Legacy of a Mad Scientist (19 page)

Ashley looked down at it.

Ash sat up in bed, in her pajamas, the lights off.
She'd had a nightmare. It was after midnight. She stood up beside
her bed. The moonlight spilling through the windows lit the room
well enough for her to see. She listened to the house. She didn't
hear anything.

She thought about earlier that night, trying to
remember what had happened. Her eyes were drawn to the first drawer
of her desk. She remembered getting ready for bed and looking at
the object. The button hadn't done anything at all. It wasn't a
knife, and her father had never entered the room.

Ashley had taken it into his study and asked him what
it was. He said it was a data drive. He hadn’t shown the slightest
interest in it.

Ashley stared at the desk. She crossed the room and
opened the center drawer. The object was lying right where she'd
left it.

She picked it up. It was heavy and serious.

The clock didn't stop.

She pressed the button. She pressed it hard. It did
nothing.

She pulled a pencil out from her desk, discarded it
for a tougher metal pen and jammed down on the button. A port at
the front end of the device opened up. She jammed the button with
the pen a second time and with a loud rusty thwack, the blade
popped out.

It was shiny black, serrated near the hilt, grooved
with a polished silver blood gutter. Ashley stared at it. She knew,
without a doubt, she had never seen it before, not in her waking
life, anyhow.

The button had risen up, even with the smooth surface
of the case again. Ashley pressed it a second time. It went down
easily, and the blade retracted with another crack.

Ashley put the knife back in the drawer. It looked
out of place, surrounded by her pens, pencils, erasers and
more-feminine possessions. She stared at it for a long moment
before sliding the drawer closed.

An hour or so earlier, Bobby arrived home, entering
the vast white structure through the kitchen. He went up the back
stairs and into his private bathroom, decorated with shades and
hints of blue.

He stood the six bullets in a single, horizontal
line, the copper coated loads on the left, the three,
empty, fired shells, on the right. He spent a few minutes just
watching them, first focusing on them and then on their reflection
in the mirror.

Bobby stripped out of his clothes and took a shower.
When he got out, the steam had obscured the mirror, but the bullets
stood gleaming. They seemed to be in tune with his soul. They
calmed him and yet excited him at the same time. He felt empowered
and captivated by their presence.

The boy dried himself and combed his hair, flat, back
and to the side. It was how his mother did it. He didn't like it,
but it was out of his eyes. Bobby flossed and brushed his teeth.
Usually he avoided these chores. Tonight he did them thoroughly,
exactly as they should be done.

Bobby pulled on his pajamas and a massive white
terrycloth robe. He scooped up his bullets and carried them, his
hands in his pockets, over to his bed. He climbed across it to the
window. He stood the shells on the wooden sill. Carefully, he
opened the window behind them.

Ill at ease, he moved the shells. Seeing them sitting
there like that, something about it bothered him. He found the
latches securing the window screen and pushed it out, into the
canyon below.

Now the bullets were arranged before the open sky. He
watched the moonlight reflecting off their surface. He fell asleep
watching them.

Ashley’s Journal, Friday Morning, June 25, 2308

I don’t know why my father carries around a knife, or
why I’m having nightmares about it.

Or even better, how does a knife make you
hallucinate?

There is something about it. Time slows down, or
seems to. And my dad, he’s acting weird all of a sudden.

What the hell is happening?

Geoff woke later than usual. He'd slept in until
almost seven-thirty. Ashley and her parents were sitting quietly in
the kitchen. Geoff came downstairs, still in his pajamas.

For a moment, no one spoke.

His mother took his hand. "Honey, Jack died in his
sleep last night.”

A couple of hours later, Dr. Fox had finished digging
a nice-sized hole at the edge of the property. The new scar across
his forehead had turned red and swollen while he dug.

Ashley didn’t ask about it, but Geoff did, after an
hour or so.

Andrew said he’d gotten it after a nasty spill on a
wet bathroom floor, which was the truth, if only part of it.

They put Jack in a towel-lined wooden box, and Dr.
Fox set him into the deep hole. Several feet of dirt would cover
the beagle's casket.

The children looked on as Dr. Fox solemnly bowed his
head. "Today we bury our dear friend, Jack. He was a good dog, a
puppy still, but he was a good soul. We are thankful for the time
he shared with us and will remember him fondly, until the end of
our days.”

Geoffrey leaned against his mother. Dr. Fox picked up
the shovel, and with blistered hands, he began filling the
hole.

Ana led Geoff away from the grave, over to the
canopied swing. They sat in the shade as Dr. Fox shoveled in the
dirt.

Ashley stood beside her father. She held a small
bouquet of wild flowers and watched the dirt rise.

Once he was finished turning the hole into a small
hill, she set the flowers at the head of the grave.

Dr. Fox said nothing further and carried the shovel
back to the shed.

Ashley’s Journal, June 26, 2308

I know, somehow, that it was my father's fault Jack
died. Just like I know that he lied about the knife. Somehow, I
know he is responsible.

Geoff will be okay, eventually. I hope. But I don’t
think we’ll be hanging out in the canyon much this summer.

Ashley’s Journal, Sunday, June 28, 2308

It’s been three days since Jack died.

Four, since the man fell out of the sky.

Geoff stayed in back yard most of that first day, but
he hasn't been outside much since. He’s been glued to the vid
streams and net games. Otherwise, he seems fine.

I bet once school starts he'll be back to his old
self.

I haven’t seen Doug, or Jamie, or any of the other
kids who were in the canyon that day. In fact, I haven’t seen
anyone out since then.

The neighborhood has been dead quiet.

You can feel it in the air. It’s gotten hot. Doors
stay closed, and blinds are pulled tight. Everyone is inside
blasting the AC.

Geoff says their gamer ids are online.

Only tourists and strangers are down in the park
now.

Ashley’s Journal, Monday, July 6, 2308

My dad has been home a lot more lately. In fact, it
seems as if he’s here all the time now. He even took us to see
fireworks.

He seems a little different, but I like it.

I’ve still got that thing in my desk. I didn’t see
any blood on it. I know it’s his. It looked just like the one he
had at dinner.

He’s got another one, but why would he have two?

I haven’t touched it.

Camp.

Today we leave for camp.

I don’t know why I complained so much about this.

It all feels anticlimactic now. I’m kind of
interested. I wonder what they’re going to teach us.

Last summer was boring. I hope this is better.

Monday, July 6, 2308

With brief goodbyes to their mother, Ash and Geoff
boarded the shuttle. Dr. Fox had been summoned to Washington and
left the day before. Ash and Geoff waved to their mom from the
shuttle window and watched their home fade into the distance. The
transport was half-f, all children, all bound for the same
destination.

Every summer hundreds of kids attended the camp
programs at the Heart O' The City Summer Camp Facility. Geoff would
be on one of the three-dozen terra-formed levels, while Ashley
would be on another. New programs began each Monday and the courses
rotated regularly, 'graduating' students all summer.

Ash and Geoff stayed together until protocol
separated them.

They didn't make a big thing of it. The time came and
they waved each other goodbye.

As she watched Geoff go, Ash was overcome with a
feeling of loss. She didn't know what to do with it, so she
swallowed the emotion and went to look for her quarters.

On the first day after his exposure to the corrupted
handgun, Bobby found himself compelled to return to the forest.

He walked all day, exploring in an ever-widening
corkscrew fashion. He kept moving but never got far from home.

He saw none of the other kids.

He didn’t get hungry, or lonely or scared. Instead,
he studied the forest, as if he were mapping it with his mind. He
noticed every patch of brush, every rise and fall of the
mountainous terrain. He watched the birds and the squirrels, and
listened to their chattering, but didn’t attempt to translate
it.

Late in the afternoon, Bobby noticed that the bronze
shell casings had tarnished, accelerated by the oils in his hands,
as he fondled at least one of the six cylinders almost
constantly.

After returning home, Bobby approached his father,
asking if they had any polishing products in the house.

Predictably his father asked, "What for?”

Bobby showed him the bullets.

Bobby's father felt his chest go tight. His breath
caught in his throat. He looked at the naked shells. He felt
consumed with energy and invigorated, just by the sight of the
items in his young son's hand.

After a moment, Mr. Dunkirk didn't even know what it
was that he was looking at, but he couldn't look away.

Bobby's arm grew tired. He lowered his hand.

His father stood in a daze, calm, quiet and distant.
Bobby had forgotten what it was he'd asked his father for. The boy
turned and left him in the hall.

A few moments later, Mr. Dunkirk snapped out of his
trance and went to his own bedroom, overcome with fatigue.

Back in his bedroom, Bobby set the shells on his
windowsill and settled in, watching them with mute fascination, as
his father had. They seemed to speak to him; only he couldn’t say
just what the message was.

Monday, June 29, 2308

On Monday morning, Bobby woke, dressed, ate breakfast
and slipped out of the house. His father's car was already
gone.

Bobby wandered down into the canyon, the bullets
secure in his pocket.

Before long, he'd found a couple of the other
neighborhood kids and shown them the shells. Together, they stood
the shells on the bottom of the slide and took seats around
them.

A pair of moms soon noticed their children and
friends all sitting, staring at the foot of the slide.

They drifted over to investigate the strange
phenomenon. By the time they were close enough to recognize the
bullets, it was too late. They had entered the shells'
sphere-of-influence and took seats on the wood-chip covered ground
with the children.

Bobby noticed their arrival and considered the
implications. He wondered if the adults would try and take his
bullets. He wasn't afraid the other children might, but the
presence of the two parents unnerved him.

A few minutes later, Bobby rose and picked up the
bullets.

Several of the children rose with him, smiling, but
not speaking.

Bobby smiled in return and walked from the slide
toward the tree line a short distance away.

The crowd of children and adults followed Bobby from
the playground into the overgrown forest.

They made their way down the pathways, wandering from
gully to glen, until Bobby found a large, shade-ensconced rock.

Bobby climbed onto the rock as his disciples settled
themselves around it.

Bobby stood the six brass shells on the smooth
surface of the broad stone. It took him a moment to align them, but
none fell or rolled away.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Bobby and his
group communed with the debris - metallic flotsam, infected with a
power never before encountered by modern men.

Mr. Dunkirk grew angry and irritable after his
exposure to Bobby's bullets. He left meetings early and snapped at
his staff. In the middle of the afternoon, he cancelled the
remainder his schedule and rushed home.

Dunkirk arrived and asked after his youngest son. His
older children, Evan and Anne hadn't seen Bobby, but guessed that
he'd gone out into the forest. Mrs. Dunkirk was not at home, so Mr.
Dunkirk decided to go looking for his son and those fascinating
bullets.

Martin exited through the kitchen and down the tiered
balconies at the back of the house. He stopped at the landscaping
shed at the edge of the property. He hefted an old fashioned
short-handled sledge. The ball of the hammer was a bit smaller than
his fist, a heavy chunk of metal attached to the stout wood handle.
It felt right in his hand.

Martin proceeded down into the darkening canyon. It
took him the better part of two hours to stumble across Bobby and
his silent entourage, sitting in the dark of twilight. He'd walked
past them twice.

Quite certain they were alone; he came forward. No
one turned at his approach. Bobby, facing his father from atop the
rock, never even raised his eyes from the bullets.

Mr. Martin Dunkirk lifted the hammer high and brought
it down with a thwack into the head of the woman to his right.

In her mid-forties and significantly overweight,
Rhonda Tremaine's lifeless body fell to the side, her shattered
skull pulling away from Martin's hammer with a sucking sound.

Martin raised the hammer again, bringing it down on
the second woman. Younger, more attractive, but just as dead,
Michelle Larson crumpled to the ground. Four more times that night
Mr. Dunkirk raised his hammer, crushing the skulls of the
children.