MicroHorror

The dead leaves crunched under Silas’s feet as his heavy boots trod through them. He grunted as he switched hands to hold the rusted metal pail. The weight was too much, but he was at least glad that the well wasn’t much farther. The dying sun blinded his eyes as its last rays jabbed through the bare tree branches.

The well, a derelict monstrosity of broken brick and mortar, resided just ahead. Silas switched the bucket in his hands once more. The fact that the well had been dried up for some time didn’t bother him. The bucket he carried was meant to add to the well, not take from it. He couldn’t remember the last time water was drawn from there.

He heaved the bucket on the well’s rim, and dumped it. The blood inside the bucket gushed down the stained-red walls like it had been gored. Loose appendages toppled out from it like discarded scraps, and disappeared into the darkness. He tapped the bucket’s bottom a couple times, and tossed it into the woods. Flies buzzed around after being disturbed. Silas smiled. “Got more fer ya to eat,” he said. “Feller got too nosy about all you guys.”

He turned and strode away from the well. The walk back to the farmhouse took a while, and the darkness was waxing. He decided to take the long way back—the way that would take him by the edge of his cornfield. He crested the small hill that overlooked the field. The numerous scarecrows stood high above the corn stalks, resting on their wooden poles. Silas walked up to the closest one at the edge of the field.

A tree stump was adjacent to the scarecrow, and hacked into it was a scythe. Just like the Grim Reaper’s, Silas thought. He freed it from the stump and sliced it through the air. The rusted blade laughed a metallic snicker as it cut. Silas brandished it at the scarecrow’s burlap head.

“Still suspicious, officer?” Silas said.

A slight breeze jostled the scarecrow. Silas waved the scythe beneath its legs that ended in tufts of straw. He moved the scythe in a sawing motion past the arms that were capped with loose work gloves. Finally, he knocked the straw hat off of the scarecrow’s head, revealing the crude, tortured face he drew on the burlap.

He pulled the scythe back momentarily, before he swung it in an arc that stopped abruptly at the scarecrow’s neck. “No, not yet,” he said. “Not ’til the harvest.” With that, he spun and wedged the scythe into the stump. It was starting to get too dark, even with the pale moonlight.

He found his way back to the farmhouse, and got ready to go to sleep. After changing into his pajamas, he decided he wanted one last look at his newest scarecrow. He looked out to the edge of the field, only to discover an empty pole, and his scythe missing from the stump.

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Brian said.

His stomach bulged further out, testing the elasticity of his sweatpants. He looked over his body, which had doubled in size since the morning. The serum, he thought. There must have been a mistake.

He squeezed through his apartment door and waddled down the hall to the elevator. With each passing moment, his body gurgled and warbled like a water balloon ready to explode. He could feel his skin expand, pushing against the once loose gym clothes.

He took the bus to MetaGen instead of driving. He would have driven if he could actually fit in his car. He noticed that the bus riders all sat as far from him as possible. Not that he could blame them–his body continued to make squishy noises and grow.

By the time he reached his laboratory, the snow boots he wore cramped his feet, his rounded belly protruded from his sweatshirt, and the cuffs of his sleeves traveled up his forearms. He had to avoid the awkward stares of his coworkers as he slammed the lab’s door shut behind him.

“What went wrong?” he said. He stood at his desk and flipped through his journal. “What’s happening to me?”

A tiny, slushy pop disturbed the silence of the room. Brian looked up to the glass cage on his workbench. The cage walls were splattered with blood. His jaw dropped and he rushed over to it as fast as his fattened legs could carry him.

“Whiskers!”

His experimental rat was nowhere to be seen. He remembered first injecting Whiskers with the serum. The results were phenomenal. Whiskers could hold ten times his weight without a sweat. In addition, all of his life signs were stable. The possibilities for the serum’s use overwhelmed Brian. He envisioned disabled people finding new strength, athletic competition being taken to the next level, and countless other ways. The only trouble was all of the red tape he would have to go through. He wondered if the serum would ever thrive if there weren’t human results to verify its safety.

Confident, Brian injected himself with the serum. He couldn’t describe the exhilaration he felt when he lifted his own car above his head. The emotional affects were amazing, too.

It wasn’t until the other night that his strength waned. At first he thought the serum had lost its potency, but when he woke up, he discovered that his body was taking to it differently. He was caught in some kind of unstable mutation, and seeing Whisker’s innards graffiti the cage didn’t help.

His stomach gurgled again, and he expanded further. The stool next to the workbench scooted away as his body pushed it. He could hear the tested seams of his clothes giving up. His skin ached, and he wondered how much longer before it decided to give up too.

Brian couldn’t see past his bulbous stomach. Fear preyed on his mind. “It’s not supposed to be like this,” he said.