MJ-12: Inception

5

Calvin Hooks dumped bucket after bucket of lampblack into the vat of scalding rubber and chemicals in front of him, careful to avoid the giant metal paddles and blades continuously stirring the mixture. It was impossible to work with the powdery pigment, made from soot, without it getting all over his body, coloring his black skin even blacker and making his overalls look like they’d been hung in the chimney. He’d recently developed a nagging cough — a small miracle that he’d lasted six years at the factory without one — and had finally brought a bandana to work to tie around his nose and mouth, which he found was uncomfortable and cumbersome to work with, but at least his spit had turned a lighter shade. An hour into his shift, the red bandana was already as gray as the short curly hair upon Cal’s head.

Every single employee at the Firestone Tire factory in Memphis knew that lampblack duty was reserved for two types of workers: newcomers who didn’t know any better than to demand being transferred to a different station, and Negroes.

Cal always got the very worst jobs. And by far the worst companionship on the line.

“Hey, nigger!” called Rudy, whose job was to ensure the proper amount of raw, chemically produced rubber went into the vat. “That there’s a pretty bandana you got yourself there. Gonna go rob the corner store on your lunch break? Wouldn’t surprise me none.”

Cal had his back turned to everyone, but he heard the chuckles behind him. Third shift mixers — the workers who oversaw the “recipe” for proper tire treads — were not a kind bunch, God help them. Cal dreamed one day of making second shift but knew it was only a fantasy. The bosses came by the plant during first or second shift, and Cal had been told in no uncertain terms that they wouldn’t take kindly to seeing a Negro on the line. Even one on lampblack duty.

“I just insulted you!” the young man shouted. “Ain’t you gonna do something about it?”

Cal grimaced as he dumped another bucket of soot into the mixer, feeling waves of heat lash his face. Cal was a good six inches taller than Rudy and probably had fifty pounds on him. Years of hard labor — sharecropping since he was a boy, then the factory when the war broke out — had made him strong. There were times when Cal’s emotions got the better of him, and even though he was a good Christian, God-fearing man, he’d often imagined walking up to Rudy and laying him out. It would be quick and easy.

But just as fast, he’d be out of a job, beaten to a pulp by every white man in the building, and sent to jail. He thought of his wife, Sally, and his boy, Winston. Cal took extra shifts and overtime to save money so that Winston might one day go to school at Howard or Grambling. His grades were good. They just needed the money. So, Cal kept his head down, minded his own business, and went home after work every shift to remind his son he had to work twice as hard at everything he did, because for a black man, only twice as good would be just as good as a white man.

“I’m gonna pray for you,” Cal shouted back as he tossed aside the bucket and reached for another. “This Sunday, I’m gonna pray for you.”

He would, too. But Jesus knew full well that it wasn’t easy to spare Christian charity for these boys. Not easy at all. He would wrestle with it in his mind as he knelt, and he would have to ask for forgiveness, there in the church, for the evil thoughts of revenge that plagued him. Only then, with his soul laid bare, could Cal find it within himself to pray for men like Rudy.

“Awfully kind of you, boy,” Rudy shouted gleefully, his mop of blond hair lightly sprinkled with soot. “Just for that, I’m gonna add more rubber in here and see if we can’t get out of here early tonight!”

Cal looked up, alarmed, as he saw Rudy open up the feeder, clumps of raw rubber now flying into the vat. He was accustomed to the occasional prank — hiding the empty lampblack buckets or kicking over full ones and leaving them for Cal to clean up. But adding so much rubber into the vat so quickly was dangerous and mighty stupid, even for an ass like Rudy.

“What the hell you doing, boy?” Cal shouted angrily. “You’re gonna cause an overflow!”

Rudy stormed up to Cal, hands clenched at his sides. “What did you call me, nigger?”

“Damn it, look!” Cal shouted, pointing to the feeder. “If you don’t shut down the feeder and let me even this out, this whole floor’ll be covered in boiling rubber!”

By now, all of the workers in the vicinity of the lampblack vat had stopped working and turned to watch. “Ain’t my fault you can’t keep up, you lazy, stupid old shit,” he sneered, inches from Cal’s face.

Christian charity would have to wait.

Cal put a meaty hand on Rudy’s shoulder and shoved him aside easily — the boy was really a scarecrow under his overalls — and muscled past two of the others, rushing for the feeder. He shut it down just in time — the superheated chemical stew was just inches from the lip of the vat. And with that, the line alarms went off and the Firestone Tire line slowed to a halt.

“Did you see him lay a hand on me?” Rudy shouted at the white workers around them. “Did you see that nigger put his grimy paws on me like that?”

There were nods of assent and murmurings among the others, and Cal found himself hoping that with the line stopped, the foreman would show up fast to investigate. Even the furious harangue he was in for was far better than burning alive.

But the boss was nowhere in sight, and Rudy was headed for him quickly, five of his friends right on his tail, likely with a mind to do some harm. Cal adjusted his stance and took a breath — it wouldn’t be the first beating he’d dealt with on the line.

The beating never came, though.

His fist raised, Rudy charged toward Cal — and slipped. He turned and twisted, waving his arms like a windmill to keep upright, but there was nothing to grasp.

Except the edge of the vat. And even then, Rudy misjudged it. His boot caught a hose snaked across the ground and he lurched forward uncontrollably, his momentum unstoppable as he slammed into the side of the vat and over the lip, his right arm plunging into the rubber up to the elbow.

Rudy’s blood-curdling scream echoed off the walls of the vast factory. He yanked his arm back immediately but the damage had already been done: it was covered in a thick coating of black, superheated pitch, steaming on the outside — and cooking his arm beneath.

The second scream was even worse than the first.

“Oh, Lord! Oh, no! Oh, Lord!” Cal shouted as he lunged for Rudy and caught him as he staggered backward and fell, his arm still held out in front of his saucer-wide eyes. Drops of rubber fell onto Cal’s coverall, and the fabric sizzled as the thick liquid quickly ate through it.

“Get the first aid kit!” he yelled at the others, all standing around, staring in shock at what had transpired in the last few seconds. Jesus, but they were young and stupid. “GO GET HELP!” Cal finally bellowed.

They ran off.

“Now, you listen here, Rudy; you stay with me and you stay focused on me, all right?” Cal said, looking down. Rudy shuddered as he drew in deep breaths, sweat pouring down his face. “We’re gonna get you help, all right?”

Rudy turned to Cal, looking up at him, his face white as a ghost. “It hurts. Oh, God, it hurts so bad. My arm. Oh, God.”

The boy’s eyes started to glaze over, and Cal knew that wasn’t a good sign. “Come on, now, Rudy. Stay with me here. We’re going to get you help.”

Cal set the injured man down on the factory floor gently. The boss would be there soon and would be able to help Rudy more than he’d ever be able to. The only thing left to do was wait.

Cal put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and prayed.

“Dear God, please let this damn fool live,” Cal breathed. “I don’t care what he did; I don’t care what they gonna do to me here. Just don’t let him die. Please, God, don’t let him die.”

Cal closed his eyes… and something was suddenly different. He felt something rise up within his chest, a warmth pulsing in time with his heartbeat. It moved out into his arm, down into his hand… and finally into Rudy, the man who called Cal “stupid” and “lazy” and “nigger” over and over, night after night.

Cal grew dizzy and started to feel weak. He took his hand off the boy’s shoulder and tried to steady himself, but couldn’t find his balance anymore. He collapsed onto the factory floor next to Rudy as his world went dark as lampblack.

He was in a cell when he awoke.

Cal knew it before he even opened his eyes. The clanging metal, the shouts that echoed from off in the far distance… it was all too familiar. Once upon a time, he was a hotheaded kid who got in scrapes almost every day — this was his first time back in quite a while, but he knew he’d never forget that feeling.

Cal’s heart sank as he opened his eyes and slowly sat up, swinging his tired, aching legs to the floor, remembering everything that had happened. Those damn white boys probably blamed Cal for the accident. Maybe even said he pushed Rudy toward the vat. Hell, that mob probably claimed they stopped Cal before he threw Rudy into the vat altogether, or…

Why the hell were his legs aching so much? And his arms? Cal stretched and found his body tired… so damn tired. There had been a time the last year when Cal pulled extra shifts and worked for ten nights straight, then went to church that Sunday morning — and he still didn’t feel as tired then as he did now.

It didn’t matter now — Cal had much bigger problems. There were a few black lawyers in Memphis, but Cal knew he couldn’t get any of them to put in the time and effort for a case like this. Not that any jury would spare an honest word in court for a Negro, anyway. At best, he’d probably spend a few months in prison. He’d certainly already lost his job — when he got out, he’d have no choice but to put his head down and look for another one.

Cal ran a tired hand across his face and up over his head and… what the hell? He stopped over the top of his head and rubbed a bit.

That bald spot hadn’t been there when he’d woke up earlier that afternoon, before his shift. Maybe some of the rubber had splattered when Rudy pulled his arm out… but wouldn’t his scalp be burned? Didn’t feel like it; there was a smooth patch of skin where there was hair yesterday. Or was it yesterday? When did he collapse? What time was it now?

Dear Jesus, what the hell was going on?

By reflex, Cal looked about for a mirror or any kind of reflection, but there was nothing in his cell — just a decrepit sink and toilet in the corner. At least, he thought ruefully, he warranted his own private room. Also on the bright side, he was still wearing the clothes he wore to work under his overalls. No black and white stripes… yet.

An hour or two passed, more questions piling up in his head without any real answers, before a guard appeared at the door to his cell. The patch on the man’s uniform had the state of Tennessee on it, which only made Cal feel worse — it had to be serious if he was in a state prison. Maybe that damn fool Rudy up and died. So, why was he still in civilian clothes?

“Let’s go, Hooks,” the guard said. “You got visitors.”

Wordlessly, Cal stood — and Lord, it took effort just to walk! — and followed the guard out into the corridor. No other cells were occupied on the entire block, which seemed odd, and there was only a single guard, armed with just a billy club. Cal struggled to keep pace as he followed him down the empty corridor, marveling at the fatigue that dogged every step.

After what seemed like an eternity of walking that left Cal practically wheezing for breath, the guard opened up the door to a conference room and ushered him in. Waiting there were two men — one middle-aged and in a business suit, and, incongruously, another, much younger, with glasses and wearing a military uniform — both of whom were white, as Cal expected. The hat on the table had an anchor on it. The table they were seated at had a pitcher of water on it, some glasses, and a stack of folders with papers inside them.

“Mr. Hooks, please, have a seat,” the businessman said, with a smile that Cal wasn’t at all expecting. “How are you feeling? Can we get you anything?”

No white man had ever been this polite to him — of that Cal was certain. He didn’t know what to make of it, or how he should respond. “I feel… fine, I guess. Tired, matter of fact.” His eyes settled on the pitcher of water, and the two men across the table followed his gaze.

“Here you go, Mr. Hooks,” the Navy man said, pouring a glass and passing it across the table — another unheard-of kindness. “My name is Lieutenant Dan Wallace, and this is Dr. Detlev Bronk. I imagine you’re wondering what you’re doing here.”

Cal took the water with a soft “Thank you” and downed it all in one go. “Sorry, didn’t realize how thirsty I was. And yeah, I do have a few questions, if that’s all right. How’s that boy doing?”

Bronk smiled. “He’ll be just fine.”

Cal slumped in relief. “Thank Jesus. He lived. I guess he lost the arm?”

The two men traded a look before taking seats across from Cal. “Let’s step this back a bit, Mr. Hooks,” Bronk said. “When I say fine, I mean that Rudy is perfectly fine. His arm is fine. He’s probably getting ready for his next shift at the plant right now.”

It took several moments for Cal to get his head around that statement. Finally, he put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You mean to tell me… now, I saw what I saw. That boy had his arm in a vat of hot rubber up to the elbow. I smelled the meat cooking clean off his bones! Now, Lieutenant Wallace—”

“Please, call me Danny.”

“Okay… Danny. How the hell do you expect me to believe that he’s perfectly fine?”

Danny smiled. “You really don’t know, Mr. Hooks? Can you tell us the last thing you remember?”

Cal frowned and looked down at the tabletop to think. “I saw the boy pull his arm out and heard him scream. I rushed over to help him and caught him before he hit the floor. I told the others to go get help. And then… then I prayed over him. I got dizzy. And that’s it.”

“That was two days ago, Mr. Hooks,” Bronk said. “And it seems that your prayers were answered.”

Cal opened his mouth to argue but caught himself. Was it a miracle? Did Jesus hear his prayer? It seemed sacrilegious to cast doubt so quickly. But did miracles even happen anymore?

“And there’s something else, Mr. Hooks. You were taken to the hospital, not Rudolph Leary,” Danny said. “The company sent you to the state hospital, and once the doctors there found you were otherwise healthy, they brought you here at our request.”

“Actually, we requested you be kept comfortable, but the state of Tennessee has some curious thinking on that point,” Bronk added.

Cal’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “Hold on just one second, now, please. You said ‘otherwise healthy’? What do you mean by that?”

The two men traded another look. “I’m sorry… you’ve only been awake a little while, and I’ve just realized that prison cells don’t have mirrors.” Danny fished around in his briefcase and pulled out a small grooming kit, where he fished out a hand mirror. “Take a deep breath, Mr. Hooks, and stay calm,” he added, handing it over to Cal.

There was something deep down in Cal that already knew, somehow, what he’d see. There, before him, was a man easily fifteen years older, in his sixties, with a head of thinning white curly hair and a virtual maze of lines and furrows across his once-handsome face. His eyes were sunken a bit more in his head. His cheeks drooped.

“Lord have mercy, I’m an old man,” he whispered.

The lieutenant gently took his mirror back. “Well, technically, you’re only two days older, but yes, we believe your body’s aging has rapidly accelerated since Rudy Leary was healed. Now, theoretically, this is only a temporary side effect, but your Enhancement is a new one, and unfortunately, this will have to be a game of ‘wait and see.’ We asked the authorities to monitor you closely but… well, as we discussed, they’re less than cooperative and, frankly, more than a bit skeptical when we told them your real age.”

Cal snorted. “They don’t care about an old Negro.”

“Maybe not, but we most definitely do,” Bronk said. “I know this all must seem bizarre to you right now, but you’ve been the recipient of an extraordinary gift, and we’d like to work with you to figure out how to use it properly.”

There was another long pause as Cal digested this. “There are others like me,” he said finally. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t even know what to look for.”

Danny smiled. “That’s right, Mr. Hooks. You’ve undergone what we’re calling a Permutation, and you’re not the only one. The United States government is interested in helping you and the others we’ve found get a handle on it.”

Cal leaned back in his chair, exhaling, and ran a hand over his now-wrinkled face. “I got a wife and a son. I’m the man of the house. I got to work. I’m saving so my boy can go to college. I ain’t got time for this, frankly. Appreciate it, though, but family’s the most important thing. And I figure Firestone done let me go, so I gotta find another job now, too.”

“Mr. Hooks, we understand completely, and we sympathize,” Bronk said. “We spoke with your wife and son this morning to reassure them you were in good health and would be well taken care of. They’re worried sick, of course. I’ll be sure to let you telephone when we’re done here. But think for a moment: What happens if you can’t control this ability? What happens if another incident occurs? What if you grow even older? What if it kills you? Mr. Hooks, trust me when I say that accepting our offer is the best thing right now for you and your family.”

Danny nodded in agreement. “And if you accept, you’ll be a government employee with a fine salary, several times more than you made at Firestone. We can even have the checks sent directly to your house.”

Cal eyed the two men warily. “If I agree, I get the feeling I’m gonna have to leave Memphis, leave my family behind.”

Both men nodded somberly. “Studying these Enhancements takes resources we just don’t have in Memphis,” Bronk said. “You would, of course, be entitled to paid leave once you showed you could control your Enhancement to a more acceptable degree. But now, Mr. Hooks, you’re a danger to yourself… and to those around you.”

Cal thought about it some more, then slowly began to nod. Sure, he’d be gone, but hell… he worked all night and slept all day, anyway. And taking their offer would mean Winston would go to college like he wanted.

“I’m gonna make that telephone call, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to see all this in writing before I agree to it. That all right with you gentlemen?” Cal asked.

“Absolutely. Whatever you need,” Danny said. “We want to help you. You have a rare talent.”

Cal smiled a bit at that but shook his head humbly. “I don’t know. I just think Jesus heard me. About time, too.”