Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad

by Bryan Hall

  “Silly words, silly words, silly awful hurting words ...”

  Gil skipped ahead to a favorite part: the end.

  “And when it came to his turn, what could he say, what could he offer on a day like this, to make the trip a little easier? To everything there is a season. Yes. A time to break down, and a time to build up. Yes. A time to keep silence, and a time to speak. Yes, all that. But what else. What else? Something, something ...”

  A man standing next to a white Mercedes with a lit TÁXI roof ornament hailed him down the moment he stepped out of the Lisbon terminal.

  “Americano, americano! Senhor, you need taxi?”

  Did he look that American?

  “Que hotel?”

  “Which hotel?” He checked his cellphone. “Yes, it’s uh… here it is. Sofitel Lisbon Liberdade.”

  “Sofitel Lisbon, nice... cinco estrelas.” The driver held out his hands. “Dar!” Give!

  Give?

  The man shook his hands for the luggage, and Gil understood without needing the words, which didn’t do him much good when translated; he was having trouble keeping up. Cinco estralas, the man had said, meaning the hotel: five stars.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you,” Gil said, handing over his suitcases.

  Translation takes time, Nell’s voice haunted.

  “Obrigado.” Thank you.

  “Orbrigado.”

  The cabbie opened the trunk, tossed his luggage inside. Gil made his way into the backseat, where he was surprised to find a man already seated.

  “Ei.” Hey.

  Gil nodded. The man nodded. The doors closed, and that was that. Then something hot speared his leg in a way that made his muscles spasm and his jaw clamp.

  “Ser ainda,” the man said. Be still.

  He had buried the needle of a large syringe deep into Gil’s thigh as the taxi sped away. The barrel stuck from his leg like a knife hilt. Gil controlled his eyes, but the rest of his body paralyzed; not numb, because the liquid burned along his leg, up into his groin, and blossomed in his chest. The sensation crawled up his neck. He’d clenched his teeth at the initial agony and now his mouth was stuck shut, lips tight.

  Gil tried to scream at the reflection of the taxi driver, but the taxi driver smiled and repositioned the mirror so that Gil stared at himself.

  They were going to jack him, and there was nothing he could do.

  The man next to him felt Gil’s pocket and pulled out his handheld. He held it in front of Gil’s face to unlock it with the facial recognition security. Within seconds, he brought up Gil’s digital passport and banking information and scanned it into an antiquated touchscreen device.

  “We’re sorry to do this to you, Americano. You have made recent purchases, no? Tradução para a língua.” Language translation.

  Gil’s sealed mouth made untranslatable noises.

  “Our amigo entende Portuguese.”

  “Vamos, Abrahan,” said the driver. Let’s go.

  Abrahan didn’t translate to anything. It was his name.

  “Bad luck for you, meu amigo,” said the man next to him. He pressed the handheld to Gil’s face, close enough to make it blurry and unreadable.

  “Lamentamos muito, meu amigo,” the driver said. We are very sorry, my friend.

  “You found something you weren’t supposed to find. Dados sensíveis.” Sensitive data. “But your find is, how do you say ... inestimável?” Invaluable.

  Hidden code in the book?

  “Now in here,” Abrahan said, tapping Gil’s forehead. “We can leave no trace.”

  The phone display turned white and then it was gone, black, powerless, and Gil knew it had been wiped clean.

  “Fazer a conexão,” the driver said. Make the connection. “Vamos.” Let’s go.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Abrahan said.

  “Apagá-lo.” Erase him.

  The most frightening phrase Gil had ever heard.

  Two words.

  No, no, no—

  Abrahan prepared a black box—an unethical device used by computer hackers long ago, the plain chassis hiding the complex interior, an interface on either side.

  He attached a cable to the D-SAI port on Gil’s wrist and connected the other end to the black box. The antiquated touchscreen connected to the other interface to decode the digital makeup of whatever he planned to wipe from Gil’s mind.

  How much could he see? What could he erase?

  And then the man told him.

  “Language translation app: português, language translation app: español, language translation app: le français, Deutsch, svenska, dansk ... You must like languages, meu amigo. Ah, flashbook: Fahrenheit 451. Bom livro?” Good book?

  The fireman.

  “Find it?” said the driver.

  “Sim.” Yeah.

  The man worked through the list of languages, swiping his finger across each program to erase them: “Dansk, ido.” Gone. “Svenska, ido. Deutsch, ido. Le français, ido. Español, ido.” His finger simply flicked them away. “Português,” he said and paused. “I take this one, you no longer entender ...”

  “Não se preocupe.” Don’t worry. “I will let you keep bom livro to have until you pass, but will scramble the rest. Entender scramble, como ovos?” Like eggs.

  They planned to erase Gil’s memory, not just the translation applications or past purchases, but everything about him.

  “Wrong place, wrong time, meu amigo. We have to destroy it all. You will not feel a thing, eu prometo.” I promise. “Português, ido,” he said, swiping his finger one last time, and it was gone. All of his learned languages were gone.

  A small part of Gil welcomed the loss.

  “Fazê-lo,” the driver said. No translation.

  “Não me apresse. Isto é difícil.”

  “Você já fez isso antes.”

  “Cem vezes.”

  Foreign words once again.

  The driver pulled the car into an empty alley. They gently carried Gil’s numb body and set him on the pavement. Immobile, he faced the sun as they poured flammables over his body and his belongings.

  Kerosene is nothing but perfume to me, Gil pulled from the book.

  Abrahan tapped on the device still connected to the port on Gil’s wrist, deleting, erasing, doing something ...

  “Lamentamos muito, meu amigo.”

  Soon it would—

  0100100100100000011011000110111101110110011001010010000001111001011011110111010100101100001000000100111001100101011011000110110000101110 ...

  —be gone, perhaps a virus shot through the mind to—

  “Sinto muito,” one of them said.

  Nell—

  0100100101100110001000000111001101101111011011010110010101101111011011100110010100100000011100110110111101101101011001010110100001101111011101110010000001100110011010010110111001100100011100110010000001110100011010000110100101110011001000000110110001101111011100110111010000100000011101000110100001101111011101010110011101101000011101000010000001100001011011010110100101100100001000000110000100100000011000100110100101101110011000010111001001111001001000000111011101101111011100100110110001100100001011000010000001101011011011100110111101110111001000000111010001101000011000010111010000100000010010010010000001101000011000010111011001100101001000000110000101101100011101110110000101111001011100110010000001101100011011110111011001100101011001000010000001111001011011110111010100101110 ...

  PART ONE

  The Hearth and the Salamander

  It was a pleasure to burn.

  It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his hands, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history ...

  Special thanks to Trine Einspor for writing and translating those beautiful Danish words; to Chris Prasad for offering an interesting conversation in Hindi; to G
ary A. Braunbeck, Mort Castle, Thomas F. Monteleone, F. Paul Wilson and Douglas E. Winter for their guidance with this story; and to Ray Bradbury for changing the world with words that will never be forgotten.

  THE WRITERS

  MICHAEL BAILEY

  Michael Bailey is the author of Palindrome Hannah, a nonlinear horror novel and finalist for the Independent Publisher Awards. His follow-up novel, Phoenix Rose, was listed for the National Best Book Awards for horror fiction, was a finalist for the International Book Awards, and received the Kirkus Star, awarded to books of remarkable merit. Scales and Petals, his short story and poetry collection, won the International Book Award for short fiction, as well as the USA Book News “Best Books” Award. Pellucid Lunacy, an anthology of psychological horror published under his Written Backwards label, won for anthologies for those same two awards. His short fiction and poetry can be found in anthologies and magazines around the world, including the US, UK, Australia, Sweden, and South Africa. He is working on his third novel, Psychotropic Dragon, a new short story and poetry collection, Inkblots and Blood Spots, and recently edited Chiral Mad, a multi-award nominated anthology of psychological horror to benefit Down syndrome charities, with stories by Jack Ketchum, Gary A. Braunbeck, Jeff Strand, Gene O’Neill, Gord Rollo, and many others. You can visit him online at www.nettirw.com.

  DAVID BENTON & W.D. GAGLIANI

  Outside of his writing, David Benton has worn many hats, finding employment as a warehouse worker, landscaper, printing press operator, cheese maker, brick layer, and janitor (long nights, impossible odds). He is also a musician. Current projects include a collaborative novel with Bram Stoker Award winning author John Everson and W.D. Gagliani, a mid-grade novel series and a young adult novel series (both with W.D. Gagliani, written under the pen name A.G. Kent) as well as playing bass guitar on tour with the heavy metal novelty act Beatallica.

  W.D. Gagliani is the author of the novels Savage Nights (Tarkus Press), Wolf’s Trap (Samhain Publishing), Wolf’s Gambit (47North), Wolf’s Bluff (47North), and Wolf’s Edge (Samhain), plus the upcoming Wolf’s Deal (novella) and Wolf’s Cut (Samhain, 2014). Wolf’s Trap was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award in 2004. He has published fiction and nonfiction in numerous anthologies and publications such as Masters of Unreality (Germany), Malpractice: An Anthology of Bedside Terror, Dark Passions: Hot Blood 13, and Dead Lines (all with co-writer David Benton), plus Robert Bloch’s Psychos, Wicked Karnival Halloween Horror, The Black Spiral: Twisted Tales of Terror, More Monsters From Memphis, The Midnighters Club, The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, BookPage, Chizine, Cemetery Dance, HorrorWorld, Hellnotes, Science Fiction Chronicle, The Scream Factory, and others. Some of his fiction is available in the collection Shadowplays (Tarkus Press) and various Benton & Gagliani collaborations are available in the collection Mysteries & Mayhem (Tarkus Press). With David Benton, he also writes middle-grade fiction as “A.G. Kent.” He is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), the International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the Authors Guild. Raised in Genova, Italy, as well as Kenosha, Wisconsin, W. D. Gagliani now lives and writes in Milwaukee.

  New publications for Benton & Gagliani include a reprint of their Hot Blood 13 story, “Mood Elevator,” upcoming in Old Nick (magazine), and W.D. Gagliani’s review column “Printer’s Devil,” also in Old Nick. Recent publications include a reprint of Gagliani’s “Until Hell Calls Our Names” in the anthology Undead Tales (Rymfire Books). Find W.D. Gagliani online at www.wdgagliani.com, or read their “Mysteries & Mayhem” blog at http://moodelevator.wordpress.com/

  DOUG BLAKESLEE

  Doug Blakeslee lives in Portland, OR and spends his time writing, cooking, gaming, and following the local hockey team. (Go Winterhawks!) His interest in books started early thanks to his mom and hasn’t stopped since. A heavy fan of sci-fi and fantasy, it came as a pleasant surprise that his first sale was the suspense short story “Madame” to the anthology Uncommon Assassins. He recently started a blog, The Simms Project at http://thesimmsproject.blogspot.com/, where he talks about writing and other related topics. He can be reached via the blog, Facebook, or e-mail at simms.doug@gmail.com.

  E.A. BLACK

  E. A. Black’s dark fantasy and horror fiction has been appeared in Kizuna: Fiction For Japan, Stupefying Stories, and Mirages: Tales From Authors Of The Macabre. She writes erotic fiction with the pen name Elizabeth Black. An accomplished essayist, her articles about sex, erotica, and relationships have appeared in Good Vibrations Magazine, Alternet, CarnalNation, the Ms. Magazine blog, Sexis Magazine, Clarion blog, Erotic Readers and Writers Association blog, On The Issues, Sexy Mama Magazine, and Circlet blog. She also writes sex toys reviews for several sex toys companies. Born and bred in Baltimore, she grew up under the influence of Edgar Allan Poe. She lives in Lovecraft country on the Massachusetts coast with her husband, son, and four delightful cats. She has never been under the knife. Visit her web site at http://eablack-writer.blogspot.com/. Friend her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/elizabethablack.

  CARSON BUCKINGHAM

  Carson Buckingham knew from childhood that she wanted to be a writer, and began, at age six, by writing books of her own, hand-drawing covers, and selling them to any family member who would pay (usually a gumball) for what she referred to as “classic literature.” When she ran out of relatives, she came to the conclusion that there was no real money to be made in self-publishing, so she studied writing and read voraciously for the next eighteen years, while simultaneously collecting enough rejection slips to re-paper her living room ... twice. When her landlord chucked her out for, in his words, “making the apartment into one hell of a downer,” she redoubled her efforts, and collected four times the rejection slips in half the time, single-handedly causing the first paper shortage in U.S. history. But she persevered, improved greatly over the years, and here we are.

  Carson Buckingham has been a professional proofreader, editor, newspaper reporter, copywriter, technical writer, and comedy writer. Besides writing, she loves to read, garden, and collect autographed photographs of comedians and authors she loves, as well as life masks of horror movie icons. She lives in Arizona, with her wonderful husband, in a house full of books, orchid plants, and pets. Check out her blog at carsonbuckingham.blogspot.com.

  KEALAN PATRICK BURKE

  Called “one of the most clever and original talents in contemporary horror” (Booklist), Kealan Patrick Burke is the Bram Stoker Award-Winning author of five novels (Master of the Moors, Currency of Souls, The Living, Kin, and Nemesis), nine novellas (including the Timmy Quinn series), over a hundred short stories, and six collections. He edited the acclaimed anthologies Taverns of the Dead, Quietly Now, Brimstone Turnpike, and Tales From the Gorezone. An Irish expatriate, he resides in Ohio. Visit him at www.kealanpatrickburke.com or find him on Facebook at facebook.com/kealan.burke.

  CHARLES COLYOTT

  Charles Colyott lives on a farm in the middle of nowhere (Southern Illinois) with his wife, daughters, cats, and a herd of llamas and alpacas. He is surrounded by so much cuteness it’s very difficult for him to develop any street cred as a dark and gritty horror writer. Nevertheless, he has appeared in Read by Dawn II, Dark Recesses Press, Withersin magazine, Terrible Beauty Fearful Symmetry, and Horror Library Volumes III, IV, and V. You can contact him on Facebook, and, unlike his llamas, he does not spit.

  BRYAN HALL

  Bryan Hall is a fiction writer living in a one hundred year old farmhouse deep in the mountains of North Carolina with his wife and three children. Growing up in the Appalachias, he’s soaked up decades of fact and fiction from the area, bits and pieces of which usually weave their way into his writing whether he realizes it at the time or not. Several of his stories can be found in print magazines, online e-zines, and in upcoming anthologies. The short story collection, Whispers From the Dark, includes fourteen of the best shorts he’s published to date. His first novel, Containment Room Seven, is now available from Permuted Press. In August 2012, the fir
st novella in his “Southern Hauntings Saga” was released by Angelic Knight Press and the series is now ongoing. You can visit him online at www.bryanhallfiction.com.

  RICK HUDSON

  Rick Hudson was born in Derbyshire, England in 1966 and has lived in Manchester most of his life. He has been writing professionally since 1984 and his fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and collections as well as being broadcast by the BBC. He is the author of two novels: Dr Twelve (2010) and Shrapnel (2012). Whilst working in horror fiction, his literary ability and talent as a writer have been praised by the wider literary community: Punk Globe described his writing as “Nothing short of brilliant and inspiring” and invited its readers to “marvel at Hudson’s mastery of language and literary technique.” Academic writer Catherine Pattern (University of Winchester) claims that his fiction is marked by “remarkable writing skill, phenomenal ability to use language and the lyrical, striking and often beautiful style he employs.” Rick cites his influences as Martin Amis, William Faulkner, Ted Hughes, Thomas Ligotti, Monty Python, Alice Cooper, and HP Lovecraft. Rick is also an English Literature academic—specializing in the study of horror, sf and fantasy fiction—and lectures at a number of universities in the North West of England. He welcomes the opportunity of contributing work to US magazines and publishers, and very much invites visitors to his Facebook page—although he does warn you that this can be “anarchic at best.”

  SHAUN JEFFREY

  Shaun Jeffrey is the author of five novels, including the The Kult, which was filmed by independent production company, Gharial Productions. He has also had numerous short stories published in publications such as Dark Discoveries and Cemetery Dance. Besides writing, he is a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and he has recently started participating in off-road races that incorporate obstacles and mud ... lots of mud. For more information, check out www.shaunjeffrey.com.