Free The Fixer by T. E. Woods Page A

react to his captor but a roll of his titanic head and a small grimace was all he could muster.
    Bastian looked off to the right before turning back to the camera with a nod. “One fifteen a.m. Subject is approached.” He toggled the switch on a long-bladed reciprocating saw and entered the cell. Stepping past the chains that held Ortoo, Bastian circled behind the once-proud Alpha and climbed onto a stool. He grabbed a handful of the gorilla’s hair and jerked back, exposing the mighty primate’s thick throat. The throbbing veins in his own telegraphed Bastian’s rage.
    “One sixteen a.m.” Bastian called out to the camera. “Subject is sacrificed.”
    Bastian placed the blade against Ortoo’s windpipe and sawed. A geyser of red erupted. The Fixer added her own gasp to those heard on the television. Bastian maintained his vice-grip on Ortoo’s hair as he manipulated the whirring saw through muscle and bone. Ten long seconds passed as the scientist struggled to free Ortoo’s massive head without disturbing any electrode lead.
    Bastian was covered in blood, muscle bits, and bone fragments as he cut through the last slippery sinew connecting Ortoo’s head to his body. He threw the saw to the concrete floor.
    He yelled to no one in particular. “Are we recording?”
    Bastian scurried around Ortoo’s body, still suspended in chains. The camera captured him taking two quick steps outside the cell before he turned the bloody head toward the carcass in the cage.
    “How’s that, you bastard ape?” He screamed as he held the severed head high in two hands. “You see that? You know who I am now, monkey?”
    The gruesome image on the screen disappeared. The Fixer didn’t move.
    “Bastian got what he was looking for.” The speaker this time was a female child. “The EEG signals proved beyond any doubt that Ortoo’s brain was registering the sight of his own headless body. For the first time Bastian got an emotion other than rage from Ortoo.” The child’s voice caught. “The readings on the EEG were identical to human terror.”
    The Fixer stood silent. Her body weary from the weight of the depravity she’d just witnessed.
    “I’m going to need that tape,” she said.
    A few seconds later a CD case was tossed from the darkness above. The Fixer walked a step, bent over, and retrieved it.
    “Five hundred thousand dollars goes to PETA before I fix this.” She tucked the CD into a jacket pocket.
    “That’s a lot of money, Ms Carr.” The Boston-accented man again.
    “And I’ll need to see you. Now.” The Fixer stood in the center of the spotlight and waited.
    “I’m here, Ms Carr.”
    The Fixer whirled around. No electronic emission. No distortion. A male voice from behind her. She squinted into the dark and shifted her feet into a combat stance. “Step closer, Jones.”
    A tall thin man stepped into the circle of light. The Fixer estimated his age somewhere south of thirty. Sandy hair. Jeans. Radiohead t-shirt. Indistinguishable from the thousands of grad students who filled the U-district coffee shops. He shrugged skinny shoulders and put out a pale arm. “Do we shake on this, or what?” His real voice was a nasal whistle.
    “Give me your driver’s license.” The Fixer held out her hand.
    “What? No. I mean, you can’t know…”
    “I can’t know who you are, Mr. Jones?” she interrupted. “Give it to me or I walk.”
    The lean young man hesitated before he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Struggling with shaking hands, he managed to pull out his license and hand it to the terrifying Goth.
    “Are you going to turn me in?” he asked. “Oh, God. Please tell me you’re not a cop.”
    “Mr. Jones.” She scanned the license. “I should say Mr. Buchner.” She looked at the license again before tucking it into her jacket pocket. “Your name is Walter? Wally, it is my purest intention that we never see each other again. This license puts me next to you if you break any of our