Bleed On Me

by McKenzie, Shane

  Chris couldn’t think of anything else to do but shake his head.

  Fresh tears spilled from the man’s eyes, and his gun hand lowered and dangled at his side. His other hand covered his face as he wept, and Chris nearly made a dash for the door, but thought better of it. He stayed in place, and even though the man wasn’t looking at him, he continued to shake his head.

  “No. No, I didn’t say I thought you did this. But whoever did…what if they come back for you? Huh? Don’t you think you should get outta here before that happens?” Chris nodded toward the front door.

  “Won’t do me no good. Can’t escape him. He’ll find me no matter where I go.” He wiped the tears away, pointed toward the death piled behind Chris. “This shit is proof. The rumors were all true, man. That mothafucka is-”

  The noise made both men flinch at the same time. It came from behind Chris, and he quickly ran to the gun-wielding man’s side and faced it.

  “The fuck?” the man said as he took a slow, tentative step toward the piles of gore that had apparently been his friends.

  Chris grabbed the man’s arm as he peered into the bloody remains, but the man yanked it away. The noise sounded like something between a mutter and a dog toy’s squeak. Chris thought he remembered seeing something on TV about dead bodies releasing their bowels after death, and as he stared into the piled bodies, it was the only thing that made any sense. It was just a corpse fart, that’s all. Nothing to be-

  The noise came again, and this time it was accompanied by movement. It was so quick, so subtle, Chris wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it. My eye muscle just spasmed, that’s all, he thought.

  “You see it move?” the man said.

  Shit.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  They walked toward the bodies together now, Chris staying behind the man, fighting off the urge to hold onto his shirt tail. Blood squished under his shoes as he stepped from the kitchen linoleum onto the carpet.

  The man leaned forward, gun shaking out in front of him. “G-george? You…you all right, dawg?”

  If George was the guy that Chris was looking at, this man’s question was absurd to say the least. George’s stomach and chest had been torn open, the flaps of skin hanging to the sides like an unbuttoned shirt. The man’s ribcage and internal organs glistened, and his eyes stared at the ceiling, unblinking, twin red tear trails running from their corners.

  “Geoge, nigga, say somethin’.”

  “I…uh…I don’t think George is with us-”

  The twitch of movement repeated, and up close, Chris saw that it was George’s organs themselves that had moved. Just a flutter, as if a hamster had burrowed its way in there and was now climbing its way out.

  Chris and the man both stopped in their tracks, and this time, Chris couldn’t stop himself from clinging to the man’s shirt. But the guy didn’t seem to notice or no longer cared, and he raised his gun and pointed it toward dead George.

  George’s intestines exploded into the air like octopus tentacles shot from a cannon. They whipped about, slamming into the walls, knocking over shelves and breaking glass.

  “Son of a bitch!” Chris made a dash for the door, but a rope of intestine swatted it shut, leaving a red, dripping streak across it. He ran into the kitchen where he hid behind the counter, stared out as the intestines continued to flail around the room.

  The man just stood there, his gun pointed out in front of him, but not firing any bullets. The gun shook as if he had Parkinson’s.

  Chris searched the kitchen, eyes darting madly in all directions. They landed on the knife block, and he jumped up, grabbed the biggest one, clutched it with both hands and faced the room again. His bandaged palms ached as he squeezed the hilt, and he looked down to see fresh blood staining the gauze. His eyes jumped back up to the living room just as one of the slimy ropes wrapped itself around the man’s waist, constricted, and started pulling him across the room, toward the stomach cavity it came from.

  “Fuck! No…no. No!” The man fired his gun, but the bullets went wild. The sound echoed in the small apartment, made Chris’s ears hum for a moment. “Help me!”

  Chris only clutched his knife harder as he watched the guy being dragged backward, his fingers clawing at the ground, carpet blood splashing in his face. That bastard had a gun to my head not five minutes ago, and now he wants my help?

  “Please help me!” As the intestine pulled, George’s body sat up. The corpse’s head still lolled from its shoulders, but the eyes were open, glowing red, and the mouth had a smile plastered on it. The ragged edges of flesh where its torso had been ripped apart appeared to have teeth, and a milky paste dripped from ivory daggers as the man was pulled closer.

  Chris ran out from his hiding spot behind the counter, screamed as he went, and swiped the knife at the stretched-out purple tube. The blade bit into it, but didn’t sever it, and a squeal emanated from George’s stomach cavity; the smile on George’s actual face never wavered. Another swipe of the knife freed the man, and Chris quickly helped him to his feet as they scurried back into the kitchen.

  “Oh, lord Jesus. Oh, God.” The man whimpered, kept repeating the same thing over and over. “Oh, lord Jesus!”

  The intestines had gone back to whipping around the room, the severed rope spewing a black fluid over the walls to mix with the blood that was already there. A small snickering seeped from George’s lips as his torso jaws continued to growl and drip the glue-like liquid. Four of the intestinal ropes went rigid, daggered into the floor and lifted George into the air like spider legs.

  “Oh, lord Jesus!”

  Chris stepped forward, ripped the pistol from the man’s hand, and pointed it.

  The side of George’s face was pressed against the ceiling, his neck still limp, the red eyes glowing toward Chris. As the intestine legs took their first step, Chris pulled the trigger three times.

  The bullets slammed into George’s body, throwing him into the wall and breaking the framed Scarface poster hanging there. Black blood sprayed the wall, soaked into the carpet in spatters.

  “Did you get him? Is…is he dead?”

  Adrenaline rushed through Chris’s system as he stared at the black blood oozing down the wall, his finger still twitching on the trigger. He turned to face the man, who had both hands covering his face.

  “I…uh…I think so.”

  “What the fuck is goin’ on, man?”

  “You asking me? I’m the one that stumbled in here, remember? Who are you? Who is this he you keep talking about?” Chris realized he was pointing the gun at the guy, and he set it on the counter.

  The man uncurled himself from his crouch, brushed off his shirt, and tried to put that tough guy face back on. “Name’s Spade, nigga.” He swiped his pistol from the counter, flicked his thumb over his nose. “I run the muthafuckin’ dope game around here, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Chris scratched his head. “No. I don’t. All I know is that I walked into your apartment, found seven people dead, then one of them gets up. Did you see his eyes? The son of a bitch was walking on his fucking guts, man! What the fuck is this?”

  Spade sighed, the scared look taking over his face again. His eyes swung back toward the blood-soaked living room. “I don’t know. I ran to the store to get some Phillies, got back only a few minutes before you walked in. Found all my homeboys and them two bitches dead, like they fuckin’ tore each other apart. It was this…” Spade stopped mid-sentence and just stared at the black blood on the wall.

  Chris rolled his eyes. “It was what? Regardless of what happened, I saw a corpse’s intestines try and drag you into its chest mouth. Did you hear what I just said? Nobody should ever have to say that!”

  Spade scratched the top of his head with the pistol’s barrel, opened his mouth to speak, then winced and shook his head.

  “Spit it the fuck out, man! When I walked in, you put a gun to my head. You asked me if he sent me. Who were you talking about?”

  “The
master.”

  Chris and Spade’s eyes widened, and they both stared at each other for a moment before turning their heads back toward the living room from where the voice had come. A woman stood on her hands and feet, her stomach aimed at the ceiling, her back arched, head and hair hanging down backward. Her red eyes blinked and a razor-edged mouth grinned.

  “The master has risen. And soon, he shall open up your world and allow our world to pour forth. He sees you, Spade.” With a giggle, she stretched her neck backward toward the floor, widening the deep gash along her throat. The tattered skin stretched, tore wider, black blood rushing over the woman’s face, soaking her hair, but doing nothing to lessen the brightness of her eyes.

  Something moved from within the throat wound, and Chris couldn’t tell what he was seeing at first. Then the wound closed, opened again, repeated a few more times. It wasn’t until the pupil rolled into view that Chris realized the gash was blinking.

  The woman cackled, spider-walked backwards at them as the black pupil glared at them from her throat, lined with a blood-red iris.

  “Oh, Jesus!” The noise that seeped from Spade was like air escaping a tight balloon nipple.

  Chris shrieked, went straight for the front door again, but the rapid tapping sound coming at him from his left stopped him in his tracks. The other woman, nude but for the lizard-green thong, crawled on her back in a wavy pattern, her eyes throwing bleeding light over the door. The tapping came from the countless spindly legs that had sprouted from her spine, and she crawled at Chris like a hellish millipede, blocking his path. Black antennae sprung from the tips of her nipples and flailed as if tasting the death in the air.

  “Fuck me!” Chris backed away from her, bumped into something and screamed. He turned to find Spade, who was just finishing up a scream of his own. Their arms pressed hard against each other as they backed up into the kitchen and glared at the living room.

  Each of the dead bodies was waking now, each with their own nightmarish features. One man whose face looked shredded, the cheek meat scooped away, grabbed his mouth with both hands by the teeth and pulled in opposite directions until there was a sickening tearing sound and a pop. His head opened up like a set bear trap, most of his skull dangling upside down by the spine root. The tongue thrashed, then pulled tight, tearing itself away from the base and lifting high into the air. Something pushed at the flesh on either side of his neck, stretching and bulging the skin until it ripped open and two matching pincers emerged. The tip of the thrashing tongue split and what resembled a scorpion’s stinger curled itself out, dripping black venom.

  Chris realized through all of this that he’d only been watching, unable to stop himself from gawking. What he was witnessing was not possible, and the only thing he could think of was that he’d died at some point of the day, had been sent down to hell with no recollection of his own demise.

  The rest of the formerly dead people sprouted extra appendages, teeth, claws, eyes. Dead flesh opened up and new flesh was born. Each one of them had those red eyes, and they were all directed at Chris and Spade.

  George was the last to rise, his intestines flailing back to life, lifting him into the air to tower over the others. His limp head hung, but his smile stretched wide. “The master sees you, Spade. And he’s coming. We’re all coming.”

  The front door was blocked by the millipede girl, along with another man who had sprouted two extra arms, long and wiry, coated with black tarantula hair. Mouths covered his head, each snapping and hissing.

  “Now what?” Chris said.

  Spade aimed his gun, swept it across the room as he fired wildly. Most bullets hit flesh, but did nothing. Bullet holes bled ink, but the creatures didn’t even flinch, only closed in on the two men, cackling and snarling. Red eyelight flooded the room.

  “Fuck! I…I don’t know, man. I don’t know!”

  Chris grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pulled as he watched the demons come for him. They don’t even want me. They’re after Spade! I only wanted him to shut off his fucking music!

  A door stood partially open on the other side of the room, and Chris grabbed Spade by the arm and pulled him, winced from the biting pain in his hands.

  “What the fuck you doin’, man?”

  “Come on. Move!”

  Chris hopped over the woman with the throat eye, the pupil of the eye following him all the while. Scorpion Head reached for him, but Chris ducked and screamed, nearly stumbled headfirst into the wall. He still clutched Spade’s wrist in his hand, and his momentum flung the man right into Scorpion Head’s clutches.

  “Ahhhh!”

  Chris grabbed Spade by the waist and yanked him back, but not before the stinger shot forward and caught Spade in the shoulder. Blood exploded from the wound and the black poison washed over it. The shriek that belted from Spade’s mouth bounced off the walls, and Chris pulled harder, got him away from the venomous demon. The bandages on his hands were now soaking with blood.

  The others had their eyes on the two men, but never quickened their pace, just kept that same slow, confident stride as they began moving toward them. Above his rapid breathing and Spade’s pained moans, there was the constant giggling and hissing, accompanied by the splat of their feet pressing into the blood-soaked carpet. The essence of blood and brimstone hung in the air, filled Chris’s nostrils and coated the inside of his mouth.

  He thought about those shows he’d seen on TV, the hidden camera ones, where they put somebody in an impossible scenario, surround them with horror, and right when their minds are about to shatter, the monsters or killers or aliens smile, point to the cameras, and then everyone has a big laugh. Is that it? Was this all a setup? He shook his head as he stared at the creatures walking and slithering and scuttling toward him. If this is a TV show, their effects guy needs a raise. And Chris wasn’t going to stand around and find out.

  He pulled Spade along, swung the door open, entered the bedroom, and slammed the door shut.

  ***

  Todd heard the music exploding from an apartment somewhere in the rundown complex, and he sat inside of the BMW peering from the window. “Fucking heathens out there, Pete. Make me sick, they really do.”

  They sat in the parking lot, Paul’s eyes staring at Todd through the rearview again. “Want me to come with you, sir?”

  Todd snorted another pinkie nail full of coke, evened it up on the other side. He leaned his head back, shut his eyes, and let the drug take hold. As he exhaled, he locked eyes with Paul. “Well, if you don’t mind, Pete. I have no doubt you’d love for me to go out there alone, get mugged, beaten, or killed as you sit comfortably in my fucking luxury car and watch. That it, Pete?”

  “My name’s Paul.” It was little more than a mumble, but Todd made it out.

  “What was that, Pete?”

  “I said I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, sir. I’d be glad to escort you.” Paul cleared his throat, shifted in his seat.

  “Really? Because the first thing you said didn’t seem nearly that long.” Todd snorted, let the bitter taste of the cocaine drip coat his mouth. Adrenaline coursing through his body, he laughed, waved his hand in the air. “I’m just fucking with you. Come on, let’s get this shit over with.”

  Todd stayed in his seat, waiting for Paul to come around the car and open the door for him. The driver was clearly upset, his eyebrows slanted, his mouth straight. Todd rolled his eyes, patted the guy on the back. “Here, why don’t you loosen up a little.” He pulled out his vial and tapped a hit into his nail, held it up to the driver. “Go ahead.”

  Paul hesitated, licked his teeth. Then leaned in and snorted it up, continued to sniff as he wiped at his nose.

  “Good shit, huh, Pete?”

  “Fuck yeah…I mean, yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now let’s get a move on so we can get the fuck out of here.”

  They walked up the staircase toward Chris’s apartment, and Todd realized it was the apartment below that that was blasting the rap music
. The thundering bass shook the stairs, and Todd snickered and shook his head. He stared at the door as he ascended, then stopped midstride.

  What the fuck was that?

  He could have sworn he saw something whipping out from under the door, like some giant spider’s legs reaching out into the hallway. But as he stared harder, he didn’t see anything, and he ran his hand over his face, swallowed another mouthful of drip, and chuckled.

  Paul stood outside of Chris’s apartment, and the noise coming from inside was just as loud as the music below. There was talking, some studio-audience laughter, and it was obvious to Todd that Chris was watching TV, the volume cranked up to drown out the thumping bass.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Chris, open the fucking door. My head’s about to split open from all the fucking noise around here.”

  A short pause with no answer. Todd imagined his stepson peering at him from the other side through the peephole, flipping the bird and sticking out his tongue. No matter how old the fucker got, Todd would always see him as an overgrown child.

  Pound, pound, pound.

  “You got about another second to open this fucking door before I leave and you don’t get any of your precious allowance. You hear me!” Nothing. Todd massaged his temples, thought about Tanya’s decrepit body, devoid of all hair, lying like a husk of dried-up flesh in her bed, medical equipment strapped to her, beeping, dripping, buzzing. A sickening shiver raped its way up his spine, and her last wishes whispered into his ear.

  Goddamnit.

  Though Chris would never believe him, Todd missed Tanya every second of every day. Sure, the money was nice, but if he could have saved her somehow, he would have. It’s something he thought about constantly, living in her home, drinking and smoking and snorting to numb it all. He sighed, took a long breath. “Paul, will you try the door?”

  The driver started, turned toward him. “You said my… Yes, yes, sir.”

  The man reached out, and the knob turned in his hand. He shoved the door in, and the sound of Jerry Seinfeld’s squeaky voice exploded out like a trapped beast being set free.