Foreword

An idea that came to me while washing dishes and was developed even further without even thinking it through, Hybrid 39 is the result of pure luck and raw thought processes. It's a bit of a departure from my other works, but it definitely has my signature disturbing charm that readers have come to enjoy. Hopefully, you'll appreciate this as much as I do. Come one, come all, and enjoy the strange little idea that is Hybrid 39.

Hybrid 39

By Alex Moore

"Miss, there's only one sausage allowed per person."

My fingers, clutched tightly around the succulent little piece of meat, quiver for a moment before I let go. The man with the vomit-green apron glares into my chilly hazel eyes, and I shakily look back at him for a moment. Steam from the food pans beneath him curls upwards and caresses his features, making him seem more evil than before. His whole attitude is completely contradictory with the little patch on his apron: "Shepherd's Table Volunteers – Because We Care". I take a deep breath and slowly shake my head to say 'no'. I want that sausage. I haven't eaten in days. His thick finger points to my tray, at the meat that I have already placed there.

I sigh and clear my throat, mustering up my cutest little "she's adorable" voice. My brown-green eyes go big and wet, and I let my lower lip tremble slightly. "Mistuh? Please… I'm so hungry…"

A few false tears drip down my dirty cheek. Despite my efforts, the man in the apron shakes his head 'no'. I scrunch up my face into a ball.

My stomach does a few angry, gurgling backflips at the thought of not having another delicious sausage. I won't give up that easily. My left fist tightens slightly, and I begin to wonder how far back the man's neck will go...

Before I can make a complete fool of myself and earn a permanent seat in prison, a nudge to my hip shakes me out of my trance. I turn to see a hairy older man, perhaps sixty or so, who immediately frowns at me. His unshaven grey beard has bits of stray food in it, and his tattered blue t-shirt is about ten sweat-stains past the saving power of detergent. Blue plastic Wal-Mart bags haphazardly adorn his feet.

Silent, I set my sights away from the juicy sausage and timidly point to a chocolate cupcake on the counter. The man in the apron gruffly plucks it up and tosses it onto my tray. I stick my tongue out at him, pick up my tray, and scuffle to the center of the cafeteria.

My filthy, sandaled feet drag themselves across the equally filthy tile as I wander around in search of a place to sit. The tray of food trembles in my grip as several old, selfish, horny pairs of eyes look me over. I can feel their glares digging into me, and I lower my head.

After few more minutes of shuffling around, a free table finally comes into view. I softly plunk the tray down in front of me and take a seat in the wobbly plastic chair.

My food smells of mold and vomit, but I gladly shove it down. The first halfway-decent meal I've had in a few days, the undercooked rice and burnt sausages taste like expensive caviar on my tongue. I don't bother to use the fork; my grimy fingers shovel the food down my throat, leaving little room for breathing. A pitcher of ice-water sits, sweating and rigid, in front of me. I reach out for it and pour the drink into a plastic cup the volunteers gave me.

Gulping it all in a few seconds, I finally take a deep breath, and subconsciously tell myself to slow down. The puke-smelling steam wafts up my nostrils, and drool begins to form in my mouth. Carefully picking up the fork, I plant it into the sausage and take a heaping mouthful.

"You 'ungry, huh?"

I look up to see a skinny, unshaven black man with a tattered Dallas Cowboys cap sitting next to me. His chocolate eyes, no older than thirty, stare at me with a faintly intrigued emptiness. His torso is draped in a dusty black suit jacket, layered on top of a dark grey hoodie. He grins wide and shows me his yellowed teeth as he dunks a spoon into his rice and sausage.

"S'cuse me?" I mumble with a full mouth, spraying a few kernels of rice on the table.

"I say you 'ungry, huh?" He says in a drug-laden and adolescent-sounding voice.

"Um… yeah."

Suddenly giddy, he gets uncomfortably close to me and whispers "Whachoo eatin'?"

"Same thing you're eating."

"You know dey got all the bread you want up there, ain'tchoo?"

"I don't want any bread."

"Pfft. Erbody like bread."

And with that, he carefully takes a slice of his bread and places it on my tray.

"A lil' gif' for the pretty lady."

I ignore him, turning away and eating my food hunched over.

"What're you eatin'?" He says in a much deeper, grittier voice.

Fuck! Will you leave me alone, already?

I begin to grab my tray and walk to another table, but a pale, grimy hand slams it back down. I look up to see a monster of a man, 6'6", with icy blue eyes and a royal blue bandana wrapped around his forehead. He's wearing a blue-jean vest underneath an old windbreaker, and army-green slacks sag low to the ground, covering his feet. A deep voice, laden with grit and grime, addresses me.

"I said, what're you eatin'?

I twitch slightly, and blurt "Riceansausages..."

He grunts. "Well then… what's a pretty little girl like you doin' in such a shithole as this?"

I'm silent. My eyes are glued to my half-eaten food, occasionally darting up to the tall man. I can hear the black guy quickly gathering his things and walking away.

"I said-"

"I heard you, you fat piece of garbage," I interrupt him, my tone heavy with attitude. "I'm hungry, that's why I'm here. Give me my food."

I reach for the tray, but he pushes me back. "Hold on now, woman."

"I said give me my fucking food."

He shoots me a look, and roughly grabs my arm. "You better watch your damn mouth!"

Looking around for any security guards, he drags me by the arm across the little cafeteria. A tiny flame builds in my lungs. Heartburn.

Is anyone even paying attention? This gorilla is hurting me!

"Now," he grunts as his meaty hands yank and pull at my comparatively weak forearm, taking me towards the door. "You better stay real damn quiet and do what you're told, hear?"

"I hear, boss man." I say, mocking his gruff country accent.

He bares his crooked teeth and pulls harder. "Ooo, you'll wish you hadn't done that, blondie…"

My hair is not blonde… it's a light and sandy brown…

There's that fire again. Annoying at first, the fire builds and builds until an inferno begins to rage in my heart. My chest feels like its being stabbed with a white-hot spoon. My breath goes short, and suddenly stops.

The mountain of a man turns to me again. "…the hell?"

Gasps are all I can muster. I feel the hairy arm leave my wrist, and I collapse to the floor, writhing on my side and trying to get some air in.

Fucking sausages!

But after a while, I doubt that my poorly-prepared food has anything to do with it. I choke and struggle with my left hand on my chest and my right hand feeling for anything to grab on to. My vision goes yellow… green… and finally dark red. Scattered sounds of concerned homeless people are shut out, and silence ensues. My throat begins to taste like bile.

I painfully gurgle for a moment before a yellow waterfall of freshly-eaten rice splatters to the floor. Vacant and frantic, I sift my fingers through the hot goop, trying to find something solid in order to get my bearings back.

But it's no use.

With a sharp jolt, I'm able to breathe for a second before death. My lungs send out a bloodcurdling, raging, high-pitched scream. The picture finally fades into darkness.

I can still feel, though. Why aren't I dead and gone, rotting on the cafeteria floor surrounded by shocked and horrified eyes? The darkness dissipates, and I wake up, coughing out stray bits of rice from my throat. I begin to stumble off of the ground. On my hands and knees now. I can't hear anything.

Fire… another fire burns in my lungs, but this time it bubbles with a warm and sensual grip.

Suddenly feeling fantastic and oddly pugnacious, I hop to my feet with lightning speed.

My eyes scan the area. Everything is still red, and I abruptly feel an intense, humid heat all over my body. Immediately, I notice… everybody… every hobo and kind-hearted volunteer, every janitor and security guard, even the asshole in the green apron… is staring at me. Open-mouthed and silent, every single person in the room has their eyes glued to me. I'm not surprised – I mean, I just looked like I had a seizure, then puked about a gallon and screamed bloody murder in the middle of a crowded room. Why wouldn't they be staring? But… no one moves. Not a soul. Seemingly frozen in time, everybody stupidly stares and quivers slightly, terrified.

My breath is fiery, with a slight acidic aftertaste of vomit still draped on my tongue. I clear my throat, and uneasily announce the room: "Um… I'm okay?"

And with that final "-kay", a giant, burning pillar of fire emits from my mouth, completely torching the six-and-a-half-foot gorilla man in front of me. Flames bite and rip away at his flesh as he screams and screams and screams an inhuman noise that makes my ears collapse and my heart cry. He screams with a worse noise than I could ever imagine, with the unfamiliar screeching agony of death. He screams until I can't take it anymore, and I fall to my knees, inches away from the raging flames and the horrible smell of burning flesh and clothes. The gorilla's denim vest and windbreaker begin to melt into his skin, and a murky black cloud of foul smoke rises into the air as he rushes around aimlessly, burning, blinded, unable to decipher where he is. The flames rise higher, his crispy torso shivers for a moment, and his blackened body goes toppling to the floor, half vaporized, skinless, and writhing painfully for a few moments until he's gone; the diminishing flames crackle gently on his motionless corpse.

And it finally occurs to me –

"Oh no, oh God, oh no –"

It happened again!