Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology

by C. P. Dunphey

  The thing that most surprised me at that moment was that they didn’t die at once, as their movements continued even after the huge flames had engulfed their arms and legs. In fact, they didn’t stop trying to move and walk until other men in suits came nearer and started cutting their burnt bodies in half using swords and other huge white weapons. They then continued to repeat this incredible process, over and over again. They didn’t stop until there were only little pieces on the ground out of what once had been two living soldiers, formerly fighting on opposing sides.

  I didn’t have enough time to look at the whole scene, as another powerful blast was heard not too far from where I lay, and a lot of heavy smoke started filling the area again—so I kept myself well hidden in my hole. When it was finally over, all the men in suits seemed to have disappeared and not a single part of those cut bodies was still visible on the terrain, just as if they had never truly been there. Only the blood on the snow revealed that something terrible had occurred in that place, but all the rest of the evidence had been already removed and there were no other signs of what I had seen, or of what I thought my eyes truly had witnessed that day. . . .

  For a long time, during the many terrible weeks of war that followed those unbelievable events, I wondered if what I had seen along the front was just a figment of my imagination, after all. Perhaps I had simply become mad in some way. . . . I also decided not to tell anyone for several years, until one morning, when I was in my 100s, finally I reported it to a journalist who was searching for fresh, strange material about the war—interesting though unusual stories from the few surviving veterans of WWI, for a TV documentary that was still in the planning stages.

  What I, a former infantryman of the 34th Régiment d'Infantrie, told him really amazed the reporter, but what surprised me was that I had finally found a way to reveal to somebody else what I had witnessed that day, without fearing that I would be considered a madman!

  Probably the knowledge that my life was almost over once and for all helped me to make that decision. But I myself, Claude, was well aware that the story appeared deeply incredulous to my own ears while I was telling it to the reporter—the tale that nobody else had ever heard before.

  Just a few days after the strange events occurred at the front, four generals of the Central Powers were lined-up along a wall and were staring in silence at the events that were happening in front of them. Past the wall was a long window that let them watch the lab on the other side, where two tall physicians were handling a weird emaciated man—or better, a pale moving corpse—tied with strong chains that didn’t allow him to move too far.

  The worried look on their faces showed that the minds of all the high-ranking individuals in there were troubled, and they had many doubts about what to say or what to think after seeing all that. The first physician, a slim blonde-haired Bulgarian of about 50 who led the medical team working in the lab, exited the main metallic door, and the tallest among the generals approached him. This was a middle-aged German with a traditional gold emblem on his typical field-gray uniform collar. He looked intensely at the doctor’s bearded face where two tired blue eyes stood. “Anything new?” were his plain words, expressed in a low tone.

  “No, sir” the other replied.

  “So, you don’t know yet what caused such a thing to happen . . .”

  “Well, we’re not entirely sure. Maybe it was simply that the gases we deployed during the battle weren’t mixed correctly. Or perhaps some substances were added afterwards and they all reacted together in a weird, unexpected way.”

  “But what are we dealing with, in reality?” intervened a second general, a highly decorated Austrian, with two dark eyes on a strangely pleated old face with a light beard.

  At that point, the blonde physician frowned. “Apparently, the victims appear to be creatures connected to some fabled, bizarre practices that are in use among the citizens of the Caribbean islands—at least according to common legends that local people there believe in. They call the men turned into such living carcasses—like the moving corpse we have tied down here in our lab— ‘zombie’, or something like that . . .”

  “So how can they be here, and not in the Caribbean?” the first German general asked the man of science.

  “And how can they be real, if we are just talking about legends?” the Austrian insisted, with two vivid, inquiring eyes that stood out from his exhausted features.

  “Well, there is someone back at Headquarters that also suggested it might have been caused by a form of sorcery at work on the battleground.”

  The other high-ranking commander stared at the physician in return with a hard look. ”But you don’t think that, of course . . .”

  “No, sir, of course not.”

  “So, what is it? Why did it happen?”

  “Apparently the poisonous gas our units used during the test had some very strange effects on victims on both sides. It was an unexpected result, undoubtedly. It was just luck for our troops that some members of our medical team were already wearing their protective suits and masks in case the artillery malfunctioned.

  “So, is this the only explanation you can give us about all that?”

  “Yes, sir, it doesn’t seem to have affected anyone else at the moment . . . but we’re still examining every variable that could have affected the subjects.”

  “Any other details . . .?”

  “Some of the human features of the few victims we retrieved and we were able to bring to our labs for confinement—according to further studies—seemed to be very different, at first glance, and the natural wear and tear made the face almost a dead giveaway. Their eyes were filled with a white substance, partly obscuring their pupils, even though it didn’t detract from their sense of sight. In addition, because they appeared to have lost all regenerative abilities, any damage to their face or skin remained permanent, along with any cut or bruise they suffered. Generally, those ‘zombies’ . . .” there was a pause as the bearded man of science pronounced that term and a heavy silence fell on the whole room “. . . in these situations looked like a slow, lumbering and unintelligent kind, but after a while . . .”

  “Yes? Go on, please . . .” insisted the third one, a bulky Turkish individual who looked older than 60, in a characteristic tunic with tri-pointed pockets whose Red General Staff officer's collar clearly indicated his rank.

  “A sort of hunger, for meat or fresh blood of other living creatures moving in the vicinity, especially of men and women, began tormenting them, becoming an obsession. That bizarre need completely seized their mind, or what was still left of it . . .” the physician added, being a bit embarrassed. “We’re still checking out how this thing progresses, and we have some other volunteers to test.”

  “What are you saying?” the first German general objected at once.

  “Stop it, immediately!” the fourth high-ranking individual ordered. “We can’t handle this thing. How do you plan to put an end to their existence after creating others like that one?”

  “As our medical team discovered at the time of the unexpected accident, the living carcasses can’t be killed or controlled, but their body can be cut into little pieces, so that the remains are not a danger to anyone, even though they keep moving awkwardly.”

  “But you can’t really reverse the process, once the gas reaches them . . .”

  “No, and we still don’t know why,” the physician admitted, lowering his eyes.

  “Did you find any way to kill them? Cutting their head and their arms off perhaps?” the Austrian commander asked.

  “Not yet, sir” the physician said. “Actually, it seems that there is a sort of neural connection that continues even after the death of the common life functions of the subject. Most organs appear to keep working even when you remove the heart—thanks to some unknown means . . .”

  “So, why would you do more testing on other people? Why? It’s not something we are looking for, this is not the weapon we need to win this war!” th
e third general asked the leader of the research team.

  “Headquarters ordered us to keep researching for a while, but they also told us to wait for your final evaluations and act according to what you decide, certainly.”

  “Any other important facts you need to give us, before we make our decision?”

  “Well, there is something else that is interesting,” the man of science said. “Reports indicated that some British soldiers affected by the poisonous substance started acting as one with our infected troops.”

  “What? Please, tell us what you mean, specifically,” the tallest general cried out.

  The physician nodded. “That’s true. The victims seemed to be cooperating, in some ways, just as if they were all parts of the body perhaps. And they hunted for human prey together, to find and eat . . .”

  “Some of our soldiers worked together with our enemies! During the war? This thing must not be repeated . . .” two generals stated together almost in a single voice.

  “What do think we should do now? We could just seal them up somewhere, and keep studying their reactions and behavior . . .”

  “No way! Just imagine if this outcome would spread across the battlefields. Just make them disappear, immediately!” the first general stated.

  “And no one must know anything about it,” another one added.

  “We will follow your orders, sirs!” the physician nodded.

  After that very delicate matter was decidedly resolved and put aside, the generals talked to each other for some time in rapid conversation. Then the German approached the physician and stared at him with an intense look on his face. “We thought you had something else to show us today . . . something that will help out our war!”

  The Bulgarian immediately understood. “Yes, of course, sir. I can show you the great results we got just recently thanks to another useful substance our technicians have been working on. Please, follow me . . .” and that being said, he pointed to a long tunnel leading to the west wing of the building they were in.

  After a short walk, the group arrived at another area of the structure and they stopped as the physician gestured to them. He then showed them another window along the wall, with a lone man on the other side, wearing only a long robe with a dejected look on his face. “There is this promising gas we are developing, which appears to be what we just need at present. The original substance is colorless, viscous liquid at room temperature. When used in other forms, such as warfare agents, it appears yellowish in color and has a strange odor resembling some rotting plants.”

  “So, please proceed . . .” the tallest general said.

  “Now, please, just look at it . . .” the physician said. As the man reached a button, he pressed it and immediately a yellowish substance started entering the small room, soon filling it almost entirely.

  As the first effects were noticed, the prisoner in the room tried to move to the door, that was locked of course, and then he started crying, beating against the window. It was obvious he was doing his best to break it or to create a way out, a safe escape to life. . . . But all his movements proved futile.

  While the group on the other side of the window, the safe side, watched the cruel scene, some terrible minutes went on. And on. . . .

  The skin of the human target of that gas blistered, his eyes became very sore and then he began to vomit. Such a weapon seemed to be able to cause internal and external bleeding and attacked the bronchial tubes, stripping off the mucous membrane. This proved to be extremely painful, as the poor man who tried to stand to his feet appeared to be constantly fighting for breath. His cries became strange whispers, saying that his mouth was closing against his will.

  When all was accomplished and the test ended with the death of the prisoner, there were some words of appreciation among the high-ranking men. And their features appeared much more relaxed and very glad now.

  “Better,” the Turkish general added, while a large sneer appeared on his furrowed face. “Really, that is much better . . .”

  The physician explained, “This is the most effective gas we have found so far. Our technicians are going to call it mustard-gas at last, in colloquial language . . .”

  “Finally, we are on the right track,” the German commander stated, happily impressed.

  “This is a sustainable weapon. And please, let’s have no more of those creatures who are half-living and half-dead at the same time!” the Austrian general smiled, satisfied.

  THE ALWAYS WATCHING EYE

  By Gary Power

  “Why do bad people make such good books, Uncle?”

  Edmund Frankes looked up from his writing desk at the far end of the grand library and considered his niece’s words.

  “Perhaps because the colourful way they lead their lives?” he suggested.

  “Hmmm,” she mused, “. . . maybe.”

  Lilith, perched on a wide ledge, gazed distantly through the leaded light windows down onto the sprawling landscaped garden below. A light mist, like a vaporous sea washed over the rambling lawn and lapped gently against the towering walls of Cedar Lodge. In her imagination, the gothic mansion was an island lost in an ocean of clouds drifting above a world of insufferable ignorance and moral corruption.

  She rested her palm on the hefty tome by her side. The sinewy cover was clammy and shivered beneath her warm flesh. A solitary eye stared back, weeping and bloodshot. The pages were cold and the print fading as though being drawn from the page. From a corner that had been bumped there oozed a fine trickle of blood.

  “It’s been too long; the books are ailing and the curator’s not at all happy. The reading room is such a sad place to be at the moment, and it smells in there too, like something’s died.”

  Lilith glanced anxiously towards the solid oak door of the anteroom to Edmund’s left. Somewhere beyond came the sound of restless movement followed by a resonant growl.

  “Have patience, Lilith. Matters are in hand; I believe we’ve found a perfect specimen. You’ll have your book soon, and then the curator will be happy again.”

  Lilith, now in her twenties but possessed of childish exuberance, turned her haunted face in his direction and stared through silvery eyes. She looked so fragile, like a porcelain doll. If she fell, Edmund feared she would shatter into a million pieces. Despite the chill air, she was dressed in a gown so sheer that it left little to the imagination. He was forever warning her that she’d catch her death roaming the draughty corridors if she didn’t wear clothing that was more substantial, and a little more appropriate. But Lilith was strong-willed and quite whimsical in her ways, just like her mother, an eccentric and free-spirited woman of French descent.

  “Deshabille . . . deshabille!” she would shriek, much to her Uncle’s bemusement.

  “What will the book be, uncle? Something savage and cruel perhaps? Do you have any idea yet? Surely you must.”

  The news brought life and colour to her sullen face and infused the gloomy room with incandescent light.

  “I think this time it will be an anthology, or portmanteau if you like. A collection of stories dredged from the depths of mortal despair. It will be our darkest work yet. I have a feeling the curator will be very happy with this one.”

  Evan Gore wasn’t well. His thoughts were muddled and his emotions numb. Cigarettes and alcohol did little to abate his declining health but at least they tempered his festering contempt for the world.

  He’d not been feeling himself ever since he’d moved into an allegedly haunted apartment, which was embarrassing, because Evan was also a notorious sceptic of the paranormal. His sneering attitude towards occult matters had been the cause of many a heated television debate. The tabloids thrived on his outspoken ways and cynical stance. His subsequent employment as an overpaid chat show host in which he ruthlessly mocked guests and their supernatural experiences made him an enviably rich man.

  He celebrated his success by purchasing an apartment from one of London’s most prestigious estate agents, Darkwood
Estates of Mayfair. The deal for 3 Dakota House was completed live on his TV show when he famously declared that no building is inherently evil. The apartment had gained historical notoriety when the previous owner, Barnaby Wright FRSC, an eminent surgeon, invited four of his students for an evening of light-hearted banter—and then drugged and slaughtered them.

  The scale of depravity exacted within those walls transcended the most extreme boundaries of human degradation, to the extent that there were even those who considered it to be the work of a deranged genius.

  Having forced entry into the apartment, four bodies were discovered, two males, two females, stripped naked and bizarrely posed at a table as though in the midst of a joyful dinner party. Their dismembered limbs and heads had been randomly sown back together into obscene ragdoll creations of the human form. Their eyes had been gouged and in each empty socket had been placed a single rose, alternately white and red.

  Barnaby Wright was found sitting upright in his bed, feasting on a platter of eyes. Calmly, he told the police that they’d been gently sautéed to preserve their texture and flavour, the liquid residue being deglazed to make a piquant sauce. “The roses were a personal touch,” he explained as they pulled him from the bed— “white as a representation of purity and red as a symbol of love.” And then, with teeth bared he bit on one of the glistening orbs, rupturing the eyeball and sending a spray of vitreous fluid into the face of a young police officer.

  He explained that his work, entitled “the art of anatomy,” was a celebration of the human form and that it signified unity and strength.