The Final Hours of An Unknown Man
by John Jelinek

   He awoke inside a large sheet of crimson, his neck aching with every movement. It had obviously been a long night. As he pushed his tired body from the concrete, he slowly began to sink back to the ground. A lot of blood had flown from his body, as was evident by the stain that surrounded him. What might have happened to this poor man to put him in this state?

   These thoughts plagued his mind as he slowly rose to his feet. It seemed strange that he awoke in such an awkward manner, but the fact that he couldn't even remember his name caused him the most distress. Getting his bearings, his tired eyes darted around and settled on the dark night sky. It was marginally cloudy, with the light of the moon seeping through at sporadic intervals. When this faint light hit the surrounding area, it was a chilling sight. The severely cracked brick walls were brown from age and the bleached posters that clung to other decaying fliers and murals were barely legible. The confused, and now increasingly afraid, man decided that he had to find an answer.

   Slowly he dragged his heavy feet down tunnels, through alleys, and finally up to the street above. One at first would surely not recognize this place as a travel route nor something humans were even meant to spend time on. The flickering neon signs, beckoning to those coherent on the streets, cast the only light aside from that provided by the dim moon. The man slowly pushed on to the most welcoming building in sight.

   Slowly entering the apartment complex, the man realized that he hadn't seen more than a handful of men since he had awoken. His current objective was to find someone; anyone who could tell him exactly what was going on and why the world was in this state. His thoughts were cut short by a howl and a bizarre popping sound. Spinning on his heels, the man first felt the pain before he witnessed exactly what had caused it. What appeared at first to be a disfigured human was quickly categorized as something else in his mind. Its thin skin was stretched far too tightly against dark muscle mass. He looked down, now seeing what had caused his actual pain. Ribbons of blood poured freely from his right shoulder. The crimson liquid stained his jeans and splotched all over his coat. He turned to flee, another howl piercing the night behind him.

   Once safely in a vacant room, the man began frantically checking all of the pockets in his jacket for something to fight back with. The beast was ramming the old, green door with all of its might. Paint chips were strewn across the floor as its blows became increasingly harder. Just as the brass lock began to fail, the man found what he was looking for.

   Three shots spiraled through the night air, ending the horrid ordeal for the man but presenting him with far more disturbing questions. Just who was he? And why had that…thing been chasing him? And exactly what in the hell was
it?

   The dark coffee sank slowly down his throat, calming his tense nerves. "I must have liked coffee," he smiled to himself. The middle-aged waitress walked over to him, cigarette in hand, and slipped the bill onto the table. 5 dollars seemed like a lot for one mere cup, but he didn't mind. He was the most calm he had been all night. He slowly placed his hand into the back pocket of his stained jeans, looking for something to pay the tab. Removing a worn leather wallet from his pocket, he was astonished at the first thing he found.

   "Gunther, Benjammin P. - Head of Hybrid Project Investigative Services- CIA"

   It all came flooding back to him as the beings swarmed the little bistro, hurling children, tossing aside the disgruntled waitress, all heading for the man. Glass shattered around him as thoughts of the hybrid experiments, the escaped subjects, the colonies he was assigned to keep under wraps. Seconds later, he was gone.

   Benjammin awoke a few minutes later with a piercing headache and new blood etching its way down his forehead. It wasn't that he could touch or see it, in his bound state, but he could feel it slithering along his flesh. One of the disfigured beings shuffled over to him, needle in hand. He recalled one last part of his training, and bit down sternly on the cyanide cap hidden amongst his teeth.

   He awoke inside a large sheet of crimson, his neck aching with every movement. It had obviously been a long night. As he pushed his tired body from the concrete, he slowly began to sink back to the ground. A lot of blood had flown from his body, as was evident by the stain that surrounded him. What might have happened to this poor man to put him in this state?

©2003 John Jelinek