MicroHorror

“Spare a bit of bread?”

Cannus glared down at the filthy man, his rags clinging to waxen skin marked with purple discoloring, eyes sunken on a gaunt face, lips trembling. Sores lined his throat and armpits, many of them open, a mixture of yellow pus and thick blood spilling from each one.

“Be gone with you,” Cannus yelled. “You dare to touch my robes with your diseased hands? I shall have your head.” He slapped the man across the face, sending him to the ground.

“It’s just a bit of bread,” the man said and closed his eyes. His chest heaved and fell still.

“Get up,” Cannus demanded. When he didn’t move, Cannus knelt. He shuddered when he touched the man’s lips, felt no breath. Cannus stood, started to back away.

The man’s hand twitched, then grabbed Cannus by the ankle. His eyes cleared and anger filled his face. “You are the beginning. You have brought death upon your people.”

Cannus growled, pulled his foot free. He picked up a stone, beat the man until blood spilled from his broken face. Cannus tossed the rock aside, pulled the dead man into the woods and fled. He went to the river, blood still on his hands. Without disrobing, he waded into the cool water. His skin prickled and the blood washed free of his hands and clothing.

He sat at the table a few days later, his wife, Margaret, tamping a damp cloth on Cannus’ forehead. Heat swelled inside and breathing sent slivers of pain into his lungs and chest.

“Where be you to get such a fever?” Margaret asked.

“I know not,” Cannus said. He coughed, tinged red phlegm spilled from his lips. He wiped it away, stared at the glob of infection and stood. “I fear I am dying.”

Margaret backed from him, her gaze fixed on Cannus’ hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

She pointed. “Your skin.”

Red splotches lined his forearm. He pulled his tunic aside. More of them appeared on his chest and stomach. Blisters formed between his legs. A tingle began in his belly, raced up his spine and into his skull, sending shivers throughout his body. Cannus coughed violently. Thick blood sprayed into his hands.

“I must leave,” he said and slid on his sandals.

Cannus left the house, stumbling into the road. He hurried to free himself of the village, brushing by merchants selling wares and food, patrons purchasing their needs and children running through the streets.

“Cannus,” one man said and gripped him by the shoulders. “Where are–” The man backed away, wiping his hands on his robe. “Cannus, what have you done?”

“I’ve done nothing,” he barked, coughed, his stomach quivering.

“Leave the town,” the man said. “Or we shall all surely die from your sins.”

Cannus ran as the sun hung high, beating down on the early autumn day. Outside of town, he fell to his knees, vomited blood and phlegm.

“A pity it is,” a man said from behind him.

Cannus wiped his mouth and glanced to the side of the road. There stood the dead man, his face broken, blood dry. He held a loaf of bread, took a bite.

“You?”

The man nodded.

“What have you done to me?”

“It’s what you have done–what all of man has done. Sin.”

“Take it back.” Cannus stood, grabbed the man’s shoulders and shook him.

“I can’t.”

“Take it back.”

The man’s face wilted, skin turning black, eyes rolling up. He coughed dust.
Cannus stumbled backward, tripped and fell to the ground.

“What are you?” he whispered.

The man shuffled forward, fell atop Cannus. “I am Death.” The man placed his mouth over Cannus’ and exhaled. Cannus struck Death until he grew weak and his arms dropped to his sides.

Death stood, bit into the loaf and spat it at Cannus. “A piece for you as you lie dying–the first of many…”