Skin and flesh began to melt and drip like candle wax. Great dollops of goo splattered on the floor. Her lips parted to reveal absurdly perfect, white teeth in the putrid mess of a face, and they contorted into a bizarre grimace. The flesh and skin surrounding her mouth was almost gone and I saw no muscle that would allow her to form her terrifying expression. As I stared in horror, her lips began to split and crack, peeling back from her teeth like ancient, yellowing newspaper.
She began to laugh—a sound so wrong I thought my ears would bleed—and I realised the twisted grimace was supposed to be a smile. I turned cold, both inside and out, and tried once more to pull from her grasp. But my heart was no longer in it. Faced with this demon laughing at me, I felt only despair.
The mask of my mother was almost gone; the skin that had not melted now peeled away, flaking to the floor, like the world’s worst case of dandruff. I realized what I had mistaken for bone was actually smooth, pale skin.
One milky blue eyeball popped from her skull, dropping to the floor with a wet splat. Inside the socket was something else, something darker, but I couldn’t bear to look. She twisted her neck and shuddered as the second eyeball went the same way as the first.
In the empty sockets, new eyeballs, with dark brown pupils, pushed forward, replacing the old. The wet, lank hair fell in clumps to the floor, taking with it chunk of scalp. Hidden beneath the scalp was new hair, dark and smooth. Patches of old skin still clung to her face like the fur on a mangy dog, but I now clearly saw the person beneath.
I was staring at myself.
The monstrosity held out her arms.
I had no more fight left in me. I squeezed my eyes shut and the thing I had become took me.
I woke with the taste of death on my tongue.
I had not expected to wake. I was certain death herself had come for me. Cold and naked on the bathroom floor, I pulled myself to sitting. Frantically, I looked around making certain this time I was alone.
I was.
I grabbed my robe and pulled it close to me, feeling the softness of the material against my body. This small ounce of comfort stirred something deep inside and I burst into tears, shaking and hysterical. Shaking from adrenaline and the cold, I grabbed hold of the door handle and yanked. Part of me expected the door not to open, but it swung inwards and I scrambled across the floor, desperate to be finally out of there.
I pulled myself into the hallway, sobbing as I went.
Had I been dreaming? Was I insane?
Then I glanced down at my wrists and I knew I was neither.
New scars, ones that did not belong to me, adorned my body. White lines ran up the inside of my left arm and across my left wrist. They were thick, twisted and angry.
They were the scars my mother would have been left with, should she have survived.
Is this what my mother had being trying to show me, that despite all of the hate I had for her, I was becoming the same person? The depression that had haunted her, had finally taken her life. Was I to follow in her footsteps?
She had given me that. If I did not change, I had only her future ahead of me. She had showed me her life, I had experienced her death. I had survived what my mother had not and she had left me with her scars.
They would be my reminder to never cut again.
Her scars were my legacy.
An Age Old Era
He stood in the rain, face upturned, the warm, dirty water thrumming his skin like accusatory fingers. Above him, the sky shaped and shifted; thick angry purples swirled into yellows, violently bruised. Gases, as thick as fluid, distorted the few rays of light able to penetrate the abused atmosphere. Leering over him, buildings that were once as shiny and clear as a child’s skin, were now caked in thick scabrous rust. Black windows glared down like empty eye sockets, watching the man and his pain with glee.
Clear fluid leaked from the corners of Drew’s eyes, but they were quickly lost in the deluge. The tears were due to exposure, rather than the anguish chewing at his heart. He was too scared of losing control to cry.
He could not go back to the house.
She lay in their bed—the bed they shared for nearly eight years, safe and warm in the intimate cocoon of each other’s arms. Now the same bed that made up so much of their marriage was also her death bed.
Selena.
Her name cut him, his body trembling with the effort of not giving into the pain. In a few more days, the person to whom the name belonged would be gone.
He hated himself for the horrific feeling of relief the thought brought him. It was so wrong. If he loved her as much as he claimed, then he would not want her dead. But his heart knew what was true, that the torture of watching her shrivel up into a grotesque parody of a woman, her body clock so tightly wound it devoured itself.
It had only been eighteen months since they released the first assignment of the fuel. So stupid. So fucking stupid.
He had been as bad as the rest of them, celebrating its creation. They all cried about it now— the ones who had survived—insisting they could not have known, that the tests had shown it to be clean.
It had been hailed a miracle at the time. Finally, a source of fuel not only harmless to the atmosphere but would also produce the oxygen that had been steadily declining since the last trees were felled.
They had been right about that bit—about it not harming the atmosphere. What they hadn’t considered was the effect it would have on humanity.
Looking back now, the confusion had almost been laughable. When those first lines started to appear on Selena’s face, he had notice, but hadn’t thought any more of it. He didn’t give it a second thought until he found her sat on the toilet seat, hands hiding her hated face, shards of mirror shattered on the floor around her. She sensed his presence and slowly looked up, palms outstretched, eyes pleading.
“What’s happening to me?”
That question. That single question.
He’d walked over to her and crouched down, staring deep into her face. The tiny crow’s feet were now chasms, the bags under her eyes beginning to pull and sag, changing the shape of those wet eyes. A helpless hand went to her hair, lifting the once dark mane, now interwoven with grey, and dropping it again. He’d pulled her tight as she began to cry once more, and tried to ignore the impotent fear tugging at his gut.
That same day, they arranged an appointment with the doctor. Trying to explain the problem only made them sound nuts; to say Selena was growing old was only natural. To say she was growing old in a matter of months was insane. The doctor listened, nodding, calm and composed. But there was something else behind her concerned smile, something that screamed panic.
The doctor took samples; blood, urine, even skin, and told them not to worry. Not to worry. He almost laughed out loud at that.
The day of the results ripped lives apart like an explosion—not only for them, but for the entire of mankind. Hysteria ran through the population like a flash flood. The past month’s bubbling undercurrent of worry finally burst its dams as people realised what was happening. They weren’t crazy. It wasn’t all in their heads. The concern over the sudden weariness of bones, the greying of hair, the clouding of eyes, suddenly had a reason.
No. They weren’t crazy. But they began to wish they were.
People barricaded themselves in their homes, as if that could make any difference. This threat was impossible to run or hide from.
Oxygen poisoning.
The new safe fuel currently used in every car, in every commercial machine, in every home, spewed out free radicals, splitting every oxygen atom left in the atmosphere. Like a virus, the free radicals penetrated every cell in the body, manipulating DNA, speeding up the natural erosion that happens in us all.
But only in the women.
Scientists on the television sat nervously, explaining to the world what was happening to their mothers, daughters, sisters, wives.
A recessive gene on the X chromosome was at fault, they said. The ne
w free radicals mutated the gene controlling the creation and death of the new cells our bodies continuously needed to replenish to survive. With this mutation, the process rapidly increased, churning out replicate cells like a poor photocopier—each time the copies growing weaker and weaker.
They had forgotten what a powerful medium oxygen was. If there is fire, oxygen fuels it. If there is metal, oxygen erodes it. Humanity, it seemed, was no more invincible.
So Drew watched as Selena’s young, firm breasts grew hollow and empty, her shoulders slowly rounding, her back bent. Her thick hair began to thin, her scalp appearing through the strands like the skull of a half-decayed corpse.
The physical decay was bad, but when her mind finally started to go, caused by a combination of horror at what was happening to her and simply old age, he had wanted to die with her.
Sometimes, it was better when she could not remember who she was. Sometimes, that lack of recognition, of love, was better than the pleading eyes and the silent questions he could not answer.
When he woke in the night to find the pillows soaked in salty tears and the bed shaking gently as his wife sobbed helplessly into it, he simply held her. The bag of bones she had become, a strange and foreign creature in his arms. He hated himself for the revulsion he felt as this frail old woman tried to take the comfort she knew as his wife.
Over and over again, he repeated her name, staring into her oceanic eyes, willing himself to see her as she always had been; young, beautiful, vibrant. But as the weeks passed and the months pulled on, the life behind those eyes began to fade. Like a sun-bleached painting, she grew faint.
The scientists continued to look for a cure.
Attempts to remove the gene were disastrous, resulting in people incapable of growth or repair, their bodies as fragile as china dolls. Replacing the gene with the same one found on the male’s Y chromosome also failed, resulting in severe rejection. The women desperate enough to allow themselves to be part of the frenzied experimentation now found their bodies rejecting their own skin and organs. The gruesome results were leaked to the press, reporters cold enough to care more about the incredible story than to worry about the hopes of millions.
Young girls sped through puberty to adulthood in a matter of weeks, the process damaging their bodies and scarring their minds.
Slowly, a new problem began to dawn.
Men stood by and watched, helpless, as their daughter’s ages overcame their own. The tender young skin of their children became mirror images of the wives they had so recently lost. They too, would die.
Mankind could not survive without women.
Frantic operations started; ovaries, tubes, wombs, all removed from these petrified girls who wore the mask of adulthood. ‘What else can we do?’ the doctors and scientists and politicians cried. It was their only hope, to try to create life in false conditions, to somehow recreate the mother’s womb.
Now they had basically given up, resigned to their fate. Drew held himself responsible, as did so many others. The years he had spent in research, believing he was saving the world, had resulting in him destroying it.
Drew bent his head, finally giving into tears. Rain continued to cascade down his face, taking with it his tears and running into the thick black sludge beneath his feet. Somewhere in the distance, an animal knocked over the contents of an already overflowing bin and the clanging sound jarred his bones.
He had to go back.
He had wronged her in so many ways and now he had left her to die alone. He had left her when she needed him most, rebuked her when she cried out, longing to be held.
Walking down the street, he headed towards their home.
In bed, helpless, Selena waited for him. Drew crawled in beside her, her crumpled skin as cold as his own, and pulled her towards him. Her breathing was now shallow and hitched, the muscles of her face, weak and atrophied, twitched like a cat in a dream. From somewhere deep inside, a low rattle signalled her oncoming death.
But she was still Selena.
Gently he lifted her withered arms around his neck, and knew they were still those of the woman he loved. No longer could he see the shell of her body, but instead the immense beauty radiating from her as she let go of the pain and suffering.
Soon she would be free and he would be the one left behind.
Abandoned in a hell of his own making.
He Lies Beneath
The warmth of his steady breath attracted her. Like smoke, she dissipated and slipped through the open crack of his window. Inside, she reformed in her feminine guise; eyes so large and black, should any man wake to see her, he’d glimpse only holes in her head.
She hovered above this one and smiled with pleasure. Still young, perhaps only in his late twenties, he slept on his back, a white sheet draped across his narrow waist. His well-defined arms rested either side of his head, his lips parted. Long, dark eyelashes lay upon his cheek and stubble shadowed his cut jaw.
“Aaah...” she sighed, her breath frosting the night air. The sight of his naked torso pleased her and a shiver of excitement trembled through her form.
She dipped lower and pressed her cold, pale lips against his. His head twisted slightly, sensing her. She kissed him, insistent and, even in sleep, he responded. Her black, pointed tongue flicked into his mouth, dancing, tracing the inside of his lips and teeth. His lips moved against hers and she tasted the faint hint of mint.
Suspended above him, she moved from his mouth, planting feather-light kisses across his jaw and down his neck. His pulse beat steadily just beneath the delicate skin of his throat. The warm scent of copper filled her nostrils, but it wasn’t blood she was after.
Her lips worked down his body, stopping at the tight buds of his nipples to grate her teeth over the erect, sensitive flesh. Her slick, black tongue laved the peak in lascivious circles.
The beautiful man squirmed beneath her and lower down she felt him begin to rise, tenting the sheet.
Focusing her energy, she willed the offending material away. It slid from his body and dropped to the floor beside the bed. His naked body exposed, she slid her fingers down to circle his expanding girth. She squeezed him tight, eliciting a moan.
The blood-tipped nails of her other hand scratched down his chest and across the ridges of his abdominals, leaving five red lines in their wake. His head thrashed from side to side, his lips moving, muttering in his sleep.
He grew hard beneath her caresses and the response made her smile; a wicked expression. Her long, slim fingers worked his length and he uttered a groan. Moving lower still, she brushed her cheek against his manhood, like a cat nudging an owner’s leg. His skin felt like silk and she marvelled at the combination of hard and soft. Holding him at his base, she brushed her lips against him, sneaking out her tongue to leave a trail of wet saliva along his length.
She took him between her lips, stretching her jaw to accommodate his size. She tasted musk, his scent filling her senses. She swirled her blackened tongue over the head, drinking in the salty droplet she found there.
Closing her lips around him, she bobbed lower. He swelled in her mouth as she moved up and down, keeping a regular pace, her tongue swirling across his smooth skin.
His eyes shot open and in the dim moonlight filtering between the curtains, he caught sight of her. She knew her high cheekbones would appear skeletal, her eyes black holes, her skin white. His mouth stretched in a scream, but even as he shrieked, his hips jerked. Hot seed spilled down her throat and she sucked and swallowed, draining him dry. He cried out with both the force of his orgasm and the horror of what he’d woken to. But despite his turmoil, he couldn’t run; her dark magic kept him pinned to the bed.
Overwhelmed, his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell slack against the mattress.
She lifted her head and licked her lips.
In the morning he would only remember a dream of contrasts—of pleasure and pain, of terror and lust. Exhausted, he’d blame the nightmare, and in some ways he�
�d be right. Though it wouldn’t be the lack of sleep that had affected him but the energy she’d stolen.
Perhaps she would return to this one. She moved up his body and stroked his cheek. He flinched in his sleep. Yes, he pleased her. His restless nights and exhausted days would continue.
The Visitor
We thought we had rats.
It was only to be expected. Three weeks earlier we added four chickens to a converted kennel and dog run in our garden and everyone always said, ‘where there are chickens there are rats’.
However, we hadn’t actually seen any. The only evidence was these strange burrows in the greenhouse, mini tunnels ending in weird, termite-like mounds. Then there was the criss-cross of scratches that had suddenly appeared on almost every pane of glass, as though something was frantically trying to get out.
My wife, Maggie, stood next to the greenhouse, her hands on her hips, her hair tied up in that cute knot on the top of her head that I loved. She stared, suitably exasperated, at the rat-traps which had once again come up empty, the food untouched.
“Maybe it’s moles?” I suggested, hearing the doubt in my own voice.
She looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “What? Moles who can’t figure out how to dig underground?”
“Or a rat that doesn’t eat or drink anything?”
We both looked back at the blocks of food still sitting, untouched, on the wooden platforms of the traps. Over the last week, we had tried to tempt it with everything we could think of—cheese, chocolate, pieces of bacon—so now the little critter had a veritable smorgasbord to choose from.
“Maybe we should call out the exterminator,” I suggested reluctantly.
“No,” said Maggie. “If the neighbours see a van they will know it was for us.”
Our neighbours hadn’t been keen on the idea of us getting chickens. Part of the reason had been the noise, but their negativity was mainly for this exact reason—their fear of vermin. It had been a long held dream of Maggie’s to keep hens. She was the sort of woman who loved to grow her own vegetables and bake her own bread, and the thought of being able to collect her very own eggs from her very own chickens was like a dream come true. Eventually, she had won the neighbours over with a bit of her own sweet charm and, of course, the promise of fresh eggs for their breakfasts.
Where the Dead Live Page 4
