MicroHorror

I live in a cage ten stories below Grand Central Station. My master used to lock the cage and disappear for days. He left no food or water. Now, each morning when I wake up, I find food and water and discover he’s left the cage unlocked. What shall I do? Perhaps he’s poisoned the food and contaminated the water. But I’m starving to death. I must eat. And my thirst is unbearable. I must drink to survive. After I satisfy these needs, a distant voice inside my head whispers to me: “It’s time to leave.” I cringe and shrivel up and crawl to a corner of my dark home. I close my eyes and travel to another time and place where I’m human again.

Now, I wake up in a luxurious hotel suite with a mammoth bedroom with a king-size bed, a surreal circular living room with Dali paintings and work by an unknown artist obsessed with Manhattan, a long rectangular kitchen, and a gargantuan bathroom. Outside my red bedroom is a curtained terrace.

I wander through the suite. On the kitchen table, someone has left me breakfast. I devour an omelet with tomatoes, onions, mushrooms and peppers, white toast and margarine and a large cup of Dunkin’ Donuts hazelnut coffee. After breakfast, I notice the photos and paintings by an artist named Mark Sadler. One painting is entitled Hotel M and seems to be an expressionistic painting of the skyscraper I’m in. It reminds me of Munch’s The Scream. From within the walls of the hotel, a human beast screams endlessly into the barren universe beyond.

Soon, I turn on the TV and watch CNN. The human beast from the Hotel M speaks to me.

“Welcome, Mr. M, to Hotel Mars. I hope your stay here is pleasurable. We’re thrilled to have you as our guest.”

The thing shrieks incessantly in my head. I turn off the TV.

I saunter to the terrace and open the curtains. I scream. I’m trapped inside a gargantuan cage with bars. Outside, they wave at me and cheer.

A captive beast on exhibit in a human zoo, I gaze at the gorilla-like creatures that captured me.

I run around the suite and search for an exit, a door or window to freedom. No exit. Inside the bathroom, I struggle to open the window. But it has bars too. Outside this window, the creatures gaze at me and laugh uproariously.

Between Scylla and Charybdis, I close my eyes and travel to another time and place. When I open my eyes, I’m back in my old cage. I shrink into a crumbled sphere of Hell.

I open the unlocked cage. Beyond is a subterranean labyrinth I must travel through to be free. I leave my cage and follow a dimly lit path. In the distance, I hear the monsters howling. Yet I continue on.

As I slink across the maze and trudge north, my strength and courage return. But soon I will face the monsters.

My dark journey seems endless. Then suddenly, I hear the loud shrieks of the monsters coming from a cavernous room. I enter. Inside this eerie space, I hear their ghastly ululations. Yet I go deeper into the tomblike room. I’m surrounded by their horrific screams although I can’t see them.

Soon, I pass through a tiny space with mirrors. I gaze into the mirrors and shriek. My screams are endless and consuming. They swallow and transform me. Once more, I have power and strength.

I face the monsters and they are me, buried in the secret caverns of your mind. You must keep me in a cage, for if you give me a little freedom, I will rise to consciousness and destroy you.

I’m an old man now. Yet I’m still a dreamer. The epidemic continues to kill tens of thousands of people each day. Haven’t been infected yet. But my wife and two daughters passed away yesterday. They were my purpose for living. Now all my loved ones are dead. So I’m driving upstate to Time Town. Heard some weird rumors about the place. Got to check it out. But first I might have to kill a couple of guards to get there.

The guards are located at different checkpoints on the outskirts of the city. They stand near the antediluvian tollbooths. Clutching guns and rifles, they stand tall, like ancient centurions, in front of the blockades. The guards won’t allow anyone to leave or enter the city. I got other plans.

My name’s Joseph Cox. I’m a scientist. Got three PhDs in biochemistry, theoretical physics and microbiology. Gonna get through the blockade and make it to Time Town. Got a few toys that’ll help me achieve these goals.

I stop a hundred feet from the guards. On my shoulder is a gas mask hidden in an open black bag. In my hands is a mammoth water gun. They stare quizzically at me.

“Look!” I shout as I point my gargantuan water gun at the cloudy sky above. I pull the trigger, launching a water-filled poison into the air. I put on my gas mask and watch the contaminated water sail high then rain down on the guards.

The guards laugh maniacally. Yet once they inhale the toxic air, they fall to their feet. Within seconds, all the guards lie unconscious on the ground. Will they die? Some may. The others will wake up in a few hours.

Don’t have time to move the cars in the blockade. Got to get to Time Town before dark. I steal one of their cars. The keys are still in the ignition. I drive north to Time Town in Lake George.

I arrive in Lake George before sunset. I ask a stranger for directions to Time Town.

“It closed down many years ago.”

“The place has sentimental value.”

He gives me directions. I get there in a few minutes.

In Time Town, an old amusement park, I find a locked gate that blocks the entrance. I squeeze through a hole in the gate, clutching a .45 Magnum.

I go through an open door into the main area. The Time Machine ride is still there, a special elevator into the past. I press a button and the elevator opens up.

Suddenly, a gang of six teenagers enters the area, pointing their guns at me.

“Who are you?” a tall muscular gang member asks.

“Just a guy longing for the past.”

“You got the killa virus?”

“No.”

“You lyin’?”

“No.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Too bad.”

He grows a wicked smile. “You think you can kill all six of us with that .45?”

“Yeah. You better get out of here, punk!”

I look at the kid and see madness and rage in his alien eyes. I shoot him dead. The others freeze.

“We’re leaving, sir. We got no argument with you.”

“Okay. Drop your guns.”

“You ain’t gonna shoot us?”

“No.”

They drop their weapons.

“Turn around and start walking.”

As they saunter off, I blast each coward to kingdom come.

“Yeah, I got the virus. Before it destroys your body, it attacks your mind. That’s why I killed my wife and two daughters. Even now, I see them coming at me. They bite me and try to eat my flesh. I beat them up. But they won’t stop. So I blow their brains out.”

The dead kids are my gourmet dinner. After a full meal, I enter the elevator.

The elevator descends rapidly. Below, I hear the shrieking sounds of alien creatures. Maybe I’ll find the cure, or have one helluva midnight snack.

Old Joe got off at the last stop–Stillwell Avenue, Coney Island. His frenzied eyes darted and flitted across the bleak platform. He didn’t see him. But he felt his presence. Someone had been following him all day. Maybe the guy was on the job or just another freakin’ mope. He could be a crazy person hungry for trouble, or a hit man tracking Old Joe. Maybe. But who wanted him dead? Why?

Old Joe was turning sixty. But his body was strong, muscular, and finely tuned for self-defense or killing. He descended the barren stairs and wandered through the dark cave that contained antediluvian stores and lost souls. Outside, he crossed Surf Avenue and headed straight for the Boardwalk.

From time to time, he looked back. He didn’t see him. This guy was good, he thought. But Old Joe was better.

He passed the Cyclone, Wonder Wheel, and Parachute Jump as he rushed toward the pier. Suddenly, his brain was flooded with horrific memories that he had buried years ago. No matter. He had a rendezvous to keep.

Christmas Eve. The Boardwalk was deserted. And now, the snow began to fall. Abruptly, he turned his head and tried to see the stranger. He saw only the barren Boardwalk and the swirling snow.

He stood on the pier, smoked a Marlboro with his left hand, and waited. Inside his black leather jacket, his right hand clutched a knife.

“You came back,” the stranger said.

Old Joe turned around and mumbled, “You!”

“Yeah. You thought you killed your old man fifty years ago. My little son stabbed me in the back like a coward. Yeah. You tried. Almost succeeded. But I’ll live forever. Deep within your brain.”

“Maybe I oughta kill you again.”

“You can’t.”

The stalker laughed at him. Old Joe lunged at the beast, cut him bad, and killed him forever.

He lay on the wooden pier beneath the white whirling snow that was turning red. He breathed his last breaths, waiting to die. With death, the unbearable nightmares that had haunted him for half a century would end, he prayed.

Old Joe, professional criminal and frequent hit man, whispered obscenities to his father’s ghost. And he clutched the knife he had thrust deep into his chest, waiting only seconds, but perhaps forever, for the end. Even now, his body shook in terror, for he feared his father would follow him to Hell. And for eternity, he would hunt and torture Old Joe, the hunted.

I don’t believe in ghost stories, but I’ve heard weird tales about Mount Misery Road and Sweet Hollow Road in Huntington, Long Island; you gotta be a fool to travel on these narrow, winding, and intersecting roads late at night surrounded and shrouded by dense forests; back in the 1700s, there used to be a mental asylum near Mount Misery Road, but it burnt down twice and sometimes you can see the Lady in White, the patient who allegedly burned herself and burned down the mental asylum, darting and flitting across the road and leaping in front of cars in the eerie pitch-black darkness; yes, you may, according to legend, see this ghost or others on your trip through Hell; and hidden in the thick, preternatural woods, the Hell Hound waits for you; this black-furred creature lurks in the hallucinogenic woods and watches you, clutching and capturing you with its fierce, red eyes; and I’ve heard ghastly tales that if you see the Hell Hound, death is nearby, coming soon to clamp your throat with its monstrous teeth, and steal your last mortal breath; so after midnight, I drive through these winding roads in search of folks who’ve lost their way, desperately in need of a free ride out of Hell, or teenagers testing their courage by traveling, they believe, on haunted roads in the dark; my police siren shrieks across the ghostly road and I pick up all the strays; inside my car, they sit in the back seats I turn on the lights and look in the mirror; the Hell Hound stares at me and my passengers who scream and try to escape; but they can’t; and now that they know I’ve got no skull in the back of my head, I turn around and gaze at them with red eyes, my thrashing tongue tasting terror, as I devour their minds and souls, before feasting on their shards of flesh, humans destroyed by a chimera, perhaps, alive in their fire-breathing imagination, or something real and incomprehensible from beyond, a ghost that wanders these dark roads forever.

A year ago, my best friend Harry vanished. The police searched for him and followed a few leads that led nowhere. Until a few hours ago, I thought he was dead. Then I got the call and heard the strangely familiar voice.

“Is that you, Harry?”

“Don’t you recognize your old buddy?”

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I’ll explain everything to you when I see you. Tomorrow morning, drive to Cape Cod and take the afternoon ferry at Woods Hole to Vineyard Haven. You’ll find me in town at the Black Dog Tavern. See you when you get there.”

“Sure, Harry.”

“And Adam, don’t tell anyone where you’re going or that you spoke to me. It’s our secret.”

“Why?”

Harry hung up. I miss my friend and I’m a curious SOB. So I’m going. Got to see my buddy again.

On this cold November day, I arrive in Vineyard Haven in the off-season. Harry and I were here ten years ago in the early fall after Labor Day when the summer folks were gone. Harry got drunk in the Black Dog Tavern and kept drinking for a whole week. A gifted artist obsessed with various shades of red, he painted red hot beetlebung trees, as well as tupelo trees, sumacs, and swamp maples, in vibrant pastels and watercolors. When the autumn leaves turned crimson red, he cried out, “Hallelujah!”

Now, in this secret Haven, the snow begins to fall. But soon, I’ll see Harry again. I love him. He’s my soul brother. But love hurts. I lost my wife Anna ten years ago. She died suddenly of a heart attack.

As I approach the tavern, I notice three old men staring at me. One fellow with a long gray beard smiles wickedly at me. I look away.

Inside the tavern, the lights are dim, just a few customers in the place. Harry’s in a booth in the back.

“Good to see you, Harry.”

“Same here, old buddy.”

“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

“Somebody was stalking me. I felt his presence. Got spooked and left town. Came here. Welcome to Paradise.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Don’t trust them, only you and these good folks in Vineyard Haven.”

My eyes dart across the place and wherever they land, I find a stranger’s eerie eyes fixed on me.

“Harry, you sure you can trust these people?”

“Yeah, we’re family now. Last month my neighbor gave me a lucky charm I wear as a necklace. Look!”

“Beautiful. But I see a skull and crossbones.”

“Yeah. It’s supposed to protect me. Seems to work. So what are you drinking?”

“Coffee. Got to wake up.”

We eat and drink and Harry tells me we’re going to a Town Meeting and the Vineyard Haven cemetery. Weird guy, my friend.

Suddenly, the Black Dog Tavern whirls and swirls in my brain and I black out.

I wake up in a school gym. And I’m in the center of a circle of fire, surrounded by men in black robes, adorned with rings, necklaces, and pendants with esoteric symbols, including the symbol of the skull and crossbones.

A black-robed man slithers toward me. “Welcome, Adam. This is our Town Meeting and our Secret Society.”

“Harry?”

“Yes, it’s me. Tonight I will join this glorious society. Look at these celestial flames! Feel the power of crimson red! Your death is my rite of initiation–my entrance into Heaven–my apotheosis!”

“Why me?”

Pointing a slick .38 at my head, he says, “To join the New Brotherhood of Death, I must kill someone I love.”

“I know. I killed Anna before joining.”

The others surround Harry.

“Wanted you to become a brother too. But you yearn to be our God.”

I watch my brothers set Harry on fire. His body turns crimson red. Tomorrow, we will bury his remains in the cemetery. Only we and the dead know the secret Haven.

It was almost midnight, but the city was illuminated like an amusement park. The hunter, a.k.a. the Red Man, had tracked his prey into the Dark Zone. His target was an old man designated by K-Company as the Blue Man. On the first Sunday of each month, another Blue Man (or Blue Woman) was chosen for sacrifice.

This evening, the Red Man would kill again after completing his assignment.

A week earlier, he and his boss, the Gold Man, had an altercation.

“You’re the number-one killer in the New World. But you’re out of control. Cruel and sadistic like the Creature we’ve sacrificed our people to.”

“I get the job done.”

“That’s not good enough. The Silver Man called me into his office and chewed me out for hiring you. Called you a loose cannon. So change your ways or…”

“What?”

“I’ll make sure you never work for K-Company again.”

“Just try, boss. And you’re a dead man.”

“You freakin’ maniac!”

The Red Man glared at the Gold Man, penetrating his frenzied eyes. The Gold Man looked away, turned around and scurried off.

After giving the Blue Man a fifteen-minute head start, the Red Man tracked his prey into the Dark Zone where the hungry, cannibalistic Monster craved human flesh.

“Why did you run into the Dark Zone?” the Red Man muttered, as his ferocious eyes darted across the Dark Zone and found the Blue Man a hundred feet away, near the rim of the lethal circle. Hunched over, the Blue Man faced the circle where the Monster dwelled and traveled back and forth between two dimensions.

The killer slithered toward his prey. In the distance, he heard the shrieks of the Creature.

He grabbed the Blue Man from behind and twisted him around. When he gazed into his dark eyes, he found the Gold Man glaring at him. And then he heard the roar of the bullet that fatally wounded him.

The Gold Man pushed the dying man into the lethal circle and watched the Monster appear, seize the Red Man and bite into his succulent flesh. He listened to the Red Man’s horrific shrieks before the Creature and prey vanished into another dimension. Wearing a sardonic smile, he sauntered off, unaware that another killer was watching him with interest too.

I want to live, but I am suffering from a mysterious illness that is destroying my immune system and subsequently, my life-sustaining organs. The doctors told me my illness is deadlier than AIDS. The experimental treatment for this vicious disease costs over $100,000 per month. Because I am an eighty-year-old man with no health insurance, I will not receive this treatment. They have ordered me to choose between getting termination therapy–an instant, painless death with all funeral expenses paid for–and traveling on Termination Road.

On this dark road, I will encounter many life-threatening situations and enemies. I must survive these confrontations and reach the end of the road. If I succeed, I will be granted free medical care, including the experimental treatment, until my death or cure. But no one has survived the murderous journey.

Still, I’ve decided to travel on Termination Road. I know the odds of my surviving this perilous journey are about 100 million to 1. But I’ve got this secret gift. And I believe it will help me make it to the end of the road.

I’m about to start my journey. Nearby, I see dozens of dirty needles and other sharp objects scattered across the road. And in the distance, hidden creatures shriek.

I clear my mind and allow my gift to work. I travel to a beautiful place and time and I’m at peace.

Now, I begin my journey. I run across the long narrow road, untouched by needles or other sharp objects. I do not see these lethal things, nor do I hear the howling of the creatures.

I run for hours and I’m still alive.

On Termination Road I feel omnipotent. How can I be ill? I’m running fast like a stallion.

It seems I’ve been running for hours or days. Am I going mad? Termination Road is not a death sentence. It’s life!

Nothing can harm me. I’ve got the gift and it has freed me from the restraints of earthly existence. And in the distance, I see the end of the road.

As I cross the finish line, I pound my chest and shout words of joy to the Heavens. I’m a time traveler and I’ve traveled one hundred years back in time to a period of love and peace when Termination Road was called The Road of Life.

No one knows me at the finish line. But I’m safe here. Yet I need to travel back to my time and receive the treatment. I will clear my mind and allow my gift to work.

Can’t get back. I’ve lost my focus–my gift. The people of this place and time are loving, compassionate folks. But I will die in their presence.

I’ve lost my strength too. Seems the road gave me enormous power. And now, I’m ill again. What shall I do? I must find my way back, but how? Do you know?

Does someone out there know how I can find my way home? Help me travel one hundred years into the future. Help me!

“Kill the traitor!” the Chief, a seven-foot monolith, commanded.

“Sampson can’t be the mole,” the albino midget protested. “He’s been my partner for fifteen years. Always has my back. Saved my life once. And when we spend down time together, he always reveals a passionate love for our country. He’s a great patriot, Chief.”

“You’re myopic, little man. From where I stand, I’ve got a clear view. And what I see confirms my suspicions. So kill him, Bronson. Or there will be consequences.”

“Consequences?”

“Yes.”

And the Chief sauntered off, leaving the little man alone in the catacombs where all assignments were given.

Like Bronson, Sampson was a senior agent. He was also the Chief of Psychiatry at the Institute of Trust. A mole had penetrated the Agency. He and Bronson had searched for the traitor for the past three weeks to no avail. Now, the shrink was the primary suspect. Of course, he did not know that he was a suspect or that he had already been found guilty and sentenced to death.In order to survive, Bronson had to kill Sampson although he knew his partner was innocent. If he did not obey the Chief, someone else would kill Sampson and come for him too.

Deputy Chief Johnson limped into the Chief’s luxurious office, as vast as a grand ballroom, on the 200th floor of the Trust Foundation building. The walls were snow-white and lined with flowing red and blue bookcases.“Come in, George.”

“Yes, Chief,” the ghostly, emaciated cripple, who stood only 5-feet-4-inches tall, muttered.

“Please, George. Don’t be obsequious! Call me Guy. At least when we’re alone.”

Johnson nodded in agreement but remained silent.

“Relax, George. You did well. Got me the information I needed. I’ve ordered Bronson to obliterate Sampson. I do believe he’s our mole and… an alien too. Can’t trust those psychobabble freaks.”

Johnson grew a fat smile. Then he added: “He’s our primary suspect, Guy. Yet agents Wright, Brothers, and Biggs are not beyond suspicion. And don’t forget our loathsome cockroach Bronson.”

“I see.”

“Well, what shall we do?”

“You will get rid of them, George. Clean house before there’s a full-fledged alien invasion.”

And Guy Orwell turned his back on Johnson, a signal to the Deputy Chief that he had been dismissed. Johnson hobbled off.

After midnight, the alien slithered into the catacombs, removed its mask, and shrieked relentlessly into the dark void. Soon It would rule with absolute power.

The Institute of Trust was the entire sixth floor of the Trust Foundation building. Sampson’s office was located in Room 66, a labyrinthine universe of dark secrets.Bronson rang the bell and the romantic receptionist buzzed him in. Wearing a gold jacket that hid his .38, the midget entered Room 66, and smiled wickedly at Barbara Orwell, the Chief’s daughter.

“Dick’s waiting for you,” she said dreamily.

Bronson nodded and sauntered off through the meandrous maze. Clutching his .38, he knocked on Sampson’s door.

“Come in, Charlie.”

Bronson entered, pointing his .38 at his partner.

Sampson rose. He pointed his .44 Magnum at the little man. “Got an anonymous note warning me about you. Thought it was phony until you pointed that thing at me. Goodbye, Charlie!”

And the two men opened fire, killing each other. The Chief watched from his office, having planted three cameras in Sampson’s office.

Wearing a human mask, the alien entered the mammoth office.“Come in. All’s well. Our suspects are killing each other. An anonymous note has been floating around. Everyone’s paranoid. How sweet.”

“My idea.”

“Well done. But Barbara’s upset about Sampson’s death. Thought she was in love. Well, she’ll get over it.”

“Don’t worry. I killed her!”

“What?”

Slowly, he removed his mask and revealed his grotesque face and gargantuan alien body. And the monster, a.k.a. George Johnson, slithered toward the Chief, shrieking relentlessly, as It watched the Chief’s bulging eyes and trembling, flailing body. Soon, it would swallow and devour the dumb creature alive.

The monolith was a frightening person, a looming figure flooded with rage and paranoia. Almost seven feet tall, he looked like a pro wrestler or NFL football or NBA basketball player. But he had no athletic ability. Fortunately, he was a gifted and prolific writer who wrote science fiction novels. One of his novels had been sold to MGM for seven figures. A commercially successful writer, he had enough money to see a top-notch shrink every day of the week if he wished. He chose to see Dr. Samuel Woods three times a week in his office on Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn, New York.

The monolith sat across from Dr. Samuel Woods, a tiny, balding man of eighty, with dark brown eyes and a weak chin. A gentle man with a soft, quiet disposition, the doctor possessed a cornucopia of compassion and emotional strength.

“Why do you want to kill me, Doc?”

“What gives you that impression?”

“Don’t know. Just call it raw, animal instinct.”

“Is that proof?”

“Maybe not. But you got me doped up on Risperdal, Seroquel, Depakote, and Ambien.”

“Are you taking the meds?”

“Sometimes. They make me sick. Guess I’m gonna go away for a couple of weeks. The Voices warned me about you and the others. Said you might be aliens.”

“Aliens?”

“Yes.”

“Did they command you to do anything?”

“Well, of course. They told me to kill you and my family. Don’t worry. I won’t. Not yet. Maybe never. Got to get away.”

“Where are you going?”

“Can’t tell you. You might follow me there and… Well, I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Take your meds. You’ll feel better.”

“Maybe.”

On August 1, the monolith drove off to Ogunquit, a small town in southern Maine. He left Brooklyn an hour before the hurricane arrived. When he heard the news on the car radio, he realized he had escaped more than a storm. The aliens had arrived, he concluded. The aliens were finally here.

He stayed in Ogunquit three weeks. He felt safe there, and thought of relocating. But he had to return to Brooklyn. It was his home.

He returned to Brooklyn on a hot, humid dog-day afternoon. When he got out of his car, the toxic, suffocating air assaulted him.

“Christ! They poisoned the air!” he cried out. Then he sauntered off to his two-story Manhattan Beach house one block from the beach.

Soon, he was home. The manicured lawn looked different, perhaps, too perfect. And the Voices whispered to him at first and then screamed inside his brain: Kill your wife and two daughters!

When he entered the familiar surroundings, that seemed eerily strange, he began to sweat. His heart beat rapidly–uncontrollably, like a runaway train without a motorman. His hands trembled and his body shook. Dizzy and faint, he felt an alien force sucking the life-force out of him, replacing it with the foul scents of human debris, death, feces, urine, vomit, and sweat.

“Anyone home?” he shouted.

Suddenly, his wife and two daughters descended the stairs. They smiled lovingly at him, but he knew they were aliens. He rushed to the door and scurried off.

The monolith sat across from Dr. Woods.

“They’re aliens, Doc–not my flesh and blood. They came in the storm, an alien virus that kills humans. They snatched their bodies.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“Pure animal instinct.”

“Did you hurt them?”

“No.”

“That’s good. But what about me? Am I an alien too?”

He gazed quizzically at the doctor who removed his human mask.

“What are you?”

“Death.”

Propelled by rage and only a trace of his life-force, he lunged at the grotesque creature that now possessed the little doctor’s body. The other took out a .357 Magnum and blew the monolith’s head off.

Grinning sardonically at no one in particular, it waited for the next storm and the arrival of its alien comrades.

The man with dark brown eyes woke up in a forest overlooking the town and river below. Curled up in a fetal position beneath the barren trees, he looked up and tasted the wet, heavy snow falling from the white sky.

He wore a brown winter coat and was covered with a foot of snow. When he sat up, he noticed that his coat was soaked in blood. And as he moved, he felt a stabbing pain in his chest. He unbuttoned his coat, lifted his blood-stained shirt, and gazed at the gaping hole near his heart and the rushing flow of blood.

“No!” he shrieked, for he realized that he had been shot. If he did not stop the gushing blood, he might die in the next few minutes. He almost blacked out, but he willed himself to stay awake. He ripped his shirt off and made an ersatz tourniquet that stopped the flow of blood.

The wounded man headed south, trudging across a thick blanket of snow. He did not know who he was or who had shot him. But he knew he needed medical attention and shelter soon, or he might die in the snow.

He drifted south in the blinding snow. Lost in the labyrinthine forest, he wandered for hours until he came to a clearing. In this area, the snow had stopped falling. And he could see a looming open gate in the distance.

Trudging across the open space, he approached the mammoth gate. Perhaps, on the other side, he’d find help. He only needed to take a few steps to reach the other side. But with each imperceptible movement of his fragile body toward the gate, he heard inhuman shrieks nearby.

“Monsters!” he cried out. And he staggered back toward the forest, seeking refuge in the woods from the creatures by the gate.

Inside the forest, he trudged through the snow, struggling to keep his balance as the blizzard swept over the forest. He wandered north through the blinding whiteness in search of a safe haven from the storm and the monsters.

Yet as he reeled across the white wasteland, assaulted by the storm and the stabbing pain in his chest, he heard the monsters shrieking behind him. They had followed him into the forest and were nearby. Soon they would devour him.

But once again, he came to a clearing. In this area, too, the snow had stopped falling. And he could see a looming open gate in the distance.

He tried to rush toward the gate but after a few seconds, he was breathless, gasping for air. So he moved slowly.

But as he approached the gate, he heard the inhuman shrieks again. Now, the monsters were behind him in the forest and at the gate waiting for him. Was there no exit from this hell?

When the monsters cried out again, his body shook, his hands trembled. Then his wound opened up and blood gushed from his chest. Too weak to go east or west, he stumbled across the heavy snow toward the gate.

On the other side, a glorious sun was rising and a young boy seemed to beckon him. But as he got closer to the gate, he heard the horrific cries of the monsters once more. And he saw a dreamlike panorama of unbearable memories, traumas, and grotesque images of his past sprawled across the mammoth gate. Now, he watched himself kill the other who shot him in the chest before dying.

As he viewed his life of sin and redemption, he sensed the monsters encircling and devouring him in a vast moment of eternity. Could he leap through the circle of monsters and reach the other side? He saw the boy smiling and waving to him.

He closed his eyes and leaped.