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Send to FriendAll the same, Bixby had no reason to ever expect that he would wake up and find himself in another world altogether.
Perhaps he had died and moved into the next world, in which case the religious doctrines and dogma his parents had ingrained into his mind were wrong. There was no Heaven in the clouds with pearly white gates and angels singing and playing harps. Nor was there a Hell with its raging inferno of eternal damnation. There was only this strange and empty barren wasteland. Or perhaps this was purgatory, where he had to await his acceptance into Heaven.
But no, he couldn't be dead, for he was in pain and it had nothing to do with his surroundings, but were the consequences of his partying the night before. A hangover. His temples throbbed in agony as his heavy, aching head lolled over his shoulders. He groaned miserably from the sour feeling in his stomach, feeling dizzy not from drunkenness--which was all but gone now--but from his crushing headache. Nausea seized his entrails and he imagined whatever was left of his last meal quickly rushing up his throat, but as he doubled over, he hadn't thrown up, but only retched and dry-heaved. Whatever had been in his belly had been puked up already. He could smell the foul stench of cooling vomit that stained deeply into his white sweatshirt and blue jeans; it was dark yellow and chunky, filled with the undigested remains of Easy Mac.
I'll never drink again, Bixby thought. He had made and broken this vow more times than he cared to remember.
As he slowly descended down the steep rocky slope, the sun seared Bixby's bloodshot eyes, shining brightly from the green sky.
It was this and this alone that told Bixby that not only was he not in Providence, Rhode Island anymore, he was not even on Earth anymore. Clouds gathered in a thin mist along the horizon, and the sky here remained the same shade of green as a freshly mowed lawn during May. A cool breeze swept by and Bixby blinked, gazing ahead with his mouth hung agape.
Where am I? he asked himself in disbelief. Had he stumbled through a portal into an alternate reality? Perhaps he had uncovered an alien craft capable of faster than light travel across the universe, defying the laws of physics.
I'll never drink again, he vowed once more, and this time he suspected that he would keep this vow whether he wanted to or not.
Bixby caressed his hands over his shaved head and wiped sweat from his brow as he peered down across the landscape and continued his slow and careful descent, staggering and hoping he wouldn't tumble to his doom. But what did it matter, anyway? He could see no source of nourishment anywhere in this strange desert world and would probably eventually die of starvation or dehydration.
But no! There had to be a way out. If he could get inside this world and survive, then surely there must be a way out as well. He just had to find it.
Eventually, Bixby climbed his way down the maroon jagged mountain. Throughout the journey, visions haunted him, showing him toppling over, tumbling downward as his body cascaded down the rocky surface, shredding his flesh as he went down. He could even hear the loud snap of his breaking neck and shattering bones as he hit the bottom. These waking nightmares startled him, enough to thrust him forward as his heart raced and sweat stung his eyes; he almost fell for real because of this, but thankfully he hadn't.
A cool breeze swept by, lifting a thin cloud of sand up to his ankles. Already his feet were sore as the blood throbbed and pulsated through his veins and his Achilles tendons ached, but he kept moving, breathing heavily as he plodded through the seemingly empty green desert.
He had no way of knowing how long he had been walking, before he finally saw the first sign of inhabitance. It was over the distant horizon, at least a couple miles away, but he could still make it out. Structures of buildings, it appeared. Closer still and he could see they were the silhouettes of houses. It looked to be a village or town of some kind, and he hoped that it was still inhabited. Perhaps the people there (or whatever alien race they might be) could help him somehow. Sure, why not, what did he have to lose? With that concluded, Bixby hurried toward the town, ignoring as best he could his growing exhaustion.
It was as he neared the town that Bixby noticed even more signs of life. No longer was it jagged maroon stone that he walked on, but desert sand, as though he were strolling along an endless beach with no ocean. The sky remained green, but within the thinning mist of clouds flew a few buzzards and vultures, encircling the glaring sun. The atmosphere blinked--as though one were watching a DVD that skipped just once, jarring the viewer momentarily out of concentration. Before him now was an outcropping of cactuses spread throughout. If not for the green sky, Bixby might now believe he truly had somehow been transported across the country, in the middle of the vast endless desert either in Nevada, Arizona, or New Mexico. Up ahead, through the sandstorm he could see tumbleweed rolling steadily along and could hear a rattlesnake approaching from a distance.
Something stung him and Bixby felt sudden heat, like hot coals being spilled over the back of his neck. He winced at this sudden pain, hissing and squeezing his eyes shut as his teeth clamped tightly together, narrowly missing the tip of his tongue. "Ow, fuck!" he cried as his eyes began to water. He threw his hand over the nape of his neck, picking off whatever had made its way over his now searing flesh, hearing a crunching sound as he crushed it within his tightly closing fist.
Oh shit, he thought dismally as he opened his fist, revealing before his eyes what had stung him. Laying upon the palm of his hand was the crumpled remains of a scorpion whose shattered exoskeleton lay awash in yellow guts.
He could only hope now that this scorpion's venom had been harmless to humans, but still he was dizzy, lightheaded, and headachy, and while that could easily be attributed to his lingering hangover (though it was still enough to frighten him now, nevertheless), the fact remained that the flesh along the nape of his neck swelled and was inflamed. Black spots--waxing and waning--danced before his eyes. As cold sweat secreted over his brow, his chest tightened and his breathing grew heavy.
Bixby stepped forward and doubled over with a sharp pain in his gut. He groaned, clenching his teeth together in a stifled cry of agony. As he lunged forward, Bixby toppled over, spilling to the ground as he finally lost consciousness.
The sun stung his fluttering eyes as Bixby finally came to, but mercifully, his hangover was gone and he no longer noticed the flaring agony along the back of his neck. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing up, he considered with hope, but then sighed dismally when he saw that the sky remained green and the surface he lay on was not his bed, but desert sand.
"Ugh...where am I?" he wondered aloud, his voice still thick and congested, as he was once more just waking up.
"You've finally awakened," said a female voice, bitter and gruff, yet still soft spoken. The woman approached him and offered her hand. Bixby took it. She helped him to his feet. Bixby's knees buckled and nearly unhinged at first before the dizziness left him completely.
"I was stung by a scorpion," he said, still frightened by the prospect.
"Don't worry. It won't kill you."
"That's just it. I feel just fine. I mean, was burning really bad before, but the pain's gone now. I came in here with the worst hangover, but that's gone now, too. Not that I'm complaining or anything, but what the hell's goin' on?"
"The scorpion stung you to remove whatever drugs or intoxicants from your body," she explained, pausing, and then went on. "It's more complicated than this, but that's about the gist of what happened.
"But I wasn't drunk anymore. Just had a fuckin' hangover."
The woman shrugged. "It neutralized the toxins that caused your hangover."
"Guess I should be thankful."
"Just be thankful that I found you and not the Executioner. Otherwise your hangover would be nothing compared to what he'd put you through."
Bixby stood, bewildered. "Who--"
"Never mind. You'll know soon enough."
"Okay," Bixby mumbled, perplexed. He blinked and bit his lip as he gazed ahead in confusion at this mysterious woman with long ebony hair and an olive complexion who appeared to be around twenty, around the same age as Bixby himself. Perhaps she had been innocent and naïve at one point in time, happy and carefree, but her dark brown eyes were hardened now, taut and jaded by all she had witnessed in this green hell. "Who are you?"
"My name is Erika Merrick."
"How long have you been here, Erika?"
She scratched her head; it was her turn to feel confused now. "I...I can't remember anymore. It's been so long...maybe months, maybe years, even, but it's impossible to know for sure. Time seems meaningless here. There aren't any day-and-night intervals like on Earth, just a perpetually green sky."
Once more Bixby peered up at that green sky through the gathering clouds as the sun gazed back down at him, its rays a prism of light. "So we're in another world after all?"
She nodded. "In a manner of speaking, yes."
"What do you mean?"
"Come." She beckoned him forward and began to lead him to the town. "It'll be easier if I showed you."
"I don't believe you ever told me your name," Merrick brought up after a considerable period of silence.
"Jeremy Bixby."
"Nice to meet you, Mister Bixby."
"Yeah, wish it could've been under better circumstances."
Merrick frowned and said nothing.
"Any idea how to get out of this place?"
"If I knew how, I would've left a long time ago."
"I was thinking...maybe since I found myself climbing down the mountain, maybe the portals somewhere on top of the mountain."
"What are you talking about?"
"I blacked out when I got here. I don't remember ever coming here and I have no idea how I got here. The first thing I remember is climbing down a mountain, so maybe I was climbing away from the portal. Just thinking that maybe we're going in the wrong direction."
Merrick considered briefly what Bixby had suggested, then shook her head. "No, I tried that already. There's nothing there. Even if there was a portal, it's one-way. You can't even see it on this side. I think we're trapped."
"There has to be a way out!"
"And I've been trying to find it longer than I care to remember."
Bixby closed his eyes tightly with a dismal sigh, not knowing how to respond. Finally, he asked: "So what is this place called anyway?"
"Not really sure. I've always thought of it as the Green World, myself." She shrugged. "It's as good a name as any."
Bixby nodded in perfect agreement.
They eventually entered the town and from what Bixby could see, it was mostly a suburban neighborhood, with two-lane roads stretching for miles beyond the horizon. In some ways, it seemed as though he had entered the Amish country, for there were no power lines or telephone poles, yet there was no farmland or barns either. While some of the houses had garages, there was no other evidence of any means of transportation, whether it be by car or horse-and-buggy. The streets were perfectly smooth, without a single pothole or crack radiating along the concrete. The houses were also modern; some colonial, while others were single-story ranches. Some were shingled, others were brick homes, and others had vinyl siding.
"So where are the people, or aliens, or whatever the hell lives here?" Bixby asked as his eyes wandered throughout the town.
"No one lives here," replied Merrick.
"So what is this, a fucking ghost town?"
Merrick hesitated for a moment, biting her lip, before she finally said reluctantly: "Um...not exactly."
"Well, goddamn it, what the fucking hell is this place?" Bixby snapped, his voice rising more so from his increasing anxiety than from frustration. "Could you please just cut the bullshit and tell me what the fuck's going on?"
"I'm sorry, I--"
"No, I'm sorry," Bixby apologized as he buried his face in his hands. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. "It's just...I'm really stressed out right now, you know?"
Merrick nodded. "I understand."
"I still can't believe this is happening." Bixby sighed and shook his head. "I must be dreaming.
"That's exactly what I told myself when I first got here."
They entered one of the brick houses and found the living room to be completely empty save for the cerulean blue carpeting, marble foyer tiles, and white paint over the walls. There was no furniture; no sofa, love seat, easy chair, coat rack, or coffee table. The windows had no drapes or shades for decoration or privacy. Once more, with the lack of modern technology, Bixby was reminded of the Amish, yet even they had some possessions, however antique and primitive they might seem now.
The home hadn't looked at all abandoned or forlorn, but rather unused. There was no dust or dirt anywhere to be seen. The carpet was perfectly smooth, without any grooves to indicate that furniture had once rested upon it. It was as though the place had just recently been built and was awaiting potential buyers who would never come.
"All the houses are exactly the same inside," Merrick told him. "Completely empty, without any signs of life. It doesn't matter which one we go into. We'd see exactly the same thing."
"Must get kind of lonely here after a while," Bixby mused.
"To be honest, I don't feel much of anything anymore."
She led him to the kitchen, which had a white linoleum floor and marble counters as well as a sink and dishwasher. But like the living room, it was otherwise completely empty, with no refrigerator, stove, or microwave. Bixby figured that if one were to open the cupboard doors they would find no dishes either.
Merrick drew his attention to a door as she closed her hand around the doorknob. "This leads to the basement," she told him. "This is where you'll find your answers." With that said, she pulled the door open and they went down.
While the interior of the house had appeared new, clean, and in perfect condition--despite being empty of furniture and life--the stairs were old and dilapidated. Every wooden step creaked loudly beneath Bixby and Merrick's feet as they descended into the darkness of the murky basement.
This sharp contrast to the rest of the house remained very apparent to Bixby, whose curiosity as to his current environment was heightened, as was his dread as the darkness gathered and he drew closely behind Merrick, who appeared to remain unresponsive to her surroundings. It all seemed surreal to him; not so much like the distorted atmosphere of a dream, but all the same something seemed inherently wrong with this world. It wasn't just the green sky or ghost town, but something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
As they came to the bottom step, the atmosphere blinked and the darkness quivered before Bixby's eyes. Before him now was a corridor that was like being inside a medieval castle, complete with stone walls, and torches mounted upon the walls that cast an eerie golden glow over everything. Rows of maroon wooden doors with skull icons were on both sides of the corridor, stretching well beyond the darkness, and despite the heat cast from the flames of the torches, Bixby couldn't help but shiver.
"Everything keeps changing."
"I know." Merrick shrugged; a gesture indicating that for her, this was simply business as usual.
Bixby felt more and more that this had to be a dream, with the potential of becoming his worst fucking nightmare. "What the hell is this place?"
"You're about to find out." Merrick's hand closed around one of the doorknobs. "But I should warn you: you won't like what you're about to see."
When she said I wouldn't like what I'd see, she wasn't kidding! Bixby thought, aghast as he entered the large chamber, shocked and appalled by the horror he now laid witness to. I mean, not that she seems much like the kind of person who likes to joke around, but Jesus fucking Christ!
The long, dark chamber cast shadows over all he surveyed, yet even with the absence of flaming torches, Bixby could all-too clearly make out the contorted grimaces of each poor soul chained to the wall, groaning and writhing in agony. Their shrill screams pierced his ears and he tried to turn away, but in every direction, another was being mercilessly tortured. People of all races and both genders were present. Whoever set this up certainly didn't discriminate, save for age, because no one here appeared to be under fifteen or over twenty-five.
One woman in her early twenties was chained naked to the wall, moaning and shivering as lumps formed over her flesh, moving from something burrowing beneath her skin. Bixby saw that it had been insects as a beetle crawled into an open wound over her forearm and another made its exit from a wound just over her navel. This poor woman's body was filled with insects of every variety. As she opened her mouth to scream, Bixby saw that the inside of her mouth was brimming with flies and maggots and some of the maggots crawled into and out from her nose. Her eyes had ruptured as fire ants fled from her sockets and she shed tears of blood. Cockroaches swarmed the lower half of her body, covering her legs and coming in and out of her vagina and anus. "Get them off of me!" she cried shrilly as her body swelled from the critters crawling inside her. "For the love of God, please, get them out of me!" Bixby shuddered and felt a phantom inflammation along the nape of his neck when he saw a scorpion scaling along the woman's breast as it jammed its stinger into the tip of her nipple.
A twenty-five-year-old man convulsed and the chains that held him to the wall rattled and clamored noisily as electricity surged throughout his body. Every hair on his body stood up as his flesh sizzled. His wrists and hands blackened as the flesh split open, revealing the tendons around his wrists and back of his hands, like spaghetti laced around charred meat. The flow of electricity stopped briefly, allowing him a short reprieve. His body stiffened and went limp and his head hung forward, lolling loosely from his neck. His burnt, gaunt face was melting, revealing bits of his skull around his forehead as well as leaving his left cheekbone exposed. He no longer had eyes, for they had no doubt burst like grapes long ago, leaving two empty black sockets that still oozed a small amount of blood and seared tissue. The man wheezed and gasped with a stutter. "K-k-kill me," he stammered. "Please...please kill...me." He moaned and then screamed as another wave of electricity washed through his body.
Another man of the same age was a human pin cushion. Nails jutted from every inch of his body. They were hammered deep beneath his finger and toenails. Two more impaled both temples. Each earlobe had a nail in it, looking almost as though they were earrings if you could overlook the tips on the other side poking into the sides of his neck. His flaccid penis was nailed into his abdomen; what someone perverted enough, from a distance, might mistake as semen was actually pus leaking from the wound as well as the man's urethra. Drying blood trickled from each of these wounds in crimson threads that radiated all along his body, like jagged lines on a road map. He bled the heaviest from his ruptured temples. He tried to speak--to beg for death, perhaps--but could not, for his lips were rendered immobile by fishhooks that pierced both corners of his lips and pulled his face into a hideously elongated grin that stretched well beyond the contours of his face, revealing sallow teeth that were sodden with blood and drool that dripped down his chin. He was only capable of voicing a small moan of complaint, like a hoarse wail from a dying horn. Unlike the two others Bixby had noticed, this one could see the horrors that befell him and the others, and in fact had been forced to, for his eyelids had also been stapled open.
"He was into piercings, so they shoved nails into him," Merrick commented matter-of-factly.
Bixby opened his mouth to ask how she could know this, but closed it again, unable to find the words; feeling overwhelmed by all he witnessed and unable to speak without stammering or screaming himself. Just as well, he figured; she probably wouldn't give him a straight answer anyway.
They next came across a sixteen-year-old boy with his chest ripped open and his rips spread outward, jutting into the air like jagged bone spears with scraps of torn flesh clinging to the tips. His internal organs were clearly exposed, yet remarkably the boy was alive. His lungs swelled like balloons with every strained breath and compressed as he exhaled. If not for his ribs sticking out, one might think of him as a transparent model of the human body. With every erratic beat of his heart, another spurt of blood shot from his ruptured veins, raining down upon the pool of blood, which drew off into a storm drain by his feet.
"Okay, enough with the bullshit!" Bixby cried frantically. His own heart was pounding frantically against his ribs, thumping even faster than the exposed heart of the man who stood before him now. Bixby's voice rose to a shrill cry as he gasped, breathing heavily as sweat stung his eyes. "Goddamn it, what the fuck is going on?"
Merrick gazed ahead, saying nothing.
All around the misery became overwhelming, bearing down upon Bixby in such a way that for a few seconds, he imagined that he too shared their agony. He jumped and his eyes widened as he expected a jolt of electricity to surge through his body and phantom insects tickled his skin. He jerked his head down to make sure his own chest hadn't opened. He remained okay, of course, trembling and afraid with his quivering mouth hung agape, watching the torture of hundreds of people before him.
It hit him briefly that his ambition to be an ER doctor had been wrong. He had always been interested in the anatomy and workings of the human body and wanted to save people or at least ease their suffering. But how could he possibly hope to help them at all if he had been so traumatized by their agony?
His thoughts scrambled as the cries of the damned intensified and he now wanted only for his own screams to join them.
"Make it stop."
"Please God."
"Kill me!"
"Get them outta me!"
"Oh God...please for the love of God...Kill me!"
Bixby bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. His eyes widened in horror as he screamed, loud enough to momentarily drown out and moans and cries of the damned.
"Goddamn you, you fucking bitch, what the fuck's going on?" Bixby shouted shrilly as his eyes welled with tears. "What did you fucking do to these people?"
"I'm not responsible for what's happening," Merrick replied. She lashed the back of her hand across Bixby's face and Bixby immediately regained his composure as his cheeks stung from her slap. Merrick shook her head. "I'd be right there suffering with the rest of these poor bastards if the Executioner hadn't somehow missed me."
Bixby squeezed his eyes shut as tears ran down his cheeks. His throat tightened with a sob. "Just tell me what's goin' on."
"None of this is real," Merrick said simply. "In a manner of speaking, it's all in our heads."
"What're you talkin' about?"
"Ask yourself," Merrick began, drawing Bixby's attention once more to the boy with the opened chest and exposed heart. "How can this boy still be alive?"
Bixby opened his mouth to speak, considering what he should say. An errant tear scrolled his cheek and his voice was wavery, yet he could once more speak rationally all the same. "When I was a kid, I saw a man on Guinness Prime Time with a rare condition where he born with his heart outside his chest." Bixby paused in deep thought, and then said: "But he's like the only one who ever survived. People born with this usually end up dead shortly after birth."
"Think about it, Mister Bixby. This boy's chest was ripped open. His ribs are sticking out like crooked lances and he's losing gallons of blood a day. Never mind the risk of infection or the fact that his organs are showing. And keep in mind that he's been in this condition for a very long time, but he's not going to die anytime soon."
"Oh God...kill me please," the boy pleaded as he convulsed, spraying tiny droplets of blood into the air.
"Ask yourself: How is any of this possible?"
Bixby's lips quivered as he shook his head. "I don't...I dunno."
Bixby looked at his hands and considered momentarily the idea of snapping this boy's neck. Although not normally a man who condoned murder in most situations and as unsure of his stance on euthanasia, he saw now that in this case it was the only humane course of action. His body trembled almost as though he were having a convulsion himself as he lurched forward, before Merrick stopped him.
"Don't bother," she said as though she could read his intentions." Dying here is just like dying in a video game, where you just end up restarting the level or mission and taking another stab at it. Only here, death just leads to more suffering. It doesn't mean anything. No one really dies unless they allow it."
"What do you mean?"
"We're trapped in a computer program and the people running it control everything that happens to us."
"What, like plugged into the Matrix?"
"Pretty much, yeah." Merrick nodded and began her narrative.
When I lived in the real world...lets just say I was free-spirited and very open to new experiences...and other things. I was not a stoner and never used drugs on a regular basis, but I had experimented a few times just so I could say I had the experience. I knew of the physical and psychological effects of LSD, but also knew that as long as I remembered that everything that happened was in my mind, I would know that nothing I saw could possibly hurt me.
At first all I saw was a prism of light that followed my every movement, a rainbow held within my hands, slipping through my fingers, and then washing over my palms. My entire body tingled. With every breath I took, a kaleidoscope of light exhaled from my nose and mouth, a phosphorescence of reds, blues, greens, and purples. It started as a good trip, for I felt serene.
My sense of blissful peace shattered as the ground rumbled beneath my feet. I nearly lost my footing as my heart raced and I bit my lip, trying to quell my sense of impending doom. I reminded myself: There's no need to be afraid. This is nothing but a bad trip. It's all inside my head. With that thought, my fear hadn't quite vanished altogether, but became diminished.
From a silver beacon of light manifested the being I know now as The Recruiter. Although his body appeared almost frail, he was menacing all the same, standing at six feet as he lurked in the shadows (which had this sort of dark turquoise tone to my eyes). His veins bulged, like taut pulsating wires beneath his platinum flesh, even with his muscles relaxed. The Recruiter was completely bald, without a single hair anywhere on his body, and he had no sex organs either. He was a hermaphroditic demon with blue snakes hissing and slithering like tendrils stretching from the sides of his neck. As The Recruiter approached me, he bore down upon me with his baleful golden eyes, but I stood my ground, trying not to tremble too badly.
"Erica Merrick, you have ingested an illegal substance!" he thundered. "You have broken the law!"
"You're not real, just a figment of my imagination," I murmured softly, trying to ignore my growing anxiety.
"Your actions hurt everyone around you, fund terrorist networks worldwide, and corrupt morality!"
He reminded me of my parents and I entertained the notion that he might be nothing more than a manifestation of subconscious guilt. My parents never approved of my hedonistic, libertine lifestyle and philosophies. Not that I should have cared much for what others thought. Strange, the dichotomy of the mind...
"You're not real!" I insisted, louder this time.
Within the rational part of my mind was a small sense of complacency, a soothing and logical voice that told me that none of this was real. This demon standing before me couldn't hurt me because he was nothing but a chemical-induced hallucination. Demons didn't really exit.
All the same, there was still that overwhelming sense of superstitious dread that chilled me, secreted cold sweat over my brow, and made my heart beat faster. It was like driving past a house that is said to be haunted. You might not really believe in ghosts, but the idea may still be planted into your subconscious nevertheless. Because of that, it might seem possible that ghosts might exist after all, and this idea is just enough to send chills up your spine when presented with the situation.
"Regardless of whatever form I might take in your drug-warped mind, I am really here, talking to you. I've been watching you for quite a while."
"Fuck you," I muttered through gritted teeth.
"I've got just the right program for wayward youths such as yourself."
"What do you want from me?"
"A service that you must agree to for our project to proceed. One you should agree to if you value your freedom. Come with me and you will never face legal ramifications. Hurry, the police are on their way now!"
I no longer was sure of what to make of the situation. I should have asked for more information, should have demanded it. But in a lot of ways, I still wasn't taking any of this seriously. It was like watching a horror movie, where you might be terrified, trembling on the couch, ready to jump out of your skin at the sudden noise of a pin drop. But as much as you might think that it's possible while watching the movie, deep in your heart you know it's just a movie and it could never happen, no matter how wild your imagination might be. I went from being barely able to bite back screams of terror, to scoffing at the whole situation, and back again to being frightened in a matter of seconds.
And then I heard police sirens warbling from a distance and my first thought was that someone really had called the cops. To this day, I still don't know if they were really even coming for me, or if it was just a strange coincidence. All the same, I kept dreading the possibility of going to jail. Life's too short to be detained against your will, especially for stupid reasons like drug charges.
"If you're real, take me," I said quickly and my voice trailed off.
And then I lost consciousness...
"And woke up here, in the Green World," Merrick finished.
By now they had left the torture chamber and were once more in the dark endless corridor. Bixby could no longer stand to bear witness to such unyielding suffering; the sights and sounds still sickened him and he struggled in vain to block it all form his mind so he could concentrate on Merrick's narrative.
He looked at her now in disbelief.
"You've met him as well, Merrick said. "The Recruiter, I mean. And like me, you agreed to his terms. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."
"Bullshit! I'd never agree to this!" Bixby barked, growing hysterical with anger once more. "They didn't give us all the implications...what their terms would be. We didn't have all the facts. And even if we did, neither of us was in a clear frame of mind when we made the deal, so this isn't a legally binding contract and I want out right now!" Bixby threw his head back with his hands balled into tight fists and screamed a savage howl of rage. "You hear me, you sons of bitches? Get me the fuck outta here right now, goddamn it!"
"Merrick shook her head and sighed. "Legality means nothing here. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we're already dead."
They walked in awkward silence for a while, up the pitch dark stairwell, through the empty living room, and then back outside.
"I don't understand," Bixby said softly as he trembled by Merrick's side. Before, he could barely keep himself from screaming; now, he struggled to speak above a whisper. "Why make the sky green?" he asked and pointed upward.
"I think it's to mess with the minds of the new 'recruits,'" theorized Merrick. "People come in here--like you--with no idea of what's going on. They see that the sky is green instead of blue, gray, or black like they're used to and it freaks them out. Drives them crazy. They know something is wrong, but have no idea of the scope of things."
"Pretty fucked up," Bixby muttered and thought: Though nothing compared to what I saw back there! "But why? What's the point in all of this? Who are these sadistic bastards who set this whole thing up and what could they possibly hope to get from it?"
"There are people who can't stand drugs and wish to get rid of them altogether. It's not enough that drugs are illegal and they don't care how much money gets poured into the failing War on Drugs or who gets hurt in the process. Demonizing drug-users and dealers and making them out to be terrorists is perfectly acceptable. The ends always justify the means.
"And then there are others who wish to test the elasticity of the human mind, to see how much torture and torment people can endure before they go insane.
"This project is the culmination of both these goals. Only drug users and underage drinkers are tortured here. And since all of this is just a computer program, no matter what happens here, it has no bearing on your physical body in the real world."
"But the mind and body are linked, so even if it's not really happening to the person, they still think it is," Bixby interjected. "If nothing else, the stress alone would eventually take its toll on the body."
"Yes, a few have had heart attacks from time to time and died in the process," Merrick conceded. "And yes, the stress of all of this would lower someone's defenses to disease in the real world. What I meant was that if you get cut here, your body in the real world won't be cut. This program simply introduces sensations so vivid that the human mind becomes absolutely convinced that it's really happening, even though it's not."
Bixby's eyes wandered throughout his surroundings, toward the houses around him, the way the sun glinted brilliantly off the windowpanes, squinting as shards of sunlight poked his eyes.
Having grown up in a generation immersed with technology made advances in said technology simply a way of life. The only thing truly amazing and unbelievable was that at one point in time back in the dark ages billions of years ago people actually lived without computers. Year after year, faster and more powerful PCs were always being built and while the new features sounded pretty cool, it was nothing that left him totally breathless. The more he thought about it, the more he thought: Why couldn't it be possible to create such an immersive and creative virtual environment like this? Video game systems here in 2005 were capable of rendering vast and beautifully rendered 3D environments that far surpassed the graphical capabilities of the more primitive systems he grew up with in the eighties and nineties.
Bixby gazed blankly into the windowpane of the house standing before him, watching as the sun and his own reflection stared back at him. It wasn't at all cartoonish; it looked nothing like a computer animation. It was real, as though he were back in the real world instead of a computer program. Even today's consol and PC games were incapable of capturing this level of realism. These images were crisp, clear, even sharper than the picture one would find on those new high-definition TVs. Bixby had never doubted that at some point in the future--five years from now--graphic engines would be capable of rendering environments with this level of realism. What left him incredulous was that someone was capable of creating such a lifelike and realistic (green sky notwithstanding) environment now.
Bixby scowled and saw through his reflection that his gray eyes glistened with angry tears. He thought of those poor damned souls down below--where he too would end up if the Executioner ever found him--and rose his fist with a howl into the sky. With a sharp pivot that threw all his weight into the blow, Bixby brought his tightly clenched fist down like a hammer upon the window before him. The glass shattered like a crack of thunder close by as thousands of glass shards exploded inwardly, raining down upon the floor in a jagged pile inside by the window.
The pain was immediate and excruciating, like searing hot metal shredding his hand. He screamed, nauseous with agony as his eyes watered. His tightly clenched fist loosened and then went limp and when he opened his eyes, he saw a few severed tendrils as well as the small jagged end of a broken bone jutting outward through one of his many lacerations before blood spilled abundantly from his wounds, covering the hand and wrist in a crimson glove that rained upon the desert sand.
Briefly, writhing in pain, Bixby wondered how it would go if one of those rare individuals whose nerve endings don't register pain were to come in here, then winced as he curled his fingers slightly, igniting yet another spark of hot pain up his hand. Hurts like a motherfucker, he thought, wincing as his left hand pressed his mangled, bloody right hand into the side of his stomach. Must be a good sign.
Bixby opened his mouth, hissing as the cool desert breeze gnawed at his lacerations. He was about to ask how Merrick could possibly know all she knew, when he was abruptly silenced by a sudden earth quake.
Thunderous footsteps boomed from a distance, quickly growing closer. Each tremor intensified. The ground slid beneath Bixby's feet, throwing him into the air and he nearly lost his footing before latching onto the brick wall for support.
"He's here!" Merrick cried. "The Executioner's here!" Her face darkened as her eyes widened in distress. "Run! Get out of here now!"
Bixby had forgotten the ripping pain in his right hand as he bolted from the wall. The sun still shone brightly within the green sky, but his field of vision seemed to darken. There was a brief sense of suffocation as he felt himself slowing before he sped up again, his legs seemingly carrying him of their own accord. A pair of feral eyes flashed deep yellow when Bixby saw the large creature standing before him. Its lips curled back into a demonic grin, revealing razor-sharp fangs. Bixby gaped momentarily, frozen in panic as he struggled to slow himself enough so he could turn and run in the opposite direction. His feet slid, kicking up sand, and something closed around his throat like a steel trap, craning him into the air. And then the air rushed into his lungs as the creature let go, throwing him aside. Bixby squeezed his eyes shut and felt as though he were flying through molasses.
For a few minutes, he felt that he might have regained his footing as his heels touched the ground, before his legs buckled, unhinging his knees sharply. His body swayed back, and then lurched forward. His brain rattled with crushing pain as his forehead rebounded against a brick wall and Bixby found himself suddenly lying propped on one shoulder as he stared in a daze up into the sky and saw the sun dancing and rippling. His hands and feet tingled with numbness for a few seconds as the world went gray. He thought for sure he would lose consciousness before the dizziness and numbness subsided. He lifted his left hand and caressed the tender flesh of a swelling bruise over his brow and found no blood. Breathing heavily and sweating profusely as he felt grains of sand sinking into the lacerations in his hand, he looked up at the window he had shattered.
Slowly and shakily, Bixby rose to his feet. His head felt like an increasing weight lolling upon his shoulders and he groaned as sharp bolts of pain throbbed where he had bashed his head, sinking in and out of vertigo. His knees buckled, nearly spilling him forward before he leaned the side of his head against the brick wall by the window he had broken.
Once more, he saw the jagged glass shard jutting upward from the window frame. Bixby bit his lip as his right arm dangled, limp and bleeding, from his shoulder. He threw his left hand out and closed it around the shard, feeling the glass bit into his palm. He tugged loosely, then with more force and heard the glass snap. Bixby held the glass dagger close to his bosom and veered to his left.
The Executioner was upon him once more, a brutish monstrosity eight feet tall, towering over Bixby. He was reptilian in appearance, with green scaly skin throughout his body and the head of an iguana, with glowing yellow feral eyes. He had a shell like a turtle and on his back were sharp lances, like the back of a porcupine. He threw he hand out like a wrecking ball, growling savagely as his fist connected with the side of Bixby's ribs.
Once more Bixby felt himself flying for a few seconds before his hip grazed against the desert sand. He tumbled over the surface. His head rocked and brushed coarsely against the ground as his legs tangled into knots. He cried out as his shattered ribs grinded painfully and pierced his skin.
When he stopped, Bixby lay sprawled upon the ground, feeling blood rising up his throat and filling his nose and mouth. He lifted his head, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position; his chest swelled painfully from this motion, throwing him into a fit of coughs that expelled thick globs of blood and phlegm from his lips. He rolled so that he was now propped on his knees and elbows, breathing raggedly as his eyes watered and blood flowed freely from his nose and mouth. One lung was collapsed and he was bleeding internally. He felt his one good lung contract sharply and gagged, vomiting thick chunks of blood and bile that splashed his face. He hacked, coughing and struggling to breathe through narrowing passages.
A large hand clutched tightly around his throat, cutting off what little oxygen Bixby was able to suck in as it craned him into the air once more. Bixby's legs kicked and scissored frantically in a vain attempt to shake himself free. He found himself almost nose to nose with the Executioner, feeling the beast's hot breath splash his face as the monsters roars vibrated throughout the man's body.
Still in hand and still intact (although Bixby had forgotten about it until now) was the glass dagger whose jagged knife's edge sliced his fingers. Bixby lifted the glass shard before his shattered ribs screamed in protest and the pain forced his arm back down.
Shit, just one chance, he thought wildly. Either deal with the pain now or get tortured for the rest of my fuckin' life!
Already he could feel himself slipping away.
His face went numb and black spots danced and pinpricked his field of vision.
Once more he lifted his left arm, and as before, his ribs grinded painfully as they poked and stabbed at his skin and organs. If not for his suffocation, he would have surely screamed in agony; instead, his face contorted into a sharp grimace as he squeezed his watering eyes tightly shut. The pain put an immense weight upon his arm, dragging it back down as it tore at his side. Bixby gagged as he held the glass shard over his head for a few seconds before letting his trembling arm drop and plunging the glass blade deep into the side of the Executioner's neck.
The Executioner's hand loosened from Bixby's throat just long enough to allow Bixby to gasp and suck in a huge gulp of oxygen, allowing him a precious few more minutes to live, before the vice-like grip tightened all over again, drowning Bixby.
The Executioner howled as a geyser of black blood sprayed from the side of his neck like motor oil from a ruptured pipe. His hand loosened and tightened around Bixby's throat as the creature staggered backward, his entire body shaking and ready to collapse.
From a distance, Bixby heard Merrick proclaim in triumph: "You killed him! You killed the Executioner!"
He was then engulfed in syrupy darkness.
The darkness dissolved as Bixby's eyes fluttered open.
Once more, he was back within that dark torture chamber. The painful shrieks of the damned tore into his eardrums.
Whatever injuries Bixby had sustained had fully healed. He had died and resurrected, completely reborn, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
Only to be endlessly tortured.
Bixby was one of the damned now. His screams would now join in their unending symphony of hopeless misery.
Indeed he hadn't killed the Executioner as he might have thought previously; he had only wounded the creature, who was now on the road to a speedy recovery.
Bixby didn't know how he knew this, but he was sure of it regardless, the way a psychic is always one hundred percent sure that his or her prophecies are always correct. It was as though someone had pumped the information into his brain while he was "dead," like his mind was now connected to a database that told him everything he needed to know about his current situation, confirming everything Merrick had told him as true.
As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we're already dead, Merrick's words echoed through his mind.
Up ahead, Bixby laid eyes on a third demon, this one much shorter. He stood at only four feet; his head was a large cone that made up half his height. His flesh was sickly gray and his eyes were two shiny black pearls. His mouth was a tiny opening the size of a dime, with tiny thorns for teeth. This creature was known as The Observer.
When the torture began, Bixby would have surely screamed had he been able to breathe. Although the chamber remained completely dry, Bixby was drowning. He opened his mouth, struggling in vain to suck air down his throat, and his lungs flooded with fluid. As if the shear agony and emotional torment of drowning were not enough, Bixby's stomach distended suddenly, swelling before it imploded, folding inward, and coiling tightly. Spasms rippled along his spine and the chains rattled loudly as convulsions wracked his body. Battery acid seared his throat before he doubled over and vomited a mixture of blood and stomach acids.
"Please God...kill me," he gasped, panting, wheezing, and coughing. Nausea gripped his entrails and his throat felt raw.
Bixby began to drown all over again.
The end.
September 27, 2004
December 06, 2004