Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology

by C. P. Dunphey

  “Yeah—it was Scotty,” Maddy informed him. “You musta seen him on your way in.”

  Allen shook his head, as he took a seat beside the other two boys. “Nope. Didn’t see no one.”

  “Aw, man! The little shit musta headed for home. Probably went to crawl back into bed. He better not let Mom see him. If he rats us out and gets us in trouble, I’ll give him a pounding he’ll never forget,” Charley grumbled.

  The five decided to forget the other boy for the moment, and proceeded with their usual badness, making sure they chewed wild mint and rolled in pine needles to try to disguise the scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke when they were done. Charley and Maddy’s mother was a smoker, so she likely wouldn’t notice anyway, her nose having become desensitized to the smell long ago.

  Arriving home, Charley and Maddy seated themselves for supper. When their mother emerged from the kitchen with food, she glanced with a frown at the extra empty seat.

  “Where’s Scotty?” she asked.

  Charley shrugged, but the more inventive Maddy offered an explanation for his absence.

  “We had a long busy day. He was tired an’ he wasn’t feeling good. He skipped supper an’ went straight to bed.” She managed to say this with enough conviction that she had her mother convinced. The woman set aside a plate for their visitor, in case he made an appearance later that evening. But he didn’t.

  Charley and Maddy didn’t think anything more of Scotty until the next morning, and then it was only to make a concentrated effort to slip out before breakfast, so that they wouldn’t get saddled with their unsavoury cousin again. They made their escape successfully this time, and giggled victoriously all the way to the pier. They were thankful to have rid themselves of what they considered a burdensome pest. The pair splashed and played in their customarily boisterous way with their friends, no longer concerned that they might have to fend off embarrassment imposed upon them by their city kin.

  Towards lunchtime, they started making their way back along their usual route home.

  “There was an awful lot of wrigglers in the water today,” Fran commented, as they walked. “It almost felt like they were squirmin’ their way around in my swimsuit.”

  Charley, Allen, and Derek grunted in agreement. Maddy was about to say something herself when Scamp took a sudden interest in something and took off like a streak into the brush.

  “Scamp! Get back here!” Fran demanded, and when he didn’t obey, she started after him, with the other children following closely on her heels.

  As they approached the area that Scamp circled excitedly, they noticed large quantities of flies swarming overhead. They also detected a very unpleasant odour.

  “Oh, gross!” Maddy exclaimed, holding her nose. “I think your dog’s gone an’ found himself some dead animal.”

  As they advanced, however, they soon found it was no animal, but rather a very dead-looking Scotty. His glazed-over eyes were staring unblinking up at the sky. His mouth, left open in an agonized expression, was encircled with bloody spittle. His hands and the entire front of his shirt were coated with scarlet-tainted bile. He looked like he had been there for some time, the better part of a day most likely, as flies crawled in and out of his various orifices and small maggots were creeping across his flesh in places. And lastly, he was curled up in a foetal position, his fingers frozen in rigor atop his badly bloated abdomen. The swollen skin there rippled, as something beneath it moved, like unborn offspring.

  Fran stepped back, her hand over her mouth, and started to cry.

  “Oh shit,” Charley said glumly. “We are in so much trouble.”

  The other children stood there in horrified silence, until Allen pulled a branch off of a nearby tree, and approached the fly-riddled corpse.

  “What the hell’s going on with his belly?” he asked, morbidly curious. Before anyone could stop him, he jabbed his makeshift tool’s point into the distended mound.

  The stretched skin split with little pressure, as if Scotty’s intestines were trying to free themselves from his body. The bloodied strands spilled out, propelled by what thrashed about within them. Several dozen tiny wriggling creatures, about the size of Scotty’s thumb tip, writhed about in his glossy entrails and putrefying body fluids. They resembled tiny embryonic sharks, with razor-sharp little teeth that continued to tear through the dead boy’s flesh. All five of the children turned away, with everyone but Allen clutching at their stomachs, gagging, and covering their mouths.

  “What are we gonna do?” Maddy whimpered, imagining her and Charley being shipped off to some sort of reform school. It made her knees weak. She couldn’t bear the thought.

  “We tell no one,” Charley insisted, his voice hoarse. “We bury him somewhere in the woods, and we tell people he left us at the pier to make his way back on his own, even though we told him not to. They’ll figure he got lost, and by the time someone eventually finds him, they won’t be able to tell how he died. Pinky swear?”

  The five agreed, pinky swore, and set about brushing the little wrigglers free from Scotty’s innards, stomping on them with their tattered sneakers. When they were sure the lot had been crushed out of existence, they each found some sort of handhold on the body and started dragging him off to the boggy area where they intended on burying him. Their limbs were numb and their stomachs ached.

  As they stumbled away, preparing to dispose of the evidence of the damage caused by their cruelty, all of them had but one thought on their minds. Was it just their imagination, or did they feel a faint twitch in their gut . . . a wriggling at their centre?

  LITTLE MONSTERS

  By Ed Burkley

  “Data log 23.005-B, entry 9. This is Captain Ezekiel Schmitt and I find myself no better off than I was at last entry. There is still no response from the outside . . . my hope of eventual rescue is starting to look bleak.”

  Schmitt swiveled around in his chair and peered out the cockpit window into the void of space. The ship was adrift; its propulsion systems severely damaged. To conserve energy, Schmitt had routed the power to the science laboratory and cockpit, leaving the rest of the ship inhabitable. The ship, in this auxiliary state, left the cockpit dark and the air thick with the taste of metal on the tongue. Only the blinking lights of the control panel illuminated the room, but even in this faint glow, the toll of the long journey was evident on Schmitt’s face. Dark shadows nestled under his red-rimmed eyes. His face, now covered in thick scruff, was hollowed under protruding cheekbones.

  “There is still no response to my distress signal. Given the distance of our mission and the last known coordinates of our ship login, I am not surprised by this. At present, I am the only crew member left on the ship . . . me and those damned precious cargo.”

  He and his crew had come in search of the weeds. That was what they had nicknamed them. Finding these specimens and bringing them back had been a major part of this mission. What they had found would make them all famous and possibly help stop the scourge that plagued people back on earth. At least that was the rationalization the crew gave for the reason they were risking their necks on this obscenely long voyage. Seven years max, that was the timeframe given. But it had taken nearly twice that and now in the predicament Schmitt found himself, there was no definitive end in sight.

  He took a deep breath, exhaled, and then checked the navigation systems.

  “The ship’s coordinates indicate that I am still headed in the direction of home. But given my slow progress, I’m not sure which birthday I should expect to celebrate upon my arrival, my 48th or 100th. Or if I’ll arrive at all . . . If I am able to reach a slipstream by chance, then I could go into cryosleep and have a somewhat lengthy life left to live when I return.”

  As he spoke, he rubbed the thick bristles on his jawline. “In the present state, it is just too dangerous to hibernate with no propulsion system and no one at the helm. Autopilot is too risky in this uncharted environment. All I can hope for is that someone picks up on my distress
signal before I age too much . . . But I am beginning to worry. I have been able to ration out the water, but the nutrient bars have run out.”

  As he leaned forward in his chair, a sharp pain struck Schmitt in his stomach and he heard the incessant growl of his body’s call for sustenance. He had not eaten in some time now. He was weak, dazed, and tried to think of anything else on the ship he could devour to stop this ache. Weak with hunger, Schmitt closed his eyes, but this rest would be short-lived. Suddenly the cockpit erupted with an alarm. He checked the console and saw it was coming from the science lab.

  He left the cockpit and made his way into the lab to investigate. When he approached, the large glass doors to the room’s entrance parted and Schmitt entered. He made his normal rounds, parading up one aisle and down the other. As he did, he scanned the numerous covered containers that were lined up on the tables like little soldiers, each housing a unique inhabitant. Some were green and gelatinous, while others were like living stones or ethereal liquid beings. Some floated in their fluid-filled containers while others tapped against their arid confinements, each a little monster.

  As he reached the table in the far corner he noticed one of the containers was cracked. Leaning in for a closer look, he could see a bushy, green plant had spilled out of the crevice and was now growing all around the glass dome. Schmitt inquisitively leaned in to examine the thing and as he did, waves of color pulsated through the creature as it breathed, taking in air through its furry, verdant skin. A shiver ran up Schmitt’s spine as he stared at the iridescent monster. It was like nothing he had ever seen; a twisted mix of flesh and fantasy.

  Before he could even realize what he was doing, Schmitt prodded the creature with his finger. The creature reacted, changing colors as it quivered and drew back. As he retracted his finger, he felt a rushing sensation surge up through his arms and down the center of his torso. It was almost as if, in the act of disturbing the weed, he had felt what it felt.

  Upon this, the first thought that entered Schmitt’s mind was, This is it. I am finally losing my grip on reality. But the thought that followed that one surprised even him, almost as if it came from something other than Schmitt, something more primal. I bet that thing would be tasty!

  Without even thinking, he grabbed hold of the creature and plucked off a fuzzy appendage. The segment readily popped free of the thing, pulling was almost unnecessary. Without hesitation, he greedily shoved the piece into his mouth and as he bit down on the fleshy weed, a burst of refreshing fluid gushed into every crevice of his mouth. The taste was divine, a meaty cinnamon aromatic that overwhelmed his senses. No sooner had he swallowed than he began to feel the meal’s nutrients radiate throughout his body, feel the fuel surging into every withering cell in his body.

  That evening, when he had retired to the cockpit, space enveloped the ship and so too a darkened calm cloaked his consciousness and he drifted into a sleep that was the most peaceful he had experienced since he was an infant.

  “Data log 23.005-B, entry 10. Captain Schmitt.”

  Schmitt was now recording his logs from the science lab. After his recent discovery, he had grown to feel rather comfortable in his new, more spacious living quarters.

  “I have been able to stay alive,” he continued. “Unfortunately, some of the cargo has died off . . . The cause for this is unknown.”

  As he spoke, he reached down and plucked off a purple, fleshy succulent from one of the weeds that sat nestled on his plate, popped it in his mouth, and slurped it down.

  “All systems are fine,” he continued after swallowing. “The ship is on course for an area of space where there is a potential for me to come across someone. I plan to bounce the distress signal off a rocky moon that should appear in a few weeks. Hopefully the signal will head in the direction of space colony Gamma, New Earth and someone will come for me.”

  Schmitt wiped the green juices from his mouth, and then added, “Captain Schmitt, end entry computer.”

  Feeling better than he had in months, Schmitt propped his feet up and leaned back in his chair. As he did, he reached into his pants pocket and felt a sharp burn prick his finger. “Ouch,” he said as he pulled out his hand for inspection. He noticed a peculiar looking pattern had appeared on his index finger. As he turned his hand over, he saw the ornamentation stretched up his arm and then disappeared beneath his shirt. Concerned, he stood up and stripped off his clothes. The pattern was everyway, spreading out from his mid torso in a tree-like design that resembled veins. It almost looked as if his circulatory system was making its way up through his skin. As his heartbeat began to quicken from this discovery, he could see his teal-colored veins throb and quiver just beneath the surface. To add to the shock, the veins began to itch.

  Schmitt started to scratch incessantly to no avail. As his fingernails dragged across his flesh, a viscous fluid poured forth in response. Schmitt started to panic and stumbled over to the hydration area near the weeds. He washed his arms, but there was no improvement; the fluid, now yellow in color, still flowed. Schmitt reached for a towel and as he did, saw the fluid retreat into his body and the torn flesh started repairing itself. What is happening to me? Schmitt wondered, half-terrified but also half-amazed. Abandoning the towel, he retracted his arm, but as he did, the healing process that began seconds before abruptly stopped. Curious, he extended his arm again and the wounds healed and the throbbing tentacled veins submerged back into his flesh.

  “What the hell is going on?” he murmured to himself. And then, a sense of clarity came over Schmitt, an epiphany perhaps, one that had escaped him in all the excitement but now had crept out from his subconscious. His arm was positioned so that when he extended it, it fell under the rays of the ultraviolet lights, the same lights used to feed the weeds. Ultraviolet light was the cure for whatever was happening to him.

  Schmitt spent the next hour taking down the ultraviolet lights that had been positioned over the weeds he had already eaten and used them to build a standing light shower that was four emitters high and three wide. Upon completion, he stripped naked and stepped into the light, bathing himself in the luminous nutriment. The sensation was cooling, fulfilling, energetic, and eventually the tendrilled rash on his skin disappeared completely.

  “Data log 23.005-B, entry 11. Captain Schmitt.” His voice was coarse and husky. Over a week had passed since he had consumed the weeds and yet he felt and looked better than he had since he started the mission. He discovered that after taking one of his light showers, he felt satiated, as if he had consumed a large meal. And despite not eating, he hadn’t felt hungry in days. Water, on the other hand, he consumed in buckets, far more than he had needed before. Plus, his skin had started to feel dry and scaly. Perhaps the lights were dehydrating him, but that was a small price he was willing to pay.

  “No response to the distress signal,” he continued. “I am approaching the compact Eyro solar system. Its small sun has started to illuminate the cockpit. I can’t express how nice it feels to gaze once again on a sun, even if it is not from my own system . . . Captain Schmitt, end entry computer.”

  “Unable to comply,” the console speaker responded.

  Schmitt raised his voice, “End entry computer!”

  “Unable to comply,” it repeated.

  Frustrated, Schmitt typed on the keyboard console, code 44218: Captain Schmitt/ command error/ cause/

  In response to the command, the screen reported, Voice not recognized as Captain Schmitt

  “Stupid computer,” Schmitt growled. “Well, it looks as though I will be typing my data logs from now on,” he said as he entered the keystrokes, command /end entry

  Command accepted, the console typed back.

  Schmitt no longer made log entries. As the days had progressed, his skin condition had gone from bad to worse. His body had rejected its mammalian follicles and was now hairless. It had been days since he had worn any clothes; he found the touch of any fabric only irritated the condition of his new flesh. Worse yet,
he woke this morning to find another perversion of his human form: he no longer had fingers. Each hand was now a fused appendage with only a thumb sticking out.

  He spent most of his days in what had become his favorite part of the ship, the ultraviolet light shower. He found that it calmed him, strengthened him, and nourished him. Light and water; that was all he needed now. Standing now in the shower, his eyes scanned his naked body, his skin now smooth and leathery, dotted with small fissures. As he bathed in the soothing glow, his inner body seemed to move freely within the confines of his new outer carapace.

  “I’m changing,” Schmitt said to himself. “Each day I go on living, another horror is revealed to me. I’m not sure how long this will last or when this disease, if that’s what this is, will finally be done with me.” He looked down at his hands, now just two fleshy mittens. “All I hope is that the progression stops soon, so that when it’s done with me, I will not be completely unrecognizable.”

  As he finished his lament, a dry cough tickled at the back of his throat. Gentle at first, then the itching became incessant. He coughed violently, struggling to breathe, and dropped to his knees. Then the coughing turned into a lurching fit as blood poured from his mouth and nostrils. This is the end of me, Schmitt thought as he vomited large chunks of flesh that spilled down onto the ship’s floor, amassing in steaming piles of plasma and tissue between his legs.

  He frantically spat the substances out of his mouth, trying to let fresh air in. But it was no use. Try as he might, he could not breathe. He dropped to his side, quivering naked on the floor as blood continued to leech from his nose and mouth. A gelatinous piece of lung tissue hung precariously from his chin. Death, he thought, is finally here.

  Then as violently as it had begun, the spasms calmed and fluids stopped flowing. Breathe, breathe now, his inner mind instructed. But he could not. He tried to open wide his mouth to pull in precious oxygen but something wasn’t working as he once remembered. He reached up to touch his face and discovered that where his mouth had been was now nothing but a smooth surface. His hands slid up his face to his nose and found that the news was no better there. His nostrils were gone, as if they too had joined in on the decision with the mouth to close off all access to the outside. But as he looked down at the remnants that were his lungs on the ground before him, he gathered that it made no difference anyway. He was out of air and any means of acquiring it.