Microfiction: We

I can’t trust it. I can’t take that risk. It’s come too close before. Once my date says she needs to go use the restroom, I already know it’s over for her. The door closes behind her and I’m up.  My silverware clatters and my chair falls over. It’s a subtle noise on carpeted floor, but it’s enough.

The other restaurant patrons nearby me look up to investigate, acting shocked, concerned. But I can see the grins on their faces, I can see how funny they find things. I can see the crazy thoughts they’re thinking.

A waitress is already walking towards me. A socially acceptable way to close in. They’re so slimy that way.

I pick up my glass of water and wait till she’s in range.

“Sir, are you okay?”

The waitress reels back when the water hits her face. But I can see it. I can see the black liquid oozing from around her eyelids. The blood dripping from the surface of her lips.

The others around me no longer see me as funny. They’re staring with their petty little eyes. A few of them are already broadcasting my location from their phones.

My date chooses now to come out of the bathroom, and looks at me with a dull glance. Some would call it a surprised face, but I can tell the difference.

I can’t let anyone out of my sight. That’s when they get them.

I sprint passed them, feeling their gaze, their malice on my skin. Those steak knives held in loose grips. I’m almost to the door when a man in black steps in front of me.

“Sir, what do you think you’re doing?”

I don’t hesitate to deck him in the face. He stumbles backwards, blood oozing from out of his nose. My next punch shatters the bone, and his pupils go wide. A third sends him to the floor. Grabbing a nearby jug of ice water, I pour it over his nice suit and any exposed skin.

He starts screaming, clutching at his arms. Something tears through his clothes, along his limbs, and the center of his stomach. The orange lines of nerve-like tendrils slowly rise off of him, failing repeatedly to make purchase with the ground. They look like stick figures without heads, their skin covered in prongs and spikes.

The crowd of encroaching people stops a few feet away from me. Some faint, others start to scream. But some just step behind the mass, forming a human funnel. I can see them glare at me, see the slurry of their hosts leak from underneath the corpse’s gums, staining the lips red.

My date stands with them, long pointed nails aimed at the small of one of the patron’s backs. A long line of orange stretching out from her fingers.

I step out the door, and push a chair in front of it. I can hear the screaming continue on the inside.

I can’t let anyone out of my sight. That’s when they get them.

Special thanks to: Collin Pearman, Dylan Alexander, Jerry Banfield, Michael The Comic NerdPulsatilla PratensisSuperGoof Media, and Zeony.

Did you like the article? Dislike? Tell me about it in the comments. I would love to hear your opinions! If interested in specific articles, or want to write as a guest, you can message me at scifibrandonscott@gmail.com. If you want to help keep this blog going, consider becoming my patron at https://www.patreon.com/coolerbs. Thanks for reading!

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