Standing in the middle of the hallway are what I take to be Helpers 9 and 10. I didn’t think it’s possible, but my eyes fall upon two creatures that are somehow uglier than Helper 8. Doctor X may have improved strength and intelligence with Helpers 9 and 10, respectively, but he went backward in the cosmetics department. They’re wet behind the ears with primordial ooze, their bodies contorted into satires that mock other living things. To exist and to be that hideous must be painful by default.
“Are the mating pairs prepared?” Doctor X says to Helpers 9 and 10.
One of them nods and grunts something unintelligible. It seems more coherent than its companion, which stares at the floor.
The one that responded must be Helper 10.
“Good,” Doctor X says. He claps his hands. “Helper 8, escort our specimens to their breeding chambers. We’re about to begin.”
Hillary screams until she passes out as we’re forced down the hallway. I try to fight back, but Helper 9 slaps the ESEE knife out of my hand and clocks me across the jaw. Doctor X isn’t kidding about Helper 9’s strength.
The moans coming from behind the doors we pass as we’re dragged down the hallway signal how long and hard Doctor X has been at it. I can feel the misery on my skin. The Helpers separate us into adjacent rooms in a flurry of kicking and shoving. What’s waiting for me inside the room I’m forced into is beyond comprehension.
19.
Helper 8 uses the butt of the SKS to push me the final inch into the room. The inside is dim, illuminated by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. After my eyes meet what’s in front of me, I spin on my heel and make a break for it through the door. Helper 8 cuts me off with another shoulder blow. I careen backward as the metal door to this tiny room swings shut.
I’m trapped.
In the adjacent room, I hear Hillary coming to the same realization as she regains her faculties. We’re up shit creek.
I’m barely being figurative. Before me is a heap of excrement as tall as my waist in various stages of decomposition, seasoned with the occasional streak of blood flowing from the top of the heap like lava from a shit volcano. The stench makes every breath feel as if I’m sucking air through a straw with one end lodged up a corpse’s asshole. The heat in the room only intensifies the rancid aroma. It radiates from the floor up my leg.
My eyes follow the mound of feces up to what I originally think are taxidermy mounts on the wall. Except mounts don’t typically feature buttocks and legs fastened to the wall with leather restraints. Even a basic understanding of zoology could deduce what’s happening here. Doctor X drilled three big holes in the wall and stuck female chimpanzees through them, facing their hindquarters into the room for breeding.
Disgusting.
To add to the trauma and misery, the chimps aren’t clueless about their situation. I can hear them clamoring from the other side of the holes, beating their bodies against the wall and screaming in deep, unearthly bellows. I wonder how long they’ve been here, how many experiments Doctor X put them through. He must leave them restrained, feeding them on one side of the hole while they breed and shit through the other. No, “breed” isn’t the right word. This is rape.
It makes me wonder what hell Hillary must be going through on her side. Does Doctor X have similar plans for her? Either way, there’s no way I’m going near those chimps. I need to get the hell out of this room and help Hillary. This isn’t about the Iceman anymore. It’s about survival. And if I can help these animals out, too, we’ll be all the better for it. Same goes for the fate of the world.
Barring an escape, at least there’s an easy way to not participate in Doctor X’s experiment. I assume he’ll want me to inseminate the three chimps. All I need to do is not become aroused. Despite my reputation with sexual encounters within my own species, avoiding coitus with chimps is as simple as avoiding coitus with chimps.
“You look confused, Mr. Baker. Allow me to explain,” Doctor X’s voice says through a speaker in the wall. “These chimps have been treated with a special medicine to make their ovum more receptive to human fertilization. Like all of my male specimens, I don’t expect you to participate willingly. This is why you’ll be assisted.”
I look around the room. Turning to the speaker, I say, “I don’t see any porno mags around here like they have at the sperm clinic.”
Doctor X laughs from the other end of the speaker. He says, “I’d never leave success in the hands of smut peddlers. I’ve developed something that you may actually enjoy.”
The grinding of gears cuts through the wailing of animals in slow decline. A machine that looks like a steel traffic cone emerges horizontally from a panel that slides open in the wall. I don’t know what it is, but its mechanical arm guides the cone toward my waist. I give it a kick with my boot, but it’s as sturdy as the walls are thick.
Another panel opens up, this time revealing a machine with a narrow rod. Its mechanical arm guides it toward me from behind.
“Remove your clothing, Mr. Baker. You may keep your shirt on, but everything else must go,” I hear Doctor X say.
“The hell I’m doing that,” I say, turning to give the rod a kick. I get nowhere. It’s just as solid as the cone.
An electric bolt fires down from the ceiling. I see it as a flash, and I feel it like a soldering gun held to my head. For a moment, I peg the smell of burning hair and skin as coming from the chimps in the wall. Only after a trickle of blood slithers down my scalp and over my ear do I realize the effluvium is coming from me.
“Disobey again and I’ll increase the voltage,” Doctor X says through the speaker. “Disobey a third time and you will become a permanent member of my laboratory.”
I believe him, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up.
Maybe stroking Doctor X’s ego can buy me some time to figure out how to escape.
“What is all this?” I say toward the speaker.
“Ah, I’m glad you asked,” Doctor X says, barely containing his delight at the chance to highlight his genius. “The cone in front of you will connect to your genitals. Not to worry, it’s designed for comfort. I modeled it off of an artificial vagina, a sex toy. Because the state of arousal varies in my subjects, I couple the cone with the rod, which inserts through the anus and performs a prostate massage. Having tested these machines on myself, I can assure you this process is safe from sexually transmitted infections and is quite pleasurable. I find my human specimens relax once they know they won’t engage in genital contact with any of the chimps.”
This guy is seriously fucked in the head.
I study the way the leather restraints secure the chimps’ hindquarters to the wall and keep talking. “So you reverse the process for female human specimens?”
“More or less. I treat the male chimps with a formula that allows their sperm to fertilize human ovum. I’ll tend to Ms. Carter in a moment once I’m through with you,” Doctor X says through the speaker. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes, let’s begin,” I say and start to unbuckle my belt.
“You’re a man of reason, Mr. Baker. That won’t go unappreciated later,” Doctor X says.
Whatever.
My fingers gently unbuckle the belt, probing the clasp for what I hope I remembered to pack earlier. Sure enough, it’s still there. I yank it free from the belt and make my move. I’m getting the hell out of here.
20.
At home in Albany, my wardrobe is supposed to stay separated on either side of the closet. On one side is what I jokingly refer to as “TSA compliant” clothes. They’re not designed for stuffing gadgets in the pockets or for wearing with a concealed firearm. Dress pants. Nice shirts. You get the idea.
The other side of the closet I call, if you’ll pardon my sense of humor, the “fuck the TSA” side. It’s where I keep clothes with hidden compartments, holsters, an almost limitless supply of bush jackets and more.
Keeping the two sides separate is important depending on where I’m going. That’s t
he theory, anyway. In practice, my aim in the laundry room isn’t as true as it is on the shooting range. This means garments and accessories wind up on the wrong side of the closet. I’m glad they did this time, because wearing the wrong belt might save my ass.
The belt around my waist, thankfully, is not “TSA compliant” in the least, despite me making it through airport security not long ago. The TSA agents were too preoccupied with the .45 in my luggage to notice the belt, but that’s the point. In a clever piece of design, the belt buckle doubles as the handle for a short push dagger. The double-edged blade slips neatly into a separate sleeve beneath the belt strap. From the outside, it looks like a normal belt. A quick flick of the wrist puts that illusion to bed in a hurry.
I yank the dagger free, letting my belt fall to the floor. With saggy pants, I skirt past Doctor X’s love machines and up to the wall with the chimps’ rears. Just as I suspect, there’s a light breeze in the gaps of the hole the chimps don’t fill. I pick the least feisty of the three animals and raise the dagger to it. Working quickly, I cut at the leather restraints with one hand while pushing on the chimp with the other.
“Stop that at once,” I hear Doctor X say through the speaker.
If he were serious, he’d zap me again, but I have a feeling he knows doing so will harm the chimp in the process. The machines come after me instead, but by then I’m already through with the knife. With the leather restraints cut, the back end of the chimp is free. I push the animal out of the room, leaving me with an empty hole to crawl through. The other side of the hole is dark, so I have no idea where it leads, but I do hear a thump after I push the chimp through.
The door to the room opens just as I’m almost through the narrow hole. It’s Helper 8, and it’s proving once again why it’s the fastest of Doctor X’s creations. I feel a tight grip around my ankle. I’m not free yet.
“Don’t let him get away, Helper 8, but don’t kill him. Break his legs,” Doctor X says through the speaker.
I kick at Helper 8, but it’s no use. Its strong arms drag me back into the room, where it proceeds to demonstrate how well it can follow orders.
This is going to hurt.
21.
Remember Travis the Chimp? The “celebrity” chimp that in 2009 literally ripped its live-in handler’s face off? Despite the grisly attack, Travis’s violence was rather pedestrian by chimp standards. Attacking the face and outer extremities first is a common tactic in the wild, where immobilizing an opponent is the first order of business, and it’s every bit as brutal as it sounds. I wish I could say that level of brutality doesn’t exist within the one percent of DNA humans don’t share with chimps, but I’d be a chump to believe that. I’ve seen what humans are capable of doing to one another, and chimps are downright civilized by comparison.
Being a toxic blend of both species’ worst attributes, Helper 8 channels its inner Travis and goes to work on my ankle after dragging me back into the room. I kick at the meaty club that functions as its rudimentary paw, but it’s no use. Helper 8 swings me into the pile of chimp shit before slamming me against the wall. While I’m still coming to my sense, Helper 8 twists at my ankle in an attempt to break it. I resist by crossing my feet, allowing my free ankle to support the one being cranked on. That slows Helper 8 down a bit, but I can’t hold out for long.
Despite my sudden re-entry into the fetid room, the push dagger remains firmly in my grip, its belt buckle handle threaded over my finger and pressed against my knuckle. The blade is too small to be of much use against Doctor X’s machines, which for now keep their distance, but there’s a misconception about size’s relationship to ability when it comes to knives. The best knife is the one that gets the job done. Allow me to demonstrate.
With Helper 8 struggling to break my ankle, I’m positioned with my back to the filthy floor at a 45-degree angle. This isn’t so different from some of the abdominal workouts I’m accustomed to at the gym. Helper 8 may be fast, but it’s not quick-witted. It’s too focused on my ankles to notice the way I hoist myself up to its face in the ultimate ab crunch, my stomach muscles shredding as our eyes meet for only a moment. My fist landing a punch square in Helper 8’s left eye interrupts the glance. I connect to the soft eye with more than a knuckle. The push dagger buries itself deep inside Helper 8’s socket, sending a cascade of curdled tissue down my arm.
Eat your heart out, Travis.
Helper 8 releases my ankles, sending me back to the floor and into a heap of hot, fresh chimp shit. With a shriek so loud it makes my heart flutter, Helper 8 clenches what remains of its left eye against its face. I follow it up with another jab into the right eye, sending Helper 8 to a corner of the room to huddle and wallow in pain.
I take no pride in doing so. Despite the circumstances, hitting Helper 8 feels like striking a circus elephant or a kid in a wheelchair. Neither asked to be put into their situations. They were simply the products of happenstance, their handlers and the genetic lottery. The same goes for me, but I got lucky. I’m the one standing on two feet holding a push dagger. I’m no more or less evil than Helper 8. Why I should be so lucky, or why Helper 8 should’ve been condemned since the moment of immoral conception, or why circus elephants don’t live free, are questions that I can’t answer, especially right now.
With Helper 8 out of commission, I anticipate Doctor X will crank up the voltage again and send a lethal dose of shock therapy into my head. I bet he’ll hold off if he knows one of his beloved machines would go down with me.
I grab onto the cone-shaped machine and give it a twist with the full weight of my shit-stained body to redirect it toward the rod. The gears grind in resistance, but the cone isn’t as secure as I originally thought. Doctor X repositions the rod to the side of me for a strike at my leg. I swing the cone once more to line it up with the rod before slamming it forward. The cone and rod machines grind against each other in a squealing mess of mechanical intercourse. Were the stakes not so high, I’d laugh at the absurdity of the shivering metal mangle in front of me.
I make for the hole in the wall, but Doctor X’s voice stops me.
“You’re a determined specimen, Mr. Baker, but I wouldn’t be so quick about heading through that hole,” he says through the speaker in the wall.
“Why…why’s what…er…why’s that?” I say, struggling to find my breath in the stifling stench and heat of the small room. I rest my hand on the leg of a chimp as security against another shock.
“On the other side of that room is the chimpanzee repository. In your stupidity, you released one of those specimens, which is now going around freeing her companions, although Helper 10 is addressing the situation,” Doctor X says. “Are you sure you’re ready to charge headfirst into a room of irate chimpanzees conditioned to hate human beings?”
Good point.
“If there’s…fresh air in there…then I’m more than happy…to meet them,” I say over the sound of Helper 8’s moaning.
“Maybe some other time. I think it far better you meet someone else first, Mr. Baker,” Doctor X says as the door to the room opens.
Correction. Something smashes through the door, leaving a wide opening. There stands 400 pounds of solid gristle known as Helper 9, the hybrid super-soldier designed for strength. Up close, it looks even larger than before.
I spin on the grease of my boot’s heel and take my chances with the chimps, but Helper 8 blocks my path. I’m stuck between Helpers 8 and 9.
“Try to leave some DNA intact when you’re finished with him, my Helpers,” Doctor X says through the speaker with a laugh.
I squeeze my right hand into a fist, the push dagger protruding from my fingers like a claw. I wish I held the .45 instead, although I’m not sure it would be any good against something as thick as Helper 9.
How am I going to get out of this mess?
22.
Helper 9 may look capable of ripping me in half without breaking a frothy sweat, but that doesn’t mean it’s particularly fast. There’s plen
ty of time – relatively speaking, since it’s only an extra fraction of a second – for me to dodge the disfigured hand swinging toward my face. The hand connects with Helper 8 standing behind me instead. Being blind and not too bright, Helper 8 reacts to the pound of gnarled face flesh Helper 9 scooped onto the floor with a strike of its own. Its fist lands on Helper 9’s face with an audible crack, although I can’t tell whether the sound comes from a jaw or a knuckle.
I exploit this brief moment of confusion by crouching down and plunging the push dagger into Helper 9’s inner thigh near its groin. I hope there’s enough human left in this hybrid for my basic sense of anatomy to come in handy. In homo sapiens, severing the femoral artery is a good way to bleed to death. That’s why, when I have it, I don’t sharpen my ESEE-5 knife inside the “triangle of death,” an area starting at the groin and running down both inner thighs. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle for knife safety. One stray cut and you’re dead.
The stab with the dagger refocuses Helper 9’s attention onto me, and I feel myself being lifted up by the head. The hands on this thing are as wide as pie plates. With its other hand, Helper 9 squeezes the throat of an increasingly calm Helper 8.
“Finish them, Helper 9,” Doctor X’s voice says over the speaker with a burst of rotten enthusiasm.
Helper 9 wrenches away at Helper 8’s throat, gripping it so tightly the fingers damn near meet from inside pockets of flesh. With a wet thud, Helper 9 tosses Helper 8’s corpse into the pile of chimp shit. It winds back its arm like a pitcher, ready to bust my head open against the wall.
My brain might be under the pressure of Helper 9’s grip, but that doesn’t mean I forget how vulnerable the underside of wrists can be. That goes for humans and apes alike, and Helper 9 offers a prime opportunity at this bloody sweet spot. I jab the push dagger across the soft tissues beneath its wrist, digging and slicing with the blade like my life depends on it because, well, it does.
Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) Page 7
