MicroHorror

The reign of Man ended when the rip appeared in the twilight sky. The vertical slice widened, formed a hole of impenetrable darkness like the mouth of God opening above us. It spewed a roiling cloud of blackness–a forming Rorschach inkblot against the dimming sky. From its center grew a blaze of writhing flesh. The flesh coalesced into distinction. Hideous monstrosities, lumpish, hairless, some tentacled, emerged through the rift. They marched earthward as if on an invisible road, one after the other. Countless silent behemoths. Living nightmares bathed in moonlight.

Human screams erupted around me. The sea beyond my balcony reddened as fireballs streaked the sky. I lowered my binoculars and wept.

Having descended, the new Gods roared.

Ludlow’s Lawn and Garden sold us the seeds. “A summer necessity at a special price,” offered in honor of their grand opening in our little town. No spraying. No spreader needed. “Scatter it just like feed, onto grass or bare soil,” they said.

So we did.

Only instead of weed preventing or killing, it cultivated weeds. Abominable weeds. Thick ropy, tubular things shot out of the ground. They snaked in and out of the earth like giant blind worms. The ground trembled as they moved, as they searched for food. Rain didn’t sustain them. Human blood did.

We’ve climbed onto the roof, sitting astride its apex. Naomi hugs the children tight. We hear the root-weeds growing, climbing higher. They’re thirsty.

Large iridescent tails flashed amid the swell of an incoming wave. I counted five, then spotted a sixth. Vibrant-hued scales–purple, orange and red–dazzling in the sunlight, darkened to a blur as they streaked beneath the aquamarine surface of the Pacific toward shore like a homing torpedo.

I blew a shrill warning-whistle first, then used the bullhorn to call all swimmers to shore.

As people fled screaming, these ghastly fish fed. Possessing human torsos, arms and heads they emerged from the sea, hunted on the beach. Their shark-like teeth shredded flesh, crushed bone.

Sated, they retreated into the surf, dragging away a solitary corpse.

Cowering inside the lifeguard shack, peering out, I counted twenty-two patches of ruby red sand.

Commotion in the garden beyond the dining room window caused Marshall to look up from his breakfast. When he did, the skinny, male photographer with spiked black hair froze. The youth’s eyes widened with shock and horror.

Their gazes locked.

Marshall quaked with rage. Damn them!

His good eye twitched and the fire-melted flesh along the right side of his ruined face began to itch. He stretched a stiff finger on his clawed good hand toward the window, certain the paparazzi weasel had snapped his photo. A phrase of mumbled Latin escaped his lips.

Marshall’s wrath flowed outward.

Outside, the youth dropped his camera. He flinched and screamed. His exposed flesh blistered, blackened and split. Charred completely, he exploded as ash.

Snakes pelted me like rain. They fell upon my supine body in a tumble and slithered off to the dirt, swarmed about me in the narrow pit, as helpless and trapped as I was. The snakes were adolescent anacondas.

Paralyzed by something the Watupi had slipped into the welcoming drink they had given me, I could do nothing but stare. The anacondas were biting me, striking out in agitation. My vision wavered, my eyes filling with dirt and being obscured by snakes. Anacondas weren’t poisonous. But the banana spiders were highly venomous.

They were the last harsh rain to fall.

Delilah settled into a seductive pose, lying naked on the king-sized bed. Red satin sheets accentuated her youthful, milk-white flesh and voluptuous breasts. Simply breath-taking–then again, for $500 cash, one would expect such.

“Kneel before the Queen,” she purred. I joined her on the bed, kissing the warrior-woman tattoo on her smooth, inner right thigh. The image came to life, peeling itself free.

The Viking Queen knelt beside us, scantily clad in rabbit fur, rune-etched dagger in hand. The swift knife thrust and searing pain in my gut made me gasp.

My blood, her lips–last kiss before Valhalla.

Ernesto pressed “Play” on the stereo. Pavarotti flooded the confines of the lighted basement. Swiveling toward his tool cart, Ernesto selected a scalpel and a pair of upholstery shears.

He turned to the naked fat man on the metal gurney before him. Gagged, eyes wide with terror, the man strained against his leather bindings. His beer belly wobbled and jiggled.

Pavarotti faded into Caruso.

Ernesto sliced and snipped. Ropy coils, warm and wet, slid from their confinement, drooped toward the floor and fell free.

He stitched to Bergonzi. Amputated to Domingo. Finished with Florez.

Tomorrow he’d sever and flay to salsa.