Page 1 of Creature
Chapter One
John was greedy.
Every time the first sliver of sunlight camethrough the high barred window, he’d crawl across the floor and laysprawled on his back, waiting for the thread of heat to grow into aribbon. Eventually it became a blanket, warming him through thethick layer of grime that coated his skin. He closed his eyes andspread his scrawny limbs, and for a short time he possessed a crumbof comfort. One small thing he could claim as his own.
But then the sun would recede, unravelinghis blanket until nothing remained but darkness and cold and theunforgiving hard surfaces of the cell. During those bleak hours, hehated the sun with an icy rage that chilled him more than the stonefloor on which he lay. But every morning when the first rays againsnuck in the window, his love was rekindled. John gorged on thelight as long as it was his.
John wasn’t his real name. He didn’tremember his name, didn’t remember having a name. But a man neededa name, even if he was all by himself in a cell with inconstantsunlight as his only visitor. Sometimes he said it out loud just tohear the solid consonants echo against the walls. “John. I am a mancalled John.”
Only… he wasn’t at allcertain that hewasa man. He had all the parts a man ought to have, at least asfar as he could tell. His legs were too weak to hold him upright,his arms as thin as broomsticks, and his cock hung flaccid anduseless. Yet he did have legs and arms and a cock. Like a man. Butwithin the long emptiness of his memories, he’d never once had foodor drink, and men needed those things to survive. And in those daysbefore he was in the cell—God, he wished he didn’t recall thosedays—people had done things to his body that no man could havesurvived. He still had marks from those days, bumpy scars andpuckered ridges that itched under the dirt but wouldn’theal.
And he had no heartbeat.
If he wasn’t a man,though, he didn’t know what he might be instead. So he calledhimselfJohnanda man,and he greedily drank the sunlight when he could.
“John,” he whispered todayas the light slipped away. “I’m John. Come back to me soon,please.”
In the settling darkness, he rolled onto hisbelly and began to drag himself back to the corner where he spentthe nights. It wasn’t any different from the other three corners,no softer or more forgiving against his thin skin, but somehow itsoothed him to have a particular place to settle in. It was as ifhe had a daily schedule, an agenda: go bathe in the light, and thengo rest in his bed. A variation on those men who went to the officeand then returned home for a cocktail, dinner, conversation withfamily, perhaps some radio or a bit of reading, and then to theirthick mattress with cozy bedding.
Were those real men as foolish as he? Hedidn’t know.
Today as he made his slow commute to thecorner, he heard a sound. Not the tiny scrape of his body againstsmooth rock, but something sharper and brighter. Metal rasping andsquealing.
John froze. Before he could understand thenew noise, bright light assaulted him from the ceiling on theopposite side of the cell. He cried out, cowered into a ball, andcovered his eyes with his arms. A louder metallic screech, and awave of warm air washed over him. Despite his own familiar stink,he caught scents of alcohol and smoke.
“JesusChrist.” The man’s voice was richwith disgust and shock.
A cooler, more controlled voice answered.“Put your gun away, Simmons.”
“But Chief—”
“Now. Act like an agent,not a little girl.”
John heard the rustle of clothing and theslight creak of leather. “Is it…. Jesus.”
“It’s still… well,animate’s the best word for it, I suppose. It’s been a long timesince the boys had a crack at it, but that doesn’t much matter. Itstill moves around a little.”
In the silence that followed, John gainedenough courage to pry open his lids and take a peek around hisarms. An opening had appeared in one of the cell walls—a door hehadn’t remembered existing—and two men in suits stood just inside,blocking his view of whatever lay beyond. One man was young andwould have been handsome if he hadn’t looked so terrified and readyto bolt. The chief, older and larger, had a relaxed posture and anunlit cigarette between two fingers.
“We oughtta just burn it,”said the younger one. Simmons, John presumed. “Something like thatshouldn’t even be here. You shoulda burned it a long timeago.”
“We considered it, ofcourse. But it’s harmless enough, and we thought it might somedaycome in handy. Which, in fact, it has.”
John tried not to hear the impersonalpronoun they used for him or the ease with which they discussedkilling him. Maybe if he spoke they would realize he was just a mannamed John and they’d let him out of this prison.
“P-please,” he stuttered,his voice hardly above a whisper. He wasn’t accustomed to talkingto anyone but himself. But before he could continue his plea—beforehe could even decide what to beg for—Simmons backedaway.
“I can’t do this, Chief.Not this one. Gimme another assignment. Anything.”
“You are an agent with theBureau of Trans-Species Affairs. You’ve known from the moment wehired you that creatures of many kinds haunt the Earth. Most ofthem considerably more dangerous than this patheticthing.”
I’m not a thing.But John’s tongue wouldn’t move.
Simmons was now outside the cell completely,invisible behind the other man’s bulk. “Gimme one of them monsters.I don’t mind. I’ll go back to Idaho and hunt more of themwerewolves if you want. But I ain’t…. Not this one.”
The chief, who had his back to John, sighed.“I’m disappointed in you.” He turned slightly to look at John.“Well, that’s a shame. But I’ll get this straightened out.”
He left, and the door slammed shut with afinality that made John groan. A few seconds later, the light wentout, and he heard a more distant door close.
