Mr. Morlock

By Lincoln Reed

I will eat you.

My meal sits outside of a prison cell’s glass wall. Tempting. So close. Inches away.

Eat you how?

“I-I just wanted to say I’m not afraid of you, Morlock.” The figure holds an object in his hands. “I know that’s not your real name. But that’s what you are. Like in The Time Machine.”

Teeth bare. Fingers twitch. His brains. Their taste. So good.

The meat is young. A boy. Not fast. Easy prey.

Break glass. I eat you. Now.

“This is one of dad’s books. His favorite. He’s your doctor. Says you zombies are like this wolf on the cover.”

Saliva drips. Chew slow. Drink blood. Crunch bones.

The boy glances at the hallway guard. “I can’t visit my mom. Dad won’t let me. If I could see her, she’d want me to read to her. So, that’s what I’m going to do for you.”

My knuckles pound the wall. A finger falls off. I chew it like a stick. Spit it out. My meal, the boy, grimaces.

Will you taste sour?

“We’re both stuck here. You in a cell. Me in a dormitory.” The boy continues, spine straightening. “And the best way to escape is with a good story.”

He leans forward. Thumps the glass. “Hello? Mister Morlock. You in or not?”

I grumble. Eat you how?

He wiggles in his seat. “Okay, here we go. White Fang by Jack London. Chapter one…”

Day 10

Meal sits outside. I bang glass wall.

His lips move. Noise. Noise. Noise.

Your throat bobs. I will bite it.

My stomach gurgles. Mouth is dry. Head itches inside my skull. Like a bee.

Eat you soon.

Day 30

Boy opens book. Reads again.

You taste good? I will eat.

He stays longer. Enticing. Tempting. Torturing.

Sounds from his mouth. The glass. I hate it.

Something inside my skull. It hisses. Louder now. Stronger.

Day 50

My meal visits again. Day after day. Reads about a wolf. What’s a wolf?

Eat wolf, I will. You first. Then wolf.

Day 75

Wolf has a name. White Fang.

What’s a name?

Boy is my food. Who is White Fang?

My fists punch the glass. No use. So, I sit. I listen. Head burns now. Brain aches.

Boy reads.

Day 260

My hunger for the boy. It fades. Where is it? Where does it go?

Appetite for White Fang is stronger. But not to eat.

Brain simmers now. Itches with craving. The boy’s words ease the burning.

You read. I listen. Brain eats.

Day 370

Bryce closes the final page. “You’re looking better—more human. Maybe dad was right.”

His head droops. “We’re having a Christmas party today in the dorm. All of the scientists and their families will be there.”

He lifts a bookmark from the volume. Reveals a picture. Bryce and his father, Dr. Richter, stand with a woman. She has raven black hair. Green eyes. Slender arms around Bryce, hugging his neck.

“Mom’s like you.”

What am I?

The boy raises his head. Eyebrows furrow. Fists clench. “If she hadn’t been bitten… she… she…” He pauses. “I can’t cure you. Nobody can.”

Bryce stares. I approach the glass and kneel, placing my hand flat against the wall. Another finger hangs, falls off. The boy frowns. Fists unfurl.

With his hand mirroring mine, he positions his palm against the glass.

Then without a word, he stands and heads down the hallway, disappearing around a corner.

Days pass. Nights linger. The cell remains.

It is home.

Scientists play audiobooks, music, and lectures through the speakers in my room. Weeks and months crawl onward. Dr. Richter stands outside the glass. Jots notes. Nods his head. Asks questions. My throat gargles responses. Just noise. Useless.

He returns and we repeat.

Year by year, I look for the human I once considered a meal. Often, I see the guard and mistake him for Bryce. The scientists don’t say where he’s gone. Dr. Richter is too focused. He feeds my brain more and more. But he says nothing of his son.

Then, one day, the words snap into place like puzzle pieces. Where is Bryce?

I mouth the question. Practice again and again.

A year later, I can mumble it.

But the boy is gone.

At the campus bookstore, I shelve our newest shipment of novels—fresh off the semi-truck—and return to the register. A customer gives me a paperback and I scan the barcode. She glances at my three-fingered hand and looks away.

The front door opens. A bell rings. Two people enter.

One is a bearded man, tall and muscular. With him is a woman, older, sporting raven hair. It takes one glance, then two.

He pays with cash, gray eyes set deep within his sharp features. “Professors make us buy the electronic copies,” he says, tapping the glass on the countertop. “But I like to hold the real book in my hand, you know?”

I set each volume in a paper bag and print the receipt. “Rather have a good story read aloud.”

“So does my mom. She teaches here. Professor Melissa Richter.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve audited her English class. Good to see her healthy and teaching again.”

Bryce takes the bag and half turns to leave. He stops, studies my face and fingers. He shakes his head. “It’s the funniest thing. That nametag. Marcus Morlock. But… you look nothing like him.”

“Thanks to your father’s research, nobody does. For that, I am most grateful.”

At lunchtime, my stomach snarls for a hamburger at the local grill complete with two fat beef patties, three strips of crispy bacon, fried onion rings, cheese, and barbeque sauce.

I plug in headphones and press play. Jack London’s John Barleycorn reverberates through my eardrums, scratching the insatiable itch within my brain.

It takes two hands to grasp the burger bun.

I will eat you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and editor. He holds a BA in film and media production from Taylor University and an MFA in creative writing from Miami University of Ohio. More than 25 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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