Alphabet Soup for the Tormented Soul

by Tobias Wade

  It did take a while to individually call each person and wait for them to meet me inside of the building. I told each of them that I would be passing on the role of leader to them. It was almost too easy. Alright, I’m done talking now. My children are safe. The people that had to die are dead. Well, everyone except one. That will be taken care of shortly. I have my trusty gun on my lap, and an eager finger to finally end the life of the man that I once was. It may seem odd that I referred to myself in the third person, but my sense of identity died when I killed my girlfriend. I needed to make sure my children would be safe.

  Before I blast my goddamn brains out of my skull I have one piece of advice for you. The hardest part of being a “hero” isn’t stopping the bad guys. No, the hardest part is for you to not become like the sick fucks you tried to stop.

  L is for Lunacy

  Chris Thompson

  Did you know that way back when, science actually thought the moon phases had powerful influence over the human body and mind? Ever heard the term “lunatic”, or “lunacy”? Sounds a lot like “lunar” right? Well there’s the reason.

  The moon has about as much effect on mental health as a post-it note. That is to say, of course it will influence mood, IF you allow it to. Tides yes, minds no.

  Another fact that most people don’t know is that there is currently a colony on the moon. How do I know? Because I helped to set it up. I was one of the first colonists to actually live on the surface of the moon. I’m actually posting this from the communications computer in the base right now, . . Let me explain our mission a little bit, before I get to the point of this little letter.

  Back in 1991, there was a meteor shower that ravaged the lunar surface. During that hellish time of falling rocks the size of cars and houses, only one small meteor, about the size of a Lincoln Town Car, managed to enter Earth’s atmosphere. I don't know too much about the meteor itself, in fact I know next to nothing about it. Only that it prompted my current mission. There must have been something special about that particular chunk of space rock, but I don't know what. Hell, all proof of its existence has been wiped from the books. If it hadn't been for a drunken slip of the tongue from my boss, I would have never known about it all.

  Anyway, I was assigned as captain of the black project codenamed Lunatic 8. I know, what a moniker right? But it was an honor to be part of this mission, let alone to be the captain. The mission entailed eight astronauts aboard three ships. Two of which were to be the new base station that we were to set up on the lunar surface, and the third was our ticket home after the mission was finished. Eight months. That's how long we were going to be up here. Ahh, the best laid plans of mice and men... We - I - have been here going on a year now. And rescue is probably never going to happen.

  When we landed we had enough supplies to last the eight of us for a year. We were all overly positive and mostly ignorant. See, we thought we would be the only living organisms on the moon. That we would be setting precedent for future colonists. Like I said, we were largely ignorant. To think that we didn't even bring any type of weapons with us. That would prove to be a costly mistake.

  Let's see, when we landed here, the two ships that would become the station were landed, and then winched to a sideways position before being anchored on the lunar surface. Having only 16% of the gravity of Earth came in handy that day. It only took us three days to have the station set up, functional, and our stuff moved to our new rooms. It was actually rather magical at first.

  Then the first meteor shower hit. And when it hit, a single tiny stone, the size of pea gravel, pierced the hull of the station. It just went through the outer hull, and never actually made it inside the station. So we thought.

  The meteor shower lasted for roughly thirty minutes. During that time, the only thing we could do was seal the damaged section of the station from the rest of it and wait. We couldn't go EV with shit falling to the surface. That would be suicide. Maybe we should have just tried that. It would have been less painful. But no, we waited for the meteors to either pass or impact before returning to work outside of our now slightly-damaged station.

  The hole in the hull was probably an inch in diameter. It was sealed with a quick weld patch, using extremely high voltage to meld the metals. We never even thought to remove the fucking stone. In fact, we didn't think anything of it for another three days. See, the module that was struck was a seldom used storage area. We didn't even think to empty the area because of possible contamination. And we never would have either if it hadn't been for a catastrophic failure of a hard drive in the main computer banks. I was the one who went in and got the replacement drive. I wish I hadn't.

  I opened the door and activated the light. The far wall, directly under the damaged area of outer hull was riddled with tiny holes, like a metallic swiss cheese. The bigger problem though, to me, wasn't the holes in the inner hull, but the thick red and pus-white layer of some biological nastiness growing on the walls. I retrieved the new drive and quickly ran my fat ass back to the computer hub.

  After I got the computer back up and running, I gathered our doctor, a short but muscular woman named Darla, and Paul, our resident tough guy and seasoned Navy SEAL, . Paul was also our small craft pilot, and was the one responsible for bringing us home at the end of the mission. That is, if he had survived. I opened the door to the storage shed. Paul entered first and approached the vile, pulsating wall. The growth had since covered the wall and was slowly spreading along the floor. Suddenly Paul vomited, stumbled, and then collapsed, falling face first into the layer of disgusting, pulsating growth. When Paul hit the wall, the layer of bio filth came away, revealing hundreds of things that closely resembled barnacles. Like barnacles, these things slid some feathery thing out from their shells, seeking food. I know that’s what they were looking for, because they sought Paul. He was covered in the things within seconds of falling. He tried to scream, but the things shot down his throat with lightning speed. The doctor and I froze in abject terror as we watched those feathery tendrils shred our friend from the inside and out into a pulpy mess.. That sound... Oh God, that sound. Have you ever wrenched a chicken leg from its thigh? That crunching, sucking, slurping sound? I won’t ever forget it. I quickly sealed the air lock and jettisoned that entire portion of the base, sending the barnacles and Paul's body into lunar orbit.

  I was forced to lie to the rest of the crew; I told them that the storage room had been breached by the meteorite and had to be removed before the leak suffocated us all. They bought it, I am sorry to say. The doctor promptly went to her quarters I was the one to find her corpse. It was the morning after the incident. I went to her quarters to check on her. I knew her and Paul had been close, wanted to be sure she was handling things okay. When she didn't open her door, I had to use the override code.

  She was laying on her back, in the center of the room. Her wrists weren't just slit, they were shredded. I could see strings of muscle and tendon splayed out like pasta with thick sauce. The white of the bone in her arm stood out in sharp contrast with the deep red blood, and the lighter red of her exposed and raw flesh. It took me almost an hour before I realized that there was no blood in her quarters. None. At first, I thought maybe someone in our crew had murdered her. However, the door computer let me know that nobody had opened her door since she came in the night prior. I did my best to cover her body, and asked the biologist, Tim, to help me. We didn't speak a single word the entire time we were moving her to the morgue, and sealed her into a casket.

  The next day was a scheduled vehicular excursion involving the original lunar rover; I was supposed to go, but didn't. That night I had a terrible nightmare that depicted the death of our entire crew due to an electrical storm that destroyed our suits and caused our tanks to explode. I begged the others to not go. I even recorded that conversation, to prove to myself that I didn't let them go without a fight. This is the transcription of that conversation. No, of the argument:

  ME: Guys, I
really think we should wait for a while before going across the tundra. I have a really bad feeling.

  TIM: What? A feeling? Sir, you're upset because of Paul and Darla, I get it. But we have to carry on..

  JOHNATHON: (John was our electrical engineer, and IT guy) Cap, this is an important part of our mission. This has to be done man. Sorry, but I'm going.

  ME: Please, don't do this. I know it sounds crazy, but I don't believe anyone will survive. I... had a dream.

  JEFF: (Our mechanical engineer and extra muscle ) What the fuck? You're trying to stop an important scientific mission, because you had a bad dream (‘dream’ was pronounced ‘dweam’)?

  JESSICA: (Our flight engineer and equipment services person) Cap, we're going, you can't stop us. You can come, or you can stay here.

  With that, they left. And they never returned. I didn't think they would, but as the days went by the reality of them not returning still hit me like a ton of bricks. I was now truly and utterly alone, a quarter of a million miles from the nearest person. I had become the man on the moon.

  I can't fly the shuttle. Fuck, I don't even know if I can start the damn engines. If you don't send word of a rescue mission, I will be forced to find out. I've read the entire manual and service manual, I've studied the control patterns from our launch recordings and I've been using the computers processing power to help me plot a safe course home. So, I could technically try to come home myself. The problem is, I’m afraid to die in a ball of fire, or live through the explosion and cast into the void, only to die a slow and painful death, utterly alone in the frozen emptiness that is space...

  This all happened about three months ago. I still haven't tried to start the engines. But I am no longer alone now. See, there’s something nobody could have known before this mission; when you die on the moon, you don't truly die. I mean, your body dies. That part’s the same. Your mind, however, is continuously active. Well, maybe not your mind... Let me explain:

  Three days after the exploration team failed to return, I was attempting to reach Houston on the COM, (they won't answer, by the way. I did manage to contact them once, only to be called an asshole, and that the next time I prank called I would be going to jail for interfering in federal process. I did try calling again, but nobody will answer anymore.) when I heard the airlock buzzer sound. See, the airlock has a buzzer to alert people inside the base when someone enters the exterior air lock. The exterior lock opens, you step in, the exterior door closes, the airlock is slowly brought to atmospheric pressure, then the interior door is unlocked.

  I hoped that perhaps one of the team had survived, and made their way back home. I was wrong, but on the other hand, I was right too.

  Paul.

  What was left of him anyway, was trying to come in through the airlock. I froze when I saw him. Have you ever seen the trypophobia hand? Do me a favor, Google it. Or, do yourself a favor and don't. Trypophobia is the irrational fear of clusters of holes or bumps. It’s usually stronger when those holes or bumps are in or on flesh. Anyway, Paul's face was honeycombed with holes. Thousands of them. Every now and then, something greyish green would poke through one of the holes and you could see the things constantly moving under what little of his face remained.

  I was still standing there, frozen in place by an overwhelming terror, when Paul hit the intercom on the wall of the lock.

  PAUL: Let me in Chris. You know how cold it is out here?

  ME: How..Wh..How are you alive without the helmet?

  PAUL: Chris, I’ll tell you everything, just let me in.

  ME: I don't think I'm going to do that Paul. Not until you answer my question.

  PAUL: You don't want to be alone in there forever do you, Chris?

  His pockmarked hands began fumbling with the manual door controls.

  ME: I…no, but I don't want to be alone in here with...whatever you are either.

  With that, I slammed the emergency evacuation button on the airlock control. Once again, Paul’s body was jettisoned into the vacuum of space. This time, I watched his body as it tumbled and rolled out of sight. Off the surface of the moon. Last time, he had been sent on a trajectory to the far side of the moon. This time, he had been sent towards Earth, and had no chance in hell of getting back to the base.

  I decided to try and start the engines that day. I suited and booted, grabbed the laptop case and whatever else I thought I would need, and started through the airlock to the ship awaiting me. I had almost made it to the entrance hatch when I caught movement off to my right side, beyond the base station. I almost ignored the urge to look closer. I wish I had, But I looked, and in the distance, I saw five humanoid figures shambling towards me.

  Television and movies have it wrong, ya know. Zombies, or animated dead people, don't shuffle. They don't move in jerky motions like some long-rusted machine. They move just like they did before they died. Faster though, without the weight of the suits. These things coming at me were the crew. At one time. Now, they were melted, broken and disfigured monstrosities that hardly resembled the humans they once were. I panicked and ran back to the airlock. I didn't wait for it to pressurize, I had my suit on, I just waited for the outside door to seal.

  As soon as the outer door sealed, I blasted the inner door, and fought my way into the station. As I closed the inner door, I looked out across the frozen, empty lunar surface. Those things were still coming at me, getting closer. I could see more of those tendrils, coming from the holes and wounds in their bodies.

  I am now thinking that perhaps the minds of the corpses aren't alive, but rather the bodies are being pupated by the damned tendrils. If you want a clue as to what they look like, look up “gooseneck barnacle” , then cross that image with the honeycombed foot and you have a solid idea of what I was seeing. Except this wasn't a picture on a screen. These things were coming at me, and I know what they would do to me if they made it inside.

  I knew what I had to do. I ran for the center of the station; to the central control computer. I ran harder and faster than I have ever moved before. I made it to the controls when I heard that damn buzzer. I had about thirty seconds before the airlock vented to shut off the inside door. So I simply shut down the entire airlock system. only the communications would work. The airlock doors were both dead and useless. Much like the things stuck inside.

  Now, it’s been almost three months since I shut the doors. The things are still in the lock. Well, four of them are. They ate the other, while he screamed and begged me to open the door. I stood and watched as a friend was eaten alive. I don't know what to do now. There's no way I can exit the base without coming into contact with those things. I can't stay here forever, I don't have the food or oxygen to last much longer, and I know rescue isn't coming.

  I've taken to sitting in a folding chair in front of the airlock and talking with those things. I just… well, to be honest I'm lonely. Not that they talk much. In fact, other than veiled attempts at getting me to open the door, they don't say much at all. Sometimes they beg for food. One once (I can't tell which because of the damage to their faces) asked me to open the door and kill it. I couldn't even if I wanted to. I don't have a weapon that wouldn’t bring me within inches of those thing’s teeth. The holes in their bodies are getting bigger, the skin now swollen, red and covered in a layer of thick white pus that occasionally drips from their faces.

  This was all written three days ago. I've been in the same spot since then, watching those things. They haven't slowed their begging for me to open the door yet. I don't know that I want them to. I'm actually thinking of opening the door. They are starting to make sense. If I do open the door, we could continue our research indefinitely. Without the need for suits, or pressure or even oxygen. I think I'm going to flip a coin. My lucky coin. A 1913 golden piece. Yeah, that's what I'm going to do...

  M is for Mirror

  Jacob Mandeville

  I bought the mirror from my step-father, who had inherited it from his
step-father. He claimed he didn’t like it, but after the experiences I’ve had with it, I believe now he did what he could to get rid of it. At the time, it was a rather large investment for a young English teacher, having followed in my father’s footsteps. The mirror was ornamental, a seemingly Asian design, and gorgeously stained a deep red mahogany. It had spirals ascending on either side, beginning from the bottom, intertwining like a caduceus. At the apex of each spiral was some sort of shellfish, either an ornate clam or smooth mollusk. On the rear, it has a small etched logo, a simple “MI“. Otherwise, there are no marks, chips, or cracks in the wood or glass. It appears to be very old, but in a way looked like it was made only recently, carefully, with an expert hand. It barely fit into my wife’s Town Car, but we managed to load it and keep it mar-free in the massive trunk.

  When I mounted it on the wall in our living room, I placed it across from another, more modern mirror, creating an infinity effect. Unfortunately, I failed to attach our hanger to a stud in the wall, and after only a few minutes, the nail ripped out of the wall and crashed on the floor. My wife and daughter heard it fall, and claim that it made the tell-tale tingling of glass fracturing after a thudded impact. When I came in the room and found it lying face down, I turned it over, preparing for the worst. I feared the $6,000 I “invested” in it was now trash, but as I lifted it, I found it was perfectly intact.

  My wife, thirty-seven, and my daughter, now eleven, have always been credible, other than flirtatious white lies from the wife, and giggle-fibs from my little girl. I didn’t doubt their claims about the noise it made, yet showing them the evidence, they both appeared dumbfounded at it, and glanced awkwardly at each other.