Vector

by Robert Currer


Complete Story – 1000 Words

This story contains strong elements of body horror. Reader discretion is advised.


Arthur’s guts squirmed uncomfortably as the airliner barreled down the runway toward the sky.  He had never cared for flying.  Not that he was frightened of it; there were many things in life more deserving of fear.  It was only that he was prone to motion sickness and three years walking rural Guinea’s dusty roads had done little to improve that predilection.

Feeling sweat damp and pale, he flipped through the seat back pocket to find the plastic lined air sick bag and moved it to the front for easy access.  Then he dialed his vent to high, shut his eyes, and focused on breathing while waiting for the queasiness to pass.

The plane reached cruising altitude with a bump.  A pale static came over the PA.  “Hey folks.  It’s your captain speaking—uh, just wanted to let you know we’re in for some bumpy air—uh—nothing to worry about but we’re going to be keeping the fasten seat belt sign on a bit longer—uh—so just hang tight and we’ll get over smoother air as soon as we can.”  The announcement ended and Arthur wondered vaguely if airlines added the static these days to make pilots seem more trustworthy.

Turbulence rattled the cabin and Arthur’s amused grin inverted into a grimace as his gut churned.  The nausea had dissipated but the discomfort had only moved lower into his intestines.  He squirmed in the narrow seat, painfully aware of the mocking seat belts light overhead.

As they continued to rumble along the clouds, a molten, bulging pressure grew in his bowels.  He clenched his cheeks as tight as he could fighting the desperate need to shit.  More maddening, his sphincter had begun to itch mercilessly.  He wriggled in his seat hoping the friction of his underwear would provide some relief while trying not to look like a dog rubbing his ass on the carpet.  The seat belt light remained viciously constant.

Arthur gritted his teeth struggling against the impending explosion.  He was returning from a three-year extension tour with the Peace Corps.  Three years in rural Africa where things like dysentery were so common, they were almost a rite of passage among volunteers.  There was even the whimsically named Oopsie Poopsie Club which included every volunteer who shat their pants while serving.  Arthur had never met the membership requirement and he sure as hell wasn’t going to now.

He unbuckled his seat and staggered down the rolling aisle toward the coat closet sized lavatory.  Ignoring a stern Sir! from the flight attendant, Arthur pushed through the folding door and slammed the bolt to occupied.  Then the lid was up, his pants were down, and his innards were splattering against the oddly breezy stainless steel.  The pressure relieved, Arthur sat panting and feeling delightfully empty.  Then he wrinkled his nose.  The itch was still there and worse than ever.  It had started to burn.

During training, he had been warned of things called pinworms that lived in the rectum and itched horribly when they slithered out the anus to lay their eggs.  He prayed he did not have worms.  Arthur tore a ball of single ply toilet paper off the roll and reached back to both wipe and scratch.

A tendril like strained spaghetti wrapped around his index finger.  Arthur dropped the wad of toilet paper with a gasped Fuck!  It wriggled between his cheeks and he felt his stomach roil.  The wriggling intensified.  Like a message down a telephone wire, the slithering sensation moved inside him until the whole of his belly felt packed with a bait shop’s worth of squirming night crawlers. 

Arthur gripped the steel hand bar and again felt his insides pouring out into the toilet.  This time there was no diarrhea splatter.  Instead, pallid tentacles no thicker than noodles began to twist out from the toilet seat.  He swore and bolted upright trying to yank his pants above his knees with one hand while brushing away the grasping, wormy tendrils.  Panicked tears flooded his eyes as he clawed at his bare ass with both hands, not willing to believe what he found.  Oh God!  They’re coming out of me! 

He had to get help.  He had to see if there was a doctor on board.  He reached for the lock and the airplane bounced.  Arthur lost his balance and tumbled headfirst into the door with a bang.  He saw stars.  The tendrils spread, crawling along his thighs and pelvis before working their way up his body.

There was a knock.  A muffled voice said, “Sir?  Sir?  Are you alright in there?”  Then a second more urgent knock.

Arthur opened his mouth and tried to shout, “Yes!  Please!  For the love of God, help me!”  But the words were choked from his lips as grasping tendrils squeezed around his throat. They were strengthening now, twining themselves into thick, fleshy ropes that swathed his limbs so tightly that prickling needles shot all the way up to his elbows.  A livid hue blossomed on his cheeks.

His arms moved unbidden.  They pushed him to his knees.  He was enveloped now.  The woven doughy tendrils used his bones like a brace, rising to his feet.  Eyes bulging, he keened noiselessly, impotently, and the tendrils tugged at the soft flesh of his lips.  A slithering tickled the corners of his eyes so close that his eyelashes parted like reeds.

“Sir,” the muffled voice was back.  “We’re going to come in to make sure you’re okay.”

Help me!  Only a gurgling sputter was heard, the snot thickened words ringing only in his mind.  Searing, salty tears blotted his vision, dribbling down his cheeks as his breathless chest heaved.  A tendril licked the water away even as others began to thicken over his vision.  The bolt slid to vacant as the darkness swallowed him.  Limbs no longer his own lunged.  A woman shrieked in the blackness and the taste of blood found his tongue.  Then there was nothing at all.


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