Read Online Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) by Benjamin Sobieck - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Benjamin Sobieck
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of ice around here.
“Thanks for the warm welcome, I guess,” I say and draw the .45.
When in doubt, get the gun out.
“You’ll have no need for weapons here, Mr. Baker,” Doctor X says with a deep, throaty chuckle.
“It’s funny. The people who say I don’t need weapons are always the ones I wind up needing them for,” I say, stumbling on the grammar. I wonder how my literary agent would handle an edit like that.
Doctor X gets my point. He laughs and rubs his hands together.
“I like your style, Mr. Baker,” he says and turns to my companion. “And you, Ms. Carter, the rage you displayed earlier was not unnoticed or unappreciated. I admire your conviction.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Hillary says. She’s still steamed.
“Exactly,” Doctor X says and paces in front of the table without so much as a limp. “It’s why I’ve decided to have a change of heart. Instead of killing you as I’d originally planned once we got here, I’m going to offer you an opportunity instead.”
“You can skip the timeshare hard sell,” I say and raise the .45 so that the front sight lines up with Doctor X’s chest. “Where’s the Iceman?”
Doctor X is unfazed. “In due time, Mr. Baker. I can assure you both that you’ll be reunited with the Iceman in a, shall we say, intimate way.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I say.
“Allow me to explain in more visual terms,” Doctor X says. He motions to the hunched over figure in the shadows. “Come. Show yourself, Helper 8.”
“Helper 8” steps forward on two legs into the light and forever into my memory. What I see before me is like nothing I’ve ever encountered.
17.
To be blunt, Helper 8 is one of the most hideous things I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I do mean things . There’s no way this thing is more than 50 percent human. Helper 8 looks like Dr. Jekyll pressed paused in the middle of transitioning into Mr. Hyde before being repeatedly dropped out of an airplane until every bone in his body swaps places with another at least twice. And that’s what I can tell from the features visible above Helper 8’s hair, which is thick and matted in some parts while long and stringy in others. The only consistency is in its coverage area from ugly head to rocky toes.
I’d peg Helper 8 for an exceptionally unfortunate ape walking on two legs if not for its mannerisms. Its eyes, despite their mismatched sizes and positions on its face, contain a trace of humanity, almost of sadness. It shuffles, its frame hunched into place with a crooked back, to Doctor X like a pet expecting a treat but knowing it won’t get one. It acknowledges me with a glance that I’ve encountered at one too many cocktail parties in more professional environs, one that tries to be polite and dismissive at the same time.
More disturbing than its grotesque appearance is the fact Helper 8 holds an old SKS rifle in his hands. If something that subhuman is going to pull the trigger on anything, it ought to be on reconstructive surgery, not a gun.
I’m glad I spot the SKS’s signature bayonet, which swings 180 degrees on a mount near the end of the barrel. The SKS semi-automatic rifle went into service in 1946 in the Soviet Union, and was a popular pick for Warsaw Pact militaries. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, 20,000 or so SKSs were imported into the United States by firearm dealers and collectors. I’m willing to bet Doctor X and Helper 8 didn’t pick this particular model up at a gun show. Then where did they get it? From a black market arms dealer? Maybe, but my gut tells me something else. The SKS in Helper 8’s hands came from old military stock acquired by Doctor X at the source. That means Doctor X is working with a government, and I’d put money on the Russians.
“I see you’re admiring Helper 8’s firearm, Mr. Baker. Being familiar with such things, you may wonder why Helper 8 is using a Cold War relic like the SKS,” Doctor X says. “Of
“Thanks for the warm welcome, I guess,” I say and draw the .45.
When in doubt, get the gun out.
“You’ll have no need for weapons here, Mr. Baker,” Doctor X says with a deep, throaty chuckle.
“It’s funny. The people who say I don’t need weapons are always the ones I wind up needing them for,” I say, stumbling on the grammar. I wonder how my literary agent would handle an edit like that.
Doctor X gets my point. He laughs and rubs his hands together.
“I like your style, Mr. Baker,” he says and turns to my companion. “And you, Ms. Carter, the rage you displayed earlier was not unnoticed or unappreciated. I admire your conviction.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Hillary says. She’s still steamed.
“Exactly,” Doctor X says and paces in front of the table without so much as a limp. “It’s why I’ve decided to have a change of heart. Instead of killing you as I’d originally planned once we got here, I’m going to offer you an opportunity instead.”
“You can skip the timeshare hard sell,” I say and raise the .45 so that the front sight lines up with Doctor X’s chest. “Where’s the Iceman?”
Doctor X is unfazed. “In due time, Mr. Baker. I can assure you both that you’ll be reunited with the Iceman in a, shall we say, intimate way.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I say.
“Allow me to explain in more visual terms,” Doctor X says. He motions to the hunched over figure in the shadows. “Come. Show yourself, Helper 8.”
“Helper 8” steps forward on two legs into the light and forever into my memory. What I see before me is like nothing I’ve ever encountered.
17.
To be blunt, Helper 8 is one of the most hideous things I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I do mean things . There’s no way this thing is more than 50 percent human. Helper 8 looks like Dr. Jekyll pressed paused in the middle of transitioning into Mr. Hyde before being repeatedly dropped out of an airplane until every bone in his body swaps places with another at least twice. And that’s what I can tell from the features visible above Helper 8’s hair, which is thick and matted in some parts while long and stringy in others. The only consistency is in its coverage area from ugly head to rocky toes.
I’d peg Helper 8 for an exceptionally unfortunate ape walking on two legs if not for its mannerisms. Its eyes, despite their mismatched sizes and positions on its face, contain a trace of humanity, almost of sadness. It shuffles, its frame hunched into place with a crooked back, to Doctor X like a pet expecting a treat but knowing it won’t get one. It acknowledges me with a glance that I’ve encountered at one too many cocktail parties in more professional environs, one that tries to be polite and dismissive at the same time.
More disturbing than its grotesque appearance is the fact Helper 8 holds an old SKS rifle in his hands. If something that subhuman is going to pull the trigger on anything, it ought to be on reconstructive surgery, not a gun.
I’m glad I spot the SKS’s signature bayonet, which swings 180 degrees on a mount near the end of the barrel. The SKS semi-automatic rifle went into service in 1946 in the Soviet Union, and was a popular pick for Warsaw Pact militaries. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, 20,000 or so SKSs were imported into the United States by firearm dealers and collectors. I’m willing to bet Doctor X and Helper 8 didn’t pick this particular model up at a gun show. Then where did they get it? From a black market arms dealer? Maybe, but my gut tells me something else. The SKS in Helper 8’s hands came from old military stock acquired by Doctor X at the source. That means Doctor X is working with a government, and I’d put money on the Russians.
“I see you’re admiring Helper 8’s firearm, Mr. Baker. Being familiar with such things, you may wonder why Helper 8 is using a Cold War relic like the SKS,” Doctor X says. “Of
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