Double Helix

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Touching,” Van Klees said. “The Lone Ranger riding in to save his woman.”

  Slater licked blood that dribbled from his nose.

  “Valiant but extremely stupid,” Van Klees continued. His smile mocked Slater. “You didn’t think it strange we had no one up top? Nor that a driver bonded for military deliveries would risk his job for only five thousand?”

  Slater’s reaction, a flinch, broadened Van Klees’s smile. “He’d been warned about you, told to accept whatever you offered, told to bring you in,” Van Klees said. “It saved us much trouble, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Paige,” Slater said, “have these animals done –”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said quickly, her voice strained as much as his. “I wish you hadn’t –”

  “Shut up. Both of you.” Van Klees moved to the trolley and picked up a scalpel. “We have business at hand.”

  Zwaan raised the pole again slightly, digging the wire into Slater’s neck. “You’ll watch,” Zwaan instructed, “from here.”

  “Unless I find your answers suitable, I first cut a half moon across her cheekbone,” Van Klees told Slater. Van Klees laid the edge of the scalpel on Paige’s face. “Then I peel the skin back, It should make for an interesting flap when her face festers.”

  Slater exhaled a long breath, fighting the pain inflicted by Zwaan.

  “Yes?” Van Klees asked, his voice silky.

  Slater grunted a yes.

  Zwaan eased the pressure.

  “Have you reported the kids to anyone?” Van Klees asked.

  “No.” Slater’s voice was uneven.

  Van Klees twisted the scalpel slightly and applied pressure to Paige’s cheek. A pinprick of blood swelled into a large drop. “No?”

  “No!”

  “I could carve an eyeball too,” Van Klees said. “You’ll notice the restraining straps that will lock her head into position. There’s a hydrostatic pressure in an eyeball that gives a satisfying pop, almost like squeezing a grape until it bursts.”

  “There is a package in the mail,” Slater said. “To a reporter friend of mine.”

  “His address?”

  Slater supplied it.

  “You’re certain?” Van Klees nicked her skin again. “After the eyeballs, I can always slit her nostrils. None of these little pleasures will come close to killing her. Imagine the fun I’ll have. And I’ll still have the rest of her body as a playground.”

  “I’m certain.” Slater’s fists were clenched.

  “The boy, of course, is with your mother.”

  “Yes.”

  Van Klees arched an eyebrow. “My, my,” he said, “aren’t you amazed at our thoroughness?”

  Slater said nothing.

  Zwaan jerked the wire upward again.

  “Yes,” Slater said mechanically, “I am amazed at your thoroughness.”

  “As I thought,” Van Klees said. “Did you tell your mother anything?”

  “Only to keep the boy until I showed up.”

  “You’re certain? If I later discover you’ve lied, this sow will be back on the table. My scalpel, after all, is thirsty.”

  “I am certain.” Slater’s voice had become dull with defeat.

  “Excellent,” Van Klees said. He turned his next question toward Zwaan.

  “Weapons?”

  “A pistol,” Zwaan said. “Very clumsily hidden. I’d have found it even without the metal detector.”

  Van Klees shook his head sadly. “Not much of a hero, is he?”

  “He won’t be much of anything,” Zwaan said.

  “True, true,” Van Klees agreed absently. He looked at his watch. “Zwaan, I have a flight to catch. I trust you’ll take care of the reporter and the mail?”

  Zwaan nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  Van Klees shook his head for Slater’s benefit. “How does it feel to sentence a friend to death?”

  Slater merely closed his eyes. The blood on his upper lip had begun to cake. He was a man beaten.

  “Zwaan,” Van Klees said as he unstrapped Paige with brisk, efficient movements, “I’ll be gone most of the week. It’s nice to know we can both go back to business as usual. Yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Get up,” Van Klees commanded Paige. “You’re going back. Home to the ward.”

  Paige rolled off the table and stood. She ignored Van Klees, walked to Slater and wordlessly touched his bruised face.

  Van Klees grabbed her elbow and pushed her ahead.

  “Remember, Zwaan,” he called as he led her through the door into the hallway, “Slater is yours, as long as you leave him alive for the good doctor.”

  ***

  Handcuffed, stumbling down the hallway ahead of the monster he now knew as Zwaan, wearing tight steel wire around his neck that directed each of his movements, Slater Ellis knew he was dead.

  Until then, Slater had rarely given his own death any thought, except on airplanes where he’d often decided from his fragile perch above the clouds that there would be a special horror in having time to anticipate the exact moment of death’s arrival. If the airplane began a nosedive in a sudden loss of power, you’d have two, three, maybe five minutes as the plane fell from thirty-three thousand feet – time measured in heartbeats until you and the rest of the passengers and the tons of steel and rubber shredded into unidentifiable pieces against unyielding granite. What would you think during that numbing plunge, your body still intact and unhurt, your mind still able to comprehend the event? The dive, with spilled coffee and flying briefcases and terrified screams, would not leave you enough time to prepare for death. Yet – cruelly – it would leave you with far too much time to wait for impact.

  If you had to die healthy, you’d want it to be so sudden you had no comprehension of its arrival – a bullet from an unseen sniper or a sudden head-on highway collision in a fog.

  Next worst after a plane crash, Slater decided, would be death by scheduled execution. You could look at your watch and see each second sweep you closer to the moment of unimaginable oblivion. You’d try to distract yourself by reliving memories and loves or by clutching at hatreds, but wouldn’t your mind always return to the waiting noose, firing squad, or body-arching voltage of an electric chair?

  And now Slater was in that situation.

  Healthy, very much wanting to live, but certain of his impending death. And worse, knowing by the satisfied grunts of the monster behind him, understanding by the handcuffs and wire around his neck he was totally helpless, that his death would be far messier and infinitely slower than the crash of an airplane or the jerk of a neck snapping to the body’s weight against a noose.

  His thoughts during this slow, grotesque procession of two surprised Slater.

  He was dimly aware of the ache of his windpipe, the ghost sensation of the monster’s fingers crushing his throat. His head throbbed from where he’d slammed it against the wall. Blood still clung copper to his lips and tongue. Yet he wasn’t protesting the inventory of his physical complaints.

  Nor was he clammy with fear.

  He was thinking of God. Of spirit. Of soul. He’d soon find out the answer to the biggest question to haunt his species. Life after death or not?

  The chorus of a childhood Sunday school song began to ring through his head. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

  Another part of his mind found it almost amusing that the tune had begun to play. From what depths of subconsciousness had it found release? Hadn’t Slater done his best to rely only on himself?

  Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes, Jesus loves me...

  Dying was an ancient process, Slater told himself. His own death would not be unique.

  ...the Bible tells me so.

  But death would be unique to him, wouldn’t it? The only experience he couldn’t anticipate or understand by asking others who gone through it. Or research. Or practice for. Or hire someone else to do for him.

  Or delay.

  Each step was
taking him closer. He walked with almost an anticipation of curiosity and dread.

  Slater imagined a flood of light on the other end. A flood of love. He prayed it was that simple. And prayed he might be forgiven for taking so long to pray for it. And he prayed for Paige.

  He found strength in it. He prayed during the couple of hundred steps it took for the monster behind him to lead him – with a twisting yank of the steel wire – into a room with well-lit glass aquariums on plain tables.

  When Slater saw the snakes and spiders and scorpions in the various aquariums and understood the possible implications, he prayed to hold on to the song in his head.

  ***

  Zwaan heard his own music as he felt a glow of pleasure. He’d enjoyed watching Slater’s body become very still at the sight of the aquariums in the first room. He’d enjoyed explaining how Slater could expect to die if there was any resistance to the punishment he deserved for ripping away Zwaan’s angers. And he would enjoy telling Slater not to expect the mercy of death until a doctor appeared to relieve him of his vital organs.

  Now they were in Zwaan’s favorite room. The one with a sledgehammer in the corner and two chairs facing each other.

  “Sit,” Zwaan said. He lowered the aluminum pole slightly to give the wire slack. Slater sat.

  Zwaan continued to lower the aluminum pole.

  “You may take the wire from your neck now.”

  Slater reached awkwardly with both hands and raised the wire over his head. Zwaan set the pole in the corner. Beside the sledge-hammer.

  He enjoyed watching Slater’s eyes focus on the sledgehammer. Violin strings now, the wonderful notes of French horns as the symphony in Zwaan’s head began to harmonize.

  Zwaan took the chair opposite Slater and leaned forward. Zwaan, of course, knew how much he would enjoy this part too.

  “Just you and me,” Zwaan said. “Rather intimate. But so is the sharing of pain. You created a bond when,” Zwaan lifted his bandaged hand, “you brought me my pain. Now we shall deepen the intimacy.”

  “You want me to cut your other fingers off?” Slater asked in a conversational tone. “Although I should warn you, I’ve never been real big on kinkiness.”

  “My fingers?” Zwaan asked in disbelief. The music jarred out of tune. He lashed out in sudden rage across the short distance between the chairs. Rage at the man’s insolence. Rage at the man’s lack of fear. Rage that he hadn’t broken the man’s spirit.

  Zwaan’s blow knocked Slater and his chair backward. Zwaan stood and reached for the center of Slater’s handcuffs, jerking the man to his feet. Still holding the handcuffs with his good hand, keeping Slater a stationary, helpless target, Zwaan raised his bandaged hand in threat. He struck, however, with his elbow instead of his stumped hand, delivering a blow that crunched across Slater’s cheekbone and nose. Only Zwaan’s one-handed grip on the handcuffs kept Slater upright. Zwaan struck twice more.

  Slater sagged, unconscious.

  Zwaan set the chair upright and propped Slater back into place. He sat himself and had to wait five minutes for Slater’s eyelids to flicker. Another couple of minutes for the eyes to open. By then, the side of Slater’s face had swollen angry purple.

  Zwaan’s anger had not faded. “Take off your left shoe,” Zwaan ordered. “Then the sock. Now. Without question.”

  Slater blinked comprehension.

  Zwaan felt some peace return and heard the faint sound of violins again as Slater acted without resistance. It took some time. Slater wobbled as he leaned forward. His handcuffs restricted his movement, but eventually he had one foot bare on the floor in front of them.

  “Good,” Zwaan said. He stood, and took the sledgehammer from the corner. “I am about to break your little toe,”

  Zwaan felt his smile broaden as he began to explain his favorite part. “There is a condition. If you pull your foot back as I swing, I will break another toe, one for each time you try to avoid your punishment. Understand?”

  “What goes on here?” Slater asked. “Why the kids?”

  Anger briefly tempted Zwaan again. Hadn’t he done enough to generate fear in this man? Then Zwaan realized the man was merely trying to stall the swing of the hammer. Zwaan liked that.

  He raised the sledgehammer and watched the man flinch. Why not toy with the mouse? Zwaan set the hammer down again.

  “What goes on here is a remarkable setup,” Zwaan said. “By donating organs, you will become another contributor.”

  Zwaan noticed the man’s intake of breath at the word organs.

  “You won’t die this session,” Zwaan said. “No freezer can preserve your organs as efficiently as you can by simply remaining alive until the doctor arrives. You look in reasonable shape. We should be able to get as high as ten grand for your heart. All told, I wouldn’t be surprised if you bring us a hundred grand.”

  “The kids?” Slater asked. “Organ donors? This is a farm to raise humans for harvest?”

  Zwaan brought the hammer down, correctly guessing where Slater might pull his foot. The edge of the hammer’s head thunked across two toes, and Slater screamed a piercing cry of agony.

  Zwaan waited until Slater’s eyes were open again. Wonderful, how pain made the man gasp for air. Wonderful, the music that accompanied the gasp.

  “Harvest is inconsequential,” Zwaan said, “Just another source of funding. One that gives efficiency to the necessity of certain deaths here. Yours, for example.”

  “The boys?” Slater persisted. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Why? What?”

  “I’m tired of this game,” Zwaan said. “Remember my fingers? I’ve decided, in return, to break all your toes. Then all your fingers.”

  He swung down, but this time missed Slater’s involuntary jerk of his foot.

  “Close your eyes,” Zwaan said. He was warm again with his total control over the man. “If I swing and miss again, I’ll break your kneecap.”

  The man closed his eyes.

  Zwaan knew then he’d finally broken the man. The symphony was bringing him to rapture.

  Zwaan broke Slater’s middle two toes with his next swing. The following swing, however, he swung and deliberately missed. The hammer thumped the floor and the man cried out in fear. Excruciatingly joyful, this cat-and-mouse stuff.

  “Don’t pass out on me,” Zwaan said, his voice almost gentle with love. “I’ll only wait until you come to again.”

  The man didn’t open his eyes.

  Zwaan broke Slater’s final toe on that foot.

  "Open your eyes,” Zwaan said.

  The man’s chest was heaving in his efforts to contain his agony.

  Zwaan looked closely into the man’s eyes, satisfying himself that he was extracting suitable payment for the stumps beneath his bandage. He was tempted to thank this man for providing such good music.

  “Next foot,” Zwaan said. Zwaan crouched in front of the man. Zwaan wanted to reach out and touch the man’s face, wanted to absorb some of the pain, bring the intimate music back.

  “Next foot,” Zwaan repeated. “Remove the shoe and sock on your other foot.”

  The man stooped downward to fumble at his shoe. He removed it with great difficulty, Zwaan moved closer, hoping to take in the warmth of the man’s sobbing breath. Zwaan wasn’t worried about Slater’s reach. The man’s spirit was broken, he was feebled by pain, hobbled by handcuffs. Zwaan could swat aside any blow he attempted.

  “Good, good,” Zwaan urged as the man began to roll down his sock.

  The man croaked something, but his mouth faced the floor and the sound from his swollen lips was lost.

  Zwaan lifted the man’s chin. Why not enjoy the sight of his battered face? Let the music rise again.

  “Repeat yourself,” Zwaan ordered.

  The man struggled to work his tongue and lips into words.

  Zwaan was smiling at those efforts when he noticed the man had stopped fumbling with his sock.

  Zwaan looked down.

  For a
moment, he couldn’t place the unfamiliar shape. A small gray plastic tube. Almost like a small bottle of hair spray, the size a woman might keep in her purse.

  As the object registered in Zwaan’s mind, the man brought his hands up and pointed it at Zwaan.

  Mace. Plastic. Unnoticed by a metal detector.

  Zwaan took in a breath of protest and disbelief as the spray hit his open eyes and face.

  There was no delay of pain, not like when this man had slammed the door across his fingers. Zwaan took the fire into his nostrils and throat and eyes, and yelled torment at the knives of demons that choked him and sent him stumbling backward, clutching at his face and throat.

  The man was on him. Zwaan’s eyes didn’t tell him that, not with the blinding streaks of white flames in his vision. But the man’s weight was on his chest, and he was pumping more of the mace into Zwaan’s mouth and throat as he sobbed for air.

  Then, without warning, the man was off his chest again, and Zwaan was free to roll into the chairs, desperate to shake off the agony that filled his focus. The bouncing of the chairs registered vaguely as Zwaan roared and kicked liked a trussed man galvanized by electrical shock.

  His roar was more than a man fighting the flashclap of unexpected shock and pain. Zwaan was falling back into the memory of another fire, one that had scorched his throat, ruined his vocal cords, melted the skin of his face into the wax horror he faced in the mirror each day – falling back into the nightmare that had defined his every waking moment since.

  And this fire, like the first one, seemed like an eternity of hell until, unbelievably, a new source of pain reached him, one brighter and sharper than the agony in his lungs and throat and nose and eyes. The new pain circled his neck, cutting into his consciousness with the intensity of a laser.

  Then he understood.

  The man had dropped the steel wire over Zwaan’s head and was raising the pole.

  Zwaan whimpered as he felt himself falling into a deep, black void. He should not have wasted the air.

  ***