Once We Were Human (The Commander Book 1) by Randall Farmer Page B
Authors: Randall Farmer
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He went around to the other side of the Mustang and tapped his nose on the window.
“Play?” he asked the girl. Her eyes lit up. This time, his word sounded better, more like ‘blay’ than ‘play’, but much more of a word than a bark.
The little girl opened the Mustang door and stepped out. She was about eight, and cautious. He bent down to just below his shoulder level and licked her face. “Nice doggy. Where’s your house, doggy? Where’s your collar? How do I know what to call you if I can’t find your dog tag?” Inside the car, her mother started to make strange mewling noises.
The little girl petted him.
He shivered in pleasure, the shiver reminding him of something else: sex. His dick grew hard.
“Name?” he asked the little girl for her name. The word sounded perfect when it came out.
“I’ll call you Rover,” the little girl said, misunderstanding his question.
“Rover,” he repeated. A good name, even though when he spoke, the word came out more like ‘robber’ than ‘rover’.
“You’re like that huge dog in the books for babies I read last year,” the little girl said.
“Uh huh,” he said.
The little girl’s mother ran out of the car, screaming like a lunatic. Rover couldn’t resist. He turned away from the little girl and chased her mother down. He nuzzled the woman and screwed her, which didn’t take long.
After he finished he licked the woman’s face. Nothing. She didn’t have any of the good loving the Monster possessed and he wanted more of. He had just raped the woman, hadn’t he? Quickly, not dog-style. He backed away, scared of himself.
He couldn’t figure out why he had raped the woman. Had he lost the will to stop even his most miniscule impulses?
“Bad Rover,” he said. The woman, who had curled up in a ball after he raped her, began to scream again. “Sorry.”
He turned back to find that the little girl had climbed back inside the car and locked the doors.
Good for her. Scary things prowled the darkening night.
He couldn’t think of any way out of his mess. Fun as it was, he couldn’t live this way for long. Hungry again, he scented food in the trunk of the Mustang . He padded back to the Mustang ’s trunk.
No hands. Angry, Rover growled and clawed at the trunk. To his surprise, the trunk gave with a horrid rip and opened awkwardly. Now the little girl screamed as well. “Bad Rover,” he said. His stomach rumbled anyway.
Other humans would come. That wouldn’t be good. He gobbled food with a few choice bites – they had hamburger! – and fled up the mountain.
This was no way to live. What was he going to do?
Carol Hancock: September 19, 1966 – September 22, 1966
Right after breakfast, Nurse Fitzpatrick told me to get ready for my first exercise session. I shrugged. After three days of tests I didn’t care what they did to me, as long as it was quick. Nurse Fitzpatrick gave me some exercise clothes to wear, out of her infinite stash of institutional clothing, and led me downstairs to where the center’s staff had converted a lounge into a gymnasium. Orderly Cook followed behind, hand on his gun.
I glanced at the gymnasium and its contents, turned around, and demanded to see Dr. Zielinski. The nurse and the orderly shrugged, and led me off. He had settled into his office, with books on the shelves and diplomas on the wall. Along the wall to the side he had littered a table with a microscope, slides, photographs, a slide rule, dark glass jars filled with chemicals and other equipment I didn’t recognize.
He glanced up from his paperwork and indicated a chair. “Carol, you have to use the gym and exercise your body. I know you don’t like it, but it’s necessary,” Dr. Zielinski said, before I had time to state my complaint.
“I don’t have any problem with the bicycle. I don’t have any problem with the treadmill. I’ll do
“Play?” he asked the girl. Her eyes lit up. This time, his word sounded better, more like ‘blay’ than ‘play’, but much more of a word than a bark.
The little girl opened the Mustang door and stepped out. She was about eight, and cautious. He bent down to just below his shoulder level and licked her face. “Nice doggy. Where’s your house, doggy? Where’s your collar? How do I know what to call you if I can’t find your dog tag?” Inside the car, her mother started to make strange mewling noises.
The little girl petted him.
He shivered in pleasure, the shiver reminding him of something else: sex. His dick grew hard.
“Name?” he asked the little girl for her name. The word sounded perfect when it came out.
“I’ll call you Rover,” the little girl said, misunderstanding his question.
“Rover,” he repeated. A good name, even though when he spoke, the word came out more like ‘robber’ than ‘rover’.
“You’re like that huge dog in the books for babies I read last year,” the little girl said.
“Uh huh,” he said.
The little girl’s mother ran out of the car, screaming like a lunatic. Rover couldn’t resist. He turned away from the little girl and chased her mother down. He nuzzled the woman and screwed her, which didn’t take long.
After he finished he licked the woman’s face. Nothing. She didn’t have any of the good loving the Monster possessed and he wanted more of. He had just raped the woman, hadn’t he? Quickly, not dog-style. He backed away, scared of himself.
He couldn’t figure out why he had raped the woman. Had he lost the will to stop even his most miniscule impulses?
“Bad Rover,” he said. The woman, who had curled up in a ball after he raped her, began to scream again. “Sorry.”
He turned back to find that the little girl had climbed back inside the car and locked the doors.
Good for her. Scary things prowled the darkening night.
He couldn’t think of any way out of his mess. Fun as it was, he couldn’t live this way for long. Hungry again, he scented food in the trunk of the Mustang . He padded back to the Mustang ’s trunk.
No hands. Angry, Rover growled and clawed at the trunk. To his surprise, the trunk gave with a horrid rip and opened awkwardly. Now the little girl screamed as well. “Bad Rover,” he said. His stomach rumbled anyway.
Other humans would come. That wouldn’t be good. He gobbled food with a few choice bites – they had hamburger! – and fled up the mountain.
This was no way to live. What was he going to do?
Carol Hancock: September 19, 1966 – September 22, 1966
Right after breakfast, Nurse Fitzpatrick told me to get ready for my first exercise session. I shrugged. After three days of tests I didn’t care what they did to me, as long as it was quick. Nurse Fitzpatrick gave me some exercise clothes to wear, out of her infinite stash of institutional clothing, and led me downstairs to where the center’s staff had converted a lounge into a gymnasium. Orderly Cook followed behind, hand on his gun.
I glanced at the gymnasium and its contents, turned around, and demanded to see Dr. Zielinski. The nurse and the orderly shrugged, and led me off. He had settled into his office, with books on the shelves and diplomas on the wall. Along the wall to the side he had littered a table with a microscope, slides, photographs, a slide rule, dark glass jars filled with chemicals and other equipment I didn’t recognize.
He glanced up from his paperwork and indicated a chair. “Carol, you have to use the gym and exercise your body. I know you don’t like it, but it’s necessary,” Dr. Zielinski said, before I had time to state my complaint.
“I don’t have any problem with the bicycle. I don’t have any problem with the treadmill. I’ll do