Demons, Freaks & Other Abnormalities
By Michael Laimo
First Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital
Copyright 2010 by Michael Laimo
Copy-edited by by David Dodd
Cover art by Dan Verkys: www.gardenofbadthings.com
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CONTENTS
Bite of the Meso
Five Minutes of Video
11:11
Banalica
The Alley Man
The Layover
Gila Way
Murder in the Eyes of God
Night Fuel
Room 412
Slugfest
The Chicken Man
Bite of the Meso
Trying to ignore the pain jutting from the bite in his leg, Brett described in brave and gory detail how the animal came to its death; how its legs buckled, how its gut splattered when he shot it, how it lay there trembling, whimpering as it bled.
Supported by Andrew’s shoulder, Brett was led into the tent and eased down on top of his sleeping bag. The throbbing in his calf was terribly painful, yet still no complete distraction to the reek of musty canvas and damp grass hanging heavily inside the tent--a result of all the rain the crew had endured during their month in Rwanda. Still, despite the bad weather and the odors it left behind, their shelter had held up quite well and remained mostly dry inside. A good thing because a cluster of looming storm clouds had threatened to burst open and hammer the research team with yet another blanket of grassland downfall. Carrie, Andrew’s wife, and Tomas--a local, and the team’s tour guide--ignored the darkening monsters above and attended to Brett’s injury as he revealed what had happened.
“The p-pack of hyenas,” he sputtered, the pain marring his handsome face as Carrie added some sting with an antiseptic cloth. “Y-you were all getting such excellent footage. And then the lion, when he attacked, I had to get some better shots. Andrew was using the sunroof so I got out and crouched down behind the jeep. Who’d’ve thought of looking behind? I mean...it was so damn excellent, the whole frenzy and all. I thought I heard something and turned...grabbed my gun...but the fucker jumped me, took a poke at my leg.” He winced as if mentioning the wound brought on additional pain.
Sweat poured from Carrie’s composed face, dripped onto Brett’s thigh as she wrapped it with gauze. “More than a poke. He took a nice bite out of you.” Her voice showed not the slightest quiver of panic.
The pain was carving its way through Brett’s leg to his waist. “I k-kicked my leg and he bounded off...but I got him, blew the son-of-a-bitch away.”
“We know,” a pacing Andrew muttered, palms on his forehead, the contempt in his voice obvious. “It’s a good thing we got the footage we did.”
A spasm of irritation crossed Brett’s face. “By any chance did you notice that I got bitten by a God-damned hyena!”
“Did you have to get out of the jeep?” Andrew’s arms were spread in question.
The clouds opened up and rain abruptly streamed down, slashing the canvas roof with an incessant, crackling sound. Seething at his colleague’s insensitivity, Brett tried to rise. Carrie placed a hand upon his chest. “Calm down and let me finish this. And you,” she said, pointing to her husband, soft lips crimped with annoyance, “we’re gonna have to get him to the medical center for a tetanus shot.”
Tomas had zipped the front of the tent shut and was peering out through the mesh. “Rain’s too heavy, it’s getting dark. Jeep’ll never make it through.”
Carrie scanned the sagging roof as if to survey the rain’s intensity. “We’ll have to go in at sunrise.”
Digging his nails into his palms, Tomas nodded. “Rain should not last through the night. The morning sun will dry the soil.”
“Well...I think we all can use some rest then,” Andrew said, and Brett must have agreed. He was asleep.
~ * ~
Brett dreamed of fires, raging flames jutting from every corner of the tent, their spires dancing in chaotic fervidness, reaching out and stopping him at his every attempt to escape their blistering grasps.
He startled awake from his heated dreams, gasping for breath, his face veiled in sweat. He twisted his neck and darted his watery eyes around the dark tent. Carrie and Tomas appeared to be asleep. Andrew was lying at the opposite side of the tent, too far away to see in the moonless night.
He felt the heat rapidly spreading inside. Fever. Beads of sweat spilled from all parts of his body as if attempting to keep pace with the rain that was still billowing across the plains. He felt as though he were lying in a fire, and as he reached for air, every breath seared through his lungs. It was as if the fires that occupied his dreams had somehow escaped into his waking state to torment him. His bones seemed as if they were melting, his skin felt as if tiny flames were jutting from the pores. His fingertips were tender, like red hot pokers.
Like a ghostly apparition, Tomas appeared at his side, his black face an eerie mask of sweat. For a moment Brett thought that Tomas might also melting away. “My friend Brett,” the African whispered. “The animal that bit you, did it have a black back?”
Brett shook his head as best as he could. His face felt as though it were dripping from his skull; the heat was unbearable. “I-I don’t know.”
“Did it have stripes?”
He tried hard to reflect back to the incident, to the animal that attacked him, its saliva-coated jaws bared in anger, the dark hair on its back on end... “No.” Brett felt the fever trying to seduce him back to sleep; he struggled to stay attentive.
Tomas was silent, closed his eyes and rubbed them. He then turned away and Brett saw Carrie sitting up behind him. Tomas stood and grasped her arm then led her outside under the eave to the entrance of the tent, just beyond the downpour’s reach. Through the rain and through waves of fevered consciousness, Brett could hear snippets of their conversation.
“Hyenas always travel in packs...they are a striped animal...may have had a black back.”
“Jackal,” Carrie said.
“Meso...”
“Meso?”
“...Mesomelas...figure in our history...two thousand years ago...mated with the jackal...children, half human, half jackal...killed and ate humans...the jackal with the black back, the Meso...descendant of Mesomelas...”
Tomas’ voice faded and Brett could hear no more for a horrible crunching sound suddenly filled his ears, and then it changed, and in its place came a liquid-like sputter that boiled violently inside the walls of his skull.
He became terrified, tried to move but could not. Paralyzed. Bright flashes consumed his eyesight. The heat within him grew even hotter, and it felt as if his bones were molten, flowing, forming new shapes. Something snapped inside his chest, and the sloshing in his head gave way to a series of cracks and pops.
He then sensed someth
ing different about his face. He could feel that it was changing. He became aware of his brow, he could see it extending out over his eyes into a ridge like a gnarled knot on a log. His mouth, nose, and jaw all melted into one another, pulling his human face forward into a primordial, misshapen muzzle. He pulled his hands up in front of his face and he could see--peering down his elongated snout--that they too were going through the same maligned alterations. His fingers grew shorter and thicker and his nails curved out into sharp claws with barbarous points; his knuckles abscessed into dark lumpy knots, mottled with patches of coarse hair at each joint; his arms shrunk back into smaller, sinewy forelimbs, pulled tight with muscles and tendons that pulsed like a boiling stew.
Although he knew he should be afraid, Brett felt something else--something that helped overshadow his fear--brewing deep down beyond the physical change. There was a...pleasure in the transformation. The burning that had tormented him just moments earlier subsided, and he was now feeling suddenly strong, quick, full of deadly energy. He had thought all along that he was melting, but realized that the intense heat rushing through his blood had been a catalyst to this new found state, bringing with it power and strength and hunger to all parts of his brain and body. His mind raced towards places never perceived before, to pleasures never imagined; he felt unsettling, urgent desires to burrow and hide in a dark moist hole; he felt hungry and wanted to scavenge for grubs and insects; he felt allured and wanted, needed to mate with a musk-sodden creature in some damp, lightless lair.
A soft murmur rudely interrupted his fantasies.
His defenses heightened, Brett darted up with unimaginable ease and dexterity and stood on two muscular hind legs, the sleeping bag tearing beneath the razor-sharp claws on his feet. He held his breath, cocked his head and listened. He perceived a breathing, loud and clear. Realizing there was another life-form in the vicinity, he dropped to all fours and prowled forward, the coarse hair on the nape of his neck standing on end. Now able to see clearly in the dark interior, he observed a dormant shape lying at the rear of the tent. He heard a heartbeat emanating from the body, hammering through the uproar of the thrashing storm. A thrill coursed through him, a hot, animalistic fury racing through his bloodstream, providing fuel for his out of control metabolism. He at once felt desperate, overcome by unbridled, savage tendencies that were clouding his rational, human thoughts. All he could feel was the need to feed his desires, his ancient wants.
He ground his jaws and paced closer towards the sleeping body. His appendages rippled with every movement; clothing tore away from his body; hot saliva streamed over his fangs and poured from his muzzle, sizzling as it came in contact with the cool floor.
He reached the body. It smelled awful, and at once Brett regarded the life with an extreme aversion. His blood flowed even harder and traces of the fiery heat burned in his guts. He needed to fulfill his innate, brutalistic cravings.
He contemplated the body as he loomed over it. Male, tall, well muscled. Perfect. It would satisfy the first of many desires he had. Hunger.
A droplet of hot spittle fell from Brett’s muzzle onto Andrew’s face and Brett could see his eyes dart open, then widen, and then he felt a hot surge of dread spew forth from the pores of the man’s skin. His prey paralyzed with fear, Brett slammed down onto Andrew, driving razor-sharp claws deep into his stomach. He then jerked one razored hand out, reached up, clutched his victim’s throat, and with one quick swipe tore out his vocal chords, ensuring silence. Blood spouted from the severed veins and arteries in Andrew’s neck, adding a sharp, metallic odor to the dampened reek inside. Andrew’s eyes glazed over and Brett buried his muzzle into his former colleague’s innards.
He ate with savage delight, with primal bliss. He felt wild and free, never more powerful, and as he descended further into the midsection of the fresh corpse, he fell into a dream-like trance where only the smell and taste of blood existed alongside the tantalizing sounds of ravenous mastication.
He was awakened from his trance by a scream.
He pulled his head up from the shredded guts of his prey and saw a female standing at the entrance of the structure. She was wide-eyed, holding her hands defensively across her mouth and neck, and at the sight of her, his racing metabolism generated a new, different hunger. He had found sustenance, satisfied that desire. Now his instincts called for something else.
Brett rose from Andrew’s corpse, stood on his hind legs, almost a foot taller than he was before the bite of the Meso. His mangy, blood-soaked head nearly touched the top of the tent. Twisting his neck, he stared at the female. There was something about her that triggered a response in him, something...painful. He peered down at his leg; it was bleeding, a small shred of cloth dangling from it. He remembered. She had something to do with this, his pain. Through icy, wide-set eyes, he cocked his head and probed her, running a six-inch tongue across blood-slickened gums.
The woman screamed. The wail hurt Brett’s ears and he forced a blare of fury that momentarily smothered the noise of the swarming rain. Carrie ran out into the wind driven storm, her boots sinking an inch into the mud. Brett pursued.
The pleasure of the chase was indescribable. As he trounced through the mud, trampling wild growth, he felt natural and at ease, savage and free. He kept his luminous eyes glued to her as she stumbled ahead towards a vehicle of some kind, glancing back over her shoulder as he drew nearer. She reached the jeep and pulled frantically at the door, screaming one word over and over: “Tomas! Tomas!”
Brett recognized the word but did not care what it meant. He reached her and dragged her down into the mud. She flailed at him but he was quickly on top of her, sinking his razored claws into her arms, his weight forcing her deep into the saturated terrain. She screamed in pain and terror and Brett grew immensely excited as she buckled and thrashed under his iron grip, but her efforts were in vain for he had her tightly pinned and she was instantly overcome with exhaustion. As he hulked over her, exhaling hot jackal breath in her face, he scrutinized her femininity--her blond hair caked with mud, her soft skin punctured under his callused grip, her...smell.
The animalistic delight of the chase quickly faded and was superseded by a sensualistic hankering. He moved one hand from her arm, softly stroked her sobbing face, then grabbed her shirt and it ripped open. After a moment, he did the same with her pants.
He peered below and saw his organ, fully erect. It was monstrous, a hideous staff mottled with bumps, bruises, and patches of coarse hair. Carrie’s gaze fell upon it, and she began to cry.
As if to match the brutality of the act that was about to take place, the rain intensified.
He mounted her.
At first it would not go but he pushed with uncanny strength, forcing the hardened muscle to gorge her fleshy hole wider with every violating thrust.
Eventually, he entered her.
The world spun viciously around him. It was a pleasure so keen he could taste it, like electricity dancing on his tongue. He snarled at the imaginary flashes of lightning impinging his eyesight. The delight rose to uncontrollable levels. It was close, so close, the throbbing ecstasy, so vibrant and overpowering...
Then...release.
Her cries had long stopped but he followed his instincts and finished, howling a furious call into the night at the conclusion of the intemperate act. He dismounted, then came down and buried his nose into the bloody mess between her legs, urgently lapping the sweet fluids up before the rain washed them away.
Lightning shot across the plains. He fed further on the body until he was satiated, then, all primordial urges oppressed, removed himself and traipsed on all fours through the rain soaked African landscape back to the tent.
The entrance to the tent flapped behind him as he lugged his malformed body to the furthest corner. As he lay dormant, his mind battled two memories: the more recent thoughts of the animalistic pleasures he’d just experienced, and the seemingly long lost memories his prior, sane human intellect. He gazed with confus
ion at what remained of Andrew: a mutilated body, practically decapitated, sprawled like a burlap bag in the middle of the tent. He tried to oppress the images of himself feeding on the body, drinking blood and urine. He began to breathe very fast, felt his heart rate speed. The burning returned in his blood and he was suddenly seized by a longing to shed all remaining human traits, drop close to the ground and race through the night in long, graceful bounds across the grasslands.
No, his mind fought. Stay in control...
A scent pierced him, a scent of something...familiar.
He heard a voice. “Brett.”
Brett saw a dark figure rise up behind Andrew’s corpse.
Tomas was there, his blackness bathed in sweat. “You are caught in between. Let go of the man, and unleash the Meso in you.”
Brett stared at him, not comprehending as to why he did not feel the desire to attack. Perhaps his animalistic urges had been completely satiated, or maybe a touch of human saneness impeded upon his newly acquired mentality. Whatever it was, he quietly stayed put and watched Tomas as he moved closer, one step, and then another. Tomas stopped and then the African began to remove his clothing, first his shirt and then his trousers, and Brett knew, even now, that this was unusual. As Tomas disrobed, Brett could smell the familiar scent steaming off in waves. It was not like that of the others. Brett liked the way Tomas smelled. When Tomas was completely naked, he knelt down in front of the monster Brett and folded his arms in prayer.
Instantly Tomas surrendered his human form, allowing his Mesomelian blood to flow and bring on his primeval state. His prayers became incoherent growls. His flesh then shifted, as pliant as clay, forming extremities soft and malleable, yet strong and indestructible. Brett could hear familiar cadences in Tomas’ shifting bones, sounds that emulated the wisps of tall flowing reeds dancing against one another in a great field; he could hear the energy of his blood flow, turbulent fires coursing rhythmically through his changing veins, the overpowering throb of his shrinking heart, pulsing with brutal passion. He reveled in Tomas’ change, for he was familiar with the mindless glee he must be experiencing; the sensory overflow, the mad rush of internal ecstasy, the magnificent freedom that gnawed at his very being, seeking release.
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