Basilisk c-2

by Rob Thurman

  “Because they weren’t just born that way. It wasn’t an accident of nature that produced a rare sociopath. Someone made them this way, through genetics and training and brainwashing. They’re monsters, but that’s because a monster mirrored his own ego in them. They deserve a chance, even if it’s not much of one or the monster wins. Jericho wins and that’s not acceptable.” I put my hand out, ready to open the car door. “Let me go first. It’s Wendy’s chip. If she’s there with them, Stefan, you need to stay outside until you hear me yell for you. Saul, you go around back in case a few try to escape.” I doubted sincerely that would happen, but I had to plan for all eventualities. Because of Wendy, I needed to go in first.

  Wendy was a new kind of monster. We were all chimeras, a name from the creature of mythology—twoin-one—but Wendy was something else. Wendy was a chimera with a fucking cherry on top. She was another creature of legend.

  Basilisk.

  Mythology said if one saw you, you died. One look and your life was over. Wendy was that myth, born to reality and walking the earth for the first time.

  “What makes you think you’re immune? You said it yourself; Wendy is the only chimera who can hurt other chimeras.” Stefan, like Saul, had his gun backing up the tranq one. He parked the SUV on the street two buildings down from our target. He and I got out and headed for the front of the squat box of a building while Saul headed around the back.

  “Peter is running the show and Peter wants something from me. He won’t let Wendy kill me. And,” I muttered low and fast, “I’ve been practicing.”

  “Practicing? What do you mean you’ve been—”

  The door to what had once been a pawnshop, but was most likely a meth lab now, slammed shut behind me. I’d been quick, because I was that much quicker now—quicker than any human. The door cut off Stefan’s voice and I concentrated. Inside it was quiet. The walls and floor were covered with years of dust and grime. There were bars on the windows, the glass itself covered with newspaper to hide the interior from prying eyes. There were cots all over the one big room. The bodies of several Hispanic men lay dead on them—not because they died peacefully in their sleep, but because there was so little space between them they couldn’t fall to the floor. There were some exceptions where a few cots had been turned or tipped over by death convulsions. Most had guns or knives in their hands or laying by them. They had all, to a man, gone the Basement way. Not one had died easily.

  The one closest to me had gray rubbery streamers of flesh spilling out of his gaping mouth—part of his lungs. You couldn’t cough up both of them at once, or just one, but you could cough up pieces of them until you choked and asphyxiated or died from another lack of oxygen: lungs blown to tatters. Either/or. Another man lay on his back, his brain matter having spilled out his ears, nose, and mouth. Someone had crushed his skull.

  The next victim was shirtless and curled on the floor, his abdomen split neatly from breast bone to below his baggy jeans somewhere. His arms were curled around the large pile of intestines that had poured free, as if he could push them back inside and hold himself together. The man closest to him had shot himself in the head with his own gun to escape his torment, but first he’d ripped off his pants. His penis and testicles. . . .

  I stopped cataloging the carnage. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before—nothing new under the sun that could be done outside the Institute that hadn’t been done inside. The one difference was this wasn’t a reward for excelling; this was freedom.

  I could smell anhydrous ammonia fumes wafting down from the top floor. Meth lab—I’d been right. I was also right in not expecting Stefan to listen to me. The door opened and shut almost silently behind me, but he didn’t say anything—battle ready.

  “Michael, finally.” The voice echoed in the still air. There was the sound of one footstep.

  “It’s been so dull waiting for you and your . . . pets? Isn’t that what you call lesser creatures you keep with you and alive for no apparent reason? I’ve seen them being walked in parks and down the sidewalks in rhinestone collars and pink leashes. Did you forget this one’s leash? Will he bark for a treat? Will he piss himself at what he sees here?”

  Peter had drifted nearly soundlessly down the stairs against the back wall. Now he sat, midway down, and dangled one hand over the rusted wrought-iron railing. He was the same as he had been on the Institute tape—cheerful, charismatic. He had changed from the white pajama-style uniform to a black shirt and jeans. Dark shirt, dark hair, shadows clinging to him—Death himself. “So. Look at you, Michael. You have changed. Having seen what was outside our walls, I think all of us would change. Will change.” I didn’t raise the tranquilizer gun yet. I wanted to know more. What did he want with me? Where were the others? Stefan, now beside me, followed my lead. He knew violence and he knew it well, but in this particularly vicious subcategory, I was the expert.

  Peter leaned to rest his forehead against the thin metal banister. His eyes were chimera eyes—one blue, one green. He hadn’t bothered to conceal that with contacts as I had. Ordinarily those colors would be the calm pastels of a spring morning. Somehow on Peter they seemed almost blind. He was blind in a way, seeing only what he wanted to see, and what surrounded us now was all he wanted to ever see—destruction. I didn’t see his mask; I saw what was behind it.

  “I have to say, Michael, I’m rather surprised. We all knew you wouldn’t graduate. You were days at best from dissection. Strawberry jam in a jelly jar. In the refrigerator you’d go. Yum, yum. Good eating.” His grin was friendly and happy as a golden retriever’s. In two weeks he’d picked up the language, the casual nature, the obscure phrasings we’d not been taught. I was only now coming into my own after almost three years.

  How had I not seen him before for what he was?

  “But now you’re different.” His eyes went distant as if he were listening to inner instruction, his brain studying the peculiarity that was me. “You have bite to you now. Inside. Before, you would’ve let them walk you down to that metal table, obedient. . . . No, not necessarily obedient, but passive. Passive to the end. Now, however . . . now I think you would fight.”

  He was right. I would. I wouldn’t kill, but you didn’t have to kill to fight and try to escape. “You’re stronger.” Peter stood, arms lazily resting on the metal as he bent over as if to get a closer look at me in the dim light that struggled through the paper-covered windows. With our vision, it was an act to make me associate him more with humans, therefore harmless, than with chimeras. It was a good move to put me off my guard. Trained powers of observation can be used against you. Lifelong associations of one thing to another are difficult to break. “You’re a better chimera, but are you good enough to join us and be accepted into the family?”

  “Where is the rest of the ‘family’?” I asked in a detached tone, letting him know his trick, good or not, wasn’t working.

  Calm. Cold. Being Jericho. The first naturally enhanced chimera, born with increased healing and strength. He couldn’t kill. That was his gift to us. Despite his genetic inability to dole out death, he had remained the ultimate chimera in his mind. He feared none of us . . . until the end. And at that he was far more proud of his Wendy creation than wary of her. Jericho had been living, breathing ice. I would be too.

  “Here, there. Around.” He rocked back on his heels. “Dull and boring as things were waiting for you to slog along behind us, we thought we’d help you out and give you a chance to catch up. That pathetic bag of bones in Wyoming wasn’t worth our time, of course. So the next time we stopped, I thought it would be interesting to find something more spry. I love that word—‘spry.’ The definition of walking around when nature should’ve already taken you down. A very optimistic word. Before I killed her, I asked that nice, spry lady at the gas station when we came into town where the most dangerous people hung out.” He laughed, derisive and sated all in one. “And here they are—with their guns and their knives. They were like us in a way. They liked to ki
ll too. Murder, rape, and they couldn’t wait to teach us some manners when we came knocking at the door.”

  He reached down and picked up a gaudy red plastic rose I’d dismissed earlier as unimportant. He must have gotten it at the same gas station where he’d killed the woman who gave him directions. He tossed it over the rail to land on one of the bodies. “But these dangerous people were writing checks their antisocial tendencies couldn’t cash. They said they were, how’d they put it, ‘pure evil motherfuckers who were going to fuck up our baby-ass shit.’ ” He imitated a deeper, hate-filled, older man’s voice perfectly. “They give out the label sociopath so easily here in the real world. No one has to truly earn it. Isn’t that a shame? It devalues the meaning and the purpose . . . our meaning, our purpose.” He sighed, pulling on a pensive mask, but the glee leaked through. He took a step upward and then one more. “It won’t stay that way. Give us time and we will change the word and the world. Mass murder with a lollipop for these ignorant, oblivious wastes of genes. Are you up for that, Michael?”

  At his first step I’d raised the tranquilizer gun. “No one is here but you, are they?”

  “No,” he smiled. He pulled a black cord necklace out from under his shirt. Attached to it was a tiny cloth bag. It would hold Wendy’s chip perfectly.

  “And you don’t want me for your Manson Mein Kampf family dream-come-true, do you?”

  “He catches on.” He applauded once. “Want you? Hardly. You’ve changed, but not enough. And even if you had, this isn’t what it’s all about. We never wanted you, Michael. We want to punish you. You’ve done a very bad thing and you have to pay. And, Michael, you are going to fucking pay and pay and pay.” He was moving up again at a run, but Stefan, who’d had his gun up long ago, had already pulled the trigger. The cartridge hit Peter in the upper leg. He didn’t stagger, much less fall. My cartridge hit the wall he disappeared behind.

  Damn, I was certain the dosage would be high enough to knock him out. I started after him, weaving between cots, and then skidded to a stop. Stefan heard it at the same time I did. Half a step behind me, he grabbed my arm and ran, yanking me along with him. He didn’t need to. I was as fast, and running over the top of bodies and their various crushed organs didn’t faze me. Stefan, despite his mob background, flinched slightly but didn’t let it slow him down either. We hit the right wall of the room simultaneously with the semitrailer that crashed through the front of the building. Stefan was knocked to the floor by a falling piece of ceiling. I was thrown forward by the slam of an upended cot against my back.

  I’d known the building was structurally unsound by looking at it when we arrived, but I’d underestimated its instability. Perfect for an explosion, I’d thought, and it was a meth lab. I’d been on the alert for trip wires, any evidence that the lab upstairs would be blown. But that would’ve been a repeat of the last attempt on our lives—the establishing of a pattern. Patterns were to be avoided; they ignited suspicion in the authorities. Bought and paid-for indentured assassins were taught to avoid that. But I knew to listen and watch for other traps as well. I was facing down my own who’d received the same training as I had. The instant I heard the full-throttle roar of an engine, I knew. That Stefan knew too didn’t surprise me. The longer we were together, the more I saw how similar our lives had been in the things we’d been taught to do and the things we’d actually done.

  It sucked for us both.

  It sucked more when the building collapsed on top of us.

  “Get away from him, you son of a bitch. Touch him again, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  Stefan. . . .

  Only Stefan could put that much grim promise in the word “ever.”

  Hazy . . . everything was hazy, lazy, dazy, wavy. No . . . no z’s in wavy. It was dark and bright and red and dark again. The rapid switch didn’t improve the hazy, lazy, dazy any.

  “Sir, we’re trying to help him. He could have a crush injury to his chest. That can be fatal, do you understand? He has a pneumothorax—one of his lungs is deflated. He probably has blood building up around his heart. We have to stabilize him now or he’ll die. You got that? He’ll die. Now, get the hell back. Lenny, where the hell are the cops? We need them on this guy.”

  Cops. That would be bad. That had the haze fading faster as I felt my adrenaline increasing on its own, doing what a chimera’s body was built to do. I helped it with what I’d learned in the past years. I increased the adrenaline tenfold. That much would be detrimental and lethal to a human; to me, it was fuel accelerating the healing.

  “Jesus, he’s going into some serious sinus tach. What the fuck? Four hundred and fifty beats? Jackie, the cardiac monitor is screwed. Get the backup monitor!”

  We chimeras would not be good for the mental health of EMTs, paramedics, or any other medical personnel because we made all their medical knowledge useless. I knitted the hole that had been torn in my lung back together, causing massive numbers of cells to rush to meet one another. The three broken ribs would have to wait. I flooded my system with endorphins to dull the pain. There was some small amount of blood around my heart. I had my blood vessels reabsorb it. Opening my eyes, I lifted a hand and pulled the irritating endotracheal tube used to intubate me out of my throat and whacked the EMT on the head with it. It wasn’t very polite of me, as he was trying, in his mind, to save my life, but the only thing he could do was slow the process down and do more harm than good. Stefan knew that, which was why he was threatening to beat the shit out of my would-be angel of mercy.

  Said angel of mercy was a balding, chubby man, and I’d left a red mark on the top of his shiny head with the tube. I felt guilty about that until I heard more sirens in the distance. Cops. Either the cops weren’t enthusiastic about coming to this part of town for a truck running into a building, or any other reason, or the fire station was closer. I sat up on the gurney and put my hand out. Stefan, covered in dirt and blood, instantly clasped my arm and lifted me to my feet. The ribs twinged, but that was all. I might’ve overdone it with the endorphins, nature’s morphine. I gave Stefan a loopy smile. “Did a building fall on me?”

  “No.” He had his arm around my shoulders and was helping, if helping was half carrying, me to the SUV waiting for us two buildings down. It hadn’t seemed far when we’d parked. It seemed a half-hemisphere walk now. I vaguely noticed his other arm was pointed behind us as he crabbed us along sideways. He was holding his gun on the EMTs. None of them was inclined to die to take me to the hospital for a Snoopy Band-Aid. “You were hit by a semi and then a building fell on you. You are incapable of doing things the easy way, aren’t you?”

  “Hit by a semi and lived.” My grin stretched wider.

  “Clipped,” Stefan elaborated. He had no grin or smile.

  I ignored him. “I’m indestructible.” The s in indestructible was slurred, but I didn’t mind. I was the king. I told Stefan so. “I’m the king. All hail the king.” I decided I felt too good to walk and gave up. Forget the cops; napping on the sidewalk sounded like a great idea. We were about ten feet from the SUV when I decided that. Stefan half lifted me with one arm and carried me like a sack of potatoes the rest of the way, which was no way to treat the king, while Saul opened the door to the backseat from inside. He put his hands under my shoulders and eased me in while Stefan slammed the door behind me. Saul jumped behind the wheel and Stefan reappeared at the other side of the SUV, climbed in, and lifted my head to rest in his lap.

  “Get us the hell out of here, Saul.”

  “Yeah, like you had to tell me that, oh great master criminal. Jesus.” I could feel the SUV already moving and moving fast from the screech of tires. “What is it with these damn little psychotics and destroying buildings? I nailed one in the chest as he was coming out the back. He had black hair, about eighteen. I think it was that Peter kid. He came out the second-floor window, flipped up over to the roof, and then jumped to the next building. Like goddamn Spiderman. He was weaving, though. I was going to go af
ter him, but then Rome fell. I think you need to juice up your tranq-cure, kid.”

  “You’ve no . . . idea.” The sun through the window sparkled in a thousand colors. I didn’t know there were a thousand colors. “He grew up, same as me. Stronger now. He’s not a rhino anymore. He’s four or five rhinos. Up the dose. Definitely. Up. Up, up, and away.”

  Stefan’s thumb gently peeled back my eyelid. “Been practicing, huh?” I had said that, hadn’t I? Before we’d gone into the pawnshop. “On the healing, I’m guessing. Not even chimeras can fix a deflated lung and blood pooling around your heart in minutes. And somehow you’re doped to the gills, though I didn’t let that guy give you anything. Your pupils are huge.”

  “That’s the adrenaline for healing and the endorphins for . . . I’m hungry.” I tried to sit up. Stefan held me down easily with a hand on my forehead and one on my chest. I wasn’t simply hungry. I was starving. I’d pushed my body to extremes I’d hoped I had in me but hadn’t been completely sure about until now. It took massive amounts of energy to do what I’d done, and I needed to replenish it. But when I tried to explain, replenish sounded more like plenrish. I said it several more times until it was less of a word and more a mouthful of oatmeal. That only made me hungrier. Oatmeal . . . Ariel liked oatmeal with brown sugar, cinnamon, and maple syrup. Ariel was hot. Not just hot . . . what’d they say . . . yeah . . . smoking hot.

  Did Ariel think I was hot?

  “Am I hot?” I asked Stefan. “Smoking hot? Think Ariel thinks I’m smoking hot?”

  “Yeah, you’re the sexiest motherfucker on the planet, Misha.” There were so many emotions behind the blood on his face, but right now I could read only two of them. Exasperation. Worry. Too much worry. “Now enough with the endorphins. You must have more in you than you’d find swimming around in fifty marathon runners combined. Cut back on them enough to be lucid, would you?”