Short stories

Loop, pull, tighten, repeat.

The scientists’ eyes gleamed from behind his plastic goggles, the way a child’s would when they saw a new toy, or a candy store.

“Done.”

He stepped back, pulling off his latex gloves as he admired his work.

“You’re all done. A masterpiece again.”

The lady swallowed, her chin trembling as she tried to speak, but the anaesthesia was too strong, and she could only manage a small whimper.

“It’s okay my dear, the drugs will wear off soon and you’ll be fine. I will add some painkillers to your IV line, you won’t feel a thing. You’ll be okay.”

The scientist smiled, and turned away, exiting the small room and leaving the lady strapped down on the gurney.

Lieutenant Harding exhaled a long breath as he walked briskly down the clinical corridor, every step seeming to take him further and further away from his destination.

His hand were sweaty, clenched by his sides.

He’d found the report on his desk that morning, containing the search warrant he’d requested over a month ago.

He prayed he wasn’t too late.

Already over 15 mutilated bodies had been discovered, discarded in skip bins all over the city. Some had been hacked up, missing limbed and organs, but it was the majority of the bodies that were the most gruesome.

There had been one particular scene that had stuck with Harding since he’d investigated it many months ago, haunting his dreams.

The body of a young man, perhaps only 20 years old. His arms had been snapped at the elbows and wrists, but was what even more disturbing were the other four broken arms that had been attached to the sides of his torso, and the slices down his back that revealed his spinal column. His lips had been torn off, giving the boy a permanent grimace.

The boy had been unidentifiable for a time, until a distraught couple had been brought in to view the corpse, confirming it was their teenage son who’d disappeared a week prior, without warning or explanation.

It had been a hard night for the lieutenant, and he’d been sleeping only a couple of hours each night, trying to figure out the sick bastard behind these attacks.

But there was small pieces of evidence, overlooked by some of the more disturbed police and detectives, that Harding had discovered.

A small, curved suturing needle that could have only come from a medical facility. A shoe print from a pair of size 10.5 loafers. And most importantly, a black fountain tip pen with the initials J.M.

He’d spent the next four days and nights going through staff records from every medical facility in the area, and up to two hours away.

Nothing had showed up in the updated records, but after skimming through some from a decade or so ago, Harding had found what he was looking for.

Two names had matched, a Jensen Maddingtin, and a John Morgan, both of whom had been active doctors until Mr Maddington had been fired because of inappropriate behaviour 14 years ago, and Mr Morgan had been let go after an undisclosed issue only 11 years ago.

Within the next 24 hours the Lieutenant had organised a meet up with Jensen Maddington.

That had come up as a dead end, as although Maddington had indeed gotten fired from the way he’d spoken to clients, he didn’t seem like the type to commit such sick acts, and he didn’t fit the profile Harding had formed, especially since Maddington had been out of the medical field since his altercation, and his shoe size did not match.

However the second suspect had borne more fruitful information.

Mr John Morgan had continued working in the medical field after he’d been fired from the hospital, however he’d moved on to the science side of the field, working in a nearby research facility as a medical scientist.

He would have easy access to any medical equipment, and he could certainly afford to own expensive, custom fountain pens with his initials engraved.

Harding had quickly found a phone number for the research facility and spoken to the receptionist, who’d informed the lieutenant that Mr Morgan would be working tomorrow afternoon.

The next day, Harding had suited up and driven to the facility, where he was told he would not be able to see Mr Morgan as he was ill and not coming to work that day.

Harding had asked if he could take a quick look in Morgan’s office or workspace, and was harshly told to come back with a warrant.

A warrant which had taken exactly a month and 16 days to be obtained, with a lot of explaining, debating and evidence to be deemed necessary.

But now...

Now he had the warrant clutched in his hand, after near throwing it in the receptionists face as he’d stormed past.

He knew he was right this time, he just needed the hard evidence to arrest this disgusting, sick, shell of a man.

The scientist took a long sip of coffee, the dark liquid running down his throat making his veins feel like fire.

His last creation had lasted longer than the rest so far, most hadn’t survived longer than 24 hours. They’d succumbed to infection or shock, or simply lost too much blood.

It was their own fault, they weren’t good enough, like a gourmet meal made with bad meat.

But this new subject had made it past the 36 hour mark, and while she had come out of the daze of the drugs a few times to scream, so far she showed no signed of expiring.

He hadn’t been sure if the two heads would regain consciousness after being attached to the regular body, or that all three could fit on the slender girls shoulders, but he’d been pleasantly surprised when the transferred heads had blinked groggily up at him when the body had been injected with pure adrenaline.

Sewing the extra forearms to the primal bodies elbows had proved more of a challenge, but past the inflammation, the healing process seemed to be going well.

The scientist chuckled to himself, proud to reflect on his masterpiece, when a loud noise came from in the hall.

He frowned, alarmed.

Nobody was supposed to be in this floor, it was off limits to everyone including staff during these hours.

He quickly rose from the desk and strode towards the door, just as it slammed open, revealing a police officer, a young man of 24, with a disgusted, but triumphant expression on his face and a handgun aimed at the Scientist.

“Lieutenant Harding from the NYPD, stay where you are John Morgan.”

The scientist snarled.

“What are you doing here?”

“I know what you’ve been up to,” the lieutenant replied, keeping his gun trained on the older man as his eyes darted around the room, “I know you’re the one dumping those... those kids out in the dumpsters.”

The words echoed and hung in the air for a moment, as the puzzled pieces fell into place in Harding’s mind.

“You think you’re playing God,” he choked.

The crooked grin told the lieutenant all he needed to know before the scientists words even left his foul lips.

“Playing God? What makes you think I’m merely playing?”

His eyes were fixated on Harding.

“I am God, defeating God, remoulding God, wiping away the face of god and creating something better, something new in my own image.

Harding’s knees threatened to give way, but he took a breath and forced himself to stand strong.

“You’re insane.”

The scientist laughed, the sound cracking through the harsh emptiness of the room.

“Insane, or divine? Mad or genius? It’s two sides of spectrums you could never comprehend. You only see the world as black and white, good and bad, fixated. You don’t have the imagination to see what things could become. You can’t see past your own limits. That is why you will never be a God.”

Harding drew in a shaky breath, taking a small step back as he raised his gun once more.

“Don’t fucking move...” he ordered, his voice barely more than a whisper. The scientists eyes gleamed as he took a step towards Harding, mimicking the terrified lieutenant.

“A God must act on his own accord. Never follow rules, never believe he is less than anything. He is not afraid of the reaper. I am not afraid of death, for death is afraid of me.”

Harding’s teeth clenched as the scientist took another step forward, his hand drawing a bloody scalpel from his coat pocket.

The receptionist, a middle aged mother of two, licked her lips as she glanced at her watch, eager for her shift to be over so she could go home and have dinner with her husband and children. She’d made fettuccine carbonara that morning, ready to be heated when she got home. She couldn’t wait to kiss her husband and tell him all about the annoying, demanding police officer from earlier. They always had a laugh at the strange visitors.

Wait.

Was that..?

She tilted her head, furrowing her brow as she listened.

There it was again, twice this time.

Gunshots.

She quickly rose from her desk, grabbing her mobile phone as she did, and headed nervously towards the sound.

She was not, by any means, a brave woman. Nor did she dream of being the heroine.

However it was her job to make sure things were in order, and running smoothly. And besides, Dr Morgan had given her specific instructions to make sure his work was kept completely secret from outsiders, some sort of “I want to change the world” type project he’d been studying.

She pressed the button to the elevator, stepping inside and hitting the 3rd floor button.

She nervously bit her manicured nails as the elevator rose painfully slowly.

Finally, there was a faint ding, and the doors opened to the stark white corridor of the 3rd floor.

The receptionist hesitantly tiptoed down the hall, peering into each open doorway, her teeth nervously chewing on the inside of her cheek.

30 minutes.

30 minutes and she would be walking out of the building towards her car, heading home to her husband, kids, and fettuccine carbonara.

She swallowed her fear, and turned the corner.

“Oh... D-doctor Morgan... is everything... okay..?”

Her words trailed off as she stared at the scientist standing in the middle of the corridor, about 5 meters away, his white coat stained with red.

The corridor behind him was dark, unlit by what should have been the same lights that were on above her head.

She noticed the scientist breathing haggardly, grinning with extremely white teeth.

“Hello Lisa...”

The receptionist gulped.

“S-sir? Are you alright? Should I get some-“

“You believe in God, don’t you Lisa?”

The question threw the woman off.

She subconsciously reached for the gold cross that hung from her neck on a thin chain that had lasted many decades of wear.

“Y-yes sir...” she answered cautiously.

The scientist nodded.

“Good.”

It was then that the receptionist noticed a spreading pool of blood behind the scientist.

And the unmoving form of the police officer from earlier that day, with a grotesque, carved grin on his pale face.

Then she noticed the scalpel blade flash in the scientists hand, as he took a step towards the receptionist...