That was what it looked like, and the thought scared him. Years ago, he’d taken a wart off his knee with Compound W, and the medicine had indeed worked, but years later the wart had returned in exactly the same spot.
Was something like that happening here?
The mirror was fogging up again, and once more he wiped it with the towel. He knew he didn’t eat right, drank too much, didn’t exercise, didn’t take care of himself, and he’d been worried for several years that he might get cancer or have a heart attack or something. Not worried enough to do anything about it, but worried enough that the thought concerned him. Skin cancer was the most likely, he figured, and for quite a while now, he’d kept a close watch on any moles or pimples or changes in skin tone on his body.
Which was how he’d noticed his belly button.
Which was why he’d thought at first that he might be overreacting.
He touched the protruding piece of flesh, squeezed it between two fingers. He felt nothing. He squeezed harder. No pain. No sensation at all.
He could go to the doctor—he should go to the doctor—but he was afraid of finding out that it was something serious. Or, as he really feared, something unknown. He had never heard of anything like this happening before, and it was possible that it was the first time it had occurred, that it had never happened to anyone else. Ever.
He might be the very first victim.
He combed his hair, shaved, brushed his teeth, and got dressed.
He went to work, tried not to think about it.
He kept hoping it would go away, but as the days passed, the umbilical cord grew. From one inch… to two… to three. He knew that it was an umbilical cord, and that was what frightened him. It was regenerating itself, but he was no longer inside his mama’s body and there was nothing for it to connect to. It hung down at first, but then it started to curve to one side, following the contours of his stomach. Would it just keep growing forever, trying to find his mama? He prayed that it wouldn’t.
The thought occurred to him that he could cut it off. After all, his first umbilical cord had been cut off after he was born and there hadn’t been any side effects. What if he just got himself some shears and lopped that sucker off?
But the truth was, he was afraid to do that. There was still no feeling in it, but it was a part of him nonetheless, and whacking it off would be like chopping off a finger.
It grew.
Six inches.
Seven.
And then it moved.
This was not just a shift in direction of growth, like before, an unobservable change that occurred over a long period of time or during his sleep. He felt it wiggle, and he practically screamed when it happened. Would have screamed had he not been in church at the time. He glanced quickly to his left and right, making sure that no one had seen any movement or noticed his reaction, and was gratified to see that everyone’s gaze was focused on the preacher up front.
The umbilical cord was cold, he noticed now, though that was not something that had registered before. It felt like a worm or a snake, and it slithered beneath his white church shirt, the slimy tip of it pressing against his right nipple.
He was filled not only with horrified disgust but with a sudden sensation of panic. What could he do? It felt as though it was growing even now, beneath his shirt, and he half expected it to pop out from the top of his shirt, whipping out from underneath his collar like some overlong pecker.
The cord moved to his left nipple, started down the side of his stomach.
He’d had enough, he couldn’t take it anymore. He stood quickly and excused himself as he passed in front of Jed and Travis and Maybelle, trying not to step on their feet as he made his way out of the pew and into the center aisle. He didn’t know if they could see the outline of the umbilical cord beneath his shirt, and at this point he didn’t really care. It might even be a relief to have his secret discovered. But despite the overwhelming feelings of fear and panic within him, despite the sheen of sweat that draped his head and was soaking through his cotton whites, everyone apparently assumed that he’d had a sudden attack of the runs or something and let him pass without even looking at him.
He rushed out of the church, threw up in the bushes outside.
His truck was parked on the street, but he ran all the way home, the umbilical cord sliding slowly and methodically over his upper torso, exploring.
He ripped the shirt off the second he was inside his house and the door was closed safely behind him.
The umbilical cord whipped out straight, practically pulling him off balance, then, like a tape measure being called back and rewound, slipped faster than the eye could see down his pants. He felt it slide through his underwear and press against his leg before tapping his knee and coming to a stop.
Chilton fell into his recliner, crying, tears coursing down his cheeks and great hiccuping sobs of fear and frustration issuing involuntarily from his uncooperative mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried—he must have been a baby then—and he didn’t want to be crying now, but he just couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, his own freakish body was attacking him, he was embarrassed and terrified and all alone, with no one to talk to. Everything was crashing down on him at once, and he knew that he was cracking under the pressure like some pathetic little pantywaist, but he just couldn’t help it.
He crossed his legs, trying to trap the umbilical cord in place, and sucked in his gut as he unbuckled his belt and then pulled it as tight as it would go, rebuckling. It was uncomfortable and chafing, but he figured it would keep the cord from moving around, and he slumped back, feeling drained. He was still crying, could not seem to stop, but he knew he had to do something about this and he tried to think of something, tried to come up with a plan. His brain seemed fuzzy, though, his thought processes muddled, and the only thing that made any sense to him was to stay here, in the recliner, and wait for it to go away. It wouldn’t go away, he knew that intellectually, but remaining here felt right, and he curled up and doubled over, and was grateful that he felt no movement in his pants.
He cried himself to sleep.
He awoke unable to breathe, his windpipe choked off by the umbilical cord that was now wrapped around his neck. The recliner was all the way back, and he was stretched out. His belt was still tight, his waist hurt from the leather digging into his skin, but the umbilical cord had escaped.
And it had grown.
He flailed around, attempting to suck in air but unable to draw breath any deeper than the back of his mouth. His whole head was hot and it felt as though the entire world was pressing in on his body. His feet kicked out at the elevated footrest, and his thrashing hands knocked over a lamp and an ashtray on the table next to him before his fingers curled around a pair of scissors.
He fumblingly tried to fit his fingers through the holes, but he couldn’t seem to work the scissors and was afraid he would drop them and his last and only chance would be gone. His vision was getting fuzzy, and he knew time was running out, so he held the scissors tightly and stabbed at his belly button, but he missed the umbilical cord and the pointed steel sank shallowly into his flesh.
His body jerked with the pain, and he screamed… only he couldn’t scream. The attempt seemed to deplete what little air remained in his lungs, and his vision darkened. He was dying, and he pulled out the scissors and stabbed at the cord wrapped around his throat and was gratified to feel movement. He still could not breathe, but the cord was sentient and it wanted to save itself, and it tried to move away from the knife without letting up on its grip.