[Weird surreal comedic horror] Dispatches From Microhell Vol. 1
The Horror comedy from your daily tasks in hell is now amalgamated in one place!
Dispatch: The Biometric Jam
Chapter 1 – Cass in print
Cass had only meant to reprint the invoice. A harmless duplicate. She waited after pressing the copy button. A sensor next to the screen blinked three times. Blue, red, red. The screen cleared and a new prompt appeared. “Blood Sample” read out plainly. Her stomach dropped.
Cass looked around the empty former break room. It had been repurposed in a time before memory to be a copy room. It was just her and the printer. And some loose paper on the floor. And a folding chair in the corner. And now a little needle which produced itself from within a slot beneath the main screen.
She touched the back arrow on the screen, it disappeared in response. The needle protruded another fraction of an inch. The sensor blinked twice, more urgently. Cass hit the power button for the whole thing. The screen went off but the needle remained. After a moment the sound of antique technology jingles echoed out of it as it started back up. The screen now read:
Add Sample / Escalation
Cass’s gut bottomed out at this point. The printer whirred. She leaned in close to the needle. Is there a work around? A soft mechanism to stomp on? After losing a few beads of sweat, she raised her hand and let a finger hover over the needle. It wasn’t large. Just a pinprick.
Beneath her horror was something worse, understanding. She had been working here since…some time ago. Escalation? To management? She had met someone unfortunate enough to warn her about that. Rhonda was in the same dorm as her. The repercussions had cost her four days.
Cass lifted the printer lid. She stared at the copy she no longer wanted to make with severe resentment. Something caught her eye in the near left corner, underneath the scanner glass. Is that? Small. Beige. Fresh. A false finger. Hopefully false. Underneath the scanning bed. Cass let her body relax in a full cold shiver as the sweat served to release the heat. There wasn’t always a workaround, and they weren’t planning on doing nothing with her blood.
Cass started to feel around the glasses edges. She knew there would be several more obstacles, but she was laser focused on that finger now. She spent ten calm minutes working the grooves of the plastic and edges of the entire machine looking for a point of entry. At the twenty minute mark she was pulling at panels with adequate potential force. By minute thirty she had stopped begging and began planning her assault. After years or decades or maybe only hours she had been in charge of enough submissions to know she needed to clear that alert without obliterating the machine. It was the alert system they tracked. Not only, not evenly, but if she failed, it would boil down to that.
Cass hopped gently up on top of the industrial printer machine. She grasped the scanner lid in both hands and leveraged a foot directly on the scanner glass. She pulled with gritted teeth until the hinges warped enough to break away. The force of it breaking away unbalanced her enough to crack the glass under her foot. “Ah.” She said plainly, hopping down.
The printer lid still served a purpose. She used the corner of it to pry the glass away from itself to create a wide opening. Popped her hand in with finesse and received her bounty. A dry severed finger. She didn’t say anything, only allowed a guttural rolling sigh out as breath.
One last impression of the object before testing it. Cass held it close to her face and reluctantly smelled it. Typical human. It smelled real. She jerked her head back and away sharply. Cass held down an instant urge to vomit. A gag tried to volunteer but she squashed it with irrepressible stoicism. The second one made it out. And the third.
Through distress her grip didn't alter on the finger. This place was a microcosm of hellish impulses and dirty tricks. Hold it too tight? It would probably crumble. Too soft? It could run. With an even hand and a mind doing its best she started to aim the finger at the needle.
The needle retracted a fraction as she approached. She stopped. With her free hand she gently held the body of the needle as tightly as possible. Then she gently held the finger to it. The printer whirred greedily. Eventually the screen read out:
SUBMISSION COMPLETE
Dispatch: Rotary Mutation
Chapter 2 - Rhonda’s Secret Identity
Cass and Rhonda woke up at the same time. They stared the typical morning gaze of apathy into one another and moved to start “getting ready”.
There was no bathroom, no mirror, and no closet. You woke up in the clothes you were going to wear for the day. You fought off the claustrophobia of being in a dim attic space with a dozen other people. Then, everyone lines up at the mail tube and drops in.
Rhonda slipped on her sleeping bag and caught herself on Cass's shoulder once. It was the first time either had experienced physical touch here. They didn't tell anyone. They were only friends in the silence that was left by it.
Cass dropped down the mail tube first. It was old but not rusted. The “entrance” was a human-wide opening in a steel pipe that narrowed into an impossible-to-pass few inches in diameter before passing through the floor. She used to slide cautiously in, but the bolts will eat you up that way. Cass hopped close to the center and closed her eyes. There was no passing through. No disorientation. Only a sudden arrival.
She scooted a foot to the side as the tinging indicated Rhonda’s coming. Once she landed in the floor-length mail pile they greedily exchanged another glance, excess personal contact. With the sound of more tings they got up and walked toward the heavy beige steel door. The smell of shoes and envelopes were a minor torture compared to Dispatches.
There were a solid four feet between the mailroom door and the Dispatch Window. Cass approached it first. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the intense fluorescent lights of the hallway. The linoleum floor squeaked in defiance of some old sneakers as a line formed behind her. She didn’t look back, there was no commiseration here.
The teller coughed impatiently. A senior man in a black visor. He snorted and stamped the papers in front of him unevenly. The stamp was made to look like roman marble. It looked absurd. Then he put it down on the mahogany desk and the serious weight of it clanged with the truth of its construction.
He finally deemed to look up at her. Silently, he slid the top form at her. It was yellowed and heavier than modern paper. One of the older dispatches. At least it isn’t a scroll. She picked it up. It smelled terrible, like fish. She held it loosely and squeaked her own way down the hallway. Today was already its own little hell. She glowered at the paper in her hand.
Rhonda was still waiting. She looked to her right, watching Cass disappear around a corner right past the fake waiting room. She looked back and the clerk was scowling, as if he had been waiting. He raised his eyebrows contemptuously, daring her to leave. She grabbed the scroll he had placed at the window and said, “Thanks”. His jaw dropped and he temporarily lowered his cantankerousness to create a gap for his surprise. Talking wasn’t taboo, it just made everyone’s day worse.
She headed to the left. It wasn’t a hard and fast rule to travel in sequential directions, it was just the way everyone had seen someone else do it their first time. This side had its own false lobby with plentiful seating. Cheap faux leather chairs and itchy cotton couches. Rhonda had never witnessed anyone use them. Given the ever-complicating nature of everything here, nobody had the energy to test any boundaries. Not even faux leather ones. She paused and really looked at the area. After a moment someone shuffled behind her. He had nearly run into her while reading his own missive. Nobody expected someone to be standing there. He paused, lowering his dispatch. He didn’t turn around, and after a breath he started walking again.
That was enough of a “sign” for Rhonda. She walked over to the least offensive seating. A beige couch made low to the ground. She sat, accepting the itchiness. It felt precisely how it looked. She looked at the scroll in a small measure of admiration. The scroll itself was stained brown and black. It was capped on either side with wooden plates. Both were engraved with a stylized V.
Rhonda pulled the oily string that constrained the scroll. It fell open quite majestically. A curl at the end spoke to the rarity of its use. It read:
Dispatch to the bearer:
Reveal yourself. Demand pain, receive relief. Classic demon stuff.
So it was written. Rhonda stood up and walked to the opposite side of the waiting room as she had entered. Another hallway, with a unique feature, electrical issues. A light in the distance blinked out. The distance became void. Rhonda walked toward the darkness, grinning. This wasn’t her first scroll.
Dispatch: Demand Pain
Chapter 3 - Rhonda’s new gift basket
Rhonda was in the dark now. The thin smile on her lips widened. She took the first door to the left. It didn’t matter, this hell knew where you were going.
There was no room on the other side. When she passed the threshold her shoes hit stone. A brilliant world-spanning fire met her vision across the open horizon. Rhonda stood on a narrow cliff, brown dust and grey stone. A piece at the edge crumbled. It tumbled to explosive effect into the lava beneath. Brick walls met mountain stone and emptied like she was at the mouth of a cave, all else was flames to the sky. The smile sharpened.
“W-who are you?” A man cowered to her right. He wore a black suit, newbie attire.
“Hm…” Rhonda didn’t answer directly nor did she drop her grin. To her left, she noticed a woven basket on a small stone pedestal. The contents were disturbing, even to her.
A vice
A cat o’ nine tails with debris instead of whips
A picture frame with an unfamiliar women wearing a disappointed expression
A scroll
She walked over to the basket and picked up the cat o’ nine with haste. Rhonda let her gaze fall back on the man. He had sprinted to the door behind her. He was now desperately trying to find a grip to open it with, but it was perfectly smooth.
“F!@% THIS!” He yelled, manically looking back at Rhonda and then to the door.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Rhonda lied.
“W-why did you grab that?” He eyed her suspiciously.
“So you couldn’t use it on me.” She said flatly.
“How do I open this door?” He demanded.
“I’ll show you.” She said, taking a slow step toward him. His eyes betrayed his fear. She took another step. He visibly quaked. She couldn’t help it, she was going to break. Rhonda exploded into laughter, done in by his shivering knees. He began to cry.
“I will fight back.” He pleaded.
“Do you want the whip or the scroll?” Rhonda said with a commanding tone. She stopped where she stood, halfway between him and the basket.
“Are you saying you’re going to hit me with that?!”
“I am.”
“F—!” He pulled at his hair. “What does the scroll do?!”
Instead of responding, she raised her weapon wielding hand and waved it around a little bit. He leaped backward toward the corner where the mountain and the brickwall met. She took a playful step toward him.
“The scroll! Fine! THE F—ing scroll!”
Rhonda lowered her battle stance. She walked backward toward the basket without taking her sights off of him. When she got to it she threw the scroll from the basket in his direction. He lowered his center of gravity and widened his arms defensively. Then he reached down and grabbed it, opening it as he stood back upright. Rhonda grabbed the photograph from the basket, just in case. He studied the scroll for a moment.
“It says, If I read this I get to switch positions with you…”
“Sure.” Rhonda agreed, tossing the cat o’ nine toward him. He looked down at it suspiciously. Rhonda made a feint toward it playfully as in I’ll get you! Reluctantly, he picked it up. That was consent enough for Microhell. The door swung open. Rhonda smiled at him and gave an apathetic shrug, encouraging him through. His brow furrowed deeply as he considered his options.
He swung the debris threateningly in her direction, thinking he was cutting her off from following. He wasn’t doing anything. The man disappeared as the heavy door shut behind him. Rhonda closed her eyes and let out a long deep breath.
“Lava is quick, you only feel it for a second.” She pumped herself up.
“A whole half-day off!” She congratulated herself as she quickened pace toward the cliff’s edge.
With one beautiful leap she revealed all of her past, her pain, her story. Pointed toes and perfect form, Rhonda leapt from the edge into the lava. This is at least 4 hours early! Whoo hoo! Her final thought for the day.
Dispatch: Phillipian Tube
Chapter 4 - Phillip’s first day
Phillip pressed his back against the heavy aluminum door. It sent a chill down his spine, even through the suffocating fabric of his black suit. The door didn’t budge. On the other side was a world of flames, lava and possibly demons. It was probably that those were just people too, but he had never threatened someone playfully with a cat o’ nine tails like she did.
He looked down at that very weapon in his hand. Instead of whips, debris. He had been given it by his torturer. She threw it at him and practically shooed him off.
Now, he was in a sterile fluorescent-lit hallway. A droning buzz was the only sound carried through the corridor. It smelled like cedar, irrationally. Phillip held the nine tailed stick closer to his chest. The last thing he remembered was yelling so loud it ruptured capillaries in his throat. Then he just…appeared on a narrow cliff overlooking lava and a horizon of flames that reached up to the black sky. He had a good idea of what that meant.
Birdsong suddenly burst out of the hallway corridor to his left. It was a mating call by a cardinal that came in verses of three at a time. Phillip was an itinerant bird watcher. He looked to his right, testing the hallway. A short distance down he could perceive a space where the hallway opened up to some sort of larger area. The cardinal continued on at regular intervals, drawing his attention back in the other direction.
“The scroll-” He dropped the cat o’ nine unceremoniously. He maintained his back against the door, it gave him a self-aware false sense of security. Phillip used both hands to draw the scroll down, it read:
Dispatch to the bearer:
Follow instructions.
Accept the inevitable.
You deserve this.
Phillip closed his eyes for a long moment in contemplation and regret. He remembered in sudden perfect clarity all of the times he fell short of his own definition of integrity throughout his entire life. Moment of teenage narcissism set pins in his brain like bad acupuncture. Remembering his early twenties was a longer game, true cruelty lay in those years. He was walking in the direction of the birdsong at this point. Rumination was more tolerable within shifting scenery. He arrived at a door a couple hundred feet later. The birdsong never changed distance, but now that he had eyes on the door it gained a muffled quality as if it had been behind this door all along.
A stone fell in Phillip’s gut as he realized he didn’t have a weapon. He looked back. He could make it out fairly clearly still, only about 400 feet away. He looked back at the door. The bird sang half of its chorus before being interrupted by its own shriek followed by silence. He took a step back reflexively, terrified. Another demon? He was sure. Phillip turned to the past and sprinted back. Within the first 5 steps the door slammed open against the white brick walls. It hit with such force the falling brick and dust were audible over his own beating heart and feet.
A single heavy foot step echoed onto the linoleum floor behind him. 9, 10, 11, 12. Phillip was counting his steps as a thought-wall understanding certain doom. Another hard stomp, far away. Halfway there, Phillip celebrated. The next pounding footfall was right behind him, impossibly. He felt wind at his neck, as if he had just escaped a grasping hand.
Phillip commanded his legs to increase their speed, and that was the real doom. He hit one foot against the back of his other leg. Phillip’s body went airborne with pure velocity. He soard for what felt like 10 feet before slamming unceremoniously onto the floor. The skin on his face squeaked against the cold linoleum. His outstretched hands plowed into the ground and the friction burned through his palms.
Phillip panicked, rolling over to face his pursuer. There was nothing behind him except a flash of black leather swooping through the distant door he had been standing at. He wretched in relief, or complaint, not daring to take his focus off the door in the distance.
When he was finished with expulsions he turned back toward the other torturous doorway. The cat o’ nine was gone. This was finally enough for him to break into tears. Only two. The sound of his previous tantrum of vomiting surged into his cognizance. How many directions can they come from? Phillip tried pressing his back against the opposite wall of the door. He fell through empty space, into a room he was sure hadn’t been there before.
The sudden shock of hitting his back against the floor was enough to challenge his consciousness after the beating he had been giving himself already. Phillip tried to jump up and scan the area but only managed to get on an elbow before his body screamed. He used a foot to kick the door shut once he noticed he was alone in this new room. A moment of deep gratitude washed over him for being in a small room that wasn’t mostly flames.
Phillip gained his bearings after a minute of not being actively tortured. He was standing in a mail-room. It was clean and the shelves were polished wood. A small black visor sat alone on an empty wall-length counter at the other end of the room. Something about the visor jolted a sense of familiarity so deep in his brain stem it could have been a cave painting.
“Haven’t I…done this before?” He asked the lonely room. A manila envelope fell from the pipe to the left of the visor. It was fixed above the same counter. Phillip walked toward it, seeing a thousand years in every step he dared tread.
this was wilddd. i loved the existential dread and bureaucratic absurdity here. still thinking about that fake waiting room and the scrolls…
oof looks like at least three typos. Forgive me grammar gods!