by Chad Lutzke
“And they’ve all seen this?” Chandler nodded toward the group.
“They have seen the creature, yes. They’ve been informed of the tests so far up to this point, although they have yet to witness the power of the creature. Our final discernment test will be witnessed by us all here today. There is still the matter of reproduction and of course transport but we’re making headway in those areas. Our main focus now lies in the creature’s ability to distinguish whom he should assassinate from those he should not.”
“Let’s do this then. Bring on the test!”
The doctor stood silent and stared hard at Chandler. There was an uncomfortable silence, and Chandler did what he always did to calm himself. He lit a cigarette.
“I don’t like you all that much, Mr. Worthington,” said Dr. Bellinson.
“Excuse me?”
“Perhaps despise is a more fitting word. Yes, despise fits perfectly. I despise you and everything you stand for. Frankly, you make me sick.”
“Doctor, I think perhaps you may want to consider changing your tone with me.” He blew smoke hard in the face of the doctor. “I’ll pull out of this project so fast that…”
“You will pull out of nothing!” The doctor screamed.
Chandler stood stupefied. He looked across the bridge at the investors behind the glass.
“You are my enemy!” The doctor’s face reddened and his voice cracked with rage.
“What is this?” Chandler looked around nervously then took more smoke into his lungs. A small, red bead of light settled on his chest. A wisp of smoke lifted from the red dot and seconds later he felt a sharp, painful burn.
Chandler let out a yelp and jumped back nearly sending himself over the rail; his cigarette fell and joined the others below.
“I demand to know what ridiculous initiation this is you are presenting here. I will be no part of this.” Chandler yelled as he rubbed at the small hole in his chest. He swiftly walked toward the exit when metal gates rose like drawbridges, blocking his way off the bridge.
“We call it the incense, Mr. Worthington. With the beast's keen sense of smell, it helps to decipher which target is theirs.”
“Target? I’m no target! I’m the reason this whole thing exists. Without me you would have nothing. You’d all be playing with your chemistry sets and watching mold grow in petri dishes. I’ve given more than any of those imbeciles combined.” Again, pointing toward the group of men.
One of the beast's many tendrils rose up from the water and toward the bridge.
The doctor ignored Chandler’s desperate babble and continued his own speech. “Of course, the building of tension toward the adversary by way of audible aggression quickens this process, and we have found it secures the confirmation of the target.”
The tendril reached the bottom of the grate walkway.
Dr. Bellinson resorted back to his rage-filled tone and pointed his finger at Chandler. “You are the enemy! You represent the greedy pig of this earth! You have….”
“No, wait! Dr. Bellinson!” Chandler’s panicked face turned toward the audience.
The doctor continued to ignore the man’s pleas. “You have sucked the well dry of every soul who has had the displeasure of making your acquaintance. You are the enemy!”
The tendril fed up through the grate and quickly wrapped itself around the wrist of Chandler. He screamed in pain as the vine sunk into his skin.
“You are the enemy!”
With one swift movement, the tendril snapped back through the grate, de-gloving Chandler’s hand. Two gold rings fell from the boneless fingers, clanged on the walkway, and dropped toward the water. The skin made a slapping sound as it was pulled through the grate. Chandler fell to his knees filling the dome with inhuman screams. He watched as the flesh that had formed his hand for forty years sunk into the pulsating mass twenty feet below.
“You are the enemy, Mr. Worthington.” Dr. Bellinson said calmly.
More tendrils ripped up through the grate, latching onto the legs and arms of Chandler. Each tendril brought home roughly cut ribbons of flesh and clothing to its throbbing body, slowly consuming it. The water changed hues, as blood trickled down like rain. Chandler lay in shock; his face pressed hard into the holes of the metal floor.
Dr. Bellinson grinned. He had witnessed the final test in a very long year of hard work fueled by sweat, and now blood; the results of hard labor lay before him in a shredded mess.
“You truly have given more than the rest, Mr. Worthington. We thank you for your investment. I suspect perhaps the beast saved you; saved you from a most elongated and arduous death, the result of those cigarettes of yours.
Notes on Discerning the Adversary
This story was originally written for an anthology using the theme of giant monsters created by the authors. It was rejected. I think they were looking for more monster and less human interaction. From the dialogue, to choosing the names, this was a lot of fun to create. The name Chandler stemmed from the character, Mrs. Chancellor from the soap opera, Young and the Restless. In the 70s my mother would watch it, and I played with my toys near the TV often enough that I picked up on character names and personalities, as well as some of the story lines. Mrs. Chancellor was rich and evil. The name Chandler Worthington just seemed too perfect not to use. It had rich arrogance written all over it.
One for the Road
After a while we got used to the constant thuds above us. By this time it was reminiscent of a grandfather clock ticking in the background, only too loud and too sporadic. A grandfather clock; oh, the irony. After all, it was my grandpa chained up in the attic. The one with an insatiable appetite for flesh. The one who was long past days of spanking me on my birthdays with a pinch to grow an inch, and on to days of clawing at me, hoping to grab that inch, tear it off, and digest it.
My mother was the one who insisted we keep him up there. She was convinced that one day soon a cure would be found for the outbreak. My dad fell into agreement only because he knew if they ever had to hand Grandpa over to be exterminated, my mother would lose it. My dad would never hear the end of it. Despite extermination being legal protocol for those affected, they were willing to take the risk of getting caught. People had been caught before. The punishment for which I felt was rather extreme—up to 4 years in prison for adults, and detention holding for minors. More like an orphanage. The kids in these places were victims of their parent's crimes. It was far from an epidemic though. It was too easy to get caught, and the few people who did were already being used as an example. The government was very serious about following the new post-mortem protocol. Besides, nobody wanted to share their home with something rotting from the inside that moaned all night; something that if given the chance would de-skin them and come back for seconds.
Grandpa had been inflicted just a month prior when he found himself stranded on Old Bell Road. His trusty truck finally took a dump on him, and instead of using the cell phone we gave him, he hoofed it for a good mile—at least until one of them caught up to him. His hearing wasn't what it used to be, so I suspect Grandpa never saw it coming—only felt it—once it ripped off part of his shoulder, that is. Grandpa was smart enough to pack himself a gun on that little unlucky hike, so it didn't take long for the biter to chase that shoulder sandwich down with a bullet.
Grandpa took cover back in his truck where he finally gave in and used his cell phone to call us. By the time we had gotten to him, he was gone. We knew we had about two hours before he came back as something else. That’s when my parents came up with the genius plan that now fills the house with the stench, the moaning—and who could forget—the thudding.
It was summer and the attic was steaming hot, which didn't help with Grandpa rotting and all. My dad rigged up some fans up there to get some air circulating and force the funk out. At first glance, the ceiling to the attic looked like some kind of cave inhabited by green bats swaying gently from their individual resting places. A second glance revealed it was
nothing more than a lifetime supply of pine tree air fresheners, enough for the whole neighborhood. I gotta hand it to my dad, though. He tried everything he could to make life a bit more livable under the circumstances.
Did I mention the "soundproofing" that was installed in the attic? We managed to find several old mattresses to cover the entire attic floor. This helped dull the thud when Grandpa would go into one of his rages. The mattresses also helped absorb the moaning. Getting everything to the house without bringing any suspicion with it was the tricky part. Every store within a 40-mile radius that ever sold pine tree fresheners were now clean out. We purchased no more than two per store, and good luck finding a mattress anywhere close by now.
The whole community was struggling to normalize any way it could, despite the government telling us the outbreak had been controlled and was no longer a threat. Fortunately for mankind, the outbreak was contained in a single county, but fear of more outbreaks brought in the Suits, as well as the erecting of new government buildings right in our town. We were now the eye of a flesh-eating storm watched closely by Big Brother.
I wondered sometimes what would happen if Grandpa got out of the attic. My mother stayed home all day while Dad worked so it would have to be over her dead body. Well, it wouldn't be dead for long.
Unbeknownst to my parents, I checked on my grandpa often. He was securely chained and roped complete with padlocked shackles; the ropes extending to a few of the support beams. He wasn't going anywhere. My parents owned a big chest freezer loaded with a potpourri of meats.
Each day I would grab some and let it thaw out over night under my bed. Grandpa no longer had teeth due to biting hard at the chains, so I would dice the meat into small cubes and fill a plate. Nearly every other day, during my mother's nap, I would take a plate to him. He would eat it, but not like one would eat for nourishment, but out of rage; like he despised the meat and was punishing it with his hands and mouth.
Today I did my usual sneak-up into the attic. It had been a few days since I'd seen Grandpa. The air fresheners had started to lose some of their scent and I didn't trust they alone would cover the smell enough for me to keep my lunch down. So I took a stick of my mother's cinnamon gum and pressed it against my top lip, holding it in place with a bandana tied around my head. I looked like an old bank robber with a pink moustache.
I had forgotten to thaw any meat out the night before, but I wanted to visit Grandpa anyway. I could hear him quiet down a bit once he heard me coming up the attic’s ladder steps. Once he saw me, he just kind of stared at me for a minute; like a dog waiting for a cat to jump the fence into its yard. I sat on a big box of Christmas decorations and just watched him for a while. His body language was that of agitation as he realized I was coming no closer. It dawned on me that since Grandpa had been up here for the past month, he has never sat down. Never rested. Never slept. I felt bad for him. Was he in any kind of pain? It made me feel a bit better that perhaps his soul had already left to be with Jesus, and this cocoon of a body was now nothing more than a chicken with its head cut off, running aimlessly with no more purpose, feelings, or awareness.
As I looked at Grandpa, he looked different. Something was wrong. His stomach was completely bloated as though he were pregnant…with twins. I sat wondering why his stomach was so distended, when it dawned on me. He has been eating the meat I've given him, but his organs were no longer functioning. They were dormant, just lying there within him. And now he was backed up with weeks of rotting beef, chicken, and venison. What was I thinking that somehow his digestive system remained intact and working while dead? I had to stop feeding him. My dad was going to notice. Or worse yet, Grandpa's intestines would burst, like a piñata full of bad chili.
Had I really been starting to accept this whole thing? I can't. I won't accept this. My grandpa is dead and we're holding him prisoner. If my Mom really believed a cure was being discovered, how did she think she would ever obtain it? She wasn't thinking. That was the problem. A cure like that they don't just sell at the checkout next to the paperbacks and candy bars. We're talking a highly classified government miracle cure. And the expense?! Well, it would cost you an arm and a leg. There's a joke in there somewhere.
I'd heard about people being in denial when they lose a loved one. Some believed the person they loved suddenly became a guardian angel, in charge of watching over them. I didn't believe any of that, but I understood why someone would. I could see how it would help one cope with the loss. My mom wasn't coping though. She was downright delusional. I felt like I needed to do something. Has Mom even seen what Grandpa is looking like? Bloated and toothless, standing in this pine mattress playhouse wearing the clothes he had soiled with the last meal he was able to digest. I decided something had to be done, and apparently nobody but me was going to do it.
That night I lay in bed searching for ideas. I weighed my options. I could find none, other than somehow rid this world of my grandpa. I questioned whether poison would work. I knew there would be no problem getting him to consume some. I could easily bury some rat poison in the meat. However, because he wasn't digesting anymore, I didn’t feel that would work. I had considered using my dad's gun. Grandpa had handled his biter with a gun, but I knew the execution had to be discreet. I couldn't just unload round after round into my grandpa right there in my home. My mother would lose her mind, the neighbors would hear, and I'd find myself in the juvie, crying myself to sleep knowing I was responsible for my parent's incarceration. Seconds before I drifted off into sleep, I knew there was no way I could pull it off.
That night I dreamt my grandpa broke loose from all the makeshift bondage, made his way downstairs, and obliterated me and my parents; ripped us apart. Ate us. Gnawed on our skin with his callused gums. When I awoke, I took the nightmare as a warning. The dream instilled the harsh reality in me that this wasn't just about mercy for my grandpa, but for the safety of my own family. My dear mother, trapped in a world of grief and denial that she couldn't come to terms with. And my father, a slave to his own desire to appease his wife, with the hope of one day seeing her smile again.
I looked under my bed. The largest steak I'd ever thawed sat there with beads of water decorating it. I grabbed the steak, ripped it open, put it into a small trash bag, and put the bag into my backpack. I was prepping for the only plan I could come up with. I headed out to the garage where I found my mother's mop and some thin rope. I broke off the head of the mop and took the cap off the other end, leaving nothing more than a hollow metal dowel. The rope was thin enough to double it up and feed it through the mop handle. Once it made it through to the other end I pulled enough out to make a hoop that I felt was just big enough to fit around Grandpa’s head. I saw a dog catcher using a similar tool once on a stray in our neighborhood. I double-knotted the other end of the rope so it wouldn't feed through the tube if tugged hard. I stashed the backpack and the makeshift dog catcher in the corner of the garage behind some boxes.
My parents were going out that night for groceries after my dad got home. If my mother ever went anywhere it was never alone, and the guilt of making my father go alone only exacerbated everything else wrong with her. If I was ever going to do anything about our situation it would have to be at a time like tonight. It was the longest day of my life. I couldn’t find anything to occupy my mind. I just sat and stared, trying to think of alternatives. Once my dad got home, it would be another hour before he undressed, re-dressed, read the paper, and finally left for the store with my mom.
After endless waiting, my parents left just before dark. I hurried up to the attic with my backpack strapped on and lasso staff in hand. Climbing the ladder steps, I could hear Grandpa quiet slightly as he usually did. I poked my head up just far enough to see him.
Still pregnant with rotten meat. Still shackled. Still a threat.
Nervous doesn’t exactly describe my condition at the time. Terrified comes closer. Once I reached the top of the ladder, I had to stop and sit down on the Christmas box
. I thought I might be sick. Between the smell and my nerves, it made a disastrous recipe for emptying my stomach involuntarily. The longer I sat, the longer I had to breathe the rot and the more I had to think about Grandpa. I reached for the ropes that my dad had rigged through pulleys. They were all attached to Grandpa’s chains. In case we ever needed to move Grandpa or get close to him for any reason, these ropes—when pulled—lifted his arms above his head where he couldn’t move them. I pulled the ropes and tightly tied them around one of the support beams. Grandpa didn’t like this at all. He started to thrash around a bit, but I ignored him. I had to remain focused, and I only had so much time. I was in a race against both my stomach and my parents.
With unsteady hands, I held the catch pole out in front of me. I had imagined this being easier than it was proving to be. At each attempt I made to capture him, my grandpa lunged at me. It didn’t help that my attempts were timid and lacked any confidence; like a girl touching a slimy worm for the first time. The rope finally looped around the back of his head and dropped down around his neck. I tugged on the rope through the catch and tightened the grip on his neck. I then dropped the pole and pulled some zip ties from my backpack and approached Grandpa. His eyes were on my every move, and as I started to move around the beam against his back, he thrashed all the more. It really did him no good. My dad had obsessively secured everything. Despite my shaky hands, I was able to secure Grandpa's hands together with the ties fairly quickly.