Teddy Bear Cannibal Massacre

by ed. Tim W. Lieder

  I soon met my neighbors on the ward. Mrs. Selvy had tried to decapitate her husband with a string trimmer. Although she was the most pleasant lady, a constant stream of unintelligible dialogue sputtered from her mouth. Arthur Cromby, a tiny man with wire-rimmed accountant's glasses, was perpetually playing spirited games of checkers against himself. He punctuated the game with cursing and angry outbursts. Madame Warshosky was the most imposing. Hatchet-faced, she widened out from the neck into a grotesque pear with gigantic hips and even larger thighs. She spent most of the day sitting in the corner crying or trying to cadge cigarettes.

  And then there was swaggering Hubert Warley, a hulking motorcycle-gang type, with tattoos on his face and neck and giant safety pins in his eyebrows. He was perpetually on the brink of explosion as he strutted about the ward in jockey shorts.

  After I met my inmate friends, Arthur Cromby became my favorite. From him I learned that the staff was trying to poison his food and that Hubert Warley was an undercover agent for the ATF; other than those two delusions, Arthur’s mind functioned soundly.

  "What do you think of this stem cell business," he asked one afternoon.

  "I hadn't thought much about it," I said looking up from my copy of Time. Mainly I'd been preoccupied with my bid for release. My final test was scheduled for later that afternoon, and if I lied enough in my responses, Dr. Parker was certain to diagnose me not as a stress reaction, but as schizophrenic.

  “I said - what do you think of this stem cell business??” Arthur repeated. "You know Parker and these other sons of bitches are very much involved in stem cell research, transgenic procedures. I don't trust them as far as I can throw an elephant. They're up to something. Something that would boggle the mind."

  "What?" I raised an eyebrow.

  "Cloning? Or God knows what. The staff has an agenda. You take that Schultz guy."

  "I haven't met him."

  "Oh you will. You will. He's one of their offspring. In fact, here he comes."

  Before I could get an explanation, a burly attendant, presumably Schultz, grabbed me by the shoulders and told me "they" wanted me upstairs for testing. Insisting I ride in a wheelchair, he bounced me in one as if I was a rag doll.

  On the way to the testing center, we passed by a locked ward.

  "What's it like in there?" I asked. He laughed out loud.

  "You really want to know what it's like with those crazy-ass head-drippers?"

  "Crazy-ass head-drippers?"

  "You heard me, Selfridge. Here let’s take a peek," he said. To my surprise he pulled out a ring of keys, unlocked the huge metal door and wheeled me inside. At the same moment a fire alarm sounded.

  "Jesus! I got to go!" Schultz shouted and dashed off, leaving me sitting opposite a teenager who was banging his head on the wall. Overcome with curiosity about "headdrippers," I decided to look around. I rolled myself past the headbanger to a room from where I heard moaning. The door was propped open and I could see an emaciated patient with a wild Afro lying on a table under an intense beam of light. Dr. Parker and two assistants, chattering in a language I couldn't identify, surrounded him. A huge machine that I would liken to a dentist's drill hung over the patient. Suddenly Dr. Parker seized the drill (if I can call it that) and probed the patient's forehead. Whether there was any anesthetic involved I cannot say, but the patient did not cry out.

  The drill sutured back the skin of the patient's forehead and Dr. Parker’s blue-gloved hands lifted out something the size of a rabbit. The emergent rabbit-thing gave a strange cry and instantly the attendants hustled it into an incubator that was humming like a sewing machine.

  Shocked and uncertain by what I had just witnessed, I rolled myself away from the doorway. A moment later Schultz came dashing back with an alarmed look on his face.

  "What the hell are you doing in this area, Selfridge? I didn't leave you off here. I ought to break your neck. This part of the ward is off limits to patients," he cried. "Didn't you see that sign?"

  I looked to where he had pointed, and it was true. I hadn't seen the sign at all. His pupils narrowed to pinpoints. Schultz grabbed me by the neck again and gave me a fierce shake.

  "You ever pull a stunt like that again, and you'll regret it."

  "I'm sorry," I said, feeling a deep thrust of fear. Schultz became as close-mouthed as a coffin as he rolled me on towards the testing center. My curiosity piqued, I was determined to stay at Emerson longer and learn its secrets.

  As the bearded psychologist showed me the series of inkblots, I was very careful to see only violence, absurdity, and twisted Oedipal themes certain to mark me as schizophrenic. Apparently my ruse succeeded as Dr. Parker called me to his office the next morning.

  "Phillip, the tests suggest that you are suffering from much more than just stress. You have a borderline schizophrenic condition. I'd say you'll need to stay with us for at least sixty days, and then if your medication is effective, you should be able to return to your normal life by autumn. Do you have any questions?"

  I shook my head no and for the first time I noticed his left hand had a tiny sixth finger, loosely attached at the base of the pinky. I wondered how I had not noticed before. The opportunity was never better to bring up what I had seen on the violent ward the preceding day. Shock crossed Dr. Parker's face followed by a benign smile.

  "Phillip," he said, “what you accidentally witnessed was electric shock therapy. It's quite effective. Perhaps in your agitation, you imagined certain elements. Visual hallucinations are not uncommon with your diagnosis.”

  When Schultz escorted me back to the ward, I found Arthur Cromby playing checkers in a foul mood.

  "The son of a bitch has been cheating again," Arthur cried concerning his imaginary opponent as I sank into a leather chair.

  "Arthur, listen. I saw something weird today. You're not going to believe this, but Schultz left me on a locked ward upstairs, and I saw Parker doing surgery on a patient's head, and I swear to God a fetus came out."

  Arthur didn't even bother to look at me.

  "You're finally catching on, Selfridge. This place is phony. Parker and his gang are doing experiments on the patients upstairs. What you saw was nothing."

  "What do you mean nothing?"

  "I mean the shit that happens at night is incredible. They're taking fetuses out of heads by the hundred."

  "What are you talking about, Arthur? Who's they?"

  "Parker and the hospital staff. You don't think they're actually human beings do you? They're wearing clever disguises. The fuckers are from another planet. Trivestia they call it."

  "That's crazy, Arthur," I said.

  "You think so, Selfridge? You're pretty smart, aren't you? Tonight I'll show you who's crazy. I'll take you down in the basement and let you see for yourself."

  "If what you say is true, it could be dangerous."

  "God, you're a slow learner for a guy who's not even nuts." Cromby shook his head. “Now listen…” Then he explained our predicament.

  Shortly after midnight, he gave my shoulder a shake. "Time to go exploring," he said. "Just remember if anyone asks us what we're doing, go totally bonkers. Put on your best wigged-out act. These extra-terrestrials are smart, but they ain’t subtle."

  I followed Arthur down the dimly lit corridor of hospital beds and through the heavy, locked metal door. In a few tense minutes we were down the hall and taking the freight elevator to the basement. Embalming fluid assaulted my nostrils as Arthur and I stumbled through the darkness.

  "Arthur," I whispered, "We'd better go back. There's no lights. I don't like the looks of this."

  "Jesus Christ, Selfridge, are you a man or a mouse?" Arthur barked. "I told you I know my way around this dump."

  "I don't understand, Arthur. If you know how to get out of here and you hate it so much, why don't you escape?"

  "Why would I escape? There's nothing on the outside but ATF agents. I'm better off here.”

  I tried to stay within touching distance o
f Cromby as we stumbled across an earthen floor. Then suddenly Arthur kneeled, put his ear to a door, fiddled with the lock, and pushed it open.

  We were gazing into a roomful of corpses illuminated by recessed purple lighting emanating from the floor. The naked cadavers were lying on operating tables. Hordes of strange fetal creatures, no bigger than rabbits, clustered about their heads like suckling pigs.

  "My God!" I gasped. "What's going on?"

  "This is their ballgame. Those poor stiffs lying there dead are former mental patients. Parker and his associates use the brains of the dead as incubators for their offspring. Then after the patients die, they leave them down here to serve as feeding titties for the newborn."

  "You can't be serious about this, Arthur?"

  "If I'm not serious… what the hell do you think you're staring at?"

  Before I could answer, yellow light suddenly flooded the basement room. The corpses and the feeder fetuses were no longer visible. My heart leaped into my throat; I turned around and stared into the faces of Dr. Parker, Nurse Bohachick, and Schultz. Their daylight faces had transformed into gray, cheek-less masks with huge domed foreheads.

  "What a pleasure to see you here again, Cromby, and I see you've brought a guest."

  Dr. Parker seemed totally at ease.

  "Don't give me that pleasure shit, son of a bitch.” Nurse Bohachick raised what looked like a cigarette lighter and flicked its triggering mechanism. Arthur was instantly fastened to the walls, quivering with electricity. I don't like to think about his screams because I saw the blue fire shooting behind his teeth and erupting from his groin.

  "Now for you, Selfridge," Parker said. "I thought I made it clear to you during your orientation that certain areas of the hospital are off-limits. As a result of your defiance, we will subject your testicles to electric shock."

  I inhaled sharply, trying to think of some excuse. Nothing would come.

  "In addition to the shock, it's my duty to inform you that the results of your latest tests are in. You are verging on a very severe psychosis with signs of paranoid schizophrenia. It will now be necessary to confine you on a locked ward."

  You don’t fight back against electrical weapons, so I took the testicular shock. Schultz laughed while I was still writhing with pain; he dragged me down to the locked ward and pushed me inside.

  I spent the night huddled by the door, clutching a blanket. In the morning I met my dorm mates – cutters, tangent talkers, and feces eaters – who all had one element in common. The left side of their heads was either bandaged or healing after invasive surgery.

  That first morning, I met a strange man kneeling down drinking out of a toilet.

  "Hey," he cried glancing up, "you're new, ain't you?"

  I nodded in amazement at this seven-foot tall man.

  "You want to see my incision?" he shouted. "I'm Sterly Brown!"

  "I don't know, Mr. Brown.”

  "Hell, it's a beauty," Sterly cried, ripping the bandages off his head and hurling them to the tile floor. His thick fingers ripped back the flaps of the wound so that I could see into the gangrenous cavity. Deep within lay some healthy dark, pulsing tissue that was obviously his brain.

  "You're going to get one of these operations before long. Everybody here does. It don't hurt none."

  "But why? I don't understand. Why do they do it?"

  "For them there little embros of theirs. They opens up your head, puts one of them little buggers inside, and he can feed right off your brain tissue. When he gets up to a pound, they take him on out and sew you up."

  "What happens to the embryos?"

  "They ain't embros anymore. They's little babies. Hell I don't know what they do with them then. Takes 'em back to their home planet I reckon. You know the nice thing?"

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  "They always name the baby after you."

  "How nice," I said, trying to understand what madness would drive our captors to use the brains of madmen as incubators. Conditions on their planet must be strange and inhospitable, but nothing could be more perverted.

  "That's easy," Sterly laughed when I asked, "nobody gives a shit if we ever come back. If we die feeding a kid, the hospital just says we died of natural causes."

  With a huge grin, Sterly dipped his head back in the toilet bowl. "Want me to get you a drink while I'm down here? We're allowed to take all the water we want. I generally take a gallon or two every day."

  "No, that's nice of you, but I don't want a drink," I said. I noticed Schulz hovering behind me, carrying a concrete-filled rubber hose.

  "They want you upstairs, Selfridge, asshole," Schultz said, grabbing me by the collar. "You'll have to leave the water man alone to finish his business."

  An instant later Schultz forced me onto a freight elevator and whisked me up to an operating room on the fourth floor. Dr. Parker, Nurse Bohachick, and a half dozen other technicians were waiting for me. Dr. Parker's rubbergloved fingers felt around my skull. Shultz held me roughly to the operating table; Nurse Bohachick forced a mask over my nose and mouth. The last thing I remember hearing was Dr. Parker explaining that Cromby had been executed. I would be rendering a great service to his planet where women found themselves unable to nurse infants in the conventional fashion.

  When I awoke, Nurse Bohachick showed me a photograph of the embryo implanted in my brain.

  "We'll call him, Phillip," she said, "he's a boy. Schultz is his father, so you can feel very proud."

  I said nothing, thinking of the horror that lay ahead. The tiny fetus would be feeding on my brain. I would be no better than a captive wasp feeding a tarantula's offspring.

  And so it has been, for the six months of incubation. Luckily for me, the procedure is pain-free although there is an uncomfortable itching when the child moves.

  Whether or not I shall die here for knowing too much, I have no idea. Shultz has begun to refer to me as the Godfather of his child; I must say I've begun to develop an affinity for the man. Knowing he has two stomachs and two hearts sometimes bothers me; yet he protects me from Hubert Warley. Also, Madame Warhosky is an excellent partner for bridge so long as I'm able to provide her with an occasional cigarette, and don’t invite Hubert Warley to play. My head wound has begun to heal nicely. Nurse Bohachick says that I may soon be ready to become a feeder.

  Why I spent so much time trying to poke my own eyes out, I cannot say. Dr. Parker suggests it is a guilt syndrome associated with my curiosity having been instrumental in causing the death of Arthur Cromby. All I know is that I am very astute at calculating the time until the next meal, and very excited about the photographs that Schultz has promised to show me of my godson, who is learning to walk in electric power shoes. I only wish Trivestia were not so far, far away. I could stroke my namesake’s head and watch the lad grow to maturity.

  Something Funny is Going On by Brian Rosenberger

  War Journal Entry 14/12

  Fuck. Screwed up today. Typical patrol. Eyes and ears open. All senses on the high end of the dial. Body on full alert. Juicing on caffeine and legal stimulants. Weapons cataloged, cleaned, and cocked. Not expecting anything but always prepared. Always. I heard laughter. Not the sound of kids playing or schoolgirls with the giggles. This was much heavier, throaty, almost raw. Artificial laughter is one of the tell tale signs. We remember. How can we forget the laughter as they killed our friends, our family, our town. You don't forget the hair, the costumes, the frozen smile, death in their lifeless eyes. I was at the Big Top Burger. You don't forget. You never forget.

  Approached on its blindside. One look at that holly jolly costume, the big boots, the kids drawn in like moths to the flame by that big belly laugh, and I knew my only option. I drew. Five shots at close range. I take no chances. Small entrance, big exit. Always aim for the nose. Feel bad about the kids seeing blood splattered. Would feel worse if it were their blood. God bless deer slugs and a little American ingenuity. It dropped in mid laugh; its rosy cheeks sucking wind, its
belly quivering like Jell-O. The fake beard came off as it fell, struggling for help. But we know they are masters of disguise, mimics without peer. They've got chameleon DNA, reptile instincts. They know how to blend. You've got to be colder, smarter, and better than they are. DTA. Don't trust anyone. Words to live by.

  I remember the bicycle I got on Christmas the year before they came. Mom always loved Christmas. The crusade continues.

  War Journal Entry 23/12

  I hate shoppers. I hate Christmas shoppers. I really hate Christmas shoppers with fucking cell phones. Don't these poor bastards realize their lives are at stake? The shit we could tell them would bug out their color contact wearing eyes. They drive around in their gas-guzzling mastodons on wheels with their damn phones attached to their ears just to get a better deal on little Steve's toys. They cut me off three times today. It makes me sick. Well, I've got news for you buddy; your name's on top of the menu and it's an all you can eat buffet. Hurry, Hurry, step right up. See the non-seeing, non-believing, blind-in-both-eyes, typical American male. Can you say endangered? Fucking cell phoned, mind controlled bastards.

  Cell phone equals mind control?

  Possibility.

  War Journal Entry 2/1

  I wanted to write more yesterday but was still too hung over. And a happy New Year to you too.

  This time of year is meant to be with family. They took my family away. I was left with only my name, my inheritance, and my desire for vengeance. It's been a nightmare merry-go-round ever since.

  Sometimes I still can't believe. I can understand why so many of the surviving town folk of Crescent Cove refuse to talk about what happened. It's easier to forget. It's easier to pretend they aren't out there. Just look the other way. The government didn't even have to cover up. Selfpreservation and the denial factor went into hyper drive. People wanted to talk but they didn't know what to say. The ones that did were locked up and labeled disturbed. Well, Jesus H. Christ, when you see your family cotton candied to death in front of you, I'd say you have the right to be disturbed.

  I enlisted to get some answers and learn the art of war. One visit to the hardware store and I've got an arsenal. I can take a guy out five different ways, without him realizing it, without even breaking a sweat. My questions were red taped from every angle by the top brass on down. It was like Valentines Day. So many sugar coated responses, so many flat out lies. When I asked the big question, where did all the people go, it was always the same stock answer -- people disappear everyday. Well, no shit. Why do you think they're disappearing? It's them. They're responsible for more faces on milk cartons than you can imagine.