Thick smoke slowly billowed out of a usable – but in poor shape – brick chimney. Smoke mostly seeped out the top of the chimney; occasionally, smoke would leak out of the cracked bricks that held the stack together. The chimney smoke lingered over like a cloud of bad luck ready to consume one of the humans in the decrepit house. Smoke from the chimney added to the rough view of the stars.
“Come over here, son. Take a break from reading,” said a middle-aged black man pouring scotch from an unlabeled glass bottle into a wooden cup.
He had kind eyes but the posture and skin of a person that has had few comfortable moments in life. His back bent, arched, and twisted all through his spine that it often became uncomfortable to stand for too long. Each of his knuckles was swollen and raw from years of abusing his hands: for subsistence and fighting off any presumed interlopers, mostly subsistence reasons.
The few teeth left in his drooping mouth were chipped or yellowed, yet he spoke with a remarkable eloquence one would expect out of a news broadcaster or a charismatic public speaker. He would still have his youthful looks had he not put himself through hell, he always thought when the pain became severe, but it has so far been worth it.
The son arose from a handmade desk in the corner of the room. He snatched up a candle in one hand and walked toward his father. His copy of The Gilded Age by Mark Twain lay open on the desk. It was the fifth time the boy had read The Gilded Age by his lonesome as the reading-for-fun options were limited to a handful of books: The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien, the aforementioned The Gilded Age, and a tattered Holy Bible that the father and son used mostly as a paper weight. The Bible was occasionally used to even out a chair or table before they found a permanent solution. “The Bible is more useful as a brick for starting a fire,” the man would often tell his son. “Those words in the Bible are meant for the hopeless.”
The boy had the same kind eyes as his father but his skin was not rugged or stretched by any means. His posture was holding up well, no swollen knuckles on either hand, and his teeth were incredibly white, though time had this annoying knack of ruining one’s youthful qualities. Youthfulness emanated from each step the boy took toward his father. The father was envious, yet proud, of the youthfulness his son possessed. He knew his son would need every ounce of energy and youthfulness to accomplish what lies ahead.
“I need to tell you a story – a long story – about your grandparents,” the man said with a stutter caused by nerves. He stood up and gently stoked the fire before returning to his chair. That small action of physical activity caused the man significant pain, but he swallowed the pain because there was much worse pain to come.
The son sat cross-legged in front of his father with a fiery interest in his eyes. He had been waiting since he could remember to hear the full story about his grandparents. The bits and pieces he had heard from his father left him wanting to know more. Wanting to know everything that had happened to them and any potential relatives kept the boy up most nights. He visualized that his grandparents valiantly saved his father from a lion, or saved his father from a burning building that was about to collapse. The boy’s visualizations covered anything and everything that could have happened to his grandparents. Except for what his father was about to tell him.
“As you know, my mother and father were killed when I was roughly your age…” the man sighed and rubbed his eyes. “It’s time that you hear the full story – their story – and how their bravery will not be in vain.”
The son inched closer with his mouth slightly agape and his interest rising.
“It was nearing the end of World War II – the war to end all wars people always had said – and my father was to return from overseas – Italy, if I remember correctly.”
The man looked up into the air with strained eyes trying to place exactly where his father was stationed. He raised his hands trying to mimic Europe the best he could. Once that attempt failed, motions were made to make the boot-shape that Italy held, though it vaguely resembled Italy. He couldn’t make his fingers correctly shape the once fascist controlled Italy.
“Nonetheless, my brother and I were ecstatic to have our papa back in the house. Back in our world. My mother needed it as well since she raised us and worked while papa was overseas fighting the imperialistic Axis Powers. It was supposed to be the happiest moment of my life – our lives, I mean. Everything would be going back to normal for our family of four in one of the greatest cities in the world, New York City. We didn’t care what would happen, but we knew we would be whole again. Or so we thought.
“At the time, blacks in America were treated with the same respect that a mule or mutt would expect; sometimes worse, sometimes better. Though, times haven’t changed much,” he laughed apathetically. “Yet my father and mother were highly respected in our neighborhood for being generous and kind humans.
“They were known to cook meals for the needy, donate clothes to the families down the street when the wives gave birth and even were known to teach skills to neighborhood children that would come and play with my brother and me. This was especially honorable considering it was during The Great Depression, a time when no one would do anything for anyone but themselves – I guess, things still haven’t changed since then?” Another apathetic laugh came from the man. “It’s no surprise to me that my parents were quite fond of the idea of communism and socialism. How my parents found the energy and had the money to do all this, I haven’t the faintest clue and will never know.
“My father had been lucky enough to take several college courses at the local city college before the war. He studied various subjects; chemistry, physics and French literature were his favorites. His love for French literature was the reason I named you Gaston – in honor of Gaston Leroux. The tales he would tell me were so wonderful. I never found the time, after his death, to learn French, but he would be proud to know about you, Gaston. He would be over the moon, as they say.”
The boy cracked a smile exposing his teeth, perfectly white and straight. Not a stain upon them. As a small child, he had seen Leroux’s famous The Phantom of the Opera performed by a youth theatre group. He couldn’t quite grasp what the play meant at the time, or even now, but he had always wanted to see it performed once more to illuminate his mind on the topic.
“During his time at the city college, he met a kind, Jewish man named Julius Rosenberg. Rosenberg took a specific interest in my father and the two men became friends, great friends. Their bond over the importance of academia was immense and their love for wanting all men to be equal was matched only by their love to breathe. They were soul mates; they had nearly the same likes and dislikes, but luckily each had a differing perspective so as to keep things exciting during their friendly debates.
“The debates Julius and my father had together had always been a sight! Julius would hand my brother and I sweets then unleash the final blow to my father’s retort, crushing my father in their friendly verbal gymnastics. I never fully understood what they were saying, most nights, but I knew Julius and my father truly loved the chance to flash their brilliance to one another. It was a fun game between two generous men.” He sighed. “I always think about their debates and how important it is to not become angry with a friend for merely disagreeing.” He swilled around the liquid in the wooden cup.
“The Rosenbergs would frequently have dinner with my family, and my brother and I frequently would do chores for the Rosenbergs out of the colossal respect my father had for them. Their children, along with the other neighbor children, would often play with us; hide ‘n seek, cops and robbers, red rover, kick the can, stick ball – all the fun games city kids could get into in those days. I can’t remember the number of times we would have to all scatter because someone broke something during stick ball.” The old man giggled quietly. “It was a joyous time until Julius and my father were abruptly shipped off to war; Julius into the Army and my father into the Navy. Both men were conscripted in 194
0, though the United States of America had not formally entered into the worldwide fray. My mother cried for two weeks straight after my father received his draft card. When he left, my mother cried for two months. That was the last time I ever saw my father, when he left,” said the old man holding back tears. “As for Julius, well.”
The man went quiet, as he kept fighting off his tears. His bulbous knuckles began to shake uncontrollably and his mouth drooped more than it had before.
“Well, what?” asked the concerned boy. The boy now felt that he had missed out on having two sets of grandparents – the Rosenbergs and his own.
The man quickly collected himself after telling himself that his boy needed to hear this story, with tears or without tears.
“As for Julius, I only saw Julius once after the war, in the newspapers,” coughed the man. His heart sank deep into his hardened soul.
“While my father and Julius had been overseas fighting for freedom and humanity, Ethel Rosenberg, Julius’ actress wife, would have tea with my mother twice a week; once in the morning on Tuesday and once at night on Saturday. They started to form a bond like their husbands had; the bond was formed out of necessity for each woman’s mind and it often eased their anxieties about the possibilities of what could happen to their husbands overseas.
“I often would eavesdrop on the ladies, even though my brother held the constant worry that we would receive whoopin’s for me listening into the private conversations. It was rude to do so in hindsight, but I proceeded to do so whenever I could. Despite my brother’s worries, I never was caught snooping into their conversations.”
“Why have I never met your brother,” interrupted the son. The boy scratched at his head and maneuvered himself into a more comfortable position of lying on his belly than sitting cross-legged. “Is he still alive? Where’s he live? What was…”
“In due time, Gaston, in due time,” assured the father. He sipped the brown liquid from a wooden cup and coughed loudly. “I may need more of this soon,” he said to himself as he looked longingly into the barren wooden cup. It wasn’t the good stuff so he needed more of it to reach a solid buzz. A solid enough buzz to tell this story, and a solid enough buzz to do what was best for his son.
The son brought a new bottle of brown liquor over to his father.
“Listening to the women squawk was my favorite pastime when my father was overseas (I imagined I were a spy for the military!), though their conversations were typically boring. The pair would giggle about our neighbor Mrs. Stevoski’s poor fashion choices and would complain about Ms. Miller, one of my school teachers, being temperamental when dealing with problem children. Just boring, deathly boring talk.” He opened up the new bottle. “When the talks would slide towards a sexual nature I would try to cover my ears but powered through as I didn’t want to miss a chance to hear any word about Julius or my father, regardless of how inappropriate the conversation was for a child. I learned many choice words while eavesdropping on the two women.” He and his son giggled quietly. “Most of the dirty words came from Ethel, as she was an actress and had seen many unappealing sights backstage between actors. Or so she would say.”
The man laughed quietly and took another sip out of his wooden cup. The booze helped the broken man suppress the demons he had been fighting the majority of his life. But he could only suppress them for so long before they would scrape at his soul once more.
“One day, Ethel came into the house with a worried look. I figured she had seen a rat or had spent too much money on makeup once again. I didn’t pay any mind to Ethel, as she rarely spoke to the children – it was a sharp contrast to her warm husband that could strike up a conversation with a mute.
“She asked to speak to mother immediately but mother was sleeping. ‘Please, Jozy, please wake her up. It’s an emergency,’ she told me. I obliged her, as I was always taught not to be rude to guests – invited or not. I ran upstairs and woke my mother from her slumber and I was greeted with a few swinging fists that nearly grazed my face. ‘Momma, Mrs. Rosenberg is here and she says it’s an emergency,’ I told my mother quickly, before she could reload her fists.
“My mother’s eyes widened to the size of billiard balls. She frantically said, ‘Jozy, grab your brother and go to your room, now!’ I did as I was told but knew that I needed to hear this conversation. It had to be something I needed to hear. I went into spy mode and began to make my movements deliberate.
“I grabbed my younger brother by the neck of his shirt and told him ‘We’re going to play cops and robbers upstairs! Momma and Ethel are having their tea today, instead of tomorrow!’ I smiled as I forcefully pulled him upstairs. Once in our room I explained to him the situation, the best I could anyway at that age, and how I had to get my ears near the kitchen. ‘Jozy, we will get whooped if you get caught! I don’t want my behind whooped!’ he stammered. ‘You will get caught, bubby, you will get caught!’
“That phrase still rings in my mind. More so the tense tone my brother held as he warned me. He was always a little worrywart.” The man shook his head slowly. “After easing my brother’s worries – a typical chore of mine – I crept downstairs and sat next to the kitchen door under a table. The women were speaking much quieter than usual. I couldn’t fully understand what they were saying until I lowered my breathing. What I began to hear would change my family forever.”
The man began to weep.
Chapter 4
Crossed The Line
“Stop planning your attack and help me decide what beast I should create next,” chirped Gora from the prone position next to the Beast Machine. She was pawing through a large book dubbed Human History’s Greatest Heroes, Heroines, Villains and Monsters by Donald Jarosz. The book was filled with vast knowledge of human history’s wonderful champions and bloody conquerors, and every important person in between. The word Monsters in the book’s long title was blood red, while the other words of the title were merely black.
Hitbear was again staring intently at the globe and the roughly unfurled maps underneath the globe. Gora had told him of the places where her enemies regularly lived, so Hitbear took it upon himself to place tiny markers on various targets on the globe and maps. There were markers on San Francisco, Little Rock, Vancouver, Washington and Washington, D.C. for North America; Shanghai, Beijing, Pyongyang, Mumbai and Kuala Lumpur were marked for Asia; and Paris, Zurich, Berlin and Kiev were marked for Europe. Hitbear was deep in thought in how to correctly reach the targets quickly but efficiently.
“This is far more important than creating another advisor beast,” said Hitbear as he faced Gora. “Get back to me when we’re creating our soldiers.” He turned back to the globe and gingerly brushed his silly moustache with his chubby bear fingers. “Now, to anticipate the possible locations they could flee. This part is going to be tricky. People can move around much faster than when I was last alive.” He fingered the map up and down, trying to decide where the new markers should be placed.
Another round of tiny markers, differently colored than the first markers, were placed on the maps as the secondary and tertiary locations that the scientists may be located. These locations were purely guesses by Hitbear and he only selected the places that had city names he liked, so they were useless at best.
San Francisco’s secondary and tertiary locations were marked as Sacramento and San Jose.
Little Rock’s secondary and tertiary locations were marked as Arkadelphia and Bella Vista.
Vancouver, Washington’s secondary and tertiary locations were marked as Longview and Salem.
Washington, D.C.’s secondary and tertiary locations to flee were marked as Hagerstown and King George.
Hitbear stopped adding the secondary and tertiary markers after finishing the North American cities. He found this to be a tedious task with his cumbersome figure. “I can get back to this when the first round of targets is eliminated.”
It was taking him some time to get used to this new bear body after years as a hu
man, though Hitbear’s new existence had only been a few days. Were those muddled memories of being human even his? Or were the memories implanted by Gora’s Beast Machine? “The memories feel so real,” he thought.
Hitbear remembered the general details of what happened during his human existence, but the intimate details of his former life were muddy. He remembered most of his childhood and adolescent, but his adult life could only be remembered in fuzzy, disturbing patches.
“Fine. I’m going to create Albert Einstein,” Gora smirked. She had put down Human History’s Greatest Heroes, Heroines, Villains and Monsters and had been reading a book titled Geniuses of the 20th Century: Why Einstein’s Brain Should Have Been Put On Ice by J.E. Hewitt. “Why not just recreate Einstein – one of the smartest humans of all-time,” she thought. “His advice will be priceless!”
Hitbear didn’t budge to the playful threat. Maybe Hitbear was not as anti-Semitic as the real Hitler was? Gora was determined to find out. “Hmm. Now to decide what to mix Einstein with… A hog? No, no that won’t do. It wouldn’t be kosher.” Gora walked to the cooling station, unlocked it and removed the six vials from within the small unit. The vials were then placed softly on the table in no particular order.
She kept walking around the table with the six remaining vials holding tiny animals in stasis. “What about a snake? Einsnake? No, no – that sounds terrible; plus the snake is reserved for someone else.” She spoke loud enough to try to pique Hitbear’s interest, or ire in this case, toward the incoming beast.
Beast Machine Page 2
