MicroHorror

The hospital room smelled of plastic and disinfectant, and Carlos had the blankets pulled to his chin.

“Mmmph hmm phmmph?”

“Hold still just a moment,” said the nurse. Her handheld reader beeped, and she pulled the thermometer from Carlos’s mouth, dropping the plastic tip into a biohazard container.

“I have a fever, don’t I?” he asked, shaking.

The nurse shook her head. “Ninety-nine-point-seven, no worries.” She smiled, checked his water pitcher and left.

No fever. He was a little encouraged, then not at all. He was hoping for something to explain why he felt so bad. They had checked him in for observation after the ER, and an afternoon nurse said his white cell count was extremely high. That meant he was fighting an infection, but so far there were no answers, and no symptoms other than his complaining.

He sighed, closed his eyes and held the covers close, worrying about finishing the cabinetry job, about getting the countertop bid for that new clinic, wondering when Simone would show up, thinking about mowing the grass and paying bills. He didn’t have time for this.

A moment later he opened his eyes to a blaring electronic tone, and was suddenly overcome by a sick disorientation. Someone had moved a large mirror in above his bed, and he saw himself holding the edge of the blanket, no longer shaking. Why were his eyes closed in the mirror? He looked left to the rack of monitors, but saw only acoustic tiles and a dusty sprinkler head beside him.

Not a mirror. He was on the ceiling.

A trio of nurses and a doctor in scrubs burst in with a crash cart, and they surrounded the Carlos in the bed, stripping away the blankets, all shouting at once.

“What are you doing?” Carlos demanded. They didn’t look up, didn’t even acknowledge him. Neither did Bed Carlos, who only moved when the paddles made his body jump, but even then only like a rag.

“You’re going to hurt me!” Carlos shouted, reaching down to stop the nurse. Then he saw his hands and arms, an even shade of charcoal, and worse than that, he saw the room and the people in it right through them. He gasped, hugging his arms to his chest, but they hugged nothing, and he had no sensation of moving muscles or bones.

Below, the medical team had been joined by others, and they pumped his chest, plunged needles into his motionless body and shoved a clear plastic tube down his throat. Bed Carlos didn’t seem to feel any of it. Ceiling Carlos didn’t either. After several minutes the activity slowed and finally stopped. The doctor checked his watch, shook his head and called out the time, and then most of them left the room.

“But I’m fine,” whispered Carlos.

“Obviously not,” said a voice beside him. Carlos turned his head to look, feeling a coldness pour through him. How was that possible, without a body to feel it?

There was no one there, only the sprinkler head.

“Time to go,” said the voice, deep and stern and now coming from everywhere.

Carlos shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”

He felt himself pulled off the ceiling, descending towards his own form in the bed, and was suddenly filled with relief. This was one of those experiences people on talk shows claimed to have had. In a moment he would be back in his body, gasping himself awake with a story to tell.

He passed through Bed Carlos, through the floor, through the room below, and then the next, faster and faster, the pulling turning to falling. In moments the hospital was gone, and he was in a lightless void, still descending.

“Where are we going?” he asked the darkness in a small voice.

There was a long silence before the reply.

“Not where you were hoping.”

Julia was in a white room, filled with screaming white cats. She wasn’t sure why, and didn’t know how she knew they were screaming, since she couldn’t really hear them.

“Rabbit’s feet,” she said, her voice sounding distant. Snip went the scissors, and another little white cat paw came away from a little white leg. There was no blood, which was understandable. It was just like all the other times.

Snip, snippity. The little paws dropped into neat little piles at her feet. She didn’t know what happened to the cats she snipped, somehow lost track of them, but there were more. It was a big room, with no exits, and they ran but couldn’t get out. Snip.

She floated away from a little pile–she always floated when she was snipping–her bare feet skimming furry white backs. It tickled her toes. She saw a group of them huddled in a corner. They didn’t arch or hiss, only stared at her.

Snippity, snippity, snip.

“Rabbit’s feet, rabbit’s feet,” she sang.

Julia wasn’t worried about the cats. She did this often, and every time they ended up just fine. They had never screamed before, though. But since she couldn’t really hear them, they might not really be screaming.

Snip!

She had been snipping rabbit’s feet–she knew they were really cat feet, she just called them that–for the last eleven nights. Every bedtime she snuggled under the covers next to Paul and waited to dream of the white room. When she awoke, the fingers of her right hand ached from holding scissors, but she felt great for the rest of the day, and that made it worthwhile.

Julia floated away from the corner and the new pile of paws.

“Rabbit’s feet,” she said thickly, and a stringer of saliva slipped through her lips and onto her cotton nightgown. Paul teased her about drooling in her sleep, complaining that her pillow was always damp when he stole her side of the bed in the morning, but he didn’t really mind. He was a good husband.

Why didn’t they stop screaming? Didn’t they know they would have their paws back tomorrow, as always, so Julia could start snipping all over? Only a few remained, which always meant she would be waking soon. Julia drifted down to one that was trying to hide. Silly cat, she thought, it’s a big empty room, where can you go?

Snip, snip.

The screaming stopped. Good kitties. Now there was a pounding noise. This was new, and she wondered where it was coming from. “Rabbit’s feet!” she yelled.

Sergeant Raymond Sherman stood away from the door and kicked. The frame splintered, and his younger partner Francis rushed through the doorway, Sherman following.

“Rabbit’s feet,” said Julia happily, and lifted another tiny pink finger. A hand, arm and shoulder came with it. Francis saw that the finger was smeared with blue paint. Fingerpaint.

Snip. Off came the finger, and Julia let the little hand drop to the tiled floor with a smack. In took only seconds for the officers to take in the drooling pre-school teacher, the scene in the main playroom of the Merry Voices Daycare, and Sergeant Sherman sagged against a brightly-painted wall and vomited.

He had dropped his daughter off in this very room this morning.

The younger man pulled his pistol.

“Rabbit’s feet,” grinned Julia, and reached for another tiny hand.

Francis shot her three times.

I don’t know what the world’s coming to. I must have called the police a dozen times about all that screaming in the estate last night, but they were a no-show, of course. Heard ’em wailing about in the city center, though. Probably those ravers causing trouble again. I paid my taxes all my life, and they can’t be bothered to come help a scared old lady. Horrid little thugs shouting in the streets, smashing windows and all though the night that horrible screeching. Like nothing on earth I’ve ever heard. And no-one thinks of us decent sorts, stuck dealing with the filthy scum around here. Like rats, they just breed and make noise and mess everything up. We should bring back National Service, my Sam always said it’d sort them out.

It’s all quiet now, they shut themselves up just before dawn. After keeping me up all night, too! I need my sleep. Must have drunk themselves into a stupor. I called the police again–local station, not emergency line, I’m not like those selfish idiots you see on the news–and there was just a recorded message. A recorded message! Something about “emergency” and “keep calm.” I paid no attention. Just don’t want to bother with ordinary folk anymore. Local coppers never been much good. It wouldn’t have happened in my day.

The TV and radio aren’t working either, only the BBC broadcasting–some bloody nonsense, what a waste, just a blue screen with words on, I’m not putting my specs on to see it–and the rest just static static static and I can’t afford to replace them on my pension. I should call my grandson to come fix it, but he won’t answer, he never does. Too busy for his old Grandma. He wears his hair too long, too. Looks a bit–you know. Never listens to me. Kids today.

I say kids but some of the worst of them are quite grown up. I’d be ashamed if I was their mother, my son was a good, well behaved boy, he never spent his nights shrieking and crying and turning over cars. In fact, they’ve already started up their noise again. I can hear what they’re saying now, but it doesn’t make any sense. “More Energy,” “More Siblings,” “Too Old” and other such rubbish. Probably drugs lingo. Trying to scare us decent people. They’re making it sound all strange, sort of whooping and howling, probably through those techno gizmos they all have. They look odd, too–fashion, they call it, I don’t know, my mum would have never let me leave the house with my clothes all torn up like that–and their faces look twisted, somehow. Sort of–animal. Makeup, I’m sure of it. I’ve got a good mind to go out there and tell them what for. In fact, that’s just what I’ll do. Cowards, these kids.

They’ll soon back off when they see I mean it.

She was almost happy (up till the ultimate tragedy) that she didn’t have much to smile about; felt too self-conscious. Wanted to lay low, felt low for quite a while, was to sink even lower–had to face the public before she was ready.

Her father was to be cremated. What was the point of having an open coffin, for him to be laid out in all his glory, only to be consumed by fire–not talking about Hell–she was in it.

His hair and face waxed–apple rosy, rouged cheeks, tight-lipped smile unconvincing. Remembered his laughter, deep, hearty, throwing his head back and roaring. Had had a great sense of humor: “Your brother takes after him in that–always makes me laugh,” her mother said. The daughter thought, “I’m funny too!” but nobody seemed to have noticed.

She hovered by the coffin, wanted a keepsake: his ashes would be scattered in the garden of remembrance, no headstone, no plaque. Wanted something to remember him by; a lock of hair, perhaps… what? Mourners dotted round the room in tight, intimate knots–her stomach in knots.

Her mother was saying to those listening intently, sympathetically, that her son (her daughter as well, of course–an afterthought) was a huge help. Taking after his dad; caring, hard-working. Looked like, favored (son favored child–first born) his father. Had his curly hair, his eyes…

The daughter spun round from the coffin, opened her mouth, had taken out her recently acquired dentures and put her dad’s in. Flashing big (had job keeping them in) ill-fitting teeth–sick in the head.

“I have my father’s smile,” she lisped, mumbled, and tried to grin.

Smile and teeth slipping.

Come… on… MOVE… you… son… of… a…

Muscles bulged but the jar lid remained unrepentant. This was getting embarrassing. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, such a simple idea. Offer to open the new jar for the girl in the kitchen. Impress the girl of his dreams. She didn’t look impressed right now. She looked bored.

I… can’t… believe… this… is… happening…

Still no movement. Not even a fraction of a fraction. The girl had stopped looking bored and was now beginning to look faintly amused. He didn’t know which was worse.

She’s… laughing… at… me… please… open… please… I’ll… do… anything…

Suddenly a hissing, slithering voice whispered in the silence, in the deepest backdrop of his mind.

“Anything?”

In the darkness of the under realm, the two demons put the finishing touches to the contract.

“…for the ability to open a jar of sun-dried tomatoes? Really?”

The first demon sounded shocked and a little disgusted. The second demon nodded dolefully.

“There’s no challenge these days. It’s just not fun anymore,” he moaned. The first demon finished the document with a flourish of his pen, and slowly shook his head.

“You know what I reckon? I reckon those humans have stopped taking their souls seriously.”

The population centres on the coast got hit stone cold, just like the rest of the world. Sydney, Melbourne, Perth, Darwin, Brisbane, Adelaide. But when the population of your big cities is four million instead of forty million then the rest of you have got a chance. Out here in the Central West, rural NSW, where the mail is only delivered every other day, we had a better than average chance. Not many people round here, and plenty of space between those of us who are. There are lots of us self-sufficient farmer types. Lots of self-sufficient farmer types, with guns. A better than average chance, I reckon.

Sometimes the odd stray will wander by, but no worries. Shuffling around, moaning, under the midday sun they make us laugh more than they make us scream. Jono reckons they’ll all catch skin cancer out there, and that’ll save us the bother. Jono’s a funny bloke.

Lack of water is always the real threat down here, but hasn’t it always been that way? Floods, and then drought, and then floods, and then drought again. You’re fine with bore water, but you really need the rain to drink. Usually we just get on with it, but it hasn’t rained in two weeks. You can drink the bore water if you have to, but it tastes like a Chinaman’s undies.

Sometimes I think, you know? I think about what will happen if they get bored, or hungry, or just smarten up and decide to explore. I mean, Canberra is only 250 kilometres away. Maybe they’re already on their way here, shuffling along looking for people to eat or infect, smelling their way to their next meal. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll wake up one morning and see a hundred thousand of the buggers on the horizon all coming in my direction. And I’ll be there with me shotgun and seventeen shells. I reckon if that happens then I’ll save one of those shells for myself.

Theresa filled the glass and emptied it once more. The wine steamed in the angry fire in the pit of her stomach. Her husband and her best friend. She probed the wound once more and it spat forth its blood and bile; it filled the wine glass again. She loved them both, but she knew who she hated more. He was (is) her husband, but he was never her soul mate. That was Abby. Abby was there first.

From kindergarten to the day that she found out, Abby had been her companion. They had shared everything. Toys, clothes, a sense of high school alienation. Well, now they’ve shared something (someone) else. Again the glass was empty. Theresa reached out and shook the bottle. That was almost empty too, but she had not yet drowned out the aching.

Theresa recalled that early teenage summer. When they had given each other the friendship bracelets and sworn an oath of eternal loyalty. Friends forever and all that kind of garbage. She had truly believed that there was magic in the promise. But she had been a child (had been a fool) then. The bracelet was still there, frayed but intact, on her wrist. A reminder and a scar. With her teeth she ripped it off and spat it onto the floor. Abby had broken the oath. The floor was not enough. The wine toyed with her balance and vision as Theresa reached out, grabbed the bracelet and threw it onto the dying embers in the fireplace. It caught almost immediately and burnt with a small intensity that matched the searing anger (pain) in her soul.

The bottle was almost empty. What was left?

Theresa did not stir until the following afternoon, and it took her a full sixty seconds before she realized that the pounding was on her door and not in her head. The police asked her questions. Where was she last night? Was she with anyone who could corroborate her story? As it turned out, the only witnesses were the empty glass and empty bottle and their testimony wouldn’t carry much weight in a court of law.

A week passed before Theresa got the full story. The night that Theresa was discovering that her sorrows could swim, Abby had been relaxing in a bath and a candle had apparently caught her hair. The experts were at a loss to explain how a woman, submerged in water, could immolate herself so completely. And with a candle, at that. They insisted that an accelerant of some kind must have been used, and that could make it murder, but no trace of an accelerant of any kind was ever found. As it was, no evidence of foul play was ever found at all. Theresa had a motive. Everyone soon knew that. But motive alone did not make murder, and with no evidence there was no murder. Soon, time brushed away the details and the death of Abby Green became nothing more than a curiosity, stored away in the X-Files.

But Theresa never forgot. Abby had broken the oath. There had been magic in the promise after all.

Paul sat looking at the flames. He rotated his marshmallows, watching them brown above the heat. After a moment, he pulled his fold-out chair a little further back. The heat from the fire had begun to burn his legs.

A field mouse skittered by. Paul thought nothing of it. A duck waddled past him. He grabbed a hot dog bun and tore a hunk off of it, then tossed it at the duck. It kept moving, uninterested.

The fire guttered out from a sudden, strong gust of wind. But Paul was not lost in darkness. He looked up at the moon, an orange sphere in the sky. The moonlight had flooded the trees. It seemed to slither downwards and illuminate all of the hidden alcoves and thickets in the woods.

He looked back at his marshmallows. They were burnt. He set them aside and looked back in the sky at the pale, white moon. “Wait a minute,” he said.

When he located the orange sphere again, it blinked out of existence for a brief moment. It had winked at Paul.

He tried to run from the monstrous eye, but a mammoth patchwork of glistening flesh, which could only be a hand, reached down and snatched him from the earth, screaming.

The waves gnaw at the shore and slaver over my feet as I follow the beach. At the end of the sand crescent, the shipwreck squats, bleached bone grey. I clamber over the splintered gunwale. Despite the ocean’s proximity, the cabin is warm and dry. It smells of dust and ancient leather.

A corpse slumps over scattered bones. The corpse’s skin is tight, papery as an onion’s. The bones are gnawed, emptied of marrow.

Turning from the funereal tableau, I find the ship’s manifest. Its brittle pages list no livestock, no meat stores, and a crew of eight.

It’s not been a good week. 

Monday started as normal. I got up and flicked through my Reader’s Digest Symptom Sorter. I was simultaneously surprised and unsurprised to find that I had somehow contracted Rheumatic Chorea in the last few days. I made an appointment with Dr. Weston.  

He shook my hand, as usual. I sat down, as usual. I started to tell him what was wrong with me, and then–as usual–he interrupted to tell me that it was extremely unlikely that I had Rheumatic Chorea. Unlikely, but not impossible, I said. Then, as usual, he began to tell me that I have to stop wasting his time. To tell you the truth, I kind of zoned out at this point. It wasn’t anything that I hadn’t heard before. Besides, I was distracted by this cluster of green and brown spots at the base of his neck. Like scales. They were poking out above the collar of his shirt. I don’t know if he knew. I found them mesmerizing. 

On Wednesday I got up and flicked through my Reader’s Digest Symptom Sorter and discovered that I had been suffering from Dracunculiasis, and had been for years. I phoned to make an appointment with Dr. Weston but his receptionist told me that he wasn’t in today. She told me that he was sick. That was worrying. 

On Friday I got up and flicked through my Reader’s Digest Symptom Sorter. I didn’t even get past the Bs before I noticed them. A cluster of itchy spots at the base of my neck. Greeny brown. Like scales. 

On Saturday Dr. Weston died. It was on the news. They don’t know how to stop it. 

I really wish he hadn’t shaken my hand.