Hide
by Péter Fritsi
Even though it is the middle of the night, I have to wake her up. We have to leave, as fast as possible. As she stirs awake, she grabs my face to check if it really is me. Her small fingernails dig deep into my skin, but I let her do it, nevertheless. Once she has reassured herself, she heaves a sigh of relief and wraps her arms around my neck.
By now, the virus has already spread all over the world, it can no longer be stopped, it is taking its victims one by one. One of the first cases was caught on video, which now has hundreds of millions of views on YouTube. In the video, you can see a middle-aged man streaming live in a burger place. He is sitting at a table in the corner, waiting for his order to come. Behind him, a counter with some guests looking at the menu posted on the wall. The man flashes a wide smile at the camera when his burger and fries arrive on a big tray. Before he would take a big bite from the crispy bun, something strange happens. His smile disappears from his face, his gaze becomes glassy, and he freezes all of a sudden. The next moment the man vanishes into thin air; his hamburger falls back onto his tray. One of the guests turns around, their eyes widen, then they start screaming and pointing at the table. One of the waiters runs out from behind the counter, goes out of the camera’s line of sight for a second, then reappears again. He accidentally bumps into the table and knocks the phone off the table. The phone’s camera lens is cracked in several places, but it is still recording everything. The waiter is kneeling next to a hollowed-out human carcass.
For a while, everyone thought it was a prank video, but then it happened again, and again. The virus spared no one. It killed everyone equally. It happened the same way every time. One moment you were full of life, the next you were nothing more than a bag of human skin. Those who witnessed an incident were immediately quarantined, but that did not help either. All those regulations, restrictions, and curfews did nothing. The number of victims kept increasing until finally there was no one left to collect and transport the remains left behind. Human skin littered the streets, some even got stuck on tree branches, utility poles, and billboards. A few days ago, when there was a huge storm, we heard a bang coming from the kitchen. When we came to check what it was, we saw that the skin of the six-year-old boy, who lived next-door, got stuck onto our window glass. Whenever lightning flashed, its light filled him with life for a quick second, almost making him look alive again.
My sister does not want to leave; she nestles her tiny nose into my neck, trying to hide from the world, when I tell her that we have to go. She starts to whimper as I head for the front door with her. She can’t take her eyes off the kitchen door, that I locked when our parents fell victim to the virus. It happened so fast. They were in the kitchen, my father was doing the dishes, while my mom was drinking her morning coffee. Then, they were gone. Dad accidentally clogged the kitchen sink, and Mom reupholstered the dining chair. It was my sister who found them.
I peer through the peephole, but I can’t see anything, it is too dark in the hallway. I press my ear against the cool iron plate of the door, but the only thing I hear is my sister’s heavy breathing. I sling my backpack over my shoulder that I packed with what food we have left. When I open the door, my sister hugs me even harder. Sweat is running down my back. I dare not risk switching the lights on, even though I could find it in the dark without any problem. The virus only broke out about 3 weeks ago, so we still have water and electricity. Our infrastructure might even outlive us.
We are descending the stairs slowly. I am trying to be quiet, but my footsteps echo in the stairwell. I am holding my sister in one hand while grabbing the railing with the other. The landings are only illuminated by the pale-yellow light that seeps through the glass block windows. Suddenly, my fingertips touch something soft. I recoil in fear, my back hits the wall behind me, the cans and glasses rattle loudly in my bag, and I almost drop my sister. It seems like somebody thought it would be funny to wrap the desiccated husk of one of the victims around one of the stair railings. Maybe we do deserve this virus.
The elevator starts moving, which snaps me out of my shock. It is going up and we are listening to it stop at a level above. It is an old elevator so I know that its doors will open with a loud clang. When they do, I start running downstairs, throwing all caution to the wind. I can finally see the exit door. I kick it open; the night air is filled with the smell of rotting skin. But we are far from being safe, I have to keep running. My feet are getting heavier and heavier, I can’t shoulder this burden for much longer. I look around and I notice the perfect place to hide: a brick dumpster enclosure. I am panting, my sister is shaking like a leaf in my hands.
Shortly after the virus broke out, people started wearing “skin suits.” From a distance, you couldn’t tell the difference. Only from up close could you see that their facial features were deformed and grotesque. They look like botched facelift victims with joker smiles. They go door-to-door, constantly scavenging for new “suits.” Their motto is: “Skin for skin.” They are the self-proclaimed harbingers of pestilence. They believe that if they help out the virus, by skinning people alive, they themselves will be spared.
The foul stench of the garbage cans is making me gag, but we have to stay quiet. Somebody’s dried-out hand is sticking out of one of the cans, its fingers are fluttering in the wind. I venture a quick glance at the street, but I there is no one around. No sign of life. Only death. The pavement, the road, and the central island of a roundabout opposite the bus stop are all covered with shed skin.
We can’t stay in one place for too long, we have to get going. I go up the hill to get as far as I can from the residential area. I run past a row of garages; the forest is just up ahead. I don't know if we will be safe here or whether we will find shelter or not, but we had to get as far away from people as possible. Scavengers and fanatics check residential areas first, we were sitting ducks in that house. I can’t let them take my sister. Not her. I promised mom I would take of her. No matter what.
Two cars block the main entrance to the forest. They seem to have crashed into each other; both cars are totaled, shards of broken glass are scattered all around, glittering in the night. I can’t decide which one is more deflated the airbags or the bodies of the drivers behind the wheel. Leaving the crash scene and finally entering the forest I realize how tired I am.
I put my sister down, she can walk on her own for a little while. After a couple of steps, she suddenly stops. I slowly turn around. Her face is veiled by her wavy hair falling into her face. She is holding a big shard of glass in one of her hands. Her own flayed skin in the other.
I scream out in horror.
By now, the virus has already spread all over the world, it can no longer be stopped, it is taking its victims one by one. One of the first cases was caught on video, which now has hundreds of millions of views on YouTube. In the video, you can see a middle-aged man streaming live in a burger place. He is sitting at a table in the corner, waiting for his order to come. Behind him, a counter with some guests looking at the menu posted on the wall. The man flashes a wide smile at the camera when his burger and fries arrive on a big tray. Before he would take a big bite from the crispy bun, something strange happens. His smile disappears from his face, his gaze becomes glassy, and he freezes all of a sudden. The next moment the man vanishes into thin air; his hamburger falls back onto his tray. One of the guests turns around, their eyes widen, then they start screaming and pointing at the table. One of the waiters runs out from behind the counter, goes out of the camera’s line of sight for a second, then reappears again. He accidentally bumps into the table and knocks the phone off the table. The phone’s camera lens is cracked in several places, but it is still recording everything. The waiter is kneeling next to a hollowed-out human carcass.
For a while, everyone thought it was a prank video, but then it happened again, and again. The virus spared no one. It killed everyone equally. It happened the same way every time. One moment you were full of life, the next you were nothing more than a bag of human skin. Those who witnessed an incident were immediately quarantined, but that did not help either. All those regulations, restrictions, and curfews did nothing. The number of victims kept increasing until finally there was no one left to collect and transport the remains left behind. Human skin littered the streets, some even got stuck on tree branches, utility poles, and billboards. A few days ago, when there was a huge storm, we heard a bang coming from the kitchen. When we came to check what it was, we saw that the skin of the six-year-old boy, who lived next-door, got stuck onto our window glass. Whenever lightning flashed, its light filled him with life for a quick second, almost making him look alive again.
My sister does not want to leave; she nestles her tiny nose into my neck, trying to hide from the world, when I tell her that we have to go. She starts to whimper as I head for the front door with her. She can’t take her eyes off the kitchen door, that I locked when our parents fell victim to the virus. It happened so fast. They were in the kitchen, my father was doing the dishes, while my mom was drinking her morning coffee. Then, they were gone. Dad accidentally clogged the kitchen sink, and Mom reupholstered the dining chair. It was my sister who found them.
I peer through the peephole, but I can’t see anything, it is too dark in the hallway. I press my ear against the cool iron plate of the door, but the only thing I hear is my sister’s heavy breathing. I sling my backpack over my shoulder that I packed with what food we have left. When I open the door, my sister hugs me even harder. Sweat is running down my back. I dare not risk switching the lights on, even though I could find it in the dark without any problem. The virus only broke out about 3 weeks ago, so we still have water and electricity. Our infrastructure might even outlive us.
We are descending the stairs slowly. I am trying to be quiet, but my footsteps echo in the stairwell. I am holding my sister in one hand while grabbing the railing with the other. The landings are only illuminated by the pale-yellow light that seeps through the glass block windows. Suddenly, my fingertips touch something soft. I recoil in fear, my back hits the wall behind me, the cans and glasses rattle loudly in my bag, and I almost drop my sister. It seems like somebody thought it would be funny to wrap the desiccated husk of one of the victims around one of the stair railings. Maybe we do deserve this virus.
The elevator starts moving, which snaps me out of my shock. It is going up and we are listening to it stop at a level above. It is an old elevator so I know that its doors will open with a loud clang. When they do, I start running downstairs, throwing all caution to the wind. I can finally see the exit door. I kick it open; the night air is filled with the smell of rotting skin. But we are far from being safe, I have to keep running. My feet are getting heavier and heavier, I can’t shoulder this burden for much longer. I look around and I notice the perfect place to hide: a brick dumpster enclosure. I am panting, my sister is shaking like a leaf in my hands.
Shortly after the virus broke out, people started wearing “skin suits.” From a distance, you couldn’t tell the difference. Only from up close could you see that their facial features were deformed and grotesque. They look like botched facelift victims with joker smiles. They go door-to-door, constantly scavenging for new “suits.” Their motto is: “Skin for skin.” They are the self-proclaimed harbingers of pestilence. They believe that if they help out the virus, by skinning people alive, they themselves will be spared.
The foul stench of the garbage cans is making me gag, but we have to stay quiet. Somebody’s dried-out hand is sticking out of one of the cans, its fingers are fluttering in the wind. I venture a quick glance at the street, but I there is no one around. No sign of life. Only death. The pavement, the road, and the central island of a roundabout opposite the bus stop are all covered with shed skin.
We can’t stay in one place for too long, we have to get going. I go up the hill to get as far as I can from the residential area. I run past a row of garages; the forest is just up ahead. I don't know if we will be safe here or whether we will find shelter or not, but we had to get as far away from people as possible. Scavengers and fanatics check residential areas first, we were sitting ducks in that house. I can’t let them take my sister. Not her. I promised mom I would take of her. No matter what.
Two cars block the main entrance to the forest. They seem to have crashed into each other; both cars are totaled, shards of broken glass are scattered all around, glittering in the night. I can’t decide which one is more deflated the airbags or the bodies of the drivers behind the wheel. Leaving the crash scene and finally entering the forest I realize how tired I am.
I put my sister down, she can walk on her own for a little while. After a couple of steps, she suddenly stops. I slowly turn around. Her face is veiled by her wavy hair falling into her face. She is holding a big shard of glass in one of her hands. Her own flayed skin in the other.
I scream out in horror.
Péter Fritsi is an author of several novels which were published by Szülőföld Kiadó in Hungary. His short stories can be read in different literature magazines in his home country. He usually writes horror and weird stories in which he often uses folklore elements. In his horror novel, The Chair-Maker, a particular emphasis is given to legends of witches, coal-mines, and the making of the Luca-chair. He is a librarian and a journalist. "Hide" is translated by Milán Potkovácz.