He picks up dirt with one arm. And then another. The suckers on each limb grab at the dirt, and he throws it in waves behind him. There is Miracle Grow in this soil, he sees by the specks of white and the over-earthy scent. It makes his skin itch. His arms are red at the tips, the suckers are swollen. But still, he must dig.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It is a shallow grave, not quite six feet, as he\u2019d read it should be. He\u2019d never dug a grave before, you see. He was supposed to be somewhere in the Caribbean at this point, stretching his new limbs in clear, warm water. He was supposed to change color depending on his mood, or whether he was in danger. Yes, he might\u2019ve even been some other creature\u2019s meal by now. But still, that was where he preferred to be. Not here, not digging this hole. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The body beside him smells. The circular bruises on the corpse are purple, like rings of red wine on a white tablecloth. Or rings of experimental chemicals on a surgical table. The blood on the skin has already turned brown, like the rings of cold coffee on the ad he\u2019d found in the newspaper: Looking for Test Subjects\u2014Become One with Nature! <\/p>\n\n\n\n
With one arm, he shifts his spectacles on what is left of his nose, clicks the beak of his mouth. It\u2019s too dry here in Tucson; He\u2019ll need to find the nearest ocean. Where was that? Google would know. As he pats the sides of the grave flat, another arm reaches out, taps the password into his smartphone, which lays on the patio table of the fenced-in garden. The doctor sure knew how to cultivate begonias. The red, white, and pink blooms overflow the backyard. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
He chooses the quickest route, avoiding toll roads. He\u2019ll need a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a large coat. He hopes the doctor had one in his closet somewhere, for ski trips perhaps. He seemed like the skiing type. Then he winces, thinking of the doctor\u2019s smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe did it!\u201d Dr. Mitchell said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut thisss isn\u2019t what I want-t-t,\u201d he said. It was hard to talk with the beak. And it only got harder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cClose enough, right?\u201d Dr. Mitchell said, shrugging. \u201cWith more time, I bet the transformation will speed up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo, no, no,\u201d he moaned. \u201cThis isn\u2019t right at all.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s all right, Jeffrey. Really it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Had he cried? He had, and the tears stung his tender flesh. His panic seemed to encompass him. Even now, the memory of the disappointment brought tears to his eyes. He was supposed to be in the Caribbean. He was supposed to be crawling away from it all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then Dr. Mitchell hugged him, laughing into his shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSee, you can hug better now,\u201d Dr. Mitchell said. \u201cOh Jeffrey, the world will know our names.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So, he hugged him back. He wrapped him in his arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now, Jeffrey scoops up Dr. Mitchell\u2019s body with an arm. Then another. And another. It\u2019s not so heavy with three. His beak clicks because he had no more lips to whimper. His spectacles slip, and another arm sucks onto one lens to adjust, leaving a ring of mucus in its wake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He places the body and fills the hole with soil in a fluid motion, seven arms working in tandem. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
According to Google, the closest ocean beach is Puerto Pe\u00f1asco, in the Mexican state of Sonora. A four-hour drive. There, he\u2019d begin his destiny. And perhaps, by then, he would look as he was supposed to. Soft-bodied and beautiful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The eighth arm presses Start.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
________<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lyndsie Manusos’s work has appeared in <\/em>SmokeLong Quarterly, <\/em>Necessary Fiction, <\/em>The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and other publications. She lives in Indianapolis with her family and writes for <\/em>Book Riot and <\/em>Publishers Weekly. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"