Of Princely Fawns and Dark Magicks (short story)

 Of Princely Fawns and Dark Magicks

Deer reader, I implore you to listen to my tale.  It is one of horror and grief, of immorality and dark magicks.  It is something that has changed me, and this world, forever, and in ways that may not yet be apparent.  It is a warning.  A curse.  I promise, deer reader, that my tale is the whole and sane truth, as fantastical as it may seem, and I have refrained from any embellishment of the events that I will divulge in the following paragraphs.

I beseech you to take heed.

My tale begins on a cold and wet October evening, and I must admit that it was far later than any respectable gentleman would consider acceptable or appropriate.  Forgive me, I will not explain my lateness; I am aware of the rumours surrounding my private life, and they are neither relevant nor important to my tale, and whatever the tabloids would have you believe about my personal relationship with the disgraced Sir Reginald Winthorpe, I stress it has no bearing on the events of that night.  I will only concede that he was somewhat responsible for my lateness and my dishevelled appearance.

I was in a hurry to get back to my lodgings that night.  The rain was only a cold mist, though I could observe a storm maturing in the distance, black ominous clouds boiling above the forest just outside the city.  I hadn’t had the forethought to carry my umbrella, only my cane, and I didn’t relish the thought of being caught out in the expected deluge.

The streets were quiet, strangely forlorn of their usual clientele.  I didn’t consider this too odd; I surmised that the ruffians, dolly mops and mollys, and those undesirables that often dressed the roadside, had sought shelter from the coming storm.  Hindsight makes me wonder if the true reason was the sinister destiny that was to cast its shadow over that night.

It had sauntered out of the shadows, the beast, and into the dim lamplight, with seemingly no intent to shock me, yet shocked I had been.

I’d struck out at the thing with my cane, hitting down at its skull with deadly force beget by my fright.  Unfounded fright, it seemed.  The innocent fawn died instantly.

I won’t torment you, deer reader, with a morbid description of the pained bleat it emitted with its dying breath, or the terrified glaze in its eyes as the spark of life extinguished.  I won’t tell you how its small body collapsed to the floor like a marionette with its strings slashed.  There was no blood, but the dent in its crown left no doubt as to its fate.

I had killed it.

One does not expect a young deer, nor an adult deer, to be wandering the streets, particularly at night.  I had never expected to cross paths with one in this city; I had only ever encountered them on summer constitutionals in the countryside, and even then, it was a rare occurrence.  I’d seen foxes and rats trawling the streets at night, but never deer.

That is the excuse I tell myself to this day for why I did what I did.  For why I dispatched the poor creature in my momentary fear.

There is no excuse for the deplorable actions I undertook afterward.

At this point I need to pause my tale and provide some context to my life and background, which may go someways to explaining my motivations.  Though, in truth, I cannot tell you why I did it, for even I did not really understand; I may only be lying to myself to ease my troubled conscience.

As a child my mother would read to me every night.  Fairy stories.  Stories of transformation, of other worlds just beyond our own, of immortals and magic.  Spirits hiding in nature, watching us, judging us worthy of heaven.  Or unworthy.  Perhaps that is why I sought out the macabre.  Perhaps not.  I had not been immune to sin even before that night, and I never would be again.

I never stopped believing in those stories.

My favourite of my mother’s fables, that I often fondly recall since her passing, was that of a fairy prince that had been transformed into a fawn, cursed by his father to learn humility.  Though it is only through love that he returns to his true form.  This tale struck close to my heart because my own father had been distant and angry during my childhood and barely acknowledged me even on his deathbed.  He’d always been ashamed of me and what I became.  My father took that shame to his grave.

It was the story of the fawn that came to mind as I stood in the gloomy street on that wet autumn evening and stared down at the corpse of the innocent beast.

I felt overwhelming remorse at my actions.

I have mentioned, deer reader, that I had not been immune to sin, but it may surprise you to hear that I have previously employed use of a hag and her dark magicks.  I fear my life would be far more scandalous than the simple sordid rumours about myself and Sir Reginald, if not for her occult assistance, without which it is likely I would be telling you this story as I turn the crank in jail.

I understand that ‘hag’ often conjures up a crooked crone, but I assure you that she was anything but.  My hag was a beautiful young maiden, though wise beyond her years.  I still remember the knowing look in her eyes, as if she knew what I required of her that night, as I stood on the threshold of her home at the edge of the city, soaked through, for the rain had picked up as the storm approached, holding the beaten creature in my arms and holding back my tears.

I’d watched in awe and anticipation, warming and drying myself near her fireplace, as she cast sorcerous spells and hellish hexes over the corpse, as she poured thaumaturgical tinctures down its throat, rubbed ungodly unguents into its skin.  She’d warned me that there were no guarantees, that not every soul could return from the void, but I’d gripped tight to hope, even as the storm, perhaps an omen of what was to come, reached the city and thundered and roared above our heads.

Her efforts, deer reader, were for naught.

I paid my dues and departed into the tumultuous night, holding the dead fawn, whose life had been cut short by my rash actions, tight against my chest as I faced the wind and the rain.  The heavens poured.  Lightning graced the skies, heralded by thunder.  My grief consumed me as much as the storm enveloped me and my deceased charge.

I wandered for I didn’t know how long, trudged through the squall, freezing and wet, until I found myself at the edge of the forest where I’d first seen the black clouds that now devoured the firmament above.

I knew what I needed to do.  I would bury the poor beast, deep in the forest, return it to whence it came.

I recall being somewhat grateful for the cover of the trees, sheltered from the wind and rain, as I walked my dark fated path.  The storm raged above the canopy, crashing a syncopated rhythm through the flora; it deafened me, forced me to dwell on only my own thoughts, my guilt, my memories of fables about the princely fawn and of the reality of my wanton killing of the deer in the streets of the city.

I’d wanted nothing more than to be washed of my sins, or at least of the sin I’d committed against nature this night, to lay this child to rest and pray for its entry to heaven, but, deer reader, my goodly intentions paved an inevitable path.

I’d tripped, caught my foot against a stray branch or stone, and the dead little deer had been freed from my arms.  I’d found my balance quickly, my hands bracing against a nearby tree, but the fawn had not been so lucky.  I’d inadvertently thrown the creature across the forest floor, its limp body splashing into the muddy ground ahead.

I’d cried out in anguish, my words overwhelmed by the cacophony of the storm.

The unfortunate creature deserved more than being left out in the rain alone, and I fully intended to continue my task.  Something stopped me, deer reader.  Perhaps some sixth sense.  Perhaps my soaked skin restricted my muscles.  Perhaps a ghostly hand gripped my heart and saved me.

The body of the baby deer twitched.  Then its legs kicked out against the muddy forest floor.

I wondered, for a moment, if it had been my imagination, a trick of the gloomy light, hallucinations of my tired brain, but no.  Remember, deer reader, that I told you that I would tell you the whole and sane truth.

It lived.

The fawn, formerly deceased by my own hand, clambered unsteadily to its feet as if it were a newborn.  I watched, stuck to the spot, rain still breaching the leaves overhead, thunder rolling, occasional flashes of lightning illuminating the deer and its caved in skull.

I want to say that I felt some elation in that moment, joy that the animal was alive, glee at my guilt resolved; I tried to force the feeling into my heart, but only an ominous sense of dread gripped my gut.

The fawn was staring at me, one eye distorted by the concave head.  It stood defiantly in the rain, unblinking, unmoving, knowing what I did, accusing me of its murder and the depraved dark acts I’d subjected to its vulnerable body in my attempt at atonement.  This beast was no prince in disguise.

It was a devil.

Thunder rumbled above us.  Me and it, both frozen against the night.  Me, in terror, and it, like a predator deliberating its prey.  I wanted to run, wanted to retreat to the safety of the city, but I could not will myself to move.

Lightning shimmered in the creature’s eyes, and I will swear, deer reader, on my beloved mother’s grave that the glaring pupils lit up with a supernatural crimson glow in that moment.

Then, the fawn bleat a blood-curdling malevolent cry against the storm, against my presence and my actions that dark night, and disappeared into the forest with an uneasy gallop.

I never saw the damnable beast again, despite my every effort, and despite its curse that followed me this past decade.  Those close to me died, sporadically over the years, each death sudden and unexplained.  Even my precious Sir Reginald Winthorpe had succumbed.  You might accuse me of seeing patterns where there are none, of self-fulfilling prophecies, or of madness brought about by my guilt.  But none could explain how each friend, each family member, my lover, had been found collapsed in the forest, their crowns crushed, like the very beast I’d attacked on that cold and wet October evening.

I know, deep in my soul, that it will come for me soon.

And so, deer reader, while I still live to tell you of my terrible tale, I entreat you to take note, to never act rashly against the creatures of this Earth, to never invoke unnatural dark magicks; one may find a prince, or one may find a devil.  And if you ever see a ghastly deer, with its skull battered and bashed, and red glowing eyes, I bid that you run.

The End

Foggy Flower (short story)

 

Foggy Flower

(Random 2-word prompt- inspector, grounds)

 

                The mist was thick and cold.  So was he.  Cold, that is.  His clothes were soaked with a penetrating and perpetual damp that sank right down to his bones.  Flower shivered, his breath caught by the icy air, condensing around his lips with every exhale.

                His torch did very little to help his visibility in the dark of the night; it’s narrow beam only caught misty grey walls closing in on him… and yet, he could still somehow feel the wide-open castle grounds around him.  It was both claustrophobic and agoraphobic.  He felt vulnerable.

                Flower kept walking, a quick pace; he wanted to get home.  His dull footsteps, and their accompanied syncopated echo, were the only sound of life in the gardens, though a gentle breeze tussled the bushes intermittently too.

                He’d heard that ghosts haunted the castle grounds.  George, the old guard, had regaled him with terrifying tales and supernatural stories all evening, and those eerie yarns had spooked him.

                Flower’s torch flickered.

                George had told him of headless knights stalking the paths, vengeful wailing maidens in white dresses with slit wrists creeping through the bougainvillea.  He’d spun fables of gruesome beasts hiding under the hedgerows, creatures with long red claws and creepy grins, waiting to grab unsuspecting victims by their ankles and pull them into their lair.  He’d told Flower about the evil witches and warlocks who, hundreds of years ago, used these grounds for their dark rituals and blood sacrifices, and who, while being tortured and burnt at the stake, swore a cursed revenge in their afterlife as spirits.

                His torch flickered again.  And again.

George had told Flower that the witches and warlocks could still sometimes be heard, crying out their pained curses in the middle of the night, casting malevolent spells on those with fear in their hearts.

Of course, Flower didn’t believe any of those fictional fables…

The torch died, and Flower came to a sudden stop, the echo of his footsteps following suit almost immediately.  The walls of grey mist were replaced with walls of blind darkness in an instant.  There was nowhere to go.  He couldn’t see anything in front of him.  He shuddered in the cold.  His clothes deepened the icy feeling on his skin, sodden by the damp air, and goosebumps stalked up his arms.

The wind crept around him, and the flora of the gardens whispered secrets to it.  Flower’s heart quickened, so did his breathing.  He was alone, hoped he was alone, in the quiet dark.  He began to see the grey of the mist as his eyes adjusted to the dark; it did little to improve his vision.  He looked at his feet; he could just about make out the path.

And then, a high-pitched cry in the distance broke the silence of the night.  The whinny of a horse in the castle stables.  Or was it a witch, a warlock, cursing him?  Was it a gruesome beast in the hedgerows?  Or a wailing maiden?

The silence retuned just as quickly as it’d been disturbed.

And…

Flower broke in a run, boots thumping against the stone path, eyes straining in the dark.  He ran and he ran and he ran.  He could feel it behind him.  Something was there, following.  It echoed his steps, chased him through the fog.  His legs strained to move faster.  His heart thrummed hard.  He ran.  His lungs struggled.  He tried not to scream, but fearful utterances escaped his lips.

A rock or a branch caught his foot.  He cried out as he fell, his body slammed into the dewy grass, his face collided with the earth.  He was winded and hurt.

                He didn’t move, couldn’t move.  He shivered in the dirt, but not from the cold.

                The pursuing footsteps came to halt, and Flower could sense the presence standing over him.  He could hear it wheeze and groan; it gurgled a death rattle.

                The supernatural creature was about to pounce.

                “Flower?” came a breathless, yet familiar voice.

                Flower twisted onto his back and looked up into a light that now shone on his prone body.

                “You forgot your keys,” wheezed George the guard, pointing his torch down at the man.  He tossed the keys to Flower.  “Why did you have to run so fast?  Silly bugger.  I could barely keep up.”

The End.

Next Flower Story

Flower and the Carousel (short story)

 

Flower and the Carousel

(Random 2-word prompt- fair, horror) 

                Flower’s boots struck against the wooden slats of the pier, tapping a rhythm that disturbed the cold night air.  The pier creaked, objecting not just to his hurried footsteps, but to the swish and swash of the ocean that tickled its wooden toes below him.  The arrhythmic tune both interrupted and heightened the silence, which was deep and sharp, almost dangerous.   His breaths laboured, he was out of shape, trailing vapour from his lips as he moved.

He was almost there.

The carousel had broken again, a late callout, and it was up to Flower to repair it before the Queen’s party tomorrow.

He was alone on the pier, though the stars kept him company, grains of salt scattered across the dark sky, reflected in the ocean.  He could almost smell them, the briny pricks of light.  Some were obscured by elongated grey clouds, misshapen tentacles clinching the firmament, ready to squeeze.  The moon sat amongst them, unconcerned by their touch.

Flower shivered.

It’d turned chilly, a sudden change from the warm and dry day, and he’d forgotten his jacket.  The cold air crawled up his spine, fingering the vertebrae, reaching into his head and digging its nails into his amygdala.  He felt nervous and jumpy, but he didn’t know why.

He needed to get this done, and quick.

Flower swallowed his urge to run; he approached his target.

The carousel seemed strange tonight; it didn’t look quite like it was supposed to.  An uncanny valley of a merry-go-round.  The red and white conical roof wasn’t quite as pointed as it should be, wasn’t quite as symmetrical or uniform.  The support poles beneath seemed less straight, more… bulbous.  A distorted carousel.

No.

He was tired, it was dark, and his imagination was going wild.  Flower squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force away the inexplicable vision, and blinked.

Was the carousel the same?

He took a step forward.

The silence broke.  Cracked.  A loud clicking, syncopated and organic, pierced the cold night air; it was deep and low, at first, but rose and rose in pitch and frequency.  It creaked like a heavy door on ancient hinges, a door opening to what horrors, Flower didn’t know.  And then it stopped, almost as suddenly as it’d come.  It echoed in his bones, and he found himself frozen to the spot.

He focused on the sounds of ocean, the sea baying at the shores, biting the struts of the pier.  The wood groaned in response.  But everything was different.  The music of this night was out of tune.

The air smelled of salt, more intensely than it should; it tingled the hairs in his nose.

His heart was in his throat, his breathing shallow, and he realised he was no longer alone… if he’d even been alone to begin with.

There was someone... something else here.

Flower’s eyes scanned the carousel, searching, probing the shadowy mounts trapped within its cage for something out of place.  Seahorses seemed to rear up in fright.  Sharks shrank away.  A whale opened its gigantic maw to scream.  The petrified sea life, once merry and inviting, wore terrifying faces in the gloom.  Hordes of glass eyes watched Flower from inside the ride.

He gulped down his heart and took another step.

His boot slapped and splashed into a shallow puddle that was creeping its way along the decking.  It was coming from the carousel.

He stopped again.

A pool of water, as wide as the merry-go-round, was spreading out from its mechanical carcass.  Like blood from a wound.  And now that he was a little closer, he realised the whole thing was wet, soaking, the frightened wooden creatures glossy.  Dripping.  He could hear the drips, quiet ticks counting down.

Flower could feel it now, the presence.  Something large and looming.  Hidden in the dark.  Close.

The smell of the sea was stronger now, pungent.  He could taste it.

The carousel moved.  Just slightly, and not as it should.  The supports warped, and shifted, the roof shuddered.

And the clicking returned.

Kck kck kck kckckckckckckck.

It vibrated the air.  It shook Flower’s organs.  He wanted to run… but he couldn’t.

Kck kck kck kckckckckckckck.

Kckckckckckckck.

And then he saw it.

Large eyes, with rectangular pupils, stared down hungrily at Flower.  For a moment, they seemed to float in midair above the carousel, but then the ride transformed.  The roof rippled and morphed, the supporting poles swung up and out, tentacles, and the monster that was hidden in the night, camouflaged against the red and white carousel, revealed itself.

Kckckckckckckck kck kck!

Slimy orange skin emerged from the dark, invisible became visible.  Shape and form rippled into existence, a creature mounted on the roof of the carousel, undisguised and blatant.  It loomed.  Its big eyes, peering out from a bulbous and enormous head, examined Flower, seemingly waiting for something, and he realised his mouth had fallen open in reply, an empty scream trapped inside his throat.  He prayed to survive, but only an eldritch god consumed his thoughts.

Kraken.

A long and thick tentacle, swathed in suckers, whipped up and out, barrelled into his chest, it hurt, and Flower was thrown back.  He hit the deck hard, wind knocked from his lungs, and his body bounced across the wood before scraping to a halt.   He struggled to catch his breath, winded, broken ribs.  Bruised.  He wanted to scream, wanted to run.  He rolled onto his side and vomited.

Kck kck kck kck kck kck kck.

The colossal cephalopod was still there, watching, and Flower could do nothing but wait for his death.

The creature’s round head throbbed, eyes narrowed, its pupils focussed down on Flower’s body.  Its arms slithered on the wet pier, tracing slow spherical and curved paths, drawing unnatural runes in the puddles.

Flower stared back in terror.

And then it screamed, a series of ear-splitting clicks that breached the night air fast and frantic.  Tentacles gripped and clawed at the wooden creatures of the carousel beneath it, ripping and pulling, tearing and rending.  The ride creaked and cracked in agony.  The kraken cried out.

The end was nigh.

Flower closed his eyes.

Silence.  Nothing happened.  No slimy appendages wrapped themselves around his prostrate form, no huge mouth slurped up his innards.

He heard a loud splash.

Salt lingered in his nose, on his tongue.  The screeching call of the monster rung in his ear.  Its cold presence lingered along his spine.  Everything hurt.

He peeked out into the night, and saw nothing but the empty carcass of the carousel.

The kraken had stolen away the seahorses and sharks, and the whale; it had caught its prey, its food, and retreated to the depths.

Flower was alone on the pier, thankfully unappetising.

The End.

Next Flower Story

Attack of the Living Alive (remastered short story)

 

Attack of the Living Alive

 

“Stubborn worms and other nasties getting you down?
Tired of spending your precious time every morning plucking out those little wrigglers?
Infested with so many worms that you’re beginning to feel alive again?
Worm-Away! Clears out even the most stubborn intrusions!
*jingle plays*
And now there’s Worm-Away Plus!
The same super-powered scientifically tested formula, now with a fresh Sea Breeze fragrance!
Worm-Away, for all your extermination needs.
Available in all good pharmacies and supermarkets.”

 

Attack of the Living Alive

 

                Afterward, people would tell me that they remembered where they were when the news first hit.  It was a mantra, some sort of tonic that almost made things better; as if asking where you’d been or what you’d been doing when it happened made it more real, more manageable.  It was bullshit.  Just another way for people to bring it up, another way to process the trauma of what had happened without directly asking for the help.

And where had I been?

I’d been in the supermarket, holding a can of Worm-Away in my hand and a basket on my arm.  It was a vivid memory burned into my brain.  Or what was left of it.  My brain, that is.  And I even remembered what was currently in the little wire cage I held; there was some hair freshener, anti-bacterial gel, tweezers (for those annoying little bugs that get under your skin), moisturiser, and of course, the most essential items, a new set of needles and some more thread in a variety of colours.

Of course, there’d always been rumours about them.  The Living.  But they were only bogeyman tales.  Bogus tales if you’d asked me before the events of that day.  The Living were just tales to tell people to give them a little scare… and who doesn’t enjoy a cheap scare?  And that’s what they’d been to most people.  The Living were hiding from us underground, sometimes in bunkers, sometimes in old nuclear test sites, waiting.  Waiting.  Ready to strike when we least expected it.  A story to give a cheap thrill.  And there were conspiracy theorists too, obviously; those that believed categorically and earnestly that the Living were there, scheming and surveilling us, and running our world behind the scenes.

The truth, as always, had been a mixture of the two.

I’d heard the news report coming from the nearby electronics aisle and, like a rat to the pied piper, had followed the sound to my own dismay.  It had begun with a rather ominous title jingle, a tune that trilled and banged.  A tune that pulled me closer.

“Residents of a village on the outskirts of London were evacuated early this morning amidst the discovery of a recently abandoned….”  The news reporter was freshly repaired and preserved, with a familiar plastic sheen over his grey skin; a procedure that most trendy celebrities couldn’t resist.

I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off the screen.

Apparently, a bunker had been discovered with its doors wide open.  Evidence of tinned foods that only the living ate; things such as chickpeas and hot dogs.  Ergh.  It all sounded disgusting.  Thankfully, not one Living person had been spotted… at least, not yet.  But they told us to be vigilant.  Just in case.  The reporter started to reel off scare mongering stories about the living being tougher than us, faster and stronger, and if we saw one of them, to keep back from them, hide, and then call the authorities.  The Living were dangerous.  There was more; an expert joined the show, she’d been hidden off to the side of the desk, and, with more scaremongering to fire up the captive audience, said that the Living were a danger to our health, livelihoods and our moral standards.  And I believed it wholeheartedly.  How could I not?

And then the vox pops started and I had to leave.  There was no way I was going to listen to the idiots they’d pulled off the street talk about how scared they were.  As I walked away I could hear someone talking about how the Living were going to take all our jobs…

Idiots.

All I wanted to do now was get home and lock myself away until this all blew over.

I headed back into the aisles and picked up some Tinned Animal Brains™, the last thing I needed from my shopping list.  I could barely recall the taste of fresh human brain.  Everyone was raving about the animal brain these days.  More hygienic.  Ethical.  Back in the day, the Living hadn’t seemed so much of a threat, and we’d all partaken of their flesh with no concern.   I had to admit to myself that if they had returned, I was a little curious of the taste inside their skulls.

I returned to the aisles; there were still a few things I needed to pick up.  Not too much.  Not this time.  The last time I’d come shopping I’d bought a little too much, and I was certain I hadn’t sewn my arm back on straight.  I grabbed what I needed, including one of those little flat pine trees, you know the things I mean, to hang round my neck, and headed to the checkout.

Ergh.

There was a queue.

Some things never changed.

While I waited I picked up some antifungal spray and some rat poison from the shelves nearest the checkout.  The latter was particularly handy.  Last thing anyone wanted was to relax and suddenly realise a finger or toe was missing.

The line shuffled forward.  There was some twat ahead who’d brought a trolley full of stuff to the ‘baskets only’ queue.  Inconsiderate twat.  It took him far too long for him to unload his stuff onto the checkout (and bag it after it was scanned by the burdened checkout worker) and he seemed to fumble about with every stuck action.  And, oh god, he had coupons.  Too many coupons.  One after another was scanned and deducted from the guy’s total; it took far too long.  The Living would’ve had time to destroy us all by the time the man had paid and finally left the checkout.

Thankfully no-one else in front of me was as inconsiderate and I was soon served.

“£19.68,” said the girl behind the till.  Her voice was nothing but a drawl and her was pulled in a ponytail so tight that her scalp was starting to come away from her forehead; I could clearly see the white of her skull through the split.  She cleared her throat.  I’d been too busy concentrating on the half-baked attempt she’d made to staple the skin back together.  Metal glinted back at me as she swiped my credit card.

I grabbed my carrier bag full of goods and made my way to the exit.

As I headed to my car, I suddenly had a feeling I’d forgotten something.  I patted down my pockets.  Yep.  I had my wallet (with my card), my car and house keys.  I sighed to myself.  It must’ve been something from my shopping list.  It was too late now; I was sure to remember what it was by the time I walked through my front door.

I retrieved my car keys from my pocket and walked around to the back of my car.  I deposited my shopping and closed the boot.  As it shut, it seemed to make a louder, harsher sound than normal.

And then I heard the screaming.

I turned, slow and careful, and there, standing in front of me, the Living.  She looked fresh.  Alive.  Angry.  And holding a shotgun aimed right at me.

I was on the floor before I’d even had time to react, my ears ringing from the shotgun blast, and my fingers found themselves touching the newly made cavity in my chest.

Goddammit.

Yes.

There was definitely something I’d forgotten.

Poly-filler.

 

Attack of the Living Alive

 

“Are you finding cracks and holes a killer?
Then use Probert’s Poly-filler!
Stays malleable for up to ten minutes during application and still flexible once dry!
Use the most durable and trusted filler on the market.
Probert’s Poly-filler.
Stay fixed. Stay whole. Stay together.”

 

Attack of the Living Alive

Read the original here.

Art by Tim Jenkins

Attack of the Living Alive (old short story)

 

Attack of the Living Alive 

“Stubborn worms and other nasties getting you down?
Tired of spending your precious time every morning plucking out those little wrigglers?
Infested with so many worms that you’re beginning to feel alive again?
Worm-Away! Clears out even the most stubborn intrusions!
And now try Worm-Away Plus!
The same super-powered scientifically tested formula, now with a fresh Sea Breeze fragrance!
Worm-Away, for all your extermination needs.
Available in all good pharmacies and supermarkets.”

Attack of the Living Alive

I had some Worm-Away held in my hand when I heard the news.  Later on, everyone would say they could remember where they were when the news first hit.  Myself?  I was in the supermarket and I even remembered what I had in my basket.  There was some hair freshener, anti-bacterial gel, tweezers (for those annoying little bugs that get under your skin), moisturiser, and of course the essential needle and thread.  There had always been rumours of the living, hiding somewhere, possibly underground in an old nuclear bunker.  I distinctly remember staring at the can of Tinned Animal Brains (tm) that I had just picked up and thinking that I could barely recall the taste of fresh human brain.  Thank goodness we didn’t have to eat that rubbish again.  Wasn’t it technically cannibalism?  It had been around 56 years since I last had some.  Animal brains were obviously more hygienic.  But it was best not to think too much about which animals’ brains.  The news had come on the televisions in the electronics aisle.  Electronics being one of those purchases that always seemed to need replacing.  They always seemed to last only just past the warranty, and then stop working completely.  The news reporter on the screen didn’t need replacing (although he was probably way passed his warranty); his repair work was exceptional.  After a rather ominous title jingle, he began to speak.
“Residents of a village on the outskirts of London were evacuated early this morning amidst the discovery of a recently abandoned….”
A bunker had been discovered.  Door wide open, with evidence that people had been living there.  There were a few interviews from residents, worried about how the living were more resilient than us, faster and above all, dangerous.  Not only dangerous to our health, but apparently dangerous to our moral standards.  There was even somebody complaining about how the living would take all our jobs and were definitely not welcome in this country.  Anyway it was all scaremongering; the news always made things sound worse than they probably were.  But as of yet no living had been spotted.  Obviously, there had already been a search of the usual living habitats; cinemas, shopping malls and radio stations.  They had even looked in the hospitals, a common hang-out for those afflicted with a heartbeat.  Nothing.  Anyone who spotted a living person was to call the emergency services immediately.  Strangely, the telephone number that they displayed on the news was very similar to my local take-away.
I needed to pick up a couple of extra things from the shelves, not too much though.  I didn’t want my basket to get too heavy as I didn’t want a repeat of the incident last week.  I was sure I hadn’t sewn it back on straight.  Walking down the aisles, I spotted the next thing on my list; those little pine tree things.  You know, those smelly things that used to go in cars.  Of course, they now served a much more needed purpose.  I don’t think there was a person in the world that didn’t have one, or at least one of the copy-cat brands.  That company had definitely benefited from the so-called “End of the World.”  At least that’s what everyone had started calling it back in ‘68 when it had all began.  There was a few years afterwards where everything has been a little chaotic, but then everyone had just accepted it and got on with their lives (so to speak).  Nothing much had really changed.  The world had continued to turn.  And as I reached the end of the aisle to get to the checkout I decided some things definitely didn’t change.  Queues were still just as long.  In fact, they may have been longer.
As the queue lurched forward I managed to pick up some anti-fungal spray.  Oh, and some rat poison.  That was always handy.  It stopped things being nibbled during the night.  Not that anyone slept these days.  But old habits die hard.  There was some moron a few places in front of me who had a trolley full of items.  This was the eleven items or less line.  People should really follow the rules; they were there for a reason.  And if I gambled I would guess that they would hold up the queue further when they got to the checkout.  I bet they would either have lots of coupons or have trouble with paying.  You know, several cards ‘wouldn’t work’ even though they would swear they definitely had cash in their account.  Then they would spend what seemed like hours trying to find every spare bit of change in every nook and crevice.  Why didn’t people keep all their money in the same place?  I considered myself a very patient person.  Except when it comes to supermarket queues.  Hmm…maybe they should have a moron queue and a normal person queue.
I rolled my eyes as the moron reached the checkout.
Ah. Yes. Coupons.
After they had been dealt with and a bit of shuffling forward of the normal people in the queue, I finally got served.
“£20.14” the girl behind the checkout drawled as I reached the front.  Her hair was pulled so tight in a ponytail her scalp was coming apart from her forehead.  I could clearly see the white of her skull through the split.  It looked like she had made a half-baked attempt to staple her skin back together; it really hadn’t worked.
“You should try some superglue for that.” I said to her.
“What?”
I motioned with my head towards her hairline.
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind.” I handed over my credit card.  The girl gave me a slightly condescending look as she swiped it though the machine.
“Thanks umm….Jeremy.” I said, looking at her name badge as she passed my card back with a receipt.
“It’s my boyfriend’s.”
“Huh?”
“It’s his shirt.  He stacks the shelves?”  She seemed slightly annoyed.  Why was she wearing his shirt?  Were they sharing?  Is minimum wage really that low?
“Ok….good for you.”  I quickly grabbed my carrier bag and made for the exit.
Walking to my car I suddenly had a feeling I’d forgotten something.  I quickly patted down my pockets.  Yep.  Got my wallet, my car keys and my house keys.  Damn.  It must have been something from my shopping list.  Oh well, I thought to myself, it can’t have been anything important.  I was sure I would remember what it was when I got home.
I took out my car keys and walked around to the boot of my car.  It was only a short walk from the store to the car but the handles of the carrier bag had already started to dig into my hand.  I’d have to make some repairs before getting behind the wheel.  Why couldn’t someone make carrier bags with handles that didn’t cut right through your skin?
As I closed the boot, it seemed to make a much louder, harsher noise.  Then I heard the screams to my left.  I slowly turned, and there in front of me, alive, was a man.  He looked fresh.  And angry.  He was also holding a shotgun.
Before I knew it I was on the floor, my ears ringing from the shotgun blast; my fingers found themselves feeling the cavity made in my chest.
Yes.
There was something I’d forgotten.
Poly-filler.

“Are you finding cracks and holes a killer?
Then use Probert’s Poly-filler!
Stays malleable for up to ten minutes during application and still flexible once dry!
Use the most durable and trusted filler on the market.
Probert’s Poly-filler.
Stay fixed. Stay whole. Stay together.” 

Read the remastered version here.
Art by Tim Jenkins