by Ruth Fox
He turned a full circle, taking in the sight with a mixture of fascination and horror. Laundry was hung out to dry on lines strung between drainpipes and windows. The streetlights should have been turning on by now, but they hung smashed and bulb-less. There were lights coming from some of the windows, but they were washed-out and pale through the haze of the smog, and only seemed to make the shadows deeper. Zach wondered how they managed to work at all with the smog whirling around.
Something skittered and squeaked in a heap of rubbish, and he caught a glimpse of a creature that was too big to be a rat. Squinting, he saw a purple creature, with eight spider-like legs and a curved barb on its long tail. It fixed Zach with its tiny red eyes, and hissed loudly. Zach jumped back.
He walked a few steps in the direction of one of the buildings, wondering if he could knock at a door and ask for help. He didn’t like his chances, though.
“What are you doing here?”
Zach spun, and found himself looking at a monster with a row of yellow spikes protruding from his chin. His eyes were almost completely white, with small black pupils at the centres. He was carrying a can of green spray-paint and wearing a sleeveless t-shirt that hadn’t always been sleeveless, judging from the frayed edges, and too-baggy cargo pants. Zach felt like he was looking in one of the mirrors in the Funhouse at Wild World, one of the ones that turned his reflection into something strange and unfamiliar.
“I need help,” said Zach desperately.
“You don’t need our help,” said this other monster-boy, and he lazily sprayed a green F on the wall nearby. “You don’t want anything from us.”
“There’s a boy,” said Zach. He had already realised it had been a stupid idea to come up through the grate on this side of the Wall, and that he was wasting time asking for help from anyone here. But that wasn’t the full extent of his worries just now; he was also beginning to see that he had blundered into a dangerous place. He backed towards the place where he’d left the boy as quickly as he could without giving away the fact that he was actually afraid for his life. “He’s hurt—or injured—maybe both. I just wanted to see if anyone was around.”
The monster-boy turned from his artwork—sure enough, it read Fernzy—and grinned at Zach. “I’m around.”
“Well, yeah, but I can see you’re busy,” said Zach, gesturing to the graffiti tag. It was a pretty neat design, all angular, with the F and Z linked and all the other letters shaped around them—but he wasn’t in the mood to admire it right now.
“A boy?” said Fernzy. He opened his mouth and let out a tiny burst of flame that faded to a puff of smoke quickly. “Like, one of your kind?”
“Yeah, like one of my kind,” Zach confirmed. He was nearly at the place where he’d left the boy, but Fernzy was following him now, his milky eyes shining. “He’s, um, human.”
“Human,” said Fernzy, his voice conveying his distaste. “And you think you’ll find help here? You—humans—have been not helping us for years, and then acting like we owe you for it.”
Zach knew the worst thing he could do here was get into an argument with this monster. He needed to get back to his side of the Wall. But he couldn’t help it. “That’s not my fault. I’ve never done anything to you or your kind.” He was angry, and it showed in his voice, making him sound more confident than he actually felt. “And really, if it’s so bad, why don’t you make things better?”
“How’re we supposed to do that? Huh?” Fernzy took another menacing step forwards. “We’ve got no money. No food. If anyone does have those things, they don’t have them for long—they get stolen, or taken by gangs as payment for not beating you up. So tell me how you’d fix that, human?”
“You can apply for a yellow permit,” Zach said. “The mayor says it’s available to all monsters who want to live in North Silvershine. He’s made it clear you’re all welcome. He says you can choose to make your lives better!”
“Yeah—for a price no one can afford. You and your mayor. We didn’t elect him, but he speaks for us.” He made his voice high-pitched, and mimicked Zach. “Better yourselves. You just have to want to.”
“I’m just saying,” Zach said. “There are other options. I mean, if you really want them. You know, my brother is a monster, and he’s perfectly happy living on our side of the Wall.”
Fernzy burst into laughter. “Your brother?”
“Yeah,” said Zach. “My brother.”
Fernzy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making fun of me,” he said.
Zach had had enough of this. “You know what? Believe what you want. I don’t have time for this.”
The monster moved fast. One moment he was standing there, holding his can of paint, and the next he was twisting Zach’s wrist, his face up close to Zach’s. He reached into Zach’s jacket pocket.
“Hey!” Zach, angry, tried to wrench his arm out of Fernzy’s grip. The zip on his pocket tore, spilling Zach’s belongings onto the street.
Morton’s half-eaten Krispy Krunch bar, his phone, the wristband, and three dollars in change.
He thought the monster-boy would dive for the money, or even the chocolate bar—he looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in his life—but Fernzy was staring straight at the wristband.
“How did you get one of the Grelgoroth’s Cingulums?”
“A what?” Zach tried to twist away. Fernzy’s breath smelled like rotten meat.
“This,” Fernzy said, holding up the wristband. “It’s not something a human should have. How did you get one?”
“I told you. My brother. Morton is really cool. He’s probably the best brother I could have hoped for. And I’m not the only one who thinks so—he’s got tons of friends, and people who like him, and support him, because he earned their respect. So next time you want to go bagging out my side of the Wall, just think . . . well, if one monster can do it, maybe it’s not so bad after all.”
“If your brother’s got a Cingulum,” Fernzy said, letting him go suddenly, “you’d better tell him he can’t hide on the North Side forever. The Grelgoroth is growing—he’ll be looking for anyone who still carries his mark. And you,” the monster added with a sneer, “You’d better watch out too, human. Everything’s going to change. You’ll see.”
Then Fernzy turned and vanished into the shadows.
Zach wanted to run, but didn’t want to show weakness in case Fernzy was still watching. He scooped up the wristband, but, without a second thought, left the chocolate bar and coins where they lay.
Zach’s heart was racing as he reached the boy, who still hadn’t moved or woken. Zach heaved him up again and shuffle-walked to the gap in the Wall, sidestepping rubble.
He’d just reached the lip of the Wall when he heard Fernzy shout after him “Don’t come back, human-boy!” But for all his tough-guy act, Fenrzy wasn’t following him across the fairgrounds.
He sucked in the clear air with relief.
He’d been avoiding the police cars earlier. Now he’d give anything to have one drive past. What had happened to their patrol? Weren’t they supposed to be making sure the monsters didn’t cross through the gap?
He shifted Tommy’s weight and managed to pull his phone out of his pocket. It still wasn’t getting a signal. He was still too close to the Wall. He’d have to walk for ages to get to Main Street, not to mention the hospital. He looked around at the houses, and realised he was at the bottom of Greentree Hill.
Mr. Sanders’s house was on the very top of Greentree Hill, one of the biggest hills in North Silvershine. It was almost as steep as Jagged Peak, the highest mountain overlooking the city. But while Jagged Peak occasionally shuddered and shook and belched thick, dark smoke from the peak, Greentree Hill was topped by a tall house, and would have been taller when it was still new. Over the years it had sunk in on itself so now it looked almost as hu
nched and slump-shouldered as its owner. No one went near the place if they could help it.
Mr. Sanders’s yard, which was pretty much the entire hill, was full of dead machines, broken and overturned and gathering rust. At the bottom of the hill, just inside the fence, were five blue bulldozers Herman Sanders had built to knock down the Wall. They were going rusty and had most of their windows smashed, and a few scribbles of graffiti covered their sides. There were one or two green “F’s” that looked like they might have been the work of Fernzy.
Zach pushed open the gate and stumbled up the weed-strewn path. The boards of the porch rocked alarmingly under him. He set Tommy down, banging on the door. “Mr. Sanders!” he shouted. “Mr. Sanders, sir!”
Thump, thump, thump. The door swung back, revealing a long hallway with peeling wallpaper curling in from either side. A vase of skeletal dead flowers sat on a wooden hallstand. The chandelier overhead was missing all but three of its crystals. The floorboards were covered in dust and dirt.
Mr. Sanders himself was thin and grey. He leant heavily on his cane with one hand. The other was clutching a can of Jagermeyer’s Baked Beans.
“Whaddayer want?” the old man shouted. “Bangin’ like that! What gives yer the—”
His rheumy old eyes settled on the bundle at Zach’s feet, and his tirade was cut short.
“He’s hurt,” said Zach. “I found him in . . . I found him. He needs help.”
His explanations weren’t necessary. Mr. Sanders dropped his cane and the can with a thud. He bent down and lifted the boy. Zach had the sneaking suspicion he only used the cane for show, as the old man carried his burden easily into the house. Zach followed hesitantly down the hallway and into a dull and dingy lounge room. The curtains were drawn, but in the dusty shafts of evening light he could see a threadbare couch, on which Mr. Sanders laid the boy with surprising gentleness.
“Stop hangin’ round! ’Bout as useful as a hat-stand, so yer are, boy! Get the phone and call an ambulance.”
Zach looked around, and found a surprisingly modern cordless phone sitting by the couch. He dialled the emergency number and spoke to the woman who answered. She was very calming and reassuring. She told him to make sure the boy was kept still and warm, to make sure his airway was clear by checking his mouth, and to wait for the ambulance to arrive.
That was the hard part. Zach wanted to be doing more. He paced up and down the lounge room until Mr. Sanders, who was checking the boy’s pulse, snapped at him. “Go ter the hall closet. There’s blankets in there.”
Zach did as he was bid, and though he felt strange poking through Herman Sanders’s stuff, he found a thick woollen blanket made of blue and orange crocheted squares. As he was pulling it out of the closet he knocked a metal box down. When it fell with a crash the lid came open, spilling things across the floor—a silver ring, a couple of nuts and bolts, and a few old photographs.
Zach picked them up. They were faded and creased, and had obviously been looked at many times.
The first one was of Herman, a slightly less-worn Herman, standing proudly next to the mayor—a slightly younger mayor. The mayor had his arm around Herman and they were standing in front of a bulldozer—a blue bulldozer, its gleaming new paint unmarred by graffiti or rust. Mr. Sanders looked proud, but not . . . happy.
Zach shuffled this photo to the back and looked at the next one. This one was entirely different. Mr. Sanders looked even younger, and his black hair was cut short now, his beard shaven.
He did look happy in this photo. There was a wide smile on his face. But he wasn’t aiming it at the camera. Instead, he was looking to his left, where a woman with dark blonde hair was standing. She was smiling, too, and her hand was firmly clasped in his.
Zach wondered what had happened to make Herman Sanders into the mean, crazy old man he was now.
He picked up the ring. It was inscribed on the inside, with fancy curling script. Beloved Wife, N. D. S.
Zach put the ring back in the box, alongside the photos, feeling bad for disturbing Herman’s personal things.
“Whaddayerdoin’?”
Zach whirled, startled and guilty. “I—nothing! This fell—”
Mr. Sanders snatched the box from his hands and shoved it back onto the shelf. He picked up the blanket, then marched wordlessly back to the lounge room. Zach trailed behind him, wondering if he should apologise again, or if that would just make the old man angrier.
When he spoke, Herman Sanders’s voice wasn’t any gruffer than usual.
“My wife made this blanket,” Mr. Sanders said as he tucked it in around the boy’s shoulders. “Crocheted a few rows every evenin’, she did, while we were watchin’ Beyond the Wall.”
Zach gaped. The thought of Mr. Sanders being married was hard enough to imagine, let alone the idea of him sitting down with her to watch a drama series. “I—I didn’t know,” he said at last.
Zach wasn’t even sure what it was he meant with these words. He wasn’t sure what he thought. Maybe that Herman Sanders had killed his wife and buried her below his front steps.
But Mr. Sanders gave a gruff laugh. “Hah! Yer think I was always old and grizzled, eh? I tell yer, Nicola, she was me reason fer livin’. Once upon a time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Zach, thinking of the ring. N. D. S. Nicola Sanders—but what did the D stand for? “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Mr. Sanders rubbed the blanket between his fingers. “Eh, eh, no ’arm done. She’s gone now.”
“What was she like?” Zach asked.
“Beautiful. Patient. Worked harder than anyone I know, gave ’er life to ’er work, didn’ she? That Donovan Institute . . . Helpin’ those poor people.”
“Donovan Institute?” Zach furrowed his brow. “You mean . . . the Factory?”
“Tha’s what you kids call it these days. But it was an institute, when it was up an’ runnin’. Full of crazies and mentals and people who jus’ couldn’t live out in the world. But she saw somethin’ in ’em all. She gave ’er life to helpin’ ’em, right up ter the end. An’ look what it got ’er!”
“Did she . . . die?” Zach asked. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember her.”
Mr. Sanders gave a sudden bitter laugh. “Yeah, she died. They paid fer the burial, see, as a reward for ’er long service. A payoff, more like, so’s I couldn’ go raisin’ a stink about it all . . .” He fixed Zach with a sharp stare, then. “Mind you, I’d’ve done so anyway, if I thought it’d do any good. But by that stage it was all bein’ covered up . . .”
“What was being covered up?” Zach asked, confused. “How did she die?”
“You think I know? They never let me see the body. They tried ter say it was the inmates—an uprising—they were all crazy, after all, they could’ve done anythin’, even murder. But I didn’t believe ’em. It didn’ make sense. But when I asked questions, they said they’d make sure I never work with my machines again if I kept it up. So I jus’ shut me mouth.” He sighed. “An’ it worked. They never bothered me again.”
“That’s . . . it’s very . . . sad,” said Zach.
Mr. Sanders shook his head slowly. “No one comes up ’ere, now, not even the postman.”
“Well, maybe they would, if you didn’t throw cans at them,” said Zach sensibly. He was losing his fear of Herman, in this dim room, while they were bound together by the mutual duty of helping Tommy Granger. “Maybe, if you were a bit nicer . . . if you let people visit, or made some friends . . .”
“I don’ need friends. They’ll just up ’n’ leave, like everyone else! Take that blasted dog, fer example. Made me realise one thing, that mutt did, runnin’ away like that: yer can’t rely on nothin’. Not that I care. I’m not made fer company. Not fer sittin’ around sippin’ tea. I’m made fer makin’ things, or I was, once. Builders and pummellers and cran
kers and movers. Aye—back when they had ideas of openin’ the silver mine again, I built a Rock-tunneller an’ a Side-scraper an’ a Power-driller. They were brilliant, they were! But in the end, all useless . . .”
“Why?”
“Because they didn’ find any silver, did they? It’d all been extracted long ago. There wasn’t nothin’ left but bare caverns. I found one little trinket, left behind from long ago. Gave it ter Nicola, so I did, and she was right excited!”
“What was it?” Zach asked, curious about what could have possibly been left behind in the old mines.
“A silver bracelet,” he replied.
Zach’s eyebrows shot up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Monster-boy’s wristband. “Like this one?”
Mr. Sanders gave it a glance. “Just like it. Where’d you get that one?”
Zach’s eyes were on Tommy’s face. The boy suddenly sat up, his eyes locked, glassily, on Zach. Or rather, the silver wristband.
Zach waved the wristband back and forth in front of Tommy’s face. Sure enough, the boy’s head moved to follow it. When Zach closed his hand around it, hiding it from view, the boy slumped back down, his eyes drifting shut.
“Where did yer get that?” Herman Sanders growled.
“It—it can’t be the same one your wife had,” he said. “It belonged to a friend of mine.”
“It’s just like it,” Mr. Sanders said softly. “She asked me to take ’er down in the tunnels where I found it . . . we had a grand afternoon, walkin’ through those caves and passages. Somethin’ about that day changed ’er deeply. ‘You know, I feel like this is all meant to be,’ she said ter me as we walked back. ‘Like things that have been long ignored and forgotten are finally being put into place.’ Wasn’t long afterwards that she built that institute.”
His mouth turned down. He looked so sad that Zach’s heart went out to him.
“But my machines, they sat idle. Until the mayor announced his wonderful Grand Gesture to Open the Wall and contracted me fer the job. Yer shoulda seen those bulldozers when they was new! One hundred thousand hydraulic capacity. Rotor-rotator motors. Spark-ignition electronics. And blue paintwork. Bright blue. Bright, bright blue.” He rubbed a blue patch on the blanket, his eyes misting over. “Now they’re sitting there, rusting away, their job undone.”
