MicroHorror

“Can I take your order, please?” The disembodied voice crackled through the rusted speaker-panel.

Gareth eyed the faded menu board, its peeling plastic cover split leaving a water-damaged smudge of color where illustrations of burgers, chicken combos, soft drinks and ice cream desserts had once attracted the hungry traveler.

“Just a burger, mate.” It was late; he was famished and exhausted and still had another few hundred miles’ worth of traffic to contend with before reaching home.

“The Big Boy Burger or Flame-Grilled Mexicana?” The static-bored voice had said the line so many times it had lost all nonsensical meaning.

Gareth had forgotten they used to do the Mexicana–succulent one-hundred-percent beef with peppered cheese, onion rings, salad, jalapeño sauce…

“Mexicana with cheese.” He could already taste it, even though he hadn’t eaten one in more than ten years, back when this fast food chain went belly up. He thought it strange when he first spotted the weather-eroded hoarding, half-buried in bushes, along the motorway embankment; flashing light atop the slanted wooden post catching his attention from the monotony of the nighttime tarmac.

“Okay, drive round to the collection point, might take a few minutes.” A surge of static reverberated in his ears only to be lost again to the night air.

If it hadn’t been for the other car ahead of him in the queue and the other two parked up around the side of the building, Gareth might have doubled back out of there and drove on until he found a McDonald’s or Burger King, convinced the place was an abandoned shell.

Maneuvering around the tight bend, a dim light inside the restaurant cast a muddy aura over the kitchen area and out through the closed window; a stack of grey cardboard drink holders piled almost to toppling behind the frame.

Ahead, a steady breath of exhaust cloud flicked against the red brake lights of the car waiting at the collection window, driver’s door slamming shut as he braked behind him in line. Gareth counted his change out ready, dipping his head toward the open window in an attempt to catch a scent of that Mexicana burger they were preparing. But what he caught smelled more like the residues of a bonfire than the burger he remembered.

A purple-green-tinged privet hedge, to his left, buffeted the passing traffic as they sped on toward destinations unknown, while, in the middle distance, a car with foreign plates reversed from a parking bay and disappeared from view, its driver-side door badly dented.

He would park up there with his meal and be back on the road before long; Joanne would be waiting up for him like she always did, a tired smile on her lips, a table lamp left on in the hallway that would guide them upstairs to bed.

A piercing scream rocked him out of a daze and back to the queue, the car waiting at the window ahead dazzling him with two blinding reverse lights before suddenly rocketing back toward him. Before he could react, a jolt from behind splayed him forward, knocking the change from his grasp and down across the carpet. Slammed back by the car in front, halogen-bright brake lights ramping up onto his car.

To his right the stack of cup holders behind the closed window were swept away to be replaced by a face that would haunt his final moments on earth. In his rear view, another creature swaggered forward, and from the car in front.

When they attacked, Gareth could no longer taste that Mexicana but could hear a distant voice through the intercom, placing their order.

• Copyright: © 2009 Mark Robinson

“For just two pounds a month, you too could sponsor the dead.” He had left the remote on top of the television, again. “One hundred percent of the money we receive goes directly to caring for the deceased of your choice.”

A moan from the next room told Henry it was suppertime.

“We never, ever, destroy an abandoned soul.”

Maybe they could take care of him; if he removed the chains, bundled him into the back of his car and drove him out into the middle of nowhere, he could finally be rid of him and his stench. And, if he signed up to this sponsor-the-dead thing on TV, it wouldn’t be like he was completely abandoning him. No, he would still be taking care of him while doing his bit for charity.

“Each sponsor receives regular updates from their chosen departed, including photos, and even a card at Christmas.”

Looking back in the direction of the hungry grunt, it seemed like sponsorship was the answer. Inching his finger beneath the bandage, he scratched at the bite along his forearm. Two pounds a month was a lot less to find than what it was costing him to keep his father subdued. Especially if there was another repeat of yesterday.

“With today’s overcrowding issues to contend with, our job is becoming increasingly difficult to fund, which is why your support is invaluable.”

The Government’s label on the situation; their euphemism of “Overcrowding” wasn’t the real problem. With all the scientific advances made over the years, why hadn’t anyone thought about what would happen when they had discovered the cure for everything? If people weren’t dying of natural causes anymore, what would they, eventually, die of?

For all intents and purposes these people were dead–their brains were mush–but, because of what the doctors could do, they kept on going: breathing, however shallow and weak; eating like rabid animals that kept feeding on whatever was left in front of them, including human flesh; and the stench of their rotting skin, bedsore-blotchy and oozing with pus; that’s what did it for him.

“Your donation not only helps your sponsored relic, but also helps toward the upkeep costs of all our members.”

If he went now, while it was still dark, he would be done and back before he had to be at work in the morning.

“Send no money now; call the free phone number at the bottom of the screen or complete the online form and we will do the rest.”

Another thump from the other room got him to his feet.

“Sign up before the end of the month and you will receive this special introductory offer.” On screen he recognized the decaying face of a faded Hollywood movie star, though couldn’t place the name. “An exclusive signed photo of the dead celebrity of your choice.”

Another angry grunt focused his dwindling attention. “All right, Dad, I’m coming.”

The old man was gagged and shackled to his rocking chair.

“We’re going for a little drive.” Biting back the tears; in the long run, it was for the best; this was no way for either of them to live. If he had kids of his own, one day, he hoped they would do the right thing.

“Up you get; we’ll stop by the drive-through on our way.” Henry managed to get one padlock open and bent to find the second, obscured beneath the chair. Above him his father moaned into his gag.

When the second chain was free, he felt those familiar hands rush at his throat before his father’s gravelly voice hissed in his ear: “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Mark Robinson