Feed the Machine

By Erica Summers

Anthony signs up to Beta-test a brand new horror game on a soon-to-be-launched Virtual Reality System but quickly discovers the game has brutal real-life consequences.

This gruesome, bloody, and darkly-funny little piece of extreme horror fiction is written in the vein of Black Mirror and brought to you by Erica Summers, the author behind Vanity Kills, Writhe, and DERAILED.

Trigger Warnings: Heavy gore & profanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rusty Ogre Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224848935

Book preview

Feed the Machine

A Short, Gruesome Horror Story

Erica Summers

Rusty Ogre Publishing

Copyright © 2023 by Erica Summers

Published by Rusty Ogre Publishing.

All rights reserved.

Edited by Mark Anthony.

Cover Design by Christy Aldridge of Grim Poppy Designs

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

All characters in this work are fictional. Any likenesses to real persons are purely coincidental.

Contents

. Chapter

Feed The Machine

A Note from the Author

More by Erica Summers

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Feed The Machine

Stuart pinched a cigarette between thin lips and sucked back the last shreds of thick tobacco it had to offer. His bony hand trembled as he flung the spent butt into a bed of crimson petunias against the brick building. His face was milk white, making the reddened rings around his eyes stand out. Despite the nausea, his callous wit was still present. Rollin' ‘ose pants up makes 'ew look like the fuckin' chimney sweep in Mary Poppins. His thick London accent laced every word as he playfully indicated Dash's calves with a sharp nod.

Please, mate. Not now. Dash's cadence and pronunciation was similar to Stuart’s but the words, thick with guilt, fell cold from his colorless lips. He squatted on the steps and sucked slow drags of air to soothe waves of sickness pulsing through him. He glared at the biohazard dumpster tucked against the building, imagining the soup of sun-marinating ichor and shredded tissue dwelling within. It was a simmering kettle of once-bloodshot eyes and frail, carpal-tunnel ridden arms. His face, damp with sweat, grew colorless as he wretched loudly over the side rail, tasting his morning snack of brie and crackers for the second time.

"'How a' you not frowin' up too? Fuckin' sociopath." Dash stared in horror. Stuart remained unfazed by the traumatic events of the morning. He was not without sympathy. He’d simply had