Posted by Menagerie on September 27, 2004 at 20:43:05:
TICK
I.
Yes…yes, of course you know who I am.
After all, my name and picture have been all over the evening news. For many months, now. They know what I have done…well, at least a little bit; they certainly don’t know all of it. And they don’t know how.
I’ll tell you my story, but the telling must, regretfully, be brief, for I must feed. Yes, you are to be my meal. Cry if you will, but that is to be your fate. That’s why I have brought you here. Your bindings are a matter of convenience, but not of necessity. I’ll explain why.
You’ve probably heard that I was a government scientist. You haven’t heard anything beyond that; the project was very secret. I was involved in experiments involving human metabolism. You might say they went terribly wrong; you might say they were wildly successful. I am the result of those successes.
I’m sure the science would bore you. Frankly, I don’t fully grasp it, myself. It involves the ability to excite a field to a higher quantum level; in the lab, it involved applying a nuclear force to the subject. But we had no idea what would happen if a human being were charged; there was a radiation leak…They didn’t think I’d live.
I survived; upon my reawakening, I was ravenous. I’d been unconscious for days. And inexplicably, my appetite…well, it focused on the young woman who was tending me at Walter Reed. Perhaps she was simply the first thing I saw when I regained my faculties; perhaps this permanently changed this heightened consciousness I now enjoy, so that human flesh was the only sustenance that would satisfy me.
Whatever the explanation, there seemed nothing I could do about it. I was on my back, the victim of a horrendous accident; she would feed me, bathe me, and all I could focus on was the soft curves of her neck and shoulders, the rise of her bosom, the full flaring of her hips…I had to devour this young nurse, the single thought becoming the focus of my brain. And my brain…changed.
It’s hard to explain. As I concentrated on my need to rend and swallow her flesh, her movements seemed to slow; they became agonizingly sluggish, until finally it seemed she was almost frozen in mid-air. I was stunned, briefly; summoning my strength—it was flowing back, and then some, remarkably quickly—I sat up in my sickbed. She was still posed as if stuck in time, seated next to me, one hand raised and holding a towel. When I watched carefully, I realized she was still moving…just very slowly. And then I glanced at the clock above the door; it, too, was standing still—then, after nearly a half-minute, the second hand would swing listlessly to the next tick.
It gradually dawned on me that the nurse, and the clock, were not moving slowly—it was I who had accelerated. As I struggled to my feet—I realized I was as strong as I’d ever felt in my life—I looked at the young woman’s face; the movement of her eyes was barely perceptible, and as slow as that second hand. What had been a minute or more to be had been a couple of quick ticks of the clock to her; I had no idea at the time how I appeared to her. Now, of course, I realize I was but a blur to her.
The full force of my hunger hit me in the solar plexus. I had just moments before (to me) despaired of satisfying this peculiar yearning for the flesh of the woman before me; now, I realized I could easily sate those pangs. And I did. I tore the clothing from her body—she was unable to resist, of course; it must have seemed to her that in a matter of a split-second, she was naked and in my grip. A quick wrench, and her head was separated from her body; I then tore the meat from her bones with my teeth, and within perhaps fifteen minutes of my time, I had made a feast of her and left a pile of bloody bones in my wake.
I didn’t feel any of the guilt you might associate with ending a life to appease my own gustatory desires; the accident that changed the power of my mind had rendered me a superior being. To further my—newly created species, if you will, I had to stoke the elevated energy requirements of my body with the meat of this luckless nurse. Just as I will with you.
Yes, you may scream and call it terrible, but after all, you are just one in six billion humans. I am unique. But I am not a fool; I knew the government would see me not as an extraordinary mutation, but as a threat and a criminal, and I quickly left that room and the hospital. By the time authorities made the discovery of what was left of the nurse, I was miles away.
My own experimentation found that I was able to accelerate my personal time in exponential stages—four times as fast as normal human perception, nine times, sixteen times, twenty-five times. I had never felt the need to push to the maximum level until my recent arrest and incarceration—we’ll get to that. But my metamorphosis had given me other superior powers beyond my ability to defy the clock. I also had remarkable strength—I had torn apart and devoured this woman with my hands and teeth, mind you—and stamina; I raced down the stairs from my hospital room and began running once I got to the open road, and covered miles in what I would guess was a matter of a few seconds. Cars appeared to move at a slow crawl, and I easily raced past them.
I needed a place to sort it all out, and to hide from the authorities. Fortunately, I knew of unused laboratory space—that’s where we are now. I’ve adjusted the kiln before you to serve as an oven—I ate the bloody flesh of the nurse as a matter of necessity, to satisfy my overwhelming craving; I shall roast your body in that device. Of course, I can slip in and out without notice; all the guards see is a barely detectable blur. These facilities were closed years ago by the government as part of a consolidation move, and we’re surrounded by empty buildings; once I breeze past the checkpoint, I’m not likely to be disturbed as I convert you and other captives into my weekly meal.
Yes, a week. I quickly discovered that I was unable to sustain my ability to accelerate, and needed to offset it with a lengthy period of rest. I will consume your flesh in mere seconds of your time, but will then got into a sort of suspended animation for roughly four days. Anybody coming upon me in that time might presume me to be dead—my respiration would have slowed to one breath every couple of minutes. However, I am roused from this state by the slightest disturbance; rest assured that once awakened, I would quickly revert to accelerated mode, and be gone before my unsuspecting captors knew it—and, if one of them happened to be a young female, take her with me to my next lair.
As you have probably guessed, I am responsible for many of the disappearances of young women in and around Washington for the better part of this past year. I am simply not bound by the furtive habits of the common sex criminal; I can effortlessly cruise through a shop, or government building, or just on the street…see a potential meal, and abduct her right then and there. As far as her companions could see, their friend had simply vanished into thin air; there was no need to truss her up—you see why I told you your own ropes are merely a luxury on my part; were you to be unfettered and take a single step toward freedom, you would be subdued before you were even aware of it. Why haven’t I killed you yet? Well, I’ve made the scientific discovery of the century; wouldn’t you want to talk about it with somebody—even your next victim?
Once I’d prepared this abandoned lab to suit my needs, I adopted a regular feeding schedule. Some of the more exclusive academies in this area were prime stalking grounds; the rather pampered young ladies were plump and succulent. I cannot say I dislike my strange affliction; quite the contrary—I go at it with gusto, savoring each last chop and morsel from each girl’s carcass. I can tell you by a woman’s flavor what her upbringing was, the diet she followed, her degree of physical activity, even her ethnic heritage. Perhaps it isn’t politically correct, particularly here in the nation’s capitol…but, there is a difference.
Having brought the unfortunate young lady back to my place of business—well, after all, my research continues into what I have become —I quickly undress and bind her and fire up the kiln. I then decapitate and eviscerate her; muscle becomes cooked meat in a matter of minutes in this industrial-strength device, and I dine at my leisure—well, you wouldn’t consider it a very leisurely pace, of course; you’ll be reduced to charred bones in a matter of split-seconds.
You hope they arrest me? Well, they did, you’ll recall. It was an unfortunate combination of circumstances on my part; I had espied a comely visitor from overseas near the Dirksen Building, and had followed my custom of slinging her across my shoulder and dashing to the lab. I suppose my apparent invincibility had made me careless, and I hadn’t realized the route from the Capitol was marred by road construction. A pothole I hadn’t anticipated caused me to tumble to earth, and a knot of the District’s finest just happened to be nearby. I was overpowered and handcuffed, and quickly identified as the vanished scientist who had left mere pieces of a nurse in his room at Walter Reed.
I played along for a while—escape would not be impossible, but rather difficult from a locked cell—and relied on my need for resuscitation to effect my flight. I simply reverted to “hibernation” mode, knowing the fools would rush me to a doctor upon finding me barely exhibiting any signs of life. I awakened to find myself unshackled, in a bed—and yes, there was another lovely, blonde nurse in attendance. This was entirely too perfect. As a final, ironic touch, I brought her not to my lair, but to her own apartment in Prince George’s County. The police found what was left of her there; I had made full use of her stovetop, oven and microwave, and prepared large cuts of meat from her body in all of them simultaneously. Rare, of course; I was in a hurry.
You’ll have to admit, it’s quite a story. You seem rather overcome by it; I have the cure for that. If I may be permitted a small pun, your “time” has come.
II.
Whatever he was now, Marty thought grimly, he wasn’t the dignified, mild-mannered physiological researcher she’d just seen on the TV screen.
He’d left the remains of at least two women in his wake—just the shells of their bodies, really; all the public knew was that the women had been “subjected to extreme violence.” Marty had seen the pictures; she’d been to the crime scene in Prince George’s County. There had hardly been any of the poor woman left.
And she’d examined the evidence at the crime lab. The first victim’s flesh had been ripped away with what were unmistakably teeth. The second had had the muscle sheared from her bones with her own kitchen utensils; human fat was found in still-warm pans. But what had he done with their remains? He couldn’t possibly have carried sixty or seventy pounds of body parts with him, wherever he’d gone.
The media were calling him the “Beltway Butcher,” and already speculating on where he’d strike next. Washington was in a panic; that meant pressure on the Department not just from the Mayor and Council, but from everybody in D.C. from the President on down. And Marty knew what she had to do.
Jaguar came quickly; she knew why she’d been summoned. The black jumpsuit confined her muscular, voluptuous body, head to toe, accentuated her already impressive physique. The powerfully built woman shuddered. “This is the toughest one yet,” Jaguar told Marty. “The terrorists, the assassins, the street gang…we smoked them out and brought them down. There’s something very…disconcerting about a man who vanishes into thin air.”
The police forensics expert nodded. “At first, they’d thought whoever killed the first nurse had simply abducted the Doctor, too,” she said. “I was able to tie the…evidence”—teeth marks—“to him.”
Jaguar thought. “Does he know that? Has the department mentioned your name?” Marty shook her head; Jaguar smiled. “How are you,” she purred, “at being bait?”
It was time; he had to feed. He jogged effortlessly through the streets, zig-zagging around pedestrians who seemed rooted to the ground, past vehicles that to his perception were rolling slowly forward. A bespectacled Asian woman was in front of him, bent over next to a newspaper box; he took in her slim haunches and calves. I can do better, he thought cockily, and his eyes glanced to the top of the paper she had half-pulled from the box.
PATHOLOGIST: I KNOW HOW “BUTCHER” DOES IT.
He almost stopped; passers-by would have seen him solidify for a brief instant before again dissolving into the air. He snatched the paper from the woman, who wouldn’t have a chance to be bewildered until he was blocks away; continued reading the story. “Martha Ann W—” it didn’t have any details beyond that.
What if she did know? He thought about it. How could they stop him? He didn’t know. Could they come up with a way to reverse his gift, slow him down? Daub him with paint? Spray every blur with bullets? Perhaps the time had come to pay this Martha Ann a visit…
He was, he reflected with a grin, perhaps the only murderer in history who could stop by the police station to get an update on his case. He casually brushed aside the nearly motionless receptionist at the front desk—rather thickly built and meaty; she’d rank high on his list if he wasn’t after other game—and quickly looked Miss Martha Ann up in the files. There was her home address; he was starving, but could wait a few hours…
Marty’s freckled face was drawn with fear; she sat in the dark, knowing a diabolical killer may come bursting through her door any minute. On the ceiling, clinging to the light fixture, waited Jaguar. The moment the Mad Doctor set foot in the apartment, she’d be on him; she hadn’t lost a battle yet…
She blinked. Marty was gone.
How? She’d seen nobody; the door hadn’t opened. Except…she trained her infrared sight on the doorknob; the temperature was slightly elevated. Somebody had been in here, so fast she hadn’t seen him!
Jaguar peered out into the night, and picked up the heat trail. There didn’t appear to be a vehicle; the heat of—it seemed like about a dozen humans. Couldn’t be; the Doctor—was he running “hot”?
As she shot through the window and caught the trail—the scent, as well as the heat—Jaguar bounded along the road with the speed of her namesake. The blend of potions from the grateful Animist priestess she’d rescued had given her the strength, speed and senses of the jungle beast; they hadn’t failed her yet. But they hadn’t been tested against a foe she couldn’t see…and despite her furious pace, the trail was getting ever fainter; the Doctor—and Marty—needed to light soon, or Jaguar feared she’d lose them both.
She found herself before a government complex, one curiously silent and ill-lit. A couple of guards were at the gate, but Jaguar could be pretty “undetectable” herself, and vaulted over the barricade. She sniffed, found the trail; turn this way and that, and behind this door…
It was Marty; she was naked, her wrists and ankles tied, her breasts pressed against the floor. Jaguar felt the heat of the kiln before her. “Jag!” Marty screamed. “Behind—!”
The blow sent Jaguar clear across the room, smashing fragile glass with her flailing arms. She tumbled and bounced back onto her feet, looked wildly around; her assailant was nowhere to be found. She keyed in the infrared—there it was, a huge source of heat—
Again, she flew through mid-air, slamming against a wall. She shook her head, then could make out the rapidly advancing source of heat; Jaguar’s reflexes took over, and a savage claw slashed out. A howl of pain, and then—HE—solidified.
No, he wasn’t the mild mannered scientist. His skull had swollen to half again its original size; his mouth was ringed with long, even teeth that came to a point. His physique looked like the Sasquatch on steroids. He panted; his hand came up from his chest wet with blood…he looked up at Jaguar.
“Bitch!” he roared—and then he vanished again. And a half moment later, with a shriek, so did Marty.
Jaguar frantically bounded after them. She’d found the Doc’s hideout because the chase had come to an end, just a few miles from Marty’s apartment; this time, there was no telling where he’d go. She chased, and chased; her lungs burned for air, but they were getting no closer—indeed, the scent and heat pattern grew fainter, and fainter…and then was gone, much as the Doctor himself.
The letter arrived a few days later at the police station, but Jaguar was its intended recipient.
Dear Cat-Woman:
Thanks ever so much for the treat. Your friend was delicious. I roasted her slowly and extensively, so that I would be able to savor every last drop of juice from her flesh.
Any time you want to deliver another prime meal my way…well, you may not know where to find me. But I can certainly find you.
This, thought Jaguar grimly, is not over. Not by any means.