Kramer swallowed. "I assure you, I understand your anger and I'm deeply shaken by all this. But we must act quickly if we're to prevent these parasites from doing more harm. Chances are, we'll have to operate."
"With . . . Am I gonna be fine?"
Even now, lying under the surgical lamps days after that ultrasound, Sarah still hated herself for asking that question. She couldn't shake the feeling Greg's death was her fault, that she had no right to worry about herself when he lay cold because of her. If she hadn't been so goddamn picky and just gotten silicone implants like everyone else, he'd still be alive.
His birthday was supposed to be in two weeks, Sarah thought as the six lights merged into a yellow blur. I was going to buy him a gold tie clasp.
For a while afterward, Sarah saw nothing but blackness. Then she heard a noise. It came and went, a soft whoosh, vaguely familiar. She eventually placed it. Waves breaking against a beach . . . Or against a ship.
Sarah could hear other sounds now: the hiss of sand drifting up then slowly settling back on the seabed, the click-clack of a rock bouncing down an underwater reef, the gurgle of air exhaled from a lung, and far above, the waves crashing. She was naked, her hair algae, her belly huge and swollen and covered in black veins. Everything glowed with a trembling green light.
The babies swam up to her. Their skin was brown and spiny, their blue eyes bigger than their mouths. They hugged her belly, showering it with kisses. One of them drifted away, crying and begging Sarah not to let it go. She heard screams in the darkness. They were close, but muffled, as if her ears were stuffed with cloth.
Her vision twisted at the corners. The babies’ faces grew distant and vague, and so did the crash of the waves and even the sight of her own warped body. Soon all was blackness again, but now the screams grew louder. They stabbed at her skull, filling the space behind her eyes with ground glass.
She could see the lights now, all six of them. Only now there were scarlet stains on two of the lamps. The slow, rhythmical beeping of the machines had given way to what sounded almost like a klaxon. She tried to sit up and ask where all the doctors had gone, but her body ignored her commands. She could think, hear, even move her eyes, but aside from that she was paralyzed.
Oh, please God, no, Sarah thought, don't let me die.
God must've felt merciful that day. She sensed a coldness at her back and an uncomfortable tugging at her chest, but at least there was no pain.
Something clattered on her left. Sarah turned her eyes, trying to see. The doors stood wide open and people were shouting for help in the hallway beyond. A table lay overturned, the saws and scalpels scattered on the floor. Kramer lay next to it, his head bent at a grotesque angle, the lower half of his face a red ruin. Sarah felt more tugging at her midriff. She rolled her eyes down as far as they'd go . . . And realized God hadn't been merciful after all.
The thing on her belly was as big as a fist. Its pincers, caked with Kramer's blood, tore at her remaining breast, trying to free its sibling. Then, as if sensing her gaze, it backed up and turned to look at her, its chitinous legs dancing over her skin like skeletal fingers. It had a round face with a tiny pug nose and bright blue eyes, same as her own. It inclined its head, its mouth working, and uttered a single squeaky word: "Maaa-maaa."
Despite the anesthesia, Sarah began to scream.
Millions, Mrs. Shane. Tens of millions.
That's what every lawyer who'd contacted Sarah during the nine months after the operation had told her. She could sue the clinic, hell, she could sue the entire medical system, for tens of millions of dollars, and that was just for the emotional damage. What she'd been through was awful, no question about it, but that was all the more reason to demand compensation.
Sarah supposed it was, but she still never called them back. She spent most of her time in front of the bathroom mirror, naked but for her slippers. She couldn't help comparing herself to a waterlogged corpse, with her pallid complexion and her damp skin, the two ragged scars that had replaced her breasts standing on her chest like botched skin-grafts.
Sarah returned to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. The apartment stank of brine and sweat, and the shadows seemed as deep as those in underwater caves. She didn't leave the house much anymore, nor did she talk to her family except on the phone. Not for some time now.
The crab-thing had almost managed to free its brother or sister or whatever it was from her remaining breast by the time the security guards had arrived. It charged them the moment they entered the room. They opened fire and—although inaccurate enough to graze Sarah's arm and destroy a fortune in medical equipment—one of them managed to put a bullet in the thing's face. Its sibling lived only seconds longer.
Tens of millions of dollars, Mrs. Shane. We could ask for that in a settlement, and they'd count themselves lucky. That's enough to ensure an extravagant life for yourself and your family, not to mention whatever children you may one day have.
"Somehow, I doubt that," Sarah said to the empty room, and looked at her belly. It was so swollen she couldn't rest her arms on it without having them slide off. Its surface was rough and uneven and covered with thick black veins, the skin as craggy as if there were a thousand little knots just under its surface.
Knots? she thought. Nah, not knots. Eggs.
The doctors who had treated her after the surgery made her promise she'd notify them if something, anything, about her body felt or looked the slightest bit odd. Sarah wanted to be as good as her word. She really did.
But she couldn't, because she had other promises to keep, promises made to the new blue-eyed babies in her dreams. Sarah didn't know how they'd ended up in her belly or why she loved them so, and didn't care. What she did know, however, was that they numbered in the hundreds, and they relied on their mama to keep them safe until they were ready to hatch.
UTTER NO EVIL
By Joseph Watson
I keep asking myself why I was so stupid. Maybe I could have gotten help, real help. If I'd done something sooner, but I didn't.
It started at work. I snagged my arm on something when I was taking out the rubbish. They always leave loads of crap lying around the back of the shop. Most of it comes from the nearby factories, the guys there say it's not their fault, but shit, that's a big fat lie. The bosses’ big pockets get them out of any serious trouble, so we have to make do with the back of our street looking like the world's just ended.
I'd caught my arm pretty bad. It was a bloody mess, to be honest. At first, I panicked and thought it'd gone deep, but once I'd cleared away the blood and gunk it didn't look nearly as bad. I got patched up in the back and didn't think any more of it; it'd be healed up in a few days.
When I got home it still itched like crazy. There wasn't any pain. In fact, I'd not noticed this until now, but there wasn't much pain when I'd caught my arm either. Just a strange itchy feeling, like nails were scratching under my skin.
I jumped in the shower. That should have sorted it out. I scrubbed it raw and for the first time got a good look at the wound. It was just an ordinary cut once you wiped away the blood. Well, an ordinary cut that didn't seem to hurt in any way, like I'd been anaesthetised. It was jagged and messy. There was a valley of torn skin surrounding the gash. Still, nothing to get all that worried about though. It looked worse than it was.
The itching, though, that was still there even after I'd put on some antiseptic. If it was still weird the next morning I'd made the decision; I'd go to the doctors. Maybe I'd have to get some antibiotics or something.
The next morning, the itching had gotten worse and when I rolled up my sleeve there wasn't any cut left. It'd healed already, within less than twelve hours. Let me just phrase that again; a cut running half the length of my arm had healed, completely, in less than a day.
The skin had healed funny too, it wasn't like a scab or scar was forming, instead the skin had sort of glued together over the cut. The texture looked like I'd kept my arm in water too long.
It appeared to be healing, but in a strange way. The skin almost looked like it was pulling itself apart.
I went to the doctors.
The doctor who saw me was nice enough, young, just graduated maybe. She went through a lot of stuff, asked how I was eating, drinking, whether I was getting enough sleep. Eventually she prescribed me some new skin cream, said it's most likely an everyday infection. Trust those bastards that dumped all that shit out there to have made sure it was filthy too.
I didn't tell her that my arm had healed like I was Wolverine. Don't ask me why I didn't say anything, just figured, if they thought it was a normal injury then it'd be a normal injury. I was an idiot.
The cut still itched whilst I was at work. That feeling again, it was hard to describe, like fingers scratching. No, not fingers, that was the day before. Now it felt different. Like teeth, biting under my skin. When I got home the skin was still the same, perhaps even worse. It looked stretched, less like it was healing over and more like it had been pulled apart and was barely holding itself together.
I slapped on some more of the antiseptic, making sure to cover the entire wound. That was the other thing I noticed. The actual wound had gotten bigger. The cut had been fairly big but it'd been narrow at least. Now, the infection covered a good chunk of my forearm.
I bandaged it up and got ready for work. The first few hours were just about bearable, but then, I honestly thought I was going mad. I'd made an effort to simply not look at the bandage in an attempt to ignore it. Trying not to scratch an itch is almost impossible, and this was the worst I'd ever felt, it wasn't even as if I could get to the itch, it was like it was underneath the skin.
It wasn't until I had about an hour left before finishing that one of the other shop assistants came up to me. She gave me this slightly nervous, sympathetic look and told me my arm was bleeding.
Christ, I must have stood there for over half an hour at least, with blood flowing down my arm. I rushed into the back office and grabbed some paper towels from the bathroom. Unwrapping the bandages, I dabbed at the blood and wiped it out of the way. The wound had re-opened but was much messier than before. The skin had pulled back on both outer-edges of the wound, like it had been yanked open. Where the skin had given way, it looked as if it had dried up, peeling back to reveal a cavernous glistening hole buried in my arm.
The gash continued to bleed for several minutes as I wiped away at it, before eventually stopping. As I reached for the bandage, I glanced down at it once again. It was a horrible wound, and as I wrapped my arm up again I swore the opening quivered.
Why, for the love of god didn't I say anything?
My manager let me leave early and I made a trip straight to the hospital; I wasn't taking any more chances. They patched it up, stitching the wound and cleaning it, which burned something wicked. The guy told me it was the infection that was the problem and said to keep the wound as clean as possible, changing the dressing every few hours. I told him about the fast healing, but, if I'm completely honest, I don't think he believed me. I came in looking like a wreck, probably thought I was out of it.
That night I felt exhausted; by the time I got home I didn't have the energy to do anything. I collapsed in a heap on my bed and fell straight asleep.
It was a hot night; I felt hot. My arm thrummed with a dull, aching heat. Some horrible sickness was coursing through my body and it was starting to affect my mind. My dreams were horrid, sharp, painful things. Not actual dreams but more like flashes of nightmares, singular images that were lighting up at the back of my eyelids. Christ, I felt bad.
I awoke covered in sweat in the early morning. It was still dark outside and I glanced at my alarm clock. It was just past three in the morning, and I was due at work for eight. As I laid there staring up at the ceiling I heard a clicking sound from the side of my room. It was light and muffled, but I definitely wasn't hallucinating. It wasn't coming from the side of my room though, as I continued to look for the source of the noise, I realised it was coming from my arm, beneath the bandage.
I unwrapped the bandage and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The wound in my arm was even bigger, running along the entirety of my forearm like a crooked smile. And it was moving. It quivered even more as I poked at the flesh, with soft clicking sounds whenever the two ends of the wound closed together. I probed at it for a bit, watching my own body seem to consciously react to my inspection before taking a deeper look. I still didn't know what was causing the clicking, but I found my answer.
I peeled back the edges of the cut, causing the wound to move more erratically, like some wild animal that was being pinned down. Beneath the edges I managed to get a glimpse at what was causing the noise. A row of small jagged teeth appeared to have erupted from my flesh; tiny crooked yellow daggers lined up in roughly symmetrical rows across the insides of my arm. I carefully pushed the flesh out of the way to look further in, only to see the bright red flesh and muscle, and, what looked curiously like a tongue. A sinuous slice of meat that seemed to move as I watched it. I let go in shock, and the teeth chattered once more.
I paced around the house for hours, watching the sun gradually creep in through the windows. I'd wrapped my mess of an arm in a clean bandage, and had not looked at it since. The steady gnashing of the teeth could still be heard, despite my best efforts.
I was losing my mind, this couldn't be real. Sleeping was impossible, not only did the wound constantly make noise; the steady chattering of teeth seemed to get louder. The pain had gotten worse too, covering the whole of my arm, not just the forearm where the cut had been, but all the way up to my shoulder.
By the morning I had that same itching sensation all the way up to the top of my back. I jabbed the side of my shoulder tentatively with a finger and it felt tight, yet oddly spongy. A dull heat had settled under the skin. Whatever I had was spreading.
Whatever I had wasn't in any medical book.
I unwrapped my arm to take a look again. The teeth were still chattering, the wound occasionally twisting itself into some kind of grin if I looked hard enough. I was looking hard enough, diseases don't grin for crying out loud. Bacteria isn't evil, it's just nature.
Yeah, try telling my arm that.
I was sick, really sick. What'd happen if I went to the hospital again? "Oh, come on in, sir, we're just going to send you to quarantine and turn you into a lab rat, can't have you infecting people now.”
Work soon became impossible. The steady chattering too noisy to cover up. Returning to the hospital was also a no-go. I was a medical experiment now, some twisted miracle that'd be prodded and poked. No, I was alone.
Alone with a body that was no longer mine.
Soon, I had another mouth, similar to the first, which gibbered and clicked above my left shoulder. They continued with the same mumbling sounds. It'd be worse at night, locked in the silence of my room, trying to sleep, as the wounds would continue uttering nonsense.
Which brings me back to where I started. It's impossible to leave the house now. Last time I checked there's nine mouths spread all across my body. Wicked, ragged wounds with the same gnashing teeth and horrid supple tongues. They've gotten louder and louder, so much so that I've given up leaving the house, or even trying to sleep. They are wearing me down, attacking both my body and my mind. They're winning the fight and they know it.
They mutter things now. Maybe it's me going mad, but I swear that they talk in their own way. Murmuring in their own twisted language. And there's no way for me to escape it.
I could have done something sooner, gotten help, but I didn't. I was so stupid.
Last night, I tried to cut one out, the first one. I grabbed a knife out the kitchen draw and stuffed a towel in my mouth. It was agony, the thing began to croak and almost scream as I went at it with the knife. I couldn't keep it up though, I'm weak. It won out in the end, just leaving me in more pain than when I started.
And then they started chanting again.
I broke down. Snappe
d. I screamed until my throat gave out, anything to stop what is now a chorus of noise.
I yelled at it, the thing, this disease, whatever it is, that's slowly taken hold of my body.
"What do you want?” I screamed.
And it . . . they, answered.
"You."
I collapsed, and the mouths laughed in unison.
DOWN WHERE HER NIGHTMARES DWELL
By Sheldon Woodbury
They say the greatest heartache a parent can feel is to witness their child in pain and feel helpless to stop it. That misery is even more wrenching when it echoes the same pain they felt as a child, because then they know the soul crushing agony being inflicted on the flesh they created.
But what if that flesh is the cause of the pain?
The childhood of Molly Stark was brutal in a way that no child should ever have to endure. She’d been born with a face that was plump and sullen, with gloomy eyes, and a misshapen body. This woeful condition created other frailties as well, a halting stutter, a nervous twitch, a shuffling walk.
To make it even worse, she grew up in Los Angeles where beauty was worshipped above all else. The siren call of Hollywood lured striking faces from far and wide. Prom queens and heart-throbs strolled the streets in all their glory, as even more gorgeous faces shimmered on the giant billboards above.
Her teenaged years were nothing less than a daily crucible of terror and fear. She found out in the most painful way possible that the cruelty of kids had no boundaries. She felt like a prisoner of war and the collective duty of her classmates was to torment her with slashing insults and cutting taunts.
That’s when something began to fester inside her, dark and secret. She didn’t know what it was, only that it came from the place where her nightmares dwelled. It told her she had to change, no matter the extremes that needed to be taken.
Her course of action was obvious at first. She began to exercise with an obsessive compulsion, huffing and puffing in the tiny sanctuary of her room. She also bought beauty magazines and studied them by flashlight deep into the night. The glossy pictures and self-help articles became her sacred text, pointing the way to the promised land of beauty. Some modest gains were made, but that was all, a different hairdo, more pleasing make-up, some fat sweated off.
Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology Page 41
