Flinch

A leading scientist in Quantum Biology has a disturbing hobby that quickly spirals into chaos

1

Three pages from Ted Bundy's prison notepad, a pair of moldy workboots once worn by Ed Gein, a small plastic bag containing bristles from the rope Kenneth Bianchi used to murder Kristina Weckler; these are some of the items Aram Lynch had in his collection.

But the latter was the worst in the bunch, the one he'd do the most time for, and it had cost him almost ten thousand. Incredibly, he had not looked at it since the day he had brought it home; it was just too near to the event, too resounding an echo of too brutal a source. A lot of the objects hidden behind the portrait of Caravaggio that stood alongside the desk in his study were ominous but they were somehow remote, removed from the hideous violence of their owners. Yet the thought of anyone finding out about this life-long 'hobby' of his, gave him heartache deep in his soul.

Aram had just secured his latest purchase inside the panel behind Caravaggio when Charlene's bright voice sounded from the doorway.

'Hun?'

She looked especially fantastic tonight: the freshly washed colour of her long flowing hair pronounced the natural strawberry currents beneath the surface of the strands, and the low lights of the hallway lit up her mellow green eyes. There was no question; Charlene had aged leagues better than him. She could easily have passed for thirty.

“Food is almost done, are you coming?” Her eyebrows were raised; it was an instruction not a request.

“Only if you'll come with me,” said Aram, leaning back, smiling.

Charlene blinked, said, “if you're going to be charming at least do it in public.”

She turned, heading out the door, grinning secretly. Over her shoulder, she said, “otherwise nobody'll believe you.”

Soon, they were in the large open-planned kitchen, with the high bay-windows and the smell of roasting duck in black bean sauce. Sizzling sounds and the mouth-watering paramount of multiple vegetables broiling in unison.

Aram arrived in the kitchen, sniffing the air comically even though all four of his children presently sitting at the broad dinner-table were over twenty years old. The joke ceased, however, when he saw Ciara on the far side of the table, glaring out of the foggy kitchen and into the dink murk of the night. Peter and Larry both became disquieted when they saw their father studying Ciara's heavily bruised eye (though only Peter had the respect to show it). Larry just grinned like an idiot.

“What happened?” asked Aram, taking a seat. Ciara looked over at him, one eye beaten into a sag, the bloody point of the eye like a red burnt flint.

“I walked into a pole when I was stoned.”

Larry burst out laughing. It was so quick even Charlene, about fifteen feet away at the conduits, jumped with the fright.

“What was his name, Bukowski?” said Larry, with the same smirk he had been wearing when, at the age of ten, Peter's pet rabbit was devoured in front of them by the Mcalister's Doberman.

“What did you say?” said Aram, with hard, cutting eyes. Larry tried to keep eye contact with his father, but, like the smile he had been wearing, it fell almost without protest.

“Sorry,” said Larry, half-heartedly in Ciara's direction then proceeded directly to his I-Phone. There was some idle conversation between Peter and Aram for a few minutes  - Aram had chosen to wait til after dinner to talk to Ciara and they both knew it -  but then Larry placed his phone roughly on the table, and said, to Ciara, “Why are you even here, anyway?”

Even Aram was speechless. Larry glanced at his father. “I just mean, she could've talked to you before hand, instead of making it a big dramatic family thing. Look at her? It's obvious, she's making it all about-”

“Watch you're f*****g mouth,” growled Aram in a thick whisky husk.

He detested the way his youngest son acted sometimes; it seemed he had no compassion, zero empathy, nil humanity. But Aram had always put up with it, and for a fairly shallow reason as well: Larry was a scientifically proven genius. A one in three billion kind of a mind. So, much as Aram despised his son's behavior, he knew that some day this exceptional brain may elevate, either through a cure or an equation, the human race.

“Bukowski was German you idiot,” said Ciara, turning in formally to the tale. And I came because I was drunk and bored.”

“Well,” said Charlene arriving at the table with a plate of fragrant, steaming food, “that's as good a reason as any.”

After dinner, Aram and Ciara went to the enormous sitting-room to talk.

“You know I hate cliches dad,” she said, annoyed by her father's first question. The vast television up on the wall shimmered images from a silent screen. “When I say I left him, I mean it. And I promise you, this is one and only time I'll find myself in that situation.”

Aram was sitting alongside her on the dark grey satin couch, sandals and socks, bearded, concerned.

“I just don't know why you go with the types you do...I mean, theres a plenty of decent scumbags out there.”

That made Ciara smile. But she smile was too big and she cringed. A weak part of Aram was glad he had dimmed the lights down when they'd first entered, so that her bleak condition would not be so prominent. He had thought he had done it for her, so that she would not feel so self-conscious about it, but now he realized it was because the sight of Ciara in that condition would make him do something he would not come back from.

But the deeper, protective layer of Aram Lynch kept thinking when my plan finally works, the first one on the list is that slimy, immoral c**t.

But even the slight release this possibility brought was not enough to fend off the anger; the only reason Aram wasn't ranting and raging aloud was because he knew his daughter. When she said she was going to put as much distance between her and the b*****d called ' Beetle,' he believed her. And she had every intention of staying away from her long-term boyfriend of six weeks.

Beetle, however, had other plans.

“Are you all right f-”

“Don't say 'for money,' Jesus dad, I told you I hate cliches...how goes the begging committee?”

Aram swiped his nose, grinning through his close-cut goatee. “Well, I'm not exactly begging yet, but if they don't approve tomorrow then I might be at that stage, yeah...”

“It's only a printer, though...”

Aram took a sup from the mug of still too-hot tea, shaking his head, lips pursed.

“No it's not,” in a slow, interested, nearly conspiratorial tone. “It's a 5-D printer, hun, one of the first of its kind and I want-”

He smirked wryly at this rare occasion of divulgance, like the short conveyance of an unassuming shadow that is actually a great brain-thirsty monster.

“What I mean,” he said, sighing shyly through his gnarly nostrils, “is that Hermelabs needs it. We could do so much with it...” He broke off.

“Anyway,” he said, “that's not important. Are you going to be okay? Do you need to stay here?”

“No,” said Ciara, slightly offended. “The flat's fine. I'm just going to crack open a bottle and do some painting. That's all I seem to do these days.”

She was incredulous. “Sometimes, I'm just a b***h to my art.”

2

The next morning after the daily update meeting, doctor Aram Lynch sat in his office by the phone waiting for the board to ring, doctor Fleisch in particular. Using his tablet - he didn't want to busy the company line - he frequently called the finance department to see if the cost of the printer had been subtracted. He even called the transport facility to check if any of the vans had been sent out in advance. But there was only the per-scheduled deliveries and usual costs. Aram was bitter by three o'clock. No lunch. And then the phone rang.

The cigarette he had been smoking by the wide open window overlooking the Manchester skyline, dropped to the bright oak table. Aram picked the phone up first, then the cigarette.

“Hi Aram,” said Delahunty in that same high grunt.

“F**k's sake Barry,” said Aram, furious, almost crushing the smoke in his hand.

“I'm waiting on a call, ring me on the mobile.” He hung up.

When DC Delahunty called the mobile a few moments later, Aram was all ready halfway through another cigarette.

“I've got something for you, mate. But I'm not sure it's your thing.”

“We won't know until you tell me,” said Aram, impatiently. There was no spark of intrigue this time; he was barely even registering his friend’s voice on the line.

“Well,” said Delahunty with a swift intake of air. “it's….a van.”

“A van?” said Aram, appalled. But then he remembered the risks his friend took on a nearly monthly basis, the risks he had always taken, just to satiate this sinister hobby. The dynamic of their friendship had not changed in 49 years. Though the detective was the elder, and no fool, he had always been under Aram's influence, and sometimes Aram wondered if Barry Delahunty had joined the police just so he could steal him all that evidence.

“Sorry man,” said Barry, “I kinda knew at the time that you wouldn't take it, but I….bought it anyway.”

“You did what? How stupid are you?”

“That's the thing,” said Barry, “there are no risks. It's all legal. The murders took place thirty-three years ago, and that was during the 60's spike, remember?”

 He didn't wait for an answer; he knew the answer. “So you can drive it to Asda on a Saturday afternoon if you like.”

“No,” said Aram, apologetically. “Where would I even keep it? And how would I explain it to Charlene.”

“You could keep it at my place,” said Barry, gingerly. “You know what Kate's like. She wouldn't notice if I turned up in the dog-van from Dumb and Dumber.”

Aram gave a polite chuckle, then said. “Fine, f**k it. But has been vetted?”

“Of course,” said Barry, “I'm not exactly rolling in it.”

Smiling down the line, Aram said, “Right, e-mail my VPN with the details, and I'll sort you out. I'll drop over probably tomorrow to give her a look. Who's was it?”

“Remember that guy down in Swindon, George Redding back in the late 60's? Mentally unstable fella to say the least. His house was broken into on the 1^st year anniversary of his wife's death and when the burglars couldn't find anything of worth they killed both his dogs. Anyway, Redding wakes up from the sleep of a thousand pills, realizes what's gone on, gets in his transit and drives head on into the nearest packed bus-stop killing three.”

After a mute moment, Aram said, “Nice catch my friend.”

“I seem to have an eye for it,” said Barry, unnerved.

After the call, Aram felt a little better. Enjoying his secret in public free of the fear of prosecution gave him weird thrills. Of course if he did get pulled over and the vehicle's ominous past was discovered, the embarrassment alone would create an unavoidable black hole sucking all hope and happiness into its invisible abyss.

When the phone rang this time, Aram knew who it was.

When Doctor Fleisch apologetic tone came down the line, Aram's head almost crashed to the table with disappointment.

“But it's vital,” he said, “it's an investment, long-term the-”

“I know,” said Fleisch, “I said all that mate, we just don't have the...”

Fleisch's voice faded away as Aram fell into trance, courtesy of a plan.

“…...but the J9 is still looking good for January,” Fleisch was saying, “it has the best resolving power of anything in microscopy..."

Fire, thought Aram, his eyes climbing an oak tree about a mile away.

After the call, he drove out to Nowhere for a late lunch. From a shaded nook in this bar, he accessed Hermelabs using a fake account and quietly acquired remote access to one of the 'newbies' stations. From here he tweaked three of the ten subroutines. He then retraced his digital steps, clicked off the screen, and ordered a bowl of salty chips along with a tall glass of lemonade. He ate and drank in peace, even humming along to one of the ridiculous top forty songs. Merry for now.

But across town, at Hermelabs, the wrong kind of music was sounding out.

3

In his study, under the watchful gaze of mad Caravaggio, Aram answered the questions, drank the tea, rubbed Charlene's back as she broke down at intervals whilst hearing of the grizzly events at Hermelabs It was only three months later that Aram realized the whole interview had taken place in the study and not the lounge or sitting-room. He supposed that in a horrible way, he felt safest in there, among his gory possessions.

The mood of the interview was sympathetic; never any suspicion. Afterall, who would hack into the company server, disable the fire-systems, and then create a blaze that would kill six people, including his own son, Larry.

“We have the personal responsible anyway,” said one of the internal officers on the porch, “one of the techs, Samantha Hughes, no motive at the minute, but basic analysis shows the tampering came from her station. We'll let you know as things develop.”

Samantha Hughes was never brought to trial. Aram found out later that she had made a deal, and confessed. Though it was clear she was innocent, sometimes owning up to a lie was more time-effective that admitting the truth. She never worked in a lab of any kind again, and doctor Aram Lynch had accidentally become a serial killer himself.

When the officers had left, Charlene realized that the children had yet to be informed. Though his wife was in a state and clearly not empowered to do this dire deed, Aram never offered. The idea horrified him; he had barely registered what he had done and feared that a call to Ciara in particular would cause a meltdown revelation. So he waited for Charlene to calm down and she made the calls. When anyone asked to speak to Aram, she told them he was off driving.

Aram took a few weeks off work and considered never going back, but then doctor Fleisch called and - as if the horrendous deaths at the lab had served as some kind of intuitive blood sacrifice -  told him that the printer had been approved. In fact it had been installed all ready, and was ready to go. The spark of delight Aram had expected was now barely a flicker of content. All the hopes and dreams he had envisioned for this brilliant technology seemed unimportant after what he'd done. It was during this stage of self-loathing that Delahunty phoned up for the umpteenth time.

“I know, I know..” he said, “You're doing okay. You told me not to ask you again, so I won't. I actually have some bad news, and given your situation I considered not telling you. I thought about going to Charlene but I know she's-”

“What is it?”

“Well...” there was a terrible pause, “...Ciara phoned me up earlier, asking me for a fairly big loan, she was...well, she sounded desperate.”

Aram stood up quickly without realizing, rubbing his whole face with the palm of his hand. Why would she-

“So I did some digging and apparently...” Barry sighed and Aram knew the detective was cringing. “There's rumors going around that some scumbag called Beetle is making a rich girl pay him to break up with her...Ciara fits the description and I remember you telling me she was with some guy with a name like that.”

All the blood was draining out of Aram's face now, replaced by a rage-rich alternative. Imagining the fear going through his daughter's mind, on top of the anguish of her brother's death, began to broil up from Aram's core.

“And what happens if she doesn't pay up?” he asked in a monotone.

There was a pause. “They're vague on the details, but don't go doing anything Aram. I'm on it, mate.”

“I know,” said Aram. “At my age? I'm not stupid.”

After the call, Aram rushed out to the car and drove immediately to Hermelabs. It was still too early to initialize the plan but he thought it was less conspicuous than arriving at two or three in the morning. After he had created his own monster, so to speak, despite the safe-guards, anything could happen. So he arrived at the lab under golden evening light. Acknowledged the numerous nods of condolences with a surly frown of sorrow. Entered his office to wait it out, watching sitcoms on his tablet with cups of coffee as time squirmed toward night. Occasionally, he eyed the hidden panel beneath his shoes, but never once made a move.

When the last of the workers on that floor left, Aram waited a few minutes then disabled the cameras in a way that made it look like a glitch and then retrieved his most prized item. His masterpiece. A vile containing all the ingredients necessary for physical mayhem.

How innocent it looked, now helpless. This was why Aram had always loved genetics: a simple pluck of a genome could turn a mouse into a mastodon. He was reveling at this, as if understanding it for the first time, as he brought the necessary specimens and equipments in a dolly, and rolled down the late, hazy corridor. This secret moon-lit journey had become routine now after years of hidden experimentation, and there were so many fail-safes in place, he had less to fear from these scientific endeavors than he from his concealed artifacts.

Inside the lab, everything was in its right place: the wide C-shaped controls filled with nodes and levers, the curving sphere of the electromagnet off to one side, the tall tubular quantum container standing at the centre of the room, slightly opaque. Under the booming glow of the lights overhead, the long, oval room with its devices and potential was magical, unreal. After fitting the final components Aram was breathless, sweating, his heart rapping against his ribs rapid as a horse's hoof - he sat down and took a minute. Two. Three. Thinking.

Was this really necessary? Is this what he really wanted?

The vile seemed to glimmer as he held it up at eye-level. He could remember every detail of the physical and mental structure of the being held within, and knew how bad it could all become if that one major strand failed to materialize: loyalty.

He input the sequences, then the encoded switchkey, proceeded with the numerous check-lists, and was about to initiate the process when the last stable part of himself struggled with all its might to make him see sense, to realize the evil he was unleashing, to change his mind-

The improved fire-system, courtesy of the recently acquired printer, beeped and made him jump. A reminder of the nightmare he had become, of the path back to normality melted behind him, demolished into a sinkhole deeper than visibility. He pressed down hard on the tablet to initiate the process, almost breaking the screen.

There was a fractional-second of thunder. If the moment had been silent, there could have been doubt, but the burst of sound was so loud that it made the conduits rattle like old pipes. Aram peered into the quantum chamber, both hopeful and horrified. But there was nobody in there.

Again the couplet emotions; relieved but disappointed, resigned yet determined. He didn't realize until the drive home, when everything had been made inactive, evidence removed, cameras reinstated, that he realized he had not even checked the data for a malfunction. His feelings from that moment onward were simplified considerably. Until the tablet rang and he heard Charlene's weak, defeated voice.

Ciara was in the hospital, two cracked ribs, a fractured wrist, and a broken nose. Aram told her he'd be at the hospital within the hour; he was going call Delahunty and see what he could tell him. Instead, he drove straight toward where Beetle's gang was said to hang around. Since it was at night, they'd all be blazing it up in the corner of the public park, so he plummeted in that direction.

If he couldn't manifest a suitable perpetrator with technology, he would do it with biology, with himself as first and last subject. The anger was all the fuel he needed, but he had guilt there as well. With the death of his son, the murder of his son, and the burden of the other lives he took, this incident with Ciara was the final tick of the maddening clock, where the pressure builds up on the cleft and bursts into spirals so fast it gains the appearance of stability.

He shot through the dusk of the street, the only sound being the wheezing tires on the concrete, till the looming oaks and crenelated walls of the park came into view. There was no sitting in doubt or contemplation; Aram was lost in the insane exercise of revenge. His face was a vortex; no smile or frown invaded. He hurried to the corner of the street that lined the park and peeked over the wall.

Carnage in silhouette on the far side of the park. The dusk would only allow a black mist of roaming images, all moving rapidly as if in improvised ballet. A few moments of observation told Aram that all the action seemed to be revolving around one man. There were several others around him, one or two occasionally lashing out. Aram could see a few wounded, beaten men on the ground, their battered limbs rising and falling under the big moon like failing alien plants. Aram felt the freezing cold blade in his pocket and now that the violence had all ready begun, he felt surer than ever that he was capable of doing what he had fantasized about doing since he was a child: killing someone who truly deserved it. Freeing a pure soul of the hideous inheritance of human form.

Aram, soft-spoken sixty-seven year old doctor of quantum genetics and an honorary fellow of the Society of Quantum Engineering, hopped over the silent park wall like a distinguished gymnast, a large knife in his pocket, with the most horrendous intentions of his life.

So far.

4

Aram walked across the grass - dewy at eleven at night - cautious but not hesitant as he passed the wreathing bodies on the floor. The only man making any real noise was a tall, hooded figure still in play, one of the circling gang-heads surrounding the outsider. Aram knew by the nature of the malicious threats that this was Beetle. With the knife in his hands pointed at an angle toward the enormous unblinking moon, he stepped off the grass and onto the spot-lit concrete jogging path.

The man in the middle of the madness glanced over his shoulder and Aram knew from the subtle but volatile nature of the expression exactly who it was. The subject of his experiment, the subject of every violent hope and barbaric dream he could envision. And, moreover, the subject of the end.

The subject swung out so fast it was almost unthinkable, and the throat of the nearest man sliced apart relieving the neck of all its ghoulish content; he dropped to the frosty concrete clutching the wound. With two assailants left, Beetle backed off a few feet to let the other man advance first, and the subject at the center thrust forward again this time in a rapid stabbing motion, cutting in deep and fast, till the shade-draped man fell back onto the grass, dead or unconscious.

Aram's hands were trembling now. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that all the beaten men in the darkened grasslands had stopped moaning and were still.

Beetle's whole demeanor changed once his last gang-mate fell, but not to surrender as Aram would have liked; it was resignation. The expensive but useless antique switchblade he was holding remained at chest-level, but the grip was less aggressive, less sure. The subject walked toward the outmatched scumbag leisurely, dismissing the single dart of the blade, tore the knife off him, and grabbed him by the neck. He then dragged Beetle out of the lamplight and into the abyss of branches. He gazed over at Aram whose arms were now dangling at his sides, the large knife about to fall from his fingers. “It's time now,” the subject called over.

To Aram, the entire experience was unprecedented as it would be to most people, and he froze. Then, the subject carved a deep gorge across Beetle's belly almost leisurely, and dropped him onto the crisp, cold grass.

“Won't be long,” he muttered down at him, and the insectoid scumbag groaned slightly, with a level of dignity Aram found infuriating. The subject approached Aram and the scientist got his first real look.

The synthetic skin was filled with realistic wrinkles and blemishes, the slim nose with two bulbous nostrils, raving aflare, a wide mouth with thin lips, ideal for extreme smiles and grimaces. But the eyes were the most captivating. The blurry admixture of colour, and the intensity of the glare was what Aram intended, but he had never expected the underlying warmth, the seemingly genuine kindness of the eyes. And then he remembered that he was in the presence of a 100 percent, blood-of-the-Earth psychopath. Charm, empathy, and all.

“This is what you wanted...”

“Why didn't you manifest in the chamber?”

“Why?” said the subject, “you pre-programmed the tasks into my genomes; it was more productive to manifest here.”

“But the electromag-”

“The earth is an electromagnet, now are you going to kill this piece of s**t or not?”

Aram looked around. Every moving body was now totally still, unbreathing. All Bar Beetle's battered and bleeding body.

“That's enough...man...”

“...never even gave me a f*****g name, Jesus...”

“...this news is going to be huge, we need to just back off for a while and talk about this.”

Aram was trying very hard not to plead, but the subject was all ready moving away toward Beetle. The scumbag had managed to crawl about six feet and was halfway into a shrub when the subject dragged him out by the boot.

“Talk about it?” said the subject, “you might've snapped out of whatever heroic daydream you were in when you pressed that button and created me, but have a look at the corpses all around you, you're in it now. We both are, til the end.”

He turned around and tapped Beetle a few times on the top of the head, like he was patting a poodle, and then planted the knife straight into his lower abdomen, cutting severely in an arc all the way down, tearing through the fabric with ease, until a grim screech of agony informed Aram, and indeed every corpse for sixty feet, that the genitals had been irreparably mutilated. The squealing continued, and the subject had to yell to be heard.

“Are you sure you don't want to do it?”

Aram had no time to even consider this bleak possibility, the screaming was too loud, too close. He shook his head quickly. The subject swooned down and drove the knife straight through the scumbag's heart. Silence filled the park.

After an age, Aram said, in a hollow rattle of a tone “this has to end...”

The first fear of a certain kind made itself known. “For a while, I mean...if you want to stay free...”

The subject smiled. But continued walking around the scene, fixing things; limbs, postures, possessions.

“I'll never get caught, you made me smart, remember? There's plenty of places someone like me can flourish: disasters zones, war fields….zones of silence...”

He giggled; a low, resonant gurgle that chilled Aram to the marrow The subject then halted, studied the scene and, seemingly satisfied, said,

“I won't forget you, Aram. And I'm positive I'll be doing very well for myself in a very short time. You gave me certain tendencies, but you also gave me higher morality. And no switch. No amount of clever can compensate for that.” He winked.

“Leave here now Aram before someone comes along. Everything points toward a gang feud except your presence.”

Aram remained where he was.

“Suit yourself,” the subject turned, “by the way I deleted all your research, just in case you tried sending someone else after me. Once I'm safely set up, I'll return it to you. I know the medicinal and scientific implications of the technology...”

With that he turned and walked off across the murky grassland, with the intelligent silhouettes of several oaks above his shoulder. Soon, he was part of the dark.

Aram was stunned beyond capacity, stars in his tears, the enormity of events over the past few months simmering slowly over the brim in great weeping epiphanies of misery. He had lost count of the people he had murdered either directly or indirectly, and he could not imagine a more devious being, a less deserving soul. And how many more would die as a result of his sick curiosity? He had unleashed what could be the most catastrophic individual of the modern era, he was literally surrounded by bodies, and all he could do was stand there under the frail, fake light, shuddering, stagnant, as sirens erupted from afar.

He flinched for the last time in the moonlight.

A few minutes later he was rolling away from the darkling park in a van once used to destroy a trio of innocent souls. For the first time he noticed how worthless the vehicle was, how hollow a hobby he had. But there was no turning back now; he had crossed the line when he had taken those souls of his own, his son included. And he was too old to begin new regrets. It would be a long time, if ever, that he would experience strength again, or peace.

Nonetheless, beneath a moon that glowered so bright it could have been a star in a mask, Aram drove quietly home to a past far better than before.

END

Kealan Coady. November 2015.