"So your orders are to go back into jungle and find their base."
Sergeant Dawson was pissed. He and his men had just come out of that mosquito-infested place after spending two weeks, wet, cold, and miserable trying to locate the headquarters. And now this new post commander was telling them they had to go back in. He never thought this would happen, he was a reservist. His feet were sore and chap causing his athlete's foot to swell up. A ten mile patrol through the bush didn't help. Lord knows how many leaches and bugs he had been exposed to while crawling in swamps that filled with human debris. He hated this . . . this "skirmish" they called it, he hated the humid days and cold wet nights in this Central American country, but most of all he hated the fucking colonel who was telling him he had to go back in there just two days after they had come back to camp. He wanted to rip his fucking throat out. Only thoughts about his wife and baby daughter carried him through each God-forsaken-day. His wife, Lord how she was beautiful, coming from a well-to-do family, tall blonde, and gorgeous. He remembered her beautiful arms and breasts and how they would make love all . . .
"DID you HEAR me, SERGEANT?" the lieutenant colonel yelled.
"Sir, yes sir! he replied.
"I hope so, for your sake."
He was to head out tomorrow morning, if 0330 could be considered morning, and take the north road up for 9 clicks and then cut into the jungle.
He and 12 other men, including his best friend sergeant Bill Kendall, were assigned to the mission. The mission: take down an alleged shelter where chemicals were being stored. "'Alleged shelter.' If the big-wigs up in HQ only knew how stupid they sounded. They weren't the ones shivering in the fucking cold," he thought that night. The many patrols of guerrillas in the area made it impossible for helicopters and air assault. It would have to be in by foot. All his gear and rations were re-packed and sitting at the foot of his bed. He thought about how close he was to graduating. "If only I hadn't taken the semester off. I wouldn't be here in this fucken' hole. I'd be an officer by now." he thought as he drifted off to sleep. In less than four hours he would be up and off.
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Everything had gone good. Too good. There were no casualties. Just he and a few of his men had crawled through a moat into the center of the main complex to set the explosives. The mud they crawled through had started to burn them on their way out, but they had made it through without being detected and now were being helped along by the men that hadn't crawl through.
His squad excelled at this type of thing. All were in tip-top shape with egos to match. All except Dawson. He was quiet and determined. Its what made him an excellent leader. His men followed him on the road back to the camp. Shit, they could even see the camp from the last ridge they were on. The sun was beginning to show its crown and a hum-vee was approaching the men from the camp. Everything was good. Sgt. Dawson had eight weeks left of his tour here.
"Congratulations, men." the lt. colonel said as he got out of the vehicle, "we got a confirm that your target has been taken down.
"Yes sir . . . ," the sergeant said. A magnificent explosion went off behind him. In a millisecond, Carl Dawson knew his men were dead. He heard another whirling and recognized the familiarity of another incoming.
"GET DOWN!," the sergeant yelled as he dived towards the colonel. The sergeant's inertia took the two figures into a small ditch while an explosion marred the road they had just been standing on. The hum-vee instantly exploded killing the driver.
Sergeant Dawson looked down and saw that his left foot was a bloody mess. The colonel pulled the radio from its place on his belt holder and radioed the base. Already they were on their way and SGT Dawson saw through a slow-motion haze that mechanized units were pulling out of the entrance. But he was starting to fade. If he would have stayed conscious, he would have been horrified that his right leg wasn't even attached to his body . . . and the other one wouldn't would eventually have to be amputated as well.
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" . . . and this man saved my life." the colonel's familiar old voice was heard saying. "Anything I have is his. I owe him a life."
The talking and camera shuttering made the man tucked in the hospital linen awaken. Carl opened his eyes and saw that he was in a hospital. he saw the colonel standing beside his bed and a few feet away was the closest reporter of about five waiting by the door.
"Ah . . . he's awakening now. How are you? I see your going home in a shorter time than you had planned." the general said as stood towering over him in full Class A uniform, medals and ribbons galore.
A doctor rushed to Carl's side and told the paparazzi to leave. The colonel stayed and asked the doctor, "so when can I de-brief him?"
"Sir, I've requested that you leave to." the young captain/doctor said. "I'll let you know WHEN I let you know." The colonel turned and walked away, glad that the reporters hadn't heard him get chastised.
In the conversation that followed, Carl found out about his men, the loss of his legs, and his subsequent return home. He was bitter about everything. The colonel, the military, and life. It was the first in a string of events that would push him over the edge. When he returned home, he found his wife, Elaine, could not live with a man who was an amputee and the military was releasing him from service. His one year in that hell-pit left him with nothing to come back to.
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Years passed and he got grayer and the lines around his eyes became more prominent. He kept his high-and-tight hairstyle, but it and his mustache turned peppery in color from the dark brown it had been in his younger years. He had lost his family but had managed to finish college (majoring in biomechanics and biochemistry) and get a job working for the government in a biotechnology lab. He wheeled around the lab in his wheelchair, hating life and always complaining about government bureaucracy; it made him an outcast in the lab. He maybe only knew maybe two or three people in the entire lab that he talked to on a regular basis.
He hadn't spoke with his daughter in over twelve years and was still bitter about his ex-wife and her family for hiring the damn lawyer and legal system for keeping her from him. He wasn't given any custody rights at all because he had exploded one day in court by throwing his briefcase and hitting the judge right between the eyes.
"No one with such extreme violent outbursts should be allowed to raise a baby," ol' Judge Vernon said. That's all it took, one broken nose to a judge and the little visitation rights he had were thrown out the window. Of course, going after Elaine's lawyer didn't help either. From the vantage of the judge, he looked like he was going after Elaine. It was enough to slap a restraining order on him and keep him from even approaching within 50 yards of Elaine or his daughter.
Despite all this, he would stop by her private all-girl high school and look at her, Colleen, from afar whenever he could though. She was beautiful but plain. He monitored her progress through the years and wished he could play more of a part in her life. She was intelligent, like her father, but unlike him, she was shy. He didn't know where she got that from since both he and Elaine were never afraid to voice their opinions when the time called for it. He saw that she kept to herself and was the object of ridicule by a large group of girls. "Life is so cruel," he thought.
He continued to work that day and worked through till lunch break. The incessant scratching on his left thigh and chest made him want to call it a day. Now the government couldn't deny it. The itching, they had said, was mental in origin. As he looked down at his thigh and chest, welts could be seen. It had confirmed his own results from using his own body as a guinea pig. The places of his body that were exposed to that mud that fine day were literally falling apart cell by cell and beginning to take healthy tissue with it. His body would be gone within 3 months he estimated. But for some reason, it stayed isolated in the tissue it had originated in. His internal organs looked fine in X-ray films and his blood tests were normal still he could detect no spread other than the local spreading where the "rash" was at.
His work onto neural regeneration was nearly complete and the experiments that he had performed on mice using bird neurons coded and aided by specific protein gene expression had actually worked. If it worked on the smaller mammal, just maybe . . . Now or never it needed to be done on a human subject . . . and he figured he was the best candidate. A close look into the donors proved there were no matches. In order for it to work, his "B" factor gene had be a perfect match with another persons. The proteins the gene coded for actually allowed for neural regeneration . . . provided the severed tissue was a close match. His statistics of this perfect pairing for the general population was one person per 100,000. The last person he had run across with this gene had been dead for one week and was lying in the mortuary. The only other person he knew of was the his formal commanding officer, now a general and approaching fifty-six years old. Although he had given himself 3 months to live, he would begin to lose control of his body within one month. His family members were out of the question as he had no brothers or sisters and his parents were dead. Only his daughter remained and that was not even an option. He began to look through the files of current medical patients at the installation. He looked through file by file, he would have to take the first one to come along.
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The girl came up to him while he was sitting in his van one day after the school had let out and handed him a flyer. He could just now see the first bevy of girls in their uniforms coming out of the school main entrance. Other parents were there as well, but they were there to pick their freshman daughters up. The older girls had cars of their own they drove to school.
"Here you go, mister." she said as she handed him the pink flyer showing the date of the play and then scampered off to the next parent. She half-way startled Dawson. "What's this?," he called out.
"Its a play our school is having," she cried back to Dawson. He was sitting in the school parking lot watching his daughter begin her walk home when he gazed down at the play schedule and noticed that she was starring in it. A minor role, but he was damned if he was going to miss it. He'd have to go in disguise so his ex wouldn't see him, but one way or the other, he would see his daughter before he died.
It seemed like half the town was here. His ex-wife, her newest lover, some people he recognized from work, and even the ol' general was here. Of course none-of-them could recognize him as he stood with the artificial legs. They were great, he had designed them and the motors inside them, himself. They gave him almost perfect mobility, but he didn't like to use them. He wanted his real legs back, not these mechanical robotic legs. His work was maybe fifty years ahead of the times. He had designed numerous machines and put countless conveyor belt workers out of jobs by replacing them with robotic arms. Robotic arms capable of doing minute delicate tasks.
With a gray-haired shoulder-length wig and artificial beard and dressed in overalls, no one recognized him as he leaned against the backstage.
He looked like a janitor.
Then it happened. Fifteen minutes after the play was over as he was walking to his van he heard the general and his family talking about something that made his blood boil. It also gave him an idea that had him early the next morning working on with more vigor than anything he had ever done in his life.
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Dawson picked up his little furry companion. Another night alone, the bottle of Jack Daniels was half way gone. The little mouse with the black head and black and white body looked up at Dawson with its beatie little eyes.
"Looks like we'll be in the same boat after next week, Griffin." he said to the little critter. He had taken the the mouse home from work (which was against lab policy, after all, it was a test animal). But Dawson couldn't leave it with the other mice, they wouldn't leave him alone.
He set the mouse on the bed and proceeded to read through his notes. Everything was in order. He reflected back to earlier in the evening. He had heard the general talking to a dean about putting his granddaughter who had just been transferred to this academy about four months ago ahead of Dawson's own daughter in a list of applicants to to do an internship at Harvard.
"Fuckin' politics." Dawson thought. To make matters worse, as he approached his van that evening, he saw Jenny and a group of the elite upper class girls. She was a tall girl, maybe 5'9" with long soft blonde hair and an exquisite face. He even noticed an expensive watch on her wrist.
"My grandfather just told me I'm going with you girls in July." Jen had said. She was beaming with pride.
"But how did you get in? There are no more positions open," a brunette girl asked inquisitively.
Then she said something that made Dawson's stomach twist a knot in itself.
"It was sooo easy," she said in her rich-girl New England accent, "Dean Mason bumped Colleen from the list. No big loss." The girls all broke out into sarcastic giggling.
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The clock on the wall clicked as Carl Dawson opened his eyes. The operation was a success. Judging from the current time, it had taken just under one and a half hours. At least he was alive. Now to move. He wriggled his toes and fingers. The feeling of sensation in his feet were real, not the "tingling-dull" phantom sensations that came to him from time to time, but actual sensation in BOTH of his feet. The operation was a success. He slid one leg off the table and propped himself up slowly while looking down at his healthy body. The blue plaid skirt and bright-white blouse and white stockings were being worn on HIS body; it was his legs that were keeping him standing, wobbly yes, but standing none the less. He rolled his head, slowly, as if working some kink out and reached up to feel his neck. Perfectly normal. He would have loved to make sure everything was O.K., but time was of the essence and he needed to hurry if he was to stay on schedule.
He thought about how his revenge was doubly sweet. He stood up and delicately walked over to the main computer counsel and grabbed a purse. As he looked at the I.D. card, the first thing he noticed was the name, "Davis. Jennifer Davis". Under the "dependent of military personnel:" section was typed "Harry Wilson, General".
"He said he owed me a life, and here it is." Then he turned and looked at the table with wheels. He saw his old body, lying there wearing only boxers. Attached to the neck was the head of a seventeen year old female, her blonde hair still in pigtails, unconscious.
"And you won't be bothering my daughter anymore, will you?," he said quietly as he let out a little chuckle. His throat felt a little sore.
He put on a lab coat which hid his teen-age body and heaved with all his weight at the cart in order to wheel the much heavier inert body to the room across the hall where the incendiary for biological wastes was located. His traction was poor as his pennyloafers slipped and offered little traction on the smooth tiled floors making it hard to push. He actually felt stronger than he was before though since what was left of his body muscle had begun to atrophy. Jennifer's medical record was set on her chest and put on the belt. He then grabbed the remote control from his labcoat pocket and switched the camera mounted on the corner to receive input from tapes of the same view made about four hours ago. All that was on the screen in the security room was images of an empty room. In reality, the young woman's head and new body slid quietly on the conveyor belt into the biological waste incinerator.
His plan was full-proof. Before he had retired a week ago he had arranged with his daughter's private high school and his laboratory to provide a field trip of the biotech. company. All the codes were still the same so it was relatively easy to slip down the stairs the night before and crawl through the vent system (the way he low-crawled through that swamp so many years ago) and into his old lab without being seen by a soul. It was then he managed to change the wiring on the video cameras. Then he slipped out just as quietly as he came in only to arrive the next morning and sign in at the front gate. He told the guards he needed to get some personal effects he had left in his office.
As the girls from the high school began the tour and walked through his lab, he called out one special one into his office and gagged her mouth with chloroform cloth to sedate her until the rest went by. The other twelve out of a total 53 girls, kept walking through the plain white sterile halls; the walls all looked the same to someone who had never been through them. Before long, Jenny's best friend hadn't even known what hall was the last time she had seen Jenny.
Now as he pressed the internal command program's delete button he grabbed the purse and his new personal belongings and walked out of the incindiary room and over to his wheelchair. (The computer reeled through its program, deleting every trace of his word; he had a back-up copy already at his house.) He slammed the door behind him (probably one of the only "real" doors in the complex, all the rest were sliding doors of some sort that required ID badges or codes), in his haste and heard a glass beaker fall inside. He wheeled through the halls, wearing his lab coat and to the main gate. Just as he was signing out, a voice called him from behind. It was Dr. Jason Renolds, a supervisor of sorts.
Dawson wheeled around and saw the older doctor waving to him.
"Hey, I heard you were stopping by today. I didn't get a chance to say good-bye the last time. 'Good-luck' and stop by every now and again!"
Dawson replied, "Thanks, Jason. Be seein' you around." and grabbed the pen from the security officer's hand to sign out. Then he turned around again and continued wheeling away.
The sky was blue as he wheeled down the sidewalk, and he could feel his new freedom. He wheeled past a group of girls who had been divided midway through the tour to get into smaller groups for the tour of the complex. He smiled as he saw his daughter amidst them. He was always happy to see her. The lady teacher in charge smiled at Dawson as he wheeled by, and began counting heads as the second group of girls started to emerge from the complex. If only she knew.
Carl Dawson wheeled across the street and stepped out of the wheelchair. He pushed it up into some pines and shrubs and overturned it. Then, in a trot/jog, he came down the hill and ran towards the little red Porsche not too far away. His heart was pounding. Once inside, he grabbed the key from Jennifer's purse and stuck it in the ignition. He then stretched, feeling young and alive . . . and the weight of his new firm breasts and pull on his semi-tight blouse. His adrenaline was rushing from everything that had just happened. It seemed life was running on high speed right now.
Life would be different now, and he had the general to thank. His pension would keep his finances up and with his new body, the government would be paying him for quite a while. He grabbed the steering wheel and noticed his red fingernails and the unfamiliar skin that were on his arms. His hands seemed so tiny and they were shaped differently than his old ones. He reached for the stick and put it in gear. His wrists were thin, at least a lot thinner than his old ones and he looked at the time on his new designer watch.
He gazed down to his white stocking-clad legs and plaid skirt and with a mental command made his right foot step on the gas pedal. "Yes!," he said, sounding like an excited schoolgirl, and eased the car through the parking lot onto the main road. The license plate read, "JENS CAR".
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He reached into pick up Griffin, and quickly moved his hand back as Griffin lunged at it. Of course the little animal did; it was a strange hand.
"Its O.K., boy," he said, and again put his hand in, this time much slower. The little mouse sniffed it and allowed himself to be picked up.
Dawson collapsed on his bed. The two were just the same now. The same procedure that was done on Dawson had first been done on Griffin. That's why his head was jet black while his body was spotted. Dawson ran his fingers through the mouse's neck region and saw the transition. It was so smooth, only the hair color giving away the surgical technique. The mouse's vertebrae had been disattached from his original body and re-socketed in his new body. All the nerves were carefully severed and also grafted onto the nerves on the new body giving the mouse all the control he had before. All the muscle tissue was laced back together and finally the skin was molecularly sewn together, just like the previous tissue. The male mouse had been given the body of a female mouse, with every neuron and thus, every sensation that the new body gave him. Hunger, pain, pleasure, plus the ability to bear young. The poor little mouse wasn't used to how popular he became with the other male mice in the cage so Dawson, feeling responsible, took him home.
That's why Griffin had attacked him just a few minutes ago. He wasn't used to the unfamiliar scent of Dawson's new hand.
"Don't worry little fella, it's me, Carl," Dawson said soothingly. He had rescued the mouse from certain death. Carl's research used the mice from the cancer research clinic upstairs. They had induced a tumor in the liver of Griffin's old body while the former owner of his current body had been given a brain tumor. That's when Dawson stepped in to save the little creature. He figured he could save his life with his new experiment. The experiment was a success, and now it was a success on a larger scale of mammal, Dawson to be precise. Dawson brought his legs up close and felt stubble below his knees. The pink panties he wore felt exquisite. He wasn't used to wearing female clothing, but the satin panties were the only underwear that would fit him. His former t-shirts, which were now oversize t-shirts, were perfect, but they didn't help his breasts from jiggling. Jenny's uniform was sitting on the chair, including the white nylons and the penneyloafers were set at the legs of the chair.
"I suppose you don't have to worry about that problem," he said as he stared at the little rodent's eyes. Smiling, he joked, "I suppose I'll start having to wear a bra too". It didn't bother him, he had fully expected to when he planned his little operation.
He laid back on the bed and stretched his arms towards the headboard and his legs towards the foot of the bed. What a wonderful feeling! His spine was limber, he was full of life, young life even, and for the first time in a long time, he felt . . . whole. He was happy and ecstatic and thought about Jennifer, for the first time all day. He looked down at his body again and saw how well-taken care of it was. It was the body of a young debutante who had everything in life she ever wanted. A nice car, jewelry, a lifetime of healthy living from the fact that she was a member and frequent user of the local fitness center/country club, all that plus it had never been touched by a boy, at least where it counted, anyway. It was quite a body! He wriggled his toes and saw his bright red toenails.
He reflected on what he had done earlier in the day. There was no way anybody could trace his steps. Even on the news, the police had no clue as to where Jennifer had gone. The ol' general even pleaded on national television for return of his granddaughter and offered a reward for any information on her.
"What a loser," Dawson thought as he stared at the television. He quickly jumped onto his knees on his bed and felt the need to do something. He was bored and for the first time in a very long time felt alive and young. The clock read, 9:30. It was still early. He hopped off his bed and put some jeans on (he had to roll the pant legs up considerably as well as poke a new hole in his belt to cinch it around his waist), put on Jen's pennyloafers, and put on a button-up shirt and definitely oversized blazer.
"You may have had other plans than what I'm going to use your body for, ol' Jen," he said to himself smiling, "but it's my body now". After setting Griffin back into his cage, he was off to Starlite Girls, a local nude bar. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx