The Devil Comes a’ Courtin’
The Soviet-style cinderblock Research Laboratories of NordPharma in Belgrade, Serbia were nestled in natural recess that formed centuries ago in a densely forested valley. It was a depressing place of deep, dark isolation – usually enveloped in ice, snow or a weird, stationary fog. It was on the very edge of the capital city, far beyond the traffic and bustle of the modern-day metropolis Belgrade has become. This was the Burkina Lab Complex of NordPharma, renowned for having been the Soviet Union’s chief Anthrax production facility during the Cold War. Soviet research scientists also studied the AIDS virus, Monkey Pox, Ebola and MERSA there.
Burkina Labs was certified by the United Nations World Health Organization as an official Level 4 Bio-Hazard Research Institution and was ringed by concentric circles and overlays of security precautions. The Serbian Army manned twenty-four-hour roadblocks into and out of the place to check the credentials of all workers coming and going – as well as any guests. And there was only one way in and one way out.
Dr. Rancic Dubrovinko, Assistant Site Manager for Level Four Contamination Bunker Alpha made his way through the multiple airlocks and steel doors that allowed him to gain access to what everybody had christened the “Cryptoid Cell Cultures”. He was in full Level 4 Haz-Mat overalls, his head hooded and his oxygen supplied by a small tank he wore suspended from his belt. Everywhere he walked, he was video recorded, and his throat microphone was monitored by security personnel. So, when Dr. Dubrovinko arrived at the six, plate-glass enclosed and hermetically sealed culture incubators, his facial reaction was not only digitally record, but his voice was too. The word he used to express himself at that moment was unfortunate – and very unprofessional.
SHIT!!!
Dr. Dubrovinko smashed his hand down on the Red “Emergency” Claxon button nearby. As a deafening warning sound reverberated through the building, he yelled into his throat microphone:
“CALL DR. SONNERLUND IN ZURICH…IMMEDIATELY!!!!
Inside the cases were row after row of Cryptoid Cell Cultures – all undergoing tests involving various Bacteriophage concentrations, antibiotic resistance trials, cellular mitosis monitoring, mRNA and DNA microscopic analysis. And all of the little petri dishes and plates on which these tests had been meticulously prepared and positioned were covered with…black sludge. Everything was blanketed by a sickening greenish-gray haze. Dr. Dubrovinko had been involved in Level 4 research long enough to see that something was horribly wrong…
All the cultures were dead. And they were covered in black sludgy ash.
He rushed to the sealed sarcophagus – actually a modified Hyperbaric Chamber – where the remains of the Yakwahe was stored in all of its terrifying and macabre glory.
He stared through the glass observation panel of the Chamber to see the remains of the creature. His jaw dropped open.
There was nothing but ash.…..black sludge – in the approximate anthropomorphic outline of a human being with large appendage claws and talons. As if someone had taken a flamethrower and burned the thing into a charcoal briquet – reducing it completely to carbon. And there was that same, revolting greenish-gray vapor clinging to it.
He gasped into his throat microphone, “EVERYTHING IS GONE!”
Heinlein’s first order of business was to invite Sargeant Leeds to lunch. Nothing fancy – chicken parmesan sandwiches at Roncato’s Ristorante across the street from Warren Police Headquarters. He was still hungry – having spit out most of his Taylor Ham and Cheese sandwich while he was watching the CNN Report about OTRAG being destroyed and Doctor Beirling’s fatal “accident”.
She graciously accepted his invitation to lunch and while they were walking to Rocato’s told him, “Just call me Leeds…Everybody else does”.
They got a table and settled in.
“So…tell me about your assignment”. Heinlein jumped right in the deep water. He wasn’t interested in preliminaries or her life history.
Leeds stared at him from under her NJSP ballcap and smiled. Heinlein instinctively knew she’d been briefed about his…direct-approach cop style.
“Well, well…no Bullshit. What a surprise…” She responded with just a hint of sarcasm. Their chicken parm sandwiches arrived. She took a bite and slowly chewed, taking the moments to weigh her words. Heinlein saw immediately that she was being cagey. Finally, she swallowed her mouthful and started.
“I’m told you have an open mind – so I’ll be straight with you.
Down in the Bordentown Barracks I’m called Mother Leeds….
It’s not because I got kids – I don’t. I despise the little shits. I come from Shamong, New Jersey – in the Pine Barrens. I am an “XX” matriarchal chromosome descendant of a woman named Mary Leeds who, in 1735, gave birth to a freak of nature deep in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. The freak was her thirteenth child. She was a dirt poor, starving and exhausted Piney. The Father? Nobody knew who the father was.
The birth was hard – and she was attended by a Midwife. Mother Leeds is said to have screamed for thirteen hours straight. She was delusional from her birth agonies. When the baby finally emerged from her loins, her last scream was: “This one be the Devil himself!” Legends say that the newborn had a tail and was covered in scales, horned and winged. That it shook off Mother Leed’s blood and birth slime and launched itself up the cabin’s chimney – but not before ripping the Midwife’s windpipe out with its large claws. It escaped and has been the stuff of myth and mystery ever since.
I was born with a vestigial tail. The doctors promptly removed it. I wear a cap because I have hard bone masses on each side of my upper scalp that sometime look odd when the wind blows my hair sideways or when I’m mussed up from my motorcycle helmet. When I paint my fingernails and toenails, I’m not making a fashion statement; I’m obscuring them. The Freak was Mother Leeds’ thirteenth child. She screamed for thirteen hours when birthing it. I am the thirteenth offspring in the Leeds family tree. I am the last surviving source of Leeds DNA.
So – if you got any information about some Cryptoid beast that is hanging out in Warren, New Jersey, you ain’t gonna’ find a more receptive ear than mine….”
Heinlein was stunned. Sargeant Leeds was dead serious.
“Are you messin’ with me?” He asked, definitely not smiling.
Before Leeds could respond, Heinlein’s cell phone blared out its AC/DC “Highway to Hell” ringtone.
He respectfully gestured with his hand to Leeds – “give me a minute” – and answered.
Speaking of monsters – it was the Bitch herself: Ilse. His erstwhile bride-to-be who supposedly sacrificed her sacred virginity to Odin… Surprise, Surprise. And, as usual, her voice was all business. Clipped and cold.
“Hello, Heine…..heard you’re a cop again. How nice. I need another test subject. The one we caught is no more. You know Warren. You know where to hunt them. And how to kill them. You’ll be well paid. What do you say?”
Heinlein kept his voice calm.
“I say, go screw yourself, Psycho.”
He pocketed his phone and looked back at Leeds.
“Now…where were we? Ahh, yes…. the Jersey Devil”.“
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