Husk (19 page)

I had never noticed before through the television screen, but Franklin's skin was quite thin, like tissue paper. I watched capillaries expand and contract as blood strode its way through his system. My teeth began to ache, and I furtively reached into my pocket for a nugget of Dr. Rhodes' patent-pending shamburger and popped it into my mouth as the camera focus switched to the senator. The craving subsided as my tongue felt its way around the contours of the gobbet and, finding it satisfactory if oddly tasteless — like chewing a wad of old gum, flavor long sucked out — flung it back into the cavern of my throat and swallowed it down.

“. . . if we may take it as fact, something that you've gone on the record as claiming to be a fraud ‘perpetrated on the American public to achieve monetary gain,' your words on yesterday's 700 Club; if we can presume for the moment that Sheldon's affliction is genuine, how do you believe this bodes for humanity's future?”

The senator prepared to unleash her fury. “Well, we can't believe this, it is absurd on the face of it, and I won't dignify such a blatantly ridiculous question with a response. What these people are doing is nothing less than one of the most distasteful examples of public deception in American history. They make these harebrained assertions, backed up with highly questionable quote unquote scientific proof, and shove them through their well-worn channels in the liberal media to try to extort money from the gullible. It is a disgusting charade.”

Rowan rolled her eyes. “Then how do you account for this show's own medical experts—”

“I mean, look at the path they've taken, Franklin, really. Is this man really dead? What would any sane person do if confronted with such a creature as Mr. Funk claims to be? Did they take Mr. Funk directly to the
CDC
for examination? Did they report his condition to Homeland Security? Did they even call the police? No no, they bypassed logic and went straight to the media, Franklin. That right there should ring warning sirens in the minds of all right-thinking Americans—”

“May I interrupt here?” Rowan asked.

“Yes, Ms. O'Shea, you are Sheldon's representative, and I forward the senator's question to you. What do you say to these charges?”

“Franklin, what Sheldon is, is something unique. He is an absolute one-of-a-kind exclusive individual, and as both his agent and lifelong friend, I have an obligation to both represent his best interests and protect our investment. Clearly it is not in Sheldon's best interests to be poked and prodded and locked away for study. Whatever else he is, Sheldon is still a person, not a science experiment. What has happened here is remarkable, and the entire world deserves to know the truth, that the world they think they understand is still capable of surprising them. As such, we felt, along with Sheldon, that the best way to protect his interests was to take his case directly to the public, before government and corporate entities had an opportunity to get their claws in him and use him for their own selfish interests and subsequently deny him his God-given right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That is why we chose to reveal his existence to the world in this manner, to reach the largest audience possible, to ensure media attention so that he could continue his life free and unfettered by governmental intrusion — a platform, I'd like to add, that the senator herself has campaigned on many times in the past. Were those just words, Senator?”

Rowan's last barb sank deep into the senator's armor, and Kud's eyes bulged as her blood pressure rose in protest. My mouth watered as I watched her skin tighten, and I quieted them with another hunk of depressing fake meat, trying to relish the taste as much as I was enjoying the dialogue, but it was a poor substitute, a vegan hotdog. Tofuman. Far tastier was the senator's flailing. She had looked commanding and forceful going in, but she was already beginning to crack under the absolute insanity of her own arguments. Keeping up a wall of ideological blindness and arguing against well-nigh undisputed scientific acceptance on climate change was one thing, but it must have been exhausting to keep up the pretense when the proof was sitting eight feet away and conversing with you. I would have pitied her had I not a vested concern in my own well-being.

Franklin swung back to Kud. “Response, Senator? If all this is true, as the medical facts state that it is, shouldn't Mr. Funk still have the same rights and freedoms as anyone else?”

“Fine, Franklin, I will play along with Ms. O'Shea's little game. If we accept his condition as fact — and I do not, I want to be clear and on the record about this: he is not dead — the fact is, under our constitution, under any country's charter, living people have rights. The dead do not. The dead cannot vote. The dead cannot own property. The dead are to be properly disposed of, for religious and health reasons. Mr. Funk, should he really be dead, has given up any rights he may have ever had to life and liberty. If dead, he is not by definition a person any longer. He is a thing to be studied and then discarded.”

I'd had enough. “If I may. Butt in?”

“Please,” Franklin said, waving a hand in my direction.

“Franklin, Senator, the. Fact that a dead person has. Never owned property before. Is not a feasible argument. I do own property. I may vote if I choose. There is no law that explicitly. Addresses my circumstances. Until I am specifically legislated against. As a deceased individual, I will continue. To assert the rights and freedoms any. And all intelligent beings on this planet are owners of.”

Rowan continued, putting her hand on my arm, comforting the misunderstood fiend for the cameras. “And we will be arguing voraciously for his rights under any and all existing laws until we have exhausted every possible avenue. Sheldon poses no threat to anyone. We have been aware of his condition since it first occurred, and have been cooperating with authorities regarding any possible contagion. He is kept under scrutiny at all times. He has some unique dietary requirements that we have had to tackle, yes, but no different from if he was diabetic or suffered from a peanut allergy. Sheldon is a victim, the target of some sort of unknown virus, and we have made him fully available to any and all medical tests deemed necessary, but we will not abdicate his right to a private existence free of intrusion from the state, a right, again, that Senator Kud has repeatedly argued is a God-given right. With proper care, Sheldon can continue to lead a full and normal existence.”

Kud's face was turning red. “But—”

“We will return to our debate right after these words.”

“Clear,” the director said. “Two minutes.”

“You bastards!” Waves of heat floated above the senator's head. “You damned liberal cocksuckers—”

“If you can't stand the fucking heat, honey,” Rowan snapped back, whipping a pen from her front jacket pocket and slinging it at Kud. It whisked through the air and hit the senator in the dead center of her forehead, a blue dot proof of accuracy.

“Makeup!” the director yelled over Kud's cry of pain.

“Ladies, please,” said Franklin as the makeup girl rushed to the senator's aid and dabbed at the spot with a sponge, looking at me and giggling, mouthing
call me
. “Save it for the cameras.”

“And you'll be hearing from our lawyers, Pilato,” Rowan said. “This is cheap gotcha journalism. Good luck getting us back on this network — you people are cut off. No more access to the greatest story in a lifetime.”

“I sincerely doubt that, my dear,” he said, his rolling baritone dripping grease. “I've been doing this a lot longer than you. You'll get tremendous exposure from this. Besides, the senator has the right to examine your freak. We all do.”

“I'm right here,” I butted in. “You can talk to me.”

“I don't talk to freaks. Miss O'Shea, if you want to at all survive this interview, you'll keep your monkey on a leash.”

“In five, everyone! Four three two.”

“Welcome back. If you're just joining us, we are discussing the ongoing case of Sheldon Funk, the quote unquote zombie that has—”

“Franklin, I'd like to say something, if I may.”

“Mr. Funk, please, you've had your turn.”

“I don't think I have.”

“We will get back to you. I'd like to go to the senator first. Senator, as a representative of the American people, what do—”

“
I'D LIKE TO SAY SOMETHING!
”

“Dear GOD!”

Franklin's head flung back as the sense of his own mortality hit his eardrums, and a small flap of false hair dislodged from its lacquered spot. He gasped and patted at his heart as the loose hairpiece flopped back and forth. Senator Kud choked back a chunk of vomit, and Rhodes attended to his spontaneous nosebleed. Cameramen had abandoned their posts to deal with the sudden onset of deep intestinal cramping, and the screens now displayed lopsided shots of concrete flooring. The studio had gone quiet save for the noise of gelatinous splattery vomit from all corners.

Rowan stared at me, livid. Behind the camera lenses, through the cables and out the station into the airwaves of the countryside, the entire viewing audience of North America had likely just come down with a stomach virus.

Over our earpieces, the director wailed commands to his queasy cameramen. I waited until one of the cameras had been righted and focused on me.

“I would like to apologize for. Losing my temper just now. This is a very stressful time for me. And to be accused of fabricating my. Condition without the opportunity to. Address the claim is aggravating. I think that, before we can really. Have a substantial discussion tonight on my condition. We need to all be in agreement. As to what that condition is.”

Franklin struggled to compose himself. “Well, um, what would you suggest, sir?”

“The senator here. Has called me a fraud. She asks for proof. As you said at the break, she. Has the right to examine the freak. I would like to indulge her.”

Dr. Rhodes looked nervous. “I don't zink zat's—”

“It's all right, Doctor. We had planned to show. This later on. But I want this done, now. I would simply like the senator. To be more involved. She needs to see.”

I stood up and removed my jacket, slowly unbuttoning my shirt and letting it fall to the floor. Rhodes helped me slide my undershirt up over my head. My upper body was now completely revealed to the cameras and Dr. Rhodes' lifetime of expertise was on full display, live and in color. Where once had been a misshapen mess of skin and nails with wood underpinnings there was now an exquisitely grotesque amalgamation of flesh, stitching, plant-based adhesives, and tracks of interlocking metal teeth. Rhodes had used steel pins and leftover rib fragments from medical student autopsies to repair my ribcage, and at my request had repositioned my heart to its customary nesting place after first having it plasticized to prevent further decay. He had filled any excess spaces from deflated or missing organs with healthy squirts of foam insulation. Citing issues of access, Rhodes had then affixed industrial stainless steel zippers to my flaps of skin so that he could reopen and reclose me on a moment's notice. He also sliced new fissures into key areas along the front, back, and spine, again claiming such entranceways vital to his effectiveness.

I think Rhodes was just drunk on the idea of seeing what he could get away with. After decades of patching together aging Hollywood stars, Rhodes was a master of defying age and common sense. When it came to what could possibly be done with the human body, Rhodes was a genuine artist, and had finally received a canvas truly worthy of his talents.

I walked up behind Franklin and bared myself to the senator, nonchalantly holding my arms wide.

“Senator Kud, if you would be so kind?”

“This is ridiculous, I refuse to be a part of this . . . this travesty.”

“It's all right, Senator. I know what it is. To be scared.”

Kud looked to the anchor, getting the merest shrug in return. The senator was holding herself together as well as could be expected, but Franklin was decidedly freaked. She was alone in this.

“Fine. If it will end this fraud.” Kud arose and began examining the tabs, flicking them with her fingers and making comments on the poor quality of the effect, bolstering herself with false bravado. This was her moment, she knew, the proof of her unwavering character. Her triumph over this hoax, her unmasking of a trickster with nebulous motives, would be a cornerstone of any re-election campaign. She played her swaggering to the cameras with the required ease of a professional politician.

Even then, her voice was slightly cracked at its core. I could see the blanket of denial she had wrapped her mind in begin to fray at the edges as she went on, tugging slightly at the zippers, making lame jokes about shoddy tailoring while the seconds ticked by. Finally, she could postpone the moment no longer, and quickly pulled open one of the fastenings on my front, a fifteen-inch zipper that bisected my belly.

She stepped away. She uttered the mother of all blasphemies, bleeped for the broadcast.

The bulging mass of my entrails pulsed out slightly, held in place through tight packaging and Rhodes' attempts at adhesion. There were a few lengths of twine helping to hold it all in, woven into the casings and anchored around the spine, but this could not be seen from the front.

The senator took a pen and poked at the bundle. My stomach groaned a little, not as a result but with hunger, and the noise scared a scream out of her. I smiled a little at this, and Rowan and Rhodes loudly giggled. This emboldened Kud, and the sense that she was being made a fool of made a sudden resurgence. She prodded harder now, jabbing, until the tip broke through the skin and a dribble of my lunch squirted out over her hand.

“Please be careful, Senator. These are the only intestines. I have.”

“Oh my, my, my . . . my God.”