The Endless War That Never Ends

by Christopher Brimmage

  A calm, black lake sprawled across the center of the cavern. Waterscorpions teemed around the edges of the lake, their skinny, dark exoskeletons skittering across the dark mud as they gorged themselves on little translucent shrimp that danced through the water. Drillbot noted a single exit—the entrance to a tiny tunnel in the cavern wall on the far side of the lake. Drillbot began to roll forward, intending to navigate his way around the outskirts of the lake to reach the tunnel.

  God-Art pulled back on the python, preventing Drillbot from moving. “[whir] What are you – CLACK – are you doi-”

  Drillbot was interrupted when an enormous geyser of fire erupted from deep within the lake. The flames spread to envelop the cave, flash-frying the waterscorpions that patrolled the edges of the water and boiling the translucent shrimp that swam within it.

  “Saving your stupid robot hide from a good scorching is what I was doing,” said God-Art.

  “[whir] Oh.”

  “No need to thank me. I’ve been here before. I knew what to expect.”

  “[whir] Drillbot was not planning to thank you. Drillbot is fireproof.”

  God-Art frowned. “Well, that’s a little rude,” he said.

  “[whir] Drillbot is sure – CLACK – is sure you will get over it.”

  And as quickly as the fire-geyser appeared, it disappeared. The lake returned to calm. From the tunnel on the far side of the lake, a trio of flying imps emerged. The first to appear was covered in short red fur. The second was covered in curly blue fur. The third was covered in braided locks of yellow fur. They carried wicker baskets and wore white chef hats. They fluttered all about the cavern, collecting the charred waterscorpion and boiled shrimp corpses that now littered the cave floor.

  “Yar! It shall be a feast tonight!” called the first.

  “When is it not?” responded the second.

  “Good point,” replied the third.

  “Hail, friends,” called God-Art from his vantage in the tunnel.

  The first imp glared at God-Art. Then it turned to the second imp and said, “Tell the interloper that I am not speaking to him. He still owes money to my mother.”

  The second imp also glared at God-Art. Then it turned to the third imp and said, “Tell the interloper that I am not speaking to him. He still owes my father a new left leg.”

  The third imp also glared at God-Art. Then it turned, but having no other imp to which it might relay a message, simply said to its companions, “I will not speak to the fiend. He owes me a new brother, since my father cooked my younger sibling for a feast in his honor eons ago. The interloper did not even attend, nor did he deign to tell my father that he would not show, and this was after he was advertised as the guest of honor! My father has still not recovered from the shame.”

  And with that, the three imps ignored the intruders and completed their task of collecting the cooked fauna from this underground cave. When all the waterscopion and translucent shrimp carcasses were stuffed into the wicker baskets, the three imps fluttered back into the tunnel from which they had emerged. A few seconds later, new waterscorpions and fresh translucent shrimp tumbled down from a tiny crack in the roof of the cave, making barely audible splashes in the water as they crashed into the lake. They began the cycle of predator and prey anew, not knowing that the cycle was entirely pointless, and that at some point in the near future, they would all be flash-fried by the fire-geyser beneath the lake and used as appetizers in a demonic feast.

  Drillbot glanced over at God-Art. The god’s flaming hair danced in the darkness and seemed to fit in perfectly with the surroundings. Drillbot asked, “[whir] What was that – CLACK – that about?”

  The god shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t really remember.”

  “[whir] Forgive Drillbot for not really believing – CLACK – believing that.”

  God-Art smirked. He opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by screams echoing up from the tunnel on the far side of the lake. God-Art laughed.

  “[whir] What is humorous about this – CLACK – about this place?” asked Drillbot.

  “Oh, I was just thinking back to my earth’s Heroic Age when I ran the administrative side of its Hell for a while. The magic at play in this place is amateur—I’m talking community-theater-in-some-cultureless-backwoods-rural-town amateur—and from what I can surmise from the distress levels of those screams echoing up here toward us, the punishment here is downright tame. Especially compared to the torture to which I subjected the damned of my world.

  The god sighed and continued. “’Twas a fun gig while it lasted, but it all ended the day that the hero Bibbidybox decided to rescue his dead lover. He tricked me into eating a pomegranate that was poisoned with holy water from the corner of my world afflicted by stone-skin. I ate the damned thing because I love pomegranates, and it turned my skin to stone. Took a bit of time to resurrect myself from that, let me tell you. That poison was engineered by my brother, the crafter-god Hyacinth.”

  Drillbot thought about demanding that the god stop talking, but he knew that the request would fall on deaf ears, so he instead shut off his audio receptors. The god did not finish telling his story for another twenty minutes, at which point he led Drillbot around the edge of the water until they reached the tunnel on the far side of the cave. They entered it and followed its path downward. Drillbot found himself needing to duck even more than in the previous tunnel.

  After scrambling ever downward for another hour, they reached a second gigantic cavern. This one had a cracked roof from which flaming coals rained and a floor covered in black soil that seemed to wriggle in the dancing light of the coals. God-Art yanked on Drillbot’s python-leash to hold the robot in place so that the robot would not yet enter the chamber. Drillbot sighed, for he had learned a lesson from his overexuberance to enter the prior chamber and had made no attempt to dash forward into this one. Thus, the yank on the leash served no purpose other than to annoy him.

  Legion upon legion of men and women ran past the tunnel’s exit. They chased after a tiny demon that looked like a black-and-yellow bumblebee with horns sticking up from its head. It held onto a pole five-feet long from which hung a black banner.

  Drillbot turned his audio receptors back on just in time to hear God-Art exclaim, “This here’s the Vestibule for the Uncommitted. It’s where those who would not commit to any cause have to chase after a banner for all eternity.”

  As the bumblebee-demon buzzed past, it yelled out, “Hey Artheoskatergariabetrugereiinganno! It’s been too long! I’m off in an hour. Wanna grab a drink?”

  God-Art smiled. He glanced over at Drillbot. “As I mentioned, I’ve been here before. And not everyone holds me in contempt like those imps we met.”

  Drillbot shrugged, at which point God-Art cupped his hands and yelled after the demon, “Can’t today, buddy! Let’s meet up next time I’m down this way!”

  The bumblebee-demon turned a corner in the distance. Drillbot and God-Art waited about five minutes for the legions upon legions of damned to finally finish running past, these also eventually disappearing around the corner to chase after the demon and its banner. Twelve angels with six wings each buzzed through the sky, chasing after these legions and swooping down to rake the blades of their curved scimitars across the backs of any stragglers.

  With the chase out of sight, God-Art led Drillbot out into the cavern. Drillbot felt something squish under his wheels, and when he looked down, he realized that the entire floor consisted not of black soil, but of writhing worms with sharpened teeth. They bit at Drillbot’s wheels and at God-Art’s feet.

  God-Art laughed. “Tickles,” he said. He tugged on the python and led Drillbot forward. “C’mon.”

  They walked in a straight line across the cavern for hours, following a path of trampled worm corpses. Eventually, Drillbot felt his wheels slosh in mud. He looked down and realized that the worms had ended somewhere along the way, and dark, wet clay had taken their place. He and God-Art had reached th
e shore of a wide river, its waters black and opaque.

  “This river is the official border of this earth’s Hell,” said God-Art without being asked. “Think of the areas through which we just passed as the suburbs. Someday they may be annexed, but for now, they’re just signs that you’re approaching Hell proper.”

  “[whir] Drillbot did not inquire. But – CLACK – But OK.”

  “This river is a horribly disgusting body of water called the Acheron.”

  “[whir] How do we – CLACK – How do we cross? Must we swim?”

  God-Art smirked. “What do I look like, the patron god of swimming?”

  Drillbot stared at him in silence. When the robot refrained from answering, the god continued, “Well, I’m not. I am, however, a patron god of ferries, so we’re going to call in some help.”

  God-Art stuck out his tongue. He bit off the tip of it and caught the little piece of flesh in his hand. It caught fire, and he whispered to it, “Bring me passage,” before dropping it in the water. The piece of tongue darted through the water like a fish, its flame never extinguishing even though it currently resided underwater. It flashed into the distance and disappeared.

  Soon, Drillbot saw a shadow appear from across the vast expanse of the river. Accompanying the shadow was a song, which echoed across the water. If you happen to originate from this author’s reality, you would recognize the tune as the Happy Birthday song, but because both Drillbot and God-Art are not from this earth, they recognized it only as a mildly melodic, yet uncaptivating tune.

  The shadow took form as it grew closer, and Drillbot could now see that it was not a shadow at all, but a hooded man atop a gondola, dipping a long wooden pole into the river. He pushed the gondola with the pole, pulled it out, and repeated. The sound of the wooden pole dipping into the river seemed to keep beat with the song: “Happy birthday,” – SPLASH – “to me,” – SPLASH – “happy birthday,” – SPLASH – “to me.”

  The hooded figure’s voice was monotone and contained the least amount of joy that Drillbot had ever heard in a sentient creature. The man cut the song short as the front of the gondola skidded up onto the shore.

  God-Art looked at the man with a quizzical stare and said, “Hello. We need-”

  The man held up a hand to silence God-Art. His hand contained no flesh. It was instead merely bones. He pulled back the hood of his cloak and revealed a pale, gaunt face with burly eyebrows and icy blue eyes. He frowned and leaned upon the wooden pole. He brought his other hand—this one covered in pallid flesh—up to his chin, stroking it with his forefingers as he studied God-Art and Drillbot.

  The man spoke, his voice somehow more monotone and depressing up close. “Greetings. I take it you want to cross the Acheron? Well, just so y’know, the water’s bumpy today and dang’rous, and I wouldn’t even bring anybody ‘cross unless the boss said I hadda. Which he did, mind you. And on m’birthday, too, of all days. All the other demons and servants get their birthdays off, or at least somebody ‘members and brings cake to the office, but none of that for ol’ Rottomus the Bone-Handed.”

  God-Art raised an eyebrow. “Rottomus, good to meet y-”

  “Rottomus the Bone-Handed, that’s m’name. Rottomus is the office clerk.”

  “Oh,” said God-Art. “Good to make your acquaintance, then, Rottomus the Bone-Handed. I take it Charon is not on duty right now?”

  Rottomus the Bone-Handed heaved a sigh. Though Drillbot had no nose, his sensors maintained a constant analysis of the olfactory nature of gases, a feature embedded in his programming to prevent him from drilling through pockets of toxic gases and exposing organic creatures to them. The analysis of this man’s breath showed that it consisted almost completely of rotten fish particles and sulfur. If God-Art did not seem reasonably immune to most mundane mortal dangers, Drillbot would likely warn him to back away from the maw.

  Rottomus the Bone-Handed said, “Ever’body always asks for Charon. He gets featured in a few famous myths and legends, and all of a sudden, he’s, like, everybody’s favorite ferryman. He’s not even all that good at his job. I betcha didn’t know that, now didja? He’s awful at navigating the ol’ Acheron when there’s any type of adverse conditions, which there are nearly constantly.

  “I tell people that all th’ time,” continued Rottomus the Bone-Handed, “but no, I still run into more’n a hundred a day that refuse to get in my ferry. They say, ‘But Rottomus the Bone-Handed, this is sort’ve a one-time thing for me. I’m just gonna wait for Charon. It’s the experience, I’m sure you understand. Something I can tell my kids about when they get down here.’ But poor Rottomus the Bone-Handed, I say. Nobody wants to ride in my ferry. I got me a family to feed, just like that jerk, Charon. But just ‘cause I keep my head down and do my job and don’t make it a point to scour the shores for the poets and the writers, nobody rememb-”

  God-Art interrupted, “Rottomus the Bone-Handed, I meant no offense. Charon and I are simply old acquaintances. We took a pottery class together a few centuries ago.”

  Rottomus the Bone-Handed frowned. “Oh,” he said, barely managing to hold back tears. “OK. I understand. But nobody ever asks to take a pottery class with me. I think it’s on account of my bone-hand. And th-th-that’s not fair, because I can’t help it. You think I wanted a bone-hand? Anyway, the line to ride Charon’s ferry is over there.”

  He pointed to Drillbot’s right.

  Drillbot turned to look. About a quarter-mile down the shore, he saw the front of a queue. It weaved back and forth and stretched off into the darkness. Drillbot could not see its end. There must have been about half a million souls waiting there in line.

  “Current wait time is about three years,” muttered Rottomus the Bone-Handed. He turned his back on God-Art and Drillbot, stuck his pole in the water, and began pushing away from the shore. “I hope he’s worth it.”

  God-Art glanced over at Drillbot and shrugged in exasperation. “We can’t wait three years,” he whispered. He called after Rottomus the Bone-Handed, “Hey, wait! How much will it cost us to get across with you as our ferryman?”

  Rottomus the Bone-Handed pushed his pole into the water to stop his forward momentum. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “I charge twenty-five gold pieces each.”

  God-Art frowned. “That’s highway robbery! Charon only charges two coins! And they don’t have to be gold at all!”

  Now it was Rottomus the Bone-Handed’s turn to frown. “Time was, I’d be easily pulling in enough to keep plenty of food on th’ dinner table, but nowadays I’m lucky to get one fare a day, maybe two. Back before Charon became so famous, a work schedule and a rotation meant something to people. No more, though. Now my family don’t even eat most nights. But you’re welcome to wait in his line if you’d prefer not t’pay my fee.”

  God-Art sighed. He reached into the black pouch hanging from his belt, his arm disappearing within all the way up to the elbow. When his hand emerged, it had grown to the size of a small cow and held fifty gold pieces within its palm. “Fine, we’ll pay,” he said. “Just get us across the river at once. We’re in a hurry.”

  Rottomus the Bone-Handed’s frown grew. Tears filled to his eyes. “Oh, now you want to rush so you don’t have to put up with me anymore? I guess I understand. Pretty much happens every time I get a fare.”

  God-Art glanced at Drillbot, a look of annoyance etched across his face. “No, we just have a busy schedule. Nothing to do with you. We’re not here to stay, and time really is of the essence.”

  Rottomus the Bone-Handed continued to frown, but he nodded grudgingly. He held out an open burlap sack. “OK. I didn’t really want to ride in my skiff with someone who doesn’t like me for longer’n I gotta, anyway. It’s such an intimate setting, and I really don’t do well with awkward situations.”

  “Could have fooled me,” God-Art muttered under his breath. He dumped the gold into the burlap sack, and its weight caused the gondola to rock up and down on the water.

  God-Art cl
imbed into the gondola and sat on a cushioned wooden beam. Drillbot hopped on next. The weight of the robot pulled the tiny boat down into the water, and the water hung a mere half-inch from sloshing over the side and into the boat.

  “Too much weight,” said Rottomus the Bone-Handed. He pointed at Drillbot. “I can’t carry this one. We’ll sink.”

  God-Art grinned a mischievous grin. “But Rottomus the Bone-Handed, I paid passage for two. We’re not getting out of the boat. You can swim, right?”

  “Obviously I can swim. It’s common knowledge that only us ferry drivers can swim in the Acheron without getting stuck there forever. But it stinks, and the smell don’t come out of your cloak for weeks,” replied the ferryman. His face fell when he realized the trap into which he had just fallen.

  God-Art’s grin grew wider. “It’s settled, then. You’ll hop out and push the boat across from the water, since neither of us can.”

  God-Art shoved Rottomus the Bone-Handed over the side of the gondola. He hit the Acheron with a yelp and a splash. The boat rose a few inches and rocked ever so slightly at the waves Rottomus the Bone-Handed created when he plopped into the water. God-Art pulled the pole into the gondola and lay it on its side.

  “Now c’mon, we don’t have all day,” the god called down to Rottomus the Bone-Handed.

  The ferryman became a miniature tugboat, pushing the gondola across the river. His feet made tiny splashing sounds as they kicked through the black water. He complained the entire way and begged God-Art to take a pottery class with him like the god had done with Charon. Drillbot turned off his auditory receptors before God-Art answered, and then enjoyed the remainder of the ride in peaceful silence.

  *

  Drillbot and God-Art hopped off the gondola once it skidded to a halt on the opposite shore of the Acheron. The sand was drier and gravellier over here, and Drillbot’s wheels made crunching noises as they rolled across the dust and rock.

  Rottomus the Bone-Handed emerged from the black waters and climbed back aboard the gondola. He removed his robes, wrung out the water, and hung them over the front of the gondola to dry. His body looked emaciated and weak and his pale skin hung loose from his bones. He turned and opened his sack of coins on the floor of the gondola. He rifled through them with his flesh-covered hand. He called over his shoulder, “No offense, but I’ve gotta ensure my payment’s still here. Y’got no idea how many thieves come through this place that got nothin’ better to do than rob you blind while you’re doing them a favor and lugging them across the river.”