Apocalypse Garden: Legs (Alternatively- I spend my last weekend in Maine writing a short horror story)
Well, I’ve finally managed to write a short story! My piece for a farm crew variety show this past weekend, I turned a horrifying realization in the field into a short camp-fire meets Lovecraftian tale. Then with some twisting and connection to an old tale woven years ago found myself planning a multi-piece story and possible collaboration with my brother who is a comic artist and illustrator…
So without further ado, here is “Legs,” my first successful short horror.
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If this were the story of the world I would start by thoroughly explaining the disastrous mining expedition in the heart of Mongolia, the one that cracked open the seam of the planet and changed reality as we know it. I would wax poetic and somber about the lies and manipulations to get that site opened, to make sure it was completely and totally under wraps; how world leaders turned a blind eye to the true horrors and curling, convoluted beings that lay under the mantle of the earth, hidden for unknown epochs. But I'm not telling the story of the Ulaanbaatar Incident, I am telling the story of a doomed farm in coastal Maine, one site of hundreds of thousands similar and dissimilar across the globe the night the world stopped working.
The fog horn was the first sign something was wrong, if anyone had been paying attention. It started ringing rhythmically late Tuesday afternoon; a cloudless, sunny day. Although a little surprised that a river not five miles away could have conditions that warranted the horn, no one paid it much mind, even if some thought it felt hollow, like an abandoned room after a full party, when all the folks have left and there is no one left but cobwebs in the corners.
Harvesting blueberries was done for the day, and the whole crew was relaxing for the evening- or at least they were relaxing- until the moon rose. That was the second sign something was wrong, although compared to the tame knocking of the fog horn- still going strong by the way- the moon, rising full and murderous burgundy over the tree line was the equivalent of your neighbor taking a steam roller through your kitchen wall to ask for a cup of sugar.
Deep in the earth, creatures stirred and energy coiled, seeping through the band-aid thin crust to worm their way and run amuck. This took time, however, and by Wednesday morning, while the moon had not left its stop light perch in the sky for hours, the trucks and cars were loaded and people returned to their lives, if deeply unsettled, and wary. Cell reception was hit or miss per usual, but when a garbled alert reading “AX 498-” then lines of unreadable code people began to worry, but only had time to find one source citing “solar flares” before all connections sank.
It was after noon when the first streams of eldritch Beingness emerged from within the planet. In the fields the air hung heavy, as if weighted and being drawn in by gravity, while at the winnowing station the fan began to humm, deeper and lower than should have been possible, and the cool metal shone brighter than it ever had. Then, both all at once and horrendously slow, the creaking, crawling sound came from millions of legs unfurling from every last berry.
Abdomens flushed deep violet sprouted sickly yellow limbs, and from black heads shone eight eyes that refused to remain in one tidy corner of the color spectrum, above drooling fangs. Rakes and totes were thrown aside as harvesters fled to the tops of vehicles (and one up a particularly nice oak tree), while back at the winnowing shed the cleaning crew ran upstairs in the barn, just as the walk-in door exploded outward in a rush of crawling legs. It felt like it should have been louder, that beyond the shrieks and screams of the crew- echoing across the hills from other farms and houses experiencing their own apocalyptic horrors- but no sounds besides the scrambles of those curses many-jointed legs and the click of sharp mandibles could be heard.
All the running and climbing and swatting was no help against the onslaught. One by one folks fell; swarmed, paralyzed and carted off like a moaning sack of potatoes to be spun into neat cocoons for later feasting. And just as quickly as the spiders had come, once their prey was packaged, they retreated to the fields and dusty corners again, weaving homes and traps while their prey occasionally gave a half-hearted wiggle or groan.
Two weeks later, among the vast expanses of no longer occupied land, the spiders vanished after eating their fill. No one was around to see them go or wish them safe travels as they systematically crawled through worm hole and fissure to rejoin their awful hosts, full again and prepared to slumber. Naught was left of the farms except the masses of webs, waving weakly in briny breezes, and the sunken, desiccated remains of the crew.
There were very few survivors of this global feast, but less than a month later the moon began to set again and faded to bone-white. The mines outside of Ulaanbaatar collapsed in on themselves, sealing away within the dark heart of a being more ancient and horrible than Pangaea herself, and the fog horn remained to ring across empty rivers and hollows until the base rusted away and even that last resounding testament fell.
Written at Blue Hill Berry Co., August 2020
Sabrina Green
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If you find yourself enjoying my work, consider donating a coffee on my ko-fi site! I’ll be sharing WIPs and quotes there, as well as weekly progress notes on my novel, and pictures of WIlla, my dog! (Who doesn’t want to see her??).
Coming soon: a poem five years in the works, introducing the Letters to Georgia podcast, and reflections on living in Maine!
Until next time, Sabrina
