Free Origin by Jack Kilborn Page B

Sun.
“Fraaaaank.”
    “Good lord,” Dr. Frank Belgium whispered.
    Sun hadn’t even known he’d entered the room, so intense was her focus.
    Bub sprang up on his legs and threw his hands in the air, just as Belgium had. The demon bellowed as loud as a thunder clap,
“Goooooood looooord!”
    Both Sun and Frank Belgium jumped backwards, and Frank kept backpedaling until he’d bumped into the sheep, which bleated a scream at the intrusion.
    “Find Andy,” Sun ordered. “And Race.”
    “Sure thing. Sure thing.”
    Dr. Belgium hit the door, repeating “sure thing” like a mantra.
    “Buuuuub is huuuuungry,”
the demon said. He lowered his head to her height, pressing his moist pig snout to the Plexiglas. It made a sticky wet spot.
    “Lunch, nooooooow.”
    Sun, who had that jelly feeling back in her legs, fought the fear and stepped up to the glass.
    “Where are you from?” Sun asked. “How do you know English? Did you just learn it?”
    Bub’s lips creased back, revealing a huge valley of yellow, jagged teeth.
    He could bite through a redwood with those teeth,
Sun thought.
    “Lunch noooooow. English laaaaaaater.”
    Sun, who hadn’t taken an order from anyone since she was in grammar school, simply nodded. She went to the sheep, her gaze never leaving Bub. The sheep was rooted, shaking like a jackhammer. It refused to budge.
    Sun located the box of Cap’n Crunch, dropped when she’d let go of the harness. There was still cereal left at the bottom, and she lifted the cowl and pushed the box over the sheep’s snout like a feed bag. After a moment of struggle the animal began to munch, its muscles relaxing. Sun led it to the oversized door next to the habitat.
    Bub watched intently, the terrible smile on his face never slipping. Sun took the sheep through the walkway alongside Bub’s pen and stopped at the waist-level entrance hatch. The hatch was set inside a large hinged wall, kind of like a pet door. The wall was concrete, inlaid with the same titanium bars used in the Red Arm. It moved up and down like a garage door—industrial pneumatics—and it was the entrance Bub took when his vital signs indicated he was waking up from his coma.
    Sun hadn’t been present for that event. She’d arrived shortly afterward. But Race spared no detail, telling her how he’d wheeled Bub into the habitat on a gigantic Gurney, then used a crank to lift up one end until Bub slid off and onto the ground, twitching and blinking the whole time. Race had barely pushed the Gurney back out the entrance and closed the door before Bub was on his feet.
    The entrance remained locked, using yet another magnetic bolt operated by a keypad. The hatch in the middle was locked by a simple latch, reinforced with titanium. This was the entrance used for the sheep and the one Race took when he’d been in the habitat on those previous occasions. It was too small for Bub to fit through, but Sun still paused before opening it.
    Now that Bub was talking, it made him more menacing to her, rather than less so.
    She went a hard round with her fear, then pushed it away and opened the small hatch.
    “Fooooooooood,”
Bub said.
    He was squatting directly in front of the opening, and his breath, warm and fetid, blew against Sun like a sewer breeze. She felt an adrenalin jolt, like something had run in front of the car and she had to slam on the breaks. It was accompanied by instant sweating and a small cry that died in her throat.
    The sheep tried to buck, but one of Bub’s massive talons lashed out and gripped it by the head, dragging it through the hatchway.
    Sun watched, transfixed, as Bub twisted the sheep in half only a few feet away from her, a tangle of intestines stretching out between the pieces like hot mozzarella on a pizza. Some blood spattered onto her pants. The sheep’s legs were still kicking as Bub jammed them down his throat, not even bothering to chew. Then he uncurled the glistening entrails that hung around his shoulders like