by JournalStone
Then, he disappeared back into the shadows.
* * *
We did our best to bring the three girls—Cat, Bird and Monkey—up to speed. We told them as much as we could about Godforsaken; we prepared them for the bloated, long-tongued monsters that could be waiting for us right outside that door. However, we soon discovered Godforsaken II was going to be very different from the original.
Bernie kicked opened the door. We stepped into a circular dungeon made of ancient, mismatched bricks; bones of all shapes and sizes littered the floor, clumped together in tidy heaps; to our right was a strange, ornamental limestone archway, with decorations depicting the story of Satan falling from Heaven. At the far end of the room, several yards away, a winding staircase coiled into an abyss of absolute darkness.
A pair of fawns, colossal in scale and mass, emerged from the archway. Their beards were afire—turbulent fingers of bright, orange flame blazed under their chins—in their hands, they clutched two mighty maces, barbed and spiked, which they wielded effortlessly, as if they were feather pillows. With weapons raised, they charged us; their human upper-halves scraped against the ceiling, their hooves shook the ground.
Whatever plan of teamwork we might have had before the fawns appeared was quickly lost in the chaos. We dispersed in every direction, every costumed animal for themselves. I was the last to move. For a heartbeat or two, I didn't see a point in running. One fawn chased after Bernie and the girls, the other spotted me. It must have singled me out as the weakest. It attacked quickly, slammed down the mace as hard as it could. The tsunami of wind blew back my floppy dog ears.
Then, suddenly, my feet moved before my brain could catch up.
The spiked, metal meteorite pounded the ground—inches behind me—leaving behind a crater in its wake. The beast roared in anger; I ran; my hip was on the verge of breaking. Any second now, it would snap...I could feel it. The second fawn spotted me. It pivoted on cloven hoofs and again, brought its mace down upon me. This time it landed ahead of me. I tried to slow down but at my speed, halting suddenly would have been against the laws of physics. I slammed into the mace at full force, splitting open my mouth.
The pain kept me awake, kept me alive. I spit out a mouthful of blood and teeth, pushed off the mace and kept the stairs in my sights. The others were already making their way down. Only Bernie slowed to see if I lived or died. I could feel the heat of both fawns. The ground quaked violently beneath my feet; I could barely stand. So, the only thing I could think to do—was jump. For a good couple of seconds I tumbled down the stairs, until, quite literally, I fell on top of the others. I slammed into Bird, knocking her off her feet. Bernie tripped over her and fell too. We scrambled, all of us clawing, shoving, pushing. Powerful hands held me against the ground. Someone else stepped on my face. Fighting back, I reached up and grabbed Cat by the hair, and yanked her to the ground.
I thought: When darkness falls, when the ground threatens to collapse out from under you, we're all beasts, cloven hooves or not.
Cat fought back. Suddenly the stairs were gone. The air sucked itself from my lungs. She had kicked me off the side of the stairs and I was falling; falling into an abyss, into ultimate darkness. I closed my eyes expecting my skull to crack open on a floor of bricks. To my relief, it wasn't bricks waiting for me at the bottom...it was water. However, water was just as brutal as bricks; the only difference being instead of bouncing when I landed, I was engulfed. My hip shattered upon impact.
I resurfaced gasping for breath. A high-pitched wail echoed in all directions. I figured it was the fawns about to pounce on me from above but then, as my mind cleared, I realized it was my own screams making all the racket.
“I got you, I'm coming Ronald. Hold on!” Bernie splashed into the lake from above, he wrapped his arm around me—my own personal life preserver—and we swam to where the water wasn't so deep. “Can you stand?”
I knew I couldn't. I tried to speak but all that came out were anguish-soaked yelps.
“He's dead!” said Cat. She hovered over me, shaking her head. She refused to look me in the eyes, only looking at Bernie. “Sorry, man, I know he's your friend but-”
“Fuck you!” Bernie yelled. Ah, Bernie...what a guy. I wanted to give him a bloody, toothless kiss but resisted.
“All he's gonna do is slow us down!” shouted Cat, angrily. “We can't take him with us.” Water geysered outward; a worm, the color of dirt, exploded from the inky depths. Before Cat had time to scream, the eel attached itself to her, tearing out her throat. Blood sprayed everywhere, showering both Bernie and me. Quick on his feet, Bernie scooped me up just as the eel swiveled in our direction; fresh Cat blood oozed from crooked daggers inside its mouth.
Suddenly, production lights flashed all around us. Ozone filled my nostrils. My eyes were used to the darkness and the sudden intrusiveness stung. The Director stood in the exact spot where Cat had been slaughtered. He siphoned through the water until he brought up her corpse. The laceration in her neck ran so deep, her head limped backwards, dangling just shy of her butt. It swung back and forth like a pendulum. The Director stopped it from swaying, scissored out a chunk of her slick, brown hair, then pinned it—where else?—to his coat.
With me in tow, Bernie forced his way through the shallows, hobbling clumsily through the waves. Bernie asked me for a time check. Red numbers flashed down the seconds from the stopwatch tied to my wrist.
30:02, 30:03, 30:04....
“Time's a-flying past, boys and girls! Tick, tick!”
* * *
Bernie held me in his arms like I was his bride. The pain in my hip shot up my spinal cord every time he took a step. But how could I complain? I was alive, thanks to this man, this hero, this larger-than-life Hollywood executive.
It turned out, two heads are better than one after all. Every new room we entered, we would split the room in half, he'd scan right and I'd scan left, looking for any inkling of the next door that would take us deeper into the Director's twisted maze. We tried our best to keep the girls with us—honestly, we tried. But they entered each room in a kamikaze death run—it's a wonder they made it as far as they did.
A few rooms later, we came to a well-lit dining room where the walls were bleeding; a slow, steady congealment of blood seeped from the crown molding. A large banquet table spread out before us, filled with a smorgasbord of food ranging from decadent, to more decadent, to extremely, scrumptiously decadent. The beef tips and lobster tails tempted me the most. Although...the salmon-wrapped sea scallops, I must confess, made me salivate like a dog begging for scraps.
Four chairs sat around the table. One for each of us. As we got closer, we realized the chairs were already occupied...with us. At least different versions of us, completely oblivious of our presence. I can't relate the dizziness I felt seeing myself sitting next to a different Bernie, sharing a plate of crab cakes.
What happened next was hard to explain. None of us saw Monkey disappear. We were all too busy watching ourselves stuff our faces. We don't know how she ended up on the table; it just happened. One second she was standing next to us, the next...she was on the menu.
Suddenly, the contents of the table shifted. Gone were the platters of chicken cutlets and veal skewers, replaced by the vivisected corpse of our former cast mater. Somehow, despite her severe wounds, Monkey was alive, screaming for us to intervene.
She should have already been dead.
All we could do was watch.
Four sets of greedy, grubby fingers entered her open chest cavity-ripping, tearing, splitting, sharing, and pulling out organs of all shapes and sizes. In a ravenous fit of cannibalism, Bird and Bernie fought over the large intestines, while I devoured a kidney; the parallel version of Monkey shoveled handfuls of her own flesh inside her own red-stained mouth.
I closed my eyes, sealed them tight. However, hearing the sounds of the gluttonous orgy was just as bad as seeing it. The Director appeared on top of the table towering over Monkey's corpse. S
he had been picked clean.
“Don't fret my pets,” cackled the maniacal man with scissors. “Hair keeps growing long after you're dead. It'll grow back. Snip, snip!”
58:21, 58:22, 58:23....
Where had all the time gone? Jesus, how long were we watching ourselves eat? We took off, running into a hallway of molded, knotty wood. Behind us, Bird lost her footing. It was so tempting to keep moving, not even look back. (That's probably what I would have done if I'd been able to use my legs.) Bernie, however, slowed, waited for her to catch up.
A low, guttural rumble rattled the walls and vibrated under our feet. Two eyes blinked to life inside the knots in the wood. The floor opened revealing rows of splintery teeth; a tongue of pink insulation shot out and coiled around Bird's leg. She didn't scream; she didn't try to fight it. The tongue retracted back into the mouth, swallowing Bird in a single gulp. At least the Director won't get her hair as a trophy, I thought.
“Only two left, oh me oh my!” said the face in the floor with the voice of the Director. The face twitched, spasmed, and morphed until the wood and drywall became skin and blonde hair. “You two silly-willies are blowing through my house in record time! You're almost there...only one more place to show you...and oh what a place it is!”
We vanished—the Director, Bernie and me—we reappeared in Hell.
An enormous black iron gate blocked any further passage. People, so many people...every dead person from every dead age of Earth's history were sewn into the ancient walls, woven together in writhing honeycombs. They called the names of their loved ones, they shouted for help and for water. I never knew what the phrase gnashing of teeth meant until that very moment. I thought my ears were going to explode.
67:00, 67:01, 67:02....
For the first time, Bernie faltered. He dropped me on the harsh stone, my hip exploded in an orgasm of pain. He fell to his knees with his hands over his ears. That was when I accepted my fate. It was time to die. Hell...that time had long passed.
“Are you the Devil?” asked Bernie, wincing.
“No you fool. I'm God. And you are the forsaken,” said the Director. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a package. On the top of the package were three addresses, in the center, in big, bold letters were the words: Godforsaken II.
Bernie shook his head. “I don't want it.”
“You don't have a choice. This is how it works. One person leaves. Never two. One person always survives. Someone has to deliver the package. And it is sure not going to be this old fuck!”
“What if I refuse?”
The Director seemed unfazed. “Sure, sure, Bernie the Jew. That's an option. But you won't like it,” he took a breath, paced around us like a drill instructor. “It'd be a shame for you to have to watch the wrinkled skin of your mother, Miriam Heller, being pulled apart by one of my imps. Also, I'd be forced to take care of poor Mr. Scanlan's family as well. His son, his daughter, his four sweet grandbabies!”
He snatched the package from the Director's hands. “Okay,” he said, defeated. “Ronald. What happens to Ronald?”
“When the clock reaches ninety, he dies.”
Bernie Heller looked down at me with tears in his eyes. “I'm sorry.”
I nodded. I didn't think there was anything left to say. But then again there was a lot to say. I just didn't know how to say it. So a nod would have to suffice.
The black iron gates opened slightly, enough of a sliver for Bernie to slip through. I didn't turn around to watch him leave. It would've been too hard. I didn't want to be blubbering like a baby in one of my final acts of life. I knew he was gone when I heard metal scrap against metal and heard the sound of a key turning inside an ancient lock. This was the sound of finality. The sound of the end.
77:44, 77:45, 77:46....
I had time. Not much time, but enough.
Sprawled on the cool caves of Hell, I raised my head to look the Director in the eyes. He was next to me, close enough to kiss my lips or bite my neck, yet, still, he moved closer; his sulfuric breath puffed into my ear. “You've lived a long time Mr. Scanlan. I think someone wants to meet you. Wink, wink.”
High above my head Death descended, gradually; inch by delicate inch, he floated like a glacier in black tattered cloth; His hood covered His face; He carried a large wooden scythe that pointed downward, directly at me.
I smiled at Him, unafraid.
He didn't have flowers.
Damn.
87:01, 87:02, 87:03....
The Director, once again behind his camera, zoomed in as close as he could to my face, trying to capture my fear. But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. If I had to die, I'd die with dignity, on my feet, looking Death in the eyes. I used the last ounce of my remaining strength to lift up from the rocks. My hipbone punctured nerve endings but I pushed through it.
Standing, I waited.
88:29, 88:30, 88:31....
I pictured my son, my daughter, all four of my grandchildren; I even pictured the face of the wife I'd neglected for years until she finally gave up and left me. Each one of those important relationships I had single-handily sabotaged in one way or another. I hoped they knew how much I loved them, how much I wished I could fix things.
The numbers were counting down long before I came to this house; I just never saw them until it was too late.
89:50, 89:51, 89:52....
Suddenly, it all seemed to make sense—both life and death. In the end, it's all dust in an hourglass. What a tragic waste, I got to live so long but actually lived so little.
I thought of the day my son was born, the day of my daughter's fifth birthday party; I thought of my honeymoon. Those were the moments that mattered—the real moments, the genuine moments.
Everything else was just special effects.
THE END
3rd Place
Acapulco Blue
(Science Fiction)
By
Bruce Golden
He could hear the tune, he could almost see its lyrics written capriciously across a saffron-tinted sky, but he couldn't remember its title. It distressed him that he couldn’t remember. It nagged at him. Try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate. His recollection was an empty slate.
Then, as imperceptibly as it had deserted him, consciousness reasserted itself. The vivid kaleidoscope that was his dream and the song that scored it both expired. Yet with consciousness came only darkness and silence.
No chirping birds or barking dogs greeted him. He felt the early morning sunlight splash across his face but he couldn't see it. The dull ache of his polyethylene, chrome-cobalt alloy knees and the dryness of his throat alerted him to the new day's arrival. It had been that way for years; waking not with a bang but with a creak and a whimper, discomfort the daily reminder of his continued existence. Still, he'd never grown accustomed to regaining consciousness blind and deaf.
As he disengaged from the cobwebs of slumber, awareness gradually returned and he recalled his place in the universe. For Benjamin Edward Glucorde, that awareness was not wholly gratifying. Though half-forgotten decades had dulled its razor sharpness and diminished its capacity to conceive—his mind was still his. Whether that was a curse or a blessing was a debate his inner voice never fully resolved.
His fingers inched across the cool Lycra sheet until they brushed the familiar texture of the rubberized control pad. The head of the bed began to elevate.
With the first upward movement, his optic array activated, revealing daylight in progressively brighter increments. There was, however, nothing incremental about the stiffness in his back. It carped grievously against the change of position, drawing attention away from the complaint emanating from his titanium-plated hips. The pain came and went at its own discretion.
He had few body parts that didn't whine and squawk from time to time. He ignored the pain as best he could. He could do little else, since he refused to dull his senses with drugs.
When the bed reached a forty-three deg
ree angle, his cochlear implants became fully operative. As was often the case, the first sound he heard came from a passing aerocar. Damned flying gewgaws, he thought. They were always swooping over his place as if they were on some kind of bloody bombing run. He was almost glad his ears shut down when he slept. Lately though, the volume control was all over the place. One moment he could hardly hear a thing, the next he was listening to a gnat walk up the wall.
At exactly seventy-six degrees, the bed halted. With a technique honed by repetition he slowly shifted his legs over the side and planted his feet on the carpeted floor. He took a deep breath and started to rub his eyes. He checked himself. There was something about rubbing his eyes he was supposed to remember–something about fracturing the lenses.
Standing required greater effort but once his weight was equally distributed, what he liked to call his "bionic knees" made walking easy, if not pain free.
He had a sullen agreement with his body–at least what there was left of the original equipment. If it could go about its business without making him look like Mr. Roboto he would resist the temptation to do the Highland fling.
He hobbled into the kitchen to see if he could find anything other than the Easy-Digest Nutrients swill he'd tried the day before but the phone chime diverted him. He triggered the display and saw a stern-faced old man dressed in a dark suit. Of course, old was a relative term.
"Grandfather, it's me, William. Can you see me? Can you hear me okay?"
It took a few moments before he recognized the face. "I can see and hear just fine, Billy. What do you want?"
“I know you don't want to hear this but if you're going to insist on living in that place all alone, I should have some SecureVision cameras installed. That way, if anything happened to–”
“You're not spying on me with no cameras!”
“Not spying, Grandfather. They just alert the medtechs if you fall or…”
