The Arm

When an arm unexpectedly sprouts from his wall, the plans of a small-time thief begin to unravel.

Today’s piece comes to us from CG Inglis, a Stockholm-based writer whose work has appeared on SciFiORama.com, as well as in the Hart House and Danforth Reviews. You can find him on Twitter @viscereal.

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That evening, an arm emerged from the wall. 

It was very plainly a man’s arm – long, well-formed, and covered in a soft layer of brown hair. The hand was wide, with powerful knuckles. Twin crescents of dirt were caked beneath the nails of the index and middle fingers. 

These fingers appeared first, as the surrounding drywall grew gelatinous, and then almost syrupy. Inch by inch came the hand, followed by the wrist, forearm, and bicep, all the way to the curve of a broad shoulder. It seemed likely to continue, the shoulder giving rise to a neck, and at last producing a head and torso, but all at once, as if suddenly remembering its nature, the wall snapped solid; the hand contracted, its fingers clenching into a tight fist. Corded muscles strained. There was a final spasm, and the arm fell limp.

The occupant of apartment 1701 witnessed all this from the kitchen table. At first he assumed the fingers erupting from the wall were the legs of some large and particularly meaty spider. When his understanding caught up to his eyes, he flew upright, upending his chair and sending it crashing to the floor. Backing away, he watched in horror as the rest of the arm revealed itself. Only after the wall had sealed shut and the arm stopped moving did he remember to breathe. 

Hesitantly, he took a step towards it: far too detailed and textured to be anything else, this was, without doubt, a real human arm. Until a moment before, it had possessed life. Blood, presumably, still occupied its veins. A thin, white scar ran along the outside edge of the thumb.

The man tasted bile, and he was aware of a mounting pressure in his gut. He reached out to touch the arm. Limply, the hand bobbed in place. The man awaited some reaction, some change of state in the wall or the arm itself. But there was no change; an arm had sprouted from the wall and now it lay there, inert. 

A grin spreading on his weathered face, the man began to laugh. 

He was halfway through a cigarette when there was a knock on the door. 

Frowning, the man crushed out his smoke in an overflowing ashtray. He got up, traversed a dim hallway, and peered through the peephole. 

Bulbous and oddly distant through the fisheye lens, two agents stood in the hall. One was a woman, and the other a massive, stone-faced man. Their scalps were freshly shaven, and they were both wearing black goggles and jackets. As if sensing his presence through the door, the woman smiled. 

“Jonas Mira?” she asked, her gentle voice only slightly muffled. “We need to come in.” 

The man in the apartment swallowed.

“What’s the problem?” 

“The problem,” the male agent said. “Is that there’s a door in our way.” 

As if in apology, the woman spread her hands. 

“It’s been a long day,” she said. 

“Give me a minute,” said the man inside the apartment.

He hurried to the kitchen. Quickly, he grabbed a threadbare towel. Slinging this over the arm, he arranged it as best he could to hide any traces of skin. The result was what looked like a sadly angled drying rack. Given the state of the rest of his apartment, the effect wasn’t terrible. Returning to the hallway, he unbolted and opened the door. 

“Took you long enough,” growled the male agent. 

“I wasn’t decent,” Mira responded. 

Without waiting for an invitation, the woman slipped into the hall, and her partner followed close behind. The big man made a point of clipping Mira’s shoulder on his way past. Grunting, Mira ground his teeth. 

“You two got a warrant or something?”

Neither of the agents answered. Everyone knew that as far as their agency was concerned, no warrant was necessary. Still, Mira’s best chance was to play dumb, at least for the time being. 

How had they found him? His crack of the Institute’s security systems had been a thing of beauty. There was no way they could have traced him to this apartment. It could only be the arm; the agents were rumoured to have a nose for such things. “Breaches”, as they called them. If Mira was smart, he would have been long gone by the time they arrived. The problem was he had nowhere to go. He’d burned all his bridges and spent the last of his money renting this room. Until the sale went through he was broke. He’d had no choice but to trust his luck, and just like always it had failed him. 

The female agent sat down at the table. Her partner leaned against the refrigerator, one burly shoulder resting next to the towel that jutted from the wall. Neither of the agents spared it a second glance, their goggles trained squarely on Mira. He didn’t mind the attention. The longer they were focused on him, the better. 

“So,” he said, sitting down opposite the woman. “Let’s hear it.”

“You’re familiar with our work, Mr. Mira?” 

She had a pleasant, narrow face. Her bronze skin was healthy-looking and clear. She couldn’t have been much more than 30. As she folded her arms across her chest, the dark fabric of her jacket crinkled and warped. The room’s single, fluorescent light glared from the lenses of her goggles. 

“Who isn’t?” muttered Mira. 

“Then you know why we’re here.” 

Behind her, the big man smirked. Idly, as if just passing the time, he fingered the end of the towel. Mira forced himself to breathe. 

“Something’s off, right?” he asked. “A breach or something, and you two are out making the rounds, knocking on doors.”

“Just the one door,” said the big man quietly.

“Our methods are somewhat more straightforward than that, Mr. Mira,” added the woman.

“Well, sure,” Mira replied. “I mean, the Institute doesn’t mess around. Everyone knows that.” 

“No, Mr. Mira, it does not. So let’s say we cut to the chase.” 

She nodded to her partner. The big man grinned, and with a light tug, he sent the towel slithering to the floor. Exposed to the light, the arm was rendered shameless and obscene. 

“Interesting choice of decor,” the big man said. 

Mira fought to keep his face neutral. His back had gone prickly with heat, and the pressure in his gut had grown into a wedge of pain. He offered a crooked smile. 

“I had to try. Who needs the hassle, right?” 

“You got an arm sticking out of your wall,” the big man stated flatly. 

“It must have been unnerving,” added the female agent. Forearms on the table, she thread her fingers together. Her manner was that of an old friend, as if she and Mira had been sharing quiet chats for years. 

“I guess,” Mira said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. 

“And you didn’t call us,” chimed in the big man. “Personally, I’m hurt. All our efforts at community outreach, and for what?” 

“I was going to call,” said Mira. “Tomorrow, first thing.” 

“You’re comfortable sleeping in here with this?” the big man jerked his head in the direction of the arm. 

“Not comfortable. Unnerved, like you said. But so what? Stuff like this happens all the time.”

The female agent was nodding. 

“So it does,” she mused. “We’re in perfect agreement with you there Mr. Mira. There are times when it feels like no matter how hard we work, there’s no keeping up. Every day the Institute logs more breaches. I’m afraid the fabric of our world is growing threadbare.” 

“The paperwork is a nightmare,” the big man intoned.

“So what now?” Mira asked. “You gonna take some readings, cut that thing out of the wall for me?”

“We’ve already got all the data we need,” the woman replied. 

The big man flashed his teeth. With the tip of a finger he tapped his goggles. “Latest design,” he said. 

“No, Mr. Mira,” the woman went on. “What we need from you is information.”

Mira raised a graying eyebrow.

“Sure,” Mira said. “Whatever you want.”

“Where is it?” she asked simply.

Mira’s throat went dry. He had the sudden and acute desire to stand. Exhaling sharply, he forced himself to remain still. 

“Where’s what?” 

“The compound, Mr. Mira,” answered the woman. “The compound you and your partner stole from our lab.” 

Mira shifted in his chair. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

The female agent sighed. 

“We’re fully capable of tearing this apartment apart to find it Mr. Mira, assuming it’s here. But I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. After all, the property owner didn’t steal from us. You did.”

“Listen, all I know is, some guy managed to shove his arm through my wall and a couple hours later you two arrive at the door.” 

The woman appeared to consider this. 

“And you didn’t recognize it?” she asked, after a time. 

“Recognize what?” Mira answered, shifting uncomfortably. 

“The arm. Given your history together, I thought you’d have known it right away. But maybe we can jog your memory.” 

She nodded to her partner. Without a word, the big man left the kitchen. The sound of the door being opened and slammed shut came a moment later. 

“Honestly, I was hoping for better from you, Mr. Mira,” the woman said, once they were alone. “You’re obviously an intelligent man. You’d have to be, to overcome Institute security. But major breaches like this one are still uncommon, no matter how bad the wider situation may be, a wall does not simply sprout an arm. You had to expect a response.”

“Sure,” Mira said, his voice darkening. “Sure, I expected a response. But you guys work fast.” 

“We have to, Mr. Mira. A breach is a very dangerous thing, and despite what most people think, they do not occur in a vacuum. Certain conditions must be met. The man this arm belongs to chose to meet those conditions tonight. He did so by making use of a compound the two of you stole from us. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t left with enough to finish the job. I can only assume the rest is here with you, and that this man was, quite literally, trying to reach it. I almost feel bad for him. I’m told the experience of breaching verges on excruciating.”

“Hey,” Mira said. “Whoever this guy was, it’s got nothing to do with me.” 

The woman shook her shaven head. 

“We both know that isn’t true.”

Her diminutive frame was nearly swallowed by her jacket. The bones in her hands looked as delicate as those of a bird. To crush them, Mira felt, all he would have to do is squeeze. 

“Please don’t try anything Jonas,” she said, her voice almost sad. “I’d hate to see you hurt tonight.”

Mira lunged. 

He was up and out of the chair, arms outstretched, hands poised to curl around her neck, when a wall rose up to meet him. 

His body was flung back, the air ripped from his lungs as he landed in a brittle heap on the floor. He had no idea what hit him, but whatever it was had been solid, some kind of invisible barrier or fist. He was left gasping for breath, his legs feebly scrambling to bring him to his feet. The female agent stood above him. 

“The Institute ensures its agents are well protected Mr. Mira.”

She had withdrawn a small device from her jacket. It looked no different from a plastic key fob, the kind people used to locate their cars in a parking lot. A small thing, resting lightly in her palm. 

“A negative field emitter,” the woman explained. “Made possible by our study of the very substance you and your former partner took from our labs. Of course, this is just one of many useful applications, another being the ability to tear a hole in reality, to push oneself through a solid wall. A truly marvelous compound. I’m sure the two of you would have made a tidy profit selling it. A pity you chose to be selfish. Walking out on your partner while he was sleeping? That was harsh, Mr. Mira. He trusted you. And who knows? If you’d stuck together, you might have gotten away with it. Certainly we wouldn’t have had a breach to pinpoint your location.” 

Mira was still struggling to breathe. His whole body ached. A line of spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Once more he tried to stand up, but the best he could manage was to drag his back against the wall. 

“How could you know?” he croaked. 

“Obviously, we obtained a confession,” the woman answered. “In fact, our informant has been waiting patiently in the car.” 

The front door was thrown open. The trudge of heavy feet sounded in the hallway. 

“Ah,” the woman said, turning to watch as the big agent dragged a man into the kitchen. “Here he comes.” 

The man was shoved roughly into a chair. His bottom lip was split, and a wide stain of blood emblazoned the front of his shirt. His right arm was missing, severed cleanly at the shoulder. He had been left with a cross-section of muscle and bone. But there was no blood, no gore. The wound was, if anything, oddly reflective, as if it had been cauterized or stanched with some kind of transparent material.

“Hello Jonas,” the man said. 

“Andre,” Mira breathed. 

The one-armed man shook his head, strands of brown hair clinging to a sweat-covered brow. His dark eyes were wide, feverish. 

“Tried to reach you earlier. Guess you noticed.”

“Andre, I – ”

“Shut up,” the one-armed man spat. “You left me behind to rot. How could you do that? How could you do that to me?” 

The words caused Mira to flinch. A part of him wanted to shout back, to defend himself; he’d never been handed any breaks in life, never had any luck. If Andre’d had any brains, he would have thought of it first. Life was a series of betrayals. 

He kept his mouth shut. 

As Mira’s former partner glared from across the table, the big agent was making himself busy. He had a small device in his hand, very similar in shape to the one the woman had used on Mira. A slight whine arose, and the tip of the device glowed orange. The agent touched it to the point where the arm met the wall. Dead flesh sizzled and hissed. The rich aroma of grilling meat filled the room. Mira repressed an urge to vomit.

Within a few seconds the arm was severed. Before it could fall, the big agent caught it by the wrist and tossed it without ceremony onto the table. As Andre stared down at his former limb, his face began to harden.

The female agent crouched next to Mira. 

“Where’s the compound Jonas?” she asked. 

“The bedroom,” Mira answered. He couldn’t take his eyes from the arm, or from Andre, the anger and resolve etched into the younger man’s face. The rapid rise and fall of his broad, blood-stained chest. “Under a loose board.” 

The woman’s partner left the room. Andre was running a hand over the dead flesh of his arm. His breathing was easier now, his eyes shining. 

The male agent returned with a small package. He nodded to his partner. The woman stood up. 

“Gentlemen,” she said, and together she and the big man made their way to the hall. Andre blinked, shaking himself. A slow smile claimed his broken mouth. 

“Wait,” Mira said, struggling to get up. He still didn’t have full command of his limbs. His feet scraped weakly against the tiles. “You’re leaving?”

“We have what we came for,” the woman replied, pausing in the doorframe. 

“Come on,” Mira said, pleading now. “You can’t leave me in here with him.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mira,” the woman said. She sounded genuinely apologetic.

“You said I’d be safe,” Mira went on. “Told me you didn’t want me to get hurt.”

“No, Jonas,” she responded sadly. “I only said I’d hate to see it.”

With that she left the room.

The one-armed man cracked his remaining knuckles. He picked up his arm and, hefting it like a club, got up from the table.