by Tim Waggoner
It didn’t help that Sam seemed to be even fewer fries short of a Happy Meal than usual. Dean was certain his brother had experienced some sort of hallucination in the woods that he didn’t want to talk about, and he was guzzling coffee like it was water and he was a man crossing the Sahara on foot. Dean was no stranger to the concept of self-medicating, but he wasn’t sure what Sam hoped to accomplish by loading up on caffeine. It seemed to him that all that stimulation would only make Sam jittery and anxious, which in turn would make it harder for him to keep control of his mental state. Then again, Dean preferred “medicine” that took the edge off rather than sharpened it, so maybe it was simply a matter of to each his own. Still, he was determined to keep an eye on Sam which, he had to admit to himself, was pretty much what he normally did. So in a way, when it came to the Winchesters’ screwed up lives, he supposed everything was more or less normal.
It didn’t help his mood that Frankenmutt’s corpse was starting to stink up the crapmobile big-time. The monster dog was in the trunk, wrapped in a couple motel towels, but its stink had filtered through the car’s interior, and was making his already queasy stomach worse.
Definitely a salad next time, he thought. Maybe a taco salad, with extra meat, salsa, and sour cream.
“I like it better when the things we kill disintegrate when they die,” he said. “Less mess to deal with.”
“Definitely less stink,” Sam agreed. “I’m not sure, but I think Frankenmutt’s decaying faster than normal. Which only makes sense if it was made out of parts of already dead dogs. Once it’s dead—or dead again, I guess—whatever force was arresting the decomposition process is gone, and so—”
“It’s bye-bye Frankenmutt, hello nasty pile of rotting meat.”
“Pretty much. I just hope there’s enough left by the time we get to NuFlesh.”
“You really think the guy that owns the place can help us?”
“I don’t know. But you saw the pictures on their site. The kind of stuff they make looks an awful lot like those weird scar lines on Frankenmutt.”
When they had returned to the motel room, Sam had gotten on the Internet and worked his tech geek mojo until he found the NuFlesh website. It had taken him a while, which surprised Dean. Usually Sam could find information on the net as easily as Dean could find beef jerky on a convenience store shelf, but considering Sam’s starting point was little more than the search term “weird scars,” he supposed it was impressive that he’d come up with anything at all.
NuFlesh was in the business of making artificial skin that, according to the website, had “profound medical applications that could eventually change the world.” From what Dean had seen, though, they still had quite a way to go before they could fulfill that promise. The stuff looked more like flesh-colored rubber than actual skin, and when it was applied to a person, it looked far less natural than skin grafts did. Sam had also discovered—buried deep in the site so that it wouldn’t be obvious to the casual browser—that the success record of NuFlesh was, to put it kindly, modest. It didn’t sound to Dean like the stuff worked well enough to patch a paper cut, let alone hold together a bunch of dead doggy parts. But he had to admit, it did look kind of like Frankenmutt’s scars, so he supposed talking to NuFlesh’s creator was worth a shot. With any luck, he’d turn out to be the Dr. Frankenstein they were looking for, and they could get the hunt over with and get back to what really mattered: taking down Dick Roman and his army of oversized piranha.
“Speaking of Frankenmutt, how’s that bite doing?” Dean asked.
Sam took another sip of his hi-test coffee. “Good. Still no sign of infection.” He crossed his legs and pulled up the cuff of his jeans to show Dean where he’d been bitten. True to his word, the skin there looked healthy. The bite marks were scabbed over, and there was no swelling or reddening, not even any bruising. Dean found the latter a bit odd. Frankenmutt wouldn’t have won any beauty contests when he was alive, but he’d been at least as strong as an ordinary dog, if not stronger. The pressure of his bite should have left some kind of mark on Sam to accompany the puncture wounds caused by his teeth, but there was nothing. Maybe Dean had overestimated the monster dog’s strength—or maybe not. It was one more thing to keep his eye on.
It didn’t take them long to find NuFlesh Biotech. Dean was surprised to discover the business was located in a strip mall.
“It’s not exactly what I expected,” he said.
“What did you think we’d find? A rundown castle with a giant lightning rod jutting from one of the towers and a hunchbacked assistant lurking behind a parapet?”
Dean shrugged. “No, but I figured it would look more... I don’t know, sciencey.”
He pulled the car into a space in front of NuFlesh and parked.
“It is a start-up company,” Sam pointed out. “This is probably the best location they can afford.”
Dean shut off the ignition. He grimaced as the car’s engine juddered and knocked a couple times before cutting out. God, he missed the Impala!
We’ll be together again, baby, he thought. Soon as Daddy kills Dick Roman.
“Maybe so,” Dean said, “but it doesn’t have any style. It looks more like a dry cleaner’s than the lair of an evil genius.”
“We don’t have any proof yet that Dr. Martinez had anything to do with Frankenmutt. And even if he did, why would he want to advertise that he’s Brennan’s version of Dr. Frankenstein? Look at the Leviathan. They might be ancient creatures from the dawn of creation, but they adapted to the modern world right away. They blend in. Maybe that’s what Martinez is doing.”
“That’s another thing. Martinez—it’s not a good mad doctor name. Frankenstein, Jekyll, Moreau, Phibes. Those are creepy names. Martinez, not so much.”
They got out of the car. Sam finished off his coffee and tossed the empty cup into a trash receptacle on the sidewalk in front of NuFlesh. As they walked toward NuFlesh’s front door, Dean could smell that they’d both been perfumed with eau de Frankenmutt. He figured they’d need to get their suits dry cleaned after this was over. For a brief moment, he was grateful that they weren’t driving the Impala. He’d have hated his baby getting all funked up with dead monster dog stink.
Inside the small reception area, it quickly became clear they smelled worse than Dean feared. The office assistant—a bird-thin woman in her fifties with braided white hair—pursed her lips and turned her head slightly to the side as she spoke with them in a futile attempt to keep her nose as far away from their stench as possible. They showed her their fake bureau IDs, she made a quick call, and a moment later a side door opened and Dr. Peter Martinez came striding out.
Now that’s more like it, Dean thought, and was instantly ashamed of himself. The man had obviously suffered serious burn injuries sometime in the past.
Dean knew better than to judge anyone based on their appearance. At least anyone human. When it came to supernatural predators, however, most of the time you really could judge a book by its cover. If something looked like it wanted to eat your flesh or devour your soul, it probably did.
Even though Dean knew better, he couldn’t help thinking that Martinez’s burn scars made him look like a perfect evil scientist. Of course, his clothes could use some work. A flannel shirt, jeans, and running shoes didn’t scream I’m a guy who stitches together pieces of dead people in my lab! Maybe if he added a white coat with a few bloodstains on it...
“I’m Dr. Martinez.” He smiled, the unscarred corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. He shook Dean’s hand, then Sam’s. “How can I help you gentlemen?”
Dean found himself staring at the man’s burn-scarred flesh. He’d seen plenty of scars in his time—hell, he had more than a few of his own, as did Sam—and he wasn’t normally put off by them, but now that Martinez stood only a couple feet from them, Dean could see that there was something not quite right about his. They were moist and glistening, as if coated with petroleum jelly, and the flesh sagged. The whole effect
made Martinez look as if he were a wax figure that was in the process of slowly melting.
Dean glanced at Sam, and could tell by his brother’s expression that he found the man’s strange scars equally disturbing. More telling than that, though, was the office manager’s reaction. When Martinez had first appeared, she’d gasped, and now her eyes were wide, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Whatever was going on with Martinez’s scars, it wasn’t normal.
Dean revised his earlier judgment. Dr. Martinez was definitely a candidate for Brennan’s local mad scientist.
Sam started to introduce them, but halfway through he broke into a huge yawn.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Late night on the job.”
Dean shot him a look. “As my partner was saying, we’ve been called in to help with the investigation into the strange deaths that have occurred here in town over the last few days. We think you might be able to help.”
Dean watched Martinez closely for any reaction to the mention of the wasting deaths that he’d come to think of as The Pruning, but the man appeared to have none beyond puzzlement.
“I’m a biochemist, not a disease specialist. I’m not sure I can be of much use to you.”
“We think the deaths might have a link to NuFlesh,” Sam said. “Not the company itself so much as your product.”
Martinez frowned. “I don’t see how that’s possible. Not only doesn’t NuFlesh create any kind of side effects that could account for those deaths, the product’s still in the development stage and isn’t in wide use in the public sector. In fact, I don’t know of anyone in town that has a NuFlesh graft.”
The man reached up to scratch at the sagging scarred flesh on the side of his face in what looked to Dean like a nervous habit. His fingernails opened thin runnels in the puckered skin that immediately filled with a yellowish fluid, but he didn’t seem to notice. Dean’s stomach did a flip.
Salad. Next time, for sure.
“We’ve got something we’d like you to look at,” Sam said. “It’ll only take a moment of your time, and we’d really appreciate it.”
Sam kept his gaze fastened on Martinez’s eyes, and Dean knew his brother was trying not to stare at the fluid-filled lines the man had carved into his face.
“Of course. Glad to help.”
“Excellent,” Sam said. “It’s outside.”
As the three of them left the office, Dean saw that the office manager had gone pale. Between enduring the stink of Frankenmutt’s corpse that clung to them and seeing her boss mutilate himself, she looked like she too was regretting whatever she’d chosen to have for lunch.
Dean’s stomach gurgled. I know just how you feel, sister, he thought.
* * *
Sam would have killed for another coffee right then, maybe with three shots of espresso this time. He was having a hell of a time keeping his eyes open, and he was beginning to think that it was more than simple weariness. Maybe it was his body’s reaction to having to struggle against the madness that roiled within him. Fighting the crazy took a lot out of him, and it was only natural that it took a toll on his energy levels. He wondered how much longer he could keep going like this before his system had had enough and went into full shutdown. Maybe instead of just crashing in some motel room for a few hours, he’d slip into a deep slumber from which he’d never awaken. He was surprised to find that the thought didn’t scare him. It was actually kind of comforting, in a weird way. He’d read about very old people who looked forward to dying, seeing it as a chance to lay down the burdens they’d carried for so long and finally rest. Given everything that had happened to him already in his relatively young life, he understood that attitude better than most people his age, but he never thought he’d end up feeling that way himself. Getting a little too morbid, he told himself. Best antidote for that was to concentrate on the job at hand.
One good thing: at least he hadn’t hallucinated Dr. Martinez’s oozing, sagging scar tissue. He could tell from Dean’s reaction that he’d seen and was disturbed by it, too. So, that was a relief. Sam had no idea what could cause the man’s scar tissue to ooze like that. As far as he knew, old scars didn’t suppurate. He wondered if Martinez had tried using his formula for NuFlesh to repair his face. Though he had said that the product was still in development. If that was the case, then maybe the weird scar lines on Frankenmutt had nothing to do with NuFlesh, which would mean that he and Dean were, to coin a pun, barking up the wrong tree.
They reached the car and Dean opened the trunk.
“This is the best the bureau can afford?” Martinez said as he eyed the ancient vehicle.
“Budget cutbacks,” Dean said without missing a beat. “You know how it is.”
A truly horrendous stench wafted from the trunk’s interior, causing all three of them to take a step backward. Sam was grateful it was November. He didn’t want to think about how bad Frankenmutt would have smelled if it had been August.
“What in the hell is that?” Martinez said, hand clamped over the lower half of his face in what Sam knew was a futile attempt to block out the stink.
“You tell us.” Dean threw back the top of the blanket covering Frankenmutt and exposed the creature’s ravaged corpse.
Dr. Martinez stared at the beast, but Sam and Dean kept their gazes focused on him. They were looking for some sign of recognition in the man’s eyes, but all Sam saw in his expression was disgust. Either the man was a damn good actor, or he had never seen Frankenmutt before. Then his disgust turned to confusion and then curiosity. He lowered his hand from his face and stepped forward to get a closer look.
“Is this a dog?”
“From the looks of it, more like several,” Dean said.
Martinez leaned even closer, and Sam was impressed that he could do so without gagging. He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a pen. Using it as a probe, he touched the tip to the fleshy line dividing Frankenmutt’s rear leg from his body.
“I see now why you wanted to consult me. This material resembles NuFlesh.”
“Resembles?” Sam said.
Martinez continued poking at Frankenmutt with his pen. “The color and texture are both somewhat different. It’s more pliable than NuFlesh, more like the actual skin.”
“But it is artificial,” Sam pressed.
“Undoubtedly.” Martinez gave him a quick lopsided smile. “Whatever this thing is, I think it’s safe to say it wasn’t born this way.”
Dean gave Sam an exasperated look.
Undaunted, Sam continued. “Assuming that this... animal is what it appears to be, could NuFlesh—or something like it—be used to join the separate parts together?”
“Like some kind of meat glue,” Dean added.
Martinez straightened and stepped back away from the trunk. Sam noticed he didn’t return his pen to his pocket. Sam didn’t blame him.
“Are you serious?”
“Humor those of us without PhDs in biochemistry,” Dean said.
Martinez thought for a moment. As he did, he scratched at his face again. The scar tissue broke and oozed more fluid, and sagged another fraction of an inch.
“I designed NuFlesh as an artificial substance for use in skin grafts, though I’ve always thought it could one day be employed in transplants. But that’s only in theory. Such applications are years, maybe even decades, away.” He looked at Frankenmutt again. “Even if someone has managed to develop their own NuFlesh formula that’s more advanced than mine, the hurdles they’d have to overcome to create a thing like this are staggering. Fusing bone, connecting muscles and nerves... Why the problems with tissue rejection alone—”
“We get the picture,” Dean interrupted. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you can do with a junior mad scientist kit and a little old-fashioned elbow grease.”
“Hardly,” Martinez agreed. “I’m confident in saying that no one on Earth has the capability to make an abomination like this. Although why anyone would want to is beyond me. You believe it
has some connection to the recent spate of mysterious deaths?”
“Yeah.” Dean drew the blanket back over Frankenmutt’s corpse and closed the trunk. “We figured people took one look at it, and died from an overdose of ugly.”
Sam gave Dean a warning look, then turned to Martinez. “There’s no risk of contagion.”
“I assumed that was the case,” Martinez said, “or else you would’ve observed stricter containment protocols.” He glanced at the closed trunk. “Or any, for that matter. I mean, not even the federal government could be that stupid, right?”
Sam glanced at Dean, but neither of them said anything.
“When you find out where that thing came from, please let me know,” Martinez said. “Professional curiosity, you understand. Now, if there’s nothing further, I do have work I should get back to.”
“One last question,” Dean said. “Could this artificial flesh stuff be used to make a guy with two heads and four arms?”
* * *
Peter stood on the sidewalk outside his business and watched the agents drive away in their ancient wreck of a car, taking the corpse of the misbegotten creature—and its horrendous stink—with them. After they had gone, he took his phone from his pocket and keyed in Conrad’s number. While he waited for him to answer, he idly scratched his face. The Itch was mild, far better than it had been, but it still bothered him. When he was done speaking with Conrad, he’d go back inside and apply more of the man’s special unguent. True, Conrad had cautioned him against using too much, but it was the only thing that gave Peter any relief. Really, what was the worst that could happen?
He didn’t feel the viscous fluid that oozed from the furrows he gouged in his scarred flesh, and even if he had, he probably wouldn’t have cared.
* * *
The embalming room in the basement of Harrison Brauer’s Legacy Center—in plainer language, a funeral parlor—was cramped and clammy, although he preferred to think of it as cozy and cool. The colorless walls and tiled floor seemed to glow in the stark fluorescent light, and if he spent too much time working down here, his eyes would start to water. If it got really bad, he’d don a pair of sunglasses, making him, at least in his own mind, the hippest mortician in town. The air held an iron tang that he’d long ago gotten used to, and which, truth to tell, he’d come to find rather pleasant. A pair of white marble tables occupied the center of the chamber, and above them a metal showerhead hung from the ceiling, just in case Harrison needed to wash away a particularly nasty spill. Set into the floor between the tables was a large grated drain, which he often thought of as a perfect metaphor for the end of life. Ultimately, everything that lived ended up washed down the Great Drain of the Universe.