Fear the Abyss: 22 Terrifying Tales of Cosmic Horror (2 page)

"Come on, Jeff. We both just need to relax."

I feel like I'm pleading, but my voice is even. It's always like this when I'm in control again. Nothing really compares to the feeling of being inhabited by someone else's ghost, so I'm all relief when I re-establish myself.

"I didn't mean it," I try to tell him.

But Jeff's got his hands locked around my throat. Even with a reinforced neck, he's crushing my windpipe.

Yes, I have a windpipe. Don't you?

"Bastard!" he shouts.

I'm proud of him for getting that word out. He's really pissed. His wires need tightening.

My heightened anxiety brings her up again, and even though I try to push her back down into my waste compartment, gravity's not what it seems and she just keeps floating up through my throat through the grips of Jeff's strong, bony hands. Tight spaces never bothered her.

"Jeff," she begs. I don't know how she can get her voice through, but she does.

Jeff screams and squeezes even harder. The sound of her voice infuriates him.

The pain is a dusty, purplish black wind and the world is fading. The lights flicker. A single ray reflects into my left eye from the makeshift operating table. I'm drifting. But she's in my head now, in my lips and in my tongue, so another vision hits me like a rocket.

Captain Dirks was three kilometers away two hours ago. He should be here soon, but it's been slow going. There are too many hills. His legs are getting tired. I wish I knew if he'd get here in time to save me, but she only sees the past. I don't understand why fortune teller models are programmed that way, but maybe it's to prevent war. That would make sense, I guess.

Then, she's gone and I'm back in the real world, thinking at least I got a moment away from the pain.

When Jeff drags me to my feet and slams me onto the operating table, I'm just north of consciousness. When he pushes my face against the cold steel and tightens the crude leather restraints on my legs, I'm somewhere south of it. She sees everything in the past, though, and she jumps forward now that I'm too weak to resist.

I can see everything, but there's a two or three second lag between transmissions even in this special circumstance, so I'm reacting to everything too late. Jeff ties my left hand down and I'm resisting it two seconds later. He jabs the scalpel into my stomach, and even though I feel the pain in real time, I don't see it until she shows it to me. She's no help.

I think she's doing it on purpose. Punishing me for being such a great lay that I could fuck a woman like her to death. Literally blow her mind. Wouldn't you want revenge for that?

Are all ghosts so mean-spirited?

Jeff opens me up without anesthesia, without an IV, without pain medication of any kind. That must be a good thing, because the pain is so blinding that I'm wreathed in darkness for a while. He keeps working though, probably muttering something like, "Fuckmother kill. That I'll him." He's off the deep end. Someone cut his cord.

Meanwhile, he's trying to cut mine. I think he's forgotten all about Captain Dirks and the rescue mission. Guys like us aren't supposed to be so unstable, that's why they left us here instead of a couple of real army Joes. It had almost nothing to do with oxygen and food and water, and everything to do with our propensity to ignore the deeper questions of life and death. We still feel pain, though.

Right now, I'm probably feeling more of it than you'd ever feel in ten lifetimes. The curse is that we feel it but sometimes it's so much that our systems are overloaded and we can't react. Can you believe that? Some people work their entire lives to be like that. Not numb, but calm in the face of a knife severing tendons, wires, motors, processors, hearts, and identities.

Jeff's cutting my cord, but not gently. He wants to shut me off but a lobotomy isn't enough.

"Jeff, please," I say, but I'm buried beneath that other consciousness now. He's re-routed my mental processes and I'm wallowing in the pit of my stomach even as it's naked to the world.

But she's come forward, she's stronger than ever, so I know Dirks was at the door to our sanctuary seventeen seconds ago.

What the hell is taking him so long?

And what is Jeff doing with the broom and the archaeological paint brush over by the old mining equipment?

Five seconds ago, he was bending over me with a crazed grin. Three seconds ago, he kissed my dead, open mouth with too much tongue.

And before I know what's happening, she's kissing him back with my hand behind his head.

"My God, Jeff," she says. She's (I'm) starting to cry. "God I've missed you so much."

"Mutual affection," Jeff says.

He helps her to her feet.

And I'm somewhere buried inside all of this.

At least I know that Dirks started opening the door three seconds ago. He's gasping in a purplish black wind, but he's never looked so relieved in his life. Salvation is right around the corner for us.

But something's wrong.

For just a moment as he falls into the makeshift surgical room, I see things through his eyes.

Jeff's sparking all over the place. He's grinning and seizuring as his system starts to fry, but he's still holding her hand and she's got her arm around his waist in the flickering lights.

The blond bristles from the broom cover my head. Jeff's painted my lips red with the blood from the procedure, only his hands were so spastic that it's splattered all over my face. I look like an animal after feeding, or like I just made out with someone's jugular. He's cut off the legs of my paints so that it looks like I'm wearing a short skirt. My stomach is still open, and I'm somewhere down there.

But she's somewhere up in the real world.

Dirks is on the verge of death. He can't believe what he's seeing.

And the new-old couple limps toward him with outstretched arms. She bends over the Captain in my dead body and plants a kiss on his lips.

"Welcome home, Captain," she says.

"Homeward death," Jeff says.

I don't know what the fuck that means, but I'm in it for the long haul.

EXTRACTION

Jessica McHugh

Jessica McHugh is an author of speculative fiction that spans the genre from horror and alternate history to epic fantasy. A prolific writer, she has devoted herself to novels, short stories, poetry, and playwriting. She has had twelve books published in four years, including the bestselling
Rabbits in the Garden
,
The Sky: The World
and the gritty coming-of-age thriller,
PINS
. More info on Jessica's speculations and publications can be found at JessicaMcHughBooks.com.

I can't stop jerking off at work
.
Even when I don't see Dana Cully. Even when she wears her frumpy out-of-season sweaters that make her breasts look like lumpy potatoes beneath a faded Rudolph face. Even when her glasses are smeared with nose grease and her head appears topped with phallic knots of half-digested hair. Even then, my hand flies to my zipper, tears the dog out of its house, and beats it for howling at such an unappealing piece of flesh. It's not all her fault. I also blame the Zelko, the DeKuyper, and the Listerine. Oh, and myself too. I'm not so deluded as to negate my blame in this. It's my dog that howls, my hand that beats, my stomach that gurgles and erupts in the seconds before I ejaculate, staining another "Potty Poster" with Crème de menthe and Cream de Marvin. As I wipe away the excess, I read the poster and make a mental note: Turn off your monitor before leaving for the night. Do your part to save power, save money, and save the world.  Also, there's some cum on your shoe.

A few months ago, I was only slightly queasy before I came. Now, chunks of revulsion and blades of blinding pain precede my spurts.  A fiery accordion in my gut squeezes and spreads my organs like they're fine to push every which way. Who cares if my intestines get tangled in my ribcage? Why not interchange lung and liver? On second thought, I don't think I want my liver in charge of important shit. Not even literal shit. Its job is to process alcohol, and it already has enough on its plate.

When I emerge from the men's room, wiping away a string of bile clinging to my chin, Dana is there, wrinkling her bulbous nose. I try to rush past her, but her perfume nets me, slowly reeling me back to her.

"Are you making the buffer this afternoon?" she asks. Her voice sounds coated in clotted milk. It makes me clear my own throat several times in hopes she'll copy me, but she never does.

"That's what Regina said," I reply. "I should probably get that staged."

She smiles, giving me a glimpse of Brown Lightning, her prized molar. The tooth is not dead; rather, it's afflicted with a brown vein that cuts it in two. I can't stand to look at it, but no other part of her is any better.

"If you need help…"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, pulling myself out of her aromatic haze.

My stomach aches so badly, buds of tears burn my eyes, but I don't let them fall. I've never been much of a crier, never saw the point. Besides, what can crying do that a box of wine can't?

I didn't always have that attitude. At least, I don't think so. It's so hard to remember anything before a month ago, before my life became strangled by liquor and inexplicable lust. I think I used to be a good man. I think I used to have a purpose. Trying to remember hurts my brain, though not as badly as the pain currently boiling my stomach. The distended lump there cries out for attention, but the only attention I care to give my belly lives in the bottle hidden under the desk in my office.

"Desk" is actually a misnomer. "Office," too. The truth is I sit in a lab, separated from all of the other employees. I don't mind since it gives me plenty of freedom to drink, but I'm not exactly in Siberia. Dana can find me quite easily, and my boss Regina Bauer always calls to check in and issue my assignments for the day. My assignments are usually the easiest production a manufacturing technician can get, I assume because Regina can tell how hard it is for me to function these days. She's never brought up my drinking, but I can't believe she's oblivious. She's a smart lady, and except for her wrinkles and unfortunate chicken pox scars, quite beautiful. So how come my dick doesn't give the zipper a hard hello when Regina is around? Why Dana? Why does disgust turn to lust at the mere whiff of her perfume?

So maybe I don't take my work seriously. So maybe I'm a full-fledged alcoholic. So maybe this blinding pain in my gut is just the first symptom of a body that's grave-ready. But in exchange for health and harmony, I was allowed to recognize the greatest gift God bestows: that even when liquor is out of reach, this world is constructed from elements that fuck you up. Growing, cooking, crushing, smoking…I want to put Earth up my nose.

That hunger began after my first week of work at BioTech, with one drink—bought by none other than Dana Cully. Until she hippoed up with a glass of liquor, I was content to spend a few hours by myself. It always comforted me before, watching people. I guess I was just one of those weirdoes. Now, I'm a different kind of weirdo. The kind who keeps his ears perked during nightly strolls, listening for kids with severe coughing fits so he'll know which house has good medicine. Nothing makes my heart skip a beat quite like seeing a bottle of Delsym perched on a child's bedside table. Breaking into houses isn't always easy, but I'm fairly quiet for a drunk. I slip in like a snake, coil myself around the bottle and ooze away like some otherworldly creature. In a life with so little to revere, I pride myself on any accomplishment.

I initially refused Dana's drink without a hint of temptation. But then she sat down, flashed me Brown Lightning, and pushed the glass into my hands. Her perfume smelled like childhood. What from childhood? Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that I wanted her to sit closer. I wanted her on my lap. I wanted her to wriggle and bounce and give me a revolting reason to call out of work the next day.

She repulsed me, but I craved her immeasurably, and the alcohol made it worse. Then, "worse" became the alcohol. After one sip of bourbon, I had to have a full glass. Then a beer. Then some wine. Then a dusty pill I found under the urinal. I asked Dana how quickly other people got hooked on the stuff, but she just brayed and squeezed my thigh. With a cough, I came in my pants. Whether she noticed, I don't know, but she did leave soon after. My pants were so wet I was afraid to stand, so I kept ordering more drinks. Two hundred dollars later, the bartender had to peel me out of the booth and call a cab to drive me home. But I couldn't go home yet. There was no liquor there.

After that night, that was never the case again. At this point, I've only been at BioTech for a month, but things have changed drastically for me in that short time. I started out with a desk surrounded by coworkers. I resuspended DNA primers, even worked with magnetic Dynabeads for an eColi testing kit. I didn't have much experience, but I was a fast learner and Regina liked that kind of gumption. But I was gradually moved away from manufacturing certain products. After my encounter with Dana, my duties focused solely on manufacturing Extraction Buffer, and my workspace was moved to the farthest lab.

Regina calls the lab phone just as I swallow some Zelko.

"Hey, Reg. Good morning," I say, gulping down a bit of bile that jumps up with a belch.

"You're going to make Extraction Buffer today," she says.

Surprise, surprise. "Ten liters?" I ask.

"You got it. Say, how's the temperature in that lab today? Not still too hot, is it?"

"Nah, it's actually pretty chilly." I look at the thermostat. "62 degrees."

"Oh my, that's a little cold, isn't it? I'll have Facilities fix that right away."

"Why bother? They can never find a happy medium. One day, it's freezing. The next day, it's a sauna."

"What, you don't trust me, Harvey?" she asks.

"Of course I do."

"Good. Do you want Dana to help you manufacture the buffer?"

"No!" I adjust my volume with a vodka-laced grunt. "No, thank you. I'll be fine."

"Good. I'll check in later," she says, cutting off the call before I can respond.

In those few minutes, the temperature has dipped to 59 degrees, so I choose to start production on the buffer just to get out of the cold. Before I begin, I make sure to take a sip from the flask I have stashed under the bench. The more I drink, the easier the day slides by. Before I know it, it's time to head home; I just hope I can make it there in one piece. But then I ask myself, "Why?" One piece, two, eight: does it really matter? The vodka tells me it does. I am very, very important, it says. I tell ya, vodka, there are times I've believed you. I just don't remember when they were.

*****

The next morning, I step into an inferno. The temperature of the lab has sailed to nearly 90 degrees, making my vodka taste like rotten milk. Still, it was rotten milk that could get me drunk enough to ignore the heat.

My head thumps terribly. I sit down, awaiting Regina's phone call when the lab door flies open. The blast of AC from the hallway feels good, but the scent it carries makes my stomach twist into a fistfuck of a knot.

"Jeez, it's hot in here!" Dana squeals.

I notice her getting moist. Her armpits, her neck, her fourth chin. Misshapen "U's" appear below her sweaty breasts, and though I don't want to look, I can't tear my eyes away. My dick burns against my zipper, crying out for relief. A hand will do, but it wants something warmer, something wetter.

Dana fans herself with her hoof and coughs up a chuckle, "Wasn't it cold in here yesterday?"

"Sure was," I hiss, digging my elbow into my balls, hoping the pain will soften me.

"You okay, Harv?"

God, the smell of her. What is it? Cookies or roses or Versace FuckJeans, it's amazing. And no, I'm not okay, you mustached hag. I need to beat off. Now.

The phone rings, and I know right away it's Regina.

"Yes, I'm here," I sputter into the phone.

"Oh good. How's the lab today?" she asks sweetly.

"Hot," I reply. Dana giggles, making the Tigger appliqué on her shirt dive down her chest until he's swimming in the pool between sweat-splashed mountains.

My body screams. Hand. Toilet. Flask. Hand. Toilet. Flask. I need to get away.

"That's too bad. I'll have Facilities fix it tomorrow."

My stomach churns, causing a beast of salty bile to claw its way up my throat. Dana's perfume is overpowering, and Regina's insane promises make my blood boil.

"Don't worry, Harv. We'll take care of it," she says. "Oh, and I know you worry about being alone back there, so I have a surprise for you."

"I don't worry about that," I grunt through rising pain.

Dana touches my shoulder. Her scent thickens as if she were spraying me like a cat in heat. I turn to see drops of sweat clinging to her mustache, so thick and imposing, I swear I can smell it. Through her pleasing perfume, one of skunk cabbage and black licorice punches free, causing my aching stomach to lurch. But it's not quite as bad as the ache in my crotch, especially when she licks the droplets away and I imagine her licking my ache with it. The thought makes my testicles feel like iron death.

"Sorry, gotta go," I exclaim, throwing the phone with no care to the cradle and flying from my seat.

I reach the bathroom with my hand already on my dick and vomit searing my tongue. I spit up a stream of brown liquid that appears to steam when it hits the toilet, but I'm too focused on beating away my screaming erection to care.

Dana Cully fills my mind. Her rat-nest hair. Her rotting chomper. The way one of her socks is always lower than the other, revealing a patch of bristly hair she's missed for the last twenty shaves.

I growl as I cum, spattering the toilet seat with something that looks too similar to my vomit to be normal. My stomach feels like a balloon at full capacity—as well as already lacerated latex. I've gone soft, but the pain continues. My dick is coated in brown goo that I try to wipe away with toilet paper, but the cheap stuff sticks to the tip. As I try to peel it off, my eyes well with burning tears.

I run my hands under the cold water and wash away the gummy patches of toilet paper. I cup my hands again, ready to splash water on my face, but my reflection makes me freeze. The water drains between my fingers as I lean in and watch a brown tear roll out of my eye. As it falls, it sears a ravine into my cheek, causing the surrounding flesh to peel back and curl into itself. Another tear falls, but I catch it with my fingertips. The droplet burns through both flesh and nail, giving me a glimpse of brown bone before I run my hand under the faucet. Under the pressure of the stream, the steaming hole in my finger widens before slowly fusing closed. After splashing water on my face, I try to wipe the tears away, but my fingernail catches on a tag of burnt flesh, causing a new rip from cheek to nose. I slap a paper towel over the wound, desperately trying not to cry despite my panic.

After a few steadying breaths, I gently pull back the paper towel. The wound directly below my eye has healed, and as I remove more of the towel, I realize the other wounds have too. Unfortunately, it gives me a bit of resistance at the end. In healing, my face has stitched some of the paper into the wound. It takes a tug, but it finally breaks free, leaning a small piece of towel protruding from my cheek.