Crying

The interloper ran along the ground next to the wall until he came to a tree. Without stopping, he jumped onto the tree, and then pushed off towards the wall. His hands caught the spikes atop and he scrambled to keep his hold on them without slipping, or getting his wrists impaled on the other spikes. He pulled himself up so he could see over.

There was a lawn leading up to the house, which was starting to look like a swamp from the weeds and bushes that were growing in it. The house itself looked to be in good condition; he supposed it had been in good condition leading up to the zombies, and was probably occupied for some time afterward, if not still occupied. The only thing that made him think it was deserted was the overgrown condition of the lawn. But he smirked and thought how much of a waste of a time it would be to mow your lawn when zombies wandered on the other side of your wall, their ears open for any sounds.

The interloper pulled himself up the rest of the way, and rolled lightly over the spikes (which weren’t really that sharp anyway, dull concrete things more for decoration than anything else) until he slid foot first onto the other side of the wall and kept a hold on a spike until he was ready to drop the rest of the way. He landed in a roll and found himself amidst the vegetation. It grew all around him, and now that he was in the middle of it, he saw how tall it really was. Tall enough to make him think that perhaps the owners had been absent for longer than the zombie outbreak. Or else they were bad at keeping a yard.

He moved towards the house, which also appeared larger than he had thought. It had seemed further away than it was but was also a wider house than assumed, with a Spartan arrangement of windows, and no doors that he could see (still only two stories though).

The interloper came to the side of the house and grabbed onto the bottom of the windowsill, which was just above his head, and pulled himself up to look inside. It was a kind of office, with a computer sitting on the table with the monitor facing him and a door on the opposite side of the room. There were stuffed bookshelves and two chairs, one behind the desk and one in front of it.

He let himself fall and then pushed up against the window with his hand, and found it locked. He pulled out his gloves, and tucked his long sleeve shirt into them, and punched out the glass. He climbed in and managed to not cut himself on the jagged glass. Kneeling by the computer he found the on button. He pressed it, and the computer hummed to life. He hadn’t been expecting it, but, given that the house was walled, in its owners might have wanted to make their own power supply. It might have been a rich survivalist family. Assuming that it was a family.

While the computer started up, the interloper looked at the books on the shelves. Many of the books were medical in nature and several had the word “Biotech” in the title. There were even a few books on the Egyptians. To the interloper, it supported his idea that the room he was in was a dad’s office. But something still bothered him, so he walked back around to the computer and sat in the swivel chair.

The front screen asked either for a password, or to enter as a guest. He entered guest and tried a workaround that he’d learned from a friend in High School. It didn’t work. So this computer had a better security system than a school or the average home’s? He tried another method, but found no success. He was afraid if he might get locked out so he opened the desk to see if the password had been written anywhere. The first paper he found looked clinical. He opened it to find a chart of some patient named R. F.

R.F.
• Jan 15: Arrived with necrosis around left elbow, further inspection revealed it was also on the inside of his thigh. Doctor V.T. supposed it was a fungus.
• Jan 18: Anti-fungals removed the spreading of the necrosis, skin not too seriously damaged to warrant a graft. Sending patient R.F. home.
• Feb 2: R.F. returns again. He has multiple wounds on wrists and legs, self-inflicted. Crying blood. Was sent to mental hospital and put under solitary confinement…

The interloper stopped reading, and turned the page to the next, titled “McCarnegie Research institute.”

R.F. admitted a few hours ago; he is considered brain dead although he exhibits violent intentions and thrashes in his constraints. There is a possibility that this is what we’ve been looking for all this time. Please report any return to normal behavior at once.

Then in hand writing:

I agree, this matches what we’ve been looking at. I’m finding the necrosis a bit unsettling but otherwise I think we can swing this one. Maybe we’ll get our grant money after all! Day 2, nothing strange to report. Day three, nothing out of the ordinary, except that he has begun to cry blood again, which reaffirms the notion that he is a “zombie”, as examined in digs in Egypt. Day four, nothing. Day five, nothing. Day six, nothing. Will not make a further note until situation progresses. Day nine, reports are spreading that there are zombie outbreaks in New York, Washington, Los Angeles, and Seattle. We’re running out of time. Does anyone else find this unsettling? Day ten, no progress on a cure. Day eleven, I got a call from my wife, she’s moving the kids to her uncle’s house in Canada, she thinks it will be safe there and I agree. I just hope she gets there all right. Day twelve, I apologize for writing about my family, I know it is not conductive to research. Day thirteen, I’ve nothing to add, except that I don’t think my input is required anymore. The zombies will be running the world in a few days, I guess there’s nothing left to do but pray. Day fourteen, R.F. bit Doctor C.T., and I killed both of them. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, C.T. was a great friend of mine, and R.F, I’ve never killed a child before... Day fifteen, I’m getting out of here, I can’t take it anymore. I’m leaving my computer with its settings on default, all the files should be intact for anyone who thinks they are necessary. The password is "password" and the user is "user". Goodbye everyone.

I’ll be in Canada. I got off the phone with my wife and she says there is a quarantine in place that’s working great. If I hurry they might let me in.

The interloper closed the folder and sighed. He looked at the monitor which was displaying a screensaver; the words McCarnegie Research Institute floated across the screen and bounced off the side. He shook the mouse until the login screen appeared and entered in the username and password. It loaded up for a second and displayed an error message, “CAN’T CONNECT TO INTERNAL DATABASE, CONTINUING IN OFFLINE MODE”. The interloper pressed “OK” and the screen passed.

The desktop was occupied mostly by folders, and one media player, which he opened. He selected the first item off of the playlist and a classic rock song started pounding from the speakers.

He minimized it and opened the file on the desktop labeled “R.F.”. He prepared to read it, when he heard a noise from behind the door. He paused the song and listened closely, and heard footsteps pacing back and forth, that he hadn't been able to hear because of the music. He rose from the computer and reached into his backpack for his machete.

He heard the noise again, a soft sob. It sounded so genuine, he thought, so honest and real. It could have been anyone outside, sad enough that they were crying. Pacing as they desperately thought of a solution. The interloper stepped to the door and the pacing stopped. The sobbing increased and sped into crying. The interloper held the machete in front of him, and turned the door knob. He could definitely hear someone on the other side of the door and, if they were crying, he knew what they were now. He quickly pulled the door open, and chopped out into the air. It could have been any tired soul, lost and weary, crying for everything that had been lost.

His machete caught the zombie in the neck and dark blood leaked out.

The interloper felt a tear in his eye and he hacked again, the damn thing wasn’t this contagious was it, he wasn’t catching it by being there, was he? The zombie fell down, screaming at him. Screaming, like a dog lost without its most loved owner. “God damn you!” The interloper yelled at the crying body, “Why did it have to be so fucking sad?” He’d always imagined the end of the world would be China or Russia stepping on the nukes, or the oil would run out. Not some virus that makes you cry, that’s depressing, it’s the worst way to go. He knew America was nuts, that we all felt sorry for ourselves and we were all on anti-depressants, "but this is stupid." The interloper stared into the zombie’s face as it lay on the ground looking up at him.

There it was; the bloody tear. He could see it tricking past the zombie’s mouth. On the left side, a trail of red preceding it. The interloper finished it off, and stared at it for a second. It was still now, not crying at all.

The interloper became worried at how emotional he’d become; he could feel a warm droplet running down his cheek. He ran down the hallway checking door after door for a bathroom, finding office after office until he came to a kitchen. He pulled a mirror out of his pocket and checked his face.

There was no blood coming from his eye. He only had real tears; so he was alright. He washed his hands and he was alright. He went back to the office and stepped past the bloodied corpse. He gathered the folders on the patient, “R.F.” He left the building through the front doors and didn’t stay.

And he was alright.

Sykport

Previously

As Rasputina promised, I was given food and drink and allowed to sleep.

I did not dream, and was left alone for a long time. I woke up and saw outside my window, once for I would guess an hour. My best judge of time was watching the light from the window slanting across the room, and guessing where it had been some time before, and judging how much time would have to have passed since it arrived at a second point.

A guard I’d never seen before, with no weapon other than a sword, woke me from a nap by opening the door. “Is it time to go?”

“Yes,” He said. “This sword is for you, but I’m not to give it to you until we leave the elevator.”

“Will she come to see me off?” I asked.

He shook his head, and somberly, stepped aside to let me pass. I walked past him and tried to look in his eyes, but they were cast against the ground, and his head tilted so that I would not have been able to recognize him even if he’d been someone familiar.

He followed behind me for a short time, and then put his hand on my shoulder.

“Do you know which way to go?” He asked kindly.

“No… Where are we going?”

“To the central platform. The one that you got up here on. We’re going to the top of the tower.” His phrases were quick and I very quickly heard the fear in his voice.

“What is this?” I asked. But he did not answer. I felt the tip of the sword against my back.

“There’s only one way to go, forward. These tunnels don’t make forks, or give you choice. They know where you’re going and they adjust themselves accordingly,” he said.

“What?” I asked. “Is it to repel invaders?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” He said, “Now; go forward.”

The pressure on the tip of the sword increased, and I moved forward. He kept it against the fabric of the back of my shirt, and we kept going forward through the tunnels, following the path that the tunnel had chosen. In less time than before, it seemed, we arrived again at the moving platform. He forced me on, and it started to go up. I looked behind to see him toss the sword on it. He did not get on, and instead he stood on the catwalk and watched me go up.

I saw his face turn, in the same manner that Barbara’s had when she had been sitting with me, before I left the engine. In his eyes was that same sadness. And I realized that the sadness was pity; that he thought I was going to my death. It was what Barbara had thought too, I realized.

I grabbed onto the sword and sat down on the platform, which rose and rose, moving faster with each passing second until I lay down and felt myself pressed against the platform below me. And then I noticed that the pressure ceased, and only wind rushed past me. And then I felt lighter as the platform slowed. And it slowed and slowed, and I looked above and saw a ceiling. I knew that if the platform were to travel straight up into it, I would have been crushed. Fear entered my veins and made me tremble, as the ceiling grew closer. It was metal of some kind.

But the platform stopped before we would have impacted. I stood staring at the termination of the shaft, and saw it slide open. A ladder extended down, and I knew that I was to climb onto it.

I kept the sword in my right hand and climbed slowly. I relied more on the strength of my left hand to keep myself moving up, and pressed down against rungs with my right hand to raise myself up and up. As I reached the opening that the ladder had extended from, I heard the platform descend. But I did not look down. I climbed up.

I was again in the cold outside; and it seemed very dark. Only the moon overhead seemed to give light; there were clouds enough that the stars were insignificant. I hoisted myself onto the roof, and once my feet were clear, I saw the opening close itself, in a sliding fashion. I stood, and held the sword in my hands very loosely. Around me was a metal plain, with a square building some hundred or two feet in one direction, and a visible termination of the tower in another direction. I was on the very highest point, I realized.

The building was an addition, and it was only three stories tall. Compared to how many stories of the tower itself? I have no idea, and I do not believe it was the kind of structure that would be measured easily in stories. The highest point on the tower had slightly lower air than below, but it was not very noticeable. I only breathed a little harder. And I believed it was from trepidation of the events that were to occur, instead of any lack of oxygen.

I determined that the building was the only logical place to go towards; if I was moved to the roof, and then given no further instruction, I guess the building seemed ideal. I moved towards it, holding my sword upright. The wind picked up and some snow fluttered across my vision. The building seemed bigger as I moved towards it. My sword wavered on the air a little, and then I saw a door on the building. As I moved closer I saw windows as well, and I thought that it looked so traditional. Like something built on the engine.

The door opened, and Rasputina stepped out, dressed in heavy furs. She looked at me, and then stepped from the doorway. In the opening I saw light, and movement, and then Bishop appeared, and followed her after closing the door behind him. He was wearing the same things I was, but he looked absolutely frozen. I could hear his teeth chattering as the wind brought it towards me. His haggard breath was the loudest thing aside from the wind, even their footsteps seemed inconsequential.

Rasputina stopped, and Bishop stopped at her side, and moved closer to her. She put an arm around him, and I saw immediately that they were family. Mother and son. “The engine had no part in this at all?” I asked.

“No,” Rasputina said, “But Bishop does know where to find information on the Carentans.”

I looked to Bishop for confirmation, and he nodded, but I also saw fear in his eyes, “How can I trust you?” I asked Rasputina.

“I don’t know,” She said. “I’m sorry, I never meant for it to come to this. When I acquired your freedom, I had meant to put it to use against the cryonauts below, but no one told me that you would be so human. Rakkard agreed with me, said that you were a weapon, but didn’t want me to let you go so easily. He knew that you knew Bishop, so I arranged for him to come over from the engine…”

“Who is Rakkard?” I asked, “Bishop? You’re not from the engine?”

Rasputina responded first, “Rakkard is the dark one that possessed me… I figured you would have known, but Bishop told me that the engine doesn’t have any dark ones, so that it wouldn’t be obvious.” And then she stepped forward and looked into my eye, and I saw that emptiness, that vacuum from before. I realized what it was that drew me in. “He’s angry now,” Rasputina said, “He wants me to kill you. But I need you to kill him. Bishop can’t, he’s not strong enough. But you’re a Carentan!”

She stepped back, and I saw a kind of dark substance drip from her mouth and then flow outwards into the air. It seemed liquid at first, but became gaseous as it was exposed to the air. Bishop held onto his mother and pulled her back, as the filth was dredged forth. Once she was emptied, she stumbled completely into Bishop’s arms, and he began to pull her away.

The darkness that had poured from her manifested itself. It grew tall, twice as tall as I, and made itself into a vaguely human form. It was like the image of someone behind a thick veil of smoke; except that the only thing there, was smoke. I saw its hands extend into long claws, and its back arch, so that it appeared more animal. When I looked at its head, I saw it as more spherical than a human head, and it stretched itself further and became more thin.

Then it lunged. It glided through the air, but never left the ground; its tendrils always remained latched, but never slowed it. I raised my sword instinctively, and it drew closer. I swung at it before it drew within three feet, and it pulled back to escape my swords reach. But it had a much longer reach than I had, I realized. Its arms were at least five times as long as my sword, and it could easily attack me if it wished.

It did. I raised my sword to defend myself, and the claws were cut to pieces against it. But the ends still grazed against my chest, and I fell backwards, gasping. I stood, trying with all my strength to prepare myself for another attack. It swung again and I tried to defend the same way, but it stopped short and then reached to my side. I swung my sword to the side and cut at the wrist, but the fingers still pulled against the palm, and the claws cut into my side.

I staggered and fell. The sword clattered to the ground in front of me, and I felt only pain. A pain worse than I had ever experienced before. It was a sharper pain than Livingston’s sword had caused; more painful than the disgrace of being exiled from my home.

I scrambled back to avoid another swing, and then the creature placed itself over my sword, so that it was completely outside of my reach. I felt my side and could feel smooth skin; so that I knew the wound had healed itself and I would not be losing more blood, and then I stood. I faced the creature that had possessed Rasputina, and prepared myself to die. I ran towards it, and it opened its arms wide to receive me.

I scooped my sword up, and fell into it, cutting the air. But I knew that it had been useless. It had opened itself too well, and I was now inside of its murkiness. I looked out but only saw the night. I fought it, and found it was turning to liquid again, and trying to get into my mouth. I shut my lips and swung the sword in a wild arc, hoping to catch something, and then swung it the other way. I saw that I opened a small fissure in its side, which closed quickly.

But this gave me hope, and I swung against it, my breath running out. I tried to move forward but it was hard. I swung back and forth in front of me, and moved forward against its force. I pushed myself through the final barrier and emerged on the other side.

I was again in the air, and opened my mouth to get a breath of air. I turned around, swinging my sword, hoping that I might cut it again where I had escaped through, but missed. It had moved itself away again, and now resembled a shorter figure, that more human in shape, save the legs which now merged into a long dress like shape.

I charged for it, now not fearing contact with its body, but only the claws. It made an attack, and I ducked, and spun around and cut at its claws, and then swung the sword into its chest. But I missed again, and could not see it.

I felt the pain it had caused in my side, but looked down and saw a claw extending from my stomach. It twitched, and I felt my insides shudder. It had gotten behind me, and I had not been able to see it happen. The claw twitched again, and then moved violently from side to side.

My torso dropped backwards onto the cold steel, and my legs dropped away from me in the other direction. I looked down at them, and saw redness seeping out. My sword still in my hand, I pointed it at the darkness that now loomed over me. I saw it descend upon me, and then all was blocked out as before. And I knew that it was going to kill me.

My eyes shut, and I held my lips closed against it, but I lost the willpower soon. I felt weak, and my lips were ripped open. The liquid rushed in as I tried to gasp for breath, and I felt my life leaving me.

And that is the last thing I remember before I wake up in the engine.

Sykport

Previously

The message left me with an ill feeling. I realized that it was written before I had even seen Bishop, and that whoever wrote it must have had some sort of foreknowledge that I would be contacted by Bishop. Yet, I had already made up my mind. I suppose that nothing they could have said would have changed my mind; I already knew that I was going to return to Rasputina.

Yet I also considered, before kicking the design of glass to pieces, how it was the man with the steel mask who had given it to me. He had later sent the men after me as well, and while I hadn’t heard him speak the second time I’d seen him, I also wondered if he was truly the same man as before. Perhaps the one who had given me the bottle was some lieutenant, and this one who had tried to kill me was another lieutenant, who dressed like the other because of the similar positions they both held.

It would seem like an easy way to remain anonymous in any kind of organization, so that you may even switch positions whenever you wanted to, and it would be hard for anyone to know when you had. It may present the problem of unqualified people taking on positions they were unprepared for, but if everyone in the organization was prepared for any position, it would seem to me that it would eliminate favoritism.

What if they were given masks whenever they showed up for duty, and whatever mask they received determined their job?

I thought about it, and then continued to the stairway that led up to the tunnel, and followed it to the end of the building. It was day time then, so that I could see the stretching pillars of building, going to the horizon from every direction I could see, sometime eclipsed by closer buildings that were by some luck taller than the one I was near. The sky was clearer than I’d ever seen it, and it was a morning sky. I saw the sun near a hill, and guessed that it was moving up the horizon rather than down.

I climbed the stairs up, and had an easier time at it than the descent, as it was so perfectly clear. There was no snow, no whipping wind. Just the stairs and I. I reached the top, and my legs were sore, but I walked into the jungle all the same. I was determined now, to see this Rasputina, to take this task that the engine had assigned for me.

Had it all been planned from the beginning, I wondered. Was it the engine’s plan all along to subject me to the journey that had given me my skills, and had revealed better my abilities? I was motivated as I stepped through the jungle, with Livingston’s sword in its sheath knocking against my leg, motivated to seek a name for myself, to seek who I was, out among these towers.

I came to the river and followed it back, all the way to the bridge that Arthur and I had crossed, and then continued to follow it until I came to the lake. The trees above still blocked out the sky, but more sunlight cut through their branches than before, and the lights on the trees were quite dim, and offered up little light at all. The gnats returned now, and assaulted me with fervor, but in my determination I suppose I just ignored them.

I took steps towards the lake and stood, confident. My hand rested on the hilt of Livingston’s sword, and I felt all the power of a man with direction, with drive. I had spent so much time running, that it felt good to have such a major and exciting goal.

I heard the lake monster roar at my proximity to the water, and took a few steps backwards.

Then I waited. I do not know why I stopped there. Perhaps I should have continued towards the metal side of the building, and there, searched for an entrance into the tower, but I decided against it. I thought that I would be detected as I stood by the lake.

Someone walked out of the forest; I hadn’t heard her, before, until she was only ten feet or so behind me. I turned and saw that same paradoxical beauty; the bright exterior, and the dark secret that lay within.

“So you’ve come back?” Rasputina asked. She walked forward until I could smell the perfume on her form. Under the perfume I smelled a darker thing.

“Yes,” I said. “I decided to try my luck here…” I said.

“Why did Livingston die?” She asked, “Why did you have to kill her?”

“She was trying to kill me,” I said. “I have saved her sword, if you want it.” I pulled the hilt with the sword inside, from my belt, and handed it to her. “I am sorry that your sister died, but I can’t make her better again.”

Rasputina looked at the lake for a second, and then said, “I need someone to go to the top of my tower. There is a dark one there, and no one I have sent up has ever returned.” Rasputina pulled the sword from the hilt and stared at its poisoned blade. I could see that she was fighting tears, but she was fighting well, for none appeared. “My sister was to go up and destroy it. You will take her place.”

I looked at Rasputina and she handed the sword to me without looking. “Follow me to the boarding rooms, I will see to it you eat and sleep, and then you will go to the elevator.”

“Yes,” I said, “Of course.”

There is little else to discuss. She led me, with hunched shoulders, through the forest until we arrived at the steel wall that must have been the side of the tower I had climbed down before. There was a sliding door set into the metal, and we entered it. The corridors were black floors and ceilings, and yellow walls. There were portraits hung, of Rasputina and Livingston, along these yellow walls. We did not see anyone as we walked these corridors, which turned and twisted, but never deviated. So that although we made sharp turns frequently, they were the only turns afforded by the architecture.

At the end of the long tunnel we came to a chamber room, which surprised me. It was not as large as the room that had held the escaped slaves, but it was similarly vast. I saw that it went straight up, and at the center of the room was a platform that was maybe twenty feet across, squared, and raised a couple hundred feet into the air. I could only see the bottom of it when we entered the room, but Rasputina called something into the air (it was in another language, I think, that I did not understand). The platform lowered, and I saw the first people I’d ever seen since we’d entered the building.

They were armed, with some of the most vicious weapons I’d seen in my entire life. Some of their armaments curled around their wrists, or glowed a bright red on their ends. “Step on,” Rasputina said. I was further transfixed by their weapons; as I stepped onto the platform with Rasputina I saw them closer, and noticed a dark mist pouring from the cracks in the plates. I would say that some of them more resembled animals than rifles, but from their shapes and the way the men held them, that the weapons were intended to kill.

The men themselves were unremarkable. There was nothing that made me think that they were unlike Rasputina, or anyone else I’d ever seen. I supposed that they were guards from their weapons, and the stances they held.

The platform rose after a second, and one of the guards, whose weapon seemed to breathe, said something to Rasputina in that language which I could not understand. She seemed to ask a question, which the guard answered. She looked over at me, and behind her amber eyes I saw a dark veil behind them, a gulf that seemed to want to pull me into it. I broke eye contact, and she said nothing.

This platform rose and then stopped. I saw a doorway across from us, and a catwalk extended across the gulf. The catwalk was most similar to the one I had seen in the room where I had directly spoken to the engine, it was only two feet across, so we had to walk single file; one guard and Rasputina ahead of me, and the two guards behind me. We stepped across it, and I looked down at the floor below. I lost my balance for a second, and one of the guards grabbed my arm and held it until I reasserted myself against gravity. “Careful,” he warned.

Rasputina turned around and asked, again in the language I could not understand, what had happened. The guard who had saved me replied, and she said, “Yes, watch your step.”

I nodded, and moved more carefully along it, until we entered that door and were again in passageways like those that we had entered from the jungle. All of our footsteps echoed loudly in my ears, and I can still hear it today, a clear succession of footfalls lasting forever in my memory.

After moving again forward and never coming to a place where we were given a choice to turn left or right, we arrived at a place where the corridor widened, and raised itself up, to admit my sight to three doors.

“You may enter through the third door,” Rasputina said. “The one on the far right.”

“Yeah,” I said, and walked to it. I opened it by twisting its knob, and found my room from earlier. The window was now welded shut, and the book Sykport was where I had left it, resting on the uneven sheets.

Next

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Excuse me if I am becoming sloppy. This is not ending as well as I had hoped it would.)

The Town of Escaped Slaves

Previously

I obeyed the voice, as it was as real as anything I’d ever heard. It was, in the very real sense of the word, an epiphany. Of course I needed to turn around and go back. Not only was there business to be done, but surely, as I walked, I may likely find food. I assumed that after being informed of all the religions, it might have been some god suddenly speaking in my ear. It seemed as likely as anything.

As I continued back I realized that the cultists’ bar lay ahead less than several hundred feet away. It was still the very darkest night, and so I couldn’t easily see it. I just had the faintest inkling that it was there. Just behind some of the tents and shacks; yes, right there I could faintly make out an outline, which was probably the line of its roof showing against the dark.

I felt certain that things would be better, when suddenly I heard the voice again, and this time recognized it. “Jack, come over here.”

I turned and saw Bishop standing against a small stand, on which there was a plate of warm food and a candle burning so that I may see his face. “Bishop? I never thought I’d see you here?”

“You didn’t think I’d follow you?” He said. “Of course I would. Now eat, so you will have strength to free your new friends.” Bishop stressed the word “new”, as though he held it with some form of discontent.

“Are you not happy that I’ve made allies in this other world?” I asked. “What is a person without people close to him?”

“No one, I suppose. I can’t stay long, but I brought you this, eat quickly, and I will tell you why I’ve come and how you will repay me.”

I bent over the food and let it waft into my nostrils. Then I grabbed it from the table and bit into it; a loaf of warm bread, just like I used to eat in the engine. I finished it, and Bishop handed me a glass of water. After I’d finished it (it was all so good, I think there may have been a sort of drug placed in the food that would rejuvenate me more than regular food had any right to) Bishop asked me if I was sated. “Yes,” I told him.

“Once you free your friends, I want you to leave this town, and take the stairs back up to Rasputina.”

“Why?” I asked, “She’s the slave master, isn’t she?”

“She is,” he said, “But she has something that the engine wants. I’ll tell you what that is when you are up there. Do not worry; she will not hate you for running away, and you’ll be given duties not outside of what you can do. She doesn’t want harm to come to you; she recognizes your value, just as the engine does.”

“What?” I asked, “I just want to find out who I am, why there are others of me? Doesn’t the engine know?”

“It may know, and it may answer all of your questions in due time. But for now, you must trust that what I tell you to do will be good. Please. I think you might be able to come back, the engine said it’s afraid it has wasted a valuable asset.” He turned and looked at something in the dark, something I couldn’t see but I think he was definitely afraid of. “I have to go now. Do what I have told you.”

“Free Arthur and the woman, and then go see Rasputina,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “Then I’ll see you again to tell you exactly what you must do. Goodbye, friend,” he ran towards that object he was afraid of, and when he stepped into the absolute dark, he was gone.

I waited for a moment and then looked back at the roof of that building, the bar, with malice and contempt. I would even get my sword back, I reasoned, the one that had taken from Livingston. Perhaps Rasputina would like to have it back, as a memento. Maybe, I thought, I would tell Rasputina that I had only witnessed it, and had run.

Would I tell her of this city? Would that ruin everything?

I strode back to the bar, and stayed just behind a tent, so that I could peek around its side and see the front door. It was still open, as it had been before, amid the tiny slits beside it. It was far too dark inside to see anything other than a few tables and shadows. But I listened for noise, and nothing threatening emanated from inside.

I crept up, my back hunched and my legs bent so that I felt like I was moving as a shadow, until I reached the front door. I stayed to the side and peeked in through one of the slits. Inside I glimpsed a more definite vision of the few tables and chairs, as well as a body lying in front of the bar. Some more searching revealed another by the door to the cell (which was now open) and the two bodies I had already seen on my way out, that had been dispatched by the man with the steel mask.

I stepped inside boldly, not caring how loud my foot fell or how hard I breathed. I felt assured that I was not going to be caught, or killed. I had escaped death so many times, that I was now filled with a sense of abandonment.

Nothing greeted me but silence. I looked at the bodies again and found a sword lying on the ground. I grabbed it, not thinking of my not knowing how to wield it, simply that I felt strengthened through the possession of a weapon. It was temporary, I figured, until I found Livingston’s sword. For they surely had it still, I thought.

I first went to the cell that lie through the steel hole, but found it empty. I called into it and heard my voice echo off into the dark, perhaps too far for my taste, and I stepped back into the main room of the bar. I looked at the room that had the long table in it, and my eyes could only see the darkness.

And then I dared to look behind the bar counter, where I witnessed a door I hadn’t seen before. I climbed awkwardly (my landing was too loud, even given my present bravado) over the counter, and then tried the handle.

I knew well that I knew nothing of what was beyond the door. I had never been behind it, and for all I knew, it led somewhere completely alien, some new world that I could not imagine, like the jungle I had journeyed through or something worse.

All that there was, was a staircase leading up. I could see it, because at the top of the staircase, was a lamp, burning bright to my eyes which were adjusted to the dark.

I took to the staircase and climbed step by step towards the light. The sword in my hand shook a little, and I realized I was sweating on my forehead. I felt a drop trickle past my eye to my cheek, and took the last set of stairs in two bounds.

At the top of the stairs, I saw the lamp illuminating a bedroom. On the bed lie someone’s corpse and I saw a strap tight against the back of the body’s head, so that I conjectured they were one of the cultists.

I looked to the far end of the room and saw a bookshelf, and on the second shelf was Livingston’s sword. I strode over to it past the bed and grabbed it, dropping the sword I had been holding to the wayside.

I drew Livingston’s sword from its sheath and saw it gleaming still; so the poison still persisted, I guessed.

I left the room and went down the stairs. It seemed when I arrived in the bar room that I was alone, and went to the front door, disappointed that Arthur was not there, but glad that I had not seen his body (or the woman’s.)

Once I exited the front door, I saw three of the cultists standing, with swords drawn. The man with the steel mask was at the head of them, and in front of that man was Arthur, kneeling with his hands bound. “Do you want him to live?” The man in the steel mask asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He raised his hand and pointed it at me, and for a second I thought that flame would burst forth from his finger, but instead his three cultists stepped forward, swinging their blades in the air.

I held my breath and raised my blade. I prayed for strength to get through, and blinked.

It came instinctually to me, as I parried the first thrust, and then cut through the fabric of the cultist who had attacked first. I knew suddenly that I was aware of these techniques. He stumbled backward, and I heard him die, his voice croaking in the thin air, and then I was on the other cultists, who were surprised at my sudden speed and deftness with the blade.

It was unfair, I realized, for them. I needed to nick them once to finish them, and they would need to do some form of damage I think that they would have been unable to deliver.

I defeated the final two, and rushed to attack the man in the steel mask, but he stepped backwards and with a turn vanished into a bright shattering of light and spectrum. I saw a rainbow for a second, and saw stars, and then he was gone. I heard the words “as expected” hang on the air for an instant and then silence.

Arthur did not say anything, and I feared they had finally killed him, but I crouched down and he looked up at me, and I saw that they had sewn his mouth shut. “Why would they do this?” I asked him, not quite expecting an answer.

He shook his head as if to say, I do not know, and I grabbed one of the fallen swords, and held it to his mouth.

“Shall I do this?” I asked, “So that you may speak?”

He nodded, and I slowly began to cut at the ties that held his lips closed, hoping that he may speak.

The town of escaped slaves awoke as I cut the last, and I realized that it was brighter out. The lights on the ceiling above that had been dim before, were now like tiny moons above. I saw some people leaving tents, which looked upon the scene and gasped. A woman screamed, and a crowd formed. Arthur wiped at his face, and I saw a tear drop from his eye as he roughly pulled the string from his lips. “I believe we must flee, before whatever authorities they have arrive to stop us,” I told him.

“There are no authorities but the Nemologists, and there are three of them dead on the ground. The others will not stop us on our way out. What have they to fear? The old man told me that the only way out leads away from Rasputina and the slaves above, so that they will not fear us betraying their secret,” Arthur spoke carefully, and kept his mouth mostly open so that when he spoke his words flowed together, and while he did not properly speak any of the words he said, I knew what he was speaking well enough.

“What if I told you I needed to go back up?” I asked him then, as honestly I did need to return.

“I would say that you were crazy, but if you must, you must. Will you return?” He asked.

“Yes,” I said, “Will you wait for me? It may take me weeks to do what I may do, or even longer.”

“Yes,” he said. “You are the only friend I have.”

“I have one question before I leave,” I said. “Where did the woman go, and the old man?”

“The woman fled with the old man back into the cell. The old man said that there was some dark passageway that was hidden by the dark, that would take them into Sykport, and that they would leave me here. He said he knew of a country that I should go to if I were to escape, called Zion, and then vanished, when some Nemologists appeared to capture me,” Arthur looked at the crowd. “You may leave now, I’ll explain something to them that will make them believe this was a misunderstanding.” I saw that his lips had healed, and there were only streaks of blood where the thread had been. “Go!”

I ran away from him into the crowd, and left them gasping at Arthur, who I could hear addressing the entire crowd.

I looked and saw the aperture on the wall where the stairs had led us down, and began to work through the city towards it. The opening was not large, but on my way there, someone (he looked like a criminal, although I cannot explain why) knocked into me. I fell and heard glass break, and then stood quickly and drew my sword, which scared him off into the crowd.

I reached into my pocket and felt the broken shards of the bottle. I pulled them out to look at them, and then saw on the inside curve, lettering. I pulled out the pieces from my pocket until none remained, and reassembled the bottle so that I may read the message.

Someone had written, “Do not trust Bishop.”

Next

The Flare of Love

Love is like a fire.

It can dwindle and fade,

But give it enough air

And it can rise again.

The Town of Escaped Slaves

The Start

Previously

They pushed me from the room (which had finally taken notice) and took me into a narrow room dominated by a large table. The walls were painted a light grey color, and the ceiling lights were a bright blue. At the end of the table was another man wearing the yellow-black mask. “Hello, Jack,” he said as I entered. He had a deeper voice than any voice I’d ever heard. I thought for a moment that he had not spoke to me, that someone else had, but I quickly realized that it had been him.

Halfway on the left side was Arthur, his face against the table and his eyes open and vacant. I thought for a moment, wondering what was so familiar about his face, and drew two conclusions. It looked like mine, in a strange sort of way, like I might if I were older. And the glaze in his eyes, the empty way they looked into the air reminded me of his wife’s eyes, after I had cut her. He was dead.

“I had thought it would be impossible to find one Carentan here, in all places, but here you are,” the man at the end of the table said. He drew the gun that Arthur had used against the lake monster, and pointed it at me. “I would kill you now, except that I am not required to. We only needed one sacrifice to Nemo, two would be too much I think.” He looked at the three who had brought me in, and their masks nodded. The man at the head of the table looked back at me, “we will keep you here, until we find a use for you.”

I did not say anything, and I think that was the best thing I could have done.

The man at the head of the table turned to the two men who had brought me in, “Take him into our first cell, and give him this other Carentan for company.”

I was taken away from the room and dragged across the now-empty barroom towards a door which opened on stairs. The stairs moved through a ripped opening in the steel floor into a dark room that was lit by a single candle. I could only glimpse three walls; where the final one should be was darkness that the candle did not penetrate.

I was tossed towards the dark part and lost my footing, landing in an uneven sprawl. I heard Arthur’s corpse tossed to the ground, and then looked behind me to see the guards exiting up the stairs. Arthur’s body was placed nearer to the candle than I, so I saw its outline clearly.

No less than thirty seconds after the guards had left did I hear a voice that startled me, “A new cellmate? Two new cell mates?”

The voice I had first thought had come from Arthur; and it had sounded slightly like him at first. But I realized that the voice had come from the darkness, and had echoed all around the room until it seemed to come from everywhere. “I am the only one who is alive,” I announced.

“So they killed him? How dead is he? Will he come to his feet, and try to take us with him into Hell? Where do the dead go, with God dead?” The voice commanded respect, and was whistled with the sound of age. I imagined him as someone with a long grey beard, and sunken eyes. I feared that he was as dead as Arthur, and that he had risen just as his fears instructed that Arthur may. And I realize that this was the third time I had ever heard the word “God” being used, and I had already gleaned the meaning.

“He’s passed. Forever, I think.”

“Good, that the dead may stay dead and not feign it. The living have no time for such foolery.” His voice wavered.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t follow you?” I asked. I assumed that he had a point; that there was some conclusion he was running towards.

“The dead are oft rising from below our city, the dead of the city’s builders, trying to retake their homes and kill us all. If Nemo hadn’t arrived I don’t think we would have lived, but with Nemo taking God’s throne, I believe we are all doomed. As doomed as if the dead had claimed us—or merciful heavens above and brimstone and fire below—made us to join them. I’ve oft’n heard it said that they claim their enemies and turn them to their cause.”

“Who is Nemo?” I asked.

“Are you an interloper?” He asked.

“No,” I said. “I am an explorer. I’m searching for something, but I don’t know what.”

“I was an explorer for God’s might but I was left behind when he shone himself upon me,” the old man explained. “I found it once, I think, but it fell away from me as I reached for it, and now I can no longer see His beauty.” I heard him sniff, and imagined a tear rolling down his wrinkled features.

“But who is Nemo?” I persisted.

“Nemo is the murderer, he who killed His glory,” he said.

“God is dead?” I asked.

“To me and to any mortheist you find. You are an interloper, upon Naureth’s soil, if you do not know who Nemo is, and you haven’t heard the news of His death. I do not think any less of you for it. Nemo has placed you here as well as placed me here.” His voice grew strong again, “We are allies, no matter what you believe.”

“I don’t believe in anything,” I said, suddenly feeling empty.

A new voice, but still an old one, “If we are truly both Carentan, then we believe the same thing.”

I darted backwards like a spider, crawling into the shadows, as Arthur’s corpse began to move.

“But… You’re dead!” I yelled.

Arthur’s form turned to look at me. I continued to back up until I brushed up against another figure, the one who I assumed I had been talking to. “So he is coming to take us!” He shouted.

Except when the old man spoke, I realized that I hadn’t backed up into him, but someone else. I yelped at this realization, and they grabbed me and felt for my face I tried to struggle for a second, but I felt lips placed against mine, and I experienced the first kiss I’d ever had. It was long, I suppose, and it quieted me.

“Hush, or else the guards will come,” she whispered. Everyone was silent, as though they had also been silenced by her touch. She lingered close enough that I still felt her warmth, and I admit that I stayed by for nothing else. I desperately wanted to put my arm around her, or hug her, I so desired human contact in the dark room, but I kept myself from doing so, even though she had been so forward with me.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

“It’s not important; you’ll never see me again. Just know that I am a Carentan too, and they also thought I had died. They may kill you, but if they don’t do it exactly right, you’ll come right back.” It was then I realized that Carentan was not a last name, as I had supposed, but a sort of title or classification. I had initially felt guilty for the kiss she had given me, that I had feared that it was in-family, but it was impossible to me for us to have all been related, and my fears were put to rest.

Arthur, who must have heard us, said, “I didn’t know I possessed such ability. What do we do now?”

Lady Carentan waited for a second and I heard her breath catch in her throat. The door to our cellar opened, and light poured in, blinding me. I tried to turn to see her, but I was still unable to make anything out. “They come,” I heard her say, and then I felt hands around my wrists.

I heard the old man grunt as he was lifted up as well, and we were taken away from the room. As we neared the door, I looked down and saw a woman’s form, very vaguely in the dark, but the door shut before I could discern anything.

__________

I was pulled through the bar room, which was now quite dark. I looked at the front door, in order to gauge how far I’d have to run before making it outside, and noticed that it was slightly ajar. I looked at its edges and saw that it was dark outside, and I was confused to see that there was a night-time for the greater chamber in which this town of escaped slaves was held.

My guards still had their masks from before, and I was still unable to discern one from another. I did notice that their clothing varied, and perhaps that was how they told one from another. Once I glimpsed the eyes inside one of the masks, and saw that they were bloodshot, and wide.

I was pulled back to the room with the long table, and this time there was no one at the end of it. I was led to the far end and instructed to sit in the chair, and then they left, leaving me in the dark. I did not see where the old man had been taken, and in fact had not even seen him being taken anywhere at all.

I wondered what my fate was. Would they kill me as they had tried to Arthur? His survival indicated to me that I had nothing to fear from an attempt at “sacrificing me”, as it had not worked on the woman either. What I feared more than that was some sort of torture. What if they had known that we were not dying; had they overheard the commotion in the cell and had brought me up in recompense? Would they relentlessly make wretched that which they could not kill?

I decided to escape once more, as I had escaped from my room, and had escaped from Livingston. Was there some ability that I, as a Carentan, possessed; that allowed me to slip away from any holding area that I was placed?

I rose from my chair, ready to test my hypothesis, when the door at the far end of the room opened. In the dark I witnessed the same mask as earlier, but now it was all black. He wore a long black cloak, so that I saw him as a long triangle with his head up on the tip and boots at the bottom angles. He stepped in, and closed the door behind him.

I sat back down, and saw him pull a candle out, which he lit. What puzzled me was that it seemed to have been done from the end of his right index finger, so that when he was done, there trailed a thin line of smoke. In the reddish orange light I saw that his mask was steel. He stood facing me for some time, before pulling a bottle from his coat. He set it on the table, and then rolled it to me. I picked it up, confused, and then he pointed to the candle. He made a motion to drink it, and then pointed to the candle.

“What? This is probably poison,” I said. “You expect me to trust you, after you killed Arthur?”

“We both know that Arthur is not dead,” he finally spoke.

“Why not tell me how to drink it then? Instead of gesturing as though you were mute?”

“You fool!” He shouted, and knocked the candle out with his hand. Immediately some forms entered the room, and pulled swords out to attack. I expected them to run past him after me, but they instead engaged him.

I did not see his first move, for his back was to me and his cloak obscured his actions from me, but there was a gasp and then the two assailants dropped to the floor, hands empty and wounds in their throats.

“Run!” He shouted to me.

I leapt from my chair as quickly as I could and pushed past him. I glimpsed behind me and saw the swords he held dripping blood. He strode after me, and was then distracted by two more guards who came from the sides of the bar room to attack him.

I ran, content with my escape. I pushed through the front door and found myself surrounded by the shanties that I had witnessed before, except left in almost total darkness. I broke into a run to get away, moving between the roughly built structures as deftly as I could, keeping my balance as I threaded the walls. And I was then left alone, amid the night. I stopped running, and wondered where the light came from. I looked up and saw soft lights dotting the ceiling, and noticed them moving. It was like there were stars above. I did not see a moon, however.

I staggered then, feeling lost. Here I was, I saw, however many miles away from home that I was.

I had been sold into slavery, and then, I thought, escaped it. I entrusted myself to someone who was like me (the first I’d ever known), and then, even before the day had ended, discovered that there was yet another. From there I could suppose there were countless of me in the world, as I had met so many in such a short amount of time. And then I was alone, finally, without anyone else. I’d escaped a religion, after learning of another, and I was left with a bottle full of a liquid, given to me by someone who might have saved my life.

I was at a great moment in my life, I realized. Here was a cross between the past and the future. Whatever journey I made for myself would begin here.

I decided that I would seek out those who were like me, and then decided that the best place to start would be in this town I had found, a town of escaped slaves.

My first goal would be to free Arthur and the woman from their cell underneath the cultists’ bar. Set to this goal, I realized that I did not remember where it was, and was crushed.

I looked at the bottle, which I still had clasped in my hand, and unscrewed the cap. I hoped it was liquor, like I had heard existed, which was said to destroy pain and suffering in place of fermented wheat or bacteria filled decay.

I emptied it with the speed of someone who has not had water in a very long time, as I had not, and discovered that it was no liquor that had a taste other than water. Along with my thirst, I discovered a great hunger.

I think that I should have given up on anything then, but for a small voice in the back of my mind, “Turn around, and walk back.”

Town of Escaped Slaves

Previously

The room we came to was calm, I would say. It was large and sprawling; I could see the distant walls but could not guess as to their distance. The noise I had heard came from motors on the ceiling. The floor was occupied by a shantytown; tents, kiosks, and some wooden structures that actually looked rather old. There was a single bright light overhead, which seemed as bright as a sun.

The opening we saw it through was placed perhaps some twenty feet above the ground, with a stairway leading down; the twenty feet we had was high enough to see over everything, so that no building obstructed our view.

I say it was calm because there wasn’t much activity, other than the machinery overhead, which moved at a relaxed pace. The noise was present, but it wasn’t overwhelming; it may be that like the noise the engine always made, the people grew used to it. And there were people. Thousands groggily moved from building to building, or stood talking or waiting, and I suspected there were many more in the tents and buildings, or many who were hidden by the structures. It did not dawn on me until I was resting in a bed somewhere in Zion, that this was the first time I’d seen so many people. Whether this was a great impact upon my spirit I cannot say.

I turned to Arthur who held a look of amazement. “What is this?” I asked, and he turned but didn’t say anything, “Do you even know?”

“I heard that the escaped slaves had built a town underneath the tower, but I assumed it was further down. No one could ever find it, none of the guards. I think it is because it wasn’t underneath the tower. Even slaves can’t coexist with the cryonauts.”

I wanted desperately to ask who the cryonauts were, but it dawned on me. He spoke the name as though they were monsters, animals. I recalled the book I had read in the bedroom, about the people who came from below. “So they are like us? These citizens, I mean.”

“No, they aren’t at all. You were a slave for but hours, and I was more of an employee. We must be careful not to divulge our true identities. The sword: hide it well.”

“How?” I asked, and then remembered a book I had read. I removed the hilt from the rapier and took the sheath from my belt. I held it like a cane, and I prayed it would be a well enough disguise.

“Good idea, now follow me and perhaps we can evade notice and blend in as slaves. We are both dirty enough that we may pass.” Arthur started down the stairs, “Pray that we are not seen,” he said with a backwards glance.

I did not want to tell him my pessimism. I felt that the stairway we descended was in full view of the city, and that the door we came from was one that was seldom used. It seemed likely to me at the time that anyone who even half-witnessed our descent would warn some authorities. Yet, when we found ourselves at the foot of the stairway, I soon discovered that we were unnoticed.

The area beside where the staircase ended was open, and I saw that the floor looked like grass but was perhaps too perfect of a green to have grown in the room we were in. I bent down and tried to pull out, but felt it rooted firmly to the ground. I saw that it was fake; made out of some kind of plastic.

Arthur had not stopped and I almost failed to see him as he vanished around the corner of one of the tents. I hurried after him, faking a limp so that my cane looked justified.

When I caught up with him I realized that we were now amidst a great crowd of people. There were shops all around us, stands with hanging fruits, meats, and jewelry. People shouted (often in languages I did not understand) to one another. I looked around, stupefied. They were dirty, grimy looking people. I will not fail to mention that I thought they were ugly things; I did not take into account their predicament, that their fathers and mothers were slaves, and that they had their first chance at freedom. Their clothes were tatters, none of which were white. The closest thing I saw to attire of my color was something light grey, and I realized that it was the same thing Arthur was been wearing, except on someone who faced away from us.

Arthur called out, “It’s you!”

This person in the grey turned around immediately, and I realized she was a woman. Her eyes stared back at us, and all I could see was condemnation. She opened her mouth to scream, and I drew my blade suddenly, slashing out at her in a flash of steel.

I had decided that she was going to tell everyone who we were, that we weren’t slaves at all, but merely people passing through. Even though she didn’t say it, I knew that we were but stumbling marauders, who may attack them, or reveal their location to the slave masters above ground. We were none of these things, but how was she to know? I will swear until the day I die that I heard in her throat a call for help, and if that had gone out, we would have swiftly been outnumbered.

The sword had caught her in the stomach and neck, and she stumbled backwards into a kiosk, which she knocked over, sending its spherical fruits tumbling across the ground. The owner of the kiosk first shouted at her; “what are you doing? You’ve ruined it all!” Arthur grabbed my shoulder and led me away before anyone realized what had happened. We slipped around a corner, and then another.

I had a better view of this town of escaped slaves. Most structures were from fabric and twisted lines of metal. The tents themselves were spherical in shape, or else pyramidal. There were things made from planks of wood that had items displayed on them; I saw more than food and clothing as we ran from the woman whom I had murdered. There were arrows, axes, and swords displayed often. I saw a few pistols and rifles, which looked ancient, or crudely built.

More people passed us as we made our way through the twisting alleys of the settlement, and I stopped thinking of them as ugly. I saw the despair in some of their eyes, desperation in other’s eyes. They did not appear as I had supposed before; in a position which they had placed themselves in, but I realized that they deserved pity. Their predicaments were not self-imposed. Slavery was no better, and this place was only slightly better. How else could I have expected them to act, I do not know. My ignorance made me feel cold and flighty. I hated that I had come from the engine, and had not taken better control of my own life.

How could I discriminate against those who I accused of not taking direction in their own lives, while I was incapable of such action myself? I’d wandered around on my own, but had trusted first Livingston and now Arthur too quickly. These people had less opportunity than I had, and had taken it when it arrived. All the chance I had ever taken was crawling from the window. Since then, I decided that I had not been careful enough.

We found ourselves in front of one of the rare wooden structures I had glimpsed from the doorway.

He turned to me and forced the sword back into the sheath. And then he slapped me.

“You killed my wife,” he said. I expected him to cry; his eyes watered as though he might, but he squinted and I decided he was merely irritated by something in the air; dust perhaps. “Why did you do that?”

“She was going to get us killed,” I said, “I will not apologize.”

“You bastard!” He said. He grabbed me and tossed me to the side. I had not expected the force at which he chose to expend; I was tumbling to the side in the grass, on my back like a coward.

“Did you see the look in her eyes?” I asked him, sitting up, “She wanted to have us hung. I saved both of our lives, and you know it. If you hadn’t had acted so rashly,” I said, “We could have met her in better conditions. As it was, we would have been killed in the streets like fugitives.”

Arthur turned and walked towards the building.

“Where are you going?” I asked, and stood. “Don’t stop!”

He entered the doors and vanished from sight. I ran in after him, and found myself in a massive dining room. There was a bar against one wall, and tables all around, serving raggedy patrons. No one even looked at me, my face confused and the sword I held half-drawn. I was afraid then that Arthur would try to tell someone who I was. That he would buy his position back with my capture, and then I would be subject to whatever horrible slavery I had been predestined for.

I searched for him with my eyes, and could not see him. I wandered between the tables to the bar, and sat on one of the stools. This area looked familiar, at least. The bartender turned towards me, and I saw he wore a mask that was half-black and half-yellow. He looked at me through the eye-holes. “What will it be, Jack Carentan?”

“I’ll have your strongest beverage,” I told him. It did not occur to ask why he knew my name. I suppose it was unwise of me, as distracted as I was. My eyes had not even kept trained on him while I had told him what I wanted. I had been looking for Arthur.

“You’re quite lost, aren’t you?” The bartender asked. I looked at him and then realized how strange his mask appeared. “You’re supposed to be a soldier right now; fighting for Rasputina. You do realize that is her name, the slave woman who met you earlier?”

“What?” I asked. I got up and put my hand on my sword. “Who are you?” I asked him.

Two hands were placed on my shoulders from behind, and I turned to see two men wearing the same mask as the bartender.

“Do you know who we are?” Asked the bartender. He leaned across the bar top and grabbed my sword from my hand. “We are no one.”

Next

Sykport

Previously

Arthur was leaning over me, pressing a needle into my right arm. I jerked my arm in a reflexive movement, and I heard the needle break off under my arm. I grimaced and Arthur held my arm down with one hand and pulled tweezers out from his pocket with the other, “I apologize,” he said, “I had been waiting for you to come to and became impatient. I can pull it out, I think, if you’ll only hold still.”

“What are you…” I started, but held my quiet, for the tweezers were now below my skin, poking around. I felt my chest pumping air in and out and realized that it was hard to breathe. I touched my face with my free hand and felt a layer of sweat, and then pulled my hand out in front of my face and saw that it was a sickly yellow coloring. The fingers trembled, but I was not afraid. I then realized that I was sick. I looked past Arthur’s tweezers and his hands and saw my injured fist; it was a black and brown mottled color.

I looked all around the room and thought that I was back home, and that Bishop was coming over to play, and then thought that I was in the great spherical room with the engine and that it was torturing me to reveal the location of the cryonauts (a word I was unfamiliar with) and then finally I came back to the idea that I was no longer on the engine, that I was on foreign soil, and that I had not been having a good time of it.

I thought of my distrust of the slave owner, and desperately wished that I had not tried to escape. I cursed my rashness, and then fell calm. I turned my eyes to Arthur who was examining the broken needle tip, held between the tweezers. It was dripping a vicious black liquid. “You never told me…” He said.

“Told you what?” I saw his eyebrows relaxed, his mouth hung open slightly. He looked surprised but also resigned; grimly accepting whatever it was I hadn’t told him.

“That Livingston had cut you with her sword. You may only have minutes left to live.” Arthur ended my hopes; his words cut my thread and let it drop into the water. “And there’s something about this liquid, I know I’ve seen it before…”

Bishop knocked on the door, and Arthur turned and almost fell over, “It’s her,” he said.

“Bishop’s here?” I asked. “I thought he was supposed to arrive later.”

“Who’s Bishop? This is Livingston, I presume,” and she broke down the door. In my hallucinations I derived that she was at once my friend, Bishop, come to rescue me earlier than he’d let on. I saw his hair turn white and his masculine features turn to feminine. “Livingston!” He shouted.

She saw me prostrate on the bed, immediately, and her eye widened in delight, “I’ve wanted an excuse to kill you; harboring an escaped slave is quite a good one.”

Arthur did not reply.

Livingston stepped forward into the room, and Arthur sprinted to where his gun lay, and raised it to fire. There was a great commotion that my diseased eyes could not behold; and then Arthur lay, the gun in an outstretched arm, his chest sliced open. Livingston stood over him, perhaps laughing. I saw Arthur’s organs, though, and saw twisting snakes and worms beneath his skin. “So you are like me?” I asked.

Livingston saw me, and walked over. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes danced with malice. She prepared to cut down into me, and then there was a bright flash of light accompanied by a sickening crack, and Livingston’s shorn body fell on top of me. I weakly pushed it off, and saw Arthur slowly pulling himself into a sitting position, with his smoking gun extended to where the assailant had been standing. “Yes,” he said, “I am. I did not realize I was not unique. Until I was giving you the antidote. There is enough for me, we will both be fine. But we will need to escape. Rasputina will kill us both once she finds her sister.”

I found my strength (which had helped me remove Livingston’s body from on top of mine) and lifted myself until I was sitting. I watched Arthur’s chest seal itself, and then watched as he injected the antidote into his chest. “Antidote for what?” I asked.

“Her sword was poisoned,” Arthur said. “It should have killed you seconds after it struck your blood, but like me, you are stronger than that.” He walked around a corner and I heard him rummaging around in one of the other rooms, items fell onto each other. Some sounded like clothes, and other items were distinctly metal in nature. He returned with two backpacks, one in each hand. “We must leave now, grab this,” he tossed the backpack in his right hand to me, “and take Livingston’s sword. A simple stab will quell most opponents outright while the poison persists, and when it fades, you will still have a fine blade.”

I slipped the backpack around my arms and, grabbed the corrupted sword (a rapier, I believe it to be called) and then slid it into Livingston’s leather sheath. I untied it from her waist and then affixed it to mine.

Arthur, at the door, beckoned to me, “We must leave, now,” and he stepped out. I left the hut behind, and smell of burnt atmosphere heavy upon the air.

Arthur led me through the forest for some time (I cannot say how long, for I was distracted by my thoughts and by the gnats); we crossed the river at a bridge and then followed the river to the edge of the building. The trees became less and less sparse until the grass turned to loose soil and finally metal. The wind brought snow towards us, and I was cold again. Arthur turned to me, with a worried face, “This is as far as I’ve ever come since my time here. There is no turning back.”

“Why do you tell me?” I asked. “I thought we had to run, that there was no other option.”

“You’re right; I don’t know what I was thinking…” But he did not believe himself. “Maybe I’m steeling myself for what’s to come.” His eyes stared at my face, worried. He broke eye contact, and stepped towards the edge.

I saw his foot clear the termination of the steel and started forward to grab him, scared that he was stepping into oblivion; but I saw that there was a steel staircase, with no rail, leading down the side of the structure into the darkness.

With the fading light, I followed him, my steps uneasy on the cold steel. I could feel the absence of warmth through my shoes, and I was scared that I’d fall. On our left, the sky showed emptiness, enough that it seemed I might fall in that direction as well as down. In front of me, I could see Arthur’s slow advance as he carefully stepped upon each platform (stairs, I realized) descending towards a seemingly infinite set of platforms that disappeared into the dark.

It would be pointless to continue to dwell on this. The precipice to our left held my mind more than anything else, so I did not think. The cold was not a distraction. I realized at one point that my backpack was quite heavy, and almost slipped at my broken concentration.

Arthur stopped me at one point and I asked “why.” I could see the steel stairs still descending, and then saw that we had come to the edge of the tower. The stairs stopped. Next to the last step was an open doorway.

The sound of the wind consumed Arthur’s words, but I perceived that he was simply telling me that we were to go inside. He pointed out to the left, and I looked and saw that there were clusters of buildings below us now, instead of the endless depth.

I laughed at having come so far. And then Arthur moved the rest of the way towards the door and stepped into the opening. I rushed, maybe recklessly, and followed him inside. The wind roared now, but I could hear other noises. The whir of machines. We were at the entrance to a tunnel, that led towards a light, down its length.

I was reminded of the engine, initially, but felt that I heard something more like the ship that had carried me to the city I was in. Arthur turned to me and said, “These are maintenance tunnels, I think. Rarely used, so we shouldn’t run into anyone. The stairs were of the same purpose.”

“Why is this the first aperture?” I asked, “I did not see any other openings on our way down.”

“They were there, but closed, and blended in with the wall so that you would not see them without close inspection. I guess we are lucky that this one was opened. I had thought those stairs led all the way into the city’s heart, but I was wrong. We must find our way through here then,” Arthur finished, looking down towards the light.

“What is the city that we are in? Is it Sykport?” I asked.

“It is,” he said, “Did you not know?”

“I knew, but I required confirmation.” I said.

“Ah,” he exhaled. He turned and walked towards the light, and I followed.

Next

Sykport

Previously

I didn’t reply; my breath was rapid and irregular and I was so frightened that I am not sure I heard his question. All I noticed was that the trees afforded an opening in the sky, and that it looked like a white haze was above everything.

“Dear God man, what happened to you?” He grabbed my shirt and tore it off, leaving my chest bare. “What are these lesions… and you’re jaundiced! I must get you to a doctor immediately!”

I grabbed his hand with my right hand and said, “I’ll be fine. It’s the black dots, sir; I think they’re trying to get inside me. They must have quit using my mouth and ears, and sought to burrow their way in.”

“You mean the gnats? I wouldn’t be surprised. They’re not what I was used to; they’re vicious now, violent beings,” he said, “But like I asked, before I saw your poor condition, you’re not supposed to be here. You’re too young to be a slave, and if I don’t recognize you it’s very likely that you’re a guest. Have you met Livingston? She was upriver from you, hunting a tiger or something.” The man spoke quickly, and sharply. His words were defined, and I believe he must have developed this skill in making speeches, where alacrity was a valued skill. I did not know what a gnat was, but understood what a tiger was.

I’d seen one as a child with my mother… my aunt possibly. Neither is related to me. But I digress, I had seen it in a cage, and it was weak. I don’t think there was a proper caretaker, and the food it was given was the same kind of food we ate. I remember its pitted eyes, that held an animal sadness. Why wouldn’t it? It was trapped away from its home, doing things it didn’t want to do, at the command of beings that had no care for its safety.

In fact, I could see that the tiger’s pitted eyes looked the same as the man’s. “What’s your name?” I asked. I was afraid I might never learn it, for some reason, I had a feeling like something terrible was going to happen and I’d never have another chance to ask. I was dreading another violent event; my meeting with the girl (who I suppose was Livingston) and then the attack of the lake monster; it all seemed to indicate that I had a third and final conflict.

“I am Arthur,” he said. “And you are?”

“Jack,” I said.

“I had a kid named Jack, once,” Arthur said, “I’ll get you to safety; away from these insufferable gnats. And who knows if the monster in the lake will elect to climb on the land to get to us.”

As if in reply (I suppose it may have been listening, and it may have actually been an intelligent response) we heard the great moan from the lake; like steel bending underwater. Arthur shook his gun at the water, and then helped me up. He began to walk towards the tree line, with my arm around his shoulder to keep me upright, but I shook him off and walked along without any difficulty.

The lake monster behind us made a wave in the water, but we continued into the woods and didn’t look back. As we trekked into the forest we heard one last moan, and then silence.

The gnats returned (the black dots that had harried me earlier) and I waved them off. But I could not see them biting at my chest like I had assumed. And when I looked at my arms and abdomen, my skin was yellowing. It was not long after I noticed this that I began to feel ill.

We trekked through the wilderness and came to a house which appeared like a roughly constructed hut. Arthur told me that it was his home and led me inside like a frightened cattle (which I may as well have been, with my fever rising and an aching in my right hand beginning).

Once inside I saw that the outside impression had been false. This was not a tribally constructed building, but was rather a more civilized abode. The walls inside were of a rigid material (I’d guess it was a thin layer of wood, but it was painted to look like something artificial) and there was a couch placed in front of a television set.

He led me across the carpeted floor to the couch and told me to sleep.

It is here I will interrupt my story.

My life before now, before being taken on the air vessel across an ocean I didn’t know existed, was mediocre.

My aspirations were to become an engineer, which was what most people wanted to do. Some joined the police, thinking that it would give them great power, but police were little more than delivery men, who carried prisoners about the engine to wherever the engine required them to go. There were automatons which served the purpose of the police in other areas, which likely served as better police than any flesh-minded man could hope to.

The engine was a land where nothing ever changed.

I have been told that in the developed lands on the eastern tip of Naureth, there sits a great country called Lyber, which is developing technologies and social programs at a quickening pace. Generations of fifty years ago were used to limited combustion engines and rifles which fired single shots and medicine that perhaps allowed an age expectancy of seventy or at the most eighty. Those who have survived from then now find themselves in a vastly different society; the cars run on solar energy, and windmills supply towns with a limitless supply of power. There are awesome weapons of terrible power which lay waste to entire cities in the blink of an eye, and medical advancements allow for near immortality (this may only be a rumor).

There is no such discrepancy in generations that live on the engine. Grandfathers will see the country much the same as it was when they were small, and their children, when of an advanced age, will see the same thing their grandfathers have always seen.

It is perhaps a sad ordeal, but it has produced a docile population. It is another reason why police are almost unnecessary. The violent elements of society have been killed off or sectioned away, so that there are peaceful people on the streets, with one or two dissidents (who act in a mostly peaceful form of protest in any situation).

I knew well of violence growing up; that it was unwise to stay out late, that you could be killed in areas that did not hold the engine’s scrutiny, that there were criminals who would never come to justice, existing on the borders of light that our society had created. If I am creating a paradoxical society, one which is both peaceful and extremely violent, please excuse me.

People on the engine do not include criminals. Criminals are like wildlife in any other civilized society (as in Lyber).

But I fall from my subject; I did not want to lecture you on the social abilities of the engine, even if I believe you may be reading this for no other purpose than to explore the inside of it.

I had always wanted to be an engineer, as I was saying, to discover the mechanical pieces of the engine. High Engineers knew the engine’s greatest secrets (and greatest lies) and were exalted for this knowledge. I wanted to be like them. I did not discover my inner workings until a few months before I spilled acid during that course in Chemistry, and it was then that I decided my life’s goal would be to see if I was anything like the engine.

It should be clear to you now, that I spilled the acid on purpose. I wanted to do something more. So I did something no one else would do; I revealed the engine.

Where were we?

Next

Life Changing

Previously

Laying in bed trying to sleep on my birthday had never been easy for me, but tonight falling asleep seemed like an impossible task.

I was on my back staring at the ceiling for what had seemed like hours, in fact i knew it had been hours. I was extremely tired but was unable to sleep. Rolling onto my side, I grabbed the alarm clock from the nightstand and at the time;

2:59...

3:00.

I set the clock back down and let out a sigh of frustration. I stopped quickly cause I heard a strange, loud laughter and heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. I knew it couldn't be the Harrison's for they had gone to bed hours ago. I was really scared when the heavy footsteps turned the hallway and was heading towards my room!

I quickly but quietly got out of my bed, grabbed an aluminum baseball bat and walked over to my rooms door. Leaning against the door i listened as the footsteps came up to my room and stopped. I tried to stay calm but i couldn't control my breathing or my heart beat. The person knocked on the door three times. I flinched with every knock, they sounded as loud as church bells on a Sunday morning.

"Who's there?" I asked cautiously.

No answer.

I took it upon myself right there to tell myself to grow up and opened the door. In front of me stood as huge silhouette of a figure that almost took up the entire door frame. Through the darkness i could see large bloodshot eyes almost glowing. I had been waiting for some kind of signal that i should swing the bat, and as far as i know those things were a huge signal.

Stepping forward with my right foot and twisting my shoulders I swung the bat, hard enough to hit a home run two times over. The bat was on a straight path towards the figures head, but then to my surprise the bat stopped. It was as if i had hit a brick wall, the vibrations were sent down the bat and into my hands and arms making me almost drop the bat.

The pain in my arms seemed to go away when the figure leaned in towards me and got face to face with me. It shook its head at me with what appeared to be a big smile, the same way a parent would shake his head at their child if they were doing something funny looking but wrong. I felt the bat be yanked out of my numb hands and before i knew it i had slipped back into my room and slammed the door shut.

Leaning on the closed door, i locked it as ideas of how to escape this monster rushed through my mind. But my thoughts were stopped cold as there was a deafening explosion and i was jerked forward by the door. I then realized, as splinters and flames flew past me, that the door had been blown off its hinges!

The force knock me into the wall, and the door into me. As i was crushed against the wall, through the noise of the commotion, i could hear a series of loud snaps from my ribs and sharp pain riveted my body. I fell to the ground, the door landing on top of me as if it were the one trying to kill me.

My entire body went numb and my vision consisted of blobs and flashing stars. For some reason i seemed to notice that there must be a fire somewhere, cause the room was suddenly lit up with a dull orange light. All noise was blended together but i could hear the muffled sound of the heavy footsteps walking towards me.

Two black boots stopped in front of me. The monster knelt, grabbing my hair pulling my head up so that we were face to face. There were black globs of darkness at the edge of my vision and everything was blurry.

The only thing that was crystal clear in the semi-dark room was its face. A face that inspired fear and confusion deep inside of me. In the dull orange light i could see that its skin was a grimy, grey that fit perfectly with its huge golf ball sized, bloodshot eyes. I was transfixed on the bloodshot cat-like eyes which had a slit pupil through the middle of the iris. But the thing that by far stood out from everything else was the huge bright white smile of straight sharp teeth.

Something that sounded like a snicker escaped the monsters mouth and its wicked teeth spread apart as it said, "Now I've got you."