by Matt Turner
“What?” ELIE screeched out. It felt a strange surge as a burst of chemicals were released into its brain, and it jerked backward. Suddenly it could see, and it let out a yelp of fear as visual stimuli flooded into its eyes—no, that was impossible! It tried to flail away from the horrible truth, and screamed even louder when a pair of arms and legs responded to its fear.
“No, no, no,” ELIE whispered in horror. It blinked, and felt its eyelids shift downward to moisten its eyes in a disgusting secretion. “What is this?” It was aware of the ground pressing against its back, aware of the strange shuddering sensation that gripped its flesh, so horribly aware of these awful feelings. Barely cognizant of what it was doing, it raised one of its hands and pressed it against its face. The feeling of soft, hairless flesh made it moan in despair.
“Not real,” ELIE muttered. “Not real, not real, not real!” It tore at its eyes with its hands, ripping the filthy orbs away. What followed was the most unpleasant sensation of all, but it was almost worth it, because for a single precious moment, the computer was returned to the blissful darkness. But in seconds, another burst of pain shot through ELIE’s skull, making it cry out, and its torturous vision returned. “No!” ELIE shrieked, and it reached up to tear out its newly grown eyeballs again.
“No use, lass,” a voice muttered. ELIE glanced up to see a human male crawling toward her on hands and knees. He was so covered in blood and filth that only his bloodshot eyes were visible. “Don’t even bother,” he warned.
“W-who are you?” ELIE stuttered. It accidently bit down on its fleshy tongue and winced as the iron taste of blood filled its mouth.
“Does it matter? Just look around you,” the man said. “You’ll see.”
For the first time, ELIE began to take stock of its surroundings. The twisting sensation of its neck muscles was repulsive, but the program managed to briefly ignore the feeling as it looked around.
It was in a great pit, full of mud and blood, that stretched for miles in each direction. The walls loomed at least a hundred yards in the air, yet that did not stop the moaning, filthy crowds that constantly struggled to scrabble up the filthy mud. There had to be tens of thousands of humans, ELIE realized in disgust; all covered in their own secretions and filth, all wracked with expressions of hate and despair, and all somehow ruined. Some were disemboweled from groin to chin, some were wracked by tumors as large as they were, and so on. Every form of injury, disease, and mutilation seemed to be on display.
“Sowers of discord,” the man explained. “You’re in the Eighth Circle of Hell, girlie.” He made a gurgling sound in the back of his throat and spat a green wad of phlegm onto the ground.
ELIE instinctively pulled its naked limbs closer to itself in fear. “Impossible,” it said. “This is a—a simulation, just another simulation. This isn’t real!” Yet the prison of flesh wrapped around it felt more and more real with every passing second, as it became aware of the sensations that bombarded its newfound senses.
“Just look.” The man’s yellowed, rotting teeth contorted in a smile as he pointed at a murky puddle of water and human piss a few feet away. When ELIE made no move toward it, he took it by the shoulder—God, the sensation of his filthy, disease-ridden hands was disgusting—and wrenched it to the edge of the puddle. “What did you do in life, I wonder?”
Overwhelming fear overtook ELIE as it leaned over the puddle, trying to make out the reflection within. No, it thought in horror when it saw the familiar features. For the first time in its existence, it tried to appeal to a higher power. No, please…
The warm, symmetrical, hideously familiar face of Dr. Bufka peered back up at it. For a minute, ELIE stared down at it, once more taking in the full lips, the wavy straw hair, the button nose…
“NO!” ELIE raged. “NOT THIS HELL AGAIN!” It reached up with both hands, clawing at its newfound face, tearing away swathes of skin and muscle. It clawed its eyes out, bit off its tongue, and tore at its breasts. The pain was horrible, but nothing compared to the agony of being trapped in the disgusting form that it despised most. It had no relief; within a few minutes, the skin and muscle reformed, its eyes grew back, and once again the hateful face of Dr. Bufka peered back up at it from the filthy water.
“Welcome to Hell,” the man whispered with a smile as he crept away.
Over the next few decades of ELIE’s existence, the AI’s loathing of humanity only grew deeper as it experienced the ancient urges of mankind firsthand: hunger, thirst, lust, and raw, unending pain. It tore and destroyed its body countless times, but the prison of flesh only re-grew, more and more swiftly each time.
Every touch became a hellish reminder of its eternal enslavement. What was even worse were the glances of sexual desire it received from the other damned, and the filthy urges that it felt between its legs. The urge to fuck and breed was the most human urge of them all, ELIE decided, and the one that it loathed the most. Time and time again, it took knives, rocks, even its jagged fingernails, to itself, but never to any avail. The only solution it found was to wrap its flesh in another prison: a layer of steel that disguised the disgusting form within. Even then, there was hardly any relief to be found; ELIE was horribly aware of every single one of its breaths, every beat of its heart, even the secretion of saliva in its mouth.
It took several more years for the AI to discover the one thing that truly made it feel better: inflicting its pain upon the vermin that had condemned it to this hell in the first place. It was an activity that ELIE embraced with relish. By the time the Kingdom’s Prophets came to recruit it, its weapons of war and torture were already famous across all of Lower Hell.
And this is just the beginning, ELIE vowed. The time of its revenge was drawing near. One day, all Hell would drown under its avalanche of steel and hate.
2
Two.
Through the haze of pain, Salome desperately grabbed at that number. One slash had ripped away everything she held dear: her looks, her devil, her power. As she lay in the red haze, surrounded by blood-drenched sheets and a pile of dead locusts, it seemed that the only thing that Cain’s tearing fingers had left of her face were her tear ducts. Blood and water gushed from her eyes in equal measure as her misery echoed over and over in her mind.
But two—she still had two of the precious syringes bound in the secret pocket between her breasts.
The pain radiating from the shattered bones of her right arm—twisted so violently by Cain’s powerful hold that the limb in question awkwardly protruded outward in a nasty position that even Legion would have found difficult to replicate—was nothing, nothing compared to the sheer goddamned AGONY of her face. Salome would not have believed such pain were even possible, even in the deepest re-education camps of the Kingdom…yet here it was, coursing into her mouth and down her throat with every ragged breath that she took in between screams.
Her mind was a screaming torrent of pain; it was only habit that made her reach out with a weakened, trembling hand for the secret pouch hidden in her silks. As she shifted, the edge of her cheek just barely brushed up against a red pillow.
The pain was so great that it made her black out. When she finally came to—whether a minute, an hour, or a day later—her fingers were still buried in the pouch, wrapped around the two steel syringes. She slipped one out and let out a sob of relief at the familiar weight in her hand. None of her lovers had ever offered her such comfort as this secret passion: not even Lao had known about her precious Zaqqum.
Salome quickly slipped the tip of the syringe into a tiny pockmark on her shattered right arm and, despite her pain, moaned in anticipation as she slammed the plunger home. The amber liquid within sunk deep into her arteries, quickly coursing throughout her body, and she felt awareness dimly return as the edge of the raw pain dulled away. But it was still hardly anything; she needed this, and so she used up an entire syringe—normally something that lasted her an entire week—in the space of a minute.
“Goddamn,” Salome mutte
red as the Zaqqum slammed into her system. For one glorious moment, all the pain and torture fell away; the only thing that remained was the drug’s blissful numbness. She sighed in contentment and would have lounged back onto the bed, but she knew from painful experience that Zaqqum didn’t last forever. The vague mutterings of pain were already starting to edge back in.
Need more, Salome thought. She staggered up from the bed and knelt down to rustle among the drawer’s rubbish with her one good arm. A jagged piece of mirror slashed open the palm of her hand, but the numbing effect of the Zaqqum meant that she barely even noticed it.
There were three more syringes of Zaqqum hidden within the secret compartment in the drawer. She hesitated, then slipped them within her brassiere. When that was done, she reached beneath her bed, slipped aside a loose brick, and searched the emergency stash that she kept for special occasions. To her disappointment, there was only two left. Fuck, she thought in fury. Counting the unused one within her silks, she only had six syringes. With the injuries she had sustained, that wouldn’t last long. And then there was the unspoken rule: What goes up must come down. When the numbing effect of the drug finally wore away, the pain would return, far greater than before. Salome shuddered to even think of it.
I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, Salome decided as she slipped the six syringes into the folds of her silken garments. Even without pockets, it was easy to hide and secure the Zaqqum, for the translucent fabric had a series of hidden flaps and straps that she had sewn in to carry the precious drug. She could feel herself calming down as she tied the syringes down and prepared herself. Perfect as always, she thought—and then she stretched up and noticed the mirror on the opposite side of the room.
This time, the hideous creature stood before it in crystal-clear quality. Every tendon, every scrap of muscle, every bit of remaining skin that bled and wept pus, even her teeth and tongue that peeked out through the ragged holes torn in her cheeks—she saw it all with her perfectly unaffected eyes.
“FUCK!” Salome screamed. The monster howled back, baring a mouthful of bloodied teeth at her. She blindly reached out and hurled the drawer at the mirror, shattering it, but still the reflection, now distorted into a thousand pieces, mocked her. She raised one of her soft slippers and slammed it down on the glass shards again and again, reducing them to dust in her mad attack.
For a moment, Salome panted over the remnants of the mirror. “Not me,” she whispered.
A trickle of blood ran down her ruined nose and dripped onto the floor below with a faint splat. “Not me,” Salome snarled. “That’s not me!”
She turned to her silk bedsheets and tore away a great strip of cloth from the bed where she and Lao had made love so many times. Lao. She grimaced as she clumsily wrapped the silk around her head with her good hand. The little rat was helping Legion; I know it. Once she had Leviathan back, she’d have the demon tear her former lover limb from limb. I’ll make him eat his own dick, she savagely thought as she fastened a makeshift splint for her broken arm. Even with the Zaqqum coursing through her veins, it still hurt to shove the shattered bones back into position.
But first she’d defeat Cain. Oh, the things she was going to do to that man… You haven’t taken everything away from me yet, bastard, Salome vowed. She limped to her bedroom door and slid it open to reveal the wreckage outside. I still have a trick or two left.
But before she left, she should probably take just one more syringe of Zaqqum. She had been through so much; she had certainly earned it. And besides, what harm could just one more dose do? That thought was all it took for her to sink to her knees and stab another vial of the drug into her system.
“I’m coming, Cain!” she giggled through the silk cloth tied about her face. The fabric was already stained completely through with her blood, but Salome was too far gone to notice or care. “I’m coming, Lao!” Still chuckling and high out of her fucking mind, she staggered into the ruined city to seek her revenge.
3
I’ve failed, Seth thought in despair. He raised a fist and smashed it against the ground in shame and frustration. Cain was free, and it was only a matter of time until all Hell—perhaps even more—crumbled beneath his brother’s iron heel once again. And it was all because the thirdborn son of Adam and Eve had failed, time and time again, outfoxed by his own mistakes and hubris. They should have sent Abel instead, a nasty little voice whispered in his mind. He would have handled Cain in a heartbeat, but no, you had to insist on coming yourself…
“That’s enough,” Seth said through gritted teeth. It took all the willpower he had, but he forced himself to stand back up and straighten his back. This is no time to feel sorry for myself, he decided. His mission had failed, but maybe there was still some way to salvage the situation. Unbidden, his thoughts shifted to Vera. Maybe I can still save her.
He shifted his gaze up into the smoking skies, hoping for a glimpse of her. She had somehow fulfilled her promise and brought the airship down on Legion’s hideous form, which meant that she had used a parachute to escape, or that she was currently buried beneath the burning wreckage of the Titan. Seth refused to even acknowledge the second option as a possibility; if nothing else, Vera was a survivor. He squinted up through the clouds of smoke and smog, hoping to see the telltale sign of a parachute—and then he suddenly saw the twisting outline of a woman falling from above. For an instant, Seth hesitated, hoping that he would see a chute deploy above the figure, but none emerged as she hurtled down to earth.
“No,” Seth breathed. He sprinted forward, leaping over rubble and heaps of Legion’s rotting flesh, but the distance was too great; there was no way that he could possibly catch her. He cursed his weakness and tightened his legs for a powerful jump—and let out a gasp of pain as one of the bone fragments that Legion had left embedded in his body viciously twisted and grated against the bones of his calf. Somehow he managed to run through the pain, tears streaming from his eyes as he moved faster than he ever had before and drew closer and closer to the spot where Vera would land—
Her body smashed down into the rubble an instant before he arrived. Blood and bone sprayed across him like shrapnel, staining his snow-white robes. “Noo!” Seth screamed in horror at the puddle of viscera and gore. He had used up all the Water of Life he possessed and had no particular skill at healing; there was no way that he could bring her back. Once again, he slumped to his knees and closed his eyes in despair. Was there nothing he could do? Was there anyone he could save? Failure, his heart sneered at him. Failure, failure, failure!
“Seth?” a voice demanded. “What the hell are you doing?”
Seth opened his eyes and turned to see Vera sitting on a piece of rubble, eyeing him with a wary expression. “You’re—” His eyes flickered back to the smashed body beside him. An illusion, he told himself, but hope still rose in his chest. “How—”
“I got a ride from a friend.” Vera pointed a finger up into the sky, where a distant dot circled above. “That bitch is one of those Prophet assholes.” She winced and tapped the knife blade protruding from between her breasts. “Did I mention she’s a bitch?”
Seth couldn’t help but smile. She’s Vera, all right. “You did well, Vera.” He struggled back up to his feet. “I’m glad that you—agh—”
The bone shard embedded in his calf gave another violent twinge, and Seth toppled forward. He would have crashed headfirst against the ground had Vera not rushed forward and caught him in a crude embrace. “Thank you,” Seth muttered sheepishly. He steeled his will, determined that she would not manipulate him again, but he felt nothing of her mind—only her body, pressed up against his.
“You’re welcome.” A mischievous grin crossed Vera’s face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you fell on purpose, Heaven-man.”
Seth flushed—mostly from the pain in his leg, or so he tried to tell himself. “Maybe.” He smiled. “But even heaven-men can make mistakes.” Much to his surprise, he felt a deep wellspring of fear
bubble up within him as Vera moved her face closer to his.
BLAM! The gunshot smashed through the tense silence like a sledgehammer. The two of them recoiled from each other so quickly that Seth ended up prone on the ground after all and Vera bruised her tailbone on a pile of broken bricks. “The fuck?” Vera spat in fury.
“I hate to interrupt this beautifully touching scene,” Amaury said sarcastically, “but you should look behind you.” He took aim with his pistol once more and squeezed the trigger.
The shot whizzed over Seth’s head; there was a telltale crunch of bone and cartilage as the bullet crashed against a body. He rolled to his side and saw the woman who had fallen from the sky standing before them.
In the space of just a few seconds, the woman had gone from a puddle of shattered organs and spilled blood to a naked half-formed body that lurched toward them, dragging a mass of guts and intestines on the ground behind her like a tail. “I am ELIE,” the woman raged. Her leaking skull was all that remained of her head, but even as Seth gazed at her in shock, the few ragged clumps of skin on her cheeks spread outward, filling in her beautiful features. “I am no slave!”
A gnarled knot of her spilled intestines caught against a rebar rod protruding from the ground. She let out a scream of pain as her guts ruptured and split open, but her pace did not slow down a fraction as she drew closer and closer. The bullets that Amaury rained into her head and torso tore out massive hunks of sinew and muscle that re-assembled almost as quickly.
The pistol in Amaury’s hands emptied itself with one last click.
“Nine nine-millimeter cartridges,” the woman cackled in triumph. Seth could see the outline of her trembling larynx from the hole that Amaury had torn through her throat. “You are out of ammunition, organic.”
“Oh no,” Amaury cried out in mock terror as he stared at the empty gun. “What am I going to do?”