by Ciar Cullen
When I climbed onto the Wall, she stubbed out a cigar and called me over with a slight jerk of her head.
“Reporting for duty, Lieutenant.” I was joking, but she nodded in approval.
“You’re early. That’s good. Two rules. Don’t waste ammo.”
“That’s one.”
She widened her deep brown eyes.
“That would be the second rule too?”
“Damn straight, little missy. Fenwick, right?” Shades of a bad war movie. Sweet Pea looked like my 7th grade gym teacher, who always frightened the hell out of me.
“Did you ever play basketball, Lieutenant?”
“Did you ask that because I’m tall or because I’m a Negro?”
A Negro? Was that what the uniform was about? “Both, I guess. You just look like a baller.”
“Fenwick, I’ve had this conversation so many times I could puke. If you ever get home, look me up on the Internet. Last name is Jones.”
“You don’t go to Normal much.”
“Oh, I get around. The grand balls and dances of New York society. The fine dining establishments and haberdasheries.” She clunked me on the head like she was telling me I could have had a V-8. It took me a second. Maybe that’s why Screw didn’t do Normal much. Was there a Chinatown yet? Were his ancestors working on railroads?
“That’s why the uniform?”
“Nah, I just don’t fit into much.”
Something deep inside me clicked, clicked hard. I could do things she couldn’t. It was easier in 2010 to pretend society was fair. She ran the damned Wall though, and with bigger balls than the men.
“You’re there.” She pointed to one corner. “Don’t leave unless you’re told. If you faint, make sure you fall sideways. Ninety percent of the apparitions will fade away without you doing a thing. Another five percent or so will disappear if you tell them to. The rest, you kill.”
“Aren’t some of them unstoppable? Aren’t zombies already dead?”
“Nope.” That was the sum of her reassurance. I wanted to argue the zombie point, but the subject seemed closed.
I checked my rifle for the tenth time and waited. The sun had just started to dip beneath the trees, and the sky turned umber, then charcoal, then black. It took a half hour that felt like twenty.
Have you ever been afraid to fall back asleep after a bad nightmare? I was waiting for nightmares, for many of them, in succession. I defaulted to my 2010 training rather than Sweet Pea’s orders. At the first sign of movement, I fired. And killed a clown. Hell, it could have been one of my own nightmares since I hate the things, but I groaned the second I got off the shot. Sweet Pea would have a boot far up my ass for that one.
“Fenwick, what was that?” I expected to hear the theme from Platoon. Clown down, clown down, in slow motion. Oh, the humanity.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. Just nerves.”
She clucked at me and went back to her post. “TAT.” She spit the word out like a curse, but I heard her chuckle a bit. Sweet Pea was in her glory.
From my peripheral vision, a small girl ran like her life depended on it, terror etched across her face. A man with a knife ran after her, and every synapse in my head sent the signal to kill him. My trigger finger didn’t itch, it burned to the bone.
“Hey, you!” You could have heard me back in Modern. “Leave her alone!”
Poof—they vanished. I glanced at the Lieutenant, who nodded. I got it. You woke them up. This was a snap.
The parade continued—rapists, a lot more people with knives, tigers, a few more clowns, a couple of talking dolls, and some normal looking folks who I guess were frightening only to the dreamer. The war dreams disturbed me, maybe because I’d never had one myself, maybe because I imagined some Vet being tortured every night by painful memories.
Some of the images made me laugh—ridiculous oversized dogs, cats, and rats, millions of huge spiders, snakes, that sort of thing. A few people flapped around, and I wasn’t sure what to do about them until Sweet Pea called to me. “They’re drowning. Don’t worry about them.”
Don’t worry about them? I’d seen a lot in my Modern career, but I’d never watched anyone drown, or the horror on their faces. Damn.
I’d only fired a few more rounds and patted myself on the back for getting the hang of things right away. I fantasized about the Man getting a report on my skills on the Wall. “She’s a natural. Brave, consistent, stupendous shot. We’re so lucky to have Fen with us.” Okay, I couldn’t imagine Sweet Pea saying that about anyone, but this was my fantasy.
I copped a glance at my pocket watch. Two hours? Not twenty?
“Need a break?”
“No, I’m fine.” I was dying for a break, but she wasn’t going to hear about it.
I recognized the next dream protagonist right away. Her profile, her hair swept up into a tight ponytail, her uniform, her movements. I don’t even know if I called out to her. It’s surreal to see yourself as you never have—from a distance. And worse, in danger. I knew it was a dream, at least I think it was, but the horror of what was about to happen to me tore at my chest. I chased a young guy, my gun drawn. I told him to stop. I don’t know how many times I told him to stop. He didn’t. Instead, he turned, and got off a shot before I could.
“Jesus!” The shaking, frantic voice was my partner’s. Juan leaned over me, tears pouring down his cheeks, pressing hard on the left side of my chest. It was like falling Steamside, but worse. No longer on the Wall, no longer in layers of blue silk, I lay in a grimy wet street in the Bronx, my life leaking onto Juan’s uniform as he crushed me to his chest, crying out in anguish. I heard sirens, I saw lights and heard other voices, and then the noises faded away.
“What are the goddamed odds of that?” Sweet Pea swore and held me to her chest as Juan had, rocking me like a toddler who had scratched her knee. I must have hit the deck, at least remembering to fall sideways instead of off the Wall. Sweet Pea smelled of coffee, cheroots, and lavender. “It will be all right, Fen, you’re okay now.”
I couldn’t imagine how it would be all right, ever again.
Chapter Four
A reluctant hero leads his genteel companions.
Emily Fenwick was drowning in denial. When Petti first brought her case to me, I had no reservations about the choice. How could I have known this one woman would turn Steamside—and me—upside down? My sister is the psychic.
I watched Fenwick climb the ladder to the Wall, shotgun and ammo slung over one shoulder, pistol strapped to her thigh (God, those thighs), golden hair falling out of its pins and draping down her back… Yeah, it’s like that. The sort of woman you notice, not because she’s beautiful (she isn’t, I suppose, but she may as well be a supermodel, her pull on me is so strong). She’s tall, with the bearing of someone who can take care of herself. I hate when she cries, because I know she’s proud and hates the tears. I can’t tell her anything she wants to hear—that I know how to get her home, that it’s all a bad dream. It doesn’t help that she’s had a thing for me since day one.
She’d taken her post early, no doubt to impress us. It did.
Barber called to me from my window and pointed. I didn’t need my spyglass to identify her, but I used it. I’m just a guy, only human. Voyeurism isn’t my thing, but this was Fenwick. It bothered me that she’d captured my imagination. It bothered me a lot.
I’d come to think of myself as immune to caring about anything but saving my assigned parcel of time and space. In the early years, I’d make friends and then be saddled with excruciating loneliness when they’d be whisked away from me.
The Punks were easy to lead and hard to lose. This lot had stayed on for a long time, though I tried not to let myself get too comfortable. They were like characters in a role-playing game. As soon as one was knocked down, another would pop into place, with a little help from my sister. It seemed the two of us were fixtures. Maybe that’s the difference between Purgatory and Hell—the length of the sentence. And knowing that you’re
dead. At least that’s the only conclusion Petti and I could come to after years of agonizing over what had happened to us.
We both had vague memories of our own deaths, together in a car on the New Jersey Turnpike in winter. The last thing Petti had said was “Slow down.” Next stop, 1886.
We stopped counting (or pretended to) after about a year, when hell broke loose. It had been hard enough trying to make ends meet in 19th Century New York. It helped that I’m a carpenter and Petti’s into scams—her séances far more profitable than my cabinets. We just about had it down when the Vortex pulled us Steamside, trapping us amidst nightmares and monsters. We hid, foraged, and fought to survive the demons until Petti summoned the psychic strength we didn’t know she had to will us back to Normal. That first shred was damned painful. It’s a matter of learning not to fight it, but some never pick it up. Like Fenwick.
One day as we strolled through Central Park discussing for the thousandth time our impossible situation, Petti stopped cold next to the ancient Egyptian obelisk the Normals had dubbed Cleopatra’s Needle.
She clutched at my sleeve. “This is the place of the vortex. That is what’s screwing everything up. Time.” She pointed to the obelisk. “It called to me. Didn’t you hear it?”
I looked down at her cute round face hidden beneath a silly veiled hat. She was serious, eyes wide, little gloved hand shaking against her lips.
“What did the big bad obelisk say to you? Did it speak English or Egyptian? Let’s get a drink, Petti.” She’d gone over the deep end, but who could blame her?
“It didn’t say a thing, asshole. It communicated in a way you can’t hear. I think it’s cursed.” Her voice rose an octave and the floodgates opened.
“The obelisk isn’t cursed. King Tut’s tomb wasn’t cursed, nothing’s cursed.” Except us. She was on the brink of a major meltdown. I couldn’t handle another one. Not because I didn’t care, but I didn’t know how many more times I could tell her everything would be okay without collapsing myself. Things weren’t going to be okay. I couldn’t help her, or the people of New York, or myself. The best I could manage was to stay alive, if we were even living.
We didn’t talk about the obelisk again until years later. She could never explain to me how it could cause a rip in time, and I couldn’t argue that the vortex to Steamside wasn’t in the shadow of the two hundred ton block of Egyptian red granite.
In the meantime, we started to collect friends Steamside. The first, Jeremy, frightened the hell out of us. We were in our little lean-to, and Petti was on guard duty. There weren’t so many creatures Steamside in those days, but enough to warrant a pistol. A whistling cut the night quiet, like someone had set off a small rocket. And like something from a cartoon—plop—there was Jeremy. Poor guy. He was only eighteen, and he never got over the first part of the adventure. He disappeared within a month of his first shred.
Petti has kept a log of all our visitors, those who stayed on and those who’ve disappeared. I’ve lost count, but it’s in the hundreds. All of them are our modern contemporaries—we always looked forward to meeting someone from the Forties, for example, or even the future. As far as we could tell, we were a hundred and ten years off, every time. Our first question used to be “What year is it?” Now we don’t bother asking.
By 1889, we were up to about fifty and seemed to be holding steady. Because the ghouls increased, we’d recruit if our numbers dropped. Petti would appear psychically, she called it. I don’t think she understands why some Moderns can see her, and some can’t, but it’s not hard to narrow down your choices when you’re invisible. “Lost souls,” she calls them.
Fenwick was the eighth real ‘recruit’. The Punks with the longest tenure are Screw and Barber. With Petti, the four of us formed a kind of secret steering committee for Steamside. I’m at the helm.
We’ve done a lot. Our little burg is fairly well fortified against the ghouls. The Punks (we have Screw to thank for that name) have even created a kind of zeitgeist for Steamside. I suppose it’s a longing for modern things in a semi-modern era. They labor to create a counter-culture to call their own. Gloves and monocles mix with jerry-rigged machines, short skirts, and modern haircuts. The women seem fond of heavy makeup that reminds me of my old high school Goth days. When we shred to Normal, we polish up our Victorian best. Cleavage gets demurely covered, strange hairstyles hidden under hats. Thankfully, these Normals are all about hats.
To be honest, Steamside is a bit of a mess. We don’t eat properly, the Punks tend to be a little promiscuous (or maybe I’m more old-fashioned than I used to be), and we’re pretty rough around the edges in a lot of ways. We don’t have plumbing, but rely on a stream and cistern we built. It’s rough at times, bitter cold in the winter, boiling in the summer. I’m no Eagle Scout, and we’ve had to really pull on every bit of ingenuity combined to manage. Thank God for Screw.
At least we don’t fight amongst ourselves. It’s us against…well, everything else. I’d say we’re closer to characters on a reality TV show than anything. ‘Survivor’ sans the island. We do manage some fun once in a while.
Screw is a self-taught accordion player, and Barber plays the tuba well. I got out of him that he was a band nerd in college. Everything echoes off our town Walls, and when I heard the strains of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” coming from Screw’s room late one night, I had to lay down a noise ordinance. He ignored me, of course, but made up for it by making me a steam-power velocipede for my birthday. (He was so excited, he gave it to me early.) The thing does ten miles an hour, but since our town is only a few miles square, I don’t need much more than that. The band has gotten a bit better, for an accordion and tuba. Fenwick plays the violin, although she sounds a little rusty. I think she’s waiting for her invitation. The woman has been so desperate to fit in. That’s why I put her on the Wall, to give her some purpose.
I’d spent a good part of the day being lectured by Petti on a number of issues, foremost the deployment of Emily Fenwick.
“She’s not ready!” Petti stomped her foot in a gesture I’d known since she was in kindergarten and I was in second grade.
“When will she be ready? Who the hell is ready for any of this?” I hated these decisions.
“She has adjustment issues. Not the typical ‘what the fuck is going on’ ones.”
I knew what she meant. The worst sign—Fenwick had thrown in with us without a hitch. When she asked the standard questions—why, how long, why, how, why—and we didn’t have straight answers, she’d nod, and take the brush-offs. She is the first of the Punks to never have marched into my quarters and demand I take her back to Modern.
She buried her anger, pain, and confusion deep behind those amazing blue eyes. When the seriousness of her predicament hit her—and it would—she’d be the sort to try to kill herself—or Petti and me. At the very least, we’d have a wacko on our hands I’d need to inject with juice.
I had so much to deal with already. A month earlier, on the same day, I’d spotted two huge anachros. The Titanic docking without frozen corpses on it or gaping holes in its hull. It wasn’t the right decade, the right month, the right anything. I’d turned away before the passengers disembarked. Weren’t they in for a shock? Why didn’t it hit the newsstands the next day?
My stomach was still in knots from the Titanic when I spotted the Hindenburg. I jumped down Fenwick’s throat, even though I couldn’t guess how she could have caused either blip. Just for a second it had occurred to me that a sprinkling of harmless wrinkles had turned into a steady flow of anachros since Fen had joined us. Hell, she was just a regular woman. Nothing special about her. Still, I wondered about her, about the coincidences, but I kept those thoughts to myself.
I’d graduated Fenwick from TAT to Punk, even though she wasn’t ready. I just felt bad about yelling at her. And yeah, I had a thing for her. It was all I could think of to make her happy.
I came home for juice that day. I wanted to pin Fenwick to the floor, tear the c
lothes off her welcoming, warm body, and have sex for a week. Since that seemed rash, I settled on numb. I don’t do it often, I swear. They think I keep morphine in my study to use on TATs melting down when they first arrive. That’s true. But time and space were caving in on me, on us. I was failing. I was supposed to save the world with fifty screw-ups in their twenties. God, I was still their age, but I felt like an old man. Whine away, Jack. No one’s listening.
“She’s gunning for something. Holy shit, how much ammo did you give her? Who’s up there with her?” That was more than Barber said on an average day.
“Go up and talk to her.”
Barber arched a brow in a rare, if subtle, show of insubordination. That’s your job, his eyes spoke, but he nodded, and left to rein Fenwick in.
Truth is, I didn’t trust myself. The woman had a bad crush on me. They all did, men and women, though they didn’t understand it was just part of living Steamside. If you didn’t pin everything on your leader, you had nothing. They glamorized me, babied me, lavished me with gifts, followed my every order and every move. Besides Petti, Screw was the one Punk I thought of as a friend. An equal. He followed my orders, but always with a wink and a nod.
Someone decided I loved absinthe (or Screw started the rumor as a prank), so I got another damned bottle of the shit every other day. If you turn a gift away, you break their wee hearts. It’s another part of my sentence—I can’t let them know what a fraud I am. They think I have some master plan for getting us rescued. I don’t. Don’t wish for too much fame, love, and attention. You can’t imagine how annoying it is, how guilty it makes you feel.
I tried to put Fenwick out of my mind and turned to my sister, ready for another assault or list of grievances.
“You’re sweet on her.” She leaned her dimpled cheek in her gloved hand and studied me in her laserlike cross hairs. It wasn’t a question, which pissed me off.
“Sweet on her? How very 1940s of you.” I guess I was “sweet” on her, but it was immaterial.
