Soft red things, like hands beneath wet sheets, awoke Chuck and carried him horizontally out of his cell along a dark, humid hallway. He wore nothing. He could not remember having ever worn anything here. The ripples against his back made him, gag, gasp. After a few moments, still half asleep, he was squeezed through a slimy threshold with a plop, and landed hard on a surprisingly unyielding surface. He stood up and looked around. Like all the rooms in the prison, it was rounded, reddish in color.

A pale light emanated from walls, ceiling and floor. His eyes adjusted to the dimness after a couple seconds, and he saw a table in the middle of the new room. An empty chair was pushed under it on his side.

Shitface sat in a chair on the other side. The sight of him reminded Chuck of that gray, elusive time before. Of the day he smashed his shovel into the face of the foreman at Jellyfish Removal Shores and descended into the valley toward home hours before the day was done. Of walking into his bedroom and seeing that tight-curled head bobbing up and down while his girl Meesha yelled out, “Drot! Drot! Drot!” like she was some fugitive from the Mongoloid Wastes. Shitface’s thick, muscle-corded arms poised on the tabletop, fists pressed together in front of him. Like he really wanted to pray, but his fuckup soul just wouldn’t allow it.

He grinned at Chuck, squinting his hard quartz eyes. “I can tell. They ain’t even told you yet. I’m going to whoop your ass, Chuckie. It don’t matter what kind of con---”

A guard appeared out of the wall with a squelch, impenetrable to the light, lashing a dark hand against Shitface’s head. Its phlegmy voice surfaced. “The Warden will tell him of the game.”

Shitface closed his mouth and nodded.

The guard turned its shrouded form toward Chuck. Chuck tried to fasten his eyes on the countenance of the guard, but it was fluid and moved much too fast for him to catch. “Sit down,” it said. “Sit down and listen to the Warden. The Warden has an opportunity He wishes to share with both of you.”

Chuck was still. He had never seen the Warden, had never heard Him speak and didn’t like the sound of a game in this place. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I’m not going to sit down unless you tell me what kind of contest Shitface was talking about.” Before he had finished speaking, several guards had entered the room, surrounding him, waiting for him to move the wrong way. He began to sweat, aware of their numbers, remembering the agony these things could summon. They played with pain like he had played a guitar so long ago. Strummed his nerves, made them sing. He tensed.

“I will tell you,” the guard said. “But now the Warden must intensify your pain response another degree---”

Chuck hissed. “No! I’ll sit down!”

“---which will only make your opportunity much more fleeting.”

The floor beneath his bare soles rose in temperature. The heat filled his body, filled him as if he were an empty vessel. It flashed through him in less than a second, and immediately the once resistant feel of the floor sharpened into an angry bite. Chuck leaped, yelping. He shrieked when he landed. Shitface laughed at him.

The guard’s squat form lengthened, towered over him. “You will have a contest. The winner will be given the chance for freedom.”

Freedom. The word, even from that thing was gorgeous. The sound dulled his enhanced nerve endings just enough for him to walk to the chair and sit down. He sat gingerly. Shitface smiled at him, showing his indomitable teeth. Chuck’s own were thick with plaque and felt loose in his gums. Making an O of his mouth, Shitface inhaled and blew at him. Chuck winced as the air dug into his chest like gravel.

“The Warden will now tell you of the contest.”

The chamber fell to grave silence, and Shitface grabbed the edges of the table in his massive hands, his head moving around in tight circles. Chuck looked at the walls of the room, expecting the Warden to pop through as the guards had done. The table began to shudder; Shitface removed his hands. As the shaking increased, the guards lowered their heads and drew their shade-like limbs beneath dark shawls.

The Voice emerged from everywhere at once, seemed to even reverberate from within Chuck’s body. The Voice was enormous, yet enveloped by something. “Prisoners 46 and 89. Mr. Drot Guglioni and Mr.Charles Passing. You have been summoned to this chamber to participate in a monthly contest necessary for the maintenance of this incarceration facility. Gentlemen, apply your attention to the wall to your right.”

Chuck and Shitface turned their heads. Chuck thought it the disgusting pink of every other wall in the damn place. The center of the surface moved, sucked inward into a concave circle. As it turned a juicy red, Chuck noticed shadows of folds shaped like an X. The depression looked like a giant navel.

“After we are finished, one of you will be given the Exit Touch. This touch will open that threshold, which leads to freedom.”

Shitface howled. “I’m going to get drunk, then I’m going to find Meesha and ball ‘er till her head’s flat from banging on the floor . . . ” Shitface’s eyes opened wide then squeezed tightly shut. He clenched his teeth and released a choked groan.

“Mr. Guglioni, it is wise to reserve ambition until the details of the competition have been explained. You have just now received the treatment given to Mr. Passing upon his arrival. It is necessary.”

Chuck reached across the table and caressed Shitface’s arm. “There,” Chuck said, and Shitface hissed and pulled away.

“My guards only described the minor part of the treatment. Your pain response has increased, but more important, your blood will now clot at an amazing rate. No mutilation, save injury to the brain, will kill you.”

Chuck stood. “No mutilation?”

“My Left Arm. My Right Arm,” said the Voice.

Apparently called by name, two of the surrounding guards came out of their shrouds like afternoon shadows and glided up to the table. The guard close to Chuck motioned to press him down, but he sat before the thing could touch him. Satisfied, it reached to its back to grab something, simultaneously with the other guard.

“Mr. Passing and Mr. Guglioni.” The guards each pulled black saws from scabbards attached to their backs.

“What’re those for?” Shitface said, frowning.

One saw was placed before both Chuck and Shitface. Chuck looked at the sharp teeth, anticipating what was going to be said next. He didn’t care. Like Shitface, he had memories of his life before he had wound up in this prison, but had no inkling why he was here. How he got here. He reached out to caress the wooden handle of the saw, and the smooth finish bit into his flesh like splinters.

Whatever we’re going to have to do, Chuck, it’s going to involve a lot of pain. And pain just mops you up.

“Those,” returned the Voice. “Those, Mr. Guglioni, are for creative self-mutilation.”

“Hell, no,” said Shitface. “I ain’t going to cut me up.” He lifted the saw and pointed it at Chuck. “I thought we were going to have some sort of contest. Like I get to use this fucking saw on Chuckie and destroy his ass like I always do.” He glanced at Chuck. “Right, bro?”

Chuck gripped the handle of the saw fiercely, sending jolts of agony through his upper arm. “Do not call me your brother!” he shouted, spraying saliva on the table. “Nothing within me is connected to you, Shitface!”

“You’re still my brother, even if you changed your goddamn name. Shitface stared at the ceiling. “I want to drown this little kitten, just like my daddy wanted to so long ago.”

“You will not touch each other with the saws. Doing so will forfeit the contest and any chance of freedom will be obliterated. It is much too easy to ruin your foremost enemy. What sport lies in that? Each of you must do his best to ruin his own body, to make mincemeat of yourselves. Multiply the quantity of your core. The man who has scattered himself to my liking will receive the Exit Touch and see the world again.”

“But if I chop myself up into several pieces,” Chuck said, his stomach already roiling at the thought of what he was going to do, “how am I going to live to enjoy any freedom?”

Shitface laughed. “What are you talking about, Chuckie? Your freedom? I’m getting the fuck out of here.” His laugh halted. “I’m first.” With a grunt, Shitface propped his bare, left foot on the table. Chuck inhaled, horrified despite himself as Shitface dug the teeth of his saw into the base of his shin. His foot yanked back and forth with the movement of the saw until finally the serrations devoured a deep path into the flesh. Skin and muscle parted, yet no blood seeped out onto the table. Shitface bit down on his back teeth and glared at Chuck as he worked. The gleaming white of bone peeked out. A crunch and a snap forced his eyes away.

Somewhere, from deep within unknown corners of the prison, emerged a rumbling like thunder, which caused Shitface to lose his grip on the two-handled saw. The blade was still, firmly embedded in its chore.

“What was that?” Chuck asked.

“Nothing that should dissuade you from the task at hand, Mr. Passing,” spoke the Warden. “You should begin as your brother has. Notice he’s working on his legs first. He’s much brighter than you think. It’s very difficult to use the blade with one hand.”

Sweat pooled at the base of Shitface’s curls and ran in rivers down his face.

“The victor will recuperate, will become one again upon exiting the chamber, to answer your earlier question, Mr. Passing. Don’t worry about that. I would be concerned that your brother has already started to divide himself into three.”

Shitface’s eyes were crossed in agony. His foot rested flat on the tabletop, muscle, fat and bone visible at the top where he had sawed it off. Amazingly, the thick hairy toes moved up and down, spasmed, which caused the disembodied foot to bounce lightly. He had his stump on the surface, working at a point four inches above the ragged edge. His eyes uncrossed and he managed to giggle. “Oh boy, Chuckie. There’s going to be a lot of pieces of me. I’m going to be everywhere at once. Hahilohiha!” The pain was making him giddy. “I haven’t seen you in a long time, Chuckie. You still remember why everyone calls me Shitface? Mother never called me that, though. Wonder why?”

“Shut up,” Chuck whispered. He looked at his legs, at the saw. Instead, he grabbed his right ear and pulled it sharply away from his head, held his breath, and pressed the serrations at the back of it. In three strokes the ear ripped away. He held it in his hand for a moment, surprised by its weight. Closing his eyes, he ripped the other one off. The pain seared him, was an ellipsis after each moment. He dropped the ears onto the floor, and their paleness looked like bleach on the pink.

Shitface was too far ahead. He was too strong. He had always been the stronger, even though Chuck was older.

“Trying to shut me out?” asked Shitface. “Cutting your ears off doesn’t turn off the sound.”

“Cutting your ears off doesn’t win the competition, either,” said the Warden. “You have no chance at the rate you’re going, Mr. Passing. Do you want to remain here while your brother goes free and . . . ”

“He’s not my brother!” Chuck growled. “And I’m getting out of here, Shitface.”

Chuck cleared all thoughts from his head, cleared the presence of Shitface sitting before him. He held the saw upright in his right hand and let the other handle fall into his left palm. His competition’s meaty rip-rip receded to the background, like the sound of the sea in a shell. Chuck closed his eyes and opened them.

Just think of it like this. Everyone has to sacrifice something to get what they really want. And you won’t even be sacrificing, just a loan until you beat this goddamned blister. So, which one first?

He raised his right foot, pressing his toes against the edge of the table, and bent over, moving the blade to hover over his foot. He would cut his foot in half, make more pieces than Shitface. Pushing the teeth slightly against the circle of blood vessels on the back of his foot, he gasped, overwhelmed by a sudden idea.

Maybe it won’t hurt as much if I cut my leg off at the upper thigh, then put it on the table and slice it into bits. I’ll be able to hold it down with my arms and the weight of my body too.

Determined, he removed his foot from the table and placed it on the floor. He inhaled, then blew out in a rush as he slammed the saw into the starved flesh of his thigh.

“AAAAAAUHHHHHHHHHFFFUCK!” he screamed. His hands, already sweat-slick, slipped off the handles and crashed into his face.

“I know you can’t do it, Chuckie.” Chuck forced himself to look up, noticed that Shitface was on the floor, his chair upended beside his head. The short, open stump of his right leg looked like something Mother would bring home to cook for Easter. Two guards held tight to his shoulders, giving him leverage. As Shitface talked, he worked on his other leg. Ragged lumps of his body surrounded him on the floor.

Chuck licked his lips. “How could you have done that so fast?”

“You kind of zoned out there for a while. And I know if you try to work on that anymore, you’re going to bonk yourself out for a doozy of a nap.” Shitface stopped his rhythmic application, and the flippant humor on his face was replaced by contempt. His lips curled inward, making his mouth a slit. “You fucking pussy. How can we have shared the same father?. You know what Daddy said about you, Chuckie?”

“I don’t care anymore. I know he hated me and I didn’t think too much of him.”

“He’d say, ‘Chuckie’s got a ceramic spine, Drothers. One of these days it’s going to break into a million pieces and I’m not going to clean it up.’”

Chuck closed his eyes. He hadn’t heard that one before. As much as he tried to refuse the stinging, it was there. Shaking his head, he braced his shoulders and grasped the handles once again. It still wasn’t too late to win. The teeth were a quarter-inch into his flesh. He jerked the saw to the left. To the right. He opened his eyes and noticed that Shitface was running around him, always facing him, so fast that he became a solid but swerving ring around him. The handles were no longer in his hands.

I’m going to pass out. The ring said, “Pus--”

“sy.” Drot stood by the wheelchair ramp at the back porch of Mother’s house. I knew he was staring at me, grinning. The sun reflected off his teeth; I felt the glare at the corner of my eye. “You can’t even face Mother. Even when we do this every week.”

My hands still stung from working all night before at Jellyfish Removal. The Portuguese Men of War had shifted their course beyond prediction. I stuck my hands into the pockets of my work suit and traced the long pebbled path that ran from the base of the porch all the way to the Shitpits. The edge of the Pits was receding rapidly. My mother would soon be forced to move, which lightened my heart.

“I’ve no problem seeing Mother, Drot,” I said. “I can’t stand coming here. I can’t stand the stink.”

He laughed and I looked at him. His hand was working at something in the back pocket of his jeans. I knew what it was. “Why don’t you go ahead and have a drink?” I asked. “Dad’s flask is used to being emptied.”

He snapped his hand away, anger ripening his face. “I haven’t kissed Mother and we haven’t been to the Pits. I won’t drink anything until that’s done.”

I nodded. “Of course, Shitface.” Calling him by his nickname softened his edge a bit. I couldn’t understand his pride at being a lush. He loved his father.

“I know what you can’t stand, Chuckie. And it isn’t the stink.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but the heavy copper bell at the back door rang out. My mother’s signal that she was about to exit. She didn’t want to hear anything not meant for her ears. The heavy French doors slowly opened outward, and Lizzie the Maid pushed my Mother out onto the beaded carpets of the back porch. My mother was sixty-six. She had been in a terrible accident thirty years earlier while surveying the Plantations with my father. Her legs were like two pale sticks placed neatly side by side. She had an automated chair, but refused to use it on our weekly pilgrimage to the pits. She insisted that Drot push her. Mother wore her hair tied back in a ponytail as usual, making her look twenty years younger. She wore a dress my father had given her, which accentuated her still-slender waist.

She glanced at me and smiled at Drot. I knew she loved me, but I had never been the reflection of Father like Drot. And I had changed my name. Her eyes moved upward, and disgust twisted her face. “Okay, Lizzie the Maid, you can go back inside. And I don’t want ti smell any of that tobacco smoke. If I do, there will be a swift replacement.”

Lizzie the Maid pursed her lips and stepped back, pulling the doors shut before her face. Mother looked at Drot. “Drothers, come here and kiss your mother.” Drot grinned, genuinely happy, and leaped onto the porch. He bent over and gave her a loud smack on the cheek then stood and grabbed the rubber handles at the back of her ancient wheelchair. She folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead as Drot eased her carefully down the ramp. Without even looking at me as we began to walk the path over the ridge, she said, “I know the smell offends you, Charles, but don’t let it be so apparent on your face.”

My nose was wrinkled up. I smoothed my face. “I’m sorry, Mother. But you do know how much I value going to see a giant toilet each week.”

Drot blew through his teeth. “Dammit, Chuckie, do you have to say the same thing every time we do this?”

“Why are we doing this?” I asked. “Dad’s been dead for exactly two years, Mother.” A small wind came from north of the pits, and rustled through the nets of fungus surrounding the path. The stench of the pits enveloped the three of us, violated my pores.

“Your father gave himself to the pits. His presence is still there, and it’s important that I talk to my children in his presence. You may yet see him here.” Mother said. “And today is the anniversary of his offering . . . ”

I couldn’t quiet myself. “Offering?” I hopped in front of her wheelchair, grabbed the supporting bars of the armrests, and pressed my face to hers. The scent of her violent perfume was like a feather on a storm-swept plain. Drot started to protest, but Mother put her hand on his and he shut up.

She tilted her head. “Is there something you need to say to me, Charles?”

“I can’t stand to hear your continual denial. There was no offering! Two years ago Dad came stumbling out here, after having filled and emptied that damned flask Drot loves so much, however many ungodly times, and fell in. That’s all it was. He was drunk and tripped over a rock or his foot, or, had one fucking clear moment and realized the piece of shit he really was and decided to join his own kind forever!”

Drot growled and jabbed the chair forward, causing the steel stirrups to crash into my feet. I fell on my back, and the metal edges scraped skin off my lower shins. Mother stared at me for a moment with her crystal-blue eyes then touched Drot’s hand again. He lifted the front wheels of the chair and backed up so my feet were free.

“Get up,” Mother said. I got to my feet and glared at Drot, shocking myself with a very clear thought: I want to kill him. I want to rid myself of him forever. He looked back at me, his face unruffled in anger.

I stepped to the side and allowed them to continue ahead of me. Drot leaned over and whispered something in her ear, and she murmured a reply and touched his shoulder. As we continued, the land began its gentle slope toward the receding crest which overlooked the Pits. Mother spoke to me. “You didn’t have to say that to me. I learned nothing new from those words, although it hurts my heart that you still feel that way about your father."

I listened with shallow ears, more involved with Drot’s wide back. Drot was a coiled viper in the path of everyone’s life. Meesha would feel his bites soon enough. I no longer thought of him as a brother; removing him would be a great justice to this world. It would be possible for him to fall.

The sound of rocks falling, crashing against earth pulled my attention away from him. A great, humid heat pushed against my face as I rose up onto the cliff beside my mother and Drot. I stood atop a buckled limestone formation, its edges gradually falling away into the vast brown and black and green Shitpits that lay one hundred feet below us. Churning, viscous waves splashed against the base of the cliff and rebounded out back to an unknown horizon. I held my breath, repulsed and fascinated again.

We stared quietly for a few moments. Mother breathed very deeply, bowed her head, and said a prayer under her breath. She then looked at me, and I shivered. Her eyes were wet with tears. I have never seen my mother cry. “Charles, you don’t know how wounded I am by the fierce hatred of your father. I understand how he treated you. I understand that you would feel as if he never loved you. But he did. He saw in you a strength that he never had. He couldn’t cope with that.” She looked ahead. “Today is the last day I ask you two to come here with me. I have been putting off telling your father’s last wishes for too long.”

Drot straightened at her words.

“It was your father’s wish that Drothers assumes full responsibility and 100% ownership of the Plantations. You will always receive a healthy allowance, Charles, as long as you continue your work under Foreman at Jellyfish Removal.”

I had not expected father to leave me anything, but I was surprised that he had wanted to keep me as a dimunitive worker for the rest of my life. I wasn’t having it. Drot stood on the edge of the rock, his lungs filling with the putrid air as a smile grew on his face. I tensed my muscles, ready to drown his self-satisfaction. I eased back half a step. He leaned to his left and gave Mother a quiet kiss on her cheek.

“I’m sure you will do very well, Drothers.”

I leaped forward to grab him, but, his lips moments from her skin, Drot twisted around behind her wheelchair and jammed his elbow into my throat, knocking me back on my haunches, choking. Bending his knees, he grasped the handles of Mother’s wheelchair and pushed up with incredible force, sending her slight, screaming body high into the air, arching, then plummeting into the Pits below. I got to my feet and rushed forward, but Drot grinned and snatched my Adam’s apple in a crushing grip. I saw Mother land on her back with a syrupy smack. Her skin gleamed bright against the darkness. Her body was slack, still, her mouth open.

“Think she died on the way,” Drot said.

I kicked out and caught him behind the knee, which made him stumble and release me. I lurched ahead but he regained his balance and quickly retreated from the edge. I stopped myself inches from following my mother. Only her head was visible now, and I watched as her ears, eyes and mouth filled with filth until she was completely devoured.

I turned to my brother, breathing slowly. His head was upturned, taking deep swallows from the flask. He took it away from his mouth, and a drop of whiskey slipped over his chin and down his throat. He caught the stream with the back of his hand and sucked it up loudly. Looking at me with already glassy eyes, he said, “What?”

“You loved her, Drot. I know that. She’s the only person besides Father you did love.”

“Sure I did, Chuckie. But do I look like a fucking nurse? I think she was going to live forever!”

I noticed he was swaying. “Take another drink, Shitface.”

“No matter how drunk I get, Chuckie, you’re not leavin--”

His flask fell to the ground as the earth rumbled beneath our feet. The rock I stood on shifted and I scrambled backward as it fell away into the Pits. Huge bubbles rose and burst on the surface of the wastes, releasing a low, maddening moan that drifted away just as another began. A small hill appeared on the top of the Pits a hundred feet from where we stood. The hill accumulated, grew into a mountain whose foothills were advancing upon us at an alarming rate.

The peak of the mountain broke, and we screamed.

Shitface howled, “What the fu--”

“cked, Chuckie. You are completely fucked. You’ve been sleeping the bear’s sleep.”

Chuck didn’t open his eyes. It sounded like Shitface was right in front of him. He flexed the bare soles of his feet on the floor. The moistness made him shudder. The dream had given him everything.

The Voice spoke and he shuddered again. “Mr. Passing, I’m afraid you’ve come back to us a bit too late. Mr. Guglioni has achieved an astonishing separation of himself. He is the winner of our competition. He now has the Exit Touch.”

Chuck finally let his eyes open and he looked at the saw which was barely embedded in the flesh of his thigh. Like a knife in an abandoned loaf of bread. The open meat of his leg still glistened. It was too late now. The thought of what his brother had done, of what had happened to them afterward was overwhelming.

“It swallowed us,” Chuck said, then gazed straight ahead. Two shadow guards had Shitface’s torso propped up on the seat. The stumps of his legs jutted out five inches from his hips. He had sliced off his nipples, severed his amateur paunch and love-handles. Most of his left shoulder was gone, making a harsh slope down from the base of his neck. Chuck winced at the shredded opening of his headless neck. Only his right arm remained whole. The hand was buried in the curls of Shitface’s severed head, which rested on the tabletop before Chuck.

Shitface lifted his head and put it close to Chuck. “Swallowed what?” the head asked, miraculously speaking without the aid of lungs. Vessels hung limply from the neck and brushed back and forth on the table. “This hurt like a leathered bitch cutting it off, but it doesn’t hurt at all now. It’s time for me to go home, Chuckie.” Chuck backed up a little bit, but Shitface brought his head closer. Amazingly, his brother’s breath still reeked of alcohol, although he couldn’t have had a drink in ages.

The chamber rumbled as it had before, but lasted much longer, causing Shitface’s head to swing like a pendulum in his firm grasp. Chuck noticed that his feet were slipping on the floor. He thought it was sweat, but glanced down and saw that the entire pink surface was secreting a yellow fluid.

“Mr. Guglioni,” said the Voice in a gasp. “I suggest you use haste and approach the exit.”

The navel throbbed and its color was paling considerably. Shitface looked around nervously then nailed Chuck with his eyes. He laughed and said, “Why don’t you give your brother a kiss goodbye?” He closed his eyes and pursed his lips mockingly. Chuck growled, reminded of how he had kissed their mother so earnestly.

“Every part of Mr. Guglioni has been instilled with the Exit Touch, Mr. Passing,” said the Voice. “He has succeeded.”

Every part.

Chuck jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain from his thigh. With both hands, he ripped Shitface’s head from the other’s hand.

“Hey! Let go of my fucking head!” Shitface tried to bite his stomach, but Chuck tightened his fingers in the thick hair and held it at arm’s length, facing the navel. The rest of his brother’s body tried to pull itself onto the table, but Chuck kicked it over, sending it sprawling on the juicy floor among all the other body parts.

Chuck advanced a step toward the navel. Shitface hollered at the guards. “Come over here and help me! I won the fucking contest!” They remained where they were, silent and unresponsive. Shitface yelled at the Warden, but the Voice said nothing in return. “Chuckie? Don’t pull this cheating bullshit. Give me back my head now!”

Raising his brother’s face level with his own, Chuck looked into Shitface’s eyes. They rattled around like seeds in a shaken gourd. Shitface chomped his jaws at nothing. Chuck spoke very quietly, “Do you remember our mother, Drothers?”

His eyes stopped moving, and a dreadful knowledge immersed his face like floodwater. The chamber shook with thunder, and the yellow juice began to rain upon both of them. After a few moments it hissed and burned into Chuck’s skin. Not wasting a moment, he touched the fleshy exit with his brother’s pleading face. Shitface’s words sounded like wet raspberries. Immediately the muscle folds relaxed and a wide darkness yawned open before him.

“Let go of me, Chuckie! I’m getting the fuck out of here! I’m leav---”

Chuck cleared his throat and hurled the head over his shoulder. He heard it land with a splash in the accumulating juice on the floor. Shitface shrieked as it ate into his flesh, but Chuck didn’t look back. He climbed into the slimy darkness, putting all his weight on his uninjured left leg. He inched forward until only his feet were protruding from the bottom of the open navel. The surface of the wrinkled tunnel began to hum beneath him, and a rush of air came in through the chamber as the walls around him clenched, molded around his body like shrink-wrap around a dehydrated meal. He screamed as the saw was ripped out of leg, but slippery muscle stopped up his mouth. The holes where his ears had been tingled. The walls gripping him moved, flexed, carried his body inexorably upward at a maddeningly slow pace. He couldn’t breathe, but his lungs pumped in and out anyway, burning. He was sure he was dying. He knew what freedom was, and he didn’t feel bad about it at all.

Cool air brushed his wet hair, then his face, his neck and his shoulders. The muscles gripping him were still for a moment then held him fiercely until a monstrous cough propelled him out of the tunnel. He squeezed his eyes shut as he fell a short distance and landed on his stomach in something soft and damp. He inhaled through his nostrils and almost wept at the sour-sweet smell.

He opened his eyes and ran his hands through dewy grass. Raising his head he saw the back porch of his mother’s house. Grass and weeds and flowers had grown up on both sides of her wheelchair ramp, but stayed obediently clear, like celebrants awaiting some mysterious parade. He touched his thigh and the skin was smooth, unscarred. His hands gratefully found his ears whole.

A giant cascade of breath washed over his back, causing his heart to hammer its way out of his chest.

“It’s good to see you back home, Charles.”

His heart stopped. He couldn’t forget the sound of his mother’s voice.

He turned over onto his back and stared up at the behemoth head that had devoured him and Shitface so long ago. It peered down at him from the edge of the Shitpits. It was bigger than the house behind him. The features of its mammoth face were difficult to grasp, too large for Chuck’s tiny eyes to rove over. The mouth was lipless and gaping, revealing no teeth but a fathomless darkness from which Chuck guessed he had emerged. The only other characteristic of its face Chuck could name and understand were its eyes. They were enormous and disproportionately sized for the head.

“Why do you speak with my mother’s voice?” he croaked, saliva bubbling on his chin.

The head answered by lowering terribly close to Chuck. He gasped in wonder as he was able to gaze at its eyes. They were not single orbs, but thousands of human eyes in a clustered spiral. He followed the right spiral to its center and held his breath. His mother’s smiling face looked out at him from the heart of the spiral.

“Oh my god.”

Ignoring the left spiral, he sought out its center. His father’s countenance greeted him. His tight, corrective eyes pierced through him, touching the suitable thoughts and the unsuitable. But he noticed that his father was grinning at him, something he could not remember ever having seen. The head moved forward a bit, and Chuck got to his feet quickly. His father’s voice, deep but musical, came from its cavernous maw. “You were never one of us, Charles.”

The giant overshadowing him began to shudder; Chuck willed himself to run, but stood transfixed as the flesh around the eyes frothed like churned milk. It liquified completely at the tail end of each eye-spiral, and large wet drops spattered the ground at Chuck’s feet. The right and left spirals tightened, and a population chorus groaned in disgust as a new eye added itself to each side. The eyes were the color of quartz and did not blink.

Shitface’s eyes.

The Voice spoke, but from outside it sounded different. Idiotic, dislocated. So many voices, maddeningly challenging Chuck to identify just one. “We have no teeth. We still like to eat. We have no gizzard. Drothers good chop-chop stone, and tasty.”

Chuck breathed.

“We still hungry.”

Chuck turned and ran, the air chilling his naked skin. He pounced up his mother’s ramp toward the back door, but stopped before his hand touched its surface. He didn’t want to go through there. Still on the same breath, he leapt over the back porch rail, landing in deep ferns. His father’s voice sounded again. “You’re not one of us, Charles. You’re better than us.”

Chuck felt his stomach lurch and he sprinted through the field away from the Pits. The air was cool and clear, and although the city was ahead of him, he saw no smoke, no bustle.

Where am I going?

“Away,” he answered.