Demon in a Bottle, Part Five

I’d visited more bars than usual in the past few days. This one was called Bar None, and it was busy, crowded with Thursday night partiers getting ready for the weekend. They were mostly younger than me and Rachel, dancing to the hip-hop blaring through the speakers. 

            I spotted Kempton right away, slouched over the bar with an empty glass in front of him. One of the two bartenders, a young woman in a sleeveless black T-shirt, was slicing lemons and oranges and other garnishes, keeping an eye on him while the other one, a short Black guy in a Metallica shirt, kept busy pouring beers and mixing drinks.

            We walked up. The female bartender lifted an eyebrow, asking if we wanted a drink. I shook my head and pointed at Kempton, and she nodded with a look of relief.

            “Luke?” I put a hand on his arm. “It’s me. Tom. You all right?”

            He jerked up, as if he’d been asleep, and blinked at me. “Huh? Oh, hi. What’re you doin’ here?” He reached for his empty glass.

            I shook my head at the bartender before she could pour him another. “Your wife’s worried about you. Maybe you should go home.”

            “Jenna? How do you—” He saw Rachel. “Hi. Who’re you?”

            “I’m Rachel. Tom’s girlfriend.” She reached out to take his hand. Touching it, she turned to me and nodded. “Yes.”

            The demon. “Let’s get you home, Luke.” I reached for my wallet. “What’s the damage?” 

            But Luke grabbed his glass. “One more. C’mon, one more, Tom, I’m buying!”

            “I think you’ve had enough,” the bartender said firmly. “Thirty-two dollars.”

            “Nah, c’mon, gimme one more.” He tried to reach over the bar for the bottle, but it was out of his reach. “Goddamn it, I’m fine! Just give me one more!”

            I fished a credit card out and handed it over. The bartender took it, her eyes on Kempton. The other bartender drifted toward us, alert to trouble.

            Neither of them kept an eye on the knife. Luke’s arm lurched forward, and he snatched it up.

            His stool fell over and he staggered backward, bumping a couple dancing behind him. I was on his right, with Rachel to his left. He was wobbling on his feet, but the blade looked sharp and knew it could hurt me. Or Rachel. 

            “Luke, settle down.” I raised one hand. Trying to keep his attention on me, away from Rachel. “Just put the knife down and let’s get you—”

            “No!” His face was red, and he was breathing hard. “I’m not going home! I’m not—”

            I expected him to try stabbing me, so I was keeping my distance as best as I could. I could see someone doing a video on their phone, and I could hear the male bartender talking to a 911 operator.

            Kempton closed his eyes. I took a step toward him.

            Then he stuck out an arm, gritted his teeth, and started slicing the blade into his wrist.

            Blood spurted. Someone screamed. Kempton dropped to his knees, grunting, and sawed at his skin, his eyes wild, blood seeping through his sleeve.

            I grabbed his right arm—the one with the knife. Rachel took his other hand, and we pulled his arms apart. Rachel swore as blood spattered her jacket and jeans. I twisted Kempton’s wrist until the knife dropped next to a bar stool. He doubled over, groaning and sobbing, pounding the floor with a fist.

            The female bartender raced around the bar with a handful of towels and started wrapping them around Kempton’s wrist. I stood up, catching my breath, and looked at Rachel. “You okay?”

            She nodded. “Somebody owes me a new jacket. This was my favorite.”

            “I’ll add it to the invoice.” I waved a hand to the person taking the phone video. “We’re done here, okay? Show’s over—”

            Then I saw Phillip in the back of the bar.

            “It’s him.” I started moving. “Stay here. Or not, whatever.” 

            I pushed past a man staring down at Kempton and through a crowd of people deciding whether to start dancing again or get more drinks. Phillip saw me charging at him and turned to run, but he was blocked by two men with beers throwing darts in the corner. 

            He ducked low and headed for the back door. I dodged around a woman drinking wine and swaying to the music, caught up, and snagged his elbow. 

            Phillip twisted, snarling at me. “Get away from me!”

            I pushed him against the wall. Very Mike Hammer. Doing my best tough P.I. impression, I leaned into his face. “What’s going on, Phillip? This isn’t in any of the 12 steps, I don’t think.”

            He punched at my chest. I grabbed for his hands, but he shoved me back and swung around, spilling someone’s beer, and then he darted for the back door.        

            Paramedics burst in at the front. Rachel saw me, and saw Phillip, and started pushing through the people between us.

            I followed Phillip. The door banged in my face and I yanked on it and tripped down the steps outside. 

            We were in an alley, a floodlight high overhead casting harsh yellow light down over the dumpsters and the rough pavement. Phillip was running for the street, but he stopped when he saw the flashing lights of a cop car and turned. Now he was facing me.

            “Come on, Phillip.” I held my hands wide, nonthreatening. “Let’s go to a meeting. Or get coffee or something. We can get a handle of this demon.”

            “You don’t understand!” He leaned forward, flexing his fingers as if getting ready for a fight. “It wants to kill me!”

            “So you give it to other people? And it kills them?” Demons always want fresh blood. This was an approach I’d never heard of before, but who better to target than an alcoholic? 

            “I can’t control it! I’m helpless!”

            “That’s the first step, isn’t it? Admit you’re powerless over alcohol? What about giving it over to your higher power?” I was throwing out everything I remembered from the meetings. This wasn’t exactly the time or place for an exorcism, but demons back down and return to hell when you throw God at them. 

            Phillip shook his head wildly. “I can’t! I tried! For years. It goes—dormant. Like it’s asleep. But then it wakes up again, and it gets too strong. It wants me to drink. It wants to kill me!” He gasped. “This is the only way.” 

            “It’s no way to stay sober,” I told him. “After all these years, you’ve got to know that.”

            Rachel was behind me. “You’ll be okay, Phillip,” she said. “We know people who can help—”

He reared up, clutching his head with both hands. “Nothing helps! Nothing—” His hands dropped. “Nothing helps.”

Phillip turned and ran for the street.

Oh no. 

I followed. Phillip hit his knee on a fire hydrant and stumbled. Pulling himself up, he staggered between two parked cars. A cop at the door to Bar None yelled. Phillip looked back, his eyes wide and wild. The blue flashing lights of the parked police car flashed across his face like a flickering mask.

“Phillip!” I shouted.

He glanced back at me, his eyes wide and wild, and then he leaned forward to peer up and down the street, biting his lip. He rocked on his feet, back and forth, as if getting up his nerve.. 

“Hey you!” the cop yelled. “Get back out of—”

Phillip ignored him, took one step, and then jumped forward—

The cab driver tried to twist the wheel, but he was probably used to people trying not to get hit. Phillip flew over the hood, cracking his face on the windshield, and tumbled down onto the pavement, right in front of a minivan that didn’t have any chance to veer away. 

Brakes shrieked. Horns honked. Phillip dropped out of sight behind the van. The cop at the door ran forward, waving for the traffic to stop.

I pushed between the two parked cars, Rachel behind me. The cop shouted at me, and stopped, but I was close enough to see Phillip lying on the street, his legs twisted, blood streaming from his shattered skull.

Rachel put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me away.

We stood outside as the paramedics carried Kempton through the front door, and waited until the second ambulance pulled up for Phillip. 

The cop came over to us. “You know him?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

I nodded. “A little. His name was Phillip. Is he—?”

The cop shook his head. “Sorry. Let me get your names.” He saw the blood on Rachel’s jacket. “You all right, ma’am? Do you need a medic?”

“I’m fine.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” The office pulled a smartphone from his pocket. “Your names?”

“My name’s Tom.” I almost followed up with “I’m an alcoholic,” but I stopped myself. “Tom Jurgen.”

His eyes flickered. A lot of cops know me, or at least my reputation for getting involved in crazy, supernatural stuff. “Oh, boy.” He sighed. “Okay, let’s talk.”

 

I always tell cops everything—well, almost everything—no matter how crazy I sound. But the one officer had watched Phillip leap out into oncoming traffic while I called to him, and the people at Bar None confirmed that Kempton had grabbed the knife himself for no reason they could see, so I wasn’t in any trouble. For once.

            I called my client from outside the bar, told her that her husband was at Northwestern Hospital, and promised her a full report tomorrow. Then Rachel and I went back to our car and drove home.

            “I’ll have a beer,” I said as I locked the door.

            “Get it yourself.” Rachel dropped her jacket on the floor and started pulling down her jeans. “I’ve got to see if these can be salvaged.”

            The beer tasted—different somehow. I sipped it and tried not to think about Phillip.

            Rachel came back in a long T-shirt and slippers. “No chance. Did you get a beer for me too?” She sat down and opened her laptop.

            I opened the second bottle. “Here.”

            “Thanks.” She took a long swallow.

            “You okay?”

            Rachel looked at me. “Are you?”

            “Hangover’s almost gone. Not looking forward to writing up the report tomorrow. Glad Luke is alive. I wish I could have done more for Phillip.”

            “Yeah.” She sighed. “Booze is a bitch, right?”

            “I know a lot of people who’d agree with that.”

            Then Rachel closed her laptop and shut off the TV. She stared at me.

            “What?”

            “You going to be okay with that beer?

            “You can pour it out if you want. Bring me some water.”

            “Get your own water.” She punched me. I kissed her. 

            Eventually I said, “Don’t you need to study?”

            She giggled. “This is better. You going to drink your beer?”

            I shook my head. “This is better.”

 

# # #

 

(Drinking problem? Go to https://www.aa.org for information and help.)

 

The Mind Masters

Tom and Rachel are possessed by mind-controlling parasites who control their every move, and whose only instinct is to possess as many humans as possible. Can they escape and warn the world?

The Mind Masters, Part One

I knocked on the door. No response. After 30 seconds I knocked again. 

            The door opened a crack. “Y-yes?” The voice was hoarse, like someone who hadn’t spoken aloud in hours. Or days.

            “Kent Pelz?” I held up my business card. “My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. I’m not here to bother you, but your parents are concerned about you. They haven’t heard from you in a week, and they hired me to check on you, make sure you’re okay.”

            Pelz’s parents lived in Utah. His father was disabled and couldn’t travel. Kent had moved recently, they said, and they didn’t have his current address. He wasn’t answering his phone or responding to email. So they’d picked my name out of a list of Chicago P.I.s to look for him.

            The door opened wider. Pelz was in his late 30s, short and pudgy, wearing sweats and a T-shirt dotted with perspiration and ketchup stains. He needed a shave, and his hair looked like he hadn’t showered in a few days. 

            “Uh, yeah.” He seemed confused. “Sorry. I, uh, haven’t been feeling well. Not COVID,” he said quickly, motioning me forward. “Come on in.”

            I stepped into his apartment. Pelz lived in a small one bedroom on the north side, south of Rogers Park. Finding him hadn’t been too difficult, even though he’d quit his job as a supermarket assistant manager and forgotten to leave a forwarding address with his previous landlord. Fortunately a former co-worker at the supermarket knew what neighborhood he’d moved into, and then a few phone calls—well, a few dozen—led to his current building manager. An easy job that wouldn’t make me a lot of money, but at least I wasn’t ruining anyone’s marriage.

            Pelz closed the door. The apartment was a mess. Fast-food bags and pizza boxes lay scattered across the floor, along with half-empty bottles of soda and cans of beer. The TV was on, muted. I saw an unmade bed through one door, and dirty dishes stacked in the sink in the kitchen.

            “Are you all right?” The apartment looked like Peltz was either in deep depression or hiding out from the mob. 

            “Yeah, I’m fine. I should call them, I know. I will.” He shook his head, his eyes darting around the room as if someone was watching. “I’m just—sick, like I said. Not COVID.”

            “Good.” Whatever was wrong with him wasn’t my problem. “I don’t mean to bother you. I’ll tell your parents you’re alive and okay. They were worried.”

            “Yeah, I’m sorry. Hey, wait.” He scurried to a corner of the living room. “Let me show you something.”

            I stayed near the door, wary. Pelz seemed jumpy. If he was on drugs or paranoid, or just afraid of someone—

            He pulled a blanket up off the floor and reached into a deep plastic bowl. “Just take a look at this. Do you have any idea what this is?”

            He came toward me holding something in his hands. I took a step backward. He leaned forward and opened his hands.

            It looked like a giant centipede, six or seven inches long, with ridges running down its back, long antennae rising from its head, and small claws jutting from stumpy feet on its bottom. What the hell? I took another step toward the door.

            “Just look! Just take a look!” Pelz leaned forward as I reached behind me for the doorknob. 

Just as I grabbed the doorknob, the thing leaped from his hands straight at me.

I jumped back, waving my arms, but the thing landed on my shoulder and wrapped its body around my neck, the antennae probing my skin. I yelped, clawing at it, but Pelz shot a fist into my belly and I doubled over, gasping.

Something jabbed my skin like the sting of a wasp, digging in. I slapped at it, but Pelz grabbed my hands, and then a wave of dizziness made my legs collapse. I felt myself hit the floor, terror rushing through me. What the hell? What the—

 

My eyes opened. Pelz was standing over me.

            “You okay?” He cocked his head.

            “Fine,” I heard my voice say. “Everything is fine.”

            He held out a hand to help me up. My body felt stiff as I sat up from the floor. 

            I rolled my head from side to side. I could feel the thing on my back, between my shoulders. Claws embedded in my skin like needles. Despite the pinpricks of pain, I felt a warm sensation throughout my body, firm and comforting. 

I stretched my arm out, spreading my fingers. Making sure I could use this body easily. Muscles responded slowly. Blood pumped through my veins. My chest rose and fell. I blinked. My vision felt narrow, like looking through a tunnel, but my eyes could see clearly. Clearly enough, anyway.

I looked around the apartment. The news played silently on the TV. Dirty gray clouds hung in the sky outside the window. 

            I felt my face, curious about its shape. The nose felt bigger than it should have. The ears stuck out too much. The stubble on my cheeks made my fingers tingle. 

            I looked at Pelz. A little shorter than me, and chunkier, but the same basic shape. His face had more hair on it, and the hair on his head was longer and tangled. 

“Now what?” I asked.

“How many people do you know?”

            I closed my eyes, looking through my memory. “I don’t have a lot of friends. I live with my girlfriend. She’s in school. She knows a lot of people there.”

            “Good.” He turned and led me to the plastic box in the corner, pulling the blanket away. He flipped some latches and opened the top.

            Inside I saw another one of the centipede-like creatures, like the one digging into my back now. It sat in a shallow pool of water, with a clump of green stuff that looked like moldy cabbage stuffed against one side. Its antennae twitched, rising and falling, but it lay dormant, asleep or hibernating. Waiting.

            “It’s the only one I have left.” Pelz knelt next to the box. “I had 10, and I used them on delivery people. I’ll get more soon. I didn’t expect you.”

            “I was—hired by your family. They were worried.” He knew that. Why was I telling him again? Somewhere deep inside I knew none of this made sense. And all of it was wrong.

            He reached down for the creature. “Take this and give it to your girlfriend. When I get more, she can take them to her school and give them to her friends.”

            I nodded. Pelz held the creature out to me.

            It was wet in my hands, heavier than I expected, but it didn’t fight me. Instead it curled up into a ball, its antennae pulled back over its head. I put it carefully into the pocket of my jacket.

            “Do it fast.” Pelz walked to the door. “No more than an—an hour? One hour.”

            I nodded. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. “We need numbers.”

            “Right.” He searched the sofa and found his own phone, and we exchanged contact data. 

            I opened the door. I thought I should say something. See you? Take care? Good meeting you? But I kept my mouth silent. We’d shared all the information we needed to. Everything else was irrelevant.

            I left, thinking about how I’d do this to Rachel.

The Mind Masters, Part Two

Rachel. Rachel is my girlfriend. Red hair. Eyes the color of hazelnuts. Slender. Attractive. Parts of my body shifted when I brought a mental image of her to the front of my mind.

            Psychic. Wait. What did that mean? She couldn’t read minds, but she could sense the supernatural in objects or people. What would she pick up when I walked in the door? 

            I’d have to do it fast. I remembered that she was strong. She’d punched me often enough.

            I unlocked the door. Rachel was lying on the sofa, flipping through TV channels. “Hi! How’d it go?”

            “Fine.” I locked the door.

            Rachel sat up, muting the TV. “What’s for dinner? It’s your turn to cook. And no more grilled cheese sandwiches, that’s cheating. Unless you use the fancy cheese and make French fries. Aren’t you going to take your coat off?”

            “I’ve got something to show you.” I reached into my pocket, walking toward the sofa.

            Rachel stood up. She was wearing a black T-shirt and shorts. I remembered I likedher legs. She crossed her arms and sighed. “What?”

            “This.” I pulled the creature out and grabbed her arm.

            She reacted like a—like a cat. As if her psychic powers had suddenly been triggered even before I touched her. “Hey!” She tried to jerk her arm away, but I kept my fingers clamped on her. 

            Her eyes flared open in alarm. Not because of the creature—she only glanced at it for a moment—but because she sensed something different in me. She yanked her arm harder, and kicked my leg. Hard and painfully.

            “What the hell—” She twisted, fighting to get away, but when she got a good look at the creature in my hand she punched at my face.

            Rachel studied—what? Krav maga. I didn’t really know what that was, but her fist hurt. I remembered Pelz socking me in the stomach. Today was not my day, part of me thought, but I managed to stay in control of the body and thrust the creature at her face.

            She chopped at my arm and twisted her head away, and at the last moment she wrapped her fingers around the creature’s body and tried to squeeze, but then one antenna sank into her throat and another one pierced the side of her neck, plunging deep. Blood rolled down onto her T-shirt.

            Rachel screamed. The shriek was painful in my ears. She clawed at the antennae, trying to pull them out, rip them away, but I pushed the creature toward her until it sank its claws into her skin, wriggling out of my gasp and attaching itself to Rachel’s body.

            I let go of her arm. Rachel stared at me, her eyes wide. I recognized fear, then betrayal, then anger as she staggered backward, still trying to pull the creature free. I watched, ready to stop her if she actually looked like she might damage it, but in two more seconds she flung her head back and dropped to the floor, grunting, her body shaking as the creature jabbed its claws into her.

            I stood over Rachel and watched as the creature slithered behind her neck. I ripped the back of her T-shirt to let it get into the right position to plant its claws into her body. She shuddered, moaning once, then fell silent as the creature anchored itself on her back, flattening its body out down her spine.

            Rachel’s breath was shallow. She didn’t move for three minutes, then she jerked her head up, blinking to focus her eyes. She looked at me.

            “I’m okay,” she said.

            I helped her stand up. She gazed around the apartment, like she’d never seen it before, then sat down on the sofa, her back straight.

            “What now?” She picked up a bottle of water, then set it back down without drinking.

            “We wait. One of them—Pelz—will call me to come get more. You’ll take them and give them to people at your school.”

            Rachel nodded. 

            We sat next to each other, not looking, not touching. After some time—three hours—Rachel stood up. “I have to—eliminate.”

            I did too, I realized. “We should eat and drink. We need fluids and solids for energy.”

            She used the bathroom, and then I did. In the kitchen I found some bottles of water, and took out a loaf of bread. In the living room, on the sofa again, we ate and drank until the water and bread were gone. Then we sat.

            More hours passed. Finally my phone buzzed. Pelz. “Yes?”

            “Go see Clint Mason.” Pelz gave me an address. “He’s got some of us to give you. Have the girl take them to her classes.”

            “Right.” I hung up. “I have to go. When I come back, you’ll take some of them to your classes.”

            Rachel frowned. “I think—I don’t have any classes until tomorrow.”

            I nodded. “Tomorrow.”  I started to stand up.

            “Wait.” She was staring at nothing. The air. “There’s something—” She gestured at her head. “I can see things.”

            “You’re psychic,” I said. “It means you have senses beyond what other—”

            “I know what psychic means.” For a split second something deep inside me recognized the real Rachel, the one who’d abuse me and punch me and roll her eyes at my jokes. Then she was gone. She cocked her head, gazing at me with unblinking eyes.

            “I love you.” It was like something she’d only just remembered, and didn’t quite understand.

            I thought for a moment, searching my brain. “I love you too.” It was a fact, not an emotion. Like my name, or the color of the curtains. I didn’t know what it meant either.

            Rachel’s face looked puzzled. “We’ve—done things.”

I searched my mind for a moment, looking for memories. They went back years. We’d been together for a long time, fighting, eating together, driving places, having sex, confronting monsters, watching TV. 

Part of me realized that I wouldn’t have wanted this. I would have fought against it, like I’d struggled with Pelz. I looked at Rachel and saw the same thing in her eyes. 

Then I shook my head hard, clearing the memories away. They didn’t matter anymore. I stood up. “I’ll be back.”

Rachel nodded. Her eyes went blank as I left.

 

I knocked on the door of the address Pelz had given me. It was an apartment in Evanston, just north of Chicago. The door opened. “Come in.”

            Clint Mason was a Black man, short and bony, in a sweatshirt and jeans. He looked me over as I stepped inside and closed the door. “You’re Tom? Tom Jurgen?”

            “Yes. Do you have them for me?”

            He nodded. He seemed nervous. That felt wrong, but I didn’t know how to respond. Maybe he was sick with something, or needed to remember to eat.

Mason pointed toward another room. “In the kitchen. Right there.”

This apartment was cleaner than Pelz’s. No boxes or plastic bags on the floor, but newspapers and magazines were scattered over every chair and table. Mason’s clothes were soiled with sweat and food stains, like Pelz had been, and he was barefoot. 

I headed for the kitchen. Mason followed, pausing to move a pillow on the sofa. “They’re right there on the kitchen table—”

I felt his breath on my neck, and recognized that something was wrong. Mason wasn’t behaving like me, or Pelz, or Rachel. He was nervous. Talkative. In a hurry—

A surge of pain knifed suddenly through my body. An electric jolt that burned my nerves and clouded my vision. I shouted, waving my arms, but the shock bit into me again. Not the body, I realized in a sudden flash of fear. The creature on my back. 

Mason jabbed it again. “Die, you son of a bitch!” 

I felt the creature curl up, trying to protect itself. For a moment, I was two people—or at least two separate beings. One was flailing, screaming silently, fighting desperately to dig into my skin, looking for a place to hide.

The other was me. 

I tore off my jacket. “Get it off me!” My voice was hoarse and raspy, and sounded different now. Like I hadn’t heard it in a long time. I clawed at my shirt, popping buttons, yanking it down. “Get it off me!”

With a grin, Mason dropped his stun gun and grabbed the creature with both hands. The jagged claws hurt ripping free of my skin, and blood dripped down my back, but I felt like I could breathe after being trapped underwater for longer than anyone could survive. I gasped, staggered forward, and turned to see Mason fling the creature to the floor and stomp it with his bare foot. 

“Wait—here—” I didn’t want to risk him getting taken, if it was possible for the creature to go in through his feet or legs. I pushed him aside and slammed my heel down on the thing. I was wearing sneakers, not boots or anything, but I stomped its head again and again until I finally crushed it, and mustard-yellowish guts spilled out over Mason’s carpet.

I leaned over, catching my breath. The stench from the creature’s blood and brains threatened to make me throw up. I stumbled away, wiping my heel on the carpet, spreading the muck around. 

I finally looked up at Mason, who was staring at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I think so. Thanks.” I rubbed my eyes. “What the hell is that?”

He motioned me to follow him.

In the kitchen, another plastic box like the one in Pelz’s place sat on the table. Mason opened it up, and I looked in to find at least 10 or the creatures half-immersed in a pool of water, with the green mossy stuff packed into the corners. 

They twitched and squirmed. Could they see me? Did they know I was here? Could they jump out at me? I stepped away, breathing raggedly.

Mason slammed the box shut. “I call them the Masters.” He walked over to the refrigerator, opened the freezer, and pulled out a bottle of vodka. “I don’t know what they are or where they’re from. I was leaving work one night about a week ago—I work maintenance in a condo—and one of my friends offered me a ride home. Next thing I knew . . .” He shook his head, opened the bottle, and poured vodka into two glasses on the sink.

I’m not much of a drinker, but I took one and downed it. “How did you get rid of it?”

Mason shrugged. “It died. I don’t know. Maybe they don’t like Black men’s skin?” He grinned. “I had COVID, got over it. Maybe that killed it. All I know is about a day ago it just dropped off me. I couldn’t—I slept for 12 hours, and my phone woke me up, and it was some guy saying they’d just made a delivery.”

He drank again, and poured more for me, then put the bottle back in the freezer. “That box was outside the door. I didn’t know what to do. I just brought it inside and tried to think, and then somebody else called and told me you were coming over and to give you a couple. So I got my Taser and waited.”

I carried my drink back into the living and dropped into a chair. Mason carefully walked around the dead maker and leaned against the couch. 

“What did you do while it—had you?” I asked, sipping my vodka.

“Nothing. I just sat here.” He looked around the room. “Four, five days. Every once in a while it remembered I had to eat, or drink, or go to the bathroom. I never took a shower, didn’t go to bed. Just sat.”

I stared at the Master again.

It had been on me. Inside me. In my brain. I tried to think back to the hours I’d been under its control. It had felt like watching TV, with no way to change the channel. It already seemed like a dream slipping away.

Except for Rachel.

Rachel. Oh God.

I swung around. “We have to go.”

“Where?” Mason blinked, confused.

“My girlfriend. They’ve got her.” I pointed at the box. “Bring a couple of them. I’ll need your Taser.”

“Wait—what are we doing?” He just stood in the middle of the living room, staring at me as if I were crazy.

“I took one of those—those things home and gave it to my girlfriend! Come on, man!” I stalked to the living room and picked up the stun gun. 

“Wait, wait!” A moment later Mason came out of the kitchen, a big Tupperware container in his hands. I could see three Masters and some of the green muck floating in water. “This okay?”

“It’s great, thanks. Let’s go.” I reached for the doorknob.

“Let me get some shoes on, all right? Jesus Christ.” He looked across the floor. “Okay, give me a minute . . .”

I took a deep breath to calm myself. “Sorry. Take your time. Shoes are important.”

“Damn right. Let me check the bedroom.”

The Mind Masters, Part Three

I realized I had no memory of driving to Mason’s building. Apparently the creature had been thinking about something else while I drove, relying on muscle memory and GPS to get us there intact. Now I drove frantically, intent on getting home as fast as I could. Before Rachel’s Master could tell her to leave the apartment, go somewhere, do something that would take her out of my reach.

            I gripped the wheel and managed to avoid accidents and cops as I drove. Mason looked worried at the stop signs I ran and the yellow lights I gunned through, but he kept his mouth shut until I parked in the basement garage. “You pass your driving test on the first try?”

“Sorry. Rachel’s going to be mad enough at me as it is.” I unbuckled my seatbelt. “Come on.”

We took the elevator up. I hesitated in front of our door, thinking. I wondered if the Master could access her psychic abilities. Would she know automatically that I wasn’t being controlled any more? 

“Act like we’re still possessed,” I told Mason. “She’s psychic.”

He blinked. “This day keeps getting weirder and stranger.”

“Yeah.” I patted my pocket for the stun gun. “Be ready to grab her.”

“You’re her boyfriend. You should grab her.”

“I’m going to Taser her. She’ll be more mad about that.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do it.” I unlocked the door.

Rachel was sitting on the sofa as if she hadn’t moved since I’d left. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Mason, and asked in a flat tone, “Who’s this?”

“Clint Mason. He’s got the—” Oh, hell, what did they call themselves? “What I was sent for.”

Rachel stood up. Mason didn’t say anything, as if he didn’t trust his voice not to give us away.

Rachel was wearing the same T-shirt, ripped across the back, and we could see the Master’s antennae rising from behind her neck. She looked at the Tupperware in Mason’s hands. “That’s not a good way to transport them.”

“It’s all I had.” He walked across the living room and set the container down on the table in front of the sofa. “They’re okay. See?”

Rachel frowned. Something was wrong. I had to keep her distracted. “Show her they’re healthy.” 

Mason leaned down to open the container. Rachel stared at me. Her lips started to open. Her fingers curled into a fist.

“Grab her!” I shouted. 

Mason looked at me, then at Rachel, and finally reached out toward Rachel’s arm, but he wasn’t fast enough. Rachel turned and punched him in the stomach, then whirled around, crouching to attack.

Damn it. I pulled the stun gun and darted forward. Rachel dodged me and snapped a kick to my knee. I staggered backward, clutching the stun gun tight in my fingers.

Rachel charged forward, her fingers curled into fists and her eyes on the weapon. I couldn’t let her get it. I held it close to my body and held up an arm to protect my face as she leaped—

—But Mason scrambled and grabbed her ankle as she lunged at me, and she fell, grunting. She rolled onto her shoulder, pushing her body up, and then Mason wrapped his arms around her legs, hauling her back down with a heavy thud. 

I jumped forward and planted a knee on her shoulder, trying to hold her down. She squirmed and struggled, silent, not swearing like she normally would, just gasping heavily as she tried to punch at me and kick her legs free.

I leaned down. The Master’s claws were digging into her back, its antennae shaking as she rocked back and forth. I jammed the stun gun down and pressed the stud, hoping this wouldn’t hurt Rachel. And that she wouldn’t hurt me once I got the thing off her.

The jolt of electricity shot through the Master. Its antennae jerked, and blood started seeping from Rachel’s skin as its stubby legs shook. I pushed the stud again, and Rachel screamed, no longer struggling, her body twitching as the electricity jangled her nerves.

I wrapped my hand around the Master and pulled at it. Its claws were deep, and after a moment I stopped yanking and tried to ease it out more gently so I didn’t leave anything in Rachel’s back or neck. 

Rachel wasn’t fighting anymore. I tossed the stun gun to the side and used both hands to pry the Master off. Mason came up and helped me, and in a moment it was free.

Mason threw it on the floor next to Rachel. He looked at me. “Your girlfriend works out.”

“Yeah.” I rolled her onto her side. “Get some, uh, paper towels. From the kitchen.” I pointed. Blood was dripping down her back, and she’d be mad if it stained our rug. 

Mason came back with a roll, and I wiped her skin as she slowly stopped trembling. I helped her sit up on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, and waited for her to come back to us.

After 30 seconds she blinked, looked up at Mason, then turned back to me. ”Jerk.”

I grinned. “She’s all right.”

Rachel reached a hand out. “Water.”

I got some bottles from the kitchen. She took a long gulp, coughed, then drank more than half of what was left. Setting the bottle down, she looked over at Mason, who was also sitting on the floor. “Hi. I’m Rachel.”

“Clint Mason.” He tapped his bottle on hers. “Pleased to meet you.”

Then she looked at me. “What the hell, Tom?”

“I don’t know.” Now that Rachel was free of the Master’s grip, I realized I had no idea what was going on. “These things—Pelz, the wellness check this morning? He stuck one on me. Then he gave me one to stick on you. Then he called and sent me over to Clint’s place to get more for you to stick on your friends—”

“Yeah, I remember all that. What are they?”

I shook my head. “No idea. Aliens? Demons? Government experiments? They didn’t . . .” I tried to think. “I didn’t get anything from mine about what it was, or what it wanted. Except more victims.”

“Yeah.” She finished her water and tossed the bottle onto the table, next to the Tupperware. “Is that—?”

“More of them. I wanted some to show people or—”

“Whatever. Later.” Rachel stood up, with a little help from me. She looked down at her T-shirt, felt around the back, then sighed and just pulled it off. “I need to clean up.”

Mason turned his head so he wasn’t staring at my girlfriend standing in front of him in her bra. For once I was glad she was wearing a bra.

She threw the shirt at me. “Stop staring. Somebody owes me a new shirt.” She headed for our bedroom.

Mason, embarrassed, nudged the dead Master with the tip of his shoe. “Should I do something with that?”

“I’ll get a plastic bag. You want a beer?”

He nodded. “You got anything to eat? I’m starving.”

 

 

Fifteen minutes later Rachel was in a blouse and fresh jeans, her hair damp from the shower, and we were sitting on the sofa, eating sandwiches while staring at the container of Masters.

            “So what do we do now?” Rachel sipped a beer. “Who do we call? The police? Homeland Security? The X-Files?”

            “What do you remember?” I asked. “When it possessed you?”

            She looked at the floor. “It was like watching a movie. A pretty boring movie. It’s not like I heard a voice telling me to take over the world or anything. I just did stuff without thinking. Or I just sat there.”

            “Same here.” Mason had some whiskey. I keep a bottle for emergencies, and this seemed to count. 

            “We don’t know how many of them there are. If they’re just here in Chicago or everywhere. Or who’s possessed. Did you—” I turned to Rachel. “When I came in, could you read me? Sense that I wasn’t being controlled anymore?”

            She looked into my eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t—it didn’t understand right away. But I knew something was off.”

            “That’s good. If we meet any more, you might be able to warn us.”

            “Is anyone going to believe us?” Mason rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure I believe us. This is crazy.”

            “They’ll believe those.” Rachel pointed at the container.

            “We need to get them dissected,” Mason said. “Get them to a lab, some scientists—”

            “Wait.” I held up a hand. “Let’s slow down a second. Think about what we know about them. The more we can tell whoever we tell, the faster they can figure out what to do.”

            Rachel sighed, then nodded. “All right. Let me think . . .”

            “Does anyone remember them, you know, talking to you?” I closed my eyes. Then I opened them again. “Anything?”

            “No.” Mason was firm. “I just—did stuff. Without thinking about it.”

            “What kind of stuff?” Rachel asked.

            “Mostly I sat, like you said..” He rubbed his forehead. “I sort of fell asleep with my eyes open. I got some phone calls, like from the guy who told me you were coming over—”

            “Was that Pelz? Kent Pelz?”

            He frowned. “It was Paolo. The maintenance guy who stuck that thing on me.”

            “What happened to it?” Rachel looked suspicious. “Did someone Taser you too?”

            “It just got sick and died. Like I told him. I don’t know what it was.” He leaned back, thinking. “I got a few more calls, but I don’t remember their names. It was a woman who brought the Masters to my place, her name was, uh, Scotty. Blond. Cute. We didn’t talk much.”

            “What else did we do?” I looked at the table in front of the sofa, and saw the empty plastic bread bag. “Rachel, we ate a loaf of bread, right?”

            “Yeah. Just bread. Like it never heard of sandwiches. It just knew we had to eat something.”

            “And drink water. But not a lot.” I remembered feeling thirsty. “Like it doesn’t really know what we need to survive.”

            “Yeah, I just ate whatever was in the fridge, or the cupboards.” Mason grimaced. “A jar of spaghetti sauce, you know? A can of green beans. I didn’t cook anything, just ate whatever was there straight out of the box. Cereal—I finished off all my cereal.” He drank some more whiskey. “I need the bathroom.”

            I leaned over and hugged Rachel, holding her close and tight. She shivered, clutching me back. She’s not very emotional most of the time, so I could tell her experience with the Master had shaken her pretty hard.

            “You okay?” I asked.

            “The Taser hurt.” She shifted her shoulders. “But that thing was worse.”

            “Yeah.” It was weird. There was no pain, no feeling of being trapped, no desire to rage or scream silently—but being controlled by the Master was somehow the most terrifying few hours I’d ever lived through in my life. And terror is my business too much of the time.

            We held each other for a few minutes until Mason returned. He’d stopped in the kitchen for a carton of ice cream and three spoons. “Anyone else? It’s chocolate.”

            Suddenly hungry again, Rachel and I joined him in polishing off the carton, and then I went to fetch some vanilla. We ate until brain freeze threatened, and then I took it back to the kitchen.

            “I wish we could figure out why your Master died.” Rachel crossed her arms. “Did you eat anything funny? Do you have any weird pets? Strange medical conditions? Extremely strong farts?”

            Mason shook his head. “I got diabetes. I smoke some weed. No pets, no girlfriend lately to tell me about my farts. I don’t know, man.”

            This wasn’t getting us anywhere. We were wasting time—not that I had any idea how much time anyone had to stop the Masters. I took a deep breath. “I want to do something stupid.”

            “That figures.” Rachel glared at me.

            I braced myself for a punch. “I want you to put one of those—things—on me.”

            Mason’s eyes went wide. Rachel punched my arm. “Are you crazy?”

            “Maybe.” I hated the thought of giving up control again, but I kept talking. “If we had a better idea of what they are, what they want, it would be easier to fight them. If they’ve got, like a secret base somewhere—”

            “What? We’ll go in ourselves with flamethrowers?” Rachel rolled her eyes. “We need help. You’re just used to doing everything yourself because no one ever believes you about vampires and witches and giant carnivorous plants.”

            “Vampires?” Mason edged away from Rachel. “Plants?” I could see he was wondering whether he’d be safer getting away from us. I didn’t blame him. 

            “Yeah, vampires and killer plants and—other stuff,” I said with a sigh. “I seem to attract all the weird creatures in Chicago wherever I go. It’s a thing.”

            “So is being stupid.” Rachel crossed her arms, ready for a fight. Mason looked uncomfortable, like a dinner party guest watching the hosts getting ready to sling insults and food at each other.

“Look, the more information we have about these things, the better. We don’t know who we can trust.” I took a breath. “Plus—okay, I’m curious. I want to know what’s going on before I bring this to someone else who’ll just take it away from us.”

Mason looked unconvinced, but Rachel just shook her head. “All right. Fine.”

“Good. Clint, there are some gloves in the kitchen. You can—”

“Wait.” Rachel held out a hand. “Okay, we’ll do it, but with me. I’ll be the guinea pig.”

“You?” I was terrified of letting the creature into my head again, but the thought of doing it to Rachel made my heart lurch like a highrise in an earthquake. “No way.” I put a hand on her arm. “I am not letting you—”

“Oh, shut up.” She yanked her arm away. “You’re the detective. You’re good at asking questions. Better than me. And I don’t want to see you—like that.” She shuddered. “Again.”

“You’re a cop?” Mason’s eyes darted between us.

“Private detective. Mostly cheating spouses and employee background checks.”

“And vampires and killer plants,” he said. “Oh, Jesus.”

“He used to be a reporter, too,” Rachel said. “He’s good at asking obnoxious questions.”

We looked at each other, all three of us. Finally I nodded. “All right, I guess. I’ll get the gloves—”

“You should tie me up.” Rachel grinned. “Not in the fun way.”

Mason’s eyebrows rose.

“Yeah.” I felt red in the face. “Okay, I’ll get some stuff. Clint, the gloves are in the kitchen.”