Out of the Ruins

by Preston Grassmann

  Looking out… looking up…

  Something.

  Two thin cables (?) though each could be at least as thick as a city block. I can’t tell distance.

  They fall parallel from a point of infinity to a jagged horizon.

  Scrapes and crashes. Distinct. Sharp. I saw for a moment, but all that’s left is the Sound now, as the cables disappear in the wool of a gray sky again.

  I haven’t heard of anyone installing anything above the city, but I told you already—I don’t know any knowers. It would be so much safer up there. Maybe they didn’t want us interfering, and that is why they make that noise. What are they doing? Maybe this is the cleanup they spoke about. They took their time!

  Even on my tiptoes, as far as I can see, I am the only person watching. My whole life, nothing like this.

  This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

  Wallace Evian Sturt IV. Little Wally. I’m not little. It’s just the fate of IVs. My great-grandfather would have sunk all his money, spent it all on whores and horses if he knew that it would have trickled down to the likes of Dad, and I’m no throwback. There was something to the grands. More than just living to make contacts, make money. I’ve overheard people refer to me as “nice” back when my parents were alive.

  I need to concentrate on what’s happening. They promised us years ago to do something, but never specified, and then they didn’t bother to make announcements anymore because all we did was complain.

  Well, we did.

  The Sound pummels the air now. It’s rising in shudders from the ground. It’s personal now, like when a dentist punctured the roof of my mouth. I can feel the Sound from my soles to the roof of my mouth, to the roots of my hair. I can’t properly see, dammit.

  A smudged cloud rises and then falls and as if it never left us, the sun comes out and shines down like the sun once did. The sky in the area of the chains is now old-fashioned innocent-flower blue, and that grayness is unmistakably clouds not made by moisture, but made by what we’ve made, for they rise from where the chains disappear into the skyline. I am not going to move.

  The cables (or chains?) are even bigger, and the grinding crashes get closer and I stand where I am, chewing on the inside of my cheek till I can taste metal. My own blood. But I can coolly taste it and report the taste to myself.

  Another cloud puffs, and then a spate of crashes, crisper than before, closer than ever. My cheek twinges, awash with blood.

  I can see the end of the cables. They are attached to what looks like a giant open mouth of a net. They’re pulling the net upwards… full. Fat power station cooling towers bulge out the shape, bits of highway, buildings, spires poke through the holes. What must be bridge cables hang down from the bottom like the angel hair spaghetti of my childhood hung from a fork. As the bag rises, more of the mass becomes visible. A ball—that Earth sculpture that had once been so big. Huge unmistakable broken blocks—the Wall!

  Bits fell at the beginning of the pull. Those were the last crashes.

  I wonder how many orms they caught in the net.

  Now there is no sound. Rather, there is a startling reverberation of hush as the bulging base of the bag is hoisted high. I can see that its enormous bulge at the base would be wider than Yankee Stadium. Many times wider. The long, long bag ascends—into the brilliant sun. I couldn’t see where they ascended to, for the glare. And now, though it is blue where I’ve looked, raindrops stab my eyeballs—a monkey’s wedding, I think it’s called. Sun and rain. It’s over for the day, anyway, I know. So I uncrick my neck and turn around for home.

  I didn’t even think about an orm, that whole time. I don’t even know how long it was.

  That was close. I do know that. I have seen.

  I will tell about it, and I know I won’t stutter even once. Wallace isn’t a good name, but it’s better than Little Wally, and a darn sight better than Luthera. Maybe my name will be changed.

  Others could have been me. There were rumors, but no one believed them. I didn’t, and Julio laughed. George said it didn’t matter. He just said, “Get out. Get your air.”

  Build guts? Did George know, but had undeveloped guts himself when it came down to the choice of being a mole every morning, or throwing off that shameful animalness and striding out as a man, biting himself to bravery?

  Now, at least somewhere, there is no Wall. That must be a good thing—the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for, but were too cowered to realize.

  Anyway, I will tell of what I saw—I who ventured.

  And what to do, now that the Sound has been identified? I would advise: As long as we go underground, we should be protected during the sweep.

  Can I insulate myself with painted canvas and make myself a spear, or have we used up all our chairs?

  What does orm taste like?

  What would Luthera think if I brought one home? When I bring one home. I hope they don’t clean up everything before I catch one.

  But there I go again. Might as well have been stuttering still, such was the Little Wally mindset. Sure, it would be great to be the hero of the corps. But throughout history, any man worth his sword thinks higher than a Luthera.

  Kaaron Warren

  Twin Town: La Rinaconda, Peru, 5100m

  FLORIAN would have been fine if he hadn’t stolen the man’s toolbox, with its ancient hammer and sturdy set of spanners. Sleeping with the wife was a side-issue; her choice, her preference.

  But touching a man’s tools?

  Florian wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. But he’d been called a thief all his life, even in a world where property itself was theft.

  They’d spent the day out in the open, in a place Natalie liked to call “their patch” but that Florian could never tell apart from the other green spaces in that part of the city. She liked it because it was central, far from the edges that made her nervous. She’d never been down to the crust, so her nightmares were all inspired by stories she heard. Florian couldn’t tell her otherwise; it was awful down there.

  She’d brought along a basket of fresh vegetables, he’d brought booze and a blanket, and that was a pleasant few hours. He was hungry afterwards, though, looking forward to an actual meal he’d make for himself at one of the communal kitchens.

  They’d raced for shelter as a storm came over. Natalie wanted to bunker down inside with the animals, send Florian on his way, pretend it wasn’t happening. She hated watching storms whereas he’d been caught out in them and knew how beautiful they were.

  There must have been a thousand lightning bolts, each one illuminating the sky, the city, and the vast expanse of dead brown land far below. The city itself was full of colour; flowers, painted walls, art everywhere.

  He left Natalie sleeping, taking her husband’s toolbox with him. He’d avoid seeing her again; best to move on, not complicate things. He had work to do, on the containment walls up on High Point. There were often repairs up there, and many unwilling to go to the area. It was a known hangout for people outside the law, which didn’t bother Florian.

  Florian rode his bike ninety minutes to High Point, then left it leaning against an old washing machine re-purposed as a table. From that aspect he could see the gaps and issues in that part of the wall and went to work. At this level, it was built up of glass bottles, broken bricks, bits of cement, and did the job in a fairly ugly way. Beautification was on the agenda, but way down the list of important projects for the city.

  It was clear after the storm, and from that viewpoint he could see way out into the distance. He could see the hints of old buildings, the outline of them, and plotted in his head where to go should he ever touch the ground again. There was salvage to be had, and foundation stones to look for. His last trip down had been terrifying, though, and he wasn’t keen to go down there again. A mist crept up the containment walls of the city, looking like low-flying clouds.

  He worked quietly, enjoying the feel of his new tools, and then Natalie’s husband found him.
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  They’d been friends, were friends, or as friendly as was possible in this part of the city, but none of that mattered now.

  “Had a good night?” the husband asked.

  Florian knew no answer was expected, but he said, “It was tops, mate. You? I heard you were night golfing out by the lakes district.”

  The husband smiled. “Looks like we both got a hole-in-one.”

  Florian laughed. The hammer was in his left hand; as casually as he could he moved it behind his back. Maybe the guy hadn’t noticed? Maybe they were just having a chat? He regretted taking it but knew there was a market for well-cared-for tools.

  “Got your work cut out for you there,” the man said. “Need to keep the people safe. How’s the access door looking? Secure?”

  Florian wasn’t sure. “It’s clear out there today,” he said. You could see the beach way in the distance, where the beach used to be, anyway. “It’s so vast,” Florian said. “Makes all this seem insignificant, don’t you think?”

  He waved his spare hand in the air, keeping the other behind his back. The toolbox was at his feet and he stepped subtly in front of it.

  The husband shook his head. “I know what you took. You’re a dead man.”

  “You’re killing me for a toolbox?” Florian said. “You can have the fucker back, mate. Seriously.”

  The husband paused for a moment. Florian saw tears in his eyes. “You didn’t need to kill her,” he said. “Why did you do that?” and Florian remembered then (how had he forgotten such a thing?) that Natalie had been sleeping heavily when he left, so heavily he got no response from her.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Florian said, “she wanted to take the high dosage,” but still the man lifted him shoulder high and threw him over the edge of the city.

  For a minute, Florian thought he could fly, that a miracle had occurred. Then he began to fall, buffered by air currents that wafted him down.

  * * *

  Twin Town: El Alto, Bolivia, 4100m

  He scrabbles,

  trying to reach the ladder

  that clings to the side of the city.

  He’s climbed up and down this ladder

  three times, no more. He can’t grab it now.

  The first salvage mission to the crust had been the most successful. The climb down had killed him, just about, but there was so much embedded in the walls of the city, so many tiny treasures. He took mental notes to collect them on the way up, and he did, making a good week’s wages from the sale of them. Along the way he peered into the rare empty spaces in the wall; in some places old cars had been salvaged and stacked, even an RV which, when he looked inside, appeared to be furnished. He wanted to poke his head in, call out, but the others moved on, calling on him to hurry. It’d take eight hours to climb down and they didn’t want to dawdle along the way.

  On the ground, he and his small crew hunted down the foundation stone of the old commercial bank, and while they found where it should be, there was nothing left, long since raided.

  Still, they made stashes, piles of goods to help build the city. Foolishly, they’d left these stashes unguarded, and had come back to find them gone. It was the bone-builders, for sure, the cultish group who were responsible for body disposal on the crust.

  They didn’t stay long. The air down there was thick and chemical and the mist clung to them, making their clothing damp and their faces greasy. Florian strode ahead of the others across the moat, balancing on the bridge made of fallen steel. The moat itself was deep, filled with a liquid nothing could live in, capable of breaking down the massive tonnage of plastic dumped into it. The moat was filmed with a shiny, at times colourful sheen.

  * * *

  Twin Town: Lhasa, China, 3410m

  He spins,

  sucking for air,

  trying to right himself.

  The climb back up the ladder took twice as long. They carried more than they took down, replacing some of the treasures stolen. They’d had no luck finding any other foundation stones in the ruins of the buildings; Florian swore next time he’d travel with people willing to go further.

  He let the others climb ahead, not wanting to share the small things he’d found on the way down. As he approached the car layer, the RV, he peered in again.

  It was just high enough to be above the poisonous fumes coming from below, although Florian could definitely still smell it and feel it in his nostrils. The mist was lighter here, almost refreshing as he climbed.

  “Hello?” he heard. “Hello?”

  It was an old woman. She was hunched over in the space, but as he peered through a small open area he could see that she was very short, and that she had bedding in there, and cans of food. She spoke quickly, telling him her life story. She nursed burnt soldiers, she said, in one war or another. She wanted someone to know who she was.

  He thought about dragging her out and throwing her down to the bone-builders. It would be over quickly for her that way. But she told him a story of her past bravery, of her life, and how she had been discarded, and her fury made him realise she still had life left in her. “They tossed me over but I saved myself, curled up in a little ball. The moat is a softer landing than you might think,” she said. “Come see me again,” she said.

  * * *

  Twin Town: Asmara, Eritrea, 2363m

  Falling,

  he thinks of revenge.

  Even as he spins, he knows

  he can survive if he curls himself up in a ball.

  On the second trip to the crust, Florian convinced the group to go as far as the old town hall. It hadn’t been completely cleared, so he hoped the foundation stone would be unchecked. Once they’d moved a pile of rubble (crumbling cement, pieces of metal, bricks), there it was. They lifted it, and were rewarded with a small stack of old coins, the outline of what was once perhaps a book, and a silver flask, filled with liquid. Florian pocketed that; perhaps he’d drink it, perhaps not, but it was worth plenty.

  The bone-builders didn’t bother them, busy clearing the moat and the surrounds of the fallen. They’d been gathering the bodies for generations now, since the city was half-built, perhaps two thousand metres above sea level. Although truly it was never finished, just added to, built on, each layer covering the last until they reached as high as they were now, lived as efficiently as they did now.

  The bone-builders lived in a house built of bones. It was their church as well, and they worshipped at it daily, singing in low voices, calling out to ghosts only they could see. Florian wanted nothing to do with them, but like all the city dwellers he was glad they were there to do the work.

  Bolstered by their find they went a little further, but they realised they were heading in the direction of the massive underground chamber that served as their waste outlet. Even miles underground the fumes seeped up, so they turned back.

  Florian found a smooth piece of glass and pocketed that, thinking he might leave it for the old lady in the van. She’d been asleep on the way down; he wanted to talk to her again, hear her voice.

  She was thrilled with his gift. “Fit for a queen,” she said. She cast around her van as if looking for something for him, but he told her he didn’t need anything in return.

  Her whole world was there, a shrunken world, that somehow gave the illusion of vast space and the comfort of confinement, containment.

  She said, “I’m so tired.”

  Florian was too. Part of him wanted to just let go, let himself fall.

  * * *

  Twin Town: San Jose, Costa Rica, 1146m

  He tries

  to get a fingerhold

  in the walls of the city.

  It’s all packed solid and tight.

  No house of cards, this city is as

  sturdy as any. It sways a bit in the wind

  but this is a good thing, once you get used to it.

  The third and final time he went down to the crust the old woman wasn’t there.

  They walked further this time.
Florian convinced them to search as far as the old fig tree; stories had it that near that tree, which was planted to commemorate an art gallery, was a time capsule that would change their lives. He told them that once they got there, they’d know they were at the start of something.

  There was very little left of the fig tree. Florian had mapped it out from the city, figured out how long it would take them, all that. But he hadn’t realised how unstable the crust was there. They could feel it cracking under their feet the further they went, and in some parts it was like jelly and in other parts like a soft sea sponge.

  Florian looked back at the city, standing so tall, broad and high it cast a shadow as far as the eye could see.

  The group stood, undecided, until one of them pushed forward, wanting to explore further, but his left leg pushed through the crust to the hip. His screams seemed to shatter the crust further as the group pulled him out. His pant leg was burnt off and his flesh burnt too, and the bits left unburnt were covered in small, strange bites.

  They carried him home, dragging him up the ladder, but he died on the way so they dropped him, let him fall into the moat.

  The old lady was gone. Florian saw books open to where she left off and he took one or two on his way back up, putting in bookmarks so he knew where she was up to. It was sad she’d never finish the story, but Florian knew he’d be popular back in the city with these old books.

  * * *

  Twin Town: Bangalore, India, 920m

  There is no

  sign of the old lady

  as he falls. No sign she ever existed.

  He took the books to the library. This was one of the reasons he’d slept with Natalie; she was the librarian and he felt as if the old lady was sending him a message. He’d met her before, knew her as the wife of a mate, but it was different seeing her there amongst the books, without the husband, just beautiful.

  He told her about the layers under the city because she’d never seen them. She was too terrified of heights to look out, let alone climb up and down the ladder. He told her about how shaky some of the layers seemed, crumbling mortar, old wood, and how you could see how the city had grown, like something organic.