J.T. Warren - Blood Mountain

I think I screamed, but I might have been screaming the whole time. I can’t be sure. The flies had killed my wife, used her as some kind of incubator, and now were morphing into creatures much more threatening than common house flies. This thing was nasty and, I had no doubt, would relish its first chance to stab my eyes out with its beak.

It came free from her mouth and went right for me. With no room to swing the shovel for a full-strength hit, I used it as a shield and deflected the bug into the wall. It bounced back with ease and came right at me again. It meant to stab me and bite me and, eventually, kill me. Then it would plant its eggs inside me so hundreds of others of its gruesome kind could be birthed into this world.

The shovel smacked it again with a stronger thwonk . It bounced off the floor this time and tried an upward assault. I swung the shovel like a golf club and hit the thing dead-on. Instead of knocking it down the hallway and into the living room, however, my swing carried it straight up to smack against the ceiling. I had barely a moment to register this before it dropped on my head.

It bit into my scalp with its pointed beak. I screamed and grabbed it with one hand. Its body was hard like a rock but slimy and its splotch of hair stabbed at my flesh like thorns. It shook in my hand and made a deafening, squalling noise that can only be called a scream. Its legs frantically tried to pry free from my grip. I tried to squeeze it but its body was too hard. Then its beak pierced into my thumb and I threw it to the ground. I brought the shovel down as hard as I could. Brought it down again. Still, the thing screamed in that high-pitched insect cry. I brought the shovel down again and then jumped on it. This finally killed the thing.

I turned back to Clara. Another fly, exactly the same with a pronounced, sharp beak was wriggling its way free from her mouth. And now flies were crawling out of her nostrils, stretching her skin to the point of transparency. They birthed free in gooey, bloody slop, most of them falling right to the floor.

Clara stretched out her arms and reached for me, a death groan vibrating from her throat. And then I knew it: she had willingly given birth to these things. She wanted them to use her, to be born from her. They would do her job. They would swarm after me, attack me, punish me. She was the Fly Mother.

The next giant mutant fly was almost free and Clara’s hands were nearly on me. I swung the shovel. I brought it right up into her face. Her jaw crunched against the fly. It screeched. Black blood poured down her chin. Clara stumbled back a few steps, steadied herself, and reached for me again. The groan in her throat, impossibly, became words.

“ Kyyyyyyllllllllll ,” she said. “We have to taaaaaaalllllllllk! ” Her jaw crunched up and down against the still-struggling nightmare fly. “It’s veeeeeerrrrry impooooorrrtant! ”

I swung the shovel again. It hit her face with a meaty crack. She stumbled. Another hit and she fell. Her hands came up to shield herself but now I had full advantage and I kept bringing the shovel down again and again until she stopped croaking words and that damn fly stopped screaming. At some point, I changed my grip on the wooden handle and brought the shovel down like a stake, right into her face. It tore her jaw completely off.

A new fly was crawling right out of her throat, its eyes covered in blood. It launched itself free and came right at my face. It landed on my nose, directly between my eyes, and stabbed me in the forehead. Intense pain erupted in my head like a blinding, white flash, and I had no thoughts, only reflexes. I brought the shoved directly up with a fast swing and knocked myself to the floor.

Intense pain flooded my head and the world spun beneath me. Darkness flooded in from the edges of my vision, but just before I fell into that black hole, I felt the fly crawl across my face and worm its way into my mouth, pushing my jaw open and tearing at my tongue with its beak.

* * *

Flies can live anywhere from a few hours to several months. In the proper conditions, like in a lab, flies can survive even longer, sometimes much longer.

I haven’t seen them in a long time, but I know where they are. Inside me, of course. I hear them buzzing in there. I feel them planting their eggs in my intestines. When the doctors come in, I try to tell them but they just give me shots. They won’t let me out of this jacket. Won’t let me get at the flies. They want them to be born. They think I’m some kind of freak experiment. They have no idea what they’re getting into.

But I do. When I close my eyes and listen to the flies buzzing away in my brain, I know what’s going to happen. I see that giant black eye made of thousands of flies, the way it stared at me. The way it brought me down into damnation. If they don’t let me kill the flies, they’ll all die, too. The doctors. The nurses. Die just like Clara.

I can feel the flies pushing against the inside of my stomach, beginning to wriggle their way up to my throat. They’re coming. Maybe it’s a blessing. Maybe they will finally put an end to everything. An end to me.

THE END