Infinity House (4 page)

His face sunk. The smell and taste of the meat and maggots consumed him. This was it. He was dead, and so was James. It was an undeniable truth, and as he sunk further and further, he began to accept it.

Sorry, Mama.

Something grabbed his hand. He didn’t even realize his hand was above the surface of the meat, but he gripped and squeezed.

James, he thought. Thank God.

But as he was lifted from the meat pit with ease, his arm nearly dislocating, he knew it wasn’t his baby brother.

As the old man held Mike in the air, pus and coagulated blood dripped from Mike’s body. Maggots were all over him now. He stared into the fly pits that were the old man’s eyes. The mouth stretched wide and flies exploded forward into Mike’s face, suckled at the juice that coated him.

“He’s mine now.” Black ooze dribbled from the bullet hole on the old man’s creased and greasy forehead. “But don’t worry. I have a special place for you too.”

Mike was hurled away and crashed into the wall. Flies squashed on his back with the impact, but they were quickly replaced by fresh live ones. He writhed on the floor, tried to breathe but only found small samples of oxygen.

The old man turned to face him, smiled to reveal his yellow teeth, like sticks of butter. The aura that surrounded him was made of flies, and they danced around his body as he took thundering steps toward Mike.

The fleshy baby flies crawled from the meat pit and squiggled around the old man’s steps. Then something else followed them out. Tiny hands gripped the ledge of the dining room floor, then another pair, and another. When their faces emerged, covered in a greasy film, Mike found his breath. And he used it to scream. Munchkins covered in a milky slime scuttled across the floor toward the old man, their bodies disfigured and pale, their heads a mixture of human flesh and fly. A shimmering glare reflected off their enormous red eyes and they made a sound like a mucus-coated buzz.

Mike reached into the waist of this jeans, hoped to God his pistol was still there. His fingers wrapped around metal, and he yanked the 9mm free, pointed, and pulled the trigger three times. Only one bullet found its mark, the other two disappearing into the wall of flies behind his target.

The old man’s head rocked back, then slowly rose again. The insane smile still pulled at his face and his mustache frenzied. With each gust of laughter that blew from his hellish gut, a plume of flies exploded from his mouth, then went back in. “Silly boy.”

Mike kept the gun pointed, but he couldn’t hold it straight. The pus-soaked fly munchkins tiptoed around the old man, but fast and jerky, like film being fast-forwarded and missing frames.

The old man reached into the bullet wound on his forehead, shoved his hand in to the wrist. He pulled a fistful of something out, showed it to Mike.

Bullets. A handful the size of a grapefruit. Black fluid dripped from them and pitter pattered to the floor. The same inky liquid ran down the old man’s face. He threw the bullets toward Mike, but before they could get too far, each one became a fly, and they swam in the air until colliding with Mike’s face. Big ones, horseflies, with glittering blue and green bodies. And they bit him, tore at his flesh as they scuttled over his forehead and cheeks.

Mike swatted them, smashed them against his face. They popped like pustules with wings; the fly fluid mixed with the filth that glazed him, ran between his fingers. His face stung as he kept swatting, slapped until the last one was a stain on his skin.

The old man sat cross-legged and stared at Mike. No more smile. His face was still except for the crawling flies and the frenzied mustache. The munchkins scampered around, spoke some kind of gurgling gibberish with buzzing, custardy voices.

“Where the fuck is my brother?” Mike got to his feet, pointed his weapon. It was all he had, and though he saw first hand how useless it was, it gave him an inkling of power, so he clutched it, held on to it. “T-tell me where he is.”

“He’s home. This has always been his home,” the old man said with his powerful, yet squeaky voice. “And it will be his home forever. And yours.” He pointed across the room.

Mike kept the shaking gun aimed forward, spun his head to see where the man pointed.

A staircase. Flies covered the stairs, the hand rail, the wall. Mike wanted nothing more than to make the buzzing stop, the endless drone. He turned his head back toward the man, who now stood. The old man’s mouth stretched wide and a swirling mass rushed out. The pale fly-faced munchkins tip-toed toward Mike, leaving streaks and puddles of rancid liquid in their wake.

Mike knew it was foolish, but he also knew his choices were running thin. There was no way out. He eyed the front door over the old man’s shoulder, but his path was blocked, and he wasn’t going to chance dodging the creatures to get to it. So he turned and ran toward the stairs. The insects parted, as if inviting him to ascend them. And he did. Two at a time, never looked back once.

“James!” As he ran, the contents in the backpack shifted and bounced. The old man cackled behind him, and the miniature creatures spat their phlegm-speak. The buzzing continued, surrounded him, gnawed away at his sanity.

“James, answer me!”

A
hallway. It looked like it went on forever, and though it was well lit, Mike couldn’t see the end of it. It faded off into a tiny pinprick in the distance. The air was thick with rot.

Doors stood on either side of him. Door after door after door. Each one identical in size, color, and design. Though the walls were alive with the movement of flies, the doors were bare.

Mike swallowed down the sick that wanted to spill from his throat as he took his first steps into the hall—his feet crunched down on maggots.

The floor boiled with them. Plump and juicy, white and pink with thin black stripes running down their backs. A living squirming carpet. Just barely audible over the hum of the flies was a squeaking sound, tiny little maggot squawks. As he took steps on top of them, they squashed down, pasted his foot to the floor beneath them; he had to tear his feet free with every step, the soles sticky with thick goop.

Find him, Mike. Protect your brother. You brought him here, it’s your fault.

“James. James where are you? James!” Mike kept checking over his shoulder, sure the old man and his three little mutant minions were hot on his heels. Nothing there but bugs.

With every breath, he tasted a mixture of festering meat and sewage. He choked, tried blowing the odor from his nostrils, but it was no use. The air was violent with it.

A door opened somewhere down the hall with squeaking hinges. It was too far for Mike to see clearly, but a pale face poked out, sideways, and glared at him.

Mike’s heart stopped for a moment as he stared at the white face. They watched each other for a few seconds, but those seconds stretched out into eons. Then the face sucked back into the room it came from, and the door slammed. A dark cloud burst from the wall, then settled back down.

Mike looked down at his legs and the maggots had crawled to his knees. “Fuck.” He swatted them away, kicked his feet.

He couldn’t stand still. A moment’s hesitation and he would be swallowed whole.

“James!” he yelled as he moved down the hall. No answer.

He looked left and right, each side identical. He would have to start trying doors, he realized. He didn’t want to know what lay in waiting behind those doors, but he had to find his brother, had to get the fuck out of this place.

He sucked in a lungful of foul air, cupped his hands over his mouth, and screamed, “James! Where are you?”

Only the flies and larvae answered. He stared at the golden knob sticking out of the first wooden door to his left. He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth.

And opened the door.

The
air in the room was noticeably hotter than in the hallway, the smell more potent. The only light came from a small television set, an old fashioned one with rabbit ears and manual dials. A Bugs Bunny cartoon flickered on the screen. Bugs leaned on a tree, munched on a carrot while he watched Elmer Fudd poking around in his rabbit hole.

“Ehhh, what’s up, Doc?”

Mike had expected the line, but he didn’t expect the second voice that mimicked it.

A boy, maybe eleven years old. He sat in a wooden chair just in front of the television, hopped up and down on his rear and clapped his hands. Flies crawled over him, sucked the moisture from his dark brown skin; pale wriggling bodies covered him. The flickering light illuminated the boy just enough for Mike to see. The larvae burrowed in and out of him, tiny holes decorating him like hollow freckles.

But the boy didn’t seem to care or notice. He just watched the screen, cackled and clapped, bounced in his seat.

“You can watch with me if you want,” he said. Then he turned and faced Mike. The boy looked wet, sweaty; his curly hair was pasted to his forehead. Black circles surrounded his eyes and his cheeks sunk in to give him the appearance of a corpse. He smiled to show his crooked teeth, thick with plaque and bits of…something.

Mike stood as close to the door as he could, his hand still gripping the knob. The room was tiny, and though the light from the television only lit a small area, it was enough to see that James was not there.

He squeezed the grip of his pistol. Child or not, there were no rules in this house. Mike knew not to let his guard down.

Then the boy reached down toward the floor.

Mike flinched, pointed the gun at him.

The boy ignored the trembling barrel aimed at his face as his hand plunged into a rusty metal bucket that sat beside the chair. A cloud of flies burst out, settled on his arm, crawled in frenzied patterns.

“Want some?” The boy pulled out a handful of dripping meat and smashed it against his mouth. The meat was dark with decay, marbled with yellow fat…and swimming with maggots; the boy moaned and gurgled as he chewed and swallowed. “I’ll share with you. But you have to watch cartoons with me. Okay?” He held his hand out, offering a portion to Mike.

Mike shook his head, tried not to breathe. Globs of maggoty mush dripped from the boy’s hand, and the smile on his face turned sour when he realized Mike was backing away. He jumped to his feet, threw the slop to the floor with a splat.

“Where are you going?”

“I-I’m looking for my brother. James,” Mike said. “Have you seen him?”

“Another kid?” The boy hopped up and down and snorted, clapped some more, splashing the rotted liquid into his own face. Flies zoomed by, crawled all over everything. “I love when we get new kids!”

Mike turned the knob, eased the door open. He still had his gun raised, but the boy didn’t care.

The boy smiled wide, worried the floor with his foot. “Do you think your brother will play with me? Does he like cartoons?”

Mike checked over his shoulder when he heard a loud buzz, but it was only a fly whispering in his ear. The hall was still clear of the old man and the mucusy midget creatures.

When he turned his head back toward the room, the boy was closer, right in front of him. His hands were painted brown and red from the meat bucket, and the maggots dove in and out of his flesh, crawled over his face and out of his mouth. He reached for Mike, his eyes sad and glazed over.

“Tell your brother I want to play, okay? Tell him I’ll share my food.”

Mike jumped back into the hall, slammed the door as the boy lunged for him. The maggots that littered the floor seemed to have multiplied, now ankle high, tickling Mike’s skin as held the door shut. The boy banged against the door from inside of the room, sounded like he was scraping his fingernails across its surface.

“Will you tell him?” he shouted from the other side. “You’ll tell him, won’t you?”

Mike grimaced as the door rattled against his weight; the tickling on his ankles became sharp pain, and no matter how hard he kicked, he couldn’t shake them off. The boy sounded like he was crying as he pulled on the door, making it slam shut over and over. Mike dropped his gun as he struggled, watched it sail away on top of the larval lake.

“Shit.” He gripped the knob with both hands, leaned back. But the struggling had stopped. He could hear the boy laughing from the other side.

“Be vewy vewy quiet,” the boy said. The boy’s voice was distant, as if he had moved back to his seat in front of the television. Mike let go of the door, stood there staring at it for a moment, then looked down the hall for this gun.

It was nowhere to be seen. Mike chewed his panic away; he felt naked without his pistol, helpless. It wasn’t doing him any good any way, but he wanted it back. He squinted as he glared down the hall; it went on and on forever, the pulsating stream fading into a blur of vibrating white and pink.

More pinches on his feet and legs, tiny pinpricks of pain. The maggots had climbed his body again, covered his legs like a living fungus. He scraped handfuls of them away, growled as they scooted over his skin. Though he brushed off all he could, he could still feel them gnawing at his feet, the spaces between his toes.

The door across the hall from Cartoon Boy was just slightly ajar, and Mike saw the whites of two eyes staring out at him.

“Uh he… uh he… uh he he.” The tiny laughter had to belong to a toddler, maybe a two year old.

But the sound of the gurgly voice sent Mike further down the hall.

“He he he… uh he he.”

Mike glanced over his shoulder. A black toddler stood there, nude, fingering his protruding belly button. His skin crawled with wiggles, stark dots against his skin, and just like Cartoon Boy, they tunneled through his body.

The little boy sucked on his finger, giggled again.

Mike could tell he was a boy because of the puny twisted knot of flesh between his legs. Then the baby got down on all fours and crawled toward him. His limbs disappeared into the wriggling river and he looked like a tiny torso floating on the surface.

“Oh hell naw.” Mike turned, sprinted, splashing maggots into the air. He passed multiple doors, wondered if his brother could be inside any of them. “James? Where the fuck are you, man?”