Emmy Laybourne - Dress Your Marines in White

“Hey!” Ceglowski yelled from his bed, seeing O headed towards Cha. “Hey you son of a bitch! Gruin! Over here!”

Eighteen seconds.

Private Ceglowski called Private Gruin to him, trying to distract him from Dr. Cha.

But O had Cha in his arms and crushed his rib cage with his bare hands, throwing the young doctor down on the floor like an old doll.

In the viewing room, Montez shouted to his aide. “That’s it! Give me your gun!”

“You can’t shoot through the glass!” James warned. The bullet would bounce back — it would ricochet.

“I know that,” Montez spat. He pushed through them all to the door. “I’ll kill him myself.”

“Wait!” Dr. Savic begged.

The clock read thirty-two seconds.

General Montez took the firearm from his aide and exited the viewing room. There was a guard in front of the entrance to the testing room, however I assume General Montez ordered him to stand aside. Montez must have also ordered the safety attendant to admit him through the isolation chamber and into the testing room. The door sealed and locked behind Montez, according to protocol.

Then Montez was in the test room, the gun extending naturally, like it was a part of his arm.

His first shot was not for O, but for A, who was bubbling now, his blood boiling like lava as it ran down the black testing bed.

His second shot caught O in the back. His third went through the neck, and by then O had turned and crossed the space between Ceglowski and Montez in one giant stride and had his hands around Montez’s throat.

Four and five went into O’s belly. Only then, with four bullet holes in him, did he die. He slid over to the side with a heavy, sludging sound.

For a moment, the only sound James heard was AB, who was reciting the Lord’s Prayer under his breath at top speed.

“He shot them,” Massey said, as if stating it for the record. “He shot them!”

Then Ceglowski said, “General Montez?!”

After shooting Private Sands (type A) and Private Gruin, General Montez began to show signs of exposure (approx. 45 seconds into demonstration).

Montez had sunk to the floor, covered with Gruin’s blood.

“A general who shoots his own men, Ceglowski. Don’t you see, this is all I am? In the end, I’m just a killer. This uniform—” He started scratching at his lapels. “These medals!” He started removing the medals.

“They are for killing. For killing. What was it for, what we went through? It was so I could kill more and more men. One by one. By the dozens, hundreds, thousands? What does it matter? I’m a killer. And so are they!”

He turned and pointed into the viewing room.

“Blood type AB,” Dr. Massey said, fascinated. “Paranoid delusions. There they are.”

“Killers, killers, killers. Murderers, all of us. Cannibals. Flesh eaters. And we did it to you, Ceglowski. A good boy like you and now we killed you.”

General Montez brought the gun up.

“General, don’t!” Ceglowski cried.

But Montez brought the gun up to his own face and placed the barrel in between his teeth and blew the back of his head off.

“Dear God,” said Dr. Savic. Tears were coursing down his face.

Then, the godforsaken gel showered down.

One minute, thirty-two seconds.

Whatever jam, whatever glitch there had been had resolved itself and now the gel fell, trapping MORS to the floor where it lay quietly along with the bodies of General Montez, the guard, the O, and Dr. Cha.

The gel turned into foam and bubbled up over the type A, whose bloody corpse was still bound to the tilted test bed, and the AB, who was quietly and steadily muttering, raving, and maybe even laughing.

Ceglowski sagged forward against his bonds, weeping as the material rained down on him.

“Get me out of here!” he railed.

And Dr. Massey had her face and hands pressed against the glass, like the bloodbath inside was a Christmas window at Macy’s.

James rose to pour himself a scotch. There was dust in the glass. He blew into it but the dust didn’t come out. Not all of it. So what?

His neighbor had lost eighty pounds with the help of that girl hypnotist from YouTube, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t see her. If Susan found out, she would mock him, saying that he was a man of science. Brayden would mock him too, if he could be bothered. But there had to be a way to blot out the memories. Dull them. Throw a veil over them.

Now the hardest part. The conclusion.

The music from below was back up again, so loud, and the kids were singing. Were they drunk? They sounded drunk. Four forty-five on a school day and his son had a party going in the rec room.

Your kinda love is gutting me, they were all singing/shouting together. Gutting, gutting. Your kinda love is gutting me to the bone.

James sipped his scotch at the window, looking out at the yard. There stood the trampoline. Brayden had broken it back in June when he threw a party and it just sat there on two legs. Dead leaves had collected underneath and half the netting had torn off and fluttered helplessly in the wind.

James vowed to take it down. It was going to happen that very weekend and Brayden was going to help him do it, if it meant taking away every privilege his son had. They were going to take down the trampoline and Brayden was going to haul it to the dump in his Lariat and that was that.

James sat down and straightened the tablet on its stand and placed his shaking fingers back on the wireless keyboard.

The malfunction in the gel-dispersal unit had tragic consequences.

True.

I believe that if Dr. Massey had anticipated the outcome of the demonstration, she never would have proceeded.

Lie. The look in her eye… She loved seeing MORS work. And the reason she had pushed so hard for a human trial was not to honor the memory of her dead husband. Far from it. It was because she wanted to watch it work on people. Plain and simple.

If the demonstration had gone according to plan, the efficacy and deadliness of MORS would have been proved conclusively.

True.

Despite the fact that the demonstration did not go according to plan, I believe the same outcome was achieved.

True. MORS was deadly and efficient. Point oh-oh-five milliliters had caused the deaths of four people within two minutes, and that was within one sealed-off room. Dr. Massey wanted to produce ten liters. Enough to level the population of India.

I believe that MORS is…

James tilted the remainder of the scotch into his mouth. Lukewarm scotch on a Thursday afternoon. What a life.

He typed:

murder in powdered form.

Then deleted it. Then:

the triumphant creation of a criminally insane scientist.

Then backspaced it away. Then:

stable enough for mass production, as long as stringent safety measures are upheld.

And he blew his nose in a napkin that had come with his coffee and he sent the damn thing.

“Dress Your Marines in White” copyright (c) 2011 by Emmy Laybourne

Art copyright (c) 2011 by Gregory Manchess