MicroHorror

“We must be near you, but cannot see you–gas is running low. Have been unable to reach you by radio. We are flying at 1,000 feet.”

“Meely, it’s no use–they can’t hear us.”

“Rich, they’ll hear us.”

“We need to ditch. We’re about out of gas.”

“We can go for another couple of hours,” Amelia responded.

“We need to land. There is an island west of here.” Rich checked his charts. “We’ve gotten off course.”

Amelia glanced at him, then back to the controls. Static hummed on the radio, indecipherable voices calling back to them. “Itasca, we cannot hear you. Can you send back voice messages so we can get a radio bearing on you?”

Again, static played back.

“We can’t hear you.”

“Circle back, Meely. The island is just to our left now–we can land in the water and swim to shore.”

“No,” Amelia snapped. “We have to find Howland Island.”

“Our calculations are off,” Rich argued.

“You mean your calculations are off?” she yelled back.

Rich slumped in his seat, pulled the goggles from his eyes. Anger and hurt filled his heart. “Yes, my calculations are off. We’re never going to find Howland Island.”

Amelia gripped the radio controls. “We are on the line 157 337. We will repeat this message. We will repeat this on 6210 kilocycles. Wait.”

“We are not on line 157 337, Meely. We are on line north and south.”

“Fine,” she said and radioed back, “We are running on line north and south.”

A moment passed, Amelia’s shoulders slumped. “What do we do, Rich?”

“We circle back, ditch the plane. I saw a tanker wrecked on the shoreline not far from here. The land looked fairly flat.”

She nodded, pulled the controls to the left and down slightly.

“Not too hard, Meely,” Rich cautioned. “We don’t want to hit water too far out.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Rich gritted his teeth, biting back anger. The plane dove, gray clouds lower than normal, obstructing their view. Clearing the coverage, the plane circled around, the island coming in view.

“Where are we?”

“I’m not sure,” Rich answered. “Gardner Island, maybe.”

“Uninhabited?”

“Possibly.”

Rich glanced at the maps, the red line he had drawn for their route telling him he had charted wrong. His stomach sank, chest grew heavy. Tears formed in his normally confident eyes.

“Meely–Amelia–I’m sorry.”

“No time for that,” she replied.

Rich looked up to see the water just ahead of them.

“Pull up! Pull up!”

“We’re out of gas,” Amelia replied.

“Another couple of hours?” Rich barked.

“This is no time to argue, Rich.”

The plane coasted, crashed into the rough ocean a few hundred yards from shore. The windshield cracked, burst and water rushed into the plane. As the plane dipped under the surface, Rich hurried to undo his harness. He freed himself as the air rushed out of the cockpit and sucked him and Amelia down with the plane.

With little air in his lungs Rich searched for Amelia, seeing only water and debris. He kicked and swam for the surface. Eyes bulging, head pounding, Rich pushed harder. He reached the surface, took a deep breath and dove back under.

Amelia floated, still strapped to her seat. She fumbled with the catch as the seat sunk further. Rich swam for her, then stopped when their eyes met. Amelia reached for him, her face pleading for help. He shook his head and raced for the surface, leaving Amelia to sink.

Rich swam to shore, crawled on his hands and knees until he was on dry land. Exhausted, he passed out.

He awoke to waves lapping at his legs. Groggy, he rolled over, felt the tide pushing on him. With the dying sun he caught glimpse of a pale figure near him. He sat up, eyes wide, as Amelia, dead and bloated, gripped his ankles and pulled him into the sea.

• Copyright: © 2009 AJ Brown

“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…”

• Copyright: © 2009 AJ Brown