by Sean Platt
Oh God, no.
He moved in closer to the mirror to inspect.
More movement.
He yanked the mirrored medicine cabinet door open so fast, the mirror shattered against the wall and glass shards fell into the sink below. He searched inside the cabinet for something sharp enough to tear his flesh, while whatever was beneath his cheek began to bulge, as if it were trying to come out on its own.
At first, nothing. Then his eyes found a suitably sharp object — the shards of mirror in the sink. He grabbed a jagged triangle piece and brought it to his face, its point centimeters from his bulging flesh.
Stab it. Stab it now!
Another knock on the door. “Ryan?” Gramps said.
“Go away!” Ryan said, his voice hoarse, dry, and barely his own.
He watched as his cheek bulged like a hand pushing through a plastic bag until his flesh opened in a bloody hole and something black, with pinchers, oozed from the hole. This worm, or whatever, was bigger than the things in the toilet. As thick as a caterpillar, at least.
Ryan was paralyzed with fear and disgust as the black caterpillar-like thing pushed itself from the wound and scurried onto his cheek, with hundreds of tiny wet, black legs.
Ryan screamed, dropped the piece of mirror into the sink, and grabbed the caterpillar, then pulled on it, tearing the rest of its length from his cheek, like black rope, as the hole in his face ripped wider. Oddly, he felt no pain, only disgust as the insect continued to stretch to nearly a foot and half in length as he pulled it out, then threw it into the sink along with chunks of bloody fat tissue.
He reached up to his open wound, blood dripping down his face and neck, trying to push the tear closed. It was too large; there wasn’t enough skin in place to cover the gaping hole.
On the other side of his face, more movement.
More insects.
Ryan screamed a long, animal cry and grabbed the doorknob, which was slippery in his bloodied hands, and whipped the door open. Gramps and Carmine stared at him in horror. If they’d had guns, he was sure they would have shot him on sight.
“What the ... ?” was all Gramps could get out, his eyes large and worried.
Carmine was speechless.
Kill them!
The voice spoke in the back of his head, not foreign, but his own, a craving to hurt them both. To rip into their flesh. To end their lives, and chew on their guts.
He reached out, toward Gramps, his fingers splaying impossibly wide, and shaking. Bones shifted beneath his hands and fingers, causing them to crack and bend at unusual angles, as if his fingers were somehow growing new joints. The agony was too much. He screamed and, at the last second, swung himself into the wall, avoiding Gramps.
His hand punched through the plaster of the wall, and Ryan looked back at Gramps and Carmine, and wanted to say sorry, or something, but all he could do was scream, as Gramps put his hands in front of Carmine to protect the boy.
As if he could.
The buzzing began again in Ryan’s head.
Ryan had to get out of the house before he killed them both.
He pushed himself off the wall and launched down the stairs, then out the front door, trying to contain the growing scream within, until he was far enough away not to attract the monsters to the house where Gramps and Carmine were hiding.
Have to get away, far away.
Ryan ran faster than he’d ever run in his life, not caring who or what he ran into. If he ran into the creatures, let them kill him now. That would be better than ending up as a host for their worm-like offspring, or whatever was inside him.
As he ran, he felt movement in his body — his guts, his arms, and his face — as if the things inside him sensed his panic and fear, and were growing more active in response. He reached up to the hole in his face and probed, his wet fingers searching the bloody fat for more insects. He tore something away, but wasn’t sure if it was part of him or the insects.
He kept running, adrenaline and fear bleeding through him, alongside the panic and disgust. He was maybe five streets away when he finally screamed, continuing to run as he wailed, until his body was exhausted and his voice was all gone.
He passed two of the monsters, maybe the ones he’d seen before, and glared at them, daring them to come at him. They stared at him with knowing, as if he were no different from them.
The buzzing returned in his head, louder than ever. He slapped his hands over his ears to silence the sound and shook himself violently for extra measure, but there was no silencing the misery burrowed into his mind.
The buzzing had patterns, like language, almost. If it was language, was he hearing the monsters around them in the world, somehow communicating telepathically. Or was he hearing the voices of the untold number of insects swimming within him, communicating with one another on how to best fester inside their new host?
He screamed again, his voice cracked and throat raw, until the buzzing started to die.
He kept running, thinking now of Mary and Paola, and how he’d never see them again. He was infected. He was going to die like this; he was certain. Die without ever seeing his daughter again.
He collapsed to the ground, in the middle of the street, and wept. Not for himself now, or at least not for his physical self and the things that ravaged his insides.
Ryan cried only for his family.
Memories swirled through him: everything he’d done, all the guilt, how he’d abandoned his family for what, a stupid, superficial girl with nice tits who wasn’t a tenth as smart, caring, or loving as Mary? If he hadn’t cheated, he would be with them right now. Whether that meant with them in the post-apocalypse, or with them in the graveyard, it didn’t matter – he’d be with them.
Instead of alone.
He wished like hell he could go back in time, to before it all went wrong, and make things right. There was no way he could go to Mary and Paola like this, and let them see what he’d become, or worse, pass the infection to them.
He sobbed into the cradle of his bloodied palms, rooted to the ground, and decided he would die right there. He would wait until death claimed him, one way or another.
The buzzing grew so loud it drowned out everything else. He sat in the street, kneeled, head in his hands, rocking and crying, begging God for a merciful death. He wished he’d thought to bring the gun with him. He would end it all right now.
Then a light came from above.
God?
He looked up, finally hearing the sound of the chopper’s rotor blades, which had been drowned out in his cranial buzzing.
“Stay put,” an electronically amplified voice said as the chopper descended upon the middle of the street.
Ryan did as the voice instructed. Was this the help Gramps had promised would come? Or was this death?
Either way, Ryan was ready.
The chopper landed and two armed men, in black paramilitary outfits and sealed helmets attached to air tanks on their backs, rushed toward him.
One of the men flashed a weird blue light on Ryan, then turned to the other, and through a speaker said, “He’s infected.”
The other man raised his gun and fired a shot into Ryan’s neck.
Ryan smiled at the thought that death had come so quickly.
But he wasn’t dying.
Instead, Ryan fell to the ground, immobilized, his world a blur. The men lifted his limp body and carried him to the chopper.
If they’re not killing me, what are they doing?
Is this help?
Ryan tried to speak, to tell them about Gramps and Carmine, to go help them too, but he blacked out before he could utter a word.
Sixty-Seven
“John”
As John’s body hit the ground of the balcony, the thing that wore John’s body like a stiff suit the past few months, and was nameless before that, was freed from its mammalian shell.
When the humans left the room, It left John’s husk through his mouth, then floated in the air
, in its true form, like liquid smoke, lighter than air, flowing back into the house, in search of a fresh host.
It had forgotten how good it felt to be in its natural state.
But it needed a human body in order to fight. And It was itching to fight. It was surprised to have become so embroiled in such petty human matters as vengeance. Perhaps It had spent too long in its human wrapper, and had taken on a few of the species’ lesser qualities. Nonetheless, It wanted revenge. Now.
Brother Rei would pay for his betrayal. The humans were a wretched species, and It was tired of waiting to extinguish them. It would kill them all, except the child, Luca, and perhaps the new visitor, Boricio. There was something about them It needed to understand.
Whatever It was waiting for, whatever the voices promised, would have to wait. It needed to feed – NOW. It flowed past Brother Eric, who stared, eyes wide in horror, at Its true form.
Brother Eric reached for his rifle and fired a shot, but guns had no effect on It in this form.
It flowed faster, snaking through the hall and drifting up the stairs, sensing the perfect new host, lying crippled in bed, practically dead – The Prophet.
Brother Saul, one of The Prophet’s right-hand men, stood guard in front of the door. When Saul saw It coming, he screamed.
It entered Saul’s mouth, finding his core in seconds, taking over the shell and using it to open the door to The Prophet’s room.
The Sanctuary’s self-righteous leader lay in bed, nearly dead thanks to whatever Brother Rei had done. It knew Rei was plotting something. It had allowed it, even, not really caring much for the games of mortals, as It had more important things to plan.
It didn’t realize that Brother Rei would betray John, though.
It left Saul’s body, floating out and over The Prophet’s bed, gathering strength before bursting in through the man’s mouth. Then in It went.
The Prophet put up a decent fight, but was no match for It, who seized control within a minute.
The Prophet stood from his bed and stretched out its new husk, feeling exhausted and frail. It didn’t like this husk; it was obese and felt tired. But this was the husk that was most useful at the moment, the one that would make people obey.
It looked down at Saul, who was gasping for air, looking up at The Prophet with a confused, scared expression.
The Prophet stepped past Saul, then went forth into the world to wreak havoc.
It walked down the stairs, still in his pajamas, past several of The Prophet’s followers, staring with wide-eyed disbelief. They were surprised, and mortified, “Sir, your mask,” one of the men said.
The Prophet felt no need to hide his burned face any longer.
“You’re okay, Prophet! Praise the Lord, it’s a miracle!” another said.
The Prophet ignored everyone, leaving through the front door and approaching the main gate.
Brother Roderick stood guard, the only one on gate duty. He held a rifle at his side, and a vest with ammo, ready for war at a moment’s notice. He was The Sanctuary’s best shooter by a mile. When Roderick saw The Prophet coming, he straightened his back and stood taller, “How can I help you, Prophet?”
The Prophet locked onto the man’s gaze until he was subservient to any command.
“Give me the keys to the gate,” The Prophet said.
“Yes, sir,” Roderick said, handing him the keys, unable to resist The Prophet’s instructions.
“Now, go forth and kill them all, except Boricio and Luca.” The Prophet flashed images of the child and Boricio into the man’s mind, in case he didn’t know who was who. “Kill the other guards first.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, then marched toward the main house and opened fire on the guard perched on top. Then he turned and took out the next guard. The third guard managed to get a shot off, but it missed. The puppet’s shot didn’t.
A woman in front of the women’s house screamed, followed by another. Roderick opened fire, cracking the woman’s skull open in one shot. He then marched toward the main house, firing upon men as they emerged.
The Prophet turned his back on the violence and went to the front gate, slipped the key into the lock, sprung it, then pulled open the gate.
More gunfire erupted in the distance behind him as guards returned fire on Roderick. The Prophet didn’t flinch, but walked out of The Sanctuary and into the woods. He looked up to the sky as it started to snow. He opened his mouth, and let out a shrill scream — his call to the things that were an extension of himself.
Come feast. The time is now.
Sixty-Eight
Desmond Armstrong
Rei shoved Mary and Paola down to the ground at gunpoint, forcing them to kneel in the center of the room, next to Linc, as they cried. Peter, Carl, and Boricio stood behind Rei, guns ready.
Rei pushed the pistol into Linc’s temple. Mary winced, then shuddered. “Tell me who the others are,” he said. “All of them. Now.”
“I don’t know anything,” Linc cried. “I swear.”
Rei clicked his tongue. “Tisk, tisk. That’s the wrong answer, Brother Linc.”
“You’re not gonna get anything from him, because he doesn’t know anything to tell you!” Desmond screamed. “No one here trusts us enough to tell us anything!”
“Tell me now, or I kill the girl first,” Rei said, without a whisper of apology.
“I don’t fucking know!” Linc’s voice cracked, tears running down his cheeks.
“Too bad,” Rei said. He aimed his pistol at the back of Paola’s head, held it steady for a pregnant second, then pulled the trigger, sending a bullet sailing through the back of her head, then exploding out the front of her head.
Desmond and Luca both screamed “No!” as if they could somehow turn back time and stop the moment from happening.
“YOU FUCKER!” Desmond screamed, struggling to break free his shackles.
Paola’s eyes widened at the sight of infinity as her body fell forward, face first into the ground. Mary screamed in anguish, as she crawled toward her daughter and cradled Paola in her arms.
Mary looked up from Paola, eyes on fire, then leapt to her feet and charged toward Rei. But he was expecting her. His fist landed in her stomach and his foot on her knee.
Mary dropped to the floor, wailing and crying, her pain so animalistic and raw that it tore like a knife through Desmond’s heart.
Rei took a step toward her, lowering his gun on the way.
“No!” Desmond screamed. “She’s pregnant!”
Rei looked up at Desmond, “Tell me what I want to know. Names. Plans. Now.”
“I swear,” Desmond said, breaking down, “I don’t know.”
Rei shook his head, then pulled the trigger, shooting Mary in her stomach. Mary looked up at him and screamed. He put a bullet through her head, ending her anguish and her life. And the life of her unborn child.
Their unborn child.
No!
Desmond, Luca, and Linc cried in a symphony of shared torment. Linc started to get up, but Peter put his gun in the back of Linc’s skull.
Outside, a Fourth of July’s worth of gunfire erupted behind a Halloween’s worth of screaming. And then they all heard the unmistakable sound of monsters outside, shrieking, clicking.
“It’s started,” Rei said. “Well, I guess I don’t need the names any longer.” He turned and headed for the stairs. “Kill them all,” he said to his men. “Including the kid.”
“This isn’t over,” Desmond screamed. “I’ll tear the life from you, you motherfucker!”
Rei was already halfway up the stairs when Desmond swore he heard the sonofabitch laugh.
Peter and Carl took aim at Linc and Luca. Boricio aimed at Desmond.
Desmond winced, waiting for the blast and the arrival of death.
Death didn’t show.
Desmond opened his eyes a half second later to the sight of Boricio’s hands suddenly divided between two guns. In a ballet that Desmond could barely fa
thom, Boricio pulled Carl into his hands and knocked Peter to the floor, then kicked Carl in the back of his calf, sending him down in a painful kneel, while he took aim at Peter.
Peter shielded his face and body with his hands, inching backward toward the stairs. Boricio emptied his clip without flinching. Bullets ripped through his flimsy shield of flesh and tore his body to pieces. Boricio dropped the empty gun on the floor, then slammed his fist into Carl’s face, before delivering another blow to his liver.
Carl fell, doubled over and screaming. Boricio casually walked to the far side of the torture room, retrieved Carl’s dropped gun, aimed it at its former owner, then pulled the trigger twice. Blood pooled through the room, soaking the floor and everything on it, including Desmond’s love and her beautiful daughter.
Boricio said, “Brothers love; Boricio 30,” then started freeing the prisoners, one by one. Desmond wasn’t sure what Luca had done to switch Boricio to their sides, nor did he have time to ask or figure it out.
He raced to Mary and Paola.
There’s a chance!
Desmond dropped to the ground, feeling for a pulse in Mary and Paola and finding nothing. Both were dead. He looked up at Luca, heart brimming with hope.
“Luca, can you save them?” Desmond pleaded.
Luca kneeled down in the pool of blood, eyes tearing, as he closed them and placed his hands on Mary and Paola’s hands.
The room grew silent and heavy with expectation as they watched Luca attempt to work his miracles again.
Outside, the world continued to erupt in chaos.
Boricio stood at the top of the stairs, “Don’t worry; I got the door.”
Desmond turned back to Luca, whose eyes were squinting tight, as he appeared to be trying hard to focus.
Please, God, if you’re up there, please, please, save them. They don’t deserve this.
Luca’s eyes squeezed tighter, his hands now shaking on the women.
Desmond’s breath was caught in his throat, along with his heart, watching anxiously, waiting for the moment the boy would do what he’d done three times before.
