MicroHorror

I had a wife. A kid. A house. Two cars. A job. A mortgage. Then I lost my job. Had to sell a car. The house would be lost next. Maybe the wife too. And the kid, who also didn’t respect me.

It was bad.

Then one day, it happened. And, like that, the slates were cleaned. No wife. No kid. No mortgage. No need to work. Just me. And the house. Free and clear. For half a second, though it was wrong, I felt liberated.

Then those who were left fought each other for what was left on the shelves that still stood. When that was over, they did worse. Then no one even felt human anymore.

We did this to ourselves.

I have a new car now. I splurged. Took a Ferrari right off the lot. Also there’s this knife. And the hunger, which eats you alive. It doesn’t help that there’s no one. For miles and miles. Just rubble. Burnt skies. Black earth. Blackened corpses. Dead animals. The smell.

The horrible smell that stays in your nose.

I drive. Looking for others. But mostly for food. A bag of crackers. Of chips. Of those orange candies you get at Halloween. A can of corn. Anything.

I come up over a hill. See a gas station. The tank is full, but I park anyway. Convenience Center, the sign says. I go in. Scan shelves. See maps. Oil cans. Plastic plates. Napkins. Salt and pepper shakers. Yeah, real convenient, I think. If you were going to a picnic. And actually had food to bring.

I laugh out loud at my joke–and it startles me.

I turn to go. Then there’s another noise. Not my laugh. Not my stomach. I creep toward the bathroom. Touch the knife through my pocket. Turn the corner. See a young man, crouched next to the toilet. His grubby hands digging into a can of food. About to eat.

“Please,” I say.

“No, he says. “I’m soooo hungry.”

I notice his chubby belly. His chubby face. “Please, me too,” I say.

“No,” he says. “Up the way. There has to be something there.”

“Where,” I say. “There is no up the way.”

“No,” he says and turns away. Like I’m nothing.

I lunge. Grab for the can. Touch it. Nearly get it. But he yanks back–hard. And it flies. Lands on the floor. Spins. Out comes water. And the stringy green beans. The kind you’d never eat before it happened.

Before we did this to ourselves.

I almost cry. But bend down anyway to share the meal. He sticks out his leg. Trips me. I fall. Nearly crack my head on the hard floor. I look up. He has put his face down. Has begun to suck the beans from the floor.

Like some disgusting animal.

Before I can think about it, I pull the knife and pounce. Stick it in his fat gut. His fat back. His fat neck. “Please,” he begs.

But it’s too late.

I slide down the wall. Watch him whimper. Watch him bleed. Him die. Red stains the floor. Mixes with the dirt there. With the water from the can. And the beans, now useless. A silent moment passes where I don’t know what to do. I look again. See the color leave his face. See his body freeze and seem to crack like an old photograph.

I get weak. Close my eyes.

The hunger wakes me. Tears at me. Makes me hear it. I go to him. Stick my knife in him. Start cutting. I think a fire would help. Would make this go down easier. But it would bring others, I think. And then they would know.

I gag as I peel off a layer of skin. But the hunger. I put it in my mouth. Close my eyes. Chew.

I had a wife. Had a kid. A house. Two cars. A job. A mortgage…

• Copyright: © 2009 A.M. Fontana