Flash Fiction Fridays: Diabolos Ex Machina

Since my first attempt at a horror flash fiction wandered a bit astray, I’ve tried it again.

DIABOLOS EX MACHINA

The alley was bitterly cold, but Simon didn’t notice. The fight had heated his blood and he felt overly warm inside his thick coat. He was kneeling on a man whose face felt like oatmeal every time he hit it. Even the jaw and cheekbones no longer offered any resistance, and the man had stopped moving long ago.

Still, Simon battered the man several more times before his rage abated to human levels and he became aware of how tired his arm was. He got to his feet and kicked the man over so he wouldn’t have to look at him. Of the man’s two friends, one was unconscious or dead, and the other had stopped whimpering a while ago. But there was still a faint cloud of breath near his head. Simon knew he was playing possum, desperately hoping the terrible injuries he’d already sustained were all there would be. They had all been so tough when the altercation began.

Someone began to clap behind Simon. He turned to see a tall silver-haired gentleman standing in the snow. His suit was extremely expensive and black as night. Somehow even the snowflakes seemed to avoid his shoulders and hair. He wore no coat, but was unfazed by the bone-chilling cold. “Delightful,” he said.

“Be happy to do you the same.”

The gentleman didn’t even pretend to look frightened. “Shut up, Simon. Save that for someone who can actually be scared.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “The Devil. Pleased to meet you.” His eyes glowed red when he said it.

Simon noticed that the snow melted underfoot as the man stepped forward and that when he spoke he filled the air with great gouts of thick steam. But when he wasn’t talking the air around his face remained clear, as if he wasn’t breathing at all. Never very intelligent, Simon nonetheless had sharp animal cunning and knew to trust his instincts when over-thinking things would just get in the way. He believed the man was exactly who he said he was, with zero concern for whether it was possible or not. He didn’t clasp the extended hand. “And what does the Devil want in Toronto on a Thursday night?”

“You, Simon.”

“What’s your price?”

“For what?”

“My soul.”

“Simon, do you honestly think your soul’s going anywhere but my house when you die? Why make a deal for something I already own?”

“Said you wanted it.”

The Devil rolled his eyes, pulled out a handgun and shot Simon in the chest. “There are no deals, Simon. When I get tired of waiting or just feel like murder, I simply come and get you.”

He shot Simon in the head, blowing bits of brain across the snow. Then he shot him in the groin. He looked over at the man playing possum.

“I liked it better when you whimpered,” he said, and shot the man six times.

The air hung heavy with the smell of sulfur and cordite.

3 Comments

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI