David Ohle - The Old Reactor

Udo placed his hand over his heart and patted the side of his weapons satchel. “We’ll take care of them, ma’am.”

“Let me thank you in advance,” the woman said, closing the window and drawing the shade.

“Daddy, don’t shoot them.”

“I agree,” Moldenke said. “Let’s just watch the show.”

“Tell you what,” Udo said. “We’ll watch the show and then I’ll take care of business and get some valves after it’s over.” He went up the alley and through a low door.

Moldenke looked at Salmonella. “I’ll go with him. You stay out here.”

“No, I want to see the show.”

“All right,” Moldenke said. “If he starts shooting we’ll leave.”

Salmonella, wary, followed Moldenke down the alley and into the basement.

There were wooden folding chairs arranged in rows of ten and a small plyboard stage lit by a dim bulb hanging from a joist. Udo was sitting in a front row seat. A jelly at a table near the doorway greeted Moldenke and Salmonella. “Come in. The show is free tonight. Brainerd Franklin’s here. It’s a special appearance. He’s going to work with needles.”

Salmonella asked, “What does he do, balance them on his nose?”

“No, no, not at all. Let me take you backstage. You can ask him yourself. He is a treasure to us, to our community. I’m his assistant.”

Bed sheets had been draped over a rope to define the back of the stage. It took only a few steps to get there. Franklin sat on a wheeled stool at a vanity table. He wore a white terry-cloth bathrobe, the hood pulled over his head. When he saw the backstage visitors, now including Udo, he spun around and wheeled closer to them, extending his hand palm down, as if expecting it to be kissed. Moldenke took the hand awkwardly for a moment and released it. When he did, it fell back and struck the leg of the stool. Brainerd winced then coughed up a wad of clear gel.

In a whispered aside, the assistant said, “Careful now. He’s very delicate in this state.”

Udo’s bloodless lips pulled back into a snarl. “All right, Franklin, let’s get on with the show. My girl here wants to know what you do with the needles.”

Franklin’s ear valves were erect and dripping gel. “It’s almost show time, my friends. Please join the audience. You’ll see what I do with the needles.”

Ten or twelve jellies had taken their seats in front of the stage, set with a cane-back chair and a bowl of silver needles on a small table. Franklin appeared from behind the bedsheet curtains, lifting himself along like an ape, using his fists as feet, and took his place in the chair.

His assistant ambled onto the stage. “The great golfer is in a trance state now and will work with his needles.”

As Franklin’s head came to rest on his chest, the light was turned off.

“I don’t like this at all,” Udo whispered. “I’m going to start shooting in a minute. That son of a bitch might go critical.”

The light sparked on again. Franklin stepped out of the chair and heaved himself forward, closer to the small audience.

The assistant said, “It is his pleasure now to show you his needlework.”

Franklin turned about and lifted the hem of his robe. There was a low hum of excitement in the room. When the robe was raised high, everyone saw a massive scrotal sack trussed with sewing needles placed either sideward or upward and yielding a good bit of blood.

Salmonella shrieked.

Udo stood with an audible snap of his knees, his niner in hand. “That’s enough. What kind of show is this?” He took aim at Franklin. “I don’t care how famous you are, you bucket of jelly. Look what you’re showing to my daughter.”

Salmonella said, “I’m going, Daddy. I’m going outside,” and left the basement.

Moldenke waved his hand at Udo. “I’d think again before doing Franklin. His fans are legion. They could come after you.”

Udo lowered the weapon. “Good point, Moldenke.”

Franklin let his robe hem fall and backpedaled from the stage.

Udo turned to the seated jellyheads. “I’m not going to do Franklin, but the rest of you, kneel down and bow your heads.”

Franklin’s assistant was the first to kneel. Udo shot him in the back of the neck. Moldenke made for the door, quick-stepping all the way, never looking back.

The jellies in the audience had remained in their seats, petrified, valves dripping but quietly accepting of their fate. Heads were lowered as Udo went up and down the rows of chairs firing into neck after neck, killing eight. The ninth was a young female not much older than Salmonella who lay on her stomach with her neck arched. “Thanks,” Udo said, “for making it easy.” He placed the end of the barrel very close to the raised neck and fired once. The jelly girl went limp. He stood over the body. “You’re still twitching.” He fired another shot just as her head snapped backward in a spasm. The shot was too high and entered the skull, letting out a stream of steaming gel.

Udo fumed. “What a stink. Let me out of here.” He walked around the basement with a pocket knife, trying to keep his breathing to a minimum to avoid the odor of so much gel, snipping off ear valves and putting them into a bag. “This is what, ten sets? Hell, man, that’s some real time off.”

Franklin peeked from behind the curtain and wept. “You’ve killed some of my fans.” He blew his wide nose into the shoulder of his robe. “I can tell you this about your future: there will be a time when you need fans and you won’t have them.”

Udo thought about that prediction for a moment. It made no sense to him. Why would he ever need fans? He gave a second thought to shooting Franklin. He curled his finger a bit more tightly around the niner’s hair trigger.

Moldenke and Salmonella continued to sit in the motor waiting. The black-haired woman opened her upstairs window. “I heard the shots. Did you get them all?”

At that moment Udo came out of the basement. “All but one, ma’am. Franklin. He’s too famous to kill.”

“What will I do with all the bodies?”

“Don’t know, ma’am. That’s your business. Get that trussed up Franklin to help you.”

The window slammed shut and the shade was pulled down.

An estimated seven thousand gallons of so-called barrel honey spilled into City Canal near Bunkerville today. A freight wagon overturned, ruptured, then fell from a bridge into the Canal. The release of the dangerous “honey” caused a yellow cloud to spread over the City and two thousand were evacuated from their homes. Because Bunkerville uses City Canal as a source of drinking water, the pumping facilities will be closed for forty-eight hours as a precautionary measure. The importation of barrel honey from Altobello’s Old Reactor area is forbidden by Bunkerville ordinance, punishable by detonation.

A rumor spread in Altobello that Franklin would be playing an exhibition round in Liberty Park. The weedy, old, prefreedom course there had been restored by jellyhead labor over a period of weeks. Word of mouth spread, and there was intense interest and anticipation.

Moldenke made a point of attending, though he missed the first eight holes. Udo and Salmonella were easy enough for him to spot in the crowd at the ninth. She wore a brilliantly pink dress and black patent pumps. Udo, in his uniform, was almost indistinguishable from others in uniform. Sorrel was there, too, with Big Ernie, who carried a cloth-covered basket of bear claws.

Moldenke tapped Udo on the shoulder. “Udo.”

“Moldenke.”

Moldenke smiled. “Salmonella. You look nice.”

“Thank you, Moldenke. Why are you here?”

“I want to see Franklin play.”

Udo said, “I turned in the valves, ten of them. That’s three months off my time.”