The Man in the Monster
by Kenneth W. Cain
The monster crossed the highway, dodging cars and trucks, and the crowd followed. One vehicle clipped his backside, caused him to pirouette mid-stride, but the monster quickly regained his footing and continued to flee. The car spun wildly across all three lanes and struck the center barrier. There, it ignited, scattering the throng of people chasing him, and at least half stopped to help the passengers of that car. They stuck on his trail, down an embankment, across another road, and into a field full of brush.
Bang!
Something whizzed past the monster. He knew exactly what it was, too; someone had fired a gun at him. Although he was faster than they were, more agile, and the probability of them landing a crippling shot while on the run was highly unlikely, staying out in the open like this would get him killed. The monster bounded downhill toward a nearby stream, shouldered by dense woods.
He heard barking.
They’ve got dogs.
When he reached the stream, he jumped in and swam across, the current dragging him along no matter how fast he paddled. Before long, he was crawling up the opposite shoreline, standing.
A memory flashes to his forethought, the image of a monstrous face. Then it’s gone, replaced by reality—barking dogs and an angry mob.
They approached the other side of the stream, raising their guns and firing. Dogs yowled. One dog braved the water and was quickly taken downstream. Before they got off too many shots, the monster ducked into the thicket of woods, gunfire ricocheting off trees as he sprinted.
When he reached the small abandoned town, he stopped in the middle of a street and glanced around, making sure they hadn’t followed. Convinced he was alone, he removed the manhole cover and climbed down the ladder. Behind him, he replaced the steel disc and then proceeded down, hunching over as he walked the long stretch of sewer pipe. Several minutes later, he came to a place where a specific slab of concrete sat in a wall spiderwebbed with damage and worked to move it aside. After he entered, he slid it back, and enveloped himself in a bed of darkness.
The monster walked many yards, turned left, then right, then right again. He found a light switch and flicked it on. Safe in his lab, he assessed any harm he may have incurred while fleeing those savage people.
No apparent damage.
But with his body so riddled with scars, it was sometimes difficult to be sure. He didn’t feel any pain, either, so he poked and prodded, searching every square inch of his figure, looking for something…anything, and found a small bullet wound in his left shoulder. He went to a nearby table where he secured a pair of long medical tweezers. Without hesitation, he plunged them into the hole, wincing as he dug around until he secured a hold on the bullet. He withdrew the slug and tossed it aside, among many others, while the wound seeped blood.
Need surgery.
This one he could perform himself, so he made his way over to one of the many gurneys where a half-dissected corpse lay, ravaged of many organs and muscles. He grabbed a scalpel and carefully cut loose a pectoral muscle. Then he cleaned the wound in his shoulder generously, cut away some of the muscle there, and laid the pectoral over the wound and began to stich it into place.
Once more, the awful face returns to his memories. He trembles for a second, steadies himself, and the vision dissipates.
Decades of enhancing his body with the viscera of dead and decaying corpses had transformed him over the years, though he could recall only so much. He had visions of an unknown past—nightmares mostly—but he no longer knew his true identity. And although he long ago had decided to stop robbing graves, to stop enhancing himself, the need and satisfaction of doing just that was too overwhelming. It was an addiction, and to someone who had lost everything, this was the only life he had ever known, that of a voiceless monster who could and would live on for an eternity.
When he was done, he flexed his arm, noticing how it moved unnaturally.
That’s what you get for using a pectoral, he said to himself, operating on his shoulder to fix the defect.
The bullet had ruined the mobility of that socket, so he lacerated the muscle and reformed it to make the arm usable again. After some minor surgery, he extended it fully and rotated the cuff several times. Convinced the surgery was a success, he set his tools aside and walked to another room.
Here a vat of milky liquid sat on the floor, large enough for a horse. Another chamber sat beside it, this one looking more like a space capsule. Their construction had taken years of hard work, and he’d lost much in that time, both mentally and physically. But that was the cost of creating and maintaining life.
He climbed over the edge of the large vat and stood in the fluid. Then he sat and scooted himself against a metal backrest. When he depressed a button on the side of the large vat, whirring sounds accompanied a harness as it lowered to him. When it was low enough, he released the fleshy hatch and the true monster—lacking arms and legs, riddled with horrible oozing wounds—crawled out of the hole in the mammoth creature’s belly and into the harness. As the creature was slowly lowered into the white fluid, emerging fully, the harness carried him up and over, then lowered him into the capsule.
Leaning forward, he pressed his mangled face against the mask, and it secured around his skull. The capsule door closed with a clank, and a thick mist filled the space, numbing and encouraging him to sleep. He gave into it willingly, as he always did, as the capsule filled with fluid and the robotic arms crawled over his body looking to repair any damage he’d neglected.
Panicked, he digs through his bags, searching for what he needs. He feels ill, the ground uneasy, as if gently rocking back and forth. Footsteps steadfastly approach, the sound of them heavy upon the wooden floor. He must maintain the charade, and time is of the essence.
Finally, his fingers find the bottle, and he takes a healthy dose of laudanum, then replaces it in his bag, making sure everything looks as it did before his frantic search. Even as he lays back in the bed and closes his eyes, adjusting his covers as they were before, he can feel a presence looming over him, one he greatly fears. The world spins, faster and faster, and despite this being’s doubt, he feels assured this will work once more.
Before he blacks out, he hears a familiar voice, only he cannot make out what this person is saying. Something deep inside of him fears he may never wake again, but it is too late. What’s done is done, and only tomorrow will he know for sure.
When he woke from his slumber, he immediately depressed the button. Once the hatch was open, the harness slowly descended to assist him out of the capsule. As he rose above the machinery and then was lowered toward his creation, he considered his dream.
It was a vision as if from a well-known movie, familiar to him and yet completely unfamiliar all the same. Still, something about it all left him terrified, as if there was a need to constantly look over his shoulder. And that need did exist, having been very real only just yesterday, in fact. But, as he looked around his lab, taking in its ragged state of ill repair, he realized this was a quiet, desolate place where no one would find him.
At ease, he watched as the monster was lifted to a sitting position by the machinery beneath the body. Without hesitation, he opened the fleshy hatch and crawled inside the body, snuggling into the seat there and closing the door behind him.
Once more he was whole.
He moved to his journal, resting on a table, picked up a quill, and dipped it in the inkwell. Then he quickly jotted down the gist of his dream, making sure to leave out no detail.
At least this one appears to be my memory.
He could tell by the scenery, older and less refined than the clothes and buildings and such of today’s world. This was his sixteenth journal, nearly filled at this point, and he had uncovered so little. He could not recall even his name, let alone what or who he had been. It seemed that at some point in time, long before he started detailing his memories in journals, he had been someone else, but that person had been tainted by the memories of his host, someone who only recently died—within the last ten years. Though enhanced by the bodies of many, he was of singular mind. With him being a parasite of sorts, the host had infected his thoughts with memories that were not his own and it had become increasingly difficult to separate his true self from that of the monster. They were too much the same now, a blend of two lives forever entwined to the bitter end.
But I will remember.
Sooner or later, he would begin to fill in the pieces, one by one, like building a brick wall. He would start with what he had and build outward, expand upon the memories as they came back to him.
He sat his quill down and, without hesitation, moved to the door of his lab where he carefully slid the concrete slab aside, exposing the sewer tunnel. The smell of it assaulted his sinuses, even from his position inside of this carapace. It was fresh and reeking of waste water, yet he ignored it and focused on making sure his lab was fully protected, returning the concrete to its place so that it appeared as nothing more than a ruined wall.
The monster turned and strode down the sewer, hunched over and hurrying along. When he reached the manhole, he climbed up, lifted the cover and peered outside to make sure he was alone. Convinced he was, he slid the cover aside, slipped out into the open and then replaced the cover.
He had two goals tonight. One, he needed to secure some supplies, but he also needed a corpse—one that was fresher than those he had kept on life support for months on end. Most of them had been picked cleaned, as if he were some human vulture—only the carrion he picked was not to eat. Whatever was still usable, he could perhaps place the organs in a cold storage unit and dispose of the fetid corpses by burning them. Over time, he would restock his supply, and that would be how he maintained his health and well-being for the winter months to come.
Starting with a jog, he quickly transitioned to a full-on run, knowing exactly where he needed to go. The streets were barren at this time of night, at least in these parts. But soon he’d be in town, and he’d need to move about more stealthily to avoid being seen. He couldn’t risk another night like last night, when he came home empty-handed in a time of desperation. And although he had learned over the years to suppress his hunger, he hadn’t eaten in days now, and the things he caught in his lab would not suffice forever.
What were you thinking letting things go for so long?
He should have prepared better, with winter just around the corner. He’d wasted too much time on the past, on trying to unlock the mysteries that had somehow sealed themselves away deep in his mind, as if taunting him.
He arrived in town and stuck to the shadows, mostly travelling down back alleyways as he approached the pharmacy. Moving silently, he kept a keen eye on his surroundings in case he stumbled upon trouble.
“What the— What’re you…”
The monster turned and saw a drunken man lying beneath the garbage. As he slid the half-full bags aside, the monster glanced left and right, making sure no one else was around. There were people out and about, but none so close that they’d be interested in this back and forth.
Still, you can’t risk it.
He opted to do what many did upon happening on a man like this, he offered a slight nod and then proceeded on his way.
“Hey! Wait,” the man yelled after him, making the monster wince with paranoia. “Yous got any money there, guy?” The man got to his feet.
Instantly, he regretted having not taken off the second he heard the man’s voice. Now people were beginning to take interest in this chance meeting. It might be late, but cities rarely slept in his experience. At most, they napped, and they were easily woken. Even now as he approached the man, he heard commotion to his left. He didn’t think they saw him yet, which was good, but if he let this drunken man go on for too long, he would draw unwanted attention.
He turned back toward the drunken man and took a long stride forward. He said nothing, as he could not yet speak through the monster’s ruined vocal cords.
“So, you do have some?” The guy stumbled his way.
The monster held up his palms, patting the air, trying to keep the guy in the alley and hoping he would remain quiet.
“Oh, okay, I got ya.” The drunk sneezed, a lengthy strand of snot hanging from his nose. He wiped it away with the back of his hand as the monster approached. “Say, yer a big fella, aren’t ya?”
He was close enough to smell the man’s soiled clothing, drenched in weeks of sweat. And the guy just kept blabbing. Most of what the man said he ignored, fixated on the drunk’s body.
Is he so pickled that his insides are spoiled?
It wasn’t often that the monster required new lungs or a heart or kidneys, for God’s sake, but when he did, he didn’t want to replace them with faulty hardware. But as marinated as this drunk might be, his physicality seemed fine. He might be a drunk, but his skin was still pink and not that dreaded yellowish tint. His cheeks were still rosy, and his eyes still white.
He’ll have to do.
The monster moved closer.
Once more, the terrible face appears in his mind. He feels frightened, and angry, terribly alone.
“Geez Louise, you’re eight foot tall if not nine.” The drunk staggered left, caught himself, then took a step closer. “What the bejesus did your parents feed you, for Heaven’s sake?”
The monster shot out his arm and seized the man’s neck. His fingers wrapped neatly around his vocal cords, but even then the man managed to squeak out a single complaint. He hadn’t wanted to damage the neck, but now he had no choice.
The monster crushed his throat, and the man hung lifeless in his grasp.
“You there, what are you doing?”
The monster spun its head, and he recognized the uniform—a police officer.
Great.
He threw the drunk over his shoulder and took off running. A second later the landscape lit with an array of flashing red, white, and blue lights. While he could outrun a man on foot, he’d never outrun a car, let alone three.
I’ll have to outsmart them.
After ducking into one alleyway, he quickly turned down another. Then another. He was looking for something in particular, and when he found it, he made his way up the ladder with the dead drunk in tow. Even before he was fully up the ladder, he heard a car skid to a stop beneath him. Then they were firing at him, their shots nicking off the siding to his left and then his right, but so far, he’d been unharmed.
They were probably worried about hitting his victim. Little did they know it was already too late for him. But he could use that to his advantage, if need be.
He threw the drunk up top and followed right behind the corpse. There, he once more shouldered the man’s weight and ran across the rooftop. When he neared the edge, he leaped, and sprawled across the gap with ease. Unsure if his plan had worked, he took a moment to glance over the side.
All of the cars had gathered at that first building, and one of the officers was already climbing the ladder. Soon they would learn he hadn’t stayed, and they’d be on the lookout again. He had to make haste to get home or risk losing this corpse, if not more.
He leaped to the next building, and then to the next, which sat lower. From there, he jumped to the ground, and despite the growing crowds all around him, he ran into the night, the drunk over his shoulder the entire time. He stuck to the shadows where he could, and backyards and alleys where he couldn’t. Even when he arrived at the manhole, he could hear their sirens.
They’re close. Better hurry or you’ll be found out.
Making his way down to the sewer, he replaced the cover and then hurried along to his lab. After securing himself inside, he sat in silence, utilizing his time to hook the fresh corpse up to life support. There would be time for surgery later. For now, he needed rest. He’d worry about food tomorrow, maybe capture a rat or two.
Climbing into the vat, he depressed the button, and soon he was cozy in his capsule, feeling the effects of the built-in sedatives, and dozing off as the repairs began.
He is holding her again, the dead woman. His heart swells with sorrow, and he feels he has experienced much grief. Too much so. A menagerie of memories with her flash before his thoughts, all the while with her in the background, lying in his arms. Overwhelmed with sadness over the lost love, he resolves to one task and only one task—revenge.
Upon awakening and emerging from his capsule, he felt cold and alone. Only he wasn’t.
Someone’s here.
Even before he could lower himself to his creation, he saw the shadow growing against the far wall and knew it was too late. Whoever this was, they came for him. He had no means of defending himself, not in this state.
“Hello, Victor,” the man said, the voice the same as that from his dream last night.
Shivering, Victor sat still, speaking through distressed vocal cords. “Who are you? Why do you call me by that name?” His words sounded raspy, snake-like.
The intruder stepped into the shadows. He looked big but not as big as Victor’s creation. “You created me, Father. I would know you anywhere.”
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“Just to talk.”
The man stepped out into the open as Victor looked upon him with widening eyes. What flesh he could see was heavily scarred. It was clear then what this man was—he, too, was a monster.
“I learned everything I could from your journals, and I have maintained myself much in the same manner as you have—though, apparently, with greater success. I knew you couldn’t be dead. It was a feeling that haunted me even when I was at my willful end, and I could not allow that. Not after everything we’ve been through together. I had to know for sure, so I dedicated my life to finding you again.”
“Have you come to kill me?” Victor scooted himself back to the harness. He glanced at his creation, sitting there in the milky fluid, wondering if he could make it inside in time.
Seeing this, the monster crossed to him. “Go ahead. If you must.”
Victor was confused, wary.
“Don’t worry, Victor. I’m not going to kill you.” The man closed in on Victor’s creation, examining it with interest. “No, there’s no need for that anymore, is there?” He waved at the lab, making a point to draw Victor’s attention to the many corpses on life support.
“I— I think I remember…”
“Do you?”
His face came close to Victor, and he saw the discolored flesh, those dead eyes. The smell of him was intense.
“I— I made you?”
“Yes.”
“You killed her, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Who are you? What do you mean by saying it’s no longer necessary?”
“Oh, Victor, I have no name—not really. None that would matter to you, anyway. And it’s no longer necessary because I don’t require your assistance anymore. I have friends, have made a life for myself amongst the humans, something you…will never achieve. I’m not the monster anymore, Victor. You are.”
The man turned, heading for the exit. He slid the concrete slab aside and stood in the egress to Victor’s lab. “Ironic, isn’t it? We spent a lifetime trying to kill each other, because deep down we were both monsters…always. But where I have found a way to evolve, you have devolved into…this. Look at yourself, Victor. Look at what you’ve become. The very thing you feared.”
And with that, the monster headed out into the sewer, vanishing into the darkness and leaving Victor completely alone. He saw it now, all of it—the pieces falling into place like dominos. What had he done? Why had he done it? Had he induced a coma only to arrive at this, a man turned into a monster by his own hands…again?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kenneth W. Cain is an author, editor, and graphic designer for several publishers. His dark fiction short story collections, Embers and Darker Days, were published by Crystal Lake Publishing along with the literary novella A Season in Hell. Cain has edited most of the horror and dark fantasy books put out by Silver Shamrock Publishing, including their Midnight anthology series. Silver Shamrock also published his latest novel, From Death Reborn. Cain edited Tales from the Lake Volume 5 for Crystal Lake Publishing, When the Clock Strikes 13 for In Your Face Books, and One of Us for Bloodshot Books. His short novel Storm Shadows is recently out from Journalstone. Find out more and connect with him at kennethwcain.com.
