The Brimstone Conspiracy

Background color
Font
Font size
Line height

"Through me you go into a city of weeping;

Through me you go into eternal pain;

Through me you go amongst the lost people."

– Dante's Inferno

"Okay, you're not driving if you keep that shit up."

Mark snatched the keys from Scott's hand, who couldn't even bother to protest while shot gunning down his second twenty ounce can of beer. He belched loudly, wiping foam from his lips with the sleeve of his black trench coat.

"Yeah, why do you think I'm doing this? It's been your turn to drive for at least thirty miles now." He said, washing down the malt liquor with a sip from his flask, as an extra assurance that he was well past the legal limit. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to stock up on cheap vodka and poptarts. Back in a minute."

From the gas pump, Josh checked his phone for the time. "Make it quick Scott, I'd like to get to Ashville before noon." The fourth member of the group, Chloe, was tuned out of the conversation by her headphones. To her, this trip was about padding her portfolio with black and white photographs of crumbling buildings. The sort of thing that would make her look well rounded without requiring any real effort. They all had their reasoning for traveling to Ashville, Kentucky.

Mark wanted to have a kind of fun, kind of spooky adventure, and maybe get a little closer to Chloe. Josh wanted to show people how coal mining destroys homes, ecosystems, and natural beauty. And Scott, well he wanted to check up on his childhood home. And drink, heavily of course. Together, they were legend tripping, the age old practice of visiting strange locations of urban myths. Places such as the Baird chair monument, the Screaming Beaches, or the Spider Gates Cemetery. Popular sites frequently visited by tour groups or rowdy teenagers, locations with a history of the tragic, the horrific, or just plain old supernatural acclaim. Anyone with an authentic sense of skepticism who has visited those places knows that a haunting is nothing more than psychological priming. Stories that are just that; scary words that mean nothing but still manage to trick the lizard brain into pricking up neck hairs. And for the most part this was the working assumption of Ashville. The only discernable difference was the scale, Ashville being an entire town rather than a bridge or farmhouse.

"Let's a go-go!" Scott shouted as he tossed his alcohol into the backseat of his 2003 piece of shit Saturn. Josh hung the gas pump and Mark turned the ignition, and they were off to the hills. Approximately nine minutes later, Mark had a thought.

"You didn't pay for those, did you?" He asked Scott, now irritated with his increasingly erratic behavior.

"Of course not idiot," he replied, beginning to open his toaster pastry with his teeth. "You guys didn't want to cover an even split of the gas. Now I gotta steal stuff. Really it's more your fault than mine." Scott took a bite of the crumbling frosted deliciousness without concern.

"You're a goddamn asshole, you know that right?" Scott just chuckled to himself. At this point in the journey, there wasn't anything any of them could realistically do to get back at him. It was Scott's car, and he was the only one of the four who knew how to get into Ashville. In the fifteen years since it was abandoned, no new road maps had any of the town printed within a ten mile radius. GPS wouldn't register the place, and the two bridges that lead into the town had been demolished and marked up with roadblocks just in case someone ended up going in the wrong direction. Plus, the county sheriff patrol was under the orders to arrest anyone trespassing within the city limits. Scott knew how to get around these barriers, having lived in the town until the age of ten, committing large portions of the geography to his long term memory.

After a few minutes of silence, Josh decided to start working on his environmental project, asking Scott to talk about what he remembered about his family's forced removal from their property. He held up a digital audio recorder close to Scott.

"It was October 2nd, 1999, at approximately 8:13 a.m. on a Thursday, when the National Guard banged on our front door. There was overcast, a slight rain with a temperature of 74 degrees Fahrenheit. The school had been closed the previous day due to its close proximity to the fires." Scott narrated as coherently as he could. It helped that his memory was better than most, even while drunk. It didn't hurt either that he had practiced his speech earlier with Josh at the motel. "They told us that the sulfur that had been ignited by the anthracite coal was oxidizing in the clouds to produce sulfurous and sulfuric acid rain. The governor had declared eminent domain over everyone's properties while the EPA tried to clean up the mess. We were given twenty four hours to vacate before the rising carbon monoxide levels reached lethal concentration, but suggested we leave as soon as possible. My dad threw a fit, swearing at the soldiers about a conspiracy to steal his land and mineral rights. They tried to assure him that he would be compensated and given a new home in Frankfort. He and my mom had been fighting all night about leaving. She wanted to go, he wanted to stay, but there was no convincing him. He had always been a delusional man, always ranting about chemtrails, black helicopters, the illuminati and whatever else managed to catch his attention. I doubt he ever met a conspiracy theory he didn't like, but he never acted as irrational as he did that day. I think he just snapped when he saw those jeeps pull into his driveway. I mean, it wasn't even close to being debatable that there was legitimate emergency. Just the day before a coal vein caught fire beneath Chucks Gas N' Go. We all heard the explosion, saw the smoke. But he wouldn't listen. My mom left right then and there, threw me and our luggage into one of the guardsman's armored jeeps. The last I saw of my dad was him loading a shotgun on our porch, face red and sweaty with rage as the soldiers just shrugged and left him."

Scott paused, cracking open another beer and lighting a cigarette before continuing.

"On our way out of town, I got a firsthand look at the chaos. Somebody's house had been partially collapsed into a flaming sinkhole. I saw families throwing trash bags full of cloths into their cars, police and National Guard directing traffic towards the southern bridge out of town while hazard trucks and ambulance rushed in the other direction. Smoke rose in thick black streaks into the gray sky, emergency sirens blared loud enough to almost mask the sounds of scarce gunfire. Apparently my dad wasn't the only paranoid libertarian in Chesterton. Oh yeah, this was all of course before the town got its nickname. Before Ashville it was just Chesterton. You can guess why it changed."

"What do you think happened to your father?" Josh asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to get something recorded.

"He's dead." Replied Scott without any hesitation. The next half hour was mostly quiet aside from the stereo, until at last Scott spoke up with the directions to get off of the interstate onto a smaller highway, and then again onto a county road. From there it was a straight shot until they crossed the Levisa Fork and from there it was east until they were on the western side of the Blue Ridge Forrest.

"Damn, this forest is beautiful." Said Mark, commenting on the temperate deciduous topography.

"Yeah it's a real land of mirth and merriment." Said Scott sarcastically. "See that dirt trail coming up ahead to the right? Turn there and follow it up the mountain. When you see the cabin just park somewhere." After fifteen minutes of a zigzagged ascent, they had reached a moss covered cabin in the middle of the woods. Everyone exited the vehicle, stretching their backs and taking a look around.

"What is this place?" Asked Chloe, speaking up for the first time that day.

"My dad's old hunting shack. He took me up here a few times." Scott threw an empty beer can at the cabin, startling a bobcat that had been sleeping under the porch.

"We could probably camp out here if we spend too much time hiking to and from Ashville. If we try leaving after dark the cops might see our headlights and give us shit." He continued. Chloe took a picture of the cabin.

"How far until Ashville?" Asked Josh, not very pleased at the idea of having to spend the night in such a place.

"This is literally as close as we can get to it by driving. It's about a fourteen mile hike down the other side of this mountain-hill thing, so we should probably start like, right now. Actually, wait a minute." Scott walked towards the cabin, kicking in the door with a hard stomp from his boot.

While he was rummaging around in the hunting shack, Chloe changed into her hiking boots while Mark and Josh unloaded the rest of their gear from the trunk. The items they needed of course were canteens, a compass, a pair of binoculars, Josh's digital camera, and the rest of Chloe's stuff. Also included was four sets of full-faced air-purifying respirators, with clear eyepieces that reduced the restriction to peripheral vision. Once they reached Ashville proper it would likely be necessary to protect their lungs from soot and other lingering contaminates. Scott returned from the cabin with a large hunting rifle slung across his shoulder.

"For bobcats." He said before anyone questioned him. "Also feral dogs, if we run into any. Not everyone managed to evacuate their pets. So uh, right. Follow me." Scott stumbled himself into some bushes, having trouble using his legs after consuming such ridiculous quantities of booze. The others looked at each other with uncertain grimaces. It wasn't much of a secret that Scott was an alcoholic, but until now he refrained from becoming completely intoxicated before noon. Mark wanted to say something, but Josh shot down the idea before anything could be spoken. He didn't think it was a good idea to piss off the only guide they had, especially when said guide was carrying a loaded gun. So they marched on, following Scott across the small mountain.

Besides the random yelling of Scott, the path was quite peaceful for the first leg of the journey. Chloe got some decent pictures of trees being trees, as so did Josh in his attempt to show the slow decaying health of the local flora as they approached the ash cloud that hung permanently over the town. After perhaps two hours of walking, the four managed to find a rock that ejected itself horizontally from the now descending mountain side, granting their first clear view of the valley below: A red haze that seemed almost a lake maybe a half mile down the slope. Peaking from the top of this cloud was the upper portion of a water tower and the tip of a church. Besides that, a few lines of smoke snaked from the sea of red. Everything else laid beneath the thick smog. From this vantage it was possible to see the transition of trees going from perfectly fine, to sickly to finally dead husks of skeletal wood. Josh and Chloe both captured images of the vista, while Mark sniffed the air.

"It smells like fireworks and rotten eggs." He said with an unpleasant look on his face. Scott lit another cigarette for himself.

"The shape of the valley makes its own weather. Most of those heavier fumes just stay in that one place, while the rest hang around until a breeze from between the hills manage to carry away the excess. Some of it of course wafts all the way up here, hence the smell of sulfur and coal. By the way, those fires burning beneath the town have enough fuel to keep going for another three hundred years, so that cloud isn't going anywhere for a while." Scott stated all of these facts nonchalantly, hopping down from the angular rock and proceeding with the path ahead. The other followed, partially excited, partially nervous. After fifty or so meters of walking, the air began to smell foul enough that the group thought it best to put on the masks. It was at this point the trees looked diseased enough to warrant the precaution. Scott had rigged his mask with a small, one-way hose that led from a funnel directly to his mouth. He tested his contraption with a long pour from a bottle of vodka.

"I'm thirsty!" He yelled just before the decent into the cloud.

"Well you shouldn't be so damn drunk this early in the day!" Mark yelled back to him through his respirator. Chloe rolled her eyes and poured some water into Scotts funnel.

"Thank you sweet pea." Said Scott in gratitude. "Now everyone listen the fuck *belch* up. We're gonna go down into that cloud. You guys are gonna take some fancy-done pictures, and I'm going to throw up in my old house. Then we leave 'n shit. Got it?" The group nodded in agreement. "Okay, let's do it."

The four walked into the cloud.

The first thing they noticed was the road. They had managed to reach Main Street, and the sight of the road set an example for the state the rest of the town. A deep, winding fissure ran the length of the road, with what looked to be steam rising periodically from the crack. Josh recorded everything he saw. Scott pulled out a single match.

"Watch this." He said, tossing it to the pavement. A few seconds later the head burst into flames. "The ground is hot enough to ignite match heads. Careful standing here. A few more minutes and those boots of yours are going to be a puddle of melted rubber."

"Yeah let's not do that." Said Mark, moving to the sidewalk. He touched the concrete and found it cool enough to stand on safely. Looking up, he saw the sign. "Warning!" It read. "Ground may suddenly collapse."

"What the hell? How dangerous is this place really?" He asked in an angered tone. Josh and Scott both laughed.

"Dude, did you seriously do no research on this place? Why the hell do you think we're wearing gas masks and trying to avoid the police? Of course it's dangerous." Said Josh, filming Mark's reaction to the sign. "Come on. Scott said the first sinkhole appeared near the cemetery. Let's check that out first."

The four walked side by side down the main road into Ashville. They passed cars with melted tires and burnt frames, and piles of ash that collected like snow along the road. One car in particular had an odd symbol scratched into the passenger door. It was a double cross with a figure eight at the base.

"Brimstone." Said Scott, eyeing the etching suspiciously. "As it was sulfur once called by the alchemists. Later it was adopted as the satanic cross by that guy from the sixties. Here, check it out." Scott rolled the sleeve of his trench coat to show his tattoo of the same symbol on his forearm.

"Why the hell do you have that?" Asked Mark. Being the only religious member of the group he was somewhat alarmed at the sight. He also thought it was weird that he had known Scott for three years without until now seeing his arm. Scott didn't answer though, and kept walking.

They walked past a playground where the paint from the recreational structures had been stripped by acid, the metal beneath partially warped into disfigured hunks of steel. Chloe of course had to get a picture of a clown's head that had been almost melted to an unrecognizable, borderline demonic state. Eventually, they found themselves walking through the "downtown" portion, where taller buildings stood parallel to one another: some collapsed under their own weight, other managing to stand upright after all these years. In both cases, the red-orange haze gave the structures an appearance of being ghostly monoliths instead of pie shops and dollar stores. The first sense of creepiness began to set in with the understanding of how truly abandoned the town was. Mark looked around at some of dark rectangles that used to be windows.

"Anyone else get the feeling they're being watched?" He asked, sincerely.

"Boo!" Yelled the other three in unison.

"Don't try and ruin this for us Mark." Shouted Chloe.

"Yeah fuck you douchebag!" Yelled Scott. He followed his insult by throwing a rock at Marks head. It bounced from his skull with an audible clunk. Looking up after sheltering his face, Mark saw Scott and Chloe share a high five. Anger started to swell within him, and the next thing he knew, he was throwing a swift punch into Scott's gut. A second later, Mark was on the ground, having been rammed in the ribcage by the butt of Scott's rifle.

"Knock it off both of you!" Shouted Josh, forcing himself between the two. "You've been getting on each other's nerves since first thing in the god damn morning. Scott, quit being a dick, you could have broken his mask, it wasn't funny. And Mark, get your shit together."

Mark was just about to say something, when a faraway noise stopped him. Everyone was silent for a moment, listening intently to what sounded like a vicious animal attacking a smaller one. Snarling, screeching sounds, not unlike a dog shaking a rabbit between its clenched jaws. The sounds echoed along the length of the abandoned street between buildings, amplifying to an ominous frequency. And then, as fast as it appeared, it was gone. All four stood motionless and quiet until the sound faded into the dead weather.

"Okay, that was actually kind of spooky." Said Chloe, being the first to speak up.

"I told you there might be a few dogs scampering around." Responded Scott, loading a shell into the rifle's chamber.

"Yeah but how could anything even live in this place?" Asked Josh. Scott pointed at a patch of weeds sprouting from a crack in the pavement.

"Life finds a way. Come on, let's cut through this alley. My old neighborhood should be just on the other side." The other three followed him.

Houses with broken windows and collapsing roofs littered the former residencies, paint streaked down the outer walls from years of corrosion. Chloe stopped for a couple of shots, while Josh filmed video of a sinkhole with small flames rising from the inner edges, a sinkhole that once somebody's front yard. Ash fell like snowflakes onto his camera. Suddenly, Scott started shouting and dancing a drunken dance.

"Look, there it is! 156 Peachtree Lane!" Scott pointed a particularly aged house with a rusting pickup truck in the warped driveway. He took another victory shot through his mask. "After all these years that piece of shit still stands. Can't believe it."

"Wanna look inside?" Chloe asked, starting to match Scott's energy. Mark made an expression of concern under his gas mask.

"That thing looks about ready to collapse. You really want to add extra weight to those floorboards?" Mark didn't want to look like a coward again in front of Chloe, but he couldn't help but be the rational one. While Scott was charismatic, reckless, and amoral, Mark was the opposite in all ways.

"Tell you what Mark." Said Scott in a condescending tone, "Why don't you wait out here and be the lookout for ghouls and goblins?" He laughed, tossing the rifle to Mark. "It'll just be a minute." With that, Josh, Chloe and Scott entered the house, leaving Mark to stand alone on the weeded lawn.

Josh held his flashlight at shoulder level, scanning the interior of the living room from left to right. Surprisingly little of the smog had managed to make its way into the house, and for the most part the air was clear. Scott took the chance to lift his mask for a cigarette.

"Ah gross, it's like sucking on a sack of burnt hair." He said, tasting the air. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. "That's better. So, what do you guys think?"

Chloe took a picture of Scott's former living room with a flash, angling it to capture as

You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net