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Chapter 12
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The pain ripping through Arthur Nielsen's skull was nothing short of agonizing. He moaned once from the intense discomfort, the sound ringing in his ears. He tried to force his eyes open but they weren't cooperating, nor were his muscles. All he really wanted to do was get up and run as far from the pain as possible even though, deep down, common sense was telling him there was no escape from this unless it was the kind of release found in a morphine pump. And he seriously doubted that was going to help.
His mind found for control, parting the curtains of swirling reds, flashing lights, and boiling nausea that represented his torment. His eyelids felt like they'd been glued shut. All the while, a separate part of his mind tried to recall what had happened. An accident? A run-in with one of the 'were' beasts? Maybe a mugger, except what mugger would be trawling the streets with all the chaos and danger out there lately. Potential victims were safely locked inside.
He struggled to retrace his steps. Images came through the burning haze in a tangled weave of visions and perceptions. He vaguely recalled visiting the shops on his assigned list, collecting data, all of it apparently useless. No one had possessed ancient or suspicious looking equipment although no two tattoo machines were exactly alike due to modifications of the specific artists. He had a fleeting image of turning to leave the third place on his list. And then he remembered it, the crush of pain that flashed like strobing lights behind his eyes, setting off a roaring in his ears. Ultimately it ended in darkness and silence as the floor rushed up to meet him.
Panic cut into him like thousands of razor blades nicking every square inch of his skin. He once more tried to force his eyelids apart and he eventually succeeded. The vision that greeted him was blurred, unfamiliar, disorienting. He knew he was lying on his back, more from feel than from sight.
The room above him was seesawing back and forth to match the throbbing in his skull which only served to increase his nausea. Artie was grateful he hadn't eaten in a while because he knew he would certainly have lost his lunch otherwise.
Then the cold began to set in. He realized he had been shivering, rather violently, all along but was only then growing aware of it. The only warm spot seemed to be by his back. It didn't take long to realize this was because he was laying on something padded rather than on a hard surface.
Swiveling his head, he tried to take in his surroundings but the pounding his head was making this impossible even though he noted the merciless headache was abating somewhat.
Then a voice cut through the fog of disorientation and torment and it chilled him more than being entombed in a block of ice ever could have.
"Ah Arthur, how lovely to see you again!" The speaker, smooth British accent obvious and recognizable, leaned into view. He held something in his hands which he brought toward Artie's face. Nielsen tried to shrink away from those hands knowing they were up to no good but was surprised to find his vision clear as his ex-partner and arch nemesis, MacPherson, placed glasses on him.
"James!" Artie croaked hoarsely, his voice rough and scratchy. The sound of it was enough to make him cringe in discomfort. The headache escalated slightly from shock. 'This is so bad,' he told himself. 'If I'm down and he's the cause of it, then I'm as good as dead.'
He once more tried to move his arms but they appeared to be bound in some fashion. When he jerked as hard as he was able against the restraints, he became more aware of the patch of fire spreading outward from his chest.
Before he got a look at the cause, a glass blocked his view. "A little something for the pain. Wouldn't want you incapacitated when you can be having fun doing such wonderful things tonight. Open up Arthur."
The pills, Artie noted in close-up, were the typical size and color of liquid-gel Ibuprofen. Reason told him it wouldn't be poison. James loved the cat and mouse games far too much to be so obvious. Next, he thought about resisting out of sheer orneriness, but decided that anything to help him clear his head would help him think better. Besides, he knew he'd need all of his faculties and wits about him to get out of whatever MacPherson had planned. He had no doubts about that. And so, he accepted the medicine, chasing it down with water freely offered by MacPherson's own hand.
"There now. Sorry about the bump on the head and the drugs but I didn't want you to leave so soon. Let's wait until your head clears before we proceed, shall we?" He moved out of Artie's range of vision and it was several minutes before he returned. "Feeling better?"
Without waiting for a reply, MacPherson continued, "Excellent! Because I want you to fully appreciate this unique experience I am about to give you. Oh wait, let me rephrase that. This experience I have given you." James smiled then, full and ripe with malevolence, and slowly swept his hand over Artie's chest as if displaying a rare car for a potential collector.
Unable to control the reaction to those words, Artie shivered. In spite of his overwhelming trepidation, he couldn't help but look down. All he saw was a large white sheet of gauze, with drying blood and splotches of various dye colors.
"Since you were so close to the truth anyway, I guess it would be no secret to tell you that there was indeed a tattoo machine acting as an artifact. Rather old as you've probably surmised." He paused as if to warm up for a soliloquy. Then he turned his attention back onto his captive audience. "Did you know that Thomas Edison held a patent for one of the earlier machines?. Of course it was originally intended to be used for embroidery but ah well, there are many industrious folks out there who modified it since then. He inspired folks like Charles Wagner and a bloke by the name of O'Reilly. But I've since learned that it was Percy Waters who got the patent in, uh, let's see now, 1929 I believe for what most folks think of as the tattooing machine."
He paused to look Nielsen full in the eyes, staring so hard it made Artie's head ache again. "Of course, since then most tattooing machines have been altered by their respective owners to suit their own styles, just as this one has been." He held up the device for Artie to see. It was indeed antiquated in appearance. "I've been informed that this one was handed down for three generations, with occasional modifications of course."
"You're babbling James," Artie said, growling deep in his chest, a sound that wasn't quite right even to his own ears. "Why don't you just tell me what you want from me?. Aside from the usual "to die" line."
At that, MacPherson let out a full blown laugh. "Oh, that'll happen soon enough, I suppose, but who knows. What I wanted you to understand first is that the tattoo machine isn't the primary artifact. In fact, a bifurcated artifact, ordinary without the special inks I acquired in India. In conjunction with the inks, the work of art that is created is very…special. As you've doubtless noted already."
He walked out of Artie's field of view and came back with containers of varying pigments which swirled and flowed as if possessing a life of their own. "Plan A was to hire an artist to do a special promotion. One of those private mailings for repeat customers gifting them a free tattoo. The only stipulation was that the art used had to be that of an animal of some kind. He was paid handsomely not that he'll need the cash anymore." Once more, he flashed an evil smile. "Those transformations were quick and met all my expectations. And let's face it, I knew you'd eventually hear about this and wonder what was going on."
Artie found his voice again. "And what would have happened if I didn't show up alone or if they chose to investigate this shop?" He didn't need to identify who 'they' were.
"That would have meant implementing Plan B or Plan C. I'm nothing if not flexible, Arthur. You just made it easier for me this way, for which I am eternally grateful."
"And I'd be grateful if I would join me for a little going away party back at the warehouse."
James made a few tsking noises, looked affronted by the suggestion, and stated in a lilting tone of voice, "I have a marvelous adventure planned for you too. You'll soon go on a journey few humans have been privileged to experience."
"Please James, don't do this!" Artie's eyes were pleading with him as much as his voice was.
"'Please', Arthur? My, my, so polite. I seem to recall the last time I tried that word on you, you sealed my doom with a quick push of a button."
He moved to Artie's side and raised the gauze, turning his head this way and that as if to admire the handiwork there. "Look at it this way. At least I'm giving you greater odds of survival than you gave me." He started to tug at the bindings, clearly loosening knots on one wrist. "There now that should be sufficient to help you get loose…eventually. Now, I do believe your companions will be showing up soon, so I really must be off. Happy hunting." He gave Artie a regal bow and walked toward the back of the shop, his laughter echoing as he disappeared from sight.
It took Artie nearly as long as MacPherson had calculated for him to free himself. That was mostly because his head and shoulders were still screaming out their indignation and he had to slow down or pass out.
Once free, the first thing he did was stagger to the back room. It wasn't that he expected his arch nemesis to be there but he did want to see if the shop owner was still there. Sure enough he was. Just as dead as MacPherson had promised. Artie swore softly under his breath. Another body left behind simply because the guy got greedy around a psychopath.
The next course of action was to find a mirror. Gently, he peeled off the gauze that stuck to a few scabbed-over wounds on his chest. And then he saw the thing. His blood, already pooling in his feet, shot right back up to his head making his sway with dizziness. There in brilliant hues and crisp dark lines above his heart was a tattoo of a large crouching beast. The creature was snarling, revealing a full array of sharp teeth, the prominent incisors looking deadly and lifelike.
"Oh no!" he gulped audibly. His throat constricted and his fists clenched. In seconds he was hunting for his trench coat, hoping to find either cell phone or Farnsworth, but none of his clothing aside from the slacks and shoes he still wore was visible. "Damn!" he hollered, throwing things aside like a berserker, flaming rage enveloping him like the desert sun at high noon. If his communications equipment was still there, MacPherson had hidden it well.
"James, if I ever have the chance to catch you, I swear on the graves of all the people you've killed that I will finish the job I started back in the Bronze Sector! Only this time I'll make sure there's no hope of reversing it!"
Artie paced like a caged animal as he struggled to calm his seething anger. Nothing was helping. The bump on the back of his head was yelling for attention. The fresh tattoo was flaming hot, throbbing with every beat of his heart.
He ran to the door, unlocked it and bolted out onto the street. His breath came in ragged gasps and the cool night air settled on him but he didn't notice because molten lava was filling his chest and spreading to his limbs. His blood felt like it was boiling and he threw his arms around his chest as if to contain the flow somehow. The shivering he felt had nothing to do with the temperature. It had to do with pure and unadulterated fear. Terror, mind-numbing and all-encompassing. He knew something awful was about to happen and he didn't know how to stop it.
Reason tried to flee. Instinct drove him away from that place in the hope that he could avoid the very help that he so desperately needed. Then the pain slammed into him again, driving him to his knees. He sobbed from the sheer power of it. The flames enveloped every square inch of his flesh.
Looking down with eyes suddenly better at piercing the darkness, he saw his limbs changing, shortening, fingers blunting, nails becoming needle sharp and retractable. His torso distorted, stretched, and he screaming at the agony of it. Hair sprouted thickly over every inch. He felt his facial bones shifting and writhing as they adapted to the new shape. Finally, he lay on the sidewalk, grunting and coughing, neither sound retaining any humanity whatsoever.
And then it hit him. Thirst and hunger savagely ripped at his gut, consuming him from the inside out. He inhaled deeply as the pain began to diminish, drawing in the strong scent of life all around him, most of it out of reach. But the need had to be met, the hunger assuaged, and he knew only too well how to go about doing it.