Genetic Abomination

by Dane Hatchell

  “I better get out of sight, just in case,” Tarik said. There were four doors down the alley for them to choose. “Let’s take that one, over there.” He pointed to the one at the end.

  Trotting over, Tarik motioned Zax to the side away from the door. The armored glove latched onto the handle and a firm, steady pull had the deadbolt bend against the strike plate until the door frame spit concrete, releasing the lock’s bite.

  The dimly lit room housed components for power distribution throughout the building. Multicolored light flowed along translucent cables snaking up the wall. They were safe for the moment.

  “How long do you think it’ll take us to get to the safe-house?” Tarik asked.

  “Ten blocks over to the northwest will put us on the edge of town. If we make it that far we shouldn’t have any problem passing through the old-life to our hiding place.”

  Tarik had seen images of the abandoned buildings of ancient human dwellings. Many of the structures had beautiful character, with large windows, and towering pillars of opulent design. Other houses were more humble, rather box-like, in fact. After the human’s genetic transformation into the Nu-Mans, the houses of old would no longer afford comfort. The Skinks sponsored massive building projects to accommodate the larger Nu-Mans. Most of the old neighborhoods of man had been leveled or simply left to be demolished by the hands of time. Remnants of human civilization were commonly referred to as the old-life.

  Tarik’s armor operated slightly above ninety percent power. The transmetal had molecule realignment properties capable of mending minor damage to the suit. That feature required a lot of energy, more than what his individual unit could supply. “It might be better if we wait until nightfall,” Tarik said. His gaze drifted to inputs on a rectangular junction box near a wall, and he pointed. “I could plug in over there and shine the armor up a bit.”

  “I don’t think we should delay. We still have some element of surprise in our favor. I’m sure by now the Skinks have found the jumpship by the river. They’ll be fanning out from there trying to find us. I think we should keep moving.”

  “You’re going to stand out a little. You can’t go sightseeing wearing a tel-com helmet and dressed in body armor. What are you going to do with that blaster? You’ve already confessed your butt’s not robust enough to handle visitors,” Tarik said.

  The big Nu-Man turned his gaze to the floor and slowly shook his head. “As much as I hate doing this….” He set his blaster down and worked off his helmet. Next, he unbuckled the protective torso and groin armor.

  Zax stood wearing a common tunic. He adjusted the hem of the purple garment down his thighs and brushed out the wrinkles. The tunic wrapped from his waist up over his left breast, the right remained exposed. He left the small backpack in place and adjusted the straps near the chest. “Not too out of the ordinary, huh?”

  “I guess not. Your boots might stand out a bit. They’re kind of clunky for walking the streets of Kansas City.”

  “You’re going to have to chance it in the suit. Can you imagine the reaction if a human appeared in public?” Zax reached over and unstrapped the backpack, retrieving a black cloth. “Your armor’s scuffed up enough to draw some attention. Let me see if I can polish a little shine back into it.”

  Tarik held out his arms and accommodated his buddy as he worked the cloth over transmetal.

  After a few minutes, Zax stepped back and admired his efforts. “That looks a lot better. There’re still pits in the suit but shouldn’t be too noticeable. You ready to do this?”

  “Yeah. Just walk in front of me. I’ll follow closely. Try to stay in shadows and use vehicles as camouflage when we have to cross streets.”

  Zax nodded and walked over to a door on the other side of the room. He turned his gaze over to his blaster and armor, and sighed. He sprung the latch on the door. “Here we go.”

  *

  With the Nu-Man in the lead, Tarik placed his left hand on his friend’s back and maintained a close and steady distance. This street led to an intersection where they would veer north. Vehicles sporadically parked to either side while a few lumbered up and down to their destination. Modern passenger vehicles were all of the same design, varying only in size to accommodate capacity. There were even two passenger models, though much fewer in number. Levitation rail systems ferried the masses around large cities and to main civilization hubs across the US. Tarik tried to imagine what the street would look like with the sheet metal creations of man from the late 1900s cruising around. When he was younger, he spent hours researching the hot rods from the ’50s and ’60s. Their bulky but aggressive style sparked a grand desire of lust. Mechanized chariots gleaming in wild colors like Go Mango, Top Banna, and Plum Crazy. What would it be like to race a ’64 Pontiac GTO and a ’68 Plymouth Road Runner Hemi? What did it feel like to mash the acceleration and smell burning rubber when shooting out of the hole, hearing the roar of four hundred horses, and the thrill of acceleration down your spine? Often Tarik wondered if memories were genetically transferred, because when reading mankind’s history, certain aspects felt oddly familiar.

  He wasn’t sure what the buildings towering around him housed; perhaps they were apartments? He would love to have the freedom to explore each of them. The viewscreen still filtered what his eyes saw, but this short walk stoked a feeling of presence-of-being unlike he’d ever felt before. The unusual external input made him feel a little light-headed. Now was not the time to let his guard down.

  A Nu-Man turned the corner just before the two rebels reached the intersection. Zax kept his pace steady, and Tarik didn’t waver. When the Nu-Man passed, he gave no indication he suspected anything was out of the ordinary.

  Activity increased on the main street. Tarik’s HUD sorted out the different objects and reported back. It appeared to be an ordinary day, unaffected by their presence.

  A small number of civilian Skinks mingled among the Nu-Mans. This was a first for Tarik. He looked over in the direction of a male Skink crossing from the other side of the street. The alien’s head was uncovered, with slick looking green-grayish skin layering a rounded skull. Bone thickened above the eyes, which were oval in shape and about twice the size of Tarik’s. A verticle thin oval pupil cut the middle of his golden iris.The slightly raised nasal bone jutted between the eye sockets and ended near his upper lip. Whereas human and Nu-Man faces were more square in shape, the Skink’s jaw was triangular shaped, becoming point-like at the chin. The alien was as tall as a Nu-Man but with an obvious lower body mass. Still, his tight muscles bulged underneath his clingy black and silver coverall.

  The alien walked right by Tarik’s heels as he reached the sidewalk and didn’t seem to suspect anything out of the ordinary. Tarik could have turned around and touched him, but the outworlder might as well have been a million miles away. If the mission were successful, he would never have the opportunity to feel Skink and human flesh press together.

  So far the plan was working. If the two played it cool enough, they could be on the outskirts of old-life within an hour.

  The trek down the sidewalk brought them past a row of eateries. Some of the establishments had tables out front and patrons enjoying drinks and meals in the open air. A wonderful smell of charring meat carried up Tarik’s nose and bathed his salivary glands, instantly reminding him he hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty-four hours. He noticed Zax’s head turn and his gaze linger as they walked by.

  Restaurant patrons passed plates filled with leafy vegetables and chunky tubers, poultry, beef, lamb, noodles, and fat and flatbreads. Warm smells intermingled with aromatic scents and savory delights. Tarik had never been around food prepared in such a way. Institutional eating had one purpose: to fill the gut. This food was cooked for the patron to enjoy the experience of eating; even the presentation made the food more appealing.

  Still, the Nu-Mans who sat at the tables showed only moderate interest. Perhaps they were jaded to dining experiences such as these. Perhaps they realized the
y were only occupying their time until dying and leaving the Earth behind, with no prodigy to carry on.

  Tarik was glad to get past the more active part of town, with only a couple of blocks to go before reaching the old-life neighborhood. He thought he could make out the ruining houses in the distance.

  A civilian Skink approached with a bag over each shoulder and in an obvious hurry. His gaze was glued to the sidewalk, and Zax politely moved over a couple of steps to give the alien ample access. Right as the Skink reached Zax, his gaze came up and so did his upper lip. He didn’t break stride but looked over at Tarik next, with a discerning eye.

  They were so close. They didn’t need any unwanted attention now. Tarik watched his HUD. The alien stopped and turned around.

  “I need you to identify yourself.”

  Skinks were fluent in English, as well as any other of Earth’s languages. But they usually spoke in their common language to each other. Tarik’s circuits were custom designed to translate both incoming and outgoing communications.

  Tarik stopped and turned. “No, you don’t.” Skinks weren’t known for being humble, even with each other. Tarik wore the armor of a Skink warrior and didn’t need to answer to a civilian.

  “Your armor. It is damaged. What happened to it?”

  “Training exercise. Now go away, the Nu-Man and I have work to do.”

  “What kind of work?”

  The Skink no doubt had heard a report, and the situation was out of the ordinary enough that he wasn’t going to just let it go. Skink apparel had voice-activated communicators built in. Tarik and Zax could be outed in an instant.

  Zax had turned. Tarik raised a hand to him and slowly walked toward the Skink.

  “It is nothing really.” He spread his hands slightly before him. “The fact is, we have had a long morning. I have not had time to recharge my armor. Here, let me send you my identification.” Tarik stopped inside a meter from the alien.

  Seemingly satisfied, the Skink relaxed his shoulders.

  In one swift motion, Tarik clamped his transmetal gloves around the alien’s throat.

  The Skink’s eyes ballooned to what looked like a half size larger. As strong as his neck muscles might have been, they were no match for the armor. The breath trapped in his throat would never escape. As his throat further crushed, his mouth opened wider. In reality, the death had only taken an instant.

  Tarik hugged the body before it fell to the ground and pulled it over by the building façade over to the next joining street. He was fully aware of his HUD sending information, and for the moment, there were no prying eyes to give them away.

  Zax danced from side to side, trying to keep his body between the street and Tarik’s unseemly deed. The two found steps on the side of a building that led to an underground entrance and dragged the dead Skink down.

  “I’m going to leave him here. I don’t think he sent out a beacon. I didn’t pick up anything on my HUD, but my technology isn’t up to date, well, who knows? Let’s just leave,” Tarik said.

  Zax did a one-eighty up and down the street and nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 6

  The Present

  Cole headed for first-hour class on instinct alone. His mind blossomed with endless scenarios of Charlotte’s future visit. He would have to have some snacks and sodas. What did she like? Cole could eat his weight in Cheetos; the fried kind, not the baked. But if he served Cheetos he’d get cheetle, that orange dust, all over his lips and fingertips. Plus, the cornmeal product had a nasty way of finding refuge between his teeth.

  Then a strange thought dawned on him; he was maturing. Kids didn’t worry about what kind of snacks they served to their friends; that was a parent’s job. In his case, he wanted to be more sophisticated in order to impress a girl; a girl who usually hung around older boys. If he wanted to win Charlotte’s hand, he was going to have to present himself as a man roughened by life experiences who could command any situation. Who could he model himself as?

  Bond, James Bond. His dad was a big fan of the old secret agent movies. Cole had seen every one of the Sean Connery and Robert Moore flicks over five times. He liked the other actors in the 007 roles, but Connery and Moore had a unique polish. But who was he kidding? He was just a fourteen-year-old boy without even the street cred girls his age found attractive. Cole was a slightly above average kid who couldn’t rap two sentences. For things to go right tonight, Cole was going to have to put in plenty of thought.

  “Hey, young man.”

  Cole stopped and collected his bearings. His first-hour class was a couple of doors down. The halls were mostly empty, with class soon to begin. Daydreaming had greatly slowed his pace.

  Mr. Buddy stood with his back to the wall. Both of his hands were in his front pants pockets, and he darted his gaze to either side.

  “Uh, were you talking to me?” Cole asked.

  “Yeah.” Mr. Buddy leaned slightly forward. “Your name’s Cole, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I hear that you kinda like some of the weirder things life has to offer. You know, UFOs, bigfoot, ghosts, and what all. Things that others think is all make-believe,” Mr. Buddy said in a low, even tone. He turned his head to the left and raised an eyebrow.

  “Sure. Uh, yes, things of the paranormal world.” The situation seemed a bit strange. Mr. Buddy had never spoken to him before, and the man seemed like he was always underfoot. Heck, he couldn’t remember ever seeing Mr. Buddy have a conversation with any kid at school.

  “I got something you might be interested in.” The janitor removed both hands from his pockets. One hand contained a checkered white and dark blue handkerchief. Holding the mystery before Cole, he carefully pulled the cloth open. “Lookie here.”

  The checkered pattern of the handkerchief obscured his focus on the object. With a little concentration, Cole saw it was a tooth, perhaps one from the back of the jaw. The tooth was slightly rectangular shaped. It was certainly a lot bigger than any tooth that came out of his mouth. He gazed up at Mr. Buddy. “Where’s it from?”

  Bending closer, Mr. Buddy said, “I found it. I found it deep, deep in the national forest.” His mouth widened into a hint of a smile.

  “So what do you think it is?”

  With a nod of confidence, Mr. Buddy said, “Bigfoot.”

  Well, it was a large tooth. From what little Cole knew about teeth, it didn’t look like a cow’s or a horse’s. He wasn’t sure about bear’s teeth, though, or even deer’s. “How do you know it’s from a bigfoot?”

  Mr. Buddy’s chest swole, and he raised an instructive finger. “Easy, by eliminating what it’s not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What lives in these woods? Squirrels, rabbits, deer, possums, coyotes, and bears. Nothing lives there with teeth like that.”

  “How do you know what bear teeth look like?”

  “Kid, I spend a lot of time in the library. I’m tellin’ ya, this here is a humanoid tooth. It’s too big to be a man’s. So, it has to be bigfoot’s.” Mr. Buddy accentuated the declaration with a snappy nod.

  “Did you find any tracks by it?” Cole asked.

  “No. Not there. But I’ve come across ’em before. Even made a plaster cast or two.”

  “Wow, really? I’d like to see those.”

  “That’s what I thought. People kind of look at you cockeyed when you start talking about bigfoot and such in front of them. But I knew you was different. Different like me. How’s about we do some searching on our own sometime? It’d be a hoot. We could get together this afternoon and look at my stuff. I gotta lot of books on the subject too. I don’t live far, just over in Forest Heights. I’ll drive you home afterward.”

  It was strange to see a man who mostly kept to himself this animated about anything other than his janitorial work. Maybe the old guy was just lonely. “Can’t today. I got baseball practice and a science project to complete.”

  Dejection deflated the wind out of Mr. Budd
y’s cheeks. “I understand.”

  The hall was void of anyone else at this point. The bell was sure to ring any second. “Look, Mr. Buddy, I gotta go.”

  The janitor quickly folded the cloth back over the tooth. His lips tightened. “Okay, BUT, you’ve got to keep quiet about this. Don’t tell anyone. You got that?”

  The warning was stern but understandable. “No problem, Mr. Buddy. See ya!” Cole had made it only halfway to his room’s door when the bell rang. He was tardy.

  *

  The door was closing just as Cole arrived. He put his foot between it and the door jam, bringing the door to an abrupt stop.

  A beady eye maneuvered between the narrowing opening into the room.

  “It’s me, Mr. Ritzman,” Cole said.

  The eye blinked two times, and the door slowly opened. Ritzman remained fixated to the floor like his feet were buried in cement. Both the bad and good eye cast a lazy gaze. His lips might as well have been super-glued in non-expression.

  “Sorry, I had some trouble getting my locker open. It’s kind of rusty. Might need to spray some oil on it.” The excuse was much less than truthful, but Cole didn’t consider it a lie. Lying was something deceitful and something to be ashamed of. Telling a fib or a white lie was a necessary tool interjected during the day to help situations move smoothly along. There was no way Mr. Ritzman wanted to hear the dirty details of his dilemma with planning the date tonight with Charlotte or the encounter he had with Mr. Buddy. No, he made an excuse for Mr. Ritzman’s benefit. An apology coupled with an act of God. Mr. Ritzman’s conscience was free from demanding disciplinary actions.

  Behind Mr. Ritzman, a figure meandered from the back of the room and then sat at his desk. It was Dean Setters.

  “Mr. Rainwater, first-hour class starts promptly at eight a.m. Central Standard Time at Dent County High. I assure you the bell is set to ring at the correct designated moment. Every Monday I log onto the National Institute of Standards and Technology in Boulder, Colorado. The atomic clock there measures cycles of the radiation produced by the transition between two levels of ytterbium atoms. I reset the school clock and synchronize the bell, and the school is allowed to operate in an orderly fashion,” Mr. Ritzman said.