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Piece of Work	By : Nightspore Category: M through R > Reanimator Views: 1971 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Reanimator, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Piece of Work
- 1
PIECE
OF WORK

The creaking had started again.
Creak, thump, creak, creak. They were at it again. Again!
Distracted, West lost his grip
on the kidney. It squirted out of his cupped hands like a watermelon seed and
hit the floor, bursting and filling the basement lab with an ammoniac stench.
He unclipped the hemostats holding back the skin of the donor corpse and threw
them against the wall in a fit of petty rage. Damn them! How was he supposed to work like this? How could he
concentrate when he knew exactly what was going on up there in Daniel's big
four-poster bed? He could hear them all through the house.
His eyes burned like lye from
sleeplessness, but if he tried to go upstairs to bed he would only hear it
clearer, a symphony of moans and cries with the loose headboard keeping the
beat against the wall. West glared at the ceiling, then scooped up the ruined
kidney and tossed it into the red-bag wastebasket. He got down on his knees and
began cleaning up blood and bile, as the creaking of the overtaxed bedsprings
scraped his nerves like an unrosined violin bow.o:p>
Oh, what a piece of work is man! West thought sardonically. How
noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form, in moving, how express and
admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The
beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, in
the process of reproduction, how like a filthy ape . . .
Every night it was the same
thing, as stylized a procession of events as a Kabuki play. Francesca would
invade his home, all smiles and batting eyelashes and perfume and soft touches.
He could see right through her. She was an animal, a preprogrammed biological
robot. In that way she was no more complex than any other lower organism in
season, every gesture and word devoted to the sole purpose of wringing the seed
from Daniel and passing on her genes to the next generation. Oh, people could
call it love, but at the dark,
shadowed root of it there was only biological imperative.
It sickened West to see how
easily Daniel fell for her calculated gestures. He really had expected better
of his assistant than this, although he couldn't say why. He was thankful that
he, himself, was immune to the machinations of feminine bewitchment. But no -
Daniel was as simple as a rutting preying mantis, blissfully squirting his life
into her heaving receptacle while she munched on his head. Her 'love' would
lobotomize him as deviously as a mantid's jaws, oh yes it would.
West could see the detrimental
effects already. Daniel's attention often wandered. He would catch the young
man looking at the Bride sometimes as though waking from a bad dream to find
his hands covered with blood. And in those moments Daniel was as far from him
as if he were on Pluto, the cold screaming distance of a hundred million miles
of airless void sucking the breath out of West's throat, his heart and brain
swelling with the pull of the vacuum. It got harder and harder each time to
tempt him back. West had thought it would get easier as the Bride took shape.
He needed Daniel. It wasn't
something he could do on his own. As much as it bruised his pride to admit it,
Daniel was the better surgeon.
West had been practicing in
between working on their project, in secret of course. Morbid doodling with
human body parts, Daniel called it. But even the great masters drew rough
sketches. West had seen one by Michelangelo, a sheet parchment with charcoal
drawings of the human hand, repeated with the pose varied slightly each time
trying for the perfect ef. An. And Michelangelo had created David! Ifn hen he
needed to do a few sketches first, West certainly needed to.
West was so eager to see the
whole thing come together that he tended to hurry ahead and skip on the
details. It was fiddly work, the pieces kept fresh and supple by soaking in a
diluted solution of re-agent until they were needed. It was rather like trying
to stitch together jello wrapped in wet tissue paper. But Daniel's sutures were
so small and neat they closed the joinings of patchwork flesh almost invisibly.
He could easily spend an hour or two lovingly sewing a rather superfluous
nipple onto the Bride's cold breast, occasionally pausing to turn to the other
table and run his blood-beslimed fingers through the tangled mane of her hair
as he whispered loving encouragement into her ear.
And then, just as West had
gotten Daniel caught back up in their work, the living woman would come and
interrupt. Ruin everything. He'd tried to frighten her off, threaten her with
subtle hints. But Francesca only glared at West with frigid, self-assured
politeness. In her dim way, she somehow knew they belonged to competing
species.
And Daniel, poor,
pheromone-intoxicated Daniel, would scurry behind her up to the bedroom like a
mothlowilowing a scent-trail right into burning candle flame. Another evening
would be wasted.
West finished swabbing up the
remains of the kidney. There was nothing much left to do now. If tonight
followed the usual schedule, the creaking would go on for another ten minutes
or so.
Seized by some unnameable
impulse, West left the basement. He went upstairs, hugging the wall, avoiding
the center of the steps. Even his light weight was enough to make them creak.
He cat-footed it down the hallway and paused in front of the door to Daniel's
bedroom.
The house was old, the wood of
the door frame warped. Even without meaning to, he could glimpse them through
the small gap. He saw Daniel on top of the woman, his shoulders bunched, his
rib cage heaving, the individual vertebrae of his back popping up and down like
piano keys as he thrust, his thigh and buttock muscles crimping with the
strain.
Herbert's lips drew back in an
indignant snarl. That gummy-skinned, fumbling gasping and groping was nothing
like the beautiful work they did together. The meticulous stringing of tendon
to muscle, muscle to bone. The careful packing of organs into the shell of the
torso. The amazing feel of once-dead tissue quivering to life. There was an art
to it, this sculpting of nature's rejects into a new complete form. The
incredibly delicate touch it required . . . he had often watched Daniel's
large-boned but surprisingly deft hands gently cupping the Bride's cold flesh,
and imagined them on his own.
West's splayed fingers pressed
down on the unyielding surface of the wood that separated them, the skin under
his nails whitening.
Oh, Daniel.
The moaning sound reached a
climax. Daniel was huffing and puffing like an old-fashioned steam engine
cresting a steep hill, and Francesca mooed with mindless pleasure. West knocked
his forehead hard on the wood panel, his own breath catching like a rusty gear
in his throat.
There was murmur of sleepy
conversation. The doorknob rattled. Startled, West ripped himself from his
reverie and drew back into the shadowed depths of the hallway. There was no
time to duck into a room, they would hear the door close. Francesca emerged,
looking tousled and smug. She passed by and didn't even see him as he crouched
there like a little mouse. He waiteyes yes closed, willing himself invisible
til he heard the zip of her jacket, her keys jingling, the front door slam.
West tugged his tie loose,
suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe. He was angry at himself. It was
his house, too. She was only half-welcome, and there was no reason for him to
be cowering in the corner. He turned to go back into the basement, when he
realized she had left the bedroom door open. There was no sound coming from
inside.
West wrestled with himself for a
moment. Daniel didn't like sleeping with the door open. Out of politeness
alone, he should close it for him. Yes - it was the polite thing to do.
He peered in, one hand on the
door frame. Daniel was fast asleep. Well, he deserved a good rest, didn't he?
He'd worn himself out.an>
In fact, West told himself as he
padded over to the bed, Daniel really shouldn't be straining himself like that.
He still hadn't completely recovered from the incident in Peru. The soldier's
bayonet had punctured his bowels, letting the waste and stomach acids flood the
sterile body cavity, the blade's surface carrying all manner of infectious
filth into the wound. Peritonitis was an ugly thing. Daniel might easily have
died in their primitive surroundings, or spent the rest of his life carting
around a colostomy bag to bypass ruined intestines. Francesca wouldnave ave found that very attractive, would she, West
thought, an unlovely sneer distorting his face. With a easing motion, he slid
the sheets down, suddenly eager for another look at the twisted scar.
Daniel had not bothered to pull
on his boxers back on after finishing, and there it was on his left lower
abdomen, gleaming pale and shiny in the moonlight filtering through the
curtains, as long and thick as West's smallest finger. He remembered opening
Daniel's shirt and seeing the gluey loop of greyish-pink intestine bulging out
of the jagged wound. In that moment, with the incendiary bombs raining down
around them, surrounded by enemy soldiers, hundreds of miles from the nearest
civilization, his last vial of re-agent wasted on that damn experiment, West
was sure he would lose Daniel.
West lay down beside him. Daniel
murmured in his sleep, shifting in a settling motion and rooting his face into
the pillows. The heady, jungle smell of sex saturated the sheets, human sweat
and the raw egg yolk scent of fresh semen. West felt a momentary panic, a
sudden paralysis, as if he had surprised the mirror and found no reflection
there. This wasn't the first time. It would happen without warning, as he was
looping a suture or stirring an ingredient. Daniel's hand would brush past him
as he reached for a speculum, or their knees would bump under the table. A
tremor would seize West and he would stop what he was doing, as if an angry
signal were buzzing in his brain.
Odd, how he felt no repugnance
at the touch of cold, charnel clay . . . yet the feel of th, th, pliant living
skin stretched taut over angular bone quickened his heart rate and sent strange
muscle spasms tremoring at the base of his spine.
His fingertips lightly skimmed
Daniel's shoulder, strayed across his chest. There seemed to be a sort of
electricity, a tingling in his fingertips that traveled up his arm. West tilted
his head, then removed his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. The
room further than two feet away dissolved into a soft blur of greys. Only
Daniel, his sleeping body lightly sheened with sweat and limned with silver,
remained in focus, as if he were the one real, true thing left in the world.
West admired the artful play of
moonlight across the planes of Daniel's face. He knew the man's body, every
bone, muscle and sinew. After all, who had nursed him back to health through
the raging fever of the peritonitis? Not Francesca, certainly. Daniel's body
held no secrets from him, no more than any other body did.
Still, West couldn't resist
considering anew the man's slim, sculpted muscularity. Daniel was a healthy,
sound young animal, his somatotype perfectly balancing the grace of an
ectomorph with the solid construction of a mesomorph. West flattened his hand,
exploring the roughness of the light feathering of hairs on Daniel's chest. In
the aftermath of sex, his nipples were still darkened and engorged, like warm
little eraser nubs under West's appraising palm. He grinned, darkly amused as
Daniel reacted unwittingly, his swollen lips parting, his sooty eyelashes,
wetted by tears of exertion and stuck together in sheaves, fluttering as he
drew in a pleasured breath.
West could see how most people
would be deluded into thinking the hand of some supernatural being must be
involved in the creation of man. But really, the human form was just the end
product of a long series of coincidences and lucky breaks, and West knew full
well that he himself only saw the beauty because the eye that beheld it was
athe the end product.
End product indeed, he told himself, absentmindedly running his
small hands over the sharp flare of the illiac crest, noting in a detached how how the unconscious man groaned, hiighsighs parting. West was the terminal
branch on the evolutionary tree. He would father no children. The billions of
years of struggle and survival, the infinitesimal chance in the timing of sperm
and egg that went into his creation was all for naught . . . his genes would
not be passed on. In the view of the species, he was nothing. Less than
nothing: he took from the environment, but he would give nothing back except
his flesh to someday rot in the ground and nourish the soil.
No.
He denied it - he denied fate
and chance and chaos. He would never give nature red in tooth and claw the
satisfaction of devouring him. He took no succor in blind faith and spat in the
face of blind nature.
If no God existed, he would make
himself a god.
Growing excited now, West felt a
warm anticipation settle like a weight in his stomach. There would be no more
chance! He would populate the world with the creations of his own hands (the
hands now stroking the sensitive skin of Daniel's inner thigh, thin fingers
kneading the firm swell of his gluteus maximus muscle as if making a loaf of
bread, rolling his testicles like silly putty between heated palms), beings of
unique perfection and undying beauty. Death only existed to clear the stage for
a new set of players - if his creations were perfect, there would be no reason
for death to exist.
And if one day Daniel should die
. . .
West's fingers clenched, and
Daniel frowned in his sleep. Breathless with unaccustomed emotion, he forced
his grip to relax. He hadn't been able to touch Daniel, not since he recovered.
What would he say if he woke now and found West's small, trembling body curled
up beside him, the delicate hands busily probing his most intimate flesh, the
dark eyes looking into his own? Ah, but it was hard to pull away. Warm skin . .
. so much better than the scant comfort he got from his creations, with their
clammy crazy quilt of integument stretched over mismatched bone and tortured
musculature, the mutant feel of their distorted bodies flexing and scrabbling
against him, half-desirous, half-repelled.
His lax fingers brushed Daniel's
wilting cock with the tender affection one would use to pet a sleeping kitten.
How he would love to grasp him firmly, shout his name and wake him up. It
amused him immensely, the face Daniel made when he was surprised: his heavy
brows arcing up from his guileless cocker spaniel eyes, his soft mouth going
slack in shock.
But there was no excuse for it
anymore. He was healthy now. Healthy, normal. Healthy enough to spend hours
with that woman, hours he could have spent in the basement laboratory doing
something useful and productive.
"What am I laying here for?
I'm laying here as if I had a chance to enjoy a quiet time." West's voice
was a hoarse whisper. Yes, there was much work to be done. He was refreshed,
full of ideas. A phantasmagoria of twisted forms paraded through his mind,
things that could spring from no woman's womb, creatures born of his own skill
and imagination. His palms itched to get working again.
Don't worry, Daniel. I forgive you.
He stood up, straightened his
tie and his rumpled shirt, combing his hair back into place. He turned to go,
then paused, and once more stroked the man's body possessively, a single
fingertip tracing the line of Daniel's jaw, contemplating, memorizing.
So this is what a muse looks
like.
Yes, Daniel. Enjoy yourself while you have the chance. You're mine now,
although you don't know it yet. You're part of my new world of gods and
monsters. And when we no longer need women, there will be just you and I . . .

*end*
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Piece of Work