Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) by Benjamin Sobieck
Authors: Benjamin Sobieck
Ads: Link
aren’t animals,” but to this day it’s a question that sticks to the back of my mind every time I cut into a juicy steak or rip apart a chicken leg between my teeth. Sure, there are plenty of things humans can do that animals can’t. Animals didn’t set foot on the moon. Humans did. But if that’s the litmus, are the humans who didn’t go to the moon on the same level as animals? If the human species as a whole should get credit for walking on the moon, should every animalistic overlap be hoisted upon humanity, too?
I eventually came back to religion and spiritually. Humans have souls, while animals do not. Then again, I consider myself a god-fearing atheist. If I’m not sold on religion, how am I any different from an animal?
“Animals and humans, we are all the same. You wouldn’t eat another human, would you?” the restaurant owner said.
She didn’t win any converts at the time, and I doubt I’m ever giving up my position at the top of the food chain, but I see her point now. How am I any different from those chimps? Stuck in this shithole, I didn’t lose my sense of being, either. And now we’re bridging the gap between our species without Doctor X’s hideous methods. We’re becoming a hybrid in a different way.
I’m their alpha now. I killed to get here, and it’s no different from a military coup. The law of the jungle goes for everyone.
I point at the door to Hillary’s room. It’s thick and made of metal, but the chimps go ballistic. Even I’m surprised by the raw strength and creativity they display at ripping the door from its hinges.
I slip into the room ahead of the chimps to find Hillary strapped to a table in what I’ll call a mating position. There’s no need for further detail on that point. The chimps trash Doctor X’s machines while I help Hillary collect herself. She’s more pissed off than frightened.
“I call first dibs on the asshole who put me in here,” Hillary says. She looks me up and down. “I’d kiss you, but I’d probably contract a disease. You look like washed up whale shit.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say, feeling the proverbial wind against my back. Hillary and I are free from our rooms, Helpers 8 and 9 are dead, a troop of chimps elected me their leader and my gonads are still where I left them. Now we need to get to Doctor X, stop his plans for good and recover that Iceman.
Turning back into the hallway, we’re greeted by yet another hurdle between now and then. Helper 10, a hybrid somehow even more gnarled and hideous than its two predecessors, stands between us and the exit into the main cave. In its hands it holds my .45 and my ESEE knife, and I don’t think it’s here to return them to me. Slung over its shoulder is that icon of Soviet firepower, an AK-47.
“Ms. Carter. Mr. Baker. Meet Helper 10,” Doctor X says over the speaker.
25.
I freeze in my tracks at the sight of my own .45 aimed at my chest. The chimps won’t move unless I do, so they hurl growls and shit at Helper 10 while remaining in position behind me. Gauging the distance between us, there’s no way I can get the drop on the pistol before Helper 10 can plant a hunk of lead into my heart.
“Not so smart now, are you?” Doctor X says over the speaker with a cackle. “Helper 10 has the brains of my creations. Note the fine motor skills in its hands, capable of working firearms and other machinery. It’s my greatest work to date.”
Despite his masturbatory glee, Doctor X is right. Helper 10 might be the ugliest of his sink clog creations, but it’s also his most human. Its hands resemble my own. So do the eyes. If they’re the windows to the soul, Helper 10 is the pope of hybrid super-soldiers.
I’m curious why Helper 10 wields the .45 instead of the AK. I know how much ammunition the .45 can hold with a full magazine, and it’s going to take some expert shooting to put us all down. The AK, on the other hand, could sweep this hallway clean of life in a
I eventually came back to religion and spiritually. Humans have souls, while animals do not. Then again, I consider myself a god-fearing atheist. If I’m not sold on religion, how am I any different from an animal?
“Animals and humans, we are all the same. You wouldn’t eat another human, would you?” the restaurant owner said.
She didn’t win any converts at the time, and I doubt I’m ever giving up my position at the top of the food chain, but I see her point now. How am I any different from those chimps? Stuck in this shithole, I didn’t lose my sense of being, either. And now we’re bridging the gap between our species without Doctor X’s hideous methods. We’re becoming a hybrid in a different way.
I’m their alpha now. I killed to get here, and it’s no different from a military coup. The law of the jungle goes for everyone.
I point at the door to Hillary’s room. It’s thick and made of metal, but the chimps go ballistic. Even I’m surprised by the raw strength and creativity they display at ripping the door from its hinges.
I slip into the room ahead of the chimps to find Hillary strapped to a table in what I’ll call a mating position. There’s no need for further detail on that point. The chimps trash Doctor X’s machines while I help Hillary collect herself. She’s more pissed off than frightened.
“I call first dibs on the asshole who put me in here,” Hillary says. She looks me up and down. “I’d kiss you, but I’d probably contract a disease. You look like washed up whale shit.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say, feeling the proverbial wind against my back. Hillary and I are free from our rooms, Helpers 8 and 9 are dead, a troop of chimps elected me their leader and my gonads are still where I left them. Now we need to get to Doctor X, stop his plans for good and recover that Iceman.
Turning back into the hallway, we’re greeted by yet another hurdle between now and then. Helper 10, a hybrid somehow even more gnarled and hideous than its two predecessors, stands between us and the exit into the main cave. In its hands it holds my .45 and my ESEE knife, and I don’t think it’s here to return them to me. Slung over its shoulder is that icon of Soviet firepower, an AK-47.
“Ms. Carter. Mr. Baker. Meet Helper 10,” Doctor X says over the speaker.
25.
I freeze in my tracks at the sight of my own .45 aimed at my chest. The chimps won’t move unless I do, so they hurl growls and shit at Helper 10 while remaining in position behind me. Gauging the distance between us, there’s no way I can get the drop on the pistol before Helper 10 can plant a hunk of lead into my heart.
“Not so smart now, are you?” Doctor X says over the speaker with a cackle. “Helper 10 has the brains of my creations. Note the fine motor skills in its hands, capable of working firearms and other machinery. It’s my greatest work to date.”
Despite his masturbatory glee, Doctor X is right. Helper 10 might be the ugliest of his sink clog creations, but it’s also his most human. Its hands resemble my own. So do the eyes. If they’re the windows to the soul, Helper 10 is the pope of hybrid super-soldiers.
I’m curious why Helper 10 wields the .45 instead of the AK. I know how much ammunition the .45 can hold with a full magazine, and it’s going to take some expert shooting to put us all down. The AK, on the other hand, could sweep this hallway clean of life in a
Similar Books
