As the oxygen ran out and carbon dioxide started to build in his blood, Schmitt’s body seized and he felt a chill run throughout his entire system. The sensations of fiery goosebumps, of hot needles and pins, rushed from his head downward as his skin gasped, then breathed in life saving air. No longer did his chest pulse in and out the way it had all his life. Now, his whole body breathed for him, creating a rippling effect across the flesh as it absorbed the air.
Feeling weak but revived by his new fashion of breathing, he slowly sat up. As he did, a small tear fell from his cheek and onto the top of his hand. He reached up to wipe it as a drop from the other eye fell, then another. He had begun to weep, but not out of sorrow or despair, although he felt those things too. No, these tears were of something more ominous.
The fluid started to pour heavily and as it did, his sight began to fade. A tunnel of darkness closed in around him and all became dark.
What more, Lord? Schmitt screamed inside his mind. What more must I endure?
He tried to wipe these strange tears from his eyes and clear his waning vision. As he did he realized from the tears’ viscosity that they were not tears at all. No, he had been weeping out his very eyes. The fluid from his eyeballs had burst and was now running down his face. As he dropped his hands in utter surrender, he discovered that one of the eyeballs, now deflated and detached from the optic nerve, had slid free from its socket and landed on his lap.
It was all too much for him to take. I must end it all, he thought, while I am still able to. He crawled to his feet and blindly searched the room with his hands, sweeping his arms over every table and countertop until he heard the thing that he was looking for hit the floor with a loud ping. Salvation!
He dropped to his knees and grasped the cool metal object. Clinched tightly in his awkward new hands, he brought the blade of the knife down deep into his left wrist. But something was not right. The expected warmth of blood flowing across his arm had not come. He dropped the knife and blindly felt the area of the incision, but it was dry and smooth, as if his act of self-mutilation had never happened. He retrieved the knife and quickly cut again, jabbing the tip of the blade in once, twice, three times. But when he touched the wounds he felt them self-suturing, all three cuts were closing along the path of the knife’s butchery.
Schmitt sat helpless in the flight chair of the cockpit. He had tried all manner of suicide, but nothing worked. He even tried to starve himself by staying clear of the ultraviolet light showers, but the resulting pain was more than he could have fathomed and it would have been too slow and painful a way to go.
Why won’t you let me die you damn disease? his mind cried out silently from behind blinded eyes. Okay . . . okay, I admit it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever ate any of you fucking little monsters . . . um . . . I mean sentient beings. Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson. Truly I have. I didn’t understand . . . but now I do. You’re not monsters, you’re just like me. Just please . . . I beg you . . . Have mercy on me. Just let me die.
There was only silence. But then, in the still darkness, he saw a blinking light. It must be my mind, he thought, given that he no longer had eyes. He saw the light flash again, only this time it was brighter. He reached up to his eyes and could tell that something had changed. No longer were there empty sockets. In their place, a smooth, glassy optical plate had formed. And through it, light started to grow, allowing him to make out the most basic of shapes. Maybe this meant he had finally begun to overcome the disease and was reverting back to his former self. But what he saw next put any fairytales of a cure far from his thoughts.
As his vision cleared, Schmitt noticed that he now could see again, but not as he had before. He looked around the ship and took in the sights. Lights of various chromatic hues floated all around him. Outside the cockpit’s windows he could see that the vastness of space was brimming with a cacophony of colors that were so bright and overwhelming, the concept of a ‘dark universe’ suddenly seemed preposterous. The entire universe was ablaze. Every planet and star was ensconced in their own jewel-colored coronas as they floated among an ocean of iridescence. It was as if the gates of heaven had parted and illuminated another world before him, a world that only the mind’s imagination could procure and the flesh’s optic nerve impulses could dream of creating.
The whole spectacle was so beautiful that for a moment, he pondered if his suicide had been successful and that he was actually witnessing angels from heaven’s opened gates descending to claim him. But these gossamer forms were no angels, just common celestial events—planets, stars, dark matter—only now seen for the first time from infant, albeit not human, eyes.
Unlike those primitive eyes he used to have, these new eyes allowed him to see the entire electromagnetic spectrum. He could see everything from the waves of heat on the infrared side of the spectrum to the bright bursts of gamma rays at the other end, and all that came in between—
A loud burst of static erupted from the console’s speakers, followed by a voice. “Come in . . . this . . . signal.”
The distress signal, Schmitt thought as he was shaken back into the present.
“Come in science vessel BEM 7774,” the voice in the speaker continued. “This is Captain Drexel. We have detected your distress signal and have located your position. We are on our way to help.”
It’s all over, he thought, I’m saved! He tried to respond to the call but in his current state, was unable speak. Then he reached for the computer communications board, but his fused hands were unable to type.
“Come in science vessel BEM 7774, this is Captain Drexel. We have picked up your distress signal and have located your position. We are on our way to help. Please respond.”
The only thing Schmitt could think to do was flip the switch for the distress signal on and off, tapping out an S.O.S.
He waited, praying for a response, but there was no reply.
Seconds later, the speaker erupted again. “We are seeing that your signal is oscillating.”
For the first time in a long time, Schmitt felt hope well up in his chest. They will find a way to fix me, he thought. I’m sure of it!
“Science vessel BEM 7774, we understand your communication. It’s good to know you survived. We will be arriving momentarily. Hang in there.”
Out the cockpit windows loomed an enormous space station. As Schmitt watched on, smaller vessels flew toward his ship and began connecting the grappling hooks. With one big jerk, he felt the tug from the lines as his ship moved toward the station. Moments later, the ship’s small circular emergency door on the side of the cockpit opened.
“Are you all right in there?” a man in a green space suit said as he peered into the darkened cockpit.
Schmitt, so excited to see another human, forgot about his appearance and leaped forward to greet his savior. But when the man in the green suit saw him, he screamed and fell backward into the docking bay tunnel that linked the two ships.
Schmitt thought quickly. Seeing his old space suit crumpled nearby on the cockpit floor, he snatched it up and tore off the nametag that read CAPTAIN SCHMITT. With identification in hand, he crawled into the docking bay. It was only there in the bay’s full light that the horror of what Schmitt had become was now visible for all to see.
“Guards move in, move in!” said a man in a red flight suit.
Wait! Wait! Schmitt screamed with his eyes as he held out his nametag.
A man approached him from behind and four others followed, surrounding him on all sides, their stunning weapons raised high.
“No sudden movements,” one of the guards said.
Schmitt did as he was told.
“Keep that thing here while I investigate,” the officer in the red suit commanded and then stepped inside Schmitt’s ship.
Inside, the officer saw the dimly lit glass doors of the science lab and when he stepped through them, a small scream escaped his mouth. The signs of violence—overturned tables, stained knife, pools of congealed blood o
n the floor—were everywhere. Startled, he took a step back and as he did, his boot slipped in the pile of Schmitt’s lungs and he nearly tumbled to the blood-soaked ground.
“That monster killed them all!” the officer said as he stormed back into the docking bay, his finger accusingly pointed at Schmitt. “There is blood and flesh everywhere. It’s a slaughterhouse in there! No one was left alive. That monster ate them all and spit them back up!”
I’m no monster! Schmitt pleaded in his mind. As he looked at the guards that surrounded him with his new eyes, he could see the infrared heat signature in their faces raise as their anger grew. Then one of the guards pounced on him, jabbing his stunner into Schmitt’s back. Another guard followed suit, then another.
Schmitt fell to the floor in agony, screaming a silent wail that ricocheted in his skull. I’m no monster! I’m human! I’m human! he repeated to the men unsuccessfully.
Using a loop at the end of one of a long pole, one of the guards ensnared Schmitt’s arms and then pulled him into a small containment room just inside the station.
I’m human. I’m like you. Schmitt pleaded as the guard released his arms, then closed the door and locked him inside. Overhead, air rushed in through the vents. As the thick cloud of white vapor enveloped him, he realized it was poisonous gas.
I’m human . . . I’m human, Schmitt said to himself as he curled up in a ball on the cold floor. I’m human. I . . . human. I . . . no . . . monster. Schmitt’s body took one last shuttering breath through his convulsing iridescent skin, then went limp and he was no more.
The door to the gas chamber opened and a guard entered. He reached down and took hold of the creature’s dead body. As he dragged it out of the room, a piece of fabric that read CAPTAIN SCHMITT fell to the ground but he didn’t notice.
The man pulled the creature into a room outfitted with medical equipment. He propped the heavy body onto the autopsy table, then exited the room to alert the doctor that the specimen was ready for examination.
High above the table, vents brought in fresh air and removed the old, stale air. Under the caress of their soft breath, a quiver ran across Schmitt’s body and it began to pulsate. Small openings erupted from the corpse; tiny volcanos that spewed forth fine dust balls, producing a verdant cloud of powder that hovered above the remains. As the vents inhaled air from the room, so too did they whisk away the green particles into their mechanic lungs. Pieces of Schmitt, now spores, rushed silently into the darkness of the station’s vents to impart his new form to the human creatures; creatures he had once thought himself to be, but now only thought of as little monsters.
TOM’S THUMBS
By K.M. Campbell
While the old couple slept, Malakai the demon eyed them in the dark. They disgusted him and were perfect for his needs. Three-thousand years of servitude was over and he was free of this half-life. He was ready to return to the full world and no one was left to stop him. He had outlived all his hated masters.
His last token holder had died with no heirs to pass the trinket that held Malakai’s spirit and so the cragged metal returned to Malakai, granting his freedom.
He held the shiny nugget to his lips, licked it slowly, then rubbed it against his cheek like a preening cat.
“Let us play and flay,” the demon whispered before tucking the nugget back into his soul, where he would never again be parted from it, no matter how much it hurt to hold onto, the blunted edges that pushed at his insides for release .
He had been watching the old couple for the past few moons. He hated them. They rarely spoke to one other and struggled to even look in the other’s direction. They abused each other with their silent hate and disappointment.
The old woman’s wrinkled hand moved as he scampered up her body, no bigger than a mouse. Even her movements repulsed him, shakes that screamed of geriatric weakness.
They blamed each other for their own failures, their bitterness permeated every corner of their shack which smelled of piss and boiled cabbage. Malakai felt only inevitability at destroying them. After all, they had left the door open for him; all he would do was give them exactly what they wanted.
For the husband, freedom.
For the wife, the child she was promised.
Standing on the crone’s right shoulder, away from the husband, Malakai rearranged his features to resemble a child, the hag’s ultimate weakness.
“Mama, set me free. I’m so alone.” Malakai’s sharp little needle teeth emerged from his purple lips as he smiled brightly.
The old woman was infected with him now, she would never stop until she saved her little boy from the big bad monster that lay in the bed beside hers. And in return for his hard work, Malakai would receive a body that would fit the size of his soul instead of this tiny carcass no bigger than a man’s thumb.
He trotted closer to the old man, licking his large callused thumb, wrapping his arms around it and biting down hard enough to draw a few drops of food.
Malakai was hungry and the old man’s blood was good. At least these country types ate well and tasted strong, and when the old woman made the poppet, this body would be Malakai’s to do with as he pleased.
Enid woke to the feel of tiny feet scampering up her body. Her hands jerked in reaction before she could stop them. It frustrated her, all this aching and shaking: it would only scare the child away. But what could she do? She was frail and old, no law against that, goddamn it all to hell.
She glanced toward Tom’s single bed on the other side of the room. The floral comforter was on the ground, tossed aside by his nightly struggles with sleep. She could see his striped summer pajamas, old man’s clothes, and his plaid slippers lined up just so. Everything about him screamed old and stuck in his ways.
He wasn’t sleeping, she knew him well enough to know the difference in his breathing. He was lying still with his eyes shut, like he did every morning, waiting for Enid to get up and make his breakfast. Lazy old goat.
“Dead yet?” There was little of the humor that had made their marriage a success left.
“After you, my sweet,” he replied, gruff with lack of sleep.
Enid clacked her false teeth into place and left the room. The tiny child was waiting for her in the kitchen and she gasped in surprise, clutching a hand to her heart and wondering if her body’s aged pump would stop dead.
“You’re really real?” she asked.
“Almost,” Malakai said on a wet, wobbly, pitiful sigh. “I need the doll. Have you finished it yet?”
Enid hobbled to the cupboard that held her knitting bag. Rummaging inside, she found the doll she had been working on for the past few days.
“Is it perfect?” Malakai snatched it away, sniffing each seam and licking each stitch. “Perfect.” He turned wide blue eyes to Enid. “It’s perfect. You have done perfect.”
Enid held the table to help her sit. Resting her chin on her hands to stare at the gorgeous little boy who so resembled a young Tom. “Thank you, child. I followed your directions exactly, and now you’re here. Will you be able to become a real child now?”
“Yes. Just one more thing . . .” He allowed one tear to trail down his perfect cheek.
“What is it? I’ll do anything. I promised.”
“I need my father’s body to complete my transformation, to be with you forever.”
Enid blinked, becoming more enraptured with each glance at the perfect child. “All right. Just some skin, nails, that sort of thing?”
“I need flesh to become flesh. I must be made from the meat of my father.”
“How much?”
“Not much. Just enough to fill the doll.”
Enid lifted the knitted doll. It was smaller than her hand, with tan skin, blonde hair and blue eyes, just like Tom when they met.
“Tom’s thumbs,” Enid said, “I’ll use Tom’s thumbs.”
Malakai clapped his little hands, “Perfect. Perfect. Thumbs and Plums. Soon?”
“Tonight. I promise.”
“Your stomach?”
“Yeah, looks like the doc was right. I don’t have much longer, Enid.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. I’m going to bed. I feel like I might actually sleep.”
“Why don’t you take one of the pills the doctor gave you to sleep?”
“No, I told you. I’ll be ending on a mountain of drugs. I want to go without them for as long as I can.”
“I’ll bring you a warm drink then.”
“I don’t think . . .”
“Just do as I tell you and don’t be a stubborn old man.”
Tom chuckled, “All right, Enid, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“Would be the only thing that’s happened to my knickers in years,” she grumbled as she stalked to the kettle.
The spiked drink put Tom into such a deep sleep he didn’t even move as she took his favorite boning knife to his thumbs. She reminded herself that this was his penance for having brought home the disease that had rendered her sterile. This was the least he could do for her.
Afterward, she cleaned his wounds, dressed them carefully like a mother, cooing gentle words of apology. She doubted he would notice, he didn’t seem to notice much anymore these days, and if he didn’t like it he could go tell someone. There was another problem. Their lack of children had pushed them away from those that had them until they were solitary with only each other for company.
Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology Page 10
