Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

“Is he — alive?” breathed Kathryn.

Cole looked at her with cold eyes. “Come on.” He stood, yanked her roughly after him. Kathryn glanced back and for the first time saw the other man’s eyes, wide open and glazed with a fine spray of dirt.

“Oh, Jesus, James! You killed him—

Cole’s icy gaze never left her. “I did him a favor. Now come on.”

He pulled her down the hall, past another lurid crimson circle with its crude grinning monkeys. Ahead of them a faint glimmer of light showed through the murk, giving a sanguine glow to the trail of spattered red paint that stretched before them.

“You didn’t have a gun before, did you?” Kathryn asked, her voice dead.

“I’ve got one now,” Cole replied, and dragged her toward the light.

Outside the winter sun shone thin and bright onto another desolate city block. Cole kept a tight hold of Kathryn’s hand; she ran panting after him, his head bent as he followed scattered drops of red paint. The block’s few denizens ignored them, street people and a hollow-eyed woman who shouted curses as she banged her head against a lamppost. Cole loped on and Kathryn struggled to keep up with him, until finally they turned a corner and were both brought up short at the sight of the same ranting evangelist, standing now on a pile of broken cinderblocks and shouting hoarsely at the pale sky.

“‘And the seventh angel poured out his vial into the air; and there came—’ You! You! ”

With an inhuman shriek the man stiffened, then pointed wildly at Cole. “ YOU’RE ONE OF US!”

Kathryn shuddered, but Cole only focused on the obscure paint trail, almost hidden now beneath the heavy patina of grime and trash that covered the sidewalk. It was still there, faint but perceptible, and Cole walked quickly, head bent, his free hand slapping distractedly at his side.

All of a sudden he halted. Kathryn drew up beside him, exhausted.

“ Now what—”

They were in front of what had once been a butcher shop, a wooden storefront with loose clapboards and cracked windows now covered with lurid animal rights posters. Atop the building a faded sign still bore the legend:

A newer sign, hand-painted in the same garish crimson as the now-faded paint trail, read FREEDOM FOR ANIMALS ASSOCIATION. The front door was heavy plate glass, broken and clumsily repaired with duct tape. Inside, three people sat in folding chairs in a cluttered, dingy room. Their voices filtered through the broken glass, arguing as they collated papers from a heap on the floor.

“You know, Fale, this would’ve been, like, a whole lot easier if we just had Kinko’s do it,” a young woman whined. She had long, stringy hair, dyed black, a ring through her nose, and purplish lipstick. “‘Cause then—”

Beside her a deathly pale boy rolled his eyes. “Like, right , Bee,” he said, aping her nasal voice. “But we like don’t have any money .” In the chair next to his, a tall, muscular young man with a shaved head and a lizard tattoo nodded earnestly.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “And not only that—”

Keeping his grip on Kathryn’s wrist, Cole shoved the door open and stepped inside. The sound of pouring rain surrounded him. On the cracked tile walls hung posters showing the bloodied forms of cats and chimpanzees, their eyes wide and glazed with fear. The floor was covered with flyers and brochures depicting more atrocities. As Cole and Kathryn stepped over cartons and books, the three activists looked up in surprise. On the wall behind them hung a huge poster proclaiming ANIMALS HAVE SOULS, TOO. Cole looked around, frowning, as the sound of rain grew louder; then started when a tremendous thunderclap shook the small room. A jungle bird screamed. Cole pulled Kathryn closer to him, glancing uneasily over his shoulder.

“Uh, can we help you?” Fale blinked rapidly, like a creature unaccustomed to daylight.

Cole hesitated, confused. The sound of rain abated, replaced by the sudden trumpeting roar of an elephant.

“It’s all right, James,” Kathryn murmured. “It’s just a tape.” She pointed to a tape deck under a sign advertising THE TRUE MUSIC OF THE WORLD.

Cole nodded, swallowing nervously, and turned his attention back to the three activists. “I, uh, I’m looking for the, uh, the Army of the Twelve Monkeys.”

Fale glanced at Bee, then at the skinhead, giving them pointed looks. “Um, Teddy?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Monkeys started chattering on the tape as the skinhead stood. He was huge, taller than Cole, his powerful arms flexing in his sleeveless T-shirt. “We don’t know anything about any ‘Army of the Twelve Monkeys,’ so why don’t you and your friend disappear, okay?” He smiled menacingly, gesturing at the door.

A lion roared as Cole backed away, pulling Kathryn after him. “I just need some information.”

Teddy shook his head, a little plastic gorilla dangling from one ear. “Didn’t you hear me? We’re not—”

He froze as Cole pointed the pistol at him. Kathryn shook her head and cried, “James, No! Don’t hurt them—”

She turned to the activists, Cole’s hand still gripping her tightly. “Please, I’m a psychiatrist. Just do whatever he tells you to do,” she begged. “He’s — upset. Disturbed . Please! He’s dangerous — just cooperate.”

A tiger snarled, monkeys chattered wildly as Teddy backed away. Behind him Fale dug furiously in his jeans pocket.

“What do you want — money? We only have a few bucks—”

Cole shook his head, suddenly confident again. “I told you what I want.” He let go of Kathryn’s hand and waved the pistol at her threateningly. “Lock the door!”

Kathryn took a breath. “James, why don’t we—”

“Lock it now! ”

She hurried to the door. On the floor, the girl Bee turned to Fale and whimpered, “I told you that fuckhead Goines would get us into something like this.”

Fale looked like he was going to slap her. “Shut up!”

“ Goines? ” Cole stared at them.

“ Jeffrey Goines?” repeated Kathryn in amazement.

Cole pointed the gun first at Teddy, then the other activists. “Okay,” he said a little breathlessly. “We have some stuff to talk about. Go—” He gestured at a door in the back of the room. “Let’s go.”

The door led to an abandoned meat locker. Cole poked among the boxes and trash cans until he found some stereo wire, then ordered Kathryn to hog-tie the three of them in the middle of the floor.

“All right,” Cole announced, keeping the gun trained on Teddy. “Now tell me about the Twelve Monkeys.”

They told him, the three of them interrupting each other, momentarily falling silent when Cole asked them to repeat something.

“…then, Jeffrey becomes like this — big star …” Fale explained eagerly. “The media latch onto him because he’s picketing his own father, this famous Nobel prize-winning virologist. You musta seen all that on TV.”

Without looking up Cole said, “No. I don’t watch TV.” He continued rummaging through a stack of papers near the door while Kathryn watched helplessly. Suddenly he frowned, picking up a photograph and staring at it intently. The image was of a distinguished-looking man being escorted through a mob of raging activists by a phalanx of riot police. The caption read, “Dr. Leland Goines.”

“The slide,” he murmured. Then, turning to Fale, “Is this him? Dr. Goines?”

Fale nodded. “That’s him.”

On the floor beside him, Bee wriggled despondently. “What are you going to do with us?”