The Brain Eaters

Chapter 9

Eddie Gault lay back naked on the double bed, his arms spread, one hand clutching each of the bedposts. It was his favorite position, one Roanne had taught him. There were a number of things she could do to him in that position, all of which were terrific. Most times he had to concentrate like crazy to keep from coming in a few seconds once she started on him. That evening, though, it just wasn’t working out. Eddie’s thoughts kept straying back to his day at the plant.

Roanne could tell, of course. If a man’s mind wasn’t on it, there was no way he could fake it. Not like a woman. She gently pulled her head back, letting his half-erect penis slide out of her mouth. She held him for a moment, then eased herself up over his body, the long pale hair, giving him a silky caress all the way up.

“Tired, baby?”

That was one of the beautiful things about Roanne. She never asked “What’s wrong?” in that accusing tone women use. Nothing could make a man go limp faster than the good old “What’s wrong?”

Eddie shook his head, gazing up into the crystalline blue eyes. “A little worried, I guess.”

“What about?”

“You know. The canister business.”

“Has anything happened? Have they said anything more to you?”

“No, but they’re watching me. I think I’m being followed.”

“Bastards.” The word seemed especially harsh coming from the pink lips of the lovely girl. “It’s not enough that they poison our atmosphere and pollute the earth; they have to persecute a man who tries to do the right thing.” Then she said more softly, “Don’t worry about it, baby. They lost a few cows. They’ll get over it.”

“Maybe it’s more than the cows.”

Roanne eased herself to a sitting position beside him on the bed. She let her hand remain flat on his naked stomach. Her face was grave, but Eddie was not looking beyond the round little breasts.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s rumors. Just rumors.” He reached up and took hold of a breast, stroking it gently like a captive bird. Roanne did not try to take it away.

“Tell me about the rumors,” she said softly.

“It’s the pilots. The two who flew that day with the wrong canister.”

Eddie’s eyes drifted away. Roanne pressed his hand more firmly against her breast to regain his attention. “What about the pilots, baby?”

“They’re gone. Two new guys are taking their place.”

“Gone where?”

“Nobody knows.”

“What are people saying?” Roanne’s eyes had a hungry glitter.

“Nothing, actually. Just wondering how come the other guys left so sudden with no word to anybody.”

“Does anyone think it has something to do with their spraying the wrong canister?”

“Not that I know of,” Eddie said.

“It would serve them right if they were both poisoned.”

Eddie searched her face. “Why is this such a big thing with you, Roanne? I mean, I know about the environment and all that, and sure it’s important, but with you it’s like … life or death.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Roanne said. Her eyes ranged off to a corner of the ceiling as though looking into the past. “I never told you how my mother died.”

“No.”

“It was cancer. Cancer of the liver. It was a long, painful death.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie said.

“Sorry doesn’t get it. My mother was murdered.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She was working in a plant in Atlanta that made synthetic fabrics. They used chemicals that they didn’t tell the workers about. A lot of people got sick. My mother died. They poisoned her, but nobody ever paid for it. They’re still operating today. Still killing the workers. Somebody has to do something about it. That’s you and me, Eddie.”

“But those pilots — they didn’t do anything. They thought they were spraying purple dye.”

Roanne stiffened. “Just doing their duty. That’s the all-purpose excuse for poisoning the earth and making war. It sounds like my father. He was a pilot, too, dropping napalm and God knows what else on women and children in Vietnam. The bastard never came back.”

“He was killed?”

“Better if he had been. He just disappeared after the war. Let my mother die with a rotting liver and never even wrote a letter.”

“I wish you’d told me all this before,” Eddie said. “It helps me understand you better.” He started to rise. “But it doesn’t make this business any easier for me.”

Roanne gently pushed him back down on the bed. “Don’t worry about it, baby. It will be all right.”

She leaned forward, bringing the pink nipple of one breast to his lips. He took it eagerly into his mouth and began to suck.

In the small bedroom of her bungalow, Dena Falkner stared sleeplessly at the ceiling. There had been a tension in the air at Biotron that week like static electricity before a summer storm. The uneasiness lingered, keeping her awake.

She had not spoken to Dr. Kitzmiller since the unsatisfactory conversation on Monday, but she had the feeling he was watching her. Someone was sure as hell watching her. She could feel eyes on the back of her neck, but when she turned around, there were only innocent people engaged in innocent pursuits. Much too innocent.

She was not at all satisfied with the story of Stuart Anderson’s assignment to Brazil. Three times the day before she had tried to call his sister in California. There had been no answer. It was possible, of course, that Stu’s sister had simply been out at the time of the calls. Sure it was possible, but Dena did not believe it.

She sighed and snapped on the lamp on her bedside table. She picked up the book that lay there. The Last Days of Pompeii. A few pages of Bulwer-Lytton always had a soporific effect on her. She opened it to the place she had marked and began to read. Before she had finished a page, she heard the noise.

It was a soft bump from somewhere at the back of the house.

Another.

Dena killed the light and sat up in bed, staring into the dark. The absence of artificial lights to pollute the night had seemed a part of the charm of living in the country. Now she would have given much for the glow of a streetlight outside her window.

A scraping sound from the kitchen. It took a moment for Dena to recognize it. Someone was raising the window.

A burglar?

Not in Wheeler, Wisconsin. Everybody in town knew everybody else, and it was not a promising location for an out-of-town burglar to pick.

Rape?

The ugly word to describe the ugly act was always in the back of a woman’s mind when she heard strange night sounds. Some drunken fool on his way home from a road-house?

Ridiculous, she told herself. But her throat constricted at the thought of her body being invaded.

Scrape.

She started to reach again for the lamp but held back. No, a light in there would just signal her presence to whoever was creeping into her house. She had no weapon, of course. Wouldn’t know how to use a gun if she had one. Didn’t believe in them. For a terrible moment, though, she wished for the reassuring feel of a pistol butt in her hand.

Scrape. Thump.

The window was all the way open now.

The metallic clatter of a spoon as it fell from the drainboard into the sink. He was coming in. He was in.

She would not be found lying there helpless, Dena decided. By the faint glow of the stars outside, she slipped noiselessly from the bed. From memory she found her robe where she had folded it over the back of her dressing-table chair. She pulled it on and knotted the satin belt at her waist.

A floorboard creaked.

He was coming for her.

Her hand fumbled along the top of the dressing table, searching instinctively for something, anything, that might be used for defense.

Hairbrush. Deodorant. Aspirin bottle. Electric toothbrush.

The floor creaked again.

Dena’s mind teetered on the edge of hysteria. She fought down the image of herself confronting the rapist with an electric toothbrush.

A soft scratching on the panel of the bedroom door.

Fingernails.

Dena froze, her back pressed against the wall. She did not breathe.

Her eyes were now more accustomed to the near-total darkness. She stared with painful intensity at the dim gray rectangle of the door. A strip of black appeared at the edge. It widened to an inch. Two inches.

Dena drew in her breath and opened her mouth to scream. It was purely instinctive. There was no one near enough to hear.

“Dena?”

The hoarse whisper coming from the cracked doorway jolted her like an electric shock.

“Dena, are you there? It’s Lloyd. Lloyd Bratz.”

The breath whistled out of her, and Dena felt for a moment as though her bones had dissolved.

“Jesus H. Christ, Lloyd, what the hell are you trying to do?”

“I’m sorry. Listen, I’m really sorry, but they’re following me.”

Dena found the small lamp on the table beside her bed. She snapped it on. Lloyd Bratz darted to the window and snatched the curtain across it. He turned and gave her a worried grin. He scrubbed fingers through his bristly hair.

“What’s going on, Lloyd? Who’s following you? What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I went to my place first, but somebody was already there watching it.”

“Then you weren’t transferred out West.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I went to see Helen. She said you’d been transferred. She left with someone while I was there.”

“Left with who?”

“I don’t know. Some man, looked very official.”

Bratz ground his teeth. “Son of a bitch, if they’ve harmed her — ”

“I need a cigarette.” Dena went to the closet and reached up on the high shelf for the carton of Carltons she had put there so they would be hard to reach. She tore open a fresh pack, shook one out, and lit it. She drew in the smoke gratefully and blew it out in a long streamer. “Now then,” she said, “I’m ready to listen. Where did you come from?”

Lloyd glanced around quickly. “They were holding me in the infirmary. I coldcocked a guard tonight, stole a car, and got away, but they’re not far behind me.”

“Slow down,” Dena said. “Holding you in the infirmary for what? Are you sick? And what’s this ‘guard’ business? Start at the beginning.”

“I may not have much time, so I’ll talk fast. A week ago last Friday Stu and I were flying over the old county road at the edge of the company’s land to do a dispersal test. Spraying purple dye to see what the pattern is from a particular altitude with known wind conditions.”

“Is Stu involved in this?” Dena broke in. “Do you know where he is?”

“I know,” Lloyd said. “Let me get to it.”

Dena sat on the edge of the bed and dragged on her cigarette.

“As soon as we opened the canister, we could see something was wrong. The stuff was clear, not purple. We went back and reported it and got hustled into Dr. Kitzmiller’s office. He chewed us out, which I guess we had coming, but then he called in a couple of security goons, and they marched us off to the infirmary. Nobody would tell us a damn thing.

“They put us in a room by ourselves and treated us like we had the plague or something. As far as I could see, there was nothing wrong with us, except Stu got a little infection in a razor nick on his chin. He was running a little fever, too; said he felt achy, like the flu or something. I thought, Oh, shit, maybe we are sick. He seemed to get better after a couple of days, but then the headache started.”

Dena barely caught a long ash that fell from the end of her cigarette. She spilled it into an ashtray and stared at the chunky pilot. He walked over to peek past the edge of the curtain, then came back.

“When was this?” she asked. “The headaches?”

“On Thursday. Stu didn’t say anything at first but got kind of quiet and distracted-like. Finally, he asked for some aspirin. All of a sudden he’s got the whole medical staff around him. Me, I felt fine. I think that kind of disappointed them.

“Finally, Stu got fed up. He told them he felt okay, and they left him alone. He didn’t feel okay, though. That headache was really starting to get to him. During the night I heard him swallowing aspirins like peanuts. When I tried to talk to him, he brushed me off. He got kind of mean. Not like Stu at all.”

“Is he still there?” Dena said.

“I’m getting to it,” Lloyd said. “You were pretty close to him, weren’t you?”

“We liked each other. Just tell it, Lloyd.”

“Friday was bad. Stu hardly said a word. People kept coming and going, examining him, giving him tests, and all the time this headache of his was getting worse. You could see it on his face. They pretty much forgot about me.

“Then, about the time they came in with our dinner, he flipped completely.”

“What do you mean flipped?”

“Are you sure you want to hear the details? It’s not pretty.”

“Goddam it, Bratz, who do you think you’re talking to, some grade-school virgin? Just tell me what happened.”

“Okay. Like I said, Stu was getting pretty bad. Holding his head, groaning. Wouldn’t talk except to cuss me out. I left him alone. Then, when the two guys came in with our dinners, he let out a howl and went for them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he went after those guys, punching, kicking, clawing, biting. He was trying to kill them. I was so stunned it took me a minute to get up and start toward him. Before I got there, three more security goons rushed in, and they all grabbed Stu and fought him down to the floor. It took all of them to do it.” Lloyd Bratz hesitated, chewing his lower lip as he remembered.

“What happened next is worse than anything I’ve seen in my life. I was in Nam, and I’ve seen some bad things.”

Dena reached out and touched his hand. He looked at her gratefully.

“Stu never quit fighting them,” he said. “He heaved and twisted and humped his body, throwing those five guys around the room like they was stuffed with straw. All the time he was screeching in this terrible unearthly voice. The skin on his face and his arms got all blotchy red and started to break open like blisters. I heard something crack like a rifle shot. It took me a minute to realize that Stu just broke his own leg. The five guys tried harder to hold him still, but the more they tried, the more Stu thrashed around. I could hear his bones cracking and snapping, and he never quit. He gave one last heave, and blood and gunk came pouring out of his mouth. That was the end of it. Stu was dead. He literally tore himself apart.”

Dena looked down at the cigarette that had burned to the filter and gone out. She dropped it into the ashtray. The shaved patches under her arms were damp with sweat. She shivered.

“I’m sorry,” Lloyd said. “You wanted to hear the story, and there’s no way I could have prettied it up.”

“I know.” Dena was a little surprised that her voice sounded so calm. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know. Try to get help somewhere. Find Helen.”

“What can I do?” Dena said.

“Get the word out, that’s all.”

“What word, Lloyd? What the hell is happening here?”

A blaze of light flashed across the bedroom curtain. Bratz peeled back the edge and looked out.

“They’re here,” he said. “Have you got a back door?”

Dena nodded. “This way.”

She led him out to the kitchen. A cool draft of night air blew in through the window where he had entered. Someone knocked in the front.

Dena slid back the bolt and opened the door that led to the small backyard. Two men, big men, stood outside. Lloyd Bratz tensed for a moment as though he might charge; then his body sagged. The men stepped forward. Each of them took one of his arms.

“Who are you?” Dena said. “Where are you taking him?”

“Plant security, ma’am,” said one of the men. “Mr. Bratz is under quarantine.”

“Wait just a minute — ” Dena began.

She broke off at the sound of a footfall behind her and spun around. Another man in a Biotron security uniform stood in the doorway leading to the front of the house. Behind him was Dr. Frederich Kitzmiller.

“I am very sorry for this intrusion, Dr. Falkner,” he said. “Have you been harmed?”

“Of course not,” Dena said. “What’s going on here?”

Kitzmiller nodded a signal to the men behind her, and Lloyd Bratz was taken out through the back door. He did not resist.

“It is a rather involved story,” Kitzmiller said.

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” Dena said. As the shock wore off, she was starting to get mad.

“Please make no judgments until you have heard my explanation,” he said. “If you will come to my office in the morning, we will discuss the whole matter.”

“Your real office?” Dena said.

Kitzmiller permitted himself a chilly smile. “My so-called friendly office. I am told that people feel more comfortable there.”

“I’ll be there,” Dena told him.

“Thank you. Good night.”

Dr. Kitzmiller and the men from security went away, and the night was again silent and dark. Dena lay in bed with the lamp on, smoking and thinking. It was not until an hour before dawn that she slept.