Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

From the highway it resembled a small private college, with its rolling green mall and stately elms. The effect of the sturdy wall that surrounded the cluster of buildings was softened by the vines and shrubbery that grew along it in artful profusion.

The employees of Biotron, too, were in marked contrast to the crew of the Herald . Young, dedicated, enthusiastic, their shoes were always shined, their hair in place, their ID badges pinned just so over their left breast pockets. They were the type of employees often seen smiling out of institutional ads in Business Week .

One of them, biochemist Dena Falkner, was the last one working that Friday in the biochem lab. Strands of her caramel-blonde hair had come loose from the straight-back style she wore to work, and a small frown drew her brows together.

Dena’s reason for working late was to review the test results for a new pesticide weapon in the battle against the gypsy moth. She watched the figures march in glowing green ranks across the screen of her computer terminal, but her mind was not on gypsy moths. Her mind was on Stuart Anderson. For some three months the company helicopter pilot had been a fun companion on dates, if a little too swift in the bedroom. It had been a couple of weeks now since she had seen him, but it was the manner of his leaving that disturbed her.

Dena had been dressing for a dinner date with Stu when a call came from Dr. Kitzmiller’s office. She was told that Stu had been transferred for an indefinite period to the Rio de Janeiro office and had to leave immediately. There were a lot of questions she wanted to ask at the time, but when your company carried sensitive government contracts, as Biotron sometimes did, you kept the questions to a minimum.

It was conceivable that Stu Anderson, in the excitement of a glamorous new assignment, could forget about their date. He was not what you would call overly sensitive. Still, there was something about it that didn’t feel right.

It was not that her heart was broken. The arrangement between Dena and Stu had been strictly a convenience for both of them. For Dena, her work came first. Social life was pleasant but definitely nonessential. Rather than commute from Milwaukee, or even the shorter distance from Appleton, she had taken a small house in the almost nonexistent little town of Wheeler just up the road from the plant.

Wheeler suited Dena. It was quiet, clean, close to work, and she was not expected to take any part in the community life, which consisted of monthly grange meetings and an annual Waupaca County Settlers’ picnic. When she wanted to be with a man, there was always Stu. Or there had been until two weeks before.

Then, a few days earlier, Dena had noticed another strange thing. Not only was there a new man replacing Stu on the helicopter crew, but the other pilot, Lloyd Bratz, was gone, too. She had called Lloyd’s home in Appleton, but the telephone seemed to be out of order.

On an impulse, Dena cut off the computer, locked her desk, and left the plant. She aimed her Datsun down the highway toward Appleton. She was relieved to see that the recent highway repair was complete and there was no need to detour.

Lloyd and Helen Bratz lived in a mobile-home park called Lakeview Terrace, which ignored the fact that Lake Winnebago was on the far end of town and well out of sight. Dena parked between painted diagonal lines in a space marked for visitors. She walked up to the neat little unit where Helen and Lloyd lived and knocked on the door.

The four of them had gone out to dinner together on a couple of occasions. The two men enjoyed a kind of locker-room companionship, but Dena and Helen Bratz had found little in common. Dena remembered her as a plump, quiet woman who smiled at everything anybody said. She opened the door now, keeping the night chain attached, and peered out. That night, Helen Bratz was not smiling. Her eyes had a haunted look.

“Yes?”

“Hi.”

No response from the other woman, who seemed to be trying to look over Dena’s shoulder.

“I’m Dena Falkner. From Biotron? Stu Anderson’s date?”

Recognition came at last to Helen Bratz. “Oh, yes. Is there something …?”

“I wonder if I could come in for a minute.”

“Well … I’m kind of busy….”

“I won’t stay long.”

Reluctantly, Helen Bratz released the chain and opened the door.

“Things are really a mess.”

Dena looked around the compact living room. There were piles of clothing, stacks of dishes and cooking utensils, scattered books and papers, and a number of sturdy cardboard cartons.

“Moving?”

“Uh, yes. Lloyd was transferred, you know.”

“Really? Where to?”

“Uh, out West.”

Dena looked around. “Is he here now?”

“No,” Helen said quickly. “He’s — he’s, uh, gone on ahead. To find us a place to live.”

You are a really rotten liar, Dena thought. Aloud she said, “It happened rather suddenly, didn’t it?”

“Yes, I guess so. That’s the way it is with pilots.”

“Apparently. I suppose you knew Stu was transferred, too.”

“Yes, yes, I heard.”

Helen Bratz kept looking at the door as though she expected someone to burst through it. Right on cue, there was a discreet knock. She ran to open it. A well-dressed man with neat gray hair and careful eyes stood outside.

“The car is here, Mrs. Bratz.” His careful eyes scanned Dena.

“I’ll be ready in a minute.” To Dena she said, “Excuse me, but I have to go now.”

Dena looked around at the cartons and the stacks of unpacked belongings.

Helen Bratz caught her questioning look. “Biotron is sending someone out in the morning to finish up the packing. What a relief. I really hate packing. Don’t you?”

Helen Bratz’s voice had begun to rise and threatened to slide into hysteria. The well-dressed man cleared his throat softly and glanced at the thin gold watch on his wrist.

“The car is waiting, Mrs. Bratz.”

Helen looked at Dena. Her eyes immediately jumped away from contact. “I really have to go now.”

“Yes, well, I’ll be on my way.” She felt the careful eyes of the man follow her out the door.

Dena walked to her parking place, got into the Datsun, and sat there in the dark until Helen Bratz came out with the man. Helen had a light coat thrown over her dress. She carried a small suitcase. The man helped her into the back seat of a dark blue Cadillac, then got in behind her. An unseen driver started the engine and drove away.

Dena sat in the dark for another fifteen minutes trying to fit it all together. What was haunting Helen Bratz? Why had she lied? Where was Stuart Anderson?

She lit a Carlton and smoked it down to the filter. She was trying to quit, but that night she deserved a smoke. At least.

Those cocksuckers were talking about him.

The hammering inside was about to break his skull apart, but Hank Stransky still knew what was going on. They were talking about him. Telling lies. Snickering behind their hands. He could tell. They kept looking over here. Thought they were fooling him.

Vic was the worst of them. A guy Hank thought was his friend. Now he saw the truth. Guy owned a shitty little tavern and thought he was better than everybody. Better than Hank Stransky, who had to work with his hands to make a living. Fucking krauthead.

For all Hank knew, it was something that krauthead put in his beer that was making the goddam headache get worse. Now he probably thought it was funny. Him and those other two assholes. In just about five seconds Hank was going to walk up there, grab one of those cocksuckers in each hand, and ask them what the hell they thought they were looking at. If only the pain would let up a little.