Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (23 page)

“So, Doc,” Wage said.  “When was the last time you saw Ol’ Kasper?  That sonovabitch couldn’t stop raving about your work here.”

“Yes,” he hissed. “I am sure he was very impressed.”

“Hey, where do reckon he ran off to, anyway?  I haven’t heard from him in quite some time.  We were supposed to finalize a business deal, that devil.  I don’t suppose you could tell me—”

“No, I can’t,” Dr. Fatum interrupted.

After what seemed like a quarter mile of walking, the narrow tunnel opened up like the maw of some dark, mythological creature.  Humming machines affixed with colorful dials surrounded the cavernous room, and buzzing wires were draped along the rough, uneven walls.  Large metal tables, swirling vats of a bubbling cream-like substance, and cells—three of them—filled the rest of the room.  All three cells contained crouched and impossibly pale figures subtly convulsing in tattered hospital gowns. Two massive male orderlies clad in white uniforms stood near one of the cages, both out of breath and one wrenching the cell door shut.  One had light hair parted to the left, the other with dark hair parted to the right.  When the door finally locked with an echoing screech, the figure in that cell howled like something wholly unnatural.  Very few things scarred Wage anymore, but this monstrosity, this horror, rattled him to his soul.

“Uh, Doc?  Just what in the hell are you doing down here?” Wage asked, staring at one of the figures in the cells.  She was unmistakably human, but so pale she almost glowed.  Her colorless eyes darted about frantically, and her limbs moved sporadically like a diseased animal.

“My work, Mr. Larron,” Dr. Fatum answered, retreating to a desk cluttered with papers and precisely drawn diagrams.  “My finest work.”  He reached for black rubber gloves and goggles.  As he donned both, he continued, “You are so eager to donate to my work, so please, allow me to provide a demonstration.”

The two muscular orderlies grabbed him from behind.  Wage flailed.  “Hey!  Just what in the hell is your game here, Fatum?  Let me go, dammit!”  The two hulking men wrestled him to a nearby table and strapped him down, his arms perpendicular to his body, his legs spread apart.  The restraints pulled him tight against the table, tight enough that he could feel Ol’ Snapper pushing uncomfortably into his lower back.  Wage spit on one of the orderlies after the last restraint locked into place.  “I swear to God, Fatum!  You’d better let me go.  This ain’t funny, now!  I’m serious!”  The dark-haired orderly cranked a wrench under the table, which angled the whole contraption up to a 90-degree angle.  The table now felt like it was some kind of medieval torture device.

Wage watched as Dr. Fatum approached with a wooden cart that sounded like it might fall apart as it rolled across the rough cave floor.  Fatum placed his goggles on and picked up two metal rods that were connected by thick wires to a machine atop the cart.  He touched the metal tips together, creating a menacing blue spark that lit up the lenses of his goggles.  Edison’s words rang in Wage’s head again.  “
This is not your ordinary resort.
”

“I am warning you, Doc.  You are making a huge mistake.  I—”

Dr. Fatum suddenly plunged both metal prongs into Wage’s side, creating an intense, pulsating pain.  Wage cringed as his muscles involuntarily contracted.  His teeth chattered uncontrollably and the smell of burning wool and flesh pierced the air.  “Are you finished yet?  Or should I continue?” the doctor asked.

Wage hung his head for a moment before looking up.  “Dr. Fatum . . . you are in a heap of trouble now.” 

“Oh, really?  And why is that?” he replied.

Wage snickered.  “Because my partner will be here any minute, and he is going to—”

Dr. Fatum plunged the prongs in again.  “No, Mr. Larron, I assure you that your accountant is already dead.  Now, I will ask you again.  Are you finished?”

Wage took a deep breath and replied, “I could go one more round.”

This time Wage convulsed so hard his nose bled.

“How about now?” Dr. Fatum asked.

Wage nodded and muttered incomprehensibly.

“You see, Kasper Holstrom is one of our biggest donors, and all he requires is strict anonymity.  Under no circumstances was I ever to give out his name.  As a matter of fact, he gave me strict instructions to dispose of anyone inquiring about his affiliation here.  Well, as a man of science, Mr. Larron, I cannot simply dispose of a perfectly suitable test subject.”

“Test subject?” Wage whispered.

“Yes. You see, I have found the secret to extending human life.  Behold, my latest experiments!”  He pointed to the cells.  “I am very nearly there!”  The doctor’s tone triggered the pale, imprisoned girl to approach her cell door.  Beast-like, she sniffed the air and snarled.  “You see,” Dr. Fatum said, “I have replaced their blood with a serum of my own concoction; one I have been testing here, at this very site, for years.”  As if on cue, one of the orderlies rolled over a vat of the mysterious substance.  A medley of tubes hung from it like the tentacles of an octopus.  “I call it Demeter-20.  We are harvesting a new breed of humans. We are leaving the winter of human mortality and ushering in the spring of everlasting life!”  The doctor adjusted a few dials on the vat, which caused a low-pitched drone.  “The oxygenated fluid can sustain all the critical functions of the human body if circulated properly.”

“Circulated properly?” Wage asked.

“Of course,” he replied, touching the side of Wage’s skull.  “The fluid contains a great deal of iron, and once I implant electromagnets around your body, the fluid will circulate forever.  You will have to exchange your fluids regularly, of course, much like an automobile; but it is a fair price to pay, seeing how your body can be indefinitely preserved and animated.”

Wage glanced over at the cell again.  This time he took notice of the round black magnets imbedded in young women’s skull, hands and ankles.  There was no doubt that, at one point, this beautiful young woman would have held the eye of Wage Pascal.  She continued to snap and snarl like a rabid dog surrounded by pesky flies, and Wage could not stare any longer.  “You call that animated?  What the hell is wrong with her?”

“Ah, Genevieve is our most successful experiment to date, but as you can see she has certain cognitive deficiencies.  This is most likely a product of the exsanguination process.”

“Exsanguination!” Wage cried.  “You drained her blood?”

“Indeed,” Dr. Fatum replied.  “You see, if Demeter mixes with blood it will coagulate, so I must drain you completely before introducing the serum.”  The doctor rolled up one of Wage’s pant legs.  “This however, can have devastating consequences.  If the brain is deprived of blood—and by extension, oxygen—for too long, a dramatic loss of higher brain function will occur.”  The doctor rolled up Wage’s other pant leg.  “It is my hope that I can correct that problem with you, Mr. Larron.”

Wage resisted hard against his restraints, trying to rip the leather straps out of their buckles. “Damn you, Fatum!  Let me go!” he screamed.  The young woman’s shrieks accompanied Wage’s desperate pleas.

“It is no use,” Dr. Fatum said calmly.  “We are too far underground for anyone to hear you.”  He rolled up both of Wage’s jacket sleeves.  “Now, if you are compliant, I will administer a sedative so that you feel very little.  If you resist, I am afraid this process will be rather painful for you.  So which disposition would you prefer to take?”

Wage looked around the cavern. 
Your accountant is already dead.
  “I . . . I,” he looked around again, Ol’ Snapper burning a hole in his back.  “Gimmie the goddamn sedative,” Wage finally said through gritted teeth.

“Excellent choice.  And with any luck, when you awake, you will be immortal!”  The doctor reached for his cart and pulled out a massive syringe with a needle that looked like it could harpoon a whale.  The doctor inspected Wage’s forearm and found a large blue vein.  He adjusted his goggles and lined up the needle.

“Hold it right there!” Ol’ Bill yelled, marching into the cave with Nurse Weathers in front of him, a golden monocle chain wrapped about her neck.  One of his eyes was swelling and turning blue.  The pair stopped within a few feet of Dr. Fatum.  “Drop the needle, and no one gets hurt.”

The two orderlies moved to flank Ol’ Bill, both of them towering over him.  “I am truly impressed you are still alive, Mr. Bonhomme,” Dr. Fatum said.  “Normally, Nurse Weathers is rather reliable.  But it is of no matter; you will become another test subject like your friend here.”

“They’re unarmed, William, near as I can tell!  Proceed with Plan C!” Wage shouted.

Bill sized up his opponents to either side and pulled tighter on the monocle chain.  Nurse Weathers’ eyes fluttered back and she dropped to the ground, dazed.  “Terribly sorry, ma’am,” Bill said as he took off his coat and began rolling up his sleeves.  The orderlies circled him like two angry lions over a water buffalo.  The dark-haired orderly threw the first punch.  Ol’ Bill moved his head ever so slightly and the man’s knuckles barley grazed his beard.  Bill countered with a straight right that took the attacker square in the chin.  His mouth was open and his jaw buckled and cracked.  The orderly collapsed to the floor.  Bill danced around the slumped man just as the light-haired orderly moved in and missed with a left jab. The man then took the posture of a southpaw.  The few matches Ol’ Bill ever lost were to southpaws.  However, the orderly was green, probably only accustomed to subduing unsuspecting patients.  Ol’ Bill had just the plan for him. 

They circled each other now while the dark-haired orderly writhed in pain, holding his jaw.  The light-haired orderly sized up his shorter—but much wider—opponent.  Ol’ Bill was waiting, waiting for a straight left.  He evaded a right jab and a left hook combination with a simple head bob and impeccable footwork.  The orderly punched again.  Ol’ Bill knew it would be a straight left by the way the man dipped his shoulder, so he bowed his head slightly and the punch connected with the top of his skull.  It broke the orderly’s hand.

Bill took advantage of the opportunity to knock the man out with a lightning-fast right hook.  He strolled over to the dark-haired orderly, who managed to get up, his hands still clutching his dangling jaw.  Bill threw an uppercut into the man’s stomach that lifted him into the air and threw him onto Nurse Weathers.  The dark haired brute lay atop the woman, hopelessly pinning her under his immense weight.  Bill walked up to her.  “Again, terribly sorry, ma’am,” he said.

Ol’ Bill approached the doctor, who cowered behind his cart and the stream of blue sparks he created by crossing his metal prongs.  Bill was in no fear of being attacked by someone adopting such a defensive posture.  Instead, he freed his companion.

Wage stepped down from his confines and straightened his suit while he swore under his breath.  “That wasn’t Plan C, William,” he said. 

“Plan C involved only one aggressor,” Ol’ Bill replied.

“Really?”

Bill nodded.

“My mistake, then.  It seems our catastrophic emergency plan prevails yet again.”  Wage slapped his comrade on the shoulder.  “Outstanding work!  Now, let us continue with this afternoon’s activities.”

“Uh, Captain, before we go on . . .” Bill nodded to the caged creatures only yards away.  “What are . . . how did . . .”

“I am not sure what they are now, William, but they were human at one time,” Wage said. 

“It reminds me of—”Bill started.

“Haiti, I know,” Wage finished.  “Snap out of it, 1
st
Sergeant, and let’s finish this mission."  Wage met the eyes of the doctor and walked toward him casually.

“I am warning you, Mr. Larron,” the doctor said.

“Time to be honest, Doc,” Wage said.  He pulled Ol’ Snapper from his back and fired a shot into the old man’s knee.  Dr. Fatum collapsed and dropped his electric prongs, which sizzled in a small puddle of water. 

Wage knelt by the writhing man, whose screams sounded slightly louder than a dog whistle.  “My name is Captain Wage Pascal, and the first thing you are going to tell me is why all you scientist folk are obsessed with immortality.  And then, you are going to tell me everything I need to know about Kasper Holstrom.”  Wage touched the barrel of Ol’ Snapper
to the right lens of the doctor’s goggles.

“I will tell you nothing!” Dr. Fatum cried.

“William,” Wage said, “do me a favor and hand those sparkin’ sticks to me.  And don’t worry, Doc, we are
far
too underground for anyone to hear us.”

Michael Callahan

August 12, 1914

Thomason Railways Passenger Train

East of Danville, Pennsylvania

Mink sank into the freshly upholstered, amethyst purple seat and stared out the window framed with daisy-yellow curtains.  Her mind wandered with the passing scenery. 

White-tailed deer scampered in the sunset as the locomotive careened through their once-unadulterated habitat.  She recalled hunting the same type of deer with her father.  She remembered the strange comfort she got from the smooth walnut stock of the Enfield rifle.  The exhilarating feeling that coursed through her veins as she placed the slightest amount of pressure on the trigger and steadied her sights on the animal’s heart.  “Mindful of the wind,” her father would say with a thick Irish accent seldom heard in the great state of Louisiana.  The kick of the rifle always surprised her, but never scared her.  She never looked to see if her shot struck its target, but rather she closed her eyes and relished the smell of the gunpowder clouding the air.  To this day, the smell of gunpowder still reminds her of her father.

Corralled behind a shoddy barbwire fence were a dozen paint horses devouring the remaining bits of green grass that survived the August heat.  Her sister had wanted a pony for her fifth birthday, and indeed, got one.  In actuality, it was a quarter horse genetically doomed to be small, but nonetheless their father would place her on the side saddle that had been custom-made for her.  They would spend hours, her father and sister, parading about the lean-to stable her father had built.  Her sister never cared much for hunting or rifles.  She cared more for horses, and for the cosmetics their mother had left behind on the vanity that their father refused to touch.  She cared more for styling her beautiful blonde hair to the likeness of the dainty ladies of Baton Rouge.  At a young age, she even wore their mother’s floral perfume, which wafted throughout their house.  To this day, the smell of gardenia and horses reminds her of her sister.

The gnarled roots of cypress trees plunged into a narrow pond and stood out from the forest of blurry elms, oaks, and maples.  They resembled, uncannily, the cypress trees that grew around the ramshackle hut of Madame Sweetooth deep in the swamps of Baton Rouge.  One of the Cyprus trees in particular had been struck by lightning, which caused the surviving bark to twist at a 90-degree angle, forming what looked like a natural altar.  It was there that a 17-year-old Wage proposed to her with a ring made of both their hair, chicken bone, and twine.  It was also there that she and Wage were to be married by the Voodoo priestess herself for the modest price of a handful of saltwater taffy.  And that is where he stood on that quiet spring afternoon in his Sunday’s best with his usual pouch of orange peels strung around his neck to ward off the mosquitos.  Only she never came.  To this day, the smell of saltwater taffy reminds her of Madame Sweetooth, and the smell of orange reminds her of Wage Pascal.

It was time, Mink decided, for a drink.

She made her way from her cabin to the first-class water closet two doors down.  It was empty.  She locked the door behind her and sat down on the porcelain commode to relieve herself. Two jugs of water, warm and cold, sat by the sink.  Mink used a bit of cold to wash her hands and warm water to wet back her red hair that was already growing longer.  Once sufficiently matted down, she put on a tweed flat cap.  Along with the cap, looking down at the appropriate angle and squinting her eyes served to diminish her feminine features enough, and combined with the noticeable lack of facial hair, she looked like a man of eighteen or nineteen.  To further sell her disguise, she tried not to take meals or talk in front of anyone, but if she did, she purposefully ate with her mouth open and refrained from any conversational politeness.

Mink sat inconspicuously in the corner at a round wooden table bolted to the train deck.  She sat with her back to the rest of the patrons, her flat cap pulled low, and sipped lukewarm bourbon with a forced masculine grip.  It took conscious effort to keep her pinky down as she lifted the tumbler.  A swell of laughter came from behind her.  Cresting above the giggles of young ladies was an eerily familiar laugh, one she remembered as a child—a higher pitched, crescendoed “ha-hah.”  She turned around, her green eyes focusing on the back of the car.  Finely dressed ladies in floral colors swooned over a seated figure who wore an absurdly tipped cattle hat concealing his face.  An unknown force moved Mink in the direction of continued laughter, her legs leading her with a mind of their own, her heart uncontrollably beating in her chest.  The seated man was difficult to see since he held two of the ladies, both in pink dresses, on his lap.

“Wage?” she asked in her natural voice. 

The giggles stopped, and the ladies straightened momentarily.  The seated figure reached a large hand to his hat and removed it, revealing short blonde hair, a rectangular jaw, and curious blue eyes.  The two ladies on his lap slid off slowly, filling the side of the booth they were in.  “What’ll you wager, son?” the man said in a booming voice. 

Mink looked at him, her mouth falling open.

“Well, boy?” the man continued.  “What’ll it be?  What’s the wager?”

“Um, uh . . .” Mink stuttered.

“I’ll tell you what!  A nickel says you can’t get one of these fine ladies here to show us her bloomers!”  The big man laughed again and all the ladies gasped, the two on his lap playfully hitting him.  Mink still stood silent and motionless.  “Well, boy?  What’s a matter with you?  You simple or something?”  More ladies laughed.

Mink shook her head.  “Sorry, sorry.  I . . .” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a nickel and placed it on the table.  “You win.  Good evening.”  She tipped her cap.

“Conceding so early?” the big man bellowed.  “Come on, now, where’s the sport in that?  You haven’t even talked to one of them.  Ladies!  Tell the young lad your names!”

“Melinda,” the one in yellow answered, waving.

“Katerina,” the one in pink said, blushing.

“Christina,” the other one in pink said, almost sucking on her finger.

“Janice,” the one in blue crooned, adjusting her top.

“Sophie,” the one in purple said, grinning.

“I . . . I’m sorry, I mistook you for someone else.  I’m sorry.  It was nice to have met you all,” Mink said.

“And just who did you think I was?” the man demanded.

“Nobody.  It’s nothing, I am sorry to have interrupted,” Mink answered.

“Well,” the man said, addressed the floral-colored ladies, “Whoever it is, I am sure he is almost as handsome as I am.”  They all laughed.  Mink turned to walk back to her table.  “Oh, come on, boy!  Join us!”  He took the nickel from the table, placed it in his pocket, and yelled for a waiter.  A balding, middle-aged man in black livery walked over with a sigh.  “Beers, my good man.  Four more beers,” the big man demanded.  With another sigh, the waiter picked up the four empty mugs, left the lounge car, and returned shortly with four overflowing mugs of warm beer.

Mink squeezed into the opposite side of the booth in between the blue and purple ladies.  The big man extended his giant hand.  “The name’s Quincey Gartrell!”  Mink winced as Quincey’s calloused hand crushed her own. 

“My name’s Michael,” Mink replied in a huskier voice.

“How old are you, Michael?” he asked.

“Almost nineteen,” she replied without eye contact.

“Boy!  Didn’t your mama tell you to look people in the eye when you talk to them?”

Mink looked up at him.  Her emerald eyes like dew-covered jungle leaves told a painful story.  Quincey momentarily lost his guard.  “Well Michael, I was just telling these lovely ladies,” he made Christina lift from her seat when he pinched her rear, “about the time I was hunting a man-eating grizzly up in the Yukon Territories.”

“Oh my,” Melinda said.

Quincey continued with a storyteller’s suspense. “A friend of mine, Jack Hampton, and I were tracking down a
very large
,
very menacing
grizzly that had been eluding the local townsfolk.  Well, Jack and I tracked that bastard for three days, and finally, we got close,
real close
.  Only the bear got the jump on us.  And there it was, on its hind legs, roarin’ so loud, so close we could smell the rotted fish in its breath.”

“My, what happened?” Janice asked.  Christina placed a hand on Quincey’s chest.  Sophie, however, placed her hand on Mink’s leg.  Mink tensed and grabbed one of the beer mugs and took a long swill, spilling some on her cheeks, reminding herself to wipe it off with her shirt sleeve.

“I told Jack, I told him, ‘You know these grizzlies, they’re faster than us, Jack.  It would not be wise to try and outrun him.’  And good ol’ Jack obliged.  So I say to him, I say, ‘Jack!  I’m gonna make a run for it.’  Well, Jack looked at me and said, ‘Quincey, you know as well as I do you can’t outrun this sonovabitch.’  And I said, ‘Jack, ol’ boy, I don’t have to out run the grizzly, I just have to out run you!’”  Quincey slapped the table, laughing as beer from their mugs sloshed onto the table.

“You left your friend to die? Quincey, how could you?” Melinda asked.

“Just kidding, my dear.  I put three rounds from my rifle in the beast’s chest and dropped him where he stood, and Jack and I dragged his sorry carcass back to town.  He did give me a parting gift, however.”  Quincey unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and pulled it to one side, revealing a sculpted chest with more cuts and scratches than hairs, and a muscular shoulder with two deep pink lines carved into it.  “Didn’t get me with the whole claw, though, otherwise I’d only be drinkin’ with my right arm.”  Quincey laughed again and downed his wooden mug of beer before promptly starting the next one.

The floral ladies gasped.  One of the pink ones, Katerina, stroked his scars cautiously and giggled.  “What’s this one from?” she asked, pointing to his chest.

“Tiger,” he replied.  She unbuttoned his shirt more and pointed again.  “African wild dog.”  She touched another.  “Black bear.”  She caressed another.  “Gazelle horn.”  And another.  “Native.”  Her hands went embarrassingly lower.  The ladies giggled.  Mink drank more.  “Trouser snake,” Quincey laughed and finished his other beer.  “Wait, wait,” he held up a finger and stood up, nearly falling over and almost dislodging their table from the train floor.  He unhooked a gilded belt buckle and lowered his pants slightly.  Two of the ladies nearly fainted.  He pointed to his upper thigh while maintaining a literal thread of modesty.  “Hippopotamus,” he exclaimed, slurring the word slightly.  “But wait.  Shhhhh.  Wait.  Do you wanna know the deadliest animal I’ve every tracked?” He gestured with the hand not covering his manhood.  “It was deep in the jungles of Borneo.  We lost near an entire expedition in our search.  It was . . . It was . . . a wild” Quincey turned around quickly and lowered his trousers more.  “ASS!”   

Mink spit her beer across the table, drenching Quincey’s backside.  The entire booth howled like lost coyotes, their antics driving away two other couples from the lounge car.  Quincey recomposed himself and called for the waiter again, who walked over with a look of utter disapproval.  “More beers, man, and be quick about it.  Just put it all on my tab!  As a matter of fact, I want everyone’s drink on my tab this evening.  I’m not paying for it anyway!”

“Very well,” the waiter said.  “Anything for the ladies?”

“Bourbon,” Mink replied.

Quincey stared at her for a moment.

“For the ladies,” the waiter reiterated.

They all ordered lemon tonics.

“Whose paying the tab, anyway?” Mink said, trying to cover up her mistake.

“My employer,” he replied.

“What is it exactly that you do?” Mink asked.

Quincey’s smile automatically pulled one of his eyebrows up.  “You mean you haven’t heard of me?  Quincey Gartrell?  International big game hunter?  World’s finest taxidermist?  My father, Quinton Gartrell?  The explorer and hunter?  My grandfather Quillen, he was the inspiration for Allan Quartermain?”

Mink shook her head.

“Christ boy, read the paper once in a while, will you?” he said, putting his bear arms around Christina and Katerina.  They both laughed.

“Who is your employer, then?” Mink asked.

“Well, a generous benefactor hired me to bring back some exotic animals from all over Africa and India.  A few live ones will go to a zoo in New York, and the others I will stuff and donate on his behalf to the Smithsonian.  Hell, there is an entire train car attached with just my animals and my rifles.  You ever shoot a rifle, son?”

“Yes.”

“By the time I was your age I’d already tracked, trapped, killed, and stuffed every beast for every king and queen on this planet.”

“It sounds like dangerous work,” Mink said.

“Ha-Hah.  Dangerous?  Let me tell you something.”

Two waiters came back into the car carrying all the drinks.  Quincey swigged beer after beer, regaling anyone who would listen with his hunting stories.  Siberian tigers, African water buffalo, Nile River crocodiles, Norwegian reindeer.  Each story was an epic Greek myth where hubris was never punished.  With every new story came another drink, and then, another drunken story.  Mink sat listening and quietly welcoming the inebriation.