Chapter No. 48 Avenging Wrath

A lazy Sunday afternoon at the lab: Eric Hauptman bends over to obtain a closer look through the side of a large lab aquarium. His wife sits at a lab bench and studies a slide through a binocular microscope.

Peace and quiet reign here.

Not much happens on a Sunday afternoon. Most employees are home with their families, having picnics, playing ball, inviting the grandkids over.

The Hauptman's don't have that problem. They spend a good deal of their time in the lab, relinquishing weekends, vacations, and holidays to push back the frontier of science.

What a work ethic.

Then again, some would call it obsession.

Their long flared tails waving furiously, two dozen tadpoles dart back and forth, constantly on the go, often stopping for a second to peer back at a human observer's large distorted face.

"Energetic little devils." Eric tapped his finger on the glass side of the aquarium, causing the little devils to dash away.

"They don't realize how lucky they are," his wife said. "If they had been born in the open sea, they would make good meals for fish."

Eric's eyes darted around in a vain attempt to follow the chaotic movements of the larvae. "Do they release distress signals like other aquatic species?"

"If you keep exposing your big mug to them, the level of ammonium in that aquarium will approach the danger level."

He moved away. "I get the point."

But, he couldn't resist trying to examine the aquarium's denizens.

"I wonder how big they grow before they undergo metamorphosis?"

"That's what makes science interesting, dear."

"I assumed that you would have all the answers by now."

"Ha! I doubt I could live that long. We have so many questions about this species, we'll be lucky to learn the basic facts before someone takes them away from us."

Eric mounted a lab stool and rubbed his beard. "Not to change the subject, Love, but how about you and I going to the Lakers game tonight. Harry Adams gave me tickets and--"

"I don't know why you like basketball." She slammed her pen down on her lab notebook. "To me it's just a bunch of men bouncing a ball and running around. I don't understand what the point of the game is."

"It's quite simple: to put the ball in the basket."

"I realize that. What I can never understand is why the umpires--"

"Referee, Love. They're referees."

She frowned. "Whatever. What I was saying is that I don't understand why the referees (she emphasized the word) call infractions."

Her husband smiled. "Fouls. The referees call a foul, for example, when a player touches another player's shooting arm when he's trying to make a basket."

"Well, I don't care. I would rather go to the ballet. They're doing The Creatures of Prometheus at the Apollo."

Eric wagged his finger at his wife. "Now that's something I don't understand. Just a bunch of people dancing on their toes."

Her frown deepened. "Ballet is the ultimate expression of dance. I'm surprised that you wouldn't realize how beautiful it is."

"Just kidding, Love," said Eric with a placating grin. "I like to go to the ballet." He desperately tried to sound sincere. "It's just that I would hate to see these great tickets go to waste."

His wife tilted her head and flashed a conciliatory grin. "Ok, dear. I'll make you a deal: if I go with you to the basketball game, you have to go with me to the ballet."

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Loud popping noises caused he and his wife to look at the lab entrance.

"What was that?" Margaret whispered with her eyes wide as saucers.

Sounds of boots striking hard tile grew louder.

Eric grabbed his wife and forced her down to the floor behind the center lab bench. He held a finger to his lips to quiet her.

The lab door flew open, slamming against stops with enough violence to vibrate with a sickening whine. A fatigue-dressed young man with a square jaw and dark eyes to match his dark hair stepped into the lab, raised his automatic weapon, and began firing indiscriminately. Bullets flew in random directions, crashing into equipment, thumping into walls, smashing vials and beakers, exploding several aquariums in showers of glass and water.

The two scientists hugged the floor and covered their heads with their arms, trying to shield themselves from the flying debris, cringing and shaking from the onslaught of noise and raining hell.

Eric hugged his shaking wife.  

Will it ever end? I can't believe that these idiots actually have the balls to invade an institution. They must be mad. I hope he doesn't come over here. If he does, we're dead.

After several minutes of madness, the gunman left and Eric and his wife slowly got up, brushing glass fragments, shattered wall tiles, and other assorted debris from their clothing.

Margaret's face twisted in horror when she saw tadpoles squirming and thrashing on the floor amid glass and water, trying desperately to breath in an alien atmosphere. She grabbed a large metal specimen bowl, filled it with water, and began putting the tadpoles into its life restoring fluid.

Eric helped for a moment, but he stopped when he heard more shooting down the hall.

"Oh, shit! I hope that wasn't Alan." He ran to the lab door but paused to turn to his wife. "You stay down. I'm going to see what I can do."

"Be careful," she said, realizing how ridiculous it sounded after she said it.

Eric saluted her, cautiously stuck his head out the door, and then ran off.

He slid to a stop at Dr. Anderson's office. The door was open a crack, but he was unsure about entering. He carefully pushed the door to a fully open position and gasped. Janice lay on her back in a pool of blood, her arms and legs draped about her body like a rag doll, her face twisted with a horror-stricken rictus. He knelt down and pushed his fingers into her carotid artery.

No pulse.

"Oh, my God!"

He held his hands against the side of his head, sat back, and rocked back and forth. He couldn't believe his eyes. Murder and mayhem in a scientific institute was incomprehensible, unthinkable, unbelievable, and yet here it was.

After he got over the initial shock, he looked up to find Dr. Anderson sitting at his desk with his shirt stained with blood near the left shoulder and a fatigue-dressed man lying on the floor. He gave Anderson a look that expressed curiosity and concern.

"I'll be fine," Anderson grunted. "It's only a shoulder wound."

Eric rushed to his wounded boss. "How'd they get in here?"

Anderson grimaced when Eric tore his shirt to examine the wound. "They shot their way in. We're not a fortress, Hauptman."

"I don't like the look of this," Eric said.

"It's just a flesh wound."

"I don't know. It's bleeding pretty badly."

Anderson waved his right hand to gesture him away. "Don't waste precious time on me." He held up a 9-millimeter Beretta. "Take my gun and get over to Marineland."

Eric looked at the gun with an expression of revolt. "I don't know how to use that."

Anderson grimaced. "Come on, Hauptman. This is not rocket science. You aim the thing and pull the trigger." He rammed a new clip into it and pushed the slide forward. The ominous click made Eric shudder.

"See this safety, here. See how it moves. You do this before you use it. Otherwise, it won't fire."

Eric took the weapon but his motions were trepid. "Why Marineland?"

Then his eyes widened. "Oh, No! The mermaids are performing today."

Margaret entered the room just in time to hear her husband's ominous remembrance. He turned just in time to see her face distort with shock when she saw Janice. She held her hand to her mouth, as if she wanted to retch, but instead, she ran out of the office.

"No! Wait!" he yelled.

He followed her down the hall to the outside door, then across the beautifully landscaped park behind the Institute to the walkway that led to the Marineland complex. It was the fastest route from the Institute to the San Diego Marineland main dolphin tank.

But it had some gruesome surprises.

The sprawled body of Ralph Willis momentarily diverted Eric's attention. Ralph's battered head lay in a slick of blood, his Smith and Wesson forty-four magnum lay by his side. Two men dressed in fatigues lay near him in grotesque postures of violent death. In one case, the bullet had entered the man's forehead and had blown the back of his head off on exit. Blood and brains were splattered in a wide pattern on the ground near his body.

He found Murphy leaning against a wall, his eyes staring up at the sky, his face frozen with final desperation. Two more fatigued-clothed bodies lay nearby. The grisly sight made Eric feel like relieving his churning stomach, but he had no time for a frivolous reaction. He had his wife's future in mind.

The midday sun blazed in all its glory in the southern California sky over Marineland of San Diego, a great day for a grand spectacle. The stands around the main marine tank were packed with people eagerly awaiting the start of the widely acclaimed show. Their interest had been piqued by all of the media attention, and a National Geographic television show hadn't hurt, either.

What a grand day for the third act!

No one took notice of a man dressed in fatigues and carrying a duffel bag standing in the back of the top row.

A ripple of excitement spread through the audience when the mermaids made their entry into the main tank from an underwater tunnel. The five adults surfaced first and began to circle the tank as the audience clapped in appreciation. A hoop swung out over the tank and the mermaids submerged to prepare for their incredible leaps. Propelling themselves with their powerful flukes, they took turns flying through the hoop, at first with straight leaps, then with twisting trajectories, eventually finishing with end-over-end rolls that compelled people in the audience to stand and clap.

The next performer was the star of the show. The adolescent, with her trim body, had more speed and agility than the adults did. She shot out of the water like a rocket, and upon reaching the apex of her trajectory, folded her arms and arched her back to prolong flight through the air. Her favorite stunt is the triple roll with twists in which she rotates on two axes at once, a bodacious stunt that elicited not only claps but also whistles and cheers.

The children in the audience became ecstatic when they spotted the two juveniles. With typical childlike exuberance, the small ones engaged in constant clowning during the performance of their routines, earning laughter and giggles.

The mermaid show has something for everyone.

At the end of the acrobatic performances, the adults and the adolescent mounted a special platform and took up positions to form a semi-circle. The audience was treated to a musical tour de force. Using flutes and lute-like instruments of their own design, they played several familiar human songs and some of their own composition.

The mermaids remained seated on the platform and the infants joined them. People jostled one another to photograph them. Flashes exploded like a forth of July fireworks display.

Or a gun battle.

No one noticed the fatigue-dressed man squat and zip open his duffel bag.

Except Margaret.

But she was at the lower level, too far away. When she saw the rifle swing up, she screamed. Several people looked over at her and became alarmed especially when she began running toward the mermaids. A security guard tried to stop her but she had more determination and forced her way past.

After cocking the bolt of his rifle, the gunman acquired his first target through a strange sight. Instead of a telescope, he eyed through a glass square that superimposed a holographic reticle on the clear scene of the platform. He centered a circle with a small spot on the alien head, a spot that was not visible on the target like a laser sight. He pressed a button to intensify the holographic projection in the bright sunlight.

Such efficiency.

The rifle delivered its deadly missiles, exploding a Micronesia female's head in a spray of blood. The Galapagos male fell backward, a bullet through its chest, taking out a large chunk of its back.

Many in the audience screamed. Frightened people began running in every direction, bowling over those unfortunate to be in their way. Pandemonium reigned.

Eric arrived at the south end of the top level. He spotted the gunman and began running toward him, Anderson's gun still in his hand. People ran past him in a mad attempt to escape the melee, jostling him, impeding his progress.

Most of the mermaids had hastily returned to the water.

Except two.

The Galapagos female adult had sacrificed her own escape to grab one of the Micronesia infants that had become confused by the panic. Finally, Margaret reached the platform and ran out on it. A loud cracking noise rang out. A small lead projectile and Margaret reached the mermaids simultaneously. The bullet struck Margaret's back, tearing flesh and bone in an agonizing split second of violence. The force of the impact propelled her into the startled mermaid's arms, breaking her fall. She tried to talk but her mouth was full of blood and her lungs felt as if they were about to burst. Blood splatters stained the mermaid's pristine skin. For a few terrible seconds, mermaid and human eyes met, expressing horror and love at the same time. It was not to last. The human's eyes closed. The mermaid's remained open, but they revealed no inner emotion.

Eric reached the upper deck just in time to see his wife hit. He felt weak and powerful at the same time; his stomach muscles tensed and his skin felt as if it was crawling with static electricity. Anger was not one of his primary emotions, but at this instant he was as angry as he had ever been.

Anderson's gun became the instrument of his anger, an extension of his hate. He raised the weapon, took it off safety, and fired two shots at the gunman. The first bullet missed, a result of the horrific noise and kick, but the second struck the gunman's arm. Eric saw a fog of blood explode when the bullet hit its mark. He watched as the short squat blond-haired man fell on his side and swung his rifle up to fire three shots at him. Two of the missiles were too high but the third whizzed close enough to his head to cause him to wince when he heard the whine of the bullet's slice through air.

Eric took careful aim and fired again. When the bullet collided with the gunman's forehead, a spew of blood accompanied a violent jerk, snapping the man's head as if it were on a spring.

Eric's eyes remained locked on his handiwork for several minutes before he slowly lowered the weapon. He stood there and stared at the body, at the blood and viscous white fluid seeping from the horrific head wound. He had just killed another human, something that he had never dreamed of doing. A shudder went up his spine and his knees grew wobbly. His whole body felt numb.

But that was the least of his problems. His wife lay mortally wounded but he couldn't get near her. The crowd, the security people, the fear of what he might find overwhelmed him, and he wept. He was caught in the tragic ending of the third act.