Flash Fiction Friday: Blood Guineas by Cameron Pierce
Ben Farr tore the guinea pig off Ben Jr. and stomped on the animal until it was no more than a puddle of fur and guts.
He tied a handkerchief around his son’s bleeding neck.
“Stay with me, Benny,” he said. “Talk to me.”
Ben Jr. opened his mouth and blew a crimson bubble.
In another part of the house, Sharon screamed.
Ben glanced up at the wire cage on his son’s desk.
The cage that used to house two guinea pigs was empty.
One guinea pig was dead. The other was . . . Sharon screamed again.
“I’ll be right back, Benny. I’m going to check on your mom,” Ben said, fleeing the bedroom while Ben Jr. lay on the floor, choking on his own blood.
Ben strode up the hallway toward his wife’s screams. He found her in the kitchen, bashing her own face with a frying pan.
He attempted to pry the frying pan out of her hands, but she evaded his clutches and whapped him upside the head before returning the attention of the frying pan to her own face.
Sprawled out on the floor, he stared up at his hysterical wife. He wondered if she had gone insane.
And then he noticed the furry black thing on her cheek. It was the other guinea pig. Its small head was buried in her eye socket.
The guinea pig dislodged its head, clenching Sharon’s left eyeball in its jaws.
Blood drizzled down her cheeks from both sockets.
Ben scrambled to his feet, taking a mental account of the weapons in the kitchen.
Settling for a steak knife, he fumbled for the knife block on the counter.
He withdrew the sharpest knife.
The guinea pig reburied its head in Sharon’s left socket. Its bottom wriggled violently, as if the beast were trying to squirm all the way inside of Sharon’s skull.
She dropped the frying pan and collapsed to the linoleum floor.
Ben leaned over her and grabbed the guinea pig by the tail. He pressed the tip of the knife against its haunches and drove the blade in, skewering the bloody animal.
The guinea pig shrieked infernally as it squirmed against the knife.
Ben opened the oven and tossed the impaled animal within. He turned the oven up to four-hundred degrees and exhaled a sigh of the relief as the little bastard started to cook.
He picked up the telephone and dialed the police.
The phone rang and rang.
Finally, the dispatch operator took his call.
There was no standard introduction of “What is your emergency?” Instead, Ben was greeted by the shrill shrieks of a guinea pig.
He slammed the phone down.
So they’d gotten the police too.
What did this mean? Was this a local state of emergency? Was it national? He thought of all the possible causes. Terrorists. A science experiment gone wrong. Escaped military project. An uprising of the animal world. In the end it did not matter.
His wife went into convulsions. He dropped to the floor and tried to hold her steady.
She spat up blood. He wondered where it came from until she opened up her mouth and spit out a hunk of meat. She had bitten off her tongue.
She collapsed into unconsciousness.
Shortly after, she stopped breathing. Her heartbeat ceased. Ben begged her not to go, but she died anyway. He cried and held her and kissed her and cried.
The monsters had robbed him of everything.
Covered in Sharon’s blood, he picked himself up from the floor and took a second knife from the block.
A knife in each hand, he moved to the front door and looked out the peephole. A lone guinea pig munched on a leaf in the middle of the yard.
He grinned. He switched both knives to the same hand and opened the door, then switched the knife back.
He stormed out of the house and across the yard, swinging his blades. The guinea pig stared at him with cold, unfeeling eyes.
He stabbed the guinea pig in the face.
Even then, its eyes held the same cold expression.
He slid his knife out of the tiny skull and stomped the dead guinea pig into the hard ground, reveling in the crunch of bones.
He sought another guinea pig to kill and spotted one approaching from down the road. He took a step toward it, but noticed that the guinea pig was followed by another, and another.
The guinea pigs, thousands of them, flooded from the neighboring houses and filled the street. He doubled back for the front door, but the door had shut and it was locked.
He turned and faced the swarm, knives out.
He would kill them all. He would kill them and have a barbecue.
The first claws and teeth dug into his flesh and were quickly followed by a thousand others
He was swallowed by the fuzzy sea, yet he kept on stabbing.
Cameron Pierce is the editor of Lazy Fascist Press and the author of five books, among them Ass Goblins of Auschwitz and most recently, Abortion Arcade a three novella collection. You can read more about him and his books at meatmagick.wordpress.com.