The Storage Units

The things that were once men were all facing the broken television. A constant hum of static entertained them, and they gathered round its light like moths. They were, I knew, storage—parts kept warm by the animal life which remained in their bodies. When he wanted something for his experiments, he wanted it fresh.

They were covered in scars and lines of black sutures. None of them were whole. Some were missing arms or legs or eyes—but even that tall, eyeless freak was entranced by the television, the shadowed spheres of his skull hungrily gazing upon the shifting glow of the screen. The worst, it seemed impossible that he was still alive: The creature was just a torso and two arms covered with red scars. When it moved, and I realized that that headless thing was still somehow, someway, animated…

“There’s another reason he keeps them,” that strange, disembodied voice said. “He’s a genius. He could preserve the organs any number of ways.”

I kept silent. I didn’t want those things turning around and noticing me.

“He keeps them alive, and it keeps the others in line. He can’t do it all on his own, he needs hands, but who would be loyal to a monster?” The voice paused. “That one, who’s missing the skin of his face, he used to be one of the good doctor’s assistants. Now, he’s a constant reminder to the others.”

Proceed