Pelson had to live, for Mary. But the steel chains tightly clamped his wrists and ankles, binding him to the rock like a helpless dog on a short leash, and the sun roasted his burned, naked body. But he had bigger problems: the bugs were coming. He could hear the chitinous clacking as their giant legs scurried across granite boulders beyond the rim of his open prison.

          He rolled his head about as three of the insectoid monsters, as big as lions, topped the stony ring surrounding the pit. Their armored bodies gleamed blue-black in the fiery sun. Basketball-sized compound eyes studied him with orange gleams; ten hydraulic legs shuffled each bug into position. They were like massive ant-mantis-beetles, and they were preparing to strike.

          Salty sweat was like acid on Pelson’s sunburned face, and he strained against the chains. Somehow, had to break them. For Mary. But who had chained him here? And why?

          More noise. He snapped his head leftward to see a half-dozen more bugs arriving. Sounds from ahead, and behind, and he whipped his head frantically about. They were topping the ledge all around the pit. He thrashed mightily, the chains cutting into his blistering skin. There had to be a way out of this.

          A hundred bugs clacked their legs like a thousand maddening clocks as they surrounded him. And suddenly they surged forward, over the rise and into the pit.

          Pelson needed a miracle. He summoned all his waning strength and strained against his bonds like an imprisoned Titan. His guttural snarl became a terrible roar, as if trying to drown out the sounds of all those clacking legs.

          They swarmed him, biting with the twin daggers of their mouthparts. They tore into his legs and arms, and he wailed in pain. They crawled over him, snipping off skin slabs and fat chunks, and he screamed wildly, writhing helplessly. Mandibles tore out his cheeks and dug out his eyeballs, and when he screamed again, they ripped his tongue from his mouth. He choked on his blood as they gutted him and pulled out his intestines like spaghetti.

          He’d be dead soon, and Mary would be alone.

          But as he died, he suddenly realized he didn’t know who Mary was.

# 

         “Pelson’s dead,” the tech said.

         The supervisor checked the monitor. “Lasted two days that time. Looks like he suffered pretty good.” He leaned to his left, tapped out a few one-touch commands on the holographic control panel. “Okay, I’ve resurrected him. Memory block should take just a minute. So what do you think?”

          “I’m gonna try that new scenario,” the tech said, fingering holographic buttons that floated in the air before him. “It’s a good one.”

          “Nothing’s too good for this guy,” the supervisor said. “The way he tortured that girl, Mary Blake, before he killed her… his five years of suffering doesn’t make up for hers, if you ask me. I just hope when he gets released, and we remove all the memory blocks, he’ll remember everything with crystal clarity.”

          The tech executed the program.

#

          Pelson awoke. Where was he? And why was it so damn hot?

          The wooden platform was ten feet square. The sky was fire-red, the air stinking of sulfur and searing inside his lungs. He crawled to the edge of the platform and looked over.

          The platform floated twenty stories above a sea of bubbling lava. He clambered back in shock. What the hell?

          The platform suddenly dropped an inch lower, bouncing to a rough stop.

          He remembered. He couldn’t afford to die; Mary needed him. He had to escape this endless magma ocean. But how? There had to be a way.

          The platform dropped another inch and bounced.

          Pelson began to panic, for himself and for Mary.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Brewer, Maine whose nearly 50 short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies in the U.S., U.K., and Canada. By day, he writes for the Bangor Daily News. By night, he writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.