The Replicater
by David Price

The humanoid crawled along the ground on all fours, one wrist twisted and broken. It could have been a car crash victim crawling out of the wreckage, its body twisted beyond repair. I should have felt compassion, but the only feelings that this genetic mutation engendered were one's of loathing and repulsion. I approached it, unzipping my leather jacket and taking out my Rapid-Fire-Shaugnessy-Repeater.

For a moment it looked at me, obsidian eyes seeming to plead. I shot it straight through the head. If you start thinking of these things as human, you've got problems; if they are not wiped out they will breed, and that cannot be allowed to happen.

I pulled on a pair of gloves, then took hold of the creature by an arm and a leg and hauled it into the back of the truck. It landed against the other bodies with a repulsive sucking sound. The bottom of the truck was awash with blood (my gun isn't named the 'Sure Messy' for nothing!) and flies were swarming around. I hated drawing this shitty duty; these freaks were nothing to do with me.

True. But I'm officially a murderer.

'Ya wanna take lives, Benson; then start cleaning the vermin off the streets.'

So that's what I do; a glorified shit-shoveller in the war-torn streets of London. Except it wasn't a war brought it crashing to the ground. No way, fellah: it was the scientists - messing about underground, hitting a fault. Six years of The Blitz, then an earthquake fucks everything up! The dome of St. Paul's, ironically, survived. God must have one heck of a sense of humour!

"Fuck it!"

I made to get in the truck. That's when the creature came flying out of nowhere, screaming like a wounded cat and nearly giving me a heart attack. It had me before I could get to my gun, smashing my face against the side of the
truck, then hurling me across the street like a rag doll. As blood spurted out of my broken nose it leapt through the air, teeth bared in a ferocious rictus. It landed on top of me and fought to strip the flesh from my face, clawed fingers digging into my arms. I grabbed its throat with one hand and forced its head back, muscles straining to keep it at bay. Suddenly I struck out with my left hand, thumb and forefinger extended, penetrating the soft, fleshy skin on either side of its eyeball. I pulled the eyeball out and crushed it in my fist, making the creature scream and leap backwards. I
kicked it aside and leapt to my feet. It was at me again, but this time I'd reached my gun; as it leapt I opened fire. The fusillade of bullets ripped it in half but its upper torso came flying at me, knocking me to the ground. We rolled over and over like combating wrestlers, its blood drenching my jeans. I pushed it away and watched in horror as it twitched spastically, blood spurting from its ruptured guts. For a moment it reached for the sky, mouth open in a silent scream; then it fell forward onto its face and lay still, the blood continuing to ooze from its ruptured torso. Some of these things
were stronger than others.

"Too slow, Benson," I admonished myself.

And too fucking careless!

*****************************

I lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, once again cursing that fucking asshole Kennett! They always said that scientists would go too far. Kennett thought that he could create life. All he created were mindless clones; hideous living abortions that resembled humans, yet were little more than mindless animals. Only he discovered that people wanted them as pets. Fucking sicko's!

But these clones weren't the docile pets that everyone thought they were. One day a woman had the skin ripped off her arm. After that, they were all rounded up and 'disposed' of. Kennett's home was raided and hundreds of incubating clones were seized and dumped in the sewers. I guess they figured that the rats would get them, and hey, I daresay most of them did end up as rat turds. But then, almost two years later, and shortly after the earthquake, they came pouring out of the sewers, attacking, and sometimes killing the workers who were trying to clear the rubble away; hence The Exterminators. Well, they sure as shit couldn't get anyone to volunteer for such a job, so they started falling on men like me; killers by dint of circumstance. Ya see, I killed my wife; She'd been badly burned, there was no way of getting her to a hospital for treatment, so I figured 'What the fuck?'; she could never survive her burns, but she might just recover consciousness and survive for a few days in agony.

So I caved her head in with a rock!

I've been killing ever since.

****************************

I reflected on the irony of mass killing as a way of doing community service, looking at the mess around me. Shit! Some vision of El Dorado this had been! In my teens I'd been a streetwise kid in the back streets of New York. Shit
place to grow up, huh? Anyway, I made some money, waved 'fuck you' to The Statue of Liberty and headed for Great Britain.

Great move! The City of the Living Dead and me cleaning the motherfuckers off the streets. Still, I guess I wasn't the only guy to hit London and find the streets paved with shit!

I flicked my cigarette away and got back in the truck. Fuck 'em! I'd done all the killing I was going to do for one day. The mutant may have been reposing in the back of the truck, but most of its blood was soaking into my clothes. It was time for a shower, a coffee, and a good nights shut-eye.

If I could sleep!

***************************

The creature had obviously dropped dead in the street. I pulled up, climbed out of the truck and walked over to it; too tired to think straight, sick of the smell of death, and too complacent to take any real precautions. That's the problem with falling into a routine; you expect things to stay just so.  I grabbed the creature by its arms and legs, turned back to the truck ... and found my way blocked by half a dozen clones.

One of them stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at me.

"You kill," it rasped.

I couldn't believe my ears. I'd never heard one of these things speak before. Until then I'd just thought of them as dumb animals. Sure, they sometimes screamed when you shot them, they writhed on the ground; but I closed my emotions down, telling myself that these actions were just reflexive. If I thought they could feel pain I'd think of them as human.
But now one of them was speaking to me.

"You kill," it repeated.

They began to close in on me. I cursed myself for leaving the gun in the truck.

Nice going, Benson!

I hurled the corpse at them, knocking three of them flat, and then I threw myself forward, punching one of them to the ground. A fist connected solidly with the side of my head and I rocked back, stunned. They fell on me, reigning kicks and blows as I tried to fight back. I was knocked flat on my ass, unable to do anything more that curl up into a ball and try to ward off the blows. Something exploded in my head and I passed out. Shit! The clones had evolved, and yours truly had fucked up big time!

***************************

When I came around I was strapped to the kind of couch you would normally associate with a shrink; bound hand and foot, naked as the day I was born. I struggled, but my nerve endings sent waves of pain shooting up and down my
body.

"Fuck it! Fuck fucking fuck!"

I relaxed, forcing myself to stay still. Every intake of breath was like a punch in the ribs. Jesus, these fuckers must have given it to me a big time after I'd passed out.

My head hurt, but I had to see where I was. A glance around revealed a featureless room. As far as I could tell, the couch was the only comfort.  I closed my eyes, realising that the only thing I could do now was wait and see what was going to happen. The hunter had become the prey; was this the price for underestimating your enemy?

A door creaked open and one of the creatures entered the room.

A female.

Her skin was of a light, greenish shade; her hair black and lustrous. Her face was normal enough, although her head permanently lolled to one side, almost as if she'd broken her neck. She had high cheekbones and a wide mouth, but her eyes were as black as coal.

I tried to resist as she came at me, placing her hands on my chest. Then she grabbed me around the back of the head, pulled me forward and crushed her mouth against mine, forcing her tongue between my lips. I was too shocked to react, and when she pulled away I turned my head and spat on the floor.

"You fucking cunt!" I shouted, "You fucking..."

Her fingers curled around my member, her other hand gently stroked my balls.

"Fuck off! You fucking slag! You fucking whore! Fuck ... off ..."

She climbed on me, gently sliding over my member, thrusting her hips back and fore, back and fore, back and fore ...

I tried to resist, shouting oaths at her, but she continued thrusting until I came, throwing her head back as my sperm filled her. I continued shouting at her as another creature severed my bonds. I leapt off the couch, but had the good sense not to swing for her; there were just too many of these things for me to take on.

One of them thrust my clothes into my arms and I started dressing, glaring at the creature who had, if effect, raped me.

"What the fuck was that all about?" I demanded.

"Wanted - your - seed."

"What?"

"Must - replicate."

"Replicate?"

""We - must - survive."

"Survive my ass! You're a walking blasphemy. A living, breathing obscenity."

I finished dressing and looked at the creatures surrounding me. Their skins had the texture of raw liver, their genitals were obscenely distended. Walking abortions! Yes, that's what they looked like; giant foetus's grown to adult proportions and infused with life.

But they were not human.

The female creature clutched her stomach and cried out, staggering back against the wall.

"It Grows," she cried.

As I watched in horror, the flesh of her stomach contracted, then began to expand.

"What the fuck?"

"It grows. Your seed grows."

Her skin began to retract and pulsate. It was repulsive, like watching a living heart beating in the open cavity of a person's chest. She slid down the wall, sitting on the floor with her legs spread out before her. Blood began to seep out of her vagina, pooling on the floor between her legs. The foetus - my child - was rapidly developing in her womb.

I thought of Kennett, the so-called Replicater, whose name was spoken of with so much contempt. How would I be spoken of in years to come if this creature were to give birth to a monster?

As her stomach grew and pulsated before my eyes, I backed away. The temptation to run was powerful but I could not tear myself away from this room; history was being made, albeit notorious history.

Twenty minutes after conception she began screaming, writhing on the ground and beating the floor with her fists. As her struggles became more violent the other creatures ran to her aid. My God, I thought, they're actually concerned about her.

Her back arched, her head snapped from side to side, blood began to pour from her ears, nose and mouth. Then her stomach burst open; it was like seeing an explosive charge ripping someone apart.

For just a second I thought her intestines were leaping out. Then somewhere at the head of that twisted mass of flesh a mouth opened, arms sprang from its sides, eyes snapped open; and the creature clawed its way out of the womb, leaving a trail of ruptured organs in its wake. It was hideous, a misshapen ogre that didn't look even remotely human. To my horror, it was growing before my eyes; skin stretching as its bones contracted, muscles stretching taut, arms and legs becoming powerful. I watched it stand, faltering like a new born calf. Even the clones were afraid; its metabolism was even faster than theirs - it wasn't a clone, wasn't a human; it was a hideous chimera. A monster!

It stood erect, tall. One of the clones cautiously approached it. For a moment they faced each other. Then the thing that was my flesh and blood seized the clone's head in a vice-like grip, two powerful hands squeezing at once, and the clone's head burst open like a shattered pumpkin.

The other clones screamed, then fell upon the killer, hearts filled with vengeance. That was when I ran. This whole nightmare had gone too far. I burst out into the street, spotting my truck just up the road. I ran for it. The smell of death hit me like a wave as I closed in, but I didn't stop. I reached into the cabin, grabbed my 'Sure Messy' Repeater and ran back to the building, banging home another clip on the run. The other clones would probably tear that monster apart, but I couldn't take the chance of leaving it alive. I had to make sure it was dead.

I was just closing in on the building when it crashed through the door. I began firing, shredding it to ribbons, making its body explode in a hundred places. It sailed backwards, screaming, coming apart in mid-air. It hit the ground, dead, but I kept firing, reducing its body to raw strips of meat, the gun jumping in my hand, shaking my body from head to toe. By the time the last bullet spat clear of the chamber, all that remained of the creature was an amorphous pizza that the birds and rats would soon take care of. I had given it life. Now I had given it death!

**************************

I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and threw the gun down a drain. I would never be able to kill these creatures again.

Revolting? Sure they were; but they were alive. I'd killed them in the past through hatred, but I figure the hatred was for a life in which shit happens. Blowing these clones away had been a cure for my pain; when my wife died it had been easier to hate that to grieve, simpler to go on a trail of vengeance than it was just to hurt.

Now? Now I can't feel anything either way. I can't grieve; pity, hate, love. These emotions have all been sucked out of me. I am just a hollow shell.

"Shit on 'em!"

I'd killed my quota of freaks, now they could get some other goon to do their dirty work.

I climbed in the truck, started the engine and drove off, ignoring the drone of flies from the back.

I'd learned to be a killing machine. Learning to be a caring human being again would, I felt, be a lot harder.

©1997-2002 David Price

David Price has had over 50 stories published since 1996 (in the likes of Kimota, Xenos, Night Dreams,
Nasty Piece of Work, Not One Of Us, Enigmatic Tales, The Dream Zone, Unhinged, Penny Dreadful, and many others). Between 1997 and 1999 he edited a print magazine called Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, and last year a collection of his short stories (The Evil Eye) was released by BJM Press. David Price has been interviewed on the TT website by John B. Ford.