Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) (12 page)

28.

Helper 10 stops in mid-swing. With a groan, it collapses to the ground as if someone hit its off-switch. Except there isn’t an off-switch. What there is is the blade of an ESEE-5 knife sticking out of the back of its neck, and behind that is a hyperventilating Hillary.

“Fuck…fuck…I….fuck…,” Hillary says. She releases the knife and takes a step back.

I slink away from the wall, my eyes never leaving Helper 10’s motionless body. I’m not convinced a severed spinal cord at the neck is enough to keep it down for good. Hillary and I stand there for a good while, heaving to burn off the adrenaline. We’re the only two left alive, at least in this room. I remember the horrible sounds of misery coming from the other wing of this complex. There could be dozens more “specimens” still locked up.

The look on Hillary’s face tells me she doesn’t care whether we find the Iceman now. She just wants to leave, but I can’t in good conscience walk away.

Empathy. I know what I’ll tell that woman at the vegan restaurant now.

“Don’t you think we ought to go back?” I say. It’s the first thing out of either of our mouths in several minutes.

“Back where?” Hillary says.

“We should open up those other doors from that prison area, where Doctor X did the experiments. Whatever is behind there deserves to be free,” I say.

Hillary sighs and says, “They’re probably just chimps.”

“What if some of them are humans, though?” I say.

Hillary pauses while I dig the ESEE knife out of Helper 10. A little humanzee blood isn’t going to prevent me from using it again.

“And what if whatever crawls out those rooms tries to kill us?” Hillary says. “Look, it’s fine that you feel that way, but think about what would happen next. We drive out of here with a Jeep full of science experiments, and then what?”

Maybe I won’t be using “empathy” as a response to that restaurant owner after all.

“We could go to the authorities. We could tell them about the experiments. Someone in the government would know what to do,” I say. That last sentence sounds like an oxymoron.

“They wouldn’t believe us for a minute. A 150-year-old mad scientist? A human-ape hybrid super-soldier program re-booted from the Stalin era? Think about that for a minute,” Hillary says.

I hate to admit it, but she’s right. If there was a way to see who or what is still in this place, it’s now on the ground in thousands of pieces. The carnage took care of the equipment in here.

And I’ve got to think someone from Putin’s corner will be by soon. Whatever is left will be taken care of then. Liquidated. Put out of its misery. Perhaps it’s for the best, but there will be much suffering between now and then. That’s the part I can’t get over. I’ve seen so much death and destruction in my days. I’ve seen what people can do to each other, and the worst of it isn’t the beatings or the bombings. It’s the callous disregard for other living things. It’s not giving a shit. Those are the worst. Even death, in all of its nonsensical and brutal forms, can be a sort of compassion. And it’s always easier to conjure death when you don’t have a personal connection to the thing that’s dying.

Maybe it’s for the best I don’t know what else is in here. I wonder how that psychopathic quiz back at the hospital would handle this.

Given that and the geopolitical implications of what happens in this place, I know what we’ll do. Before that, we need to talk about the Iceman.

“There’s no way of knowing where Doctor X kept the Iceman, or even how to access it,” I say and wipe my face with a stray rag. I hope there aren’t any chemicals on it, or my face could be goo in a minute. “You want to stick around to find it?”

“After going through all this, I hate to leave without something to show for it,” Hillary says.

“Well, we did just stop a mad man from developing a super-soldier that might’ve triggered World War III. That counts for something,” I say.

“Yeah, but I can’t put that on display in a museum,” Hillary says. Her eyes fall on Helper 10 at the same time mine do. “It certainly would add to the legend of the Minnesota Iceman, give those conspiracy theorists something to talk about. Interest booms every time the Iceman disappears and resurfaces.”

“Aren’t you worried about the Russians paying you a visit again?” I say.

“Now that I know you? Not really,” Hillary says. “A brand new Minnesota Iceman is exactly what I need to reboot the Museum of the Bizarre. There will be lines for miles, and you’ll get a cut of every ticket.”

Would I be a horrible person for profiting off of Doctor X’s work? Maybe. Maybe not. Making money on the backs of the miserable is how the world turns. That doesn’t make it right, but it does make it easy to keep my deal with Hillary.

We take turns dragging Helper 10 out to the Jeep using a plastic sheet. Now I know why they kept the original Iceman on ice. It keeps the stink down. Helper 10 is already starting to decompose. Maybe it was all along.

I should speak for myself. I could use a hot shower or nine. Between the chimp shit and the dried gore, I don’t need a fresh set of clothes. I need a new body.

I replace the Jeep’s flat tire with a spare, then dig out a long hose that looks unused from the loose lab equipment. I slip it into the Jeep’s gas tank and siphon enough gas out to fill a five-gallon bucket Hillary finds against the wall. A few minutes later, we light a match.

We load up the Jeep and drive down the two-track, the flames pointing the way free. I keep the windows rolled up. I don’t want to hear the sound of the screams of the poor “specimens” still locked up behind me. They’ll quiet down soon enough, although I won’t be around to witness that. The flames won’t kill them. They’ll suffocate as the fire eats up every bit of oxygen it can suck in, seeing as how the cave-bound lab doesn’t appear to be ventilated well. I hope that translates into the “specimens” falling asleep and not waking up. It’s the best I can hope for them, although I still hate myself for walking away. I’ll hold onto that until the day I die. Maybe even longer.

As I steer the Jeep out of the cave and into the rural Texas landscape, I can picture the next few days clearly. Hillary and I will get cleaned up, then figure out a way to freeze the latest incarnation of the Iceman. We’ll check into a hospital for stitches and antibiotics under the guise of having been “lost in the woods.” Once we get the all-clear, she’ll rebuild the Museum of the Bizarre, and I’ll let her know where to send the check before heading back to Albany.

But there’s one thing I still can’t figure out. This entire episode started with that strange man back in the Albany hospital, my temporary roommate. With his last words, he told me to come to Texas to seek out the Iceman. Who was he? Did I misinterpret what he said? Were his words the product of his delirious last moments?

I’m not sure, but part of me doesn’t want to find out. Some mysteries are better left alone. I’ve fallen victim to my curiosity one too many times, at least for today. There’s plenty of time to wriggle down rabbit holes tomorrow.

29.

My answer comes, fittingly enough, while at a hospital in Austin the next day. The doctors assign me bed rest in a private room and an IV due to the risk of infection. Taking a beating and being rolled in crap has a tendency to do that to you. They also set some bones and put me on an aggressive rehydration plan, on account of my being Chase Baker. I hear that’s standard operating procedure now at any hospital in the U.S. when I walk through the door.

“Good news, you’re getting a roommate,” one of the nurses says and pulls a curtain between my bed and the next one over.

I barely open my eyes to acknowledge the nurse and the curtain. Sleep never felt so good. It’s only when my roommate begins talking in a familiar voice that I shoot to attention.

“You are Chase Baker?” the man says from the other side of the curtain.

“Present,” I say in a dry croak.

“You took my words seriously,” the man says. He sounds elderly, just like before.

“We’ve met before.”

“We have, and I thank you for the trouble you went through the past few days,” the man says.

I reach my hand up to yank the curtain away and identify the person on the other side, but the man stops me.

“You would only be endangering yourself if you knew who I am,” he says. “I’m here so you can listen. Understand?”

I move my hand away from the curtain. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, Mr. Baker, I understand you write novels inspired by your adventures. I’ve read them all, from
The Shroud Key
through
The Da Vinci Divinity
and
The Apocalypse Bomb
. Readers assume you embellish what actually happened to you, hence you writing novels instead of autobiographies, but I know better. I’m someone who knows of these things you write about, who understands that the world’s biggest secrets are best kept not when they’re hidden, but when they’re in plain view. That way they can be dismissed as fiction and never given a second thought. The average person walks by these secrets out in the open many, many times throughout the course of a lifetime. Do you understand what I mean by that?” the man says.

Whoever this man is, he has a point. Maybe the president of the United States is an alien? Maybe the U.S. Congress is made up of robot clones from the future? Things certainly wouldn’t make
less
sense in Washington, D.C.

“I think so,” I say.

“Excellent. I want you to write about the Iceman for your next novel. I want you to put in full view of the public exactly what you experienced,” the man says.

“So you’re working for the Russians, is that it?” I say. After all, if the Russian government wants to keep the humanzee program a secret, putting it in a novel makes some sense.

“No, not the Russians. I represent a specific group of interested parties.”

“A specific group of interested parties? What are you, their lawyer or something?” I say.

The man chuckles. “Oh, Mr. Baker, I do appreciate your attitude, I really do. But you must take this seriously. It is absolutely important that you write another novel. The specifics are not for you to know other than to take pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard.”

“What if I don’t feel like writing one?” I say. “I hear there’s a better market for erotica than adventure novels.”

“I wish I could tell you why, Mr. Baker, but I can’t. Maybe one day this will all make sense to you. I can assure you, however, that you’d be dead right now if it weren’t for your ability to publish your novels,” the man says. He pauses and lowers his voice. “You never know what they put in those IVs, do you? You just have to trust the hospital staff.”

A convincing argument.

“Fine. I was going to write one anyway,” I say. “I’m putting this conversation into the book, though.”

“You’re free to do so. It’s a novel, a work of fiction. No one will believe any of this actually happened, or any of that nonsense about a secret Soviet super-soldier touring the Midwest United States in the 1960s,” the man says. “Have you thought about a title for the book yet?”

I actually haven’t, seeing as how I’ve been more than a little occupied lately, but one jumps to mind.

“I think I’ll call it ‘Chase Baker and the Humanzees from Hell,’” I say.

The End