Guinea Pig

by Curtis, Greg

  And then something happened that shook him. A woman appeared. An old lady with long white hair, exactly as the soldiers had described and he knew a moment of doubt. Intense doubt. This was surely the woman who had overcome an entire army. A small army but heavily armed. And she was here too?

  But of course she was here! Abruptly the pieces clicked together. She had helped with the escape. So presumably she had brought them here. The only real questions were who she was and what her agenda was. And he could find those out from her corpse. After he had killed Mr. Simons of course. She was an enemy of the United States and she would die. But his first mission objective had to stand. She would die second.

  For the moment though she had no idea he was there. She was just standing there chatting to the others without a clue that her face was squarely in his gun sight. That made him smile. For all her cleverness and the way she had overcome an entire armed force with her tricks she was no more prepared for him than anyone else. They never were.

  He studied her for a while, wondering why she had done what she had done. Who she was and who she worked for. There was nothing about her that spoke of North Korea or the Middle East. And she wasn't wearing a head covering making it unlikely she was a Muslim. She could perhaps be Russian, but they were a spent force in the world these days. As for the Chinese not only did she not look Asian, but they had no reason to attack their largest trading partner.

  If anything he thought, she looked like a little old lady with white hair. Perhaps a bit straighter and more spry than many, but there was nothing about her that spoke of an enemy. A librarian perhaps. But not an enemy agent.

  Gamut's attention was drawn away from her though as a moment later another figure entered his field of fire. A man with wings.

  Gamut's heart suddenly raced as he realised he'd found his target. And strangely his target was out walking around easily, showing not the least sign of injury. In fact he looked strong. How could that be? And how could his wings be so large? He was wearing only a pair of shorts and because of that Gamut could see everything.

  Maybe they were only a foot and a half or so in length, but that was more than twice the size they had been. And they were covered in white hair. Strangest of all they flapped as he walked, moving independently like real wings. That was shocking. There was a chance that whenever whatever the pathetic Doctor Millen had done to him was finished, he would actually be able to fly. And then what? If he could bring about such terrible destruction when he was a basket case chained to an autopsy table, what would he be able to do when he was finished?

  He had to die quickly.

  Gamut lined up his rifle, adjusted for range and checked on the wind speed as he waited for his target to stand still. It wasn't a long shot, less than five hundred yards and the conditions were good, but even so he wanted to be absolutely sure of it. A good clean head shot. All the man had to do was stand still.

  But frustratingly he refused to do that. He just kept walking around, chatting to the others, moving unexpectedly, and for a few moments Gamut was worried that he knew. He couldn't know, but he was behaving as if he did.

  And then the moment came. It was perfect. His target stopped moving, stood up straight and stared right at him, almost as though he could see him. It was shocking, but it was also something Gamut was used to. It happened from time to time, and the men never could actually see him. It was just a trick of the powerful lens and chance. It didn't stop him gently squeezing the trigger.

  The shot was perfect. He could feel it in his bones as he always did, and the gun barely kicked as it fired. But something went wrong.

  He didn't know what; all he knew was that for some reason no blood appeared on Mr. Simons' forehead. Somehow he'd missed.

  But he hadn't missed. He never missed. It was a straight forward shot and he'd allowed for everything. He couldn't have missed.

  But it didn't matter. They'd heard the shot, and while for a second or two they might be startled and looking around, he knew the people would begin to run very soon. There was only one thing to do do. Gamut started firing as fast as he could, sending bullet after bullet into their midst. Into his target's body. No more head shots. Not now. It was time to bring him down, cripple him properly and then finish him off later.

  But even that didn't work. He got off five more shots before they even thought to start running, all of them aimed into the centre of Mr. Simons' chest, and not a speck of blood appeared. He was still missing his target. Somehow.

  Confused and a little bit frightened Gamut pulled out the first clip and slotted in the next one, and started firing again. At least he'd thought to bring plenty of ammunition. But by the time he'd started firing again everyone was running and he had no clear target. They knew they were under attack. So he shot at everyone. He thought that if he brought some of them down, it would make it easier for him to finish the job with his hand weapons later. And maybe he'd even wing his target.

  But again he hit nobody. It was a shooting gallery, people were everywhere running for the door to the cabin, running for the trees, and he couldn't possibly miss. But he did. Again and again and again. Shocked he emptied the second clip and slotted in a third. Then he started squeezing the trigger some more. Still he hit no one. In fact he realised as he watched the people finally making it inside the cabin, he was missing the cabin as well. There were no bits of wood flying, no glass breaking. How?

  The third clip emptied he reached for a fourth, only to discover that he was no longer alone. Two white haired people were standing just in front of him, and he hadn't even seen them arrive. Panicking he rolled, aimed the rifle at the nearest one and squeezed the trigger. Again nothing happened. The man didn't cry out, fall down or bleed. He simply walked up to him, grabbed the rifle out of his hands and crushed it. It was then that Gamut knew he was in trouble. Serious trouble. A man couldn't simply crush a rifle like that.

  Still, he wasn't defenceless. He rolled to his feet and in the same move drew his machine pistol. A heartbeat later he was busy spraying both white haired men with bullets, and still missing every time. A dozen bullets sprayed directly at the two men and from only a few feet and yet he couldn't hit either of them. A blind man would have hit them! But he kept firing at them desperately. What else could he do?

  Then it was too late. Even as he kept spraying bullets at them the white haired men someone else grabbed him. Fingers suddenly held him by the back of the shirt and his belt, and then hoisted him bodily into the air. A split second later the gun was ripped out of his hand and he was left hanging there, feet dangling, completely defenceless.

  “Put me down!”

  It was probably utterly stupid to scream that at them when they had him completely at their mercy and he'd just tried to kill them. But his voice was all he had left. Naturally they didn't listen to him. They just turned on their heels and marched him back to the cabin. The cabin where he could see the white haired woman waiting for him.

  She looked annoyed, her lips pursed in irritation, foot tapping on the grass. Actually she looked like a librarian upset with an annoying patron who wouldn't stop talking. But not he thought, like a homicidal maniac. Maybe she wouldn't kill him. He had to hope for that, though at the same time he knew that she should. In her shoes that was exactly what he'd do. You never left an enemy standing.

  They covered the distance between them in a shockingly short space of time, almost as if they were running, and all the while he was dangling in the hands of one of the white haired people. And that made him wonder. How could they be so strong? Bullet proof in some way and with the strength of giants – that didn't seem fair. Equally the man holding him wasn't breathing heavily as he carried him. The man had picked him up and carried him for five hundred yards at pace, and he wasn't winded in the least. That was far better than any fireman he'd ever heard of could do.

  Soon though it didn't matter. They'd reached the white haired woman and he was hanging there helpless before her. He'd never been helpless befor
e.

  “Gamut isn't it? At least that's what you call yourself. But really it's Gerald. Little Gerald Stanthorpe. Or so you were named.”

  Gamut went cold when he heard his name used. His own name. A name he hadn't used in fifteen years. A name he scarcely even remembered. How could she possibly know? But however she knew he still had to a job to do – although it wasn't the same one he'd started with. Now he had to survive, if only so he could come back and finish his work.

  “You going to kill me? Or use me as a hostage against the others?”

  The last was his best chance of survival he knew. If they believed there were others coming for them, they might keep him alive as a bargaining chip.

  “Kill you? We don't do that. We don't get involved in the affairs of humans. And what value would you be as a hostage? Those who might want us harmed in some way wouldn't care about you at all. They've already killed maybe millions of your kind simply so they could kill William.”

  She said it as if it was nothing, just a minor fact of no importance, and yet it left Gamut gasping. She knew who had attacked the city? She knew why? And it wasn't William Simons. He was just the target. And the entire city and half the state was nothing more than collateral damage. Then there was the fact that she seemed to be suggesting that she wasn't human. But none of that mattered when a face he knew suddenly stepped into view.

  “Doctor Adams.”

  It was William Simons, and he didn't look pleased to see him. But that Gamut could understand. What he couldn't understand was that what he had thought was white fur he could see growing on his massive wings was actually feathers. Small, more hairy than feathery, but still feathers. Just what exactly was he turning into? A bird man?

  “I know you think -.” Gamut tried to defend himself but wasn't given the chance as he was cut off.

  “Save it! I know that's not your name. And I know you've hurt and killed a lot of other people. And that if you get the chance you'll do the same to many more. I see it in you.”

  Strangely William Simons didn't sound angry to Gamut. He sounded tired if anything. Almost as if he was resigned to his suffering. But his words didn't sound like those of a man filled with forgiveness. They were those of a judge about to render a verdict. And Gamut was certain he didn't want to hear what he might say next.

  “What do you want -?”

  The woman asked the question, and while it was better that she spoke than the freak, the fact that she seemed to be deferring to him was not good. Why was she deferring to him? Surely she should be in charge.

  “- To do with him?”

  The freak cut the white haired woman off, though not rudely. At least she didn't look upset. In fact it was more as if they were so close that he was simply finishing her sentence for her. But if she wasn't upset Gamut was. He knew that the freak hated him. He knew he was about to die.

  “I don't think there's much that can be done. We can't leave him to continue hurting and killing others. And I don't want him harmed. I hate him, but to harm him would be to become him. I would hate that far more.”

  Not harmed was good Gamut thought, surprisingly so. But he knew he wasn't about to be released and that was not so good.

  “Is there somewhere you can send him?”

  “Send him?” The white haired old lady asked the question that was already on the tip of Gamut's tongue.

  “Somewhere where he can go, live out the rest of his days in peace, but completely alone. Never to see another human being. Never to be able to harm anyone ever again. An island maybe?”

  “No! That's not -.” Gamut protested instantly as he understood the punishment he was asking for. Because he absolutely did not want to spend the rest of his life alone. But he wasn't allowed to finish.

  “Fair?” William Simons stared at him, his golden eyes filled with accusations and sorrow. “Like the fairness of drilling holes into a defenceless man strapped down to a steel table? Of trying to murder him with a rifle? Of all the other terrible things you've done? The things you feel pride for?” Suddenly William sounded angry and those strange eyes of his seemed to bore into him somehow.

  “You take pride in doing terrible things. In never flinching no matter how terrible the deed you commit. You know what you do is wrong. You understand the suffering you cause. The trail of misery you leave behind. And you are not compelled to do it. You could say no. But you do it anyway.

  You do it because you believe that your cause is more important than the lives of others. Most people who do terrible, violent things do them out of rage or fear or hurt. Even a psychopath has the defence that he doesn't understand another's pain. But not you. You simply made a decision one day that you would kill anyone, anywhere, any time. That you would rob and torture and maim. And those are crimes you have committed many times. Crimes that you will commit many more times if you can. You will not stop. And they are crimes I cannot allow.”

  “Elia?” He turned back to the white haired lady his eyebrows raised in question.

  “We can.” She nodded quickly, and in that moment Gamut knew his fate was sealed.

  “Is there a more suitable sentence you can suggest?” For an instant hope was dangled in front of Gamut and he held his breath, desperately hoping she would say yes. But it was taken away in a heartbeat as she shook her head.

  “Then please do it.”

  “As you ask brother.” She bowed her head to the freak then turned to stare past Gamut at the white haired man holding him and nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Instantly Gamut found himself lifted into the air and he wondered why. But then as he suddenly saw the ground disappearing beneath him he realised the simple truth. He wasn't being lifted up. He was being carried as someone flew him through the air. How was that possible? To fly you needed a plane. But there was no plane. He was being carried by someone who could fly! More than that, someone who could fly very fast.

  In seconds they were hundreds of feet in the air and the cabin and the people were little more than dots on the ground. The wind was buffeting him as though he was in a racing car without a windscreen. And though he tried to say something, to object or scream out, the noise was so loud that he could barely hear anything at all except the roar of the wind.

  There was nothing he could say. Gamut understood that. No one was listening to him. No one was interested in what he thought. And there was nothing he could do either. If he tried to escape and somehow actually succeeded, he would simply fall to his death.

  It was bitterly unfair. There had been no trial, no due process, no lawyers and evidence. There had been no chance for him to testify in his own defence. He hadn't even been charged with anything. All the things he as an American citizen had a right to. He had simply been judged in a heartbeat and sentenced to a punishment far worse than anything a proper American court could ever give. Exile.

  The enemies of America had beaten him.

  Chapter Thirty Six.

  Bishop Benenson sought out Elia the day after the latest attack, needing answers and not knowing where else he could get them. There was nowhere else. And even though the Walkers would not tell him much of anything, he had to ask. Again.

  Though he loathed what the man now calling himself Gamut had done, he understood the fear that had motivated him. And yet at the same time he understood the hope and faith that Elijah had within him. Fear and hope, two sides of the same coin. But which was right? The hope that things would work out as well as they should? Or the fear that the world would end? Should he stand by and pray that when William's transformation was complete as it so nearly was, it would be a blessed thing? Or should he try and stop it happening somehow? Could he?

  Whatever he did he had to do it fast. William Simon's transformation was proceeding at pace. Already his wings towered above him and the first knuckle or elbow was forming. From there he guessed the wings would just dive down to the ground. And they moved now, all the time. Flexing, straightening out, flapping a little, all by themselves. The small fea
thers danced as the air currents disturbed them. And William didn't even seem to notice them any more. At most there were days left. Possibly less than that.

  The angel – and he had to assume that was what she was even if she seemed nothing like the descriptions they had – was sitting on a fallen tree overlooking the clearing, and by the looks of things enjoying the sun. Was that something common to all her people he wondered? After all, even William seemed to do better in the sunshine.

  “Elia can you speak?”

  “Yes.” She sounded tired. “But what you mean is can I answer your inane questions?” She smiled weakly at him.

  “Inane questions?” The bishop didn't enjoy the sound of that, though he knew it was a view she came to honestly. His questions annoyed her.

  “The usual ones that seem to come out of your mouth. Is this the end of the world? Judgement day? The second coming? Is William's becoming going to lead to the world being swept clean of the wicked in a great flood? Those ones.”