Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8)

by Benjamin Sobieck

  I exchange unsure glances with Hillary. We don’t have much of a choice.

  “Deal,” Hillary and I say at the same time.

  “Good,” Doctor X says. “Let’s go.”

  I’ve made deals with devils before, but even this one is pushing my luck. As I come to find out a few minutes later, we should’ve taken our chances with those “helpers” instead.

  16.

  Some day, I’ll wish I could recall how we got to what I can only describe as Doctor X’s secret lair in the Texas countryside. He made Hillary and I wear blindfolds on the slow, bumpy ride over while demonstrating his one-eyed driving abilities. To hell with depth perception.

  I don’t use the term “secret lair” loosely. When we are finally allowed to remove the blindfolds after exiting the Jeep, the first thing I spot is a solid rock wall. It stretches to the ceiling and curves back toward the ground opposite me. Cold clings to my clammy skin. Even the lights, suspended by flimsy wires bolted into the rock above my head, give off a damp glow.

  We’re in a cave.

  “Welcome,” I hear Doctor X say from the other side of the cave. He leans against a long table full of computers and lab equipment, a smirk inching its way across his face. He’s looking far too satisfied with himself for his own good.

  The cave isn’t large, but I still take the time to scope out as much of it as I can. I need a full tally of everyone present before I can react to anything else. Bad habit. Or a good one, depending on the circumstances.

  I’m next to the Jeep. My .45 and my ESEE knife are still in my bush jacket. Hillary is a few feet to the left of me. Behind me is a two-track road that runs down the narrow tunnel we presumably took to get here. The road terminates at this cave. Doctor X is 20 feet away. Who’s that in the shadows next to him? The dim light affords me only an outline. Whoever it is is hunched over like one of those “helpers” from before.

  Absent, however, is the Iceman. Not that I’ve seen him or her or it before, but it’d be pretty obvious if there was a humanoid frozen in a block of ice around here.

  “Thanks for the warm welcome, I guess,” I say and draw the .45.

  When in doubt, get the gun out.

  “You’ll have no need for weapons here, Mr. Baker,” Doctor X says with a deep, throaty chuckle.

  “It’s funny. The people who say I don’t need weapons are always the ones I wind up needing them for,” I say, stumbling on the grammar. I wonder how my literary agent would handle an edit like that.

  Doctor X gets my point. He laughs and rubs his hands together.

  “I like your style, Mr. Baker,” he says and turns to my companion. “And you, Ms. Carter, the rage you displayed earlier was not unnoticed or unappreciated. I admire your conviction.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” Hillary says. She’s still steamed.

  “Exactly,” Doctor X says and paces in front of the table without so much as a limp. “It’s why I’ve decided to have a change of heart. Instead of killing you as I’d originally planned once we got here, I’m going to offer you an opportunity instead.”

  “You can skip the timeshare hard sell,” I say and raise the .45 so that the front sight lines up with Doctor X’s chest. “Where’s the Iceman?”

  Doctor X is unfazed. “In due time, Mr. Baker. I can assure you both that you’ll be reunited with the Iceman in a, shall we say, intimate way.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I say.

  “Allow me to explain in more visual terms,” Doctor X says. He motions to the hunched over figure in the shadows. “Come. Show yourself, Helper 8.”

  “Helper 8” steps forward on two legs into the light and forever into my memory. What I see before me is like nothing I’ve ever encountered.

  17.

  To be blunt, Helper 8 is one of the most hideous things I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I do mean things. There’s no way this thing is more than 50 percent human. Helper 8 looks like Dr. Jekyll pressed paused in the middle of transitioning into Mr. Hyde before being repeatedly dropped out of an airplane until every bone in his body swaps places with another at least twice. And that’s what I can tell from the features visible above Helper 8’s hair, which is thick and matted in some parts while long and stringy in others. The only consistency is in its coverage area from ugly head to rocky toes.

  I’d peg Helper 8 for an exceptionally unfortunate ape walking on two legs if not for its mannerisms. Its eyes, despite their mismatched sizes and positions on its face, contain a trace of humanity, almost of sadness. It shuffles, its frame hunched into place with a crooked back, to Doctor X like a pet expecting a treat but knowing it won’t get one. It acknowledges me with a glance that I’ve encountered at one too many cocktail parties in more professional environs, one that tries to be polite and dismissive at the same time.

  More disturbing than its grotesque appearance is the fact Helper 8 holds an old SKS rifle in his hands. If something that subhuman is going to pull the trigger on anything, it ought to be on reconstructive surgery, not a gun.

  I’m glad I spot the SKS’s signature bayonet, which swings 180 degrees on a mount near the end of the barrel. The SKS semi-automatic rifle went into service in 1946 in the Soviet Union, and was a popular pick for Warsaw Pact militaries. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, 20,000 or so SKSs were imported into the United States by firearm dealers and collectors. I’m willing to bet Doctor X and Helper 8 didn’t pick this particular model up at a gun show. Then where did they get it? From a black market arms dealer? Maybe, but my gut tells me something else. The SKS in Helper 8’s hands came from old military stock acquired by Doctor X at the source. That means Doctor X is working with a government, and I’d put money on the Russians.

  “I see you’re admiring Helper 8’s firearm, Mr. Baker. Being familiar with such things, you may wonder why Helper 8 is using a Cold War relic like the SKS,” Doctor X says. “Of course, my sources could’ve supplied a much more modern firearm, but all of my Helpers do well with the SKS, even if the laser sights rest on crooked mounts. The more advanced Helpers may be trusted with an AK-47, but the SKS is a fitting tribute to the Helpers’ heritage.”

  There’s no way Doctor X dangled that much information in front of Hillary and I without wanting us to ask for more. She obliges him by asking, “What heritage?”

  Doctor X grins and says, “Why, the American War, of course. Or as you call it here in the U.S., the Vietnam War. The Minnesota Iceman isn’t from Minnesota at all. It’s from Vietnam. Tell me, does the name Ilya Ivanovich Ivanov mean anything to either of you?”

  Hillary looks puzzled, but the name rings a big brass bell in my mind. I thought the stories about Ivanov were a joke pulled by anti-communist propaganda. Who wouldn’t?

  The story goes that in the 1920s, the Soviet Union hatched a plan worthy of a science fiction movie that could only have come from the deluded mind of Joseph Stalin himself. Looking for new ways to replenish his armies, Stalin instructed Ivanov, a Soviet biologist, to spearhead the creation of super-soldiers impervious to the physical demands of the battlefield. But not just any super-soldiers. Remember, this is the Soviet Union. Super-soldiers alone aren’t crazy enough. Stalin specifically wanted human-ape hybrids, or “humanzees,” and he demanded Ivanov deliver them to him. Stalin reasoned, if one could call it that, that these hybrids would combine the intelligence of humans with the physical endurance and survival instincts of animals.

  Others might tell you Stalin had nothing to do with it, that Ivanov was simply an eccentric scientist who somehow received the backing of the Soviet government. Personally, I like the first version better. Seems fitting.

  Regardless of which version is most believable, Ivanov successfully inseminated three female chimpanzees using methods best left to the dustbin of history. However, the chimps never conceived. Ivanov then reversed the approach, aiming to get male chimps to inseminate female humans. He even found five female volunteers willing to undergo the experiment. But before that could happen, Ivanov
’s chimps died and the Soviets started purging scientists for reasons that only made sense to someone like Stalin. The Soviets exiled Ivanov to Kazakhstan. He died shortly thereafter.

  I relate this story to Doctor X. Helper 8 stares at me while I talk, studying the way my mouth moves as if it craves the fine motor skills required to tell a story. I wonder what Helper 8 would say if it could do the same.

  “Your knowledge of the occult is impressive, Mr. Baker, but also incomplete,” Doctor X says. “In the decades since the experiments, Ivanov’s work was ridiculed by scientists and laughed at by popular culture. What’s curious is how secret Soviet military experiments reached the general public in the first place. If the Soviet Union was good at anything, it was being opaque. It’s almost as if Ivanov’s work was discredited purposefully and publicly by the Soviet government.”

  Helper 8 huffs through what I assume are its nostrils. A line of snot slinks to the floor.

  “Let me guess. Ivanov didn’t die during one of Stalin’s purges,” I say.

  Doctor X nods in silence. He clearly finds this amusing.

  Hillary completes the other pieces of the puzzle. She says, “The Soviets discredited the experiments and humiliated Ivanov publicly in order to cover up the fact the hybrid attempts were successful. The super-soldiers eventually deployed to the Vietnam War, which is where the…”

  She stops in mid-sentence. She’s flustered by the same conclusion I came to after seeing Helper 8.

  “Which is where the Minnesota Iceman is from. It must’ve been shot and brought back to the United States to be studied, but somehow wound up in the hands of a collector,” Hillary says and gasps. She looks over to me. “I’ve been displaying a Soviet super-soldier in my museum all along. I never had any idea.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Only a select few know about the hybrid super-soldiers’ activities in Vietnam. The Iceman proved itself a relentless soldier. It could survive without support in extreme conditions. It killed without conscience. It didn’t just execute its missions. It lived them,” Doctor X says. “But there’s another part of this story you’re missing that’s just as important.”

  “What’s that?” I say, my eyes fixed on the SKS in Helper 8’s hands.

  Doctor X pauses for dramatic effect. He watches our reactions with glee as he says, “You see, I am Ivanov.”

  I look Doctor X up and down. He’s looking pretty good for being nearly 150 years old. I call bullshit. Then again, the way he shrugged off the PIT maneuver would put a 20-year-old NASCAR driver to shame.

  Am I looking at Joseph Stalin’s personal mad scientist?

  “Not only was I successful with the hybrid program, but I developed many other military technologies, including a regenerative formula for instantly healing injuries. I kept that one for myself. Daily injections keep me from feeling my age, or much of anything else. It’s like an invincibility serum,” Doctor X says. “After the tragic collapse of the Soviet Union at the hands of foreign, capitalistic instigators, I continued my work underground. It was only recently that my beloved Russia rekindled its ambition and delivered itself from its poisonous Western appetites. You’re standing in but one of my many laboratories around the world. I’m happy to assist the Motherland reclaim its glory. And what better place to do it than right under the noses of the American imperialists in the red, white and blue Texas heartland.”

  Hillary laughs. She points at Helper 8 and says, “So you offered them that?”

  Doctor X doesn’t see the humor. He scowls and says, “Careful. Helper 8 does not enjoy being mocked. It is technically the property of Vladmir Putin, who personally financed Helper 8’s development. Tell me, have you heard of Little Green Men before?”

  “Of course. Aliens,” I say, thinking back to my adventures in Leonardo Da Vinci’s secret cave where he allegedly communed with extraterrestrials.

  “No. Think back to the recent liberation of Crimea and its annexation back into Russia,” Doctor X says.

  Now I remember. Troops from Russia entered Crimea, as well as other parts of Ukraine, in 2014 to support Ukrainian separatists. Whether those troops were Russian isn’t clear. They didn’t sport any national identification. Because of the color of their uniforms, they became known as the “Little Green Men” or “Green Men.”

  This strategy allows Russia to send troops into areas it seeks to annex without any of the international consequences. Vladmir Putin and his buddies in the Kremlin can dismiss the Little Green Men as militia while simultaneously flexing Russia’s significant military muscle.

  The epiphany hits me like a brick of C-4.

  Holy shit.

  “Let me get this straight. Russia is planning to use human-ape hybrid super-soldiers to invade other countries?” I say.

  “Correct. They are the ultimate Little Green Men,” Doctor X says. “They’re perfect for operations too dangerous for Spetsnaz and other Russian special ops. They are unmarked and untraceable back to Russia. They need no support services, can live off the land for months at a time, can problem-solve far better than any drone or AI, and instantly discredit anyone who claims to have seen or captured one. After all, who believed the Minnesota Iceman was anything other than a hoax?”

  While I’m not thrilled about the consequences for Russia’s neighbors and the ensuing shitstorm they could cause, these super-soldiers are a hell of a creative idea. I almost admire Doctor X’s ingenuity. Almost.

  That’s because the world stage, as far as NATO and Russia are concerned, is looking more and more like the Cold War that ended 25 short years ago. With every annexation, Russia tempts NATO into a military response that could quickly turn into World War III. And with every missile defense system NATO allies install in eastern Europe to check Russia’s incursions, the more anxious the Russian Bear grows about its ability to control its economic destiny in the shape of oil and gas exports. Where there is uncertainty, the more radical voices cut through the confusion, urging their respective sides to raise the stakes higher and higher. The U.S. and Russia already wage proxy wars in places like Syria. How long until the political pressure pounding on the fault lines of conflict send cracks from Damascus to Moscow and Washington, D.C.? Could hybrid super-soldiers conducting covert missions be the catalyst to pulling the world into a large-scale war?

  I sure hope not, but I don’t want to find out. We need that Iceman back and to stop Doctor X’s program. The world needs us, too.

  “There’s only one problem,” Doctor X says.

  “You can only think of one?” I say as another gooey string of snot rappels down Helper 8’s face.

  “It’s relatively easy to create a hybrid, or a humanzee as some call them, but successive generations yield results like Helper 8. Despite the Russian government supplying me with an ample amount of, shall we say, volunteers, the failure rate is still too high and the specimen pool too low. There are only 10 super-soldiers in existence. Three of them are here in Texas, including Helper 8. Actually, there are four if you count the Iceman, now residing in a secure location. I intend to thaw and study the creature since it was my most successful super-soldier to date. But I digress,” Doctor X says. He looks straight at Hillary and I. “To be blunt, I need more breeding partners. I need more humans.”

  Hillary backs up to the Jeep. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Quite. You have an opportunity to be a part of history,” Doctor X says as Helper 8 raises the SKS and aims it at Hillary and I. “I assure you, your participation will be strictly voluntary. Either you volunteer, or I volunteer you. Now which will it be?”

  18.

  The prospect of breeding with a chimp or other ape lacks the appeal I normally seek in a sexual partner. We may be 99 percent genetically identical, but call me old-fashioned if I can’t quite overcome that final one percent. The same goes with forced volunteering. If I wanted that kind of logic and servitude, I’d re-enlist in the military.

  I drive this point home by flipping on my .45’s laser sight and p
lanting a red dot between Doctor X’s eyes. All the laser work recently might dampen the effect, but I find the timeless quality of having a gun pointed at you is immune to cliché.

  “We’ll be taking our Iceman and leaving now,” I say, squeezing the .45 ever tighter in my hands.

  By now, I’m realizing that even if we did get the Iceman back, there’s no way it’s returning to the Museum of the Bizarre. It’s too dangerous. That thing needs to be thawed and ran through a wood chipper. Hillary might disagree, but we can cross that bridge when we get there.

  “Oh, please. Put your toy down, or I’ll have Helper 8 put it down for you,” Doctor X says. “Bear in mind that I’m immune to injury.”

  “He’s bluffing. Shoot him, Chase,” Hillary says from her position against the Jeep.

  Even if he isn’t, I bet he’s more concerned about Helper 8 than himself.

  It only takes a few inches of adjustment to shift the .45 from Doctor X to his grotesque creation, but somehow Helper 8 gets the drop on me. It plows into me with a hard shoulder, sending me to the ground in a single bound I didn’t think was possible with legs that crooked. The slimy heat of the creature leaves a greasy stain on my bush jacket that smells like the bottom of an undertaker’s shoe. I only need a moment to gather my senses, but that’s all the time it takes for the SKS’s bayonet to appear against my throat.

  “Who needs body armor when you’ve got Helper 8?” Doctor X says with a laugh. “Helper 8 is the quickest of the three humanzees here in my laboratory. Helper 9 is by far the strongest, while Helper 10 is unusually smart. You’ll get to know them in a minute.”

  Doctor X pulls a lever built into the cave wall. A section of the wall near the Jeep opens on a hinge, revealing a long, dim hallway with steel doors lining either side. It reminds me of a prison. Sounds like one, too. The wailing coming from the behind the doors brings to mind an animal being slowly castrated. I detect the faint notes of human grief from within the cacophony, but I can’t be sure. A waft of air carries the smell of rotting death and old shit. If there’s a gateway to hell, this is it.