Ice Storm

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The creature, a horrific mass of muscles, hair, and ugly red welts, lay on the operating table. It snarled, baring a set of long sharp teeth.

Exhaling loudly, Jean-Pierre Badon set down his clipboard. He took a moment to adjust his spectacles. Then he picked up a pair of gloves. His fingers shook as he extended them into the cool rubber pockets.

The creature snapped its jaws. Teeth slammed together. Badon shuddered. Just two days ago, he'd seen the creature slip its leather bindings. Its head had shot off the table. Its teeth had ripped into the exposed neck of an armed soldier. In a matter of seconds, it had nearly beheaded the poor sap.

Badon tried to steel his nerves. But his hands trembled as he picked up a paintbrush. They trembled even harder as he dipped it into a cup of red paint.

The creature, or at least the blood that ran through it, represented his greatest achievement. It was a breakthrough of epic proportions. It would lead to radical changes for humanity, for all of creation.

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