Barely Human

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Vietnam era, and an ex-military Science Officer with top secret security clearance. He has eight published novels. Originally from Gary, Indiana, he reflects that during his youth the experience of meeting and shaking the strong brutish hand of the man of steel, Tony Zale, the former middleweight boxing champion of the world.

He currently lives in Louisville, Kentucky with his wife and two Maltese and is currently working on his next novel, a dark mystery Doomsday Wind.

Prior Publications: Harm not thy Patient, Contaminant, Father Confessor, Steel Town, Cadaver, Quirky, Death Kiss, Reversal

Also By

John P. Matsis

Harm not thy Patient

Contaminant

Father Confessor

Steel Town

Cadaver

Quirky

Death Kiss

Reversal

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important.

—Ambrose Redmoon

BARELY

HUMAN

Chapter One

Dan Frank — age twenty-seven, ex-marine, ex-convict — was one of the meanest, homeless son-of-bitches to ever roam the streets of South Chicago, or for that matter, any dimly lit street. What irritated him the most was his name — two first names. That was why he preferred to be called Dan Frankenstein. And by the way, the name suited him like a second skin. Other than murder, he’d run the gamut of crimes committed. But murder was still a possibility, patiently waiting its turn.

On this bright moonlit night, his shadow didn’t do him justice. Six-foot four, two-hundred and seventy-five pounds of virtually all muscle didn’t project as such, making him temporarily look like an ordinary mugger. He didn’t give a shit. All that mattered was his husky voice, fists as large as ripe Florida grapefruits, a face that belonged in a horror movie, and a frame of mind that didn’t acknowledge the meaning of remorse.

The corner at 5th and Kilbourne was his favorite spot, an upscale twenty-seven story condo on the southwest corner, an all-night coffee shop kitty-corner, and his favorite — the alleyway where a mere ten quick steps took him out of the darkness and onto the sidewalk to await and stalk his next victim.

He was smart, street-smart. Six weeks had passed since his last mugging. The cops had let up watching the area, and tonight he was flat-broke, very hungry, and in a very bad mood.

He tugged at his unkempt beard which extended his chin like a Billy-goat, pulled a worn, wool cap just above shaggy eyebrows, surveyed the surroundings to make certain no one was near, and stepped out from the alleyway.

***

Ten-fifteen, the moon hidden by a solitary dense cloud that moved in from the west. Frigid wind gusting off the lake nipped at her skin like a cloud of icy gnats. She pulled a brown wool scarf over her face as if she were a bandit and walked out to the sidewalk from her high-rise condo on the northwest corner of the tenth floor to flag a taxi. Running late for an appointment, her mind was elsewhere. A recently purchased Prada purse with a wide, two-inch leather strap and a brass buckle was strung over her right shoulder. Sixty-four dollars in bills, fifty-two cents in change, a tube of ruby red lipstick, a small packet of breath mints, and two credit cards, barely added any weight.

***

Moving quickly and light-footed despite his brutish size, he eyed his victim as if he were a grizzly and she were to be his next meal. His pathway followed the base of the building, staying in the shadows until he was within arm’s reach of his next victim.

Your purse or your life, he yelled, his monster fists poised at his chest, ready to inflict a broken jaw if there was the least bit of hesitation on her part.

She tried to scream for help, but the words stuck to the tip of her tongue as if they were glued. The brute was on her like a King Kong. He ripped at her purse strap, whirling her nearly full-circle in the process. It snapped. She watched wide-eyed as he disappeared down the darkened alleyway, wondering if he was part-human, part-animal.

***

Home was an eight by ten-foot makeshift cardboard box beneath the railway overpass. The words Home Depot were printed above a small doorway and on the flanking two sides. The roof was composed of glued-together, thick commercial plastic bags intended to act as a barrier against the cold rain and snow.

Above, trains passed every two to three hours, shaking the ground as if a 4.5 on the Richter scale earthquake was occurring. Their whistles blew full blast as the locomotives banked steeply in their quest to leave the city and move on to the countryside to the west.

He snapped open the purse, poured the contents onto the frozen ground and frowned as he took in the bounty, a lousy sixty-four dollars and change … a quarter, two dimes, and three pennies. He needed to do better, even if that meant using his fists. But he knew better than to use a gun or knife. That was something he learned at the state penitentiary — armed-robbery was a big-time offense, resulting in five-to-ten years of hard-time at the state prison in Elgin.

With the edge of his brutish hand, he rubbed a scar on his cheek which extended in a zigzag fashion to just below his right eye. A slash one inch higher and he would be wearing an eye patch and would be a one-eyed monster. On cold, damp nights it ached, sending sharp pains to the side of his head and bringing back the memory of the fateful prison riot nearly two years ago when two prison guards were killed.

Fifty feet above, rails rumbled and creaked as if they had awakened from a deep sleep. The train was on time, about a half-mile away before it reached the bridge and below where he called home. He leaned back against a crumpled blanket, lit a saved cigarette butt and took a long sip from a bottle of cheap red wine wrapped in a plain brown bag and proceeded to wipe away residual fluid from the corner of his mouth with a paw of a hand. Born of this anomaly … hands twice as big as a normal newborn’s, fingers thick, almost claw-like, barely human. He wished he knew from which parent he received the curse. He vaguely remembered his father, but the memory became more blurred with the passing of time. His mother, well that was a different matter; he wouldn’t recognize her if she stood in front of him, smiled, and welcomed him with open arms.

Chapter Two

Senior railroad engineer, Vance Smoots, squinted, glanced at his year-old Timex, and smiled. The Silver Express out of Philadelphia with two-hundred and ten passengers, five crew members, and a rear car filled with cargo would arrive at the South Chicago terminal one hour ahead of schedule. If he increased the train’s speed a mere two or three miles per-hour, he would set a new personal best record that spanned nearly a dozen years.

It’s a damn cold one outside tonight, Smoots said as a fog of cold breath hung by his face, blurring hawkish features. He smirked at Bill Kramer, his co-engineer as he leaned forward. With his arm fully extended on the lever, he inched the accelerator a notch, then another. He turned his head to the side and chuckled, anticipating Kramer’s reaction.

What do you think is in the rear car on this run? Kramer asked, and at the same time, looked down at the speed gauge and shook his head. What’s the fuck’n rush, Vance?

I really don’t give a damn, Smoots replied. He swallowed a wad of spit. Kramer was one pain-in-the ass, a by-the-book freak. At twenty-eight years of age and with one year of community college under his belt, he thought he knew it all.

Smoots inched the accelerator lever a notch further. He’d show him; he should have been a fighter pilot he daydreamed, oblivious to Kramer’s words of caution. Instead of the drum-drum of the rails, the roar of an F-22 Raptor approaching Mach 2 would be more to his liking … faster than the speed of sound versus a locomotive with a top speed of eighty miles per-hour.

I think it’s the Mona Lisa, Kramer shouted above the din of the roaring locomotive. Five hundred million dollars’ worth.

Smoots took one last draw from his cigarette butt, flipped it on the metal-plated floor and snuffed it out with the heel of his boot. He was in no mood for chitchat. Ahead, a mere quarter of a mile away loomed Devil’s Bend, a steep, fifteen-degree bank before the overpass was to be met. He pulled back on the accelerator lever and applied the brake. Ten-thousand horses balked. The locomotive seemed to have a mind of its own, rushing toward the steep bend at much too great of speed.

Kramer’s blood-drained face gaped in horror … the bastard had done the unthinkable. The locomotive leaned to the side as centrifugal force fought the friction of steel meeting steel. Wheels wobbled as they strained to stay on the track. Clouds of sparks flew from beneath the locomotive as if it were the ending-flurry of a lakeside Fourth of July fireworks, and in a fatal fraction of a second, a front wheel disengaged from the rail, another followed quickly.

***

Frankenstein’s eyelids fluttered, his lips thinned, something odd had aroused him from a restless sleep. Fifty feet above his cardboard home something was not quite right; the usual rumble of the approaching Silver Express was more of a screeching sound, of metal grating upon metal. Bulky, wooden supporting beams shook and groaned around him as if they were alive. He swore he could hear people screaming. Clouds of sparks streamed down from above, and for a brief, fateful moment, the night seemed as bright as daytime. The train was derailing.

Using his giant paw, he pushed aside the cardboard box. It lost its footing and one side fell flat with a thud. He looked up … fifty feet above him a metal giant dangled. Diesel fuel dripped like dark brown blood from its underbelly and formed a pool not far from where he stood. A fire flashed, an explosion ensued; supporting beams shook even more, then one by one gave way like a series of falling dominoes. All about him, the screams of the injured pierced the frigid night air.

He moved quickly. There was little time before the locomotive completely disengaged and crashed down on top of him.

Above, the shrill cry of an infant pierced the night. Using his brutish hands and immense strength it took him mere seconds to climb up the embankment and reach the site of the derailment.

The train was twisted like a pretzel, several passenger cars lay on their sides; the locomotive dangled from the edge of the overpass, any second ready to detach itself and plunge down into a pool of burning diesel fuel.

Black, soot-filled air, filled Frankenstein’s lungs as he gulped in the night air and surveyed the catastrophe. Cupping his ear, he listened. The infant’s wail was near. It was a sound like non-other. His speed defied logic, like a gorilla moving through a thicket of dense metallic vines, shoving to the side any debris that stood in his way. A jagged piece of strewn metal tore at his thigh. Blood bloomed and quickly painted his trouser red. Pain didn’t matter. He was an ex-marine and an ex-convict; he accepted pain as if it was commonplace, something that had hardened him into what he was.

The passenger car lay on its side, at right angle to the rails. Dancing flames flickered at the windows. Moans filled the cold night. The infant’s cries, intermingled with screams of the injured, was distinct as he reached a doorway. Dense black smoke clouded his vision. He coughed, gasped for air as he wiped away soot from his face with his oversized hand. No more than a dozen feet away, the source of the crying loomed. Everything was skewed — upside down and on its side. Bodies lay at his feet. He moved on, pushing, shoving with almost superhuman strength; the same strength that brought fear to anyone who got in his way, who dared to challenge his dominance. The infant lay a few feet away, its lips an ashen blue, its tiny hands curled into balls of fright.

Chapter Three

A WGN News helicopter hovered a mere hundred feet above the accident scene, swaying precariously back and forth as flame-fed hot air from below plumed up. Sirens howled as an armada of emergency teams from Chicago and the adjacent suburbs closed in on the debacle. Searchlights crisscrossed the accident scene in a vain attempt to isolate survivors.

Frankenstein looked up. The infant clung to his chest as if he were its father. Frankenstein’s right hand, nearly as large as the infant itself, held the baby tightly against his body to protect it from the tongues of flames that savagely leaped around him.

There, to the right, the helicopter pilot shouted to a newsman in the passenger seat. A searchlight pinpointed an area below…to a man holding an infant against his bosom, the man’s face singed and soot-colored, lips pursed in determination.

Lower! the newsman shouted to the pilot. I need to take pictures.

The pilot scowled and shouted back, It’s like a Vietnam war zone down there. If I go any lower it could be the end of us.

Below them an explosion erupted. Flames leaped to the sky and black clouds of smoke swirled as if an oil refinery was on fire.

The newsman braced himself against the inner frame of the copter; violent vibrations shook the interior as he leaned out. Holding onto an interior rod for dear life, he needed this photograph — for it was what fame was made of.

***

With his free hand, Frankenstein shielded his eyes and looked up. A helicopter hovered above him, close enough for him to make out faces. The force of the copter props fed the flames which nearly engulfed him and the infant, but with a mighty effort he leaped across strewn hot metal, fell to one knee, recovered and ran towards safety.

The newsman smiled. This photograph could make him famous.

Ahead, a rescue vehicle — lights blazing red and white — loomed. Frankenstein’s legs, heavy with fatigue, churned nevertheless. A man in a bright yellow gear motioned to him. He must reach him before he collapsed … just a few more feet.

Grasping the infant with his brutish hands, he extended his arms and offered the infant to the emergency responder. And that was the last thing he remembered.

***

A faint voice awakened