Nothing Major by: Bridgette
The major frowned, staring at his watch. General Halftrack was turning what should have been a minor policy change into a huge deal. "As I was saying," pontificated the good general, "seeing that all of America's enemies have been defeated and now pester us only for money, none of these 'special weapons' projects shall be funded by the army. We can't cut certain projects due to political pressure, but your is certainly available. So, your pet, project GC-161, will be the first to go, so I suggest that you prepare to dispose of those samples you had created."
"But general, you've slashed our budget...how are we to-"
"Now, now, Major. You'll find a way, I am sure...you always do. You only have some fifty gallons of the stuff, I know. Besides," and here the general shared a knowing look, "if the project was secret, who'll complain if we don't obey every little rule in the book?"
Well, few people get too far in the army by virtue of obeying every rule that society sees fit, and Major Fullbright was not one of those few. He did know, however, that even fewer get ahead by butting heads with their commanders, especially those like the General;so, with a scowl on his face, the good Major placed a phone call. "Clancy--"
* * *
Clancy smiled, staring at his watch. "Uh-huh...disposal...GC-161...got it chief." Clancy hung up the phone, miles away from where his commanding officer was grimacing at being called "chief." The would-be corporal was more interested in the double-overtime he'd get for dangerous after-hours work, free of all the regulations this man's army loved to drown its subjects in. You see, Clancy was one of those men who cause others to wonder just who they bribed, (or who they knew) to get where they are today. He and his buddy Vern, a man of like temperament handled most of their menial tasks in a good-natured manner, cheerfully oblivious to the environment around them. It may be that they really believed, as did all the local esidents, that their workplace was a simple cookie factory, nestled in the heart of a nondescript suburb.
* * *
Troy sighed, staring at his watch. It was one-thirty, half and hour until closing time, and no "meat" was forthcoming. Having been told around the water cooler that the "Spiral Staircase" was the new place to meet babes, Troy had spent three night in a row here, watching what few babes who dared enter this pool of testosterone swept away by neckless grunts who likely couldn't spell "gym," though they lived half their life there. On top of that, he had spilled some microbrew on his new Armani tie, and that would be a pain to clean out. At 27, Troy still considered himself young and eligible, but as every day passed, he seemed to be getting less eligible.
So Troy fished for his keys, first in the left pocket of his chinos, then the right, to save himself the indignity of being a "sleeper sweeper," preferring to end the night now than convince himself that the evening's leftovers were anything but undesirable. Accordingly, our hero marched outside to the edge of the parking lot, by now empty save for the cars of the hardest-luck cases inside.
* * *
Clancy and Vern were hard-luck cases themselves in all aspects of life, but shielded themselves from most of the world by a screen of stupidity. Thus, while they hauled out the tubs marked "dangerous" and "caution," out of the squat metal building proclaiming itself as the home of "Uncle Sam's Cookies," the conversation was not centered on precautions in transporting hazardous waste, but rather the Jets-Dolphins game next Sunday. "No, no, no, Vern -- Parcells has taken them as far as they're gonna go, I'm telling ya-damn but this stuff is heavy." Clancy and Vern continued to chat as they did their dirty work;and by the end of the evening the debate over the Jets' secondary almost came to blows. Though their disagreement didn't come to open fighting, it did keep them from noticing a slight spill from one of the drums... That ran down a hill... Under the fence... And collecting in a puddle, such as what one would see under a leaky car on a hot day, in a parking lot.
* * *
"Crap."
"Crap," he said again, kicking his 1983 Chevy Impala. "Damn thing's leaking again. Can't even tell what it is...not motor oil..." Remembering what he saw on a car show broadcast one Sunday afternoon, Troy bent down, and wiped his finger in the liquid. First he smelled, then hesitantly tasted the liquid. "Shit, I don't even know what I'm looking for, but nothing from my car could taste that good."
* * *
The phone by Major Fullbright's bed rang. The clock said 1:20 am. The general obviously didn't care. "Major, did you ensure that all that GC-161 was destroyed?"
"Yes general." Stifling a yawn, the major entertained himself with fantasies of another Tailhook scandal, this time in the army, bringing down all the higher officers.
"You didn't let those clowns Clancy and Vern do it, did you? I mean, my cousin's a great guy, but he shouldn't really be handling waste materials you know."
"Umm, no. Of course not." He'd gladly have testified against the General.
"You realize the disaster we could be risking were it to get out to the public."
"General, the victim has to consume the liquid--" Squealed like a pig.
"I know, you fool! I approved the project! But YOU should know that if anybody ever did consume it, and the media found out about this accident, my ass would be in a shredder, and damned if yours wouldn't be next!"
"Yes, general."
* * *
"Damn car! First it's leaking, and now it won't start." Troy's night was pretty bad, and not getting better. Looking in an empty wallet, Troy saw his expired AAA membership...no help there. Troy swung his legs out the door of the Impala, and landed squarely on his knees. "I am pitiful! Three beers and I'm already nauseous...and seeing things!" Shadowed from the streetlight, in an otherwise empty parking lot, Troy's skin was beginning to glow. It was unnoticeable to anyone but a rather alarmed Troy, but it was indeed bestowing a slight aura of light green upon the night.
* * *
3:30 am. "Major Fullbright"
"Major, you got me right worried. Here is what I want you to do. Go down to the lab, and make sure those containers were disposed of properly."
* * *
The dead car no longer held Troy's interest, as his skin seemed very much alive...and the same fluid that Troy had consumed now covered his skin with a slight viscosity, a slight sheen on the surface. Troy swore he'd never try one of Uncle Sam's cookies, if this goo was what came out of their factory. The gloss wasn't particularly notable, but Troy soon found it too slippery to really have any hope of remaining upright, and so contented himself with laying on the pavement, horrified at his glistening skin. When the lights of the parking lot where shut down, he barely noticed. The dead car was hardly worth his attention.
* * *
"General, are you sure that..."
"Yes, son, I am sure. Now go" The general hang up.
Just my damn luck.I work for a guy who doesn't sleep.
* * *
The nausea increased, as did the glow. By now, he couldn't really make out his own skin, blinded by whatever phosphorous substance had taken its place. Closing his eyes to the glow, warped of energy, with a belly full of beer and a bloodstream full of biotoxins, Troy slipped off to sleep. Scant hours later, a passing police car woke Troy out of his troubled slumber. At first annoyed at the piercing siren, Troy's disgust gave way to delight. His nausea had all but passed, and lo, his skin had started to lighten. And, oh happiness, he found himself able to gain a little purchase on the ground around him, more or lessÉthe oily slick that was on the outer layer of his skin had subsided, but still seemed soft to the touch, and smoother than he remembered. Nonetheless, Troy felt ready to bring himself to a sitting position. He pulled himself up by the door handle--
"What the hell?" Something, two somethings, were sitting on his chest. Troy grasped his hands to his chest. And screamed.
* * *
"Vern!"
Vern's chair tipped dangerously low to the floor. "Wha'? Shaddup, Clancy, I'm trying to sleep."
"No I heard something like an angry guy...or girl...or something."
"Uh-huh. Bet it was just an alley cat...you could use some sleep too, Clancy."
"I'm going out to see what it is -- you coming?" Clancy stood up, grabbed a flashlight, looked at the gun. It would come in handy, if only he'd ever bothered to learn how to use it.
"Good night, Clancy."
* * *
Actually, it was more of a scream than a shout. And a short one at that, as Troy cut short his anguish, shocked at the high pitched caterwaul now coming from his enlarged chest. Groping in the faint glow of distant lights, Troy pulled himself up against the car to do a more thorough survey. His skin was no longer green, but no longer hairy. After a surprising titillation after his hand ran over his breasts, Troy continued south, only to find...nothing. Well, something a lot smaller than the former occupant of the space between his legs. But not unfamiliar. Though Troy gave a shudder of pleasure, his feeling was one of dismay. From the vague shape in the mirror, he seemed to have the same general dimensions...only things were changed now. His nose was shorter, cheeks seemed higher. Troy had apparently picked up a pretty hot babe after all. And that warm feeling from between his legs...worth another try? His hand snuck down his pants...
"Are you all right lady?" Troy froze at the sight of a sweaty, somewhat rotund man jouncing down the hillside toward the fence. "I said are you all right?"
* * *
A flash of red hair as she whipped around. "Yes, sir. My car is just broken down here...do you have a phone with you?" "Sure, up here in the secret mili-- I mean, cookie factory. The only entrance is around the fence, unless you sneak under this hole." Clancy held up a bent section of the chain link, about two feet off the ground. Military violations didn't extend to hot babes like this, he knew.
"Oh, all right." Troy dropped to his hands and knees, much to Clancy's amusement. She crawled through, unaware of the show Clancy was currently enjoying, and stood up, brushing her clothes off. "Now where is that phone?"
"Right this way, ma'am."
* * *
"On your feet soldier!"
If the major was going to have to be awake for this godawful task, then all be damned if he was going to be the only one.
"Wha, yes, yes sir."
"Corporal, what's your name soldier?"
"Vern, sir"
"I mean your last name"
"Umm...Gaffney." "Corporal Ummgaffney, did you dispose of those biotoxins as I ordered?"
"What biotoxins?"
"The drums...the metal drums, damn it!"
"Oh, the spoiled milk...sure, no problem sir...right over there."
"So help me God, if your friend's cousin wasn't the General, I'd..." Words ceased as the door opened and Troy walked in.
"...I'd, um, I'd be pleased to help you in any way I can, young lady," swallowed the major.
"Oh, I just need to use the phone, thank you." Troy walked over to the phone, picked up the headpiece, and placed it against his head,and dropped to the floor, shuddering.
****
"Mr. Forrest. Mr. Forrest? Are you awake?" Hazy ghosts interrupted Troy's dreams of lazy nights by an unidentified river with an unidentified woman, or maybe man...? A sharp poke, and Troy's eyes shot open. Barely a foot away, Troy saw the visage of some twisted cross between Sgt. Schulz from Hogan's Heroes and Santa Claus...the face of General Halftrack. Troy moved to push himself upright, but he didn't really move. His arms stayed...somewhere above his head and his legs remained spread out. Experimenting a little, soft but unyielding bonds told him he'd be in this position for awhile. Lifting his head slightly, Troy could see he'd been loosely covered in a sheet, his clothes removed. "What is going on here?"
General Halftrack pursed his lips. "Well, I must first apologize on my own behalf..."
"What happened?"
"...and that of Major Fullbright and Colonels Gaffney and Horowitz..."
"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?"
"...and of course, the army and government of the United States of America." Happy to have fulfilled the formula, Halftrack paused, and began anew. "You see...umm...my friend, you've sadly come across one of the legacies of the Cold War. A great deal of money was spent developing exotic weaponry in case a war ever happened, and you've, uh seen your tax dollars in action." A slight laugh. "This particular compound, GC-161, was inspired by an Israeli Mossad trick. They killed a PLO terrorist by activating a bomb planted in his phone at the push of a button. Well, we thought, wouldn't it be great if we could do that to a whole nation? Poison their system so the right tone played over their airwaves would kill them all off?" "We were well into the development of this compound when the world changed. The end of the Cold War hurt our funding. And these side effects, i.e., radical changes to the body, up to and including the elimination of all male physical characteristics is rare cases effectively killed it...some nonsense about the Genevieve convention..."
One of the soldiers framing the door started "The Geneva Convention, sir."
"Whatever...so we decided to bury this little project in the backyard, as it were, then you came along. Your ID, and genetic tests labeled you as a male, so we can be fairly certain you ingested some leaked GC-161..."
"Are you going to kill me, sir?" Troy whispered.
"Kill you? After what we did to you? Oh no, sweetheart, you deserve better than that. So do we, actually In fact, the government has taken care of all your problems...you'll have no want for money or comfort."
Troy smiled...he had indeed hit the jackpot. "So when can you let me go?"
"Oh, not for awhile. See, it would just hurt so many people were they to find out about what happened, important people. So we're going to have to see to it that you didn't go about blabbing your story. And while we're at it, we've prepared a little program to help you adjust to your new life. Gentlemen?"
The gentlemen (so named because they wore uniforms and were no ordinary thugs), wheeled forward a large screen, and set up two speakers on either side of Troy's head. One pierced Troy's hand, inserting an i. v.
"That fluid should keep you conscious and nourished for the next week...as well as do some other things. Good luck, missy, we'll be back in a few days."
The general strode out the door, ignoring the screams behind him. That week was a lost memory in Trina's head. Not that there was that much in there, she mused. Vague recollections of a half-conscious state, a booming voice, and repeated images of make-up and teddy bears and all those other things...but for the life of her, she couldn't quite place it.
* * *
"Trina? Take a dictation?" Trina snapped out of her reverie and stood up. The four-inch black heels never gave her a problem since she had came out of that...dream. Her tight black skirt revealed quite a bit of leg (and I know they like it), and Trina's white blouse opened quite a bit, due to a mysteriously lost button that kept her from keeping it decently closed. Each of her blouses seemed to be missing that button. Snapping a bubble, Trina minced over to the Major's desk.
"Of course, major. I promise I won't mess it up this time."
"It's quite all right, Trina, your many skills make you invaluable around here...I'll never know why I was assigned to an all-male military outpost." Red lipstick today...hmm... "...Anyway, this letter is addressed to General Halftrack, H-A-L-F-T-R-A-C-K. 'General, my sincere thanks in bringing to me the result of your latest project..."
Trina scribbled the letter on the pad, taking little notice of what the major was actually saying. More disturbing was a run she had noticed on her pantyhose, running down the back of the leg. This was her last pair, and no more were likely to be found on this isolated outpost. If only she could arrange some deal ...
* * *
"Trina, dear, why are you frowning so?"
-FIN-
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