by Tim Waggoner
The many doctors and specialists he’d seen over the years had prescribed a variety of remedies for the Itch: topical lotions to stretch and loosen the scar tissue, hypoallergenic lotions, anti-itch creams like hydrocortisone, and analgesic creams such as lidocaine. None of them worked except lidocaine, and even that only managed to take the edge off the Itch. There was only one treatment he’d ever found that provided relief, and he’d used up the last of it a couple days before. He’d tried contacting his supplier, but so far the man hadn’t responded to any of his voicemails or texts. If he didn’t get in touch soon, Peter didn’t know what he was going to—
His desk phone rang, and the sound made him jump. He snatched the receiver off the hook and answered the call, speaking through gritted teeth.
“Damn it, Allison! I told you I didn’t want—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Martinez. I know you asked me not to disturb you, but Mr. Dippel is here, and I thought—”
“Send him in.” He hung up without saying goodbye.
He didn’t like being brusque with his office assistant, but he couldn’t help it. When the Itch was upon him like this, it took everything he had not to scream. He remembered one of his doctors telling him that while he was certain the itching was real, it couldn’t possibly be as intense as Peter reported.
I’m confident there’s a somatic component at work here, the doctor had said.
Peter wasn’t an MD, but he was a biochemist, and he’d known damn well what the doctor had really meant. Psychosomatic. Unlike most people, Peter knew that psychosomatic sensations were real, but they were caused by mental processes rather than disease or injury. The simplest example was the stomach pain some people experienced before a stressful event, such as an important exam or presentation at work. The pain was real, the physical processes that caused it were real, but it was triggered by stress. Peter’s understanding of what the doctor had said didn’t mean he agreed with it, though.
There’s a strong correlation between people who experience somatic pain and those who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. The fire you survived...
Peter shoved the memory away.
With every fiber of his being, all the way down to the subatomic level, he was certain that the Itch was solely the result of the terrible injuries he’d suffered as a child, and not related to his emotional state in any way, shape, or form.
Normally he would have gone into the outer office to greet Dippel, but he feared that if he took his hands off the chair’s armrests, he’d start digging his fingernails into his skin and wouldn’t be able to stop. So he sat and gripped his chair even tighter and waited. A moment later there was a soft knock at the door. Peter tried to say, Come in, but the words came out as a pained grunting. They were enough to get the message across, though. The door opened and Conrad entered.
“Hello, Peter. As always, it’s good to see you. Please, don’t get up. I can see that you’re... concentrating.” Conrad gave him a thin smile as he took a seat in the chair in front of Peter’s desk.
Peter was struck anew by the strength of Conrad’s presence. Whenever the man was in the room, everything seemed to gravitate toward him. People’s attention, for one thing. It was hard as hell to take your eyes off him. It took an effort even to blink. But it was more than that. The air flowed toward him, leaving the rest of the room hot and stuffy, and he drew in light as well, illuminating himself more brightly while deepening the shadows everywhere else. It was as if he exerted his own manner of gravitational pull, one that was somehow more psychic in nature than physical. It was a ridiculous idea, Peter knew—he was a scientist, for God’s sake!—but it was one he couldn’t shake.
As always, Conrad wore a suit and tie, making him look more like a business owner than Peter. If it was possible, the man appeared even more cadaverous than the last time Peter had seen him, and not for the first time he wondered if Conrad was battling some sort of disease, cancer maybe. But despite his appearance, the man always seemed to be alert and filled with energy. After nearly thirty years of having people look at his own burn scars first before noticing there was a human being attached to them—if indeed they ever noticed—Peter certainly knew better than to judge by appearances. One thing he liked about Conrad, in fact, was that the man never seemed bothered by his scars. It wasn’t that he was able to put aside his disgust, which was what most people who considered themselves enlightened did. Conrad was well aware of Peter’s scars, but he wasn’t repulsed by them. He always met Peter’s gaze, and never averted his eyes. Peter even occasionally had the uneasy feeling that Conrad liked looking at his scars.
“I’m sorry that I haven’t returned your messages,” Conrad continued. “I’ve been especially busy of late. I had hoped to find you in good health, but regrettably, I see that isn’t the case. I take it that your supply of my special unguent has been expended?”
You know damn well it has, you bastard! I left you enough messages saying so!
Out loud, Peter simply said, “Yes.”
Conrad smiled. “Then it is indeed fortuitous that I stopped in for a visit today.”
He reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and removed a glass vial with an old-fashioned cork stopper. The contents was a pale green-tinged yellow, an unappealing color, but Peter didn’t care what it looked like. He only cared that it worked.
Conrad placed the vial on the desk top, but when Peter tried to grab it, he snatched it away.
“My usual fee?” he asked.
Yes, yes, YES! Peter nodded.
Satisfied, Conrad handed over the vial. Peter snatched it from him, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and spat it onto the desk. Then, without a scrap of self-consciousness, he stood, pulled off his shirt, and threw it to the floor. Reddish scar tissue covered the right side of his body from the lower half of his face, down to his mid-abdomen, including three-quarters of his right arm, as well as his right shoulder and shoulder blade. The air should have felt good on his exposed skin, but all it did was intensify the Itch, which had already reached maddening levels. Peter dumped some of the thick oily unguent into his palm and began smearing it on, moving as fast as he could.
“Not too much,” Conrad cautioned. “A little goes a long way.”
Peter ignored him and kept slathering it onto his body. Relief was almost instantaneous. A cool tingling sensation began to spread across his scarred flesh, the Itch receding in its wake. He let out a sigh and collapsed back into his chair, not caring if he smeared any of the goop on the fabric. He must look a sight, shirtless, scar tissue glistening with a sheen of oily yellow-green gunk, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the Itch was gone.
“Thank you,” he said.
Conrad acknowledged Peter’s gratitude with a slow nod.
“I know I’ve said it before, but I wish you’d give me the formula for this stuff. I’d pay any price for it.”
“I do not wish to be insulting, but given the current state of your business, such an offer can only be hyperbole.”
Peter was insulted, but he knew he couldn’t argue the point. He’d developed NuFlesh—the product, not the business he’d named for it—for people like him. NuFlesh was artificial skin that paramedics could use as a temporary wound patch until they could get an accident victim to the hospital. In that regard, it was successful. It did indeed seal off wounds and burns, keeping them protected and free of infection. Unfortunately, it tended to decay after an hour, two at the most, and tests had suggested it might be toxic, making long-term use impossible. So even if Peter managed to solve the decay problem—which was his current focus—he would then have to turn his attention to the toxicity issue. All of this added up to a sad bottom line for NuFlesh Biotech, and he and his employees were far from rolling in money. It was the major reason he’d located his business in Brennan. Office space was cheap. If he could make his artificial skin work, he’d change the world of medicine forever—and get stinking rich into the bargain. But that, as the saying goes,
was a mighty big if.
“Besides, even if I gave you the formula, I doubt you’d be able to replicate it successfully,” Conrad said, then smiled. “After all, it isn’t as if you haven’t already made the attempt, hmm?”
Peter could feel himself flush with embarrassment. It was true. He’d attempted to analyze the chemical unguent on several occasions, and while he’d been able to determine the ingredients and their proportions easily enough, he couldn’t make the damned stuff work, no matter how hard he tried.
“You’ve told me the unguent is an ancient formula once used by the Egyptians to protect their skin from dry heat.”
“My own variation on that formula, but essentially, yes,” Conrad confirmed.
Peter forced a smile. “Let me guess: the reason I can’t recreate it is that I lack the magic touch.”
Conrad’s smile widened. “Precisely.”
Peter scowled. He hated it when he had the feeling that Conrad was toying with him.
The man had approached him a few months before, saying that he’d read about NuFlesh on the company’s website and was intrigued by its promise. He’d wanted to purchase fifty pounds of the stuff for his own unspecified research needs. Peter’s patent on the most recent version of the NuFlesh formula was still pending, and he was reluctant at first to allow someone who might be a potential competitor to have that much of the material. Then, when Conrad had told him he had a treatment that would relieve Peter’s periodic itching—although how the man had known about that, Peter had no idea—he’d been skeptical. But Conrad had delivered, and Peter had been only too happy to let him have his pound of artificial flesh, times fifty, in exchange. Since then, Conrad, who’d always presented himself as something of an old-world gentleman, had become increasingly snide and even cruel at times, and Peter would have been happy to sever their relationship... if he hadn’t needed Conrad’s mysterious unguent so damned bad.
“Honestly, I don’t know what you’re doing with all the NuFlesh you’ve... I guess purchased isn’t the right word. Bartered, I suppose. You know it’s unstable and potentially toxic to boot.”
“It suits my current needs as is,” Conrad said. “And I can, as people say these days, work around those problems.”
Peter burned with curiosity. No matter how many times he tried to pry details out of Conrad about what he wanted NuFlesh for, the man never gave away anything. He wondered if Conrad had found a way to solve the decay and toxicity issues. He had no idea what the man’s educational and professional backgrounds were—again, Conrad had resisted his attempts to find out—but he gave the impression that he was well acquainted with the sciences, especially chemistry. The unguent was proof of that. Maybe if he offered Conrad a job? Not that he had any money to pay him. But if he made him a partner...
“I’d like a hundred pounds this time,” Conrad said. “If at all possible.”
Peter unconsciously rubbed the scar tissue beneath his beard as he thought. His fingers came away sticky with unguent. “That’s just about all I have on hand at the moment. It takes a while to manufacture, you know, and there are experiments scheduled...”
Conrad once again reached into his inner jacket pocket, removed a second stoppered vial, and placed it on the desk.
Peter looked upon it with an addict’s hungry gaze.
“You have a deal.”
As he reached for it, Conrad grabbed his hand and stopped him. It was the first time the man had touched him, and Peter was surprised by how cold his flesh was.
“A warning. My unguent comes with certain... side effects if used too frequently and in large amounts. It is why I have made sure to parcel it out rather than give you too much at one time. Take care not to use it more than once every two days. Three would be preferable. You must heed my instructions, regardless of how intense your itching may become. Do you understand?”
“Sure. Whatever you say.”
Conrad looked deep into his eyes, as if trying to gauge his sincerity, before finally releasing his hand. Peter grabbed the second vial and held it close to his face. The yellow-green contents resembled bottled mucus, but right now it was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen.
Screw you, Itch, he thought.
Although it might have been his imagination, he could’ve sworn he felt a slight momentary irritation behind his right ear, as if the Itch was saying, Don’t worry. I’ll be back—soon. And then we’ll really have some fun!
* * *
A short time later, Conrad drove away from the strip mall, ninety pounds of NuFlesh on the back seat of his black SUV, sealed in airtight plastic and packed in unmarked cardboard boxes. It was less than he wanted, but it was all Peter had, so it would have to do. Peter promised to call him when he had more made, and considering how badly the man needed his unguent, Conrad had no doubt he’d make good on his promise.
NuFlesh was amazing material, and although Conrad had no idea if Peter would ever perfect it, it didn’t matter as far as his purpose was concerned. As he’d told the man, the current NuFlesh formula was sufficient for his needs—as long as he added a few alchemical touches of his own.
There was much that Conrad didn’t like about the modern world—for the most part the people were unrefined and ill-mannered, and they seemed incapable of concentrating on a single task for any length of time—but he found the Internet exceedingly useful. He’d been fortunate to discover the NuFlesh website one evening while doing research, and had been filled with excitement, hoping that at last he’d found the answer he’d been searching so long for. The material had worked better than he’d dared dream, and now, after three long centuries, he was finally on the verge of seeing his vision made reality.
“Praise Hel,” he whispered.
In addition to the NuFlesh, there were two metal coolers in the storage area behind the SUV’s back seat. In each of them, packed in ice and wrapped in strips of cloth soaked in an alchemical mixture of his own devising, were the other supplies Catherine needed. She’d given him a list, and he’d gone out last night and done his best to procure all the items on it. Unfortunately, the two homeless men that he’d chosen as donors hadn’t been in the best of health—he’d seen evidence of cancer in one man’s lungs in addition to an enlarged heart, and he’d found cirrhosis in the other’s liver along with a surprisingly large tumor in the brain. He’d been forced to leave the affected organs behind, for even with the skilled application of NuFlesh, they would be useless. But he’d managed to obtain most of the items Catherine desired, and he thought she would be pleased. If she needed anything more, he could always go out again that night. Not only was he highly practiced at procurement, no matter how many centuries he’d done it, the work never got old for him.
It’s the simple pleasures, he thought, and smiled.
He felt a sudden vibration in his front pants pocket that startled him. He removed one hand from the steering wheel, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his cell phone. As always, he thought he’d never get used to the damnable contraptions. He looked at the screen display, saw Catherine’s name, and answered it.
“Hello, Catherine. It’s quite a coincidence that you called. Even as we speak, I am on my way to your home to deliver—”
She cut him off, something a well-bred woman would never have done in his day. “Have you seen today’s paper?” she demanded.
At first he thought the bodies of the two homeless men had been discovered, and she was upset. But he dismissed that possibility at once. In all the time they’d been “collaborating,” she had never directly addressed the issue of where he came by the raw material he brought her, even though he knew it made her uncomfortable. No, it had to be something else.
“Has the dog struck again? Do not concern yourself. After I have brought your supplies, I will go in search of the beast and—”
“It’s not the damned dog! It’s something else.”
She’d done it again! If he didn’t need the woman’s medical skills so badly... Her w
ords sank in then.
“Something... else?”
She proceeded to tell him.
SEVEN
“What’s the name of this place we’re looking for again?” Dean asked.
“NuFlesh Biotech.”
They were driving through downtown Brennan, after a stop back at the motel to do a little research, scarf down some fast-food takeout, and change into their suits. Dean had eaten a half-pound bacon cheeseburger with everything on it—and extra bacon, of course—along with a large order of fries. Now the food was lying in his stomach like a lead brick, and he was beginning to wish he’d gone Sam’s route and had a salad. Although he would never admit that to his brother. If he did, he knew Sam would see that as an opportunity to convert him to the Cult of Good Nutrition, and he’d never hear the end of it.
“NuFlesh. That sound ominous to you?”
“Only a lot,” Sam said. He took a sip of his extra-large coffee. They’d stopped on the way to pick it up, and he’d ordered it black this time, with two shots of espresso.
Dean was frustrated. Despite the fact that Sam had convinced him that dealing with Frankenmutt might lead them to some kind of new weapon they could use against Dick Roman, the longer they spent in Brennan, the more antsy he was becoming. Roman and the other Leviathan were out there, stuffing their fanged faces with human flesh while continuing to advance their plans for world conquest, and the shape-shifting sons of bitches weren’t about to put their program on hold while the Winchester brothers tended to other business. The Leviathan were like a deadly disease that would continue to spread unchecked unless something was done about it, and hanging around this podunk town ganking freakshow dogs wasn’t doing anything to stop them.
