Protect All Monsters

by Alan Spencer

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He offered a crooked smile.

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  She signed the document, and she’d regret it indefinitely.

  Mr. Quinn said good-bye, and they parted ways. Stella reappeared and pointed to the women’s room. “You can clean yourself up, dear. There will be a hot shower and clothes your size waiting inside. Take your time. This is all overwhelming, I’m sure. If it’s any consolation, you’re being strong. You can’t go wrong when you’re strong.”

  The words sounded like dialogue from a cheesy after-school special. She let it go and walked to the wooden door at the end of the hall. She opened it, and it was a shower stall with a bathroom, mirror and set of clothes in a plastic bag folded neatly on a shelf.

  The door was locked behind her, the audible click making her jump. “Relax. It’s just me, Stella.”

  Just when she thought her situation was awful enough, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Blood caked her neck and chest, and it completely stained her legs. The red was a breaking crust. The majority of it was Deke’s.

  Her brother was dead.

  The PSA hadn’t bothered to computer fake his image.

  She stood frozen. Her black hair—“Black as a jelly bean,” her mother used to say—was coming undone from the hair clip, the curly length extending down to her shoulders. She owned a soft, doughy face. Her skin was tanned from the summer sun. She didn’t burn. A flat, emotionless expression had taken over her otherwise friendly demeanor.

  Addey checked the room for windows. There were none. She kept thinking out an escape plan, and nothing came together. What would happen if she did escape the facility and somehow reach civilization? Would someone be waiting in hiding to capture her or gun her down?

  “I can’t beat them,” she said to herself. “Whatever, I need a shower.”

  She undressed and cleaned her brother’s blood from her body.

  Her skin was the color of blush. The shower had been hot enough to scald clean. She changed into a black skirt and a white button-up shirt: what was provided. A name was embroidered into the right breast pocket: Addey.

  “This is impossible.”

  She eyed the name again and again.

  She tried on the black pumps, the heels three inches long. Before she could attempt to open the door, it was opened for her. Stella waited at the threshold.

  “Good girl, you’re cleaned up and dressed. You won’t be needing your old clothes anymore. Okay, dear. You can leave the room.”

  She considered overtaking the old woman and running for her life, but where would that get her? They’d find her, the PSA, and she’d be in no better position than before.

  Stella gave her uniform the once-over. “Oh, you’ve got a tear in your back. Can’t they make these clothes to last? Here, let me fix that.”

  The woman moved behind her. That was the moment Addey was pricked at the neck. Instantly she was on her knees, her head spinning like a top, the scene turning into burning pixels of blurry color. She peered up at Stella, who was welding a spent syringe.

  She said, “I’m so sorry, dear. There’s no time to explain things. You have a plane to catch.”

  Chapter Four

  “She’s awake.”

  “It’s been three hours. It’s time for another dose.”

  “Won’t be long before the other wakes too.”

  A hand touched hers and disturbed the IV tube in her arm. Addey’s eyes were thin slits. She was lying on the floor of a private airplane. The engine rumbled her torso, turning her stomach into an acidic cage of fighting butterflies. Two men tended to her body. One man was covered in sweat, the other enjoying a glass of Scotch. Beside her, another man was asleep. His face was drug-relaxed. He was like her—taken, manipulated, being delivered somewhere.

  “Whu, what am I doing here?” The effort of talking threatened to send her back into the deep chasm of a coma-rest.

  The Scotch drinker stared down at her without a word. He slugged back his beverage and shook his head as the other fitted her IV bag with a dose of a clear substance.

  Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she returned to sleep.

  The engine’s churning was no more. She was in an isolated room this time. She rested on a cot with a fibrous blanket on top of her. It was dark green, army issue. The bedsprings were shift sensitive. The room was sterile with the tang of bleach and unkempt skin. They had supplied her with new clothes, but no makeup, or deodorant, or the niceties of a female. Thank God I’m not on my period right now.

  The room was empty aside from a sink, a mirror and the stranger.

  She yipped in fright and pulled the blanket over her body, though she was fully dressed. The painful blush and sting of embarrassment quickly turned into reproach. “Who the fuck are you? Who let you in?”

  The stranger sitting beside her bed was in his midthirties. He wore a Yankees fitted ball cap, black tie, black button-up shirt and beige khaki pants. The holster around his hips was loaded with mace, a radio receiver and a .22 caliber pistol. His freshly shaven face was warm, the smile genuine, though he had tired eyes. Everybody she’d met through the last few days had that look of deep exhaustion. These people were working overtime without a vacation. She also noted his curly, licorice-black hair and tanned skin. He was of Mexican heritage.

  “I apologize for being the creeper leering at the side of your bed.” He extended his hand, leaving it out until she shook it. “My name is Richard Cortez. I’ll be your advisor. You’re one of the unlucky people who fell into their midst. I understand your fear and anger. It’s in everybody I meet.”

  “My name is—”

  “Addey Ruanova. You’re the daughter of Carlos and Norma Ruanova. They married in 1977. You were born in 1981.” He eyed his clipboard. This was the part of the job Richard seemingly relished. “Oh yes, you made the A honor roll in second grade. Your t-ball team went to the state championship, but you lost to the Sharks. You busted your head on the pavement skating downhill once. Ten staples in your scalp. Ouch.”

  He paused, waiting for a reaction. Something about taking in her life’s accomplishments and downfalls returned her to normalcy. “Keep going. What else do you know about me?”

  Richard arched his brow inquisitively. “Okay. You were part of the drill team for the first two years of high school; then you started working at the Sunshine Motel full-time. You sold blood on a regular basis, fifty dollars a pop. You lost your virginity to Mario Martinez. You guys rented out a room at your workplace under a fake name. But you regretted it. Didn’t the school call him the Wesley Snipes of pussy?”

  “Yeah, whatever the fuck that means. And how the fuck do you know that?”

  “Hey, you asked.”

  “And for the record, Mario did get me into the hotel room, but he drugged my drink. I was sixteen. Other friends were supposed to join us, and oh, oops, they mysteriously didn’t show up. It seemed like the entire sophomore-class football team was in cahoots with Mario.” She smiled darkly. “He paid for it, though.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah, he did. Deke broke his arm, blacked both his eyes and slashed the guy’s tires.”

  “He deserved it. That’s the only time Deke did something destructive that I supported.”

  “Is Mario the reason you don’t date?”

  “You’re getting personal, aren’t you?” She pointed at his clipboard. “Can’t you check your notes? They should tell you.”

  “Actually,” he pointed at the paper, “no—they don’t. Fill in the juicy details, would you?”

  She tossed the blanket aside. “Men can go shove their sticks into a wood chipper. That’s my stance on dating.”

  She looked at the Band-Aid and the cotton ball on her left arm. When her foot touched the floor, she realized her right ankle was strapped with a metal box. The steel was two inches thick, firm but not circulation cutting. A blinking red dot flashed on the side of the box. “Is this a tracking pi
ece?”

  “A lot of money and time has been put into procuring your services. It’s ugly and intrusive, but I assure you, it’s for your safety as well.” He lowered his eyes. “Your job isn’t exactly safe.”

  The vagueness accompanying her new job, the contract Mr. Quinn had urged her to sign without properly reading the fine print, the sedative that had delivered her from a plane to what she could safely bet was a boat—commercial-size too—increased her aggravation. “Will you tell me what my job exactly is? Am I drilling oil? Standing in tanks of piranha? How about a government spy? Do I get disguises and a voice modulator?”

  Richard burst out laughing. “You, you’re funny. You have more chutzpah than the average sucker. Oh, you’re going to be good at your job. You might even survive your contract.”

  That ripped the humor from the moment. He continued to yuk it up, unstrapping his backpack and digging into it. He produced a manila folder, a sticker holding the flaps together. “My job is to disseminate this information to you. You are required to read it. It’s about eight thirty in the morning. We’ll be floating along for another twelve or so hours. Would you like me to bring you something to eat? The government provides awesome rations. You want steak and eggs, perhaps an omelet? Or maybe you like Belgian waffles or blueberry pancakes? We have an open bar. Some like to drink up. Understandably so, because this is quite a harrowing experience.”

  He said when she didn’t reply, “My condolences for your brother. I’m very sorry.”

  She lowered her head and kept silent, but then she asked him, “Can I be alone? I’m not hungry right now, thank you.”

  Richard understood. “Yes, of course. Read the packet. For your safety, read it. Oh, and you’re required to read it, so please read it.”

  Chapter Five

  She didn’t read the packet.

  Addey peeked out the porthole window. Dark blue ocean extended for miles—eternity for all it mattered—in every direction. She was a good swimmer. Richard had failed to mention she enjoyed the Olympic-size pool at the YMCA on the weekends during high school. She could hold her breath for nearly four minutes and swim two miles without serious exertion.

  Two miles won’t cut it now. Two hundred miles wouldn’t cut it.

  She had no way of knowing if she was sailing on the Pacific or the Atlantic Ocean—or perhaps they were traveling along the Gulf of Mexico? The sky and the water were a miserable compass.

  Addey walked up to the door of her room and turned the knob. It opened, to her surprise. Nobody was waiting in the hallway to intercept her, so she skulked down the corridor. Every room was empty, though she caught a sleeping man in one chamber. He looked familiar. He had been on the plane beside her. Would Richard visit this man as well?

  She didn’t wait to find out.

  The hallway ended with a set of stairs. She walked out onto the deck, the sensation of exposure and vulnerability keeping her moving. The ocean was steady and unrolling. Richard had said they had a twelve-hour journey ahead of them. That gave her plenty of time to scope out a place to hide.

  Looking out, there was a food court a short distance north of her position. A man was entering the food court dressed like her: white shirt, black pants, nice shoes.

  She darted under a set of stairs and discovered a door.

  The door was spray-painted: Crew Only.

  She feared personnel might be behind the door, so she opened it slowly. Darkness met her upon crossing the threshold. Inside, something lent the air a thickness. She could cut the humid net with a knife.

  The door slammed behind her. She raced to it, trapped in pitch. She frantically traced her hands up and down the door, but there was no handle.

  She banged and kicked at the barrier, failing to care about being discovered anymore. “Open this door, please! I’m sorry. I’ll go back to my room. I won’t try and hide again. I’ll read the packet. I’ll memorize it!”

  Expelled breath distracted her from the breakdown. The thickness of the exhalation sounded like a horse. She kicked at straw. Each step, her pumps clopped. She couldn’t sneak up on anybody or make a quick getaway.

  She edged farther into the dark room. It was expansive; she kept her hands out at all angles and had yet to touch a surface. The smell of excrement invaded her nostrils as well as the tang of iron and meat. Taking in the smell, she backed into a hay bale.

  She whispered, “What is in here?”

  Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

  The low rumble was that of a snarling dog.

  She stopped. What could she do now? Every step would alert whatever was in the room. The blinking dot at her foot caught her eye. The tracking device.

  So much for hiding out.

  Without realizing it, she was crawling on all fours.

  Go straight until you hit a wall. Follow that wall to a door.

  She executed the plan. Her fingers were outstretched, extended as far as possible in front of her. She scraped her knees during the daring journey. She felt the wounds form, abrasions turning into torn skin.

  Humphf!

  Hrrrrrrrrrrrr.

  She kept moving. Whatever was huffing and puffing knew of her presence, and freezing in place wouldn’t change that.

  Shrick! Shrick! Shrick! Shrick! Shrick!

  Metal scraping against metal, fiery bright sparks were rendered from the back corner of the room. She had a good distance from the thing that shared the room with her. She crawled faster, almost to a door—and this time with a handle. Her nails broke on four of her fingers when they collided with the door. She pushed in the short bar, opening the access, and dumped herself forward. Instantly, she was colder. A motor hummed above her. A faded lightbulb gave weak definition to the room.

  She was inside a giant refrigerator.

  Her screaming was prevented by her cupping of her own mouth. Taking it all in, she gawked at the steel shelves stocked with glass containers of human heads, hands, eyes, intestines, fetuses and other hunks of meat she couldn’t identify. They swam in brine-colored fluids, pickled and preserved. The collection was thousands strong, enough to fill six semitrucks. It was so vast she sank from the enormity of it.

  Her back was firm against the wall. Where could she go? Certainly not back where she had come from.

  She couldn’t prevent her wandering eyes from studying the random items about the room. Slabs of animal meat hung from hooks, among racks of ribs and pig bodies. Steel barrels were marked “assorted innards”. The rims were blood caked. Tendrils of cold fog parted to reveal new sections of the compartment, and one section stopped her completely. Black body bags were stacked on the floor like cordwood. She counted seventy-five before giving up. She hadn’t accounted for a quarter of the supply.

  Human bodies.

  What do these people really do here?

  She refused to give up on escape. She was cautious as ever. The fog lifted once again and gave shape to animals shrink-wrapped and preserved in fluids: goats, sheep, bison, deer, antelope, grizzly bears, cattle, and hammerhead and tiger sharks.

  She hit the end of the room, and, stuck in a corner, the nearby door beckoned her. Addey crossed to it in a hurry, flinging the exit open. Her entrance stirred the locked-up inhabitants in the narrow hall. The doors of the chambers reminded her of those used at asylums, except the peepholes were covered by sheets, obscuring the view inside. Concussions rattled the floor. The mewling of live animals attacked her ears. Goats and sheep dominated the corridor’s population, she believed, as well as chickens that flapped their wings, shedding feathers inside their wire kennels. The stench was eye watering.

  She pinched her nose at the overpowering smells. She slipped through a thin aisle, working around stacked-up crates and wooden cages. The glare of eyes stared back at her from within. They were as confused and horrified as their watcher. She skirted as fast as she could without falling onto the floor strewn with hay and pellets of feed.

  Another door at the end of the corridor encouraged her on.

&nb
sp; She turned the knob and threw it shut behind her. This time, her nose couldn’t identify the use of this chamber. Doors to unknown rooms were not only shut, but locked with sizable padlocks and chains. The circular windows peeking into the rooms were draped over by cloth. Addey edged toward one of the doors, curious. She pressed her ear against the wood’s grain. Silence. No animal cries. She touched the fibrous cloth and lifted the edge. She stared through the glass, but it was all darkness.

  “Don’t peel that back!”

  Her arm was twisted behind her back. She yelped at the surge of awful pain coursing up and down her arm. Her mouth was cupped. Silenced. “Shhhh, you’ll wake them. We can’t have that. We’re not there yet.”

  She caught Richard in her peripheral vision. An agitated expression ruined his otherwise amicable face. He glistened with a layer of fresh sweat. His inhaled and exhaled hard, spent from a run.

  He breathed out in relief. “You can’t just walk about the place. You’re allowed to go to the kitchen and recreational area, and that’s it. Are we in an understanding? If not, I’ll toss you over the side and let you drown. I’m not putting up with any shit from you regardless of how much we need you.”

  She nodded, still unable to speak.

  “That tracking device on your ankle gave you away,” he added as an aside. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  He released her. He was purple-faced and flushed from exertion. He scowled at her. “You’re very lucky you weren’t shot, or worse…very much worse.”

  She rubbed her arm up and down to reduce the ache. “What’s ‘very much worse’ mean?”

  He placed his pointer finger against his lips. “Not so loud.” His eyes kept wandering from her to the doors. He whispered, “I barely caught you in time. We could’ve had a situation on our hands. The last time this happened, six people ended up dead.”

  “The last time what happened?”

  His harsh stare mutated into pride. “You’re very intuitive and interested in this place.” He pointed back the way she had come. “Let me show you something. I take it you haven’t read the packet.”