Free the Flesh Pets is a novel being written by Dave Krause.
Here sits Charlie Fleischman, playing the part of a bitter old man, sitting in a Visua-Chamber wrapped in the projection of a beach, the waves perfectly curling into the sand. He can hear the frenzied screech of famished seagulls, the soft, nearly inaudible crunching of foot onto smooth untrodden sand. This sand, existing without footprints, decaying seaweed or any signs of life, makes Charles excited and mournful, so he presses a button on the remote.
The scene fades into a lush forest, Northern California redwoods each being swallowed by a mouth of ferns. The scene is lit by glowing bands of sunlight striking the ground at a contrived angle. A fat, clean squirrel shimmies up a trunk, the scratching of his claws making a pleasing, hollow noise. Charles feels that this is the sound of confident movement; of a creature intrinsically connected to the environment in which he has been thrust. The squirrel stops and stares at Charles, his nose twitching, and licks his paws. Charles returns the stare for a moment before pressing the button again.
The forest fades into a city park in the spring, new leaves hanging on trees, a lingering dampness hazying the mind in a numb lust. Children run and throw a Frisbee, catching it every time, and happy families picnic in shady spots all over the inviting lawn. A woman is reading a book, sitting on a park bench. She looks up at Charles and smiles.
The woman is wearing a lab coat. Charles moves towards her as the scene shifts into a lab. The woman's book becomes a clipboard. She laughs and Charles believes he laughs, too, until, seeping in from the sides, a shadow clouds his reverie. It is provocatively shaped, and penetrates the frame from every direction. Laughter is replaced by a sigh, as the woman frowns and gradually recedes down a long hallway. Clones of her appear, entering from doors lining the hall, and all frown and follow the woman away from Charles.
He runs after them, and, reaching the end of the hall, stops. The door is marked "Sack Ward 271." He pushes his shoulder into the door and enters.
The clones are lined up in rows, hundreds deep. He calls out to them.
"Claire!"
Robotic arms descend from the ceiling and grip each of the women. Their limbs are methodically removed and replaced with other limbs. Arms are replaced with arms, legs with legs. Only the heads remain attached in this mechanized dance. And on each head, he sees the same thing: a disappointed, disinterested gaze. Charles retreats from the room and tries to run away, but he is tripped by a gang of cat-like creatures, gurgling and purring and gnashing at each other. Charles feels them crawling into his pant legs, pushing and yelping as they work their way up, up, up his legs. They manage to all converge on his crotch, and Charles arches his back in painful ecstasy.
A man appears above him, his face occluded in darkness. The man leans over Charles and smiles.
"Quit fucking around," he says.
The man's opens his eyes and blood flows freely from the open sockets.
The remote falls and bounces off of the floor, clicking off the Visua-Chamber and rouses Charles from his delusion.
"Nurse! NURSE!" He screams.
The flash bulb fires, capturing Charlie Fleischman in his old man sweater flecked with some formally fluid substance; his face scrubby with thin gray hair barely disguising the cavernous scars; his hair but a crown of wispy white; his mouth agape, tongue set way back as if in death; his hands quivering, covered with a translucent, mottled skin; his dark eyes wide, caught in a panic, unable to break away from the Visua-Chamber's now silent screen.
A nurse enters the room, and turns on the lights.
"Now, Dr. Fleshman, what's the matter? Dream again?"
His mouth relaxes and closes, his eyes die down into repose.
"Yes."
"We can stop those, you know. No reason to dream if it upsets you."
"I'm not upset. I would like some whiskey."
"You know we don't have any whiskey, Doctor," the nurse says with a smile, gently slapping Charles on the shoulder. Her dark, long hair glistens even under the pasty fluorescent light offered by the room. Her porcelain skin, ruby, full lips and short, slim nose are in keeping with the current fashion. Her beauty is lost on the man in the photograph, for he only longs to see the other one, the one she was, the one who will appear again should the young nurse decide to bear children.
"How about something to calm you?"
"No, thank you. I'm okay now. I would like to go to my room."
The nurse pats his shoulder again and nods.
"Okay. I'll send Elian in to get you."
Dr. Charles Fleishman waits in a wheelchair for a man named Elian to take him to his room. He stares at the blank screen of the Visua-Chamber and counts the seams in the screen's wrap-around arch. He imagines taking apart the screen, unwrapping it and laying out the leaves on the ground. He sees a boat can be constructed from them, a small, light boat that will fit just one. One leaf of the screen will serve as a sail, while the others will make up the body of the craft.
I'm already launching out to sea, he thinks.
"Okay, Doc, let's roll," announces Elian as he enters the room. Elian's good looks are not as fashionable as the nurses, recalling a mode from a decade ago. His skin shows signs of aging, but not significant enough for Elian to swamp his finances quite yet. Charles imagines Elian will hold out for another few years before seeking an upgrade.
"Indeed, let us roll. I have some work I need to attend to."
Elian wheels the chair with the doctor down the hallway of the facility. As they move through the corridors, the photograph depicts many nurses, orderlies and other residents. The nurses all have dark, raven hair, glistening under the flood of bad, nursing home lighting.
Blog postings on the progress of this book: