"The Casket Crew: Folds" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

They called us the Casket Crew in college, but we were something better than that. Janie was only seventeen, but she was a genius in biology. Thad was a brilliant surgeon in another life. I was just curious. I blame my dad for letting me get as far as I did. He’d slaughter the calves, and leave me the brains. Brains are mushy unless you do something to harden them. Like unset gelatin. Like cottage cheese.

We weren’t sure how long we’d have the formaldehyde so I conserved it the best I could. I boiled the brains, just like I did as a kid. We had to find the one person that wasn’t missing half his folds. Folds make you smarter. It’s like another ring in a growing tree. The ones we split had few folds. Opening them up felt like cauliflower. Pluck that glistening thing right out of the pod. If I cut wrong, the eyes would come out with it and I’d feel guilty in their dead stare.

Janie wore a lab coat. It had stains that looked like rust but it was blood. I think we all had permanent blood caked under our fingernails. It was part of the undertaking, only there was nowhere to take them to. They just kept going somehow, organic and melding with nature. Like a coma walking. They said nothing, ate nothing, and died after a few weeks as the body exhausted all resources.

It was like a death camp, but we weren’t responsible. We had to figure out why. We needed to find out how. I kept cutting brains, and Thad would toss the husks outside. We had to think of them as husks, not people. The only part that looked like people lay hardened in my hands:

Smooth and grey with no folds at all.

"The Missing Link" #Fridayflash

In the light of the examination room, it's obvious what is wrong with her.

"I'm thinking this was a bad idea," Thomas says. He looks to his colleague, brisk in a white coat with two Bic pens clinging to the lip of his breast pocket.

"It's quite alright," Johnson says. He pulls out a pen and scratches notes on his notepad. Moleskine, like archaeologists and artists use. "Where did you say she was found?"

"Basement in Ontario. The owner kept her there because he didn't know how to care for her."

"This is a great discovery. The very first cloned Neanderthal." Johnson chews on his pen cap. "The best part is that we have no paper trail to clean up afterward."

"That could never be integrated into society," Thomas adds. Johnson smirks.

"I think not, unless we shaved her like a mongrel. Besides, she doesn't know the difference. Look at her eyes. Not a shred of intelligent thought behind them. She's apparently very apelike."

"The Missing Link," Thomas says in wonder.

"Perhaps," says Johnson. He reaches out to the beast-woman in chains, perched atop the filing cabinet. She growls. He retracts his hand.

"Can she speak?"

"Not that we can tell. It's far too advanced an emotion for her. She's an animal."

"That eats raw meat."

"Nuts and berries also," Johnson reasons.

"How long until termination?" Thomas asks.

Johnson scribbles notes and looks at his watch. "At this rate? Not today. I wanted one last batch of samples. Autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow evening."

"I wish there was a way we could keep her alive. You know, for the research value."

Johnson smiles in empathy. "You can't grow attached to something like that. If she won't let loose of that leg soon…ah well. We can wait."

"The owner has been cremated. We're in no rush for the body part."

Johnson nods. "We'll deal with the activists later. Every night I'm sorely tempted to run over their tents. It's a media circus out there."

"Do they know of Neanderthal cannibalistic tendencies?"

Johnson shakes his head and slips the pen back into his pocket. "No and God willing, they never will."

Beyond the door, a break-in alarm sounds.

Source of inspiration.