The Vorrh

water: breathing, at first barely audible, then growing, more in rhythm than in volume. The two men looked at each other as the suction and blow increased. It was one breath. One breath, made by all the inmates in perfect unison. It was, at the same time, disarmingly unnatural and absolutely understandable. Then, out of the corner of their eyes, they saw something move. They watched, aghast and open-mouthed, as the curled cadaver opened its eyes.
    Maclish paled. ‘Holy fuck,’ he stammered. ‘Oh God, no!’
    The doctor said nothing, one hand covering his mouth in horror. The tiny eyes moved, turning in their dead sockets to look directly at him. He stepped towards it, the wind of the breathing echoing in every part of the room. He stretched out a tremulous hand, the spectre’s gaze now focused into a question. The breath whistled in his ears, and he leaned closer to the abomination, finally touching its leg with the tips of his fingers. The eyes closed and the breath stopped, silence descending with such rapidity that both men flinched; but the momentum of the phenomena continuing to roll in their bodies and souls.
    Maclish drew his pistol from its holster and looked around uneasily, peering up the flights of metal stairs which dominated the building. Nothing stirred; even the rain outside was beginning to ease.
    ‘Bring that,’ he commanded the doctor, jerking his head towards the table. Hoffman wrapped the bundle and lifted it tentatively into his large Gladstone bag. They left the slaves to their silence and made their way out into the puddles and fresh air, the warden walking backwards, his gun pointing a warning back into the empty space, like a child’s torchlight prying into infinity.
    Back at the house, he stood panting while the doctor stared limply at the bag on the kitchen table. Maclish needed a drink like never before, but there was none in the house, and it had been over a year since he had taken the pledge. Not to anyone else – he would have broken that – but to himself. The contradiction and the lack of choice fuelled his anger.
    ‘What the fuck went wrong in there?!’ he shouted at the doctor, who shrugged and struggled to speak. ‘Is that thing dead or alive?!’ Maclish demanded, waving his gun towards the bag.
    ‘It’s dead!’ said Hoffman.
    ‘Then why did its fucking eyes move?’
    ‘I think… it was just a reflex action.’
    ‘For God’s sake, man! It looked at me!’ choked Maclish.
    ‘Yes.’ The doctor nodded unhappily.
    ‘What made this happen, what’s wrong with it?’ Maclish pointed at the carrier again with his gun.
    In a distant and strangled voice, the doctor said, ‘It wasn’t stillborn; it was aborted.’
    Maclish glared at Hoffman and very carefully put his revolver back into its holster, buttoning the flap tightly down.
    ‘You fuck,’ he said flatly. ‘Get it out, get rid of it.’
    He snatched open the door to the back yard with such brutality that it jolted, spraying water into the tension between them. The doctor left and Maclish shut him out, slamming his retreating figure out of sight.
    The amassed eyes watched in silence, through the broken glass, as the figures parted – construction of the Orm had begun, and all would understand its consequences before the year was over.
    * * *

    The uncanny should be no match against scientific curiosity, thought Hoffman on his way home. He thought it like a mantra in an attempt to drown out the horrific, impending prospect of unwrapping the bundle again when he got to the house. He imagined movement inside his bag. He thought about it opening its eyes in there, looking out at the darkness, trying to see him.
    He knew it was dead. He had seen the dead open their eyes before, had even heard them sigh. He had once seen an arm rise to noisily dislodge an unsecured coffin lid. He had even heard the case of a body sitting up, under its mortuary sheet, causing such dismay to the autopsy assistant that he spilt an entire jar of pickled onions over his lunch and a week’s worth of medical notes. Hoffman had handled the papers months later; the distinctive reek of vinegar had persisted, even then.
    But this was different. Those tiny eyes had conscience. Or was it just a moment of nerves? Dread brought on by that unnatural breathing, a suggestive illusion to make the blood run cold?
    The uncanny should be no match against scientific curiosity.
    At the back of his consulting room was a conservatory. Its windows were