Creature, p.1
Creature, page 1
Creature
Kim Fielding
A Bureau Story
Copyright © 2018 by Kim Fielding
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
www.kfieldingwrites.com
Cover Art: Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.
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.
Chapter Two
Harry Lowe nursed his coffee and wondered if he could get a fourth refill. When he’d arrived, the diner was nearly empty, so nobody had minded him occupying a booth. But now the breakfast crowd was beginning to fill the place, and the waitress—exhausted as she worked through the final hours of her shift—was casting him impatient glares.
The next time she neared, Harry pasted on his most charming grin and held up the mug. “Just one more for the road? Please?”
Her scowl didn’t lift, but she poured anyway. She didn’t leave room in the cup for his generous additions of cream and sugar, so he scalded his tongue as he drank the level down. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and then her patience would end and he’d have to leave. But he’d enjoy the diner’s life and activity while he could. And then… well, he’d face that when he came to it. In the meantime, the jukebox was playing Perry Como’s latest hit.
Staring out the window at the slow parade of traffic, Harry caught movement at the corner of his eye and turned his head, expecting to find the waitress standing there. Instead, a man loomed over him, fedora in hand and suit buttons straining.
“Morning,” the man said.
Realizing his mouth was agape, Harry attempted to pull himself together. “Ch-chief Townsend?”
Instead of answering, Townsend smiled, tossed his hat onto the empty seat, and sat down beside it. Harry wouldn’t have thought Townsend’s bulk would fit, yet he looked comfortable, as if the booth had been intended for him all along.
Before Harry could stammer out any questions, the waitress appeared. “You ordering?” she asked, narrow-eyed.
“Of course, sweetheart. Ham, two eggs over easy, toast, side of bacon—I want that lightly done, now—and coffee.” Townsend thrust his chin toward Harry. “How about you, boy?”
“I, uh—”
“It’s my treat.”
Harry had eaten a hamburger when he first arrived at the diner, but that had been some time ago, and he wasn’t sure when or how he’d find his next meal. So he nodded. “Oatmeal with milk, please,” he told the waitress. “And orange juice.” That would keep his belly full for a while.
The waitress’s frown lifted slightly. Perhaps she was pleased with the unexpectedly large order and hoped for a good tip. Townsend looked as if he carried a lot more money than Harry did.
“So,” Townsend boomed, “how have you been, my boy? It’s been six months since your interview, hasn’t it?”
Actually, it had been six and a half, but Harry didn’t argue. “I’m fine.”
“Have you kept yourself fit? I know you might not have much incentive for it without the Bureau in your sights, but….” Townsend shrugged.
Harry’s anger, never buried too deep, rose at once. “Are you here to rub it in that you wouldn’t hire me?”
Townsend’s smile didn’t fade. “Not at all, not at all. I just hoped we’d have a little chat.”
That was a lie. Harry was certain that nothing Townsend did was unplanned or inconsequential, and the two of them had nothing to chat about. But Harry was getting a free breakfast out of it, not to mention an excuse to stay longer in the diner, so he decided to hear Townsend out. It wasn’t as if Harry had spent much time in conversation lately.
The waitress brought an empty mug for Townsend and an OJ for Harry. She poured Townsend’s coffee and gave Harry a refill before hurrying away. Townsend, sipping his coffee black, watched Harry add sugar and cream. “You like it rich and sweet, huh?”
Harry felt his cheeks heat. “Less bitter this way.”
“Sure. The world is bitter enough already.” Townsend took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one free, and set the package on the table without offering one to Harry. He lit the cigarette with a gold lighter, then tilted his head back to exhale a cloud of smoke.
The morning sun already shone brightly through the windows, because in Los Angeles the sun was always out, even if it had to fight the smog. One of the things Harry had hated about working the graveyard shift was that the sun made it too hard to sleep during the day. Of course, that wasn’t an issue for him anymore.
“What have you been doing with yourself, my boy?” Townsend flicked his cigarette against the dirty glass ashtray.
“Nothing. Working.”
“Let’s see now. You had some kind of a job at the train station, didn’t you?”
“I’m a janitor.” Was a janitor. Now he was unemployed, broke, and about to be homeless. He’d been searching for something else—anything else—ever since he got canned, but although he’d had a few good leads, nothing had panned out. One guy had hired him to pump gas, but when Harry turned up for his first day of work, the man had sent him away. Decided he didn’t need anyone after all, he said.
As Townsend took a few easy drags from his cigarette and swallowed some coffee, Harry tried to guess his age. Townsend had thinning gray hair, heavy jowls and a thick neck, and a nose and cheeks that carried the hectic glow of a long-time drinker. Yet despite the signs of age and excess weight, he moved with a younger man’s grace and sense of power.
Just as Townsend stubbed out his cigarette, the waitress arrived with their food. Harry’s bowl of oatmeal looked slightly pathetic compared to Townsend’s feast, but neither man commented on it. Townsend spread butter and strawberry jam onto his toast, salted his eggs heavily, and then looked up and grinned. “Nothing like a good breakfast to start the day.”
Harry, who had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, simply stirred his oatmeal.
For several minutes, Townsend occupied himself with cutting, chewing, and swallowing, occasionally chasing bites with gulps of coffee. Harry’s oatmeal was bland but filling, and he enjoyed the juice. He used to imagine that when he moved to California, he’d eat oranges straight off the trees every day. But orange trees were hard to come by on Bunker Hill, and juice had been outside his budget even when he was employed.
By the time the waitress reappeared, Townsend had emptied his plates, although Harry’s bowl remained half-full. “I’ll have a piece of pie, sweetie. You have coconut cream?”
If she was surprised that he was ordering dessert with breakfast, she didn’t show it. “Yeah, we got that. One for him too?” she added, as if Harry wasn’t capable of speaking for himself.
“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, and she gathered the empty dishes and went away.
Townsend was watching him. “It’s a funny thing. You’re from where? Iowa?”
“Missouri.”
“Yeah. So lots of kids like you come to the City of Angels from Missouri, Kansas, Ohio… wherever. And they’re all looking to make it big in pictures. They want to be the next Montgomery Clift or Elizabeth Taylor. But not you. You didn’t come here to be a movie star.”
“I don’t know how to act.”
That made Townsend boom out a laugh. “That doesn’t stop any of them, kid. They figure a pretty face is good enough. And yours isn’t bad.”
Harry’s cheeks burned again. He wasn’t sure if this was a backhanded dig at him and the secret he’d thought well hidden until his last meeting with Townsend. “I don’t want to be an actor,” he said quietly.
“I know. You wanted to be an agent in the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. An unusual ambition for a boy from Nebraska.”
Ignoring the misplaced geographical reference, which he suspected was intentional, Harry finished his juice and pushed the glass away. He wiped his lips with a paper napkin and, despite the amount of coffee he’d consumed, felt weighed down by exhaustion. He was too young to be this tired. Maybe the California sun was to blame, or the smog. He ought to give it up and move somewhere else.
“What do you want from me, Townsend?” he asked.
“An honest answer. Why did you want to join the Bureau? And don’t give me more of that claptrap about wanting to serve your country and help people. You could do that by becoming a dogcatcher back home in Cowshit Corners. What’s the truth, Harry my boy?”
Sullen-faced, Harry twitched a shoulder. “What do you care? You already turned me down.”
“That I did. Do you know why?”
Harry lifted his chin. “Because I’m queer,” he growled softly. He thought he’d been discreet, avoiding the frequently raided bars and instead finding temporary company in places like Westlake Park. But he should have known that the Bureau would find out about his darkest secret. During the interview, Townsend had confronted Harry with details of his last few meet-ups, and Harry had known his hopes lay in ashes.
But now Townsend shook his head. “That wasn’t it. In fact, I was impressed that when I asked, you owned up to it.” He paused when the waitress arrived with his pie, and he took a big bite before continuing. “Some of my agents are homosexuals. One of them retired from the Bureau and began doing a private-detective gig with a male demon!” He laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“Male demon?”
“He’s harmless enough, nowadays. I guess his partner keeps a check on him. Or maybe it’s the other way ’round—Grimes can be quite a threat himself. Anyway, the Bureau doesn’t disqualify homosexuals as long as they’re honest about their proclivities and they keep their personal lives… unobtrusive.”
Although it was possible Townsend was lying, Harry couldn’t figure out why he’d bother. Just to torment Harry in some inexplicable fashion? Didn’t make sense. Harry wasn’t worth the effort.
“So why didn’t you let me sign up?”
Townsend took two enormous bites and a swallow of coffee before responding. “’Cause you’re not hard enough for it, kid.”
“I’m—”
“Hold on! You’ve got fire in you, I’ll say that. But anyone can get angry. I bet that little gal can throw an impressive tantrum when her ire’s up.” He gestured toward the waitress, who was taking an order three tables away. “But that doesn’t mean she’s cut out to be an agent. I need men with steel inside ’em. Men who won’t fold when something mean and deadly pushes at them.” He shook his head. “I see a softness in you, Lowe, and I can’t afford that.”
Nobody had ever accused Harry of being soft. Headstrong, yes. Stupid. And useless. But although Harry had always feared that a certain weakness lurked in his core, he’d thought the flaw was invisible to everyone else.
He finished the last of his coffee, cold and sickly sweet. “So you tracked me down to gloat?”
“No. But tell me if I’m right: the real reason you wanted to join the Bureau is because you can’t destroy your own monsters—the inner ones—so you figured you’d kill some creepy-crawlies instead.” He pushed away his empty plate and waited, eyebrows raised.
