Creature
Kim Fielding
Chapter One
John was greedy.
Every time the first sliver of sunlight came through the high barred window, he’d crawl across the floor and lay sprawled on his back, waiting for the thread of heat to grow into a ribbon. Eventually it became a blanket, warming him through the thick layer of grime that coated his skin. He closed his eyes and spread his scrawny limbs, and for a short time he possessed a crumb of comfort. One small thing he could claim as his own.
But then the sun would recede, unraveling his blanket until nothing remained but darkness and cold and the unforgiving hard surfaces of the cell. During those bleak hours, he hated the sun with an icy rage that chilled him more than the stone floor on which he lay. But every morning when the first rays again snuck in the window, his love was rekindled. John gorged on the light as long as it was his.
John wasn’t his real name. He didn’t remember his name, didn’t remember having a name. But a man needed a name, even if he was all by himself in a cell with inconstant sunlight as his only visitor. Sometimes he said it out loud just to hear the solid consonants echo against the walls. “John. I am a man called John.”
Only… he wasn’t at all certain that he was a man. He had all the parts a man ought to have, at least as far as he could tell. His legs were too weak to hold him upright, his arms as thin as broomsticks, and his cock hung flaccid and useless. Yet he did have legs and arms and a cock. Like a man. But within the long emptiness of his memories, he’d never once had food or drink, and men needed those things to survive. And in those days before he was in the cell—God, he wished he didn’t recall those days—people had done things to his body that no man could have survived. He still had marks from those days, bumpy scars and puckered ridges that itched under the dirt but wouldn’t heal.
And he had no heartbeat.
If he wasn’t a man, though, he didn’t know what he might be instead. So he called himself John and a man, and he greedily drank the sunlight when he could.
“John,” he whispered today as the light slipped away. “I’m John. Come back to me soon, please.”
In the settling darkness, he rolled onto his belly and began to drag himself back to the corner where he spent the nights. It wasn’t any different from the other three corners, no softer or more forgiving against his thin skin, but somehow it soothed him to have a particular place to settle in. It was as if he had a daily schedule, an agenda: go bathe in the light, and then go rest in his bed. A variation on those men who went to the office and then returned home for a cocktail, dinner, conversation with family, perhaps some radio or a bit of reading, and then to their thick mattress with cozy bedding.
Were those real men as foolish as he? He didn’t know.
Today as he made his slow commute to the corner, he heard a sound. Not the tiny scrape of his body against smooth rock, but something sharper and brighter. Metal rasping and squealing.
John froze. Before he could understand the new noise, bright light assaulted him from the ceiling on the opposite side of the cell. He cried out, cowered into a ball, and covered his eyes with his arms. A louder metallic screech, and a wave of warm air washed over him. Despite his own familiar stink, he caught scents of alcohol and smoke.
“Jesus Christ.” The man’s voice was rich with 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 the slight creak of leather. “Is it…. Jesus.”
“It’s still… well, animate’s the best word for it, I suppose. It’s been a long time since the boys had a crack at it, but that doesn’t much matter. It still moves around a little.”
In the silence that followed, John gained enough courage to pry open his lids and take a peek around his arms. An opening had appeared in one of the cell walls—a door he hadn’t remembered existing—and two men in suits stood just inside, blocking his view of whatever lay beyond. One man was young and would have been handsome if he hadn’t looked so terrified and ready to bolt. The chief, older and larger, had a relaxed posture and an unlit cigarette between two fingers.
“We oughtta just burn it,” said the younger one. Simmons, John presumed. “Something like that shouldn’t even be here. You shoulda burned it a long time ago.”
“We considered it, of course. But it’s harmless enough, and we thought it might someday come in handy. Which, in fact, it has.”
John tried not to hear the impersonal pronoun they used for him or the ease with which they discussed killing him. Maybe if he spoke they would realize he was just a man named 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 talking to anyone but himself. But before he could continue his plea—before he could even decide what to beg for—Simmons backed away.
“I can’t do this, Chief. Not this one. Gimme another assignment. Anything.”
“You are an agent with the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. You’ve known from the moment we hired you that creatures of many kinds haunt the Earth. Most of them considerably more dangerous than this pathetic thing.”
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 them werewolves 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 a finality that made John groan. A few seconds later, the light went out, and he heard a more distant door close.
“No, no.” His treacherous tongue had decided to work again. “Don’t leave me here. My name is John.”
Nobody returned, and the darkness remained. John dragged himself to his corner, curled into a tight ball, and sobbed without tears.