Wilma, an excerpt from chapter 8.

Posted: August 26, 2015 in Horror, Literature, Short Stories
Tags: , , , , ,

What Colin saw on my face when I burst through the basement door must have shocked him. Normally, I’m a composed old bastard, if not a miserable one, and it shows on my face, my frown wrinkles have frown wrinkles, but as I rushed passed him toward the downstairs kitchen I could tell the kid knew something was sour.
He spoke intelligible words as I stumbled to the sink. Warm and itchy droplets of sweat spread upon my brow like wildfire and my heart was pumping like a couple of horny rabbits mid coitus. And you know what? I liked it. The chest pain, the nervous sweats, the anxiety blended up with a hint of arousal and terror. It made me feel young, like I did before Wilma sucked the youth right out of me.
I leaned over the sink and let a steady stream of cold water douse my face, feeling the drops of sweat turn into icebergs upon my head.
What the fuck was going on in that basement, and why was everyone acting so peculiar? My mind had already found the answers to those questions but had disregarded them. I lived in the real world for fuck sake, a place where mutant plants that infect human beings didn’t exist no matter how obvious the signs were around me .
“You okay Mr. Ashman,” Colin asked from my side, his voice an affable hum piercing through the chaotic ringing in my ears. I tilted my head toward him, letting the stream of cold water trickle into my ear. That curious look was on his face again, the one that resembled a mixture fear and excitement. I didn’t like it. The boy was torn, if he’d been a little older I’m sure he would have seen nothing but money in that damn plant just as I had. Lucky for me he was still innocent, despite his misfortune, and I could see that although he was curious he was concerned.
“I’m fine kid, thought I heard a ghost,” I said, swallowing a mouth full of cool water. I turned the tap off and wiped my face with a trembling hand, “You were calling me?”
“There’s… something I think you should see,” stammered Colin, “out front.”
I followed Colin to the bay window at the front of the shop. I didn’t see it before but the kid looked frazzled, like he’d finally witnessed something in his life he couldn’t explain.
“Kid now’s not the time to be pulling any shit,” I barked delaying my eyes from glancing through the large window in front of us to discover what had put the spooks into the boy.
“Just look,” Colin hissed.
I shrugged and turned my attention to the window, forcing my peepers to witness another abnormality.
Apparently our customers hadn’t left. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the shop, in a straight line like a company of soldiers. Their backs were hunched and their arms hung limp at their sides. There was an abject horror to their unity, like a swarm of bees, or a murder of crows. Staring at their faces made me feel like I’d swallowed a hurricane and my gut was trying its damnedest to digest the fucker. The glazed over look in their eyes was still there, but it had worsened-
I once read an article about the Mauthausen Concentration Camp situated in Austria during the second world war. It was a place where Nazis exterminated the higher educated people from the areas they occupied during the war. It was an awful piece of literature, not because of its prose but because of the photographs that were posted alongside it. One of those photographs came to mind while I was staring out that window. In it stood a throng of prisoners from the Ebensee sub camp. Their bodies were frail, almost nonexistent and their eyes contained a measure of plight that only they could ever comprehend. Beneath the pain though I remember noticing how hungry they looked, like starving vultures. It pained me to see how far humanity had fallen, how evil they’d let themselves become, to see the way so many had suffered. But that hunger in their eyes, it terrified me, it was the kind of hunger that doesn’t discriminate. As I stared out the window I saw that same hunger in our customers’ eyes, and that hunger was focused on us.
“Well I’ll be fucked by a rusty flagpole,” I stammered.

Wilma, an excerpt from chapter 8. DEAN SEXTON

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