Mystery Fridge

‘See, that wasn’t so bad,’ the Salesman said. ‘Phase 3 is right around the corner, and I bet that you’re just brimming with excitement to find out what it is!’ Trace was not brimming with excitement. The loudspeaker clicked off. Trace stood up. No sound, save for his own breathing.

The screen on the wall wound down like a haunted carousel after a night of ceaseless operation. Each scene of the final frameset might have been wrapped in tin-foil; empty echoes flashing across a faded backdrop of yellow etched plaster. Trace stood up, looked at his hands, still feeling as though they were maimed. Nothing. No blood, no bones, and no bruises. Even as the nightmare lingered in the back of his mind, he clenched his hands into fists and they felt perfectly normal, ligaments and tendons retracting with mechanical precision. He wondered if his blood was still filled with robots. How the fuck did she know? Was it part of the test?

Dead fluorescent waves of a surgical lamplight, teal glass tubes filled with black orchids atop  a stainless steel workbench, mounds of flesh, limbs, and prosthetic organs sitting in a lumpy pile in a dark corner. The body parts were used to keep test subjects functional. A placard mounted to a thin strip of whitewashed concrete between the particleboard ceiling and a clear plastic shower curtain acting as a doorway read ‘Zombie Factory.’ Her face was wrapped in a black surgical mask, hair was dark and pulled back tight, eyes hurt like burning chrome behind tinted lenses, severe and fierce as she slammed the syringe into the base of his skull. Green LEDs from a scantron screen flickered with sensory data, vital signs, and a beeping that reminded Trace of a fastfood restaurant. Then came the robots. Blindness. A soothing voice that was barely discernible amid the electric hum of an old LG refrigerator.

‘Don’t fucking move, it will kill you,’ as the lights dimmed from the voltage drain caused by her electroscalpel. More work being done. This was mad science. Traces’ head was pressed into what looked to be a repurposed toiletseat to keep him stable. Sanitary was pointless. This wasn’t a hospital. It might have been a black-market organ trade, or a dump for failed medical experiments.

She was displeased by his movement. Frayed leather belts found themselves around his numb body, strapping him tight against the gurney. His nervous system was flooded with a powerful inhibitor that caused him to hallucinate for the next thirty-six hours. The procedure was enough to make a butcher red. ‘Sixty-three types of mutant blood,’ she said, wide-grinned, ‘and you get to try them all. I think this mixture will be utterly effective. Lucky you.’