David Golemon: Ripper

“Just a soldier on detached duty to the National Archives, young lieutenant, that’s all. I’m no one really.”

With a dubious look at the now smiling Thomas, Patton spurred his mount forward and joined the long line of cavalry with Thomas turning toward the rear of the mounted line. Patton rode to the front of the skirmish line and absentmindedly reached for his saber, actually forgetting he had ordered the useless weapons to be left behind for noise reasons. Instead he raised his gauntleted right hand and waved the line forward just as the last of the fog lifted and the first rays of sunshine eased over the rise to the east.

“Company, forward at the cantor,” he ordered in a not-too-loud voice.

The 8th United States Cavalry started forward at the trot. Ninety-eight men pulled their British-made Lee-Enfield rifles from their scabbards and Patton withdrew an old Colt .45 Peacemaker from its holster. He then thought better of it and replaced the old six-shooter with a model 190 °Colt .45 automatic. The line moved steadily forward, and the hacienda was now seen in all its large glory. The men now knew the task at hand was a large one.

“Bugler, sound the charge!”

The early morning bugle call was heard throughout the small valley south of the Rio Grande as men of the 8th charged the ten-acre hacienda known as Perdition’s Gate.

Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose stood in front of one of the subject cells buried far beneath the hacienda and watched test subject 197 as he squatted in the darkened corner of his cell. The young man was one of a slew of dregs from the barroom alleys of Laredo, just across the Rio Grande, as were another four of the ten subjects he had under medical observation. The professor had not moved since administering the final dose in the series of injections that would complete the full script of medicinal delivery.

Ambrose was dressed in a filthy white lab coat and the tie he wore underneath was askew. His gray hair was tumbled and his beard still held food from the day’s evening meal. The deep scars from that long-ago night on London’s East End held firmly to the left side of his face, creating a permanent scowl. His clothing covered the rest of the burns he had received, several of which still broke open and bled on occasion. Ambrose hardly noticed when he heard the footsteps descending the stairwell from the hacienda two floors above. The door opened and the professor spared a glance at the object of the interruption.

His East Indian servant, RaJan Singh, a Sikh that stood six feet six inches in height and was well over three hundred pounds, was his ever resplendent self. His blue turban was covering hair that when loose would travel downward to his hips. His black beard had two luminescent streaks of white coursing down either side of his whiskers. His long white jacket covered bright-blue pants that made the Sikh the complete opposite of Ambrose in size, demeanor, cleanliness, and dress.

“I gave orders not to be disturbed until the final doses of the drug had been administered. I have nine more injections to give to complete the series on these subjects.”

“Excuse me, Sahib. I have held my tongue for far too long. You need rest. You are not seeing things as you once did. While at one time your direction was merely reckless, it has now turned onto a road which will not only be your destruction, but many others on this plantation as well.”

Ambrose smiled and turned with a fresh syringe in his thick fingers. “Do I include you as one of those others, old friend?”

“My life has always been yours to either end or prolong. But was it not I that gave you the rare poppy which in turn gave you your life’s work? I would like to see the potential of the experiments proven. Still, we must realize that our actions have attracted attention from north of the river, Sahib.”

“I am too close to finishing this. With soldiers such as these that I have created, foolish governments could never afford war mongering. If I had gone uninterrupted in London, the problems in Europe would have ceased before they started. Men such as these in the holding cells would make moot the art of warfare — men that will kill and die without a second’s hesitation.”

Singh stepped up to cell number nine and looked at the man-animal crouching in the dark corner. The man was staring at him with eyes wide and his drooling mouth agape. The look of sheer murder that coursed through his rough features was enough to make the giant Sikh want to turn away. For as large as he knew himself to be, he also knew the man in the cell could take him apart, piece by piece.

“For years I have watched you make men into something that was never meant to be. We have gone too far, Sahib. The taunting of the British authorities almost twenty-seven years ago nearly brought the world down upon us. Your decision making was flawed then, and it is now becoming more so.” He watched the eyes of the professor as they remained neutral as he spoke. He decided to press further. “I was willing to allow this to go on as long as there were no more killings of the innocent. But it is now starting all over again. I assume you are planning to test these … soldiers on living subjects?”

Ambrose finally turned to fully face his manservant. The syringe he held dripped amber fluid from the needle and struck the professor’s filthy boot.

“You were willing?” Ambrose chuckled as he ignored the stated question. His laugh was a cold, harsh sound in the darkness of the subbasement. “Wasn’t it you who carried me to Whitechapel in the old days in the coach? Was it not you who assisted in luring women to that coach?” Ambrose took a step toward the very much larger Singh, who to his credit stood ramrod straight. “Old friend, was it not you who originally saw the potential of the splicing of the flower and its new seed? Maybe you were once just a willing participant, but now I believe you may be considered one of the architects of Perdition’s Fire.” This time the smile did reach his eyes just before he turned to unlock cell number two. “After tonight there will be no more need for test subjects. Outside of training these men to not attack their own people, the process is perfected. Can you imagine a whole division of Berserkers? The earth would tremble.”

“And what nation would be willing to pay your price?”

Again, the laugh. “Just as soon as one side or the other starts losing the war in Europe, we will have plenty of takers.”

The manservant watched as the cell door was opened and Ambrose stepped into the darkness. He heard the sharp rattle of chain as the test subject, a young Texan he himself had found sleeping off a drunk by the river, charged Ambrose. With every inch of thick chain around the subject’s neck stretched to its limit, the boy growled and hissed at Ambrose who calmly kept his ground just inside the cell door. After a moment the subject settled and started sniffing. The test subject’s drool coursed down his chin and neck as he took in Ambrose. Only five previous injections had brought the test subject to this point of barbarity. The last injection would make him into what Ambrose dreamed — a lethal, brilliant killing machine — just as he had proven with himself as a test subject in London. This man would soon be a soldier that was able to plan and carry out the most animalistic attacks ever seen. A soldier never seen before. The strength of a bull and the intelligence of the very man who made him into what he had become. He was now a beast that would send any civilized enemy running through sheer terror. And all of this was because of two small, little-known poppy flowers that grew only in the remotest northern regions of India. That coupled with the stem serum would open up that which God may never had intended to be used — the opposite side of the brain. Full brain function coupled with animalistic fury.