Ultimate Thriller Box Set (4 page)

“The only outside line is in the control room,” Race continued, “and for obvious reasons that's restricted. If you need to get a message to the rest of the world, you have to go through me.”

Andy looked at the bed and felt his will drain away.

“Do I get a wake up call?”

“I believe you've already got one in the form of Dr. Jones. I know a thing or two about being macho, but I'm not sure you should witness a feeding just yet, even to impress the cute doctor.”

“It's that bad?”

“I've seen action in two wars, son, and it's that bad.”

Andy took Race's outstretched hand and mumbled a thank you, though he wasn't really sure what he was thankful for. He was three items into his list of necessities when he fell asleep.

*

A buzzing woke him up. Andy wasn't sure where he was, and when he remembered, he couldn't figure out what the noise meant. It turned out to be his phone, humming like an angry bee.

He lifted the receiver.

“Mr. Dennison? This is Dr. Jones.”

Andy blinked and said good morning. The clock on the dresser said 12:07, so it was technically afternoon, but that didn't enter into his sleep-addled head.

“Can you meet me at Orange 12, say in fifteen minutes?”

“Sure. Orange 12.”

The doctor hung up. Andy rubbed his eyes and extended the motion into scratching his chin. Stubble. He sat up in bed. Thought about the demon. Felt his heart begin to race.

Pretend it’s just another translation job,
he told himself.

A suitcase that he recognized as his own was sitting next to the bathroom door. When he calmed down, he opened the case to find clothing and sundries, packed neater than he'd ever been able to. His electric razor was in a zippered pocket, and he took that and his toothbrush kit into the bathroom with him.

After a shave and a brush he hopped into and out of a tepid shower, using soap in his hair because he hadn't bothered to look for shampoo. Five minutes later he was dressed in some khakis and a light blue denim shirt. After a brief indecision he left two buttons open at the neck rather than one, and was then out the door and headed for the Orange Arm.

When he reached the center of the compound—the Octopus as Race had called it—he found two men sitting at the center table. Both were at least thirty years his senior. The one on the left wore round Santa Claus glasses on an equally round face. He had a balding head and a gray goatee, and his large green sweater was tight on his rotund body. The other man was his comic opposite; long and gaunt, cheeks sunken rather than cherubic, scowl lines instead of smile lines. He looked uncomfortable in his jeans, whereas his companion looked at home in his.

Andy recalled Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.

They were in an intense conversation when Andy entered, and his arrival didn't warrant an interruption.

“As usual,” the chubby one said in a voice deep and full, “you're narrowing your concept of Christian hell to church teachings, with Dante, Milton, and Blake thrown in for good measure. But the concept of an Underworld goes back to Mesopotamia almost four thousand years ago, which predates both Christianity and Judaism.”

The thin man sighed as if the world rested on his shoulders. “I'm aware of Mesopotamia, as I am of Egyptian, Zarathrustrian, Grecian and Roman beliefs in Hell.” He had a thin, reedy voice that matched his appearance. “I'm also aware of the complexities of explaining the presence of evil in a divinely created universe. But it seems to make more sense to have an embodiment of evil in the form of Satan than a dualistic God who is both forgiving and wrathful.”

“Fa!” the fat one said, raising up his hands and rolling his eyes. “Enough with Yeoweh's dark shadow. From the second century BC, my people have believed in a distinct malevolent deity, in this case Mastema, who was created by ha-shem to do His dirty work, namely, punishing sin. It can be read that Mastema, not Adonai, was the one behind the trials of Job. The same Mastema who tempted the prophets Moses and Jesus.”

The thin one winced. “I hate it when you call Jesus a prophet.”

“You must be the holies,” Andy said. It was the first opportunity he’d had to get a word in.

“What makes more sense,” the fat man turned to Andy. Andy guessed correctly that he was Rabbi Shotzen. “The devil as a fallen angel, or the devil as a purposeful creation of God to be an alternative to His light?”

“I'm an atheist,” Andy said.

There was a moment of silence.

“How can you refuse your own eyes?” asked Father Thrist. “You saw Bub, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he's unmitigated proof that God must exist. For there to be devils, there must be hell, and if there's hell, there's a heaven and a God.”

Andy decided he didn't want to get drawn into this conversation.

“I saw a thing, that looked like what we call a devil. I can't draw any more conclusions than that.”

“Another Thomas,” Thrist said to Shotzen. “Here we have, in captivity, one of Satan's minions, and everyone who sees him doubts. Why not set him free? The world wouldn't tremble with fear, as predicted. Bub would probably go on the talk show circuit and then become a sponsor for soft drinks.”

The agitated priest turned to Andy again and pointed a finger, a gesture he seemed comfortable making. “Satan's greatest feat is to convince us he doesn't exist. He doesn't want us to believe in him, and that makes it easier for him to spread his evil. Lucifer is the Master of Lies.”

“I disagree, Father,” Shotzen cut in. “God wants us to know the devil exists. It's his infernal existence that steers us towards the path of truth and light.”

Andy headed for the Orange door, content to leave the philosophical demands of the situation in other hands. The discussion continued without him; in fact, Andy guessed they hadn't even noticed he'd left.

The Orange Arm looked newer than the rest of the facility, with brighter paint and shinier tile, but the smell was barnyard fresh. Andy wrinkled his nose.

Dr. Jones was waiting for him in front of Orange 12, holding a clipboard that commanded her attention. She didn't look up at Andy as he approached.

“I'm ready for lunch,” Andy said. He tried on a small grin.

She walked into Orange 12 without replying. Andy followed. The room was large, almost the size of Bub's habitat. Several empty pens were off to the right, and to the left side was a fenced area where almost two dozen sheep milled about. For all his travels, Andy had never seen a sheep before, and was surprised at how big they were. They were waist high and fat, like a bunch of gray marshmallows on toothpick legs.

“Is that actual grass they're on?” Andy asked.

“Astroturf. My idea of turning this part of the complex into a biosphere was rejected as too complicated. The turf wears well and is easy to clean.”

“It looks like they're eating parts of it.”

“Yeah, I told them that would happen. Come on.”

Dr. Jones went to a set of lockers near the pens and removed a leather harness that resembled the reins for a horse. The reins were handed to Andy, and the doctor reached back into the locker and took out a half dozen boxes of Cap'n Crunch cereal. She walked up to the fence and rang a large cowbell hanging from a pole. All of the animals turned to look.

“They eat hay, but they love breakfast cereal. To get them to approach I have to bribe them. The problem is they're skittish. Every time they come to get the treat, one of them is taken away.”

Dr. Jones began opening boxes and pouring them into the trough inside the fence. The sheep watched for a minute before the first of them approached. He stuck his face in the crunchy treat and began snacking. Dr. Jones patted him on the head.

“You want the harness?” Andy asked.

“No, this is Wooly. He's the Judas sheep. He always comes first, and then the others follow. If we snagged him, they'd all be too afraid to come the next time.”

Wooly grunted his agreement, sucking up the cereal like a vacuum. Soon he was joined by two others, muscling their way in. Dr. Jones grabbed one of them by the scruff of the neck, gathering up wool in her fist. It appeared rough, but the animal didn't seem to notice and continued its binge.

When the cereal was gone, Dr. Jones deftly slipped the harness over the sheep's head, tightening the straps with her free hand. She held the reins in her armpit and opened the last box of cereal, luring her captured animal over to the gate. Several of the other sheep followed, and Wooly snorted his disapproval at being left out.

“Shoo the others away while I open the gate,” Dr. Jones told Andy.

Andy, feeling quite the dork, flapped his hands around and made hissing noises. The sheep just stared at him, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the stoic Dr. Jones smirk.

“Go on sheep! Go! Move it! Go on!”

The herd slowly backed off, and Dr. Jones opened the gate and led her captive to one of the pens. Once it was safely locked in she went to fetch her clipboard.

Andy gave the sheep a pat on the head and stared into its alien eyes with their elongated pupils. Bub's eyes. He shuddered, realizing he didn't want to see the demon again so soon.

With a tape measure Dr. Jones checked the sheep's length and its height at the shoulder. She noted the measurements and then pressed some buttons on a digital display next to the pen. It registered the sheep's weight. She jotted this down as well.

“So, do people call you Sunny?”

“Not if they want me to reply.”

Ouch,
Andy thought.
How can someone so cute be so cold?

“I thought all vets were supposed to be cheerful. Something to do with their love of animals.”

She gave him a blank stare, and then began to examine the sheep's teeth.

“What do you go by, then?”

“Sun. People call me Sun.”

“Sun. It's unique.”

“My mother was Vietnamese. She fell in love with an American soldier, who brought her to this country before Saigon fell. Sunshine was one of the first English words she learned. She didn't know any better.”

“Oh, I think she did. It matches your cheerful disposition.”

Sun was now looking into the sheep's eyes, holding their lids open. The sheep protested the inspection by twisting away.

“Wait a second,” Andy said, snapping his fingers. “You're Vietnamese.”

“Don't say it,” Sun warned.

But Andy, a grin stretched across his face, couldn't resist. “You're a Vietnam vet.”

Sun’s face became even harder, something Andy hadn't thought possible.

“Never heard that one before. Open the pen there.”

Andy lifted the latch on the gate and Sun led the sheep out of the pen and over to the entrance door.

“I've visited Viet Nam twice,” Andy said. “Beautiful place. All of those war movies make it look like hell, but it's actually very tranquil, don't you think?”

“I wouldn't know. I've never been there. I’m an American.”

Andy decided to shut up.

They led the sheep through the hallway and into the Octopus, where the rabbi and the priest were still arguing.

“Here comes another one, wretched thing,” Rabbi Shotzen pointed to the sheep with his chin.

Father Thrist frowned. “I don't understand why you can't kill the sheep humanely first.” He crossed his arms, obviously uncomfortable.

“Bub only takes 'em live, guys,” Sun answered. “You know that.”

The Rabbi said, “What about some kind of painkiller? Morphine, perhaps?”

“We don't know how that would affect Bub's unique anatomy.”

“How about a cigarette at least? A last meal?”

“He had Cap'n Crunch,” Andy offered.

“You gentlemen are more than welcome to perform the last rites, if you wish,” Sun said.

Again, Andy caught the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Sacrilege,” the Rabbi said. But he approached the sheep and held its head, speaking a few words of Hebrew.

“Perhaps Bub can be trained in the ways of shohet,” Andy said. “Then he can eat according to shehita.”

If Shotzen was impressed by Andy's knowledge of his people’s tongue, he didn't show it. Instead the chubby holy man shook his head in disagreement. “Bub won't eat kosher meat. He's trefah, a blood drinker.”

The rabbi went back to his seat. Sun walked the sheep to the Red door. Father Thrist refused to look.

“Rabbi Shotzen says that prayer every time we feed Bub a sheep,” Sun told Andy when they entered the Red Arm.

“It wasn't a prayer. The rabbi simply apologized to the sheep, because it wasn't going to be killed by a proper butcher, according to the Jewish laws of slaughtering animals humanely.”

Sun punched in the code for the first gate, and Andy made sure he noted the five digit number. The titanium bars swung open, but the sheep didn't want to budge.

“She smells him,” Sun said. She took a black swatch of cloth from her coat pocket and slipped it over the animal's eyes. “They're calmer when they can't see.”

With some firm tugging and a sniff of cereal, the sheep moved forward.

“You're a vet, you're supposed to take care of animals. Doesn't this bother you, marching one off to death?”

Sun sighed. “Have you ever eaten a hamburger?”

“Sure, but...”

“Bub's a carnivore, like a lion, like a shark, like you and me. As much as everyone around here is shocked by Bub's eating habits, if they ever visited a slaughterhouse they'd be a thousand times more repulsed.”

“But you're a vet.”

“I'm a vet who eats hamburgers. I also spent six months in Africa studying lions.”

Andy said hello in four African tribal languages.

She wasn't impressed.

They came to the second door, and Andy punched in the numbers on the panel. Nothing happened.

“Two different codes,” Sun said. “You can't have a secret government compound without security overkill.”

The sheep tried to bolt at the sound of the heavy door clanging open, but Sun had a tight grip on the reins.

Andy stopped at Red 14 and grasped the door handle but he didn't turn it right away. The moment stretched.

“You don't have to go in,” Sun said. “I just needed you to help in Orange 12.”