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Dagon by Fred Chappell

By Fred Chappell

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Yellow gentle crammed the attic. the sunshine locked with the dust--tons of dirt up here--and the ambience of where filled his head like a fever. It appeared that he perceived this mild with each nerve of his body.

The attic used to be typically empty yet towards the south wall used to be a queer arrangment of chains; the ends dangled approximately seven toes from the ground and had wide iron bands hooked up. The bands have been hinged on one part so that they may well open and close. The chains appeared purple within the yellow light.

He held one of many bands and stroked his finger alongside the interior and it got here away reddish. Rust, he notion; however it didn't flake; it wasn't gritty like rust. It used to be previous, caked blood. . .

Slowly, Peter is mesmerized and starts a trip into insanity the place a bloodstained god waits to say the brain and soul of the final of the Lelands.

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Sample text

At least, I think it’s a dream: otherwise, it’s just nothing. I wake up to the beeping, still. My leg is swollen, but the pain has subsided slightly. I inject more anaesthetic into the puffed skin around the bandages and give myself a far smaller dose of morphine than I took last night and shuffle to the edge of the seat. It’s five metres to the control panels, maybe slightly more. In zero gravity, that’s two pushes, maybe. Here? I put my good leg onto the floor. It winces, but only slightly: the second injury was just a mild twist, I think, nothing fatal.

They’re a good way to celebrate, I suppose. I decide to drink them, to eat the Roast Beef meal bars – the best meal bars, sponsored by some celebrity chef – for as many meals as I can, then work my way down the list. The Fried Chicken and Pepperoni Pizza bars get to stay in the box, where they can forever taste like the stale crisps that they are. I am no longer rationed. The champagne is loose and crisp, the bubbles almost larger here. If there was anyone else here I would ask them if they actually were larger, if the pressure or the gravity or the speed, whatever, if it made the champagne different.

Activating it makes it tug itself tighter, and I can feel the pressure on my bone, and then the pain starts to come back, just as the splint thinks it’s found the right level of tautness for my muscles, and it hisses as it shuts itself off. The pain crescendoes, and I take the morphine, inject it into my neck. Pain, or morphine, or something, makes me pass out. I dream of space. At least, I think it’s a dream: otherwise, it’s just nothing. I wake up to the beeping, still. My leg is swollen, but the pain has subsided slightly.

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