by Darren Dash
A short, stubby horn appears and begins to carefully work at the edges of the hole, widening and lengthening the tear. This is too marvellous to be true. A horn. Maybe it’s Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or a medieval knight sporting an especially intricate codpiece, or a unicorn, or…
Hold it. No need for further guessing. The moment of birth is upon us. The creature bites its way through, gnawing at the wall of the bubble, which begins to drop from its flesh. The head’s out. Shoulders. A leg. Here comes the rest. All bets are off. The result’s in. It’s a… a…
A rhinoceros.
Big pause. And I mean BIG.
I do a double-take but there’s no change. It’s still a rhinoceros. Smaller than usual, somewhat timid looking, but unmistakably a rhino.
The rhinoceros looks at me. I look back. Hard to tell which of us is the more confused. I hope it doesn’t think I’m its mother. I’ve no intention of trying to breast-feed a rhino.
Seconds pass and the rhinoceros loses interest in me. It starts sniffing round the room, grunts when it finds the door and butts it lightly with its head. The rhino doesn’t look back over its shoulder at me, but that’s what it would do if it was a smarter animal. I decide to let it out, so I rise and open the door. It snorts its approval and trots out into the corridor, discovers the staircase and heads down, taking its time, not fazed in the slightest.
I stroll across to the window – stepping over the vacated pool of sperm – and draw back the curtains. The street below is deserted, but not for long. About a minute into my vigil the rhinoceros emerges and makes its way to the middle of the road. It sniffs the air, decides on a direction and moseys along.
I follow the rhino’s progress until it passes from sight, then let myself out of the room – forgetting about the drone, who remains on the bed, positioned for an act of coitus which is doomed never to be consummated – and methodically plod down the rhino-trod stairs.
“Well,” I mutter as I depart the building and take to the streets, “I guess now I know where the animals come from.”
EIGHTEEN
And so I find a new calling in life. I’ve been Newman Riplan, the King Kong of troubleshooters. Newman Riplan, explorer of a brave new world. Newman Riplan, (failed) escape artiste. Newman Riplan, (fine young) cannibal. Now I’m Newman Riplan, wanker, and proud of it.
I wander the streets, no longer thinking of enemaist factories, ways out and other survivors, too busy being the giver of life. I masturbate four or five times daily. My testicles feel as if they’re being squeezed dry but otherwise I’m fine. No signs of blindness setting in or hair sprouting along the lines of my palms. True, there isn’t much left in me by the fifth ejaculation, but enough to do the business.
Stimulation proves the biggest difficulty. It’s not easy stirring my penis into life with only my imagination – never my best asset – to work with. If I was fifteen or sixteen, no problem, I was more up than down in those days, but a man in his late twenties (it might even be early thirties by now, depending on how many months have passed since that night on the plane) has long lost that teenage, lustful drive. The first couple of wanks are easily accomplished – fresh after a good night’s sleep, raring to go – but by the fourth I’m delving deep into my carnal memory banks, stringing together the most outlandish scenarios to excite the wilting beast to life.
I utilise the drones when all else fails, dress them up in sexy gear and have them pose erotically. I tried getting one of them to give me a handjob – my right arm’s feeling the strain and my left is no good for that kind of operation – but she nearly squeezed the life out of my frightened little man. I only just managed to yell at her to let go before it was too late. Another few seconds and I would have been maimed for life.
I’ve given birth to every kind of animal under the sun. Tigers, dogs, monkeys, elephants, mice, cockroaches, cows, giraffes. Hybrids as well, creatures unheard of in the annals of zoological history. I’ve created more mutations these past few months than a nuclear power plant manages in thirty years or more. The creatures never attack me. They seem to instinctively understand how vital I am and afford me a wide berth, even the great predators like the lions and panthers.
My sperm doesn’t just produce single animals. More often than not, one load will give rise to three or four of a species, or scores when it’s something like insects. The siblings aren’t always of the same family either. In one memorable load I spawned a horse, a cat, a llama, a wolf and an armadillo. They don’t attack each other while emerging from the embryonic sac, though I suppose it’s possible they prey on one another during later encounters. It takes about a week for the larger animals to grow to their full size, but bugs and the like are fully formed upon arrival.
Realising one day that all of my creations had been land animals, I fell to wondering about fish and birds. I trotted along to a nearby canal and shot my load into it. Sure enough, when the sperm cleared, a school of salmon could be seen swimming about. I’ve populated many bodies of water since. So far all my aquatic children have been on the dull side — salmon, trout, frogs, carp, eels. No whales, sharks or dolphins. Perhaps, since they can’t flourish in these conditions, I’m incapable of creating them, but I’ll go on trying. Wouldn’t it be great to make a whale? Given its groin of genesis, there won’t be any prizes for guessing what I’d call it!
I’ve let my beard grow again. I figure I look more biblical this way, which is appropriate, given my godly stature. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I know I’m no god, certainly not God, but I can’t help feeling I’m not too far removed from those heavenly beings of yore. Who but a godlike figure could bestow life as I’m doing? Isn’t that one of the prerequisites for godhood, the ability to create life on one’s own? I’m sure plenty of tribes on Earth would hail me as a hero of the celestial spheres if word of my exploits trickled back to them.
It’s fun imagining the reaction I’d get back home. People would think it was a hoax. TV crews would place me under constant surveillance. Scientists would want to dissect me. Pornographers would offer vast sums for my services. I could make a fortune keeping zoos supplied, maybe even resurrect the dodo or the dinosaurs. If I wanted to take a despotic road to riches, I could demand protection money from towns and cities — pay me X amount in gold bullion or I’ll unleash a horde of locusts on your sorry asses!
Following my success with the fish, I tried creating birds, but without any luck. I climbed to the top of a tall building and aimed over the edge. I hoped birds would emerge during the sperm’s short-lived flight and automatically take to the skies, but instead it shattered into oblivion on the road below, putting a premature end to whatever was growing within. Maybe birds aren’t permitted here. If they existed, they might be able to soar beyond the confines of the city and set people – if there were any – thinking about boundaries.
I miss birds. I used to enjoy watching them swoop and soar and do all that birdy business. This city is a lesser place without them, and although it’s not something I can directly control, I feel that I’ve failed, and keep thinking about ways that I might bring them into being. What if I knocked together a hang-glider and shot my load into my left hand mid-air?
I haven’t given birth to any humans. In the early days of my masturbational frenzy I felt sure it wouldn’t be long before the walls of a sperm bubble parted to reveal a cowering, naked and confused Homo sapien. Hasn’t happened though, and after so much spunk under the bridge, I don’t think it will.
It’d be interesting if I could make humans. If a woman emerged and fell in love with me and we made the beast with two backs, would it be incest? Technically speaking, I guess it might be classed as such, though I doubt if any court in the land would convict me. But what would our actual relationship be? Father-child, brother-sister, kissing cousins? That’s the kind of conundrum that would leave a genealogist whimpering over his maps of family trees.
Hi-ho, hi-ho, a-wanking I will go,
With my penis out,
&nb
sp; Shooting sperm about,
Hi-ho, hi-ho, hi-ho.
My poor foreskin’s been rubbed raw. A pity I’m not circum-cised. I should give the little fellow a day or two of rest, dip it in a cool glass of drone sap and leave it to soak, but I can’t tear myself away from the animal production line. I’ve never been this fascinated by anything, wondering what sort of creatures will hatch, watching them emerge, tracking them as they set off to establish their territory. I’m like a kid in a toy factory, dashing about from one…
No, that’s a crappy comparison. A kid in a toy factory — tchah! I haven’t much of an imagination but surely I’m not that drab up top. I feel like… like… Ah! Like God in the primordial ooze, selecting pockets of matter from a sea of bubbling chaos, bringing life and order into existence, lord and master of time, space and creation. I can no more tear myself away from masturbation than God could have turned his back on the world just three days into his planned series of universal renovations.
“Never mind, penis,” I cluck. “You neither, testicles, milked dry as you are by this point. I’ll make it up to you one day. How does a month in Tahiti sound, lying naked on a beach, soaking up the sun and frightening the ladies? Another few months of wanking and I’ll quit. Honest. You can trust…”
I trail off into silence. Hmm. Talking to my reproductive organs. Is that more or less disturbing than talking to the drones?
I’m strolling down an avenue, tugging at myself, working up a head of steam for my next piece of procreative art, when a familiar-looking building gives me reason to pause. It’s a fairly ordinary establishment, not visibly different to the thousands of others I encounter during the course of an average day, so why am I standing here, staring up at it like Charlton Heston encountering the Statue of Liberty at the end of that film about the ape planet?
After a few minutes of troubled deliberation, I abandon the mystery and move on. I reach the end of the street and turn before a memory sparks and inspires me to dart back in a flurry of excitement. I barge into the building, scout about and find a door which, once opened, reveals the start of the dark and lengthy tunnel to the drone port — what I used to refer to as an airport in my previous life.
The drone port. Sweet mother of Rico, I haven’t thought about that place in so long. Why the hell didn’t I head there when civilisation fell and I alone survived? The lykans killed a lot of drones but the city has been filling up with them since, which means they must still be arriving, which means there must still be people at the drone port, offloading them from the planes.
People!
I set off down the tunnel, then recall my wild, naked state and backtrack. If I turn up in Jess’s office looking like this, she’ll probably sic her wolves on me. I jump into a nearby canal and wash off the worst of the accumulated filth. Hop up and down on the bank until dry, then find a clothes shop and kit myself out in the finest garb on offer. I can’t do anything about the beard, though I pick out as many stains as I spot. When I’ve made myself as presentable as possible, I return to the building, gain access to the tunnel, calm my jitters as best I can, and start walking.
The journey doesn’t seem so long this time, probably because I know where I’m going and what to expect, and also because my leg muscles have come a long way since that historical day and I walk much quicker than I did then, longer strides, breathing easily.
I emerge via a concealed hole in a wall, a little way down from the personnel buildings, which is confusing — there were no junctions in the tunnel, meaning I should have arrived at Jess’s office. Oh well, just another small mystery to add to the city’s myriad cache.
The drone port’s as I remember it, surrounded by towering walls, encased in pure darkness. I can’t spot any planes on the landing strip, though there’s a bus waiting, so they must be expecting one. It’s quiet out here, much quieter than the city, which has livened up since the return of the animals. I feel peaceful, like I’ve come home after a long trip away.
I check the bus first, hoping to run into Mannie, but it’s deserted. From there I head for Jess’s office, knock on the door and, when there’s no answer, let myself in. The room’s as neat as it was during my previous visit, but dusty and damp, as though nobody’s been here in quite some time. I check behind Jess’s desk. Her chair is lying on its side and doesn’t seem to have been used recently. I bend and look into the cages beneath the desk, where I spy two desiccated skeletons. The panels at the back of the cages have been distressingly clawed and gnawed, so the wolves clearly didn’t die a happy death, but what about Jess? Is she dead too or simply on a leave of absence?
I check the other building, where the off-loaders – Phil, Bryan and Mannie – hung out. It’s in better nick. There are beds in the corner, neatly made. A cupboard stocked with drone slices and sap. Spare shoes, caps and gloves.
“Hello?” I call. “Anybody home?”
No reply. I don’t hang about. I recall how curt Phil and Bryan were, and don’t think they’d appreciate discovering me here, invading their privacy.
As I emerge I spot a set of rolling steps being trundled into position next to a plane which must have pulled up while I was inside. I’d love to know how those fuckers set down so quietly. It’s a pity I missed the landing — it might have provided a clue as to how I arrived here. Hurrying across, I wait until all the drones from the plane have filed past – not many, no more than thirty – then scuttle up the steps. I pass through the cockpit and find myself back in the archaic setting of an airplane cabin. Two off-loaders are halfway down the aisle, cleaning up.
“Yoo-hoo!” I shout, and beam as they turn suspiciously. To my surprise – and, oddly, delight – they’re the same two I originally encountered, the blue-suited Phil and Bryan.
“Who the snuff are you?” Bryan snaps.
“Where’d you come from?” Phil growls. He’s not as green-looking as he used to be, seems to have settled into his job.
“It’s me,” I say, stepping forward. “Newman Riplan.”
“Who?” Bryan asks, eyeballing me warily.
“Newman Riplan,” I repeat. “We met a long time ago. I came in on a plane — I mean, a drone hold like this. Remember? You kicked me off. I met Mannie outside, then went to see Jess, then –”
“Hold it,” Bryan interrupts. “You’re making my head spin. Mannie? Jess? Who the snuff are they? I don’t know any Mannie or Jess.”
“I don’t either,” Phil says, “but I feel like I know this guy. There’s something about him…” Phil clicks his fingers. “Got it. He’s the drone hold man. Remember when you told me about drone hold men and how we should be careful what we said around them, or we’d have the Alchemist riding our backs?”
Bryan frowns and thinks for a few seconds, then relaxes into a smile. “Sure,” he chuckles. “Newman Riplan. You didn’t have a beard last time. How you been doing?”
Ha! If I tried answering that one, I’d be here all night, so I just say, “Fine, fine, how about you?” They’ve been getting along nicely, they reply. I ask again about Jess and Mannie but they’ve forgotten them, so I assume the pair are dead. Phil and Bryan haven’t been to the city for ages. They barely even remember the world of buildings, moons, suns and lykans.
“Oh yeah,” Phil finally recalls, “the lykans. They’re why we’ve been staying here. The last few times we went back, the place was full of the bloody things. We decided we’d be safer where we are.”
I tell them the lykans are long gone and it’s safe to return but they shake their heads.
“Won’t be safe till the Alchemist says so,” Bryan insists. “This happened once before, a long time ago. The sun and moon stayed changed for ages and just about everyone died. We were warned not to go back until the city was repopulated.”
“How did that happen?” I ask. “Where did the people come from?”
Bryan shrugs. “What am I, a know it all?”
Phil looks out the window. “The drones have left,” he says. “We’d better
get a move on. Could be a new drone hold arriving any time now.”
“Yeah,” Bryan sighs. “No rest for the wicked.”
They return to their cleaning duties. I stare out the window. There’s no sign of the bus.
“Who drove them out of here?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” Bryan grunts. “That’s not our area of expertise. We off-load them, that’s all.”
“But surely –” I start to protest.
“There,” Bryan says curtly, reaching the rear of the plane and turning. “Done and dusted. Time to leave.”
The two men head back up the aisle. I step out of their way to let them pass but they stop when they reach me.
“Come on,” Phil smiles. “You can’t stay there. Out you come.”
“Please,” I gasp, “leave me here, OK? I want to escape. I’ve been going mad. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Sorry,” Bryan says, “but nobody stays on the drone holds. Company policy.”
“I’ll pay you,” I screech. “I can get drone teeth, more than you can imagine, a mountain of them. I’ll make rich men of the both of you. You’ll be able to retire and live in the lap of luxury.”
Bryan laughs. “Hear that, Phil? He’s going to make us rich.”
“I like the sound of that,” Phil cackles. “I could always see myself living a life of leisure.”
Bryan takes a firm hold of my right arm and tugs me out into the aisle.
“I’m not lying,” I shout. “I can get the teeth, I swear. All you have to do –”
“– is disobey orders,” Bryan grunts, shaking his head. “There aren’t enough teeth in the entire city to sway us from our duties. The Alchemist trusts us. That’s more important than wealth.”
“Besides,” Phil adds, “we get all the teeth we need, whenever we need them — just pick them from the drones as they’re going past. The Alchemist doesn’t mind. It’s messy, so we hardly ever bother, but on the odd occasion, if we’re planning to live it up a little…”
