Lambert’s research, coupled with Gorton’s would unlock human immortality by proving pre-biotic self-replication. Gregory Emmanuel had just verified Jeremy England’s theories.
He went for the Glenlivet.
(“The Blue Danube” Sublime)
That evening when he went to Lambert’s lab, he again pushed the scan button on his XM receiver, hunting for a tune that would wipe out the awful “Rudolph” that ran through his centermost thoughts. Unable to find even the most rudimentary decent strain, his curses echoed within the car’s brocade interior.
As he stormed toward the concrete building that housed Lambert’s facility, he still muttered curses as the tune played on an unending loop. He realized that, at this point, it was hopeless: until and unless a stronger song played or his mind became absorbed by more attention-grabbing information, he was lost to the clutches of the reindeer song.
After passing through Lambert’s laborious security procedures, Emmanuel let himself into the lab. There, he went to the device they had constructed together, a console roughly the size of two household freezers. It was capable of converting the energy Gorton had tapped into earlier that day. The data Emmanuel had sent earlier, coupled with the swath of material Gorton collected, would allow Emmanuel to prove his real, secret theory, the one he had wanted to prove all along, the one that he kept from all the others: that life was immortal, that death could be prevented when dissipation-driven adaptation self-organization was employed.
In Lambert’s lab, he went straight to the worktable to examine the device Lambert had fabricated. A compact generator connected to a laptop, it would project the field that killed Osman into the room without the horrid results that led to the tech’s tragic end. Emmanuel had no intention of duplicating that. He switched the device on as he allowed a smile to cross his lips. This will change everything, he thought.
So thinking, he turned on the amplifying device that would change his life seventy seconds later. The field would give him immortality. Using the dark force and reducing its essence into such a field, Emmanuel had unlocked the mechanism that causes death. He had broken through the barrier that makes all living things die.
A pathetic shamble of his former self, Gregory Emmanuel now looked in the mirror to witness what he had become. The skin across his body had peeled from the muscle; in some cases from the bone itself as the tissue had rotted away leaving portions of bone poking through to the surface at his elbow, hip, and cheek. His scalp, too, had decayed to the point that only wisps of his fine head of good brown hair remained, the rest gone.
The skin that did remain had coarsened and had become brittle like the parchment of the Dead Sea Scrolls, its color as dark and chestnut as those ancient treasures. The orbits of his eye sockets had grown more pronounced as the skin around them had receded, making his eyes look as though nothing held them in his skull, the whole of their structure visible from nearly the optic nerve to the pupil. Blinking had become a remote memory. The bones of his fingers, especially the ends, protruded through the nails and tips so that, in their stead, white points of calcium extended out of his hands.
Walking awkwardly and robotically, his gait had taken the aspect of a cartoon stick figure whose ability to locomote suffered from the lack of any fluidity in musculoskeletal motion. He looked as though every step he took would cause him to collapse in a pile of cascading bones and limbs.
And he stank. The smell that rose from him made even him nauseous, the foul, fetid odor of decomp laid on and around him as the stench of a carcass lying in the sun for days, the putridity of his body an all-consuming rank. What was left of his face had become a visage of horror straight out of a SFX artist’s portfolio, the bone showing and his lips having rotted to reveal teeth behind what was once his winning smile, the mark of a successful and famous American entrepreneur.
He knew now that his calculations were wrong, that his research had not, in fact, unlocked the mechanism that caused death. He had merely lengthened the time death took to come about, to take over the essence of the living. He had become a living corpse, a man whose death lingered in its execution.
Karma, he thought, karma had its way with everyone. It was something he should have recognized during his youth in Camden County.
As he sat dying, as he thought his last thought in the pain of ultimate decomposition, Jose Feliciano’s “Feliz Navidad” sprang into his mind.
MANTIS
By Kourtnea Hogan
The pink carpet was sickly and stained from years of god-only-knew-what kind of liquids. Though luxury wasn’t exactly what people were paying for when they checked into Carpenter Motel. The dingy lighting and dark wallpaper made it seem like the set of a B horror movie and Jacob was shocked that the woman had agreed to come with him in the first place.
He’d bought her a drink and rubbed against her under the pulsating lights in the club, running his mouth along her neck. When he’d asked if she’d wanted to leave she’d merely moved towards the door, barely acknowledging that he was following her. When he’d asked if she had come with friends she had raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow and given him a half smile. When he’d asked her name, she shook her head and whispered in his ear, “It’s better if you don’t.”
He’d told her that he had come alone and she had smiled, looking at him from beneath long lashes.
The motel was out of the way and he’d worried that she had thought something was wrong as they drove down old country roads to reach it.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she had said with no trace of humor. Jacob hadn’t liked the way she answered, but he liked her, or the way she looked, enough that it didn’t matter.
“Is that so?” he’d asked as he bent over to gently bite her neck at a stoplight, trying to lighten the mood. She let his hands wander over her body and laughed, the vibrations tickling his lips.
She grabbed his face, her fingers wrapping tightly around his hair, and whispered in his ear, “You’re the one who should be scared. Green.” Then she bit his earlobe and released his face.
He was confused by the last word until there was a loud honk from behind him. Blushing, he slammed down on the gas, the car jerking forward.
She opened the door before the car had even stopped, wheels still crunching gravel.
“I’ve been here before; I’ll get us a room.” He watched her walk to the office, admiring the long spiral of blonde hair that bounced down her back, hips swaying slowly as though she knew he was watching.
Once he could no longer see her he ripped open the glove compartment, throwing papers on the passenger side seat in search of a condom. He’d heard somewhere that you shouldn’t keep them in your wallet, and the idea of the woman being here enough times to be able to get a room so easily both excited and frightened him.
He turned to see her standing beneath the vacancy sign, red light caressing her pale skin. She held up a finger, key ring dangling from the tip. He shoved the papers back into the glove box and met her halfway.
She must have noticed the apprehensive look on his face, and lightly slid her delicate fingers down his torso and to his beltline to reassure him. She smiled and bit her bottom lip and his excitement overrode his fear.
She led him to the last room on the first floor, shooting coy looks over her shoulder to make sure that he was still following. And he was. How could he not? He ran a hand across her ass, the nearly white hair tickling the top of his hand. He reached his hand forward, pressing himself against her as he followed her hip bone down between her legs. She stiffened as she put the key in the hole and his hand quickly rose to her stomach.
“Eager?” she asked as she turned the knob. He blushed and released her entirely, his mind occupied with semi-serious thoughts of just going back to his car and more serious thoughts of punishing her for embarrassing him.
But the door had opened and she had disappeared inside, not bothering to turn on the lights, and he’d come too far not to follow. He turned on the lights, taking i
n the unappealing layout with the very appealing woman lying on the bed in the middle of the room. It was shaped like a heart and he bit his lip so he wouldn’t laugh, his hands shaking slightly as he took off his jacket.
She sat up suddenly, fingers reaching around his belt, pulling him closer to her. He laughed nervously at the unexpected touch and nearly tripped. She offered a half smile, only one dimple this time, and began to unbutton his pants.
“I, uh . . . do you have a condom?”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said, hands still working on his belt.
“Are you sure?” Thoughts of her with other men in this same situation flooded his mind.
“The things you are worried about are things you don’t have to worry about with me,” she said, her tone calm, but her voice thick and insatiable. Still, he pulled back slightly. “Don’t you want me?” she asked, big blue eyes blinking at him.
He pushed her back onto the bed, hands gripping her hips roughly. “Take off your clothes,” he growled in her ear, all nervous energy morphing into confidence. He kissed and bit her neck. He became nearly intoxicated with the sweet floral smell that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t notice sooner. It made his need for her deeper, no matter how cold she acted, and he reached his hand under the tight material of her deep purple dress.
She returned his kisses, her tongue reaching deep into his mouth, before she sat up and pushed him back. “Undress me.”
He shoved his pants down and ripped off his shirt, throwing it across the room before kneeling on the bed beside her. She turned around slowly, moving her hair to the side, back perfectly erect. He struggled with the zipper and she rubbed his thigh lightly.
“No rush.”
He blushed again, having vacant thoughts about choking her, as he carefully pulled the zipper down the rest of the way, revealing a beautiful pale back. He pushed it off her arms, kissing her shoulders before she pulled away. She lay on her back, hips slightly elevated. He struggled slightly to pull it down as it clung to her hips and thighs. He threw the dress on the floor and ran his fingers across her naked torso and legs, wondering if he’d ever felt such warm skin before.
He climbed on top of her, the floral smell nearly suffocating him, forcing its way into his mouth and nose. He buried his face into her hand, pulling it free from its ponytail. She groaned and moved below him, hands pushing on his shoulder, pushing him down.
“Slowly. Use your hands,” she whispered, voice husky. He didn’t need to be told twice, finally warming to her cold demeanor and demanding tone. He kissed down her stomach and legs, letting his hands run the opposite way.
She tensed at his touch and closed her eyes, head rolling back into the pillows. He took it as a good sign and continued, letting his free hand run up her stomach and to her breasts, leaning his body into hers. The smell was even thicker now, but it was so pleasantly mixed with her noises and it made him feel lightheaded in the best way.
Her noises were getting higher and he pushed in deeper, hoping that he could soon be inside of her when he heard a thick popping noise. He ignored it, assuming that he’d popped her legs or back and refused to embarrass her by drawing attention to it as she had done to him.
She gasped and threw her head back and he put his hand on her stomach, applying extra pressure. The smell was so strong now that he was sure he would pass out, but he couldn’t stop, even as he realized that he wasn’t hard anymore and that his hand was soaked. He looked down and saw a small pool of blood forming below her.
“Oh,” he said dazedly, hands working without him. “Are you okay?” he asked, thinking about stopping but unable to do so.
Her noises got higher, inhuman, and the popping noises flooded the room. He willed his hand to lift from her stomach and she slammed it back down, his hands leaving a red mark on her pale skin. Or was it from him? He watched the red spread across her torso, a deep purple line running straight down her middle. He followed the line up her throat, his eyes struggling to focus.
He thought he saw her bottom lip begin to split as the noises grew sharper, blood dripping lazily from the sides of her mouth, falling into her hair. He thought about pulling away and making sure she was okay but he felt himself falling into her instead.
He looked down to see his hand going deeper into her as her body began to split in two. He wanted to gasp and pull back, wanted to ask her what drugs she had given him but the smell was making him weak, invading his senses and destroying his willpower.
He watched the hand that had rested on her stomach disappear inside her with a sickening wet noise. He groaned, watching her body convulse beneath him, unable to tell where she ended and he began. He sank lower into her, coming closer to the slit in her middle.
He tried to pull back but her hands rose to his head, fingers running lovingly through his hair. She pulled him closer to her, grotesque face rising to meet his, wetting his lips with blood.
He felt an immense pressure on his arms and looked down to see the wound closing like a sinister mouth, teeth made from jagged bits of bone serrating his skin. He pulled back as hard as he could, barely rocking backward. His hands snapped off at the wrist, bloody spraying across her, soaking her and the bed.
He fell forward, wanting to cry out, unable to understand why he couldn’t feel the pain. She pulled him into her, spreading her legs and running her fingers along his spine. He could barely feel his skin against hers, could barely feel her body reopening. But he could feel it and he tried to push himself up, bone digging into the bed. Her arms and legs wrapped around him tighter and the smell got stronger, canceling out the copper smell of blood.
A wet sound issued from her mouth as spit and blood hit his face. Distorted cooing noises as she focused his eyes on hers, running her hands lovingly through his hair. He could feel the heinous mouth of her body open wide around his and she seemed to laugh as she lowered his face to hers, their bodies melding.
CICADA
By Carl R. Jennings
First of all, I want you to know that I’m not crazy. I need you to believe me or this entire conversation will be pointless. There was a time that, were I in your position, I would believe that the person sitting across from me was, just by that statement alone. But I say this now in perfect confidence of my own sanity.
Scratch, scratch.
For several months now I have been hoping to come upon a person who would believe me. The story of how I came to be in this position, and begging a complete stranger to listen to me, is a horrifying prospect but, thankfully, it will not take long. I won’t steal any more of your time than is necessary.
I suppose I want to talk about it so badly because, if I have just one person believing me, then maybe I can believe myself. I was no different than you once, not this filthy, scarred creature that you see sitting before you: finely dressed, well-kept, college educated, with a comfortable job, and all the world working in my favor. I believed, in my arrogance, that I could live like that forever, perhaps get married and have children, start a family. The normal things that a person with a mundane life wishes for. Mundanity is often used as a negative term when describing someone’s life, but it isn’t until things are truly strange and so unusual that the mundane becomes a blessing to be hoped for.
I was rudely awakened from my dream life when I had my car accident which, I suppose, is the proper beginning of this tale. It was one of those in which nobody was to blame but nature and my own haste.
It was late and the roads were wet from the rain that was falling. It wasn’t even as if it was a bad storm, just a light summer shower. I was on my phone which, I know, was a stupid thing to do; the advertisements about the dangers of texting and driving are hardly impossible to miss.
What happened next was so fast that it’s blurry even to the scrutiny of memory. An animal of some kind, a four-legged bastard of a beast, darted out onto the road. There it stood, frozen with fear, staring at bright, on-rushing death. By the time I had noticed it, it was far too late for m
e to stop, even if the roads had been bone dry. Inevitably, I hit it.
The car slid off the road and, I was told, rolled several times before hitting a tree. The only thing I knew after the terrible sound of crumpling metal and crunching plastic was waking up in a hospital bed to the beeping and whirring of machines—there wasn’t even time enough for me to feel pain which, in retrospect, I’m grateful for.
There was not a part of me that seemed to be left undamaged. I tried to lift the bed sheet to look at my body, to see myself, but I couldn’t move my arm. When I tried, a grinding, sharp pain prevented me. I glanced over blearily and saw that it was in traction. As my vision solidified I saw that not only my arm, but both my legs were elevated by the complicated system of bright white straps and pulleys. My head felt as if there was a weight pressing down upon it and, when I tried to move it, I found that my neck was in a brace, forcing me to keep still.
That moment, not the crash, represented the pinnacle of pain and misfortune for me in my life; no other hardship that I had endured—bad grades, the loss of a grandparent, disappointment at my favorite football team’s score—came close. Little did I know that my vocabulary of pain would, very shortly, expand in ways that I could scarcely have understood at the time.
Scratch, scratch.
A blue surgical scrub-wearing nurse came through the little privacy curtain that sectioned off my half of the room. It wasn’t long before she noticed that I had regained consciousness. I asked the classic question, the obvious one that people in these moments always seem to ask first.
“How long have I been out?” I said.
“Just a little more than a week,” she replied. Her tone was reassuringly dismissive, as if a week without consciousness was something that happened all the time and was nothing to get excited about. As practiced and professional as she was, it didn’t work on me.
Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology Page 20
