More hours passed. I struggled to control my fear and misery. My face broke out in pimples from the poisoned building. I worried again about Bobby.
Early that evening I thought I felt a little tingle in my left knee. Nothing much, and I credited the tingle to my imagination, but a few minutes later my knee tingled again. A few minutes later, I registered some pressure from my big toe.
Heh. My severed spine healed. I would walk again. Time to escape!
Oh, not yet. My legs still weren’t ready, and I had to arrange my escape, but my spine healed. I would escape.
Three hours passed before my legs completely came back. The sensations started as little tingles and pressures, but they gradually progressed to pain. My legs, stationary for too long, screamed for motion. The ferocious pain in my legs almost blinded me.
I didn’t move. If I made even one slight move of my legs, the camera would catch the motion, and I would have blown my one chance. My life depended on my staying still, regardless of the pain. I wanted to live very badly. I managed.
I plotted and planned. The night shift guarded me now, including the same aide who earlier unlocked my legs. I waited until I mastered the pain in my legs before I made my bowels move and messed myself.
The aide winced at the stench as he came in for his next rounds, and took the keys from his friend Fritz before he even left the doorway.
I forced my legs to a relaxed limpness as he unlocked the first one. I forced myself to breathe normally. I forced myself to seem harmless and trapped.
He unlocked my second leg, and I had him. I wrapped my legs around him and held him to me. I kept him pinned with one leg and I braced the other foot against his chin. One kick and I would snap his neck. The captive aide let out a panicked shriek. The keys went flying across the room, landing about five feet from the guards.
Damn it! I needed those keys! I had planned for the aide to give them to me. I had control of him, and he would do what needed to be done to save his life. The keys had been safely in the lock when I grabbed him. How in the hell did the keys get knocked out?
No time for recriminations now, though. Time to improvise.
“Get me the keys, Fritz,” I said, my voice harsh and commanding and male.
His reflex was to obey a voice with that snap of command. Reflex almost made him do it. Fritz took a step towards the keys before he realized who gave him the order. His face hardened and he pointed his gun at me.
“Let him go or you’re dead, bitch,” he said.
One of the other guards also pointed his gun at me. The third left the room at a run, the Detention Center alarms blaring almost immediately.
My legs shrieked in agony and started to fail. They had been unused too long and they wanted to go into convulsions. I clenched my teeth and forced them to obedience. They couldn’t betray me now. I needed them.
I smelled the funny ozone odor of the burn. Dammit! I couldn’t afford to burn juice to keep my legs functional. I needed to end this, now!
“Unlock me or Johnny here is dead,” I said, cold and demanding. Johnny whimpered in my grasp, twisting, but he couldn’t break free. His thrashing cost me, though. Something in my injured left shoulder gave way, flooding me with a tsunami of pain.
Fritz’s face was white. For a minute, he didn’t know what to do.
Then Fritz figured it out. I read his decision, and it landed like lead in my gut. He wouldn’t let me escape. He would sacrifice Johnny and anybody else I got my hands on, but he wouldn’t let me escape. I was too dangerous. I couldn’t be allowed free, no matter the cost.
I looked over to the other guard. I thought maybe I could gain some advantage there, but he looked to Fritz for guidance. He would follow whatever Fritz did.
I couldn’t fail in this! I had to get free!
“He’s going to die, Fritz. It will be your fault if he dies. Get the keys.” I tried to get through to him, but he didn’t listen to me.
Four more guards entered the room. Too many.
“Unlock me or the aide dies,” I said. I squeezed the aide and he whimpered again. Agony from my now re-injured shoulder almost knocked me out. If he had only had the keys, the aide would have gladly given them to me.
With those keys in my right hand, I would get free with a speed those guards would never believe.
Five guards faced me, all of whom were willing to sacrifice Johnny instead of getting me the keys. A wave of bitter fury washed through me as I squeezed Johnny with my feet and forced a scream out of him. He screamed until he passed out, still caught by my feet. I relaxed my pressure on him and studied the guards again. No change. They just stood there with their guns raised and waited. Fritz swore a steady stream of obscenities under his breath and tears leaked out the corners of his eyes. His face was pale and so was his finger on the trigger.
If I killed the aide, any pretense of negotiations would end. I couldn’t allow that. I had blown this chance to escape. Without negotiations, I wouldn’t get another. I would have to capitulate and play along with them. Wait. Exercise my patience.
I dropped my hold on the aide and he fell to the floor with a meaty thump.
Confusion followed. Fingers whitened on guns as one of the guards ran to check on the aide. By the time they figured out whether or not the aide lived, they could no longer shoot me in the heat of the conflict. Because the aide lived, they could no longer shoot me at all.
I had lost and it was time to suck shit. I ignored them. I turned my face to the wall and dismissed them in contempt.
Or tried to. The instant the burn faded my legs went into convulsions. The muscles cramped and spasmed and I thrashed helpless on the table, covered in shit and trying to keep from screaming from the pain.
By the time the convulsions ended, and I painfully managed to work out each individual cramp, I was exhausted. Sweat poured off my face and I couldn’t stop myself from making little whimpering noises. No more illusion of a dangerous, powerful predator. Everyone knew I was sick and beaten.
They left me there chained and trapped and fouled in my own mess.
Gilgamesh: March 9, 1968
March 9, 1968
SK,
I am the man you found tied to a chair in Philadelphia. I have information for you I hope you will find important. A very predatory former housemate of yours was captured last week by an organization you have had aggressive dealings with in the past. I understand your current set-up and the three buildings you live in and use is not known to this organization. I also understand that you have taken to wearing a brown suit and a dark red tie when engaged in business dealings these days. Know that I am explaining my knowledge of these things only to aid you in the understanding of my capabilities. The former housemate’s current location is in the Transform detention center of the CDC in Virginia, associated with the CDC Research Complex an hour west of Washington DC. Her current situation is dire.
Helpful Crow
Chapter 3
In 1967, despite a total of 12,300 Transformations from all causes in the United States, the surviving population of Transforms only increased from 4,590 to 5,670.
“Understanding Transform Sickness as a Disease”
Carol Hancock: March 9, 1968
The steel bed was gone, I was cleaned up, I had new clothing, and I had a meal. No leg irons, either. I had made a deal.
“See,” Agent McIntyre said. “That was easy.”
I put on an act of beaten, humbled and destroyed. “You cocksucker, I’ll have your ass, someday, McIntyre,” I said. I carefully put no predator in my statement. McIntyre practically started jacking off in celebration. I made my presence match my still healing body.
Cooperation? Sure. Food, water, exercise and the promise of juice. What was I giving them? Access to my body for tests. No attacks on the staff. The right to badger me with questions. I might even answer a few of them for free. I did plan to tell them as much as I could about Officer Canon and the Chimeras. Propaganda. Payback. I hated those b
easts and I wasn’t particularly happy with the Focuses at the moment.
Patience. Carol lives to fight another day.
“Sure. Whatever you say, Hancock.” McIntyre gloated. I let him. “So, you know Stacy Keaton? Tell me about her.”
“Uh huh. She has a thing about fingernails,” I said.
“Fingernails?”
“Yes. She marks all of her people by removing their fingernails. I couldn’t count the number of times she ripped my fingernails off my fingers. Like this,” I said, and ripped a fingernail off one of my fingers. It was a loose one, from the nightmarish bad juice of this place. I screamed bloody murder as I did it, faking pain far worse than I felt. “Whoo, that was a bad one,” I said.
McIntyre paled and swallowed as he forced his stomach down. I had months of half-truths along these lines. By the time I finished telling them my embellished tales of Keaton’s torture, the entire CDC would think I was the victim in this little story. I would also have something to take back to Keaton as a favor. By the time I finished, I would have all the knowledgeable FBI agents conditioned to erupt with hives whenever Keaton’s name came up.
After McIntyre finished his first round of questions, I took some time to check my healing. I no longer looked like Swiss cheese; now I looked like I had giant chickenpox – all of my healed-over bullet wounds had grown poxy flaky red skin. Several of these had produced thin white hairs all over them. If I stayed in this corrupting place for too long, I would end up as piebald as Enkidu. Although my spine had healed, my motor coordination below my tits sucked. I had a hard time walking a straight line, and I wouldn’t be able to walk a tightrope. The shattered bones in my hip and left arm healed slowly but correctly. My left shoulder, however, did not. At least one bone wasn’t in the right place and I barely had any range of motion. This was a big problem, a real big problem. If I couldn’t exercise my left shoulder, I would end up with severe muscle problems. I wouldn’t be able to eat all I wanted, dammit. I couldn’t afford to.
Dinner that night came with an unexpected surprise, written in white wax on a paper dinner napkin. I didn’t expect a paper dinner napkin; hell, given that my captors didn’t provide me with silverware I didn’t expect anything like a napkin.
I examined the napkin closely and found, of all things, writing. I could read white on white, but I doubted anyone but a Major Transform would be able to. It read:
P K here. I’m in the woods, but the local entryway’s closed the gate and I can’t get in. I’ll make another feeble attempt soon, so watch out for friendly feeble attempts.
P K was Paul Klee, an alias I knew Zielinski used. I translated: ‘Zielinski here. I’m in the area, but there’s a Focus in charge who’s keeping me out and I can’t get access to the Detention Center itself. I’m working with the friendly FBI – that is, Bates and his pals – so be nice to them if they show up.’
He shouldn’t have been here. The damn fool would get himself killed.
Worse, I didn’t have anything to write on (save the napkin) or write with. I thought for a few moments, and trashed the napkin. I couldn’t afford to keep it.
Tonya Biggioni: March 10, 1968
Tonya took her seat in the Georgia farmhouse, ready to give her report on Abernathy’s mutie mill. The air for this Sunday morning Council session was dank and damp, matching her mood. Light rain spattered the farmhouse windows, streaking dust. Cathy and Connie sat with their heads close together, a whispered conversation about Transform rights strategies and legal issues. Somebody had been planting stories about Transforms being a hotbed of Communist anti-war radicals, prompting two organized anti-Transform protests in the past month, both ending in violence.
Tonya represented the Northeast Region, which required her to attend UFA Council meetings every six months, a substantial drain on her household treasury. Still, Tonya was well enough off to afford some travel. So few Focuses were. She had held her office for the last five years. Her boss was Suzie Schrum, the Northeast Region President, a first Focus and a first-class pain in the ass.
She fought to keep her mind on topic. Yesterday, she had gotten the news that her household president, Honey Landis, had the Transform Dystrophy, a Transform-only disease, and didn’t have long to live. Honey was the only household president Tonya had ever had, and Tonya counted her as a close friend. Honey’s prognosis left a gaping hole in Tonya’s heart, one not easily filled by rejiggering the household org chart. Her new household president was Marty Fenner, the current house financial officer; his position would go to Rhonda, currently Tonya’s aide and house secretary. The position of Tonya’s aide, important because she often spoke with Tonya’s voice, would go to a relative newcomer, Delia Vinote. Although new to the household, Delia was quite talented, and Tonya liked Delia a lot.
Polly stalked in, agitated, practically dragging Jill Bentlow by her ear. Jill, a trim black haired Focus with incredibly pale skin, always grated on Tonya’s nerves. Part of her dislike came from the fact that Jill was as much under first Focus Sarah Teas’ thumb as Tonya was under first Focus Schrum’s thumb. The rest came from disgust over Jill’s hedonist household. The never-ending orgies couldn’t be good for people’s minds.
“Dammit, Polly,” Jill said. “It’s not…”
“It’s what it is. We didn’t agree to this, not at all. Now sit,” Polly said. Tonya surreptitiously wiped her eyes and sat up straight. Time to pay attention.
The Council reserved its Sunday sessions for the discussion of private Focus activities. Illegal activities for the most part, and not media-friendly. Most were necessary. Some, such as ruining Focuses who stepped out of line, were not. Tonya had a reputation for voting against those, unless Suzi Schrum dictated otherwise.
Sunday sessions were also where Polly’s nice persona vanished and the real bitch Polly came out, the bitch with the strength to run the Focus Council and by extension, all the Focuses in the country.
“It’s mine to…”
“Shut. Up.” Polly exerted her charisma. Jill, no slouch in that department, shut up.
Polly whistled and gathered all of their attention. Only Focuses today, no attendants, no prying ears. The entourages and bodyguards were off guarding the property perimeter or playing a pickup softball game. The kitchen staff vacated as well, though they had left plenty of food in the meeting room.
“Right off the bat we’re off agenda,” Polly said. “If you followed the news, there was a big fight recently in Chicago between law enforcement officers and a mobster named Seamus McIngle and his thugs. Over a dozen people died and a hundred were wounded. The newspapers are calling it the Chicago Massacre. Turns out this isn’t even close to the truth. Seamus McIngle was none other than the Arm, Carol Hancock, and quite a few more people died and got injured than made the papers.”
Tonya lost control and leapt out of her seat with a barely vocalized “What!” Polly pointed a finger at Tonya and slowly lowered it. Tonya sat and winced. Hunting down Hancock was her project, a project using under-the-table FBI contacts, private investigators, bribed reporters and mobsters. Her project hadn’t made any progress; nor had she heard a peep about Hancock’s capture in the eight days since it allegedly happened.
Tonya felt no love for the younger Arm. Despite Keaton’s insistence of Hancock’s innocence, Tonya believed Hancock had somehow given away the location of Keaton’s hideout to the two enemy Chimeras as payback for whatever grief Keaton had put her through as her student.
In fact, Tonya remained pissed about the whole situation. She still held a soft spot in her heart for Keaton, forced out of Philadelphia after the attack. If Keaton had been a Focus, Keaton would be a lot like herself, and vice versa. Her anger regarding the situation flowed over on top of that jackass Rizzari, in Boston, who had vetted Hancock and found her more sane and reasonable than anyone had ever expected of an Arm. Hancock had admitted to taking one tagged Transform, supposedly after an attack on her by one of the two Chimeras who had attacked Keaton. Hancock, supposedly,
had been near juice withdrawal and not acting rationally. Rizzari had leveled a stern punishment upon Hancock, but had let her go free afterwards. If Tonya had her way, Rizzari and her crew of wild-eyed fanatics would be scrubbing floors in a prison for the help they gave Hancock. Vetted her? Hell, Tonya occasionally wondered if they had given Hancock serial killer training.
Every Focus in the room wanted to talk, but Polly’s force of will kept them quiet. “Not a single Network affiliated law enforcement officer was involved, but they learned about it by the afternoon of March 3rd. None of us were informed, apparently at the orders of Focus Claunch.” The director of the Focus Network, and the string-puller behind the vast majority of the Focus Network’s law enforcement officers. Yet another slap at the authority of the Council. “A jurisdiction fight between the FBI, the Federal Marshals and law enforcement officials from the States of Illinois and Michigan, mirrored by the efforts of Focuses Claunch, Teas and Adkins, ended with a failed armed kidnapping of the people in the FBI truck carrying Hancock. At which point the Federal Marshals took control of the situation and Hancock was delivered to the CDC’s Transform Detention Center in Virginia, where she is being held at the present under the care of the Federal Marshals and the CDC.”
Tonya clenched her fists tight enough to draw blood. Typical Teas. Focus Sarah Teas was no friend of Tonya’s, a political opponent who had undercut and at times physically threatened Tonya with her army of poorly trained thugs. Tonya couldn’t think of an agreement she had ever made with Teas that Teas didn’t later betray. However, the CDC’s Virginia Detention Center wasn’t riddled with just Teas’ spies and operatives, but also those of Shirley Patterson, the background boss of the first Focuses and one of Tonya’s strongest backers. Any protests over this affair would be extremely tricky. Teas couldn’t be in charge without Patterson’s explicit backing.
A Method Truly Sublime (The Commander) Page 5
