Monster 2: Resurrection

::Looks at reviews:: Hahaha man, you guys are crazy! Well, I suppose this is expected so I'll just come out with it. Lola, you're kind of a bitch! Haha, but it's ok. ::scratches head:: I'm not real sure where to begin here. First off, I really don't see how that was quite necessary seens how you have no stories of your own and seem to have quite the amount of misplaced hostility with regards to me. I don't know if I so much use large words to "make myself seem smarter", as you seem to be convinced, so much as I speak with them in real life and I enjoy variety. Can't all use "She ran fast. He ran faster." pop-up speak like some of the kiddies. And as far as "using big words unnecessarily" goes, uhh, have you READ your review? hahahaha You're crazy!

Uhhh let's see here. Man, I am so mentally exhausted. ::focuses eyes:: As far as spelling.. ::rolls eyes:: that is so tired. Man, it's FANFICTION. I've never pretended to be much with spelling. For one, I only have WordPad, which doesn't even have a spellcheck, and the one I use online doesn't always catch other things. But I do appreciate your letting me know which ones were going wrong. I didn't know most of those though "semen" hahaha, that cracks me up. I know, I was actually looking at it the other day and thought, "you know... I don't think that's right." Although, to be honest, I have no intention whatsoever of going back and fixing anything. It's just too much work and if I were writing a novel, yeah, I would, but seens how this is just an online story, I really don't see much point.

::grins:: Ohhhh come on now girl, you know I'm good! haha, for all your upset right now (I'm just going to guess you're probably mad at something else and for whatever reason directing all that against me.. meh, it's ok though) you've read Fathoming Love, Monster and now Monster Resurrection. ::smiles:: ::pokes you:: Come on. .::poke poke:: hahaha come on now! You wouldn't go through all that trouble if you didn't like my stories, so take a midol, sleep on it, and I promise things will be better tomorrow. Poor thing, sheesh!

But you were really helpful with the spelling thing so I will try to keep an eye out for those ones, though much of the story is already written and I don't feel like going through every chapter over again. Oh uhh, what else did you touch on? Ohh! Religion. Ummm well, I guess I always try to more or less write what I think about and kind of make things my own. It's really no secret that I more or less just use fanfiction as practice for when I want to write something original. Being raised in a somewhat cultish religion and then growing up and having to break free of that against my family's wishes and all that jazz, I guess religion is just something I feel slightly embittered towards. Or maybe, I think on it a lot because it seems to be such a basis for SO much in people's lives yet throughout history seems to be on a very useless pattern. So I probably write it a lot because it's something I find interesting. Plus, I see writing as a means for speaking through our characters what WE often feel; our own opinions ya know?

And the institution parts? Well! hahaha, I like to be able to relate to my characters so when they lose their damn minds, I feel we're on the same level! BrucesGirl and Kat, you girls are so sweet. ::Hugs all around:: I don't know what I'd do without your insight into the chapters and all the support you give. It really inspires me, so thank you so much!

Other than that! hahaha, enjoy the next chapter guys!


Camaro


"So you really think he's back," The black eyebrow raised. "That all this is his doing?"

I turned to look at Yamcha, my face a complete mask from the excitement I was terrified he would realize I was feeling. We stood amongst the remains of a church, recently demolished, imploded from within by its members, reports of high-pitched screams converting into deranged laughter only seconds later. There were no real witnesses, only members of the town insisting that they had heard the wails from within, like people trying desperately to escape through windows and then the sound of deep, deep laughter that apparently accompanied the very sick workings that occurred from inside.

I walked among the soot and ashes, my black pantlegs stained with gray and white, glancing at the wreckage that was once a place of worship. Without my consent the bodies had been taken from the scene (or what remained of bodies from the look of it) and rushed off to coroners for autopsies. I knew already, despite the fact, exactly what they would say: inconclusive, exterior trauma, etc, etc.

I will say though, I was almost thankful for it, gazing around dismally at the scene, at the bloodied, circular stains of fingerprints on widow glass, at pieces of skin still wiggling in the wind, dangling from the walls where brains were liquefied from force. Jagged, torn strips of flesh blew like pieces of forgotten confetti at a child's birthday party, so at home in the mass horror of their surroundings, drifting this way and that as though they had every right to do so, no contrast with the world they inhabited.

Yet despite such, the stench alone made me wince and I walked among the pues, tracing my fingers over ash and dirt. Through the maddening silence, the click of my expensive shoes made me smile strangely, wondering how many italian imports had clacked so casually through the suburban establishment, oblivious to the chaos that had smirked so wickedly from the exterior of the walls, knocking, waiting, wondering when it would be let in and wreak terrors on the unsuspecting.

"When do you think the fire started?" Yamcha asked suddenly, standing behind me.

"I don't know," I shook my head, my mouth tight as I gazed at what appeared to be hair and fingernails somehow embedded in the walls. "Look here."

I pointed upwards, Yamcha following my gaze, as we both gawked, staring at claw-marks on the ceiling.

"Now how do you suppose those got there?" I asked nonchalantly, scolding myself for the fact as I levitated myself upwards to trace the strange markings. They were so deep, so fine it was hard to believe that human nails could embed themselves so thickly without the bones breaking from the force it would take. "You think they stacked chairs to get up that high, only to start a fire and burn themselves afterwards?"

Yamcha looked at me with a sideways glance, confirming how stupid the idea was. I wondered idly if my casual exaggerations unnerved him, the person who I had become so quickly overlapping and dismissing the person I had seemingly been five years ago.

"They crawled," he said simply, though logically it was on the same wavelength as the chair stacking theory. Still, in a world that had seen the impossible become possible enough times, neither of us doubted it.

Nodding, I gazed around still, looking for any evidence to how this started, to any confirmation of my fears. Movement caught my eye and before I could stop him, Yamcha fired at the offending creatures, blowing the rat into a tiny pile of flame. I scowled, about to scold him for such a useless action when I shut my mouth, moving very slowly towards the burning rodent.

"Goku I-"

"Shhh!" I cut him off, signaling with my hand for him to stay back as I crouched forward, glancing from the smoking corpse to the wall, back again, my long lashes clashing together as I repeated the motion instantaneously. Yes. Indeed. Something wasn't right here.

My eyebrows clenched together as I reached forward, rubbing my hand across the surface of the wall, covering the soft pads of my fingers in blood, feces, ash and dirt.

"Oh Christ Goku," Yamcha spat, making a sour face as I rubbed both of my hands over the gore and filth. "That's disgusting."

"Shhhh..." I said, calmer this time as I stepped back, looking forward. I glanced once more down at the rat, igniting a flame in the palm of my hand to reveal the surface of the wall, to reveal what all the smoke stains and ashes and blood and brains and guts had covered only a moment before.

I heard Yamcha catch his breath in a gasp, staring with me as he stood by my side, only a little closer than heterosexual comfort zones would have accepted. We both just gawked at it, bible scrawl written in old hebrew and with blood, all across the walls.

"What does it mean?"

"Oh like I know," I rolled my eyes, squinting to make out anything that might be familiar. I had since done my slight share of studying with regards the Hebrew language and the old versions of bible text, but to read the entire wall? Yeah. Right. "Wait," I squinted harder, igniting the small flame in the palm of my hand a little more, revealing one line (or honestly, only a few words) that I realized very quickly that I did recognize. I stared at it for a moment, wanting to confirm yet deny what I could decipher it said or more or less, what the few words and phrases I did recognize, created.

"What? What is it?" Yamcha came over my shoulder, the heat from his breath upon the back of my neck. "What does it say? Goku!"

The saliva swallowed by my esophagus left my mouth dry and I shook my head, wanting to will away this revelation.

"Keep your senses," I read, moving my hand along the words to illuminate them. "be watchful. For your adversary, the Devil, walks about like a roaring lion," I paused, looking at Yamcha seriously, seeing the flames dance upon the skin of my hand, revealing words I didn't want to say aloud. "seeking to...."

I looked away, the fleshy parts of my bottom lip turning pale as I slip my top row of teeth over them. Yamcha's imploring black eyes goaded me unforgivably onwards and I knew, despite my reluctance to do so, I would finish.

"Seeking..." I swallowed once more, though how I managed the saliva enough to function such was absolutely beyond me. "Seeking to devour someone."

I stood up straight, perishing the flame and scuffing my hands over my pantlegs.

"Let's get out of this fucking graveyard," I said sternly, hiding the trembling in my fingers as I punched them into my pockets.

We left the ruined church, the sun seeming higher in the shadowing sky now that we had escaped the damp, blood drenched darkness of the temple. I threw awkward glances upwards, watching the gray, blue strands of color overcome the yellow of the sunset, Yamcha struggling to keep up with me, all the while throwing back quick glances of his own at the church, as if any moment its victims would crawl from the depths of its window and come for us. His fear humored, yet relieved me, as though such illogical actions seemed out of place but all the same welcome in a time that had no use for standard emotional reactions.

"But what does it mean Goku," He asked me finally, in his mind a safe distance from the church. "Why do you think it's significant?"

"Because," I said somewhat coldly. "If it means what I think it means, than he's trying to tell me something. He's trying to make me see, or more, to show me that things are different this time around."

"How do you know that?"

"Simple," I swallowed, marching even faster now, begging to be away from the ruins, from the horrors of what had happened there. "Before, he couldn't let any bible scriptures touch him without his skin catching fire. Now?" I paused, tightening my jaw. "He writes it."

"But you don't know it's him," Yamcha reasoned with me, grabbing my arm to slow me down to a comfortable speed. I stared an unconventional amount of time at his fingers, at the warmth of his human flesh wrapped around own, the skin that somehow resembled the person I knew I shouldn't be imagining it resembled at all. "You hear what Bulma says. We don't know what kind of repercussions we're going to get. Ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred years from now, shit's still going to be unexplainable, still unpredictable. You don't know he's back Goku."

I rolled my eyes, yanking away from him despite the fact that my body and my chemical reactions to him willed me to lean closer.

"Or maybe that's just it," He said, stopping in his tracks and regarding me with something akin to anger, seemingly having read my mind. "Maybe you just want him to be."

I grabbed him by the collar, slamming him into a tree as the breath heatedly entered and left my lungs, my eyes ablaze between my lids as I glared at him. Was I mad at myself? Was I mad that I wanted to be pressing against him now, as I furiously held him at arm's reach, pushed against the bow of a large tree? Or was the real problem, that I was mad at myself for admitting the fact?

"Don't fucking think you know the first thing about me Yamcha," I snarled, trying to calm myself as his face twisted in fear. "And ESPECIALLY don't fucking think you know the first thing about me and him. You wouldn't understand. Do you get that? You wouldn't, ok? So just shut the hell up."

"I could understand," he held my fists, probably grateful that they didn't hinder his air intake, yet trying to yank away from me. "If you would just tell me."

"Tell you WHAT?!" I sighed in exasperation, dropping him to the ground. "I've told you everything Yamcha. I tell you every THING every FUCKING time you ask it of me and STILL you percieve it to be more than what it was. I FUCKED him Yamcha," I turned, throwing my arms out in frustration. "I fucked the devil. You know it," I turned to him, my eyes probably still crazy with my madness. "I've said it. I've told you it, I've admitted it, I've probably bragged and bawled and shamed myself saying it. What more? What more do you want?!"

He gazed up at me, his hand planted in the grass as he smiled faintly, unafraid by my reaction.

"I want you to tell me what it was like," He whispered in a dark, cruel voice, glancing around the forest to confirm that we were alone for him to voice his questions. "I want you to tell me what every second felt like, as though I'm there, as though I can relive it with you."

"The gory, deranged details," I snarled in my own whisper, turning from him to hide the eerie smile that for no real reason absorbed my features. "The fascination with the perverse. And here Yamcha, I had placed your fantasies above the social hiccups of the rest of your species." I turned to him, trying to hide the wicked smile with the shadows that crept over us from the trees. "Really. Silly of me."

"I just want to understand," He insisted, raising his eyebrow in a challenge.

"You wouldn't understand even if you had taken every step I had," I sighed, willing myself away from this uncharacteristic behavior. "You wouldn't understand even if you had bent to his will yourself, fallen to your knees as I had. God knows I don't."

I looked at him, crouched on the ground as he gazed up at me in a slight wonderment that he probably had no idea adorned his features, the soulless shit in me admiring the simple beauty he held. Human flesh covered distinct features, seemingly flawed though that much more attractive to me in the simple way that despite his own origins and the incomparable strength I reigned over him, no flesh, no gender, no species had ever kept him from becoming a hundred times that of his race. Every angle of his body pleaded with me, asked me to near his prone figure, to take his lips inside my mouth and show him only a tiny fraction of what Vegeta had shown me.

I let the crude grin exasperate the soul inside me, creeping over prone features as I imagined what it would be like, to be the dominate role, to slide on all fours over his lithe body. I imagined the hard press of his chest against my own, as he pathetically fought what he had been even more pathetically trying to accomplish, my arms moving the rest of me upwards as I leaned my lower half between his legs. I even imagined exactly what facial features would contort, what look would cover his mouth and eyes with what I figured would be false surprise, false confusion as I did precisely what he had wanted, hell, what he'd probably fantasied I would do.

For a moment, I even wondered what his cock would taste like, salty and rock hard as it banged against my tonsils, sliding over the semi-rough surface of my tongue.

I turned away as quickly as I digested the idea, blinking hard to will away the stupidity of such actions.

As if he had read my mind, he sighed, climbing to his feet as he followed me, on a useless trot to no where.

"So why churches?" He asked. "Why are you so convinced it's him? Why would is the fact that a church, or... several churches being attacked the first so-called indication that he's here?"

"Because," I shrugged, gritting my teeth when I suddenly imagined stretching both of his ass cheeks apart before plunging my erect cock between them. "It's what I would do if I were him."

He gave me a strange glance, his tongue going inside his right cheek. I suddenly wondered how far my own tongue could reach up inside him before I felt my fingernails dig inside my fist, threatening to draw blood if I didn't stop these stupid fantasies.

"Why?" He pushed. "Why is it always about religions? About these establishments?"

"Because," I sighed. "It's always been about them. About God. About the one insult to his existence. He was born beautiful, so-considered perfect. But he wasn't, or more, in his perfection, he was claimed IMperfect. Thus spawned arrogance, conceit, pride. All insults to his existence. So rather than fight them, he used them, letting them backfire on all that claimed that such were proof of his unworthiness of God. So there became the real choice. Some sided with him, other sided with God. Those siding with God, took on the idea of religion, of devoting entire lifetimes to one idea, one bases of truth. Satan never really asked such of his followers, only defining his way of life with that which was contradictory towards those that followed God.

"Christianity was really one of the first that truly distinguished between the two, very arrogantly defining right from wrong, however often incorrect they were. Incorrect or not, belief and devotion were the ultimate slaps to the devil and when humans began to create words BASED on that devotion and faith and create buildings BASED on that devotion and faith, they were the only real weapon against him.

"Now? He's telling them and me one thing: they aren't a weapon anymore and now? He's slapping back."




..............................

Later on, as I sat upon the highest reaches of my quarters, above the comfy rooms and windows and doors, perched like a stony, unmoving gargoyle upon my roof, I thought about the negative things I'd said about religion. As I smoked cigarettes that reminded me of him, I realized that yes, it was true, what I'd said, everything about the pessimistic ideals I'd always self-stressed about the whole idea of spirituality, about my own complete inability to relate to blind faith rang true. Yet I also understood, in all that, that the idea of reliance on science was possibly even more pathetic.

It seemed to me, in those moments, as lightening cracked the black clouds, that those that relied so much on science in some ways, fell into categories themselves. Those that had seen enough of blind faith to weild them away from any belief at all, and those that hadn't experienced enough in the way of humanity to ever search outside comfortable stereotypes that science textbooks provided them. I thought for a moment that the latter was probably the more pitiable of the two, people comfy in their own stupidity, searching for the most convenient way to possibly make themselves appear more intelligent, more logical in the world.

Sitting behind homes, behind 'cultured' lifestyles and placing each individual in generalizations based on psychology, yet never actually going into the real world, meeting anyone from these so-called cultures, yet feeling somehow scientifically free to stereotype them.

And then I realized, that though blind faith could sometimes lead to enormous letdown, that science, in its own way and possibly logic itself, often left its followers to either sit behind and cower in their own "faith" and never really experience anything or anyone at all, or that in other cases, could disappoint when all stereotypes, when all generalizations, when "so-established" beliefs were inevitably proven false.

And then it dawned on me that both science and logic, and religious beliefs, in themselves, where ultimately, crippling blind faiths when you came down to it.


...........................................


I cashed out my cigarette, probably earlier than normal, tired with the whole process of poisoning myself. I walked through the main base of capsule corp, insomnia from the storm (as I liked to blame it when on a normal basis, I was lucky to catch 3 hours without a scapegoat as to why I couldn't endure more) keeping me secluded to the hospital-like fluorescent hallways.

A sniffing noise caught my attention, my ears perking as I realized where I was, who's vicinity I was reaching while thunder boomed like clanking garbage cans outside. The sound of whimpering only escalated as I neared the boy’s room, creaking open the door and wandering inside. It was dismally cold inside, the window wide open and the shutters quaking with the violent movement of the wind. I moved to close it, nearly tripping over the mounds of toys scattered and thrown about on the floor.

Damn kid. Bulma would never make him clean them up.

The curtains flew in my face as I tried to move them, reaching up through the shutters to pull the window closed. Rain poured down outside and the bushes and trees were thrown back and forth. A horrible evening to be certain and we were receiving more and more of them these days. Lightening flashed and I saw him behind me suddenly, Trunks curled into a tiny ball in the corner of his room. We were suddenly in utter darkness, the whiteness from the hallways entirely gone.

I shut the window quickly, moving over towards the light fixture and flipping it to no avail.

“The power must be out,” I said soothingly, hearing his whimpers. “That’s all Trunks. It’s just the power out, don’t be afraid.”

I moved towards him, seeing the outline of his tiny shoulders shaking.

“Are you scared Trunks? Is that it?” I asked.

He glanced over towards me, the whites of his eyes bright and haunting when the lightening struck outside. He shook his head no, pulling his knees tighter to his chest.

I sighed, maneuvering my way over his toys and pulling him into my lap. Caressing his hair, I held him to me, feeling the jerks of his body when he sobbed. I found that as much as I didn’t understand myself, (or anything else for that matter) this kid was by far the biggest mystery to me. I couldn’t help glancing at his toys, sadistically distorted and mutilated. Heads of Barbie Dolls (God knows where he got them) placed on horrific machine creatures. Legs and arms of G.I. Joes bent in strange, inhumane angles or torn off entirely. The head of a porcelain doll was placed above his head board, the eyes punched in and replaced with the bulbs commonly found in flashlights; a twisted night light to be sure.

He continued to sob against me, the more I was beginning to loathe being this close to him. And I did. I abhorred being alone with him, his childlike façade not exactly payment enough for the consistent torment he put me through. Oh, certainly, you could be easily fooled by his large, innocent eyes, the tone of his voice and the undeniably adorable things he did. But inside, if you looked close enough into those eyes, you would see an emptiness that constantly rattled me. He was one big doll. An interpretation of life.

“Trunks,” I sighed once more, pulling him back to look at him. “Why are you crying? I’m here now, see?”

“Yes!” He all but screamed right into my face, forcing me to hold him at arm’s length. “You’re back! You’re here! But you aren’t supposed to be!”

He broke down again, collapsing to his knees and banging his fists into the carpet.

“Don’t you know? You aren’t SUPPOSED to be here! It’s all wrong! You’re NOT him!”

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to calm down.

“I’m not who, Trunks?” I demanded.

“You’re NOT him!”

His tiny finger suddenly pointed at the wall, a streak of lightening crashing only perhaps a mile from the house as I gasped. Along the wall, about 6 and a half feet high was the outline of a man, drawn with a broken black crayon and filled in until it looked like an enormous shadow. Vegeta. How could I have missed it before!?

“Trunks, why would you draw that? It’s horrifying.” I spat, not allowing his tears to stunt my anger this time. How could he be doing this? Extracting visions from the past?

“Did you hear me?!” I grabbed his arm, staring into his face. “I said, why would you draw that?!”

“And why shouldn’t I?!” He screamed, yanking his arm back. His voice had changed dramatically, his eyes and face aged. “Because you don’t want me to? Because mom doesn’t want me to? Look!”

I was silent as he grabbed my chin, forcing me to stare at that hideous thing. What was supposedly a child of merely 5 years old, now seemed a young adult, eyes blazing behind cherubic cheeks.

“Look!” He demanded. “There is NO face! He has no face!”

I nodded, unable to contain my shock at his demeanor. He looked at me with almost pity, turning away in frustration.

“He should have a face!” He pouted, sitting down on the carpet and resuming his childlike charade. “He doesn’t have a face because I can’t remember it. It should be so beautiful but I can’t remember it.”

He buried his face in his hands, beginning to bawl once again.

“I can’t remember,” he sobbed. “I can’t remember.”

I moved slightly towards him, afraid to touch his shoulders for fear he return to his uncontrollable, unpredictable nature.

“Kiddo,” I whispered. “you can’t remember because he never existed. He’s just a person from your dreams probably.”

“No.” he seethed, head down low. “He’s a man from YOUR dreams.”

.........................................

“You have news then?” I said excitedly, lifting my feet off the desk and lowering them to the ground. He looked exhausted, sweat beading on his forehead and a more than nervous look captivating his eyes. “Please have a seat.” I suggested.

“I… I’d rather not if I could Mr. Goku,” he swallowed, voice jittery and uneven.

“Whatever you want. What have you got for me?”

He took out a piece of crumpled paper, fresh from the butt pocket of his pants and stained with unrecognizable filth.

“I used whatever information I could to locate the area where the body was last scene, locating coronaries and funeral services galore. Within the 6 state radius I searched for an unnamed, unclaimed body of a young man, but no such luck. I was about to give up all hope when by chance, I stopped at a more local coronary office, contacting the manager of services directly.

“At first, he seemed jittery as a june bug, insisting he’d never seen a body no one had claimed, in the sort of shape you described it might have been in. Said it was a lost cause to be searchin’ for something no body seemed to miss at tall’. I partly agreed, hanging up when I figured there wasn’t much else to be gained. Not even a half hour later, same fellow calls me up from a different phone line, telling me all sorts o’ strange happenins he dun’ witnessed after that whole “Sin” mess.

“Says the cops had come around looking for some sort of body, which just happened to be the same one he’d had hauled in all the way from what he figured was Italy or somethin’. Says it was real messy thing too, an unusually handsome young thing lookin’ like it’d been caught in some kind of machinery. Told me as soon as the investigators had seen it, they whisked him off to the side lines, makin’ him sign all sorts of papers, makin it so’s he wasn’t even allowed to claim any sort of acknowledgment on the subject.

“He gave me the name of the agency, which wasn’t too hard to find seens how I luckily have a few friends here and there that just happened to belong to it. A real “government conspiracy” type of establishment, out in the middle of some valley people don’t know about. This is the information they gave me, a journal dating back five years.”

He handed over the stack of paper, my eyes quickly scanning the information handy.

“Subject 2257:

Only piece of identification what seems to be
a fictitious driver’s license under the name Vegeta Briefs.
Body has been dead a total of 72 hours; coincidentally
the same amount that Sin has quieted.
Extreme lacerations along the neck and shoulders,
A large hole protruding through the chest from direct
impact through the back. Unusual tattooing in
the form of burns most laced half an inch into the skin
in the form of greek scrawl.

All vital signs point to death.”

“If everything pointed towards the body being dead, why would they keep records of it for five years?!” I groaned.

“That’s just what I was wondering. Read on.”

I let my eyes scan to the next year.

“Year two of the subject’s incarceration and still
the body exhibits no signs of life. Further testing has
shown a multitude of cerebellum waves, stimulating the
continuation of brain activity. A scientific wonder. A
biblical miracle. The brain has no means to sustain it
and yet continues on as if actual thought process could be
being maintained at a frequency human kind has yet to
discover. With no blood circulation, how can the brain
be living of its own accord? No further investigation
has been deemed necessary, though we have been warned
to keep a closer eye on any possible changes here on out.”

I shook my head.

“So this means that the body was dead but the brain kept working? Like, thinking?”

“Well, I’m no scientist,” he swallowed. “But from what I read seems they kept him under close surveillance at all times. A dead man being a guinea pig for the thrill of some sort of secret agency! Seems ridiculous that our tax dollars go to that sort of thing.”

I shook my head, turning through the pages and going to the third year of the body’s incarceration.

“Subject 2257:

Referred to now as “miracle” the body has begun
to move of its own accord. Starting with slight jerks
of the fingertips, the movement has now progressed to
the occasional fist or loose hand. But despite all this
and the brain activity that could now equal that of an
unborn child in the later stages of pregnancy, the body
has greatly decayed despite all efforts to sustain it.

Desperate to preserve the body, it has remained in a
controlled cool temperature, packed with amounts of
dried ice to cut down on any decay or rot.

The body’s progression has continued to amaze and
horrify us, security and surveillance at an all time high.”

“They seem,” I spoke slowly. “They seem genuinely frightened of it. As if…” I paused. “Almost as if they began to see life in it. Not just nerves or chemical reactions in the body, but actual signs of life.”

I switched through page after page of the same thing, dull remarks on progress and strict choices by those forced to watch over it.

“Wait,” I said, running out of pages. “Wait, where’s the rest? Where is year four?”

A stricken look crossed his face, before he reached into his pocket, revealing an old, battered tape recorder.

“All knowledge of year four disappeared, just like it’d never been there in the first place.” He sighed. “But for what it cost me, I managed to get ahold of this.”

“A tape recorder?”

“THE tape recorder.” He insisted, nearly pushing it into my face. “The last piece of evidence that YOUR guy ever existed and the last way to discover what exactly went on in that place.”

He pressed play, static blaring out as he adjusted the volume, laying the plastic object on the desk.

“Subject 2257,” came a boring voice. “Doctor Palmer, preparing to sterilize all tools before proceeding. Subject has been cleared for investigation due to abnormal brain activity and most recently,” the sound of a page turning was heard followed by a brief pause. “…… a regulated heart beat.”

The last words were announced with a new tone of voice, the doctor’s throat tightening around them. A steady beeping was heard in the back ground, the constant sound of a heart monitor measuring beats.

“Here with me is doctor Jason Paige,” swallowed the doctor, moving a sheet in the background.

“JESUS!” Came a gasp of air, the sound of footsteps moving away from what I figured was the body. A disgusted “Uh!” was heard as the men came forward towards the autopsy table.

“How could this…. Thing still be alive? There’s nothing left.” Came the other’s mans voice, Jason, choked with nausea.

“Studies show there’s brain activity.” Answered the doctor in charge. “Something about this guy just doesn’t want to go yet.”

“Shut the curtain. This thing gives me the creeps.” Retorted Jason, soon followed by the sound of plastic hooks moving across a metal bar. “Something about that face! It’s just too……. perfect or something. What did you say his name was?”

“According to the chart, the only piece of identity we could find was this.”

“His name is…..” There came a haunting pause and I found myself holding in a gasp of air.

“Vegeta.”

There was a silence for a moment, and I glanced up to see Travis holding his hat underneath his chin, eyes the size of saucers as he made the sign of a crucifix.

“Holy SHIT!” Came the startling cry of the younger doctor. “Did you see that!?”

“What?” came the crackling voice of Doctor Palmer.

“His fucking hand moved,” came the shivering voice. “I swear to FUCKING God that thing just moved!”

“What are you talking about,” huffed the other, moving around. “get out of the way, let me see this.”

I moved my hand towards the “stop” button, swallowing the lump in my throat. God, let this be some sort of joke. Don’t let him be alive. There was just no fucking way. But then, why was I so excited?

“God in heaven,” breathed the quivering voice of Doctor Palmer. “God save our souls, it’s alive!”

Screams came screeching from the tape recorder, scratchy at the high level and chilling me to the bones. I listened, my stomach doing flips as I heard the unmistakable sound of flesh being torn in half, blood gushing in a great spill to the floor. Sick choking noises and gurgling sounds commenced and Travis soon began to shout for me to turn it off, fumbling with the device desperately.

It was flung to the table top, the screams accompanied by a possessed mixture of deep voices speaking in tongues. I listened to the nonsense, my fear growing as I realized the voices were beginning to sort themselves out into one commenced voice. And THAT voice, I recognized.

Sparks flew out of the tape recorder and with one great spark, burning plastic pieces and metal were shooting out all over the counter. It was busted.

“That voice,” I stammered, half standing up and pointing at the fried device. “What did it say? I-I swear I know that voice!”

“Well I don’t suppose we’ll ever know now,” Travis replied in a shaky voice. “looks like the tapes fried too.”

“N-no!” I stuttered. “I don’t think you understand that voice, it was…..” I looked up at him accusingly. “What happened to those doctors? What did they find?”

“Look Mr. Goku,” He raised his hands up, looking down. “I know you wanted a thorough investigation but I just don’t think it’s necessary to-..”

“WHAT happened to the Doctors?” I repeated slowly.

“They were slaughtered,” He choked out, wiping his forehead. “Apparently no one had ever seen anything quite like it. Blood….”

He looked away.

“What,” I coached him onwards. “What was with the blood?”

“God,” He breathed. “It was fucking written all over the walls. All kindsa’ bible scriptures and what not. Written in blood. And the bodies….”

He shook his head, holding his hand up before I could push him onwards.

“They were… pinned up against the walls, all kinds of medical scalpels and what not shoved right through them. They’d still been alive when…..”

He paused.

“When what? Come on.”

“When they’d been crucified.” He spat.