by Jake Bible
“Sounds like a plan,” Clay said. He yawned. “Hopefully, he can keep from losing the rest of his marbles for at least four to six hours.”
“Fingers crossed,” Gibbons said. He crossed his grey fingers, and it hardly looked like the good luck symbol it was meant to be.
Clay nodded then went and found his hut. He kicked off his boots, but kept them close at hand as he lay down in the rickety cot. Always be ready to run.
Twenty-Four
Sleep came quickly, but it was a tumultuous rest as images of the tweener hounds kept rushing through his mind. The one he fought on the Vernacht stalked him through his dreams. They weren’t really so much dreams as they were a continuous stream of images and locations he’d experienced through his life. But the constant was that the tweener hound was always on his ass. It didn’t matter if he was five and sitting in the dirt dealing with yet another bloody nose or if he was jumping from treetop to treetop in the Amazon canopy, there was the hound on his heels.
Clay tossed and turned, making small noises, and not so small noises, as he mentally fled his abominable pursuer. His hands clutched the thin blanket that was partially draped over him. He gnashed his teeth, almost drawing blood as he bit down on the inside of his cheek. His legs kicked out, sometimes moving rhythmically like he was running in his sleep.
He was running. He was running from not just the hound, but from every single second of his past. History stalked him as much as the hound did. Faces he’d held dear in life, faces he’d held dead in life. Faces, bodies, blood, so much blood, screams, wails, cries for help, the long howl of a man that would never rest until every inch of Clay’s body had the flesh flayed right off it.
Clay was running, and he would never stop.
He sat up and swallowed the scream that had almost made it from his throat to breach his lips. Confusion, disorientation, the inevitable realization that he knew where he was, but that didn’t really make it any better.
Awake, asleep, Clay was always running and he would never stop.
“You good?” Gibbons asked from a chair by the small, wide open window cut into the hut’s wall. His chin rested in his hand as he watched the main cavern. “That was a bad one.”
“You’re telling me,” Clay said as he swung his legs over the side of the cot and pulled on his boots. “Gonna need another shower just to wash off the night sweat.”
He stood, stretched, winced at the whole body pain he was experiencing, then walked over to Gibbons.
“Anything?” Clay asked.
“Nothing,” Gibbons replied. “Barnes hasn’t shown his face since he walked away earlier. Hasn’t come to fetch any rotten meat, hasn’t come to check on us, hasn’t come to do anything. Whatever is going on back in that passage is consuming his attention.”
“Maybe he fell asleep back there,” Clay said. “Mad scientists usually have cots in their labs. Isn’t that what the stories say? They work themselves to exhaustion and collapse to sleep for a few hours before dragging themselves up to start the madness all over again?”
“I think part of that story I told you is starting to come back,” Gibbons said. “You know, I have a thousand more stories in the mech’s database. I should read you more.”
“I’m not that dent kid anymore, Gibbons,” Clay said. “But thank you for the offer. I think I prefer silence as we travel.”
Clay stretched again.
“Speaking of, I’m going to give the mech a good going over,” Clay said.
“I already have,” Gibbons said.
“And?” Clay asked, smirking.
“And you’re going to do it again anyway because that’s what you do,” Gibbons said and shrugged.
“Exactly,” Clay said. He rubbed his head and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “Don’t let me forget to take a look around the Vernacht in that spot where I squished Mr. Bell, okay?”
“Gonna look for your hat?” Gibbons asked.
“Yep,” Clay replied.
“It ain’t gonna be pretty, pal,” Gibbons said. “You did an awful number on Mr. Bell.”
“If it ain’t destroyed then I can clean it,” Clay said. “Hell knows I’ve cleaned worse out of it.”
“That is a fact,” Gibbons said. “Let me know if I missed anything when I checked the mech.”
“You know I will,” Clay laughed.
“Yes, I do,” Gibbons said.
Clay left the hut and walked quickly to the battle mech. He stared at the rungs that threaded up the machine’s leg with distaste. He wasn’t looking forward to the climb.
Surprisingly, the exercise seemed to work out more than a few knots from his neck and shoulders and he was feeling slightly revived when he reached the cockpit. The hatch was open and he climbed right in.
The first thing Clay noticed were the intestine cables that were hooked into half the consoles, snaking from the back of the pilot’s seat directly into the control boards. His instinct was to yank them out, but if Gibbons had left them, then they were there for a reason. Clay had to remind himself that the flesh was only there until he could replace it with metal.
He sat down in the pilot’s seat and powered up the mech. To his surprise, all systems came on instantly. The mech hummed with power. He studied the gauges and was even more surprised to see that all power cells had been replaced and were running at optimal efficiency. He dug a little deeper and was even more surprised to see that the power cells were actual mech cells, not some fleshy hybrids. That bode well for their journey.
Clay went through every checklist he could think of. Twice. He examined systems he hadn’t thought of in years. He opened up panels that probably hadn’t done a damn thing when they were first installed and he couldn’t ever remember opening before. The mech was working like a charm. At least while stationary. The proof would be when he took it out of the cavern and walked it across the open landscape. A sitting mech could look fine, but problems always showed themselves when motion was applied.
As satisfied as he could be, Clay climbed down from the mech. He considered gathering up the few things he had in the hut and telling Gibbons it was time to go. But as much as he wanted to get the hell out of the Midlands, he couldn’t go without saying goodbye.
Goodbye to Paige, at least.
“Grab the gear,” he told Gibbons as he tucked his head into the hut. “I’m going to make our farewells and see if maybe Barnes is open to parting with some food and water. Hell knows when we’ll see any of that again.”
“We get me back in my proper drive matrix, and I won’t have to worry about any of that biological hoo ha,” Gibbons said, still seated by the window.
“Biological hoo ha?” Clay asked. “Is that what you’ve reduced human existence down to?”
Gibbons shrugged. “Makes as much sense as this meat bag,” he said then smacked his chest. “Ugh. Get me out of this thing, will ya?”
“Let me thank our host and we can head to the Vernacht,” Clay said.
“You just want another peek at that pretty lady,” Gibbons said.
“I want to say goodbye to someone that has done nothing but help us,” Clay said. “If she’s awake.”
“And if she isn’t?” Gibbons asked. “We’re still leaving, right? You aren’t going to come up with an excuse to stay, are you?”
“There’s no excuse alive that could keep me here any longer than I have to,” Clay said. “Pretty lady or not, we need to get the hell out of the Midlands before this cursed land destroys us.”
“Amen to that, pal,” Gibbons said. He stood and looked about the hut. “This should take me about five seconds. I’ll meet you in the mech when you’re done with whatever it is you feel you gotta do.”
“Thanks,” Clay said.
He crossed the main cavern, a thousand words filling his mind. He had no idea how he was going to say goodbye to Paige. She’d saved him, he’d saved her, they’d shared something. It wasn’t exactly the heat of battle they had been in, but it was pretty damn
close. There was a connection, and Clay felt bad for severing it so abruptly.
Not that he didn’t have reason.
Clay found the passage that Morley had come and gone from. He waited by the opening and listened. Far off, a faint echo, he could hear the old man talking to himself. He also heard the distinct hum of electrical generators. Clay wasn’t a mad scientist, not even close to being a genius, but he knew what generators sounded like.
Again, his hand strayed to the empty spot on his hip where his revolver should have been.
“Dammit,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure if he was cursing because the pistol wasn’t there or because his first instinct was always to grab for it.
He walked down the passage, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. It was a long passage, and the temperature dropped considerably the further he walked. The light behind him had almost dwindled to nothing when a light ahead guided his way. Clay came to a fork in the passage, both well-lit and he stopped to decide which way to go.
Morley’s mutterings came from the left, so that decided things for Clay and he followed that half of the fork.
The room Clay stepped into was fairly large. It didn’t look like it had been a natural creation, but cut out of the rock itself. Clay could see the tell-tale swirls left behind by machinery and heavy tools.
That brief observation was all that kept him from gasping as he stepped all the way into the room. If he hadn’t been distracted by that detail, he might have said more than a few things he would have regretted. Or maybe not. No way to tell.
What he did say as he saw the row after row of vats with wires attached to them was, “What the hell is this, Barnes? Sweet hell, are those bodies?”
Twenty-Five
Morley slowly straightened up from a vat he was leaning over. His back was to Clay, but it wasn’t hard to tell he was upset.
“Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said without turning around. “I was under the impression you were leaving. I also do not recall inviting you back here. This is my personal laboratory, and you have no right interrupting me. It is fortunate I was only fetching a replacement component and not in the middle of something delicate.”
Morley did turn around then, and Clay was halfway between shock and a complete lack of surprise that the older man was holding a forearm with hand still attached. The hand dangled by its limp wrist, and the fingers jiggled when Morley moved to approach Clay.
“Nope,” Clay said. “You can stay right there, Barnes.”
“You are hardly in a position to give me orders in my own laboratory,” Morley said.
The way he pronounced the word “laboratory” only added to the mad scientist vibe of the room. Not that the vats of human body parts allowed for any confusion about the mad aspect of the science that was being conducted.
“I think I’m in a fine position to give orders,” Clay said. “Keep walking towards me with that dead limb, and you’ll find your position is flat on your face on the ground.”
“You overstate your abilities, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said. “I appear old, which, if we are honest, I am. Very old. But, this body has far more strength to it than first meets the eye. Its aged nature is simply because I tend to drain life force so much faster than my daughter does. Perhaps it is my intellect, perhaps it is my constant drive for perfection of my work. Or it simply could be that my daughter possesses so much more vitality in her nature than I do. I am unsure.”
He gestured with the severed limb and shook his head.
“I have spent lifetimes trying to deduce an answer, but all I have done is prolong the research,” he continued. “Not that I see that as a dilemma. An eternity of science? What more could I ask for.”
“Possibly some sanity?” Clay suggested. “Because you are about as batshit as the corners of these caves.”
“I can assure you that Myotis lucifugus has not resided in these caverns for some time,” Morley said. “Mites decimated the population decades ago. It was sad, not hearing their squeaking during the day while I worked. Even if their droppings became somewhat of a nuisance. Although, the guano did make for excellent fuel. Not to mention as a nematicide. Nematodes can be a problem when working with reanimated flesh. A roundworm infestation is just devastating to—”
“Shut up,” Clay snapped. “Stop babbling about whatever the hell it is you’re babbling about. I don’t care about bats, I don’t care about toads, I don’t care about anything except for an explanation as to what the hell you are doing here.”
“A moment, if you please,” Morley said as he turned back to the vat and set the limb inside. He spent a couple minutes reattaching wires then wiped his hands on his apron, his bloody apron, and turned back around. “There. The components do not last for long outside of the vats. Thirty more seconds, and I would have had to start trimming away necrotic tissue. It makes the grafts so much harder.”
Clay stared at Morley. Morley stared at Clay.
“You have questions,” Morley stated finally.
“Yeah, you could say that,” Clay said. “But really only one. Where the hell is Paige?”
“Yes…Paige,” Morley said and his face fell. His lips twitched in the corners, the beginnings of a sad smile that never fully formed. He gestured to a long work table with two stools set under it. “Have a seat, if you will, Mr. MacAulay. I think I should explain. Not that I feel any obligation to you, of course, but I believe Paige would want you to understand us. She has been so fearful you would see us as monsters when that is so far from the truth.”
“We? Paige is involved with this…” He gestured at the room. “This butcher shop?”
“Butcher shop? You insult me, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley exclaimed as he pulled out a stool and sat. “There is absolutely no butchery occurring here. Careful dissection only. Butcher shop, indeed. What do you take me for? One of the Perditions? They are ghouls, animals in human form. They are the butchers. Not me.”
“If you say so,” Clay replied.
“I do,” Morley huffed. “I do…”
He rubbed his palms across his thighs and nodded at the second stool.
“Sit. Please,” Morley said. Clay did not sit. “Please.”
Reluctantly, and making quite the show of it, Clay pulled out the stool and sat. He was ramrod stiff, and his eyes never left Morley.
“Your fight or flight response is in full view, Mr. MacAulay,” Morley said. When Clay didn’t come close to cracking a smile, Morley cleared his throat. “Where should I start?”
“I’m guessing that’s rhetorical,” Clay replied.
“Is it? Yes, I suppose it is,” Morley said. “How could you possibly know where I should start? Perhaps at the beginning.”
He took a deep breath, slapped his palms on his thighs, and said. “I am over two hundred years old, Mr. MacAulay. My daughter is over one hundred years old.” He held up a finger. “Yes, she is my actual daughter, born from the womb of a woman I loved dearly. That woman, my wife, did not survive childbirth. I had warned her, warned her with every ounce of my being, that there was a distinct possibility that she would not live, but she insisted. She wanted a child. I had made her wait one hundred years to have Paige. I would have been a true monster to make her wait any longer.”
“Where do you get the body parts?” Clay asked.
“In due time,” Morley responded. “Let me tell you how any of this is possible. You see, Mr. MacAulay, the Bloody Conflict was bloody indeed. It lasted how long? How many decades of warfare ravaged this continent? Splitting the territories into NorthAm and the MexiCalis. Seven? Eight decades?”
“At least that,” Clay said. “If you are as old as you say, then you’d be the one to know.”
“Yes, I would,” Morley replied. “Yes, I would indeed. It was seven decades with an eighth added on as each side dealt with the continual squabbles that erupted as territory boundaries were finalized. Some folks were not happy with the shifting of the borders, Mr. MacAulay. I was one of those folks.”
“You and
every other citizen that got caught up in that mess,” Clay said. “I’m getting bored with the history lesson, old man. Get to the facts.”
“The facts are this,” Morley said. “I had already developed my technique when the Bloody Conflict broke out. That war allowed me to perfect it, though.”
“You said you are over two hundred years old,” Clay said. “If you are talking Bloody Conflict, then you are starting in the middle of your story.”
“Indeed I am,” Morley said. “I want you to understand that the only reason I continued along the path I began was because my wife wanted a child, and I wanted my child to live through decades of horrible, horrible violence. I did what I did out of scientific curiosity, at first, but then it became a matter of survival. It became a matter of my daughter’s survival.”
Morley’s eyes burned with fire.
“I will do anything to see that my daughter survives,” Morley snarled, a sound so uncharacteristic that Clay nearly fell off his stool. Morley laughed. “My apologies. I do get passionate when I speak of my Paige.”
“Parents can be that way,” Clay said.
“They can,” Morley said. “One day perhaps you will know that feeling.”
Clay opened his mouth then closed it. Morley cocked his head, but didn’t ask the obvious question.
Instead, he asked, “Am I correct in assuming that you care for Paige?”
“In a manner,” Clay admitted.
“In what manner?” Morley asked.
“In the manner that I care for her as much as I can care for someone I barely know and is an admitted lazaroti,” Clay said.
“Ah, but there lies the rub,” Morley said. “She is not a lazaroti. Neither am I. The Perditions and their kind are, yes, but we Barnes are no such creatures.”
“But you said—” Clay started.
“We said what we needed to say for simplicity’s sake,” Morley said and spread his arms wide. “As you see, things are far from simplistic.”
