Codename: Omega (feat. The Apiary Society) (2 page)

“Okay,” Scott said.  He followed the guard to the bank vault door and stood back as the guard spun the lock and pulled it open to reveal a small room of concrete walls and floor with only a thin mattress laying on the floor.  Scott stopped at the doorway and looked in. 

“Go on now,” the guard said. 

“I’m not a prisoner. Why are you treating me like this?  I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Seen any decent people raising up from the dead lately, boy?  Me neither. Get your ass inside.” 

***

They made him do tests designed to measure the limits of his strength.  For short periods of time he could lift the rear end of a car into the air by just the back bumper, but after that he would be too weak to move. 

The men in the masks drew vials of his blood for testing.  They measured him for radioactivity, electricity, and atomic energy but found nothing.  What seemed to truly annoy the researchers was that Scott refused to recreate the act of teleportation.  “I don’t know how I did it,” he insisted.  “I can’t do what you want me to do.”

Statements were read from eyewitnesses at Bellicourt.   The event was broken down moment by moment until someone finally said, “It was the sight of the morphine needle.  Perhaps he only vanishes when he is afraid.” 

The next morning, the guard tapped the outside of Scott’s door with his nightstick and said, “Time for your exercises, Subject 129.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The guard flipped the meal slot’s lid and said, “That’s all you are anymore.  A goddamn science project.  Now get up.”

Scott did not move from his cot.  “I’m finished.  You people aren’t telling me anything, and I need to figure out who I am.  I must have family somewhere and I want to be taken to them.”

The guard smiled, “Actually, I have a military jacket sitting on my desk right now.  It arrived in the mail yesterday.  There’s all sorts of good information in there for some dead man named James Scott.  Would you be interested in seeing it?”

“You’re lying,” Scott said. 

“You willing to risk that?”

“Show me the file.”

“Not unless you behave today.  Got something special for you.  If you want that file, you need to do as you’re told.”

Scott sighed and got up.  “Lead the way.”   

They walked down the hall toward the room with the lunatic chair from the asylum.  “Have a seat.  They asked me to tie you down.  Relax, it’s no big deal.  They just wanna see if you can escape again.”

“I already told them I can’t.”

The guard nodded politely as he pushed Scott into the chair and pulled a heavy strap across his chest.  He buckled the rest across Scott’s waist, arms and legs.  “They on good and tight?  Can you move?  Good.  Bring in the machine.”

Squeaking wheels came down the hall and Scott managed to lift his head enough to see a hooded researcher pushing an electrical generator into the room.  It had a long wooden hand crank and multiple wires that connected to dozens of small suction cups, like a robotic octopus.  “What the hell is that?” Scott said. 

“Hold still, partner,” the guard said.  He stuck a suction cup on Scott’s arm and then kept sticking them until they covered Scott’s chest, neck and face.  He yanked Scott’s underwear down to stick them between his thighs and onto his lower belly.  He stuck them to bottom of Scott’s feet.  Finally, the guard waved a wooden dowel over Scott’s face and said, “Bite this.”

“Let me out!”

“Bite it or you’ll chew your tongue off, stupid.”  

The hooded researcher cleared his throat and said, “You are required to pay attention to this next part, Subject 129.  We are going to crank this generator and produce a significant electrical charge that will travel through these wires into your body via the suction cups.  I am afraid that the pain will be quite severe.  You may escape via teleportation at any time.” 

“I can’t!” Scott shouted.  “I don’t know how to!  Let me out of this thing!”

“Yes you do, Subject 129,” the researcher shouted.  “Stop wasting everyone’s time and do it.  No?  Fine.  Crank the handle.” 

The guard grabbed the handle and started to turn it, making the generator whine until flashes of blue and white electrical current sparked inside the suction cups.  Scott screamed until his teeth crushed the wooden bit and one of the connections blew off of his chest.  Lights flickered inside the facility and the guard stopped turning the crank and wiped his brow as Scott clenched his eyes and whimpered and sobbed. 

The researcher leaned over Scott and said, “That was nothing.  We are just getting started.  Are you ready to teleport?”

“I can’t—”

“Crank the handle.”

The guard spun the crank and waves of searing current flew through wires all over again. 

***

Subject 129 woke in his bunk hours later.  There was a thin manila envelope with a single sheet of paper inside sitting on the floor next to his bed.  He sat up and removed the paper, seeing the name
James Scott
typed across the top.  Place of Birth:
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Place of Death:
St. Quentin Canal.

He turned the paper over in the dim light but there was nothing else.  He crumpled the page into a ball and tossed it across the room in disgust.  He collapsed on his bunk and screamed until he was out of breath. 

The bullet holes in his chest were now jagged scars the size of quarters and Scott ran his fingers over them, playing with the ridges of raised skin.  He found another scar on his left hand that seemed older than the others.  It was a leftover reminder of a past he could not recover.  He wondered how it got there and what he’d been doing at the time.  He played with the scar, turning his hand over and over, when he saw the small ring of pale skin around his left ring finger.  The flesh was rubbed smooth there, like a man who’d worn a wedding ring and never took it off.

There was a woman. 

He saw her face.  Saw her smiling at him.  Crying to him.  Lying beside him sleeping.  He could see her eyes widen as they made love.  Feel her arms wrap tightly around the back of his neck, begging him not to enlist in the war. 

Scott jumped up from the bed and slammed his fists against the steel door, shouting, “Let me out!  I remember!  I remember!” 

Footsteps raced down the hall toward his cell.  Scott dove to the meal slot and said, “I have a wife!  I need to see her.  I need to tell her I’m alive.”

The guard rapped the door with his nightstick.  “Shut up in there.  You know the rules.  No getting out until morning.”

“I have a wife!  She needs to know!”

“You don’t have shit.  James Scott had a wife, but he’s dead and buried.  Subject 129 just has the generator, and if you thought today was bad, just wait till you see what they’ve got in store for you tomorrow.  They’re gonna sizzle your bacon for sure.”  

Scott screamed in outrage and ran straight at the door.  The guard threw his hands over his face to protect himself from the impact, but nothing happened and he fell backwards on the floor.  “I thought you was gonna run straight into the dang door,” he said.  He chuckled as he got back to his feet, looking around for his nightstick.  “You’re gonna look real pretty with no teeth, you dumb son of a bitch.  You and me are gonna have ourselves a party now.”

Something grabbed the guard by the neck and lifted him into the air.  He clawed at whatever was cinched around his throat and found fingers there, a human hand that held him aloft even as he kicked and pushed against the prison door with his feet. 

He was thrown to the ground so hard he nearly lost consciousness, coming to as the thing grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him down the hall.  He looked up to see the lights overhead and realized they were heading for the office with the security chair and generator.  Subject 129 bent down over him and snatched him by the shoulders, picking him up with no effort and slamming him down into chair. 

“No!  No!” the guard screamed.  “Help!”   

Scott ripped the guard’s uniform shirt to pieces like it was made of paper and said, “How do you like it?”  He held the guard in place as he locked the straps down.  He jammed suction cups onto the straps into place. He put several suction cups on the guard’s chest and wheeled the generator toward the door.  Scott found extra wires and he ran those out to the closest research stations and stuck the suction cup receivers to the surfaces of the machines.  He found a fuse box near the office and stuck two more cups onto the main junction. 

The guard continued to plead for mercy until Scott shoved the wooden bit into his mouth.  He grabbed the generator’s handle and gave it one great heave, spinning it as fast as a carnival wheel.    

Every light inside the facility exploded. 

The wires attached to the guard sparked and burst into flames, setting fire to the leather straps and chair.  The researchers came running at the sound of the guard’s horrific screams, only to trip over themselves and crash into one another in the smoke and darkness.

***

Major William J. Donovan headed into the cold, dark cemetery.  Rain spilled off his umbrella as he made his way past rows of graves and mausoleums, heading for a hill peak where a man stood looking down at a tombstone.  Water cascaded off of every part of him.   

The hill was slick with mud, making it hard to traverse, but Donovan found a way up until he was finally able to stand at the man’s side.  Donovan held his umbrella over their both of their heads and looked at the tombstones. 
Technical Sergeant James Scott, beloved husband, killed in service to the United States.
  
Maureen Scott, beloved wife.
 

Donovan grunted and said, “Why in the hell they didn’t tell you, I don’t know, son.  It’s a goddamn crime.”  Donovan tried to warm up his hands by blowing into them.  “You’ve been on the run for quite a bit.  Are you hungry?”

 The man shook his head.     

“How about a cup of coffee and a smoke?”    

“What do you want?”

“Well.  I came to ask for your help, James,” Donovan said.  

“Try to put me in another laboratory and you’re a dead man.”

“No more labs,” Donovan said.  “All I have for you is an offer of hard work and danger.  But it’s good work.  The kind that makes a difference.”  

They looked at one another for a little while until the man said, “I guess I could go for a cigarette.”   

Donovan pointed to his car down the hill.  “I’ve got smokes in there.  What do you say, James?”  

“I say don’t call me that anymore.  James Scott is in the ground next to his wife.  Let them both rest in peace.” 

Donovan shook out his wet jacket on the ground and sighed.  “Those sons of bitches did a real number on you.  Whatever you got out of this whole coming-back-to-life deal, I bet it wasn’t worth the price.”

“Can you get me a new name?” 

“Son, I can get you five of them.”

Episode 2

CODENAME: OMEGA

1943

The handle on the building’s front door turned and Elma Sink immediately pushed the hidden red button beneath her desk.  Two armed guards snapped to at attention at either side of the door as a man walked in and went directly to Elma’s desk.  “I’d like to see ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan, please.” 

Elma pushed her glasses up on her nose, “I’m certain I have no idea what you mean, sir.”

He waved his hand in annoyance, “You don’t need to use that old cloak-and-dagger stuff on me, sweetie.  I’m looking for William J. Donovan, Director of the Office of Strategic Services.  Tell him a personal friend of Senator Doxey would like a moment of his time.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but there is no one named Donovan in this building.”

The man opened his mouth to protest, but one of the guards already had a beefy arm around him, pulling him away from Elma’s desk, dragging him back toward the door.  The phone rang.  Elma picked it up and said, “Yes, Director.  He’s gone.”

Across the courtyard, William Donovan peered through his office’s dirty windows at the grand-looking building where Elma Sink was sitting.  It had detailed landscaping and ornate fixtures, justifiable embellishments for the official address of America’s first spy agency.  Shame the whole building is empty, Donovan thought.  “Thank you, Miss Sink.”       

He watched a man enter through the front door, fumbling with his suit and tie before he raised his fist and shook it at the guards.  They waved to him and shut the door.  The man spun around, looking at all of the surrounding buildings, but somehow fixed on the one Donovan was in, as if he could see the Director sitting on the fifth floor, hidden behind smoked out windows. 

“Don’t do it, buddy,” Donovan whispered.  “Just turn around and get back in your car.”

The man took a step forward and Donovan cursed under his breath, knowing the snipers on his roof had already zeroed in on the man.  He imagined he could hear them adjusting the sights of their Mosin-Nagant rifles, preparing to blow a hole the size of a phone book through the man’s chest.  “Turn around, goddammit,” Donovan whispered.