Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology

by C. P. Dunphey

  I’m here to tell you that bug chasers are mere amateurs in the world of viral delights. Narrow is their vision, and mundane is their pursuit. If one is to poison a meat vehicle, then why not chase the most exotic of venoms? The self-inflicted ruin of a human carcass should be something bordering on a holy rite, and I’ve always believed that Eden is momentarily remade in the disintegration of flesh.

  I suppose I am a gardener in that way. This pitiful form I call a body acts as the soil, and I plant little virus seeds deep within to cultivate growth. I study my own delicious decay. It is research, a diary of desiccation, and each festering petal sends a shiver of excitement traveling up the twisted ridge of my spine.

  My experimentation is vast due to a genetic defect that I was born with. A severely compromised immune system with the ability to harbor multiple infectious diseases all at the same time. I’m a walking vat sloshing with internal horrors, and each one is like a trophy that I prize higher than any material possession. These viruses are my companions in the dark, and their blight is my reward.

  I worship the collection, and it shows its love by slowly breaking me apart in the most excruciating ways. Are you familiar with the term “patient zero?” Think of me as patient infinity. I am not the first, but I make it my business to experience all the tastiest condemnations of the carnal condition.

  I was a novice once in the long distant past, my garden of self-unfulfilled and barren of all sickness. Just a young butcher boy who had not yet learned how to wield the knife on himself, and it took a fascination with self-destruction to guide this lost soul to the path he currently walks. The masochist in me awoke late, but he awoke ever so hungry.

  The garden feeds him well now. Each biological gift is like a nest of vines twining across a throbbing soul. I’ve had every kind of influenza, but such periods have proved lackluster. The snot oozes, the throat itches, and the head aches, but these moments are nothing, just appetizers for a gardener with my particular desires.

  I had to search for something more, something real, something to rattle the bones and make the heart just a rotting little crisp that struggles to pump sluggish ichor.

  My first experience with true viral glory came from the imported abdomen of a mosquito gut-loaded with Dengue fever. I ordered it from a forum on the deep web, and the Indian supplier was more than willing to provide for my eclectic request. I lapped at that tainted blood with a bone-dry tongue, and it was an immediate thrill to the taste buds.

  The projectile vomiting came after. It spewed from my lips like a geyser of bile, and it mixed so wonderfully with the joint aches that practically bent all my limbs inward. My skin erupted into a magnificent rash, and as I admired it in the mirror, I couldn’t help but think that it resembled a patch of swollen lilacs pushing up through the skin. That was the garden giving back. An affirmation that my green thumb has the potential to become smeared in the nastiest inflammatory goodies.

  The fever boiled, but the strain was a weak batch, and soon this traitorous meat fought it off. Survival came as such a boring outcome. All that I planted began to wilt, and so the search for new seeds began.

  I pounded my stubby fingers on the keyboard, made the proper connections, and soon a special package arrived from West Africa. It shipped from Niger, and it stank of fruity oblivion. I peeled it open with spittle dripping from the lips, and there it was, a crumpled little mummy just full to the brim with all things yummy. It was the dried remnant of a fruit bat; the wings curled around the torso and the eyes just sunken sockets long since devoured by insects.

  This was the dish I’d been waiting for. The next phase in my garden of the flesh. A dead winged angel just fresh enough to pass on everlasting Ebola. I wasted no time opening my eating-hole wide, lips tattered and chapped, and I shoved the critter corpse down my gullet and chewed until my gums bled.

  Bliss. Unnatural bliss. It took only days for the symptoms to ravage me. The shit gushed from my ass in a waterfall of putrescence. I felt my kidneys becoming nothing more than overworked lumps inside of me. I was weak as a kitten run down on the interstate, and no sustenance would take root in my stomach. All food came splattering back out as a partially digested stew, and it delighted me to see little fleshy pieces of organs floating in that river of wretchedness.

  Ebola gave the garden life, but what might the gardener seek to invite true paradise? The great prize. The grand finale. The necrotic nectar to stilt the veins and core out the vessel. I aim to rot, to live as I rot, and only the most infamous infection will suffice.

  I wiped clotted Ebola blood from my eyes to make one last order on the World Wide Web. I chose expedited shipping, because time is of the essence when a garden must be grown. It arrived in less than two days. It was wrapped in black silk with the prettiest bow, and I opened it like a child on Christmas Eve. My favorite toy waited for me.

  A rusted syringe soaked for months in human sewage. It sang to me, a dirty ditty, and it promised to eat through my flesh with genuine enthusiasm. Necrotizing fasciitis waited on the sharp tip of that needle. Commonly referred to as flesh-eating disease, but lovingly thought of by me as man’s most transcendent self-destructive experience.

  I carved out a wound in the center of my forehead with a dull butter knife, and then I drove that syringe in deep and depressed the contents into the open wound. And like an addict after a long-awaited fix, I swooned back in my chair and waited for the fun to begin.

  It’s so quick. First the inflammation, the most beautiful shades of purple and black. Next the blisters to decorate, each one a pus-dripping miniature volcano. And then it started. The shedding of flesh in scarlet folds, bloodied lumps and chunks falling to the floor, pieces of who I am rendered into little more than messy plops against the linoleum.

  I’m writing this memoir with the intent to document a demise that borders on the divine. Each scrawl of the pen leaves slabs of skin smeared against the paper. I’m a dripping red thing with a gleaming grin, and this is how all the best parties end. Deadened tissue splatters and stains, and how can I describe how sublime it is to feel your meat curdling from within?

  So much irredeemable skin. It falls, we fall, and all turns to pools that I lick back up like a cannibal’s gruel.

  Brain black and broken, rhyming silly now. Fingers just skinned sausages. Hard to write. I’ve read that surgeons are supposed to cut away the bad flesh. I’ll do that. I’ll amputate the soft black pieces, and I’ll revel in the rot.

  This is all I’ve ever wanted.

  The garden is in bloom.

  EAR WAX

  By G.A. Miller

  "Dammit, now I'm completely plugged up again!"

  "What's plugged up, honey? What are you talking about?"

  "Oh, my ear. Damned wax again, completely blocked up."

  Sara went to the bathroom, and returned with a small bottle, unscrewing the cap.

  "Here, lean over and let me put some drops in."

  Joe leaned over as far as he could, and Sara put in a few drops of the Peroxide solution to soften the wax.

  "There. Let that work for a few minutes, then we'll use the bottle."

  Joe grunted, thinking that the latest item he'd bought to try and win his lifelong battle against ear wax was about to get its trial by fire. It was basically a spray bottle, fitted with a short hose that accepted removable tips with even thinner hoses on them to concentrate the flow. He lifted his head slightly off the arm of the couch to hear what she was saying.

  "Say again? Didn't hear you."

  "How warm should the water be? I don't want to make it too hot for you."

  "It said very warm, close to body temp, but not too hot."

  "Okay, got it."

  Sara came into the room with the bottle in one hand, and the small basin in the other. Joe sat up, took the basin, and put it on the side of his head, slipping the ear into the provided cutout. Sara sat beside him, and guided the small tip into his ear, squeezing the handle to squirt the water in.

 
"How's that? Is it too warm?"

  "No, it feels fine . . . just aim high to try and flush from behind."

  Sara continued squeezing, and started to see small clumps of wax flowing out into the basin.

  "There we go, it's starting to come out."

  Joe's eyes were tightly shut, and he felt something moving, shifting inside his ear, something too large to be in such a small place. The bottle held a lot of water, and the continued squirts were loosening, moving that overly large mass. It was stubborn, though, and held on. Sara had to pause, and empty the basin before starting again.

  "Hang in there, honey. We're getting it."

  The basin back in place, Sara continued flushing his ear, one squeeze right after another, keeping the flow as steady as she could. Joe felt a pop in his ear, and the mass moved more than it had before.

  "It's coming, keep it going . . . you've almost got it!"

  Sara glanced into the basin, and guessed she had a few more squirts before she'd have to empty it again, so she shifted the small tip, aiming more at an angle from above, and squeezed the handle again, open and closed, keeping the bursts of water steady, when suddenly Joe cried out as a large, dark glob plopped into the basin.

  She looked at it, and it seemed to be moving.

  "What the hell?"

  Joe said nothing, his head down, eyes shut. As she watched, the mass seemed to change shape, moving on its own, not simply floating in the water. It stretched larger, thinner, and she clearly saw the outline of a face, as though pressing from inside the mass. It was only there for a split second, but she knew that face. Joe's face. It vanished, and the mass became still and lifeless.

  She looked up, just as Joe raised his head, turning to look at her. His eyes opened, and they'd turned black, as though the pupils had somehow absorbed the entire irises. Tiny red veins surrounded the black centers, like spider webs capturing prey for the patiently waiting insect.

  And then he smiled. There was no humor, no life in that smile, more predatory than friendly.

  And then, Joe leaned toward Sara, as she dropped the full basin, with its now still mass of wax down onto the floor, spilling onto the polished wood surface. The small moan in her throat escalated to a full hearty scream as he closed the gap between them.

  And then. . . .

  THE FACE

  By Kurt Newton

  . . . scrabble . . . scrabble . . . hush . . . hiss. . . .

  The man in the chair sits hunched over his desk. The small room is dark but for one reading lamp that casts a yellow cone of light upon the stacks of books, notepads and coffee mugs that litter his desktop. The man combs feverishly through the pages of the volume that lies open before him. Above, just beyond the light's reach, lie the foot-shadows of leather-bound volumes, some inscribed with arcane symbols—reference books for old world languages, recovered texts of lost religious manifests, and how-to guides for the practice of alchemy and the occult. He is a man of letters, a scholar, a professor at the local university, in fact. His name is Edwin Ellunder. Dr. Edwin Ellunder, Professor of Literary Artifacts. But to look at him, one would never assume such a title to be true.

  He mumbles absentmindedly. His attention is suddenly captured by what he has just read. His arm reaches out; he pulls a jeweler's magnifying glass over the pages before him. He takes notes. He's getting closer. But the sounds come again, quickly quelling his sudden elation.

  . . . scrabble . . . scrabble. . . .

  He pauses. His ears pin back as he feels the presence behind him, hidden in the dark recesses of the room. If only they could see him now, thinks Edwin—his colleagues, the ones who whispered names like Ghost Chaser, Demon Hunter, and Dr. Demento under their breath when he entered the faculty lounge. Some had even suggested the University would be better served if he taught creative writing instead of his pursuit of "foundationless knowledge." Though hurt by their lack of professionalism, Edwin did not let their petty jealousies dissuade him from his curriculum—nor from his own personal and private research.

  . . . scrabble . . . hush . . . hiss. . . .

  There comes a knock at the door.

  "Edwin? For the last time, please come out."

  Edwin's wife, Alice, concerned that her husband has been locked in his study for nearly three days now.

  "I've told you before, Alice, I can't. Don't you understand?" he shouts to her.

  "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

  . . . scrabble . . . scrabble. . . .

  Edwin cranes his neck toward the sound, his head obscured by shadow. The sound emanates from the far darkest corner, climbing toward the ceiling above.

  "Edwin, what's that noise? Edwin, please! If you don't come out I'm going to call the hospital and have them send over a professional."

  . . . scrabble . . . hiss. . . .

  Edwin laughs. "Dear sweet Alice. You never understood my passions. You merely tolerated them. You believe me insane, don't you? Heaven knows I should be—putting up with your insolence all these years." These are Edwin's thoughts, but he speaks them aloud. Now that the barrier has been breached between the internal and external, the truth and the mask, it is much easier for Edwin to express himself.

  "Edwin, you don't know what you're saying. You're not yourself. Please, let me help you."

  . . . scrabble . . . scrabble. . . .

  Directly overhead now.

  A sneer of disdain touches the corner of Edwin's lips. Hot flashes of pain erupt. Blood trickles down his chin. "If you must, Alice. If you must . . ."

  Edwin leans back in his chair and unlocks the study door.

  "Edwin? Oh, thank God." Alice enters and puts her arms out to embrace her husband, but he pulls away.

  "Edwin, please? It's so dark in here. Why are you doing this?"

  Edwin finally turns to face her. Light cascades across his features. "Because I can."

  Alice screams and stumbles back toward the door.

  . . . scrabble . . . click . . . pop. . . .

  Something falls from the ceiling above and lands upon Alice's face. Her screams are suddenly blanketed, her cries for help drowned in a liquid garble. She falls to the floor. In seconds, she lies motionless.

  . . . click . . . pop . . . hiss. . . .

  Edwin reaches down and swings his arm as if to bat something away. "That's enough!" he yells.

  The thing skitters off into the dark. Edwin pulls the desk lamp forward and angles its light toward the floor.

  Alice's face is devoid of flesh and cartilage. Her barren white skull gapes ceiling-ward.

  "Forgive me, Alice," Edwin whispers.

  He turns and focuses once again on the manuscript. As he reads, the ancient Sumerian language becomes a miniature landscape of peaks and valleys. He speaks aloud the last line he deciphered.

  ". . . ur-erech ah-kish tuttul el-eridu paddan-aram . . ."

  . . . the hairless face becomes an organ of great mobility. . . .

  Edwin breathes deep.

  . . . scrabble . . . hush. . . .

  He can smell his wife's blood and the residual fear that still clings to the study's stale air like cigarette smoke.

  . . . scrabble . . . scrabble. . . .

  He feels the power he has unleashed.

  He closes the book before him and turns to face the dark. He clicks his fingers. "Hamath!" he commands. Come.

  . . . scrabble . . . hush. . . .

  "Hamath, azif!" Come, now!

  . . . scrabblescrabblescrabble. . . .

  The thing in the dark crawls up his leg and trembles upon his knee. It awaits its next instruction.

  Edwin leans over the tiny beast. His hands caress its contours—contours that mimic his own features, his own face.

  "Shinar," he finally tells it. Home.

  The face scrabbles up Edwin's chest and quickly seals itself back over its place of origin.

  Edwin now sees the world in a different light, filled with brilliant blues and spectral whites. He sees a land of immense beauty and u
nimaginable horror. But mostly he sees revenge and retribution.

  After a quick shower and a shave, he gets into his car and heads toward the University.

  BATTLEGROUND

  By Drew Nicks

  France, 1916

  As the skies unleashed another torrent from their gray depths, Captain Noel Chamberlain stepped out between the canvas flaps, lit a British Consul, and let the rain run over his bloodied apron. His hands shook as he took a second drag.

  It had already been a long day and, while glancing to his watch, there was still much more to go. Serious injuries had been the norm all day, owing to the offensive Field Marshall Haig had ordered. Ragged stumps and spilled entrails. Gas burns and major blood loss. The severity of the wounds and the near constant need for expertise had left the surgeon exhausted. He gazed out into the muddy field that was now his life. In the near distance, he could see the ambulance drivers and stretcher bearers enjoying a quiet moment. Over the tumble of the rain, he heard them enjoy a laugh.

  Lucky bastards.

  “Captain Chamberlain?” the young voice called from behind him. Lance Corporal Hedges, the surgeon knew, I hope you can handle this life.

  The surgeon dropped his cigarette in the murky mud and turned to face the fresh faced, blond, twenty-two-year-old who’d been drafted into this vocation. Captain Chamberlain coughed slightly before returning to the confines of the tent.

  “Yes, Hedges, what is it?”

  The scent of rotting flesh and iodine hung thickly in the air like a fog. Most of these young men would never walk out of this hospital. The ones that would, would never experience a normal life. For this, Captain Chamberlain felt nothing but sadness. The oldest man he’d treated that day was only two years older than his son. Or, so that soldier’s papers had claimed. The surgeon had doubts about many of these boys’ ages.

  “The patient in bed fourteen has woken up,” said Hedges. “He seems to be adjusting well to his new predicament.”