The Christopher Factor

D. L. Bruin

PART 1

VOLUNTEERS

March 1975

Zera and Cornelius had been living together for nearly five years, and despite the less than romantic conditions that prevailed in their universe, had managed to produce two splendid offspring. The doctors had been thrilled.

Taylor was almost four and greatly resembled his father both in physical stature and temperament. Though an extremely muscular specimen quite capable of inflicting grievous bodily injury to any of his handlers, Taylor was by nature both gentle and highly intelligent. He'd already exceeded both of his parents' scores on the Four-Year Olds Cognitive Dexterity Tests.

Nova was Taylor's eighteen month old sister, and from the time she could walk, his virtual shadow. Unlike most older siblings, Taylor didn't seem to mind the attention. He actually seemed to rather enjoy her company.

All and all the family was quite content within the confines of their thermostatically controlled compound. Sustenance was provided at regular intervals and there were trees to climb and a pond to swim in. It was truly an idyllic life. Or so it would seem... Except to a Wise Man, because a Wise Man knows that peace and plentitude always comes at a price...

....

Major Andrea Richards didn't much care for life in the U.S. Air Force but she loved her job with an all consuming passion. The one made it worth putting up with the other. At least that was what she continued to tell herself.

In the twenty-four months she'd been stationed at the Primate Research Lab at Lackland Air Force Base, Major Richards had managed to develop a rather unique relationship with Zera and her family. She'd been in attendance when Zera delivered Baby Nova into the world, and since that time had been treated more as an Auntie than as a handler.

Major Richards held Zera's hand and talked to her in reassuring tones as they approached the series of cubicles. "It'll only be a couple of minutes and then I'll take you back to your family."

Zera looked up at the woman with intelligent brown eyes and pulled her lips back in an unmistakable display of anxiety. Andrea stroked the coarse black hair at the nape of Zera's neck and coaxed her toward a blue plastic chair.

The cubicle was windowless and illuminated by a single pin- spot that reflected harshly off the finish of a hardwood table. Polished to a satiny sheen, the table-top had had twenty-four different shapes cut from it. The wooden blocks that corresponded to the holes had each been meticulously hand-sanded and clear-coated. They were left beside the table in a heavy cotton bag. A quantity of two-hundred such tables had been contracted for, each one unique in the shape of its blocks.

At the far end of the cubicle a large rectangular mirror hung on the wall. Just to the left of the mirror a bulky videotape camera perched atop a tripod. Wires trailed from the camera and draped around a three-quarter inch video cassette recorder that rested on a metal table.

The Major closed the door and sat down across from Zera. Then she removed a stopwatch from the pocket of her white lab coat.

Zera raised her arms above her head and contorted her rubbery face.

"Alright. Quit clownin' around."

The chimpanzee blew air through pursed lips creating a sound not dissimilar from prolonged flatulence.

Andrea chuckled. "Not much in the mood for this today, are we darlin'?"

Zera obviously understood the gist of the question. She grimaced and shook her head.

"C'mon Zera," Andrea insisted. "The sooner we get through this, the sooner you can go out and play."

That got the desired response.

Zera reached over and picked up the cotton bag from the floor, opened it and dumped the contents onto the table top. The Major clicked the stopwatch.

Looking bored, Zera methodically picked up each block and deposited it into its corresponding socket. When she'd completed the task she folded her arms across her chest.

Major Richards clicked the stopwatch again and glanced down at the time. Zera had blasted through the test in just over sixty seconds. Truly amazing.

From somewhere off in another section of the facility a microphone keyed and the crackle of dead air breathed from hidden speakers. Then a man spoke. He had a Southern accent.

"Major Richards, a moment of your time."

The Major returned the stopwatch to the pocket of her lab coat and produced a banana from the other pocket. She handed the treat to Zera who grinned in appreciation.

"I'll be right back," Major Richards cooed, crossing towards the exit.

When the door closed Zera began to eat the banana, never taking her eyes from the mirror that hung at the far end of the cubicle.

....

When Major Richards entered the Observation Room Bird-Colonel Wesley Aloysious Pulver was standing less than a meter from the two-way glass, staring intently at the chimpanzee.

The chairs surrounding the conference table were empty but Andrea noticed that the ashtrays were all filled. A rank odor of cigarette smoke, bad cologne and something vaguely swamplike lingered in the room. She unconsciously wrinkled her nose.

"If I didn't know better I'd swear that ape was watching me instead of the other way around... Just look at it." The Colonel punctuated the statement with an exaggerated flourish of his left hand.

"I don't know why that should surprise you, Colonel. Zera's a highly intelligent and sensitive being."

"Please, Major. That's a monkey you're speaking of, and a research subject at that."

"A research subject perhaps, but Zera isn't any ordinary chimpanzee. She has an IQ equal to that of a nine year old human, and her intelligence appears to be increasing daily."

The Colonel turned from the two-way mirror and looked directly at Major Richards, his close-set brown eyes cruel and menacing. "Tell me Major, do you think it wise to refer to an animal destined for the Vivisection Lab as if it were a family member?"

Major Richards averted her eyes.

"Thought not," the Colonel continued, pleased with himself. "Anyway, Andrea, the reason I called you back here was to offer my personal congratulations. We've been given a green light. Stage two is to begin immediately."

Major Richards sucked in a breath and lifted her eyes to meet the Colonel's. "That can't be. We're not even halfway through the preliminary trials."

"Apparently the Brass is impressed with your ape's performance. They seem quite anxious to begin the next phase."

The Major's mouth responded before her brain could intercede. "Are they all insane?!?"

"Excuse me, Major," Colonel Pulver responded dumbfounded.

Major Richards blinked rapidly. Her knees felt like the tendons had turned to jello. "The only thing we know for certain about NGC-9 is that it appears to increase intelligence in primates. We don't know how or why the substance does what it does, or if the effects will continue after cessation of treatment... But most importantly, Colonel, we have no idea what long-term effects there may be. To begin testing on human subjects at this juncture is beyond idiocy, it's... it's criminal."

Colonel Pulver folded his sinewy arms across his chest and frowned. "Are you quite through, Major?"

The woman felt the skin on her face begin to flush. "Yes sir."

"You're an exemplary officer, Major, despite your inclination towards hysterics, so I'm going to ignore that last outburst. Human trials are scheduled to begin next week. The decision's been made... Don't look so worried, Major. As far as your assignment is concerned, nothing changes. You're still the chimp family's Den-Mother."

May 1975

The DC-10 touched down on the runway at San Antonio International with a deafening 'whump'. The reverse thrusters were applied and a short time later the Captain was bringing the aircraft to a stop just outside the terminal building.

Dave Jeffries, twenty and tan, unbuckled his seatbelt and poked his younger brother in the ribs. "Wake up Danny. Plane's on the ground."

Danny opened one bloodshot eye and groaned softly. "What time is it?"

"Just after four," Dave replied reaching for his carry-on. "C'mon Bro'. We gotta go."

Danny grabbed his rucksack from underneath the seat and stood up on shaky legs, scratched at his dark blonde, shoulder length hair. Another quiet groan escaped from his throat.

"Shoulda listened to me last night," Dave chided. "I told you to go easy on the tequila."

Danny nodded glumly as he adjusted the mirrored sunglasses. "Think you'd get tired of being right all the time."

....

Inside the terminal building two starched and spit-polished Air Force Sergeants stood by a group of fresh faced recruits, none much over twenty-two. The eighty or so new enlistees talked nervously amongst themselves, their expressions displayed varying degrees of trepidation.

"Announcing the arrival of flight two-seven-zero from Los Angeles," the voice rasped over the P.A. system. "Arriving passengers can be met at gate Eleven A."

Sergeant Curtis glanced at his wristwatch and frowned. "'Bout fucking time!"

Sergeant Eldon smirked and adjusted his crotch. "What's your problem Curtis? Got someplace you'd rather be."

"No problem here, Sarge," he lied. "I just love the shit outta babysitting detail."

Moments later a stream of passengers began to flow through the terminal entrance at gate Eleven A. Dave and Danny Jeffries, both sporting mirrored sunglasses and faded levis, were near the end of the line.

"You can always spot the ones from California," Sergeant Eldon commented with a chuckle.

Curtis lifted half a lip in reply.

"New recruits, fall in over here," Sergeant Eldon snapped in his most efficient military manner.

Dave and Danny strolled casually toward the awaiting group.

"Alright, form it up!"

Sergeants Curtis and Eldon herded their charges from the terminal to a parking lot across the street where an immense twilight blue bus sat idling. When all were aboard and situated the bus door closed with a wheeze.

"Alright, everybody comfy?" Sergeant Curtis snarled.

An unintelligible murmur arose from within the vehicle.

"Good. Glad to hear it. We'll be pulling up to the gates of Lackland Air Force Base in about an hour and a half. I suggest y'all sit back and relax because it's the last peace you're gonna get for at least the next six weeks."

With that the bus lurched forward belching clouds of black diesel exhaust into the pristine late spring air.

....

"Nice shades," drawled the lanky teenager with the wheat colored hair and crooked nose.

"Thanks," Dave responded with an easy smile.

"My name's Scott Christopher," the young man stated offering up his hand.

"Good to meet you Scott. I'm Dave. Dave Jeffries, and this is my brother, Danny."

"Hey Danny."

"Hey," Danny grunted, massaging the back of his neck with a fist and slumping further into the seat.

Scott's brow wrinkled. "Is he okay?"

"Never mind him. He got a little carried away last night at our going away party."

"Oh... So where y'all from?" Scott queried, relaxing his gangly frame into the stiff seat cushion.

"L.A. How 'bout you?"

"Macon, Georgia."

"A farm boy?" Dave teased, adding a passable southern drawl to his naturally rich baritone.

"Well a country boy anyways," Scott responded thoughtfully.

"So what made you do the dirty deed?"

"Huh?"

"You know," Dave continued. "Enlist. What made you decide to join up?"

"Gonna see the world," Scott responded looking dreamily out the window.

Dave snickered. "Is that right? Where you goin' after basic?"

"Gonna be a mechanic," Scott answered proudly. "Where I come from, a man who knows about motors and such can pretty much call his own shots. How 'bout you?"

"I'll be going to the military police academy. Danny'll be off to Keesler for six months. He's gonna be an air traffic controller."

"If you guys are gonna keep on yappin' could you at least try and keep it down," Danny complained from his near horizontal position on the seat.

Scott reached for a well-warn duffel from the floor of the bus and began to root around inside it. "I know I've got some aspirins in here somewhere."

Danny lowered the sunglasses on his nose and peered from behind puffy red eyes. Half a smile cracked painfully across his face.

Dave laughed. "I do believe you got his attention."

....

The sun was just beginning to set as the bus was waved through the gates of Lackland Air Force Base. It came to a halt with a screech and a hiss as the air brakes were applied forcefully. Moments later the door swung open and the recruits began to disembark.

"Jesus Christ! Have you ever seen a sorrier bunch of momma's boys in all yer life?"

The voice belonged to a thirty-five year old, barrel-chested Technical Sergeant by the name of Emilio Cervantes Olíver Gonzalez. He swayed slightly in the warm evening breeze.

"Can't say as I have," Staff Sergeant Partridge responded blandly.

Partridge was a couple of years younger than Gonzalez and about three inches shorter. He had ivory blonde hair and cold, fish-blue eyes. Both TI's were brother Texans; Gonzalez hailing from El Paso and Partridge from just outside of Houston.

"Alright ladies! Form it up into two lines!"

The recruits stumbled over each other attempting to follow the order.

"My name is Sergeant Gonzalez and this here is Sergeant Partridge." He said it as if that was what their mothers had intentionally named them. "For the next forty-two days you ladies belong to us. I mean specifically that you will do what we say, when we say it, no questions asked. If y'all can live with that we might just get along... If not," he shook his head sadly. "Hopefully it won't come to that..." Gonzalez paused and smiled benevolently. "How many of y'all from California?"

Danny and several others raised their hands in response to the question, but Dave was far too cagey to fall for such an obvious ploy.

Gonzalez sauntered up to Danny who just happened to be the closest one to him with a hand in the air. The beefy TI shoved his face within an inch of the unsuspecting youth. "Nothin' ever come outta California 'cept for surfboards and faggots and I don't see no skeg growin' out your ass... I betcha don't even like girls."

Danny wrinkled his nose at the onslaught of decibels and alcohol fumes emanating from Gonzalez, but there was no hesitation in his response. "That's one bet you'd lose."

Some chuckles escaped from a few of the recruits. Dave grinned inwardly as Sergeant Partridge attempted to hide his own smile with a casual hand.

Gonzalez was not even slightly amused. "What did you just say?"

"I said you'd lose that bet," Danny repeated calmly though his expression was tense.

Gonzalez pressed his face even closer to Danny's, banging the brim of the "Smoky the Bear" hat on Danny's forehead. "You are to address me as Sir, as in 'you'd lose that bet SIR, Tech Sergeant Gonzalez, SIR!!' Do you understand me boy?"

"Yes sir. I understand sir," Danny stammered in reply.

"Sergeant Partridge, seems we have ourselves a genuine smartass over here. What's your name California?"

"It's Daniel, sir."

"Your last name!" Gonzalez bellowed, beginning to come unhinged.

"Jeffries sir, Daniel Jeffries."

Gonzalez lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Understand this boy. After tomorrow y'all are gonna look pretty much the same. Same haircuts, same uniforms. There's a reason for that. Do you know what it is?"

"No sir."

"It's so y'all start out even... But you know what California? I just know I'm gonna remember your face. And just so there's no misunderstanding, that's definitely not a good thing."

Gonzalez did an about-face and crossed to where Sergeant Partridge was standing, still shielding a grin.

"They're all yours."

Partridge quickly became all business. "Alright listen up. Before we head to barracks Seventeen for your beauty rest, y'all will be required to make a donation for Uncle's benefit. Form it up and follow me."

The recruits, all looking somewhat puzzled, picked up their belongings and followed the TI across the asphalt to a group of low slung brick buildings. A sign above the entrance said: ARRIVAL STATION.

"What did I tell you about volunteering?" Dave whispered from the side of his mouth.

"I didn't volunteer," Danny responded stubbornly.

Dave smirked at his little brother. "What do you think it means when you put your hand up in the air, California?"

As the group was led inside one of the brick buildings it became evident to all that the "arrival station" was nothing more than a glorified latrine; the half-pint labeled bottles set out on the metal tables not withstanding. Donation indeed!

....

It was nearing ten o'clock when the exhausted recruits were double-timed into the barracks.

The building was a two-story wooden structure set amidst a group of twenty other such units, each housing a minimum of eighty personnel. Metal bunkbeds with graham cracker thick mattresses were lined up along the length of the building on two sides. Footlockers were arranged beside the bunks. At each end of the structure a bright red fire extinguishing canister hung on the wall, providing a touch of color to what otherwise were extremely drab surroundings. The building had a distinctly institutional air about it, with the ambience a cross somewhere between suburban high school and state penitentiary.

Sergeant Partridge followed the last of the group into the barracks/dormitory and closed the double steel and glass doors behind him.

"Alright maggots, find yourselves a bunk and don't take all night doing it. You've got ten minutes 'til lights out."

With that said Partridge turned and crossed toward the stairway.

"Charming bastard," Danny commented collapsing onto a lower bunk halfway across the barracks.

"You can certainly tell the guy loves his job," Dave agreed, climbing into the bunk above Danny's.

Scott was placing the contents of his duffel into one of the footlockers. "Oh, he's not so bad. Kinda reminds me a little of my Uncle Hank, only with hair. It's the other guy who makes me nervous. That Gonzalez is downright scary."

Danny sat up on his elbows. "I don't know about how scary he is but I can tell you this; That big vato reeked like a fuckin' brewery. Damn near got me loaded just breathing' in my face."

After awhile Sergeant Partridge descended the stairway and crossed to the light switches on the wall. "Sweet dreams girls!" he barked, clicking off the switches, extinguishing the overhead fluorescence.

"You know, this bed is more comfortable than the one I have at home," Scott drawled contentedly pulling the prickly green blanket up to his neck.

"Gotta be from Georgia," Danny mumbled sleepily.

At precisely four-thirty a.m. a whistle sounded from somewhere off in the distance. At first it was barely audible and none of the new recruits sleeping in Barracks 17 stirred a muscle. But the noise continued to grow in intensity, dopplering across the asphalt until it was a full-blown shriek just outside the windows.

At that instant the darkness was blasted by glaring flourescents and the rantings of Sergeant Gonzalez.

"Rise and shine ladies! Up, up ,up!"

He stood there pristine in his highly starched, lizard-green uniform and gleaming combat boots. His eyes sparkled.

Grunts and groans of extreme displeasure reverberated throughout the building as Gonzalez strutted across the floor yanking blankets from bunks and hollering insults.

"C'mon, I said move it! Y'all have fifteen minutes to shit, shower and shave. Anybody not formed up outside by then is gonna have a serious problem!"

Moments later the barracks was abuzz with recruits running in all directions.

....

By four forty-five a.m. the ragtag group, dressed in their civilian togs, were assembled on the sidewalk in front of the barracks. Stars glimmered in a dramatic Texas sky illuminating the way for the recruits as they marched to the chow hall.

When they arrived at their destination Gonzalez looked them over and snickered. "Y'all be sure and get a good breakfast in yah because today's gonna be a long one."

....

Dave, Danny and Scott crossed from the chow line to one of the long tables, each carrying a tray piled high with food. They felt the eyes of several hundred recruits watching them as they took their seats.

"They'll stop looking at us like that after we get issued our uniforms." Dave spoke in between mouthfuls of powdered eggs. He was correct in his observation. The recruits of barracks seventeen were a motley lot, with more than half sporting shoulder-length hair and/or beards of one sort or another. Though not particularly noteworthy by nineteen seventy-five standards, this group of recruits did manage to stand out in a crowd. Especially this crowd.

"Damn good chow," Scott enthused, stirring brown sugar into a bowl of grits with the back of a spoon.

The Jeffries Brothers exchanged a look. "Gotta be from Georgia," they said nearly in unison.

....

After breakfast the group was marched over to the supply building where each volunteer was issued uniforms and boots.

The young men were also given seven sets of underwear and seven pairs of socks, three woven blue belts, name tags for the uniforms, and P.T. outfits. The Physical Training Outfits consisted of a pair of shorts and a cotton T-shirt with a U.S.A.F. logo emblazoned across the front; as if anyone was likely to forget where they were.

All told this was a sizable load to be hauling about and the last article issued to the new airmen was an enormous green duffel bag, complete with instructions on the packing thereof.

As the last of the recruits fell out in front of the supply building dragging their overstuffed duffels on the ground, Sergeant Gonzalez flicked a cigarette butt into the street and cleared his throat. "Alright form it up. We got one more stop before lunch. Double-time harch!"

Twenty minutes later the sweating, panting contingent of young men came to rest in front of a Quonset hut. Just as one group arrived at the building a second group was departing. The expressions on the freshly shorn recruits ranged from mild amusement to moderate shock.

The boys from Barracks 17 exchanged sideways glances with one another as they stepped into the facility.

Ninety minutes later a huge pile of multi-hued locks lay ankle-deep on the floor of the establishment and it was difficult to tell one recruit from another.

As they reassembled outside the "Clip Shack" Gonzalez smiled warmly. "Alright scrotum-heads, form it up!! It's lunch time."

....

Scott piled a second helping of mashed potatoes and chicken gravy on his plate and refilled his coffee cup for the third time. He returned to the table grinning from ear to ear.

"What the fuck're you so happy about?" Danny snarled, rubbing a palm over his blonde nubs.

"Back home I'd have to wrestle three big brothers and the family dog for seconds of anything," Scott enthused, generously sprinkling salt and pepper onto the potatoes. "Did you get a look at all that food? It's like I've died and gone to pig-heaven."

"I'd stay away form them 'taters if I was you. Uncle puts saltpeter in them to keep yer dick from gettin' hard."

The warning came from William Joseph Brown, a massive, twenty year old African American from Chicago, known to his friends as "Bojo".

"That's nothin' but rumors and propaganda," Dave replied, knocking back the rest of his coffee in one swallow. "Just like the old square needle in the left nut gag."

"Hey man, it's the truth," Bojo insisted, flashing the whites of his eyes. "My older brother's been in a year and he told me all about it. Told me all sorts of stuff."

Dave shook his head.

Scott put his fork down on his plate appearing suddenly pale. "Square needle where?"

"Don't sweat it Scott," Dave chuckled. "That particular rumor's been around since the first World War."

At that instant all heads snapped in the direction of a loud crash as dishes were hurled to the floor. The action was taking place just a couple of tables away.

"I can't take this shit anymore!!!"

A skinny, jug-eared airman had suddenly jumped up and assumed a karate fighting stance. He stood there wild-eyed, trembling, challenging all comers while his comrades stared at him in total amazement. The scene would have been comical if it weren't for Jug-ears' completely maniacal expression.

"What's your problem Cummings?" the red-haired TI queried crossing from his table.

"Fuck you Gillespie!! Stay away from me!" Jug-ears screamed, saliva spraying from his mouth.

The chow hall fell silent and all eyes watched as TI's from several other tables began to surround the enraged airman.

"Stay away from me!! I'll kill you all!" he shrieked, backing away from the table and jerking his head this way and that.

It was all over inside of sixty seconds as half a dozen TI's swarmed him and wrestled him to the ground. Jug-Ears was dragged from the chow hall screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Wonder what his problem is?" Scott commented wide-eyed.

"Who knows," Danny answered casually.

"Some folks just aren't cut out to be in the military," Dave remarked, manipulating a toothpick with extreme dexterity.

....

After lunch Sergeants Gonzalez and Partridge leisurely marched their charges back to Barracks 17, where Partridge offered instruction on the proper procedures for folding clothes and arranging a footlocker. Gonzalez excused himself from the proceedings, heading off to the TI's office on the second floor.

Right after the clothes and footlocker demonstration, Partridge showed the recruits the correct technique for spit-shining boots; all considered vital aspects in the strategic defense of the United States. When the lessons were concluded Sergeant Partridge handed out brown paper grocery bags to each of the airmen.

"Alright girls. Strip!" the TI yelled without ceremony.

The young men froze in their tracks.

"What're you waiting for?" Partridge barked, his ears taking on a crimson glow. "I gave y'all an order!!"

One by one, the recruits began to remove their clothing, casting sideways glances at one another.

"When you're finished, write your name and service number on the paper bags and put your civvies inside. We'll keep 'em stored in the lockup upstairs," Partridge stated matter-of-factly. "Don't worry, your stuff'll be safe enough and you'll get it back after basic."

A short time later eighty-plus skin-headed airman stood naked in the barracks, stuffed grocery bags at their feet.

Gonzalez descended the stairs and surveyed the scene, laughed heartily. "What're you girls waitin' on, a phone call from Bob Guccione? Get those fatigue uniforms on!"

With expressions of great relief the airmen quickly did as requested. Shortly thereafter it was once again time to eat.

....

That night when they returned to the barracks after dinner all were eager to get some rest. As Gonzalez had warned before breakfast, it had indeed been a long day. The TI's watched with pleased expressions as the airmen collapsed onto their bunks.

"Alright, listen up!" Gonzalez began. "Sergeant Partridge took the liberty of preparing the dorm-guard roster for the upcoming week. It's posted on the bulletin board by the stairway. You will note that Dorm-guards are on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with each shift lasting two hours... Oh, by the way California, you're first up on the list."

Gonzalez crossed to where Danny was stretched out on his bunk and tossed him the dorm-guard sash and flashlight. "Brown'll be relieving you at ten p.m."

The decibel level in Gonzalez' voice suddenly increased by a factor of three as he addressed the group. "Dorm-guard duty is taken very seriously around here! Anyone caught sleeping during their shift will immediately be reassigned to a motivational flight. No second chances! Trust me ladies, this is definitely not something you wanna have happen to you."

Danny stood up and pulled the red sash over his shoulder and walked stoically toward the Barracks entrance.

"The rest of y'all have half an hour 'til lights out." Gonzalez pulled his lips back in something resembling a smile. Then he did an about-face and crossed to the stairway.

"You think he's ever gonia get off your brother's case?" Scott Christopher asked, sliding under the scratchy woolen blanket.

Dave laughed. "Yeah, in about six weeks. At least Danny didn't get stuck with the two-to-four a.m. shift. That's gotta be real ugly after a long day."

Thirty minutes later Sergeant Gonzalez descended the stairway and crossed to the light switches. "Congratulations ladies, y'all made it through day one! Only forty-one more to go! Sweet dreams!"

And with that said the switch was thrown plunging the barracks into darkness.

HOOKED YET? CLICK HERE TO ORDER THE E-BOOK!

Sergeant Gonzalez speaks:

I was born in El Paso, Texas on November 26, 1940, the youngest of five. Being the youngest, I grew up wearing my older hermano's hand-me-downs. I thought it was cool. I didn't know any better.

I was pretty much a typical kid. I hated going to school and loved playing with my friends. I remember having alot of friends.

I also remember the day I stopped being a child. It was December 3, 1952; the day my father died. It happened exactly one week after my twelfth birthday, just three weeks before Christmas. A drunk driver ran him down in the middle of a crosswalk. Never even knew what hit him. Alive one minute. Dead and gone the next.

Today I'm wise enough to realize that my father didn't leave me on purpose that day, that he would've done anything to stick around to watch me grow up. But that wisdom came hard and with many years.

I guess it was the anger I felt toward him that made me start drinking and getting into trouble. At least that was the excuse I always fell back on. It was easy.

By the time I turned fourteen I had a criminal record; nothing real heavy, just the usual kid stuff. Mostly truancy and vandalism. Two years later I'd graduated to stealing cars and breaking into houses. I'd discovered the rush of adrenaline and had gotten hooked on the high.

Then two weeks before my eighteenth birthday I got caught breaking into a neighbor's house. My luck had run out. The authorities charged me as an adult!

That particular bit of stupidity could have landed me in state prison for five years; not a healthy place for a smooth skinned teenager. But after hearing the case the Judge offered me a simple choice: Go directly to prison and begin serving a three year sentence or join the military and serve my country. The way I looked at it I was gonna have to "serve" one way or the other, so I might as well get paid for it.

At the time all this was going on I remember thinking what a complete asshole that judge was. But over time my opinion of him has softened. The man's name was William Fair. Damn good name for a judge.

I've never regretted the decision I made in that courtroom. Not for the last seventeen years. Why should I? Uncle's been very, very good to me. He's provided me with a home, a career, even a family. And being a TI is just my way of giving back a little.

My job is to indoctrinate recruits. What does that mean exactly? Well I'll tell you: Indoctrination in this case simply means learning. Learning to get along with others in a stressful environment. Learning to become part of a team. And especially, learning to follow orders.

In the Air Force indoctrination is accomplished through a set of techniques known collectively as de-individualization. Fatigue uniforms and shaved heads are a part of it. Eating, sleeping, studying and marching together is another part. Even being forced to strip off their civilian clothes and stuff them into a paper bag is a part of it. But it's the total removal of personal privacy that's the capstone of the de-individualization process.

For the six weeks they're here these kids are under Uncle's watchful eye twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What they wear, what they eat, even what they breathe is directly under Uncle's control. And I am Uncle's personal representative.

Volunteers have a tremendous amount of information to learn and an extremely short time in which to learn it in. It's my primary responsibility to see to it that what they're taught here, sticks. Their lives and the future of the United States of America could very well depend on it.

....

Day two began much the same way as day one had; with the whistle-blower running past the barracks windows and Gonzalez throwing on the lights.

Dave sat up in his bunk and rubbed his eyes. "What kind of a sick mind came up with that fucking whistle?"

"Another example of military intelligence for you," Danny quipped stepping from his bunk.

"Sleep well ladies?" Gonzalez snapped, strutting up and down the center aisle between the bunks. "Let's get with it! Y'all have fifteen minutes to suit up and fall out."

The recruits picked up the pace, furiously making up bunks and sliding into uniforms. Within the allotted time they were all assembled in front of the barracks in the early-morning darkness. Rain had fallen during the night and a patina of moisture glistened on the pathway that ran between the buildings.

Sergeants Gonzalez and Partridge stepped from the barracks and took up positions atop the landing. Gonzalez addressed the troops.

"Alright, listen up! After breakfast today we're scheduled at the Shot Clinic. Once we get there y'all will be issued your permanent IR's. IR stands for Immunization Record. Ladies, I cannot stress this enough; these are important documents and should be treated as such. Keep in mind you will be responsible for personally hand-carrying these records with you to your next duty station. Lose 'em and it's yer ass. Do we understand one another?"

"Yessir, Sergeant Gonzalez," the recruits answered in unison.

Gonzalez held a hand to his ear. "I can't hear you ladies! You're mumbling!"

"Yessir, Sergeant Gonzalez!" the recruits repeated, this time with three times the volume.

"That's more like it... Sergeant Partridge, would you be so kind as to call out a cadence?"

"Be happy to Sergeant," Partridge responded smartly, descending the damp stairs and crossing to the front of the formation.

"'Ten-Shunn! Forward-harsh! Yer lef', yer lef', yer lef', right-lef'."

....

After breakfast the recruits reassembled in front of the chow hall and talked amongst themselves. Those in the habit (seven out of ten) lit cigarettes.

"Did your recruiter happen to mention anything to you about shots?" Scott queried, looking somewhat disturbed.

"Not specifically," Dave replied. "What's up?"

"Well nobody said anything to me."

"C'mon Scotty," Danny cajoled. "You could wind up getting stationed in Bumfuk, Egypt, and God only knows what kinds of diseases you could pick up over there."

"That's right buddy. Uncle's only looking out for your best interest," Dave added facetiously.

"I understand all that," Scott stuttered. "It's just that no one said a word to me about shots. I kinda have a problem with needles."

"What kind of problem?" Dave asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I pass out," Scott replied plainly, the edges of his ears reddening appreciably.

"No need to worry about that," Bojo Brown interjected. "They don't use needles in basic training."

"Oh no?" Danny asked, not believing this for an instant. "What do they use instead, suppositories?"

When the comment finally registered Bojo screwed up his face. "Shit no. They use an airgun."

"Yeah, right," Danny retorted still not believing a word.

Bojo just shook his head. "You'll see."

....

The "inoculation station," as it was commonly referred to, was located in front of the base hospital, a thirty-five minute march from the chow hall. There, underneath a covered pavilion, some six hundred recruits were queued up, each clutching a manila-colored square of cardboard.

Sergeant Partridge brought the flight to a halt in front of a long table that was set up at the entrance to the pavilion. "Parade rest!"

Gonzalez walked up to the three nurses stationed behind the table and struck up a conversation. After some exchanged pleasantries one of the nurses handed the burley TI several rubber-banded packets. Gonzalez thanked the nurse and crossed back to the waiting group. He began to hand out the cardboard shot records.

"Alright, listen up! You puppies will be getting your first set of shots this morning. You will be receiving these injections by way of a pneumatic delivery system." He pronounced it accentuating the first syllable; NEWWW-matic. "For those of you who do not know what a pneu-matic delivery system is, I will explain for your benefit. The pneu-matic delivery system, or airgun as it's more commonly referred to, completely eliminates the use of needles. Instead, the injections are delivered with air pressure... Don't look so worried girls. I assure you this is a completely painless procedure... That is, of course, unless you happen to flinch at the instant the plunger is depressed... If that should occur you can take comfort in the knowledge that we're only fifty yards away from the hospital emergency room. So girls, heed this advice; when it's your turn at the air gun be sure and take a deep breath, and whatever you do, don't flinch!"

I wonder what happens if the nurse pulling the trigger flinches? Scott pondered wordlessly.

....

Two hours later it was all over and the recruits were enroute to a classroom for a lecture on military protocol and the chain of command. Even Airman Christopher looked surprisingly upbeat.

A clock on the wall of the lab indicated the time as being two-thirteen. It had been a particularly long day.

Major Richards sat behind a scuffed grey metal desk beneath a single incandescent lamp, pouring over pages of raw data. As she flipped through the pile of papers she cradled in one hand an oversized coffee mug, yellowed by age and caffeine.

"This can't be right," she mumbled to herself as she flipped between two separate sheets of equations.

She placed the coffee mug on the desk and adjusted her glasses. Then she re-examined the two sheets of integers and scribbled something on a pad: EEG's abnormal for third stage REM.

Surrounding the Major in the dark laboratory was a vast array of sophisticated electronic monitoring equipment set up in racks along the walls. There were EEG's to measure brain activity during periods of both wakefulness and sleep-state, as well as ECG's to measure heart rhythms. There were temperature and humidity readouts positioned beside a series of black and white video monitors. A plethora of cables snaked from behind the racks, weaving and intertwining with one another, and eventually vanishing into an eight-inch conduit in the floor. The various CRT displays winked and hummed providing an eerie ambience.

At the opposite end of the laboratory a floor to ceiling observation window ran the length of one wall. Zera and Cornelius' compound was on the other side of the window. The Major could just make out the silhouettes of the creatures as they snuggled together inside their sleeping cave.

The two-way glass was state-of-the-art, supposedly impossible to detect. In any event Zera and her family had never given any indication that they were at all bothered by it. And apparently they weren't much bothered by the subcutaneous infrared transmitters that had been implanted in their bodies either.

Major Richards stood up from the desk and stretched, extending her arms above her head and standing on her toes. Then she relaxed and crossed towards the observation window, glancing at the brightly lit displays as she did. Something caught the Major's eye and she paused by one of the EEG machines. She blinked nervously and then rushed towards the observation window.

She slipped on a pair of light-magnifying goggles and peered into the chimps sleeping cave.

She noticed it right away. There was no question. The fingers on Zera's hands were twitching as if being manipulated by some demented puppeteer, and her normally tranquil face was distorted and angry.

Major Richards yanked off the goggles and rushed towards Zera's EEG monitor. Just as she reached the device the display spiked and an alarm sounded. Thirty seconds after that the early morning quiet was shattered by Zera's panicked shrieking.

The first week of training flew by and the recruits of Barracks 17 slowly melded into a unit. As was considered typical, friendships and animosities flourished, and clichés formed within the group.

Bojo Brown was the undisputed leader of what was referred to as the "Motown Boys". He and three other African-American troops, as well as one red-headed white boy, spent their free time rehearsing a cappella harmonies. The other members of the group were Cayle, Shelby, Johnson, and Kennedy. Their rendition of the Temptations' "Cloud Nine" was truly something to behold, especially with Kennedy singing tenor.

The Brothers Jeffries were clearly more interested in areas of commerce than they were in endeavors of artistic relevance. Along with Airmen Hayes, Christopher and Nedermeyer they headed one of several "poker groups". And although gambling was officially forbidden during basic training, the TI's tended to look the other way.

"How many you want?"

Danny pulled a single card from his hand and placed it face down on the footlocker. "Make it a good one, Bro'."

Dave flicked a card toward his brother, who picked it up and winced.

"Helluva poker face," Christopher commented, shielding his cards with his chest.

"How about you?" Dave asked Christopher.

Scott smiled. "I think I'll play these."

"The man has a pat hand," Dave commented, turning towards Nedermeyer. "How many you want?"

Nedermeyer laid three cards down.

"The kraut takes three," Dave said, quickly peeling the cards from the top of the deck.

"Three for me also," Airman Hayes added, tossing his discards on the footlocker with a flourish.

Dave peeled three more from the deck and flipped them to Hayes, who placed them into his hand without even looking at them.

"And dealer takes two."

Dave snatched the next two cards from the deck and checked his hand. "Your bet, Danny."

"I'm in for a buck," Danny replied, putting four cigarettes on the footlocker.

"He's bluffing," Dave commented matter-of-factly.

"Too rich for my blood," Nedermeyer complained. "I'm out."

"My sentiments exactly," Hayes added, laying his cards down and straightening his six and a half foot frame.

"How about you Scott?"

"I'll see Danny's bet and raise another dollar." He put eight filter-tips on the footlocker.

"Fuck you very much," Dave grumbled, dropping his cards on the makeshift table.

Danny eyeballed Christopher attempting psychic contact. "I guess it's just you and me... Tell you what, Scott. I'm gonna see your raise and bump you another two bucks."

Christopher smiled deliciously and laid down an additional eight smokes.

Dave shook his head. "He's got you beat, Bro'."

Christopher laid his cards down face up. He was holding a king high heart flush.

"Fuck me!" Danny exclaimed, showing his hand. "I can't believe it. I drew to an inside straight, made it and still lost the fucking hand."

"Better luck next time," Christopher replied, scooping the cigarettes from the footlocker. "It's been a pleasure doin' business with you boys."

Moments later Sergeant Partridge descended the stairs and crossed to the light switches. "Sweet dreams, girls."

....

Scott stood at the edge of the woods smelling the moist October air. He closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could, shaking fog from his brain. Off in the distance he could hear Sarah crying softly, and the sound pulled at his heart. He knew he had to find her.

He opened his eyes and called out desperately into the gathering gloom. "Sarah, where are you? Can you hear me?"

Off to his left a twig snapped beneath the paw of some unseen beast and the close proximity of the sound unnerved him. "Who's there?"

Nothing. Only silence and a sudden gust of frigid air. Scott shivered and pulled the collar of his jacket higher up on his neck... And then he heard the faint whimpering from somewhere off amidst the ancient oaks and junipers.

"Don't cry Sarah. I'm coming for you."

"Scotty, is that you?" the tiny voice implored.

"It's me Sarah. Just stay where you are and keep talking so I can find you."

"I'm scared Scotty."

"It's alright. I'm coming."

....

"Wake up Scott," Danny whispered, shaking his barracks mate roughly through the blanket.

Scott's heart was slamming painfully in his chest as his eyes snapped open. "What's going on?" he mumbled, his lips and tongue pasty.

Danny and Dave were both kneeling by his bunk.

"You must've been having one helluva nightmare," Danny answered in hushed tones. "You were calling out in your sleep, and then you started thrashing around something awful. I wasn't sure what to do. Are you alright?"

Scott sat up in the bunk and rubbed his eyes. "I... I think so."

"Do you remember what you were dreaming?" Dave asked, taking a seat on a footlocker.

"Sort of. I'm not sure," Scott responded looking dazed and rumpled. "It's all jumbled up in my head."

Suddenly a flashlight beam was directed at the trio from across the barracks.

"Everything okay over there?" The voice belonged to Airman Theodore McKee, a rotund young man from Hartford who just happened to be the unfortunate pulling the dreaded two 'til four dorm guard shift.

Dave waved him off. "Everything's cool."

McKee clicked off the flashlight and returned quickly to his post, happy not to have to get involved.

It was at that moment that the brothers noticed Scott's teeth were chattering.

....

The morning arrived much too soon for Airman Christopher.

When the troops were dressed and assembled in front of the barracks, Sergeant Gonzalez strolled down the steps and assumed a pose.

"Alright, it's fun and games day today!" Gonzalez barked hoarsely, scratching at a mosquito bite on his neck. "That's right girls. Today y'all are gonna get an opportunity to see how well you rank on our little obstacle course. Might be a good idea to eat a light breakfast this morning."

Dave and Danny exchanged a joyful look. This was just the sort of activity that the brothers excelled in, and thoroughly enjoyed.

On the other hand, Scott Christopher's reaction to the announcement was something else altogether. It was obvious that he hadn't fully recovered from the previous night's goings on.

....

The obstacle course was located on a field at the southern periphery of the base, a forty-five minute march from the steps of the chow hall. The course consisted of a packed dirt track that climbed and plummeted over a circuitous distance of three-quarters of a mile. Along that distance there were three, ten foot high walls that the recruits would be required to scale. At roughly the halfway point there was a huge, kidney-shaped pond with ropes suspended across its center. The airmen would have to shinny across the ropes for a distance of some thirty-five yards to avoid getting dunked in the fetid water.

Looming ominously at the very end of the course stood "The Tower," a thirty foot high edifice with a six foot square open deck mounted at it's zenith. Wooden ladders were positioned on each end for the recruits to ascend and descend. For an additional element of difficulty The Tower was kept in a state of perpetual dampness; a hydrant positioned within fifty feet supplied the necessary volume.

Gonzalez took up a position in the shade of a poplar and fired up a Kool. He took a long drag and then removed a stopwatch from his pocket. "Y'all will be running this course in groups of seven. Sergeant Partridge will be waiting for you at the last obstacle. Give it your best, girls."

The first group of seven approached the starting line and Gonzalez clicked off the stopwatch. "Hit it!," he yelled, motioning wildly with one hand. Webster, Blake, Hayes, Nedermeyer, Smith, Kennedy and Issakson ran off whooping like a pack of wolves.

A few moments later the second group took their places at the starting line. There was Hernandez one and Hernandez two, Shelby, Cayle, Danny Jeffries, who would forever be referred to by one and all as "California", Washington and Delaney.

Gonzalez squinted at the stopwatch. "Alright, go!"

The procedure was repeated until the last of the airmen had launched along the path. That group consisted of Dave Jeffries, Scott Christopher, Bojo Brown, Cruz, Regis, Wilson, and McKee.

....

"How're you holdin' up, Scott?" Dave asked, coming to a stop in front of the first of the three walls.

"I'll be alright," Scott replied breathlessly, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his fatigue shirt.

"Good job, buddy," Dave replied, grasping the rope and pulling himself over the obstacle.

Scott sucked in a deep breath and then took a running leap at the wall. He made it over on his first attempt and continued along the course.

But by the time Scott Christopher reached the foot of The Tower, most of the recruits including the Jeffries Brothers, had already completed the course. They relaxed sprawled in the shade, shouting words of encouragement to their barracks-mates who were about to tackle the final obstacle.

Scott stood at the base of the Tower and turned his eyes skyward, his uniform soaked through with sweat. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears as he grasped the first slimy rung on the ascending ladder.

He held his breath as he climbed hand over hand, higher and higher. Three-quarters of the way up Scott started feeling dizzy. He stopped and shook his head like a dog shedding fleas. Moments later he felt the first wave of nausea begin to overwhelm him.

"Move your ass Christopher, you big pussy!" Partridge shouted from the ground. "You're holdin' everybody up!"

Airman Christopher didn't hear the TI's taunts. What he did hear couldn't even have been construed as language. It was more like the sound a record makes when it's played at too slow a speed.

"C'mon Christopher. You gotta keep going," Bojo Brown pleaded from his precarious position directly below the incoherent airman. Brown had nowhere to go but down and his grip was beginning to slip.

Christopher tried to focus on the little blue dots that had begun to swim in front of his eyes. Right after that he experienced an incredible feeling of warmth that overtook his senses. Then there was nothing.

....

Dave, Danny and the rest of the airmen watched in horror as Scott fell from the ladder and plummeted to Earth, taking Brown, Cruz, Wilson and McKee along for the ride.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Sergeant Partridge shouted, jumping up and dashing to the knot of airmen wriggling around in the mud at the base of The Tower.

The recruits were slow in unwinding themselves from each other, and there was a good deal of moaning and groaning during the process. Fortunately nobody was seriously hurt; the muddy ground had absorbed most of the shock. And in airman Christopher's case, his fall was additionally cushioned by the four recruits who had the misfortune of being underneath him when he lost it.

"Jesus, Christopher, you scared the shit outta me," Partridge complained, offering the airman a helping hand.

"Sorry, sir. I don't know what happened. I just kinda lost my balance," Scott apologized, attempting to remove some of the muck from his uniform. His head was still swimming.

"Next time let someone know if you're feeling sick," Partridge advised, his blood pressure slowly returning to normal.

"Yessir Sergeant Partridge. I'll certainly do that."

Colonel Pulver sat back in his chair and struggled to remain straight-faced as Major Richards rambled on. Apparently the silly cunt couldn't take a hint. What part of 'it's been decided' didn't she comprehend?

"Colonel, are you following any of this?"

The Colonel's cheeks reddened as he leveled his gaze malevolently. "Don't patronize me, Major. Just because I lack some of your advanced credentials, don't automatically assume I'm some sort of dolt. I assure you that's not the case."

"Of course not, Colonel, it's just that..."

Colonel Pulver cut her off. "I know. I heard you. One of your monkeys had a bad dream."

"You're failing to appreciate the gravity of..."

"And you're overreacting, Major," Colonel Pulver interjected. "You're talking about one instance with one subject."

"One instance that I witnessed," Major Richards corrected. "According to the data this has been going on for some time, and not just with Zera. The other three have had episodes as well. And it's not just a bad dream. It's a serious anomaly in brainwave activity during R.E.M. cycle."

"And what is it you'd have me do to correct the situation, Major? Abandon years and millions of dollars worth of research? I think not."

"The very least you should do is order the cessation of human testing, at least until we have a better idea of what we're dealing with."

"Just who the fuck do you think you're talking to, Major!!?" Colonel Pulver bellowed, leaping to his feet.

Major Richards sucked in a breath and blinked rapidly behind fine lenses.

"Apparently there's some confusion on your part as to who's in charge around here," he continued, the skin color of his face achieving the most lovely shade of purple. "Don't ever presume to tell me how to do my job!"

"I'm sorry, sir," the Major stammered in reply. "It's just that..."

"It's just nothing!" Colonel Pulver shouted, slamming a fist onto his desk. "This discussion is over, Major, and you're dismissed. Get out of my sight."

Sunday mornings began at the same nauseatingly early hour as any other day in basic training. There was, however, a decidedly different feel to Sundays. For one thing there were no classes scheduled. No P.T. either. And the only marching anybody'd be doing would be between the chow hall and the barracks. Even the TI's showed a kinder, gentler side of their dispositions on Sundays; verbal abuse was kept to a minimum on "The Lord's Day".

And what was once said about doughboys in foxholes during World War One applied equally to the Volunteers going through basic training at Lackland Air Force Base; there were no atheists here. Everybody, regardless of upbringing or personal dogma, made the choice to attend one of the thirty-odd various services offered on the base. Some of the young recruits even went so far as to utilize the opportunity Uncle so thoughtfully provided to investigate several of the various denominations.

As far as they were concerned, their expression of interest in Comparative Religions, be it sincere or otherwise, definitely beat the shit out of pulling K.P., which as you may have already surmised was the alternative to attending Sunday Services.

When the morning prayers were completed the airmen returned to the barracks and spent the rest of the afternoon attending to various housekeeping chores. Sunday was the day the barracks was policed and polished, and the latrines scrubbed and sanitized. It was also the day grungy fatigue uniforms from the prior weeks' training were exchanged for freshly laundered uniforms from the base laundry. On Sundays all assigned duties were usually completed well before dinner.

And then after Sunday dinner the recruits were given some "personal time" to write letters home, read or just "hang out". Some of the more gung-ho types utilized this time to spit-polish their boots.

....

Dave Jeffries sat on his bunk with a pad of paper on his lap, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote:

Dear Dad,

Well it's three weeks down, three more to go. So far, so good. I just gotta tell you how right you were about life in Basic. They're either marchin' us, feeding us, or trying to bore us to death. The food's not quite as bad as you said it was gonna be, but close enough. Funny thing though, in spite of the lousy chow Danny's actually managed to put on a couple of pounds. Looks good on him too.

Another thing you were right-on about is the fact that everyone in the barracks has been, or is in the process of getting sick. I guess that kind of thing's bound to happen whenever strangers are thrown together in extremely tight quarters. And I'm sure the heat and humidity only aggravates the situation.

The one thing I don't understand is this; with eighty-something recruits hacking and snorfelling in their faces, how is it the fucking TI's manage to stay healthy? Neither one of the bastards has even had a sniffle. Not only is this completely unfair, it doesn't make any sense.

Anyway, I guess I oughta be signing off for now. I still have to polish my boots and read three chapters in the USAF manual before lights out. Tell Ma everything's alright here and that me and Danny send our love.

Sincerely,

Your eldest son.

Dave folded the letter into thirds and stuck it into a pre-stamped envelope. His expression soured measurably as he moistened the envelope's adhesive with his tongue.

"Did you tell 'em I send my love?" Danny asked as Dave climbed down from the bunk above his.

"You know it wouldn't kill you to break down and write the folks a letter," Dave grumbled.

"Bro' you know me. I'm more of a telephone kind of guy," Danny quipped, punching Dave lightly on the shoulder.

"Oh, really? Well, how about Kathy? Are you gonna go six weeks without writing your girl?"

"Never even crossed my mind. I told her I'd see her just as soon as I got outta basic. What else could she possibly want?"

Dave shook his head in mock-disgust. "You're a real romantic, aren't you?"

"That's exactly what Kathy says every time I take off my pants," Danny countered quickly, grinning like a dog.

Just then Scott crossed from the latrine with a towel draped over his shoulders. "Hey guys," he grunted, taking a seat on his bunk. "What's up?"

"Oh, not much. Danny here was just braggin' about what a studly guy he is," Dave teased.

"Hey I'm not the one who calls out ladies' names in my sleep," Danny retorted, casting an accusatory glance in Scott Christopher's direction.

Scott's expression shifted. "What're you talkin' about?"

Danny chuckled. "Who exactly is Sarah anyway? I get the impression she's pretty nasty by the way you keep calling out her name in your sleep."

Scott's face went ashen.

"It's okay, buddy. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Everybody gets horny sometime," Danny said knowingly, slapping Scott on the back.

"It's not like that at all," Scott replied quietly. "Sarah's my little sister."

"Now that's kinky even for Georgia," Danny joked.

Scott's emerald-colored eyes flashed fire. "Don't be disgusting!"

"Hey man, I was just kidding," Danny apologized, amazed at the depth of Scott's anger.

Scott took a breath, attempting to quash the thoughts racing around violently inside his head. He could feel the blood pulse in his ears.

"What is it Scott? What's wrong?" Dave asked gently, sensing his friend's emotional state.

"Sarah died when I was eleven," Scott answered flatly, his face a mask.

Danny visibly squirmed. "Oh Jesus, I'm sorry man. I had no idea."

Scott's anger settled almost as quickly as it had risen. "Don't worry about it, Danny. I know you didn't mean anything."

Dave studied Scott's face. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"There's not much to tell. Sarah was only seven years old when she died. She fell off her pony while she was out riding in the woods." He paused and took a breath. "Actually nobody knows for sure what happened exactly. It took a Sheriff's Search and Rescue Team three days to find her body."

Dave swallowed hard. "That's awful Scott. I'm so sorry."

"Me too," Scott replied without a thought. "You know it's funny, I haven't dreamt about Sarah in years."

"Well it certainly seems you're dreaming about her again," Danny stated matter-of-factly.

"I only wish I could remember the dream."

Dave looked thoughtful. "In time, maybe you will."

It was the first day of the fourth week of training before the recruits were marched onto the rifle range for the very first time. The young airmen couldn't help but notice how nervous the TI's were acting on that particular day, but no one blamed them either. Because over the course of the last twenty-one days Sergeants Gonzalez and Partridge had done everything humanly possible to torment their charges. Their favored techniques included verbal abuse, threats, intimidation and sleep deprivation. And despite all that, it was the TI's thankless task today to issue these very same teenagers assault weapons, complete with live ammunition. What a concept!

....

"Jesus H. Christ, California!!! Can't you do any better than that?" Sergeant Partridge bawled in Danny's ear. "My ole Granny shoots better than you and she's ninety-four and blind in one eye."

Danny clutched the M-16's stock to his shoulder and bravely yanked off a couple more rounds. Partridge just shook his head in disgust as he watched the bullets slam into the dirt, yards short of the human silhouette target.

"I'm sorry sir. Guess I'm just a lousy shot," Danny apologized lamely, wiping perspiration off his forehead with the back of a forearm.

"Well you're gonna have to do a helluva lot better than that if you ever wanna see your girlfriend's little titties again. Otherwise you ain't ever gettin' outta basic," Partridge drawled. "Maybe you can talk your squirrel-eatin', cracker buddy into giving you some pointers. Whadda ya say Christopher? Think you can help California out?"

Scott Christopher was in the lane next to Danny's and was having no trouble at all placing his rounds in the center of the target.

"Be happy to sir."

"Glad to hear it," Partridge snorted, crossing toward the next airman who was about to incur his wrath.

"Goddamn it Brown! Who the fuck do you think you are, Superfly? Shoulda joined the Goddamn Gy-reens if you wanted to shoot like that!"

Scott sidled up alongside Danny. "I think your problem is your jerkin' the trigger," he instructed. "What you wanna do is squeeze it gently. But first you gotta get your sights lined up on the target. Take a deep breath and let the air out slow. Then squeeze the trigger... And Danny, don't even be thinkin' about aimin' for the head! Shoot for the center of the target."

Danny closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again he lined up the sights on the center of the paper target and squeezed the trigger delicately. The round penetrated the human silhouette an inch below and just to the left of center.

"Damn!"

"Now that's the way to do it," Scott enthused. "Go ahead and try it again."

Danny smiled confidently and squeezed off several more rounds, all of which struck the target.

"Not bad Danny. Not bad at all."

"Thanks buddy. I think I may be gettin' the hang of this."

Scott frowned. "Well I can tell you one thing for sure. This is a lot easier than shootin' squirrels."

"Gotta be from Georgia," Danny thought silently, visualizing airman Christopher chowing down on a supper of country-fried squirrel breast and collard greens.

....

The broad Texas sky had been dark and threatening all day, but it wasn't until the airmen were returning to the barracks after dinner that the rain finally began in earnest. It started innocently enough with just a few errant raindrops painting a connect-the-dots portrait on the concrete pathway. But within ten minutes of the appearance of the first droplets the sky let loose with a veritable torrent.

"Do you believe this?" Dave asked incredulously, watching the sheets of water cascade beyond the window. The sound of the water pummeling the barracks roof was deafening.

"What's so exciting?" Scott responded blandly. "You act like you've never seen it rain before."

"I've never seen it rain like this," Dave exclaimed, shouting over the din.

"You know what they say about Texans and Texas," Bojo Brown began. "Everything's bigger here."

"Yeah, everything except for IQ's and ambition," Danny added quickly, drawing raucous laughter from the group.

"Hey California, what did you just say about my home state?" Sergeant Partridge stood with his well-muscled arms folded across his chest, a grimace on his sunburnt face. "I'm not sure I heard you right."

"I was just saying what a wonderful place y'all have here," Danny answered not missing a beat.

"That's kinda what I thought you said," Partridge countered with an oily smile, crossing away from the airmen. "Y'all have twenty minutes until lights out."

"God I wish he'd quit doing that," Danny said under his breath, watching Partridge turn the corner at the stairway.

"Doing what?" Dave asked.

"Blending in so Goddamn well."

....

Scott sniffed at the moist and fetid air as he peered sightlessly into the forest. He could feel his feet sink into the decaying mulch as he struggled with each step. But try as he might, Scott's eyes couldn't penetrate the darkness. Just an occasional shadow shot across his peripheral vision.

As he strained his ears he could just make out the sound of running water flowing over rocks somewhere off in the distance. From where he stood the burbling was melodious and soothing.

"Sarah," he called into the darkness. "Can you hear me?"

He waited for a response that never came.

"Sarah, where are you?" he implored, turning his head in all directions but still seeing nothing.

As he walked further into the woods the water sounds grew louder, eventually becoming ominous. Before long it was a torrential white-noise so intense that Scott had to hold his hands over his ears in order to stand the pain.

"Sarah," he screamed, trying desperately to be heard above the roar of the water. "Where are you?"

....

At precisely one-fifty a.m. Airman Hayes jostled the foot of Scott's bunk. "Time to get up Christopher. You're due to relieve me in ten minutes."

Scott coughed and sat up on his elbows attempting to get his bearings. He was caught somewhere halfway between dream-state and wakefulness and seemed to be having some difficulty completing the transition.

"Did you hear what I said?" Hayes asked acidly, acutely aware of his own exhaustion. He himself had gotten less than two hours sleep before Airman Regis had shaken his bunk at a few minutes before midnight.

"Yeah, I heard you," Scott snapped irritably, stepping from his bunk and pulling on his fatigue pants. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, scratching himself as he crossed toward the latrine.

....

Major Richards had turned up the volume on the audio monitoring the interior of the chimp compound and had fallen asleep at her desk. She was in the middle of an erotic dream when Zera's frantic shrieks jarred her awake.

The noise continued to rise in intensity as Cornelius and Taylor added their distinctive voices. Major Richards ran to the light switches with her heart slamming in her chest. Moments later the facility was awash in flourescents.

As she turned around to see what all the commotion was about, Andrea Richards' eyes widened with shock. She couldn't convince her mind of what her eyes were witnessing.

In one corner of the sleeping cave Baby Nova lay motionless in a bloody heap. Meanwhile Zera had hold of Taylor's wrist and was smashing him repeatedly into the rock walls of the cave. The young chimpanzee screamed in agony while Cornelius cowered in the corner, frightened by Zera's unnatural display.

Reacting swiftly to the emergency, Major Richards removed a hypodermic syringe from a cabinet and filled it with Ketamine, a potent animal tranquilizer. Then with her heart still racing she ran to the entrance of the chimp compound. She opened the door and entered the compound, not once considering the personal danger involved. It turned out to be a fatal mistake.

....

Airman Christopher crossed from the latrine and slid the red dorm-guard sash over the shoulder of his fatigue shirt. He took up a position at the Barracks entrance and watched jealously as Airman Hayes climbed into his bunk and pulled the blanket over his head.

As airman Christopher peered sleepily through the window into the velvet darkness he felt a sudden pang of homesickness overtake him. The silence at this hour of the night was overwhelming and he tried desperately to focus his thoughts. But the incessant droning of the rain falling on the concrete became hypnotic and the young airman didn't even notice himself crossing over.

....

"Sarah, is that you?"

Hovering in the darkness just out of reach was the ghostly apparition of a child. Diminutive and glowing, she seemed to float before his eyes as he took a tentative step in her direction. But each step he took seemed to get him no closer to the nebulous image; she remained just out of reach.

When Scott's frustration had reached its zenith, the little girl made a motion with her hand and Scott heard her speak inside his head. The voice was wispy and flute-like in timbre. "Follow," was all she said.

As he walked wordlessly through the forest he felt the spongy turf beneath his feet once again, and before long he could hear the sound of water trickling over rocks. He followed the apparition deeper and deeper into the forest, and even though the terrain was unfamiliar to him, he felt peaceful just being in her company.

"You're taking me to Sarah, aren't you?" He thought rather than spoke the question.

The child turned her back on him for just an instant. When she spun around again it was no longer the face of a little girl staring at Scott. Now it was the grotesque, toothless image of a very old woman.

The crone opened her mouth exhibiting a sharp black tongue and then she let out a cackle. It was a laugh so hideous that a rush of ice water pulsed through Scott's veins.

Then as quickly as it had appeared the wraith vanished into a mist, leaving Scott alone deep within the ancient forest. The horrific laughter continued to echo for some time but Scott kept on. Walking. Listening. Hoping.

"Scotty? Is that you?"

Whatever was left of his fright quickly evaporated. "Sarah?"

"I'm over here."

"Don't move. I'm coming for you." Scott took another step and then he heard something that made his heart race. It was a quiet growling followed rapidly by the sound of small branches snapping.

"Hurry Scotty. It's after me," the tiny voice pleaded from somewhere off in the gloom.

Scott felt himself running toward where he thought the sound was coming from. "Sarah? Where are you?"

Moments later a child's high-pitched scream viciously shattered the forest's calm. "Help me Scotty!" the voice wailed piteously.

Scott knew he was getting closer when he heard the growling just in front of him. It was instinct that made him reach out into the darkness and grasp at something; anything to use as a weapon against this unseen creature. He felt his fingers wrap around something smooth and heavy; was it the branch of a tree?

Again he heard the awful screaming, this time followed quickly by more loud growling and the sound of flesh being ripped away from bone.

Something clicked inside Scott's head and he became cognizant that there were more than one of whatever beast he was about to face. He swung the tree branch furiously in a wide arc in front of his face.

The repulsive guttural sounds of animals feeding continued to grow in volume, and despite that fact Scott still couldn't see anything but shadows.

Then, as if by some magical hand, the veil was lifted and he could once again make out images. They were faint at first and tinted crimson, so he rubbed his eyes to try and clear his vision.

Then he saw them.

"No!" he gasped, feeling the sickness rise in his belly.

There were four of them resting on their haunches in the decaying leaves, feasting on the remains of Sarah's shredded corpse.

The monsters' bodies appeared to Scott to be half-man and half-lion. Their heads were fringed with orange-gold manes and their ears were catlike with tufts of whitish fur at the peaks. Their faces were of a blue-green hue and were distinctly crocodilian. Rows of huge, highly polished teeth gave the impression the great beasts were smiling. Of the four, two appeared to be juveniles not yet fully grown. Those two fought fiercely with one another over possession of a severed leg.

The largest and most hirsute of the beasts suddenly stopped what it was doing and stretched its seven foot frame sniffing at the air. Moments later it swung its massive head in Scott's direction and glared at him with malevolent yellow eyes. Bloody entrails hung from its four-inch long incisors. And in one lime-green paw it clutched Sarah's severed head.

The creature opened its mouth and roared. Then it lowered its head and advanced on Airman Christopher's trembling form.

Scott screamed and swung the tree branch using all his weight behind the blow. The club felt as if it were now an extension of his arm.

The first swing caught the creature on the side of its head, ripping away one of its ears and causing it to drop onto all fours. As it did so Sarah's head rolled from its grasp into the underbrush.

Scott raised the club over his head and brought it down once more. The monster howled in agony and slashed at its attacker with seven inch claws, its own blood now flowing freely.

As Scott prepared to unload the coup de grace on the wounded animal the other three creatures began to circle. At that instant Scott's adrenal glands kicked into high gear and he became a whirling dervish, wielding the tree branch with incredible force and dexterity.

As he ruthlessly hammered the creatures, spinning first in one direction and then in another, a strange serenity began to envelope him...

....

...When the lights came on in the barracks Scott blinked, temporarily blinded. He shook his head trying to adjust his vision and get his bearings. It was then that he became vaguely aware that his uniform was soaking wet. When he happened to glance down he saw blood. It was dripping in a steady flow onto the barracks floor, forming a puddle alongside a footlocker.

"Put it down son," Sergeant Partridge ordered, standing by the light switches dressed only in a pair of boxers. Though his appearance was comical, his expression was deadly serious, punctuated by the Colt .45 aimed at Christopher's chest.

Scott didn't hear the Sergeant's words or even what his barracks-mates were shouting at him. What he did hear didn't sound remotely human. The words moved in super slow motion, three octaves below normal speech, unintelligible and frightening. And on top of that everything seemed to be moving in front of his eyes within sort of a liquid gauze.

"Put it down son," Partridge repeated. "Don't make me do this."

Scott glanced down once more and saw that he was holding a fire extinguisher. Funny, he didn't remember lifting it from its case. Then as he watched, the cylinder morphed into a thick tree branch.

As his vision extended beyond the bloody branch he found himself looking into the lifeless eyes of one of his barracks mates. He didn't recognize the mashed form as that of Airman Hayes, but then again no one would have been able to. The entire face was nothing more than a mass of pulpy tissue with broken teeth smiling eerily through absent lips.

And that wasn't all. In the three bunks next to Hayes', three more airmen lay dead, their skulls crushed, their faces obliterated.

Scott sucked in a short breath and turned towards Sergeant Partridge, seeing once again the fearsome image of one of the forest monsters. He stared into the cruel ochre eyes and raised the tree branch over his head.

"Son, don't do this!" Partridge pleaded, steadying the Colt.

Scott Christopher didn't hear the Sergeant. At that point he was beyond hearing.

When the TI dropped the hammer on the .45, a two-hundred and thirty grain projectile leapt from the barrel and slammed into the airman's upper torso.

From his position on his bunk, Danny Jeffries stared in shock as he saw the bullet explode from his friend's back in a moist shower of pinks and reds.

Airman Christopher paused and looked down in amazement at the blood spurting from the hole in his chest. Then a twisted smile spread across his face and he took another lunge toward the yellow-eyed monster who was Sergeant Partridge.

The TI fired twice more, hitting the airman first in the upper torso and then in the forehead.

Scott Christopher died before his body came to rest on the barracks floor.

....

Dave Jeffries speaks:

That morning what remained of our basic training flight was marched from barracks 17 for the last time. We spent the next seventy-two hours locked down in a security police building being questioned and re-questioned about the "Incident." That's what the brass all called it; The Incident. Like it wasn't five real live human beings who'd just been killed.

When they were through debriefing us we were each ordered to sign an affidavit swearing that we wouldn't discuss "The Incident" at any time with anyone. For those resistant to signing the document objections were overcome in the usual fashion: by threat of dishonorable discharge and jail time. Needless to say, in the end everyone signed.

The one lesson I took away from this experience was the knowledge that, in the U.S. Air Force, none of us counted for shit. As far as Uncle was concerned we were nothing more than just so much meat.

Three weeks later our flight graduated from Basic Training and me and Danny went our separate ways... at least for a time.

PART 2

AT THE HAND OF ANOTHER

June 2000

Kitti Patterson sat on the brown corduroy couch, her bare feet propped up on the coffee table, wads of fluffy white cotton stuffed between her toes. In one hand she held a vial of fire engine red nail enamel, in the other a TV remote. At the opposite end of the apartment by the screen door a box fan directed a tepid breeze at the lithe young woman reclined on the couch. Kitti pressed a button on the remote and the image of a local newscaster appeared on the tube.

She shook the bottle of nail polish and unscrewed the cap. Delicately she applied a coat of gloss to each toe on her right foot, then her left, while the newscaster droned on in the background.

The reporter was a streaked-blonde skeleton of a woman about thirty with a coif that greatly resembled Darth Vader's helmet. Directly behind Helmet-Head a contingent of L.A.'s finest stood guarding a perimeter marked off with yellow crime scene tape, attempting to keep the rubber-neckers at a safe distance. Red and blue lights from the roofs of several patrol cars pulsed along the wall outside a rundown liquor store.

"Good evening," Helmet-Head cooed seductively into the camera lens, flashing an insincere smile. "I'm Beverly Crescent and I'm standing outside the Handy Dandy Mart on the corner of Western and Regent where there's been yet one more shooting incident. Los Angeles Police Detectives are currently inside the store talking with proprietor, Roger Patel. Mr. Patel, as you may recall, was in the news less than two weeks ago when he shot and killed two alleged gang members who were allegedly attempting to rob him at gunpoint. No charges have yet been filed in that case. Back to you in the studio."

The camera cut quickly from Helmet-Head to the anchorman sitting behind his desk in the studio. His name was Kevin Golden, and he was a forty-four year old Ken doll with a full head of salt and pepper hair. Kevin smiled, revealing twenty grand worth of porcelain caps. "Thank you Beverly..."

A video image of a picket line surrounding a clinic of some sort began to play in a box to the right of Kevin's face.

"The footage you are now watching was taken this afternoon in front of the prestigious Langford Clinic, located within the confines of California Pacific University. Members of the group calling itself 'Operation Freedom' have once again laid siege to the clinic, claiming that children within its walls are being utilized as human guinea pigs."

The camera cut to the image of an attractive brown-haired woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a tailored white lab coat and blue jeans.

"With me now is Doctor Jeannie Rose, inventor of the patented medicant Valpaxinol, currently undergoing study at the Langford Clinic. Thank you for joining us today, Doctor."

"Thank you for inviting me, Kevin," Doctor Rose replied easily.

"Tell me Doctor, what are your feelings about today's demonstration?"

Doctor Rose smiled warmly. "Well what can I say, Kevin? This is America, and in America we have the right to speak our mind. Unfortunately that particular freedom applies equally to the ignorant and malicious as well as to everyone else."

"Any truth to their claims, Doctor?"

"None whatsoever, Kevin. The truth of the matter is that most of the kids we work with have been bounced from at least three schools before we ever see them. They arrive at our facility with labels in their permanent records identifying them as behavioral problems. In truth, we're these kids' last chance."

"Thank you for taking the time to talk with us, Doctor Rose."

"My pleasure, Kevin."

The anchorman glanced briefly at his notes.

"During today's action at the Langford Clinic several members of the right wing religious group were overcome with heat stroke and taken away in ambulances... My personal opinion is the heat is making everyone a little crazy. And speaking of heat, what's it like out there tonight Wendell? Any relief in sight."

The camera cut away from Anchorman Kevin and went to Wendell Bird, a thirty-eight year old African-American bean pole, dressed in a tophat, cape and cutoff shorts. Wendell struck a pose on Hollywood Boulevard beneath one of those signs that display the time and temperature in huge red lights. The display read 11:21 PM and eighty-nine degrees. A group of onlookers gathered behind Wendell flashing gang signs and generally making fools of themselves.

"I'm standing out here on Hollywood Boulevard on this positively balmy Monday evening, Kevin. And all I can say is... Are you serious?"

Through the magic of blue-screen a map overlay of the United States suddenly appeared on the tube behind the lanky weatherman. "We have a massive ridge of high pressure just sitting off the Eastern Pacific and it doesn't look like it's going anywhere anytime soon. The forecast for the L.A. basin for the next several days is sunny and hot with highs in the triple digits, with unhealthful air expected in all regions. The bad news is lows are expected to range in the mid to upper eighties."

Wendell made a sweeping motion with his left hand across his forehead. "Whew! My suggestion? Stay inside by the air conditioner and be sure to drink plenty of fluids. Back to you in the studio."

Kitti looked up from her pedicure when she heard the high-pitched barking of the Pomeranian next door doing its most impressive Doberman impersonation. Moments later the screen door opened and a rumpled, middle-aged man with the remnants of a shiner under his right eye stepped inside. Dave's expression was one of distinct aggravation.

"That fucking hairbag's gonna have a fatal accident one of these days," he snarled, removing his light weight blazer and taking a seat beside Kitti.

"Chester's a very sensitive creature. He can tell you don't like him," Kitti admonished. "That's why he barks at you."

"C'mon Sweetie. That mutt starts yapping every time the wind blows," Jeffries complained, his forehead furrowed.

"Sounds like you had a rough day at the office. I'll bet you'll feel better after an ice cold beer."

"I'll tell you what'd really make me feel better," Dave began, getting that faraway look in his eyes. "Taking my pension and opening an ice cream parlor on Maui."

For a brief moment Kitti thought to herself how wonderful it would be to raise a family on the islands. Then she laughed at the shear insanity of the idea and said, "Yeah, right Dave. Like you really have the temperament for island life. You'd be bored to death inside of a week."

"You're probably right, sweetie, but it's still a nice fantasy."

Dave stood up and crossed to the hall closet, unbuckling his shoulder holster on the way. He slid the closet door on its track and hung the well-worn leather rig on a hook.

Next stop was the kitchen where Dave removed a bottle of pale ale from the avocado green Fridgidaire. "Want one?" he called from the kitchen.

"No thanks."

Dave removed an opener from a drawer and popped the cap on the sweating bottle. He took a swig and shuffled back into the living room. "So how was your day?"

"Not bad all considering. I just saw Jeannie on the channel six news. God, but the camera loves that woman."

"I'll be sure to pass that along to Vic."

"Oh, I almost forgot," Kitti began. "Danny called about an hour ago, wanted to remind you about Sunday. He said you should be sure and bring plenty of beer."

"I don't suppose he happened to mention any brand names," Dave responded, taking another pull from the bottle.

Kitti smiled. "Actually he said he didn't care what you brought as long as it was microbrewed. His very words, I swear." She crossed her heart.

Dave chuckled. "Damn but he's getting fancy in his old age. I remember a time not so long ago when Danny's favorite brew was 'Old Generic'."

Kitti removed the hunks of cotton from between her toes and wadded them into a mega-ball. "Times change Dave. People change.

The scorching summer sun sizzled as a uniformed officer waved the plain clothes cruiser past the ornamental iron gates and onto the manicured grounds of the estate. The vehicle came to a stop behind three black and white units parked along a tiled circular driveway. Two detectives emerged from the vanilla cruiser.

Dave Jeffries and his partner of seven years, Vic Donato, ambled past the Coroner's Wagon and paused beside a vintage, pale-yellow, Rolls Royce Corniche convertible.

"Will you get a load of that," Dave laughed, directing Vic's attention to the custom hood ornament on the quarter-million dollar hunk of steel and chrome. The original "Flying Lady" had been replaced by an intricately carved golden duck. The license plate on the behemoth read MALLARD.

"Sacrilege!" Vic snarled, shaking his head in disgust. "You'd think the owner of a fine piece of craftsmanship like that would treat her with some dignity."

"It's like I always tell you," Dave began, "Money don't buy taste."

The interior of the palatial estate was further testament to Dave's observant words. The foyer was a horrendous mish-mash of pink travertine marble set amidst a multicolored tile fountain, complete with diminutive bronze statues of cherubim urinating. Add to this sterling combination a bilious green foil wallpaper that Liberace might have picked out if he had been into psychedelics and you're beginning to get the entire picture.

"This guy really has taste up his ass," Vic commented dryly, adjusting his rose-hued silk tie in a teak framed mirror.

"Past tense Vic," Dave corrected. "He had taste up his ass."

The detectives padded across dark red Berber carpeting that ran the length of the living room. The furnishings consisted of a terra-cotta colored leather sectional, a paisley print overstuffed chair and ottoman, and conspicuously displayed chrome accent pieces.

Seated in the center of the gargantuan leather couch, staring blankly at a big screen T.V., was the body of a black man in his early fifties. The man was dressed in a peacock-motif smoking jacket and what appeared to be mink trimmed slippers. He wore a heavy gold chain around his neck and jeweled bracelets on both wrists.

The cause of death was pretty obvious. The man had been bludgeoned from behind with an ebony walking stick. The solid gold, duck-shaped handle protruded from the back of the deceased's skull. Only the tail feathers were still visible, with the duck's head and body wedged tightly into the newly created orifice. Jeffries stooped by the body, examining the wound.

"If this guy weren't already dead I'd have to arrest him for felony eye abuse," Donato remarked, squinting at the horribly mismatched color combination utilized in the living room.

Jeffries glanced up from what he was doing and addressed the group of uniforms. "Who was first on the scene?"

A shave-tail, freckle-faced officer all of twenty-two raised his hand. "That'd be me, sir."

"Alright Michaels," Jeffries said, "Tell me what you got."

Officer Michaels removed a small notebook from a compartment on his Sam Browne. His voice trembled ever-so-slightly as he started to read aloud. "Call came in at eleven-fifteen. Unknown trouble. I arrived at the scene at eleven-thirty-five. When I got here I noticed the front door was open. I announced myself, and when no response was forthcoming, I entered the residence. I found the decedent and immediately called in for backup. By the way, the dead guy's name is Isaiha Mallard."

"Any witnesses?" Donato queried, examining a particularly grotesque piece of ceramic art.

"We have a gardener who was working next door all morning. Said he saw a woman leave the premises in a late-model Benz around ten. Said she was in one helluva hurry," Michaels replied, replacing the notebook in his belt.

"Don't suppose our witness happened to catch a license plate," Donato asked, returning the awful trinket to its place on a fossil-stone end table.

Shave-tail shook his head.

Jeffries straightened up and rubbed the ligaments of his left knee. "Well, this obviously wasn't a robbery. Does the deceased have a wife?"

"Girlfriend according to the next door neighbor," Michaels responded crisply.

"We'll start there," Jeffries said, flashing a smile at the nervous young officer. "Good work, son."

"Are you detectives about through with the body?" one of the Coroner's team members asked solicitously.

"Yeah. You guys can go ahead and wrap up Mr. Mallard. We've seen what we needed to see," Donato replied blandly, noticing a scuff mark on top of one of his expensive Italian shoes.

"Don't look so sad," Jeffries teased. "Your old lady will buy you another pair."

The Coroner's team member who'd made the request grasped the ebony cane with both hands and plucked the handle from the dead man's head. It pulled free with a sound like a muted champagne cork. Minutes later the corpse was zipped into a body bag and lifted onto a gurney.

Jeffries glanced at his Timex and grinned. "What's say we get us some lunch, partner?"

"How can you be hungry when it's this hot out?" Vic asked incredulously.

"Guess it's just a sign of a healthy metabolism," Dave responded.

Donato followed Jeffries toward the cruiser. "I don't suppose there's any chance of going somewhere different today?"

Jeffries froze in his tracks and turned toward Donato, a frown etched across his forehead. "What day is it today?"

Donato hung his head knowing where this was going. "I know it's Tuesday Dave, but don't you think...?"

Jeffries held up a hand effectively cutting off the last of Donato's question. "I've eaten lunch at Pappy's every Tuesday since I got out of the academy. What's your problem, Vic, got something against tradition?"

"It's indigestion I have something against," Donato countered.

Jeffries opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. "Oh quit being such a wuss already."

Donato took his place on the passenger seat of the plain clothes rig looking rather disheartened. He knew it was an exercise in futility trying to get Jeffries to deviate from his long established patterns. When they'd first started working together his partner's intransigence had deeply annoyed him, but after seven years Vic had learned to accept the things he couldn't change.

"We still on for Sunday?" Donato asked, changing the subject.

Jeffries adjusted the rear view mirror. "Hell yes, we're on. What did you think?"

"Just checking," Donato responded, smoothing his jet-colored hair in the sideview.

....

Pappy's Burger Shack had been a Hollywood fixture since the nineteen fifties. During the course of four decades Pappy's had established a loyal, if not an altogether healthy, clientele. The big draw at the roadside stand was the half-pound grease burgers smothered in Pappy's own special chili. Just one of Pappy's famous burgers and an order of his steak fries provided all the necessary daily caloric content for a typical family of four. Yes, it was Pappy's Burgers that drew the crowds, but Dave Jeffries came for the dogs.

The ingredients of Pappy's hotdogs were a closely guarded family secret handed down from father to son. Donato had long harbored suspicions that the recipe required some actual breed of canine that Pappy was raising in a kennel behind his house. But since nobody had ever actually seen Pappy smuggling mystery meat into the cook shack, Donato kept his suspicions to himself.

Jeffries pulled the cruiser into the parking lot and the detectives exited the vehicle. Just as they were crossing to the line outside the Burger Shack, a couple of patrons vacated one of the five white plastic tables that were set up outside Pappy's establishment.

"Quick, grab it partner," Jeffries said, directing Donato toward the empty table.

Donato brushed off crumbs from one of the chairs and took a seat, just beating out a trio of customers exiting the line clutching their steaming orders. They sneered at Donato in unison, who merely smiled in return. "Sorry folks. Police business."

"What can I get you Vic? " Jeffries called out from the queue. "My treat."

"Nothing for me, thanks. I'll get something on the way back to the station." It was Vic's pat answer for a Tuesday afternoon.

"Certainly is a tolerant son of a bitch," Dave thought, glancing over his shoulder at his too well dressed partner.

"Usual Dave?" Pappy asked from the other side of the order window, his thin face stretched in a pleasant grin. By all accounts Pappy had to be in his eighties, but he was still plenty spry and his gray-green eyes sparkled with mischief.

Jeffries wrinkled his brow contemplatively. "Better make it five, Pappy. It feels like my big intestine's eating my little intestine."

"Five dogs, the works," Pappy hollered over his shoulder at the illegal working the grill. The compact brown man grunted a reply and rolled five hotdogs onto the sizzling surface.

"Be right up Dave," Pappy said, filling a sixteen ounce cup with ice and Pepsi and placing it on the counter. Pappy winked. "Usual for your partner too, I suppose?"

Jeffries smiled at the old man's jest. "You suppose right."

(If you want to what happens you're gonna have to order yourself a copy)

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