Gang awoke and opened his eyes on a darkness that was not darkness. There was no light yet there were colors, colors that he had never seen, yet he already knew their names. He opened his mouth and called out each name with his new tongue, watching as his words flowed like smoke into the air. His new ears heard the words as no human ears ever could and Gang wept black tears of joy. He rose and turned towards the door. In spite of the darkness he could “see” everything in the room, though their forms remained unfamiliar to him. Something beside him stank of rot and disease, a mass of shivering shapes huddled inside it, stinking of fear. Another something, this one flat and putrid, sat in one corner, giving off waves of something wonderfully vile. The floor beneath him was filled with new sights, and each object vibrated, echoing its presence to him. He walked across the room, relishing the sensation of things crushing and squishing beneath his feet, towards what a quiet voice inside told him was a “door”.
[When Gang woke it was dark He was lying naked on the floor of a dirty room filled with refuse. He opened his mouth and stretched out his tongue. It writhed and undulated with tiny, wavering tentacles and pulsing growths. Black tears flowed down his face. He stood and peered around at the dark room. A rotting dresser leaned against one wall with a family of terrified rats hiding in the bottom drawer. In the corner was a putrid mattress, soaked through to the floor with years of blood and urine and spit and semen. The floor was littered with discarded food wrappers and shattered glass mixed with the occasional crushed needle or used condom. His eyes flickered like dying flames in the blackness. Gang walked across the trash-strewn floor, heedless of the myriad tiny, bloodless cuts etched into his feet. He approached the door and opened it.]
In the hall there was light like he had once known but it was changed as well. Gang saw new lights dancing in the old as if alive. A sound, both familiar and alien, emanated from above him in oscillating waves. He touched the source of the sound and a mass of tiny, shaking shadows streamed our across his hand and arm, jittering and gyrating briefly before falling and fading away. He smiled again and followed the echo of a new presence from somewhere below him.
[Gang walked out into the hall. Dim light struggled through one grimy window at the end. Above him a wasp's nest buzzed alarmingly to life. Gang reached up and touched it. A swarm erupted from inside and enveloped his arm. As each wasp stung him it fell to the floor in a cloud of crumbling ash. Gang smiled and walked on down the hall.]
Gang found himself in a larger space filled with more beautifully rotting shapes. Foul odors sang to him an overture of despair and decay. More colors and shapes flowed around him a dance he was slowly beginning to learn. Amidst it all, in a far corner of the room, he saw a slumped, glowing form. This was the presence he'd been drawn to. It was surrounded by wavering lines that flickered and pulsed like tendrils of guttering light. Gang approached it and knelt. The shape stirred at his presence and a sound drifted lazily up from it. Gang ran his fingers gently through the tendrils of light, feeling their tender weight, and cooed softly, a sound somewhere between a mother to her child and a snake to a mouse.
“It dreams,” he whispered.
Gang reached into the dream, not knowing how nor needing to know, and took hold of it. It twisted and squirmed eel-like in his grasp as he squeezed it tighter. Below him the shape let loose a sound that swirled around them in a funnel cloud of agonized terror. Gang squeezed tighter and the struggling dream split and spilled cool rivulets of consciousness between his fingers. The twitching form beneath him stiffened and shook and was still. The tendrils of light around it grew dark and fell slack but did not fade. Gang smiled and tasted the dark light with his new tongue. He had never tasted anything so sweet and knew that he never would again. At last he stood and walked towards a shimmering rectangle of brilliant light.
[Gang reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around at the large living room. It was crowded with dirty couches, threadbare chairs, and moldering mattresses. It reeked of every foul smell a human can produce. Across the room, slumped in a corner, sat a filth covered young woman, her head lolled to one side, with a thin stream of drool running from one corner of her mouth to the floor. An empty needle jutted out from one arm. Gang approached the woman and knelt down in front of her. The woman moaned and tried to pull away. Gang reached down and placed his hand on her forehead. For a moment nothing happened. Suddenly the woman began to scream. She convulsed violently. Blood and bile sputtered from her mouth in a grotesque spray and splattered against Gang's naked chest and stomach. He did not seem to notice. The woman's body gave one final spasm and stilled. Her vacant eyes stared up into Gang's and he smiled, flicking out the quivering mass of his tongue at her. Gang stood and walked to the front door of the house.]
What Gang found when he opened the door was beyond anything he could ever have imagined. A new world spread out before him. The old world he had always known had been remade and reborn through his new self. With his new skin he tasted the sunlight that flowed across his naked body. Voices drifted on the wind, a thousand voices, and he could hear each and every one perfectly. His new eyes burned in the light but he did not close them, for the pain was no longer pain, it was a symphony beneath his skin, a beautiful song plucked across the strings of his nerves. Every cell in his form screamed in joy and triumph and love for darkly shining world he had discovered. For the first time he saw the terrible beauty that had always dwelt beneath the world's ugly skin and finally he understood why they wanted it so badly.
[Gang emerged from the dilapidated house and stood on its porch. Sunlight fell across his dirty, naked body. Streams of blood and vomit glistened on his chest. Dark tears like crude oil dried on his cheeks. He spread out his arms and looked up at the sky in ecstasy. On the street, passersby quickened their pace and did not look up. Many of them began to weep like frightened children without knowing why.]
Gang opened his mouth and cried out in his horrific new voice. Somewhere, something stirred. Beneath the earth a thing long silent rattled its chains and called back to him. Gang smiled again and descended the steps. There was much to be done.
Chapter 6 - Fear in a Quickened Pulse
Nolan stalked cautiously through the dark, quiet forest. Around him the faint wind whispered through the tree tops and rustled the brittle leaves that littered the ground. He tried to be silent, except it seemed he couldn’t step anywhere without making some sort of sound; a crunching leaf, a snapping twig, every noise sounding like a gunshot in the silence. Even his breath, which he was only now starting to get under control, sounded unbearably loud in his ears. He wanted to stop and hide but knew that he didn't dare.
Something was with him in the forest.
He had lost track of how far and how long he had run. Long enough for his legs to ache and his lungs to burn. Far enough that he had little idea of where he was. He had left civilization behind, moving through the quiet neighborhoods on the borders of Inlet City and into the woodlands beyond. Then the chase had ended… and the hunt had begun. The loping, snarling beast that had pursued him was replaced by a silent stalker whose presence Nolan could feel somewhere close even if he couldn't see or hear it.
All through their chase his pursuer had snapped at his heels, never catching up, always just close enough that he couldn't risk stopping. Then, out of nowhere, it would be upon him, dashing up along side, pushing him down this deserted street or that empty alley. Now they had arrived at their destination, the one it had wanted all along. Only now, with a moment to think clearly, did he realize the truth. There had never been the slightest hope of escape. He had been herded, like a lamb, to where it had wanted him to go, to the place where it could take its time. Nolan cursed himself for a fool even though he could not imagine what he might have done differently.
It was early spring and the buds were only just beginning to form on the trees. Faint light filtered down through the empty branches as the moon slipped from behind a cloud. Nolan paused and glanced around, hoping that the light might reveal his attacker’s location, but the moonlight only transformed the near total darkness into a shifting shadow play of menacing phantoms. He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes, hoping to catch some tell tale sound of his enemy's approach. It was there, he was sure of it. Some base, reptilian, prey-sense told him there was a presence nearby, but not where. He had only seen it briefly, in blurred flashes of claws and teeth, but he knew it was big, like a bear. How could it move so quietly? Nolan continued to try and calm himself, willing his frantic heart to slow, letting tired lungs suck in long, easy wisps of cool night air. Minutes passed but nothing disturbed the stillness. He was entertaining the fool's hope that the creature had given up on him when he heard an ever so quiet rush of air. From somewhere in the dark behind him there came a series of sharp, quick inhalations; the unmistakable sound of something large and hungry scenting the air.
Nolan scanned the staccato shadow pattern of the trees, searching for any sign of movement, and caught sight of the creature for the first time. It stood in a small clearing, bathed in pale light. At first it seemed like nothing more than some large animal but the longer he looked the more he saw strange incongruities in its form. The rear legs bent backwards, out past the hind quarters, like a bird’s, and they moved with the same quick, avian grace. Large humps jutted up from its back where the front legs met the shoulders and Nolan could just make out the twitch and roll of muscle masses moving beneath the skin. The body ended suddenly in a blunted mound that he could only assume was some kind of head. It pawed the ground around it with long, thin fingered paws that looked disturbingly human, despite each finger being tipped with a thick, sharp talon.
Nolan watched as it awkwardly swung its head back and forth, sniffing and stepping, searching for him. It sniffed once and stopped, head frozen, nostrils flaring, and began to circle around where Nolan hid behind his tree. Had it smelled him? He couldn’t be sure. It did appear to be slowly closing in. Nolan leaned a little further out, trying to keep the thing in sight, and saw something that turned his blood to ice. A faint hissing came from beneath the creature, the sound of something slithering dryly through the brittle leaves. Nolan watched the silhouette of a long, prehensile protrusion descending into the shadowed leaf bed between the creature hind legs. He tried to tell himself it was some kind of tail but the longer he looked the more he knew it was not\; and that was when the real terror took hold of him.
Before he was truly aware he was doing so Nolan had taken off at a dead run in the opposite direction of the creature. There was no thought or plan in his movement, no attempt at cunning or guile; just pure, blind, animal panic. The sight of the thing’s “appendage” had awoken a deeper, more primal, fear than Nolan had ever dreamt of. A feeling rose in him, a half recalled memory, that filled him with such unspeakable dread that his mind recoiled from it before he could fully grasp its meaning. Somehow he knew, without really “knowing”, what was about to happen, and the realization of it wiped away all logic and reason in a single, desperate wave of horrified revulsion.
Behind Nolan the creature turned with remarkable speed and dashed after him. It closed the minor gap between them easily. Within seconds he could smell the rank odor of it, a nauseating mixture of putrid bile and rotting flesh, as its wet, heaving breath rushed in and out in great, hollow pants. He imagined he could hear something else in that heavy breath, something more than just exertion, a sense of exhilaration and… anticipation. The thought sent a new wave of terror wailing through his mind and a fresh gout of adrenaline surged into his veins. Tapping new found reserves Nolan pushed himself faster, dodging and ducking with thoughtless ease, moving on pure instinct.
On open ground the loping thing would almost certainly have overtaken him, but its size proved to be a hinderance in the tight quarters of the forest. Nolan had, without being aware of it, made for a thicker part of the woods, where the trees were smaller and closer together. Behind him Nolan heard an almost constant cacophony of heavy snaps and cracks as the lumbering beast collided with and shattered one tree trunk after another. Unfortunately for Nolan, in spite of the impedance, it continued to gain ground. For all his effort he was having more and more difficulty avoiding obstacles. He felt a sudden, harsh pain rip through his side as he collided with something more solid than himself. Nolan spun, stumbled, and for a moment entertained the notion of righting himself. Then he felt a horizontal line of searing fire tear across the back of his calf as his pursuer finally drew close enough to strike. His wounded leg buckled with the pain and Nolan went sprawling. Rocks and branches tore at his clothes and skin as he fell. He finished his painful dance with a graceless tumble and crashed on to the muddy bank of a shallow stream.
The creature plodded, almost casually, to a stop. It loomed, still breathing in quick pants, and peered down as Nolan sluggishly tried to get up. Through a haze of pain and mud Nolan stared up into its bizarre visage. Three wet, black eyes the size of baseballs stared back at him from the neckless lump of its head. Faint flashes of white light swirled hypnotically like tiny, luminescent fish in obsidian bowls. Fetid jets of steaming breath washed over him from a line of large, mucus ringed nostrils. The lipless slit of its mouth parted rhythmically in time with its breath and he could see two tightly interlocking rows of small, sharp fangs that glowed in the moonlight.
Nolan slowly rose to his knees and the creature let him. There was no tension in its movements. It simply watched, savoring the moment. Nolan stared back while his hands dug hopelessly in the muddy bank for anything that might serve as a weapon. His fingers seized on a short branch and he held it out before him in hopeless defiance, like some crude talisman, still unwilling to surrender.
The beast reared effortlessly up on those incomprehensible hind legs. What Nolan saw there, in the beasts underbelly, was beyond him. His mind denied it, rejected it, refused to accept what it saw. It wasn’t just the “thing” he’d seen before. There was more. So much more. Things that moved and twisted and coiled and twitched and reached out languidly towards him. Terrible, inconceivable things, so much more than such a mass should have been able to contain, and their number grew. He wanted to shut his eyes but he could not. His mind was ensnared, held captive by the sheer impossibility of it all. His pathetic weapon slipped from his now useless fingers. He was undone and what little remained of his mind braced for the terrible violation he knew was to come. Then, in a brilliant flash of light, the beast... was gone.
Nolan knelt, knees sinking slowly, hands caked with black river mud, and blinked in confusion. Two sounds came to him, one from each side, each demanding his attention. From the left came a grating electric sizzle followed by a deep thrumming rhythm. From the right came an inhuman howl of agony. Nolan turned to the howl and saw his assailant writhing on its back in the shallow water of the stream, trying to gain its feet, mewling in pain with each movement. The beast rolled, slipped in the slick mud, and righted itself. Nolan watched as the beast turned towards him. It raised its head and he could tell immediately that he was no longer the focus of its attention. Following the line of its gaze Nolan found himself staring into a swirling mass of arcing electricity. Behind it, lit by the wavering, electric glow, Nolan could just make out a human form.
“GRAB HIM!” a voice shouted.
A pair of strong hands clamped like iron over Nolan’s shoulders and hauled him backwards into the tiny stream. The beast had shaken off whatever had been done to it. Its muscles tensed and it leapt. The air in front of Nolan’s face was rent by a swirling blast of energy followed closely by a smell that reminded him of burning flowers. Two twirling stream of pinkish electricity raced through the air and met the leaping creature head on. There was a moment when the beast hung in the air as energy coursed over its snarling face. Then it flew backwards, flipping end over end in an almost comical fashion, and slammed against the thick trunk of an oak tree. A shuddering vibration rippled through the ground and the beast landed in a smoking, crumpled heap.
The iron hands hoisted Nolan to his feet and spun him around to face their owner. A bearded face beneath a short brimmed cap greeted him with a congenial grin.
“Well now,” said Isaac, “that certainly was exciting, wasn’t it?”
Nolan fainted.
Something was with him in the forest.
He had lost track of how far and how long he had run. Long enough for his legs to ache and his lungs to burn. Far enough that he had little idea of where he was. He had left civilization behind, moving through the quiet neighborhoods on the borders of Inlet City and into the woodlands beyond. Then the chase had ended… and the hunt had begun. The loping, snarling beast that had pursued him was replaced by a silent stalker whose presence Nolan could feel somewhere close even if he couldn't see or hear it.
All through their chase his pursuer had snapped at his heels, never catching up, always just close enough that he couldn't risk stopping. Then, out of nowhere, it would be upon him, dashing up along side, pushing him down this deserted street or that empty alley. Now they had arrived at their destination, the one it had wanted all along. Only now, with a moment to think clearly, did he realize the truth. There had never been the slightest hope of escape. He had been herded, like a lamb, to where it had wanted him to go, to the place where it could take its time. Nolan cursed himself for a fool even though he could not imagine what he might have done differently.
It was early spring and the buds were only just beginning to form on the trees. Faint light filtered down through the empty branches as the moon slipped from behind a cloud. Nolan paused and glanced around, hoping that the light might reveal his attacker’s location, but the moonlight only transformed the near total darkness into a shifting shadow play of menacing phantoms. He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes, hoping to catch some tell tale sound of his enemy's approach. It was there, he was sure of it. Some base, reptilian, prey-sense told him there was a presence nearby, but not where. He had only seen it briefly, in blurred flashes of claws and teeth, but he knew it was big, like a bear. How could it move so quietly? Nolan continued to try and calm himself, willing his frantic heart to slow, letting tired lungs suck in long, easy wisps of cool night air. Minutes passed but nothing disturbed the stillness. He was entertaining the fool's hope that the creature had given up on him when he heard an ever so quiet rush of air. From somewhere in the dark behind him there came a series of sharp, quick inhalations; the unmistakable sound of something large and hungry scenting the air.
Nolan scanned the staccato shadow pattern of the trees, searching for any sign of movement, and caught sight of the creature for the first time. It stood in a small clearing, bathed in pale light. At first it seemed like nothing more than some large animal but the longer he looked the more he saw strange incongruities in its form. The rear legs bent backwards, out past the hind quarters, like a bird’s, and they moved with the same quick, avian grace. Large humps jutted up from its back where the front legs met the shoulders and Nolan could just make out the twitch and roll of muscle masses moving beneath the skin. The body ended suddenly in a blunted mound that he could only assume was some kind of head. It pawed the ground around it with long, thin fingered paws that looked disturbingly human, despite each finger being tipped with a thick, sharp talon.
Nolan watched as it awkwardly swung its head back and forth, sniffing and stepping, searching for him. It sniffed once and stopped, head frozen, nostrils flaring, and began to circle around where Nolan hid behind his tree. Had it smelled him? He couldn’t be sure. It did appear to be slowly closing in. Nolan leaned a little further out, trying to keep the thing in sight, and saw something that turned his blood to ice. A faint hissing came from beneath the creature, the sound of something slithering dryly through the brittle leaves. Nolan watched the silhouette of a long, prehensile protrusion descending into the shadowed leaf bed between the creature hind legs. He tried to tell himself it was some kind of tail but the longer he looked the more he knew it was not\; and that was when the real terror took hold of him.
Before he was truly aware he was doing so Nolan had taken off at a dead run in the opposite direction of the creature. There was no thought or plan in his movement, no attempt at cunning or guile; just pure, blind, animal panic. The sight of the thing’s “appendage” had awoken a deeper, more primal, fear than Nolan had ever dreamt of. A feeling rose in him, a half recalled memory, that filled him with such unspeakable dread that his mind recoiled from it before he could fully grasp its meaning. Somehow he knew, without really “knowing”, what was about to happen, and the realization of it wiped away all logic and reason in a single, desperate wave of horrified revulsion.
Behind Nolan the creature turned with remarkable speed and dashed after him. It closed the minor gap between them easily. Within seconds he could smell the rank odor of it, a nauseating mixture of putrid bile and rotting flesh, as its wet, heaving breath rushed in and out in great, hollow pants. He imagined he could hear something else in that heavy breath, something more than just exertion, a sense of exhilaration and… anticipation. The thought sent a new wave of terror wailing through his mind and a fresh gout of adrenaline surged into his veins. Tapping new found reserves Nolan pushed himself faster, dodging and ducking with thoughtless ease, moving on pure instinct.
On open ground the loping thing would almost certainly have overtaken him, but its size proved to be a hinderance in the tight quarters of the forest. Nolan had, without being aware of it, made for a thicker part of the woods, where the trees were smaller and closer together. Behind him Nolan heard an almost constant cacophony of heavy snaps and cracks as the lumbering beast collided with and shattered one tree trunk after another. Unfortunately for Nolan, in spite of the impedance, it continued to gain ground. For all his effort he was having more and more difficulty avoiding obstacles. He felt a sudden, harsh pain rip through his side as he collided with something more solid than himself. Nolan spun, stumbled, and for a moment entertained the notion of righting himself. Then he felt a horizontal line of searing fire tear across the back of his calf as his pursuer finally drew close enough to strike. His wounded leg buckled with the pain and Nolan went sprawling. Rocks and branches tore at his clothes and skin as he fell. He finished his painful dance with a graceless tumble and crashed on to the muddy bank of a shallow stream.
The creature plodded, almost casually, to a stop. It loomed, still breathing in quick pants, and peered down as Nolan sluggishly tried to get up. Through a haze of pain and mud Nolan stared up into its bizarre visage. Three wet, black eyes the size of baseballs stared back at him from the neckless lump of its head. Faint flashes of white light swirled hypnotically like tiny, luminescent fish in obsidian bowls. Fetid jets of steaming breath washed over him from a line of large, mucus ringed nostrils. The lipless slit of its mouth parted rhythmically in time with its breath and he could see two tightly interlocking rows of small, sharp fangs that glowed in the moonlight.
Nolan slowly rose to his knees and the creature let him. There was no tension in its movements. It simply watched, savoring the moment. Nolan stared back while his hands dug hopelessly in the muddy bank for anything that might serve as a weapon. His fingers seized on a short branch and he held it out before him in hopeless defiance, like some crude talisman, still unwilling to surrender.
The beast reared effortlessly up on those incomprehensible hind legs. What Nolan saw there, in the beasts underbelly, was beyond him. His mind denied it, rejected it, refused to accept what it saw. It wasn’t just the “thing” he’d seen before. There was more. So much more. Things that moved and twisted and coiled and twitched and reached out languidly towards him. Terrible, inconceivable things, so much more than such a mass should have been able to contain, and their number grew. He wanted to shut his eyes but he could not. His mind was ensnared, held captive by the sheer impossibility of it all. His pathetic weapon slipped from his now useless fingers. He was undone and what little remained of his mind braced for the terrible violation he knew was to come. Then, in a brilliant flash of light, the beast... was gone.
Nolan knelt, knees sinking slowly, hands caked with black river mud, and blinked in confusion. Two sounds came to him, one from each side, each demanding his attention. From the left came a grating electric sizzle followed by a deep thrumming rhythm. From the right came an inhuman howl of agony. Nolan turned to the howl and saw his assailant writhing on its back in the shallow water of the stream, trying to gain its feet, mewling in pain with each movement. The beast rolled, slipped in the slick mud, and righted itself. Nolan watched as the beast turned towards him. It raised its head and he could tell immediately that he was no longer the focus of its attention. Following the line of its gaze Nolan found himself staring into a swirling mass of arcing electricity. Behind it, lit by the wavering, electric glow, Nolan could just make out a human form.
“GRAB HIM!” a voice shouted.
A pair of strong hands clamped like iron over Nolan’s shoulders and hauled him backwards into the tiny stream. The beast had shaken off whatever had been done to it. Its muscles tensed and it leapt. The air in front of Nolan’s face was rent by a swirling blast of energy followed closely by a smell that reminded him of burning flowers. Two twirling stream of pinkish electricity raced through the air and met the leaping creature head on. There was a moment when the beast hung in the air as energy coursed over its snarling face. Then it flew backwards, flipping end over end in an almost comical fashion, and slammed against the thick trunk of an oak tree. A shuddering vibration rippled through the ground and the beast landed in a smoking, crumpled heap.
The iron hands hoisted Nolan to his feet and spun him around to face their owner. A bearded face beneath a short brimmed cap greeted him with a congenial grin.
“Well now,” said Isaac, “that certainly was exciting, wasn’t it?”
Nolan fainted.
Chapter 5 - A Self Called Nowhere
Nolan was in the process of ignoring his fare’s boring diatribe on the state of the American economy when he was suddenly struck by the sensation that he was being watched. He glanced out the driver's and passenger's windows and found the road beyond them empty. Likewise, the lands beyond the road were equally devoid of life, only acres of flat scrubland occasionally interrupted by nondescript buildings with dark windows, none of which betrayed the slightest hint of surveillance. He checked the rear view mirror and found much the same to be true of the road behind him, save for a few faint, flickering headlights in the distance. Before him there were only the approaching lights of Inlet City. Even his fare, chattering away in the back seat, was staring out the window, as customers so often did.
The feeling of being watched was not new to Nolan. On several occasions over the past year and a half he'd been possessed of a similar impression. It was like seeing someone staring at you from across a room; it wasn’t there until you noticed it, but then you could feel it even if you looked away, that sensation of eyes upon you, cataloging your movements. Every time, just like now, he could see no one watching him.
"Did you hear me?” said the man in the back, suddenly deciding he wanted Nolan’s input on whatever he'd been on about.
"Sorry, what?” replied Nolan.
"I said ‘who did you vote for in the last election?’”
"Didn’t vote. I was in a coma.” Nolan answered, suppressing a smile.
Nolan had found no more surefire way of derailing a potential conversation than by mentioning his coma. With the exception of blank stares and the occasional quiet “oh”, no one ever seemed to know how to respond. He supposed it was the sort of thing one encountered so rarely in life that there was just no commonly accepted protocol. Nolan tried his best to resist the temptation to employ said knowledge in the avoidance of unwanted social interactions. Most of the time anyway. After a few minutes of awkward silence the man in the back, apparently having judged that the appropriate amount of time had passed, continued on with his one-sided castigation.
The city grew closer and, as Nolan was making a mental note to watch for his exit, the sensation of being watched disappeared as abruptly as it had come. Nolan had broached the subject of these odd sensations with his doctor and had not particularly cared for the response he had received. His doctor cautioned him about growing feelings of paranoia in the wake of his severe memory loss, for which said doctor still had no explanation. In his professional opinion these episodes were, as he also believed his patient's memory loss to be, purely psychological. The recommendation had been immediate psychiatric evaluation. Nolan's response had been not returning to his doctor since. In retrospect Nolan didn't really know what he had expected his doctor to say, or what he might have expected him to do, but implying that he was crazy wasn't it. While he didn't have a reasonable explanation for these feeling of perceived observance, he was certain that it was not “all in his head”. Of course, he further supposed, that was precisely what a crazy person would think.
"Hey, that’s my exit!” the man in the back yelled, dragging Nolan from his reverie with a jerk. Nolan yanked the wheel sharply, thankful that there were no other cars on the road, missing the guard rail by a hair as he swerved off the highway. His passenger pitched and cursed in the back as he struggled to keep from falling over.
There goes my tip, thought Nolan, knowing that most people happily accepted, and often remained ever vigilant for, any justification for not tipping. Nolan decelerated down the ramp and eased his cab into the light flow of the city's traffic.
The passenger handed Nolan a twenty dollar bill for a 19.50 fare and exited the vehicle without a word. Nolan slipped the bill into his little, zippered pouch and stashed it back in the glove compartment. In spite of this last misstep it had been a pretty good day, for a change, and he felt he might just have made enough to justify taking it easy for the remainder of his shift. It would be a welcome change from the usual dash and scramble just to make enough to get by. Nolan settled back in his seat and let his thoughts drift while he listened to the quiet chatter of the night city.
Nolan didn’t particularly like being a cabbie. He didn’t hate it either, and it was certainly better than a lot of other things he could have been doing, but there was no denying the feeling of distaste he felt every time he slid behind the wheel. He often felt a pang of longing for his previous occupation. He couldn’t remember what it was, like so many things about his life before the coma, but he felt certain he had enjoyed it. The cab driving was meant to be a temporary thing, just to keep him going, while he tried to put his life back together. For a year he had tried fruitlessly to restore his memory but had found that there was very little to go on. His landlord, who hardly seemed to remember him at all, claimed to have thrown out all his personal belongings when he hadn't returned for several months, after selling what he could to cover the back rent. There were surprisingly few records as well and what little he learned form them told him only facts, empty data, nothing meaningful. He had no living family, no friends, no one at all who had any idea who he had been. Some things gave him a flash of familiarity, a place or a name would trigger a brief moment of a déja vu, but they never unearthed any actual memory and only served to underscore the lack of anything tangible in his life. Finally he had tried to accept that his memories weren't coming back and he'd passed the time since then in a sort daze. He wanted to get over it, he wanted to move on and build some semblance of a life, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was... waiting for something.
It was with these thoughts jumbling about in his head that Nolan first noticed the sound. It was too late for the street to be full but too early for it to be deserted and there was still a fair amount of noise in the air. Conversations and car horns and shouts and sirens and somewhere, close, beneath it all, a sound that didn’t belong. A sound that sent an unwelcome chill down Nolan’s back.
Nolan switched off the engine and got out of his cab for, though he didn’t know it, the last time. Next to the building his recently departed fare had entered there was an alley and from somewhere in that alley that odd sound echoed to him like a whisper from the bottom of a well. Nolan approached the mouth of the alley, unconsciously creeping, and peered down its length. It was all dim, and wet, and full of shadows, the too weak street lights casting faint glints of light off puddles of still water and discarded hunks of polished metal. Deep in those shadows something moved and when Nolan caught sight of it his blood froze. The sound came again; a terrible wet ripping that could only be one thing. On the ground was a body or, at least, something that resembled a body. Whether it was a man or a woman he couldn’t say, there was too little left to be sure, only the suggestion of a vaguely humanoid lump lying there. The thing standing over it, tearing a fresh hunk free while clamping the body down with its foot, chomped and swallowed noisily. The sound was hideous and Nolan let out a low moan of disgust.
The thing in the alley jerked and turned slowly.
Maybe it spat out its final morsel and bounded across the pavement. Or it may have taken its time in finishing the last bite. Perhaps it even paused briefly to shake away a few annoying strings of saliva. Nolan never knew.
He was already running.
From behind him he heard the wet slap of heavy footpads and the scrape of thick claws scarring the pavement.
His leather jacket flapped like bat wings. His worn sneakers slipped with each step, refusing to find traction on the slick concrete. His legs moved faster then he ever knew they could. His breath hissed like steam through his clenched teeth.
Behind him the thing pursued, drawing closer with each stride.
The feeling of being watched was not new to Nolan. On several occasions over the past year and a half he'd been possessed of a similar impression. It was like seeing someone staring at you from across a room; it wasn’t there until you noticed it, but then you could feel it even if you looked away, that sensation of eyes upon you, cataloging your movements. Every time, just like now, he could see no one watching him.
"Did you hear me?” said the man in the back, suddenly deciding he wanted Nolan’s input on whatever he'd been on about.
"Sorry, what?” replied Nolan.
"I said ‘who did you vote for in the last election?’”
"Didn’t vote. I was in a coma.” Nolan answered, suppressing a smile.
Nolan had found no more surefire way of derailing a potential conversation than by mentioning his coma. With the exception of blank stares and the occasional quiet “oh”, no one ever seemed to know how to respond. He supposed it was the sort of thing one encountered so rarely in life that there was just no commonly accepted protocol. Nolan tried his best to resist the temptation to employ said knowledge in the avoidance of unwanted social interactions. Most of the time anyway. After a few minutes of awkward silence the man in the back, apparently having judged that the appropriate amount of time had passed, continued on with his one-sided castigation.
The city grew closer and, as Nolan was making a mental note to watch for his exit, the sensation of being watched disappeared as abruptly as it had come. Nolan had broached the subject of these odd sensations with his doctor and had not particularly cared for the response he had received. His doctor cautioned him about growing feelings of paranoia in the wake of his severe memory loss, for which said doctor still had no explanation. In his professional opinion these episodes were, as he also believed his patient's memory loss to be, purely psychological. The recommendation had been immediate psychiatric evaluation. Nolan's response had been not returning to his doctor since. In retrospect Nolan didn't really know what he had expected his doctor to say, or what he might have expected him to do, but implying that he was crazy wasn't it. While he didn't have a reasonable explanation for these feeling of perceived observance, he was certain that it was not “all in his head”. Of course, he further supposed, that was precisely what a crazy person would think.
"Hey, that’s my exit!” the man in the back yelled, dragging Nolan from his reverie with a jerk. Nolan yanked the wheel sharply, thankful that there were no other cars on the road, missing the guard rail by a hair as he swerved off the highway. His passenger pitched and cursed in the back as he struggled to keep from falling over.
There goes my tip, thought Nolan, knowing that most people happily accepted, and often remained ever vigilant for, any justification for not tipping. Nolan decelerated down the ramp and eased his cab into the light flow of the city's traffic.
The passenger handed Nolan a twenty dollar bill for a 19.50 fare and exited the vehicle without a word. Nolan slipped the bill into his little, zippered pouch and stashed it back in the glove compartment. In spite of this last misstep it had been a pretty good day, for a change, and he felt he might just have made enough to justify taking it easy for the remainder of his shift. It would be a welcome change from the usual dash and scramble just to make enough to get by. Nolan settled back in his seat and let his thoughts drift while he listened to the quiet chatter of the night city.
Nolan didn’t particularly like being a cabbie. He didn’t hate it either, and it was certainly better than a lot of other things he could have been doing, but there was no denying the feeling of distaste he felt every time he slid behind the wheel. He often felt a pang of longing for his previous occupation. He couldn’t remember what it was, like so many things about his life before the coma, but he felt certain he had enjoyed it. The cab driving was meant to be a temporary thing, just to keep him going, while he tried to put his life back together. For a year he had tried fruitlessly to restore his memory but had found that there was very little to go on. His landlord, who hardly seemed to remember him at all, claimed to have thrown out all his personal belongings when he hadn't returned for several months, after selling what he could to cover the back rent. There were surprisingly few records as well and what little he learned form them told him only facts, empty data, nothing meaningful. He had no living family, no friends, no one at all who had any idea who he had been. Some things gave him a flash of familiarity, a place or a name would trigger a brief moment of a déja vu, but they never unearthed any actual memory and only served to underscore the lack of anything tangible in his life. Finally he had tried to accept that his memories weren't coming back and he'd passed the time since then in a sort daze. He wanted to get over it, he wanted to move on and build some semblance of a life, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was... waiting for something.
It was with these thoughts jumbling about in his head that Nolan first noticed the sound. It was too late for the street to be full but too early for it to be deserted and there was still a fair amount of noise in the air. Conversations and car horns and shouts and sirens and somewhere, close, beneath it all, a sound that didn’t belong. A sound that sent an unwelcome chill down Nolan’s back.
Nolan switched off the engine and got out of his cab for, though he didn’t know it, the last time. Next to the building his recently departed fare had entered there was an alley and from somewhere in that alley that odd sound echoed to him like a whisper from the bottom of a well. Nolan approached the mouth of the alley, unconsciously creeping, and peered down its length. It was all dim, and wet, and full of shadows, the too weak street lights casting faint glints of light off puddles of still water and discarded hunks of polished metal. Deep in those shadows something moved and when Nolan caught sight of it his blood froze. The sound came again; a terrible wet ripping that could only be one thing. On the ground was a body or, at least, something that resembled a body. Whether it was a man or a woman he couldn’t say, there was too little left to be sure, only the suggestion of a vaguely humanoid lump lying there. The thing standing over it, tearing a fresh hunk free while clamping the body down with its foot, chomped and swallowed noisily. The sound was hideous and Nolan let out a low moan of disgust.
The thing in the alley jerked and turned slowly.
Maybe it spat out its final morsel and bounded across the pavement. Or it may have taken its time in finishing the last bite. Perhaps it even paused briefly to shake away a few annoying strings of saliva. Nolan never knew.
He was already running.
From behind him he heard the wet slap of heavy footpads and the scrape of thick claws scarring the pavement.
His leather jacket flapped like bat wings. His worn sneakers slipped with each step, refusing to find traction on the slick concrete. His legs moved faster then he ever knew they could. His breath hissed like steam through his clenched teeth.
Behind him the thing pursued, drawing closer with each stride.
Chapter 4 - Mr. Sound
It was 1:07 pm and the man seated in the tall, leather chair was on his third cup of coffee. On the desk in front him the phone began to ring. It had been ringing off and on at irregular intervals for the better part of two hours and the man had been deliberately ignoring it. He hated phones. The idea of talking to someone without being able to see them was an utterly abhorrent concept to him. Had he his way in the matter he would have banished the accursed contraptions from his work as he had from the rest of his life. Unfortunately the rest of the world generally disagreed with his point of view on the subject, so it seemed that having his way, at least in this matter, was not meant to be.
The phone continued to ring. There was no voice mail, being that the only thing the man hated more than phones was listening to the messages people left on them, so the phone would continue to ring until he answered it or the person on the other end gave up. The case was usually the latter. Far too many of the calls placed to the man were “urgent” in nature. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the time, the caller's definition of “urgent” differed wildly from his own. The first calls were always something along the lines of: “something’s happened, we’re not sure what just yet, and we don’t have all the facts straight, but we wanted you to know”. Then there would be several more calls to further elaborate on the continued lack of knowledge and understanding of the situation until, well after the initial incident, someone finally came along with something useful to say. Once the caller had something important to impart they usually became more persistent in trying to reach him. So the man behind the desk had decided long ago not to answer his phone until it became abundantly clear that the caller wasn't going to give up. It irritated the hell out of pretty much everyone; all of whom, incidentally, still continued to make their unnecessary calls despite knowing they would not be answered.
The phone continued to ring. Obviously this caller, whoever it was, was not going away. With a resigned sigh the man raised his finger and stabbed the big, blinking, orange button on the phone's face. He never, ever, used the handset.
“Hello?” said the voice on the other end. Mr. Sound also never spoke first.
“Yes.”
“Bill here sir. We have a situation.”
Mr. Sound smiled. He liked Bill. Bill was terse. He liked terse people, even though he himself was not one of them. He admired people who could resist the urge to elaborate unnecessarily and often lamented his own occasionally over-verbose nature. No one was perfect he supposed. He also liked Bill because Bill was not prone to wasting his time. He rarely called unless the call needed to be made. Mr. Sound tried his best not to play favorites with his agents but, if he had to choose, Bill would definitely be on the list.
“What sort of situation?” asked Mr. Sound.
“Three bodies, violently disemboweled, dead at least two hours. All adults, two men and one woman.” Bill sighed, “It’s a real mess, Clean Up’s going to have their hands full.”
“Do we have any suspects?”
“'Fraid not. Whatever did this is long gone. Looks to be some kind of small quadruped. Beyond that I can't say. I do know though that, whatever it was, it originated from here.”
“How do you mean?”
“It's final gestation occurred in the bathroom floor. I found a hole behind the toilet along with a trail of birthing residue.”
Mr. Sound leaned back in his chair and frowned; that was potentially problematic.
“Any idea as to how it got there?”
“Hard to say. This sort of thing is pretty unusual for this part of town. The younger of the three is the son of the other two and may have brought it in with him. He didn't live here so that makes him the most likely candidate. I didn't see anything overt on his person though, so we'll have to wait for the autopsy to see if he's had any recent contact. In the meantime I’ve got people tracing his movements prior to showing up here, but I’m not feeling very optimistic.”
“And why is that?”
“The kid was an alcoholic. Unemployed. Recently homeless. No friends. We might find someone who saw him but only if we’re lucky.”
“Witnesses?”
“A few neighbors heard some screaming and called the police. No one saw anything so that’s good. I’ve already called our man in the ICPD. He’s got things well in hand there. As for the neighbors…”
“Wipe them.”
“Are you sure? They didn’t actually see anything.”
“We can’t risk any unwanted inquiries down the road. Wipe them and put them to bed. It’s Sunday, they’ll think they just overslept.”
“You’re the boss,” said Bill, not sounding particularly pleased. “There’s one other thing.”
“And that would be?”
“As I said the thing finished gestating in the floor and the hole it made when it erupted was pretty small. When it escaped it went through a screen door on the back porch and the hole there is…” Bill paused, “It’s growing, fast.”
Mr. Sound’s frown deepened. “I want those lab results as soon as possible, Bill. We need to know what we’re dealing with. Make sure your relay what you’ve found to the police liaison too, there’s apt to be more deaths before this is over. I want us on the scene first from now on; no police presence if it can be avoided. Understood?”
“Absolutely,” said Bill and he hung up.
Mr. Sound rose and strode leisurely about his office. Something was wrong. It wasn't just the three dead bodies and their unknown killer; that in itself was not terribly unusual. There were plenty of nasty things in the world capable of eviscerating a human being with relative ease, indeed the list of possible assailants was too long for uninformed speculation, but something about Bill's description troubled him more than it should have. He ran his finger along the spines of his books, all carefully shelved and neatly arranged along the walls of his office, as he walked and pondered. There was something unnervingly familiar about the sequence of events, something similar that he'd run across before, almost as if he could feel a particular hand at work beneath the surface.
Mr. Sound walked back to his desk and thumbed the button on the intercom next to the phone.
“Elise?”
“Sir,” said the hollow but attractive voice from the box.
“Have someone track down Basil and send him to the lab right away. Bill Tin will be arriving there shortly with some samples. Have him brief Basil on the situation thus far. I’ll be on my way there shortly as well.”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Sound paused the pressed the button again.
“And have records pull up all case files for the past five years, cross referenced with all redacted field agents since then and send the results to my personal database.”
“Will do, sir,” replied Elise.
Mr. Sound had a feeling about the direction things were heading. He very much hoped that he was wrong. It was, however, a faint hope given that he rarely was.
The phone continued to ring. There was no voice mail, being that the only thing the man hated more than phones was listening to the messages people left on them, so the phone would continue to ring until he answered it or the person on the other end gave up. The case was usually the latter. Far too many of the calls placed to the man were “urgent” in nature. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the time, the caller's definition of “urgent” differed wildly from his own. The first calls were always something along the lines of: “something’s happened, we’re not sure what just yet, and we don’t have all the facts straight, but we wanted you to know”. Then there would be several more calls to further elaborate on the continued lack of knowledge and understanding of the situation until, well after the initial incident, someone finally came along with something useful to say. Once the caller had something important to impart they usually became more persistent in trying to reach him. So the man behind the desk had decided long ago not to answer his phone until it became abundantly clear that the caller wasn't going to give up. It irritated the hell out of pretty much everyone; all of whom, incidentally, still continued to make their unnecessary calls despite knowing they would not be answered.
The phone continued to ring. Obviously this caller, whoever it was, was not going away. With a resigned sigh the man raised his finger and stabbed the big, blinking, orange button on the phone's face. He never, ever, used the handset.
“Hello?” said the voice on the other end. Mr. Sound also never spoke first.
“Yes.”
“Bill here sir. We have a situation.”
Mr. Sound smiled. He liked Bill. Bill was terse. He liked terse people, even though he himself was not one of them. He admired people who could resist the urge to elaborate unnecessarily and often lamented his own occasionally over-verbose nature. No one was perfect he supposed. He also liked Bill because Bill was not prone to wasting his time. He rarely called unless the call needed to be made. Mr. Sound tried his best not to play favorites with his agents but, if he had to choose, Bill would definitely be on the list.
“What sort of situation?” asked Mr. Sound.
“Three bodies, violently disemboweled, dead at least two hours. All adults, two men and one woman.” Bill sighed, “It’s a real mess, Clean Up’s going to have their hands full.”
“Do we have any suspects?”
“'Fraid not. Whatever did this is long gone. Looks to be some kind of small quadruped. Beyond that I can't say. I do know though that, whatever it was, it originated from here.”
“How do you mean?”
“It's final gestation occurred in the bathroom floor. I found a hole behind the toilet along with a trail of birthing residue.”
Mr. Sound leaned back in his chair and frowned; that was potentially problematic.
“Any idea as to how it got there?”
“Hard to say. This sort of thing is pretty unusual for this part of town. The younger of the three is the son of the other two and may have brought it in with him. He didn't live here so that makes him the most likely candidate. I didn't see anything overt on his person though, so we'll have to wait for the autopsy to see if he's had any recent contact. In the meantime I’ve got people tracing his movements prior to showing up here, but I’m not feeling very optimistic.”
“And why is that?”
“The kid was an alcoholic. Unemployed. Recently homeless. No friends. We might find someone who saw him but only if we’re lucky.”
“Witnesses?”
“A few neighbors heard some screaming and called the police. No one saw anything so that’s good. I’ve already called our man in the ICPD. He’s got things well in hand there. As for the neighbors…”
“Wipe them.”
“Are you sure? They didn’t actually see anything.”
“We can’t risk any unwanted inquiries down the road. Wipe them and put them to bed. It’s Sunday, they’ll think they just overslept.”
“You’re the boss,” said Bill, not sounding particularly pleased. “There’s one other thing.”
“And that would be?”
“As I said the thing finished gestating in the floor and the hole it made when it erupted was pretty small. When it escaped it went through a screen door on the back porch and the hole there is…” Bill paused, “It’s growing, fast.”
Mr. Sound’s frown deepened. “I want those lab results as soon as possible, Bill. We need to know what we’re dealing with. Make sure your relay what you’ve found to the police liaison too, there’s apt to be more deaths before this is over. I want us on the scene first from now on; no police presence if it can be avoided. Understood?”
“Absolutely,” said Bill and he hung up.
Mr. Sound rose and strode leisurely about his office. Something was wrong. It wasn't just the three dead bodies and their unknown killer; that in itself was not terribly unusual. There were plenty of nasty things in the world capable of eviscerating a human being with relative ease, indeed the list of possible assailants was too long for uninformed speculation, but something about Bill's description troubled him more than it should have. He ran his finger along the spines of his books, all carefully shelved and neatly arranged along the walls of his office, as he walked and pondered. There was something unnervingly familiar about the sequence of events, something similar that he'd run across before, almost as if he could feel a particular hand at work beneath the surface.
Mr. Sound walked back to his desk and thumbed the button on the intercom next to the phone.
“Elise?”
“Sir,” said the hollow but attractive voice from the box.
“Have someone track down Basil and send him to the lab right away. Bill Tin will be arriving there shortly with some samples. Have him brief Basil on the situation thus far. I’ll be on my way there shortly as well.”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Sound paused the pressed the button again.
“And have records pull up all case files for the past five years, cross referenced with all redacted field agents since then and send the results to my personal database.”
“Will do, sir,” replied Elise.
Mr. Sound had a feeling about the direction things were heading. He very much hoped that he was wrong. It was, however, a faint hope given that he rarely was.
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