Netherkind

by Greg Chapman

  Oh, his skin; it was clear to Thomas that he took care of it and the Flesher secretly thanked God for the new-age science that was vanity. Thomas wanted to take the man down, tear his flesh with his canines and swallow him down.

  Yet he wouldn’t do it that way—not like her. Thomas turned away from the man and stared mournfully at his untouched cup of coffee. It happened every time he needed to feed; Stephanie burrowing into his mind like a newborn maggot. The monster who’d revealed herself to be just like him—or what he might become if he ever gave over completely to his animal nature.

  Thomas gripped his head in his hands and tried not to picture her in his head. The throng of the herd’s shoes on the sidewalk, the beat of their hearts seemed to pound in time with his own and with each pulse as Stephanie’s vile visage came closer to his mind’s eye.

  He hated the legacy she had left him. He despised the fact she had left him more confused about himself—what he was, why he was. How could she have abandoned him to face the demon that lived in his shadow?

  A presence caused Thomas to look up and he saw a waitress gawking at him. Thomas realized his face was wet from crying and he quickly wiped the tears on his sleeve.

  “Is everything alright, sir?” she said, trying to force a smile and conceal the fear in her gaze.

  “Yes…I’m fine,” Thomas replied, glancing away from her.

  “Are you sure, sir? You’ve hardly touched your coffee. Was it not to your satisfaction?”

  Thomas growled under his breath, the robotic inflection in the waitress’ voice grating. His stomach burned and he found his eyes drawn toward the sea of meals. When he turned back to her, he wanted to tear off her face just out of spite.

  “Damn it!” Thomas stood quickly, knocking the table and startling the waitress.

  “Did I do something wrong, sir?”

  “Just…shut up!” he said, his snarl forcing the waitress to step back. Thomas could feel the blood pulsing behind his eyes. “You’re pissing me off!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t—”

  Thomas stepped toward her and she squealed drawing looks of astonishment from the other diners. Thomas’ chest heaved beneath his coat as once again he saw Stephanie in his head, all rage and hate. He tried to blink her vision away—he had to stay in control.

  “Look forget it!” he said, holding out his hands to placate her. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

  He took a crisp fifty-dollar bill from his coat, placed it on the table and left the waitress behind. He slipped into the herd quickly and walked with them, the rich aromas of perfume and cigarette smoke invading his nostrils.

  Thomas eyed every one of them, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists until his fingernails pricked his palm. He pictured his teeth in their flesh, the tang of their blood. The urge willed him on, and he struggled to stay in control. He broke off from the herd into a doorway, chest heaving. With every breath, he saw Stephanie. He smacked the side of his head with his fist, attracting glances of concerns from passers-by. He hated how Stephanie taunted him from afar, but most of all he hated how he was beginning to let it bother him.

  Slipping back into the crowd, he felt hands brush against his and it was all he could do to contain himself from giving over to the monster in him and having his fill. He huddled inside his coat, plunging his hands deep in the pockets. He tensed his body against the urge, stifling a scream.

  There were so many faces, so many bodies, just inches from his grasp. He heard a voice begging him to take them, but it didn’t feel like his own; it was hers. He turned his head to the left and then the right, the voice seemingly outside his head—floating in the air. Its power stopped him in his tracks.

  He let the herd stride by, the various scents flowing and fading. Every opportunity slipped through his fingers—all because he was too afraid to let her get to him; too weak to indulge. His soul was struggling; he needed to feed, but he had to stay in control even more.

  Suddenly he sensed another fragrance amidst the rest—no above them—sharp, poignant, fuelled by blood pumping with a pace that exceeded his own. The voice, the taunt, had become flesh. Its sweat was overwhelming, inflamed with musky chemicals that caused his loins to stir. He knew the scent all too well.

  He whirled around to face the other side of the street and he saw her—a smiling hawk.

  Stephanie.

  Chocolate-coloured threads of hair, like filaments of shadow around eyes that could have been pools of the most precious oil; lips red as dried blood, lustrous, pale skin. She bared her canines to smile at him anew.

  Then she was gone, swept up in the parade. Thomas sprinted across the street, forcing drivers to blare their horns in alarm at the supposed mad man who put his body in jeopardy to pursue a figment—a glimpse of his deepest desire. The herd was even thicker on the other side and Thomas struggled through them, desperately sniffing the air between their hot bodies in search of his nemesis. He pushed one man to the ground, causing a mini-domino effect, meals falling to their knees and elbows with cries of disbelief. He was grateful for it, for now he could look over the melee more easily.

  Thomas rubbed his eyes and strained to refocus them, had he just imagined her? His heart was a carousel in his chest. His skin film was wet paper over his bones. He bit his lip and scanned the crowd; he wanted to call out to her, spit her name with fury. He paced and searched, all the time thinking—what would I do if I saw her? Would I chase after her? And if I caught her, what would I do then?

  The prospect of holding her in his hands terrified him and excited him all at once. He clenched his fists until they burned, willing himself to move. To find her and—

  But she had escaped him again, leaving him alone with his hatred for her pounding in his heart, so loud that, for the first time in his monstrous existence, he couldn’t hear the urge.

  3

  Later, Thomas roamed the city streets, lost in the ethereal fog of Stephanie’s scent. As he walked, he kept telling himself that he’d been mistaken when he saw her, that it was just a starvation-induced hallucination.

  He turned down vague alleyways, past brothels shining with seduction, buskers playing to his melancholy. He was lost like a piece of trash, riding the river of filth in the gutter, down a drain to a brighter sea.

  Oh, how he hated Stephanie, her look of scorn, that seductive smile. His hatred of her was palpable, more powerful than the urge itself and he wondered how long its rush could sustain him. Hadn’t it sustained him this long?

  The sun was falling in a peach-coloured sky and the scents of the night were emerging, calling to him. The herd was dispersing, venturing to the safety of their homes. They too were creatures of habit, yet they seemed unaware of the fact. There was but a sliver of difference between he and humanity, Thomas realized, only the smallest tone of skin separated them.

  He tried to clear his mind of Stephanie. Why would she set foot in the city after all this time? He saw her in his head, stealing his seed, leaving him wanting.

  Has she come back to taunt me?

  He shook the concept from his head and concentrated instead on prospective meals coming in and out of a bookstore. How the humans loved escape, to fantasize about something—anything other than their mundane lives. They knew nothing of life and its desires, Thomas realized. They should walk a day in my shoes.

  They should walk a day in my skin.

  In a way, they did when he devoured them.

  His thoughts of Stephanie waning, the urge returned in full force, like a vice around his throat. He had to settle for the first meal he came across. The cover of night was falling like a curtain now, granting the Flesher sanctuary—a place to watch and make his selection.

  A man, aged about thirty, exited the door of a video store, waving his goodbyes to his fellow workers. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of the night ahead; the eve of the weekend, when humans indulged in frivolity and fornication—the closest thing to true fantasy they could manage.

  The m
an was enticing enough, plenty of meat on his bones, no sign of affliction. The choice made, Thomas began the chase.

  Thomas walked behind him, hooked on his fragrance; he could almost see it, like the shaft from a lighthouse piercing the night. The man had no idea Thomas was stalking him. The Flesher’s footfalls were almost non-existent to the primitive scale of human hearing and Thomas used his cat-like reflexes to keep to the shadows. Slowly, inch by inch, he closed in, the taste of him, spreading across his tongue.

  Humans were so predictable, repetitive, keeping to the same routine. They would drive or walk the same path to their intended destination and repeat the action in order to return home. They’d never think to look over their shoulder—before it was too late. Thomas followed the man across the intersection, past a corner store, through a clutch of meals on their way to the gym. Ahead, Thomas glimpsed a familiar side street—an access to the rear of a laundromat, rarely occupied, the perfect killing field. The man was just yards from him now. Thomas quickened his pace, gliding from shadow to lengthening shadow, the dark of night swelling in his wake. He darted closer and closer and reached out to touch the man’s jacket, his fingertips virtually touching the creamy fat of his body beneath.

  Then he was gone; abruptly snatched away by another pair of hands.

  The hands had come from out of the darkness of the alley, sliding with precise dexterity around the man’s throat. Snatched right before Thomas’ eyes.

  Thomas, his mouth agape, rounded the corner of the alley to find his intended prey struggling in the grip of another attacker, dragged deeper into the blind alley. Thomas tried to see reason in what was occurring before him: was he witnessing a burglary—a murder?

  The drooling wet snarl he heard next dismissed his notions in an instant.

  This wasn’t a mugging—the fear in the man’s eyes told of a far worse horror. Thomas had seen the same look of terror countless times before, during countless meals.

  Thomas saw teeth in the man’s throat, inch-long fingernails stripping the sleeves from his coat. The man was about to be eaten alive—by another Flesher.

  Thomas froze, the sight of one of his kind simultaneously intriguing and terrifying him. For a moment, he felt small and afraid, but quickly instinct, and the sight of the man’s man being shredded flesh, drew Thomas into the struggle. He latched on to the man’s left arm and fought for his share. As the victim shrieked for his life, the two Flesher’s eyes locked.

  Thomas’ competitor was not unlike himself, but his ferociousness was well and truly on the surface; his pale, dirty skin flushed with the fire of primal rage, his eyes shed bloody tears, but his canines were his most terrifying aspect—elongated and razor sharp.

  The other Flesher pulled tightly on his claim, releasing more cries of agony from their prey. Thomas pulled back just as fiercely and bared his teeth to hiss like a house cat. This only riled the other Flesher on and, he tore the victim’s arm from its flimsy socket with one powerful stroke.

  Arterial blood sprayed onto the ground and the victim and Thomas fell in a heap into the spreading puddle. Thomas barely had time to react before the nameless Flesher jumped on him, his splitting face soaked with the victim’s blood.

  “He’s mine!” the Flesher said.

  The young man cried out for help, but his rapid blood loss sapped his breath.

  Thomas, now fearful for his own life, lashed out with his right fist into the other Flesher’s jaw. The blow lifted his attacker off the ground and sent him crashing into alley wall, scattering great plumes of brick dust. Thomas’ actions did little to deter the Flesher, as he was quickly heading back towards him with a fresh mask of fury on his features.

  The Flesher scooped Thomas off the ground like a doll and hurled him halfway up the alley, his body twisting through the air. He hit the ground hard and felt a rib break. There was no time to register the pain, as the maniac quickly straddled him and tried to claw at his face.

  “You fucker!” he said. “I told you—he’s mine!”

  Thomas’ adrenalin soared and he shoved the Flesher off, his back slamming into the dirt. This time Thomas was kneeling on his chest and his counterpart desperately threw out his hands to block any blows. Thomas caught his right hand however and instinctively bit down on it, severing the index and middle fingers. The Flesher wailed with the shriek of a wounded hawk.

  Thomas tasted the Flesher’s blood and recoiled at its harsh iron flavour. He spat the two digits into the dirt.

  “You fuck—you bit me!” the Flesher said.

  “And I’ll do it again if you don’t stop!” Thomas replied.

  The delay gave the other Flesher the advantage and he lifted both his knees to drive them squarely into Thomas’ chest. Thomas sailed through the air only to come to a jarring halt when he collided with a dumpster.

  The last thing he saw before he passed out was the other Flesher dragging his meal down a manhole—to the sewers.

  A severed arm was all Thomas had to show for his run-in with the Flesher. He fed on it, greedily stripping the skin and muscle from the bone in a matter of a few minutes. The whole time he ate, he thought and breathed shallow breaths to stave off the pain of his shattered rib.

  The meal—or the portion he’d been left of it—renewed him and soon the pain in his chest subsided. Images of the fight with the other Flesher played back in his head like an oxidised filmstrip. Thomas thought he’d handled himself well in the scrap, but he admitted he had to stop meeting other Fleshers this way.

  The pure animalistic nature of his opponent shocked Thomas; all claws and teeth, eyes rimmed with bloodlust. Thomas knew his own nature well, how fiercely it had evolved, but to him, this other Flesher appeared out of control—lost to the urge completely. Or was that how he wanted it to appear? Was he simply indulging in what he was—a beast?

  Could I end up like him?

  Thomas looked at the remnants of the man’s arm in his hand. Would that be so bad, he thought? To embrace what he so clearly was—a predator? For years, he had raged against the beast within. He killed because he needed human flesh, so was he not simply doing what was necessary to survive?

  Thomas saw the Flesher’s face again; pale and cracked; veins marbling his forehead, close-cropped black hair like the bristles of a steel brush; his teeth-filled jaw almost dislocating to swallow him whole. He didn’t want to become like that—a monster. Yet the taste of his fingers that lingered the longest—an after taste he knew well and wished he’d forgotten.

  He could sense that, even now, despite his own disgust, he favoured the taste of human flesh—and Flesher hide. Was he losing his internal battle? If he gave in, would he end up like that other Flesher, lurking in the sewers, leaping out of manhole covers, like a spider to snag passing prey? No, he couldn’t let that happen. All he ever wanted was to be normal, but that possibility seemed to have been retreating further and further away since Stephanie. His hatred of her was eroding his resolve.

  Stephanie wasn’t like this new Flesher he’d encountered. She was normal, even beautiful. Yet she was still savage in nature, easily slipping in and out her two halves. How did she manage that? How was she still sane? Thomas needed to know how she controlled it—and he needed to know if it was possible separate man from beast.

  He tossed the arm bone into the dumpster. A human may have perceived such an act as reckless, but as a Flesher, Thomas was the perfect animal and the perfect criminal—he had a natural defence. By eating humans, he acquired and absorbed their DNA into his own body. His entire self was a patchwork of genes from whole sections of the human race, making his own miraculous DNA impossible to identify, let alone trace.

  He could have said the same for the creature that attacked him. He contemplated tracking him through the sewers by smell, but the mix of filth and stenches in the tunnels told him it would be a waste of time. All Thomas could do was hope he didn’t run into the Flesher again and take some small comfort from the fact he wasn’t alone.

  Tho
mas returned to his loft, his thoughts plaguing him, seemingly taking control of his body.

  He stripped and slipped into bed, the sheets cold on his skin, soothing, but beneath his flesh and bone, his mind raced with anxiety and indecision. He was no longer certain if he wanted to meet others of his kind. Stephanie’s appearance had only served to alter him and now this latest confrontation with another Flesher had almost cost him his life. He barely knew enough about what he was—could he be certain that other Fleshers were the same?

  Fleshers in the city, stalking and killing just like him. How many, he wondered? Did they dwell in the dark places—the subways and under bridges? Or did they live among humans, in lofts, staring down at their prey like a child would a colony of ants?

  The grip of sleep pulled at his eyes; he had been more exhausted by the battle than he realized. He needed to rest and recover to rise anew to find a decent meal to put in his stomach and then move on. Perhaps the answers to all his questions would come to him in his sleep. Maybe for once, his dreams would be more than just the primal meanderings of a monster.

  The Flesher Nero peered out from under the manhole cover to scan the rain-slicked street outside the abandoned picture theatre.

  Rage had initially spurred him to follow his opponent back to his lair, but in hindsight, he concluded that it was more about pride and satisfying an idle curiosity. Who the hell did this Flesher think he was to try to steal his food? Did he think he was better than he was? The way the fool dressed, in his fancy human clothes, it was obvious he thought so. Nero surmised that, from the gaunt look on this Flesher’s face was starved of something other than flesh. The guy’s obviously confused about what he is. After all, what sort of Flesher would live right alongside his prey?

  Doesn’t he know that you don’t shit where you eat?

  He sniffed the air; the flashy Flesher was inside the theatre, undoubtedly asleep, indulging in the human comforts of the home. Maybe it was time to let him know—give him a real shock to the system—turn his little world upside down.