Self Destructing Messenger

#2 - People Pieces

The common thundered panic. So deafening were the screams that they blended together and became a roar that dulled the senses. Rising above the shrieking human voices was another sound, steadily growing. Cayce's eyes rose slowly from the bloody mess on the floor to the spot once occupied by Walls' head. Flesh ripped, folded on itself. Tendons snapped free. Cartilage gnashed against wet muscle, smacking loudly. Blade-sharp shards of bone reformed, fractured, retracted and exploded outwards like a blooming flower. Pieces of flesh slid off the smooth surface like dew on petals. All this deadly beauty stemmed from where a man's arm once was and he looked as surprised as everyone else.

"Intern?" Azalea remarked, recalling the man who only moments before was a college student in a tour. Fresh blood coated him entirely, some his own, but most from his hapless victim. His white jacket looked more like a red tinted Rorschach test, his blonde hair the same vivid color, plastered to his face. Eyes wide in awe and madness, he gazed at his remodeled appendage, testing its function.

The whole scene should have been traumatizing beyond repair and it would have been if Azalea hadn't been subjected to it on a regular basis. This was what she did, what the voice in her head commanded. It was a typical day, save for one detail. The anarchist. He was certainly something new.

The mohawked man grunted as he stood, brushing off his jeans. "No one takes the Hippocratic oath seriously anymore," he muttered, seemingly not phased.

Pulled from his reverie by the comment, the monstrous idol stopped admiring the twisted terror his arm had become and focused on Cayce. "Do no harm," He said, eyes boring into Cayce, through him. "That only applies to humans and you aren't human, are you? We aren't human."

"At least he's in the right place," Az whispered to Cayce. "You two friends?"

The mohawked man shook his head. "Not even a little bit. I've only ever seen him here, in his little study group."

"No," the intern said quietly. "This moment is the first time you've ever truly seen me, the first time we've seen each other."

"And you look great," Cayce said, gesturing to the grotesque, writhing mass with mock enthusiasm. "Really. You should go forth, show that stuff to the world."

"Oh I will," the lab-coated man stated, holding up his arm. "But first I have to eviscerate you so the screaming will stop."

Az put a hand on Cayce, guiding them both away from the deranged student. "He's going to have to pass but thanks for the offer."

"Don't thank him," the mohawked man said, his chest tightening with a fear he refused to display. He had been threatened many times but usually not with evisceration and certainly not by an idol easily capable of carrying out aforementioned threat.

"I'm a lady mother f@!&er and I won't compromise my manners," she replied, shoving him backwards with more urgency. "Even in the face of your certain and gruesome death."

Before the two could turn to run, the intern shrieked and lunged forward, thrusting his arm to pulse blend Azalea's chest. Her eyes narrowed and rather than dodge, she stood perfectly still. A change overtook her, and the opacity of her body drained until she was as a spirit, her hair lifting weightlessly. The terrible bone shards spun, tearing into her image but there was no blood. They passed through her, flailing impotently, unable to mar her flesh.

"What," he murmured, confused. Intern tilted his head, studying her sideways as if reptilian. "You're an idol as well?" The revelation seemed to bewilder the monstrous man. "You aren't supposed to be here."

"And you aren't supposed to be murdering people. Pretty sure society has rules against it," she stated, appearing solid once more.

Cayce observed the witty banter calmly before realizing that as soon as it concluded, that organic meat grinder would be slicing his way once more. It was really the only sober thought that had crossed his mind during his entire stay at the mental facility. Some might attribute that as a red flag, marking the severity of his addiction. Others might restate that the clinic was a free one. Either way the mohawked man preferred a more direct approach than his new blond friend was using.

"Psycho has a spinning arm of death," Cayce said, pulling Azalea back gingerly. "I get why you aren't concerned but that doesn't comfort me." Having cleared the shot, the mohawked man stepped forward, planting his boot firmly in the sternum of the intern. There was more than enough power in the kick sending the idol flailing backwards. Patients too crazy to evacuate were eager cushions for his fall. Excited by the violence, they grabbed at him, clawing, hitting, groping every part of him as he swung his deadly arm wildly.

It was raining people pieces as Cayce guided Az quickly out of the room and down the corridors. Each turn led to another long, uniform hallway, always a broken exit sign at the end, a promise unfulfilled. Having run such a distance that they no longer tracked blood, a bright light signaled their freedom.

They hit the back door hard, the glass panels shattering against the sides of the building. Neither dared to glance behind them as they dashed across the parking lot.

"Why does physician parking have to take up all the close spots?" Cayce yelled as he ran, breathless. "There, my truck is there."

The two split apart, heading for opposite sides of the cab. Not nearly soon enough for either they were both in Cayce's truck and on the road. Cayce watched with some interest as Az casually messed with his radio, like it was any ordinary day for her. He only glanced once at his mirror to see the blood drenched intern getting ever smaller in the street. Perhaps, he thought, there should be a more lengthy conversation with his new friend than they had previously in the common. But in time, he really liked this song.