Table of Contents
A RAVE REVIEW FOR CITY INFERNAL !
After fifteen some novels, stories selected for over 13 major anthologies, and both critical and popular success, you might expect Edward Lee to show signs of losing the imaginative edge that eventually dulls every authors pen. Yet Lees latest onslaught, City Infernal, is perhaps his most powerful, possessing the frantic pacing and tension of such earlier work as Ghouls with an additional emotional earnestness too often lacking in contemporary horror ...
Lee has penned some of the wettest, bravest terror this side of the asylum. In City Infernal, an epic-proportioned urban tragedy of guilt, redemption, and the celestial mechanics of pain, he creates a testimony of human despair and redemption that not only shows the higher effect to which graphic terror can be put, but, in addition, evidence of an ever growing control over craft.... Lees depiction of Cassie, an adolescent struggling with problems of identity and responsibility for her sisters suicide, is no less than remarkable.
William P. Simmons, Hellnotes
MORE CRITICAL PRAISE FOR EDWARD LEE!
Lee is a writer you can bank on for tales so extreme they should come with a warning label.
t. Winter-Damon, co-author of Duet for the Devil
Edward Lee is the hardest of the hardcore horror writers.
-Cemetery Dance
Fangoria
Edward Lee is the living legend of literary mayhem. Read him if you dare.
Richard Laymon, author of Island and In the Dark
Lee is a demented Henry Miller of horror.
Douglas Clegg, author of The Infinite and Naomi
Anyone for a sightseeing tour of Hell? Follow Cassie ... and have adventures galore.
Publishers Weekly
ALL ABOARD THE TRAIN TO HELL
The train itself looked like something from the late 1900sold wooden passenger cars hauled by a steam locomotive. The engine was backed by a high coal tender; however, the chunks of off-yellow fuel were clearly not coal. A man stood on top, shoveling the chunks into a chute. At first he appeared ordinary, dressed in work overalls and a canvas cap as one might expect. He paused a moment to wipe some sweat off his brow, and thats when he glanced down at Cassie.
The man had no lower jawas if it had been wrenched out. Just an upper row of teeth over a tongue that hung from the open throat.
All aboard!
Lets try to find a decent cabin, Xeke said and led them down the aisle. He looked into the first cabin, smirked, and said, Nope. In the cabin sat a man whose face was warped with large potato-like tumors. Cassie wasnt sure, but the tumors seemed to have eyes. Xeke frowned into the next cabin, where an ancient woman sat totally naked, leathery skin hanging in folds. Her nostrils looked burned off.
Oh my God! Cassie gusted. She was close to hyperventilating. This place is horrible!
Xeke sat down. What did you expect? Were in Hell, not the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
For Richard Laymon Rest In Peace
A LEISURE BOOK
April 2002
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10001
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.
Copyright 2001 by Edward Lee
Lyrics 2001 by Ryan Harding Excerpts used here with permission of the author
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN 1-4285-0166-5
The name Leisure Books and the stylized L with design aretrademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Though in debt to many, I would like to particularly thank the following for their help, friendship, and encouragement: Rich Chizmar, Doug Clegg, friggin Coop, Don DAuria, Dallas Mayr, Tim McGinnis, Tom Piccirilli, Matt Schwartz, and Bob Strauss.
Foremost, I need to thank the late Dick Laymonsimply one of the finest and most generous guys Ive ever known. I miss you terribly.
Prologue
It is an incontestable cycle of human history, 5000 years old:
Cities rise, then they fall.
What of this city, though?
The man walks with difficulty down the street. The street sign reads: ISCARIOT AVENUE.
He is carrying a severed head on a stick, and the severed head talks. Can you spare any change? the head asks passersby. The man himself cant talk; his body has half gone to rot. One eye is an empty hole; tiny fanged mites rove in his hair. His skin is pustulating from the latest urban infection, and his tongue has long-since been eaten out of his mouth by vermin.
A well-dressed woman in a smart bonnet taps by on elegant high heels. Shes wearing a fur-lined trench coat of patterned human skin, and diminutive horns sprout from her smooth, angled forehead. The woman is an uptown She-Demon.
Can you spare some change, maam? the head asks.
The man holding the head extends a cadaverous hand, and before the elegant She-Demon walks on, she gives him a shiny twenty-five-cent piece.
The coin is embossed not with the face of George Washington but the face of serial-killer Richard Speck.
Thank you, the severed head says to the She-Demon as she traipses away.
They recycle here.
Hybrid Trolls comprise a municipal reclamation crew, transferring any manner of corpse from the streets into the huge back bins of several steam-powered Meat Trucks. Eventually the trucks will chug past the front gates of the Industrial Zone, emptying their wares into the collection hoppers of a typical city Pulping Station. Blood will be drained for distillation, flesh fileted for sustenance, bones dried and ground for cement. Good value, to say the least.
Barges manned by Golems float atop the brown, lump-ridden surface of a river called Styx, pumping raw sewage into the citys domestic water reservoirs. Great furnaces burn raw sulphur for no other purpose than polluting the air, but vents in the furnace silos recycle the intense heat to keep the local prisons roaring hot. The hair of the human dead is used to stuff pillows and mattresses for the demonic elite.
Even Souls are recycled. When one body suffers suf ficient destruction, the Soul is transferred to a lower species. Endless life in eternal death.
Most cities run on electricity, but this city runs on horror. Suffering serves as convertible energy; terror is the citys most valuable natural resource, where it is tapped as fuel. Industrial Alchemists and civic Warlocks use their advanced means of sorcery to harness the synaptic activity that constantly fires between neurons, the greatest production of which comes from pain. In the humming Power Plants, the citys least useful residents are impounded, hung upside-down against long stone slabs and systematically tortured. The torture never endsas they never really die. Instead they just hang there, often for centuries, convulsing from ceaseless pain, the energy of which is fed from their exposed brains to the vast power converters.