MicroHorror

All of the stories we used to tell, all of the movies we used to watch told us to watch out for the darkness. Don’t go gentle into the good night. Death was succumbing to darkness. Every imaginable monster was heralded by the setting of the sun, the coming of darkness.

The darkness was mysterious. Dependent as we are upon sight, darkness was an enemy. Who could tell what awaited us in shadow, what traps were set, whose dripping fangs were set inches from our unguarded throats. In darkness, our eyes played tricks, our ears strained to compensate–picking up every mundane sound and turning it into a threat that approached on quiet cat feet to take us unawares.

Light was always the refuge. Got a vampire problem? Wait for sunlight! Poltergeists running wild? Direct them to the light! Rage-infected monkeys gotcha down, run toward some light!

Light was the answer–until September 30, 2006. I will never forget that date. That’s when the parasites took over.

There had been reports of this condition, but no one in the scientific community believed it existed, much less had a inkling of what it might do. Sufferers claimed that insects of some sort lived in their skin, causing itching. Scratching produced wounds from which red or blue fibers may protrude. When they sweat, a black foul smelling substance exuded from their pores. Yeah, sounds crazy, right?

That’s what everyone thought. Eventually reports of this phenomena faded, another “mysterious” illness invented by insane persons with a need for attention disappeared.
That’s what we thought.

It was waiting, hiding in broad daylight. Spreading through the sweat. Sure, sleeping with someone might spread it, if the sex were vigorous enough to produce sweat. But even a kiss, a hug, a handshake could spread it. Pets weren’t even safe.

Then, these parasites, they altered the personalities of the hosts. All of the infected suddenly became athletic sunbathers. Nighttime creatures roam the days–bats fly with bird flocks, nightcrawlers lie drying in the sun. That’s when the reports started again–but this time from people that witnessed the black substance. By the time anyone thought to investigate it was really much too late.

Eventually, the mutation started. All of the infected have a purple cast now. The red and blue fibers have grown in the place of normal body hair, for humans and animals alike. Their stench is everywhere. The smell of the sweat is awful, but combined with the smell of the festering open wounds caused by the scratching…

Apparently the DNA of these creatures has been altered also. It is no longer unusual to see human-like forms rutting in the streets with four-legged creatures like dogs in heat. Nor is it unusual to see mythical creatures, half-once-human, half-once-other-species roaming the streets. Most defy description. I guess the parasites, realizing survivors had gone into hiding, found this new way to propagate the species.

Most plants are black now. The fibers growing within them have destroyed the once beautiful green that covered our world. What few plants remain uninfected now serve as food for those few humans left.

If they see us, they charge. The infection spreads faster now, and they secrete on demand. Hordes converge on a single person, pinning him, leaking the black substance on him. He scratches uncontrollably within seconds; within minutes, he is one of them.

The cities were burned to create light at night. For a while they commanded both day and night, until the fuel source ran out. Now, there are no shelters for us against the sun.

Survivors seek shelter in caves and underground now. We hunt plant life at night. Any uninfected animal life has long ago been eaten. How long we have left is unknown as we devour the last of the uninfected food sources. Light has become our enemy now and without light, we can’t grow more.

We always believed we should fear the darkness. We were wrong.

“Jeremiah, paddle up closer to them trees over to the right. I sees sumthin’ over there,” said Ben, aiming the bright beam of the spotlight at the requested destination thirty feet away.

The eight-foot long Jon boat glided slowly, almost silently through the black water, parting the thick fog that settled over the swamp after the sunset. The only sound louder than the splashing of the boat’s paddles was the deep croaking of a thousand frogs- some larger than a man’s two hands- perched atop the dense masses of lily pads covering the bayou. Some of the local folks find the frogs’ songs comforting. Lulls them to sleep, they say. Only the possible threat of danger quiets the frogs’ dry, coarse calls.

“Stop splashin’ so much wit’ them paddles, Jeremiah. Ya goin’ to scare it off,” Ben whispered. “It may be that big albino gator ever’one been huntin’. He ain’t movin’, so jest takes it nice and easy.”

The boat drifted closer to the object at the base of the tree, brushing up against the cypress knees jutting from the water like hard, pointed warts growing from the submerged roots. An eerie silence fell over the marsh and all that could be heard was the repetitive splatter of water lapping the sides of the boat. Ben became apprehensive in their approach, holding his hand up to signal a halt in their advance.

“Slow it up a bit, Jeremiah. Sumthin’ jest don’t look right. That ain’t no gator. No, sir. It looks to be a man layin’ there.”

The boat met the base of the tree and Ben stood, rocking the small craft with the unsteady movement of his large frame. Leaning out and over the edge of the boat, he held the spotlight as close to the torso as he dared; the lower portion of the body was crammed into the roots under the water. Upon viewing the face of the mangled man, he released a half scream, dropping onto the seat with a jolt.

“Dammit, Jeremiah. You got a twin brother?” he hollered, as he swung the spotlight to the back of the boat, to the red eyes and the open jaws of the white alligator chomping down on his horrified expression.

It was 11:00 PM and I had finished work at the office spending all day doing God-knows-what in front of a computer, only to return home and spend the dying hours of the evening in front of my own, perched at the end of my bed. However, I was happier to see this computer, as it had just finished downloading an Argento movie which I couldn’t wait to watch before going to sleep, hoping it would bless my subconscious with a nightmare or two. I love to be scared.

***

I turned my head to the clock on my bedside table as the credits rolled, to see that it was now 1:00 AM. Not that late, but I thought I’d turn in as it had been what seemed to be a long day. “I’ll just check my e-mail,” I muttered to myself. One new message, no subject. Contact unknown.

Hello Frank….
look under your bed

from a very close friend

I’ll spare you the descriptive words of how I was feeling and what I was thinking. Suffice to say I was scared, especially as I don’t have any friends, let alone close ones. As I am one to deal with things sooner rather than later, I decided to rip off quickly the proverbial plaster and so hastily looked under my bed but saw nothing of any discernible size or presence and therefore, discarding the notion that somebody was under there, I sat back against my headrest. However, I was unsatisfied as some intrinsic instinct suggested that what was under there was not a someone but a something. I decided to reach under the bed with my arm and I began patting my hand around until I felt something. It was cold and sharp. With an intrepid approach and disregard for the object’s icy edge I clutched it and pulled it from underneath the bed. A hatchet. A hatchet smeared with blood.

***

“Morning, Frank. You don’t look too good, bad night’s sleep, was it? Oh, I’m sorry, darling, you wouldn’t know, would you. Ain’t that funny, how I keep forgetting about your forgetfulness. What a pair we are, eh? I’ll get you a cup of coffee and your transcript. There’s not a lot of data to input today so you can get off early and get some rest.”

“Yeah, that would be good. For some reason I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Well, look at it this way. If it was because of some anxiety or the like, at least your short-term amnesia will get rid of that for you.”

“Heh. Yeah, I guess there are some advantages to my condition. Sometimes I scare myself.”

“Heh heh, oh, you. Well, I’ll be back in a minute with your coffee.”

“Thanks, Alison.”

Man, I like her. Okay, now where was I.

Hello Frank….

Get in. Ride with me. This thing is a war horse, and I’m not about to get us stranded. You’re safe.

I’ve decided I’m going to tell you. Why I’m out here cruising the neighborhoods and the parking lots every day, “just wasting gas” as Carl likes to say.

We’re just two blocks east of Cloverdale. That’s where it happened, at the end of the first week. You know how everyone gets right around then. The undead are clogging the streets, moaning for anyone still alive. You’re nearly out of food. You’re not desperate enough to crack open the Alpo, not yet. So you make a list of people you knew. Friends and family in town, starting with the ones nearest you.

Lucy, my sister-in-law, she had a huge pantry at her place. Lots of canned goods, lots of bottled water. She and her husband Dan were always worried about hurricanes. Dan was soft-spoken, patient. But I knew Lucy was up in Dallas with my wife Karen when everything went to hell. Did I tell you about Karen? I’ll play you some voicemails later so you can hear her voice. I saved them all.

So I made my way to their place, hoping it hadn’t been looted. I heard these wet gnashing sounds in the kitchen and stumbled upon Dan. By the looks and smell of him, he’d turned a few days prior. Some kid had broken in through the patio maybe an hour ahead of me, but Dan must have been roaming in the dark, waiting. The boy’s skull was cracked wide and Dan had two fingers digging inside, scooping gray matter into his mouth.

I vomited right there, all over their counter. And that’s when it happened. Dan looked my way, and blinked. Like he just woke up. The fog in his eyes lifted. And then he spoke.

“Tom.”

He recognized me, for just a moment. Then the eyes glazed over again and his jaw muscles loosened and he went back to feeding.

That’s when it all changed for me. I started carrying around this camcorder. Documenting. Studying them. Here, let me show you. Hit “Play” and tilt this screen.

This footage is on the golf course north of here. See that one? Him? Look at those things around his neck, all tied with string. That’s a little Eiffel Tower, a paper weight maybe. And a doll’s head. And a woman’s watch. Ornaments from his life. I thought maybe someone else made it for him, you know, and put it on him. I used to think that.

Okay. That’s from right outside the high school, last month. And, wait for it, and, there! Pause it, pause it. See those two? The one-armed girl in the dress, and the boy with the broken glasses? Yeah.

They’re holding hands.

Okay, one more. This was from a week ago, right near Cloverdale. The grand finale. I nearly missed sight of her, too. Over on the lawn, the decayed woman with no lower jaw. Guess who that is?

Lucy.

She must have walked from Dallas. Shambled. I don’t know how she made it all the way back here, but there you go. And the thing is, you wouldn’t notice her; couldn’t tell her apart from the others. I went and got close, took her purse, just to make sure it was her. Yeah. She came home.

Carl hates me. Until I showed him, he and the others used to brag about how many they’d killed. A hundred, two hundred. A thousand. With hammers and bats; with shotguns and fire axes; with Buckley’s bulldozer. Before, they were just animated corpses. But they’re alive. Some part of them, somewhere in there.

So that’s why I’m out here every day, cruising my old neighborhood. I’m looking for Karen. When I find her, I’ll wrap her in a blanket and take her home. I’ll do whatever I can to keep her alive.

She would do the same for me.

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Brian said.

His stomach bulged further out, testing the elasticity of his sweatpants. He looked over his body, which had doubled in size since the morning. The serum, he thought. There must have been a mistake.

He squeezed through his apartment door and waddled down the hall to the elevator. With each passing moment, his body gurgled and warbled like a water balloon ready to explode. He could feel his skin expand, pushing against the once loose gym clothes.

He took the bus to MetaGen instead of driving. He would have driven if he could actually fit in his car. He noticed that the bus riders all sat as far from him as possible. Not that he could blame them–his body continued to make squishy noises and grow.

By the time he reached his laboratory, the snow boots he wore cramped his feet, his rounded belly protruded from his sweatshirt, and the cuffs of his sleeves traveled up his forearms. He had to avoid the awkward stares of his coworkers as he slammed the lab’s door shut behind him.

“What went wrong?” he said. He stood at his desk and flipped through his journal. “What’s happening to me?”

A tiny, slushy pop disturbed the silence of the room. Brian looked up to the glass cage on his workbench. The cage walls were splattered with blood. His jaw dropped and he rushed over to it as fast as his fattened legs could carry him.

“Whiskers!”

His experimental rat was nowhere to be seen. He remembered first injecting Whiskers with the serum. The results were phenomenal. Whiskers could hold ten times his weight without a sweat. In addition, all of his life signs were stable. The possibilities for the serum’s use overwhelmed Brian. He envisioned disabled people finding new strength, athletic competition being taken to the next level, and countless other ways. The only trouble was all of the red tape he would have to go through. He wondered if the serum would ever thrive if there weren’t human results to verify its safety.

Confident, Brian injected himself with the serum. He couldn’t describe the exhilaration he felt when he lifted his own car above his head. The emotional affects were amazing, too.

It wasn’t until the other night that his strength waned. At first he thought the serum had lost its potency, but when he woke up, he discovered that his body was taking to it differently. He was caught in some kind of unstable mutation, and seeing Whisker’s innards graffiti the cage didn’t help.

His stomach gurgled again, and he expanded further. The stool next to the workbench scooted away as his body pushed it. He could hear the tested seams of his clothes giving up. His skin ached, and he wondered how much longer before it decided to give up too.

Brian couldn’t see past his bulbous stomach. Fear preyed on his mind. “It’s not supposed to be like this,” he said.