by Bryan Hall
“Yes, she is having one of her awful headaches,” Tomas said.
“I hate when she has those headaches,” June said. “She sounds like she is in so much pain.”
“Yes, she is,” Tomas said. “But there isn’t anything we can do except let her rest. Would you like to go to the park today?”
“Yes, Daddy,” June said. “It’s been almost a week since I’ve been to the park.”
“Well, it’s a nice enough day for it. The sun is out and it’s warmer than it was yesterday. Why don’t you go put on your jacket and we’ll go for a walk.”
“Okay, Daddy,” June said and went to her room to get her jacket.
Even through the door, he could hear one of his wife’s moans, and his heart went out to her. He was so used to being able to take care of matters, to getting things done, that it felt completely unnatural to him to be so ineffective.
There was medication for these maladies, he thought. But she was stubborn and would tell him the headaches didn’t happen often enough for her to go see a doctor. That it was just something she had to live with. No matter how much he tried to convince her otherwise.
“I’m all set,” June said, standing in the hallway in her jacket.
He got a coat from the hall closet, and they went outside to walk the two blocks to the park.
Graham shifted around a little inside the body, trying to get comfortable. Growing was painful stuff, and for this to work, he had to not only devour the innards of his host, but he had to replace those organs with working ones of his own. You couldn’t have a heart stopping or a kidney malfunctioning and give it all away. That would defeat the entire process if you gave it all away before the big finale. He had to make sure no differences were detected, no warning signs that something was wrong.
It was almost like being one of those pods from Invasion of the Body Snatchers (he preferred the Donald Sutherland version from 1978 himself, expertly directed by Philip Kaufman), where the aliens created an exact replica of you to replace you. Except Graham was not an alien creature, and didn’t have the luxury of working outside his subject. This was all an inside job, and demanded delicacy and intricacy. It was the hardest part of what he did, but also the most poetic aspect. Anyone could fire a gun or wield a knife, but for Graham, murder was like a sculpture using flesh as his medium.
The pain was getting to be a bit intense at this stage, but he kept himself busy, invading the body on a cellular level, acting as an intelligent, conscious wave of cancer cells, devouring healthy cells and replacing them with his own, stronger cells.
When he reached the dimensions of his host body, he had to know just when to stop growing. It wouldn’t do to outgrow the body you were inside, bursting it apart. That would ruin everything.
“Is Mommy feeling better today?” June asked her daddy as they watched Saturday morning cartoons.
“I’m afraid not, Juney Moony,” he said. “Her headache is still pretty bad.”
He had tried to talk Louise into going to the emergency room, since this had lasted two days already, but she had refused to listen to him. It had almost turned into a full-blown argument, except that he saw how much it hurt her to speak, much less shout, and the sound of his own booming voice was acting like a sledgehammer on her head. She had started whimpering, and he left the room. He even slept in the guestroom, something he rarely ever did. Even when they had normal arguments, they always had a rule that they would not go to bed angry with each other. It didn’t always work, but most times it did, and the make-up sex was worth it.
But this was the worst headache she had had in years.
Tomas felt so alone in that guest bed. It was smaller than his normal bed, and harder. It took him longer to fall asleep.
It wasn’t like he didn’t sleep on his share of hotel room beds when he was out traveling for his work, but when he was home, it was important that he sleep with his wife. He yearned to hold her close, to feel that connection between them. Knowing that he was a real, emotional human being, capable of love, went a long way to keeping him from really losing his shit.
There was a soft knock at the door, and he thought it was Louise, come to get him and bring him back to his own bed, but when he softly told the knocker to come in, it was June.
“Can I come sleep with you tonight, Daddy?” she asked. “I had some bad dreams.”
He was so uncomfortable in the guestroom that he wanted to tell her yes, but she was an eight-year-old now, and he felt strange permitting her to get into bed with him.
“No, Juney, you’re much too old for that,” he said. “Now go back to bed and get some sleep. You know that, after you have nightmares, the next time you go to sleep you’ll have nice dreams to balance them out.”
“Are you sure, Daddy?”
“Of course I am,” he told her, in a semi-whisper. “You’re a big girl now, and you know that nightmares aren’t real. Go back to sleep and forget about it.”
She stood there in the doorway, hesitating. He thought she was going to come into the room anyway, but she didn’t. He could barely see her in the darkness, but he could hear her breathing.
“June, are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“I told you not to be afraid. Now go back to your room like a brave girl.”
She did not reply. She stood there for a few more minutes, and then he heard the door softly close and knew she had gone back to her own room.
She didn’t normally act that way. Even when she had bad dreams, she had been able to go back to sleep on her own. Maybe she was upset because Louise had been feeling so poorly, and she was worried about her mother. But it struck him as odd that she would come here like that, and ask to sleep with him.
June seemed so small just then, he thought. Like she was little again. Tiny and afraid.
It was so unlike the well-behaved little girl she had become, who usually seemed older than she was. The one who was always so smart and made him proud.
He stared up at where the ceiling was. But the room was so dark, he couldn’t see a thing. Staring like that, it was as dark as if he had his eyes closed.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
Graham felt like he was almost through growing. He had done this so many times that he knew exactly at what stage the pain would begin, how long it would last, and how intense it would get, and then when it would stop and the final rounding off would begin.
The first time he had done this he had been twelve years old. He was under the house of their next-door neighbors, and he was growing into the body of young Amy Jenkins, who was a few years younger than he. He had no clue what compelled him to shimmy underneath their house, or why he suddenly realized he was inside Amy’s body, but the process had not gone to completion that time, and, halfway through, it had stopped and he had awakened, feeling disoriented and scared. Amy had been ill for a couple of days, and everyone was sure it was the flu. When he crawled out from under the house at night and found his way home, he was severely punished. His parents thought he had run away from home.
When it tried to happen again, he did everything in his power to resist it. But eventually he broke into the cellar of another neighbor’s house, and grew into the body of Mikey Salmon, a boy his age who had always bullied him. This time, the process continued until completion. Again, the parents thought the boy had the flu, and when it was done, Graham ran out into the woods in this new body, terrified and having no idea what to do. And then an incredible itching came, and he peeled off Mikey’s skin until he was free of it, and it took him another day, hidden in the woods, to regrow his own skin. This time, there was a search party for him. He had been gone several days, and his parents were sure something had happened to him. When he eventually went back home, he made up a story about getting lost in the woods and hitting his head on a rock.
It was soon after that he realized he had to run away for real.
Over the years, he had traveled across the country, gaining more and more control ov
er this strange process that was now a part of him. But he learned how to use it to his advantage, to get money, sex, even power over those he despised. And now, he had turned it all into a profession.
It had been a long, painful, horrible journey, but now he was the master of his malady.
When Graham awoke the next morning, he got out of bed and wandered to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror, pleased with what he had been able to accomplish in only three days. The people he grew inside would never be able to tell that the person in the mirror was no longer him or herself. That the flesh was all that remained. And now, he could complete his mission.
It was not as efficient as a gun or a knife, but no one would have a clue what really happened.
He got dressed and sat in the living room, waiting for the sun to come up.
Louse was relieved that the headache had finally passed. She went out to the kitchen to make breakfast for herself and her family—she was so hungry—and she was surprised to see Tomas sitting on the living room sofa, already dressed and ready to go to work.
She never did understand what he did for a living. But it involved so much traveling. She kept trying to talk him into getting another job that would let him spend more time at home with her and June.
“Are you going on another trip?” she asked him.
“Afraid so,” he said. “I wanted to wait until you woke up to say good-bye.”
“How long will you be gone this time?” she asked.
“It’s hard to say. It could be a little longer this time.”
“You know I wish you’d change jobs,” she said. “I can’t stand the way you leave all the time.”
“I know,” he told her. “Just another year or so, and I won’t have to travel so much.”
He looked down at his hands. Hands that had broken men’s necks. Strangled the life out of them. There was no reason that Louise and his daughter ever had to know about that side of his life.
He held her close and kissed her. “You know you keep me sane,” he said. It was something he had said a thousand times before, and it still made her eyes get teary. She kissed him back and put her arms around him, never wanting to let go.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” he said when he pulled away. “I’m glad your headache is gone, at least.”
“This was the worst one in a long time,” she told him. “I thought it would never end. I almost took your advice about going to the doctor. But I’m okay now.”
“Next time, if it lasts this long, don’t suffer so much. There’s medication for these kinds of things now.”
“I know,” she said. “But I was so sure it would pass. They always do.”
“I think you just like being a martyr,” he said.
She noticed his suitcase then. He had already packed. Somehow, he hadn’t woken her. He could be so quiet when he wanted to, even though he was a big man.
“Are you leaving now?” she asked.
“I just want to kiss June good-bye,” he said.
He went down the hall to his daughter’s room and quietly opened the door. He crept inside and bent over her sleeping form and gently kissed her on the cheek as Louise looked on from the doorway.
“Daddy,” June said, half-asleep. “Are you going away again?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I’ll be back home before you know it.”
“Please hurry back,” she said.
“I will.”
He went back to the living room, and Louise followed him to the door. There was a taxi already waiting outside. The neighborhood was still dark and quiet.
“I hate when you leave so early,” she said.
“The sooner I leave, the sooner I get back,” he said.
He kissed her one last time. It felt wonderful. He almost didn’t want it to end.
In the safe house, Tomas Robinson scratched around his scalp until he found an odd indentation and picked at it until he had started the peeling process. He was in another bathroom now, looking in another mirror over the sink as he peeled the skin away like a hard-boiled egg, revealing the blood-smeared rawness of his real face.
Soon, Tomas was just a heap of discarded flesh on the floor, to be disposed of in a specific way. There were containers ready and waiting for such things. Tomas Robinson no longer existed.
Graham could already feel his own skin regrowing.
Looking at his skinless face in the mirror, he closed his eyes and could feel Louise Robinson’s kiss even now.
Knowing he would not feel that again filled him with more regret than the act of taking a man’s life ever could.
PERFECTION
BY DOUG BLAKESLEE
The Row—Evening
Stars twinkled brightly in the night sky as the waning gibbous moon hung low on the horizon. Only the sound of a late night reveler driving home disturbed the calm. Henri stood in the deep shadows of the alley, looking at the darkened brownstone in the middle of the street; the only one not shuttered over in the row of vacant houses. No one has moved in hours. A look up and down showed a deserted street. He walked quickly across the road between the pools of light cast by the streetlamps, hopped over the low metal fence and into the cover of the side yard. The dew-slicked grass showed his footprints clearly across the lawn. That will be eliminated soon enough.
He wore a simple hooded, black jumpsuit to cover his short cropped hair and pale skin. Gloves, light, flexible boots, and a set of goggles rounded out his outfit. Madame rested on his back, strapped firmly in place to keep from hindering his movements The metal axe head pressed gently against the small of his back. Two leather satchels sat on his hips, bulging with small, round objects.
With a click, the basement door quickly yielded under the administration of a skeleton key. He cracked a glow stick and tossed it on the floor, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. Posters of the human body, medical diagrams of exposed hands and feet, and other related literature adorned the concrete-lined room. In the center sat an operating table, with trays of instruments, and monitoring equipment. His nose was assailed by the smell of antiseptic that failed to cover the faint odor of waste and blood. A hose lay curled up in the corner, and a central drain sunk into the floor near the wall. Is the doctor in tonight? He reached into a small pouch, pulled out a fist-sized package, pressed a red button, and fastened it to the underside of the table.
Henri paused at a display cabinet near the foot of the wooden stairs. Metal blades, plates, and replica bones lay in neat rows. There were dozens of the items, sealed in sterile plastic against possible contamination. Henri turned on the small hand-light and flashed it around the room. The blacked-out windows of the basement hid his activities from any outside observers. A pristine metal door sat in the middle of the east wall, bolted and locked securely. He stepped over to the door, pressed an ear against it, and listened. Nothing. Henri slipped back the bolts and softly turned to the locks. The door opened without protest.
Three body-shaped lumps lay on gurneys, covered by white sheets. His breath puffed visibly in the chilled air. He propped open the door, then turned toward the gurneys and pulled down the first sheet to reveal the body underneath. Henri’s eyes narrowed in observation, committing the scene to memory. Metal plates covered the tops of the heads, fastened with metal studs. The lips, eyelids, and noses had been removed, the cheeks slit to allow the jaw to open wider, and sharpened steel dentures put in place. Darkened lenses covered the eyes, while a metal filter replaced the nose. He flipped down the next sheet. Metal plates covered the body in a patchwork mess, razor-sharp blades replaced fingers on the right hand, while the left was a stump. A spiked mass of metal lay unattached next to it. Male. Genitals removed. Torso had been opened and then sewn up. Poor physical shape, probably homeless. Surgery expertly done, no signs of infection. Posthumous alteration?
A wooden step creaked.
Home—The Day Before
“You have a new commission.”
Henri looked up from his history b
ook, studying the worry lines on his uncle’s face. “So soon?” A small fire crackled, popped, and spit in the brick fireplace, warding off the chill of the early spring evening.
“Work comes as needed. This is a special request from our Patrons. Not a personal matter, but one of urgency.” Andre Deibler held out a trifold slip of paper to his nephew.
The young assassin took the letter, unfolded it, and scanned the contents. His eyes shifted down the page quickly, then back to his uncle. “The request is quite specific.”
“Such is the nature of our work. You know that,” said Andre.
“This smells of urgency and desperation. They are paying extremely well for a single elimination, and there’s a singular lack of details.”
“We are not always given the luxury of details and precise plans. These things happen and we must follow our duty. It’s not beyond your skill, Henri. As the Heir, you will need to understand that we do not always have the time needed.”
He shifted in his seat, setting down the thick leather bound book on the side table. “I’m merely observing the situation behind the request, Uncle Andre. You’ve taught me that these matters are not to be rushed. We have standards to uphold.”
The elderly man smiled. “Correct, but it is a request and we will need to fulfill it to the stated intent. Do you see this as an issue?”
“Non, uncle. Madame and I will see this work completed.” Henri stood up, letter in hand, and nodded to his mentor. “It will be done as requested.”
The Row—Evening
Henri launched himself through the metal doorway, rolling across the concrete floor, and came to his feet, Madame in hand. The lights flickered to life. His goggles adjusted instantly, preserving his vision. At the foot of the stairs stood a fresh-faced young man, sandy hair messed from sleep. Watery, pale-blue eyes peered inquisitively at Henri. “Who are you?”