank nodded.

  “Jenny gave me her copy,” Danny said. “Do not let another person have it. I want to edit a few lines here and there that don’t fit. Then we’ll publish it as is and you will be a two time bestselling author.”

  “With that, Frank, you’ll be no competition for Beginnings Most Smartest Hero,” Jenny added.

  “Oh my God.” Dean said. “Do you people hear yourself? He is not Beginnings Most Smartest Hero. He didn’t write a masterpiece. He’s . . . Frank.”

  “I am.”

  “Stop that!” Dean shook his head. “I’m leaving.” He murmured all the way out of the lab as he stormed away.

  Frank stood staring out toward the door.

  “Get used to it Frank,” Danny gave a grip to his arm. “People will get so jealous of your talent they’ll want to bring you down. Ignore it. It’s just jealousy.”

  Frank heard those words, and couldn’t agree more.

  ****

  It was a mid-morning stroll, on his way to the training field, and after several calls from Elliott to convey, “Oh my God.”

  But Hal had to say the exact same thing when he walked by Ben from Fabrics shop and he was putting up a poster. “Coming soon, a stunning fast paced new novel by Frank Slagel.”

  And there was his brother in his Author posing glory right on the poster.

  Hal couldn’t help but stare. Frank, arms folded, rifle across his shoulder, looking Frank mean. Which pose was it? The happy one, the mean one, they all looked alike.

  ‘I am Frank’ sprawled across the poster.

  “Good God.”

  The squeal of laughter rang in Hal’s ear from behind, and Hal caught Elliott’s reflection in the window.

  “Danny works fast.” Elliott pointed.

  “Can you believe this?”

  “Yes. It’s all part of Beginnings mentality.” Elliott said.

  Finally, Hal turned and faced him. “Well, did you read it?”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; “And?”

  “I loved it,” Elliott said with a laugh.

  “No, you did not.”

  “I did. It was great. Demented. Captain, Frank wrote it.”

  “No, Elliott I disagree. My father knows how to write like Frank.”

  “I have to disagree.”

  “Did you see? The spelling was correct.”

  Elliott chuckled. “Still. But…” he paused.

  “But what?”

  “But there are parts of the book where I can see that you think your dad had a hand.”

  “A ha!” Hal pointed. “They stick out.”

  “Yes.”

  Hal grinned.

  “That still doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Yes, it does. It means you and I go out to the cemetery tonight.”

  Elliott groaned.

  “Captain Slagel, Sgt. Ryder!” the call of their names drew them from their conversation.

  Sgt. Owens approached, he was moving with haste, and his face carried worry.

  “What’s wrong?” Hal asked.

  “We have a problem.” Owens. “The young soldier on flower duty. The doodler.”

  “Pvt. Williams,” Elliott said. “What’s wrong, is it up to art again?”

  “No.” Owens shook his head. “He didn’t report for duty this morning. So I went back to his squad leader. He never returned. Double checking I went to the House of Lesbians . . .”

  Hal cringed. “Women please.”

  “But Frank said . . .”

  Hal held up his hand. “Women. Did he turn in the flowers?”

  “No.” Owens said. “We’ve searched the whole community. He’s not here.”

  Hal suggested. “Perhaps he is in Beginnings, Jordan or Creedville.”

  “We’re checking on that now, Sir.” Owens suggested.

  “Or Doyle camp?” Elliott asked.

  “Not there.” Owens stated. “We’ve never had anyone go AWOL. It could be a first, but . . . but I have a bad feeling. This kid was too upbeat and jovial to take this punishment that badly and go somewhere else.”

  “I agree,” Hal said. “Let’s get reports from the communities then, if that breeds nothing, we send out a search party to the field.” A shift of his eyes, he saw Elliott staring out. “What is it, Elliott?”

  “Let’s not wait, Captain. I have a bad feeling too. Let’s . . .” Elliott faced Hal. “Let’s get a search party to that field right now. I’ll lead the team.”

  “Very well, Elliott, you take care of that.”

  Elliott gave a single nod of his head and walked away with Sgt. Owens.

  The young soldier had to be fine, Hal thought. He had to be. After all, he was only a mile from Bowman.

  That was considered a safe environment.

  ****

  He had discovered a place that could be plentiful. But he was only one. Chaka wasn’t sure what was in that village a few miles away, so until he was able to determine it, he was going to keep his distance and keep scouting. Keep hidden. Survive.

  He was certain of one thing.

  He was either no longer on his planet, or he had been transported to another time.

  Fairy tales as a young being were always about prehistoric beings having the ability to go back and forth through time.

  But they were just tales. No one believed them. Chaka was starting to think they were true. The stories of time travel, the stories of how the low creatures on the food chain ruled the world.

  He journaled everything, took notes as best as he could with what he had on him.

  He wished there was a way to blend in with the creatures, but he knew that wasn’t possible.

  Besides, how could he do that when they were pretty much nothing, primal versions of himself?

  The difference between the primal creatures of his world and the one he was in, were these primals communicated, they had intelligence.

  The primal beings served a few levels of usefulness, whether in Chaka’s world or not.

  And seen or unseen, Chaka had to fulfill basic needs to survive, and at least he had plenty of primals to help him achieve those needs on all levels.

  ****

  Cup of coffee in hand, Joe secured the lock on the door. He was grateful that Danny gave him something to do other than hang around all day following people.

  He would work the monitor tracking. Watching cameras for something different.

  Not like anything would happen, but it gave Joe an opportunity to be normal.

  Danny set it up perfectly, and with Beginnings mentality, no one questioned who the new mute guy was named Burton in tracking.

  Like with everything, the people of Beginnings just accepted it and moved on.

  Not even giving it a second thought.

  If someone needed to speak to Burton they sent him an email, if they needed to ‘See’ him, he was in the bathroom.

  He sipped his coffee with an ‘Ah’ and prepared to indulge in that cheese danish that Robbie got him.

  He had a four hour shift and Joe kept a vigilant eye on all twenty monitors.

  Danny had taken a while to set up the monitor room. A camera a week.

  Combined with tracking they’d be able to see what was causing the ‘Blips and beeps’, only problem, no one really set up a good camera in the Killer Baby region.

  Eyes scanning, an instant message came from Mark in tracking.

  “Check Bowman Region One. Odd movement.”

  “Ok” Joe typed back then looked at the camera.

  Looked normal.

  Using the control he scanned around.

  Wait.

  Stop.

  Shit.

  “Something.” Joe typed. “Moves fast.”

  “Big too.” Mark relied. “Coming in at 500 pounds.”

  Joe thought, ‘Five hundred pounds and moving that fast?’

  He watched and watched, got one more glimpse followed it and snapped a still.

  “Got it,” Joe typed. “Got a still. Not very clear.”

  “What is it?”

  Joe pulled the still up on another monitor. He clicked a few keys responding a typed message of ‘Don’t know, I’ll get back to you.’

  And Joe zoomed it. The picture was slightly blurred. Whatever it was, ran. And pixilation made it hard to distinguish. “Bigfoot?” Joe scratched his head then his eyes widened. “Bigfoot.” He shook his head and picked up the phone. “Hey, Danny, listen. See if you can find Christopher and see if he morphed again.”

  “I thought he was cured of that,” Danny said.

  “I did to. But I think he got aroused and is running around Bowman.”

  “I’ll get on that right away.”

  “Thanks.” Joe hung up and brought his coffee to his lips as he locked in on that picture. “Well, if you aren’t Bigfoot or Christopher Columbus. What the hell are you?”

  ****

  The search party was small, and so was the area they had to cover.

  Eight of them spread about the field, walking, calling out, ‘Private Williams’

  Elliott hoped that the young man merely wandered and got lost. But his instinct wasn’t saying that, and that fear was doubled with the panicked call of his name.

  “Sgt. Ryder!” The young private called. “Sgt. Ryder. Oh God!”

  With a quick shift of his eyes from his horse, Elliott saw a search party member staring down. With a quick yank of the reins, Elliott trotted his way, and dismounted.

  “What’s going on?” Elliott asked.

  “Please, please tell me this isn’t . . . oh my God.” The young private pivoted, raced a few feet away and violently regurgitated.

  With slight trepidation, Elliott walked to where the private was. The tall overgrown foliage kept him from seeing anything.

  A few steps closer and Elliott saw.

  On the ground was a huge puddle of blood. More disturbing than the sight of that was what looked like the gutted remains of an animal.

  “Tell me that’s an an
imal’s remains. Please.” The private said.

  Within seconds others gathered, and had the similar reaction.

  Another solider asked “Did someone gut a deer?”

  Elliott crouched down, his fingers moved to the blood. It was tacky, semi fresh. The odor was sour and though he wasn’t an expert, he was certain the intestines were human remains.

  “God there’s hair. Tell me that’s not hair.” Someone shouted.

  “Holy shit that’s his bandana.”

  “Bartley!” Elliott called out. “Grab a sack and carefully bag these remains.”

  “But Sergeant.”

  “Do it.”

  “But . . .”

  “It’s an order.” Elliott released a short whistle, singing his rifle forward with a wave of his hand. “Holmes, Stuart, follow me.” He looked quick to Bartley. “Take the remains and the other four men back to camp. Tell the Captain what you found and where we are.”

  “Sgt. Ryder.” Bartley questioned. “Where are you going?”

  Elliott motioned in a point using his chin. Through the high grass was a path. A path smeared with blood. “To where whatever it was dragged him. Let’s go.”

  He led the way, eyes on the scope of his weapon the entire time.

  “What did this?” Stuart asked.

  “I don’t know. Keep on your toes.” Elliott shifted left to right.

  “It took him in the woods.”

  Holmes added. “It gutted him like a deer. With precision.”

  “I know.”

  The woods were a few yards ahead. Elliott felt an answer would lie there.

  “Don’t tell us to split up,” Holmes said.

  “I don’t plan on it.”

  Stuart sniffed loudly. “Do you smell that?”

  “Yes, smoke.” Elliott stopped walking and looked around. “There.” He pointed to a small clearing up ahead of them.

  He led the way.

  “Do not lower your weapons,” Elliott instructed, taking a deep breath as they entered what clearly as a campsite.

  “Oh my God.” Stuart groaned.

  “Do not lower your weapons!” Elliott instructed hard, swallowing the lump in his throat. “We have to let the captain know about this.”

  There was a whine to Holmes’s tone, a sad whine. “Don’t tell me. Savages?”

  “I doubt that very much,” Elliott said. “Savages do not carefully extinguish fires. This fire was put out so as not so spread.” Elliott looked at the make shift fire pit, blinking hard. “They don’t build rotisseries and carefully gut their hunt.” He caught glimpse of Stuart and Holmes through his peripheral vision. “Do not lower your weapons . . . .”