road kill original:final - · pdf fileolympic proportions. i exaggerate, ... i wanted to see...

Road KillBy

Douglas Derrer© 2011

First published in Penumbra: Speculative Fiction from the Pacific Northwest

~ PROLOGUE ~

In real life I’m reasonably successful stockbroker with a well-known firm in Seattle. I’m single, have an elegant apartment overlooking Puget Sound, and drive a Porsche. My life had been very predictable, very pleasantly so, in fact, with a satisfactory surfeit of attractive women, year-end bonuses from my well-known firm, fine wines, travel, and most importantly, fishing.

No merely drowning worms in a local creek for me, but salmon fishing in Alaska by float plane, which gets you into those back country lakes and streams where the salmon grow to Olympic proportions. I exaggerate, of course, although my last catch was a real beauty. But what I’ve written in what follows is not just another fisherman’s tall tale about the one that got away.

It’s about the weirdest and scariest thing that’s ever happened to me...All because I wanted my latest Alaskan, prize-winning catch to be mounted for display.

So I did what I’ve done before and consulted my favorite taxidermist, who’d done such a fine job –and cheap!– for me on a few previous catches. Cheap, I like, and quality work I like even better. But this guy did not live in town. So I had to drive into the Cascades, off the freeway, along dirt roads, and deep into the woods to find him, which I’d done before. No big deal, right?

Wrong! Things had definitely changed with him since last time I’d been there. He’d had visitors who’d come an even longer way than a drive up Snoqualmie Pass from Seattle.

They’d come light years! And had done things with and to my friend that beggar description...

So come with me now on a rainy afternoon drive into the cold, dark Cascade mountains

to learn some strange, twisted things about Road Kill...

I’d decided to see Doctor Dead about my fish. I considered the traffic [bad], the weather [worse],

and recalled the winding, rutted roads [worst] leading to his isolated cabin.

I told my secretary to cancel my afternoon schedule, then left for the day. Skies emptied as only

Seattle’s can, but I was warm and dry due to the underground parking perk I’d gotten for my latest sales.

I beamed my silver Boxster to life with its key fob and launched into the dank, drizzmal (a neologism

consisting of equal parts drizzle and dismal) day.

My car growled east on I-90 toward Snoqualmie Pass. Wetter up there, but no snow. Porsches

don’t like snow.

When most people think of the Great Pacific Northwest, they think of large sophisticated cities

like Seattle, Portland, Vancouver, BC. They’re here, of course, indulging many who prefer big city life.

Me, for instance, a successful stockbroker.

But there’s another side to the Northwest: its mountains and forests, woods so thick and deep

they’re temperate jungles. Forests so close, so overgrown and dense, a “walk in the woods” is

impossible, unless you chain saw your own personal path.

Many peculiar creatures live in our overgrown woods. Some of them human.

Buy a few acres off the beaten path, cut a road, plop a trailer, or build a funky cabin with the

trees you’ve cut, and live your life pretty much however you want. Plenty of people do. Normal folks,

who just like the country life, and those who aren’t. Some reject society and live far from the hustle and

bustle: disaffected hippies, burned out vets, social misfits, drug dealers, survivalists, crazies, conspiracy

theorists, paranoids... You name it, we got ‘em. Our woods are full.

Doctor Dead was one. One of the harmless odd balls. Or so I thought...

As the Boxster gobbled up the mountain curves, I reflected on my past associations with “Doctor

Douglas Derrer 2 Road Kill

Dead,” a sobriquet I’d coined, like drizzmal. He was neither a doctor nor dead, but was a phenomenal

taxidermist who dealt in extraordinary ways with dead creatures. I wanted to see him about my prize

Alaskan Sockeye, a salmon that would look great mounted on an alder plank and hung in my den.

I supposed he didn’t get much business, and didn’t seem to care. Getting to where he lived was

difficult, a real pain in the ass. He wouldn’t win a personality contest with his whispery voice and creepy

mannerisms either. I thought he was a real artist, though. I fancied myself one of his unsung “patrons.”

He didn’t just stuff dead animals.

“Taxidermy is not just a profession with me,” he’d rasped at me one summery afternoon, the tall

conifers edging his small forest clearing drowning us in deep piney shade, “it is a passion!” He was

finishing a previous fish for me. Smaller, but a nice catch nonetheless. “I’m an artist. A scientist, too,” he

explained. “I contribute to the preservation of many species. I drive the country roads in my truck,

looking for poor unfortunates,” he enthused in eldritch tones, his eyebrows rising, his eyes bulging.

“Those whose time has come.”

What you and I would call “road kill.”

“I load them gently into my pickup and bring them home to their final resting place. Sometimes

it’s only an opossum. They are not very fast and get hit frequently. Or perhaps a squirrel, who was not

fast enough. On a good day I might find a raccoon, someone’s dog or cat, even a deer.

“Birds are alert and fast,” he continued, looking rather birdlike as he stretched his neck and lifted

his arms. “Getting them is more difficult, yet, I have some in my collection: a few crows, a Blue Jay, a

large owl, even a hawk.

“They’re damaged when I find them, of course,” he smiled sadly, his arms sinking to his sides

and his head to his chest, “but I use what I can of them and lovingly restore their natural beauty.” He


smiled and looked at me cheerily, as if he actually brought them back to life. “Come, see my friends.”

We’d entered a large dark shed buried in tree shadow. Rich musty smells drifted up from the dirt

floor where mushrooms grew in the damp dark. From a dirty skylight, shafts of dusty sunlight dappled

the floor and dimly lit shadowy animal shapes. I fancied I was in a woodsy Disney movie in which I had

the “animal magnetism” of a St. Francis.

Until I saw his so-called collection of “friends.”

At first I was shocked, then horrified, then I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but it just came out.

Hysterical nervous laughter. I couldn’t help myself. He was hurt, I think, and I had to talk fast to sooth

his feelings. But hey, I’m in sales and he was a bumpkin. Easy pickin’s.

I’d stood in the middle of his morbid menagerie of mythical monsters, surrounded by animals

that weren’t: A buck with the head of a bear and the hind quarters of a wolf. A family of raccoon bodies

with the heads of several other animals. A larger family of opossums, I don’t want to begin to describe.

The smaller the critter, the more bizarre it looked: squirrels with snake heads, chipmunks with robin

bodies, bird-headed snakes, and a winged salamander.

Totally weird shit. I freaked. Mythic creatures at best; a disgusting creep show at worst. I

couldn’t make up my mind.

Yet, the more I looked, the more his outlandish, outrageous genius positively gleamed. I laughed,

appreciatively, then. The guy was clearly a nut case, but fuckin’ brilliant.

“You like my beauties, I see,” he’d said in his soft, sinister voice. He smirked and rubbed his

hands together in pleasure — a gesture more suited to a horror movie, or Peter Lorre...

“I restore them to life,” he’d said to me by way of explanation. “Or as close as a mere mortal can

get to doing what only God can do...”


Or Doctor Frankenstein, I’d thought, but said nothing. He gave me a smile that would stun an

orthodontist at ten paces. His crooked, pointy teeth showed through his lopsided grin. So he wasn’t

pretty; looks aren’t everything. He was amazingly good with his hands, which he rubbed together, again.

Spooky he was, but he was the best damned taxidermist I’d ever seen. And cheap, as I’ve said.

I’d complimented him on the skill he’d displayed by creating his “menagerie.”

“They are really lifelike, Doctor Dead,” I assured him. My sobriquet and my compliment had

pleased him. “Each one looks like it’s about to run or fly. Or both...”

“I take great pride in my work,” he intoned. “My imitation of immortality. Heh, heh.”

So I’d left my fish, the first one I mentioned, with confidence he would mount it well. Sure, I’d

had qualms about him, but he’d done a fantastic job. I was not disappointed. He didn’t worry me, not

then. An eccentric loony perhaps, but not dangerous. Had I followed my vague misgivings, I’d have

never gone back.

But now I was back with the greatest catch of my fishing career: an enormous, beautiful Sockeye

salmon, caught way upstream in Alaska’s Copper River.

Turns out, he’d made quite a catch, too.

These reflections almost made me miss my exit, but my responsive Porsche made up for my

inattention. I braked hard, swerved cross three lanes of light traffic, and shot down the exit in fine form.

I cruised the state route for several miles, then a narrow forest service road. Tall trees grew thickly

together, making it nearly dark at midday. The bad weather I’d left in Seattle was worse up here. Typical.

I slowed at his turnoff.

Rain battered the roof and the windscreen. The wipers worked overtime. The not-county-

maintained dirt and gravel road to his place was muddy and rutted. I hated getting my shiny Boxster


mucked up, or banging it’s fine suspension, and rack-and-pinion steering through perilous potholes. So I

picked my way slowly through the woods. I cracked the window to drink in the rich smells of the forest:

leaf mold, the pungent pines, the saturated earth —fine fare for the nose and full-bodied scents you

won’t find in the city.

No lights shone from his cabin. I hit my brights a few times to let him know I was here and

pulled my anorak over my head as I got out. I loosened the cords that held the cooler to the luggage

rack. He suddenly appeared beside me. I started, dropped the cords into the mud.

“Uh! You surprised me!” He ignored my discomfort, took my elbow in his sharp fingers, and

urged me toward his cabin.

“Come in! Come,” he smiled, bobbing and rubbing his hands together. His excitement upon

seeing me made me suppose he got lonely out in the woods regardless of his stuffed animal friends, but

he wanted to share something. “I have a very interesting creature to show you.”

“I have something interesting to show you, too,” I replied, pulling out of his grip and hefting the

large cooler, which contained my fabulous fish packed in dry ice. Little did I know he would trump me

so completely.

Inside his shack, I opened the cooler. He seemed impressed with the size of my fish. Briefly, we

discussed how I wanted it prepared, mounted and so on. With my fish in his chiller, we sat down in the

only habitable room in his cabin: a small, cluttered space that served as kitchen, bedroom, living room,

and makeshift office. A large fieldstone fireplace dominated the room, supplying the only heat and much

of the light. A sagging lounge chair nestled to one side. From its greasy, well-worn look, I surmised it

served him as a place to read, eat, snooze, and perhaps as a comforting companion. Just beyond his easy

chair a plastic, flowered, shower curtain separated where he lived from where he worked.


He bent near me, smiled his crooked grin, and asked if I would care for a cup of tea. His manner

had changed subtlety. He seemed to grow conspiratorial. I felt uncomfortable and wondered what he

might be up to.

As I grew more suspicious, I began to doubt my earlier assessment of him as harmless. I

wondered if he might want to add a stuffed stockbroker to his macabre menagerie. A chill ran up my

back. I shook myself, stood up and took a deep breath. Politely, I refused the tea. I felt sufficiently

paranoid to worry he might have poisoned it.

“Thanks, no,” I said casually. “Why don’t you show me your... whatever it is?” He nodded

eagerly. I still needed an out. “I must get back to Seattle shortly. Big company meeting. Once a quarter.

Can’t miss it or they’ll have my ass. You know how it is....”

He crooked his finger in a come-hither gesture, and favored me with an even wider maniacal

grin, which did little to make me feel more at ease.

We exited his living area through the shower curtain and entered his work room. He called it “my

la-bor-a-tree” in the British manner. The eeriness of the situation deepened.

Shoving the shower curtain aside, he ushered me into the large dark space behind. I wasn’t sure

what to expect, but what hit me as I stepped into the tenebrous room were smells that nearly knocked me

off my feet. The air was like a barely breathable acid, sharp and repellant. My nostrils burned with the

acrid odor and I imagined my nose hairs shriveling.

My stomach heaved and I thought I might vomit. The stench was, first, I think, of formaldehyde,

which burned my nose and made me want to dash from the dingy room. Then, the smell of death, of rot,

of putrefaction, of mold and spoilage, of garbage left too long. Over it all, doing little to suppress these

revolting odors, hung the ineffectual olfactory veneer of cleaning compounds and so-called air


fresheners — Lysol, alcohol, Glade, and a heavy, sickening incense.

I could not breathe. I gagged and nearly knocked him down in my haste to get out of there. But

he stopped me and handed me a thick rag to put over my nose and mouth. He made gestures of slow,

deep mouth-breathing. The odors and my nausea got better. My head cleared and my panic subsided.

Some filtered light came through windows, dusty on the inside and mud-spattered on the out.

Dim shapes that appeared to be tables loomed in the gloom, gleaming dully. A large stainless steel

dissecting table, like you see in those forensic TV shows, stood in the center. Tall shelves lined the back

walls and were filled with large and small bottles, bell jars, and display mounts. I was reminded of my

mother’s pantry at the close of canning season. In the dim light, many seemed to contain specimens of

viscera, organs, and other body parts, presumably, taken from different animals he’d found on his “road

kill” rounds.

He handed me a large cigar and lighted one for himself. “This’ll help with the smell,” he

explained. Sure enough, after a while, it did.

On the big dissecting table in the center, a creature lay covered by a tarp. In the dimness, it

looked like a fairly large animal with an oversized head, narrow body and slender limbs. A big dog, or

maybe a wolf. He flicked on the bright overhead surgical lamps and whipped the tarp away.

“Geezuz H. Christ!” I blurted and jumped away, almost knocking him down and burning him

with the lit end of my stogie. “What the fuck is that thing?”

“Interesting specimen, yes?” he hissed in a reverent tone.

“I guess...” I whispered, as I slowly returned to the table, took a big pull on my cigar, inhaled a

bit, and studied the thing. “Perhaps the oddest specimen I’ve ever seen... What on Earth is it?” My irony

was unintentional. Maybe my intuition – useful in my trade as a broker – put in some overtime.


The creature on the table had a large head with huge, staring eyes that were, unfortunately, wide

open. Through a small slit of a mouth, also open, I could see sharp needle-like teeth. Its four limbs,

jointed like a human rather than an animal, ended in three claw-like fingers or toes. Its hands had no

opposable thumbs. Short, dark fur covered its head and body that looked black before he turned on the

lights. In fact, the creature’s fur was dark green.

“Well, what do you think of my latest find?” he asked. “Interesting, yes?” Again, the Peter Lorre

intonation and the hands that kept fondling each other.

“Yeah, sure. But, what the hell is it?” No irony this time; it looked positively demonic.

I thought I’d seen something like it before, but where? The Sci Fi channel, or maybe the History

channel, had run some recent creature features I’d watched late at night when the market’s performance

had made sleep impossible. I recalled something about aliens and flying saucers. “Roswell ’47” and

“Area 51” came to mind as well.

A sudden insane flash hit me. Sober stockbroker, conservative investor that I am, I must confess:

I lost it. I laughed out loud. Doctor Dead looked at me as if I’d farted in church. Barely able to suppress

my hysterical mirth, I blurted:

“Doc, you’ve really done it this time,” I said, nearly giggling. “You’ve made a real find! This

will boggle the minds of the authorities. You’ve found a little green Man from Mars!”

He looked shocked.

I snickered then and, compulsively, gushed on. “You’d better be careful. He probably has

Martian friends in their flying saucers out there searching for you right now.”

I must admit my remarks were in poor taste, and not at all consistent with my usual staid

comportment. But the afternoon’s events had unnerved me to a degree I’d not realized and could do little


to control. Looking back much later, my prescience became the stuff of nightmares for me.

My unhinged babbling had flabbergasted my host. I tried to recover with profuse apologies and

retractions, but I’d shocked and dismayed poor Doctor Dead. He stared at me, goggle-eyed. Coming to

my senses, I suggested we retire to his living room for a cup of tea. I no longer worried about poison.

We sat in silence, sipping tepid herbal tea together. After a while I asked, “Where did you find

that creep-show creature?”

“Uh... why... uh, on the road, of course,” he stammered. My question had startled him from his

deep thoughts. “Just like all the others. It had been hit by a car or truck while crossing the road. The light

was poor early in the morning and I could not see its fur was green. I thought it was a big dog or maybe

a coyote... Until I got it home, of course.”

The tea and discourse warmed him. He told me his dissections revealed the creature was like no

other he’d ever seen. His voice rose in pitch with his excitement.

“Come!” he said suddenly, jumping up. He spilled his tea, but ignored it. “Let me show you what

it’s like on the inside. You won’t believe that either.” Clearly, this was the most novel event of his entire

life. Turns out, of mine, too.

We penetrated the flowery shower curtain and returned to his so-called laboratory, after firing up

more cigars. He led me to the dissecting table. He’d slit the creature from stem to stern. Placing a chest

retractor in the slit, he ratcheted open the creature’s torso.

“Look,” he said in a hushed tone, shining a bright surgical light into the body. “This is amazing,

like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Apart from some sinews and blood vessels around the inside wall, the body cavity was empty, as

if he’d already gutted the creature and cleaned it thoroughly. Surprised, I looked up.


“Interesting, yes?” he said with a smirk, and then answered my thought. “No, I have not

eviscerated it.” I continued to stare into the empty cavity of what was clearly a monster from late night

TV. “Now, look.” He turned it over and showed me a flap he’d cut into the back of the head.

“You’re wondering where its internal organs are,” he said with increasing excitement. “So did I.”

With a dramatic gesture, he lifted the flap and showed me an unbelievable sight.

“Here!” he said triumphantly, “miniaturized and moved to within the skull!”

He paused to let that sink in.

“Its head is enormous for its body size and I suspected a huge brain. Indeed, his brain is large —

larger than ours by far. But the head size has increased not only because of the larger brain, but also to

contain tiny lungs, two small hearts —a clever redundancy should one fail— and some kind of shrunken

digestive system. There appears to be no actual stomach. Digestion seems to take place all along the

alimentary canal with no elimination. That means it completely absorbs its food. It must eat something

highly nutritious with no waste. Perhaps a pill or concentrate. Its lungs appear to be able to withdraw

oxygen from both gaseous and liquid environments.

“This is the most extraordinary specimen I’ve ever seen!” he concluded his tour of the alien’s

innards. “The more I study it,” he said in awe, “the more convinced I am, it is not of this Earth.”

I heartily agreed, thinking extraterrestrial, too. Finally able to speak and not teasing now, I said,

“So you’re taking my little joke about the green Man from Mars a bit more seriously?”

He nodded gleefully. “I doubt if it’s from Mars. But it’s certainly not from Earth.”

We’d actually been referring to the creature as a “he” with no clue whatsoever to its sex.

“What are you going to do with him?” I asked, following our usual male chauvinist conventions

about gender; i.e., what isn’t clearly female has to be male, right? Isn’t that why we call God Him? But I


digress. Sorry. However, the creature had no evident genitalia. It’s crotch looked like Ken’s or Barbie’s,

that’s when we switched to calling “him” an “it.”

“You’re going to alert the authorities, right?” I suggested. “Call the FBI, or maybe the Air Force,

or NASA. I think they’d all be real interested in this guy.” See what I mean? “Guy.”

“What? The authorities?” He seemed shocked, fearful, then angry. “Oh, no! That would never

do! No! Never!”

“What then?”

“It is mine!” he almost shouted – insistent, possessive. “I found it. It’s mine to keep by all rights!

Mine! I shall examine it and get to know it much, much better. No authorities. No meddlers. You

understand? Do I make myself clear?” He was adamant.

“Okay. Okay, sure. I understand. No authorities. No one to interfere with your... uh... research,” I

sputtered, trying to recover. He was very insistent. And very agitated. My worries about him being a

serious nutcase returned with a vengeance.

“Yes! No authorities, no interference. No intrusive snoops poking around. Only in privacy can

Science be served.” Then suddenly, urgently, “I can count on your silence, yes?” His look was intense,

then he smiled, unctuously. “It’ll be our little secret, just yours and mine. Yes?”

I nodded, but wondered if I was breaking any laws agreeing to this strange compact. I wanted to

be a party to keeping “our little secret” like I wanted to start spying for the Albanian secret police. I

hoped there were no laws about not reporting a non-human road kill. I assured him his furry green secret

was safe with me.

“Look,” I said, trying to get things back to normal, whatever that was. “All I want is for you to

stuff and mount my fish. Whatever you do with your road kills —whatever they are, wherever they


come from— is none of my affair.” That seemed to reassure him. He became less agitated, and slowly

reverted to his impoverished Peter Lorre routine.

“Good, good!” he whispered. He bobbed and nodded and rubbed his hands together again,

favoring me with another of his hideous grins. His peculiar character was back, familiar and oddly

reassuring. “Come back next week. Yes, next week will be good. Your fish will be mounted beautifully.

My work is first rate, you know. You will see.” He hastily ushered me outside.

I ducked out the door into the chilly night air. The rain had stopped. The air smelled wonderfully

fresh and clean after the vile fumes of his lab and our cigars.

“Okay, then. I’ll see you next week. I look forward to seeing what wonderful things you’ll do

with my fish.” I fumbled nervously with my key, finally got it into the ignition, and drove off as fast as I

dared over the rutted, muddy roads toward the bright lights, noise, and chaotic familiarity of the city.

The night was clear and dark. When I left the woods behind and got to main road, I could see a

few stars. From time to time I thought I saw other lights in the sky, too. Fast moving lights that veered

and shot away at torturous, impossible angles. My racing thoughts of flying saucers and little green men

obsessed me. I’d nearly convinced myself I was being pursued by an evil-intentioned UFO when I

realized the bouncing lights were reflections of my instruments in the windshield. I laughed, but with a

tinge of hysteria. I’d been with that strange duck too long. His nuttiness was contagious. I looked no

more at the skies, and arrived home without incident, whereupon I poured myself an unusually large

measure of thirty year old Scotch.

As I sat sipping –make that, guzzling– some of Scotland’s finest, I decided I didn’t want to go

back to see the crazy taxidermist again, but I did want to retrieve my prize fish. A serious dilemma,

resolved, in my usual manner, by procrastination.


A week passed. Then several.

* * *

I was more than a month getting back to the taxidermist’s dingy shack in the woods. I was so

busy at work I’d almost forgotten him. That was a time when many dot-coms were crumping. My office

was a madhouse. We worked sixteen hour days. The market kept regular hours, but we did not. After-

hours trading continued nonstop. After weeks of this insanity, I felt so exhausted I could barely think. I

fell asleep on the phone talking to clients. Bad sign. The boss noticed it, too.

Finally, things slowed. Several of us got a long weekend off. With exchanges of false jollity–

“Remember, it’s not ‘29 again!”– I stuffed my papers into my desk and headed for underground parking.

Jumping into my Boxster, I headed up the pass for the mountains. I had accidentally-on-purpose

left my cell phone in my desk. I told my secretary I was going to visit my ailing mother, although she’d

been dead for years. My mother, not my secretary, although she might as well have been. She, too, was

exhausted. I told her to take a very long weekend. She kissed me with thankful tears in her eyes.

After driving a few hours and desperately fighting sleep, I pulled into a backwoods motel, where

I crashed for nearly a day and a half. I ate a huge, artery-clogging, but delicious, home-cooked country

breakfast —eggs, sausage, biscuits, gravy, bacon, hash browns, and gallons of coffee. In the interests of

good nutrition, I had a small orange juice. Sated and rested, I headed toward the taxidermist’s cabin.

Darkness had fallen when I got to his dirt road and turned off the state route. Naturally, it was

raining again. In the distance thunder rumbled and I saw a few flashes of lightning. We seldom get rain-

pyrotechnics in Seattle and I enjoyed the novelty.

I drove slowly down his rutted road so not to get too much mud on the Porsche’s mirror finish or

beat its rack-and-pinion steering senseless. His cabin was dark. No surprise.


I grabbed my LED flashlight from the glove box, flicked it on and walked to his door. I knocked,

then called. No response. I tried again. Nothing. Just the sounds of wind sighing in the pines and the soft

patter of rain all around me. I debated about barging in when I realized the wind sound was mixed with a

whispering voice. “Come in,” it breathed softly. “Come in....”

I shoved the sagging door. It swung open with a prolonged, agonized creak of which the old

“Inner Sanctum” radio show would have been justly proud. His living room was nearly dark, but his

voice breathily whispered again. “Come in... Pleas-s-s-e.” His voice sounded pleading, sick, distant. I

shuddered and stepped into the turbid interior. I could see shapes, but not make out what they were. A

thick candle guttered near a heavily draped figure, sitting in the corner easy chair by the stone fireplace.

“Do come in....” the raspy voice whispered again. It faltered: “Sorry... I’m unable ... to come to

the door... to greet you.... I am... uh... rather indisposed.”

“Doctor Dead, so sorry to disturb you,” I replied. “I’ve been terribly busy these past weeks, and

finally I got a break so I came for my fish. Sorry to hear you’ve been sick.”

All I could see was his head and some of his face, barely discernible in the flickering shadows

cast by the failing candle. He looked like the old taxidermist, and yet in an unearthly way, he did not.

“Not sick, exactly. Indisposed. Your fish awaits you,” he hissed in return. “I think you’ll be

pleas-s-sed with the results-s-s.”

I asked if I could do anything for him. He said no, he was feeling better. I explained, again, that

I’d been very busy at work or would have come for my fish sooner. He waved my protests aside and

directed me through the flowered shower curtain into his so-called laboratory.

I parted the plastic curtains and entered. The lab was dark so I flicked on my flashlight to look

for the switch. Then, I spotted my big salmon, mounted, and hanging on the wall. My light revealed it


was expertly displayed on a fine piece of painted alder. His artistry was amazing: he’d painted the board

a mottled blue-green with shadowy rocks and underwater plants in the background. Dappled sunlight

seemed to sparkle here and there. It was a brilliant piece of work. So lifelike.

I stepped closer to inspect the detail. That’s when the salmon moved — slowly, sinuously

swimming. It’s gill slits opened and closed as if it rested in a deep pool, slowly gathering strength for its

final assault on the falls upstream. I could not believe it. Somehow, it was alive!

I must be imagining things, was my first thought. It’s a trick of the light. I moved to one side, but

my fish continued its uncanny motions. I flashed my light around until I located the room light switch.

The dissecting table floods filled the room. I could see clearly this was not an illusion. The salmon

gently, steadily churned in its painted, rocky, sunlight dappled pool.

I uttered a small shriek. Maybe not so small... Whatever.

“Ah, you like it!” Doctor Dead’s voice rasped through the curtain from the other room. “It’s a

new technique. Something I learned from those... well, never mind. Anyway. Looks almost alive,

doesn’t it? I plan to animate all the creatures in my little menagerie the same way.”

I moved closer to the display and lit the grotesque, undead fish with the full brilliance of my

LED flashlight. It was every bit as lifelike as a fish in an aquarium. Its mouth opened and closed in

rhythm with its gills. Its lateral and ventral fins made small corrective movements as if adjusting for

eddies of cold stream water that roiled around it. Sinuous subtle oscillations rippled down its body and

flowed through its tail fin.

“It looks very much alive...” I whispered as I backed away from what I now regarded as an

aquatic zombie. “How did you...?”

Suddenly, a place that had always felt strange, but in a colorful and amusing way, now took on a


weird, grotesque, and very sinister aspect. I no longer wanted my prize fish. I only wanted out of there

and as far away from Doctor Dead as I could get.

I backed away from the uncanny fish. I yanked back the curtain to his living room. I shone my

bright little flashlight on Doctor Dead. Or what might have been him, once. I froze for the second time

that night. I recognized the figure as him, but he was distorted, transformed. He resembled the queer

alien creature that so recently had joined his zany zoo.

“What the hell is going on here?” squeaked from my strangled throat. My voice fell to a rasping

whisper as I beheld his bulbous head and huge, opaque, almond-shaped eyes. “Is this your idea of a

joke?” I was finally able to croak.

“I had a little accident,” he said. “S-s-s-it down. I’ll tell you all about it.”

As he hissed these words, his hand slipped from under his drape, grabbed my wrist, and pushed

my flashlight away from his face. The strength of his hand surprised me. I glanced down to discover to

my horror the three-fingered iron grip that held my wrist. Sharp, animal-like nails tipped each digit so

his hand was more like a claw or talon. He had no thumb.

What the fuck happened here? As if I’d said this last thought aloud, he spoke.

“God knows,” he whispered plaintively, “I need to tell somebody.”

Although I wanted out of there more than ever, the anguish in his voice touched me, and I sat.

Some still-sensible part of my brain hinted I’d best humor him. Or it, whatever he was now.

I swallowed, but my mouth and throat were dry. Still, I managed, “So, tell me what’s happened.”

I tried to sound casual. His claw relaxed its grip, but did not let go of my wrist.

“It’s complicated,” he said, paused. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

A triple shot of Scotch would have been preferable, but I nodded. He dropped my wrist, drew his


cloak around him, and scuttled to his tiny galley on the other side of the fireplace.

With the drape pulled up around him, I was able to see little of his body. He was a short man, and

stooped; but now he walked straighter, yet seemed even shorter. His peculiar gait I noted, but did not yet

understand. I thought about dashing out the door, but something stayed my impulse. Curiosity? I don’t

know. I recalled my earlier worry about poison in my tea. That seemed silly now. Something very

disturbing had occurred, and I wanted to find out what.

He returned with the tea and settled back into the battered lounge chair.

“I made a very foolish mistake,” he rasped in his strangely altered voice. “I should never have

dissected that creature and removed everything from its skull as I do with a taxidermy specimen. I

should have realized it was something really special, not just a peculiar find.”

“Why? What was wrong with doing that?”

Hesitantly, with his strange eyes downcast, he confessed, “Because... I killed it....”

“I thought it was already dead, like the other road kills you’ve collected.”

“When I showed it to you, it certainly looked dead. Now I know it was in some kind of

suspended animation, healing itself. I killed it when I dissected it. I removed its organs and brain, put

them in formaldehyde. After preserving the head, I mounted it on a pole and added it to my little zoo. I

made it the centerpiece, actually, gave it the place of honor. Of course, making it all the more obvious to

them what I’d done.”

I gulped my tea and asked if he had something stronger. No joy. “Them?”

He continued, “That’s when they discovered what I’d done and came after me.”

“They?”

“The others. His friends. Or shipmates, actually. Whatever they are.” He paused and looked at


me strangely with his opaque, almond eyes. “Just as you’d predicted....”

I’d not remembered my bad joke about the other “Martians” pursuing him until that moment.

“The little green Men from Mars came after you?” I croaked. He nodded. “How did you escape?”

“I didn’t.”

“No? Then, how is it you’re here telling me this tale?”

“Let me explain in my own way. Save your questions, please.”

“Okay,” I replied, as shivers ran up my back. I felt queasy, and the hairs on my arms rose.

After squirming in his chair, seeking comfort, Doctor Dead told me a fantastic, utterly

unbelievable, story. I relate it here, unvarnished. You are likely to decide that I, too, am just another

UFO-nut once you’ve heard this. You’d be right to do so. Like most of them, I do not have a shred of

evidence. But like every good conspiracy crank, I know who does: the Government, of course, whose

business it is to hush up and deny any of this extraterrestrial stuff. So all I tell you can be verified...

But I’m getting ahead of my, rather his, story. As best I recall, this is what he told me that night,

rasping and hissing through it all. Stupidly, I’d left my cell phone locked in my desk or could have

recorded his tale since he’s no longer here to tell it. But I’m getting ahead, again. Sorry about that.

“Late in the night after I’d placed the alien head in my menagerie,” Doctor Dead began, “I was

wakened by a horrendous noise of branches breaking and trees crashing, as if some giant stomped

through the woods. Through my windows came an intense, unearthly light. I looked out to find a huge

luminous flying saucer hovering in the clearing above my zoo. Some of the larger trees had been

knocked down and branches had been broken off as it smashed its way through the forest. I wondered

why they didn’t simply blast their way through with lasers or some disintegrator ray, but I later learned

—contrary to our common misconception— they have no weapons. They are, in fact, a peaceful race.


“I slipped out of the cabin and sneaked along the edge of the clearing. Peering into the zoo shed

through a window, I saw the alien head was gone, and I knew I was in trouble. I tried to sneak away, into

the woods, but they must have spotted me then. The saucer instantly turned in midair and came straight

at me. I ran deeper into the woods, thinking, in my foolishness and panic, they would not be able to

follow in their ship. I was wrong. They came right after me at an amazing speed, shearing off branches,

knocking down trees with no damage to their craft. The ship seemed invulnerable.”

My throat was dry and I tried another sip of my tea. Empty. No joy, but I couldn't interrupt him.

“I ran for the road, hoping desperately to find help or somehow to escape them. Just as I reached

the road, they reached me. They deliberately ran me down with their damn ship! They hit me hard. I

remember my back snapping, my head splitting, my arms and legs flailing uselessly, my body breaking

apart. I screamed in horrible pain. The blow was lethal.

“I was road kill! I lay in the dirt road, bleeding to death and nearly senseless, like so many of the

creatures I’d taken home and “restored.” Little did I know the same fate awaited me.

“Sometime later –I have no idea how long– I woke inside their flying saucer. I was immobilized

on a metal table, much like the dissecting table in my own laboratory. As I watched in horror –yet utterly

fascinated and fully awake– two aliens dissected me! They removed my vital organs, repaired some

damage, and exposed them under an apparatus that shrank them. They held my head in a kind of bracket

or clamp, opened the back of my skull, made some changes, and installed my shrunken organs there.

“I could see my own body was badly damaged. I wondered how they’d ever fix it. They had

another solution. They simply removed it. They cut my body away from my head with some kind of

laser scalpel that healed as it cut. My old body dropped away in moments. I observed it from the lofty

position of my disembodied head held tightly by their clamp! It was most strange, believe me...


“They retrieved the body of the dead alien. I’d placed it in a large jeroboam of formaldehyde in

my laboratory when I’d dissected their crew mate. They deftly attached my modified and enlarged head

to this small and seemingly fragile body —all without pain or sensation.”

Here, I interrupted his incredible tale. “They did all that and you never felt a thing?”

“They have a spray,” he replied. “If I became uncomfortable, or made a sound, or moved in any

way, one of them spritzed it in my face. As soon as I breathed it, I became immobile and could feel

nothing. Later, I made good use of this spray in escaping my abductors, but I’m jumping ahead. The

spray gave me a mild euphoric sensation, too, but that might have been from the astonishing experience

I was having.”

“Indeed! I shouldn’t wonder fer crissakes!” I exclaimed. “Hold on. I gotta pee.” He pointed and I

trotted to his tiny bathroom. I needed a drink real bad, too, but all there was was water...

I returned with a large glassful and he continued his bizarre narrative. “My initial horror gave

way to fascination and then real admiration. It was as if I were watching two professional taxidermists

executing a particularly difficult, but exquisite, procedure. They connected my modified head to the

dead alien’s body. Amazed at what I witnessed –and often appalled– they taught me a lot.

“Some of their animating techniques I applied to your fish to make it seem alive. I now know

how to do many other fantastic things. I will revolutionize taxidermy, let alone medical science. I will be

rich, famous even....”

His slit of a mouth smiled briefly, showing his tiny pointed teeth. I looked away, took a deep

breath, tried to calm my erratic feelings. And would have given my left nut for a triple Scotch...

“They finished with me and disappeared into other parts of their space ship, leaving me alone on

the dissecting table. I thought I might lie there for days recovering from their extensive surgery. But


sensation began slowly to return. I could feel my new, fragile body coming awake. I soon realized it was

not fragile at all, that there was nothing to recover from. I felt great! Renewed!”

He drew the drape aside and beckoned. I went closer to examine the “renewed” him.

“Instead of housing a batch of vulnerable organs, my new body was totally dedicated to motor

function. It’s designed to maximize it as a bio-mechanical machine, powerful and fast. Frail as it looks,

this body is capable of amazing feats of strength and speed. Believe me, I know because otherwise I

would never have been able to wreak my vengeance on them.”

He certainly looked different without his drape. But if what he’d said was true and not just the

megalomaniacal ravings of full-blown lunatic, I realized I was gonna have one helluva a time getting

away from him, with or without my damn fish... He went on with his bizarre tale.

“My brain, too, seemed energized in wholly novel ways. I have new thoughts and perceptions.

My brain buzzes with plans and ideas. Now that I was almost one of them, I could tell, telepathically,

where the other aliens were in the ship. I knew, too, what they were planning. Somehow, I understood

and spoke their whistling, breathy language.

“I was determined to use my new body and upgraded brain to the fullest to obtain my revenge.

Yes, they’d taught me a lot and given me what might be a superior body and brain, but I was not going

to allow them to make me their Guinea pig without a fight. Nor was I going to be shanghaied on some

interstellar mission of theirs, never to see Earth again.”

All his bizarre revelations were making me dizzy, but I could not deny them with the stark

evidence staring me in the face. I went back to my seat, sipping water, but I sure wanted that Scotch.

“Finally, I understood. In all its gravity, I realized the crime I had committed: I had destroyed a

crew member, wrecked him beyond the ability of their extraordinary medical science to restore. He was


necessary to them. A crew of three is essential to fly their ship between the stars. One of them could fly

it on short hops, like when they crashed crudely through the woods, chasing me. But for long range

missions, three was absolutely critical.

“I’d killed one of their crewman and inadvertently crippled their mission. But they would not

punish me for murder. They are far more practical than that. They are transforming me to take his place.

I’ve graduated from ‘road kill’ to ‘replacement parts.’ I’m not sure that’s an improvement.”

“Wait just a damn minute!” I blurted, interrupting the taxidermist’s story. “I’m sorry, but you’ve

overloaded my credibility circuits. Your spaced-out yarn is intriguing, but hardly believable. You’re

asking me to accept not only aliens in flying saucers –which really isn’t a novel notion and for which

there’s still no proof. But also that these so-called aliens have incredible surgical skills that enable them

to cut off heads and attach them to different bodies so they can assemble crew members like Tinker

Toys. Come on! You’ve got quite an imagination.” My outburst and my harsh skepticism startled him.

“What do you require?”

“Proof! Yeah, some proof would be nice. You’re like every other nutcase who’s claimed to have

been abducted by aliens and suffered through a weird medical exam, like anal probing, or some strange

surgical procedure. None of them brought back any proof either.”

I’d had quite enough of his UFO-alien-green-men-from-Mars bullshit, even though I’d seen the

putative alien – maybe just another of his amalgamated Frankenstein critters. Everything leading up to

that night had me stressed – my exhaustion from overwork, the long drive, the weird things he’d done to

my fish, and that he looked and acted weirder than ever. Finally, this creep show crap: they-turned-me-

into-an-alien. Enough, already! I had a 120-db migraine. And not a drop of booze anywhere!

“What kind of proof do you want?” he hissed, angrily.


“Well, let’s see,” I said, fuming inside. “Couldn’t you have stolen something? One of those

exotic surgical instruments, maybe, or just a screwdriver, fer crissakes, made of a substance that doesn’t

exist on Earth? Something that would convince me –and the rest of world– that you’re not just a psycho

or conspiracy nut. But no, you expect me to believe your goofball story just because it’s so far out.”

Slowly, he got up from the lounge chair. “Am I not proof enough?”

He threw aside his drape and stood in front of me. His body seemed frail and sickly, his head

large, his eyes bulbous. He did look like that creature I’d seen weeks ago on his dissecting table. He also

looked like a man who’d been sick for a long time, perhaps with some sort of wasting disease. Cancer?

AIDS? A crack addiction? Who knew? I went with logic, still trying to cling to my sense of reason.

“You said you’d been sick... I believe you, and I think you need medical help.” I meant

psychiatric help, too, but I wasn’t about to say that to him directly. “I know some excellent doctors in

Seattle I’d be happy to refer you to... If there’s anything I can do... just let me know.”

I’d stood up, too, and was slowly edging away, toward the door. The storm that had been brewing

as I drove here decided to strike. Rain beat down on his tin roof so loud, we had to shout to hear each

other. Thunder cracked and lightning strobed through the room, illuminating everything, garishly; but

instantly dying, returning me to dim wonderings of what I’d seen. Between the flash-bangs of the storm,

I tried to speak calmly and ease my way out. I struggled to keep my voice steady and even.

“It’s been a very interesting tale, Doc, but I need to be going,” I said feeling queasy with fear and

loathing. I needed to get out of that loony bin right now. He’d clearly gone round the bend, and I wanted

no part of him. My thoughts were only of my hot Boxster, sitting in his driveway, and how fast it would

carry me away. Nothing else seemed important.

“Why don’t you just keep the fish you... uh, mounted ... as a gift. Yeah, a present from me. You


could sell it. It’s very nicely done, and I’m sure your new technique would make it quite valuable to...

uh... to the right collector. So lemme pay you for your work, and I’ll be on my way.” I was babbling

nervously again, and I knew it. As I peeled a hundred dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to him,

my hand shook, the bill flapped. He ignored my money, my shakes, my urgency to leave. I peeled

another hundred.

“What do you require for proof?” he asked again in a flat, cold tone, ignoring my offer of help,

my “gift” of the fish, my two hundred bucks. “You would like witnesses? Yes?”

Before I could answer, he grabbed my arm again with his insistent claw and dragged me through

the shower curtain and into his laboratory. I gagged at the awful stench, stuffed my cash in my pocket

and grabbed for my hanky, jamming it over my mouth and nose.

The storm peaked. Thunder crashed incessantly and lightning flashed almost continuously.

There, on dissecting tables, two aliens lay supine. They must have been paralyzed, but were very much

alive. They hissed in their breathy, rasping language. I could see their fine pointed teeth through their slit

mouths. Their large almond eyes glared malevolence. The creatures were certainly real and real pissed.

“Let me introduce you,” Doctor Dead rasped at me, “to the other members of your crew. You see,

once I modify you properly, you can all be on your way back to the stars.”

He lunged at me. His vice-like claw gripped my other forearm, dug in deep, drew blood.

I yelled in pain. “Ow! Leave me alone, you crazy bastard!”

“You’ll do fine as a full crew once I transform you, give you a much-improved body,” he nodded

at my paunch and smiled. He pulled at me, dragging me toward a vacant dissection table. Nearby, I saw

a spray-gun apparatus that just might be the anesthetic-paralytic he’d described. I needed to get it. Bad.

Remembering some self-defense stuff the army taught me ages ago, I suddenly twisted my arms


upward, trying to break loose. No use. His grip was amazing. Then, I dropped and pulled down with all

my might. He’d not expected that move, which threw him off balance. He fell forward, pushing me

away from the spray-gun. So that ploy was out. But one arm was free.

I brought my fist down on the back of his head as hard as I could right where I hoped his skull

incision might me. I heard and felt bone make a revolting crunch. He sprawled forward onto the floor in

front of me. Both my arms were free. But he gamely launched himself at my ankles. I jumped back.

He’d missed me by inches. Just as he raised himself to come at me again, I kicked hard at his head and

caught him square in his pinched, ugly face. That slowed him. He screamed and I dashed for the door.

I’d not locked the Boxster. I bolted for the passenger seat. He was right behind me still, but had

expected me to go to the driver’s side. That gave me a few precious seconds to reach the glove box.

The latest style of car theft in Seattle was a stunt the gangs had borrowed from their in LA pals.

Several gang members boldly stopped cars in traffic at gunpoint and ordered the occupants out. Few

refused after the papers reported drivers being shot dead and dragged bodily from their cars. I had a high

profile car and was not about to give it up without a fight. So I’d prepared for that ugly possibility.

Just as he climbed into the driver’s seat, I pulled a Taser from the glove box and gave him a full

jolt. Super strong alien he’d become, he had little resistance to two hundred thousand volts. He jerked

backward convulsively with such violence that he shot out the open door and landed in a heap ten feet

from the Porsche. He lay there twitching and moaning. Foam and spittle drizzled from his mouth. He

tried to raise his head. No go. A nasty smell of ozone and burnt green fur hung in the air.

I scrambled over the gearshift, ripping my pants and gouging my cojones, but I rammed the key

home, and roared off into the night. I had little concern for the Boxster’s mirror finish or its suspension

as I fairly flew over the rutted, muddy roads. I had wild fearful fantasies of him pursuing me in the


flying saucer. I reassured myself he probably couldn’t fly it alone. And his “pals” were gassed and

helpless, laid out on his dissecting tables.

Moments later I got to the end of his rough gravel road. I stopped for seconds to catch my breath,

and tried forcibly to calm myself. I relaxed a bit, but must not have been lucid yet, as the only thought

that popped into my head was of my fish! My fucking fish!

I’d forgotten my damn fish, the zombie fish that moved under the tranquil waters of a simulated

salmon stream. Insane as I must have been at that moment, I did not want to leave without my prize. It

was utterly unique, and I wanted the goddamn thing. I suppose I wanted to salvage something from this

psychotic encounter... Yes, granted, turning the car around and going back there was a totally insane/

idiotic/impetuous/infantile —you fill in the blank— thing to do.

But that’s exactly what I did.

The storm had blown through. The rain had stopped and stars appeared. I put the top down for a

better view all around, doused the lights, turned the car around and crept back to Doctor Dead’s.

At first, the whole place seemed dead. No sounds, no lights, no movements. Nothing.

I turned the Boxster back around, aimed toward the highway, ready to make a speedy getaway.

Then, I killed the engine and just listened. The night was totally dark, no moon, some stars, silent.

Quietly opening the glove box, I removed the Taser and my LED Flashlight, held one in each

hand. I gently clicked open the door and started to get out.

His screams started then, and I froze, part way out of the car.

“No! Stop! You can’t do this to me! Leave me alone!” Clearly, the frantic voice of Doctor Dead.

A hiss, as of gas escaping. More protests, but quieted, languorous almost.

“Please, no... I don’t want to go... Please help me... Somebody. Anybody... Don’t let them take


me... Help me... Please... Help me....” his voice died away to a squeak. Helpless, pathetic, like the Fly,

caught in the spider's web, at the end of that eponymous film.

His pleas were ghastly and sickened me, but did not galvanize me to action. I did not move.

Whatever was happening to him, I did not want to be a part of it. At the same time, I knew a fellow

human being was in terrible trouble from creatures who were definitely not human. I cursed my

cowardice, my impotence to do anything useful.

He’d got himself into this mess, I rationalized uncharitably, he’ll have to deal with it. It’s not up

to me to go barging in there like Gangbusters and bail his ass out.

The bottom line was, I was scared shitless.

I could visualize the pictures the sounds made all too clearly in my head:

In chasing me, he’d forgotten about the two aliens, gassed on his tables. They must have

recovered and found him, Tasered and helpless, lying on the road in the dirt. With the impeccable timing

that makes me such a successful broker, I must have driven up just as they were dragging him back

toward his laboratory and... Who knows after that? It got awfully quiet. Maybe they’d gassed him again.

His protests had faded away.

I sat in the Boxster, Taser in one hand flashlight in the other, suspended, unmoving, listening to

the deeply silent dark, poised and ready to fight or to flee – the classic response of any animal

overwhelmed by danger and fear. I don’t know how many minutes –or hours– passed. Seems like

forever. Deep forest, dark woods, mountain silence. Tall conifers silhouetted all around me, black

against the star-studded sky. No movement, no noise. I’d almost convinced myself I should get out of

the car, go into his place, have a look around, and oh yeah, grab my cursed fish.

Then it happened.


The forest suddenly exploded into a giant ball of flame. Intense, brilliant light surged out of the

thick, heavy woods not far behind Doctor Dead’s lonely homestead.

I’m dead, I thought. It’s some kind of atomic explosion and I’ll be vaporized in seconds. But

seconds passed and I continued to watch, mesmerized, as a huge disc-shaped craft rose over the hundred

and fifty foot treetops with no sound save a summer zephyr’s caressing sigh. Standing on dense columns

of pure light, the flying saucer slowly rose, like some ancient god, from the forest depths toward the

starry skies. The light faded as it paused high above me, visible now only as a black disc where it blotted

out a big patch of stars in the night sky. The black patch shimmered, began to glow: red to yellow to hot

white. Then, in an instant, transmogrified itself through brilliant rainbow hues and vanished.

Farewell, doc... lingered in my brain as I stared, inert, at the starry spot in the night sky where

the disc had disappeared.

Putting my light and my Taser back into the glove box, I shifted into first and drove, ever so

slowly, back to the freeway, back to Seattle, back to the safety and sanity of the city. The top was still

down so the cool night air and fresh after-the-rain smells eased my fevered brain.

And what of the abominable zombie fish that started all this madness? I have no idea what

became of it. Perhaps it hangs on some government bureaucrat’s wall, who had to clean up the mess at

Doc’s place. A conversation piece now, forever eerily swimming upstream, lifelike, but utterly dead.

And I don’t give a damn.

Frankly, I’m a lot more curious about what became of Doctor Dead, but he hasn’t written, not

called, nor emailed, nor texted... Surely, if they have UFOs and can do miracle surgery, they have those

things wherever he is. Don’t they?


road kill original:final - · pdf fileolympic proportions. i exaggerate, ... i wanted to see...

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