Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

The narrow trial bending through the woodland toward the bunker wasn’t designed to accommodate a Cadillac towing a supersized crew, but Molek hadn’t broken in a pair of sandals since Charles Manson tried to compel one of the Beach Boys to make him a rock star. Since hiking was out of the question, Molek assigned the bumpy navigational duties to Mark. His newly tagged informant had some previous knowledge of the terrain, and assured everyone that he knew the bunker’s precise location. Mason and Oranger joined Wint in the backseat, who was gagged, while Nepo assumed the role of a bratty parrot upon her podgy protector’s lap.

  Needless to mention, things weren’t going as smoothly as Molek envisioned, and he began to second-guess his decision to allow Oranger an attempt to flush their quarry from the woods with drone beavers. Suddenly, the formally menacing inclusion of Arma 937 didn’t loom as nearly as promising in Molek’s judgment. At this rate, Alex Jones was more likely to get an invite to the Bohemian Club’s annual Cremation of Care than anybody associated with the MUTTS. The turbulence within the car, however, didn’t prevent Oranger from aggrandizing about another phantom flashback from his combat operations.

  “This terrain reminds me of the jungles of South Vietnam,” Oranger mulled. He held the drone armadillo on his lap in the same manner that Molek transported Nepo. “Everything looks the same.”

  “How could it possibly look the same?” Mason retaliated. “There’s no tropical plants growing in the wild in northern New Jersey. Does anybody see a palm tree or a rice patty around here? Because I sure the hell don’t!” Mason still tried to grasp why nobody within the car ever questioned Oranger’s false accounts. Perhaps they all shared some warped amusement in Oranger’s brain malady that may have been as equally disturbing in its own right.

  “I don’t expect you to grasp my nightmares,” Oranger said to Mason. “Before judging me, try enduring a tour of duty in the middle of the Tet Offensive.”

  “Leif, you’ve never even been on jury duty, let alone a tour of duty.”

  “There are things about me you’ll never even glean, Brick,” Oranger returned.

  “Maybe I really am hardheaded,” Mason grumbled. “I’m always hoping to turn over a new Leif, but this old one keeps showing up instead.”

  Normally, Molek didn’t tolerate any form of bickering from his passengers, but he had other matters to contend with now. Nepo, on the other hand, scanned the car’s dashboard for an eject button. “Remind me why we pretend to find these imbeciles beneficial to our plight,” the bird cooed in Molek’s ear. He simply scratched the bird under her beak so that she settled down. It was very likely that he couldn’t think of a reasonable response to the macaw’s question at the moment. But he offered his bird a tidbit of wisdom to nibble upon.

  “When you sail with a ship of fools, is it ever a wonder when plans run aground?”

  Before any intervention became necessary, the vehicle in which they rode in supplied another distraction. Despite Molek’s instructions for Mark to drive without regard for the car’s mechanical ability, the Caddy made a decision to stop on its own. Its front wheels sank into the mud about forty yards from the willow trees. Mark was pleased that the car managed to travel as far as it did into the thicket. But Molek didn’t participate in any enthusiastic praise for premature victories. Finding the bunker was merely an expectation for the big Boho at this stage of the chase. At least Oranger and Mason had the common sense to strap their yaps for now.

  “Why have we stopped?” Molek sneered at Mark. He probably knew the answer to his own question; the tires on his side of the car were already half wedged in the earth.

  “We’re gonna have to hump it from here,” Mark said. “The ground’s too soft for your…err, I mean the car’s weight. But the bunker is right up ahead, between those two willow trees.”

  Rather than react to the short jaunt between them and their destination, Molek pulled forth the cellphone he confiscated from Mark earlier. He then placed it on the console between them.

  “What do you expect me to do now?” Mark asked, glancing at the cellphone. He was currently as obedient as a trained seal at Sea World. All he needed was a pair of flippers and a beach ball. Nepo took a cruel delight in picking on the man; then again, she pecked apart most things whenever she espied an opportunity.

  “We expect you to die,” Nepo said, winking her golden eye at Molek as she hopped on top of his shoulder.

  “Not so fast,” Molek interjected. “Right now, Mr. Flyer. All I’m asking you to do is tap your crazy fingers on that phone’s keypad. Someone should be expecting a call from you, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mark picked up the phone without questioning Molek any further. He knew whom to call, but he didn’t know what to say to Kip without first being instructed by the man who suddenly controlled all his thoughts.

  “Advise your former alliance that we’ve come to collect what is rightfully ours,” Molek stated.

  “Make no bones about it,” Nepo added. “We want the dog back alive so we can torture it and kill it slowly.”

  “For a macaw,” Molek grinned, “you really are quite wicked, aren’t you?” Nepo released an irritating screech, which basically meant she opened her mouth again.

  Molek then pivoted his massive frame toward Oranger in the backseat. “It’s likely that they will refuse Mr. Flyer’s request to willingly submit the dog to us,” he said. “In the event that that should occur, Mr. Oranger, are you convinced that your armadillo is more efficient at killing than your now defunct beaver drones?”

  Oranger recognized another chance when he saw it dangling before his eyes like a carrot on a stick, and perhaps this last one would’ve provided him with the redemption necessary to finally make it into the Grove as a guest.

  “Arma won’t let you down, Hooty,” Oranger said. Mason didn’t look as convinced as his partner with this proclamation, but the last thing Molek wanted to hear now was the opinion of a naysayer. Molek returned his attention toward Mark.

  “If you ever expect to sit on top of the world, Mr. Flyer, you must be prepared to occupy it’s lower bowels for a spell,” Molek explained. “Now, I want you to prove yourself worthy of my good graces. Lure that beagle back to me in the same condition as you took it from FIDO, and I might be inclined to delay cutting you out of our loop like a diseased polyp from a colon.”

  “He’ll need some intestinal fortitude for that, Hooty,” Oranger noted. The bootlicker rarely buckled whenever afforded a chance to flaunt his allegiance.

  “Is he on the mark, Mr. Flyer? Do you got the right stuff in your gut?”

  Mark nodded his chin, but his choices were already being made for him.

  The wait inside the bunker turned out to be just as uptight. Although the Caddy had progressed within forty yards of their shelter, the bunker’s surveillance cameras hadn’t scanned its image on the computer’s screen. The countdown now decreased to a time that should’ve caused Bruce more anxiety than he willfully revealed. It read 51:47. The beagle’s sheer nervousness generated his latest verbal mudslide.

  “We should have a code name for this operation,” Bruce suggested.

  Bella shrugged her shoulders and peered at Kip for a reaction. “You’d love to create one, wouldn’t you?” she then asked Bruce.

  “As much as Joanie loves Chachi,” Bruce returned.

  “I’m new at this,” Kip said, “so give it your best shot.”

  “Well, if I’m not misinformed, honeybees die immediately after they sting, right, Doc?” Bruce thought aloud. Bella nodded in agreement, shoveling the dog all the encouragement he needed to continue. “So in a very real sense, the bees’ attack mission is knowingly fatal. Therefore I say we call this thing OKB.”

  “You really crave your acronyms, don’t you?” Kip noted. “It’s like your life is one big text message. I’m almost afraid to ask what this one stands for.”

  “What does it mean?” Bella asked.

  Bruce managed to keep a straight muzzle when he replied, “Operation Ka
mikaz-Bee.”

  “That’s really clever,” Bella smiled. “I like it. I thought you’d make it perverted somehow, but you managed to keep it clean. You’re making progress. Good boy.”

  “I’ll admit,” Bruce conceded, “it would’ve been more appropriate if we were deploying Japanese beetles, but I’m sure Yoko Ono wasn’t available anyway.”

  “What do you think, Kip?” Bella said. “Do you approve?”

  “OKB is okay by me,” he said.

  “Whew, lucky break,” Bruce huffed, “because I don’t think my second choice was quite as catchy.”

  “Color me curious,” Bella said, “but what alternate name did you come up with?”

  “Operation Zom-Bees.”

  “Why would you call it that, Bruce?” Kip asked. “I don’t see the connection.”
“Neither did I, but zombies are in everything nowadays. I just didn’t want to be stuck in a grave situation later on.”

  Bella let loose an obvious sigh of relief when the cellphone flashed on the table beside Kip. It buzzed twice before Kip clutched the device in his hand.

  “Remember what we talked about,” Bella said to him before he accepted the call. “Don’t make it too obvious that we’re willing to give up Bruce. They’ll expect we’re up to something sneaky otherwise.”

  Kip exhaled a few deep breaths and released them rhythmically, apparently preparing for the call by reducing his stress level. After several turns of this demonstration, Bruce had observed enough.

  “Are you in Lamaze class or answering the phone?” the beagle griped.

  “I’m trying to calm down,” Kip said. “I can’t sound too nervous.”

  “Let him do it his way, Bruce,” Bella chided. Once again, at least for now, Bruce obeyed her command, if somewhat begrudgingly.

  “Live and let fly, right, Doc?” the beagle groused.

  Kip harnessed what remained of his courage and depressed the ‘accept’ display on the phone’s screen. He waited to hear the voice on the other end.

  “Kip? Are you there?” Mark’s voice was on speaker.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Kip answered lowly into the phone.

  “You probably figured out by now that we’re outside the bunker waiting.”

  “We didn’t know that,” Kip said, checking the computer’s screen. “But we knew you’d lead the MUTTS to us eventually.”

  “We don’t want to hurt you or Dr. Wells, Kip. We just want our beagle back.”

  “That can be arranged, Mark. But we’d like something in exchange from Molek, too.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You and Wint. We already know Molek has him held hostage as well. If Molek lets Wint and you come back to the bunker unharmed, we’ll give him Bruce 5 with no questions asked.”

  Molek listened to this conversation skeptically. He then forwarded his compliance to Mark with a single nod, signifying that the deal was acceptable, save for one condition. He whispered his request in Nepo’s ear; the bird in turn transferred the message to Mark.

  “Molek agrees to your terms,” Mark said into the phone. “But he wants you all to come outside the bunker when we make the trade. We don’t want any surprises.”

  “Fair enough. Give us a few minutes, and we’ll bring the dog outside.” Mark clicked off the phone and tossed it back onto the table. “How’d I do?” he asked Bella.

  “Surprisingly believable,” she commended.

  “You’re never gonna win any gold statues in Hollywood, but then again, neither did Hitchcock,” Bruce said.

  Meanwhile, inside the Caddy, Mark was doing his best to calculate his options, which really depended on whatever Molek deemed advantageous. The other passengers remained remarkably passive while their leader cogitated a counter strategy.

  “So you’re just gonna let me and Wint go back with them?” Mark asked Molek.

  “That would be the easiest thing to do,” Molek mused. “But, of course, not necessarily the wisest.” He opened the car’s glove box and removed a 45-caliber handgun, replete with an ivory handle carved with an owl’s face. Those who knew Molek realized that he only brandished this weapon for special occasions. Apparently, the thought of terminating the defectors rated fairly high on his bucket list.

  “I take it that your gun isn’t going to used as a peace offering?” Mark gulped.

  “Well, I thought about throwing stones, but this will be much more efficient,” Molek replied. He then pivoted toward the backseat and held out the gun for Mason to take. “Mr. Mason,” he said. “Please treat my gun as if it was your own.”

  “My pleasure,” Mason said, clutching the weapon’s bone-white grip. Oranger watched this transaction with some degree of envy, but he was still holding his armadillo close to his body.

  While gratuitously stroking Nepo’s tail feathers, Molek fleshed out their own plan. “Mr. Oranger and Mr. Mason, you will escort Mr. Flyer and Mr. Greene to the bunker and give them to Dr. Wells and Mr. Hinkle as we agreed. Do this exchange graciously, but don’t do it until you have the beagle in your possession. After you’ve secured the dog , I want you to shoot Dr. Wells and Mr. Hinkle. Is that understood?”

  “You want me to kill them?” Mason asked.

  “No,” Nepo interjected with sarcasm. “He wants you to make them perform tricks like we’re at a menagerie.”

  “I don’t even know what a menagerie is,” Mason remarked.

  “And they say I’m the one with the bird brain,” Nepo squawked.

  “Shoot them until they stop quivering,” Molek confirmed. “As you know, Mr. Mason, we aren’t in the business of people knowing our business. After we leave these woods behind, I don’t want to be going down the road feeling bad about what we’ve accomplished.”

  “I understand, Hooty. I’ll shoot Kip Hinkle between his eyes without even blinking twice. But I’ve never killed a woman before,” Mason admitted.

  “Think of Dr. Wells as you do your mother-in-law. That should make the task a tad easier,” Molek joked. “But, make no mistake, the brown-eyed girl must die, too.”

  “But they’re my friends,” Mark mentioned.

  “Not anymore, Mr. Flyer,” Molek reminded him. “As a member of the Agency, you have no friends that are indispensible. All of your thoughts, desires, and actions belong to us. If you wish to live, they must die.”

  “I understand, Hooty,” Mark said.

  “What about the dog?” Oranger asked.

  “We’ll need to gather data from the beagle’s microchip before we put him down. If possible, I’d like to bring him back alive.”

  Wint had stopped struggling beneath his gag a few minutes earlier, but his eyes reflected disapproval. Mark simply sat waiting for some confirmation about his own future. “How can I be sure that you won’t have me shot, too?” he asked Molek. Nepo jiggled her head up and down wildly at this proposition, but Molek wasn’t saying anything else for now on that matter. However, his fraudulent smile revealed far more than any words his forked tongue might’ve formed.

  Chapter 31