“Okay, listen up,” says a voice in your ear. “As of thirty seconds ago you are the last remaining Bouncer pilot in this system. Reroute on vector 4.96 and await further instructions.” Continue reading
You know exactly what they look like; black and shimmering, with big long jaws full of bright white teeth. They stretch their arms out, but never come closer than you allow them to.
You stand there and wait, using the light beyond the door to study every shiny scale. They growl and sniff and howl, restless in the dim.
You think they’re the reason you’re still here, that you can’t leave until they are gone. They know better.
Flangiprop n. a small, “mushroom-like” carnivorous mammal found native to a cave network on DK-233. Appears to possess an acute sense of smell, not unlike an Earth dog. Communicates in high-pitched squeaks.
“It’s a stupid word,” he told her, staring into the cage.
“Well, I think it suits him,” she replied, tapping at the glass.
A series of low, happy sounding chirps echoed around the small container as the… Flangiprop sat down and blinked up at them. One of i
t’s his short little arms made a sort of waving motion. He watched her coo at it out of the corner of his eye. “I can’t believe they let you keep it.”
Her smile was like something out of an old holograph, bright and stunning and a tiny bit irritating. “I know, right!?”
The little brown and red thing let out a long, cheerful squeak in response. He was gonna have to run a neuroscan on the damn thing later, make sure there wasn’t some sort of telepathic link going on. He leaned back against the hull of the carrier, watching the techs load up the rest of their equipment. She was too busy making weird ass baby noises at the thing to pay any attention to them tipping her core samples the wrong way up.
“That thing is messing with your mind,” he said, crossing his arms.
He thought she was ignoring him until –
“I think I’m gonna name him Henry!”
He sighed. It was gonna be one hell of a long ride back to base.
“Think the sky is grey because we want it that way?” she asks.
Hell of a way to speak to someone on the other side of the line.
“Suits the mood, whatever the reason.”
She ain’t wrong, us facing each other in the misty quiet.
Above us it’s all spinning off, breaking up – reforming.
“Are you afraid of what comes next?”
She’s difficult to ignore but impossible to cut down.
Now that, I do believe.
They’ve the light of a million righteous souls behind them.
All we’ve got’s the guilt.
Bit of an odd feeling, staring into the slime and seeing a version of you who doesn’t know who they are yet. Only four left now though, drifting in the ooze until someone pulls ’em out and tops ’em up.
There’s so much green and blue in here the red bar on my tablet looks a bit garish, the little coded lines sweeping across the screen as my replacement soaks up all my knowledge like a sponge. Wonder what she’ll do with all. Go after the Organisation, probably. Maybe stop by Breakers and drink a little first though, I got some good memories of that place. Continue reading
There’s something about the mist that swirls at your feet. It slows you down, makes you feel heavier than you should. The torch in your hand sends a bright beam out ahead of you, but it’s a narrow field of view. With every creek and crack of movement it shakes and stutters, flashing from one line of trees to the next.
But it isn’t the dark or the noise that’s making your stomach twist.
It’s the smell.
There is no breeze, no wind to offer relief from the dank, lingering stench. It’s tangy and old and rotting, like vinegar left out too long in the heat. Putting a sleeve over your face makes little difference – it’s sunk into your clothes and hair and skin.
You try to ignore the muffled groaning at first. Focusing ahead and pushing through the grey, you pretend it’s all in your head. But the light drifts up of its own accord, as though your hand has made a decision of its own. And now you have to look.
It’s not a face you recognise. The tree has taken whoever it was. Sunk its branches into the skin and creeped along until there’s barely any flesh at all. Thank god for the night, the dim and the shadows that save you from seeing the extent of the infection. You stare and try to make out the words cracked lips are trying to form, but you feel as though you could remain there forever and never understand.
It’s the tear streaked, blinking eyes that finally breach the confusion. You follow their gaze, tilting your head to look down, but it’s already far too late. The roots that have circled gently around your ankles are already half way up your calf.
You don’t remember coming here, and you find your fingers shake as you switch off the torch. You drop it to the ground, can hardly make it out as it rolls away. There are thin vines at your waist now.
You don’t struggle.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Bit of an experiment with the dreaded second person present tense there, but since the Weekly Photo challenge over at the Daily Post is Creepy, I figured it was appropriate. Make sure you check out the artists work! :)
There was a shotgun in my left hand. I remember the weight of it keenly. I knew how to use it.
Which was odd, since I’ve never laid eyes on a gun before.
It may have been dusk, though the trees curling above made it impossible to really tell. There was a green tinged mist in the air, a smell of moss and sodden dirt on the breeze. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked around and seen something so unfamiliar. Continue reading