Made Men by Bradley Ernst Read Free Book Online Page A

I stepped away for a moment
to clear my vision with a cloth. To my astonishment, (I had looked away for
just a few moments) when I looked back, the second birth was well underway.
This was not the slim, dense head of the second twin: it was the huge, slick,
unmolded head of the human neonate. I recognized structures, although my brain
worked hard to correct the sights to some more expected. Thus, initially, I
neglected to identify the intact caul which enveloped
the neonate. The child appeared an opaque grub: a pupa—a chrysalis. The
sac had been passed, handed out,intact:
the child within. Never had I seen such an alien-like being. The child’s grim
face shone through, tinted a grayish-red beneath the amniotic membrane. The sac
and fluids distorted his perfect features to the grotesque. He squirmed, a
shoulder-less grub encased in film. I took a step closer. It was evident that I
must break the bag. However, I didn’t … From the much
larger hole that had yawned open, things evolved quickly. My hyperopia required
a sudden back-peddling to appreciate the event. The third neonate, second twin,
arrived the most easily. It dove from the shredded pelvis like a salmon, but
landed as easily as a mantis, limbs put immediately and deftly to work. It is
futile to deny the coordinated efforts of the first and last
born : the twins. They twisted to view their companion. One knelt. They
pulled the bag from their ward, slicing it with their
needle-sharp … dare I say claws? … then peeled the bag
off, rolling the wet boy to a dry area. They rubbed and stimulated him. The
human child pinked up, responding to the treatments I myself hesitated to
provide. Sans signs of life, the gestational surrogate no longer had needs, nor
could provide for any, so I lit a cigarette and circled the carnage to wait for
my steadier hands to return. Soon enough, after milk was on to warm from the
freezer, I returned to the trio, only to find my hands trembling in a way that
fatigue alone could not explain. The human neonate bawled for a short moment,
then covered his eyes with one arm. The twins remained soundless. They had torn
apart the amniotic sac of the human child and—with puffed-out
throats—were swallowing it. They were born with teeth, yet seemed
inclined to swallow their bounty whole. The serpentine movements of their necks
aided their efforts to consume the tissues, yet they paused, fearlessly, to
regard me as one might an intruder. I approached the third with the milk. They,
the twins, have two sets of eyelids. Nictitating membranes. With muscular
upper-GI peristalsis, each pulled the jelly-like curtain down his throat, then yawned—resting his unblinking gaze upon me. They
watched my movements as I encouraged the fully human appearing (I’d been unable
to examine him) neonate to latch onto the bottle I had brought. He would not.
The room filled with a melancholy croaking, as if small ducks were able to roar
with the rhythm of a meadow full of locusts.
    I
pine for an assistant. These early days are always the worst.
    Fresh
from the autopsy, I’ve realized that indeed, the woman had suffered uterine
hemorrhage; even with extra lighting and time, I was unable to identify oddly
missing landmark tissues.
    Now
I turn to the neonates—bundled in a row in the bassinet—and witness
two tiny sets of open eyes; the twins’ pupils are a most subtle oblong shape.
They watch me like sentinels. Each twin has his mouth open under the heating
lamp as if basking. They breathe in unison—more slowly by far than the
third—their bellies swelling with their efforts at deep, coordinated
breaths.
    They
are, it would appear, hissing.

 
    R yker watched as The
One Who Was Different closed the journal.
    For
a moment he studied his hands.
    “So
we did have webs. Wolfgang lied.”
    “About
everything?” Rickard asked, running a finger between his own toes.
    “Not
everything” Their pale companion said, studying the shelves. “He isn’t