Vol. III Chapter 52 “I was pre-med, not pre-mad scientist.”

Chapter 52 "I was pre-med, not pre-mad scientist."

Three years ago…

Jones found himself wandering aimlessly. He'd torn the tattered canvas from the flipped truck, wrapping half round his waist like a towel. He used the rest to pointlessly try and hide, draping it over himself like a hooded poncho. He walked till it went dark. All the while trying to focus. Not on what was taken from him, but what he had left. Namely his mind, and that had always served him well.

At first he thought the sun had begun to rise, but the colour looked different. Beyond the shade and the warmth, it felt magnetic somehow. Then he understood. Jones had wandered into the Glassedlands. He'd always loved to watch the rippling haze on the horizon, especially while tripping. Now the radiation that would have killed him pulled at him, welcomed him.

Purple ribbons arced and flowed overhead. The smooth surface felt warm under the tougher than leather soles of his feet. No one could follow him here. In the nourishing toxicity he found a moment of clarity.

Jones knew where he could find someone else who hated those metal bastards. Unfortunately, they also hated him.

Jones walked all day, finding the worn and weathered mansion he'd lived in as a teenager. Here he'd started as a runner, impressing the boss with his grasp of chemistry. Then he took that knowledge and set up his own rival operation. The same mistake he'd made years later. Nothing was ever enough, now he'd lost everything. Almost everything.

The place looked deserted. The Four Corners had put the mansion out of favour. Now too far off the safe road, and no longer offering the best chems around. He knew, however, that the mansion's owner would be there. He hadn't been anywhere else in a century.

Jones watched for any sign of life, seeing none. No deliveries being picked up. No caps being dropped off. No crews turning up to party. As soon as night fell, he walked up to the front gate.

Two paces from it, a bullet skipped off the ground in front of him. "Next one goes between your eyes!" Rasped a voice he knew, amplified by the intercom. Jones put up his massive arms.

"Your name is Simon Carter. When the bombs fell you found the biggest place you could and partied for as long as you could. By the time you realised what was happening it was too late."

"Who are you?" The voice softened.

"It's Jones. I need your help." He stared into the dark glass circle that held the camera and microphone. Knowing full black eyes were watching a screen, grateful that it might lessen his terrifying image. "Those metal bastards did this to me. You're the only one who can help me." The double gates buzzed and swung open.

Inside the cracked plaster and flaking paint hadn't changed. Neither had the rotting face of the owner. Carter's full black eyes grew wider as he walked down the curved stairs. He stood in the shadow of the scrawny young man he'd known. Jones tried to stay calm, wondering if he could shrug off bullets from the gold plated assault rifle Carter had his hand on.

"Tell me something only Jones would know." Carter stared up at him.

"The first time you taught me to cook I nearly burned the whole place down." Jones tried to lighten his voice.

"God damn kid, what the fuck did they do to you?" Carter had seen a lot come through the doors in his overly long time. This was the first time Jones heard shock in his voice.

"Light me a cigarette and I'll tell you." Jones held out his clumsy, bulbous hands. He managed to get the cigarette to his mouth. A single pull reduced it to ash, and only made the craving worse.

An hour later Jones found himself as close to calm as he'd been since waking into this hell. He sat on the back steps. His legs stretched over four of them, smoking a cigar that still felt small. Inside the kitchen turned chem lab Carter worked feverishly over the blood sample, aided by a three armed bot.

Jones always hated bots. One too many close calls with the frenzied ones that roamed the wastes. Carter seemed quite fond of the hovering silver orb, talking to it like a person.

"Son of a bitch." Carter exclaimed. Decades of reading, plus the pre-war education, and he still sounded stunned. Jones stood at the bottom of the steps, putting him on eye level with his former mentor.

"That good." He could read the rotten face.

"This shit is way beyond me. I was pre-med, not pre-mad scientist." Carter paused, making eye contact. "There's no way back."

"I know." Jones could feel that. Part of the reason he'd come here. The only person he could think of who might understand. "So what is it?" Jones asked, already having an idea.

"It's viral. Highly weaponised, aggressive. Cellular regeneration is off the scale." Carter seemed out of his depth.

"Can you make more?" Jones saw the shock on the rotten face. Carter hadn't expected the question. This had been the real reason he'd come here, to a lab.

"Why would anyone in their right mind…" Jones saw the full black eyes flit nervously to the assault rifle. He put his new strength and speed to the test. With a lunging blow, Jones drove his fist through Carter's chest. It felt no harder than putting his hand through water. Carter rasped and spluttered ink black blood from his mouth as what little life remained left him. Jones pulled his former mentor close and whispered a single word, the only word that meant anything to him now.

"Revenge."

Jones washed the blood from his hand in the toxic stream at the bottom of an overgrown garden, dumping Carter's body nearby. He always avoided the poisonous water, now the sound calmed him.

Back inside the bot started mopping up the blood, muttering. "This simply will not do." It had an accent like something from a radio play. "A tidy home is a happy home." It didn't seem to notice the cracked walls and stained ceiling.

"Robot." Jones called over. A single round eye turned to him while the other two stayed focused on the mop and bucket.

"My name is Featherby, sir. How may I assist you?"

"Do you know how to cook?"

Jones had been back living in the mansion for over a week. Plotting and cooking. The bot turned out to be a valuable assistant, capable of precise measurements Jones struggled with. He slept only twice, both times outside by the stream.

After whipping up enough chems for what he had in mind, none of which had any effect on him, he moved on to his blood. To get a sample Jones would slash his thumb, collecting the viscous blood before the cut healed in seconds. Then he'd do it again, and again. Each time healing without so much as a scar.

Next Jones span the blood, separating the plasma. It had a green tinge. After distilling the liquid, it produced a single drop. Corrosive and glowing green. There was no way to tell how much he'd need, but once he'd filled a tin bucket that seemed like enough to make a start.

Jones kept tabs on a number of former associates over the years. None closer than Thumper. Sadistic, vindictive, but above all greedy. He was also Amber's ex. Jones had screwed him over, taking his share of the profit. And Amber.

Thumper, named after the grenade launcher he liked to thump people with, wasn't hard to find. He'd stayed at the old hideout, a truck depot. A place Jones knew well. They respect strength, he thought to himself. Finding a new way to earn his place as an outlaw.

The old depot hadn't changed much. High brick perimeter wall, mostly still standing. Wide gates reinforced with trailers. Roller shutters that barely kept the draughts out. Judging by the noxious scent in the air they were cooking up cheap amphetamines in one of the trailers. He waited till night fell, then he made his move.

Pounding strides brought him to the wall in seconds. Climbing over took little effort. The dyed canvas and shadows hid him despite his size. His sharper eyes and more acute hearing could make out the two men by the door, both armed. The thought of breaking bones like matchsticks stirred the rage in his mind. Along with the hunger for flesh. He pushed it down, anger outweighed by his disgust.

With his mind focused, Jones rushed from cover. The two stood their ground, until the submachine gun and shotgun fire didn't nothing to stop the giant figure running at them. They scrambled to get inside, bracing the door and screaming. Little more an open palmed slap on the double doors sent them swinging inwards.

"Thumper! Get down here!" Jones boomed, standing in the doorway, wondering what a grenade might do to him. Movement in the former offices turned bedrooms to the right preceded more gunfire. Jones walked through the low calibre bullets like rain. "Thumper!"

"What do you want?!" Jones heard the fear and savoured it. He took the improvised bag from his back, tipping the inhalers, injectors, and bags of pills out. Suddenly the fear in the eyes of those around him changed, replaced with confusion and greed. Addicts, Jones thought, predictable.

"I want to pay what I owe you. Then I want to make you rich." Jones tried to smile, stepping back and sitting cross legged.

"You owe me?" Thumper stepped out, pointing his grenade launcher that Jones figured must be empty.

"It's Jones. Those metal bastards did this to me." He kept the rage down, seeing hatred in the face opposite him. "I was with you when we found your brothers...strung up like pigs."

"Fuck. It really is you, isn't it." Thumper pulled up a chair, picking through the chems. His three strong crew gathered behind him. A hard faced woman, two men with bloodied faces from door hitting them. All scared, yet almost drooling over the free chems.

"We're going to make them pay Thumper, but we need allies. Best way to do that is the chem trade. I cook, you sell, like before." Jones saw the fear begin to fade, eyes flicking to the pile of chems. "Go ahead." He waved an oversized hand and the woman took an inhaler from the pile like a rat stealing food. Jones felt a craving for something to take the edge off and scratch the itch under the thick green skin that trapped him. He watched them draw in the Jet, chew and snort pills.

"Shit Jones, whatever they did to you, it didn't stop you cooking." Thumper's pupils were pinned, his speech just a little too fast. Jones wished he could feel that again. Not nearly as much as he wanted to hear Amber say his name. "Thing is though, we're getting squeezed on all sides. Got a dozen crews all fighting over scraps. Can't sell in the Corners without paying up front to that fat fuck Sal."

"You sell that and get me everything on the list." Jones pointed to the note the robot wrote. He couldn't write small enough anymore. "Tell me about these other crews." Jones tried to keep the grin from his monstrous face, seeing the first steps of his plan coming into focus.

A few days later Jones found the first of the rival crews. Eight of them, living in an old apartment building. Jones sat in the forest and watched, trying to calm his fractured mind. Alive, he thought, I need them alive. But the image of smashing and ripping made his bulbous hands seize into fists. As soon as night fell, he shrugged the canvas from his shoulders and moved.

Inside the stairs creaked under his massive weight. He heard raised voices that quickly became sounds of struggling and jeering. Punches and kicks echoed, bringing a craving for something he could have. The sounds stopped and the copper tinge of blood filled his nostrils. Like a starving animal that smelt food, the beast took over.

The interior wall tore like paper. The shock and terror on the faces fuelled a savage attack. A single right hook caved in a chest. Arms were ripped from sockets. Heads crushed beneath stomping feet.

Jones looked down at what he'd done. Nothing moved. Blood seeped through the floorboards. They made me into this, he thought, disgusted with what they unleashed. He started to leave when the only intact body coughed into life. Whatever reason had earned the skinny man a beating, it spared him a brutal death. For now.

Jones dragged the beaten and barely conscious man into the next room. From the pouch attached to the tattered canvas kilt, he pulled out a modified injector. One of six. Even the larger metal tube looked small in his green hand.

Without hesitation he stuck the needle into scrawny chest, right into the beating heart. The glowing green liquid drained as the laboured breathing slowed, then stopped. Jones stared down at the body wondering if he just killed another person. Then the screaming started. Jones watched as thin arms swelled. Slight shoulders grew broad, and a battered body became strong. His creation stood before him.

"Kneel." Jones growled at the snarling figure. Not as tall as him, less well built, but powerful. "Kneel!"

"HUNGRY." It responded. Jones lashed out with an open hand, issuing a correction to establish dominance. Yellow eyes that matched his glared back. He raised his hand again, and it knelt before him. Jones felt a rush of something that felt better than high grade chems. Power.

"Eat." Jones opened the door to the room of shattered bodies, rewarding the obedience. The sound of tearing and chewing made him hungry. Revenge, he thought, pressing his hand to the five remaining injectors.