Editing Average Human (section)

=Thread Two=

You find yourself drained after the day's events, and sleep comes easily. It seems as if only a moment has passed before the sound of a passing siren wakes you. With a stretch, you can see through the window that it's already day. Your clock reads just past 10. You don't have to be at work until noon. You scratch your head, turning on the TV and with a surprise, finding the news. Hrmm, where's Drew Carey?

The anchor is looking a bit disheveled as he reads from the teleprompter. The scrolling news bar on the bottom reads off like a quarantine, warning people to stay out of specific neighborhoods with only vague warnings as to why. You shake your head, waking yourself as you turn up the volume.

". . . fire fighters are still working to put out the flames. There's no word from the fire marshal on what caused the fires, but at this point, it seems as if the entirety of several city block will be a complete loss." The anchor looks off screen for a moment before a hand of an unseen man hands him a piece of paper. The anchor reads silently for a moment, then looks back at the camera. "We have more reports coming in right now. According to eyewitnesses, a man dressed in a business suit on the subway complained of chest pains before . . ." he looks off screen once again, his eyes wide, asking some unseen man, "Seriously?" before looking back and continuing. "The man complained of chest pains to the people around him, before, and I'm quoting from the witness statements here, the man began groaning, until he," he chokes on the words for a second. "dissolved, leaving a puddle of water where he stood." He shakes his head slowly. "This is just another in a long line of unusual, and, quite honestly, impossible reports coming in today." The anchor, who you recall is usually quite reserved and professional, drops the paper on the desk and looks past the camera. "Come on Jeff, really. What the hell is thi-" The signal cuts away to the station's logo and silence.

Well, that's pretty odd, to say the least. You get off the couch, leaving it to be whatever it is, and get ready for the day. You can feel the tensions of yesterday melting away under the streams of hot water, and it feels quite nice. Once you're dry, you dress quickly, feeling a lump in your pocket and finding the folding knife you took off of the mugger. Forgot it was there. Could be useful.

You stuff yourself with your cheap (a necessity when you're this poor) breakfast, and head out. It's not even 11 yet. You should be able to get to work a bit early, hopefully.

Once you step out onto the street, you realize the seriousness of the situation. You could hear a few sirens as you were getting ready, but out here it's entirely different. Two cop cars breeze down the street in front of you, turning around a corner a few hundred feet ahead. You can hear the sound of others in the distance, deeper into the city. Other cars too, seem to be going a bit faster than normal, where the road isn't gridlocked that is. 

You shake your head at it all, and hurry down towards the subway. The nearest station is a few blocks away, and you get there quickly, but when you do, you see a mass of people outside the stairs, looking down, talking to each other excitedly, their voices chattering. They all say variations of the same thing, "Oh my god," or "Can you believe it," "What the fuck is it?" "Holy shit!" or "Someone call the fucking cops!" You ask someone what's going on, and they look at you with a puzzled face. "I have no fucking clue, man." From down the stairs, you hear a loud scream, followed by a small rumbling noise and a loud, anguished moan.

You slide your way through the crowd, getting closer to the entrance. A few people are on their phones, but you ignore what they're saying, trying to get a look at what's going on. You get pretty close to the stairs, but when you look down, you can't see shit except for the same dim lighting that there always is, and the base of the stairs. 

You ask the person next to you just what the fuck is actually going on. He's an older Jewish man with a big nose and some thick glasses, a knit cap over his curly white hairs. He looks scared. "I can't believe it, it's like a movie, you know." 

"What?" You ask.

He shakes his head, he looks like he's a few inches from a heart attack. "It's the damndest thing," he says. "I was waiting for the train, and this guy down the platform falls down, right on the ground, and starts screaming. Then," he shakes his head. "I can't believe, but he started, I don't know, changing." You're about to ask him 'into what?' when there's another shriek from down in the subway, and the crowd goes silent. In a moment, a young woman appears at the bottom of the stairs and starts trying to run up. She looks terrified.

"Someone's coming!" One of the crowd says. 

And then you see it. Coming out of the shadows, you see the figure of . . . something. It looks like, you're not sure what, other than big, black, and hairy. It stoops down on the base of the stairs, sitting on all fours, pressing its face down into the ground and loudly sniffing, before looking up at the crowd. It's eyes shine in the light, reflecting a pale yellow. 

The crowd screams in unison, the people at the front, around you, turning and yelling, pushing against the people behind them. The woman looks over her shoulder, back at the beast, and trips over the steps, falling a quarter of the way from the top.

The creature begins up after her.

You look in shocked horror as the beast draws nearer to the girl, as she feebly tries to stand and run the rest of the way up the stairs. "Shit," you say. "Eat this, you hairy dick!" You yell, tossing your phone at the monster like a plastic fastball. Surprisingly, you manage to hit it. And somewhat predictably, it seems to have no effect other than momentarily surprising it before falling away and clattering down the stairs. The creature continues towards the woman, having almost caught up to her.

You head down the stairs, taking two or three at a time, getting closer to the woman. It's fast, and before you know it, you're next to her, and almost in front of the werewolf. You hold out your hands, ready to pounce, or at least press against it, your thoughts focusing on it going to sleep, or having a seizure, or whatever it is you can do. 

The creature reaches you, and you attack.

You try to reach out and touch someone, but god damn, that werewolf is big, and it's strong, and it's coming pretty fast. The beast slams into you, your hands barely sliding across it. It seems to feel some sort of shock, but whatever it was, it wasn't enough. 

The werewolf barrels past you like nothing, knocking you back against the wall of the stairwell and leaping onto the back of the woman. She screams out as its powerful jaws and claws begin to tear into her back, only several feet away from you.

Your breath was knocked out of you, bringing back memories of how you felt getting blasted by the explosion days earlier. You struggle to pick yourself up more quickly this time, staggering to your feet on the uneven steps, grabbing the handrail. 

You hear the sounds of ripping and tearing as the woman is torn apart from behind, spurts of red flying up, shooting from her back and out of the monster's jaws. Then there's a sickening crunch. You feel sick, light headed. But you know what, fuck it. This can not stand. You leap onto the back of the monster, grabbing onto it's thick hair and imagining you were some kind of god damned cowboy in the wild west. It responds in kind, trying to shake you loose. It likely would with ease, if you hadn't pumped its spine full of whatthefuck ever, causing it's entire body to convulse and shake, a mournful howl escaping it's jagged mouth. You can't see them, but its eyes roll to the back of its head, which in turn falls flatly to the staggered ground, unconscious. 

You catch your breath and look up at the woman. She's not moving, already unconscious. The yellow floral dress she was wearing is torn to ribbons in the back, stained read, strips of skin mixed with the fabric, sprawled out like some foul flower of flesh and cotton. 
She's in a bad way.

You stare dumbfounded for a moment, your stomach uneasy at the grisly sight. And then you realize, if you hadn't already, that if she doesn't get help, she's going to die. You look down the stairs, seeing your phone at the bottom. Hurrying down, you scoop it up. It looks okay, just the battery got knocked a bit loose. You're about to push it back into place when you look over the platform.

It's worse than the girl on the stairwell. Half a dozen people at least, torn to pieces. Quite literally. There's a bloodied arm, torn free, hanging off a trashcan. The rest of the body is several feet away. It's less a body, than chunks of meat and broken bones in a pool of blood. The rest are no better. People who tried desperately to run, their blood smeared across their torn and broken faces.

You cover your mouth and keep yourself from gagging, turning away and pulling yourself up the stairs with the railing. Near the top you see a pair of naked legs, a man's legs. The 'werewolf'. It seems going unconscious reverted him back to his normal state. Fleshy pink skin, covered in blood from his face down. 

You move past, trying not to look at the wounded woman. On the street surface, you see a few people gathered away from the stairs, looking at you as you emerge. The old Jewish man is in the back. You shake your head. "God damn." You say. "God damn. Someone call 911." You stumble away from the stairs, over onto the sidewalk.

You mutter to yourself and think of calling his home number, except you realize that you don't know his home number. Only thing to do is get over there and see what's up.

You leave the subway, and the slaughter within, behind you, and move down the sidewalk, ignoring the calls and shrieks of people entering into the subway to investigate. 

You aren't sure if the subway is running further down the line, or if there are other scenes just like this elsewhere. Walking shouldn't take too long, and shit, you could use the air. 

It does do you some good, and after a half hour of walking, with no interruptions save a few people running in different directions, or emergency vehicles heard or seen, you make it to Santoni's. You're feeling better, too. Getting some blood pumping through your veins seems to have helped. 

The pizza shop doesn't look bad. There's no damage. Windows are fine. Lights are on. Sign says 'Open'. You walk inside, the electric chime announcing your arrival. You can smell burnt pizza coming from the back, but otherwise, there's nothing amiss. No one in the booths. No one behind the counter. You walk into the back. There's no one.

What the fuck is going on? Where is everyone? Feeling confused, you walk back out to the front and are about to leave, locking the door behind you when you see something, or rather someone who wasn't there before. You're sure of it. The booth was empty a moment ago, but now there's someone there: a young kid, a teenager, taking a big bite out of a slice of pepperoni. He doesn't seem to have noticed you.

"Hey!" You call out to him. His head pops up in surprise, like a ground hog or gopher, or something. He looks over at you, his eyes big like silver dollars. He looks poor, maybe homeless. Old ratty hooded sweatshirt, thick bob of hair in a bowl cut. Dirt smudged across his face, except for around his mouth, which he's wiping with a napkin.

"Shit," he says, ducking down into the booth and out of sight.

You clench a fist, getting ready to beat the fuck out of this little kid if you have to, and walk steadily towards the booth. "Hey. Hey kid." You mentally prepare yourself for shocking his ass if he pops up, and you draw nearer to the booth. "You're not in trouble or anything. Don't worry. Just tell me where everyone is." You pop around the side of the booth and see it's empty. You get on your knees and look under the table. Likewise, it's empty. Huh?

You grab the table and pull yourself up. Where the hell did he go? Turning around, you're surprised to say the least. The restaurant is alive with sound, and full of people, busy for lunch as always. There are a dozen or so people eating at the tables. Dianne is working the counter, and you can see Santoni himself working back at the ovens. "Large Pep, extra cheese, coming out!" He yells out of the back. He sees you and smiles, " 'Ey, Franky. Good to see you made it. Hurry up and get dressed. We got orders."

You look around the restaurant, confusion brewing. What the god damn dingleberry dang just happened? "Uh, right . . ." you say, walking slowly behind the counter. You stand around for a moment, looking at the faces of the people, looking for the kid from a moment ago, but he's not here. 

You pull out your phone and check the time. Just before 12:30. With your phone in hand, you notice a spot of blood from earlier on your fingers.

"Hey uh, Mr. S. Why didn't you answer when I called?"

Santoni slides a fresh pizza out of the oven and sets it on the counter. He looks at you, his lips curled, "Wha'? When'd you call?"

"Uh, a half hour, forty minutes ago?"

He shakes his head. "Well damn, Franky. I don't even come in until eleven."

"What?" You ask.

Santoni looks at you questioningly, cutting the pizza. "You okay, kid?"

"Uh," you look at the wallclock in the back. It reads 11:30. "Mr. Santoni, I think I came back to early. I uh, I might need another day or two." You check your phone again. It still says half past noon.

"Yeah, yeah." He says slowly. "Go ahead. Get some more rest. You sure you're okay, kid?"

"Yeah," you say, walking towards the door and waving back to him. "Yeah, I will be." You leave the pizza parlor and look around. What just happened? Did everyone? Did you? That kid, what the fuck did he do? You pull out your phone once more, checking the time. 12:32. You put it away, and walk down the sidewalk, back towards your home. 

A man in a suit, carrying a briefcase and talking on a phone is coming the opposite way. You wave to him and ask him the time. "Uh," he looks at his watch. "Eleven thirty-two." He moves on by you without a second look.

It was easily past 11 when you left your apartment. And it took way more than a half hour at the subway and then here. Wha-

Wait. The subway. If it's 11:30, then it hasn't happened yet. They're not dead. Shit! You break out into a run, rushing down the street and avoiding people on the sidewalk and passing cars. You feel your stomach burning and your hands shake, and try as you might, you can't run fast enough long enough, and you have to stop to slow down each few minutes. You check the time. 11:40. You should be able to get there in time. You just have to keep moving forward, faster than when you came.

A light jog now, faster than everyone else. You'll be there soon, you'll be there in time, you know it. You have to. The streets are familiar to you. You pass them every day. And you're getting closer. 

Eleven forty-five, and the subway entrance is in sight. You stop at the entrance at the top of the stairs and look around. Everything seems normal. No blood. No bodies. No wrenching screams. Good. Good, you made it. You stand for a minute, catching your breath, letting the blood return to your head. People move past you, walking down the stairs. You see the woman in the yellow floral dress. The one you couldn't save. She's beautiful now, alive and vibrant, and she moves by you without a pause. You follow.

The platform is like any other. Like it is every day you take it. People mill about waiting for the train. The girl in the dress moves past them towards the women's bathroom. Guess that's why she was last. You breath deeply, looking around for the man from earlier. For the werewolf. You see the old Jewish man standing by a bench, a newspaper folded in his hands. But no sign of the werewolf. 

You move towards a backwall, moving your eyes around the soon-to-be abattoir. No, not anymore. You're going to stop it. And then you see him, walking down the stairwell. He looks normal enough without blood covering his face, only a well maintained goatee. White, a few years older than you, dressed in a suit with a briefcase. He moves without concern down the stairs, moving towards the center of the crowd and standing still.

You watch him, and you wait.

You lock onto him, watching him silently, clenching and releasing your fist. This whole thing is new to you, but you feel like you're getting the hang of it more and more now. Just touch and put him down. That easy. That easy. No one dies. 

You move from the wall, careful not to bump into anyone as you come closer to him from behind. He's rocking on his feet, passing the time and checking his watch. You slink up next to him while he's distracted. "Hey," you get his attention. 

He looks at you, curious. You get your first good look at him, real up close. He looks absolutely normal. Just an average guy.

"Hey uh... do I know you? You seem familiar... hey, were you there when that warehouse exploded a few days ago?"

His confusion expands upon itself. He shakes his head slightly, "Uh, I think you've got me confused with someone else, buddy." He turns away from you, pretending to look at his watch again. 

You stand in silence, watching him. It feels like an eternity. Each second draws on like an hour. You swallow hard, feeling the tension rising. Soon. It should be happening soon. 

There's the sound of a train off in the far distance down the tunnel. You look down into the darkness by instinct, and then you hear it. A groaning cough. You turn back to the stranger, the beast. He's looking uncomfortable now. His skin's growing redder, sweat's seeping through his skin. He grabs his tie and loosens it. You lick your lips ever so slightly. "You okay, man?" He looks at you, his eyes are dilating. He coughs, then groans. His groans turn to pained moans, and he grabs his stomach, his briefcase falling to the ground. He follows soon after, falling to his knees.

The people around the two of you move away, giving him room. He's bellowing now. His voice cracking and waving. It's not a scream. It's a howl, guttural and animalistic. But still quite human. He falls to his side, curled into the fetal position like a child or wounded animal. This is it, you tell yourself. This is it. He's going to change. He's going to kill so many people. You don't have time to worry if you're on your way here right now. You don't care about paradoxes or the universe crashing in on itself. Right now, all that matters is that this man is moments away from losing his humanity. From tearing away the life from a half dozen innocent men and women here. And most importantly, you can stop it.

Someone yells for a doctor. But you're already there, leaning down over him. "Hey man, are you alright." He's shaking now. You get in close. Face to face. He opens his eyes, just a slit each. The iris' contract and then expand. The retina changes into a dull yellow. No. Not anymore. You reach out, palming his face. "Go to sleep," you whisper. 

The beast's eyes contract again, pinpricks of darkness, and then his lids close, the shaking stops, and he lays silently, motionless. Someone leans down over you, beside you. A crowd forms. "Hey, is he okay?"

"Yeah. I think so." You reply.

You wrap your arm around his shoulder, "Hey, help me out here." Without thinking about it, a few people lean down and help you get him to his feet. He's still quite unconscious, as he's practically dead on his feet, though still breathing. "Hey, get his briefcase." You say. Someone does, holding onto it in front of you. "Help me get him up and outside," you say. 

"I got 'im," someone says. It's the old Jewish man from earlier. He gets on the other side, taking the briefcase from the bystander, and helping you to walk the unconscious man out through the crowd towards the stairs. 

"Do you think you should do that!?" Someone from the crowd yells. You turn around for a second about to reply when you see the door to the bathroom open, and the woman in the floral dress step out. You smile to yourself and turn back to the stairs.

You and the old Jew carry him up the stairs slowly. He's not that heavy of a man, but it's all dead weight, and the old timer is grunting through it as you draw towards the top. When you hit sunlight and the flat surface of the street, you motion with your head towards a bench down the way. "Let's get him over there." You both carry him towards the bench, setting him down as he slumps in place.

The old man sits next to him, wiping his forehead. "Whew. That was some work."

You rest your hands on your hips. "Yeah. Thanks for the help. He's uh, an acquaintance. I don't know if he took his meds today," you lie. 

The old man waves to you, nodding. "Pills, pills. Don't get me started on pills. I've got to take one in the morning to thin my blood. Except of course, it makes it so I can't piss. So I've gotta take another to make me piss, but then I gotta piss all the time. And then there's my prostate. Oye. Don't get me started on my prostate." He talks on for a while, and you nod, putting in a word here and there. His name is Saul and he used to work for a newspaper in Greenwich village until he retired, and now he does whatever the fuck he wants, including hookers young enough to be his granddaughter, he's not ashamed to say, laughing as he does. 

He stays seated next to the unconscious man, insisting on making sure that he's alright. For your part, you stand with your back towards the street, and if your earlier 'you' is there, where 'you' wont' see your face. It's nearly ten minutes before he begins to stir. Saul nudges him, "Hey, sonny, you okay?"

The man mumbles, his eyes glazed as he looks around. "Thanks Saul. I think I've got it from here. Saul smiles, getting up off the bench and wishing you good luck, and telling the dazed man to remember to take his pills, before heading down into the subway. You watch him go, and then sit down on the bench. The man is slowly coming back to consciousness.

You grab the man's shoulder, preparing yourself to put him under for the third time (by your count) today. "Hey, buddy." He looks over at you, his eyes heavy and half-closed. "You okay, man?" 

"Whuh," his voice is slow and mumbled. 

You look into his eyes, glassy as they are. "Do you know what happened back there?" You swallow hard, remembering the scene that was, and could have been. "What almost happened?" 

He looks at you, confused. "Who. Who are yooooou? Wha happened?"

"Francois. I'm Francois," you introduce yourself, giving him a moment to compose himself. "You passed out in the subway." 

He looks at you, and then rests his face in his palms. He sits like that for a minute, then rubs his eyes. "Urgh, I feel like I was hit by a train."

"You pass out like this before," you ask him. "Maybe in the last few days?"

He runs his hand over his face and through his hair, leaning back into the bench. "What? No, no. Never." He looks over to you. "I passed out?"

"Yeah. I carried you up here."

He nods his head. "Thanks. Francois?"

"Yeah." 

"I'm John. John Wolfowitz." He reaches out to shake. You take his hand and think to yourself, 'Seriously? Wolfowitz. Come the fuck on, that is not possible. Some guy is writing this and jerking himself off over the 'hilariousness' of this guys' name.' But the thought soon passes and you watch the man closely as he regains his bearings.

"Hey, what time is it?" He asks you.

You look at your phone. "Uh, one-thirty, about."

"One thirty!?" He says, standing up from the bench. "Shit, I'm late."

"Oh wait, wait. No, it's only twelve-thirty. Twelve-thirty." You say, getting up with him.

He looks noticeably relieved. "Still, I'm running behind. I've got to go. Thanks for everything."

You start after him, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Hold up a minute, John. There are some things we should discuss." 

He turns back, "What is it? I've gotta go."

"Are you sure you didn't get into any accidents in the last few days? You may have suffered concussion of some sorts. Just passing out is not normal."

"No, I haven't. Look, I'm fine, okay. I was probably dehydrated."

"What about that warehouse that exploded the other day. Were you near it at all? Did you walk by it later or something? Anything?"

He looks at you, shaking his head, and then he stops. "Wait. How did you know about that?"

"What happened, John?"

"Nothing," he holds out his hands, exasperated. "I just walked down the street to get lunch and saw this warehouse on fire. Watched the firetrucks putting it out for a while and kept on going. But I didn't pass out or anything. Wait, do you think it was like 9/11, with all the dust. Shit, do you think I'm gonna get cancer like all those first responder guys?"

"Listen, John. I was there, too. I don't mean just walking by it. I was there when it exploded. I got the shit knocked out of me. It was the most scared I've been in my life, until earlier today."

"What happened earlier today?" He asks.

"It doesn't matter," you say. "Not anymore. But John, something's not right. You're going to work, I'm guessing? Well, I think you might want to call out; if you had been standing closer to the tracks when you passed out... I think you and I should talk over what's been happening to us before either of us gets in any more trouble."

He smiles and laughs. "What the hell are you talking about?" 

"I'm serious, John. Something's different. Things have happened since that explosion . . . some damn weird things. I don't know where you work, but really man, take an hour off at least. I live a couple blocks away. Just come over for a minute, and let's talk."

"Uh, listen Francois, I don't know who you think you are, I mean, thanks for helping me, but this is getting a bit too weird. So I'm gonna get my briefcase, and get to work."

"John, you were going to kill people." You speak in a hushed yell. Your voice quiet, but harsh. "You were going to change, and you were going to kill a lot of people, and I stopped you."

"Okay, this isn't funny, I'm leav-" You grab his face and shock him. You try to not do it as hard as before, 'just a taste', as it were. John stumbles back, his arms raised. "What the fuck!" He yells, his hands going to his face, his eyes. He rubs them vigorously. "What'd you do!? I can't see. What the fuck did you do to me?"

You grab him, covering his mouth with your hand. "I told you. Things are different now. We can . . . do things, that we couldn't before." You take him with you, back to the bench, and sit him down. He sits quietly, his hands on his face, whimpering, asking quietly, 'what did you do, what did you do?' over and over again. 

"Don't worry," you say. "You should be fine."

"Should!?" He reaches out blindly, grabbing for you. You grab his arms, pulling them to his side.

"Calm down, John. Just breathe, and wait." It takes some coaxing, and he still whimpers, but he remains as calm as possible, given the fact that a stranger just blinded him.

But you were right. A few minutes pass, and he looks around, blinking. "I . .. I can see, a little bit. It's blurry. Like, waxy." He rubs his eyes. "Yeah, I can see. I can see!" He blinks hard a few times, looking at the sky and the street, and then back to you. His smile disappears, and he looks at you, fear on his face. "What the hell are you?"

You shrug. "I'm just a guy. Just like you."