Free The Teratologist by Edward Lee Page B

actually realize that the forms were human.
    “ We house monsters here, and this is our work room, so to speak. But we care for them quite well— Mr. Farringworth actually loves them, in his own way. He’s fascinated by the imperfect, and the derivatives of that imperfection.”
    One contorted, slobbering woman was being wheeled out now in a wheelchair. Did she have horns or spikes coming out of her face? Her head looked squashed. On another bed a deathly thin man twitched. He suffered from muscular and adipose atrophy—a living skeleton. A raging erection bobbed as he twitched. Eventually, men in suits gently put the tragedy in a chair and wheeled him out.
    “ What in God’s name are you doing?” Bryant finally got it out.
    “ In God’s name—yes. How ironic. You’ll understand in due time. Oh, and I hate to tell you this, but…” Michaels smiled, then held up a piece of paper that Bryant recognized at once as a blueline, an editor’s proof. “Can you read this? Is your vision blurred from the skirmish?”
    “ What is it?
    “ Your obituary.”
    Bryant’s heart thudded as he read.
     
    — The editors and staff are saddened to report the deaths of finance journalist James Bryant and photographer Richard Westmore, both well known in the field. Bryant and Westmore worked together often, interviewing some of the most successful financiers in the world. They were both killed Wednesday in a taxicab accident near Metro Detroit airport. They will be sorely missed. Services will be held at—
     
    This is crazy, Bryant thought. “My boss knows we’re here, you idiot. I talked to him yesterday on my cell phone—from this house.”
    “ Mr. Bryant—” Michaels wagged the sheet of paper. “This is a blueline for the next issue of Blue Chip, the magazine you and Westmore work for. This was all planned well in advance, and I’m happy to say that your boss was all too cooperative.”
    Bryant struggled against the restraints, swamped in confusion. “He’s agreed to run an obituary when he knows we’re alive?”
    “ Oh, yes. In the past, wisdom has been power, but today it’s money. And Mr. Farringworth paid of a lot of that to your boss to go along with this ruse. The bodies, of course, were burned beyond recognition, and further palms were greased, so to speak, to insure the proper placement of falsified DNA reports. To the rest of the world, Mr. Bryant, you’re dead.”
    “ So…what? Now you’re gonna kill me? That’s ridiculous. You don’t know me, I’m no threat to you, and neither is Westmore!”
    Michaels didn’t move, just kept looking down, hands behind his back. “No, no, we’re not going to kill you. We want you. You will be the chronicler, Westmore the photographer.”
    “ Chronicler for what! Photographer for what!”
    “ For Mr. Farringworth’s life, of course. And his work—or I should say, not his financial pursuits—that’s just his hobby. His real work, the work he does here. You and Westmore will never leave this house again. You will write Farringworth’s biography and philosophical study, and your colleague will compile the photographic archive.”
    “ Of what?”
    “ Mr. Farringworth’s endeavors, to be released long in the future, when he dies. It will be the mark he leaves on the rampart of history. You needn’t worry. All your needs will be taken care of—” Michaels turned at the sound of a door clicking open. New tragedies were being wheeled in to the bed: a seven-foot-tall woman with acromegaly, a two-headed conjoined twin, a Thalidomide woman…
    “— Including your sexual needs.”
    Gagging and other strange noises came from the beds. Several men were led into the room, faces flushed, a rage in their eyes, erections gorged. They looked crazed with lust. They climbed onto the beds and began to…
    Aw, Christ, Bryant thought, stomach tensing. But then his brows shot up when Michaels came around behind. The British attendant was unbuckling the straitjacket.
    “