Beast Machine Page 5

  “I couldn’t process what was happening! Julius and I just sat there for hours in silence. We were petrified – for our lives, for our children’s lives, for your family’s lives.”

  Caroline pursed her lips together then bit down on her bottom lip. “Is this some sort of joke, Ethel?” Caroline’s brow furrowed.

  “What… No! This is not a joke!”

  “Why wouldn’t you contact the police? The military? Julius surely had someone he could contact about this nonsense?” questioned Caroline aggressively. Her dull eyes began to regain a faint brown glimmer.

  “Julius told me the strange man would be eyeing our moves and that not only is that group of people – The Flagship, I believe he called it – supporting this decision but important members of the U.S. government, the Soviet government as well! Julius’s only option was to spy, but it didn’t matter in the end. We were trapped, and now we’re cooked.”

  Ethel cried hysterically. Caroline decided to not console her friend, the former-actress that was mildly talented but could not come to grips with her mere average talent. “Why did Wendell have to befriend Julius those years ago? Why did this group have to select Julius? Who is this group that is ruining lives?” Caroline’s thoughts were shooting around her skull and sprouting more gray hairs on her head.

  “What else did Julius tell you? Was there anything else, Ethel?”

  “He mentioned a few names before he left for the war,” said Ethel through a waterfall of tears. Caroline’s vomit remnants from the washcloth had been smeared on Ethel’s face in various places. “Names that I needed to avoid at all costs! He also mentioned that your family and my brother, David, were the only ones to trust.”

  Caroline gulped loudly. “What were the names? Wendell told me of a few names before he left for the war too – names of people that I should keep myself and the boys away from at all costs. I thought he had gambling debts or was being heckled by wannabe mobsters again and wanted us to stay safe. He never told me what the names meant and what these people had to do with him, he refused to tell me.” The faint glimmer of brown had died in her eyes for good. Her eyes never returned to their wonderful brown.

  “Their names were,” sniffled Ethel, “Aster Granzella, Sylvester Heston, Florence Larke, and Isaac Po. That Po is, I assume, the same Po Julius relayed information to...” Ethel struggled to pronounce the names but Caroline knew the names. She knew the names for over four years. The strange names had not affected her for the past four years but began to dig into her heart.

  Caroline closed her eyes tightly. “Get your kids to safety and contact that friend of yours now. I need to get my boys to safety before anyone comes for us. I was told to immediately get the boys out of New York if any other person uttered those names.”

  Ethel stood up, wiped her face clean with her sleeve and said, “I’m right on it, Caroline. I will see you in a few hours.”

  The two hugged each other with little emotion, save the tears running down their cheeks. They knew that their lives were over, but still had work to do to save the lives of a few others that they loved.

  ---

  “That’s the last night I saw my mother,” said the man. He licked his lips and finished off the brown liquid in his wooden cup. “That’s the last I saw of Ethel Rosenberg as well, in person at least. I relive that night of eavesdropping every night and in every dream. I just can’t shake that conversation from my mind. It reverberates through me at all times.”

  “What happened to the Rosenbergs? Grandpa Wendell? Grandma Caroline?” the son asked with tears welling in his eyes. His perfect teeth were nearly piercing through his bottom lip causing a rough bruising.

  “The Rosenbergs were electrocuted years after Julius returned from the war,” said the man grimly. His kind eyes became dull like his mothers did that life changing day. “They were given a trial, but they were dead the minute Julius began spying for the Soviets – the military always knew he was a spy, yet let him spy for years. I didn’t understand why until years later. The entire trial was to keep everyone in the country in check about communism, even though the U.S. government and military didn’t have a legitimate problem with communism. They just wanted Americans to have an enemy. I doubt the Soviets had a problem with democracy, either, but both governments used these differences as reasons to hate one another; to inspire hate in their citizens; to inspire loyalty; to inspire more war with one another. It was as if they were colluding to have war. But I digress about that point.

  “Ethel’s own brother, David, ratted her and Julius out in order to save himself, though he was never in any true danger like Ethel and Julius. David had been offered the same deal by the strange man, but was too terrified to pursue any spying. David was a cowardly person and let the government – and any agents of The Flagship – off the hook from the public eye. I can never forgive him for his cowardly acts.” The man balled his fist and gently tapped the arm of his chair.

  “The pictures of their deaths are burned into my mind like a terrible, festering cattle-brand. It stings so much, son. Their bodies were still smoking hours after their deaths and it was said that it took over three tries for Ethel to die.” The man rubbed a few tears from his eyes. “Why are humans so barbaric to one another?”

  The son stood up and consoled his father. “I’m sorry you had to go through that torture. When will mankind learn to love one another?”

  “My mother and father were killed as well but weren’t even granted a trial,” said the man through tears. “They were found dead in their home about a week after my brother and I left. We were told it was just an unlucky accident by a gun-happy criminal looking for a score but I knew it had something to do with the man with the syringe on his neck. He, or one of his cronies, killed my parents.”

  The man scratched furiously at his neck where the syringe tattoo supposedly laid on the man that visited the Rosenbergs many years ago. His neck had scars from the furious scratches laid upon him during times of steep frustration, depression and desperation.

  For a second time, the son brought a new bottle of brown liquor over to his father. This time without the man asking to do so.

  “Thank you, Gaston,” the man said. “Are you ready to begin your journey to seek revenge on those that have wronged your family?”

  The son stood there emotionless for some time. He was processing everything his father had just told him about his grandparents, the Rosenbergs and this man with a syringe tattoo on his neck. It was difficult to understand it all.

  “What do you mean?” questioned the son.

  “I want you to find those monsters and end what they’ve done to mankind,” said the father. His tears had dried and his emotions had dropped; his voice was somber and firm.

  “How am I supposed to find this man, find that group? I’m just a kid!” said the son. “What are they even called?”

  “The Flagship.”

  “Yes, The Flagship. How am I supposed to find them?”

  The boy began to look around at the quaint home his father and he had been in for many years. There were few luxuries provided but the boy loved it as much as he loved his father. They would build furniture together, tend to the garden together, and read to each other every day. This revelation by his father shocked the boy to his core.

  “I’ve written many notes during my time trying to scour the country for that man but have only found information on a few of The Flagship members. I want you to take these notes of leads, instructions and drawings, and finish my work. Destroy these animals with the same amount of mercy that they had for my parents. The guilt has been building – it has become unendurable. Do it for me, do it for your grandparents,” said the man firmly. “Do it for humanity. These monsters want to control humans like rats. You may be the last hope humanity has to save itself.”

  The man’s eyes widened like his mother’s once did in a moment of terror and sorrow.

  “Why can’t we do this together?” said the son as tears dribbled
down his cheeks. “Why are you telling me this so abruptly?”

  “They have keyed in on me and I am weak. Once all the safehouses I’ve propped up around the country have been searched, they will come here. It will only be a matter of days. I don’t want them to get you too. My only source of information has confirmed that The Flagship will come for me and he has refused to relay information to me. Completely cut me off. My time is dwindling and nearly done.”

  The smoke billowing out of the broken stack was slowly falling to the ground, surrounding the house in a fog of misery.

  “No! I am staying here!” screamed the son. “How can you do this to me? How is this fair to my life?”

  “You’re going to my brother’s home in Arkansas and will be raised there with his children and family. He never wanted to help me with this endeavor but I can’t blame him.”

  The son sat down on the floor and covered his face with his hands. He cried silently into his hands. His simple life in his simple home was over. The boy knew he would have to transform his childish ways into a stern manhood quickly – unfairly as it was for his father to do this to him he knew this would be his life until this mission was accomplished.

  “Please, don’t do this,” whimpered the boy in a last ditch effort. “I love you, father.”

  “Please keep those notes safe, and read from it daily,” said the father, crying with his son. “Once you get to my brother’s home you will assume his changed last name.” The man knelt down and put his hand on his child’s back. “I love you so much, son.”

  The two left the rickety house at dawn the next day. They travelled by foot to the nearby town, roughly an hour away, where the man’s brother would be waiting. No words were spoken, just deep sighs and heartbreak. Once in the town, they sat on a bench next to the only stoplight. None of the residents of the town were awake just yet.

  A brown sedan pulled up to the stoplight and honked three times. Gaston looked at his father one last time and his father nodded.

  Gaston quickly walked over to the brown sedan and entered it. The driver drove off as soon as the door slammed shut. Gaston took his final look at his broken father sitting on a bench.

  The driver quickly uttered to Gaston, “You will no longer go by Gaston. You will now be known as Huxley Obelis. No more talking.”

  Chapter 7

  She’s Daunting

  “Hitbear, what continent do you believe we should make our moves on first?” asked Gora as she slid off-brand wheat bread into her mouth. No butter, no jam – just bread. The lack of a topping mildly repulsed Hitbear, a beast that often splattered his meals all over his furry chest even when trying to be delicate. Crumbs fell all over Gora’s body.

  “Well, considering we’re already in North America, we should begin here,” stated Hitbear while still intensely studying the maps. Gora tried to introduce digital maps to her strategist but he broke the computer screen when he placed a thumbtack into a location. Even with information uploaded into Hitbear during his creation in the Beast Machine, the application of that information proved more difficult.

  “I won’t break another screen I promise!” said Hitbear after breaking the screen, but Gora wouldn’t let him touch any parts of the computer for some time.

  “No computer until you learn to fully control your body,” relayed Gora.

  Owlbert had the same troubles with technology. Gora gave the owl an electronic tablet to look through various libraries to find books that he may need to read, but Gora neglected to think about how an owl with sharp talons would even begin to meddle with an electronic tablet. The tablet’s screen was scratched to bits and Owlbert threw it at Hitbear’s head, resulting in another tussle between the beasts.

  “But shouldn’t North America be last since we will definitely have a place to hide out once it is all over?” questioned Gora, now with several pieces of topping-less wheat bread in her mouth. Crumbs were piling up on her shirt and in any crevices on her face. Hitbear shuddered.

  “Only one scientist on my kill list for North America works for the military making new weapons; though he may already be close to death because he is in his late 70s. I hope he’s not dead because that shithead needs to die painfully. His cruel words about me and lack of conscience are bothersome.” Her mumblings with food in her mouth began to slightly irritate Hitbear as well. Irritate him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. “He has been known to do the new weapon tests on refugee children. That’s only a rumor I’ve heard. I have never been able to find out much about him outside of conferences and lectures.”

  “I understand why you would want to begin with that tactic, but by beginning here, one of the toughest continents militarily in the world, we can surprise them since the military will undoubtedly be on high alert after the first or second deaths of high-profile scientists, no? Or the military won’t give a rat’s ass because they’re just scientists, not politicians or foreign heads of state – that are in their control.”

  “Ahh. I will leave the strategy to you, Hitbear,” as Gora finally swallowed enough wheat bread to last her the week. “It’s what I created you for, after all!” She smiled approvingly. Gora stood up and all the crumbs from her bread snack fell to the ground.

  “Thank you, creator,” said Hitbear as he returned to strategizing which city the group should go to first. “Thank God, she finished her meal,” he thought.

  Gora slowly stepped over to her other sentient creation, who was on the other side of the laboratory. Owlbert, like Hitbear, was intensely studying but with books instead of maps. These books were found in Gora’s personal library, and they were all uniquely informational and downright bizarre. Books with exhausting titles: Aztecs: How the Jaguar Warriors Are like Today’s Mixed Martial Arts Fighters by Jennifer Stipen, Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies by Chris Kluwe, Genghis Khan: Did You Know He’s Related to Kublai Khan? by David de Jan, The Native Americans: How A Sports League Tried To Promote Racism by Daniela Snively, Changing The Way We Look At Eachother: How Blind People Are Better Than You by Misty McDaniel, Sojourner Truth: Baddest Lady Ever by Michelle Oblinoski, Flushing the Pain Away: How the Toilet Saved Mankind by Kameron Mo’Tube, Where Art Thou: Finding Amelia Earhart by Pricilla Pointer, and Jimmy Hoffa: Champion of Hide and Seek by Jimmy Hoffa.

  The books had very little to do with science and more to do with the current cultural perceptions that Americans, and other nationals, held. Owlbert wanted to know how humans, specifically Americans considering he was in the United States of America, perceived the current world. He was also deeply interested in history, hence the books on the Aztecs and Genghis Khan.

  Again, the information Gora had pumped into her beast wasn’t able to be readily applied to actual situations; the information was definitely there, yet not even Owlbert could apply it or readily understand it as it floated through his mind.

  Owlbert looked up from his books as Gora came close.

  “Hallo! Vas must du need? I am trying to find out vich type of ‘soldier’ vee must make,” cheeped Owlbert delightfully. He did not have any facial hair, considering he was a bird, but a clump of snow white feathers formed near the base of his beak to create the look of a mustache. His mustache was a part of his signature look as a human, not quite as signature as Hitbear’s human form, but still important.

  Gora pushed her lips to the right of her mouth. Her nose flared. She had trepidations.

  “Vas ist it?” asked Owlbert as he spread his wings and yawned. His attention was mostly on his books.

  “I just don’t think we should use the term ‘soldier’ since the next beast will have a personality, memories, their own thoughts – just like you – just like Hitbear! I have been thinking it over and I just don’t like the idea of creating soldiers, especially mindless soldiers.”

  “Hmm,” said Owlbert. “This ist different than vas I was researching…” He clawed at a few of his books lackadaisically, and then he began to swat a few books away from his sight. He appeared to be searching for a
certain book. Gora looked on with confusion as she watched the owl struggle with searching through a large pile of books.

  “Should I help him?” thought Gora. “Maybe I should have tried to give him another electronic tablet?”

  “AH! I found eet!” exclaimed Owlbert. “This ist thee ein! Du vant personality? Du vant important memories? Du vant unique thoughts? Right here, Frau Gora!”

  Owlbert pointed her to a ragged, large tome at the bottom of the book pile. The spine was holding onto the rest of the book by the thinnest of margins. This book had been beaten to hell and back.

  Gora blew the dust off the book and tried to read the title of the tome. Or what was left of a title.

  “There’s a few letters on the front; an a, an r, a t, I think?” said Gora. It didn’t make any sense. “What is this, Owlbert? I don’t understand! Are you playing some sort of joke?” Her eyes squinted at the title again, trying to decipher it.

  “It ist ein book about zee Underground Railroad; one of zee most important movements in American history! Ist not ein real locomotive, but ein movement to free slaves! Du should know – it’s in your library!” He flung open his left wing to point at the countless other books remaining in Gora’s book collection. “It’s also part of American history, your home nation!”

  “Well – yes I know about the Underground Railroad – but what does it say on the front? It’s scraped away.” More dust fell from the tome. It was a broken piece of literature among other pristine books found in Gora’s collection. She couldn’t recollect where she received this book or how it even came to be in her personal library.

  Owlbert frowned. “Does this American child really have no idea what this book says,” thought Owlbert. Owlbert grabbed a nearby ink pen and wrote on a piece of paper, quite elegantly for an owlbeast, Harriet Tubman then briskly slid the paper to Gora. He clicked his beak in frustration.