Flyblown and Blood-Spattered

by Jarred Martin

  Later, when the fire was blazing, they met again.

  The nasty mob bowed their heads with the stink of burning garbage all around them.

  “He was a sharp dresser,” said Retch. “Lesion had a wardrobe to die for. I know, because I tried to kill him for it myself.”

  “What need have we to kill each other?” asked Chorea.

  “We have none. Our killing is done for us, to us, whether we want it nor not,” said Dementia.

  Dementia and Chorea then turned to Edema, who only shrugged silently.

  “That Lesion was a good enough feller, I suppose,” Pathosis began. He raised the palm of his hand before his face and coughed into it. “I recall he had him a civilization of microscopic microbes that colonized his fingernails. They technology was advanced to such a point as they could travel vast distances within their galaxy or what have you. A-course they's so little that they could only go s'far as from say, a thumb to the middle finger of the next hand, which was a considerable distance to them that travel it, but not to us. I reckon they's dead along with the man hisself, though I can't claim to know it for fact. I think that's what I'm gonna miss most about ol' Lesion: them little fellers under his hands.”

  “I think we'll all miss that,” said Verruga. He turned to the heinous coven. “Sisters, ain't you got nothing to add?”

  “The time for maudlin reminiscence is at its end,” said Dementia.

  “Our killer is revealed,” said Edema.

  “As prophesied, he dwells among us,” said Chorea.

  A hush fell over them as they cast accusing glances at each other.

  “Do not look to one another,” said Dementia.

  “Though the killer dwells amongst us, he has never been warmed by this fire,” said Edema.

  And then the sisters drew their blades, rusted daggers, and machetes, and one by one, plunged them into the fire to pierce an amalgam of flaming trash, and they raised them up to light their way in the black dawn.

  “Who will join us?” Demanded Chorea.

  “Who will wrench back fate into the proper hands?” Asked Dementia.

  “Who will stand tall against the destroyer?” Cried Edema.

  Pathosis answered for all of them; he grabbed his heavy beard in two thick handfuls, raised his face to the sky, and howled a deafening and savage war-cry.

  They followed the sisters and their flaming blades through the alley, screaming and turning over trash cans and picking up bags of garbage to rip apart, flinging their contents about in crude fury.

  The mob was led between the stained brick walls, through garbage-strewn ground and half-frozen puddles of discolored slush; past bins piled high with the charred bones of their predecessors. They went deeper into the freezing cold, with their mad cries echoing around them and the steady drip of antifreeze raining down from busted gutters above them.

  The sisters stopped. They leveled their burning swords at a figure resting against the wall. The wavering gleam of flame pushed back the shadows to reveal the Greek. He regarded them in the unblinking chill of his arctic gaze.

  “To the one called Greek...” Edema began.

  “For a time longer than memory, you have slaughtered us,” said Dementia.

  “You have torn us apart,” said Chorea.

  The Greek stared on.

  “You hunt us in darkness and shadow,” said Edema.

  “You kill the stray and the solitary,” said Dementia.

  “And now, your bevy of game has returned to hunt you,” said Chorea.

  And still the Greek was silent, unmoving.

  And it was then that Retch noticed the familiar outer layer of the Greek's bulk of garments. It was the bright red sweatshirt that he had so envied the previous night. It was Lesion's. Seeing the shirt wrapped around the reclining giant filled him with a rage that emboldened him. Everything the mad sisters said had been true. Here before him, was the answer to every scream in the night, to every abduction and disappearance, to every limb found tossed upon the ground in the dark morning.

  “Rise,” Edema cried.

  “Rise and die, or kill us all!” Challenged Dementia.

  “Rise!” They all cried.

  The big man moved to his feet. He rose, and the wall came with him, moving upward with a sound of grinding stone and a cloud of dust.

  They had never seen the Greek stand, and he towered over them.

  As they looked up at him, he took a single step forward, and the wall moved outward with the same agonizing grind . They could see great, heavy chains leading from the wall, pulled taut, disappearing into his arms, back, and legs.

  They beheld each other in anxious silence. The Greek looked down from the end of his tether, his face expressionless. The grimy horde looked up at the Greek, uncertain but determined.

  From behind the mob, something sailed through the air.

  Retch had picked up a car battery and hammer-tossed it at the Greek. It flew past them and smashed into the Greek's face, bouncing off to reveal a bleeding cleft under his eye. He didn't flinch, he didn't blink, he only stood as impassive as the wall he was chained to.

  And they descended upon him then. They blew into him like a squalid wind.

  From amidst the pounding of dirty fists and the hacking of rusty blades, Retch cried, “His shirts! Strip him of his shirts! He wears them like the pelts of slaughtered animals. Take them and let him finally feel the cold!”

  They reached out and tore the layers of garments from him. First the red sweatshirt was ripped away to reveal a soiled gray t-shirt. This was torn to rags, and so was the one beneath.

  But there was one figure absent from the bedlam and chaos. Verruga. He had walked away, unnoticed, before the car battery had been flung, inciting the riot. He was still walking. He never looked back even as the sound of screams and tearing cloth erupted into the night behind him. He only walked on.

  The layers were diminishing, and the scraps of fabric drifted to the ground like snow. They were uncovering him. They were peeling him. Hands and fingers extended to grab handfuls of clothing and tear them away until only one layer remained.

  They stared at the shirt, it had once been white perhaps, but now it was the deep rust color of dried blood. It was so thick with it, it looked like canvass.

  They hesitated to touch it.

  The Greek's expression finally changed; a smile turned the corners of his mouth upward, as if he was enjoying the ordeal.

  One of the sisters reached out to tap it with one finger, and the shirt immediately began to crumble into dull, red dust.

  Beneath the final layer, the Greek was nearly skinless. What little flesh he did have covered his hands and ended a third of the way up his forearms, just past his wrists; after that, whatever had been covered by clothing was fleshless bone. They could see his exposed spine, the cage of his ribs, and sternum, covered in dark blood that shimmered, sickly, in the dying light of their torches.

  And the last sound they heard, save their own screams, was the clatter of the chains as they fell away, one by one.

  The next day, Verruga awoke in the lightless morning. He dumped a sack of garbage into the barrel to feed the dying embers and saved the bag. There was much to be done. He walked through the alley filling the bag with scattered remains, a hand, a foot, loose teeth lying on the ground, a single finger, an entire head. The insufferable cold kept him moving. He passed the Greek, sitting against the wall, looking slightly smaller with only five layers around him, although three of them were heavy-looking hooded cloaks. The strata of rags would increase, Verruga supposed. They would be arriving soon; the alley would call to them, and they would wander in: more hopeless, unwanted, insane, to come freeze between the narrow and endless walls.

  Verruga didn't know how long they would stay, he only knew that he would remain, to pick up the pieces.

  STUD

  “Fertility,” Dr. Kulkarni began, “there are a lot of options to consider. This is your...,” he looked down at the chart on his
desk, “your second visit, is that right? That means you've had at least two months to make some decisions. Why don't you begin by telling me exactly what you're expecting and I'll try and answer any questions you have.”

  Jocelyn Lavigne stared at her deformed countenance reflected in the newton's cradle on Dr. Kulkarni's desk. The Jocelyn Lavignes inside the polished stainless steel orbs were distorted, the faces blurred and elongated; five inhuman and sloppy twins staring back at her.

  “We want it to be a boy,” said Jocelyn's husband, Ogden. “We know that much for sure. Right honey?”

  “That's right, a little boy,” said Jocelyn, reaching across the seat and squeezing her husband's hand.

  Dr. Kulkarni smiled. “That will be easy enough. Of course, the sex of the child is just the beginning. There are several choices you're going to have to make.”

  “Choices?” Asked Ogden.

  “Yes. Every minute detail, hair color, eye color, things of that nature, right down to personality.”

  “Oh, of course, those choices. We've got a form somewhere. Honey, would you hand that to Dr. Kulkarni?” Jocelyn slid a manila folder across the desk.

  Kulkarni read through it. “Dark hair, green eyes, yes, I think that will look very striking.” He continued. “Moderate intelligence, I see. You know what? I have to dissuade people every day from endowing their children with an overabundance of intelligence. They think it'll be beneficial, but it creates a litany of complications. I've been doing this for a long time, and I've seen the incredible burden it puts on the children, not to mention the parents. They grow up with certain expectations that they seldom have the initiative or opportunity to fulfill, and they wind up being the most miserable people you could imagine.”

  Ogden laughed. “Well, we want him sharp, but not too smart.”

  “Yes,” Dr Kulkarni agreed, “that will assuredly be for the best. Let's see what else you've got here. Height, weight, metabolism, all very good. Looks like you're expecting an athlete, yes?”

  “Ogden played football in college,” Jocelyn beamed.

  “I played fullback. I wasn't great. Second string 'till I blew out my ACL. I suppose I was destine to. My father thought I should have flimsy ligaments in my knees. Thought it would give me character, I guess. He, you know, wanted me to be susceptible to it.”

  “I actually have a question regarding susceptibility: it seems you left that portion of the form blank.” The doctor folded his hands on his desk, awaiting an explanation.

  Ogden and Jocelyn exchanged glances. “Well, we didn't really know what to put.”

  “I'm afraid you'll have to put in something; you can't just leave it blank. A heart condition would be okay, or could I suggest a nice brain aneurism. Those can be very exciting. You never know when they'll rupture.”

  Jocelyn shook her head. “I don't like the sound of that. It's just so ...unpredictable. I had an aunt that died of pancreatic cancer, and Ogden's grandmother died of the same thing. Maybe we could do that. It could be a sort of a family tradition.” She looked at her husband. “What do you think?”

  “I think that sounds pretty good. My son is going to die of pancreatic cancer,” he said, enraptured with the phrase. “That's not bad at all. Sure, give us that, Doc.”

  Dr. Kulkarni looked pleased. “Okay, I'll put you down for pancreatic cancer, and I think I'll put in some allergies too, just to round things out.”

  “But no grass allergies, please.” Jocelyn said, concerned.

  Ogden chuckled, “That's right. We want him to be comfortable on the ball field.”

  “Of course not. I understand,” said Dr. Kulkarni, skimming the remainder of the file. “Okay, next there's moles and birthmarks good, good. No disfigurements or aesthetic birth defects?”

  Ogden gave the doctor a concerned look, “Well, we don't want our son to be... you know, too conspicuous.”

  “No we don't,” Jocelyn agreed. “My mother and father thought it would be interesting to make me left-handed, which I'm sure you already know, people just aren’t that way anymore. It's such an embarrassment. I can't even imagine how it must be going around with, I don't know, say, your spine on the outside of your body.”

  “It wouldn't have to be that extreme,” the doctor explained. “He could have webbed toes. No one would even see them. He could wear socks all the time if he wanted.”

  “Now you listen here,” Ogden said, becoming agitated, “I'm aiming for my son to be an athlete, not a circus sideshow exhibit. Am I being clear?”

  Dr. Kulkarni sighed. It was amazing to him the amount of people in this day and age that still got upset if he suggested their children deviate even slightly from the typical model of human form. He couldn't remember the last time a parent had requested their children be conjoined, or have gigantism. And God forbid he recommend extra limbs. All these available options were wasted on the unimaginative. “Please calm down, sir. It was only a suggestion. A small deformity can help shape the more unique parts of your child's personality. We can't control everything with genetics, and things like adding a small aesthetic defect can aid in assuring certain environmental factors take place that will manipulate your son into having specific worthwhile experiences necessary for personal development. It's quite common, I assure you.”

  Ogden sat back down, red-faced and grumbling. “We just don't want our future son to be some sort of outcast, is all,” said Jocelyn.

  Kulkarni threw his hands up, “Fair enough. No deformities, abnormalities or aesthetic birth defects of any kind then? Not even dry skin? Dandruff? Rosacea? Nothing at all?”

  “I suppose you could give him some eczema,” Ogden allowed. “Not a lot, maybe just some on his elbows or his back or something.”

  The doctor scribbled something down on the form. He looked up. “It looks like we're just about done with this portion. Everything else on the form is pretty standard, basic personality traits all look fine, temperament, sexuality, all seem to be In order.” He picked up the form. “I'll just add this to your file.” He looked at Jocelyn, “Mrs. Lavigne, we did take a DNA sample from you on your last visit, correct?”

  “You mean the cotton swab?”

  “Yes, the cotton swab. So we have it then? Good. I suppose you're pretty anxious to start the whole process. You wouldn't want to have to wait another two months.”

  “Oh heavens no,” Jocelyn said, mildly disquieted. “We're ready to be a mommy and daddy. We'd walk out of here with a baby today if we could.”

  Dr Kulkarni smiled at her, “Well, it won't be today, but it'll be soon enough. They should have the lab prepared for us in a few minutes. Would you like to look over the form again? Because after I hand this off to the technicians, every decision you've made will be permanent. So if you're having second thoughts about anything, now would be the time to let me know.”

  Ogden waved him off. “I think I'm pretty happy with what we've decided on, aren't you, honey?”

  Jocelyn nodded,“I think we'll be happy. I think our boy will be happy as well.”

  “Excellent. I admire your confidence. A lot of couples I see are making adjustments and second guessing themselves until the moment of fertilization,” Dr. Kulkarni told them. “Have you decided on a name?”

  The two exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “Not yet. That's sort of a big decision. We need a little more time to find the right one.”

  “Oh, well. You'll have time enough to pick one out.”

  “We just don't want to rush into it,” Said Jocelyn.

  "Well, there's really no hurry," said Dr. Kulkarni. "I've seen hundreds of couple who don't find a name that sticks until their baby is months old."

  "It must be so wonderful," said Jocelyn, "being around all those babies all the time."

  Dr. Kulkarni smiled, "I honestly couldn't think of a more rewarding profession."

  Jocelyn’s eyes glazed over and her voice took on a robotic and monotone cadence, "Children are our future. I just wish the rest of the world could unders
tand the way we do. Children are our future. All those millions fighting wars, and the billions that starve in poverty will never understand it."

  "Children are our future," Ogden agreed. "Nothing is more important. You're doing God's work here, sir."

  "Thank you," said Dr. Kulkarni. "It's not all so pleasant as you'd expect, though. Why just the other day, I had to assist in a natural child birth. It seems some poor girl, probably some prostitute from the less fortunate class, had gotten pregnant like some sort of animal and went into labor right in front of everyone in the hospital. Ugh!," Dr. Kulkarni shuddered, "Nasty bit of business, really."

  "I know what you mean," said Jocelyn. "I saw on the TV about these sort of hippy-dippy types, who actually try and get pregnant like that. Some of them actually do it, and end up carrying a baby inside of them for like a year! I couldn't believe it. And then the birth... It was like watching a rat try and chew through a garbage bag! I'll never forget it."

  "Now, honey," said Ogden, "you shouldn't begrudge people for bringing life into the world, even if their methods are a little old-fashioned. After all, children are our future."

  "That's easy for you to say; you didn't see the program."

  "So what if I haven't. Dr., set her straight. Don't you think that actually having a child is more important than the means of which you do it? Hell, I'll bet you have a house full of kids, don’t you?"

  "I have eleven children, all products of bio-engineering. I really can't, as a doctor, advise the old-fashioned method."

  Ogden made a dismissive sound and waved his hand at the doctor.