Blue Sludge Blues & Other Abominations

by Shannon Lawrence

  Something below him moved with a swish. Norman tensed up, began to rise, but he’d already started, his previous meals pouring out of him as his bowels gurgled and clenched. Besides, nothing could actually be down there, despite his earlier thoughts. It had to be a paddle or something they’d use to process everything. It would make sense to stir it all up in that weird blue stuff they used in these things.

  He concentrated on finishing, willing it to go faster. But he’d been holding it for too long, and his insides had liquefied; he wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  The rim’s lip bit into his flesh, and he adjusted his position, grunting as he did so. The heat was overwhelming, the stench more so. Sweat rolled down his face, tickled his neck. He started to swipe at a particularly slow moving drop before he realized he was using the hand he’d slimed. Instead, he shook his head, listened as the drops spattered around him. He could feel more sliding down his back.

  Something sloshed below him again, this time louder. Then came a splash, followed by the wet thwack of something flopping into the water. It hadn’t come from him. He peered down between his legs.

  Nothing there, save shit, toilet paper, blue liquid, and his goddamned glasses. The surface rippled a bit, but quickly stopped.

  He returned to the business at hand, shifting again to reduce the discomfort of the encroaching rim. If he got a cut, the bacteria in this place would surely kill him.

  Norman coughed out a quick laugh, amused by himself. Since when had he become such a sissy about germs?

  Something brushed against his thigh. It felt wet and cold, and he jerked up with a yelp, staring down into the toilet. Still nothing there. Same view as before, only more decorated.

  He was done, anyway. Grabbing a wad of one-ply, he wiped as fast as he could. When something brushed his thigh again, he decided a few tracks in his boxers couldn’t be so bad and started to stand up, yanking at his pants with one hand as he pushed off with the other.

  He didn’t make it far. Sharp pain cut through his senses as something dug into his ass cheek. It yanked him backwards, splaying him across the open mouth of the toilet, the rim cutting through his leg this time. His left elbow slammed into the rim. He flailed, trying to get purchase, as he was pulled downward. It felt like he was being ripped open and burned at the same time.

  As he struggled, a tentacle slid over his hip and across his stomach. Dull green with a blue tint to it, it was the thickness of the handle of a wooden spoon, but it thickened near where it disappeared at his side. He was still being pulled down by whatever was embedded in his ass cheek. It moved, tearing at his flesh even as the tentacle explored his stomach.

  The tentacle moved upward, slinking over his sternum, a trail of slime left behind wherever it touched. It inched its way toward his face, suckers now visible on the bottom. As he watched, the tip opened up like a sphincter, widening in the middle. Something sharp and black slid out with a wet sound.

  A talon. Three inches long, it hovered for a moment before rising up and slamming down into his chest. Norman watched it penetrate his flesh, part it, in what seemed like slow motion. He saw the bloom of red before he felt the pain. But when it hit him, he screamed.

  The grip on his ass let go. He shot up, scrambling to get out of the toilet. The tentacle tightened against his chest, talon still embedded. Just as his foot touched the ground, it had him again. White hot agony shot through his scrotum this time, as it dug into that and his inner thigh. His grip slipped as it pulled at him again, and he plummeted back into the toilet, this time sliding farther in. He grunted as he fought to stay up, knees pushed into his chest, feet in the air.

  His chest and stomach began to burn, drawing his attention back to the tentacle. It was stationary now. He couldn’t figure out what was causing the pain, which ran the length of it. Afraid to take his grip off the rim of the toilet, he strained to the side, trying to move away from it. The talon slid out, ripped a furrow down his chest. Blood welled in its wake.

  As it slid away, he saw small red circles where it had been affixed. The suckers! They were burning him somehow.

  It once again found purchase with its talon, lower on his chest. Dug it in deeper this time. The burning began again almost immediately, and he shrieked at the combination of that pain and the sensation of something giving in his scrotum. He choked on his own vomit as it rose up his throat. His entire body tensed up, stiff as a board, as he arched away from the agony, only making it worse.

  Something wet ran along his thigh. It felt warm and soft.

  Then it began to probe into what was surely an open wound. His nerves screamed, pain shooting straight up his spine.

  How was it possible to feel more pain?

  Spurred on by the intensity of his misery, Norman knew he had to do something or it would wear him down. Tears ran down his face, or was it sweat? The heat on his chest swelled until it felt like his flesh was being seared off.

  This time, when he arched his back, he pulled one leg back, pressing it against the rim of the toilet. He shoved backward, pushing himself to the back of the toilet. His back scraped over the rim at the rear of the toilet hole, and the tentacle held tight. But whatever was below him lost its grip once again, taking skin and muscle with it.

  He succeeded in pushing himself back up out of the hole, his head knocking into the back wall. The tentacle still lay across his chest and stomach, stretched thin, only the base of the probe visible where it disappeared into his chest. Hands now freed, he grabbed it with both of them, fingers sinking into the soft, slimy flesh with a squelch, and pulled it back.

  His fingers burned as they made contact with the suckers, but he ignored it. This new pain was nothing compared to what was already happening on his chest, his scrotum.

  It made a smacking sound as it pulled away from his skin. The talon jerked out and sucked back into the tentacle, which then disappeared.

  Free for the moment, he used both feet to lever himself to the back of the toilet, crammed between the pedestal and the wall. He shoved the seat down then grabbed for the lid, slapping it over the hole. It began to lift, but he crawled on top of it.

  He knelt on all fours now, facing the door. All he had to do was get off this toilet and run. But the thing straining at the inside of the toilet seat kept him glued to the spot. What if it was faster than him? What if it grabbed him as he ran? His pants were down around his ankles still. Could he get them up? Or off?

  The tentacle slid out through the crack between the surface and the lid. Moving slowly. Seeking. It looked like an eel, the same dirty green as he’d seen on eels pulled from the lake back home.

  Slowly, he used a toe to push one shoe off. It fell with a thunk.

  The tentacle moved faster, grew frantic. No longer moving around like something blind, it flopped, strained outward, inching toward his knee. He moved to the side, trying to keep away from the tentacle.

  Switching toes, he pushed the second shoe off.

  He lifted one knee off the toilet seat. Pulled his leg forward, out of his pants.

  The lid lifted, and he slammed all his weight back onto it. There was a splash, and the tentacle disappeared.

  Now.

  He lifted his leg again, shoved his pants and boxers the rest of the way off.

  Both feet planted firmly on the toilet seat, he leapt, pushing off with everything he had.

  His feet hit the ground, sunk into the matter that littered it. He didn’t care.

  Running now, he heard the toilet lid slam back into the wall. He didn’t turn back to look, just ran.

  He crashed into the door, fiddled with the lock. Something splatted onto the ground behind him, slithered along the sticky ground. It sounded like tape being torn off a smooth surface.

  Oh God, it seemed to take forever to unlock the door. He whimpered, gasping as it came loose. He pushed the door, slamming his body against it. Something briefly wrapped around his ankle, but he was out now, and it slid off, taking flesh with it. Naked from the wai
st down, but free. He ran to his car, reached for the keys.

  “Oh shit. Oh no. Please no.”

  His keys were in his pants pocket.

  He pounded his hands on the hood of his car over and over. “Why? What am I supposed to do now?”

  Pressing his back against the car door, he studied the building, built to look like a small log cabin. The thing hadn’t followed him out. Was it afraid of the sun? The door hung open, light reaching in only about a foot. The building that housed the toilet was about 10x10. It had seemed endless as he’d tried to get away, but it seemed even worse as he thought about going back in.

  Eyes glued to the door, he began to sidle sideways toward the woods. Maybe he could find a weapon. He just needed to grab his pants and run back out.

  Just.

  He tripped over something. Looked down. There was a big branch, about three feet long. Thick and nubby, the bark was like scales along its length. He bent down to pick it up, hefted it. It was solid, heavy. Looking around, he located a big rock. These would have to do.

  Rock and branch in hand, blood running down his thigh in a warm sheet, he walked toward the restroom, something slapping against his inner thigh, sending agony through his nerves. He looked down, saw the tortured flesh that had once been a testicle, but now hung in tatters. He shut his eyes and fought off a wave of nausea. Reluctantly, he blinked his eyes open, fixed his gaze ahead, and stepped up to the doorway.

  Nothing stirred. Had it gone back into the toilet?

  Setting the branch down, he picked up a second rock and threw it in through the doorway. Still nothing moved. No response at all. He scooped the branch back up, held it in his left hand, the rock in his right.

  As he approached the door, he stared into the dark, willed his eyes to adjust. No matter what, the thing had the advantage.

  He stuck the branch inside. Moved it around.

  When nothing grabbed the branch, he stuck a foot in. Waited again.

  Nothing this time either. He stepped inside, blinked, waited for his eyes to adjust. Nothing rushed him as he stood there. No sound issued from the toilet. Once he could see, he found the space empty, the lid now down. His pants still lay behind it, crumpled against the wall, one leg stretched around the toilet lid.

  Norman stretched out the stick, tried to hook the pants. It took a few tries, but he finally got the branch under the pant leg, lifted it. The branch bent, and the pants slid back down to the floor. He tried again, only to get the same result. The branch was too weak, the pants too heavy.

  His legs trembled as he moved forward. He held the rock up, readying to throw it if anything moved. The floor sucked at his socks, pulled at them as he took each step. They were shifting down, bunching up at the toes.

  It seemed to take forever to get to the toilet. He placed the rock on top of the lid, hoped it would hold. He switched the branch to his right hand, reached out with his left. It took an eternity, but he was able to grasp the pants and pull them toward him. As he did so, something hit the bottom of the lid, causing the rock to jitter sideways, though it didn’t fall off. He jerked the pants toward him, spun around, and ran. Feet flying over the ground, one sock sucked all the way off. He left it in the clutches of the urine covered floor and raced out the door, throwing the stick away from him.

  As he ran, he felt for his keys, pulling them out of the pocket. He pressed the button to unlock the car, grasped the handle, and yanked. Once inside, he locked the door and shoved his key into the ignition. The sound of the engine turning over was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. He lay his head against the wheel and laughed, high and frantic, hysterics taking him now that he was safe.

  There were now three shoes lying inside the restroom. He didn’t know why this struck him funny, but it did. How odd he’d found that single shoe lying there, but now he knew why.

  As he sat there, his head against the wheel, something hit his car with a thunk, followed by a screech. He jerked his head up, looked out the window. On the hood sat a rock. The rock? The one he’d left on the toilet seat?

  He studied the port-a-potty, so innocent looking (if a port-a-potty could ever be considered innocent looking.) No movement showed in the darkness within.

  The sun was going down, dimness overtaking the woods that surrounded the building. Norman looked around, took in the parking lot, the little playground off to the side. He couldn’t just leave it here for the next person, could he? What if there were kids in the next car to come along?

  This time, when his head hit the steering wheel, it was in resignation. He grabbed the filthy, gore-covered pants and slid them on, ignoring the pain. Looking around, he began to search through his glove compartment and the center console. He found a lighter in the center console, left over from his smoking days. Boy, he could really use a smoke now.

  The car held his meager belongings, but he’d left all his furnishings behind. What possible weapon could he put together?

  Ignoring the pain, he stretched over the seat and began shuffling through the boxes back there. He found the cleaning supplies and drew back an aerosol can of furniture polish, setting it next to the lighter and turning back. A dirty t-shirt lay there, and he threw it aside, but then he had a thought. Perhaps he could wrap the shirt around something to make a torch.

  Yes! The branch. Perfect…if he could find it again.

  Grabbing his dress shoes from the floor of the backseat, he slipped them on. The lighter slid into his pocket, the polish into the waistband of his jeans. He threw the t-shirt over his shoulder and stepped out of the car, this time leaving his keys in the ignition. Checking to be sure the door was unlocked, he settled it against the frame, not latching it. No getting locked out or losing his keys this time.

  The branch lay to the side halfway to the building. It didn’t take long to wrap the shirt around the end of the stick, twisting it around the twigs that stuck out from it in the hopes that they’d keep it from sliding off the end. Norman sprayed some of the polish on the shirt, took a deep breath, and lit it. When it took, he slid the still warm lighter into his pocket and walked toward the port-a-potty building, squinting against the torch’s light.

  As he approached the building, there was a muted thud. He jerked to a stop, head tilted to listen. The evening had grown darker around him, the trees a dark blur beyond the flame. Another thud sounded, followed quickly by another, and another. It came from somewhere nearby, from the sound of it.

  Then there was a muted crack that seemed to echo out of the building before him, to bounce off the trees. Norman jumped, the torch whooshing through the air as he pushed it in front of him. But there was nothing there.

  When there were no further sounds, he started forward again. Just as he neared the gaping doorway, the ground beneath him heaved, and he stumbled sideways, barely keeping his feet. The ground heaved again, this time knocking him down. Cracks appeared in the raised dirt, and the furrow held for a moment before sinking down. He scrambled backward, his blood-soaked pants slapping against his legs as he shoved against the ground, holding the torch high.

  The ground in front of him heaved again, and this time a tentacle shoved up through the loose soil, sling-shotting toward Norman. He yelped as it landed just short of his foot. It stuck into the ground, pulling and stretching. He brought the heel of his foot down on top of the tentacle, where it stuck into the ground.

  A god-awful squeal sounded from within the dirt, and the tentacle jerked out of the ground, sucking back down into the furrow. Norman didn’t even have time to gasp in a breath before the ground heaved once again, something big emerging, multiple tentacles shooting out from it.

  He thrust and jabbed the torch forward, yanking the can from his pants and hitting the trigger to send a stream of furniture-dusting fluid flying toward the flame. The creature screeched as the roaring fire hit it. It landed, flaming, on top of Norman, and he felt the heat licking at him as he fought to shove it off him.

  A tentacle wrapped itself around his h
ead, and he wasn’t sure if it was the suckers or the fire that burned so much. He screamed, dropped the torch, and batted at it, alternating between hitting it and pulling on it as it used the tentacle to drag itself up his body. Another tentacle stretched across his chest and wrapped around his neck.

  They were screaming in chorus now, the creature’s a high pitched squeal. He used the can to hammer at it, feeling the flesh of his neck, chest, and scalp burn. The stench of burning hair and flesh assaulted his nostrils, and he choked, even as he continued to strike it.

  Finally, the tentacle wrapped around his head fell loose, and he shoved it off him. When it tried to skitter away from him, he stomped down on the base of a tentacle and bent to pick up the now smothered torch. Lifting it above his head, he yelled, a sound that was both primal and insane, and shoved it down through the center mass of the creature. It twitched below him, yanked at the tentacle in an attempt to pull it free, but he pulled the branch out with a squick, fluids bursting up across his face, a rancid fish smell forcing its way into his already overwhelmed nostrils, and stabbed downward again.

  He stabbed it so many times, he lost count, shrieking and yelling the entire time. It was so dark now that all he could see was a darker spot on the ground. He ripped shreds from his shirt, which lay in tatters over his shoulders, wrapped them around the charred remains of the first shirt, and lit the torch again, studying the blobs of destroyed flesh.

  “Take that, bitch!” he shrieked at it, spittle flying from his lips. He let out a hoarse cough, stuck the torch into the biggest lump remaining, and limped to his car, pulling open the door and sliding in with a pained grunt. With his blistered right hand, he started the car and put it into reverse, the headlights casting their yellow glare over the wooden building.

  The hysterical laughter from earlier threatened to wash over him again. He had to pee.

  It could wait.