I need to catch my breath. I crouch and gasp for air, again feeling the dryness that informs me that I have not had an answer to my thirst since waking. I look about, and see that I am in a room lined with dented and disused metal lockers. Benches rise from the floor between each row, and I surmise that I have reached a dressing area of sorts. I look up, and am greeted with the discouraging sight of rusted hooks hanging from the ceiling, swaying subtly with the wind of my arrival. I resolve to move, and journey a bit further before coming upon a room with many shower heads, separated from the first by a chest-high wall. I feel a glimmer of hope ignite in my chest, and approach one of the fixtures, laying my hand upon what promises to be the knob to call forth cold water, a salve to my aching. I turn the knob, and wince as it squeaks with resounding noise, but indeed blesses me with liquid.
The water is warm, but I drink regardless, finding it unfailingly sweet upon my tongue. The patting of every drop against my clothes is a comfort I have unknowingly longed for. But I hear, over the spray and splatter, a sound that fills me with renewed dread, the uneven step of something heavy and eager, drawn by the noise I have made in my haste. Pulling away from the water is agony, but I mount the wall and shove myself into one of the lockers, closing it as gently as I can, ignoring the stiff protest of my shoulders to be forced into awkward angles against the metal. The gait draws nearer, and I can picture the lumbering thing that makes them without seeing it, but none of my predictions prepare me properly for what rounds into view through the rhomboid holes of my shelter.
The monster is a thing of skin and flesh, but also the same plastic and metal that has made up the other things that have pursued me up to now. It moans softly through its scratched lips and sways its head from side to side as it enters the shower area in vexation. Its head is like an apron of skin pulled tight over a cracked lead sphere, with only a pair of lengthy thick sections to act as the borders to its mouth full of oxidized teeth jutting from bloody gums. A throat of rubbery tubes interwoven with bloated arteries and frayed muscles hoist the uncanny organ above a body of similar design, with tendons and fractured bones clutching at ribbed and misshapen mechanisms perilously connected to real viscera. Three arms- which seem to share only enough flesh for two, supplemented by steel and warped iron- clutch at the air until one gently settles on the knob of the still-running shower and silences its hiss. The creature raises one of its six-taloned hands and caresses its smooth head, grinding its teeth in a hideous grin. The intestinal tract that drapes over its pelvic area only partially conceals the stuttering movements of the insectoid, mechanical legs that drag it back towards the first room, unpleasantly close to where I hide. It opens one of the lockers and hacks a foul sound from its throat, the grating of metal an additional displeasure in its labor. It pulls something from the locker it has opened, and closes it almost gingerly, tossing what I now recognize as a limp body over its shoulder and stalking out of sight. I listen in revulsion as I wait to hear it recede, but am troubled when it seems to stop short. The next sound is that of something being lifted, then the rattling of a chain as great weight is placed upon it.
The cyborg beast makes a series of short guttural coughs, then opens another locker. I hear it lift something out, then the high-pitched whine of a small motor being tested. My skin crawling, I hear the motor begin in earnest, then deepen slightly in pitch as its implement- a blade or drill- is made to bite into a soft surface. This sound is joined by the groaning of the monster, and rapidly by the stifled, muffled shouting of the man he carried. Anguish fills the air, and I shudder unwillingly as the motor again becomes labored, having found something harder beneath the soft substance. The man’s shouting has become agonized shrieking. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as I hear the beast gurgle and squeal as if delighted by the results of its merciless actions. The motor stops a moment later, and I hear through the pained calls of the man that the monster has set aside its implement. It grasps something new, and the man’s screams become more desperate. There is a sudden squelch, and the voice is silenced. I open my eyes again, and look around the locker as more wet noises come from behind me, ever serenaded by drunken grunts from the laborer. There is nothing to comfort my sight as I hear a new tool turn on, and identify the sound of something being affixed by screws that bite into soft, then harder material.
An affirming belch comes from the creature, and the process begins again, but this time the man makes no complaint as the primary tool settles into its work. Exhaustion lays itself over my body from the strain of deciphering the distressing work being conducted out of my view. I slump in the uncomfortable position I have taken. The process continues, and repeats, with new facets being added in each cycle, sometimes with the return of the man’s pained, begging screams, only to return to silence at the presentation of a repeated squelching sound, something I decide must be an injection of a sedative or paralytic. The latter strikes me as more likely, somehow.
After what I judge to be multiple painful hours of this, The work comes to a close with the shutting of a locker door, and the receding dragging steps of the surgeon, gurgling his satisfaction as he goes. I do not wish to leave my hiding place, and the stiffness of my limbs assents with the preference. But as I contemplate the option, I consider that the surgeon may return, may open my locker in search of a place to stow a new patient, and find in me yet another. I strain, and shift my pressure-numbed limbs, fighting the comparably easy pain of pins and needles, and slowly, shakily open my door.
The metallic taste of blood in the air washes over me, having been previously masked by my own sweat. Swaying with nausea, I find my adrenaline pushing me around the corner and into the front of the room, where I am visually attacked by the result of the surgeon’s labors.
The man can hardly be called as such any longer; he more resembles his torturer than himself. In places his skin has been peeled away and replaced with plastic through which his organs can be seen, pulsing with the flow of his blood. His face has been complicated with a series of tubes that lead into his mouth and wrap around to a device that has been affixed to his ribs on his back. His fingers have been augmented with uneven iron claws, and one of his legs has been severed and replaced with a pair of many-segmented limbs ending in spurred spikes. I retch, and cover my mouth as bile seeks to climb my throat at the realization that I can see a handful of blinking lights sticking out of a rubber bag that has taken the place of his stomach. His head shudders slightly, and one of his eyes opens; the other has been instead mounted with a trio of black lenses. He strains his throat as though intending to declare his agony or beg my aid, but all that comes from his mouth is white foam.
I flee. I do not take the passage that would lead back to where I first came from, but instead turn down a corridor that suggests a gentle slope into the ground. Anywhere is better than where I have come from. I pass through doorways, take turns, and unquestioningly take a ladder up to a catwalk when I am presented the option of it or a door that proves to be locked when I attempt it.
I stagger across the catwalk and fall to my knees, heaving breath, fighting the outrage of my stomach that demands to be emptied in protest. It is empty already. I shiver, and place my hands on the metal, and try again to grasp my surroundings. It is dark, and I can see a number of chemical lamps beneath me, casting their diseased light over rows upon rows of sleek capsules of metal. I close my mouth against my gasping breaths, and rise to my feet, leaning on a railing for support. I begin to hear again after the deafening sound of my own panic has subsided in my ears, and I detect only the hum of electricity. I have not been followed. My nose for once declares that the air is tolerable, containing only the smothering presence of oil. I resume moving forward, now cautious of the possibility the catwalk presents for making heavy footfalls resound with great calamity. Below, a door opens, and I slow my pace further as I watch a trio of humanoid forms stalk calmly into the vast chamber. With so much space, their voices echo loudly to reach me, but I am struck by their qualities. The first is a woman’s voice, smooth and devoid of apparent aberration, certain in itself.
“I care little for your experiments, Tower.”
The next is a man’s voice, increased artificially with static and digital noise.
“So you say, but you know very well that my children are effective. Even their defective progeny produce results.”
The third figure does not speak, but seems to follow the woman with solemnity, as though it awaits instruction from her always. Its head bears curved horns. She turns and lays a hand with long fingers upon one of the capsules, causing it to light up within. The metal clears in an oval radiating from where it is touched, revealing a person’s body submerged in fluid within. Wires and tubes sustain the body, and various protrusions indicate that it has been grafted with a multitude of mechanical parts.
“A disgusting mutt. Even Fortress understands the beauty of totality. You claim efficiency, and yet you offer me sculptures with lopsided and uneven bodies, that on occasion make a mess of their surroundings with their excretions.”
The man, who she addresses as ‘Tower’, bows his head, and rasps a sigh in displeasure. The woman, whose hair seems to sway in slow motion as she moves, withdraws from the capsule, and folds her arms. As my eyes adjust to the low light, I detect a faint red glow about her, that follows lines in her body, and concentrates around where I estimate her eyes to be. The yellow light of the lamps paints her sickly and pale. The machine-tainted voice raises again.
“Fortress would do away with everything you love if he could. He hates his task as surely as he hates you.”
The third figure suddenly lashes out, and grabs the stunted figure of the man, who coughs violently in response to being raised. The woman unfolds her arms and turns away. I check my progress, and see that I am almost to the edge of the room.
“Fortress is obedient. He is clean and decisive, and for these reasons he has my love.”
The man chokes out his words with great difficulty.
“He would… overthrow you at a moment- moment’s notice… if he thought he… had the chance!”
The enforcer drops the man, and leaves him to sputter on his hands and knees as the other two recede towards the door. The woman pauses at the exit, and seems to laugh under her breath before replying to the statement.
“As would any of you. That’s why I don’t give you the chance.”
The door slams shut, leaving Tower to gather himself. I find that I wish to leave, make it to the end of the catwalk, and slowly push through a door of my own, casting one last glance to the scientist affectionately petting his experiment capsule. I close the door, careful not to make a sound.
Seeds of Fear 