The Green Lama: Crimson Circle

by Adam Lance Garcia

  And so he hummed, happily bouncing from workstation to workstation preparing the next phase of his assignment. He leaned over the microscope when he heard the moans emanating from the other room. The sobbing was muffled through the heavy metal door, like screams through a tank of water. Metchnikoff lifted his head at the sound. How annoying.

  “Oh hush, little man,” he said under his breath, as if the man in the other room could hear him. “You make too much noise. Bothersome, bothersome, it so distracting and so unbecoming for one such as yourself.” Metchnikoff had known the man in another life, or so it felt. He had recognized him, like a childhood friend returning home after ages, the face familiar, and the name forgotten. How poetic that the man in the other room be here; Metchnikoff had no need of vengeance, but he could appreciate the odd symmetry of life. Miracles upon miracles.

  He returned to the microscope, doing his best to ignore the man’s cries of pain. A short time later, in the far distance of his hearing, he heard the dialing of a keypad, followed by the hiss of the door opening.

  Metchnikoff let out a long, frustrated sigh. “What do you want?” he asked without looking up at his visitor. He looked up to find Valco staring intently at him from across the workstation. His eyes were bleary and red, sunken into their sockets and encased by black circles. “Is there something wrong, Dr. Valco?”

  “Metchnikoff,” Valco said, finally pronouncing the name correctly. “It took me awhile to recall where I knew the name, but I remember now.”

  Metchnikoff raised his eyebrows. “Are you so certain you do?”

  “Florida. The Everglades. Three years ago,” Valco said, leaning forward, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer.

  Metchnikoff cocked his head to the side, waiting for Valco to continue.

  “I wasn’t there, you understand,” Valco said, slowly walking around the workstation. “I was here in New York. He took the others with him while I stayed behind, helping when I could. But I knew all about it, about you. He never mentioned you by name, just called you the mad Russian scientist. He told me about the device you created that could vaporize gold through walls; your attempts to build a death ray—”

  “The Metchnikoff Death Ray,” he corrected, slapping the workstation, rattling the test tubes and microscope. “That is its name, and people would have feared the sound of it. Armies, whole armies would have been turned to dust beneath its power. Nations would have risen and fallen at the whim of those who held it in their hands. The lines on the map would have been mere suggestions, easily wiped away with a wave of a hand, but they—” he gestured angrily toward the door as if his detractors were standing outside, “—say they need men. ‘There isn’t enough energy,’ they say, as if we couldn’t harness the atom if we wanted. I can move mountains if they asked me. Men, bah! Men can be wiped out with the flick of a wrist.”

  “You should be in jail, shackled up in the deepest bowels and hidden from the world!” Valco shouted, grabbing Metchnikoff by collar. “The Green Lama—”

  “—Is not the only force at play,” Metchnikoff cut in calmly. “Silly that you should think so—naïve—that one man in a robe could change the natural order of things. It makes me wonder why anyone would ever fear him…” He trailed off, his mind wandering away from him for a moment before circling back. He whispered, “Others saw my potential.”

  Valco’s face twisted in puzzlement and anger. “Why are you here?”

  “The same as you!” Metchnikoff exclaimed proudly. He gripped Valco’s shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie. “Is that not obvious? We are men of talent, of vision; we stand apart from the rabble. Where else should we be? They let me build my machine. Tell me it was not glorious.”

  Valco shook his head in disbelief, pinching his eyes shut as if it would all just go away. “This is wrong. This is—” His voice dropped out as the sounds of muffled moans began to emanate from the sealed room once more. His eyes darted to the metal door, a mix of shock and concern. “What was that?”

  Metchnikoff gave Valco a puzzled look and shrugged his shoulders. No need to answer any questions, Metchnikoff decided; better to play dumb and let him sort it out on his own. It would be interesting to see what happened next.

  Valco pushed Metchnikoff away and cautiously walked over to the door. He pressed his ear against it and listened. “Someone’s hurt,” he whispered after a moment.

  A mad smile stretched across Metchnikoff’s face. “Oh, more than that,” he said, bracing himself against the workstation. He had seen how the various subjects had reacted, the violence and the blood splattering about like broken fountains; had read about the field tests, the victims split in two like shucked oysters. Best to stay back, away from what may come next.

  Valco typed a code in the keypad but was greeted by a long rejecting beep. He slammed his fist angrily against the door and spun around to Metchnikoff. “Open this door,” he commanded.

  Metchnikoff laughed as he shook his head. “Are you sure you want to see what’s on the other side? There’s no going back once you do.”

  “I said, open it!” Valco shouted, violently grabbing him and throwing him against the door. “Open it, or I swear I will…”

  “What do you swear to do, Dr. Valco?” Metchnikoff asked pleasantly, his face pressed up against the keypad. “I am curious. The Green Lama does not kill, if I recall. His way is peace, love and happiness. How mad he would be if you—” Valco viciously twisted Metchnikoff’s arm, straining the ligaments of his shoulder and elbow. Metchnikoff howled in pain.

  “I will break your arm,” Valco said through gritted teeth. “It won’t kill you, but it’ll hurt like hell.” He twisted Metchnikoff’s arm further to prove his point. “And I will enjoy it.”

  Metchnikoff shrugged through the pain. “As you wish,” he said and Valco released him. Let this fool dig his own grave, Metchnikoff decided. He dialed in the pass code and the door hissed open.

  Valco shoved Metchnikoff aside as the metal door slid open, the room inside pitch black save for the trapezoid of light extending from the doorway. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed a pair of feet suspended on an upright examination table, blood dripping down in long, thin streams. Valco swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “Hello?” he risked, his voice sounding hollow as it echoed back at him. The feet twitched and there was a soft murmur, a gurgling sound of mucus filled lungs. “Are you all right?”

  He took a tentative step forward into the darkened room, the heel of his shoe sliding uncontrollably forward before he found his footing. He instinctually knelt and touched the floor, finding his fingers slick with black and blood. “Dear God…” he said under his breath.

  “Mm…”

  Valco looked up at the sound. He wiped his fingers off on his pant leg and inched forward. The hairs on his neck stood on end, certain something was going to pounce from the shadows. “Listen, my name is Harrison Valco, I’m a doctor. Whatever they’ve done to you, I can help—”

  “Vaaal… Val…” the man groaned with the tone of familiarity.

  Valco felt his stomach twist, recognizing the voice. He kept inching forward, his vision steadily adjusting to the absence of light. The shadows moved as he drew closer, revealing the shattered form of a man; arms, legs, torso and head all strapped onto the upright examining table like a modern crucifixion. Several of the man’s fingers were missing, the wounds rough and jagged, and still oozing blood. His right forearm was broken, the bones pushing up against his flesh, threatening to rip through. His skin was pale, white bordering grey, as if the blood had been drained out of him. A deep puncture wound sat at the center of his forehead, a red triangle and circle dug into his skin; black tears ran from his swollen eyelids, down his cheeks, and onto his neck.

  Valco let out a small, painful gasp. “Oh good God…” he sobbed, at last recognizing the broken man before him. “Oh, God, please no.”

  Gary Brown weakly lifted his head. “Val—Valco?”

  “Gary…”
Valco whispered. He wanted to run over, but his feet felt nailed to the floor. “What did they do to you?”

  “Valco…” he gasped, his voice slurred, black liquid oozing from his mouth. “We… the Tul—Need to help.”

  The periphery of Valco’s vision went black as a rage welled up inside him, his head swooning forward. “What is he doing here?!” he screamed at Metchnikoff who was staring at him from the doorway.

  Metchnikoff’s eyes fluttered in bemusement, as if the answer should have been obvious. Valco charged over, grabbed the deranged scientist by the collar, and dragged him over to Gary. When Metchnikoff tried to shuttle back, Valco gripped him by the hair and forced him to look at Gary’s ruined visage.

  “What did you do to him?” Valco hissed. “Tell me what you did to him.”

  “Me? I did nothing to him; ask him what he did to me? He and your verdant friend ruined my plans to make the Metchnikoff Death Ray!” Metchnikoff chattered in reply, panic rising in his voice as he tried to turn away. But Valco was unsatisfied and pressed him closer to Gary. “He was a test subject, though a very badly damaged one,” he said, as if Gary were a rat in a cage. “Did you know him?”

  Valco was struck by the past tense. “I know him,” he responded. “You didn’t answer my question: What did you do to him?”

  “Harrison.”

  Valco glanced back to find Murdoch standing in the doorway, one foot in the room, not risking stepping in any closer. He looked disheveled and beyond exhaustion, the deep pockets under his eyes so black they looked like bottomless pits.

  “Harrison, get away from him,” Murdoch said, calmly beckoning them over.

  “Franklin, why is he here?” Valco sobbed. His jaw began to chatter and tears began to pool at his eyes, blurring his vision. His hold on Metchnikoff loosened, letting the little Russian break free and sprint past Murdoch and out of the room.

  Murdoch firmed his lips and took a half step forward. “Harrison, listen to me, it isn’t safe in here.”

  “You tell me what happened to him, dammit!”

  “He was injected with the Substance,” Murdoch said in resignation, his shoulders slumping forward.

  “Injected—Why would he be…?” Valco looked over at Gary in horror, the black ooze dripping down his cheeks, the wound on his forehead, his eyes beginning to turn a milky white. Gary opened and closed his jaw, biting at the air. Valco remembered Metchnikoff’s machine, that instrument of death, it’s long needle aimed toward the head of the angled operating table, and the truth hit him like a wrecking ball, weakening his knees.

  “An interrogation, or a test, or both,” Murdoch said with a long, sad shrug as he stared at what remained of Gary. “It doesn’t really matter. It’s too late, he’s beginning to turn.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Murdoch cocked his head slightly to the side, but didn’t meet Valco’s gaze. His lower lip trembled. “I mean he’s dying, or he’s already dead. Perhaps both. The Substance fundamentally changes the body. It transforms the blood, enhances the muscles, reconfigures the brain and makes them… hungry. He has a day—maybe less—before the transformation is complete. Don’t you see, Harrison? This is what we’re creating.” He looked at Gary one last time. “Perfection.”

  Chapter 13: Omega Hour

  THE HOURS waiting at Dumont’s were some of the longest of Evangl’s life.

  She was no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop, it had already fallen, crushing everything she had held sacred.

  The news was all over the radio, with rumors spreading like wildfire. Evangl couldn’t help but cup her hand over her mouth as she listened. The city had seen its fair share of nightmares, but this one seemed somehow different, like a violation of the natural order. Evangl could deal with gun battles, rampaging robots, and whatever ridiculousness the unending parade of masked madmen threw at them; but to senselessly slaughter so many innocent people… It was barbaric.

  She was listening so intently she had barely heard Dumont return from the theatre, but it was hard to ignore the fire burning in his eyes. His skin was pale, grey tinted with green; thick, glaucous veins ran up the side of his neck. He was scant on details, not that Evangl wanted to hear about the horrors he had witnessed. He had shifted from the lighter, softer tone of his public persona, to the deeper, commanding voice Evangl had come to associate with the Green Lama, his words shaking the walls. He instructed Tsarong to take Evangl and Marie to Caraway’s until he told them it was safe, but when Tsarong asked why, the blood seemed to drain from Dumont’s face as he simply said it was no longer safe. Evangl’s eyes began to water, preternaturally knowing that Dumont was throwing himself in the line of fire. She ran up to him and threw her arms around him.

  “You be safe, Tulku,” she told him.

  Dumont took Evangl’s face into his hands and kissed her lightly on her forehead. “Go. Take Marie. I’m going to get Gary back for you. I promise you, Evangl. One way or another, I’m bringing Gary home alive.”

  Evangl nodded and let out a small sob that might have been “I know.” Tears brimmed at the corner of her eyes, but there was nothing left to say.

  She ran into her room where she quickly collected what little possessions she had—mostly borrowed from Jean or purchased by Dumont, not knowing, when or if she would be able to return—when she caught sight of Jean’s revolver. To her eyes dulled brushed metal glinted, beckoning. She holstered it onto her belt and raced into the study where Tsarong and Dumont were speaking under their breaths. Tsarong clutched Marie close to his chest while Dumont gave his friend instructions that Evangl couldn’t hear. When Dumont was finished, Tsarong bowed his head, his face betraying the emotion churning inside him. Dumont gave Tsarong a reassuring smile and slight bow before taking both old man and child into his arms. As he had done with Evangl, Dumont laid a light kiss on Marie’s forehead and whispered a cooing reassurance. “It’s going to be all right, child,” Evangl heard him whisper. “Grandpa Tsarong will take care of you and your mother and I will make sure your father will be home with you soon.” Dumont then reached over to one of the thousands of books lining his bookshelf and pulled. From within the walls Evangl heard gears and pulleys turn and shift, and the bookshelf pulled away revealing a narrow passageway, dimly light by yellow-tinted incandescent bulbs. Dumont gestured toward the opening and told Evangl to stay to her left and only turn right at every third corner. Tsarong took Evangl’s hand and gave her a reassuring nod, telling her he would lead the way. They walked in single file, Tsarong carrying Marie.

  As they moved through the narrow passageway, Evangl glanced back and saw Dumont turning away, his fists beginning to glow.

  • • •

  THE PENTHOUSE was dark, the shadows long.

  Jethro stood by the large bay windows looking out over the city. Clouds had begun to fill the sky, cutting out the moonlight. There was a flash of lightning on the horizon, and an echo of thunder, threatening rain. Jethro spent the time silently chanting his mantras, calming his soul before the coming battle, trying to ignore the hot coals of anger that had scarred him. Thick green veins laced up his arm, rounding over his shoulder and kissing his neck. He opened and closed his scarred right hand, subtly glowing in the darkness. It wouldn’t be long before the infection spread into the rest of his body.

  The elevator doors slid open, followed by the whisper of footsteps on the wooden floor. Jethro closed his eyes and steeled himself over.

  “Jethro Dumont,” a hollow voice said from the other side of the study. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “I cannot say the feeling is mutual,” Jethro replied evenly, his hands clenching. He turned around to face his visitor. “Though your reputation precedes you.”

  “As does yours,” the man said with a nod, his hands placed behind his back. He was over six-and-a-half feet tall, his head shaved bald. He wore an all black suit over a black shirt and tie, his face in shadow. “Offer a guest a drink?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t
drink,” Jethro replied.

  “Which version of you doesn’t drink?” the man asked. “The millionaire playboy gallivanting around every major city with a starlet on his arm; or the pious, world-travelling Buddhist hoping to spread peace to his countrymen?”

  “Pick one.”

  The shadowed man smiled. “You have quite an impressive resume, Mr. Dumont. How your name is not legend is a mystery to me…” He began to pace the study, running a gloved hand over the bookshelves lining the walls. “Perhaps I can help correct that.”

  Jethro moved to the opposite side of the study, matching the man’s pace as they circled one another. “I’m afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage.”

  The shadowed man gave Jethro a thin, casual smile. He pulled out a leather bound volume, and casually leafed through the pages. “Omega,” he replied as he replaced the book. “A pseudonym, as you might expect. One of several; much like Dr. Charles Pali, Hugh Gilmore, or the Green Lama is for you.”

  Gooseflesh ran down Jethro’s neck. “Many people have tried to prove I’m the Green Lama before. What makes you so sure I am who you claim?”

  “Please, Mr. Dumont, we are beyond such trivialities,” Omega said with an exasperated sigh. “Let us treat each other as equals; it is so rare that I have one.” He began to move through the study. “I admit I half expected the penthouse to be filled with every one of your remaining assistants, each ready to lay down their life for you. You seem to have plenty to spare, like a collector of broken people who do not fit into the world they were born into. Gary Brown, the collegiate gangster. Evangl Stewart-Brown, rejecting her social status. Dr. Valco, a scientist working to reverse his greatest discovery. Ken Clayton, forever performing, unable to be the person he truly is. Lieutenant John Caraway, a man who breaks the law to preserve it. Theodor Harrin, a magician who made himself disappear. Jean Farrell,” he said, emphasizing her name. Jethro felt his heart jump into his throat. “A woman born a century too early. And that old Tibetan man, Tsarong. I assume you got him while you were becoming Buddhist. I always think his name is pronounced with a ‘T.’ Ta-ser-rong.” He paused in front of the golden Buddha tucked into the wall and studied it intently. “Did you get this in Lhasa?” he asked after a moment.