Beast Machine (2 page)

She turned a timer –
similar to an oven dial – to six hundred and sixteen minutes. Right
after she set the dial, she inserted a picture of an adult Adolf
Hitler in a tiny slit on the right side of the Beast Machine. It
was an actual picture of Hitler, not one from a history book or one
found online. The picture was scanned by the machine as it slipped
down through the tiny slit. She hit the big yellow button on the
control and the process began.

During the cook, Gora
decided that it would be best to take a long worthwhile nap since
she had not slept in several days. Blankets, two goose-down pillows
and a pair of slippers were grabbed by Gora as she drudged through
the laboratory. She fell upon her bed, merely a large mattress,
before tossing the blanket on herself. It felt just like yesterday
she was cleaning her bed of the blood and guts from Algernon
exploding. She still missed the free hippo meat Algernon had
provided. She sighed at the thought.

Her mind began to wander
all over the framework of her dream world. She saw herself in front
of a crowd accepting a Nobel Prize for science – “Thank you, all,
for giving me this spectacular award! I couldn’t have done it
without my fierce determination!”; she saw herself dancing on the
graves of her doubters, wearing red stilettos; then she saw herself
up on the balcony of a high-rise building holding a martini glass
surrounded by other intellectuals holding martini glasses; her mind
finally fell black.

After a peaceful nap that
lasted nearly two days, Gora awoke to a hairy, bipedal creature
inspecting her globe and atlas collection – twelve feet in front of
her. She rubbed her eyes quickly to acclimate to the real world and
to make sure what she was seeing was not an illusion.

The creature had a shitty
haircut and wore no clothes, but was quite the biogenetic specimen.
He towered to nearly seven foot tall when standing on his hind legs
and had to weigh around half-a-ton. Soft, but thick, brown-red fur
covered him from head to toe, but he had what appeared to be a
white mustache right under his large black nose. His paws were
massive and his claws were sharp, but his genitals were hidden
quite well by the fur as there was nothing protruding from its
crotch.

“
Excuse, me?” asked Gora.
She leapt from her bed. “What do you think you’re
doing?”

The creature turned slowly
and immediately began laughing at Gora. “What sort of person sleeps
through the birth of one of her greatest creations?” the creature
scoffed. He vigorously shook his white mustache.

“
Bear? Hitler? Bear Hitler?
Is that really you?!” Gora gleefully stated. She rubbed her eyes
again and walked slowly towards the hairy creature, his genitals
still tucked under the thick bear fur.

“
I prefer Adolf Hitbear!
The greatest strategist the Kingdom of Earth has ever witnessed!”
proclaimed Adolf Hitbear as he stroked his tiny white mustache
menacingly. “I should have been the King of Earth, or at least
that’s what my memory tells me…” He placed one paw on his
noggin.

“
Why don’t you have a
German accent? Er… I mean Austrian accent?” asked Gora, completely
ignoring Hitbear’s greatest strategist comment. She walked closer
to Hitbear, neglecting the possibility of being mauled by the
creature. Her defenses were down and she didn’t have a care in the
world as she looked Hitbear up and down. She barely came up to his
chest.

“
You used an American brown
bear to create me… That’s all I can surmise on the accent, however,
I am now ready to take over-“

“
Oh wow!” grinned Gora. “I
can’t believe I created something that works! Something that is so
beautiful and smart! So perfectly perfect! It’s been too
long!”

She hugged Hitbear tightly,
causing slight pain to the bipedal bear. She began to pat him on
the head, but he brushed her away softly. Hitbear was mildly
embarrassed by the small human petting him like a mere servant
dog.

“
Enough, creator! You must
inform me on what am I to do, then leave me to plan our attack on
our enemies! Harrumph!”

He walked back over to the
globe and map collection. He stared for a few moments at the maps
while furiously scratching his backside. Gora, still in amazement,
sat down in a nearby chair and started to giggle uncontrollably
because of how happy she was for
finally
creating a working invention
after so many failures. It was the first time in years she had felt
this proud. Her powerful giggling caused Hitbear to become
anxious.

“
So… uh… who exactly
are
the enemies?” asked
Hitbear while squinting at an unnecessarily large political map of
Lesotho, a tiny sovereign nation found inside of the country of
South Africa.

“
Not in the continent of
Africa, Mr. Hitbear. Our enemies are scattered across three
continents: North America, Europe and Asia. Though, they can switch
locations.” Gora pulled her hair back and placed it in a messy bun.
“Each enemy is a cruel member of this idiotic scientific community
that consistently lambasted any and all of my creations, not to
mention all of the personal things they put out in the open.” She
looked down at the ground and up at Hitbear’s eyes. “They hurt me.
They hurt me real bad.”

“
Excellent,” smiled
Hitbear. “They will not lambast
this
creation of yours.” He held his fist to his chest
in appreciation toward Gora. He looked like a warrior ready to
defeat any opposition that stood in his way, or his creator’s way
in this instance.

He looked around the room,
more bearlike than manlike with his long neck lowered, and dropped
himself into a prone position. Being brought into existence was a
tiring prospect, just ask newborn babies.

He began to think about
mauling deer and clawing at trees – the thoughts of a brown bear
were taking over him before he fell asleep. His brown, wet nose
kept instinctually smelling the air of the laboratory, a place that
gave off the faint scent of death mixed with
determination.

“
When should preparations
begin for battle? And, erm, where are our troops? Our tanks? Our
ships?! How do you expect me to lead if you give me nothing to
lead?!” growled Hitbear, now fighting severe drowsiness. “Where
will the soldiers come from?”

“
We create
them.”

Chapter 3

The Rosenbergs

Two people stirred in a
ragged, small house next to a lifeless hillside. A slight breeze
rumbled through, pushing tree branches back and forth. Capacious
gray clouds swamped the night sky causing only a few stars to be
visible to the naked eye. The house had few shingles left on the
unkempt roof and was flanked by a handful of feeble looking
evergreens, spruces and willows that had not been tended to in many
years. Only flecks of white paint were leftover from the days when
the house was wholesome and something to be proud of; now it is
only used for shelter and warmth. The house appeared to be standing
on sheer will alone as the next slight breeze brushed the house
back and forth like the surrounding flora.

Thick smoke slowly billowed
out of a usable – but in poor shape – brick chimney. Smoke mostly
seeped out the top of the chimney; occasionally, smoke would leak
out of the cracked bricks that held the stack together. The chimney
smoke lingered over like a cloud of bad luck ready to consume one
of the humans in the decrepit house. Smoke from the chimney added
to the rough view of the stars.

“
Come over here, son. Take
a break from reading,” said a middle-aged black man pouring scotch
from an unlabeled glass bottle into a wooden cup.

He had kind eyes but the
posture and skin of a person that has had few comfortable moments
in life. His back bent, arched, and twisted all through his spine
that it often became uncomfortable to stand for too long. Each of
his knuckles was swollen and raw from years of abusing his hands:
for subsistence and fighting off any presumed interlopers, mostly
subsistence reasons.

The few teeth left in his
drooping mouth were chipped or yellowed, yet he spoke with a
remarkable eloquence one would expect out of a news broadcaster or
a charismatic public speaker. He would still have his youthful
looks had he not put himself through hell, he always thought when
the pain became severe, but it has so far been worth it.

The son arose from a
handmade desk in the corner of the room. He snatched up a candle in
one hand and walked toward his father. His copy of
The Gilded Age
by Mark
Twain lay open on the desk. It was the fifth time the boy had
read
The Gilded Age
by his lonesome as the reading-for-fun options were limited to
a handful of books:
The Jungle
by Upton Sinclair,
The
Return of the King
by J. R. R. Tolkien, the
aforementioned
The Gilded
Age
, and a tattered Holy Bible that the
father and son used mostly as a paper weight. The Bible was
occasionally used to even out a chair or table before they found a
permanent solution. “The Bible is more useful as a brick for
starting a fire,” the man would often tell his son. “Those words in
the Bible are meant for the hopeless.”

The boy had the same kind
eyes as his father but his skin was not rugged or stretched by any
means. His posture was holding up well, no swollen knuckles on
either hand, and his teeth were incredibly white, though time had
this annoying knack of ruining one’s youthful qualities.
Youthfulness emanated from each step the boy took toward his
father. The father was envious, yet proud, of the youthfulness his
son possessed. He knew his son would need every ounce of energy and
youthfulness to accomplish what lies ahead.

“
I need to tell you a story
– a long story – about your grandparents,” the man said with a
stutter caused by nerves. He stood up and gently stoked the fire
before returning to his chair. That small action of physical
activity caused the man significant pain, but he swallowed the pain
because there was much worse pain to come.

The son sat cross-legged in
front of his father with a fiery interest in his eyes. He had been
waiting since he could remember to hear the full story about his
grandparents. The bits and pieces he
had
heard from his father left him
wanting to know more. Wanting to know everything that had happened
to them and any potential relatives kept the boy up most nights. He
visualized that his grandparents valiantly saved his father from a
lion, or saved his father from a burning building that was about to
collapse. The boy’s visualizations covered anything and everything
that could have happened to his grandparents. Except for what his
father was about to tell him.

“
As you know, my mother and
father were killed when I was roughly your age…” the man sighed and
rubbed his eyes. “It’s time that you hear the full story – their
story – and how their bravery will not be in vain.”

The son inched closer with
his mouth slightly agape and his interest rising.

“
It was nearing the end of
World War II – the war to end all wars people always had said – and
my father was to return from overseas – Italy, if I remember
correctly.”

The man looked up into the
air with strained eyes trying to place exactly where his father was
stationed. He raised his hands trying to mimic Europe the best he
could. Once that attempt failed, motions were made to make the
boot-shape that Italy held, though it vaguely resembled Italy. He
couldn’t make his fingers correctly shape the once fascist
controlled Italy.

“
Nonetheless, my brother
and I were ecstatic to have our papa back in the house. Back in our
world. My mother needed it as well since she raised us and worked
while papa was overseas fighting the imperialistic Axis Powers. It
was supposed to be the happiest moment of my life – our lives, I
mean. Everything would be going back to normal for our family of
four in one of the greatest cities in the world, New York City. We
didn’t care what would happen, but we knew we would be whole again.
Or so we thought.

“
At the time, blacks in
America were treated with the same respect that a mule or mutt
would expect; sometimes worse, sometimes better. Though, times
haven’t changed much,” he laughed apathetically. “Yet my father and
mother were highly respected in our neighborhood for being generous
and kind humans.

“
They were known to cook
meals for the needy, donate clothes to the families down the street
when the wives gave birth and even were known to teach skills to
neighborhood children that would come and play with my brother and
me. This was especially honorable considering it was during The
Great Depression, a time when no one would do anything for anyone
but themselves – I guess, things still haven’t changed since then?”
Another apathetic laugh came from the man. “It’s no surprise to me
that my parents were quite fond of the idea of communism and
socialism. How my parents found the energy and had the money to do
all this, I haven’t the faintest clue and will never
know.

“
My father had been lucky
enough to take several college courses at the local city college
before the war. He studied various subjects; chemistry, physics and
French literature were his favorites. His love for French
literature was the reason I named you Gaston – in honor of Gaston
Leroux. The tales he would tell me were so wonderful. I never found
the time, after his death, to learn French, but he would be proud
to know about you, Gaston. He would be over the moon, as they
say.”