The Oddities

By J.S. Frankel

Number Eight, a teen trained to be a warrior, escapes from a shadowy place known only as the Facility. He has no memory of his past and only wishes to discover who he is and where he is going. Enhanced with exceptional strength, speed, and aural ability, he stumbles upon a small circus sideshow act that calls itself the Oddities.

 

And oddities they are. Small-Tall can change his height. Feet can hurl knives with unerring accuracy with only his toes, Lips uses the power of wind, and Grace can generate the heat of a small sun. Yet, they hide their true powers for fear that the government will deem them a threat.

 

Number Eight adopts the name Nick Andimer as a cover. Afraid that the members of the Facility will come after him, he needs a place to hide, and the Oddities accept him as their resident strongman. They travel from place to place, living an itinerant lifestyle, all the while pursued by those who don't have their best interests at heart.

 

Soon, the members of the Facility catch up with them, and Nick must fight for his future as well as for the only friends he's ever had.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Dec 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781487433215

Book preview

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, and my sons, Kai and Ray—thank you for making each day special. Also great thanks to, in no particular order, Joanne Van Leerdam, Eva Pasco, Julia Blake, Sara Lennertz, Harlowe Rose, Mirren Hogan, Rose Montague, Tracey Quintin, and too many more people to name. And to my sister, Nancy Frankel, who has never given up on me.

Chapter One: Escape

July tenth. Night. The Facility. Present Day.

The knock came at the door quite unexpectedly. At night in the Facility, the rule was lights out after ten and no talking or visiting. That rule had never been broken, as far as Eight knew.

Since he’d expected solitude, the sound surprised him. He’d been sitting on the edge of his cot, thinking about the day’s events. Another knock, louder this time, came along with a hoarse whisper. Hey, Eight, it’s me, Number Four. Open up.

Eight heard the sound but didn’t move, as his mind was replaying that morning’s training scenario. He’d erred, although he couldn’t understand how. Perhaps it had been over-eagerness or impulsiveness—perhaps.

The Facility didn’t encourage anyone to second-guess themselves. The instructors always admonished, nay, ordered, their trainees to fulfill their mission.

It didn’t matter if said mission consisted of sparring against another trainee, completing the last rep of a set, or running to the bathroom. Maximum effort had to be given at all times.

And Number Eight had always given maximum effort. He’d received top marks ever since he could remember. Admittedly, when he stopped to reflect on his past, he couldn’t recall much.

In fact, to his astonishment, he couldn’t recall if this complex had another name. Everyone called this place the Facility—facility with a capital F. He’d never heard of another name being used.

He called this place home—the vast, snakelike underground where he ran laps every morning with his fellow trainees. The warehouse-sized training area was where he lifted weights or sparred, and the tiny cafeteria was where he ate a mystery meal of something that passed for meat along with vegetables that were limp and tasteless.

And this room, a spartan affair, thirty-by-thirty feet square—that was all he knew as well. A simple box with no window, stale air hissed through numerous vents in the ceiling.

The cot upon which he slept, a small dresser where he kept his clothes, and a mini television were his creature comforts, along with a calendar that marked the passage of days.

A combo toilet-shower lay at the rear of the room. The water was always cold. Nothing else that indicated luxury was in the room. Eight never thought of asking for anything more.

Every morning, an alarm that sounded like a monkey chattering in anger went off promptly at six. Eight woke up breathing fast and feeling weak, but he chalked that up to lack of nutrition and the strict regimen he followed. The Facility liked to keep its trainees’ reflexes, strength, and fighting skills ho ed to a fine edge.

Before and after training, though, came eating, and that, while necessary, was something he never looked forward to. His instructors said eating was a pleasurable experience.

His personal experience was that it wasn’t. For him, outside of the mystery meals, another source of food consisted of sickly yellow tubes containing a thick paste that congealed in his gut and took a long time to digest.

Only that morning, his training had consisted of facing off against the Crippler—a nasty, multi-armed robotic device eight feet in height and four feet in width that mimicked the fastest moves of any martial artist around. In the words of his leader—X—Beat this if you can. You can’t.

X oversaw him and all the other trainees. No one had ever met the man save the instructors, but Eight knew him through his smell, a distinct odor of peppermint and a fruity smell, as though he’d bathed in something overly sweet. The smell manifested itself when he came to observe the training.

As for the Crippler, no one had ever defeated it. It frustrated Eight. He’d beaten every other trainee in hand-to-hand matches. He’d scored perfect on every weapon’s test.

However, against the machine, he felt like an amateur. Its arms moved in a continual blur. It seemed to anticipate his every move. That morning, he’d ducked and dodged and blocked and parried, and he’d still lost. The device had pinned him in less than a minute.

Enough for now, Number Eight, X had said from a control booth above the combat area. Swathed in shadow, it blended in with the general dimness of the rest of the complex.

You did well, but this machine is the ultimate offensive weapon. It reacts to its opponent’s moves faster than anything around. Whenever someone makes a move, it responds. No one can beat it.

Eight thought about it. Does it have a weak point?

X hiccupped, one of the rare times he showed any kind of surprise. Odd that you should ask me that. Yes, it does. It’s off now. Check it out.

Eight patted the machine here and there and found a slight opening where its left leg joined the lower part of its torso. He pointed at it. Here?

Well done, Eight. Yes, that’s the access panel where the neural processor is. The back of the head was too easy a target. Congratulations. Now, rest up.

Eight went back to his room, beaten and bruised, yet pleased that he’d learned something. As he sat on his cot, he thought about his name. He had none.

Instead, he had a number, so X had proclaimed. You are all equal. Numbers promote equality. Get used to it.

Eight had gotten used to a lot—the training, the food, and the cuts and bruises. Fortunately, he healed exceptionally fast. His battle against the Crippler had taken place at exactly eleven AM. It was now thirteen hours later.

A small mirror lay above the sink in the shower room. He examined the spots where he’d been slashed. The cuts he’d received had bled profusely. Now, they’d vanished. The pain had also disappeared hours ago.

In terms of features, he didn’t look much different from the other trainees, save his hair color, which was dirty-blond. Everyone else’s hair was black.

With an angular face, green eyes, and a long, aquiline nose, he sported the physique of an Olympic decathlon athlete, six-two and one-ninety, lean and muscular.

Eight let his mind wander, and, in a moment of revelation, he desired to visit the outside world, get at least one glimpse of it, and see the beaches and shops and...

Hey, are you listening? Open up!

More banging occurred, and Eight snapped back to reality. A visitor waited. I’m coming, he said and opened the door.

Four stood in the aperture. Hurry, he whispered. We have to leave. Now. There isn’t much time.

His voice, quiet, yet with a sense of urgency, startled Eight. Confused and unable to comprehend the command, he asked, Leave? Where... where are we going?

Weren’t you listening? We’re leaving. Come with me.

Now, the voice turned harsh and insistent, and it jarred Eight out of his semi-stupor. Four had spoken about leaving a few times in the past, but now?

Eight poked his head out the door and then looked at what he was wearing. I’ve only got on shorts and a t-shirt.

Then put your pants on. It’s summer. You won’t freeze.

Although the room was dimly lit, light from the hallway provided enough illumination for Eight to see his visitor clearly. Four possessed the same type of physique that Eight did. Even though he was clad in a dull gray bodysuit, a sense of power seemed to emanate from him.

Power aside, a startling contrast lay in the age gap between them. The lines on his face and graying hair suggested a middle-aged man, not a teenager.

Maybe Eight’s expression gave something away, as Four said, Yes, I’ve gotten older. Be grateful that you’ve been spared.

Yes.

He didn’t know why his friend had aged, and then another question occurred to him. What’s your real name?

Now you want to know?

Yes.

From the time you arrived until now, you’ve never called me anything but Number Four, the man said as he took a wary glance behind him. You know that.

An urgent tone then entered his voice. X is aware of my moves. You have to hurry.

Are we going away?

Eight couldn’t contain his excitement. Although he was in his late teens, he sounded like a child taking his first visit to a toy store. We’re... we’re going together, aren’t we?

You don’t want to stay here, do you?

Desire overcame caution. No.

Then come on!

Eight hastily pulled on a pair of pants and training shoes and joined his friend in the escape. Their flight took them down the dimly lit hallway. It was the underbelly of the complex, and thick pipes that carried water and gas and waste seemed to make the narrow space they were in even narrower.

Four told him to turn left. He’d never gone this way before. A door blocked their way. Four took something from his pocket and put it on the lock. A hissing sound resulted. The lock then melted, and the door opened.

Go!

They ran, and the path slanted sharply upward. They were underground, another revelation. Speed counted, and Eight tore ahead.

Whoop-whoop! An emergency alarm went off, a loud, shrill sound, and it jangled his nerves. Turn left at the next junction, Four puffed out from behind him.

Whoop-whoop!

They ran, but Four’s breath became labored and extremely audible, almost a rattle. Wait, he called out. Wait!

Eight stopped just short of the sign that read Junction Sixteen. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Are you all right?

His ally shook his head. No, I’m not all right. I’m... I don’t have much time left. You have to leave.

You won’t leave, a voice said from around the corner.

A moment later, a figure appeared—someone wearing a tight bodysuit like Number Four’s outfit. The man was tall with long, lean muscles, and his face was covered by a mask. He held a long-bladed knife in his right hand. His left hand made a halting gesture. Return to your quarters.

Number Eight said nothing and froze. He’d never faced a situation like this before. He’d always done what his superiors said. Serve the Facility. Obey orders.

Four decided for him. Go to hell, he said to the masked man and lashed out with a kick to the man’s midsection.

The masked assassin took the full impact of the blow, but he didn’t back off. Instead, he swung his knife in a burst of speed too fast to follow and succeeded in slashing through Number Four’s abdomen.

Blood spurted out. Four cried out in pain and sank to one knee.

No, Number Eight shouted. No!

Yes, the assassin said with a marked tone of satisfaction. You’re next, Eight.

At that threat, something inside Eight snapped. He was no longer in training. The Facility was hunting him and his friend. Now, survival counted and nothing else.

No, he growled. I’m not. You are!

Once more, the attacker slashed with the knife. Eight ducked and then came up high enough to throw an open-handed strike that shattered his opponent’s elbow.

A howl of pain burst from the assassin’s lungs. He dropped his weapon and clutched at his wounded limb. Eight followed up his attack by grabbing his foe’s head with both hands and twisting it sharply to the right.

Another loud crack echoed throughout the area, and the assassin sagged to the ground, stone-cold dead. Eight stared at the dead man, and a feeling of regret came over him. A moment later, though, he rationalized his act as being one of self-preservation.

Whoop-whoop!

Eight kneeled beside his friend. Blood flowed freely from Four’s stomach. Clearly, he didn’t have much time left, and he tilted his head to one side. I hear footsteps—five people. They’re catching up. I’m done. You go ahead.

Eight froze, suddenly fearful of what was about to happen. You said that we could get out of here. You said.

The wounded man offered a tired, resigned smile. Listen to me. I’m not going to make it. You can. Once you get out—

We get out—

Don’t interrupt!

Number Four sucked in wind, patted his left pocket, and he reached in to pull out a small device the size of a smartphone. I managed to sneak out one day...stole this little gift from their armory. Blood trickled out of the corners of his mouth. Only one of us is getting out of here, and that’s you.

More footsteps—heavy, thudding sounds—joined those already in pursuit. Now there are eight of them, four like us, and four soldiers, Four said.

With a groan, he fell to the ground crawling to the wall to prop himself up against it. Blood spilled out of his wound. After a series of shallow breaths, he said wearily, That’s it for me. I’m getting sleepy. Get going. Promise me one thing.

What?

Eight wasn’t sure about anything. He’d never been outside the Facility, and he’d never known anyone who was friendly, save the dying man in front of him.

Promise me—Four’s breathing was practically a death rattle and his face ghostly white—promise me that you won’t show anyone who you are or what you can do. That’s the only way to survive.

Eight hesitated, and then he nodded. I promise.

Four pointed in the direction of another ramp that led upward, presumably to the surface. There’s the door.

He reached into his pocket and took out a small gel-pack. Put this on the lock and stand back. It’s acid. Wait five seconds, then get going, don’t stop, and don’t look back.

Reluctantly, Eight went. He slapped the gel-pack on the door. Immediately, the acid leaked through and melted the lock. The door swung open, and although he’d promised not to look back, he risked one final peek at his friend. Four had triggered the bomb.

Fifteen seconds, Four yelled. Go! Fourteen, thirteen... twelve...

At the exit point, Eight paused to inhale the fresh air. He’d emerged in an empty field of cropped grass. Light from overhead made him look up, and he saw stars.

Stars—it was his first time to see them. He knew what they were, but he’d never seen them for real. They were beautiful, but he had no time to admire them.

Desperation fueled his flight. The moon, round and full, a wonder of the universe, lit the way as he ran. The earth faded from under him at each quick step.

Three... two... one...

A dull whump sounded, and the world around him turned a stark white. Something—the explosion from the device Number Four held—released a mini-seismic event. It lifted Eight into the air and sent him tumbling head over heel.

With no control, he flailed his arms and legs in a vain effort to right himself. It didn’t work, as he landed in a cornfield half a mile from his initial starting point. With a groan, he tried to lift his head, failed, and the darkness sucked him in...

Chapter Two: Interlude

In unconsciousness came dreams. Orders, studying, reading training manuals on weapon usage, speaking with others—although that was rare—and, of course, training made up Number Eight’s day.

Once a week, a short and skinny middle-aged doctor with a liver-spotted hand and a cold, officious manner came to his room to administer a needle...

In your case, this is a vitamin supplement, he replied in an emotionless tone when asked about what the shot contained. All that training depletes your body of vital minerals. This gives it back.

The other trainees all got shots for something different. Number Two had a kidney ailment. Number Three had a problem with his liver. They rarely mentioned their difficulties, but Eight still wondered why otherwise healthy people had such different medical problems.

On the other hand, he never questioned what the doctor did. He got his jab, sat on his cot, and stared into space, not thinking of much outside of his training.

For him, time itself had no meaning. Days, weeks, or even years—calendar or not, they didn’t exist. His existence was defined by what he did daily and only that. Instructors followed his every move, recorded his matches against other members as well as against the Crippler, and they gave the necessary feedback.

As for the key question of how long he’d been here, no one ever satisfactorily answered that. Repeated questions as what day or month or year it was were ignored.

Freedom itself was a nebulous concept, as X had once explained. You are allowed to walk around the bottom floor and training area of this complex, and you are free to train whenever you want, but you are not allowed outside. This is your home. If you love your home, then you will not leave it.

He’d heard that storage rooms lay on other levels above and below his level, but he’d never seen them. You are never to enter them, the instructors said. Ever.

Large, cruel-faced, and slab-bodied men—they were always armed with taser devices and rifles, and their word was law. Rules were strictly enforced. Failure to comply meant torture while the other trainees watched. No exceptions were made.

Once, Number Nine had failed to train to his utmost, or so the instructors determined. They tased him unmercifully. Eight watched, and after the man had passed out, twitching and drooling uncontrollably, they’d hauled him away. No one ever saw him again.

The facility then assigned him a mentor, Number Four. Four was somewhat friendlier, as, unlike the others, he liked to talk, and he often questioned why they were there. In Eight’s room one day after training had finished, he whispered that something was wrong.

You mean, the training is wrong? Eight had asked.

No, I mean keeping us here is wrong. I know there’s a world outside. Why aren’t we allowed to see it? Why can’t we see what’s in those rooms upstairs? What are they hiding from us?

Eight kept silent. He’d seen the television shows, the exciting images of beaches, bodies of water, large cities with sky-high buildings, cars, people, and more. Don’t you want to leave? Four asked.

In a burst of independent thought, Eight replied in the affirmative. He wished to see what lay beyond these walls.

But he never questioned the reason why he was there. X had said that he and his fellow members were part of an elite, a special breed. You are beyond everyone else. You are the best of the best. That is why you are here.

No one ever got a definite answer. However, Number Four’s mind processes differed from everyone else’s, hence the escape, the sudden fight, and flight...

Eight’s thoughts shifted to his parents and the house they lived in surrounded by the white picket fence. Always the same images, the same warm sun, the same longing for those who bore him.

His father, tall and rangy, with blond hair, wore a permanently fixed smile. His mother, also tall but raven-haired, had the same smile, the smile of one waiting for someone they loved to come home.

Children had parents. He wanted to search for them, but there were rules, and the primary rule was that he couldn’t leave the Facility.

In a rare moment of bravery, he asked one of the instructors about his parents. I’ll inform X, the man had said.

A few minutes later, X came to see him in his room, mask in place. He always wore a mask. He’d once said that it was due to receiving a severe facial injury when he was younger. Eight figured it was all about vanity, so he never questioned why.

Number Eight, did you mention something about your parents to one of my instructors? X asked.

Eight bobbed his head in an obedient manner. Yes, sir. I know that we all have parents. I want to meet mine. Do they... do they ever call here?

X deigned not to take a seat, preferring to lean against the wall, and he spoke in a cool, offhand manner. "Number Eight, your parents thought you were special. They brought you here when you were small. We accepted you, trained