Rob Thurman - Basilisk

The one closest to me had gray rubbery streamers of flesh spilling out of his gaping mouth—part of his lungs. You couldn’t cough up both of them at once, or just one, but you could cough up pieces of them until you choked and asphyxiated or died from another lack of oxygen: lungs blown to tatters. Either/or. Another man lay on his back, his brain matter having spilled out his ears, nose, and mouth. Someone had crushed his skull.

The next victim was shirtless and curled on the floor, his abdomen split neatly from breast bone to below his baggy jeans somewhere. His arms were curled around the large pile of intestines that had poured free, as if he could push them back inside and hold himself together. The man closest to him had shot himself in the head with his own gun to escape his torment, but first he’d ripped off his pants. His penis and testicles. . . .

I stopped cataloging the carnage. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before—nothing new under the sun that could be done outside the Institute that hadn’t been done inside. The one difference was this wasn’t a reward for excelling; this was freedom.

I could smell anhydrous ammonia fumes wafting down from the top floor. Meth lab—I’d been right. I was also right in not expecting Stefan to listen to me. The door opened and shut almost silently behind me, but he didn’t say anything—battle ready.

“Michael, finally.” The voice echoed in the still air. There was the sound of one footstep.

“It’s been so dull waiting for you and your . . . pets? Isn’t that what you call lesser creatures you keep with you and alive for no apparent reason? I’ve seen them being walked in parks and down the sidewalks in rhinestone collars and pink leashes. Did you forget this one’s leash? Will he bark for a treat? Will he piss himself at what he sees here?”

Peter had drifted nearly soundlessly down the stairs against the back wall. Now he sat, midway down, and dangled one hand over the rusted wrought-iron railing. He was the same as he had been on the Institute tape—cheerful, charismatic. He had changed from the white pajama-style uniform to a black shirt and jeans. Dark shirt, dark hair, shadows clinging to him—Death himself. “So. Look at you, Michael. You have changed. Having seen what was outside our walls, I think all of us would change. Will change.” I didn’t raise the tranquilizer gun yet. I wanted to know more. What did he want with me? Where were the others? Stefan, now beside me, followed my lead. He knew violence and he knew it well, but in this particularly vicious subcategory, I was the expert.

Peter leaned to rest his forehead against the thin metal banister. His eyes were chimera eyes—one blue, one green. He hadn’t bothered to conceal that with contacts as I had. Ordinarily those colors would be the calm pastels of a spring morning. Somehow on Peter they seemed almost blind. He was blind in a way, seeing only what he wanted to see, and what surrounded us now was all he wanted to ever see—destruction. I didn’t see his mask; I saw what was behind it.

“I have to say, Michael, I’m rather surprised. We all knew you wouldn’t graduate. You were days at best from dissection. Strawberry jam in a jelly jar. In the refrigerator you’d go. Yum, yum. Good eating.” His grin was friendly and happy as a golden retriever’s. In two weeks he’d picked up the language, the casual nature, the obscure phrasings we’d not been taught. I was only now coming into my own after almost three years.

How had I not seen him before for what he was?

“But now you’re different.” His eyes went distant as if he were listening to inner instruction, his brain studying the peculiarity that was me. “You have bite to you now. Inside. Before, you would’ve let them walk you down to that metal table, obedient. . . . No, not necessarily obedient, but passive. Passive to the end. Now, however . . . now I think you would fight.”

He was right. I would. I wouldn’t kill, but you didn’t have to kill to fight and try to escape. “You’re stronger.” Peter stood, arms lazily resting on the metal as he bent over as if to get a closer look at me in the dim light that struggled through the paper-covered windows. With our vision, it was an act to make me associate him more with humans, therefore harmless, than with chimeras. It was a good move to put me off my guard. Trained powers of observation can be used against you. Lifelong associations of one thing to another are difficult to break. “You’re a better chimera, but are you good enough to join us and be accepted into the family?”

“Where is the rest of the ‘family’?” I asked in a detached tone, letting him know his trick, good or not, wasn’t working.

Calm. Cold. Being Jericho. The first naturally enhanced chimera, born with increased healing and strength. He couldn’t kill. That was his gift to us. Despite his genetic inability to dole out death, he had remained the ultimate chimera in his mind. He feared none of us . . . until the end. And at that he was far more proud of his Wendy creation than wary of her. Jericho had been living, breathing ice. I would be too.

“Here, there. Around.” He rocked back on his heels. “Dull and boring as things were waiting for you to slog along behind us, we thought we’d help you out and give you a chance to catch up. That pathetic bag of bones in Wyoming wasn’t worth our time, of course. So the next time we stopped, I thought it would be interesting to find something more spry. I love that word—‘spry.’ The definition of walking around when nature should’ve already taken you down. A very optimistic word. Before I killed her, I asked that nice, spry lady at the gas station when we came into town where the most dangerous people hung out.” He laughed, derisive and sated all in one. “And here they are—with their guns and their knives. They were like us in a way. They liked to kill too. Murder, rape, and they couldn’t wait to teach us some manners when we came knocking at the door.”

He reached down and picked up a gaudy red plastic rose I’d dismissed earlier as unimportant. He must have gotten it at the same gas station where he’d killed the woman who gave him directions. He tossed it over the rail to land on one of the bodies. “But these dangerous people were writing checks their antisocial tendencies couldn’t cash. They said they were, how’d they put it, ‘pure evil motherfuckers who were going to fuck up our baby-ass shit.’ ” He imitated a deeper, hate-filled, older man’s voice perfectly. “They give out the label sociopath so easily here in the real world. No one has to truly earn it. Isn’t that a shame? It devalues the meaning and the purpose . . . our meaning, our purpose.” He sighed, pulling on a pensive mask, but the glee leaked through. He took a step upward and then one more. “It won’t stay that way. Give us time and we will change the word and the world. Mass murder with a lollipop for these ignorant, oblivious wastes of genes. Are you up for that, Michael?”

At his first step I’d raised the tranquilizer gun. “No one is here but you, are they?”

“No,” he smiled. He pulled a black cord necklace out from under his shirt. Attached to it was a tiny cloth bag. It would hold Wendy’s chip perfectly.

“And you don’t want me for your Manson Mein Kampf family dream-come-true, do you?”

“He catches on.” He applauded once. “Want you? Hardly . You’ve changed, but not enough. And even if you had, this isn’t what it’s all about. We never wanted you, Michael. We want to punish you. You’ve done a very bad thing and you have to pay. And, Michael, you are going to fucking pay and pay and pay.” He was moving up again at a run, but Stefan, who’d had his gun up long ago, had already pulled the trigger. The cartridge hit Peter in the upper leg. He didn’t stagger, much less fall. My cartridge hit the wall he disappeared behind.