The Realms of the Dead (12 page)

Chuck remained silent. He focused on his hands and felt the pulsating ball of energy flow into his arms. The white light warmed and energized them, making the little hairs on Chuck's arms feel as though they were standing on end. At the same time, his torso tingled like a limb that had fallen asleep. Somehow, Albert Lewis looked smaller than he had just a few moments earlier, more like a retired pensioner who might feed pigeons in the park rather than the monster he truly was.

“Perhaps you'd like to play with my pet, then.” If Lewis was aware of the power surging through Chuck, it was not betrayed by his jeering tone. “Maybe you'll remember her from the catacombs. I know she remembers
you
.”

As if in response to a command, a thing only remotely human scuttled from the darkness. The foundation of Albert Lewis's living litter had their bodies stitched together with coarse fibers pulled so tightly that the skin puckered around each suture; while intolerably cruel and sadistic, it paled in comparison to what had been done to this creature.

The base of its collective body was formed from two burly men on their hands and knees, asses facing each other. Their buttocks had been splayed extensively and then pressed together, conceivably bandaged, and allowed to heal into a single graft. Conjoined to them by the same technique was the body of a petite woman. Her legs were spread in a split that only could've been accomplished by wrenching joints from their sockets, and the scarring that melded her thighs and calves to the men's backs was a jagged pink seam. Severed at the wrists, her hands had been replaced with curved blades whose barbs gleamed in the torchlight, and her face was a contorted mask of insanity. Pulling her lips back into a snarl, the woman revealed a webwork of needles attached like steel braces to teeth browned and pitted by decay.

The thing clanged its blades together just before it sniffed the air.

“This is
my
domain!” Lewis slammed his fists on the throne's armrests as he lurched forward in his seat. “Do you think you can just waltz in here with your little bag of tricks and usurp my sovereignty?”

His creature scurried forward, surprisingly quick and spider-like. The woman's thin hair was plastered to her skull and her face burned hotly with the reek of an infection that made her veins darken like a network of roots lying just below her glistening, reddened cheeks. She hissed as her blades whooshed through the air, and Chuck stumbled backward, his mind and confidence balking at the sight of the abomination.

Albert Lewis's laughter echoed off the walls and ceiling, the reverberations growing in strength and volume as if his guffaws fed off one another. As it reached a crescendo, his prisoners' mouths opened in unison. Rather than releasing more screams and wails, however, they resounded with the deep baritone of their jailer's cruel laughter, each mouth robbed of its own voice and replaced with Lewis's.

The tingling in Chuck's hands subsided, and he continued backing away as Lewis's monster clattered forward. With his heart thudding distress signals, a cold sweat broke out on his brow, his previous bravado all but dissipated as he saw his own distorted, funhouse reflection in the creature's blades. There was no confidence in his gaze, no swagger in his step; in fact, he looked like a young boy, abandoned and cast aside in a world of nightmares.

He tried to narrow his focus, to envision the glow of healing light engulfing his hands like tongues of white flame. He thought he sensed a trickle still flowing down his arms, but it was hard to be certain. With the monster filling his entire field of vision, Chuck felt as though he existed somewhere outside his astral body, as if his soul had a soul that had leapt backward, cowering before the thing's approach.

This sense of detachment made it impossible to tell exactly how much energy still flowed through him. Was the pins-and-needles numbness in his extremities due to arcane forces gathering within? Or simply
hyperventilation
from gasps of putrid air?

The thing clanged its blades together again and the room spun in dizzying circles with Chuck at its center.

One unadulterated, well-placed blast of white light. That's all he was asking for.

Just one.

“Welcome,” Lewis sneered, “to my reign.”

And at that moment, his creature pounced.

Chuck leapt backward and thrust his hands out as if in an attempt to push the monster away before its body had even collided into his own. Like the white-hot centers of twin explosions, rays burst from the center of his palms and streamed out, dissolving swaths of the Cutscene in the light's wake. He felt the power of the cosmos surge through his arms: Supernovas detonated on the precipice of a black hole, billions of years of cosmic radiation sizzled and crackled as countless galaxies poured their energies into his concentrated attack.

The light streamed around the monster like the strands of a cocoon, wrapping its repulsive body in their brilliance as it threw back its head with a scream. Its arms flailed as though it thought it could cut through the light and the blades tinged off the stone columns amid a shower of sparks. Its throes were so wild and uncoordinated that it severed chains in the process. Prisoners crumpled to the floor, their arms and legs reflexively contracting into fetal position, and still the beast bellowed as it thrashed.

From the corner of his eye, Chuck caught a flash of movement. Lydia struggled to rise from the cobbles, and he wanted nothing more than to charge her with the energy he channeled, to heal her wounds and feed her strength, to make her aura flare like a mushroom cloud of pure light. But if he wavered, even for the briefest second, the thing would be freed. And one second would be all it took.

Even if he could somehow hold the creature and protect Lydia at the same time, it took everything within Chuck's power to keep the light flowing. Besides using energy from the cosmos, the beams also tapped into Chuck's own reserves. His arms felt as though he'd been doing pushups for hours. His muscles burned and ached and cramps seized his biceps, jerking his sinew into knots that tightened with every passing second. The tremors quivering through them made the beams shimmy and jump, and Chuck scowled as he fought to hold his aim.

Since he couldn't give Lydia the energy she so desperately needed, he sidestepped toward her instead, swiveling at the waist as he walked so the beast was always in the center of his vision. He stepped in front of the huddled woman, shielding her from the monster with his own body as best as he could.

A blade swished through the air as the creature lunged against its ethereal restraints, and Chuck ducked. The displaced air ruffled his hair as the weapon passed inches above his head, but still his beams of light stayed on target. The veins in his arms stood out in sharp relief as he forced more of his personal energy into the assault. The rays grew in intensity as sweat stains blossomed beneath Chuck's armpits and a savage battle cry rattled his throat as he advanced.

The creature was weakening. It wobbled back and forth as though drunk and the parries and thrusts of its blade seemed sluggish now. Though its eyes still blazed with madness, the thing's pupils expanded and contracted erratically, not responding to level of light but rather misfiring synapses in its addled brain.

Chuck's reserves, however, were rapidly depleting. He barely had strength enough to support his own weight and his knees trembled and buckled beneath the strain. With a sheen of sweat glistening on his body, he screwed his face into a grimace, forcing himself to search deeper than he ever had.

Albert Lewis shouted something as he bolted from his throne, but the sounds were meaningless. All that mattered now was sending this vile monstrosity back into the void, of mustering and maintaining the energy necessary to break it down until only basic particles remained.

The thing stumbled as patches of nothingness spread across its skin, briefly calling to mind childhood trips to the movie theater when the heat of the projector's bulb would melt an amorphous blob across the screen. The light surrounding the thing was so bright now that Chuck squinted against its glare as he advanced. Daggers of pain rammed through his eyes and temples, but still he strode forward, driving it to the floor with the force of his assault. It lay there, weakly scraping its blade over the iron grating as it whimpered, and Chuck knew what had to be done.

His right hand swooped down in a chopping motion, redirecting one beam of positive energy toward the floor. Lacking a will of its own, the grating couldn't withstand the damage Chuck inflicted. It disappeared in a flash of light and the creature fell into the abyss, tumbling end over end as its arms flailed for purchase it would never find. Ten seconds later, it fell into the flames and a fireball ballooned out of the chasm, carrying the creature's final scream seconds after it had winked out of existence.

Chuck's energy was completely depleted now, and he collapsed to his knees, panting as drying sweat cooled his back and scalp. He felt used up, as if all of his strength had gone into battling the monster, leaving him spent and haggard. Without the thing's screams and roars, he could now hear Albert Lewis's voice. It wove in and out of his gasps for air, foreign sounding syllables chanting incantations long thought to be forgotten.

The chains binding the prisoners who hadn't been freed by the creature's wild attacks dissolved, and for a brief moment Chuck thought this was somehow his doing. He thought the entire reality had begun to unravel, that these souls who'd known only pain and horror for so long were now prepared to embark on a beautiful adventure.

But it was not to be.

Each one stood and slowly turned to face him, revealing the same blue eyes as the puppet master pulling their strings. They shuffled and lurched forward with outstretched hands, clawing at the air as they hissed through bared teeth.

Chuck tried to control his breathing enough to recharge himself with the energies needed to fight. But he was tired…so very tired. With the coming of exhaustion, he was more aware than ever that his silver cord was no longer there; during the heat of battle, it hadn't mattered all that much. But with his willpower exhausted, he knew it was only a matter of time.

Soon he would be tricked into believing in this place. Chuck would forget about Kundalini breathing and all of his training would vanish from memory. He'd only know the cold stone walls and lightless dungeons, would experience every second of the eternal suffering Lewis would surely inflict upon him for destroying the madman's pet. Trapped forever in a lunatic's dream, he would have lost in the worst possible way.

Raising his eyes, Chuck watched the circle of bruised and battered bodies tighten around him, drawing closer with each beat of his heart. He knew their jagged fingernails would shred his skin and clothes, that their teeth would clamp down as they fell upon him, ripping away rubbery chunks of flesh.

And there was nothing he could do but wait for the end.

Lydia's feet shuffled forward against her will. She felt her fingers curl into talon-like claws and her mouth flooded with saliva. Soon she would know the salty tang of blood upon her lips, would smear it across her breasts and belly as she reveled in its sticky warmth. She would dig a cavity into his stomach and plunge her face into the gore, would slurp and suck and bite and gnaw as orgasmic rushes shuddered her body.

It would be glorious. It would be the moment she'd lived for, the thing she'd secretly always wanted but never had the courage to do. After all, it was natural, was it not? An animal is born, it thrives and grows for a time, and eventually leaves its physical shell behind. Whether this was caused by illness, accident, or even the clawing hands of an aggressor didn't matter: It had to happen one way or the other. The way a body died was neither tragic nor noble: It was simply another cog in a secret machine. So why shouldn't she enjoy it? Why should she feel guilt or compassion or anything at all? All animals—people included—were born to die. It was that simple.

No!

Part of her mind fought against this rationale. It rejected the urges and recoiled from the scenes of carnage that tantalized her imagination, stubbornly insisting it wanted no part in the massacre.

Stop! You don't have to do this!

This part of her tried to focus its attention on her legs. It riveted its attention on the knees, exerting willpower in an attempt to keep them from bending. It was her body, damn it. She should've been able to control it. Yet her legs betrayed her time and time again as they continued shambling toward the man.

She knew who he was, of course. Years had passed since the day he'd vanished. In the beginning, she'd held on to hope; she told herself that he would return, that any moment he'd stroll through the arched doorways and deliver her from the pain. When she could actually steal a few moments of sleep, Lydia had dreamed of him as well. Yet every day had been an exercise in
disappointment.
The silhouette filling the doorway was always the same, a sadistic visitor who'd invented new ways to make her suffer. At some point, hope had withered and died, only to be replaced by anger.

One moment, her body had been pressed tightly against his; the next, he'd somehow slipped away, leaving her to fend for herself. She hadn't heard him running, hadn't seen so much as a shadow in the fog as he fled. She should have at least heard the wooden door open and close. But the fucking coward had snuck away so stealthily that there hadn't been so much as a creak. He said he'd come to help her. He'd said he cared. And she'd actually been stupid enough to believe his lies.

So why should she fight against whatever force was driving her toward him? He'd gone off and lived his life while she languished here. The pain he'd experience would be nothing compared to what she'd had to ensure. To the fear that had gripped every waking minute of every damn day. And all because he'd abandoned her. Like a sacrificial lamb, he'd offered her up to ensure his own safe passage. The son of a bitch deserved to suffer. To know what it was like.

But was that truly how she felt? Or were those the thoughts of someone else, invading her own? After all, he
had
returned. Lying on the floor, she'd struggled to lift her head as she watched light stream from his outstretched hands. She'd witnessed his entire body pulse and glow as something beyond comprehension flowed through him.

In that moment, he'd been something more than a man. He'd been an instrument of Divine justice, an avenging angel who'd come to destroy this world in a barrage of fire and brimstone.

Or so it had seemed. Depleted, the man now sought the strength to push himself off the ground and face his attackers. His knees trembled and buckled, spilling him across the floor as Lydia—and others like her—closed in.

“I told you.” The voice coming from Lydia's mouth was not her own, but rather that of the old man who'd tortured her for years. As she spoke, so did the others surrounding her would-be rescuer, lending themselves to a chorus of malice and contempt. “I told you to kneel before me, boy. And now you will pay for your impudence.”

When the man had fought Lewis's pet, he'd stepped in front of Lydia, so she was closer to him than the others. So close that her shadow engulfed him. The first drop of blood, the first sweet scream of terror would be hers to relish.

No!

For a moment, her feet obeyed, refusing to take another step. She loomed over the man, glaring down at him as thoughts chanted in her mind.

Kill, kill, kill…

The instructions overpowered her own objections, drowning them in their insistence.

Kill, kill, kill…

Her hands reached for him, fingers flexing as her tongue darted across her lips. His skin looked so thin and fragile, so easy to open. After years of shivering in the cold, she would bask in the warmth inside him, would burrow her face deeply within it, and have her revenge for his betrayal.

NO!

Her mind flashed back to the last time she'd seen him. There, in the room with all the moths tacked to the walls; over the years, she remembered herself as being pressed tightly against him, but had that really been the way events played out?

Kill, kill, kill…

No. When Albert Lewis had threatened her—when he'd talked about seeing what was beneath her skin—the man had stepped forward, pulling out of her grasp. But not far. Just enough to shield her. Exactly as he'd done when battling the monster just now.

He'd been close enough that she could still see him. His wide-legged stance had been defiant, his muscles tense as if in preparation for a fight. He'd seemed poised and collected, not like a man who was seconds away from retreat.

What had really happened that day? Where had he truly gone?

Lydia realized she could hear his blood rushing through his veins. It was like listening to a baby's heartbeat on an ultrasound. Swish and whoosh, swish and whoosh…The sounds filled her mouth with a metallic taste and her stomach growled, demanding the feast the voice controlling her had promised.

KILL!

Yet somehow, Lydia resisted. She felt her muscles tighten with attempted movement and pulled back with everything she had, unwilling to give in. It felt as though some truth were dangling maddeningly out of reach, some secret that she had always known but not been able to summon.

One moment the man had been right there, surrounded by moth-covered walls. The next, he was gone.

He hadn't run. She would have seen him do it. She hadn't looked away, hadn't diverted her attention elsewhere. He'd simply vanished as if he'd never existed in the first place.

And what was it that Lewis always said? That this was
his
realm. That she would never escape or be rescued, because nothing happened here that he did not allow. And somehow, even then, she'd known these weren't simply boasts from an overconfident psychopath. And it made sense, didn't it? Before she'd given up entirely, Lydia had tried to find a way out of her chains. But the manacles were solid, unbroken pieces of metal. So how did her hands get inside them to begin with? She tried to remember them being snapped on, but that memory didn't exist. They'd simply appeared around her wrists, as inexplicably as the man had disappeared from the moth room.

The other prisoners were close now, their eyes glazed with bloodlust as drool dribbled onto their chins. But she was even closer. Not only to the man, but also that elusive realization.

Silence! Kill, whore, kill!

Lydia could feel her captor within her head. It was as if there was some sort of conduit bridging the two together and allowing his commands safe passage. He thought it and she reacted. He
controlled
her. That was simply something that didn't happen. Others couldn't possess a person, couldn't turn them into soulless zombies who'd bend to their will. Yet here she was, trapped by the god-like son of a bitch who called this place his own.

“
Kill him!
”

Lydia's teeth gnashed at the air, but she kept her neck from craning farther.

“Kill him, you bitch!”

If Lewis was truly omnipotent, why did she have the power to resist? Why wasn't she already feasting upon the flesh and blood her mind insisted it craved? And, for that matter, why was she even still alive? A body couldn't go through the tortures hers had experienced. Without food, without water, losing more blood on a daily basis than she'd ever dreamed her veins contained. She should have been dead long, long ago. So why wasn't she?

Because none of this is real
.

She knew it was all true now. Everything the man had tried to tell her so long ago. Her death, his sudden disappearance, the way this place defied some of the most basic laws of existence…it was the only explanation that made sense. She was still standing because you can't kill someone who is already dead. This world, and her place in it, was truly an illusion.

A warmth blossomed in the pit of Lydia's stomach and spread through her body, melting scars and cuts into smooth, unblemished flesh everywhere it touched. Her arms and legs firmed as muscle tone returned and she saw her own stomach filling out like time-lapse footage of a famine victim putting on weight. The gray streaks faded and her hair became soft and silky as the other voice in her head—the one that had previously sounded so powerful—grew fainter.

“You must obey me! This is
my
world!”

Lydia couldn't help but giggle. His words seemed so ineffectual now, like the buzzing of an annoying gnat that refused to go away. He was powerless to hurt her. His grasp on her had been shattered, and she knew the strength coursing through her had been there all along. She'd thought she needed someone to save her, an action hero to burst through the door and scoop her into his arms as he fought through insurmountable odds. But that had been as much as an illusion as the world she'd allowed herself to be trapped within. The power had been hers all along, lying dormant until she rose up to claim it.

All that was hidden had now been revealed, and Lydia knew what to do without being told. She took one last look at the man before her, still struggling to get to his feet, and then at the circle of mindless automatons creeping toward him.

And then she ran, leaving him as alone as she'd been the day he'd disappeared.