MicroHorror

Daybreak nears and I must quickly write my message. I cannot still my trembling hand, so please excuse the poor quality of writing.

Had the consequences not been so dire, I would have enjoyed the irony of virus 2022XS. Spring’s arrival, last year, was celebrated with the appearance of a massive iceberg off our coast. Its middle was sunken in a concave manner and the towering, corner spires glistened pale blue in the morning sun. Souvenir hunters drew close enough to chip off samples. The foolish jumped onto the monolith for photos, soon to be posted on social networking sites.

It did not take long for the virus to spread. People fell ill, died momentarily and returned as… something less than themselves. Many fled this island carrying the plague to the mainland. It was swiftly transported to Europe and Africa and…

Scientists theorized the XS virus was an ancient evil, hidden in the Arctic for millennia, now exposed through melting polar ice. Politicians speculated it was a brazen terrorist attack on western society. The fringe element considered it retribution from God or perhaps alien spores deposited to “thin the human blight.”

There are two distinct groups. The Alphas, who hunt living people, assemble on a small hill overlooking the city. As the sun rises from the Atlantic, they turn in unison into the breeze, attempting to pick up the scent of their prey. The second group, the Omegas, feed on rats, seagulls and other small animals. They will kill the humans they encounter, but do not eat their victims.

The slow-moving creatures hunt in large packs and the two groups have no association with one another. If they accidentally intersect, the melee can result in severe bites, gouged eyes and limbs torn from sockets. Despite the limited food supply, we have never understood why the beasts do not cannibalize one another.

The number of living swiftly declines, as does the number of our enemy; the war of attrition continues daily. Killing the dead is difficult as you must remove their arms and legs to stop their mobility. They will then simply starve to death. The wailing from the beasts can be too much to bear and it is often necessary to lop off their heads.

The human population must hide during the day while the beasts hunt; we forage at night while they rest. I live on the roof of a downtown office building. If you want to call it living. I have my sleeping bag, a rain barrel, a small potato garden and a solar panel to keep my Sawzall charged. I carry it always, to assist in the dismembering of the beasts.

At last reckoning we were 66 in number and have looted most of the businesses and homes in search of food. The Alpha group is now a legion; the Omegas have all but rid the city of vermin and domestic pets. We recently discovered, purely by accident, that if the creatures are subject to a small electric charge they are left stunned and immobile for a period of time. They are then easily dispatched to Hell.

I have learned to live with their oozing flesh and their crazed, bloody eyes. However, I can no longer look away as I kill them. I have grown tired of seeing the faces of cousins and brothers, of neighbours and lovers. I will seal my message of warning in an empty rum bottle and toss it into the dark Atlantic. God willing, it will be found and prove useful to someone along coastal America or beyond.

A sympathetic comrade has provided me with a fully fueled chainsaw. At daybreak, I will call the Alphas from the base of the hill. The monsters will shamble after me and I will meet them in battle, disabling as many as possible with my heavier weapon. When I am nearly overrun, I will dive into the ocean’s inviting waves for cleansing.

I will swim east to be free.

Sean Finch

I sit alone this Friday evening, as I do on all others. I am seeking inspiration and just a shred of an idea that will start me writing. A first-rate short story I can submit to some online publication for free. I am listening to a God-awful country station, trying to get into the hurtin’ mood to write my sordid tale.

My desperation is such that I even resort to wearing my lucky fez and kilt (the material of which scratches my ass) because I need all the help I can get.

I have endured every creative writing class this city has to offer. I’ll slit my throat if I hear one more neophyte critique my prose. But perhaps I should slit theirs first. I think that now is the time to leave the nest. Spread my wings. Take my first fleeting steps (or at the very least crawl a little).

“The night, it was dark and stormy…” Absolute crap.

I was once in a writers’ group chaired by a man called Bram Sampson. He was a stand-up guy and adequate writer who had spent a couple of years in Millhaven Pen. He told me the joint was a great source of creative inspiration. He wrote micro-horrors about guys getting shivved, guys avoiding the showers, date night… you get the idea. The most important thing I learned from BS, as he is known to his intimates, is that you must first live life in order to write about it. Bram often told me, “Write about the things you know.”

I ache to align myself with the big league of horror: King, Straub and Rice. I know that to accomplish this, I must heed his advice and leave this apartment. I must live the life and walk the talk, take the inspirational words of BS to heart.

It’s now well past midnight. I will suck back a couple more power drinks, throw away my rabbit’s foot and remove the tiny lederhosen from my terrier. It’s time to rise above the great unwashed, the huddled masses of ordinary writers… enough with luck. I must, and will, change…

I have sharpened my Bowie knife. All that’s left is to strap it horizontally to my belt, beneath my dark coat. The chloroform rag is sealed safely in a plastic baggie, deep in the recess of my pocket. The piano wire is easily accessible up my sleeve. The micro audio/video equipment, purchased online, is fastened to my headband, my watch and my belt buckle. I am a plain, unobtrusive man whose looks work in his favor. I could be the quiet guy living in the apartment above, or merely feet away through the four-inch walls.

Once my protagonists are subdued, I will take them to a cottage deep in the woods. I will learn their secret sights and sounds during examination and dismemberment. Only then can I evolve from antagonist to writer. I will have the reference material needed to write my short story. Hell, maybe even enough for a novel. It will have the intimate detail that only experience can give. That special kick, making it different from all others. I will take it to the next level. It will be to die for.