by Aaron Bunce
“Tell me I’m big. Tell me. Tell me…I’m the best. Oh my god, I’m going to…” The woman didn’t get a chance to speak as the good doctor hit his climax and abruptly started to shake, a strange, almost pig-like grunting filling the space.
Manis released his feet from the ceiling and bent his body towards the ground, his form stretching, flowing. He released his hands and dropped the last few feet without a sound.
“Ah, yes. That wasn’t so hard after all, now, was it?” Munson asked, still clearly winded. He tucked himself back inside his suit and pulled the zipper up. With a significant exhale, the doctor reached up and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Yeah, Doc. Not bad. See…now can I get ‘em?”
Manis rose to his full height, his form…no, his body changing in response to his hunger and anger. Fluid coursed out to his limbs, up his neck, surging beneath his mostly transparent skin. It was responding to him. He wanted Munson to see, to crumble just from the sight of him. To fear. To despair. Then see his end and be powerless to stop it.
“It wasn’t great, but yeah, I’d say it was worth one dose,” Munson said, holding out a single med patch and dropping it as the woman stretched to take it. She practically fell over in her haste to scoop it off the ground, fumbling awkwardly at the same time to pull up her white Planitex admin suit.
Manis struggled with a myriad of strange, detached emotions. She was admin, just like him. Shit, they’d probably sat in on the same meetings, filed the same digital requests. Perhaps even waited for coffee at the same machines. He didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t matter. And now, here she was, selling her body to a corrupt, wretch of a doctor, all for a single painkiller fix. The same wretch that stood over Manis when he was broken and suffering and laughed.
“One? You said a couple. Come on, doc. One ain’t gonna cut it. Like I told you, I’m hurting…” the woman begged.
Manis’ body shook and vibrated, the smooth, glassine skin on his arms and chest splitting apart. Those strange, moving shapes slithered out, not muscles but hooked and barbed tendrils, thrashing excitedly at the air between them.
“You smell. Maybe after a shower or two, it might be worth a couple.” I need to go scrub my balls or someone will smell your stink on me.”
“You asshole. None of you will let us use the showers. How are we supposed to get clean?” the woman complained, finally looking up from the floor. And then she saw him, not Doc Munson, but Manis, towering over them both, his strange and alien form glistening in the light, opening in all his splendor.
Her voice died in her throat, her glassy, bloodshot eyes going wide. She dropped her med patch and suit, tried to climb up and over the crates, but slipped and crashed to the ground.
“You’ll survive…tweaker,” Munson said and turned. He rocked forward a half-step and flinched back, his mouth popping open wordlessly.
Manis was there, just a few inches of icy air separating them, his reflection shining in the man’s large, round lenses. He saw what the doctor did, his elongated head, wide, black eyes, gaping mouth, and flicking, lashing tendrils. Manis was the man’s death, and he knew it.
“I…uh…uh,” Munson croaked and tried to turn and run. Manis reacted faster, his tendrils lashing out, their cruel, hooked barbs cutting through the man’s suit and into the meat beneath. They wrenched him around, his arms flapping and feet scraping ineffectually against the ground.
Doctor Munson gasped and tried to scream but Manis caught the lower half of his face and squeezed. His skin bunched up, his jaw and teeth crunching. Manis felt the hunger and anger swirl out through his arm and into his hand, the doctor’s eyes suddenly going wide with pain and terror. The air came alive with the stink of his fear, his pores puking oily hormones with abandon.
The hand released suddenly, caustic digestive juices dribbling from the holes in Manis’ skin. The lower half of Munson’s face drooped, his lips, skin, and tongue bubbling and breaking down. He sputtered and tried to speak, his flesh tearing and melting down over his mouth.
“Shit! What happened to your face, Doc?” Manis hissed, mimicking his own words.
Munson’s eyes flickered for a moment and then went wide with recognition. He tossed his head and fought to break free, but Manis pulled him forward slowly, deliberately, inch by horrible inch. He savored the man’s terror, the adrenaline pouring into his blood and spattering from his ruined face. His arm and shoulder slid into Manis’ embrace first, his strangled, frantic breathing issuing through a mangled mouth, his ability to form meaningful sounds now stripped away.
The man who’d just taken advantage of a strung-out woman, abused his power to molest her, was now stripped and powerless himself. Manis practically glowed as he pulled the doctor’s body inside, his face turning outward as his form clicked and moved, closing around him.
Manis’ body wiggled and bubbled inside, already working to break the still-living doctor’s body down. He tilted his head forward to find Munson’s face visible just beneath the surface of his transparent skin, his eyes wide and seeing, his lips gone and his mouth wide in a silent scream.
The woman sobbed pathetically, her feet and hands kicking ineffectually against the pile of crates around her. Manis approached slowly, her hands going up, fingers splayed and mouth moving, as if he were a thing so easily pushed away. He considered her for a single breath–sunken skin around what should have been beautiful, light brown eyes, dirty, matted blond hair, as well as the red-swollen skin on her arms and chest where med patches had been applied and then picked free.
She was broken down, her will shattered, any resolve and dignity stripped away like her clothing. He bent over her, his arms slowly moving towards the ground between her splayed legs. She shook her head and hyperventilated, moaning, pleading with formless, deconstructed words. Her eyes were locked on his body, where Munson floated, slowly dissolving like a fleshy Alka-Seltzer tablet.
“Collect…”
“Abolish their weakness…”
“Make them worthy…”
Manis picked up the med patch with a single finger and lifted it between them, her eyes twitching away from the doctor to his hand. Saliva covered her chin, frothy at the corners of her mouth, her body practically toxic with fear.
“Do not…” he said, his voice catching as the doctor thrashed in death throes inside him. “Do not fear me.”
She promptly kicked and clawed again, fighting to push again, but he caught her leg. She yelped from the contact, but Manis let go, showing his hand and the unblemished skin beneath.
“W-W-What…are you? W-W-What do you want with me?” Her body trembled so badly she could barely form the words.
The questions, however predictable, took Manis off guard, and they gave him a long moment of pause. He thought about his psychotic, crumbling days locked in his small quarters, Layla’s first appearance, and how very broken he had been. Yes, broken, spoiled, impulsive, and weak. Tied to a message he felt compelled to send, to people who had and never would waste a single moment of their lives thinking about nor caring for him.
Then Layla appeared. She’d broken him, torn him down. But for the better. Now he had clarity enough to see all his erroneous beliefs, convictions, and hang-ups. The frailties of his previous flesh. Now he had purpose. What am I? As he watched her twitch and shiver, he understood.
Stand! Manis pushed the word without sound, his mind swelling with the effort.
The woman’s eyes shook and locked onto his. She stopped shaking and her breath caught. Then she pushed off the ground and slowly stood.
Manis showed her another version of herself–one strong and clean, towering over the issues that subjugated her before. He showed her what Layla had in that strange fever dream, the promise of a strange, limitless world, and an alien being beyond any recognition or understanding. The idea of identity wrapped within purpose. A figure to make her and everyone like her stronger. New world, and new life.
He felt her latch onto it all, her dr
ug-addled brain wrapping around the promises, one broken from dirty, backroom sex for painkiller fixes, corporate ladders that didn’t lead anywhere, sickness, fatigue, and the crippling doubt of self-worthlessness all spiraling towards an inevitable death.
His gaze slid down to the stained name tape over her left breast. In response, the young woman reached up, and with steady fingers, tore it free.
“Who are you?” Manis asked, her breathing now slow and steady.
Her lips twitched and her tongue flicked, as if reacclimating with their design. Then she whispered, “Tal-Nurgal.”
The Good Lives
An unintelligible shout rang out, startling Jacoby from sleep. He rubbed his bleary eyes and listened. And as if on cue, it echoed again from somewhere nearby.
Wait, sleep? Had he been sleeping? He was standing, not laying down. But…he didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten there.
Jacoby rubbed his eyes again, a blinding light spilling over him and washing the darkness away. He shielded his eyes and cursed.
“Hey, what is the matter?” a woman asked as a hand pulled on his sleeve.
“I…” he muttered, blinking and looking down. The light was bright, painfully so, but shapes started to materialize. He was leaning against a metal handrail, and just beyond that he could just make out something jagged. Rocks?
They pulled on his sleeve again, and then he felt them let go. They were next to him, close. He caught sight of his feet. He was wearing shoes, and strange ones at that. They were leather, the toe a lighter shade than the sides.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Jacoby looked up, braving the bright light, just as Anna leaned in. It was his friend, her blond hair practically glowing in the bright sun. But where had the sun come from? And where were they?
“I, uh…” he said, glancing around.
Noise closed in from all around him then—the rush and sound of flowing water, voices talking and laughing, then birds chattering. His heart fluttered in his chest as his surroundings seemed to jump out around him. He saw handrails, walkways, crowds of people, and enclosures. A massive, white animal ambled over the rocky ground, then to the gathered crowd’s delight, jumped into the water, splashing it up and over the clear barrier.
“I’m in a zoo?” he said, finally able to make sense of it all.
“Yes, you dork. Did you just doze off? This was your idea. You wanted to spend the day here,” Anna said, playfully punching him in the arm.
Anna’s hair was braided and pinned up. It was a peculiar look, almost as strange as the fact that she was wearing a dress. A dress? It was a strange dress, too—a simple, straight cut garment made from light floral fabric. The realization struck him, and he saw the swarming crowds around them differently. They were all in strange clothes, the women in dresses, while the men wore suits, trousers, and hats.
Where was he? And how—his thoughts caught as his thumbs snagged in something on his chest. He looked down.
Suspenders?
“Come on, we’re going to miss the penguin show,” Anna said, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him forward, “You know they’re my favorite.”
They moved out through the crowd, a man in a funny hat shouting, “Peanuts! Get your hot, fresh, and super salty peanuts here!”
Anna pulled him around a corner, past a group of excited boys, just as a zoo worker tossed a large chunk of meat into a tiger’s cage. The boys screamed as the large cat leapt and swiped at the bars, then picked up the meat and slunk away.
They moved under an awning, into a tunnel, and around a corner. Anna pulled him up onto a small set of bleachers, between a woman and her son, his face covered in chocolate. The wall opposite was glass, teal-colored water trapped beyond.
Black and white penguins darted through the water, but streaked up and popped up onto the stone, converging as a pair of zoo workers pushed in through a door in the rear.
“Oh my god, they are so cute,” Anna gasped and hugged his arm, “Don’t they look like little people in tuxedos? I want one.”
“They do,” he agreed, laughing.
“Hey, thanks for today. You were right. It totally helped to get out of the house and be around other people. You really are my best friend,” Anna whispered, leaning in close.
“You are welcome,” Jacoby replied, unsure of what she was talking about.
“And yes, you were right. Mike wasn’t right for me. Yes, I’m admitting it. Finally. You heard me right. He was a jerk and I deserve better. Next time I will actually listen to you.”
“Good.”
“But what about you? Did you call on that little lady you were telling me about? The redhead?”
“I…”
“Hey, buddy. Hey, you…”
He turned, just as the man in the funny hat snapped his hand forward, launching a tied paper sack his way. Jacoby threw up his hands.
The warm bag hit him with surprising violence, the force slamming and toppling him backwards. He felt his body tumble, head revolving where his feet should be, and then he was on his feet again.
A car horn honked.
Children laughed.
A car drove by, somewhere below the window, its engine revving as it added to the city’s busy ambience. The city.
Jacoby shook his head and wiped his face, moving to push out of the chair, the recliner’s arms wide and soft beneath his hands. The chair was familiar somehow, and he explored it with his palms, silently letting the sensation roll around in his mind. But familiar how?
“Where am I? Where is Anna? What happened to the…?” he mumbled, his wave of confusion increasing. He’d just been standing in a zoo with Anna, hadn’t he?
“Is that you, Babe? Are you awake?” a woman called from somewhere behind him.
He clutched at the back of his head as a throbbing ache set in. Jacoby closed his eyes and rubbed at the spot, but it released as quickly as it set in.
“Hey, did you hear me?” the woman asked again, a squeaky metal contraption snapping shut in the next room.
Jacoby moved to stand, to answer, but struggled with the words. First it was what to say–how, what, and why? And then it was his tongue and throat. They were both clumsy and dry. Oddly, the faint smell of a penguin’s enclosure lingered in his nose.
Okay, what is going on?
He let his gaze crawl over the walls–the tope-colored wallpaper with subtle, light green fleur-de-lis patterns repeating every six to eight inches. A television stand sat straight ahead, a western movie playing quietly on a rounded Magnetron set. House plants filled the corner to the right, the largest, a tall, leafy plant reaching to within a foot of the ceiling. A dining room table and chairs sat in the next room. A sideboard occupied the furthest wall, a lonely cactus balancing out the bar set, mixer, and crystal decanter seated opposite.
His toes bunched up in something soft, and he tipped forward. A soft throw rug sat beneath him, the attractive lines of well-crafted hardwood floor extending from beneath. He was wearing pleated trousers and a light button-up shirt. Clean. Ironed. Expensive fabric. And leather wingtip shoes.
Jacoby struggled to piece it all together, a flood of memories toppling in to fill the gaps. It was an apartment, and it felt oh so familiar, but how? It looked, smelled, and felt right–a warming sense of comfort only attached to being home.
A home.
His home.
A gentle breeze blew in through the open window. The airy curtains rippled happily as the wind flowed over him. He drew in a breath through his nose, catching the telltale scent of freshly mown grass, along with something else. It took him a moment, but recognition finally dawned.
Blueberry pie.
Quiet music was playing from somewhere deeper in the small apartment, a clarinet opening several bars before more brass joined in. It was big band, or swing, specifically. He started to tap his foot in time, even beginning to hum the melody. He knew it, the style, the song, even the band. How?
“Tommy Dorsey and his
orchestra,” he whispered, only momentarily breaking from his humming. More memories toppled into place, accompanied by that strange phantom ache in the back of his head. It thrummed into the middle. It was the telltale beginning of a headache, and a doozy, from what he could tell.
“Baby?” someone said, a shadow appearing from the dining room to his right. “Look at you. Were you awake this whole time?”
“I…” Jacoby stammered, taking her in. She was tall, with long legs, and strikingly green eyes. She wore a blue day dress, black heels, and a black and white checkered apron tied around the waist. Her hair was what caught and held his gaze, however, as she’d pulled the shoulder-length copper locks back with a white scarf. It was the color, the carefully curated style, the soft, bouncy curls. But why?
“You what, sleepy head? Are you just going to doze the whole day away? I made your favorite. Do you suppose that will be worth getting up for?” she asked, walking over to the chair. Her heels tapped against the hardwood floor, the deep, almost hollow thunk eliciting strong feelings from somewhere deep in his past.
“Blueberry pie,” he said, before she could finish. The words just came out, dislodged from somewhere in his brain. The smell, the name of the thing, just felt right. His mouth started to water.
“You know, I was at the corner market, the one down by Seventy-Fourth and Columbus, and saw they had those big, plump fresh blueberries and I figured I just had to get some. It’ll be fall before you know it and the canned ones just aren’t the same. I figured if I was going to the trouble of making you pie, I’d put on a pot roast and fresh rolls, too. It’s piping hot and fresh out of the oven. Why don’t you go put on some dinner music and come sit down for something to eat?”
She bent over, puckering her glossy, ruby lips, and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead before popping back up and sweeping into the dining room. Jacoby cleared his throat, a rush of warmth sweeping over his face. Her kiss, the contact, jarred loose a briar trap in his brain. Her name was Alexandria, and she was his wife. This was their apartment, in the Apthorp building on Broadway, the upper east side in New York. The details of his life fluttered back into position, like nearly silent butterflies settling into place in his mind.
