Proclivity of The Hand
Meanwhile, in Central Australia
Nathan carried Friedrich out the morgue.
‘Did you get him?’ Walter asked.
Nathan placed the boy on the sand and then shrugged. ‘He’s still in there. Never came out.’
The dog emerged, head shaking something in his mouth.
As the thing scraped against the ground, sparks flew. The dingo yelped and dropped his prey. The three fellows stared at the mangled crab-like creature writhing on the grainy surface. It spun and fizzed, a demented break-dancer.
‘What is it?’ Walter rubbed his hands as if one of his were missing.
Crouching, the dog eyed the beast and growled.
‘It looks like a hand,’ Nathan said.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The dingo skittered sideways as rays from the hand blasted holes in the plinth of the morgue.
The guys jumped back.
The dingo barked at it and then pounced.
Dodging the dog’s aim, the hand scuttled towards Walter.
Walter raised a foot ready to stamp on it when it stopped moving. But it kept crawling around like a rogue tarantula.
‘Don’t touch it,’ Nathan warned.
Walter placed down his stomping foot and sidestepped out of the hand’s way. ‘It’s crazy. How does it do that?’
‘It’s Boris’ hand. Told you he’s dangerous,’ Nathan said.
‘I know that,’ Walter replied. ‘Perhaps we could crush it with the pick-axe over there.’
‘Good thinking.’ Nathan lifted the axe and slammed it on the hand.
With a crunch, the hand gurgled. From under the heavy metal of the tool, fingers fitted with spasms. The hand then became lifeless like any hand separated from its master.
The dog crept up to the crushed hand. He sniffed it and then nibbled the fingers.
Walter observed the dog gnawing at the digits. Something was not quite right about that. ‘Should the dog be doing that?’
‘Probably not, but the hand’s dead now; just a bit o’ meat.’ Nathan seemed unconcerned. ‘One less hungry dog to worry abou’.’
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017
Feature Photo: The Morgue © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955