Beast Machine

by Brad McKinniss

  “Hey, Bernie!” shouted a man in his blue mining uniform and an orange hardhat. “How was last night?”

  “It was splendid,” replied, presumably, Bernie. Bernie had a yellow hardhat. “My wife still enjoys the redneck things in life, but I thoroughly enjoyed the wine and the musical. The drive to Little Rock wasn’t even that bad! Our hybrid got incredible gas mileage.”

  “Glad to hear it!” The orange hardhat wearing man slapped Bernie on the back and both men laughed. They both walked toward the entrance of the mining facility, yet to be opened.

  A large gathering of miners, each with an orange, yellow, blue or white hardhat on their heads, had beaten the two men to the entrance of the mining facility, but this was not unusual at all. The miners all typically arrived between 5:05 am – 5:25 am; the main mine entrance gate would open automatically at 5:30 am and the day would begin. The miners would either have idle conversation or check to make sure all their safety gear was up to date and working like it should. A lack of camaraderie amongst the miners became noticeable during work duties, unfortunately, as each miner was programmed to do their job once the morning gate opened. No more small talk, no more jokes and no more non-work related activities, aside from a thirty minute lunch at 11:30 am. They would ignore every outside problem until the day was over at 5:30 pm.

  As the miners were waiting for the entrance to open and their day to begin, one of their coworkers, a stout man with red stitching in his blue uniform reading ‘Carver,’ flung his hardhat straight into the air. Nearby miners noticed the hardhat rise through the air and watched it hit – PLOOMP – the ground. No reactions or words were made regarding the hardhat being tossed into the air. This Carver had apparently been known to be dramatic and the workers knew that they had to focus on the work day that was about to begin.

  “How can none of you hear the voices?” shouted Carver rabidly. His hair was thinning and his mind was becoming warped. “They’re so fucking loud! I can barely hear myself think!” He fell to his knees and began to scream gutturally. The screams were similar to a dying oxen or the roars of a dying lion; sounds that would inflict quite a large amount of emotional pain on any sentient organism. Disturbing sounds that would surely bring out even the slightest kindness in the most focused, work-first individuals.

  Except that not a single miner came to the aid of Carver. He was left screaming and hollering to himself and the voices. No miner even really noticed the poor man screaming his life out. They just kept making their idle conversation and checking their safety equipment. Their lack of care toward others outside of work seems to come from their constant lack of human empathy during work times. The Carda Implant was adapting differently than expected inside each of the miners.

  BING-DONG-BING

  The entrance to the mine opened and all the miners shuffled in, except for Carver. He was still writhing, shouting and crying. His hair, or what was left of it, fell onto the ground by his own hands.

  “Please,” he cried. “Someone stop and take me to get help. My mind isn’t right.” He tried to grasp the hands of the passing miners but they kept shuffling by too quickly for Carver to even get the slightly grip on them. “Please, please! My mind, it’s talking to me. Telling me I should kill myself. Please help. I don’t know what to do!”

  All the miners had entered the facility and the door closed a minute after all the miners had entered. It would lock tight in twenty-nine minutes.

  “I should listen to my mind then, I guess,” said Carver, tears streaming down his face. He blinked slowly twice. His mind kept torturing him. “I’m clearly sick and no one wants to help. I can’t be saved.” He rounded up enough strength in his body to prop himself up and gripped his pickaxe, one of the few miners that still equipped such a tool. He launched the pickaxe straight into his skull as powerfully as he could. The pickaxe only entered a few inches into his skull, but it was more than enough to cause significant damage to his brain.

  Blood started to pour out of Carver’s punctured skull, as Carver stood still. Emotionally still. A smile came across his face. He fell to the earth and bled out as the other miners made their way deep below the Earth.

  Chapter 34

  Connecting The Dots

  “Hello, there – to all you people listening in! We would like to welcome you – hopefully welcome you back! – to the Jimbo and Elliot Session on ADDR out of Portland!” said Elliot as jazzy, electronic intro music played behind his relaxed voice.

  “This Jimbo and Elliot Session is sponsored by Silva’s primo nose filters! If you work around hazardous materials, toxic smoke or you have bad allergies, you should try Silva’s nose primo filters! Scientifically proven to prevent any toxic material or allergens to enter your nasal passages! Contact your doctor today,” Elliot coughed, “Excuse me for that cough, folks. Anyhow, I’d like to start the show by saying that we have had a serious tone on the show the past few weeks because of a local scientist’s gruesome death. It’s just been an awful, awful few weeks for the community at large. We want to get back to our fun, wacky radio hour here on the Jimbo and Elliot Session!”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s been too awful, Elliot,” replied Jimbo. “In fact, I’d bet some listeners like this sorta thing.”

  “Why would they?” asked Elliot.

  “I mean, it’s absolutely terrible that Dr. Spotila died – especially the way he died – but it’s been interesting, incredible really, how we learned so much about what was going on in that gaudy, ritzy, expensive tower of his. Or should I say dungeon,” said Jimbo.

  “Well, I suppose some people – including you – may like to talk about this sort of thing, but should we kick a man while he’s down?” said Elliot. “It was, uh, cool, I suppose, to have a serious tone in the show, but I’m just not sure we should keep piling onto the guy. He’s dead, Jimbo.”

  “So what? He’s fucking dead!” said Jimbo excitedly. “Pardon my French to everyone listening that may have been offended just there – my producer is giving me a death stare – but, come on Elliot, he’s dead. He doesn’t have any immediate family, so we’re really not piling on anyone but the dead reptile lover, Dr. Spotila.”

  “I just don’t know, Jimbo,” said Elliot. “There are so many more things to talk about – like that wacky governor’s race in the backwards state of Arkansas! Or how Mickey Rourke swam the English Channel nude, or we could talk about if Joe Flacco is actually elite, or how the Portland city council wants to try to officially trademark ‘The 90s’ for their own usage in the city! There’s much more to talk about than some dead herpetologist, despite him being from Portland.”

  “Let’s just talk about it this one last time, but we’ll leave out the security guard that was killed,” said Jimbo. “He didn’t do anything to anyone and his case is still being investigated, though the current theory is that a wild animal got to him. They still haven’t found any trace of those circus freaks. Maybe the video was old? Spotila didn’t apparently care much about his own building’s security.”

  “Fine,” said Elliot. “You’re way too into this thing, but I’ll let you have your way this one last time. I’ll get my way one day.” Elliot sighed loudly.

  “ME LIKEY!” said an eccentric man’s voice. It was a reaction button at the radio station that Jimbo pushed.

  “What exactly do you want to discuss?” said Elliot. “We’ve covered a lot of what went down already.”

  “Well, first I wanted to mention an update on the device, erm serum, er what’s it called?” asked Jimbo. “The thingie Dr. Spotila was working on, supposed to help mankind?”

  “Uh, erm. I think, uh. An apparatus? I think?” replied Elliot.

  “Yes!” said Jimbo loudly. “That apparatus he was working on will be continued by his colleagues at the American Scientific Hub, or ASH for short. The apparatus, if you haven’t been keeping up with our show – shame on you – the apparatus, in simple terms for simple people like me, is taking the cellular structures from lizards’ tails tha
t regenerate and creating human body parts made out of those cells. The body parts would be arms, legs, fingers, toes, ears, maybe eyes, and hopefully eventually internal organs!”

  “I’d like to let everyone know that Jimbo read that information off a note card!” Jimbo laughed at the revelation from Elliot. “But, honestly, I don’t think Dr. Spotila was going to go that far, Jimbo,” said Elliot coolly. “I believe it was going to be meant for wounded veterans, children from war torn countries, and those afflicted by being born limbless.”

  “Hey, El, a man can speculate, right? I know he was just working on it for those born without limbs, or had limbs taken away somehow, but just imagine the possibilities that this apparatus could eventually lead to!” rambled Jimbo. “My Sci-fi boner is going off the charts!”

  A loud “BOING-OING-OING” sound blasted over the radio.

  “So what’s your point in all this? Why are we bringing this back up? Just to talk about some apparatus he could have made, but now someone else is going to try to make? To talk about science fiction becoming science fact?” asked Elliot, clearly agitated. “Make your point now.”

  “All right, all right. Calm down, El,” said Jimbo. “My point is that one of the scientists from ASH that was appointed to oversee the continuation of the apparatus was found dead just a few days ago.”

  “What!?” said Elliot. “Who? No, you’re lying. Tell me you’re lying. You’re just saying this to keep talking about Dr. Spotila.”

  “I am not lying, my friend; she was found dead just a few days ago, like I had said,” said Jimbo. “Found dead in what was described as a ‘man-made crater’ that looked like a bomb had exploded and her throat was ripped out.”

  “Ripped out?” said Elliot apprehensively. “Not slit? Not slashed? Her throat was just straight ripped out?”

  “Ripped clean out,” said Jimbo. “Apparently, the entire scene was exceptionally gruesome, not Dr. Spotila gruesome but still disturbing. That’s the word from some locals there. I couldn’t get a photo from the crime scene – the cops down there aren’t as friendly as our Sheriff up here.”

  Gora sat next to radio pensively. She was waiting for the moment where she was linked to at least one of the slayings. So far, though, Dr. Spotila’s death was ruled an accidental suicide and not much has been done in regards to figuring out Dr. Borehole’s death. She was clean, for now, but she just had a sickening feeling she would become the prime suspect, and have to go on the run to protect herself and her beasts.

  “Sitting next to that radio box isn’t going to help, ya know?” said Tubman. She walked over to Gora and put her paw on Gora’s shoulder. “How about we do something to take your mind off all this?”

  Gora pushed her lips to the left side of her face. “I don’t feel bad about killing Borehole or Spotila, but I would feel dreadful if you or the others were caught.”

  “We’re never going to get caught, Gora. Not as long as I’m alive. I ain’t going to become a slave, in this body or my human body. We’re all too smart, too strong willed to be caught. We’ve made mistakes in the past two missions, yet we’re all intact and nearly ready for the next one. We’ll be fine, Gora.”

  Gora sighed, “You’re right. I can’t let possibilities and fear chain me down. We must continue.” She looked at Tubman and smiled. “You’ve been a great addition and I’m glad you were created. Even though you were a bit of a hassle to begin with…”

  Blushing, Tubman said, “Well, Gora, you created me after all.” Tubman never knew that Owlbert was the one that created her.

  “No, I mean, I’m glad your human self – Harriet Tubman – was created. If such a miraculous person such as you – er, her – was not created, was never born, we’d be without our glue. Without our heart. You kept the group going with creating the hole, you helped get Hitbear out of trouble so Borehole didn’t see him, and you were so brave entering Spotila’s facility. We wouldn’t be this far along without you, Tubman.”

  Still blushing, Tubman replied, “Well, I guess, thank you, Gora.” She looked down at her feet and stood up on her haunches. “Let’s stop being sappy and try to get it right for the next one. Sound good to you?”

  “Yes!” giggled Gora. “I can be too serious sometimes!” She stood up and walked with Tubman over to Hitbear and the injured Owlbert.

  The pair was watching television from a set that Gora had pulled out of her storage so Owlbert had something to occupy himself while his wings, beak and talons healed. Each beast was enthralled with modern television shows: the quality of the picture, how it was in color, the effects and the animations – it was all appealing to the beasts!

  “I faintly remember watching films on large white screens, but this,” said Hitbear, “this is incredible! How did they fit a projector and the film inside of this slender box!?” He looked around the laboratory. “Is there a projector somewhere in this messy lab?” He kept looking around, first seriously, then foolishly after realizing there was no outside projector for the television.

  “Bear, can du be quiet, bitte?” asked Owlbert weakly. “I can’t hear zee sound!” Hitbear stopped fooling around and returned to a quiet gaze at the television.

  Owlbert was placed in a jerry-rigged hammock of sorts with bandages covering his wings. His beak wore deep scratches and a few bumps, while his talons were mostly fine aside from two being chipped. Feathers were often being shed as the medication Gora placed on his wings was strong but not without side effects. The healing process was arduous and, frankly, boring for a quick witted creature that liked to hop about the laboratory to find new books to fill his mind with or head outside to fly through the forest looking for bugs or mice.

  Now he was laid up in a hammock with his wings bandaged and his beak looking unfamiliar. It was a grueling time that could have been spent doing things to further Gora’s goals and to enrich his own mind. Not to mention the affable, but immature, Hitbear was his only source of companionship considering Gora had been huddled around her radio since they got back from California and Tubman wasn’t one to sit around.

  “I’m enjoying the ones where you can see the actress’s nipples!” said Hitbear with glee. “It must be so cold wherever they are!” He giggled loudly.

  Owlbert sighed as he tried to crane his neck to look toward the incoming Gora and Tubman.

  “How’s the television watching going?” asked Gora. “What about your wings? Any better?”

  “Ja, they’re okay…but this ist ein utterly boring time!” replied Owlbert. “I vant to read! I vant to fly! I vant to help prepare for zee next mission! Can’t du find something to quicken zee process of this?”

  “Aw, Owlbert, aren’t you having any fun watching television with me?” said Hitbear. He frowned slightly at his owl buddy.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Owlbert. I don’t want you to damage your body anymore,” said Gora. “You need to rest.”

  “Du made that claw of metal for bear!” said Owlbert angrily. He wiggled in his hammock. “Du can’t do anything for this? For me? Bitte, Frau Gora!” His eyes filled with emotion. A small tear escaped and fell onto his feathery face.

  “I…,” said Gora softly, “I, I guess, I’ll see what I can do.” She placed both hands on her head and scratched it furiously. Her hair was, unusually, down and rested just beyond her shoulders.

  “JA! JA! DU ZEE BEST!” screeched Owlbert. He attempted to click his talons together until he realized those talons were chipped. Despite the chipped talons, he was happy that he could potentially be out of the hammock and moving again soon. He began to make owl noises loudly.

  WHOO WHOO WHOOOO! WHOO WHOO WHOOOO!

  “Can you quiet down?” asked Hitbear. “It’s hard to concentrate with all this noise!”

  “Oh shut it,” said Tubman.

  “Since I’ll, apparently, be working on a contraption for Owlbert, Hitbear and, you, Tubman will have to prepare for the next mission,” said Gora. She fingered out a few knots in her hair. “You two must get a
long and research this next one well.”

  “Who is it?” said Hitbear absently; he was still focused on the television.

  “Takeo Silva.”

  The laboratory, except the television, went quiet. Tubman looked into the air with a furrowed brow and Gora stared emotionlessly at Owlbert’s hammock.

  Hitbear let out a loud laugh. “Haha! That guy?” said Hitbear. “Oh, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on that piece of dirt and smother him out of existence!” He took both his claws and mashed them together to simulate what he was going to do to Takeo Silva.

  “When do you want to start, bear?” asked Tubman. “I’m ready whenever.”

  “After this show ends!” exclaimed Hitbear. “About fifteen minutes, my friend!” He waved Tubman off as he continued to watch the television set. “I’m waiting for the dragons to appear. I think that’s what they’re called, dragons.”

  Tubman turned to Gora, “How about we create a new member? We could definitely use more help.” She glared at Hitbear. “We have the brawn, but we could use more, uh, finesse and more options is never a bad thing.”

  Gora turned cold, “No, that’s a bad idea. I’m going to get started on that new equipment for Owlbert. Don’t dally on that strategy.” She quickly turned away from Tubman and the others. She walked to the other end of the lab to her main table used for preparation for all of her previous inventions and pulled up a chair. She grabbed a pen and some paper to begin sketching out how the apparatus for Owlbert might work.

  “Wasn’t that a little weird?” asked Tubman to Owlbert, and to a lesser extent Hitbear.

  “Ja, but Frau Gora ist just stressed!” replied Owlbert. He readjusted his body in the hammock. “It ist ein stressful position.”

  “Huh?” Hitbear said softly. He didn’t hear the question nor did he care, the television had his full attention.

  “Ugh,” said Tubman. She sat down and began to meditate as she waited for Hitbear’s television show to end.