Supernatural: Carved in Flesh

by Tim Waggoner

  He heard breathing first, heavy and labored, punctuated with a soft whistling-wheezing sound, as if the lungs producing it weren’t quite working right. The sound was off to his left, and he didn’t want to turn his head to look, he really didn’t. He’d rather squeeze his eyes shut and, like a child hiding under the covers in the dark, hope that if he couldn’t see the monster, it couldn’t see him. But he turned his head anyway, he couldn’t keep himself from doing so, and when he did, he saw exactly what he expected to.

  The monster had returned.

  Yesterday he’d watched the creature from within the safety of his home, peeking through the small white curtain that covered the back-door window. He’d been concealed from the thing’s view, protected by a solid wooden door locked with a deadbolt. It had been a strange sight, that was for damn sure, but he hadn’t felt threatened. The situation had been so bizarre that it hadn’t seemed real. He’d felt like a detached observer, watching the creature on a TV screen. It had seemed absurd with its two heads and four arms, like something out of a child’s cartoon. But now, with the creature standing less than a dozen yards away and nothing between them but air, it didn’t seem so absurd. In fact, it was downright terrifying.

  It stood six feet tall, and its naked body—aside from the extra parts—was that of a normal man. Although it carried a few extra pounds around the middle, it was in relatively good shape, with hard muscle and a light covering of black body hair. Each head had to lean to the side—one right, one left—in order for them to fit on a single body, and Lyle found himself thinking that both of the poor sons of bitches probably suffered from perpetually sore necks. The head on the right had straight black hair that hung in long greasy clumps, and an unkempt beard that was badly in need of trimming. The head on the left had a lighter complexion, and its thick hair was a soft ginger color. It was clean-shaven, with a dusting of freckles on the cheeks. Both heads held similar expressions: eyes wide and wild, mouths slack and open. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of Ginger’s mouth and dribbled onto its chest.

  It stood hunched forward, no doubt because of the added weight of those extra arms and head. The second set of arms protruded from the front of the creature’s shoulders, and were thinner than the other pair, the skin lighter, body hair almost nonexistent.

  They’re Ginger’s arms, Lyle thought, and his stomach gave a flip at this realization.

  Right then, all four of its arms were hanging loosely, as if it had forgotten for the moment that they were there.

  Lyle noticed another detail, one he’d missed before. At the junctures where Ginger’s body parts connected with Black Hair’s were patches of skin that didn’t look right. The color and texture were strange, artificial somehow, and it reminded Lyle of the Silly Putty he’d played with as a child. Of all the wrong things there were about this creature, that not-skin was somehow the worst, and looking at it made Lyle feel sick to his stomach. Well, sicker.

  For a long moment the monster stared at him with its two pairs of eyes, as if it was as surprised to see Lyle as Lyle was to see it. Maybe he’s wondering what happened to my extra head and arms, Lyle thought. The idea struck him as so ridiculous that he couldn’t help letting out a short laugh, although it sounded more like a sob. The creature started at the sound, and for an instant Lyle thought it might bolt like a frightened deer and run back to the woods. But instead its two mouths stretched into hideous lopsided grins.

  “Hun!” Black-Hair said.

  “Gee!” Ginger said.

  There was a short pause between the sounds, but when the heads spoke a second time they did so in rapid succession, so the syllables came out as a single almost-word.

  “Hun-gee!”

  Ice collected on Lyle’s spine, and his bowels turned watery. The creature spoke in the simplistic manner of a toddler, but this time Lyle had no trouble understanding what it—they—were saying.

  Hungry.

  Lyle dropped the garbage bag and tongs, and ran like hell for his house. The creature let out two excited hoots, like those a large ape might make, and gave pursuit.

  Lyle heard its pounding footfalls and whistle-wheeze breath, and adrenaline surged through his system, spurring him to run faster. He once again felt a tingle on the back of his neck, only now the sensation seemed to be warning him that the two-headed monstrosity was reaching for him, its fingers—nails overlong, cracked, and split—mere inches from his flesh. The feeling was so strong that he couldn’t stop himself from looking back over his shoulder, and as soon as he did, he wished he’d resisted the impulse. The creature wasn’t as close as he’d feared, about fifteen feet behind him—which was good—but the way it ran... It moved with a spastic, lopsided gait, as if its nervous system had short-circuited and was firing off impulses at random. Instead of reaching out to grab him as he’d pictured, all four of the creature’s arms hung limply, the extremities flailing and flopping as their owner continued to lurch after Lyle. It was without doubt the most horrible thing Lyle had ever seen. So why did it strike him as almost funny?

  A giggle escaped his mouth, one tinged with more than a hint of hysteria.

  As if the giggle was a cue, the creature bellowed its tag-team word again.

  “Hun-gee!”

  Lyle’s giggle became a shriek, and he faced forward and ran even faster.

  He’d left the back door unlocked, and even though his hands were sweating something fierce, the rubber gloves kept his grip from being slick, so he was able to turn the knob without difficulty. People at work teased him about being OCD, but he wished they could see him right then.

  Who’s crazy now?

  He threw open the door, lunged inside, and slammed it shut behind him, whirled around, threw the deadbolt, engaged the smaller lock on the knob, and backed quickly away. He moved too fast, stumbled over his own feet, and fell backward, landing hard on his ass. The impact jolted his spine and caused his teeth to clack together painfully. In the process he bit into the tip of his tongue, and blood started to fill his mouth. He tried to spit, remembered the surgical mask, tore it off his face and dropped it on the kitchen floor. He then turned his head and expelled a glob of blood. It splattered onto a lower cabinet door, but he didn’t notice, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. He had more important things to worry about right now than a little mess. OCD be damned.

  He fixed his gaze on the door and waited.

  It won’t get in, Lyle told himself. The lock’s strong. I know, because I installed it myself. Besides, the way those arms were flapping around, they might not function properly. If that was so, even if the door had been unlocked, the creature might not be able to turn the knob. So no matter what, he was safe. He was.

  The door burst inward without any warning, glass shattering, hinges tearing free, the deadbolt ripping through the jamb. The door slid across the floor and bumped to a stop against Lyle’s feet.

  The two-headed man stood in the now-open doorway, all four arms held out ramrod straight, palms up.

  Guess those arms work after all, he thought.

  The creature lurched into the kitchen, double grins widening into twin leers.

  “Hun-gee!”

  Lyle heard someone laughing, and it took him a moment to realize that the sound bubbled up from his own throat. The whole thing was just too damned messed-up to take seriously.

  The creature reached Lyle, knelt awkwardly before him, and placed all fours hand on the sides of the man’s face. Lyle’s laughter broke off in a gasp. The monster’s flesh was cold—so cold it burned.

  Then a great heaviness settled on Lyle, and with it came a weariness more powerful than any he’d ever known. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but really, what was the point? His limbs felt as if they’d turned to lead, and although he tried to pull away from the monster’s quadruple grip, he was weak as a newborn. He couldn’t move, let alone fight. It would be simpler to just give in, let his eyes close, and allow himself to slip away.

  So that’s what
he did.

  Just before the endless darkness took hold of Lyle and swept him away forever, he heard a pair of voices speak a single word.

  “Good...”

  * * *

  “Is it dead?” Dean asked.

  “How should I know?” Sam said.

  “Check it.”

  “You check it!”

  Dean had pumped every round his shotgun held into that damned dog, and Sam had emptied his Beretta’s clip, reloaded, and continued firing. Frankenmutt was down, finally, but neither of the brothers was sure it was permanent. During his years as a hunter Dean had encountered a lot of supernatural entities that were hard to kill, but he’d rarely run into anything as tough as this patchwork pooch. Frankenmutt lay on its side, its flesh a savaged, bloody ruin from all the damage it had taken. Dean almost felt sorry for the thing. Almost.

  “Give me a sec.”

  Dean reloaded his weapon, then stepped forward slowly, lowering the barrel until it was pressed against Frankenmutt’s head. He nodded to Sam, who walked over to the monstrous dog and prodded its belly with his foot. When the creature didn’t react, he prodded it harder. Still no response.

  “Doesn’t look like it’s breathing,” Sam said.

  “Since when does that matter in our line of work?”

  “True.” Sam leveled his Beretta and put another round in the beast’s side. Its body bucked with the impact, but otherwise it didn’t move.

  “I’m voting for dead,” Dean said.

  “I’m good with that.”

  Dean removed the shotgun from the creature’s head and waited while Sam retrieved the doll and his phone. Sam tucked the doll under his arm and turned off the crying baby sound effect on his phone, tucked the device into a pocket, and returned. The two of them then crouched down to examine the patchwork dog’s corpse. As ugly as the thing was, Dean expected it to smell like something that you’d find at the bottom of a slaughterhouse Dumpster, but it just smelled like a normal dog. He sniffed. Make that a normal dog covered in blood.

  “The sections all look like parts of regular dogs,” Sam said. “Except for the face. That’s pretty messed up.” He trailed a finger along the line of hairless tissue between the dog’s right front leg and its shoulder. Similar lines crisscrossed the beast’s body.

  “Doesn’t look much like scar tissue, does it?” Dean said.

  Sam shook his head. “Doesn’t feel like it, either. It’s kind of... spongy.”

  A line of the strange flesh circled Frankenmutt’s neck, and Dean reached out and touched it. It was firmer than normal skin, and when he pressed it in, it remained that way for a moment before slowly returning to its previous shape. Weird.

  “I see what you mean. It’s almost like some kind of... I don’t know, glue or something.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Dean straightened, and the brothers regarded the body of the monster dog in silence for a time.

  After a while, Sam asked, “Which end do you want?”

  Dean considered for a moment. “Man, there’s no good choice here, is there?” He took another look at the creature’s distorted face and sighed. “I never thought I’d be saying this about an animal, but I’ll take the ass. Try not to get too much blood on you.”

  They each took an end, lifted, and began carrying Frankenmutt out of the woods. Halfway back to the car, Sam stopped and turned his head sharply to the left.

  Dean tensed, senses on high alert, ready for another attack. He looked in the same direction as Sam, but couldn’t see anything but trees and underbrush.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Sam didn’t answer right away. He squinted, as if he were having a hard time focusing his eyes on whatever he was looking at. Finally, he shook his head as if attempting to clear it.

  “For a minute, I thought... Never mind. It’s nothing. Let’s go. Frankenmutt’s not getting any lighter.”

  The brothers continued lugging the dead dog, Dean unable to decide what bothered him more: that Sam’s arms were trembling with the effort of carrying his half of the creature—Frankenmutt was a big boy, but he wasn’t that heavy, not with the two of them sharing the load—or that it looked like his hallucinations were getting worse.

  Just once, it would be nice if a hunt went down easy, he thought. We stroll into town, find the Nasty Whatzit, walk up to it, gank it, and stroll on out. No muss, no fuss.

  Yeah, right. And maybe vampires would quit sucking blood and start chugging energy drinks instead.

  * * *

  He saw me.

  Daniel wasn’t sure how that was possible. The living couldn’t see his kind, not even if he wanted them to. But the younger brother had stared right at him. Daniel had felt the youth’s gaze bore into him. For the first time in all his long existence as a Reaper, he’d felt exposed, and he’d slipped behind an ash tree to conceal himself. He’d felt absurd, hiding like that, as if he were... well, mortal.

  But once the shaggy-haired youth went back to helping his brother cart the corpse of the dead dog-thing away, Daniel caught the whiff of death coming off him, and realized what must have happened. He waited until they were out of sight, and then followed after them, careful not to make too much noise. Again, he felt ridiculous taking such precautions, but he had no idea how sharp the youth’s death-perception had become, and he wasn’t going to take any chances.

  He found what he was looking for almost right away. The dog-thing’s bullet-ravaged corpse had left a trail of blood drops in the brothers’ wake, but he wasn’t interested in those. It was the other trail that caught his attention. A thin wavering black line hovered an inch above the ground, thready and faint, like ink released in water. Daniel knelt to get a closer look at it. It was fading quickly, and he touched his index finger to a section of the shadow-line before it dissipated. He brought his fingertip, now smeared with a soot-like smudge, up to his nose. He sniffed a couple times before inserting his finger into his mouth. When he withdrew his finger a moment later, the tip was clean.

  He was now certain what had happened to the younger brother, and it wasn’t good. At least, not for the boy. But as for Daniel... he might be able to make this work in his favor.

  He stood and continued following the brothers, amending his plans to take this unforeseen, but not entirely unwelcome, development into account.

  * * *

  Peter Martinez sat in front of his office computer monitor staring at rows of data displayed on the screen. He wasn’t reviewing the information, at least not in the usual way. He’d purposely unfocused his gaze to the point where the numbers were blurry, and then he tried to relax and allow his mind to wander. He knew this data forward and backward, and he’d tried analyzing it using every logical method he could think of, without success. So today he’d decided to try a more creative approach. Instead of tackling the problem in a linear fashion, he was going to try turning his subconscious loose on it. As much as scientific advances were a result of step-by-step processes, they also were born in sudden unexpected bursts of insight, the fabled and often sought after Eureka! moment. Today Peter hoped to cultivate a moment of his own.

  His office wasn’t very large, nor was it impressive. If it hadn’t been for the nameplate affixed to the wall outside, no one would have guessed that this was the office of the CEO and Head of Development for NuFlesh Biotech. Though considering that his office was located in a strip mall between a sub shop and a license bureau, and that the business had a total of five employees, including himself, he didn’t see much point in putting on airs. He wore a long-sleeved red pullover and jeans, a step below corporate casual, which was fine as far as he was concerned. He was a scientist, not a stockbroker. He wore a full black beard, partially because he thought it made him look more intelligent—and a bit roguish—but mostly to hide the burn scars that covered the lower right half of his face. He did all his “paperwork” virtually, and aside from the computer, the top of his desk was empty. He had a few books on the shelf b
ehind him, none of which he’d touched in who knew how long. His doctoral diploma hung on one wall, while on the opposite was a framed poster—a large black-and-white photo of Einstein sticking his tongue out. The poster was supposed to remind Peter not to take everything so seriously, but today the sight of it only pissed him off. He couldn’t afford to let the stress get to him. Not if he wanted to create the optimal conditions for a subconscious breakthrough. And he badly needed one.

  Two years, seven months, eight days. That was how long he’d been struggling to solve this particular problem, and at this point, he was willing to try almost anything. The financial state of his company wasn’t exactly “robust,” as the corporate types would put it, and if he didn’t make some progress on the new formula soon... He thrust the thought from his mind. Worrying about money was no way to relax. He gazed at the screen and allowed his breathing to become slow and even, and before long he felt his body relax against his office chair. That’s when it kicked in.

  The Itch.

  It began on his right shoulder blade, little more than the sensation of a feather brushing against his skin. He could ignore that. But it soon spread across his entire back, his chest, down his right arm, up his neck and across the right side of his face, building in intensity until it felt as if a thousand ants were crawling over his skin. That he couldn’t ignore.

  “Don’t scratch,” he whispered. He gripped the armrests of his chair tight, fingers digging into the padding. He knew from long, painful experience that not only didn’t scratching make the itch go away, once he got started, he wouldn’t be able to stop until he’d clawed bloody runnels in his flesh. Even then the itching would continue.

  Peter knew it was common for burn victims to experience discomfort like his, even long after their burns had healed and scar tissue formed. In his case, that had been almost three decades before. He’d gotten his scars as a result of a house fire caused by his idiot of a stepfather falling asleep on the couch one night while smoking. Peter and his mother got out of the house in time, but his stepfather hadn’t made it. His mother hadn’t lasted long, either. She’d died en route to the hospital, not from her burns—severe as they were—but from a heart attack. Peter had only been eleven at the time. Even though twenty-seven years and more operations than he cared to think about had passed since then, the Itch, when it came, was as bad as ever.