Brother, Frankenstein

by Michael Bunker

  Ten minutes later we’re shopping in an Amish thrift store, and fifteen minutes after that I’m paying cash for five full sets of Amish duds. And that was the moment, just as I was paying for the clothes, when it hit me: Frank and I are nearly the same size. If it comes down to it, I suppose I can go Amish too. I don’t know how these broadfall pants work, but I guess it can’t be too difficult to figure out.

  Back north up the farm road and the lie I told to Pop starts to bug me.

  Oh, now you’re going to grow a conscience?

  Shut up, Cruella.

  I decide to stop by the general store again. I don’t know if I’ll fess up to my lie or not, but the least I can do is let the robot have some peanut brittle.

  A HADroid can eat, you know. In fact, he needs to—though not as often as us mere humans. The “need” is primarily to provide sustenance to the couple of human organs he has left. Those don’t take much, and he has no large muscle groups to power. Most of the food is processed in a chamber that extracts fluids and nutrients for his heart and mind, and the rest is burned into ash in a combustion chamber and slowly passed through an expulsion system that mocks the male urinary tract system. His urine isn’t exactly yellow, but he’s been taught to be shy about relieving himself.

  The boy can even taste the food he consumes. That’s one of the “needs” humans have, and since the boy hasn’t complained about anything yet, I guess the process works okay.

  I’m thinking about all this as I drive, so I’ve already pulled in to the general store before I notice that there are now two other cars in the parking lot. Dark sedans. Something’s not right.

  I throw the truck in reverse just as a man exits one of the sedans. He’s agile and able, and in an instant he’s walking toward the truck with a pistol drawn and pointed right at my head.

  * * *

  I yell “duck!” and stomp down on the gas. The wheels spin and scream and finally find purchase as bullets thump into the truck, shattering the front and back glass. I’m pulling on the wheel and don’t know where I’m going or what’s behind me, but before long I know I’ve backed in a huge, arcing “C” into a neighboring field. I hazard a look through the passenger-side window and I see Pop coming out of the store. The gunman turns and fires two shots into the old man’s chest, then turns his attention back to me.

  I pull out the Glock. There’s no safety, so I reach across Frank and fire off three rounds, shattering the side window. The gunman ducks down and retreats a few steps toward his car.

  Now there are more men exiting the dark cars and pulling out guns. One of them runs into the store and I hear a pop. Then pop, pop-pop-pop, and I know Mom isn’t going to make it through this day either. I lower my head and curse under my breath.

  That’s when I hear the passenger door of the truck slam shut.

  Frank is out and he’s walking directly toward the gunmen, who fire at him without effect. And as Frank walks, he changes. The new Amish clothes split and shred and drop off, and Frank grows with each step. I want to be shooting, but I can’t take my eyes off of Frank.

  The shooter in the store comes out the door and shouts something, and I see them all move to pile back into the sedans. Frank is fully changed now—he’s the menacing, black manifestation of the HADroid killer I designed, and his pace picks up until he’s running.

  The bad guys peel out of there. In seconds they’re fleeing back west toward the highway, and I see flames start to lick up from the general store.

  I have to get Frank back in the box before someone sees him.

  He reaches the place where Pop lies dead in the parking lot, and he stops and kneels next to the body. I get out of the truck and start walking toward the store just as Frank picks up the old man and carries him inside. Into the flames that are starting to lick and leap.

  A few seconds later, Frank exits the store and walks toward me. He’s trailing smoke and he’s a frightening sight with his menacing, robotic glare and ten-foot carriage. But as he walks, he begins to change again. Step by step the monster retakes the form of the man, and by the time we reach one another, Frank is just Frank again.

  He’s naked, and tears are streaming down his face.

  Frank doesn’t say a word. He just walks past me and climbs back into the passenger seat of the truck.

  I stand there for a full minute, watching as the fire engulfs the general store. Mom and Pop, they’re engulfed too, but at least they’re together. The peanut brittle and tourist gifts and trinkets—it all goes up in flames, and I realize that the war we’re in will almost certainly not end peacefully.

  The government wants Frank and me dead and gone.

  And another thing…

  They’re afraid.

  CHAPTER 11

  We’re speeding south on a back road. With the windshield out, the breeze is cold and I know we’ll be pulled over if we go much farther. The next closest safe warehouse is a couple of hours south, in Kentucky, and I know I’ll never make it there. Besides, they’ll be looking for us in this area now. They have access to satellites and other aerial intelligence, and we’ll be spotted before long.

  That’s when it occurs to me. The bad guys back there weren’t looking to capture or kill Frank. They weren’t equipped for it. They were surprised when we pulled up back at the store. They were just gathering intelligence.

  And now I figure they’d been told that if they encountered us, they should look for an opportunity to take me out.

  Just me.

  I figure a cleaner team is already on site at the burned-out general store. It’ll look like just another fire when they’re done. No bullet casings or glass lying around—nothing to make it look like foul play. And for the first time I realize that I’ll probably die soon. Very soon, if these people have their way.

  My phone rings, and I turn onto a dirt road. There’s a copse of trees near the road and I pull off the dirt and try to hide the truck in the trees.

  I answer the phone. “This better be you.”

  The scrambled female voice lets me know it’s Carlos. “Things are worse than they look,” he says.

  “Well they look pretty bad,” I say.

  I glance over at Frank; he’s admiring his new Amish clothes. The second set of Amish duds he’s had on today and it’s not even lunchtime yet. But you can tell he’s glad to be back in the uniform of his people.

  “We’ve had a situation,” I say.

  “I gathered as much,” Carlos says. “There’s some chatter in the ether. They’ve shut down Cambridge on 77 and they expect you’re heading that way.”

  “Air search too?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Other than completely shutting down a whole town in Ohio, they’re trying to keep this as quiet as possible. The missile attack yesterday got written off as a gas line malfunction in the Excursion. And shutting down the town is billed as a ‘planned homeland exercise.’”

  “Is there anything you can do?” I say.

  “We’re already doing it. We’ve flooded the tip lines with sightings of the Chevy, and we have a slew of hacktivists causing all hell with their intel gathering.”

  I sigh. All of that will help, but if I can’t get us out of Ohio and to the next safe zone, we’re in trouble. They’ll find us eventually.

  “I can’t get to the next warehouse,” I say. “We’re too far away and this truck is in bad shape. And they’re looking for it.”

  “I’ll keep working here and see what we can come up with. If you can make it into Newark I can probably get someone to pick you up,” Carlos says.

  I shake my head. “That’s a long way from here on foot. We’ll need to leave the truck here.”

  “We’re working on it,” Carlos says, and I hear him break the connection.

  We’re on our own.

  * * *

  The plainclothes agents working the abandoned Chevy truck look up as a long, black Lincoln with tinted windows pulls up behind the other dark sedans on th
e road. Three men get out. Nondescript. Military types, with dark aviator glasses and bad attitudes. One of them opens the rear passenger side door and another man climbs out. He’s taller, a little more menacing, but no shades and he’s wearing a black trench coat that flows behind him and nearly touches the ground.

  The three military guys take up security positions, looking a lot like Secret Service, while Black Trench approaches the agents who are scouring the area around the old Chevy truck.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Black Trench says.

  A short, dark-skinned agent steps away from the truck and approaches the newcomer. “I am. Who are you?”

  “The information you’ve just provided is incorrect,” Black Trench says. “I’m in charge here, so let’s get that straight right now.”

  “I’m Agent Marcus Friendly of Homeland, sir,” the agent says, “so I think you’ll find that you’re quite mistaken. And I’ll ask again, who are you?”

  Black Trench smiles. “Aren’t you cute?” He looks over at the other men, who’ve stopped their investigation in order to watch the confrontation between their boss and the stranger. “I’m Cyrano Dresser. I work directly for Admiral Byrd, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. I’m sure you know that what you’re working here is not a normal terrorism case—am I right? Of course I’m right. We’re dealing with a broken arrow situation, and I’m the guy that fixes those kinds of issues. So now that we have that straight, don’t give me any lip, Friendly, because I’m not the kind of guy who gets you shipped off to Gitmo to stick your hand up muzzie asses—I’m the kind of guy who puts your name in a file labeled “loose ends.” You dig where I’m coming from? Friendly?”

  Marcus doesn’t reply. He just stands there. Not sure what to think.

  “Now, if you want to call your higher-ups, go do it on your own time. I’m after a loose nuke and I don’t have time for your Homeland bullshit, capisce?”

  “What is it you want, Dresser?” Marcus asks.

  Dresser smiles. “Good, glad to be on the same wavelength. So, Agent Friendly… what I want to know is where my boys are. The boys driving this truck. Where’d they go?”

  “We’re doing our best to find out,” Marcus answers with a snarl.

  “And what have you learned?”

  “Dogs found nothing,” Marcus says. “They used the creek. Doubled back a few times. We got clothes and costume makeup in the truck. We have men out asking around, but it’s all Amish out here. No one talks.”

  Dresser smiles. “So you’re just a colossal waste of my time, is that what you’re saying, Officer Friendly?”

  “Agent Friendly,” Marcus says.

  “Whatever.”

  Dresser’s cell phone rings, so he steps away and walks back up to the Lincoln. His men react without speaking and move toward the car.

  “Dresser,” he says into the phone. “Speak.”

  He hears a low voice, a whisper, on the other end of the line. “Check the satellite,” the voice says. “It was moved into position last night, so there should be some footage that might help.”

  “And when are you going to help me nail these bastards?” Dresser asks.

  “I’m doing everything I can. These people I’m with, they don’t mess around. They’re pros at tracking the trackers.”

  “How’d you like your whole family to end up in a snuff film?” Dresser asks. “Would that be good for you?” He hangs up and slides the phone into the pocket of his trench.

  “We’re out,” Dresser says to his men, and they all pile into the Lincoln. The tires kick up dust as the black car pulls away from the scene.

  Over by the truck, one of Marcus’s men pipes up. “Did you ask him for any ID?”

  Marcus looks at the man with disdain. “Did you?”

  * * *

  Frank and I follow a tree-lined creek for a few miles. We have to jump a few fences and we stay in the trees, but for the most part it’s easy walking. Frank’s doing fine, and his new Amish shoes don’t fall off like the old slip-on sneakers, so at least we don’t have to stop every fifty feet to put his shoes back on.

  Another mile and a half and we find a house set off the road among the trees. There’s an old barn there and the door is propped open a bit, so we go inside to rest.

  “This is an Amish farm,” Frank says. “There aren’t any power lines going to the house, and everything is really neat and in order.” He points to an Amish buggy covered in dust in the barn. “And there’s that.”

  I step out of the barn, and keeping close to the structure, I peek around the corner and up toward the house. There’s no movement, but with the Amish, that doesn’t mean they aren’t home. They could be out in the fields or something.

  There’s another barn closer to the house. This one looks like it isn’t used much. Maybe a storage barn that used to be used to cure tobacco or something.

  I turn back inside and look over the buggy. Everything seems to be in working order, but I know nothing about Amish transportation.

  “Is this a working rig, Frank?” I ask.

  Frank looks it over, and his eyes cut over to meet mine. “Yeah. It looks just like the one we have at home,” he says.

  “Do you know how to drive it?” I ask. “Do we have all the stuff we’ll need?”

  Frank walks over to the tack that hangs on the barn wall.

  “I helped my father hook up the buggy on church days,” Frank says. “It looks like it’s all here. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “We’ll need a horse.”

  * * *

  I feel bad about stealing the horse. Well, actually we aren’t stealing it. We’re borrowing it. But when I grew up in farm country, there was nothing lower than a horse thief. Except maybe a city boy horse thief.

  I feel even worse about wearing these Amish clothes—and having a gun in the pocket. The pants are nice, and they fit loosely with a lot of breathing room, but the suspenders feel weird and I hate not having a pocket on the front of my shirt.

  Taking the horse wasn’t easy. We had to lure it with an apple we plucked off one of the trees down toward the ancient barn. The horse is a good one though, even if it should be more careful about who it lets steal it. Maybe there are horses who would pitch an unholy fit if someone strange tried to steal them, but not this one. Hard to imagine a horse will just allow anyone to hook it up and drive it… but then again, I guess a pickup truck isn’t too particular who drives it either.

  I know the buggy hasn’t been used in a while. The wheels are a little stiff and it’s a good thing Frank found a grease gun in the barn, or the piercing squeal would have driven me batty. And the leather tack is stiff and a little brittle, like it’d hung there for some time without being used.

  Frank is driving the buggy and we’re both looking somewhat Amish, though Frank laughs whenever he looks over at me. He tells himself jokes about me in his Pennsylvania Deutsch tongue, and then he laughs. And he doesn’t let me in on the punch lines, either.

  “You’re pretty good at driving this thing,” I tell Frank between his Amish insults.

  “I drove for Father some, but I’m also watching driving videos in my head,” Frank says.

  “Right now?” I ask. “Frank, don’t watch videos while you’re driving.”

  “I can do more than one thing at a time,” Frank says. “When we were buying the clothes, I was watching videos of you Englischers and your crazy cats.”

  “Just… just drive and turn off the videos, please.”

  “You’d be surprised how many cat videos there are,” Frank says.

  “No I wouldn’t.”

  * * *

  We pass the copse of trees where we left the truck, and I slink down just a little in the seat. There are two cars parked up on the road, and men are searching the truck. I put my hand in my pocket and grip the pistol.

  As we go by, the men look over at us, but they quickly return to their investigation.

  “Looks like they found the truck,
” Frank says.

  “Yep,” I say, “and we’re just two Amish men driving by.”

  Frank’s head rocks in agreement and he smiles so big I can see all of his teeth.

  “Yes,” he says. “Claude and Lawrence Roberts, from Montana.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. “Not anymore, Frank. We’ll have to be someone new now. We’ll need Amish names if we’re going to wear these clothes.”

  Frank drives for a bit without speaking, then he turns to me and smiles again.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Frederick and Benjamin Bontrager,” Frank says.

  “How’d you come up with those names?”

  “Frederick and Benjamin Bontrager died in a buggy accident in Zanesville, Ohio in 1923,” he says.

  “You read that in the paper?”

  “Yes. Just now. The Zanesville Times Recorder. 1923. Horrible buggy accident. The first recorded instance of Amish being killed by a motorcar in Ohio.”

  “Great.”

  “Frederick was decapitated.”

  “Even more great,” I say.

  “You’re Fred,” Frank says with a grin. “I’m Ben.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “How do you know where we’re going?” I ask Frank, now Ben, over the clip-clop rhythm of horseshoes on the rural asphalt. The syncopated beat tends to almost hypnotize me with its repetition. I heard that Amish men, while driving the buggy, will sometimes fall asleep and rely on the horse to get them home safely. Something about being in the horse-drawn vehicle makes me feel safe, even though I know it’s only made of plywood.

  I need to start thinking of Frank as Ben and not Frank. Almost as if he’s a completely different person from that crooked little Amish boy who won me over back… when? How long ago was that? It seems like forever ago that he waddled into my clinic, holding his bolts.

  “I have a map,” Ben says, pointing at his head. “In here.”