MicroHorror

The sun beats down on you, ever relentless. You can’t remember how long you’ve been wandering in this desert, but you’re out of water, your lips are cracked, and you don’t think you’re going to last much longer.

You’re at your wits’ end when the stranger approaches you. You’re not even sure if he’s real or not, until he takes you by the hand and pulls you up. “Come with me,” he says with a smile, “there is water nearby.”

It’s the best thing you’ve heard all day and you follow him eagerly. In your haste, you don’t really stop to look at things clearly. You don’t see the bloodstains on his clothes, and you certainly don’t pay any attention to the gore-spattered axe in his hand.

And although you’re very shortly going to end up being chopped into tiny bits, you really didn’t stop to think about that at the time.

You don’t know how it happened, but for some reason everyone in town has become a shambling zombie. Your mother, your wife, your best friend; nobody was spared but you.

You’ve managed to evade them so far, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you get too tired to keep running. You didn’t want to do this, but you knew it would happen eventually. Sighing heavily, you assemble your shotgun and load it with shells.

As the first zombie lurches towards you, you realize it’s your old primary school teacher. That makes this easier for you, somehow. You hated the old battleaxe anyway. As you take aim, a voice yells “Stop!”

You turn in confusion to see a policeman racing towards you. “Didn’t you hear, you idiot? They’ve passed a new law that gives zombies human rights. If you shoot it, I’m gonna have to arrest you!”

You look incredulously at the policeman and lower your shotgun. “But they’re trying to kill me! What am I supposed to do?”

The policeman smiles and says, “Maybe they’re not trying to kill you at all. Maybe they just want a hug.”

You stop to contemplate this as the zombie reaches you and wrenches your arm out of its socket. As you’re blacking out from the pain, you notice that the policeman looks a bit pale.

After a brief struggle, he gets dibs on your liver.

“Ah, you must be the renowned food critic, Samantha Jenkins,” said a stooped waiter who looked more than a little nervous. Samantha raised an eyebrow and looked at the waiter in polite confusion. Renowned? She had pretty much only just started in the business; four reviews so far. It was flattering that she was attracting attention already, but also slightly disconcerting.

Pushing these thoughts to the back of her mind, Samantha took a seat and waited for someone to come and take her order. The waiter from before, visibly distressed but trying hard not to show it, approached her.

“Might I suggest that you sample something from the critic’s menu? It was specially prepared for people in your profession,” said the waiter. Samantha considered the offer for a second and nodded. The waiter gave a toothy grin, disappeared, and reappeared a couple of minutes later with a plate of succulent-looking meat covered in watery ketchup.

As she ate, Samantha couldn’t help but feel that the meat seemed somehow familiar, but couldn’t quite place it. The ketchup was strange too; it tasted vaguely metallic. She called the waiter over and asked to see the chef. The waiter disappeared again, and returned with a large man holding a meat cleaver. He said a few words in rapid Italian, and motioned for her to follow him.

As she entered the kitchen, she bit back a scream as she saw the diced and bloody corpse of a man wearing a suit. All of a sudden she knew exactly why the meat and ketchup had been so strange.

“This was the last critic who complained about my food,” said the chef matter-of-factly. “If you don’t want to end up like him, I trust you know what to do.”

Samantha left the kitchen, sat down, politely finished her meal, and left without another word. Her review was glowing.

It’s just the wind. That’s what I tell myself as I listen to the rattling of the windows. Just the wind battering against the house, that’s all. I’ve been left on my own at home before, it’s nothing to worry about.

It’s just the wind, that sounds like a roar. Nothing more than the wind. What else could it be?

As I see the windows flying open, wispy claws pushing their way inside, and catch a glimpse of a row of razor-sharp cloudy teeth, a horrible realization dawns.

It’s just the wind.

It was dark, just the way I like it. It had been a long time since I last fed, and I was getting hungry. I didn’t have to wait long to find my next victim. A young man, in his twenties perhaps, walking alone. Easy prey, I thought to myself as I silently approached.

He barely felt the prick as I began to drink my fill, his life’s blood satisfying my aching hunger. I didn’t take too much, though; I never drink enough to kill.

It was then that he noticed me. He didn’t realize what I was, at first, but then realization dawned and he raised a hand, attempting to grab me. I was too fast for him, though, and flew away in search of more prey before he knew what was happening.

It’s great being a mosquito.