Mind Hemorrhages: Dark Tales of Misery and Imagination
Page 21
His dismount reminded him of the pulled muscle in his back. He walked in a small circle to loosen his stiff limbs and to return the feeling to his rear end.
The gas pump looked ancient, not even equipped with a slot for a credit card. He removed the nozzle and lifted the handle and was relieved to see it come to life. It was eerily silent all around. Not even a bird chirped. The world now seemed to be a foreign place.
The nozzle went limp in his hand when the tank reached full. He replaced the cap and cradled the nozzle. Mark pulled out his wallet and counted eight dollars in cash, a few dollars short for his purchase. If the owner didn’t take plastic, things were going to get stickier.
He approached the old wood front door and reached for the knob. A withered old man stared back at him through the door’s glass window.
A loud blast erupted and the door exploded with a flash. Splinters and dust blinded him momentarily. Something hot sliced through his left side.
Mark stumbled back and cursed, feeling torn wet flesh on his side. He lowered his shoulder and ran at the door throwing his body into it. Another blast went off as it broke open and slammed into the old man. The revolver he held went flying out of his hand and down an aisle. The old man was on his back and Mark was on top.
Marks fingers sunk deep into the old man’s leathery neck, cutting off any hope for a breath of air. The old man’s eyes bulged and bits of tobacco and spittle flew out his mouth. Mark felt hate, intense hate, and an uncontrollable intent to destroy. He removed one hand from the man’s throat while firmly maintaining his death grip with the other. He grabbed the left eyelid of the old man and ripped it off. Blood streamed down as the old man gurgled. Mark stuck his finger into the eye and popped it like a grape. He wanted the old man to suffer, to feel prolonged pain. He wanted to dig his finger so deep he would reach brain and dig pieces out bit by bit.
The old man’s struggle weakened, and his thrashing slowed to a twitch. As the life passed out so did the violent madness that gripped Mark.
He looked at the gore on his finger, but it didn’t concern him, and neither did the red color of his skin anymore. He wiped his hands on his thighs and straightened out his clothing. The corpse on the floor was no longer of any interest.
An annoying high pitched sound filled the air. A message from the Emergency Alert System was about to play from a radio behind the cash register.
“This is an Emergency Action Notification requested by the White House. All broadcast stations will follow activation procedures in the EAS Operating Handbook for a national level emergency. The President of the United States or his representative will shortly deliver a message over the Emergency Alert System.”
The message continued to repeat itself. Mark scanned through the stations but found all had defaulted to the EAS alert. His mind started to cloud again, and his left shoulder itched severely. There were noises hiding, lurking behind his consciousness. Shadows, whispers, and voices he could sense but not understand.
After a couple of minutes his confusion lifted and gave way to the urge to flee. First, he needed a few supplies. He went to the cooler and pulled out a can of soda, opened it, and took a deep swig before coming up for air. The cool drink felt good to his throat, but by the time it reached his stomach, it felt like a lead weight. He let out an odorous burp, and though still thirsty, tossed the can to the floor. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank it down. This time there was no discomfort.
Mark grabbed two packs of lunch meat, some chips, more water, and put them in a bag. The revolver lay on the floor right where he was about to step. He picked it up and shoved it between his belt and pants. Now that he had a weapon, he needed to make sure he had enough ammo. Going back behind the counter, he located a half full box of bullets and put them in his pocket. He didn’t take any money from the register, and he didn’t give the dead man on the floor a second thought as he stepped over him to leave.
The road was his only companion for the next few hours, riding farther and farther away from civilization. He tried not to dwell on the day’s events. It did nothing but bring uncertainty and agitation. He instead focused on the hum of the motor, blanking out all but the freedom of the open road.
After several more hours’ weariness had finally set in. He fast approached an old farmhouse a good distance off the road. It seemed like his best chance for rest.
He took the dirt driveway dented with potholes down the quarter mile trek to the small rustic old house. Sections of fencing were missing, suggesting that in its best day livestock once needed to be contained. Mark rode slowly to within a few feet of the front porch, his eyes roamed for signs of life. With none in sight, he parked his cycle and headed for the house.
Each footstep echoed hollow on the porch announcing his arrival. A lone wooden rocker set next to an ancient ashtray on a metal pedestal. The ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts, and the dark gray stains of ashes peppered the boards underneath. Mark banged loudly against the screened door. This time he positioned his body to the side to avoid being shot at again. The screened door wasn’t latched and bounced inward off the main door back and forth with each knock. He yelled, “Hello!” trying to make himself as obvious as he could, but got no response.
He made a quick tour around the outside of the house, and after peering through a back window, believed the house to be empty. The workshop in the back held an old tractor, some gas powered tools, and several garden implements. The water well was behind the workshop next to a small vegetable garden that was at season’s end. The garden’s contents had rotted. The small, odd looking building standing alone was the outhouse.
Mark walked back to the house with a two-foot axe that he’d found in the workshop. He retrieved his supplies from the cycle and used the axe to pry open the main door, preserving as much of the door casing as possible.
The door opened to a small living room/kitchen combination. There was one couch and an old wooden table with some opened mail and recent copies of Popular Mechanics and a few other magazines. A weathered bookshelf housed many tattered Old Western paperbacks from the likes of Louis Lamour. The kitchen had no refrigerator, and he realized the house had no electricity either. A Coleman stove was there for cooking and a wood stove for heat in winter. Shelves of canned soup and vegetables looked like the main dietary staples of choice for the home’s occupant. The only other room contained a single bed, which lay unmade, revealing dingy, white sheets.
Mark began to question if he were as removed from civilization as he thought. The owner had to visit a local town for mail and supplies. Still, the house was off the main grid. He wondered what or who the man was hiding from.
Mark’s shoulder started the same unusual itch again. He was bothered more by the itch than the flesh wound on his side, and then realized that his shoulder itched in the same location as his medical implant.
Mark had an experimental anti-depressant pellet implanted by a V.A. doctor to help control his gambling urges. It had been in place for a few months and actually seemed to help curb his compulsions. But his body fought against the implant and the drugs fought the specter in his head.
He felt hot and wondered if he had fever. Right then, fatigue certainly was his master. Mark took his bag of supplies and sat on the dusty old couch, opened some water, and drank it down. He was hungry but not in the usual way. He opened a pack of pressed ham and pulled out half its contents and took a bite. The taste was pleasing, but the salt in the processed meat made him even thirstier. As he chewed, the meat seemed to expand in his mouth. His throat started to close and prevented him from swallowing. He grimaced a bit and eventually thought he might gag. He spit the meat out on a magazine and washed his mouth out with water. He tried to eat a few chips, but his body rejected that too.
Mark finished his water and pulled his shoes off. There was no more fight left in him. He hoped he would wake before the owner came back, but he knew he had to rest. He lied on the couch and got comfortable. His eyes closed and fell
asleep.
***
When Mark awoke, it took a few minutes to sort out his situation. The red rain and the events that followed seem like a surreal dream. He pulled himself up and stretched. His mouth felt dry as cotton.
His watch informed it was nearly noon. To his surprise, his watch calendar was three days later than when he went to sleep. Mark rubbed his eyes and looked at the functions on the watch, everything seemed in order. He supposed the date could have been reset during his escape from the city, but his body told him that he had been asleep a very long time.
With no clue of what had transpired over the last few days, he turned on an old battery radio he had found when he arrived and searched for a station.
“The following is an Emergency Alert System bulletin. This is not a test. The head of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s Federal Emergency Management Agency under the authorization of the President of the United States has issued a shelter in place warning for all U.S. citizens. The red rains that fell on May 19th carried an alien parasite, and the infected victims are visually identified by the red color of their skin. The parasites were short lived without a human host. Birds, fish, and all other animals have not been infected by the parasites, and water exposed to the rain has no contamination issues and is safe to drink. Avoid contact with any infected human. Reports of violence from the infected have been issued from all areas of the country. Additionally, a new disease with Swine flu like symptoms has been reported in rain affected and unaffected areas. Cover your nose and mouth with a tissue when you cough or sneeze. Throw the tissue in the trash after—”
Mark turned off the radio. He’d learned everything he needed to know, and it all made perfect sense after what he’d experienced. The alien parasites were intelligent. They were taking over his body and his mind. The chemical in the medical implant was somehow interfering and allowing him to retain his human will. So now it was not a matter of if but when the parasites would totally take control.
Mark opened a bottle of water and contemplated his next move. The farmhouse was a safe place to stay. It didn’t look like whoever owned the house would be coming back. But deep inside he knew he had to move on.
They were calling to him. He briefly thought of putting the revolver to his head while he still had some control. But that thought disappeared as the alien consciousness grew a bit larger within.
A trip to the workshop found enough gas to fuel up the cycle. With an uncertain destiny, Mark left with the pull of the colony as his guide.
The wind and the road told strange tales as the twin cylinders hummed between his legs. Mark’s shoulder continued to itch and was swollen. A hunger inside him grew. The ride was dehydrating and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.
An old doublewide trailer covered by a framed metal roof appeared in the distance. Something inside drew him there. The choice was not his own. Mark slowed and pulled off the road with a plan to take the rest of the journey on foot. He killed the engine and rolled to a stop, then hid the cycle behind a big elm tree. Mark felt it best to approach through the woods, and enter the property from the rear.
He neared the barn and the first sign of life he’d seen in days greeted him. Two cows lazily chewed away at a pile of hay. Mark slowly made his way toward the main door with the revolver in hand.
A lone man reloaded ammunition using a single stage press inside the barn. A Ruger mini-14 rested on its stock against the wall a few feet away.
Mark inched forward with the gun cocked and pointed at the man. “Don’t move,” he said dryly.
The man jerked his head in Mark’s direction—his eyes went wide—then lunged for his rifle.
Mark squeezed off two shots and hit the man directly in the head.
Confusion drifted over him again. What was he doing here? He needed water, and food, but he didn’t know what he could eat.
A loud bang came from an aluminum door at the far end of the trailer. A frantic woman burst out, screaming, “Jessie! Jessie!”
Mark took one step out the door, raised his revolver, and fired two shots into her chest. He couldn’t risk giving her a chance to use the shotgun she was carrying.
Mark loaded the revolver with the shells in his pocket as he dashed to the trailer. He was in full war mode now. The alien influence inside turned any fear he might have felt to rage. He would leave no one alive. Mark placed the revolver in the close quarter battle position, turned, and charged into the open trailer door.
He found himself in the kitchen and quickly searched each room. He checked behind doors and underneath the bed, behind a shower curtain and inside closets. He found nothing of any danger, but he also found he was not alone in the trailer.
A child lied in a worn baby bed that looked generations old. She was no more than a few months old, dressed in pink pajamas. She sobbed softly and mouthed her left thumb.
His heart melted. His rage inside turned to tears of guilt and shame. He lifted the tiny infant with the utmost care and placed her heart next to his. Mark’s gaze focused on a mirror in the room as he gently rocked her from side to side.
His hair was a tattered mess and the red face starring back looked like Satan himself.
What had he become? What was he becoming?
He rubbed the back of her head and felt the silkiness of her hair. The sweet smell of powder reminded him of his own child, of how the first time he held his firstborn, that feeling of responsibility that had swelled inside him.
His wife had given him a son. There would be nothing on Earth that could ever come between him and his love for his child. No matter how bad things became, he had vowed to always make sure his child would have food, clothing, and love. Love like Mark wished his parents had shown him. He was willing to give his tiny baby anything and everything the world had to offer to make him happy.
The child he now held represented what his son meant to him. It represented all of what the millions of years of evolution had accomplished in man. Mark held her tightly and pushed his lips softly against her cheek. Large tears streamed down his face.
Mankind was the Universe’s greatest creation, and somehow Mark realized that he may be the key used to save it. The implant gave him an edge in humanity’s favor. He still had some control of his mind, and he could integrate into the colony and perhaps find a way to destroy it.
Even if he couldn’t kill them all, as the last hope of mankind, he at least could sabotage their efforts. He could use his military background and make improvised explosives, killing as many as he could. He could take them out one by one. Whatever it took. Mankind needed a savior, and God or fate or whatever, chose him.
A swell of frenzied euphoria washed down from his head to his feet. A power unknown charged every fiber of his being. His mind became one with a powerful force, and a sweet release deflated his cosmic connection back to reality.
Mark became aware of his surroundings again. His shoulder bled at the implant.
He looked down and saw his hands were covered in blood, as were his mouth and clothing.
The pink pajamas now bloody, lay torn on the floor. Not much was left to the tiny body. The flesh had been juicy. Mark had been very hungry.
The alien consciousness had finally won. Mark was at peace within himself. He wiped his hands on a blanket and walked to the kitchen. He opened a few drawers until he found a small knife. With a slight jab and a short twist the hunk of skin housing the implant fell to the floor. The cut bled, but the wound wasn’t deep. The blood coagulated quickly.
The oneness of the colony called him. A pod was not far away. Mark left the trailer and headed back to the cycle. The woman he had shot lay on her back with flies dancing in the gaping holes in her chest. The thought of dead flesh brought revulsion. It had all the appeal of excrement. His mind turned to the living flesh that so refreshed him moments ago. The fruit of the child was life giving. Mark straddled the cycle and cranked the engine knowing his function in life was now dictated.
***
Abandoned cars and trucks littered the highway making it impassable. He maneuvered his cycle as well as he could and eventually turned at a road sign that had ‘Malcolm County Prison’ printed in bold white letters. The prison was a mile down the road next to a small defunct airfield, both a product of the 1950’s.
The prison had long ago reached capacity and several expansions were evident.
Mark’s first contact with his brethren was without fanfare. The guards stood idly by as he drove through the main gate. The red faces looking back showed expressions of recognition, of sharing, of belonging. Mark parked the cycle and killed the engine. Exhaustion pulled at his will to stay awake. His brothers and sisters were busy as ants moving about at tasks instinctually set for them. He made sure to stay out of their way.
He entered the north cell wing and walked onto the main floor. It also served as the dining area. The floors were made of dark spotted terrazzo and hadn’t been cleaned in a while. Above were two stories of cells that circled around the main floor. Some of the cells were empty but those that weren’t housed humans. Perpetual fear gripped their expressions as they looked down onto the floor.
An internal clock struck and a number of the red stained hybrids flooded into the wing next to Mark. Others made their way up to the cells. Ungodly screams of terror reverberated against the concrete walls. Eight humans were extracted and forced to the dining area below.
The prisoners were strapped to blood stained tables and stripped of their clothing. Mark watched without care and concern as his ravenous brethren bit, chewed, gnawed, and gnashed at the bodies. The symphony of screams eventually turned to gurgles. The gurgles gave way to silence. Mark made sure to feed as well, sometimes having to shove others out of his way to get at mouthful of bloody meat.