Post by noazmale on Feb 1, 2007 21:38:10 GMT -5
ORIGINAL SHORT STORY
"Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down"
by J. B. Tilton
email: noazmale@isot.com
Rating: K
* * *
A reporter from the New York Times goes to interview the worlds' foremost geneticist with some surprising results.
* * *
My name is Richard Thomas and I'm a reporter. It seemed like such a simple assignment. Go to GenCorp Labs, Incorporated and interview Dr. William Benjamin. It was a simple assignment. Now I'm running for my life and in a few minutes IT will be upon me.
GenCorp is a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subsidiary, etc. One of those paper-chains that ensures that no one will ever be sued. Its main concern is genetic research. You've probably seen their commercials: lab techs in white coats solemnly discussing the many congenital defects that they've helped to prevent. They have a darker side.
Dr. Benjamin is widely acknowledged as the world's leading authority on genetic engineering. Last week he announced that he had made a major break through. And my paper, the New York Times, was the sole recipient of the only interview he planned to grant. Lucky us. Lucky him. Lucky me. We were all so damned lucky.
But something went wrong during the interview. The inset lights flashing from the ceiling were red. Doctor Benjamin's face was stark white. And, believe me, I'm as yellow as the stripe down the middle of the road. One of GenCorp's "experiments" got loose.
A security guard ran by screaming, "Evacuate!" I didn't know if he was referring to the floor we were on or my bladder. I raced past an elderly secretary, narrowly beating her to the elevator. I pressed the button, but something malfunctioned and I slowly sank to the basement. The power comes and goes. For the past twenty minutes I've been groping for a way out of this nightmare.
I only saw the thing for one terrifying moment. Towering over eight feet, it had emerald fur and glittering, ruby eyes. It's teeth looked like a chain saw and I felt like a very small tree. It's arms hung at its sides, knotted with bulging, corded muscles. It spotted me quivering by the elevator and honed in like radar. I knew that if I didn't run I'd be dead. For once, I didn't argue with myself. Adios, Fido. Love, Kibbles and Bits.
I finally came to an endless row of doors. I pounded frantically on each door, but to no avail. They were all locked. Just my luck. Of all the thousands of security guards in the world, I have to get the ONE competent one.
Everyone had left this level and I'm alone. I'm at the end of the corridor now. Standing in front of a sealed door with a shatterproof window. Just beyond my reach are those precious stairs leading up and out. To Freedom.
But it's too late. I hear it gibbering and moaning, rushing down the hallway like a politician that smells a dime. Cold steel of the bolted door against my back, I turn to face death with all the dignity I can muster. Which isn't much.
The creature has reached me. It's fetid breath covers me like a stinking shroud. Hissing, smoking saliva dribbles from its chin, as it's scarlet eyes gleam with the anticipation of "the kill." Filth encrusted, three fingered talon claws reach toward my face. I manfully ignore the stain spreading down my trouser leg.
The creature's hand gently descends and gingerly touches my shoulder. In a raspy, hoarse voice it utters a single sentence.
"Tag, you're it."
Then it turns and moves back up the corridor in it's loping gate, trying desperately to avoid me.
The End
"Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down"
by J. B. Tilton
email: noazmale@isot.com
Rating: K
* * *
A reporter from the New York Times goes to interview the worlds' foremost geneticist with some surprising results.
* * *
My name is Richard Thomas and I'm a reporter. It seemed like such a simple assignment. Go to GenCorp Labs, Incorporated and interview Dr. William Benjamin. It was a simple assignment. Now I'm running for my life and in a few minutes IT will be upon me.
GenCorp is a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subsidiary, etc. One of those paper-chains that ensures that no one will ever be sued. Its main concern is genetic research. You've probably seen their commercials: lab techs in white coats solemnly discussing the many congenital defects that they've helped to prevent. They have a darker side.
Dr. Benjamin is widely acknowledged as the world's leading authority on genetic engineering. Last week he announced that he had made a major break through. And my paper, the New York Times, was the sole recipient of the only interview he planned to grant. Lucky us. Lucky him. Lucky me. We were all so damned lucky.
But something went wrong during the interview. The inset lights flashing from the ceiling were red. Doctor Benjamin's face was stark white. And, believe me, I'm as yellow as the stripe down the middle of the road. One of GenCorp's "experiments" got loose.
A security guard ran by screaming, "Evacuate!" I didn't know if he was referring to the floor we were on or my bladder. I raced past an elderly secretary, narrowly beating her to the elevator. I pressed the button, but something malfunctioned and I slowly sank to the basement. The power comes and goes. For the past twenty minutes I've been groping for a way out of this nightmare.
I only saw the thing for one terrifying moment. Towering over eight feet, it had emerald fur and glittering, ruby eyes. It's teeth looked like a chain saw and I felt like a very small tree. It's arms hung at its sides, knotted with bulging, corded muscles. It spotted me quivering by the elevator and honed in like radar. I knew that if I didn't run I'd be dead. For once, I didn't argue with myself. Adios, Fido. Love, Kibbles and Bits.
I finally came to an endless row of doors. I pounded frantically on each door, but to no avail. They were all locked. Just my luck. Of all the thousands of security guards in the world, I have to get the ONE competent one.
Everyone had left this level and I'm alone. I'm at the end of the corridor now. Standing in front of a sealed door with a shatterproof window. Just beyond my reach are those precious stairs leading up and out. To Freedom.
But it's too late. I hear it gibbering and moaning, rushing down the hallway like a politician that smells a dime. Cold steel of the bolted door against my back, I turn to face death with all the dignity I can muster. Which isn't much.
The creature has reached me. It's fetid breath covers me like a stinking shroud. Hissing, smoking saliva dribbles from its chin, as it's scarlet eyes gleam with the anticipation of "the kill." Filth encrusted, three fingered talon claws reach toward my face. I manfully ignore the stain spreading down my trouser leg.
The creature's hand gently descends and gingerly touches my shoulder. In a raspy, hoarse voice it utters a single sentence.
"Tag, you're it."
Then it turns and moves back up the corridor in it's loping gate, trying desperately to avoid me.
The End