McHumans *A story Excerpt* Part 2

If you missed the first one, you can check out the first thousand words of the new Lovecraftian Bizarro tale I'm writing for an upcoming anthology through StrangeHouse Books Right Here

I don't know how many of these I'll do, or if I'll post the whole story here on my blog before it comes out in the antho. I guess that's entirely up to you guys. Do you want to see more? Here's part 2:



The killing room always stinks, no matter how thoroughly we scrub it. There's just a permanent stench attached to it, like a slaughterhouse splashed with copious helpings of guilt and fear. Terror echos off the walls. Or maybe it's just the shit smell that never quite goes away. Everyone shits when they die, and our drain sucks.

The room's too small for all of us to fit, so Chef, Ty and Karen stand just outside the door. Boss Crab looks like he just saw an elephant climb into its own asshole. Sam is on the floor, totally confused. Hovering over him is Boss Crab's right hand man. His “muscle” as he likes to call him. The thing—if it is even a “him”—is called Torgen-something-something-something. We just call him Fishbowl. Boss Crab breathes air, so he's fine running around inside McHumans screaming at us and whatnot. But some of the horrid beasts, like Fishbowl, are strictly water dwellers.

We don't even know what the hell Fishbowl IS. He's all stuffed inside this black suit that looks sort of like one of those deep sea diver contraptions. The body of the suit is always damp and sweaty. It's one big piece with connecting gloves and boots wrapped in rusted chains and covered in rotted seaweed. It even has a diver's helmet on top. Only this helmet is more like a fish bowl. That's why we call him that. Anyway, his helmet-thing, it's completely full of water. Black, fetid water. Vague, horrid shapes swim around in that murky gunk. I can't stare at it too long or I start to think I can see faces forming in the swirling darkness. Creepy shit.

So Fishbowl's got a hold of Sam by the shoulders and Sam's crying cause he knows he's about to die when Boss Crab starts swinging around this fire-ax with his little shriveled hand, yelling in his crab language. Once he sees we're utterly clueless as to what's going on, he switches to English. I hate when he does that. If you've never heard a crab imitate human speech, trust me, you don't want to.

“This little shit thought he was going to break out of here!” Boss Crab says, waving the ax in Sam's face. With his big claw hand, he throws a stack of paper on the ground. “Escape plans! He really thought he could outsmart ME!”
Chef snickers. “Crazy Cracka,” he says under his breath. I scowl at him.
We're fucked. I know what's coming next. I'm so fucking scared I can't feel my feet.

Boss Crab turns the ax on me. “You were in on it, too, weren't you? Explain yourself.”

“I-I don't know what the hell you're talking about, man. I'm not in on anything,” I stammer, totally full of shit. I'm an awful liar, and it's about to get me killed.

Boss Crab raises the ax as if to hit me with it. I flinch back and he continues screaming. “Shut the fuck up, monkey! You think I'm stupid?! You think I don't know what goes on in my own restaurant?!”

“Just tell him, Ricky.” Sam whines. Now my eyes bulge like Boss Crab's. I make a slashing motion with my hand at my neck. He ignores me. “Tell him what we were gonna do and maybe he'll let us live!” Sam's really crying now. Just blubbering like a little bitch. I guess I would be too if I was in his position. If he says anything else, I probably will be.

Boss Crab scuttles around to face Sam. “I know what you two idiots were going to try to do!” He motions his big claw at a pair of scuba tanks sitting on a table in the corner. We have to use them to go from the restaurant back to our slave quarters down in the human district. The only compensation we get for our jobs is oxygen for the tanks. We're literally paid in air.

Boss Crab continues his rant, and I try my best not to shit myself.

“You do realize I only keep enough air in those things for a round trip to and from the slave camp, right?”

Sam breaks down completely at this point. He's all sobbing incoherently, gasping for air between his cries. “H-he put me up to it, boss! I swear! He said we were gonna go back to the surface!”

“What surface??? The whole world is flooded, you fucking retard! Even if you did manage to break out, even if you hid air up your asses, once you got up there, you'd just float to death!”

Boss Crab turns back to me. “Anything to say for yourself, monkey?”

I just put my arms up and shrug, clueless as to what to say next. Finally I stammer out, “Sorry?”

I can't tell if Boss Crab is genuinely surprised at my lack of defense, or if he's just staring at me. Then he thrusts the ax out, not in a killing blow, but with the handle facing me. Totally confused I take it from him. He says, “Not as sorry as your friend, here. You cook a mean brain souffle. Him? He couldn't even burn a brisket to save his life. Kill him.”

“What?” I ask, sure that he's just fucking with me for a second before he snaps my face off with his claw.
“Prove your loyalty to the restaurant. Kill this one so we can get on to the business at hand. Murder your co-conspirator and NEVER try that shit again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aw, shit,” Karen says from behind Chef.
“That ain't right,” Ty says, walking away from the doorway, back to the kitchen.
I look at them all for a brief second, hoping they have some brilliant plan to keep me from chopping up my best bud. They've got nothin'.

Reluctantly I turn around and prop the ax up on my shoulder. “Sorry Sam, this fuckin' sucks,” I say, with total sincerity, raising the blade above my head.

There I stand in the only shirt I brought down here with me, a faded, ripped up Dio Holy Diver shirt, my curly brown shoulder length hair matted to my pale forehead about to murder my friend, and all I can think is, Damn, I wish I could take his Ozzy shirt before it gets blood all over it.

Sam struggles, mumbling shit I can't understand through his snotty nose and tears. Fishbowl holds him tight.
Chef covers Karen's eyes as the blade comes down, cleaving poor Sam's face open. A wet thunk—sort of like when you cut open a pumpkin—resonates throughout the small killing room. Sam's cries abruptly end as what sits behind his face slowly oozes out onto his shirt.
He slumps over. His body thrashes a few times and then he goes still. At least he didn't suffer. Before I can even register that I've murdered my best friend, Boss Crab snatches the ax away from me and starts yelling again. “Get the fuck back in here, you warm blooded sacks of shit!”
Karen, Chef and Ty had tried to creep away. They sulk back into the doorway as Boss Crab shoves me toward them.

“Listen up!” he says, scooping up a bit of Sam off the floor. “We got a new contract this afternoon. A big one. Pretty much the biggest.” He starts to unscrew the knob sealing Fishbowl's helmet in place. A loud hiss followed by a pop signals the release of the pressurized lid. Boss Crab flips the top open. “Cthulhu his god damn self has requested us to cater a party he's having next week. He wants us to provide the food.” The black, fetid water looks like calm oil slick until Boss Crab dangles bits of Sam over the open container. Then the rancid shit begins to slosh around inside the helmet. Karen dry heaves and covers her mouth as the reek overwhelms us. My eyes start to water and we all put our hands up to cover our mouths.

Little pincer claws, suction cup laced tendrils, and pointy tipped legs that look like they belong on a tarantula burst forth from the brackish ooze, snatching and grabbing at the fresh flesh.