Höllenbadt: Book two of the Torus Saga

by Berg, Michael

  Höllenbadt

  Michael Berg 2013

  Copyright Michael Berg 2013

  Chapter 1

  Human beings had become what they were through choice, according to the legends of the time. They had always chosen through darkness and light whether it be for want, for need, or to satiate hunger from deep beyond their conscious minds. Nevertheless, they had all chosen and so the times were in place to give back to them, their deepest and darkest awareness of selves. From within they were to be what was without – remorseless and unfathomable, always reaching and always searching for more.

  The machine billowed great clouds of steam, great clouds of dust, and great clouds of particles metaphorically far from the reach of vision. Minds boiling with rage, boiling with contempt, and boiling with an endless quest for power, created the dust of humanity – its remnants blown away bit by bit to be carried on the howling winds. As they went about their lives, those lives went about them, in a continuos drain of both soul and of spirit to then be gathered by the purveyor of injustice, and thus manifesting as particles of dread.

  In the eight years since it had started, it had all begun to end, and yet there was never an end. Countless the ghosts of many were encumbered with despair between what was and what was not. Hope was but a distant filament of imagination – they had wanted this, accepted it, and now they would live, or die, regardless if they still walked upon the face of the planet.

  Cities painted matte black with towers rising to laden skies cast gloom over all who dared look beyond the path of righteousness forgotten, where light only illuminated blackness within and without. Despite the sun of endless days, there was no living, just compliance, and the endless days bore on forever to nowhere. As kings, the towers reigned over the detritus of humanity below, with their queens embroiled in the twisted shadows of memory, giving birth to life, already dead. Machines formed lives, and machines deformed lives totally at will, and in totality without will. As hoards they plundered worn paths so many before had tread – a path from oblivion and to…oblivion. Lines upon millions of lines were all in giving service to the beast – a beast from within themselves, and now from without.

  Earth floated through darkness, surrounded and bound to itself, to its indignation of deceit, and of the merciless souls in congregation of the disorder – detesting in hate, and destined to hate. As each cog turned within the machine planet, the inconsequence of lives was erased and others took their place, to become the next gears of subjugation in realising the art. A manifest of abundance, yet most were so hollow – their faces masked with loss, with habit, and with all of the dirt humanity could muster.

  Eagles cast wings upon the winds, to become the carrion of the ravens below. It was all far below, deep, dark, and utterly devoid of circumspect where nothing resides, where nothing was life. Inside these caverns of despair and of rabid fervour, was the Agent.

  He was not a leader yet he led – his only knowledge was of self and so they took it upon to falsely see themselves as consequence. But as the vulture circles, it also preys looking for and searching for dead meat in which to thrust itself and then be covered blood. And…how dare them! Any standing before him as a group, for to consociate was bereft of meaning in his plight against them all. All who would be in service, to him. He took them and he hated them, scathing in depravity and never hesitant to dispose - disgorging fractionalised memories to be re-cast his way. He was the Minotaur, his labyrinth the metabolite with endless wanderings of demur to himself.

  He saw ends…to a means, and he destroyed means to ends – of all ends except his own megalomaniac mind. So conjured were the delights of his pleasures where the stench was, oh so sweet - in his eyes resided in nothing, except he. Lost as he was, he was founded and so founded was he that he let leash upon the lost Earth, measures immeasurably miserable, and intensely infinitesimal – as slowly and surely he changed them.

  The virus of his mind reflected his inner workings so lacking compassion, and he would send it to them, they craved it, they needed it, the virus of humanity, yet not of humanity. His creations invaded bodies and minds of all who subscribed to deception and consumption, and the price was high, the contract endless. His hand would tremble with anticipation of pain, and anticipation of angst – it was all he needed to enliven his beast. Of machine and beyond the bearings of most, he lubricated his thirst for blood and for eternal suffering.

  It hummed and glowed and cast sight throughout, yet without eyes. Set against yet even more blackness than black, it stood as the pinnacle of his power, again seen as an extension of himself. ‘El tor exquisito’ – the bull exquisite, as was the pain it delivered.

  He stood alone amongst the many as they stood not, but were stooped, their heads bowed down in reverence to his methods. They complied free of will, for he had their will and he controlled, mercilessly, ambivalent to regard them, and with contempt such that it was. He too was free of will, yet his methods were to be expunged at his desire – twisted and erratic, the child of maniacal whims.

  The Agent took no name – he simply was and to himself he was all to them, for without him, they were oblivion in construct, of deconstruction. And they had dependencies so he fed them a little at a time, always keeping them hungry.

  Chapter 2

  Earth had evolved as a contrast, to what it was, to what it had been, and to what it was to become. Life evolved…adapted. It went on as it had always been this way. For many though, they were the minions of the Agent whose provocateur was the viruses he unleashed at will. To some who were full of hate for what he had brought upon them, fed him with such hate as they looked for solace and comfort through their only trustable means, the authorities. But they too were rife in dissent and many saw the futility of it all against him, against each other, and against the central systems. This had wrought disaster, distaste in the worst of kind, and disruption to the edifice of institution.

  Some bound to their ways, as life was to progression through this mire, held dear to their hearts and to their life, the fire never extinguishable and a flame forever flickering, showing forms of forces unseen, yet felt.

  She had evolved since the time she let it happen. Unlike the Agent, she was in no turmoil and retained the determination to overcome adversity. Her living space coloured with life, set a contrast to the world beyond the gate, where the tendrils of his reach, cast outward looking for victims – in any place, in every place. Her song came from the heart – he had no song. Her body was free and far out of reach from him. Carmel Madeline lived in the small house north of San Francisco, where she had been these past eight years.

  She was free from all she had left behind, so long ago and so very distant when it had caressed her conscience, then left to be lost over the horizon forever. She was herself. She was engaged in life and she was amongst a very few strong enough to resist the temptations – yet she was confined in her struggle to overcome them. Her friends, her lover, had been lost so she thought, and these trials, these tribulations gave her strength and with this, she had spirit.

  The art of harmony was now her life, its forms and its flows were simply her way of being. Her body showed barely any ageing, as did her heart. Her mind was in connection and she was playing the part. As she sang, her song was not of words - she was an instrument and her living the melody. Carmel was unflinching in the face of such traits, brought by the Agent, the Agent of eights. He had called this his name, his designation of sorts, and he ruled with a fist, over all his cohorts. But she never bent to the pain and never to the whims, she was far too strong inside…and outside and she knew it to be so. For her grace was not a show, as it was an extempore exhibition. She was w
hole and she was pure, and she was free from contrition.

  Now as she stood amongst the very few flowers that could be seen about the small town, she felt there was something calling her, summoning her. Not the Agent or the beast he used as his weapon, but a summoning from everywhere – it was a feeling. Her condition was one of being open to acceptance of these waves in authentic presence as she rode them. Unlike the many others who were now even about the town, she would never be drowned, for her love was found. It had been a resurgence of memories almost forgotten, and now she felt a calling, in a world turned so rotten.

  “Oh Tim, where are you my love?” she said aloud. “Where have you gone, or are you gone? Oh Tim, oh Tim.” Carmel Madeline had lost contact with the people she held dear so many years before now. It was seven years ago, and now this was the eighth, and despite her health and natural beauty, she had remained a single woman all those years.

  Finding anyone to love was almost a lost cause in these times – so far apart people were. They were consumed and lost to it, and the Agent had sent out his messages of fear, and of pain, of suffering, and of oblivion. And so, they had forgotten…themselves and without themselves, they had lost the love. But Carmel knew she could bring it back for it was never truly lost – just forgotten.

  Out the gate and into the world beyond, she took her love and her will, but so many others were not so free and nearly every face she saw showed its pain, its loss, and it showed her nothingness. In town at the centre, stood an idol of worship – the town was under the governance of the Agent and so he installed such idols wherever he reigned supreme. But that was in his mind and the minds of others, and so it missed the hearts of the many that were waiting to be remembered. The Agent had no heart, despite the pumping of the blood so bitter in his veins – it ran deep red and so it did outward from his victims.

  Then she called into the store – the only one still open. She bought some food as distasteful as it was, and she bought some fuel to turn the machine, the only machine she wanted. The Agent had taken to restriction in ways the authorities had never dreamt, and so they were caught unaware, and he was victorious – once again only in his mind though. Carmel had finished and then decided to go home. She took her food and her fuel and spoke to no one. They simply didn’t care about almost anything and their faces showed their emptiness. She had tried to communicate with them on every day prior to this one and over time she saw their lack of will, and so gradually she kept to herself. When she arrived back home, her few flowers were again a reminder of life in progression and the ongoing reformations that she was a part of…forever. There is no end – all being infinite, but the many around her did not see this and so they cast eyes down or were distracted, their lives so very fractured.

  Inside she lit the stove and prepared some food. There was warmth in the air but also there was a chill. There had been nearly all those seven years now – a chill, a coldness that was more than the grey lights of the authority driven world could ever bring.

  They had lost in a sense, and where they did, the Agent had made his mark. The towers and the fringes had been painted matt black and they featured red lighting only, their former glory of colour lost, uninstalled. Where he had failed, so angry was he at this, the authorities still held the ground, the buildings, and the air – but the cold grey lighting only led to despair. She didn’t own any device, as they had been banned where the Agent was present. So her house was quiet and in it she felt content, for there was very little beyond her gate to make her feel this way. She knew this was not entirely true though as her spirit told her they were waiting…for her. It was just she didn’t quite know it, and they could not know it.

  Chapter 3

  The Agent stood at the holographic bank admiring the three Torus in situation atop. He was in most part successful, he was well on his way to his own glorified goals, and he was about to expel yet more of his hatred upon people. His fingers trembled as they sequentially held so much pain, so easily manifested now he controlled the beast. He had controlled it for almost longer than he could remember. Recollection made no difference to him – he simply was there, at it now, and ready to dispense the suffering. Not his own suffering in a sense, because he was actually eternally suffering – the suffering of others was what he enjoyed so much. He was facetious as he laughed at the visions in his mind and on the holographic bank – his mania was he and he was it…simple. And through all of this, he barely ever remembered his name, George Smyth. His mania was purely the Agent, an agent of malice and he held most of the world to ransom.

  He felt secure, again in his own mind and he was right in most instances. He had held the authorities to ransom after returning with the stolen spacecraft from Mars. The pathetic leader of the dark sect had allowed him to join them when he returned to Earth with the stolen spaceship, and then over the following year, he took charge. Malice like his was unequal in their ranks and soon enough he had his way. First was the leader who now served him…as a minion and without choice in this. Then he had unleashed a swath of unstable viruses using the vortex amplifier to scare people and the authorities out of their wits. With victory coming all over the globe, he despatched said minions to control the cities and he had despatched his command for all under him were to be without technology. Then he chose to paint his world matte black with just a few red lights, so ardently he loved the spaceship of similar appearance. It was designed to reflect space and so the monoliths and megaliths were too in reflection – of space, but not the depths of space still visible at night. It was the reflection of the space he saw in others and so was a reflection of nothing. They were not shiny black for it would cast light, but were a dull lustre of matte finish, without depth, yet so deep…to him.

  He forced onto others his desire and his will for them to become a part of his plan, with nano technology implants as their only saviour for their now technology deprived lives. And where he controlled them, he offered nothing to benefit them, but just a tether, so fine, for life. This he saw would ensure their compliance as he held them in his hand, and all others in the world would then show his face, expressionless and bland.

  With threats and his amplifier, he now controlled so many and his numbers were growing, despite the best efforts of the authorities. They fought and they struggled in counter attack, their dreams of efficiency almost lost. ‘Their stupid minds compare nothing unto me,’ he would think and in a macabre sense of pleasure, and he would send them viruses. And the viruses sent out by the beast, gave him an allurement to gorge and to feast. He could see them flail besotted with pain, so he would send out the viruses, again and again. Terror was his way and his dreams as well, and with it came a sense of maniacal ego that indeed, did swell. The players of games in the past were nothing with their paltry versions of displeasure and of torture – he could eliminate them all at his discretion, and so he looked down, far down to them for they would always be beneath him, even those in the offices of the places he had yet to conquer. Soon, their virus beating software would fail and so he would then have no limits.

  Whilst they had weapons, they were ineffective, because he sent viruses to them as well. And so they stood as ghosts – robots and flying craft, motionless and deactivated. Vehicles too and the transit lines were unused, standing silent like the other technology, their passengers restricted to the cities and the towns. The authorities themselves had become distracted due to the vast incursions by the Agent across the planet.

  Carmel had never owned a vehicle and getting one now was easy – they were abandoned everywhere, but energy was a problem, so the thought barely ever crossed her mind. She loved to walk anyway, and with the restrictions brought on by the Agent, she never had to go far.

  All across the west of the United States the same state existed, and in the east, his incursions were regular disruptions to life for many. People still worked, but they worked for survival and for the Agent now, as the authorities had trimmed their ranks not by choice, but by force, and they had
also stagnated the development of new technology. Many were now unemployed, with status only amongst the elite. But the Agent needed them as they now needed him, so he kept them alive in body to service his need. And if they tested him or misbehaved, then he would make them bleed.

  Although blood was a fascination of his, the bleeding took on many forms…of terror and of utter despair, and holding them in fear so much more than the authorities had tried those years ago with their technology network for security and identifications.

  Across the continents he could influence many with a virus and so he made inroads into places far-flung and wide. People would talk about him in the streets and in their homes – many trying to come up with ways to defeat him, but all futile. He controlled the foods and the resources of so many that they dared not oppose him through fear of losing such dependencies. And he would force them, otherwise he would deny them food, deny them fuel, and he would force them to be implanted with nano technology so he could control them. Where once the towers glittered, alive with current directed to devices, they now looked as dormant as the hearts inside and served only to house them…his minions.

  The only thing to really trouble Carmel was the isolation. Despite the many faces around her, they were empty and she missed the connections. She missed the openness that had prevailed even after the authority crack down. She missed the tenderness associated with love and between friends. She was alone, but only in body. She had the giving, the nature flowing inside and this kept her going.

  Across the town, wisps of smoke rose into air as people burned whatever they could to keep warm and for cooking. They had been cast back, to a time where fire was the mainstay of energy – the Agent had made energy scarce and unavailable for most. In the cities, clouds of smoke hung over and around the buildings with people turning to the refuse as fuel, and those in the high-rise, were allocated a minimal amount of electricity – enough to keep them alive.