The Kimota Anthology by Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry
Authors: Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry
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is falling away from me even before I reach him. Fright overwhelms his mouth, so much so that his teeth display themselves as though he has decided to mimic my expression. His radio slithers across the floor, its aerial a stiffened rat’s tail. The man’s lower back bounces against one of the tables and he whooshes out a breath as one of his kidneys calls out its pain.
Fucking get away from me.. !
His mouth, widening in fear, sees the instrument trolley, as if he beholds it for the first time, although he undoubtedly placed it there himself He watches me grab a mixed handful of the stainless gleaming utensils lying neatly in rows. He has slipped onto the floor and his hand goes to his back to tend the self-inflicted kidney punch. He groans miserably, but he’s still wildly excited. Scrambling around, he is much as a crab would be with half its legs amputated. I know more articulate sounds are going to come out of him and have to do something to make them stop before the big sound comes out. The one that will alert other members of staff.
Unexpectedly, he is curling up into a foetal position and that suits me -- Please don’t ! -- because now there are no arms or legs to become entangled with, and his mouth can be observed without difficulty and maintained in the manner to which it should be accustomed. It opens obligingly and I stuff inside a large wad of cotton wool I’d brought with me, produced from my trouser pocket while he wasn’t looking. I press down firmly, the tongue underneath the wad trying desperately to reverse the manoeuvre with dry, choking coughs, but failing. With the heel of my left hand now placed firmly over his mouth and chin, holding the head against the floor, my right hand uses the instruments. Although. I have to say that I used to be left handed. The utensils are held as you might for plunging a dagger. Then before you know it they are ripping and tearing. They make an unusual multiple tracery across the neck. An aerial map, as it were, of a complex river delta, developing in a tide of living red before evolving messily into a lake on the floor.
The body jerks heavily, legs and arms twitching like a pinned insect.
The mouth grins wide and deep, and I almost wish I had a mirror to enjoy the show.
Now I am free to go about my obligation unhindered, although I must be quick, must be quick, must be quick and the one single occupant in the room will have to do although it is better to have had a wider choice for Uncle. I know there is the man on the floor, but he is still undergoing convulsions, his limbs in spasm and pink froth gushing, and I do not have the time to wait to ensure the abstract wires inside him are completely disabled before I perform.
The operation.
In my white coat, the deep pocket contains a hammer. I lift back the green plastic sheet, hoping against hope for someone young and am blessed tonight with the body of a teenage male. The very ideal requirement in fact. Especially because its eyes are firmly closed and thereby not causing me any anguish.
The mouth grins so broadly now, so joyful with its luck.
The body flips over very easily in my hands, the neck flopping limply, which suggests to the medically trained the probable cause of death. Fortunately, the head itself is undamaged. Had it been harmed, tonight would have been a complete waste of time.
Dry brown hair covers the back of the boy’s head. No time for ceremony. I bring the hammer down sharply, centre-stage. Viscous cerebrospinal fluid pours out from the cracked cavity, draining off nicely. I select one of the clean instruments from the trolley and slit through the scalp until I am able to peel it back and separate the broken sections of bone beneath the flesh and open up the interior. Working with the knife, I concentrate on disengaging all remaining obstructions: the stalk of the pituitary and the medulla oblongata from the spinal cord.
Out of my white overcoat, I flourish a clear plastic bag and a pair
Fucking get away from me.. !
His mouth, widening in fear, sees the instrument trolley, as if he beholds it for the first time, although he undoubtedly placed it there himself He watches me grab a mixed handful of the stainless gleaming utensils lying neatly in rows. He has slipped onto the floor and his hand goes to his back to tend the self-inflicted kidney punch. He groans miserably, but he’s still wildly excited. Scrambling around, he is much as a crab would be with half its legs amputated. I know more articulate sounds are going to come out of him and have to do something to make them stop before the big sound comes out. The one that will alert other members of staff.
Unexpectedly, he is curling up into a foetal position and that suits me -- Please don’t ! -- because now there are no arms or legs to become entangled with, and his mouth can be observed without difficulty and maintained in the manner to which it should be accustomed. It opens obligingly and I stuff inside a large wad of cotton wool I’d brought with me, produced from my trouser pocket while he wasn’t looking. I press down firmly, the tongue underneath the wad trying desperately to reverse the manoeuvre with dry, choking coughs, but failing. With the heel of my left hand now placed firmly over his mouth and chin, holding the head against the floor, my right hand uses the instruments. Although. I have to say that I used to be left handed. The utensils are held as you might for plunging a dagger. Then before you know it they are ripping and tearing. They make an unusual multiple tracery across the neck. An aerial map, as it were, of a complex river delta, developing in a tide of living red before evolving messily into a lake on the floor.
The body jerks heavily, legs and arms twitching like a pinned insect.
The mouth grins wide and deep, and I almost wish I had a mirror to enjoy the show.
Now I am free to go about my obligation unhindered, although I must be quick, must be quick, must be quick and the one single occupant in the room will have to do although it is better to have had a wider choice for Uncle. I know there is the man on the floor, but he is still undergoing convulsions, his limbs in spasm and pink froth gushing, and I do not have the time to wait to ensure the abstract wires inside him are completely disabled before I perform.
The operation.
In my white coat, the deep pocket contains a hammer. I lift back the green plastic sheet, hoping against hope for someone young and am blessed tonight with the body of a teenage male. The very ideal requirement in fact. Especially because its eyes are firmly closed and thereby not causing me any anguish.
The mouth grins so broadly now, so joyful with its luck.
The body flips over very easily in my hands, the neck flopping limply, which suggests to the medically trained the probable cause of death. Fortunately, the head itself is undamaged. Had it been harmed, tonight would have been a complete waste of time.
Dry brown hair covers the back of the boy’s head. No time for ceremony. I bring the hammer down sharply, centre-stage. Viscous cerebrospinal fluid pours out from the cracked cavity, draining off nicely. I select one of the clean instruments from the trolley and slit through the scalp until I am able to peel it back and separate the broken sections of bone beneath the flesh and open up the interior. Working with the knife, I concentrate on disengaging all remaining obstructions: the stalk of the pituitary and the medulla oblongata from the spinal cord.
Out of my white overcoat, I flourish a clear plastic bag and a pair
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