Killer-Extras: Flash Fiction
A curse, an infestation, and a forty-eight jar solution! Pete Mesling brings us an unhealthy dose of vicious vermin.
Fulfillment
By Pete Mesling
When I was a young boy, my grandfather laid a curse on me. I used to crawl up into his lap and listen to him spin the most enthralling yarns. When Mother and Father were present, he narrated his made-up tales in a boisterous manner. He became each character and clutched me for a scare at just the right moments. He spoke in a loud, resonant voice that filled the house with that magic only storytelling can bring.
But when my parents were gone or distracted, Granddad would lean in close and whisper, “One day the rats’ll get you, boy. The rats is what’ll bring an end to your days.”
And so it has come to pass. The vermin have arrived in great numbers. At first I only heard them chewing beneath the floor, but they soon got into the walls and ceiling. Their scratching got so bad I went a week straight without sleep. Now they’ve got into my living space. Not all of them yet, but I’ve seen five or six racing along the floorboards, diving into shadows.
They eat dog shit, by the way. My Ginger has taken to loosing her bowels in the house, and sometimes I don’t get to it right away. A couple of nights ago I watched one of the rat horde nibble away at a pile of her spoiling feces. That’s the kind of creatures I’m dealing with here.
I finally caught one yesterday. I looked up from the television, and there he was, perched on the mantle, eyes gleaming red. I reached for a plastic grocery bag and rushed the cocky bastard. He tried to get away but ran up against obstacles in both directions, got real scared and froze. I don’t doubt he would have leapt for my face if I’d been a whit slower, but I got that son of a bitch trapped in the bag before you could say Jack Robinson.
It seemed the best thing to do was keep twisting the bag around on my way to the kitchen, so that’s what I did. He still managed to bite me a good one through the thin white plastic, but that was his last great accomplishment before I flung his ass into the freezer and snapped the door shut. That’s when I learned how much noise a pissed off rat can make. He slammed around in there for five solid minutes, squealing to raise the dead. But eventually the sub-zero chill must have slowed his scampering limbs, frozen his manic will—and eventually his heart. I can only imagine, for I haven’t opened the freezer to observe the state of it.
I sit, and I wait. I can hear their undulating tide beneath the floorboards, hungry for ingress. I’ve painted everything with peanut butter. They can’t see for shit, but the faintest scent of peanut butter sends them into a crazed caloric lust. It’s on the walls and ceiling, the furniture and window sills. Forty-eight jars of Peter Pan.
They will find the stuff all over me as well. My arms, legs, crotch. All through my hair. The rats will eat well tonight, and I will be with my grandfather once more.
You were right, Granddad. You were right all along.
Bio Bits:
Pete Mesling
lives with his wife and daughter in Seattle, Washington. Horror luminary Mort
Castle has said of Pete’s work, "Nicely surreal and quite Kafka … This is
impressive." Interests outside of writing include music, film,
copyediting, and nineteenth-century literature. Pete also loves a good train
ride. www.editinghouse.com
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