MicroHorror

Rex Miles answered his ringing phone with such authority that he nearly ripped the phone cord out of the wall. It’s been four whole days since I’ve killed a man, he thought quickly. Rex instantly recognized the voice as Dr. Henry Peppersmith, an old acquaintance, who had needed Rex’s experience as an assassin a time or two before.Peppersmith informed him, “Rex, I’ve got a bit of a situation here at the Loomis Towers. My latest experiment has turned my whole crew into flesh-eating zombies. It’s a horrible mess. I’ve got them contained, but don’t have the heart to…”

“Kill them?” Rex broke in, with a hint of excitement in his baritone voice. He breathed deeply, his chest rose like a soldier ready for battle. “I’ll do it,” he declared, smiling and licking his lips. “A job’s a job.”

***Two days later Rex stood proudly on the second-floor balcony looking down at eighteen mindless, slow-moving zombies.

Dr. Henry Peppersmith sighed, “The governor is pretty pissed about this little mess. He gave me the money that you asked for,” Peppersmith shrugged his hefty shoulders, “and more. I guess he really wants to keep this out of the papers and off the television.”

“I suppose,” Rex said, taking aim on a tall, blood-covered zombie.

Peppersmith’s eyes widened. “I’ve known some of these people for years,” he said hastily, his skin turning pale. “That’s Harvey you’re taking aim on. He’s been working for me for years!”

Rex looked at Peppersmith sternly. “I don’t care,” he began, and turned his attention back to the zombie Harvey. “Now, you watch this, because you’re the mad doctor responsible for this fuckup.” Rex squeezed the trigger. Harvey’s head exploded in an array of blood and bone.

Vomit swam up Peppersmith’s throat. He choked it back down as Rex pulled the trigger seventeen more times.

As the bodies oozed out red-black blood, Rex let out a satisfied sigh. “It’s done.”

Peppersmith shook his head gingerly. “Yes,” he croaked, eyes tearing up. “The governor will be pleased. The madness that I caused is over.” He hung his head and began to walk away.

Rex lifted the rifle, and took aim on Peppersmith. “Oh, Doctor,” he said.

Peppersmith turned around and threw his hands up and yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”

Rex looked at Peppersmith through the scope. He could see the beads of sweat forming on Peppersmith’s brow. Rex half-smiled and replied, “The governor’s more pissed than you know, Doctor. What did you think the extra money was for?”

Peppersmith frowned. He realized he was the dumbest son-of-a-bitch in the world for handing over his own assassination money. “Wait!” he yelped, licking his dry lips. “Can’t we work out some kind of deal?”

“No,” Rex answered, moving the crosshairs between Peppersmith’s eyes. “The governor and I have already made the deal.” He pulled the trigger, then stood over Peppersmith. “Sorry,” Rex said to Peppersmith’s headless body. “But a job’s a job.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case

The end of the world as we knew it ended on October 13th, 2011. At first, the media declared, “This is just a virus outbreak that’s contained to a little community.” But with more and more media coverage, it was pretty apparent what had happened: Hell had released its demons upon an unexpecting and unprepared world.

The demons varied in shape and size. Some were large and red, while others were small and black. They all had haggard faces that bore an evil grin with massive yellow fangs that liked to slaughter and devour everyone that got in their way.

I, along with four other people, took shelter in Fort Knox. We’ve lived here for six months, and had been commutating with other survivors via ham radio. However, it’s been five months since we’ve heard another voice, and we’re starting to believe that we are the last people alive. Every so often, we venture out for supplies and to see how the demons are doing. They seem to be dying off, but they did spring a surprise attack on us. That’s when they got Harold. I tried to help him, and got scratched badly in the struggle, but the demons were too strong and pulled him from my grasp.

That was two days ago and Duncan, our self-appointed leader, says, “It’s up to us to repopulate the world, and kill off the demons. It’s our only hope.”

“Yeah,” Christy, a thirty year-old former beauty queen, chimed in. She’s had her baby-blue eyes on Duncan since we took refuge.

That leaves me with a big man named Tex. He’s called that because he’s about the size of Texas. Just the thought made me gag a little. But that’s when I realized that the sickness wasn’t from the notion of having Tex on top of me, but from the scratch. It was starting to fester and smell awful. I kept my mouth shut, though, because if the others knew I was changing into a demon they’d throw me out, and more than likely I would starve to death.

So, I sit and wait. I listen to them talk about hope, because as they said, “That’s all we have now, is hope.” I smile and leer at the three of them, as though they were a sixteen-ounce porterhouse with a loaded baked potato on the side. Mmm. The painful, rumbling growl in my stomach is growing, and I feel like I’m going mad with every fucking minute that fucking passes. I can tell that by nightfall, my transformation will be complete and poor Duncan, Christy and Tex will find out the sad fact that there is no such thing as hope.

• Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case

“Fucking kids!” Winston declared, looking down at the mangled mess that was his beloved pumpkin patch. He ran a thick-veined hand through his graying brown hair. “Got no respect at all for other people’s property.”

“Dad,” Bo cried, shaking his spiked-haired head. “You don’t know that kids did this.” He paused, putting his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, shrugged his thin shoulders and said, “It could’ve been animals.”

“Animals?” Winston laughed. He gawked at Bo and said smugly, “Boy, kids did this and I’ll prove it. I’ll hide in that old shed tonight–” he pointed an askew finger at a worn-out brown shed–“And wait on those disrespectful little brats.” A wiry smile crossed Winston’s weather-tanned face. “Then I’ll jump out and scare the shit right out of their disrespectful assholes.”

Bo looked doubtful and bored with the conversation.

Winston breathed deeply, raising his massive chest. “Trust me, son,” he began. “Fathers always know best.”

That night Winston waited until he heard the muffed and hushed voices of oncoming intruders. “It’s about time,” he whispered, moving slowly to a grime-covered window. He saw two small figures coming through the moonlight. As they got closer he could see a little boy that was wearing an oversized boot with a huge steel-toe cap on it, and a small girl who wore the boot’s mate. “Kids,” he murmured, softly. “I knew it.” He positioned himself by the door.

The kids began kicking the remaining pumpkins. Seeds and orange goop covered their clothes and flew through the cool night air. They giggled softly and smiled mischievously, and didn’t even jump when Winston ran out of the shed yelling at them.

“Aarrrh!” Winston bellowed, waving his arms in the air like a madman. “Get out of here!” His heart was racing, but these kids were standing there, unalarmed and definitely not scared. He grew red with anger. “What’s your parents’ name?” he asked sternly. “Someone owns me money for my pumpkins you two have destroyed!”

The boy and girl didn’t say a word. They just looked at Winston like he was the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus all rolled up into one.

Winston huffed, “Answer me!” He gnawed at his bottom lip. The kids stood there, eyes unblinking. “Fine!” Winston growled. “I’ll just go and call the cops.”

“Please don’t,” the girl chirped. “I’ll tell you.”

Winston walked over to her.

The girl smile shrewdly and kicked Winston in his shin with her steel-toed boot. Once. Twice. Three times. He fell to the ground in a thud.

Winston’s eyes filled with rage. “I’m gonna wear your ass out for that!”

“You shouldn’t cuss,” the little boy said. “Because Daddy says that’s the Devil’s language.”

The little girl knelt down and patted Winston’s sweaty head. “Do you know what else Daddy says?” she asked, smiling hellishly.

“No,” Winston croaked, his eyes filling with fear. He tried to get up, but the boy kicked him between the legs.

The girl stood up and looked at the boy. He smiled like he’d been caught stealing a cookie out of the cookie jar. “Daddy says,” he stated, “that kicking pumpkins is the closest thing to kicking in a real person’s head.”

Winston drew deep, uneasy breaths. “Now, you kids quit playing this silly little game of yours, and go and get me some help.”

The girl looked around and surveyed the pumpkin patch. Fifty or more pumpkins were busted opened and bleeding out their remnants. “Brother,” she said, turning her attention to the little boy. “Daddy said that once we perfected kicking in pumpkins that we could try the real thing, and don’t you think that it’s time we try?”

The boy shook his small head proudly. He looked down at Winston who was shaking his head no. The boy drew back his steel-toe boot and said, “Like Daddy always says, ‘Fathers do know best.’”

• Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case

Rex Miles pulled the trigger back on his Remington 870 shotgun, and fired eight rounds into a shabby green and white mobile home. He reloaded the rifle and fired eight more rounds into the trailer. He walked slowly to the door, throwing the Remington over his shoulder, and pulled out a nine-millimeter Beretta out of his black wool coat. He kicked in the small wooden door, and found his target.

A man crawling on his stomach towards the phone. Blood flowed out of two gaping wounds. One in the leg, and another in his lower back. Rex stepped over him quickly and yanked the phone cord out of the wall. Rex looked down at the man and asked, “Joseph Banks?”

The dark-haired man stopped and rolled over. He gazed up at Rex, who wore all black. Joseph wheezed, “Maybe?” Blood oozed from his lips.

Rex Miles tilted his head to one side. “I know it’s you, Mr. Banks,” he said. “I’m a hired gun, and I do my homework on all of my victims.”

“Assassin?” Joseph gasped, eyes blinking wildly. “But who’d want to kill me?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Rex started. “I just collect my money. Pull a trigger. And don’t ask any questions. Because if you ask questions… then it gets personal.”

“Then why didn’t you just kill me quickly?” Joseph uttered, coughing. “Like in the movies.”

“I could have,” Rex said, raising an eyebrow. “But business has been slow, and I wanted to try out my new gun.” He turned the Beretta slowly, so that Joseph could examine it. “You should feel privileged, Mr. Banks. You’ll be the first one I kill with it.”

“Wait,” Joseph yelled, breathing uneasily. “Wait. I’ve got money.” A pause. “Ten thousand dollars in cold hard cash.” another pause, swallowing hard. “Is that enough to let me live?”

“No,” Rex began, shaking his head. This is why you kill them with one quick shot, he thought. So you don’t have to listen to them beg. “It’s called the assassin’s creed. A job’s a job. And begging won’t get you anywhere.” Rex knelt down, pulled the hammer back on the Beretta and put the steel barrel to Joseph’s sweating forehead.

“Wait! Wait!” Joseph yelped. “What about a job? If I tell you where the money is… then will you kill…” he swallowed and drew a deep breath. “Whoever paid you to kill me?”

Rex pondered the thought. This is a first, and business has been slow. “I suppose,” Rex said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Where’s the money?”

Joseph pointed to the hallway and coughed, “Under my bed. In an old shoebox.”

“Okay,” Rex said and pulled the trigger. He walked to the bedroom, and found the shoebox. Opened it to find ten thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills.

Rex left the wreckage of the mobile home. Climbed into his black Tahoe, and looked into the mirror. “I guess Mrs. Banks will be my next assignment.” Along the way home Rex Miles paid a visit to Mrs. Banks. “A job’s a job,” he told her moments before he killed her.

He returned home at three in the morning. Checked his answering machine. No new messages. He checked the phone for a dial tone. “It’s working,” Rex grumbled with great disappointment.

He sat down at the kitchen table and cleaned his gun. He looked around his empty house. No television. No radio. No reading material. Just an old wall phone (that wasn’t ringing).

“Someone must need my service,” he said to the Beretta. He cleaned the rest of his guns. When he was done he took a shower. Looked into the mirror and huffed, “I hate getting the shotgun blues.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case

Dr. Henry Peppersmith felt a sharp pain in his forearm. Before he could grab it, the arm fell to the white linoleum floor of his laboratory. His blue-gray eyes grew to quarter size. He tilted his silver-colored head forward, and it fell off of his beefy shoulders. It rolled a couple of times, then rested on its double chin. He gawked up at the rest of his hefty-sized body. “Damn,” he cussed, licking his lips. “That old gypsy said that this would happen.”

He thought of the gypsy as his left arm dislocated, and fell to the floor in front of him. The gypsy’s smile was wary, showing a set of crooked yellow teeth, when she said, “Dr. Peppersmith, there will come a time when your world will be crushed and then you’ll fall to pieces.”

Dr. Henry Peppersmith blinked his eyes briskly, trying to wake himself from this dream. But this was no nightmare. This was real. As real as his divorce from Mary, that became finalized yesterday. And now he was falling apart.

Literally.

His left knee buckled, dislodged and fell sideways. “This is all Mary’s fault!” he huffed. “Stupid bitch! She’d complain nonstop about me putting my work before her! Well, that’s horseshit! I bought her everything that she ever wanted. Nice house. Fancy cars…”

His whole right leg came loose from the hip, and his body came crashing to the floor in a thud. The torso gave away at the waist upon impact, and left a total of seven pieces.

He stared at them in horror, confusion and panic. “I was an outstanding doctor,” he said to his body. “Now, I’m just a human jigsaw puzzle.”

He tried to move his fingers. They still worked. He moved his legs. They still worked. Everything worked. This made him smile slyly.

“I need some needle and thread,” he said craftily, while his arms gathered up his body. “I’ll show Mary and that old gypsy, too! That I can rebuild myself.”

His whole body rolled in unity and hit the side of a table. His forearm clawed its way up. It went on an exploration for supplies. Once it found its desired items, it returned to the edge and dropped them down to the floor.

Then Dr. Henry Peppersmith proceeded to stitch his body back together. He laughed like a mad scientist and repeated the phrase, “Gonna stitch me up. Find the bitchy Mary and the wretched old gypsy. Chop ’em into little pieces, and see if they can rebuild themselves. Like me, the good Doctor Henry Peppersmith.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case

I don’t know why dogs love to chase cars so much, but I’ll tell you why I enjoy it. It’s because of the adrenalin rush, the way it gets your blood flowing like a raging river.

I’m considered a legend in these parts of rural Kentucky. An old folklore passed down from generation to generation like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. Everybody cringes and gets fearful at just the mention of my name: the Mayfield Man-Eater.

Take for an example this red Jeep Cherokee that’s parked on the side of the road. I can overhear the teenage girl ask, “Isn’t this the place where the Mayfield Man-Eater roams? Looking for tender flesh to sink his huge fangs into, and devour whomever he likes.”

My mouth waters at the thought. She knows my myth well.

The boy laughs. “Urban legend,” he chuckles. “That’s all. But I did hear that he and Bigfoot like to watch young couples have sex.”

Well, I can’t speak for Bigfoot, but he was right. I like to watch… and wait. For the right moment to make my move. Like right now. The windows are real fogged up, and the Jeep has stopped rocking back and forth. I break a branch. Snap!

“Did you hear that?” I hear the girl ask with terror in her shaking voice.

“It’s nothing,” the boy says, breathless. “Just the wind.”

Another branch. Another snap!

I hear the boy say, “Oh shit! Let’s get out of here!”

Then some commotion in the Jeep. The engine coming to life. Tires throwing bits of gravel into my face. The adrenalin starting to run through my veins like a runaway train.

Oh, I think as I start to give chase. How I love to chase cars.

• Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case

I always liked Drake Mistake (I never knew his real name, only his alias).

Anyway, Drake got caught up in the crazy world of rock ‘n’ roll music, and has been working as a roadie for me for ten years now. I picked him up on my Rock My Dreams tour somewhere between New York and Los Angeles.

Drake was a good kid, just a little weird looking. Scrawny as a light pole with long, straight red hair and wild, bulging eyes. He was a harmless little groupie-roadie that could find dope like nobody’s business. Good dope, not that weak shit that you’d find in Kentucky.

About a year ago, I told Drake it was time for him to move on. Life on the road is murder, and he wasn’t a murderer. But Drake begged me to let him stay. Continue to follow me from town to town. Place to place. So… I agreed.

Now, Drake’s laying on a silver gurney with a long tube protruding from his arm. The tube is turning red: filling up with his blood, and draining into a steel bucket. Drake’s once tanned face is losing its color. His wide, bright green eyes are fluttering. “Why?” Drake asks, trying not to swallow his tongue. “Why are you doing this?”

I run my clawed hand over his head. “I tried to get you to move on, my old friend,” I say to him as I expose my long white fangs. “But a vampire’s got to eat.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case