Once We Were Human (The Commander Book 1) (11 page)

I understood the effect inadvertent deaths had on a person.

I went back to the gymnasium, filled with trepidation.  Once inside I took in the place, but my fears didn’t recede.  Mats, an open area for calisthenics, a treadmill and a stationary bicycle filled half the room.  The other half of the room, filled with dumbbells, barbells, weights and strange looking machinery, bothered me a lot.  Surely a bunch of equipment shouldn’t make me so fearful?

The exercise instructor they found for me entered the room from the side, and my breath caught.  “Hancock, come here,” Mr. Borton said to me, with a hungry smile.  “Call me Larry.  I need to take a look at your muscles.”

I practically ran away on the spot.  Mr. Borton was an impressive man, short and perfectly built, his muscles bulging out of his shirt, a caricature of Charles Atlas, or Johnny Weissmuller playing Tarzan.  He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. 

Something twisted coiled inside him, though.  The others in the center were ordinary people, professionals and such.  Mr. Borton came from a prison yard, hard and dangerous.  He took up too much space, walked with casual arrogance, and his cold and dead blue eyes never left me.  If someone told me he spent his free time murdering children in their beds, I might have believed them.  This man agitated even the strange supernatural sense that had shown me the two woman Transforms, back during my first interview with
Dr. Peterson.

Larry came up to me.  I took a step back.  He stopped, studied
me with his cold eyes and I flushed.  I took a deep breath and made myself hold still.  He wasn’t impressed.

He poked and prodded me like a doctor, had me raise my arms, spread my legs, bend over.  “Not good,” he said, as I tried to hide my uneasiness.  “The hypertrophy has already started.  The speed you’re gaining your muscles is insane.  Far too fast.”

At least now I knew why the authorities had brought in a person like Larry: he knew how to help Arms.  I’d just have to live with the danger and hope the authorities had enough control over him to keep him from doing something awful to me.  I wondered how he had managed to meet those other Arms. 

I was too afraid to ask.

Larry had to show me how to do everything.  I guess I expected Jack La Lanne, jumping jacks, calisthenics and such.  I felt like an idiot and Larry’s cold contempt didn’t help.  He told me all about the importance of stretching and warming up, about the latest research on ‘physical development’, and how these strange machines worked the various muscle groups.  Borton also went on at length about the benefits of lifting weights.  I did my best to appear politely interested instead of suspiciously wary. 

After stretching we exercised.  I could foresee myself getting tired of Larry Borton.  I did what he told me but I had a hard time putting any passion into my work.  My lack of enthusiasm didn’t matter, as Larry had enough drive for both of us.  All he had to do was walk close to me and stare, and my nerves would jump.  I would work and sweat and exercise until exhausted.

The exercise session lasted for a very long hour.

A full-length mirror hung on the left wall of the room.  My first uncharitable thought was that Larry put the mirror there to look at himself.  No, the point was so
I
could look at
myself
.  Larry positioned me in front of the mirror, showed me the locations of my muscles, how they appeared when I flexed them, and what I would look like when my muscles developed – as if my muscle development was the most important thing in the world.

I studied my reflection with bleak depression and wondered if this was the last time I’d ever appear normal.  I was thirty-three years old and I’d had three children.  I sagged a little, but I was still a size ten.  I had a little extra padding on my hips and thighs, my hair was a sort of bland dark blond, I stood too tall and my face was too long.  I dressed up well, though, when I put my mind to looking good. 

This occasion didn’t count.  I wore an old navy tennis skirt and a loose white shirt, my makeup had worn off and my hair was a mess.  I considered my appearance an omen for the future.

---

After I finished the exercises, Agent Bates came to visit. 

“Looks like you’re having all sorts of fun.  You done here yet?” Bates asked Larry.  The words were friendly but the tone wasn’t.  Those two clearly knew but didn’t like each other.

“Just finishing up, Bates,” Larry said.  Almost a growl.

“Good.  Mrs. Hancock, when you’re done, would you come with me, please?”

Larry had me stretch one last time, muscles bulging as he showed me what to do.  I made an unsuccessful attempt to imitate him and fled, relieved to be out of the gymnasium.

Agent Bates escorted me to the first floor conference room, silent after another desultory attempt to talk me out of watching his film.  He had me sit down and as he turned off the lights
Dr. Zielinski joined us.  “Back in ’58, before the end of the Transform Quarantine, a plant maintenance engineer in the FBI building came down with Transform Sickness.  No Focuses had room for him.  For religious reasons, suicide wasn’t an option, nor euthanasia, not even any medications.  He volunteered to allow his end to be filmed in the name of science.” Bates paused.  “I was there.  This film covers the last four days of his life.  If he and his family hadn’t agreed to withhold food and water from him, he would have taken two weeks to die.”

I shivered and hugged my torso, but couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.  The film started with the man on the floor of a padded cell, in a straitjacket.  The man had corded muscles and he bared his teeth in a snarl. 

“He’s in pain, but he’s not in withdrawal yet,” Dr. Zielinski said.  “He’s in the worst of the low juice states, what we call periwithdrawal.”

Fifteen minutes later, the man began to howl, his muscles corded tighter than before.  A minute later, blood began to ooze from his skin like sweat.  Another minute later, he exploded off the floor and threw himself at the door.  I flinched and covered my mouth in sudden terror.  I’d never seen anyone move that fast or hit something that hard.

He bounced back, spat teeth, and did it again.  And again.  Bloody spittle flew from his mouth, nose and ears, to mix with his bloody sweat.  He never stopped.  I could only tell the cuts in the film by the changes in his endless screaming as he screamed his throat raw.

In the end he died thrashing on the floor, his limbs broken, his body puffy and warped as if he was changing as he died.

I let Dr. Zielinski take me by the elbow and lead me, shaking, to his office two rooms down the hall.  Bates followed.

“His death happened so dramatically because he was confined and didn’t have access to food and water,” Dr. Zielinski said.  He had come out from behind his desk and was sitting with Agent Bates and I, as if he was an ordinary human being.  The film had ended fifteen minutes ago and supposedly I’d recovered.  “A withdrawal psychotic in more normal circumstances is much more like a zombie from a horror movie, mindless, shambling and dangerous to all around him.”

I finished drying my eyes on
Dr. Zielinski’s handkerchief.  “Doctor, I don’t understand how this works,” I said.  “I know I’m supposed to take juice from someone who’s about to go into withdrawal, but if a Transform runs out of juice how can there be anything for me to take?”

“A man in withdrawal still has a lot of juice left.”

I waved my hands.  “So if the guy in the movie still had juice, why’d he go into withdrawal?”

Dr.
Zielinski steepled his fingers and paused.  “Once a person contracts Transform Sickness, juice permeates his body and becomes an integral part of his metabolism.  The large majority of any Transform’s juice is tied up in supporting his life.  That’s called his fundamental juice.  The rest is supplemental juice.  If the supplemental juice is used up, a Transform goes into withdrawal.  If the supplemental juice climbs too high, roughly eighty percent of the fundamental juice count, a Transform becomes a Monster.  What makes this interesting is that the juice counts in question are different for Transforms, Focuses and Arms.”

This hadn’t made the Sunday supplements.  I leaned forward intently and frowned. 

“Focuses manipulate supplemental juice to keep Transforms alive,” Bates said.  “You, as an Arm, can’t sense the difference between the two types of juice.”

His comment was a stab right at my heart. 
I didn’t ask to be crippled.
 
I didn’t want the Shakes
.  Instead of commenting, I pretended I wasn’t some kind of unnatural abomination, only a rational woman whose life hadn’t gone completely out of control. 

I had wondered sometimes during the long sleepless nights what supernatural force had claimed me.  I’d always recognized the world contained forces operating in the world beyond the grasp of science.  God and the Devil, certainly.  Maybe others as well.  I tried to believe in those unnamed other forces when I considered my predicament, but honesty made me recognize my rationalization.  What force would be responsible for a monstrosity who had to kill other people to survive?  What force would drive a psychotic murderer like Stacy Keaton?  What force would have a person kill her own child when she was unconscious?  Rev. Smalley in Jefferson City had certainly been clear enough when he talked about Transforms.  The more I considered, the more I came to suspect I’d slipped into the Devil’s grasp during those three days while I transformed.

I nodded to Bates in understanding.  An Arm was a creature of Satan.  When she drew juice from a Transform, she took both types of juice and killed him.

“Are these different kinds of juice, or are they stored in different locations?” I asked
Dr. Zielinski.  “Are you sure about all this?”

Agent Bates startled at my words and pointed to the doc.  “He should know.  He’s the one who discovered the difference between the two.”

Dr. Zielinski wasn’t bothered by the praise, the arrogant cuss.  “Location.  Fundamental juice is spread uniformly throughout the body, while supplemental juice is stored in the lymphatic system and the skin.”

I didn’t have any more questions, and they let me go back to my room. 

During my afternoon exercise session I could actually observe my muscles as they developed, what my unnerving trainer called an ‘Arm trick’.  He pushed me to exhaustion and beyond, the monster. 

That evening, I got a letter from Bill.  He tried to sound loving and supportive, but it was easy to read his unexpressed anger.  I’d killed his daughter.  He didn’t mention Billy and Jeffery.  He said he prayed for my soul, as if I had killed our daughter on purpose.

I had nightmares that night, and for many nights after.  I hadn’t realized Arms had near perfect memory until I saw that movie over and over in my mind.

---

Monday, I didn’t get out of bed in the morning.  What did I have to look forward to?  I would spend the rest of my life trapped in a Transform Detention Center, aching with pain from the exercise, surrounded by armed orderlies, far from my family, death by withdrawal poised over my head like the sword of Damocles. 

They wanted me to kill.  I saw myself in the padded room whenever I closed my eyes, and yet I couldn’t imagine killing someone.  I was tired, depressed and cranky.  I figured I had cause.

My mother visited me after my afternoon exercise session.  “Knock, knock,” she said, and looked in the room with a smile.

“Oh, Mom!” I stood and gave her a big hug, which elicited an “Ow!” from her.  I guess I needed to watch my strength. 

“So, how are you doing?” She stepped back, and looked me over.  “You’re getting to be quite the athlete, aren’t you, dear.”

“Oh, you would not believe.”  I told her about the endless exercise sessions.  “The sessions help, much to my surprise.  At least after the mean trainer here makes me do my stretches.  Then he goes and ruins it by making me do all this exhausting exercise.  How is…”

How is everyone doing?  The words refused to come out.  She had a tissue in my hand even before I knew I was going to cry.

“We’d best not think about certain things, dear,” she said, and frowned.  “Your father isn’t being very adult about this whole business.  The fool seems to think you’re at fault, that you could have somehow avoided the Shakes.”

“Why?  How?”

“Oh, well, hun, you know Old Jeff.  Your father’s always had a rather Manichean viewpoint on things.  Everything is either all good or all bad.  I swear he still thinks Transform Sickness is a mark of the Devil, not a disease.  A moral affliction.”

I turned away.  I once thought the same.  “I’ve always suspected Transform Sickness was something other than what the doctors said it was.  Why did
I
get it, though?”  What was my mortal sin?  Mom had no answer for me.  I wondered if she thought I had been seeing another man on the side or stealing from the collection plate.  Mom had always called me her perfect angel.  Clearly, I was an angel no more.  We sat for a long moment, until Mom stammered something about the antics of Firestone, their new spaniel-collie mix, and I relaxed.

Mom and I went on to talk about other family matters, some big get-together her sister Bea had hosted in Dallas that went bad, her favorite flower shop going out of business, that sort of thing.  The chatter was a welcome bit of normal life, but it finished sooner than I wanted.