John pushed the cart full of chili through the swinging double doors. Orange slime now covered the cafeteria. The creatures had just slurped up the last bit of chili. They were oozing toward the kitchen doors even before he had emerged with the chili.
“Who wants to try a helping of John’s Streak-free Colon Cleanser?”
John gave the cart a mighty shove. It glided toward the gathering mob of aliens. Just before it reached the nearest, it turned to the left and tipped over. The ammonia-laced chili spilled across the marble floor. Sphincter tipped orange tentacles lapped up the chili like hungry dogs.
“That’s right, eat up boys.”
John didn’t expect the poison to work right away. He didn’t expect the creatures to eat it and drop dead like in some kind of melodrama. What he expected even less was for the aliens to react the way they did. Just after slurping the last bit of tainted chili off the floor, the creatures began to grow.
“Oh crap…”
The first creature to reach John’s Colon Cleanser grew nearly double its original size, and the others were catching up fast. With the chili gone, they oozed toward him again.
“Oh crap,” John repeated, the last of his calm demeanor melting away.
He fled back into the kitchen. The slimy orange monstrosities squeezed through the swinging doors in pursuit. The proleg-lined tentacles propelled the creatures with surprising speed. They followed John through the kitchen and out the rear exit.
John sprinted across the alleyway to his storage shed. He armed himself with a crowbar –the only tool he found in his shed formidable enough to be a weapon– and continued his jaunt down the alley. He didn’t know where he was running. He didn’t care, as long as it was away from those disgusting, slimy, orange freaks.
I’ve got to find a real weapon.
He came to a door that led into the cannery. He stopped only long enough to see that the creatures were still on his heels. He rushed through the door, slammed it shut, and threw the deadbolt into place.
When he turned around he saw that there were more aliens here than there had been in the cafeteria. At least these seemed to be occupied with the massive vats of beans. For now, they showed no interest in John.
A loud crash sounded against the door behind him. The creatures were trying to break it down. The crash sounded again. It wouldn’t hold for long, the way they were pounding on it.
John hurried away from the door, and up onto one of the catwalks. He had only progressed a few feet when the door came crashing down. His slimy, orange pursuers oozed through the opening.
He fled across the alleyway, crashing through the door to the cannery. He jogged only a few steps before he saw them. The sloshing orange abominations had infested the massive pressure cooking vats. They paid him no heed as they devoured mountains of uncooked beans.
John stood there slack jawed. The cacophony of slurping noises made him feel a bit nauseous. The door behind him burst open. He forced his feet to move again. He was half way across the cannery floor when he glanced back. His pursuers were gone. No, not gone. They had joined their brethren in the vats. A grin spread over John’s face.
“So, ya came here for a cook off, did ya?”
With that John calmly made his way to the far wall. There he ascended a staircase that led to a small room. Half the room consisted of glass panels that overlooked the cannery floor. A console lay spread out before the windows at waist level.
John examined the array of controls. He didn’t know what any of the did, so he just started pressing buttons, and turning knobs. At last he flipped a switch and the lid to the nearest vat slammed closed with an authoritative thud. He flipped the next switch in that row, and the next vat closed.
He flipped the rest of the switches. The lids all sealed. Some of the aliens tried to escape, only to be split in half.
John continued to glide his fingers over the control panel. He didn’t stop until half a dozen warning lights and sirens sounded. Then he went back to the cafeteria.
#
Corpses of the Bleam Corp elite lay trampled near the main cafeteria exits, along side those of the rank and file employees.
John sat down next to the twisted body of Gustav, and lit a cigarette.
“Ya know boss, alien extermination isn’t in my job description. I’m going to have to take this up with my union rep,” John said, blowing a smoke ring into the air.
The walls shook with the sound of explosions from the cannery. John finished his cigarette, and went to the executive washroom to relieve himself.
These are the piss buckets of kings.
###
This story suffers on multiple levels. There are the pacing problems I mentioned in a previous post. Then there are the dialog tags getting in the way, along with a few other grammatical details. Overriding all of that, however, is the unshakable sense of hollowness.
As I wrote the story I really had no idea where I was going with it. This technique might work for the likes of Stephen King but not so much for me. The final product reads like what it is: empty. It lacks that spark that makes good fiction come to life.
Fortunately, I have complete a few other works since that I feel are vastly improved. No luck with publication yet but I feel they have a much better chance of finding a home, even if it isn’t with one of the more well known literary mags that I always aim for first.
