Blood Mountain

by J. T. Warren

  Even worse, not all the flies were of the small, ordinary house variety. Some were big like the beetle-sized one that crawled over my hand, yet still others were larger, almost kitten-sized. Their sharp hairs stuck out like spikes as the bugs crawled over each other with their jointed stick legs that almost sounded like little pins tapping on a hard surface, but that was just my ears playing tricks because all I could really hear was that droning buzz. That humming of their bodies and the frequent flap of their transparent wings.

  I backed slowly out of the doorway, sure that at any moment all of the flies would leap into the air and attack me. They’d swarm around me in one gruesome hive and start suckling at my skin. The large ones might have enough suction to rip the flesh. What would happen if they got inside me? Could the flies eat me alive?

  I hurried down the hallway and into the kitchen. I flipped on the hallway overhead light and then the fluorescent kitchen light. I thought there was bug spray under the sink, maybe even a bug bomb.

  I stopped. There were flies everywhere. They were crawling over the wood cabinets and the drawers and over the stove and completely concealing the microwave. The front of the dishwasher was now a swirling mass of gray and black bodies, each with black stripes that made them look menacing. They surrounded the fluorescent light as if it were a hanging deposit of food and they canvassed the floor like scavengers.

  A large fly, easily the size of a toy poodle, hobbled across the counter over the uneven terrain of thousands of other flies. Its bulbous eyes were black and monstrous. It stopped, cocked its head in my direction. Gelatinous slime slipped from its snout. I swore I could hear it slurp the slime back up into its mouth.

  No fly swatter could kill that thing. I needed a phonebook or the giant dictionary we used as a doorstop. Or a shovel or a--

  I turned and ran down the steps toward the garage but stopped on the landing. Flies covered the huge wall leading up from the foyer in one giant, living swirl. It was an enormous black eye, an all-knowing evil eye. I know that now. That eye was peering through from the darkness beyond reality; it was watching me, knowing what I did not.

  I went down the second flight of stairs to the garage. A beetle-sized fly buzzed into my face. I screamed and slapped it away. It bounced off the wall with a thwap. I didn’t pause to stare at the flies covering the garage door or even swat away the ones on the doorknob; I squeezed the knob, letting the flies crush beneath my grip, their guts oozing onto my flesh, and swung open the door.

  Thousands of flies filled the air like a dark cloud. The buzzing throbbed and echoed in here like the sound of a giant, groaning machine.

  The shovels were on the opposite end of the garage, leaning against the wall between the two large car entrances.

  How could I ever kill these flies? I needed an atomic bug bomb. But that didn’t mean I had to stay here, endure this madness.

  I hit the two buttons for the automatic garage doors and they groaned to life. The clanking of their motors and the squeaking of their chains barely registered over the buzzing of the damn flies.

  The doors rose in unison and the pale light of an autumn moon seeped into the garage, backlighting the flies so it seemed I was witnessing some theatrical illusion.

  The world outside was thick with flies. It was as if the ground had opened and millions of the damn bugs had sprouted free.

  My car sat only a few feet away. I could jump in and speed off, drive until I found a fly-free zone. Even if the bugs followed me, I could outrace them. Some might get into the car when I opened the door but I could kill those few. Unless a big one gets in.

  The keys, however, were up stairs in the bedroom on my dresser.

  I pulled my undershirt over the back of my head to shield my ears and ran across the garage with my hands up to swat the flies from my face. Even so, they nailed me in every exposed crevice. One struck me in the eye, tried to burrow into it. I had to squish it against my nose. Guts trailed down to my lips.

  Flies crushed beneath my feet, their insides mushing up between my toes. But no matter how many I crushed, more flies swarmed onto my flesh.

  Leaning against the far wall was a pointed garden shovel, a plastic snow shovel, and the one I wanted: a flat, metal snow shovel that was strong enough to break ice and wide enough to flatten tons of flies at once.

  I grabbed it and swung it back and forth before me. Flies clinked and plinked off the metal. Some of them splattered against it. Others bounced off to die against my car and even the far wall.

  I ran back inside the house, back up the stairs, which were now covered with flies. I nearly fell on the very top step, my feet slipping on fly gunk. I swung the shovel back and forth before me like some monstrous windshield wiper and ran down the hallway. The shovel bounced off the walls with a vibrating clang that shook my arms all the way into my shoulders.

  Clara stood in the bedroom doorway. Her hair was a mess, her nightshirt and sweatpants askew. Flies crawled all over her. They hugged her breasts and swarmed over her crotch. They crawled in and out of her ears.

  She opened her mouth to berate me and the two bulging grey eyes of a mole-sized fly filled the space between her teeth. She gagged, her throat swollen like she had swallowed a rolled-up sock. She choked and gurgled against the fly. The fly got its two front legs out, hooked around the sides of her chin, and pulled itself forward. Its head shook back and forth, trying to wriggle itself free. Then the large wings like clear plastic popped out and flapped against Clara’s face.

  This was not simply a giant house fly. Its eyes were reddish brown and curved in a slightly different, more menacing way. Behind its head, a large tuft of brown hair poked up and its body was not grey with black stripes but yellow and brown. Yet the worst part, the most horrifying part, was its mouth. Instead of some almost ridiculous snout meant for vomiting and ingesting, this thing had a curved horn like a beak, but that’s not what I first thought. No, at first, I thought of the curved mandibles some vicious spiders have. The kind that’s made for biting, injecting venom, and killing.

  I think I screamed, but I might have been screaming the whole time. I can’t be sure. The flies had killed my wife, used her as some kind of incubator, and now were morphing into creatures much more threatening than common house flies. This thing was nasty and, I had no doubt, would relish its first chance to stab my eyes out with its beak.

  It came free from her mouth and went right for me. With no room to swing the shovel for a full-strength hit, I used it as a shield and deflected the bug into the wall. It bounced back with ease and came right at me again. It meant to stab me and bite me and, eventually, kill me. Then it would plant its eggs inside me so hundreds of others of its gruesome kind could be birthed into this world.

  The shovel smacked it again with a stronger thwonk. It bounced off the floor this time and tried an upward assault. I swung the shovel like a golf club and hit the thing dead-on. Instead of knocking it down the hallway and into the living room, however, my swing carried it straight up to smack against the ceiling. I had barely a moment to register this before it dropped on my head.

  It bit into my scalp with its pointed beak. I screamed and grabbed it with one hand. Its body was hard like a rock but slimy and its splotch of hair stabbed at my flesh like thorns. It shook in my hand and made a deafening, squalling noise that can only be called a scream. Its legs frantically tried to pry free from my grip. I tried to squeeze it but its body was too hard. Then its beak pierced into my thumb and I threw it to the ground. I brought the shovel down as hard as I could. Brought it down again. Still, the thing screamed in that high-pitched insect cry. I brought the shovel down again and then jumped on it. This finally killed the thing.

  I turned back to Clara. Another fly, exactly the same with a pronounced, sharp beak was wriggling its way free from her mouth. And now flies were crawling out of her nostrils, stretching her skin to the point of transparency. They birthed free in gooey, bloody slop, most of them falling right to the floor.

&n
bsp; Clara stretched out her arms and reached for me, a death groan vibrating from her throat. And then I knew it: she had willingly given birth to these things. She wanted them to use her, to be born from her. They would do her job. They would swarm after me, attack me, punish me. She was the Fly Mother.

  The next giant mutant fly was almost free and Clara’s hands were nearly on me. I swung the shovel. I brought it right up into her face. Her jaw crunched against the fly. It screeched. Black blood poured down her chin. Clara stumbled back a few steps, steadied herself, and reached for me again. The groan in her throat, impossibly, became words.

  “Kyyyyyyllllllllll,” she said. “We have to taaaaaaalllllllllk!” Her jaw crunched up and down against the still-struggling nightmare fly. “It’s veeeeeerrrrry impooooorrrtant!”

  I swung the shovel again. It hit her face with a meaty crack. She stumbled. Another hit and she fell. Her hands came up to shield herself but now I had full advantage and I kept bringing the shovel down again and again until she stopped croaking words and that damn fly stopped screaming. At some point, I changed my grip on the wooden handle and brought the shovel down like a stake, right into her face. It tore her jaw completely off.

  A new fly was crawling right out of her throat, its eyes covered in blood. It launched itself free and came right at my face. It landed on my nose, directly between my eyes, and stabbed me in the forehead. Intense pain erupted in my head like a blinding, white flash, and I had no thoughts, only reflexes. I brought the shoved directly up with a fast swing and knocked myself to the floor.

  Intense pain flooded my head and the world spun beneath me. Darkness flooded in from the edges of my vision, but just before I fell into that black hole, I felt the fly crawl across my face and worm its way into my mouth, pushing my jaw open and tearing at my tongue with its beak.

  * * *

  Flies can live anywhere from a few hours to several months. In the proper conditions, like in a lab, flies can survive even longer, sometimes much longer.

  I haven’t seen them in a long time, but I know where they are. Inside me, of course. I hear them buzzing in there. I feel them planting their eggs in my intestines. When the doctors come in, I try to tell them but they just give me shots. They won’t let me out of this jacket. Won’t let me get at the flies. They want them to be born. They think I’m some kind of freak experiment. They have no idea what they’re getting into.

  But I do. When I close my eyes and listen to the flies buzzing away in my brain, I know what’s going to happen. I see that giant black eye made of thousands of flies, the way it stared at me. The way it brought me down into damnation. If they don’t let me kill the flies, they’ll all die, too. The doctors. The nurses. Die just like Clara.

  I can feel the flies pushing against the inside of my stomach, beginning to wriggle their way up to my throat. They’re coming. Maybe it’s a blessing. Maybe they will finally put an end to everything. An end to me.

  THE END

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 10f9474a-8bb0-4068-bce1-4e1b41efa96b

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 11.9.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.67, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  J.T. Warren

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