Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

  A man with shiny hoops running up his arms in orderly fashion that jingle against each other as he moves approaches me, nonchalantly grabs my bound wrist and gives it a tight squeeze. “You’re going to feel a little pinch,” he warns with unnatural sweetness.

  “That needle’s sterile, right?”

  He eyes me oddly. “I don’t think that should be your first concern.” Pulling my arm tight, he sticks the needle in my vein and shoots the fluid into my bloodstream. It pinches just like he promised. Then it burns like hell.

  “Let me worry about my priorities, will ya, pal?” The man shrugs and jingles his way back behind the lights, soon replaced by the Barren. Up close I can see the stress on his face, the wear of his blight. He’s a tired, aging old man playing the role of a god to the fallen. I don’t look for any words of encouragement or peace, and I find none either. He has a city to run. I respect that.

  A voice calls out from behind the crew, “We’re live in 3… 2… 1…”

  “My people,” the Barren booms, his shrill voice echoing through the cavern, “Your Barren is pleased to bring you this evening’s entertainment! Our beloved Candyman has returned to restore his name to the Kingdom and race for his life through a course riddled with danger and death!”

  Twenty-Nine

  The door slams and locks behind me, leaving me alone in another dark cavern, but I can see a light up ahead bleeding down through a hole and exposing a dead end. I take a deep breath, arm still burning from the crap they pumped into me, and roll onto my back. The coarse ground digs into my skin as I pull my feet up towards my head, sliding my bound wrists down my bowed spine to the lumps of flesh at the bottom before it locks.

  Wiggling and squirming, binding digging deep into my wrists and ribs pressing into my stomach. Back and forth, little by little, manage to slide further over the hump. Exhaling every bit of air within me, I’m only slightly aware of my sex dangling an inch from pursed lips. Sweat beads on my skin, whole body burning and shoulders about ready to give, I make one last yank and clear the boundary.

  A few quick gasps and I clear the rest of the way, pulling my legs through the hoop of my arms before rolling back to my feet and stretching wide, hands raised high. Gulping in deep breaths, I break into a light jog towards the end of the tunnel.

  I look up into the light and give my eyes a moment to focus amongst the unfamiliar intensity. Bright floodlights high above illuminate a giant funnel leading up, pieced together carefully from old pieces of plastic and welded sheet metal, and me standing at the bottom. The sides are steep, but not impossible to scale. I lick my lips, eyes darting and calculating the means of my ascent. A few steps back, I wipe the bottom of my feet across the opposite leg to dust off excess dirt, then lunge up and ahead, planting my feet on the smooth surface and using my momentum to propel me onward.

  A roar of excitement erupts from above me, echoing through the funnel and igniting my adrenaline. Momentum begins to fail and I switch directions, winding a circular path up the funnel. Vibrations with each footfall threaten to shake me loose, but suddenly become irregular and more violent just before I reach the halfway point.

  Risking a glance up, my heart seizes as I see a large object, rapidly increasing in size as it makes its way down the funnel. Is that a fucking kitchen sink?? Ceramic cracks, then shatters, threatening to pepper me with shrapnel as the larger pieces fall harmlessly to either side of my position. Then I hear the tinkling.

  A shower of tiny, shimmering bits appear, rolling and bouncing all around the sides of the funnel, soon accompanied by larger, more threatening chunks. As if this wasn’t a challenge enough, shadows above are chucking anything they can find to impede my progress.

  Painfully aware of my all too exposed skin, I slide to a stop, pressing my body against the cool surface of the wall as the shower of nuts, bolts, and rusted screws slide safely past, only a handful bouncing off my head and shoulders. But my sweat-beaded skin begins to lose hold and I find myself sliding back down, losing the ground I’ve gained. More threats coming from above, I look down and realize they’ve created an ever-growing pile of sharp objects at the bottom.

  No chance of starting over, although my body is slowly gaining speed in that direction, I look above again and start rethinking my path, waiting until the last moment, narrowly avoiding a toaster from colliding with my head before pressing off and finding my footing again, only slipping for a moment before my roundabout race resumes.

  Another chorus of cheers appears, though there’s some obvious disappointment in the crowd as well. There are no breaks from the barrage of falling objects. The higher I get, the slicker with sweat my body becomes and the fewer escape routes appear.

  I’m forced to stop one more time to keep from smashing into a spinning tire, slamming my body into what might have once been a refrigerator door. I plunge my index finger into a hole to keep my body from slipping down, take a moment to catch my breath, then make a few more quick lunges another fifteen feet before my hands can reach the lip and pull myself out of the death trap.

  Despite my desire to stand victorious and bask in the cheers and jeers of my sadistic audience, my body collapses, heaving on the flat, grated surface, burning lungs heaving deep gasps in and out.

  “The accused has made it past the first obstacle! Let’s see how he fairs against the fiery platforms!”

  Fiery platforms?

  Rolling over, I glance down below the grating. There’s the distinct smell of gas, the sound of puffing, and a tiny flame some distance below me begins to crackle, sparks appearing and dancing around it before it rapidly grows in size.

  Shit!

  Swiftly twisting my body, my arms push hard against the charred metal, propelling me to my feet and I leap, near blindly, to the next section of grating as a pillar of bright hot flames appears where my body had been only a breath ago. I land hard, platform swaying to and fro, suspended by steel chains as smoke stained as the grating below. My hands grip the nearest such chain to steady myself and I scan my surroundings again, taking survey of my new predicament.

  Dozens of similar platforms are suspended at differing heights, each hovering over an equally charred metal tube. More figures are below, darting between large wheels that I can only assume control the flow of gas. I can just make out the faint sound of popping gas and know it’s time to move again. Timing the sway of the platform, I duck down and lunge to the next, trying to minimize my impact to keep the sway from being too violent to hold on. Then again and again, finding my rhythm to avoid being roasted alive. After the last trial, this one is a cake-walk. Or so it seems.

  Prepped for my next lunge, I barely spy the tube beneath my next platform brighten to a white hot then blast flames up into the metal grating. Hesitating, I lose balance and start to fall forward off the grating, all too quickly sliding back from beneath me. Catching the chain in time, my weight holds the grate in place to the side with my body hovering directly over another crackling flame beneath me.

  Pulling hard, I plant my feet on the grating and take two steps across its awkward surface before making a weak jump to the previous platform. Too short, my foot won’t make it, instead catching the sharp surface with my hands. Still hot from the flames only seconds ago, the steel burns into my palms and fingers as the sharp edges bite. My teeth clench tightly, biting through the pain, as I wait for the full swing of the platform to reach its peak before coming back, giving me the momentum I need to swing my legs back up and over, planting my feet and giving my hands a much needed break from the bite.

  Forced to rethink the course, I scan it again. Less platforms. More chains. Rather than focusing on a predictable pattern of places to land, I move for the shorter, faster, dirtier means of leaping for the chains themselves, only using the edges of the platforms to gain footing before leaping for the next point.

  I make several clean jumps before the figures below start to catch on and scramble to try and predict, erupting flames from multiple tubes at the same tim
e, but even with my hands bound, this is my element. I clear the trial in minutes, landing safely on hard ground at the opening to a tunnel that looks like the body of some sort of long, cylindrical tram. My hands and feet are throbbing, perhaps blistering from the heated metal, but the crowd seems no less enthusiastic as enormous vidscreens around the massive chamber spring to life. From my perch, I can see that they all show something different. Most of them are dim views of tunnels, which I can only imagine is where I will soon be running through. One of them is pointed at my sweaty, heaving, and char covered body. And one is directly on the brightly lit image of the Barren, arms raised and face grinning.

  “The accused has made it through the second trial! On to the rat race! Will he make it to the antidote in time before the poison consumes him?”

  Reminded of my time limit, I catch a glimpse of one last vidscreen displaying a pedestal with an ironic wedge of cheese resting on top before breathing deep and darting into the open tunnel in front of me.

  Thirty

  The cool wind contrast of the tunnels quickly chills my sweat soaked skin, but does nothing to subside the fires burning in my chest scar, through my muscles, and ever creepily pumping through my veins that I can only imagine is from the poison. Adrenaline subsiding with every step, I feel my body becoming ever so slightly weaker, more sluggish, not responding the way I expect it to. Compile this with a growing unrest of nausea in my gut and I’m feeling all sorts of shitty as the cold sweats break in.

  Four turns into the tunnels and I come to my first fork in the road. Thus far I haven’t seen any traps or terrors, but that doesn’t do anything to quell my anxiety. I know they’re coming, just no clue what form they’ll be in.

  I pause only a moment to make my decision, taking three steps into the tunnel on the right before I hear the pitter patter of pawed feet rapidly approaching. A giant rat rounds the corner looking ragged and starved. Of course there would be rats. Mange has clearly set in, but more disturbing I can see the ribs outlined as it bounces towards me. Dangerously hungry, I set a foot behind me, readying myself for the oncoming assailant.

  Three more hops and the poor beast is thrust into the ceiling, impaled by a dozen sharp stakes that fly from the floor, then descend with the same violence, pulling the still twitching victim crashing onto the ground below. Eyes on the floor, I approach carefully, watching for any holes in the ground. I can see the trap more obviously now, standing just in front of the carcass, watching the ever-growing pool of blood drain down the dark holes into the depths below.

  Testing with a toe, I trigger the pressure trap and watch the spikes ascend again, the shear force nearly toppling me backwards. They drop again only a second later, then I position the bindings of my wrist over a hole. I hesitate as the smell of fresh blood and filthy rat turns my already soured stomach. Holding my breath, I squint my eyes and attempt to ignore the acid rising in my throat and press down on the floor.

  The spike comes through swiftly enough to pull my whole body to standing before it breaks through the binding, just enough to let me finish the job and pull my hands apart. A few steps back and I sail harmlessly over the trap, landing on the other side with no difficulty, then continue on my way, ever wary of all walls, but blessedly free from my bindings and away from the stench.

  A few more twists and turns and a couple more forks in the road and I find myself completely turned around. The traps seem simple enough to avoid so long as I know what to look for, but everything is beginning to look the same and I am uncertain if I’ve already passed by each section before. When I do spy something new, it’s not the most welcome scene.

  Two starving rats have found each other, but the battle is over with the victor ravenously devouring the spoils of war. To my dismay, it isn’t too distracted to recognize a new challenger. A blood-stained sneer finds my direction with an unnatural hiss before it comes charging. I ready my stance once more, but find it shakier than expected, limbs trembling. I’m running out of time.

  In seconds the beast is upon me, but with little mind for strategy, it barrels right at me. The size of the thing gives me reason to doubt I can hold my ground. Last second I adjust my stance, side-step the creature, but grip tight to an outstretched leg and use its own speed against it, redirecting the thing head-first into the wall with a satisfying thud.

  Before it can recover its footing, I force my knees into the struggling rodent’s back, pinning it down while I change my grip to the thin membranes of its ears, lifting and thrusting its head repeatedly into the ground with all of the force I can muster until the struggle stops.

  Panting, I fumble standing up and collapse back to a squat, having spent all of my energy in the attack. My mouth is parched and my tongue presses thickly across the grimy roof of my mouth in an attempt to swallow. A few deep breaths and my vision blurs with bright bursts of light twinkling. Immunities failing me, I know my time is rapidly decreasing as the poison makes its way through my system.

  Spying the other dead rat across the way, I crawl towards it, observing the corpse. Exposed chest, I see what I’m looking for and reach in, taking a firm grip on a warm, wet and sticky rib bone already showing signs of cracking. Propping my feet against the sides of its body for leverage, I give a mighty tug. My feet slip and I only manage to pull the bloody body on top of my own. The smell hits and I can no longer resist gagging, adding stinging bile to mix with the blood and other juices of the rat.

  Refusing to give in, I position myself atop the thing and rock my weight up and down until the rib finally gives way, breaking free in my hands as I spill backwards. A lot of effort for a sorry excuse for a weapon, but I know all too well that I don’t have the energy left for a direct confrontation with a cockroach, much less a full grown rat. The curved bone feels pathetic in my weakened grip, but better than nothing.

  Using the wall for support, I manage to regain my footing, pausing only once for another session of puking, stinging the inside of my nose and burning my eyes, before continuing my walk, keeping one hand on the wall for support.

  It feels like hours before I round a corner and spy the pedestal, though probably only a fraction of that has passed. I find no comfort in the sight. The top of the pedestal is empty, licked clean. Behind it, I see the culprit grooming itself.

  All is lost. I should have known. Any chance of survival I once had is now in the belly of the beast.

  More vomit threatens to arise, but nothing remains and instead I double over dry-heaving as the thought hits me. The noise arouses the suspicion of the rodent. No longer starving, but no less threatened by an intruder.

  More cautious than those before it, the rat sniffs the air before taking position and sizing up its foe. This time I mimic its malicious expression. “C’mon ya mangy asshole. Let’s do this.”

  Legs still trembling beneath me, I keep pressed against the wall as I move towards my own special kind of prey. Sensing my intentions, and possibly my frailty, the rat rears on its hind legs and bounds my way, teeth gnashing in anticipation of its next meal.

  One chance to hit the mark, I swing my arm back behind me, hold it for a second, then push off the wall towards the bounding rodent. Wild eyed, my free palm slams the open mouth shut while my other hand slams the curved bone deep into the creature’s throat.

  Forty pounds of rat might as well be a ton as we collide and I’m thrown backwards with the struggling rodent above me, pinning me to the ground. No instant kill, frantic claws slip across my skin, burning with each swipe while I struggle to roll us over. The twitching slows down, but not before scratching the hell out of me in a mess of blood and fur and what smells like shit. Probably not mine.

  Mounting the twitching creature, I grip the bone in its throat and pull it down, ripping through flesh and exposing the innards until I spy the sack of its stomach. Just don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Piercing the muscle, I rip it open and dig through the contents to find undigested yellow chunks, glistening like
gold with digestive juices.

  Piece by piece, I pluck the bits from their resting place and thrust them into my mouth, forcing them past my gag reflex and swallowing them down. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think. After a few moments I can’t see any more of them and push myself off the body, hoping the cheese did the trick. Hoping I wasn’t lied to and the antidote was actually in the cheese. Hoping I don’t throw it back up. Hoping I’m not too late. Then the darkness takes me.

  Thirty-One

  Something warm and wet runs slowly across my forehead, bringing me slowly back to painful existence. Fingers and toes extend and pull back, working through the stiffness while my vision slowly clears. The pain darting through my awakening muscles and the hideous face inches above mine confirms it. I should have gone to church like Mom told me to.

  “Damn. Not a bad run though, right?”

  “Sir?” comes a surprisingly feminine voice from the wild-eyed monster before me. Its lipless mouth of jagged yellow and brown teeth disappears beyond my peripheral. Hot breath on my ear sends a frigid shock through my body as it whispers, “You are dictorious. A chantion. As announced earlier, you had earned your dardon.” The face reappears in what I assume to be a smile, but mostly looks like a skull with only half the skin that’s trying desperately to hold itself together. I’m not sure what happened to that face, but her speech is flawless, easily compensated for the lack of lips and coming through as more of a subtle lisp than a struggling stutter.

  “Pardoned?

  “Yes. You dassed the trial.” The head turns towards an unseen figure in the room. “Send thor the Darren. He lill lish to steak thith the candynan.”

  No response is given, but I can make out the faint sound of feet moving quickly away. Rolling my shoulders and tightening my legs, I test out to make sure everything is still intact. “You thill de just thine,” the creature says with another attempt at a smile. Looking down, I find a few new scratches and burns from the trials, but otherwise no worse for wear. I let out a long sigh and stare at the uneventful ceiling, grateful for a moment to rest, but ever wary of the time limit hovering over my head.