Now We Are Monsters (The Commander) (10 page)

As Keaton surmised, the Monsters or male Arms were down in some form of cellar.  Recently enlarged, I guessed, from a huge pile of dirt by the side of the house.  This was an old fashioned rock-lined dirt cellar, not a modern concrete basement.  Chains rattled in the
cellar.  Keaton signaled to me, including a nose point.  I relaxed.  She thought no male Arms were present.

The free Monster was doing housework, of all things.  I wanted to scream at the unfairness; the universe had no right to go and change the way it worked on me.  Monsters weren’t intelligent and they did
not
do housework.  I took a deep breath and concentrated on my sense of smell.  Bah.  I picked up the scent of feces, urine, and both fresh and rotting food.  Off brand canned food, as well, but nothing cooked.  And dry dog food, one of the name brands.  I had no idea what Keaton smelled that convinced her no male Arms were present.

When we reached the clearing, Keaton squatted
under an ancient black walnut and thought for a few minutes.  Then she motioned me to go forward, put her hand up to her mouth and made a talking signal.  She wanted me to go talk to the Monster!  I nodded and obeyed, trying to ignore the fact I thought this was crazy with me in my current state.  Keaton slid up toward the house herself, with a gun and a knife out, ready to cover me.  Ah.  I was bait.  She expected the Monster to charge me and give her a shot at its back.  Or a knife, if she so chose.  As long as we didn’t get a cellar-full of Monsters after our asses, there shouldn’t be much danger.

I quietly sauntered up to the doorway and knocked.  The doorway itself leaned to the side slightly, and the rectangular door had popped out to hang open.  I held a knife in each hand, ready to meet a Monster charge.  “Hey there, Monster?  Monster?  Since when do Monsters do housework?”
I called out.  “What’s with the dog food?”

Keaton winced, but not an angry wince.

I never got a chance to see the Monster doing the housework.  “Help!  Anyone, help!  Help!  I’m under attack!” the Monster said.  Then she screamed bloody murder.  I heard a crash and tinkle, followed by the sound of someone running on muddy ground.  Our talking Monster was smart enough to run away.

Now that just wasn’t fair.  It was bad enough we had a Monster doing housework, but a Monster who talked?  This had to be rectified, and…

Keaton grabbed me two steps into my chase to run down this dirty rotten cheating Monster.  She shook her head and pointed at the Transforms.  Right.  Miss Monster wasn’t our prey.

Damn, but I wished I
had found this place while I wasn’t low on juice.

We went into the house and found the stairway into the cellar.  I noted the two male Arms had gouged up the floor spectacularly
.  The kitchen tile was nearly ripped to shreds.  The place was mostly clean, except for the stink.  The house reeked of these male Arms, their odor nearly overwhelming the moldy stench of a house with a leaky roof.  We found a rotting carcass of a large dog in the kitchen sink, a carcass missing many hunks.  Flies buzzed around it.  Well, the carcass explained the dog food, unless the male Arms fed the dog food to the cellar dwellers.

Keaton motioned and led the way down into the hot dark cellar, a place so thick with the reek of shit and filth the air itself seemed liquid.  The place erupted with a monstrous cacophony.  Unfortunately, the Monsters in the cellar didn’t obey Keaton’s orders for quiet.  Not even when she went predator at them.  In fact, they did the same
back
.  The faint light from the kitchen above illuminated heavy chains and huge locks restraining each Monster, the chains short enough to keep each Monster out of reach of the others.  We ignored the screaming and hissing Monsters as best as possible, and since we couldn’t trivially break the chains, we would have to unlock the Transform women.

The term ‘Monster’ wasn’t quite correct, though.  Though they metasensed as Monsters, several showed only a few signs of monsterhood to the naked eye.  Not a one of these Monsters talked.  The Transform women weren’t in good shape, either.  They had been severely abused, the mind gone on the one Keaton motioned for me to free.  The look Keaton gave me at the same time was an explicit order: we do
not
take our prey here.  I nodded back, despite my urges.  I wanted out of this cellar.  Badly.

I picked the damned heavy lock on my prey’s shackles
, difficult in the nearly non-existent light.  This place made my skin crawl and I breathed through my mouth to keep from vomiting.  In addition, the howling half-Monsters made me want to go berserk from anger.  No, from anger and
fear
.  Someone had found a way to stop a Monster transformation halfway, a hell of a powerful Major Transform trick.  I didn’t want to meet those Major Transforms.

Heh.  I grabbed the prey and she became
mine
.  I looked over at Keaton, who just shook her head.  Yes, I was a long way from being able to give up any prey I captured.

For the first time since Keaton made me realize I was an ‘evil monster’, I felt like I was doing good.  I even felt sympathy for my Transform prey: when I drew her juice she would die painlessly, which wouldn’t happen if I left her here.  No creature deserved this basement and no human deserved to live and become a part-Monster to serve the insane purposes of their male captors.

These part-Monsters had to die.  The world would be a better place if the male Arms died as well, but I couldn’t do anything about them now.

We trudged up the stairs with the two Transform women as fast as possible, leaving the chained Monsters behind.  On the way out, Keaton torched the place, the first time I ever saw her do society a favor.  She read my mind with ease, though.  “Dammit, cunt, we’re not the good guys.  We’re the better guys.”  Keaton’s entire philosophy reduced to two sentences.  I would hear those lines many times.  It wasn’t long before I parroted them myself.

“Ma’am.”

“And don’t even think about faith.”  Her comment referenced a brutal argument about the nature of Transform Sickness.  Keaton believed Transform Sickness and our abilities had nothing to do with God, the Devil, or any form of supernatural.  I disagreed.  “Propaganda is the lies we tell our enemies, ideology is the lies we tell our friends, while faith is just the lies we tell ourselves,” Keaton said, in a low mutter.  Unoriginal but succinct.

“Ma’am.”  I couldn’t grovel while carrying my prey, but I did lower my eyes.

“Dammit, Hancock, just go enjoy yourself.”  The screams of the dying Monsters in the burning shack followed us to our cars.  “We’ll talk about Monster Arms later.”  She was no better at covering the disgust she felt in the basement than I, despite her stone face.  We kept our distance on the way out, each with our own prey slung over our shoulders.  Me, I still had enough control, despite my low juice state, to not inadvertently suck down the juice of the Transform woman as I carried her.  Back in my Detention Center captivity days I hadn’t had anywhere near this level of control.  I had improved.

Keaton, too.  She didn’t even blink when she left me with my own nice juice-bloated Transform in my arms.  Back when she first started to train me, in Philadelphia, she hadn’t been able to.  Me?  It hurt like hell to see Keaton drive off with the other Transform woman.  But she was the boss, I was the student and I did have my own prey to assuage my hunger.  Nothing had changed; the pleasure of the draw still so overwhelming it drove away all the agony, torture and general crap that Keaton and life itself put me through.

I suspected Keaton referred to the male Arms when she made her comment about ‘Monster Arms’, but her label was a good name for this place, as well.  A quiet rustic chateau in the forest, with affordable rates, continental breakfast, with many vacancies for a whole passel of visiting Transforms…

“I told you that both of us out hunting at the same time was a brainless bit of stupidity,” Enkidu said, kicking at the smoldering remains of Grendel’s house.  Grendel had howled with loss when he spied the ruins for the first time.  Enkidu got angry with those who did the dirty deed.

“If you’d been here this wouldn’t have ever happened!”
Cleo said.  She had already told them the story of the two attackers, the two Transform women.  Based on Gilgamesh’s tales, they had to be the Arms.

“What’s it to you?”
Enkidu growled.  Cleo had wept when they returned.  Typical woman.  Now anger.  Also typical.  “They’re just Monsters.”

Cleo wiped her eyes and stood, challenging Enkidu.  Her boss was his boss
, and he had to back down.

Or
, did he?

He examined the Law in his mind.  This was Grendel’s fuck up, wasn’t it?

“Well, so am I,” Cleo said.  She wiped the grit off her monstrous face, smearing ash across her scaly cheeks.  “Just the same as them.  If you…”

“Shut up,” Enkidu said, which he followed with a roar at the talking Monster.  Cleo backed away with a growl of her own.

Grendel hissed at Enkidu’s words and charged.  Finally.  Enkidu roared at the older Hunter and leapt into the fight.

Grendel bit and hissed.  He grabbed Enkidu and rolled.  Enkidu flipped Grendel off and kicked him in his scaled belly, which slammed him back into a tree.  Enkidu followed with a bowel-clenching roar and leapt at the other Hunter, grabbing his throat.  Grendel sunk his claws into Enkidu’s belly and pulled skin.  Enkidu held on tight to Grendel’s throat with his teeth.

The other Hunter kicked back with his legs and forced himself up, trying to gut Enkidu.  Grendel’s throat ripped under Enkidu’s bite, blood flying everywhere.

Grendel staggered for a moment, unable to breathe.  Enkidu circled faster than Grendel could follow, pounced on his so-called master’s back, and dropped Grendel to the ground.  Enkidu’s left front foot pinned Grendel’s neck and triumph filled Enkidu.

“By the Law, acknowledge my victory,” Enkidu said, exactly as Wandering Shade, their Master, designed.  Their Master suspected a fight like this might someday occur.  He called it a challenge fight.

Grendel, who couldn’t talk or even move his neck, let his body go limp under Enkidu’s foot.  Yes!  Victory! 
Enkidu roared, his roar suffused with power.  Grendel’s bladder cut loose.  Cleo prostrated herself to Enkidu as well.

“I’m the boss.  I give the orders now,” Enkidu said.  His sharp-toothed smile spread wide. 
He liked the feel of being the boss better than anything from his current or previous life.  “Our latest hunt got us two more prime Gals, one each.”  Their newest acquisitions were still hogtied in the back of Enkidu’s Ford pickup (the fact that Grendel couldn’t drive a truck also proved his unworthiness to lead).  “We need more, but from now on we take the Gals when we hunt.  Once our packs are built back up, we will politely ask the Shade if he knows where those two Arms lair.  Revenge calls and
I’m going to answer
.”

“They might not be Arms,” a voice said.  Enkidu swiveled his wolf-man form to
find the speaker, not recognizing the voice.  The speaker was Wandering Shade, and he was furious, actually shaking in anger.  Enkidu had never seen Wandering Shade furious before, or heard him lose control of his voice.

“Master,” Enkidu said, and hunched down.  “I abase…”

“That enemies attacked is not your fault, nor that of Grendel.”  Wandering Shade’s voice trembled as he spoke.  “I was nearby when you returned, attempting to calm myself and think through what happened.  I foresaw your challenge fight and didn’t want to interfere.  Interference would have been improper.”

Enkidu understood.  He wanted to accuse Wandering Shade and challenge him, but he couldn’t.  The Law wouldn’t let him.  The Law reduced him to asking questions.

“Who did this, if not the Arms?” Enkidu asked.

“The Focus bitches, of course,” Wandering Shade said. 
He wore a county sheriff’s uniform today, with a big-ass pistol at his waist.  “There are over a hundred and fifty of them, and some are as evil and violent as the two Arms.  We’ll have to approach this carefully and you’ll have to use your noses to identify these honorless attackers.”

“What’s our itinerary, Master?”  Enkidu still spoke from his crouch.  The situation, despite the horror, demanded formality.

“Baton Rouge, Detroit, Pittsburgh (but with care), Philadelphia, and lastly Boston.”  Wandering Shade clenched his fists as he spoke, still radiating fury.  “If all of those prove to be failures, we may need to check out the other Focus bitches in Seattle and St. Augustine.”

“Boston, Master?”
Enkidu said.  “That’s where the other non-Hunter Beasts live.  How can we…”

Wandering Shade appeared next to Enkidu,
moving almost too fast to see.  “How do you know of this?” he demanded, his hand on Enkidu’s head.  Enkidu’s own bladder almost cut loose.  He hadn’t realized his Master could be so terrifying.  His Master might be small in stature, but the immense threat of his juice tricks, which right now squeezed Enkidu’s metasense tight, more than compensated.

“I’ve seen the truth in the underside of the morning clouds,” Enkidu said, quiet, cautious and apologetic.

“Oh, good, very good,” Wandering Shade said, cuffing Enkidu’s head in kindness.  “This will help.  You are coming into your power, aren’t you?  A terrifying and potent Hunter.  I like.”  He paused.  “You don’t need to worry about the Boston Beasts.  Not at all.  That situation is well in hand.”

Keaton wouldn’t explain our mission of the day, which meant the mission was a test.  In fact, she
kept rather quiet for her high juice count.  Normally the only time she talked, outside of profanity, grunts and orders, was when her juice count was up.  Now? Stone face.

She was pulling something on me.

Her quiet meant I had nothing to do during the car ride but think.  Male Arms dominated my thoughts, but occasionally they turned to brainstorming Keaton’s graduation requirement.  I felt no hurry about the project, given all the good things I had been learning recently, but it would be good to come up with
something
.

We didn’t stop in New York save to pick up food and to exercise.  We got off I
-95 in Boston, but didn’t start in on a hunting grid.  Instead Keaton took us directly to our destination, a quiet Cambridge street lined with large trees and old brick houses, reeking of misbegotten Yankee wealth.

Keaton parked the car two car-lengths away from a fire hydrant and motioned for me to get out.  I followed her down the street, then around a corner.  She took us to the second house on the left, with three huge old Elm trees in front.  We ignored the brick walkway leading up to the white front door, went up the driveway and around back, where she pointed to a locked door.

A test.  I quietly picked the expensive lock and opened the door.  We were in.

Keaton pushed ahead of me and snuck through the impressive house.  This was the sort of place I
had tried to imitate in my housewife days.  Old, elegant furniture.  Rich, thick rugs.  Oil paintings on the walls.  Crystal vases on shelves.  The place had everything but wallpaper made from twenty-dollar bills and anyone with juice.

I watched Keaton intently, on the lookout for what she wanted me to do.  She went into a dark room and began to sift through papers.  I followed.  The room was a library, with many medical books on floor to ceiling shelves, a masculine desk covered with papers, a credenza opposite, a stool on casters and two low back leather armchairs.

All right, then. This was a spy mission.  I started in on the credenza and found two photos, the first of three young adults, two men and one woman, who all looked related, the second, face down, a photo of an older woman, probably the man’s wife.

I picked up the topmost paper from the top of the credenza and my eyes went wide.  The letter started ‘Dear Dr. Henry Zielinski’, and was from some damned Focus who whined on and on about ‘bad juice contamination’.

Well, this changed everything.  Keaton didn’t have to spy on Zielinski; she could just call the bastard and he would cough up whatever she wanted to learn.  That is, unless he had been holding back.  I thought about Dr. Zielinski and his personality for a moment, decided what sort of information he might hold back, then opened up a file drawer in the credenza and quickly found my target, a file of personal papers.

The top one explained everything.

Dear Hank,

For thirty-two years, I have been your wife.  I have lived in poverty with you and our three young children while you were in medical school.  I’ve raised your children while you were away from home for weeks and months at a time in the war, and working on your research.  At the time, I told myself you were saving lives and advancing medical science as you did so.  I thought that I was helping humanity by supporting you.  Now I find I was wrong.  I am not a doctor, as you are, and I never understood the work you do, but I do understand the difference between right and wrong, and …

I cleared my throat almost inaudibly to get Keaton’s attention, not bothering to read the rest of the letter.  She took the letter and file from my hand, pointed to the door, then started in on the rest of Zielinski’s personal papers.

I got the hint and left the library to continue searching the house.  On one wall just around the corner I found, framed, the title pages of several of his published articles.  I had no idea Zielinski was as important a researcher as these articles made him out to be.  Three caught my eye.  The first was a paper on the difference between fundamental and supplemental juice, which he
had
discovered, as Special Agent Bates intimated once.  The second dealt with how Focuses could drive themselves into withdrawal by moving juice too much, which I hadn’t thought possible.  For Focuses, withdrawal was an unnatural state, impossible unless somebody caused it.  The third article described how Arms drew juice.  He had explained this to me once, in baby talk, but here was the real explanation, complete with chemical and mathematical formulas.  No, Arms didn’t draw hardly anything volume-wise, just a bunch of trace chemicals mixed in with juice.  Still fatal to the victim, of course, because without those trace chemicals ‘juice’ wasn’t juice any more, but a poison.

The house was a mess.  Remnants of a female presence echoed through the place, but I found no sign of a woman living here, now.  The master bedroom closet had no women’s clothing
, just piles of dirty laundry strewn everywhere.  I found the jackpot on the dining room table: mounds of medical, legal and business papers strewn about, unkempt, unsorted.  The papers told the entire story, and I whistled a soft signal to Keaton.

Henry Zielinski wasn’t a happy man, nope, not any more.  No longer a doctor, no research career, no medical practice, no prestigious teaching position, no wife, a public scandal, and on top of everything else, medical problems.  All of these papers dated from after he left St. Louis.  Great.  Not only do Arms hunt and kill Transforms, they kill the personal lives of those who help them.

Keaton walked in and nodded to me.  After five minutes of sorting through papers, she shook her head.  “Just like he said,” she said.  “Looks like he kept his part of the bargain.”

Her cryptic comment was the first she had made today.  We made ourselves comfortable and waited, presumably for the good former-Doctor’s arrival.

Zielinski came home three hours later, well past dark.  He came into the kitchen from the garage and turned on the light, moving with a tired slowness, looking ten years older than he had in St. Louis.  His shoulders slumped and bags sagged under his eyes.  He dropped his briefcase on the kitchen table and went to the refrigerator, where he pulled out a bottle of milk.

When he turned back to the kitchen table he almost climbed out of his skin, as Keaton and I had crept into the kitchen and taken him by surprise.  I caught the milk bottle he dropped by its little plastic handle before it hit the floor, and gave it back to him.

He moved back, away from us, and reached into his jacket where he kept his weapon.  Keaton took his weapon from him and handed
it to me, a Beretta M951 pistol, not quite what I expected.  “Hi, hun,” Keaton said, in her mock sexy voice, as she followed him and pinned him up against a kitchen cabinet.  Gave him a hug.  Stepped back.

I covered my reaction, as I thought it unprofessional to hug your prey.  Keaton caught
my reaction, but didn’t react with more than a twitch.

“Arm Keaton, Arm Hancock.  Ma’ams, what can I do for you today?”
Zielinski asked, already over his initial surprise.  Well, it was nice to know that despite his troubles he hadn’t lost all of his arrogance or his spine.  In the time since I last saw him in St. Louis, I had come to realize how rare those traits were in men with an Arm in their face.

I did wonder, though, where he picked up his screwy ‘Arm Hancock’ honorific.

Keaton turned and led us to his library without saying a word, although I could swear some kind of communication passed between the two of them.  Keaton absconded with the God position behind his desk.  Zielinski sat on the low stool with casters, apparently without permission.  He could barely hide his excitement.