Hell on Earth

A year on, and I was hanging around a disused railway shunting yard, which these days resembled a graveyard for old and discarded rolling stock; filthy and rusting carriages, now covered in graffiti; even the odd wooden guards van; no longer fit for service, they were now used for illicit sex and drug taking; occasionally, they provided tramps with a roof over their heads. Leaning against one of those carriages and smoking a cigarette was Arty’s former boss, the type of man I’d usually avoid like the plague; for all I knew, he came here cottaging on his nights off. I had very little sympathy for him, but he was looking for Arty and that made him, if not a soul mate, at least a fellow victim. So against my better judgement, I agreed to help him look for Arty.

He’d made a number of enquiries, and I really didn’t want to know about his sources; they led him to Arty, and for now that was all that mattered.

A few feet away, the largest rat I’d ever seen was sniffing around a discarded syringe. Did I really want to find Arty so badly that I’d loiter around this squalid, festering dumping ground for hours on end? I began to wonder. The day was cold and there was a hint of rain in the air. Not driving rain, not even drizzle; just the occasional touch of a raindrop. It was a miserable day and I could think of better ways of spending it; but I had to confront Arty as a matter of pride.

There was no game plan; I hadn’t bought a sledgehammer to take to his knees, or bruising mates to beat the fuck out of him. I suppose I wanted closure, or a reassurance that the whole thing really was over. Yet my instincts were telling me to leave well alone, and that would have been the wisest option; but where Arty was concerned, wise decisions tended to take a backseat.

“ There.”

My fellow victim (I’ll call him Jack) pointed across the yard.

It was a young boy (or maybe a girl, the child was wearing a thick Duffel coat with the hood pulled down), cycling into the yard with an old satchel strapped to his (or her) back.

“It’s just a kid.”

“ That kid, as you put it, is a drug runner. In that satchel is a mobile ‘phone and all kinds of happy crap. Kids around here grow up fast.”

“ I see. Though I don’t see what it’s got to do with Arty.”

“ Jack flicked his cigarette onto the tracks, not taking his eyes off the kid.

“ Seems Arty has got himself a habit. That kid’s his supplier.”

I caught a glimpse of the face beneath the hood. It was a young girl, I could see now. Is this what Arty had been reduced to, buying drugs off children?

“ So what now,” I asked.

“ We wait.”

The kid made her way to a guards van. It was in an even worse state than the caravan. Five minutes passed, and by this time the cold was beginning to seep into my bones. If Arty had been living rough in these conditions, God knew what kind of a state he’d be in.

“ Right, now’s our chance.”

The kid had left the guards van and was on her bike. That was when Jack stepped out and produced a wad of five-pound notes.

“ Hey kid, come here.”

She hesitated, then cycled over to us.

“ My uncle can see us,” she said straightaway.

“ Maybe he can see this.” Jack held up the wad of notes. “There’s a few hundred quid in here; enough to buy that satchel and all its contents off you. Why not give him a call?”

The kid pulled out a mobile ‘phone and pressed a button.

“ Take a walk,” I was told, “You don’t want to know about this.”

So I left them to it. I saw the kid speak briefly, then hand the ‘phone over to Jack. A deal was struck, the money exchanged for the satchel, and the kid rode off.

Jack walked over to me, holding the satchel in a remarkably casual manner.

“ Now we have him.”

“ Great,” I said, “Now we’re peddling drugs.”

“ Not us, him! He’s in that carriage now, getting ready for a trip.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll give him fifteen minutes. That should give him enough time to reach whatever happy land those mindfuck pills are taking him to. Then we’ll give him the rest of these drugs and make an anonymous ‘phone call to the police; you know; give the cunt a taste of his own medicine.”

“ Like he’s going to get totally shit-faced when he’s got a bag of drugs to sell!” I said.

“ Fuckin’ junkies, can’t leave the stuff alone; copper’s won’t ask too many question’s, they never do. Now, do you want of piece of the bastard or not?”

“ Alright, fifteen minutes.”

*

Jack set off for the guards van and I followed, wishing for the entire world that I’d just gone down the pub that night.

Haven’t you dragged me down far enough, Arty?

The people around here had hit rock bottom (the dregs of society, I believe they call them); burned-out crackheads; tramps who carried all their possessions around in a shopping trolley; the homeless and the forgotten. I really couldn’t complain about a low-wage job and a pokey little flat.

We reached the guards van and I put them out of my mind. The less time I spent in this squalid little quarter of the city, the better.

Jack climbed up into the van and I followed. The smell of decay was overpowering; I suppose all that vermin had to go somewhere to die.

Then we found Arty, although it took a while to recognise him. His clothes fitted where they touched, an unkempt beard covered most of his face; and he was out of it, completely off his face on crack cocaine. I wish I could say that I felt pity, but all I felt was revulsion.

I looked at Jack, but all I saw was hatred. Then he drove a kick straight into Arty’s side.

“ Shop me, would you!”

‘ Hey!!!

He went to drive home another kick, but I pushed him away.

“For fuck’s sake, leave him!”

He couldn’t have looked more surprised if I’d punched him.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” he shouted, “This bastard shopped the pair of us.”

“ Yes, and look where it got him.”

I looked down at Arty, a man who’d sunk about as low as he could.

Had his situation driven him to find an escape in drugs?

You stupid bastard, Arty; why didn’t you just drive over a cliff or something?

I grabbed the satchel off Jack and threw it down at Arty’s feet.

“ You want to call the police? Call them. Then lets see if we can manage to stay the fuck away from each other, alright!”

At that point I should have gone, leaving Jack to make that ‘phone call. But for some reason I bent down to check on Arty. Maybe it was misplaced compassion, maybe it was some form of sixth sense; but something was seriously wrong here.

As I leant in closer a stench assailed me that went beyond ‘the smell-of-the-great-unwashed’; it was a smell of the vilest corruption imaginable.

“Jesus!”

I saw something then that made me recoil in horror, and I can only wish that I had fled: for Arty’s clothes began to ripple, as though a thousand worms were feeding on his flesh. His eyes flickered open, and they were the yellow eyes of a dead man.

A hiss escaped his lips.

Skeletal hands plucked at his shirt and he tore at the cotton-thin material.

“Oh shit!”

I staggered back from the sight of his exposed torso, for a cancer had greedily consumed most of the flesh; ribs, vein’s, internal organs – all were exposed to the grime and decay that surrounded him.

Now the creatures feasted on his remains; ants, beetles, cockroaches; Arty must have known that he was dying, and believed that he was going to Hell; why else would he live in an environment that Hell would surely be an improvement on?

I saw his heart beating, even as a group of maggots feasted on it; and inside I was screaming; this horror was too much for anyone to take.

A scraping sound finally drew my attention away from this horrific sight; it was Jack, dragging part of a sleeper across the floor.

It’s the only way, I thought; we have to. I could never condone a murder, but this was surely a mercy killing.

And yet I hesitated.

“ Damn it, man, grab the other end of this thing! I can’t lift it on my own.”

I almost recoiled in horror; I’d never wanted to be a party to a murder. I looked at the sleeper, then at Arty. His head would resemble a shattered pumpkin, but letting him live would be even crueller.

“ We can’t just …”

“ Don’t give me all that ‘thou shalt not kill’ bullshit! He’s fucking dead already!”

I closed my eyes, not wanting to look at Arty’s ruined body. How the fuck was he still breathing?

“Look, you can be sick later! Let’s just end this thing. Now!”

But he didn’t get it. This wasn’t going to end, and Arty wasn’t going to go away; he’d poisoned our minds, just as surely as he’d poisoned his own body. He may not have brought us here, but he’d be feeling pretty pleased with himself if he could see us now. In his wildest dreams, he could never have imagined that he’d bring us down to this level. I wanted to kick him, I didn’t want to kill him; I just wished that I’d never fucking met the bastard!

“ Why didn’t you die at birth?” I shouted.

He began hissing words, a snarling tone in his voice.

'Shoggoth. Sho – goth.’

I fought the urge to bolt from the guard’s van and keep on running. I had to finish this.

Tonight.

I looked at Jack.

“ What’s he …”

SHOGGOTH!

After a moment’s hesitation I picked up the sleeper.