Published at the Treasures of Thundera Group January 21, 2003
:taken from my original author's notes:
I wanted to wait until I had edited this much before I posted. This is the seventh entry in my Thunderian horror anthology and so far its shaping up to be the longest of the short stories. I'm trying my best to trim it down. I've got only two parts left to finalize and I'm hoping to get through with that tomorrow. heh heh heh...and no matter what happens, no one dies in this fanfic, not Tygra, not Bengali, no one. shock, gasp, l'horror! it should be rated nc-17 just for that! :p
"Flesh and Bone" by RD Rivero (2003-01-21)
It was sunset and the evening sky blazed with vibrant red-orange streaks, shimmered with fingerlike clouds. The weather was cool and the air was unnaturally calm – so still and so quiet that the very ruffle of the underbrush was abnormally perceptible. The terrain was flat along the main road – a gravel and dirt mixture that led from one horizon, darkened by the deep-blue hue of the encroaching night, to the other, aglow by the immense image of the dying sun. Beyond the road, the land was marked with scant hills and gentle mounds. Beyond that were rocky, barren cliffs, carpeted by lush, green forests.
Hidden within a particular gorge – where the canyon was the widest – was a complex of oily, dusty buildings. At the center was the most prominent of the structures: a multistory factory cannibalized from broken spaceships and antiquated technologies. Tiny windows adorned its dusky-brown façade at random points here and there. It was surrounded by dams of dirt-filled sacks, chunks of concrete slabs and a gapping ditch that resembled a moat. Vehicles were parked at the head of the wooden planks that spanned the deep trench. Wooden and aluminum buildings dotted the boundaries of the encampment – puffs of white steam vented from their roofs to the sky, proof that their residents were eating dinner. Armaments protected the perimeter while a hundred-and-fifty-foot antenna behind the compound stood defenseless.
Liono crawled through the grass from the cliff to the complex. He eased his binoculars onto his eyes and stared into the base. Two Jackalmen patrolled the periphery. Vultureman emerged with the remains of an electric component – its colored wires hanging across his arms – yelling and stammering utterly frustrated until he returned to the main building.
Liono reached for his transmitter and signaled Tygra.
"Liono?" Tygra whispered into his communicator.
"Where are you? I can't see you through the factory."
"Panthro and I are nearing the antenna." He paused – and continued whispering slowly, cautiously: "I've got two Jackalmen guarding the backside of the complex."
The panther tapped the red tiger's shoulder, signaling to retreat to the shade the cliff provided.
"We'll split," the gruff, gray cat said. "I'll throw two stun grenades at the Mutants and advance while you plant the explosives beneath the tower."
"Let's do it," the red and black cat said, readying the equipment. "We don't have a moment to lose."
"Worse: we don't have a take-two."
"Liono?"
"Tygra?" the Lord of the Thundercats replied through the radio.
"We're setting up the diversion – be ready. You'll hear two explosions."
Panthro grabbed two stun grenades – one in each hand, safety pins removed – and crouched just above the waving, bristling tall grass. All he had to do was lunge the shells at the jackals – five seconds later, just five seconds later, the blast would be strong enough to knock them out and frighten the others in mad rushes of wild and frantic terror. That momentary shock would provide Tygra the opportunity to plant the bombs and clear the antenna.
The antenna had to be destroyed – it was the key to the success of the Thundercat's operation. There was only a small number of Mutants at the base and they wanted to deny their enemies the opportunity to call for reinforcements – from Castle Plundarr or from anywhere.
Tygra inched at the ready, his joints limber, his body agile. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he waited and waited for the moment, brief and momentary, when the compound would be too stunned to notice, too surprised to act rationally. He intended to approach invisibly but his fellows did not have that necessary advantage.
Panthro stalked the boundary between the undergrowth and the roadside, coming closer and closer – he emerged from the grass to the gate, growling like a mad panther. The Jackalmen turned to face him – he threw the stun grenades at them. The streaming shells arched and snaked and, with ground-shaking blasts, the two guards fell right where they stood.
Tygra, his whip wrapped about his body, remained unseen by the pulsating tower. He secured four bombs – one along each corner – and quickly removed the safety pins. He rushed to the panther – who had succumbed to the shock of the explosion – and covered the gray cat's body with his own.
"That's it!" Bengali shouted. He and Pumyra lurched over the edge of the northern cliff, watching as the tower – its foundations torn asunder – trembled and shuddered. Listening as the shrieks – its gasps of death – announced and heralded, with explosions of its own, its collapse into mounds of superheated metal.
Liono's voice broke through the transmitter: "Now, Cheetara!"
The puma gazed across the canyon, catching the hazy afterglow of the cheetah. The spotted cat sped from the sloped face of the southern cliff to the Mutant encampment, hurling metal canisters as she penetrated the perimeter. Some were impact grenades; some were smoke and teargas canisters. And following her lead, the Thunder Kittens hovered above the base, raining their torments upon the fleeing, choking Jackalmen and Monkians.
Liono, Sword of Omens in tow, scrambled through the main entrance, blasting everything with the blue plasma emanating from his mystical weapon.
"Bengali – while they're routing the Mutants, what about the factory?"
"What about the factory?" the white tiger asked, his attention focused from the puma to the sooty, grimy structure.
"See." She pointed to a troop simians lumbering through the moat-like trench. "If they hole themselves into the building, they might rally a stand-off."
Bengali tried his communicator but Liono did not reply.
"He must've either turned off his radio or –"
"Either way we're no use to them up here! Come on!" he growled, getting up.
"Bengali, we've been given orders!" she protested, following him.
"We don't have time – we have to act now – come on!" he grabbed her arm and led her from the bushes to a murky crevice where twisted tethers dangled from the top to the bottom of the cliff. "Come on! I can't keep the Mutants off by myself!"
He slid down the rope like a spider spun down its web. She was cautious but did not lag far behind. He landed first; she came second. Armed with his hammer, he covered her while they hurried into the center of camp. Multicolored blasts from Thunderian and Mutant weapons peppered the air all around them.
"What are you doing here?" Liono scowled, his face turning shades of red deeper than his mane. "I told you two to stay –"
"The Mutants are regrouping and heading into the building," Bengali shouted, realizing that his leader had only then taken notice of the enemy along the trench.
"By Jagga!"
"I would've told you through the transmitter but you –"
"It was blasted, damn it!" He dodged the random fire of a simian. "Stay down!"
"Down!" he growled, lunging from the lion to the ruins of a wooden hut.
Pumyra saw Bengali inch toward the moat – she saw, too, that nearby Mutants had been made aware of his presence and steadily converged onto his position. Tygra, at that moment, uncoiled his whip and, with flashes of blue light, appeared by the bridge over the trench. It distracted the Plunderians long enough for her to reach the white tiger.
"Keep your head down," he warned.
"They're converging on us."
"How many grenades do you have?"
"Fifteen – you have five."
He removed a strap from his shoulder – the tiny metal canisters clanged among themselves. "Take them and take cover next to that aluminum hut." He pointed to a rectangular structure with a domed roof that poured acrid smoke though it was not in flames. "I'll sneak into the building – I'll blast anyone who tries to enter, you stun anyone who tries to escape."
She nodded and crouched to the side of the minor building. He advanced through the ditch – that was momentarily clear while the Mutants dealt with Tygra – from the bridge to the side entrance of the main building. She watched him vanish into the structure, her breath racing, her mind struggling to focus. It was simply too dangerous.
The Jackalmen and Monkians – who had been beaten back by the powers of the red tiger – rushed into the moat, intent on retreating into the factory. She readied a pair of grenades and fired the stun bombs as soon as the troop was close by. Four fell but the rest – shaken – were determined by their fear and cowardice to continue their doomed run. Again, she readied the canisters and again she hurled the shells at the Mutants. And again, there were a few who did not fall. She was about to try again when blasts from the kittens disabled the remainder of the resolute simians and jackals. But one of their impact grenades missed their target – it lodged into a bulkhead adjacent to the side entrance and exploded, blocking the opening.
Bengali – who had ducked behind a stairwell – rushed to the blockage. Unable to clear the hot and smoldering gnarled metal, he was upset and agitated until it dawned on him: it was for the best. Indeed, the front entrance was guarded by Liono and Panthro, the side entrance was inaccessible – there was no way in or out of the building. Yes, he thought, grinning safe and secure – he could explore the factory; he could determine just what was being done there. For months, the Thundercats had been aware of the complex. Spying and observing from the air and land, they had recorded the many trips from and to Castled Plundarr that were required to erect and enforce the base. The Lunatacs and even MummRa had visited the facilities from time to time but always the goings-on inside the main building were an utter mystery.
He discovered the obvious: a chamber whose walls oozed an oily sweat of soot and ash – its sickly-sour odor clung oppressive onto the environs. He found neither a door nor a window, clear, blocked – only those stairs at the corner of the room. Cautiously and quietly, he tiptoed up the cold, hard, metal steps – darkness and shadow greeted him. On a landing, he gravitated toward a hatch, a portal from which lights shone and sounds echoed, calling, beckoning him forward, onward.
A thin passage emptied into a wide room. Square windows, cluttered tables, instruments of all manner and variety – electrical, chemical, biological – beakers of multicolored fluids, containers of spasmodic flesh. It was a mangled mess of Plunderian technologies – Vultureman and three Monkians crouched and hid at the center of that chaos.
"Base to Plundarr! Base to Plundarr!" the avian squawked. "We're under attack! Come in! We're under attack!"
Bengali reached for his shoulder strap. "Blast," he scowled – his growl alerting the Mutants – "I gave Pumyra my canisters!" His cover blown by his own rashness, he had little choice but to aim and fire.
"You meddling cats won't get away with this!" the birdman exclaimed. "You've interfered with our plans for the last time!"
"Eat my hammer, birdbrain!" he shouted if just to shout.
The room glowed with the brilliance of green and blue plasma.
The white tiger crawled under a table, pushing it onto its side, spilling its contents. Using it for cover, he alternated surfacing, firing, ducking and inching – himself and the table – closer and closer to the dreaded enemy.
The vulture flung the radio away – it was useless – and crept behind the firing simians. Seizing flasks of water and sodium, he prepared a concoction of death: he poured the ingredients into a larger container and threw the mixture at the miserable feline.
The volatile compounds exploded – red and yellow fireballs engulfed the room.
"Quick, to the roof!" he ordered his Mutants. And as he fled the scene, he turned his beak to see the black and white cat's body under the table – it had collapsed aflame over him. "Meddling Blundercat," he spit and ran into the stairwell.
"What was that?" Pumyra asked, turning from Tygra to the building. Thin, gray smoke oozed from rows of broken windows. "Bengali's in there!"
Liono and Panthro looked on aghast: the Mutants were coming-to and, instinctively, fled to the east, to the night and Castle Plundarr. They, too, had heard the explosion and looked up: Vultureman and a handful of Monkians were on the roof.
"Now's our chance, Panthro, while the rest are fleeing let's storm the building."
The panther waved to the tiger and the puma to come while the lion blasted the front entrance with his sword. The four rushed into the factory while the cheetah and the kittens remained behind to provide cover and oversight.
A single small room, a skeletal stairwell that led up.
"Is that the smell of burnt fur?" Panthro asked.
"Bengali!" Pumyra exclaimed, rushing toward a landing where smoke and the sizzle of flames tortured her senses.
"It's probably nothing – this place reeks of every foul odor imaginable – don't be distracted, Pumyra!"
But she did not listen to Liono's orders. She entered the room, crawling on her knees through the shattered tables and battered instruments. The fire was consuming itself, the smoke was thinning – yet she could see little in the haze of soot and ash. "Bengali!" she shouted but there was no answer.
"Look out!" Liono shouted as he and the rest assaulted the roof. Hovering above where ten Sky Cutters – the Mutants and Vultureman seeped through his fingers and without a word or a blast, the Plunderians fled past his range of fire.
"They got away, again, but empty-handed, Liono."
He nodded and sighed – it would not be all for nothing, whatever it was. From the ladder to the stairs, he and the men noticed hatchways and passages that led into deeper and more important portions of the building – portions that held the secret of the structure's true purpose, the Mutant's clandestine aim. But now he was uninterested – he had last seen Pumyra entering a room several floors beneath and he wanted to see what had become of her. And Bengali, if he had been in there as well.
The Sword of Omens growled as he neared the mysterious chamber.
"Pumyra? What is it?" He saw her kneeling next to a table and as he approached closer and closer he saw, too, what was behind it. He gasped: Pumyra cradled Bengali's body across her lap, her arms not caressing but clamping his bloody, mangled head together. All around her, on the floor, on the walls, on the oily, grimy instruments, were seared splatters of flesh and bone – and burnt fur.
The somber skies were obscured by rain clouds. The solemn forests were doused by fallen runoff. Rain sprinkled the windows, disturbing the still and silent lair with the frenzy of its dropping. It was as if the forces of Nature were intimately aware of the loss and despair faced by the victorious Thundercats.
Tygra emerged from the medical room – fingers, hands, chest bloodied like the visage of a butcher. His manner was that of death, eyes glued to the floor, gait slow and deliberate. He paused before the wide windows of the hallway and sighed.
"Tygra?" Panthro asked. "You've been working for hours."
"Have you made any progress?" Liono asked.
The red tiger looked to the side – momentarily shocked and surprised – he had been oblivious to the Thundercats.
"Where's Pumyra?"
Cheetara exited the medical room holding a crumbled, bloody uniform.
"She's pacing in the conference room," the panther answered, rubbing his face. "The kittens are keeping her company."
He nodded and turned to the cheetah: "Thank you," he said, softly.
She replied with her eyes – large and wet – and vanished down the hallway.
He sighed and noticed his hands – facing the men he gave his prognosis: "He breathes, his heart beats, but he – whatever it was that made him Bengali – is dead. I can't save him." He pressed his polluted fingers over the bridge of his nose, his brow knotting, coursing. "There wasn't enough left of his brain."
The door of the medical room was partly ajar and through its narrow gap the white tiger's bare feet could be seen, hanging limply off the edge of the operating table.
Liono shuddered: "What are we going to do about this?"
"I'll tell Pumyra," Panthro said.
"No," Tygra interjected, "I'll be the one. She has a basic knowledge of medicine, she'll understand if it comes from me."
""But what are we going to do about Bengali? If he's dead but not dead?"
"Right now he's on a machine that helps him breathe."
"Are you going to pull the plug?"
The panther clenched his fist in a moment of rage as the realization dawned on his face.
Tygra pulled the plug but Bengali was strong and for days – weeks – he lingered. While Pumyra wandered aimlessly about Cat's Lair, denying yet awaiting the inevitable.
She cried as the world moved on – Bengali's breaths were labored and prolonged. The Thundercats destroyed the roadway and removed the weapons from the Mutant complex – Bengali's body twitched as it rotted, suspended between life and death. She cried – the base's contents remained secret and hidden – the puma stood alone, her universe crumbling with the white tiger's every breath.
Pumyra announced that she was headed to the Tower of Omens – to collect Bengali's possessions. The weather was clear and the wilderness was calm – and it was thought that a good, long stroll through the Treetop Kingdom would do her mind well. But her mind was unresponsive for it was elsewhere and along the way, she diverted from the outpost to the Plunderian encampment.
It was there, as always, still as a tomb.
What had they been up to?
It had cost Bengali his life – and she was determined to know exactly what it was, whatever it was.
The main entrance, the stairs – the room where she had discovered his broken body. Smells of rot and decay clung to the air – heavy and oppressive. She threw a chair against a window, smashing it to let the fresh air circulate. She sifted through the tables – the ones that had remained relatively intact – and gradually the litter of spare parts took form: microscopes, slides, scalpels and tweezers. The various tools of surgery mangled and rusted.
She peered into a magnifier but the sample had dried out in the heat of the fire.
The Mutants had very few weapons – it was not shaping up to be the sort of factory the Thundercats had feared it to be, yet there was more, much more that was left unseen.
Returning to the stairwell, she discovered only one way to go – up. Up too far and she would reach the roof but a middle section revealed a doorway that led directly into another dark and shadowy chamber.
At the extreme left were tubes. The bases of the clear structures were melted, the lids were open and the bluish fluid they contained evaporated through the wide orifices, aromating the room with the familiar scent of formaldehyde. She approached and the dim lights of the tiny windows revealed a sight so horrid she stopped and screamed.
It was a factory – but not for the creation of mechanized weaponry. It was – it seemed – the next unnatural stage of Mutant development. It was common knowledge that the Plunderians had originated from ancient laboratory animals that had been subjected to the cruelest forms of experiments that ultimately lead to their society and their conflict with Thundera. And now the very subjects were continuing that long line of wretched horror, twisting it into altogether new and different directions. For it was not enough that animals already known and understood to be mutated into hominid forms – it was the aim of the Empire's maddened scientists to create new creatures, wild and bizarre in arrangement and variety, never before seen, built upon characteristics they desired, characteristics they accentuated by piecing and slicing together parts of extant Mutants.
And before her, in the display cases were the failures of Vultureman's experiments – the new generation of Mutants that would have been. Eyes and beaks of birds, arms of simians, legs of canines, bodies of reptiles: the plasticity of the flesh had been attained and exploited. The spliced and grafted parts fit together without seam or stitch.
How had they done it?
She stared agape at the super mutants – not a scar, not a blemish, one segment simply grew into the other without boundaries between the different fleshes. Only the changes in color and texture indicated that the parts were of different bodies.
At the center were operating tables covered with thick canvases. She peeled back the tarps and revealed what she suspected lay beneath – the fresh skeletons of failed experiments. Not only the flesh but the bones as well showed no sign of injury and repair. Cleary – she understood – different parts required different internal structures, avian, mammalian and reptilian, yet the skeletal framework lacked the ossification that always accompanied broken bones and fractures.
She explored the drawers and cabinets, looking for a document, a notebook – a record of any kind. She needed to know how the bodies had been so perfectly melded into one another. She discovered medical supplies and surgical tools and little more.
At the extreme right, she found the answer. A metal box that resembled a makeshift refrigerator housed vats of sulfur-like granules and very pure water. She dragged the items to the center and examined the containers under the swiveling bright lights of the operating tables. The sulfur compound had the consistency of sand and the stench of rotten eggs. Its color was that of cold, frozen pink that resembled dehydrated flesh. With the aid of metal spoons, she mixed over the tabletop a sample of the chemical with a smaller amount of water. She watched closely as the goop that formed steamed and bubbled until it formed a very hot substance – a deep red gel that emitted a sickly-sour scent. It quivered and reacted to her touch as if alive.
Excising a pair of ribs from the nearest corpse, she applied the goop between the thin shards, the broken bones. The substance pulled the brittle parts together, spread across their entire surface and set immediately and instantaneously. It settled and became so strong and hard that the pliers snapped as she tried to break the synthesized bones. She had uncovered the answer but she had no explanation – and still the factory remained largely unexplored.
The puma returned the containers to the refrigerator and noticed that along the floor, by a pair of vault-like doors, was a series of canvas bags. She paused to rub her eyes – the bags seemed to melt completely into the darkness and shadow of the chamber. And then one shuddered.
Her first impulse was to run but she had delved in too deeply to turn away. The sacks were small, whatever they contained were no more than a few feet long. They could not harm her. And what if they were innocent animals or youngsters that the mad Mutant doctor had captured for future use? It would have been against her duty to leave them to languish in that hell.
She leaned over the floor – the bag quivered more violently. She neared; she grasped its tapered tip. Simple knots tied the sack shut but the string was tight and the jostle was such that she had little room to maneuver. She sliced the cord with her claws – the tip expanded and opened and the dreaded contents slithered free.
She screamed and staggered aghast.
The thing within the bag uncoiled. It was a Mutant torso – no arms, no legs. Either the limbs had failed to set or the experiment had not been completed. It hobbled like a maggot, inching across the floor from the corner to the door where enough light shone into the room that she saw clearly its head. Avian, it had shrunk and shriveled to a size far, far too small for its body. Though the glue connected the flesh, the head lacked a direct blood supply from the torso and cut off from the vital nourishment it rotted into an advanced state of necrosis – its texture burnt and charred; its manner limp and lifeless.
It – the creature from a Plunderian nightmare – entered the stairwell and tumbled out of sight.
Tygra stormed into the conference room. Liono, Panthro and Cheetara were standing along the edge of the round table, discussing the latest blue prints and schematics. The three turned at once to face the red and black cat.
"Where's Pumyra?" he asked, ruffling a bundle of sheets in his hands. "I must speak with her."
"She took WileyKat and WileyKit out this morning," the cheetah answered.
"The kittens were asking for shovels, said they were headed to a field by the tower. They do that when they collect mushrooms," the panther expanded. "Why?"
"It's not mushrooms this time – it's Bengali. He's dead."
The lion rubbed his cheek – odd that the sword had not growled or announced the Thundercat's passing. "He was stronger than we expected."
"When did it happen?" Cheetara asked, a single tear streaming down her face.
"Well, according to these notes, he died shortly after midnight last night. It was Pumyra who did the paperwork."
"She must be burying the body," Panthro concluded.
"Why didn't she tell us? Why all of the secrecy?" Liono asked.
"I don't know, but I intend to find out."
The Thunder Tank arrived at the Tower of Omens. Tygra and Panthro embarked from the vehicle to the flat field at the south side of the outpost. A pair of shovels lay across a mound of dirt slightly darker than its surroundings. A wheel barrel was tipped on its side between the crude, raw earth and the lush, velvet forest.
The kittens paused from their work – collecting and gathering stones for the headstone – and stared at the adults without words for endless moments.
"Don't be sad," WileyKit said.
"Did you see him?" Panthro asked – he was worried because Tygra had warned against letting the twins look at Bengali's injuries.
"He was wrapped in white bandages," WileyKat said.
"You three carried him in that?" Tygra asked, pointing to the wheel barrel.
"No," the youngster continued. "The grave was already dug" – the adults raised their eyebrows – "and he was already in the hole. She just needed our help to cover it."
"Where did she go?"
"For a walk," the two answered.
"You've been distant," the old lynx said as he sipped his steaming cup of tea. "It isn't like you to neglect your duties."
The puma stared through the kitchen window – the wasteland around the tower, the sterile mound.
"Pumyra? Pumyra, please."
"Lynxo," she sighed. "It's like a lie – it's like I'm living a lie."
"Bengali is dead – accept it."
"No – you're wrong."
"Accept it – Pumyra. Our friends, our families, our entire planet is dead – it is our responsibility to go on."
She turned to him – she opened her lips as if to speak but held back.
"I know you loved him." He reached for her hands and she obliged. "It's been a month and your behavior grows worse and worse. You are hardly ever here and when you are – well – though you may be in body, you are not in mind. Your responsibilities – Pumyra, your responsibilities are what define you."
"There are things more important than that, Lynxo."
"What Thundercat hasn't suffered a loss?"
"And how does a Thundercats grieve?"
He smiled and answered: "One breath upon the next."
She hugged the wise-one and whispered: "But he's not dead – he's not dead, I've made certain of that."
Bengali's death certificate – charts and medical files – were scattered about the conference table, thoroughly read and reread. Tygra tapped his fingers, Liono rubbed his chin and Panthro snatched and scanned random documents.
"It doesn't add up," the red tiger said. "The manner of death Pumyra describes isn't consistent with his injuries. She didn't perform an autopsy, yet she claims with certainty that it was heart and kidney failure. No urine of blood sample was retained for analysis – she destroyed everything."
"The kittens never saw the body – it was already in the grave, wrapped with bandages. Bandages?" the panther flipped the papers back into their folders. "We don't have enough bandages at Cat's Lair."
"She said he died shortly after midnight – but she didn't tell anyone. She didn't speak a word of it for ten hours. Why not tell us? Why not ask our help – if she wanted to burry him at the Tower of Omens? Why the kittens – luring them out falsely and informing them halfway through the trip. Why did she move the body – by herself – only to return – on foot again – to ask the twins for help? It doesn't make sense, it doesn't add up – it reeks of something."
"Well, what do you suppose happened?" Liono asked.
"I don't know – that's the problem. I suspect she didn't tell us because she didn't want us to know. Whatever it is, she did or wanted to do, she learned after ten hours that she couldn't do it by herself – so if she needed help, who wouldn't question her? Who wouldn't notice or be aware – who but the Thunder Kittens?"
"You think she killed him?" Panthro asked abruptly. "It's strange – if his mind was dead already, would it matter if she killed the body? It would seem to be rather humane to be honest."
The lion sighed. "Bengali was reckless. Time and time again, I told him to stay on the cliff; I needed him and Pumyra to stay on the cliff. If he had listened the Mutants might not have gotten away – but he had to play hero. Life goes on, Tygra, the world moves on. You're making a mountain out of a molehill; you're seeing things that just aren't there. Organ failure? – that's what the brain dead die of. Low-key burial? – that's what he wanted. So she didn't handle it well, so? Does it make her a suspect? Does it imply her guilt? I can't fault her and I can't suspect her. He's dead – it was bound to happen, it happened."
The red and black cat shook his striped head. "How ever rash or impulsive, he died a hero in the line of battle. To be buried in the yard like a pet? It's unbecoming a Thundercat. We must know what happened, we must – we owe him that much dignity."
"Ask Pumyra – she knows."
"We can't," Panthro said, getting up. "She hasn't been the same – it might only upset her."
Liono nodded and sighed. "Haven't we all suffered through the death and loss of those we loved? I lost my father and Jagga, I didn't break down and we didn't have elaborate ceremonies. The life of a Thundercat is struggle – struggle against time and against the forces that would destroy us. We must remain as equally determined and unwavering as our enemies who lurk and plot. I don't want to seem indifferent, but as the Lord of the Thundercats, the weight of responsibility rests on my shoulders. I must obey the duties of my office. I've judged, I've concluded – there's nothing wrong."
Panthro grasped Liono's arm and spoke: "You've had to grow up too fast, you've lost your childhood – but no matter what's happened or what'll happen, you can't lose your humanity. As ruthless as you might think you have to be in the face of our enemies, never forget that our humanity's what separates us from them. If there are questions, there must be answers."
"You –" he struggled against the panther but relented. "Oh, Bengali, you are defiant yet, your spirit walks abroad and turns my own men against me. All right, all right. We'll dig, if it means we'll get back to normal sooner rather than later. Too many Thundercats have sprung out of their minds; I won't bear it a moment longer."
Liono jogged from the garage to the grave – Bengali's headstone, wet with the dew of the summer night's mist.
"What's the news?" Tygra asked, adjusting the lamps. "What did Lynxo say?"
"Gone all day," Liono replied. "Didn't say to where."
"Let's get started," Panthro said, dispensing the shovels. "The twins told me the hole was pretty deep, we'll have to work – wide."
The three formed a triangle: Tygra at the center, Liono and Panthro ten feet to the sides. They uncovered the loose and aerated topsoil – thunder and lightning screeched through the heavens. They breached into the rocky and sterile earth – sooty droplets of drizzle permeated the scene.
The Thundercats worked five hours to dig five feet – yet the body lingered interred deeper and deeper still.
"If she dug the grave herself, it must've taken the better part of a day," Tygra said, wiping the sweat off his brow.
"She would've been noticed – unless she did it at night," Panthro said.
"How long does it take to walk from the lair or the tower to the Mutant base?" Liono asked.
"Castle Plundarr?"
"No – the other base."
"Same distance I suppose – four or five hours."
Liono rubbed his chin and continued to dig.
"I think I've got something," Tygra said, grinding his shovel into the dirt. "Doesn't feel or sound like a rock."
Dropping their shovels, they fell to their knees and scraped with their hands. The excavation was ten-feet-deep and thirty-feet-wide. Steep and unstable, the walls provided the eeriest setting of a dreadful underworld. The pit was awash with shadows and darkness, illuminated only by the lightning – the men were unaided by the lamps and headlights secured at the surface.
"It's soft – it must be the linens."
The body – that had been dumped into the ground without as much as a coffin – was exposed, partially freed from the ravenous clutches of the earth that was so utterly determined to consume it to oblivion.
"Looks a little too small, wouldn't you say?" Tygra asked.
The body – wrapped with linen bandages – was scarcely five feet and very thin.
"Maybe there's more left uncovered," Liono answered.
Thunder and lightning – rain streamed into the grave.
The panther extended a claw and carved a rent into the browned and brittle bandages. The tear – the sound of the fibers snapping, cracking – stirred awake something within the wrappings. He stood and staggered back – the men stared as the exhumed something shook and quivered.
"What, by Jagga?" the tiger angled his body against the piles of dirt he himself had dug.
It, whatever it was, stood – the slash widened and a head emerged from the tear. An avian head, its beak had wasted, sagging and dropping, its skull had imploded, shrinking and withering. The grave itself birthed a limbless torso – it flopped about the confines of the tomb, slithering through the horrified on-looker's feet, trying to break free of the crypt.
The Thundercats fled aghast from the grotesque sight, the image of the vulture's dead corpse attached to the reptilian's living torso forever etched into their brains.
"What the hell was that, Tygra?" Liono asked as he peered into the hole – unable to see, he could hear only the seizure-like struggle of the monster of the deep.
"Whatever it is, it's not Bengali." Tygra said, pausing to catch his breath. "More, much more has been going on under our noses than has been revealed."
He nodded: "And in that case, I know what I have to do."
"Liono doesn't care," Pumyra said – as if in reply. The puma stood amid the shrouded columns of the murky chamber – moonlight seeped through the cracked and broken windows. "And the others worry too much. Tygra, Panthro and Lynxo – but especially Lynxo – they think – they think something's wrong." She approached a bucket whose lid lay across its side, partly on and partly off the floor. "They just don't understand." With a wooden spatula, she mixed the contents of the plastic container – a gooey nourishment of black and tan proteins and carbohydrates. "Do you think they should be told?" She paused – as if to wait for a reply. She peered into the recess of the laboratory but the distant corner remained engulfed by the blackest cloak of night. "You're right, of course," she said, picking up the pail and taking it into the gloomy oblivion. "They'd think it was wrong, they'd separate us."
She walked to the site of a skeletal chair that rested against a sturdy pillar. Foamy cushions had been intertwined through the metal grid-work of the back and seat. A deep basin had been placed beneath it, between its legs. Scooping up a glob of the tar-like substance, she spread a coat of the goop across the top of the chair, about the vicinity of the column – the excess dripping down to the filthy floor.
She knelt before the chair, easing back the basin – it was partially full of urine. She rubbed her check against the knees, the thighs of the seat's unseen occupant, gingerly kissing the furry flesh. She purred, eerily filling the room with the cacophony of her contented joy and happiness. Any by chance – or happenstance – the occupant's arm fell from its rest and landed limply next to her head. She took the fingers – cold and stiff – and passed the rigid members through her hair, scanning every line, touching every curve of her face.
"In the name of the gods!" Liono gasped.
Pumyra jerked to the side, her eyes glaring, stabbing like a shocked and rabid animal.
The Lord of the Thundercats drew to the scene – coming closer and closer until he saw Bengali propped upon a makeshift chair with a basin beneath to collect his wastes. And as he neared and inched and crept, he steadily grew more frightened and afraid than he had ever felt before. For while it was Bengali, it was only the white tiger from the neck down – where the mangled and broken head should have been there was a mass of flesh, hideous and grotesque. Part reptilian, part simian and part Thunderian – each morbid ingredient mingled into a seamless concoction of unholy terror. Its skin was attached to the neck and the supporting column by web-like tissues. Its texture was moist either by the action of greasy sweat or slimy grime. It throbbed and pulsated – its surface rippled – something, something within it, was revealing itself through scant hints of obscured contours.
It was a nightmare, born of flesh and bone, broken free from the miniscule confines of the brain.
"Pumyra, what have you done?"
"Isn't he beautiful?" She stood, grasping Bengali's hand. "He's alive. You – you all said he was dead, but he's alive."
"Evil beyond imagination – how could you have done this?"
"Evil? How – how could I do evil keeping him alive?" She let the limp and lifeless hand go and pointed to the mass of flesh that sat upon the neck – fragments of Bengali's head poking through the skin. "See? Do you see what you did to him? You never appreciated him, Liono."
He reached her, grabbing her arm. "You've lost your mind."
Struggling against his grip, she scratched him: "Let me go!"
"You need help, Pumyra."
"Let me go! Bengali! You won't separate me from him, you won't keep us apart, I won't let you."
He took her other arm – his hands ripped and bloodied. "Bengali's dead – whatever it is that you've grown, it's more Mutant than Thunderian. Come with me!"
"Bengali! Let me go!"
"Ahhh!" Liono yelled – his eyes glazed and rolled back white. His tight grip abated as he fell forward, coughing and gurgling blood.
The white tiger had struck the back of the lion's neck with his clenched fist – his arm remained erect over the floor.
She eased his hand back and lay her head upon his lap.
"Nothing, nothing not even death can separate us – I did it for you, for you Bengali."
"You were right, Tygra, the tracks lead into the factory," the panther said, pointing at the trail that snaked from the main road to the front entrance.
"I wonder why the Mutants never returned, why they never destroyed this place?" the tiger asked, getting out of the Thunder Tank. "It's not like them to leave their equipment behind."
The two Thundercats stormed into the oily, sooty structure, their weapons blazing. One by one, they explored it various rooms and chambers, hallways and alcoves. They had left the encampment so quickly after Bengali's fatal accident that they had not had a chance to fully investigate or catalog the premises. What they found was clear and undeniable evidence that the factory had been occupied very recently – and then they entered into the uppermost vault-like laboratory.
"Liono!" they shouted as they discovered the lion on the floor, his arms and feet tied with the sharpest ropes. He was injured but still alive.
"It's, it's," he gasped as the gag was removed from his lips, "she –"
"What? What is it?" Tygra asked.
"She moved it – we have to get out of here – this – this –"
"Hey, look at this," Panthro said, standing before a pool of blood. "It's still fresh."
"No – Panthro – keep away! No!"
"Panthro? Wait –"
But the panther did not listen and continued onward following the puddle as it elongated and trickled and ended at the furthest and darkest corner of the morbid chamber – at the site of an empty chair and up-turned bucket of gooey, black and tan tar.