B E N E D I C T ' S 9
a creative
collaboration

. P A R T . F O U R .

...not such an average joe after all.

Jordan Epson opened the little plastic canister, scooped a daub of the sticky, dark material onto his finger, appraised it, and threw it away. He didn't know why he'd asked for the stuff from the Professor—he'd been trying to quit forever anyway. After a minute, he stuffed the can back into his pocket. It'd be a shame to waste it all.
. . . . . Siobhan had always nagged him to stop dipping—the memory came rushing back before he could push it away. Her careworn but beautiful face, framed with grey-streaked copper hair; her strained, tired voice; the stony expression of the sheriff as he reported that there had been an... accident.
. . . . . Jordan smiled bitterly. Nothing had ever been accidental in his world. Things had gone in perfect, logical order, like the careful pencil lines on a blueprint... Until she had gone, until his world had come crashing down around his ears, until he stopped caring. He had thrown himself into his work, had become the most prominent architect in Cincinnati, but all the money in the world couldn't bring back his wife.
. . . . . What a cliche. Even his tragedies were predictable. He sat down on a rock, fished the can out of his pocket again, and pitched it into the darkening lake.
. . . . . There... You did something unpredictable for a change, Epson.
. . . . . The land up here was beautiful, ripe and untouched. He caught himself drawing mental drafts of buildings to complement the lay of the land—an old-fashioned lighthouse would fit at the far end of that peninsula, a boat house painted teal green would go by the water, and a stucco cottage would blend perfectly with the exposed rock on that slope. He shook his head. A couple hundred miles between him and his office, and he still couldn't get his mind off work.
. . . . . To tell the truth, though, that was the first time architecture had been on his mind since he had left for O'Hare. This little vacation had had plenty of surprises to keep him distracted... The switched flight plan, the confrontation on the jet, and the scientist's near-breakdown, not to mention the fact that he was a apparently a freak of nature. There, another step away from the predictable.
. . . . . Maybe you're not such an average joe after all.
. . . . . He reached for a low-hanging branch to pull himself up, and was startled to feel it shudder beneath his grip. Jerking his hand away from the wood, he was surprised to notice five odd swellings beneath the bark—they hadn't been there before, had they? Probably some kind of Ontario tree worm, nothing to worry about. After all, it was far from the most unusual thing he'd seen in the last couple of days. He smiled to himself as he began the trek back up to the cabin.
. . . . . Behind him, every bud on the tree suddenly burst into full bloom.

* * * * * * * * *

So, what's happening, Dr. Benedict?"
. . . . . "To be honest, I'm not really sure, Mo..." Freeman Benedict's face slowly, carefully broke into a tired grin. It was a change. He hadn't had much to smile about lately, after all.
. . . . . Mosby chuckled. "I wasn't trying to make any inquiries, sir, just a little conversation."
. . . . . "I know that, Mo. But it does feel good to be able to laugh."
. . . . . How true that is, reflected Dr. Vaughn Milton to himself. After a day of talking, thinking, and trying to organize the chaos that had become of his plans, it seemed Freeman Benedict was once more able to face the world. That Lafayette fellow, Henri, had been a great help—the man could have been a psychiatrist, and a damn good one, too. His easygoing manner made it easy to relax, to let one's feelings out.
. . . . . "Call the others in, will you, Mo?" Benedict sighed, dropping the smile. Milton could see him steeling himself—getting ready to face the lions.
. . . . . "Yessir."
. . . . . The figures who trickled into the wood-paneled room were a sight strangely reminiscent of the crowd who had invaded the Chicago meeting room—had it only been three days ago?—but there was a subtle difference. The eighteen men and women in that room had been strangers, but these eleven were a band. The past seventy-two hours had united them, turned them into a group who, if they didn't quite trust each other, at least knew what to expect.
. . . . . "Ladies and gentlemen... Friends..." he began once more. A few quiet laughs emerged from the group. Different from that first group, indeed; now, it seemed, he was one of them.
. . . . . "I expect that you are all beginning to feel the effects of your individual mutations by now. I have no doubt that you will find them disconcerting at first, as is only natural, but with time you will certainly learn to control your newfound abilities; it is merely a matter of self-control and willpower."
. . . . . "I haven't experienced anything yet," commented the short, bearded Ohioan architect. "Just a few of the biggest, ugliest mosquitoes I've ever seen!" A few more laughs arose from the company.
. . . . . "I haven't felt much either," piped up Gwen Amberly, recovered from her first encounter with advanced PDS. "Just a buzzing in my head."
. . . . . "Sorry I can't say the same," muttered Creighton Mann. "I really want to apologize about what I did to your door. I don't know what came over me."
. . . . . "It's quite all right," Milton assured him. "From what I can tell, it was a massive adrenaline surge throughout your system, burning off quite a bit of blood sugar. You're lucky you were able to stand afterwards."
. . . . . "But you haven't always been able to control your own flashbacks, have you, sir?" Yates suddenly broke in. "I'm not sure how I knew that, but I'm quite certain it's true."
. . . . . "You're right, Mr. Yates. My photographic memory has been more of a curse than a blessing, to tell the truth. I try, but..." He spread his hands helplessly. "What more can one do?"
. . . . . "Don't you think the others back in Chicago should know all this, Dr. Benedict?" It was Mosby who spoke this time. "I think I really ought to get back to them, warn them that things aren't quite what we expected."
. . . . . "I suppose you're right. I've been dreading my return to Chicago, but it's simply irresponsible to leave a group of people with mutations on this scale on the loose without any idea of what to expect..."
. . . . . "The seaplanes are still at the dock, Freeman," said Milton quietly. "One of them has a cracked wing strut, though—not everyone will be able to go back with you."
. . . . . "Who do you want to take?" asked Robin.
. . . . . "If I had any idea, I'm sure you would have picked it from my mind by now, Miss Gallagher," said Benedict, a wry expression on his face.
. . . . . "Well, I'm sure not going to let you go alone..." said Mosby gruffly.
. . . . . Freeman Benedict gazed at the wall and thought.

* * * * * * * * *

In room 514 of the Winston-Carlton Hotel, a red-haired man crouched. His large, rangy form was huddled on the floor, hands over his ears; all of his attention was focused inward, trying to block out the sensory onslaught that was nearly driving him out of his mind.
. . . . . Kethan Mortice was desperate.
. . . . . It had started about an hour ago, after the loony bin—those who had refused the mad scientist's cash—had left for Detroit. The few sensible people like himself had stayed behind, waiting for Benedict's return to receive the money that would allow them early retirements. Mortice had returned to his room to watch HBO (which he couldn't afford at home), but had found the static unbearable and decided to take a nap instead... And the creaking had started.
. . . . . Creak, creak, creeeeeak.
. . . . . It was like something out of an old Bela Lugosi movie. He had opened the door (which also creaked abominably, at a lower pitch) and followed the sound down the hallway, all the way to the elevators. He had pressed his ear to the doors, and sure enough, the sound was coming from the shaft. He had taken the elevator to lunch—it hadn't made that noise then, had it?
. . . . . Making a mental note to take the stairs, he had returned to his room, but the creaking had grown even louder. Unable to bear it, he had been driven to plug his ears—not just for the elevator, but from the ambient noise; the neighboring residents were making an astonishing racket. Spying a box of tissues, Mortice had grabbed one to stuff in his ear.
. . . . . It crackled.
. . . . . He stared at it in consternation. What was it with this hotel? Creaky elevators, paper-thin walls, and even the tissues were noisy.
. . . . . He had stuck it in his ear anyway, but it had barely made a difference. From all around him, the noise was overpowering—people shouting, doors creaking, clothes rustling. Even the microscopic vibration of the telephone wires was audible, like some kind of demented mosquito trapped in his aural tract.
. . . . . He clapped his hands to his ears—and the resulting boom nearly made him faint. Although they did help to muffle the noise slightly, what little quiet he obtained was overpowered by the thumping beat of his own rapid pulse. Creeping terror was beginning to overtake him, and he broke out in a cold sweat.
. . . . . Mortice slowly found that by focusing to his utmost, he could block out the noise—until his concentration was broken by a crash, or a scream, or the slamming of a door. For almost two days, he huddled in his room, unable to eat or sleep, trying desperately to block it all out.
. . . . . He was almost relieved when, through five floors of plaster, concrete and steel, he heard Freeman Benedict's voice in the lobby.

Part Five

T O P