Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad (25 page)

“Work comes as needed. This is a special request from our Patrons. Not a personal matter, but one of urgency.” Andre Deibler held out a trifold slip of paper to his nephew.

The young assassin took the letter, unfolded it, and scanned the contents. His eyes shifted down the page quickly, then back to his uncle. “The request is quite specific.”

“Such is the nature of our work. You know that,” said Andre.

“This smells of urgency and desperation. They are paying extremely well for a single elimination, and there’s a singular lack of details.”

“We are not always given the luxury of details and precise plans. These things happen and we must follow our duty. It’s not beyond your skill, Henri. As the Heir, you will need to understand that we do not always have the time needed.”

He shifted in his seat, setting down the thick leather bound book on the side table. “I’m merely observing the situation behind the request, Uncle Andre. You’ve taught me that these matters are not to be rushed. We have standards to uphold.”

The elderly man smiled. “Correct, but it is a request and we will need to fulfill it to the stated intent. Do you see this as an issue?”

“Non, uncle. Madame and I will see this work completed.” Henri stood up, letter in hand, and nodded to his mentor. “It will be done as requested.”

The Row—Evening

Henri launched himself through the metal doorway, rolling across the concrete floor, and came to his feet, Madame in hand. The lights flickered to life. His goggles adjusted instantly, preserving his vision. At the foot of the stairs stood a fresh-faced young man, sandy hair messed from sleep. Watery, pale-blue eyes peered inquisitively at Henri. “Who are you?”

“Your doom, Dr. Ward,” said Henri.

“Isn’t that a bit theatrical?”

“It would’ve been better if you remained sleeping.”

“Insomnia is common among medical personnel. You tripped the silent alarm on the storage unit. Do you like my handiwork?”

“A pointless exercise. Desecrating the corpses of the dead is not unique, even with a modern twist. You are a ghoul, a madman.” His hands gripped on to Madame tighter.

“Pointless? You do not grasp the genius behind my experiments. Stronger assassins. Ones that feel no pain. Follow orders without question. Obedient and loyal, a perfect weapon of terror.”

“As you say, Dr. Frankenstein.”

The doctor frowned. “Frankenstein would bow to my methods. Electricity to animate bodies? Passé. Chemicals are a superior method. Cleaner, less obtrusive. They allow for the acceptance of my modifications.”

Henri glanced at the uncovered body in the cold room. “They aren’t dead?”

“Now you see the genius. Chemical suspension of all life functions. They are perfectly preserved until needed. Pumps circulate an oxygenated fluid around the body, dopamine injected to keep them docile until needed, combat drugs to enhance their abilities, and brain modification to ensure obedience. Perfect assassins.”

“A clumsy weapon. Blunt and unsubtle. Better suited for war than assassination.”

The doctor snorted. “I have succeeded where others have failed. My work will live on long after my death and I will be hailed as a visionary.”

“Why the act?”

“You are astute. Only a rational mind could have succeeded in this endeavor. Did you expect a raving madman playing God?”

“The thought did cross my mind.” Henri gestured around the basement. “This is too neat. Too tidy. This is all too precise and deliberate. Even the bodies are merely for show.”

Dr. Ward scowled and edged toward the stairs.

Madame flashed in the basement light as Henri whirled the ax blade around. The doctor’s head rolled from his shoulders, his mouth moving in silent protest.

“You chose poorly, doctor.”

Home—The Day Before

“What are you reading?” Andre stepped into the room, carrying the local newspaper. The headlines proclaimed “Brownstone row fire destroys block of condemned houses. Police suspect arson.”

Henri didn’t look up from the journal on the dining room table. A pile of similar books lay scattered about in front of the young man, with dozens of papers. He wrote on a legal pad as his eyes scanned the cramped writing. “The doctor’s journals. There is more to this story than just a single man and his basement theater of horrors.”

“You believe he was not acting alone.”

He nodded. “That room was a sham. A showcase to misdirect and confuse.” Henri gestured to one of the piles of paperwork. “It’s taken some time, but I have traced the trail of money and front companies. He was the face of the operation.”

“I will leave you to your research.” Andre Deibler walked out of the dining room, nodding in satisfaction.

Hours later, Henri sat back and reviewed the pages of notes.
Clever. Very clever.
He stood up and went to the weapon rack, running a hand along the Madame’s dark wood shaft. “We have work to do. The guilty must be made to pay for their crimes.”

The Docklands—The Day After

The diesel engines of delivery trucks growled and rumbled as they moved the cargo up the paved road to the warehouses. Bright lights illuminated the yards and security guards manned the entrance, checking each truck as it entered and exited. Two large cargo ships lay tied to moorings on the dock, next to a smaller medical ship. Cranes moved cargo from dock into the holds. Men shouted over the whine of generators and truck engines. It was a hive of activity and work. Even the medical ship was busy, lights blazing and armed sailors patrolling the deck.

Henri swam under the dock, just below the water’s surface, rising only to take a quick breath before diving back under. He dragged a large, waterproof bag behind him. The ship’s hull appeared in front of him through the murky water. Barnacles and rust covered the metal in large, thick patches. Faded lettering high on the bow proclaimed the ship as the Angel’s Grace. It rode high in the water that lapped and sloshed against the hull. He checked his watch, as the second hand swept toward 2:10 a.m. The lights of the dock went dark, leaving only the lights of the ships to illuminate the night. Shouts and curses echoed in the night as the whine of electric motors died.

He deftly climbed up the side, the magnetic gloves gripping the hull to allow purchase. He was over the rail in under thirty seconds, ducking into the shadow of the forward wheelhouse. The guards milled midship near the gangplank.

“Get those fucking lights back on.”

“The mains are still out. Need to fire up the damn generators.”

“Move it, shitheads. We need to keep on schedule.”

“Yes, sir.”

Henri flipped open a hatch and dropped into the dark interior, the low-light goggles compensating for the emergency lighting. He unzipped the bag, pulled out the pouch of explosives, and fastened it to his waist. Madame was lifted out with care, along with a silenced Glock. “Sorry, Madame. I mean you no disrespect.”

He moved down the passageway, pausing at the bulkhead hatches to listen and place a charge behind the ductwork. Only the shouting above deck filtered down. There were no direction signs, only gray wrapped pipes and whitewashed metal decorated the ship. At a junction, the bulkhead door opened and a masked woman in blood-splattered surgical garb stepped through. Beyond her was another closed bulkhead door, forming a small air lock. Henri grabbed her, covered her mouth, and stepped into the head. He pressed the silenced Glock her chest and fired, a soft
pffft
the only sound. She slumped to the tiled floor in a boneless heap. He moved into the air lock, sealed the bulkhead behind him, and pulled the lever to open the other door.

Henri’s nose wrinkled at the stench. Unwashed flesh, human waste, blood, and sex mixed in an unholy miasma. The hold was full of rusting, filth-coated, raised metal and safety-glass cages. Each was open to the ceiling and connected with short tubes barely large enough for a man to crawl. Growls, whimpers, howls of pain and pleasure echoed off the walls, as the occupants paced back and forth. Red, angry flesh puckered around the metal and plastic implants, seeping blood, pus, and other fluids. They paced back and forth, rutted with each other, growled and snarled at Henri.

They are little better than animals. Disgusting and abominable, no person should be treated like this.

Safety glass shook as the patient pounded on the barrier. Henri stepped back involuntarily. Scars ran across her body, testaments to numerous operations. Her forearms and hands had been replaced by steel and plastic prosthetics that ended in lumpy fists. Excess flesh had been excised away, leaving puckered and scabrous scars on the chest. A single horn jutted from her forehead, the skin around it infected and shot through with angry red lines. Mad eyes stared wildly at him from a face twisted with hate, rage, and pain. Behind her lay a body, arms splayed outward, vacant eyes staring at lights high above.

At the far end of the hold stood two men in lab coats. They leaned over one of the patients strapped to an operating table with leather bonds. They looked up as Henri sprinted down the gangway, his boots pounding heavily on the metal. Madame’s axe blade flashed in a wide arc, parting the younger man’s head from his body. From the cages came howls of rage and the pounding of metal on the barriers.

“Dr. Manson. I have come for you.”

“Who are you? How did you find me?” The older, heavyset man stumbled back, a sheen of sweat on his balding brow. “You killed Philip!” His voice raised in a shriek.

“No one can hear you. This room appears to be soundproof.”

“I have powerful friends. They will make you pay.” His eyes went wide with fear and panic.

“This experiment ends here. Your life is forfeit.” Henri lifted him to his feet and slammed him to wall. “I will not sully Madame with your blood.” He pulled out a set of handcuffs and fastened left wrist to the right ankle. On the table, the patient moaned. The pistol made a soft sound and the pain ceased.

“Don’t kill me. I can make you rich,” the doctor pleaded. A wet stain grew on the front of his pants.

“Wealth does not tempt us, doctor.” Henri moved to a desk covered with papers, journals, and a laptop. The contents were stuffed into the waterproof bag with a single sweep of his hand.

“I can make you better. Stronger. A killing machine that has no equal.”

Henri stared down at him through the eyes of the death mask and shook his head.

“You would no longer need that archaic weapon. Your body would be a fine-tuned killing machine. Immune to pain and feeling. A true creature of this century and not some primitive relic of the past.”

“What did you say?” He stepped and kicked out with the toe of his boot. The doctor spit blood and teeth, whimpering in pain. “Do not insult Madame!” Henri hauled him to his feet and pushed him to the railing. “You are a monster. You torture and harm for your own ego. There is nothing moral about your actions. There is no justification!”

“You are no better.”

“We do not harm the innocent,” he hissed and slammed the doctor headfirst into the metal rails. “You make us sick. Living as one of those poor souls would be a just punishment, but I’m left with only a single recourse.”