Horror Workshop Flashfics
A series of flashfics I wrote for a Horror Writing Workshop run by my publisher, Thurston Howl, a few weeks ago.
An Introduction:
She caught your attention from across the room, a petite vixen with ears bigger than her head and fur the color of desert sand at night. She wears a tight dress of red and black with what look like cobwebs made of black lace ringing her neck. But what really catches your attention are her eyes, orbs of gold that sheen with the glow of a life greater than her body would suggest. You can't quite say how you know, but something tells you that she has seen things you could never hope to see, experiences you'll never have. Yet, you could swear she couldn't be older than yourself.
You can tell that her present companion is starting to bore her, before long you should be able to insert yourself and steal her away for yourself. If only you can dare. It should be so easy, just walk right over there, offer some biting commentary on whatever drivel that other guy is offering, and you might have a chance at seeing some glimmer of the life behind those eyes. Is that an opening you see now? You walk on over.
You have her attention now, those golden eyes are sweeping across you, evaluating, gauging your worth. She seems to find you worthwhile, at least for now. It remains to be seen how much longer that state will last.
As you converse with her, the vixen's nose twitching inquisitively towards you all the while, you start to learn small details about her. She's a fennec, from the deserts to the south, and she came her to escape the war over her homeland. No, not that one, an earlier conflict, she's not too specific about which one. You're surprised she's old enough to remember a war that happened decades ago.
You're losing her, her gaze is straying towards some of the other guests across the room, and you don't even know her name yet. She's moving to leave, there's a small group dispersing over in the far corner, which of them is she going for next? You try to say something but you're distracted and your fang accidentally pierces your lip.
Her attention is caught by your cry of pain and she swings back towards you, new light in her eyes now. She dabs at the blood welling at your lip with one finger, leaving a dark spot on the pad that she examines for half a moment and then, casually, licks it off. Those golden eyes narrow into tight slits, not concern, not shock, the gaze of a predator on the hunt. You definitely have her attention now, but, as you stand there frozen like a mouse before a cat, you're not sure you want it anymore.
"Sorry," she says, her voice shifting to a gentle purr as her eyes willfully widen back into a neutral position. "I never told you my name." Her tongue unconsciously flicks out over her teeth for a second. "Call me Fayruz. Shall we go over to my place and get that fixed up?"
You know you shouldn't accept her offer, but somehow you're too scared not to.
Realization:
Mikel stared at the scientific instrument in his hand, delicate endings now bent and twisted from the crude use he had put it to. Centuries-dried blood and crumbling muscle caking the now inoperable workings. He reassured himself that it had to be done, that carcass was the only explanation, the only thing that could have killed them.
He told himself this again and again as he staggered down the hallway towards the site of the first killing. The stains on the wall where Barb had been found were still there, still visible to any attentive passers-by. They practically formed an outline of the antelope's head and shoulders in browning red. Over the past week the sight had practically burned itself into his memory, he could track its gradual erosion as it slowly dried and wore away over the hours and days.
Except, there was a new blood splatter caking the dust of the floor now. Mikel glanced quickly at the probe in his hand again to be sure it wasn't dripping, but no, the fresh stain wasn't like the mummy's dessicated remains, this one was still wet. More splatters trailed off further down the hall. Maybe Soren or Fay had cut themselves by accident and had gone for bandages or something? If that were the case they would need his help.
He started to break into a run, following the trail of blood as it shifted from fairly large splatters to small dots on the floor and finally were reduced to nothing but smeared trails. As if one were being dragged across the floor without regard for their health.
"It's dead, it's dead. This can't be happening!" But, as he raced down the halls he started to realize that had always been the case. The mummy had died centuries ago and had lain in that tomb lifeless since before his great-grandfather had been born. How could that dried out carcass have butchered people like that even if it had killed in the same way in life?
His dawning realization was confirmed as he rounded the final corner and came upon the horror in progress. Blood streamed off the surface of the table freely as a body that was animate mere minutes before was sliced up by claws that seemed almost like daggers. An arm dangling off the side of the table he recognized by its' grey fur as Soren's. The monster with its mouthful of steaming entrails was only vaguely recognizable as something anthropomorphic. Its' skin was stretched tight over writhing muscles and spindly bones, lips peeled back from long needle-like fangs, limbs gangly like long spider legs tipped with claws reminiscent of scalpels.
Mikel realized, with dawning horror and guilt, that this thing must have killed Soren while he was smashing up the corpse. Determined not to make that mistake again he raised the probe above his head to strike the monster on the back of the head but, as he brought it down the creature turned its gaze towards him and struck out with a spindly arm to grab his wrist in an iron grip. The monster contemplated him for a minute, holding him there, frozen, and as he stood there he recognized the golden eyes considering him like a slab of meat.
"Fay?" He gasped out. "Why?"
The monster twisted his arm suddenly, with enough violence to crack the bones of his forearm. She dragged him in towards her softening features as she changed back to the fennec he recognized from their months working together. "It would seem," Fay mused, her breath carrying the coppery tones of fresh blood. "That even something dead for so many years can still be contagious."
The Warehouse:
The first sign was the blood, ruddy rivulets streaming underneath the door's threshold in their drying strings of browning crust. With hesitation, you slowly pry the door open, cracking the crusts open and allowing a new layer of garnet fluids to dry. Your eyes follow the crest of blood across the floor to a recessed area with a drain at the bottom where the fluids should have flowed away. You are so focused on following the trail that you don't notice the hanging chunk of meat until your ears brush against it. With a start, you swing your head back up to see what you impacted and your muzzle slams straight into the suspended carcass. There is still enough flesh on the bones to cushion the impact for your snout, but the dead thing starts swinging back and forth on its chains. You are just barely fast enough to dodge the clammy wet meat.
Stepping back, you examine the carcass before you. The skin has been peeled away, exposing gobs of subcutaneous fat clinging to the bare muscle. Yellowish bone and tendons are visible at the joints and ribs. The limbs end in jagged stumps, whatever they ended with have long since been sawn off. The neck ends in a similar stump, without the skull you doubt you can identify the species, but those legs look too long for this body to be a feral.
Your eye strays to the next corpse on the rack. This one has most of its skin and pelt still, but not the head. You think it might be equine, or some other ungulate of some kind with the hooves you can see chained to the rack, but one of the dangling forelimbs still has one hand attached. The saw must have stopped halfway through the wrist, leaving a channel for the blood to flow out and pool on the floor while the hand remained attached.
You come to the third carcass now, this time not even her head or hands have been removed. An anthro doe, glassy eyes and open mouth suspended over the pool of gore that has collected in her matted hair. Her skin has been slit open from vulva to cleavage, allowing her intestines to dangle into the mess of her fluids on the floor.
You cannot help but imagine what it must have been like to be eviscerated so methodically. It feels like your guts are coming loose as you keel over and hurl chunks of semi-digested meat and bile up to mingle with the crusted blood covering the floor