An essay by the Confessor, as provided by James Fadeley
Art by Luke Spooner
For more stories like this, check out Mad Scientist Journal: Winter 2015!
I write these words with total shame, for herein lies the confessions of an arrogant fool. For forty years, I have served the church as a preacher of the faith. And yet I am the greatest of hypocrites. Once a God-doubting man of science, I now lead others on the path of righteousness, as I too hope to be forgiven for the sins I have wrought against heaven and men. Sins far graver than the anguished stories I receive in the confession booths, worse than the unrepentant.
They are sins worse than a single man is often capable of, for I have no accomplices upon which to defer the blame. All that has transpired was wrought by my hand.
I was born in 1903, near Boise City in Cimarron County, Oklahoma. My parents were farmers. Ma was a kindly woman who occasionally repaired clothing for additional income. My father worked part time as a mechanic, and believed in the importance of earnest and hard work, a value he taught through farm labor.
But there were differences between us, my hobbies for one. I loved reading and learning; the discoveries and possibilities waiting to be unlocked enthralled me. Information is power, and I was determined to become quite powerful if only in mind. Pa saw value in what I did and desired an education for me, but he still saw fit to pull me away from the library whenever the harvest seasons came upon us.
Perhaps it was from my reading and scientific pursuits that I could not see eye-to-eye with my father’s Christian values. It was not a point of terrible contention between us, for I reluctantly went to church with him and Ma, always wishing I could be reading. I daydreamed of the works of Mark Twain and Charles Dickens, and I was often drawn to biographic works of great historical leaders. Or even some of the more complicated reads, such as the rediscovered works of an Austrian Friar by the name of Gregor Mendel.
But my church going came to an end in 1917, when Pa was pulled into the war. Ma reluctantly let me remain home, provided I performed necessary tasks and chores. With Pa away, she needed as much help as she could get.
Pa returned from the war in 1918 a proud man, mercifully uninjured, and believing in the future of our country. And like faith rewarded, the following decade was a grand one. The joyous twenties were an exciting period at the close of my childhood and the cusp of coming manhood. Vivacious music and youthful spirit abounded. This Jazz Age was a reprieve earned from the hard times of the Great War. Yet, Pa insisted that I earn my place in this new, victorious America.
My reading had forwarded my studies. By leaps and bounds, my knowledge and understanding of the world grew. My graduation from high school was rewarded not only with a diploma, but also a scholarship to Carnegie Mellon University. My interests veered towards the foundations of creation itself, and within four years I earned a degree in biochemistry, with distinct honors.
By 1926, I was employed by a pharmaceutical company, complete with a research grant, and times were good. Many of my colleagues were turned towards the hedonistic joys of drinking and dancing. Businessmen throughout the country thought to expand man’s capabilities from without, with their radios and refined automobiles. My interests were the opposite, turned towards medicine and new, wondrous drugs. I saved a considerable sum for the next few years, yet still enjoyed the independence my employment afforded me.
My career came to an end through no fault of my own. Despite my promising research, built upon Alexander Fleming’s discovery of penicillin a year earlier, the Great Crash of ’29 destroyed our chances of further funding.
The loss was neither immediate nor dramatic. But the company’s troubles did not disappear. Through the next two years, research and development was cut and cut again. Then the company itself went under, costing me my employment. I turned to my accrued savings account, but fearful mobs made vast withdrawals on the banks in the thirties. My funds were wiped out.
I was ruined.
Bitter and angry, my rancorous emotions fueled distrust for American businessmen and President Herbert Hoover. This hate grew worse as I sought other means of employment. But even the more menial tasks, that men of education would scarcely seek, were denied to me. With no savings, I soon had to relinquish my apartment. Many of my clothes and smaller possessions were exchanged at pawn shops for mere pennies.
I had more than enough revenue for a trip home, although times had made me bitterly frugal. I hid what little money I possessed in my shoe as I took a bus to Oklahoma City. From there, I walked and hitched rides west, back to Boise City.
A kindly man drove me the last five miles, letting me sit in the back of his truck. It felt liberating to feel the wind run over my face, even if it tasted of dirt. When we arrived, I stepped off the vehicle and put a hand on the driver side door to thank the driver. He wished me well and good luck, for harsh times had struck here as well. As he drove off, I took notice of the first sign that trouble had struck my home.
It was the soil. I knelt down and scooped up a handful of the dry, brown dirt and let it trickle through my fingers like sand. The land was hungry and dry, like the people who now inhabited the town. It was neither dark nor nutrient rich as it was in my memories.
As I neared my childhood home, I spotted my father pounding away at a ditch with a pick-ax. When he looked up, he saw a thin, dirtily dressed stranger approaching his home and raised his tool defensively. But as I drew near, he recognized the same eyes and nose as his and smiled. He dropped his tool to embrace me in a strong paternal hug, clutching his rough hands against my back.
“Boy, it is good to have you home,” I remember him saying.
When I left him years ago, he was a strong man sporting a touch of fat. But I felt the hard times through his thinned arms and saw the weariness in his gaunt features.
My mother, thrilled to see me, rushed to prepare a third plate at dinner. There wasn’t much, but after weeks of meager bread and thin soup, that plate with a few slices of ham, an ear of corn and a side of green beans looked like a feast. I wolfed it down with a ravenous appetite I forgot I had.
After dinner, my father broke out a bottle of untouched bourbon he was saving for a rare occasion. He poured two glasses for us, the ice cubes cracking as the liquor coated them, as we sat on the porch beneath the evening stars. Ma, ever the purist, abstained. But she could not chide Pa for celebrating the return of their prodigal son.
I told them the stories I was too proud to tell before, about my savings being wiped and the hardship of losing my job. How I couldn’t find another and had to give up my apartment. Then I told them the other tales, of the bread lines and the begging, about the mobs of people waiting for a single shift at the docks. Even about the misery and unwashed bodies, the children playing with junk instead of toys, wearing rags instead of clean clothes.
Pa told me how things were better here, but not by any wide margin. The farmers in Cimarron County ate better than most, certainly better than the city folk like me. But things were going downhill. The crops just weren’t as bountiful as the previous years and each season it got worse. Some families’ harvests had failed entirely, and the banks had no choice but to repossess their farms. These downtrodden families turned westward, hoping to find a brighter future out towards California.
“Ignorant folk,” Pa explained, raising a hand to the fields, “have been growing the same crops, wheat, year after year. Trying to cash in on the good markets we had for a while. But without rotations, it takes something without giving back. The earth gets weak and cannot nourish the crops. But the money sounded too good for them to pass up.”
“But if you know this Pa, why are your fields just as bad? If you knew this, surely you haven’t been doing the same thing?”
Pa opened his mouth to answer, just as something caught his eye behind my head. He raised his glass, pointing southward, “That’s why.”
I followed his finger. And what I saw took my breath away.
From the south rolled grand clouds of dust towards my family’s farm. The stars were swallowed by the encroaching black blizzard. We stood up to go inside. But before I went in, I gave the weather one last long look.
The darkness of night gave it a sinister aura, the raw stuff of nightmares made real.
Although we had oil lamps and could enjoy a few card games during the night, I was exhausted. My lengthy trip and the day’s events had left me weary and tired.
“You sleep tight son. Tomorrow, we’ll be up, bright and early and by God, we’ll work to turn this thing around,” my Pa said as I turned in for the night.
I said nothing. I had no faith in God before. And as much as I suffered, that wasn’t about to change so readily.
But as I settled down to bed, my mind would not let me rest. I took it all in: the loss of my job and possessions, the threat to my parent’s land, the eroding soil and those bulging, boiling clouds that scattered dust on my bedroom window.
I dwelt on my anger for the banks and businesses who failed us. And on Hoover, who just lost his re-election to Roosevelt. Then my father’s words echoed in my head. And I realized that I wished God were real, just so I could have another antagonist to blame. If God were so grand, why would he let this befall his children?
Hatred bubbled inside me, and I could not sleep.
And then hate dissolved into fear. I had lost my hard-earned securities in the city already. And now even home offered little in the way of comfort to a troubled, down-on-his-luck scientist. I sat up in bed and struck a match, lighting the oil lamp on my night stand. The light danced around my room, until I noticed the worn pages of a book on my dresser.
Examining the book, I chuckled. It was an old library book I had forgotten to return, a rare piece about the works of Gregor Mendel, a friar who we credit as the father of genetic studies. But my smile vanished as a radical notion overtook me. I picked up the old book and lay in bed, perusing the old pages with a gentle hand and a sharp eye.
Inspiration struck; an idea lodged in my head that just would not die.
The next morning, I was up earlier than I had been for years. Farm hours were dependent on the sun, and every moment had to be spent productively. We lost hours culling portions of the corn fields damaged by the dust storm. A loose rock, powered by last night’s gale, had sailed into the living room window. It had not shattered, but the window cracked like a spider web. We had too little money to replace it, so we hammered boards over it.
On one of our trips to town, my father introduced me to James White, the principal of the local high school. My father mentioned he overheard that White was in need of a new science teacher for the coming school year. White was hesitant, stating they were interviewing but had found one potential teacher with good qualifications.
My mind leaped at the mere possibility! My readings of Mendel brought a theory to light, but as I lacked the technical equipment it would require, my regular avenue of research was unavailable. However a high school lab, even with the most basic of equipment, would be more than ideal for my purposes.
Sensing opportunity, I mentioned my willingness to accept such a position for a pittance. White scratched his beard. I could see he was still reluctant, but I knew the school’s budget could scarcely afford anyone demanding more than the meager salary I requested. Returning home, I threw myself into preparation, and was accepted as the chemistry and sciences teacher at the high school.
I made a mental list of the tools I would need. My funding may have been tight, but with a little ingenuity I could craft the equipment myself. Or perhaps borrow what I needed from distant friends fortunate enough to remain employed. I did not relish the thought of stealing what I required, but neither did I discount it.
For the last weeks of the dwindling summer, I balanced my time between work in the fields, gathering tools, foraging supplies, and reading. I gathered from the school library the few books related to Mendel’s work. Then the school year began, and many late nights were spent grading papers and tests, and doing the research for my experiments.
My parents insisted on giving me a small portion of their earnings for my help around the house. They saw the hard work I did and refused my attempts to dissuade them. In truth, I felt guilty because several handfuls of corn went missing by my hand. They would not notice it, but it was stealing all the same. I swore to tell them the truth after my experiments were complete.
My theory was relatively simple. The soil erosion caused Texas, western Oklahoma, and a few other states to become more arid and dry. To survive in such an environment, the crops we grew would have to change as well. In my readings, I had noticed a plant known as the cactus, which thrives in deserts. It was difficult to fathom at the time, but if I could somehow combine the traits of cacti with corn, then perhaps even the desert could be a fertile land.
My work was tedious and hard. And I had almost no background knowledge I could look to for direction. My life then was a mix of teaching, studying, procuring goods, and spending time with my family. A few weekends were lost to the autumn harvest, but I could not ignore the needs of my parents.
A colleague of mine came through on an unlikely promise and mailed me the blueprints for an experimental microscope. The design was made by a Hungarian physicist, yet the actual prototype that proved it worked was constructed by a pair of Germans the previous year. Whatever parts I couldn’t scavenge or make, I stole. What couldn’t be stolen, I purchased. And by late winter, my electron microscope was ready.
At last, my true work began.
Through this wondrous device, I cataloged the genetic structure of the corn kernels, taking note of each sequence. Once seeing the genetic layout of life was impossible, but the microscope changed everything, another reminder that science and engineering were the future of mankind, not prayer and church. Slowly, I engineered techniques that would not be seen by the larger scientific community for decades to come, and at last I began the tenuous process of trial and error.
I removed one gene from the kernel’s embryo, replaced it with one from a cactus plant, and then repeated the process, replacing a different gene with another from the cacti samples.
I groaned. The sheer combinations! The possibilities of unforeseen errors! But with the possibility of saving my family and home before me, I persevered, meticulously recording my efforts and labeling my samples with the utmost care.
My first batch failed entirely. The seeds simply did not take, never sprouting from the soil filled pots I hid in a dilapidated barn. I threw my notebook across the lab in frustration, fighting the tears that stung my eyes.
That was when I came across an article in a scientific journal. It mentioned a theory that radioactivity may have some effect on genetic makeup, due to an observed pattern of increased cancer rates amongst subjects exposed to radiation. Though the thought of working with the material made me queasy, I refused to fail.
I expended the very last of the favors from my friends. It took no small amount of pleading and begging, until at last I got my hands on a very small amount of uranium. This happened just as a team led by a man named Enrico Fermi was reportedly attempting experiments to create beta rays from the element by bombarding it with neutrons, a feat that would be reported in less than two years.
I bathed the seeds in the radiation before attempting my artificial genetic recombination once again. By spring, all of my samples were complete. My exhaustive work sat peacefully within individual trays, each labeled with a code corresponding to the sequences on my charts. It was May, and the dried soil was long free of winter’s chilling grasp. On Memorial Day week, I took my samples to an abandoned farm where I planted and watered them.
Part of me feared that all samples might not survive. Most never grew at all, the genetic combination and radiation rendering the seed impotent. Some shriveled into disappointing, black husks, though whether this was due to the rolling dust storms or genetic incapability, I could not say.
Of the survivors, there were abnormalities. One group had no leaves. Another group budded flowers instead of corn ears. Although interesting and the knowledge useful, I ruled all of these developments a failures ultimately.
My hopes rose when I found a few sample groups of certain combinations not only survived, but also thrived in the sandy soil conditions, with no outlying differences. I cut these down once they reached their height, and discovered that a few of them took to containing water, just as cacti do. Yet, somehow, prickly spines had grown from the ears.
My efforts were ruined, and my heart sank. I spent a year back at the drawing board. Mercifully, science is the art of observation, and my extensive notes I had recorded allowed me to pick up on which combinations to focus on. Come that fall, I began my work again with a focus on the water containing stalks, trying to maintain the ability to retain moisture, but remove the spines.
I tried, again and again. Throughout that next winter, I created artificial conditions inside my lab to gauge the success or failure of the initial budding, which reduced my guesswork considerably. By the next summer, I tried a new batch. And in 1934, the first truly promising crops sprang up. Of the small test group, perhaps half of them showed promise, with no spines in the ears and no obvious physical mutations. The only strange thing I noticed was that fireflies had a strong attraction to the corn, but I ruled that a small issue.
My hopes rose when I found a few sample groups of certain combinations not only survived, but also thrived in the sandy soil conditions, with no outlying differences. I cut these down once they reached their height, and discovered that a few of them took to containing water, just as cacti do. Yet, somehow, prickly spines had grown from the ears.
My final test was a simple tasting of the ears of corn. I bit into the ears, but spat out each bite, unwilling to swallow. The tastes of all but one group were fine. I waited a few days for any ill effects, but none occurred. I had found success.
Throughout the rest of the year and early into the next, I spent my time mass-producing corn using the genetic structure of the successful hybrid samples. What few funds I had earned were diverted to helping my family and an occasional delight, such as music, sweets, or leisurely reading. All the joys that I had deprived myself of over the previous years of the Great Depression came forth again, but I dared not divulge the reason for my celebratory mood. Science would deliver my parent’s salvation come the next fall harvest.
I remained diligent in my efforts; perhaps three hundred modified kernels were created. I decided this was enough. By spring of 1935, I was ready. But a nagging doubt persisted at the back of my mind; perhaps these genetic sequences together could result in an unsuitable product, or worse, a sterile one? If a species could not reproduce, then it was already dead. By the end of that summer, I harvested my corn, enough kernels for two bags of seed.
An ethical question also presented itself to me. Modifying what my father would call “God’s creation” did not disturb me, though it would surely bother the church going citizens of Cimarron County. Nevertheless, I was already guilty of a few acts of lying and petty theft. I could not deny some culpability by any stretch of morality.
No, the true ethical conundrum that demanded an answer was that of human experimentation. I refused to risk my family as fodder for my experiments. And likewise it would bring them shame if they found me dead and discovered my secret work. The possibility mortified me.
The answer presented itself during a Saturday afternoon that November, when my father and I had an encounter with Mister and Missus Stephen Tanner during a run to town. The door of the local pharmacy swung open as we entered. And quite by accident, Mr. Tanner was cuffed in the face.
My father was apologetic and tried to help the man recollect himself. But Mr. Tanner roughly rebuked him, replying with a litany of curses that would make a sailor blush. Pa stormed away, angry at the coarse treatment he received for an honest mistake. As we drove home, Pa spewed Irish memories of the Tanners’ slights against both him and other folks about the county, and their remarkable stinginess when the collection plate passed them at Sunday church.
Best of all, they seemed to have a near hand-to-mouth existence.
I felt reluctance to experiment on unknowing (and unwilling) test subjects. But this uncouth couple I cared about far less than others. And so on Christmas, I visited the Tanners’ farm, carrying a peace offering of two bags of kernels. And greedy folks that they were, they accepted, although it never dawned on them to apologize for their behavior before.
By that summer, the seeds were planted. At night, I crept onto their fields and took notes. I worried a little, for they were easy to spot. The startling health of my creations stood in contrast to the paltry and yellowing rows that were its natural cousins. Nothing was unusual save one minor detail; once again, an abnormally higher number of fireflies seemed to hover near my modified corn, just as before.
Finally, it was harvest season. And I waited impatiently as the Tanners gathered their crops, eager to see the results of my tremendous undertaking. My conscience struggled with me, insisting that should the Tanners become ill or even die that I would be at fault.
But for all my planning, my careful decision making, my unethical choices against such terrible people, I had forgotten. I had forgotten the human factor. My experiment was contingent upon the inherent selfishness of the Tanners to minimize the potential collateral damage.
I did not account for the possibility of kindness.
The Tanners did not keep the grain to themselves as I thought they would. Instead they saw fit to hold a dinner for many of the church-going families. I learned of it on a Saturday, when my Pa came home and insisted I come to church with him and Ma the following day. Apparently, the Tanners were moved by my kind act and wanted to share the blessings of their unusually healthy reaping.
Somehow I managed to hide my rapidly blossoming panic. My father asked if I would come to dinner. “I know you don’t like to go to Church, son, but this wou–”
“Yes! I would love to!” I countered, to my father’s delight.
I had to stop this dinner at any cost.
How could I have been so stupid? My first instinct was to rush out and burn the stored grain. But later that night, another dust storm rolled in from the south. It was particularly fierce, and somehow smashed our living room window despite the boards, finishing what the storm upon my arrival started. As I stared at the glass shards on the carpets, I pondered whether there was a cosmic meaning to these turn of events.
I almost prayed that the storm would continue well into the church hours and cancel the dinner.
Unfortunately, it was gone the next morning. Ma and Pa took the cab of the truck. I sat in the back, my mind racing desperately as the wind whipped across my face. It was not too late. I could sneak into the kitchen during the sermon and destroy the food, then rush back to the Tanners’ farm to burn the rest before they discovered what I had done.
It was a good plan, and likely to work. If only a tire on my father’s truck did not burst.
There was no spare. But we were not far from town. I could scarcely contain my overwhelming anxiety as I ran swiftly towards the chapel, my father screaming for me to wait.
My heart thundered like war drums, while my lungs struggled to pump themselves with fresh oxygen. But when I saw the church, I charged.
Skipping through the entrance, I veered toward the back hall that led to the kitchen and dining hall. I all but ripped the door from the hinges, and paused with a gust of repulsive shock at what I witnessed.
Men, women, and children sat about a long table decorated with a red and white plaid design. Their utensils and plates chattered as they convulsed, while crumbs of the poisonous cornbread danced to the tune set by their trembling limbs. Their eyes rolled back into their head, saliva foaming from their mouths.
Slowly, they rose. Each ripped at their clothes, tearing away their outfits as they neared each other. The sound of their flesh quivering like quaking pudding caused bile to rise in my throat. Their skin seemed to run, becoming like liquid, as they threw themselves together in small groups. And I watched as organs and bones were shifted and shared between multiple people.
My unwitting and unwilling test subjects, discontent with their normal forms, saw fit to alter themselves further with grotesque effect.
One of the newly formed creatures stumbled forth, a mixture of limbs and torsos melded together in some molten, hulking concoction of flesh. A fusion of ribs gave its torso jagged and asymmetrical ripples. One bicep was a powerful cord, like a bridge cable, while the other was three human arms clustered and fused together. Excess bones and swollen veins, thick as plant roots, bulged from quadriceps the size of tree trunks, convulsing with each step the abomination made. My jaw dropped as I saw in its wide face the tortured features of both of the Tanners and our neighbor John Henson amalgamated together.
But it was the wide eyes, as large a man’s palm, that I could not turn away from. They radiated the red glow of light passing through flesh; a bio-luminescence that drew my gaze toward it.
Impossible! My mind spun and desperately tried to guess why. The fireflies! Perhaps they had laid eggs within the corn. Or maybe they had been crushed during harvest; the poisonous compounds of their bio-luminescence had seeped within the grains. Or the low levels of radiation I had used. Or most likely, it was a mixture of these factors coupled with my own tampering against the gene sequences.
A dozen of these Amalgamated nightmares crawled, stomped, or limped towards me. Whatever drove them was not yet used to orchestrating and coordinating the eclectic bodies of its host. I rushed down the hall and pulled the main entrance door shut, before I entered the main altar.
For perhaps the first time in my life I prayed, and there was bitter irony in it; I pleaded to God that the pastor had not yet snuffed out the candles at the altar. I needed to burn down His house before it was too late, and make sure these creatures roasted with it.
I can only assume God was listening, for as I burst into the chapel I found a trio of candles still aflame. My heart raced from a potent combination of fear, adrenaline, and physical exertion. I set to work. I ripped a curtain from the stain glass windows, and carefully plucked the candles from the trident-like candelabra as tall as my chest. I then noticed the unlit lantern laid beside the Bible at the altar. Wrapping the holder with the curtain, I tipped the lantern upon the cloth, caking it in oil. Then, I touched the still lit candles to it, creating a massive torch. Although I did not believe in God growing up, I felt a horrific sense of moral wrongness as I took the weapon back towards the food hall.
The Amalgamated in the hall realized what I was doing. Whether it was a natural instinct or some distant memory in their conjoined mind, they began to back away as I approached with the fire, seeking refuge in the food hall. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, waving it at any of them who dared to venture too close.
Then, I set to work, touching it against the tapestries and wooden furnishings, scorching paint black and darkening wood. Some rushed me and I slammed the flames against their bodies, some change in their chemistry causing them to catch alight rapidly. That was when I heard the crash, and realized that some of their number had thrown themselves against the lone stain glass window at the far end of the hall, escaping.
Realizing I could not let them escape, I sidestepped several of those who smoldered and screamed and charged through the shattered window. The smoked-clogged air turned fresh as a rain of a myriad of colored glass shards fell alongside me. It was a short drop, scarcely five feet, and I was uninjured from it. But shards of glass slipped by, and the grass turned crimson with drops of my spilled blood.
I saw three of the Amalgamated getting away. They did not move at the same speeds; two crawled, but only one ran. I caught up to the slowest, who crawled upon its belly, and ran the monster through the back with my improvised weapon. The flame-ridden cloth fell off as I did, and the creature’s flesh gave away easily enough, and foul smelling fluids squelched against the grass, along with a few chunks that looked like they were once human organs.
As I feared, it did not die readily or easily; although I pierced its heart, two more continued to beat insidiously. Thrice over, I withdrew my candelabra and stabbed down, again and again, until it shuddered and lie still.
I glanced back. The fire had caught up to the Amalgamated inside, ignited them. They moaned with multiple throats, the sound an eerie reverberation, as the fire devoured their bodies and charred their organs.
Content to leave them to die, I chased after the two that escaped.
The slower of the duo turned to face me in the middle of the street. I dashed towards it but caught sight of something in my peripheral vision. I managed to stop just in time.
The incoming car did not.
The Amalgamated crashed backward with a shower of glass from the broken windshield, skidding upon the road. I ran up to it as the driver got out of his vehicle, gaping in awe from both the gore and grotesqueness of the monster. Up close, I knew that its internal organs were pulped by the force of the impact. Still, I stomped down upon the massive forehead of the beast repeatedly, until the misshapen pulp of its brains burst from its cranium.
And its screaming came to an end.
A woman’s terror-filled cry sang in the air. I looked up and saw the final creature grasping her, having doubled back. It shredded her clothing away, lifting the naked woman off her feet. The flesh along the Amalgamated torso sprouted tendrils, reaching outward. And where it touched her, the flesh fused, ran together like melting wax. She was integrated bodily into this collective horror.
I paused as the last Amalgamated began to convulse. Its face split in twain, its legs doubled. Its torso wrenched itself in half, although it leaked no gore throughout the process. Like an amoeba or human cell, it was undertaking a larger organism’s version of mitosis, asexually splitting itself into two.
After seeing this Amalgamated integrate that poor woman, I could not risk the same reckless charge that had slaughtered its brethren. This one, which had the characteristics of the Tanners, seemed better coordinated and well-versed with the functions of its new body.
Instead, I dashed toward the driver, still in shock at the thing I had killed. He had stepped out of his vehicle after striking the previous creature, and did not stop me as I got into his vehicle. Only when I closed the door did he wake up from his reverie and began banging on the driver side window. I ignored him as I put the car into first gear and started.
Time was short. The mitosis process was nearly complete. If I did not strike soon, it would be complete and one of its halves could escape. But if I struck it at too low a speed, it might not be enough force to decisively slay it. I accelerated past the splitting Amalgamated, the car shearing away a few outstretched fingers as it lunged for me.
I shifted to second gear.
I had gone a block and a half, my foot never leaving the accelerator, before I pulled the wheel to the side. The car left the road, whining mechanically as I kicked in the clutch and shifted to third. I saw the Amalgamated through the shattered windshield, despite the rising steam from the engine block.
I shifted to fourth.
There was no time for fifth.
At over forty miles per hour, I rammed into the two, fresh Amalgamated. But in my haste, I had forgotten the simplicity of a safety belt. The force sent my head flying into the wheel, and I blacked out.
I awoke. Blood dripped on my lap, trickling from my jaw line. I had split my brow against the wheel, the car’s horn sounding the same monotonous note. I managed to open the door and stumble from the vehicle, feeling lightheaded.
I made my way to the front of the vehicle to inspect the damage I had done. Two bodies had flown backwards, ruined by the force of the car’s impact. I kept my distance, but I confirmed that the lights had gone out in their eyes. They were dead.
The bodies had to be disposed of. I glanced about, trying to think of how it could be done, when I noticed the owner of the vehicle approaching. He stared at the twin bodies before his vehicle, the shock still worn on his pale face.
“Is there a gas pump nearby?” I asked.
The man looked at me as though I were a Martian.
“Is there a gas station nearby or not?” I tried with a sterner voice. “These bodies must be destroyed for our safety!”
“There’s,” he started, “there’s some kerosene in my trunk.”
I fetched the liquid from the ruined vehicle. There was enough to destroy all the bodies that the church fire had not. The driver did not assist me further, with the exception of giving me a lighter. I told the man to have a seat and get a handle on his condition, and he obeyed as I finished my grim work.
I watched the final body burn, its massive limbs drawn towards it torso as though they shriveled. Its skin turned black and then gray, before flaking into the air. The tongues of purging fire flickered in the air, and my eyes stung as I stared into them.
I disappeared before the police and fire department finally arrived from Boise City. I lost them among the nearby houses, knowing that my story might not be believed. Yet there was still one more task that must be performed.
Not far from the church, I broke into an empty home. My guilt surged again, for I suspected the family was among those who attended service this morning, and whose actions now glided in the air with the church’s bonfire. As I guessed, this family had opted to walk to church instead of drive to save on fuel, and I found a spare car key in their living room.
I drove my pilfered automobile around and away, avoiding the spinning red lights and sirens, and making my way to the Tanners’ farm. I found the remaining tainted grain there, and using the gas canisters intended for their tractor, I created one final fire that engulfed the whole of the barn.
I watched the fires again, reflecting on my poor choices and actions. For a moment, I thought I could see the devil’s face in the fire, laughing and dancing. I swore I saw him jeering me, cruelly mocking me for the nightmarish results of my twisted vision. My sins brought to life. And the aching guilt of knowing it was my fault, entirely my fault.
All of it.
The remaining gas filled my stolen car’s tank. I got in, shifted gears, and drove away from Boise City. Away from Oklahoma. West. Always west.
I watched my parents as best I could from afar. The best I could offer them was a single piece of mail from me that told them how sorry I was. It offered no explanations, no reasoning for what had happened. In the years to come, their land died at the hands of the dust bowl storms. They migrated to California, like so many others; there they died of old age. They never knew what became of their only son.
In that time, I had become a preacher. I dedicated myself to the Good Book, studying it and passing my knowledge on. All the while I was a sinner beyond equal or compare. Years turned into decades as I escaped my guilt into the pages of the Bible and the bottom of the bottle.
I kept my ear to the ground for any news or breakthroughs within the scientific journals in the field of genetics. Now, in this year of 1973, various institutes threaten to make the same mistakes I did. They too, tamper with the genetic strains, the living scripture of God’s work. But I am an old man, and too damned to speak of my own horrid experiences and warn others of the future of genetic engineering.
What could I tell them? That I was responsible for a myriad of deaths and arson near Boise City, Oklahoma, in the thirties? What good would it do? My tale would fall on deaf ears. Even preaching the word grows harder with every generation, for the young snicker and laugh at my sermons.
A part of me waits for the coming day of my death. I am well into my seventies, an old man who has lived longer than he deserved. And when I die, I would go on to be rightly judged. But on this plane, we leave nothing of our time here but our sins.
Sins and dust.
“The Confessor” was born in 1903 near Boise City, Oklahoma. He attended Carnegie Mellon University for biochemistry, before working for the Emmerich and Johnson Research Firm, who went bankrupt in the 1930s. The Confessor then returned to Oklahoma to work as a teacher. He disappeared following a church fire in 1935 in his hometown, where a few dozen people died under strange circumstances. However, a letter delivered to Carnegie Mellon in 1973 interested the FBI. They traced it to Father Austin Harold (suspected an alias) of Kentucky, who had passed away following liver complications. The 1935 arson remains, officially, unsolved.
James Fadeley is a short story author/skjald and crazy software engineer living in Bethesda, MD. He writes horror, fantasy, sci-fi, crime, and psychology and historical fiction, and frequently blends these genres together. Always busy with one mad scheme or another, it was either going to be writing or world domination. If spotted, approach cautiously and offer a drink. His biography can be viewed at http://he2etic.wordpress.com/bio-bibliography/.
Luke Spooner a.k.a. ‘Carrion House’ currently lives and works in the South of England. Having recently graduated from the University of Portsmouth with a first class degree he is now a full time illustrator for just about any project that piques his interest. Despite regular forays into children’s books and fairy tales his true love lies in anything macabre, melancholy or dark in nature and essence. He believes that the job of putting someone else’s words into a visual form, to accompany and support their text, is a massive responsibility as well as being something he truly treasures. You can visit his web site at www.carrionhouse.com.