No, that’s not a pun.
At the start of this video—freshly uploaded but we all get to it at the same time because we’ve all set up to be sent email alerts whenever Melody Bliss posts a new video—we’re all praying that she gets help. Maybe once she gets to Rutgers, visits their dining hall, she’ll put on the freshman fifteen and all will be right with the world.
If she pulls out of this tailspin then we’ll have her to internet adore and internet whisper to for many years to come.
We’ll be with her when she gets a lucrative sponsorship deal or writes a coffee table book or marries a Hollywood star who’s actually famous.
But then she speaks for the first time in this video and it seems pretty clear that none of those things will come to pass.
“Hey guys, Melody here. Just a quick video I made about something I’ve been getting asked about and have wanted to talk about.” Her speech is halting, labored even. She’s not annoyed, just tired and unable to concentrate on the words that she’s so clearly reading off her computer monitor. They aren’t good words.
We’d be able to tell she was reading from the slight, tennis-match back and forth of her eyes, but then she makes it more obvious by squinting at a few words.
“First, I want to say that I appreciate those of you who’ve reached out to ask if I’m sick,” she coughs, in bold defiance of what she’s about to say: “No. I am not ill, and I am not sick in the head, either. I do not have an eating disorder, but I have been on a diet.”
She swallows hard, gets wistful. “Summer used to be such a fun time, but I guess this is what growing up’s about because I’m so …” she searches for the word, she’s either going off-book or she’s lost her place.
“Stressed. I’ve become stressed. I mean, I used to worry about tests, but when I asked for dorm room tips and got to talking to some of you about your college experiences, it got me caught in a kind of cycle.”
We don’t notice it until now, but the lid is off Pablo’s cage and he doesn’t appear to be inside.
“I spend all day worrying about every little detail. The future is terrifying y’all.”
That last bit isn’t a southern-ism, it’s more of a youthful borrowing of urban slang. And it feels like it’s meant as a joke, but we aren’t laughing.
Oh, Melody. We really did believe in you.
Maybe it’s not too late, we all think, nearly at the same time, all across the country, the English-speaking globe, really, because Melody even has a small but fierce following in Germany. Who knew? Not Melody, because she doesn’t seem to know how to check her analytics, at least she hasn’t given any indication that she does.
It’s not too late if we all go into the comments, right now, even before this video is finished, and we all write one nice thing.
One thing about Melody that makes us happy. Makes us proud to be a part of her community, her subscribers and, yes, her fans.
You’re the best Melody.
OMG. Hair’s so cute today!
There’s some kind of sound. We’re missing action as we type but we must press submit on our new comments.
More Pablo! Love him!
The sound again.
You need closet organizers! They’re lifesavers in a dorm.
The sound is a smack.
Can you shoot a vid showing how you do your make-up?
Fuck you. Kill yourself, slut.
Oh, we all recoil at the dingus among us who felt the need to write that last comment. We bristle as a collective organism.
But a few bad apples …
By the time we all scroll back up after typing out our positivity, Pablo’s on screen.
Cute little Pablo! If Melody keeps making videos, one of us is going to have to make Pablo his own Twitter account where “he” can share cute memes and aphorisms. We wouldn’t want any money in exchange for doing something like that. We’d just want Melody to acknowledge what a nice gesture it is.
Pablo looks troubled, he’s crawling across the desk, searching out a place to hide.
And he finds it in Melody’s hair. Her chestnut curls are so wide and well-kept that Pablo is able to use one of them as an impromptu cave.
Melody’s hair has fallen across her desk, pushed her keyboard away, apparently bumping the camera to a lower vantage.
She’s performed a literal headdesk.
But it’s only once the blood begins to spread, the salty blackness of it chasing Pablo out of his hiding spot so he slips off the desk—we hope to land unharmed on the carpet—that we realize that those smacks we heard were repeated headdesks.
Putting her face down onto the desk and into a kitchen knife that Melody has held horizontally (not vertically, like would make more sense). The flat of the blade is flush with the particleboard of her Ikea desk. The sharp part is embedded in Melody’s forehead.
It’s sad. And she’s unresponsive, but the thing we all marvel at is: How did she manage to get this video uploaded? There must be a program or function for it that we’ve never heard of. Maybe a Google Chrome extension?
Amazing. Melody went from a nobody to a seasoned expert in less than one month.
Oh well. There’s nothing more for us to see here, the video is over, the pool of blood from the gashes in her skull spread as far as it’s going to go.
The video ends.
We unsubscribe.
<<====>>
AUTHOR’S STORY NOTE
“Please Subscribe” was solicited by Jack Bantry, editor of Splatterpunk Magazine. It’s the third story of mine he’s purchased and I thank him for continually publishing my work (and Randy and Cheryl for reprinting it). My books have moments of extreme violence, but mostly I think that my long work is too goofy and/or tame to be considered “hardcore” in any real capacity. I’m happy to have a respected editor telling me to cut loose in short fiction … even if the results are sometimes more sadpunk than splatterpunk.
I wrote “Please Subscribe” while trying to get my own YouTube channel off the ground (as of writing this, it’s still going, if you want to see my dumb face talk about movies and books). Clearly, the story is not autobiographical, but while researching the scene and what it takes to gain subscribers/view traction I found myself asking: “Why would anyone want to put themselves out there like this?” And more importantly: “Who the hell is supposed to be the audience for vloggers?” The answers I arrived at are probably depressing and slightly confused.
BACKNE
TIM MILLER
From A Gathering of Gore
Publisher: GutWrench Productions
______
Jerry hated working in a factory. He’d been a material handler for almost three years and it sucked. Some guys loved it. He would admit any day of the week he liked driving the forklift. Well, most of the time. Sometimes unloading trucks and having to place loads into super high places was the worst. You couldn’t see where the fuck shit was. One time a skid got caught on something, as he pulled the forks out, the skid came with it and two fifty-five gallon drums of cleaning solution came crashing to the floor.
Fortunately, no one was standing nearby or they’d have been killed. Since that incident he was much more careful. Half the time he didn’t even know what was in most of the barrels. They all had hazmat labels on them. That was all he needed to know. Not to mention they always smelled something awful. Even when they were sealed his eyes watered just from the odor.
When possible he wore a respirator when hauling the things around, but that wasn’t always an option. They took too long to put on, and usually didn’t help. Sometimes they made it all worse, trapping the odor inside. Totally nasty. It always felt like fire was going up his nose. At least what he figured fire going up his nose would feel like, as actual fire had never physically gone up his nose.
One day they received a shipment of some especially strange looking barrels. These were green drums stacked onto a skid, but didn’t have any hazmat labels. Not that it mattered to Jerry. These would go onto another l
oft on the far side of the warehouse. Unfortunately, they would have to go on the very top. Jerry’s least favorite, as he wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing. Had to play it by feel.
He lifted the skid and elevated the forks as he backed away from the truck. He drove to the loft and raised the forks as high as they would go. Once it was raised up, he tilted the forks backward slightly to get a good angle, when something dripped onto him. First it got onto his helmet, then it came down faster until it was pouring down in a steady pour.
“Motherfucker!” Jerry yelled as he undid his seatbelt and jumped out of the seat. He made it out, but not before a bunch of the ooze hit the back of his collar and ran down his back. It was warm and gooey whatever it was.
“Jerry! What the hell are you doing?” Carl called out as he ran over. Carl was the plant supervisor.
“Those fucking barrels are leaking. That shit got all over me. Look!” Jerry turned around. He hadn’t seen what the actual substance was but could hear Carl gasping.
“Jesus fuck. What is that shit?” Carl asked.
“I don’t know. The driver had the MSDS for it. There were no hazmat stickers on it.”
“Shit. Does it hurt?”
“No. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing man. If it doesn’t hurt. Just go home. Maybe get it checked out if it bothers you. That shit is all green and sticky looking.”
“What about the forklift?”
“Just leave it. I’ll have someone take care of it. Get out of here.”
Jerry nodded and headed home. He could feel the sticky substance along his back but still hadn’t seen it. When he got home, he stripped out of his work clothes and held up his shirt where he saw the green sludge for the first time. The entire back side of his shirt was covered in it.
“What the fuck?”
He climbed into the shower and began to rinse off. Whatever the substance on his back was hadn’t bothered him at all until the water hit it. The second the water touched his back, his whole body burned. He screamed and jumped away as white-hot pain shot through his entire backside.
“Holy shit! Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Shit!” He jumped up and down, almost slipping and falling, but keeping his balance after grabbing the rail. He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. The burning in his back continued, but subsided slowly. Looking at himself in the mirror, he cranked his head around to see what his back looked like.
The green goo was gone, but his back was bright red as if it were badly sunburned. The pain was gone by the time he’d toweled off and dressed. However, he did suddenly feel exhausted. Jerry climbed into bed and pulled up the covers. Before he knew it, he was sound asleep.
When he awoke, his back was throbbing. Climbing out of bed, he headed into the bathroom to look at his back again. This time, he almost threw up at the sight. His back was covered in bright red pimples. Hundreds of them clustered together. Some of them had whiteheads already. Others were just red and puffy.
“What the fuck?” he said to his reflection. He needed to go have it checked out, but also needed to get to work. He was already running late. He couldn’t let something as simple as a breakout cost him his job. His plant only allowed three sick days a year and all were unpaid. Carefully he pulled on his shirt before he finished dressing. Once his boots were laced up he headed out to work.
Most of the day had been uneventful. Typical loading and unloading of various trucks. No one mentioned the strange barrels and leak the day before. He’d wanted to ask his boss just what was in there, but Carl had been tied up in meetings all morning. Jerry was relieved when the lunch bell sounded. He climbed out of the forklift and headed to the break area when someone from behind startled him.
“Holy shit!” the guy yelled.
Jerry turned around to find his co-worker, Mike, standing behind him looking horrified.
“What’s wrong?”
“Dude, your back is all wet. What the fuck.” Mike took a step closer. “God and it stinks.”
Jerry reached over his shoulder, feeling along the back of his shirt, and sure enough, it was completely saturated. But with what?
“Jesus Christ,” Jerry said. Out of panic, he began to remove his shirt right there. His co-workers in the break area looked on horrified and confused as he pulled his shirt all the way off.
“What the fuck?” Another co-worker yelled. A female worker screamed as people started backing away from him. Jerry felt something running down his back. He ran into the bathroom to look in the mirror. When he saw it, he screamed himself. His entire back was covered in huge, yellow zits. Many of which had burst. Greenish/yellow pus oozed all down his back. Some falling off in large clumps.
Sirens sounded as Jerry stepped out of the bathroom. There was an ambulance pulling up outside. Two paramedics came in, a guy and a girl, both carrying medical bags and wearing rubber gloves.
“Are you the one with the fluid discharge?” the male medic asked.
“I guess so. I’m not sure what’s going on.” Jerry turned around.
“Oh my God!” the female medic said. “Any idea what caused this?”
“Some shit spilled on me yesterday from a barrel I was unloading. I have no idea what it was, and no one will tell me. I woke up today all broke out. Now it’s like this.”
The male medic stuck his finger into one of the holes in his back. More greenish syrup oozed from the opening. The medic held the finger up to his nose and took a sniff.
“Smells like acid,” he said. “Does it hurt?”
“Not really. Did you just stick your finger in there?”
“No. Let’s get you on the ambulance,” the woman said before grabbing a blanket and throwing it over his shoulders. He hoped once they got to the hospital they could figure out what it was. Except as they were walking out, Jerry noticed several of his co-worker’s faces were covered in red and yellow zits. Some didn’t notice, but others were looking at each other and freaking out.
The medics looked at each other as the girl finally spoke up.
“I think we need to quarantine the whole plant,” she said. “Including us.”
“Are you serious?” the guy asked.
“Yes I’m serious. Look at this. Everyone is getting whatever this guy has.”
Jerry’s face and arms began to itch. He reached up and felt thick bumps all over his cheeks and forehead. Looking at the medics, their faces were breaking out as well. None of the current breakouts were as bad as his back. Except he was about to be in worse condition than everyone else. The other employees began screaming at him as the paramedics looked on.
“What did you do to us?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You infected all of us!”
“Are we turning into zombies?”
Jerry tried to back away as they closed in on him.
“I didn’t do anything to you. One of the barrels spilled shit on me! Seriously! I woke up all broken out. I just thought it was a rash. Then at lunch my back looks like this. I had no idea! I didn’t know!”
Some of them were holding various tools in their hands. One man he didn’t know approached. His face had gone from red and puffy to yellow and greasy looking. It was covered with whiteheads that were throbbing and ready to burst. He stood inches from Jerry.
“You did this to me,” he said. “Now I’m gonna kill you!” The man lifted a hammer and reared back. Before he could swing, Jerry punched him in the face. As his fist connected, dozens of zits on the man’s face popped at once. Yellow pus and fluid splattered onto Jerry’s face and into his mouth. It tasted salty as he gagged, trying to keep from throwing up. The man fell to the ground and looked up. He looked as if his face was melting off.
The entire right side of his face was covered in yellow clumps of pus and sludge. The others’ faces began turning yellow as well. When the man’s face began oozing yellow slime, they all attacked Jerry at once. He swung in every direction as many jumped onto his back. One person grabbed him in a chokehold, but he was able
to slip free as greasy pus lubricated his face and neck.
The entire mob fought like mad as their zits continued popping and squirting. They rolled and tussled around in a huge pool of greenish yellow sludge. One man shoved another man’s face into a puddle of pus, holding him down until the man drowned. Jerry felt someone thrust an entire hand in an opening in his back. The person’s hand fished around as if it were looking for something as more slime oozed from the opening. Jerry broke away to see it was the female medic. He couldn’t even make out her face under all the pus that caked her hair to the side of her head as huge clumps fell from her face. Her eyes were wild-eyed as she screamed and jumped at Jerry, digging her nails into his face, ripping his flesh and zits free. Bloody pus dripped down his face and nose as he tumbled backward, hitting his head on the floor, and knocking him unconscious.
When he awoke, he was lying in a hospital bed. Looking around, he saw the room was dark and there was plastic lining the walls. Someone stood over him wearing a fully encapsulated hazmat suit.
“Jerry. Glad you finally woke up,” the robotic voice from the suit said.
“What’s going on? Where am I?”
“I’m Dr. Cole. You’re at the CDC in our special quarantine unit. You had quite an ordeal.”
“I guess. I thought it was just a nightmare. I had this really bad acne on my back and everyone at work got it too and attacked me. It was so gross and freaky.”
“I’m afraid that was no dream. It all happened. You were exposed to some rare bacteria that caused the breakout. It also causes temporary dementia and paranoia.”
“Yeah, I noticed. What was in that barrel? That stuff that fell on me?”
“That barrel contained the actual pus from another set of victims. I’m not sure why it wasn’t marked. The fluid itself contains some valuable properties.”
“What does that mean? Do you have a cure for it?”
“Cure? No. I think you’re mistaken. We are harvesting it. This stuff can be easily weaponized. It is very potent and you of all the victims seem to have an endless supply.”
“What?”
“Yes. That’s what all the tubes hooked to you are.”
Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 2 Page 29