Flash Fiction Horror Double Bill

16.44.25-fba7f60eacc4eae2f1afd4172114a7a4

Two pieces of Horror Flash Fiction  …

DRIVEN

He couldn’t seem to let go of the wheel, as if the plastic skin of it and the flesh of his hands had melted and fused. He knew he was driving too fast, but one his feet felt like a lead weight upon the accelerator, while the other seemed to pass uselessly through the rubber pad of the brake pedal. The screen clipped to the dashboard shuddered as his car raced along the increasingly uneven ground, the electronic map flickering as it sought a satellite signal, tried to find him an alternative route.
He barely remembered taking this road. The last thing he remembered was that thick, heavy pressure in his chest as he’d lifted the girl’s corpse on to back seat of the car, the cold sweat that had sprung up on his brow as he’d buckled his pants and got into the driver’s seat. She’d struggled, a lot more than the others, and he guessed she must have winded him, because even before he started the engine he was finding it difficult to breathe, that pressure in his chest radiating outwards towards his arm.
And then he was on this unknown road, driving too fast, but seemingly unable to slow down. He guessed that he’d found himself somewhere remote, given the way the map was calibrating and how there didn’t seem to be a single streetlight to illuminate his way. There was no moonlight, just skies of endless black clouds. He thought there might be a storm soon, judging by the gusts of hot air that were blowing in through the half-open window.
There were sounds filtering into the car too, distant but growing louder as the vehicle hurtled forward, faster and faster. It sounded like a crowd of people, yelling and screaming as though they were at a rock concert. Maybe it was an event of some sort, because the further his car took him down this strange road, the more he saw the fireworks in among the clouds, a rain of sparks and embers, soaking the hot air of the car with sulphur.
The map on the screen spun crazily, the image dissolving into flickering bursts of static as the screaming voices intensified, as the black clouds thinned to show not the stars nor cold face of the moon, not even the electric signature of the expected storm. There was a storm, but it was a maelstrom of fire and sour ash, of smoke and burning, blasted rock.
The car finally stopped, the tyres squealing as if they were crushing souls beneath their tread.
The screen on the dashboard turned black. ‘You have reached your destination.’ said the Satan-nav.

VISITING HOURS

It was late, and the ward was quiet, and dark. She sat beside the child’s bed, holding the little boy’s hand, careful not to disturb the cannula implanted into the narrow thread of his vein. Her other hand caressed the curve of the child’s brow, finding it cool and dry. According to the casenotes on the clipboard at the end of the bed, the little one had suffered the most awful fever, terrifying his parents, but thankfully that had subsided in the last day or so. Everything in the casenotes indicated that he would be fine.
She moved her hand from his forehead to the watch pinned to the breast of her crisp white uniform. She stared at the tiny, ticking hand marking one second after another, then gave the boy’s hand a little squeeze, gently, careful not to wake him. She stood, picking up the broad, soft pillow that she’d taken from one of the other beds.
He stirred as she placed it across his face, and began to thrash as she pressed it down. His cries were short, and panicked, and muffled. His hands leapt upwards to claw at the pillow, the IV tube popping free of the cannula, and she made soft hushing sounds, soothing him until his struggles stopped, a lullaby for his final sleep.
Calmly, she moved from bed to bed. When the real nurse returned, she found a ward full of corpses.

Thanks for reading …

 

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