Fallen Angels, Part Nine - Sing me a Song, Dead Girl
#9 of Fallen Angels
CHAPTER EIGHT
- SING ME A SONG, DEAD GIRL
When Oscar Peterson played The Phantom Cat in 1986, a young Jesse Juliano captured a photo of him. He framed it and hung it on the wall, next to the upright piano. Peterson is all smiles, wiping sweat off his forehead with a linen cloth while he plays _You Look Good to Me_with his left hand. The framing glass mirrored my reflection onto the scene making it look as if a horned demon with leonine features, fangs and claws had taken the stage between Martin Drew and Niels Orsted.
Was this really how I looked?
Or was I slipping into hopeless insanity?
I was caught in a tug-of-war between two identities, both wanting to take control. Both were present, separate and clear. It was as if my brain was working at two frequencies at the same time. Two creatures wanted ownership of my soul, and the human part was losing out. I knew I had taken a gamble, shifting into my demon-form twice in one day. Now the demon half had tasted freedom and it was pushing my human part away, and into the dark place they call the abyss The abyss is a vast, shapeless void, but it crawls with entities that fly, swim and slither through an infinite nothing. Snakelike beings with unblinking, staring eyes and bodies, gray like mile long intestines, slither and cackle their way through a space that spans more than our familiar three dimensions. One such creature with a flat head and black, expressionless eyes zipped through time and space on collision course with me, and we would have slammed right into each other if the creature hadn't made a jump into the fourth dimension, the moment it screamed past me. I was a stranger to this world, like my demon half was a stranger to the human world and I was terrified. No human mind can withstand or comprehend the sights of the abyss and still remain even remotely sane.
If I ever make it out of here, I'll greet every Saturday morning hallucination with a big old smooch, I swore.
The door of a patrol car slammed shut, outside the nightclub, and hasted footsteps approached the front door.
_Holy SHIT! They are here already. _
Inspector Quinn was on his way with a team of paramedics in tow, and I knew I'd get the answer to my true identity within moments. If the paramedics screamed and fled the moment they saw me, I'd assume the transformation into demon was for real. If they snickered and reached for a straightjacket, I was simply delusional. Either way, I was damned.
This is it, I pleaded. If we don't shift back into human form, we'll both be locked up or shot. They shoot demons, you know.
Reluctantly, my demon half let go of its grip, and I was growing human again. I sprang to my feet like a gazelle and dived behind the bar in one sweeping motion. Gasping, I hid under the counter while my body returned to its normal form.
Never again! I swore, naked and panting on the wooden floor of the Phantom Cat.
No fucking way I'm turning demon again.
Seconds later, Quinn burst through the front door. "I've got this one covered," he barked at three paramedics who ran upstairs to Irene. Quinn squatted beside me and for the second time that night, he'd brought me a fresh set of clothes. Only, this time it wasn't an Armani suit.
"K-mart?"
Quinn winked at me. "Ah! You'll rip it up the next time you shift."
I wasn't in the mood for jokes, so I dressed in silence, while Quinn examined the remains of the hitman. His guitar case was empty but his AK-47 was on the floor and in pieces.
There was never any guitar in that case, I realized. Irene never backed down on her promise to let me into the band. She had left her MP3 player on the upright piano. I turned it on, and the quiet notes of Song for Carlo poured from the tiny speaker. She must have recorded herself playing it live, I thought and pocketed the gadget. It was something to remember her by.
"Hmm!" was Quinn's only comment when he was done examining the mutilated body of the hitman.
"I know", I said. "There was more than a little anger involved."
"It's not your methods that bother me," said Quinn. "The man you killed was Frederic Samza."
"Friend of yours?"
Quinn examined the wound in my shoulder. In my human form it was no more than a bad scratch, but I was bleeding through the K-mart shirt.
"You were damn lucky," said Quinn. "Samza's an expert marksman."
"Luck had nothing to do with it."
Quinn felt the fabric between two fingers.
"Either you tear up all your clothes, or you bleed into them."
He knew the identity of the dead killer, but he was reluctant to share what he knew. He finally prodded the corpse of Samza on the floor with the toe of his boot.
"Frederic Samza was a top killer for our National Military Intelligence."
"Holy crap, man" I gasped. "What are we up against?"
"If the MI's involved, It's something big," said Quinn.
"Bigger than you, me and Crane together."
"Maybe you shouldn't go with me," said Quinn. We were in the patrol car, driving back to Crane's laboratory. "You're upset and angry. We're here to ask questions. NOT to tear up the damn place."
"I've got to," I said. "Besides, I'm done changing - forever."
Quinn gave me a puzzled look. "Forever is a long time, my friend." We turned off the headlights and parked outside the lab. I knew my way around from earlier that same day, only it felt like a lifetime ago.
"Do you know if he's packing a piece?" whispered Quinn, as we sneaked through the halls.
"I don't think so, just don't drink his coffee. It's bad"
The door to the main lab was unlocked, and the first thing we saw was seven soldiers in army clothes, sitting slumped and motionless in chairs around a table. A PowerPoint presentation projected a single slide on a wall monitor that read:
Acknowledgements: Dr. Crane, and T. Gill. .
Two red thermos made slight hissing noises as steam from the hot beverage inside escaped the rubber seal. Crane stood beside one of the soldiers, with a syringe in his hand. We had arrived too late.
"Hosting another tea-party, Dr. Crane?", I said "You know your refreshments have a bad influence on your guests."
Crane spun around and stared at us, cocking his head in disbelief. "I didn't expect to see you again," He said. Crane walked over slowly and reached out as if he wanted to take my pulse, but backed off when he realized I'd likely rip his arm off.
"The fact you're here proves my theory, that the effects of ARF are only temporary."
"You don't understand," I said. "Your drug didn't work on me because...
Crane tilted his head and waited. "Because?"
"I'm... different."
"Aren't we all?" Crane jabbed a syringe into the arm of a sleeping soldier and 5cc of viscous liquid disappear into his vein
"Tell me. How many innocents did you kill?"
"Only one," I replied. "Frederic Samza. But he was hardly an innocent."
Crane froze, and for once his eyes flickered.
"Wait!" he cried. "You don't think I sent him after you?"
"If not you, who else?"
Crane didn't reply, but put the syringe into a leather pouch and closed it with a soft "snap."
"Wait and see," he said and took a step back, admiring his work like an artist who has finished a painting or a sculpture.
"Stop right there," barked Quinn. He walked into the lab, flashing his badge. "I'm placing you under arrest for conspiracy to murder Daniel Kent and Irene Sapere. And once I've figured out what this is all about, I'll call down a shitload of additional charges on your ass. And that includes brewing bad coffee."
Crane threw his hands in the air in mock obedience and sent Quinn an overbearing smile.
"You don't believe I'm in this all by myself?"
"I believe you're bat-shit insane and must be stopped."
"Take a look around," said Crane and waved a hand at the expensive equipment around him. "That Bioneer unit alone, is one million bucks. The HPLC is another hundred-grand. All of this is funded by_Military Intelligence_. The lab, the equipment, the machinery, the reagents. Myself, even. Everything you see here is a gift from the MI-16, scientific branch. And we're talking seven figures here."
One of the soldiers made a soft groaning noise and blinked.
"Even my dura-fighters here," said Crane. He patted the groaning soldier lovingly on the shoulder where he had injected the ARF hormone moments earlier. "All volunteers, generously donated by section sixteen."
"Like the soldiers who went berserk two nights ago?"
Crane sighed. "A regrettable necessity. How else could I test the working dosage, in a time when we're not at war with anyone?"
"You have been shipping ARF to our troops in the Al-Mahra desert," Quinn said. "What interest does the MI-16 have in Yemen?"
"They need a testing ground for phase three studies of ARF. They need a place so filled with primal dread, only the most potent remedy can overcome their fears."
Quinn frowned in disbelief. "And the Al-Mahra desert just so happens to be the most fearsome place on Earth they could dig up?"
Crane went quiet for a second before continuing.
"Do you believe in demons?" he asked eventually.
I was relieved he'd asked Quinn that question, as I was reluctant to answer myself.
Quinn shrugged. "Of course not," he replied. "Demons don't exist outside folklore and cheap fantasy literature."
"Of course they don't," said Crane. "You know it, and so do I. But the Yemenite bedouins believe in demons. There is a place in Al-Mahra, the locals call the Well of Barhout. It's an ancient sinkhole, dry as a bone, but they believe it's a place where the demons live. They are so terrified of that place, no promise of reward, money, cigarettes or camels has convinced any local bedouin to venture near the well, let alone descend into it."
"You're testing ARF out on the local population?"
Crane nodded eagerly. "We have the blessings of both the Saudi Coalition AND the Houti rebels to proceed. They watch our every move and they provide us with volunteers, and with protection from each other."
"They say the safest place to stay during a hurricane is in the eye of it."
"Both sides want to harness the powers within the well to hell. He who controls the demons wins the war."
"At the cost of a few locals?"
Crane shrugged. "It sure beats spending our own boys, doesn't it?"
"What about ME!" I interrupted. Your agent tried to kill me and Irene. Why couldn't you just leave us alone?"
"This project is important to the MI-16, and with it... I'm important. Too important to have locals poking around, asking questions."
"Cocky son of a..." Quinn reached for the handcuffs hanging from his belt, but hesitated, when the soldiers began waking up and looking around, confused.
"Arrest me, and the MI-16 will have me released before morning," laughed Crane. "Kill me and they will see you court marshaled. The MI didn't pour seven figures into this project without wanting returns. Simple truth is: you two are insignificant."
"Screw it!" I whispered to Quinn. "I'll take a chance and go demon. Then I'll tear him a new sinkhole."
"You've done enough shifting for one night," Quinn whispered back. "If we can't play this by the book, It's my turn to go wolf on him."
Crane turned on a metal box coupled to an oscilloscope on the lab bench, and a speaker on the wall produced a low humming noise. When he turned a dial, the pitch rose into a high-pitched shriek.
"17.5 KHz stimulates the lizard part of the brain." said Crane. "Most people can't hear that frequency. Only animals can."
"-and those stuck in between," groaned Quinn and pressed both hands to his ears in agony. In my human form I only found the noise only slightly annoying, but the dura-fighters opened their eyes wide, their faces grimacing.
One of them tried to get out of his chair, but he couldn't stand on his legs and dropped to the floor and started puking.
"They always do that," said Crane. "Nausea and confusion are common signs that the drug is working."
I remembered the symptoms well, and I knew we had minutes only, before the soldiers went berserk.
"I'm calling for backup," shouted Quinn, trying to drown out the shrieking noise and headed for the exit. He looked at the door, puzzled when it wouldn't open.
"It's Stuck!" He winced from the continuing noise of the sound generator and threw himself at the door, to no effect. The door didn't budge.
Crane patted the pocket of his lab-coat, and an evil smile came over his lips.
"Same technology used for remote controlling garage doors. Keeps intruders out... or in."
"We need that remote," Quinn growled through clenched teeth. "And we need to shut that damn generator down. I can't shift while it's on."
"Does the noise hurt your ears?" mocked Crane. "It's pure music to my dura-fighters. It encourages them into action."
"So, your modern day Vera Lynn turned out to be nothing but a tone generator?" I hissed.
"Simple, efficient and portable in the field." Crane smiled. He was eager to share the details of his discoveries; too eager if he was going to let us out alive.
We're screwed, I realized.
All seven dura-fighters were now awake and looked to Crane as if waiting for an order from their commander.
"The Houti rebels have infiltrated our base." Crane now pointed to Quinn and me.
"Kill them!"
The dura-fighters rose from their chairs and staggered towards us. They were as slow as I had been at first when under the influence of ARF, but I knew how the initial slowness wore off within a minute. I was terrified of what would happen if I shifted for the third time that night, but with Quinn incapacitated I saw no other option.
Except one.
Two dura-fighters stood between me and the lab bench at the other side of the lab. I bent my head low and cannonballed directly towards them. The two soldiers lit up in demented grins when they saw me approaching and prepared themselves for an impact. With the ARF compound coursing through their bloodstream, they were beyond fear and regarded me only as prey - a toy puppet made from flesh, soon to be broken. As the lizard part of their brains took over, their memories were fading fast. Their homes, their families, even their loved ones. All memories vaporized into distant echoes. If I had ever proposed a danger to them, this too would be nothing but a whisper. The gap between them closed quickly as they reached out for me, but I had to push past them.
They're too fast, I realized, and the moment I sprinted between them, two hands grabbed the back of my shirt.
I panicked. They had recovered too soon. Faster than I'd expected, and I knew the rage that burned within them. I knew they were starving for the instant dopamine reward at the end of my murder.
"ohhh, yessss!" giggled a soldier behind me in insane anticipation.
The survival instinct is one of the most powerful forces within us, and the adrenalin fueled hysteria is our last resort when we are cornered. A trapped fox will gnaw off its own leg to survive; a mother of three will lift a car to rescue her children, breaking her own bones in the process. It's like a bee's stinger; anything to save the species, even if it only grants us a few more seconds. As the two dura-fighters pulled me closer and clawed at my back, I made a split-second decision; I'd rather spend eternity among the nameless creatures of the abyss than be torn into pieces by these assholes.
"Here goes, motherfuckers!" I growled and prepared to shift. The faces of Irene, Quinn, and my sister Kat flashed by. All the ones I loved and my best friend Quinn.
I don't want to lose you.
In that moment my shirt tore at the seams with a satisfying, ripping sound, and the iron grasp of the soldiers loosened.
That was Odd, I thought. I didn't feel any different.
When I looked at my arms, I saw to my astonishment that I had not changed. I was still in my human form and panicking. Only the flimsy fabric of the Sears shirt had surrendered and set me free. The two dura-fighters who had caught me stood still, staring stupidly at the rags in their hands. I charged forward with a last, desperate yank sending buttons flying in all directions, and I was free. Like a pole vaulter on broken legs, I somersaulted over the lab bench, dragging the tone generator and a small fortune worth of lab equipment with me. I crash-landed among a rain of wood splinters and broken electronics.
Damn! That hurt.
The dura-fighter who had clawed at my back kept clenching and unclenching his fists, and his moist lips quivered. The six other stared at the piece of bloody fabric in his hand, taking in my scent like a pride of predators. In seconds they would be out of control.
The broken tone generator emitted a faint crackling noise as a capacitor died and discharged itself into the cracked circuitry. Without it, the fighters were confused about who to kill first; Quinn or me? I looked at Quinn. With the tone generator now permanently off, he too was regaining his senses.
I thought of Irene, and the voice that would never sing again. We need you,_I thought. _We need that modern day Vera Lynn to sing a song about nostalgia, about guilt or even sex. Anything to stall the onslaught.
Then I realized Irene had been with us all the time. I reached into my coat for the MP3 player I found on her piano. At the press of a button,Song for Carlo reverberated through the lab. Her voice echoed down the halls and faded into the courtyard. The dura-fighters stopped and listened, and all went deadly quiet for a moment, except from the voice of Irene and her solitary piano. Her voice was full of longing and on the verge of breaking. Beautiful and fragile, it felt like the touch of a butterfly, or a soap bubble landing on your arm.
Or a balloon.
The memory of two brothers helping each other retrieve a stray balloon returned in a flash. The empathy between them had dulled my berserker rage when I was running rampant on ARF with nothing but murder on my mind. The recognition of the fundamental emotion of caring had deterred me for long enough to change my target. The drug had robbed me of fear, but it could not kill the emotion of loving and caring. These feelings were only in hiding until they were awakened by a simple balloon; a fragile dream made from color and air and all brought back by the singing voice of a dead girl.
Crane stared at his now immobilized dura-fighters.
"Attack them, soldiers!" he screamed. "That's a direct order!"
Like the fighters, I'd been under the berserker influence of the ARF myself. Nothing on earth could change that. But I was not of this earth, and I had drained my rage into the infinite depths of the abyss. But these guys had nowhere to vent their rage. Now, their minds were filling up with memories specific to each of them. Irene's voice made them recall their parents, their brothers, girlfriends and boyfriends. Everything they held dear. With snarls of rage, the fighters turned towards Crane, and his eyes widened in terror as he realized he was now the unwilling focus of their attention.
"Do something!" he stuttered.
Quinn unholstered his service LC9 and pointed into the midst of the dura-fighters advancing in on Crane.
"Everybody freeze!" he shouted. "I'm not firing any warning shots," but no one paid him any attention.
"You can't threaten them," I shouted back. "They don't feel fear. They don't fear you, your gun or your badge."
One dura-fighter grabbed a laboratory flask and smashed it against a desk. The bottle neck remained in his hand, now razor sharp. With a bloodcurdling scream he charged at Crane, slashing his left arm. Crane watched in disbelief as blood leaked out and soaked his lab-coat.
"But I'm not your enemy," he shouted. "THEY are!"
"You can play with their emotions," I said. "But inside, they know you made them lose everything they love."
"Love?" he whispered.
"The one thing you couldn't synthesize in your lab."
Crane stood motionless for a moment, frowning at the one flaw in his theory.
"Oh!" he said.
Then seven figures descended upon him.