Evolving Crane Read online

  The Feuler stared at Piayas’s hand, relentlessly aiming the space weapon.

  “And we would be just as stupid to let you leave this meeting…alive,” Piayas grumbled.

  “Sir, why don’t we just reassign the Feuler?” Eliza asked.

  She was trying to diffuse the situation, but to no avail.

  Piayas held the weapon in an egotistical manner that equaled his own formidable character.

  Suddenly…

  Sskt!

  A colossal butcher knife pricked into the table, just above Piayas’s gun-clenching wrist. And-

  Chomp!

  “AAAAAaaagggggggghhhhhhhhhhh!” Piayas shouted.

  -Now-

  Let’s examine this butcher knife…

  Its monumental size has already been established. But the blade… Ohhh, the blade was a black slither of antimatter so thin that it vanished into nothing. Ideally, its victims get a flash of imminent peril, as it cuts before contact.

  Frankly, Piayas’s wrist became the blade’s bitch.

  “-AAAAgaaaaagggghhhhh!”

  Piayas screamed throughout the blade’s spiel.

  He grabbed his bloody, pulsating wrist, hollering, “Riaxon will rise! You will die! You moron!”

  The Feuler yanked the knife from the table and-

  -Klop!

  The blade wedged deep into Piayas’s mouth, leveling his jawbone.

  “Shut up!” The Feuler bleated, as blood splattered across the table, dunking in several faces.

  “AAaahhhhhhhhh!” Eliza screamed.

  The high-ranking officials gathered their perception, and the meeting went bonkers.

  Piayas stood, tumbling his chair to the floor while the Feuler towered over him.

  He chopped off Piayas’s other hand and then his right leg. Then, he sliced clean through Piayas’s abdomen, whisking off his forearm. Within a few brief seconds, the Feuler chopped off Piayas’ other arm and his shoulders.

  Standing behind Piayas, the Feuler reached over his head and thrust the knife deep into Piayas’s chest.

  Shuc!

  Slashing upward, he ripped Piayas wide open. His intestines slopped onto the table and sloshed to the floor.

  The Fueler diced through Piayas’s head, hacking his scalp off. It twisted across the room, bumping against the far wall.

  As the leaders sprinted for the door, the Feuler’s heavy cloak sat still in his seat of burden. It waited patiently, like a dormant, malignant disease. Then, suddenly, the cloak jacked into the ceiling.

  At the head of the fearful stampede, Eliza screeched to a doddering halt as the Feuler popped up, chopping into her head.

  Bash!

  “UUUuuughhh!” Eliza cried as a gory current blazed over the floor.

  Then, her arm flailed off into the air, and she toppled to the ground.

  The fear escalated with a riot’s worth of diversion while the leaders stumbled into each other, slipping in Eliza’s reserves.

  Then, the officials finally noticed, the Feuler was of slug descent, the exact same race they had been attempting to eradicate.

  In a variation, this disgusting and deformed creature was nothing like they imagined. The sight of the Feuler, in this light of exposure, was awfully sickening and paralyzing.

  His skin was gray with a hint of green and profusely sweaty, slimy, gleamy, and full of colorful spots and speckles. He was scrawny and lengthy, yet full of boulder-like muscles. The Feuler (also a butcher by trade) wore thick, beige, knee-length cargo shorts, frayed at the ends with a wide and chunky utility belt supporting his matching shorts. But then, the Feuler was barefooted, immensely fast, and still anatomically correct. And shockingly enough, this butcher had somehow split in half. Right down the middle.

  The Feuler’s left half (known as FL) and the Feuler’s right half (known as FR) were twins of the same demonic force.

  Because of this division, the Feuler’s locomotives narrowed to minor hops and leaps.

  His organs were exposed between the openings of the two halves. The various innards operated in harmonious agreement but on their own impulses. They seemed to be held in place by a thick, impenetrable sac of gelatin, which connected to the edges of each unique half.

  Several clasps flowed through the median of the Feuler’s hideous body. The locks may have been used to keep the gelatin sac in place.

  The crowd of principals scrambled back to the center of the room, the sight standing before their route to freedom was too horrendous for words.

  FL and FR stared into the herd of prey, communicating with a pair of hair-thin antennae that peeled out from the top of their heads.

  FR slid in front of the entry door while FL stood between the large table and the massive window. This position was a common formation for the Feuler, as it left the quarry dead center.

  FR darted into the crowd, cutting a portion of Straton’s face off.

  “AAAAHggghhh!” Straton bellowed as he hit the floor.

  Ordis instantly took off for the door, but FR spun around, dicing off Ordis’ hand.

  Zssch!

  “YYYYeaaaaahhhheee!” Ordis screamed.

  Paymer bumped into the meeting table as FL slid on top of it while Ordis was bleeding from the wrist by the main door.

  Then, from the table, FL tossed the knife into the air. He kicked Paymer in the face with a backflip.

  Crak!

  Paymer’s head whiplashed to the table as FL caught the monstrous knife, and with a downward swipe-

  Chop!

  Illian gawked as Paymer’s head thudded against the wall.

  Pawf!

  Paymer’s body slid from the table to the floor

  Ordis turned to open the main door, but FR was sticking to the wall above his head.

  FR gripped the blade in his mouth. He snatched Ordis by the collar and slammed his back to the door.

  FR spat the knife from mouth to hand.

  He slashed into Ordis’ stomach and raked at an angle.

  “AAAgghhhh!” Ordis screamed as his chest ruptured.

  “Cadaver,” FR growled.

  Illian Cronz bolted for the door.

  FL gripped his knife by the mouth and snatched him back.

  “Eugk!” Cronz squealed as FL slammed him on the table.

  Stabbing into his pelvis, FL slit through Cronz like a piece of worn silk.

  “EEEEAaaaaggghhh!” He cried as his flesh unzipped.

  FR chopped deep into Velleayan’s chest near the entry door, forcing him back into the table.

  As FL cut through Cronz, and with a circular swipe, the knife plunged into Velleayan’s head.

  Bish!

  Blood gushed from the combined attack.

  FL snatched the blade from Fice’s head as FR unhinged the knife from Fice’s chest.

  Their antennae twitched when Fice slumped to the floor.

  FR backed up to the door while FL slid from the table and back into the shadows.

  The stench of death filled the air—the once chuckling crowd of senators reduced to a sea of milky blood. And at the helm of this massacre stood the Feuler. The knife-wielding butcher had yet to gather the magnitude of this occasion.

  Since this event began, Riva Aakush was fixed on the front entrance, but FR stood between his goal.

  Qusar and Riva cringed from the hopeless affair. They found it difficult to gaze at FR for an extended amount of time.

  The sighting was just too unbearable.

  Qusar took refuge under the large organic table, hoping to be forgotten. Aakush hadn’t noticed, because he was too busy glancing about the room, searching for the Feuler’s other half.

  Whenever Riva would frightfully turn his head, FR would reposition into his line of view.

  “I think we…I actually don’t know what to think.” Riva whimpered, backing into the table.

  He spun amok, assuming the table was FL.

  Riva giggled in fear, then climbed on top of the table just as FR repositioned again.

  �
��UUUuummmm, I—I’m sooooo sorry about this…About all of this,” he pleaded, gawking about the bloody room.

  “I have nothing against the Flavius…”

  FR glared lifelessly before sliding to the end of the table.

  This positioning left the doorway wide open.

  “I—I just work for them,” Riva stammered, bursting into tears. “Please! I have a family, kids that require my presence!”

  FR gripped the knife’s handle with irritation.

  “I’ll do anything,” said Riva, wiping the tears away. “I don’t want to die. We can work this out. I mean, nothing is past negotiation.”

  FR didn’t respond, but his antenna subtly twitched.

  Gominis sobbed and sniffed under the table, attempting to conceal his cries, but fear had taken control.

  “You want quotoms?” Riva questioned, frantically digging into his pockets, dinging heaps of priceless coins to the floor.

  FR eased up to the edge of the table.

  “I—I— can have it arranged!”

  As Riva bargained with FR, FL slid back onto the table.

  “You can talk to me! The hell with everyone else!” Riva bellowed from the bottom of his heart.

  As the dreaded Feuler neared, Aakush spoke in an unknown language. That’s when FR crouched, anticipating a killing lunge, and instantly, Riva lunged for the door.

  However, FL was already on the table. As soon as Riva jumped, FL chopped right in the center of his head, freezing Aakush in place.

  Bakt!

  FR launched onto the table, slicing directly into Riva’s groin.

  Shusssk!

  As FR cut up, FL cut down. The blades met with precision, melting through Riva’s median. The cut was so fast that Riva never left the table, yet alone scream.

  To the Feuler, this was a splendid slice of refinement, but the horrible chef’s masterwork was quite distasteful to the eye.

  The slice divided Riva into two halves. But Akush didn’t have a dense gelatin sac to house his innards like the Feuler.

  So, as Riva’s halved body slid to the blood swamped floor, his visceral entrails oozed out of his skin’s casing, scattering in erratic directions, obscuring the flow to a disorder.

  Splat!

  The blood-soaked bowels and guts landed directly in front of Qusar. The plop of gore shook him past traumatization.

  He tucked under the table, grabbing his mouth.

  He immediately shut his eyes to avoid making any further contact. Because Riva’s face offered such a grimace tang in his process of death, and Qusar just so happened to catch a glimpse of this pain through his facial expression.

  Riva had been cut so fast that a thin haze of smoke sizzled up from the severing.

  The sound of crackling flesh, cooking, and bubbling, haunted Qusar’s ears. He cringed under the table, squeezing his eyes and ears until the sounds faded.

  And then…just like that, complete silence filled the room.

  Qusar waited and waited until he dozed off. When he finally awoke from his nap, the smell sickened him, the revelation became his only true reason for absconsion.

  Just then, the main entry door closed.

  Qusar stared regretfully, eyeing the horrors of disgust.

  The chairs were all turned over, the walls stained with gore, looking as if someone had mopped body parts all over the room. For the repugnant, butcher ate through this council like a cluster of starved piranhas.

  Qusar noticed a path leading to the entry door.

  His time had shortened, the lingering smell throttling him beyond bilious. He had already vomited before moving from the far end of the table. If he stayed any longer, the bloody odor would suffocate him.

  He could barely get the word out when he whispered, “Hello?”

  Gominis slowly uncurled from his fetal position. Finally, he approached the edge of the large table only to be engulfed with a lake of body parts.

  He moved even slower to avoid vomiting again.

  While still under the table, Gominis began to gag.

  The horrid smell was winning. Flawlessly.

  “Feuler?” Qusar softly questioned.

  He waited for a reply but only heard the soft crackles of flesh in response.

  He ducked back under the table and took a deep breath.

  Gominis shut his eyes and reached out to grab Riva’s half body. He dragged the corpse under the table and out of his way. But as he pulled, the organs toppled over each other, ejecting wildly from Riva’s flesh.

  He stopped and hurled up a grave amount of stomach acids, mucus, and saliva, then teared up and gagged again.

  “Shit!” He mumbled, yanking the cadaver out of his path.

  He stared at the door that sat in plain sight. He shook his head, wiping the tears away, preparing to escape.

  Gominis rubbed his hands together. “Okay,” he said as his quest for the doorway began.

  He crawled… slowly, and even slower from under the table, sticking his hands into the bloody floor, clambering into damnation.

  “Oh, God!” He cried as the gore engulfed him. “Fuck…”

  He scrambled back under the table.

  Qusar clearly hadn’t sided with himself, the uncertainty inaugurated deep within his psyche. He thought and pondered for a minute more until a substantial amount of time passed, and the meeting room filled with shadows.

  Gominis remembered calling out for the Feuler and didn’t receive an answer. He pondered if there had been any surveillance cameras or Info Grams active.

  Surely, the meeting had a scheduled time limit.

  Qusar grasped the degree of secrecy that came associated with Space Void. The event was so off the books that not even the slightest type of surveillance was considered. Because no one foresaw such a calamity. Qusar and his affiliates were so certain of their supremacy that the mere thought of a deranged butcher came quite droll in contextual thinking. Besides, no one would have the gall.

  ‘But how…?’ He thought. How did this happen? How did this Feuler intercept Space Void data and bypass security?’

  There had to be others involved.

  Then, Qusar remembered Paymer Ijan taking out an Info Gram during the meeting. He thought about using the device to relay a message to the other quadrant officials.

  Paymer’s body was only a few feet away. Qusar considered crawling from under the table, stopping in his attempt to escape, access the Info Gram (which may need decrypting), send the message, and then head for the door.

  Instead, he shook his head in disagreement.

  If he could clear the room safely, he could send a message to the lobby officials. Then he could send another message with his own Info Gram, which he left in his vehicle.

  Qusar had been thinking up a plan from under the table for a while. Finally, his need for freedom had become a necessity. The smell of the massacre and the sight of the profound blood pool had won by unanimous decision. Waiting was no longer on his agenda, not anymore.

  Breathing desperately, Qusar crawled from under the large table. Then, slipping in the steamy blood, he fell face-first to the floor.

  With his face drenched in blood, he jumped to his feet, sprinting as fast as he could, reaching out for the door as if it were in arm's reach.

  With so much adrenaline rushing through his body, Qusar could feel his hand touching the access panel.

  His hand flew off.

  Bouncing against the entry door, it soared over his head and whipped back under the table.

  Qusar stopped, looking confused and upset at the same time. He didn’t see his wrist sizzling. He didn’t feel anything, for his mind had yet to process the matter.

  He turned around again, speechless, still looking for his hand, which had traveled a great distance.

  Upon noticing his hand, the wound became final, the manifesting pain was a wrecking bash of dominance.

  Then, Quasar’s arm fell to the ground.

  Blood danced about the officials’ face as
he glared to his fallen limb. “NNNooooo…,” he mumbled.

  The shock of fear masked Qusar’s sensation as he forgot his discomfort. He turned to view the entry door, but FR was standing dead in front of him.

  The sight arrested his mental capacity. He never saw the Feuler at such a close proximity.

  FL approached Qusar from behind, flipping the mighty knife into the air.

  FL caught the damnable blade, and both halves launched themselves at Qusar. Streaks of blood spurting incisions attenuated from his skin like scanty slices of deli meat.

  Over a thousand cuts later, Qusar Gominis couldn't move.

  He watched as both halves of the Feuler stopped in front of him. FL and FR stared at each other.

  Qusar assumed that he only received scratches that the Feuler dimly applied.

  He thought to plead for mercy as he moved his lips, but

  instantly, his body disbanded into a thousand slices.

  The shavings were so exquisitely precise, that they fell in a surprisingly controlled manner, and for several moments, these slices flaked into a pile of useless remains.

  The butcher observed diligently to ensure that each sliver fell in its appropriate place. It was a gory carnage of art that only the Feuler could make.

  “Fetching…” FR mumbled.

  FL turned towards FR and their clasps reacted like solenoids, tandemly aligning the halves. The Feuler’s body mended with clicks, locking him back together with horrific perfection.

  The Feuler sheathed his massive butcher knives into the bloody holsters on the rear of his belt.

  The heavy, menacing cloak hung alone in the corner of the desecrated hall. It traveled about the air gracefully over to the Feuler’s exact location in standing. Then, the huge cloak descended from the ceiling, covering the irrational, psychopathic butcher underneath.

  Shrouded in mystery, the glowy-eyed Feuler approached the entry door with the exact bewitching speed as before.

  As the Feuler exited, the doors enclosed the horrors. The stomach-churning sight of gore, stinging in a stench like none other, was left to marinate.

  This evasive assault had ended, just as calmly as it began.

  Upturn