by James Cain

Artwork by Rachael Otto.

Cyrus Landon was wasted. He'd been out for three days, maybe four, tripping on golden tops seeking inspiration from his muse. He turned on the television and found a shroud of static glowing on the screen. Channels and channels of harsh, grating white noise reverberated through his aching head like a monkey high on coffee. He stumbled outside to inspect his aerial and found it intact, but framed by a Martian sky.

The ether was a firestorm of red-streaked clouds. An amorphous mass of billowing crimson-grey cloud. The breeze had a distinct charcoal ting, a passing of tainted air.

Bushfire.

The prospect of fire shocked him sober. Living high in the Blue Mountains, surrounded by eucalypts, a fire could sweep through and erase his reality in a matter of minutes.  His eyes were transfixed by the smoke on the horizon.

 Hell was climbing from the earth and scratched at space.

Somewhere down the mountain.

He skipped inside and switched on the radio, hopeful for news. Static screamed like a body snatcher.

The radio and TV out? Solar flare? Unlikely, but possible. Something's screwed.

It was ironic that such an event should follow the discovery of a cache of Mayan treasure in a newly opened crypt. In his youth, Cyrus had been an advocate of conspiracy theories. This dire synchronicity caused the hairs on the nape of his neck to rise like quills on a road kill echidna.

#

The jeep careened down the dirt track; skidded down the goat-trail that passed for a road.

Cyrus watched the sky with trepidation as he drove.  Swore each time he hazarded a glance up from the road. The skyline had deepened to a volcanicblack, a seething front of gas boiled around the besieged sun; stained it with infernal light.

I’ve never seen a fire so intense.

The vehicle cruised into the outer suburbs of Misty Heights. The jeep turned onto the highway near the shops. The road was empty except for a red Nissan blocking the road at the traffic lights. The passenger door of the car was open, and what appeared to be a body dangled on the bitumen - headfirst in a shining puddle.

The pool resembled oil. Looking at the raw, butchered state of the person hanging from the car, Cyrus knew it could be nothing but blood. A skinned carcass groping at its grave.

Cyrus staggered out of his vehicle. The windows of the shops had been smashed, and the street was deserted.

Borderland to hell.

Souvenirs and random debris (food, papers, a leg of ham) were strewn along the pavement and discarded on the road. Shreds of newspaper skipped away on the breeze like a horde of ghostly imps. The pub door had been ripped off its hinges.

What day is this? Monday - there should be life. Busy shopkeepers fussing about like ants, trying to gather the crumbs from people's wallets.

The artist walked ten steps towards that death car - ten, fifteen. Far enough. Cyrus retreated as cockroaches hatched and tap-danced their pointy feet along his lower intestines.

Dead. No mistake.

The driver’s face was a scarlet mask, a parody of life. The air resounded with the distinct woof of a nearby explosion.

Panic dragged her fingernails down Cyrus’ spine. He looked around to see where the noise had come from, but could see nothing. He jumped into the jeep and spun the car away.

There were only two cops in Misty Heights, and as the jeep pulled up outside the Police Station, Cyrus knew they weren't around. He gave a furtive look at the deserted shops on the opposite side of the road. More smashed windows. More wreckage.

Cyrus entered the Police Station. The lights were on. The door was open. Static trembled beyond the counter.

"Hello?" The sound of his voice echoed and rebounded in callous mockery. A rancid stench fouled the air. He edged closer, taut with dread. Stopped as the life washed from his body and pooled in his rubber-boned legs.

A pair of shoes protruded past the edge of the desk. Black shoes, polished to perfection.

"Hello?"

Dead. The word crawled from the bowels of his subconscious. What? You think they're sleeping on the floor? He took a deep breath and tiptoed forward. "There's been an accident. I need help." Slid another two inches across the floor.

Blood. Blood on the carpet in a blotchy, stygian pattern. The odour of old blood mounted his nostrils and instantly dried out his throat and mouth. His stomach heaved. His intestines became a sewer-dwelling octopus liquefying the contents of his bowels.

"Shit!" He lifted his shirt; covered his nose. Crept forward with tears crystallising at the edges of his eyes.

The person in the car . . . is hurt. Needs someone.

His foot crept around the edge of the desk. Horror assailed his face like smelling salts.

The policeman's back had been hacked apart - opened like a gory haggis. A glimpse of white (a spine) glistened. A hole chewed into the core of a man's soul.

He half turned away, knelt by the corpse, careful to avoid the blood. The cop was dead. The stench: faeces, blood.

Poor bastard crapped his pants before he died.

Cyrus blindly felt for the gun and snatched it from its holster, rejoiced in the comforting metal in the sweaty palm of his hand. He winced as the syrupy blood on the floor embraced his jeans (his weight upon the carpet had caused a slight indentation that had filled). Recoiled. Leapt away. Swiped at the congealed treacle on his pants . . . shuddered as his hand came away red. Gagged at the sight of dead blood on his skin and quickly wiped his hand clean on the floor.

They were gathered around his jeep waiting. Three wild-eyed lunatics, executioners from the abattoir, butchers in denim and stained corduroy. One held an axe, the second a tire iron and the third a gore-sprayed chainsaw. Their eyes were agape, like children at a country fair.

They're soaked in blood!

Cyrus bolted back towards the Police station. The trio looked up at the sound of running and hissed like cornered, feral cats. They caterwauled and rushed after him.

Cyrus slammed the door shut, flung across the bolt and locked himself inside.

The axe hacked through the wood, its blade appeared above the lock. Cyrus had his back pressed against the door, holding it shut - the blade erupted a second time and almost shaved his ear. A single dagger of lacquered wood spun to the floor. The chainsaw belched its primordial roar.

Cyrus yelped like a struck dog and stumbled across the foyer, heard the scream of shredding wood and turned to see the chainsaw opening a portal through the entrance, cutting through the door like a heated knife through cream. He glanced at the policeman's body, in full view now. Its head had been severed from its shoulders, and dead fisheyes watched him from behind a stool.

Cyrus' stomach heaved. Bile splattered down his pants and onto the floor.

He faded to his knees.

The door fell away. The chainsaw warrior stepped inside and sneered, raising the tool above his shoulder thinking he was Charles Manson, cackling like a clown.

Cyrus lifted his gun and pulled the trigger. The gun didn't work! Safety catch. The maniac screamed and charged. Cyrus fumbled with his weapon, lifted it; fired. The gun spoke and bucked in his hand - the maniac recoiled clutching the side of his neck. A fountain of blood baptised the wall and gore drenched his clothes. The fiend moaned and collapsed backwards onto the floor, dropped his chainsaw - it spun by his side. The chainsaw bounced and lashed out, its blade ate into the maniac's leg, spewed out a kneecap. Cyrus sobbed, blood sprayed his face; wet his hair. He began screaming and didn't stop.

The axe-man hurdled his fallen companion, weapon raised. His eyes were wild, yellow, puffy. The chainsaw slid sideways into his descending foot, severed the end of his boot then bounced backwards and buried itself into the wood of a bench. The axe-man tumbled, his toes scattered like flung dice.

Cyrus fired the gun a second, then a third time. He closed his eyes as Mr-Tyre-iron's face disappeared behind a grisly spume of gristle and shattered bone. Shook his head violently from side to side, screaming. Didn't want to see, didn't want to remember. He pointed the gun at the bodies writhing on the floor, fired and fired until the gun spoke no more and continued pulling the trigger long after the bullets were gone.

#

Cyrus sat in his vehicle, a bloody revenant. He drove towards Sydney and civilisation. He had to find help.

Each town was the same as the last: evidence of violence, looted shops and houses, bodies on the sidewalk or street.

Fire, so many fires. Houses burning out of control.

Cyrus passed a Fire Station and slowed down. A clotted stream ran from beneath the station door and bled towards the gutter. He accelerated and drove on.

The further he descended the mountains, the more pronounced was the devastation. Flames danced along the side of the road. A front of fire like a wave of magma converted the mountainside into a fuming wasteland. The air was dim with smoke and heated ash. A man could hardly breathe.

What’s happened to Sydney? Bosch's vision of hell. Has to be war.

Cyrus thought of the Mayans and the puzzle of their demise.  There'd been mathematical equations inscribed into the walls of the tomb. Did some fool open a portal and unleash vindictive Mayan gods of war? He dismissed the thought. It was a morbid fantasy, a dark notion that his fevered imagination could do without.

A car was parked across the highway, blocking the road. Cyrus slowed at the sight of it, cautious. A man was standing against the bonnet of the vehicle with a shotgun held across his chest. He was dressed in the distinct fluorescent-yellow overalls and white helmet of the State Emergency Services - the SES.

"Thank God!" Cyrus stopped the car and watched the sentinel. SES don't carry guns. Perhaps, he's run across some of those psychos from town? He honked his horn and waved.

The man nodded and started walking forward at a slow pace. He began to whistle with sooty lips.

Seems sane enough.

Cyrus switched off the vehicle and stepped onto the road.

What’s that tune? Something from 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory'?

Cyrus walked a little way up the highway. Noticed the taillights of a sedan in a deep ditch obscured by trees. Curious, he meandered towards it. A bead of heated sweat crept down his temple.

The car's door was open, someone was slumped across the wheel. A red-painted hand dripped at the edge of the door.

Cyrus gaped at the armed SES officer coming towards him.

The man grinned and nodded. A high-pitched staccato titter rose from his throat. He lifted his weapon.

Cyrus looked at his own bloody clothes. "No. It's a mistake."

The man cocked his head. His eyes were puke-yellow.

Cyrus dove as the gun fired - felt hot shot inject itself into the side of his leg; scrape the bone. He cursed and staggered towards his car, threw himself through the door. The front window of his jeep exploded into a kaleidoscope of shattered glass. He slithered across the front seat and flicked his burning ass behind the wheel.

"Since when did the SES start shooting people?" The SES psychopath began reloading his weapon. Thank God he's out of ammo.

The engine roared into life. Cyrus planted his foot upon the accelerator and drove straight towards the shooter. The man glanced upwards and smiled as the jeep cannoned on, chuckled as his body shattered the grill and spun across the bonnet, then bounced off onto the road. A geyser of steam spat from the ruptured radiator.

Cyrus reefed at the steering wheel and spun the vehicle around. The tires screamed and belched burnt rubber. The shooter rolled along the road. The jeep accelerated up the highway, back the way it had come. Cyrus saw Mr Psycho-nut in the mirror. The man rose to his feet, shook his head and reached for his gun as if nothing had happened; the side of his face was a finger-painting of visceral insanity. Cyrus hugged his steering wheel, keened as he drove. The car turned the bend and found sanctuary.

Cyrus didn't know if it was shock or what, but he could hardly feel the pain of his wounds. He knew the agony would come, as sure as taxes. The side of his leg looked like a packet of opened hamburger mince. Heated needles ached in his rump. He almost laughed. He'd been shot in the ass.

#

Cyrus drove in a fugue state with pain obliterating reality. Flashes of highway, passing towns, chaos, debris, fire, smoke - moments of clarity, erased by the insistent torment of his blasted thigh.

The jeep died as it pulled over the bridge that led into Bodie. The radiator was popped like a flea, and Cyrus had driven his vehicle into destruction. He pocketed the empty pistol then fell from the car. Dragged his useless leg behind him as he walked.

He broke into a blue Holden by smashing in the passenger window with a rock. Civilisation had crumbled. Anarchy reigned. Grand theft auto - who gives a fuck. He cracked open the plastic covering of the steering wheel column with a screwdriver. Got the vehicle started. Drove into town.

Bodie was a skeleton picked by crows. Broken glass. Deserted streets - flesh sculptures that he dared not look at. He parked at the top of the hill near the train station. An avenue of shops ran away from this point down a very steep incline. He limped from his car. Looked down the hill.

He could hear wild screams in the distance. Angry manikins ran around outside the front of burning buildings like kids playing Indians.

Freaks - raping humanity.

The vandals were some distance away, and Cyrus doubted he'd been seen. They were as inconsequential as red ants on a pile of dirt. He headed towards the shambles of an Internet café. Hoped the computers were working, but wasn't optimistic. Desperation drove him inside.

Cyrus stepped through the remains of a smashed plate-glass window. The computer monitors were blank. Little green lights glowed on the hard drives.  He looked around to ensure he was alone.

Fingers stabbed at the keyboard and the screen came to life. Power save mode. The browser engulfed the screen.

The computers spluttered then died. The power lights flickered then winked out as one. At first, Cyrus thought he'd lost power, but the green orbs blinked like radioactive fireflies, were still alive. The air became heavy with energy, saturated with a presence not easily described. Something had entered the room, something beyond flesh, frigid, without skin. His hair lifted from his scalp like skinny snakes and danced about his skull, animate with static. Cyrus jumped from his chair and sent it toppling to the floor.

 The screen flashed a stroboscopic pulse. He backed away, and it was then he saw it forming in the air.

It was barely more than an impression. It came through the monitor: holographic, innumerable, impossible angles, countless sides, crystalline, like a snowflake only massive. His eyes were transfixed as the manifestation formed. It reached out to him, a phantasm worthy of a shaman’s vision. The image swept forward, passed through his flesh like a banshee, and a shocking, acidic agony consumed the left side of his head.

An impossible equation formed in his brain, an infinite math test marauded through his mind, fried logic, melted reason - improbable, insane mathematical life, humped the inner sanctum of his sanity. He blacked out. His last memory was of a voice crying in unmentionable torment. The voice that wailed was his own.

#

The caustic cacophony of his shot-peppered leg brought him back to reality. 

Darkness had stolen into his bed, and gunpowder feasted in his veins. The artist moaned. The pain of his leg was only second to that of his bludgeoning migraine.

"What happened?"

Something beyond reason, beyond knowing, beyond sanity. Some mathematical entity had skull-fucked his mind.

He crawled outside, oblivious as he dragged his body across a mattress of broken glass. His clothes and arms were shredded. Smoke blanketed the hill. Smoke - flames. Buildings burned, and the road was red with

Gehenna’s infernal light.

Cyrus drove erratically, his life dripping from his arms. He passed a crowd of ghouls prancing on the highway, wielding torches and weapons, waving trophies of severed heads and limbs as they cavorted and gibbered at a watercolour moon. He shot the vehicle around the edge of the road as they came at him like angry dobermans. Sped past them in the dark, hitting a few with the side of his car; their howls and screeches clawed at his ears.

Sobbing, he drove away and left the world behind.

#

That was over a year ago now. Cyrus had been bedridden for more than a month. Ironically, his cache of drugs had sustained him through the midnight of his soul. He had rainwater in his tanks and grew vegetables in his garden. Guessed he'd have to go into town some day - when he ran out of paint or canvas.

The electricity and phones had died two weeks after his expedition into Bodie. Some malignant bastard had kept the Internet alive until the end. Was it a weapon? Aliens? Cyrus didn't know. He was content to blame the Mayans.

Why he didn't succumb to the thing that minced through his brain, he never knew. Perhaps it was because he was an artist, a truly illogical soul.

Perhaps it was simply that he was already dead.

END