"Despise the flesh; it is blood and bones and a network, a contexture of nerves, veins, and arteries."
-Meditations 2.2
Two figures stand on the roof of a building far above the pulsing asphalt veins of the city. They stand no taller than children, and you might wonder what lone children are doing in such a place as this at an hour when the sun has only begun to show hints of itself on the clouded horizon. You see that all they have to cover their backs are loose and tattered rags that billow in the chilling wind threatening to blow their rail-thin bodies to dust. A shudder runs down your spine as you imagine how the icy gusts must feel against their exposed skin, a bubble of empathy chokes your throat as you imagine how they must be feeling, a black pit opens in your stomach when you consider their hunger. The despair you imagine them having becomes your own and intensifies the longer you look at them. They are huddled together in front of a pile of ashes that have long since chilled. A frying pan lays discarded nearby full of pigeon bones. What has this world come to? What have these two examples of youthful innocence done to deserve such a lot? Is God deaf? Blind? Cruel? Or are there so many terrified prayers screaming up from this city that he simply doesn't have enough time to answer them all?
Wherever the divine may be, questioning it is only a waste of time, for you are there. You are in a position to rectify the wrongs that God has left unchecked. Maybe you are in fact the answer to the prayers of the wretched.
A feeling of pride balloons in your chest. I will help them, you think, I will be their saviour. I will give them food and clothing and I will offer them a place to stay at my humble home where they can be warm. So you walk forward with the stride of a rescuer. Overcome with pity and pride at being so capable of assistance, you almost don't notice the noises. Soft, mechanical sounds of rattling, ticking, hissing, whirring that you hadn't been able to hear just moments before. They get louder the closer you get to the two figures. A little bit of confusion flows into the mixture of pride and pity, though not enough to make you hesitate.
But you start slowing down, the pause between each step growing longer until you find yourself frozen to the spot just behind the two children. Your compassion changes to confusion. Confusion to shock. Shock to disgust. Disgust to terror.
For the sun has shown more of itself since you set out to help, and the light combined with being near to them shatters the illusion you were blinded by only moments before.
The clothes billowing in the wind are not clothes at all, but blankets of loose skin. It is so pale that you can see through it to the horrors beneath. An unholy marriage of flesh and metal, the inner workings of these creatures are on full display as it moves, unfortunately, to perform the functions that keep them alive.
A clear sack of acid churning to dissolve parts of a bird carcass. A metal bulge ticking like a clock as it pumps blood and motor oil through long tubes. Two patched bags ensconced in a bleached ribcage inflate and deflate with a slight hiss at every wretched breath. The spine, sticking out of the back for all to see, is held together with glue, staples, wires, and bolts. Following it up brings you to the worst part of it all.
The head of a dog sits atop the shoulders, held down by a silver collar of stitches that go all around the base of the neck. One creature is a bulldog, the other a doberman. A few unkempt clumps of fur have been glued down to bare scalp as a pathetic attempt to keep some semblance of life around. Their eyes are glassy and see nothing. Tongues loll out from between rows of wicked metal teeth. The bulldog creature lifts up a steel arm to scratch itself behind the ear with cruel, blood-stained metal claws. It fights the itch with a little bit too much vigor and opens a small cut by accident. The skull underneath is made visible, but no blood comes out. You imagine that would not be the case if those claws found you.
It is no wonder that God ignores these things. He had no hand in their creation. Their existence is blasphemy. They stand only as two monuments of man's hubris. All the greatest attempts to keep death at bay are standing here in front of you, and the only accomplishment you see is a wretched imitation of life so awful that they themselves must now be begging for death. The thing with a doberman's head opens its mouth as if yawning. All of its teeth are put out for you to see. There are so many- rotting canines, jagged metal hooks, human molars, steel arrow heads, all stitched and drilled and glued into place.
It is the final straw. You turn around and run as fast as you can without looking back, promising yourself to be more cautious in the future. Imagine if you had gone ahead with your plan and come close enough for them to notice you! Then you would have joined the bird boiling in the creature's stomach sack.
"Do you think it will leave? Since the sun rose up?" The doberman does not move its mouth to speak. The words come out of a voice box at the back of its throat.
The bulldog responds with something, it's voice inaudible.
"What?"
The bulldog repeats itself.
"Speak up, filth!"
The bulldog screeches,
"WE WILL SEE, FILTH!"
At this they both flinch and look up ahead. There is a dark lump up ahead, sitting on the roof's edge. It has been there, motionless, since they arrived at sunset last night, probably even longer. Maybe it's asleep. Maybe it's dead. Or maybe it's a pile of garbage. They have not gone close enough to find out. One does not go up to shady silhouettes with any preconceived notions in this city. You tend to figure out what it is when it’s already torn out your throat.
The creatures have been careful not to disturb the lump all night. They have not made any loud noises or sudden movements. If the lump is alive, it knows that they're there, but they have done their best to make sure that their presence has not irritated it. Because who knows what lengths this mystery lump would go to get revenge for being woken up, if it is in fact sleeping? Dreams are a wonderful respite from the horrors of this city, and being wrenched from such a sanctuary to face the nightmarish reality may be enough to drive one into a murderous rage.
The bulldog's outburst seems to go unnoticed. The pair waits for a minute or two to make sure, and then goes back to a hushed conversation.
"Apologies."
"Filth! You're either shouting or whispering so quiet I can't hear a word."
"Apologies. I think my box is broken," the bulldog whines.
"Let me see."
The bulldog opens its mouth, and the other leans forward to look down its companion's throat with its lazy, rolling eyes.
"It's cracked. I can see a couple wires stickin' out. Yeah, it's broken."
"Damn. Must've been that filthy reptile from two nights ago. Remember him? Kicked me in the neck real hard before I could jump on him. Hurt, but we got him, didn't we?"
"Yeah, we did. Remember how he squealed when we crushed his little cantaloupe head under that box? And his green brains went everywhere?"
"Yeah, they did. They did. So, where do you think we should go tonight?"
"Not reptile land again, that's for sure. I was thinking we could run down Copper and see if anyone needs anyone else dead. Maybe check up on the hives. Or we could go hunting."
"For what?"
"Oh, anything. Cats, dogs, gremlins, buggers. Maybe we could help that crazy guy with the ugly hair hunt down some Posties again. They didn't taste so bad last time."
"Yeah, remember that fat one? Boy, his stubby little legs turned out so tender. And their fingers? Grilled?" Streams of saliva drip down the doberman's face.
"So, Posties it is?"
"Guess so."
"Do you remember where we..."
The doberman trails off as it sees the other tense up. It leans forward, baring teeth and letting out a low growl. Soft clicks ring out from its spine as it curls into a defensive position.
A small flame flickers in front of the mystery figure's face. Thin wisps of smoke float away from the small glow to join the heavy smog above.
"Time to leave," says the bulldog
It scuttles away on feet that clang against the ground with every step and clambers over the roof's edge. The doberman follows with their frying pan in its mouth. The sound of their limbs squealing and clicking gets more distant as they climb further down the building's face.
After smoking for a little bit, the figure stretches its arms out. Mechanical hinges crackle and pop. The left arm goes all the way, but the right elbow doesn't seem to want to bend, letting out a loud groan of protest at the halfway mark. It'll need some oil. The figure heaves a sigh and looks up at the sky, finds it as smoggy as ever. Today is going to be a day like any other. He sighs again. Looks downwards at the street where a police car shoots after a red truck. Hesitates for a moment. Mutters something about work. And with a final sigh stuffs the cigarette in his mouth and stands up.
The journey down the stairs takes longer than it should. There's an infection of rust that started in the right knee joint a few weeks ago and spread through the whole leg since then. He's been too lazy to take care of it but at this point it's like walking with a pile of dry wood growing out of his hip, so he'll replace it as soon as he reaches his den. He'll have to see what's wrong with his right elbow too, which he isn't happy about- he's had to replace it four times over the last month. The right side is always the one with the problems. Last week, the entire right half of his ribcage just fell out and almost took his guts with it. He got himself a nice batch of eye balls not so long, eight for each side. Five of the right ones were blind duds. The one he has right now is starting to lose vision. Many more episodes come to mind, one half of which is exposed on account of a certain side of the skull having caved in. It should be called the wrong side, he thought.
So his walk is reduced to a strange waddle as he tries not to fall down the stairs. The enormous numbers on the wall after each flight count down from seven until he reaches the one right after five and sees an enormous brown bloodstain on the wall covering the number four. Home sweet. Almost.
He pushes through the door and into the hallway. To his left there's a giant hole in the wall where there used to be a door to apartment 417. No one knows what happened. It's pitch black in there, and something sometimes makes noises from deep within. He does not care to find out what.
He strolls down the hall and takes a left, where he slips on a puddle of slime in front of apartment 420 and falls on his face. Getting up he can hear sizzling as the slime burns off his nose. He tries to wipe his hands off on his clothes and only finds more slime on them eating through the fabric. All he can see through one of his eyes is green, and his brand new clothes are now ruined beyond repair. But all his limbs still seem functional, which is the important part.
"Hey, I think he got out again," He says, banging on the door. There's no response except for some faint snoring. When he knocks again, the zero falls from its place on the door. He sticks it into the mail slot. Still no response from the other side. Oh well, he thinks, they'll figure it out later. Curls of smoke are appearing all over the door where his hands touched it.
He hurries the rest of the way to his abode with his face smoking. It would be best to get there before the corrosion gets to his legs. He passes by the usual sights without thinking about them- a few plastic bags of intestines outside door 423, a cat nailed to a cross on door 427, and a bloodstained welcome mat outside of door 432, which comes right before his own. Door four-three-four. A nice number with book-ends. He fishes for his key in his pocket, only for his hand to go all the way through. His pocket has become a large green hole. With a sigh he rears back his fist and punches straight through the wood, then reaches down to open the knob from the other side. He'll have to patch the hole and change the lock, but it's faster than retracing his steps to find the key.
He walks in and inhales the scent of his dwelling place through what remains of his olfactory system. It’s dark and moldy, the scent of ammonia cleaning fluids barely hiding the overpowering metallic stench of blood. His living room is sparse. There's a cracked TV propped up on a pile of old textbooks he found at an abandoned school the other day, and in between that and the shredded couch there's a glass coffee table with a skull centerpiece. Not a real skull. It would be foolish to waste that on decoration.
His destination is the bedroom. Even more bare bones than the living room. A frayed green rug decorates the floor near the bed, which is a stained medical cot lifted from an alley, much like everything else here. The window here is thoroughly boarded up. But to compensate, he has art on the opposite wall. Three whole paintings. A luxury fit for a king. There's a marlin leaping up from a dark sea (although not quite black, the way it is today), a deer with its head proudly raised, and a shark racing through a school of fish. There’s another that’s not quite a painting, but a page ripped out of a book featuring the works of Hieronymus Bosch. The one he took is the central part of The Garden of Earthly Delights, tacked right above his bead like a dream catcher. He considers all the art, but goes up to the marlin now. Pulls it off its nail, exposing his safe. His methods may be predictable, but they're effective enough that no one has stolen from him yet. He puts in his combination, 10-15-56. His birthday, also predictable.
There's a revolver and an assortment of small, plastic organ bags inside. Some eyes, a whole liver, a few noses. Just enough to discourage further searching. He reaches to the back of the safe, searching for the latches. He finds them, one hidden at the top of the wall and one at the bottom, and clicks them open. The back wall pops out of place, allowing him to take it out. It leaves behind a tunnel that extends deep ahead, with an opening just barely big enough for him to get inside.
He crawls in feet first so that he can shut the safe door and replace the false wall on his way in. A previous tenant's creation, he would've appreciated its ingenuity a little more if it wasn't designed for a completely different body type. He squeezes and maneuvers his way through, while the steel and wooden bowels of the building groan and rattle around him in the pitch darkness. Until, after quite a bit of wriggling, another light source emerges from the direction of his feet. The chamber at the end is about half the size of his bedroom. The walls are all lined with refrigerators, there's an ornate cabinet with a dirty mirror above it, and a trap door in the floor that leads to more tunnels, those thankfully big enough for him to move through without scrunching up like a worm.
The mirror reveals his state to him. Though the acid has stopped, most of his metal skull is showing from underneath the face he was wearing. The coat too is useless now. A shame. It was quite a lucky find, but chance takes away what it gives when it pleases. He sheds the coat and gets to scraping off what's left of the face with a butter knife. When his hat comes off, his skull is exposed in its entirety, a patchwork tapestry of bone and metal stitched and glued together. He turns his head just slightly so that he can see the two off-white chunks at the top of the skull. He contemplates them for a little while. It's very strange for him to consider that those two tiny chunks are all the original parts he has left.
He sighs, the air whistling against his plastic esophagus.
No more delay. The customers will be waiting. He opens the fridge where he keeps the limbs. Time to put on his work clothes.
The Frozen Heart's eponymous organ beats in neon above the bar doors. There are a couple of organ joints within a five minute walk from his place, his personal favorite is Kriegg's for the selection but the heart's not bad either. The front with the drinking kind of bar is about half the size of the back where they keep the guts. Customers shuffle in and out the unmarked metal door in the back, either bringing in dripping bloody bags or leaving with them.
He never hangs out long because the folks here are sociable, they like to talk and talk about the recent dust storms and x who got stabbed and y who skipped town after killing a cop and z who got eaten. He hates it especially when they bring up Lucifer, the taxidermy of an emaciated human corpse with wings sewn to its back pinned like an insect behind the bar. Ain't it crazy to see all that good skin go to waste? Boy, I'd love to get some fresh guts, straight from a human! Straight from the source! Bet those run great!
He hated talk in general because his was a solitary existence and so he had a number of tricks to avoid interaction.
The limbs he puts on for work belonged to a hell of a specimen (seven and a half feet!) and an additional layer of bandages, gauze, and a metal chest plate that puffed him up enough that most everyone avoids him anyway. All they see is a hulking mass at the bar, hidden underneath a black trench and a wide fedorah.
Today's customer is a blue-scaled reptilian in overalls who refuses to make eye contact as he relays the plan between sips of his iced glass of plasma and licking his eyeballs. It's impossible to tell if it's sweat or natural reptilian ooze that he's covered in.
"Well, Frankie, what do you think?" The lizard glances at him briefly and looks back at Lucifer.
"I think I might sit this one out."
"You? Sit one out? Someone pinch me."
"I don't know. It seems big."
"Oh, it is. And your salary will reflect that." The lizard reaches into his grubby overalls and draws out an envelope bursting at the seams with rectangular paper cards. He threw it on the table, one card slipping out. This card entitles the user to ONE SMALL INTESTINE, it read, and below a code of sixteen numbers.
"The last time someone gave me coupons, half of them bounced. Hadda find him again, straighten things out."
"These are good! Go on, take one to the back right now if you don't believe me. And that's just the advance."
He had never seen a nervous cold blood before. It was a novel experience to see this creature exasperated, desperate even. Frank scrutinized the lizard, who ordered his cup refilled.
"I don't know if pay's the problem."
"Oh come on! The guy who referred me to you said you'd be up for it. More importantly, that you'd be good enough!"
Frank scratched his chin, pondering. Life was good. Plenty of spare parts in his little nest. Was it a good time to throw a wrench in the works? Definitely not. But if there was anything he knew, it was that everything changed, one way or another. Here was a chance to change things on his own terms.
The problem was an aging, ailing drug dealer fallen from grace. Likely the lizard was from an old associate who wanted the guy done right. It'd bump Frank up the ranks if he went through with it. Working for a syndicate was the dream, maybe not a good one though. Stable, steady pay, no more worrying about searching out contracts... but sooner or later you pissed someone off and you became a gateway for someone else to join the ranks in the very same way you did. It didn't interest Frank. Escape, now that was interesting.
With that kind of pay, he could scamper merrily out over the desert on a blimp or a plane. He was tired of New Denver. Any minute now, it'd be buried in sand. He'd go somewhere new. Maybe Oahu, or Japan. It was said that in Japan they could hook you up with the finest cutting edge guts on earth, since they had all their synthetic human farms figured out.
Well, that settled it. It would be his last job, in Denver anyhow. Normally, it was a jinx to go on a job hoping it would be your last (That way, it would be no matter what) but Frank hoped to avoid that with some spontaneity.
"Alright, fine." He shook the lizard's webbed hand.
"It's a shame to see all those guts wasted," muttered a passing by tumor face. The sentient flesh bulges sprouting down the length of his body muttered their agreement. An eyeball on his jugular watched Frank as the mass shambled past him.
"What're you looking at, patchy?" Spit a mouth on the back of the man's head.
Frank turned to face the mentioned waste, a twitching human being hanging over the nest entrance, flesh and plastic bags melting together. They gurgled at Frank, limbs snapping towards him in a repulsive gesture that made him recoil. The human strained against the nest, lips struggling to make some kind of noise. There was a wet tearing sound as they succeeded in partially liberating themselves from the mass, arms groping the air a few inches from Frank's face. Blood spurted from the severed connection points. The nest groaned. Frank watched some new tendrils sprout and pull the human back into the bloody embrace where there was a soft crunch and they were covered up except for a pair of bulging eyes, still staring at Frank.
He drew a needle from his pocket. Raw serotonin, extracted straight from the source. The lizard's coupons were alright. He'd considered adrenaline, but a level head would do him better than being filled up with crazed energy.
He scraped at the bandages around his neck to find the injection tube. It went down smoothly. One soft exhale from his plastic lungs, and a gulp to swallow his pride, and he was ready.
Nests were horrible, horrible places. He didn't mind cramped tunnels, but that was so long as they weren't trying to absorb him. As soon as he stepped inside all light vanished. A pulsing tendril snatched the empty syringe from his hand upon entry and within a moment the glass was already part of the walls around him. The passage was narrow, hardly an inch between the walls. He forced his way through sideways, tender flesh squeezing against him from both sides. Slime slipped under his bandages, forcing its way into his eyes no matter how tightly he shut them. So much for keeping this jacket clean.
It was the kind of horrifying ordeal that should have some reward at the end, but of course there wasn't. There was only a wider tunnel. Bulging growths with the consistency of a tongue provided the only light as a soft amber glow. He couldn't see a foot in front of him. Not that he wanted to see any of it. The walls were a charred black color. They not only had eyes and ears but myriad fragments of trash and metal that the tendrils tightened around like they were protecting treasure. A few steps in, he hit his head on a hanging bike.
As repulsive as it was he kept his hand running along the wall. Nests were the perfect place to hide, they were always changing. The lizard could only give him the sign. And oh what luck, there it was- a pink vein of styrofoam packing peanuts running down the wall. He followed it through the dripping twists and turns of the tunnels.
It was unusually smooth sailing. A few times, he was caught off guard by a postie or one of their transparent eggs lodged in the wall. Naked, brainless apes with thick mats of fur slick to their pale slimy skin. All he encountered were a couple of juveniles who raved on seeing him, baring fangs and foaming at the mouth, their dull eyes full of stupid animal hate. When this happened all he did was puff himself up and shoo them. All the adults were sleeping deeper in the hive, thank god for the little things.
The peanuts inevitably ended in a hole the size of his head. He looked around, praying that it was not so. But the signs were clear enough, the whole wall covered in styrofoam. He drew his revolver with a sigh. Whatever was on the other side, he wanted to be ready to shoot it. If the gun didn't clog.
Forcing his way into the hole put him into a pitch black world that was trying to crush him. He could hear his lungs struggling to inflate against the constriction of the tunnel around him. It was for the best that he could not see the textured objects brushing against him in the darkness.
The walls knew he was there. They reacted to him, making it a slow trip- he would gather the strength to squeeze ahead a few inches, and the walls would compress around him until he had no choice but to wait for a little, when they would relax again and allow him passage. It took at least a half hour of crawling before he saw a pinprick of light in the far distance, and just as long before he reached it. This hole seemed to be even smaller than the one he had come in through.
He pushed his gun wielding arm through first, and his head followed. He found himself hanging upside down over rows and rows of bloodstained surgical tables adorned with thick leather straps. With his eyes full of slime, he scanned the room. The space in front of him was devoid of any life. He wriggled around, pushing out just a little bit more to scan the full room. Until halfway through turning his neck, he saw nothing of note behind him either. And then, turned all the way, he saw a mass of pale skin covered in long mats of slimy wet fur.
A full grown postie. Its teeth were bared, eyes bulging, mouth wide open in what should've been a snarl to freeze his flow of oil. All that came was a low hiss. There were stitches running vertically down the creature's throat. More stitches around the crown of its head, too, and in spots all over its chest where random bits of metal were sown into its flesh. Its eyes were blood red instead of glassy, and it was a lot bigger than a typical specimen. Wicked metal talons sprouted from the ends of each fingertip. Silverware handles stuck out of each of its ears and they were connected with barbed wire.
The creature was huffing and puffing at first but after only a moment seemed to lose interest with Frank. Its enraged hiss cooled to a soft wheeze and its attention turned to a fly near its face. It went after it, trying to grab the insect with its clumsy metal palms or bite it. Frank took every second he could to keep wriggling out. His chance lasted only a moment before there was a sizzling sound and the smell of burning flesh.
An electric current shot through the creature, passing through the metals lodged in its body. Its head flipped back, mouth open in silent agony. When the electricity fizzled out, it turned to Frank.
He pressed the trigger over and over as fast as he could. The first shot hit the postie in the chest as it was barreling towards him. The slime-filled gun did not respond.
It grabbed his gun arm with one mutant paw and jerked. Most of the artificial connections he had so carefully assembled came apart with a series of pops and snaps. A second tug got him out of the hole. He went flying into a table across the room. His arm dangled on the end of a single connector cable. He could not move the digits that were now slack around his revolver. The postie was already coming. The natural ones were big but fragile, any wound causing thick jets of blood and a retreat from all besides nesting mothers. This one was bleeding, but whatever they filled it with kept it going.
Frank grabbed his own limp hand and pulled it across his body just as the monster attempted to bite out his lungs. It got a mouthful of his useless arm and tore it clean off. He jumped away, gun in his other hand, taking cover behind another table.
The beast devoured his arm in two bites and looked straight at him, eager for a second course. Frank's gun emitted a few more useless clicks as the creature charged again. He ducked under the table, a paw-shaped dent appearing over his head. There was a second handgun in a plastic bag sitting in his coat pocket. He had enough foresight to bring a spare, but all it did now was taunt him. His savior was right in his coat, and yet so out of reach.
He rolled out from under the table and made it about two feet before the stainless steel slammed into him from behind. He lay pinned under the table for one moment, and the next his feet were dangling in the air and he was face to face with the creature. It squeezed his chest, popping a lung. The fountain of blood from its chest spurted all over him as it drew him in up to its mouth. His vision was drowned in red splotches when he put his weapon against the creature’s muzzle.
This time, there was a satisfying report.
The creature swayed once in one direction, and collapsed in the other. He pulled away as fast as he could. A soup of skull bits, brains, and brackish blood formed underneath the creature’s head, face frozen in what seemed to be mild confusion. He launched into a stomping frenzy on the creature’s head until it was bloody pulp.
Too many times had he been attacked by something after he blew its brains out.
A hole from the creature's talon went straight through his chest plate. His right lung was torn open, making a ridiculous whoopee cushion sound every time he breathed. It would've been fine, but that lump of wires and gray matter needed a little bit of oxygen from time to time. His vision was already fogging up a little bit despite the best efforts of his left lung. His right arm (again! the right side!) was cleanly ripped off, many of the connection wires remaining intact. If only he could find a replacement. It was an organ farm, there had to be something around here.
A metal door burst open behind him. He turned, raising his gun despite its uselessness. He didn't know what to expect. Could be anything, really. Like all last jobs, this one was cursed and if there was an honest to God dragon waiting for him that would be keeping with the theme.
There was a man, a panting, sweating man. Frank could almost hear the frantic beating of the soft heart from here, the blood rushing through his veins, the tears pouring down his face. A body working as one, all so intact- Frank was more shocked than he was. But of course, the man didn't see the surprise. He saw an abomination of metal and flesh and rusting bones stitched together, aiming a weapon.
"Don't shoot!" He threw his hands over his head.
"Don't move, I'll consider it."
Frank took a few steps closer. The man was dressed in dirty, tattered rags. His hands were covered in dried blood, but beyond that his arms were fine.
"Are you one of those- p- people hunting after that freak? I can- I can tell you where he went!"
Frank's gun dipped a tiny bit lower. He took another step.
"Listening."
"He- he took all of us and ran. I overheard him saying that he was going for the Crawlspace, wh- whatever that means. And he uh, shifted into one of us. Jenny. Red haired girl, big scar on the back of her neck. She's blind, but they don't know that."
"And?" On his next few steps, Frank swayed. Getting dizzy. But getting closer.
"Well, he won't know to- to act blind. Maybe that'll help you find her. Him. Oh! They also split us up into two groups. The real Jenny's group has a guy named Tucker, big guy. He lost shirt and they only gave him this green towel to cover up."
"Uh-huh." Frank was close enough to watch the man's skin for any movement underneath. He was sweating, clearly afraid. They were bad actors when it came to emotion. He was human, alright.
"They said- they said the fake Jenny's taking the Canopy! The others are a decoy! Going through the street! NO!"
Frank drew within a few steps of the man and lowered his gun to the ground.
"Don't worry. Won't hurt you. Not loaded, anyway."
The man sank to his knees in relief.
"Oh, God! Thank you! Thank y-"
Frank slammed the butt of the weapon down onto the man's skull, again, again, again, until he was out on the floor.
He picked him up the best he could and threw him up on the table. Quickly, he fastened the leather straps, around his arms, head, legs. It didn't take much searching around to find a saw. Electric, thank god. He tested it out once in the air above the man, then brought it down right at his shoulder. The man awoke halfway through, screaming. It was far enough along that his spasms didn't throw Frank off. When the arm was detached, he unfastened it and got straight to work on the clumsiest attachment he had ever made with only his bare hands for tools. At the end, he wriggled the blood-encrusted fingers once. They responded after only a moment of delay. Perfect.
There was neither the time nor equipment to harvest the lungs. He dug around in his pockets until he found a sewing needle. Tearing off a bit of the man's clothes, he fastened together a patch for his lung. Less than ideal, but it did the trick.
The bandages and a mason jar full of orange sealing fluid turned up after another search. He threw the fluid over his shoulder and wrapped himself in as much bandage as time would allow. Satisfied, he went the way the man had come from.
On his way out, the man released an unintelligible sound of pain. Frank regarded him with an annoyed stare. His face and eyes were screaming louder than his mouth. Frank gave an exasperated sigh as he picked up the sealing fluid and dumped the rest in the man's stump. He screamed while the substance seared and cauterized his flesh, then fell quiet when it became a glassy coating around where his arm used to be. Frank wrapped it while cursing his own generosity.
Depending on who found him first, the man could go on to live a long, long life. They'd take him apart of course, but they'd put him back together again. And again. Every time something was shot off, or bit off, he could put a new one on, until one day he looked in the mirror and found that he only had a few bits of skull left over.
On his second attempt to leave, there was another blood-curdling scream, much deeper than anything human could produce. He spun around again to find the hole in the ceiling gasping and groaning with ragged breath. As he looked, it screamed again, and this time, a fountain of chunky, black blood poured out from it and pooled on the ground. A volley of skeletal juvenile posties fell with the blood, all screaming until they each hit the ground with a sickening crunch. The blood stopped, the hole gasping for a moment. When it started up again, Frank hurried along on his merry way.
Alright, you sly old woman, he said to lady luck in the corridors, I see you like to play games and I'm sorry I tested you. If I promise that this isn't my last job, and I'll go straight back after this, will you promise that the road'll smooth out by the end?
The hive screamed all around him and the ceiling crumbled under its death throws. Only one force in this city had the balls and jurisdiction to purge a whole hive: the good old boys in blue. Maybe that wasn't bad, maybe they'd stir up enough chaos for him to sneak up and dust the mark, which would, he swore, only be the first of the week. Maybe they would shoot him to bits on his way over.
Whatever the case was, he knew where the man was going and how he was getting there. From outside, the hive here crossed into the Canopy at some point, and there were only a few ways to get to the crawl from there. With cargo, they'd be slow. He had to get out somewhere, anywhere, and then he'd know where to wait.
Frank found a trail of footprints of slime and followed them for lack of any other directions. They led him down a hallway and turned the corner into double doors. He tore them open. A dark black flash passed inches from his face and hit the wall with a thud. He registered the weapon before he reacted to anything else, a glistening obsidian black machete. Inside the room, filled with tables like the first, another modified postie was repeatedly bashing a man against the ground like a ragdoll.
Frank shut the doors before he was noticed. The man came flying through the doors a moment later. He was a pile of indiscernible blood, bones, and flesh, head concave and mixed with a helmet. His body lay inert for a second, then jerked to life. Blood crawled along the tiles to reach the body, bones set themselves back into place, and wounds sealed. His body was standing up, clad in an all black soldier's uniform, before his head was back together, and his hands were scooping up bits of brain and skull and putting them back in place until before him stood a perfectly intact Immortal. He stared at Frank from behind a mask in the shape of a chiseled, stoic ancient expression, cracked his neck, and pulled his sword out of the wall before running back.
The postie, covered in deep cutting wounds, turned to run and met an electric shock. The immortal jumped on its back and with one swing took its head off. He didn't look back, dashing straight ahead for a door at the far end.
Lady luck hadn't heard Frank's prayer. Even the Cult was here now, combined with what the mark had been doing down here. There were more surgical tables down here, but not covered in human blood. All manner of exotic lifeforms were eviscerated, things he did not imagine were real or that he would ever see. A series of the fabled Black Crustaceans each took up several tables for their own, the car sized Isopods, the ten foot long centipedes, and a single crab claw reaching up to the ceiling. There were angel wings stripped like eye socket encrusted chicken bones, jars full of golden blood and glowing bone powder. More that he didn't even recognize from the myth-like rumors passed around town. Of course the Cult was here, they liked to have a monopoly on all arcane substances.
He stepped up to one of the black centipedes, looking at the black blood on his freshly installed hand and then down at the black ooze gushing from the inert abomination. It was cut up into hollowed out sections, and there were crates half full of Black Meat stacked around the table. He dipped a finger into some of the blood pooling on the table and reached it up to his mouth. If he was going to die here, he might as well try it.
As soon as the substance touched his lips there came the intense feeling of being watched. The lights above flickered, pieces of the centipede taking a few inches into the air, boxes beginning to float. A voice whispered, and he whipped his head to the side and saw a spindly black silhouette that hovered until he blinked and found it gone. He spat. The floating objects came down around him and the lights went back on.
No wonder the mark was fleeing the city. He must have connections to traffic stuff like this. His friends would help him escape. If Frank was going to kill him, it would have to be before he connected with them. That was a big if. Suffice to say, he needed a minute to think about what to do.
Whether or not he would go through, he had to get out of here before the whole thing collapsed. When he got out, he could decide if he was feeling like it. Following the Immortal seemed to be his clearest choice. He stepped over the postie corpse and went through the door.
It was another grimy corridor lined with a couple of doors. Each door led to a cell packed full of crates. A hell of a harvest they must have been pulling to get so much. It would explain all the psychic warnings plastered around town. He hoped the mark himself wasn't stuffed full of black meat, if he decided to go after him in the end.
Turning another corner, he found another nest hole. It was big, large enough for a small group to enter at the same time, or maybe a shipment of those crates. He was willing to bet they took this as their escape route. Willing to bet his life. He opened the plastic bag, retrieved his extra gun.
He stepped inside the opening, ankle deep in a mixture of blood and slime. The flesh was a lifeless gray. He felt no life in it when he brushed against it. It made no attempt to constrict him when he passed through a tighter opening. Up ahead, the ground was flat for a few feet before becoming a perfect vertical incline, leading to a small glimmer of light at the very top. He clambered up on protruding lumps of twitching flesh and bits of metal while fighting a current of blood streaming down the walls. All the while he heard the distant sounds of screaming and gunfire that became louder and louder the higher he got.
At the top of the flesh well, the path diverged into four different tunnels, going right, left, back, and forward. Light poured from the last tunnel, along with the screaming. Still, he shuffled along like a moth to the faint glow. The tunnel ended in a gaping wound, torn blood vessels pumping like geysers from the top of the opening. He stepped up to the very edge and stopped.
He overlooked some enormous and bare warehouse home to a party that the whole city had been invited to. On the far side, dozens of bright blue figures fired machine guns mindlessly while a speaker blared "This is the police, you are under arrest for unlawfully harboring humans". On the other, a cluster of pale bodies stood behind a hunk torn off nest flesh while rust colored insects on all sides of them responded to the guns with their own. And in the middle, there was everyone else- patchwork gangs, tumor heads, posties, cultists, lizards, wizards, and more, oh my, all fighting in a field of blood. Everyone must have heard the commotion and decided to join in. The police were speaking to the cartel, but had given up organizing and reverted to the thing they did best, mindlessly shooting everything.
A man below held four machine guns, two in his hands and two in the insect claws sprouting from his chest. He received a purple fireball from one of the flame cultists and fell over screaming. Two dog headed patchworks zeroed in on a skeletal policeman. He made a valiant last stand with his crackling electric baton, but it wasn't enough, and soon his wire infested torso twitched on the ground as the dogs made off with his head and limbs. Policemen with machine guns for arms vaporized a dozen tumor heads with one burst of fire while the K9 unit came crawling in on eight limbs with their mouths spewing fire.
The people below him were the decoy group. He wasn't certain, but if the mark was down there, he was dead anyway. Frank glanced up, and through a hole in the ceiling he spotted an amalgamated mass of metal far above the chaos, the underside of the Canopy. From his viewpoint, he could see that the nest flesh reached all the way up there. The two groups must have split up here, one thrown to the wolves and the other climbing up higher. There had to be a way up.
He turned around and walked through the connection chamber, passing into the opposite tunnel. Here, the flesh gained more of its ruddy color back the deeper he went, and sure enough the tunnel bent upwards at the end. He started climbing again.
Unlike the first, it wasn't a straight vertical. It bent and turned this way and that. As he climbed, he felt himself moving closer and closer to the side of the warehouse. The sounds confirmed it, and though they were growing distant again he could tell he hadn't cleared above the chaos yet. When he was all the way on the other side, he could hear the gunfire on the other side of the wall. He reached a point where the tunnel flattened out into a narrow but level path. The flesh below became a thin translucent layer that sagged under his weight as he crawled through. He was directly above the warehouse floor, which meant he was close.
The flesh felt like it would give out at any moment as he crawled. From there, it was a long way down. If the impact didn't kill him, he'd be picked apart down there. But despite all signs that it wouldn't, the flesh held out until he found another upwards opening. He climbed up, greeted by a dead end sprouting an array of organic and inorganic objects, all pointing downwards, all menacingly sharp. Confused, he searched around the tunnel with his hands for something else. While he did so, there came a wet crackling noise from above. The deadly chandelier was rising up and unfolding to reveal a dark sky, letting cold wind stream through.
Frank went out, rising to his feet on a black, scaly surface. The objects that had guarded the way flailed in the air on the ends of spindly limbs, like a crab turned upside down. They went back into place behind him, locking together into an impenetrable shield.
From this vantage, Frank could see the whole city sprawled out before him, a carpet of glowing mold on the rotting corpse of the earth. He could even see the far walls, and the endless desert outside of them. A few fat blimps floated through the air above the dead sands, free, untethered, like cicadas migrating to a new and far away place. Soon, that'll be me, Frank thought.
He shook his head. Can't get carried away now. Before him, there still stood the Canopy. A great amalgamation of scaffolding, concrete, and metal rising high above the city, supported by occasional pillars rising up from the street like colossal steel tree trunks. It's been there since Frank could remember. Originally a transportation project, meant to be like the crawlspace but above the city instead of below, those in charge lost interest after the first few supports were constructed. But like living tissue, the Canopy seemed to continue growing from the foundations all by itself. True, the city's denizens may have helped cobble it together, but Frank was certain the concrete propagated like the nest flesh. It served to confirm his suspicion that the city itself was a living organism.
He climbed up the remaining nest between him and the canopy, weapon drawn. Along the way he decided to simplify the whole ordeal and shoot everything he saw, human or not. It would be a pain to waste all those guts, but it would be so much easier than trying to identify who was changeling. That's when they got you, while you were identifying.
Near the top he began to hear the sounds of a struggle, guttural grunts and shouting. He pulled himself onto the canopy, a platform with random chunks of metal and concrete interlocking to form a dense labyrinth of tunnels and walls. Thankfully, he didn't have to search through them; the source of the noise was right in front of him.
Something like an enormous lobster with an algae green body thrashed around on the ground amidst a bloody mess of limbs and organs. An undisguised changeling. Frank steadied his aim on its mandible-covered face, ready for when it was done tearing apart the poor soul it had between its claws. A few moments went by, but it didn't notice him, still rolling around in the blood with its limbs flying about. Frank looked closer and saw that the flesh it was tearing apart continuously sealed itself back together every time it was injured. A moment later, he noticed the immortal's shrouded head impaled on the changeling's back spines, and its armor clad arm still gripping the black sword lodged in the changeling's stomach.
So it went. Like an ouroboros after its own tail, the changeling made every attempt to stamp and crush and bite and tear the pieces of the immortal, only for them to reassemble. Frank waited, watching for an opening when he could slip by unnoticed. An idea, a rather stupid idea, formed in his head. In any other situation he would've gone past, but his mind went to the subterranean hallway. If the immortal had wanted to (and he was sure this was the same one), it could've killed him right then. Yet, it had ignored him to go after a different target, the same one he was hunting.
How does the saying go? Save me from being shredded by a mutant bug and I'll scratch your back? Something like that, anyway.
Frank got a few steps closer, waited for the changeling to be still for a moment and fired. He was aiming for its head, but the bullet struck its neck. Just as good, anyway. Thick yellow blood oozed from the wound, and the changeling shrieked. His next shot popped one of its beady black eyes. It began to thrash around even more wildly, clawing at its throat and accidentally tearing open the wound even more. The third went right into its open jaws. A tiny glint as the silvery tip of the bullet poked out from the top of its head. It fell silent, then fell over.
Frank waited a moment as the blood on the ground seeped back into torn fragments of flesh and the body began to slowly reassemble itself. It rose up off the ground, headless with one arm, and went to collect its sword wielding limb, which adhered to its stump out on its shoulder. With both arms, it pulled its head off the spike and set it back in place. After the tendons were done sticking together, the immortal cracked its neck and gave Frank the same unseeing stare, looking him up and down. Apparently finding him satisfactory, it nodded.
Frank sighed in relief, and walked over to it. When he was close, it held up a single finger- "wait". It looked back down at the changeling, nudging it with its foot. There was a gurgling noise from the changeling's throat, and a finger came crawling out of the changeling's mouth like a demented caterpillar. It stuck the finger in its place, its right thumb, which it held up to Frank once it was done connecting. Frank gave it the same gesture.
Sharply, it turned and ran. He followed, ducking below steel pipes and clambering over chunks of rock, right behind the immortal.
If he made it out, he'd have a hell of a story: Guess what? I made a friend at work today, and you won't believe who. That is, if his "friend" wasn't about to throw him off a ledge. They vaulted their way out on top of the canopy, running underneath the tar rain of the blood sky. Frank was having a bit of trouble keeping up, making the Immortal have to stop and wait for him every time the path diverged. If it was annoyed, it didn't say it.
It picked a route that took them down into the Canopy through zig zagging tunnels and then out on top again. Frank could hear his patched lung wheezing and struggling to keep going. He was getting tired, each step like running with concrete blocks on his feet. On his way out of the tunnel, a piece of exposed rebar skewered his right leg in the thigh. While he struggled to liberate himself, the Immortal jumped out of an opening at the top and vanished.
He struggled with his worthless limb for far too long before finally tearing it off the metal. The Immortal was waiting some distance from the opening when Frank poked his head out. He started to run over, but the Immortal held up a hand and then a finger over where its mouth would be. Frank carefully shuffled the rest of the way until he was standing next to the Immortal over a hole. Twenty feet down, there was a man standing armed with a machine, barking orders to someone they couldn't see. While they watched, something shifted underneath the man's skin, an oblong object trying to break out from inside. They looked at each other. Frank already knew what the immortal wanted to do.
"I fall that far, I break something."
The Immortal waved its hands around- no problem- pointed to Frank, then at itself, and bent over as if carrying something heavy on its back.
Frank sighed.
"Fine. Reload first."
A moment later, he was piggybacking the Immortal.
With no further warning, it jumped, sword drawn. He wrapped his arms around it for dear life as he fell. The changeling man didn't have a chance to look up. They hit him with a wet crunch, sword going clean through him, his body and the Immortal's fusing together, and Frank rolling off them covered in some splatters of slime and blood. A shrill shriek echoed, and Frank spun towards its origin with his weapon up. Another muscle man raised a shotgun, mandibles poking from the corners of his mouth. Frank fired a short volley and leapt for the nearest concrete chunk. Dispersed pellets pattered against his leg with no effect. The second shot slammed hard into Frank's cover. The shotgun clattered to the ground a moment later. He peered his head out, watching the man keel over with ooze pouring from a dozen bullet holes and insect limbs sprouting from his shoulders. They didn't even have time to unfold all the way before the Immortal had barreled over, face still reassembling, and cut both limbs off with a single swing. Shrieks as it hacked the changeling into an unrecognizable mess.
Reports thundered from around the corner, bullets gave the Immortal the look of a bloody sponge. The shooter kept at it until the banging turned to empty clicking and then a hard thud when the weapon was thrown. All their effort resulted in the Immortal stumbling back a step, then, like a dog shaking off water, shuddering as all the bloody bullets came pouring back out of its body. It continued forward, unhurried.
This is the life, Frank thought to the sound of shrieking and gun fire. I wonder if this guy will be willing to stick around for the next job. He took the moment to reload again, fix up some of his bandages, tie his shoe laces, make sure his coat was all buttoned up, even straighten his face in front of a piece of glass, so that by the end he was in a presentable state to either meet his maker or secure his ticket out of here.
The havoc died out, until there was only a soft, human blubbering.
"Don't hurt me... please..."
Frank walked over, observing the fresh vomit colored paint job. Between two more piles of minced meat, the Immortal stood next to a cart loaded with black-stained crates. A bare-chested man cowered on the handle side of the cart, hands folded together. Red blood dripped from scratches all over his skin.
"They made me... help them... I swear... I didn't do anything..."
The Immortal ignored him, its attention fixed on the crates. It lifted up a hand, uttering something in a deep, forgotten language. The crates burst into deep purple fire. While it watched them become cinders, Frank marched over to the man, furrowing his brow into the most menacing expression he could.
"The others?"
The man pointed to the right, in the direction of another tunnel that led outside to an unsheltered section. A silhouette was hightailing it out, gun waving in the air.
The Immortal was already at Frank's side. He pointed to the fire.
"Do that to rest. Be faster."
It ran ahead, ignoring him. This time, he was happy to lag behind.
The runner turned around to shoot at the last second, finding the Immortal sword already through his chest. Frank stopped a few paces behind the disembowelment that ensued to look around the corner. Jackpot.
A group of frail and pale human beings stood bound together by a rope, huddled between a few more crate-filled carts and three more changelings who weren't bothering with disguises. There were only three women in the small crowd, and only one was blond.
He waited for the three insects to charge at the Immortal. It had trouble with the first undisguised one, but these were much smaller. The first one that reached it had its head taken clean off before it even touched the Immortal. As soon as the others were busy, Frank dashed past the scuffle as fast as he could. His eyes were fixed on the blond woman. She, it, didn't notice him through the chaos at first, and when its eyes locked on him he was already close enough.
The other humans dove out of his way.
The woman began to scream.
These bastards folded up, you had to go for the lower body.
He shot her four times in the stomach. Yellow blood.
Before his fifth shot, something touched his shoulder. He turned slightly and came face to face with the same man he had met in the tunnels. His face was blank, hand on the same shoulder Frank had taken from him in the tunnels. A pincer had already sprouted out of his chest.
The claw closed around Frank's wrist, twisted, jerked, taking his hand and his gun with it.
The woman was unfolding, tearing apart with a wet noise. Uncounted limbs sprouted in every direction, rising and rising until the changeling towered four Franks tall, mandibles open in a sickening grin. Frank had no time to even blink at it before a hooked limb snapped out against his face.
He flew back, bits of his head splintered in every direction. With one eye he saw the other in midair. Ribs crumpled on impact with wood planks. Vision went foggy, fuzzy green view of his own revolver being aimed.
Father annihilated what was left of the patchie's head with his own pea-shooter, wiping off the final expression of stupid surprise. I waited for him to break out of the cocoon until soon he was standing at my shoulder.
"How the hell did he know which one to shoot?" I snarled.
"That doesn't matter. He's dead."
"But that fucker over there isn't. And if he's here, he must've... he must've..." I growled. The demon was almost finished with my last three brothers. No big loss, I didn't like them anyway. But mother...
"I know. Her death hurts me too, but she did the right thing, holding him back. We're almost there now."
"That doesn't matter. He'll never stop."
"He won't, but I can give you a chance to run."
"Father?"
"Son," he said, putting a claw on my shoulder, "you created all of this, ran it all by yourself. You're strong enough to go without me. I could not ask for a better heir."
"No!"
"Son, ours is a brutal business and a difficult life. Our enemies are many and relentless, and so are we. Your blood is filled with hundreds of relentless generations, and it will go on for thousands more. I trust that you will make us all proud." I smiled at him, wiping a tear from my eye.
"I love you, father."
"I love you too. Now go. Uncle Ix is waiting to pick you up."
Without wasting a moment, he turned away from me. He took a deep breath.
He sprung forward, running on all his limbs. The demon stood to meet him amidst the remains of my brothers. My father caught him in a fatal embrace, groaning as the cursed blade came out through his back. Still he ran and ran until he reached the ledge.
I closed my dripping eyes before they fell.
"Goodbye," I whispered.
Red wire from his brain to his skull as it lay on the wood. Contemplated it with one hanging eye. This is me, he thought. This is who I really am. A lump. He saw also with the same vagueness a changeling-shaped blur tackle the Immortal off the side of the canopy. The other changeling snarled. Remaining hand grasped around something soft amidst the timber of the crate. Lifted the hand. Bit of jerky black fluid seeping down his arm. Jaw in place. Chewing.
"We're going straight ahead, meat sacks! Anyone runs, and I'll pull the fucker limb from limb."
Those who had been in the farm the longest went ahead without protest, obedient little sheep. A few of the new ones screamed and cried and cowered and begged for their lives. One old man was bent over, breathing heavily, his great white beard touching the ground with his eyes full of total surrender. I flashed him across the throat and he fell back gurgling blood. No loss, his guts were all used up anyway. That whipped the rest of them into shape.
We were almost to the tube now. A straight shot, some more climbing, and my uncle was waiting to whisk me away with open arms. The plan was Tokyo, or maybe Moscow, somewhere where it would take the cultists a long, long time to find me.
Hard, chewy like jerky.
I stayed back, making sure everyone of the meat bags went on his way. Some young kid stood his ground, staring up at me from a puddle of sweat. Some girl he was friendly with was trying to pull him along. He stared straight into my eyes. I grinned back.
Crunch. Didn't even have to swallow.
Our little staring contest had a clear winner. He ran along. I didn't want to waste him. He was good at skinning them and his guts could yet be sold for a solid price.
Held up his hand, palm up. Seemed to be right.
They were all moving now. I started after them. A bolt of ice shot all the way down my back and froze my feet to the ground. A sickening feeling, my stomach and head bursting into pain as inexplicable terror took over me. I turned my head. The patchy was laid on the crates, mouth full and black blood streaming down his chin. His arm was extended towards me. The fucker ate some.
Scrunched his hand into a fist. Changeling's head scrunched with it. Feeling of power in his veins when the ten foot body flopped to the ground.
Maybe one day I'll write a book, he thinks. One day when I'm living it up with Japanese synthetic organs, I'll write an autobiography, called "Surviving New Denver." In this book I'll have some rules on how to make it big out there. Do not approach ambiguous silhouettes, be kind to Immortals, that sort of thing. But the cardinal rule will be: make sure it's dead, he thinks, and he laughs to himself in the middle of the street, holding his hat full of his own gray matter, with invisible strings dragging the changeling's head across the pavement behind him.