It was the naked body of a well-conditioned m a n — o r
what used to be a m a n , at any rate—but the head was
missing and there was a massive cut on the body's back,
from the neck to j u s t above the buttocks, where the
man's spine had also been surgically removed. It wasn't
dead, though. N o t even close. W h a t looked like mil¬
lions of tiny colorful wires and electrodes trailed down
into the grievous neck and back wounds, presumably
attaching into the body's complex central nervous
system because the body was twitching and dancing
within the liquid-filled tank like a drunken vaudevillian actor.
"What on earth is that t h i n g ? " I worked up the cour¬
age to ask, my curiosity getting the better of my fear
for the moment.
Drake laughed, walking over to whisper in my ear,
"That thing, Mike, is what we're calling a flesh suit.
Basically, it's a body in waiting. It's what's left of your
buddy, Bill Smith. Should have been you actually, now
that I think of it."
Bill?
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"We t h o u g h t it was Mr. Smith who'd snuck into room
301 during your first night here. We thought he was
the guy who discovered Andrew's room was a fake, so
we grabbed him the very next night. It should have
been you."
"But why?" I wanted to know. "Why would you do
something like this to him, or to anyone?"
Dr. Marshall answered this time. "Two reasons. To
shut him u p , for one. We didn't want him telling the
rest of you what we thought he'd seen in Andrew's room.
We soon found out we'd made a mistake, but by then it
was too late to turn back. M o r e importantly, I needed
his body for the most important experiment of all, the
final step in my plan to free Andrew from his long life
of misery."
Dr. Marshall bent over and stuck his face inches away
from mine then continued, saying, "You can call me
insane all you want, Mr. Fox, and this might strike you
as comical and seem like n o t h i n g but a big j o k e , but
this is serious to m e , you worthless little piece of s h i t . . .
deadly serious, and whether you like it or not, you're
going to help me. Understand? Andrew is going to
walk."
N o w I was m a k i n g the connections, putting it all
together as far as Andrew was concerned, but where did
I fit into all this madness?
"What are you gonna do to m e ? " I asked.
Dr. Marshall backed up a few steps and started smil¬
ing again, his friendly demeanor back in place.
"Simple really" he said. "I'm going to do to you ex¬
actly what I plan on putting Andrew through. He's in a
very unstable condition, and time is of the essence, but
I don't want to rush ahead and screw up. He's only got
one more chance, and I have to make sure all the kinks
are out of my procedure. That's where you come in.
You're going to be my final test, Mike. I'm going to try
the entire procedure on you first to make sure it works.
Then I'll be ready to heal Andrew."
I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I was shocked,
and it must have registered on my face because Dr. Mar¬
shall started reassuring me things would be okay.
"Don't worry, Mr. Fox. Everything will turn out
great. Glorious, in fact. You've seen my experiments, so
you know I can do this. You should be grateful, really.
I'm going to give you back arms and legs, Mike. Think
about it. I'm going to make you walk again. You and
Andrew both!"
There was part of me buying into the doctor's crazy
spiel—a large part of m e , actually I had no doubts the
doctor could successfully do what he was planning, and
I desperately wanted to have my arms and legs back and
be able to stand on my own two feet, rather than being
strapped to this stupid gurney. Technically they wouldn't
be my arms and legs, but in the half-bonkers state of
mind I was in, that was starting to sound better than
nothing.
But then I took another look at Bill's electronically
animated body dancing in its tank in front of me and
realized that to put me inside that body, Dr. Marshall
would have to cut me down even further—down to my
head and spine j u s t like Andrew—and that was some¬
thing I j u s t couldn't handle. Another surgery would
surely drive me insane and I didn't want any part of it.
"Please don't do this," I pleaded. "I didn't know him
all that well, but I don't wanna wear Bill's body. I
couldn't live with myself. I'm begging you. Just kill me
now and let it be done with, okay?"
"Bill's body?" Dr. Marshall questioned. Drake and
he started to laugh. "Don't worry, you won't be wearing
Bill's body. Are you crazy?"
I didn't understand what I had said that was so funny.
I was tired and very confused. Had I missed something
or heard the doctor wrong?
"You're not going to put my head on that body? But
you j u s t said—"
"Of course not, you fool," Dr. Marshall interrupted.
"You think I'd waste a specimen like this on you? Bill
Smith's flesh suit is perfect. It's fit as a fiddle and blem¬
ish free. It's the ideal new body for Andrew."
He nodded to Drake, who happily walked over to the
left-hand curtains still drawn across to the middle of
the room. W i t h a wink, Drake slowly shoved this half
of the heavy drapes to the side wall, revealing a second
glass tank and a second flesh suit dancing in its own
watery grave.
Sweet mother of Jesus!
The glass tanks and the myriad color-coded wires
were virtually identical, but that was where the similari¬
ties ended. Bill Smith's body might have looked strange,
suspended without a head, but at least it still looked rela¬
tively human. W h a t was in the other tank could only be
described as grotesque—a flesh suit made with bits and
pieces from several different bodies (torso, hands, feet,
arms, legs, fingers, toes), the parts all sewn and grafted
together to make a hideous parody of a h u m a n being.
"This is your flesh suit, Michael," Dr. Marshall said.
"I pieced it together from the various experiment parts
I had lying around. It's an amazing accomplishment in
itself, really, with more than twelve different body do¬
nors being used in all. Add your head and spine into the
mix, and we'll have used thirteen. A nice baker's dozen.
I know it's not quite as attractive as the suit Andrew
will be getting, but beggars can't be choosers. W h a t do
you think?"
My mind froze on me again. My thought processes
ground to a halt. Looking at the monstrous body that
might soon be my own, I couldn't think or say anything
that might help get me out of this crazinessi Partly fas¬
cinated, partly curious, but mostly horrified, I j u s t stared
up at th
e headless dancing Frankenstein and prayed to
die before Dr. Marshall could do to me what I knew he
had planned.
God wasn't listening.
"Mr. Drake," Dr. Marshall said. "Take Michael down
the hall, will you? Operating room three is prepped
and ready for us."
"Be a pleasure, sir," Drake said. "A real pleasure."
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S I X
The mirror had to have been Drake's inspiration. His
sick twisted idea of humor to torture my fragile mind
even further. Instead of breaking me completely, as I'm
sure he'd hoped, if anything, it made me stronger.It
replaced my fear and anxiety with good ol' red-blooded
American bitterness and hatred, and I needed that in¬
tense level of anger to sustain me through the senseless
indignities I was being forced to endure. Rage became
my companion, my ally, my savior.
W h e n I'd first opened my eyes, I thought they'd put
me into a room with Andrew, put us so close together I
was looking right into his haunted-bloodshot eyes, and
seeing his ragged neckline with its multitude of wires
leading down to his thrashing submerged spine. But
once I fully awakened and my mind became a little
clearer I recognized the eyes, nose and. jawline of the
person I was gazing at, and noticed the thin wooden
frame around the perimeter of the silver-backed glass.
A man in a mirror—three guesses, first two don't count.
Drake had obviously put the mirror there j u s t so I
could see what they'd done to me. It wasn't enough for
me to know I'd been reduced down to a disembodied
head and spinal column—he wanted me to see it with
my own eyes.
It's impossible to describe the series of emotions that
washed over my damaged psyche at that moment. For
Christ's sake, what are you supposed to think and feel
when you can look down and count the number of ver¬
tebrae in your spine? Maybe shock, horror, sadness,
denial, self-pity, fear, or insanity? Yep, I had all of those
emotions, but as I said, it was when I started to get
m a d — n o , make that furious—about what they'd done
to me, that was the emotional life preserver I desper¬
ately latched on to. It wasn't much, but my wrath was
all I had left. Either that, or take the big plunge and go
straight out of my freakin' mind.
I was left alone for a long t i m e , silently staring at
what was left of my decimated body, my anger building
and building until I was sure steam would start leaking
from my ears. I couldn't even scream. I tried, you can
be sure of that, tried and tried, but no sound was com¬
ing out I didn't have any vocal cords left, or lungs to
push air up past them to make sound. All I could do was
open and close my mouth, raging in silence.
I soon realized it wasn't my voice I missed most, or any
of the rest of my body. It was the beating of my heart.
Normally we don't even hear it, or put any thought to¬
ward the j o b it performs—until it's gone, that is. I was
still being supplied with sufficient blood to keep my
brain alive-and functional, but somehow it wasn't the
same thing. Although I could hear the similar sounding
thump-swish noise of the heart/lung bypass machine, the
blood flowing through me was no longer mine, and no
word of a lie, I could tell the difference.
Stop getting so fucking philosophical. These bastards have
cut away your whole damned body, why the fuck are you so
worried about your heart? Get over it.
I suppose that was good advice. Made sense, and
jolted my mind back on track. Right now, I'd probably
trade ten good hearts for one meaty fist and a powerful
arm to take a wicked haymaker at both Drake and Dr.
Marshall. That would be sweet, but it was a stupid, ir¬
rational thought. N o t the last, I was sure. I was losing
it, big t i m e , and I knew it. There j u s t wasn't much I
could do to stop it. Then again, maybe sanity was over¬
rated. W h a t good would it do me in my present condi¬
tion? I'd be far better off nutty as a fruitcake, lost in a
delusional sense of reality that had me strolling down
an imaginary white sandy beach with some dark-skinned
beauty on my arm. Wouldn't I?
I spent a minute thinking about the dream beach,
but my illusion was shattered when I heard Drake call
my name from somewhere behind me.
"Looking good, Mike," he said, walking around and
removing the mirror from in front of me.
The tank that held my spine was situated on a low
table near the floor, and I had to crane my neck to look
up at him. The muscle-bound head of security stared
down at me for a full minute without speaking, then
bent down to my eye level, leaning in so dose our noses
were actually touching. His breath stank of stale whis¬
key, but from the slightly glassy look in his drunken
eyes, I was sure I had more to worry about from Drake
than j u s t his bad breath. He had the look of a hungry
predator about him, and there was no doubt I was defi¬
nitely easy prey.
"How you feeling, little man? You cold? I should get
you a s w e a t e r . . . oh, sorry. Sweater wouldn't do you
much good, would it? Perhaps a nice warm hat?"
Drake burst out laughing, spraying my face with spit¬
tle. I hated him more than anyone else in the world at
that moment—even Dr. Marshall, who was most re¬
sponsible for what had happened to me. At least the
doctor was driven by his mad obsession to help his only
son. Drake acted the way he did out of sheer vicionsness.
He was a wickedly evil, pretentious bastard and I vowed
to myself that I'd hang on, somehow find the courage
and strength to live long enough to see him die.
"Dr. Marshall wants to talk to you. Said he'd be along
in a few minutes." Drake leaned down to whisper in my
ear, "What should we do while we're waiting?"
He stepped back a few feet, pretending to ponder it
for a moment, and then started to undo his pants.
You wouldn't DARE?
Of course he would. Seconds later, he had his man¬
hood in his hand and was stroking it hard.
"I've had my eye on you right from the start," Drake
said in a lusty growl. "I like 'em feisty like you, Mike.
N o w you be good, or ol' Drake's gonna have to hurt
you real bad. Understand?"
Perfectly. I opened my m o u t h up as wide as I possibly
could—an open invitation for him. Drive it home, big
boy, see what it gets you!
God, I hoped he'd be stupid enough to do it. If he
stuck that filthy thing in my mouth, there was n o t h i n g
on earth that would stop me from taking a chomp. He
could threaten me with pain, endless suffering, and even
death, but I didn't give two shits about any of that. If he
stuck it in, he was gonna lose it. Guaranteed!
Do it, Drake. Do it!
Something in my eyes must have given my intentions
away, because I saw him hesitate, think things through,
then decide maybe his present course of action wasn't
exactly the smartest. I swear I saw a flicker of fear race
across his face and when his penis started to soften in
his hand I knew I'd gotten the better of him.
"You're not worth the bother," Drake said, trying to
backpedal and cover his tracks.
He was far too macho to ever admit I'd managed to
scare him. Instead he zipped up his pants and walked
out of the room without saying another word.
He sulked back a few minutes later with Dr. Mar¬
shall, who seemed to be walking around much better
now than I remembered. Made me wonder how long I'd
been floating around in recuperation land this time and
I actually tried to ask, forgetting I couldn't speak. The
doctor saw my lips moving and walked over.
"Save your strength, Mr. Fox," he said. "I've tried to
master reading lips, so I could communicate better
with Andrew, but I j u s t don't seem to have the knack
for it. Besides, I've come to tell you some great news."
I highly doubted that, but what could I do but wait
for him to spill the beans?
"I've gone over all the test data at least twenty times,
Michael. Everything looks exactly as I'd predicted and
hoped. We're ready to go ahead and do the transplant.
Yours that is, not Andrew's. I still need to study the re¬
sults of y o u r transplant into the flesh suit before I com¬
mit to doing Andrew."
This was his good news? That I was headed back for
more surgery? Admittedly, I sure as hell didn't want to
remain in the pitiful helpless condition I was in now, but
the thought of being sewn up inside that hideous patch¬
work body I'd seen clumsily dancing in the second tank
was too much to contemplate rationally. I mean, how
could I possibly exist within a body made up of thirteen
different people? Michael Fox: from street bum to Fran¬
kenstein, in four easy steps. W h a t a nightmare.
I started to panic, helpless to do anything but squirm
around and shout silent obscenities, but I had to do
something. I couldn't j u s t sit idly by and be turned into
a walking freakshow without at least trying to fight.
N o t that it did me any good. As soon as Dr. Marshall
saw me getting agitated and dangerously thrashing
around, he filled yet another of his seemingly endless
large syringes and injected it into one of the tubes
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