It was a small, palm-long, rectangular plate, most likely metal, or maybe of firm plastic. Defining its makeup was difficult, since it was densely and completely covered with dried blood. Here and there short curly hairs had dried on it—more likely from a body, rather than from a head.
When the finder made it out, his throat was squeezed by a short spasm of disgust, and he went to fling the plate away, but he forced himself to think more rationally. It could be used as a weapon. And he obviously was not the first to think of this. One of the plate corners had been made keener.
The man began to scrub the blood from the object with his fingernails. His fingers almost immediately felt some grooves on one of the sides. It seemed an inscription had been embossed on the plate.
At last the plate was entirely cleared. It was a tablet of golden metal (but obviously not of gold, judging by its weight). The inscription was definitely not handmade and consisted of a single word: “HYPERION.”
He tried to remember what this word meant. First his consciousness struck the same blank wall. Hyperion… hyper… hyper… It seemed it was some character from ancient Greek mythology. (A minute ago he had not suspected even the existence of ancient Greek mythology.) But this explanation didn’t satisfy him. It had arisen too hastily, as if trying to protect him from the undefined fear that splashed from the bottom of consciousness, fear of something doubtfully concerning the ancient Greece.
And the place where he was now could be anything but an antiquity museum.
The next flash sparkled ahead, snatching out from the gloom another body lying on a floor.
The one still living cautiously approached the dead. There was no doubt that the one on the floor was dead, no doubt that he had been the one who left the blood trails. The body had writhed in a pool of blood, now dried, his back upwards, with his hands tucked under his stomach, possibly triying to press a wound.
But this was not what made the startling impression on the amnesiac. The person on a floor was almost naked, his only clothing consisting of an improvised skirt rolled from something like a dirty oilcloth.
Just the same. Probably even, it was the other half of his own.
So, it means, he has regained consciousness in the same room, and went… I went along the ring to the right, and he, probably, to the left. And there THIS was done to him…
The ice cold pierced the to the soul of the one who was still alive, like an edge which had slashed the belly of his predecessor. One small mistake, if only he had turned in another direction… But then he thought, that man may not have necessarily gone to the left. He could have gone to the right as well, but had not turn into the pass and move further along the ring.
The nausea was rising to his throat, and the light, sharply flashing and dying away, did not assist the exploration at all. Nevertheless, it was necessary to inspect the corpse. If he hoped to receive at least a few answers and, most important, to avoid the same destiny… If it, of course, can be avoided here at all.
He tried to turn the dead body over, but it resisted to his efforts. He thought that the blood-stained skin had stuck to the floor, so he pulled more forcefully. With a wet clack the corpse came loose from the floor and turned on to one side, and then lethargically rolled over on its back.
The abdomen has been ripped practically from the solar plexus to the groin. Sticky gleaming bowels fatly flapped, falling out from a wound; a black slime poured down on already befouled floor. The one alive broke down, benting over in spell of vomiting. However, real vomiting did not occur. Painful spasms shook and wrenched his body, but only a thin thread of a sour saliva came from his mouth.
For how long had I eaten nothing? flashed in his mind. But he didn’t feel hunger. On the contrary, thinking about eating in such place nearly caused a new set of spasms.
Having recovered his breath, he forced himself to look again at the corpse, now with a ruthless brightness lit by a new flash, then again becoming a hardly distinguishable silhouette in the gloom. The flashing light fixture was uncannily reflected each time in the gaping eyes of the agony-deformed face. Both the face and the breast were soiled by blood, but, without touching them, it was hard to know whether there were wounds there. However, upon a closer look the amnesiac understood that at least earlier there had been. On the skin of the dead man there were dried bandages, like on his own.
But nobody tried to bandage the main wound, and it would have been impossible without sewing it up. He looked again at the ripped abdomen. How could this poor fellow walk in such condition?! It looked like he had to hold a tangle of falling out entrails by his own hands.
A new flash lit up those sanguineous hands, with fingers stuck together, and a new thought pierced the brain of the amnesiac. No, it seemed that this unfortunate man had not even tried to clamp and close the wound in any way. His crooked fingers squeezed mucous loops of his own guts, and dug his nails into them. This person obviously caused himself an excrutiating pain. But why? Had he absolutely lost reason due to torment? Did he not control himself in agony? However, the reaction to a pain belongs to the level of unconditioned reflexes, even if he seized his own entrails unwittingly. He should have immediately jerked back his hands.
Suddenly in purple medley something boggled and began to move. The survivor thought that now he would go mad for sure, if he had not done so already. It seemed to him that the intestines of the dead man had begun to live their own life and were creeping outside. At this moment the light had again gone out.
The man jerked back in horror, ready to run helter-skelter, ramming against a corridor wall. The suddenness of this blow nearly made him fall down. He recovered balance, seizing the wall (his shoulder ached from the hit), and, having turned towards the unknown danger, he stiffened for a moment. In the resulting silence he heard a disgusting wet-sticky sound, as if someone had licked a dirty floor with a big clammy tongue.
The light flashed again. The dead person lay in the same place without any movement, as any dead body would. The sound was shed by something wriggling on a floor near the corpse. At a glance it could indeed have seem like a spilled entrail living its own life. But it was some wormlike creature about a forearm in length, its black annulate body fatly shimmering, leaving trails of blood on the floor. At the first flash it seemed to the man that the creature was creeping directly toward him. He helplessly flattened himself against the wall, though, possibly, he could have crushed this creature with just one foot. The light went out again but, when it was lit the next time, it became clear that the creature was just creeping by, paying no attention to a panic-stricken man. As much as he could make out, it had neither eyes, nor mouth.
That’s the point, he thought. This creature had gotten into the man’s guts, and he… In an attempt to get rid of it he probably cut himself open—with the corner of this plate inscribed with the word “Hyperion.” This thought made the amnesiac squirm. For a moment he imagined very clearly himself doing it. Madness, certainly… madness was trying to render such “aid” to the victim, trying to tear the creature from his own bowels, and then moreover to walk somewhere… But, probably, the torment caused by the wretch creeping in his guts was absolutely unbearable. How had it got inside? Had it crept through the mouth? Through his anus? The laughter was absolutely inappropriate, but he nervously giggled. No, most likely—like any parasite—it had gotten in as a tiny imperceptible larva. It even more asserted itself in his mind: Even if a meal would be found in this place, he should not touch it. However (one more remembrance breaking through), there are, apparently, some microscopic worms, capable of getting into the body directly through the skin.