MicroHorror

There was a gun on the table. A gun I’d bought, which had passed through the hands of three killers. The odd thing is they never killed with the gun. Just displayed it like I’m doing. All three men dangerous in different ways. One could kill you with a smile, one with a laugh and one by whistling. Sounds like the setup to a joke, doesn’t it? The punchline is that when I picked up the gun, my own hand started to tingle. The sensation spread through my body. I felt… different.

Two people were dead by morning. I’ve never been able to whistle.

The St. Kilda Beach 96 tram rumbled and squeaked along its tracks, approaching the bustling Bourke Street Mall as throngs of people crowded the popular shopping precinct during the busy lunchtime rush.

As the tram driver shifted uncomfortably in his seat he rubbed his chest, frowning. He wondered what was happening when a sharp pain suddenly wracked his hulking, obese mass. He took his hands off the controls and clutched his upper left arm, as if the futile action would somehow ward off the oncoming heart attack. In a final spasmodic fit, the driver bucked and writhed in his seat, struggling for air, enduring agony until he went limp, his head lolling against the windscreen, bobbing with the rocking motion of the tram.

Across the Mall at HMV, a man clad in black wearing a balaclava came rushing out of the store, bowling people over. He was clutching an armful of stolen DVDs. He sprinted out into the busy Mall, dodging people, looking for any means of escape.

By now, a security guard had been dispatched and was in pursuit. As the thief kept running, he glanced back over his shoulder and failed to see a student’s schoolbag lying on the hot clay paving. He tripped and went sprawling onto his stomach, his stolen cache sliding along the ground in every direction. He landed, hitting his head on the tram tracks. He was unconscious, oblivious to the approaching tram.

Curious onlookers stared in horror at what was happening. People screamed. Someone yelled, “Get him off the tracks!” Another pointed and said, “The tram driver’s unconscious!”

The tram advanced. The security guard dashed out onto the tracks in a desperate attempt to drag the thief out of its path.

It was too late.

The security guard dived clear. The runaway tram impacted with its fallen victim. The tram instantly popped the thief’s head like a melon under its wheels, crushing the skull, spurting a bright crimson stream of blood, spattering nearby witnesses.

They gaped, horrified at the pulpy mass of gray matter and bone fragments strewn across the tracks in the tram’s wake. A huge crowd had gathered by now, gazing in stunned disbelief at the atrocity of the event. The tram eventually came to a stop sometime later when a passenger took action, breaking into the driver’s compartment and jamming on the emergency brakes.

Sirens could be heard in the distance as the ambulances and police cars were on their way to the scene. That evening, the whole nation was shocked as they watched the news reports, not believing that something like that could ever happen.

Breanna tightened her scrunchie around her ponytail and picked up the tray of food. Her scowl of disparagement and depression was wiped away with the swinging of the door, and she was out of the kitchen and into the dining area. Her smile was faked, but the customers couldn’t tell that. She walked over to the corner table with the steak and fries, and placed them in front of the man sitting there with a smile and a nod. “Is there anything else I can get you sir?” The silent shake of his head told her all she needed to know. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, just let me know.” She began to walk away.

“Hey, um… Breanna?”

She turned around, flashing that beautiful façade of a smile. “Yes sir?”

He arose from the table and a conniving grin appeared on his face. “Actually, there is something you can do for me.”

She cocked her head confusingly and reluctantly responded, “Y-yes, what is it?”

She hardly had the sentence out when he was upon her with a steak knife, stabbing at her body with great force and vehemence. A cackling sound emitted from his lips as he plunged the knife deep into her soft flesh. Even after she was dead, he still stabbed and stabbed.

By now the entire restaurant had erupted into the sounds of horrific screams and chairs being tossed to the side for a quick escape. One man sat in a booth, his work shirt covered in sauce and ketchup. As he rose, the knife-wielding murderer noticed his nametag; his name was Frank.

Frank approached, a heroic inspiration about him. “Boy, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank was an impressively sized man, so he felt talking down to this asshole was not below him. “What’s your name, psycho?”

His eyes were glazed, narrow, and had an intent stare in them. “My name is John,” he said, with a slight tone of vilification. “And you’re in my way.” With that, he slid the knife in between his lips, wiping the memory of Breanna from the knife. The knife was not satisfied. It wanted more.

A patron took a wrong turn and ran too close to John, making that the last mistake he would make. John guided the hungry blade through the eye socket and straight to the brain of the poor soul, killing him instantly, then shoved him to the ground. He then raised his eyes to Frank. “Bring it, cocksucker.”

Frank began to run at John, but didn’t expect the pistol in John’s belt. Two bullets to the head dropped him and ended his life. There weren’t a lot of people left in the restaurant, but ones who were continued to be subjected to torture and death…

“Sir!”

John shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. “Uh, nothing; I’m fine. Thank you, Breanna.” He smiled nervously, and started to cut his steak. Breanna turned and walked away, passed through the door to the kitchen, and rolled her eyes.

John continued to eat, savoring every bite of the perfectly grilled steak. The fries were dipped into steak sauce; he enjoyed them that way. His meal was devoured quickly, and he finished it up with the rest of his soda.

He stood in the middle of the destruction, laughing wildly out loud. He waited for the inevitable firefight with the police. Everyone he could possibly hurt would feel the torture and pain he felt in himself. He ran out into the haze of red and blue lights, gun blazing.

He left a tip of four dollars on the table, and went to the counter to pay for his ticket. Then John stepped out into the sunlight, staring across the street at the convenience store. He wondered how many people were in there that would succumb to his murderous rampage.

That and he had a craving for a donut.

It seemed that the venue was perfect: a disused colliery yard, which had once felt the heavy footfall of a thousand men as they reluctantly made their way towards the mineshaft at the beginning of their shift. They, the miners, would say “Who needs Hell when we’ve got this place?” Nevertheless, their Hell was only underground–come the union movement.

The headstocks looked down onto the minors as they crouched below in the darkness waiting– they had been ignored for too long. Whereas the miners had been well rewarded for their toil at the coalface, the minors were not paid well for their Sisyphean labour.

Looking upward their preternatural eyes could see a sturdy fellow with raven hair looking out for them from the top of the headstocks. He was quite well known hereabouts; his name was Nusi. He usually worked the doors at the nightclubs in Market Town; tonight, however, he was to look out for Marshal as he addressed the minors–or rather his comrades, as he preferred to say.

They had waited too long and they were feeling unsettled; Marshal was not yet with them. Not before time, a tall man with straggly grey hair stepped onto a makeshift rostrum to the front of the minors; he raised his hand to silence them. They became immediately silent and Marshal began his speech.

“Comrades,” he bellowed, “we are able to be together tonight because the majors are amused elsewhere– they watch and gamble on our brothers as they fight each other to the death in a warehouse not too far from here.”

“Shame on them,” said one. His comrades agreed. Marshal raised his hand and once more the throng was silent.

“It may be that our brothers have the right idea and that death is a far better option than our eternal damnation whilst we work the nightshift in their factories for a pittance–and for what?” He paused in the silence and then raised his voice for effect. “Doesn’t anyone have the answer? It’s simple really: we work for our soul to be made as black as the coalface a kilometre below our very boots.”

Nusi’s ears pricked as he heard muffled voices to the north, coming from the cover of the thick plantations that used to supply the pit props that had held up the roof for the coalface workers. He could hear their dogs snuffling and restrained behind their leather muzzles. He flicked open his cigarette lighter and allowed the flame to burn into the still night air. He held it up at arms length for a moment–its kind was returned from down below. He felt useless from his lofty perch; he saw Marshal being ushered into a car, which was parked behind the pithead baths. There was mayhem below; the minors did not know which route of escape to take–they had come from the north themselves; fearing discovery if they should take a more public route. Nusi ran towards the steel steps that would take him to their midst. They were getting closer; there voices silenced by their laboured breathing as they negotiated the higher ground of the spoil heaps half a mile from the colliery land. He grabbed hold of the handrail and swung himself down the first landing; he landed heavily and stumbled against something in the darkness. A rusted can was sent going and he heard it come to rest at the next landing–he could smell petrol. He leaned over the rail to see Marshal’s car beneath and slowly headed for the gate–two of his henchmen guarded his exit. He jumped the next few steps and lifted up the petrol can.

He took out his handkerchief and stuffed it into the top. He took his lighter and lit the clean cotton.

He smiled as Marshal’s car became an inferno and he could hear the great man scream.

He could join the others now–the fight had only just begun.

Naomi shuffled into the kitchen, eyelids too heavy to lift. Thank God she’d remembered to set the timer on the coffee maker last night, despite everything. She yawned and winced at the pain this caused. Damn, but Wally had clocked her good. First time he’d ever hit her and he sobbed in her arms for the rest of the night, swearing it would be the last. He made all the usual excuses men make; it was the booze, it was the stress of slow business at his tattoo parlor, it was the way his Daddy treated his Mama. Naomi had whispered her forgiveness, had accepted his drunken caresses as a peace offering. Still, it hurt like hell. Her jaw was swollen and locked and she couldn’t open it more than an inch. There was a bottle of muscle relaxants in the bathroom cabinet left over from the time Wally threw his back out. Maybe they would help.

Naomi poured her coffee. She glanced out the window over the sink which looked out upon the backyard. What she saw there was so terrible it did not immediately register on her slightly hungover mind. She did a goggling double-take, the carafe slipping from her hand. It exploded on the linoleum floor, showering her bare feet with scalding black coffee and slicing shards of hot glass. She didn’t feel it at all.

Wally swung from a high branch on the white oak tree in the backyard, a kicked-away lawn chair beneath his feet. The clothesline about his neck was so taut Naomi could almost hear it, vibrating like a plucked guitar string. Wally’s face was black and purple. His eyes were open, surprised and bloody red, but they didn’t see anything. Not anymore. He was naked to the waist and the thorny-crowned Christ tattoo over his heart was splattered now with real blood, more vivid red than the faded ink. His tongue swelled from his mouth and there was a dark wet patch at the front of his jeans. He was swollen there, too.

“Oh God,” Naomi moaned. “Not again.”

Her husband was not the type of man to hang himself in guilt any more than her own Daddy had been. Naomi knew what had really happened, to both of them, though it was too awful to admit into the day-lit chambers of her mind. The truth resonated in a darker recess of her consciousness, and here Naomi could not pretend surprise.

It was Magda’s tree. Naomi’s great-grandmother. She had been murdered beneath its branches; her black throat slit for the crime of demanding that her white lover acknowledge the daughter she’d borne him. Her blood had soaked into its roots. The same blood flowed in Naomi’s veins, though it had been diluted by three generations of white fathers. The taste for bad-boy white men was an inherited weakness. Naomi’s own Daddy had been a singer in a rock band, who had beaten her Mom bloody blue until Magda put an end to it.

Naomi’s hands went to her belly, to the life growing there. The ultra-sound had told her what she’d already known. She was having a girl. Naomi smiled with the knowledge that her daughter would be kept safe. No man could ever harm her, as long as she was raised in the protective shade of the Magda tree.

The boogeyman got up early this dusk. He couldn’t help it. He loved his job. He lay in bed excited, pondering on what tricks he would play, what disguises to wear and what wicked dreams to spin into his children’s heads that night. He had grown attached to these. Jim and Sally. They were twins and they had bunk beds which made it easy for him to share his nightmares with them. He had to be careful because if he pushed the dream too far, one would wake up and seek comfort from the other. His fun was ruined and what could have been a wonderful three-course meal would sadly turn into an appetizer.

It was time. He slipped on his pumpkin mask and trotted though the woods and into the shadows of the streets. He was a scrawny boogeyman; his peers always pinched, pulled and laughed at his short, twig-like frame. He was starting to put on some weight though, he was getting much better at this. He faded into the dark and gushed though the darkness like water gushing down a gutter. He slid up the side of the Jenkins’, and through a crack in the window of the kids’ room. It surprised him that there was no bunk bed. The boogeyman pulled his mask up and found only Jim sleeping. The bunk bed had been taken apart. His little green heart pounded in his chest and despair set in. He searched the house and found in what used to be Mr. Jenkin’s office, converted to a bedroom for the girl. Sighing with relief he pulled his pumpkin mask down and looking into Sally’s mind.

She was older now and was wearing an apron and making some sack lunches. Her children ran to her and grabbed the brown paper bags kissed her on the cheek and left for school. The boogeyman attempted to conjure floating eyeballs in the dishwater but they turned out only as bubbles. He reached into her heart and tried to stir fear but could find none. He even appeared in the flesh (which is a boogeyman’s last resort) but she looked past him, reaching for the telephone to call a friend.

“It’s too late now,” a smooth voice interrupted his frustration. “They’ve gone and grown up on you little boogeyman, time to find some new prey.”

He dropped back into the room and saw a smirking demon standing in the corner.

“What do you mean?” the creature asked.

The demon sneered. “They don’t believe in anything anymore.”

The boogeyman frowned. He was always told that your first are always the hardest to leave and this was an unhappy reality.

“I’ll take it from here.”

The boogeyman left the Jenkins’ house for the last time and started on his long and cold journey. It was most likely that he was going to be going home hungry that night. It may be a long time until he would eat again.

Another day, another pile of reports that we’re building too large a military for the wrong sort of war. More attacks that my office is hopelessly outdated, obsolete, fighting wars decades old rather than what we face today. That we are preparing for the Big Enemies of yesterday, not the small enemies of today’s asymmetric war.

They are right of course, as far as that goes. We are not preparing for today’s war–but not because we can’t see past yesterday. They are wrong, but it’s not their fault–they just can’t see what tomorrow will likely bring.

I’m rereading Themistocles’ speeches to the Athenians, justifying building a massive fleet they thought they had no need for. It’s not much fun playing the role of the benighted dinosaur or greedy war monger. But those of us who must do so knew the reasons and costs when we started, and nothing has changed. I may call up some of the old pals from the New American Century project tonight. We can’t be seen as too actively networked these days, but it’s hard to keep playing out this charade alone. Vilified and painted as oafish cowboys, we have long ago sacrificed our careers and public standing because we knew what simply must be done. Poor George, poor Rummie–I think it’s the worst for them, but they soldier on. Convincing more of the world that they’re oil-mad, hiding their motives under ridiculous witch hunts and hysteria. The critics are right in the short term, but cannot know how truly wrong they are until we are ready.

They are right that the weapons we build now are wrong for today. They are wrong in thinking that’s why we build them. We build them for a World War no one on this world will start. For the critics have not seen the photos from the dark side of the moon. The critics are not party to the tracking of a small fleet of objects crossing into the ecliptic and heading to Earth. I saw the real last signals from the Mars Polar Lander, and I know what we are preparing for. I only hope to God it’s enough.

I finish my coffee, put down Herodotus, and go out to tell the press some ridiculous lie about terrorism and homeland security.

Geoffrey looked out of his room window and down onto the Field Mill stadium. To the right of the newly built football stadium, bathed in blankets of security lighting, stood the usual retail warehouses and fast food outlets, which are always bedfellows of the Travel Motels nowadays. Lately he found himself to be staying in Travel Motels more often whilst touring colleges and universities – it saves on expenses. He didn’t really have a problem with the motels because they were clean and he knew his way around their familiar corridors and was able to find his room without any difficulty. His only regret was that they didn’t have a restaurant and he had to eat out, which he found inconvenient when he wanted to stay longer in his room and read.

“I recommend Toffs, Professor,” said the girl at the desk. “It’s quite expensive but I’m told the food is very good.”

He thanked the girl and made his way out into the brightly lit car park–there was a chill in the air and he pulled up the collar of his jacket. The car park was empty, save for a couple of cars and a lorry. He noticed a row of derelict houses running alongside a dark alley, which runs up towards the football ground.

Geoffrey turned the engine and his car purred to life. As he went to pull away he noticed movement in his headlights–there was a scuffle of sorts occurring. He leapt from his car in anger to go to the aid of a frail looking bag lady whom was in the fierce grasp of a swarthy fellow. The man shouted, “Please will you stop!” even though it was he that pummelled into the ribs of the crone.

Geoffrey grabbed his umbrella and made to stop the attack. “Let her go!” He yelled as he ran towards them. The man turned to flee in sight of the charge–for the professor was upward of thirteen stone without an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. The prof tripped slightly and stumbled to his knees. When he righted himself they were both gone. As he was about to return to his car to get his phone to call the police, he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. He saw the attacker step back into the shadows. He was not quick to his toes and he was soon on him and had him roughly by the scruff.

“You’ll regret helping her,” shouted the man as he wriggled for his freedom. “You mark my words.”

The man was unscrupulous and sent a heel into the shins. The prof let go in his agony and the man scampered over a wall and was gone.

Geoffrey limped back into reception for help. A different girl was behind the desk and she smiled strangely as he approached.

“Would you like me to visit you in your room when my shift ends?” She said to his utter horror, for he wasn’t one for the ladies even given an appropriate invitation.

“I would not, young lady,” he retorted firmly. “And I shall report you to your manager in the morning.”

“…My… my… manager? What?” said the girl in obvious bewilderment.

Geoffrey shook his head in his bewilderment. He remembered that he had left his car unlocked and stepped gingerly outside to lock it – still shaking his head.

“Damn!” He ejaculated; he could see someone sitting in the driver’s seat. His anger drove him on despite his better judgement and he made to the car. He pulled open the door and grabbed for the intruder. The intruder didn’t pull away; he fell heavily into the Geoffrey’s hands. He let go and the figure dropped from the car. Geoffrey gasped and nearly went into a paroxysm. It was the swarthy fellow and he was without a doubt dead–-his eyes bulged in their sockets.

Yoshiko’s brown eyes glimmered in the light of the wooden torches that adorned the walls of the tiny dungeon room. Her dyed-blond hair draped over the edge of the stone slab to which she was tied. On her head she wore a golden crown which extended a sort of blade in each direction. She was nude underneath the light-blue robe which fit very loosely over her body.

Yoshiko struggled to wriggle herself free, but she was tied very securely. She let out screams of terror in the hopes that the sound of her voice may penetrate the blackened stone walls and somehow reach someone on the outside world. Damn it! If only Jessica were here!

But Jessica wasn’t there. It was just Yoshiko and the three men that stood around her, each clad in a white suit and wearing blackface. One man stood to either side of her, and one stood directly in front of her. The latter picked up the final pieces of the ritual, a bible and a torch. He threw the bible down on Yoshiko. Saying a prayer, the man used one of the torches against the wall to light the one he was holding. He stepped around to the other side of Yoshiko. He threw the lit torch down on Yoshiko and the three men fled, closing a stone door behind them.

“There is evil growing inside of you.”

“What?” the woman in the pink sweater said.

“Yes, you see how his forehead has a sharp spike here?” said the doctor in the white mask.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll notice his rather longer, claw-like fingers. Most importantly, see how the spine resembles a six, and how his thumbs make the other two sixes.”

“What are you saying?”

“This child will never know the love of God. This child is a child of Satan.”

“What can we do?”

“Abortion.”

“All right. It’s not worth the risk of bringing the devil into our world.”