David Bernstein: Machines of the Dead

Relax, he told himself, as he paced frantically. All they wanted was some of his stuff, blood and skin, then he was free to leave. Wait, the doctor didn’t mention the money. What if that was a lie. What if there was no money. What if this place was one big sex house and they were slowly dosing him so that he wouldn’t remember getting raped? No, he was being ridiculous. Damn it.

Derek hit himself in the head again, but this time it did nothing to calm him down. Shit, what had they given him? Maybe they knew he was “unsteady” and gave him something to keep him crazy. Watch him suffer.

He needed to get out of there, but if he showed them how upset he was, they might tie him up, or chain him down. Then he would be at their mercy.

Derek bit through his lower lip in grinding pain. “You got to act natural,” he told himself.

A knock sounded on the door, then Dr. Chan entered. “Okay, Mr. Mayfield-”

Derek lunged at the tiny man, toppling him to the ground.

Looking up, he saw that Chan wasn’t alone. He had a guard with him, a rather large man, who was dressed in black fatigues.

As the guard rushed at him, Derek pushed himself up. They collided, but Derek managed to toss the man aside. The guy lost his balance and fell to the floor. Standing over Dr. Chan, Derek stomped the little man’s face, breaking his glasses and his nose. The big guy was getting up. Derek jumped over to him and landed with his feet on the man’s back, knocking him down again. He then lifted his right leg and stomped on the back of the big guy’s neck, over and over, like someone at a slam-dance concert. He was in a rage, wanting to kill. Within moments, Derek had turned the man’s spine into mush. Blood pooled around the guard’s face, his jaw broken, and offset. Pieces of teeth lay in the red liquid like tiny lifeboats at sea.

Turning around, Derek saw Dr. Chan holding his nose and leaning against the doorframe. “You’re a tough little fucker, aren’t you?”

Holding both arms out, shaking his head, Chan said, “no, no, no.” Blood covered the man’s face, his broken, twisted nose, still gushing like a burst water main. The little man turned to run, but Derek was on him in a second. He was suddenly hungry, starving in fact. Grabbing Chan’s head, he yanked it back, exposing Chan’s neck. Derek brought his face down and sunk his teeth into the scientist’s Adam’s apple, tearing it free. He tossed Chan’s body to the ground like the dead weight it was and chewed.

As soon as he swallowed the meat, he wanted to throw up. Leaning over, Derek gagged, but nothing came up. Anger then coursed through him. What had these people done to him?

He needed to escape.

Turning back to the dead guard, Derek searched the corpse, finding a Taser strapped to his hip, a wallet with no cash, and attached to an extend-a-cord was the keycard Derek had seen numerous employees use to access doors. He unclipped the card, stuffed the Taser into the back of his pants, and left the room.

He ran down the hall, the way he had originally come, and came to a locked door. Using the keycard, he swiped the piece of plastic through the card reader and heard the door unlock. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.

Another hall lay before him and he didn’t hesitate to sprint down it, passing a large window. Men in lab coats and a single guard, dressed in the all too familiar black fatigues, were in the room. Immediately, an alarm sounded, but Derek didn’t think it was from anyone in the lab. He remembered seeing cameras in the corners of the hallways and in certain rooms. As he approached the elevator, he looked up and saw a camera with its cold eye staring at him.

He pressed the button for the elevator and then thought for a moment; e levators were small, cramped. He didn’t like cramped spaces, especially when he was messed up in the head, which he clearly was now. Instead, he turned toward the exit leading to the stairwell, saw the card reader and used the keycard. The door unlocked and Derek pulled it open, ready to run up the stairs when a guard stepped forward and blocked his way.

“And where do you think you’re going?” the man asked, holding a baton and smiling.

Derek reached behind, pulled the Taser from his pants and shot the guard point blank. The guy went down fast, his body rigid and shaking. Unlike a stun gun, which only affects the part of the body it is exposed to, the Taser causes pain throughout the whole body, incapacitating the target completely.

Derek dropped the Taser and ran up the metal set of stairs. His stomach pained him, almost as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He had known hunger; living on the streets had brought him that sensation plenty of times.

Up and up he went. He was so caught up in trying to escape, he lost count of the flights. Had he climbed five or six? He wasn’t sure. Finally, he reached the top, coming to a small landing. Elevator doors sat to his right. On his left appeared to be a set of storm-cellar doors and another card reader was next to them. He knew he had reached the exit. Taking the keycard out, he swiped it through the card reader. A beep sounded, then the mechanics of working gears sounded and the doors were opening.

Below, he heard the hustle of boots on the steel stairs as the guards were coming after him. Derek bolted up the steps and found himself outside and in the alley where he was first propositioned to work for the pharmaceutical company.

Derek might have been outside, but he was far from free. The men were right behind him and a solid steel gate eight feet in height, topped with curling barbed wire, stood at the end of the alley. A sharp, stabbing pain erupted in Derek’s gut. He doubled over, thinking he had been shot, but when his hand came away from the area, it was clean. When the pain subsided, he stood. His abdomen was fine; it was just hunger that he was feeling.

He took off running down the alley, hoping to reach the sidewalk, the public, before the men had a chance to capture him. He had no idea what those bastards did to him, but he’d fight it off like he’d fought off everything else in his life, well except for the drugs, which he could really use a hit of something strong right now.

Without slowing, Derek jumped up, grabbed the top of the steel gate, and pulled himself up and over it, ripping his outfit and cutting himself as he did so.

Standing on the busy sidewalk of Second Avenue bleeding, Derek watched as cars, mostly yellow cabs and delivery trucks, drove by. A few horns sounded when the car in the right lane didn’t move fast enough after the light had turned green. Derek had never been happier to hear the annoying sounds.

Pedestrians walked around him as if he wasn’t there; just another homeless guy out and about. Nevertheless, he needed to get as far away from the area as possible. Those men might still be coming for him. And why wouldn’t they? Afraid of a scene? Although no longer the quintessential homeless man, he was still a homeless man, simply cleaned up a little and dressed in green overalls. If men in black fatigues grabbed him, who would care? Who would step in and do something? No one. He needed to keep moving. Then his stomach cramped up again, and he felt weak. About to fall forward, Derek grabbed onto a woman who was walking by him. She screamed and tried pushing him away, but anger coursed through him. It wasn’t right what he had gone through, and now this bitch was screaming at him, drawing attention to him. He grabbed her hand, brought it to his mouth and bit down. The woman howled in pain. She tried shaking Derek off, but he hung on like a dog that was playing tug-a-war with a knotted rope. Derek’s mouth flooded with the taste of iron as his teeth broke her skin.

Something large and heavy hit Derek from behind, knocking the breath out of him. The woman’s hand slipped from his mouth. He tried lunging at her, but couldn’t. Someone was holding him. Fearing it was a guard, he threw his head back and felt something crunch under the impact; he wasn’t going back down there. A moment later, he was free.