Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) by Benjamin Sobieck Page B
Authors: Benjamin Sobieck
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darkness and silence.
This did not go well.
15.
“Chase? Are you OK?” comes a voice that gradually comes into clarity. It could only be Hillary’s, and it must mean the PIT maneuver didn’t go as planned. I’m on my back, there’s blood in my mouth for the third time in the past 24 hours and all I can see are stars above me in the clear Texas night.
I slowly get to my feet, anticipating that some part of my body will suddenly give way. I’m pleasantly surprised to find that not only does that not happen, but also that I’m in decent shape, or at least no worse than I was before. Even the .45 and ESEE knife remain securely stored in their holsters beneath my bush jacket. Of course, the risk of concussion is still present, but I swear my brain is used to this kind of abuse or I’d already be dead. It’s a gray callous at this point.
My eyes scan the night for signs of an overturned Jeep and scattered wreckage, but I find the vehicle idling on the road 50 feet away, albeit with a flat rear tire on the passenger side. My bags inside are still in place, too. Apparently, I was the only thing to be tossed out of the vehicle following the PIT maneuver. I don’t remember how it happened. Did I accidentally open the door as the Jeep swerved? Did I forget to close the door in the rush to follow Doctor X? Either way, I’m both the luckiest and unluckiest bastard on Earth to be scratching my ass in this ditch and asking these questions.
Just another day in paradise, minus the paradise.
“I’m here, and mostly fine,” I say and walk to the Jeep. Hillary stands next to the hood steaming in the cool breeze. It’s so hot I can practically smell the heat. “Where did our friend, Doctor X, go?”
Hillary points to an overturned car in the opposite ditch. I’ll be damned. The PIT maneuver worked after all. Doctor X’s car must’ve spun out and rolled into the ditch. The car looks like something one of those Transformers from the movies would shit out. He’s no use to us dead, but I’m impressed nonetheless. It’s not every day you get to pull something like that off.
“I’m fine, no thanks to you two,” comes Doctor X’s unmistakable voice from somewhere beneath the car.
His voice doesn’t demonstrate the kind of stress I’d expect to hear after living through the four-wheeled meat grinder that was the rollover.
I draw the .45, and we head over to the car. We find Doctor X beneath a pile of twisted metal away from the cab. He didn’t wear his seatbelt.
Typical.
Only Doctor X’s head is visible from within the wreckage, but I’m struck by how little it appears he’s injured. No lacerations. No bruising. No bloodshot eyes. Nothing. It’s like he walked in off the street and crawled under a blanket of contorted car parts. Hillary notices it, too. She’s stunned.
“What are you looking at?” Doctor X says to us, his voice even and unbroken. “Get me out from under here.”
His clarity is so unusual that I’m not sure we should. Hillary is thinking the same thing. She looks at me and shakes her head.
“I’m in no hurry,” I say, although I catch a waft from leaking gasoline suggests otherwise.
“I think you should be,” Doctor X says.
“And why is that?” I say.
“Because my helpers are already here,” he says.
“Helpers?”
I catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. There’s movement from somewhere in the night, a flittering break in the moonlight.
“I can call them off,” Doctor X says. “But you have to help me get out from under here.”
Hillary notices the movement, too. They’re hard to make out.
Are these the same helpers with the laser sights from before?
I don’t want to risk finding out the hard way. Those “helpers” are too close for comfort. Hillary and I lift the wreckage up enough for Doctor X to scoot out. His body is remarkably free from injury. He stands up without issue, although his shredded clothes hang from his frame like
This did not go well.
15.
“Chase? Are you OK?” comes a voice that gradually comes into clarity. It could only be Hillary’s, and it must mean the PIT maneuver didn’t go as planned. I’m on my back, there’s blood in my mouth for the third time in the past 24 hours and all I can see are stars above me in the clear Texas night.
I slowly get to my feet, anticipating that some part of my body will suddenly give way. I’m pleasantly surprised to find that not only does that not happen, but also that I’m in decent shape, or at least no worse than I was before. Even the .45 and ESEE knife remain securely stored in their holsters beneath my bush jacket. Of course, the risk of concussion is still present, but I swear my brain is used to this kind of abuse or I’d already be dead. It’s a gray callous at this point.
My eyes scan the night for signs of an overturned Jeep and scattered wreckage, but I find the vehicle idling on the road 50 feet away, albeit with a flat rear tire on the passenger side. My bags inside are still in place, too. Apparently, I was the only thing to be tossed out of the vehicle following the PIT maneuver. I don’t remember how it happened. Did I accidentally open the door as the Jeep swerved? Did I forget to close the door in the rush to follow Doctor X? Either way, I’m both the luckiest and unluckiest bastard on Earth to be scratching my ass in this ditch and asking these questions.
Just another day in paradise, minus the paradise.
“I’m here, and mostly fine,” I say and walk to the Jeep. Hillary stands next to the hood steaming in the cool breeze. It’s so hot I can practically smell the heat. “Where did our friend, Doctor X, go?”
Hillary points to an overturned car in the opposite ditch. I’ll be damned. The PIT maneuver worked after all. Doctor X’s car must’ve spun out and rolled into the ditch. The car looks like something one of those Transformers from the movies would shit out. He’s no use to us dead, but I’m impressed nonetheless. It’s not every day you get to pull something like that off.
“I’m fine, no thanks to you two,” comes Doctor X’s unmistakable voice from somewhere beneath the car.
His voice doesn’t demonstrate the kind of stress I’d expect to hear after living through the four-wheeled meat grinder that was the rollover.
I draw the .45, and we head over to the car. We find Doctor X beneath a pile of twisted metal away from the cab. He didn’t wear his seatbelt.
Typical.
Only Doctor X’s head is visible from within the wreckage, but I’m struck by how little it appears he’s injured. No lacerations. No bruising. No bloodshot eyes. Nothing. It’s like he walked in off the street and crawled under a blanket of contorted car parts. Hillary notices it, too. She’s stunned.
“What are you looking at?” Doctor X says to us, his voice even and unbroken. “Get me out from under here.”
His clarity is so unusual that I’m not sure we should. Hillary is thinking the same thing. She looks at me and shakes her head.
“I’m in no hurry,” I say, although I catch a waft from leaking gasoline suggests otherwise.
“I think you should be,” Doctor X says.
“And why is that?” I say.
“Because my helpers are already here,” he says.
“Helpers?”
I catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. There’s movement from somewhere in the night, a flittering break in the moonlight.
“I can call them off,” Doctor X says. “But you have to help me get out from under here.”
Hillary notices the movement, too. They’re hard to make out.
Are these the same helpers with the laser sights from before?
I don’t want to risk finding out the hard way. Those “helpers” are too close for comfort. Hillary and I lift the wreckage up enough for Doctor X to scoot out. His body is remarkably free from injury. He stands up without issue, although his shredded clothes hang from his frame like
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