The Misunderstood and Other Misfit Horrors

by Jason Brannon

  That’s what made him decide to try and talk back to the babies.

  Now that the computer had deciphered the language of the infants, it wasn’t so hard to construct a program that built on that knowledge, translating his own words into newborn jibberish. The only problem was finding the right questions to ask.

  He started with something simple.

  “Do you understand me?” he typed into his computer. After Brian punched in a short command, the computer converted his question into a barrage of simple sounds that emerged from speakers positioned in the nursery. The babies responded by wiggling erratically in their beds and making gurgling sounds. The computer recorded the result, analyzed it, and reported the one word answer back to Brian via synthesized voice: Yes.

  “What happens on December 18th?” he asked as the speakers in the nursery vomited out a long series of cooing noises that the babies could understand.

  “You don’t want to find out,” they replied in unison via a long set of synchronized screams, cries, and seemingly indecipherable burping sounds. To the average observer, the sounds would have likely been the result of a bunch of hungry infants wearing wet diapers. The computer, however, said differently.

  “You mention murder,” Brian continued, carefully wording his questions so that there would be no room for misunderstanding. “Is that really necessary?”

  “It’s the only way,” the babies replied. “The world depends on it.”

  Brian’s mind raced with possibilities. The first thought that popped into his mind was one of Biblical proportions. Could his wife be carrying The Antichrist inside her? He asked the question, feeling foolish but wondering nonetheless.

  “No,” the babies replied, not bothering to elaborate.

  Brian sighed with relief and asked another question. “Why should I do what you say? Convince me that you know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your name is Brian Kendall Price. Your wife is Michelle Denise Price. You don’t want children. Your wife does. You drink too much when Denise isn’t watching and smoke occasionally. Denise knows what you do. She smells the booze on your breath and the cigarette stench in your clothing. Denise has a habit of taking painkillers to help her forget her problems. You aren’t as observant as Denise and haven’t realized this yet. You still have ideas of grandeur about your career. You think that you’re destined for greatness one day even though this is the furthest thing from the truth. Denise realizes this too but loves you too much to crush your dreams with her words. This is your life. Is there anything more you would like us to say?”

  Brian sat open-mouthed for a moment, shocked by the babies’ revelations. Somehow, the infants knew. They knew.

  “I can’t commit murder,” Brian protested as his stomach tied itself into multiple knots.

  “It’s the only way,” the babies replied.

  “You haven’t been specific enough about what will happen if I don’t.”

  “The answers you seek are hidden in the fog of eternity,” they replied. “Some answers like those about the past or the present are easily found and given. Others, particularly answers to the distant future, aren’t so clear. The path of time is opaque, yet one thing is certain. The death of millions will stem from inaction on your part.”

  “Millions?” Brian asked in disbelief.

  “Millions,” the babies confirmed. “Maybe more.”

  “This is too much to process all at once,” Brian said. “This is surreal. I need more proof. You say the distant future is difficult to predict. What about the near future? What about tomorrow? Tell me something that is going to happen tomorrow. Make me believe what you’re saying.”

  “A world leader will die tomorrow,” the babies said. “We are tired now. Leave us alone.”

  Watching the babies fall asleep was like watching dominoes fall. It was a chain-reaction where one set of eyes closed followed by another and yet another. Brian himself felt drained once the experience was over, yet he knew he couldn’t afford himself the luxury of sleep. He had far too much to think about.

  Millions, the babies had said. What was it about his baby that could affect the outcome of so many lives? Would his child be the one to engineer a new strain of influenza that would wipe out continents? Or would his child be a future dictator who would amass armies bent on worldwide destruction? Could he really take what these infants said seriously? Could he really bring himself to murder his unborn child?

  Brian was adamantly against abortion. He felt that it was murder and had always felt so. But weren’t there acceptable reasons for killing? Weren’t there situations when taking a life was more socially acceptable than others? War was one. Public execution was another. Would aborting his unborn child fall under that umbrella if it meant saving the lives of millions in the process? Could he convince himself that the babies were absolute in their declarations?

  He spent the night driving the streets of town, trying to make sense of it all. He watched the people milling about, going about their prosaic lives, and wondered about the nature of destiny. Was there anything they could do to affect the child’s future and what it would become? Or was the future predestined? Was every mistake already immutably etched into the history of the universe?

  The next day he watched the news anxiously and bought copies of all the national papers, looking for that confirmation of what the babies had told him about the death of a world leader. Strangely enough, the news was filled with good things rather than the war, serial killings, political backbiting, and gossip that normally permeated the black-and-white. The babies had been wrong. Or at least nothing had happened yet to prove them right.

  He actually breathed a sigh of relief when the clock struck midnight. None of the news sources he checked made any mention of any notable death. As far as he was concerned, that was all the proof he needed. The babies were intelligent, yes. But that didn’t mean they were omniscient. The possibility even occurred to him that they were toying with him, preying on his gullibility and having fun at his expense. Maybe the oracles weren’t really oracles after all. Maybe they were just pranksters.

  Brian decided to go and rub the news of their failure into their wrinkled little faces. One of the nurses met him at the door, her face grim. All of the old tensions immediately sat up in their shallow graves.

  “We’ve got a big problem,” the nurse said. “One of the babies is dead. I think it was crib death.”

  Brian was stunned. He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. When planning out the experiment, he hadn’t anticipated this sort of development. He knew this would be the end of everything. The Institute would cut off his funding immediately. Of course, there was nothing he could have done to prevent this. The prospect of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome was a reality and fear that every new parent had to face. The Institute, however, wouldn’t recognize that. All they would see is that an infant had died while serving as a test subject.

  Things pretty much went as Brian had anticipated. The next day he received word that his funding was cancelled and the project was to be ended immediately. The liability of continuing the research was too great. Already there was talk of a lawsuit. In this day and time, there usually was.

  The plug was unceremoniously pulled on all of the work, and the babies were each returned to their parents. Not knowing what to do with his life now, Brian spent the next few days in a kind of stupor. His purpose and direction were gone.

  It wouldn’t have hurt so much if he hadn’t been making real progress. His discoveries were important ones. Of course, now he would never get the chance to fully explore the infant language that he was certain existed. It was depressing to get that close to discovery only to turn away at the last possible second.

  “I know it’s hard to deal with all of this right now,” Denise told him. “But good things come out of bad circumstances. It’s a proven fact.”

  “Don’t forget I’m a scientist,” Brian said. “Your idea of proof and mine might be two different
things.”

  “I can think of at least one good thing that will definitely come out of this,” Denise said, rubbing her swollen belly. “Maybe this is God’s way of helping you get your priorities in order. Without work to preoccupy your thoughts, you will have more time for me and the baby.”

  Brian thought about this for a moment. Maybe Denise was right. Maybe it was time he got on with the business of being a father. He smiled and kissed his wife gently on the lips. “You might be a little smarter than I gave you credit for,” he teased. “Of course, I will have to find a job eventually.”

  “We’ve got enough money to live on for a while. We’ll be fine. Take a few weeks off. Enjoy it. The baby will be here before we know it. We should treasure this time, you know? We’ll never be first-time parents again.”

  Denise was right.

  Zachary Connor Price was born two weeks later on the 18th of December with little fanfare or pomp. Neither of them mentioned the babies’ prophecy that so accurately predicted Zack’s birthday. As far as they were concerned, it was coincidence. Besides, they were too busy falling in love with their new son to think about anything negative. He was here at last. The how and why of it didn’t matter.

  Brian was proud of Zack the first time he ever laid eyes on him and didn’t understand how he could have ever thought of killing such a sweet, innocent soul. He was a little tempted to try and decipher the cooings and murmurings of his son, but thought better of it as he realized that he didn’t really want to know. Zack would speak when he was good and ready. And he did eventually, pronouncing his words with a skill and clarity that made his father proud.

  It was the beginning of a string of accomplishments. Zack excelled in everything that he did. He learned to read at two years old. He skipped fourth and sixth grades, graduating high school at fifteen as valedictorian. Then he went on to college at the ripe old age of sixteen. It was enough to make a father’s chest swell with pride. But Brian didn’t push or prod Zack. The boy was smart enough to make his own decisions.

  True to form, Zack decided to study computers in college. Brian applauded the choice. Everything in the world was going the way of technology, and he knew that Zack would be among the best in that field just as he had been among the best at everything he tried.

  Every now and then Brian thought back to the experiment with those babies that he performed all those years ago and was relieved that he hadn’t been stupid enough to ruin his life by taking the oracles’ advice. Yet sometimes another thought did pop up in his head. Those babies hadn’t said that the world leader who would die would be an already-established leader. Maybe the baby that died would have grown up to be a world leader if it had lived. Maybe those infants had been toying with words, playing on Brian’s hope that they really were wrong about everything.

  Never did he seriously consider the possibility more than the day that his son showed him the new virus program he had engineered for fun.

  “What is this?” he asked Zack.

  The boy’s eyes lit up at the prospect of his father’s interest. “Watch,” he said. “This will change everything.”

  A week later the world was plunged into chaos as mainframes all across the country began to crash.

  Night after night Brian lay there in the shadows, thinking the worst as the Smith and Wesson sat in the drawer of the nightstand. Already people were suffering because of his son’s computer program. He wondered how long he could wait before he made a decision.

  He wondered how late was too late to put a bullet in his son’s head.

  The oracles, it seemed, had been right all along.

  If he had only listened....

  The Juggler

  “The street carnival’s the kind of place you go to feel good,” Lindberg said as he pulled his aviator’s hat tightly down over his ears.

  “That’s what you say about the van you deal out of too,” Rich reminded him.

  Lindberg nodded. “True,” he said soberly. “But there are better things than getting high. In fact, the street carnival might be the kind of place to take a lady friend for a night out.” Rich found it hard to believe that he was hearing that sort of anti-drug epithet coming from the mouth of a man who made his living from the weaknesses of others. Lindberg was never this talkative or this nice. Rich was immediately suspicious.

  Staring briefly at the setting sun, Lindberg shivered and pulled his coat tighter around his emaciated frame. He’d lost weight since Rich saw him last. In fact, he looked like he’d just staggered out of a concentration camp. The addiction definitely had its jaws clamped down tight around Lindberg’s throat.

  Rich didn’t understand how Lindberg could stand to wear the fighter pilot jacket, the dingy yellowed scarf, and his trademark fleece-lined hat on a day like this. It was at least ninety degrees outside. Of course, the way Lindberg’s mind worked, he might have actually believed he was trekking through the Alaskan tundra. With Lindberg, it was difficult to tell.

  “It’s just like any other carnival, but different. There are jugglers and fire eaters and magicians and all kinds of different people who can all make you feel good.”

  Rich nodded like he understood what Lindberg was talking about. In truth all he wanted was to score a baggie of dope for him and Lucinda and get away from Lindberg. The guy was really starting to freak him out. But Lindberg wasn’t going to make things that easy. He was going to explain his circus hallucinations before any deals were made.

  “They can cure cancer there, you know? AIDS too. All sorts of diseases. I know it sounds weird, but that’s what it is. One big midway where every game promises healing. I tried to win power over my addiction in a juggling game. But I lost and ran out of things to bargain with. Now, the urge is worse than ever.”

  Rich was holding out his money and hoping that Lindberg would take the hint. But the junkie was too enraptured by the prospect of telling his story.

  “The van’s gone and so is my soul. Now, I’ll be a slave to the needle forever.”

  Rich sighed. “I thought you said the street carnival was a place you go to feel good.”

  “For some it is. For others it is a place of complete loss. It’s like the most extreme casino you’ve ever been to in your life. Only in this case, a bet can mean a lot more than losing a few bucks.”

  “Sounds like a blast,” Rich said sarcastically. “I see why you suggested I take Lucinda there.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be taking her there sooner than you think.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Rich asked, a little uneasy.

  “Nothing,” Lindberg said glibly. “Nothing at all.”

  “Whatever,” Rich said. “I just want some weed for me and my girl. Can you handle that?”

  Lindberg looked at him soberly. “Didn’t you just hear what I said? I lost my van and everything that was inside. I’m trying to score just like you. There is no stash.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Rich said, grabbing the lapels of Lindberg’s bomber jacket. He knew he couldn’t go back to Lucinda without anything.

  “All I’ve got is one hit left,” Lindberg trembled.

  “Give it to me,” Rich growled.

  Hesitantly, Lindberg rolled up his sleeve. Rich nearly gagged at the sight. The junkie’s arm was a gangrenous black, the color of dried blood. Syringe needles jutted from the rotten flesh, and yellowish streams of pus ran from dark collapsed veins. Lindberg pulled one of the syringes out of his gaunt skeleton’s arm and handed it to Rich. There was still some clear fluid left inside.

  “This is it,” he said. “It’s all I’ve got left. It’s all that’s been keeping me alive since I lost at the carnival. But not everybody loses, you know? Some people win. I just wasn’t one of them.”

  Disgusted and freaked out, Rich threw the wad of money at the pusher and headed back home to Lucinda with the syringe tucked away in his pocket.

  Lucinda wouldn’t answer her door, however, once he got to her apartment. A little puzzled, Rich
knocked once, rang the buzzer, and then knocked again. Still, no Lucinda.

  The whole thing was strange because she had been expecting him. Hoping one of the neighbors didn’t mistake him for a peeping tom, Rich peered through one of her windows. That’s when he saw her lying face down on the outdated shag carpet. A small puddle of vomit had pooled beside her drawn mouth. Next to that lay a discarded syringe. Frantically, Rich tried the door and found that it was open. Thankfully, Lucinda was still breathing. In her present condition, he wasn’t sure how long that would last.

  His first instinct was to rush over to the phone and call an ambulance. But he stopped with the dialing of the nine. Lucinda was on probation for drug use already. Another offense and she would spend quite a few years in the penitentiary. Of course, another minute or two and the threat of jail might not be a major concern. Rich didn’t know what to do.

  “You could always take her to the street carnival,” Lindberg said, staggering through the door. “I think the juggler could help her out.”

  “What are you doing here?” Rich shouted.

  “I followed you,” Lindberg replied. “I was thinking of clubbing you in the back of the head and taking back my syringe. Of course, it seems like you’ve got bigger problems than that now. But, understand, I’m not opposed to making deals. You give me my needle back, and I’ll take you to the juggler. Then, we’ll all be happy.”

  Rich only had to look at Lucinda once to make up his mind. Yes, she was an addict. But he loved her more than anything else. He would do whatever he had to in order to keep her alive.

  “Let’s go,” he said, throwing the syringe back to Lindberg. Like a retriever trained to catch needles instead of frisbees, Lindberg grabbed it eagerly and rammed it into his arm. Almost immediately, his eyes rolled back in his skull, showing only the whites and the red of bursted capillaries. Temporarily satisfied, he grabbed Lucinda’s feet and motioned for Rich to grab her head.