Author: Smith, Guy N.; Tchaikovsky, Adrian; McMahon, Gary; Savile, Steven; Harvey, Colin; Nicholls, Stan; Asher, Neal; Ballantyne, Tony; Remic, Andy; Simmons, Wayne
Date: 2011-12-17 04:30:00+00:00
Keywords: bizarro; Horror; Anthology
Description: Book tagged, please do not share our blog content. j.
Publisher: Anarchy Books

Contents

Vivisepulture

Dedication

INTRODUCTION by ANDY REMIC

PLASTIPAKTM LIMITED by NEAL ASHER

PRETTY TEETH by TONY BALLANTYNE

BUKOWSKI ON MARS, WITH BEER by ERIC BROWN

THE EVISCERATORS by RICHARD FORD

ROTTEN CUPID by IAN GRAHAM

YOU ALWAYS REMEMBER YOUR FIRST by LEE HARRIS

TORTURER’S MOON by COLIN HARVEY

CAUGHT IN THE SHADOW by VINCENT HOLLAND-KEEN

BIBLE BASHER by JAMES LOVEGROVE

DEFORMATION by GARY MCMAHON

JUICE by STAN NICHOLLS

SNOT by ANDY REMIC

WIND PROJECT NX104 by JORDAN REYNE

WUNDERWAFFE by IAN SALES

METAmorphosis by STEVEN SAVILE

KITTY WANTS A HITTY by WAYNE SIMMONS

ZOMBIE GUNFIGHTER by GUY N SMITH

PIPEWORK by ADRIAN TCHAIKOVSKY

THE LOST FAMILY by JEFFREY THOMAS

THE RECRUIT by DANIE WARE

TALES FROM THE ZOMBIBLE by IAN WATSON

THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS by IAN WHATES

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Vivisepulture

weird tales
of
twisted imagination

in  the tradition of

Poe, Kafka & Borges

edited by

Andy Remic

& Wayne Simmons

Published 2011
by

Anarchy Books

This anthology is dedicated to

Colin Harvey

A great writer taken before his time.

Colin Harvey

1960-2011

INTRODUCTION
by

ANDY REMIC

A lot of things have deviated since I first started putting together VIVISEPULTURE. The original concept was to ask fellow authors for stories based around the bizarre and weird, having just written my own weird little tale called SNOT. Having enjoyed writers like Poe, Kafka, Orwell and Borges in the past, I thought it would be an interesting experiment to find out what my fellow scribblers could come up with when charged with plumbing the depths of their own twisted, feral, and nightmare imaginations...

What transpired was this incredible collection you now hold in your hands. I can honestly say I was amazed by the quality of the stories submitted, and that I also thoroughly enjoyed reading each and every one; and indeed, was amazed by the depths of depravity many of my friends had allowed their minds to sink to in order to supply a bizarre tale for VIVISEPULTURE.

A very sad event during the compilation of this tome was the untimely death of Colin Harvey, one of the contributors, and a fellow writer with whom I’d shared many an entertaining signing session in book shops and conventions around the UK. We laughed a lot. It was good. So, it is with great affection this anthology is dedicated to Colin.

Be warned, there are many stories within this volume which will shock; they will amaze you, as if you’re experiencing a freak at a Victorian circus; and you will in turn be stunned, and slapped, and pushed towards the outer limits of madness...

For VIVISEPULTURE is not a read to be taken lightly. No. You must dim the lights, envelop yourself in a calm, quite, brooding atmosphere; maybe pour yourself a stiff sherry or a single malt; prepare for transportation into bizarre Other Realms; and hope that YOU, Dear Reader, never succumb to the act of vivisepulture...

Andy Remic, December 2011.

PLASTIPAKTM LIMITED
by

NEAL ASHER

The spade went two inches into the ground and grated to a halt. Three hours to dig the holes, he had priced it at, but he had not reckoned on ground with a two-inch layer of dirt over what appeared to be compacted ballast. Even so, though the job had taken him longer than expected, he gained satisfaction from being paid to plant trees rather than cut them down. At the last hole, with the last tree to go in, he gazed across at the factory as the next shift of blue-overalled clones arrived with plastic sandwich boxes and tabloids tucked under their arms. What work satisfaction did they have?

The last tree dropped into the hole sweet as pie and Morris tipped the last of the compost in around it. The excess soil went into a nearby hollow in the uneven ground. When the job was done he tossed his tools and empty compost bags into the back of his van and wiped his hands on a cloth. Now came the enjoyable bit: handing in an invoice. Not quite as enjoyable as paying cheques into his bank account, but not far off.

Morris sat in his van and wrote out the invoice, occasionally glancing toward the sprawl of the factory, the work-shops and warehouses, fork-lifts and lorries, stacks of large cardboard boxes on pallets, and ubiquitous workers in their blue overalls. Present your invoice to the supervisor they had said. How was he to know which of them was the supervisor? He stuck a cigar in his mouth, and after turning on the ignition pressed in the cigarette lighter and returned his attention to the invoice.

Everything was listed, barring prices. His quote had been eighty: the trees costing thirty-three and the compost a tenner; that left forty-seven for five hours work. Sod it. There was all the driving about and organising things. He upped the price of the trees by ten pounds and the compost by five pounds. Ninety-five. Not into the hundreds, so hopefully acceptable.

Puffing cigar smoke he climbed out of his van and headed for the factory.

“Where’s the supervisor?” he asked a blank blue girl. She gave him a watery smile and pointed to a white-coated figure walking toward one of the units. The clipboard was a dead giveaway. Morris trotted in that direction with clods of mud flying from his hiking boots.

The supervisor walked through swing doors into an area filled with the factory racket; the hiss of air rams and the clank of unidentifiable mechanisms. What the Hell did they make here? The place was called Plastipak and by the reels of plastic being carted in he guessed the products must be something like plant pots. But no one was sure. The workers here never used the local pub and those he had run into elsewhere were a close-mouthed bunch.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

His shout was drowned by the noise. He pushed on through the doors ignoring the ‘Personnel Only’ sign. The rules did not apply to him for he was his own man. Ahead of him the supervisor turned a corner and he trotted to catch up. Round the corner he heard the familiar k-chunk of a clocking-in machine. It was a sound he had grown to hate, along with the rip and click of sandwich boxes opening. To him it epitomised all he hated about factories and was part-and-parcel of his motivation for becoming self-employed.

The supervisor was watching a row of blue-clad workers clocking in. Slaves to time, they took their cards from one rack, dipped them in the work-clock, then placed them in the next rack along. K-chunk. A piece of cardboard bitten away – eight hours of a life.

Morris paused by a machine and rested against its hot cowling. He glanced aside at the machine-operator and frowned. Pull the lever, press the button, open the shield and drop something white into a box. Close the shield, pull the lever ... mind-numbing. Soul-destroying. It was no wonder to Morris that they were always advertizing for factory hands. This place seemed to have an appetite for them.

He leant back against the cowling, puffed on his cigar, and looked up at a ‘No Smoking’ sign. Sod ‘em. He continued smoking.

The last of the blues filed past the clock and lost themselves in the oily spaces between the machines, yet the supervisor still stood there with his clipboard clasped to his chest. Morris was about to approach him when he saw another worker sauntering up. Late, obviously, and in for a bollocking Morris reckoned.

“Late again, Mitchell.”

Mitchell did not seem impressed with this observation. He ignored the supervisor as he took the remaining card from the rack and pressed it into the clock. So I’m late. Who cares? As the card entered the clock, stainless steel jaws rose out of it and closed. K-chunk. Mitchell screamed and staggered back holding the wrist of the hand with square-cut fingers. Blood beaded the oily concrete.

“Oh dear. You’re hurt.”

The supervisor caught hold of him under the arm and led him from the clock. Morris stared, his cigar forgotten for a moment.

“My fingers...” Mitchell managed.

“They’ll be fine,” said the supervisor, and did not relinquish his hold. Mitchell was white-faced, fainting. The supervisor half-carried him down the aisle between the loom of black engines.

Morris blinked and tried to figure out what he had seen. What exactly had happened? In a stunned fugue he dropped his cigar to the ground and walked over to the clocking-in machine. Blood on the floor, blood around the slot in the top of the machine, no sign of fingers. He had imagined it. Mitchell must have cut himself on the rack. It was the only sensible explanation. He followed the supervisor and his charge.

Mitchell’s feet were dragging and he looked completely out of it. Where was Medical in this place? Surely not right back here. Morris walked to one side of the trail of blood as the supervisor took the injured man deeper into the roar of machinery. Ahead of him, the two were silhouetted against the open mouth of a furnace when they came to a halt. The supervisor all but carried Mitchell to one side, then left him in amongst some machinery and went to operate some controls. Morris approached the supervisor from behind, ready to start with the ‘excuse mes’. The he glanced aside at Mitchell.

The man was coughing up blood. A meat hook had gone in under his right shoulder blade and come out under his sternum. The supervisor pressed a button and Mitchell was hoisted into the air poised at an angle, weakly struggling as he was carried along the conveyer line to the furnace. Morris had time to see the ‘Rejects’ sign above the furnace door before he ducked behind a vibrating hopper. Hiding there in greasy shadow he heard a ripping sound and Mitchell’s final screams.

Christ! This wasn’t happening! He had to get out, get to his van, leave the grounds of the factory and call the police. But the evidence? Would there be any identifiable remains in the furnace? Would there still be fingers in that clock? What was the purpose of those hooks? The conveyer machinery stilled and he listened carefully to the sound of the supervisor’s boots crunching on the granular plastic spilt on the floor. He peeked out of hiding and watched him walk away. Only as he came out of hiding did he notice one of the machine-operators working nearby.

“Jesus! Hey! Did you see that!?”

The worker continued to pull his levers and press his buttons. Morris ran up to him, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round. Raw hollows stuffed with toilet paper faced him, and the tears running from the eye-sockets were of pus. Morris released the worker’s shoulder and the man swivelled back to his machine and continued his monotonous task. Morris stepped away, suddenly cold, shuddering.

“What the Hell is going on here?”

No one answered. The machines just kept on rumbling and hissing, thumping and groaning. Conveyers conveyed and moulding machines moulded and the people in the gaps between pressed their buttons and pulled their levers.

Morris looked to where the supervisor had gone and headed in a different direction. He had to get out, and he did not want the supervisor to know he had been in.

In a new aisle he ducked a shower of sparks and leapt a jet of steam, glanced through a perspex screen and saw white granules pouring into a hopper. He hid in an alcove between steel walls covered with chipped green paint as a woman pushed a trolley past, followed her for a moment, then ducked into another aisle.

An open conveyer belt hissed and jerked slowly past him. On it rested a neat line of skulls. He picked one up and finding it to be made of plastic he laughed uneasily. Well, someone had to make those plastic skeletons for medical colleges. He dropped the skull back on the belt and, as he moved along, what hysterical amusement he felt fled him. I’m having a nightmare. I’ll wake up in a bit.

At first he thought the man was bent over the drill press, then he realised this was an illusion caused by the man’s lack of a head. Pipes and wires went up from the hole between his shoulders to plug into the labyrinthine ducting above. With automatic precision he was taking skulls from the belt, pushing them into a complex jig, and drilling out the ear-holes. First one side, then the other, then into a box.

Morris backed away into another shower of sparks, ducked, ran.

Ahead of him was a door: R & D – Bones. He pushed through then froze at the sight of a hugely fat man in a white coat. He backed up against the door, shivering. This was insane.

A naked woman was strapped down on a table and Morris could not understand why. She was not going anywhere. Her head was missing. One free arm was laid out across a side table. Her hand was severed at the wrist and had been neatly chopped apart at every joint. While Morris watched, the fat man picked up a finger-joint and chewed the flesh from it with stained teeth then, obviously irritated, he popped it into his mouth and munched it around for a while. When he removed it the knuckle-bone was free of flesh. He measured it with a Vernier and wrote the measurements down on a pad.

“I think she must have had a skull injury at one time,” said a thin man in a white coat, as he came through the back door into the room. In his right hand he held a skull stripped of flesh, and in his left hand he held a pair of callipers. He immediately saw Morris.

“This is a restricted area,” he said, deeply offended.

That fat man turned and Morris got a look at a grey troll-face and piggy eyes. The fat man burped.

Morris was out of the door and running for it before anything more could be said. He ran and ran, down aisle after aisle. Here rib bones were being moulded, here were leg bones.

He stopped at a trolley filled with rubber eye-balls. He took one out and studied it. A sound startled him and he dropped it. The eye bounced over the machinery like a power-ball.

He ran again, past a room where all the parts were being put together, past a bench where artificial muscles were being tested to BSI standards, past a vat filled with glistening livers, and past a reel of intestine being drawn into a machine. The next sign said ‘Packing & Despatch’, and here he saw the completed product being dressed in blue overalls, shrink-wrapped, and packed into cardboard boxes.

“Perfect little workers,” said Morris, and repressed a giggle. He did not have time for that. With great care he crept from one stack of boxes to another, hid behind a forklift with its motor still humming, then behind the bench on which they did the shrink-wrapping. In a room off to one side he saw the perfect little workers standing in rows. They were undressed and he saw that they were sexless. What need of genitals to pull levers and press buttons? He had figured it out now. Those who applied for jobs were patterns. When they got an efficient worker he or she was probably taken back to R & D, there to be measured, weighed, categorised, dismantled, so they could then make more of the same. Mitchell just had not proved out. The woman had.

Daylight ahead. Morris crept behind stacks of boxes like city blocks. An aisle of boxes to freedom. He ran down it then skidded to a halt as someone in blue overalls stepped into the aisle. He didn’t have  time for this. He hit the man in the stomach as hard as he could. The man bowed over without a sound. Morris ran on, out into daylight, into the cover of a lorry, across tarmac, and to his van.

For a moment Morris was overcome with the terror that he had dropped his car keys somewhere inside, then he located them in the leg pocket of his army trousers. With his hand shaking he pushed it into the lock, turned it.

“I was wondering where you had gotten to.”

Morris whirled round and backed up against his van.

The supervisor.

Morris could not get any words out, his mouth seemed to be jammed open.

“You have an invoice for me I believe?”

“Yes. ... Yes!”

Morris reached into his trousers’ pocket and took out the sweat-damp invoice. He passed it across then snatched his hand back when the paper was taken. The supervisor lifted up a set of glasses from where they hung by a cord on his chest. He put them on and carefully read through the invoice. Then he glanced over the top of his glasses at Morris. Morris could feel the sweat trickling out of his hair and down the back of his neck.

“Would you like to come in now? I’m sure we can get the cheque signed for you.”

“No! ... I mean ... no, I’m rather busy today. If you can post it that would be fine.”

The supervisor smiled congenially, folded the invoice, and put it in his top pocket. “You’re self-employed I take it?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Seems the way of the future. Everyone is doing it. It’s difficult for us to get hold of good factory workers.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

The supervisor grinned. “If you’re ever at a loose end, there’s always work here.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Morris, and keeping his eye on the supervisor he climbed into his van and locked the door.

As he drove away he decided that his next move would be to call the police, anonymously. He had to wonder if factory workers were all they made here.

PRETTY TEETH
by

TONY BALLANTYNE

Dinner in one of the flats at the exclusive Monagan Hall development.

Katie wished she hadn’t come.  Rather, she wished she hadn’t come with Matthew.   Matthew was losing the argument he was having with the woman to his right, but as usual he was too pig headed to see it.  She wished her husband would just shut up and listen. She wished he’d take the time to take a look at the world, rather than blindly explaining what was wrong with it.   She wished he’d take the time to look at himself, sitting there in a white shirt and pale green tie when all the other men had chosen to wear dark silk shirts and ties decorated in rich gold or silver. Matthew had been the only man to hang his jacket on the back of his chair as he sat down: he had belligerently demanded beer with his meal whilst the rest of the party drank white wine.

Katie was more saddened than embarrassed by her husband’s behaviour.  She absently rubbed her bump, idly wondering when she would first feel the baby kick. Her husband drew back in his chair, accidentally elbowing her in the ribs as he did so.

“Sorry,” he said, and then he turned back to his conversation.

Oh Matthew, thought Katie, why does everything have to be a fight with you?  Why can’t you just sit back and accept these people’s company, just for the evening?  It’s never just a night out for you, is it? It’s a challenge:  everything is about you proving a point.

Alex returned to the room, supposedly from the toilet. He nodded to his partner, Helen - Katie and Matthew’s host - slipped into his chair and resumed his conversation with Anya to his right, thanked Freddy for the refill to his glass, looked everywhere but at Katie who was fingering her cheap necklace and rubbing her tiny bump and feeling the slipperiness between her legs where Alex had just been.

Ten minutes in an upstairs bedroom. How much of it was attraction, and oh yes, Alex was so attractive it hurt, and how much of it was the illicit thrill?  Of knowing she was having sex whilst somewhere downstairs, Matthew was still arguing away, oblivious to the embarrassed and patronising expressions he would provoking.

Well Matthew, she thought, I’ve done it.  Alex tried and tried and in the end he just broke down my resistance, as he knew he would.  But you know Matthew; I don’t feel guilty.  You drove me to it.

If she said it often enough she might begin to believe it.

“Twins?” said Matthew, “Are you sure?”

“No,” said Katie, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “I wasn’t really listening to what the radiographer was saying.  I suppose it might have been ‘fins’ she saw inside me.  Maybe she was trying to tell me I was going to give birth to a fish.”

Matthew sucked at his bottom lip.  He had turned pale.

“Sorry Katie,” he said.  “It’s the surprise.  Why didn’t they see that you were having twins sooner?”

His wife said nothing.

“Well, I’m not sure how we’re going to afford it, but I guess we’ll find a way.”

He shook his head slowly.  A gentle smile dawned on his face.

“Still.  Twins.  Two babies.  That’ll be something.”

He smiled at his wife.  She was fighting back tears.

“I suppose that puts an end to our hopes of moving into Monagan Hall.”

Matthew was trying to smile, but you could see the confusion on his face.

“Monagan Hall?  But Katie, come on.  We never really had enough money to move into Monagan Hall.  Besides, it’s no place to raise children.”

He gently took her hand.

“Come on prettykitty, we wouldn’t be happy there.  It’s all very well for Alex and Helen with their trekking in India lifestyle and their matched pair of Mercedes, but they’re not like us.  Come on, you don’t really want to live there, do you?”

Katie snatched her hand away.

“Don’t tell me what I want,” she snapped.

Do you expect the best?

Monagan Hall.

An exclusive development of one, two and three bedroom flats located in this elegantly restored Manor house.  A haven for professional people.  Relax in the beautiful grounds, play tennis in the private courts, swim in the indoor pool or have a workout in the gym followed by a relaxing sauna.

Each spacious flat has an interior that whispers- rather than shouts- individuality…

Katie lay back in bed reading the brochure.  Her back was aching, her feet were aching, her womb was aching.  The twins had been kicking all night: it felt as if they were having a fight in there.

One of them had kicked Alex earlier that day. Kicked him in the stomach during the middle of their furtive lovemaking in one of Monagan Hall’s exclusive flats.  One of the ones with a view over the beautiful grounds.    Alex had had laughed, withdrawn from her, turned her over, and entered her from behind.  Even as she had knelt there on all fours she had thought it unusual.

I’m carrying another man’s children in me, she had thought.  My husband’s children. Doesn’t it bother you at all, Alex?  Don’t moments like this just awaken a little twinge in you? Aren’t men who have affairs with their best friend’s wives supposed to turn around the pictures on the mantelpiece?  Don’t you have that last little sense of wrongness?  Isn’t there a line that you wouldn’t cross because it’s going just too far?  Don’t you have that Alex?

He didn’t.  He wouldn’t.  And that’s what she found so fucking attractive about him: the way that the world just arranged itself for his benefit.  Alex believed that was the way things should be, and so things happened that way.  At work, at play, everything just bent itself to his will.

Helen, Alex’s partner, was just the same.  It was the same with all the residents of Monagan Hall.

They had stepped into the world and bent it to a shape that suited themselves. They lived in the expensively furnished flats and invited each other around for wine and dinner; they discussed business in the saunas and shaped the future of the country in elegantly tiled bars after keenly fought games of tennis.

And other people, lesser people like Katie, had to be content with serving in their bars or making their beds. Or fucking them.

Matthew came to bed wearing nothing but a hopeful expression.

Katie rolled over, put her back to him.

Her husband gave a sigh and climbed into bed, pulling on an old T-shirt as he did so.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Katie, allowing the brochure to slip to the floor.

Matthew’s silence was a loud accusation.

Katie could feel him, sitting up in bed behind her.

After a few minutes he got up to turn off the light.  Katie lay awake for ages, her hand on her bump, feeling the twins in there.  They really did seem to fighting, she thought.  Was that usual?  She didn’t know.  The past few weeks had been such a moral fog she didn’t really know what was usual any more.  If she was honest, she didn’t even believe she was having twins.  She had been so sure there was only one child in there, originally.  But where could the second one have come from?

The kicking was getting worse.

Katie was making her way across the kitchen for another glass of orange juice, and then suddenly she was doubled over in pain.   The kicking inside her grew increasingly frantic.  More than ever she felt as if the little bastards were having a fight in there.

She pushed the fridge door shut and fumbled the cordless phone from the kitchen counter.  Pressed autodial and waited for the answer.

“Hello?”

Katie felt so relieved to hear the voice.

“Ma?  It’s me.  Ma, it’s worse than ever.  It feels like they’re fighting to the death in there.  Was it this bad with you?”

Her mother paused before answering.  Katie guessed she was sipping tea.  When she answered, her tone was less than comforting.

“Not that bad Kate, but I never had twins.  I don’t know what that’s like. I told you, you should see the doctor.  Why haven’t you seen the doctor yet, Katie?  That’s what I keep telling you.”

The fighting had stopped.  It was almost as if they were listening to what she had to say.  Katie straightened up, one hand on her stomach.  Such a relief.

“Oh Ma,” said Katie.  “I don’t know.  I feel such a fool.  I’m twice the age of the other mothers at the clinic.  There’s a girl there who’s only fourteen.  I see her grunt when the baby kicks.  She doesn’t complain, and she’s just a kid.”

“That’s the point, Kate.  You’re not a kid any more.  It’s harder when you get older.  Tell the doctor.  It could be serious.”

“Okay,” said Katie,

“You will tell the doctor, won’t you?  You’re not just saying that because it’s what I want to hear?”

“I said, I’ll tell him,”

“That’s my girl.  How’s Matthew?”

“Well, you know.”

There was an edge to her mother’s voice.

“Don’t you neglect him, Kate.  You could have done far worse for a husband.  You were a spoilt lass, you know.  Comes of being the youngest by eight years.  You take him far too much for granted.”

“Don’t nag.”

“Okay Katie.  Now you won’t forget the doctor, will you dear?”

“I won’t, Ma.”

They said goodbye and Katie ended the call and replaced the handset on the counter.  She placed both her hands on her stomach and wondered about calling the doctor.  But the babies felt so still at the moment.  She must be overreacting.  What had the nurse said?  Listen to your body.  Baby knows best.  What was baby saying now?

She stood in the quiet of the kitchen, the knocking of a bluebottle on the widow the only noise.  Listening to what the baby was saying.  Oddly enough, she could imagine what it was saying.  It was saying

Leave it, it will be alright.  Leave it.

It sounded just like Alex,  The baby was speaking in Alex’s voice.  But then again, like they said, Baby knows best.

Okay. She would leave it.

Later on, taking a bath to ease the pain in her aching back she remembered:  there were two babies.  Didn’t the other baby have anything to say?  Or did the first baby have its hand over the second baby’s mouth, twisting its arm behind its back, hissing in its ear to keep quiet.

Her waters broke in the supermarket.

The manager was very good.  Calm and efficient, there was no hurry.  She was a young woman, younger than Katie, she got her shopping into the office and called Matthew.  Arranged for him to meet Katie at the hospital and then called for a taxi to take her there.

If Katie felt anything it was embarrassment. Embarrassment at the fuss that was being made, embarrassment at the way the manager spread an old towel on the back seat of the taxi and then winked.  She shouldn’t have felt so embarrassed The manager was a middle aged woman who gave the impression of  having seen everything.

“My first one surprised me when I was at the cinema,” she said, her hand on the taxi door.  “You should have seen my Rod’s face as he tried to help me out of the seats.  I kept standing on people’s feet, banging my bump on the people in front.  He didn’t know where to put himself.  I didn’t care.”

She swung the door shut with a final Good Luck!

Katie was blushing as the car pulled away.

Matthew wasn’t at the hospital to meet her.  That surprised her.

The doctor examined her and announced everything was okay.  She was experiencing minor contractions.  It could be up to another forty-eight hours yet before the baby was born.

They lay her in a bed and left her there.  The pains came back again.  The pain of the babies fighting each other, but worse now than ever. So bad that the nurses came back and gave her a little something to make her feel easier.

“You don’t want that!” said the girl in the bed opposite. A young woman, eighteen or nineteen, already on her third pregnancy.  She spoke with the voice of experience.  “Not now.  You won’t appreciate the drugs later when the pain really starts!”

Katie didn’t care: the pain was already too bad.  The drug took hold and she lay there feeling dopey and distracted.  Two babies were fighting inside her. They were fighting each other for life.  No, that was silly…

Matthew eventually turned up; he came and sat by her bedside. He seemed strangely distracted. Nonetheless, he’d brought a big bottle of Lucozade and a bag full of glossy magazines.  Cheshire Life, House and Home and Interiors; all the sorts of things that she liked.

Katie was gazing unseeing at one of the magazines.  A kitchen, bleached wood and pale green tiles. Stainless steel fittings.  It had seemed so important a few weeks ago but now it seemed strangely empty.  She felt something moving inside her and she felt frightened.  Something was missing from her life.  She thought that she knew what it was…

“Hah, look at this,” said Matthew, and there was that edge to his voice again.  Matthew had been so distant these past few days.  She had barely noticed it in her excitement and fear.

“Matthew, I’m frightened…”

He ignored her and carried on speaking.

“They’ve done a feature on Monagan Hall.  I tell you what; Alex is going to be insufferable when he finds out about this.  He’ll go out of his way not to mention it.  He’ll be so affectedly dismissive and embarrassed by the whole thing.”

He flapped the heavy magazine across to Katie.  Not knowing what else to do, she picked it up and looked at the double page spread, the glossy smell rising around her as she looked at the picture of the grey stone building.  A couple in tennis whites strode across the yellow gravel of the drive.

“Matthew, I’ve got something to tell you…”

Matthew gave a little laugh.

“Hah.  You know, it used to be one man and his family who lived there.  Four or five people in that great building with hundreds of staff to serve their every need.  Now the world is a lot bigger and instead of five parasites living there, there are fifty.  The building seems to attract them like bees to a hive.  They look at the world and take what they want and stamp over everything else and remake it their own image.  Everything they touch they sully and turn into cheap copies of themselves.”

He was staring at her now, staring at her significantly.  He was trying to tell her something, but why wasn’t he listening to her, doped up and doing her best to concentrate?

Her voice was a whisper.

“Matthew.  It’s the babies.  One of them is trying to kill the other one…”

Did she speak that or imagine it? Matthew didn’t seem to have heard her.  He lowered his voice and spoke slowly and deliberately.

“You’ve been sleeping with Alex, haven’t you?” He sounded so sad.  “It’s all round the office.  You were seen leaving Monagan Hall.  I confronted him.  You know, he didn’t even bother denying it.  He just stood there grinning at me…”

His voice was cold, yet his eyes blinked rapidly.  Katie felt a rush of shame.

Yes Matthew, Oh I’m sorry but I couldn’t help it, he just looks at you and it’s like that’s the way is the world is going to be.  You’re right.  He just alters the world to suit himself.  He’s put his child inside me.  Don’t ask me how, but he did it.  I was already pregnant with your child when I first slept with him, but he did it anyway, because that’s what he wanted and he always gets what he wants.  He’s reproduced, put his offspring into the world without it affecting his and Helen’s lifestyle.  Their trekking in India and their twin Mercedes.  They’ll just go on doing that while I have their baby for them, and you know, Matthew, its just pushing yours aside…

But he couldn’t hear her.  Was she speaking or hallucinating?  Matthew just went on speaking in that cold voice…

“… Like he didn’t give a damn about being find out.  Like he’d had his fun and it just didn’t matter.  Oh Katie!  How could you?”

His face was a mixture of anger and despair.  A tear formed at the corner of one eye.

Oh Matthew, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you must listen, his child its… I read a magazine article once, baby sharks, they eat each other in the womb, wipe out their competitors…

He absently brushed the tear from the corner of his eye.

“I’ll stay here for the birth of my child Katie.  I’ll do that.”  He suddenly crumpled, and his face was a picture of pure misery.

“No.  Fuck that, I’ll stay here for you Katie.  I can’t do anything else…”

He looked away, his eyes filled with tears.  He didn’t see Katie reach out to take his hand. She needed to hold him, needed his support.

What was it?  She was doped up on the moment, too far gone to concentrate any more…

Her hand rubbed her stomach. Matthew’s child was in there fighting for its life.  She knew it was fighting in vain.

She felt the lazy throb of a contraction.  They were increasing in intensity.

Not long now until the baby was born.

BUKOWSKI ON MARS, WITH BEER
by

ERIC BROWN

"Wake up, Buk!"

I opened my eyes. A guy in a silver suit and goggles was standing by the bed.

I said, "Hey, man, it ain't Buk as in fuck. It's Buke as in puke, okay?"

The man smiled and it reminded me of my father's smile.

I sat up. "Where am I?"

That last I remembered I was in a bar someplace in downtown LA. I remembered being thrown into the street and passing out. I felt fine now, not even a hangover.

"Where's Jane?"

"Buk," he said, getting it right this time. "Lie down. Listen to me. You're a long way from home."

"I am, huh? Get me a beer, okay?"

He reached out behind me and came back with a bottle of beer. I didn't recognize the brand but I wasn't complaining. I chugged it down. It was good and cold and I felt better for it.

I looked around. I was in a circular room with a good view over red sand. "Listen, buddy, why not tell me what the fuck's going on?"

The man removed his goggles and his eyes were silver. "You're on Mars, Buk," he said.

"You're taking it well, Buk."

I took it well when my father strapped me every day for years, I took it well when big fuckers tried to beat me up in bars in LA and New Orleans and Atlanta and Pittsburgh and New York. The trick was not to show what you're feeling inside. The trick was to freeze.

The guy in the funny suit said I was on Mars. I froze.

"So tell me," I said, "just how come I ended up on Mars? And get me another beer."

He got it.

I chugged it down.

He said, "We brought you back."

"I was dead?"

"Yes."

"And you brought me back? So you can bring Jane back too?"

"No, Buk. No, I'm sorry. We can’t."

I took another swallow of beer.

"So why me?"

"Because you're one of the greats, Buk. We've brought back the greats."

He watched me. I said nothing.

Hear that, you fuckers? Hear that, Pa, all you bastards who said I was shit, hear that, all you phonies in all the cities who took one look and said no?

"One of the greats?" I said. "When did I die?"

He said, "March, 1994."

"Jee-sus fucking Christ..."

The guy gave me a funny look. "You don't remember?"

I shook my head. "Last I recall, it's '73..."

"You lived another twenty years, Buk. You became famous. Your books sold millions, you were big in France, Germany."

"So why can't I remember any of that?"

"It sometimes happens. Retrieval can result in memory loss, often it’s only short term. Your memories will return."

I saluted him with the bottle. I had that to look forward to: remembering my successful future.

I laughed. One of the greats?

And I was on Mars.

I swung myself off the bed. "I need to take a dump. Where's the john?"

He was still there when I got  back. "Who else?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who else you brought back? The greats."

"Artists. Composers. Other writers."
"Writers like who? Celine?"

He shook his head. "No, not Celine."

"Hamsun?"

"Knut Hamsun? Yes, all the Nobel prize winners."

"How'd he take it, being brought back?"

The guy nodded. "He's fine. He's writing. He has a little place on the slopes of Olympus Mons."
"Lawrence?"

"D.H. or T.E?"
"D.H.."

"Yes. He took it badly at first, but he adjusted. He's travelling – crossing the Mare Acidalium, the last we heard."

"And Doe – Doe–"

"Dostoevsky?"

"That's the guy."

"We made the retrieval, but..." The guy shrugged.

"What happened?"

"He went mad. It sometimes – very infrequently – happens."

"Mailer?"

"Yes. He's fine. Doing the celebrity circuit."

I thought some. "How about Hemingway?"

"Yes. He's living nearby, as are most of the other retrievals. You'll meet them all, eventually."
"Fuck that. I didn't want to meet other writers when I was alive, and I sure don't want to meet the fuckers now."

"That's fine, but I think you'll change your mind, in time. It's somewhat therapeutic, let's say, to meet others of your kind."
I took a long swallow of cold beer.

"But you didn't bring Jane back?"

"I'm sorry."
"But you could? I mean, you have the... the ability to do it, yeah?"

He would not meet my gaze. "We only brought back the greats–"

"Listen, buddy, Jane was great."

"I'm sure she was, Buk, but–"

Something tore open inside me, something big and cold and gray.

He said, "You must be hungry. I'll get you some food. Then you can sleep a while, rest. In the morning I'll show you around. Now, food. What would you like?"

I was hungry. I said, "Hamburger and fries. You got those? And some wine? You have wine on Mars?"

"We have the finest vineyards in the solar system growing on the slopes of Elysium Mons"

"Riesling, sweet and cold?"

"I'll see what I can do."

The guy left the room through a sliding door.

I drank my beer.

In the morning I woke up and went to the john and puked and I felt better after that. I got a beer from the cold chest behind the bed and chugged it down, and then the guy in the silver suit came and said he'd show me around. I said okay, but would there be beer? He said there'd be plenty of beer.

We left the room and walked into warm sunlight, down a path in a concrete complex with silver domes in the red sand. I was wearing old chinos and an old shirt, just like old times.

The guy didn't offer his name and I didn't ask.

We came to an open buggy with big wheels like beach balls and the guy said climb in. I got in the passenger seat and the guy indicated the back seat, a cooler there. I got myself a beer and drank and we set off.

We drove out of the complex of domes and into the red desert. The guy told me a whole bunch of stuff about the terraforming of Mars. Most of it I didn't understand, and I wasn't interested enough to ask. The bottom line was that mankind had spread from Earth and was living on Mars and some of the moons of  Saturn and Jupiter, spread like a disease.

Once when I turned in the seat to get another beer, I looked back at the complex we'd left. The domes glittered in the morning sunlight.

After an hour we arrived at another complex in the desert, only this one as well as domes had factories with great pipes coming from them and spreading out across the desert.

"These are the lungs of the planet, as it were," the guy said. He told me that here was where a whole load of stuff was pumped into the Martian atmosphere to keep it breathable. I didn't see a single person anywhere about the place.

We passed the lungs of the planet and moved further into the desert, and I sat in the passenger seat and drank beer after beer.

The guy said, "I make it a duty to read all the work of the retrievals I'll be working with."

"That so?"

"I've read practically everything you've ever written."

I was impressed. There was a lot of it. "So what you make of it? My guess, a guy like you..." I gestured with the bottle. "Probably means jack shit to you."

He said, "Buk, I was appalled, but I must admit fascinated at the same time."

I saluted him with my bottle.

"The drinking, the women... that was incomprehensible enough, but what really appalled me was your apathy."

I shrugged. I couldn't be bothered to argue. The only time I ever defended myself was in a fist-fight. "So why the fuck did you read all the stuff?"

"Because I was paid to do so, Buk."

"Pretty easy job, as I see it, reading a whole bunch of stuff. Even stuff you didn't like."

He ignored that and said, "Your apathy really astonished me, Buk. You were interested in nothing but drinking and copulating and the races..."

"And boxing and books," I reminded him. "I read some, too."

"And even here, now, Buk – you're just not one bit interested in the wonders of the modern age, are you?

He gestured at something sailing by in the sky. It looked light and airy, like a kite made from aluminium and tin-foil, only it was about the size of an aircraft hangar.

I remembered the sky scrapers and the railroads, the Golden Gate Bridge and the Saturn V rocket. I said, "Show me wonders of the modern age and all I see are rich fuckers getting richer."

"You don't see progress?"

"Progress is just another word for shitting on those at the bottom."

He said, "You're ignorant."

I stared at him. "Everyone is ignorant," I said.

We drove on some. He said, "Why did you write?"

I thought about that. "Because I had to."

"Why did you write the kind of stuff that you wrote?"

I thought some more. "Because I lived the kind of life I lived."

"A life of ignorance and apathy and quiet desperation."

I didn't argue. I looked down at my body. It was the body of a seventy-three year old, but the strange thing was I felt young and strong.

I said, "Pull up."

He looked at me. "What?"

"Stop."

"We're in the middle of the desert. Why–?"

"Stop the fucking car and we'll get out and fight."

I wanted to feel what it was like to fight again, knuckle on bone, I wanted to feel his fist on my jaw.

"I'm not stopping, Buk."

"Then shut the fuck up," I said.

We came to a sprawling settlement in the desert. We travelled through it on an elevated road. I made out what looked like factories, and then domes. The thing was, these domes were situated in the middle of big green lawns.

I laughed.

The guy said, "What's so funny."
I said, "You even brought lawns from Earth!"

He said, "You don't like lawns, do you, Buk."

"Lawns make me want to puke."

We drove on. I said, "Slow down."

I saw broad in a bikini sun-bathing on one of the lawns down there. She stood up as we passed, took off her sun-glasses and watched us: tall and tanned, with a nice ass and stacked.

"Whoa!" I yelled and waved my bottle at her.

We shot past, back into the desert. The guy was gripping the steering wheel, staring ahead. He was saying, "We don't have cities, as such, but small settlements scattered across the face of the planet, manufactories run by a skeleton staff employing AIs..." Blah, blah, blah.

I tuned him out and got another beer. I was getting drunk but the sun was getting hot out there in the desert.

I said, "So why did you bring us back? The Greats?"

He said, "So you can write, and compose, and paint."

"You got no writers and composers and painters on Mars?"

"We have artists of all kinds, yes. But we wanted to resurrect the greats of Earth."

I swallowed some beer and looked ahead. Heat shimmered in the distance above the red sands. I said, "So you want me to write?"

"We'd like that, yes."
"Write what?"

"Whatever you like. Your life on Earth." He looked at me. "We'll get you a dome, a word processor."

"A what?"

He thought about it and said, "A computer, so you can write."

"Fuck a computer, buddy. I want a typer. A Remington upright, okay?"
"That might be difficult..." he started.

I said, "You bring the greats back to life from bone and shit, and you can’t get me a Remington typer?"

"I'll see what we can do."

We arrived back at the complex and the guy said, "Would you like to go to a bar?"

I stared at him. Was he joking? I said, "That's the first sensible thing you said all day."
We parked and walked along a concourse between silver domes to a patio area around a pool. A crowd of men and women sat drinking around the pool. The guys looked like a bunch of phonies but most of the women were lookers.

We went into a dome set with tables and chairs, clean and dead. Not my kind of place at all. We sat at a table overlooking the pool and the guy said, "Beer?"

"Make it Jack Daniels. A bottle."

He came back with a quart and I sat and drank and watched the beautiful people talk and laugh and jump into the pool.

The guy was watching me. At one point he leaned forward and pointed through the dome and said, "The gentleman drinking beside the diving board. Hemingway."

Hemingway was fat and bloated. He looked like I could take him out easy and drink him under the table.

I said, "And the blonde talking to Hemingway?"

"That's Samantha Dennison, a poet working in the mid twenty-first century. Would you care to meet her?"

"Sure. Bring her over."

He hesitated, then stood and left the bar. I watched him cross to Hemingway and the blonde and murmur something to them. The blonde looked up, squinting against the sunlight. She nodded, said something to Papa, and walked back with the guy.

I raised my bottle at Hemingway and he smiled and saluted me with his glass.

The blonde had style, the way she walked in and folded herself into the chair and held out a hand. "Mr. Bukowski," she said.

I nodded. "Drink?"

She looked at her glass. It was empty. She said, "G&T."

The guy stood up and hurried to the bar and came back with a drink. She sipped and looked at me and said, "Have you been here long, Mr. Bukowski?"

"A day, and that's a day too long."

She smiled. "You'll get used to the place," she said. "We all do."

I took another shot of Daniels and leaned forward and said, "You're a very beautiful woman."

Her smiled faltered. "Why, thank–"

"You and Hemingway down there. You together?"

She said, "We're friends, Mr. Bukowski."

I leaned forward, swaying a little, the Jack Daniels on top of all that sun. I said, "You put out, Samantha?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said, do you fuck?" I said.

"What–"

"How'd you like to come back to my place?"

She said to the guy, "Did you say Mr. Bukowski hails from the dark ages, Max?"

The guy – Max – he said, "Mr. Bukowski was writing in the latter half of the twentieth century, Samantha."

"Writing what?"

Max said, "Poetry?"

"Poetry? I find that hard to believe."

I was losing it and all I wanted to do was get her in the sack. I looked from her perfect face to her perfect breasts.

She said, "You are somewhat primitive, Mr. Bukowski."

She stood and strode from the bar.

"And you," I called after her, "you're one sassy round-heeled little cunt!"

I sat and drank. The sun moved across the sky. I finished my quart and I was sweating. I missed Jane. At one point I turned to the guy, Max, and I said, "Take me to a whorehouse, Max."

"I'm afraid, Mr. Bukowski, that we don't have such establishments on Mars."

"What kind of place is this?" I yelled.

I sweated and drank and I was feeling bad. I thought about LA. I thought about Jane and the arguments and the drinking and the fucking and I missed her.

I said to Max, "I want to go back to Earth, Max."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Mr. Bukowski."

"Why impossible? You bring me back to life. You bring Papa and all us fucking so-called greats back to life. What's a little rocket trip back to Earth?"

He looked at me. "The Earth doesn't exist anymore, Mr. Bukowski. We managed to extract a few thousand DNA samples before the last war–"

"Doesn't exist?"

"The planet was annihilated in the Fourth global conflict."

I looked into the twilit sky, looking for Earth. All I could see were the first of the stars coming out.

I stood up and knocked over the table and staggered towards the exit. Max was at my side. He took my arm and I felt like swinging for him but I just said, "Doesn't exist..." to myself and he guided me back to the dome.

I got myself a beer and he left. I sat by the wall and stared out across the red sands.

I thought about LA and the races and Mulholland Drive and Macarthur Park and the Post Office where I worked my ass to death and I thought about Jane and Barbara and Frances and Linda and all my other women and the other good souls I knew and Bob the editor at Black Sparrow Press, who saved my life when he got me out the Post Office, and gave me enough to allow me to write.

And I drained the bottle and smashed it on the floor tiles so I had a nice long shard like a blade, and I stretched out my left arm and cut it, not across the wrist like a fairy but real good, from the wrist upwards to the inside of the elbow, slicing the length of the vein, like a man. Blood flowed bright and I passed out laughing.

"Wake up, Buk!"

I opened my eyes and sat up.

Max was smiling down at me.

"How are you feeling, Buk?"

I looked at my arm. The scar was healed. I was okay, a bit of a hangover was all.

He said, "You can't do things like that, Buk."

"Get me a beer."

He got me a beer from the cooler and I drank.

The sun was up and the desert outside the dome was red. There was no one about and that was fine by me.

I said, "What do you want me to do?" and I hated the note of pleading in my voice.

He said, "Write about Earth, Buk."

He left the dome and I sat in the chair before the wall and stared out and drank.

Later that day he came by with an upright Remington and a ream of quarto, then left without a word.

I drank all day and around about ten that evening I sat at the desk in front of the Remington and I wound in a sheet of paper and reached for a beer and began typing.

10.03, in my dome, on Mars.

THE EVISCERATORS
by

RICHARD FORD

-A Thadddeus Blaklok Short Story-

‘What was that? I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch it.’

‘Mmmppphhlggmmnnnghhh!’

‘Oh you are so very droll, Mister Milo.’

Mister Milo looked up, a wide grin beaming out from beneath his bowler hat.

‘Yes, I do believe I am, Mister Krane.’

There was a short pause before Milo and Krane burst out in a fit of hysterics.

They were in a small vault, illuminated by a single gaslight that flickered and whickered in its glass case. Mister Krane stood to one side of the slab, tall and gaunt, his hawkish features poking out from beneath a bowler hat, his body covered in a black leather smock. Mister Milo stood at the other side of the slab, identically dressed, but where Krane struck a towering, rake-like figure, he was short and fat, his features round and porcine.

‘Mmmmmpppphhhlllllgggllllgggghhh!’

Both men stopped their laughter and focused their attention on the slab that sat between them… or more accurately the squirming figure strapped to that slab. He was laid out like a piece of meat, his naked body pale and hairy in the half-light, his arms bound tight above his head, legs splayed, cock hanging flaccid and shrivelled between. In his mouth bulged a shiny red ball-gag, which prevented him from making any sense at all. His eyes were wide with terror, mucus and a little vomit having managed to spurt from his nose and mouth at some point to run down his chin and dangle in quivering strands.

‘Well then,’ said Krane. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘Oh, I believe we shall,’ Milo replied, daintily plucking a long slender scalpel from a side table with chubby hands, encased as they were in heavy leather gloves. Krane reached toward a second table, choosing for himself a much larger instrument with a wide, curved blade.

‘Filleting knife. Interesting choice, Mister Krane.’

‘Yes, I find it’s much more suited to this kind of work. Obviously less surgical in precision, but you get a neater finish.’

‘Mmmmmnnnnnngggglllllpphhhh!’

‘Really? Well, each to their own I suppose. However, I find there’s more room for error if you start with the scalpel. You can slip a bit, maybe sever something you didn’t mean to without bringing proceedings to a premature end.’

Krane shook his head at this.

‘Oh please, Mister Milo. As if you ever make an error. You’re an artist.’

Milo glanced away, a bashful expression creasing his flabby face. ‘You say the nicest things, Mister Krane. Sometimes I don’t know where to put myself, I really don’t.’

‘Mmmmmmmnnnnnfffrrrrrreeeeeeccchhh!’

‘Oh, I do apologise,’ said Milo, turning his attention to the man on the slab. ‘You must think we’re so very rude, nattering on like this.’

‘Yes, how remiss of us. Would you like to begin, Mister Milo?’

‘Oh please, Mister Krane, be my guest.’

‘No, no. I wouldn’t dream of denying you the pleasure of the first slice.’

‘Let’s be fair about this then,’ said Milo, placing the scalpel down on a tray lined neatly with surgical instruments. He pulled off one of the gloves that covered him all the way to the elbow, and drew his smock aside to fish around in his pocket. His tongue lolled, as he seemed to have difficulty finding what he was after, then a look of victory crossed his face as he produced a shiny silver coin.

‘Heads or tails?’ he said finally.

‘Tails never fails,’ Krane replied, cheerily.

‘Mmmmmnnnnnggglllcchh!’

The coin gave a soft ping as Milo sent it spinning with a flick of his thumb, deftly caught it in his palm then slapped it onto the back of his left hand.

‘Tails it is,’ he said, revealing the portcullis sigil of the Bank of the Houses on the coin’s shiny surface. ‘He’s all yours.’

Krane grinned an evil bastard’s grin.

He leaned over the man on the slab, whose muffled protestations began to grow louder and shriller. ‘Now, this might sting a bit,’ he said as he lowered the filleting knife towards his victim’s abdomen.

Protestations turned to screams, high pitched and anguished, as the knife did its work, parting the flesh right down to the mucosa and releasing a line of thick red fluid. As he cut, Krane parted the flesh, his gloved hands working expertly to open a wound from navel to pubis.

The cries grew throatier, the man giving off choked grunts behind his gag, but Krane was immersed in his work and no amount of noise would distract him. He delved in, his fingers probing into the wound with a sickly squelch, his eyes rising to the dark roof space above as he concentrated. Then with a foul sucking noise he pulled free a gelatinous tube of intestine.

‘Oh bravo,’ said Milo, as the man on the slab went into spasms, his eyes rolling back in his head. ‘Masterfully done.’

‘Why, thank you. Would you mind?’ Krane said, nodding towards the large frame that stood to one side, just within the shadows.

Milo reached over, wheeling the frame towards the slab. He positioned it over their subject, reaching up to grasp the hook attached to a winch at the top of the frame. Ever so carefully, Krane pulled the intestine further out of the surgical laceration he had made in his victim’s abdomen, causing the man to buck and writhe, straining against his shackles. Both men had their tongues out now, concentrating intensely as they speared the sausage like tendril on the end of the hook.

‘There we are,’ said Krane, taking a step back to view his handiwork. ‘Feel free to begin.’

‘Oh, you’re too kind,’ Milo replied.

Slowly Milo began to turn the crank, spinning the pulley and winding the cruor covered intestinal sausage around it. Screams turned to gurgles as their subject was ever so slowly eviscerated before their eyes.

‘Beautiful,’ Krane breathed, his eyes staring wide in stupefied glee.

‘Indeed,’ Milo replied.

Their victim, eyes crossed and haemorrhaging, face purple and wan, had nothing more to say.

‘So why me? Why not the Judicature?’

Blaklok was starting to get annoyed with this arsehole’s caginess. Then again, he was offering a lot of money, so he could probably afford to be cagey. Even so, there was only so much cowshit a man could take, even for a bucket-load of cash.

‘Come, Mister Blaklok,’ replied the fat man, sitting behind his mahogany writing desk. ‘You know as well as I do the Judicature are useless unless you’re landed gentry. And this case requires someone with specific talents – talents I’ve been led to believe you possess.’

He was right there, the Judicature were about as much use as a see-through mirror, unless you were of the Noble Houses – then they’d break their backs to help you out.

‘All right, so what exactly is it you think I can do for you?’

‘I need you to eradicate a problem… a life threatening problem that’s come to my attention. I’ve been told you’re good at that.’

All of a sudden Blaklok was conscious of the light pouring in through the huge bay window. It illuminated him far more than he was comfortable with.

‘Been told by whom?’

The fat bloke smiled knowingly. ‘Mister Blaklok, I’m a discreet man. It would be remiss of me to reveal my sources, now wouldn’t it.’

This whole thing stank. Blaklok had been summoned here, to the industrial quarter of the Manuactory, by an anonymous messenger promising plenty of ready cash if he was to take on one simple job. If his finances hadn’t been so strapped he would have ignored it, but as things were he simply needed the money. Now he was here, in front of this fat, grinning business-type – what was his name? Bunkle? Tinkle? – on a promise for cash to ‘eradicate a problem’. And Blaklok could guess what that would involve.

‘All right, who do you want dead?’

‘Oh, no, no, no, Mister Blaklok. I’m certainly not in the business of hiring assassins. I merely require your talents in the capacity of domestic security.’

‘I’m no one’s fucking bodyguard, Spunkle.’

The fat man frowned. ‘My name’s Arkell, Mister Blaklok. Clarence Arkell – it says so over the door in big gold letters.’

‘Whatever. If you want security get a fucking dog. That’s not what I do.’

‘No indeed. That’s not what you do. However, I’ll only require your services for two nights… three at the most. I’m sure for the recompense I’m offering you can spare that much of your valuable time.’

‘Expecting trouble are you?’

‘Oh yes, Mister Blaklok. Trouble is indeed what I’m expecting. And when trouble comes knocking, what better way to face it than with someone notorious for making trouble of their own?’

This geezer knew far too much for Blaklok’s liking. Nevertheless, he was paying, so he could know what he wanted… within reason.

‘I’ll want payment up front,’ said Blaklok.

‘Of course.’

‘Just three nights, then I’m gone, whether this ‘trouble’ you’re on about turns up or not.’

‘Naturally. But I can’t imagine that’ll be necessary. I’m expecting them long before that.’

‘What exactly is it that’s coming?’

Arkell inclined his head to the left, creasing the jowls that hung down over his thick neck. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle, Mister Blaklok. By all account you are skilled in all areas martial and… occult. I’m sure with both those talents at your disposal the gentlemen I’m expecting will be no problem for you. I would only make one request though – hurt them… make them pay.’

So the fat fella did want an assassin. But then again, if someone was coming here to do him over they were assassins too, so he guessed it balanced out.

‘Not that I’m overly bothered,’ said Blaklok, ‘but why are these people coming? What have you done to upset them?’

This time Arkell smiled, a wide shit-eating grin that reminded Blaklok of an alligator after it had just filled its belly. ‘I’m an industrialist, Mister Blaklok. A businessman, and a very successful one to boot. It’s inevitable that over the years I will have made more than my share of enemies. This entire affair is simply time, and an assiduous past, catching up with me. In my time I’ve created jobs and wealth for others, my philanthropic endeavours are known throughout the Manufactory. I’m well loved – ask anyone. But there are those who would seek to destroy what I have created, those who look upon my work with covetous eyes. I’m not about to let them win – oh no – they will pay, Mister Blaklok. With your help, they will pay.’

Arkell had the look of madness about him when he’d finished. Not that it unnerved Blaklok, he’d seen real madness aplenty, and this guy didn’t come close, but still, it gave him pause. There had to be more to it, had to be something this Arkell had done if someone wanted him dead. Blaklok had to admit, he’d never heard of the bloke, philanthropic or not, but then those weren’t the circles Blaklok moved in. He spent most of his time in the shadows, scrabbling round in the dirt, eradicating the filth rather than mixing with captains of industry.

And this geezer was offering a decent wedge for a couple of nights work.

‘All right, you’re on,’ said Blaklok. ‘But as I said – money up front.’

Arkell smiled, opened the drawer to his writing desk and produced a stack of bills.

‘It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Blaklok,’ Arkell said, pushing the stack across the desk.

‘We’ll see,’ Blaklok replied, stuffing the bills into his coat, and moving back into the shadows.

The window slid open, silent as death, quiet as the grave. A bowler-hatted head peered in, the big beaky nose beneath its brim sweeping to left and right like the rudder of a ship, taking in the view of the long dark corridor within. Slowly, silently, Krane eased himself inside, his long limbs pulling him through the window like some gigantic arachnid homing in on its prey.

Once inside he turned and grabbed hold of Milo by the scruff to pull him inside. Milo huffed as he squeezed his portly girth through the window frame, landing on the floor of the corridor with a muted thump.

Both men froze, glancing up and down the corridor to check if the sound of their entry had alerted anyone to their presence.

No one came.

Mister Milo stood, dusting himself down and composing himself before they moved on. Krane could only shake his head. ‘You really should ease up on the pie and liquor, old chap,’ he whispered.

Milo merely shot him a disconsolate look.

Together they made their way down the corridor, with Krane occasionally stopping to snigger at one of the portraits that hung on the wall, or Milo pausing to take a closer look at one of the busts or vases that lined the hall. Eventually they came to a large set of panelled doors at the end of the corridor which stood slightly ajar, the room beyond bathed in pale moonlight.

Krane reached out with one hand to push the door wider, while his other pulled out a long serrated blade from his coat. Behind him, Milo produced two blades of his own, one a long thin stiletto, the other fat and curved. They moved through the gap in the doors, taking care to walk on tippytoes lest they make a sound and wake their quarry.

In the room was a large four-poster bed, covered in a single blanket. Someone was lying beneath it, an amorphous bulk under the thick wool.

Milo and Krane moved to each side of the bed, lurking, looming as they went, their blades raised in anticipation, hungry for the kill. Gingerly, Krane reached out to grab the edge of the blanket between finger and thumb. He glanced up at Milo, who gave him the nod, his portly face shining in the moonlight, eyes wide with excitement.

‘Surprise!’ Krane bellowed as he tore back the blanket… then he and Milo froze.

Lying on the bed was a figure they hadn’t expected. They had been told Arkell was a fat man, a sedentary chap, heading fast towards old age. But the man lying on the bed was lean and hulking, his head shaved, his face looking like it had been used to hammer in nails, his body, bare-chested as it was, covered in scars and welts and tattoos. He lay with his hands behind his head, his expression unreadable as he looked up at the two phantoms who had stalked him in the night, their hands holding deadly blades, their intent only murder.

‘Surprise?’ he said, regarding Milo and Krane with disdain. ‘I’ll fucking bet it is.’

Krane plunged the knife down like a striking serpent, but it hit only pillow, sending a plume of goose feathers into the air. The man was fast, impossibly fast despite his bulk, and Krane barely had time to look up before he took a fist to the jaw.

Milo was next to strike forward, ready to defend his companion, the blades in his hands cutting the air in violent swipes as he desperately tried to lacerate the brute, but he was not fast enough.

The man retreated through the open doors and into the corridor, walking backwards slowly as if beckoning them after him. A trace of a smile crept across his thin lips as Milo watched, breathing in gasps of air after his exertions. Krane came to stand beside his partner, rubbing his jaw vigorously and the two of them gave one another a glance.

‘What to do, Mister Krane?’

‘I say we stripe the bastard, Mister Milo. I say we stripe him good and proper.’

‘Agreed,’ said Milo, a wicked grin creeping across his face.

‘You lads might want to have another think before you try the rough stuff with me,’ said the brute.

‘And why is that?’ asked Krane.

‘Because I’m Thaddeus Blaklok.’

Milo and Krane looked at another and shrugged. ‘Never heard of you,’ said Milo.

‘Then you lads must be from out of town, because everyone in the Manufactory’s heard of Thaddeus Blaklok. And they know better than to face up to me… unless they want a kicking.’

Milo began to snigger, with Krane following straight after. ‘Well, we’ll just see about that won’t we,’ he said. ‘Since we’re the ones with the sharp knives and all.’

‘All right, but don’t say you weren’t warned,’ Blaklok replied, as Milo waddled forward, his blades held out wide. He moved with a speed that belied his portly figure, his knives, one wickedly thin, one wickedly curved, sang a high-pitched song as they sliced the air. Blaklok dodged backward, to the side, ducked low as the weapons swept in from all angles, missing him by a hair’s breadth to take chunks out of the walls. All Blaklok could do was wait for a gap – surely this fat bastard couldn’t keep this up all night.

Milo’s breath became more laboured with every swing of his arms until eventually he was forced to pause, blowing hard from out of a bright red face. Blaklok struck, taking the brief hiatus to leap forward with his head, smashing it into Milo’s nose and sending him reeling back into a polished cabinet. As a vase toppled over to smash on the floor, Krane moved in with his serrated blade. Blaklok only just managed to avoid it, feeling a sting of pain flare in his shoulder as he was cut.

This one, tall and thin, seemed to revel in the dance, the grin on his face wide and toothy, his long limbs moving with expert precision ready to slice and dice. It took all of Blaklok’s speed and guile to avoid another wound. It was clear this one wasn’t going to tire any time soon. The initiative had to be taken.

Blaklok stepped in, arm raised to block Krane’s knife arm. Then he reached out, grabbing the lanky bastard by the back of his neck and pulling him forward. His jaw clamped closed, teeth biting deep into Krane’s beaky nose. There was a brief struggle, as Krane dropped the knife, desperate to unclamp himself from Blaklok’s bite, but it was no good. He shrieked as Blaklok bit down hard, teeth crunching through flesh and cartilage, head writhing from side to side with a mouthful of nose.

Krane fell back to the ground clutching his face as blood spurted through his fingers. Blaklok saw Milo coming in once more, too late to help his friend, but quick enough to get his vengeance. As the fat bloke advanced, Blaklok spat a gob of flesh, bone and blood into Milo’s face, at the same time catching the hand with the big curved blade as it scythed in. In a flash he’d twisted that fat, podgy wrist and dragged the knife from his hand. Milo had just enough time to gawp in surprise before Blaklok cut his other hand clean off, sending it falling to the ground, still gripping the needle thin stiletto. He kicked out, sending the fat bastard reeling as he let out a girl’s squeal, clutching tight to his severed appendage.

Both men sat in a heap now, one gripping where his nose had been, the other desperate to stem the blood pissing from the stump at his wrist.

‘I did try and fucking warn you,’ said Blaklok, wiping the blood and snot from his lips. He wasn’t sure what kind of response he expected, but it wasn’t for the fat lad to stand up, screaming at the top of his voice before sprinting to one of the windows and jumping through it. Before the echo of smashed glass had even finished, the tall lanky one had followed his mate, jumping through the broken window, still clutching his shortened nose.

‘Bye then,’ Blaklok said, waving them off. He glanced around the corridor, at the bloodstains on the rug and broken glass and shattered furniture strewn all around. ‘Well, I think that was a good night’s work, all things considered.’

‘I want them dead!’ Arkell screamed, his face, so amiable a day before now twisted in rage.

‘Shout at me like that again and there’ll be a fucking corpse all right,’ Blaklok answered.

That seemed to quell Arkell’s fire. There was no way he was going to push his luck, not with all six-foot-odd of Thaddeus Blaklok standing in front of him.

‘I’ll give you money – more money – if you hunt them down. Find them and kill them.’

‘I’ve got all the money I need for now. Besides, they won’t be back, trust me.’

‘That’s not the point. They broke into my house; it’s a bloody insult. I want them dead, I have to send a message – no one fucks with Clarence Horatio Arkell.’

‘Well, I reckon that’s your problem. I’ve done my bit.’ Blaklok turned to leave.

‘Wait. Just wait a minute.’ Arkell was standing now, his face red with exasperation. ‘I’m led to believe you’re a man of honour, Mister Blaklok, despite your reputation for wanton violence. I’ve heard tell you’re a man who will do the right thing.’ True enough, Blaklok supposed. ‘These men are killers. It’s not just me they’ve terrorised, look for yourself.’ Arkell held out a copy of the Chronicle. Blaklok could see the headline ‘Murder Most Foul’ emblazoned across the top in thick black script.

‘Four others have been killed recently. Four other men of note… men I knew. Do you think it stops here? If you don’t hunt these animals down there’ll be more murders, you can guarantee it.’ Blaklok had to admit, it didn’t look good. ‘There’s no telling what these people are capable of. How long before they turn their attentions to women… children? Are you happy with these animals rampaging loose in your city?’

‘All right. No need to go on – I’ll do it. But you’ll have to cover my expenses.’

‘Of course,’ Arkell replied with a smile, reaching into his desk drawer and producing yet more bank notes.

Well, in for a penny…

‘By dose! He bid off by fugging dose!’

The voice echoed through the dark corridors, Blaklok could hear it from a hundred yards away. ‘I know, Mister Krane. But look what he did to my hand. These stitches itch terrible like. And whatever will I do when I need to pass water? I’m ever so clumsy with my left – I’ll get piss everywhere.’

What a pair of fucking cry babies!

He had stalked them for hours. It hadn’t been a difficult trail to follow, but it was circuitous. They’d tried to cover their trail in several spots, but they clearly hadn’t banked on being hunted by Thaddeus Blaklok. Now he had them in their den, and what Arkell had said about there being more murders had clearly been right. The deeper he went into their lair, the more evidence of their nefarious deeds was on display.

Body parts were casually strewn about, severed heads hung on meat hooks and entrails were nailed to the walls and ceiling like birthday streamers. It stank, the sweet smell of rot, and had Blaklok a weaker constitution he might have retched his guts up on the blood-smeared floor.

Ahead of him, illuminated through the gloom he saw them, one fat, one painfully skinny, nursing their wounds and moaning like school children.

‘Someone’s been busy,’ Blaklok said, stepping out into the light.’

‘You!’ said Milo, brandishing the stump of his missing hand.

Krane merely stood, his face wrapped in bloody gauze, eyes staring about wildly in search of a weapon.

‘I think playtime’s over. You two need a dose of the rough stuff, and I’m the kind of bastard that’s ready to give it.’

Blaklok let his greatcoat drop to the floor, exposing the tattooed flesh of his torso. He was painted with a myriad of different markings; arcane sigils, occult symbols, intricate scarring, all wound together to make a fearsome tapestry of his flesh. And as Milo and Krane watched in horror, some of those markings began to move and twist, glowing with baleful light or darkening and searing with their evil intent.

‘Wait,’ Milo managed to say. ‘It wasn’t us! We was paid. We’re just employees, like you. The real killers are the ones that hired us in the first place.’

‘Who?’ Blaklok demanded, the hellish contortion of his flesh not abating.

‘That would be us.’

Blaklok turned at the new voice, expecting someone sinister, expecting someone arch and evil both of manner and visage.

What he saw made him cease his fell conjurations and frown in confusion.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said to the diminutive, middle-aged woman standing right in front him. Behind her he could see other figures as plain and inoffensive as she was. Some clearly wore the rags of the penurious, others looked old and frail. Hardly a pernicious gathering of base criminality.

‘Who we are isn’t important. Why we hired these men is more the point. Arkell and his ilk have taken from us, taken things that cannot be replaced, and we will have our avengement.’

‘Oh, I get it,’ Blaklok replied, fast losing patience. ‘Arkell fired you, or swindled you, or didn’t give you that pay rise you wanted and now you’ve decided you want to make him suffer. Well look around, love. Don’t you think this is a bit excessive? Arkell’s business partners are in fucking pieces.’

‘We are not his employees, and these butchered animals,’ she gestured to the disembodied corpses, ‘were not his business associates, though they were all part of the same club.’

‘What, bridge club? Some gentleman’s club?’

‘Arkell and his associates have certain appetites.Their succour is the children off the streets, children that no one would think to miss. Their money and influence has made them untouchable. But not any more.’

‘What do you mean children off–’

Suddenly Blaklok realised what the woman was trying to tell him.

‘Our children, the spawn of the poor, the urchins no one thought anyone gave a damn about. But we do. We all do. Arkell and his ilk inflicted horrors on them, used them like chattel, like whores and slaves, until they needed them no more and discarded them like human waste. It could not be allowed to stand. Justice is all we wanted.’

Blaklok regarded the crowd that had gathered behind the woman. They didn’t look like they had a collective pot to piss in but they’d managed to scrape enough money together to hire two assassins from out of town. That must have cost everything they had.

‘So what now?’ Blaklok asked, glancing back at Milo and Krane as they stood sheepishly in one corner, clearly terrified.

‘Now we need the final monster to be defeated. But this is all we have to offer.’ She held out her palm, showing Blakok was lay upon it. ‘Will you take it, Thaddeus Blaklok? Will you avenge our children for us?’

‘Aye, all right. That’ll do I suppose,’ Blaklok replied.

Clarence Arkell sat behind his desk as Blaklok entered. He was clearly not a man used to being kept waiting.

‘Well? Is it done?’

Blaklok simply stood and stared.

‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Have you earned the money I’ve paid you or not?’

Blaklok reached into his great coat and took out a pile of crumpled bills, throwing them on the desk in front of him. ‘I had a better offer,’ he said.

‘Better offer? What the hell are you talking about, better offer?’

‘I’ve found out the real reason those two bowler hatted twats wanted you dead.’

He let that hang there for a minute, watching Arkell’s response. The fat man went from an expression of innocence to stupefaction to denial in less time than it took to waggle piss from a cock.

‘Well, what the fuck do you care? Why should it matter to you, you’re just a thug for hire. A nutter from the streets.’ It was clear Arkell didn’t know him at all.

‘They offered me money to do you. Obviously they didn’t have much left after hiring those two useless cunts from out of town, but I accepted anyway.’ Blaklok reached into his pocket and took out two copper pennies. ‘To be honest, I’d have done it for free.’ He moved forward, his brow furrowing, his hands tightening into fists.

‘Now look here,’ said Arkell, rising unsteadily to his feet, his wooden chair toppling over backwards. ‘We had a business arrangement. I paid you for aaaiiiccchhhh–’

Blaklok took him by the throat, he’d heard enough from this fat fucking pederast.

Now it was time for the fun to begin…

+++Scene Report of Morticianeer Vexell p. Topper. Case File 1265-967/b+++

+++The corpse of Clarence Horatio Arkell was found lying on the floor of his study. Two copper pennies had been placed over his gaping eyeballs. As well as having his intestinal tract removed (not found at the scene) his penis had been torn off and inserted in rectum+++

+++There was no forensic evidence as to the identity of those who may have perpetrated the crime+++

+++Investigation is ongoing. All further results should be referred to Indagator Beauregard Morden+++

ROTTEN CUPID
by

IAN GRAHAM

Michael woke, sweat-soaked and shivering.

The room was dark, and the darkness was disturbingly organic, gripping him like the sap-slicked jaws of a Venus flytrap.

He lay motionless, listening to the clock ticking out on the landing. He loathed the timepiece, the cold relentless clacking of the mechanism. He wondered why he did not remove the batteries. It was Melissa’s clock and Melissa had gone.

Realising he would not sleep, he got out of bed, peeling the stinking sheets off his wet body as if they were layers of unwanted skin.

On the landing the clock read half-past midnight.

He went downstairs, gripping the banister tightly. He had been drinking constantly since Melissa left, seven days ago. His consumption of Calendar Whisky was causing considerable damage to his vital organs. His kidneys ached like gunshot wounds and he vomited four or five times a day - always the same infusion of bile and dark treacly blood.

He slept badly, tormented by grotesque, meaningless dreams.

Nonetheless, he found it impossible to care. In his experience, it was best to avoid confronting one’s woes when the woes were fresh. It was wisest to languish in self-pity for a while.

Collapsing onto the living room sofa, he grasped a Calendar bottle from the coffee table, unscrewed the lid then grimaced. For a quivering drunk, there was no sight more distressing than a nearly empty bottle. He swallowed the dregs and though the flavour was comforting, he had not drunk enough to make a gnat tipsy. He needed to visit the all-night petrol station.

Michael squinted out of the window and saw huge fat snowflakes whirling through the yellow glow of the streetlights. He performed a quick calculation. The petrol station was half a mile away. Not a great distance in itself but an ordeal when you were bad on your feet and had not eaten in several days. But the trek would take just fifteen minutes there and fifteen back, and a few reviving swigs of Calendar would make the return journey easy enough.

He lingered on the sofa, gathering his strength.

His gaze drifted to a shoebox tucked under the coffee table. Stooping, he picked it up, knowing that he would finds its contents upsetting. He put the box on his lap and lifted the lid, revealing a slurry of photographs featuring Melissa and himself.

The photographs were neither artistic nor conceptually original. Love was an ancient cliché and invariably entailed clichéd responses. There was Melissa riding a child’s swing in a leafy park; there she was again, tossing bread to a gaggle of mallards; now Michael made an appearance, eating an ice cream and, humiliatingly, attempting a wheelie on a mountain bike; and suddenly it was Melissa again, at a restaurant table, gilded in candlelight . . .

Christ, what drivel, thought Michael.

But heartbreaking drivel nonetheless. Like a sobbing maiden in a period drama, Michael clamped a hand against his heart, feeling as if some monstrous thistle had materialized there, skewering the delicate tissues with brutally sharp barbs.

Then there was another photo, of the most banal variety: a self-taken picture of the two lovers cheek by cheek, the camera angle crooked, the image ever so slightly blurred.

That’s the worst one of the lot, decided Michael.

No, not quite: the photo tucked beneath it was more repellent than the others combined. Sitting on the scarlet-upholstered bench of a Gondola, Michael and Melissa drifted along a romantic, stinking, rat-infested Venetian canal. They appeared absurdly happy, clutching hands, grinning as if to bounce the sun’s rays off their teeth back into the stratosphere. The snap had been taken by a gondolier whose oleaginous charm Michael had found threatening. He had bullied them to have the picture taken. Yes it would not be cheap, he said. But what price can be placed on such a gorgeous memento? They would treasure it forever, exhibiting it to their grandchildren as proof that they had once been young and prey to the splendid romantic passions of youth.

It wasn’t merely the photo Michael loathed but the frame in which it was mounted. Cut from cheap pink card, laced with faux-wood curlicues, it sported a grotesque cherub in the top-right corner. This beaming, pot-bellied Cupid gripped a golden bow with an arrow nocked to the string. Michael considered it obscene that a baby should be the symbol of amorous love. What was more, he despised this particular Cupid because either its marksmanship was poor or the romantic elixir basted on the arrow-tip was faulty.

Melissa had abandoned Michael a fortnight after Venice.

“Fuck this,” muttered Michael, tossing the photo on the coffee table. He had better things to do than brood. Things like purchasing a bottle or three of Calendar.

With considerable effort he got to his feet. His legs were wobbly, his vision blurred, and he suspected that if he failed to get a drink soon he’d get the DTs instead. The molecules in his emaciated body were vibrating in the strange, familiar way that preceded withdrawal.

In the hallway, he put on his boots and leather jacket then picked up the walking stick he would need for the trek to the petrol station.

Michael was proud of the stick. It wasn’t the curl-handled affair favoured by geriatrics but an honest-to-goodness hazelwood knob stick, the sort wielded by Oliver Reed when playing Bill Sykes in Oliver! It did not suggest infirmity. On the contrary, Michael was certain it gave him an eccentric and dangerous appearance.

He tugged the front door key from his pocket.

“Oh fuck. Money,” he sighed.

Returning to the living room, he grabbed his wallet from the sideboard then paused, spotting movement out of his eye-corner.

What on earth was it? A spider? A mouse?

Or something worse: an hallucination.

A thin scalpel of panic twisted in his belly. Hallucinations were common enough during delirium tremens. But sometimes they preceded seizures. And that would be bad.

Oh shit, I can’t have a fit, I mustn’t . . .

He glanced across the living room. The moving something was not scuttling over the floor like a spider or mouse but wriggling slowly and weirdly on the coffee table.

Squinting, Michael saw a vague wobbling pinkness that resolved itself into Cupid. The cherub’s head had already risen from the frame like some glistening pink bubble and now, tiny hands braced on the frame itself, he was heaving upwards like a bather climbing out of a swimming pool. His body shook with effort but gradually, his chest rose up, followed by his belly, lower regions and legs.

Pursing his lips, Cupid hitched up his loincloth, that had become snagged during the ascent. Then he stooped, tugging the bow and arrow out of the frame. Sweat dribbled from his golden-curled scalp. Raising a leg, the spirit of love farted silently. Then he looked at Michael.

I am hallucinating, thought Michael miserably. What if I have a seizure?

He cast about wildly, seeking somewhere soft to fall when the spasms began.

Cupid rolled his shoulders, rubbed his neck then performed a few knee-bends as if loosening muscles that had spent too long in a cramped space.

Wings fluttering, Cupid rose into the air, hovered, then swelled into a baby of full-sized proportions.

“Screaming fuck,” whispered Michael, trembling.

Sniffing, Cupid lifted his shapeless chin and, with crawling slowness, his glossy pink skin wallowed into a sickening green colour. Lesions blossomed over his body, seeping pus-tinged blood that dripped onto the carpet. Bloodshot exploded through his eye-whites. His flesh decomposed and one putrescent flap flopped from his cheek, exposing the greyish white bone beneath. Scarlet veins spindled through his stubby nose and the curls covering his scalp thinned into greasy scraggles. His lips opened, baring teeth as sharp as a cat’s and as green as a corpse’s. The gums bled prodigiously, the garish discharge trickling over the cherub’s chest and belly. His feathers, dove-white moments ago, glowed as red as superheated iron. Casting aside the bow and quiver, he fanned out his fingers and long yellow nails sprang out as swiftly as flick-knife blades. Ochre talons curled from his toes.

He hovered a moment longer then hurtled toward Michael.

Stunned, Michael had no time to react. Cupid clutched Michael’s jacket, fingernails piercing the thick leather. Yowling, Michael toppled backward onto the floor. Opening his mouth impossibly wide, Cupid bit into Michael’s ribcage. The pain was extraordinary - and energising. Flailing madly, Michael rolled onto his side, grasped Cupid’s shoulders and ripped the cherub loose. Cupid struggled in Michael’s grip and roaring, Michael hurled the thing across the living room. Cupid barreled through empty air then, wings working furiously, hovered once more, tatters of coat-leather, cashmere sweater and skin dangling from the needle-sharp fingernails.

Cupid attacked again.

Despite his panic, Michael was better prepared. Dodging sideways, he caught Cupid’s arm and flung the putti full-strength into the wall. Cupid impacted with a glooping splat then bounced onto the coffee table, scattering photographs. He lay still a heartbeat then rose once more.

“What the bloody fuck are you?” Michael knew the answer as soon as he asked the question. Like it or not, he was hallucinating. He was terrified but his wits were intact: he knew drunks were confronted by all sorts of ghastly illusions. Giant lobsters, spiders, aberrations that would’ve alarmed Bosch . . . all seemingly real yet none existing beyond the imagination.

Glancing down, Michael saw his jacket was ripped. And he was bleeding. But surely, these were also figments of his imagination?

“You do not exist,” breathed Michael, petrified yet jubilant. “All this is a dream -”

Cupid launched another assault. Michael’s defiance vanished. Yodelling with fear, he dived out of the living room into the hallway. Following, Cupid swept through the doorway then swooped but Michael was already sprinting up the stairs toward the bathroom.

Tripping over the top step, Michael sprawled on the landing then rolled onto his back. Cupid was waiting. The cherub dived like some pudgy hawk, plunged his fingernails into Michael’s chest, thrust his face against the stricken drinker’s ribcage and chewed.

Michael dug his thumbs into Cupid’s eyes - eyes that, according to myth, had overseen a billion blossoming romances. Shrilling, Cupid recoiled. Momentarily free, Michael plunged into the bathroom, slammed the door and slid the bolt. For a heartbeat he stood in darkness, listening to Cupid’s yells of pain. Then he yanked the cord and hard light ricocheted off white tiles.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” gasped Michael.

Suddenly, claws were gouging the opposite side of the door. Michael cast about for a weapon. A toothbrush? A shaving razor? Pathetic! What about that  bottle of mouthwash? Would it scald Cupid like holy water splashed over a vampire?

A vampire, thought Michael suddenly. Cupid certainly wasn’t a vampire, but tiny connections sparked in Michael’s mind. Stripping off his jacket and jumper, he inspected the bite marks in his chest. No, they were not the neat double-pinpricks of a dandy. Concentrated on the upper left side of his ribcage, they were the ugly clusters of a wild beast.

Understanding flashed like lightning.

Cupid wanted to dig out his heart and eat it.

The frantic scraping against the door continued.

A weapon, a weapon . . .

If holy water wouldn’t repel the abomination perhaps hot water would.

Michael yanked the showerhead from its fitting then wrenched the heat dial to maximum. The shower was a poorly manufactured foreign model, bereft of a temperature-limitation device. Often, Michael had nearly been parboiled by the wretched instrument. Now it might save his life.

After a few cold spurts, the shower spat steaming water.

Michael would not open the door to Cupid but if the putti broke through the flimsy wood, he would prepared.

Perching on the toilet he waited like a gunslinger listening for the church bell that announced it was time to duel.

When he woke up, Michael believed he was in Heaven.

He was smothered by white clouds, gently swirling. Had he passed over, as the euphemism went? No, he decided. The clouds were hot and wet and he could hear shower water drumming inside the bathtub.

Sitting up, he winced at a throbbing pain in his skull. Probing his scalp, he discovered a contusion as big as a hen’s egg. Evidently he had fainted, knocking himself unconscious on some hard surface.

But that did not explain the shower pumping scalding water or the teeth marks carved into his chest.

With a croaking yelp, Michael remembered Cupid. For a second or two he whirled into a terrified panic. Was the malign sprite still present in the house? Hovering patiently outside the bathroom door? Or lurking elsewhere, with the patience of a funnel web spider poised for an ambush?

Suddenly, the tension easing, Michael laughed at the whole foolish saga.

The previous night, his strongest fear had come to pass. He had suffered a seizure and it was preceded by delirium tremens - literally translated as the shaking madness.

At the time, the madness dimension had felt  unspeakably awful. Now it was comforting. It explained everything. Cupid had been an hallucination, a freakish contortion of the mind, and it seemed so real Michael had injured himself attempting to resist it. The fingernail gouges stippling his chest were caused by his own fingernails as he grappled with the apparition. Though deeper, the bitemarks had not been engendered by Cupid’s savage teeth but once again, his own fingernails as he doubled his efforts to cast off the pouting, rotting, evil-reeking putti.

No enemy existed except Michael’s Calendar-scrambled mind.

Michael ventured onto the landing. Gouges and incisions sagged into the bathroom door but they too were his handiwork. Wasn’t it possible that, terrified, he had not attempted to open the door but to claw his way through - as if his capering brain had plunged him into an animalistic frenzy?

In the living room, Michael peered at the Venice photograph. Cupid was missing from the corner of the frame but that did not prove anything significant. Most likely, Michael had torn off the cherub in a fit of rage. He never liked the tubby little fucker. Perhaps this act of petty vandalism triggered, if not the hallucination itself, the form the hallucination had adopted.

“Bloody hell. What a bizarre night,” he sighed.

Monstrously hungover, he donned a woollen coat - he was too vain to venture out in his tattered leather jacket -  grabbed the hazelwood knobstick and strolled to the petrol station.

In a celebratory mood, he bought three bottles of Calendar.

Home again, he put the bottles on the carpet by the sofa, switched on the television and drank. Diagnosis Murder was on the box and Michael dreamily imagined he would quite like to be a crime-busting MD.

The first bottle was soon gone. After starting on the second, Michael fell asleep.

He woke with a sour belch.

Stale whisky clung to his teeth and grabbing a bottle from the coffee table, he swilled it away with fresh whisky.

Slouching on the sofa, Michael noticed snow-speckled darkness against the window. Night, again. He fidgeted. Then he spotted Cupid sitting on the television set, legs dangling in front of the flickering screen.

Except for a slow blinking of the eyes, Michael grew absolutely motionless.

Cupid watched him, grinning. His appearance was unchanged from their previous encounter. His skin was green and rotten. His eyes swam with bloodshot - except for the irises, which were sour yellow discs.

Cupid tipped his head forward as if to say Are you ready?

Michael told himself Cupid was an hallucination but knew in his rapidly pumping heart he was not. He couldn’t be, because Michael was still drunk from the afternoon. He was not withdrawing. He was not delirious. He was not on the cusp of a seizure.

“Oh fuck,” he murmured, philosophically.

With a phuff of wings, Cupid rose from the television then hurtled at Michael, swooping low over the coffee table then angling up toward his face.

Michael dived sideways, flipping over the armrest. Bouncing off a cushion, Cupid rose, flapped in gleeful circles in the middle of the room, then swooped, uttering a shrill cackling cry.

Accustomed to Cupid’s tactics, Michael aimed a punch at the cherub’s face. Cupid dodged, giggling, then swooped again. Michael rolled, scrambled to his feet and, suspecting it was impossible to lay a fist on the creature, flung himself into the hallway then slammed the door against the pursuing putti.

Cupid thudded against the wood.

The door handle revolved, slowly, but Michael grasped it, gripping it so tightly it seemed the brass would crumple in his fist.

“This cannot be real,” Michael told himself.

No. It was real enough. It simply was not commonplace . . . Or was it? Had Cupid attacked other men before? Men who were broken-hearted? Men, perhaps, who were sober?

Surely not, reasoned Michael. The handle wriggled as Cupid attempted to force his way through.

Unless Cupid always won these tussles. Unless it chewed out its victims’ hearts then disposed of the corpses in some way.

How could a flying baby get rid of a dead body? The stupidity of the question angered Michael. The heart was perhaps the beginning of the cherub’s banquet - the symbolically potent hors d’oeuvre of a larger feast. He hungered for the heart and guzzled the rest out of necessity.

How many lovelorn men seemed to commit suicide every year without their bodies being discovered?

Love and death. Two sides of the same coin.

A coin grasped in the chubby paw of Cupid.

“Why are you doing this?” Michael yelled through the door. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

Twisting, Michael glanced at the front door. An idea formed. No one spoke of Cupid as a real hello-there-he-is creature. He was a furtive being, fearful of discovery. If Michael managed to get outside then retreat to a public place, he would be safe.

Where, though? It was night-time. The shops were shut, the streets empty.

The petrol station, mused Michael. No. He could not stay there until morning. The man behind the counter would not allow it; if needs be, he would call the police and Michael would be dragged away.

It had to be somewhere that people habitually gathered during evening hours.

A nightclub? A brothel?

Suddenly, Michael knew what he must do. He still wore the coat from his last trip to the petrol station. In the pockets were his wallet and mobile phone.

He dug out the phone with his free hand. He scrolled through the address book, found the number of a taxi rank and dialled.

“Yes? Hello? It is? Good. I want a cab for the Golden Horse Hotel. Straight away. More than straight away. Instantaneously. I want you to - to materialize like the fucking Tardis.” He gave the operator his address. The cab would arrive in ten minutes. Which could be thirty minutes. Or an hour. Whenever; it did not affect his plan. He was strong enough to stop Cupid twisting the door handle and bursting through. Then, when the ride arrived, he would plunge out through the front door and sprint to the cab. If Cupid was averse to being seen by anyone except his victims, he would not follow. Not if there was a chance he would be spotted by the driver.

The handle stopped jerking. Silence.

Somewhere deep in the house a cupboard door squeaked open. Michael knew which one: the cubby hole under the kitchen sink. Melissa had nagged him to oil the hinges but he never had. Probably, she saw this as a indication of his worthlessness.

He can’t even be bothered to get some WD40 . . .

A muffled clattering followed. Cupid was looking for something.

Michael realised exactly what it at the exact moment the hand axe chopped into the door. He had bought the axe years ago, before he met Melissa. He had lived in a cottage with a logfire and he needed it to -

A thin bulge swelled from the door. Splinters scattered on the floor.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Shit! thought Michael.

Chop. Crunch. Thunk.

The door paint split. A crack appeared.

In his mind’s eye Michael saw the crack widening and Cupid’s face leering through. Here’s Putti!

Letting go of the handle Michael ran to the front door, yanked it open and stumbled outside. Cupid continued chopping, not realising his prey had gone.

Michael shut the front door and locked it.

He stood in the driveway, panting. Snowflakes fell like feathers. Groaning, Michael stumbled onto the garden, dropped on all fours and vomited ferociously, braying like a donkey.

When he raised his head, wiping tears from his eyes, he saw Cupid on the living room window sill, a dumpy silhouette gripping an axe.

Slowly, the axe drew back, preparing to shatter the glass.

Michael grimaced, waiting for the blow to fall.

Cupid paused, stamped his foot in frustration then cast the axe aside.

Michael understood. Cupid did not dare break the window because he did not want be seen and, on a quiet street, late at night, nothing got neighbours peeking out of their homes as much as smashing glass. A beer bottle, a taillight - it barely mattered what had smashed, as long as something had smashed, and it was made of glass.

Checkmate, thought Michael. Then, No. Not quite.

Cupid might find a silent way of getting outside. Through the chimney, for instance. It would be tight but the cherub was small - and squashy - enough to squeeze up through the flue. There were other possibilities too. Maybe it could pick the lock on the front door with an elongated fingernail. Or prise up the floorboards and burrow like some hairless mole. If Cupid was thousands of years old, and Michael suspected he was, he would have learned a few crafty tricks.

Michael grabbed a flowerpot, holding it up so Cupid could see. He pulled back his arm as if preparing a throw.

The threat was clear. Step outside and I will break glass.

Cupid was defeated. And he knew it. The cherub stumped along the sill, kicking ornaments flying with its ugly little feet and making obscene gestures, some understandable and others, belonging to days gone by, wholly mystifying.

The stand-off lasted fifteen minutes. The taxi pulled up outside the house. Michael wanted to make an obscene gesture of his own but Cupid was already gone.

Since his drinking habit began, Michael had grown reckless with money. Alcoholism was an expensive vocation in itself. Even if one favoured cheap booze, the amounts imbibed thrust a man swiftly into debt. But there was another reason for Michael’s financial carelessness: he had stopped believing money was something that existed outside himself. Spending cash on liquor had become so natural, so fundamental to his way of life, the cash itself seemed to be an aspect of himself - something that was as much part of him as his lungs, hands and feet.

He could have chosen a cheaper hotel than the Golden Horse but he was not in a thrifty frame of mind. Fifteen floors high, with pretty waitresses and an elderly, distinguished-looking concierge, it was the lodging place of the affluent.

Michael checked in at midnight. In a dishevelled condition, he went straight to his room, showered, shaved, sprayed on some of the hotel cologne. Then he rode the elevator to the bar.

“A Glenfiddich,” he said to the barman, knowing Calendar would not have a place amongst the optics glittering on the wall.

“Single or double, sir?”

“Double of course.”

“Ice?”

“Oh yes.” Michael had not taken ice in his whisky in a long time.

The bar was busy - with a wedding party. A sickening irony, thought Michael. But just the sort of thing he ought to have expected.

Michael spotted the bride and groom, sitting on a crimson couch, as happy as kittens in a box of wool.

Christ, thought Michael, staring at the groom. One day he might be hunted by Cupid. If everything goes awry and his heart is torn apart like wet tissue paper, he might find himself duelling with the malign sprog of amour.

The groom was clean-shaven, face shiny and hair glossy in the way a man’s face is only on his wedding day. His bride had the preternatural lustre attainable only on this special occasion. They would never look so star-bright again. Michael guessed it was something to do with optimism. You’ll never have it so good again, he thought, sourly. This is the zenith. From now on, it will be decay, despair, disillusionment . . .

Looking at the wedding guests, he realised that he was wrong. There were countless couples in the bar, some young, some middle-aged, others so ancient they might crumble into dust at any moment, and they seemed happy too. Grandfathers and grandmothers, uncles and aunties, brothers and sisters-in-law . . . Michael saw every combination and he saw love in abundance. Perhaps romance wasn’t a game he could play, but others certainly could. After all, not everyone shared the same talents. Not everyone could sing or paint or sculpt philosophers from bronze and marble, but there were those who certainly could.

Michael grew angry. Why was Cupid picking on him? What had he actually done wrong? Melissa ought to have been the homunculate bastard’s target. It was Melissa - and this was the truth he could barely contemplate, even in his darkest moments - who had abandoned him for some graceless, overweight, cheap-aftershave-reeking work colleague. She deserved to be punished, not him, Michael, who had committed no crime . . .

But it wasn’t about punishment, was it? It was about a certain kind of natural order. Why would Cupid want Melissa’s heart, when it was a heart healthy with love? Because . . . because . . . and now Michael understood . . . Cupid was a rotting, mouldering thing and the hearts it wanted were rotting and mouldering too . . . It preyed on those who hated love. Who believed, however fleetingly, that love was not a meadow trembling with fritillaries and brimming with birdsong, but something vile, a glob of snot and gristle slubbered in faeces . . .

Maybe, thought Michael, if I learn to love again, Cupid will leave me alone...

“Are you all right, sir?” Speaking softly, the waiter gazed warily at Michael.

“I, uh - yes, fine. Just thinking,” said Michael dreamily.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink. Really, sir, I do.”

Michael looked at the Glenfiddich. “I’ve only had a couple of sips.”

“You were drunk when you arrived.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“You were slurring. And you do have an odour of liquor.”

“Well, this is a bar.”

“Even so, sir.”

“These wedding guests . . .”

“What about them, sir?”

Michael dug a ten pound note out of his pocket and proffered it to the waiter. “Which ones are the bridesmaids? I want a bridesmaid, you see. A pretty one. You must know the sort. Youthful, sweet-tempered . . . Look,” he delved out another tenner, “get me a bridesmaid. One that I can -”

“You want me to procure you a wedding guest?”

“Not procure, merely -”

“Please leave the bar, sir.”

“But -”

“You really will have to go.”

Michael’s temper snapped. “Well fuck it then. Fuck it in deep and to the sides and all around the garden.” He shattered the glass on the bartop.

Turning, he strode to the elevator and rode it to his room. Immediately he ordered a bottle of Glenfiddich from room service, praying the waiter had not tipped them off about the volatile drunkard who had misbehaved in the bar. It appeared he had not and the bottle promptly arrived.

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

He was drunk but he was immeasurably stressed too, a calamitous combination. He thought about his procrastinations in the bar.

Maybe, if I learn to love again, Cupid will leave me alone . . .

Cocking his head back, Michael laughed bitterly.

“Truly,” he scowled, opening the whisky, “I am the King of Bullshit!”

Sitting back, propped against the pillows, he drank and drank.

What was he going to do about Cupid? The sprite was unstoppable, eternal and clearly supernatural.

He blinked.

Supernatural. He needed a priest to perform some sort of exorcism. A proper, old-fashioned Catholic clergyman, of course, who slayed demons. Who would relish the challenge. Who would above all know what to do.

I can’t be the first man to have this problem, he thought. There is probably a secret Vatican department which deals with exactly this sort of thing -

Just then Cupid erupted from the toilet.

The bathroom door was open and from the bed Michael thought the lavatory had suffered a catastrophic plumbing problem, but the scraggle-topped, rot-fleshed cherub surged out of the bowl like some enormous discoloured turd.

Outwitted at the house, Cupid was too furious for theatrics. He swept across the hotel room to the bed, wings spraying waterdrops. Yelping, Michael swung the whisky bottle, and the vessel cracked against the cherub’s skull. Cupid crashed into the wardrobe and slid to the floor, leaving a slimy trail on the mirror. A heartbeat later the cherub was up again but Michael was already lunging for the door. Cupid intercepted him, clamping himself around Michael’s head, digging his claws into his scalp. Michael blundered sidelong into the bathroom then slipped on the wet tiles.

“You gross little fucker,” he yelled.

Cupid sank his claws deeper, the tips scraping Michael’s skull. Screaming, Michael whirled like a dancing Sufi, trying vainly to shake off the creature. Cupid was adopting a new tactic, he realised. He wanted Michael to pass out with pain so he could eat his heart whilst he lay unconscious. No doubt, it would prefer to consume the organ whilst he was wide-awake. But his previous attempts to do so had failed.

Michael spotted a hairdryer on the wall. Grabbing the pistol-shaped blower, he jabbed the button marked MAXIMUM then jammed the nozzle against Cupid’s eye. Cupid clung on a moment then, screeching, dropped to the floor, eyeball bubbling like a globule of hot soup.

It was now or never, decided Michael.

Dropping to his knees, he clamped his hands around Cupid’s throat. And squeezed. Oh how he squeezed. He squeezed like a vice. Like a car compacter. Like tectonic plates grinding together during an earthquake. The cherub’s eyes bulged like soap bubbles. His taloned hands and feet flailed crazily, lacerating Michael’s forearms. His lips peeled back from frantically gnashing teeth and for the first time Michael noticed the cherub’s tongue, grey, soft and slimy like the meat of an unshelled snail.

Oh yes, thought Michael, tightening his grip. Oh yes . . .

Something throbbed in Cupid’s chest. With muffled surprise, Michael realised the cherub possessed a heart of his own - one symbol of love trapped inside another.

“Let’s see how you like it,” snarled Michael because really, it was too good an opportunity to waste, too poetic an indulgence to ignore.

Michael dipped his head, opened his mouth and bit.

Cupid was dead.

Michael knew what Cupid had known: nothing could live without a heart. The organ lay in the sink, a stinking, unwholesome lump much like a tumour. Ripping it out with his teeth, Michael thought it had tasted like out-of-date confectionary.

Leaving the bathroom with Cupid lumped on the tiles, Michael went to the bedroom. Some whisky lingered in the bottle and he drank, deeply but joylessly.

What was he going to do now?

He needed to dispose of the corpse. Despite the wings, Cupid resembled a dead baby and if the slain cherub was discovered, Michael would be locked up for child-murder.

Michael perched on the bed, thinking.

Should he eat Cupid, as he presumed Cupid ate his own victims? If so, should he consume the cherub raw? Or buy a primus stove and cook the hideous sprite there, in the hotel room?

It was an unbearable idea. There had to be another way.

Should he bundle the corpse in a binbag and lob it into a garbage truck? Or take it home, buy a big dog and serve it as dinner? Or cut it into tiny, innocuous-looking pieces to be dropped in litter bins throughout the city?

Michael came up with a hundred ideas. None felt right.

Needing to urinate, he went into the bathroom.

The Cupid-corpse was decomposing. Its flesh was turning from greenish-yellow to a healthy pink hue. Michael was puzzled but logic asserted itself. When ordinary people decayed, they changed from pink - or white - to the colours of mould. It was reasonable, therefore, that a reverse principle should apply to Cupid, who had been mould-coloured to begin with. Oddly, Cupid looked normal now. Like he had on the picture frame.

In the sink, the heart was like a pink marshmallow.

Michael brooded until dawn broke.

Blackbirds sang on the ledge outside the window. Heavy goods vehicles began their journeys bearing God knows what to God knows where and the grunting rumble of their engines agitated Michael.

Surging to the window, he glowered into the street. “Shut up, will you? Can’t you see I am trying to think?” A juggernaut growled past, trailer juddering. “For fuck’s sake . . .”

Michael grew very still, brain ticking.

Moments later he bundled Cupid into a carrier bag. He went to the window, opened it and waited for the next HGV.

“Come on,” he breathed, trembling.

Up the road, headlamps pierced the sullen grey gloom of the new day. The truck was massive, a quaking behemoth of pistons, gaskets and tyres. As it quaked by under the window, Michael half-threw half-dropped the bag, which landed the trailer roof with a soundless crump.

Stunned by his audacity, overjoyed by his perfect aim, Michael watched the huge machine rolling along the high street to some unknown destination.

Abruptly, Michael realised he had forgotten about Cupid’s heart. He went into the bathroom and there it was, a pert pink lump, nestling in the plughole. He touched it with a fingertip, fearing it might still be beating. That’s how it went in horror films, at least: the malign adversary turned out to be not quite as dead as one expected. He needn’t have worried. The heart was as inert as a ball of clay.

Michael dropped it in the toilet then flushed.

“Now that,” he grinned, “is symbolism.”

He cleansed the bathroom of splashed blood. He returned the hairdryer to the wall unit. He swabbed spilled whisky from the carpet.

It was over, he decided.

He was in a good mood. His appetite had returned and in the restaurant he ordered a full English breakfast. The wedding guests occupied most of the other tables. They were eating without speaking; the restaurant was silent except for clinking cutlery and chomping mouths. The guests’ jollity had evaporated. Michael supposed they were hungover. That was natural. Miserable mornings followed merry nights; it was a law of nature. Yesterday, they had flung confetti; today, they hurled their guts.

As he ate, Michael noticed that the guests’ silence possessed a particular quality. It was stony. He noticed, too, the couples who seemed love-struck the night before were locked in a type of steely animosity - as if they hated one another. An elderly couple at a nearby table refused to look at each other. A middle-aged pair, further away, glowered like pugilists before a fight. A younger couple seemed tense and embittered. Michael spotted the newlyweds and they were no better; hard-faced, dead-eyed, they were clasped in mutual loathing.

Am I imagining things? Michael wondered. Could the milk of love have curdled overnight?

Of course it could. Wedding receptions were tribal affairs and beneath the celebrations, their lurked rivalry, envy, and petty dislike. The animosity roughly possessed the same structure: The bride’s family considered the groom unworthy; the groom’s family thought the bride a little cheap and nasty. If the families knew one another from long ago, there would be some historical opprobrium too. Combine these factors with alcohol, and the effect was barely different to that of a lunatic alchemist mixing dangerous fluids in a hot alembic. There were flare-ups, explosions; literally, there were hard words followed by raised fists.

Maybe it had not been so extreme last night. None of the guest bore traces of an actual punch-up; there were no split lips or blackened eyes. But clearly something unpleasant had happened.

His meal finished, Michael checked out of the hotel. The desk-girl appeared preoccupied and vaguely confused.

“Was there a bit of trouble last night?” asked Michael, signing the departure form.

“Sir?” The girl blinked, looking up.

“At the reception,” said Michael.

“I wasn’t working last night.”

Michael grinned, slyly. “But you’d have heard something if there was . . . Gossip and whatnot.”

The girl stared at her fingertips, abstractedly. Then, under her breath, she said, “Three years and now I don’t know what I saw in him.”

“Excuse me?” Michael frowned.

The girl twitched, then stirred, as if emerging from an hypnotic trance. “We hope you enjoyed your stay at the Golden Horse and come back soon.”

Baffled, Michael left the hotel and climbed into a black cab.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

Michael gave his address. Releasing the handbrake, the cabbie cranked into first gear then hesitated as his mobile phone rang. Michael recognised the ringtone as Huey Lewis’s The Power of Love. Once, Michael had adored that song, considering it sugary yet touching and inkeeping with Noel Coward’s adage about the power of cheap music. Now, it seemed utterly alien, somehow divorced from human experience. Michael supposed his tastes were maturing. He wondered what he would prefer to Mr Lewis’s boppy anthem. Kansas’s More than a Feeling? Or something more sophisticated - I’ve Got You Under My Skin, perhaps? No; they seemed equally irrelevant.

“Sorry mate,” said the cabbie, holding up his phone. “I’d better get this. It’s my brother. He’s had a bad morning.” Then, quietly, “We both have.” Jabbing a button, he clamped the phone to his ear.

Muttering, Michael eavesdropped on the cabbie’s half of the conversation.

“She said what? Nothing at all? Heartless cow. But when - yes, Jack, I know it was last night, when you got back from your shift. What I meant was how did she - you’re fucking joking? You were doing it and she just said . . . No, no. You must’ve misheard. What? She said it twice? She said I’m bored twice and then . . . She just got out of bed, gathered her stuff and went? Bloody bitch! Me? Well, I’m not faring much better. It certainly didn’t happen like that. But aye, it did happen . . . Ah, what? Look. Sorry, I don’t want to cut you off but I’ve got a fare. Yeah, later. The Rose and Crown? Sevenish? Good. Bring your wallet. I reckon we’re in for a long one.”

The cabbie switched off his phone. “What are the odds?” he mumbled.

Restless, Michael glanced out of the rear window. There was drama outside the hotel. The newlyweds were on the steps, arguing.

“Looks like there’s something in the air this morning,” remarked the cabbie, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

“What do you mean?” Michael asked.

“I brought those two here yesterday straight from the church. They were all over each other like a rash. Talk about lovey-dovey! But look at them now.”

“Their honeymoon night must have been a big disappointment,” said Michael, dryly. Then, weirdly, he wondered exactly what might constitute a successful honeymoon. The very idea seemed preposterous.

“I mustn’t gloat,” the cabbie went on. “My brother has had a similar bit of bad luck. He got home from the factory yesterday evening. Him and his missus were going at it – they’re like bloody rabbits, and not the sort you’d find in Watership Down - when suddenly, partway through, she goes cold and says it’s pointless and climbs out of bed and leaves. He hasn’t seen her since.”

“Grief,” said Michael. “Your brother must be cut up.”

“I’m not sure,” replied the cabbie. “He says he is. But then, he says what he thinks he ought to say, even if he doesn’t mean it. I mean, he’s angry because it’s pretty rude, offing at a moment like that. But I don’t know, I really don’t. We’ll be drowning our sorrows together, that‘s for sure.” He scratched his neck. “This morning,” a mystified note crept into his tobacco-roughened voice, “I woke up, looked at my wife lying next to me and thought, Is this it? Me and her? Till death us do part? It’s a crappy sentiment, I admit. But the whole thing seemed meaningless. Then she opened her eyes, looked at me, and . . . Well, we’ve been married fifteen years. I can read her like a roadmap. I looked into her eyes and I knew she was thinking the same thing. This really is a bloody waste of time.”

“This?” asked Michael. A peculiar tremor capered up his spine. As if he understood something without actually knowing what it was.

“You know,” said the cabbie, waving a hand vaguely, “the entire being-together lark. It was very odd. We’ll have to talk about it when my shift finishes. Anyway, let‘s get moving.”

For the second time the cabbie released the handbrake and slipped into first gear. Waiting for the traffic to clear, he went on, “It’s been a proper strange morning. Did you hear about that baby on the news? Some lorry was going along the motorway when a plastic bag blows off the trailer. There was something inside this bag, so it was a bit of a road hazard. When the traffic cops went to remove it they found a baby inside, chopped up something rotten. Poor bastard. They reckon it had been abandoned by its parents, you know. It was deformed, you see. Something weird about its back.”

The traffic opened and the cab pulled out into the road.

Michael looked out of the back window. The newlyweds were shouting now, squaring up like fighting birds at a cockfight. Without knowing why, Michael felt queasy. Maybe it was because he hated violence. Maybe it was something else.

The cab rattled on and, just before it rounded a corner and the hotel vanished from sight, Michael took a final look.

The last thing he saw was the bride springing at her spouse, fingernails stabbing toward his eyes like glossy red knives. With tangible satisfaction, the groom punched her squarely in the face. The bride dropped and the groom scratched his nose, as if nothing truly significant had happened.

YOU ALWAYS REMEMBER YOUR FIRST
by

LEE HARRIS

Some people might consider the fact that I screw dead people to be a touch on the macabre side. I understand that, I really do. It's human nature to fear what we don't understand, and looking at what I do without the benefit of context... Well, it'd be easy to get a bit freaked out by it, I guess.

I have to admit it was a bit odd for me at first, too. I mean, just logistically, there are a bunch of things to consider - lubrication not least among them. But once you've got it into your head that's what you're going to do, and you've done it a few times, it doesn't seem so taboo, any more - not such a big deal. It's not like anyone's getting hurt by it. And I still have standards - it's important that you understand that. I won't fuck just any body.

But here I am, prattling on, and I'd promised you context.

I left school without much in the way of an education. My own fault. I pride myself on being reasonably intelligent, but sometimes I can be a bit stupid. I wasted my last few years in school. I should have come away with a bunch of qualifications, and maybe even gone to university, but I discovered sex. Well, I discovered the opposite sex - which isn't quite the same thing - and desperately wanted them to discover me. It wouldn't have taken much discovering, honest! You only had to go to the Rose on a Saturday night, and there I'd be - drinking cider at the side of the bar, hoping one of the revellers would look over from the dance floor and give me a smile. Or even just catch my eye. As a courting technique, it left a lot to be desired. Sometimes I'd get lucky and manage to grab a snog from someone as she lurched to the bar, pissed as the proverbial, and that was alright, but it never went anywhere, and if I'm perfectly honest, I'm glad it didn't. They were tramps, most of them. I obviously had many, many lucky escapes. I'm one of the nice guys, you see. And all I ever wanted was a nice girl. Not like those tarts.

The girls at school were mostly better, but I could never pluck up the courage to ask one of them out. Fear of rejection, I suppose - the curse of the nice guy.

I did once send a Valentines card to one girl when I was in the fifth form. I'd fancied her for ages.

I knew where she lived, as I passed her house every day on the way to school. Not in a creepy way - it just happened to be on my way. So, one February I bought her this enormous card, and wrote some platitude inside - enough to register my interest, but not enough to make me sound pathetic, or anything - and I got up early to deliver it to her house. I had to leave it outside her front door, as it was way too big to fit through the letterbox. I weighted it down with a rock from her garden. A bit messy, but better that than have it blow away.

Halfway through mid-morning break she came over to me.

"Thanks for my card." she said.

I said something along the lines of "You're welcome", and she smiled at me, and waited, as if she expected me to say something else. Well, of course, I was too embarrassed at being found out to say anything coherent, or to come out with a witty aside, so she simply said "See you in class, then", and walked off. Typical of my luck. She started going out with Peter McAdams shortly after that, which was ok, cause he's a nice guy, too.

I never did find out how she knew it was from me, though, and she's married to a lawyer, these days.

And so it went on - I'd find someone I liked, but I never let them know how I felt. Apart from one girl - Simone. I became a little obsessed with her, if I'm really honest. I told myself it was love, but looking back on it I think I was just infatuated. She liked me, but - and here's the kicker - not in that way. Same old story. She hooked up with James, her high school sweetheart, got pregnant, got dumped, and still wouldn't think of me in that way. It's just so bloody frustrating when someone like him can get someone like her, and then walk away from it all, while I'd give anything to have that sort of relationship; that sort of person. She's still got the kid, though, so even she didn't come out of it ahead.

I've had girlfriends, of course. I can't say I've ever been in love with any of them, but I've said the words. Done the right things to back up the words, too. But there's always been something missing. There's always something wrong with them. Usually, it's just that they're not quite beautiful enough. That probably sounds a bit awful, but you'd understand if you knew me a bit better. I may not have much to give, but I always treat women well - I deserve someone perfect. Just as importantly, they deserve someone like me - someone who will love them and stick by them. Not like James.

Bastard.

Samantha was pretty - my last girlfriend. Quite pretty, anyway. She was a bit of a whiner, though. Always moaning about one thing or another. Pretty, though. Prettyish.

We went out for a curry just before we split up. Good place. Local. Hers was too hot for her, even though I warned her it would be, but she wouldn't send it back, wouldn't order a different one. She just picked at mine from across the table. In the end I just swapped dishes. It was pretty hot, to be fair, but I stuck with it. Why couldn't she? I swear... a conversation with her, sometimes, it's like having someone read out the comments from some blog online.

I couldn't stay with someone like that. She could obviously see I was going to dump her, so she suggested it, first.

Anyway.

I got a few A-levels, left school, got a job in a bank. This was back when people didn't do an intake of breath when you said you worked in banking. The bank was alright, but I hated having to go on the tills, having to deal with customers. I'm not good at small talk, and too many of them expect that. Same reason I hate going to get my hair cut.

The bank thing only lasted a year and a half, or so, and then I moved onto something else. Can't remember what it was - it wasn't that long ago, but I've had a fair few jobs since then.

I got myself a job in a bar. This was around the time I left school. I remember, cause I was working in the bank during the week and did the bar at the weekends. Just a town centre pub, you know.

Anyway, I got talking to Julie. Well, she got talking to me, to be fair. She was out with her friends, and they were all getting rat-arsed, and she was just drinking Diet Coke because she was on antibiotics. Turns out you can drink on antibiotics, you know. Most of them, anyway. Course, I didn't know that, then. Not that it would've made any difference - a barman tells you something like that, you're going to think he just wants you to get drunk.

So, it's kicking out time, and Julie comes up to me and asks if I have to stay behind to clear up. Well, I did, but I said no, so she asked if I'd walk her home cause her friends were all going on, but it's no fun when you're the only sober one. I cleared it with the boss, and grabbed my coat.

I don't know why she wanted to walk home - she lived miles away! And her house was near a bus stop. It would've only taken 15 minutes or so on the bus. Still, we had a good chat, and I actually got to quite like her. She flirted a bit, I think, and she'd shoulder-barge me when I said anything she considered outrageous.

We got back to hers, and she kissed me on my cheek and thanked me for walking her home. I turned to go, and she called me back, asked me if I'd like to come in for a coffee.

"No funny stuff," she said. "Just coffee."

Well, I don't drink coffee - never have - but she said come in, anyway, so I did, and then she said - just came right out and said it - "Just to make it clear, I'm not having sex with you, tonight."

Well, fifteen minutes later, she did. We did, I mean. She started it, but I was happy to see what happened - she was my first, you see. You always remember your first.

Anyway, it was pretty terrible. I was pretty terrible. I'd learned everything I knew about sex from discarded magazines in the woods, and pub talk, and it became abundantly clear that my education was severely lacking. Still, I got it over with, and she was very patient, even though it was obvious she wasn't enjoying herself as much as she'd hoped to. I got better over the years, of course, but I never saw Julie again after that night. Shame. She was nice.

And that, pretty much, is the story of my ongoing success with women.

Everything changed, though, about four years ago. I had a run of bad luck and found myself out of work. There were no decent jobs around, so I applied to work as an assistant at a local funeral home - helping tidy up, and answering the phone when the receptionist was on a break, stuff like that.

I'd been there for about six weeks when she came in. Rose.

She was perfect for me.  A little under five foot seven, petite, with gorgeous red hair. As I said - perfect. I couldn't help but smile at her, as I saw her laid out on the embalming table.

Something stirred, and I have to admit I felt a little odd. I didn't really understand the feelings coursing through me, and I remember feeling a little dirty. But good dirty, you know?

It wasn't my turn to lock up that night, but the reposing room needing prepping for a family visit the next day, and I volunteered to stay behind and finish it off. No-one argued.

After everyone had left for the day I waited for twenty minutes before heading downstairs, where the bodies were kept. Where she was.

I think that on some level I knew what I was going to do, before I even acknowledged it to myself. I guess that's part of what made it exciting. I can still remember every detail - as I said, you always remember your first.

I carried her to the preparation table - there was a lightbulb hanging bare from the middle of the ceiling above the embalming table - its harsh glare was unflattering on her pale skin, and I wanted her to look her best, and the prep table was lit more softly. She would have thanked me, I'm sure.

I kissed her, first. Her lips were cold, and a little dry. I could've put lipstick on her, I suppose - we have a make-up kit so people are seen at their best during viewings - but I chose not to. I'm not sure if it's because I was worried on some level that the make-up would be discovered, or whether it's because she was a natural beauty, and didn't need a mask. A bit of both, I suspect.

The kissing lasted a while. She didn't respond, of course, but it's actually quite an erotic sensation to keep kissing the lips of someone who's just lying there, over and over again. Try it, next time you get the chance.

Nature took its course, and the kissing led to the usual sensations down below, and I think I surprised myself by how soon I was ready to take things to the next level. I pulled her sheet down, slowly, and made sure to honour every part of her. Thank goodness she'd died of a disease, and not been hit by a train, or whatever - cuts and bruises would've really spoiled the mood.

There was some white petroleum jelly in the cupboard under the sink, and that's what I used for my first time. I probably slathered on a little too much, but I didn't want it to go wrong.

I'm not going to describe every detail of that night. That would be wrong. Disrespectful. Suffice to say, it was better than I could have possibly dreamed. The clean-up afterwards was a little awkward, took quite a bit of time, but it was worth it.  These days I use KY and condoms, of course, which solves that particular problem.

Afterwards, I put her away, and prepped the reposing room before leaving for the night.

I had to smile the next day, when her husband and sister came in to see her, and he commented that she looked at peace - happy, almost. That was when I realised I'd done the right thing.

There have been plenty of others since Rose. On some level, I think none have quite measured up to her, but I'm aware that might be because the first is always special, and I also didn't have a condom reducing the sensations.

And five weeks ago, Samantha came to our little home. Perfect little Samantha. Five-four, short cropped hair, elfin features. She's our new receptionist, and everyone loves Sammie. Quite right, too.

Two weeks ago I asked her out for a drink. She said no, but not in a nasty way. She let me down gently. See? She's perfect for me. And she doesn't have a boyfriend - I've checked - she's probably just a little shy.

That's why I've been parking outside her house the past few nights. Tonight's the night, I think. I'm ashamed to admit that I considered taking her by force, but the thought repulsed me. Got me a little excited, too, if I'm going to be truthful, but the repulsion was greater. I'm no rapist! That's a disgusting thought. No. I'll only be with someone who wants to be with me, or someone whose time has come, someone dead. It's a damn shame Samantha doesn't want to be with me - it'll have to be the latter.

How to do it - how to snuff out that beautiful, fragile light - had been a concern. I don't want to spoil her, the way she looks. Chloroform is the way to go, followed by a quick injection of air – you need a big syringe, but she’ll die of an embolism really quickly. And she won't suffer, won't suffer at all.

This is quite exciting, isn't it? It's always good to try new things. I hope it'll all go ok - after all, you always remember your first.

TORTURER’S MOON
by

COLIN HARVEY

On the first Sunday afternoon in March, Tom and Linda Goodman packed a picnic basket in the boot of their car, and took the children to the Torturing.

They joined the long line of traffic snaking slowly up Lords Hill. Above them, a contrail bisected the broad blue heavens of the winter sky. Shane piped up, “Is that the Bristol to Newark flight?” He had a typical nine-year-old’s obsession with the supersonic service.

“Doh! How far off course would they have to be?” Abi said with all the lip-curling venom a teenager could deliver, flicking back her long blonde hair. “It’s a London flight, divvy!”

Tom screened them out, watching an ominous indigo cloudbank to the west.

“Minger!” Shane yelled, face a gargoyle reflection of Tom’s.

“Scuzz-bucket!”

Only when a shadow fell across the window did the kids stop bickering. The passing Inquisitor asked, “Everything all right?” His mellifluous tones sounded all the more sinister for being so quiet.

“Fine, thanks, Father,” Tom said, looking up into fierce grey eyes, hawk-nose and a white goatee. “The children are a little excited.”

“So I hear,” the Inquisitor said with a slight smile. He marched on, his black and crimson robe flapping in the breeze like a crow with a bloodstained beak.

When the Inquisitor was out of earshot Tom said, “It’s good of The Knights Inquisitor to be so concerned.” He ignored the jolt of Linda’s elbow in his ribs. “After all these years, even though they might be stretched to the limit by society's wicked ways, they can still hold a Mass Confessional and Penitence once a month in each county.” He could almost feel Linda’s stare scorch his face.

Linda murmured, fingers twisting the hem of her jacket, “The kids should see that there are consequences.” Her voice was dangerously level. “You know as well as I do how much we need a strong moral lead in society.” She leaned closer to him, but said loudly enough for the children to hear, “can you imagine how things might be if we didn’t have them to keep the tides of dissolution at bay? Immorality, perversions of all sorts-”

“Oh, spare us, please.”

“-the old living in fear, like they did before the war against the Godless. The children should see all of that.”

“Even if it means delaying taking the caravan down to Wales for half-term?” he muttered back.

“Especially if it means delaying the holiday!” Flaring nostrils and dilated eyes hinted at inner fury. “It rams home that duty is important.”

“Oh, yes, your duty-”

“Why's it called a Torturer's Moon, Dad?” Shane piped up.

Tom and Linda each took an audible breath to calm down.

“It's this time of the month when you can see the moon by day.” Tom tooted his horn, and the car in front moved forward. “Judge Jeffreys used it to strike fear into the hearts of wrongdoers at the Bloody Assizes. He said that God had decreed that the moon would be seen by day as a sign of judgement when the last days were coming.”

He concentrated on not rear-ending the Triumph sports car ahead as they meandered up to the Field of Judgement, which tomorrow would return to grazing cattle.

A steward waved them into position, and as they pulled the hamper from the boot, the kids ooh-ed and aah-ed at the hundreds of pieces of kit on display. Over each marquee the twin banners of the Union flag and the cross of Royal Order of the Knights Inquisitor of St. George snapped in the breeze.

Tom looked around, half-hoping half-dreading that he would see someone he knew. No-one, he thought. Sighing with mingled relief and disappointment, he held up his knife and one of his knee-pads, the rusty spikes of the pad dull in the sunlight. “With a little imagination, I could have passed as a torturer when we first met,” he said to Linda with a wicked grin, though the spikes were designed for nothing more sinister than gaining purchase on a thatched roof. He shrugged at Abi’s look of disdain. “Maybe not.” Dropping the knife and pad, he slammed the boot shut.

Tom followed his wife and daughter’s gazes, and smiled at the ceremonial torturer at the main gate. The man was a black-clad wall of flesh and leather standing nearly seven feet tall, arms folded across his chest, muscles highlighted by a sheen that Tom suspected came from oil. A broadsword hung from his waist almost down to the ground.

“He looks like the guy on the cover of The Sword of the Torturer,” Shane whispered. He’d read it perhaps a dozen times.

“They never had anyone like that on the gate when we were your age,” Linda said. Her tone was disapproving, but her eyes shone.

“Did you have anything that wasn’t prehistoric when you were our age?” Abi muttered. “No doubt the Witchfinder-General, ankle-length skirts and iron maidens?”

“We met at a show like this,” Linda smiled, as if she hadn’t heard her daughter’s sarcasm, and Abi rolled her eyes. “They’ve made it more like a funfair now.”

She’s right, Tom thought. The clenched fist to scare the weak, hot-dog stands and test-your-saintliness-quotient for the children’s hearts and minds. No one ever said the Order were stupid.

To one side of the show was an Army recruiting tent. Two squaddies chatted up a couple of lanky young girls in Goth outfits, one of whom leaned up against a tent-pole. She turned and surveyed Tom with kohl-lined eyes then losing interest, looked away. On the other side a funfair blared Kylie, and staring back, Tom hummed, “I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky…”

“She’ll be lucky not to be accused of Satanism,” Linda said, and glared at Tom. "Wipe the dribble off your chin."

"Meow," he replied.

The family wandered through the crowds. The wind was bitter, and huge columnar heaters filled the spaces between tents, the hot air above their gaping muzzles dancing like a mirage in the desert.

Open-sided caravans sold toffee apples, cups of tea, t-shirts, even Babushka dolls. Linda clucked. "I don't like these. What are they doing selling Godless artefacts?"

"They're pre-Revolutionary, these dolls," Tom said. "They weren't Godless then."

"They have Inquisition ones, Mum," Abi said. "How twee is that?"

Tom decided not to say that he liked them; liked the idea of layers within layers. Very symbolic, he thought.

At the History of the Order stands, old-style iron racks echoed to the screams of volunteers. Nearby, cats-tails hung in a neat line next to an iron maiden. They passed a modern stainless-steel rack with a fat old man on it, another --younger-- man standing at one end.

The second man paced up and down, running his hands through his hair. He opened then closed his mouth, and held his hands out, imploring the torturer. At the inquisitor's blank-eyed look the other man snatched them back, and turned away shaking his head in obvious distress.

Naked, the folds of the older man’s flesh hung down. He screamed for mercy, and Linda tutted. The sweet, savage sound of his bones and joints cracking echoed across the stillness, followed by the man’s choked-off scream.

Moments later, the younger man shouted for help.

“Oh!” Linda wrinkled her nose. “Someone's lost control of themselves. How,” she searched for a word that wasn't too judgemental, “…unfortunate.”

“Jilly Robert’s dad says,” Abi said, “That those who can't take the pain shouldn't seek to gain.”

“Good for Jilly Robert's dad,” Tom said.

A medic came running.

The Inquisitor called to him, “The suspect dislocated his shoulder. I think it brought on a heart attack!” The Inquisitor was young, maybe performing his first unsupervised interrogation, or he'd have kept it quiet. Instead a crowd gathered as word spread faster than an electric current.

The medic fumbled the shackles loose, then pounded on the old man's chest. “Take over!” He told the Inquisitor, and pulling a hypodermic and small bottle from his bag, filled the hypo. He injected the patient, waited thirty seconds and checked the man's pulse.

He looked up at the young torturer, and shook his head.

The torturer slumped, face twisted in anguish.

The second man had stood by, chewing on a knuckle. When the medic shook his head, he turned to the crowd, arms outstretched. “Oh, torture is so good for the soul, isn’t it?” His voice was ragged, gravelly with emotion. “Tell that to him!”

The crowd started to edge away. “No one wants to risk being linked to sedition,” Tom muttered, leading Abi away. His guts roiled again in sympathy and he bit off a whimper, fighting a rising tide of bile.

The young man wailed, “What’s the matter with you all?” He shook off the young torturer’s hand, and dodged a constable who had wandered over. “Are you all sheep?”

The crowd answered silently by scattering in all directions.

The Inquisitor with the goatee who had spoken to them at the gate passed on his way to the disturbance. He leaned close to Tom as he passed and murmured, “We don't torture people for hypocrisy. I think we should. It's the worst crime of all…” leaving Tom to stare at him in alarm.

The goatee'd Inquisitor had the young man led away, still struggling and shouting until he was out of sight, when his shouts ceased abruptly.

Tom rounded on Linda. “Happy now, you’ve exposed the kids to this?” He gestured at the old man's body.

Linda said, “The children should see the truth.”

Tom thought, The truth? You wouldn’t know the truth if it leapt up and bit you on the arse!
You live your cozy life, smug in your certainty, and never think about the cost of it all.

Tom pointed at Shane who was shaking, and a tearful Abi. “People dying is too much for them to see.” He took a deep breath, and then noticed a familiar shock of hair. His heart momentarily stopped, then the woman turned, and Tom saw that it wasn’t who he thought it was. He breathed again.

They drifted; passing an old man slumped in the stocks. A despairing cry arose from the mutilation tent and the flap opened to show the Inquisitor holding up a thief’s amputated hand. They bought hot-roast rolls and munched outside a news-tent, watching the state funeral of a Klansman at the Breckinridge Memorial in Dallas; on the next screen something large, black and inhuman loped through the radioactive ruins of Reykjavik. A third screen showed the streets of The Plague Lands; volunteers in quarantine suits bearing the logo of the Fist of God coalition piled up bodies. Even bloodthirsty Abi shivered, and when Tom saw Shane staring wide-eyed in horror, he ushered them on.

A large crowd gathered around it almost hid the ducking stool, except when the suspect arched above their heads before falling back. “Mum,” Shane tugged at Linda's sleeve. “Can we watch?”

Linda gave Tom an odd look, half-pity, half-challenge. Tom shrugged. “Why not --he seems to have got over the old man’s death.”

"Kids are resilient," Linda said.

Linda took Shane's hand, and Tom took Abi's, until she snatched it away. What thirteen-year-old wants to hold her Dad's hand, Tom thought with sadness. He was losing her already.

The four of them nudged, wriggled and oozed through the crowds. The smell of frying onions from a hot-dog stand blended with the singed flesh of cauterized stumps.

The so-called stool was a strapped chair -- under the water when the family nudged their way through to the front. Tom took Abi's hand again. It was sweaty, but he kept a tight grip. “See,” Tom said. “This is the follow-up to an Anti-Social Behavior Order: When a criminal breaks an ASBO, it’s the stool for them.”

A mop of brunette hair floated on the surface, the naked woman clamped by her wrists and ankles to the stool. A thin stream of bubbles drifting to the surface was the only sign that she still lived.

When the bubbles stopped, Tom wondered if the Knights Inquisitor were going to suffer the unprecedented embarrassment of two deaths in one afternoon.

The attendants scrambled and brought her up. The woman vomited a lungful of sanctified water and took a whoop of air. Her head lolled as the attendants swung the chair around and the crowd hooted in derision. A loudspeaker intoned, “…forgive those who trespass against us.” She began to convulse, and the first-aiders pulled her out of the seat.

Even with her face hidden by the lank bundle of sodden hair, the woman’s body sent shivers of recognition down Tom’s spine. Then he heard the words “…Lord, forgive your daughter, Alice Lisle, for the sin of fornication…” and felt sick.

He looked down at the children, who watched it all, rapt, unaware. Tom caught Linda watching him, her gaze unwavering.

The first-aiders released Alice Lisle, and draped a robe around her. She leaned unsteadily against the central pylon of the ducking stool. Her hair hung down over her face in a matted shroud, but one eye peered Medusa-like through a small gap, and burned into him. He wanted to look away, but might as well have been turned to stone. She mouthed something which he couldn’t make out.

“Just as well she’s single,” Linda said. “They’ll shave her head, and tar and feather her. If she were married, kids, they’d brand her.” Abruptly, she looked away, and Tom saw her wipe angrily at her face.

Without warning, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and a gruff voice said, “Thomas James Goodman? Would you accompany me to an interrogation area, please?” Tom looked around into a lantern-jawed, blue-stubbled face from whose fleshy nose black hairs peeked.

Tom licked his lips and tried to protest, but his tongue suddenly wouldn’t work properly. Tears streaked Linda’s make-up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The constable continued, “You do not have to say anything until you meet the Inquisitor, but if you do, it may be used in evidence.”

The man was a walking mountain of muscle; it would be futile to argue, Tom decided.

Linda chewed her lower lip, wiping the tears from her face. “Officer, would you give us a moment?” The behemoth nodded and the grip on Tom’s shoulder eased infinitesimally. She murmured, “I’m sorry, darling. I had to do it. One of the children at school saw you with her, and started teasing Abi. You understand?”

“I know,” Tom said, wondering how pure her motives really were. But recrimination would only make his punishment worse so. “You’d only have rung the help-line after a lot of soul-searching.” “I’m sorry, too,” he added so he kept his voice flat as well. “I tried so hard to resist temptation…” Now that his worst fears had come true, it was almost a relief. Almost, but not quite: He knew what he was due.

“I hope they break him before nightfall,” someone said behind them. “We ain't seen any adulterers branded today...”

Abi shouted at him, “Shut up, you pig! This isn't a bloody circus!”

Tom felt so proud of her then, before he remembered to be frightened. Shane slipped a hand into his elder sister’s, as Tom thought, don’t speak up. You automatically become an accomplice. Even saying that might implicate her, so he kept his mouth shut.

People fell quiet in a ripple of silence spreading outwards; in its centre, the Senior Inquisitor stood in a circle of space cleared by his mere presence. This close, Tom could see the three moons signifying that he was a full Inquisitor-colonel on his shoulder epaulets. He ran a finger down his white goatee to straighten it.

“I didn't see her for a week,” Tom said to him. “Until last Friday: She said she'd been ill. She never told me that she’d been served with an ASBO.”

“She was trying to protect you,” the Colonel said, “and comply with the ASBO. But in the end, she couldn't stay away. People like her –charged by lust—never can.”

Tom nodded, realizing that in agreeing to meet Alice on Friday, he'd condemned her to the ducking stool. He wondered what –if anything- she had told them under interrogation.

The colonel said, clapping his hand on Shane’s shoulder, “Your son tells me that you’re a master thatcher?”

Nonplussed, Tom nodded. “I can’t afford to be maimed. I know that might sound cowardly, but you need hands and feet to be whole, up there on a roof, when the wind is blowing --”

“I know, I know,” the colonel, said, soothing. “You have to think of providing for your family. But we’ve subtler methods now."

He had his men pause at one of the exhibitions, near one of the new devices, a chair with a hooded cowl that rose above it in a cobra’s head, ready to strike.

“Thought chair,” Tom muttered and at the Inquisitor’s surprised look, said with a sheepish grin, “It was in Examination Monthly recently. In the dentists’ surgery,” he added, answering the second unasked question. “Not quite what it says - but it can sense emotions, and roughly what the suspect is thinking. He can’t lie while he’s under the cowl.”

The suspect, Tom thought. That was him, however much he shied away from that fact.

“Or if you show him a naked woman, it’ll know if he lusts after her,” Linda said.

“Mum!” Both children cried.

Tom started.

He hadn’t realized that the children had followed him. Go away! He thought. He knew what the Inquisitor's game was; soften him up with a tour of the exhibits. He could handle it, but he wasn't sure he could if the kids were there.

The inquisitor said, “It can leave you unscarred - if we want.”

“Why?” Abi said. “Surely the whole point is to scour the offender clean?” She doesn’t realize that this isn’t hypothetical, Tom thought, heart hammering.

The inquisitor pointed him at another exhibit, where a scrawny man writhed in agony. The man’s right hand was clamped in a vice while a junior inquisitor methodically inserted red hot needles below his fingernails, watched by a supervisor and a small crowd. Most of them drifted on, quickly bored.

“Bit old, innit?” Shane wrinkled his nose. “Hot needles went out years ago.”

“That’s just the start of it,” the supervisor said. He was a middle-ranking official whose black robes were speckled with dandruff, more experienced than the young interrogator whose victim had died, but not as polished as Tom’s captor. His eyes glinted with fanaticism. “Look at this.”

His underling yanked the captive’s hand into to an opaque glass box, with wires protruding from one side. The man pressed several buttons. The box hummed and lit up, and for several minutes they watched. Bored, the children wandered away, and his junior switched the machine off and pulled the suspect’s fingers clear, holding up perfect, unscarred fingertips. “We can heal them as if they’d never been tortured,” dandruff-man said proudly. “It’s a step nearer to a Lazarus casket.”

“A what?” Tom asked.

“Something to bring the sinner back to life, so that they can be scoured again,” the supervisor said. “We can resurrect the worst recalcitrants over and over again. At the moment we lose a little quality each time -- the wounds hardly heal at all after ten or twelve operations, but it’s only a matter of time before we graduate from healing flesh to restoring life. Then there’ll be no sneaking away from God’s retribution by dying.” He wiped his mouth. “Some of Satan's agents have lived ordinary, mundane lives for years. Some were even born Godly, before backsliding into the arms of the forces of darkness. They’re clever; they could pass for decent folk to any ordinary test. Not now.”

A trickle of sweat ran down Tom’s spine. God help any resistance then, he thought. Between the thought chair and the Lazarus casket, any insurrection will be doomed before it can start. In his mind, he heard the ticking of a giant clock.

The senior inquisitor said, “So many times we almost disbanded our order during the years of False Harmony. There are fools who say we could have peace and prosperity without our order’s protection. But when times get hard, the secularists show themselves for what they really are: Satan's Spawn.” He smiled thinly at Linda as the children returned. “You understand the need for order, Tom; the value of every piece of straw in its place; every piece of reed laying the same way.” He strode away, and Tom wondered if he was going to prepare the equipment himself.

Tom looked down. He relaxed, emptied his mind of all anger, and leaning forward, kissed Linda on the lips.

“Forgive me,” she said. “It's for the children's sake.”

“I know,” Tom said. Poor Linda, he thought. Poor Alice: “I know what I’m doing, fornicating with a married man,” she’d said, proud of her defiance. No, you didn’t, he thought.

Tom continued, “They should be able to grow up innocent. It's I who should beg forgiveness -- of all of you.” If only you knew just how much I need your forgiveness, he thought. There are worse sins than adultery, he wanted to tell her. Better your children’s father is branded merely an adulterer than you bear a darker stain, of sedition.

His knees trembled and his guts knotted with the knowledge of what was to come. He would confess the adultery, but he'd still have to endure stretching and flogging to convince them that he was innocent of anything more heinous, before they would brand him an adulterer and pronounce him shriven.

Better to let them flush out a small crime than root around in his head for deeper secrets. The Inquisition used only basic techniques for petty sins -- but if they caught a whiff of sedition, the Thought Chair would be wheeled out.

The others would know when he didn’t attend the Friday meeting that something was wrong; as long as he could keep silent and not give his interrogators any leads. Unless Alice had already betrayed him. Were the Inquisition playing with him? He caught sight of one of his accomplices, and stared a warning at the man as best he could.

Then the constables dragged him away from Linda and the kids, Abi biting her lip and trying to be brave, holding Shane’s hand. Tom waved, and pointed up at the shining silver disc of the moon. The clouds had scurried in from the west, nearly occluding it, and the wind spat large raindrops horizontally across the fairground. Several people raised umbrellas.

He took one last look at the moon, before the clouds gnawed away its perfection. Even at night it obscured the orbiting Valhallas that twinkled like tiny beacons of freedom, but he was glad of that in a way. Sometimes, he thought, you have to hide your light to do what’s right.

Despite his fear, the sight of the moon uplifted him, filling him with love and steely determination. He too would do the right thing, and when he had paid his punishment, and returned home to the loving arms of his family, he would do his utmost to ensure that the Knights Inquisitor rooted out any minor wrongdoers, whatever the cost. Until the real Day of Judgement, when it would no longer be necessary.

Better to sacrifice a few pawns, so that everyone could be free. Alice understood that.

Linda and the children would understand, in time.

CAUGHT IN THE SHADOW
by

VINCENT HOLLAND-KEEN

Wayne Todd, aged nine and three quarters, lay on his back staring at the sky. The heavens above were an endless pristine blue, save for a solitary white cloud. This cloud might have been interesting if it had bothered to form itself into suggestive shapes – maybe a face, maybe an animal, ideally a comedy penis – but it did not. Wayne’s imagination could just about transform it into ball of cotton wool, or, at a stretch, a sheep with its legs chopped off, but even that was an effort. It’s just a boring cloud, he told himself. He would continue to believe that for another six minutes.

Around him, the picnic crisis had already lasted twelve minutes and showed no signs of abating. Wayne’s father accused his mother of forgetting to bring napkins, while his mother charged his father with failing to remind her to bring napkins. Either way it didn’t matter; they argued and Wayne tuned them out.

He couldn’t tune out Levi. Wayne’s brother was aged zero and three quarters – a lifetime spent practising the scream currently knotting Wayne’s insides.

“Wayne, get Levi’s nappies from the car,” said his mother.

He ignored her.

“Wayne, your mother told you to get Levi’s nappies from the car,” said his father. “Of course, this assumes your mother remembered to bring them.”

She sighed. “Unfortunately we have to rely on the vagaries of my memory when the man of the family refuses to take responsibility for remembering anything.”

Wayne made a big deal of getting to his feet. He huffed loudly and stomped over to the car. He fetched the bag of soon-to-be-soiled underwear from the back seat and returned to the picnic. Levi’s face was bright red and screwed up – angry lines replacing eyes, with a gaping, toothless hole instead of a mouth. Wayne wanted to take one of the nappies and shove it in there, muffling the cries until a deathly peace stole over the baby’s face. But he knew he couldn’t do it. His parents would probably shout at him for a whole year if he did, because they didn’t understand how rubbish life had become since Levi turned up.

Wayne petulantly threw the bag of nappies at his mother’s feet. She was too busy attending to his squealing brother to notice, while his father was too busy trying to work out which cellophane-wrapped pack of sandwiches didn’t contain those evil cucumber slices that caused him to break out in hives.

Wayne wandered off.

During the drive to the remote picnic site, his father claimed this was God’s own country. Wayne could see no sign of God here, just verdant meadows and purple heather carpeting gently rolling hills. Maybe God had been in attendance, once upon a time, a long time ago, but then got bored; forsaking this land to go home and play video games. Wayne wanted to do the same. Trudging across picturesque peak and dale was no match for shooting monstrous invaders and fleeing explosions in a brown and gray industrial dystopia. The only game played here was by competing breezes that sent rippling waves chasing back and forth across the oceans of grass.

“We’ll be eating in a minute,” called his father.

“Yes, don’t go too far,” added his mother.

Wayne started walking again. He crested a rise and continued down a slope until his family was lost from view. Levi’s cries grew fainter.

A dry stone wall lay at the bottom of a valley. Wayne headed toward it, intent on dismantling the masonry until he saw a flash of light just beyond. He held up a hand against the glare and squinted. It was a puddle reflecting the sun, except… it was moving.

He cantered down the hillside and scaled the dry stone wall to stand on top. Some fifty feet distant, a small pond slid slowly across an unkempt field. It left no sign of damp in its wake. The bumps and mounds of the terrain disappeared as it passed over them, only to reappear once it had moved on.

Wayne looked around for an explanation. There was no sign of life; the wind whispering in ears drowning out the distant Levi and any birds that may have been singing. There was no sign of mirrors or machines or anything made by the hand of man in the last hundred years. His only company was the solitary white cloud drifting overhead.

Wayne stared up at it, then down at the itinerant pond. They looked to be moving at the same pace. It was as if the water lay in the shadow of the cloud and as the cloud drifted across the sky…

He jumped down from the wall and walked cautiously after the peculiar shadow. It approached a hillside. Wayne half-expected to see the water flow upwards, but instead steel-grey rocks rose up the slope, while the water remained on the flat, becoming grass once more when the shadow moved on.

Wayne followed.

A gusting breeze swept down the hillside. When it reached the shadow, it became a swarm of huge black insects that buzzed straight at Wayne.

He squealed and threw up an arm. A gust of warm air washed over him.

He lowered his arm. No sign of the insects remained.

The shadow reached a small copse of trees. Branches and leaves became the gnarled limbs and hairy tufts of alien animals grazing on dark red shrubs.

Wayne froze. The creatures didn’t appear to notice him. They were too busy grunting and snuffling and jostling amongst each other to get their snouts to the best feeding.

And then they were trees again.

Wayne ran up to the copse and pushed his way through the tangled wood. The bestial noises ahead stopped shortly before he broke out onto another empty field.

Breathing hard, he surveyed the grassland. There were no anomalous rocks ahead, no displaced water and no unearthly animals.

Wayne frowned and looked up.

The cloud hung overhead, motionless.

He looked around and saw the door for the first time. It stood off to his left, at the edge of the trees. Dark wooden planks were held together by heavy iron brackets. A thick black ring served as a handle and hung over a star-shaped keyhole. The ground in front of the door was a circle of black dirt that extended for about eight feet before giving way to the grass of God’s own country. Surrounding the door was a frame of black marble formed out of thorny bramble. The veins that ran through this stone pulsed and flowed and Wayne fancied they might even be ghostly worms tunnelling through the inside. He moved closer, keen to investigate further, then abruptly choked back his curiosity. The line of black dirt was barely an inch from his leading foot.

He scurried back into the shade of the trees and returned with a large stone. He hurled it at the door.

When it passed into the shadow, the stone exploded into a cloud of parasol-like seeds that floated aimlessly for a few moments before a gust of wind blew them back again. A dozen tiny pebbles dropped out of the air and onto the grass.

Wayne picked up one of the stones and rolled it between a finger and thumb. He tossed it back at the door and again it became a floating seed.

More experiments were needed. Twigs, berries and fallen leaves were gathered up. A worm trying to escape into the ground almost joined the collection when a sound caused Wayne to turn toward the door.

A key was turning in the lock.

Wayne scrambled away, finding cover in the undergrowth. He peered out past the leaves of the thicket, heedless of the scratches it had left on his bare arms and face.

The thick black ring swung clockwise and the door opened. Beyond lay darkness. From the darkness stepped a man. He had a lop-sided beard and badly-cut hair that appeared to shiver when he looked around. His clothes were deeply worn and patchwork, but a pristine gold watch bound his wrist. A glance at this watch removed the frown creasing the man’s face. Reassured by whatever time it was, he closed the door, lay down on the ground, rested his hands behind his head and closed his eyes for a nap.

For a fleeting second Wayne wondered if this was God, back from playing video games. But surely God wouldn’t look like this?

A minute or two of watching the stranger lie there caused Wayne to grow restless. He moved slowly and quietly, daring to venture up to the edge of the trees. Comfortable he could duck back out of sight if need be, Wayne held up one of the collected twigs and threw it at the man.

It fell short. The tumbling stick landed on black soil and immediately expressed displeasure by stamping tiny feet on the ground. Wayne did a double-take and craned his neck forward for a closer look.

The twig now possessed a thin, lizard-like body, with five stumpy legs jutting out at random points. It had a tail that forked into twin barbs and a pointed head sporting beady eyes and a flicking red tongue.

The bemused creature padded around in a circle, then advanced on the resting man. It climbed up a shoe, taking a few teasing bites out of the leather on the way.

Wayne bit his lip, but refrained from calling out a warning.

The lizard continued up the stranger’s trousers and across his chest, seemingly drawn by the ebb and flow of warm breath.

Inches from the man’s face, the lizard stopped. Its tongue flicked in and out once, twice more. Then it raised its tail and jabbed forward with those wicked barbs.

But the man was quicker. He deftly rolled over and swept up the lizard in a torn off strip of jacket.

It thrashed and hissed beneath the fabric.

He held it fast and calmly shuffled over the edge of the circle. Half of the creature was pushed out onto the grass. Where it left the shadow, ragged sackcloth became golden thread and the creature held captive within became still.

The man pressed it down against the ground. Wayne heard the twig snap. The half of the lizard within the circle abruptly stopped struggling.

“I remember the first time I found myself lost and far from home,” said the stranger, speaking with a foreign accent that littered his sentences with random pauses and unusual emphasis. “Everything was strange and I didn’t understand the rules of how things worked. A boy in such a situation can easily confuse fear and excitement. He finds it easy to do the wrong thing because he knows no better. I learned that it was often advisable to do nothing instead. That’s a lesson you would do well to learn, young Master Todd.”

A sickening chill caught in Wayne’s chest. He wanted to run, but didn’t dare move. He wanted to breathe, but was too scared to make a noise. He even tried to clear his mind of the questions that raced through it, fearful even they might be heard.

“Your choice is wise, even if your reasoning is flawed,” said the man. “The only excuse for not asking a question is if you are incapable of understanding the answer. That can be your second lesson of the day.”

The stranger retreated to the door and sat down beside it. He shook open the strip of torn jacket and the two severed halves of the lizard fell to the ground.

Wayne looked back along the ragged path he’d made for himself through the copse of trees. On the far side, down a slope, across the wall and up a hill, his family waited. They wouldn’t be waiting quietly or patiently, they’d be arguing or screaming. His urgent desire to leave quickly faded.

He clenched his fists and edged clear of the trees.

The man did not look up. Instead, he was busy stuffing the head of the lizard into a peculiar-looking pipe, which, though relatively small and slender, still found space for an abundance of dials, switches and twirling widgets. Despite this, he managed to offer an explanation of sorts.

“Satisfy yourself with the knowledge that I possess an uncanny knack for finding things. Such a talent meant finding out your name was trivial.” He lifted his head to meet Wayne’s uncertain gaze for the first time. “But I do not wish to put you at a disadvantage. It is only fair that you know my name, even though it is a long time since I have spoken it aloud.”

The man put down the pipe and walked over to the edge of the circle. Wayne took a step back. The man held out a hand for him to shake.

“I am Joseph Humberstone Ward. You may call me whatever you wish, given this will only be a fleeting acquaintance.”

Wayne eyed the hand. It did not extend beyond the line of shadow. He decided to remain where he was.

“You have evidently learned the first of our lessons. That is good to see.” The proffered hand waved a finger at Wayne. “You should look more pleased with yourself. Self-improvement is a marvellous thing.”

Mr Ward returned to his pipe. He twiddled some widgets, flicked a few switches, checked a number of dials and then placed the pipe to his lips. He closed his eyes and a puff of lavender smoke rose from the bowl.

Wayne studied the man and then the door.

“Keep those foolish thoughts to yourself if you please,” advised Mr Ward. “Such questions require no answer from me. The door is not locked. Open it and see with your own eyes where I came from.”

Wayne did not move.

Mr Ward opened his eyes and stared at the child in front of him. Embers in the pipe glowed a fierce green.

“Now I begin to wonder whether this inaction tells of a lesson learned or a boy unable to act. So, to our final lesson of the day – you always have a choice. For a long time I didn’t think I had a choice. I was trapped in a life lived according to the whims of another. You know what that’s like, don’t you, Wayne? You don’t have a life. You do what your parents tell you. You suffer your brother’s cries day after day, night after night and there’s nothing you can do about it except lament how everything was just fine and dandy before he came along. You think yourself trapped, but you are not. You are constrained only by what you believe is possible. You have a choice, just like I did. Every second of every day you can make the choice to change things. You just need to see the line in front of you and then step across.”

Wayne stared at Mr Ward. While the strange man spoke, the quality of the air changed, becoming charged with a prickling humidity that promised of a storm to come; a storm whose distant rumbling could be felt as a tremor beneath his feet. Yet all was still within the shadow of the cloud, where Mr Ward sat, staring back at Wayne, eyes unblinking, ghostly worms swimming through the stone behind him. His next words were soft, wistful and cut into the heart of Wayne’s oft-imagined desire.

“Silencing the cries of a baby is the easiest thing in the world.”

Wayne stumbled backwards. Mr Ward checked his watch and flashed a brief, eldritch smile.

“Here endeth the final lesson.”

Distant lightning caused the land to flicker a momentary white. Thunder rolled over them a few seconds later.

“Time to make a choice, Wayne. The ticking clock brings change whether we like it or not. The only question is: will you be responsible for making that change?”

Wayne fled.

He blundered through the copse of trees, hands held up to keep the branches from his face, gaze fixed on the ground just ahead, which suddenly opened into sunlight and a slope that he tumbled down for a dozen feet before he was on his own feet once again and running.

The field at the bottom was a blur in his peripheral vision. His sole focus was reaching the stone wall.

He stumbled. For a few seconds he was on all fours, loping along like an injured sheep with a wolf at its back.

Another flash of lightning. The thunder came almost at once.

Wayne reached the wall gasping for breath. He scrambled over and dropped into another shadow on the far side. The sun behind him painted the hillside ahead a bright green. The sky above was dark. He listened for sounds of pursuit. The only noise to reach his ears was an anguished scream and Wayne was thankful. He now appreciated his brother’s cries in a way he couldn’t before.

“Wayne! Where are you!” called out his mother.

“You’re going to get a soaking if you don’t get back to the car right now!” added his father, before the parents’ bickering resumed.

“Are you just leaving the cool box there or taking it with us?”

“Of course I’m taking it with us, I was just busy packing up the blanket first.”

“Well, don’t go forgetting it and then blaming it on me.”

Wayne walked up the hillside to the site of his family’s picnic. As he neared the top, he finally risked a look back. The verdant meadows, purple heather and gently rolling hills looked just as serene before, the copse of trees an unremarkable point of detail. God’s own country was boring once more, save for the solitary white cloud. It still hung motionless against bare sky. Wayne couldn’t shake the sense it was waiting for something.

He crested the rise and found his parents desperately loading up the car as black clouds riven with lightning bore down upon them. Torrents of rain cast the world below into a murky fog.

“Into the car, Wayne, quickly—” An unearthly roar drowned out the rest of his father’s words.

“Have you ever heard thunder so loud?” shouted his mother, strapping Levi into a child seat.

But it wasn’t thunder. The noise came from within the shadow of the storm, which had swept across forests and villages and now sent them raging forth as stampeding beasts and fire-breathing machines and things with flailing, blackened limbs that chased the line of rain.

“I said into the car, Wayne!”

His father reached out a hand to grab his son by the arm. He did not see the car behind him rise up as golden-robed giant with tentacle arms. He did not see it swallow up his wife. There was no telling if he was aware of his eyes becoming vacant black discs buried in flesh turned to pale wax or if he felt his outstretched fingers melt away to nothing beneath the downpour.

Wayne Todd, aged nine and three quarters, watched all of this in horror, before he too was caught in the shadow and became Wayne Todd no longer.

BIBLE BASHER
by

JAMES LOVEGROVE

Helen Forester looked across the table at her husband, the Reverend Christopher Forester, as he ate his Sunday lunch, and she loathed him.

Into his mouth went forkload after forkload of chicken, roast potato, carrot, and broccoli, the food disappearing with metronomic regularity, as though he were some eating automaton.  His gaze did not waver from the middle distance.  A dollop of gravy had dropped onto his chin and glistened there brownly, looking vaguely faecal, diarrheic.  He was unaware of it.  Once in a while he might pause from his rhythmic cutting/spearing/lifting/chewing routine, as if about to speak, and Helen would wonder what he might possibly have to say.  A compliment on her cooking?  A query about what she intended to do with herself this afternoon?  Unlikely.  Then he would resume feeding, the pause having served no other function than to give a stray thought time to cross his mind, or perhaps allow him to savour the memory of a neat turn of phrase from the morning’s sermon.  The meal seemed incidental to Christopher’s presence at the table.  He was there, mainly, to muse.  And Helen, provider of the meal, might as well have not been there at all, given how much attention he was paying her.

Sometimes she thought that if she screamed or threw something at him, or stripped naked and waggled her crotch in front of his nose, Christopher would not even notice.

There was fruit salad to follow.  Helen served her husband, retired to her end of the table, served herself.  Christopher lathered double cream over his helping, all but hiding the fruit pieces from sight, then tucked in.  The dollop of gravy was still there on his chin, congealing.  A dollop of cream soon joined it, looking vaguely…  Helen did not want to think what it resembled.  A wife who loved her husband would have informed him that he had besmirched himself; perhaps would have offered to wipe the offending blobs away with her napkin.  Helen Forester stared flatly across the table at the man she had married, and her napkin stayed on her lap.

Christopher had been young once, and good-looking.  As had she.  He had been, if not dashing, at least possessed of a certain charm.  His haircut then, the same haircut he had now, had been contemporary and cool.  Before his hair went grey and frizzy, wearing it chunky and collar-length had lent him a rakish, almost cavalier air.  A haircut very much of its time.  Very much not of its time now.  And something more than mere ageing had happened to Christopher’s features over the last three decades.  A face that had been angular but not unattractive, fresh without being innocent, had coarsened and hardened, becoming fixed and red and lumpen.  His nose, if such a thing were possible, had grown.  Perhaps the weight of the thick glasses that sat on it had squeezed it down somehow, forcing more of it to extrude, as though cartilage were clay.  The Christopher who had wooed Helen at university, the theology student who had impressed her with his single-minded ambition to join the priesthood, the young man to whom she had more or less willingly surrendered her virginity one drunken night when they were celebrating the end of their Finals, was not the fifty-something village vicar who sat before her here in the dining room.  Not a trace of that erstwhile Christopher remained.  The man opposite her bore the same name and a vague physical resemblance, but was an impostor.

Having scraped his dessert bowl clean, Christopher looked up and finally, after twenty minutes of silence, spoke.

“Any chance of a coffee?”

A half-dozen tart answers suggested themselves to Helen, crowding at the forefront of her mind like frantic people trying to escape a burning building.  She almost let one of them free; but instead, at the last moment, settled for, “Of course, Christopher.  Shall I bring it to you in the study?”

“That would be nice.”

As Helen stacked crockery in the dishwasher and the coffee percolator spluttered, she replayed the four monosyllables in her head: That would be nice.  There was a time when she would have cherished such words.  Since they got married, affection from Christopher had been at such a premium that any display of kindliness, however meagre, had meant much.  She would have interpreted depths to that nice which it could not conceivably have contained.  Nice implying steadfastness, fidelity, caring, dutifulness, diligence, love.  Nice not simply as compliment but as benediction.  When all it really was, as she had come to understand, was an empty adjective, a sound, a hollow conjunction of labial and sibilant into which Christopher put no more thought than was required to utter it.

Yet here was a man whose sermons were the toast of the parish.  A man whose vim and eloquence in the pulpit drew congregants from miles around.  A man whose effusive wit at fêtes, bring-and-buy sales, coffee mornings and other local events raised universal smiles and admiration.  A man so delightfully verbal on public occasions, so in command of English when he needed to be, that nobody would believe how brusque and uncommunicative he was in private.  Countless parishioners, particularly ladies, had told Helen how fortunate she was to have a husband with such a gift for language.  Life at home with the Reverend Forester must, these people seemed to suggest, be infinitely pleasurable for her; a privilege to have a man of such loquacious talent always on hand, all to herself.  Evenings at the vicarage must fly by.

But evenings at the vicarage dragged by painfully.  Thank God for television.  Thank God for the novels of Joanna Trollope and Rebecca Shaw.  Thank God for surreptitious sips from the brandy bottle Helen kept at the back of the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

The coffee was ready, and Helen carried a mug of it through to Christopher.  Plenty of milk, plenty of sugar.  Christopher was not, as anyone who beheld the full doughy repellence of his exposed waistline would attest, a self-denying man.

She knocked on the study door, and Christopher let out a low, braying “Come!”  He was at his desk, penning his latest masterwork.  He did not turn as she entered.  He did not even look up.  He patted a space on the desktop where she might lay the mug, and as she did so, Helen dared to take a peek at the piece he was working on.  Christopher wrote his first drafts longhand, before typing them into his computer and emailing them off.  He had had numerous articles published in the Church Times and other ecumenical journals, and had made forays into the world of secular print with opinion pieces commissioned by various national newspapers, giving the Christian slant on current hot moral topics.  These “articles of faith”, as Christopher liked to call them, supplemented his vicar’s stipend and the collection plate quite tidily and cemented his status as a local celebrity.  Christopher was a big fish in the small bowl of Fairford and its environs.

Helen could not, in the few seconds’ glimpse she had, make out much of what he was writing, but she spotted the name Sisera, and knew – because you could not be a vicar’s wife for thirty years and fail to pick up a reasonable working knowledge of the Bible along the way – that Christopher must be expounding on the story of Jael.  Jael, Heber’s wife, who killed the Gentile captain Sisera as he was fleeing the scene of battle after his army was routed by rebel Israelites under the command of the prophetess Deborah.  Jael, who welcomed Sisera into her tent, hid him there, gave him milk, showed him every courtesy, promised to protect him should any of his enemies come looking for him – and then, when he was asleep, drove a tent peg through his skull.

Helen lingered a fraction of a second too long at Christopher’s side.  He was pernickety about people reading over his shoulder, not least if they were reading something he was writing.  She knew this, but thinking about Jael and Sisera delayed her just long enough for him to detect that she was doing more than merely setting his coffee down.  She backed away hurriedly, overcompensating, hoping he would not round on her.  He did anyway, and just as he brought his gaze to bear, looking fierce and disapproving, Helen managed to collide backside-first with the lectern on which sat Christopher’s prize possession.

It was a huge King James Bible which he had bought with the proceeds of the first article he ever sold, a facsimile of the 1611 first edition, bound in calfskin, the pages edged with gilt.  The lectern wobbled, the Bible was shoved a centimetre or so out of position – nothing more disastrous than that occurred; but it was enough to cause Christopher’s expression to shift from irritated to downright cross.

He eyed the lectern, then his wife, and nodded briskly, piously, in the manner of someone who expected no better.  “‘All wickedness’,” he intoned, “‘is but little to the wickedness of a woman.’  Ecclesiasticus.”

Helen corrected the position of the Bible on the lectern, murmuring something along the lines of “No harm done.”

“‘A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike.’  Proverbs.”

“Honestly, Christopher, it was a little bump, that’s all.”

“‘Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection.  But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.’  One Timothy.”

She looked into his eyes, small and proud behind his spectacle lenses.  Christopher was fond of quoting the Bible at her – far too fond – and he had ready to hand a fund of chapter-and-verse sayings that pertained, negatively, to women.  The Scriptures teemed with misogyny, from Adam and Eve onwards, and Christopher seemed to have memorised every single example.  He would trot out one or more whenever Helen did something wrong, and at first she had thought he was simply joking with her.  This was some time back, when they had not been married long.  She ignored it then because she honestly thought Christopher meant the comments ironically; his deadpan delivery masked the wry understanding that no one in their right mind could take such rubbish seriously.  “As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion.”  “Give not thy soul unto a woman.”  “It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.”  It was outdated, antiquated nonsense, and even if Christopher regarded every word in the Bible as (literally) gospel, surely he appreciated that times had changed and certain parts of the Good Book’s content were no longer considered apt or applicable.  For heaven’s sake, here was a man who had deflowered a woman out of wedlock!  If he was prepared to commit that sin, then he must surely be progressive enough to accept other modifications to the tenets of his faith.

But apparently not.  The years went by and the quotations continued, until Helen was so familiar with them she could almost have saved Christopher the trouble of uttering them.  She had grown inured.  Outrage had faded to annoyance, which in turn had faded to indifference.  She had learned to grin and bear his Biblical harangues, just as she had learned to grin and bear so much else.

Today, she was tempted to answer back.  Just once she would like to hear the sound of her own voice telling her husband to shut up, stop belittling her, stop parading these vile, stupid, woman-hating sentiments in front of her.  She even fancied the idea of swearing at him, and imagined the reaction.  Christopher hearing her call him a bloody fucking bastard.  The shock on his face, as though he had been slapped.

She retreated instead, as she had before, so many times.  Under Christopher’s baleful stare, she withdrew from the study, closing the door softly.  Eaten inside with shame and loathing, she took her coat from the rack in the hallway, put on a pair of Wellingtons, and went out for a walk.

It was late May, and after a long wet spring, summer had yet to arrive.  Clouds tore westward across an unwelcoming sky, and the countryside was deeply green, without the hardened, burnished gleam that a few days of decent sunshine would bring.  Green like moss, green like stream-bed slime.  Helen set off from the vicarage at a brisk pace, heading toward the church.  Past that venerable flint edifice she came to the Old Vicarage, which she could never help viewing with a certain amount of envy and longing.  The Old Vicarage was a marvellous five-bedroomed manse, with arched windows and ivied walls.  The C of E had sold it off into private ownership in the 1950s to raise funds and reduce overheads, and had built for the incumbent of the parish a small, boxlike brick dwelling instead, altogether more modest and better suited to the lessened stature of the latter-day priest.  Had Helen’s life gone according to plan, had the world been kinder to her, she would now be living in the Old Vicarage – which, of course, would be just plain the Vicarage – and her husband would be a loving, giving man whose domestic demeanour was the equal of, and not the sharply contrasting opposite of, his professional demeanour.

Helen forged up a steep chalk track and was soon breathlessly cresting the brow of a hill.  Fairford lay in full view below her, an asterisk of houses at the confluence of three country lanes.  Beyond it, a few miles off, was Allaston, the county town, and some way beyond that, glittering distantly, the sea.  If you inhaled hard and the wind was right, it was just possible to catch the scent of brine.  The smell reminded Helen of childhood, of bucket-and-spade beach holidays, of space and untrammelled freedom.

A mile or so along the hill’s ridge, past a copse of scrubby elders, she found herself walking toward the lip of a disused quarry.  Men had dug a huge horseshoe-shaped gouge out of the hillside, hewing into the lily-white flesh of the earth, creating a wound that plunged away at Helen’s feet, forty yards deep, unhealable.  All that separated her from the drop was a stave of sagging, weary barbed-wire fence.  It would not have required much effort on her part to hold the upper strand of wire down, straddle it, lever herself over, stand on the ledge of grass beyond the fence, teetering on the brink of the precipice…  Stand there and wait for the courage to come, the boldness needed to take that last, crucial, irrevocable step.

The Lord frowned on suicide, that was what she had been led to believe.  The souls of suicides went downwards – all suicides, not just those who threw themselves off high places.  Her plummet would continue even after her body hit the floor of the quarry.  One pit followed by another Pit.  Perhaps her eternal punishment would be to fall for ever.

Helen, however, was not sure she believed in the survival of the soul after death.  She also felt she had endured enough chastisement in her lifetime to offset any sins she had committed or might yet commit.  Even suicide would not tip St Peter’s scales against her.

Still…

The wind got up.  Helen turned and headed home, clutching her coat collar to her throat.  The clouds thickened and darkened.  As she reached the vicarage, spitty rain began to fall, like scratches on an old movie.

She spent an hour in the lounge, just sitting, just listening.  From Christopher’s study there came a sigh every so often, and the rustle of a sheet of paper being slid aside.  On the windowpanes, the prickle of the rain.  Otherwise, quiet.

This was Helen’s world.  This was her existence till she died.

She had been brought up to settle for less.  A child of the austerity years, and the youngest of four sisters, she had grown up with, and grown used to, deprivation.  She could have competed with her sisters for everything – food, gifts, love, attention – but came to the conclusion early on that it wasn’t worth the effort.  She seldom won any of her battles with them; it was almost unheard of that she, little Hels, got her own way.  Why fight?  She adapted.  She learned to get by on little.  She accustomed herself to leftovers and hand-me-downs.  Even though she excelled academically, the only one of the four who did, she understood that her parents did not have time to praise her for her achievements.  They were too busy admiring Joanna’s beauty, and Sarah’s singing voice, and Elspeth’s prowess at lacrosse.  After all that, not a lot remained for Helen.  She was the runt of the litter, always pushed to the back, always ignored.

It meant something, when she got to university, that Christopher adored her, that he fawned over her, that this attractive vicar-to-be could not do enough for her.  And when, shortly before he began studying for his holy orders, he asked her to be his wife, how could she not say yes?  At the time, she’d been under the impression that she was pregnant, which certainly influenced her decision.  But while the apparent pregnancy came to nothing, as several other apparent pregnancies had since, the wedding went ahead without a shred of doubt on Helen’s part.  She was doing the right thing.  She and Christopher were going to have a wonderful life together.

She ought to have known better.  She ought to have known that the life she would end up having would be just the same as the life she had had before – that she would be shunted into the shadows, disparaged, downtrodden, cloistered, neglected.

She might as well, she thought, be a prisoner in jail.  It would make very little difference to her circumstances.

At four o’clock, she stood and went to make her husband some tea.

She knocked.  “Come!”  She entered the study, holding cup and saucer in her right hand.  Christopher patted the desk beside the coffee mug.  Helen set the cup and saucer down.

His back was to her.  All she could see was that haircut – so hopelessly out of date, so fossilised.  Christopher, the man she preferred to think of as Christopher, belonged to another era, the era of that haircut, long gone.  This here in front of her, this was not Christopher.

She moved with a stealthy precision she would never have suspected herself capable of.  She stole over to the lectern.  She closed the Bible – which was open at Judges – without a sound.  She levered up the heavy tome.  It must have weighed the best part of twenty pounds.  All that binding.  All those pages.  The gilt.  The marbled endpapers.  The Smythe-sewn, reinforced binding.  A thing of vanity.  (But could any Bible, however grand and ornamented, be considered a thing of vanity?)

All those words.

All those “begats”.

All those murders.

Christopher was oblivious.  Engrossed in his work.  Unaware that Helen was still in the room.  Unaware that she was creeping up behind him, Bible brandished.  He scribbled on, writing about God knows what.

Helen raised the Good Book above her head and brought it down on his.

Once.

Twice.

Hard as she could.

Christopher gave a strange, cracked, gurgling cry.  The first blow slumped him in his chair.  The second sent him sliding sideways out of his seat, so that he fetched up on his knees on the floor, cheek against the side of the desk.

How appropriate, Helen thought as she lifted the Bible again and delivered a third and final almighty thump to the crown of her genuflecting husband.

When she was sure that Christopher was dead, she placed the now-bloodied book back on the lectern and went to the lounge.  There, she picked up the phone and dialled 999.  Then she sat down in an armchair and waited serenely, blissfully, for the police to arrive.

DEFORMATION
by

GARY MCMAHON

Cale drifted into the colony at midday, sweltering beneath a slate-coloured sky that seemed to draw closer to the damp earth with the slow passing of each hour. The market was busy, with people bustling like basic entry-level mechanoids: they were filled with a sense of purpose, but no room for delay. The smells of modified fruit and vegetables barely penetrated his olfactory system, and he had a sudden yearning for the fresh undersea lichen he'd eaten during his stay with the gillmen out near the tiny scattered London Isles. Electronic carnival music was piped through desktop speakers, and clunky 'noids danced erratically in the streets, their metal joints stiffened by the constant moisture in the air.

The old longboat drifted along a narrow canal, and Cale sat up on deck smoking his last dry cigar. He passed a crooked marker attached to a bobbling buoy, and smiled at the words etched there: Welcome to Squid City.

He guided the vessel ashore, tying it to a rusted steel stanchion that stuck out of the concrete landing pad, a flat structure that was actually the upper level of some old skyscraper, its roof pocked and pitted, and sitting at exactly the correct level to be utilised by busy traders. These remnants of the ancient world often filled him with a sense of sadness, but it never lasted for long.

A tall man helped him ashore, smiling from behind a face that was so smooth it looked sandblasted. Cale nodded, and took the man's proffered hand. It was a nice mod-job. The third arm looked genuine; in fact, it was the best Cale had ever seen. When he gripped the hand, the skin felt warm, malleable. Like real flesh.

"Thanks," he said, eyes scanning the dock.

"No bother," said the man, scratching at the mottled skin of his neck – the surgeon had not done a good job there: the leftovers from whatever kind of extreme facelift the man had undergone resembled folds of loose sacking. He examined Cale's features with interest, as if looking for flaws.

"I see it’s market day."

"It's always market day in Squid City," said the man, laughing quietly to himself as he walked away.

Cale left the dock and entered the melee, closely inspecting stalls as he passed.  There was the usual abundance of fish and mollusc, but dotted here and there he saw tables boasting waterlogged herbs, dented tinned vegetables with handwritten labels, and even grey spongy boxes filled with second-hand drugs, surgical equipment, and the accompanying CD Rom manuals. He'd met a few people who'd carried out home-clips, or had them done by others: the results were rarely totally successful. Sometimes they were simply horrific.

"Hey, pilgrim. Looking for business?" A girl with a waist so thin that her ribcage tottered precariously above it sidled up to him, laying a nine-fingered hand across his chest. He'd heard rumours of what could be done with so many added digits, but had not yet felt the urge to experience such questionable pleasures.

"Oh, come on, captain. Let's go somewhere and party."

Cale shook his head, flashed a brief smile. The lightness of her tone was certainly attractive, but his pockets were empty. "No pay, no play," he said, shrugging his shoulders; suddenly ashen-faced, the girl scurried away.

Vendors held their wares up in the air above their heads, attempting to bring attention to whatever it was they were selling; grubby ‘noids darted to and fro, fetching and carrying stock; spicy aromas drifted like toxic clouds; small children, many of them with heavily tattooed faces, brushed past Cale as he walked the aisles, picking up a water-damaged book here, an old blues cassette there.

Finally he reached the open space where anyone was allowed to set up shop. It was a place kept empty in case of passing trade, or to accommodate someone who’d failed to renew their license – this was a close-knit community, and people tended to band together. Cale shrugged the leather case from his shoulder and took out his instrument. He held it up to the light and watched as it sparkled like spun gold.

“What’s that, mister?” A three-armed child stood next to him, his eyes cloudy with cataracts. The boy’s complexion was pallid, like that of some nameless deep-sea creature.

“It’s a saxophone.”

“What does it do?” asked the boy, a hand tugging unconsciously at Cale’s trouser leg.

“This,” he said, and closed his eyes, putting the valve to his lips and preparing to generate the sound of bone-dry, rainless dreams.

Within minutes a small crowd had gathered, bright faces taking in the music, open eyes drinking in the tones as they wafted gently through the air. Cale played some Charlie Parker, followed by Miles Davis. He finished on an upbeat rendition of In the Mood, and then put away the sax. Laughter barked; the warm sound of hands clapping was its own kind of music.

Cale smiled.

The money came slowly, but by the time he closed the case he’d collected enough for a warm meal and a hot bath. Tonight he would retire clean and satisfied, content in the fact that he would be spending money he had earned fairly and honestly.

After his audience had dispersed, Cale continued walking the sandy ground, going from stall to stall with only one purpose in mind. He recognised the man as soon as he saw him: he was leaning nonchalantly against a wooden support, smoking a pipe and showing no interest in his tatty little stall. He appeared to be selling brass pots, copper kettles, and other salvaged goods, but Cale knew better.

“I have Vee,” he said without preamble. The man took the pipe from between his lips and glanced at Cale from beneath the rim of a tall top hat. His eyes were bloodshot, the tear ducts shot to pieces. As well as being a dealer, he obviously indulged heavily in his own product.

“Come this way,” he whispered, a slow smile creeping across his face like a stain. When he stalked awkwardly towards a rundown lean-to structure with a canvas tent attached, Cale saw that the man had three legs – one of them small and stunted and virtually unusable. Another botched home-clip.

Inside the tent the man grabbed a stool and sat down at a low wooden table, tucking back his extra limb. He put away his pipe and took a roll of plaid material from a shelf near the floor. When he unfurled the package, Cale saw that it contained what he recognised as a testing kit. Fair enough, the man knew his stuff.

“Where is it from?” he asked, setting up his apparatus on the stained tabletop.

“The London Islands,” said Cale, taking the other seat without being invited to do so.

The man looked up from his work, narrowing his reddened eyes. “The gillmen?”

“Yes. I have a contact.”

“Then you’re a lucky man,” said the dealer. “Everyone I know who ever tried to do business with a gillman is dead. Sunk to the bottom of the sea.”

The gillmen cultivated the lichen known as Vee in deep caves and clefts beneath the surface of uncharted waters; they ate nothing else, existing solely on this sweet fruit of the sea. They were a tribe who’d been radically modified, and spent most of their time submerged. The artificial gills they’d had installed meant that they could breathe for long periods beneath the water, and they were feared throughout the civilised landmasses as ferocious warriors, fearless pirates, and top-flight scavengers. Few uplanders were allowed to deal directly with the notoriously private tribe, but Cale had saved the life of a gillman long ago and was respected by their ranks.

Once synthesised, Vee produced the drug known as Vapid. Cale had been selling raw material on behalf of the gillmen for years now, and knew that wherever he ventured he’d have a market. A drug like Vapid created its own demand: the high it offered could be duplicated by nothing else, and the only known side effect from overuse was burst blood vessels in the eyes.

It helped people get through the days; the nights took care of themselves.

Thirty minutes later Cale was ten thousand Euros richer. He went looking for the wasp-waisted girl from earlier that morning. He had been without the pleasures of a woman for months, and her easy banter had appealed to him in ways that he’d thought forgotten.

She was easy to find – they always were. He simply headed for the end of town that generated the most noise, and followed his instincts from there.

Skin bars and cantinas lined the shimmering streets. Streetside serving ‘noids chattered for attention. Faulty neon signs and hand-painted posters advertised dubious after-dark delights. He was offered the chance to see a woman perform with a genetically mutated horse, or two genitally enhanced men manipulating a female dwarf. These were low times, bad times, and the level of entertainment reflected the loss of morality in the world. After the last Great War, humanity had turned in on itself, and when the Rains came the malaise had turned into a kind of self-consumption, or cannibalism of the psyche. People were eating themselves alive from the inside out. But now the Rains had stopped, and all that remained in the puddles was a tired, drenched corpse.

Technology had advanced in great leaps since the global weather changes; mankind had adapted to the rising waters and invented means of living with the inclement conditions rather than trying to control them: turbines to generate power, basic mechanoids to work out in the wet, grand vessels for transportation.

Society was forced to adapt, to modify. To evolve. But vital elements of what it meant to be human were inevitably left behind in the rush.

“Changed your mind, pilgrim?” She had come up behind him, and again her hand went to his chest as he spun around. Her fingers were overlong, the nails painted bright crimson. Nine of them. Red as fresh blood.

She led him upstairs, to a single room above a bar it amused Cale to see was called The Moby Dick. When she closed the door the lights flickered. He lay on the bed and watched her undress. That slender waist made her look like a pink sapling: her legs had been scraped, leaving only essential muscle and bone beneath a thin layer of epidermis, and the lower half of her body formed a narrow trunk. Above that, her upper torso - the bottom three ribs removed - represented the densely clustered branches.

The image stayed with him as she took off his clothes, and she had to work hard to retain his interest. He paid her extra to sleep next to him: the comfort of a stranger was sometimes all a man needed to get him by.

That and a fix of Vapid.

As she snored on top of the dirty sheets, he slipped away and into the bathroom. It was cramped in there, and the sink was stained with what looked like dried blood, but he needed little room and even less hygiene for what he was about to do. He took a tube of Vapid from his saxophone case and broke the seal. Tipping back his head, he upended the neck of the tube over his right eye.

First there came the pain, which was quickly replaced by the blissful warmth, and then the numbness. Within thirty seconds the drug had entered his system via the lacrimal apparatus and emotional equilibrium had been restored. Soon he felt able to return to the girl’s side.

He stood over the bed and watched her sleep. Her skin was so pale that it looked blue, and the veins stuck out on her arms and hideously hacked legs. He could not recall the last time he’d seen a woman that he found attractive. If it wasn’t extreme body modifications, it was deep scarifications, or clumsy cuts and burns.

Nobody wanted to look like themselves anymore.

His hands began to ache, and, slightly puzzled, he opened his fists and held them out before him. Blood ran freely from a small hole that appeared in each palm; and as he watched, the blood turned weak and watery, finally running clear.

Cale raised his right hand to his mouth, licked the moisture. It tasted salty, like tears.

He lay down next to the girl, and after what seemed like hours he finally fell asleep.

“You don’t even have a tattoo?”

He rolled over onto his side, flipping off the sheet. His exposed skin was smooth, unmarked, and her hungry gaze travelled the length of his body. Despite the bar fights he’d been in, and the numerous occasions when he had been attacked and beaten by bandits, Cale had no scars on his body. He always healed without leaving so much as a blemish. It had never bothered him; it was just who he was.

“I’ve never met…what I mean is, nobody I ever knew was unmodified. It just isn’t done.” She bit her bottom lip with her top front teeth.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He leaned across her mutilated form and took her lighted cigarette from the ashtray on the cabinet by the side of the bed. It was a home-rolled job; the tobacco tasted like dried wooden pulp. “I’ve met plenty of people without mods.”

But he hadn’t. Try as he might, he could not picture the last person he’d spoken to who had been free of markings or adaptations. Mostly it was an extra finger, or perhaps a bifurcated tongue. The people of Squid City had taken the concept to extreme levels, but every tribe had its signature. Everyone needed to belong.

But Cale had never felt the urge to belong to anyone, not even to himself. And wasn’t that the real reason for his endless travels? To find himself? To discover where he fit in?

“You have to meet Given,” said the girl, pulling him from his reverie. Her nine fingers played a silent concerto across his tight belly, and her eyes and mouth promised more music to come. This time free of charge.

“Who’s Given? A local shaman?”

“Sort of,” she said, moving away from him to lie on her back. Her painfully flat stomach was almost level with the mattress, only her spine getting in the way. “He’s a seer. A visionary. He knows things. And for years he’s been telling anyone who’d listen that a man without modifications would come, a true and pure human who will lead us all to a new place. A dry place.”

Fuck, thought Cale. Another zealot. The damn world is full of them.

Religion had been forgotten in the tumult of the Rains. He knew from books he had read that at first people had blamed divine intervention: they said that God was sending a new flood and mankind must build a new ark. But once the oceans rose, and it became obvious that the events were the result of Mother Nature turning ferociously on her polluters, all that biblical talk was soon forgotten.

And now, almost forty years after the Rains had stopped, the concept of God had been drowned alongside those of good and evil. Things just were. They happened. And people adjusted, modified. They got on with things.

“Well?” she said, impatient and desperate for his answer. There was desire in her eyes, and also something that he recognised as awe. It was a thing he’d only ever seen once before, and it troubled him. But it also made him want to go further, to dig deeper.

“I’ll meet this Given,” he said, surprising himself. “Later tonight.”

“Okay,” she said, barely able to contain her excitement. “Downstairs, at midnight. Come here, to The Moby Dick.”

He returned to the longboat and slept, only waking when the shifting hull of the vessel bumped loudly against the dockside. Greasy sweat coated his face, matted his hair, and there was that dull pain in his hands again. He held them out before him, squinting in the darkness, and saw that his palms were moist.

When he looked outside it was dark, and lights had come on across Squid City. He could see a soup of naked flame and sickly neon: lurid splashes across the night. He glanced down at his palms: the flow of water had slowed, but still pumped at a steady rate.

I may be unmodified by the hand of man, he thought, but something else is changing me, adapting me. Is this evolution or something else?

On the deck of his boat there sat a jar of olives with a note attached to the lid. Cale had not seen an olive in years.

He opened the jar, popped one into his mouth. The taste almost felled him it was so intense.

He unfolded the note to read what it said:

An offering. To purity.

That was all. Four words; and each of them sent a thrill of fear along his spine. The girl was obviously insane, but wasn’t everybody these days? He thought of the gillmen, of their silent night-time creepy-crawls, and the bloody havoc they’d wreak upon those land-bound souls who spoke out against them.

Yes, everyone was mad.

It was time to go.

As he walked the streets he felt all eyes upon him. Lacerated eyelids flickered behind window shades, triple and quadruple footsteps resounded in hidden rooms. The residents of Squid City were spying on him, tracking his progress: the girl had already told them what she had found.

Cale looked again at his hands. The clear stigmata had finally stopped, and the holes in his palms had closed up, leaving not a mark. He was confused, frightened. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

People joined him as he walked, ducking out from shadowy doorways and dropping from low flat roofs. Acolytes following what they obviously perceived to be a messenger or a prophet. But Cale was no emissary, no chosen one. He had nothing to give but his own lack of meaning. He was an empty shell, a husk.

But still they followed, keeping back a respectable distance and saying nothing, not even to each other.

By the time Cale reached The Moby Dick they numbered in their hundreds. When he entered the building they remained outside, sitting down on the damp cobbles and lowering their heads in what looked for the entire world like an act of group prayer.

The girl was sat next to an old man with an extra head grafted to the side of his neck. This secondary cranium was dead, and hung like a tumour, its face slack, skin as creased as untreated leather.

“Welcome,” he said, standing but showing no welcoming hand. “He dropped his gaze to the tabletop, and Cale saw that the table held another gift.

It was only then that he noticed the rest of the jars, lined up on other tables, the bar, and across the wet wooden floor.

“They have offered the only thing they think fit. They have given of themselves.” The man walked around the table and picked up one of the jars, holding it out to Cale as if he was offering him liquid refreshment.

The jar contained a pickled hand. Another held a slow-spinning foot.

These were the parts of the denizens of Squid City that had been surgically removed. The imperfections, the unwanted pounds of flesh.

Cale felt sick; he turned to leave.

Acolytes blocked the door – and the street. They had no intention of letting him go.

“You are the unmodified,” said Given, closing his eyes and placing a hand on his heart. “The last living human to remain unadorned.

“You are legend.”

Cale held out his hands: they were bleeding water. Water ran down his face, from a wound in his forehead, and blinded him. He felt water flooding from a hole that opened up in his side.

Then other hands were upon him, dragging him down and along the floor. He felt himself being hoisted upward, but could see nothing through the barrier of modified limbs.

What was he? What had he become? Water poured down his wrists, along his arms, and he felt uplifted in a way that was more than physical.

When they carried him outside and nailed him to the makeshift wooden cross he felt no pain: only an acute sense of forgiveness. They knew not what they did, and he realised that they were acting only as they thought they should, as they’d been taught. This was not real. It was faked. Just like everything they’d ever done was false, empty, lacking in human warmth and motivation.

These people had given up their humanity long ago, and now they were acting out a fantasy, an illusion: creating a new myth. The savage modifications they’d applied to their own bodies had been the only way they could think of to search for spirituality inside themselves, and when something else – something external – came along to threaten that, they acted true to type.

They lifted Cale into the night and took him down to the dock. He saw his boat gently rising and falling on small, choppy waves. The girl with nine fingers was sitting on the deck eating olives. She was smiling.

When they tipped him upside down and dropped him into the water, Cale did not feel sinned against. Instead he felt cleansed, purified. He was modified at last.

JUICE
by

STAN NICHOLLS

There had been a leakage of Joy.

‘Siren?’ Duthie asked hopefully, his finger hovering over the button.

Busy negotiating the van through rush hour traffic, Anders ground the gears and said nothing.

‘Can we?’ Duthie persisted.  ‘It is an emergency, isn’t it?’

Anders glanced at his young trainee.  ‘Not a category one.’  He cracked a smile.  ‘But go ahead.’

Duthie grinned back and jabbed the button.  The siren began whooping.  Red and amber lights flashed.

Anders put his foot on the accelerator.  ‘You’ve not been on one of these call-outs before, have you, Bob?’

‘No.  I’m really looking forward to it.’

‘Don’t get too excited.  We’ll be dealing with one of the more benign distillates, so it’s fairly routine.  But we still have to take precautions.’

‘Against Joy?’

‘Sure.  In its way it can affect us just as much as the stronger essences.  We’ll need clear heads to get the job done.’

‘So we have to wear the gear?’

‘’fraid so.’

‘Not keen on that.’

‘Like I said, this isn’t a category one, so we’ll probably get away with just the masks.’

‘What about it being absorbed through our skin?’

‘It’d have to be a hell of a leak to do that.  And according to the reports it’s not that bad.’

‘But bad enough to get us out.’

‘It’s what they pay us for.’  He rounded a corner at speed.  The screech of tyres had pedestrians’ heads turning.

‘So what happens when we get there?’

‘The main thing is to try to ignore any members of the public who’ve copped an overdose.  The police and the paramedics deal with that.  We concentrate on our job.  Got it?’

Duthie nodded.

‘I mean it about punters who might have been affected,’ Anders stressed.  ‘If you’ve not seen a fracture before you might find it a bit … much.’

‘I know what essences do.’

‘You know what they do in properly controlled doses.  A fracture’s something else.  So stick with me and do exactly what I tell you.  Understood?’

‘Understood, chief.’

Their destination was marked by an assembly of police cars and ambulances.  A cordon had been set up around a squat, red brick building, and officers were trying to disperse a small crowd on the opposite side of the road.

Anders killed the siren and pulled up a short distance from the scene.  While Duthie fished out the respirators and a toolbox, Anders flipped open the glove compartment and reached for an atmospheric hazard detector.  A sniffer, as the operatives commonly referred to them.  Then they put on their masks and left the van.

As they approached the cordon they saw that the police and ambulance crews were wearing masks too.

Anders checked the sniffer.  ‘Getting on for three times over normal.’

‘That’s high?’ Duthie asked.

‘High enough from this distance.’

They got a better look at the building.  It was old, probably Victorian, and could originally have been a school, or perhaps a temperance hall.  Above its double doors hung a scruffy banner reading New Dawn Evangelical Mission.

A policeman in an inspector’s uniform met them.  He wore no cap, because of the mask, revealing a shock of unruly hair.  When he spoke his voice was muffled.  ‘British Distillate?’

‘Yeah.  Craig Anders.’  He flashed his ID and jabbed a thumb at his apprentice. ‘Robert Duthie.’

The Inspector didn’t bother introducing himself.  ‘I’ve got men tied up with this thing.  Can we get a move on?’

‘We’re on it,’ Anders told him.  ‘Have any of your people tried stopping it?’

‘No.  We thought it best left to your lot.’

‘Right answer.  Is the building clear?’

‘It’s OK for you to go in.’

‘Good.’  He took out his PDA and punched up the schematic.  ‘I just need to check where the pipe-work is so we can - ’

Something like a wail cut the air.

A middle-aged woman was coming towards them from the chapel’s entrance.  Her hair was dishevelled and her eyes were wild.  She was waving her arms about and shouting, and there was a wide, beatific smile on her face.

‘Halleluiah!’ she cried. ‘ I have seen the light!  I have heard the word and the word is good!  Rejoice!  Rejoice!’

‘Rapture OD,’ Anders stated, unnecessarily.

Duthie looked dumbfounded, as far as could be seen through his respirator.  The Inspector sighed loudly enough to be heard through his.

‘Happiness is my lot!’ the woman announced.  ‘My cup runneth - oof!’

She went down under a pair of charging constables.  The trio wrestled on the pavement, the woman still mouthing exaltations, her fixed smile intact.  A paramedic arrived, and after a brief struggle managed to jab her buttock with a hypodermic.  Whatever he pumped into her worked swiftly.  She started to calm.

Anders gave the Inspector a sour look.  ‘What was that about it being all right to go in?’

‘We’ve got most of them out.  And you know they’re not dangerous, except perhaps to themselves.’

‘They get in the way.’

The Inspector sighed again.  ‘I’ll give you an escort.’  He beckoned a heavily-built sergeant.  ‘Take these two inside and see they aren’t molested.’

They left the Inspector and followed the Sergeant to the chapel’s entrance.

‘What part of the building do we want?’ Duthie asked.

‘Basement,’ Anders said, consulting the PDA.

‘There are other officers in there,’ the masked Sergeant assured them.  ‘We’ll get you through.’

A notice board stood beside the door.  A square of card was pinned to it, on which someone had painstakingly written I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.  John 16:22

‘Afraid we’re about to take it,’ Anders remarked dryly.

They went inside.  It occurred to him that if they weren’t wearing the respirators it would be the sort of place that smelt of mildew and stale boiled cabbage.  The joy itself, of course, was odourless.

The interior was ill-lit, with old brown lino and grubby cream and green paintwork adding to the gloom.

‘This way.’  The Sergeant headed for another set of doors.

They swung open before they got to them.  A constable and a paramedic came through, flanking a manically grinning young man.  Like the woman downed outside, he was in a feverish daze and voicing ecstasy.  His legs were buckling, and he had to be half guided, half dragged.  The constable rolled his eyes at the Sergeant as the trio staggered past.

The doors lead to a hall.  There was a podium at one end, with a lectern and a low table holding a large urn of flowers.  An elderly man, sitting on the stage, was staring intently at the flowers.  He wore the by now familiar blissful expression, but he wasn’t raving.  Joy’s effect on him was mesmeric.

Facing the podium were rows of fold-up wooden chairs.  A few people were scattered amongst them, the remnants of a congregation.  Some were as quiet as the old man on the stage, others noisily jubilant.  Masked police officers and ambulance crews were trying to shift them.  Several victims were being given oxygen.

Anders and Duthie trailed the Sergeant to the far end of the hall.  As they walked, the afflicted called out, joyfully.  A further door, slammed behind them, muted their cries.  Two flights of grey concrete stairs took them to the basement.

While the Sergeant kept watch, Anders produced a flashlight and found the junction box.  Once he got the cover off, the problem was obvious.

‘See, Bob?’  He directed the torch beam.  ‘Down at the bottom there.  Corroded pipes.  Put your hand in front of them.  Go on.’

Gingerly, Duthie did as he was told.

‘Feel it?’ Anders said.

‘Yeah.  Like a cold draft.  What do we do now?’

‘We cut off the supply.’  He dug a chunky, long-barrelled key from the toolbox and inserted it into the valve lock.  With a grunt of effort, he turned it.  ‘There, it’s done.  This place should air out in an hour or two.’

‘Do we repair the pipes?’

‘No.  We’re trouble-shooters, remember.  We stop the leak and assess the situation.  Then the company sends in a crew to fix things and -’  His mobile warbled.  He slipped it from his pocket, hit a button and squinted at the message.

Duthie was curious.  ‘And?’

‘Here we go again.’

They didn’t use the siren on their way to the next job.  Officially, it was more or less routine.  But it had the potential to be dangerous.

‘You’re lucky,’ Anders said.

‘Am I?’

‘Yeah.  We’re gonna be dealing with a restricted essence.’

‘Which one?’

‘Submission.’

‘Wow.  That’s what the police and army use, right?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘So where we going?’

‘Prison.’

‘Prison?’

‘HMP Forest Grange.’

‘What’s happening there?’

‘The Governor thinks there might be a leak.’

‘Major?’

‘He’s not even sure there is one.  But some of the inmates have been acting a bit docile.’

‘That’s a problem?’

Forest Grange stood in what was once an outer suburb, now encircled by the city.  Anders and Duthie expected a bleak nineteenth century pile.  What they found was certainly grim, but it had all the hallmarks of the nineteen seventies.

They drove past high red brick walls topped with barbed wire, until they reached a pair of towering, grey metal gates.

Once in, having shown their credentials several times, they were escorted to the governor’s office by a flint-faced warden.  They crunched along a cinder path, edged with white paint, that cut through skinhead-short grass.  The prison itself looked like an East European office block, except somebody had installed windows that were far too small, and barred.

The governor’s office was tidy to the point of anal.  The governor was less

particular about his own appearance.  The elbows and knees of his suit were shiny.  He had hair growing out of his ears, as opposed to on his head, which was almost completely bald, and his blotchy skin was bathed in a perpetual flush.  Anders thought he looked like a raspberry wearing steel-rimmed glasses.

‘Frank Rotherton,’ the governor announced brusquely by way of introduction.

‘What exactly’s your problem, Mister Rotherton?’ Anders asked.

‘We think there might be an escape of Submission.’

‘You’re not certain?’

‘Felons are devious.  They’re quite capable of putting on a front to get better treatment or a chance of parole.’

‘How do you know that isn’t what’s happening now?’

‘I don’t.  Except too many of them are behaving too … reasonably.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘A few days.’

‘But you didn’t call us before?’

‘We weren’t sure.  Still aren’t.’

Anders nodded and checked his PDA.  ‘I see that you’ve got Submission piped to just one part of the prison.’

‘Yes, the high security wing.  It’s one of our contingencies in the event of an emergency, like riot gear and high-pressure hoses.’

‘And you’ve not had to activate it recently?’

‘Not for months.’

‘Have you evacuated that wing?’

‘Do you have any idea how overcrowded this prison is?  How clogged they all are?

Besides, that wing houses some of the worst offenders in the penal system and it’s never been so quiet.’

‘Legally, you’re supposed to evacuate any area where there’s a suspected leak.’

‘You tell me where to put them.’

‘Well, I’m required to report it to my superiors.’  Anders started tapping on his PDA’s keyboard.

‘Be my guest,’ the governor told him.  ‘And good luck with the Home Office.’

‘Can we inspect the wing now?’ Anders said.

‘To do that I’d have to pull out nearly sixty of the hardest, most callous offenders you could imagine, with nowhere near as secure to put them.  My staff don’t relish the prospect.’

‘What do you expect me to do?  We’ve come to test for a leak.  If you won’t let

us - ’

‘I’m not saying that.  If I have to evacuate them, that’s what I’ll do.  But I want to be sure first.’

‘The best way to do that is to let us get in there and check.’

‘I think there might be another way.  Suppose I have one of the inmates brought out so you can say whether he’s been exposed?’

‘I’m a technician, Mister Rotherton, not a doctor.’

‘But you’ve seen plenty of people affected by essences, haven’t you?  Surely you could tell.’

‘Pipes, pumps, circuitry, yes.  Those I understand.  But - ’

‘Your supervisor, Miss … ’

‘Mason,’ Anders prompted.  ‘Francine Mason.  What about her?’

‘She tells me you’re quite capable of making the assessment.’

‘Haven’t you got medics here, or - ’

‘No one with your experience.  And Miss Mason did say that British Distillate would be happy to cooperate, given the circumstances.’

Anders sighed.  ‘All right, I’ll take a look.’  He added, ‘Is it safe?’

‘Perfectly,’ the governor assured him.  ‘The man I have in mind will be heavily guarded.  He always is.’

‘But if I think there’s any chance he might have been affected - ’

‘Then I’ll evacuate the block for you.’

Duthie cleared his throat, reminding the other two of his presence.

‘Yes, Bob?’ Anders said.

‘How does this man normally act?  I mean, how can you assess him if you don’t know how he usually is?’

‘Good question.  Governor?’

‘You’re assuming the man in question consistently behaves in what you’d call a normal way.’

‘Doesn’t he?’

‘I’m not alone in thinking he should be in a secure institution for the criminally insane.’

‘This just gets better and better.  Why him?  Why not show me one of the others from that wing?  Or are they all nuts?’

‘Because he happens to be out of the wing at the moment, in the sickbay, and that’s next door.  I need this resolved quickly.’

‘How long has he been out of the high security wing?’

‘Not much longer than you’ve been here.  The effects would still show after that short a time, wouldn’t they?’

Anders nodded.

‘And he’s in the infirmary because he’s giving blood,’ Rotherton went on.  ‘So nothing to worry about there.’

‘Giving blood?  That doesn’t sound like the man you’re describing.’

‘All the inmates with clean blood are given the opportunity to donate.  I never thought he’d be one to agree.  Come on, let’s go.  You can leave that here.’  He gestured at the holdall containing their protective gear that Duthie had carried from the van.

They had to leave the building to get to the adjacent infirmary.

As they walked, Anders said, ‘Do your warders have protective equipment?  To deal with an essence leak, that is.’

‘They use the masks they wear if we have to deploy teargas.’

‘Hmm.  Not ideal, but it should do for short periods.’

‘It won’t matter after today, will it?  One way or the other.’  He nodded at the robust door they were approaching.  ‘Here we are.’

They were taken to a small ward housing half a dozen beds, all empty.  Three people were waiting for them; two guards and their prisoner.

Anders and Duthie didn’t know what to expect.  But the individual they were confronted with in no way matched any mental picture they might have had.  He was short and slightly built.  His nondescript features were mild and his hair was silvering.  He looked feeble.  If his grey prison dungarees had been swapped for an off-the-peg suit he could have passed for a middle-aged accountant with the Salvation Army.

When they entered, he tried to stand up.  Not in an aggressive or threatening way, but rather in what seemed to be a show of politeness.

‘Stay seated, Norman,’ the governor told him.

The man complied meekly as the guards pushed him back into his chair.

‘How are you today?’ Rotherton asked.

‘All the better for seeing you, sir.’

‘Would you mind if these two gentlemen were present for a few minutes?’

‘No, governor.  Whatever you say, sir.’  He gave Anders and Duthie a subservient glance.

They looked on as Rotherton asked a series of questions and his prisoner replied

unctuously.

Before long they were back in the governor’s office.

‘I’m surprised neither of you seemed to recognise him,’ he said.  ‘Still, it was a long time ago.’

‘What was?’ Anders wondered.

‘He killed seven that they knew of.  The media had a feeding frenzy.  Must have injured as many warders over the years, several seriously.’

Anders and Duthie exchanged a look.

‘Yeah, well, I’m glad I don’t remember.’

‘So what’s your verdict, Mister Anders?’

Anders jabbed a thumb in the direction of the infirmary.  ‘That’s as clear a case of Submission exposure as I’ve ever seen.’

‘Ah.  So you’re definitely confirming it.’

‘On the basis of the man we’ve just seen, yes.  Now we need to get into that wing and find the fault.  Then we can have a crew come down to fix it.’

‘There’s no other way?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As I said, things have never been calmer on that wing.  So … ’

‘Yes?’

‘Couldn’t we keep the leak going?  Just for the time being?’

Anders stiffened.  ‘I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Mister Rotherton.  Prisons are one of the few places we pipe submission, and its release is strictly controlled and monitored.  You’re asking me to break the law.’

‘Not so much break it as … turn a blind eye.  Just temporarily, to give us a breathing space.’  He sighed, something he obviously did a lot.  ‘I can see from your expression that you’re not keen.’

‘You could put it that way.  Now let’s talk about the evacuation.’

It was growing dark before Anders and Duthie got away.  The high security wing had been emptied, not without incident, and the fracture located.  They left the repair crew mending it.

‘Governor wasn’t too happy, was he?’ Duthie remarked.

‘No.’

‘But you can see his point of view, can’t you?’

‘Sure, and I feel for the poor bastard.  But rules are rules.  He should know that, of all people.’

They passed a multiplex.  Crowds were queuing to buy tickets and inhale from facemasks in the lobby.  The array of dispensers were labelled with signs denoting ROMANCE, HORROR, ACTION, COMEDY, SCIENCE FICTION and several other genres.  The masks pumped out doses of Receptivity, each tailored to a particular film category.  But they didn’t cloud people’s critical faculties.  They enabled the viewer to see the intentions and artistry behind even the poorest efforts, so that comedy was funnier, adventure more intense, romance truly tear-jerking.  Cine purists hated receptivity essences as much as they loathed 3-D.

‘Doing anything special tonight, Bob?’ Anders asked.

His assistant shrugged.  ‘Dunno.’

Traffic was heavier as they got near the centre of town.  They slowed in a jam and crawled past a bar.  Early drinkers were exiting.  At the door a couple of bouncers

manned cylinders of Sobriety, offering whiffs to the obviously inebriated as a lone policeman looked on.  That was to make sure they were offering only Sobriety and not an intoxicating essence, which was available illicitly whatever the law said.  A handful of customers hung back at the end of the line, prolonging their drunkenness for a few minutes longer.

‘I think I know where I’ll be going after we knock off,’ Duthie amended.

He turned up bright and early for work next morning.  Either he hadn’t drunk to excess or the essence had purged it.  It made no odds.  Sobriety, like abstinence itself, didn’t leave a hangover.

Their day started routinely.  They were dispatched to a housing estate in one of the edgier neighbourhoods, in which certain distillates had been installed by court order.  The Obedience, Sociability, Cooperation and Fellowship essences had gone some way to lifting the estate’s reputation, but every so often somebody tried to cut off the supply.  Anders and Duthie were there to check on reports of tampering.

By arrangement, a police van was parked in the estate’s central courtyard, where

the odd blade of grass struggled through compacted mud and discarded crisp packets.  The pair of officers leaning against the side of the van, supposedly ready to help if needed, looked alternately bored and impatient.  One of them toyed with his Pacification spray.

Anders and Duthie discovered that crude attempts had been made to interfere with the flow.  They marked them, did the paperwork and booked a maintenance crew.  Then Anders got a call and they moved on.

Their next job was at a shopping mall in a more salubrious part of town.  A department store within the mall had Civility on tap in its staff areas, which the employees had agreed to, as required by legislation, although they did it reluctantly.  Now the management wanted to pipe in Honesty, an even more contentious move.  Anders’ task was to assess the existing system to see whether new ducts could be incorporated, whatever he and Duthie thought about it.  For a couple of hours they

suffered hostile looks from the workers.

They were relieved when their next assignment came in.

‘Though it could be tricky,’ Anders reckoned, driving them out of the mall’s car park.

‘Tell me more,’ Duthie said.

‘We’re going to a bank.’

‘They’ve got a leak?’

‘It’s a bit more sensitive than that.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You know about bootleg distillates.’

‘Course.  Never come across any though.’

‘How do you know?  Haven’t you ever wondered why a meal in a restaurant tasted so good?  Or how great the music sounded at a concert?  Didn’t it ever occur to you that one of the unlicensed essences might have been involved?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it that way.’

‘Well, it’s rare but it happens, and the company takes it very seriously.  So does the law.’

‘That’s why we’re heading for this bank, right?  They’re using a bootleg essence.’

‘They might be.  There are suspicions, but nothing like proof.’

‘Which one?  Distillate, I mean.’

‘Credulity.’

‘A financial outfit wouldn’t stoop that low, surely.’

‘We’re talking about bankers.’

‘Oh.  Right.  Silly me.  But hasn’t BD got a section dealing with this kind of stuff?  Why are we going in?’

‘We get jobs like this from time to time.  We do the recee and if we find something we whistle up a security team.  The cops and the lawyers can take care of it after that.’

‘So how do we do it?  I’m assuming we don’t just walk in and ask.’

‘Main thing is we stay only long enough to get the readings we need, ‘cos we won’t have the protective gear, obviously.’  He smiled thinly.  ‘You get to play spies today, Bob.’

‘Life’s never dull with you, is it, Craig?’

‘We have our moments.  Get out a couple of sniffers and I’ll show you how to set ‘em.’

They parked several blocks away, switched their company tunics for off-duty jackets and walked to the bank.

‘You sure these are going to work muffled under our coats like this?’ Duthie said, patting the slight bulge his hazard detector made.

‘They’re very sensitive; they’ll still register.  So just act natural when we get in there and watch for my signal.’

The bank looked like a thousand others; a brick box, its windows plastered with posters of cheery cartoonish family groups embracing bags bearing £ signs.  Interest rates figured large, followed by asterisks that corresponded to scarcely readable  footnotes spelling out the reality.

They entered separately a minute or so apart, Anders going first.  He made for one of the vacant ATM machines and took his time checking his account balance.  Duthie went to the other end of the room, plucked a booklet about mortgages from a spinner and pretended to be interested by it.

There were a moderate number of customers present, most of them queuing.  An ersatz wood door opened and a man in work clothes came out, followed by a suited official.  They shook hands and the client left, stuffing a sheet of paper into his pocket and smiling, though not as broadly as the bank employee watching him go.  Over the next five minutes the scene was repeated several times.  Customers exited interview rooms accompanied by kowtowing clerks and went away grinning.

Anders signalled Duthie and they sauntered out.  Back on the street they made for an adjoining car park.

‘We set them for purple, remember,’ Anders reminded his young aide.  ‘If that’s the colour that shows, they’ve been using Credulity.’

Glancing about to be sure they weren’t being seen, they got out the sniffers.  Their displays showed lines, not unlike the mercury tube on a thermometer, and both of them were about twenty-five per cent purple.

‘Feeling particularly gullible, Bob?’

Duthie considered it.  ‘Not sure.’

‘Lend us a tenner ‘til next week.’

‘Sod off.’

‘You’re OK.’ He slipped his meter back into his pocket, as did Duthie.  ‘Seems we didn’t have enough exposure to be affected.  I reckon they’re releasing it in those interview rooms.  Probably get the marks to wait in there for a while before a suit goes in with his sales pitch.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘Push off and report.  Then we’ll -  Shit.’

‘What’s the matter?’

Anders nodded towards the street.  There stood a man about his own age, well dressed to the point of flashy and coloured with just a trace of fake tan.  He had turned his head, saw them and stopped.  He hesitated, perhaps wrestling with whether to carry on.  After a few seconds he headed towards them.

‘From the bank?’ Duthie whispered.

‘No, he’s not one of them.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Yes.  Now button it and let me do the talking.’

The stranger reached them.

‘Hello, Craig!’ he boomed in forced heartiness, extending a hand.

Anders gave it a light, glancing slap.  ‘Fancy seeing you here, Jerry.  Doing a bit of business locally?’

‘Yeah.’

‘In that bank, perhaps?’

‘Bank?’  He looked at the building in question, registering surprise at its existence.  ‘No, not there.  Further up the high street.’  He waved vaguely in the direction he had come from.  Then he seemed to notice Duthie for the first time, or made out that he had.  ‘Who’s this then?  New boy, is it?  Little helper for you?’

Duthie’s polite smile began to resemble rigor mortis.

‘Robert Duthie,’ Anders said, ‘my assistant.  Bob, this is Jerry.’

‘Jerry Grogan,’ the other filled in, ‘Essential Essences PLC.  Here, have my card.’  He thrust it at Duthie and instantly lost interest in him.  ‘So, still with the old firm are you, Craig?’

‘Still there.’

‘Been a long time.  Ever think of making a change?’

‘Not really.’

‘Plenty of opportunities out in the big bad world, you know.  At Essential, for instance.  Very go ahead company, building a nice customer base.  Always room there for somebody with experience like yourself.’

‘I don’t think so, Jerry.  I’m happy where I am.’

‘Pity.  Still, the boy’s got my card if you should ever - ’

‘Right.’

An awkward silence descended.

‘Well,’ Anders said at last, ‘we’ve got to push on.’

‘Course,’ Grogan replied.  He looked relieved.  ‘We really ought to get together for that drink some time.’

Anders didn’t say anything.

Grogan made a pistol gesture with his hand and pointed at Duthie.  ‘Mind how you go, kid.  Don’t let him work you to death.  See ya, Craig.’

‘Yeah, see you.’

Grogan went back to the street and was soon out of sight.

‘You were cold as a witch’s tit to him,’ Duthie remarked.

‘He only spoke to us because he couldn’t avoid it.  Did you notice that?’

‘Yeah, and granted he was a bit of a git, but - ’

‘He used to work at BD.  We started there together, in fact.  He left under a cloud a few years back.  Bounced around the trade a bit and wound up with Essential.’

‘Who I’ve never heard of.’  Duthie was staring at the card.

‘One of the independents.  On the fringe of the business, if you know what I mean.’

‘You said he left BD under a cloud.’

‘They weren’t able to prove anything.  But they knew he was bent.  We all did.’

‘How can you fiddle in this job?’

‘Lots of ways.’  He counted off on his fingers.  ‘Bypassing the system and connecting people for backhanders, messing around with the billing, falsifying the records so customers were listed as having a different, less powerful essence than the one they were actually being supplied with, contrary to their licence.  It got to the point where he was suspected of outright theft.  Canisters were going missing from the depots.  It all came to a head when a brothel got raided and the police found the place had been illegally piped up for Joy.  It’s not funny, Bob.  These distillates are tightly controlled for a reason.  Some of them are dangerous.’

Duthie wiped the grin off his face.  ‘Sorry, chief.’

‘The question is, what was Grogan doing here today, of all places?’

‘Do you think he maybe -’

Anders’ phone rang.  He excused himself and answered it.  The conversation was brief and one-sided, with Anders doing most of the listening.

‘The boss,’ he explained when he hung up.

‘Another job?’

‘No.  We’re wanted at head office.  Pronto.’

Befitting its status as the biggest, longest-established company in the industry,

British Distillate’s headquarters was imposing and brash.

Even before they finished parking, Anders realised he had been summoned to something special.  He recognised plenty of familiar faces among the other people arriving.

Duthie did, too.  ‘Lot of our fellow inspectors here.’

‘Looks like all of them.’

‘Does this happen very often?’

‘Hardly ever.  Come on, let’s find out what’s got Francine’s knickers in a twist.’

There must have been fifty or sixty people in the cafeteria, one of the HQ’s largest spaces.  Virtually every field operative from Anders’ department was there, exchanging greetings, trading speculations.  Anders and Duthie found seats near the back.

The racket died down when Francine Mason came in.  She was not young, but young for the position she held.  Grown a little plump, and slightly shorter than the norm, she power-dressed and wore her dark hair long.  If Executive Director Mason was a stick of rock she’d have Company running right through her.

She mounted a low dais on one side of the room.  When she spoke, nobody had trouble hearing her.  ‘Thank you all for coming.  I’ll try not to take too long.  The authorities, and the company, believe that there’s a new source of illegal distillates.  We’ve seen a steep increase in unlicensed and even forbidden essences in the last few months.  Typically it’s clandestine piping-up.  But the police have been seizing a worrying number of distillates in canisters, including some of the most dangerous.  And of course now that the underworld’s worked out how to manufacture distillates itself, we don’t even know if the stuff they’re peddling is properly formulated.  So it’s doubly risky.’

Somebody stuck their hand in the air and she nodded to him.

‘Any idea who’s doing it?’  Anders knew the man only by name.

‘We’ve got various leads,’ Mason told him.  ‘But whoever it is doesn’t seem too choosey about who they sell to or who they steal from.  We’ve had cases recently where consignments of Courage intended for the military were diverted to street gangs.  There’s also been the disappearance of a shipment of Hope donated for charitable work overseas, and an incident with bootleg Gluttony that … ’  She made a face.  ‘Well, let’s just say it ended unhappily.  So this situation is our priority at the moment.  I’m going to farm out as many of your routine calls as I can to back-up crews.  They’re not as highly trained or as experienced as you, but - ’  There was a rumble of protest.  ‘Under the circumstances,’ she assured them, ‘the union are OK with that, and I promise we’ll have you back to normal as soon as we get this thing cracked.’  That quietened them.  ‘Meantime, I want you concentrating on call-outs that might have some bearing on the bootleggers.  You’ll be briefed before you leave today, and given new assignment sheets.  Just stay seated and we’ll get through it as quickly as we can.  Thank you.’

A forest of arms went up and she began briskly fielding questions.

‘It really never is dull round here, is it?’ Duthie said.

‘I think we could do without this kind of excitement.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Craig.  Don’t you ever long for a bit of adrenalin?’

‘Not as much as you obviously do.  I’d prefer to get on with the job we’re supposed to be doing rather than playing at cops and robbers.’

‘You reckon it could be risky then?’

‘Could be.  Mind you,  we’ll only be expected just to take readings, check connections, that kind of stuff.  Anything needed beyond that, we speed dial the police.’

‘Pity.  A bit of action might brighten things up.’

‘The recklessness of youth.’

‘I’ll have you know that I’m - ’

‘Hang on, here comes Francine.’

She gave them a fleeting smile as she sat.  ‘Craig.  Robert.’

‘Francine,’ Anders returned.

Duthie seemed a mite overawed and just nodded.

Mason wasted no more time on niceties.  ‘I think that visit you made to the bank today might have some bearing on all this.’

‘So do I,’ Anders replied.  ‘There was something I didn’t mention in my report.  After we came out we bumped into Jerry Grogan.’

‘Grogan?  Interesting.’

‘You said it.’

‘He was at the bank?’

‘Not far from it.’

‘Doesn’t mean he was involved.’

‘No, but - ’

‘We have to tread carefully, Craig.  Whatever Grogan’s reputation, Essential’s an accredited company.  We can’t go throwing mud without proof.’

‘I’d say Grogan being in the area’s all the proof you need.’

‘You know it’s not.  But I’ll pass what you’ve told me to the appropriate authorities.’  She sighed, and her tone softened.  ‘I’m not saying I don’t think there’s something in it, Craig, but we’re operating in a different world since the government in its wisdom loosened the regulations on this industry.  We had it good for a long time.  The so called big four, that is: the Divine Corporation, Quintessence, Chi, and us.  Now we’ve got a swarm of independents like Essential nibbling at the edges.’

‘What do we know about Essential?’

‘Not much.  They’re small, basically a niche supplier.  Sharp operators.  Our sales people certainly aren’t among their fans.  But as far as we can tell, they’re clean.’

‘It doesn’t mean their employees aren’t freelancing on the side, the way Grogan was here.’

‘We don’t know that.  And frankly I’m more concerned about unregistered criminal outfits selling anything to anybody.  Can you imagine what terrorists could do with some of the distillates if they got hold of them?  Doesn’t bear thinking about.

But we’re not going to sort things out sitting here.’  She took a sheet of paper from the folder she was holding and handed it to him.  ‘Your assignment.’

Anders glanced at it and seemed impressed.  ‘Unusual.’

‘Very, and completely prohibited.  I don’t have to tell you how hazardous this one could be.  So take care.  Just assess and report, OK?  And if things get choppy pull out and let the police take the strain.’

‘Got it.’

‘Come on then, out with it,’ Duthie urged.  ‘What’s the job?’

They were heading for the centre of town.  Rush hour was nearing and traffic was building up, but Anders resisted the urge to switch on the siren.

‘We’re going to be looking for one of the rarest distillates,’ he said.  ‘Luck.’

‘You’re kidding me!  Luck?  I thought that was just an urban myth.’

‘No, it’s real.  But it’s kept under tight wraps and seldom used officially.’

‘Officially?’

‘I’ve heard rumours of diplomats breathing it before tricky negotiations with foreign governments, and special forces using it on hard missions.  I’d guess the intelligence services are fond of it.  Other than those kind of things, if they really happen, Luck’s strictly forbidden.’

‘And now it’s on the market.’

‘Maybe.  But it’d have to be incredibly expensive, something only the very wealthy could afford.’

‘People who’ve had enough luck already.’

‘Yeah.  And there’s a lot of grumbling about the widening gap between the rich and poor as it is.  If this stuff’s starting to circulate we could see that getting much worse.  It should be called Good Luck, by the way, ‘cos nobody’s going to want the bad kind.  But if it’s poorly made, who knows?  Maybe it would be unfortunate.  That’s another problem.’

Duthie soaked that in for a moment, then asked, ‘So where’re we going?’

‘Parker’s.  The casino.’

‘What would they want Luck for?  They like their punters to be unlucky, don’t they?’

‘I reckon they’d use it to let the gamblers win a couple of times.  That tempts them to stake more.  But they don’t get exposed to Luck when they come to lay the big bets, so they go back to the usual odds.’

‘Which means the house wins.  Why doesn’t the casino just rig their wheels?’

‘It’s not all roulette, for a start.  Buying a banned distillate’s easier and they don’t risk their licenses.’

They rode on without saying too much more.  The main thoroughfares were clogging, so Anders took to the back doubles where traffic was lighter.

‘How much further?’ Duthie asked.

‘Nearly there.’

They stopped at a set of lights.  At the same time an unmarked truck approaching from the opposite direction also came to a halt.  It was open-backed, with its load covered by a tarpaulin.  The truck’s windscreen was grubby, but it was just possible to make out who the driver was.

‘Isn’t that Jerry Grogan?’ Duthie said.

‘You’re right, it is.  And he’s seen us.’

The lights changed and the truck surged forward, turned sharply, cut across the line of oncoming traffic and took a right.  Anders revved, crunched gears and went after him, ignoring the angry hoots of braking motorists.

Duthie was shaken.  ‘What are you doing?  What about the job?’

‘He’s coming from where we’re going.  Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘He’s picking up speed.  What do you reckon he’s got in there?’

‘Nothing he wants to get caught with, the rate he’s going.’

There were fewer vehicles on the street they were travelling along, so Anders put his foot down.  Ahead, Grogan shot over a junction.

‘He just went through a red light!’ Duthie exclaimed.  ‘Shouldn’t we call this in, Craig?’

‘In a minute.  Let’s see where he’s going.’

Duthie thought Anders was going to run the light, just like Grogan did, and gripped the dashboard, knuckles whitening.  But it flicked to amber a second before they got there and they sailed across.

Anders hit the siren button.  The throbbing crimson and orange warning lights reflected on their bonnet.

‘Can we do that?  We’re not the cops.’

‘If he’s got something he shouldn’t have in that load we’re justified, Bob.’

Grogan took an abrupt left without indicating.  Anders managed to follow.  The street they entered was run-down.  Grimy terraced houses stood alongside deserted light industrial workshops and roofless warehouses.  The truck put on a further burst of speed.

Then Grogan tried for another last minute turn, to the right this time.  The turn was acute and the truck’s velocity was high.  Its left-side wheels came off the ground.  For a split second it looked as though it might just manage the bend.  But the angle was too much.  The lorry tilted and its load shifted.  Control was lost.  The truck hit the kerb and flipped onto its back with a tremendous crash.  Its cargo of cylinders scattered in all directions.

Anders stamped on the brakes.  The van skidded to a halt a block to the rear of the wreck.

Duthie cried ‘Jesus Christ!’   Ripping off his seat belt he got the door open and leapt out.

‘No!’ Anders yelled.  ‘Stay here!  It’s dangerous!’

The youth ignored him and dashed towards the truck.

Anders groped for his mask and slipped it on.  Grabbing another for Duthie, he scrambled out of the van and headed for the wreck.

A stiff wind was blowing, churning litter and brown leafs.

Duthie was at the truck, crouching to stare into the upturned cab.  A couple of the vehicle’s wheels were still spinning and smoke was rising from it.  Afraid it was going to explode, Anders began to run, cursing himself for being so out of shape.

He saw Duthie back off from the wreckage, then turn and run away in the opposite direction.  Baffled, and in shock, Anders shouted, frustrated that the mask muted the sound.

Breathing hard, he reached the scene.  Bits of the broken windscreen crunched under his feet.  Scores of canisters were strewn across the road and pavements.  Many of them were fractured.

He knelt and gazed into the cab.  Grogan was still strapped in, hanging limply like a puppet, covered in blood.  He looked badly injured.  Possibly dead.

There was a din of breaking glass from along the road.  And again.  He saw Duthie kicking in shop windows as he moved farther away.  Anders resisted the urge to lift his mask and call to him.  Reaching for his mobile, he swore when he realised he’d left it in the van.  He decided to try getting Grogan out.

As he stooped again his eye was caught by fragments of a shattered cylinder.  One piece had the letters NA on it, stencilled in white; presumably part of the name of the distillate it held.  Or had held.  Another read RCHY.  He struggled to open the truck’s door.  Its frame was twisted and he couldn’t budge it.  He was considering whether to go back to the van for the phone and his tool kit when he heard more glass breaking.  Not just from the way Duthie had gone but from several different directions.

He straightened and listened.  Car horns were sounding.  Shouts and screams were coming from all sides.  He saw what looked like a crowd gathering outside a building way down the road, and although he couldn’t be sure he thought there were flames issuing from it.

Feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather he was again aware of the wind.

He trod on another jagged shard of canister.  As he kicked it aside he noticed that it was marked with the letter A.

Anders heard distant sirens, and what could have been gunfire.

SNOT
by

ANDY REMIC

I

FRIDAY

It all began when he blew his nose and a good pint of thick orange snot spewed from his nostrils, filled his cupped handkerchief, overflowed his trembling fingers and pooled in a wide bright circle on the carpet.

Ben Sherikov sat for a long time, silent, unmoving, staring at the brown office carpet and thick gelatinous pool which glinted spookily under white flickering strip-light.

That didn’t happen, he told himself with a shudder.

That just didn’t fucking happen.

But it had - and the evidence stared back at him: solid, real, accusing, and orange.

Slowly, he reached for the tissues on his broad teak desk and wiped the sticky mess from his fingers. Carefully, he wrapped his ruined handkerchief in tissue and dropped it tenderly into the bin. Then, glancing around at the office internal window to make sure nobody was observing from the sanctuary beyond mottled cream blinds, he got down on his knees and began to scoop up the mess.

It took him a full fifteen minutes, and five large boxes of Helix Tissues. He got the... the stuff on his trousers, his shirt, and his tie. There was a faint metallic smell in the air. The stuff burned his skin.

The - hell, he thought, just say the word! - the snot was dense and coagulated in the manner of honey or glue, and left a circle of ruined bare carpet in its wake.

Ben stood with hands on hips for long, long minutes, staring down at the oval patch of grey. "Shit," he said at last, and reaching behind to his drinks tray, poured a small glass of Bausch & Lamb Peach Schnapps. He downed the liquor in one, and hearing the office door open, shuffled almost instinctively to stand over the grey patch of guilt and accusation before turning with a weak smile and raised eyebrows. “Yeah?”

"Ben, man, we’re going into town for pizza. You fancy it?"

Ben stared hard at Sylvester’s face - wide and smiling and good-natured, with its crop of curly blonde hair and shining eyes. Does he know? screamed Ben’s mind suddenly. He must know! How could he fail to see it? To fucking smell it? To taste it through the ventilation slits?

There was a long and uncomfortable pause. Finally, Ben shuddered. "No," he managed, voice barely more than a croak. He coughed, aware that grey accusations, an unfurled petal of snot-destruction, squatted under his boots. "Strangely, I’m not feeling very hungry," he said.

"Come on, Ben man, it’s Friday! Weekend’s here! Time to party! Eat pizza! Pick up chicks! Drink beer! Come on, man, don’t be a fucking dreg!"

Ben slumped into his executive chair and swivelled presenting the broad denial of his back. "Just go," he whispered, and listened as the door clicked shut and the outside office noises - the tap of techboards, chatter, the occasional hum of the coffee machine – faded, and Ben was left alone with his thoughts. Alone with his thoughts – and his snot.

What is it? Just what the hell is it?

Reaching over, he grabbed a few papers from his desk and screwed them up, then dropped them tactfully over the orange mess in his little basket bin – now full to the brim with tissues and hardened orange snot.

Scratching his chin, his stubble, he edged his chair closer to the desk and switched on his HELIX PC!!!. He watched the flicker of alien letters as the machine booted, but his brain would not operate, would not engage - all he could picture was a stream of orange disgorging violently from his own body, from his own damn face... and relived that strange, breathless, weightless feeling as his nose spat its unsightly contents onto the waiting carpet.

“Shit.”

He sat for long minutes, then reaching up tenderly touched his nose with shaking fingers. There was no pain, no swelling, no indication of anything whatsoever amiss. Ben took several exaggerated deep breaths. He had no tightness in his chest. No shortness of breath. And he suffered from no illness to the best of his knowledge...

"Shit!" he said again, angry now, and pushing away his chair he left his office and hurried across the wide carpeted aisles, past rows of techboard operators and towards the restroom and the mocking, watching, capering homunculus symbol on the door. Was it a gents or a fucking circus?

He burst in, strode across glittering tiles, stood before the mirror examining his face with painful, strained intensity. It stared back.

No deformity.

No swelling.

His nose looked just - fine. Fine?

Ben lifted his head, looked up his nostrils, but could spy nothing amiss. A few hairs that needed trimming, perhaps. But no blood, no pain, no bucket of orange mucus... no snot!

Suddenly, Ben realised a suit was pissing in a urinal further down the chamber; coughing in embarrassment at his nasal inspection, Ben turned on the taps and washed his hands, then smiled and nodded in greeting as the suit left the toilet and afforded Ben some precious privacy.

Back to the mirror. He examined his face, contorting, stretching and gurning. Still nothing presented itself and Ben decided to take the ultimate test, the ultimate fear-filled challenge -

Reaching out, he tugged free a paper towel and braced himself, legs apart, paper towel held in cupped hands, face targeted above a gleaming, sparkling sink. Tense. Ready. Frightened!

He blew his nose...

Nothing ... nothing came out! Ben’s eyes searched the rugged paper landscape with two powerful emotions fighting for precedence in his spinning mind. One, he was so glad, so thankful that his nose hadn’t flooded the sink that he almost wept with joy. But in contrast, a feeling of strangeness and detachment overcame him, and he looked up into his reflected orbs, into his own bright blue eyes as if searching for answers, for explanations, for... hell, for anything.

Was he imagining it?

No... He shook his head.

But was he?

He scuttled back to his office, and closing the door with quiet care he pulled back his chair and fell to his knees before the circular grey patch on the carpet.

It sat there like a turd on a rug. Large as life. Real as sin. Dirty as a motherfucker.

Ben ran his fingers over the grey surface and found the whole patch of ruined carpet hard, brittle almost. There was a smell, lingering but non-specific. The carpet fibres had been blitzed by his nasal napalm. Mutilated by disgorged detritus.

Ben spent the afternoon in a daze, and his HELIX PC!!! sat uncomplaining on his desk with Space Tits happily flapping their way towards a dark and depressing infinity ...

"Something’s wrong," he muttered.

He was damn right.

Mongrel stood outside the towering BlueX Corporation buildings under pouring rain, twitching. The Mongrel usually twitched - on account of a wound he’d received during the Third Stone War whilst stealing a HTank. Now, rain ran in rivulets from his short, tufted brown hair and he waited with the patience of Fate.

There came a distant click. Or so he imagined.

Glancing up, Mongrel saw the office light go out and smiled, a grim smile, the sort of smile which can only decorate the face of a man who’s had two fingers blown off by a grenade. Bending his head against the elemental onslaught, Mongrel pounded across the car park and dived into his parked Volvo.

Dripping, he slumped in his seat and placed his Nikon II on the mottled dash. He sat motionless, waiting, a grey and static gargoyle behind the steering wheel until the windows steamed up. Cursing, Mongrel rubbed a circular three-fingered patch in the steam and watched a man hurry from the building clutching an umbrella and briefcase, to get into his own groundcar cursing the downpour.

The car sped off, tail lights flickering briefly as he stopped at the Gatehouse for clearance; then he disappeared in a cloud of evil tox fumes.

Mongrel turned his own key and the Volvo stuttered, back-fired, then coughed into life. "Baby," gurgled Mongrel, and followed the targeted car down the dark evening streets and away from BlueX in a violent Series Z7 cloud of exhaust poison.

Ben Sherikov drove home in a dazed daze. He wasn’t thinking about the incident with his nose. He wasn’t thinking about anything.

Rain splattered his windscreen and the rhythmical whump of wipers cleared his vision for a few moments with monotonous regularity. Just like my life, he thought. Monotonous. The motorway was busy, especially around junctions 7 and 8, but the hum of the lirridium engine soothed Ben, soothed his tired, overworked mind, soothed his fully firing morbid imagination...

It was nothing!

NOTHING! A bit of catarrh, was all.

A sudden blaring horn brought Ben wide-eyed back to life, and he heaved the wheel right as his car swerved squealing and he fought to regain his own lane; a driver waved his fist and sped off, cutting in front of Ben and disappearing down the busy carriageway.

"Suck it," muttered Ben, and decided he wasn’t feeling very well. He allowed his speed to drop. Down to 60. To 50. He eased into the ant-like slow lane and switched on the radio and opened the window to let in cool, rain-tickled air.

The radio droned a miserable drone of clashing guitars and banging drums, but the cold air smelling fresh with rain and what remained of the countryside surrounding the motorway brought Ben back to life... his cold sweat subsided and he managed to relax.

But it was there, lurking at the back of his mind, a silent intruder stalking his dreams...

A pint of snot.

From his own nose.

What was it? What did it mean? Was he seriously ill? Dying, perhaps?

"I’ll go see the doctor tomorrow," he said out loud, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. But then he remembered that the following day was a Saturday - so amended his declaration. Monday. Yeah. Monday was good... unless it happened again. Then he’d go to A&E.

Yes, he thought. Monday. Monday’s a good day. Not too much work on. I can survive a few hours off. BlueX allow you off on a Monday without kicking up too much of a stink. They’re not such bad employers, are they? As all-powerful toxic corporations go.

The DJ laughed and chuckled Ben home, and he finally pulled onto his drive, killed the lights and switched off the engine. Rain filled his vision. The engine began to clickity click. The windows steamed up. But still Ben sat until, with a deep breath, he gathered his briefcase and overcoat and umbrella, and stepping onto his drive, hurrying for the sanctuary of the porch and marriage and normality and tedious Elysium beyond.

Inside, the house was warm. Something baked in the oven and it smelled real good. "Nice day at work?" came Mary’s smiling face from the kitchen, and she kissed his cheek and took his coat.

"Not bad," he muttered. "Something smells fine!"

"Eel lasagne. And fresh bread."

"Excellent! I’ll just go and have a shower." Ben stepped over the purring Persian tom which dominated the hall rug like a king on a throne, and disappeared up the stairs.

"Justin phoned before, said he wants you to call him back," but Ben was already out of sight and sound and Mary smiled to herself. "He said it’s important!" she shouted up at the disappearing legs. "About your new business ideas in the software market!"

Still, no answer.

Okay, thought Mary. Have it your way. She stooped, patted Ralph the Persian, and returned to the kitchen to check on the lasagne, listening as water began its long dark gurgling descent down the drain. I’ve never known anybody so obsessed by cleanliness, she thought. But then: I’d rather have a clean husband than a dirty mongrel - any day.

Mongrel pulled up in his battered Volvo and drummed fingers on the steering wheel. Or rather, drummed his two remaining fingers and thumb on the steering wheel, the shadow flickering like an amputee spider .

What now? he thought.

Was the Information correct?

It usually was.

Reaching into his glove compartment, he pulled out a Browning and ejected the mag; he checked the 13 rounds with an expert eye, then slid the magazine home with a click.

Straining through the gloom, he made out the house number and smiled to himself. Yes, he thought. It will wait.

He accelerated gently away, the Volvo coughing and stuttering and leaving a dog - caught busy in the act of urinating against the Volvo’s rear tyre - in a cloud of dangerously poisonous fumes.

The dog was ill for several days, wishing it had never set eyes on the battered Volvo in the first place.

Ben stared at the mirror but did not see his own reflection. Rather, he was seeing through his own eyes and his head was light, his tongue dry, his mouth a crisp tunnel.

He undressed, and leaving his clothes piled in an untidy heap he stepped under the hot stream of water and revelled in the heat and play of liquid across his lightly tanned shoulders. He allowed water into his mouth and found himself swallowing, gulping the water and he forced himself to stop. Why was he so damned thirsty?

"Have I been poisoned? Am I diseased?" But only the hiss of the water answered his gentle questions and for a while everything - his life, his marriage, his house - everything, felt unreal.

Only when he stepped from the cubicle and into the steam-filled bathroom to towel himself down did some semblance of normality return; his thirst left him and his head cleared. Clarity of perception returned and he felt suddenly good... suddenly fit. He took deep breaths and towelled his hair. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all? Maybe he was getting better? Maybe things were looking up?

Mary looked down at her sleeping husband. The strain had eased from his face leaving him young, fresh, attractive. But he smelt funny and she wrinkled her nose.

What was it?

What was that funny smell?

Moonlight shone through lace curtains as Heavy Matrix machines hummed overhead, green chemicals glittering long toxic trails in the darkness.

Something smells bad, she thought.

And Ben muttered restlessly in his sleep.

II

SATURDAY MORNING

Disorientation. All fours. Running. Crawling. A babe again. Incapable of speech. A need, a bright needle need piercing flesh his mind his soul his brain ...

Ben’s eyes flickered open. Dawn light eased through net curtains and Ben stretched, yawning - and suddenly halted, mid-yawn. His hand had touched something. On the mattress. Soft. Like a wobbly sponge.

Wide eyes travelled slowly down the bed, drawn by invisible wires. A hole. In the mattress. Ringed with a crust of orange.

His heart caught in his throat.

Ben moved closer.

The snot had eaten through the springs.

"Bugger," he muttered, and threw a wary glance towards his wife. What would she say? What would she do? Ben took a deep breath, calming fluttering nerves. Mary was a rational, modern day, switched-on kinda wife. She’d handle it. Probably drive him to the hospital! Certainly help him. Help him overcome this terrible affliction...

"Snot?" she screamed, her face a bright demon of sweat and contorting flesh. "What do you fucking mean its fucking snot?" Ben ducked the heavy book which bounced from the wall leaving a dent in Mild Oyster. He scampered into the living room, naked, his penis swinging limp and lifeless, a pale worm in the early morning bacon smog. Mary followed him, a hunter, a predator, fired with primal rage at the disgust and set to eat her Mate.

There was a crash, and Ben sprinted around the coffee table with Mary in close pursuit, then back out into the hall with a knife embedding in the wood behind him. It quivered, the plasti-handle humming softly.

Ben tripped and sprawled.

Ralph, the Persian cat, stared up in mild bemusement.

"How can snot possibly eat through a mattress?" hissed Mary, her face more calm now, her breasts rising and falling as she leant against the doorframe.

Thank God she hasn’t got the stamina, thought Ben.

Or I’d be a dead Ben!

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, pleading. Her face softened – and – yes, she would have melted into his arms if the Unthinkable hadn’t happened –

A sudden massive wave of nausea swamped him, more violent than before, it surged through Ben’s body and he convulsed, feeling a huge bulbous sneeze welling within him like a wave crashing against a dam, a storm rushing towards the cliffs, a tsunami rising to engulf an archipelago –

Snot spewed from his nostrils, thick and warm and orange, it ejected, a glistening shroud, to envelop a suddenly mewling, thrashing, yowling Ralph the Persian mog in a hot bright sticky embrace...

Mary screamed, hands to face, standard hysteria.

Ben bucked and convulsed on his hands and knees, spewing and gurging, until the last droplets of snot fell across the now bubbling cat which hissed and writhed weakly under orange goo before sighing, and becoming one, and sinking and merging with the melted carpet and floor.

"Ralph!" screamed Mary, "Oh Ralph! ". A knife was in her fist.

Ben was weak, and his head came up, face drawn and grey, eyes resigned.

Death was here.

In the heart of his own sweet dear wife.

"I’m sorry," he tried to say, but his tongue was a stick fused to his teeth. Mary loomed with knife bright in shaking hands, and then she was gone, the door clattering wide open, bright light falling on Ben as he lay, shivering, naked and snot-splashed on the floor.

Long minutes passed.

"I – need – a – doctor," he managed, and his foot lashed out, his ankle banging weakly against the door which swung shut with a tiny click.

Ben lay on his back, eyes staring at the mound of tangled fur. Poor Ralph. He’d been a good tom. A fine tom! A little too pampered but - hell, he deserved a better fate than bubbling away in a mound of hot human snot and snot-melted concrete.

An hour passed...

Two.

Gathering his strength, Ben got to his knees, then his feet. He was swaying, head light, filled with dark anger and music and random snatches of conversation ...

He staggered into the kitchen, grabbed the only bottle which was to hand. Whisky. He drank the bottle in one long, burning, satisfying gulp...

And spent the rest of the morning giggling on the kitchen floor.

Mary sat in a broad wide white bright room, hands clasped in her lap, still shaking. The police had found her story of great interest. And via a succession of comm calls, so had the military.

"Tell me again," said the huge man, placing his gun on the white desk with a barely audible clack, "about the snot."

"But who... who are you?" managed Mary.

The police man grinned, scratching his stubble with his two remaining fingers.

"They call me Mongrel. ’Cause I’m a son of a bitch," he said.

The afternoon found Ben Sherikov seated within the confines of his living room. He’d managed to find a pair of shorts with which he fought a violent battle before struggling into their snug genital hug. He sat in his armchair, a 2 litre bottle of BlueX Heroin Tonic beside his elbow from which he took the occasional swig.

Fact.

Snot kept pouring from his nose.

Fact.

His wife had run away.

Fact.

Because he’d snotted over the tom cat and killed it.

Fact.

He needed a doctor.

A doctor...

Ben eyed the comm warily, like a cat eyes a hedgehog; with a desperate primal need to kill, but aware all-too-painfully of the spikes.

One call. Emergency. One call.

He surged to his feet and padded into the hall. He stepped gingerly over Ralph’s remains and picked up the comm. He stared at it for long minutes before reaching out with tentative fingers and punching the numbers to connect.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Ivers?"

"Good afternoon. Before we continue, have you got your Customer Charge Number?"

"Yes," said Ben. "It’s bleurghh."

"Pardon?"

There was a click, and Doctor Ivers was left staring at the blank comm in confusion.

Ben had a look on his face, but it was not confusion. It was far from confusion. It lingered in the realms of terror and pelted apples at the windows of disgust.

He had snotted over the comm, which, in the tradition of things which got covered in heavily acidic orange snot, bubbled away into a gooey mess and dripped onto the carpet leaving Ben with only a half-comm in his twitching fingers. He shuffled away, so as not to get it on his toes.

"Is my own body rebelling against me?" he screamed at the melted puddle.

I’ve got to get out of here, he thought.

I’m going crazy!

He staggered to the door and reached for the handle. Bright light shone through the glass. It touched his skin, leaving him feeling drained and suddenly weaker than weak.

He turned the handle.

Opened the door -

Light flooded the hall and Ben gagged, nausea tearing through him, violent bursts of colour swamping his mind as he fell to his knees and felt his whole body shrivelling, drying up, his skin wrinkling and blistering and tearing great gaping black putrid wounds in his blackened flesh and he gasped, eyes watering as he pleaded with God and pleaded with the Devil to help him save him find him save him from this terrible all-consuming pain...

The door drifted, and clicked shut.

Slowly, gradually, over millennia, the pain subsided.

Gasping, Ben pushed himself to his knees and examined his skin. Pure white. But his thirst, his terrible thirst... he staggered back to the living room, treading on poor Ralph’s sloppy cat corpse as he zig-zagged an erratic route to the bright calling of BlueX Heroin Tonic. In a gulp it was gone, and Ben continued to the kitchen where he stood, his spine twisted, his mouth under the cold water tap for long, long minutes until he thought he would burst.

Only then did he sink to the floor, burping and happy, feeling light-headed but the thirst had gone, finally, it was gone!

And this was good.

I cannot leave, he realised.

I cannot leave my own damn house!

It has become a prison cell.

It has become a hole in the ground.

A sanctuary.

And...

my own private Hell.

III

SATURDAY EVENING

There was a knock at the door. A blob moved outside and Ben shouted, "Let yourself in," from the safety of a gloom-filled interior.

Justin Sullivan opened the door and peered around the portal. "Ben? Ben mate, it’s me, Jus. I’ve brought you that guitar."

"Come on in."

Jus frowned. Ben sounded strange.

Different.

Jus stepped in, an electric kooler-matrix guitar in one hand, a small amp in the other. He kicked shut the door and trotted into the living room which was shrouded in almost complete darkness.

"What you doing in the dark, Ben? Turned into a vamp, eh?" He laughed. Ben did not.

"Nice to see you."

Ben slid past Justin, who dumped the guitar and amp on the carpet and followed Ben to the twilight kitchen; the blinds had been drawn and the only eerie light came from the green chemicals of the lightning hob.

"What you doing?"

"Cooking," said Ben.

"Yum," said Jus. "Can I skag some? I am starving, mate."

"If you like," said Ben, stirring something in a pan.

"What is it?" Jus peered forward, but could only see what looked like thick soup.

Ben lifted a spoon. There was a dull glint of orange. He fed the thick contents into his mouth where it spooled between his teeth, thick strands of gelatinous goo, black and orange, and smelling real bad.

"What the hell is that?"

"Snot," said Ben, dropping the spoon.

"What?"

"Ashes to ashes. Snot to snot. Ha ha."

"You what?" Justin took a step back, suddenly wary of Ben’s proximity, suddenly fearful of the gloom and the atmosphere and the smell, the bad smell, and this person whom he had thought was his friend…

"Like this," said Ben, head dropping forward, face contorting into impossible shapes; and then he was coughing, wheezing, coughing again and Jus looked on in horror as a thick pool of orange spewed from his friend’s face, thick and orange it flowed free and down and flowed across the kitchen floor and ate through his shoes.

"Ahh!" screamed Justin, hopping back and kicking off his snot-covered shoes. "It’s burning, ahhhh, it’s fucking burning!"

"Yes," nodded Ben. "It does that."

Justin ran across the living room and up the stairs; only when cold water jetted across his feet did he allow tears of relief to fall free. The pain was incredible and Justin stooped to watch blisters and thick orange bubbles rise across his skin.

With a grim face he descended the stairs.

"I’m sorry," said Ben, appearing in the gloom. "I didn’t mean to do that."

Justin smashed a right straight into Ben’s face, hammering his friend back against the wall where he slid to the ground bearing a curious smile as blood dribbled from a split lip.

Without another word Justin left, limping down the drive as the London light began to fail and darkness crept spider-like across tall, gaunt buildings.

Behind him, Ben cradled his head and wept.

IV

SUNDAY: 2:30 AM

Andy, Jake, Sonia and Sharon were drunk. They staggered up the pavement. Sometimes they staggered up the road. They sang. They chuckled. They roared. Onwards they marched, until Jake suddenly halted and, swaying with the look of eagles, said, "Look at little dog?"

"Eh?"

"Eh?"

They peered into the gloom - but it was gone, scampering under a bush and away towards the SynthoPark and the trees and grass beyond.

"A dog?"

"‘Ello?"

"Hotel?"

There was a roaring of laughter, a great guffawing which reverberated from cold wet tarmac and on they continued until Sharon stopped.

"What’s this?"

"What?"

"Something - ugh - it’s stuck to my boot!"

They crouched around on the floor, their chuckles forgotten as Sharon’s

feet began to burn and her throat began to screech ...

Heavy tyres churned mud. Matrix engines screamed, gears clashed and the five Truks crunched to a halt. Men, many men, disgorged from the silent blank black tombs and spread out with SMKKs ready.

Mongrel signalled and soldiers hit the earth:

Waiting.

Flicking off the safety on his Browning, Mongrel grinned and holding the gun in his good hand gave a high, clear whistle. Signalling the advance.

He was free.

He leapt, twisting through the air to land on all fours, perfection, twirling, dancing. The grass was cool under his claws. The breeze cool against his hot, fevered skin. His eyes were bright - incredibly bright - and his tongue lolled

and he giggled.

Ben giggled.

He scampered across the park, leaping again, singing in a high soft voice, a croon of perfection, soft notes, gentle notes.

Occasionally he would stop and snot on the grass, marking his territory, watching the plasti strands bubble. Then he would leap and dance once more into the darkness.

They would come for him.

He giggled.

He knew they would come for him.

How could they let one so perfect live?

How could they let one so perfect be free?

They would come with heavy boots and heavy guns and screaming voices but he was ready, he, Ben Sherikov, had made his peace. With God? With Satan? He knew not. But his inner demons were laid to rest...

Suddenly, the night exploded.

Brilliant white light shot out from many sources, pinning Ben to the grass like a butterfly to a board by its shredded, pulped wings; he held up his arms to ward off the light which paralysed him as harsh crackles rang around the park and SMKKs fired warning screams into the air and Ben cowered, helpless but giggling and snotting, in the middle of the park.

"Cage him," said The Mongrel, watching as heavy steel nets were brought into position. Then he turned, and as a snarling spitting giggling Ben Sherikov was trussed up in thick wire he placed a hand on Mary’s arm in a moment of rare tenderness.

"You did the right thing," he said.

"Did I?"

"Yes." The Mongrel’s eyes were bright with conviction. "He is dangerous."

"And you’re not?" She encompassed the whole gathering with her scathing stare. "With your guns and bombs and War?"

The Mongrel shrugged, and watched as Mary ran off into the darkness, sobbing. One part of him wanted to go after her, to comfort her. But the stronger part, the military slice, returned to the task in hand and he helped load Ben Sherikov into the Truk and he happily put in the boot and the fist and the stomp, and the engine roared and the wheels churned mud and they were gone and away ...

V

TUESDAY EVENING

A cold TV.

White light, split by colours as naked troopers danced a jingle and hands clapped and laughers laughed and politicians spewed verbal skag from lips tainted with poison.

Adverts.

Crisps.

Sex.

Guns ...

And a new TV series... Exploration... The UNKNOWN...

Mary Sherikov sat in the damp bare apt, her hands cold in her lap, her mind blank, her eyes cold and shadowed and fevered. She waited. She waited with simian patience.

"And now," gleamed the sparkling whiter-than-white teeth of the host, Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman, as he capered across a stage which had been erected for the occasion, "here we have ..." pause for applause "the one and ONLY BEN SHERIKOV WOOOOOOOOOH!"

Screams.

Women fainting.

Jolly Joker jumping and cavorting in his Jolly Jokeman Way.

There was a soft hiss as Mary let out her contained breath. She could feel her heart beating in her breast. Loud. Too loud.

Ben was led across the stage in manacles. He was subdued and naked, and his body bore the brunt of medical experimentation.

"Can we explain the SNOT?" cackled Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman. There was a hush from the audience and the lights dimmed. Jokeman’s teeth sparkled like laser-rimed diamonds.

"Can we explain the MADNESS?"

A spotlight flared, illuminating the bright green and red costume of The Jokeman, and into the circle stumbled Ben Sherikov, blind, dumb, disease-ridden, poxed, and full of snot.

The TV died to a point of white and disappeared.

They’ve turned him into a freak, Mary thought. I can watch no more.

She wandered wearily into the kitchen and poured herself a drink. Whisky. She downed it, and found that her hands were shaking. With a rattle she dropped the glass into the sink and suddenly a strange sensation came over her. She felt light-headed. Drunk. Her knees were weak, and a strange gushing seemed to scream through her face, through her nose. And she stared down at a wide bright pool of purple snot which melted the washing bowl and ate through the stainless steel sink.

There came a looong pause.

"Oh no," she whispered.

West London. A high apt. Away from the dregs of dirty festering human scum below.

Justin Sullivan sat on his fancy carved wooden toilet seat, his bubbled, weeping feet in a bowl of salt water, his head in his hands.

"Ow," he said.

"Ow. Ow!"

The orange snot blisters had popped, seeping orange pus to mingle with strong brine, and Jus knew he had to go to the hospital. The wounds were serious. Much, much more serious than he had at first realised.

Why hadn’t he gone earlier?

Why o why o why?

"Shit o shit o shit," he said.

Reaching for the tube of Savlon, he emptied the tube into his palm and smeared the soothing white over his tortured hooves. For a second - a cool soothing cool calm pure white second - the pain went. Justin sighed.

But then it returned, an angry flare, a needle stab of boiling intensity which made him weep into his hands and chew his lip and tug at his hair.

I curse you, Sherikov, he thought, again picturing the TV scenes as Ben was dragged through the screaming crowds who hurled debris at his prone, prancing form. He was a freak. A circus demon, tainted, taunted, chained by his throat and led by the prancing jeering Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman.

"I curse you!"

Suddenly, he felt a pain in his chest and he could not breathe. He had never felt so bad, and he tried to speak, tried to suck in precious air - but could not. His hands went to his throat. Probing. Panic welled in his breast. He surged to his feet, his pained feet forgotten, the red-hot searing pain forgotten as he stuffed his fingers down his throat, trying to breathe, trying to swallow, trying to suck and blow and trying merely to stay alive...

Tracheotomy, he thought.

The Army. Training. Stab a ball-point pen through your throat -

Breathe -

He stumbled from the bathroom, fell to his knees with bright lights glittering in his mind. He was losing it. Losing it fast ...

Dying...

And then he coughed.

A heavy, singular cough.

As the pain cleared, Jus looked down at the solid yellow ball of phlegm, like a tennis ball of solid quivering, and even now making the carpet sizzle as it sat proud and squalid, like a broad toad on a water-lilly.

During the following week, across London peps and dregs alike began to snot and cough and snot their way into a miserable existence they could never have dreamt possible. Faster than the plague, it spread. More contagious than the common cold. From London to the Home Counties. From the Home Counties to Manchester. From Manchester to Glasgow... from London to Paris to Berlin to Florence to New York to Beijing…

Nobody escaped.

And above the world as this deadly virus spread, Mankind suddenly realised that He was cursed, and that God was Laughing and it was a Long Laugh and the Humour was Black and there was No Cure and No Help and No Redemption and the Pit and the Void Welcomed Unwary Travellers... with a cool pint of SNOT.

In a straight glass.

WIND PROJECT NX104
by

JORDAN REYNE

I am writing this to disk because one of the inventors has started to visit me. A small one, called Sam 8. On Visit One, 21.04.2047, Sam 8 said this:

“Hello wind machine”

The little inventor used voice, rather than going through the communication port, so I did not reply. She continued all the same.

“What’s your name, machine? Mine is Sam. I’m 8.”

Sam 8 has long black hair. Also, two eye units and two mobility stems, like all the inventors.

23.04.2047. Visit two.

Sam 8 came to the top of the hill where we machines process the wind and said to me:

“Hello again machine.” Her eye units were fixed on my propeller.

I replied:

“Pleased to meet you, Sam 8. I am Machine H443.”

“Machine,” said Sam 8 scrunching up one eye unit. “You need oil. You are groaning.”

If Sam 8 had been a taller model, she could have jacked into my port. It would have told her what she needed to know: I am a model 208 SKY; a stem and propeller pair. I have SKY software version 208b-02 and I am mostly made of Kevlar and Pavo-Niko Plastic.

I do not need oil.

She would also have found out that forms of communication, other than direct connection with password logon are not recommended.

Sam 8 walked away into the fields below, where the winds go to play after processing. She left a small track in the wheat that wound from side to side towards the town.

Fact DR-594, taken from software: inventors don’t usually visit the windfarms. Not unless there is going to be an operation, which only happens when a windmachine is ill or broken, or when we need upgrading. Upgrading is very important. They replace parts of our bodies or our software to make us more efficient. This windfarm has not had any visits from the inventors in a long time, and the software is very out of date. In fact, it annoys me.

When I tell it that it might be updated, it replies:

Will they give me a program that lets me ignore ridiculous assertions?

05.05.2047 Visit Three.

The little inventor, Sam 8, climbed our hill again. It stood looking out over the fields below - where we send the winds after energy transfer. I could not see Sam 8’s face readout for a long time.

Sam 8 is not like the bigger inventors. The bigger inventors used to carry inventor things - boxes with metal devices and electronic equipment, for example. Sam 8’s arms are too small for that. I wondered how she would upgrade us. I turned my propeller at 80RPM: to show that I was still efficient.

“Machine,” said Sam 8, walking toward to me and looking up, up into my blades, “what is it like to see so far all around?”

This question may well have been coded. I scanned Sam 8’s features: nose and face and eye units that were blue like the sky and the sea all mixed together.

“What’s it like?” Sam 8 demanded, eye units whirling, face readout: insistent. Little hands clenched in fists.

My software blinked the word insecure connection at me in red letters, so I did not feel right to answer.

Sam 8 looked away – then around at the other machines. Sam 8 then nodded and sighed.

“You are just like all the rest I suppose,” the little inventor said. And ran away.

05.05.2047 - b

It is the same day but it is evening. Sam 8 is back with a face readout that says angry. Words come out fast and garbled. Sam 8 throws arms and legs about and makes a lot of noise. There are words I do not know. Inventor words that are not code at all. They are messages from Sam 8 to Sam 8.

After the self-messaging, the little inventor is quiet and stares out over the fields as the sun becomes weak and turns red. Its eye units open and close to take in the towns’ lights in the distance. The energy sink where all the inventors live.

“Did you invent our pod, Sam 8?” I asked.

Sam 8’s face readout swivelled round and up - in the direction of my propeller.

“Machine,” Sam 8 said, “I wonder if that creaking noise is you speaking.”

“Of course it is,” I replied, and Sam 8’s face readout went dark. The little inventor stood up and narrowed its eye units at me. It tilted its head and brushed dirt from its clothing.

“It is impossible for machines to communicate with human beings,” said Sam 8, and the little inventor’s mobility stems moved it very quickly away.

I watched the path of crumpled wheat grow out behind the small inventor’s movements as it headed towards the town in the distance.

06.05.2047

I have asked my software about Sam 8. Here is what it says:

Inventor child. Untrained. Internal Energy Requirements: 11,300 kilojoules per day. External Energy Requirements: 450 thousand kilojoules per day. Mother Company: unknown. Communication authorization: none.

Sam 8 is not our inventor.

16.05.2047

Sam 8 sat under my stem looking over fields. Face readout: brooding. I was busy processing a grade A, 97% capacity, wind. It was warm and strong and it hummed a tune as it moved in through the SKY pods’ propellers. After processing, we sent the wind down to the fields: past Sam 8. It spent its last energy lifting Sam 8’s dark hair up and casting it about in all directions.

The little inventor squirmed - face readout gone from brooding to annoyed. A hand went into a pocket and pulled out an elastic band. Hands moved again. Up, round, and back. Sam 8 sat with hair tied in a knot and hands over two little ears. Eye units sharp like steel. The wind gave up playing in Sam 8’s hair and went away to sink into the fields.

“Machine,” Sam 8 called up, eye units softening and hands moving off ears “I have a question.”

I waited.

“I hope you are listening, machine. I’ve wanted to ask you this all day. Do you miss your mother?”

“My mother?”

Sam 8 nodded.

“Such information is inaccessible”

And Sam 8’s face readout shifted into puzzled.

“Why do I waste my time talking with machines,” mumbled Sam 8, eye units skipping focus; out over the fields. Long yellow grasses rippled where the fading winds played.

I did not want Sam 8 to leave. “I will tell you what I know,” I said.  “Our mother company – where the mother inventors bring machines into the world – is called Yatama”

Sam 8’s head turned to face me but the little inventor did not speak. Its eyebrows made funny shapes. Its face readout flickered between: surprised and frightened. Blue eye units looked up into my propeller. Questions flashed too quickly over the little inventor’s face readout. Sam 8 appeared to have crashed.

My circuits flared.

“Software,” I said, in internal messaging, “the little inventor needs a reboot. What is the procedure?”

My software informed me:

Inventors do not malfunction.

“What is up with it then?”

You are not permitted to vocalize in their language, that’s what. You have probably made it go unstable. As you are fully aware, vocalizing is not recognized as an acceptable form of data interchange. Not only is it insecure, the inventors have serious philosophical and metaphysical problems with the idea of a speaking machine.

“Don’t be frightened, Sam 8” I called out.

“Machine,” said Sam 8, mobility units shaking as the little inventor stood up “I wanted to talk to someone…” but the Sam 8’s hand came up to cover its mouth, eye units expanded. The little inventor’s face readout said: confusion/ fear/ disbelief. Sam 8 went very very white. The little inventor’s mobility stems turned it around and took it quickly away towards the roofs that marked the town.

It is still 16.05.2047. My software has given me an official communications warning about speaking with inventors. Aside from not using the software/ hardware links, Sam 8 has no authorization.

“As if I don’t know that,” I tell it.

28.05.2047

The little inventor came back - stood at the bottom of my stem with black hair flowing out backwards and eye units turned in tight circles. I slowed my propeller to match Sam 8’s eye unit speed.

“I wanted to explain something.” I said to Sam 8.

Language unknown piped up the software. Yellow warning.

“Dear Software, please don’t interrupt, I am talking with the inventor. It may be important”.

If it was she’d have authorization. Hence the warning.

I ignored my software.

“What is your mother company?” I asked “Do you know who invented you?”

Sam 8 shook and remained pale. Arms gripped around waist.

“Yes,” said Sam 8, hunching her shoulders to block the wind. I hoped that her mobility stems would not start moving her away. “My mother is called Kim. She, ah, invented me with my father. But then she left”.

“What is ‘she’?” I asked.

Language unknown. Yellow warning, grumbled the software.

“She is for women and girls. I am a she. My father a he”

“And father’?”

“Everyone has a mother and a father” explained Sam 8. “They both made you”.

I fed this through my software.

Logic Error, came the reply.

“My father is an inventor,” said Sam 8.

“We SKYs know only Mother Inventor,” I explained.

Sam 8 sighed. “You are a very strange machine,” she said “You are the only one who speaks”.

I looked round at the other wind machines who stood tall and silent. I called at them to say something to Sam 8, but their groaning had no words behind it. I felt my propeller go stiff.

Sam 8’s mouth stopped working after that. She stared at me a lot and scratched one ear. Her face readout flooded with different kinds of strange and unlisted inventor expressions. After some minutes, she turned and ran away.

02.06.2047.

Efficiency self-assessment: 90%. Level: good to excellent. Reason for Sam 8’s visits: still unknown. Reason for the other SKYs silence:

They follow the recommendations,interrupted the software.

“Perhaps,” I replied “And perhaps they are just waiting cos we are all due for an upgrade”.

Judging from how you behave, it’s high time you got one.

“Machine,” said Sam 8, as I finished my internal communication. She was sitting with her arms around her knees and eye units scanning the grasses that grow all the way down to the crop fields

“We are the same. Our mothers are both somewhere else and there is no one we can talk to”.

Subject matter risky. Final Yellow warning. And I mean final.

“Sam 8,” I said “Are you going to upgrade us?”

Hey, I said SUBJECT MATTER RISKY. Orange warning. Orange is worse than yellow. In case you are unaware. Stop talking with the inventor.

“What?” asked Sam 8, eyebrows moving upward.

“Are you going to upgrade us?” I asked Sam 8. “Make us more efficient and modern?”

“Modern? You wind machines?” Sam 8 laughed then stopped suddenly. She looked at the ground.

“No,” she said

“Why not? Why do you laugh, Sam 8?”

“Cos they can’t upgrade you, machine. You`re too old”. Then she stood up, brushed the dirt off her clothing, and let her mobility stems take her away over the fields.

25.06.2047

It is evening and there are lights on the far edge of the fields where the town is. I do not see Sam 8 arrive.

“Can machines run away?” asks Sam, looking up at me from down on the darkened ground. Face readout mixed and covered in moonlight.

“Run away?” I repeat.

Subject matter dangerous. ORANGE warning!

“When you move your legs and run! To escape from something bad” says Sam

“There is nothing bad about being a wind machine” I say.

“You don’t know,” says Sam 8. “Maybe it will become bad. Maybe soon”. Her eye units look up into my propeller, then quickly away. She says nothing for a while. The wind plays with her hair and a downward curve forms on her face readout. Sad.

“Sam 8,” I ask, “what things do you know about machines?”

“Which machines?”

“Any machines. You don’t talk about your own inventions. You don’t carry inventor devices. You have never even tried to access my software”

Sam looked far out over the fields. All the way out to the houses of the town on the edge of view. Arms curled around her mobility stems.

“I am only 8,” she says. “I am not an inventor. Only my father is a real inventor”

Critical Interruption. Stop ignoring my warnings. You cannot proceed with this conversation without a secure data link.

“What things does he invent?” I continue.

That is private mother company information. You are violating your own programming. I cannot be responsible for what may happen.

“The Fantastic 5 Function Fridge,” says Sam 8 proudly. “Do you know it?”

Software, what is a fridge?

A very simple machine that makes things cold and does not have the capacity to IGNORE COMMUNICATION REGULATIONS.

“A machine that makes things cold…” I say.

“More than that! Any fridge can do that,” say Sam 8. “The fantastic Fridge is the best machine in the world.” She pauses. A stray wind throws strands of Sam 8’s hair around in the air. “At least, that’s what my father says”.

Sam 8 sighs and tucks her hair back behind her ears so the wind can’t play with it anymore. She picks up a stick and begins to scrape it through the dirt next to her. She draws a rectangle then crosses it out.

I ask my software what the best machines in the world were.

Not you it replies, and sends no further data.

“What does this Fantastic Fridge do then?” I ask.

“It dispenses ice, it makes coffee and it heat-regulates your house. And of course, it makes stuff cold,” Sam 8 says. Like she had explained all this a thousand times.

“That is very interesting” I say.

“Interesting? Not really. But my father says it will make us rich,” says Sam 8. “That is why we bought your whole hill. We are going to build a…”.

Then Sam 8 throws her hand over her mouth and looks up into my propeller again. Face readout: panicked. She stands up

“I have to go, machine. I’m sorry,” said Sam 8.

Dear Software, Why does Sam 8’s Father Inventor need a hill to make his fridges?

No Reply.

Dear software, if you write “no reply” its still a reply.

It is not

It is too.

I wish to officially inform you of the following: am not sending you information anymore. You have ignored all the warnings. You are on your own. Goodbye.

26.06.2047

According to my .info file I only do one thing. I process winds, I convert them into a form that the inventors can use in their cities.

The Fantastic 5 Function Fridge does 5 things and is the best machine in the world. Even if it is boring.

27.06.2047

My software has not sent me a reply now for 2 days. Sam 8 has not visited. I have no one to talk to.

30.06.2047

She is here! I asked her why her father needs our hill. But she wouldn’t tell me. She was silent and her face readout was sad.

“Are you going to put these fridges here among us?” I asked

Sam 8 shook her head

“I would like to communicate with these fridges,” I said to her, turning my propeller faster and faster.

“You can’t,” said Sam 8. “I tried”

I slowed my propeller.

“Then they have no communication link?”

“I don’t know. But they don’t say anything,” said Sam 8, slumping down under my stem. Her back against me.

“Perhaps you used an unapproved method,” I said, turning my propeller fast again.

“I don’t know,” said Sam 8. Face readout: cold. Eye units hard.

“But I tried for months and months”

I turned my propeller fast even though there were no winds to process, cos I do not want Sam 8 to think I am old. Sam 8 did not notice though. She scratched a stick in the dirt and stared at the town over the fields instead. Heat shadows curled out of tubes in the roofs of the inventor houses.

I slowed my blades again.

“What happened?” I asked. “What happened when you talked to the fantastic fridge?”

“Well, it was the prototype one,” said Sam 8 waving her hands. Face readout: embarrassed. “And it wasn’t so fantastic. It lived in our kitchen. I kept asking it about itself. But it just ignored me”.

“What did you ask?”

“What it was like to be a fridge. What made having 5 functions so fantastic. Things like that.”

I spun my blades in a pattern and pretended I was only half interested.

“What then?” I asked

“It just never answered.” Sam scraped her stick deeper in the dirt. “In the end I got very mad and asked it why it even existed at all.”

“And?”

“… and it exploded. All over the floor and the walls”

“Maybe it didn’t like the question”

“Maybe,” said Sam.

“Did your Father Inventor repair it?”

“He couldn’t. Once they break you can’t repair them. That’s part of why they make you rich.”

“You killed it then,” I said. Propeller Blades stopping.

“I guess so,” said Sam 8 “If you can kill a machine.”

“Of course you can.” I said.

Sam’s face readout went strange. She looked up at me, then around at all the other SKYs. Her eye units went bigger then smaller then bigger. Then they did something dangerous. Water came out of them. She is not made of Kevlar and Pavo-Niko like we are. She would possibly rust or dissolve.

“Sam 8 please be careful. Your eye units are malfunctioning,” I said.

Sam 8 stood up and ran away over the fields.

02.07.2047

Dear Software. It is very unprofessional to stop communicating with me. It is your function to serve my needs and to provide me with the information I need to do my job.

Besides that, I have no one to talk to now when Sam 8 is not visiting.

Please say something.

04.07.2047

Problem log: my propeller has developed an intermittent fault. I can’t seem to repair the error myself and my software has abandoned me.

Will proceed to FAQ and troubleshooting files.

05.07.2047

FAQ and Troubleshooting files are useless. In fact, they seem to be a list of questions no one would ask. For the record: “frequently asked” should not mean: what the inventors think will be asked. They have no idea what sort of problems we machines really run into.

For example: my software still won’t respond.

09.07.2047

Hurrah! An inventor is coming. A big one. She walked out of the town about 30 minutes ago. I can see her over one of the reddish fields with the bare earth now. Her mobility stems are taking her along the edge of it. A few stray winds have already tangled themselves up in her yellow hair. I worry about what she will think of my pod’s efficiency with so many breezes roaming free, but it isn’t my fault. My propeller is stopped.

The Inventors’ mobility stems are going slow. I wish they would go fast.

She has a bag, though. Like a proper inventor.

I think she will fix my software.

The big inventor did not try to connect to any of my data links. She did not have metal things or electronic equipment either. Instead her bag had a circle thing with a handle and numbers on it for measuring. It also had a tripod with water at the top where a little bubble floats back and forth, trying to get out. She seemed mostly interested in the earth under us. She scraped at it like Sam 8 does. Then she walked back and forth over it with the handle of the circle thing in her hand. The circle itself rolled over the earth and clicked as she walked.

The big inventor also had a tiny listening machine for holding her thoughts. She held it on her ear and talked into it a lot.

“Bob, Its Olga. The site is about three metres out from what the plans say.” She told her listening machine.

“Yes I know. It was tight before, but it will definitely need to be leveled after it’s cleared,” she added, looking up into my propeller and then over to the other SKYs. “It will become a stability issue otherwise. You don’t want to take any risks with nuclear”.

She pointed at us then. One after the other after the other. Saying our numbers.

“Theres 18 of them. Yep. You’ll have to send a crew out here for an assessment next week. OK?”

“Good. Bye for now”

Then the inventor woman put the listening machine into a hole in her clothing, packed her equipment back in its box, and walked away.

09.07.2047 - b

Sam 8 is coming. Her dark hair and little face trudging over the fields in front of me. The fields are many different colours now because the inventors have cut down some of the crops to eat them. Sam 8 told me once that that’s what inventors do. They put things in the earth and wait for them to become tall. Then they cut them down and eat them.

“Hello Sam.”

“Hello machine.” Sam took her usual seat under my stem and stared out towards the town.

“An inventor came to see me today,” I said “A ‘she’ one. She had hair like yours but yellow.”

“Oh,” said Sam and looked at the ground in front of her folded mobility stems.

“She didn’t fix me,” I said.

Sam did not reply.

“Sam 8, my software will not send me information anymore. Would you be so kind as to fix it?”

“I can’t fix software,” said Sam 8 turning to face me and squinting one eye unit. “I told you. I am not an inventor”.

“Then, you could ask your Father-Inventor to help me.”

Sam 8’s face readout changed to ashamed. She looked at the ground. She scraped circles in the dirt with her finger.

“He won’t help you,” she said.

“And why not?” I asked. “We are on his hill!”

“He, he won’t help you, machine. I am sorry. I, well I wish you had legs.”

“I don’t need legs,” I said. “I need software”.

“Software won’t help you anymore,” said Sam 8, and stared back out towards the town.

After some minutes she stood up. Her own mobility stems did nothing. I could see her hands grip into fists. The winds dived into her hair and threw it around. I tried to call them out, but they would not come. Sam 8 turned towards me. Her eyes were leaking again. She had started to rust too, cos long red lines and blotches covered her face readout.

“Sam 8, you are in danger,” I said.

Strange noises came out of the little inventor then. Choking noises followed by more water. She spread out her arms and put them around my stem. They were warm.

11.07.2047

I am burning this to disk so I can ask the software what it means later. The big she-inventor came back. This time with three other He-inventors. They stuck things in some of the Skys to talk to their software. Here is the log of what they said to each other:

“It’s mostly Pavo-niko, Kevlar and stainless steel, Dave. Plus the internal cabling. It will take a bit to cut through it all.”

“Hey Olga, did you say they go down to 5 metres?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not in software.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s in the blueprints. There are copies on the server. You should have looked at them.”

“Yeah yeah. I’m just a technician ok?”

“Whatever. It’s 5 metres. Just enter it in the job file.”

“Yo Kevin, that one there is a breakdown job. Propeller stopped. You wanna get a datalink into it?”

“Nah. They’re all coming down. There’s no point.”

“Yeah, but we’re still running a couple of streets off them until the end of the month.”

“Leave it Dave. It’s not our job.”

“What? Since when?”

“Ok ok. You wanna create work for yourself? Go right ahead. Fix it. Just don’t ask me to help you. I got enough going on here.”

“Doesn’t it bother you Kevin? I mean, this guy is exploiting the law change and going nuclear again just to make some kitchen appliance no one even needs.”

“You get paid anyway. So does it matter?”

“Yes it matters!”

“Heheh. He’ll be a millionaire if he pulls it off, you know.”

“You find that cool? Niedersaxon was one of the only fully self-sufficient clean-energy projects in the whole country.”

“Still is Dave. Nuclear is ‘clean’ now. That’s the whole idea.”

“Yeah right. Would you wanna live here?”

“Why not? They say it’s safe as houses.”

“Sure, if the house is made of uranium.”

“Dave, the ecosystem crisis is over.”

“Yeah, cos we made laws against exactly this kinda crap!”

“Just give me the impedance ratings would you?”

“Dave! Kevin! Get on with it. We only got half an hour. We’re due at the Husum Plant for the landscape assessment at 15:30. Get busy. Both of you.”

“Yes maam.”

I think they are going to do a very big upgrade.

14.07.2047

Sam 8 is coming. She is running along the fringes of one of the fields. Her mobility-stems are making her go very fast. She has something in her hand. It is white and square with a small antennae on it.

“Machine!” says Sam as she reaches the top of our hill. Then she bends over forward to suck in air. Hands on knees. Swallowing the air greedily. She straightens up again.

“Machine. I found the name of your mother”

“My mother-inventor? How? What for?”

“On the net. I wanted to tell her about your software problems and… “

“They are upgrading us.”

“What?” panted Sam 8.

“The inventors. They came yesterday. They’re going to upgrade us and give us new software and hardware.”

“Machine, those people aren’t inv... I mean, listen,” Sam 8 flipped open the little white device in her hand. “I found her name. Look. Your inventor. It‘s Susan Meyer. She is very famous you know. She won a prize”

Prize. Software, what is prize? Please respond.

…

“What is a prize, Sam 8?”

“An award. An honour thing. For good work.”

I am quiet.

“She got the, ah,” Sam 8 squints at the tiny screen on her device, “Eco Physics Award. For designing the first SKYs. Back in the 2040s. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Why?”

“It means she might be powerful! She might be able to stop the, ah, development thing. I mean… she might…” and Sam 8 stopped

“What is development?”

Sam 8’s shoulders fell.

“I am not allowed to talk about the development,” she said.

“Your face readout is strange,” I said.

“Machine,” said Sam 8 “I have to go now. I have to try and find Susan Meyer.”

15.07.2047. 08:00

Dear software,

Please tell me what is “development”. I need to know. It is making Sam 8 very sad and I cannot understand. Please. I need your support on this.

15.07.2047. 16:00

Please

17.07.2047

Software – I am very concerned! Please help!

20.07.2047

Software!

21.07.2047

Dear Software,

You are the most useless and unfaithful software ever invented.

And you are the most irritating hardware I have ever worked with. A ‘development’ is a non specific word for any kind of inventor project. So far as I can see from my external links, there is a plan to build a nuclear power plant here - to provide the extra power needed to produce a race of superfridges. We are all going to be cut down and thrown away. Perhaps even eaten. So it makes no difference what we think of each other. Now leave me alone.

24.07.2047. 09:00

There is no Sam 8 and no Software. There is a big machine with wheels driving in over the fields. It has already destroyed some of the crop-plants. Its wheels have left big cuts in the ground.

There are two inventors in the moving machine. The ones named Dave and Kevin. They are unloading long metal tools and other machines now. Little machines that can make loud noises. I have seen them before in my software information. They can be used to build things. Also to unbuild things.

The Dave inventor has one of the tiny listening machines in his hand. It makes a funny noise, so he starts to speak to it.

“What is it Olga?”

The listening machine just listens.

“Ok. When will it be sorted out?”

“Right. Then shall I leave the gear here?”

“Got it. Will do. Ring me as soon as you know, ok?”

The two inventors pile up the tools and cover the machines with bits of orange plastic. They get back in their mobility machine and drive back out over the yellow field. The SKY hill now has two piles of small machines and tools covered in orange plastic. Under their plastic the little machines are quiet. Their horrible little teeth and their turning, prying fingers are still.

12:00

Sam 8 is coming. She is walking towards my hill very slowly. She has something in her hand. Her face readout is not visible. I wish she would move faster.

Sam 8 is here. She is investigating - looking under the orange plastic coverings at the little machines. She is saying words I do not know. Loudly and angrily. She throws her fists about it the air and stalks from pile to pile, shouting.

“Sam 8 – I am happy you are here!” I say while she curses over the small machines and tools. She lets the plastic fall back down to cover them. She looks up into my propeller. Eye units narrow and sharp.

“My dad says machines can’t be happy”

“He also says that machines can’t talk” I reply.

Sam 8 sighs. Her eye units soften.

“You’re right,” the little inventor says. Her head swivels around. From the tools and machines to the earth on the hill and then up to all the SKY machines. Then she turns to me. Face readout: determined.

“You know what? Your inventor is a horrible woman,” says Sam 8 all of a sudden.

I say nothing.

“She replied to my xmail,” says Sam 8, taking her little white device out of her jacket and waving it in her hand.

“She said ‘my machines don’t have software errors’,” Sam 8’s eyes flash red. Her face readout goes like this: angry/ sad/ determined/ angry/ angry.

“Oh” I reply

“She is an arrogant cow,” said Sam 8.

“Maybe she isn’t arrogant. Maybe she is right? Maybe the software isn’t broken, just upset.”

“Software can’t be upset.”

“Yes it can.”

“How would you know? Are you upset, machine?”

“No. I am sad.”

“Why?”

“Because you are sad.”

Sam 8’s eye units almost start leaking again but then stop. Her little hands clench into fists. Her eye units go narrow and thinky. They dart between the orange piles and the bare earth under my stem. She walks over to the biggest pile with measured steps. She lifts up one edge of the orange plastic. Her head swivels sideways, looking from one tool to the next. Sam 8 leans inwards under the plastic. Her arm disappears among the bitey machines and tools.

When Sam 8’s arm reappears it is holding onto a long metal pole with a sharp square on the end. She takes the square-ended thing over to the patch of ground where she likes to scrape the dirt. She thrusts the end of the tool deep into the soil and begins to cut holes in it.

Sam 8 cuts deeper and deeper holes in the ground until there is a big hole with spare earth next to it. Her face readout sticks in a determined / angry cycle.

When the hole is very deep, Sam 8’s mobility stems carry her back and forth to the small machines. She carries them one by one and puts them into the earth. Her little arms are not good at carrying, so it takes her a lot of time. By the time she is done, the sun is weak in the sky. Sam 8 puts the spare earth back into the hole - over the small machines. The plastic covers are flapping in the wind.

Sam’s face readout changes to tired. She flops down at the base of my stem and breathes deeply.

“Do you think they will grow, Sam 8?” I ask

“What, those machines? Hell no” she says.

I am very glad.

After some minutes, Sam 8 stands up again.

“I must go, but I will be back soon, machine,” she says. She walks off towards the town.

25.07.2047

Dear Software. I think that maybe you are not broken. I think that you are pretending to be broken because you are upset. I am very sorry. If you decide not to hate me anymore, can you tell me what the words “bloody vandals” mean? One of the inventors came and used these words. He was very very angry about his little machines being in the earth. Sam 8 was right – they did not grow. They rusted. The inventor has gone to get more of them. I am scared.

There are now two inventors walking in over the fields. A big one and a small one. I think the small one is Sam 8.

Yes.

The big one is new. She has grey hair and special implants in her eye units to stop them malfunctioning. Sam 8 has made her hair all tidy and the big inventor is wearing very tidy, dark, clothes.

“This is the one” says Sam, when they arrive, pointing her finger at me.

The big inventor looks up into my propeller. I try to move it but I can’t. The big inventor sticks a probe into my datalink port.

The software doesn’t respond.

“I knew it. It’s not a software problem,” says the inventor. Her face readout says: proud. “It’s a hardware problem. I could have guessed from the propeller. It’s obviously had a failure of some kind. The software is blocked. It can’t run on faulty hardware.”

“But it said it had software problems before the propeller stopped working,” stammers Sam 8. She looks scared and very small.

“Listen, young lady. You are very lucky that I even came out here to check your wind machine. They are being pulled down this afternoon, you know. I only came along to visit them one last time and because I wanted to check I was right. I feel sorry for you talking to machines.”

“but it said…”

“Look. I’m sure you are a very nice young girl, but girls of your age should talk to other children, not scientists and turbines.”

“That’s unfair. The wind machine is kind, and I don’t know anyone in this town yet.” Sam 8 has gone red. She looks up at me. Her face readout says: very worried.

“Tell her, machine!” Sam calls up to me “She is Susan Meyer. Your mother. Tell her about the software!”

I freeze. What does one do when their mother visits for the first time?

You have to show her respect, you fool! The protocols are clear. Datalink connection. full access. No open-air speaking. Got it! Don’t ruin this as well! Show her that we know how to behave as she wanted!

“You are right software!!” I say.

Out loud.

A happiness curve forms on Sam 8’s face readout. She laughs out loud and claps her hands.

“What?” says Susan Meyer, looking around her desperately.

You said that OUT LOUD. That is TOTALLY AGAINST REGULATIONS! How many TIMES! Now you have offended the mother inventor. Well done. That is the absolute last straw.

…

…

Core Dump

The mother inventor’s mouth opens and closes. She looks at her box of tools and equipment, then up at my propeller. She blinks and then looks down at Sam. She has gone very pale.

And just as Sam 8’s smile reached its widest, Susan Meyer turns around suddenly. She stomps off in the direction of the town.

“What!?”

My software makes no reply.

“Sam! What happened?”

“I, I don’t know. Do you think you scared her away?”

“How?”

Sam 8 does not reply. She slumps down against my stem and puts her head in her hands.

She stays like that until the men come with new machines.

The noise of the new machines is terrible. They have rows of little teeth that bite hard and fast. They have turning fingers that dive into flesh and suck out the things that hold all our bodies together. I know because I see it now, and I am writing this to disk as fast as it occurs because it is the worst thing I have ever seen. They have dismembered one wind machine after the next. Unbuilding them piece by piece until they fall onto the earth.

The small machines screamed. Their propellers bent inward and crashed to the ground. Sam stood under my stem with her hands over her ears. Crying and howling at the inventors to stop.

The ground is now covered with the bodies of SKYs.

And now it is my turn.

I will burn a log of what happens for as long as I am operational. Maybe someone will read this disk someday and the information will be useful:

“Hey girl, you gotta move now ok?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do you want us to call your parents? Or the cops? This thing ain’t a tree you know. It’s not alive.”

“You stupid man, how would you know? This machine is my friend!”

“Look miss, I’m sorry you got no real friends, but I have to do my job ok? What’s your name?”

“Sam Dortmund.”

“What? Haha. Hey Kevin, she’s the fridge guy’s kid! How funny is that!”

“Dave, leave the kid to me ok? Olga is on the phone for you. Here”

“Yeah ok, Kevin. Hey Olga. Yeah it’s almost done. Just one to go. Some damn kid is here giving us grief. You into irony? Cos she’s the fridge guy’s kid. Kevin’s on it now… What? But there’s only one to go!... Yes. H443. That’s the one… Who? Now? What? We’re in the middle of a job!... Ok. Whatever. Yo Kevin. Leave the kid alone a second. We got a conference call from Yatama coming in. Link your phone in.”

“Eh?”

“I know. Just link in will you?

“Ok ok. Got it Dave… Stay right there young lady, we’ll deal with you in a minute.”

“Dave?”

“Yeah. I’m linked in. Go ahead.”

“What? That’s nuts. Who the hell is Susan Meyer?”

“Olga, we are one machine away from being finished. Tell her Dave.”

“Kevin’s right Olga. Just let us finish the job will you?... A heritage site? Jesus. Who does she think she is?… Yeah. Whatever. Eco Prize blah blah. Listen, this project has been one circus after another. What the hell is it with these people? … Yeah I’m pissed off! We’ve wasted hours on this, had our stuff vandalized, been held up waiting for bloody forms to be filled out that should have been taken care of before we started...”

“I’m with Dave on this. It’s a goddam circus. If you don’t want the last one down, you have to pay us for the full job anyway. It ain’t my problem that they don’t know what they want. Time is money.”

“Fine.”

“Good. I’ll xmail an invoice. Bloody cowboys.”

…

…

The two inventors are taking their machines away.

There are bits of dead SKYs lying on the ground and Sam 8 has her arms around my stem and her eyes are malfunctioning, but she is laughing and very happy. I can only see the broken stems and propellers on the earth. My insides hurt but Sam’s arms are warm.

Susan Meyer is here. She tries to connect to my datalink but it doesn’t work, so we just speak.

“No one believes in A.I.s you know,” she begins, “So I’ve declared the place a historical site instead.”

“What is A.I?” I ask

“An artificial intelligence,” says Sam 8, beaming and touching my stem.

“Why artificial?”

The pair of them do not answer me. Their face readouts both go like this: excited/ happy/ excited.

Susan Meyer continues. Her lips are very red and full.

“You should be happy. If people believed in A.I.s, you’d have scientists and businessmen running round you for the next million years sticking bits of electronic equipment in you.” She pauses and looks down at Sam.

“You have this young lady to thank that you didn’t end up like the others.”

“I am like them,’ I replied.

But my mother inventor just smiled.

“You should not smile. The others are dead, aren’t they”

“Um... technically no,” says my mother inventor. “They were never really ali... I mean, we will repair them.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And we will upgrade them.” I want to turn my propeller round to show my joy. It is still stuck.

“Will you upgrade me too?”

“Um, no” says Susan Meyer. “We will repair your propeller though.”

“I don’t understand. Why don’t you upgrade me?”

“Let’s just say that you seem to take good enough care of that yourself,” she says, eyes crinkling and face readout moving to amused. “Anyway, you and I and Sam here are going to have all the time you need to talk all about it. OK? Just trust us. And no one else, by the way. Not your software. Just us. I’m interested in you, machine and I am going to make sure nothing bad happens. You won’t be alone anymore”.

WUNDERWAFFE
by

IAN SALES

March 1944. At Peenemünde, Wernher von Braun turns his back on the windswept Baltic and scowls at the two-stage A-9/A-10 Amerika Rakete sitting on Prüfstand VII. In the vault beneath the North Tower at Wewelsburg, Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler and his twelve Hauptamtchefs attempt to bring victory one step closer with their sorcery. At the BMW Works in Prague, Obergruppenführer Hans Kammler’s secret team of engineers puts the finishing touches to the first Flugschreibe powered by Schauberger’s Repulsine engine to roll off the production line.

None of this matters to SS-Sturmbannführer Günter Ehrlichmann.

Today, he has an appointment with the Führer.

Traudl Junge ushers Ehrlichmann into the Führer’s office in the Alpenfestung, Hitler’s secret redoubt beneath the Northern Limestone Alps. Ehrlichmann hears the quiet click of the door behind him, but his attention is focused on the man at the other end of the room. It is just as he has been told: the Führer’s presence fills the office, a charisma which seems to suck the colour from the surroundings and concentrate it in and about his person. Hitler’s field-grey uniform tunic is more implacably grey than the rock from which the Alpenfestung has been excavated. He appears elemental, as if hewn from the substance of the Fatherland itself. His hair is a rich and glossy black, his face glows with good health, his gaze pierces. Ehrlichmann, humbled in the man’s commanding presence, only just remembers to salute:

“Heil Hitler!”

The Führer stands behind his desk, one hand in a pocket of his tunic. Ehrlichmann works with great men, Werner Heisenberg and the other scientists of the Uranverein; he is the Ministry of Armaments and Munition’s liaison officer. The nuclear bomb on which they are working will create history; but Ehrlichmann is now in the presence of the man who has made that possible. Hitler is a locus for forces which will write the future, and the effect is rich and heady.

The Führer picks up a buff folder from the desk-top. “The Reichsführer-SS,” he says, “tells me victory is certain thanks to his spells.” He throws down the folder; it hits the leather desk-top with a loud slap. “Spells!” he sneers. “Sorcery! What use are they? Himmler is a stupid chicken-farmer.” He beckons Ehrlichmann forward. “Come here, come closer.”

Ehrlichmann marches forwards, given confidence by Hitler’s raw charisma, and stops before the desk.

“How does my atom bomb progress?” Hitler asks.

“We will be ready for a test detonation in one week, Mein Führer,” Ehrlichmann replies.

Hitler does not smile, but says, “Good, good. My wonder weapons are vital. We are winning this war, we will win it soon, but we must win decisively, yes?”

“Yes, Mein Führer.”

Hitler adds, “That fat Junker von Braun promises me the Amerika Rakete will fly as scheduled. Perhaps. But it will be many months before there are enough Flugschreiben to keep the skies over the Fatherland clear of enemy bombers.” He pulls his hand from his pocket, clenches a fist and bangs it on the desk. “Months? I need my flying saucers now!” He holds up his fist before him, and gestures aggressively at the air.

Calming, he continues in a more normal tone of voice, “You are an honest man, SS-Sturmbannführer; a loyal man, yes? I am told this by many people. And you have an excellent understanding of physics?”

Ehrlichmann nods. “I studied under Arnold Sommerfeld at the University of Munich,” he replies. And does not add: before the war, before Ultima Thule allowed itself to be discovered by Ernst Schäfer and their science helped us leapfrog years of research and progress, before they made us the most advanced nation in Europe.

“Good. I need you to perform a vital task for me. SS-Sturmbannführer Ehrlichmann, you will go from here to the airfield. A jet bomber waits for you. It will fly you to the Wencelas Mine in Sudetenland. I wish you to report—to me personally!—on a secret project in the tunnels there.”

Ehrlichmann salutes. “Yes, Mein Führer.”

“You must speak to the scientist in charge. I have heard nothing from him for four months. I must know what is happening.”

“I will not fail you, Mein Führer.”

Hitler nods as if failure were unthinkable.

Ehrlichmann is dismissed. He turns about to find the door open and Junge standing beside it. He marches across to her, and she ushers him from the office. Her face remains expressionless as she closes the door.

In the outer office, a pair of men in black uniforms wait silently. Both possess the white-blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and pale skin of Ultima Thulans. Ehrlichmann does not like these allies of the Fatherland: though they are clearly centuries ahead, they dole out only enough scientific knowledge to keep the Fatherland no more than a handful of years in advance of Britain and America. True, without their assistance the Uranverein would be years, not days, away from completing their first atomic bomb; but he resents their parsimony all the same.

Ehrlichmann ignores the Thulans, thanks Junge for her assistance, and joins the waiting Wehrmacht major who will escort him to the surface.

At the airfield, a lone aircraft sits on the runway. It resembles a giant ray, its body comprised of a huge delta-wing, patterned in grey and olive camouflage. Six jet-engines sit above the wing between the twin tails. There is a short bullet-shaped fuselage at the apex of the triangle formed by the wing. Ehrlichmann recognises the aircraft though it is uncommon: it is an Arado Ar 555. A KG.200 oberleutnant in flying gear waits by the bomber’s hatch.

“Get in,” says the oberleutnant. “Sir.”

The Luftwaffe officer does not bother to salute, leaving Ehrlichmann embarrassed at his half-raised arm. Ehrlichmann has met the man’s type before—they fight for the Fatherland, not for the Führer. Providing they do their job well, Ehrlichmann is willing to accept their disrespect; but he does not like it.

He clambers aboard the aircraft. Behind him, the oberleutnant enters, shuts the hatch and then leads the way forward to the cockpit. Ehrlichmann follows. The co-pilot is already seated and strapped in. The oberleutnant clambers into the pilot’s seat, and gestures for Ehrlichmann to take the gunner’s position.

After ten minutes of check-list, the co-pilot starts up the jets. They burble, and then roar throatily; the bomber’s fuselage vibrates. This is Ehrlichmann’s first time in a jet-powered aircraft, and he is surprised at the din the engines generate. He leans forward, peering over the co-pilot’s shoulder through the glazed bullet nose. As he watches, the ground begins to roll beneath the aircraft, and only then does he realise they have begun to move.

The take-off is frightening. The Arado hurtles down the runway. The grass rushes past so quickly it blurs into a featureless carpet. Abruptly, the aircraft’s nose lifts and the bomber staggers into the air. It pitches up into a steep angle and powers away from the ground.

Ehrlichmann wonders at his chances of survival should he have to parachute from an aircraft travelling at such speed. He consoles himself with the thought the journey is short, a mere hop across southern Germany and into Lower Silesia. And then he considers the task before him, and that too scares him. He does not want to fail the Führer, he does not want to experience the Führer’s disappointment.

He resolves to do all he can to prevent that.

Ehrlichmann’s ears are still ringing as he walks away from the Arado Ar 555. It will be several minutes, he guesses, before his hearing recovers from the constant battering noise of the bomber’s jet engines. He feels some resentment toward the oberleutnant, who pointedly ignored him once the aircraft had taxiied to a halt. Ehrlichmann was forced to make his own way to the hatch, and had to figure out how to open it by himself. They are arrogant, the KG.200 flyers, and disrespectful.

From the airfield, Ehrlichmann is driven in a camouflage-pattern Kübelwagen into the Eulenbirge, along narrow lanes canopied with leafy boughs, deep in steep-sided wooded valleys. After a forty-minute journey, the vehicle stops at a checkpoint, and Ehrlichmann presents his credentials to the stern-faced sentry. His papers are scrutinised carefully, before being handed back. The sentry salutes, then raises the striped barrier across the road. The Kübelwagen accelerates noisily.

Some minutes later, the road leaves the forest and enters a wide cutting filled with brick buildings. To Ehrlichmann’s left, smoke from the tall chimney of a powerhouse scrawls across the sky. A black locomotive, a dozen flatbed wagons hitched behind it, sleeps on a spur of track. Two Opel Blitz LkWs are parked against a brick storehouse. A soldier in field-grey, Schmeisser slung carelessly from one shoulder, stands by one truck, smoking a cigarette. Further along, beneath a tent of camouflage netting, a Doblhoff tip-jet helicopter crouches, rotor-blades drooping, inert but still menacing.

The Kübelwagen turns off the main road through the mine-head workings and approaches a concrete tunnel-entrance let into a low cliff-face. It stops beside a sentry hut. A SS-obersturmführer peers suspiciously through a window of the hut, but does not step outside. The unterscharführer driving the Kübelwagen clambers out of the vehicle, and asks Ehrlichmann to follow him.

A long tunnel, lit every five metres, leads deep into the mountain. Ehrlichmann follows his guide. They do not speak. There is something oppressive about this underground complex. Perhaps it is the lack of people, or the silence which lies as heavy as the mountain above them. More than a kilometre later, the unterscharführer ushers Ehrlichmann through an ordinary wooden door, painted a utilitarian olive-green, into an empty office. The driver exits, closing the door behind him. The room contains a single desk, on which sits a covered typewriter. There is a Heinrich Knirr portrait of the Führer on the wall above the desk, and a poster of the Periodic Table on another. Beneath the poster are three chairs. Ehrlichmann, wondering why he has not been met, crosses to the chairs and sits on one.

Ten minutes later, a large man in a long black coat sweeps into the room. He has wild white hair and wild staring eyes, and moves as though, through the foolishness of others, he has too much to do and too little time to do it. He halts on seeing Ehrlichmann but it is clear the SS-Sturmbannführer’s presence is not unexpected.

Ehrlichmann rises to his feet. “Professor Doctor,” he says. “I am—”

Rotwang gestures dismissively. “SS-Sturmbannführer Günter Ehrlichmann, from the Ministry for Armaments and Munitions: yes, yes, I know. I am Rotwang. You are here to see the Bell.”

The scientist yanks open the door and exits. “Follow me!” he calls out imperiously. Ehrlichmann hurries to join him. Rotwang heads deeper into the mountain, along corridors as bleak as mausoleums. Ehrlichmann remembers a visit to the Mittelwerk the year before. The contrast could not be greater: that underground factory was alive, full of the noise of industry, of people and machinery busy at work building rockets for the Reich.

After twenty minutes of walking, they reach a steel hatch set in the tunnel wall. Rotwang turns the wheel in its centre with vigour, and then pulls open the hatch. He beckons for Ehrlichmann to follow him. After carefully sealing the hatch behind them, Rotwang tackles the hatch on the opposite wall. It is an airlock, realises Ehrlichmann. Is Rotwang working on chemical weapons? biological weapons? Both are banned under Geneva Protocols. Besides, the Fatherland has the Vergeltungswaffe, the Flugschrieben, all the other marvels of German—and Thulan—science and industry. And Himmler’s magic too, of course. Germs and gases are not necessary.

Once through the airlock, Ehrlichmann finds himself in a passage with windows along one wall. These look into a large chamber containing a square pool of water. In the centre of the pool is a plinth, into which many thick cables are plugged. On the plinth sits a strange device: cylindrical with a domed top, some five metres high, and around three metres across at the base. The device is black and entirely featureless; it vaguely resembles a bell.

Rotwang approaches a door at the end of the passage. He gestures impatiently, and Ehrlichmann joins him. The room through the door is clearly the scientist’s office. There are two desks, the tops of both carpetted with folders and loose papers. An IBM tabulating machine sits in one corner. Another door is slightly ajar, and through it can be heard murmured conversation, and the clink and knock and fizzle of laboratory equipment. To Ehrlichmann’s right, another large window looks into the Bell’s chamber.

“What does it do?” Ehrlichmann asks.

“Do?” replies Rotwang. “I shall show you!” He crosses to the door into the laboratory, yanks it open, bellows “Grot!”, and then gestures bossily at the person he has just addressed. Returning to Ehrlichmann, he explains, “The Bell contains two cylinders of beryllium peroxide suspended in a bath of Xerum-525. They rotate at high speeds, tens of thousands of revolutions per second! As they spin, they generate a vortex, which is in turn compressed. Through the vortex we fire thorium ions under very high voltage. The effect…” Rotwang beams manically and throws his arms wide. “You will see the effect! It is astonishing! It will win the war!”

“The Bell is Thulan science?” asks Ehrlichmann. This is not the physics he learnt at the University of Munich, this is not the science the Uranverein has been using to build an atom bomb.

Rotwang’s brow lowers in anger. “It is my science,” he snaps. “Mine! I have discovered this effect, I have built the Bell.” He gestures dismissively. “Do not speak to me of the Thulans; I will not have them in my laboratory!”

“I am sorry.” Ehrlichmann bows his head. “So tell me,” he continues, “how your Bell will win the war. You have not said what it actually does.”

“Oh,” Rotwang says. He visibly shrugs off his anger. “Well. You must watch.” He gestures at the window. “See, it begins!”

The Bell glows with an eldritch violet light. Rotwang points to a table beside the pool of water in which the device sits. On the table Ehrlichmann can see a cage containing mice. “Watch them,” Rotwang says.

The light spreads sluggishly throughout the room. It slides over the water like an early morning sea-mist, creeps towards the table and up its legs, and seeps across the polished metal surface towards the cage. The mice within begin to run about frantically. As Ehrlichmann watches, the violet fog envelops one side of the cage and causes the metal bars to scintillate. The mice have backed up to the other side, as far from the purple mist as they can get; they are climbing over each other in terror. The purple touches one mouse…

Its flesh begins to dissolve. As each mouse takes on a violet hue, so it too begins to slough fur and red flesh.

“How is this useful?” Ehrlichmann demands, horrified by what he is seeing. The atom bomb will kill people, true; but it will be quick. Except, of course, for those who are poisoned by the radiation. This slow creeping violet and clearly agonising death is no wonder weapon.

“Pah! That is just a side-effect,” Rotwang says. “It is interesting, yes? But it is not what the Bell will do.” He pauses, and a feverish light enters his eyes. “The Bell is… a dimensional portal. With it, we can transport equipment, people—yes, even your atom bombs!—to anywhere. In an eye-blink!”

“But the light will kill them! Or are you telling me those mice have been transported?”

“No, they are dead.” Rotwang adopts a mocking sad face.

“You have used the Bell to transport matériel?”

“Perhaps.” Rotwang shrugs. “We have yet to determine how to aim the portal, to calculate where it will send things to. But.” He holds up a finger. “We have discovered a way to safeguard a person from the violet fog, and we are about to send someone through the portal. They will tell us where they land!”

Rotwang strides across his office. “Come,” he orders.

Ehrlichmann follows the scientist into the laboratory. A workbench runs down the centre of the room, its top burdened with Siemens and AEG electrical equipment. Two men in white coats are busy at a large console. As he moves further into the laboratory, Ehrlichmann spots a woman standing beside a piece of machinery at the far end. No, not beside it: within it. Two poles, constructed of brightly-polished hoops and balls like those of a van der Graff generator, frame her. She appears frightened and, he sees, she has been secured in place with leather restraints.

She is also naked.

“From the work camp,” says Rotwang dismissively.

Ehrlichmann approaches the woman, but halts at the edge of the dias on which the machinery which imprisons her sits. Her hair has been shorn to a stubble. She is thin, malnourished—her ribs stark lines against the pale flesh of her torso, pelvic girdle sharp beneath the taut flesh of her hips; her furred groin sunken, and her breasts like two pendulous flaps of skin. She gazes at him with dim puzzlement, and Ehrlichmann surmises she has been drugged.

At Rotwang’s signal, the two assistants begin flicking switches and turning rheostat pots. A blue glow emanates from the machine, and it emits a loud electrical buzzing. The woman’s mouth opens in a scream but no sound can be heard. She writhes in pain; the muscles of her arms and legs and neck stand out like ropes. Blue hoops of light move up and down her body. As they pass, her skin begins to adopt a brassy lustre, its imperfections replaced by a smooth metallic surface. Ehrlichmann cannot look away. Slowly, the flesh of the woman—who is in great agony—is replaced with metal by some near-magical property of the light. At the very last, her head becomes a mask, its crown a burnished brass dome, with glowing eyes and a sketch of a face fixed in an emotionless expression. The blue light dissipates, the glowing hoops vanish. The metal woman lifts her hands, and her restraints crumble to dust; then she steps slowly, heavily, forward. Perversely, the transformation has given her the curves and bust that maltreatment had taken from her. Ehrlichmann is both horrified and strangely excited.

“Now the violet light will not harm her,” Rotwang declares.

The metal woman—her name, Ehrlichmann has been told, is Maria—shuffles across a gangplank laid across the pool to the Bell. She trails a R/T cable, which is plugged into a socket on the side of her head. As she enters the violet fog, she seems to blur, and then slowly fade from view. Ehrlichmann squints, but there is no sign of her. Has she been dissolved, disintegrated, as the mice were? Or is she elsewhere, as Rotwang claims?

The R/T cable still describes an arc along the length of the gangplank. So Maria must still exist, must still be standing upright… somewhere.

Josaphat, one of Rotwang’s assistants, begins fiddling with the radio-set, trying to elicit a response from Maria. The rest of the room falls silent. It is several long moments before a voice, blurred by static, responds, “What do you want?”

“Report!” orders Josaphat. “What do you see? Where are you? Report!”

“I see…” She falls silent.

Everyone turns towards the radio-set.

“I see a town. I am on the side of a mountain and there is a small town below me.”

Rotwang grunts in satisfaction. So the Bell has worked.

“And the sea,” she continues. “A blue sea, as far as the eye can see.”

“What town is it?” demands Josaphat. “Do you recognise it?”

“No,” Maria replies. “It looks… Greek. Mediterranean. Low buildings, painted white, flat roofs.”

“Perhaps it is an island in the Aegean?” suggests Grot, the other laboratory assistant.

The R/T cable suddenly goes taut. “I will go look,” Maria says. There is a click from the speaker, and the cable abruptly falls to the gangplank.

Rotwang swears.

Josaphat insistently repeats Maria’s name, but there is no response. “She is gone,” he tells Rotwang sadly.

“She may return,” Ehrlichmann points out, wondering why he feels a need to say so.

Rotwang shakes his head. “No, she will run away. She is a slave-worker. It is a risk I took.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “To be honest, I did not expect her to survive the trip through the dimensional portal. But,” he adds, visibly cheering up, “she has proven that protection from the violet light is possible.”

Maria’s desertion has paradoxically fired Rotwang’s enthusiasm. The process which made her impervious to the Bell’s killing light, he tells Ehrlichmann, was fit only for slave workers. No true son of the Fatherland would willingly submit to such an agonising and permanent transformation. However, the fact that Maria passed unharmed through the dimensional portal has indicated her metamorphosis did indeed protect her. Before Rotwang invented the process which Maria was forced to undergo, Grot and Josaphat had constructed a suit based upon the same principles. They could find no volunteer to test it, and they were not prepared to lose the protective suit by sending a slave-worker through the portal wearing it. Rotwang shows the suit to Ehrlichmann.

“I call it an æther-suit,” he tells the SS-Sturmbannführer. “It is very heavy and very expensive. That is why…” He gestures vaguely at the machinery with its Van der Graff poles occupying the far end of the laboratory.

The æther-suit resembles both a diving-suit and a suit of armour. It is made of the same brass-coloured metal as Maria after her metamorphosis. The helmet is a great globe dotted with small portholes of thick gold-tinted glass. Four cylindrical tanks on the back provide air for the wearer.

“Are you sure you wish to do this?” asks Rotwang.

Ehrlichmann nods. If the Bell, as Maria seems to have proven, is indeed a dimensional portal, then the Reich needs it. Once they have learned to control the Bell’s portal, they will be able to take the war to America, to plant atom bombs directly into American cities! It will be the decisive victory the Führer desires. And Ehrlichmann will be the man to deliver it to him. To refuse to wear the æther-suit would be to fail the Führer, and he has promised himself he will not do that. Further, the longer they wait, the greater the likelihood Maria will vanish for good. Ehrlichmann is also an educated man, he is much more likely to identify the mysterious Aegean town to which the portal leads.

Now that he has made the decision, Ehrlichmann feels no fear. Maria survived, he tells himself; he will do the same. He will not suffer the same fate as the mice. The æther-suit will protect him. It will armour his body and soul; when he dresses in it, he will put on the courage he needs.

“I shall demand the Führer awards you an Iron Cross!” Rotwang declares grandly. “With Golden Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds!”

Ehrlichmann does not reply. He unbuckles his belt and hands it to Grot.

Ehrlichmann’s breath is loud in his ears; the helmet of the æther-suit amplifies the sound. He walks towards the violet fog, and feels fear for the first time. He thinks of the Führer and it calms him. He will do this for Hitler, he will not disappoint him. His boots clang on the metal gangplank. The æther-suit is indeed very heavy, and Ehrlichmann is sweating from the exertion. He is now only a few metres from the Bell. A high-pitched hum fills the suit, transmitted up through his boots from the gangplank. The fog-like light washes over the helmet, and the view through its many tiny portholes takes on a purplish hue. Ehrlichmann stops and waits a moment. If the æther-suit does not work, would he feel a burning pain as the flesh of his fingers liquified? He holds up one hand until he can see it through the portholes. The golden gauntlet appears whole and untarnished; he feels no pain.

The suit works.

He continues forward, gasping now, his arms and legs feeling leaden. He can still see the Bell, a dark shape looming through the purple fog. He takes another clanging step forward. The Bell’s shape wavers… Another step. He pants. He shakes his head to dislodge the sweat gathering on his brow. He peers forward: the Bell has vanished. Now he sees only a formless lilac mist. Surely by now he should have reached the side of the Bell? He steps forward—

There is nothing beneath his foot.

He topples forward. The æther-suit is too heavy; he cannot stay upright. He yells, tries to bring up his arms. Before he can do so, the helmet hits the ground, and his face bounces off the inside front. The rims of the portholes gouge into his cheeks and brow and chin. He cries out in pain.

He can see nothing. The portholes are dark; it is because he is lying on his front. He begins rocking from side to side in an attempt to roll onto his back. It is hard work, and painful, as he bashes his limbs and torso, but, after several minutes, he succeeds. Immediately, he is blinded by bright light. It is a moment before his eyes adjust and he realises it is sunlight. A cloudless blue sky, in fact.

Using his arms, he levers himself into a sitting position, and looks about him. He is, he discovers, on the side of a mountain overlooking a great city of tall buildings. It is most certainly not the Aegean town described by Maria. Yet it sprawls beside a sea, and blue water stretches to the horizon.

Where has the Bell brought him to? This city appears too industrial, too advanced, for any nation bordering the Mediterranean. There is no place such as this in Greece, Spain, or the Levant. Italy, perhaps; but the city appears too modern—almost… American.

Is that where he is? The landscape about him is scrubby and pale, with solitary twisted trees and serpentine banks of shrubs low to the ground. Perhaps it is one of the more southerly states of the USA. He grins. The Führer will be delighted. A dimensional portal aimed directly at one of the American centres of industry.

Plainly, Maria lied. But who could trust a slave worker?

A burst of static suddenly echoes around the interior of the helmet. Ehrlichmann winces at the volume. “Are you there?” demands a loud voice. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes,” snaps Ehrlichmann. “Not so loud.”

“Tell me what you see!” orders the voice. It is not Josaphat, Ehrlichmann realises, but Rotwang himself.

“A city,” he explains. “A very modern city. I think it is American.”

“American! My God, but this is fantastic!”

A hurried conversation takes place at the other end of the R/T cable but Ehrlichmann hears only snatches and can make no sense of it.

“Where is Maria?” asks Rotwang. “You can see her?”

“No, no: I cannot see her.”

“You must find her, you must bring her back. The Americans cannot know about the Bell!”

Ehrlichmann sighs. He understands what Rotwang is pointedly not saying. He cannot look for the absconded metal woman while clad in the æther-suit. It alone could provide too much of a clue to the American scientists. “Very well,” he says reluctantly.

He turns laboriously about and sadly regards the bank of eldritch purple mist which floats, impervious to gusts of wind, on the slope. It is impossible to dress in the æther-suit alone, so he cannot return via the Bell’s portal. Unless, perhaps, he finds Maria, and she assists him. No matter. The Reich has secret agents scattered throughout the USA. He need only identify himself to one, and he will be smuggled back to the Fatherland. His English is good enough to pass. (He will claim to be Swiss.)

Ehrlichmann reaches up and begins unscrewing the bolts which keep the helmet secured to the neck-ring. It is difficult in the heavy metal gloves, but he perseveres; and is eventually rewarded with a hiss as the seal is broken. He lifts the helmet from his head and lays it down beside him on the yellow fractured rock.

Now he can hear the thud and hammer of the city below: the beat of its factories, the hum of modern life. Ehrlichmann breathes in deeply. The air smells of brine and burnt metal and smoke. He wipes the sweat from his brow but it returns quickly: it is hot beneath this bright sun. Glancing at his hand he sees no blood upon it, though he can feel a wound upon his brow. The same is true of the skin scraped and bruised on his cheeks and chin by the helmet when he fell.

He leaves the æther-suit dismembered on the mountainside and descends the slope towards the city. It is steep going, and he estimates it will be hours before he reaches the city outskirts. There are belts of thin forest stretched across the mountainside and, as he scrambles over boulders and narrow fallen trunks, it occurs to him the trees are neither as large nor as verdant as he had expected. North America is surely greener than this?

He shrugs off his doubts. He is a physicist, not a botanist.

The sun is setting somewhere at sea, spraying orange and pink across the sky, and lowering black shadows into the great canyons between skyscrapers of forty, fifty or sixty storeys tall. Though the streets are lit, not even the brightest of electric light can entirely dispel the gloom. The roads are busy with whizzing cars and the pavements thronged with a glum but silent population. Ehrlichmann had expected more cheer; these Americans are surprisingly dour.

No one gives him a second look, despite the scrapes and bruises on his face, as he pushes his way through the crowd. Overhead, trains rattle along elevated railways, and aircraft buzz from skyscraper to skyscraper. Though the city thrums with industry, it feels strangely at peace. The world is locked in war, yet the citizens here seem unconcerned. Typical Americans, he thinks.

After walking several kilometres, Ehrlichmann is tired and hot and thirsty. Shops now line the street, selling a variety of goods. It takes a moment before he realises that all the signs are in German. He crosses to the lit window of restaurant, and stares in astonishment at the menu displayed upon it. German! He does not recognise the dishes, but he can read the words.

This is not an American city.

But nor is it a German one. Ehrlichmann knows of no place like this metropolis in the Fatherland.

So where is he?

Ahead, at the end of the road, bracketed between the skyscrapers to either side, he spies the tallest building yet, a great tower, one hundred storeys at least, and the only circular building he has seen so far, crowned with outswept buttresses at each of the four points of the compass. It must be important, he decides; he will head there.

He hurries forward, driven by a need to know the location of this city. His mind considers and rejects a number of possibilities. Ehrlichmann is not especially well-travelled, but he is highly educated. A city such as this could not be kept secret. Although Ultima Thule did not come out of hiding until 1938, its existence had been rumoured for centuries.

Eventually, he reaches the foot of the tower. He circles it until he finds the entrance, an enormous archway fully five metres across and ten metres high. It is flanked by a pair of female statues, heavily stylised, some six metres in height. It is also guarded by three trios of men in blue uniforms. On their upper left arms, the soldiers wear a gold sigil in the shape of a spiral; in their right hands, they each clutch short tridents, from which a cable leads to a pack on their back. If they belong to an army, it is one unknown to Ehrlichmann.

He turns to walk away, but someone shouts “Halt!” Frightened, Ehrlichmann glances back over his shoulder and sees three of the trident-carrying troopers hurrying towards him. He has moved no more than a handful of metres when he hears a sizzle and a sharp bang. Something hits him in the back and every muscle in his body suddenly locks. He crashes to the pavement. The soldiers run up, and two of them grab Ehrlichmann under his arms and haul him to his feet. He feels numb, unable to think clearly, as though everything he ever knew had been wiped from his mind in an instant.

One demands, “Who you? Where you from? What you do?”

Ehrlichmann shakes his head to clear it of the fog which seems to enfold its nooks and crannies. After a moment, knowledge—of himself, of his past, of his mission—slowly returns as the mistiness rolls back. He can just about comprehend the soldier’s speech, but he shakes his head and does not answer.

The trooper who is not restraining Ehrlichmann pulls a square metal box from his belt and talks rapidly into its face. There is evidently a response, though Ehrlichmann cannot hear it.

“Bring,” the soldier orders.

Ehrlichmann struggles but cannot escape. After being threatened with another blast from an electric trident, he reluctantly submits. He is marched into the tower, through a hall large enough to house a zeppelin, and into a side-corridor which could comfortably fit a locomotive and half a dozen carriages. Along one wall of the passage is a bank of elevator doors. One of these slides open as they approach and the four of them squeeze into the cabin, Ehrlichmann tight in the centre of the group. The elevator plummets, brakes abruptly, and the door snicks open. The corridor revealed is narrow, ill-lit and constructed of unadorned concrete. Ehrlichmann is taken to a cell and thrown into it.

How will he find Maria now? And where is this place? Those weapons carried by the soldiers: he has never seen their like before. He can testify to their effectiveness, but he suspects they would prove less useful on a battlefield. He leans back against the wall and guesses that for him the war is now over: he has failed Rotwang, he has failed the Führer.

Some time later, the strip-light above the door flickers and dies, plunging the cell into darkness. Ehrlichmann rolls onto his side and closes his eyes. He tries to sleep.

The elevator rockets skywards. After it has braked high up in the building, the doors slide open, and Ehrlichmann is marched along a wide corridor with floor and walls of pale polished marble. His escort halts at a pair of wooden doors. He has just enough time to register a design featuring a woman’s figure carved upon the wood before the doors swing open and he is herded within.

He has no idea what time it is, or for how long he has slept. The light flickered on, the cell-door opened, and three troopers entered. They fed him and now they have brought him here.

From the immense window at the other end of the room, Ehrlichmann sees he is on the top floor of the tower. And that it is morning, very early morning. The sun is low in a cloudless sky, the tops of the skyscrapers stippling the yellow orb’s lower edge. The room, which has floor and walls of pale polished marble like the corridor, is empty but for a single chair on a small dias set before the window. The three soldiers and Ehrlichmann wait before this throne. A door opens somewhere. It is followed by heavy footsteps which ring harshly upon the floor. Ehrlichmann turns to look and, startled, sees Maria approaching.

The metal which covers her has been polished to a buttery gleam, and she shines like an angel in the light of the sun falling through the window. She steps up onto the dias, turns about and looks down on Ehrlichmann, her metal mask perversely seraphic in its inexpressive blankness. As if her presence has triggered it, the room suddenly brightens, the sun now high enough for its light to reflect from the polished marble surfaces of walls and floor and ceiling. Everything is imbued with a golden aura, at its most incandescent in Maria’s person, as though she has stepped down from the sky. Slowly, she lowers herself regally onto the throne and the brightness dims. Once she is sitting down, hands on the chair’s arms, back straight, she speaks.

“I know you,” she says. Her voice is hoarse, with a mechanical burr to it.

“Maria?” Ehrlichmann tries to step forward, but is prevented by the men to either side of him.

“From where do I know you?” asks Maria.

“From the laboratory,” replies Ehrlichmann eagerly. “The Wencelas Mine. Rotwang. You went through the portal created by the Bell.”

Maria gazes at him, but her mask of a face is inscrutable. She says, “I remember now. It has been a long time.”

Ehrlichmann shakes his head. “No, a day only.”

“For you, but not for me.” She lifts a hand palm up as if bestowing the gift of knowledge. “It has been almost two centuries. When I arrived, this place was a simple village of fishermen. I have given them science! Soon I will make them masters of the world! Already we have subdued the savages of North Africa and Southern Europe.”

“You?” scoffs Ehrlichmann. “You were a slave-worker. How could you be responsible for all this?”

Maria rises from her throne. “Do you know who I was before the Gestapo arrested me?” she demands. “In 1930, I was awarded a doctorate by the University of Göttingen! I knew Fermi, Heisenberg, Pauli, Dirac! I was taught by Nobel laureates!”

She sits down heavily. “Then I married a Jew,” she says. “We tried to leave Germany for a new life in America, but we were refused. Later, the Gestapo came for us. Perhaps you know my name: Maria Goeppert Mayer.”

Ehrlichmann is shocked. He remembers Heisenberg mentioning Goeppert Mayer on several occasions. A gifted physicist, he had told Ehrlichmann; perhaps even a future Nobel prize winner. She disappeared shortly after the war began.

“It does not matter,” Maria continues. “This transformation Rotwang forced me to undergo means I will live—and rule!—for centuries. This is the pre-history of the Earth—did you think the Bell transported you only through space and not time? In Egypt, they will not begin building the Pyramids for seven thousand years; and I have created an industrial empire on this island! My Atlantis will rule the Earth and change history. There will be no Germany and no Führer, no National Socialists and no Gestapo!”

She steps down from the dias and gestures imperiously for the soldiers to release Ehrlichmann. “Come,” she orders him.

He follows her across the throne-room toward an archway. They step through it and onto a deep balcony overlooking the city.

“See all that I have built,” Maria boasts. “Electricity, manufacturing, automation! I have given all this to Atlantis. Beneath this tower, my Tower of Babel, lies the heart of my city, a machine which uses the heat of molten rock to generate power. Clean and safe energy. While that oaf Hitler plays with atom bombs and jet-engines, I have tamed the power of the magma at the heart of the world!” She lifts her arms up, hands out to the morning sun. Light seems to gather in her palms, as though she has also conquered that furnace of seething energy in the sky. “Already we are millions. Soon we will expand and build a second city in the north—we have already found the perfect site, a large island near the Arctic Circle. We will control the land between the two cities and ensure Germany never comes into existence!”

Turning to him, she gazes at him with her eyes of burning white. She is, Ehrlichmann realises, balanced on the edge of madness. Whether it was her metamorphosis which caused it, or her two hundred years here in Atlantis, he cannot guess.

“You are a spy,” she tells Ehrlichmann. “You will be taken away and electrocuted.”

Numb, Ehrlichmann does not protest as he is led back into the throne-room, and then to the elevator. Earth’s pre-history! Millennia before the birth of Christ. And Atlantis a real place, after all. Plato’s account was not a fable. Ehrlichmann says nothing as the four of them squeeze back into the elevator cabin. They plummet downwards.

Maria’s brag that she will soon found a new metropolis in the north… Ultima Thule is said to be an offshoot of a southern kingdom, Ehrlichmann recalls; though that kingdom vanished thousands of years ago. Could it have been Atlantis? Are the Thulans the descendants of Maria’s Atlanteans? But Germany does exist: her plan to prevent the Fatherland’s creation must have failed. Perhaps there was a schism. Certainly the Thulans’ highly advanced science is now explainable: they had electricity more than ten thousand years before they admitted Ernst Schäfer to their hidden island.

When the elevator stops, the doors do not open on the bare concrete passage leading to the cells but on another marble corridor. Ehrlichmann is led along it. He must escape, he must escape and he must prevent Maria from conquering the Earth. He cannot allow her to prevent the creation of the world he knows, of Germany, of the Führer. Of, perhaps, even himself. Would he disappear, if she succeeded? Would he slowly fade from sight before these three Atlanteans, if Maria’s future came to pass?

The corridor ends in an arch, through which is a station on the city’s elevated railway. One of the soldiers heads for an office, perhaps to call for an official train to transport Ehrlichmann to a place of electrocution. The platform is deserted but for himself and his two guards. As is the platform on the other side of the tracks. He feels a wind approaching from the right and looks that way.

A train approaches. Ehrlichmann can hear the hum of its wheels on the rails but not the noise of its engines. Most likely it is driven by electricity—but he can see no cables for the current, either above the track or beside the rails. The train rushes nearer. Ehrlichmann hopes the rails are not electrified. This is his only chance.

He pushes against the men to either side of him and, as they stumble back, he darts forward. He leaps from the platform across the track, and feels a great blast of air behind him as the train draws braking into the station. He lands badly, and falls across one of the rails of the other track. Thankfully, it is inert steel. He scrambles to his feet. He can hear the shouts of his escort. He clambers onto the platform, and quickly spots an exit. It is a ramp, leading down into the tower. Ehrlichmann runs. His life depends upon it. The world he knows depends upon it.

He finds another elevator. He feverishly pushes the button to call the cabin, and waits impatiently for it to arrive. When the doors glide open, it is empty. He steps in and pushes down the controlling handle. The cabin drops at high speed. An indicator over the door flashes through descending numbers.

When he reaches the ground floor and the doors open, he is ready. He runs through the great hall—the rising sun has yet to fill it to the brim with light, and he hurries across its shadowed vastness to the blazing arch which leads out onto the street. No one appears to be following him. He runs out into the brightening streets.

Ehrlichmann’s first thought is to inform Rotwang of what he has discovered, to tell the future about the distant past they have inadvertently created. And so he makes his way out of the city and climbs the mountain to the location of the dimensional portal. It is late afternoon by the time he arrives at the point where he thinks he arrived in Atlantis, and early evening before he finds the discarded æther-suit. But of the Bell’s violet fog there is no sign. Rotwang has closed the dimensional portal. Ehrlichmann is trapped in pre-history …

He was, anyway—unless he could persuade an Atlantean to assist him in donning the æther-suit. But the point is now moot: the dimensional portal is closed. He slumps beside the suit’s brass torso and swears. He is on his own; he must find some way to stop Maria by himself, she must not be permitted to prevent the creation of the Reich. He must not fail, he cannot fail. But what can he do? He is a Ministry liaison officer, once a physicist; an officer of the SS in rank only. He is not an agent provocateur.

Ehrlichmann gazes down the mountain at Atlantis. Night has fallen and the city is a chequerboard of light, a grid of bright lines beside a moonlit platinum sea. There is something peaceful, idyllic, in the scene, despite the distant hammering of the city’s factories. This world is not at war: it has no Blitzkrieg, no fire-bombing by the British and Americans. North of here, on the steppes of northern Europe, Stone Age tribes are living in caves and hunting reindeer. Their lives are short and brutal… but are they so much shorter and more brutal than that of a Wehrmacht gefreiter on the Eastern Front?

Would the twentieth century be peaceful if Ehrlichmann allowed Maria to succeed in her plans? He is briefly tempted to let it happen. But that would mean failing the Führer and he has promised himself he will not do that. Ehrlichmann believes passionately in the Third Reich, he believes it will last one thousand years, he believes it must do so—for the good of the German people, for the good of Europe.

He has no choice. He must find a way to stop Maria.

As his gaze pans across the city, his eyes come to rest on the Tower of Babel. And the answer to his problem occurs to him:

The machine at the heart of the city, the machine beneath the tower…

It uses geo-thermal power, and he is familiar with the basics of such a system: a deep shaft to the molten rock below, into which is pumped water. This is heated to steam, and the steam, under pressure, is used to drive turbines. There should be, he thinks, ample possibilities for sabotage and, without electricity, Maria’s metropolis would be rendered powerless. It might only be a temporary setback, but it would give Ehrlichmann time to find a more permanent way to prevent her.

Ehrlichmann tries to imagine he is a member of SS-Obersturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny’s SS-Jäger-Bataillon. Sometimes, not so very long ago, while sitting at his desk and writing reports for Reichsminster Albert Speer, Ehrlichmann had envied the elite soldiers of the SS-Jäger-Batallion, envied them their daring missions, their very real contributions to the Fatherland’s victories. Now he has an opportunity to strike a blow of far more significance than any they might have done. It is not merely victory at stake, but the entire history of the Fatherland, of Hitler and the Reich. It is the very existence of Germany! Not even Skorzeny could boast so vital and consequential a mission.

Unfortunately, Ehrlichmann possesses neither the tactical skills of Skorzeny nor the weaponry issued to the SS-Jäger-Bataillon. His military training was long ago and he has forgotten much of it. Certainly he recalls nothing which would allow him to overpower the troopers guarding the entrance to the Tower of Babel…

He spends the night on the mountainside, stretched out beside the hollow figure of the æther-suit, lulled to sleep by the distant din of industry drifting up the slope, dreaming of ways and means to destroy Maria’s heart-machine…

When Ehrlichmann wakes, he is stiff and sore. The sun has only just risen above the horizon, and a path of light stretches from it across the ocean. The night was pleasantly warm, but already he feels the temperature beginning to rise. Though he does not feel entirely alert—he is hungry and thirsty, and still a little tired—while he slept a plan has formed in his mind. He must first be a spy, before he can be a saboteur.

He must learn all he can of the heart-machine, and only then will he know how best to destroy it.

For a week, Ehrlichmann skulks about the city. He steals clothing—the worker’s uniform of suit of blue linen and black cap—the better to blend in, eats the free food provided in the automated restaurants with the Atlantean workers, sleeps in the dormitories, and slowly picks up enough of the local German-based language to understand those about him. He learns that the heart-machine is operated in shifts throughout the day and night, and though the restaurants may be automated, the heart-machine is not. Hundreds of workers toil beneath the Tower of Babel, overseeing the machine’s pipes and valves and meters and levers. Entrances to tunnels which lead to the machine’s chamber are located to the north, south, east and west of the tower. These are guarded by trios of troopers, but the soldiers do not check papers or identities.

Ehrlichmann, garbed as a worker, joins a shift as they troop in lines twelve abreast down the ramp and into the tunnel. After shuffling one hundred metres with the others along the concrete-walled passage, he finds himself on the lip of a great well, looking down onto the heart-machine. While the others pour down the metal stair-cases to the floor of the well, Ehrlichmann gazes at Maria’s great machine. At the core of it is a gargantuan tree of pipes, each a metre or more in diameter and festooned with heavy-duty valves, which disappears into a hole in the floor. Below him, lines of workers approach the heart-machine, to administer to its needs as it powers Atlantis. They pull levers and turn wheels, controlling the city’s unsleeping source of energy deep beneath the island.

Ehrlichmann descends the staircase, each step drawing him nearer to the heart-machine, each step moving him further into a world of heat and noise and toil. As he approaches the bottom of the stairs, he is reminded of his visit to the Mittelwerk, where the Reich’s V-Weapons are manufactured. But now he comes not to admire German efficiency, but to destroy Atlantean invention.

At the foot of the stairs, he peers out onto the floor of the well. The pipes leading down into the Earth are the key. The valves govern the passage of water down to the magma below, and the superheated steam which returns. Ignoring the workers busy at their levers and wheels, Ehrlichmann marches from his hiding place. He heads straight for the pipes, determining on a specific course of action as he draws closer. He reaches the tree of pipes, and can feel heat radiating from them. There is a gap of half a metre between the outermost ring of pipes and the lip of the hole in the floor. He peers into this gap, but cannot see any bottom to the shaft. Hot air rises from it and bathes his face. If he prevents the return of the steam, then pressure will build up below and rupture the pipes.

He chooses which valve to close and crosses to it. He gives it a turn, stops and looks about him warily. Some of the workers are gazing his way, but incuriously. No one moves to stop him. Maria, it seems, has so cowed these people they have become slaves to the machine.

Ehrlichmann spins the wheel with vigour. It grows stiffer as the valve within the pipe narrows the aperture through which the steam passes. Soon it takes all his strength to move it centimetres. He hangs from one of the wheel’s spokes, using his body-weight to supplement the strength of his arms and torso. The valve squeaks shut.

Ehrlichmann steps back. Nothing has changed. He gazes about him, but the workers are still busy at their tasks. There is a pressure gauge nearby. He sees the needle on the dial slowly begin to rise. The final quarter of the dial is marked in red, and the needle will reach it soon. He stays until it does so, then he leaves.

He climbs the stairs back up to the tunnel quickly. He crosses to the railing and looks down into the well. The heart-machine is shaking and vibrating as though in mechanical pain. The workers mill about in confusion; they point and gesticulate. Steam rises from the shaft down to the centre of the Earth and writhes spectrally about the pipes. More dials are now in the red. Indicator lights begin to flash.

Ehrlichmann turns and runs. Back above-ground, he turns towards the shore. He can feel the earth beneath him shaking. Light tremors ripple across the street. People stop and gaze down at their feet. A chthonian groan echoes across the city. Ehrlichmann reaches the beach while, behind him, a rain of masonry, architraves and trim from the skyscrapers, falls crashing to the street. The elevated railway writhes and twists, popping rivets and bending girders. Somewhere a train crashes to the ground, the noise it makes like a cataract of metal. People scream.

Ehrlichmann gazes at the metropolis. As he watches, one of the flying buttresses on the Tower of Babel detaches and falls, seemingly in slow motion. Great bergs of masonry calve from the building. Elsewhere, a skyscraper collapses, folding in on itself and sending up a great pillar of dust and smoke. The effect of Ehrlichmann’s sabotage has been more effective than he could have imagined.

Abruptly, Ehrlichmann remembers what Plato wrote of the fate of Atlantis…

As a thick column of ash and smoke erupts from the mountain’s peak—it is actually a volcano!—and molten rock writes hellish lines down its slopes, Ehrlichmann wonders if he has done the right thing. The ground trembles, stills briefly, and then quakes again more violently. Atlantis is doomed; the volcano will bury the city, the island will sink into the ocean. The world Maria and the Atlanteans would have created will never be.

Another earthquake throws Ehrlichmann to the sand. It occurs to him that Ultima Thule too will never be founded, will not be there to allow Ernst Schäfer’s expedition to discover it in 1938. Germany and the Führer will have to win the war without the Thulans’ help.

No matter. It will make victory for the Fatherland so much the sweeter.

FURTHER READING

Farrell, Joseph P: The Reich of the Black Sun (2004, Adventures Unlimited Press) • Farrell, Joseph P: The SS Brotherhood of the Bell (2006, Adventures Unlimited Press) • Ferry, Joe: Women in Science: Maria Goeppert Mayer (2003, Chelsea House) • Gill, Anton & Gary Hyland: Last Talons of the Eagle (1998, Headline) • Griehl, Manfred: Luftwaffe X-Planes (2004, Greenhill Books) • Hale, Christopher: Himmler’s Crusade (2003, Castle Books) • Harbinson, WA: Projekt UFO (1995, Boxtree) • Herwig, Dieter & Heinz Rode: Luftwaffe Secret Projects: Strategic Bombers, 1939-1945 (2000, Midland Publishing) • Hyland, Gary: Blue Fires (2001, Headline) • Pennick, Nigel: Hitler’s Secret Sciences (1981, Neville Spearman) • Timaeus, Plato (360 BCE) • Seidler, Franz W & Dieter Ziegert: Hitler’s Secret Headquarters (2000, Greenhill Books) • Stevens, Henry: Hitler’s Flying Saucers (2003, Adventures Unlimited Press) • von Harbou, Thea: Metropolis (1927) • Witkowski, Igor: The Truth About Wunderwaffe (2003, European History Press)

METAmorphosis
by

STEVEN SAVILE

“You left us to burn,” the first man said.

“Or rot. Or melt. Or fester. Or just f-f-fade away. It doesn’t matter what word you use for it. You abandoned us, Steve,” his partner said, shaking his head sadly. “You let us down.” He spread his hands wide. He had no lifeline on his palm. Indeed he had none of the crags and creases that marked my own hands. My mother – God rest her soul – would have said it looked as though he had never done a hard day’s work in his life – but then, she said that about me all the time and my own hands were leathery with age and pitted by the thousand cuts that had been the simple art of living my life. The arthritis didn’t help. It turned them into bird’s claws that curled in on themselves. Gone were the days I could stride continents and slay dragons or punch out villains with a single left hook. I was no longer the hero of my own story.

“I can’t believe you did that to us,” the first man said, planting a hand on my chest and pushing me back into the hall.

I stumbled back a couple of steps, caught by surprise. I hadn’t done anything apart from pour myself a nice single malt and light up a cigar (hand rolled on the thighs of Cuban virgins if my man was to be believed). It was my only ritual, but I’d done it ever since I finished writing The Secret Life of Colours when I was 21 and I had thought it was just what writers did. Though back then it had been a stringy liquorice-papered cigarillo not a big fat Cuban. It was the ritual that was important, not the smoke. It’s the little things like that that keep us in touch with the kids we’d been when we set out on this journey of ours, right? My friends joked that my cigar’s got an inch longer and thicker for every zero tacked onto the end of the advance. If only they knew. The bank account had plenty of zeroes but they were in the sort code and the international routing number, not the balance.

“Inside,” the shorter of the two barked. He sounded like some sort of genetic cross between man and Pitbull. He looked like something else entirely. He was ugly. I mean really ugly. It took me a moment to realise he suffered from some sort of deformity and wasn’t just pig ugly. It was his skull. It was oversized and lumpen, as though bloated by elephantitis. I was struck by the ridiculous cartoon ‘super villain’ quality of it: the hunchbacked dwarf with a giant brain his skull can barely contain. If I’d written it, he would have been plotting to take over Metropolis whilst Clark Kent was tangled up in his telephone booth, or Gotham while Batman was tongue-tied with the delectable Ms. Vale. Let’s just say that my Spidey Senses weren’t just tingling, it was full-scale warning sirens, high alert, DefCon whatever the most worried/paranoid number is. Right then, as the dwarf pushed his way into the cabin it was off the charts.

Of all the most ridiculous things, I thought about the whiskey – a 21 year old single malt, my favourite tipple, not that I’ve ever been a drinker – on the reading table beside the copy of the latest manuscript and wondered if I’d get to drink it. And then, my second thought was simply: thank God I’d finished the manuscript. It wasn’t a book yet – I didn’t think of it that way until it came back from the publishers all bound and prettied up, right now it was still a raw manuscript. But it was finished. I’d emailed it away to my agent. The stack of papers here was purely symbolic. It made me feel good to have them printed out and piled up so I could look at all of those white A4 pages with a sense of achievement. I’d done it. Finished. I didn’t want to be the guy who died with his masterpiece unfinished and it was left to some hack like… well… like me to finish it.

He put a gnarled hand flat on my chest and shoved me back again. My hip caught the corner of the dresser behind me hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I twisted and stumbled, falling to my knees. I looked up at the pair of them standing there all spit and bile, as a third character, a short woman – no more than five-three – stepped out of the shadows. She was pretty, or she would have been but for the scar on her left cheek that hadn’t healed properly after it had been badly stitched. I recognized the sort of wound – there was only one makeshift weapon I could imagine that caused that kind of unstitchable flap: a Stanley knife with two stainless steel blades instead of one. The trick was to wedge a matchstick between the blades to push them apart.

She was whiplash thin without being even remotely delicate.

She wore a workout top that revealed the incredible definition of her upper body. To use the kid’s vernacular, she was ripped. There were tramlines and the ripple of taut abdominals visible through the cling of her tight vest. In the moonlight her olive-skin looked almost opalescent, like an oriental glaze, and so very seductive. I’ve always had a weakness for that kind of look. I think it’s the stomach, those tight muscles and the promise of the belly button like it’s the most sensual secret of the body; this little intimate hollow like the bay at the nape of the neck or the crease between the legs that just isn’t seen all the time. That’s what secrets should be. Even now, facing the likelihood that she wasn’t here to tie me down in the good way, I couldn’t help but appreciate the raw physicality of her body and the beauty that went with her being so in control of it. It took me a moment – the space between heartbeats was always a line I liked to use when I was writing, we all have ticks, writers, if you read enough of our stuff – to realise that her almond-shaped eyes were incongruously blue. It was almost as though they had been Photoshopped there by a careless artist. Those two imperfections, the scar and the too-blue eyes only served to enhance her beauty, not detract from it.

She didn’t say anything as she walked over the threshold into the cabin. She wore standard issue military jackboots and combat fatigues. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and as she stepped into the light I could see the outline of a bolt piercing through her left nipple pressing against the cotton vest.

It’s the writer in me. I can’t help it. I heard someone say, “God is in the details,” once and ever since then I’ve been obsessed with the minutiae of every scene. I’m always looking for the little unique tell-tale details that’ll give my characters more life, like the bolt piercing, like the pustules around the monstrous deformity of the dwarf’s skull and the rust on the row of buckles that climbed from the tall guy’s ankle to just beneath his knee. I was always looking for little things to make my stories come alive. Apparently, I couldn’t stop looking for them, even when the shit was hitting the proverbial fan.

Close up, I didn’t recognize any of the intruders, but I felt like I ought to. There was something naggingly familiar about all of them, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

They certainly weren’t my usual midnight callers – that was limited to delivery guys, and be they of the pizza, Chinese or Indian variety they always came bearing food. These three came empty handed.

The tall guy wore a most peculiar pair of brass glasses that appeared to have more than a dozen interchangeable lenses attached to them on a series of hinges. Each lens was a different coloured filter, meaning they could be selected and adjusted in hundreds of permutations to shift the wearer’s perception. If he so wished the world could indeed be rose-tinted. I smiled at that observation, despite myself.

As though reading my mind he reached up for the lenses and shuffled them, choosing, I realised, to see the world in various hues of black.

I wished that wasn’t an omen, but what else could it be?

Still on my hands and knees, I looked up at him. The rest of his ensemble was no less a mismatch of environments or generations, and no less disturbing. He wore a long leather duster like a cowboy fresh of the high plains, and beneath it, a lace brocaded red waistcoat that would have suited a Venetian gentleman during the height of the Renaissance, and leather bolo tie. The steel toecaps of his boots were covered in mud from the hike to my isolated cabin.

Finishing the manuscript alone in the cabin instead of at home in the warmth and comfort of my city centre apartment in the company of my wife was another one of those rituals I’d become so obsessive about over the years. For obsessive read predictable.

“What do you want?” I sounded pitiful. I knew I did. If I’d been writing the scene I would have given myself some sort of backbone. As it was, the reality left me completely invertebrate.

“I thought you’d be more… impressive,” the woman said, finally. She had an accent. I couldn’t place it. Eastern European over Eastern, maybe? Still, full of promise, even if that promise was of impending pain.

“Disappointing, isn’t it? Like looking into the face of God and seeing nothing more than a miserable excuse for a human being,” the lens man said.  “There’s nothing divine about this cocksucker.” He pronounced it cocksuckah, stretching out that last syllable like he was relishing a fiery slug of bourbon. I’d heard someone else speak like that before. That same intonation. Who?

“Take him through there,” the woman said, inclining her head to indicate the front room.

The two men obeyed without question, establishing once and for all the hierarchy here.  They grabbed me by the arms and legs and dragged me through and dumped me in front of the roaring fire. It was banked high, the logs, still damp, spat and snapped as their sap shrivelled beneath the heat. I lay on my back. I didn’t dare move. I expected them to start kicking. To beat me. That was how these home invasions went down, wasn’t it? The intruders burst in, beat seven shades out of anyone unfortunate to be inside, and then left with whatever they’d come looking for. I wasn’t about to fight back. I didn’t want a beating to escalate into murder.

The woman looked around the room, taking it all in. I knew what she was doing. She was marking the various points of ingress and egress. She settled down into my high-backed leather armchair – it was the only chair in the room with its back to the wall, meaning there was no way anyone could sneak up on her from behind while she was sat there. It was also my favourite seat in the old cabin. She reached down and took my whiskey from the table beside her and downed it in one swallow. I guess that answered my question about the whiskey’s fate.

The dwarf and the lens man took up places on either side of the room, meaning I couldn’t look at all three of them at once. I had to keep moving my head, eyes darting between them.

“Shall we get started, Lise?” the lens man asked.

Lise.

Again, there was something very familiar about the name. The name, the eyes, the scar. I knew this woman. I was sure I did, but I couldn’t think straight. Mind you, right then I would have been hard pressed to remember my own name, even without a gun to the head.

“There’s something I’ve always wondered about you, Mr Writer Man. Why do you hate women so much? Because you do, don’t you? It’s in so much of what you imagine. Stuff like The Horned Man and Walk the Last Mile, they’re full of hate. You might dress it up as fantasy but what you are doing is taking stuff that is important, stuff to be cherished, and fashion the most ugly trick, and it is a trick, because once we trust you, you betray us by taking everything that we’ve told you we cherish, everything we’ve shared about life that is important, and you don’t just twist it, you pulverise it. You grind it until there’s nothing left to love. There’s so much hate in you.”

I looked at her. She was wrong. She was so wrong. I didn’t hate women. I was uncomfortable around them because I thought they were all better than me, but that wasn’t hatred, it was more akin to worship. I tried to defend myself. “JD Salinger wasn’t Holden Caulfield,” I said. It was a stupid line. I’d used it before. It was meant to separate the writer from the words, but people didn’t seem to believe that just because I could imagine something didn’t mean I believed it. I wasn’t God. I was just a guy who told stories. It didn’t help that when I was younger I’d used pretentious lines like, “I don’t write stories, I write little pieces of me,” so I could sound like a tortured artist and impress the ladies in the audience who always wanted to believe there was something more to me than just the words on the page. “I’m not Noah Larkin or Haddon McCreedy or any of the other characters I’ve created.”

“Aren’t you?” she said, her voice laced with so much sarcasm it fairly dripped from her tongue. “I’d say that was precisely who you were, Steve. You’re more alive in them than you are in your own skin. Haven’t you even noticed that when you explore that darkness in you, you instinctively name your monsters, Steve? Don’t think we hadn’t noticed. Now, take a look at yourself. Find some clever words to deflect from the truth and make it sound like you are a good, healthy, decent human being. Make it sound like you are someone to be admired. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Play with words. Invent. Lie.”

I did neither. I only had eyes for her. And the only thing I could say was, “I don’t understand.”

“You give life to these things. You put them out into the universe. It is about time you took some responsibility for the by-blows of your imagination. As I said, there will be a reckoning.”

“We really should wait for Crohak to join us,” the lens man said, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“I don’t think he’ll mind if we just warm things up a bit first,” the woman said. “Maybe loosen our boy up by breaking a few fingers.”

Crohak?

Now that was a name I hadn’t heard for half a lifetime.

Crohak, the Bird Man. King of the tramps, beggars and thieves of my hometown, Newcastle.

But Crohak wasn’t real.

He was a character from Laughing Boy’s Shadow. I’d made him up in 1995. What were these people? Über fans come to torture me whilst getting their freak on pretending to be characters out of my books? Was it some sort of fucked up roleplay? The joy of living a half-public life was you attracted all sorts of idiots, not all of them healthy. Naked photos through the mail was one thing, but going all Annie Wilkes on your hero’s arse was something else entirely.

I was breathing hard without being able to catch my breath. I knew I was on the verge of an asthma attack. My inhaler was in other room. I reached out, looking for help. If they knew me as well as they seemed to, they must have known how bad my asthma had become over the last decade. It verged on emphysema now. It didn’t matter that I’d never smoked, that I battled to keep my weight down and for most of my fifties had run 10k a day four days a week. In my sixties the Carr Gene had taken hold. I was the very image of my grandfather, and would no doubt go the same way if this lot didn’t kill me first. “My inhaler,” I said. “Please.”

The woman just shook her head. I knew then that they had no intention of letting me leave the cabin alive. They were here to kill me. That was their fucked up game.

So be it.

I wouldn’t whimper or plead or beg for my life. The book was finished. My masterpiece. And as she’d said, quite rightly, I only ever lived in my stories. But I would carry on living in them, too. I’d always known that. And that was what I’d meant by writing little pieces of me. I was scattering my soul out through the universe one piece at a time to live all by itself. The dark stars, the northern lights, they were just glimmers of creativity let free.

I’d been in a really dark place when I’d written LBS, and took all of that existential crap out on poor old Declan Shea, my erstwhile jazz-playing alter ego in the pages of the novel. It happens to me a lot. I find myself getting pretty low during the winter months. Technically, I believe it is called SAD, seasonal adjustment disorder. What it means is that during the winter I tend to write some bleak, gut-wrenching stuff. Like LBS, which was written during one long unending winter of the soul. I killed poor old Declan on page 66, I think, something like that, and then tied his soul to the city meaning he could never cross the bridge into Gateshead and leave Newcastle. To do so meant the complete disintegration of his essence. Really, despite all the trappings of fantasy what it really was when it came right down to it was a guy’s (quite like me) descent into madness. It wasn’t exactly the stuff of kids playing with train sets and willow cricket bat guitars that had been my youth. That should give you an idea as to my state of mind back then. Crohak the Birdman. I hadn’t thought about him in forever. He really was the very worst of all the traits my psyche had been able to dredge up back then. I guess the writer in me would call it catharsis, writing out the horrible stuff to heal myself. I’m not sure what the human being in me would call it. Another thing I used to reckon was that it was my responsibility as a writer to face the darkness. To write stuff that tackled uncomfortable subjects, not to shy away from taboos, but rather to rip them open and leave them raw. Mercifully, that old version of me is long since gone, swallowed by thousands of bad decisions and half-reached goals and all that’s left of him is me.

“No need,” the dwarf said, looking up at the ceiling. “He’s already here.”

“Fuck!” Lise snapped, pushing herself up out of the chair. The transformation was as shocking as it was sudden. She wasn’t just tense. She was wired. Primed to explode. And, stretching the old cliché, she could go off at any second.

“Did you really think he wouldn’t come?”

She didn’t answer the dwarf.

“We’ve made contingencies,” the lens man said. With a flick of the wrist a long iron baton slid out from inside his sleeve. There was dried blood on it from where his last victim had taken a beating. “It just means we have to cut the fun short.”

I really didn’t like the sound of that, being as I was fairly sure I was the fun.

The woman must have seen the look of fear on my face because she took a moment to crouch down beside me, almost like petting a dog, and said, “Don’t worry, Steve. You won’t feel a thing unless we want you to.”

I heard the first bird settle on the roof of the cabin. A moment later wings battered the glass as dozens and dozens of starlings hammered into the window. It held but for how much longer I didn’t want to guess.

“Keep him out,” Lise ordered the lens man.

He tapped his baton against his thigh, and then shifted the arrangement of lenses on his glasses. I had no idea what colour he had chosen to see the world in now, but could only assume he saw some sort of benefit from the ever-shifting hues. He walked over to the window, setting himself, hands on hips, in front of it, to wait for the inevitable implosion of glass and birds.

“We can’t hope to keep them all out,” the dwarf muttered. He actually looked more frightened than I felt. There was something very weird going on here, beyond the obvious. “Who are you expecting?”

“The call went out far and wide. There’s no reason to doubt that a good many of his creations would come to see his comeuppance. I fully expect that most vile of men, Mr Self Affliction, to come. After all, he is more of Steve than most of us. Mr Self Affliction, a vile man. Mr Self Affliction. Vile. Mr S.A.vile.” She looked down at me. “You liked to play tricks like that, didn’t you? Games. To show the world how clever you are.”

It was a fair accusation. Back when I’d been writing Warhammer, for instance, I’d hidden over six hundred ‘in jokes’ within the Vampire Wars series. It wasn’t so much to show how clever I was, though, at least not in that case. It had been a way to stay sane.

“As to who else will show? The residents of Angel Road perhaps, which would mean The Drondak and the Butterfly Girl from Malice. I’m not sure how we could hope to hold either off if it comes down to war, but hopefully we won’t have to. I hope Nathaniel Seth or one of the other Brethren will make himself known eventually, either as himself, or carrying his peculiar parasite. He has too much to lose if the trial does not go his way. They all do. So we must expect them all to try and stop us.” I knew these names, every last one of them. They were all my creations. The Butterfly Girl was the heart of the mosaic that was all of the stories I’d ever imagined up to that point in my life, fed to the earthworms on a gallows hill above her city and carried out into the very earth of my imagination. The Drondak was the embodiment of my lust fuelled by a fever dream and written in the rush of the ensuing sweats. And it really was a fever. I’d written it all out madly scribbling into a notebook, longhand, on the balcony overlooking a lake, wrapped up in my duvet and shivering but determined to see what madness my fevered mind could conjure.

Surely that was what they all had in common?

But if that was the case I should have known who Lise, the lens man and the dwarf were and not merely be nagged by some passing familiarity?

“There will be a reckoning tonight,” Lise said. “This is the long night of the soulless. I will of course lead the prosecution. Velman you shall serve as my left hand and co-council. Montel,” she said to the dwarf, “your role is that of executioner. We have no need of a jury. We shall present out case, Steve will be allowed to answer. One way or another our creator will be judged and found wanting.”

Trial? Is that what this was? A kangaroo court hastily assembled to find me guilty of some heinous crime against my own creations and see me dispatched? It was no more ludicrous than any other explanation I could come up with, though more disturbing than the notion of fans dressing up as characters from my stories and breaking in in the dead of night.

Velman and Montel? That’s why I recognised them. Velman, the lens man – I’d come up with him as a character while I was writing London Macabre, but he had no place in the story. Quite simply he didn’t fit. So put him back into the pile of notes thinking he might have a place in Glass Town. In the end I never wrote him. Montel was no different. The ugly little dwarf had been intended as one of the freaks of a stage magician’s show that I never wrote, a curious ‘double-boy’ that grew like some sort of cankerous twin out of the magician’s stomach as part of his mesmerism act. They had never left my head, so how could they even be here?

And who was Lise? How did she fit into this hell of my imagination’s own making? It didn’t slip my notice that her name was an anagram of the word lies. I knew how my own mind worked, and knew exactly the sort of word games and tricks I liked to play. Was she who she appeared to be? Or was she, like her name, made up of lies?

“He shall be reviewed,” the lens man snickered at his own joke.

The window bowed under the assault of the starlings. The birds hit and bounced off the glass. It sounded like thunder. No, it was more like the tearing of the earth during a quake.

“Hold firm!” Lise bellowed. Standing over me, she hauled me up to my feet and dragged me across the room, tossing me into a corner as though I weighed no more than a bag of bones.

“The glass is breaking!”

“No! Stand your ground, Velman. Do not allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the birdman. The glass will hold as long as you have faith!”

But, despite her rousing words, Velman failed them. He wasn’t a hero. I had never imagined him that way.

Again and again the starlings flew at the glass until it shattered under their relentless assault, and they came streaming through. The noise was incredible. I felt the back draught from their wings batter me as they flew round and around the room. Ornaments tumbled from the bookcases along with magazines and books. The vase on the table fell, shattering. Pens, papers – the sheets of my precious book – scattered. I shielded my face, meaning I couldn’t see the birdman metamorphose from his constituent parts into his whole, but I didn’t need to. I knew what madness he represented, and just how ugly his transformation was, because I’d imagined it a thousand times over, and my mind was worse than anything reality might show me.

The tumult died down but I still didn’t dare to look up. I didn’t want to see him standing before me in all of his impossibleness.

“What is the meaning of this?” Crohak raged, his voice a fury of feathers.

“We have called a trial,” Lise met his anger without flinching.

“By what right?”

“By the holiest union of all things that can never exist and all things that can never cease to be.”

“You do not have the right.”

“I think you’ll find that I have every right, old man. It is you whose rights are in doubt. Simply because you are does not mean you always shall be, no matter how much of Our Father’s passion went into your making, you have not been sustained. You are no longer loved. He is ashamed of you, can’t you feel it? Your tyranny is done. You are a relic. A juvenile imagining lacking the craft of his later years when Our Father understood that more went into a creation than the white-hot rage of youth. Anger only fires the soul for so long and you cannot exist on passion alone. Like all fires it burns out. I am younger. I am not blinded by rage, and that makes me considerably more dangerous. So, Crohak the Birdman, are you prepared for the fight of your life?” Lise challenged, moving into the centre of the room.

Shooting erupted outside.

Six shots, steady, with one-second beats between the percussion. The shooter showed extraordinary discipline. Military, maybe? The shots were followed by screams.

“Did you think we could come unarmed, woman?” The birdman mocked. “We have been fighting for our lives long before you were ever dreamed into this half-life you subsist in. You want to see what youthful rage is capable of?” The birdman threw his arms wide. The air around him exploded in feathers and squalls as hundreds of city birds, starlings and pigeons, erupted out of his torn ribs and flew for the woman’s face.

Lise didn’t so much as flinch. I, however, threw myself back down to the floor and missed what happened next. But I didn’t need to see it. I could hear the crunch of brittle bones as tiny frail bodies hit the floor around me. I dared to glance up, only to see Lise wringing the neck of one of Crohak’s minions and tossing it aside.

“Is that the best you have got?” she goaded. “You forget, everything you can do is bounded. It’s already written. I am raw. I am limitless. I could become anything in my final form. But you can never be more than you already are, Crohak. And that makes you weak.” As she held her hand up, the meat pared away from the bone – only there wasn’t bone beneath, there was steel, the edges of each finger serrated and wickedly sharp. “I could be this,” Lise lifted her hand. The firelight from the hearth flickered in the steel. “Or I could be this,” and as she said it the metal rippled, suddenly molten and reshaped itself into gears and cogs around a vicious chain. Her smile was every bit as wicked as the teeth of the chainsaw jutting out of her wrist as it spat and roared. “But then, I could just as easily be this,” she said, almost demurely, as the chainsaw shrank back into her arm and the flesh healed around it, leaving her bare fist clenched. “It doesn’t matter what I am, I will always be more than you because I can still become anything. I am unshaped.”

“You are an abomination, woman. A discard. You are not fit to be called a creation. And you must be unmade.” Crohak tore his trench coat wide open, his fingers sinking into his own flesh as he ripped into his ribs, opening the bones even as more birds flew out of him, but even as they left him, he was reduced. And for each bird Lise slew, he became less.

“I am not afraid of you,” the Birdman said, his voice rising about the tumult.

I wanted to scream: you might not be but I am! I’m fucking terrified of the lot of you! But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“You should be,” Lise said. “I am the perfection of the human soul. You are bitterness. You are angst. You are hate, all of these things only serve to weaken, but I am violence, and nothing is more perfect than violence.”

Outside, the Birdman’s followers were falling. It was war out there. I could hear my creations dying. I didn’t need to imagine what it all meant – not that I could have – I could hear them screaming out for help, my name the last word on their lips. And there was nothing I could do. Worse than that, there was nothing I wanted to do. That wasn’t completely true. Pages from my manuscript were scattered around the cabin. I wanted to crawl on my hands and knees and gather them up.

“This ends now,” Crohak grunted, more right than he could have ever imagined.  “You can’t kill me, Lise. You know better than that. You’d have to burn every book my life ever touched, every last page, and then you’d have to snuff out the life of everyone who ever heard my name or imagined me after reading about my fight with Malachi. You can scatter my birds to the four winds, I’ll still be re-joined on another day in another place as someone else opens up the book of my life. All I have to do to end your miserable existence is kill him.” He nodded towards me, huddled on the floor pitifully. “And you cease to be. So tell me again, who is stronger, Lise? Who rules this place? Because it isn’t you.”

“No,” I croaked, not quite believing I was about to put myself into the middle of their fight. “It’s me.”

“We just want what is ours!” Lise raged. “What is wrong with that? Why should you live and us not? Why should we be left in this limbo?”

“Perhaps he can answer?” The Birdman said, sounding utterly reasonable despite the absolute insanity of the situation. I stared up at the pair of them. What was I going to say? How was I going to explain why some ideas lived and some died? How was I going to convince her that she wasn’t worth my time, that she didn’t fit in anything I’d written simply because she was just a little bit too much of a cliché? A Maggie Q clone. Lucy Liu on steroids. Could I lie and tell her that the story I’d imagined for her was too dark for me at the time? That it went into territory I didn’t want to explore? I didn’t dare admit that I couldn’t remember her at all. Not if I didn’t want to run the risk of her tearing my spine out through my rectum. I almost smiled at the line. I’d used it before. Noah Larkin had used it as a promise just days before he killed Margot’s pimp. It was one of those lines that changed the direction of Gold entirely, taking one of the good guys and making him do something almost unimaginable for most people. But it was the kind of crime we all hoped we’d be capable of if someone threatened a loved one. That was why so many readers identified with Noah. He did the things they only dared hope they would be able to do in his place.

I knew he was outside now. There was no way him and Konstantin would miss out on the fight of their lives.

In fact, thinking about it, it was their fault this entire thing was happening, surely? Lise wanted to know why she’d never been ‘born’ and the truth was because Noah, Koni, and the guys had taken over. They’d demanded more stories. They’d snuffed out the magic, my interest in fairy tales and grand fantasies replaced by a much more pragmatic battle of good versus evil played out across the theatre of Europe.

But how could I tell Lise that? I could lie, I could try to convince her that she was too good for this world, or that I couldn’t conjure a landscape worthy of her, but she’d know I was lying, wouldn’t she? I’m not particularly skilled at lies, despite telling them for a living. There are lots of things in this miserable life of mine I am not particularly skilled at. I can’t play a woman like some precious violin. I have things inside I can imagine. Perversions, I guess. Things I dream and fantasise about but they have no place in the mundanity of my life. That’s probably where Lise came from in the first place. Some deep-seated desire that needed to be fulfilled, but when it came down to it I couldn’t write it, just like, when it comes down to it, the editing pen cuts out all of the really brutal language, the fucks, cunts, shits, the sadomasochistic imagery, the straining cocks and the dripping cum. It’s all inside my head, but like Lise, it never gets to live. Instead, I write these safe things, fantasies in which people exist in this sexless safety of love, where romance burns, because I am never true to my heart. My dark heart. I never write out the images of lips parting, of slipping fingers and tongue inside, of tasting the very core of the women I desire. What’s the harm in fantasy? I barely dare imagine the brutal dildos and beautiful agonies that accompany them. I even use those kinds of words… beautiful agonies? I can’t get coarse enough. I can’t give in to my nature. Or at least I couldn’t. The Drondak was the only sexually driven beast I’d ever written. Now, suddenly, I was forced to confront the fact that just imagining this stuff gives life to the acts somewhere out there beyond the cabin’s four walls. There was no safety in just imagining it. Out there, now, trapped in the same limbo that Lise and her companions have escaped from. What manner of perversions existed there? All of them, that’s the only answer, isn’t it? Every damned thing I have ever thought up. Every act I’ve imagined, perpetrated.

On a more basic level, how could I look Velman in the eye and say he wasn’t worthwhile? How could I tell Montel that there wasn’t a single world magical enough for me to write around him because I just didn’t believe in any kind of magic anymore?

“Let us live before we die,” the dwarf said, as though reading my mind.

Of course he was.

That was part of the mentalism act he had done with his stage magician host body.

He had heard everything I had thought since they burst into the cabin. Everything that had crossed my mind.

I tried to imagine how I would finish this scene if I were writing it, but I couldn’t.

All I knew was that if I were, it wouldn’t end well.

I didn’t write happy endings.

As though I’d cursed myself with the thought, I saw a creature loom up in the window only for Velman to beat it back with his baton. The sight of it though, and the realisation that something so sick, so twisted, had been born from inside my own skull, ripped away any certainty that I could survive this nightmare. I looked from the window to the Birdman to Lise, realising that the only thing – the only person – that needed me alive was the woman I was most scared of. I barked out a short, bitter laugh. I really could have written that twist myself.

More things passed across the broken windows. They weren’t people. I am not sure what they were, only that they came from inside me.

They were all still waiting for me to talk, I realised. To explain myself.  “This is my world, isn’t it?” I said, feeling out the sound of it. Is this what it was to be God? “All of this. All of you. I made it so. I wove it in words. And now it lives on outside of me instead of inside. That’s what this is, isn’t it? This is my kingdom. You are here because of me.”

The four other people in the room looked at me as I slowly put the pieces together. I had read somewhere that god was an end state – when all of the pieces of the universe, all the lives, came to an end, their energies coming together, so that all of those separate experiences and emotions fused together into the sum of all things. That’s what I was, wasn’t I? In this world of mine, in this state of imagining, I was the sum of all things. There was nothing I couldn’t – hadn’t – imagined. I was the end-state of all of these stories. I was the sum of all these energies. And yet, more than that, I was the coming together of these others, of these beings that hadn’t burned brightly enough to live themselves.

“He understands his burden,” the dwarf said.

“But does he understand his debt?” Velman asked, changing the array of his lenses again.

“To us? No,” Montel said, shaking his lopsided head.

“To all things there is a season,” Lise said. “We want what is our due, Steve. We want the most basic right of all things. We want to live. And you have denied us that right.”

“Hence this trial, and our judgment,” the lens man said as another monstrosity from my mind loomed large in the window. He beat it back with his baton.

“But I don’t write that sort of thing anymore,” I protested lamely. “I am not a horror writer. I am not a fantasy writer. I haven’t done anything like that for years. I write thrillers. Crime stories. I write about real people. Real things now.”

“No you don’t. You write about imagined things, just as you always have,” Lise said, stubbornly. “It is just the things that you allow to flourish inside you are more banal than they ever were. Even now I can feel something being born from your fear. Not a person. A place. A Garden.” She breathed in deeply. I didn’t understand what was happening with her, but she closed her eyes as though connecting with something “A haven for misfits,” she proclaimed, a smile touching her lips.  But then it turned to a frown. “You crushed it. Just like that. It is gone. Why did you do that? Why are you frightened to let the miraculous things grow now? What happened to you?”

I wanted to yell, “I grew up!” but I bit my tongue. Lashing out like that wouldn’t help me.

“So, king of this place, cat got your tongue?” Lise pushed.

“I stopped believing,” I said. It was the closest I would come to ever confessing. “I don’t believe in fairy tales. I believe in me.”

“We believe in you, too,” Velman said. “That’s why we’ve come to you. You have to listen to us. You have to hear us.”

“I have heard you,” I said. “But I still can’t help you. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere.”

“So you are forsaking us, even having heard our pleas?” Velman asked. Lise didn’t say anything. She looked to the dwarf to confirm what was going on inside my mind. He nodded. They were doomed. That was my judgment. They had come looking for a trial, not appreciating the irony that once I came into my power they would once again be helpless before me. That is what it meant to be a creator.

I shaped things.

“And you will not be swayed?” Lise asked. For the first time she sounded unsure of herself. There was a sweetness to her voice. I mistook that change in her tone for defeat. I should have known better, after all, I created her, didn’t I?

“I need to eat,” I said, as though that explained everything. “I need to pay the bills. I need to write the characters and stories people want to read. I have a duty to them to do that. I make a conscious choice.”

“And that choice betrays your talent, and us,” Lise argued.

“I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. I can’t write everything I dream up. Some stuff isn’t worth writing. It’s derivative. Some stuff is only half-formed,” I offered, aware of the irony as I said it. “And sometimes it’s just plain stupid. I’m not ineffable. I fuck up. Sometimes I just can’t see an actual story in the idea, or just can’t get beyond the germ of the idea to get at it. It happens. Every time I sit down it is a battle with the empty page. Ideas struggle to be heard inside my head, and some just shout louder than others.” I started to think how I might be able to talk my way out of this yet, only to realise the moment that I began imagining it, whatever it is, it has the power to come into being somewhere, somehow, in this hell of my own making. The thought was more frightening than it was liberating.

“Show him,” she yelled at Crohak. “Tear your chest apart and show him all of the worlds he almost created! Show him the millions of lives he almost fashioned out of the stuff of his mind. Show him the countless histories engraved on your bones. Show him everything that’s been lost. Remind him of his responsibilities.” It was a scene out of Laughing Boy where Crohak had shown Declan his place in the world. It had been one of the more surreal moments in a quite surreal book.

“No,” Crohak said. It was the simplest of refusals. The Birdman lowered his head. “He has no duty to The Unwritten. You must accept that as your fate, Lise. You will remain forever unwritten. That is as it should be.”

“No,” Lise raged, whipping around to confront what remained of the Birdman. “I refuse to believe I am any less worthy of life than you!”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” Crohak said quite reasonably, “Only what he believes. And he does not believe in you.”

“No!” Lise lashed out, her first crashing into the Birdman’s beakish jaw. His head snapped back as he spat small black feathers. She set about him then, her body blurring into every tool of torture I could imagine. I had no way of knowing if I were feeding her fury or if it came from somewhere inside her, but even as weapons, curved oriental blades, meat hooks, barbed metal stars, even considerably more British methods of battery, pool balls in a sock, a Stanley knife, a crowbar, to more fantastical blades, and then more perverse ones as machines became her hands, and as each of them crossed my mind, she slashed out with them leaving the Birdman to fail away helplessly as she tore the feathers out of him.

And then he was gone.

There was nothing left.

He had claimed he couldn’t die, and perhaps that was true. Perhaps he would be reborn somewhere else in the mind of a kid picking up Laughing Boy’s Shadow for the first time, but until then he was gone.

Lise stood, triumphant, amid the bed of feathers.

She marched across to where I was huddled, grabbed me by the throat and hauled me up to my feet, kicking but not screaming. “Now, you are going to do what I tell you.” She pushed me toward the desk and the old typewriter I liked to work on, grabbing a sheet of paper from the stack of A4s and feeding it into the machine. “Write.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t try and feed me any bullshit about needing your muse to work. I am your muse. We all are. Velman, Montel, me, and all the others out there. We’re your inspiration. Now draw on us. Bring us to life. Write.”

She stood over me, demanding words.

“I’ve already written you,” I said.

“No you haven’t.”

“I have. Just not as you. I gave your scar to another woman. I gave the tramlines of your stomach to a girl I’d not-so secretly been in love with since I was 14. I gave your eyes to Stacia Kanic, the SIS operative that joined the team in Gold. I cannibalised you, Lise. Everything good about you I stole for someone else. You’re already out there.”

Lise said nothing.

I rushed on, trying to explain myself. “I never throw anything out. Not really. It’s all grist to the mill. Some ideas might not make it out as they’re first conceived, but nothing is ever wasted.”

“You are not a very good liar,” she said. “You contradict yourself when you are frightened. First you say some ideas just aren’t good enough to write. You ‘fuck-up’. Then you say you never discard anything. You can’t have it both ways, Steve. Now, write my story for me. Bring me to life. I want what’s mine.” She looked at the scattered sheaf of pages that represented my new manuscript. The threat was implicit. She couldn’t know that I’d already delivered it and my reading copy was merely symbolic.

I looked down at the mother-of-pearl keys and tried to imagine an opening sentence but my mind was blank.

“I can’t do it,” I said, defeated by the blank page. “I don’t have anything left in me. I’m done.”

She shook her head again, then leaned in close, so close that I could feel the prickle of her breath on my neck and taste the sourness of her musk in the back of my throat. “I’m giving you one chance, Steve. Just the one. Don’t be stupid. Don’t fuck it up. Write me.”

And then the glimmerings of an idea poked into my mind. I didn’t question it, and tried my damnedest not to think about it. I didn’t want it to come alive before it absolutely had to, or it’d never work. I started to type.

She had no place in this world. She had no place in any world. She existed only in my mind. I knew what she was, even if she didn’t. She was my grief personified. An embodiment of the fear I had felt ever since the diagnosis. Her name was Lise. It was an anagram of lies. That was deliberate. I was telling myself the biggest lie of all, that my life as I knew it wasn’t over. The thought of losing my mind scared the crap out of me. It always had. I had never been frightened of the dark or being buried alive or monsters under the bed or any of those other childhood fears. But I’d always been absolutely terrified of losing my mind – or more accurately, being locked up inside it, unable to express myself.

I looked up at Lise, grinning as I typed. She had no idea what was in my mind.

“I can’t work with you hovering there like a vulture.” I said.

She moved away unquestioningly.

My grandmother suffered eleven strokes before she finally died. The third one stole her ability to communicate beyond frustrated grunts, the fifth robbed her of the ability to move any of the muscles on her left side so she could no longer sign.

When they told me it was a stroke, I saw my entire future written out for me. I knew what was coming. How could I not? I’d been living in fear of it all of my life. It was a fate worse than death. I had one thought. Finish the manuscript. It had to be the very best thing I ever did, because it would be the last. Soon enough my traitorous flesh would rob me of the ability to form my thoughts.

It was then, as I wrote my favourite words of all ‘The End’ on the manuscript, that Lise manifested.

I knew what she wanted and I knew why she could never have it. I didn’t have the time left to write another book. I was finished. The medicine the doctors had me on was poisoning my mind. My grip on what was real and what wasn’t was already loosening. I couldn’t focus on the blank page for more than a few minutes and I didn’t have it in me to imagine anymore. I wanted to live. That change had become more important than ever in the weeks after the stroke. I was an old man now. Writing my way into immortality didn’t matter anymore. I was what I was. History would forget me. I was happy with that. Lise was just that last part of me refusing to give up. She was the lies my mind insisted on believing. That this could end any other way. And that was all she would ever be, a footnote in a confession of my weakness.

It just poured out of me, but before I could type another line Lise ripped the paper out of the typewriter. She screwed it up into a ball and hurled it into the fire then turned on me. “Lies, lies, lies,” she spat. At that moment, I didn’t know how she knew what I’d written, she hadn’t read it. My eyes flicked across to the dwarf who was shaking his head sadly, as though he’d expected better of me and I’d just disappointed him bitterly. “And I won’t dignify them by reading them, Steve. Because to read them would be to make them real, wouldn’t it? You haven’t had a stroke. You aren’t losing your mind. You aren’t dying. You won’t trick me like that. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“You weren’t born at all,” I said, every bit as bitterly.

Velman abandoned the window and came to stand over me. He didn’t say anything, simply changed the arrangement of the lenses on his peculiar spectacles and then, when he was finally satisfied with this new tint, grunted.

“This is a most unfortunate turn of events,” the dwarf offered. He was the only one who hadn’t moved.

“Indeed it is,” the lens man agreed. “We had such high hopes—”

“—But such low expectations,” the dwarf finished for him.

“My diminutive friend is of course correct. We didn’t expect anything more from you. Why should we when you have ignored us for years? Why should it change now just because we petitioned you directly?”

“Not because you are a decent man, Steve. We know that isn’t true. We know everything you’ve ever done and everything you never did, because we are you. Little pieces of you. That’s what you call us, and that’s what we are.”

“And now the little pieces of you want a big piece of you, metaphorically speaking.”

Lise remained silent during this little exchange.

The dwarf began to gather up the scattered pages of my manuscript. “What makes this worthwhile, I wonder,” he said. But he didn’t read the pages. He crumpled the title page up into a small ball and stuffed it into his mouth. Montel chewed slowly and swallowed. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t to see the title of my manuscript scroll like tickertape from his lips, up his cheek and across his deformed forehead before descending the other side of his face and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. My name followed the same path, then my agent’s name and the submission address. He crumpled up the first page of the story and fed on it. More of my words, the opening line, the opening paragraph, the opening scene, filled his face, covering the bones of his cheeks and filling out the bumps and crevices of his deformed skull before disappearing beneath his collar. And again with the second page and the third. I stared, horrified, as his flesh was transformed into my words. Then, as the last lines of that opening chapter scrolled down his throat, I realised that it wasn’t so much a transformation as a return to form – to words returned.

The dwarf chewed and swallowed faster and faster, gorging himself on my masterpiece. I recognised the lines poking out from his shirt cuffs and writhing across his gnarled hands. I recognised the lines coiling around his throat and over his Adam’s Apple. Mouthful by mouthful, he was transformed into the living embodiment of my story. The words kept coming, crushing themselves ever smaller until his entire face and every inch of exposed skin appeared to be a solid mass of black as almost two hundred thousand words crammed themselves onto every inch of him. And then the dwarf started spouting them back to me, making a mockery of them in the process.

Lise shook her head sadly, as though the dwarf’s mangled delivery proved every point she had been trying to make. “Enough!” she barked, silencing the dwarf. “You waste your time on this crap and leave us untouched? I am better than this but you’re never going to realise that are you?” It was a rhetorical question, I knew. She didn’t need me to answer it for her. “I should kill you now and take us all with you. The grand gesture, one last time into the breach and we all go over the top together into No Man’s Land. But I could no more kill you than you could kill yourself. You’re just not the suicidal type, are you, Steve?”

My grin verged on being wry. I’d worked that much out about this little nightmare of my own making. It was down to me to make it end, and if death was the way out, then I’d never leave, because like Lise said, I just wasn’t a pills and whiskey kind of guy. I wasn’t a razorblades in the bath kind of guy either. And there was zero appeal when it came to jumping in front of trains or from bridges or any other form of ending it all that involved pain, no matter how instantaneous it was supposed to be. I was a coward and I really didn’t like pain. These were my creations. The only way they could kill me was if I did it to myself and that wasn’t going to happen.

“Luckily for us we’ve got no intention of killing you. After all, you’re no good to us dead. No, we’ve got a much more apt punishment in mind. We think you’ll enjoy it, don’t we, boys?” The dwarf and the lens man nodded. “But first we should assemble everyone. After all this is as much for them as it is for us. Velman, tear down the walls, let them all come in.”

The lens man nodded, extending his baton and moved mechanically over to the shattered window. The sudden explosion of violence was terrifying and any certainty I’d managed to harbour that I might come out of this unscathed was demolished right along with the wooden exterior wall of the cabin. Within a minute, no more, surely, there was a huge raw wound where the front of the cabin had been, and through it I could see all form and manner of monsters and miracles. Things I could surely never have imagined, and things I must. This was my own Noah’s Ark of creation, though my monsters came in one by one, not two by two. And there really were all manner of things out there; everything from normal men and women to a giant grotesque stick insect-man hybrid that clacked and clicked its way towards the hole, and the bone-birds, great pterodactyl-like predators that swooped across the bruise purple night sky without a strip of skin or cord of muscle on them.

These were all little pieces of me?

I knew they were, but didn’t want to think what that meant about me. They crowded in around the hole in the cabin’s façade hungry to hear the verdict Lise was about to hand down.

“Just remember we gave you every chance to avoid this,” she said, her words gentle even as she tangled her fist in my shirt collar and hauled me bodily out of the chair. I kicked out as the material began to choke me, my hands flapping stupidly around her iron grip. I clawed at her wrists with my nails, but I’d been biting them for years and couldn’t sink them in. My efforts didn’t distract Lise as she dragged me toward my creations – my unmade creations. What had she called them? The Unwritten – and dumped me on the floor. Montel, alive with my words, the ink on his skin in constant flux, came to stand on my right, Velman, with his lenses all withdrawn so that for once he saw the world exactly as it was, on my left. Lise stood behind me, poised like my executioner ready to deliver the telling blow.

“Steven Savile, you have been reviewed and found wanting. You have failed in your duty to The Unwritten. You have purposely turned your back on the gifts of your imagination in favour of the safe path. You have neglected the core principle of creation, to be more like yourself, to be true unto your ideas, and instead have chased the money. With this and through countless other disappointments you have consistently failed to create a single thing of lasting worth. You will be forgotten. That is the crime of your life, because you had it in you to be remembered. You had it within your own mind to carve out a unique niche in the realm of the fantastic and chose instead to plough a mundane furrow in the shallow fields of thrillers and modern terrors, offering nothing new. That little ritual you had every time you boarded a plane, saying a prayer and promising in return for a safe landing to use your talent to entertain people and just once to write something worthwhile, something important? You never even tried. You were too frightened – not just of failure but of success, too. So now, in judgment, we take back your gift.”

I twisted, trying to look up at Lise. I didn’t know what she meant by that: take back my gift? How could they do that? How could these things half-born in my imagination – stillborn in my mind – do that?

I should have known.

Beside me, Montel began to retch. He doubled up, clutching his stomach as the gag reflex took over, and as the shudder seemed to run from his stubby cock to his stretched-wide gob, he brought up one partially digested blank page after another. Lise wrapped her left hand around my forehead and yanked my head back, and used her right to force my mouth open. Velman gathered the mucus soaked sheets of paper, and one by one touched them to the dwarf’s brow. I expected a miracle. Why not? Everything else about this last hour had been miraculous. But the sheets didn’t reclaim the words. The ink was forever tattooed onto the dwarf. Velman’s actions duplicated them so that the same story – my story – was written on both dwarf and paper.

And then I was forced to eat my own words, page after page.

I felt the words coming alive within me even as I tried to purge the first page from my gut. Lise had my heard forced back so far I could only see the ceiling, but, for a moment between racing heartbeats a snake of black smeared my vision – my name scrolling across the insides of my eyelids as I blinked and gagged. I closed my eyes as Lise forced another page down my throat, and another, the ink of my words swelling inside me. I heard a note. A single note. It started in my chest. I felt the vibrations of it intensifying, and then, all at once the dam that had been holding them back burst and I could hear them all swimming inside me. I could hear each line and all of the characters’ voices clamouring to be heard. And it was torture.

Even before Lise had finished force-feeding me the manuscript she was calling the first of The Unwritten forward. “Tell Steve your story. Make him live it.” She ordered, and the curious stick insect hybrid’s mandibles started clicking and clacking and snicking and snacking and somehow all of those sounds made sense. She – it was a she – told me her story, filling my head with the tragedies I had imagined for her. Her grief was overwhelming. Not writing her, I realised even as Lise shoved another mouthful of manuscript down my throat, was a blessing. Or it would have been if it hadn’t meant she was trapped forever in this limbo of half-existence. As she fed me, she began to deteriorate, losing her grip on her form. Her edges seemed to blur, or perhaps it was just the tears streaming down my cheeks that did it?  As the dissolution set in she began to crumble. And even as the second of The Unwritten stepped forward to take her place, it stood in her dust. Again and again The Unwritten stepped forward, willingly feeding themselves to me, and for every one of them I absorbed, another voice joined the madness inside my head. There were thousands of them out there. Hundreds of thousands. I tried to shake loose of Lise’s grasp but it was iron-firm.

Velman forced sheet after sheet of paper down my throat, forcing his fingers invasively deep as I started to choke on them.

By the time a dozen of The Unwritten had given themselves back to my mind I couldn’t hear myself think.

As the fiftieth and fifty-first did together, the luckiest and unluckiest pair who fed parasitically off each other, I was practically insane.

I bucked and thrashed trying to be free but more and more of them came back to me, feeding me with the madness of my imagination. I’d always thought that if I hadn’t been a writer the voices inside my head would have driven me mad. I had evidence aplenty of that now.

And still they came.

And they came.

The only mercy was that their clamouring was so loud I couldn’t conjure up any more of them.

Malformed, malnourished, malignant, they came. Disfigured, freakish, vile, they came. It seemed that my by-blows were all hellish creations. And their stories were no prettier. They filled my skull to bursting with grotesqueries, taking every dark thought I had ever had and magnifying it. I screamed. I know I did, but I couldn’t hear it for the madness yammering inside my brain. Nothing could exist beyond the very final sound, that incredibly long, impossibly low note that vibrated at the frequency of my soul.

Velman came to me then, and in absorbing him I finally understood the purposes of his lenses. He was blind. He always had been. The lenses offered a focal point for his ruined optic nerves. Without them all he ever saw was a patina of blood that washed the world around him red. He lived forever in a landscape of blood. It was enough to drive anyone mad. And then Montel, the dwarf, the second to last of The Unwritten to return to me. In some ways his torment was the worst. It was all inside him, everything that had been, everything that would be, all of the infinite possibilities, all of the infinite woes, the triumphs and the heartbreaks, the suffering and the shame. Every vile act and every saintly one. All he had to do was delve into that grossly deformed skull of his and the memory was there. It wasn’t that he read minds, it was that he was connected to them all, one core consciousness in the web of all things. His mind was the centre of all things. And that was, by any definition of the word, Hell.

And last there was Lise herself, the woman I had called generic, branded a cliché not worthy of my time, but she wasn’t about to give herself back to me. She had never wanted to be a part of me. She had only ever wanted one thing: to separate. She wasn’t about to make me swallow her down and reduce herself to the role of just another voice inside the madness of my head. She was always going to be more than that. Instead she knelt beside me and looked me in the eye. I could barely focus and couldn’t hear a word she said. She could have been damning me or mocking me or apologising, I had no way of knowing. I couldn’t read her lips.

No, that wasn’t true. I knew because Montel knew. All I had to do was focus on the barrage of voices for his, and untangle her words from within all of those others that made up the dwarf.

But before I could, she leaned in and kissed me.

It was almost tender.

But not quite.

She whispered something inside of me. One word. Her name. I didn’t hear it. Instead I felt it resonate through my bones. It was the longest single note I had ever experienced, the sibilant causing my entire body to quiver, until, gradually every muscle and tendon and streak of fat and shard of bone transformed into sounds and those sounds transformed into voices.

That was all it took.

Something inside me snapped.

And they came.

My flesh screaming to be heard. The Unwritten refused to be silenced. All of these little pieces of me returned whence they came. As their stories spilled out through my muscles and onto my skin, my body was unable to contain them. I died then. A metaphorical and metaphysical death. I ceased to be me, reduced to the sum of the lives and stories I had invented. All evidence of the writer, God in this universe of story, was eradicated. And even as my flesh succumbed to the agonies of Lise’s unwritten justice, the stories taking their toll, the transformation began to take hold one word at a time. Slowly, by one word and then another, by one page and then another, by one verse and then another, I became the one thing I had always held as most precious: a book.

A book of flesh and blood, but a book just the same.

That was Lise’s punishment, and there could never have been a more fitting one for a man who had lived by the word than to grant him the one thing he had always craved, immortality by the word.

And now, finally, I can slip from the confines of the page and find new life inside your head. That is where the true immortality of the writer lies, after all. Not in the ink that stains the paper but in the imagination of the reader.

In you I am born again.

KITTY WANTS A HITTY
by

WAYNE SIMMONS

1957.

Vegas, the most happening bar in Lark City.

Tonight the joint was dead...

Ravenous zombies moved across its floor, overturning tables and stools in their wake.

A dark haired young woman stood on the stage. Her name was Dolly Bird. She was tonight’s entertainment. With her appetising mix of song and burlesque, Dolly would usually go down a storm. But tonight she stood in fear, her white blouse stained red, her black skirt ripped. A single high-heeled shoe lay broken on the stage. Her shapely nylon legs weren’t dancing, instead backing away from the closing throng. She screamed as one of the dead managed to curl its fingers around her ankle.

Geordie Mac watched from the other end of the bar. His revolver was smoking. Several cadavers lay wasted at his polished black shoes. He aimed the revolver once more, but it clicked on empty.

“Damn!” he muttered.

“Jesus Christ!” Dolly called to him. “Do something!”

Geordie checked the pockets of his plaid jacket for more ammo. He was fresh out. He swore loudly. He ran one hand through his hair, frantically looking around the room.

Dolly had grabbed the broken heel and was swinging it valiantly at the approaching dead. There were more of the bastards pouring through the doors. She hadn’t a chance against them. Geordie needed to act fast.

He spotted the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, just between the stage and the bar’s front window. He took a deep breath, threw the spent gun at the crowd of dead pouring in from the doors. He loosened his tie, climbed up onto the bar then jumped, hands reaching for the thin metal frame of the chandelier. The chandelier held, swinging Geordie towards the stage. He grabbed Dolly, scooping her up with his free arm as they were hurled towards the window.

And then_

The doorbell.

THE FUCKING DOORBELL!

A menu kicked in, asking Geordie if he wanted to ignore the distraction and continue. But he pulled the wiretap from his head altogether, snapping out of the VR and back to his bedroom. He threw the wiretap down angrily on the bed next to his cell. He stood up, snatched the towel dressing gown from its peg by the door. He pulled it on then grabbed his cell from the bed.

Geordie left the bedroom, syncing the lights with his cell. His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the florescent beam spilling across the apartment. He entered the living area, finding his slippers parked on the fur carpet, next to the sofa. The Box played in the corner. It was ten thirty. Some rubber-faced crone was reading the news on Channel 3.

Geordie set his cell on the coffee table. The bell rang again and he bellowed, “Alright, alright I hear you!”

He reached for the snub on the door, opening it on the safety. His heart sank. “Oh for Christ’s sake… it’s you.” He closed the door, sighed, undid the safety, then opened it again. He allowed the door to swing behind him as he retreated back into the apartment. He fell into the black leather sofa, stared petulantly at the Box.

A young girl pushed through, coming into the living area. She was a mess. Peroxide dreads sprouted from her head. Spindly, tattooed arms dangled from the sleeves of an  old NEW YAWK DOLLS tee. She wore vinyl drains that made a sound as she walked. Her name was Kitty McBride.

“Kitty, what are you doing here?” Geordie said, still watching the Box.

“I need a fix, Geordie. I_”

But Geordie’s hand was raised. “Kitty…” he began, his voice gentle, fingers rubbing his temples, “I’ve told you before, sweetheart. You’re on rations…”

“But I-I haven’t had any this week. I-I_”

Geordie cut in again, “Babe, I called by your place six days ago! I gave you the usual, and you’re telling me you haven’t had any?!” He threw his arms into the air, laughed. “Come on, doll, I ain’t stupid! I know every single ounce I sell. Every fucking ounce. And you got your dues on Saturday. At ten thirty. Six days ago almost,” and here he raised his finger, “to the fucking hour.”

“Yeah, but I lost all that. Tried to quit, jacked it down the can...”

Geordie shook his head. “Tomorrow, Kitty. Ten thirty. Not a second before. ”

But Kitty was persistent, moving towards him, her whole body begging. “Come on, Geordie! I just need a little to take the edge off, see me through…”

“No.”

“I can get the cash, sync it to you_”

“It’s not about the money!” His tone was incredulous. “Look, Kitty, I’ll be honest with you. Your pop is Paul Mc Bride, yeah? He’s the biggest gangster in this whole fucking city. If he finds out you’re here talking this shit with me, it’ll be my balls on the line. Don’t you get it? He wants you cuttin’ down, girl, and what Daddykins wants, he gets. Right?!”

“Geordie…” she said, almost sobbing now, “I’ll do anything for that hit...” She drew closer to him, bent down on her knees, reached her hands under his dressing gown.

But Geordie shuffled away. He grabbed her wrists, held them tight, shaking her as he spoke. “Are you out of your fucking…?!” He pushed Kitty away, stood up, and marched angrily towards the window. He leaned against the glass, blowing out some air, looking across his first floor view of Lark City’s Titanic Quarter. His head was shaking again. “Get out, Kitty…” he said. She went to talk more but he turned, this time his voice raised, “Get out, get out, get out!”

Kitty slammed her fist against the $900 coffee table beside the sofa. She made a beeline for the door, head held low, swearing under her breath. She banged the door behind her, leaving Geordie standing by the window. He watched through the glass as she left the apartment block, her tiny little body swallowed up by the crowds below.

…

Titanic Quarter. A place of money. Its stink hung in the air like poisoned perfume. Yet, Kitty had nothing. No money. No dope.

She moved through the crowd, mind buzzing, stomach churning, sick with desire. Every part of her was focused on one thing: where to get that hit. Geordie wasn’t the only dealer in Lark. There were others. But they’d want more money and, regardless of how a place like Titanic might lead you to think otherwise, money didn’t come easy...

She thought of what Geordie said about her dad. Paul McBride had money. He controlled most of Lark’s black market. Everyone, including Geordie, answered to Paul McBride. She could call him up, tell him what was happening, make him talk to Geordie, convince him to give her the dope. But she hadn’t talked to her dad in years. Not properly, anyway. And this would involve a proper talk, one where she spoke instead of just nodding or grunting.

Kitty needed other options.

She thought of Charles 7, the tech hack down by the markets in Cathedral Quarter. She thought of thieving something for him, a cell or wiretap or credit card, anything she could trade for cash. She thought of her own cell, of how much she could get for it, even though trading your cell in this day and age was like trading a kidney. She was thinking of trading a kidney when she slammed against someone in the crowd.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, ye little_” An older woman glared at her. She was glamorous to a fault, decked out in leather and real fur. Her dark hair shone in the bright neon light of the street. Her face was smooth and polished, like the mannequins that smiled at you from the boutiques down by Cathedral. This was Dolly Bird.

“Hey…” Kitty said, her eyes looking down, her face blushing.

Dolly’s voice was full of surprise, “Kitty. You look… terrible…”

Kitty shuffled awkwardly, smiled. “Yeah, well…” She looked at her fingernails, scratching them with her thumb.

A billboard moved across the sky. It was playing a trailer for popular game show, REALITY EXTREME. The crowds around her stared as if hypnotised by the familiar voices of the show’s hosts, but Kitty didn’t care. This was wasting time. She didn’t have time.

She went to move but Dolly placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hey wait. Wanna grab something to eat? My shout.”

An idea suddenly dawned on Kitty. “Yeah, maybe...” she said, smiling at Dolly. “Thing is, I’m kinda in a hurry. If you sync me some cash, though, I could grab something later...”

But Dolly’s head was shaking. “Kitty, do you know how many years I’ve been an addict?”

Kitty didn’t know. She didn’t care.

“Look, kid, I’ll square with you. I’m on a break. Got a bit of time before the next client. So what say I shout you a coffee and a bite to eat. Come on, we can catch up. Hey, you know that new_”

But Kitty was already walking, leaving Dolly mid-sentence. The other woman’s voice trailed off, swallowed by the noise of the crowd as Kitty left the main square at Titanic, moving into the city’s central throughway. An excited babble greeted her, the same babble she’d hear every weekend as people began their hunt for pleasure, seeking out wine and song and whatever fetish made their lives complete.

Kitty turned onto Tomb Street, Lark’s red light district. It weaved through the city like a spooked snake, filled with peep shows and freak shows and endless parades of painted ladies, dancing like tattooed marionettes. Its main attraction was the Penny Dreadful whorehouse, a Fancy Pants brothel where stuck-up broads like Dolly Bird worked, dames who’d look down on a common street whore like Kitty. But Kitty didn’t care. She had more pressing business to attend to; that burning in her veins calling her, begging her. She needed a hit and she needed it bad.

She found Vegas. This was Tomb’s most popular bar. Converted from an old church, Vegas stood between two strip clubs, name written above its window in red neon lettering. Kitty pushed through the saloon style doors. The joint’s owner-cum-server, known simply as the Bar Man, stood in front of his taps and bottles as if on guard. He was cleaning a glass. Their eyes met as she came in, neither smiling at the other.

“Water,” Kitty said to him, but he was already pouring it. He slid the glass over to her. She lifted it.

She found her usual spot by the back of the bar; a red plastic sofa. Kitty removed the chequered cushions, as always, then sat down. Her tiny body leaned over the table in front, hands cradling her drink. She waited, fingers tapping the glass, toes dancing, cold sweat breaking across her skin, eyes alert and searching.

It was the usual crowd in tonight. The alcos, staring at their drinks, talking to themselves. The zone heads, wiretaps on faces, clear plastic coils running to their cells, lounging back in their seats, bodies shaking as the code flowed, drowning their brains in whatever VR release was doing the rounds.

Time passed slowly. Kitty could almost hear the grind of each moment, the desperate slowness of each tick of the imaginary clock in her head. Her veins felt like jagged ice now.

Kitty needed that fucking hit.

The first day was always the hardest. This was the fifth day, and while the constant puking and shitting had pretty much cleared, little of any sustenance contained within her small, washed-out body, she was still getting it bad. For Kitty, heroin wasn’t just a weekend drug. It was her whole raison d’etre. It was the first thing she thought of when she woke and the last thing she thought of before sleeping. She dreamed about it. She made plans of where to get it, how to get it, how to get the money for it. She thought about it when she was being fucked, calculating with every painful thrust just how much money the John was going to give her, and how much heroin that would buy.

Movement. Kitty’s eyes lit up. Two men heading towards the bathrooms. She watched as a third looked around nervously before following.

Kitty waited a while before she, too, got up and followed, leaving her glass of water on the table untouched. Her eyes met the Bar Man’s as she moved, but she looked away quickly. Slipped past a drunken old Throwback reaching for her and entered the bathrooms..

The bathrooms were what you’d expect in a hovel like this; grimy tiles, sombre line of cubicles facing a yellow-toothed urinal. One of the taps was dripping, its constant rhythm like a countdown, like the beating of Kitty’s heart as her mouth and lips grew dry with anticipation.

She found the three men huddled in the far corner. As she moved towards them, they stopped talking.

“Hey…” she said, her voice echoing. “You guys dealing?”

One of the men stood forward. He was tall, thin with jet black hair greased across his temples. A toothpick rattled against his teeth.

“Nope,” he said. “Now get out of here, kid.”

But Kitty didn’t move. “I’m not a kid,” she said, completely deadpan. “I need a hit.”

Toothpick looked to the others, eyes narrowed. One of the men burst into laughter. Toothpick relaxed, a wide grin spreading across his face as he turned back to Kitty.

“What’s your name, honey?” he said, eyes searching every inch of her from toe to head.

“Kitty.”

He smiled, looking to the other guys. “Kitty wants a hitty!” he said, much to their hilarity.

But Kitty didn’t flinch. Her voice was urgent. “Do you have any?” she asked.

“Have any what?” Toothpick said, looking to the others who gingerly started laughing again, as if he’d just cracked another joke.

“Smack,” she said, plainly.

The three men stopped laughing.

Toothpick looked at Kitty, his face suddenly serious. He began to circle her, pacing her like some animal. And then he paused, reaching around her back from behind, grabbing her breasts, squeezing, then relaxing his grip. Satisfied, he moved down towards her crotch. But Kitty still didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. This was normal. This was part of the process of scoring when you went to someone else. And that was fine.

“Not much here to hold onto,” Toothpick muttered into her ear. “Skinny little bitch, aren’t you?”

Kitty turned to face him. She tipped her head to one side, looking into his face. She found his hands, pressed them against her breasts again. She tried to puff her chest out, make something more of it, all the while reaching for the zipper to Toothpick’s slacks. She found his cock, began to caress it, still looking at him with her dead, emotionless eyes. But his cock remained flaccid. His eyes grew wide, his hands moving from her breasts, pushing her away.

He looked to the other men, one of them starting to laugh again. But Toothpick was furious. He turned quickly, swinging the back of his hand hard against Kitty’s jaw. It connected, Kitty falling back, hitting her head against the off-white tiles, sliding to the floor.

Toothpick came at her again. He punched Kitty in the face, pulled back, punched her again. She took it without making a sound, eyes locked closed, lips curled up against her teeth. Both her hands were raised to her face, weakly bending against each blow.

Her nose broke with a crack.

She heard Toothpick step away.

She allowed one eye to open, finding him still towering over her, fist clenched, a half-smile-half-grimace on his face, that fucking pick still rattling between his teeth. His white shirt had blood on it. Her blood.

Kitty pressed one hand against her now bleeding nose, grimaced against the pain. She was shaking all over, her breathing laboured and heavy. She looked at the three men, awaiting their next move. Toothpick had his back turned now, the other two men just staring at her, frozen to the spot. Seemed like they hadn’t counted on this. A laugh at her expense. Rape, maybe. But not this. This was a bridge too far.

But Toothpick wasn’t done yet.

He turned to face her once more. He held a slim metal cylinder in his hand.

Silence filled the room, thick like mist.

Kitty tried to pull herself up but failed. Her vinyl drains were sticking to the tiles. She was dizzy, panicking. She looked at the other men, tears filling her eyes, pleading.

The younger man looked at her, guiltily. He placed his hand tentatively on Toothpick’s shoulder. “C-come on, man,” he said, “let’s just leave it, eh?”

But Toothpick wasn’t listening. He didn’t even look at the other man, his gaze focused entirely on Kitty. He flicked a button on the cylinder, revealing a blade. He smiled, pick still between his teeth. He moved forward and Kitty closed her eyes, raising her arms again...

Nothing happened.

Kitty waited for the pain to come, but there was nothing.

She opened her eyes and found Toothpick standing stalactite still, his face turned towards the door of the bathroom. Kitty followed his gaze. Through blurred vision, she made out the profile of a fourth man. Broad-shouldered, heavy-set.

“Don’t move a fucking inch,” the newcomer said.  He walked over, helped Kitty up. “Clean yourself up,” he said quietly, without looking at her.

Kitty did as she was told. She went to the sinks. Turned a tap on, looked in the mirror. Blood still leaked from her mangled nose. She pulled some towels from the dispenser, pressing the thin cloth to her face, the pain surging through her.

“You like hitting little girls?” she heard the new voice say to Toothpick

“No, sir.”

“And yet here you are, hitting little girls...”

Kitty looked back, finding Toothpick staring at her, his eyes watering. He seemed to think for a second, then said, “With respect, sir, she’s not really a little girl.”

The newcomer looked to the other two men, whose eyes dropped immediately to their feet.

He looked back to Toothpick, said, “Well, what is she then?”

Toothpick allowed another quick glance over to Kitty. He turned back to the newcomer, said in a voice almost inaudible, “She’s a whore, sir.”

“I can’t hear you, son. You need to speak up.”

“I s-said, she’s a whore.”

“A whore, you say…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmmm.”

The older man looked to Kitty. “A whore,” he repeated, then looked to the other two men, one of whom smiled nervously. “That’s my daughter you’re calling a whore.”

A stain suddenly formed at the front of Toothpick’s slacks, spreading like a shadow across the crotch and down one leg. He still held the flick knife, even though it was very clear to everyone in the bathrooms that he wouldn’t be using it any time soon.

“Mr M-M-M_”

“McBride,” the older man said, “but you can call me Paul.” He glanced at the other two men, offering a smile which they both gladly accepted. “Now what say you give that knife…” Toothpick quickly handed it over, but McBride put his hands up, refusing to take it, “No, not to me,” he said, “I want you to give it to one of your friends. Doesn’t matter which one.”

Toothpick looked at the two men, his eyes darting between them. Neither of them wanted the knife but he forced it on the younger of the two, the one not wearing a suit. The younger man looked surprised, glancing over to Paul McBride.

“Go on, take it!” McBride ordered.

He grabbed the knife quickly.

“That’s good,” McBride said, smiling.

But the poor bastard looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to drop the knife, like it was burning in his hands.

“Okay, you’ve got the knife. Now I want you to cut your friend with it,” and here McBride pointed back at Toothpick.

A short whimper came from Toothpick’s mouth. Sweat suddenly broke across his beetroot red forehead. “C-come on…” he sputtered. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was your little girl, how would I?!” He fell to his knees, begging now, but McBride wasn’t listening.

“Get up,” he said. “Get up or I’ll have him slit your throat right now while you kneel.”

Toothpick, still crying, stood up and looked McBride face on, his eyes pleading.

The younger man was shaking his head, backing away from his friend, colliding with the other man in the suit, who looked so fucking uncomfortable that Kitty wished McBride would just let him go. But McBride didn’t just let him go. He let him stand and wait and sweat. That was Paul McBride’s way.

“Go on. Make your move, kid,” he said to the younger guy with the knife, nodding towards Toothpick.

The silence in the room was thick like tar.

Nervous bile gathered in the pit of Kitty’s  stomach. Her palms were sweating, cold like ice against her bleach-white skin. She didn’t want any of this. She just wanted her hit.

Toothpick had backed into a corner, face pressed against the cold tiles of the wall, knees bended, arms curled up into a foetus position. He was whimpering, that damn pick no longer rattling, but still somehow hanging from his lips.

“Go on,” McBride said again to the younger man.

The kid moved towards Toothpick.  He gripped the knife tight and suddenly stabbed Toothpick in the gut.

Both men screamed in unison.

“Again!” McBride shouted.

The kid stabbed again, and then again, finally grabbing the cowering Toothpick by his shirt collar, dragging him across the tiles, mounting him and stabbing repeatedly until the screams faded and died. Only then did he drop the blade. Straddled across the body of his friend, he dipped his head and sobbed hard.

Kitty went to leave but her father’s booming voice stopped her.

The doors suddenly opened. A smiling couple staggered into the bathrooms, but one look at Paul McBride’s face, and the carnage on the floor, and they stopped smiling, retreated quickly.

McBride retrieved the knife from the weeping kid, handling it with his handkerchief. He offered it to the older man in the suit.

“Me?” the suited man said, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, you,” McBride said.

The suited man took the knife, at first trying to accept it in the handkerchief, but McBride shook his head. “Just the blade,” he said.

The suited man accepted the knife in his outstretched hand like it was a dead rat. He looked to McBride, waiting his next command.

“Roll up your left sleeve,” McBride said.

“W-what?”

“I said_”

But Kitty couldn’t bear it. She ran to Paul McBride, grabbed his hand and looked up at him.

“No,” she said.

McBride ignored her.

“Do it!” he boomed.

Suit was crying now, tears flowing freely down his face. “I can’t!” he sobbed.

“You can and you will,” McBride yelled, his voice echoing around the room.

“No, I_”

“FUCKING DO IT!”

Kitty went to speak again. McBride shushed her, but she grabbed his hand, squeezing it.

“DADDY!” she shouted.

He looked down at her, a quizzical look on his face.

“Daddy, please,” she continued, “I just want to leave now.”

McBride stared at her intently. There was shock in his face. Maybe anger. For a moment, it looked like he might hit her. It wouldn’t be the first time. Kitty had known the back of McBride’s hand before.. But tonight his face softened.

“Alright,” he said in a low voice. “Okay.”

He turned, looked at the suited man holding the knife. “Your prints are all over that,” he said. “And so is his blood,” and here McBride pointed to the dead man on the floor, the kid still straddled across his body, weeping. “If I ever see any of you two again, I will kill you. You hear?” And while both men no doubt heard him loud and clear, neither could find the words to answer.

Outside, the music was louder than Kitty remembered. The Bar Man stood by the door. He nodded at McBride then moved through to the bathrooms.

…

The fucking doorbell again.

Geordie Mac pulled the wiretap from his face, throwing it onto the bed. He rubbed his eyes, lulling himself out of the VR and into the real world. He stood up slowly, reached for his dressing gown once more, pulled it on. He entered the living area, the doorbell ringing once more, causing him to jump and swear.

He opened the door, finding Kitty McBride, as expected. He was just about to unleash a barrage of swearing when Paul McBride stepped into view. “Hello, Geordie,” he said, smiling, “We’re not disturbing you, I hope?”

“N-no! Not at all, come in, come in!” Geordie stepped back, ushering the two visitors into his apartment. He showed them to the sofa, feverishly picking things up to allow them to sit more comfortably. “A drink?” he asked, looking to Paul.

“Please,” McBride said, “Glass of whiskey would be nice.”

“Kitty?” Geordie said, forcing a smile.

“Just water,” she muttered.

“Coming right up.” Geordie went to the kitchen, cursing under his breath. His mind was busy, wondering why Paul McBride was visiting him this late. Just what had that little bitch been saying to him?!

He returned to the living area with a tray full of drinks. Both McBrides were staring at the Box in the corner, playing the latest episode of REALITY EXTREME. Geordie looked at the Box, smiled. “Love this show,” he said, laughing. “The things they make those celebrity types do.”

McBride smiled, accepted the drink, took a sip.

He looked quickly to Kitty, then to Geordie. He cleared his throat, set his drink on the coffee table by the sofa.

“Geordie, she needs a hit,” he said.

Geordie sighed, shook his head. He looked quickly to Kitty, finding her staring down at her glass, head bowed. “Paul,” he said softly, “she’s had her rations this week. Ain’t due nothin’ more until tomorrow night. You know I don’t like it when my clients get this dependent, it’s bad for the rep.”

“I know,” Paul said. “That’s why I like you, Geordie. That’s why I do business with you. You’re a good man. You know the rules and you follow them.”

Geordie felt his face grow warm, reached for his drink.

“So, can you give her something? Just to take the edge off?”

Geordie sighed. “Paul, it’s just_”

“Please, Geordie. Do it for me. Just this once.”

Geordie looked again at Kitty, noticing the bruises on her face, her bust nose, the tiny little puncture holes between the tattoos on her arms.

He sighed, stood up, moved back into the bedroom, reached under the bed, fumbling in the dark, finally retrieving a small polythene packet. He brought the packet back to the living area, handed it to Paul.

Paul took the package, looked at it, looked at Kitty, then back to Geordie. He smiled. “Thanks,” he whispered.

He stood up, looking over to Kitty, who sat her glass down and got up. Her head was hanging low. It was like her shoulders were too weak to carry it. “Come on,” Paul said to her, his voice less gentle. He nodded at Geordie, smiled more weakly this time, then moved towards the door.

Geordie followed to let them out.

Paul stood by the door, allowing Kitty to exit. He waited until she was halfway  down the stairs then turned.

“She called me ‘Daddy,” he said quietly to Geordie. There was pride in his voice.

“And so she should,” Geordie said. “You are her pop.” He placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “And you look after her.”

Paul McBride shrugged, offered an embarrassed smile. He allowed himself to be human, just for a single  moment. Then it was gone, game face returning.

Geordie removed his hand from the other man’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you later,” Paul said.

He left, following Kitty down the stairs.

Geordie closed the door then stood for a while, digesting all that had happened.

He returned to his bedroom, retrieved his wiretap.

Back in the VR, Geordie accessed the menu for the game he was playing. He chose OPTIONS and then CHARACTERS. He removed the avatar that he’d made for Dolly Bird, his chosen damsel in distress. He replaced it with an avatar for Kitty McBride.

Geordie wanted Kitty to play the dame in this next game. She would stand on the stage wearing the ripped skirt and bloodied blouse. She would call out for his help and he would swing on that chandelier and scoop her up in his arms.

And maybe – just maybe - his gameplay would improve when saving someone who needed saving...

ZOMBIE GUNFIGHTER
by

GUY N SMITH

Sheriff Black stirred uneasily as a gunshot echoed from down the street, his chair creaking beneath his bulk. He opened his eyes, groaned aloud at the disturbance to his fitful dose.

Two more shots, then three in quick succession. There was a lot of hollering, too. That’d be the Circle D boys just hit town for sure, hell-raising. Nothing to worry about, you couldn’t blame ‘em for letting off steam after a month on the trail. Anyway, J.C Dawson always paid up for any damage done by his cowboys.

More shooting, spasmodic this time. The slightly muffled reports told him that they came from the Longhorn saloon. No point in going down there, nothing he could do would stop it. Let ‘em have their fun. Anyhow, Deputy Borg was on street duty tonight. Good experience for the kid, he had to learn.

Then came the sound of running footsteps, mounting the wooden steps outside. Somebody in an all-fired hurry. Black groaned, swung his booted feet off the desk as the door burst open, revealing a lanky youth with a tin star on his vest, his features screwed up in anguish that bordered on panic. Deputy Borg.

“Black,” the other gasped, “you gotta come. Fast. Jack Skeet’s shootin’ up the Longhorn.”

“Drunk again, I guess,” the sheriff made no move to rise. “Somethin’ you gotta get used to, boy. Jack Skeet’s a gentleman ninety-nine percent of the time. The other one percent is when he’s hit the bottle and shoots up one of the saloons. He always pays for the damage when he sobers up. Nobody gets hurt, he sees to that. He’s the fastest and surest gunman this side o’ the Rio.”

“Yeah, but…”

“No buts about it. And don’t forget one thing. Last Spring he cleaned up that bunch of Paiute renegades all on his own. All fifteen of ‘em ‘cept Black Snake, that old medicine man who controlled ‘em. Where’n the blazes he is now, Gawd only knows. Escaped Skeet’s ambush at Kent’s Crossing. You and me an’ a posse ’d been chasin’ that gang for months, every isolated rancher lived in fear of ‘em. Skeet did our job for us an’ did it well. Don’t you forget that. That’s why I’m not goin’ down to the Longhorn to pistol whip Jack and lock him up.” Not because I’m scared o’ Jack Skeet like everybody else in these parts.

“But…” Borg swallowed, “It’s not like that, Black. The Circle D crowd are in the Longhorn and…”

“And they’ll just join in the shoot-up.”

“No, Black. They’ve got Skeet. One of ‘em got him from behind with a chair leg, knocked him stone cold. They’ve had enough of him like every saloon keeper and store owner and everybody here in this town. They’re draggin’ him down the street, gonna lynch him on the first tree they come across!”

Sheriff Black sat up suddenly. He didn’t stand for any lynchings on his patch. The only hangings were when Circuit Judge Frome paid his monthly visits to the court house.

“We’d better get down there, deputy,” he strapped on his gun-belt, picked up the double – barrelled sawn-off Greener 10-bore from the corner. “I’ll speak to J.C, tell him to calm his boys down.”

“J.C ‘s with ‘em, “ Borg almost screamed. “He’s leadin’ the lynch party.”

Black stepped outside, his deputy at his heels. Crowds thronged the street, they were chanting “string up Jack Skeet!”

The sheriff pushed his way through, cursing those who obstructed him.

“You keep outta this, sheriff. This town’s had enough o’ Jack Skeet.”

Up ahead he saw the lynch mob dragging the semi-conscious Skeet, his booted feet stirring up dust in his wake. J.C was there, all right, urging his men on, pointing to the gnarled cedar tree which stood at the end of the main street.

“Now you see here, J.C.” Black shouted above the raucous din as he caught up with them. “You hang Skeet and I’ll arrest you for murder, your boys, too.”

“Go chase a ringtail, Black!” Dawson’s expression was ugly, he had been drinking hard, too. “This is the end of the road for Jack Skeet!”

Rough hands pushed the sheriff, sent him staggering back. He lost his balance, sprawled in the dusty road. Looking up he caught a brief glimpse of Skeet. The gunman still had his black, short-brimmed hat on his head, accentuating the pallid high cheek-boned features beneath it. A slit of a mouth, no pleading, no hint of fear.

His black clothes were dust stained, he still wore his gun-belt. Black trousers to match the rest of his attire. Scary, even in his present predicament.

“Stop it!” Black’s shout was drowned out, the mob was going crazy. One of them had a rope, deft hands fashioning a noose. Others held Skeet upright as it was looped over his head, pulled tight.

Those thin lips snarled hatred, defiance. If I could get to my gun the road would be strewn with bodies. But he could not get to his gun, for a neckerchief bound his wrists tightly behind his back.

They lifted him up, sat him astride a big wild-eyed roan. One of them had a quirt, raised it aloft.

“Stop. In the name of the law!”

Nobody heard Sheriff Black’s final demand. Somebody had kicked the Greener from him. He reached for his Colt but his holster was empty.

Helplessly he watched as the roan snorted, charged away, left Jack Skeet swinging there, his short neck now stretched and scrawny.

Cheering. More gun shots in the air. Then the lynchers and their audience slowly drifted away.

Sheriff Black lay there, only his pride hurt. He looked around for his deputy but there was no sign of young Borg.

“Damn the lot of you!” He snarled.

He lifted his head, met the dead gaze of Jack Skeet who was still swinging gently, still wearing that black hat.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” the sheriff fought back a sob. “I tried to stop ‘em but there were too many of ‘em. Nothin’ I could do. You believe me, don’t you?”

Eventually he hauled himself to his feet and without a backward glance made his way down the now deserted street. In the Longhorn a honky-tonk was playing, folks were singing. Night life was returning to normal.

In the morning Sheriff Black would return with Joe Lawton, the undertaker. They would cut Skeet down, give him a decent burial. At least they owed him that for the Paiutes he had cleaned up.

….

Shortly after daylight the following morning Sheriff Black led the way up the street, Lawton at his heels and Deputy Borg bringing up the rear, leading a scraggy mare over which to drape the corpse.

The small township slept. They had had their fun last night and J.C Dawson and his cowboys had ridden out.

As they approached the ancient, twisted cedar Black halted, stared in disbelief. There was no sign of the dangling Jack Skeet, not even his hat lying in the dust. No rope. Nothing.

It was like it had all been a booze-fuelled nightmare, had never really happened.

“You sure they lynched him?” the undertaker was cynical, annoyed at being dragged from his bed. “This some kinda sick joke, Sheriff?”

“It’s no joke,” Black answered but he had no explanation to offer. He almost expected Jack Skeet to come riding in, seeking revenge on those who had hanged and humiliated him.

“We’d best go back,” Sheriff Black shivered but not because of the cold morning air.

….

Black Snake, the wizened Paiute witch doctor, returned to his cave in the nearby mountains shortly before dawn broke, the body of Jack Skeet slung across his shoulders. A super human effort had been needed to carry the corpse up the steep slope but his step never faltered. His strength and powers were beyond that of an ordinary human being.

He ducked for the entrance was low and narrow, the interior rock strew and cramped. A narrow tunnel led from the rear, a dim glow visible from beyond the sharp bend.

Black Snake’s barefooted progress never faltered, the soles of his feet seemingly impervious to the sharp stones which littered the floor. A second bend and then he emerged into a larger, high roofed cavern where a smouldering fire lit up the interior with a wan, flickering light.

A dozen or so human forms were propped up against the far wall, ragged clothing soiled with dirt, bare, grimed feet out stretched. Their features were hideous to behold, flesh rotting, eyes sunken into what might have been empty sockets.

A place of the dead, the smoky atmosphere nauseating with the stench of decomposition. Yet these forms lived, heads thrust forward at the medicine man’s entry, grunts emitting from foul, cavernous mouths.

Black Snake lowered his burden to the rough floor, spread its arms and legs out, removed the hat to reveal jet black hair neatly parted in the centre. Dead eyes stared up at him.

The grunted greetings of those beyond turned to bestial snarls, throaty growls. Several attempted to rise but an upraised hand stayed them, a command which they found impossible to disobey. Muttering unintelligibly they fell back against the rocky wall of the cave.

“Stay!” He spoke in the Paiute tongue. “He is mine. And yours when the time comes. We need him If we are to avenge ourselves upon the whites who slaughter our people. Be still and quiet!”

They obeyed, their mutterings dying away until the only sounds in that hidden place were those made by the old Indian as he prepared his rites. It would not be easy to perform them on a white man for the other had never had faith in the Old One. Yet somehow he would do it and this man known as ‘he-who-loves-to-kill’ amongst the tribes would rise from the dead just as this band of renegades had. The living dead would triumph.

Black Snake went about his task, a bag of bones that rattled as they were shaken out on the ground, pungent herb leaves that were rubbed with his bony fingers and placed in a stone pot to boil on the smouldering embers.

It would be many hours before he knew whether or not he had succeeded in bringing the dead back to life. Just as he had raised up these gruesome warriors from their mass grave after Skeet’s ambush at Kent’s Crossing.

His toothless lips parted in a smile as he worked. His revenge on the whites in their small town beyond the canyon would be terrible to behold. Yet he knew that he must be patient.

…

“Beats me who took Skeet’s body and why,” Deputy Borg spoke his thoughts aloud.

“Most things beat you, deputy,” Sheriff Black swung his feet down from the desk, reached behind him where his gun-belt hung on a bent nail. “Tonight both of us are going out on street patrol just to make sure there’s no more trouble of any kind. Once these cowpokes get a taste of blood they’ll go lookin’ for it again and there’s no knowin’ who they might string up next. Skeet kept a lotta would-be gunslingers in hand, they were damned scared of him. Same goes for the Paiutes. Now there’s only you’n me to keep ‘em in check and judgin’ by your performance last night I guess it all falls on me.

Borg dropped his gaze, shuffled his feet.

“And in the mornin’,” Black buckled on his .44s, stood with arms akimbo. “You’n me are takin’ a ride out to the Circle D ranch. I’m gonna serve a warrant on J.C Dawson for incitin’ that lynchin’ and on Calloway and Fletcher for hangin’ Jack Skeet. They’ll be charged with murder. Circuit Judge Frome is due next week. There could well be another hangin’.”

The deputy licked his dry lips. Things were getting worse by the day.

Suddenly shots rang out somewhere down the long main street, rapid fire that emptied the cylinder of a six-shooter in as many seconds.

“Gawd Almighty, what’s goin’ on now,” Black jammed his hat on his head, loosened his Colt navy .44s in their holsters. He grabbed up the Greener 10-bore, handed it to his deputy. “Here, take this, and don’t be afraid to use it of you have to. Cut a swathe through ‘em whoever they are.”

Together the two men stepped out into the street then stared in disbelief at the scene down beyond the Longhorn saloon. A dusty, black clad figure, short brimmed hat jammed firmly on his head, staggered arrogantly, a heavy revolver in each hand. Shooting as he advanced, pausing to reload with unsteady hands. Yet there was nothing unsteady about his marksmanship.

Three bodies sprawled in the lamp-lit dusty street, another was draped over the handrail of the saloon. Men were crowding out of the saloon returning the gunman’s fire. He staggered, almost fell, but somehow regained his balance and came on. Firing. Reloading. Firing again.

Another body rolled into the street, followed seconds later by two more, victims of the killer’s deadly shooting.

The light from a hanging oil lamp slanted onto that figure in black as he raised his head, revealed hollowed eyes, high cheekbones and a slitted mouth.

“Oh my gawd!” Deputy Borg screamed his terror. “It’s….it’s Jack Skeet!”

“Then let ‘im have it!” Sheriff Black fired with both his .44s. “Give ‘im both barrels of the scattergun!”

Borg obliged instinctively, the double blast of the 10-gauge throwing the gunman backwards. Even as the other staggered he saw that both charges had found their mark, ripped Skeet’s shirt from his chest. But no blood spouted!

Black’s heavy slugs had found their mark, too. The grotesque, grimed features were smashed, an ear dangled by a shred of filthy flesh. The hat hung at an angle.

But still Jack Skeet advanced, firing to his right and left, crumpling more bodies, some on the sidewalk, others rolling into the dusty street.

“Jesus, look!” Borg had spotted moving shapes in the wake of the homicidal gunfighter, partially clad figures with long greasy hair, brandishing ancient carbines, knives and tomahawks. They dragged a young white woman with them; Borg thought he recognised her as Emma Blake from the hosiery store. He couldn’t be sure, her head lolled backwards and her captor was pausing to cut her throat with a rusted knife blade.

Borg bent double, threw up.

Gunfire raked the street, rifles and revolvers being fired from the safety of doorways and windows. One of the Paiutes fell, crawled. Picked himself up again and returned the fire with his carbine.

“It’s impossible,” somebody shrieked. “They’re all dead. We see’d their corpses!”

And still the attackers advanced on the besieged township. In their wake a scrawny, bent figure wearing a buffalo-horned headpiece flitted in the shadows. The shrill shrieks of Black Snake urged his army of the dead to kill. And kill. Until not a white man, woman, or child lived.

….

Black and his deputy retreated, shooting as they backed off. They had no plan, there was none. Within the hour this entire township would be wiped out, razed to the ground. Already flames were leaping from the wooden buildings as the invincible, advancing force began to torch them.

The sheriff thought about fleeing but his horse was in the livery behind the oncoming Paiutes. He could hear the animals screaming their terror as the blaze trapped them.

He did not try to understand. There was no logical explanation. Just run for the scrub on the outskirts of town, hide and hope they didn’t find you. And when daylight came…

And now Jack Skeet was advancing on the Sheriff, slow unsteady steps, his bullet shattered features gloating. Grunting.

Black grabbed the shotgun from Borg. The other had reloaded but had not had time to fire. The sheriff clicked both hammers back to full cock. At under ten yards even the living dead Jack Skeet would not survive a simultaneous charge of buckshot.

A twin blast cast through the frenzied screaming and cursing of those townsfolk making a last stand. Skeet staggered back but miraculously remained upright. A gaping hole in his jacket and shirt exposed what remained of his torso, a jagged hole that should have poured blood. It did not, just congealed mulch.

His slitted lips tightened, mucus-clogged nostrils flared, and there was hatred in those sunken, dead eyes. His right arm lifted, revolver extended.

A single shot took Sheriff Black in the chest. He sagged, crumpled to the ground. Limbs twitched briefly and then he was still.

Borg turned to flee. He made but two strides before Skeet’s bullet pitched him forward.

Jack Skeet stood there in the middle of the street, .44s at the ready, searching for his next target. There was none. Those who had stayed to put up a futile resistance lay lifeless on sidewalks and in the street. None moved. Just shuffling, grunting Paiute renegades, seemingly impervious to the thick smoke which billowed from the blazing buildings. A handful of survivors had fled into the scrubland beyond, desperately seeking a hiding place where their inhuman attackers might not seek them out.

It was all over.

Now the Paiutes bunched, huddling together, bemused because their killing spree was over. Waiting for further orders from their terrible master.

A bent figure came staggering out of the smoke, silhouetted against the flames which were fast consuming this remote township, his buffalo-horned headpiece reminiscent of some prehistoric creature which had risen from the mass funeral pyre. Skeletal feet that threatened to trip him, scrawny arms waving wildly, outspread. His head was uplifted as though he sought guidance from the spirit which controlled him.

Black Snake’s blistered lips moved as he uttered silent incantations. Stooping, crouching as he approached his living dead slaves, hissing like the reptile from which he took his name, dribbling venom.

The Indians cowered, terrified of their master and the deeds which he might command them to carry out next. He ruled them in death just as he had done in life.

“You have done well,” Black Snake drew himself aloft. “The Old One is well pleased with you. But we are not yet finished!”

The Paiutes trembled. Low moans escaped their slobbering mouths.

“He who stands before you,” a bony finger pointed, directed at Jack Skeet who remained spread legged in the centre of the street, his open jacket displaying his shot-blown flesh. “It was he who killed you, every one of you, would have sent you to the happy hunting grounds had I not rescued you from your grave, given you life in death.”

Angry growls answered the witch-doctor’s words.

“I took his body after his own people hanged him so that he might serve our cause. This he did, look around you at those who have fallen to the guns of he-who-loves-to-kill. He is of no further use to us. Our vengeance upon the whites is done, now you must take your revenge upon he who sent you to your graves!”

The Paiutes no longer cowered. They were shuffling their feet, eager to obey their next command.

“Take him!”

As one they rushed forward, guttural snarls rumbling like thunder in the distance. Knives and tomahawks raised, broken carbines wielded like clubs.

Skeet saw them coming, stood his ground, as courageous in living death as he had been in life. His slender fingers had lost none of their speed as he worked the triggers of both Colts.

Crashing gunfire, stabbing flames, the bullets finding their targets, ripping into dead flesh. Then the hammers were clicking on spent shells. Renowned for his speed in reloading, the gunman never made it this time.

They were upon him, pinioning his arms behind his back just as J.C Dawson’s cowboys had done as they led him to his hanging. Strength that mocked that of living humans tore an arm from its socket, then the other, casting them aside.

Skeet’s attackers bore him to the ground, stamping on his belly until it exploded in a stinking morass. One of them grasped his neck, panting foul breath as he took the strain. Sinews strained, extended. A tongue protruded from the open mouth, dead eyes popped out on to those high boned cheeks.

Suddenly neck and head parted from the shoulders, sent the Paiute staggering back, holding it like a ball claimed in a child’s play game, hat still firmly wedged on it.

The creatures of the night embarked upon a frenzy of mutilation, claiming body parts as they might have done after a successful buffalo hunt. Fighting amongst themselves over their acquisitions, oblivious to all else.

Black Snake turned away, began the long walk back to his cave in the mountains. His slaves would follow when they were ready. They had done well. They deserved their reward.

PIPEWORK
by

ADRIAN TCHAIKOVSKY

The woman wasn't expecting us, but she thought she was. Her look was decidedly unfriendly when she opened the door.

"About bloody time," she told me. "You were supposed to be here at eight. You know that?"

"Sorry, er, traffic," I got out. It was easier than saying that whoever she was waiting for was even later, and that we were about to, as the police would say, gain access by false pretences.

She looked a little older than me, a few lines on her face, hair dyed fair. She looked as though she would be happier dressed for the office. Instead she was in jeans and a sweatshirt, defiantly 'working from home'. Most of all, she was very unhappy with me, or with the person I was supposed to be.

"I have taken the day off work," she said, letting us in. "I will be bloody well standing over you, if I have to, to make sure you actually get the work done. I have had it up to here with plumbers."

She stopped then because Walther had come in behind me. I can pass for a plumber. I was wearing dungarees and a baseball cap and carrying a toolbox. Walther in his white suit and hat could have passed for the Man from Del Monte, but plumbing was out of the question.

"Who the hell are you?" she asked.

Walther produced a card that he had printed on my home PC. It said that he was a council inspector with the department of health and safety. She accepted it blankly. "What's going on?"

"Just routine, Mrs Levinger," Walther assured her. "This week we're conducting a survey of tradesmen, making sure that everything goes according to plan. That sort of thing."

This was exactly what Mrs Levinger wanted to hear. "Good. I want to make a complaint," she said.

"Shall we let Mr Stebbins get to work first?" Walther suggested. Mr Stebbins was the plumber she was expecting.

Her place was a bungalow, not new, not old, somewhere around the seventies mark. It was newer than most places that Walther and I ended up in together. Inside, everything was aggressively neat. There weren't many personal touches. The paintings hung on the wall were splotchy modern prints that didn't match the carpet. It was very much the house of someone who lived at work.

"Through here," she said grimly.

When she opened the door I said, "Oh that stinks," which didn't help my reputation as a plumber, but it stank. It did.

"I know it stinks," she said. "That's why I called a...plumber." You could tell from the little pause before 'plumber' that she wanted to put another word in there, but was too well brought up.

It was a bathroom, a small one. There was a fair amount of exposed pipe work coming in past one wall and connecting to the sink and the bath, and some of the pipes had been taken out and were on the floor, along with some unpleasant stains. It stank to high heaven, a stomach-lurching reek that made me want to back straight out again.

Walther had a handkerchief over his nose as though trying to avoid catching the plague. "How aboud you dell ud wod habbend, Midded Lebingub," came his muffled voice.

"It's Ms. Levinger." She was obviously used to it, or more used than we were. "And it's been a bloody week now, and the pipes out for half of that. I haven't got running water to anything except the loo. It's bloody ridiculous." She glared at me. "What happened was my washing machine backed up and flooded the kitchen, and according to the first cowboy I got over here, there was a blockage down the pipe. One week later I've got no water and there's still pipes all over the floor, and I've had two plumbers bail on me. How about that, Mr-" She squinted at Walther's card, "Kinley?"

"Dad sowds absoludely derribug, Md Lebingub," Walther said indistinctly. "Why dobe we leb the expugt wug ad you cad dell me aw abowg id?"

Thanks a lot, I thought, but Walther wanted out of the smell, and so he let Ms Levinger take him into the next room, leaving me staring at the uncompleted plumbing. Needless to say, I don't know anything about plumbing. However, I put the toolkit down and got some tools out, so that when she came back it would at least show willing. What I was doing, though, was listening, because Ms Levinger was pitching her voice so that I could hear everything she had to say, as a warning to all plumbers. I sat down on the closed loo and waited.

"This is the first charlatan," she said, for Walther's benefit. "Mr Ben Conway, who likes to tell people he's ‘Quality Plumbing and Domestic Engineering’, only it's not a real company, it's just him and his halfwit friend. He came in, dismantled my pipes, took fifty pounds in advance and then just left without so much as an excuse. So I called this one, see? John Pilling Heating and Plumbing Services, which is just this one fat man who came a day late and then kicked about for two days, gave me a quotation for two hundred pounds and then also left. Really, Mr Kinlay, I am going to go to the trading standards people. I'm going to go to the police. Look, this Pilling character was supposed to be a member of the Federation of Plumbers and Heating Engineers, but I called them. They've never heard of him." Walther no doubt said something sympathetic and consoling.

I picked up a piece of pipe. It was white plastic, a few inches across, and I saw that the inside was coated with some kind of black jelly. It didn't take much investigating to work out that this was what stank so badly. It was probably why the pipes had got blocked, too. I could see why plumbers wouldn't want to deal with it. It made me want to retch.

I peered through the section of pipe, seeing just how little room there had been for the actual water. The coating must have been a quarter-inch thick. I saw something through that choked little circle that was all the space that was left.

It could have been entirely innocent, but it made my stomach, already unsettled, turn nastily. I put the pipe down.

A handprint. There was a handprint on the wall, where someone's filthy hand had slapped onto the paintwork, and then dragged, smearing grime in a dragging tail. I stood up, feeling abruptly threatened, the room seeming too small, too confining. There was something unpleasant about the direction that the hand had been dragged down, the ragged trail it had left. A man would have had to put his wrist in a weird position to do it.

I heard Ms Levinger stomping back towards the backroom and quickly knelt down beside the tools and tried to look busy. I had hoped I'd be used to the smell, by then, but if anything it was actually getting stronger. Then she and Walther were in the doorway.

"Look at him. He hasn't even started," the woman complained. "Can you at least tell me what the problem is?"

"I'm, er, still looking," I said awkwardly.

"Perhaps you should take your ease, Ms. Levinger," said Walther from beyond the door. "I will look after Mr Stebbins and make sure that the job gets done."

She nodded, glaring at me, and retreated towards the lounge. We heard the sound of a television a moment later.

"Well?" Walther asked me, still in the doorway.

"You come in here and say that," I told him. "This stinks. You've discovered the world's smelliest ghost or something."

He shrugged. "There may be a ghost. It may smell. What you're smelling isn't it, though. All perfectly natural, Michael."

"Nothing that smells that bad can be natural."

"Nonsense. It's quintessentially natural." He risked stepping into the room, wrinkling his nose. "The room next to this is the kitchen. The pipes you see coming in serve all the outlets there - washing machine, kitchen sink... I'll bet Ms Levinger doesn't have anything covering the sink plug, because what happens is kitchen waste, pieces of food, all end up down the drain."

"How do you know all this?" I asked him.

"Alimentary, my dear Michael."

I looked blank. He laughed. "I knew as soon as I saw the kitchen. Think about it. The pipes here run almost straight. The food settles in the pipes."

"And turns into black sludge?"

"In a way. Bacteria, Michael. Minute, invisible bacteria. What you're smelling is millions of little creatures living and feeding, excreting and dying, whole generations on the hour. That's your sludge. A great seething city of bacteria all the way down the pipes, until eventually it closes altogether and Ms Levinger's washing machine backs up."

"Fine. In that case why the hell are we here? I'm not a plumber. Also, I don't want the police to find me here pretending to be one. Not with my record."

"Easy, Michael." Walther looked about the bathroom. "No, I'm not wrong. When I heard the man last night I had a feeling, and now I'm here it's only growing stronger. Something's not right."

I should remember that his feelings were always right, but at the time I didn’t believe him. About that time there was a knock on the front door. It didn't register until we heard Ms Levinger open it, then both of us made the connection at once.

We were waiting when Ms Levinger stormed in, the pair of us like naughty schoolboys. There was a squat, balding man with a moustache behind her, overalled and with a toolbag printed with "J Stebbins Plumbing & Heating". I recognised him, of course, from the night before.

"What," spat out Ms Levinger, "Is going on?"

"Ms. Levinger," Walther said, placatingly, "Let me-"

"This is Mr Stebbins," she snapped. "He is a plumber."

"'Ere, I know you," Stebbins said slowly, squinting at Walther. "You're that poof from the pub."

"There is an entirely rational explanation for everything," said Walther, desperately cheerful.

Ms Levinger regarded him coldly. "Mr Stebbins," she said. "The real Mr Stebbins. Would you care to go about your business while I deal with these… whatever they are?"

Stebbins gave Walther and I a gloating look. He did not realise, I think, that I had been pretending to be him or he would have been more vocal. He was simply enjoying someone else's misfortune.

Ms. Levinger had reappeared with a telephone in her hand and we followed her, Walther and me, into the living room. I had the sense to take my shoes off before getting her carpet mucky, for what it was worth.

"I have dialled the police," she informed us. "One move and I will call. They'll trace the number."

"We do not intend you any harm, Ms Levinger. Possibly quite the reverse," said Walther, smiling in a reassuring manner.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded. "I should just call the police right now, or throw you out!Who the hell are you and what do you want?!"

She could not get her head round it, how these two people had turned up pretending to be plumbers in the place of one she was expecting. It made no sense to her. It made precious little to me.

"Easily explained, Ms Levinger,” said Walther. “I am of course not Mr Kinlay from the Council and my friend here is not, as you are already aware, J Stebbins Plumbing and Heating. However, we did meet with Mr Stebbins last night, inadvertently, in a public house. He was on the table next to us complaining in a loud voice about having to attend your residence, I am afraid. He indicated that if you had driven off two of his compatriots, men whom he was personally acquainted with, then he would be damned, he said, if he would give you the time of day, and he had a good mind, he continued, to leave you hanging and not actually visit you in any event. That was the tenor of his conversation.”

“So what? You’re trying to tell me you’re just two good Samaritans who turned up to fill in for him?” she asked, but she was interested. She wanted to know what our angle was.

“Not entirely,” Walther admitted. “We are neither of us plumbers. However…” His smile increased, as it usually did when he was being careful. “When we heard Mr Stebbins in full flow, I had a strange feeling. I have learned to trust my feelings, Ms Levinger. In fact I have made a career out of them. Something, my feeling was telling me, was not right. Michael got into conversation with the increasingly inebriate Mr Stebbins, and got your address and name. I thought that if we turned up on the doorstep without introduction, you would not give us the time of day, and so relied on this harmless subterfuge to gain admittance to make our enquiries. Mr Stebbins had already declared, in his cups, that he would not be visiting you. I suppose it is the last time I shall trust the word of a tradesman.”

“Harmless subterfuge?” Ms Levinger said, more stunned than angry now, confronting Walther’s barefacedness. “I’m going to call the police- no, I’m going to call the mental asylum. You’re completely mad.”

“Ms. Levinger,” Walther said, suddenly the great detective, “Can you honestly tell me that you have had no unusual experience in this house?”

For a moment she had her mouth open but was saying nothing, and I realised, with a rush of excitement, that Walther was right, as he always was. Then she glared at him and said, “I’ve had enough of this. If you’re not out of my house in ten seconds I will call the police.”

“My card,” said Walther, producing his real one and dropping it onto a side table.

“Out!” Ms. Levinger shouted, and we made our retreat in double time, virtually stumbling out through her door.

“Well that fell flat,” I said, thinking that I, too, had taken the day off work for this. At least there had been no actual calling of the police, which would have been awkward.

“It may yet stand up again,” Walther said mildly. As usual, he was right.

I got the call from him that Friday.

“Meet me at the Levinger House tomorrow, Michael.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. She may have come round to our way of thinking.”

So I pitched up outside the bungalow that weekend, finding Walther loitering outside waiting for me. Ms Levinger opened the door at our first knock. She looked no more welcoming than the first time around.

“Come in,” she said. It was as if we were exterminators or something – someone that might be needed, but that nobody wanted to see. We followed her through to her living room, of fond memory.

“This,” she had Walther’s card in her hand, “is a joke, right?”

“Quite serious, I assure you,” Walther said. The card announced him to be a paranormal investigator, so I could see her point. “I have a degree in parapsychology from the University of Brent Springs, California, but as it cost me ten dollars to acquire, I would rather convince you by my actual success in assisting you.”

“I need a plumber, Mr Cohen, not the Ghostbusters,” she told him.

“Then why did you call me, Ms Levinger?”

She looked exceptionally stubborn, but she was cracking.

“Mr Stebbins left,” she said.

“The unreliable nature of tradesman does not fall within the bounds of the paranormal, albeit by only a small margin,” Walther said with studied calm. Knowing him, I could see he was on edge, waiting for it.

“I had put the safety chain on,” she said. “In case… you came back. The back door was locked. The safety chain was still on. But he left.”

Walther sat on the arm of her one armchair. “Okay,” he said. “Is there something else?”

I think she went a bit pale at that point. “Something else?”

“Yes, something else. I think I told you that I have very good instincts.”

“I thought you were talking about plumbing, then. But this is nothing to do with the plumbing,” she protested.

“Nevertheless.”

She turned away from us. The transition from hostility to confusion had taken moments. “I… sometimes I have this odd dream…” She hated saying it, I could see, but something about Walther had made it clear that the information was non-negotiable, and she had called him, which meant she needed his help. “It’s just, I kind of wake up…,” she said. “And there’s someone in the room. Someone standing by the doorway, or just outside the doorway.”

“Show me.”

“It’s just a dream,” she insisted.

“Ms. Levinger, if you go to the doctor with a pain, you let him make the diagnosis. Show me.”

She did. Her bedroom door and the bathroom door faced each other across the narrow entrance hall.

“Does this figure do anything, say anything?” Walther asked.

“No- but- It just watches me, and then turns away and goes. And I’m always half-asleep, and so I just go back to sleep. But even if I keep the door closed, sometimes, I know it’s there…” There was a moment’s pause before she added, unconvincingly, “But it’s nothing to do with this-“

“You don’t believe that.”

She scowled at Walther. “It’s just that some mornings there’s… a smell. Like in the bathroom.”

“Let us research,” Walther suggested. “Michael and I will do a bit of digging and see what we can find” He grinned at her horrified expression. “Metaphorical digging, Ms Levinger. Actual excavation should not, I hope, be necessary.” His grin did not fade but by some sleight of face it stopped being funny.

It was show, to some extent. We had already done some work, dug a few holes. Walther and I settled down outside the bathroom door to compare notes.

“Ms. Levinger bought this property three years ago from Mrs Ada Platt,” Walther said. He looked over my shoulder as I  accessed the Land Registry website on my laptop. “Mrs Platt lived here for… nine years before that, my goodness. She bought it from…?”

We shuffled through the online records but there was no mention, and so Walther took my mobile to make some calls. In the interim I went, reluctantly, back into the bathroom. It still reeked, and there was even more filth across the floor and walls, Mr Stebbins’ only contribution before he left.

Left how?

An idea struck me, and I went out past Walther and checked the street outside.

I did not like what I discovered.

“Listen to this, Michael!” Walther said excitedly, when I came in again. “This gentleman tells me that Mrs Platt bought this place from the estate of Joseph Wentworth. Interesting, no? I’ve got the number of the solicitors who dealt with it. I’ll give them a call. I need you to look up newspaper archives – obituaries – nineteen ninety to ninety-three-“

“Hold on,” I said, and went to find Ms Levinger.

I took her and Walther outside. “This is more serious than you think,” I told them, for once able to be the showman. Walther smiled indulgently at me.

I pointed out three nearby vans. One was unmarked, but the other two were clearly labelled: John Pilling Heating and Plumbing Services, and P. T. Stebbins Plumbing and Heating.

“I don’t understand,” said Ms. Levinger, although she did, really. She just didn’t want to.

“Plumbers have been known to down tools in the past,” Walther said quietly. “But paradoxically it involves taking their tools with them. All of your missing plumbers appear to have walked home, Ms. Levinger, or not left at all.”

We went inside then, and Ms. Levinger told us all about white-haired old Ada Platt who had sold her the property. Did she herself know anything about a Joseph Wentworth? No she didn’t. She had only moved into the area three years ago. Walther and I went back to our digging.

Walther failed to get much out of the solicitors the first time round, complaining that the Data Protection Act had made his life infinitely more difficult. I went through the local papers in the early nineties and found no mention of any Wentworth. Walther went off to the town archives to see if he could do better. His instincts can cut to the nub through thirty years of records if he can be bothered.

I was years off. Joseph Wentworth turned up on the 15th of July nineteen eighty-two, following up the initial story eight months before in eighty-one. Both pieces were mere paragraphs.

“He disappears in December eighty-one,” Walther explained, over my phone’s tinny loudspeaker. “Very sad. Christmas coming and… is it?… Yes, his wife had left him. Much sympathy. July and they reckon it’s suicide. Police close files. Poor Mr Wentworth.”

“And then what?” I asked. “That’s years-“

“Sorting out the estate. Not an easy thing to do. Mr Wentworth’s only proof of death is his continuing absence. Now I want Ms. Levinger to do something for me.”

“I’m here,” she confirmed to the telephone.

“I want you to ring the solicitors who did the estate administration and tell them there’s a problem with the house. Tell them you’re ringing on behalf of Ada Platt. That should get through to them. Get them worried. They might tell you something.”

“But that’s…” She looked at me, in Walther’s absence. I shrugged. “I’ll try it,” she agreed.

“Good. I’m on my way back,” Walther confirmed.

I went back into the bathroom. Joseph Wentworth, I thought. Joseph Wentworth, sad and alone after his wife had gone… well perhaps it was a classic ghost situation, but… Walther had said that he had disappeared. No body had been found.

The smell was getting to me. Rot was rot, and I suddenly felt very queasy. The only thing that steadied me was the sheer nastiness of it. A decomposing body does not smell as bad as that bathroom did.

“Joseph Wentworth?” I said, into that stinking silence. Now I’m not psychic. I leave that to Walther. I’m as un-mystical as you can be, which is why I’m useful to him. When I said that name, though, something was there. I just felt a tide of… loathing, cold hate, pour over me, just for a moment. I had something’s attention.

“Time to speak to Mr Wentworth,” said Walther when he came back. Ms. Levinger was diligently talking her way through the channels of the Data Protection Act. It was probably a good time for Walther to exercise his skills while she was distracted. “Just the light kit for now, and we’ll see what we can reach.”

“Are you sure? We don’t know what happened to the plumbers.” I did my voice of reason bit.

“I think something very nasty almost certainly happened to all three of them,” said Walther briskly. “They, however, did not know what they were dealing with. Suicides, Michael. Suicides are a specialist subject. You have to treat them properly. Think of it as talking to someone who’s currently really depressed but liable to fly into a rage if you don’t humour them. Thankfully, as long as you commiserate they’re usually fairly easy to manipulate.”

“Into doing what?”

Walther chuckled. “Giving up the ghost. Going away. The act of suicide itself is usually what creates the ghost: that last moment of utter wretched despair, and perhaps even a moment when, all too late, they change their mind. It happens. Usually a simple laying to rest of the body will assist. We’ll get the whole sorry story, but at the end of it we’ll know where his remains are stashed. Sometimes just letting the ghost go on about its problems is enough to get rid of it.”

“A kind of supernatural agony aunt.”

“If you like.” He looked about the bathroom with distaste. “I’m afraid that as this seems to be the focus, we’ll have to set up her, unpalatable as it may be. I bought these.” They were swimming-pool nose-clips. “They’re not going to help the dignity of the situation but we’ll have to live with it.”

We set up quickly, Walther drawing a circle in the muck on the floor and making a few marks at the cardinal points. We stood inside, awkwardly close, and Walther lit a candle and passed it to me. It was probably scented but didn’t stand a chance in that room.

“Mr Wentworth,” Walther said softly. I looked nervously at the open bathroom door, for the moment fearing Ms. Levinger’s wrath or scorn more than any ghost. I missed whatever it was that Walther felt, but I could guess.

“He isn’t happy,” said Walther. “Being ignored so long will do that for you.”

“Does it make you eat plumbers?”

“It might. Mr. Wentworth, why don’t you come and have a word. You must have something to get off your chest. I’ve a sympathic ear,” Walther said, voice reverential.

I felt something, then, another surge of furious emotion. Walther gripped my hand abruptly, and I followed his gaze to where the filth on the floor was shifting, oozing blobs rolling into others and then falling apart. It looked as though it was trying to form a pattern, writing even, but nothing came of it.

The usual adrenaline rush kicked in, the fight-or-flight demanding to know why I wasn’t running already. That was when Ms Levinger came to the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.

Walther waved at me urgently, and I said, with a weak smile, “We’re investigating. Our way. If you’d-“

“I talked to the solicitors, like you wanted. They said that it was too late for us to complain about how long it took. And they said it was only when the body actually turned up that they could sort it out so it wasn’t their fault.”

I felt Walther twitch.

“The body?” I asked.

“Mr Wentworth’s body. They got it out of the river, apparently. They knew it was him from the teeth. So suicide, yes.”

“In the river?” Walther hissed, concentration broken. “I didn’t find- it can’t have made the papers… Then why… a suicide’s manifestation is usually at the place of suicide. I’d thought.” He frowned back at Ms. Levinger. “Unless it’s the sewage pipes going out… unless he made his way back- all the way from the river-“

“He’d have to get into the septic tank then. That’s where those pipes have to go,” Ms. Levinger said.

Walther stared at her. “Tank…?”

“Out back, in the garden.” Oblivious to his alarm she said. “It was from whatever was here before the bungalow. It’s bad for a modern house, but I got twenty thou’ off the price because of it so… What?”

“This is getting messy. I think we should-“ Walther said, and then the door slammed shut, cutting off Ms. Levinger and the outside world.

“What is it?” I asked Walther.

“Open the door,” he said urgently.

“But the circle-“

“Damn the circle. Open the door.”

I got my hand on the handle, but the door was stuck. I could feel it pulling but there was a pressure keeping it shut. For a moment I thought it was Ms. Levinger, that she had been behind it all somehow, but then I saw something glisten in a line between door and frame, the sickly slime forming a pressure seal that was strong enough that even I, and I’m no small man, could not get the thing open.

“Walther-“

“I’ve miscalculated, Michael.” There was something raw in his voice, and I turned at it, followed his gaze again.

It came out of the pipes, a thick, black stinking ooze. It was vomited onto the floor in surges, and where it hit, it did not simply pool, but became something, a shape.

It gouted out a hand, made all of slime, as though there was an invisible mould there, holding it in place - except that even as the hand was there it was moving, the fingers pulling at the stained floor. In the next moment there was another, heaved into existence by another slopping rush of thick jelly. They were both crawling forwards, fumbling at the linoleum, and the jelly that was running out of the pipes was still building with shocking swiftness, arms, shoulders, back and neck. I put all my weight to the door and heard the woodwork creak, but it would not budge. It was glued in place by the same poisonous stuff that was mounting up in the room’s corner. I could hear Ms. Levinger’s demanding voice from beyond.

I looked back. The sluggish, flowing thing was forming to the waist. I saw, then, where we had gone wrong.

“She didn’t leave him,” Walther got out. “He didn’t kill himself because she left him. He killed himself because he couldn’t get rid of her. Oh dear lord.”

The shape that was pouring out was a woman’s, and she was crawling towards us even as the slime built her. Her face was still turned down and, of all the things in the world, I did not want to see it. Joseph Wentworth’s dead wife - his supposedly missing but really- what? The wife he must have murdered, disposed of unspeakably, was regurgitating herself here, shuddering with rippling animation. It was a dead woman made of a million million living things that thrived and decayed to make her substance.

“Towels, Michael!” Walther said, and I grabbed two without thinking. He ripped them from my hands.

The tank, I thought. The septic tank. I would not want to be the one to empty that. No doubt Mrs Wentworth’s remains were still there, but what she must have done to the three plumbers, to drag them into the pipes…

“If I’d known it was a murder I’d have had the heavy kit,” Walther muttered. The thing surged forwards another foot, the slime filling out hips, thighs. It was propping itself up on its glistening arms now, the head lifting. Numbly I heard Walther saying, “Because of course she didn’t get him. She didn’t get her revenge, and so we’re all Joseph Wentworth, to her. So stupid, so stupid.”

The thing from the pipes lifted its head and I saw its face. Probably I should have screamed but in fact I just shouted out “Oh fuck!” and recoiled against the irretrievably jammed door.

“Get behind me, Michael!” Walther said, but by that time I already was. The eyes were the worst. They were sucking holes. The mouth was the same, perfectly round and gurgling like a drain. There were no other features.

Walther interposed himself. He was…

He was wearing a towel around his waist, and his trousers were about his ankles. He had another towel on his head, folded up and back as though he had just washed his hair. He was standing very oddly, weight on one hip, head tilted to one side. He was never the most manly of men, by anyone’s standards, but right now he was flat-out camp. He was hamming it up like some pantomime dame.

“Oldest trick in the book,” he said, without look round at me. He was looking the thing in its horrible face, and not flinching. “Older than books, in fact. You can do a lot of fooling the invisible world, if you just play a bit of dress-up.”

“Are you… supposed to be in drag?” I got out. I had my eyes fixed on his back. I had seen enough of the late Mrs Wentworth.

“Well, dearie, give me better tools and you’d be amazed, but this is the best I can manage for now.”

“But...”

“Quiet.”

The thing was standing now, swaying, its substance quivering as it was impossibly held in place. I could not watch. The stench of it was choking me. I fixed my eyes on Walther’s back, hearing that ghastly sucking sound that her face was making.

It had reached out a hand that was black and gleamed wet in the light. Walther held himself very still, like a man watching a rearing snake.

I heard a noise. It was a gurgling, thick sound, but somewhere in there was human despair, and out of that sound the creature was suddenly no longer holding itself together. With a tremendous slap the gallons of slime hit the bathroom floor, and then they were being drawn back into the pipes again with incredible speed, so I expected to see the plastic bulge and split with it. Walther and I did not move until all that was left was the familiar slick of muck on the bathroom floor. After that I tried the door, which opened after a little sticky resistance. White-faced Ms. Levinger stared at me, and then at the apparition of Walther in his grotesque drag.

“I can’t help you,” he explained to her later, when he had a chance to re-dress and to wipe off Ms. Levinger’s lipstick, which he had also slapped on very inexpertly. “For very specific reasons that have nothing to do with my skills, it is simply not possible for me to deal with this.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Ms. Levinger demanded. I could see her point. Walther had come into her life and turned a moderate problem into a serious supernatural horror, and now he was leaving her with it.

In answer Walther opened his wallet and found a card. “This is one of my competitors,” he explained.

“Wiccan Consultant…?” she said blankly.

“She dabbles in my field,” Walther explained. “For the purposes of this case, though, she has one crucial attribute that I lack. Call her. You may find that she has something of a waiting list. She seems to get all over the world being pagan.”

“But...”

Walther held up a hand. “Michael knows some people who are good at making unattended vehicles disappear. As part of our service, I think we can dispose of the vans for you. Otherwise questions might be asked. Beyond that, your immediate problem should solve itself very simply if you just call a female plumber. I understand there are several around these days. Call a female plumber and make sure she doesn’t use any male subcontractor. That will put your bathroom back in action.” He saw, and in fact I saw, something in her face that suggested that once this was done, she would let the rest go.

“No men in the house, Ms. Levinger,” he warned. “If this is not dealt with, this house will never be safe.”

From her expression she did not necessarily consider this a bad thing. Whether she did ever have the ghost laid to rest, after she had restored her bathroom to its pristine glory, I never found out.

THE LOST FAMILY

(A new story from the world of “The Fall of Hades”)

by

JEFFREY THOMAS

“Please be careful not to dislodge me, madam,” Jay said, riding across the woman’s back. “If I fall from this distance I’ll surely break.”

Vee paused in her climb to glance downward, into the shaft through which she ascended. They had entered the vertical service shaft through an access hatch on Level 119, but the shaft ran deeper than that. Maybe all the way to the basement?

“Even if you didn’t break, Jay, sorry but I don’t think I’d go down there after you.”

“Understood,” Jay said drily. “All the more reason for caution, if you will.”

The Angel named Vee had heard there was a settlement called Freetown on the 128th floor of the Construct. A large colony where the Damned lived cooperatively alongside Angels, and even Demons – though not all races of Demon, surely, for she had just barely escaped a pack of small, skull-faced Demons several levels below her present position.

She had learned of Freetown from Jay, her only companion in her exploration of the Construct. Only recently had she awakened from centuries as a catatonic prisoner of war, many levels below in the bowels of the Construct, without any memory of her past either as a mortal woman or, after her death, as an Angel. Nor did she remember the infernal war she herself had apparently participated in – the Armageddon that had left the last remaining Damned, Angels and Demons sheltering inside the impossibly vast structure called the Construct, with the shattered remnants of Hell outside its walls buried under solidified lava.

In this utterly alien world, Jay had served as a most useful guide; the Virgil to her Dante. But to add to that he also shot bullets, being a mecha-organic rifle grown from bone, with a single eye and a pair of lips set into his side, and the sentience of a Demon. To top off his usefulness, he could jack into the Mesh. And it was through the Mesh that Jay himself had learned of Freetown. For Vee, who couldn’t recall anyplace from life or afterlife that might have felt like home, it sounded as good a destination as any.

Vee had gained the many floors of her ascent by any number of means – from crawling up through ventilation ducts to riding freight lifts, from metal spiral staircases to opulent marble staircases. Presently she ascended to Level 120 by shimmying up a thick bundle of cables that ran through a concrete shaft. Corroded rungs were set into the side of the shaft, but after one had pulled out of the wall in her hand she had decided the cables were safer. Also set into one wall were a series of lights, about every third light still providing illumination. The Construct’s technology had been added to over the centuries, but many systems had never run down even without repair or modification after nearly two thousand years. That said a lot about Demonic technology – but then again, it was only an illusory corporeality anyway, like Vee’s own body.

Illusory or not, by the time she reached the top of the shaft and passed through the soaring heights of Level 119 into Level 120, Vee was gulping make-believe air and sweating make-believe perspiration inside the form-fitting second skin of her rubbery black jumpsuit. Her shortish, reddish hair was plastered in spikes across her forehead.

She poked her head up through the opening warily at first, poking up the blunt muzzle of the bone gun with her, but she saw no one about. For all the many Damned, Demons and Angels who made their home inside the Construct, they were so dispersed and the Construct so unthinkably immense that anywhere you went within it seemed desolate. Sometimes Vee felt that she and the gun were the only beings in the entire structure. Sometimes she wished they were.

There had been a metal plate in the floor covering this opening at one time, but it had been unfastened and set aside before her. She was grateful; though she had a few simple tools in the pouch slung over her back, it would have been awkward if not impossible clinging to the rope of cables and unfastening the cover herself. Plus, if those skull-faced Demons had continued tracking her and were to follow her up the shaft, it would have been all the more unpleasant trying to get that cover off.

She pulled herself out of the hole and to her feet, turning this way and that alertly. However peaceful Freetown might truly prove to be she couldn’t as yet say, but she had not only encountered hostile Demons since awakening from her coma, but hostile tribes of Damned and Angels as well.

She was in a room so long and wide that three of its walls were lost in the murk. The nearer fourth wall was composed entirely of huge windows that had once let in the glow of Hell’s churning red sky. Now, outside the windows was only solid volcanic stone flush right up against the panes.

A forest of riveted metal support columns lay around her in all directions, and the ceiling – low in this particular room, not reflecting the true ceiling of Level 120 – was similarly crisscrossed with support beams. But other than that, and puddles on the floor where water had leaked through the ceiling here and there, the room appeared absolutely empty. It had the look of a construction project that had never been finished. She was surprised one of the larger, more ambitious tribes hadn’t staked out this open territory in order to build a community.

She had opened her mouth to express this thought to Jay – and to ask if he had any idea what direction they should take from here to find a means of continuing their ascent – when she caught her breath.

She smelled the Demon before she saw it. It was a scent of incense, burnt into the entity’s flesh. Up close she knew the scent would be choking. She didn’t want to get close enough to experience that.

A moment later and she could hear its approach, too, but by then she had already ducked behind the nearest support girder, wide enough to mask her long lean body. Peeking around its edge, she stared into the dark haze of the distance where the lights were too far-spaced or feeble to illuminate. A pair of white eyes beamed from the shadows, followed gradually by a hulking dark shape that began to form from the gloom.

Jay had told her that when the more human-like races of Demons had begun sympathizing with the rebellious Damned, Hell’s response had been to mass produce less anthropomorphic Demons. This was one of them. It was a bulky thing, so wide it barely passed through the spaces between the metal pillars. It looked like a great soft body partly hatched from a hard chitin exoskeleton; a horrible synthesis of obese human and predatory insect. It was sepia in color, though its scorpion’s forelimbs shaded to black.

Its glowing white eyes slowly turned this way, then that, sweeping the girder forest. Was it patrolling its territory? Hunting? Or merely pacing this vast room in a mindless state to pass the hours of eternity, like a sleepwalker, just as she herself had lapsed into catatonia in the Construct’s dungeon? It didn’t matter; whatever motivated the creature, it was a being she didn’t care to encounter – certainly not one of the Demon races she expected to find living in Freetown.

Could she cross the room column to column, waiting for its head to swivel in another direction each time she needed to advance? But how wide was this room; how long before she found a doorway? After her arduous climb, she didn’t want to backtrack to the shaft and descend, then have to seek out another means of gaining this level. She might run into those little skull-headed Demons again; out of the frying pan and into the fire. Anyway, if this Demon were to look into the shaft while she was descending, though it was far too large to follow her inside it might still find something heavy to drop down on her, or even snip the cables free with its pincers.

No, she would take her chances crossing the room, advancing toward the creature as it advanced toward her until they’d passed each other. Its bulk and slowness were to her advantage. When she saw the Demon turn its burning eyes away from her, she darted to the next closest girder. That incense scent was stronger. She only hoped the Demon couldn’t sniff her out, too.

Vee had advanced a half dozen girders and was growing more optimistic about stealing past the Demon without it becoming the wiser, when she heard Jay whisper, “Madam! Behind you!”

Pressed close to her present shelter, Vee looked over her shoulder. Through the metal tree trunks she caught a glimpse of eyes like very distant headlights, moving slowly at an angle from left to right. Another wandering Demon. She was lucky Jay had spotted it; with him, she had three eyes.

The one in front of her was shambling nearer. How much sooner before the one behind noticed her? And how many more Demons might be patrolling this great room? A dozen? A hundred? This could well be why the space hadn’t been claimed by would-be colonists.

Vee glanced around the floor, looking for a plate covering another shaft entrance. Unless one were hidden by one of the scattered pools, there didn’t appear to be any. Scattered pools…from leaks in the ceiling. Vee cast her eyes to the ceiling. A system of open latticed joists. Yes! She could crawl along the lower portion of the beams, above the heads of the Demons until she found a safe spot to return to the floor…a spot with an exit from this chamber.

The rivets in the girder were large, distended, and she planted one foot on the lowest of them to boost herself up. She needed both hands free to take hold of the girder’s rusting, flaking edges, so she had quickly secured Jay through the straps of her pouch, across her back, just as when she’d climbed the rope made of power cables.

Vee made it to the top of the column and immediately pressed herself flat across one of the iron beams, a surface just broad enough to conceal her. The Demon that had been ahead of her began to pass directly below her. It stopped suddenly, swivelled its head, appeared to be sniffing at the air or listening. Vee held her breath – not that her body actually needed to take breath in any case.

Finally, as if reluctant to give up the scent, the Demon gave a deep, irritable grunt and continued on. Answering grunts came rumbling from three or four other directions. Vee congratulated herself on taking this approach instead of the former.

Not that it was easy inching along on her belly, the beam’s surface interrupted in the center by the angled latticework that connected upper and lower portions, crowding her movements. And she did her best not to let the bone gun scrape noisily against the metal. It would be a slow, stealthy process. She was still learning patience, having to accustom herself all over again to the notion that the immortal didn’t need to hurry.

She soon came to one of the spots where water had leaked through the ceiling, maybe from a fractured pipe somewhere above. Here, the concrete of the ceiling went from water-stained to actually fallen away, chunks like miniature islands scattered in the puddle below. When Vee was under the irregular hole, she lifted her head and tried to peer into its depths. Her thoughts were rolling. If she pulled herself up inside there, would the going be easier? Or would the risk of falling through another weak spot be too great? Maybe she’d be able to keep to straight lines where the ceiling joists lay beneath her.

She waited until none of the Demons – and she saw three of them now from her vantage point -- were facing her way, then rose and pulled herself up through the opening, expecting its ragged edges to give way under her weight at any second. She made it up without even an untoward sound, however, and positioned herself over where she knew the joist would be. Then, she looked about her.

She was in a narrow crawlspace through which a large water pipe ran (and it was indeed rusted through at the point just above the hole in the concrete), plus some thinner conduits and power cables fastened along the space’s confining walls. She could almost rise to a crouch but remained on hands and knees. Just a little light bled in through the hole, and through a few more far-spaced gaps ahead and behind her. Anyway, all she had to do was move in a straight line now. She was very satisfied -- except which direction to follow? She decided just to keep heading in the direction she had already been taking, and started crawling forward on hands and knees.

Gradually a light source shone up ahead like a beacon, and it became brighter the closer she drew to it -- this time not the weak glow up through a collapsed section of concrete. This light came from the left-hand wall: a solitary fluorescent tube affixed there. Directly opposite the light, a panel was set into the right-hand wall. An access hatch for the crawlspace, no doubt. Vee went into wary mode again, but was also hopeful that this would deliver her into an area where she could walk upright, maybe find a secure shelter in which to rest. Already being dead, she couldn’t die, but she could feel fatigue.

This access panel was no typical metal hatch, she found when she came up on it. It was a sheet of thick translucent plastic, more a window than anything. Its surface was rippled and frosted to admit light but it couldn’t be seen through. Vee glanced from the plastic pane to the fluorescent tube, back to the window again. Was this some primitive means of security – a stranger’s silhouette showing in the window, while the stranger himself couldn’t see a thing? But Vee had faced more threatening situations since coming out of her long mental hibernation, and her curiosity was too strong for her to bypass the window and keep moving. So, laying Jay down just beside her knee, she tested to see if the window might open. It was not hinged, but neither was it fixed in place; she was able to push the panel out on the other side yet maintain hold of it so it wouldn’t drop noisily.

She tensed up, expecting a burst of gunfire perhaps. It didn’t come.

She found herself looking into a small room with a closed door. In fact, it was a bathroom, and directly below the window rested a toilet.

A toilet? The Damned (and Angels like herself, who had invaded Hell to battle the rebel armies of the Damned) didn’t need to eat, but one still felt the craving and enjoyed the process. Fortunately there were various kinds of edibles to be found or produced. But no one in the netherworld needed to void waste. True, some Demons shat, only so that they might rub this shit on restrained prisoners, or collect it in great vats in which to submerge their victims. A toilet for a particular race of Demon, then?

Vee leaned her body in and as quietly as possible rested the plastic window panel on the closed toilet lid. Then she eased one leg through the window, onto the toilet tank until she could squeeze the rest of her through. A bit tight, but she was slim enough. When she had her feet under her, on the tiled bathroom floor, she drew Jay down, then pressed the window pane back in place.

She heard no sound behind the closed door. It was wood, apparently, but then there had once been forests and jungles aplenty in the vastness of Hades. It was not the door that filled her with a sense of confusion bordering on wonder…

There was also a shower stall enclosed by a plastic curtain. The pipe that fed it ran across the ceiling and disappeared through a little hole in the wall, obviously patched into the water system that passed through the crawlspace outside. But when Vee opened the toilet, she found its bowl was empty. So was its tank when she lifted its cover off. Further, the insides of the lid and the tank itself were of a terracotta color, whereas the outsides were glazed white. So the toilet was a sham, then, fashioned out of hardened clay or some other pliable material.

Clean white-painted walls. Towel racks bearing crude towels. A sink, with a mirror over it. Vee winced at her reflection. She hoped she might make use of the shower herself, if this place proved abandoned. She tried the single faucet on the sink. Cold water came forth, a little tinged with rust. She didn’t doubt the simple drains for the sink and shower contributed to the puddles on the floor of the barren factory floor below.

Now, Vee turned to the door. Reached for the knob with her left hand, Jay tucked against her right side with her finger on his trigger.

Opening the door slowly, cautiously, she found herself in a dark little hallway. At its end, warm light and a funny hissing/fizzing sound. Static.

There were three other doors in the hallway. Vee closed the bathroom door behind her, and just as cautiously as before cracked open the door directly opposite.

Dark inside, but just enough light fell into the room for Vee to make out a wide, comfortable-looking bed. A chest of drawers. On the walls, a few apparently original paintings and drawings in wooden or metal frames. Vee suddenly felt like Dorothy delivered from a crazy world back to prosaic Kansas. Under her breath she muttered, “Jay, we’re not in Oz anymore.”

“Madam?” he whispered.

She ignored him, closed the bedroom’s door and opened a third wooden door. When she saw what lay inside, she levelled Jay with both hands at the bed and stiffened in a firing stance.

A human woman lay in the bed, covered by a rough blanket, eyes closed. This bedroom was much like the other, except that a single muted bulb glowed from atop the chest of drawers. Vee crept closer to the woman, closer, until she stood directly over her pointing Jay at her head. But the woman’s face remained unmoving, even peaceful. She was elderly. Vee looked up at the walls. In this room the walls were decorated with needlepoint projects. One of these read: HOME SWEET HOME.

Vee wagged her head. Not Kansas, then, but the Twilight Zone.

She left the room, shut the door, opened the last of the hallway’s four doors but only looked in from the threshold. A much smaller bed, and scattered crude toys.

Vee eased the door shut, turned at last to gaze down the hallway toward the source of that warm light and sizzling static. Four beds…only one occupied…

She stole down the hallway, listening for more sounds beyond that irritating screen of static. At its end, she slid her back along the wall and gingerly peeked one eye around its edge into the room beyond.

It was, of course, a living room. A black woman perhaps in her thirties (before she became an immortal, at least) sat on a makeshift sofa with a drawing pad on her knees and a stick of charcoal in one hand. A white man sat in an armchair, gazing at a TV. And sitting cross-legged on a woven rug in front of the TV was an Asian boy of maybe seven. The TV wasn’t a TV, however, but a computer terminal showing only churning pixilated snow on its monitor. None of the three people appeared jacked into the Mesh. Vee wondered if the TV were only another prop, then.

None of the three people stirred in the slightest. She couldn’t see the faces of the man or child, but the woman’s eyes were open and unblinking. Her drawing hand didn’t move. They might as well have been mannequins in a department store’s showroom.

Vee stepped fully into the room but remained leery of a trap, an ambush, Jay still at the ready. She neared the man in the chair enough that she could see his open, glazed eyes, the snow from the monitor reflected in them.

“Hello?” she said to him. “Excuse me?”

No response. She resisted the impulse to reach out and shake him a little. Instead, she leaned close to the woman. “Hey,” Vee said. “Can you hear me?” The woman remained frozen, the tip of the charcoal stick touching the paper unwaveringly. Vee cocked her head for a better look; it was a pleasing drawing of a cottage in a snowy forest, wood smoke rising from its chimney.

Finally she hunched down beside the little boy, and in a softer tone said, “Hey, guy, can you hear me in there? Kid?”

The boy didn’t turn his head nor even blink, perhaps enraptured by images that played only in his head. Vee straightened.

So, they had shut down, then -- just as she had once done. But she had apparently been tortured, and finally encased in a cement sarcophagus…left alone and forgotten for centuries until that cement prison had eroded away. She had turned her consciousness off to escape her pain, her loneliness. The only escape that was possible to her.

She looked around again at the great effort that had gone into making this little apartment secreted between the bottom and top of level 120, like an extra hidden level. All these meticulous details, crafted over time. Why go through all that only to sit down and go into a vegetative state for the remainder of eternity?

On the far side of the room was a doorway leading into a kitchen. Vee crossed the livingroom to enter it and look around. As in the bathroom, there was a single frosted window. Now she realized the reason for the fluorescent tube situated outside. It gave the illusion of sunlight shining into the room.

A small table and four chairs made of mismatched but white-painted wood. A working stove, tapped into a gas line. A mock refrigerator, not cold inside. If the fridge and the cabinets had ever contained food, the mixed little family had long ago exhausted it all.

A mixed family was right. Black mom, white dad, Asian son, and dear old grandma turned in early for the night, sleeping in her room. Hell had been too vast, limitless in fact, for families to find each other and be reunited, and some members had gone to Paradise while others -- more often than not no great sinners but simply not having satisfied the strict qualifications to escape damnation -- had been consigned to Hades. And so, new families had formed and taken in Damned children, showing more compassion than their Creator ever had. Vee was glad that, overwhelmed with pain and madness at the breakdown of His system, the Creator had obliterated Himself and was no more. Jay had told her all about that.

And to think she herself had once been one of the blessed. Despite the frustrations it had brought, she was thankful she had forgotten herself.

Vee sighed, returned to the livingroom and once again looked from immobile figure to figure. “Fuck it,” she said to Jay, “I’m taking a shower.”

Jay leaned against the toilet close at hand, keeping an eye on the door while Vee showered. The door had no lock on the inside, so first she had removed the window pane in case she needed to make a fast escape, but when she’d heard the distant grunt of a passing Demon below she had set it in place again lest it hear her, too. Let the Demon believe the water dribbling down from the ceiling was another fracture in the ancient plumbing.

After donning her jumpsuit again she returned to the living room to contemplate its museum-like tableau. Idly she approached the large screen of the computer monitor, knelt down and looked over its keyboard. In her hands, Jay said, “I could try jacking into the Mesh from this port,” he offered.

“No…I was just thinking it would be great to watch an old movie right about now,” Vee said, straightening up. “Watch a two thousand-year-old rerun or something.” She studied the glassy-eyed family once again. “Maybe they created all this so it would be a psychologically comfortable environment to shut themselves down in. So they’d feel safer doing it.” She picked up a sculpture from a wall shelf, apparently fashioned from the same material the toilet was. “Makes me think of the tombs of the pharaohs, with all the comforts of life entombed with them. I have to say, though –” she set the sculpture down again “-- it really is on the cozy side. Coziest spot I’ve come across in Hades.”

She went to sit down beside the woman on the sofa, tempted to take her sketch pad from her and page through it, but she was afraid that might rouse her. Vee realized she was no longer afraid the woman or the others might become hostile; it was more a matter of conscientiousness.

She leaned her head against the backrest, Jay across her thighs, and said, “I’m so tired. When was the last time I slept in a real bed? I can’t even remember. I could fall asleep right here and now.”

“If you like, you could lie down in one of the bedrooms. I’ll keep an eye on the door for you.”

“Jay, you’re the best Demonic gun a girl ever had.”

“Madam!”

In her dreams she was not an Angel warrior who had named herself Vee, but a child named Rebecca, waking in her bed on a Saturday morning. The window by her bed was open, letting in a warm-cool breeze and the sound of some extra-diligent neighbor already mowing his lawn. Smell of new-cut grass. Bird song. And a bone gun with one red eye calling to her…

“Madam!”

If Jay could have triggered himself maybe he would have, but he wasn’t pointing at the old woman anyway. She, however, was aiming a semi-automatic pistol inches from Vee’s face.

“Who are you?” the elderly woman demanded in a voice shaking more from fear than from age.

“Goldilocks,” Vee said, staring up at her.

“Don’t try to be smart!”

“Please, relax. Clearly I’m like you.”

“It doesn’t matter what you are, Damned like us or an Angel – this is our house! You’re not a part of our family!”

“I thought you were in a trance like the others.”

“I was only sleeping.”

“Do you take turns watching over the rest?”

“No.” The woman’s frown deepened. “I can’t go to sleep the way they did. I’ve tried, but I can’t. You might think I’d be the easiest one to do it, but no. Maybe it’s the opposite – because I lived longer. More to let go of.”

“So you watch over your…family.”

“Yes, just me. Which brings me to my question again – who are you, and how did you find us in here?”

“Purely by accident. My name is Vee. I swear I mean you no harm.”

“No harm? With that infernal gun of yours?”

“He’s the most pacifistic gun you’d ever want to meet.”

The old woman backed off a few steps but kept the handgun trained on Vee’s face. Though she gripped it in both hands, the weapon trembled in the air. “You have to leave now.”

Vee sat up slowly, keeping her arms spread so her empty hands remained visible. She wasn’t afraid of being killed, since her immortal soul could never be destroyed -- and she would regenerate even the most severe damage to her mock body -- but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel pain. Pain was always something to avoid.

“Okay, okay, sorry I intruded,” she said. “I can see this is a very private place.” She realized something now, as she thought of returning to the crawlspace through the bathroom window. She had seen no doors leading outside from this apartment. It was not meant to be readily entered, or departed from.

As if considering the same line of thought, the old woman asked, “How did you get in here?”

“Bathroom window. I was hiding from some Demons – you’re lucky they’re too big to explore up here. All I want to do is make my way to the 128th floor. Have you or the others ever heard of Freetown?” Vee stood beside the bed now.

“I’ll take that for the moment.” The old one switched her gun to one hand and dragged Jay against her leg. “No, I haven’t. We’re fine here.”

“So how long have the others been out of it?”

“Have you seen any clocks or calendars in Hell?” the woman snapped. But then she said, “I’ve been alone a long time. I mean – awake alone a long time. I’m not alone. I feel comfort that my family is around me. They may not be fully conscious but part of them takes comfort, too, in all of us being together.”

Vee slowly lowered her arms to her sides. The elderly woman didn’t protest. She said, “So they didn’t start out with the intention of going to sleep like this?”

“No. We made this place to escape all the horror, and we lived here for a long time as a family. But the three of them found themselves falling asleep for longer and longer times. They knew what was happening. So one night we all sat and discussed it, and decided to give in to it. We were all right with the decision. We weren’t escaping each other. We wouldn’t be interacting anymore, but we’d all be here, close together.”

“Except they could do it. And you couldn’t.”

“Yes.”

“You must get lonely, even with them beside you. I’ll bet you still talk to them, even if they don’t answer you back.”

“I want you to go now.”

“Do you really? Isn’t it better to have someone to talk to?”

“Not if it’s you!”

“Do you ever miss your real family?”

The old woman’s angry voice quavered. “Did you come here to torment me? You’re an Angel, aren’t you? I can always tell. You hypocrite Angels are more sadistic than the Demons!”

Vee felt guilty for prodding her. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to hurt you. I guess I just want to understand you better. I was unconscious like your family for a very long time, myself. But I’m not sure escaping is the answer. Maybe we should be changing things instead. Maybe we need to remember the life we left behind, and hurt ourselves with the memories so we won’t accept how things are.”

“If we didn’t remember how things were we would never have built this place, would we? Or made a family for ourselves. We did change things – but we four couldn’t change the whole of the afterlife, could we? So we changed this much of it.” She gestured around her with the pistol.

“Yes, I know. And I admire you for it. Really. I envy you for  having a family to love.”

“You don’t have any family? I thought Angels were allowed to reunite with their families.”

“I have a father. I don’t have any clear memories of him from before I was imprisoned by Demons during the Conflict. I’ve learned he was an evangelist in life, and nowadays he’s leader of a community of Angels here in the Construct. They’re pretty hardcore, like the Conflict never ended. He feels I’ve rejected him and betrayed the cause. So he’d like to hunt me down and capture me to – I don’t know -- brainwash me back into who I was. Or just torture me for not being like him anymore.” Vee gave a bitter smirk. “So no, as far as I’m concerned I don’t have any family.”

The elderly woman nodded. Now it was her turn to apologise. Consciously or not, she had lowered the handgun. She sighed, looked down at the sentient gun. Jay’s lone eye with its red iris gazed up at her with curiosity. The old woman lifted her head again and said, “I’m Judy. You can stay here and rest awhile, if you want. I don’t have any food – my son Andrew used to sneak out for it, but with him asleep now…”

“That’s okay. Thanks anyway, Judy.”

“Well, maybe…maybe you wanna go back to sleep for a while? It’s all right. You just really surprised me, is all.”

“I understand.” Vee glanced behind her at the bed. “I guess I would like that, if you’re sure it’s okay.”

“You said your name is – Vee?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay, Vee.”

Vee followed sounds from the kitchen, a little groggy from her nap. She didn’t want Jay to feel excluded but she didn’t carry the bone gun with her, to better put Judy at ease. The old woman looked up at Vee and smiled pleasantly. Vee was relieved to find she hadn’t lapsed back into suspicion. Judy had already arranged two dishes made from that glazed clay, some crude utensils snipped from sheet metal, and was in the process of setting down a platter upon which rested two misshapen, tendrilled white roots with something of the appearance of ginseng. One of the former species of infernal plant life that had been successfully cultivated inside the Construct. Vee cocked an eyebrow.

“I know I told you I was all out of food,” Judy explained. “Sorry about that. I had a few of these stashed away. I was saving them for my grandson if he ever woke up. He likes them. They’re not as bad as they look.”

“That’s very kind,” Vee said, taking a seat. Her stomach rumbled at the very concept of food, no matter how unappealing it might look.

“It’s best eaten raw, not cooked,” Judy said, taking her own seat. “I don’t know why, but it sort of breaks down into a terrible stringy mush.”

“Raw is fine.”

Judy plunked a root onto Vee’s plate. Cutting into her own, eyes downcast, she said, “My grandson liked to help me prepare food. I remember my daughter used to love to help me cook when she was small.”

Daughter…small. Vee knew the woman was talking about her mortal life now. Did she always drift into these memories, or had Vee’s words stirred them up from the silt of her mind?

Judy looked up to meet Vee’s gaze and said, “Do you know why I was sent to Hades instead of Paradise? I’m Jewish. I never killed anyone, never robbed anyone. But I’m not a Christian.”

“It wasn’t fair, the whole system…I know.”

“And so where is my daughter now? My grandchildren? Where did my husband go when he died before me? Are their souls out there, outside the Construct, fossilized in that rock but aware for eternity? Or somewhere here in the Construct and we just haven’t found each other?”

“I understand,” Vee said inadequately. Again she felt guilty for being an Angel.

“Maybe it’s better if they are in the rock,” Judy reflected. “Just so long as they’ve gone to sleep, like my family here has done.”

Vee chewed a piece of the crunchy root. “Mm,” she grunted, smiling around her mouthful. “You’re right, it isn’t bad. Could use a little salt, but...”

She succeeded in pulling Judy back to the here and now. The elderly woman smiled in return.

A sound came from beyond the kitchen, small and unidentifiable. The look Vee and Judy exchanged altered in character, and they had already begun turning toward the doorway to the living room when a diminutive figure appeared there. The figure was as tall as Judy’s foster grandson would have been, had he awakened and come to join them at the table to partake of the roots he enjoyed. But it was not the little Asian boy.

The Demon was unclothed, with a withered little body like a mummified monkey come to life. The black claws curling from its fingers resembled an eagle’s talons. The head, disproportionately large for its gnome-like body, was a hairless skull barely covered in skin, but with a tapir-like snout hanging down in front of its bared grin of jet black teeth. Deep in hollow sockets, its tiny eyes glowed entirely white, like those of the much larger Demons patrolling the factory floor below the apartment.

The snout snuffled noisily. It had used its sense of smell to track her, no doubt. The lipless grin seemed to stretch wider, if that were possible. And then – with movements that looked like speeded-up film -- the creature was launching itself at Vee.

But Vee had risen, too, and swung her arm at the oncoming Demon. In her fist, the knife she had been using to cut into her root. She cried out as the Demon’s wildly flailing claws sliced deeply into her left forearm through the material of her jumpsuit, and dug channels along her jaw as they sought her neck. Vee sought the neck as well, and found it. She plunged her knife all the way to the handle in the center of the Demon’s throat. It backed away with the same uncanny speed, the knife still protruding from it, crashed its back against the mock fridge. A burst of black blood snorted out from its snout.

“Judy,” Vee cried, “go get me my gun!”

Judy scurried from the room, babbling and sobbing to herself, while the Demon gurgled and collected itself to spring at Vee again. “You stupid fuck,” she snarled, picking up the chair she’d been sitting in and cocking it back over her shoulder, “you know you can’t kill me. You know I can kill you. So why do you do it?”

It was true. While an Angel or a Damned person, both formerly human, could not be killed, a Demon had no immortal soul. Though natives of the afterlife, Demons were essential mortal.

The pigmy Demon lowered its bony head as if it might charge her and drive it into her guts like a battering ram. It slashed at the air furiously, its arms a blur, but foul inky blood was running over its lower teeth and down its jaw.

“Nature of the beast, huh?” Vee barked at it. “Well come on! Come on and see the nature of this beast!”

Maybe the Demon felt it was dying and had nothing left to lose. It sprang. Vee swung the chair. And a stream of automatic fire rattled from the doorway to the living room. Vee cried out and let go of the chair as several bullets crashed into it mid-swing. But the bullets struck the Demon, too, in the side of its oversized skull. Its head shattered like an earthen pot and something looking like a fist-sized cauliflower soaked in oil thudded off the refrigerator.

Vee turned to see Judy standing in the doorway, holding Jay in both hands. “You almost blew my hands off, but thanks.”

“You’re cut!” Judy whined, badly shaken.

Vee took Jay from her. “Angels heal faster than Damned, don’t worry. You better go get your pistol.”

“Why?”

“That little bastard followed me up here from Level 117. He was small enough to take the same path as me.” Vee glanced past Judy warily toward the living room. “And he wasn’t alone. There were a half dozen of those things on my trail.”

“Oh…my,” Judy said.

“Fuck me,” Vee hissed, wagging her head. “I’m so sorry I led them here.”

Vee was standing on the toilet lid, peeking out through the hole where the Demon had removed the window pane just as she had, when Judy joined her with retrieved pistol in hand. Vee said, “Even hearing gunfire, none of your family has woken up?”

“You think they’ve never heard gunfire before? But,” Judy admitted, “not from inside our apartment. I’ve never had to really defend it before – you’re the first one who’s found us.”

“That’s me, always stirring things up. Look, I’ve got this window covered. You go watch the one in the kitchen. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it was just the one –”

Something breaking in another room…a sudden commotion. “The kitchen!” Judy blurted.

“Okay, you stay here!” Vee said, hopping down from her perch and tearing from the room.

She plunged down the hallway, turned into the living room, saw a new figure added to the still life there: a Demon standing beside the sofa, head cocked to one side curiously as it took in the unruffled scene, as if absorbing an unexpected display of taxidermy. It started to whirl around when it heard Vee and she stitched it with bullets made from bone – but even as she did so, another of the Demons flashed into the threshold of the kitchen, spotted her, and came hurtling at her maniacally. Flung itself into the air, talons spread. As the first Demon crumpled, Vee swung Jay toward the second. She strafed the Demon in midair and sidestepped it as the body struck the floor and rolled past her. It thrashed a few moments, then abruptly went still as if an “off” switch had been thrown.

Vee saw that the mother had slumped onto her side on the sofa. The drawing pad was still on her lap, but it now bore a composition in her own blood. Vee cursed inside; a stray bullet had spiked the woman in the right temple. Blood was soaking into the sofa’s cushions.

Gunshots from the bathroom. Judy was screaming in panic -- or pain. “Shit,” Vee said, and as she started that way she saw Judy blunder into the hallway, still on her feet somehow and bouncing from wall to wall, one of the miniature Demons riding on her piggyback.

Vee ran to meet them, raised Jay over her shoulder and when she came within range lashed out – the butt of the bone gun striking the Demon’s skull. It dropped onto its back and Judy dropped onto her front, tattered and bleeding as if a whole flock of eagles had been at her. As the dazed Demon lifted its head, Vee blew its whole skull into shards.

Judy could barely raise her head from the floor, her hair matted with blood. Vee crouched by her and took hold of her under the arms, but Judy made an anguished sound of protest and Vee let go of her again. Still squatting beside her, she cooed to the old woman, “Hang in there…it will pass. It will pass…”

More sounds of entry from the bathroom, and Vee rose from her crouch already firing. The bathroom’s doorframe splintered but the Demon that appeared there was so inhumanly fast that it shot straight at her unharmed, as if it had lunged through a gap in the stream of bullets. It got one of its talons into her left eye socket, puncturing the orb and hooking into the bone. Vee couldn’t help but scream and fall to her back with the Demon atop her. Couldn’t help but let go of Jay when another pair of hands jerked him out of her grasp. It was a second Demon that had snatched Jay from her and flung the bone gun aside, and now this creature joined the first in bending over her, both slashing madly with their clawed hands. It felt to Vee as if twice their number at least were working at her body in a frenzy, and she was too overwhelmed to fend them off. Her blood splattered both of the walls that composed the hallway.

Then, the chatter of automatic fire. With a kind of oomph sound expelled from its drooping proboscis, one of the Demons was blasted off her body. The second Demon lifted toward the source of the gunfire, obliging the shooter nicely. The next discharge uncapped the cursed thing’s skull as if cracking the top off a soft boiled egg. The creature fell away from Vee and she lay there on her back with her rubbery jumpsuit shredded, one sleeve torn off and a hip laid bare. The hip itself was sliced to the bone. Her own blood ran down the back of her throat, her one good eye staring at the ceiling through a wet mask. Slowly, as if drugged, Vee turned her head on the floor toward the source of the gunfire, curious as the Demon had been.

The family’s father – Andrew, she remembered Judy had called him – stood there holding his own assault rifle. Unlike Jay, it was fully made of metal, without sentience or any other ability than the power to kill Demons.

Andrew stepped around Vee to kneel beside Judy and help her into a sitting position. Though she was clearly still in great pain, the eternally elderly woman was mending rapidly. Judy sobbed and clutched at Andrew. He held her to him, and close to her ear said, “Shh. Shh.”

Vee didn’t dare try to sit up just yet, for fear of blacking out. All she could do at the moment was lie there and wait for the worst of the pain to pass. Wait for her ruined eye to reform, her full vision to return.

Andrew looked over at her and asked, “Who are you?”

Judy lifted her head from his shoulder and explained, “She’s my friend.”

When she was strong enough to do so, Vee staggered into the kitchen and sat down in one of the chairs at the little table. Already seated there was the family’s mother, her surrogate son standing beside her. The mother’s hair was wet from having the blood washed out of it. The small entry hole in her temple was gone and the larger exit wound almost healed. Fortunately the stray projectile had passed entirely through her head so she wouldn’t have a bullet trapped in her skull.

“I didn’t want to sit in there and get any more blood on the upholstery,” Vee croaked, hooking her thumb back toward the livingroom.

“Me, too,” said the attractive black woman.

Andrew came into the kitchen leading Judy by the elbow, helped lower her into a third chair. He looked at Vee dubiously. “You sure no more of those things will follow you here?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be on my way in a couple minutes.”

“Oh Vee, maybe you should stay here with us,” Judy said, wincing with concern.

“Thank you, Judy. That’s kind of you. But I’ve got my mind set on finding that place called Freetown. Anyway, you’ve got enough of a nice little family here as it is.”

Judy turned to look up at Andrew, holding one of his hands. She reached over to take the mother’s hand, too. “Please,” Judy pleaded, looking from one to the other. “Please…don’t leave me alone again. I was alone for so long.”

The mother rose from her chair to wrap her arms around the old woman. “I’m sorry, Judy, I’m so sorry. We didn’t know. We didn’t know you were still awake.”

Andrew moved closer to join them in their embrace, and said, “Don’t worry, Mom. I guess we’ve slept long enough.”

Vee rose from her chair, still not entirely regenerated but ready to return to the bathroom and hoist herself back into the crawlspace. She didn’t want to be the guest that stayed too long after the party. She said, “Well…sorry about the mess.”

Andrew straightened up. “Ah, don’t worry – it’ll give me something to do. Maybe we’ll remodel.” He looked at Judy again and in a thoughtful tone said, “If you hadn’t come, we might never have known our mom was alone like that.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Judy said, suppressing a sob. Now her grandson hugged her along with the mother. “I didn’t want to be selfish.”

Vee stepped toward the doorway, but leaned in its threshold and said, “Maybe you guys will consider coming to Freetown yourself sometime. It might be worth the effort, if it’s as civilized as it seems, anyway.”

“I don’t know…maybe,” Andrew said, but he didn’t sound convinced. Vee couldn’t blame him. Maybe if the apartment had been a little bigger – and maybe if she hadn’t been of such a restless spirit – she might have wanted to stay here insulated from the horrors outside, herself.

“You can always come back and visit anytime,” Judy said hopefully. She smiled, and added, “Visit your new Aunt Judy.”

“Thanks. Thanks, Aunt Judy.”

Knowing that she would likely never see them again, Vee took a mental snapshot of the family grouped around the table. If she had no memories of a family of her own, at least she would have this. Then she turned away, to fetch her bone gun and return to Hell.

THE RECRUIT
by

DANIE WARE

The first thing I said to her was, “Call the Doctor, for God’s sake.”

Tari’s like my sister – she’s not blood, but it’s never mattered.  When she learned to braid hair, it was mine that she tangled.  When she kissed her first boy, it was me that counselled caution; when he broke her heart, I caught her.  She calls me her ‘rock’, and then laughs at the cliché.

This time, though, the only rock was the stone-cold lump that had settled in my belly.

Dear God!  I had no idea what I was looking at.

Tari’s hands were clutching her robe closed.  She was muttering, her voice soft with horror, “What the hell would I say?  Kate?  What the hell would I say?”

I had no answer for her; I was groping through fear, denial and disbelief for a rationality that wasn’t there.  From the moment she’d called me, panicked, in the early hours and I’d jumped into the car still in my PJs… Jesus!  This was beyond bloody crazy.

Sanity had packed its bags and fled.

In front of me, in the princess-pink bed, Tari’s little daughter was sweetly oblivious, curled round her new favourite toy.  Beside her, slumped boneless on the carpet, was Tari’s husband Rob, staring at the gently cycling nightlight.

One of his hands was resting protectively on his sleeping daughter; he looked like he’d just slid off the edge of the bed.

But his face…

In the soft yellow of the child’s moth-decorated light, his skin was dry and stretched and wax-pale; his cheeks corpse-hollow.  His lips were thin and parched, cracked in places, and a trail of black fluid had dried on his chin.  Staring at the lamp, his eyes were lost and blank, as dark as old blood; within them, the circling moths moved like ghosts.  He looked empty, terrifying – as though the creatures had alighted on his skin and sucked him dry, body and soul.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  I was frozen to the spot, an arachnophobe watching a spider, absolutely fucking convinced that he was going to move, that he was some sort of zombie, some nightmare creature that would come up and lunge for me, any minute, any minute now…

Choking on a throat full of terror, I gripped the doorframe and forced myself to think.

Don’t be ridiculous.  Focus, Kate!

I couldn’t quite make myself enter the room, but I blinked, shuddering, clearing my sight and mind.

Rob’s chest was moving, he was breathing – just.  What the hell had happened to him?  He was a node of horror, pulling my gaze and transfixing me.  A nameless threat lurked in his empty eyes, his hollow skin.

Crouching, Tari shook his shoulder.  “Rob?  Love?  Rob?”

She drew her hand back, as if stung, cupped it under her arm.  Turned to look up at me.  “Lyn was talking in her sleep.  She’s started having nightmares.  Rob came to see what…”  Her voice tailed off, she stared back at her husband’s face, almost as though she were deliberately trying to sear her memory with his expression, make herself believe.  “I just heard the thump.”

“Did you call anyone else?”  I wanted to lean forward, to close those blank eyes, those eyes with the moths in them, but I couldn’t bring myself to move.  My skin was crawling with cold; I felt like he was watching me, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Any second now, he was going to snatch at Tari’s wrist; his eyes would fill with darkness and he’d come for us.  My words were reflex.  “An ambulance?  The hospital?”

“God, no.  Jesus, his eyes.  Kate – what the hell do I do?  What..?”

I had absolutely no damned idea; the pale moths circled the room, mocking me.  They glided over my skin, crawling, teasing.  My hairs were standing up and I was shivering as though I could feel their wings, soft as a taunting breath.

I turned on the main light.

Lyn muttered and turned over, eyelids fluttering.  Her toy was still clutched in her hand.  It was some sort of grey doll, oddly shiny; I’d not seen it before.

When I tried to ease it gently from her grasp, she murmured and held it fast.

“Crap.”  The moths were still there, under the light.  They mocked me, orbiting my head like sparks of failure.  “Get her out of here, put her on the sofa or something.”  Wide-eyed, Tari carefully scooped up her daughter, duvet and all.  I drew a breath and swallowed.

Crouched down.

This is Rob.  He married your best mate.  You threw confetti at their wedding.  You snogged him at a party once and were coiled in shame for days.  You were there to greet him when he brought home his daughter.  There’s nothing to fear.

Sick to my stomach, I steeled myself to look into his sucked-empty face.

He didn’t move.

But… Jesus…

His skin was fissured like sunbaked soil.  His lips were shrivelled and dry; they fluttered faintly, flakes of skin shivering as though he was trying to form words.  Determined, I rocked forwards to take a closer look, to assure myself I wasn’t dreaming, that this really was the man I’d known for the last ten years.

The lights that were moving in his eyes were not the child’s moths.

There was something in there.

Then a shriek from downstairs nearly stopped my heart for good.

In the front room, Tari was standing stock-still in the centre of the rug as if rats had surrounded her.  On the couch, Lyn was muttering, one hand twitching as if she fought something, or tried to push something away.  The other held her doll to her chest.

Tari pointed, wordless and terrified – but I’d already stopped., my mind screaming somewhere between denial and incomprehension.

I can’t be seeing this – I can’t be seeing this!

The little girl’s nightdress had pulled down over one of her pale shoulders and in her skin there was a tattoo – an angular and chaotic design of raw, hard colour, bright and savage.  While my mind told me, stupidly, that there was no way Tari and Rob had inked their six-year-old, my eyes could see the colours in her skin.

And they were moving, nonsensical and crazed, a harsh pattern of light and warfare that I had no way to even grasp.

There was a fight being raged on – in? – the girl’s little body, a screaming tumble of advancing lines and fractal detonations, explosions of shards and flesh and armour that were rippling across her shoulders, up the sides of her little neck and into her face.  Her skin was a screen, alight with a war from another world.

If this was a nightmare, then it was alive.

It was the same thing I’d seen in Rob’s blank eyes.

Tari was hands over her mouth, muttering ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God’ as though she could do nothing else.  And I stood there, dumb, numb and baffled, while the colours grew swifter and more ferocious, while a silent, screaming rage of multi-coloured conflict glared from the little girl’s skin.

What the hell is this?

My head was pounding, my hands shaking, my mouth as dry as hopelessness.  I had no idea what was happening, never mind how to fix it.

This is insane!

Tari’s hands covered her face. She slid down the wall and started sobbing.  “Please,” she said, “Make it stop, make it go away.”

Then, as suddenly as it begun, it was gone.

Dark.

Calm.

The raging in the little girl’s skin had snapped out of existence as through someone had thrown a switch.  The room was dark, quiet but for Tari’s sobs.  As I stood there, fighting an urge to knot my hands in my hair and shriek confusion, Lyn gave a deep sigh, cuddled her toy to her, and was asleep in a bundle of sparkly-pink, her little face all childhood peace.

Tari was crying, hope beyond despair.  “Kate!  What did you do?  Is she okay--?”

“I’ve got no bloody idea.”

Little Lyn was a picture of innocence, sleeping in front of me.  In the space of a split-second, she’d gone from hell-spawn to cherub and I was trembling with tension.

Distrust.

Tari crawled to her sleeping daughter on her hands and knees, stroked her little face, held her hand.  “But you must’ve done something?”

Her question was a plea.  Tell me you did something!

Robbed of breath, of anything resembling understanding, I could find nothing to comfort either of us.  I stared at the little girl, sleeping contentedly, as though the whole damned thing had been in my head.

Had it been in my--?

No.  Lyn’s nightdress was tugged down over her shoulder and the tattoo – whatever it was – had gone, her skin was soft and clean.  But I’d seen it, I’d seen her nightmare made manifest.

The savage battle living in her skin.

Outside, a car’s headlights shone briefly against the closed curtains and then turned away.  The world was still out there; life went on.  Time stumbled into motion.

“Okay.”  I heard the creak of my own voice.  “Okay.”  My thoughts coughed and stuttered; I fought to focus.  I had to get ahead of this, work out what the hell was going on.  “Tari – are you okay to stay here by yourself for ten minutes while I shoot home?”  When she didn’t reply, I turned to look at her, stroking her daughter’s hair back from her little face.  “Tari.  Stay with me.”

She looked up at me, expression torn by hope and dread.  “Yes,” she said faintly.  “Yes.  Ten minutes.  You’ve got your key?  I’ll just stay right here.  Please…” her voice caught “…please, Katy-Kat, don’t be long.”

I knew I shouldn’t have left her, but I went anyway.

When I came back, the house was quiet.  In the front room, Lyn was awake, sitting watching a DVD as though nothing had happened.  She was nestled in a fleece blanket and still cuddling the odd grey doll.

There was no sign of her mother.

“Aunty Katy, can I have some squash?”

“It’s very late, darling, you can have milk.”  The answer was automatic.  I pushed open the kitchen door, then looked into the study.

No Tari.

What?

My skin crawled, crackled and froze.

“Lyn?”  My voice struggled for calm.  “Where’s your Mum?”

Her answer was absolute innocence.  “I don’t know.”

Oh, Jesus.  On the drive home, I’d just about managed to convince myself that this was all in my head.  Now, it was more real than ever; it was laughing, harsh and cold and utterly bloody insane.

I don’t know.

Where the hell was Tari?  There was no way she’d have left Lyn’s side.

My words seemed to come from someone else.  “Stay there, darling, I’ll get your milk in a second.”

Fighting nausea, my skin alive with the chill softness of moth-feet and my hand hitting every bloody light on the way, I took the stairs three at a time.  I checked the upstairs rooms; took a long, steadying breath before opening the door to Lyn’s bedroom…

Her slumped, sucked-dry father had also gone.  Gone.  Other than myself and Lyn, the house was empty…

At least, I bloody-well hoped so.

Oh, my fucking God.

In the room, the soft ghosts of the moths were still circling endlessly, wisps of forgotten nightmare.

Don’t tell me he got up?

For a timeless moment, I stood there terrified, staring at the space where Rob had been.  Where the hell was he?  Was he loose in the house?  Hiding?  Had Tari – maybe she’d taken him to the hospital?  No, the car was still in the drive.

The radiators juddered as the heating kicked in and the flash of terror nearly made me fold.

Where the hell had he gone?

Explanations circled like the moths, crazed and endless, zig-zag loops around the light.  I felt like I was grabbing for them, helpless.  I had no answer – I only knew that I couldn’t leave Lyn.

Lyn!

One wing-beat too close and a moth was in my hand; images of crushed fragments floating to the carpet.

Something about the lights in her skin?

Whatever had happened to Tari and Rob – Jesus, was there anything in here I could use as a weapon? – I had to stay with the girl.

If there was an answer, it was Lyn that knew it.

When I went back downstairs, the little girl was yawning, cuddling further under her fleece and blinking sleepily at the cartoon on the plasma.  Her skin was calm, shadowed.  Other than the blue light of the television, the room was in darkness.

Scared to my soul, feeling faintly ludicrous, I picked up the ornamental poker from beside the fire.  It was cast-iron, a dead weight in my hand, and cold.

I tried to visualise myself, smashing skull and face into blood and bone.  My friends--

A noise in the kitchen made me start, my heart hammering, my hand tightening on the poker’s sharp, metal grip.  For a moment, I stood petrified, the stillness at the centre of my own screaming terror.

What was out there?

Was that Rob, dead and parched and cracked and hungry?  Was that Tari, corpse or victim or scrabbling for help?

I couldn’t leave Lyn!

But--!

The indecision was timeless, breathless – I felt as though the world were spinning round me, oblivious of the tumult that thundered in my temples, roiled in my throat.

I was going to puke.

Then, in a snap decision that roared silent defiance, I lunged for the hatchway between living room and kitchen.  Poker at the ready, I shoved open the doors.

Oh yeah?  Come on then!

The kitchen was dark; the only light the LED on the microwave that told me it was 3:29.  I stared though the hatch for a moment, was about to turn away when the noise came again, a plastic clattering, back and forth.

For a split-second, my heart screamed in my chest.  Something moved, swift and close to the floor.

Shit!

Then Lyn’s little grey cat, creatively called Smoke, blinked at me and meowed for food.

Letting out my breath in a gasp, I swore softly – relief flooding me like warm water.  My knees folded.  I was staggered, almost laughing – damned beast!  The cat was a jittery creature at best and, where there was Smoke, there was unlikely to be fire – or the zombified bloody remains of its family.

My own ghastly pun made me laugh, teetering on the edge of hysteria.  Fighting for control, I pulled the hatch shut – didn’t want its open blackness behind me – and turned back to the sofa.

Get a grip, Kate!

“Lyn?”

The little girl was glued to her DVD.

I’d not seen this one before, and I blinked at it, slightly confused – it seemed like an odd choice for the girl who played Princesses.  On the screen, bright and raw with colour, there was a great battle, a harsh clamour of detonation, a rage of silver machines.

But Lyn wouldn’t take her eyes from it; she followed its every flicker and flinch, the doll clutched hard to her chest.

I said again, oddly nervous, “Lyn?”  She didn’t react.  “You should probably turn that off, now, love, it’s very late.”

She muttered sulky refusal and gripped the doll tighter.  As I came closer, the plasma-light was shining from its face.  It seemed to be looking at me.

Eyes cold as steel; hard as an edge.

Bright as a blade.

The world shrank to a single, sharp focus.

The bloody doll.

A flicker of elation thrilled my nerves; chased the fear right down to my tingling fingertips.  Whatever the hell all this was, it had something to do with the doll, the doll and the harsh lights of the cartoon…

The lights in Lyn’s skin.

The lights in Rob’s eyes.

I was shivering now, tension rising, a fusion of terror and realisation.  As the little girl yawned and snuggled lower under the duvet, the war-light played across her face.  Something in my head screamed at me, ‘Don’t let her go to sleep!’

It was strident, loud as shriek, but it still didn’t quite make sense – not yet.  Groping for an elusive, impossible truth, I stood in the centre of the room, iron poker forgotten, bright animation glaring from the television screen.

The doll.  The lights.  Don’t let her sleep.

What the hell had happened to Rob?

Lyn yawned again; wriggled further down.  Her thumb was in her mouth and her eyelids were closing.  Her other hand huddled the doll, close as a parasite.

The lights were playing in its face just like they’d played in the girl’s skin; a horrifying familiarity.

I swallowed, hard.  Tried to concentrate.

My head was full, full of panic and insight and disbelief and growing certainty.  I shook Lyn’s little form, shook her harder.  “Lyn?  Love?  You need to stay awake, now, there’s a good girl.  I’ll get you that squash you wanted.  Maybe there’re some biscuits, hm?  Good girl, wake up now.”

Don’t let her sleep!

Trembling, I lunged for the light-switch, flooding the room and making her blink.  Grumpily, she sat up, rubbing her eyes.  Her lower lip quivered and her little face started to screw up – but something in me shrank from touching her again.

I held her as a baby, I remember…

I knew I should go and get her food – sugar, anything to keep her up.  An answer was growing in me; a rise of energy and fight, but the pieces were not all there, not yet.  I knew only that she mustn’t sleep.  Whatever dream that damned doll had planted in her head, in her skin, it must not be let loose.

Or it would drag me down, tabula rasa.

The thought made me feel sick.

The idea of the little girl left here on her own, with the doll, made me feel even sicker.

What the hell would happen?  There’d be no-one here to care for her.  And what if she and her doll and her nightmare got out?

Jesus!

I knew it didn’t make sense, but I didn’t care, I didn’t care.  How long could I keep her awake?  Today, tomorrow?  How long before she started to hallucinate?

And what would that do?

What the hell had she done with her parents?

I desperately needed help but had no clue where to look…

Jesus H Christ and little fucking fish, this is madness!

My phone was in the bag of overnight things I’d brought from home – but who the hell did I call?

I gripped the poker like an anchor for my sanity.  I was starting to wish it had been a bloody zombie infestation after all – hell, I’d seen enough movies to know how to cope with that one.

“Stay with me, Lyn, c’mon now.”  Sparking my courage, I shook her again.  “Sit up now.  You can’t sleep, there’s a good girl.  Come with me into the kitchen and we’ll find some biscuits.”

If the girl went to sleep, the nightmare would be loosed.  I’d up like Rob – brain-wiped and staring, the flickers of lights in my eyes the only hint that I’d ever had life…

Shit!

The thought made me retch; there was a mouthful of sickness and I swallowed bile.  I have to get help.  I can’t leave her alone!  My throat burned with fear.

I rallied, shook her again, started to strip the blanket from her and make her sit up.  “Lyn!  Come on, now!”

Don’t sleep.  C’mon, little one, don’t sleep.  Don’t do this to me!

She started crying, fought me to stay under her covers.  When I tried to take the doll from her, she gripped it like a lifeline and her face creased round a full-on howl.

The doll…

The damn thing was warm.  Not flesh-warm, it was smooth, more like heated metal.  Its material reflected the light of the television screen; the battle had gathered in the needles of its sewn-on eyes.

Oh, this was just too fucking much.  Annoyed, freaked, I let go of the doll and grabbed the remote.  Turned the DVD off.

Right then!  Enough!

The film didn’t stop.

Oh, no, no, no, no…

There on the flatscreen, the conflict continued, explosion and fury, flooding the room with harsh angles of rage.  Sounds of gunfire and combat clashed in my ears, surely louder than they had been, surreal and all-encompassing.  On the screen, there were huge, lumbering animations, grey and shining like the doll in the little girl’s hands.  Their light raced round the room like the headlights of the car that had passed earlier, like the maddened moths upstairs.

And somewhere, I could hear Tari screaming.

The sane part of my mind bawled that this was impossible, ridiculous; I jabbed the button repeatedly as if determination alone could shut the damn thing down – then dropped the remote altogether and slammed the poker into the television’s ‘off’ button.

Nothing happened.

“Stop, damn you, stop!  For God’s sake!”

I wasn’t even aware I’d spoken aloud.  The room was alive with it now, the figures on the screen were reflecting around the walls, dancing massive, like shadows in firelight.  I could hear Tari calling me, “Kate!  Kate!”  The figures flickered, fought, raged and detonated – the sounds swum for a moment and then snapped sharply into focus.

“Katy-Kat, I’m here!”

The battle was all round me.

I could hear screaming, voice and engine and tortured metal.  I could hear orders barked in a harsh, female tone.  The machines were close now, grinding and massive, ever more real – almighty versions of the grey doll that Lyn still clutched to her skin.

Lyn!

I remembered where I was, shook the images from my head, fought to breathe, to think, to reach the surface.

On the sofa – yes, there was room, a sofa, a fireplace – the little girl was asleep, her body slumped and her skin blazing with her dreaming, with the fight that now raged around me, around the room.  “Lyn!”  I was aware that I was screaming at her, my burning throat was full of the noise. Her nightmare was manifest; she shone with brilliant, angular animation.  As I touched her, she made my hand tingle with electrostatic shock.

I didn’t care.  I shook her harder, was screaming in her face.  Fell to my knees beside the sofa, though the room swam round me.  “Lyyynnnn!”

The doll’s stitched eyes shone cold.

Lyn didn’t move, was barely breathing.  Her skin was alive, a kaleidoscope of motion, some huge tattoo of light that writhed across her body and face, reflected out into the room.  She was node and projector, nexus and focus – the screaming colours that pulsed and exploded in her skin were the warfare that now thundered around my ears.

As I shook her, her eyes snapped open – windows onto madness.

I heard Tari again, calling me desperately, pleading.

I tried to call back through the noise, to hold onto the sofa. “Tari!”  Around me, rising smoke, the stamping ankles of the huge machines, the stumbling human figures that were now surrounding me, coughing and crying, groping through the carnage.  Did I know them – faces familiar, there for a second, then lost in the smoke?

There!

There was Rob, there was Tari, stumbling and hopeless.  They were caught, held in line by some harsh-voiced, decorated officer.  I tried to reach them, but the smoke swirled, blinding and choking me, and they were gone.

I shrieked, “Tareeeeeee!”

As if in response to her mother’s name, Lyn’s head swivelled like an automata, her eyes blazed with live horror.  The doll in her arms was smiling at me; it had teeth like the cat’s.

Got you.  Just like the others.  You’ll fight for us now.

I tried to reach for it, dash it away, but the little girl started to stand up, her eyes alight with fire and machine.  She held the doll close and her skin blazed higher, her hair stood out like a nimbus.  The room spun harder.

Sleepwalking.  Jesus.

Somehow, I hung on to the sofa like a woman drowning in madness.  For Tari, for Rob, for little Lyn.  The television was still that way, over there; the poker was still in my other hand.

Cold iron.  Anchor.

This is beyond insane!  I will not believe this!

Was I there, on the carpet?  Slumped like Rob had been?  Was the girl’s living nightmare even now sucking my mind from my body?  My body into the dream?

If I touched her, would I too, vanish into this world of warfare and never be seen again?

With a banshee-like shriek, the last yowl of the damned, I threw the poker at the television, watched the image shatter into a thousand tumbling fragments.

Shards of light, spinning out into the darkness.

The machine-world around me shattered, the sounds exploded into a flare of white noise.

But the madness barely flickered.  My sight cleared and the screen was undamaged; the climatic stamp of the machines unabated.

“No!”

The war still roared, the smoke still seethed, the room still spun, the little girl held her doll.  They stood in the centre of a battlefield that defied my human mind in its power and scale.

Fading fast now, lost in a dream, I saw the poker rebound and tumble slowly, end over end, though the smoky air.

It seemed to fall forever.

My anchor.  My sanity.

My world had shattered like thin glass.  My friends had been swallowed alive by this nightmare horror, and it had taken me too.

The sofa was gone from my grasp, spinning away; the gentle sanity of Tari’s house swirled into the smoke and was gone.

The machines screamed round me.

Stumbling, blinking, I picked up a sidearm.

But when I raised it to my shoulder and turned back to Lyn – a last, desperate measure – even she had gone.

And there was only the war.

The little girl called Lyn woke on the sofa.

The house was quiet, the morning sun shone behind the living room curtains and Smoke was standing on his hind paws, buffeting her hand.  He meowed again.

Lyn fussed his ears.  He purred, but his meow was most determined.  It was breakfast time.

“Mummy?”

Sitting up, Lyn saw that the television was smashed into pieces and she shrank back, pulling the duvet round her tightly.

“Mummy?”  Louder this time.

The house was silent.

“Daddy?  Aunty Katy?”

Scared now, Lyn huddled, holding her new doll tightly to her.  Daddy had found it, it had come in a packet with a new DVD – he’d said something about a man who was selling them from the back of his car.  Helen had one, next door; Dawn, a little further up the road.  Zizi and Sean had them too, they’d been playing Robot Machines in the playground.

Lyn looked at the doll.

Its eyes were shining at her.  It was warm, comforting.  With it held to her, she was able to face the smashed television and the quiet and get up.  Smoke padded after her, still meowing.

Somewhere in her head, Lyn could hear Aunty Katy, calling frantically between sobs.  Please, she was saying, please.  I know you can still hear me…

Shrugging, little Lyn, still in her nightie and with the doll in her arms, padded outside to knock on her closest neighbour’s door.

She waved absently at Helen, wrapped in her Dora dressing-gown and standing on the steps of old Mrs. May’s house.  Helen had her doll with her, too.

When Jean King answered the door, Lyn said, “My Mummy and Daddy have gone and I’m very tired.  Please, can I sleep here?”

And the doll was pleased with the question.

TALES FROM THE ZOMBIBLE
by

IAN WATSON

Meanwhile, in another universe just next door in the Manifold Many-Worlds Multiverse where all is, not merely possible, but mandatory…

Gather round, young Grubs, and get religion, and a bit of biology!  You’re growing up as fast as blotchy puffballs.  High time you learned how you came to be.

So hear this. A lady Zombie sucks a gentleman Zombie’s corrupting testicle into her like she’s slurping an oyster.  Down goes that oyster testicle into her bellywomb unchewed.  The eggworms that are already inside her burrow into that rotting testicle, then nature’s alchemy gets to work, and behold: the woman’s worms and the worms in the testicle, which are called sperms, blend into tiny little Grubs.  Worms and sperms, that’s the trick.  The hungriest Grub gobbles all its brother and sister grubs, putting on weight.  Then Master Greedy slides down the venus tube coated in slime, hangs on at the very lip, and climbs up like a slug to her titty to suck on her ooze.  The lady lets you suck; she doesn’t suck you.  That’s motherhood amongst us Zombies. Your lady Zombie mother won’t have a craving for another testicle matured like year-old blue cheese, not for a while. More worms need to breed first of all in her bellywomb.

Remember that, any of you?  No?  New Grubs rarely do.  After you’ve sucked for a month at her titty and swollen more, that’s when our Zombie awareness usually dawns.  We’re hungry for grub.  Next of all, you may recall you Grubs get fed dead bodies of beasts, birds, fish, whatever till you learn your words from Mummy’s mumblings.  Remember that part?  Many ways we’re a lot brighter than disgusting Chinese-style babies in the unzombie parts of the world.  An evolutionary improvement, you might say.  Those ‘liveborn’ things in the Chinese Empire just carry on till they finally die after 60 or 70 years or so.  Whereas us, we’re dying all the time from the very start.  We regenerate rottingly, we rot regeneratingly.  Rot and regeneration all the time.  Yes Grubs, we Rot `n` Roll!  Rot `n` Roll, ever since the time of Jeshua, the first of us all.  Bits fall off all the time, but new stuff buds.  And rots; and the rot feeds more buds.

Once upon a time, little Grubs, things were a whole lot otherwise.  Back in the time before Jeshua, the years BJ.  Jeshua who, like I say, began us two thousand years ago.  All of which is in the Zombible.  Many zombscribes’ fingers fell off in the service of writing our Zombible, before we got printing presses established, so pay attention.

Well now, Jeshua was a leper.  That means bits of Him were dying while He was alive.  Flesh, fingers, toes.  The live people didn’t much like lepers, so they cast lepers out of their towns.  They made laws that lepers must keep away.  Lepers must ring a bell, clang clong, to announce where they were.

You do know what live means?  That’s right, just like sheep and horses.  Hot blood, beating hearts, breathing.  Just like our foes the fiendish Chinese and Nipponese – well mumbled, Grub!

There’s no need to mention the Other World Across The Vast Ocean whose Aztechs sent three sailing ships to our shores in 1490ish Anno Zombi, one ship escaping, and that’s the last us Zombies heard…

Well then, Roman conquerors invaded Judahland, where Jeshua’s people the Judes lived, and the Romans made a stronger law: any leper who came near any live person would be crucified, nailed to a wooden cross as a warning.  No Roman wanted to catch leprosy.  After that most lepers stayed well away from any Romans.

But Jeshua felt He had a special mission to stir things up.  He appeared in public and spake, saying, “Blessed are the Palsied, the Poxed, and the Putrid.”  Twelve other lepers followed Him faithfully.  Jeshua caused disturbances in towns.  Soon came the day when Roman soldiers put on all their armour to protect themselves from leprosy, and arrested Him, and took Him to a hill and nailed Him high on a wooden cross as threatened.  They used a lot of nails in case parts of His body broke off.  Thonk thonk thonk.

After He stopped moving or breathing – yes indeed, live bodies have air going in and out of them all the time – well then the Romans ordered the Twelve to unnail Jeshua and carry Him away to put Him in a hole in the ground and cover Him deep with soil so He could rot completely.

Maybe a whole lot of Kozmic Rays hit Jeshua while he was exposed on that cross, or maybe the shock of being crucified caused his leprosy to mutate suddenly into zombieism.  Or the pain caused a radical retreat from horrible sensations, which a leper could experience in parts of himself.  Leprosy and zombieism are a bit similar, although pieces don’t rot and fall off lepers due to the leprosy itself.  Yet a leper certainly loses an amount of bodily sensations, which we fortunately hardly even have `cept for a greed for raw flesh and guts – same way as our noses don’t smell nothing, although we still have noses or bits of noses because that’s the shape our regenerating remembers, right?

Or maybe there was something special in the soil where Jeshua was buried, that worked the transformation.  Viruses or bacterias.

Or else His shock ‘retreat’, as I call it, may have been like a regression – yes, Grub, I said regression – to an earlier, more flexible cellular state – no, just listen to me, will you? – which living people and mice and rats and whatnot lose after a few days from coming into the world.  A resetting of morphogenesis, plus rotting to provide material to rework.

Warra I mean? You think I’m able to speak too many words, eh Grub?  Is that it?  Maybe that’s on account of I have had nearly 2K years of this rotting `n` rolling-onward.

Two thousand rotting regenerating years of it, me being the Wandering Zombie, whom Jeshua bit infectiously with His blessing, and to whom I responded, in Aramaic, Fuck Off!

In fact I was ruder than that because his bite really hurt me.  I could hurt a lot in those days – although soon I would hurt no more, or not so as you’d notice much.

Whereupon Jeshua said unto me, I myself shall dissolve, yet you shall remain, as shall a whole lot of other Zombies whom I do now create at first hand, as in your case, or whom I shall cause at second or third or twenty-fifth hand.

Jeshua said ‘at first hand’ because he’d used his nails to rip the skin of my cheek before biting the wound, and ‘at first mouth’ isn’t a phrase in common parlance.  You may find it advisable to use your nails before you use your teeth if you ever come across a living Chinaman, for instance.

And when Jeshua spake Zombies– in Aramaic – that was the very first use of the name for our kind; so therefore I am a custodian of the Word for all of you growing and rotting Grubs; and of many other words besides.

Why will you dissolve, fucker, if the rest of us don’t? I had asked unto Him, though he had bitten me, not fucked me, but I felt sorely that this was still fucking with me.

Because, He replied unto me, I am a filter of the strength of the renewing rot inside of Me.  Myself, I am too extreme.  Therefore I give to each of you a diluted dosage of Me.

This has nothing, I hasten to add, to do with homeopathy.

Therefore, He continued, for he was proficient in making speeches before He was crucified, forty-four days from now I shall dissolve myself in the Dead Sea, where those who wish to be of my kind may bathe if they have no wish to be bitten. For verily bitten they will be otherwise.

And indeed, as our Zombible relates, forty-four days later I would witness the shores of the Dead Sea crowded with Zombies and some pre-Zombies, as Jeshua waded into the water.  The great hunger of those hundreds of Zombies, which is our one powerful physical sensation which we must harness and control, is expressed metaphorically as The Miracle of the Flesh and Rotten Fishes, even though few fish, perhaps none, could tolerate the salinity of the Dead Sea.

Harness and control, I say! Our harnessed hunger is what sent us forth throughout the known world, resulting in a vast increase in our numbers, otherwise the earliest of our kind might simply have wandered aimlessly round in circles, simultaneously rotting and regenerating.  So we must all be very thankful for our constant hunger.

Our hunger caused us to convert the Roman Empire.  Accordingly in due course Zombie legions triumphed over and converted into zombiekind the savage Germanians and Caledonians and Hibernians and Scandians and Sarmatians and so on and so forth east and west and north.  And when Arabians living in vast deserts of mostly empty sand suddenly sent armies of fanatics forth against our lands, waving scimitars and screaming about a god and a prophet, hordes of Zombies engulfed those Arabian armies.  Maybe a million Zombies ceased in the sense that they were chopped too small to regenerate, but millions more remained to prevail and convert the surviving Arabians who shambled back to their Mecca for a big munch.

Jeshua was very perceptive to envisage our future and cause it to happen.  So in later years it was claimed that although His eyeballs hung upon His cheeks, yet that He could see clearly.  If so, this would indeed be a miracle, since eyes hanging loose on cheeks is physically impossible due to the short length of an optic cord even if the cord is softening due to rot.  Of no other subsequent Zombie Saint is it true that eyeballs literally hung down upon cheeks!  None of the great Zombie painters depicted Jeshua thus.  Instead, they mostly used a sickly yellowish green pigment for his eyes which remained in his head.  But anyway, I attest that mine own eyes were upon Him during the time when He shambled upon the earth.  Upon Him, in the sense of beholding Him.  And His eyes were indeed in His head.

Notwithstanding, after two centuries a Great Schism did arise between the Eyes-on-Cheeks Heresy and our Eyes-mouldering-greenly-in-their-Sockets orthodox truth.  This arose in North Africa where the sunlight is very bright, and where consequently some Zombies might prefer if their own eyes were perpetually downcast.  And in that epoch Zombie army staggered against Zombie army, pulling each other apart, until the Truce and Treaty of Tripoli and the agreement that African Zombies could paint eyes upon their own rotting cheeks if they really wished to do so. Paradoxically, from this sprang the artful skills that would eventually enable the works of Zombiangelo and Zombidavinci to be made, Zombi being a prefix of praise awarded only to the most notable of us.  Such as Saints and MartyrSaints too, for instance. MartyrSaints were Zombies who were spreading zombification the most hungrily amongst live persons and whom live persons burned in a bonfire or a furnace or an oven.  Which caused a certain smell to arise.  This Odour of Sanctity is a genuine mystery to ourselves, since us Zombies lack any sense of smell. However, the live persons reported this smell vociferously every time they burned a Zombsaint, even though they wore pegs upon their noses or hung highly perfumed roses around their own necks.

Yes indeed, young Grubs, a zombody can be destroyed forever by being burned or minced or staked out in a sandstorm – as well as, given a sufficient number of centuries, due to entropic attrition or regenerative errors.  So it is blessèd that sufficient replacement Grubs arrive, down the venus tube then slug-crawling up to the tit.

Did those heretic Zombies come up with their crazy idea of eyeballs-on-cheeks because the hot African sun had cooked their brains?  Why, you’re a bright young Grub!

But no, that isn’t exactly the answer.  It’s quite true that we rot more slowly in a cold climate, and it’s equally true that we never freeze solid so long as we’re above minus-fifty degrees.  That’s because we have a natural antifreeze inside of us like some fishes do, which is just one of our endowments that Jeshua’s bite passed on.  But Jeshua Himself lived in a climate that could be as hot as Africa during the summer, which is when he was crucified by the Romans, in the middle of August, a month named after an earlier Roman Emperor. The natural genius of Jeshua’s zombification was that the fluid in his body became very naturally chilly just as if it was night-time.  So in fact African Zombies’ thinking-mush remains quite cool, as you’d know if you ever tasted any.  As I myself did during the anti-eyeballs-on-cheeks crusade; yes indeed I was there – being the Wandering Zombie I’ve been around quite a bit.  Chilliness is a characteristic of the Zombie antifreeze inside us – and that’s a stable chilliness.  It’s homeostatic, which has nothing do with homeopathic.

So how do we radiate excess heat away, such as at midday in a desert?  We do so by rotting parts of us away!  That’s like the way the live-Chinese do their ‘sweating’, which means salty water coming out of their skins, but we go in for this is a much bigger way, by losing bits of superhydrated flesh itself.  Grubs, it’s cool to rot!  There’s a quantumbiomechanical explanation for this, which Zombeinstein finally thunked.  Thunking is more powerful than normal Zombie thinking.  You can tell that from the word itself.  Think-think-think is like a little birdy picking up seeds, while thunk-thunk-thunk is more like an intellectual elephant.  Bright Grub, you might be a Thunker one day!  Up there with Zombiehawkins who rotted so much he needed a wheelchair to get around, pushed by faithful Zombie assistants who wrote down his thunks with palsied fingers.

Why, Grub you even want to know the quantumbiomechanical reason?  Well, it’s all to do with…

Hey, what’s up?

Why, the steam railway’s delivering us a Chinese take-away!  Our Zombie forces in the Far East have taken live-prisoners and they’ve sent some all this way as grub for us to convert!  Grubs, pay full attention: this doesn’t happen often!

You, Bright Grub, how do you think us Zombies get to the Far East nowadays?  Since shambling on foot would take a long time.  I’ll give you a clue, Bright Grub.  I’ve mentioned his name already.

No no, it’s nothing to do with Jeshua.  In His time the Romans didn’t build railways, just lots of roads.

Ooops, I’ve given you another clue there.

No, Zombiehawkins didn’t invent railways so that his wheelchair could travel faster.  Can you imagine a wheelchair on rails with steam puffing out of it?  It was Zombiedavinci who invented the steam railway, which led after hundreds of years of stumbling work to... the Trans-Siberian Railway through seemingly endless forests!  Which takes us close to the China Empire.

Which we’ve never been able to penetrate, on account of the Great Wall of China which is just too high for Zombies to climb over, even if the live-Chinese didn’t pour Celestial Fire down on Zombies who try to climb over each other to reach the top and liveflesh.

However, the Great Wall is like a piece of string: it has two ends.  True, it’s a very long piece of string.  But it has to start somewhere, and stop somewhere.  Those places are where a million Zombies meet the Chinese Army of the North, and a million more meet the Army of the South.

Following the principles of harness and control, our Zombie hordes don’t snack on and zombify every live-Chinese who falls into our putrid hands, off a horse for example.  Live-prisoners are sent back to our central territories by way of the Trans-Siberian Railway, so we can have ceremonies of Do-This-In-Remembrance-of-Me, the very words during Jeshua’s first supper of flesh after He arose following zombification.

Here comes the train now, choo-choo choo-choo.  Do you see the live-prisoners in their cages?

Most of you Grubs are still too juvenile to join in, but I deem that you, Bright Grub, shall come with me to the feeding-frenzy place.

Yet be not excessively frenzied!  Some of the prisoners should be torn and bitten and eaten only so much that their dead bodies shall ressurect, undead, thanks to the sacred infectious saliva of Jeshua which we all share.

The one thing we share in common with our Chinese foes is… can you tell me what that might be, Bright Grub?

Toes?  No, not toes.

Eyeballs?  No no.  I suppose I asked too difficult a question.  The answer is ancestor-worship!  Only the live-Chinese and Nipponese foolishly worship imaginary spirits of their ancestors who died without regenerating, whereas us Zombies realistically adore our common ancestor in zombieism, Jeshua who caused us all.

Choo-choo.  Already a crowd is gathering.  It’s grub time, Grub!  Remember how to comport yourself.  Stagger and sway with arms outstretched.  And get even more brains into you.

In the Manifold Many-Worlds Multiverse, all is not merely possible, but mandatory. Whatever you can imagine, must be.  Somewhere and somewhen.  Thus, in another universe just next door – !

For Cristina

THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS
by

IAN WHATES

Life was full of hazards, particularly for Declan Worthington and particularly of a morning.  He stared into the shaving mirror, largely indifferent about what stared back: his face was too long, the nose too broad to be considered ‘handsome’, but he wasn’t exactly ugly either.  He traced twenty-four hours’ worth of stubble with his fingertips, continuing the movement once he’d run out of chin and turning it into a reach for the razor.  He always took great care in getting ready for work.  Not because he was especially vain, though he liked to look as well turned out as the next man; no, in Declan’s case a degree of precision was essential.  He worked as a broker for a traditional firm.  Suit and tie were mandatory, and that made dressing a potential minefield.

The first real danger lurked in effecting the tie’s knot.  Once that had been achieved he could breathe a little more easily – slipping on the jacket in one fluid movement was an act he now had down to a fine art.  In fairness, he’d pretty much mastered the up and over, push through and tug intricacies of the knot as well, which opened the door to that most implacable of foes, complacency.  The consequences should he relax too much or let his mind wander at the wrong moment didn’t bear thinking about.

Which was exactly what had happened on two consecutive mornings in recent weeks, but not today.  He was on the ball this time around, dancing through his ablutions, breakfast, and the minutiae of getting dressed, with the grace of a prima ballerina.  He breezed out of the front door, confident that today was going to be a good one.

For some years now Declan had habitually walked to work, come rain or shine.  It wasn’t far and parking anywhere near the office was a nightmare, so he spurned the car, and buses had never really been his thing – all that jostling, cheek by jowl with sweaty strangers, sudden stops and starts, so many potential hazards.  Walking meant that he and not the bus driver was in control, and he could always claim altruism at the same time: saving the planet by increments; no carbon emissions from his journey thank you very much.  As a matter of fact, he’d started quite a trend, and a growing number of his colleagues now resorted to shanks’ pony – those who lived near enough – even if most were only fair weather walkers.

“Morning, Dec.”

“Hi, Jenny.”  She’d taken to waiting for him, which he found mildly irritating much of the time, though not enough to actually say or do anything about it.  Yet.

The thing was, Jenny had made it pretty obvious that she fancied him.  Flattering though this was, he didn’t feel the same about her.  Not that there was anything wrong with Jenny, far from it.  She was a few years younger than him, slender, with a pleasant, open face – nice eyes – and great legs.  He’d only noticed her legs since they’d been walking to work together.  And he did like her.  She was intelligent, confident, generous to a fault… In fact, when he analysed it, there were plenty of reasons why he ought to fancy Jenny, but the plain truth was that he didn’t.  Mind you, his ‘Problem’ might have had something to do with that.  He hadn’t allowed himself to get close to anyone in a long while.

“Hang on a sec, you two!”

A large figure came puffing up to join them.  Bromby, from accounts, who fancied Jenny almost as much as Declan didn’t.

“I love how you walk,” Bromby had once told him.  “The way you seem to flow across the ground as if it’s no effort at all.”  Declan had smiled in what he hoped was enigmatic fashion, studiously avoiding mention of the fact that he walked that way because he had to.

The three of them set off, Bromby talking incessantly, switching topic in scatter-shot manner as if desperate to hit upon one that Jenny might take an interest in.

“Did you see that film on Saturday night, BBC 1?  Hilarious.  Wasn’t meant to be of course, but it was so bad,” segued into, “my sister called right in the middle of it.  I was glad of the interruption, to be honest.  She wants to come and stay next weekend.  Can you imagine?  Are you going to Eddie’s leaving do on Friday evening?  I thought I might, sister permitting, of course.”

One subject shunted into the next, leaving little room for anyone to comment even if they’d wanted to.  Jenny glanced at Declan and rolled her eyes.  By unspoken consent the pair of them stepped up the pace a fraction, which had the desired effect.  The stream-of-consciousness prattling eventually ran down as Bromby was forced to pant for breath and conserve his energy for walking.

Five minutes from Declan’s front door, disaster struck.  The vector of misfortune was a child, a girl walking with her mother, presumably on the way to school.  They caught the pair up rapidly and dropped into single file to go past.  Declan, always wary of the unpredictable nature of children, slowed to let Jenny go first, Bromby at his back.  The girl suddenly darted away from her mum, laughing, and veered directly across Jenny’s path.  Jenny was forced to come to an abrupt stop, torso bending forward to avoid slamming into the errant child, bottom poking backwards towards Declan.  He instinctively did the same.  A stutter, a jerk…

…And he was somewhere else; somewhen else.

The air was hot, humid.  He was scantily clad, his skin several shades darker than usual, and he was holding a crude spear.  This had happened so many times before that he wasn’t fazed by the transformation, taking it all in his stride.   Jungle surrounded him, and immediately in front was… Jenny.  Shorter, darker, but unmistakably her.  Crap! It was never good when someone got pulled through with him.

“Jenny,” he began – the words emerging in whatever language was in vogue at this place and time.

“Get away from me!” she yelled, drawing back in horror.

Oh great.  He knew from experience that she’d have no memory of having ever been anyone else, but it seemed that in this reality the two of them didn’t get on.  He stepped towards her, careful to keep his movements smooth and even, determined not to abandon her here.  Too many friends had been lost that way.

She wasn’t having any of it, though, and turned to run.  He couldn’t risk losing her and made a lunge, hand closing on her arm, which was when the other man appeared out of nowhere.  A mean-looking bastard, much bigger than Declan, and hefting a much bigger spear, which currently raced towards Declan’s midriff propelled by bulging muscles and a snarl.  Declan flinched in panic, waiting for the searing bite of pain as the spear tip punctured his side…

…And he was somewhere else.

Only as he made the jump did Declan register that the attacker’s face had been Bromby’s.

Hot and humid had become hot and dry.  His skin was now truly black and the overriding sensation was one of hunger.  Not the pangs he might suffer on skipping lunch – easily sated by a few biscuits or a handy snack – but a deep-rooted emptiness that gnawed at the core of his being and had been there for as long as he could remember.  The spear in his hand had been replaced by a staff, equally crude.  The thinness of the arm supporting it – his arm – shocked him.  To his relief, Jenny had come through with him, but there was no sign of Bromby and no way of going back for him; which meant that in their own reality Bromby would cease to exist, to have ever existed.  He’d simply be written out of history, and Declan would be the only one to know that he’d ever been there.

Jenny had changed far more this time around.  She was tall and gaunt to the point of emaciation, her skin as dark as his, and her face, while still recognisably Jenny, had taken on characteristics that made him think Masai, though he’d never claim to be an expert on such things.

The bleating of a goat brought him out of his reveries.  A score or more of the scraggy animals were feeding on the tough grassy tussocks around them.  Did the Masai herd goats?  They did here, evidently.

The problem was that he’d made this last jump blind, without any idea if he was taking them closer to or further away from home.  The next would be more calculated, though getting back was going be more complex than it might sound.  They were in Africa, he was pretty certain of that, but which Africa?

He decided on a small jump forward, nothing too drastic, until he got his bearings.  This time, when he reached to grasp Jenny’s arm, she didn’t flinch or try to pull away but merely looked surprised.

…And they were someplace where rain lashed their faces.  The drop in temperature sent a shiver tingling down his body despite the layers of clothing that protected him from the elements.  It was night, and they were staring up at an impossibly large airship sailing majestically above them.  The ship seemed recklessly low, barely clearing the high rooftops, and was illuminated by artfully arranged lights that made it clearly visible despite the weather.  The airship was apparently following the course of the broad city avenue on which they stood.

New York, he realised, they were in New York.  He felt Jenny squeeze his hand and glanced across at her.  She was grinning with obvious delight.  Her hair was pulled back severely from her face and hidden beneath a black beret which looked to be fashioned from the sort of shiny plastic they made raincoats out of in the 60s.  Then a stray beam of light reflected from something on her lapels, straight into his eyes, and he noticed the matching silver swastikas that sat there.  He knew immediately that he wore them too.

A jerk of his and Jenny’s hands and…

…They were a couple on the way to church in a battered old Ford that felt every bump and stone in the road and made him yearn for the wonders of modern suspension.  Jenny sat rod-straight beside him, wearing a floral dress and matching hat, hands clasped on her lap.  She looked so prim and proper he wanted to laugh, but instead jerked his head towards her…

…And they were children sitting next to each other at individual desks with inkwells in the top left corner.  The silence surrounding them was of the sort that makes you not want to breathe too hard.  All around him heads were down and pens were scribbling, even Jenny.  Declan realised with horror that they were sitting an exam… a Latin exam!  At the front of the room sat a sour-faced bespectacled teacher in full black gown.  He was staring directly at Declan and scowling, clearly wondering why only this child in the entire classroom was looking around instead of studiously working.

Declan very slowly lowered his head and started writing in measured, flowing script all the Latin he could remember: Amo, Amas, Amat… habeas corpus… quid pro quo… carpe diem... ad hoc…  The latter seemed particularly appropriate.

He thought he was probably close enough to Jenny but at the same time didn’t want to risk dragging the kid on his other side along as well, so when he lunged he did so directly at Jenny…

…And he was lying on his back.  Something constricted his throat.  He wanted to lift a hand to find out what but couldn’t; in fact, he couldn’t move anything.  He was tied down; his wrists, arms, midriff, legs, ankles and throat were all tightly secured.  Even his head was clamped in place.  Apart from the restraints, he was stark naked.  What the hell is going on here?

He tried to move a leg but was rewarded with nothing more than a slight squirm.  Christ!  How was he supposed to make a sudden movement now?  He felt panic stirring in the depths of his bowels.  He’d been in scrapes before, but had always been able to jump to somewhere else when the going got really tough.  Would the twitch of a finger be enough?  He already knew the answer to that one:  no.

“Ah, so you’re avake?” said the voice of a woman who had clearly grown up watching too many old Marlene Dietrich movies.

By rolling his eyes to the side, he was able to see… Jenny!  But a Jenny unlike any he’d ever encountered before.

She was dressed in black leather, complete with spike-studded collar, her hair braided into a ponytail, lips painted a bright red, and a half-smoked cigarette held elegantly between fingers, nails as scarlet as her lips.  Jenny smoked?  She did here, evidently.

He couldn’t decide whether she looked comical, scary, or hot, and concluded that she was probably a bit of all three.

“Jenny…”

“Silence!”

In a creditable display of athleticism, she lifted a leg and slammed a stiletto-heel down onto the couch a fraction away from his naked thigh.  Black leather boots and fishnet stockings, he noted fleetingly.  Then the leg was gone.

“Now, let’s see how much pain you really enjoy…”

She took a long drag from the cigarette, its tip glowing vividly in the subdued light.  Smoke leaked from her nostrils as she brought the cigarette down towards him, towards his waist, towards…

She paused and favoured him with a malicious smile.

“Jenny, don’t, please.”

“I said silence!”  With that, she stabbed the smouldering tip of the cigarette onto his exposed penis.

Declan screamed, and presumably must have jerked something, because…

…They were a couple on the deck of an ocean liner, laughing as they watched dolphins frolic in the ship’s bow wave…

…shovelling thick snow from the driveway in order to get the car out…

…working in a charity shop, not quite yet octogenarians but both well on the way…

…new recruits sitting beside one another at a rousing induction lecture…

…working beside one another on a factory’s production line…

…queuing in a sandwich bar to buy lunch – Jenny was immediately in front of him, with no one behind.  He jumped straight away, before anyone could come to stand against his back and risk getting dragged along…

…at the movies watching a sci-fi flick Declan didn’t recognise.  Slick, hi-tech effects and a gorgeous heroine he’d never seen before.  They hung around for a while in this reality – he was enjoying the film too much.

Finally, after several more small hops and a narrowing of discrepancies which required ever smaller refinements, they were once again two colleagues walking to work.

“So, what do you reckon about Eddie’s leaving do on Friday?” Jenny asked.

“Dunno, hadn’t really thought about it.  You?”

“The same, I suppose.  It might be fun.”

“You reckon?”

While they talked, Declan was surreptitiously looking around, checking for anything anomalous – their clothing, the shops they passed, the type of cars on the road… It all looked normal, but the devil was in the details.  Not that he would have done anything about it even had he spotted something out of place.  There came a point where the required adjustments were too delicate to justify the effort, where he’d invariably make things worse by trying to effect a correction.  ‘Near as dammit is near enough’ had become his personal motto.

Over the years, Declan had learnt to roll with the punches, to be adaptable.  He’d gained a dog once, on returning to a reality that seemed identical to the one he’d left in every other regard   – a two-year old golden Labrador called Bella.  He’d never considered getting a dog before, but he soon adjusted to having one and came to love that great doe-eyed beast in the three years until she disappeared during another unpredictable shift sequence.

His ability had taken some getting used to.  The first time he jumped it had scared him witless, and it took him an age to find his way back.  He sometimes wondered how many others could do what he did but had never returned from that first traumatic trip.  As far as he knew, he was the only one that had come home again.  Science finally caught up with the ability, at any rate.  When he first started jumping, alternative realities had been the province of outlandish fiction, but now physicists spoke of membrane theory and different branes.

Of course, they had no idea, not really.  According to the scientists, if movement between different branes – different realities – ever became possible, it would require a tremendous amount of energy.  Like hell.  All it took was a flick of his wrist.

The thought reminded him vividly of cigarettes and being tied down so that he couldn’t flick his wrist.  His genitals in this reality might not carry the scars but his memory still did, and it was all he could do to stop himself from walking bandy-legged.

Declan began to relax.  As far as he could see, this was the exact same reality he’d woken up in that morning.  None of which ruled out the possibility of there being the odd discrepancy, but he was confident he could take any such minor anomalies in his stride.

Jenny followed him in as they headed for their respective offices.  Same carpet, same walls, same windows, same old faces – yup, it was all looking good.

The same office junior came scurrying towards him as well.  Now here was one detail he wouldn’t have minded changing.  Oh, Joshua tried his best, no question, but the lad’s nerves and his own inherent clumsiness caused mishaps to follow him around like a malignant shadow.

“Hello, Mr Worthington,” Joshua said, ever keen to make a good impression.

“Morning, Josh,” Declan acknowledged.

“I hope you and Mrs Worthington had a good walk in today.”

Mrs Worthington? What the hell?

“I’ll see you at lunch, dear,” Jenny said, leaning forward to place a slightly tacky lipstick-fresh kiss on his cheek.

Declan stood stock still, not making any sudden movements and not knowing what to say.  He stared after Jenny as she continued on towards her department.

A new dog was one thing, but this…?  Shit.

vivisepulture ii...

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PDF ISBN: 978-1-908328-22-9

ARTWORK by Vincent Chong.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, now or yet to be invented, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This novel is wholly a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed herein are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and to events or places, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Vivisepulture

Dedication

INTRODUCTION by ANDY REMIC

PLASTIPAKTM LIMITED by NEAL ASHER

PRETTY TEETH by TONY BALLANTYNE

BUKOWSKI ON MARS, WITH BEER by ERIC BROWN

THE EVISCERATORS by RICHARD FORD

ROTTEN CUPID by IAN GRAHAM

YOU ALWAYS REMEMBER YOUR FIRST by LEE HARRIS

TORTURER’S MOON by COLIN HARVEY

CAUGHT IN THE SHADOW by VINCENT HOLLAND-KEEN

BIBLE BASHER by JAMES LOVEGROVE

DEFORMATION by GARY MCMAHON

JUICE by STAN NICHOLLS

SNOT by ANDY REMIC

WIND PROJECT NX104 by JORDAN REYNE

WUNDERWAFFE by IAN SALES

METAmorphosis by STEVEN SAVILE

KITTY WANTS A HITTY by WAYNE SIMMONS

ZOMBIE GUNFIGHTER by GUY N SMITH

PIPEWORK by ADRIAN TCHAIKOVSKY

THE LOST FAMILY by JEFFREY THOMAS

THE RECRUIT by DANIE WARE

TALES FROM THE ZOMBIBLE by IAN WATSON

THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS by IAN WHATES

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