Mike Jones - Infernus

The demon, by sheer will that was accomplished by a set purpose born in the eternities of Infernus’ blackest wisdom, opened its mouth wider and wider. And wider still. Its jaws shattered and found new form as it drew its face willfully to the back of the little man’s head. The vampire teeth ached for feeding, and bled furiously, freely. They sunk, like hot, razored knives in cold butter, without resistance, into the doctor’s brain. Oh, the warm, cooked brain! It felt so good that the demon groaned deeply. Its teeth met in the center of the cranium and shattered into one another, fusing, locked, eternal. It set its jaws and was done.

An elderly woman in a white lab coat burst into the room and tried to take into account what she was seeing. “Oh my God!”

“Guess again!” a voice burst inside her brain, instantly slamming her into a wall, unconscious before she fell heavily to the feces and blood-smeared floor. It kept laughing in her head, but she didn’t hear it, her brain having turned into something resembling soup. And would never hear anything again.

And they at last were one. The Scream. And the doctor’s brain (he knew this not when he saw it so many millions of millennia ago in the vision in Infernus) was his. The son had two brains and the doctor had none. Its brainless task was set to screaming, it was its only purpose.

As the little man began to cease to be human, he died, but never stopped screaming. For as he died and rose again, he never ceased becoming what he would be throughout all eternity — The Scream! No thoughts, no training, just dumb animal instinct. Being what he already was.

As The Scream exited through the hole in the floor, more girders were struck and shattered deliberately. Many of the staff had left the building minutes before, assuming an earthquake was tearing the confines apart. The entire structure, now stressed beyond its capacity to endure, fell inward to be swallowed by the great cavern below. It lay, sleeping, hiding its own mysteries in silence.

And when all the ruling demons in Infernus saw The Scream become a reality and coming their way, they rejoiced loudly, and hell burned much brighter for a while.

As our eyes sweep across the expanse that was a smoky pit that housed two sleeping, quavering bodies that could not awaken, now it was a part of a limitless ocean of burning sand. There were no bodies any longer quivering in their sleep. All had become one. There wasn’t even so much as a bump in the sands. All were one. All experienced all. Infernus was the flattest expanse where all were one. No more anything; only dreaming, unable to even shiver in their fright.

“What a freakin’ weird story that was,” said a thin young man with dyed white hair.

“I have others,” the old man said, putting his clothes on.

“I’m going to report you to the authorities for blasphemy,” said another student.

“Oh, goody,” was the nude man’s reply. “I could use the publicity. Maybe it will make me famous.”

“Could some of us -?” asked a woman with a blue shawl. “Could some of us hear more of your stories?”

“What a brave soul. Are there others in this room who would like to hear other demented stories of mine?”

“Yes,” said a few.

“The other stories are not like this one, I assure you. Another is a take on a fantasy novel, like this one was a take on a horror novel. An experiment, I assure you, nothing more.”

The class and professor were silent for a beat.

“I’ll tell you what. I’m editing some notes on a piece I’ve been writing for about seven years now. When I have collated them successfully, I could invite you up to my loft in the north for a reading and discussion time. Would you like that?”

Some said they would be open to that.

“Would you like me to tell you what the next short novel is called?”

“Yes,” said some enthusiastically.

“Well, I won’t tell you,” he laughed. “Maybe I will see you soon, and invite you all up for that. Adieu, my friends. It’s been fun.”

And with that, he left.

[This chapter, originally the first chapter of the book, has been placed at the end for the purpose of informing others of the origins of this terrible manuscript. It has little value beyond that. Many have chosen to scan it or skip it entirely. I will leave that up to you .]

Anthony Begels was a celebrated anthropologist. She wore her long brown hair in a ponytail and always sported safari clothing ordered from catalogs. She now sat stiffly in a chair, staring across the publisher’s polished mahogany desk. It would have been impossible for her to ignore a giant reproduction of a woodcut that stretched the entire length of the wall behind him — “Moebius Strip II.” Much red, black, and gray-green. Red ants crawling over a grid twisted into a figure eight, a google, or sign of infinity. Its inside and outside were equally twisting in and out of itself. Yet the ants seemed to be unaware of this; pacing, pacing, always tracking onward towards infinity… towards nothing. To her, it looked stereoscopic.

He caught her stare. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? Cost me a pretty penny, I’ll tell you. About a million and a half.”

“ Dollars? I think you got ripped off,” she said, frowning, and thought, A million and a half for a print?

He snickered. “Watch this,” he added, sounding pleased with himself.

His hands hovered over the desk for a moment, and then lightly placed an index finger on a specific spot in the middle of the desktop. He then steepled his fingers and stared into her face for a reaction. She tried to look over the surface of the desk, but she could not figure out what he was doing. Then something happened that made the whole room shift slightly. She felt her equilibrium momentarily shudder.

The grid on which the ants walked began slowly turning, in high definition, and the ants crept over it, inside and out, tirelessly. When it turned a certain way, a tiny spark of artificial sun beamed off an edge, giving it a definite metallic look, gleaming gray-green. The entire wall was a projected image, although no one ever guessed that at first glance. All were fooled, equally. And, she silently observed, it was not her imagination that it appeared stereoscopic; there was great depth in the graphic. She gasped and thought Escher would have been pleased with the wonders of modern technology as his print had, quite literally, sprang to life.

“Love Escher,” was her simple reply.

“I stare at it all the time. The entire wall is covered with a very expensive lenticular lens, so no 3-D glasses are needed. It couldn’t really exist, of course, because one of these realities simply isn’t there. Not real. Not ‘true’, is a better way of saying it. Maybe none of them are real.” He recollected the remarks he was going to make the moment she entered his office, and decided to start there. “Your appearance here, Dr. Begels, is surprising.” He laughed nervously. “I’m sure you’ve heard that a thousand times.” When he saw that she was not looking at him, but had continued to stare at the Escher display, he touched the surface of the desk again, and the walking ants and the revolving grid stopped, but did not seem flat like ordinary paintings. “Too distracting, you see.” And tittered, proud of this modern marvel.

She smiled/winced. “And the other one.”

“The ‘other one?’”

“’Your father must have wanted a boy.’ And before you ask, yes, it is my real name.” She brushed a long strand of hair back that had escaped her ponytail. And sighed.